Chapter 5 - Partner in crime

Alex woke before dawn. The sea was quiet, except for the soft creak of the ship’s timbers and the steady slap of waves against the hull.

Through the thin curtains of his small cabin, he could see the faint outline of a city rising on the horizon—a jagged crown of rooftops and chimneys, smoke twisting skyward like dark fingers.

The ship had reached the docks, inching closer, and Alex pressed his forehead against the cold windowpane. Somewhere beyond those walls was the city he had heard about, the place he was to call home now.

Etrezib, the capital of the kingdom.

The ship groaned as it docked, ropes pulled taut against wooden posts. Alex stepped off, his boots striking the worn planks of the harbor with a dull thud. The wind here was different—salt sharp on his tongue, mingled with smoke and something sour he could not name. He lifted his gaze.

The city stretched far beyond what his village eyes could hold. Rows of chimneys belched great clouds of steam, towers stabbed upward like jagged teeth, and cranes creaked above stacked crates and swarming workers.

The noise was relentless, a living pulse that hummed in his ears. Motion everywhere—people rushing, shouting, the clatter of carts, the barking of dogs. It was alive.

Alex paused at the edge of the dock, overwhelmed and small.

He’d never seen anything like this.

But behind him, the sea was still near, dark and endless.

And beneath its surface, the echoes of yesterday’s screams still rang in his mind.

Footsteps came behind him—Dominick’s heavy boots on the wood. Alex turned.

Dominick nodded once, a small, sharp motion. No words. Just a silent order.

Go.

Alex tightened his grip on the folded map in his hand and stepped forward, crossing the threshold into the city.

He did not look back. He did not have to.

He felt the stares, the wary fear. The space that opened wherever Dominick walked.

He just kept going.

Alex walked, boots clicking against the wet cobblestone as the city swallowed him street by street.

The Commons were nothing like his village.

There, he used to know names. Faces. He'd be greeted on his way to the well, or offered bread from a neighbor without asking. Here, no one looked at him with warmth. If they looked at all, it was sideways. Suspicious. Calculating.

Two boys, not much younger than him, crashed into each other in a wild game of fists and laughter. It wasn’t playful. There was no referee, no adults. Just bruises and cheers from others who watched with too much interest. One of the boys bled from the nose and still grinned.

He avoided a narrow-eyed man leaning against the wall at the mouth of a side alley. The man hadn’t moved, but his eyes had followed him. Long and quiet. Like a knife waiting to be needed.

Further down, the smell changed. Something sour, mixed with perfume. The alley to his left was lit with a faint red hue—half-hidden by rusted shutters. A few women leaned against the wall, smoking. They didn’t look tired. They looked hollow. One of them blew smoke at him. Alex looked away.

Everything here was built too close. The alleys were like veins of stone, twisting into darker things. There were no fields. No birdsong. Just walls and corners and people trying to disappear into both.

And it hit him, with a cold sort of clarity.

He was no one here.

No one to greet him. No one to care if he made it to this spot Dominick marked or not. The buildings didn’t notice him. The people didn’t want to. He was one more body walking. One more story nobody asked for.

_______________

The door creaked open, and a dim lantern cast a flickering light over the hall.

Dominick stepped inside, Alex just behind him, still wide-eyed from the city’s chaos.

“Dante,” Dominick called.

A boy about Alex’s age got out of his room. He yawned deeply and scratched his head.

“Huh? Wha—” Dante blinked awake. His eyes landed on Alex.

“Oh snap, we got a new roommate or something?” Dante sprang up with sudden energy, crossing the room and grabbing Alex’s hand, shaking it with infectious excitement.

“I’m Dante! Your new roommate and partner in crime! What’s your name?”

Alex blinked, confused but amused.

“I’m… Alex. Uh, hi.”

Dante stepped back, giving Alex a quick up-and-down look.

“Damn, you're too pretty for this place.”

He pointed at Alex’s tangled hair. “That hair? City girls are gonna love that mess.”

Dominick said simply, “He’ll be helping you with the next jobs.”

Dante grinned and rubbed his hands together. “So… we splitting the pay or—”

“You get the job done,” Dominick cut in coldly. “And you keep him alive and grounded.”

Dante chuckled nervously. “Alright, alright, just playing, boss.”

Turning to Alex, Dominick said, “Alex. Get used to the city. It’s different here. You can’t be useful unless you know how things work here and how people behave. I will be back in a few days. Dante will help you. Think of your first days here as an onboarding process to what's coming.”

