WITH AN UNINTERESTED EYE, MERCY WATCHED HIS GANG TEAR ITSELF TO PIECES. 

It was, after all, the only thing they had for sport lately. A metal bell clanged as the brawlers changed, kruge exchanging hands in the respite from the sport. The remaining girls from the Sweet Shop, who now had nothing to do but toy with the scraggly crew that called itself the Dime Lions, strutted about the crowd and stirred up chants for blood.

Marcel --better known as Mercy-- Kaizer picked his gleaming white teeth with a shard of bone and sighed. In his black velvet vest, tailored silver pants, and billowing plum button-up, he painted every bit the picture of a spoiled boy prince. And prince he could have been, if not for the slumbag flea-ridden pests he was forced to call his own.

Su-Xi Daji draped over his shoulder in a Kaelish green dress. With her golden eyes, sleek black hair, and impossibly perfect skin, Daji was the picture of elegance and wealth. Mercy could practically hear coins when he looked at her. A light, cloying perfume danced around her bare shoulders, something sweet and evocative and definitely expensive.

They sat above the rabble, perched on what used to be the second floor balcony of the Kaelish Prince. The banister was broken, the entirety of the platform leaning precariously over the makeshift wrestling ring, and ceiling debris scattered around Mercy's impeccably shined shoes. With every body slam and takedown from the arena, more dust fell from the rotting floorboards and onto his mass of black hair.

In short, they were pearls among pebbles, predators among strays.

"You're the only one that gets me," Mercy mourned, pressing the back of a delicate hand to his forehead.

"If only that weren't true," Daji said coldly. "I have better things to be doing."

"Yeah? Then go do them," he taunted. She bared her teeth, and he gave her an apologetic shrug. They both knew he was right: there was nothing left to do besides watch the once-great Dime Lions tussle about in their great remains like cats playing in their own shit.

"You need to rally them," Daji countered, her musical voice high with disdain.

"Me? Why ever not you?"

"They hate me."

That was true. Shu, Grisha, and a stage performer who had been the darling pet of Pekka for years? Loathsome. Half the reason Mercy was dubbed the leader of the Dimes was because Pekka had treated him like shit, more so than the others. (The other half was because Mercy killed, swindled, and cheated all the other competitors, and made it clear he would not stop until he sat on the proverbial throne.) Nowadays, Pekka's disdain sold like hot buttered potatoes. It paid to be hated by the guy everyone hated.

Three months ago, Marcel would've killed to be Pekka's pet apprentice. Three months ago, Pekka's favor would've been like a thousand kruge as the cherry on top. But the tides had shifted, as they were prone to do in Ketterdam, and Pekka's influence was as desirable as a drunk sailor's dirty socks on your pillowcase.

It was why the Dime Lions were like this. Scraps. Betting against their own brothers, guaranteeing money they didn't have. Dying at the hands of the Razorgulls, who saw the power vacuum as a chance to hit harder. Wasting away the days with half-assed street schemes that got them locked up in Hellgate.

Things needed to change. That much was obvious. Honestly, it irritated him, because they had such potential. When Pekka had ruled, their power was unlimited: even the stadwatch had lounged in their pockets. Surely, surely, a gang could not owe credit to a single man. Surely, there was something to be saved among these shambles.

But, watching the remains of the Dime Lions tussle with each other in the ruins of the Kaelish Prince like starved lion cubs, Marcel Kaizer was highly tempted to burn it all and start anew. The stagnancy ate him alive; the disinterest of his gang made him seethe.

He couldn't do it alone. He had tried to rally his troops, to get them to pick up their belts and buckle into a new venture. But in the wake of the Ice Court heist, the Dime Lions were used to action. To big plots, to big bad adversaries. They had forgotten how to pull wool over eyes, to run a brothel properly, to start from scratch. The Dime Lions had forgotten how to be hungry.

So he needed fear. Pekka had wielded terror like a velvet ribbon, sleek and malleable in his hands. Mercy would have to do that, but better. Further. Colder. His reputation as the jester, the pet favourite, would have to be purified. His old self would have to die, his new self reborn like a vengeful shadow. He needed to terrify his gang, to inspire them.

He just needed an adversary to complete it. The perfect theatre: a villain to challenge him, so he could rise above, and mould his people into shape.

