Bloodlines

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<<link "✦•┈๑⋅⋯">><<run Engine.backward();>><</link>>  <a href="https://www.tumblr.com/blog/bloodlines-if" target="_blank"><span class="header-title">Bloodlines</span></a>  <span style="grid-column:3;"><<link "⋯⋅๑┈•✦ˎˊ˗">><<run Engine.forward();>><</link>></span>

<<link "settings">><<run UI.settings();>><<toggleclass "#menuLinks" "unstow">><<toggleclass "#header" "shadow">><<toggleclass "#menu" "glow">><</link>> <<link "saves">><<run UI.saves();>><<toggleclass "#menuLinks" "unstow">><<toggleclass "#menu" "glow">><<toggleclass "#header" "shadow">><</link>>  <<link "character profile">><<run Dialog.create("Character Profile", "profile").wikiPassage("Character Profile").open();>><<toggleclass "#menuLinks" "unstow">><<toggleclass "#header" "shadow">><<toggleclass "#menu" "glow">><</link>>   <<link "codex">><<run Dialog.create("Codex", "codex").wikiPassage("Codex").open();>><<toggleclass "#menuLinks" "unstow">><<toggleclass "#header" "shadow">><<toggleclass "#menu" "glow">><</link>>   <<link "relationships">><<run Dialog.create("Relationships", "relationships").wikiPassage("Relationships").open();>><<toggleclass "#menuLinks" "unstow">><<toggleclass "#header" "shadow">><<toggleclass "#menu" "glow">><</link>>   <<link "journal">><<run Dialog.create("Journal", "journal").wikiPassage("Journal").open();>><<toggleclass "#menuLinks" "unstow">><<toggleclass "#header" "shadow">><<toggleclass "#menu" "glow">><</link>>  <<link "restart">><<run UI.restart();>><<toggleclass "#menuLinks" "unstow">><<toggleclass "#header" "shadow">><<toggleclass "#menu" "glow">><</link>> <<link "credits">><<run Dialog.create("Credits").wikiPassage("Credits").open();>><<toggleclass "#menuLinks" "unstow">><<toggleclass "#header" "shadow">><<toggleclass "#menu" "glow">><</link>>

<img class="character" src="https://placehold.co/400x600/transparent/FFF?text=The Leech">  <h2>Character Profile</h2> <div id="charInfo" class="character">  <span>Name:</span> $fullName<<if $nickname>> "$nickname"<</if>> <br> <span>Age:</span> Mid-20s <br> <span>Gender:</span> <<if $gender is "cisgender-male">>Male<<elseif $gender is "cisgender-female">>Female<<elseif $gender is "transgender-male">>Trans Male<<elseif $gender is "transgender-female">>Trans Female<<elseif $gender is "nonbinary">>Non-binary<</if>> <br> <span>Pronouns:</span> $pronouns <br> <span>Style:</span> <<print $outfitStyle.charAt(0).toUpperCase() + $outfitStyle.slice(1)>> <br> <span>Career Background:</span> <<switch $background>><<case "investigative">>Investigative Journalist<<case "tabloid">>Tabloid Reporter<<case "whistle">>Whistleblower<<case "war">>War Correspondent<</switch>><br> <span>Special Trait:</span> <<if $background is "war">>Hardened<<elseif $background is "whistle">>Relentless<<elseif $background is "tabloid">>Manipulation<<elseif $background is "investigative">>Stubborn<</if>>  </div> <h2>Appearance</h2> <div id="charBio" class='character'> <<if $allowFullDescription>> <p><div class="character-overview"> <<if $height is "very-short">>You're short. Short enough that people look right over you. Big mistake.<<elseif $height is "short">>Not tall, but that works for you. Hard to hit a small target.<<elseif $height is "average">>Average height. Blend in when you need to. Stand out when it matters.<<elseif $height is "tall">>Tall enough to see over crowds. Tall enough to be remembered.<<elseif $height is "very-tall">>You tower over most people. Hard to hide, impossible to ignore.<<elseif $height is "towering">>You cast long shadows. People notice you coming from blocks away.<</if>> <<if $bodyShape is "lean">>Lean and sharp-edged. The kind of build you get from missing too many meals and getting too little sleep.<<elseif $bodyShape is "athletic">>Built strong. The kind of muscle that comes from real work, not a gym.<<elseif $bodyShape is "muscular">>Powerful. Every scar tells a story about violence survived.<<elseif $bodyShape is "average">>Average build. Nothing flashy, but it gets the job done.<<elseif $bodyShape is "curvy">>Curves in all the right places. Softness in a world full of sharp edges.<<elseif $bodyShape is "soft">>Soft around the edges. You still find ways to enjoy life in this hellhole city.<<elseif $bodyShape is "chubby">>Fuller figure. Proof you haven't let Sordia starve the joy out of you yet.<<elseif $bodyShape is "stocky">>Solid as a brick wall. The kind of build that doesn't back down from anything.<</if>><br><br> <<if $hairLength is "bald">>Your head is shaved clean. No bullshit. No hiding.<<if $headCovering is "yes">> You usually keep it covered. One more layer of protection.<</if>><<else>><<if $hair is "black">>Black<<elseif $hair is "dark-brown">>Dark brown<<elseif $hair is "medium-brown">>Medium brown<<elseif $hair is "light-brown">>Light brown<<elseif $hair is "dark-blonde">>Dark blonde<<elseif $hair is "blonde">>Blonde<<elseif $hair is "platinum">>Platinum<<elseif $hair is "auburn">>Auburn<<elseif $hair is "chestnut">>Chestnut<<elseif $hair is "copper">>Copper<<elseif $hair is "ginger">>Ginger<<elseif $hair is "salt-pepper">>Salt and pepper<<elseif $hair is "gray">>Gray<<elseif $hair is "white">>White<<elseif $hair is "blue">>Blue<<elseif $hair is "purple">>Purple<<elseif $hair is "pink">>Pink<<elseif $hair is "green">>Green<<elseif $hair is "red">>Vivid red<<elseif $hair is "teal">>Teal<<elseif $hair is "silver">>Silver<<elseif $hair is "rainbow">>Rainbow-colored<<elseif $hair is "ombre">>Ombre<</if>> <<if $hairTexture is "straight">>straight<<elseif $hairTexture is "wavy">>wavy<<elseif $hairTexture is "curly">>curly<<elseif $hairTexture is "coily">>coily<<elseif $hairTexture is "kinky">>kinky<</if>> hair <<if $hairLength is "buzzcut">>is buzzed close to your scalp<<elseif $hairLength is "pixie">>is cut in a pixie style<<elseif $hairLength is "short">>is cut short<<elseif $hairLength is "ear-length">>reaches your ears<<elseif $hairLength is "chin-length">>reaches your chin<<elseif $hairLength is "shoulder">>falls to your shoulders<<elseif $hairLength is "waist">>cascades to your waist<<elseif $hairLength is "hip">>flows down to your hips<</if>><<if $hairStyle is "natural">><<elseif $hairStyle is "layered">>, styled in layers<<elseif $hairStyle is "side-part">>, parted to one side<<elseif $hairStyle is "middle-part">>, parted down the middle<<elseif $hairStyle is "undercut">>, with an undercut<<elseif $hairStyle is "fade">>, faded at the sides<<elseif $hairStyle is "ponytail">>, pulled back in a ponytail<<elseif $hairStyle is "high-ponytail">>, swept up in a high ponytail<<elseif $hairStyle is "low-bun">>, twisted into a low bun<<elseif $hairStyle is "high-bun">>, secured in a high bun<<elseif $hairStyle is "messy-bun">>, gathered in a messy bun<<elseif $hairStyle is "space-buns">>, styled in space buns<<elseif $hairStyle is "braid">>, woven in a single braid<<elseif $hairStyle is "french-braid">>, plaited in a French braid<<elseif $hairStyle is "dutch-braid">>, styled in a Dutch braid<<elseif $hairStyle is "crown-braid">>, arranged in a crown braid<<elseif $hairStyle is "fishtail braid">>, woven in a fishtail braid<<elseif $hairStyle is "double-braid">>, split into double braids<<elseif $hairStyle is "afro">>, shaped in an afro<<elseif $hairStyle is "box-braids">>, sectioned into box braids<<elseif $hairStyle is "cornrows">>, braided into cornrows<<elseif $hairStyle is "twists">>, twisted<<elseif $hairStyle is "locs">>, grown into locs<<elseif $hairStyle is "bantu-knots">>, styled in Bantu knots<<elseif $hairStyle is "puff">>, gathered in a puff<</if>>.<<if $headCovering is "yes">> You choose to cover your hair, another layer in the careful construction of who you are.