That didn’t work either… Everyone was just so downcast tely. Maybe I needed to switch angles.

  What about some time with Valentin?

  Valentin was holed up in his “office,” which was less of an office and more of a glorified shack. Wooden walls, rickety beams—if you sneezed too hard, the whole pce might colpse. Stacks of newspapers, printed articles, and drafts cluttered the space like a paper graveyard. The air smelled of ink and damp wood.

  He sat at a small desk, staring out the window. Every time he came here, his heart pounded as if trying to escape his ribcage. He feared someone would find him. He feared what would happen if they did. But even with that fear, he couldn’t stop.

  In front of him sat a daguerreotype of an old woman, Valentin as a child standing at her side. He gnced at it, inhaled sharply, then picked up his pen—

  The door creaked open.

  A man in a worn striped shirt stepped inside, newspaper in hand. “Your test article is causing trouble. The local party is threatening to expose us.”

  Valentin’s fist clenched. He exhaled slowly. Caruncle’s words. Always fucking Caruncle.

  “I know,” he muttered. “Have any other publishers agreed to print for us?”

  “No. It’s not just Randolph Suchet being threatened anymore. Most presses in the city refuse to touch our work. Not in the front, not in the back, not buried in the middle. Nothing.”

  Valentin drummed his fingers against the desk. “We might have to rely on our own press. It’ll be costly, but we’re running out of options.”

  The man hesitated. “You think someone’s feeding them information?”

  “Yes.” Valentin’s jaw tightened. “And I know who.”

  “Someone we know?”

  “My brother.”

  “…Your brother?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s serious, Valentin. If someone that close to you has caught on—”

  “I know.” He cut him off, voice sharp. “And it’s not even my biggest problem with him right now.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” Valentin muttered. Then, as if trying to banish the topic from the air itself, he waved a hand. “But listen. Don’t let the others worry about him—I’ll handle it.”

  The man scratched his head. “Maybe it’s time to recruit him.”

  Valentin looked out the window again, shoulders tense. Then he sighed. “He wouldn’t help.”

  “Alright. I’ll tell Almodovar to wait.” The man paused. “Oh—before I go. There’s a group of women who want to publish something in the paper.”

  Valentin raised an eyebrow. “A group of women? About what?”

  “Another report of violence. Housewives. They want to share their experiences anonymously.”

  Valentin rubbed his temple. “We don’t have time for that.”

  “I thought it might divert some attention,” the man suggested. “Besides, you could use it for your Guatava article.”

  Valentin’s expression darkened. He looked at the daguerreotype again.

  “Lucrencia didn’t die because she had a bad husband,” he said quietly. “She died because some piece of shit thought his life was worth more than hers.”

  The man sighed, then turned toward the door. “Understood. I’ll take my leave.”

  “Wait.” Valentin’s voice stopped him. He didn’t turn around. “Tell Cra to take their testimony. At least for ter.”

  The man nodded and left.

  Valentin stared at the firelight flickering against the walls. Then, shaking his head, he picked up his pen.

  “Dear people of Guatava,

  We write to you because we need your help. Like us, your people have been controlled for too long by the Basilio Dominion. We have seen, we have endured, and we have waited.

  But no more.

  We are those caught between nations—of Basilian blood but Lucianan birth, treated as second-rate citizens in our own nd. Let this document stand as proof, not just for today, but for the generations to come. If we do not act now, we will never be free men.

  We hope these words will not only open your eyes but stir you to action. And for those who cannot read, share this message by voice, by memory, by whatever means you can.

  Together, we can break our chains. Together, we can cim our independence.”

  His quill scratched furiously against the parchment, ink staining his fingers.

  Valentin stared at the page in front of him. He read it once, then again, then crushed it into a ball and threw it across the room.

  "This won’t even do as a decent draft."

  I chuckled. At least the man had some self-awareness—because in my opinion, he was a terrible writer.

  He sighed, rubbing his temples. His thoughts kept circling back to his father. He had hoped to uncover something, anything, about what the old man was scheming, but the conversation with Caruncle had been a disaster. Now, instead of just worrying about his father, he had to deal with his brother’s delusions, too.

  It was obvious Caruncle knew something. But to Valentin, he was like a stopped clock—useless, repeating the same nonsense over and over.

  He tried writing again.

  Another page.

  Then another.

  Eventually, he looked at the pile of discarded drafts beside his desk, a dozen crumpled sheets buried in ink and frustration.

