《Loot: A Criminally good LITRPG》


 Chapter One

    The morning air bites just enough to wake you up, but it¡¯s nothing new. I¡¯m walking through Bethnal Green Market again, the rhythm of it all familiar like clockwork. The stalls are just starting to come to life, crates of fruit piled high, the odd tarp still flicking in the wind. The vendors are setting up, half awake themselves, adjusting their stock with tired but practiced hands. It¡¯s still quiet, but it won¡¯t be for long. The market¡¯s in that halfway state¡ªjust before it bursts into its full, noisy chaos.


    As I make my way down the narrow alley between the stalls, I know exactly where I¡¯m headed. The coffee stand¡¯s up ahead, a small corner of warmth and familiarity. The guy behind the counter doesn¡¯t even look up; he knows the drill. He¡¯s already got my two flat whites ready, steaming just right, the cups clinking together with that satisfying sound. No words exchanged, just a quick nod as I grab them, smooth as you like. It¡¯s a fluid motion¡ªgrab, go. I don¡¯t slow down. The crowd¡¯s starting to fill in now, and the market¡¯s picking up its pace, but I¡¯m already moving past it, the warmth from the cups seeping into my fingers as I step into the flow of the morning. Same as it ever was. Same as it always will be. You don¡¯t stop here. You just keep going.


    The coffee¡¯s warmth in my hands becomes a steady pulse as I move through the growing crowd, heading towards the familiar arches. The sound of the market fills the air now¡ªpeople haggling, crates being stacked, the clatter of metal on metal. It¡¯s the kind of noise that sinks into the bones of the place, the kind of noise that¡¯s always there. But I¡¯m focused. My feet carry me towards the brick arches that mark the entrance to another world, the one beneath where the market stalls sit tucked away. These arches are older than anyone cares to count, their weathered stone telling stories in every crack, in every crevice, as though they¡¯ve seen it all.


    Underneath, tucked in like it¡¯s part of the stone itself, is the bakery. My mum¡¯s bakery. The wooden sign hanging from above sways gently in the breeze, a slight creak marking its motion. The aroma of freshly baked bread and pastries floods the air long before I reach the stall, pulling me in like it always does. It''s not just a stall; it¡¯s built into the brick arch itself¡ªpart of it, almost as if the archway has wrapped itself around her, giving her a permanent place in this old structure. The stone walls curve inward, cradling the bakery, with shelves stacked high with loaves, trays of warm croissants, and golden pies lined up in neat rows. The arch gives it a kind of rustic charm, like it¡¯s both ancient and timeless, perfectly settled in this little slice of East London history.


    She¡¯s there, as always, bent over her work, hands flour-dusted and moving with a practiced rhythm¡ªrolling, kneading, shaping dough with the precision of someone who¡¯s done it a thousand times. The oven behind her hums gently, its warmth filling the space, the heat of it mingling with the scent of yeast and butter in the air. The market may be chaotic, but here, under the arch, there¡¯s a stillness to it, a calm that only comes from years of routine.


    I don¡¯t need to say anything. She glances up as I approach, the corners of her lips lifting in a soft smile. Her eyes light up when she sees the coffee. I pass one to her without missing a beat, and she takes it, that quiet moment between us, like nothing¡¯s changed. The chatter around us fades into the background as she sips, nodding her approval, before sliding into the flow of the day¡¯s work. For a second, everything is right¡ªjust the two of us in this little corner of the market, tucked under these old brick arches, like it¡¯s always been.


    I hand my mum the coffee, the warmth of it steadying her hands as she takes a sip. For a moment, it¡¯s just the two of us, as always, the market¡¯s clamor falling away. But then, just as I¡¯m about to pull back into the routine, a soft ping rings in my pocket. A familiar sound, one that I¡¯d hoped I wouldn¡¯t hear. My phone flashes to life, a text appearing directly in my line of sight, quiet but insistent.


    The message is simple. It¡¯s from the last person I want to hear from right now. I close my eyes, breathing in deep, trying to push away the gnawing anxiety. I¡¯d been avoiding this, hiding from it like the fool I am. But there¡¯s no running now. I mentally pull up the call and, as the interface loads, the name flickers across the screen. Tommy ''Two Fingers'' Renetti. The bastard¡¯s been after me for weeks, ever since I missed the last payment. Not that he¡¯s ever been a patient man, but today, I know, it¡¯s crunch time.


    A bead of sweat forms at the back of my neck as I glance around. The market¡¯s busy, people moving, milling about, but I know what¡¯s waiting for me just outside the arch. Tommy doesn¡¯t make calls¡ªhe makes statements, he makes threats. He wants his money, and he wants it now. The debt¡¯s long overdue, and the interest? Well, it¡¯s been piling up fast.


    I take another breath, forcing the nervousness back into the pit of my stomach, and step away from the stall. Mum doesn¡¯t notice, too busy with her customers. But I know what I have to do now. I¡¯m walking into the storm, and there¡¯s no backing out. One last deep breath, then I step out from under the arch and into the heart of it. Tommy¡¯s waiting. And I¡¯m not sure how this is going to go.


    I step out into the cold, and there he is¡ªTommy ''Two Fingers'' Renetti, leaning against the arch like he¡¯s king of the bloody market. Smart as a whip, he is, dressed in a tailored suit that costs more than my rent for a year, all sharp edges and silk. But his face? That¡¯s a different story¡ªscarred, rough, like he¡¯s lived through a few too many scrapes. And that bloody stare, like he¡¯s looking through you, weighing you up, deciding what kind of trouble he¡¯s gonna cause.


    I try to hold my ground, even though I feel like a rabbit in headlights. ¡°Tommy, listen, mate... I¡¯m a bit short, yeah? I know I said I¡¯d have it, but things got a bit... well, messy. Just need a little bit more time, a few more days. You know how it is.¡±


    Tommy tilts his head, raising a brow, lips curling into that mocking smile. ¡°Messy, yeah? You¡¯ve been messin¡¯ me around for weeks, mate. You think I¡¯m gonna swallow that load of cobblers?¡± He steps in close, that glint in his eye sharper than a razor. ¡°Nah, nah, nah. You¡¯ve had your time, you¡¯re out of it. I¡¯m a patient man, but even I¡¯ve got limits, see? You¡¯ve got twenty-four hours, and that¡¯s your lot. No more dilly-dallying.¡±


    I try to push, though I know it¡¯s a bad idea. ¡°Tommy, please, just a couple more days, yeah? I¡¯m good for it, I swear. I¡¯ll have it, I just need a bit more time to sort it out. C¡¯mon, I¡¯m not some mug.¡±


    He laughs, low and slow, like I¡¯m a joke to him. ¡°Mug? Nah, mate, you¡¯re not a mug, you¡¯re a bleedin'' liability. You think I¡¯ve got time for that? You¡¯ve had enough time to sort your gear out, and now you¡¯re tryin¡¯ to play the fool. I¡¯m not a soft touch, I ain¡¯t your bleedin'' uncle.¡±


    I gulp, sweating a bit. ¡°Tommy, just... twenty-four hours. That¡¯s all I¡¯m askin¡¯. Please.¡±


    He pauses, sizing me up, and for a second, it¡¯s like he¡¯s actually thinkin¡¯ it over. Then, with a slow grin, he shakes his head. ¡°Alright, alright. Twenty-four hours, that¡¯s it. You don¡¯t show, you don¡¯t pay? Well, let¡¯s just say your next walk through the market¡¯s gonna be a right ¡®mare, won¡¯t it?¡± He flicks his cigar, and I swear, the embers nearly land in my lap.


    This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    ¡°Cheers, Tommy,¡± I mutter, relief flooding me, but I know it¡¯s temporary.


    ¡°Don¡¯t make me come lookin¡¯ for ya, yeah?¡± he says with a wink, before turning on his heel, his polished shoes clicking down the cobbles.


    Tommy stops for a second, looking over his shoulder, that sly grin of his stretching wider. ¡°And let¡¯s get one thing straight, yeah?¡± he says, voice dripping with mock sweetness. ¡°If you can¡¯t cough up by tomorrow, maybe I¡¯¡¯ll need to live up to that moniker of mine. You know, ''Two Finger''s''. But hey, I got a better idea, yeah? If you can¡¯t pay, maybe I¡¯ll take something else as collateral. Something real valuable, like your mum¡¯s little bakery. You get what I¡¯m sayin¡¯, yeah? Those buns she¡¯s been bakin¡¯, that fresh bread of hers... I¡¯m sure I could find a use for ¡®em, yeah?¡± He lets out a laugh, a low chuckle that sends a chill down my spine, the kind that makes you wonder how far he¡¯s really willing to go.


    He leans in closer, his breath hot with the smell of smoke, eyes gleaming as he sizes me up. "Think about it, yeah? A nice little piece of East End real estate, tucked under the arches. Might just suit me better than a shifty little debtor who can¡¯t keep his promises." He steps back, eyes narrowing, his voice dropping low, thick with threat. "I wouldn¡¯t mind a taste of those buns, either mate... if you get me.¡±


    I freeze, a cold sweat running down the back of my neck. He¡¯s not just talking about money now¡ªhe¡¯s making it personal, and the thought of him touching my mum or the stall, of him using it as leverage, makes my blood run cold. It¡¯s not just the debt anymore; it¡¯s my family, my whole world, right there in his hands.


    Tommy gives me one last look, that grin of his stretched like a cat that¡¯s just caught a mouse. Then he turns and strolls off, his shoes clicking against the cobbles like he¡¯s the one that owns the whole bloody place. It¡¯s like he¡¯s done with me, done with the whole situation, and now he¡¯s leaving me to stew in it. The market noise swallows him up as I stand there, frozen, staring after him. That was it. He¡¯s laid down the law, and I¡¯m out of time. No prayer, no last-minute miracle. Just me, the pavement, and a mountain of debt I¡¯m never gonna climb in twenty-four hours.


