The next mornin’ comes slower than a drunk crawl home from a dodgy boozer. I wake up feelin’ like I’d actually slept proper for once — no hard floor, no concrete pillow, just warm sheets and a mattress that didn’t fight back. Bit of sun bleeds in through the window, bathin’ the room in that soft, golden light you see in postcards and never in real life. I stretch, crack my neck, and throw on the same clobber from yesterday. Still smells a bit like dock smoke and street grime, but it’ll do.

  I wander downstairs and the inn’s got a whole different feel in the daylight. Where last night it was all candlelit coziness, this mornin’ it’s alive in a gentle, homey sort of way. Wooden beams catch the sunlight, the hearth’s still glowin’ faintly, and there’s a smell in the air that could resurrect the dead — fresh bread, fried eggs, and somethin’ sweet, like honey or jam.

  Sally spots me the second I hit the bottom step. “Mornin’, love,” she says, all warmth and motherly smiles. “You sit yourself down, I’ll bring you some breakfast in just a tick.”

  I give her a nod and pick a seat near the window. Few other punters already dot the place — an older bloke readin’ what passes for a paper here, a couple chattin’ low over mugs of somethin’ hot, and a younger lad starin’ off like he’s still half asleep. All of ’em waitin’ for brekkie, the universal unifier. Everyone looks like they belong, like this is just another Thursday to ’em. And me? I still feel like a tourist in a film set. But for the moment, with the smell of fryin’ sausages and Sally hummin’ to herself in the back, I could almost pretend this was home….well I guess it is, isn't it?

  Not long after, Sally comes glidin’ over, tray in hand like she’s runnin’ a five-star gaff. “Here we are, love,” she says with that warm-as-toast smile. She sets the tray down in front of me — two fried eggs lookin’ sunny side up and smug about it, fat sausages smellin’ like heaven, a pile of golden tatties, a doorstop of fresh bread, and a pot of what looked like jam that probably had berries in it I couldn’t even name. Topped off with a little ceramic pot and two mugs. “Brew’s still piping, so careful with that tongue.”

  “Blimey,” I mutter, starin’ at the spread like it owed me money. “You don’t mess about, Sal.”

  She gives a little chuckle, wipin’ her hands on her apron. “Can’t have you wasting away on me, now can I? So, what’s the plan today then, sweetheart?”

  I lean back a bit, reachin’ for a mug. “Figured I’d play tourist for the day. Stretch me legs, get the lay of the land. You know… see what this strange little world’s got to offer. Anywhere you’d recommend?”

  She lights up at that, proper pleased. “Oh, I do like that idea. If you head north through the square and over the little stone bridge, there’s the market lane — full of curiosities. And if you follow it to the end, you’ll find the old chapel ruins. Lovely spot for thinkin’.”

  “Cheers, Sal,” I say, raisin’ my mug in her direction. “Sounds just the ticket.”

  She smiles, eyes soft. “Enjoy your day, love. And don’t be afraid to ask if you get turned ‘round. Folk here might look odd, but most of ’em’ve got hearts bigger than their boots.”

  I take a bite of the sausage — juicy, spiced just right — and lean in a touch, real casual-like. “This market lane,” I say, between chews, “sounds proper interestin’. But tell me somethin’, Sal — who runs this place, anyway? Town like this must have someone at the top, callin’ the shots, yeah?”

  Sally eyes me for a moment, not suspicious, just curious, like a mum sussin’ out if her kid’s up to mischief or just askin’ questions 'cause he’s bored. “Oh, you mean the Mayor?” she says, pourin’ herself a splash of tea from the pot. “That’d be Mister Alric. He’s the Mayor, more or less. Got himself a townhouse over on the East Side — you know, where the cobbles are clean and the windows don’t have cracks. Proper posh over there.”

  I nod, casual, sippin’ my tea like I’m just making polite chit-chat. “East Side, eh? Fancy. I take it that’s where all the silk-wearin’ types and coin-heavy gents hang about?”

  She chuckles. “That’s about right. Place smells more like perfume than people. Alric’s alright though, for someone with polished boots and a stick up his arse. Keeps the peace, doesn’t mess too much with folk like us.”

  I file that away — posh side of town, wealthy types, and a Mayor who likes things in order. Could be useful. Could be dangerous too.

  “And what about places to wet me whistle?” I ask, still playin’ it light. “Any taverns worth their salt ‘round here?”

  Sally lights up. “Well, other than us — and we serve a damn fine ale, thank you very much — there’s the Hollow Tankard near the south gate.

  Bit rough, but the music’s lively and no one minds if you get a little loud. Then there’s the Ox and Ember, over near the East. Posh, polished, and overpriced — but if you’re lookin’ to rub elbows with the well-to-do, that’s your place.”

  “Cheers, Sal,” I say, raising my cup. “You’re a gem.”

  She gives me a playful tap on the shoulder. “Just don’t go causin’ any grief, love. This town may seem quiet, but it remembers faces.”.....Noted.

