*Henry*
Two of the ruffians are dead. One by my hand, one by his. That of the man who now sits at the thick blocked wooden table in my kitchen as I warm some water. He had knocked one thug out cold. The other would survive the wounds I had delivered if his mate wakes up soon enough, which would probably happen because I gave the brute a hard slap to get him started toward the end before I slipped beneath Dimos Softpaw's arm to help hasten our departure from the alleyway.
We changed cabs three times on our journey to my residence, so I could make sure no one else was following us and to make it difficult for anyone who might be asking questions in the days to come to chart a direct path to me.
Dimos hadn't asked why I was taking the precautions. As a matter of fact, he hasn’t said a sin
