Chapter 12: Chapter 12 — Rat in a Cage

The muzzle pressed harder into the back of his neck, cold metal against fresh skin. Liam kept still, his breath shallow, his graft heavy at his side. The street had gone strangely quiet in his ears, the city’s noise drowned beneath the thrum of blood rushing in his head.

“Easy now,” Clive drawled. His voice was low and thick with amusement. “Wouldn’t want the thing to go off. Not after you’ve gone and scrubbed yourself up so nice.”

The pistol shifted, just enough to scrape against the ridge of Liam’s spine. A cruel nudge. Liam’s teeth ground together, but he didn’t move. Any twitch could be the excuse Clive wanted.

Behind him, the man chuckled, a wet sound like phlegm. “Relax. Only pulling your tail. You think I’d waste blackpowder on you? Nah. You’re worth more breathing. Horace would skin me for breaking his toy.”

The words turned Liam’s stomach. He kept his gaze locked on the slick stones in front of him, on the way the runoff glistened from the aqueduct overhead. Toy. That was all he was to them.

Clive must have read something in the tension of his shoulders, because the pistol lifted away at last. A heavy hand clapped him on the back, too hard, pushing him forward a step. “There now. See? Wasn’t so bad. Still got your head on your shoulders.”

Liam exhaled slowly through his nose, refusing to give the bastard the satisfaction of a response.

Clive moved to his side, the pistol balanced on a single shoulder now, his grin stretched wide. The man wasn’t tall, but he carried himself like one who never doubted the ground would bend under his boots. His graft was crude: a plated jawline of tarnished brass that gleamed wet when he talked, and a left eye replaced by a round, glassy lens that clicked faintly as it shifted focus. Liam had seen worse, but never attached to someone who delighted so openly in using it.

“You know how it is,” Clive went on, voice almost cheerful. “Horace wants to see you. He says jump, you don’t ask how high, you just start leaping until he tells you to stop. And you’ve been scarce, Liam. Too scarce. Man starts to wonder if you’ve forgotten your friends.”

The word “friends” dripped venom. Liam’s hand flexed at his side, his graft hissing faintly as the boiler adjusted. He forced it still.

“Let’s not keep him waiting, eh?” Clive tipped his chin toward the alleys beyond the bathhouse lane. “He’s been all but pining for you. Can’t say I’ve ever seen the man so sentimental.”

The grin widened at his own joke, teeth flashing against the brass plate.

Liam said nothing. He had learned long ago that silence was safer. Any words could be twisted, thrown back. Better to let the bastard fill the air with his own noise.

“Good lad,” Clive muttered when Liam stepped forward without being shoved. The pistol swung idly in his hands, but the threat of it never left Liam’s neck. He could feel it still, phantom-cold, a promise that hadn’t yet been kept.

The bathhouse warmth had fled entirely. The city pressed close again, grim and wet, and Liam walked under its weight, Clive’s shadow trailing him like a leash.

Clive’s pistol disappeared back into his coat with a practiced flick, though the smirk stayed plastered across his face. The absence of cold metal out in the open didn’t bring relief. If anything, the threat felt sharper, now invisible.

“Walk on,” Clive said, his tone casual as if they were out for a morning stroll. “Boss doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

Liam stepped forward, boots striking against slick cobblestones. The alleys closed in around them, narrower than the main streets, shadows clinging damp against the walls. The air smelled of coal smoke and the faint tang of piss. Water dripped from overhead pipes, falling in fat drops that splattered into the mud.

Clive kept close, too close, his shoulder brushing Liam’s now and then as if to remind him he was leashed. The man whistled tunelessly, the sound warped by the brass plate along his jaw. Every note came out bent, sharp in places where it shouldn’t be, leaving the tune half-broken.

“You’ve been hiding,” Clive said suddenly. The whistling cut off, replaced by his voice. “Slipped back into the city a few days ago, didn’t you? Thought no one noticed. But Horace always notices. He’s got eyes everywhere, Liam.”

The words dug like hooks, but Liam kept his face blank. He said nothing.

