Chapter 3:

Anne tightened her coat around the package, her boots tapping a steady rhythm against the slick cobblestones. The morning fog still clung to the streets, swirling around her ankles like restless spirits. Hollow Street wasn't far—just a few turns past the old church with its bell tower frozen in mid-collapse, past the market stalls where vendors shouted over each other, past the place where the air always smelled faintly of rust and rot, no matter the weather.

Hollow Street had earned its name well. Buildings hunched together like old men whispering secrets, their brick faces cracked and weary, their windows gaping like missing teeth. There was an ache in the walls, a kind of exhaustion that clung to everything. It was the kind of place where people stopped dreaming because hope was a luxury they couldn't afford.

And yet, Anne saw something else.

She saw the children darting between alleyways, laughing in that reckless, wild way only children could. She saw the woman scrubbing yesterday's blood from her doorstep, humming a hymn as if her hands weren't raw from endless work. She saw an old man feeding stray cats, mumbling a half-remembered prayer under his breath as they rubbed against his legs.

Hollow Street was a graveyard of better days, but it wasn't dead. Not yet.

She kept her head down as she walked, the package pressing against her ribs. Whatever was inside, it wasn't hers to question. She was just a pair of steady hands, same as she was on the factory floor. And as long as she kept moving, as long as she kept working, everything would be fine.

A scream cut through the morning air.

Anne's grip on the package tightened, but she didn't stop walking. You didn't stop for screams here—not unless you wanted to be the next one. She said a quiet prayer under her breath, not for herself, but for whoever had cried out.

God, if you're still listening, keep your eye on that one. And if you've got time, maybe me too.

Ahead, a man staggered into the street, his face painted in blood. Not his, though. It was too neat, too smeared, like he'd wiped his hands clean on his own skin. He grinned at her, wide-eyed, feverish.

"Morning, love," he crooned.

Anne walked faster.

"Got a package there. Bet it's something nice." His voice had the lazy, unbothered drawl of a man who'd never once been afraid of consequence.

She said nothing. 

A few others loitered nearby, their eyes flicking between her and the package like wolves scenting fresh meat. One of them, a boy barely older than Elric, whistled.

"Could be worth something," he mused.

Anne exhaled slow, steady. She didn't believe she could scare them even with the knife she hid. It was a last resort. 

"You really want to rob a woman on her way to church?" she asked, tilting her chin up just enough to make eye contact.

A lie. But a good one.

The blood-streaked man chuckled, running a tongue over his teeth. "Didn't say anything about robbin'. Just curious, is all."

"Curiosity's a sin," Anne said, her lips curling in something that wasn't quite a smile.

Another lie. But they wouldn't know that. 

The tension lingered for a beat longer, thick as smog. Then, miraculously, the bloodstreaked man shrugged. "Suit yourself," he muttered, turning away.

The others followed suit, peeling off into the alley shadows like they'd never been there at all.

Anne walked on, resisting the urge to glance over her shoulder.

That was close.

Hollow Street wasn't hell, not yet. But the devil had set up shop, and he was making good business.

And Anne? She just had to deliver this package and get out before she owed him anything. But why did Markov not give it himself? That question had been on her mind for a while. But she never asked him because the crook had paid her before the job and she, in all her faith, was going to choose her brothers' fed stomachs rather than the legality of the matter. Markov may not be trustworthy but he wouldn't send her to her death, and she had leverage over him because of the letter she had sent to Chelsea before coming here. She told herself that and kept repeating it in her mind yet the anxiousness wasn't going away.

Anne kept her pace steady, her grip firm on the package as she neared the tailor's shop. Just one more corner, and she'd be free of Hollow Street's eyes for a while. The wooden sign above the shop swayed lazily in the wind, its painted letters chipped and faded, but still legible—S. Hargrave, Fine Tailoring & Repairs.

She let herself exhale. Almost there.

The moment she stepped past the last alleyway, something yanked her back.

A thick arm coiled around her waist, crushing the air from her lungs. Another hand clamped over her mouth, rough and calloused, stinking of sweat and copper.

"Gotcha now, love," a voice purred in her ear.

