The broom lay abandoned, a forgotten sentinel on the gritty floorboards. Between Nives and Faro, the bloodied wooden gull rested beside the fallen crates. Faro’s face, stripped bare of the easy smile and feigned clumsiness, was a stark, unreadable mask, his eyes dark pools reflecting none of the warmth Nives had come to cherish. The posture of the bumbling fisherman was gone, replaced by a ruthless, calculated stillness that made her stomach clench. “The docks?” Nives said, her tone a raw rasp against the heavy silence. “Every shipping magnate… slaughtered? You?” Her gaze flickered to the dead thug, then back to Faro. The man who had just risked his life to save her, to save Enzo, to save *them* from Teodoro’s thugs, was now revealed as something monstrous. Faro took a slow, deliberate step towards her, the floorboards groaning under his weight. “I was once a part of it, Nives,” he said, his voice low, a gravelly rumble that seemed to vibrate through the very air. “A long time ago. A low-level enforcer, a street brute. That’s how I survived the streets, before… before I met you.” He paused, his gaze searching hers, looking for a crack in her resolve. “They called me the Scrawler then, because I was the one who drew their bloody marks.” Nives stared, struggling to reconcile the image of her gentle, awkward Faro with the chilling moniker. “The Scrawler?” she repeated, the name tasting bitter on her tongue. “You mean… the Abyssal Hand?” He gave a short, humorless scoff. “There are many hands in the dark, my dear. I was just one of the smallest digits. I did what I had to. It was a life of shadows, of grime, of… obligations. But I left it, Nives. I swear it. I left it all behind the moment I saw you.” His voice hardened. “Teodoro, he knows my past. He aims to drag me back in, to use it against me, to use *you* against me.” Nives’s mind reeled. A low-level enforcer. It explained the strength, the brutal efficiency she’d glimpsed in the fog, the way he seemed to predict Teodoro’s moves. It explained the Abyssal Hand receipt, the expensive dress, the fear in Teodoro’s eyes when that impossible whistle had sounded. But slaughtered shipping magnates? That was too far, too deep into the abyss. Yet, the thug’s dying words had been clear. “Then what about the docks?” she pressed, her voice trembling with the effort to hold back a scream. “That man just said you ordered the hits. That you bled Illicia dry.” Faro looked away, his gaze falling to the bloodied gull. A profound sadness seemed to settle over his features, momentarily softening the hard edges. “I severed my ties, Nives. Truly. But in this city, a past like mine… it never truly lets you go. They demand things. Favors. Old debts. Sometimes, I’m forced to play their game, to make it seem like I’m still one of them, to shield what little I have now.” He turned back to her, his gaze intense, pleading. “To keep *us* safe.” He began to unbutton his coarse fisherman’s shirt, his movements slow, deliberate. Nives watched, a knot of apprehension tightening in her chest. The fabric parted, revealing the pale skin of his back. She gasped. It wasn’t just scars; it was a brutal roadmap of a life she couldn't fathom. A latticework of raised, angry tissue crisscrossed his shoulders, his spine, his flanks. Jagged lines from blades, angry pockmarks from what looked like chain whips, and one particularly gruesome, starburst-shaped indentation on his left scapula, as if a branding iron had been extinguished against his flesh. Each furrow spoke of blade work and chain lashes, a history carved into flesh by forced allegiance to the underworld. He stood there, unmoving, letting her witness the horror etched into his skin. His breath was shallow, his back muscles flexing slightly as if anticipating a blow. The sight was sickening, yet it ignited a strange, burning protectiveness within Nives. A man who had endured unspeakable things and somehow, miraculously, emerged with a gentle heart. Her anger, which had been a raging inferno, now cooled into a fierce, simmering devotion. He had been a victim, forced into brutality, striving to carve out a clean path. To build a life with *her*. “Faro,” she murmured, reaching out a hesitant hand to touch a particularly long, raised welt near his shoulder blade. The skin was rough, cool under her touch. He flinched slightly, but didn’t pull away. “My poor Faro.” The words were choked, thick with a sudden, overwhelming tenderness. He had lied, yes, but not to harm her. He had lied to shelter her from the darkness of his past, a darkness he had clearly paid a terrible price to leave behind. He turned, pulling his shirt back up, his eyes meeting hers, full of a vulnerability she hadn’t seen since their first awkward meal together. “I just want to build our home, Nives. The Lantern House. A place where children can be safe from the shadows, from the streets that made me who I was. I want to be a man worthy of you.” Before Nives could respond, a shattering crash ripped through the air. The flimsy glass of the orphanage’s front *window*, already mended countless times, exploded inward, spraying splinters across the room. A brick, wrapped crudely in a piece of parchment, skittered across the floor, coming to rest near Enzo, who had been quietly playing with a chipped wooden horse near the hearth. The boy, startled, let out a small cry. Faro moved like lightning, sweeping Enzo into his arms as Nives rushed to the brick. Her movements were precise, quick. She snatched the parchment, her eyes scanning the hastily scrawled, jagged script. Her gut churned as she read. *Nives Corvo, Your little shelter will burn, and the Drowning Wards will be mine. Unless… you bring me the deed to The Lantern House. Alone. Tomorrow night, midnight, the old Salvi warehouse on the Whisperwind Docks. If you involve anyone, if you bring a single soul, blood will run in your gutters. I will know. Don’t think you can escape me, little advocate.* The note ended with a crudely drawn, mocking sketch of a broken lantern. Nives crumpled the note in her fist, her knuckles white. The fragile truce, the brief moment of understanding with Faro, shattered into a million pieces. This wasn't about land or power for Teodoro anymore; it was about pure, unadulterated malice. He wanted to break her, to watch her dreams burn. Faro, his face set in hard stone, pulled Enzo back against his chest. “Teodoro,” he growled, the name a curse. “He crosses a line.” “He won’t take this place,” Nives vowed, her voice low and steady, a cold stillness settling over her. Her eyes, usually so expressive, were now cold, utterly devoid of fear. “He won’t lay a finger on either of us.” Her gaze swept the room, landing on the hidden panel in the floorboards near the hearth—the panel Faro had so clumsily tried to conceal when Zanni had dropped the gold ingot. She had dismissed it then, but now, a cold certainty settled in her mind. Faro, the former ‘low-level enforcer,’ would have more than just fishing nets and mended tools hidden away. As Faro moved towards the collapsed crates, scanning for any further threats outside, Nives knelt by the hearth, her movements swift and silent. Her fingers found the slight indentation in the wood, a cleverly disguised seam. With a faint click, the panel swung open. Inside, nestled amongst worn fishing gear, lay a small, dark bundle. Her fingers closed around the cold, heavy steel. A loaded pistol. Its brass-bound frame sat heavy in her grip. She tucked it deep into the folds of her skirt, securing it against her thigh. Faro was still peering out into the fog, his back to her. He wouldn’t know. He wouldn’t understand. He would try to shield her, to take on Teodoro himself, and she couldn’t risk him falling back into that brutal life. She had seen his scars. She would not let him bleed for her again. She moved silently towards the door, the chill of the fog already seeping into the building. She had to be quick, unseen. Just as she slipped out into the thick mist, low words parted her lips, swallowed almost immediately by the brine and silence of the Drowning Wards. “I am going to save my husband’s soul by killing Teodoro myself.”

Scars and Ransom