Chapter Four.

2401 Words
I caught sight of him again—the strange man from earlier, now streaked with soot like he'd crawled through a vent fire. A smile tugged at my lips despite myself, at least he’d listened. Smoke on his clothes, ash in his hair… whatever pit he'd found, it'd been a good one. Clumsy or not, he was clever enough to follow through. And still devishly handsome. He moved slowly through the crowd, head turning left, then right, eyes skimming the stalls like he’d lost something. Or found something he wasn’t supposed to. I ducked into the shadow of a tarp, a few tables away, curiosity keeping me rooted when I should’ve been halfway home. Jerard’s voice echoed in my head, warning me to stay out of trouble, to move fast and quiet. But I didn’t move. The man paused at a jewelry stall—one of the fancier setups, where polished scraps were passed off as heirlooms and Upper trinkets were set at a high price. His whole body went rigid, I followed his gaze. A necklace sat near the front of the display, gold chain glinting, a stone shifting colour set in the center of a six pointed sun. Something about it made his face twist—recognition, fear, maybe both. Before I could process it, his hand darted out, snatching the necklace. “Hey!” the vendor snapped, grabbing for it. “You don’t understand—this isn’t yours!” the man argued, voice strained. The vendor’s hand clamped around his wrist, trying to pull it free, but he simply yanked back. A shout followed, rising above the low hum of market noise like a blade slicing clean through— “THIEF!” Everything stopped. Heads turned, conversations died mid-sentence. The crowd went still, like prey catching scent of a predator. The man froze, necklace still clutched in his fist, face pale beneath the soot. Then chaos returned, twice as loud, guards pushed through the throng, shouting commands, forcing people aside. I could already see the look in their eyes—eager for something to chase. The man didn’t move. Was he stupid? I whistled sharply, fingers curled against my tongue. The sound cut through the panic and his head whipped toward me. For a second, his eyes met mine—bright and sharp, startled but not scared, recognition flaring. My stomach flipped. “Might want to start running!” I called, voice dry and sarcastic. I twirled two fingers in the air like a wheel. His gaze darted to the guards, then back to the necklace. I saw the moment it clicked, the danger, the stupidity of his actions. He bolted, pushing through the crowd, clutching the chain to his chest like it mattered more than his freedom. Strange. No one risked a theft charge for jewellry. Not here. Not unless it meant something, and down here that wasn't much outside food and clothing. Another shout sounded behind me—closer this time. "f**k," I cursed, turning on my heel and broke into a jog, slipping between stalls and ducking behind crates. I kept my head down, eyes scanning for alley exits and blind corners. Couldn’t afford to be spotted, couldn’t afford questions. Jerard was going to be furious. ~*~ The shop's flickering front light cast a dim, rhythmic glow across the cracked street, pulsing like a weak heartbeat. Most of the neighbourhood had gone still—shutters closed, doorways empty. The earlier guard sweep had driven people into hiding. Only a few lingered, shadows shifting behind broken stalls and crooked alleys, their eyes watching, waiting. I kept low as I approached, footsteps light, breath tight in my chest. Voices drifted out from behind the closed shop door. Low. Urgent. Jerard never held talks up front unless something was wrong, he preferred his back office—the one with soundproof walls and hidden compartments. So whatever this was, it wasn’t routine. I crouched beneath the front window and peeked over the sill. Three men stood on the far side of the counter, shoulders squared, stances tense. Jerard stood behind it, arms folded, his jaw clenched so tight the muscles near his temple twitched. His face was stone, but I could read it—he was angry. And worried. I leaned in, heart hammering. Every instinct screamed to get inside, pretend I'd seen nothing. But I didn’t move, the tension in the room glued me in place. “This's getting out of control, Jerard,” said a hoarse voice, old and worn. “Guards are everywhere now. You so much as glance wrong, they’ll drag