<</if>><</if>> <br><br> You have beautiful $eyesDescription Windows to a soul that's seen too much. <<if $facialHair and $facialHair isnot "none">> <<if $facialHair is "stubble">>Stubble shadows your jaw<<elseif $facialHair is "moustache">>A mustache frames<<elseif $facialHair is "goatee">>A goatee outlines<<elseif $facialHair is "short-beard">>A short beard covers<<elseif $facialHair is "full-beard">>A full beard dominates<<elseif $facialHair is "long-beard">>A long beard commands<<elseif $facialHair is "soul-patch">>A soul patch marks<<elseif $facialHair is "sideburns">>Sideburns frame<<elseif $facialHair is "anchor">>An anchor beard shapes<</if>> the mouth that speaks truths people die for.<</if>><br><br> <<if $skin is "vitiligo">>Your skin tells a story in patches of light and dark, vitiligo mapping across your body like abstract art. Some see it as a flaw, you know it's a reminder that beauty doesn't follow rules.<<else>><<if $skin is "porcelain">>Porcelain skin<<elseif $skin is "fair">>Fair skin<<elseif $skin is "light">>Light skin<<elseif $skin is "tan">>Tan skin<<elseif $skin is "tanned beige">>Tanned beige skin<<elseif $skin is "bronze beige">>Bronze beige skin<<elseif $skin is "golden brown">>Golden brown skin<<elseif $skin is "russet brown">>Russet brown skin<<elseif $skin is "dark brown">>Dark brown skin<<elseif $skin is "ebony">>Ebony skin<</if>> shows the wear of someone who's lived.<</if>> <<set $frecklesMolesList to []>> You have <<if $lightFreckles>><<set $frecklesMolesList.push("light freckles scattered across your face like delicate constellations")>><</if>> <<if $heavyFreckles>><<set $frecklesMolesList.push("heavy freckles forming dense patterns across your face and shoulders")>><</if>> <<if $bodyFreckles>><<set $frecklesMolesList.push("freckles scattered across your arms, chest, and back like a map of summer days")>><</if>> <<if $faceMole>><<set $frecklesMolesList.push("a prominent facial mole that draws attention and becomes part of your memorable profile")>><</if>> <<if $beautyMark>><<set $frecklesMolesList.push("a classic beauty mark that adds character to your face")>><</if>> <<if $bodyMoles>><<set $frecklesMolesList.push("various moles dotting your body like punctuation marks in flesh")>><</if>> <<if $birthmarkMole>><<set $frecklesMolesList.push("a distinctive birthmark that tells its own story on your body")>><</if>> <<if $frecklesMolesList.length gt 0>> <<print $frecklesMolesList.join(", ")>> mark your skin with natural patterns.<</if>><br><br> Your clothes send a message before you even open your mouth. <<if $outfitStyle is "classic-noir">>Classic noir style<<elseif $outfitStyle is "modern-noir">>Modern noir look<<elseif $outfitStyle is "investigative">>Practical reporter gear<<elseif $outfitStyle is "femme-fatale">>Femme fatale elegance<<elseif $outfitStyle is "street-reporter">>Street-smart functionality<<elseif $outfitStyle is "academic-dark">>Scholarly darkness<<elseif $outfitStyle is "dark-academia">>Dark academia sophistication<<elseif $outfitStyle is "light-academia">>Light academia style<<elseif $outfitStyle is "urban-professional">>Urban professional polish<<elseif $outfitStyle is "beat-cop-casual">>Casual reporter practicality<<elseif $outfitStyle is "art-deco">>Art deco glamour<<elseif $outfitStyle is "shadow-chic">>Shadow chic minimalism<</if>> that tells people exactly what kind of threat you are.<br><br> <<set $piercingsList to []>> <<if $eyebrowPiercing>><<set $piercingsList.push("an eyebrow piercing that catches light like small rebellion")>><</if>> <<if $septumPiercing>><<set $piercingsList.push("a septum ring you can flip up when discretion demands it")>><</if>> <<if $nostrilPiercing>><<set $piercingsList.push("a simple nostril stud that adds edge to your profile")>><</if>> <<if $lipPiercing>><<set $piercingsList.push("a lip piercing that makes every word feel more dangerous")>><</if>> <<if $tonguePiercing>><<set $piercingsList.push("a hidden tongue piercing that only shows when you speak")>><</if>> <<if $bridgePiercing>><<set $piercingsList.push("a bridge piercing that draws attention to your penetrating gaze")>><</if>> <<if $cheekPiercing>><<set $piercingsList.push("cheek piercings that create artificial dimples")>><</if>> <<if $standardLobesPiercing>><<set $piercingsList.push("standard ear piercings")>><</if>> <<if $multipleLobesPiercing>><<set $piercingsList.push("multiple lobe piercings creating constellation patterns in your ears")>><</if>> <<if $cartilagePiercing>><<set $piercingsList.push("cartilage piercings that follow the curves of your ears")>><</if>> <<if $industrialPiercing>><<set $piercingsList.push("an industrial bar cutting across your ear")>><</if>> <<if $tunnelPlugsPiercing>><<set $piercingsList.push("stretched lobes with tunnels")>><</if>> <<if $earWeightsPiercing>><<set $piercingsList.push("ear weights that stretch your lobes")>><</if>> <<if $navelPiercing>><<set $piercingsList.push("a navel piercing")>><</if>> <<if $nipplesPiercing>><<set $piercingsList.push("nipple piercings")>><</if>> <<if $genitalPiercing>><<set $piercingsList.push("intimate piercings")>><</if>> <<if $surfacePiercing>><<set $piercingsList.push("surface piercings creating raised bumps under your skin")>><</if>> <<if $microdermalsPiercing>><<set $piercingsList.push("microdermals with small gems anchored under your skin")>><</if>> <<if $piercingsList.length gt 0>> Metal pierces your flesh: <<print $piercingsList.join(", ")>>. Each piece carefully chosen, each placement deliberate.<</if>> <<set $tattoosList to []>> <<if $smallHiddenTattoo>><<set $tattoosList.push("small tattoos hidden beneath your clothes")>><</if>> <<if $smallVisibleTattoo>><<set $tattoosList.push("small visible tattoos")>><</if>> <<if $mediumPiecesTattoo>><<set $tattoosList.push("medium-sized tattoos with intricate detail")>><</if>> <<if $halfSleeveTattoo>><<set $tattoosList.push("a half-sleeve that transforms your arm into living art")>><</if>> <<if $fullSleeveTattoo>><<set $tattoosList.push("a full sleeve telling an epic story from shoulder to wrist")>><</if>> <<if $legSleeveTattoo>><<set $tattoosList.push("leg tattoos flowing from thigh to ankle")>><</if>> <<if $backPieceTattoo>><<set $tattoosList.push("a back piece that transforms your spine into a masterpiece")>><</if>> <<if $chestPieceTattoo>><<set $tattoosList.push("a chest piece sitting above your heart like armor")>><</if>> <<if $fullBodyTattoo>><<set $tattoosList.push("extensive tattoos covering most of your body")>><</if>> <<if $faceNeckTattoo>><<set $tattoosList.push("face and neck tattoos that can't be hidden")>><</if>> <<if $handFingersTattoo>><<set $tattoosList.push("hand and finger tattoos making every gesture a statement")>><</if>> <<if $traditionalTattoo>><<set $tattoosList.push("traditional-style tattoos with bold lines")>><</if>> <<if $geometricTattoo>><<set $tattoosList.push("geometric tattoos in mathematical patterns")>><</if>> <<if $blackworkTattoo>><<set $tattoosList.push("solid black tattoos")>><</if>> <<if $watercolorTattoo>><<set $tattoosList.push("watercolor tattoos with soft, painted effects")>><</if>> <<if $culturalTattoo>><<set $tattoosList.push("traditional cultural designs honoring your heritage")>><</if>> <<if $tattoosList.length gt 0>> Ink flows across your skin: <<print $tattoosList.join(", ")>>. Every design carries weight, memory, stories you've chosen to wear forever.<</if>> <<set $scarsList to []>> <<if $minimalScars>><<set $scarsList.push("minimal scarring suggesting a careful life or good medical care")>><</if>> <<if $surgicalScars>><<set $scarsList.push("clean surgical scars speaking to medical necessity")>><</if>> <<if $defensiveScars>><<set $scarsList.push("defensive scars on your arms telling stories of protection and survival")>><</if>> <<if $burnScars>><<set $scarsList.push("burn scars twisting across your skin like frozen flames")>><</if>> <<if $bladeScars>><<set $scarsList.push("blade scars mapping the violence you've survived")>><</if>> <<if $bulletScars>><<set $scarsList.push("bullet scars marking moments when death came calling")>><</if>> <<if $deliberateScars>><<set $scarsList.push("deliberate scars speaking to pain you chose to carry")>><</if>> <<if $extensiveScars>><<set $scarsList.push("extensive scarring mapping a life lived on the edge")>><</if>> <<if $scarsList.length gt 0>> Your scars tell their own stories: <<print $scarsList.join(", ")>>. Each mark a lesson learned, a price paid, a moment when you chose to keep going despite the cost.