The bloodstreaked man.

He dragged her backward into the alley's gloom, her boots scraping against the cobblestones. The tailor's shop—safety, familiarity—faded further away with every step. Panic flared, bright and sharp, but Anne swallowed it down. She couldn't afford panic. Not now.

"You walk real pretty," the man murmured, his breath hot against her cheek. "Figured I'd get a closer look."

She twisted in his grip, but he was stronger, taller. His grip on her mouth tightened. "Ah-ah. Don't make a fuss. Don't wanna mess up that pretty face, do we?"

Something cold brushed against her ribs—a knife, pressed just light enough to be a warning. 

Anne squeezed her eyes shut. Truth, my lord I know I don't ask for much, but if You're watching, now'd be a fine time for some help.

The man pushed his hand on her face, yet she didn't fear. She bit down as hard as she could.

Anne barely had time to register the iron grip on her face before she was yanked back, her breath leaving her in a sharp gasp. The package nearly slipped from her grasp, but instinct—good, hard-earned survival instinct—kept her fingers locked tight around it.

The bloodstreaked man's breath ghosted against her ear, sour and too warm.

"Didn't say I wasn't interested," he murmured, his voice thick with amusement, like this was a game to him, as he eyed the package.

Anne's pulse hammered, but she didn't panic. Panic got people killed. Instead, she did what she always did when faced with something terrible—she thought of something better.

Like the smell of fresh bread from the baker's cart. Like the sound of Elric laughing at one of her dumb jokes. Like the warmth of a candlelit prayer whispered into the night, even if she wasn't sure anyone was listening.

"You really don't want to do this," she said, keeping her voice steady. "You don't look like a fool, but if you keep touching me, that's what you'll be."

The man laughed, low and amused. "Is that right?" His grip tightened, the edge of his knife pressing lightly against her side. "And what exactly are you gonna do about it?"

Anne swallowed. She couldn't bend enough to grab the knife she had hidden. What could she even do against someone who's used to this?

She wasn't strong, wasn't fast. But she was faithful.

And faith—faith could be a weapon just as much as a blade. For she had hope. He would have to kill her to take it away.

She let out a slow breath and said, "God's watching."

The man only grinned, a slow, curling thing full of something rotten. "Yeah?" He dragged a tongue across his teeth. "Then He ain't doin' much, is He?"

"You think the Lord's gonna save you?" he mused, tapping one dirty fingernail against the window. Tap. Tap. Tap. "Gonna send down a choir of angels to drag me off? Strike me down with a bolt o' lightning?" He laughed, low and gravelly. "Come on now, love. Be real. If God's watchin', He's watchin' me too. And He's lettin' me have my fun."

Anne didn't blink. Didn't flinch. "He sees everything," she said, voice steady. "Sees you."

That made the man's smile widen. "Oh, sweetheart. I want Him to see."

Something about the way he said it—like he was waiting to be noticed, waiting for a sign just to spit in its face—sent a shudder down Anne's spine.

She barely had time to gasp before his fingers dug into her coat, aiming for the parcel.

Anne twisted, wrenching herself free, her heartbeat pounding against her ribs.

"Let go," she hissed, gripping the package tighter.

The man—bigger, stronger, a coiled predator in the dim alley light—didn't hesitate. His fist cracked against her cheek, sending her sprawling onto the damp stone. The pain was instant, white-hot, shooting down her jaw. She barely caught herself on her elbows before he was on her again.

His hands tore at her coat. Anne curled around the package like it was her own beating heart.

"No—!"

Another hit. This one to her ribs. The impact stole the breath from her lungs, left her gasping as she fought to hold on.

The alley was spinning, her vision blurring. She kicked, she thrashed, nails raking at his arms, but he was relentless with his...brutality. She could taste the iron in her mouth, the numbness on her forehead. 

"Let. It. Go," he growled, slamming her back against the alley wall.

Anne choked on a cry. The impact rattled her spine, but she still didn't let go.

God's watching.

The thought flickered through the pain. Maybe that meant nothing here, in this dark, filthy place where men did as they pleased and the sky was too far away to notice. But she gritted her teeth anyway, holding onto it like she held onto the package—desperately, stubbornly.

