That not so important character turned out to be important

The dim, yellow glow of candlelight illuminated the rough stone walls, casting flickering shadows across the room. Smoke curled lazily toward the ceiling, mingling with the scent of cheap whiskey and stale sweat. It wasn't just any gambling den—it was a nerve center, a place where deals were struck, debts were paid, and grudges were settled. The stakes were always high, but tonight, something felt off.

A group of men sat around a battered table, their faces masked by false smiles. The tension hung in the air, coiling tighter with each passing second. In the center, a man known only as Vance, leaned back in a chair, shuffling a deck of cards. His every move was slow, deliberate, oozing confidence. His gaze, sharp and calculating, never left the approaching knight.

Vance flicked a card onto the table without looking. "What's the rush, Gareth?" His voice was smooth, almost bored, but there was an edge to it. He adjusted the cards with one hand while his other toyed with a slim cigar. "You're sweating like someone caught cheating."

The knight, Gareth, shifted uncomfortably in his armor. He was a solid man, usually unshakable, but tonight something gnawed at him. He took a deep breath. "It's Jim. He hasn't come back. Sent him to the mansion this morning. Past midnight now—nothing. The lookout's gone too."

The table fell silent. Cards stopped mid-shuffle. Dice froze in palms. Even the low hum of whispered conversations from the other side of the room seemed to dull.

Vance raised an eyebrow, his lips curling into a smirk. "Jim, huh? And the watchdog?" He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. "Tell me, Gareth, are we talking about Jim the loudmouth? The one who swore he could scare a kid?"

"Yes," Gareth admitted, his voice low. "Same Jim."

Vance exhaled a slow stream of smoke. "Well, that's disappointing. Thought he'd at least rattle the kid's cage a bit. Now you're telling me he's vanished?" He laughed, a short, cold sound. "What, the brat's hiding a dragon in that mansion?"

Another man at the table, Marcus, a burly enforcer with a scar running from his temple to his jawline, chuckled. "Maybe Jim just found a soft bed and a bottle. You know how he is." The men at the table laughed, but it was forced.

Gareth's face remained grim. "Not this time. Something's wrong."

Vance's smirk faded. His eyes, cold and calculating, locked onto Gareth's. "Wrong? It's a kid and a washed-up mercenary. What's the worst they could do? Throw stones?"

"It's not just that," Gareth pressed. "The place... it's quiet. Too quiet."

Vance tapped the table with his fingers, the soft rhythm filling the space between words. "Quiet, huh?" He stood suddenly, tossing the deck of cards aside. "Fine. No more guessing games. Marcus, round up a crew. Ten men. Make sure they're the useful kind, not the type that fold under pressure."

Marcus nodded, already rising from his chair. "On it. Job will be done by tomorrow "

As Marcus moved toward the back room, Vance turned to Gareth, his tone more conversational. "You know," he began, "I was supposed to visit Rosie tonight. She's got this new shipment of lilies. White ones. Said they're the best she's had in years. You ever see her smile when she talks about flowers?"

Gareth blinked, caught off guard. "Uh... can't say I have."

"You're missing out." Vance's eyes softened for a fleeting moment. "She runs that flower shop like it's her world. Doesn't even know about all... this." He gestured around the room, his voice almost wistful. "I keep it that way. Flowers and sunshine, Gareth. That's her life. Not this."

The softness evaporated as quickly as it came. Vance's eyes hardened. "But me? I deal with the dirt so she doesn't have to. And right now, that dirt includes a little kid who thinks he can play games with my people."

Gareth nodded. He knew better than to comment when Vance was like this.

"Listen," Vance continued, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "I don't care if the kid's got a goddamn army hiding in the walls. You go in, you scare him, and you bring him to me. Alive, preferably. But if he makes it difficult?" Vance smiled, but there was no warmth in it."Remind him what happens when you mess with the wrong people."

The cool night air was sharp against Shaun's skin as he stepped out of the mansion, his footsteps light against the cobblestone path. He carried nothing but a small satchel slung over his shoulder, holding a handful of carefully prepared wooden boxes. No guards accompanied him. No allies watched his back. Just him, a dagger at his thigh and a belt loosely draped at his side.

"No cloak, no armor, no weapons except this. Just me, a bunch of boxes, and a town that smells like a sewer." He wrinkled his nose. "No wonder it's a breeding ground for problems."

The streets were silent, save for the occasional creak of shutters or the distant bark of a dog. The town slept, blissfully unaware of the chaos about to unfold.

Shaun's feet carried him to the heart of the town, where the bazaar stood empty in the moonlight. Among the shadowed stalls and shuttered shops, one small flower shop still flickered with light. He pushed open the door, triggering a soft jingle.

A tired but pleasant-looking woman appeared from behind the counter, her face softening into a smile. "Good evening, sire. Flowers at this hour? A special occasion?"

Shaun nodded, returning a polite grin. "Yes. Visiting a relative. Need something for a warm welcome. Any recommendations?"

Her face lit up. "Ah, let me show you some arrangements."

As she turned, Shaun moved quickly. With precise, fluid motions, he slipped a small box from his satchel, tucking it behind a stack of pots near the entrance. Another box found its way onto a low shelf, hidden among vases. His hands were steady, his movements quiet.

