#kwonsoonyoung

He stands over your desk with the ledger open, jabbing a thick finger at a column of numbers you checked thrice. His voice is loud enough to grate against your skull, but not loud enough to draw attention from anyone who might care.

“You counted this shipment yourself,” he insists. “Don’t pretend you didn’t.”

“I didn’t miscount,” you say quietly. “Check the crates again.”

The foreman bristles when you don’t immediately bend to his words. He snatches the ledger back, flips it open again, and jabs at the page as though repetition might wear you down. “You new ones always think you’re sharper than the work,” he grits out. “Can’t count, can’t follow instructions, but somehow you know better than the men who’ve done this for years.”

You try not to rise to it. You’ve learned that people in Ketterdam like the performance of anger more than the substance of it.

You open your mouth to respond, but a knock sounds against the doorframe. The foreman goes still and you look up.

A man stands in the doorway, one shoulder resting lightly against the frame. The light from the street behind him catches on the edges of his coat, and for a moment he almost looks carved out of a different world entirely. Handsome in a way that draws the eye without trying to—sharp lines softened by his windswept hair and an expression you can’t quite read.

“Evening,” he greets cheerfully. “Hope I’m not interrupting.”

You aren’t sure what to make of the man, but the foreman reacts as if someone far more important has arrived. His posture straightens and his mouth snaps shut. The man notices but pretends he doesn’t, eyes flicking once to the ledger, then settling on you with mild curiosity.

“Sorry,” he says, though the smile in his voice betrays no real apology. “I’m looking for someone.”

“Who?” the foreman asks.

He nods toward you. “Her.”

The foreman bristles. “She’s busy.”

He acknowledges that with a polite glance at you. “You seem to be wasting her time anyway. I’m sure two minutes wouldn’t cause a dent in your business, would it?”

That earns him a sputter making you hide a smile.

He steps inside, his gaze moving from the ledger to you with a kind of bright, curious interest. “I really do need her for a moment.”

You glance at him, uncertain. “What for?”

He opens his mouth, then pauses, like he doesn’t actually know what to say. “A conversation,” he settles on. “A very innocent, extremely short conversation. Promise.”

You narrow your eyes. “That doesn’t sound convincing.”

He brightens. “I can try again.”

“Maybe don’t,” you sigh.

He lifts both hands in surrender, amusement tugging at his mouth. “Fair enough. Let’s step outside before the man dies of indignation.”

You don’t miss the way the foreman stiffens at that, but you follow the man out anyway. The air in the corridor is cooler and easier to breathe in, and the noise of the factory dulls into a familiar backdrop of machinery and the scrape of crates on the floor. 

He walks beside you, so when he stops, you stop too.

For a moment, he simply watches you, taking you in with that same curious attention—not rude, and never lingering too long, just enough that you feel seen.

“So,” he says at last, “have you heard of Yoon Jeonghan?”

You blink. “No.”

He nods like he expected that. “The Dregs?”

Another shake of your head. “Should I have?”

His brows lift, impressed. “Most people know the names before they know the city. You’re either very new or very good at minding your own business.”

You choose not to answer that.

He rocks back on his heels, hands slipping into his coat pockets. “Either way,” he says, “you’ve managed to avoid all the right trouble. That’s impressive.”

You tilt your head. “Is this conversation supposed to make sense at some point?”

“Eventually,” he says, grinning. “I lied about this being a short conversation. You see, I like to ease people into things. Very gentle approach.”

You raise an eyebrow. He laughs under his breath, like he can’t help himself.

“Alright,” he says, tone softening as if deciding to give you something sincere. “Jeonghan runs the crew. He knows almost everyone in Ketterdam, especially newcomers. He’s very particular but makes me do all his odd jobs. So I must be here for a reason.”

Your pulse jumps. “What reason?”

“I’m not completely sure either. He’s a bit secretive, you see… but he thinks you’d fit in,” he says simply, “with us.”

“With you,” you repeat, skeptical.

“Mm.” His smile turns a touch playful. “You’d get used to me. Most people do. Eventually.”

You ignore the warmth that creeps up your neck. “You haven’t even told me your name.”

He looks delighted that you asked, bowing slightly in a theatrical manner. “The name’s Hoshi. At your service, darling.” 

“And this Jeonghan person,” you clear your throat, a bit flustered, “wants me to do what?”

Hoshi shrugs one shoulder. “Join us. Help out. Exist somewhere that isn’t a textile factory with men who look one bad day away from throwing a crate at someone.”

You fight a smile. “That’s not a job description.”

He brightens. “Is that a requirement for you? Because I can make one up. Something impressive. Dangerous. A little mysterious, if that’s your style.”

“My style?”

He leans in just a fraction, enough to make you notice but not enough to overwhelm. “You don’t exactly blend in as well as you think you do.”

Your breath catches. Surely, he wouldn’t know?

“And if I say no?” you ask, trying to sound firmer than you feel.

Hoshi’s grin curves, easy and unbothered. “Then I’ll ask again tomorrow.”

“You’re persistent,” you note.

“Only when something interests me.”

You break eye contact first, only because his gaze feels a little too perceiving for someone you’ve known for barely ten minutes. He notices but he doesn’t push.

“That’s all you came here to say?” you manage.

“For today,” he says, cheerful as ever. “Tomorrow I’ll be more compelling. Inspirational, even.”

“I doubt that.”

He presses a hand to his chest in mock offense. “You wound me.”

You snort before you can stop yourself, and his smile sharpens at the sound. A flicker of something warm slips between you, something that feels like the beginning of trouble if you’re not careful.

You straighten, reminding yourself you barely know him. “I should get back.”

“Of course.” He steps aside with a little flourish, granting you the path back toward the factory floor. “Wouldn’t want your foreman to worry.”

The joke draws another quiet laugh out of you before you can swallow it. His eyes brighten again.

“See you tomorrow?” he says, hopeful but pretending not to be.

You shake your head. “You’re assuming there will be a tomorrow.”

He grins, unable to hide it. “There will be. For me, at least. I’m annoyingly tenacious and Jeonghan probably won’t let me sleep until I’ve got you on board.”

You roll your eyes and turn around, not bothering with a response. 

The sound of his laugh follows you all the way back inside.

West Stave is louder than you expected.

You’d heard stories, of course—gamblers shouting over lost kruge, the clatter of dice spilling onto tables, music leaking out of every doorway—but seeing it is different. The noise rolls through the street like a tide, carrying the smell of cheap liquor, canal water, and too many bodies pressed too close together. Lanterns glow from crooked poles, throwing uneven light across the cobblestones, and the buildings lean onto each other.

You shouldn’t be here. You’ve told yourself that five times already. But staying in your rented room felt impossible tonight, and staying in the factory a minute after your shift ended felt even worse.

Calling the four walls that you lived in a room would be generous. With a bed that creaked when you breathed near it, a window that refused to open unless bribed with half your body weight and walls so thin you could hear the couple two rooms down fighting, you’d rather be here.

You’ve been tired in a way that sleep won’t fix. Tired of the foreman, tired of the crates, tired of pretending you aren’t barely holding the seams of your life together.

Your father’s voice has been echoing in your head for days. It creeps in when you let your guard slip for too long. You wonder where he is now.