<</if>> <<set $accessoriesList to []>> <<if $signetRing>><<set $accessoriesList.push("a signet ring")>><</if>> <<if $multipleRings>><<set $accessoriesList.push("multiple rings across your fingers")>><</if>> <<if $statementRings>><<set $accessoriesList.push("bold statement rings demanding attention")>><</if>> <<if $brassKnuckles>><<set $accessoriesList.push("ornamental knuckle jewelry")>><</if>> <<if $simpleChain>><<set $accessoriesList.push("a simple chain resting against your throat")>><</if>> <<if $pendant>><<set $accessoriesList.push("a meaningful pendant hanging close to your heart")>><</if>> <<if $choker>><<set $accessoriesList.push("a choker encircling your throat")>><</if>> <<if $layeredChains>><<set $accessoriesList.push("layered chains creating complex patterns against your chest")>><</if>> <<if $heavyChain>><<set $accessoriesList.push("a heavy chain making its presence known with every movement")>><</if>> <<if $expensiveWatch>><<set $accessoriesList.push("an expensive watch on your wrist")>><</if>> <<if $smartWatch>><<set $accessoriesList.push("a smart watch keeping you connected")>><</if>> <<if $vintageWatch>><<set $accessoriesList.push("a vintage watch on your wrist")>><</if>> <<if $multipleBracelets>><<set $accessoriesList.push("multiple bracelets stacked on your wrists")>><</if>> <<if $cuffs>><<set $accessoriesList.push("wide metal cuffs encircling your wrists")>><</if>> <<if $charmBracelet>><<set $accessoriesList.push("a charm bracelet on your wrist")>><</if>> <<if $prescriptionGlasses>><<set $accessoriesList.push("prescription glasses framing your piercing gaze")>><</if>> <<if $sunglasses>><<set $accessoriesList.push("sunglasses")>><</if>> <<if $hatCollection>><<set $accessoriesList.push("a hat on your head")>><</if>> <<if $scarves>><<set $accessoriesList.push("scarves")>><</if>> <<if $gloves>><<set $accessoriesList.push("gloves protecting your hands")>><</if>> <<if $designerBag>><<set $accessoriesList.push("an expensive bag carrying the tools of your trade")>><</if>> <<if $practicalBag>><<set $accessoriesList.push("a practical bag carrying the tools of your trade")>><</if>> <<if $walletChain>><<set $accessoriesList.push("a wallet chain")>><</if>> <<if $accessoriesList.length gt 0>> The finishing accessoires complete your look: <<print $accessoriesList.join(", ")>>.<</if>></div></p> <<else>> You catch a glimpse of yourself in reflective surfaces, but the full picture remains unclear. <</if>> </div> <h2>Reputation</h2> <<opposed_stat "Liked" "Disliked" $disliked>> <h2>Personality</h2> <<opposed_stat "Deflecting" "Cutting" $deflecting>> <<opposed_stat "Calculated" "Reckless" $calculated>> <<opposed_stat "Soft" "Hardened" $soft>> <<opposed_stat "Relaxed" "Confrontational" $relaxed>> <<opposed_stat "Hopeful" "Cynical" $hopeful>> <<opposed_stat "Intuitive" "Methodical" $intuitive>> <h2>Professional Skills</h2> <span class="skill-name">Persuasion</span> <p class="skill-desc">Skilled at interviews, prying info from tight-lipped sources, charming or pressuring when needed.</p> <p class="skill-effect"><em>Unlocks special dialogue choices, easier to extract confessions/favors.</em></p> <<skill_meter "Persuasion" $persuasion>> <span class="skill-name">Research</span> <p class="skill-desc">Expert at digging through archives, databases, old records, and obscure sources.</p> <p class="skill-effect"><em>Uncovers hidden clues, secret backgrounds, historical connections.</em></p> <<skill_meter "Research" $research>> <span class="skill-name">Observation</span> <p class="skill-desc">Hyper-aware of body language, surroundings, inconsistencies.</p> <p class="skill-effect"><em>Notices hidden objects, lies, tells, and suspicious behavior faster.</em></p> <<skill_meter "Observation" $observation>> <span class="skill-name">Networking</span> <p class="skill-desc">Knows how to work contacts, favors, backchannels, and dirty information trades.</p> <p class="skill-effect"><em>Gains inside tips, earlier access to informants, shortcuts in investigation.</em></p> <<skill_meter "Networking" $networking>> <span class="skill-name">Storytelling</span> <p class="skill-desc">Can twist facts into gripping narratives; frames information to manipulate public opinion.</p> <p class="skill-effect"><em>Can shape public perception in key scenes, "spin" outcomes socially.</em></p> <<skill_meter "Storytelling" $storytelling>>

<ul> <li>//Leonora// UI Template by <a href="https://lapinlunaire-games.neocities.org/" target="_blank">LapinLunaireGames</a></li> </ul> <hr> <ul> <li>Twine Reference Guide by <a href="https://twinery.org/" target="_blank">Chris Klimas</a></li> <li>SugarCube Documentation by <a href="http://www.motoslave.net/sugarcube/2/docs/" target="_blank">Thomas M. Edwards</a></li> <li>100% Good Twine SugarCube Guide by <a href="https://manonamora.itch.io/twine-sugarcube-guide" target="_blank">manonamora</a></li> <li>A Total Beginner's Guide to Twine 2.1 by <a href="https://www.adamhammond.com/twineguide/" target="_blank">Adam Hammond</a></li> <li>Interactive Fiction - Twine Resource Megalist by <a href="https://www.tumblr.com/manonamora-if/700577877042888704/interactive-fiction-twine-resource-megalist" target="_blank">manonamora</a></li> <li>Interactive Fiction Design, Coding in Twine & Other IF Resources by <a href="https://idrellegames.tumblr.com/post/664858800855089152/coding-in-twine-other-resources" target="_blank">idrellegames</a></li> <li>CSS is Your Friend: The Basics of Changing Twine's Default Appearance by <a href="https://twinery.org/forum/discussion/1528/css-is-your-friend-the-basics-of-changing-twines-default-appearance-for-newbs" target="_blank">Twine Community</a></li> <li>Interactive Fiction in the Humanities Classroom by <a href="https://programminghistorian.org/en/lessons/interactive-text-games-using-twine" target="_blank">Programming Historian</a></li> <li>MDN Web Docs - JavaScript Adding Interactivity by <a href="https://developer.mozilla.org/en-US/docs/Learn_web_development/Getting_started/Your_first_website/Adding_interactivity" target="_blank">MDN Contributors</a></li> <li>Game Accessibility Guidelines by <a href="https://gameaccessibilityguidelines.com/" target="_blank">Game Accessibility Guidelines</a></li> <li>Writing IF by <a href="https://emshort.blog/how-to-play/writing-if/" target="_blank">Emily Short</a></li> <li>Interactive Fiction Community Forum by <a href="https://intfiction.org/" target="_blank">IF Community</a></li> </ul>

<h1 class="bloodlines-title">Bloodlines</h1>  <div id="splashLinks"> [[Play|Intro]] <<if (Save.browser.size > 0)>> <<link "Load">> <<run UI.saves();>> <</link>> <</if>> <<link "Settings">><<run UI.settings();>><</link>> <<link "Credits">><<run Dialog.create("Credits").wikiPassage("Credits").open();>><</link>> </div>