  I polish off the last bite of sausage, mop up the egg yolk with a hunk of that fresh bread, and wash it down with the rest of the tea — proper breakfast, that. Sets a man up right. But while my belly’s sorted, my brain’s still doin’ laps. I need more than hot meals and a friendly smile. I need a roof — one with my name on the door — and some kind of coin flow. Can’t keep nickin’ purses forever… well, I could, but even I know that kind of luck don’t last. One wrong move and it's back to square one, or worse — behind bars, or in a box.

  Sally’s busy with another guest — an old codger who looks like he was born in a bad mood and just never left — so I bide my time, lean back, and let the plans play out in my head like hands at a card table. I’m thinkin’ maybe this whole fresh start business ain’t such a daft idea after all. No record. No ghosts from the past. Just me and whatever this world’s got to offer.

  Once she’s done sortin’ out Old Man Misery, I catch her eye and give her a nod and a cheeky little wink.

  She makes her way over with that usual warm grin. “You alright, love? Need anything else?”

  “Yeah,” I say, scratchin’ the back of my neck, real casual. “I was wonderin’… how’s a bloke go about gettin’ a Horse’s Hoof of his own round here?”

  She blinks. “A what?”

  “Horse’s Hoof. Roof. A place to kip, yeah?”

  Her eyes light up as she laughs, hand to her chest. “Oh! Roof, right. You do have a way with words, sweetheart.”

  I grin. “Not lookin’ to rent, neither. I’m in no rush — just wanna see if it’s possible.”

  Sally gives me a curious little smile, one eyebrow raised like she’s about to make me a deal I didn’t see comin’. “Alright,” she says, arms crossed playfully. “I’ll answer your question — but only if you answer one of mine first.”

  I lean back, eyebrows archin’. “Go on then, fire away.”

  She tilts her head. “Who are you, really? I mean, where you from? Who were your mum and dad?”

  I wasn’t expecting that. Most folks usually ask what you do, not where you’re from. I hesitate, scratch my chin, then shrug. “Well, my dad… he was a baker, worked hard every day, always had a loaf in the oven and a smile for anyone who passed by. Not much of a story there, really. Just a bloke who did his job well.” I chuckle, the warmth of the memory washing over me. “Mum, on the other hand — Jenny. She was the one with the heart, always looking out for people, making sure they had a good meal. Not much more to it than that.”

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  The moment the name leaves my lips — Jenny Block — something shifts, a cold, sharp jolt runs through me. Then it hits.

  [System identified bloodline trigger: Jennifer Block — legacy recognised.]

  [Would you like to explore the system? Yes or No, or skip till later?]

  It’s there, floating in front of my eyes, clear and sharp, like a cold breath in the dead of night. I blink, trying to shake it off, but it stays, flickering. My heart skips, and I feel something odd stirring, something I don’t quite understand.

  I mentally think [skip], and just like that, the text vanishes.

  I try to shake it off, acting like nothing happened, but it’s hard to ignore the strange weight sitting in my chest. Sally’s voice filters back in, catching the tail end of the conversation. “...and after my husband passed, I just couldn’t bring myself to leave this place. So, I took it on. Kept it running, made it mine.” She smiles softly, her eyes a little distant. “It’s been hard, but... it’s home now.”

  I give her a nod, trying to keep my focus, even though my mind keeps wandering back to that damn text. Something’s not right, and I can’t help but feel like I’m about to uncover a lot more than I bargained for.

  Sally jots down some directions to the mayor's house on a scrap of parchment, her handwriting neat and precise. "You can’t miss it," she says, tucking the paper into my hand. "Follow the main road up the hill, past the market square, and you’ll see the big oak tree. The mayor lives just beyond that, on the east side of the hill." Her voice is warm, but I can tell she’s about to finish up, as another guest shuffles down from his room. A grey-haired man, hunched and weary like he’s been around far too long. Sally gives him a smile, pats me on the shoulder, and says, “I’ll be right back, love.”

  I nod, and she heads off to tend to the man. I glance at the directions, but that’s when it hits me — I’d missed her answer to my question about getting a roof. Damn thing was simple enough, but when that bloody text popped up, I got pulled away. My stomach twists at the thought of it. I need to get this sorted. I can’t just be wanderin’ around, trying to make sense of things while dodging weird tech messages.

  I make up my mind — I’m gonna figure this out. I stand up, smoothing my jacket down, and decide to make a quick getaway. I slide across the room, subtle as a shadow, and nick a large mug of tea from a guest’s table in the corner. No one notices, thankfully, and I head back to my room, tea in hand.

  Sitting down on the bed, I stare at the mug in my hand for a second before I look around. The room feels… safe. Too safe. Like everything’s fine, but something’s off. With a deep breath, I mutter my mum’s name, “Jenny.”

  The text appears again, sharp and crisp against the back of my mind, hanging there like an unwanted guest. [Would you like to explore the system? Yes or No, or skip till later?]

  This time, I don’t hesitate. I think to myself, [Yes.]

  Immediately, the text shifts, and I feel a faint hum in my bones, like something’s coming to life inside me. A strange sensation washes over me, as though I’ve just unlocked something. My pulse quickens as I wait for whatever’s next. What the hell is this system? What did my mother have to do with it?

