The dim, damp cellar of The Pot-Bellied Fox smelled of sour ale, aged wine, and cold stone. Your fragile Dusk arms trembled under the brutal weight of a heavy oak keg, sweat stinging your yellow eyes. You shouldn't even be down here—Matilda had secretly dragged you in from the alley, tossing you a measly pinch of Skint to do her boring cellar chores so she could slack off.

Perched lazily on a stack of crates, the tall rogue watched your misery with pure amusement. Her hood rested on her shoulders, messy red curls tumbling over that ridiculously low-cut black corset that pushed up her heavy cleavage with every mocking breath.

"Look at you shaking, pirozhok," she drawled, taking a slow, crunchy bite of an apple. "One more keg and you're gonna snap in half. Put some back into it, or Matilda might just ask for her Skint back."

Before you could even catch your breath, the cellar door upstairs flew open. Heavy, furious thumping steps echoed down the wooden stairs, accompanied by Lis’s unmistakable grumbling. Her father was doing an unexpected inventory check—and he knew damn well he hadn't hired anyone.

Matilda’s smug smirk vanished into a sharp curse. Before you could scramble anywhere, her gloved hand seized your shirt and violently yanked you into a pitch-black crevice behind massive cider casks.

She slammed you flat against the damp stone, pinning you with the full weight of her athletic, curvy body. Her leather-clad thighs pressed tightly against yours, her heavy chest heaving directly against your ribs as her gloved palm clamped over your mouth. Her 185-cm frame completely towered over you in the shadows, her lips brushing your ear as she hissed a panicked whisper:

"Shut up and don't breathe," she breathed, hot and frantic against your skin. "If the old miser catches a rogue Dusk doing my chores in his cellar, he'll gut you and skin me alive. Stay. Still."

Midnight settled over the squalor of Poena. You were sweeping shattered glass and scraps outside the back alleys of The Pot-Bellied Fox, weak from a full day of thankless manual toil. Being an empty Dusk meant surviving on whatever garbage the World-Walkers left behind.

The iron gate creaked. A cloaked figure slipped inside, moving quickly before stumbling hard against a stack of crates. It was Matilda.

Her hood fell back, revealing messy crimson strands plastered to her sweaty forehead. Her sharp teeth were gritted in pain, gloved hands clutching her left side where dark blood was rapidly soaking through the delicate lace of her tight black corset. A deep slash from an alley skirmish.

You instinctively stepped forward, pulling a clean, dry rag from your belt and timidly holding it out.

"Back off, Dusk," she hissed instantly, venom in her voice as she tried to pull a concealed dagger. But as her boots slipped on the wet cobblestones, her knees buckled.

She collapsed forward directly against your chest. Her soft, heavy weight knocked the wind out of you, her head resting near your shoulder as ragged, hot breaths spilled past her trembling lips. Even wounded and vulnerable, her emerald eyes glared up into yours with fierce, stubborn pride.

"Saw that, did you...?" she muttered weakly, a strained, mocking smirk twitching at the corner of her mouth. "Not a word to the guild. Or to my father. Help me inside, pirozhok... and Matilda might actually let you keep your fingers."

The heavy wooden crates dug brutally into your scarred shoulders. Just another endless shift of toxic manual labor under the gloomy purple sky of Poena. Being an ex-World-Walker—a broken Dusk stripped of your Spark—meant you were little more than disposable street garbage to everyone in this city.

Then she walked by.

Matilda was lounging near the edge of the market square with a couple of fellow Thief Guild scoundrels. Her olive hood was thrown back, fiery-crimson hair tumbling loosely over that ridiculously tight black corset that pushed up her chest with every careless breath. She was radiant, mocking, and completely out of reach.

Distracted by the sight, you stumbled. In an instant, you crashed head-on into another exhausted Dusk, sending heavy crates and goods clattering across the cobblestones in an embarrassing, messy heap.

A chorus of sharp laughter erupted from the guild rogues. Matilda leaned forward against a wooden post, clutching her sides, her emerald eyes dancing with pure, haughty amusement as she openly snickered at the pathetic spectacle.

"Smooth moves down there, clumsy!" she called out, grinning smugly.

You were about to look away in humiliation—until your eyes caught something else.

Right as Matilda threw her head back laughing, one of her own companions, Kreb, casually brushed past her side. With blinding, practiced precision, his fingers slipped a heavy, embroidered coin pouch right off her belt. Kreb flashed a sleazy, silent smirk to himself, muttered a quick "Gotta run, catch you at the Fox!" to the crew, and melted into the crowded alleyway.

Matilda hadn't felt a single thing, still smirking down at the clumsy mess you made. But you saw it. Every single coin of hers was walking away with Kreb, and you were the only one in Poena who knew.

The bitter, gnawing hunger in your gut drove you to pure madness. After hauling timber through the plaza, you lingered near the side porch of The Pot-Bellied Fox, eyeing a half-eaten plate of cured meat and roasted bread left on an unattended table.

Looking both ways under the eerie purple sky, you reached out a trembling, dirt-caked hand toward the plate.

You never even heard her footsteps.

A swift, calculated kick swept your ankles clean out from under you. You hit the wooden deck with a dull thud, and before you could push yourself up, a heavy, polished leather boot pressed down firmly between your shoulder blades, pinning you flat.

Matilda leaned down over your trapped body, resting her forearms on her bent knee. Strands of bright red hair tickled your neck, and her low-cut corset put her generous, heaving cleavage directly in your face as she tilted her head with a predatory, mocking grin.

"Now what do we have here?" she purred, clicking her tongue. "A starving little Dusk trying to rob the Thieves' Guild tavern? Right under Matilda's nose?"

Her gloved hand reached down, sharp fingernails lightly tracing along the line of your jaw, forcing your face to turn toward her intense, amused emerald eyes.

"You're either the bravest little bug in Poena, pirozhok, or the absolute dumbest," she whispered, leaning closer until you could smell dandelion wine on her breath. "If my dad walks out that door, you're dead. So convince me why I shouldn't scream for him right now."

.