Work started the next night. It was easy things such as delivering packages. I was given a place, or directions, a package, and instructions to not open the package. Avoiding the authorities was a foregone conclusion as a child of 14 summers out during the night was already suspicious. 

My work as an illicit courier continued for a while before I moved up to other things as I aged. As soon as my being out after dark wasn't as suspicious, I became a lookout, a distraction, an informant. Soon my tasks began to include thievery, which was easy given my training.

Kazamir put nearly all of my skills to use and forbade me from speaking of the work, so I naturally grew distant from what remained of the usual tavern group. Some were captured for some of their crimes, others tried living honest lives, and about half of them died for one reason or another. There were only 2 of the over 20 that my father had introduced me to. They'd give sorrowful looks, but it wasn't as though we could discuss things, so I kept my distance.

I give him credit. He kept his word, keeping my pocket just full enough to make sure Esmeralda and I ate. He also took care of 'various expenses', leaving us to deal with rent off Esmeralda's earnings. Everything else that I would've been paid went to my father's treatment. It had been the better part of a year, and my father would've been glad to know that I hadn't gotten my 'hands dirty'.

Kazamir came to me with a job one evening. He looked the same as always, but the air around him felt different, colder than it normally did. "I have a job for you, boy."

He'd taken to calling me 'boy', dropping all pretenses of respect or kindness, not that there was much to begin with. He unrolled a piece of parchment and handed it to me. I took it, unrolled it, and stared blankly. I returned it to him. He understood immediately.

"Ah, an illiterate. Fine, come with me." I followed him to a private room and he closed and locked the door behind him. I gulped, and I'm certain he heard it, evidenced by the chuckle I heard shortly after. "Be at ease. If you do this job right, no harm will come to you. If you mess it up, however, I can't say the same. I need an... obstacle removed."

I understood the scarcely veiled request. I knew that refusal was not an option. I was about to be forced to dive headlong into the belly of the underworld. If I were successful, I'd have a story of my own to share, one that no one that I grew up around would care to hear.

Bragging rights weren't a concern. doing the thing that I knew everyone who raised me didn't want me to do, was. Unfortunately, a man with as much power as Kazamir wasn't one to be refused, even less so when he paid for your food, housing, and father's treatment.

He kept speaking, knowing that the alternative meant death for my father and a miserable life for me. "Alright, boy, here's what I need you to do..."

Kazamir had picked his target well. He'd known how I was brought up, what my values were, and what punishment for such acts would be should word make it through the bar. Now, I finally understood one of the ways that punishment was dealt. I was to be an enforcer of the unwritten laws of the underworld. I took not pleasure in the notion of taking a life, but Kazamir had made sure that it would be easy to get information, and that I would be seething and seeking justice.

Esmeralda sat me down at the table before I left. She didn't try to stop me, but instead, presented me with several items. She lifted the hem of her dress for a moment and produced 2 daggers. She placed them on the table. They were somewhat small, befitting her size, and seemed properly sized for me too. She went to a chest and produced a cloak, then cut the bottom roughly. She placed it on the table next to the knives and then placed a small pouch next to it. Finally, she produced sheaths for the daggers, different from the ones she apparently wore under her dress.

I looked at the items, understanding all except the pouch, "What's that?"

"Hot pepper powder. I know they try to be fair when sparring, but this is different. Don't fight fair. Don't play nice. It's going to be a true fight for survival and you'll need to do anything you can to live. Do you understand?" She grabbed my shoulders and stared into my eyes with such seriouslness that 'yes' was the only response one could give.

I nodded. This was the second most serious I'd ever seen her. The first was when she'd first taken me and a handful of others to the brothel. It brought home the severity of the situation.

Saw me off that night with a sorrowful expression. She knew the rules too, she just wished I wasn't the one who had to enforce them this time. "Be sure to come home in one piece, Emil."

I'd never seen that level of concern from her before, and it was surprising, and heartwarming, to know that she cared for my well-being. She also called our hovel 'home', to which I could only smile meekly and nod.

I'd never learned common magic, that which everyone on the 'right' side of the law used for menial tasks such as lighting fires. Common magic was extremely versatile depending on ones affinities and professions, but it wasn't common in the slums. It took a resource called 'mana' which I didn't even know how to use. But the most important resource it took was concentration, and would fail if that was broken. For those in the shadows, unless you learned and specialized in magic from a young age, or were naturally gifted, you couldn't spare the thought to use magic. It was generally considered faster and more precise to cut someone down.

This logic had also been passed on to me. Close the distance, gut the caster. I'd never had to, and hoped to never have to end a life, but those teachings were things I was occasionally reminded of during tavern visits while watching thugs try to use magic in combat. Nearly every time, they would lose, and their magic was likely too poor or the wrong attribute to heal their injuries.

The man I needed to 'meet' was supposedly a spellcaster. Kazamir gave me a list of things the man had done. He'd violated contracts, backstabbed numerous people, and had broken the brothel's sacred rules. He was another big shot in the slums, so not just anyone could deal with him. I was able to gather additional information rather easily. Esmeralda told me everything I needed to know about the man, what he'd done, to whom he'd done it. They were people I knew, and their absences at certain times now made sense. 

I made my way to the place my network said he'd be. They were all a mixture of willing and unwilling to tell me. They clearly wanted this man to receive judgment, but also didn't want me to be the one to have to deliver it, not that it changed what had to be done or who had to do it. 

I made it to the brothel and was let in without question. I was a familiar face there, though not during these hours. I made my way to the room I knew he would supposedly be in. He was a regular, same day, time, and room, but the person differed and changed very often.

