Impheil leaned back into the plush curve of the armchair, letting the quiet murmur of conversation fill the space around him. His drink—untouched since his return—glinted in the low light, a prop more than a pleasure. He brought it to his lips slowly, letting it wet his mouth, eyes flicking once more toward Edwin.
Still talking. Still composed. Still playing his part as Mr. Ashwood.
Impheil's thoughts, however, were already beyond the confines of the club.
Red Warehouse. Sunday. Eastern Docks.
Belltainian port districts were always a hotspot for unsavory exchanges and bureaucratic blind spots. Official records didn't travel as fast as coins under the table. It was where shipments came and went, where people vanished and arrangements were made under the guise of maritime logistics.
He could already picture the place.
A wide berth of warehouses lining the canal. Shuttered windows. Rusted padlocks disguising secrets worth a dozen bribes. The kind of district where no one looked too hard if a crate rattled a little strangely or if a man in a fine coat emerged from a building at 3 a.m. reeking of burnt incense and iron.
He drummed his fingers once against the armrest, the subtle tap-tap-tap muffled by the rich leather. Sunday gave him time. Not much—but enough to prepare.
He'd need a new identity. Something appropriate for the docks. Not a clerk this time—too clean. Something lower on the ladder. A handler. A porter. Maybe even one of those independent contract men who showed up for one-off jobs and left before anyone learned their name.
He already had the wardrobe for it.
And then there was the matter of the warehouse itself. Red. That could mean anything—an actual color, a nickname, or a designation in some obscure shipping registry. He'd need to narrow that down. But with the key in hand, at least one layer of the lock was already undone.
His gaze shifted subtly back to Edwin.
Still unaware.
Still playing his game.
Impheil's lips curved faintly.
That's the difference between us. You're negotiating for what you want, hoping you can trust the pieces to move where you need them. I'm already inside the board.
He waited another five minutes before standing, slipping back into the ebb and flow of the club's ambiance. No rush. No flair. Just a man finishing his drink and deciding to call it a night.
No one stopped him as he walked out. Not Edwin. Not the staff. Not the informant, who was still seated, still locked in conversation, and very much lacking the key now tucked into Impheil's inner coat pocket.
He slipped into the fog-laced street, the cold nipping at his collar.
A few blocks later, he ducked into an alley, vanishing into shadow. The city's lamps struggled here, their light swallowed by narrow walls and clinging damp. Impheil peeled off his gloves with care, then unfastened his overcoat.
In moments, he had shed the guise he'd worn into the club, swapping it for the unremarkable jacket and scarf of a laborer. He moved quickly, changing the contour of his silhouette, even mussing his hair in a way that broke the polished edge of his features.
By the time he reached the safer, quieter streets near his temporary flat, he was someone else entirely.
No more the charming, sharp-eyed man from the club.
Just another tired figure walking home after a long day.
He slipped inside his apartment without sound, bolting the door behind him with a flick of his wrist. The lamp flickered on as he lit it, casting soft amber light over the sparse furnishings.
The key and note went onto the desk.
He stood over them in silence for a few seconds, then chuckled softly.
"You've done well for yourself, Mr. Ashwood," he muttered. "But I've always preferred the backdoor approach."
He pulled a notebook from the locked drawer beside the desk, flipping to a fresh page. In neat, deliberate strokes, he began to write:
Subject: Edwin Arkwright a.k.a. Mr. Ashwood
– Confirmed alias used in eastern quarters
– Associated with Graham Constantine (hostile professional relationship)
– Broker-type behavior, possibly affiliated with a larger network
– Involvement with a third party: unknown informant/dealer
– Location of interest: Red Warehouse, Eastern Docks, Sunday
He paused, tapping the pen once against the page.
He stared at the page for a moment longer, mind flicking back to Edwin's body language, his effortless conversational control, the ease with which he orchestrated the deal—even while letting others believe they held the reins.
And then it clicked.
Impheil's brow furrowed slightly.
Facilitator, fixer, a smooth operator. No visible authority, yet constantly in orbit around influence. His fingers slowed over the pen.
"…A Broker."
The thought slid into place like the final cog in a jammed mechanism. Everything aligned.
That poised exterior. The curated anonymity. The way Edwin had slipped between layers of society without drawing eyes. The subtle magnetism, not of power—but of negotiation. Of making things happen.
A man who built webs between clients. Someone who didn't need to flaunt strength because he dealt in the power of connections.
Impheil leaned back in his chair, letting out a long, quiet exhale.
"Well, that complicates things."
He opened his pocket watch, letting the rhythmic tick punctuate the stillness. The hands neared midnight, but his mind was far from ready to rest.
If Edwin was a Broker, that changed everything.
If Brokers are involved, with Graham no less, then the issue is probably bigger than I previously thought. And that Red Warehouse? Likely not just storage, it was part of a chain.
