Callian finished his conversation with Powder and made his way out of the basement.
He ascended the dark wooden stairwell and stepped into the back room, before re-entering the main bar.
As before, the short man caught a few curious glances on his way back around the counter.
Callian ignored them all.
He hopped onto an empty stool beside the counter and was soon joined by an expectant-looking Vander.
"Well?" the taller man asked, sliding over Callian's usual. "How did it go?"
"The lesson proceeded as planned," Callian replied, slowly drumming his fingers on the glass. "If you are curious, then I suggest asking Powder about its contents yourself."
He glanced at Vander—pointedly.
"She enjoys it when you take an interest in her work. You know this."
Vander huffed quietly—unsure whether to take Callian's words as advice or a veiled jibe.
"I know," he said, keeping his reply simple.
The shorter man was simply too difficult to read—even at the best of times.
Vander withdrew a pipe from his pocket and lit it.
The two men fell into an easy silence—both preoccupied in thought.
Then—the bar's door slammed open.
The loud noise cut through the evening chatter like a blade, hushing the nearby room into silence.
Countless faces twisted with displeasure.
An impossibly tall man strode through the doorway, radiating a well-earned confidence—given by his impressive stature.
He wore a light metal armour from head to toe—a handgun and dagger holstered in the loops of his belt.
Callian eyed the newcomer critically—his attention instantly drawn to the gear-like tattoos inked across the front of the man's neck.
The newcomer walked up to the counter—undeterred by the room's abrupt silence.
"Vander," he greeted.
Callian's violet eyes narrowed with suspicion.
That voice was familiar—as were his face and tattoos.
"I'm looking for someone—someone you'll know the location of."
Vander's face creased darkly.
"You know I don't condone that kind of business, Adrian. Go looking for your man somewhere else."
Callian's suspicion clicked into a grim certainty.
Adrian.
So this is where he had disappeared too—all those years ago.
"Oh, but it's not a man this time," Adrian replied, voice gruff. "It's a girl. Your little firecracker, Vander."
In that instant, a whole two-thirds of the bar leapt to their feet—weapons drawn.
An army of guns, knives and the like were abruptly trained upon the lone, armoured man.
Whatever this could've turned out as—a friendly visit certainly wasn't it.
This was now a matter of pride.
One opposing district versus another.
"What are ya'? Fuckin' stupid?!" someone roared. "You might get away with pulling this shit over in Westside—but it sure as fuck ain't happening here! Get lost you mercenary dog!"
A murmur of derisive agreement followed the shout.
The newcomer didn't even blink—or acknowledge the man's words.
Vander remained still.
"And what exactly was the price on her head?" he asked lightly.
"A damn near ridiculous amount," Adrian answered, tapping an impatient finger onto the bar's counter. "Even for who the target'll put me in front of. Reward's enough to buy me a way out of this shithole—for good."
Vander stared at the man silently. The silence thickened, slowly becoming more oppressive the darker his face became.
"So," he started, setting his pipe down onto the counter.
He leant forward, his stature losing its usual slouch.
It easily matched the armoured man's.
"You thought you'd just come in here—into my bar—and demand my daughter from me?"
Adrian's guarded green eyes met Vander's stormy grey.
"Her life and location—on a duel. What do you say, Hound? Too chicken?"
Vander didn't deign to reply.
Instead, he reached up a hand to the floorboards above.
His large fist grasped a loose string that hung from the floorboards above.
He pulled—breaking the carefully tied knot.
Then, down came a pair of massive, metal gauntlets.
They slammed down onto the wooden counter—the heavy impact echoing throughout the otherwise silent bar.
"Let's take this outside," Vander said, slipping one large hand into the blunted, rustic steel.
Adrian's green eyes practically danced as they flickered toward the gauntlets—then he nodded.
Exactly as planned.
The crowd lowered their weapons—slightly.
They had full confidence in their unofficial leader.
They had all seen what his bare hands could do to a man.
The two men made for the bar's exit—their hackles raised—a clear tension crackling between them.
Only Callian followed.
The normally bustling marketplace outside was vacant—devoid of any of its usual inhabitants.
The ever-observant Vander noticed his tail immediately and turned—briefly facing the shorter man.
"Callian—go back inside," he said, his voice grim. "This isn't your fight."
