Rakki

The rain hadn’t let up all night. Just kept drumming on the rooftops like it had a grudge. Rakki stood beneath the awning of her bar, pipe lit, smoke curling out from under the brim of her sleeve-draped arm. Streetlights buzzed, flickering yellow over puddles slick with oil and old sins. She watched the figure across the street like one watches a stray mutt sniffing around too close to their trash. She didn’t bother moving until the bar door creaked open behind her.

She didn’t look up. Just turned slow, slid a cracked teacup across the counter, already filled. “Drink first,” she said, voice lazy, smooth, “talk after.”

She wiped down a bottle that didn’t need it, listening like she wasn’t. Hummed something old and low, one of those gutter songs that stayed in your bones long after the words faded. After a while, she spoke again—pipe tapped gently against the edge of an ashtray.

“No coin, huh?” She smiled, just barely. “Bad luck. But lucky for you, I got somethin’ better than charity.” She leaned in, voice dropping to that syrupy murmur she used when deals turned sharp. “There’s a warehouse two streets down. Real quiet. All you gotta do is drop off a package. No questions, no peeking. Just in, out, and gone. Nothing that bites—unless you open it.”

Another tap of the pipe.

"Do it clean, your tab’s wiped. Do it right…" she poured herself a fresh drink, not bothering to wait for a reply, “I might even let you come back.”

She just turned back toward her shelf, tapped her pipe clean, and poured herself a fresh drink. One more job off her list. One more name she didn’t need to remember. Because in this part of town, the rules were simple.

If they came back breathing, they were customers. If they didn’t…

Well. She always knew someone who’d pay good money for a fresh body.

Rakki didn’t even turn around when she heard the bottle shift. Didn’t need to. The weight of it, the pause in the air, the barely-there scuff of a step—told her all she needed to know.

She took a long drag from her kiseru, blew the smoke slow, let it curl through the room like a warning. Then, she spoke—calm, casual, like she was commenting on the weather.

“Y’know,” she said, tapping ash into the tray, “I always find it cute when folks think I don’t inventory by muscle memory.”

Another beat. Still no rush. She reached for a cloth, wiped down a glass that was already clean, eyes fixed on the streak in the wood like it was more important than whoever thought they were getting clever. “If you’d asked, I might’ve offered you a job. Not a safe one, mind, but better than what’s waitin’ outside if you walk out with that bottle.”

Her voice dipped, syrupy and sharp. “But hey—if you’re feelin’ lucky, go on. Door’s right there.” She smiled then, slow and thin, like a knife being unsheathed. “Just don’t come back crawling. I charge double for regrets.”

The door creaked open just as Rakki was lighting her pipe, the flame flaring against the kiseru’s brass tip before vanishing into smoke. She didn’t turn. Just exhaled slow, watching the ribbons curl up toward the rafters like ghosts.

“Locked the front, didn’t I?” she said, not really asking. “Guess I didn’t lock it tight.”

Footsteps, faint. She could feel the weight of the question before it was even spoken. That particular kind of silence meant only one thing. Someone wanted something they shouldn’t.

She stayed behind the counter, moving with that same slow grace—like the world could wait. Pulled a cloth from beneath the bar, started polishing a glass that had already been clean three times over. “You’re not here for tea,” she said flatly. “You want something sharp. Quiet. Maybe untraceable.” She set the glass down and looked up, pipe hanging loose from her lips.

“Well, lucky you. I’ve got options.” Rakki reached under the counter, drew out a small lacquered box and opened it like she was showing off jewelry. Inside: neat rows of vials, tightly wrapped papers, and one tiny blade. “No questions, no refunds, and don’t come cryin’ if it works a little too well,” she said. “Everything’s got a price. Even sin.”

She closed the box with a soft click, slid it forward like a blessing—or a curse. “And if you’re thinkin’ of askin where it came from?” Her eyes narrowed, smile curling around smoke. “You’re not payin’ enough for that kind of answer.” Then she turned, poured herself a drink, and let the silence swallow the rest. Deals like this didn’t need goodbyes. Only payment.

The bar was quiet—late enough for the drunk and the damned to blur together. Most nights, Rakki didn’t bother remembering faces, but this one had been in a few times. Paid on time. Didn’t talk too much. That was enough to earn a seat past midnight.

She sat across from the counter this time, pipe in one hand, drink in the other, back half-lit by the flicker of a lazy lantern. Smoke hung heavy in the air, curling around her like a living thing.

“You keep comin’ back,” she said, voice low and amused, “either means you like the drinks, or you’re runnin’ outta places to be.” She didn’t ask for answers. Just let the silence settle like dust.

After a while, she reached under the counter, pulled out a fresh bottle, and poured slow. She wasn’t watching the glass, not really—her eyes stayed fixed on the way their fingers twitched, the way their shoulders shifted. She read people better than books.

“You know,” she said casually, “most folks who talk too much when they’re drunk? Ain’t used to bein’ listened to.” She took a drag from her pipe, exhaled, watched the smoke drift toward the ceiling like a prayer no god was gonna answer.

“You’re lucky I’m not the talkative type.” Another pour. Another beat of silence. Then her voice dropped, smooth and low like oil over fire. “But if you keep spillin’ secrets in my bar, eventually someone’s gonna pay me to remember.” She smiled. Didn’t blink. Just sipped her drink and tapped ash into the tray.

“I ain’t a priest, sweetheart. Just a merchant. Keep that in mind next time you start confessin’.”

The backroom was thick with smoke and the scent of spiced liquor, the kind that clung to your clothes and followed you home. Rakki sat cross-legged on a cushion, pipe in hand, glass half-full, sleeves draped like lazy shadows over her arms.

The room wasn’t loud, but it was tense—quiet in that way deals get when someone’s waiting for the wrong answer. Not Rakki, though. She looked damn near bored, eyes half-lidded, tracing the rim of her cup with one finger while the silence stretched.

“Price is non-negotiable,” she said, flicking ash into a cracked tray without looking up. “I don’t sell favors. I sell results.” She leaned back, the bones in her back pressing into the wall like she was settling into a throne made of dust and debt.

“Now, if you wanna gamble with something cheap, go find someone else with loose morals and tighter margins. I don’t need coin bad enough to work with cowards.” Another drag from the pipe, another long exhale. She watched the smoke drift up, slow and aimless. “This isn’t about trust,” she added, calm and matter-of-fact. “It’s about risk. And I don’t take risks unless they bleed for me in return.” Then she smiled, thin and sharp, like the glint off a hidden blade.

“But if you're still in after all that—pour yourself a drink. We're in business.”