    Five grand in a day? Not a chance. You don¡¯t just pull that out of your back pocket, no matter how sharp your hustle is. Not unless you¡¯re playing a game that¡¯s way over my head. I¡¯m standing there, letting it all hit me¡ªthe weight of the words, the pressure, the fact that he¡¯s got his grubby hands on my mum¡¯s bakery. He¡¯s not just after the money, is he? He¡¯s taken the bloody thing hostage, like he¡¯s got some claim on it now. And I¡¯m standing there, stuck, with no bloody clue how I¡¯m gonna make this right. I take a breath, push the panic down, and turn back toward the arch. No point in standing around like a muppet. I¡¯ve got one option left, and that¡¯s to get back inside, back to mum, back to my coffee.


    It¡¯s the only thing that still feels normal in this madhouse. I walk under the arch, the smell of fresh-baked bread and coffee punching me in the face, a little slice of home. Mum looks up from her work, that soft smile of hers lighting up her face, and for a second, everything slows down. I grab the other coffee, my hands shaking a bit, and I¡¯m back in the game.


    For now, it¡¯s just me, mum, and a couple of flat whites. But deep down, I know it won¡¯t be enough. Time¡¯s running out, and I¡¯ve got no idea how I¡¯m gonna make Tommy''s deadline. But one thing¡¯s for sure¡ªI can¡¯t back down now.


    I sit there, the coffee warming my hands, watching Mum move around the bakery like she owns the place. She¡¯s in her element, humming to herself, handling the dough and the ovens like it¡¯s second nature. For a split second, I almost forget about the mess I¡¯m in. But then, the weight of it hits me again. I stare into my cup, wishing things were different. Wishing Dad was still here to put his foot down, to sort this whole thing out. But he¡¯s not. He¡¯s doing a solid ten in prison, locked up tight, paying for all the things he did when he was running the show.


    Charlie Block. The Charlie Block. A name that still carries weight in this city, even if it¡¯s buried behind bars. My old man was a living legend, a proper London gangster. There was nothing he couldn¡¯t nick, no job he couldn¡¯t pull off. People still talk about him, even with him gone. His name meant something. But mine? Mine doesn¡¯t mean a bloody thing. I¡¯m just Charlie Block¡¯s son, the kid trying to live up to a ghost. A ghost that¡¯s taller than the bloody Shard, hanging over me like an albatross.


    I take a drag of my coffee, the bitterness matching the taste in my mouth. I¡¯m not at the bottom of the ladder, but I sure as hell ain¡¯t at the top either. I¡¯m scraping by, hustling for the next score, always looking for a way up, but it¡¯s like the ladder keeps getting steeper the higher I climb. And now here I am¡ªdeep in the red, neck-deep in debt, and my dad¡¯s name can¡¯t do a damn thing for me. Not anymore. My family name doesn¡¯t mean squat when you''re staring down the barrel of a loan shark¡¯s gun.


    I take another sip, wishing for a miracle. But deep down, I know there¡¯s only one way out of this, and it¡¯s not gonna come easy. Taking out my phone again I pull up my banking app, got maybe ¡ê 500 left, thats not going to cut it. My fingers dance on the keypad as I send a text, to my mate Tim my partner in crime if you will to see what if anything he had in the pipeline. But a quick text back said even Tim couldnt help. I was screwed. I sit there, staring at the phone, trying to keep my face straight.


    No point in showing panic, not with Mum right there, her back turned as she works the counter. She¡¯s got no clue what¡¯s going on¡ªnever has, never will. She¡¯s too busy with her dough and her ovens, baking away in her little world. Bless her, she doesn¡¯t need to know the mess I¡¯m in, the hole I¡¯ve dug for myself.


    But it¡¯s hard, isn¡¯t it? Trying to play it cool when everything¡¯s falling apart. I try to focus on the phone, my hands gripping it a little too tight as I tap out another text¡ªthis time to a few other mates, seeing if anyone¡¯s got anything cooking. Maybe a quick job, a quick score. Hell, at this point, I¡¯ll take anything. But the replies are slow, and when they do come in, they¡¯re just as bleak as Tim¡¯s. ¡°Not much, mate. Same old,¡± one says. ¡°You¡¯re on your own, bruv,¡± says another. Not a bloody thing to help.


    I shove the phone back in my pocket and take another sip of the coffee, trying to keep my hands steady, trying to hide the storm brewing in my chest. I look up at Mum, her face glowing in the soft light of the bakery, completely unaware of the ticking time bomb I¡¯m holding onto. She hums to herself, rolling out dough like she hasn¡¯t got a care in the world. I force a smile, keeping it casual. ¡°Everything alright, Mum?¡± I ask, as if nothing¡¯s wrong. She looks up, a bit of flour dusting her cheek. ¡°Always, love. Just another day in paradise.¡± She laughs, the sound light, carefree.


    I swallow the lump in my throat, nodding. ¡°Yeah, right. Paradise,¡± I mumble, the word tasting like ash in my mouth. Inside, I¡¯m screaming. Outside? I¡¯m just her son, holding it together. But for how long?


    An hour passes, but it feels like I¡¯ve been stuck in that bakery for days. Mum¡¯s none the wiser, still humming away in her little bubble, oblivious to the storm about to hit. I kiss her goodbye, making it look like any other day, giving her a half-hearted smile as I head out the door. But inside? I¡¯m anything but calm. The second I step back onto the gritty streets of Bethnal Green, the weight hits me again. Tommy ¡®Two Fingers¡¯ Renetti¡¯s got his hands around my throat, and I¡¯ve got less than twenty-four hours to find a way out.


    I pace down the road, dodging the early morning crowds, the hum of the market ringing in my ears. I need something¡ªanything¡ªthat could solve this mess. A job, a connection, a bloody miracle. My mind races as I slip through back alleys, trying to clear my head, but all I can think of is Tommy¡¯s smug face and that cold promise.


    It¡¯s like I¡¯m chasing shadows, trying to find an answer that isn¡¯t there. The clock¡¯s ticking, and I¡¯ve got nowhere to turn. It¡¯s not just the money anymore. It¡¯s survival. And I¡¯m running out of time.

 Chapter Two

    Chapter Two


    The streets  of Bethnal Green were just startin¡¯ to hum. Early morning buzz, bin men shoutin¡¯, prams clackin¡¯ on cracked pavement, and me ¡ª parked on a knackered bench that¡¯s seen better days, fingers flickin¡¯ through my phone like I¡¯m scrollin¡¯ for salvation. I¡¯m pingin¡¯ every contact I¡¯ve got, every mate, every dodgy cousin¡¯s cousin who might¡¯ve had a job in play. But all that¡¯s comin¡¯ back is long cons, jobs with payout delays longer than a tax return ¡ª stuff that won¡¯t help when you¡¯ve got ¡®Two Fingers¡¯ breathin¡¯ down your neck, lookin¡¯ for five grand by tomorrow or your mum¡¯s bakery goes collateral.


    So I pocket the blower, take a breath, and look around. The time? Just gone nine. School run o¡¯clock. Which round here means chaos with a coat on. Parents rushin¡¯, kids wailin¡¯, and the streets fillin¡¯ up faster than a pub on derby day. It''s noise, it''s movement, but more importantly ¡ª it¡¯s opportunity.


    I lean back on that cold metal bench, brain rattlin¡¯ like a busted fruit machine, thinkin¡¯ what would Dad do? Then I clock her ¡ª young mum, frazzled, pushin¡¯ a pram with one hand and tappin¡¯ her PIN with the other. Her kid¡¯s wrigglin¡¯ like a fish on a hook, tryin¡¯ to leg it while she¡¯s holdin¡¯ him back and not watchin¡¯ the screen. Bang ¡ª that¡¯s when it hits me. Like a slap from the past. The Knock and Pocket. One of Dad¡¯s old classics. Short con. Low prep. Medium risk. High reward. And with the streets churnin¡¯ like this? Timing¡¯s perfect.


    I just needed to pick something up and find the right pocket. I flagged a cab sharpish, the kind that still smells of last night¡¯s kebab and cheap aftershave, and we peeled off from the market like a bat outta Bow. Told him, "Bethnal Green Working Men¡¯s Club, and step on it, mate." We rumbled past the tail end of the market where the stallholders were still settin¡¯ up, bleedin¡¯ crates of veg stacked like barricades and some geezer arguin¡¯ over onions like it was life or death. Turned onto Cambridge Heath Road, passed that crusty old laundrette with the flickerin¡¯ sign and the caf¨¦ next to it that does bacon rolls like your nan used to. The traffic was startin¡¯ to swell, mums draggin¡¯ kids, couriers zippin¡¯ about like angry wasps, and blokes already on their second Red Bull of the day.


    As we hit the stretch near Museum Gardens, I clocked the familiar old brickwork of the club peekin¡¯ out between council blocks and rustin¡¯ balconies. That place has seen more shady deals and tearful karaoke than most police stations. "Pull up near that hardware shop on the corner," I told the cabbie, noddin¡¯ to a tiny storefront tucked between a betting shop and a boarded-up vape place. He stopped. ¡°Tenner, mate,¡± he grunted.


    Bell above the door gave a half-hearted ding as I slipped into the hardware shop ¡ª proper old school, the kind of place where the shelves lean under the weight of twenty years¡¯ worth of clutter, and everything smells faintly of turps, mouse traps, and bad decisions. Behind the counter, an old geezer in a mustard-stained cardigan glanced up from a racing paper, didn¡¯t say a word. Didn¡¯t need to.


    I headed straight for the adhesives ¡ª nothin¡¯ fancy, just strong enough to do the job. Found a small tube of super glue, the sort you¡¯d use to fix a broken mug or keep a dodgy shelf from collapsin¡¯. That¡¯s all I needed. Quick, clean, disposable.


    ¡°That it?¡± he asked, voice like gravel.


    ¡°That¡¯s the one,¡± I nodded, dropping a couple coins on the counter.


    He slid it over without blinkin¡¯, back to his paper before I¡¯d even turned.


    Back outside, I slipped the glue into my coat pocket like it was state evidence, lit a cig, and started my slow stroll toward the Working Men¡¯s Club. The street had livened up proper now ¡ª mums shoutin¡¯ into phones, cabs honkin¡¯ like geese on crack, and pigeons struttin¡¯ about like they owned the pavement. I kept my head down, eyes scanning, brain tickin¡¯.


