Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
i. she who haunts
ZAUN HAD A HABIT of sucking the life out of you. Whether it was from the endless shimmer supply, the brutality from the enforcers above, or the thieves and murderers from down below, the city had a way of grinding people down until they were nothing more than shadows of themselves. Its streets pulsed with a relentless energy, the kind that fueled both survival and despair, leaving no room for innocence. Maeve knew this better than anyone.
She leaned against the bar's splintered counter, nursing a half-empty glass of something cheap and bitter that barely passed for alcohol. The air reeked of stale sweat and damp concrete, and the dim light from a flickering bulb overhead did little to dispel the gloom. Every crack in the walls, every muted voice in the background seemed to carry a story of struggle and loss. It was a place where hope came to die, and yet, it was where Maeve thrived.
A shadowy figure slipped into the seat beside her, their movements cautious but deliberate. Maeve didn't look up, but she felt their eyes on her. Her mask sat snugly over the lower half of her face, concealing her features, while her hood cast a shadow over her eyes. The look was intentional: The Ghost had an image to maintain.
"Are you her?" The voice was low, male, laced with desperation and fear, "They say this is where to find you."
Maeve raised her glass to her lips, letting the question hang in the air. She didn't answer right away. The silence made most people uncomfortable, and she preferred it that way. It gave her the upper hand, and in Zaun, the upper hand was everything.
"I've got a job," he said, lowering his voice further. "Heard you're the one who gets things done."
Maeve's gaze finally shifted to him, her sharp green eyes piercing through the dim light. He flinched, the weight of her scrutiny clearly unsettling him. She didn't say anything, just tilted her head slightly, waiting for him to continue.
"It's... it's a topsider," he stammered. "A trader. The bastard's been skimming off what's meant for us. Making it harder to get supplies down here. People are starving, and he..."
Maeve held up a gloved hand, silencing him. She didn't need the sob story, the justifications. She wasn't here for morality plays or righteous causes.
"Details," she said, her voice muffled but firm under the mask.
The man fumbled to pull out a crumpled scrap of paper, sliding it across the counter toward her. Maeve picked it up, scanning the hastily scribbled information. The name, the location, and enough about the target's habits to do her job efficiently. Her lips twitched, a faint smile hidden beneath the mask. Predictable.
"How much?" she asked, her tone flat.
"Two hundred now, the rest after," he said, reaching into his jacket to produce a small pouch of coins.
