Whispering Hunters

WHISPERING HUNTERS - Ch.4 - Search

Like on any other day, Gregor woke up around noon, sunlight slipping through the cracks in the warped shutters of his cramped apartment.

There was no point in getting up earlier, nothing useful ever happened in the quiet hours of the morning. Nobody spilled secrets over stale bread at dawn.

"You can't just walk up to someone and ask how their day's going. That's a good way to get stabbed or looked at like a lunatic." he hilariously thought, pulling on his shirt with a grimace.

The real work, the kind that paid, started at the pubs, when men's tongues loosened with cheap beer and frustration. There, between curses about foremen and landlords, valuable rumors slipped out like coins rolling off a bar counter. Drunk people were the easiest to handle, they barely remembered what they'd said by morning.

Gregor's mind drifted to the night before. Amelia's date, that tall bastard with the smug smile, haunted him like a bad dream. His jaw tightened at the memory.

"I should've smashed his teeth in," he muttered, eyes darkening.

But he could still hear Amelia's sharp whisper in his memory, words as cold as ice water. What if he's some rich man's son? Do you want both of us dead or rotting in a cell?

He knew she was right. But it didn't make the anger burn any less in his chest.

"Damn it…"

•••

Gregor's job was deceptively simple but always dangerous. He dealt with men who could slit his throat in an alley or cripple him with a single word. The gangs ran this city more specifically the East District like a kingdom, each street claimed by someone willing to kill for it. A body turning up wasn't news, it was just a routine.

As he walked past a narrow, trash strewn alley, Gregor's eyes fell on a corpse slumped against the damp brick. The body looked around his own age. Recognition sank in with a hollow ache. It was Evan, one of his drinking buddies. Judging by the bloated, pale state of the corpse, he'd been dead a day or two.

No police would come through the East District unwillingly. Gangs had driven them out long ago, and the few who ventured in were either corrupt or too scared to care. Gregor kept walking, but words drifting on the cold wind caught his ear. Two men nearby muttered that Evan had been beaten to death by police officers, then left to rot in the alley.

Gregor didn't flinch. He knew this city how it chewed people up and spat them out.

He thought of his sister. Neither of them had any proper schooling; Gregor was half illiterate, taught only what Amelia scraped together before life crushed their family's hopes. If the past had been kinder, she'd still be in school, he'd have a trade, maybe even a quiet life. But wishes were just that.

Sometimes he paid for a few hours of tutoring from someone Amelia helped him with reading, and lately, he'd managed to teach himself enough math to multiply and divide in his head a small triumph that made him feel less like a dog chasing scraps.

He stepped into a different pub than yesterday, the Treasure Island, its painted sign faded and swinging in the breeze. Midday light filtered through greasy windows, illuminating a few scattered patrons eating lunch.

Near the back, two dogs snarled and snapped inside a wire cage while drunk men roared encouragement and threw coins. Blood flecked the straw-covered floor. Gregor's gaze slid past them to the bar.

The bartender was a hulking man with a bald head polished like a stone and a jagged tattoo crawling across his face. Gregor approached, double tapped the counter, and ordered a cider. He dropped a few coins for the drink and leaned in.

"I need a room," he said quietly.

The bartender grunted, jerking his chin toward a narrow door near the storeroom. Gregor took his drink, slipped into the back, and disappeared into the darkness ready to make deals and gather whispers in the shadows.

As Gregor stepped into the hidden room, the scent of stale smoke and sweat hit him like a wall. Lanterns cast sickly yellow light over clusters of men gathered around rickety tables, cards clutched in tense hands.

At one table, a polished revolver sat ominously in the center, flanked by two dead men slumped in their chairs, eyes wide and glassy. Three other players sat rigid, faces slick with fear, cards trembling in their fingers.

His gaze shifted to the far side of the room. Lounging on a battered red couch like a king on his throne was a man in his fifties, his chest bare under a richly tailored, open vest. Faint wrinkles on his handsome face. Around here they call him Boss Man. No one knows his name even if he has one.