    Just before the club, I passed old Sammy¡¯s newspaper stand ¡ª been there since before the Queen grew grey. He was settin¡¯ out the day¡¯s headlines with his usual enthusiasm, which is to say, none. I clocked the front page ¡ª ¡°Prime Minister Caught Nicking from Charity Fund¡±. Brilliant. Only in Britain could the bloke in charge be a bigger thief than the lot of us on the street. I grabbed a copy of the Standard, gave Sammy a nod and dropped some change on the crate without breakin¡¯ stride. Paper under the arm, cig hangin¡¯ off my lip, I looked every bit the average punter ¡ª no different than the rest of the world wastin¡¯ a morning. Only I wasn¡¯t wastin¡¯ mine. I was about to take back control of it, one sticky little trick at a time. Few more steps and the Working Men¡¯s Club loomed ahead, all peeling paint and faded pride. Show time.


    The street outside the Working Men¡¯s Club was buzzin¡¯ now ¡ª proper busy. School run in full swing, mums and dads hustlin¡¯ their little gremlins towards the gates with toast still hangin¡¯ from mouths and rucksacks swingin¡¯ like wreckin¡¯ balls. Couple of builders across the road, all hi-vis and steel-toe swagger, shoutin¡¯ over the hum of drills and Radio One comin¡¯ out some battered speaker. Bethnal Green was fully awake, stretchin¡¯ its legs and grumblin¡¯ into the day ¡ª and that¡¯s exactly how I liked it. Noise, movement, distractions. Perfect cover for what I was about to do.


    I clocked it just off the corner of an old newsagent ¡ª the ATM. One of the ancient ones. The kind that hadn¡¯t seen an upgrade since dial-up internet. No cameras, no flashy fraud-busting gadgets, no contactless this or retina-scan that. Just a well-worn machine that had served the good people of the East End faithfully for years ¡ª and was about to serve me, too.


    I strolled up casual, like I was just another fella checkin¡¯ his balance. Slipped my card in, checked the damage. Still sittin¡¯ on a measly five hundred, which, in the face of Tommy Two Fingers, might as well¡¯ve been Monopoly money. Took a tenner out, more for the performance than the cash, and as I collected the note, I let my other hand dip into my pocket. Out came the glue.


    With the smoothness of a magician palming a coin, I ran a thin line along the inside lip of the cash slot. Not a full seal ¡ª just enough to gum it up for the next few punters. Make the machine choke and keep hold of the next few withdrawals like a stingy grandad at Christmas.


    I folded my tenner, pocketed it, and walked away like I¡¯d just done the weekly shop ¡ª no rush, no guilt, no drama. Found myself a bench across the road, close enough to keep eyes on the prize, far enough to look like I belonged to the scenery. I sat, lit another cig, unfolded my paper ¡ª ¡°Prime Minister Caught Nicking from Charity Fund¡±, lovely bit of irony that ¡ª and started readin¡¯.


    Now it was just a waiting game. Wait for the trap to spring. Wait for the machine to do its thing. And when it did? I¡¯d be there. Smilin¡¯. Like the cat who got the cream ¡ª and the cash.


    You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.


    It played out like a scene from a low-budget caper film ¡ª and I was front row, popcorn in hand, watchin¡¯ the show unfold with a grin hidden behind my Standard.


    First up, young mum in yoga leggings, kid screamin¡¯ on her hip. She taps away, looks expectant, and then ¡ª nothin¡¯. Her eyebrows knit, she presses a few more buttons like that¡¯ll help. Still no joy. She huffs, gives the screen a scowl like it¡¯s personally insulted her, then storms off, mutterin¡¯ about Barclays robbin¡¯ her blind. Next comes a pensioner ¡ª bless him ¡ª all slow and cautious like the machine¡¯s a wild animal. He gives it a go, waits patiently, even looks down the cash slot like he¡¯s expectin¡¯ a fiver to peek out and say ¡°hello.¡± When it doesn¡¯t, he gives it a gentle tap, then a less gentle one.  Eventually he sighs, mutters somethin¡¯ about ¡°bloody technology,¡± and shuffles off, empty-handed. Then ¡ª and I swear on my mum¡¯s buns ¡ª a police constable rocks up. High-vis, utility belt, whole kit.


    Taps away, stands tall, then starts jabbin¡¯ the buttons with increasing fury. No payout. He gives it a suspicious look, as if the machine might cough up a criminal, then pulls out his phone and buggers off to report it, probably to someone who¡¯ll also do sod all. And just when I think it can¡¯t get any better ¡ª in walks a vicar. Collar and all. I almost choke on my cig. He gives it a go, waits, frowns, and blesses the bloody machine under his breath before walking off, wallet unopened, soul presumably tested.


    Each one walks away skint, confused, mildly insulted. All the better for me. That slot was gettin¡¯ full. And soon, it¡¯d be showtime. I wait another five minutes or so, lettin¡¯ the tension simmer down like a kettle just shy of boilin¡¯. Then I get up slow, smooth ¡ª not a care in the world. Just another bloke goin¡¯ about his day. Cig stubbed out under my heel, paper tucked under my arm, coat collar turned up just enough to keep the chill ¡ª and the nosy ¡ª at bay.


    I saunter over to the ATM like I¡¯ve done it a hundred times before. Maybe I have. Slide in my card, tap in the digits ¡ª casual as you like ¡ª and hit the option for a balance receipt. Gotta keep up appearances, after all. The screen blinks, prints the slip, and as it whirrs, I make my move. Right hand balled into a loose fist, left hand holding the Standard just so ¡ª and bang. A neat little knock to the underside of the cash drawer, hidden behind the newspaper like I¡¯m readin¡¯ the racing results.


    Click. Beautiful.


    The glue¡¯s done its job, just long enough to jam up the works but not enough to stop the payout altogether. The drawer pops open like a spring-loaded till, and out she comes ¡ª a stack of notes, all warm from the guts of the machine, droppin¡¯ right into the open fold of the paper I¡¯ve angled below. Not a soul notices. Builders still shoutin¡¯, mums still naggin¡¯, the world carryin¡¯ on none the wiser. I fold the paper under my arm, not too quick, not too slow ¡ª just like I¡¯ve got my hands full of today¡¯s crossword and nothing more. Then I turn, walk away down the street, same pace as before, heart thuddin¡¯ like a bass drum in my chest but face calm as still water.


    The Knock and Pocket. Old con, clean pull. Always good for a quick fix. But I don¡¯t count it yet ¡ª no, that¡¯d be bad luck. Gotta get somewhere quiet first. Safe. Then we¡¯ll see how much the machine coughed up. Fingers crossed it was generous.


    Took the first left off the high street and ducked into a little alley behind the butcher¡¯s ¡ª one of those grimy back lanes no one¡¯s looked at twice since the ¡¯80s. Bins piled high, smell of old meat and piss waftin¡¯ in the breeze, but it was quiet. That¡¯s all I needed. I slipped behind two steel dumpsters, peeled open the Standard like I was checkin¡¯ the footie scores, and there it was ¡ª a tidy little stack, tucked in nice.


    Quick count. Nothing fancy. Just thumbin¡¯ through the notes like a dealer checkin¡¯ his cut. Four hundred and fifty quid from the ATM, give or take. Add that to the monkey I already had sittin¡¯ in the account ¡ª that¡¯s five ton ¡ª and I¡¯m knockin¡¯ on the door of a full bag. Not quite there, but I could hear it breathin¡¯.


    Still short, but a damn sight closer than I was this morning when I woke up starin¡¯ at a wall and an empty future. Tommy Two Fingers don¡¯t do instalments, and he sure as shit ain¡¯t waitin¡¯ for me to win the lottery. But now I¡¯ve got somethin¡¯ in hand. Momentum. A whiff of hope. That¡¯s more dangerous than a blade when you know how to use it.


    I folded the cash into an old envelope nicked from Mum¡¯s counter drawer, slid it deep into my coat, and lit up another smoke, the day¡¯s nerves flickin¡¯ off the tip with the ash. One con down. The meter¡¯s runnin¡¯, and I need another score. Fast. Bag¡¯s the goal. I¡¯ve got nine ton and a prayer. Let¡¯s see what the streets have left to offer.


    I step out of the alley, still rollin¡¯ my next move in my head like a wheel in a roulette. My options are slim, but they¡¯re there ¡ª and that¡¯s enough for now. I¡¯m thinkin¡¯ about another con, maybe a cheeky pickpocket on one of the builders hangin¡¯ round with a bacon bap and half a brain, or maybe I just hit the pub, lay low for a bit, and let the streets whisper their secrets. But then ¡ª wham.


    I walk straight into it. A big ol¡¯ brewery truck, one of them proper old-school beasts, just pullin¡¯ up to do the drop at the Working Men¡¯s Club. Don¡¯t even have time to blink. Front grill clocks me clean in the chest, and suddenly I¡¯m airborne. Everything slows ¡ª sound cuts out, like someone hit mute on the telly. My ears ring, my body goes numb, and next thing I know, I¡¯m not in me anymore.


    I¡¯m floatin¡¯. Light as air, floatin¡¯ up, up and away from it all. I look down and there I am ¡ª broken and bent like a cheap deckchair, blood seepin¡¯ out and puddlin¡¯ on the pavement. Truck driver¡¯s white as a sheet, stammerin¡¯, grippin¡¯ the door like it¡¯s gonna keep him from meltin¡¯ down. He¡¯s yellin¡¯, panickin¡¯, but I can¡¯t hear it. I can only see it, like I¡¯m watchin¡¯ the telly from behind glass.


    A crowd¡¯s already gatherin¡¯. Builders, mums on the school run, the geezer from the offie. And of course ¡ª the phones come out. Always do. Half of ¡¯em recordin¡¯, hopin¡¯ for a bit of blood to spice up their day. No one¡¯s callin¡¯ me an ambulance. No one¡¯s sayin¡¯ ¡°That¡¯s Harry Block.¡± Just eyes, phones, and a growin¡¯ pool of red.


    But I¡¯m not lookin¡¯ down anymore.


    There¡¯s a light above me. Not blinding, not warm. Just... strange. Cold and quiet, but it pulls me in like a magnet to metal. I don¡¯t fight it. I¡¯m tired. Floatin¡¯ toward it, hopin¡¯ ¡ª prayin¡¯ ¡ª that whoever¡¯s at the gate don¡¯t recognise the name Block. Because if they do... well, I reckon it¡¯s a one-way trip downstairs, innit?