you in.” “There was an Upper in the Trade Market today,” said another voice, sharper, more alert, and gravely like Jerard's. My stomach twisted, they were talking about the stranger. Already? “An Upper?” Jerard’s tone cut through the murmur, short, alarmed. He knew the weight those words carried. Uppers didn’t come down unless something was broken, or someone had been cast out, but they were never seen this far into the City. “He blended in,” the second man continued, "'til he started shouting at Tyron. Accused him of stealin' a necklace.” That voice—I recognized it now. Greaves. s**t. He’d seen it, and I had been at his stall literally five mintues before. I squeezed my eyes shut for a second, silently begging he hadn’t seen me f*****g around near the Upper. “A necklace?” scoffed the older man—Strund, if I remembered right. His words ended in a raspy cough. “Uppers got no sense of value. That trinket’s worth less than a meal stub down here.” “You forget, Strund,” Jerard muttered, rubbing a hand over his face, “to them, trinkets are value. Food’s replaceable. Status isn’t.” He paused. “What happened to him? The Upper?” “Got away,” Greaves replied. “Someone gave him a warning.” There was a pause. The kind that stretched taut like a wire about to snap. “Someone,” Greaves repeated, slower now, more pointed. I didn’t need to see it, I felt his eyes on Jerard. And Jerard… I knew the way his silence curled when he was thinking too fast to speak. He didn’t respond, didn’t defend. He knew exactly what Greaves meant. So did I. Fuck. I shifted, barely a breath of movement, but a wooden crate beside me scraped against the wall with a dull thunk. All four voices stopped abruptly, footsteps pounded on wood, one of them coming closer. Panic surged through me. I ducked low and slipped along the side of the shop, heart pounding in my throat. By the time the front door creaked open, I was halfway around the back, melting into the alley’s deeper shadows. I pressed myself to the wall, breath held, praying to the Makers he didn't see me. The man stepped out, scanning the street. I recognized him—Manes. His eyes swept left, then right. A beggar twitched beneath a tarp, a drunk limped down the road, workers hunched over as they hurried home. Nothing unusual, or suspicious. After a moment, he grunted and stepped back inside, the door clicking softly behind him. The voices resumed—quieter now, lower and tighter, unable to make out the words anymore. I waited a minute, maybe two, then moved silently, around the side, up the old drainpipe and onto my window sill. My fingers knew the way, practiced and silent. I climbed to the second story and eased open the window to my room, slipping inside without a sound. My boots hit the floorboards soft. I straightened, pulse still racing, quiestions now forming in my head. Whoever that Upper was, he had drawn too much attention. And quickly. Attention I somehow always managed to drag my stupid, skinny-ass into. I sighed heavily. So much for laying low. I had just turned to close the window when the overhead light flicked on. Busted. Jerard stood in the doorway, arms folded across his chest. His silhouette cut a hard frame against the yellow glare, and his expression—flat, unreadable—sent a jolt through me. Our eyes locked, stomach dropping. Our relationship was… different. Calm, quippy, and caring for the most part. The other was filled with sarcastic remarks and teenage oppression. So more like a long-suffering guardian, and a half-feral cat than anything neatly defined. “You planning to come through the door like a normal person,” he asked dryly, “or are rooftops just your new thing?” I straightened slowly, brushing dust from my knees. “Didn’t want to interrupt.” His eyebrow arched. “What’d you hear?” I looked away, pulling my bag tighter. “Nothing,” I lied. “Heard the voices, turned round and came up this way. Didn’t want to get in trouble for eavesdropping.” Jerard didn’t move, just studied me with that practiced stillness of his, like he was deciding how much of my lie he wanted to call out. I could almost hear him ticking through mental boxes. “Heard you had a bit of fun at the Trade Market today,” he replied cooly instead. He was Fishing for info. Typical. I forced a shrug, trying to play it casual. “You know how ration day gets.” He didn’t