A Fugitive in My Bed

“The ARC Central Branch…… Security Division……”

Gerhard ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Beltz couldn’t finish his sentence. His eyes slid shut, and his trembling fingers slipped from the sleeve he had been gripping.

Orban moved instantly, pressing two fingers to the side of the man’s neck to check his pulse. Caught in the dim amber wash of the oil lamp, the boss’s expression hardened like lead.

“Is he still breathing?”

“His pulse is still steady. Don’t force him awake—leave him be.”

From the laundromat downstairs, the sharp clang of an iron furnace door echoed up through the floorboards. It wouldn't be long before customers began tramping up and down the stairwell.

Orban cast a grim look around the office, taking in the blood-soaked sofa and the floor that still reeked of iron.

“Are we opening for business today?”

“If we throw the deadbolts, every rat in the back alleys will start wondering why a fixer who was fine yesterday suddenly shut down shop,” Orban muttered. “That’s practically an open invitation for the Security Division bastards to get suspicious and kick the door in.”

“What if we tell them you caught a nasty fever and took the day off?”

“Do you ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠honestly think there’s a single soul in Belok who’d buy that I’m taking a sick day?”

Fair point. I wouldn’t believe it either.

In the end, we decided to move Beltz into my single room. We couldn't very well receive clients with a VIP sprawled across the office sofa, and hauling a bleeding, half-dead man across town to another hideout in broad daylight was basically screaming, ‘Hey, look at me hiding right here.’

My room was tucked into the far recess of the office, designed so that once the door was closed, it blended flush into the hallway wall like solid paneling.

“Heave-ho.”

I took his legs while Orban supported his torso. The man wasn't particularly heavy. The real problem was that even the slightest tilt wrenched a strangled groan from his throat.

We laid Beltz down on my narrow single bed and pulled the rough woolen blanket right up to his chin.

I was the paying tenant who coughed up rent on the dot every month, yet here was a high-ranking corporate department head making himself right at home on my mattress. Reduced to the bare floorboards, my pathetic plight mirrored my rented-room days in my past life so vividly that a dry, hollow scoff slipped out. If he hadn't been an invalid on death's door, I would have grabbed him by the ankles and yanked him straight onto the floor.

I cleared my tin piggy bank and gun-cleaning tools onto the high shelf, tossing cloths over anything that might catch blood splatters. Then, with the tip of my boot, I nudged my packed bug-out bag deeper into the shadows behind the door.

Orban watched me silently for a beat before rummaging through the inner pocket of his dark blue overcoat.

“Want to pick up another side gig and watch the office?”

“What kind of gig?”

“Guard this gentleman while I head out to sniff around the streets. If anyone tries to force their way in, throw the deadbolt first. If things get truly hairy, ditch the patient out the back stairs and run.”

“You’re really telling me I can abandon him?”

“There isn’t an assignment in this world worth more than your own neck. If it’s more than you can handle, look out for yourself first.”

Talks a good game, doesn’t he?

I glanced back at Beltz, wheezing weakly on the bed. Even with my augmented physical strength, hauling a gunshot victim down a narrow stairwell without rupturing his wounds would be no walk in the park.

“What’s the day rate?”

“Two silver coins to watch him through daylight hours. Half upfront.”

Orban produced a gleaming silver coin from his pocket and tapped it onto the small wooden desk with a crisp clink.

I scooped up the coin and weighed it in my palm. My usual errand runs netted only a handful of copper coins, and that life-risking gig guarding the textile factory accountant had paid just one silver. Even after busting my back for an entire month, subtracting rent and groceries, I rarely had a single silver left over. To earn two silvers in a single day was absurd.

“The rate’s suspiciously high.”

“Because there’s no telling what kind of hell might break loose while I’m gone. Hazard pay is baked in.”

“What about the remaining silver?”

“We’ll bill it to the patient along with his medical tab once he wakes up.”

“And if he tells us to shove it?”

“I’ll write ‘Unpaid Debt from ARC Central Branch Department Head’ in massive letters across the front cover of the ledger, so don’t you worry.”

Writing it in bold letters on a ledger wouldn’t magically deposit coins into my account. But the silver coin resting in my hand was cold and undeniably real. I slipped it into my coat pocket.

“Deal. I’m on it.”

Orban handed me an emergency key to the back door along with a brass whistle roughly the size of a finger.

“If trouble hits, blow it twice. Short, sharp blasts. Peep, peep.”

“Why not once?”

“A single blast gets swallowed by street noise. Two short ones. When I return, I’ll rap the back door three times, pause, and rap twice more. Don’t open it for any other signal.”

“Understood.”