Adrian snorted.
"Your man-child friend wouldn't be able to reach my jaw if he were standing on his tiptoes," he sneered, his lip curling in derision.
"I disagree," Callian answered—to both men at once—his eyes igniting.
His blood began to simmer.
Not too much. Not too little.
Just enough for an easy payback. For old times' sake.
He blinked forward, his impossible, darting movement so fast that Adrian's veteran instincts kicked in.
He began to reach for his dagger.
But in Callian's eyes—he was slow.
He dropped—sticking out a leg across the ground and pivoting around to knock Adrian down in a single, sweeping kick.
By the time the larger man's hand enclosed around his dagger's handle—his feet had left the ground.
Adrian hit the ground. Hard.
Vander's sharp eyes barely managed to follow the movement.
He backstepped—fast.
A scout. What kind of scout could do… this?
Adrian's free hand darted toward his handgun—his arrogance forgotten.
In that fleeting moment—he realised his only chance of winning this fight was with superior weaponry.
Two of Callian's armoured fingers pierced the desperate palm mid-reach. The rest of his hand encircled the man's wrist and forced it away from the holstered weapon with ease.
Adrian roared in pain—anger flaring in tandem with a hint of fear.
Despite being overpowered, he didn't give up—his dagger snaking toward his attacker's hooded head.
But Callian moved first—flipping the large man face-first into the cobbles.
Adrian's offending hand and blade were now firmly pinned beneath his wide, armoured torso.
Callian planted a singular, crushing boot upon Adrian's back—twisting his victim's arm into the air painfully.
"Fuck!" Adrian cursed. "I yield! I YIELD!"
Vander gave Callian a trepid look—then stormed forward, moving around to crouch before the fallen man.
"Who?" he demanded, his voice dark. "Who hired you?"
Adrian glared up at Vander—then to Callian—staying spitefully silent.
Callian pushed the man's struggling, elevated arm to the side—grinding it against the bottom of his shoulder blade painfully.
Another two inches and his arm would break. Messily.
"FUCK! OKAY!" Adrian yelled.
He could sense no remorse from his captor. He would do it.
"BRENDERN! IT WAS BRENDERN!"
Callian eased his hold on the man's arm—slightly.
"The trader?" Vander asked coldly. "Why?"
"Your kid fucked him up or something," Adrian replied, grinding his teeth. "He was fucking furious. Put out a gig through a fixer for everyone to take—no restrictions on the hit."
Vander's eyes darkened. He stood.
Real, true anger was rare in him. It was a feeling he thought he'd grown out of long ago.
Guess he'd been wrong about that.
He stared down at the towering man pressed beneath Callian's boot.
Side-by-side, he would have dwarfed his eldest daughter.
Adrian would have torn her apart with ease. Or done something far, far worse.
His grip on the inside of his gauntlets tightened.
Felicia and Connol had trusted him—trusted him to take care of their kids it all went wrong.
And it had gone wrong. So terribly wrong.
Those two—no, four children—were his responsibility.
And they had been threatened. Yes, it was their fault. But they were kids. Kids made mistakes—that was how they grew.
But if Adrian hadn't been the first one to take the hit—then someone could have gone about this far, far differently.
Thanks to his twisted sense of honour, Vi had been granted a second chance.
One that he wouldn't waste.
One last time. For them.
Vander's gauntleted hand bulldozed down—splitting the stony ground with a sharp, wet crack.
Vander's gauntleted hand bulldozed down—splitting Adrian's unprotected skull with a sickening crack.
The rocky roadside beneath it was splintered beneath the weight of his strike—the dirty cobble now splattered with a dark, gritty red.
Callian dropped Adrian's lifeless arm.
His fight was over.
Vander withdrew his hand from the gauntlet—leaving it embedded within the bloody ruins.
He clenched his exposed fist tightly—his knuckles briefly whitening.
"Leave the body," he said, meeting Callian's violet eyes.
Stormy grey burned with resolve.
"This'll serve as a warning to them. To all of them."
Callian glanced at the corpse once, before nodding in acceptence.
It was a brutal play.
But one that both men recognised was necessary.
"And Callian," Vander added, turning away, voice heavy. "Thank you."
