II. ...Except for you.

All buildings in Ketterdam churn out smoke, poisonous as much as they are ugly, with rotten haystacks of butchered meat and soured milk painting their sides. Their chimneys spill their cancerous guts into the alleys and the harbour, raising like spirits and dissolving like sin. It penetrates the very air breathed; inhale death and tar, exhale crime and greed. Synchronised, they regurgitate the scum of the earth–pollution and criminals alike–in some sort of sick, twisted assembly line.

But it was home.

It gave Mischa that primordial rage festering in her chest, warm and bloody, glowing honey-gold.

A burn that began when she was ten. When she first washed up in Ketterdam, a young degenerate shrouded in fog, still trying to reconcile the image of the father she knew with the one she didnt: the caretaker and the criminal. Head in her hands, knees pulled to her chest. Her hair was blonde, then. Rustled and damp at the ends. Back when she was still trying to hide the scars on her back, ravenous and repulsed, repressing her appetite. When she was still mourning a breathing man with nothing but the spite in her chest to keep her warm.

She was always angry, even then. Grieving her mother turned martyr, bleeding gold on the kitchen tiles; the hateful father at the centre of it all, cracking open another beer, standing idly by with the captor at his side. Her captor, her mentor, who traded in her mothers life for a debt her father owed. Who placed the burden of family blood, of hereditary sin, on her shoulders.

It burned brighter every day. Every day that she swings her legs over the edge of her bed, staring out of the open window, last nights bloodied clothes on the floor. Every day that she had to pass the unsightly taxidermy bobcat mounted on the wall of The Cabaret, Yvette Marigold's morbid reminder that everything dies.

All flesh is grass, grown in her graveyard.

Every day that she was handed another folder, another job, another life. It was business, as messy as it may be. It paid the rent. Kept the neighbours quiet and the pawn shops loyal, even when she sold off gold still tarnished.

It burned ugly, nothing like the bursting ray of light her father told her it would be.

Criminals lead lavish lives, he had told her. They have boats named after themselves. They live outside of the burdens of law and society, but close enough they can reap the rewards.

Fucking liar.

Criminals like Mischa were pried open with a crowbar to see what theyre worth, even if all they bleed is the grit and gravel of Ketterdam. Mischa had been there before, upon entry to The Cabaret. Plucked apart vertebrae by vertebrae, analysed to the very marrow of her bone. She can still feel the metal against her back, the plucking of the strings as Marigold makes her dance. Her little marionette. Her grotesque, morbid machine.

A mercenary in her own right, Mischa had become accustomed to this life. To scrubbing her hands clean, to collecting a bounty. It was ritualistic, in a way; it wasnt hard to admit she found some pleasure in it. Some thrill in the skin of her knuckles splitting with every punch, or the sound of metal when she unsheathed her pretty knife.

It meant she was the sinner, not the sin-eater. She had been put together all wrong, yes, but she had been put back together. She was standing, breathing, and she liked to believe she made a choice.

It was one of the reasons she even took the jobs, factoring in that she had no choice. The jobs like the one leading her and Ray along the foggy street of Ketterdam, making small talk and mapping out plans.

Mischa and Ray walked slowly side by side through the streets of Ketterdam, the crowd parting for them like the Saints ordered them to; shuffling back at the sight of the Ravkan phrases Marigold adored and claimed as The Cabaret's trademark that littered their arms, letters bold and pointy, like an old scripture. Mischa carried her costume in her arms—a wolf fur coat that hung heavy on her shoulders not unlike the burden of working for Marigold, perfectly encapsulating the wealthy merchant image she was going for.

They made idle chatter, but only so much could be discussed between a thief and a fence. A murderer and her co-conspirator. The sharpened rows of teeth and the feeding hand they bite.

It wasn't simple enough to refine them to such, though. Ray acted like a father, at times; he cleaned up Mischa's wounds, disinfected the burns of the hot iron poker that marked her disobedience and silent rebellion. He told her the monsters in the dark were real, but she'd always best them. He was unconventional, in that sense, but Mischa always felt his mentorship came further from roots of duty than it did willingly.

She'd take whatever she could get, though. Whatever silent glances and brief arm squeezes she could gather in her hands like grains of sand.