He was surrounded by three figures who looked like women at first glance, delicate features, elaborate makeup but anyone who looked closer would see they were men dressed with deliberate femininity. One draped himself over the Boss Man shoulder who was wearing a red dress, another who was wearing a green dress while sitting next to him fed him grapes, and the third who was on the floor while wearing a blue dress rested his head in the man's lap.

"Heh, nice of you to finally show up," the man drawled, voice smooth as oil. 

"Why didn't you come yesterday?"

Gregor set his untouched cider on a nearby table before someone snatched it up and chugged it greedily.

"Got drunk and wasted," Gregor said flatly, meeting the older man's gaze without a flicker of emotion.

"Heh, you expect me to believe that?" The man popped a grape into his mouth, chewing with exaggerated slowness. 

"Next time, come up with a better excuse."

Gregor dropped into a creaking chair nearby, posture relaxed but eyes watchful. "You've got other people to do your errands. Why pick on me?"

"You're one of my best!"the man sang out, drawing out the words mockingly. His eyes narrowed, glinting with amusement.

"Whaaat~ don't tell me it's your sister again."

Gregor's face darkened. He didn't answer.

"Tch," the man clicked his tongue, pouting theatrically. "You're no fun at all~."

The three "women" turned their eyes to Gregor, smiling slyly. Their gazes crawled over him like snakes sizing up prey, each looking him up and down like an adorable stray cat they'd like to keep.

He really wanted to hit everyone in this room.

"Can you get to the point already," he said, voice cold, teeth barely unclenched.

"Yeshhh~," the Boss Man drawled, grinning like a drunk aristocrat. 

"Talk about impatience."

He let out a loud, whole hearted laugh that made a few of the people inside flinch.

Still grinning, the Boss Man turned to the "girl" at his side, the one with the grape bowl and gave a small nod. The figure stood up gracefully and slipped into a backroom. A few seconds later, he returned with a thin folder in hand, his hips swaying just slightly too deliberately.

He handed it off to the Boss Man without a word.

The boss opened it lazily, flicked through the papers, then pulled out a few thin, wrinkled sheets. He didn't even look at them before holding them out to the man still standing beside him, the one in the green dress, face powdered and lips painted red.

That one took the papers gently, then walked them over to Gregor with an exaggerated grace. As he handed them over, their fingers brushed longer than necessary. Gregor didn't flinch, but his eyes flicked up, watching him closely.

The man in green giggled softly behind one hand, eyes wide and fluttering like a shy schoolgirl. Gregor said nothing. His expression didn't change.

The Boss Man, however, snapped his gaze to Gregor, eyes narrowing.

A sharp hiss slipped out from between his teeth.

The man in the green dress giggled, satisfied, and returned to the Boss Man's side like a cat curling up beside a warm fire. He perched gracefully beside him once again, casting a final glance over his shoulder at Gregor, coy, teasing.

Gregor ignored it… Barely.

Then, just as quickly, his expression shifted to a wide smile returning as if nothing had happened. He leaned back, opened his mouth, and let another grape be fed to him.

Gregor's eye twitched.

Gregor tightened his grip on the papers. Next time, he swore, he'd bring gloves or better yet, fire.

He looked at the papers without a word.

Gregor glanced over the paper. The contents were two gray, grainy profile photographs headshots clipped with rusted paper fasteners to a thin sketch sheet of the two individuals.

Gregor froze for a moment.

The man in the photo had long, dark hair, swept back neatly. A sharp jawline. Tinted glasses. Even in black and white, the smug tilt of his smile bled through. He looked like he could talk a priest into handing over his rosary and then rob him blind.

The tall bastard! Gregor thought. His grip tightened unconsciously. It's him!

He didn't know the name, but the face was burned into his memory.

Beside that was another face, colder, sharper. Shorter gray hair. Dark eyes that looked nearly black in the low contrast. The sketch beneath the photo added details lean build, clean features, unreadable expression.

Gregor stared at the second image for a long moment. Something itched at the back of his brain.

Familiarity…