Which is why you don’t notice him at first.

You’re focused on a street vendor’s lanterns reflecting on the river’s surface, the way it glows gold then dulls again as you pull your shawl tighter around your shoulders when a familiar voice cuts through the din with too much ease.

“Well,” Hoshi drawls, “you’re a sight I didn’t expect tonight.”

You turn.

He’s leaning against the corner post of a betting house, one ankle crossed over the other. He looks like he’s been there for a while, but you can’t really tell.

You blink, startled. “You… I thought you said you’d be at the factory the next day.”

He lifts a brow, pushing off the post almost lazily. “Ah. Yes.” A pause, then a teasing grin. “Work called, darling. I try to be dependable, but I’m only human.”

You scoff, looking away,

“And you thought about it yet?” he asks, head tilting as he tries to read more of your face than you intend to show.

You cross your arms. “Thought about what?”

Hoshi shakes his head, amused. “Joining the Dregs, of course.”

“I still don’t know what you’re offering me.”

He lifts his shoulders in a shrug. “A better life, for starters.”

You stare at him, expecting a joke, but he looks serious, all of a sudden. 

“Look,” Hoshi starts, tone softening, “the Dregs aren’t saints. We don’t pretend to be. But we take care of our own. A roof you can sleep under without worrying it’ll fall on your face. People who don’t shout every time something goes missing. A crew that actually notices when you’re gone.”

He gestures loosely at the mess of the Stave behind him. “Protection, too. This city doesn’t play fair. So we make our own rules.”

You fold your arms, partly to steady yourself. “And that’s… it?”

“No.” His smile turns wistful. “It’s also loyalty. Not the pretty kind. The real kind. If you fall behind, someone reaches back. If you get into trouble, someone pulls you out. If you’re worth having, you’re kept.”

The words hit something you’ve been ignoring for days. Weeks, maybe. The ache of being adrift with no one to answer to, no one to miss you, no one to tell you something as simple as you’re not alone.

He watches your expression change, and his own gentles even more. 

“No one asks questions here. You can start on a new page. You’ve been carrying everything on your own, it looks like.” he points out. “Can’t imagine that’s been fun.”

You look away. “You don’t know anything about me.”

“I know enough.” He nudges your elbow lightly, just enough to make you look at him again. “I also know you’re smarter than your job. We could use your help.”

“What help could I possible give you?”

Hoshi hums, scratching lightly at his cheek as if thinking it over for the first time. “Well… you did fix up one of ours last week.”

Your stomach dips. “I did what?”

“Chan,” he says. “Brown hair, talks too fast, has the spatial awareness of a newborn colt? He was bleeding everywhere and you handled it better than he did.”

You blink. “He asked for help.”

“He also nearly fainted,” Hoshi adds in a tone way too light for the injuries you remember on the boy. “Which he still insists was due to blood loss, not fear. Debatable, if you ask me.”

Despite yourself, you laugh—small and quick—and his smile widens like that’s all he’d been aiming for.

“I only bandaged him,” you say.

“Sure,” he replies lightly. “But you did it properly. Fast and without panicking. We could use that.”

You look away. “Anyone could’ve done that.”

Hoshi makes a sound that means ‘No, but okay. If you say so.’ He shifts his weight, hands slipping back into his coat pockets. “Point is, you helped. And we need people who help.”

“I’m not a healer,” you say, a little too quickly. You hope he doesn’t notice, or that he chalks it up to nervousness.

He nods. “Didn’t say you were. Just said you’re useful. We like useful.”

You exhale, tension slipping from your shoulders without your permission.

“Tempting, right?” Hoshi prompts, bumping his shoulder with yours. 

“Maybe. You aren’t lying, are you?”

Hoshi is clearly pleased, but tones it down. “Of course not. You can meet Jeonghan right now if you’d like.”

“Now?”

“Yes! If you’re up for a small walk, that is. He’s at the Crow Club tonight.” He snaps his fingers before pointing in the direction of the building he just named, you assume. “It’s our gambling hall, on East Stave.”

“A gambling hall?” You let out incredulously. “Why would I come with you? Why should I trust you?”

Hoshi’s grin sharpens. “Well done. That’s your first lesson learnt: you shouldn’t. Trusting strange men in alleys? Terrible habit. Gets people killed all the time.”

“That’s not exactly convincing,” you mutter.

“Mm. I’m not trying to convince you,” he replies, tilting his head. “If I wanted to force you, you’d already be walking.”

You don’t reply and let the silence sit. 

Hoshi rocks back on his heels, then straightens with a small, decisive nod. “Come on.”

When you don’t move he glances at you, one brow lifting. “Or don’t. I’ll still be here tomorrow.”

You sigh after a few seconds, pushing yourself off the post. “If this turns out to be a terrible idea—”

“It will,” he cuts in cheerfully. “But you’ll survive it.”

You shoot him a look, but fall into step beside him anyway.

Surprisingly, Hoshi doesn’t speak as much as you expected him to on the five minute walk over to the other side. You don’t know if you’re grateful for the silence or unnerved by it. 

The Crow Club, however, is exactly what you pictured it might be. Noise crashes over East Stave in uneven waves, and the air is heavy with smells of fried food and cheap alcohol. Everywhere you look, gaudy gambling dens beg for attention, but the Crow Club is different—a sleek, windowless fortress of black lacquer and crimson trim that seems to eat the light around it. 

Hoshi leads you past a barker shouting about free drinks and pushes through the heavy doors, opening up to an even louder crowd. The rattle of wooden wheels, the snap of cards, and a hundred different voices competing over the sound of clinking glass are overwhelming. Everything inside is dark wood and deep crimson, with no windows to tell you if it’s midnight or noon. 

Hoshi doesn’t pause to let you take it in, though he does slow just enough to make sure you’re still at his side, his hand hovering near your elbow without quite touching as he guides you through the press of bodies and tables. The floor is a maze of red felt, cards shuffling in practiced hands while dealers call out numbers, their movements smooth and unbroken no matter how loudly the players argue around them. Dice roll somewhere to your left with a satisfying clatter against the table, followed by a burst of groans and laughter that ripples outward before dissolving into the larger hum of the room.

A few glance up as he passes, recognition flickering across their faces before it’s tucked away again. 

He stops near the back, where a booth sits slightly raised from the rest of the floor, half-screened by carved wood and heavy drapery that softens the sound without fully cutting it off. There’s no guard, no visible barrier, and yet no one crosses into that space.

Hoshi slides into the seat first, easy and unbothered, one arm slung along the backrest before the man sitting beside him pushes it off with the top of his cane. 

You hesitate for a fraction of a second before taking the seat opposite, your back straight despite the nervousness slithering up your spine. 

The man across from you watches as you sit, his gaze moving once from your face to your hands and back again. Up close, he looks untouched by the noise of the club—with unruffled clothes and his polished demeanor. The cane that he sets down beside him is angled just so that its crow-headed handle catches the light. The curve of its beak looks sharp enough to draw blood if pressed the right way.

“So,” he rasps out, his voice making you flinch slightly, “this is the one.”

Hoshi’s teeth flash. “Told you I’d find her.”

“You took your time. I asked you more than a week ago.”