Orban stepped out, and the door clicked shut behind him. I immediately dragged my chair away from the bedside, wedging it into the blind spot right beside the doorframe. From that vantage, all I had to do was stretch out an arm to catch the latch, and if someone kicked the door open, they wouldn’t be able to register my position immediately.

Drawing my revolver, I pulled the hammer to half-cock and spun the cylinder. Confirming all five loaded chambers, I lowered the hammer over the single empty chamber. The powder flask and cap pouch went on the shelf within arm’s reach.

Personal security isn’t about the firefights—it’s about enduring the hours when absolutely nothing happens.

It was no different from working the graveyard shift at a convenience store in my past life. A mind-numbing stretch of labor, staring blankly at the ticking clock amid the low-grade dread of never knowing when an obnoxious drunk or an armed robber might crash through the entrance. Leaning back against the chair, I measured the faint rise and fall of Beltz’s chest, counting his ragged breaths.

Just past nine in the morning, Marta slipped quietly through the back door and changed Beltz’s dressing. The hemorrhaging we had feared had ceased, but when she held the thermometer up to the light, the mercury showed a fever climbing past thirty-eight degrees.

“The fever’s setting in,” she muttered, shaking her head. “He needs to lie flat like a corpse for at least two weeks.”

“That long…… would be unacceptable……”

Beltz, having regained consciousness, weakly attempted to push back, but Marta yanked the woolen blanket up to his chin with a scowl. The moment he tried to prop himself up on an elbow, his hands clutched frantically at his chest.

“Kh-urk……!”

“You trying to kill yourself, you stubborn fool? A man with a hole punched through his lung has no business trying to crawl anywhere.”

Silenced by Marta’s merciless reprimand, Beltz clamped his jaw shut. Orban stepped over and handed him his battered metal-rimmed spectacles. One lens was missing entirely, leaving a hollow wire loop, while the surviving glass was spiderwebbed with hairline fractures—a thoroughly pathetic sight.

Beltz hooked the bent temples over his ears, and the very first thing he noticed was me, perched by the doorframe casually checking my revolver.

“……Is this child also an operative assigned to this off-the-books investigation?”

“She’s your personal security detail while I’m away, Department Head,” Orban replied smoothly.

A deep furrow carved itself between Beltz’s brows.

“How old is she?”

“Fifteen,” I answered for myself, jutting out my chin.

Through the cracked glass, Beltz took in my slight frame and youthful features with visible dismay.

“Mr. Orban, replace her at once. This is hardly a trivial matter that permits dragging a child into the line of fire.”

“I’ve already pocketed the advance for this gig, Department Head.”

“It is perilous work. Using a child as a human shield violates every principle I hold dear.”

“The peril is precisely why I’m getting two silver coins. As long as you’re horizontal in that bed, I’ve got your back.”

Beltz opened and closed his mouth, momentarily at a loss for words, before glaring up at Orban.

“Do you intend to bill me for her security fees as well?”

“Naturally. So make sure you stay alive to settle the tab.”

“……I will cover every expense. Just see to it that the ledger is meticulously itemized.”

Beltz let out a ragged sigh, turning his head slightly toward me.

“Miss Sonya.”

“Yeah. Speak your piece.”

“Miss Sonya, I am grateful, but should those men breach this building, you must abandon me and flee at once. That is the only rational course of action.”

“You sound just like Boss Orban. Look, patient, talking eats up oxygen, so why don’t you ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠shut your eyes and get some rest?”

Marta gave Beltz’s shoulder an unsympathetic shove, backing me up.

“The kid’s right. Keep your mouth shut and focus on breathing straight.”

Shortly past noon, Orban called me out into the front office.

“Sonya, deliver these two routine mail envelopes to the apothecary, then head down to the freight counter at Central Station to pick up a consignment receipt.”

“You’re sending me out on errands on a day like this?”

“If our usual courier suddenly vanishes from the neighborhood, that invites just as much suspicion. Move around like you always do.”

Orban slid several copper coins into my pocket and added, “This is separate from your guard pay.”

As expected, a magnificent boss who knows how to motivate with hard cash.

I tucked the envelopes for the apothecary and a sealed dispatch for Bram into my leather satchel. Watching Orban take a seat beside the patient’s door, I pulled my coat over my holstered revolver and slipped out of the agency.

The streets of Belok were as deafening and crowded as ever. A sickening stench of industrial chemical waste drifted up from the South Gate Canal, while over in the factory district, colossal steam hammers pounded away, sending dull, rhythmic tremors through the cobblestones.

The moment I stepped into the grand plaza fronting Central Station, however, a chilling, razor-sharp tension prickled against my neck.

