Master doesn’t barter, doesn’t smile, doesn’t lower himself to the velvet rules of men who measure worth in ounces of gold and ounces of nerve. He simply commands, voice cold and sharp. “Pounce.”
The word detonates in my skull, the Bond whipping every muscle into feverish action. I lurch up from the floor, claws out, tail lashing, the caffeine and mania from Embercrack tea still fizzing under my skin. For an instant I’m all violence, all hunger, every instinct turned outward, intent written in the way my ears flatten, in the savage gleam of my teeth. I don’t leap with the finesse of a performer in the arena, I lunge like a cornered beast.
The two upper-class men freeze. One starts to turn, eyes widening as I come for him, a flash of terror, disbelief, a nobleman realising too late the rules have changed and he’s not immune to the teeth in the dark.
Agility Roll,12 +4, Caffeine, Mania: +2 = 18
My body slams into his, weight and claws driving him back over the fine walnut table. Silver scatters, ledgers tumble, the wine bottle crashes to the floor. My claws dig deep, teeth at his throat, the rich tang of cologne giving way to hot blood. He doesn’t even have time to scream, my jaws close, savage, brutal, ending him in a wet, shuddering snap.
It’s not graceful, but it’s unstoppable, pure, sloppy violence, the truth of the street laid bare against velvet and gold. He’s dead before he hits the ground, body crumpling.
In the same breath, Master acts, cold, precise, already tracking the second man, who is scrambling to rise, hand reaching for nothing, lips mouthing words that never mattered. Master’s crossbow is levelled. His eyes are flat, cynical, not a flicker of mercy. He squeezes the trigger.
Attack Roll, 15, +3(DEX), Copper-Iron, +4 = 22
The bolt slams home, clean through the man’s shoulder and deep into the wood-panelled wall behind him. He screams, a thin, pitiful wail. Blood spatters. He twitches, eyes wild with disbelief, pinned and powerless.
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The taste of the real world floods his mouth. Master stands, calm as ever, lowering the crossbow with the steady hands of a man who’s done this too many times for it to ever matter. I crouch over my kill, mouth smeared with blood, tail lashing, eyes fixed on the survivor.
Master’s voice rolls out, cold and dry. “Well, maybe next time I should specify.” His tone hangs in the gloom, no scolding, just that cynic’s edge, amusement curdled into necessity. Blood drips from my chin, tail still twitching, the velvet stained where I landed. I can taste the copper, the panic thick in the air, but I hold myself in check, letting the Bond coil between us.
Master is all business now, efficiency in motion. He turns, stepping over the scattered ledgers and spilled gold, boots crunching glass, and grabs the surviving man by the collar. The bolt already pins him to the wood, blood soaking his expensive shirt, face gone grey and wild. Master leans in, “Listen here. You’re going to give me all the details on the Crimson. Names. Everything you know.”
The man blubbers, lips pale, sweat rolling down his temples. For a moment he tries to be brave, tries to call on money and power to shield him, but the pain is real, and the mask shatters quickly. He shakes, one hand feebly clawing at the bolt in his shoulder. “I, I don’t know. I don’t know anything! I just keep the books for Kipma, you understand? I keep accounts, I handle payments, I’m not, please, Crimson’s just a word. Please, gods.”
His voice breaks. The Bond feeds me the truth, fear, helplessness, the stink of lies, but mostly just ignorance. He really doesn’t know. He’s just another suit, another worm wriggling under the boots of men who never get their hands dirty. The panic in his eyes is real, and he has nothing to barter but pleas and tears.
I stand, blood drying on my claws, ears flicked back in disappointment. I circle the table, slow, deliberate, letting my tail brush the toppled wine, the scattered coins, making a game of how close I can get to him before he flinches. I watch his face, tracking every tremor, every whimper, hunger and frustration battling in my mind. I want to break him. I want to dig out something useful, something worth the price of all this velvet ruin.
I grin, wide and sharp, eyes glittering with cruel delight. I crouch beside him, voice soft, too soft, claws just a whisper from his face. “You hear that, Master? He’s just a little worm. No secrets. No spine. All money and no power. Maybe next time we’ll find someone who bleeds information, not just blood.”
I lean in, letting my breath stir the hair at his ear. “You’re lucky, darling. I’m bored of you already.”
My tail coils, lazy and menacing, waiting for Master’s next move, every sense singing for the next order, the next kill, the next shadow to chase in this city where hope and violence wear the same perfume.
