Matt climbed the final steps with the same steady, unhurried pace as always. The rusted grate creaked softly as he pushed it open, and the surface air hit him all at once—cold, heavy with river salt and coal smoke. Low fog wrapped around the northern docks like a gray shroud, and though the new moon was hidden, the sky still held that dim, reddish hue Backlund never quite lost.
He walked without haste toward the third arch of the Old Bridge, where a gaslamp flickered like a tired eye. As he moved, a passing thought brushed through his mind: Why did that man stay behind with the one in the red cloak? To settle some extra detail? Or because he doesn't trust me to follow through?
He shook his head once and let it go. It wasn't worth the effort. He had a name. He had a deadline. The rest wasn't his concern.
Lira stood exactly where he had left her, leaning against a wooden post beneath the lamp. Her black cloak fell to her ankles, and her mask was no longer on her face. When she saw him approach, she raised an eyebrow with that familiar about time expression.
Matt stopped two steps away. A slow, almost playful smile spread across his lips.
"We have a job," he said quietly, as if sharing an amusing secret. "We might make eight hundred pounds if we do it right."
He stretched his arms slightly, the excitement clear in his voice—he had lived in poverty long enough that money always mattered.
Lira crossed her arms, waiting.
Matt leaned in a little closer, lowering his voice further, his tone deliberately mocking:
"Only catch is… we have to tear off his genitals. And bring them back intact for the next new moon. Think you can handle that?"
He paused for half a second, watching her with that teasing look.
Lira didn't even blink. She let out a short, tired snort, as if he had just told her he'd bought stale bread.
"I've done worse," she replied calmly. "And forget it—I'm not doing that."
Matt let out a genuine, low laugh. The tension from the underground eased slightly in his chest.
"Good," he said, straightening. "Then let's head back. We've got busy days ahead until the next new moon. Observation, planning, all of it. I don't want mistakes."
Lira pushed off the post and fell into step beside him, shoulder to shoulder. The fog swallowed them as they left the Old Bridge and its dripping secrets behind.
For a while, neither spoke. Only the soft sound of their boots on damp cobblestones and the distant murmur of the Tussock River filled the silence. Backlund's red, quiet night followed them as they made their way back to the Harvest Church, where Sera was still waiting among vines and grain.
The next morning arrived gray and damp, like most mornings in Backlund. The sky held that muted red tint that never quite faded, even in daylight, and the fog clung to the streets like an old acquaintance.
Matt rose early. Sera was still asleep, curled up in her blanket behind the main altar, breathing softly. Lira was already awake, sitting on one of the church benches, staring at the golden stalks with a tired expression.
"We need proper clothes," Matt said without preamble, adjusting his wrinkled shirt. "We're going to the North District today. We can't show up looking like loafers."
Lira raised an eyebrow.
"And where do you plan to get three decent outfits?"
Matt smiled faintly—that cold, familiar smile.
"I'll borrow them. Don't worry."
He left alone. It took him less than forty minutes.
First, he found a modest house on a side street where a woman had hung freshly washed clothes in the backyard. Matt moved like a shadow: he vaulted the low fence, took a dark gray suit (vest included), a clean white shirt, and a pair of trousers. No sound. Then, two streets over, from a boarding house laundry line, he "borrowed" a simple dark green wool dress for Sera—the same shade she had said she liked—and a long black coat with silver buttons. For Lira, he took a high-collared white blouse, a dark skirt of good fabric, and a short wool jacket. Everything clean. No stains. No patches. No one saw him. No one shouted.
He returned to the church carrying the bundle wrapped in an old blanket. He carefully stored the Degenerate Stalker Jacket behind the altar—the drawback of sunburn made it too inconvenient to wear during the day. He changed first: the gray suit fit him almost perfectly, just a little loose at the shoulders. He glanced at himself in a cracked mirror in the sacristy and nodded. He looked like a lower-middle-class clerk. Nothing remarkable.