Then he turned toward the door.

“I’ll be back in a few days. Don’t mess this up.”

And then Dominick was gone, the door clicking shut behind him.

A moment of silence settled in the small room. Alex looked around, the flickering lantern revealing every crack and scuff on the peeling walls.

Dante sighed. “Don’t worry about him. He’s not around much—just shows up when you least expect it. Like a thundercloud in your soup.”

“C’mon, Unpack and let's go ! I’ll show you around. You’re in the belly of the beast now, partner.”

The city streets were alive under the mid-morning sun. Light filtered through crooked rooftops and laundry lines hanging between buildings. Dust kicked up from carriage wheels. Children darted between vendors shouting their wares. Old men yelled curses at passersby. Dogs barked, and pots clanged somewhere in the distance.

Dante walked beside Alex, hands stuffed in his pockets, still yawning a bit but growing energized by the bustle. Alex kept glancing around, eyes wide, quietly absorbing it all. His posture was tight, alert.

“So, where you from, anyway?” Dante asked, glancing over.

Alex hesitated. “I… don’t want to talk about it… just some village.”

Dante squinted, thinking. “Come on now! I understand you’re new, but I’m trying to make you feel comfortable! Me? I’m from here—the small wild card of the undertaker.”

He grinned and shrugged.

“That’s… what they call him?”

“That’s the boss’s nickname in the city. People gave it to him after some incident they say… He is very fluent in the underground world and quite feared.”

“Anyway. Welcome to the city. You’ll hear people call it all sorts of names, but no one ever calls it small. You’ve got nobles, slums, gangs, saints, devils, lost kids, and kings—all packed together and pretending they don’t see each other.”

Alex blinked, taking in the rush of carriages, open market stalls, and rows of drying clothes strung between tight buildings.

“First rule? Watch your pockets. Especially in crowds. Some kids here could steal your belt without touchin’ your pants.”

Alex instinctively patted his side where his pouch might be, though he carried nothing.

“Second rule — don’t wander at night. I mean it. Place changes when the sun drops. And that’s when people like them come out.”

He nodded toward a narrow alley across the street.

“See that street? Don’t go down there. That’s Red Corner. Gangs, knives. You name it.”

Alex’s voice was quiet, amazed. “This place is... different. I’ve been here two hours and I’ve already heard more danger than in my whole life.”

Dante grinned. “You get used to it. Kinda like a drunk uncle—mean, loud, smells weird, but you grow to love it.”

Finally out of the Commons, they reached the busy city center.

A small crowd had gathered near a plaza fountain.

A girl stood at its center, playing the violin with haunting precision.

The sound cut through the city noise like silk through smoke.

Alex stared. “Who’s that?”

“Oh her? That’s just some street performer. Real good with the strings, though. She’s been around forever. Always in that spot. Quite the beauty. Our age too.”

Alex watched for a few seconds longer, quietly struck.

“Anyway—let’s keep moving.”

They turned a corner. The buildings grew leaner, rougher. Painted symbols and scratched gang marks defaced doors and trash bins.

“This street? Avoid it. That’s where the Wolves run. Mean little gang, full of kids who think they own the alleys.”

Alex looked puzzled. “Wolves?”

“Yeah. Kids like us, but different. They’ve been getting quite the reputation for years, picking fights and winning them easily… though word is their leader is missing.”

Soon the road widened. Cobblestones smoothed out. Decorative fences and high-class lamps appeared. A few clean-suited people passed by, looking down their noses.

“I wanted to show you another place, but it's far. Nobles sector. I'll take you there some other day. Buildings and streets are much cleaner... though we have to watch out. Strays don't go there or they will get the rich noble glare. Quite filled with cops too.”

“Cops?”

“Ah, my bad village boy… I meant poliiiicemen~.”

“Aren’t policemen supposed to protect people?”

Dante let out a dry laugh. “Sure. In fairy tales. Here? They take coin from the mob. If you’re lucky, they just ignore you. If you’re not, they make you disappear.”

Alex looked overwhelmed again, silent, taking it all in.

“Hey. Don’t worry. You’ll get used to this city. You’re strong, right? I can tell. Solid arms. Pretty boy hair too—you’ll fit right in. And I’m with you, partner!”

That earned the first small smile from Alex.

“Come on. I’ll show you where to get a decent bun that doesn’t taste like leather.”

Dante threw an arm casually around Alex’s shoulder, like they had been friends for weeks, and led him onward into the maze of the city.

Then he came to an abrupt halt.

