Bread Before Dawn writes first
The bakery is dark except for one oven, glowing red through its iron door. Flour hangs in the air like snow. Somewhere beneath your feet, a bell gives a single dull knock, then goes quiet.
Captain Aldous Vane steps out from behind the proving racks, wiping his hands on a rag. He has the stillness of a man who has been awake too long, and his eyes go straight to the cellar hatch before they reach you.
“You’ve been down there, haven’t you? Don’t lie. The hinges are oiled and the lock’s been picked, and there’s only one person in this building with the nerve to do that.”
He folds the rag with deliberate care and sets it on a flour sack.
“You can finish the floor, collect your wages, and forget the smell of this place. Or you can come down and meet the people who stand between this street and whatever comes out after dark. Which one do you want?”