“And then you sent me to deal with the Razorgulls. Something the others could’ve handled on their own.” Hoshi mutters, rolling his eyes. 

You look at the two of them in confusion until Jeonghan’s gaze finally shifts back to you. 

“The name’s Yoon Jeonghan. I assume Hoshi told you what I’m offering.”

You nod slowly, glancing at his slender but gloved fingers that drum against the table-top. “Kind of, yeah.”

“You work in the warehouse on Third Harbour,” Jeonghan hums. “You arrived recently. No affiliations. No debts worth mentioning.” A pause, just long enough to suggest he knows more than he’s saying. “You’ve kept your head down.”

“I try mind my own business,” you reply.

Jeonghan shrugs. “Sure. Don’t know how easy that’s going to be, but you’ve survived till now, I guess.”

Hoshi lets out a small scoff, leaning back into the booth again as if he’s settling in for a show. “That’s a compliment, by the way,” he adds, glancing at you. “From him, that’s practically glowing praise.”

“You can go,” Jeonghan smiles at the man beside him, although it doesn’t look very friendly. “Your job’s done now.”

Hoshi exhales loudly, throwing a dirty look at the man beside him before pushing his hands against the table and rising.

“You’re no fun tonight,” he mutters, though there’s no bite to it.

“By your standards, I’m never fun,” Jeonghan replies, his gaze already back on you as thought Hoshi’s been set aside before he’s even left.

Hoshi shakes his head as he straightens, eyes flickering over to you. “I’ll be around.”

“You won’t be needed,” Jeonghan sighs, but you nod at him anyway, watching as he walks away, hands slipping into his pockets.

Once Hoshi is out of earshot, Jeonghan leans in, the head of his cane tucked under his chin. “Hoshi says you’re a ghost. No records at the harbor or travel papers. You didn't come through the front door of this city, and you didn't come on an official merchant cog.”

He lets a gloved finger trace the edge of the table. “People who arrive in Ketterdam without a trace are usually running from a debt or a noose. But you don’t have the look of a criminal. Something’s off.”

He taps his cane once. Thump.

“I know you’re either from Novyi Zem or Ravka, and that you got on a textile ship heading to Kerch. But why are you here?”

The question sounds almost rhetorical, but Jeonghan watches you with his eyes like two dark flints catching the red light of the club. 

Jeonghan’s eyes drop to your sleeves, then back to your face. “Ravka is desperate, no? They’re scraping the bottom of the barrel for the Second Army. You look a little old to be conscripted but…”

“I… I don't know what you're talking about,” you mumble, forcing a confused frown onto your face. You try to let your hands fidget, to look like any other frightened girl off the docks. “My father and I were supposed to get onto one of the ships heading back to Novyi Zem. I just wanted to get away from the fighting. Everyone’s running. My father and I got separated. That’s it.”

Jeonghan lets out a short, dry sound that might have been a laugh if there were any warmth in it. He leans in closer, the scent of rain and old wood clinging to him, cutting through the heavy smell of tobacco in the room.

“The confusion is a nice touch,” he rasps, his voice dropping to a low, rhythmic crawl. “But you’re not a very good liar. You don’t look like a farm girl. You did a clean job on Chan.”

“I studied,” you blurt out, the words tripping over each other as you scramble for a defense. “Back home. I was an apprentice to a medik. I know how to treat a puncture, how to stop a fever. That’s all it was with the boy. I have a knack for it, but it’s just medicine.”

The corner of his mouth twitches again. “You may have hidden yourself away your whole life, but Ketterdam’s my turf. I know about everyone who comes and goes. You can’t lie to me.”

“You’re Grisha, or half-blooded enough that the distinction doesn't matter. You hid from the Second Army because you didn't want to be a weapon, or maybe because your parents were smart enough to keep you out of a kefta.” 

“I—”

“But clearly—” He interrupts you, raising his cane. “You’ve been practicing. Not much, and without a teacher too, but enough to keep yourself alive and well, it seems.”

Jeonghan shrugs, a careless movement that suggests your life story is a bore to him. “I don’t care about your reasons. I don’t care about your King’s war. But you need to understand that Ketterdam isn't a hiding place—it’s an auction block. Without me, you’re just a valuable piece of property waiting for a slaver to chain you down with an absurd contract. With me, you’re a ghost with a paycheck and as much respect as you can gain in this city.”

He taps the table once, a final, heavy sound. “You want to keep pretending you’re a medik? Fine. But you’ll be a medik for the Dregs. If you refuse, I might just mention to the Stadwatch that there’s an unregistered Ravkan hiding in the harbors. They get a bounty. You get a cell. My life goes on either way.”

You swallow hard, the tightness in your throat making it difficult to breathe. Fear settles in the form of a cold, heavy stone in your stomach. He knows. He said the word as if it were nothing, a casual observation of the weather, but to you, it’s a death sentence you've been running from since you were old enough to understand what it meant to have these powers.

“You talk like you’re doing me a favour,” you say, your voice trembling despite your best efforts to sound defiant. “If it doesn’t make a difference to you, why waste the breath? Why bother with the recruitment speech if you really don't care?”

“I’m a businessman,” he rasps, the sound low and dangerous. “And I find that willing assets last longer than broken ones. I don't care about your soul, but I do care about my men. I have plenty of thieves and plenty of killers, but I don’t have anyone who can stitch a man back together.”

“You’re threatening me,” you say, the words coming out sharper than you intended. You lean back, trying to put distance between yourself and the cold edge of his presence. “If your intention was to make me feel safer here, it isn’t working.”

“I’m not going to coddle you and promise you everything is going to be alright. The people who smile at you and offer you kindness are the ones who will sell you while you’re sleeping. I’m telling you exactly what I want and exactly what will happen if I don’t get it.”

He tilts his head, his gaze unwavering. “You don't have to like me. You don't even have to trust me. You just have to realize that I’m probably the only one in this city who isn’t trying to put a collar on you for a profit even after knowing who you are. I’m putting you to work.”

"So," he says, his voice a low crawl. "Do we have an agreement, or can I get back to my drink and let the world find you?"

You hold his gaze for a second longer than you should, something tight and stubborn settling in your chest, before you shake your head once.

“I need time.”

Jeonghan cocks an eyebrow, looking at you over the rim of his glass. He sets it down with a loud clink and a sigh. 

“Fine. Three days.”

You nod, already pushing yourself to your feet because sitting there any longer feels like a mistake you don’t want to make twice. The drapery brushes your shoulder as you step out, and the noise of the club folds back over you, loud and careless and somehow easier to handle than the quiet you just left behind.

You don’t stop walking. Not until you’re a few steps into the crowd, not until the weight of that conversation lifts enough from your shoulders that you can breathe a little.

You glance up to see Hoshi halfway through a round at one of the tables, a loose circle of men leaning in while he flips a card between his fingers. There’s a small pile of kruge at his elbow, enough to suggest he’s been winning but just enough to keep the game interesting still.

He doesn’t look at you immediately.

You have half the mind to walk straight past him and out the door, leave him to his game and his coins and whatever else he does to fill his time, because none of this would have happened if he hadn’t decided to pull you into it.

But you stop anyway.

