The Alley's Cry

The smell of Grimstone was always there: old rain, factory smoke, and a faint smell of people feeling hopeless. For Anya, it was like the smell of home. Tonight, it stuck to her old leather jacket as she walked through the twisting alleys of the Lower Spires. This was the only part of the city where the very tall, thin buildings of the rich didn't completely block out the stars. Here, it was always like twilight, with only the blinking lights of illegal gambling places and the cold glow of police cameras.

Anya moved like a shadow herself. She used to wear the uniform of the City Guard, which felt like a second skin, promising order in this messy concrete city. But Grimstone had a way of turning promises into problems. She had seen too much, asked too many questions, and in the end, her police badge became a heavy weight, then something she lost. Now, she only carried her sad memories and the comforting cold feel of her reinforced stick, tied to her back.

She was going to a dirty, forgotten restaurant. Its single blinking light barely showed a menu that had faded long ago. She wasn't going for food, though. She had heard news of a new police sweep, a fresh wave of "cleaning" that was targeting the city's poorest people. Anya knew what "cleaning" meant: forcing people out of their homes, making them disappear, and filling the pockets of the very men who swore to protect Grimstone. An old contact from the CID police, who still had a little bit of goodness left, had sent her a secret message: "They're moving on the old clockmaker. Tonight."

The clockmaker, Elara, was a wise old woman who saw more than she said. Her shop was a safe place filled with complex machines and old stories. She was harmless, which made her an easy target. The thought tied a knot in Anya's stomach. Her old anger, which had lessened after months of being away, started to wake up.

As she turned the last corner, the loud sounds of the alley—faraway police sirens, a street seller's sad cry, the constant drip of leaky pipes—were suddenly broken by a sharp, deep scream. It was short, cut off quickly. Anya froze, her hand going to her stick without thinking. That wasn't just a police raid; that was someone being captured.

Her feet moved before her mind fully understood what was happening. She slid behind a full trash bin, peeking into the narrow pathway. Two large figures, wearing the dark, plain uniforms of the CID's "Special Enforcement" team – the police who enforced the real power in Grimstone – were dragging a struggling person into the back of a black, armored van. It was Elara, her silver hair messy, a cloth already tied over her mouth.

"Old woman's got some fight in her," one of them grunted, pushing Elara roughly into the van.

"Just get her in. Orders are clear. No one sees. No trouble."

The van's engine rumbled, ready to take Elara away. Anya's breath caught. This was it. The line. To walk away meant letting Grimstone take another innocent person, another piece of her own spirit. To act... meant stepping back into the dangerous life she had promised to leave.

Her gaze hardened, fixed on the van. The old clockmaker had a faint, special scar just above her left eye, a mark Anya knew right away. This wasn't just another person with no name. This was Elara.

A calm, strong feeling settled over Anya. Grimstone's rules might be broken, but some lines, she realized, were still worth fighting for.