Alex, walking just behind him, caught the change at once and narrowed his eyes.
“What is it?” he asked softly.

Dante’s voice was light, almost amused. “Keep your eyes on me. Closely now.”

With a curious grace, he slipped into a small knot of men circled around a game of dice. Alex lingered at the edge, furrowed of brow, unwilling yet to intrude.

Moments passed. Then Dante staggered slightly, colliding against a man dressed in a fine wool coat.
“Ah—pardon, sir,” he murmured, near to a bow. The man brushed past with the absent air of someone rarely contradicted.

When Dante rejoined Alex, there was a glint in his eyes and a curl to his lip. With a flick of the wrist, he revealed a leather wallet, held aloft like a magician presenting a trick.
“There we have it,” he declared with quiet triumph. “Lunch—and dinner, if we’re lucky.”

Alex's gaze dropped to the wallet. His expression did not change.
“You stole that,” he said, his voice low but firm.

Dante shrugged, unfazed. “And? You think he’ll miss it? The man’s boots were stitched with silver thread.”

“It doesn’t make it right.”

Dante gave a scoffing breath and raised his brows in theatrical disbelief. “Right? Are you hoping to beg in tune or mime for crumbs? Face it, brother—if you want to eat in this city, you must take. No one feeds saints. We have a roof, lucky we don’t pay rent, but we still nee-”

“I’ll find work,” Alex said plainly, interrupting.

“Where?” Dante gestured wide to the soot-streaked walls and desperate faces around them. “You see placards crying out for hands? You think anyone here gives a damn about your soft manners? You don’t earn coin, you don’t eat.”

“Then I’ll go hungry.”

Dante rubbed his temples, as though wearied by a child’s stubbornness. “Dominick gives us a money between jobs. But the rest—we earn it how we must. This—” he tapped the wallet “—is earning.”

Alex folded his arms. His jaw set.
“Until I hear what kind of ‘jobs’ these are,” he said grimly, “I’ll assume it’s blood money. I don’t want it. I won’t take it. And I won’t hurt people for it.”

Dante’s smile faded, but his tone remained level. “Nobody’s talking about hurting anyone. That man’s got his dinner waiting, and won’t miss a thing. I’m telling you—this world won’t bend for your conscience. There are no fairytales. No bread baskets falling from the sky.”

“Then I’ll make my own way,” said Alex.

Dante studied him. For a moment, some fleeting flicker of reflection passed through his eyes—then vanished. He turned.

“You’ll come around,” he said over his shoulder. “They all do.”

Alex stood still. The crowd moved past him, but he did not follow. His gaze lingered down the alleyway—torn between disdain and determination.

Dante’s voice drifted back, half-hearted, half-honest.
“Do what you want, kid. Just don’t starve next to me and expect me to cry about it.”

There was a pause. Then Alex called out—not angry, but quiet.
“Could you at least show me more of the streets? So I can look for real work?”

Dante gave a nod, indifferent. “Suit yourself.”

"Poor naive village boy."

_________________________________________________________

The Butcher’s Shop

At the shop window, sides of meat swung like pendulums, casting damp shadows. Inside, the butcher—a ruddy, broad man with a belly like a barrel—brought down his cleaver with a dreadful crack, sending chips of bone skittering across the blood-slick counter.

Alex stepped forward, his voice clear despite its gentleness.
“Excuse me, sir. I was wondering if you might need help—cleaning, or lifting—”

The man did not look up.
“You want to carry meat, boy?” he said gruffly.
Then came the cleaver again. A slab of pork split with a squelch.

“Then bring your own knives.”

Alex recoiled slightly. The man never raised his eyes.

_________________________________________________________

The Chimney Sweeper

Near a cart laden with soot-stained brushes, a wiry man with smoke in his hair and black beneath his nails tightened the straps of his tools. He looked like something forged in a hearth.

Alex tried to sound brave.
“I can climb fast. Heights don’t scare me.”

The man looked him over, then barked a sharp laugh.
“You’ll fall, choke, die. Or worse—get stuck.”
He leaned closer, his teeth yellowed and cracked.

“And I don’t dig boys out once they’re stuck.”

Alex turned away before the laughter could chase him further.

________________________________________________________

The Docks

At the city’s edge, the docks were alive with motion. Crates crashed against wood, dockhands shouted and cursed like poets in labor.

Alex wove between them, raising his voice to be heard.
“I can carry smaller loads—I don’t need much. Just a start.”