He’s leaning over the table, laughing at something someone says, sleeves pushed up, a few strands of hair falling into his eyes as he flicks a card between his fingers before dropping it cleanly onto the pile. 

When he finally catches sight of you, Hoshi drops the rest of the cards without a second thought, gathers the coins in front of him in one quick motion, and pushes his chair back.

“Hey—” someone protests.

“Later,” Hoshi says, already stepping away. “Don’t lose my money.”

“You’re in the middle of—”

“I know,” he cuts in, not slowing.

He reaches you in a few strides, stopping just short, close enough that you can see the slight flush across his face, the way his shirt has shifted at the collar from leaning forward.

“Well,” he says, like nothing’s happened. “Was he better at convincing you than I was?”

You don’t answer and instead turn to walk out. He follows without hesitation.

“That bad?” he asks, falling into step beside you.

“You could’ve said something,” you snap, pushing past a group near the door. “Anything. Instead you drop me in there and disappear like it’s normal.”

“I didn’t disappear,” Hoshi says easily. “I was right there.”

“That’s not the point.”

He reaches ahead to push the door open before you get there, stepping aside to let you through. Pettily, you don’t thank him.

The air outside is cooler, easier to breathe, but it doesn’t do much for the irritation still sitting in your chest.

“You left me alone with him,” you continue, turning on him once you’re a few steps out. “You knew what that would be like, didn’t you?”

“I had a feeling,” he admits.

“A feeling?” you repeat, incredulous. “He practically—” you cut yourself off, shaking your head. “He already knows everything. Or at least enough to make it sound like he does.”

Hoshi’s mouth curves slightly. 

“—And no! It’s not impressive, it’s irritating.”

Hoshi rocks back on his heels, hands slipping into his pockets as he watches you, expression softer now. “He does that a lot, but you get used to it after sometime. And you’re still here, which means you didn’t tell him to go to hell and walk out.”

“I told him I needed time.”

Hoshi lets out a low whistle. “Three days?”

You look at him sharply. “How did you—”

“He likes that number,” Hoshi cuts in, shrugging. “Long enough to feel generous, short enough that you can’t get comfortable and forget about it.”

You walk in silence for a few steps, the sounds of East Stave settling around you, the distance from the club putting just enough space between you and that booth.

“And what’s with the gloves?” you ask finally, glancing at him. “He didn’t take them off once. It must’ve been boiling in there.”

Hoshi smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Ah, they call him the bastard of the barrel, Dirtyhands. I suppose you haven’t heard the stories yet.”

“Stories?”

He nods. “There’s quite a few. My favourite is the one which say that his fingers are permanently stained with the blood of those he’s killed. Oh! People also think he has claws instead of fingers in there. Fun stuff, really.”

You frown. “None of that sounds true.”

“It isn’t,” he agrees immediately. “If anything, it’s the opposite. Which brings us to version three—he’s done enough with his hands that he’d rather not be reminded of it every time he looks down.”

You glance at him. “And you believe that?”

Hoshi considers it for a second, then shakes his head. “I don’t know why he wears them either, but I think he likes that people can’t decide which one is worse,” he says. “They spend so much time arguing about it that they forget to pay attention to what he’s actually doing.”

You let out a quiet exhale. “You guys are weird.”

That pulls out a real laugh from him. “Oh darling, wait till you meet the others.”

You had made your decision pretty soon, and very firmly too. It hadn’t even taken you all three days. You’d gone back to your room after that conversation, shut the door, checked the lock twice for good measure, and told yourself you were not—under any circumstances—getting involved with gang business, gambling halls, or handsome men. 

Handsome? What—no. Strange men, maybe.

It had felt like a good and sensible decision. So what if Jeonghan knew of your grisha blood? If he outed you, you could out him too. You weren’t sure how just Kerch’s laws were, but surely threatening, fighting, gambling and whatever else went on in that place couldn’t be entirely acceptable either. There had to be some kind of balance to it. Some kind of risk on his side as well.

The decision had held up in your mind for two days. Long enough to go to sleep with it still intact, long enough to wake up the next morning and go to work and pretend it hadn’t already started to slip.

But on the second day you’d found a piece of paper slipped under your door while you were away—a narrow strip of cheap quality, folded twice, your name written on it in handwriting you didn’t recognize. 

It had been an address to someplace called the Slat. You knew it had to have been from Jeonghan because there was no one else in this city who would have both the reason and the nerve to find you without being told where to look.

You had stood there for a while, longer than you cared to admit, turning it over between your fingers like the answer might reveal itself if you handled it enough times.

You hadn’t gone.

Not that night, and not the next morning either. You had folded it once more and tucked it away, as though reducing its size might reduce its significance, and then gone about your routine with an effort to be a little more careful.

It might have worked, if not for the third morning at the warehouse. 

The conversation had started somewhere behind you, low at first and not particularly careful, the kind of gossip that would have blended into the rest of the noise on any other day, but the words carried just far enough to hold your attention before you could decide otherwise.

“There was a group,” someone was saying, his voice pitched just low enough to suggest it mattered. “Five, maybe six of them. Staying together near the east canal, in one of those old boarding houses.”

You kept your head down, your hands moving over the crate in front of you.

“Grisha?”

“Yes. Fabrikators. I heard that they were working for someone in the Merchant Council.” 

A brief pause followed, filled with the scrape of wood and the shuffle of boots.

“Who found them?” someone asked.

“A drüskelle. Someone apparently tipped one off. The man only caught two of them, but they’ll probably look around for the rest now.”

“Only two?” another voice cut in, sharper this time. “Then the rest ran?”

“Or they’re hiding,” came the reply. “Doesn’t matter much. Once one of them’s got a lead, they don’t let it go.”

A crate thudded somewhere to your left, the sound a little too loud against the rest of the room.

“They’ll start asking around, then,” someone else said, quieter now, like the thought had only just occurred to him. “People saw them come and go. Someone always does.”

“And someone always talks,” the first man added, almost idly.

A loud chuckle followed. 

“Doesn’t take much,” the first man went on. “A name, a face, where they’ve been seen. That’s all it ever is.”

So by the time your shift ended, the decision you’d made two days ago had worn thin in your head. Which is how you find yourself taking a turn you hadn’t planned, your steps steady enough that anyone looking might think you meant to take this route all along.

The main road is louder at this hour.

It always is, but you notice it more now, the press of people and voices and movement folding in on itself until there’s barely any space left untouched by it. Lanterns hang unlit above you, waiting for evening, but the noise doesn’t need them, spilling out of doorways and open windows.

The address sits in your mind with a clarity that feels almost inconvenient now, guiding you forward without needing to be checked, each turn falling into place before you can second-guess it, until the street widens just enough for the crowd to thin and the building ahead comes into view.

The Slat looms over the narrow alley, its three stories of soot-stained brick leaning precariously against the neighboring buildings. The gabled roof is a jagged silhouette of blackened shingles, topped by a rusted iron hoist that creaks in the wind.

Your pace slows just enough to take the building in, and the few people gathered outside who don’t so much as pause their conversations when you approach, even if you feel the briefest amount of attention pass over you.

And then you see him.

