Chapter 28: Puppet Boss

[POV: Stabs]

Stabs had no idea how it had come to this. He was never built for the role of a leader. Following orders, yes, that he could do. But deciding for himself? That had never been his strength. He hadn’t been given this position because anyone thought he could manage people. No, it was dumb luck and his laughably short background as an adventurer that landed him here. Dumb luck because Jandar had found him at his lowest, catching him red-handed as he beat a man bloody for cheating him out of his savings. Short background because, before debts crushed him, Stabs had once worked as a scout for adventurers, hardly enough to qualify him for leadership. His time in Jandar’s gang had been a blur of depression and errands, used like a tool for jobs no one else wanted. Now, nothing had changed except the master. At least this one paid a salary.

“This is too much money, boss,” Ken said, holding the pouch with wide-eyed hesitation.

“After you get lunch,” Stabs ordered, “go to the good sister from the church. Have her heal you. Then find the barber, get yourself groomed, and come back here at once. From now on, you live here. Your body’s not yours alone, do you understand?”

Ken swallowed hard. “Y-yes, sir.”

The boy slipped out, and almost on cue, one of the street urchins came skidding to a halt at the doorway. Well, maybe not a street urchin anymore. These days, Stabs supposed they were “church kids,” taken in by the good sister’s charity.

“You’re John, right?” Stabs asked, squinting at the lad.

“Yes, sir! Sister Lydia says you should go to the church, sir!” John blurted, and before Stabs could even grunt in response, the boy darted away like a spooked rabbit.

With a sigh, Stabs grabbed his ratty old hat and set off down the path toward the church. The mud sucked at his mismatched boots, recent rains had turned the road into a slog. As the so-called puppet boss of the Twinfist Gang, he could have afforded better footwear or a decent coat, but fine clothes had never suited him. He wore his rags like armor, a reminder of where he came from.

The church’s great wooden double doors stood wide open. Inside, a silver-haired girl stood in the nave, speaking softly to empty air. Stabs shifted uneasily. If he remembered right, her name was Nira.

His thoughts strayed to Renzo, the so-called evil spirit who had all but taken control of the gang. At first, Stabs had assumed it was just some mage’s trick, but recent events—and a few bottles of good booze—had made him reconsider. Maybe Renzo really was an evil spirit. Still, it was hard to reconcile that with the fact the thing was apparently living in a church.

Nira stopped her conversation with the unseen and turned toward him. “She says she will be waiting by the confessional.”

Before Stabs could ask who “she” was, the girl slipped away toward the back of the church, vanishing as abruptly as she had spoken.

Stabs was left to his lonesome. The silence of the ruined church settled heavily on his shoulders, broken only by the faint creak of ancient wood under his boots. He glanced around the empty space, half expecting to see the familiar outline of his new “lord,” but there was no one.

“Lord Renzo?” he called out, his voice carrying through the hollow nave.

No answer.

A faint unease tugged at him, and he reached up his sleeve, feeling for the hidden silver cross he’d pilfered from Jandar’s corpse. The cold metal met his fingers, reassuring in its own way. He had no idea what enchantment or curse it carried, but he knew it had done something to Renzo, and he never left without it. Carrying it might anger his new boss, but better that than end up at the mercy of whatever the man or whatever he was could do to him.

He made his way to the confessional. The booth was dim, its wood darkened with age, the air faintly scented with candle wax and dust. He took a seat, the wood groaning softly beneath him. Across the thin wooden partition, he could just make out the blurred outline of the good sister.

“I am here,” he said. “What do you want to talk about?”

Her voice came soft, deliberate. “May the Light guide you. Please, make yourself comfortable.”

Comfortable? He resisted the urge to snort. There was nothing comfortable about being here.

“When was the last time you’ve confessed your sins?” she asked.

“I am not really religious,” he replied flatly.

“It is not too late to start now,” she said.

“I don’t believe in the Silver Promise,” he said, leaning back. “In fact, I don’t believe in the Light at all. Can we talk business?”

