(REGRESSION: CONSTANTINOPLE, 1475)

Eight-year-old Yusuf Tazim stood at the edge of the ferry, his wide eyes fixed on the sprawling port of Constantinople, filled with awe. His mouth hung open in amazement as he took in the bustling scene. The journey had already been one of wonder, traveling from his birthplace in Bursa, across vast waters he had never seen before. Until now, he had never ventured more than a mile from home.

His mother, Nalan, stood beside him, her hand resting gently on his slender shoulder, a smile on her lips.

"Do you see?" she asked softly. "I told you Constantinople had something Bursa couldn't offer."

It had been three nights ago when Nalan had come to him, tense but determined, announcing that they needed to leave Bursa immediately. It was sudden, unsettling, and Yusuf had resisted the idea of leaving. For as long as he could remember, it had been just him and his mother. His father, though a figure of mystery, had never been part of his life. Despite Yusuf's questions, all his mother would say was that his father hadn't left them by choice, and likely would never return. Yet she would always share stories—his father's laughter, his kindness, the warmth of his smile. "You're so much like him," she would tell Yusuf, her voice both filled with love and touched with a quiet sadness.

But today, there was no trace of sorrow in her eyes. Whatever had driven them to flee Bursa seemed left behind, forgotten.

"Are you glad we came, my little lion?" Nalan asked.

Yusuf glanced out at the grand buildings rising above the harbor, their colors vivid against the clear sky. His mother had told him Constantinople wasn't so far that they couldn't return to Bursa one day, if they wished. He didn't dwell on how or why they had left so abruptly—he preferred not to.

As the ship neared the dock, the sound of ropes slapping against the hull and workers scurrying to secure the vessel, Yusuf felt a surge of excitement. He nodded confidently.

"Yes," he said with a smile. "I am."


A voice cut through the haze of Emir's mind. It was a woman speaking—calm, composed, and measured. There was a hint of kindness in her tone, but it was distant, devoid of any real compassion. The more he tried to focus on the voice, the sharper the pain in his head became.

"This tells us nothing useful," she said. "We know he was a troublemaker as a child, but this is far too early for anything of significance."

"I wouldn't be so sure," a man responded, his voice precise and clipped. Dry, but with an edge of certainty. "Something noteworthy happened within his first year here."

Emir felt a growing dread. He didn't want to listen to this—somehow he knew it was dangerous, leading to something he wasn't ready for.

"Can you narrow it down to a specific date?"

"Yes, hold on... there, I've got it."


Bursa, the second largest city in the Ottoman Empire, had been no small place, so the sight of Constantinople—Konstantinyye, or Istanbul, as it was now called—did not overwhelm the boy as it might have had he grown up in a remote village. He was no stranger to navigating busy streets, slipping through alleyways, and exploring tunnels, even those his mother would rather not know he visited. Yet, while Bursa had been lively and vast, Istanbul was the capital of the empire, and it offered far more.

The city was a thriving hub of commerce and activity, where merchants, sailors, travelers, innkeepers, mercenaries, soldiers, and beggars all converged in a vibrant, noisy tapestry of life. The streets were filled with the sounds of different languages, the smell of exotic spices, and the sight of people from every corner of the world. Here, people of all walks of life, all cultures, and all religions were not just welcome—they were encouraged to make the city their own.

Yusuf had always believed his mother made the best sweets anyone could ever taste. In Bursa, where she worked at the market, her kemalpasa—a dessert made from unsalted sheep's cheese, flour, eggs, and butter, rolled into walnut-sized balls and cooked in lemon syrup—was unmatched. So, it came as no surprise to him when a local vendor, a jovial and rotund man named Bekir bin Salih, hired her after just one bite.

Yusuf's duties in Istanbul were much like they had been in Bursa—helping his mother gather ingredients for the kemalpasa, drawing customers to their stall, and delivering bundles of the treats wrapped in cloth to various patrons across the city. But, being the curious boy he was, Yusuf often chose unconventional routes, preferring to go over or under the city rather than through it.

On one of these adventures, while perched on a rooftop to get a breathtaking view of the bustling metropolis, he noticed something peculiar. Certain rooftops had poles with ropes stretched between them, connecting higher buildings to lower ones. At first, he thought they might be used for drying clothes or hanging banners. But these ropes were thick, sturdy, and far more solid than necessary for laundry.

