The Slums Stir

I'd spent the better part of the evening weaving through the underbelly of the capital. I wasn't perched high on a rooftop this time—no, I preferred the anonymity of the pavement, where I could blend with the shadows and forgotten souls. I kept my face slow as I made my way toward the tannery.

It was time to check on my first "child." Garrett, the slaver-turned-host, whose cocky arrogance had become his trademark. Rumors had trickled in like gutter water, whispers that he'd begun expanding his influence, recruiting new enforcers, and even "reshaping" his operations at an alarming speed. I knew all too well that the bloodshed he boasted about was nothing but a reflection of my own handiwork. His guard had been dispatched quietly in the dark by Vance, at my command. A command that likely could have ended Garrett if I'd so chosen. But I hadn't; I'd let him strut for now, to remind him whose orders truly mattered.