Impheil sat in silence, gaze sharpening.
He would need to shift gears. Rushing in was the kind of amateur move that got people killed.
Firstly, I need to confirm Edwin's Sequence. I'm not about to poke a nest of Brokers without knowing if I'm dealing with a viper or a bloody hydra. Edwin on his own isn't the issue—it's the weight behind his name that matters. If someone like him disappears off the map too suddenly, I won't just stir a hornet's nest—I'll trigger a goddamn recall notice across the continent. And all for what? Some vague assignment to sniff around Graham's laundry list?
Now, the warehouse is intriguing. I have the key. I have the general location. Narrowing it down won't be hard, assuming they haven't cloaked the place in half a dozen misdirection charms or stuffed it full of watchdogs with too many eyes.
Still… if Graham's negotiation with Edwin didn't go as planned, this warehouse has all the markings of a Plan B—could be a hit, a smuggling point, or something with a more creative body count.
Impheil racked in thoughts, clicking open his black gothic pocket watch, observing its ticking hands. Within a moment, he brandished a small smile.
"Would be a damn shame to let that place sit untouched," he muttered.
A treasure trove with no guards? Unlikely. But even a locked chest rattles. And if I can't steal anything physical, maybe I can steal some information instead. He chuckled.
Furthermore, following Edwin can be tricky, but not impossible. Additionally, since I like to be stealthy, I have more than enough leverage to take their whole system out, rather than dealing only with Edwin. Impheil lampooned maliciously.
Amidst all of his lampoons and planning, Impheil finished remembering one core factor.
Don't get caught.
That was the golden rule. Never be the ghost someone actually sees.
Let the Broker arrange his quiet meetings. Let Graham bark from behind his polished estate. Impheil would be the shadow in the room neither of them remembered letting in.
He flicked his pocket watch open again, watching the second hand tick by.
"Well then," he murmured. "Let's see how deep this rabbit hole's willing to go."
He snapped the notebook shut and returned it to the drawer, locking it once more.
The key and parchment remained on the desk. Small objects, unassuming.
But now, they glinted like bait left on a hook.
He picked up the key, turning it over in his fingers.
Then he blew out the lamp.
And the room fell into a quiet, calculated dark.
…
The morning arrived in layers of fog and the faint smell of coal, Belltaine's usual perfume. Pale sunlight filtered through the soot-streaked window panes, casting tired shadows across the floorboards of Impheil's apartment.
He had risen long before the sun. Rest had been shallow at best—his thoughts running too sharp, his instincts too alert. Paranoia was a luxury some men scoffed at. Impheil considered it a survival trait.
His fingers curled around a steaming mug of dark coffee, the bitterness grounding him. The key and the folded parchment lay where he had left them, untouched. But not forgotten.
He glanced at them again and muttered, "Still here. Not cursed. Probably."
With a long exhale, he moved to the desk, flipping through the drawers until he found what he was looking for—a folded map of Belltaine's eastern quarters, old and worn at the edges. He smoothed it out, eyes scanning the inked lines until they settled on the dockside layout. Row upon row of warehouses, each marked in blocky lettering.
"Red Warehouse. Right. Because colors aren't suspiciously theatrical at all," he muttered dryly.
There were three possibilities that matched the vague location and description from the note. He circled them in pencil.
"Couldn't have just left a street address, huh, Edwin?"
Still, it gave him a foothold.
He straightened, crossed to the wardrobe, and began pulling together a different set of clothing. Today's look: warehouse clerk's apprentice. Nothing flashy. Earth-toned shirt, rough vest, worn boots, sleeves rolled up. A working man's drab anonymity.
To finish, he selected a simpler, scratched-up pocket watch and slipped it into place—his black gothic one went back into the locked drawer.
Once dressed, he gave himself a quick look in the mirror. Tousled hair. Tired eyes. Dull presence.
The air outside was thick with salt and soot as he stepped onto the street, the dull clang of metal and the occasional sharp whistle from factory horns carrying faintly across the city. The eastern docks were already alive with movement. Carriages rolled over wet cobblestone, workers shuffled crates off boats, and gulls shrieked from the rafters above.
Impheil moved with the crowd, letting himself get swept into the current of motion.
The first warehouse on his list turned out to be a grain storage depot—harmless, mundane, and very much not his destination.
The second had guards. Not official security—dockhands with more muscles than manners, hanging around and occasionally exchanging low words with anyone who passed too close.
He didn't linger.
The third one, however… That one was different.
Red paint peeled from the rusting panels of its outer shell. It was quiet. Too quiet. No bustling laborers, no crates being rolled in or out. Just the occasional shift of shadow behind half-closed doors and the faint metallic creak of something being moved inside.
