Author's note:Thank you to CheshireAlice, Animeloverx175 and the anon commenters! I appreciate your taking the time to tell me what you thought. :D

And just to make a few things clear, it is based off the Edo period—not set in the Edo period. We still have modern conveniences, and a lot of history that Road and Tyki may hint at later. ^_^!It's like the Lisenced district of the Edo period continued to today. (AU and all)

Also, This chapter is being split into multiple parts too to keep updates fast—I am editing the parts coming after.

Now…onto your regularly scheduled writing…

Chapter 2
Part 1: Rumours

Walking to work is usually an eventless matter. People are clumsily making their way home, or rushing about on their business. But today, nervous chatter fills the street. Instead of hungover complaints, people cluster in small groups, whispering. I feel a few pairs of eyes watch me pass, probably to discourage me from listening in on their gossip.

The sun shines down hard on the general store across the street from my cafe, making the tinny roof glisten.

The door to my work is probably unlocked already since the owner usually arrives early, but I pause to greet our neighbors.

"Good morning," I call, but no one so much as glances at me. Their demeanor demands my attention, so I stall a little to listen.

Two men are deep in speculative conversation, the first a heavy-set man with a thinning hairline, and the other a tall, lean man with a weather-beaten face. The heavy-set man idly presses buttons on his phone, texting or web-browsing.

"Every time somebody drops dead, the cops come and scour the slums. Asking everybody in sight for an alibi." The first complains, shaking his head in tired complaint.

His mouth works into a line.

"So…where were you?" the thin man snorts, waggling his eyebrows. But he nods in agreement.

The man chuckles, giving a sly twist of a grin. "I was drinking…with you…right?"

"Oh," the sound is short and surprised, but the man smiles slowly. "Yeah, yeah. I was with you," he jabs a meaty finger into the other man's stomach, humor creeping into his voice.

I can't help it. I take a few steps closer and lean in on their conversation. When they look at me, I frown, closing the distance even as I begin to speak. "You shouldn't make light of something like that." I shake my head. "Death isn't a joke—"

"Would you look at that," amused laughter meets my ears, and one of the men goes as far to ruffle my hair. "It's that church kid." He eyes me up and down, then nods a greeting that's minutes too late. "Hey, church kid."

Shaking my head briskly and trying to get rid of the feeling of his hand on my head, I feel myself bristle. "My name is Allen." The words are as firm as I can make them.

His face looks craggy— probably from bad habits and a late night, but he smiles. "I thought you Noah talked about death as salvation…" he ignores my name and continues on the train of thought. "Like, you were into death ritual and sacrifice." His light tone and smile distract me from the words. I wonder what he could be thinking about to say that.

He doesn't know anything about my beliefs. I frown, anger warming my stomach and flushing my cheeks. I don't move, not a muscle.

I breathe deep. Remember my manners, and somehow, I manage a tense smile and let up. I brush past the two men. But leaving his accusation as it is seems foolish, so I speak over my shoulder as I go. "No Noah I know would kill anyone," not without good reason, anyway. As a final concession to the conversation I add, "Excuse me."

The man reaches out to stop me, his meaty arm covering the span easily. "That's not what I heard." It sounds like he's looking for a fight. Not something I need or want in front of the shop. "I heard that—" he tries and edge closer.

"Excuse me," I say again, twisting out of his grip and ducking down. It's a simple maneuver that's saved my neck in a tight situation or two.

When I look over my shoulder to judge their reaction, I don't know what to make of it. Their faces are both wary and amused, so I don't think I'm off the hook yet. One man tenses as I back away, his eyes calculating.

The feeling of many gazes presses down on me. All across the street, people's hushed conversations have lulled, and many are watching me. I pull my shoulders back and walk tall, heading for the door. The weight of those eyes only slacks when the door is closed and I'm behind the counter of the café.

As I look around the counter, distracting my eyes and my emotions, I consider what this is about. The gossip isn't a surprise, really. Murder is certainly not unheard of around here, but something about the whole thing feels like it's more than that. Not a robbery turned murder, or even like a person killing their husband or wife.

I pull the store notebook into my hands, continuing my contemplation as I open to book. Scratch the date in. So many people are worried…I idly count and add numbers from the column.

As I move into the tiny kitchen area, pulling down now-dry dish rags and reorganizing the supplies, it comes to me. It isn'tnormal. This feels like syndicate activity…something organized.

I shift on my feet, gently touching my scarred left hand. I sigh. Noah may not often be recruited into the families, but I know a thing or two about the syndicate. The Black Order.

Tyki has warned me about not cheating at cards if I'm playing against one of those members, though Cross is reckless—or cocky—enough to say that it doesn't matter. I learned the Con (the big Game) under Cross, but no one had to teach me to be cautious. Being a crippled kid working in the circus teaches caution better than anyone.

I chew my lip. Whether Noah are involved or not, we'll feel the effects. I sigh, and get out the polishing cloth for the counters. Might as well clean the place up.

The wind whispers through the streets, hidden by the buzz of chatter. Men and women bustle about the streets, quick to be on their way. My flyers are turned down to a one.

"Lunch special in the café," I call out. "Try our delicious sandwiches." The loose pages rustle in the breeze. My voice sounds clearly among all the noise, almost as though people hush when they pass me.

A woman with a hand-knit shawl around her head walks with her head down. She nearly runs into me, even as I hold out a flyer for her. The woman gives a startled gasp and takes a step backwards. I watch, surprised, when she scuttles all the way to the other side of the street, her eyes wide and worried. She watches me for a few seconds more, and then drops her gaze again.

"Try our lunch special! Please come on in,"

I turn my head to see two men walking towards me. I offer a pamphlet and a smile, though I know their long coats are of too high quality to come to this part of the District. The older man walks in front, a mild expression that he tries to work into a smile. "You're Allen Walker?" He says, his voice low. "Do you have a minute? We'd like to talk."

On closer examination, I wonder if these two men are from the Black Order or from out of the district. I take in a sharp breath, my eyes darting around to see if anyone is watching. But of course they are. They've been watching me ever since I got here. I nod slowly.

"What can I do for you?" I smile. "I'm afraid I'm working right now, but—"

"Mr. Walker," the younger man interrupts. "I think it would be better if we had this conversation out of the street. I believe your place of employment is close?"

I nod slowly. "Please have a cup of tea." I give a little cough. "I mean, please buy a cup of tea."

The older man sighs and heads for the café door. The younger man is a mere pace behind me.

The door closes solidly behind me. I chew my lip, suddenly feeling unsteady on my feet. I have the urge to start humming something, or to outright sing, but I stifle it. I don't want to perform for these two.

"What will you have, then, gentlemen?"

"Black coffee." The Asian man says, sucking air in through his teeth.

The second one is barely taller than me, and his hair is pulled into a tight braid. His expression is at odds with his face; grim determination doesn't suit him at all. "Milk tea, please." He shifts awkwardly on his feet.

"Please make yourself comfortable," I suggest, waving a hand in the direction of the booths.

"Best make yourself something too, Mr. Walker. I'm detective Park Seong-ho, and this is my assistant Howard Link, a junior detective. We have a few things to ask you."

Just what I need.

I am so screwed.

Tbc….
Thoughts?

Keep me in-the-know; I am a revisionist author. If you tell me what you want more of (or less of), chances are, I will try to include it. :big grin: Questions are good!