Chapter 22: The Wolf and the Hungry Dogs

The man looked like any other labourer in this grimy cityscape, his clothes just as ragged, his face just as grim and soot-stained. But clutched in his hand, shielded by his arm and the shabby folds of his threadbare coat, was a sharp, wicked-looking knife. I saw the silver glint of it, a cold promise of violence, as he shuffled with purpose through the crowd, his eyes fixed on the factory owner with a burning, hateful intensity. At the same time, Jared had reached his target. He was poised, a shadow among shadows, his nimble fingers preparing to dip into the rich man's pocket. I couldn’t stop myself. A panicked cry, a foolish, thoughtless sound, ripped from my throat.

“Look out!”

I wasn’t trying to save the black-hearted factory owner. My only thought was for Jared, a desperate, selfish fear that he would be caught up in the bloody aftermath of a murder. But my shout had the opposite effect. Every head in the crowd, a sea of weary and suspicious faces, turned towards me. The furtive man with the knife flinched, his eyes wide with alarm, startled by my cry. It seemed to break his nerve, to spur him into a panicked, rash action. He lunged forward, shoving people aside with a guttural snarl, and plunged the short blade deep into the factory owner’s chest.

“Argh!” A choked, gurgling scream escaped the rich man’s lips. His attention, drawn to me for that fatal second, had left him completely exposed. The assassin, now wide-eyed with a wild, animal panic, seemed to realize what he’d done. He turned and fled, bowling over several people in his haste, leaving the knife buried to its bone hilt in his victim’s chest. For a moment, the crowd of workers froze, a tableau of stunned, horrified silence. Then, as they registered what had happened, as they saw their master clutching the knife in his chest, his fine clothes blossoming with crimson, a collective gasp of terror went up, and they scattered like startled rats.

But while the honest workers fled, their faces pale with fear of being implicated, another sort of person had a very different reaction. This slum was filled with the desperate and the predatory, and as the factory owner staggered, his monocle falling from his eye, their own eyes turned towards him. They were no longer a crowd of men; they were a pack of starving wolves, and they had just seen a fat, wounded sheep stumble. Before they could act, however, someone else moved first. Jared. He had the advantage of proximity; he had been right there, sizing up his mark, a shadow waiting to strike. As the workers fled in terror, he did not run with them. Instead, he darted forward, his hand plunging into the dying man’s pocket. And then he did something so shocking, so utterly, brutally unbelievable, that my mind reeled. He gripped the handle of the knife still embedded in the man’s chest, planted a foot on the man's stomach for leverage, and with a single, brutal tug, he pulled it free. There was no hesitation, no flicker of doubt. Blood gushed from the wound in a torrent, and the factory owner’s body began to convulse, his fine, polished leather shoes drumming a frantic, dying rhythm on the grimy cobblestones.

Jared’s act, his brutal claiming of the prize, seemed to break a spell. From all sides, a mob materialized, rushing in from the surrounding alleys and doorways. They swarmed the fallen man like hungry dogs fighting over a scrap of meat. There were thieves like Jared among them, young urchins who had been begging on the street corners, newsboys with their bundles of papers, grimy labourers carrying their tools, and even some of the very same workers who had fled only a moment before, their fear now overcome by a desperate, all-consuming greed. The dying factory owner was the prize they fought for, and Jared, standing at the center of it all, was now a rival. Several hands, like claws, reached for him, trying to tear him away.

“Get back! You want to die?!” Jared snarled, brandishing the short, bloody knife. His voice was a feral growl, a sound that came from a place of pure, primal survival, and the sight of the gleaming, blood-slicked blade was enough to make the first wave of scavengers recoil in fear. I had never seen this side of him. His face was a mask of pure, desperate ferocity, like a cornered beast ready to fight to the death. The gentle, caring boy from yesterday was gone, replaced by a hardened stranger forged in the crucible of this moment. In that instant, the mob rushing towards him were nothing but hungry dogs, drawn by the scent of blood and coin. But Jared… he was a lone wolf, guarding his kill.

“Out of my way!” he roared, and slashed wildly with the knife, not aiming to kill, but to drive them back, to clear a path. The men in his path scrambled to dodge the flashing blade, and he burst through the center of the crowd, breaking free. The instant he was clear, the mob fell upon the factory owner like a wave, a frenzy of tearing hands and grabbing fingers, stripping him of everything—his watch, his rings, his wallet, his very clothes. The man might have had a breath or two left in him, a sliver of a chance at a guttering, miserable survival. But not anymore. Now, he was just meat for the hungry dogs of the slum.