Chapter 21: The Rich and the Ruthless

I had assumed that ridiculous getup was just a symbol, a caricature drawn from the darkest parts of my old world's penny dreadfuls or political cartoons. I never imagined someone would actually dress like that in real life—a walking, breathing parody of greed and power, preening amidst the squalor he helped create. From what I could gather from the low, angry grumbling of the crowd, he was indeed recruiting. He was the master of one of the nearby factories, they whispered, a man with a reputation as black as the soot from his own chimneys. The stories they muttered were all the same: brutal exploitation, stolen wages, and men cast aside onto the street the moment their strength failed them, their bodies broken by his machines. The men and women around me seethed with a powerless, simmering rage, their faces a mixture of fury and fear. But none dared to speak aloud, lest they be marked for retribution by the man.

This had nothing to do with me. Though I despised such black-hearted men, I was in no position to play the hero. I was even lower on the social ladder than these poor, exploited workers. And I certainly couldn't afford to attract the attention of a rich and powerful man like him. I turned to leave. Just then, Jared appeared at my side like a shadow.

 "I asked around, Parula," he said, his voice low, almost lost in the factory din. "There are no wells here. The workers get their water from the factories. They provide boiled water." A good thing I hadn't sent Jared out on a fool's errand for a well last night. But his news was strange. Why would these same masters, who worked their people to death for a pittance, be so benevolent as to provide them with clean, boiled water? It didn't add up. Was it some small act of charity? Or did they simply need to keep their human machinery from seizing up and breaking down completely?

“So what do we do?” I asked. “The factories won’t just let us walk in and take their water. Not unless we work for them.” The thought of clean, hot water was an almost painful temptation, a luxury from a life I could still remember vividly. “Speaking of which,” I said, nodding towards the crowd. “That man over there is hiring. The rich one. Though I hear he’s a right bastard.”

I was torn. On one hand, the idea of honest work, of earning my own keep, called to the person I used to be. But this frail body… it couldn't handle the back-breaking, soul-crushing labour of a factory. I would be broken in a day. That meant my survival depended entirely on Jared. And Jared’s only means of survival was thievery. It was a dishonest life, a life of skulking in the shadows. But looking at the hopeless, defeated faces of these workers, was their "honest" life any better? I felt trapped between two grim, unappealing fates: the quick death of the factory, or the slow death of a life of crime.

Jared followed my gaze to the impeccably dressed industrialist. He stood out from the grimy crowd like a diamond in a coal heap, his soft, well-fed appearance a stark, insulting contrast to the gaunt, hungry faces around him. Jared’s eyes, which had been dull with the grim reality of our situation, suddenly lit up with a familiar, predatory gleam. “You’re right,” he said, a grin spreading across his face, a hunter's smile. “He is rich. Today might be a very profitable one.” He began to rub his hands together, a gesture of eager anticipation that sent a chill down my spine.

“Wait, what are you doing?” I asked, a sense of dread washing over me. “What are you thinking?"

“What do you think?” he said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “I’m going to relieve him of some of his valuables.” It was his old trade, his only trade, the one skill this city had taught him.

 “Are you mad?” I hissed, grabbing his arm. “Look at him! He’s a powerful man! If you’re caught, he’ll have you beaten to death in some dark alley!”

 “He has no guards, no minders,” Jared countered, his eyes scanning the crowd with a cold, professional’s assessment. “And he’s standing right here, in the open, surrounded by sheep. It’s a perfect opportunity. Who else are we supposed to steal from, Parula? The poor?”

His words silenced me. He was right, of course. In the brutal, unforgiving logic of this world, his reasoning was flawless. There was no honor, only cruelty, in stealing from another starving wretch. But stealing from a man like this… a man who grew fat on the misery of others… it almost felt like justice. Before I could argue further, Jared had slipped away, melting into the press of the crowd, moving with a silent, ghostly grace towards the unsuspecting factory owner. I watched, my heart pounding in my chest, my breath caught in my throat, a silent prayer on my lips.

And then, through the gaps in the crowd, I saw him. Another figure, moving with a similar stealth, but with a different, more final kind of intent. He, too, was weaving through the crowd, his eyes fixed on the man in the top hat with a burning intensity. And clutched in his hand… was the unmistakable, wicked glint of a knife.