#v. retribution

It’s late. Late enough that the night turns black over the Wall Market, and even the lights of the late-night establishments flicker tiredly. In a way it’s so late some would consider it early. A strange time to be out in the streets - the only company you’ll find the drunk, desperate and desolate. On this particular night it’s a blessing and a curse for Leslie; on the one hand his path is free and not obstructed by lingering crowds, on the other hand, without the noise and the people there are far fewer opportunities to hide from those who chase him. At least they’re not the smartest bunch, certainly not anyone he can’t outwit. But he isn’t at his best either, not in the state the Don left him in.

He’s dragging himself through the narrow streets between the decrepit buildings more than he’s running, undoubtedly leaving behind a trail that might cost him his life once the light reveals it. Pain fills every corner of his body and slowly the cold starts to creep in where the warm blood trickles out of him and through his fingers which are pressed against his side. He ran, like a coward, but at least he’s still alive to resent himself for it. At least he knows; at least he got his answer..

There aren’t many places he can go now, not many people who would help. The amount of people who actually like the Don can easily be counted on one hand, but those who remain loyal to him out of fear or greed are much higher in number. Not many would risk his wrath just to save a nobody like Leslie. (He can’t blame them; it’s not like he was any different while working under Corneo. Down here it’s every man for himself.) But there is one place that’s still untouched by Corneo, as untouched as anything in this hellhole can be; one person who might be willing to defy the Don. It’s a slim chance but slim is better than nothing.

For how difficult it was to get there, it’s surprisingly easy to get inside the Honeybee Inn. Leslie slips in through the backdoor, using the opportunity when a drunk (but probably satisfied) customer rushes through it to empty his stomach behind the building. The sound of it makes Leslie sick, but before the stench can reach his nose the door falls shut behind him, cutting him off from the street. It’s dimly lit inside, the air warm and filled with heavy scents that cloud his already hazy mind. He thinks he’s walking down a hallway, but really he’s sliding along the wall, drawing a trail of blood on the wallpaper. By the end of it there are white spots dancing before Leslie’s eyes, his steps stumbling and unsteady.

And suddenly the wall ends and he loses his hold.

He tumbles and falls, gasping when the air is knocked out of his lungs but the pain barely registers. Someone says something, calls something, but he can’t make out the words. Maybe it was a mistake coming back here. If he’s lucky they’ll just kick him out, make a statement out of it. The Lady of the Inn does not meddle in other people’s affairs.

"i—i'm sorry" moaning images of merfolk and men shriveling into lowly polyps made a cold and sharp vibration pierce her soul. every single misery she has caused made her feel bad now. making every poor unfortunate soul, more unfortunate has always been her specialty.