    And as I drift, mind unravellin¡¯ like cheap yarn, I think of Mum. Poor old girl, still back there under the arches, probably butterin¡¯ a bun and hummin¡¯ some sad old tune. She don¡¯t know what¡¯s comin¡¯. Don¡¯t know Tommy Two-Fingers is gonna come knockin¡¯ ¡ª and not for a cuppa. I was meant to protect her, not leave her carryin¡¯ my mess. And Dad... he might¡¯ve been a thief, but he never left family hangin¡¯. Me? I¡¯ve gone and died skint and in debt, like a mug. A right proper letdown. But it¡¯s too late now, innit?


    Can¡¯t fix nothin¡¯ when you¡¯re already dead.


    I feel like I¡¯m floatin¡¯ toward that light for what feels like forever ¡ª like I¡¯m caught in some cosmic Uber, no ETA, just driftin¡¯ through the void with nothin¡¯ but guilt and bad decisions as company. But then I notice it ¡ª I¡¯m pickin¡¯ up speed. Slowly at first, like a feather in a breeze, but then it ramps up, proper fast. The light¡¯s gettin¡¯ bigger, closin¡¯ in, and I¡¯m shootin¡¯ toward it like I¡¯ve been shot outta a bloody cannon.


    And then ¡ª whack. The light goes out. Snuffed out like a fag in a piss puddle. And I¡¯m fallin¡¯. Hard. Like a sack of bricks off a lorry. I don¡¯t even have time to scream. It¡¯s just drop, drop, bam! For the second time today, I feel like I¡¯ve been hit by a brewery truck. Everything goes black again ¡ª just for a bit ¡ª but I swear I can still feel my heart racin¡¯, my lungs gaspin¡¯, like I ain¡¯t done yet. I don¡¯t know how long passes. Minutes? Hours? Days? Could¡¯ve been ten seconds or ten years, all I know is, when I finally open my eyes again... I ain¡¯t in East London no more.


    Nah. This ain¡¯t Bethnal Green.


    In front of me is what looks like a dock ¡ª not a boat dock in Southend or nothing like that, but a full-blown fantasy number. Cobbled streets, wooden beams, lanterns swingin¡¯ in the breeze. It¡¯s like I¡¯ve woken up inside one of them nerdy games my mate Tim used to play, the ones with elves, potions, and way too much bloody backstory.


    ¡°What the fuck is goin¡¯ on?¡± I mutter, starin¡¯ at a bloke with goat legs walkin¡¯ past like it¡¯s the most normal thing in the world.


    I¡¯m dead, right?


    Right?

 Chapter Three

    Right, so I¡¯m standin¡¯ there, lookin¡¯ around like a geezer who just woke up in a dream cooked up by a Dungeons & Dragons addict on acid. This ain¡¯t East London, not by a long shot. No concrete, no Greggs, no sound of the Central line groanin¡¯ through the tunnels. Instead, I¡¯ve got masts ¡ª proper tall wooden ones ¡ª creakin¡¯ in the wind, ropes swingin¡¯, and the smell of salt and fish so thick it¡¯d knock out a weaker man.


    There¡¯s fisherman ¡ª actual fisherman ¡ª haulin¡¯ in nets, shoutin¡¯ in some accent I don¡¯t quite catch, all leathered skin and salt-slick hands. One nods at me like I belong here. I don¡¯t. Behind ¡®em, a fish market¡¯s kickin¡¯ off with more colour, noise and bloody freshness than the one back on Bethnal Green Road ever managed. Fat eels, glistening red snapper, things with eyes on the side of their heads ¡ª it¡¯s all there, and it smells like the sea itself slapped you in the face.


    I¡¯ve no clue how or why I ended up here. Last thing I remember was dying ¡ª properly dying ¡ª and floatin¡¯ off toward the light like a lost balloon. And now I¡¯m here. Wherever here is.


    I need to think. I find a barrel, rough and wet, and plant myself on the edge of the dock like I belong ¡ª which I definitely don¡¯t. Legs dangling, wind whippin¡¯ off the waves, I stare out at the ocean, all wide and endless like my problems just got a whole lot weirder.


    This ain¡¯t heaven. And it sure as shit ain¡¯t hell. So what is it? And more importantly¡­ What the fuck am I supposed to do now?


    I¡¯m still starin¡¯ out at that big blue, ocean stretchin¡¯ off into forever, when a little crack of nostalgia sneaks in ¡ª uninvited, like most of the best memories. I must¡¯ve been, what, ten? Maybe eleven. Me and the old man, sittin¡¯ on that battered sofa that sagged in the middle like it¡¯d seen too many arses and too few repairs. Mum¡¯s in the kitchen, doin¡¯ her Sunday magic ¡ª roast chicken, tatties crispy on the edge, carrots that still had a bite to ¡®em. The whole house smelled like a warm hug. The telly¡¯s on ¡ª footie, obviously. Last few minutes of a game I don¡¯t even remember. And Dad, he¡¯s watchin¡¯, half-focused, puffin¡¯ on a fag like he¡¯s contemplatin¡¯ the meaning of life.


    Then he turns to me and says, cool as you like, ¡°Go where the money is¡­ and go there often.¡± Says it like it¡¯s gospel. Reckon he nicked it from Willie Sutton ¡ª some old-timey Yank bank robber ¡ª but it stuck. One of them little lines that lodges in your head like gum on a shoe.


    I remember the way he looked at me when he said it ¡ª not like a crook passin¡¯ on bad habits, but like a teacher givin¡¯ his pupil the key to life. He had that glint in his eye, the one he always got when he was up to somethin¡¯. ¡°Go where the money is,¡± he said again, firmer this time, like he wanted it etched into my skull. Then he ruffled my hair, lit another fag, and shouted to Mum to hurry up with the gravy. That moment stuck ¡ª not because of what he said, but because, for once, he looked proud.


    And right there, sittin¡¯ on this damp barrel in a world I don¡¯t recognise, it hits me like a revelation from beyond the grave. That¡¯s the game plan, innit? Go where the money is. Doesn¡¯t matter where here is ¡ª there¡¯s always someone sittin¡¯ on a stack, and someone else tryin¡¯ to nick it.


    So that¡¯s what I¡¯m gonna do.


    I need food. A roof. The basics. And maybe a pint if I¡¯m lucky. Can¡¯t be driftin¡¯ about like some ghost with a hangover.


    Time to find the players.


    Time to find the money.


    And go there¡­ often.


    Right, with that little nugget of advice stewin¡¯ in me head, I start lookin¡¯ around, eyes flickin¡¯ from boat to boat, market to market, all while I try to shake off the weirdness of this place. It doesn¡¯t take long for me to spot it, though. Not far from the docks, some fella in a long cloak strolls past, his belt bulgin¡¯ like he¡¯s smuggling something heavy. Now, I¡¯m no magician, but I¡¯ve been around enough shifty characters to know what a bulging belt means. And if this ain¡¯t some voodoo fantasy world, that purse of his can only mean one thing ¡ª a bloody coin purse.


    You know the type ¡ª the old-school ones that rattle with change, the kind that makes it impossible to hide any kind of decent stash. The guy¡¯s struttin¡¯ around like he¡¯s the king of the docks, and I¡¯m thinkin¡¯, mate, you¡¯re just beggin¡¯ for someone to lighten your load. The purse looks ripe for the pickin¡¯, and I reckon if I can make a smooth move on him, I¡¯ll have enough coin to get me started.


    I slide into the crowd, like I belong there. It¡¯s a bit tricky ¡ª these folks have a way of walking that says, we know what we¡¯re doin¡¯, and here I am, a Londoner stuck in the middle of God-knows-where. But I¡¯m not bothered about that. I need the cash, and I¡¯ve been around enough corners to know how to get it.


    The cloak-wearing fella walks past me, and I time it just right. A little nudge, a bump of the shoulder, nothing too obvious. My hand, slick as oil, brushes past his belt, and in a flash, I swipe that purse. It¡¯s smooth. Too smooth, even. He doesn¡¯t feel a thing. Not even a twitch. He keeps struttin¡¯, his eyes trained on the horizon, probably thinkin¡¯ he¡¯s the bloody hero of this whole town.


    I keep movin¡¯, like I¡¯ve got somewhere important to be. I don¡¯t even look back. A couple of paces, and I¡¯m outta the dock area, into the thick of what looks like¡­ well, it looks like one of those nerd games, yeah? I don¡¯t know what they¡¯re called ¡ª the ones with the castles, and dragons, and far-off quests. You know, the type of place no one ever mentions in real life, but somehow ends up in their imagination.


    There¡¯s cobbled streets and buildings with high roofs, all leaning in like they¡¯re tryin¡¯ to eavesdrop on each other¡¯s business. Folk walkin'' around in strange clothes, some of ¡®em lookin'' too clean, too perfect, like they just stepped off a bloody painting. I glance down at the purse in me hand, thinkin¡¯ it might just be enough to give me a bit of a head start. It¡¯s a start, right?


    I follow the road for a good while, the cobblestone underfoot clacking in rhythm as I make my way through this strange world. After a bit, the path curves under a low bridge, the stonework weathered and moss-covered. I glance over my shoulder to see if I¡¯m being followed, but nothing. No sign of that fella or any kind of law enforcement either, which, to be honest, doesn¡¯t exactly put me at ease. This place feels like the kind of town where trouble lurks in the shadows and no one¡¯s really lookin¡¯.


    So I figure it¡¯s safe to open the purse. I slip it out from under my arm and start rummaging through the contents, my fingers brushing over the cool, metallic shapes of coins. Gold. And not just a couple, no. There¡¯s a good dozen or so, each one shining bright and hefty in my hand. I¡¯ve handled my fair share of coin in my life, but nothing quite like this. I go to pick one up, the weight of it sitting heavy between my fingers.


    Then, out of nowhere, the air around me shimmers. I blink hard, thinking my eyes are playing tricks, but no ¡ª right there, in front of me, a line of text pops up in mid-air.


    Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site.


    [System activated upon collecting of ill-gotten gains, uploading construct... transferring off-world relics into the system stream... upload and transfer complete. Would you like to continue...? Yes or No...?]


