Everything went quiet.
Zhi looked up, hair plastered to her face, eyes wide. The shop had been closed. They'd all left, the owner, the merchant, the witless investor and his stupid, stupid bodyguards, their contacts, the apprentice --
Her hand came up off the brush and slid over the hilt of the dagger at her hip. The apprentice. Everyone had left out the alley when she'd gotten there, everyone but the tailor's apprentice. He'd left out the front. He was supposed to have locked the rutting store. Except he hadn't. Of course. Of course.
She got to her feet, knees all creaky stiff. She was splattered in blood, it was soaked into her pants and artfully daubed into her shirt. Hems of sleeves were crusted with it. There was a spare change of clothing, but . . . no. There wasn't any time.
She came to the edge of the backroom, looking out, a dim halo of light around her as she grabbed the handle of the door and shut it behind her. She was left in the body of the shop, a silhouette. She was full of hollows and shadows, bones jutting out under her skin to leave gaunt wraiths in their wake, a story of bad decisions and worse secrets. Her eyes were set dark and deep, tired smudges beneath them and framed by dank, limp hair.
Beneath the hair, she smelled of sweat. Not the clean sort of sweat, no. Hers was the last resort of a body congested with the worst sorts of excess. It smelled nasty, beneath the blood. Her skin was a study of blemishes: clogged pores, scabs, and old scars.
There was a fine tremor to her hands, one on the hilt of a hidden blade and the other pointing towards the intruder -- the kind of tremor that could be expected from a junky needing her next score.
"Shop's closed," the streetrunner said, voice gruff and harsh with too many years of drink and smoke. "Get out."
Zhi looked up, hair plastered to her face, eyes wide. The shop had been closed. They'd all left, the owner, the merchant, the witless investor and his stupid, stupid bodyguards, their contacts, the apprentice --
Her hand came up off the brush and slid over the hilt of the dagger at her hip. The apprentice. Everyone had left out the alley when she'd gotten there, everyone but the tailor's apprentice. He'd left out the front. He was supposed to have locked the rutting store. Except he hadn't. Of course. Of course.
She got to her feet, knees all creaky stiff. She was splattered in blood, it was soaked into her pants and artfully daubed into her shirt. Hems of sleeves were crusted with it. There was a spare change of clothing, but . . . no. There wasn't any time.
She came to the edge of the backroom, looking out, a dim halo of light around her as she grabbed the handle of the door and shut it behind her. She was left in the body of the shop, a silhouette. She was full of hollows and shadows, bones jutting out under her skin to leave gaunt wraiths in their wake, a story of bad decisions and worse secrets. Her eyes were set dark and deep, tired smudges beneath them and framed by dank, limp hair.
Beneath the hair, she smelled of sweat. Not the clean sort of sweat, no. Hers was the last resort of a body congested with the worst sorts of excess. It smelled nasty, beneath the blood. Her skin was a study of blemishes: clogged pores, scabs, and old scars.
There was a fine tremor to her hands, one on the hilt of a hidden blade and the other pointing towards the intruder -- the kind of tremor that could be expected from a junky needing her next score.
"Shop's closed," the streetrunner said, voice gruff and harsh with too many years of drink and smoke. "Get out."