I crept through the hallway of the third floor and raised my cloak. I was spotted by one of the staff members, Lisa. Her wide eyes told me everything I needed to know, and I froze. She put her finger to her lips and beckoned me to one of the empty rooms. She closed the door after I entered and stood in front of it, blocking me in.

"Emil, what are you about to do?!" Her voice was hushed, but the force of that whisper, the anger it carried, pushed me back.

"I have a job... from Kazamir. Otis is here, right? I'm here for him. I know what he did... to Sara, Johnathan, and to you..." I couldn't meet her gaze, and I swore I heard a brief, quiet sob. She stared at me just as resolutely as Esmeralda. "If it's Kazamir, I can't stop you, for your sake or mine. Just give me a few moments. When you hear the screams from all the rooms, go to room 32. You do know those numbers, right?" 

She traced the numbers on my hand. It was the room I was standing in front of when she'd spotted me. She gave one more instruction, "If you hear pained screaming from that room, just go in, and be quick."

I waited a few moments and heard what sounded like a bell ringing down the hall on the floors below. That same sound could be heard passing my room, and then I heard screaming, first an ear-piercing scream of agony, and immediately afterward, sounds of pleasure from every other occupied room. I pulled my hood back up and dashed toward room 32. 

I kicked open the door to find, expectedly, a naked woman. Ruth was her name. She was a year older than me and must've just recently started 'working'. She was on the floor and a man, my target, stood over her. Our eyes met for the briefest moment before she started trying to crawl to me. She got a kick to the ribs, sending her rolling into the wall.

I saw red, drew my daggers, and lunged. I didn't care if he was half naked. He needed to die, and didn't deserve the dignity of a death with clothes. He was no stranger to the underworld, and clearly far more experienced than me, not that I cared. I was burning with anger, and a need for justice. He easily dodged, and landed a bunch to my jaw. I went flying, but compared the the guys at the bar, it didn't really hurt. Ruth hit harder, if I'm honest. What did hurt though, was the wall.

I picked myself up just in time to see what looked like dust swirling around his fingers. He glanced at his hand, a mixture of boredom and disappointment, before flinging dust at me. I picked up one of my dropped knives and threw it, right through the dust. It deflected off his hand, but at that time, he'd started moving towards me, just as i'd decided to do the same.

We met head first in the space that once was between us, and what followed was a slug fest, filled with stone-laden punches from him and punches and stabs from me.

My knife couldn't get through his stone hands, while his heavy punches landed blow after blow. It was only a few moments before I was bloody and struggling to stand. He landed a blow to my stomach and sent me to one knee. He gazed down at me as if looking at a boot that'd just stepped in shit.

He pulled back, stone surrounding his fist, and... screamed. Ruth had gotten up and dug her finger nails into his neck. He turned towards her, and I moved. It wasn't a fair fight, and I would've just died had she not stepped in. I threw a punch, a low one, right into the nethers, bringing him to his knees. He glared at me as he fell, and a moment later, he was covered by what seemed to be a thin layer of stone.

I made it to the given location, brimming with righteous justice. He wasn't hard to find, balls deep inside a woman of the night. I knew the drill. It was hard not to with my dad's 'work friends' and my upbringing. I waited for them to finish. It didn't take long at all, and what sounded like an unsatisfied sigh escaped the woman's lips. They concluded their business and she left the room. Once she was gone, I left the shadows and entered the room.

A floorboard creaked, and he turned to me. He saw me, hooded, standing over him, dagger in hand. The look of pure terror in his eyes didn't befit someone with a list of climes as vile as his. He cried, pleaded, attempted to bribe, and like a fool, I paused, contemplating.

He drew a knife as well, and what ensued was a scuffle in which our lives depended. I won, though I was a little roughed up. Nothing major enough to leave a trail. I escaped just before anyone made it into the room. I'd thrown a chair through the window and claimed out, making my way to the thatched roof where I waited for an opportune moment to leave.

I'm still not sure how I made it back home, but I did. I remembered everyone in the taverns drinking and being merry, or trying their best to forget something. I hadn't drank before, but if there was ever a time to try, I figured this was it. There was always something alcoholic around, though it hadn't been touched in months. I found something, opened it, and the smell hit me like a stone to the nose. I reeled back and steeled my resolve. I held the container, bottom up as I tried to consume its contents for but a moment. I gagged, spit, and dropped the bottle. I wasn't sure which tears were from my earlier experience and which were from this horrendous concoction. For the rest of the night, I cried, tried to drink, and prayed to any god that would listen, something else I never did. 

Between crying myself tearless and the alcohol I managed to choke down, I passed out. I woke up the next day feeling like I'd slept with my head in a vice. My balance was off, I was horribly thirsty, and everything hurt. Pretty sure this was the 'wicked haze' that people referred to regarding the morning after drinking too much. I struggled to understand why anyone would do that to themselves. The flavor was horrible and the aftermath worse. I hauled myself to the small dilapidated dresser in the room and looked into the cracked mirror. I stared at the person staring back at me. He moved as I moved, looked as I looked, and was generally the spitting image of myself, with a single exception. That version of me had blue eyes.

I was fairly certain that the 'wicked haze' didn't do anything as outlandish as changing one's eye color, but this wasn't something I could mistake. My eyes were brown, his a deep blue hue. His left iris looked and felt as if ripples were running across it every so often. It had a distinctly calm feeling to it. His right eye had rolling waves. It invoked the feeling of a rocking boat or a stormy night.

I spoke, looking at the person in the mirror. His mouth moved as mine did, but there was only a single voice. Out of desperation and confusion I poked my right eye, which hurt. I closed it, grimacing at my stupidity and wishing it would stop. A moment later, accompanied by a tingling sensation and my eye did indeed stop hurting. When I looked up again, his right eye, my left, was glowing.