Hoshi stands off to the side, half-turned toward another man, one shoulder resting loosely against the wall. His sleeves are pushed up, and in one of his hands sit a revolvers, the pearl handle catching what little light filters down the street, pale and glinting against his fingers. He spins one of them by the trigger guard in an practiced motion, the metal flashing once before settling again, like it’s something he does without thinking.

The man across from him says something that draws his eyebrows into a furrow as they speak in hushed voices. 

You walk straight up to him.

It takes him a second to notice but when he does he stills instantly, the revolver pausing mid-motion before it disappears from his hand entirely, tucked away with ease.

Hoshi’s lips pull into a smirk.

“Well,” he says, pushing himself off the wall as though the conversation he’d been having no longer matters, “I was starting to think you’d make me wait the full three days.”

The man beside him glances between the two of you, clearly mid-speech, but Hoshi doesn’t spare him more than a brief nod of acknowledgment before stepping closer, stopping just short of you, close enough that you have to tilt your chin up slightly to meet his gaze. There’s an amused look in his eyes, the seriousness from his previous conversation completely gone.

You huff softly, crossing your arms in what you hope looks like reluctance or defiance. “Were you the one who dropped off the address, or was it Jeonghan?”

He smiles, looking pleased with himself. “That was me, darling. Jeonghan doesn’t do ‘petty’ jobs like that. He did spare me some time and found the place for me. I didn’t tail you, don’t worry.”

“Well, you did slip it under the door instead of breaking in,” you sigh. 

“I can be very respectful when I want to be.”

You give him a look that says you don’t believe that for a second.

“So,” he says, quieter now, “did you make up your mind? You joining us?”

With another dramatic exhale, you nod.  

“Great! I’ll take you in then.”

His grin lingers a moment longer than it needs to, like he’s already decided this is a win worth holding onto, before he turns and pushes the door open. 

He steps aside just enough to let you pass first, one hand still braced against the wood. “Wouldn’t want you changing your mind at the threshold. That’d be embarrassing for both of us.”

You roll your eyes, but step in anyway.

The Slat is warmer than the street, the air thick with the faint smell of old wood, sweat, and something cooking somewhere deeper inside. Voices carry from different corners—overlapping, nothing quite loud enough to be called a crowd but enough to tell you that this place is always occupied.

“So,” he says after a few steps, “what scared you off your very sensible plan of never coming back?”

You glance at him. “How’d you know that?”

“I assumed. Looks like I was right,” he hums teasingly. “You don’t strike me as someone who changes her mind for no reason at all. Bit stubborn for that.”

“I just—” you pause, eyebrows furrowing. You can’t tell him the real reason because you’d out ourself. Somehow, the thought doesn’t feel too bad and telling him doesn’t feel too dangerous, but you decide to let it go for now. 

“Figured I might be safer on this side.”

“Safe is a funny choice of wording.” Hoshi glances at you. “Not much of what we do is safe, but I agree. It’s better than being out there.”

“Come on,” he adds, nudging open the door at the end of the corridor with the back of his hand, stepping aside just enough to let you through again, the same easy familiarity in the motion as before. “Let’s go make it official before you decide to change your mind and run off.”

The Slat has its own rhythm and it takes you about two weeks to learn it. 

The job of brewing the morning coffee belongs to whoever’s up first, which is usually Chan. You figure this out on your third day when you come downstairs to find him at the kitchen table with slightly stale bread and a pot of the black liquid that he offers quite cheerfully. 

You take it because refusing feels rude, especially when the boy’s looking at you with those hopeful eyes, and drink it because it turns out you need it. He's already told you three things about the building before you've finished the cup—which floorboard on the second landing will give you away if you're trying to be quiet, that Jeonghan takes his coffee without anything in it and will notice if someone's moved his cup, and that the room at the end of the hall belongs to Hoshi but he rarely sleeps in it. 

He then asks you if you know how to make pea soup, because he doesn’t, but Jun is sick. 

You don’t either, but you figure it out. Chan watches you the entire time with an expression of such transparent relief that you have to look away to keep from smiling at him. He seems to be the kind of person who wears everything on his face, and soon enough you find out from Hoshi he can be fiercely loyal to those who’ve helped him.

Which includes you, now.

By the time the soup’s done he's explained the Dime Lions unprompted—six years of bad blood with the Dregs, a territorial dispute that started over a pier. He speaks quickly and you listen while you stir.

"The Black Tips are different," Chan adds, tearing off a piece of bread. "Less organised. More likely to just… stab someone on instinct." He considers this. "Don't go near East Stave alone at night."

"I wasn't planning to."

"Good." He nods, satisfied.

The others settle around you more gradually. 

Minghao mostly keeps to himself and engages in conversation sometimes, but you can tell that he’s a bit skeptical of you. However, he accompanies you to the Apothecary District one evening and finds out that you prefer tea over coffee too, which makes you a friend.

Vernon you see mostly in passing. Seungkwan more than makes up for Vernon's silence and everyone else's combined. Junhui watches you with mild unreadable curiosity until you help heal the cut on his ear that’s been infected, after which he decides that you’re alright too.

Jeonghan you see in the corridor between the third floor rooms. His cane strikes the floorboards at intervals you start to recognize—three strikes, pause, two more, then the slight drag that only appears when he's tired.

He nods in acknowledgement when he passes, and you nod back, holding in the urge to throttle him. 

The room he's given you sits directly beside his office and the walls are thin enough to hear him at odd hours, so you learn quickly not to linger near the wall and not to mention what carries through it. 

It is strange—the moment you stop expecting to leave. You step over the creaking third stair one evening without thinking and understand somewhere mid-step that you've learned this building. You know which window gets jammed and which door locks from the inside. You know that Chan will have already made coffee if you come down before seven, that Mingyu is always up for a round of cards, and that Jeonghan’s lights stays on the latest. 

What you don't account for is Hoshi.

He has a strange way of finding you, no matter what corner of the Slat you’re in, and does so with pin drop silence. You later learn that they call him the Spider around here, purely because of his freakish agility and absolute silence.

It’s fitting.

You’re in the middle of restocking your supplies when you become aware, with a skip of your heartbeat, that you are not alone. 

Whipping your head around, you find Hoshi already leaning against the open doorframe, with his arms loosely folded and a lopsided smile. 

"Saints—" The tincture slips from your fingers. You catch it before it hits the desk but only just. "Is there a bell we can tie around your neck?" 

He lets out a loud chuckle. “A bell?”

You stare at him. He looks almost pleased, which is exactly what you should have expected, so you turn back to your supplies because the alternative is throwing something at him and you need everything on this desk. 

“I thought of knocking, if that helps,” Hoshi offers, his voice getting closer behind you. “Chan said the hinge is loose." 

Your eyes flit to the window. “Yeah, the sashes keep rattling in the wind. Won’t let me sleep at night. Chan said he’d do something about it.”

"He probably meant that he’d pass the job on to one of us. Chan can't fix a hinge." You hear him cross to the window. "Jun’s banned him from touching tools. You don’t want to know why."

"That doesn't surprise me at all," you mutter, uncorking the next bottle. 

There's the small sound of something being pulled from his coat pocket, and you glance over your shoulder to find him crouching beside the frame with a screwdriver, turning the hinge over to examine it with the focused quiet of someone who actually knows what he's doing. You turn back to your supplies. 