It crossed his mind that he ought to be more respectful. After all, this Lydia was Renzo’s second, whether she admitted it or not. But Stabs wasn’t anyone’s second. His boss was dead, and the man he worked under now… well, calling him a man might be a stretch.

“Apologies,” Stabs added. “I didn’t mean to be harsh. I’m stressed, that’s all.”

“It is fine,” Lydia said calmly. “We are only human, and we make mistakes.”

Human? The word carried a bitter edge in his mind, conjuring the image of the inhuman spirit he’d sworn to avoid crossing.

“Has Lord Renzo decided on what to do with the Twinfist Gang?” he asked.

“Lord Renzo?” she repeated.

He frowned. “Is there a problem?”

“No problem at all,” she replied, and there was a faint trace of amusement in her voice. “It is an amusing address, though.”

Amusing? He wondered what kind of relationship she had with Renzo.

“You ask why I called you here?” Lydia went on. “My reasoning is simple. I wanted to talk with you and meet you myself. You see, Renzo is troubled and had sought my advice on what to do with the Twinfist. A better part of me believes the world would be a better place without them.”

Her words made his heart jolt. Was she talking about disbanding them? Killing them?

“I offered two possibilities to Renzo,” Lydia continued, her tone even but firm. “Both with the goal of reforming the gang into functioning members of society. One, give you up to the city’s law enforcement, and hope you redeem yourselves under their guidance. Two…” She let the pause hang just long enough to tighten the knot in his gut. “…we kill all of you.”

How was that even ‘reforming’ if they ended up dead?

Stabs stared at the wooden partition, the words ringing in his ears. A nun, someone supposedly devoted to mercy, had just put both his worst nightmares on the table.

Lydia’s voice softened. “However, Renzo had offered a third option.”

Hope, fragile but persistent, began to bloom in Stabs’ chest.

Stabs barely had time to process what happened. One blink, and the wooden walls and lattice of the confessional were gone. In their place stretched a sunlit park, impossibly pristine. The air smelled of fresh grass and blooming flowers, carrying a breeze that whispered through the neatly trimmed hedges. Birds chirped lazily from the branches overhead, the sound painfully out of place for a man who had been sitting in a dim, stale booth seconds ago.

He was still seated on something solid, though when he looked, it was only a plain wooden bench beneath him. Shell-shocked, he turned his head slowly, trying to understand whether this was dream, trick, or madness. Then his gaze caught a figure standing directly before him.

The man was dark-haired, dressed entirely in black, his posture relaxed but his presence heavy. His skin was pale enough to look carved from wax, and his eyes were dull, almost lifeless. Yet something about the stillness in those eyes made Stabs’ stomach tighten.

“Who are you?” Stabs demanded, voice low, his throat suddenly dry.

“Now, I am hurt,” the stranger said, lips curling faintly. “You don’t recognize me at all?”

A cold shiver ran down Stabs’ spine. He scrambled to his feet, words stumbling out of his mouth. “L–Lord Renzo.”

Renzo stepped forward without haste, the distance between them shrinking like a shadow in the afternoon sun. “The third option,” he said evenly, “is to remove the lieutenants from the equation.”

Stabs’ brow furrowed. “Remove?”

“I want you to tell them my plans,” Renzo continued, ignoring the question. “Provoke them if you have to. I’ve made the decision… I am going to claim the seat of boss after all. Spread the word, gather everyone from the gang, and have them attend the church this coming Sunday.”

Stabs swallowed. “Everyone?”

“Everyone,” Renzo said, his tone firm but unhurried. “Each contributing member, from the lowest rat, whore, bastard, and thug.”

A sudden blink, and the park was gone. The scent of flowers was replaced by the faint musk of incense and aged wood. The confessional walls surrounded him once again, but the seat across from him was empty. The good sister was nowhere to be found.

Heart pounding, Stabs shoved himself out of the booth. His boots clicked on the stone floor as he hurried toward the exit, glancing over his shoulder as though the pale man might still be watching. He muttered Renzo’s instructions under his breath again and again, the words clinging to him like a curse.