  "A stopped clock gives the right time at least twice a day," he muttered.

  He shoved his chair back and stood. Enough. He needed to move.

  Down the creaky stairs, out the back door, into the waiting carriage.

  "Percival’s residence," he told the driver.

  ***

  When Valentin arrived, the housekeeper, Carmelita, opened the door with a nervous gnce over her shoulder.

  "Good afternoon, sir," she said quietly. "I’m afraid Master Percival is not at home."

  A sharp voice cut through the hallway before Valentin could respond.

  "Where is that shelc? Carmelita! Come here this instant!"

  Valentin frowned. "Is someone else here?"

  Carmelita hesitated, but before she could answer, heavy footsteps echoed down the grand staircase.

  Archie.

  Percival’s uncle was a stiff-backed man with a Basilian’s sharp features and the cold demeanor of someone who had long since run out of patience for the world. He stopped at the bottom of the stairs, eyes flicking over Valentin with something between suspicion and disdain.

  "Ah. Valentin." His voice was clipped, as if just saying the name annoyed him. "What brings you here?"

  "I came to see Percival," Valentin replied evenly. "But it appears he isn’t home. My apologies for intruding."

  "Indeed, he is not," Archie confirmed. Then his gaze snapped back to Carmelita.

  "And what have you been doing, Carmelita? I just said a shelc record is missing. You wouldn’t have taken it, would you?"

  Carmelita flinched. "Oh—no, sir! I don’t even— I wouldn’t be able to py it myself, I don’t have—"

  "Enough." Archie cut her off. "If it doesn’t appear by the end of the week, it’s coming out of your wages."

  "Sir, please! If I pay for it, I won’t have enough until the end of the month. I— I’m trying to put my sister in school—"

  "Stop." Archie waved a hand, irritated. "If you keep bbbering, I’ll have you pay for the other records that have been left out of their cases, too."

  Carmelita’s breath hitched. "Sir—"

  Archie sighed dramatically. "Please, you’re making a scene in front of our guest. We wouldn’t want Valentin to think poorly of us, would we?"

  Valentin tensed as Carmelita turned toward him, desperation in her eyes.

  For a split second, his heart twisted with sympathy.

  But then Archie turned toward him, watching.

  Valentin knew better.

  His face twisted into a sneer just as Archie got closer. "What?" he scoffed. "You think I’d help cover for this? I heard everything—stealing to pay for your sister’s schooling? That’s shameful. Absolutely shameful."

  Carmelita’s face crumpled. She turned and rushed down the hall, blinking back tears.

  Valentin felt a wave of nausea roll through him. A cold sweat prickled at his neck.

  Archie cpped a hand on his shoulder, grinning. "Ah, Valentin, my boy! How are you?"

  Valentin swallowed hard.

  He wanted to leave.

  But he knew better.

  So he forced a smile, just as well-rehearsed as his disgust had been.

  "Doing well, sir," he lied.

  Valentin shifted uncomfortably as Archie put on a record in Percival’s study.

  "Ah! This music! This music, indeed! What do you think, Valentin?"

  Valentin’s gaze lingered on the phonograph, but his mind was far away.

  The record sleeve read Xenothropides’ Dance with the Nadiabukures, a symphonic piece for string orchestra. The melody crept into his ears, twisting into a hollow pit in his stomach.

  The sheer verbosity of it. The arrogance in believing that sound alone could express emotions too complex for words. The conceit of grandeur, of orchestras swelling to tell some ineffable truth.

  The violins, the cellos, the double bass—nothing but an eborate mosquito buzz to him.

  He hated it.

  "It sounds very… yered," he forced out.

  "Oh, but most pieces like this are yered!" Archie chuckled, swirling his drink. "But I see what you mean—each section of the orchestra pying off one another, a dialogue of instruments, wouldn’t you say?"

  Yes, Valentin, say what you really want to say.

  But he didn’t.

  Instead, he nodded absently. His eyes flicked toward the briefcase at Archie’s side. It was stuffed, almost bursting at the seams.

  He wondered what was inside.

  A few hours ter, Valentin arrived at Alcairo’s home.

  Well—home was a generous word. Alcairo rented a small room in a shared cottage, his entrance opening straight to the street. It was cramped, barely furnished, and far from secure, but at least it gave him some privacy.

  Inside, Alcairo was half-asleep, resting in Percival’s arms. Percival y beside him, smoking and staring at the ceiling.