Daji had refused, naturally. "I won't be a puppet, you silly thing," she scorched him. "I want a legacy, too, and I won't play nemesis and ruin my life to better yours. Saints, Mercy, what an idiot you have become."

So she was not the ideal actor to cast. Well, she was ideal, she played the part perfectly, but an uncooperative Daji was the quick path to failure.

"I'll help you," she had conceded. "But not as a puppet nor as a tool. I am more."

And she certainly was. Su-Xi Daji terrified him, but he'd rather lose his other eye than admit it. There was nothing more skin-crawling than a Grisha, and even more so a Tailor. Even other Grisha had to admit their strangeness; not a Heartrender, not a Fabrikator, but something bastardised in between.

Now, Marcel toyed the idea over in his mind, looking down at the rowdy remainders of greatness. A gang of older, bigger Dime Lions were kicking a little boy, who was laughing maniacally. The crowd howled for blood, the brothel girls encouraging them with catty shouts.

An enemy. Where to find one? There were plenty lounging around the dirtied streets of Ketterdam, lurking in the shadows of buildings of commerce. Still more, there were actors that could be groomed and primed into the ideal tool, the perfect weapon.

Daji cocked her head, away from the fight ring, drawing Mercy's attention. Her gaze was pointed to the stairs, the shadows and ripped green curtains that blocked them from the rest of the world.

A little hand pushed through the curtains. Ademe, with her bunny ear poofs of hair atop her head, scurried into view. White ash smudged her dark brown cheek. About eight years old, Ademe had been a foundling in the Dime Lions for a year now. Daji saw no sense in encouraging a young girl to 'rabblerouse', but Marcel liked her company. She was quiet, honest, and liked to steal things.

"Hey, kid," he said easily, holding out a fist to his blind side. Ademe, approaching from the left, tapped it with her own. "What has my little rabbit come to report?"

"The Tidemaker was wandering the streets today," she mused, tapping her chapped lower lip. "And Waffle Haus closed. And the shrimpy stadwatch is scared to talk to a girl."

Marcel grinned, lip quirking. Reliable ol' Ademe. "What was the Tidemaker doing?"

"Poking. Reading newspapers. Talking to Ylsa. Got kicked out of Anouk Claasen's room." Out of the corner of his good eye, he watched as Ademe crouched in the dust and drew a tree with her finger, little clouds of debris rising. "Asking about the Crimson Lady."

Though he would never admit it aloud, the hair on Marcel's arm rose, prickling his skin. Heartrenders were a creepy bunch (don't tell Daji he said that), but the Karmozinj Dame made all the cagy, jumpy things in Mercy's fucked up head go spooked. He sat upright, shifting in his vest. "Asking what?"

Ademe was drawing a stick figure man robbing another figure. "Her room at the Night Mare. The Tidemaker was scared. Found something interesting, I think. Tried to bother Claasen."

Mercy flicked at Ademe's puff of a bun fondly. "Atta girl, 'Deme."

She stood, swept her foot across the dust, and wiped the image away. A little shuffle, then silence, and she was gone.

"Crimson Lady," Daji murmured thoughtfully, gliding her fingertips along the top of Mercy's chair. "She paints a scary image."

"I'm not going to win a fight against her," he sneered. "She's basically a legend at this point. I'm a fool, not an idiot. She's not my villain. I won't tangle myself with certain death just to get the respect of my gang."

"But what about the respect of the others?"

Mercy listened to the roar of the fight below, the sickening sound of fists hitting flesh. A high pitched cackle rose out of the din. Someone vomited on the side. Two girls ran teasing hands over a third girl's body, whispering lewdly into her ear. A ratty bird fluttered in the rafters, shitting on the crowds below.

They were short on respect, that much was clear.

It wasn't simply respect: everything in the Barrel carried twice the weight it appeared to. Holding the ear of other gangs meant alliances, partnerships, business deals. It meant legitimate claims to territory, pigeons, and investments. It meant money, and in Ketterdam, money was everything.

For the Dime Lions, money meant salvation. A revival, like a fresh downpour of rain on a starving field. It meant life.

Mercy turned to Daji, but she had already read his mind, like she always did. She was already slinking into the shadows, her hips swaying with the satisfaction of getting to order someone unfortunate to do something disgusting.

