I’m nursing a lukewarm cuppa at this cracked little table in the corner of the café, minding my own, when in strolls this ginger plonker—posh as a duchess's poodle, all tailored coat and floppy fringe, waving his hands like he’s conducting a bloody orchestra. He’s chatting up some girl near the counter, voice all velvet and vowels, like we’re meant to be impressed by his Oxford education and trust fund swagger. Total weapon. One of those blokes who’s never done a hard day’s graft but thinks he’s worldly ‘cause he once got mugged in Naples.

  Anyway, he struts back out, and wouldn’t you know it, takes the seat right across from me. Legs crossed, coin purse practically singing from his jacket like it wants to be liberated. Now, I ain’t daft. If I’m gonna climb out of this pit I’m in, I need practice—grind the old Grifter system, yeah? Level up the hands, sharpen the instincts, stretch the hustle.

  So I clock the opportunity, and like any good tradesman, I reach for the right tool.

  Enter: the Bump and Spill. I fake a stumble as I pass, elbow his overpriced latte straight into his lap. Foam, froth, and toff trousers soaked right through. He’s flapping like a fish in a bowtie while I’m all apologies and napkins, playing the helpful idiot. And just like that, coin purse slides into my coat, his dignity takes a dive, and I ghost out the front with a smirk. Bit of mess, bit of flair. Pure finesse.

  As I stroll back out onto the polished pavements of posh-ville, I mutter under my breath to Jenifer—my little system AI—to check if that bump boosted my stats. Nothing. No skill-ups, no cheeky little tick in the Grifter system. Sod all. I ask her, mentally of course, and she pipes up in that crisp, calm voice she uses when I’m being thick: “Harry, to raise your levels you need to perform several more small cons so the system can calculate your potential, as your legacy data has not yet been used.” Brilliant. I’m being auditioned by a bloody spreadsheet.

  Fine. I pivot on my heel and head back toward the ginger toff. Time to play the good Samaritan. Truth is, you can’t con an honest man—but you can milk him for gratitude if you stage it just right. I start working my patter in my head. There’s a variant of the Spill my old man taught me—pretend to find the coin purse, hand it back with humble charm, and nine times out of ten, the mark forks over a thank-you. If your patter’s smooth, of course.

  I spot him ahead—face red, fumbling his pockets, café owner looming over him like a stormcloud. Can’t pay for his drink. Perfect. I stroll back in like I’ve got every intention of buying the finest scone in East London, then pause mid-step like I’ve spotted the Queen’s jewels on the floor. I crouch down, nice and casual, and come up holding the coin purse like I’ve just uncovered Excalibur in a Hackney café. “Excuse me, sir,” I say, all doe-eyed and honest, “is this yours?”

  He looks at me like I’ve just dragged him out of a burning building. Relief floods his posh little face as he snatches it back and says, “My good chap… thank you… thank you… one hundred times thank you…” All humble and stuttering like he’s never been on the wrong end of a near-beating before. He coughs up the cash for his tea, and the owner, still bristling, shrugs and disappears into the back. Then the moment I’ve been waiting for—he cracks open the coin purse, gives it the once-over, and looks up all dramatic-like. “How can I repay you?”

  Here we go, I think. Showtime.

  “Honestly, it was nothing. I didn’t do anything, really,” I say, channeling every charming rogue from every book I never read. But he’s itching to give me something—people always are, when there’s an audience. Then it hits me—coin’s easy. What I need is capital of a different kind.

  “Tell you what,” I say, “I’m new in town. Could use a mate. How about I get another pot of tea, and we have a chat?”

  He nods, grateful and curious. Hook set.

  I bring the pot over and sit down like we’ve known each other years. I pour the tea slow, the silence hanging thick, letting it build until he cracks first.

  “I say,” he starts, brushing scone crumbs off his finely embroidered tunic, “you’ve got the look of someone who doesn’t quite belong here. Not that it’s a bad thing, of course. Just, this district does tend to attract a… certain breed.”

