Smoke drifted lazily from the silver pipe hanging loosely from Rick Blacknose's lips. The charismatic, heavy-set man sat on the creaking wooden balcony of a rundown two-story building, gazing out at Mad Hat like a bored little god. His half-lidded eyes followed the flow of people below, while the sunset's glow reflected off the monocle perched on his right eye.
"How many dead today?" he asked softly, almost like a murmur.
A skinny man in a long coat behind him responded quickly, "Thirteen, Mister Rick. Two of them were children."
Rick merely nodded, exhaling a ring of smoke imperfect and fading. "A pity," he said, as if he truly felt sorry. "Mad Hat gets crazier by the day…"
A faint smile curled at the edge of his mouth, nearly hidden in the twilight shadow. But for those close enough, that smile felt like a blade's edge cold, cunning, and dangerous.
No one truly knew where Rick Blacknose's power began or ended. He wasn't an official leader, not a famed pirate, nor a mafia boss with a legion of men. But everyone knew this much: nothing happened in Mad Hat without Rick's approval. He was the shadow that cloaked the chaos controlling the flow of people, weapons, and fear.
In the market, he was often seen handing coins to street children or donating to slum houses. But behind it all, Rick was the city's unofficial ruler. A supplier of slaves to the auction house, an information broker, and an architect of disorder under the guise of goodwill.
"He's the finest merchant," Gerald Lazhar once said. "Because his goods aren't just people… they're despair."
Lazhar sat at the dining table, eyes vacant as he stared into the fireplace. Bastien listened, chewing on stale bread, while Arthur slept in the corner, breathing heavily after a long day of training.
"You know him?" Bastien asked, his raspy voice low.
"We once shared a ship," Lazhar replied without turning. "Not as friends. Just two men who happened to have the same enemy."
Bastien fell silent. It was the first time Lazhar spoke of his past without sarcasm or a smirk. A strange tension hung in the air.
"Rick's the kind of man who wouldn't hesitate to sell a child's body if it meant gaining just an inch more power," Lazhar went on. "He believes everyone has a price… if you're willing to pay it."
"Then why is he still alive?"
Lazhar smiled grimly. "Because he knows when to bow… and when to bite."
Elsewhere in the city, beneath an old brothel turned shadowy headquarters, Rick walked through a narrow, damp corridor. The walls were lined with maps, trade ledgers, and bounty posters. In the basement, tattooed men stood rigid, awaiting orders.
"Serpent Smile has arrived at the eastern port," one of his men reported. "And Butcher Fang is moving in from the south, just as planned."
Rick nodded, his eyes sweeping the room, studying every face.
"We need a grand stage," he said. "Chaos is fertile ground… that's where the seeds of power grow fastest."
Someone asked, "What about Lazhar?"
Rick raised his bird-headed cane and tapped it twice against the floor. "Gerald is a legend that's slept too long. Now he wakes… because of a child."
He picked up a poster from the table a young boy's face stared back, sharp-eyed, defiant.
"Bastien de Vill," Rick murmured. "A boy with a killer's gaze."
He turned the poster in his hand, then set it back down.
"Prepare the stage. Tonight, the shadows begin to dance."
At the weapons shop, Bastien stood in the attic, peering through a narrow window slit. The street below looked empty, but he could sense something moving in the gloom. Something watching them… waiting.
"Gerald," he whispered, "you think Rick's planning something?"
Gerald stood beside him, wearing a worn-out jacket and holding a mug of bitter coffee. "If Rick starts smiling too much, it usually means someone's about to die."
Bastien clenched his fists. His stomach churned. He had never met Rick, but from Lazhar's stories, he knew the man wasn't just an enemy. He was a faceless threat… until it was too late.
"I want to meet him," Bastien said at last.
Gerald turned sharply. "Why?"
Bastien kept his gaze on the street, eyes burning. "I want to see… what kind of face can burn a city with a smile."
Gerald exhaled slowly. He knew that day would come. Sooner or later, shadow and light would collide. And when they did, blood would be spilled.
Night fell slowly, like a curtain marking the start of a play. Mad Hat, a city that never truly slept, felt quieter than usual quiet in the wrong kind of way.
Atop the old clocktower, Rick stood alone. His pipe still trailed smoke, and in his left hand, a small skull pendant swayed gently.
"The shadows move tonight," he whispered.
He smiled. A smile that never meant good.
And beneath him, Mad Hat braced for the first act of a bloody performance an opera of chaos orchestrated by a monocled fat man who would sell the world for power.