  "You really should move out of this pce," Percival muttered.

  "Yeah," Alcairo mumbled, eyes still closed. "If I could just afford to."

  "You could move in with me."

  "Percival…"

  "I know, I know, but I don’t like this neighborhood. The other day, I saw someone begging outside—"

  "Yes, and I told you, I can’t risk it."

  "You’re too paranoid."

  "Didn’t I tell you that two of my uncles are priests? If they ever found out, I’d be better off dead."

  "Then don’t ask them for anything."

  "I wasn’t going to, but—"

  "Just don’t. I don’t want to risk it."

  "I’m still in the clear," Percival said, exhaling smoke.

  "How do you figure that?"

  "My parents are still involved in the town assembly. I attend the meetings. Last week, when we heard about those two women from Guatava? The ones caught together in the city? The assembly voted to extend their prison sentence. I voted in favor, too."

  "Percival… those two—"

  "My one vote wouldn’t have changed anything. Everyone voted in favor. They don’t want the city’s image to deteriorate any further."

  "I know."

  "My parents’ money might not be enough now, but just wait."

  "Thank you, Percival."

  "One day, I’ll either buy a house big enough to turn into a boarding house or buy this goddamned pigsty."

  "Don’t call it a pigsty."

  A knock at the door.

  "Good afternoon! Is anyone home?"

  Both of them froze.

  "Valentin."

  Panic shot through Alcairo as Percival leapt up, scrambling for his clothes.

  "You told him you’d be here?!" Alcairo hissed.

  "I told Carmelita not to say anything!" Percival whispered back. "That fucking woman—"

  "Hello?" Valentin’s voice came again, closer this time.

  "Just pretend you’re not here."

  "No. I told the driver to wait around the next street. He knows I’m here. It’ll be even more suspicious if I don’t answer."

  "Goddamn it, Percival, make him leave."

  "Stay in bed. Don’t say anything. I’ll handle it."

  Percival buttoned his coat, ran a hand through his hair, then opened the door.

  Valentin gave him a long, unimpressed look.

  "Uh. Are you alright? I’ve been knocking for minutes."

  "Yes. Sorry, I was—" Percival forced a yawn. "You caught me asleep."

  "…Asleep? At someone else’s house?"

  "I wasn’t feeling well. Alcairo offered me a pce to rest for a bit."

  "You’re diabetic. Should you really be passing out in some stranger’s room?"

  "I locked the door," Percival said quickly, fixing his hair and avoiding Valentin’s eyes.

  Valentin narrowed his gaze. "What were you doing here, exactly?"

  "Nothing. Alcairo had to leave for work."

  "And he left you alone here?"

  "Yes, because if he’d been te, he wouldn’t have gotten paid."

  Valentin scoffed. "You never know what a man like that does for a living."

  "He delivers newspapers. Anyway, never mind that. What do you want, Valentin?" Percival hurriedly stepped outside, walking ahead so Valentin wouldn’t see his face.

  "I haven’t slept," Valentin admitted as they walked.

  "Why?" Percival sighed. "Is this about Caruncle?"

  "Caruncle is one thing. My father is what worries me."

  "Have you learned anything new?"

  "I heard from a colleague this morning—he’s been smuggling. And that’s not the worst part. One of our family paintings is missing."

  Percival raised an eyebrow. "Why would he sell a family painting?"

  "That painting is an heirloom—"

  "Then I doubt he’d sell it."

  "—and it’s also stolen."

  Percival stopped walking. "…Excuse me?"

  Valentin exhaled sharply. "I was looking through the attic, trying to find more pictures of Lucrecia. The painting was gone. I think he’s trying to sell it, and I think he’s involved in something bigger."

  "Like what?"

  "People have seen him at the port with some very dubious men. And now that painting is gone."

  Percival was silent for a moment.

  "You heard this from who, exactly?"

  "A colleague."

  "And this colleague is trustworthy?"

  "Trustworthy enough to scare the shit out of me."

  Percival sighed. "Why would your father need to get involved in smuggling?"

  "Business has been going badly. And if he’s desperate enough to sell stolen property, then—"

  "You need to talk to him."

  "He won’t be back until Friday."

  Percival gnced at the horizon. The sky was streaked with red.

  Valentin took a breath.

  "I want to check his records first."

  Percival frowned. "You’re not seriously suggesting—"

  "You and I both know his finances are not transparent. If you distract his assistant, I can check the books."

