Jack hit the puddle hard.
The impact drove the air from his lungs, and for a moment he just lay there, face pressed into cold, dirty water, listening to the ringing in his ears.
Behind him, the door to Benny's opened. Noise spilled out - laughter, shouting, the clatter of coins and glasses. Someone called for another round. Then the door slammed shut again, and the alley fell quiet. As if nothing had happened.
Jack rolled onto his side, coughing, and spat a mouthful of blood into the puddle. He stayed there a moment longer, waiting for the world to stop spinning.
A figure passed the mouth of the alley, slowed, looked in, then kept walking.
Jack let out a short breath that might have been a laugh.
"Yeah," he muttered. "Fair enough."
He dragged himself onto his knees, then forced his way upright, one hand braced again onst the wall until the ground steadied beneath him. His shoulder screamed as he tested it. His hip wasn't much better. His head throbbed in time with his pulse. But nothing felt broken. Rourke had been true to his word.
Jack wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and pushed himself away from the wall. He didn't look back at the door. No point.
He stepped out of the alley and onto the street, turning north along the Throat.
***
The canal ran dark beside him, its surface broken by slow ripples and drifting debris. Mist clung low over the water, spilling out across the street in thin, shifting sheets. Further off, he could still hear the district at work - the distant knock of hammers, the scrape of carts, voices carrying across narrow streets. But here, along the canal, it was quieter.
Jack walked slowly, each step sending a dull flare of pain through his hip. He kept one hand loose at his side, the other brushing the wall now and then to steady himself when the ground threatened to tilt.
His mind didn't slow with his body.
Rourke. Kate. The tattoo.
He saw it again, clear as anything now - the curve of it, the shape, the way it had caught the light. He'd seen it before.
Jack swore under his breath and kept walking.
***
A small shrine was set into the canal wall ahead, half-hidden between two leaning buildings. He nearly passed it. Then stopped.
It was nothing much - a handful of bones wired together into a rough frame, scraps of cloth tied along it, bits of metal and old tokens hanging loose. Melted wax clung to the stone beneath it. A few coins rested in the shallow ledge below, dark with age. Offerings. For the tide to take.
Jack stood there for a moment, staring at it. He wasn't the praying sort. Never had been. But his hand went to his pocket anyway.
He turned up a coin between his fingers, looked at it, then flicked it into the ledge. It landed with a dull clink.
He hesitated.
"Keep an eye on her," he muttered.
The words felt strange in his mouth. He didn't wait for anything to answer. Just turned and walked on.
***
The bridge loomed out of the mist ahead of him, its stone slick with damp. Jack climbed it slowly, one step at a time. At the top he paused, breathing hard, leaning out slightly over the canal to spit. Blood hit the water below and vanished without a trace. There was already enough of it in there - one more drop wouldn't make any difference.
Jack straightened and crossed the rest of the way, descending onto the north side. Safer ground. Or at least, familiar.
***
A few minutes passed before he realised something wasn't right. Had he heard something? Felt it, maybe.
He slowed. The sound behind him slowed too.
Jack stopped. Nothing now - just the soft lap of water against stone. He glanced over his shoulder. The fog swallowed the street whole. No shapes. No movement. He stood there a moment longer, then shook his head.
"Getting jumpy," he muttered.
He turned back - and heard it again. Soft. There and gone.
Jack slipped into a doorway, pressing himself back into the shadow, holding his breath. He waited. Seconds stretched. No footsteps. No figure. After a while, he let the breath out slowly.
"Yeah," he said under his breath. "Too many knocks to the head."
He stepped back out into the street -
"You're late."
The voice came out of the fog. Jack froze.
***
A figure emerged a moment later, as if the mist itself had shaped him - coat dark, posture relaxed, eyes already fixed on Jack. Blocking the way forward.
Jack made an attempt to squeeze past. The smuggler shifted, just enough to block him again. His gaze moved over Jack's face, the blood, the way he held his shoulder.
"Rough night?" he asked.
Jack said nothing.
"I don't see you carrying my package."
"We had a deal."
Jack rolled his shoulder, wincing as the stiffness bit deeper. "I was just on my way to get it."
"Were you?"
"Yes. I ran into a bit of trouble."
A faint smile touched the smuggler's mouth. "Yes," he said. "I can see that." He stepped closer. "But a bad day doesn't change what's owed."
Jack opened his mouth -
"You meet me back here at midnight," the smuggler said, cutting clean across him, pointing a finger into Jack's chest, "with my package."
A pause.
"Or next time I come looking…" He let it hang. "…it won't be a conversation."
For a moment, neither of them moved. Then the smuggler stepped back and was gone, swallowed by the fog as if he'd never been there at all.
***
Jack stayed where he was, listening. Nothing. Just the slow lap of water against stone.
Midnight.
He could go now - head straight for their stash in the tunnels, get the package, be done with it.
His jaw tightened.
The tattoo rose in his mind again.
Jack spat onto the stones and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He turned - not toward the slums. Toward the upper streets. Toward Temple Square.