The Alley opposite number 43

Daemon reached into his pocket, his fingers closing around the crumpled piece of paper Paulo had pressed into his palm. He stared at the city,dusk fast approaching.

The parchment felt rough against his skin, cheap and hurriedly made, the kind of paper that spoke of back-alley dealings and whispered conversations.

He unfolded it carefully, squinting in the pale light of a flickering street lamp that cast more shadows than illumination.

*Finch Street. Number 43. Alley opposite.*

The words were scrawled in what looked like charcoal, each letter slanted at a different angle as if the writer had been in a hurry or trying to remain inconspicuous.

Daemon stared at the message for a long moment, memorizing every detail before crumpling it in his palm.

The action felt symbolic somehow, like he was crushing his last chance at a normal life.

He began walking, his boots clicking against the uneven cobblestones as he searched for someone who might give him directions.

The streets were far from empty, but the people moving through them had the hurried gait of those who understood that lingering after dark was an invitation for trouble.

Most avoided eye contact entirely, their faces hidden beneath hoods or scarves that served as much for anonymity as for warmth.

The first person Daemon approached was a woman carrying a basket of what looked like medicinal herbs.

She was middle-aged, with graying hair and the kind of weathered hands that spoke of a lifetime of hard work.

When he asked about Finch Street, she glanced around nervously before pointing north with a quick jerk of her chin.

"Past the old cathedral ruins," she whispered, her voice barely audible over the wind. "But mind yourself, young man. That area... it's not safe after sunset."

Before Daemon could ask what she meant, the woman had already hurried away, her basket clutched protectively against her chest.

The warning hung in the air like a physical presence, adding weight to the growing sense of unease that had been building since he'd left the tavern.

The next few people he encountered were even less helpful.

A one-eyed beggar simply shook his head and held out his hand for coin.

A group of dock workers laughed when he mentioned Finch Street, their mirth carrying an edge that made Daemon's skin crawl.

A young prostitute with painted lips and hollow eyes gave him a look that might have been pity before melting back into the shadows.

It took nearly thirty minutes of wandering through increasingly narrow and twisting streets before Daemon finally found what he was looking for.

The cold had seeped so deep into his bones that he could barely feel his fingers, and his breath came out in thick clouds that dissipated almost immediately in the frigid air.

Number 43 was a narrow building squeezed between a shuttered bakery and what appeared to be an abandoned warehouse.

The structure looked like it had seen better decades, with crumbling mortar and windows that had been boarded up from the inside.

Soot stains streaked down the walls from what had once been chimney outlets, and the front door hung slightly askew on rusted hinges.

Daemon crossed the street, his eyes scanning the building's facade one last time before turning his attention to the alley opposite.

The narrow passage was barely wide enough for two people to walk side by side, and the moment he stepped into it, he was hit by an overwhelming assault on his senses.

The smell hit him first,a nauseating combination of human waste, rotting garbage, and something else that made his stomach turn.

The stench was so thick he could taste it, coating the back of his throat with a flavor that made him want to gag. He pressed his sleeve against his nose, but it did little to filter out the assault.

The alley was darker than the street, the tall buildings on either side blocking out most of the moonlight.

What little illumination filtered down revealed walls slick with moisture and covered in a substance that Daemon preferred not to identify.

The ground beneath his feet was uneven, littered with debris that crunched and squelched with each step.

But it was the feeling of being watched that truly unnerved him. It wasn't just paranoia, there was something tangible about it, like invisible eyes tracking his every movement from the shadows.

The sensation made his skin crawl, and he found himself constantly glancing over his shoulder, expecting to see figures lurking in the darkness.

"Is anyone there?" Daemon called out, his voice echoing off the brick walls and coming back to him distorted. "I'm here for a job."

The silence that followed was oppressive, broken only by the distant sound of dripping water and the scurrying of what he hoped were rats.

Daemon waited, counting the seconds as they stretched into what felt like an eternity. His breath came out in steady puffs, and despite the cold, he could feel sweat forming on his palms.

The weight of unseen observation pressed down on him like a physical force.

He could sense movement in the shadows, the subtle shift of fabric or the soft scrape of boot leather against stone. But whenever he turned to look, there was nothing there, just darkness and the lingering sense that he was being evaluated by criteria he couldn't understand.

"Paulo sent me," he tried again, putting more volume behind the words. "Paulo from the bar."

Still nothing.

The silence felt deliberate now, like a test of his patience or resolve.

Daemon was beginning to think he had misunderstood the instructions, that perhaps he was in the wrong place entirely. He took a step toward the alley's entrance, already planning his retreat, when a sound made him freeze.

Creak.

It was soft, almost inaudible, but in the dead silence of the alley, it might as well have been a thunderclap.

Daemon's head snapped toward the sound, his eyes searching the wall to his left. At first, he saw nothing but weathered brick and accumulated grime. Then, slowly, impossibly, a section of the wall began to move.