✦ ✦ ✦
Callian watched Vander return to The Last Drop.
That strength—even in someone so large—was uncanny.
But now wasn't a fitting time to dwell upon it.
"You can come out from behind that pipe now…" Callian started, slowly turning to face a building to his left. "You three."
Right on cue, Mylo stumbled out from behind a thick pipe that ran along its side.
"Damn," the boy cursed, barely managing to right himself before tripping over and planting face-first into the ground.
He stared back at the hiding spot he had just left—then rolled his eyes in annoyance.
"What?" he asked, looking slightly irritated—throwing a hand in Callian's direction. "He knew. Newsflash—there's no point in hiding if the person you're hiding from knows you're there."
Violet and Claggor joined him shortly after, looking very, very apprehensive.
"That was Adrian," Claggor mumbled, stunned.
He looked at the man's head—at the gory mess that remained—and turned away, pale in the face.
"I am unfamiliar with the name," Callian lied, stepping toward them. "Care to enlighten me?"
Mylo opened his mouth to reply, but Violet cut across him.
"He's a merc—a solo one. Pretty well-known one too," she explained.
Her eyes flickered toward her father's handiwork—looking unsettled, but not overwhelmed.
"Only works bounties—and not often. Never in Northside though."
"I see," Callian replied. "Well, I suggest you pick your next fights more wisely. Your father will not always be there to take the fall for your actions."
The remark hit home.
Even if it was well-intentioned—it still made Violet cringe in regret.
Little man probably hadn't needed her help to escape anyway—and now Vander had to pick up the pieces she'd left behind.
"Uh, Callian?" Claggor ventured shyly, drawing the shorter man's attention. "Thanks for helping Vander back there. I don't know if he could have beaten Adrian alone."
Callian the boy a curt nod and watched as the teen turned to go.
"C'mon, Vi," Mylo said, patting the girl's shoulder lightly. "Let's go in. The big dog'll want to know we're all good."
Violet glanced at him. Then she hesitated.
"You two go on ahead," she said, eyes returning to Callian. "I'll be right there."
The two boys exchanged a look. Then they left—headed toward their father's bar.
Only once they were well out of earshot did she face Callian properly.
"What?" the man asked, his tone flat.
"You… You're small—like… like me."
It was true. He was perhaps half an inch taller than her, if that.
His height was undoubtedly the reason she had been so quick to force when he had returned to make his sponsorship known.
In his youth, he'd enjoyed overturning the assumptions of others—relished it, even. Now he simply didn't care.
His enemies' underestimation of him was merely another card in his deck. Another one he could play as was necessary.
"You dropped Adrian in seconds. His size didn't mean shit to you."
Callian slid both hands into his coat pockets.
"His overconfidence got him killed." the man replied, dismissive. "As did yours. Nearly."
Violet didn't argue.
He was right—on both counts.
"Can you teach me how to fight like that?" she asked. "Please?"
Callian's eyes flashed briefly.
He had gotten a good grasp of Violet's current character over the past two weeks.
It had taken real effort for her to ask that.
But even so…
"No. You are not worth my time."
Violet stared up into the man's unfeeling, violet eyes.
It was a resolute denial.
The girl averted her eyes—hanging her head in frustration.
Callian's rejection—so confidently made—tasted bitter.
Even after pleading like that—her sincerity had meant nothing to him.
Or maybe she really was just that. Not worth his time.
As the man's gaze turned away from her—an exceedingly stupid, reckless thought took hold.
A chill passed over the back of her neck.
She brushed it off brusquely—and acted.
She dropped low, swiftly pivoting around with a leg extended—perfectly mirroring Callian's earlier movement.
That is, until the back of her shin collided with his booted foot.
He didn't even move an inch.
Her reckless kick had done absolutely nothing to him.
"Your rashness is your most glaring flaw, Violet," Callian said, gaze dropping back to her.
A terrifying pressure bore down on her.
Callian's eyes shimmered.
Still, somehow—despite her fear—she didn't back down.
"I'm worth it," she replied, blue eyes burning bright with determination.
Callian studied her for a moment longer—then his gaze lost its edge.
He extended a single hand toward her wordlessly.
She took it—and he pulled her upright in one, decisive motion.
"We shall see."
✦ ✦ ✦