The woman returned with a vibrant bouquet, oblivious to his actions. Shaun paid her, gathered the flowers, and stepped back into the night.

His work had only just begun. Shaun walked the length of the town, methodically placing boxes in strategic locations. Each box was small, unassuming—but packed with enough force to cause the damage he intended. Several were hidden in the bazaar, tucked behind crates and stalls. In residential streets, he placed them discreetly in corners and alleyways, close enough to create havoc but far enough to ensure no one would be harmed.

When he arrived at the church, town hall, and local court, he added flowers to the boxes, crafting a scene that felt deliberate yet disarming. A parting gift, so to speak. . The only place he avoided was the gambling house. He had different plans for that one.

Back at the mansion, Shaun stood on the balcony, staring out over the town. The faint outlines of his work were visible in the moonlight. Midnight was near, and the town was quiet. He held a small clock. "It's about time."

The moment the clock hit at the witching hour, a series of controlled explosions rippled through the town. Flames erupted, consuming the targeted areas. The quiet town was suddenly alive with shouts, bells, and the panicked rush of feet. Smoke rose in thick plumes, painting the night sky in shades of red and black. The fire spread fast, but not recklessly. Shaun had ensured it would cause destruction—but not death.

The crew stood still, eyes fixed on the flames that flickered ominously in the distance, their minds racing but their mouths silent. The night air was thick with the acrid scent of smoke, the world outside a chaotic blur of fire and confusion. It was clear this wasn't some random act of violence—it was deliberate, a calculated move. But who was behind it? The question hung heavy in the air, unanswered.

Vance's brow furrowed, his hands balled into fists at his sides. He wasn't paying attention to the speculations swirling around him; his mind was elsewhere, fixated on one thought. Rosie. His girlfriend, the woman who ran the flower shop Shaun had recently visited, was out there. With the streets burning and the world unraveling, he couldn't shake the fear that she might be caught in the chaos.

"Some gang did this, no doubt," Gareth muttered, his voice low as he stared at the flickering lights of the flames in the distance. "It's got their fingerprints all over it."

Vance barely heard him. His mind raced with images of Rosie, alone in the shop, or worse, caught in the madness of whatever faction was behind this attack. He couldn't focus on the gangs, the power plays, or the shifting alliances. All he could think about was her.

"Could be another faction too," Marcus added, rubbing the back of his neck. "Seems too big for just some street punks. This feels like a power play between two groups."

Vance nodded absentmindedly, but he didn't really care. Gang wars, faction rivalries—it didn't matter to him. What mattered was Rosie. The rest of it was just noise.

"She'll be fine," Gareth said, though he wasn't looking at Vance. His eyes were still on the fires, but there was a slight edge to his voice. "She's got her ways of handling herself."

Vance wasn't convinced. The fear gnawed at him, worse than any street fight or gang turf war. The thought of Rosie's shop in ruins, or worse, her caught in the crossfire, was unbearable.

"She'll be fine when I get to her," Vance said quietly, almost to himself.

The crew continued to speculate, their voices blending together into a low hum of meaningless chatter. But Vance's mind remained fixed on Rosie. He couldn't stand there any longer, doing nothing, while she might be in danger.

"I don't care who did it," Vance finally said, his voice sharp as he turned toward the crew, trying to focus. "We need to figure out who's responsible and why. But right now, I need to check on Rosie."

Gareth gave a short nod, but the others didn't seem as concerned. To them, this was just another incident to deal with in a town full of unrest. They didn't care about the flower shop or Rosie—just the power moves of other gangs and factions.

"Let's move out," Marcus said, his tone detached, as if this was just another job. "Whoever's behind this, we'll find them. No one's making a play without us knowing about it."

Vance didn't reply immediately. He simply nodded, but his thoughts were elsewhere. He needed to get to Rosie. She was the only thing that mattered right now. As the crew began to disperse and gather their things, Vance felt a cold knot in his stomach. He couldn't ignore the fear, the worry that something had happened to her while he was standing here, doing nothing.

He didn't care who started the fire, which faction made the first move, or what gang was behind it. All he cared about was getting to her, making sure she was safe. Because no one else would.

From his perch, he watched it all unfold with a cold, detached expression. "So, what did I just do?" he murmured, leaning against the stone railing, the heat of the distant fires warming his face. "In my previous life, I worked for a certain government agency. Picked up a few things. Stuff that wasn't exactly part of the curriculum." A smirk tugged at his lips. "Tonight, I put those lessons to good use." He turned, casting one last glance at the chaos below. "It's not about fighting fair. It's about survival."

"I made sure those explosives leave marks identical to the Gafnar Knights. It wasn't easy, especially doing it alone with the limited time I had. But I pulled it off," he muttered to himself, the satisfaction in his voice thinly veiled beneath the weight of the situation.

The marks would be unmistakable. Anyone who found the aftermath would know exactly who to blame.

"I've included every sign I could get from Jim, every little detail. It's all in place now. No going back,"

With that, Shaun stepped back inside, closing the door behind him. "now Let's see how does it go."