Ray, for such a stoic, had babbled on for minutes in his broken Kerch, noting Mischa's frown but—for a moment—debating whether it was worth bringing it up or not.

"So then I slammed the guys fingers in between the... how do you say?"

"Door frame?" Mischa supplied, lacking the usual excitement she was brimming with before a job.

"Yes, yes, the door frame," he laughed, as though it was the middle of a joke he couldn't finish on account of its humour.

The warm glow of the street lamps, almost oxymoronic in the green and blue hued, hardened streets of Ketterdam, warmed Mischa's hair from the top, casting an almost angelic glow upon her. As if the Saints would be so kind.

Ray conceded. "Okay, what is wrong?"

Mischa hummed, turning to him, more alert. "What?"

"What's wrong? You're skulking around like you're not about to seal a two million kruge painting."

Mischa rolled her eyes. "I'm bored," she decided on, like a petulant child.

Ray paused. Disbelief spattered across his face, and he seemed more disgusted than he would've had it been blood. "Bored? You're bored?"

"Saints, yes. I'm bored, Ray. I'm bored of playing the pawn in Marigolds... frenemy-ship with Rollins. I'm sick of stealing art."

Her handler turned to her as she kicked a rock into the depths of the night, ignoring the straggling street urchins begging for kruge as if she was never one of them herself, clawing at the feet of strangers for a pretty penny and escape.

"You used to want to be," he said, lowly. Mischa turned to him with brows pinched, the question what? painted across her face. "When you were younger. All you wanted to do was steal art. The paintings in the restaurants—I had to keep a hold of your hands all throughout dinner."

And he did. Much like she was his daughter, Ray had dragged Mischa along to all of the aristocratic bullshit meetings Marigold had wormed her way into and selected her best men to bring with.

The candles had warmed the table so long neither person at either head could hear one another, and Ray had spent the night whispering in Ravkan for Mischa to stop running. He'd caught her not even five minutes after his first warning with her pockets stuffed with silver cutlery and reaching for a small portrait of one of the Saints. She'd stacked books atop of books and perched herself on top of them just to reach it.

Mischa dredged through the dwindling memories she had left, like a priest searching the war-torn spires of a Church for a golden gauntlet. Most of her childhood had been so heavily repressed, so torn and butchered, she couldn't tell quite what memories were fictitious, anymore.

"Yeah, well, I wanted a pet wolf when I was younger too, what does that tell you?"

Ray looked to her as though it was a trick question.

"Creative?"

"Stupid, Ray," she told him, obviously. "I was ten."

Right, Ray scoffed out, like he knew that was the answer. What else?

The silence consumed them momentarily, Mischa's boots still thudding against the cobblestone street and the extra mag Ray had stuffed in his pocket clashed against his grandfathers watch.

Mischa kicked another pebble out of her way.

"She's punishing you, you know?" her handler asked, voice rough and deep as it usually was, but concealing the slightest tinge of guilt.

Maybe guilt wasn't the right word. Sympathy, more like. The kind of emotion one feels for the girl turned thieving assassin for a game that they have raised.

"For what?"

"Rykov."

Mischa scoffed, almost offended. If her eyes could look any more vacant, any more hollow, they would. But they sharpened with the slightest anger at the corners, spite following her veins the same way crows feet would.

"Rykov? I did the job. Like she asked."

He corrected her almost instantly, like Marigold had drilled it into him, too.

One week ago, before the heist.

Mischa was sat in the far corner of a small, family-owned cafe. It belonged to an elderly man, in the name of his deceased wife, Martha. He'd told Mischa that they'd buried her back in June, almost casually while passing her the sweetened coffee, when the flowers were still blooming where the sun could reach. He'd told her then that she put too much sugar in her coffee. That she was going to rot her insides.

(They were rotting, anyway).

It seemed that the only functioning lights were directed at her, as though she didn't stand out enough with her white, fur coat in a sea of black. A shard of sunlight on a peaking wave. It was enough to show the man sat before her, with stomach taut but eyes heavy, that she was real. That she was before him, and this was his fate.

Men always trusted a pretty woman, and Mischa was nothing short of beautiful. Besides, Marigold liked to send pretty things to do her dirty work.