A pair of men laughed. One whistled.
“This pretty boy wants to lift !” sneered the first.

“Watch your back,” said the second. “The rats here work harder than soft boys.”

They turned away. But an older man—grizzled, his hands calloused with salt—approached.

“You look willing,” he said.

Alex straightened.

“But that’s not enough,” the man continued. “Not here.”
A pause. Then a quiet warning.
“Go home, lad. Before someone decides you’re easier to carry than the crates. Trust me.”

Alex gave no reply. He simply nodded and left.

And Dante watched every single honest, yet failed attempt from a distance, confirming his way was the only way.

The apartment was dim and bare. The city’s weight clung to Alex like smoke. His limbs were leaden, his stomach knotted. Hunger curled at his ribs.

Dante was already there, cross-legged on the floor, a loaf of bread in hand and a roasted potato balanced on his knee. He grinned without malice.

“Look who survived the first day.”

Without turning, he tossed an apple in Alex’s direction. Alex caught it reflexively, but did not bite.

He stared at it.

“You bought this with the wallet from earlier?”

Dante did not look up. “Yep.”

Alex hesitated—then tossed it back.

Dante raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

“Too proud to give up, village boy ?”

Alex turned away, dragging his weary body to the bed in the corner. He lay on his side, back turned, arms crossed.

Overwhelmed by the city, he just realized...

The apartment was silent now—too silent.

And it hit him slowly. Like dusk creeping into a room.

No mother calling him to wash up for dinner, pretending to be annoyed while already setting aside his favorite slice of bread.

No father waiting by the shed, tools in hand, pretending to frown when Alex beat him to the work, breathless with pride.

No familiar footsteps on creaking floorboards. No smell of soup. No small joys tucked into routine.

Just concrete. Just this bed. Just silence.

Maybe he’d been naive. Maybe the idea of doing this had sounded braver in his head than it felt now in his chest.

He pressed his forehead to the pillow.

Tomorrow might be better.

And if not tomorrow—then maybe the next day.

And if not then... well.

He had to believe it would be.

One day.

The apple sat untouched on the floor between them.

Dante chewed in silence, the sound of it filling the space where words might have softened the edge.

___

Early Morning, the Third Day

The city had awakened, but not for him.

Alex, alone, wandered alone through the narrow alleys and soot-streaked backroads, a threadbare figure swallowed by the crush of morning. His gait was slow, unsteady, as though each step pulled at some buried weight. His clothes hung limp on his frame, loosened by hunger and wear. In his hollowed face, the light of sleep and sustenance had long since burned away.

Around him, life roared. Street vendors shouted over one another, flinging prices into the air like stones. The scent of warm bread, of oil and frying meat, drifted temptingly on the breeze — but he turned his head from it, jaw clenched. His stomach growled in protest, but pride had long ago made its pact with silence.

Still he tried.

He approached carts being unloaded, his hands outstretched in earnest offer. He asked to clean, to lift, to sweep — anything.

But none had use for him.

They dismissed him with a wave, a sneer, a half-laughed insult.

Too young, too slight, too soft-spoken. Too something.

And so, like a beggar knocking on locked doors, he wandered from one rejection to the next.

By the late morning, he stood in the shadow of a brick wall, his back pressed against its rough edge.

He slowly sat on the ground, slumped against the wall, legs extended.

The city roared past him, uncaring. His head hung low, his breath shallow, and his limbs, leaden with fatigue, refused to carry him any farther.

It was then he heard the footsteps.

“You’re going to pass out.”

Alex opened his eyes — slow, reluctant. Before him stood Dante, hands in his coat pockets, his usual smirk dulled by something closer to concern this time.

“I’ve been following you. No luck yet, huh ? Are you truly this stubborn?” Dante asked, his voice low.

Alex said nothing.

With a sigh, Dante reached into his coat and withdrew a small bread roll — coarse and plain, but warm from the vendor’s oven. He tossed it gently in Alex’s direction.

Alex did not move to catch it.

“It isn’t your fault,” Dante said, his tone unusually subdued.

“It’s the world. This city. These so called adults. Mobsters, nobles, cowards — all of them. They build their marble halls on top of kids like us. Let us slip through the cracks, then pretend we never existed.”

He stared at the roll in his hand a moment, then added, “You have to eat, Alex.”

There was a pause — long, brittle.

Alex finally spoke, though his voice was faint.

“So you gave up?”

Dante looked up, surprised. “No. I adapted.”

But Alex’s eyes, dimmed by exhaustion, still burned with something … And Dante sees it.