Curiosity piqued, Yusuf tested one of the ropes. It easily supported his weight as he carefully moved hand over hand from one rooftop to another. Who had set them up? What purpose did they serve? He wondered about it each time he glanced at the city's skyline.

But there was a more pressing issue than the mystery of the rooftop ropes. As the months passed, Yusuf began to notice that although his mother managed to keep them fed, the money she earned didn't seem to go as far as it had in Bursa. The coins she brought home were fewer, and the cost of living in Istanbul was much higher. The ingredients for her kemalpasa were more expensive, and finding the right cheese was a constant struggle. Meanwhile, Yusuf had outgrown the clothes they had brought with them, and replacing them was an expense they simply couldn't afford.

Despite his growth spurt, Yusuf remained small for his age and thin as a reed, allowing him to move swiftly and unnoticed through the bustling crowds of the Grand Bazaar and other busy parts of the city. Many careless people carried their money loosely, tucked in their sleeves or tied in small pouches with leather laces—easy enough for a quick hand to cut and snatch.

Each night, Yusuf would return home with a handful of coins. He told his mother they were "earned" from performing acrobatics to draw attention to Bekir's stall, or that "generous" customers had tipped him for his speedy deliveries. In truth, the coins had come from his nimble fingers, quietly lifted from those who never even noticed what they'd lost.

Initially, his mother was pleased and praised him for bringing in extra money. But as it became a more frequent occurrence, her concern grew. One night, she asked him, "Yusuf, tell me honestly… you haven't been hurting anyone to get these, have you?"

Yusuf felt a wave of relief at her careful wording, which allowed him to evade the real issue while still answering truthfully. "I would never hurt anyone for money, Mama!" he replied.

She seemed satisfied with his answer and didn't press him further, trusting his words without delving deeper into the matter.

One night, as the Bazaar glowed with torches and musicians played nagaras and plucked sazes for coins, Yusuf wove his way through the crowd. He positioned himself next to a tall woman in a vibrant, intricately crafted kaftan and ferace—clearly a person of wealth. One hand, soft and unused to hard work, clutched the hand of a small child, no more than three or four years old. The woman cradled a baby in her other arm. The older child's eyes sparkled with excitement as she stamped her feet and jumped up and down, her mother's face alight with joy as she matched her daughter's playful movements.

The woman's distraction made her an ideal target. Yusuf took advantage of the moment, swiftly slipping his hand into her purse with the precision of a whisper. The purse felt surprisingly heavy as he tucked it into his shirt and slipped to the edge of the crowd. A quick sprint led him out of the bustling main street and into a quieter side alley. There, he paused to check his prize.

Though the alley was dim, Yusuf had mastered the art of identifying coins by touch and size. His grin widened as he felt the weight of the pouch—it was enough to last him for weeks! Just as he began to put the purse back into his shirt, a shadowy figure sprang at him.

The figure was a blur in the darkness, moving with a speed that seemed impossible for a human. Its laughter echoed through the alley, a chilling sound that sent shivers down Yusuf's spine. The figure landed lightly on its feet, its eyes glowing with an eerie, unnatural light.

"Well, well, well," it said in a voice that was both playful and menacing. "Looks like someone's found a treasure trove."

A young woman, dressed in a colorful, clown-like outfit, emerged from the shadows. Her face was painted with exaggerated, whimsical features, and her hair was a chaotic mess of vibrant hues. Despite her appearance, there was a mischievous glint in her eyes that seemed to promise both danger and amusement.

Yusuf's heart pounded in his chest. He had never encountered anyone quite like this woman before. She was both frightening and strangely alluring.

"Who are you?" he managed to ask, his voice trembling slightly.

The woman chuckled, her laughter a tinkling bell. "Oh, me? I'm Clownpiece, the most mischievous clown in all of Constantinople. And it seems you've stumbled upon my little game."

She reached out a hand and snatched the purse from Yusuf. He tried to resist, but her strength was surprising. She tossed the purse into the air, caught it with one hand, and examined its contents.

"Quite a haul, indeed," she said, her eyes sparkling with amusement. "I must say, you're quite skilled for such a young lad."

Yusuf felt a mixture of fear and admiration. He had never been confronted by someone so bold and unpredictable.

