Blood stained the stone tiled floor.
Madam Red stood on the stairs, careful not to let a single drop touch her heels or dress. After knocking Jamie out, Sage had dragged him into the basement of the Red Theatre, a place the wealthy rented to indulge their more twisted ideas of "fun." Most of the workers avoided it entirely, which made it perfect for keeping someone hidden.
Not alone, of course.
Originally, Sage had intended to peel Jamie's face off and wear it as a mask, but he quickly realized the man was smaller than him. That, and he had forgotten to ask about Garen. So Jamie remained alive, half his face hanging loose, forced to breathe through pain he could not escape.
"I remember Shark said you helped her a lot," Madam Red said as Sage pulled up a chair and sat down across from the unconscious man. "But you also said you refrain from killing."
Sage leaned back slightly, waiting for Jamie to wake. He had helped Miranda, that much was true. While he avoided outright murder in the past, he had no issue crippling his enemies. He used to call it discipline, but in truth, he wanted them to suffer. Every limp, every groan, every sleepless night would be a reminder of him.
"Did she now?" Sage replied lazily. "I'm sure you can get more out of her."
Madam Red flicked a pebble at him. She knew better than to expect a real answer.
Jamie groaned as consciousness returned to him. Pain came first, sharp and overwhelming, followed by awareness. His eyes widened the moment he saw Sage sitting across from him.
"Good morning," Sage said, almost politely, as he held a straw to Jamie's lips. "Drink."
Jamie obeyed without resistance.
"So," Sage continued, his tone casual, "I forgot to ask about Garen. And anything else you might know." He tilted his head slightly. "Or the pretty lady behind me will put rats inside you."
Madam Red gave a small wave in confirmation.
Jamie followed his gaze and froze. Several rats sat calmly around Sage, unmoving, their small eyes fixed on him.
"Their names are Rattacus, Nibble, Stinky, and Twitch," Sage added without missing a beat, as if introducing old friends. To him, they were.
"Garen was supposed to be there that night," Jamie stammered. "I swear, I don't know what happened—"
Sage frowned, and that was enough to break him completely.
"But you can find him at the port," Jamie rushed out. "He's working for a smuggler, Fish. He's with King Flying Fish. They're looking for someone."
Sage leaned back in his chair, giving it some thought. If they were looking for him, King Flying Fish would have already reached out. That left only one possibility. The Bliss supplier.
"Is Garen a Beyonder?" Sage asked.
"He is. Sequence 9 Sheriff."
A flicker of recognition crossed Sage's mind. It was the same pathway his sister walked.
"Lovely," Sage said as he stood up. "I'll be back later."
He paused beside Madam Red.
"I think he'll make excellent fertilizer," she murmured, still watching Jamie.
"Do as you please, milady."
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------At the far end of the docks lay the fish market. If you paid the right price, your fish might come stuffed with a gun or a bomb for your enemies. Such was the way of King Flying Fish. Smuggling, after all, was the most common trade across the Five Seas.
Blood splattered across Sage's new clothes, drawing a low growl from him as he glanced at the butcher responsible. He was here to talk, not kill, so he forced himself to let it go.
The deeper he walked into the market, the more attention he drew. Eyes followed him, whispers trailing behind. Names passed quietly from mouth to mouth. King Killer.
Wolf.
The thugs began to close in, forming a loose circle around him. Sage kept his hands visible, careful not to make any sudden movements.
"Let him in," a raspy voice called out.
The crowd parted immediately.
At the centre sat a frail looking man, a stark contrast to King Oyster. King Flying Fish ate leisurely, as if the tension around him meant nothing. Beside him, a man was strapped naked to a block of ice, shivering uncontrollably, blood leaking from his mouth in quiet whimpers.
"Little Wolf," King Flying Fish greeted, patting the seat beside him. "How nice of you to visit."
Sage took the seat without hesitation.
A wave of gasps spread through the room. In Bayam's underworld, only a King was allowed to sit beside a King. The offer was made out of courtesy, but it was expected to be refused. By accepting it, Sage had declared himself one.
Stupid rules. Stupid etiquette. Pretending to be kings.
"I see the little wolf is growing," King Flying Fish said with a grin. "I know you're not here for food. Speak. But remember, the other two want you dead."
Sage remained unfazed.
"You're looking for the Bliss supplier," he said calmly. "And I'm looking for someone working under you."
"What's his name?"
"Garen. Garen Dupont."
King Flying Fish paused for a moment before nodding in recognition. "The Intisian," he said. "One of your bedwarmers? Is that girl not enough for you?"
"Shark is not a bedwarmer," Sage replied, his voice low.
The King laughed.
"You may be strong, Wolf. But as long as you see her as a friend, you'll always be little." He leaned forward slightly. "I'll make you a deal. Bring me the supplier, and I'll give you Garen."
He waved a hand dismissively.
"Now get the fuck out of my turf."
Sage said nothing as he stood and left. He did not need to.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------He could not do everything alone. If he wanted efficiency, if he wanted control, he needed a crew. Two or three people would be enough.
After King Oyster's death, Miranda had taken everything worth keeping. His businesses, his agency, all of it rebuilt into something legitimate. She even gave the workers a choice. Stay and earn an honest wage, or leave.
Most chose to stay.
Because of him.
Idiots.
Sage leaned against a stone wall, lighting a cigarette as he watched the notary office across the street. The Sunshine Brothers and Company. The same company that had approved the Sun Strider's cargo.
He had been observing them for days.
Morning, afternoon, night.
Sometimes he appeared as a tramp. Other times, a man looking for work. Most of the time, he was just someone on a smoke break. He never stayed longer than two hours, and he never followed a fixed routine.
To others, it looked random.
To him, it was calculated.
He was close. Four more hours, and he would have their full schedule.
Two guards stationed outside from six in the morning until ten at night. A rotating team of nine men, shifting every four hours. Identification checks for every person entering and exiting.
From old newspapers, he had learned that the Bayam branch was run by Marcel Sunshine, the younger brother. That alone made it important.
He flicked away his cigarette and lit another, igniting it with a rub of spirituality.
The tip glowed a soft orange.
A colour the company would soon share.