    My mouth goes dry. I blink again. The words don¡¯t disappear. What the hell is this? I try closing my eyes tight, like maybe that¡¯ll make it go away. But nope, still there. I say "Yes" out loud. Nothing. I try "No" just to see, still nothing. It¡¯s not until I stop messing around and think hard, really hard, that I mentally say ¡°YES.¡±


    That¡¯s when it hits me. A wave. A rush of something sharp and euphoric, like I¡¯ve just taken the best hit I¡¯ve ever had. My head spins, and for a moment, I feel like I¡¯m floating. It¡¯s like a high that can¡¯t be explained, but all of a sudden, it fades. And then the text flashes again, like some bloody video game prompt:


    [Upload and transfer complete ¡ª to access system, simply think of your kin.]


    What in the bloody hell does that even mean? I try to process it, but before I can even wrap my head around what¡¯s going on, the text vanishes, leaving me standing there, holding the coins and wondering if I¡¯ve just lost me bloody mind.


    I slide the coin back into the purse and hook it onto my belt, acting like it¡¯s just another day. It¡¯s gold. And gold is good, right? It''s worth something, even in this weird, out-of-place world I¡¯ve ended up in. Now, I need a roof over my head, or at least somewhere to lay low for the night.


    But where the hell do I even start looking? I walk along the cobbled road, feet shuffling as I take in more of the strange surroundings. Quaint, little houses dot the street, like something out of one of those fantasy books the old man used to read. Everything¡¯s so¡­ bloody different. I don¡¯t even know where to begin.


    After a while, I stumble into what looks like a town square. Now we¡¯re talking. A few folk milling about, some market stalls here and there, and then, there¡¯s a gent. Sitting outside, drinking from what looks like a clay bottle. Could be wine, could be water, who knows? But he''s sitting there, looking perfectly content.


    I approach him, trying to look casual. Not that I know how to look casual in this place, but I try. "Oi, mate," I say, keeping it friendly. "You wouldn¡¯t happen to know where I could find, uh¡­ an Inn around here, would you?" I scratch my chin, realising I probably look like a fish out of water. But that¡¯s me, innit? Always looking for a way to fit in.


    The gent looks up from his drink, squints a bit, clearly puzzled by my accent. "Inn, eh?" he repeats, rubbing his chin, like he¡¯s trying to decipher me. "Yeah, sure. There¡¯s a place called The Drunken Seagull, down that way." He points down the road, probably trying to make sense of the rambling I just gave him. "Big ol'' sign, you can¡¯t miss it. Good place for a rest, and they serve a hearty meal."


    I flash him a grin, trying to look like I know what I¡¯m doing, even though I''m sure I sound like I¡¯ve got two heads. "Cheers, mate. You¡¯re a diamond."


    "Good luck, friend," he calls after me, not entirely sure if he¡¯s just been helpful or if I¡¯m just some madman in a strange world. I give him a nod and turn on my heels, heading towards where he pointed.


    But as I move forward, I spot two posh-looking gents in waistcoats and top hats, walking together with the kind of swagger that screams money. They¡¯re chatting away, all prim and proper, not a care in the world. In this town, I reckon they¡¯ve probably got pockets stuffed with whatever kind of coin they use around here ¡ª likely even something more valuable than the shiny gold I just nabbed.


    I¡¯m on them before they even see me coming. I walk past, my steps timed to perfection, brushing up against the first gent just enough to slip my hand into his pocket. Light and smooth. His coin purse is fat, definitely stuffed with something worth a look. Before he can react, I¡¯m already a few paces ahead, blending into the crowd as if I belong. Same trick as before ¡ª swift, unnoticed. The second gent doesn¡¯t even notice a thing, too busy laughing at whatever nonsense they¡¯re chatting about. I slide the purse into my belt, keeping the other one tucked in my jacket.


    I carry on walking, my pace unhurried. I¡¯ve got the gold, I¡¯ve got the purses ¡ª but I need that damn Inn. My head¡¯s buzzing, but I keep moving. I¡¯ve got a place to sleep in mind, and if I¡¯m lucky, I¡¯ll manage to take a decent meal with it.


    I finally find it ¡ª The Drunken Seagull. It¡¯s not the shabby dive I expected, not by a long shot. This place is actually quite charming. The sign swings gently in the breeze, and as I push the door open, a warm, inviting light spills out from inside. The air smells like hearty food, fresh bread, and a hint of something sweet ¡ª probably a pie cooling on the counter. I step in, and the soft glow from the lanterns overhead gives the place a welcoming, homely feel. Wooden beams stretch across the ceiling, and the floorboards creak under my boots, adding to the coziness.


    A fire crackles away in the corner, casting a soft, flickering light over the room. It¡¯s quiet, with only a couple of regulars chatting lazily, sipping their drinks. The atmosphere¡¯s warm and unhurried, the kind of place where people come to rest and feel at ease. The furniture¡¯s comfortable, mismatched but in a way that makes it all the more welcoming. At the far end of the room, there''s a large, solid bar, and the smell of something delicious wafts through the air. This place feels lived in, loved even.


    Behind the bar stands Sally, a buxom lass with a warm, open smile. She¡¯s wiping down the counter, her eyes catching mine as I walk in, and she greets me with a look of friendly curiosity. I approach her, trying to act casual, but I know I must look like a man who doesn¡¯t belong here.


    ¡°Well, good evening, love,¡± I say, trying to keep things light. ¡°I¡¯m after a place to rest me head for the night. Got any rooms available?¡±


    She looks me over, her gaze soft and kind, as if she¡¯s sizing me up not just as a customer, but as someone she might want to help. A second later, that warm smile brightens her face, and she leans toward me. ¡°Aye, we¡¯ve rooms,¡± she says gently, her voice like a hug in words. ¡°Two silver for a room and board. But don¡¯t you worry, love, it¡¯s not much, but it¡¯ll be comfy enough for you.¡±


    I reach for my purse and pull out a few coins, giving them a little jingle. ¡°See, that¡¯s the thing,¡± I say, looking a little sheepish. ¡°I don¡¯t have silver, love, but I¡¯ve got this.¡± I slide a gold coin onto the counter, watching her eyes light up. ¡°Would one of these work for the room?¡±


    Her eyes go straight to the gold coin, her eyebrows rising in surprise. ¡°Oh, well¡­¡± she starts, her words a little breathless, ¡°That¡¯s more than generous, but I couldn¡¯t possibly take a gold coin for such a humble room.¡±


    I give her a grin, trying to sound as confident as I can, but there¡¯s a soft vulnerability behind it. ¡°Now, come on, love. I¡¯ve been on the road a while, and you deserve something nice for your trouble. Let me make it easy on both of us, eh?¡± I pull out two more gold coins and slide them toward her. ¡°Here¡¯s two more for the next couple of nights, then. What d¡¯ya say?¡±


    She hesitates for a moment, clearly moved by the gesture. Then, with a soft chuckle, she shakes her head. ¡°Well, if you insist, love,¡± she says, her voice warm and motherly. ¡°But I couldn¡¯t leave you without a proper meal, now could I? It¡¯s on the house, for you. You¡¯ve been kind enough to offer so much, and I won¡¯t have you going hungry while you stay with us.¡±


    I can¡¯t help but grin, a weight lifting off my chest. ¡°You¡¯re a proper gem, you are,¡± I say, shaking my head in disbelief. ¡°I¡¯ll take that meal gladly.¡±


    Her smile widens, and she gives a soft laugh, a kind, motherly laugh that makes me feel like I¡¯ve just walked into a safe haven. ¡°Aye, you¡¯ll be well taken care of here, love. Welcome to The Drunken Seagull.¡± Blimey, I¡¯ve got a bed, a hot meal, and a roof over me head for the night. And all it took was a bit of charm and a shiny gold coin. Couldn¡¯t ask for more, could I?


    The meal was surprisingly good. More than good, actually. The meat was tender, the veg fresh, and that pie? Bloody brilliant. Sally¡¯s a top cook, no question. I felt like I could¡¯ve eaten twice as much, but I didn¡¯t want to be a greedy sod, so I stuck with one helping. Still, it was enough to fill me up proper, and I knew I wasn¡¯t gonna be starving anytime soon.


    Sally showed me to my room after, all cozy and welcoming. Small but nice, with a big, comfy bed, a fireplace crackling softly in the corner, and a window that looked out onto the town square. Couldn¡¯t ask for more, really. As she left, she even left a bottle of wine on the counter ¡ª a little gesture, but I appreciated it.


    When she closed the door behind her, I collapsed onto the bed with a sigh. The lute playing downstairs drifted up through the floorboards, along with a few voices singing a lively tune. For a moment, it all felt almost peaceful, like I could just forget about everything and enjoy the night. After what felt like a few minutes, my body finally started to relax. I was just about to drift off when my mind wandered back to that damn text.


    The words came back in flashes, bits and pieces. "Uploading construct... transferring off world relics into system stream... Would you like to continue... Yes or No...?" And then the final line, the one that still made no sense: "Think of your kin."


    Kin. Family, I figured. But why? Why would I need to think of them now? And what was that system? Why the hell was I hearing all this nonsense? Was it some kinda magic? Or just my brain playing tricks after getting hit by a bloody truck?


    I rolled over, trying to shake it off. But that final question, ¡°Think of your kin,¡± wouldn¡¯t leave me alone. Was it important? Should I have said something else? My mind buzzed with questions, and no answers¡­.I finally let my mind drift off to sleep.

 Chapter Four

    The next mornin¡¯ comes slower than a drunk crawl home from a dodgy boozer. I wake up feelin¡¯ like I¡¯d actually slept proper for once ¡ª no hard floor, no concrete pillow, just warm sheets and a mattress that didn¡¯t fight back. Bit of sun bleeds in through the window, bathin¡¯ the room in that soft, golden light you see in postcards and never in real life. I stretch, crack my neck, and throw on the same clobber from yesterday. Still smells a bit like dock smoke and street grime, but it¡¯ll do.


    I wander downstairs and the inn¡¯s got a whole different feel in the daylight. Where last night it was all candlelit coziness, this mornin¡¯ it¡¯s alive in a gentle, homey sort of way. Wooden beams catch the sunlight, the hearth¡¯s still glowin¡¯ faintly, and there¡¯s a smell in the air that could resurrect the dead ¡ª fresh bread, fried eggs, and somethin¡¯ sweet, like honey or jam.


