Knock knock


    Knock knock knock


    Knock.


    "Silas, wake up! It’s already about 12 in the morning — it’s getting late." Selena’s voice came from outside.


    Silas''s eyes opened slowly. "Morning…" he mumbled with a yawn.


    "It’s not morning, Silas. It’s almost noon," Selena replied.


    Silas jumped up and glanced at the wall clock. "It’s this late? I must’ve worked myself midnight," he thought.


    "Okay, I’ll be right there!" Silas shouted back.


    Tap tap tap. Selena’s footsteps slowly faded as she headed downstairs. Silas stretched, rubbed his face, and dragged himself to the bathroom.


    ---


    The sun played hide and seek behind the clouds. Winter was nearing its end, but the cloudy sky kept the air cold. Wind swept through Ashport City, carrying the scent of coal and steel. People bustled about, immersed in their work.


    Silas entered the living hall, the clatter of dishes catching his attention.


    "Silas, your breakfast is ready. Come eat," Selena called from the dining room.


    He walked in and slumped onto a chair. Selena sat opposite him, cigarette in hand, the smoke curling lazily above her head.


    "Edgar mentioned you were out on a case yesterday. What kind of case?" Silas asked, taking a bite of his omelette.


    Selena glanced at him, raising a brow. "All these years, and you still don’t know what I do for a living? That hurts a little."


    "Well… I never asked, so…" Silas stammered, scratching the back of his head.


    "I’m a state lawyer," she said, taking a slow drag from her cigarette.


    "Oh…" Silas blinked, then fell silent.


    Selena exhaled a thin stream of smoke and leaned back. "Sara was asking about you. I saw her at court this morning."


    "Sara?" Silas frowned. He barely remembered the ceremony — his attention had been stolen by that mysterious silhouette.


    "You don’t know Sara? She’s a stage actress. She said she met you at the ceremony."


    Silas rubbed his chin, trying to recall. "Oh, the blonde girl… Yeah, I met her. She was thanking me for… something about a sponsor?"


    "Yes. Her last performance had something about the Ashcrofts in the script. They asked for funding, and your father helped pay for the stage setup, costumes — even paid her for the act afterward."


    "I see," Silas muttered quietly.


    Selena smiled teasingly. "You shouldn’t keep these things hidden from me, you know. I’m your mother now."


    Silas blinked, flustered. "It’s not like that," he mumbled, scratching his cheek and averting his gaze.


    Selena chuckled, grabbing her long coat from the chair. "I’m a bit tired. I’ll get some rest. You finish up and explore the city if you want."


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    Silas watched her leave, then sank into thought. People had been murmuring about the colonial wars lately — maybe he could find out more. "Sure," he said, almost to himself.


    The door clicked shut, and the house fell silent. Silas stared at the table, mind drifting. "Why am I even doing this?" he whispered. "It’s not like they’re after me…"


    Then he remembered Clara — the warmth in her eyes when he fixed her sparrow. For the first time, he’d felt a spark of purpose. The Ashcrofts had a dark past, and someone was plotting something dangerous. Protecting Clara… maybe that was enough of a reason.


    He finished his breakfast and headed back to his room, strapping on his custom-made belt and slipping in his sleek twin pistols. The cold wind hit him as he stepped outside, cutting through his coat. He shoved his hands into his pockets and walked towards the market.


    Steam hissed from factory pipes, and machinery clanked in the distance. Merchants called out their wares, voices mingling in the crowded streets. Silas wandered quietly, eyes scanning the alleys. A prickle ran down his spine — a feeling of being watched. He glanced over his shoulder, but the sea of faces gave nothing away.


    His thoughts drifted back to last night. Half-asleep, he’d glimpsed a shadow at his window. "I told myself it was my imagination… but I heard footsteps too." His brow furrowed. "Could someone from the family be watching me? No… I’m overthinking."


    The alleys yielded nothing. No one was talking about the war. "Then why would the newspaper write that headline?" he wondered. Just as he was about to give up, a filthy, ragged alley caught his attention.


    It was hell on earth. Filthy water pooled in the cracks. Addicts and vagrants slumped against walls, their eyes vacant. Children, pale and thin from hunger, huddled in corners. Silas turned away, but loud voices from the other side of the alley stopped him.


    A crowd had gathered. Curious, Silas approached and saw a group of poor laborers protesting the government''s new currency — Bitsees. Their cries of anger and desperation filled the air.


    Silas watched silently. Finally, he nodded to himself and slipped away. The dirty alley drew him back, its stench clinging to the air. It felt like a different world — as if Ashport itself rejected this place.


    he kept walking.


    Silas ventured deeper into the alley, the air growing heavier with each step. Dimly lit pubs and seedy drinking bars lined the narrow street. Women lingered outside, their painted smiles masking tired eyes as they grabbed at passersby, whispering promises of pleasure. The deeper he went, the darker the atmosphere grew. Then he heard it — the low murmur of old voices drifting from a nearby bar, openly discussing the war.


