Chapter 2

    The next morning came like a punch to the gut, sharp and unforgiving. The city was waking up, but in the neighborhood I called home, it always felt like something was dying. The streets smelled of rust and desperation, and somewhere, behind the steady hum of traffic, a dog was barking like it had something important to say.

    I was about to light my first cigarette when the phone rang. The kind of ring that cut through the silence like a blade, cold and deliberate. I stared at it for a beat, hoping it would stop, but it kept on ringing, insistent, like it knew I had nowhere to hide.

    I picked up the receiver, didn’t say a word.

    “They’re waving sweet irons,” the voice on the other end said, as smooth as silk and twice as dangerous.

    My hand tightened around the phone. I knew the voice. Knew the tone. It was the kind of voice that danced around the edges of trouble and laughed while it set fires. Madeleine—she had a way of making bad news sound like an invitation to a party you didn’t want to miss.

    “Irons, huh?” I said, trying to keep my voice level, though I could feel the old instinct kicking in—the one that told me to grab my piece and head for the door.

    “Yeah,” she replied. “And they’re not doing it for fun.”

    I didn’t need to ask who they were. You could feel it in the air, like the whole city was a loaded gun waiting to go off. Madeleine was always close to the flame, always one step ahead of the fire, but this time it sounded like the fire was coming for her.

    “Where are you?” I asked, reaching for my jacket.

    “South side,” she said. “Down by the old foundry. You better hurry, darling. They’re not patient today.”

    The line went dead. I tossed the receiver back on the hook and made my way out into the rain. It was always raining in this city, like God had forgotten to turn off the taps. The streets were slick, shining under the dull morning light like a snake’s skin. I pulled my collar up against the chill and walked fast, keeping to the alleys where the city didn’t bother to look.

    Sweet irons—guns. That’s what they called them when things were about to get ugly. There was nothing sweet about them, though. Madeleine’s words echoed in my head as I made my way south, past the boarded-up shops and burned-out husks of buildings that had once been something, but were now just tombstones for the forgotten.

    The foundry loomed ahead, a hulking mass of iron and decay. It had been out of business for years, but like everything in this city, it refused to die properly. The gate was rusted, hanging crooked on its hinges, and the wind made it creak like a door to a crypt.

    I slipped through and made my way to the back, where the old loading docks sagged under the weight of years of neglect. That’s where I found her, standing in the shadows, cigarette in hand, looking like trouble wrapped in silk. Her dark hair was slick from the rain, but her eyes were sharp as ever, cutting through the gloom.

    “Thought you weren’t coming,” she said, blowing a cloud of smoke into the air.

    “I don’t like being kept in the dark,” I replied, glancing around. The place was too quiet. No sign of the sweet irons, not yet.

    “They’ll be here,” she said, reading my thoughts. “Patience, darling.”

    I hated when she called me that. But it wasn’t the time to argue. I stepped closer, the rain tapping out a nervous rhythm on the metal around us. “What’s this about?”

    “Achilles,” she said, her voice low. “You stirred something up last night.”

    “That wasn’t me,” I shot back. “The man with the hat, he—”

    “I know who he is,” she interrupted. Her eyes flashed with something I didn’t like. “And I know what he’s after. But Achilles isn’t just a man. He’s an idea, a myth. And myths have a way of making people desperate.”

    “Desperate enough to wave irons?” I asked.

    She nodded, taking one last drag of her cigarette before flicking it into the rain. “They’ll do more than wave them. They’ll use them. And when they do, you better be ready to choose a side.”

    The words hung in the air between us, thick and heavy, like the smoke she’d just exhaled. I didn’t like it. Not one bit. But I knew she was right. The man with the hat, Achilles, whatever he was—it was coming. And when it did, there wouldn’t be any room for playing it safe.

    “Which side are you on, Madeleine?” I asked, though I wasn’t sure I wanted to know the answer.

    She smiled, the kind of smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “The side that wins, darling. Always.”

    Just then, the sound of engines rumbled in the distance, the unmistakable roar of men coming with guns and bad intentions. The sweet irons had arrived.

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