    Sally spots me the second I hit the bottom step. ¡°Mornin¡¯, love,¡± she says, all warmth and motherly smiles. ¡°You sit yourself down, I¡¯ll bring you some breakfast in just a tick.¡±


    I give her a nod and pick a seat near the window. Few other punters already dot the place ¡ª an older bloke readin¡¯ what passes for a paper here, a couple chattin¡¯ low over mugs of somethin¡¯ hot, and a younger lad starin¡¯ off like he¡¯s still half asleep. All of ¡¯em waitin¡¯ for brekkie, the universal unifier. Everyone looks like they belong, like this is just another Thursday to ¡¯em. And me? I still feel like a tourist in a film set. But for the moment, with the smell of fryin¡¯ sausages and Sally hummin¡¯ to herself in the back, I could almost pretend this was home¡­.well I guess it is, isn''t it?


    Not long after, Sally comes glidin¡¯ over, tray in hand like she¡¯s runnin¡¯ a five-star gaff. ¡°Here we are, love,¡± she says with that warm-as-toast smile. She sets the tray down in front of me ¡ª two fried eggs lookin¡¯ sunny side up and smug about it, fat sausages smellin¡¯ like heaven, a pile of golden tatties, a doorstop of fresh bread, and a pot of what looked like jam that probably had berries in it I couldn¡¯t even name. Topped off with a little ceramic pot and two mugs. ¡°Brew¡¯s still piping, so careful with that tongue.¡±


    ¡°Blimey,¡± I mutter, starin¡¯ at the spread like it owed me money. ¡°You don¡¯t mess about, Sal.¡±


    She gives a little chuckle, wipin¡¯ her hands on her apron. ¡°Can¡¯t have you wasting away on me, now can I? So, what¡¯s the plan today then, sweetheart?¡±


    I lean back a bit, reachin¡¯ for a mug. ¡°Figured I¡¯d play tourist for the day. Stretch me legs, get the lay of the land. You know¡­ see what this strange little world¡¯s got to offer. Anywhere you¡¯d recommend?¡±


    She lights up at that, proper pleased. ¡°Oh, I do like that idea. If you head north through the square and over the little stone bridge, there¡¯s the market lane ¡ª full of curiosities. And if you follow it to the end, you¡¯ll find the old chapel ruins. Lovely spot for thinkin¡¯.¡±


    ¡°Cheers, Sal,¡± I say, raisin¡¯ my mug in her direction. ¡°Sounds just the ticket.¡±


    She smiles, eyes soft. ¡°Enjoy your day, love. And don¡¯t be afraid to ask if you get turned ¡®round. Folk here might look odd, but most of ¡¯em¡¯ve got hearts bigger than their boots.¡±


    I take a bite of the sausage ¡ª juicy, spiced just right ¡ª and lean in a touch, real casual-like. ¡°This market lane,¡± I say, between chews, ¡°sounds proper interestin¡¯. But tell me somethin¡¯, Sal ¡ª who runs this place, anyway? Town like this must have someone at the top, callin¡¯ the shots, yeah?¡±


    Sally eyes me for a moment, not suspicious, just curious, like a mum sussin¡¯ out if her kid¡¯s up to mischief or just askin¡¯ questions ''cause he¡¯s bored. ¡°Oh, you mean the Mayor?¡± she says, pourin¡¯ herself a splash of tea from the pot. ¡°That¡¯d be Mister Alric.  He¡¯s the Mayor, more or less. Got himself a townhouse over on the East Side ¡ª you know, where the cobbles are clean and the windows don¡¯t have cracks. Proper posh over there.¡±


    I nod, casual, sippin¡¯ my tea like I¡¯m just making polite chit-chat. ¡°East Side, eh? Fancy. I take it that¡¯s where all the silk-wearin¡¯ types and coin-heavy gents hang about?¡±


    She chuckles. ¡°That¡¯s about right. Place smells more like perfume than people. Alric¡¯s alright though, for someone with polished boots and a stick up his arse. Keeps the peace, doesn¡¯t mess too much with folk like us.¡±


    I file that away ¡ª posh side of town, wealthy types, and a Mayor who likes things in order. Could be useful. Could be dangerous too.


    ¡°And what about places to wet me whistle?¡± I ask, still playin¡¯ it light. ¡°Any taverns worth their salt ¡®round here?¡±


    Sally lights up. ¡°Well, other than us ¡ª and we serve a damn fine ale, thank you very much ¡ª there¡¯s the Hollow Tankard near the south gate.


    Bit rough, but the music¡¯s lively and no one minds if you get a little loud. Then there¡¯s the Ox and Ember, over near the East. Posh, polished, and overpriced ¡ª but if you¡¯re lookin¡¯ to rub elbows with the well-to-do, that¡¯s your place.¡±


    ¡°Cheers, Sal,¡± I say, raising my cup. ¡°You¡¯re a gem.¡±


    She gives me a playful tap on the shoulder. ¡°Just don¡¯t go causin¡¯ any grief, love. This town may seem quiet, but it remembers faces.¡±.....Noted.


    I polish off the last bite of sausage, mop up the egg yolk with a hunk of that fresh bread, and wash it down with the rest of the tea ¡ª proper breakfast, that. Sets a man up right. But while my belly¡¯s sorted, my brain¡¯s still doin¡¯ laps. I need more than hot meals and a friendly smile. I need a roof ¡ª one with my name on the door ¡ª and some kind of coin flow. Can¡¯t keep nickin¡¯ purses forever¡­ well, I could, but even I know that kind of luck don¡¯t last. One wrong move and it''s back to square one, or worse ¡ª behind bars, or in a box.


    Sally¡¯s busy with another guest ¡ª an old codger who looks like he was born in a bad mood and just never left ¡ª so I bide my time, lean back, and let the plans play out in my head like hands at a card table. I¡¯m thinkin¡¯ maybe this whole fresh start business ain¡¯t such a daft idea after all. No record. No ghosts from the past. Just me and whatever this world¡¯s got to offer.


    Once she¡¯s done sortin¡¯ out Old Man Misery, I catch her eye and give her a nod and a cheeky little wink.


    She makes her way over with that usual warm grin. ¡°You alright, love? Need anything else?¡±


    ¡°Yeah,¡± I say, scratchin¡¯ the back of my neck, real casual. ¡°I was wonderin¡¯¡­ how¡¯s a bloke go about gettin¡¯ a Horse¡¯s Hoof of his own round here?¡±


    She blinks. ¡°A what?¡±


    ¡°Horse¡¯s Hoof. Roof. A place to kip, yeah?¡±


    Her eyes light up as she laughs, hand to her chest. ¡°Oh! Roof, right. You do have a way with words, sweetheart.¡±


    I grin. ¡°Not lookin¡¯ to rent, neither. I¡¯m in no rush ¡ª just wanna see if it¡¯s possible.¡±


    Sally gives me a curious little smile, one eyebrow raised like she¡¯s about to make me a deal I didn¡¯t see comin¡¯. ¡°Alright,¡± she says, arms crossed playfully. ¡°I¡¯ll answer your question ¡ª but only if you answer one of mine first.¡±


    I lean back, eyebrows archin¡¯. ¡°Go on then, fire away.¡±


    She tilts her head. ¡°Who are you, really? I mean, where you from? Who were your mum and dad?¡±


    I wasn¡¯t expecting that. Most folks usually ask what you do, not where you¡¯re from. I hesitate, scratch my chin, then shrug. ¡°Well, my dad¡­ he was a baker, worked hard every day, always had a loaf in the oven and a smile for anyone who passed by. Not much of a story there, really. Just a bloke who did his job well.¡± I chuckle, the warmth of the memory washing over me. ¡°Mum, on the other hand ¡ª Jenny. She was the one with the heart, always looking out for people, making sure they had a good meal. Not much more to it than that.¡±


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    The moment the name leaves my lips ¡ª Jenny Block ¡ª something shifts, a cold, sharp jolt runs through me. Then it hits.


    [System identified bloodline trigger: Jennifer Block ¡ª legacy recognised.]


    [Would you like to explore the system? Yes or No, or skip till later?]


    It¡¯s there, floating in front of my eyes, clear and sharp, like a cold breath in the dead of night. I blink, trying to shake it off, but it stays, flickering. My heart skips, and I feel something odd stirring, something I don¡¯t quite understand.


    I mentally think [skip], and just like that, the text vanishes.


    I try to shake it off, acting like nothing happened, but it¡¯s hard to ignore the strange weight sitting in my chest. Sally¡¯s voice filters back in, catching the tail end of the conversation. ¡°...and after my husband passed, I just couldn¡¯t bring myself to leave this place. So, I took it on. Kept it running, made it mine.¡± She smiles softly, her eyes a little distant. ¡°It¡¯s been hard, but... it¡¯s home now.¡±


    I give her a nod, trying to keep my focus, even though my mind keeps wandering back to that damn text. Something¡¯s not right, and I can¡¯t help but feel like I¡¯m about to uncover a lot more than I bargained for.


    Sally jots down some directions to the mayor''s house on a scrap of parchment, her handwriting neat and precise. "You can¡¯t miss it," she says, tucking the paper into my hand. "Follow the main road up the hill, past the market square, and you¡¯ll see the big oak tree. The mayor lives just beyond that, on the east side of the hill." Her voice is warm, but I can tell she¡¯s about to finish up, as another guest shuffles down from his room. A grey-haired man, hunched and weary like he¡¯s been around far too long. Sally gives him a smile, pats me on the shoulder, and says, ¡°I¡¯ll be right back, love.¡±


    I nod, and she heads off to tend to the man. I glance at the directions, but that¡¯s when it hits me ¡ª I¡¯d missed her answer to my question about getting a roof. Damn thing was simple enough, but when that bloody text popped up, I got pulled away. My stomach twists at the thought of it. I need to get this sorted. I can¡¯t just be wanderin¡¯ around, trying to make sense of things while dodging weird tech messages.


    I make up my mind ¡ª I¡¯m gonna figure this out. I stand up, smoothing my jacket down, and decide to make a quick getaway. I slide across the room, subtle as a shadow, and nick a large mug of tea from a guest¡¯s table in the corner. No one notices, thankfully, and I head back to my room, tea in hand.