  I flash him a smile, all charm and ease. “Bit of this, bit of that. Fresh start, change of scenery. You know how it is.” He nods like he’s seen this story a hundred times, though he hasn’t a clue.

  “Ah, yes. Reinvention. Very now. I did the same, you know. My family’s old blood—seats in the council, estates stretching across Seacrest City and beyond. Grew up between the city and the family’s coastal keep.

  Of course, the Merchants’ Guild was where I spent my formative years. Learned the value of a good deal. Not exactly first in line for the family’s title, but...” His smile falters, just for a moment. “Not that I don’t get my share of the family’s attention.”

  I raise an eyebrow, amused. “Right. Well, I’m looking to set up shop. Lay down some roots. Build something that lasts.” That lights a fire in his eyes. “Ah, splendid! Connections are everything, you see. Movers, shakers, all the right people. And lucky for you, I know all the right people. How about I walk you to the Mayor’s House? I’ll have a word, get you sorted.”

  I almost spill my tea. “The Mayor?”

  He grins with a wild gleam. “Trust me, mate. My name still carries weight around here—at least among those who know where to look. Come on, let's stir things up a bit. See what we can make happen.”

  The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

  We stroll down the cobbled streets, him jabbering on about this and that, and I play the part of the interested listener, all while my mind’s ticking away like a clockmaker on payday. A bit of delicate questioning here, a well-placed comment there, and I start piecing it together. Turns out, everyone in this township and realm on the whole got themselves a subset of the Grand system These sub-sets covers everything, apparently. Your status, your trades, your little slice of power, your career path. Charlie’s, well, his system’s all about merchants, deals, and shakin’ hands with the right people. Always one step ahead, using his connections to move coin and favours in ways you wouldn’t even think of.

  “So, mate,” he says, grinning like a fox with its tail caught in a henhouse, “what’s your system, then? What’s your angle?”

  I put on my best innocent look, scratch the back of my head. “Ah, well... banking, actually. Been looking into a bit of finance, y’know, handling large amounts of coin. Loans, investments, that sorta thing.”

  It’s not a complete lie. I will be dealing with a lot of coin—just not the legal sort. The system works, even if my version’s a little... unconventional. Charlie nods, clueless. Perfect.

  A short while later, we’re standing at the grand doors of the Mayor’s house, and Charlie’s still acting like he’s the bloody Duke of the place, swaggering in like he’s got the keys to the kingdom. I’ve got a hunch, though, that his act’s more for show than substance, but I’m not about to say anything just yet.

  Charlie knocks, and before I can even adjust my posture, the door opens. A butler—pale, stiff, all the mannerisms of someone who’s spent too many years in a dusty corridor—looks us both over like we’re some sort of test subjects. “Ah, Master Thornby,” he says, voice as flat as a board, “I presume you’re here to see the Mayor?”

  Charlie doesn’t even acknowledge the butler’s greeting. He just nods, like it’s a given, and walks right past him. Without waiting for an invitation, he strides into the office, acting like it’s his bloody living room. He picks out a chair at the desk, pulls it out with a flourish, and sits down, his arms casually resting on the back like he’s been holding court here for years.

  The butler stands frozen in the doorway, clearly unsure how to respond. I stay a few paces behind, just watching. This wasn’t exactly what I expected, but Charlie doesn’t seem fazed in the least.

  A man sits behind the desk, his long robes pooling on the floor like he’s been sitting there too long, and a massive gold chain hangs from his neck—flashy, but in that ‘I’m-too-important-for-you-to-ask-about-this’ kind of way. He looks at Charlie, then at me, his eyes narrowing as if he’s already sizing us up. Charlie, completely undeterred, doesn’t wait for a word. “Alright, mate,” he says, like he owns the place. “Let’s get down to business.”

  I stand by the door, quiet as a mouse, feeling the tension crawl up my spine. I can practically hear the clock ticking, waiting for something to go wrong. Charlie’s already talking, and I’m stuck in the middle of this gilded nightmare, taking in every detail of the Mayor’s office. The polished wood beams above, the intricate carvings, the tapestries that looked like they belonged in a museum, and the sheer opulence of it all—it’s everything I thought it’d be for the mayor of a place like Applewood. But none of it’s sinking in right now. Something tells me this isn’t going to go how Charlie expects.