smile. “Anything I should know about?” Definitely fishing. I fiddled with the strap again, avoiding his eyes. “Old woman Merla elbowed her way to the front. Got the best picks.” I delivered it with a practiced casualness, then winced internally. Too casual. Too deflective. Jerard exhaled hard through his nose, pinching the bridge like he was warding off a headache. “Why do you do that?” “Do what?” “Act like I’m stupid.” His words hit harder than it should’ve. I glanced up, he wasn’t stupid—not by a long shot. With the way this man operated I doubted stupid was even in his category. I lowered the bag of rations slowly to the floor. “I don’t,” I said. “I just wish you’d trust me more.” “I do trust you,” he replied, voice tightening. “And look what happens. An Upper was spotted at the Trade Market, and now guards are crawling the district. They’re even talking about calling backup.” I frowned. “All that for him?” Jerard's eyes narrowed slightly at my slip up. s**t. He hadn't said he or she. “Apparently he did something bad up top." Jerard continued, not calling on my mistake "There’s a reward for his capture—or information leading to it.” That pulled me up short. A reward. My mind flicked back to the stranger—tall, composed, not quite like the others. The way he moved, how he didn't seem to panic, he hadn’t run like someone guilty. More like someone calculating, someone used to being obeyed. Jerard’s voice broke through my thoughts, turning sharp. “Until things settle, you’re not to leave the house or shop.” I blinked. Wait—what the hell? He turned without another word and started down the hallway. I snatched up the bag and stormed after him, my boots thudding hard against the narrow stairs. “You’re grounding me?” I hissed. “What the f**k, Jerard? You can’t keep me in here!” “I can, and I will,” he replied without looking back. “It’s for your safety. If the guards ID you—” “What about work?” I cut in, forcing my voice to steady. “You think you can feed us both without my wages? What if this takes weeks? Months?” He stopped in the kitchen doorway, shoulders tense, stubborn heat prickling under my skin. His silhouette slouched, seeming weary in the yellowing light. I had him—and we both knew it. “Fine,” he muttered, relenting. “You can go to work. Straight there, straight back. No detours. No adventures.” He turned to face me fully now, eyes softer. “Til they’re gone. Then things go back to normal. Deal?” I stared at him for a moment, arms crossed, weighing it. He wasn’t my father, not legally. Not biologically. He couldn’t make me stay. But… he’d raised me. He cared. And Jerard didn’t worry without reason. I sighed, shoulders sagging. “… Okay. Fine.” “Promise?” I rolled my eyes, but nodded. “Yes. I promise.” He exhaled, a long, quiet breath, and sank into the rickety chair by the window. One hand scrubbed down his face, the other resting on the tabletop, calloused fingers twitching from habit. He looked tired. Not just physically—but worn down. The kind of tired that sank deep and didn’t leave. I didn't want his to stress. Not today. I hesitated, slowly reaching into my bag, pulled out the piece of fruit I’d snagged in the ratio box, and the gloves I’d bartered for. I placed them gently on the table and slid into the seat across from him. He looked at the offerings—then at me, eyebrows twitching in surprise as he picked up the apple, turning it over in his calloused hands. “It’s an apple, right?” I asked, quieter now. “You said they used to be in every ration box. Back when the system worked.” He nodded slowly, thumb brushing the shiny skin. “… How?” “Early bird gets the… swerm” I bragged, voice lilting with mock confidence. Jerard blinked. Then his brow crinkled—he let out a deep, surprised rumble of laughter. "The worm,” he corrected. I wrinkled my nose. “That’s disgusting. Why would it get a worm?” His laugh echoed through the kitchen—full, rich, and alive. I hadn’t heard him laugh like that in a long time. Not since before the ration lines turned violent. Before the disappearances. Before things got worse. He picked up the gloves next, thumb tracing the stitching, mouth twitching into something dangerously close to a smile. The rare kind—the one that didn’t need words to mean everything. “Happy birthday, Jerard,” I whispered.
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