    Sitting down on the bed, I stare at the mug in my hand for a second before I look around. The room feels¡­ safe. Too safe. Like everything¡¯s fine, but something¡¯s off. With a deep breath, I mutter my mum¡¯s name, ¡°Jenny.¡±


    The text appears again, sharp and crisp against the back of my mind, hanging there like an unwanted guest. [Would you like to explore the system? Yes or No, or skip till later?]


    This time, I don¡¯t hesitate. I think to myself, [Yes.]


    Immediately, the text shifts, and I feel a faint hum in my bones, like something¡¯s coming to life inside me. A strange sensation washes over me, as though I¡¯ve just unlocked something. My pulse quickens as I wait for whatever¡¯s next. What the hell is this system? What did my mother have to do with it?


    Suddenly, the streams slow ¡ª symbols spinning into focus, folding into words I recognise. But it ain¡¯t just that I read them now¡­ I hear them. A voice. Clear as day. Cutting through the fog in my skull like a warm knife.


    ¡°Oi, sunshine,¡± it says, full of that same dry humour, soft around the edges. ¡°Time to wake up proper.¡±


    And I freeze¡­.Because I know that voice. My heart stutters like a dodgy engine. That¡¯s her. That¡¯s my mum¡­.Jenny Block.


    It¡¯s her voice in my head, as real as the breath in my lungs. I ain¡¯t heard it in years ¡ª not since I laid her in the ground with a fistful of tears and more regrets than I¡¯ll ever admit. And now here it is, coming from inside me, wrapped in power and light and whatever this bloody system is. I can¡¯t move. I can¡¯t speak. I just listen, mouth half open, tea cooling in my hand, as the rest of the room slips away again. The world¡¯s gone quiet ¡ª like it¡¯s holding its breath. Because my mum¡¯s voice ¡ª that warm, no-nonsense East End lilt ¡ª just told me to wake up. Something deep in me knows¡­She ain¡¯t just talkin¡¯ about gettin¡¯ outta bed.


    I pat meself down ¡ª still got the same mug, same scrawny frame, same old hustler heart. Ain¡¯t turned into some muscle-bound superhero. Just me. So I whisper her name again in my noggin ¡ª Jenny ¡ª and boom, there it is. The system, right in my head. Clear as day. And now I¡¯m tryin¡¯ to suss out what the hell I¡¯m lookin¡¯ at.


    It¡¯s like somethin¡¯ outta one of them dice-rollin¡¯ fantasy games my mate Ricky used to play in his mum¡¯s basement ¡ª only this ain¡¯t no game. Floating in front of me¡¯s what looks like a ledger, yeah? A proper stat sheet, glowing faint like it¡¯s been scribbled in light. Words I don¡¯t recognise¡­ but they feel familiar. And then ¡ª clear as the bells on a Sunday mornin¡¯ ¡ª I hear her voice.


    ¡°Hello Harry, I am Jennifer, your personal system fixer. How can I help you today?¡±


    It ain¡¯t just the name. It¡¯s the way she says it ¡ª soft but sharp, like she¡¯s about to hand me a sandwich and tell me to mind my bloody manners. It is her. Or it¡¯s doin¡¯ a bloody good impression. My chest tightens. ¡°Alright, Mum,¡± I mutter, quiet-like, like I¡¯m not sure if I¡¯m talkin¡¯ to a ghost or a memory wrapped in wires. ¡°What in the blazes does FLARE, FRAUD, and FOOTING mean, then? Cos I ain¡¯t got a clue what I¡¯m lookin¡¯ at.¡±


    No answer ¡ª not yet. She¡¯s still there, hoverin¡¯ behind my eyes, warm as toast and twice as familiar. And me? I¡¯m just tryin¡¯ to keep my head screwed on I swear I can hear it ¡ª that soft little smile in her voice, the same one Mum used to have right before tellin¡¯ me off with a cuppa in hand. ¡°First, Harry, welcome to the Grifter System,¡± she says, like it¡¯s the bleeding Ritz. ¡°To answer your question ¡ª Flare, Fraud, and Footing are your core skills within the system, they are¡ª¡± I cut in, can¡¯t help meself. ¡°Hold up. So I¡¯ve got skills now? Like I¡¯m some character in one of them RPGs Ricky used to never shut up about?¡±


    She carries on like I hadn¡¯t said a word, smooth as you like. ¡°Yes, that¡¯s correct. Every person in this realm is linked to a sub-system of the Grand System.¡± Sounds mad, but she says it like she¡¯s readin¡¯ it off a manual. ¡°To answer your first question, my dear ¡ª Flare refers to charisma, confidence, deception¡­ when dealin¡¯ with people or situations. Footing is your finesse as a grifter ¡ª your instincts, your nerve. And finally, Exit is how clean you get away when things go pear-shaped. These are scaled from one to ten.¡±


    I scoff. ¡°Well I¡¯m a bloody ten across the board, then. I¡¯ve been on the grift since I could reach a till.¡± And this time, I know she chuckles ¡ª warm and amused. ¡°Sorry, Harry. You¡¯re at base level zero. You are new to this world, after all. Would you like to know anything else?¡± I lean back, mutterin¡¯ under my breath, ¡°Zero? You takin¡¯ the mick?¡± But I¡¯m listenin¡¯.


    Alright, I think I¡¯m startin¡¯ to get a handle on this, but there¡¯s still a few loose ends to tie up. I lean back, scratch my chin, and throw out the next question. ¡°Alright, Jen, love. What about these other skills? Am I gonna be some sort of comic book hero now or somethin¡¯? Tell me about BAIT, SWITCH, and EXIT. Are these the core skills, or are they somethin¡¯ else?¡±


    There¡¯s that familiar soft tone again, like Mum¡¯s voice floating through me. I almost feel like I¡¯m sat at the kitchen table again. ¡°These are the level 1 skills for a level 1 Grifter such as yourself,¡± Jennifer says. ¡°And, just like the core skills, they¡¯re set to zero, my darlin¡¯.¡±


    I¡¯m leanin¡¯ in now, properly hooked. ¡°So what¡¯s this BAIT business then?¡±


    She carries on, like it¡¯s the simplest thing in the world. ¡°BAIT refers to how you rope in a mark, how you find a score, and how you perform on the job. It¡¯s your skill for the set-up, the approach.¡± I¡¯m noddin¡¯, gettin¡¯ it now. ¡°Right, that makes sense. And SWITCH?¡±


    ¡°SWITCH is how you get away with it,¡± she explains. ¡°How you pull it off, how you stay ahead of the game. Whether it¡¯s the hustle or the dodge, it¡¯s the sleight of hand that keeps ¡®em fooled.¡±


    ¡°And EXIT?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s your skill for escape, love. How you lay low, how you vanish without a trace when the heat¡¯s on.¡± I blink, lettin¡¯ it all sink in. ¡°So, when I level up, more skills unlock?¡±


    ¡°Aye, exactly. When you hit level 2 in any core stat, more skills will be unlocked for you.¡±Bloody hell. This is actually startin¡¯ to feel real.

 Chapter Five

    I shove the last of the mental clutter aside, because there''s no use dwellin'' on it now. I¡¯d had a thought, yeah, maybe even a daft idea that this was it, my chance to go straight. No more dodgy deals, no more running from the law, no more living off the back of my old man¡¯s mess. Just me, starting fresh. But no. This world, this so-called Grand System? It¡¯s got other plans for me. No matter how much I¡¯d like to pretend I could escape the life, it seems it¡¯s embedded in my bones, right alongside all that other nonsense I can¡¯t shake off.


    I throw a look at the door, giving it one last glance before I head out. Wouldn¡¯t look too normal, me just standin¡¯ there, staring into thin air, mumbling to myself about some bloody system I don¡¯t even fully understand. So, I grab my coat, pull it tight around me, and make my way out the door. The streets of Applewood are quiet this time of morning, and as I step out, I start making my way towards the posh end of town. Might as well take a look. Can¡¯t hurt, right?


    The sigh comes out before I even realise. I¡¯d thought I was done with all that criminal nonsense, but now here I am, walking through this strange town, caught up in some magical mess, unable to escape the life. I shake my head, not sure whether I¡¯m frustrated or just resigned to the idea. This was supposed to be my new start, but I can¡¯t shake the feeling that the universe ¡ª or whatever force runs this place ¡ª is laughin¡¯ at me.


    I start to notice the buildings as I walk, the stonework sharper, cleaner. A few more trees, a couple of flowers planted here and there. Things look a little more refined as I move through, and I can¡¯t help but smirk. High-end for a place that hasn¡¯t got a lick of electricity, or the fancy bits and bobs you get back home. Still, it¡¯s a nicer part of town, even if it¡¯s all made up of fantasy and whimsy. So, I keep walkin¡¯, not sure what I¡¯m lookin¡¯ for, but pretty damn certain I¡¯m not gonna find it in any of these fancy houses. Might as well be a tourist for a bit. Just look around, take it all in. What else is there to do?


    I wander a bit further, taking in the oddball mix of old-school charm and shiny new bits, when I stumble across what can only be described as a tea house. Nestled in the back of a narrow alley, it¡¯s tucked between some fancy-looking shops, like a little secret the town¡¯s tryin¡¯ to keep from the tourists. I can smell the tea before I even get inside, that warm, earthy scent. The door¡¯s got a little bell that jingles when I walk in, and the woman behind the counter gives me a look like I¡¯m some kind of oddity. I nod, order a pot of tea, and take a seat outside, under an awning that smells faintly of lavender.


    I pour the tea slowly, watching the folk in the posh end of town start their day. Proper suits, polished shoes, they¡¯re all up and at it, mindin¡¯ their business like they¡¯ve got a purpose. Me? I¡¯m just another bloke with a mug, watching the world go by.


    ***


    Louise sat at the bar of the Ox and Ember Inn, trying not to show it, but the weight of the unwanted eyes bore down on her like a bloody hammer. Every bloke in the place¡ªdrunk on whiskey and stupid with their ow desires¡ªcouldn¡¯t keep their gaze off her. It made her skin crawl, but she didn¡¯t flinch. She¡¯d learned a long time ago that showing any weakness meant they''d chew you up and spit you out. So, she put on a show. A bloody good one. Like it was a suit of armour, and if she played the part right, no one could touch her.


