Chapter 4: Mama I'm Coming Home

Corvo moved through the narrow streets with his hood drawn low, boots silent against the damp cobblestones. The air carried the sharp tang of salt and coal smoke, but underneath it lingered the acrid rot of sickness-a smell that had become part of the city itself.

He kept to the edges, slipping past shuttered windows and bolted doors. Every so often, the silence was broken by the heavy steps of Overseers, their stark white masks glinting in the weak light of streetlamps. They dragged people from their homes, from doorways, even from market stalls-shouting accusations of heresy, blasphemy, or "plague-born sin."

Corvo slowed at one corner, watching as a woman clutched her child, pleading, while an Overseer pried the boy from her arms. Her cries echoed down the street, unanswered, as the boy was shoved into the custody of another guard. The mother was struck down for resisting, left weeping on the stones. No one stepped forward to help. No one dared.

The city was breaking apart, not just from sickness but from fear-and from those who used it as an excuse to tighten their grip.

Corvo's jaw tightened. A week had passed since he last stood with Jessamine in her chamber. A week since her words-measured, resolute, but edged with weariness-had carried him back into the city. In that time, he had seen the Overseers grow bolder, the Watch more desperate, and the people more broken.

The help she had hoped for never arrived. No ships from Serkonos. No scholars from Morley. The Empire had turned its gaze elsewhere, leaving Dunwall to bleed.

And Jessamine... she had buried herself in her work, locked away with letters, decrees, and desperate appeals. He caught sight of her less and less, her figure framed always by stacks of parchment and the flickering light of the council chamber. She was carrying the city on her shoulders alone, and though she would not say it, Corvo could see the toll it took.

He turned away from the Overseers' display, slipping back into the labyrinth of alleys. His hand brushed against the hilt at his side, not in readiness, but in restraint. He could not save everyone on these streets-not yet. The city was sick, yes. But it was not the plague alone that poisoned it. It was something far deeper, and far more dangerous.