Impheil slowed his pace, feigning interest in the vendor carts across the street. A newspaper stand. Fish being cleaned. Nothing out of place.
Except the building.
Too tidy. Too closed. Too quiet.
He observed from afar. Three minutes. Five. Ten.
No movement in or out.
Then, the door opened.
A man emerged—tall, coat pulled tight around him, hat low. Not a worker. Not a smuggler, either. His boots were too polished for that. He walked briskly, vanishing down the road with purpose.
Impheil followed him only with his eyes.
"Clocked. Marked. Logged," he murmured.
He let himself drift closer to the warehouse perimeter on his next pass. No entry attempt—just enough to test the edges. He circled once, twice. Counting possible entry points, mapping out the layout. A vent too high to use. A broken panel near the back wall. A loose grate by the foundation.
"And we have our door."
He didn't go in. Not yet. This wasn't the day.
But the place was real.
The key was likely for the padlock near the rear loading area—older, not secured with Church-issued mechanisms. That made it private. Off the record.
Whatever Edwin planned for Sunday, it would happen here.
Impheil made his way back toward the heart of the city. He didn't retrace his steps. He never did. Instead, he let the route twist and spiral, crossing busy streets, slipping through narrow alleys, ducking into a baker's for a moment to buy a chocolate pastry he didn't need.
By the time Impheil arrived back at his flat, the sun had risen into its late-morning perch, casting dull rays through the coal-smeared sky. The key turned in the lock with a muted click, and the door groaned softly on its hinges as he stepped inside.
He froze.
There it was—something small, pale, and rectangular, lying just past the threshold on the wooden floorboards. A letter.
It hadn't been there when he left.
His fingers remained at his side, not reaching for it just yet. He scanned the room—door frame, walls, the faint glint of metal where the hinges met the wood. No unusual scratches, no broken seals, no distortion in space. He sniffed, slowly. No lingering scent of oil, smoke, or perfume. No chemicals.
Only the stale air of a quiet apartment and the faint scent of cheap bread from the loaf he'd picked up.
He crouched down finally, plucking the envelope from the floor with a handkerchief and holding it up to the light.
No wax seal. No crest. Thin paper, hand-folded. Anonymous by design.
"Tidy," he muttered. "But you still dropped it off like a milkman with nerves."
With slow precision, he opened it, unfolding the note within. The handwriting was smooth—careful, but not too practiced. Someone who wanted to be taken seriously, but not immediately identified.
His eyes scanned the message.
"Rocket,
You've got sharp eyes. Let's see if your ears are as good.
Café Varnier. Two o'clock sharp. Come alone.
A Friend."
A faint pause.
"Rocket," Impheil echoed flatly.
He blinked once, then let out a slow, dry exhale. "So this nickname did stick. How utterly annoying"
His smirk deepened as he folded the paper again and tucked it into his coat pocket.
But even as he chuckled at the nickname, his mind was already shifting into motion. This wasn't just idle curiosity on their end. Whoever left the letter had a sense of timing—and a sense of confidence.
Varnier was a mid-tier café. Respectable, but not high-end. Popular with local bureaucrats, minor merchants, and anyone looking to exchange whispered words without drawing the full scrutiny of the police or the Church.
Public enough to avoid open conflict.
Private enough for delicate talks.
He clicked open his black gothic pocket watch, eyes flicking to the time.
Nearly noon.
Two hours.
"Alright, 'Friend.' Let's see what you think you know."
…
By the time Impheil arrived at Café Varnier, the midday sun had dulled beneath a sheet of gray clouds. The streets were lively enough—just enough noise to bury whispers, just enough traffic to lose a tail.
He pushed the door open with casual ease, the small brass bell overhead chiming once as he entered. The scent of fresh bread and roasted coffee clung to the air, mingling with the low murmur of conversation. He gave a polite nod to the host, who didn't seem surprised to see him.
A gesture. A discreet hand to the side.
The host simply motioned to the far wall, where the booths offered a touch more privacy.
Impheil followed the direction, sliding into the second booth from the end—leather-worn, shadowed, and just far enough from the main cluster to go unnoticed. His seat faced the wall, obscuring him from anyone who entered. A cup of dark coffee was already waiting for him.
He didn't ask questions.
He didn't need to.
A voice spoke from behind the booth partition. Low, smooth, genderless in tone—measured like someone who'd spent their life making others talk while saying very little themselves.
"You're punctual, Rocket."
Impheil snorted quietly. "And you're predictable."
Silence.
Then a faint chuckle, like someone humoring a child. "Careful. That name might stick."
"It already has," Impheil muttered, glancing down at the steaming cup. "Though I'm still not sure if it's meant to be flattering or humiliating."
The voice didn't answer immediately. Just a soft clink—cutlery meeting porcelain. Tea, maybe.
Then: "Progress?"
