(Rugrats henchman POV)
A few stalls away from Damien, Mark—just another Rugrat henchman—stood in line at a vendor's stall, waiting to buy a bundle of cheap cigars. He idly flipped a coin between his fingers, half-listening to the vendor and half-watching the crowd drift by.
Then something caught his eye.
Through the shifting bodies in the square, he spotted the two brothers. They stood before a craftsman, exchanging a few words before tossing over a pair of keys. A moment later, the craftsman handed them a pouch.
It dropped into Damien's hand with weight—real weight.
Mark's hand stilled.
Even from where he stood, he could hear the faint clink of coins.
His gaze lingered a second longer, then a small, knowing grin tugged at the corner of his mouth.
The cigars suddenly didn't matter.
He slipped the coin back into his pocket and stepped out of line without a word, leaving the vendor mid-sentence as he turned and made his way out of the square.
The path to the Rugrats' den cut away from the busier parts of the village, winding through narrower, less-kept stretches of land. The ground shifted from packed dirt to uneven stone, dotted with scraps, broken wood, and the occasional rusted tool left behind.
Mark walked at a steady pace, hands tucked into his pockets, taking shortcuts he'd used a hundred times before—between leaning fences, past half-collapsed sheds, and along tight paths that most villagers avoided.
It didn't take long before the den came into view.
From the outside, it looked like nothing more than a rough cave carved into a rocky slope, its entrance dark and uninviting. A faint trail of smoke drifted from within.
"Hey, Mark, you bring the cigars?" a henchman called from near the entrance.
Mark shrugged. "No. I have some info to share with the boss."
The other man gave a small nod and stepped aside. "Go on, then."
Inside, the cave opened into a wide, hollowed space. The air was cooler, but thick with smoke and ash. Torches lined the walls, though most burned low, their light barely reaching the corners of the room.
Mark walked through without much attention. A few of the others glanced up briefly, then went back to what they were doing—sharpening blades, sorting through coins, or sitting around in loose groups.
Further in, the glow of a fire lit up the largest part of the den.
A large man sat in a heavy chair near the flames, a cigar burning between his fingers. His coat was clean, his posture relaxed, but there was something in the way he sat that made the space around him feel smaller.
"Did you bring the cigars? I'm running out," he said without looking up.
Mark stopped a few steps away. "No, boss. But I saw something you'll want to hear."
That got his attention.
The man looked up.
Mark scratched the back of his neck before speaking. "Those two kids—the gremlin and his brother. I saw them in the square. They sold their place." He paused. "Got a decent amount for it too. Looked like a heavy pouch."
The boss watched him for a moment, then let out a low chuckle.
"Sold their home, huh…" he muttered. "And trying to leave before settling what they owe."
The chuckle turned into a short laugh.
"Kids really don't think things through."
He leaned back slightly, tapping ash from his cigar.
"Alright. Take a few of the others with you," he said.
"Go remind them."
Mark nodded quickly. "Yeah. Got it."
He turned and headed back the way he came, already scanning the room for a couple of others to bring along.
Nothing special about it—just another job.
(Mark is 16)