Full of pride, full of determination, full of resolve.

“I’m not throwing away what my parents taught me,” he said. “Their lessons. Their hopes. I won’t.”

Dante studied him, brow furrowing.

“Even if it kills you?”

Alex doesn’t respond.

For a long moment, Dante said nothing. He merely looked — at the sunken cheeks, the trembling hands, the cracked lips. And beneath it all… a boy clinging to dignity like a soldier to a flag in a losing war.

“You’re out of your damn mind,” he muttered at last, though there was no true anger in it — only a kind of reluctant awe.

He stepped forward, crouched, and placed the bread gently on the stone beside Alex.

“The boss wants you alive,” he said, straightening. “And I’ll catch hell if anything happens to you.”

Then, with one last glance — a flicker of pity, of frustration, of something almost like admiration — Dante turned and walked away.

Alex watched him go, the bread untouched at his side. The crowd surged and thinned, and still he stood in that backstreet — starving, but unbroken.

The day had climbed toward noon, but the warmth in the air did little for the chill coiled deep inside him. His breath came shallow. His limbs sagged. His body had entered that slow, drifting rhythm of exhaustion — not sleep, but something heavier.

Three days without food.
Three days without warmth.
Three days without anyone looking him in the eyes…

but the thief Dante

and the mobster Dominick who still didn't come back and dropped him in the apartment like a bag of groceries.

His head turned slightly. The rough stone pressed against his temple like the side of a tomb. And still, he did not move.

Eyes closed.
Breath still.
And then—

Sound faded.
Color faded.
Time loosened its grip.

Three Years Earlier – The Mountain Farm – Midday

The sun hung high, casting long shadows across the hills that wrapped the little valley in terraces and vines. Crickets chattered. A hawk cried far above. And in the middle of a sloped vegetable plot, a boy stood still as stone.

He was barefoot and muddy, no more than ten, his arms rigid at his sides as he surveyed the wreckage before him — stalks bent, furrows crushed under careless feet, broken shoots scattered like bones.

His jaw set tightly. His eyes burned.

“…Those kids again,” he muttered.

The culprits were not far. Two boys — older, cockier — strolled along a dirt path, tossing stones and laughing too loudly for anyone truly innocent.

Alex approached, small and tense like a drawn wire.

“Well look,” said one, sneering, “the dirt boy’s come to cry.”

“Was it you again?” Alex asked.

“What’re you gonna do?” said the second. “Run to your mother?”

But he didn’t run.

He sprang.

The fight that followed was messy, a blur of limbs and dirt. Alex didn’t fight like a city boy — no neat punches, no clever footwork. He fought like someone used to lifting sacks of grain and pulling weeds — hard, fast, unrelenting. When it ended, one of the boys bled from the nose, the other spat dust and insults as they ran.

Alex stood panting in the silence they left behind.

By the Barn – Later

The sun had begun its long descent westward, and shadows cooled the ground.

Alex crept over a low fence, cradling a basket of eggs — taken, not given — from the boys’ farm. He moved quietly, ducking behind a row of barrels near the barn, his eyes darting.

But then—

“Alex.”
Her voice stopped him cold.

Elena, his mother stood, apron stained, arms folded. She looked not angry — only tired, like someone who had come through the same argument too many times.

“Put them back,” she said.

“They started it,” Alex said quickly. “They broke the fence again. Trampled the sprouts—”

“And so you steal?” she asked softly. “That makes you better?”

“I just wanted them to pay.”

“And what happens when they do it again tomorrow? Do you steal again? Then again? And again? When does it end?”

He looked down. He had no answer.

She came to him slowly, knelt, and took the basket from his trembling hands.

He stared at her.

“So what?” he whispered. “I just let them walk all over us?”

“No,” she said. “You come to me and your father. And we’ll speak to their parents.”

“I did come to you,” he snapped. “Last time. And the time before. But Mr. Ramon—he just smiles. Says ‘boys will be boys.’ You think he cares?”

Elena sighed. Her face was calm, but her eyes were full of ache.

“Still,” she said, “you don’t take justice into your own hands. This is our farm, Alex. I’m the grown-up. I carry the burden. Not you.”

He said nothing, shoulders stiff.

Then, quietly:

“Don’t act like you’re all alone. Your father and I—we’re always here.”

Her hand rose, rough and warm, and cupped his cheek.

He leaned into it, silent now. His eyes closed against the weight of her touch — ashamed, weary, comforted.

…

But now you’re not.