He was nothing but another job, another surge of income. Another payment in a duffel bag. One she knew would leave her hands bruised and bleeding. Ilya Rykov—the son of a merchant, an aristocrat by descent, a frequent at the Menagerie, and a sleaze caught conversing with a known slaver. Mischa hated those guys, and where money was, she was, apparently. So, she was in the midst of playing her role to perfection, ready to collect the price on his head with a joyous smile.

His brown eyes bore into her own. Endless voids. She could've laughed at his innocence, had he not been such a terrible man. His obliviousness to the gun in her lap. The cyanide she was pouring into his tea.

The wealthy son of an even wealthier man, he was cocky. Overconfident. Thought he was above everyone else, that he could get away with more, quicker and cleaner.

He was so, sorely wrong.

"So, tell me, Rykov," she leaned closer, like she was sharing a daunting secret, tracing a finger around the rim of her own cold coffee. Really, she just needed more access to his cup. The poison Marigold had given her was concealed in a small vial in her sleeve, no bigger than her pointer finger. "What is it exactly you're looking for?"

The cyanide swirled inconspicuously in his drink, his eyes focused on her and her alone. Mischa tended to have that effect—staring into her eyes made the world blur. Or burn.

Under the guise of a lonely woman seeking employment, seeking to chase the tail of men like him and run and their beck and call, his answer couldn't have been more predictable. Mischa would've seen it coming even if she didn't strategise like it was a game of chess.

"Well, as a company, we're looking for someone to..." he paused, drawling, thinking of the right word. He was so thick. "To, uh, move things from one place to another. To have some assistance. But me? Personally? I'm just looking for a little... fun."

Pig. She forced a smile, bile rising in her throat out of pure repulsion as she watched him take a sip from his cup.

But that was enough. Ray had warned her about playing with her food. Straight to business, he always said. Don't dance around before shoving a knife in their chest.

Mischa, with Grisha-altered blonde hair draping down her back and tucked nicely behind her ears, reached out gently as though to straighten the lapel of his jacket.

And then she tightened her grasp, pulling him forwards so that the table wedged in between his ribs, through his waist coat, with surprising strength.

The girl's smile dropped. "Listen to me closely," she told him. "In about... three minutes, I'd guess, your heart is going to slow dramatically. Your body is going to stres. Your blood? Won't make it around in time. And you're going to slip into a coma, in front of everyone here. Then—and only then—I get to have my fun with you. Do you understand?"

He nodded, harshly. The vein was beginning to show in his forehead. She continued, nonetheless. "Tell me, who is your father working for?"

"I don't know."

"Three minutes, Rykov. I can make this easy for you, or I can make it real painful."

"I don't know, I swear!"

Mischa rolled her eyes. "What, you've never eavesdropped on your father before? A man like that? With so much power?"

"I didn't, I didn't," he stressed.

The girl's lips lifted into a smirk, releasing his jacket and watching him fall back into his chair. He was sweating like crazy, and reached for a napkin tucked safely under his tea.

"Pity for you."

She carefully placed the gun levelled at him under the table down on her lap. And then she took her pretty little knife and stabbed him in the hand.

He grunted in pain, a sobbing mess by then. The owner, Martin, looked over in mild concern, but Mischa just waved him off.

"You have about... a minute and a half, Ilya. I can let you go easier..."

The man held his breath, as though that would stop the grasp the poison had on his insides.

"Okay, okay—it was Pekka!"

Mischa leaned forward on her elbows, conspiratorial. "Rollins?"

The man nodded, eagerly. "Rollins. They had a meeting," he rushed out, "something about an old painting."

"A painting? Seriously?"

"And Tante Haleen! They had a deal! I swear, that's all I know!"

The girl leaned back in her seat for a moment, swinging backwards, and then planted all four back on the ground again.

"Thank you," she told him, now standing, voice soft,"for your cooperation. It's been a pleasure."

The chair screeched as she lifted it gently and tucked it back under the table.

The dying man, however, grabbed onto her arm when she passed, fingers almost burning through her fur coat, leaving a sweaty trail in its wake. "Wait! Wait! What about the antidote?"

Mischa looked down at him, like a bug under her boot, and smiled sweetly. "What antidote?"

"You said you'd save me! That you'd make it easy!"

