Searching for the Artist

Grimstone was a city that never truly slept. Even in the early morning, it was noisy. As Anya climbed down from the rooftops into the city's dirty streets, the dark night was slowly turning into a pale, smoky morning. The alleys, which had been dark during the police raid hours earlier, now had quiet sounds of early sellers setting up their stands and scavengers moving around.

Anya knew that finding Caspian would be harder than running from the police. He was like a ghost, a legend whispered about by people who had lost hope. His artwork appeared overnight, like brave flowers of protest. No one knew his face, his real name, or where he lived. His art was his only clue, and it didn't last long – a message given, then left to be painted over or fall apart.

Anya began her search where Caspian's art was most common: the center of the Lower Spires. This area, a large, poor part of the city under the heavy shadow of the rich upper city, was his canvas. She walked, her eyes looking at walls, empty shops, and underpasses. She wasn't just looking for new paintings, but for small clues that only someone who understood the city's secret language could see. Things like leftover paint marks, old stencils, or even the unique pattern from a certain type of spray can.

She moved easily, like someone who knew every crack in the ground, every hidden spot from a police drone. Her time in the City Guard had taught her more than just how to fight. It had taught her to understand Grimstone like a book – its moods, its dangers, and its secrets. She stopped at a seller who sold old, stale food. She didn't buy anything, but she listened. The seller, a woman with eyes that had seen too much, was quietly talking about a new "ghost" appearing near the old Hydro-Pumping Station.

"Heard some kids talking," the seller whispered, without Anya asking. Her eyes, though, stayed on the faded scar above Anya's collarbone – a faint, round mark from a CID stun-stick. "Said it appeared right after the police sweep last night. Brave, that one."

Anya just nodded, leaving a couple of old coins on the counter. The Hydro-Pumping Station. That was further away, on the forgotten edges of the district, near the polluted river that ran through Grimstone's factories. It was a less visible spot, but also more dangerous. Caspian was either getting bolder, or he had something truly important to say.

The trip to the station took her through even dirtier parts of the city. Broken-down factories blew out stinging smoke, and the sky always looked bruised. The air got heavy with the smell of chemicals and the faraway, steady clang of machines she couldn't see. This was the real engine of Grimstone's wealth, powered by the unseen work of its forgotten people.

When she finally reached the old Hydro-Pumping Station, the quiet was almost too loud compared to the city's constant hum. Weeds grew through cracked concrete, and huge, rusty pipes snaked across the ground like petrified snakes. The building itself was a giant, empty ruin, its huge walls scarred by time.

And there, covering a whole section of the biggest wall, was Caspian's newest artwork. It wasn't bright this time. It was a stark, almost black and white painting, in shades of gray, black, and unsettling red. It showed a very tall, faceless official figure, its hand held out, not to help, but to show crushing, controlling power. At its feet, barely visible, were tiny, struggling figures. One of them looked exactly like Elara, the clockmaker.

The strong message of the painting, its desperate cry for attention, hit Anya hard. Caspian wasn't just an artist; he was someone who saw what was happening. And if he was willing to risk so much of himself, he might know far more than just whispers.

As she stepped back, taking in the message, a faint clink echoed from inside the huge, broken building. Then another. The sound of metal on stone, quiet and steady. Someone was inside.

Caspian.

Anya pulled out her stick, its familiar weight a comfort. Her heart rate, once again, sped up. This was it. The start of something that couldn't be undone.