The Devil’s Secretary

The "Pit Stop" was the kind of bar where the smell of cheap gin and unwashed bodies never truly left the floorboards. For Anna, it was home—or as close to home as the slums of District 9 offered. She wiped a grime-streaked glass, her movements practiced and sharp. She wasn’t a "pretty" girl in the way the high-society dolls were; she was lean, corded with the kind of muscle that comes from skipping meals, and her eyes were a weary, guarded hazel. "Another one, Anna. And smile this time," a voice rasped. Anna didn’t look up. She knew the voice. It belonged to Sal—a local mid-level enforcer for the district’s petty gangs. He’d been "picking" on her for months, which was a polite way of saying he was stalking her. "The gin is for paying customers, Sal. You still owe for last Tuesday," Anna said, her voice like sandpaper. Sal leaned over the bar, his breath a foul cocktail of tobacco and decay. He reached out, his hand clamping over hers. Anna didn’t flinch. She’d had her ribs cracked in street fights before; a hand squeeze was nothing. "You think you’re better than this place?" Sal hissed. "You’re slum-trash, just like me. I’m doing you a favor, noticing you." "Notice someone else," she snapped, wrenching her hand away. The bar went quiet for a heartbeat, then the usual low roar of desperation resumed. Anna finished her shift at midnight, the fog rolling off the nearby polluted canal like a shroud. She tucked a small, sharpened screwdriver into her boot—her only defense—and stepped into the damp night. She heard the footsteps three blocks in. Heavy. Arrogant. "Anna, wait up!" Sal called out. He wasn't alone. Two of his goons were flanking him, their shadows dancing against the brick walls. Anna picked up her pace, her heart hammering against her ribs. She took a sharp turn into an alleyway, hoping to lose them in the labyrinth of the slums, but a dead end loomed ahead—a wall of rusted corrugated iron. "Nowhere left to run, sweetheart," Sal chuckled, stepping into the dim light of a flickering streetlamp. He looked manic, his eyes dilated. "I’ve been patient. But I’m done waiting." He lunged for her. Anna dropped low, swinging her bag at his face, but he was heavier than he looked. He pinned her against the iron wall, his hands fumbling with her coat. Anna reached for the screwdriver in her boot, her teeth bared in a snarl. "I’ll kill you," she spat. "I’d like to see you—" Sal’s words died in a wet, gurgling sound. Anna froze. A dark, jagged shape had protruded from Sal’s chest. It was the tip of a blade. Sal’s eyes went wide, the light in them extinguishing like a blown candle. He slumped to the side, sliding down the iron wall. Behind him stood three men in charcoal-grey suits. They didn't look like they belonged in the slums. They looked like they belonged in a boardroom—or a m******e. In the center was a man with a silenced pistol, his face obscured by a surgical mask. The rival group. The "Silencers" from the North Side. One of the men looked at Anna. His eyes were cold, professional. "Witness?" "Witness," the man with the gun confirmed. Anna didn't wait for the verdict. As the gunman raised his weapon, she threw the only thing she had—a heavy glass bottle she’d swiped from the bar. It shattered against his mask, buyng her two seconds. She scrambled over a pile of trash and dove through a narrow gap in the rusted fence. Bullets sparked against the metal behind her. She ran. She didn't breathe; she just ran until the smell of the slums was replaced by the stinging salt of the harbor. The docks were a forest of massive metal containers. She saw a crane lowering a cargo crate into the belly of a massive, unmarked black ship. The "Silencers" were close—she could hear their heavy boots on the wood of the pier. Desperate, Anna scrambled up the side of the loading bay and slipped into a crate just as the doors were being latched. It was dark. It smelled of grease, cold steel, and something chemical. The crate jolted. She felt herself being lifted. The world tilted, then settled into a low, vibrating hum. She was on the ship. Anna curled into a ball in the corner of the crate, her hand still gripping the screwdriver. She didn't know where she was going, only that the slums were gone, and the sea was a vast, hungry mouth.