"Easy? You want me to take your pain away?" She asked, watching as his greasy black hair shook loose its gel and fell in front of his face at his nodding. "Okay," she shrugged, with gun still in hand.

And then she shot him point blank in the forehead, executioner style.

"You made a mess."

Mischa shrugged. "The poison wasn't nearly as effective as the knife."

Ray rolled his eyes. "I'm not joking. She's doing this to punish you. If you fail this one, you know what will happen."

"What? She brands me? She chains me to my bed for a week? Nothing that she hasn't done before," Mischa quipped, but she wasn't quite joking.

She knew that her tally was getting full—her nine lives were running out.

They paused by the doors of the Church of Barter, Mischa slipping on her long coat and counting the knives in her pockets. Their conversation could be tabled for another time; they had to first enter the Church inconspicuously, slide away into the east wing and figure out a way to take the canvas from behind its glass case quickly before somebody else walked in for a viewing.

A sight they would find, yes, but not a DeKappel.

The large double doors of the daunting Church brimming with businessmen, copper spires turning green, greeted Mischa and Ray—both in their long coats, looking like anything but thieves in a holy place functioning as an auction house.

They strolled in silently, the doors heavy and slamming closed loudly behind them, and made their way to the altar in front of which the post for the auctioneer stood, both looking silently at the structure around which the entire hand-shaped church was built. The centre of the Saint of the sinning city,

They made the ritualistic gesture of the cross—touching their fingertips to either shoulder, forehead and chest—and smirked gently, Mischa's hair falling around her face.

The plan was to simply let the alarm ring and aim for the spiral staircase leading to a hatch on the roof, having Mischa scale the building whilst Ray tried to provide some sort of cover, perhaps even shift the blame to another of the merchants looking to spend a pretty penny on some decoration. They all swarmed, shaking ring-clad hands and details, waiting to make trade in the very Church of the Saint that bartered—Thank the Saints for Ghezen.

Mischa forced her head down, eyeing the curving archways leading to each navel; each of Ghezen's five fingers had their own chapels, their own worship-worthy wings.

All of the corridors loomed like a game show question; pick the right door, and your fortune doubles.

She shot Ray a look, nodding towards them. "So, comrade, which ones it in?"

"Marigold said east wing, did she not?"

"They're all east wing."

Her handler looked up, dumbly. "Oh, yes," he muttered. "Five fingers. Choose one."

The girl raised her head, standing straight once more and turned around, positioning herself to face the pews.

"How about the middle?" she smirked, sultry and charming without intending to be, and walked towards the rows of seats with golden-threaded prayer pillows, light shining upon them from the broken stained window to the left.

A priest left the confessional booth, the sound of the door softly clicking closed being consumed by the darkness being uttered amongst the lingering chatter. His counterpart—his sinner—left shortly after, skulking around for a final moment before departing the booth and moving around the rows of pews, avoiding them like they burned.

The collar of his overcoat was turned up, and the brim of his hat sat low as he limped away.

Mischa paid him very little mind; she noticed the limp, but Kaz Brekker was not the only man in the world with a leg that crapped out on him. Many of the men here had been in war—or, simulations of war, violent ending business transactions and financial wars against the city. Many of them had been in street fights when their dirty work wasn't quite enough.

She couldn't keep seeing him in everything. He would never dare to get so close to Raymond, and it's likely he'd stuck Inej on her the moment she left the Cabaret. It's likely he knew by now that she did know about Marigold and Rollins, that they were in business together despite actively trying to tear each other apart, and wouldn't want to protect her.

Not that he ever wanted to. And not that she ever needed it. It was just a safety protocol to ensure his business ran as smoothly as possible, as underground as it tended to be.

Regardless, Mischa pulled her coat from under her as she sat in the pew, Ray following shortly, his gruff look and choppy hair warning off any of the other men that had almost leapt to move to sit with her.

He folded his handkerchief from his jacket pocket in his hand, voice low as he watched Mischa smooth out her hair noncommittally. "You wait for the auction to begin, yes? The DeKappel is not to be up until half way through."

"Plenty of time," she smiled, taking a compact mirror and pretending to retouch her lipstick as she looked at the faces hiding in the rows behind her.

A man and his wife were whispering about decorations; he had lipstick on the inside of his collar that was a light nude, while his wife donned a bright red. He nodded distractedly, evidently thinking of his mistress as he adjusted his tie.