<h1 style="margin-block-end:0;">Bloodlines</h1> <i>Welcome to <strong>Bloodlines</strong> an 18+ dark, low/urban fantasy horror tale.</i> <hr> You’re a human journalist in Sordia, a decaying city where ancient bloodlines and powerful families run everything from the precincts to the press. They call you Leech—a slur, a warning, a name you’ve earned by exposing the rot no one else dares touch.<br><br> Then your estranged sister shows up unannounced with a cryptic story, twelve photographs, and no explanations. Two people in the photos are already missing. You’re in one of them.<br><br> Now you’re caught in a story bigger than you—and you’ll follow it, even if it kills you.<br><br> <strong>Content Warnings include:</strong><br> Graphic violence and gore, body horror, strong language/profanity, death and murder, disturbing imagery, blood and injury descriptions, mental health themes, supernatural horror elements, substance use, (optional) sexual content.<br> <em>(This story is very dark and may not be suitable for everyone.)</em><br><br> <div class="continue-button"> <<button "Create Your Character">> <<goto "Name">> <</button>> </div> <style> .continue-button { text-align: center; margin-top: 2em; } .continue-button button { padding: 1em 2em; background: linear-gradient(45deg, var(--accent), var(--accent2)); color: #ffffff; border: none; border-radius: 5px; font-size: 1.1em; font-weight: bold; cursor: pointer; transition: all 0.3s ease; box-shadow: 0 0 15px var(--accent); text-shadow: 1px 1px 2px rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.8); } .continue-button button:hover { background: linear-gradient(45deg, var(--accent2), var(--accent)); box-shadow: 0 0 20px var(--accent); transform: translateY(-2px); } /* Light mode */ .lm .continue-button button { background: linear-gradient(45deg, var(--accent), var(--accent2)); color: #000000; /* Black text for light mode */ text-shadow: 1px 1px 2px rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.3); } .lm .continue-button button:hover { background: linear-gradient(45deg, var(--accent2), var(--accent)); } </style>

<h2>Codex</h2>  <div class="codex-section"> <h3>Bloodlines</h3> <p>Eleven main bloodlines exist: Primordial, Umbra, Draegon, Seraph, Infernal, Fae, Abyssal, Ifrit, Manitou, Chronos and Chimaera.<br> <<button "BLOODLINES">> <<goto "Codex 1">> <</button>></p> </div> <div class="codex-section"> <h3>Sordia</h3> <p>A decaying metropolis built on the bones of old New York, where humans and bloodborns coexist in uneasy tension.<br> <<button "SORDIA">> <<goto "Codex 2">> <</button>></p> </div> <div class="codex-section"> <h3>The Twenty-Three Families</h3> <p>The ruling mix of old blood and old money who control the precincts, the papers, and the people.<br> <<button "23 FAMILIES">> <<goto "Codex 3">> <</button>></p> </div>

<h2>Relationships</h2> <div id="relationships" class='character'> <div class="relationship-entry"> <h3>Maud</h3> <div class="relationship-status">Sister - Estranged</div> <<relationship_meter "Relationship" $maudstat>> <p>Your younger sister who only shows up when she wants something, never when you're ready.</p> </div> <div class="relationship-entry"> <h3>Uncle Ben</h3> <div class="relationship-status">Uncle - Trusted</div> <<relationship_meter "Relationship" $benstat>> <p>One of the few people who's never lied to you. Handles your digital security from his apartment.</p> </div> <div class="relationship-entry"> <h3><<print $aceName || "Ace Reid">></h3> <div class="relationship-status">Best Friend - Close</div> <<relationship_meter "Relationship" $acestat>> <<if $ace_romance > 0>><<relationship_meter "Flirt" $ace_romance>><</if>> <p>Your backup and one of the few people who'll still pick up when your name flashes on their phone.</p> </div> <<if $ardentrulymet>><div class="relationship-entry"> <h3><<print $ardenName || "Dr. Arden">></h3> <div class="relationship-status">Underground Doctor - Professional</div> <<relationship_meter "Relationship" $ardenstat>> <<if $arden_romance > 0>><<relationship_meter "Flirt" $arden_romance>><</if>> <p>Blunt, cold doctor who patches up anyone who can crawl through $ardenHis door or in your case a window.</p> </div><</if>> <<if $etrulymet>><div class="relationship-entry"> <h3><<print $eName || "$eName Han">></h3> <div class="relationship-status">CFO of HanTech - Hostile</div> <<relationship_meter "Relationship" $estat>> <<if $e_romance > 0>><<relationship_meter "Flirt" $e_romance>><</if>> <p>Heir to one of the most powerful Draegon families. $eHeC's hated you since your exposé on $eHim.</p> </div><</if>> <<if $luztrulymet>><div class="relationship-entry"> <h3><<print $luzName || "Luz">></h3> <div class="relationship-status">Crime Boss - Dangerous</div> <<relationship_meter "Relationship" $luzstat>> <<if $luz_romance > 0>><<relationship_meter "Flirt" $luz_romance>><</if>> <p>Crime boss with too much charm and not nearly enough mercy.</p> </div><</if>> <div class="relationship-entry"> <h3>Nasir Khan</h3> <div class="relationship-status">Boss</div> <<relationship_meter "Relationship" $nasirstat>> <<if $nas_romance > 0>><<relationship_meter "Flirt" $nas_romance>><</if>> <p>Your boss at Channel 6. Smooth talker with deep pockets and unclear motivations.</p> </div> <<if $kaitrulymet>><div class="relationship-entry"> <h3>Kai</h3> <div class="relationship-status">Nurse - Distrustful</div> <<relationship_meter "Relationship" $kaistat>> <p>A mysterious nurse who works as Dr. Ardens right hand.</p> </div><</if>> <div class="relationship-entry"> <h3>Jake</h3> <div class="relationship-status">Camera Operator</div> <<relationship_meter "Relationship" $jakestat>> <p>Your debt-ridden cameraman. Cynical, chain-smoking, and loyal only to his equipment. Knows Sordia’s alleys and underworld better than anyone.</p> </div> <div class="relationship-entry"> <h3>Isla</h3> <div class="relationship-status">Sound Tech</div> <<relationship_meter "Relationship" $islastat>> <p>Abyssal single mother working herself to exhaustion to support her daughter. Professional and composed, with perfect pitch and a quiet determination. Her talents make her invaluable.</p> </div> <div class="relationship-entry"> <h3>Sam</h3> <div class="relationship-status">Field Producer</div> <<relationship_meter "Relationship" $samstat>> <p>A charming Fae manipulator who never says exactly what they mean. Ambitious, calculating, and dangerous, Sam thrives on controlling narratives.</p> </div> <div class="relationship-entry"> <h3>Vex</h3> <div class="relationship-status">Intern/Assistant</div> <<relationship_meter "Relationship" $vexstat>> <p>Disheveled Chronos-blooded intern with a sunny disposition and unsettlingly accurate “guesses” about the future. Oblivious oracle or hidden prophet, Vex might save you by accident... or doom you.</p> </div> </div>

<<widget "setpronouns">> <<if $pronouns is "he/him/his">> <<set $mcHe = "he">> <<set $mcHim = "him">> <<set $mcHis = "his">> <<set $mcHimself = "himself">> <<set $mcHeC = "He">> <<set $mcHimC = "Him">> <<set $mcHisC = "His">> <<set $mcHimselfC = "Himself">> <<elseif $pronouns is "she/her/hers">> <<set $mcHe = "she">> <<set $mcHim = "her">> <<set $mcHis = "her">> <<set $mcHimself = "herself">> <<set $mcHeC = "She">> <<set $mcHimC = "Her">> <<set $mcHisC = "Her">> <<set $mcHimselfC = "Herself">> <<elseif $pronouns is "they/them/theirs">> <<set $mcHe = "they">> <<set $mcHim = "them">> <<set $mcHis = "their">> <<set $mcHimself = "themselves">> <<set $mcHeC = "They">> <<set $mcHimC = "Them">> <<set $mcHisC = "Their">> <<set $mcHimselfC = "Themselves">> <<elseif $pronouns is "xe/xem/xyr">> <<set $mcHe = "xe">> <<set $mcHim = "xem">> <<set $mcHis = "xyr">> <<set $mcHimself = "xemself">> <<set $mcHeC = "Xe">> <<set $mcHimC = "Xem">> <<set $mcHisC = "Xyr">> <<set $mcHimselfC = "Xemself">> <<elseif $pronouns is "ze/hir/hirs">> <<set $mcHe = "ze">> <<set $mcHim = "hir">> <<set $mcHis = "hirs">> <<set $mcHimself = "hirself">> <<set $mcHeC = "Ze">> <<set $mcHimC = "Hir">> <<set $mcHisC = "Hirs">> <<set $mcHimselfC = "Hirself">> <<elseif $pronouns is "ey/em/eir">> <<set $mcHe = "ey">> <<set $mcHim = "em">> <<set $mcHis = "eir">> <<set $mcHimself = "emself">> <<set $mcHeC = "Ey">> <<set $mcHimC = "Em">> <<set $mcHisC = "Eir">> <<set $mcHimselfC = "Emself">> <</if>> <</widget>> <<widget "opposed_stat">><<nobr>> <div class="statBar"><<set _args2 to Math.round($args[2])>> <div style="float:right"> $args[1] <<= 100 - _args2>>% </div> <div class="statLeftBg" @style="'width:' + _args2 + '%'"> </div> <div> $args[0] _args2%</div> </div> <</nobr>><</widget>> <<widget "deflecting">><<set $deflecting to Math.clamp($deflecting + $args[0], 0, 100)>><</widget>> <<widget "calculated">><<set $calculated to Math.clamp($calculated + $args[0], 0, 100)>><</widget>> <<widget "soft">><<set $soft to Math.clamp($soft + $args[0], 0, 100)>><</widget>> <<widget "relaxed">><<set $relaxed to Math.clamp($relaxed + $args[0], 0, 100)>><</widget>> <<widget "hopeful">><<set $hopeful to Math.clamp($hopeful + $args[0], 0, 100)>><</widget>> <<widget "intuitive">><<set $intuitive to Math.clamp($intuitive + $args[0], 0, 100)>><</widget>> <<widget "relationship_meter">><<nobr>> <div class="relationshipBar"> <<set _rawValue to ($args[1] || 0)>> <<set _relationValue to Math.round(_rawValue)>> <<set _barWidth to Math.max(0, Math.min(100, _relationValue))>> <<set _relationName to $args[0]>> <div class="relationFill" @style="'width:' + _barWidth + '%'"></div> <div class="relation-label">_relationName</div> <div class="relation-value">_relationValue%</div> </div> <</nobr>><</widget>>