    “Found it,” Silas murmured with a grin.


    He pushed open the creaking door and slid onto a chair, signaling the bartender with a rowdy wave. “A drink,” he ordered, his voice rough, slipping into the act effortlessly. Experience from his past life made it second nature.


    The bartender squinted at him. “Kiddo, this is a place for adults. Kids aren’t allowed.”


    Silas smirked, slapping thirty Ironbits onto the counter. The green shine of notes turned a few heads. “Am I still a kid?” he asked, holding the man’s gaze.


    The bartender''s eyes widened at the sight of the Ironbits notes. For these Bitsee coin users, Ironbits were a rare luxury. “No, you’re a thirty-year-old grown-ass man to me sir,” the bartender chuckled, starting to mix his drink.


    Silas felt the weight of stares pressing against him. Old men whispered in hushed tones.


    “Is he the son of some rich family?”


    “No way, probably a thief.”


    “Why would a rich brat come to this alley?”


    “His clothes look expensive.”


    “Bet he stole them.”


    Silas took the glass and leaned back, feigning disinterest. “So… what’s this about a war?” he asked casually. The room fell silent. Eyes burned into him, filled with anger and mistrust.


    A middle-aged man with bruises and a rusted prosthetic arm staggered over, grabbing Silas by the collar. “You rich bastard! You know how I lost this arm?” he growled.


    Silas glanced at the crude metal limb, barely functional. He sneered. “Let me guess… some kid like me took it?” He knew provoking them was dangerous, but anger made people reckless — loose-lipped.


    The man snarled, hurling Silas into the wall. Pain shot through his back as he slid to the floor. He dusted himself off, straightening his coat.


    “Brat, get out of here. You’re probably some government rat, thinking we’re old fools who’ll spill secrets.”


    Silas sighed. He’d miscalculated. Coming here well-dressed and flashing money had only put them on guard. “What a waste,” he muttered, pushing past the crowd and stepping back into the cold alley.


    As he walked, a flicker of movement caught his eye. An old man with brown hair sat slumped on a wooden chair beneath the cloudy sky, the faint sunlight casting shadows across his weathered face. The man raised a hand, gesturing for Silas to come closer.


    Silas approached cautiously. “Hello, sir. Can I help you?”


    The old man chuckled. “Shouldn’t I be asking that? Why’d you pick a fight with those good-for-nothing drunks?”


    Silas scratched his head. “I heard them talking about the war. Got curious, but they got angry the moment I asked.”


    The man sighed, nodding slowly. “Make sense.”


    “Make sense?” Silas frowned.


    “Look at their limbs.” The old man gestured toward the bar. “They lost them working in Armstrong Ashcroft’s mines when they were young. Back then, they weren’t treated as workers. They were slaves. The Windmere Republic sold us out.”


    “Sold you out?” Silas asked, leaning in.


    The old man straightened, his voice low and bitter. “When the colonial war started, Ashport was green and beautiful. Then Armstrong came and painted it red — red with our blood.” His eyes grew distant. “When the slaughter finally ended, the government signed a treaty. The details have been buried, but what I do know is that we were part of that deal.”


    “What do you mean?” Silas pressed.


    The old man sighed, sipping from a cracked glass. “The government gave the Ashcrofts the right to use Ashport’s people as free labor. The more iron the Ashcrofts mined, the more tax Windmere collected. That treaty still stands.”


    Silas’s eyes widened. “It still exists?”


    “Hypothetically,” the old man continued, “if the Ashcrofts decided to enslave us again, the government couldn’t lift a finger. We’d be theirs.”


    Silas felt a chill that had nothing to do with the cold. “Why hasn’t Victor done anything about this?” he muttered under his breath.


    The old man shrugged. “That’s why they talk about the war. It wasn’t just a war. It was the day we lost our freedom.”


    Silas clenched his fists. His mind raced, connecting the dots. The strange symbols in the newspapers, always near Ashcroft articles… "Could this be what they’re plotting?"


    He stood, bowing slightly. “Thank you, sir.”


    The old man squinted. “What’s your name, boy?”


    Silas hesitated, then smiled. “Silas… Silas Ashcroft.”


    The old man’s eyes widened. “Ashcroft, huh?” Silas met his gaze, voice steady. “I’ll make sure that treaty ends.”


    The old man stared after him, a faint smile curling his lips. “Such a good man…” he whispered.


    Silas walked through the alley, mind swirling with questions. “The treaty still stands… Why hasn’t Victor done anything about this?” He rubbed his temple, lost in thought — until the shadows shifted.


    A large group of hooded figures emerged from the alley’s darkness, their faces hidden beneath thick cloaks. Silas tensed, eyes darting around. The streets were empty.


    “Who are you? What do you want?” Silas demanded.


    The figures said nothing, closing in silently. Silas’s heart pounded. He dropped into a low stance, hand resting on the pistol at his side.


    "Things just got interesting."


    —