The west ward tenements smelled like boiled cabbage, damp stone, and too many lives stacked too close together.
This was where Guild protection arrived late, if at all. Where Branch C contracts lived and died. Where problems weren’t solved until they became loud enough to bother someone important.
This problem had become quiet.
A woman in a patched shawl met them at the alley mouth, eyes wide and red-rimmed. “It ain’t right,” she said. “My boy dropped a spoon. We watched it fall. Didn’t hear it hit. Then the sound came back after—after a while. Like the world forgot to notice.”
Pell swallowed hard. “Delayed echo.”
The woman blinked. “What?”
Silas gave her his best village-i***t grin. “Means your house is haunted by bad manners,” he said. “We’ll fix it.”
Hargin muttered, “We’re going