Lira and Sera changed in silence. Sera received the dark green dress with lowered eyes and a barely audible "thank you." Lira dressed with a resigned sigh, but the outfit suited her surprisingly well. Now the three of them looked like ordinary people: a young clerk, a companion, and a modest girl.
They left the church shortly after nine.
The carriage rattled softly as it carried them north. Matt sat by the window, Lira across from him, and Sera beside him, hands folded neatly in her lap, eyes lowered.
The journey was slow. Wheels rolled over uneven cobblestones, passing factories belching smoke, markets just opening, and streets growing cleaner as they approached the North District. The reddish sunlight filtered weakly through the clouds.
"I've never been to the North District during the day," Lira said at last. "They say there are more trees and less smoke… Have you been before, Matt?"
Matt glanced out the window before answering.
"A couple of times. Only to steal. The houses are easier to enter when people feel safe."
Lira gave a short laugh.
"Of course. Always practical."
Sera lifted her gaze briefly, then lowered it again, fingers playing with the edge of her dress.
"Do you like the color?" Matt asked, almost idly.
She nodded quickly.
"Yes… it's nice. Thank you."
When the carriage finally stopped, the North District unfolded before them—cleaner streets, wider avenues, young trees lining the sidewalks, polished stone and red brick buildings with gleaming brass plaques. Not noble, not like Hillston Borough—but far above East Borough.
Matt took it all in calmly, memorizing everything: the distance to the sign reading Harrington & Voss – Attorneys, the café across the street—The Northern Bean Coffee House.
He turned to Lira and Sera.
"You two go to the firm," he said quietly. "Sera—don't call me 'master' anymore. Call me Matt. Understood?"
She nodded.
"Act confident. Not weak. Keep your chin up. You're filing a complaint against a man who's been stalking you. Lira is your legal guardian. Keep it simple."
"And you?" Lira asked.
"I'll be in the café. Watching."
Inside The Northern Bean Coffee House, the air smelled of fresh coffee, cinnamon pastries, and polished wood. Matt took a seat by the window, ordered tea and a roll, and settled in like any ordinary clerk waiting on business.
And he watched.
Time passed slowly—eleven-thirty, then noon, then nearly one. People came and went from Harrington & Voss. Some left satisfied, others defeated.
Conversations drifted around him—coal prices, school fees, dresses, trivial worries of comfortable lives.
Nothing useful.
At ten to one, Matt raised a hand and called over the owner—a woman in her fifties with neatly tied hair and a spotless white apron. She approached with a professional smile.
"Another tea, sir?"
"A coffee this time, please. Black. And if it's not a bother…" Matt lowered his voice just enough to sound natural, like someone seeking advice without drawing attention. "I've been watching the law firm across the street. Harrington & Voss. Do you happen to know if they're any good? My boss at the warehouse… well, things have gotten ugly. He's hurt me physically a couple of times, and frankly, he's done damage up here too." He tapped his temple with a tired gesture. "I'm thinking of taking legal action. I don't want to waste time on just anyone."
The woman wiped the table with a cloth as she listened, her expression open and unsurprised. In a place like this, people asked about lawyers all the time.
"Ah, that firm… they're solid, yes. Not the most expensive, but not the cheapest either. They've got a good reputation for contracts and labor disputes. I don't know much about their internal tricks, mind you. Most people who come in here just say they got things resolved quickly." She smiled kindly. "What I can tell you is that several of their lawyers and clerks come in here later in the afternoon—around four or five. They sit at the back tables, have coffee, and talk about their cases. If you like, you could wait and see if any of them seem suitable."
Matt nodded with a grateful smile—the kind any tired clerk might wear.
"Thank you. That's very helpful."
She brought him the coffee—dark, steaming, with a clean, strong aroma—and returned to the counter without further questions.
Matt took a sip. The warmth spread down his throat as his gaze returned to the law firm's entrance.
Lira and Sera still hadn't come out.
The clock kept ticking.
How boring.