Impheil's eyes narrowed. "You don't ask how I'm doing first? No 'how was your morning'? Not even a 'how's the weather'? You people really do skip foreplay."
Silence again.
He clicked his tongue. "Fine. The package is moving. Target one remains entrenched. Estate's locked up tighter than a First Epoch tomb. But we've got tremors in the periphery."
A pause.
"The second man?" the voice asked.
Impheil leaned back, eyes half-lidded. "Still working on a label. Goes by Mr. Ashwood in the east. Carries himself like a man who wants to be seen—but only just enough. Had a meeting with Graham. Left thoughtful. That's never a good sign."
The voice hummed lightly. "He's not a random contact."
"No," Impheil agreed. "No, he's not. I tailed him once—watched him dance through half a dozen layers of plausible deniability. He walks like someone who built his own trap and dares others to step inside."
There was a pause, and then a single word, murmured with almost casual weight:
"Broker?"
Impheil stiffened just slightly—barely more than a breath. "That's a strong word."
"Is it?"
"You tell me. You're the ones with the riddles and the dead-letter drops." He tilted his head slightly, tapping a finger on the coffee cup. "Or is that the part where you say 'we can neither confirm nor deny'?"
The voice didn't reply.
Instead, it said, "Be careful with him."
Impheil didn't reply immediately. He waited, letting the silence stretch just enough to signal that vague warnings wouldn't cut it.
The voice spoke again, quieter this time. "He doesn't just represent himself. The people behind him… don't send agents without purpose."
"People," Impheil echoed, eyes narrowing. "Plural?"
A soft rustle—papers shifting or perhaps a sleeve brushing wood. "Let's just say—he's not the sort who acts without a backer. And his backer doesn't enjoy being named. You might've heard whispers in places that don't welcome eavesdropping."
Impheil leaned slightly forward. "You're saying he's connected to a group?"
"I'm saying," the voice answered slowly, "he's a knife carried in a silk glove. Elegant. Quiet. But made to cut exactly what they told him to."
Impheil clicked his tongue. "So what—political? Foreign? Religious?"
A pause.
Then: "Gray."
That one word carried weight.
Impheil sat back, absorbing it. Gray. Not black, not white. Not chaos or order. A group that dealt in shadows, in trades, in neutrality twisted into leverage.
That was the most dangerous kind.
He exhaled slowly. "You people always love your riddles."
"We give what we can afford," the voice said simply. "Nothing more."
Impheil's fingers drummed against the table.
Not bad for a morning.
He sighed. "And here I thought I was doing a good job."
"You are," the voice replied—simply, without flourish.
That, more than anything, made Impheil pause.
No sarcasm. No smug superiority. Just… a statement. Calm. Certain.
A soft thud followed, and something slid beneath the partition. A small black case, lacquered and unmarked, now rested at the edge of his table.
Impheil's brow arched. He leaned forward, fingers brushing the lid before flicking it open with a practiced motion.
Inside was a pair of dark-red gloves—sleek, reinforced at the knuckles, with faint stitching that shimmered if you looked too long. They radiated quiet utility rather than opulence.
"A courtesy of the Boss," the voice continued. "He's quite impressed. Thought you might put it to good use."
Impheil stared at the gloves for a moment, lips tugging into a dry smirk. "Now isn't that adorable. A gift. I didn't even get him anything."
His fingers brushed the inner lining. Small glyphs, expertly hidden, revealed themselves, his pupils shimmered faintly.
Hunter…
He exhaled through his nose, amused. "Hunter gear, huh. Someone thinks I like getting my hands dirty."
He picked one glove up and flexed it experimentally.
"Well… they're not wrong."
With a final glance toward the partition, he slid the gloves back into the case and snapped it shut.
"Tell your boss I'm touched," he said, voice thick with irony. "Nothing says trust like weaponized leather."
He stared down at the dark surface of his coffee, his reflection barely visible.
"So," he muttered at last. "This whole 'Rocket' thing."
"Hm?"
"The name." He rolled the word over his tongue like something sour. "Why 'Rocket'? Is that supposed to be a metaphor? Something about speed? Trajectory? Explosiveness? Or did someone just pull it from a hat?"
A faint sound of shifting cloth—someone leaning back on the other side.
"The boss gave it."
Impheil blinked. "That doesn't answer anything."
A beat passed.
"If you want to know why," the voice said lightly, "you'll have to ask him yourself."
Another pause.
"When you finish your part."
Impheil chuckled dryly, draining the last of the coffee in one slow sip.
Of course.
He set the cup down, rising without another word. No goodbyes. No lingering looks.
Just a flick of his coat, carrying the black case and the soft jingle of the bell as he stepped out into the afternoon haze, the city breathing around him.
Rocket.
He'd wear the name—for now.
But when this job was done… someone was going to owe him a very good explanation.