<div class="character-creation-header"> <h1 class="bloodlines-title">Create Your Character</h1> <p class="subtitle">Who are you, little Leech?</p> </div> The mirror reflects a stranger's face back at you. <br><br> Someone who's survived this long in Sordia's meat grinder through sheer bloody-minded persistence and a talent for asking the wrong questions at exactly the right time. Someone who's earned the nickname "Leech" through methods that keep you awake at three AM, staring at shadows that move when they shouldn't.<br><br> But first things first. Names have power in this city. They open doors. They close caskets. <br><br> What do people call you when they're trying to get your attention? And what do they call you when they're trying to get you killed?<br><br> <div id="name-creation"> <div class="name-section"> <label for="firstName">First Name:</label> <<textbox "$firstName" "" "firstName">> <div class="suggestions-toggle"> <<link "Feminine Names">> <<if $("#namesuggestions").html().trim() !== "">> <<replace "#namesuggestions">><</replace>> <<else>> <<replace "#namesuggestions">> <div class="name-suggestions"> <div class="name-option" data-name="Nyx" data-meaning="Goddess of night; shadow incarnate">Nyx</div> <div class="name-option" data-name="Zara" data-meaning="Blooming flower; dawn's promise">Zara</div> <div class="name-option" data-name="Kira" data-meaning="Killer; beam of light">Kira</div> <div class="name-option" data-name="Nova" data-meaning="New star; explosive birth">Nova</div> <div class="name-option" data-name="Raven" data-meaning="Dark messenger; death's herald">Raven</div> <div class="name-option" data-name="Sable" data-meaning="Black; darkness given form">Sable</div> <div class="name-option" data-name="Anya" data-meaning="Graceful killer; silent death">Anya</div> <div class="name-option" data-name="Layla" data-meaning="Night's embrace; darkness incarnate">Layla</div> <div class="name-option" data-name="Keiko" data-meaning="Blessed child; cursed gift">Keiko</div> <div class="name-option" data-name="Esme" data-meaning="Beloved ghost; cherished shadow">Esme</div> <div class="name-option" data-name="Nia" data-meaning="Purpose driven; relentless pursuit">Nia</div> </div> <</replace>> <</if>> <</link>> | <<link "Masculine Names">> <<if $("#namesuggestions").html().trim() !== "">> <<replace "#namesuggestions">><</replace>> <<else>> <<replace "#namesuggestions">> <div class="name-suggestions"> <div class="name-option" data-name="Cipher" data-meaning="Code; living mystery">Cipher</div> <div class="name-option" data-name="Knox" data-meaning="Fortified hill; unbreakable">Knox</div> <div class="name-option" data-name="Dex" data-meaning="Skilled hand; deadly precision">Dex</div> <div class="name-option" data-name="Raze" data-meaning="To destroy; ground zero">Raze</div> <div class="name-option" data-name="Voss" data-meaning="Cunning fox; street wisdom">Voss</div> <div class="name-option" data-name="Zed" data-meaning="Final letter; the end of things">Zed</div> <div class="name-option" data-name="Dante" data-meaning="Enduring soul; hell walker">Dante</div> <div class="name-option" data-name="Omar" data-meaning="Long-lived; survivor's curse">Omar</div> <div class="name-option" data-name="Enzo" data-meaning="Ruler of home; territory keeper">Enzo</div> <div class="name-option" data-name="Leif" data-meaning="Heir apparent; inherited violence">Leif</div> <div class="name-option" data-name="Ari" data-meaning="Lion heart; predator's pride">Ari</div> </div> <</replace>> <</if>> <</link>> | <<link "Neutral Names">> <<if $("#namesuggestions").html().trim() !== "">> <<replace "#namesuggestions">><</replace>> <<else>> <<replace "#namesuggestions">> <div class="name-suggestions"> <div class="name-option" data-name="River" data-meaning="Flowing current; unstoppable force">River</div> <div class="name-option" data-name="Soren" data-meaning="Stern judgment; harsh truth">Soren</div> <div class="name-option" data-name="Indigo" data-meaning="Deep blue; midnight shade">Indigo</div> <div class="name-option" data-name="Paz" data-meaning="False peace; calm before storm">Paz</div> <div class="name-option" data-name="Quinn" data-meaning="Descendant of chiefs; inherited power">Quinn</div> <div class="name-option" data-name="Sage" data-meaning="Wise oracle; truth seeker">Sage</div> <div class="name-option" data-name="Phoenix" data-meaning="Rising from ashes; rebirth">Phoenix</div> <div class="name-option" data-name="Vale" data-meaning="Valley of shadows; farewell">Vale</div> <div class="name-option" data-name="Ember" data-meaning="Glowing coal; dying fire">Ember</div> <div class="name-option" data-name="Onyx" data-meaning="Black stone; impenetrable">Onyx</div> <div class="name-option" data-name="Charlie" data-meaning="Free man">Charlie</div> </div> <</replace>> <</if>> <</link>> </div> <div id="namesuggestions"></div> </div> <div class="name-section"> <label for="lastName">Last Name:</label> <<textbox "$lastName" "" "lastName">> <div class="suggestions-toggle"> <<link "Surname Suggestions">> <<if $("#lastnamesuggestions").html().trim() !== "">> <<replace "#lastnamesuggestions">><</replace>> <<else>> <<replace "#lastnamesuggestions">> <div class="name-suggestions"> <div class="name-option lastname-option" data-name="Cross" data-meaning="Intersection of paths; burden bearer">Cross</div> <div class="name-option lastname-option" data-name="Steele" data-meaning="Unbreakable metal; cold resolve">Steele</div> <div class="name-option lastname-option" data-name="Kane" data-meaning="Warrior; battle-hardened">Kane</div> <div class="name-option lastname-option" data-name="Graves" data-meaning="Final resting place; keeper of secrets">Graves</div> <div class="name-option lastname-option" data-name="Nakamura" data-meaning="Middle village; hidden settlement">Nakamura</div> <div class="name-option lastname-option" data-name="Volkov" data-meaning="Wolf blood; pack hunter">Volkov</div> <div class="name-option lastname-option" data-name="Martinez" data-meaning="son of Martín">Martinez</div> <div class="name-option lastname-option" data-name="Okafor" data-meaning="Market warrior; trade blade">Okafor</div> <div class="name-option lastname-option" data-name="Reyes" data-meaning="Fallen kings; lost crown">Reyes</div> </div> <</replace>> <</if>> <</link>> </div> <div id="lastnamesuggestions"></div> </div> <div class="name-section"> <label for="nickname">Nickname (Optional):</label> <<textbox "$nickname" "" "nickname">> <p class="helper-text">Most people call you "Leech," but some might know you by something else.</p> </div> <div id="error-message" class="error-message" style="display: none;"> Please enter both a first and last name before continuing. </div> <div class="continue-button"> <<button "Continue to Character Details">> <<set _firstName to $firstName.trim()>> <<set _lastName to $lastName.trim()>> <<if _firstName is "" or _lastName is "">> <<replace "#error-message">>Please enter both a first and last name before continuing.