  Suddenly, the streams slow — symbols spinning into focus, folding into words I recognise. But it ain’t just that I read them now… I hear them. A voice. Clear as day. Cutting through the fog in my skull like a warm knife.

  “Oi, sunshine,” it says, full of that same dry humour, soft around the edges. “Time to wake up proper.”

  And I freeze….Because I know that voice. My heart stutters like a dodgy engine. That’s her. That’s my mum….Jenny Block.

  It’s her voice in my head, as real as the breath in my lungs. I ain’t heard it in years — not since I laid her in the ground with a fistful of tears and more regrets than I’ll ever admit. And now here it is, coming from inside me, wrapped in power and light and whatever this bloody system is. I can’t move. I can’t speak. I just listen, mouth half open, tea cooling in my hand, as the rest of the room slips away again. The world’s gone quiet — like it’s holding its breath. Because my mum’s voice — that warm, no-nonsense East End lilt — just told me to wake up. Something deep in me knows…She ain’t just talkin’ about gettin’ outta bed.

  I pat meself down — still got the same mug, same scrawny frame, same old hustler heart. Ain’t turned into some muscle-bound superhero. Just me. So I whisper her name again in my noggin — Jenny — and boom, there it is. The system, right in my head. Clear as day. And now I’m tryin’ to suss out what the hell I’m lookin’ at.

  It’s like somethin’ outta one of them dice-rollin’ fantasy games my mate Ricky used to play in his mum’s basement — only this ain’t no game. Floating in front of me’s what looks like a ledger, yeah? A proper stat sheet, glowing faint like it’s been scribbled in light. Words I don’t recognise… but they feel familiar. And then — clear as the bells on a Sunday mornin’ — I hear her voice.

  “Hello Harry, I am Jennifer, your personal system fixer. How can I help you today?”

  It ain’t just the name. It’s the way she says it — soft but sharp, like she’s about to hand me a sandwich and tell me to mind my bloody manners. It is her. Or it’s doin’ a bloody good impression. My chest tightens. “Alright, Mum,” I mutter, quiet-like, like I’m not sure if I’m talkin’ to a ghost or a memory wrapped in wires. “What in the blazes does FLARE, FRAUD, and FOOTING mean, then? Cos I ain’t got a clue what I’m lookin’ at.”

  No answer — not yet. She’s still there, hoverin’ behind my eyes, warm as toast and twice as familiar. And me? I’m just tryin’ to keep my head screwed on I swear I can hear it — that soft little smile in her voice, the same one Mum used to have right before tellin’ me off with a cuppa in hand. “First, Harry, welcome to the Grifter System,” she says, like it’s the bleeding Ritz. “To answer your question — Flare, Fraud, and Footing are your core skills within the system, they are—” I cut in, can’t help meself. “Hold up. So I’ve got skills now? Like I’m some character in one of them RPGs Ricky used to never shut up about?”

  She carries on like I hadn’t said a word, smooth as you like. “Yes, that’s correct. Every person in this realm is linked to a sub-system of the Grand System.” Sounds mad, but she says it like she’s readin’ it off a manual. “To answer your first question, my dear — Flare refers to charisma, confidence, deception… when dealin’ with people or situations. Footing is your finesse as a grifter — your instincts, your nerve. And finally, Exit is how clean you get away when things go pear-shaped. These are scaled from one to ten.”

  I scoff. “Well I’m a bloody ten across the board, then. I’ve been on the grift since I could reach a till.” And this time, I know she chuckles — warm and amused. “Sorry, Harry. You’re at base level zero. You are new to this world, after all. Would you like to know anything else?” I lean back, mutterin’ under my breath, “Zero? You takin’ the mick?” But I’m listenin’.

  Alright, I think I’m startin’ to get a handle on this, but there’s still a few loose ends to tie up. I lean back, scratch my chin, and throw out the next question. “Alright, Jen, love. What about these other skills? Am I gonna be some sort of comic book hero now or somethin’? Tell me about BAIT, SWITCH, and EXIT. Are these the core skills, or are they somethin’ else?”

  There’s that familiar soft tone again, like Mum’s voice floating through me. I almost feel like I’m sat at the kitchen table again. “These are the level 1 skills for a level 1 Grifter such as yourself,” Jennifer says. “And, just like the core skills, they’re set to zero, my darlin’.”

  I’m leanin’ in now, properly hooked. “So what’s this BAIT business then?”

  She carries on, like it’s the simplest thing in the world. “BAIT refers to how you rope in a mark, how you find a score, and how you perform on the job. It’s your skill for the set-up, the approach.” I’m noddin’, gettin’ it now. “Right, that makes sense. And SWITCH?”

  “SWITCH is how you get away with it,” she explains. “How you pull it off, how you stay ahead of the game. Whether it’s the hustle or the dodge, it’s the sleight of hand that keeps ‘em fooled.”

  “And EXIT?”

  “That’s your skill for escape, love. How you lay low, how you vanish without a trace when the heat’s on.” I blink, lettin’ it all sink in. “So, when I level up, more skills unlock?”

  “Aye, exactly. When you hit level 2 in any core stat, more skills will be unlocked for you.”Bloody hell. This is actually startin’ to feel real.