    Finbar Strand, leaning against the bar with his usual cocky grin, was no better. He thought he owned her, thought his stare was a claim on what was his, but Louise wasn¡¯t having any of it. Oh, he knew she¡¯d come over when she was good and ready¡ªshe always did. She hated the way he looked at her, the way the other men in the room watched her like she was something to possess, but she could use it. She could use it to her advantage. They all wanted something, and she¡¯d make sure they didn¡¯t get it.


    When she finally stood, the dress she wore clung to her like it was painted on, leaving little to the imagination. She hated it, but she didn¡¯t care. She¡¯d let them think what they wanted, make them stare if that was what it took. Every step she took toward Finbar, her heels clicking on the floor like the sound of a ticking clock, was a declaration. She was in control. She draped her arm over Finbar¡¯s shoulder like it was a chain, a reminder that he didn¡¯t hold her¡ªno one did. She leaned in close, her breath a whisper against his ear, but it wasn¡¯t a confession. It was a challenge. Let them look. Let them want. They¡¯d never get close. Not while she wore this mask.


    Strand pulled her in tight, the force of it almost knocking her off her feet. His hands, rough and eager, strayed, trying to have his way in front of all the bloody eyes in the room. She could feel his breath on her neck, the heat of his body pressing against hers, and for a moment, all she could think about was how badly she hated this¡ªhow much she hated him in that moment. But, Louise wasn¡¯t stupid. She knew the game. So, she slapped on the fake smile, the one that came as easily as breathing, and played along. She tossed her head back, giving him a teasing glance, her body pretending to sway into him like it was all part of the plan.


    She pushed him away with just enough force to make him pause, but that¡¯s when she felt the change. The smirk that had been lingering on his lips twisted into something far darker. His stare went from wanting to angry. Louise could see it in his eyes. His temper was a short fuse¡ªquick to ignite, but never enough to burn. He¡¯d never lay a hand on her. That wasn¡¯t his style. But his words? They could sting like a blade to the gut. And that¡¯s what she was bracing for.


    Sure enough, just as she was about to step back, the words were already hanging in the air, ready to cut through the tension. The venom was there, just on the tip of his tongue. He was about to spit out another horrid remark, loud enough for her to hear, when it happened.


    A figure¡ªmassive, lumbering¡ªpushed through the crowd with a barely restrained grunt. Tiny. The rotund lackey who¡¯d been with Finbar longer than anyone cared to remember. A proper giant of a man, all muscle and bad news wrapped in a suit too small for his frame. The kind of man you didn¡¯t want to cross, even if his name was ironic as hell. Tiny was anything but. He reached Finbar in a few long strides and leaned in, whispering something into his ear. Whatever he said, it hit like a punch to the gut, because Finbar¡¯s face went blank, his anger smothered in an instant.


    Strand¡¯s posture stiffened, his gaze flicking from Tiny back to Louise, then to the back room, as though the whole incident had been wiped clean from his mind. He didn¡¯t say another word. Without even a glance in her direction, he turned and stalked towards the back room, Tiny close behind him like a shadow. Louise stood there, catching her breath, unsure whether to be relieved or suspicious. It wasn¡¯t often someone could knock Finbar off balance¡ªnot even Tiny. She waited a beat, watching the back door swing closed behind them, her fingers still tingling from where Strand¡¯s grip had burned into her skin.


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    She didn¡¯t trust it. Not for a second. Whatever had just happened, it was too clean, too sudden. Something was off. She wasn¡¯t about to let Finbar and his big brute of a lackey get the upper hand¡ªnot without seeing what the hell they were up to. So, she followed. Quietly, like a shadow in the night, weaving her way through the dim light of the inn, past patrons who barely noticed her slip by. Her heart was still racing, but it was a different kind of rush now. She rounded the corner just in time to catch a glimpse of a large chest being dragged across the floor in the back room. Finbar was about to open it. She didn¡¯t need to see more. Then the door closed. Even through the thick wooden door, Louise could hear it¡ªthe unmistakable sound of money bags rustling softly, followed by the creaking of the chest being opened.


    She stepped closer, her ear pressed against the door, blocking out everything else. She knew that sound. It was the sound of gold¡ªheavy, unmistakable.


    One.


    The first bag dropped into the chest with a dull thud, coins shifting inside, a slight rattle.


    Two.


    Another bag, heavier this time, the jingle of gold louder, more pronounced.


    Three¡­.Four.


    The rhythm quickened, one bag after another, dropping into the chest like clockwork. Louise counted, her mind racing with every sound.


    Five¡­.Six.


    She could hear the weight now¡ªthe bags filled with the inn¡¯s earnings for the month. Not just a few coins here and there¡ªthis was serious money.


    Seven¡­.Eight.


    The bags kept coming, landing with a thud that seemed to echo through the room. Eight bags. Eight bags of gold. Her heart skipped a beat. That was more than a night¡¯s haul. It was a month¡¯s worth of takings¡ªenough to make anyone sweat.


    This wasn¡¯t something small. This wasn¡¯t just Finbar being cautious or tight-fisted. This was big. She had to bite her lip to stop herself from rushing in. Her mind worked overtime. Finbar was moving the cash¡ªkeeping it somewhere far away from prying eyes. He wouldn¡¯t risk such a haul unless there was more at play. Something was off.


    Louise stood frozen for a moment, listening. The pieces were clicking into place. Finbar wasn¡¯t just being paranoid. This was something bigger. Something he didn¡¯t want anyone to know about


    ***


    Charlie sat at the grand oak table, his fingers tracing the rim of his coffee cup. The room was bathed in light, everything around him pristine¡ªtoo pristine, almost.


    The servants moved silently, their every action precise and practiced, their eyes never once meeting his. Not a single one of them acknowledged his presence. His old man, sitting at the head of the table, had his nose buried in a conversation about the upcoming horse race with his brother, both of them grinning like they knew the inside scoop. Charlie, privileged but out of place, sat quietly at the table, trying to slip into the conversation with the casual ease they all seemed to have. He cleared his throat and leaned in, trying to make his voice heard. ¡°You think the favorite¡¯s a sure thing this year, or is there something new in the mix?¡±


    The conversation came to an abrupt stop, but no one looked at him. His sister didn¡¯t even bother glancing up from her phone, scrolling as if she was the only one who mattered. His brother, too busy with his own world of bets and boasts, barely acknowledged Charlie¡¯s words. His father? He didn¡¯t even register Charlie¡¯s presence¡ªjust muttered distractedly, ¡°We¡¯ll see, Charlie,¡± before diving back into the race talk with his brother, like he hadn¡¯t even spoken.


    Charlie tried again, leaning in a little more, his voice tinged with a hint of frustration. ¡°I was thinking of putting a bet down myself. Reckon it¡¯s worth a punt.¡± He flashed a grin, hoping to break through, but the response was the same¡ªnothing. Not even a glance.


    The table buzzed on without him. The race. The bets. The bloody horses. All of it was a world Charlie wanted to be part of, but no matter how hard he tried, he always ended up feeling like an outsider. A ghost in his own home. The servants, ever the backdrop, continued to serve without a word. His family, the ones he¡¯d fought his whole life to impress, carried on without him, like he wasn¡¯t even there.


    With a soft sigh, Charlie picked up his fork and dug into his breakfast. He ate, not out of hunger, but out of routine¡ªbecause what else was there to do? It wasn¡¯t worth fighting anymore.


    An hour later, Charlie Thornby was striding through the cobbled streets of Applewood, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his tailored coat, the morning sun brushing against the rooftops like an artist¡¯s final touch. The clatter of carts, chatter of townsfolk, and occasional bark of a dog filled the air¡ªthis was a world that moved without giving a toss about last names or family estates. And that¡¯s exactly why he was heading to The Spout & Steam, his favourite little tearoom tucked between a bakery and a dusty old bookshop. The owner, Nora, had never once batted an eyelid at his surname or the mess that often followed it.


    She didn¡¯t care that the Thornby name carried a certain... weight. To her, Charlie was just another punter with a taste for strong tea and quiet corners. As he approached, he noticed a figure sitting alone at one of the small wrought-iron tables outside. A man, black hair neatly slicked back, a tailored coat draped effortlessly over his shoulders. His features were sharp, almost carved¡ªhandsome in that dangerous, too-slick sort of way. Charlie clocked him instantly: the kind of bloke who could charm a miser out of his last coin or sell icicles to the snow-dwellers of the Aurora Realm with a smile and a wink. He didn¡¯t belong here, not really. Something about him was too polished for Applewood, too deliberate.


    Charlie¡¯s eyes lingered for a moment, curiosity piqued, but he shrugged the thought away. Not my circus, he thought. He stepped inside, gave Nora a nod, and ordered his usual. A few minutes later, he sat at the table opposite the stranger, settling into his seat as the town drifted by, waiting for his pot of tea and letting the rhythm of Applewood calm the mess in his head.


    Minutes later, the tea arrived¡ªhot, fragrant, served in a chipped porcelain pot that had seen better days but poured like a dream. Charlie Thornby poured himself a cup, watching the golden-brown liquid swirl. He took a sip and muttered under his breath, ¡°Whole bloody house full of people, and I¡¯m still the invisible one¡­¡± He shook his head, the warmth of the tea doing little to settle the sting left by breakfast.


    Just then, from the corner of his eye, he saw movement. The sharp-looking stranger stood up, brushing down his coat with a lazy elegance. He stepped away from his table but caught the edge of a loose paving stone. In a flash, the man stumbled, arms flailing, and collided straight into Charlie¡¯s table. The tea pot wobbled, sloshing its contents, and a few hot drops splashed across the wood.


    ¡°Bloody hell¡ª!¡± Charlie jumped, jerking his chair back.


    ¡°Oh, damn¡ªmy fault, mate,¡± the stranger said, steadying himself. ¡°Didn¡¯t see that stone.¡±


    Charlie looked up at him, brow raised. ¡°You alright? Bit early to be throwing yourself into people.¡±


    The man chuckled, brushing down his coat again. ¡°Least I picked someone with good taste in tea. Apologies for the mess.¡±