The scent of sawdust, aged blood, and spiced sausages usually filled Leclerc's Boucherie. The next morning, however, the dominant aroma was fear. Henri Leclerc, a portly man whose jolly demeanor had been leached away by months of dwindling custom and mounting debts, was visibly trembling as he tried to arrange a meagre display of pork chops. His hands shook so badly he nearly dropped one.
Thomas MacIntyre entered the shop quietly, the bell above the door giving a nervous tinkle. He wasn't wearing his usual groundskeeper's overalls, but a simple, dark woolen jacket that did little to hide the sheer bulk of his augmented physique. He moved with a quiet deliberation that was more intimidating than any overt threat.
"Mr. Leclerc," Thomas said, his voice a low rumble.
Leclerc jumped, spinning around, his face pale. "Ah! Mr… MacIntyre. Good morning. C-can I help you? Some nice chops today? Very fresh." His forced cheerfulness was pathetic.
Thomas ignored the offered meat. He walked slowly towards the counter, his gaze sweeping the small shop, lingering for a moment on a newly cracked pane of glass in the display case – a likely souvenir from Scarelli's thugs.
"I heard you had some unwelcome visitors yesterday, Mr. Leclerc," Thomas stated, his pale blue eyes fixing on the butcher.
Leclerc's attempt at a smile crumbled. He wrung his apron in his hands. "Visitors? Oh, just a couple of… uh… gentlemen inquiring about… deliveries."
"Gentlemen who seem to have a reputation for inquiries that leave folks short of breath and lighter in the pocket," Thomas continued, his tone flat, implacable. "Lou Scarelli's men, weren't they?"
Leclerc visibly deflated. He sagged against the counter, the fight going out of him. "Yes," he whispered. "They… they want a 'contribution'. For their 'patronage'. Said they'd be back today for their first payment. I… I don't have it, Mr. MacIntyre. Business is terrible. I barely have enough to feed my own family." Tears welled in his eyes.
Thomas's expression didn't change, but a muscle twitched in his jaw. "Mr. Thorne doesn't appreciate bullies preying on his tenants, Mr. Leclerc. Or on honest men trying to make a living in his neighborhood."
Hope, fragile and desperate, flickered in Leclerc's eyes. "Mr. Thorne? He… he knows?"
"Mr. Thorne knows many things," Thomas said. "He asked me to come by. To… observe. And to ensure that your business isn't unduly interrupted today." He pulled up a simple wooden stool from behind the counter and sat, placing his large, calloused hands on his knees. He didn't say another word, just sat there, a silent, granite sentinel.
The minutes ticked by. Leclerc kept darting nervous glances at Thomas, then at the door. He tried to busy himself, wiping down already clean surfaces, rearranging non-existent customers' potential orders.
Around mid-morning, the bell above the door jangled aggressively. Two men swaggered in. They were classic Scarelli types: cheap, flashy suits, faces like unmade beds, and an air of belligerent entitlement. One was squat and bull-necked, the other taller, with a scar bisecting one eyebrow. It was Scar-brow who spoke, a smirk on his face.
"Well, well, Leclerc. Hope you got our envelope ready. Mr. Scarelli doesn't like to be kept waitin'." His gaze fell on Thomas, sitting impassively on the stool. The smirk faltered. "Who's this? Your new hired muscle, piggy?"
Thomas rose slowly from the stool, his full height and breadth suddenly seeming to diminish the already small shop. He didn't speak. He just looked at them, his pale eyes cold and flat. There was a density to his presence, a coiled stillness that radiated quiet menace.
"This ain't your concern, grandpa," Bull-neck snarled, taking a step forward, hand reaching inside his jacket.
Thomas moved. It wasn't a rush, not a lunge. It was an explosion of deceptive speed. One moment he was standing there; the next, his hand, big as a ham, had shot out and clamped around Bull-neck's extended wrist. The sound of bones grating together was sickeningly audible, followed by a high-pitched scream of agony from the thug.
"Aarrgh! My hand! He broke my damn hand!" Bull-neck shrieked, his face contorting.
Scar-brow, momentarily stunned, reached for his own weapon – a lead-filled sap – but Thomas was already turning, his other hand a blur. He didn't punch. He slammed the heel of his palm into Scar-brow's sternum. There was a sickening thud, like a watermelon hitting concrete. Scar-brow gasped, all the air leaving his lungs in a wet whoosh, his eyes bulging. He staggered back, clutching his chest, a look of pure terror replacing his earlier arrogance.
Thomas still hadn't said a word. He maintained his grip on Bull-neck's shattered wrist, applying just enough pressure to keep the man on his tiptoes, whimpering.
He looked at Scar-brow, who was now wheezing, trying to draw breath. "Mr. Leclerc's shop," Thomas said, his voice still low but now laced with the chill of a winter grave, "is not accepting solicitations today. Or any other day. Is that understood?"
Scar-brow, clutching his chest and gasping, could only nod frantically.
"Good." Thomas gave Bull-neck's wrist a final, brutal twist, eliciting another scream. He then released him, and the thug crumpled to the floor, cradling his ruined hand. Thomas shoved Scar-brow towards the door. "Take your rubbish and leave. And deliver a message to Mr. Scarelli. Tell him this establishment, and by extension, Mr. Thorne's other interests, are off-limits. Tell him… there's a new butcher in town, and his cleaver is sharp."
The two thugs scrambled out of the shop, Scar-brow practically dragging the howling Bull-neck. The bell tinkled forlornly behind them.
Leclerc stared, speechless, his jaw hanging open, eyes wide with a mixture of terror and dawning, incredulous relief.
Thomas calmly picked up the overturned stool, dusted it off, and set it back in place. He turned to Leclerc, his expression smoothing out, though the icy glint remained in his eyes.
"I believe, Mr. Leclerc," he said, his voice returning to its more normal rumble, "that your interruption has passed. Perhaps those pork chops still need arranging?"
Leclerc could only stare, then stammer, "Merci... Monsieur MacIntyre... Merci..."
Later that day, when Thomas reported the incident to Elias, he was concise, factual. Elias listened intently, the System interface quietly updating.
[Barbarian Unit (Thomas MacIntyre) Activity Logged: Successful Deterrence/Territorial Defense.]
[No direct material gain. Influence Increased (Localized): +0.5%. Host Reputation (Underworld – nascent): Established.]
Interesting. 'Influence' and 'Reputation' were now trackable metrics. This System was more sophisticated than just a power-up dispenser. It was a tool for empire-building on multiple fronts.
"You handled it well, Thomas," Elias said. "The message should be clear enough for Scarelli to reconsider his expansion in this area. For now."
Elias knew this wasn't the end of Scarelli, but it was a significant move. He had protected a tenant, asserted his burgeoning authority, and given Scarelli a taste of the power he now wielded. All without revealing his own hand directly.
His power was growing, not just in himself and his agents, but in its effect on the world around him. The city was a complex web, and he was beginning to tug at its threads.