"Give it back," he demanded, his voice rising.

Clownpiece, who had been watching him with a knowing smirk, tilted her head. "Why should I? because it's not your money, is it?" she replied, her voice a playful lilt.

Yusuf had no response to that. It wasn't his money. But... "I give it to my mother," he said quietly. "We need it."

Clownpiece's eyes widened in mock surprise. "Oh, you're such a good boy! A little thief with a heart of gold. How heartwarming!" she exclaimed, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

"What about the woman watching the dancing didn't?" she sasked, her tone turning more serious. "Her children didn't?"

"She looked like she could spare some coins," Yusuf answered, somewhat defensively, as he recalled her well-made, attractive clothes.

Clownpiece's eyes narrowed. "Just like you, Selime's children have no father. I don't know what happened to yours, but I know what happened to theirs. He was violent and cruel to them, and Selime fled in the night to escape. You took everything she had. You could see her fine clothes, but not the bruises on her face, eh?"

Clownpiece leaned in closer, her voice low and menacing. "You think you're clever, stealing from the poor to help your own family. But you're just another thief, no better than the ones you despise."

Shame washed over Yusuf, and his face flushed with heat. The purse was unusually heavy—more so than he expected. Typically, those who ventured into the market didn't carry such substantial sums, as theft was a common risk.

"I suppose you want me to give you the money I took from her. But how do I know you're not lying?"

Clownpiece laughed, her eyes sparkling with amusement. "Oh, you're so cautious," she said, twirling her baton in her hand. "I could tell you I'm a benevolent fairy who's here to teach you a valuable lesson, but that would be too boring. Let's just say I'm a woman of my word."

She paused for a moment, then added, with a mischievous grin, "And if you don't believe me, feel free to try and run away. I'm sure I could catch you before you even get to the end of the alley."

Yusuf hesitated. He knew that resisting would be futile, and he didn't want to put himself in any more danger. Reluctantly, he handed the purse over to Clownpiece.

As she examined the contents, a satisfied smirk spread across her face. "Excellent choice," she said. "You have a good eye for the finer things in life. But you know, there's so much more you could learn."

Yusuf's eyes widened. "What do you mean?"

Clownpiece leaned in closer. "I could teach you the art of the steal," she said, her voice low and mysterious. "How to pick locks, how to distract your targets, how to blend in with a crowd. And most importantly, how to choose your victims wisely."

Yusuf was intrigued. He had always been good at picking pockets, but he knew there was so much more to learn. "I'm in," he said, his voice filled with excitement.

Clownpiece smiled, a mischievous glint in her eye. "Good choice," she replied. "We'll start with the basics. And remember, always choose your targets carefully. Some people are worth stealing from, while others... well, let's just say they're not. But don't worry, I'll teach you how to spot the suckers from a mile away."


"Cross-reference Clownpeice with our database," the soft, modulated female voice instructed.

"Nothing," came the response. "No ties to the Assassins, at least none that we can determine."

"How strange. I had thought that, given the significance of this memory, it might be the moment Yusuf was recruited."

"Too young at age eight for formal recruitment, I suppose."

"Perhaps so. Still, this has been enlightening. What's the next date?"

"April 23, 1480."


(REGRESSION: CONSTANTINOPLE, 1480)

It was the bayram of Hidirellez, the festival marking the arrival of spring and summer, and the entire city of Istanbul was alive with joy. Although the festival specifically celebrated the meeting of two prophets, Hizir and Ilyas, people from all walks of life found reasons to join in the festivities. Hidirellez was a time for making wishes, letting go of the old, and welcoming new beginnings. The city was filled with celebrations, good health, fortune, and an abundance of food, dancing, and music.

Nalan was busier than ever, working tirelessly to prepare enough kemalpasa for the throngs of revelers who filled the Bazaar. Bekir bin Salih, the affable vendor who managed several stalls in the Bazaar, beamed with satisfaction at the bustling turnout. For once, Yusuf was occupied with legitimate deliveries and had no time to indulge in his usual thievery. The festive atmosphere had even managed to keep him from considering it.

The festivities continued late into the night. By the time the last revelers stumbled home, their bellies full and their spirits buoyed by alcohol, it was the small hours. When Yusuf and his mother finally retired to their modest lodgings, she surprised him by placing a cloth-wrapped bundle on the small table between them.