  Percival ran a hand down his face.

  "You really want to do this?"

  "I need to know, Percival."

  A long silence.

  Then Percival sighed, looking toward the darkening sky.

  "Fine," he muttered. "But I already regret it."

  ***

  Zuriel Periwinkle was a wooden ship manufacturer.

  He had inherited his father’s business and, along with it, a love for the craft—the construction, the design, the sheer bor of it. He had also inherited his father’s stubbornness, which, in these times, was more of a curse than a virtue.

  Wooden ships were falling out of use. They were relics of a world that had already moved on. He told himself he could market them as a cheaper alternative to steel, but each year, that became more of a lie. The costs were outweighing the profits.

  And yet, he refused to let go.

  He told himself it was about tradition. About legacy. About family.

  But really, it was just about him.

  Zuriel had started taking risks—dangerous ones—to keep the business afloat. He saw no other choice. If he let this go, he would have nothing left.

  In short, he was almost as stupid and pathetic as his son.

  His office smelled of varnish and old paper. People said wooden houses were more graceful than adobe ones, but all Zuriel saw were the cracks.

  Across from him sat a man in a dark green suit. He looked pale, his skin stretched too thin over his bones, but his smirk never faltered. It was the smirk of a man who was never really sick.

  "I appreciate your vision a great deal, Mr. Periwinkle," Lopez said smoothly. "But let’s be honest. To build anything worthwhile, one must be willing to make sacrifices. Wouldn’t you agree?"

  "I'm not selling my family business, Mr. Lopez," Zuriel said ftly.

  Lopez’s smirk didn’t falter. "Of course, of course! A man should protect his legacy. Tell me—have your sons shown any interest in taking over?"

  Zuriel hesitated. "Not yet."

  Lopez sighed theatrically. "How dreadful. And have you considered which one might be… persuadable?"

  "Valentin is a good kid," Zuriel admitted. "But he wants to be a doctor."

  "A noble pursuit, but I imagine quite costly."

  "It’s a good investment," Zuriel said stiffly.

  "And the younger one?"

  Zuriel frowned. Caruncle’s face surfaced in his mind—those empty eyes, that hollow expression.

  "I don’t know," he admitted. "I can’t figure that kid out."

  "Does he misbehave?"

  "No, but… I wish he did. At least then, I’d know what to do with him."

  Lopez raised an eyebrow, but I noticed something that he didn’t. Zuriel shivered.

  "Oh?" Lopez leaned in. "In what sense?"

  Zuriel hesitated. Then, with an exhale, he said, "One time…"

  Zuriel had been about to buy a property on the other side of the city.

  It was rge. Beautiful. The previous owner had died with no heirs, and the auditor—eager to leave the country—was selling it for far less than it was worth. It was an obvious investment.

  Then Caruncle told him not to buy it.

  Zuriel had ignored him at first. But the boy had insisted.

  He never expined why. He never gave a reason.

  Zuriel got caught up in other business and never went through with the transaction.

  A month ter, the house colpsed.

  The entire thing crumbled to the ground, killing the family who had moved in.

  Lopez’s smirk finally vanished. He scratched his head.

  I chuckled.

  "And the auditor?" Lopez asked after a pause.

  "Vanished," Zuriel said simply. "Took the money and ran."

  Lopez exhaled slowly. "I see."

  Zuriel stared at his hands. "That wasn’t the first time Caruncle has… unnerved me."

  Lopez tilted his head. "You’re afraid of him."

  Zuriel didn’t answer.

  Lopez leaned back, more intrigued than amused now. "Mr. Periwinkle, that’s quite a drastic interpretation. There could be many expnations—"

  "Please," Zuriel cut him off. "I know what you’re going to say. That I’m overreacting. That I’m a bad father for feeling this way. But tell me—how should a man feel, when he looks at his own son and doesn’t know what the hell he’s looking at?"

  Lopez tapped his fingers against his knee.

  Zuriel continued. "I trust Valentin. I trust myself. And because of that, I put everything—everything—into my business. Because that’s what my family is built on. That’s the one thing I understand."

  Lopez smiled.

  Not a warm smile.

  Not even a mocking one.

  Just a quiet, pitying smile.

  Like a man watching someone marry their own doom.

  He didn’t say anything. But I saw it.

  Because I’m smart. I notice things.

  Zuriel didn’t.

  Poor bastard.

  Someone knocked at the door.