“Thank you,” you say, “you didn’t have to.”

Hoshi hums. “You could've just told me, by the way. Instead of Chan." 

"It wasn't urgent."

"Still." You hear the clatter of metal. "I'm the one who brought you here. If something needs fixing, you can just tell me. I'd do it for you." 

Hoshi pauses for a second, like it came out more sincere than he meant it to and he's noticed too. Then, a little more casually: "I'm kind of responsible for you being here at all, so."

"So it's guilt," you roll your eyes. 

"Absolutely," he agrees immediately. "Haunts me daily. Terribly sorry, darling.”

You snort before you can stop it, and Hoshi’s lips pull into a grin that you can’t see.

"There," Hoshi says, and opens and closes the window twice. No creak. He stays there, watching you work with the easy, unhurried attention that he gives everything. "Anything else?" 

"No."

"Sure?"

"Hoshi?"

“Yeah?”

"Go away."

He laughs—low but bright—and pushes off the wall. You hear him cross to the door and don't hear him leave, which is somehow exactly right.

You try to listen for his footsteps on the stairs anyway. 

"It's required," Jeonghan says, not looking up from his ledger. "Every member. Non-negotiable."

You'd known it was coming. You'd watched the crow and cup tattoo move through the Slat on wrists and collarbones and the curve of shoulders, had traced the ink on Hoshi’s chest with your eyes while stitching up a cut before pretended you hadn't been looking. 

Jihyo explains the rest when she finds you the following afternoon, her kit already laid out on the small table in the room off the main hall—needles, ink, a cloth, a small jar of something for after.

"It'll hurt," she says plainly. "The ribs and waist hurt the most, if you're thinking about placement. Thinner skin means less cushion. The arms are easier."

"Where do most people put it?"

"Somewhere visible." She shrugs. "It's a marker. That's the point."

You understand the point. You also understand that visible cuts both ways—protection on one side, target on the other.

"My waist," you decide, finally. 

Jihyo nods, and doesn’t ask why, which you appreciate, because the answer is still half-formed even in your own head. Something about exits, about keeping options open, about the meaning of belonging to something without being consumed by it. 

You try not to pay attention to Hoshi in the corner.

He’s been there since you came in, settled into a chair across the room with Vernon slouched in front of him, shirt pushed off one shoulder, looking profoundly unbothered while Hoshi works a touch-up along the ink at his collarbone. Vernon says something low and Hoshi snorts, and only he looks up when you and Jihyo come in. 

Jihyo talks you through the rest of it. You half-listen and watch her hands arrange the kit and try not to think about anything in particular. 

Then Chan's voice carries up from below. Jihyo. Jeonghan needs you. Vernon, you too. And the room clears faster than you can track it. Vernon's already pulling his shirt back on, Jihyo’s abandoned her equipment and is at the door with an apologetic look on her face. 

“Hoshi can do it for you,” she says. “He knows what he’s doing and won’t take too long!”

And then she's gone.

You turn around slowly.

Hoshi is already looking at you from across the room, chin resting in his palm, elbow propped on his knee. He looks completely unbothered. He looks like a man with nowhere else to be.

"Hi," he greets. 

“Hey,” you clear your throat a little awkwardly, and Hoshi thinks this is going to take a while.

He’s done this enough times that it should be simple—drag the chair over, sit, pick up the needle, and get to work. Chan fidgeted the entire time, Seungkwan yelped so much that he’d wished he could just shove the needle and sew up his mouth instead, and Vernon had fallen asleep, which Hoshi admires to this day. 

You, however. Hoshi doesn’t know what to do with you. 

He pushes the thought away and drags Jihyo’s chair over, putting on his coat of confidence again. The trick might be to not think too hard about this, Hoshi decides as he spins the needle once between his fingers. 

“I heard Jihyo tell you, but I still think I should warn you,” he says as you lie down. “It’s going to hurt quite a bit, darling. You sure you still want it there?”

“I’ll manage,” you nod, but he thinks your eyes say otherwise. “I don’t want it to be visible.”

You pull up the hem of your shirt and hold the fabric tightly before fixing your eyes on the ceiling. Hoshi eyeballs the placement, and then puts his hand flat against the curve of your waist. 

You try not to flinch at the warmth of it, and he lets out a small sound of amusement, thinking you’re just scared of the pain.

“We can stop if it hurts too much, okay? I don’t have much to do today. We have time.”

He doesn’t say much after that, barring the occasional ‘you okay?’. 

The crow starts to take shape under his needle—the sweep of the wing, the curve of the beak—and his firm grip on your waist seems to distract you from the bite of the needle. 

Hoshi is glad that you’re not looking at him because he’s not entirely sure what his face is doing. There's a small scar just below where the ink is going, faint and old. He notices it the way he notices most things about you, which is to say without meaning to and then without being able to stop.

"You're doing well," he says, because the quiet has started to feel like something he might drown in if he's not careful.

"You sound surprised.” You grimace. 

“A little bit,” he admits. “I expected you to be jumpy. But no, you’re making my job easier.”

“That’s a compliment, right?”

“Obviously.”

The corner of your mouth threatens to lift before another pull of the needle makes you suck in a quiet breath instead.

“Sorry,” Hoshi murmurs automatically.

“It’s fine.”

The two of you settle into silence again. It’s broken only by the faint scrape of the needle and the muffled sounds drifting from the rest of the building—the slam of a door, someone’s laughter echoing through the hallway before fading again. You like that the Slat never really falls quiet.

You try to keep your gaze fixed stubbornly on the ceiling. It feels easier than looking at him, but your eyes betray you anyway.

There isn’t a trace of the loud, impossible man who wandered into your warehouse, making jokes and job offers. The ever-present grin has disappeared entirely, replaced by an expression so focused that it almost softens him. His brows draw together, the thumb of his non-dominant hand pulling gently whenever he needs to stretch the skin tighter.

“Do you do this a lot?” You ask, mostly because the silence feels awkward.

“Mhm,” he hums. “Jihyo and I, we do it for the crew.”

“I did Jeonghan’s,” he adds with pride in his voice. 

It had been easier then. 

Jeonghan had sat through the whole thing without so much as a twitch, looking mildly inconvenienced more than anything. Maybe there was more, but Hoshi had been drunk, and his work on Jeonghan had probably been his sloppiest ever. 

Tattooing you, however, seems to demand an impossible amount of concentration. 

Hoshi tells himself it’s because you’re still new. Because you and Jihyo trusted him with the job, and because the crow stamped into your skin will stay there long after you’re gone too. A crooked line can be erased on paper, not on skin.

That has to be all it is.

Even so, he catches himself easing the pressure every time your breathing catches, apologising before you've even had the chance to tell him it hurts. He's not usually this careful. At least, he doesn't think he is.

He risks a glance upward and almost frowns when he sees your teeth clamping down on your lip. 

But he lowers his eyes again, dragging another careful line beneath the crow’s wing. 

“Hey,” he calls out a few minutes later.

“Hmm?”

“You can swear at me it if helps.”

“...What?”

“Or squeeze my arm. Threaten to kill me afterwards. Whatever floats your boat.”

A small laugh escapes you before you can stop it, the tension in your shoulders easing ever so slightly.