“Funny thing,” Clive went on, ignoring the silence, “he was real worried about you. Worried you’d forgotten who keeps you afloat. Who patched you back together when you were half a corpse. Man like Horace, he doesn’t do that for just anyone.”

Liam’s stomach turned, but his stride didn’t falter. The graft at his shoulder whirred faintly as it shifted weight.

The alley bent left, spilling them into a broader lane where laundry hung limp between buildings. Gray water trickled from the lines, dripping onto the stones below. A pair of women passed with baskets on their hips, their eyes flicking to Liam, then away the instant they saw Clive at his side. Everyone in the slums knew better than to meet the gaze of Horace’s hound.

“You’ll see soon enough,” Clive muttered, almost to himself. “Boss has a way of making things… clear.”

The words carried weight. Liam kept moving.

They turned again, deeper into the slums. The buildings here leaned together overhead, blotting out the weak daylight. Gaslamps glowed sickly against damp stone, their light smeared by mist. The noise of the manufactories was distant now, replaced by the quiet shuffle of feet and the occasional cough echoing through the narrow streets.

Clive finally stopped whistling. His lens-eye clicked faintly as it adjusted, the sound mechanical and insect-like. “Nearly there.”

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Ahead, the lane opened into a small square. A warehouse squatted at its center, brick walls slick with mildew, shutters bolted closed. A pair of men lingered outside the door, both armed, both watching the street with the bored sharpness of predators waiting for prey.

Clive nudged Liam forward with the flat of his hand against his shoulder. “In you go.”

Liam drew a slow breath, the taste of rust thick in his mouth. His body was coiled tight, every step weighted. He knew the place. Knew the walls, the shadows. He had bled here before.

The guards pushed the door open without a word. The dark swallowed him whole.

The office was warmer than the warehouse floor, though not by much. Gaslamps sputtered weakly in wall brackets, their glass blackened with soot. The air clung damp and sour, reeking of old smoke, cheap liquor, and sweat that never quite left the furniture. A battered desk dominated the space, its scarred surface littered with ledgers and dice.

Behind it sat Horace.

He was broader than Liam remembered, a man gone thick, though far from harmless, with corded muscle still evident beneath the fat. The kind of bulk that crushed rather than blocked. His jowls sagged above a collar stained dark with grease, rings glinting at every finger. His smile stretched wide, but the hunger in his eyes was unmistakable. He didn’t blink as Liam was pushed toward the chair across from him.

Clive’s hand pressed Liam down into the seat, then withdrew. The metal joints creaked under his weight.

“Liam,” Horace purred, his voice a heavy velvet that dragged through the room. “Look at you. It’s only been a few weeks, but already you’ve changed. Taller. Broader. Not so much a boy anymore.”

Liam stared at the desk, jaw tight.

Horace chuckled, a phlegmy sound from deep in his chest. “Don’t be shy. It’s been far too long. I thought you’d forgotten me.”

Silence.

Horace leaned back, surveying him as though Liam were some curious specimen pinned to a board. Then, with deliberate slowness, the man heaved himself up. The chair groaned in relief as he stood. He didn’t return to his ledgers, nor the liquor waiting on the side table. Instead, he circled.

Liam’s stomach tightened. He kept his body still, though the urge to move screamed in his bones.

Horace came around behind him. For a long, suffocating moment, there was only the sound of his breathing, wet and deliberate. Then he leaned close. The man’s nose hovered near the back of Liam’s neck, inhaling.

“You smell clean,” Horace murmured, voice low. “Soap. Steam. Fresh skin.” His breath brushed Liam’s ear. “Not like the gutter stink you usually drag through my doors. You almost smell as though you tried to leave us entirely.”

Liam’s knuckles whitened on his knees. He forced his face still, but the weight of the man’s nearness was unbearable.

“You know,” Horace went on, savoring every word, “I’ve had men bring me things. Gold, drugs, lives. But none of them ever thought to bring themselves. That’s the trouble with people. They never understand what it is I truly value.”

A laugh, soft, intimate. The kind of sound that belonged in a son’s ear, twisted here into something foul.

