No one responded to him.
As if he had done this countless times before, Lein gently removed the lock, pushed the door open, stepped inside, then turned back and closed the door behind him.
The moment the door shut behind him, the room fell into a relative silence.
The sounds from outside were muffled by the thick door panel, becoming faint and distant.
It was a warehouse.
Through his peripheral vision, Lein could barely make out the interior.
Rows of coarse burlap sacks were stacked against the walls, piled high, nearly reaching the ceiling.
Between the sacks, dry hay and strips of cloth were stuffed, probably for moisture protection.
White powder was scattered on the floor, making a faint rustling sound underfoot.
Judging by the smell in the room, the burlap sacks contained low-quality flour mixed with alum and chalk powder.
This stuff looked white and clean, like proper good flour, but it was actually both unpalatable and harmful to the body.
Only the people of Ash Lane were poor enough to eat only black bread or this kind of fake flour.
But for a gang, the profit margin on this flour wouldn’t be very high.
The Sharp Hook Gang must have hoarded this much just to divert attention.
Lein was pondering this when his body began to move on its own again.
He inexplicably spun around on the spot—a completely pointless and remarkably rash move.
Lein was utterly baffled.
What was the point of that spin?
Confirming something?
Observing something?
He tried to recall what he had seen during that rotation, but there was nothing besides the sacks.
Before he could figure it out, his body strode straight toward the row of sacks at the far end of the room.
Then, with clear purpose, it stopped in front of one particular sack, grabbed the opening with both hands, and yanked hard.
A tear opened in the coarse burlap mouth.
White flour spilled out through the gap, floating into the air.
He thrust his right hand into the flour and began digging.
Lein could feel the cold, fine texture of the flour sliding through his fingers.
His fingers groped inside the flour, as if searching for something.
The flour was deep; his entire palm was buried, and his fingers touched the bottom of the sack.
Then he touched a hard object and pulled it out.
It was a pocket watch.
The silver case was engraved with intricate patterns, and the chain was a fine metal link with a small clasp at the end.
Rich people loved these things, but they always used them to show off wealth and taste rather than actually caring about the time.
This pocket watch was of excellent craftsmanship and should be worth a lot.
Probably some unlucky middle-class guy had been pickpocketed by the Sharp Hook Gang.
Lein didn’t stop.
He pocketed the watch, turned, and walked toward another sack farther away, repeating the operation.
This time, he found a necklace.
A thin silver chain with a small locket hanging from it.
The craftsmanship wasn’t particularly fine, but it was silver, so it was worth a decent amount.
From the third sack, he pulled out a small bag of pepper.
This stuff was hard currency, especially in a place like Ash Lane.
From the fourth and fifth sacks, he retrieved a few more items: a set of copper utensils—two spoons and a fork—slightly oxidized and blackened, but still usable after a wash.
And several dozen silver coins, wrapped in a dirty cloth, hidden deep in the flour.
These must have been stolen goods that the Sharp Hook Gang hadn’t had time to fence or move.
Now they all fell into Lein’s hands.
He grabbed an empty burlap sack from the corner and stuffed everything inside.
The watch, the necklace, the pepper, the utensils, the silver coins—not a single item left behind.
After packing it up, he tied the sack’s mouth tightly, hoisted it onto his shoulder, brushed off the flour on his clothes, and turned to leave.
He left behind a mess on the floor, as if none of this had anything to do with him.
Lein could only silently pray in his heart that no one would see him.
He pushed open the door and walked back along the path he had come.
As he passed through the second-floor corridor, footsteps and voices came from downstairs.
Someone was coming up.
Lein’s heart leaped into his throat.
But his body, unhurriedly, pressed sideways against the wall, hiding itself in the shadows of the corridor corner.
It didn’t move.
The footsteps grew closer.
A person came up from the stairwell, humming a tuneless little ditty, staggering slightly—probably drunk.
The person passed right by the corner where Lein was hiding, no more than two steps away, but he didn’t notice anyone standing in the shadows.
The person walked away and turned into a door at the other end of the corridor.
Lein’s body slid through the corridor like a gust of wind, silently descending the stairs, passing through the first-floor passage cluttered with debris, and slipping out through that half-open side door.
The morning light hit his face, carrying a slight chill.
His body moved quickly along the base of the wall, soon leaving the area around that abandoned building and returning to the main road of Ash Lane.
Lein let out a long breath.
Even though he had no control over his body, the experience of the past ten-plus minutes had made him as nervous as if he had personally gone stealing.
If he had been caught, his pitiful life would probably have ended in the hands of the Sharp Hook Gang.
‘That’s enough,’
Lein thought inwardly.
‘Don’t make me do anything else strange.’
As if hearing his thoughts, his body finally started walking back in the direction of home.
He crossed the main road of Ash Lane, passed the small square, went through the intersection, and turned into the alley leading to his rented room.
His pace was neither hurried nor slow, no different from an ordinary pedestrian.
The sack was tucked under his armpit, mostly covered by his coat, unnoticeable unless someone looked closely.
Back at the door of his rented room, he pulled out his key, unlocked it, pushed the door open, and stepped inside.
The moment the door closed behind him, he threw the sack to the floor, then walked straight to the narrow wooden bed, fell backward, and landed heavily on the bedboard.
The instant his back touched the bedboard, some invisible constraint suddenly vanished.
Lein tried to blink.
His eyelids obediently closed.
He moved his fingers.
They curled, the tips touching the rough bedsheet.
He was back.
He had regained control of his body.
Lein lay on the bed, every muscle in his body protesting.
An aching soreness surged through his limbs, as if he had been thoroughly beaten with a stick.
His legs were weak and swollen, the muscles in his back were tightly strained, and even turning over felt strenuous.
It wasn’t just the physical exhaustion.
The helplessness of having to watch his own body perform various actions while being unable to do anything about it was even more draining than the physical fatigue.
Lein closed his eyes, his mind in a mess.
What was controlling him?
A ghost?
Some supernatural power?
Or something else entirely?
Why did it want him to steal from the Sharp Hook Gang?
How did it know the stolen goods were hidden in the flour sacks?
How did it know the Sharp Hook Gang’s stronghold so well, even able to open a copper lock with just its bare hands?
Lein had too many questions he wanted to ask.
But he didn’t even know what the entity controlling him was, let alone how to ask it questions.
He turned over and buried his face in the pillow.
The pillow gave off a faint musty smell, but at this moment, it smelled somehow reassuring.
‘Forget it.’
Lein decided not to think about it anymore—at least not now.
He was too tired.
His body was about to fall apart, his mind couldn’t function, and the most important thing now was to sleep.
As for those questions, he could deal with them after he woke up.
Sleepiness washed over him like a tide, and Lein didn’t resist.
He pulled the thin patched cotton quilt over himself and let his consciousness slowly sink into darkness.