"Today is a day for wishes and new beginnings," she said softly. "Your father had a wish for you... when you were ready. I think that time has come."

Yusuf's heart skipped a beat. He sat down on the lone bench, his gaze fixed eagerly on the mysterious bundle. "A wish… what was it, Mother?"

"That I tell you what I can about him, without breaking any oaths he made. And that I give you something that once belonged to him."

Yusuf trembled with anticipation, hanging on every word. "What did he do, Mother?"

She hesitated, her dark eyes reflecting the flickering candlelight as she grappled with what to reveal. "I've always prepared kemalpasa and sold it, just as I do now. Your father helped me, but he did more than that."

Her eyes were fixed on the candle flame, clearly torn between the desire to share more and the need to keep some secrets. Yusuf, unable to contain his impatience, pulled at his hair in mock frustration. "Mama, I'm going to go gray with anticipation! Tell me before I age another year!"

She laughed and, sitting beside him, affectionately ruffled his hair. "You're barely thirteen, still my little boy in many ways. But," she added as he rolled his eyes, "not in so many others."

"You were saying he did other things," Yusuf prompted.

"He was no friend to the Ottomans or to those who seek to control and dominate others." She gave him a sly smile. "My sweet little lion, do you think I don't know what you do when you're out of my sight?"

Yusuf's face paled. How did she…?

"You couldn't possibly earn what you do just from deliveries or entertaining customers. I've seen you with Davud and the others. You explore, climb, and run across rooftops. You give what you can to those in need, just as your father did."

"What happened to him, Mama?"

She looked away, focusing on the dancing flames. "He is dead, Yusuf. I have only a few things that were returned to me—" she cut herself off, shaking her head. "I say too much. But these things are yours now, since you're old enough to have them. You're not a little boy anymore."

Yusuf's pride was momentarily stung, but it was quickly overshadowed by the pride and sorrow etched on his mother's strong, beautiful face. He accepted the bundle, feeling the weight of the teal-colored silk cloth.

"Be careful as you unwrap it," his mother warned.

"Why, is there a scorpion or a viper inside?"

"No… but it might still bite you."

He turned back the final fold of cloth and stared at what was revealed. It was a bracer or gauntlet of some sort, with exquisite leatherwork. As he picked it up carefully, he noticed something attached to the underside.

"What is this?"

"Your father called it a hookblade," his mother explained. "There's a mechanism in it that—"

Before she could finish, a sharp metal piece shot out from the end of the gauntlet.

"Ah, I see you found it," she said wryly. "There's a hook and a simple blade as well."

"How do I use it?"

Nalan's smile faded. "I never saw it in use. You know as much as I do now. But… I think you were meant to learn more."

Yusuf looked at her, questions in his dark gray eyes. Her own glistened with unshed tears.

"I was selfish," she said, her voice thick with emotion. "I hoped you would be content to live an ordinary life with me, and perhaps one day with a wife and children. I knew who and what your father was when we married, and I cannot love you without acknowledging the parts of him I see in you. You were never meant to stay with me, selling kemalpasa in the Bazaar, any more than he was. Go, and discover your father's legacy, my beloved son who is now a man."

Yusuf wanted to promise her he would be safe, that he wouldn't add to the grief she had already borne. But he couldn't lie to her. The call of the night, the allure of the dark alleys, and the faces of those he helped—and those he had harmed—were too compelling.

So, he did the best he could to be a dutiful son. He rose and embraced her, realizing that over the past year he had grown taller than her. Holding her tightly, he whispered in her ear, "I will be wise."

It was the best reassurance he could offer. The night called to him, and he was eager to answer.

And...show off to Clownpeice.

As Yusuf swung across the rooftop, his heart pounding in his chest, Clownpiece watched with a mixture of awe and excitement. She had never seen anything like it. The hookblade, in the hands of such a skilled and daring young man, was a marvel of engineering and ingenuity.

When Yusuf landed safely on the other roof, Clownpiece clapped her hands. "Bravo!" she exclaimed. "That was incredible!"

Yusuf grinned. "It's like flying," he said, his voice filled with exhilaration.

"You're a natural," Clownpiece replied. "I can see why your father gave you this tool. He knew you were special."