<</replace>> <<run $("#error-message").show().delay(3000).fadeOut()>> <<else>> <<set $fullName to _firstName + " " + _lastName>> <<run $("#error-message").hide()>> <<goto "Character Details">> <</if>> <</button>> </div> </div> <style> .character-creation-header { text-align: center; margin-bottom: 2em; } .name-section { margin-bottom: 1.5em; } .name-section label { display: block; margin-bottom: 0.5em; color: var(--accent); font-weight: bold; text-shadow: 0 0 5px var(--accent); } .name-section input { width: 100%; padding: 0.5em; background: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.7); border: 1px solid var(--accent); color: var(--text); border-radius: 3px; margin-bottom: 0.5em; } .suggestions-toggle { margin-bottom: 0.5em; font-size: 0.9em; } .suggestions-toggle a { color: var(--accent2); text-decoration: underline; transition: all 0.3s ease; } .suggestions-toggle a:hover { color: var(--accent); text-shadow: 0 0 5px var(--accent); } .name-suggestions { background: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.8); border: 1px solid var(--accent); padding: 1em; border-radius: 5px; margin-bottom: 1em; box-shadow: 0 0 10px rgba(255, 0, 0, 0.2); } .name-option { color: var(--accent); font-weight: bold; cursor: pointer; margin-bottom: 0.5em; padding: 0.4em 0.6em; border-radius: 3px; transition: all 0.3s ease; display: block; position: relative; border-left: 3px solid transparent; } .name-option:hover { color: var(--accent2); background: rgba(255, 0, 0, 0.1); text-shadow: 0 0 8px var(--accent); border-left: 3px solid var(--accent); transform: translateX(5px); } .name-option::before { content: attr(data-meaning); position: absolute; bottom: calc(100% + 5px); left: 0; right: 0; margin: 0 auto; background: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.95); color: var(--text); padding: 0.5em 0.7em; border-radius: 4px; border: 1px solid var(--accent); font-size: 0.8em; font-weight: normal; white-space: nowrap; opacity: 0; visibility: hidden; transition: opacity 0.3s, visibility 0.3s; z-index: 1000; box-shadow: 0 0 15px rgba(255, 0, 0, 0.3); text-align: center; pointer-events: none; } .name-option:hover::before { opacity: 1; visibility: visible; } .helper-text { font-size: 0.9em; color: var(--accent2); font-style: italic; margin-top: 0.3em; } .error-message { background: rgba(255, 0, 0, 0.2); border: 1px solid var(--accent); color: var(--accent2); padding: 1em; border-radius: 5px; text-align: center; margin-bottom: 1em; font-weight: bold; animation: pulse 0.5s ease-in-out; } @keyframes pulse { 0% { transform: scale(1); } 50% { transform: scale(1.02); } 100% { transform: scale(1); } } .continue-button { text-align: center; margin-top: 2em; } .continue-button button { padding: 1em 2em; background: linear-gradient(45deg, var(--accent), var(--accent2)); color: #ffffff; border: none; border-radius: 5px; font-size: 1.1em; font-weight: bold; cursor: pointer; transition: all 0.3s ease; box-shadow: 0 0 15px var(--accent); text-shadow: 1px 1px 2px rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.8); } .continue-button button:hover { background: linear-gradient(45deg, var(--accent2), var(--accent)); box-shadow: 0 0 20px var(--accent); transform: translateY(-2px); } /* Light mode */ .lm .name-suggestions { background: rgba(240, 237, 229, 0.9); box-shadow: 0 0 10px rgba(212, 175, 55, 0.2); } .lm .name-section input { background: rgba(240, 237, 229, 0.7); color: var(--text); } .lm .name-option:hover { background: rgba(212, 175, 55, 0.1); border-left: 3px solid var(--accent); } .lm .name-option::before { background: rgba(248, 246, 240, 0.95); border: 1px solid var(--accent); color: var(--text); box-shadow: 0 0 15px rgba(212, 175, 55, 0.3); } .lm .error-message { background: rgba(212, 175, 55, 0.2); border: 1px solid var(--accent); color: var(--accent2); } .lm .continue-button button { background: linear-gradient(45deg, var(--accent), var(--accent2)); color: #000000; /* Black text for light mode */ text-shadow: 1px 1px 2px rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.3); } .lm .continue-button button:hover { background: linear-gradient(45deg, var(--accent2), var(--accent)); } </style> <<script>> $(document).on('click', '.name-option', function() { var nameValue = $(this).data('name'); var isLastName = $(this).hasClass('lastname-option'); if (isLastName) { State.variables.lastName = nameValue; $('#textbox-lastname').val(nameValue); } else { State.variables.firstName = nameValue; $('#textbox-firstname').val(nameValue); } }); <</script>>

<<widget "opposed_stat">><<nobr>> <div class="statBar"> <<set _args2 to Math.round($args[2])>> <<set _leftPercentage to _args2>> <<set _rightPercentage to 100 - _args2>> <div class="statLeftBg" @style="'width:' + _leftPercentage + '%'"></div> <div class="stat-left-text"> $args[0] _leftPercentage%</div> <div class="stat-right-text">$args[1] _rightPercentage% </div> </div> <</nobr>><</widget>> <<widget "skill_meter">><<nobr>> <div class="skillBar"> <<set _skillValue to Math.round($args[1])>> <<set _skillName to $args[0]>> <div class="skillFill" @style="'width:' + _skillValue + '%'"></div> <div class="skill-label">_skillName</div> <div class="skill-value">_skillValue%</div> </div> <</nobr>><</widget>> <<widget "relationship_meter">><<nobr>> <div class="relationshipBar"> <<set _rawValue to ($args[1] || 0)>> <<set _relationValue to Math.round(_rawValue)>> <<set _barWidth to Math.max(0, Math.min(100, _relationValue))>> <<set _relationName to $args[0]>> <div class="relationFill" @style="'width:' + _barWidth + '%'"></div> <div class="relation-label">_relationName</div> <div class="relation-value">_relationValue%</div> </div> <</nobr>><</widget>> /* MC Info */ <<set $firstName to "">> <<set $lastName to "">> <<set $fullName to "">> <<set $nickname to "">> /* Character Details Variables */ <<set $gender to "">> <<set $pronouns to "">> <<set $title to "">> <<set $height to "">> /* MC Pronoun Variables */ <<set $mcHe = "">> <<set $mcHim = "">> <<set $mcHis = "">> <<set $mcHimself = "">> <<set $mcHeC = "">> <<set $mcHimC = "">> <<set $mcHisC = "">> <<set $mcHimselfC = "">> /* Character Appearance Variables */ /* Skin */ <<set $skin to "">> <<set $skinDescription to "">> /* Hair */ <<set $hair to "">> <<set $hairDescription to "">> <<set $hairTexture to "">> <<set $hairTextureDescription to "">> <<set $hairLength to "">> <<set $hairLengthDescription to "">> <<set $hairStyle to "">> <<set $hairStyleDescription to "">> <<set $headCovering to "">> <<set $headCoveringDescription to "">> /* Facial Hair */ <<set $facialHair to "">> <<set $facialHairDescription to "">> /* Eyes */ <<set $eyes to "">> <<set $eyesDescription to "">> /* Body */ <<set $bodyShape to "">> <<set $bodyShapeDescription to "">> <<set $chestType to "">> <<set $chestTypeDescription to "">> /* Genitalia */ <<set $genitalia to "">> <<set $genitaliaDescription to "">> /* Style */ <<set $outfitStyle to "">> <<set $outfitStyleDescription to "">> <<set $piercings to []>> <<set $tattoos to []>> <<set $scars to []>> <<set $jewelry to []>> <<set $accessories to []>> /* Preferences */ <<set $complimentary to "">> State.variables.eyewear = ""; State.variables.sexuality = ""; /* MC Variables 2 */ <<set $background to "">> <<set $persuasion to 5>> <<set $research to 5>> <<set $observation to 5>> <<set $networking to 5>> <<set $storytelling to 5>> <<set $motivationChoice to "">> <<set $nervousTick to "">> <<set $investigationTheory to "">> <<set $specialTrait to "">> <<set $handItch to "">> /* personality stats */ <<set $disliked to 50>> <<set $deflecting to 50>> // Opposed to "cutting" <<set $calculated to 50>> // Opposed to "reckless" <<set $soft to 50>> // Opposed to "hardened" <<set $relaxed to 50>> // Opposed to "confrontational" <<set $hopeful to 50>> // Opposed to "cynical" <<set $intuitive to 50>> // Opposed to "methodical" /* flirt stats */ <<set $awkward to 50>> <<set $bold to 50>> <<set $clumsy to 50>> <<set $oblivious to 50>> <<set $shy to 50>> /* Vice Variables */ State.variables.vice = ""; <<set $vice to "">> State.variables.addiction = 0; State.variables.recklessness = 0; State.variables.isolation = 0; /* Game Variables */ <<set $romance to "♡">> <<set $poly to "♥♥">> State.variables.triggers = ""; <<set $acemet = false>> <<set $ardenmet = false>> <<set $emet = false>> <<set $luzmet = false>> State.variables.maudmet = false; State.variables.benmet = false; /* RO Variables */ State.variables.aceName = ""; State.variables.aceHe = ""; State.variables.aceHim = ""; State.variables.aceHis = ""; State.variables.aceGender = ""; State.variables.aceHeC = ""; State.variables.aceHimC = ""; State.variables.aceHisC = ""; State.variables.ardenName = ""; State.variables.ardenHe = ""; State.variables.ardenHim = ""; State.variables.ardenHis = ""; State.variables.ardenGender = ""; State.variables.ardenHeC = ""; State.variables.ardenHimC = ""; State.variables.ardenHisC = ""; State.variables.eName = ""; State.variables.eHe = ""; State.variables.eHim = ""; State.variables.eHis = ""; State.variables.eGender = ""; State.variables.eHeC = ""; State.variables.eHimC = ""; State.variables.eHisC = ""; State.variables.luzName = ""; State.variables.luzHe = ""; State.variables.luzHim = ""; State.variables.luzHis = ""; State.variables.luzGender = ""; State.variables.luzHeC = ""; State.variables.luzHimC = ""; State.variables.luzHisC = ""; /* RO Variables 2 */ <<set $relationshipType to "">> /* secret stats */ State.variables.forjustice = 0; State.variables.forself = 0; State.variables.forrevenge = 0; State.variables.moral = 0; State.variables.corrupt = 0; /*Codex */ <<set $codex1 to false>> <<set $codex2 to false>> <<set $codex3 to false>> <<set $codex4 to false>> <<set $codex5 to false>> /* cast and varriables*/ <<set $metjake to false>> <<set $metisla to false>> <<set $metvex to false>> <<set $metsam to false>> /* Relationship Stats */ <<set $acestat to 70>> <<set $ardenstat to 10>> <<set $estat to 0>> <<set $luzstat to 5>> <<set $maudstat to 30>> <<set $benstat to 70>> <<set $nasirstat to 15>> <<set $kaistat to 0>> <<set $jakestat to 15>> <<set $islastat to 15>> <<set $vexstat to 15>> <<set $samstat to 5>> <<set $jakestat to 15>> <<set $islastat to 15>> <<set $vexstat to 15>> <<set $samstat to 5>> <<set $siblingRelationship to "">> /* Romance/Flirt Stats */ <<set $ace_romance to 0>> <<set $arden_romance to 0>> <<set $e_romance to 0>> <<set $luz_romance to 0>> <<set $nas_romance to 0>> /* Half RO Variables */ State.variables.nas_hookup = false; State.variables.nasirPosition = ""; State.variables.nasirstat = 10; /* Clues */ <<set $cluesFound to []>> <<set $laptopPasswordAttempts to 0>> <<set $laptopUnlocked to false>> <<set $maudSolvedPassword to false>> <<set $twelvePhotosDiscovered to false>> <<set $jaceKilled to false>> <<set $jaceApartmentSearched to false>> <<set $investigationTheory to "">> <<set $theoryChoice to "">> <<set $eclipseVisited to false>> <<set $tradeVisited to false>> <<set $brokerIdentified to false>> <<set $maudDead to false>> <<set $timelineRecap to false>>

<div class="character-creation-header"> <h1 class="bloodlines-title">Identity</h1> <p class="subtitle">The mirror doesn't lie. Neither should you.</p> </div> The name settles around you like a second skin. <<set $fullName to $firstName + " " + $lastName>> $fullName. It has weight. History. The kind of name that gets whispered in newsroom corners when editors think no one's listening. The kind that makes sources either trust you completely or hang up the phone. <<if $nickname and $nickname.trim() neq "">>Some people know you as $nickname, though "Leech" is what most call you. Names are layers in this city. Public faces and private truths.<</if>><br><br> But identity runs deeper than names. Sordia doesn't care what's written on your birth certificate. It cares about what you are. How you move through the world. How the world moves around you.<br><br> The streets will judge you in seconds. Corporate boardrooms will dissect your every gesture. Sources will decide whether you're worth trusting based on assumptions they make before you speak a word.<br><br> Who are you, really? Strip away the pretense, the professional armor, the careful masks everyone wears in this city of liars and predators.<br><br> <div id="character-details"> <div class="identity-section"> <h3>Gender Identity</h3> <p class="section-description">How do you see yourself? How do you want the world to see you?</p> <div class="radio-options"> <<radiobutton "$gender" "cisgender-male">> Cisgender Male<br> <<radiobutton "$gender" "transgender-male">> Transgender Male<br> <<radiobutton "$gender" "cisgender-female">> Cisgender Female<br> <<radiobutton "$gender" "transgender-female">> Transgender Female<br> <<radiobutton "$gender" "nonbinary">> Non-binary </div> </div> <div class="identity-section"> <h3>Pronouns</h3> <p class="section-description">What pronouns do you use? In Sordia, getting this wrong can end conversations before they start.</p> <div class="radio-options"> <<radiobutton "$pronouns" "he/him/his">> He/Him/His<br> <<radiobutton "$pronouns" "she/her/hers">> She/Her/Hers<br> <<radiobutton "$pronouns" "they/them/theirs">> They/Them/Theirs<br> <<radiobutton "$pronouns" "xe/xem/xyr">> Xe/Xem/Xyr<br> <<radiobutton "$pronouns" "ze/hir/hirs">> Ze/Hir/Hirs<br> <<radiobutton "$pronouns" "ey/em/eir">> Ey/Em/Eir </div> </div> <div class="identity-section"> <h3>Title</h3> <p class="section-description">Formal titles matter in journalism. Some editors still care about these things. Others will use them as weapons.</p> <div class="radio-options"> <<radiobutton "$title" "mr">> Mr.<br> <<radiobutton "$title" "ms">> Ms.<br> <<radiobutton "$title" "mx">> Mx.<br> <<radiobutton "$title" "none">> No title preference </div> </div> <div class="identity-section"> <h3>Height</h3> <p class="section-description">Physical presence matters when you're walking into rooms full of people who want you dead. Every inch counts when intimidation is measured in millimeters.</p> <div class="radio-options"> <<radiobutton "$height" "very-short">> Very Short (5'0" and under) - What you lack in height, you make up for in determination<br> <<radiobutton "$height" "short">> Short (5'1" - 5'4") - Underestimated. Often. Their mistake.<br> <<radiobutton "$height" "average">> Average (5'5" - 5'9") - Blends into crowds. Useful in your line of work.<br> <<radiobutton "$height" "tall">> Tall (5'10" - 6'0") - Commands attention without trying<br> <<radiobutton "$height" "very-tall">> Very Tall (6'1" - 6'4") - Impossible to ignore. For better or worse.<br> <<radiobutton "$height" "towering">> Towering (6'5" - 6'8") - You cast shadows even in broad daylight </div> </div> <div class="identity-section"> <h3>Romantic Preferences</h3> <p class="section-description">When relationships bloom in this wasteland—if they bloom—what kind of compliments make you feel seen rather than patronized?</p> <div class="radio-options"> <<radiobutton "$complimentary" "masculine">> Traditionally Masculine (handsome, strong, commanding)<br> <<radiobutton "$complimentary" "feminine">> Traditionally Feminine (beautiful, elegant, graceful)<br> <<radiobutton "$complimentary" "either">> Either Masculine or Feminine (handsome, beautiful, whatever fits)<br> <<radiobutton "$complimentary" "neutral">> Gender-Neutral (stunning, attractive, captivating) </div> </div> <div id="error-message" class="error-message" style="display: none;"> Complete all sections before proceeding. In Sordia, half-truths get you killed. </div> <div class="continue-button"> <<button "Continue to Appearance">> <<if !$gender or !$pronouns or !$title or !$height or !$complimentary>> <<replace "#error-message">>Complete all sections before proceeding. In Sordia, half-truths get you killed.