Jack woke slowly, the weight of the previous night still sitting heavily in his body. His shoulder throbbed before anything else - a deep, persistent ache that sharpened when he tried to move - and the smell of smoke and damp cloth clung faintly to him, mixing with the ever-present cold of the tunnels. For a moment he stayed where he was, staring at the low stone ceiling above him. Then he pushed himself upright. There was no point lying there.
He was already moving before he'd fully decided to, through the tunnel and toward the main chamber, the air cool and wet around him, closing in the way it always did. Water dripped steadily somewhere in the dark, echoing faintly along the passage. Usually the sound settled him.
Not today.
The tunnels had been old long before the Duke claimed the city. Some said they were part of the original canal system, dug when New Calver still traded with places that had names worth remembering. Others claimed the tunnels had been there first and the city had grown over them like rot over bone. Jack had never cared which version was true. What mattered was that the tunnels stayed dry most of the year, stayed hidden from the Watch, and stayed forgotten by anyone who didn't live there.
People were beginning to stir. Shapes shifted beneath rough blankets, a boy no older than ten crouched beside a small pile of scrap sorting through it with quick practised hands, and nearby someone coaxed a weak flame into life, the smoke hanging low beneath the ceiling before drifting slowly along the stone. There was a faint smell of bread.
Jack passed through it all without slowing. He hadn't eaten since the day before - maybe longer, he couldn't remember - but it didn't matter. He knew exactly where he was going, and he wasn't giving himself space to think about why.
***
If anyone knew where the bruise on Kate's cheek had come from, it would be Lorraine. She always knew something. And Finnegan would already have heard - about Kate, about Slope Street, about the mess left behind.
Jack entered the main chamber.
The space opened out around him, wider and brighter than the tunnels though the light never reached far. Fires burned low across the room, bodies gathered close to them, voices overlapping in the half-light. The air was thicker here, warmer, harder to breathe. Conversations dipped as he passed - not stopped, just quieter - and eyes followed him. A few people glanced toward Finnegan's door, then quickly looked away. No one went near it.
As Jack approached, a shape stepped out of the shadows.
Doyle.
A heavy hand landed against Jack's chest, firm enough to stop him without effort. Doyle's jaw worked slowly as he chewed, his eyes fixed on Jack with the same dull patience he gave everything.
"Not right now, Jack."
Jack tried to push past him. It was like pushing against stone. Doyle didn't move, didn't speak again, just stood there with his hand planted against Jack's chest, waiting for him to understand.
After a moment, Jack gave up and turned away.
Lorraine sat near one of the fires, stirring a pot with slow steady movements, a couple of younger kids hovering nearby, watching it more than her, waiting without speaking. The slums kept their rhythm - morning came whether anyone deserved it or not, fires lit before the sun, children working before they could walk. One of the boys, a thin sharp-eyed kid, shifted as Jack approached and stared without any particular embarrassment about it. Jack nodded toward him as he reached Lorraine.
"What's with him?"
Lorraine didn't look up immediately. She gave the pot another slow stir before glancing over, a faint smirk touching her mouth. "He's taken a liking to you." The boy straightened slightly under the attention, trying not to look pleased. "Been asking me all week to cut his trousers the same as yours," she added.
Jack snorted softly. "What's his name?"
"Was Bill," Lorraine said. A small pause. "Now he says it's Jack."
Jack shook his head.
Lorraine looked him over properly. "You look terrible."
"Thanks," said Jack.
She reached for a bowl, filled it, and held it out. "Here. Eat."
Jack hesitated, was about to say no. His stomach gave him away with a loud grumble. He took the bowl with a brief nod and sat on the lowest of the stone steps beside the fire, motioning for her to join him.
"You heard?" he asked.
"Of course I heard. I'm so sorry - I know you two were close."
"So were you," said Jack. "What do you know?"
Lorraine gave a small shrug. "Depends what you think I should know."
Jack ate in silence for a moment, letting the warmth settle. Then: "Yesterday, before the job - she had a bruise on her face." Lorraine's stirring slowed slightly, just for a moment. "Do you know where that came from?"
She shook her head. "I haven't seen much of her lately."
Jack studied her for a second, then looked away. Across the chamber, Doyle still stood outside Finnegan's door, unmoving. "Who's Finnegan talking to?"
Lorraine followed his gaze. "Rourke."
Jack frowned. "That animal. Why's he meeting with him?"
"How should I know, Jack? They don't tell me everything."
"And yet you seem to know most of it."
A faint smile touched her lips. "I pick up a few things."
Jack was quiet for a moment. "I don't know why Finnegan deals with Southside at all. He's strict, sure - harsh when he needs to be —
- but he looks after his own. Southside doesn't work like that. Nobody's looking out for anyone."
"Katie didn't think so," Lorraine said quietly.
Jack's head snapped toward her. "Say that again."
Lorraine met his gaze this time. "She's been spending time over there. More than usual."
Jack frowned. That didn't fit. "Since when?"
"A while," Lorraine said. "You didn't notice?"
He didn't answer. "Is that where she got the bruise?"
"Could be."
Jack's grip tightened slightly on the bowl. Across the room, Doyle lifted a hand and beckoned.
Jack stood. "Thanks for the food."
"I meant what I said," Lorraine added. "I liked Katie."
Jack didn't reply. He crossed the chamber.
***
The door opened from the inside as he approached, Coulter standing just inside with one hand resting lightly against the frame. Across the room beyond, Rourke and his men were already leaving through the rear door, their presence lingering even as they went. Finnegan stood near the corner, crouched in front of a large iron-handled safe with his back to Jack.
Jack moved toward one of the chairs the men had just vacated.
"Come with me, Jack."
Finnegan was already standing, moving past him without waiting, Coulter falling in at his side. Jack followed. Doyle stepped ahead, clearing a path toward the stone steps. Finnegan climbed to the top while Jack and the others took their place just off to one side.
A low murmur moved through the chamber.
"Alright," Coulter said, raising his voice. "Quiet down. Not another word."
The noise died quickly. Finnegan had kept this place running longer than most bosses lasted - everyone got something, everyone paid something, that was the balance. Even the Watch looked the other way, so long as they got their cut.
He stepped forward.
"I'm sure you've all heard what happened last night on Slope Street," he said. "Ugly business. But rest assured - I'll handle it."
"Who did it?" someone called.
Finnegan's gaze snapped toward the voice. "That's none of your concern, Jim Bent. It won't be long before we have the information we need. Until then, you'll stay calm." He let that settle. "There'll be a proper funeral this morning. She was one of ours. Anyone who wants to pay their respects is welcome - apart from those of you who are supposed to be working, of course." A pause. "Kate wouldn't want us falling behind."
Jack's jaw tightened at the sound of her name. The numbness from earlier had thinned, replaced by something sharper.
Finnegan's eyes found him almost immediately. "That goes double for you, Jack." He stepped closer, lowering his voice. "You've had a rough night." Not a question.
"I hear you weren't polite with Coulter yesterday."
Jack didn't react.
"When you're speaking to him," Finnegan continued, "you're speaking to me. I've told him to let it go, given the circumstances. Don't put me in that position again."
His gaze remained steady, then dropped slightly quieter. "You're not to be getting involved in this. I'll take care of it. Leave this with me."
Jack said nothing.
"I mean it," Finnegan added.
But Jack was already elsewhere.
Benny's. Rourke. The bruise.