Now it's quite evening,
Albert Newton walked up the creaking stairway to his modest apartment. It wasn't much, just one room carved into the old quarter's stone complex but it was enough for him who used to live in hell.
The heavy wooden door seemed uneven from age. With a dull brass handle that stuck if twisted too fast. Inside, the air smelled faintly of dust and old books.
The stone walls were unpainted, rough to touch, each block still holding the chill of the night.
A short, narrow hallway led to his room, the space compact but ordered in its own quiet way. The stained-glass window, framed in iron.
Beside it sat a Cylia flower, pale cream in color with five broad petals marked by faint brown veins that spiraled inward like a fingerprint. Fragile and entirely ordinary, yet impossibly calming.
Beneath the window, a sturdy oak desk stood — the surface worn smooth by years of use. A small holopad rested on it, flickering occasionally with coded reports and unsent letters.
A velvet-upholstered chair, deep maroon and slightly faded sitting beside the desk. Its back angled perfectly for quiet thinking or brooding, as Tom often did when the night was too long.
The sleeping alcove was simple. An iron-framed bed, its corners rusted, the mattress thin but not uncomfortable. A patched quilt, stitched unevenly, added a bit of color to the otherwise muted room.
Above the bed was a narrow shelf holding a few books, a folded coat and an old pocket watch with a cracked glass face.
To the left, a small clean toilet space tiled with gray stone. Nothing was luxurious, just practical.
He'd bought this place for 5,000 coins, an almost foolish price for its size, and now owed 500 coins every week in rent. Yet, to him, it was worth it. Peace had its own cost.
Tom removed his hat, set it on the desk, and lay down on the bed. The mattress groaned softly. He looked once at the Cylia flower by the window, at the last sliver of sunset reflecting in its petals. Then closed his eyes and drifted into a light, fragile nap.
BAAM!!!
The door jolted against the stone wall so hard the hinges groaned.
Tom shot upright from his bed, half-awake and startled. His eyes were darting to the entrance like a man expecting a thief. His hand had already reached for the pistol on the desk before he recognized the familiar voice.
"Wake up, Newton!" Harriet barked, cheeks flushed from running. "We've got a new job!"
Tom blinked, rubbing a hand over his face. "Heh? Who got bl*wj*b? You just nearly broke my door to tell me that?"
Harriet ignored the remark, brushing dust from his red coat as he stepped further inside. His usual grin betraying the urgency in his tone. "Liam's factory is attacked by smugglers. They've got hostages. The boss wants us to handle it before the guards make a mess of things."
Tom sighed deeply and fell back on the bed, one arm over his eyes. "Of course he does. Can't let me have one peaceful nap, can he?"
"You call that a nap? You were drooling like a dying mule." Harriet quipped, already scanning the cluttered desk for his things. "Get up. We leave in ten seconds."
Tom groaned but swung his legs over the side of the bed. "You ever heard of knocking first?"
"Sure," He said, plucking his hat from the chair and tossing it at him, "but it's less fun."
The hat landed squarely on his chest. Tom stared at it for a moment before smirking faintly. "You know, one day that door's going to hit you back."
"Then I'll hit harder," Harriet shot back, already at the door again.
Tom stood, slipping into his gray coat, hat settling over his eyes. "Fine, fine. Lead the way, partner."
"About time," He grinned. "Try not to nap during the mission."
....
The night air around the factory district carried a bitter tang of oil and rust. Neon lamps flickered weakly above the iron fences, throwing fractured light across the cracked pavement.
Tom stood with his hands tucked into the deep pockets of his gray trench coat, the brim of his hat tilted low enough. Beside him, Harriet adjusted his red coat and tipped his fedora slightly back, squinting toward the smoke rising from the far end of the street.
"Two guards by the front, three more near the supply yard," Tom muttered, eyes tracing the roofline. "We go from the right, less visibility. I'll circle around the drainpipes, you go through the lumber piles."
Harriet shook his head. "You're forgetting the west tower. If they've got a sharpshooter, your hat's the first thing to catch a bullet."
Tom gave a dry chuckle. "Then I'll tilt it left. Problem solved."
"Very funny." Harriet whispered, crouching behind a half-broken cart. "We're not in a tavern brawl this time. Try to act like a detective, not a gunslinger."
Before Tom could respond, a sharp voice broke the quiet.
"Hey! Who's there?!"
A smuggler stepped from the shadows, lantern in one hand, pistol in the other. His scarred face twisted with recognition. "They sent you, didn't they? Shaw's dogs!"
Tom's fingers twitched toward his revolver, but the man fired first missing by inches. The bullet sparked off a nearby pipe.
"Guess that answers diplomacy." Tom muttered, drawing his gun in one smooth motion.