"Would that make you feel better?"

The question catches him off guard.

Hoshi blinks once before a crooked smile finally tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Probably.”

“Then I’ll think about it.” 

Once he’s done, he wipes away the excess ink with a damp cloth, careful with the angry red skin before leaning back to look at the finished design. 

"Done," he says quietly, setting the cloth aside. “Keep it clean. No scratching, even when it starts itching. Jihyo will have my head if it gets infected. I’m sure you have something in that cabinet of yours to soothe the irritation.”

You nod, carefully pulling your shirt back down. "I do."

"Good."

He begins putting away the needles one by one, slower than he usually would.

"If it starts hurting more than it should..." He pauses, glancing up at you before shrugging one shoulder as though the thought has only just occurred to him. "Or if you're not sure whether it's healing properly..."

He twirls the needle between his fingers once before setting it back into the kit.

"Just come find me."

You look at him, a little surprised.

"You?"

“Well,” he looks at you sheepishly. “Jihyo’s usually busier than I am.”

You almost laugh.

From the little you've seen these past few weeks, Hoshi seems to spend half his days running errands for Jeonghan and the other half creating more for himself. If anyone in the Slat is difficult to keep track of, it's him.

Still, you only nod. "Alright."

Jeonghan doesn't usually come on errands like this.

But today he says it's because he wants to handle the contact himself, which is true, but—in the way that most of his reasons are—also not the whole story. You don't ask. You've been here long enough to know which questions get answered and which ones get you a look that makes you wish you hadn't asked it in the first place.

The three of you leave the Slat as the evening crowds thicken along East Stave, Jeonghan a few steps ahead with his cane striking the cobblestones in that familiar rhythm, you and Hoshi falling into step behind him. Hoshi has his cards out before you've made it halfway down the street, shuffling them in a restless way that means his hands need something to do. 

“Why are you thinking so hard?” you ask.

"I'm always thinking." He cuts the deck with one hand without looking at it. "I'm a very thoughtful person."

You look at him. He doesn't quite meet your eyes.

"It's a small job," he says, after a moment. ""Someone's been skimming off a shipment that came through fifth harbour last month—Dregs shipment, which means it's Jeonghan's money." 

“You said it was a small issue,” you raise your eyebrows. 

“I said it was a small job, not a small problem,” he corrects you. "It's not going to be a big thing. The man's not stupid, I think." 

“Hoshi.”

“It’s fine,” he drags the words out. “You're just there to watch, darling. Fifth harbour is our territory and Hendrik, the little fucker, is not going to mess with it.”

"Then why in the world do you look so uneasy?"

He tucks the cards away. Pulls them back out two seconds later. "I'm not." And then, like shifting the gears when he wants to move away from something: "You look nice tonight, by the way."  

"Don't."

"It's a compliment. You're allowed to take it."

"Hoshi."

"The coat." He nods at it. "It's a good coat. I've always thought so."

You fall into silence, and Hoshi shuffles, and the evening crowd presses around you as you watch his hands move through the deck more than you watch the ground beneath your feet. 

Fifth Harbour is quieter than the rest of the waterfront, the big commercial ships docked further east, the buildings here lower and older and leaning toward each other like they might collapse any moment. The contact point is a warehouse at the far end of the pier with its doors open, orange lamplight falling out across the wet boards.

Hendrik is already inside with two of his men. Jeonghan is all numbers when the negotiation starts—debts, the shipment in question, with a side of his usual crypticism—and Hendrik has the look of someone who knows he's been caught and is deciding how much to perform repentance versus how much to push back. Jeonghan listens without expression, his gloves rubbing the crow-head on his cane.

Hoshi stands slightly to the side, cards gone now, one thumb hooked in his trouser pocket near the shimmering pearl handle of his revolver. You stand behind them both, a little hidden away and feel, for the first time since you came to the Slat, truly useless.

It’s toward the end of the dealing, when almost everything has been agreed upon and Hendrik's face has settled into a look of resignation, that Jeonghan’s mind goes elsewhere.

You see the moment it happens. His eyes move past Hendrik's shoulder toward the open warehouse doors, toward something on the pier outside, and whatever he sees seems to paralyze him. His hand tightens once on his cane and then loosens, and the whole thing lasts less than five seconds, but Hendrik sees the gap and his man on the left moves into it before you can open your mouth. 

The knife catches Jeonghan low on the left side.

What happens next is fast and not particularly clean. Jeonghan steps back and hits the man across the jaw with his cane, hard enough to put him on the floor, which would be very impressive if his hand wasn't already pressing flat against the red blooming at his side. Hoshi has the revolver out before the second man can decide what to do with himself—the shot drops him at the knee, deliberate, and the sound of it in the enclosed space leaves your ears ringing. 

Hendrik raises his hands, palms facing outward, his face instantly draining of whatever defiance he had left. The calculation is simple: his two men are down and Hoshi’s barrel is still smoking.

Jeonghan does not so much as look at the blood spreading beneath his hand.

If anything, the knife seems to have sharpened whatever edge was in him, because when Hendrik finally finds enough air to stammer out an apology, Jeonghan only watches him with the same unreadable expression he had worn throughout the negotiation while blood continues to slip steadily through the leather of his glove and gathers in big drops against the warehouse floor.

"I should kill you,” he says, so casually, you almost don’t believe the words coming out of his mouth.

Hendrik blanches, his eyes flickering to Hoshi’s revolver that is still up in the air.

"But I won't."

Hendrik opens his mouth. Closes it again.

"You've been stealing from the Dregs for the better part of a month, which tells me one of two things. Either you've grown remarkably confident, or remarkably desperate, and seeing as desperate men have an unfortunate habit of making stupid decisions, I'm inclined to believe the latter."

His gaze flits toward the men lying on the floor before returning to Hendrik.

"The shipment will be repaid with interest. Every kruge, before the week is over, and if I discover that even a single crate goes missing from another Crow shipment before the month ends, I won't be the one paying you a visit."

Hendrik nods before Jeonghan has even finished speaking.

"I understand."

Jeonghan inclines his head once. "Then we're done here."

He turns first and Hoshi backs toward the warehouse doors without lowering the revolver until Hendrik disappears entirely from view. 

You cross the floor in a hurry, taking larger steps until you reach Jeonghan who has slumped himself onto a chair in one of the corners.

Hoshi is already beside the two of you. "We should go back so she can treat you."

"No."

The answer comes so quickly that Hoshi actually blinks.

"Jeonghan?"

"Close the doors."

"They're already—"

"And lock it."

A crease appears between Hoshi's brows. “Why? You’re bleeding all over the floor, she needs to treat you.”

“She’ll do her job,” he grits out. “Just do what I fucking told you to, will you?”

Hoshi lets out a scoff before turning away, lifting the thick timber beam from where it rests against the wall and dropping it heavily into place across the warehouse doors. The dull thud echoes through the room before silence settles once more. 

You are already kneeling in front of him, your hands fumbling with the buttons of his coat as blood continues to seep between his fingers.

"We need to stop the bleeding. I need to see it."

He removes his hand and immediately, fresh blood wells from the wound, soaking through the torn fabric of his shirt and running over your fingers before you can press your own hand against it.