Yusuf's eyes filled with a mix of pride and sadness. He missed his father, a man he had never truly known. But in this moment, he felt a profound connection to him.

"I want to make him proud," Yusuf said, his voice barely a whisper.

Clownpiece placed a hand on his shoulder. "You already are," she replied. "You're carrying on his legacy, his fight for freedom. And you're doing it in your own way."

Yusuf smiled, grateful for Clownpiece's words of encouragement.


"This is quite unusual," the woman remarked as Emir drifted between his present and Yusuf's past. "He's using an Assassin's weapon with remarkable efficiency at just thirteen, and with no apparent training."

"It's noteworthy," agreed her colleague. "This weapon, along with the little gang he's involved with, appears crucial to his future path."

"And his future path has significant implications for one of the most important Assassins we know of, Ezio Auditore," she mused. "Is there anything else we need to see before we move on to their first encounter?"

"There does appear to be something significant about two years from now," he replied. "Let me pull up the exact date."


(REGRESSION: CONSTANTINOPLE, 1482)

Yusuf stumbled through the narrow, dimly lit streets, his heart pounding in his chest. His breath came in ragged gasps as if the weight of what had happened still clung to him like a shroud. Every step felt heavier, and the sound of his hurried footsteps echoed unnervingly in the empty alleys. He couldn't shake the feeling that something was following him—something far worse than the shadows cast by the dim lanterns.

His fingers tightened around the hook blade, slick with sweat. The tool had saved him, allowing him to escape, but it offered no comfort now. He replayed the moment over and over in his mind—the door swinging open, the muffled sound of a struggle behind him. He had moved fast, faster than anyone else could have. But speed didn't erase the cold truth of what had happened. He had left, and the silence that followed was heavier than any blade.

Yusuf leaned against a crumbling stone wall, the cold pressing through his thin tunic, but it did nothing to numb the rising tide of guilt. The Baazar lay ahead, eerily quiet at this hour. The very place they had hoped to help seemed like a distant dream now. The plan was simple—take enough from the house to give back to those who had lost everything, those forced to leave because of the relentless greed of the new owner. But it had all gone wrong.

A sharp, metallic taste lingered in his mouth, and he swallowed hard. There was no going back to that night, no undoing the events that had unfolded. The foreign merchant's voice still haunted him, the way he had spoken so casually of Templars and Assassins. Yusuf didn't fully understand, but there had been something ominous in the merchant's tone, something that made his skin crawl. And then there was the ring—the red cross etched into it like a brand of authority.

Yusuf exhaled shakily, forcing himself to breathe. He wasn't sure what the words meant, or why they had been spoken, but that symbol… the cross… it was burned into his mind now. He couldn't forget it, nor the weight it carried.

As Yusuf leaned against the cold wall, still catching his breath, he heard the faint clink of metal behind him, a sound too deliberate to be mistaken for the usual nighttime noises of the Baazar. He tensed for a moment, but quickly relaxed when a familiar voice rang out.

"Still skulking around like a shadow, huh?"

Yusuf didn't turn around. He didn't need to. He knew who it was. Her playful tone cut through the tension like a knife, and though the weight in his chest didn't ease, there was something strangely grounding about her presence.

"You're late," Yusuf muttered, trying to sound casual but failing. His voice cracked at the edges, still thick with everything that had happened.

"I thought you liked it when I made a dramatic entrance," she teased, coming to stand beside him. There was always a lightness in her words, like nothing in the world could weigh her down.

But Yusuf wasn't in the mood for banter. He clenched his jaw, the hook blade still tight in his grip. "Not tonight."

She must have sensed the shift in him. There was a pause, and the air grew more somber as she glanced at him. "Something happened, didn't it?"

Yusuf didn't answer immediately. Instead, he stared down the darkened street, lost in the swirl of his thoughts. Finally, he exhaled sharply. "Yeah. Something."

The silence stretched between them, heavy and uncomfortable. Clownpiece never pried, but her presence was enough to remind him that the world wasn't completely empty, even if it felt like it tonight. Finally, he spoke again, his voice quieter now. "He's gone."

There was no need to elaborate. She nodded slowly, her usual carefree attitude subdued. For once, she didn't joke, didn't try to lighten the mood. She simply stood there, keeping him company in the stillness of the Baazar's quiet night.