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Knife in Hand

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His work often began as a whisper, a rumor, a bit of information traded for another. He understood the value of it, the weight it carried. How far people would go to get a tidbit for themselves. It was something he had learned many years ago as a child, and he used it to build a reputation, to form an alias that kept him safe while striking fear into the hearts of those who stood against him.  

It helped his business that he didn’t care who used the information he sold. Lives were lost and saved in turn from the information he got his hands on, and as long as it didn’t affect him directly, he didn’t care. 

When he’d first heard a rumor about Winner wanting Zechs’ favorite toy dead, he hadn’t cared. He knew Zechs wouldn’t appreciate it. That it could cause him problems if they decided to fight, to war on each other. He had worked for both Winner and Zechs, bought and sold to both, and would be caught between them if they chose to use him. He had no allegiance, no loyalty, and stepping up to take a side would lead to the kind of shift in power that the city hadn’t dealt with in over a decade.  

If he could sit it out, he would. But there was one key fact he couldn’t ignore, a detail he overheard that had him reaching for his phone to let out a line, have a couple of people talk, let a few over-eager ears pick the slip up and carry it along for him.  

“I wonder,” he murmured, eyes glittering in the dark, “how Zechs will take having his precious little pet whisked away?”  

As he leaned back in his seat, he laced his fingers together and waited for the threads of fate dance for him once more, he was sure of one thing: Chicago was going to learn why one stayed on the good side of the Broker.