  "Lord Mayor," Charlie begins, his voice oozing that forced charm he uses on everyone, "My associate Master..." He looks at me, clearly forgetting my name. “Sorry, what was your name again?”

  "Harry Block," I mutter, dumbfounded, barely keeping it together.

  "Ah, yes. My associate Master Block has recently moved into our fair town and is looking to set up shop. I was wondering if there’s any way we can forego the usual royal degrees and paperwork and aid my associate in his... umm... endeavors." Charlie trails off, like he's run out of words and just tossed whatever was left in the air.

  The Mayor shifts his gaze from me to Charlie, back to me. He’s sizing me up. “Property in Applewood?” he says confused “Not many folk ask for that these days.”

  I can feel his eyes taking in my attire—threadbare at best, which probably screamed "nobody" to him. But I’m not about to let that slide.

  "But yes, there is property available in the South Corner, near the docks," the Mayor adds, and I can feel my ears perk up. It’s the first lead I’ve gotten all day. That’s when Charlie opens his mouth.

  "The dockside end of Applewood, but that’s with the... common folk..." he says, his voice dripping with discomfort like he’s holding a dirty sock.

  I know where this is going. I can already feel Charlie fumbling the pass and screwing it up, so I cut in before he makes things worse.

  "Yes, Your Greatness, I am new to town, and I am hoping to settle down in your fine city. The properties near the docks—could you tell me more? I’m more than willing to pay the going rate, plus an additional fee as thanks."

  The Mayor’s eyes flick to me now, a slight shift in his posture, like he’s sizing me up properly. Maybe he’s realizing there’s more to me than the ragged clothes I’m wearing.

  "It’s a small holding, an old, disused tax collector’s office. Derelict now, but it has a yard and…”

  “I’ll take it,” I snap back, before either of them can say anything else. Both Charlie and the Mayor look stunned.

  The Mayor clears his throat, obviously trying to size up whether I can actually follow through. "It’ll cost you 100 gold coins for the lease and 10 for the month’s rent."

  "Done," I say, without hesitation. I reach for my coin purse, but just as my fingers graze it, I feel my system subtly tug at the coins inside. I almost feel the bag swell. No one sees it, not even Charlie, but the slight shift is enough to make my stomach do a little flip. I act like nothing happened and drop the coin purse on the desk, all eyes in the room locking onto it.

  The Mayor, curious now, pours out the contents of the purse. His eyes widen when he sees the hefty sum of coins inside, no doubt surprised at what looks like a fortune.

  “Well, Master Block,” he says, clearly trying to mask his shock, “consider it yours. And if you need anything else, don’t hesitate to call on me.”

  I nod, the deal sealed. A few more pleasantries exchanged, and Charlie and I make our way out. The door closes behind us, and I take a deep breath, feeling that old weight lift off my shoulders. Looks like I’ve finally got my bolt hole.

  Later that day, Charlie and I part ways, and I head off to Sally’s Inn, still buzzing from the deal I’d just sealed. My mind’s racing, but there’s a part of me that can’t quite believe my luck. I’ve got a bloody property now, and it’s mine. Proper. Not some hole in the wall, but a real place where I can sink my teeth in and get something started. As I sit down at a table, a representative from the Mayor’s office slides over to me, all official-like, handing over the keys and the deeds with a smug little nod.

  I glance down at the papers, and I can’t help but smile to myself. This is it. This is the start of something. I think I’ve finally managed to get a step ahead of the game.

  Sally comes over with my lunch, her eyes flicking to the deed in my hands. “Leaving us, are you?” she asks, her voice a bit too casual, like she already knows the answer.

  I shake my head. “Not quite yet. I get the feeling my new property’s gonna need a bit of work before it’s livable.” I lean in, lowering my voice a touch. “In fact, I was wondering if I could stay on a bit longer, at least until it’s sorted. I’ll pay for it, of course.”