Horace lingered for a heartbeat longer, then drifted back around the desk. He lowered himself into his chair with a groan, his smile broadening once again.

“Business, then.” He steepled his fingers. “You owe me. More than you can pay. And yet here you sit.” His eyes gleamed. “Why should I let you?”

“I’ve got cores,” Liam muttered, his voice low, tight. “Monster parts. I’ll take them to the Guild. I’ll get the payout. That’ll cover some of it.”

Horace tilted his head. “Some.” He tapped the desk with one thick finger. “You’re not wrong. And I’ll allow it. Let you play the little ‘adventurer’ a while longer. But don’t think for a moment that means you’ve bought yourself freedom. Every breath you take, boy, you take because I let you.”

Liam’s teeth ground together. He hated how the words landed, hated how true they felt.

Horace leaned forward, the lamplight catching on the grease of his skin. “And then, of course, there’s my idea.”

The room seemed to close in.

“No,” Liam said immediately, the word sharper than he intended.

Horace’s smile didn’t waver. “You don’t even know which idea I mean.”

Liam did. The thought alone set his teeth on edge. “I know,” he snapped. His voice echoed against the walls, startling even him. “It’s suicide. I’m not doing it.”

The silence that followed was suffocating, thick as the smoke-stained drapes that sealed the room from the street. Every tick of the clock on the far wall scraped against Liam’s nerves, each one louder than the last. Horace loomed behind him, close enough that Liam could feel the damp heat of his breath stir the hair at the back of his neck. The chair under him felt suddenly fragile, too narrow to keep him steady.

Even Clive shifted near the door, boots scuffing against the floorboards. The man tried for stillness, shoulders squared, gaze fixed dead ahead, but the tension in his jaw betrayed him. Nobody wanted to be the first to break the moment. The weight of Horace’s unspoken demand hung over all of them, souring the air until it felt like there wasn’t enough room left to breathe.

Then Horace laughed, low and indulgent, like a man humoring a child. “Always so dramatic. So stubborn.” He leaned back, spreading his arms as though to embrace the room. “Fine. Not today. Not if you’re too frightened. But the offer remains. It always will. Because I know you, Liam.” His smile turned sharp, his voice dropping. “You’ll run out of choices. Out of time. Out of time. And when you do, you’ll crawl back to me. Because you’ll have nowhere left to turn.”

Horace’s voice dropped lower, as if confiding a secret. “You think I’d push if I didn’t know it was worth it? There are fortunes rotting out there, waiting for someone with enough iron in their veins to claim them. Gold, cores, knowledge that makes men kings. Magical items, artifacts even, that would change the course of history. You don’t even need to believe me. Just think of what you’ve already seen. A few scraps from a rat nest and suddenly you can pay off a week’s rent. Imagine what waits where no one else dares go.”

He leaned closer, the scent of spiced wine clinging to his breath. “All it takes is saying yes. One step. You give me that, and I’ll give you everything you’ve been starved of. Freedom. Security. A life not spent counting scrip like a beggar.”

The words pressed like hands against his chest, each one digging in deeper. Liam sat rigid, staring at the scarred steel of the desk rather than meet those hungry eyes.

Horace let the silence stretch. He poured himself a drink, took a long swallow, and smacked his lips before a sigh escaped him and he seemed to come to a decision. “We’ll call it settled for now. Take your pretty little bones and your shiny cores to the Guild. Bring back what coin you can scrape. I’ll be waiting.” He leaned closer, eyes catching the lamplight once more. “But remember… you don’t make me wait too long.”

Liam’s stomach knotted. His body screamed to leave, but the weight in the air pinned him in place.

Horace leaned back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. The rings glittered, wet in the lamplight. His smile lingered, too wide, too certain.

“Now,” Horace murmured, leaning forward as he gazed intently at Liam, “that fine piece of steel on your shoulder… funny thing, how much flesh a man can lose and still crawl back for more. An arm today, legs tomorrow. But you already know that, don’t you?”

Liam’s stomach knotted. The graft felt heavier by the second, as if Horace’s words had sunk iron into its gears. He kept his eyes on the desk, jaw clenched tight, as memories returned unbidden.