Next to them, an older man. He looked wise, with rounded glasses that had a crack in the left frame; it expanded like a spider web, consuming the entirety of one eye. If he needed glasses and could only use one lens, Mischa had to suspect he was looking to be discreet with his bidding, knowing already what he was betting on.

Back at the front, the auctioneer was wearing a suit too tight, the buttons straining as he moved like stitches being reopened, and he placed his hands on either side of the podium raised in his honour. Bringing his head closer to the microphone, he began, "the auction will begin momentarily. Thank you for your patience."

As if anyone was patient in The Barrel.

The auctioneer's men brought out the first painting—an ancient engraving of a Saint—and showcased it dramatically to the building audience.

That was all Ray needed.

"Go," he whispered.

Mischa stood instantly, but he grabbed the fur arm of her coat.

"Remember, no mess, yes?"

The girl looked down at him, rolling her eyes. "You're no fun."

And then she moved, excusing herself for the bathroom to the few people that had sat down on her other side, pulling her coat closer to herself. She turned backwards to move behind the set of pews rather than in front, aiming to be in the back of the audiences minds, not distracting them from the auction as prices began being rattled off.

Her boots moved delicately along the still cobblestone floor, and she put her head down as she reached the entryway to the middle finger, the corridor coated in gold-framed paintings and wooden furniture.

Two standwatch guards positioned at the door took a step forward as Mischa entered, defensive. The girl simply smiled at them, though, removing her hat and holding it close to her chest in faux politeness.

"Who are you?" the one on the left asked. Mischa would call him Mike.

"I'm sorry," she said in Ravkan, "my Kerch is no good."

"What's she saying?" his partner asked, hand on his gun, voice slow. You will be Henry.

The other turned to him briefly, incredulous. "How the hell am I supposed to know?"

Mischa could've rolled her eyes as she approached, eyeing them suspiciously. Sizing them up.

Mike had heavy boots that made him seem taller; he wanted to prove that he was just as much a man as everyone else on the standwatch, even if he was two inches shorter. It meant he was eager to prove himself, and was unlikely to let anyone by out of pure suspicion. Or maybe he'd be too eager to be suspicious, and let her right past, looking for a dangerous man.

Henry, on the other hand, looked relaxed. Experienced. Like he did this every day—he probably did. Stood guard outside of whatever room he was designated; poker game, hospital, business meeting, whatever he was given. He would be most likely to lunge first.

Mike turned to face her again, asking somewhat annoyed, "Kerch?"

Mischa feigned confusion, eyebrows frowned exaggeratedly. "Uh, bathroom?" she repeated twice in Ravkan, as though debating how to say it, and then finally—but confused—in Kerch.

She was moving close enough that she could squeeze past the both of them in the narrow hallway, but it was unlikely she'd be able to send them away. Damn.

Henry shook his head, "no. No bathroom here," he spoke slowly, trying to make her understand like she was stupid.

Mike nodded his head towards her. "No bathroom," he repeated.

Mischa pushed her hair backwards over her shoulder, pushing her shoulders backwards and feeling a strain between her shoulder blades. The ink that resided there burned. Do your job. Make a mark.

She put her hat gently into her pocket, folding it, and turned to them. "No, I'm sure—"

"Look, lady—"

The men reached to grab her as she stalked forwards, both letting their firearms hang by their side, trying to grab her. When Henry's hand made contact with her arm, Mischa's facade dropped. Eviscerated. Turned to a mound of ash right before her.

And by the time Mike grabbed her other arm roughly, she was bored.

"Okay," she conceded, and kneed Mike in between the legs.

Whilst he crumpled in pain and panic, Henry wrapped his strong arm around Mischa's neck, bringing him into her chest tightly. The pressure on her windpipe gave her some grounding she desperately needed; if her adrenaline surged as it usually did, she was afraid she might actually lift off.

It also gave her something to hold onto.

"Let the record show, I really tried to do this the nice way," she managed out, weakly.

As Henry pulled her tighter against him, his own back against the wall and just next to the doorway, Mischa wrapped her hands around his biceps so tight her nails dug in, and lifted her lower half upwards.

