Chapter 23: The Feeding Frenzy

I watched, frozen, as the factory owner's body was dragged back and forth by the frenzied mob, his blood staining the cobblestones a slick, dark crimson. They stripped him of everything, a pack of human vultures tearing at a carcass. The silver-topped cane vanished into the press of bodies, the top hat was crushed underfoot, the monocle disappeared. Hands, like spiders, scuttled over him, plucking the rings from his fingers and wrenching the watch from his vest. They were so savage in their greed that his fine tailcoat was torn in two, a shoe was snatched by one man while its partner was grabbed by another. For a horrifying moment, a truly insane thought flashed through my mind: they might actually tear the man's body apart, each taking a piece home as a grisly trophy or, God forbid, as provisions for the week.

Thankfully, it didn't come to that. His worthless corpse, now little more than a pile of bloody rags and flesh, was eventually abandoned on the ground, a trampled, ruined thing. But the frenzy was not over. Those who had managed to snatch a valuable item now became the new targets. The mob turned on itself, a chaotic whirl of fists and curses as they fought over the stolen spoils. The factory owner, the source of their sudden windfall, was forgotten, a mere obstacle in their desperate, greedy scrum. A chill went down my spine. If Jared had lingered in that crowd for even a second longer, he would have been torn apart just like the rest of them. Thankfully, he had terrified them just long enough to make his escape, to get clear of the bloody whirlpool.

I finally understood. His mind had been sharp as a razor, his thinking crystal clear. He didn't go for the obvious valuables first; he went for the knife. It wasn't just a weapon; it was a symbol, a tool to create a moment's hesitation, to carve out a space for himself in the chaos. He took what he needed—the man's wallet, I assumed—and got out, not wasting a second, not trying to claim everything for himself. These people… they were a mob, a rabble. But they were also a pack of hungry hyenas. When the factory owner was alive, when he was in a position of power, they were nothing but meek, bleating sheep, allowing him to exploit them, to ruin them, without a single voice raised in protest. But the moment one man, one desperate soul, had dared to strike the first blow, they had transformed into a pack of slavering dogs, throwing themselves upon the wounded prey. In that moment, anyone who stood between them and their prize would have been torn to shreds. And now, with the prize distributed, they were fighting amongst themselves again, a chaotic mess of individual greed, many of them ending up with nothing but bruises and blood for their troubles. One event had turned them into a single, monstrous beast. Another had shattered them back into a disorganized, pathetic mob. Jared, having grown up in this brutal world, understood their nature perfectly, and that understanding had allowed him to make a split-second decision and walk away unscathed.

“Parula, don’t look. We have to go.” Jared was suddenly behind me, a ghost at my shoulder. He grabbed my hand, his grip firm, and pulled me away. He’d found a grimy rag somewhere and had draped it over his head and shoulders, obscuring his face and the dead man's clothes he wore, ensuring no one would immediately recognize him as the boy who had struck the first blow in the looting. “The peelers will be here soon,” he whispered, his voice urgent as he hurried me down a narrow, stinking side alley. “We need to be far away before they arrive, or we’ll be in a world of trouble.”

“The peelers? They have constables here?” I asked, a fresh wave of fear washing over me. “Then aren't we already in trouble?” From the lawlessness I'd witnessed, I'd assumed there was no such thing as police in this part of the city. And the factory owner… he’d been alive, just for a moment, after the first stabbing. But Jared's pulling of the knife… that had been the final, fatal act. Though the man was surely doomed, Jared was not entirely without blame.

“It’s fine,” he said, his voice confident, the voice of a boy who knew the city's dark secrets. “We just need to run fast. There were so many people back there, a right scrum. The scene is a mess. And the peelers, they don’t like coming into the slums to investigate properly. It's too much trouble for them. They’ll just grab a few unlucky sods to make an example of, a few scapegoats to satisfy their superiors. As long as we’re far away, we’ll be fine.” He spoke with a chilling familiarity, a deep understanding of the city's corrupt and lazy justice system. And the way he had acted, the decisiveness of his movements… this was not the first time he had been in a situation like this. This was his world.

As if to confirm his words, the shrill, piercing blast of a police whistle echoed through the grimy streets behind us. The entire district erupted into chaos, a sudden, frantic scurrying as shadows detached themselves from doorways and disappeared into the labyrinthine darkness.