"I got the Tidemaker," she called over a bare shoulder, muscles gleaming in the dark. The shadows slid over her skin, and she was gone, just a whisper of silk in the darkness.

Mercy's lips settled into a cold, grim smile. The ruins of the Dime Lions would soon be renewed, like dawn breaking over the sea. All it took was a little bloodshed, a few dirty hands, and these shambles would be whole again.

DAJI EQUIPPED HERSELF WITH LIGHTNING.

The sun was setting, a liquidy gold pouring over the blackened city of Ketterdam. It streamed through the iron bars of the doorway below the Copperling, where the bricks vibrated with music. The invention of the phonograph meant music was travelling fast, evolving quickly. Daji caught bits of Shu-inspired drums, Zemeni vocalizations, Fjerdan string instruments, as she descended the slippery steps.

Music was a marvel, ever-changing and developing. It reflected the true spirit of its times, the sounds of misery, the ache of joy. And, magically, it transferred those feelings encapsulated in time and melody to the listeners of the present, the future. All things Daji had learned to appreciate, growing up underfoot opera stars who took their jobs with deathly seriosity.

It would make sense that Suri's new location was beneath this club, despite the perpetual damp that soaked into the brick and mortar. He would like this, the constant thrum of something new. Perhaps it would pin him down for longer than a month.

Her silver slippers tapped along the creaky, soggy floorboards as she travelled through the canal-side tunnels. Water seeped through them and into her shoes, her feet going cold. She stopped at an iron door, windowless and forbidding, and knocked impatiently.

The slit at the top opened. "Who--"

"Let me in," she spoke.

A dry chuckle. There was the sound of a rusty lock sliding open, and the door swung inward.

Suri Sarkar blocked nearly all of the door frame. His broad, muscular shoulders were barely concealed beneath a ratty white shirt. His long silken brown hair was tied back with a leather thong, strands slipping loose to drift in front of his wide, angular face. A greasy, oiled apron hung loose around his waist, weighed down with wrenches and nimble steel tools.

Daji stepped inside. Suri shut the door with a heavy clang, and darkness covered them. Little gaps of sunlight slipped through the bars in the window. The furnace in the corner glowed orange, embers pulsing like the breath of a dragon.

"It's been a while," he said, his warm voice cautious and bold all at once.

She inclined her head. "I need you to do something for me." She turned to look at him.

His face promised everything, anything. But his words said, "It'll cost you."

The Dime Lions had no funds. They were living off scraps: the last of Rollins' grand, gaudy empire remained stored in a safe under Mercy's bed for emergencies.

Daji had other methods of obtaining money, though.

She threw a leather pouch at him. Suri fisted it from the air, opening it.

"That's all I have," she said. "Besides, you'll want to make this one."

"Why?"

She could appeal to his sense of morality: take down the monster terrorizing our streets, destroying our economy. She could plead to his mind for business: once the Crimson Lady is gone, your customers will be back. She could even leverage their past: for me, Suri, please?

But she knew him, and she knew what would snag him. Not morals, not money.

"Greatness," she said. "Ingenuity. Have you ever heard of a jian sword?"

He nodded slowly.

She smiled, a spark from the furnace lighting her face. "I want it electric."

His brow furrowed, a little dimple in the brown of his skin, and she knew she had snagged him.

SHE HAD NEVER LEARNED TO USE THE SWORD PROPERLY, but training for hours upon hours a day for the Sheyao Opera with a similarly weighted prop would have to suffice. She gently cupped the handle, dance routines and fluting music flashing in her mind. Ghosts from the past.

Suri warned her. "It's not a true sword. The tip can pierce, but the sides aren't sharp enough."

It didn't matter. The blade was lined with a thin copper-colored wire. Daji itched to ignite it.

"You'll need to fight with a fencer's method if you wish to draw blood," he continued. "Stabbing, not slicing."

She waved her hand to silence him. "Can I light it?"

He took a generous step back. "Go ahead."

Her finger squeezed the slight, raised hook on the handle of the sword. The sword made a clicking sound, then a hissing pop, and the blade erupted into blue crackling electricity. The light reflected off Daji's face, red from the furnace and blue lightning warring across her pale skin.

"I pity whatever fool it is you're chasing," Suri commented, leaning against his work bench.

Daji grinned, a real smile. Suri always knew how to flatter her.

"Me too, darling. Me too."