She kicked Mike into the opposing wall. The corridor was narrow enough that her legs could still reach him from there, and she repeated the motion, kicking him in the throat this time.

When he crouched in pain, she tensely used momentum to swing herself upwards and then forwards as though raising from a handspring, almost completely bending down, and flipping the heavy man over the top of her. He landed roughly on top of his teammate, who was just rising.

Mischa brought her fingertips to her throat, feeling the bruises from the strain, and coughed. Her chest wheezed.

Her fingertips were just on the door handle when she heard a click. Henry had made a quick recovery—surprising, considering he was groaning—and clicked off the safety of his standard issue gun, pointing it directly at her head.

"I don't think so, sweetheart," he told her.

Mischa only peered at him through the corner of her eye.

The barrel of his gun nestled in her hair. Close enough that she could swing herself around, if she was quick enough.

If not? The door to the DeKappel might just be painted with her brain matter. Lovely.

Mischa paused her movements, and then let go of the door handle, raising both hands like she was surrendering. "Okay, okay. You've got me."

She took one step backwards, plating her feet for balance, and turned suddenly, pushing the barrel of his gun upwards just in time for a succession of bullets to ring out, making a home in the ceiling.

They both looked up, following the trail of smoke descending from their burning trough the wood.

Screams filled the church, the thudding and shattering suggesting they'd made a disturbance.

Exactly what Mischa was told not to do. Perfect.

Mischa tugged the gun from him, grabbing him by his shirt and punching him hard in the face. Twice. And then once in the centre of his chest, knocking the wind out of him.

Pushing him into the wall, and kicking Mike to keep him down, she stared at them, and then the gun.

She shot them both in each knee cap, leaving them a crumpled mess on the floor, and turned to the door again, breathing hard and dropping the gun.

Only for the door handle to rattle. It was locked. All of that for a locked door. The fight had taken up the majority of whatever time she had, and it's likely — with the people running around in the main cathedral — more guards would be on their way. There was no time to pick it, so Mischa rolled her shoulder and winced preemptively, and shoved herself so hard into the door three times that it burst open, wooden chips flying around in every which way as she did so.

She all but fell into the room, tired, and rushing around looking for the large landscape canvas she was supposed to find. Her hair was frizzing now, in her face and stuck to her forehead. Her throat was sore.

Ray followed not too far behind her, entering and pausing at the sight.

"Where is it?"

Mischa turned to him, alert and defensive. "What?"

"How did you get it out so fast?"

The wall space in front of them was empty. Glass frame discarded across the floor, chipped and heavy, only four little marks remained; reminders of the screws that had been there to handle the weight of both the painting and its cover.

The painting was gone.

"It's not in the other rooms?" she asked, exasperated.

Ray frowned. "No... you didn't—"

"No," she responded, sharply.

Mischa moved forwards, analysing each corner of the room like she used to when she was younger, looking for spiders, but found nothing.

Nothing, that was, except three little distinct circular marks across the floor.

She crouched, touching the mark gently with her finger. "Son of a bitch."

They were the marks of a cane.

Raymond turned to her, confused. She rushed past him, looking for the spiral staircase that led to the hatch, their original escape route. He reached out for her as she passed, but she shoved his hand away, leaving him with nothing but the sight of her brunette hair trailing after her as she ran.

The spiral staircase of The Cabaret had prepared her for so much cardio, and she ran as quick as she could, even when her shoes cut into her toes and her scarred blisters popped. She took the stairs two at a time until she was heaving at the top, pushing the hatch open and pulling herself onto the roof.

The small stones and gravel shifted beneath the weight of her boots as she slid to a stop by the edge of the rooftop, finding the side that cascaded downwards, slanted and ragged. Looking down and around.

The alleyway was coated in darkness. None of the street lights were working, the fog was raising, and the churning of the factories rang loud and clear. People were still evacuating the Church, and the heavy boots of the standwatch echoed into the night.

And in the centre of the alley, rolling the canvas up and trying to shove it into their jacket.

Mischa stood on the ledge. "Brekker," she all but spat, out of breath.

The man on the ground looked up to her, smirk painted across his face. He was alone; no Wraith scaling the building with both her good legs and silent ways, no sharpshooter to watch his back.

"Makarov," he called. "Were you looking for this?"