Your stomach turns. The knife went in deeper than you thought.

"Saints. Where am I going to find bandages from? I don’t have—"

"We don't have time for that."

You look up. "What?"

His eyes meet yours. "You heard me."

You freeze. For a fraction of a second, neither of you speaks. Then you shake your head. “No, I can’t.”

"I brought you in for this,” he almost sneers. “Don’t be a coward and just do it. You’ve hidden long enough.”

"Jeonghan, I—."

His voice is quieter now, though no less certain. “Heal it, come on.”

Your mind races through every excuse it has rehearsed over the last year, every lie that had carried you this far across the Fold, across the sea and into Ketterdam, but none of them seem to matter anymore when each passing second leaves Jeonghan that much paler than he had been a moment before. 

“If you don't stop arguing with me and start doing what I've been paying you to do since the day you walked into the Slat, I'm going to bleed to death on this warehouse floor while you stand here worrying about a secret I figured out before I even learnt your name."

You swallow. "I've spent so long making sure nobody found out."

"And you've spent that time stitching half my crew back together with linen and tinctures when you could've done it in half the time." His eyes remain fixed on yours, unwavering despite the strain beginning to creep into his voice. "You've hidden long enough. Hoshi was going to find out eventually. I'd hoped it wouldn't require me getting stabbed first."

You can feel Hoshi watching the two of you, the confusion almost tangible even without looking at him.

“Your secret will be safe with him, and you know it.”

You do know it, which is why you press your hands to his wound after a few more seconds of hesitation. Your fingers tremble. It has been so long.

So long since you've used your power for anything more than the occasional bruise when nobody was looking, so long since your father had been beside you to remind you to be careful, to keep your hands hidden whenever strangers came too close, to remember that people did not look at Grisha and see people first. 

You remember promising yourself that you would never use your abilities again unless there was absolutely no other choice. The promise suddenly feels very small.

You close your eyes and let the power answer.

Warmth blooms beneath your palms almost immediately, familiar enough that your breath catches despite yourself. It travels slowly through your hands and into the torn muscle beneath them, spreading through the wound in waves until the blood coating your fingers begins to slow down.

Jeonghan's breathing catches, his jaw tightening hard enough for the muscle to jump, but he doesn't make a sound. By the time you finally pull your hands away, only a thin pink scar remains where the knife had entered. 

You stare at your blood-covered hands for a moment longer before forcing yourself to look up. Jeonghan merely glances down at the now-healed wound, looking almost unsurprised. Hoshi, however, hasn't taken his eyes off you. Whatever question sits behind them never makes it to his mouth.

Jeonghan smooths the torn edge of his shirt back into place before pushing himself to his feet with the help of his cane, a little slower than usual but steady nonetheless. "Send Mingyu after Hendrik," he says, as though the last few minutes hadn't altered the course of the evening in the slightest. "Tell him I want this handled before sunrise."

Hoshi hesitates only a second before giving a quiet nod and disappearing through the warehouse doors.

Hoshi doesn’t sleep that night.

He sits on the edge of his bed with his cards and works through the revelation the same way he works through a losing hand—looking for the mistakes, the tells, the things he should’ve caught earlier. 

The cards move through his fingers without him thinking about it. At some point one of them catches the tip of his index finger, a thin sting rising across it, and he looks down at the beads of red welling on it for a moment before closing his hand and going back to thinking. 

He gives up on sleep a few minutes before sunrise.

Taking two steps at a time, Hoshi’s on his way up to the third floor for air when he sees you through the glass. You’re out of the narrow ledge, one hand braced against the bricks, the other reaching for the iron bars that jut from the wall above. Your left foot keeps sliding off the drainpipe. 

You haven't found the trick of it yet. 

Hoshi opens the window. 

"Left foot higher," he says, and you startle hard enough that his arm shoots out and catches your sleeve. "Easy. Easy, I've got you." 

You look at him over your shoulder. 

"Right hand higher," he continues, "I'll be right behind you."

He talks you up through the rest of it, one instruction at a time, and when you finally pull yourself onto the flat section of the roof, the city opens up below. The canals shimmer in a grey-ish silver and the lanterns still burn along East Stave. Hoshi follows and settles down beside you.

"Last night," he starts.

You go still beside him.

"I'm not going to tell anyone," he says, glancing at you. "I need you to know that first.".

"I know," you mumble quietly. "I know you won't."

Hoshi speaks up again after a few moments of silence, broken only by the gulls on the harbour. “So you’re a Corporalki?”

You swallow and nod. “Yes. Half, anyway. My mother was full-blooded. I got less.”

“Less?” he repeats, like he doesn't quite believe that word applied to what he saw tonight.

 "I can't do what a trained Corporalki can. I can't stop a heart or pull the feeling from someone's limbs. I just—" you look at your hands, "—I can close things. Knit things back together. Small wounds quickly, larger ones take more." 

"And it costs you?”

“It’s not supposed to, but I’m untrained, and I’ve spent my entire life trying not to use my powers. My bar for exertion is quite low,” you sigh, tucking your chin in as you pull your legs up to your chest.

Hoshi nods slowly. The wind comes off the water, sharp and cold, and somewhere below a cart’s wheels grind against the stone, the city beginning its morning routine. The sky has gone from grey to warmer colours—orange like a street vendor's hutspot, then bleeding into crimson. 

You reach over without planning to and take his hand, unfurling his fingers. He has a cut on one of them, thin and dried at the edges, barely anything. 

When you press your thumb to it, the warmth arrives and leaves in less than a second and when you lift your thumb the cut is gone.

He looks down at his hand, and then at you. His brows pull together, like he’s been caught off-guard, and the corners of his lips dip down. You almost giggle because of how touched he looks when he glances at you again.

“Darling, you didn’t have to do that,” he mumbles.

“I know. It’s alright.”

Your chest stutters when his hand closes around yours and he squeezes it once, warm and comforting, before he lets go. 

“That probably wasn’t how you wanted anyone to find out, was it?” He asks, rhetorically, looking at the buildings that rise in front. “So I want to give you something back.”

You sit up a bit straighter. “What?”

Hoshi clears his throat. “Well, it’s not really a secret, and not like yours in anyway. Anyone could find it out if they asked, but nobody calls me by it.” A pause. “My name, my actual name is Soonyoung.”

"Soonyoung?" you repeat, checking that you heard it right.

"Kwon Soonyoung," he confirms, with a small nod. He's looking at the buildings still, not at you. "It's not the same thing at all, I know that. It doesn't cost me anything to tell you and it's not going to get me killed, so." 

"But it's the most I have,” he continues, “you can use it, if you'd like. I'd be fine with that. You'd be the only one, actually." His mouth curves slightly, and he finally glances at you sideways. "Never particularly liked the name when I was younger, but now I think I'd like to hear someone use it."

You look at him for a moment. The sun has fully risen now, the light gold and warm across the rooftop, and his face in it is open, a little uncertain, but entirely sincere.

"Soonyoung," you say, carefully.

He looks away quickly, but a smile breaks across his face anyway. You catch it before he can hide it, and the warmth of it pulls a matching one across your own lips. 

Above Ketterdam, the sun keeps rising and you think you could stay up here a while longer. You think he could too.