He hit her again. Harder.

Her head snapped to the side, the taste of blood blooming in her mouth. The world was tilting, her knees threatening to buckle.

She wanted to fight. Oh, how she wanted to fight.

But her body was failing her.

He grabbed the package.

Her fingers trembled, her grip loosening against her will.

Anne blinked through the pain, the alley spinning.

Truth's watching. 

Then let Him see. She closed her eyes. This was where she had been born in, Blacksmire, and today, death had chosen it was her day, like the many others that had been chosen before her.

For the blood soaked man had begun the unholy act, as he put the box away from her reach and kneed her to the ground. One hand grasping her throat and the other moving near the belt of her skirt. 

"Stop—!" she yelled, tried to for that matter. But it was a useless ordeal as that resulted in her getting slapped.

If only she had never accepted the money, she thought. But why? Is attempting to survive a crime? Why should she feel guilty for the choices that she never had, for they were even worse. If she didn't, then her brothers would have to suffer the injustice, of hunger. To her, the package seemed a better choice...choice? She chuckled as the man grasped her tighter. 

There never was one. But why did it matter anymore? Her lips widened, and a pure, unfiltered hatred blossomed in her eyes. She had followed the rules of the city, was a firm believer of the church of the Lord of Truth, and had never harmed another person, rather helped many. All she asked was to be left alone, even when her father was snatched from them and forced to be a soldier, when her mother had left with another man leaving her to protect, and raise her brothers. Yet it wasn't enough. 

Her screams were drowned by the rush of the city. She knew she would be murdered after the man had enough. She had to accept it. She would soon die and there would be nothing left for her brothers anymore. And maybe, they might end up like this man, full of utter hate.

It was tiring. Painful. Disgusting. Her eyes were still closed. She could feel her shirt being pulled. 

She instinctively prayed to the one deity she had ever known.

O Lord of Truth,Guardian of justice and keeper of wis—

"—aaah! My hand..my HAND!" a wail of pain, so disturbing it seemed as if it came from something inhuman. Because that's what she saw when she opened her eyes. She could no longer feel the tightness around her neck.

The blood-soaked man fell by the wall, clutching his right hand, the one that was holding her down, in pain. Agony. He kept screeching, as if he was about to die. That was when she saw his eyes.

Anne realised it...he wasn't even here. Lost in his own mind. Before she could answer the how, her eyes automatically landed on an avatar of fashion—Well that was what he thought she was thinking—the same man who was losing to a goose, standing by the edge of the alley, hands in his pocket.

He smiled when he looked at her.

Then slowly, and patiently walked towards the man. With a smile...a devious smile. 

"My—my hand, please, someone, NO!" he screamed as he grabbed his hand and hit the wall again and again. This...was terrifying. A man who was about to kill her, was screaming like a baby holding his perfectly functional hand...and tearing it apart, scratching his exposed muscles on the walls.

She crawled back, her voice merely a muffle. Too fearful of provoking the styled person, now checking his silver pocket watch. 

"Miss, do you perhaps know the time?" he asked. But all she saw was murder in that gaze.

"Uh—huh—yes, no, I don't know." her voice broke. There was no way to run, no place to go. But—without hesitation she quickly grabbed the knife inside the gap of the sole of her shoe. It was raised now, for the first time, she felt she wasn't going to die. 

But the man before her....was staring at the watch. He hit his watch, annoyed. Then looked at her, his gaze filled with hatred.

Then he kicked the blood-soaked guy in the head. Again. And again. Until his face was totally soaked in his own blood. 

After he was done kicking, he tore a huge part of her nemesis's hair from his scalp. The mere image made her hands tremble.

To be saved, only to find myself in the jaws of a bigger monster. She couldn't laugh at that.

"Gods," the man muttered, shaking loose the torn strands from his fingers. "That was disgusting."

And turned as if he had forgotten there was someone other than him here.

"Valentine Fontaine," he introduced himself, smoothing down the front of his waistcoat as if he had not just spent the last two minutes introducing his foot to someone's skull. "Pleasure to meet you."