Men dressed in crisp dark-navy uniforms were swarming the area. Wearing crimson armbands denoting the ARC Central Branch Security Division, enforcers were deployed across every major choke point in the square. Two guarded the station arches, four stood beneath the iron clock tower, and pairs were posted at every carriage stand, scrutinizing the face of every single ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠traveler entering or exiting the transit hub.

They really turned the whole place inside out.

I didn’t alter my stride. Turning on my heel and running would be the same as screaming for them to put a bullet through my back. Keeping up the bored demeanor of an errand girl running daily deliveries, I steered toward the freight counter. Today, the entrance seemed unnervingly far away.

Beside the intake desk, a Security Division operative had backed a carriage driver against a pillar, dangling a silver coin before the man’s nose like an interrogator.

“Have you picked up a slender, middle-aged man wearing metal-rimmed spectacles? Near the South Gate Canal late last night?”

“Uh…… well, sir, there were so many fares last night……”

“I’ll throw in another silver. Think very carefully.”

The driver licked his chapped lips, staring hungrily at the silver. Orban had carried Beltz on his back through the shadows. I could only pray the driver wouldn't start spinning wild fabrications just to line his pockets.

Collecting the stamped freight receipt, I slipped it into my satchel and turned to make my way out of the station plaza.

Rustle.

A biting gust of northern wind swept across the stone pavers, and a stray sheet of paper tumbling across the ground plastered itself flat against the toe of my leather boot. It was a freshly printed flyer, lost by some billposter who had fumbled his stack in the gale.

I bent down and peeled it off my boot.

The moment my eyes landed on the woodcut portrait printed across the top half, my breath hitched in my throat.

Neat metal-rimmed spectacles perched on a sharp nose, meticulously parted dark hair, and an intense, high-strung countenance. It was an unmistakable likeness of Gerhard Beltz—the very man currently bleeding out on my bed.

……Ten gold coins?

I blinked, reading the figure a second time.

One gold coin was worth one hundred silvers.

Ten gold coins meant a staggering one thousand silver coins.

It was enough to cover the exorbitant imperial citizenship application fees with a fortune left over. It was enough to never worry about rent, bread, or coal for the rest of my youth. All I had to do was walk right over to the security post and give them the address of our agency. My mind raced down that path for a split second.

Staring down at the paper, however, a quiet snort escaped me.

To collect that blood money, I would have to expose the Orban Agency. If I did, my entire past year of forged residency documentation—along with Boss Orban, my sole legal guarantor—would be dragged off to an imperial dungeon in chains. And above all else……

I had already pocketed a one-silver advance this morning to guard his life.

In eight years of grinding odd jobs, I never learned how to breach a contract and sell out my own client. A fixer has to have some damn professional ethics.

I folded the flyer in half, creased it tightly, and shoved it deep into my inner coat pocket.

On my way back, I stopped by Bram’s Gunsmith Shop to deliver Orban’s sealed envelope. Noting the hollow shadows under my eyes, Bram reached into his workbench drawer with a grunt and tossed a thick slab of dried beef jerky across the counter.

“Pull an all-nighter, squirt?”

“A little.”

“How the hell does someone pull ‘a little’ of an all-nighter?”

“Thanks, Bram.”

“Bah, stop that. Hearing you say thanks gives me the bloody creeps.”

Chewing on the tough, salty jerky, I made my way back to the agency. The moment I slipped inside, Orban threw the interior bolt, the taut tension in his shoulders easing just a fraction.

Without wasting a second, I walked straight into my room with the flyer. Beltz was struggling to sit up against the headboard, and Orban moved quickly to prop a pillow behind his back.

“What is…… this?”

Reading down the poster through his cracked lens, Beltz’s face drained of every drop of color. His trembling fingertip hovered over the phrase reading: [Embezzlement of 3,600 gold coins in public funds].

“Mr. Orban…… show me the investigation ledger.”

Orban reached into his coat and produced the notebook containing the unpaid land compensation records—the hard evidence gathered across four grueling months of field investigations—and set it on the desk. With shaking hands, Beltz traced the figures, adding up the total damages stolen from the local farmers and miners.

“What was…… the final tally?”

“Exactly three thousand six hundred gold coins, Department Head,” Orban stated flatly.

Beltz’s finger froze dead on the paper.

He stared down blankly at his own woodcut likeness on the wanted notice, before letting out a wretched, self-derisive laugh.

“Ha…… haha…… Truly magnificent. The exact total of the slush fund I was trying to expose…… they neatly repackaged it and pinned it onto my head as embezzlement.”