Harriet rolled to the side, returning fire. "Less talk, Newton!"
The narrow alley burst into chaos. Bullets pinged off metal, boots slamming against gravel. Tom ducked behind a steel barrel, firing twice. One smuggler dropped; another charged with a crowbar. Tom sidestepped, elbowed him in the jaw and disarmed him in one swift motion.
Harriet kicked a crate into another attacker, then cracked him across the face with the butt of his revolver. "You really know how to start a night, partner!"
"Wasn't my idea to shout," Tom replied, blocking a swing and sending the man crashing into the fence.
The gate behind them burst open during the scuffle. Smoke rolled out, thick and chemical-scented. Tom and Harriet stumbled back through instinct. Only to realize they have crossed the threshold already?
They were inside the factory now.
The factory's interior was a jungle of machinery. Rusted conveyor belts, shattered glass, and pipes that hissed out pale vapor like tired lungs.
The floor was slick with oil. Tom and Harriet moved quietly, the beams of their pocket lamps cutting through the haze like thin white knives.
"This place smells like old crime-yard." Harriet muttered, brushing a hand along a dented boiler. "If I ever run a factory, remind me to keep it less haunted."
"Data Saved." Tom replied dryly, scanning the corridor ahead. His boots sounded a rhythm out of place in the heavy silence.
They turned a corner and entered a wide loading bay. A single massive container, dented and sealed with chains, stood under a hanging bulb that flickered weakly.
Harriet approached it first, testing the lock. "This is it," he whispered. "Liam's employees. They're trapped inside."
Tom stepped closer, his hand brushed the cold metal. "Let's not rush it. If there's one of these rats left, he'll—"
A metallic clang behind them.
Dozens of smugglers poured from the shadows. Faces hidden under scarves, gloved hands gripping steel pipes and crowbars. Their footsteps thundered across the factory floor, a storm of aggression.
And at the center of them strode a bald man, his skin webbed with tattoos that crawled up his neck like vines. Gold tooth, broken nose, cheap cologne — his presence screamed trouble but his eyes betrayed fear beneath all that bravado.
"Well, well." the man said, voice dripping arrogance. "You two got guts walkin' in here. Shame they'll be scattered soon."
Harriet's grip tightened on his revolver, but Tom only adjusted his hat, unimpressed. "You the boss?"
The man snorted. "Boss? Nah. The name's Rico, brother of The Pledge. Ever heard of him?"
Tom raised an eyebrow. "Can't say I attend lowlife family reunions."
That earned him a snarl. Rico stepped forward, spinning the pipe in his hand. "Then hear this that this pipes or whatever Shaw's payin' you, it ain't worth your bones. Walk away, rats. This business ain't yours."
Harriet's gaze flicked around, quietly counting heads. Twenty at least…. maybe more hiding. Then his mind jumped to the blurry figure he'd chased hours ago — black coat, top hat. His stomach sank. Could he be one of them? Or watching from somewhere else?
Tom spoke again calmly. "You've got hostages. That makes it our business."
Rico's grin cracked. "Suit yourself."
The smugglers rushed them like a tide. Pipes swung. Sparks flew.
Tom ducked the first blow, using his revolver's barrel to strike a man's wrist before disarming him cleanly. He kicked another in the knee, sending him collapsing into two more. Harriet blocked a pipe with his forearm, twisting the attacker's arm and slamming him face-first into a crate.
"Try not to kill anyone!" Harriet shouted between grunts.
"Bullshit!" Tom replied, sweeping a leg to trip two at once. He fired once into the ceiling, the echo cracked scattering their courage.
Rico charged forward with a roar, swinging his steel pipe wide. Tom sidestepped, letting the man's momentum carry him into a railing. Harriet moved fast, kicking his pipe away and pinning him with the revolver's barrel.
"Game's over," Harriet said calmly.
One by one, the smugglers began dropping their weapons, trembling as Tom snapped handcuffs onto wrists. He worked efficiently, moving with the cold precision of experience. Harriet tied the last few using belts and chains stripped from the factory walls.
"Didn't even break a sweat," Harriet said, brushing his coat. "Very disappointing."
Tom smirked faintly. "Save that energy for the paperwork."
From the container came muffled sobs. Tom pried open the chains with a crowbar. The factory workers spilled out, exhausted but alive. Relief spread through the air like warmth.
As the authorities' sirens began to wail in the distance, Harriet looked back at the unconscious Rico, then at Tom. "Do you think The Pledge will come looking for payback?"
Tom adjusted his hat and turned toward the door. "He will," he said softly. " I'll be waiting."
With that, they walked into the night. The two silhouettes disappearing into the mist, the alarm of justice still ringing through the hollow factory.