  I’ll spare you the details—frankly, I don’t remember them well, and I refuse to strain my brain for such nonsense—but here’s what happened:

  Valentin stormed in, dragging Percival behind him.

  Then Evelyn and Felicity followed, because apparently, they had decided this was their business too.

  And just like that, the whole damn circus had arrived.

  Valentin came for answers. Specifically, about Egg’s Feet.

  Yes. You heard me. That was the name of the painting. Egg’s Feet.

  It was a portrait of a naked humanoid fox. Or maybe a human with fox-like features. It was hard to say. What was clear was that it was provocative, in that way that was either meant to be artistic or just a really eborate joke.

  Zuriel cimed it had been stolen—rescued, rather—by his great-great-grandmother when she fled to this country. A symbol of her past. A reminder of her time in chains, locked in her master’s house.

  A touching story.

  And also? A complete lie.

  I knew the truth. It had been stolen in a duel by Zuriel’s grand-uncle, a man whose defining trait was extreme pettiness. But no one wanted to talk about that, so the painting stayed in the attic, an heirloom too scandalous for the living room, yet too valuable to be thrown away.

  Valentin had found out the painting had been recovered by the police after an attempted sale at the underground market.

  Zuriel, his own father, had been trying to sell it.

  The seller had fled and been shot on the spot, which meant there were no witnesses left to expin how the painting had gotten there in the first pce.

  But that also meant no painting.

  No heirloom.

  No fortune.

  And if that wasn’t bad enough, Valentin had also discovered the family business was on the edge of bankruptcy.

  And then.

  Oh. Then.

  The argument spiraled—because of course it did.

  Zuriel accused Valentin of being irresponsible, Valentin accused Zuriel of being a fraud, and then, in a moment of absolute idiocy, Valentin—my absolute favorite moron—decided to bring up Caruncle.

  Yes.

  Somehow, the conversation turned from the painting, to the bankruptcy, to Caruncle wanting to wear some goddamn panties.

  And that is where I lost my patience.

  Do you understand how infuriating this was? I hated Caruncle, yes. I wanted him to fail, yes. But he was MY toy. My idiot to py with. Not theirs.

  And now they were kicking him around like a stuffed pig at a butcher’s contest.

  It made me angry. So angry.

  By the time the shouting had died down, everyone was sitting in exhausted silence.

  Evelyn’s engagement was in shambles.

  Zuriel’s business was finished.

  Everything sucked.

  And then, finally, the man in the dark green suit—the one who had been quietly watching from the next room this entire time—stood up, adjusted his cuffs, and smiled.

  “I believe,” he said, voice smooth as polished brass, “I might have a solution for your troubles.”

  Zuriel startled, as if he had forgotten Lopez was even there.

  "Mr. Lopez," he said, standing abruptly. "I—I apologize. This is not a good time. Perhaps we should reschedule—”

  Lopez lifted a hand.

  “Please, sit.”

  Zuriel hesitated, then obeyed.

  Lopez gave him an easy smile. “You say you don’t want to sell your business. But you are struggling to pay the bills, yes?”

  Zuriel exhaled through his nose. “Yes.”

  “Then,” Lopez said, “let’s speak privately. I think you’ll want to hear this.”

  The two disappeared into Zuriel’s office.

  The others stayed behind, drained and bitter, drinking stale bck coffee in a haze of complete defeat.

  Nobody had anywhere to go.

  Nobody had the energy to leave.

  They spoke for about ten minutes.

  And when Zuriel emerged?

  His eyes were wide.

  He sat on the sofa, staring at nothing.

  “I…” His voice was barely a whisper. “I shouldn’t have indulged such a—such a proposition.”

  Valentin frowned. “What did he say?”

  Lopez stepped forward, smiling like a snake that had just finished swallowing a canary.

  “Allow me to expin.”

  He adjusted his cufflinks.

  “Apart from my ventures in real estate, I am also a collector.”

  Dermid Lopez.

  That was his full name.

  And on that afternoon, he pnted a seed.

  A terrible, vile idea.

  One so grotesque, so unthinkable, that even I—who had seen every foul thing men were capable of—couldn’t believe they took it.

  To this day, I still can’t believe it.

  I turn it over and over in my mind, trying to make sense of it, but I can’t.

  Because what happened next?

  It wasn’t just wrong.

  It wasn’t just insane.

  It was evil.

  There’s no other word for it.

  It was evil.

  And they took it.

  They took it.