<</replace>> <<run $("#error-message").show().delay(4000).fadeOut()>> <<else>> <<setpronouns>> <<run $("#error-message").hide()>> <<goto "Character Appearance">> <</if>> <</button>> </div> <<widget "setpronouns">> <<if $pronouns is "he/him/his">> <<set $mcHe = "he">> <<set $mcHim = "him">> <<set $mcHis = "his">> <<set $mcHimself = "himself">> <<set $mcHeC = "He">> <<set $mcHimC = "Him">> <<set $mcHisC = "His">> <<set $mcHimselfC = "Himself">> <<elseif $pronouns is "she/her/hers">> <<set $mcHe = "she">> <<set $mcHim = "her">> <<set $mcHis = "her">> <<set $mcHimself = "herself">> <<set $mcHeC = "She">> <<set $mcHimC = "Her">> <<set $mcHisC = "Her">> <<set $mcHimselfC = "Herself">> <<elseif $pronouns is "they/them/theirs">> <<set $mcHe = "they">> <<set $mcHim = "them">> <<set $mcHis = "their">> <<set $mcHimself = "themselves">> <<set $mcHeC = "They">> <<set $mcHimC = "Them">> <<set $mcHisC = "Their">> <<set $mcHimselfC = "Themselves">> <<elseif $pronouns is "xe/xem/xyr">> <<set $mcHe = "xe">> <<set $mcHim = "xem">> <<set $mcHis = "xyr">> <<set $mcHimself = "xemself">> <<set $mcHeC = "Xe">> <<set $mcHimC = "Xem">> <<set $mcHisC = "Xyr">> <<set $mcHimselfC = "Xemself">> <<elseif $pronouns is "ze/hir/hirs">> <<set $mcHe = "ze">> <<set $mcHim = "hir">> <<set $mcHis = "hirs">> <<set $mcHimself = "hirself">> <<set $mcHeC = "Ze">> <<set $mcHimC = "Hir">> <<set $mcHisC = "Hirs">> <<set $mcHimselfC = "Hirself">> <<elseif $pronouns is "ey/em/eir">> <<set $mcHe = "ey">> <<set $mcHim = "em">> <<set $mcHis = "eir">> <<set $mcHimself = "emself">> <<set $mcHeC = "Ey">> <<set $mcHimC = "Em">> <<set $mcHisC = "Eir">> <<set $mcHimselfC = "Emself">> <</if>> <</widget>> <style> .character-creation-header { text-align: center; margin-bottom: 2em; } .identity-section { background: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.3); border: 1px solid var(--accent); padding: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 1.5em; border-radius: 5px; box-shadow: 0 0 10px rgba(255, 0, 0, 0.1); transition: all 0.3s ease; } .identity-section:hover { box-shadow: 0 0 15px rgba(255, 0, 0, 0.2); transform: translateY(-2px); } .identity-section h3 { color: var(--accent); margin-bottom: 0.5em; font-family: var(--accentFont); text-shadow: 0 0 5px var(--accent); font-size: 1.3em; text-transform: uppercase; letter-spacing: 1px; } .section-description { color: var(--accent2); font-style: italic; margin-bottom: 1.2em; font-size: 0.95em; line-height: 1.4; border-left: 3px solid var(--accent); padding-left: 1em; background: rgba(255, 0, 0, 0.05); padding: 0.8em 0 0.8em 1em; border-radius: 0 3px 3px 0; } .radio-options { color: var(--text); line-height: 1.8; } /* Radio button styling */ .radio-options input[type="radio"] { margin-right: 0.8em; margin-bottom: 0.1em; accent-color: var(--accent); transform: scale(1.2); cursor: pointer; } .radio-options input[type="radio"]:checked { accent-color: var(--accent2); } .error-message { background: rgba(255, 0, 0, 0.2); border: 1px solid var(--accent); color: var(--accent2); padding: 1em; border-radius: 5px; text-align: center; margin-bottom: 1em; font-weight: bold; animation: pulse 0.5s ease-in-out; } @keyframes pulse { 0% { transform: scale(1); } 50% { transform: scale(1.02); } 100% { transform: scale(1); } } .continue-button { text-align: center; margin-top: 2em; } .continue-button button { padding: 1.2em 2.5em; background: linear-gradient(45deg, var(--accent), var(--accent2)); color: #ffffff; border: none; border-radius: 5px; font-size: 1.2em; font-weight: bold; cursor: pointer; transition: all 0.3s ease; box-shadow: 0 0 20px var(--accent); text-shadow: 1px 1px 2px rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.8); text-transform: uppercase; letter-spacing: 1px; } .continue-button button:hover { background: linear-gradient(45deg, var(--accent2), var(--accent)); box-shadow: 0 0 25px var(--accent); transform: translateY(-3px); } /* Light mode */ .lm .identity-section { background: rgba(240, 237, 229, 0.3); box-shadow: 0 0 10px rgba(212, 175, 55, 0.1); } .lm .identity-section:hover { box-shadow: 0 0 15px rgba(212, 175, 55, 0.2); } .lm .section-description { background: rgba(212, 175, 55, 0.05); border-left: 3px solid var(--accent); } .lm .radio-options input[type="radio"] { accent-color: var(--accent); } .lm .radio-options input[type="radio"]:checked { accent-color: var(--accent2); } .lm .error-message { background: rgba(212, 175, 55, 0.2); border: 1px solid var(--accent); color: var(--accent2); } .lm .continue-button button { color: #000000; text-shadow: 1px 1px 2px rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.3); } </style>

<div class="character-creation-header"> <h1 class="bloodlines-title">Appearance</h1> <p class="subtitle">The flesh tells stories the mouth won't speak.</p> </div> <<set $fullName to $firstName + " " + $lastName>> In Sordia, appearance is armor. Currency. Weapon. <br><br> You've learned to read the language written in flesh and bone. The way certain editors assign stories based on what they think your face can access. The doors that open. The ones that slam shut.<br><br> What do you look like?<br><br> <div class="character-name">$fullName<<if $nickname>> (a.k.a. "$nickname")<</if>></div> <div id="character-details"> <div class="appearance-section"> <h3>Skin</h3> <p class="section-description">Choose your skin colour.</p> <div class="skin-options"> <div class="option-group"> <h4>Standard Tones</h4> <<radiobutton "$skin" "porcelain">> Porcelain<br> <<radiobutton "$skin" "fair">> Fair<br> <<radiobutton "$skin" "light">> Light<br> <<radiobutton "$skin" "tan">> Tan<br> <<radiobutton "$skin" "tanned beige">> Tanned beige<br> <<radiobutton "$skin" "bronze beige">> Bronze beige<br> <<radiobutton "$skin" "golden brown">> Golden brown<br> <<radiobutton "$skin" "russet brown">> Russet brown<br> <<radiobutton "$skin" "dark brown">> Dark brown<br> <<radiobutton "$skin" "ebony">> Ebony<br> </div> <div class="option-group special-options"> <h4>Distinctive Variations</h4> <<radiobutton "$skin" "vitiligo">> Vitiligo<br> </div> </div> </div> <div id="error-message" class="error-message" style="display: none;"> Choose how the world sees you. In Sordia, neutrality is a luxury no one can afford. </div> <div class="continue-button"> <<button "Continue to Hair">> <<if !$skin>> <<replace "#error-message">>Choose how the world sees you. In Sordia, neutrality is a luxury no one can afford.<</replace>> <<run $("#error-message").show().delay(4000).fadeOut()>> <<else>> <<switch $skin>> <<case "porcelain">><<set $skinDescription to "porcelain skin">> <<case "fair">><<set $skinDescription to "fair skin">> <<case "light">><<set $skinDescription to "light skin">> <<case "tan">><<set $skinDescription to "tan skin">> <<case "tanned beige">><<set $skinDescription to "tanned beige skin">> <<case "bronze beige">><<set $skinDescription to "bronze beige skin">> <<case "golden brown">><<set $skinDescription to "golden brown skin">> <<case "russet brown">><<set $skinDescription to "russet brown skin">> <<case "dark brown">><<set $skinDescription to "dark brown skin">> <<case "ebony">><<set $skinDescription to "ebony skin">> <<case "vitiligo">><<set $skinDescription to "your skin is marked by vitiligo">> <</switch>> <<run $("#error-message").hide()>> <<goto "Hair">> <</if>> <</button>> </div> <style> .character-creation-header { text-align: center; margin-bottom: 2em; } .character-name { font-size: 1.3em; color: var(--accent); text-align: center; margin-bottom: 2em; font-weight: bold; text-shadow: 0 0 8px var(--accent); border-bottom: 1px solid var(--accent); padding-bottom: 1em; } .appearance-section { background: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.3); border: 1px solid var(--accent); padding: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 1.5em; border-radius: 5px; box-shadow: 0 0 10px rgba(255, 0, 0, 0.1); transition: all 0.3s ease; } .appearance-section:hover { box-shadow: 0 0 15px rgba(255, 0, 0, 0.2); transform: translateY(-2px); } .appearance-section h3 { color: var(--accent); margin-bottom: 0.5em; font-family: var(--accentFont); text-shadow: 0 0 5px var(--accent); font-size: 1.4em; text-transform: uppercase; letter-spacing: 1px; } .section-description { color: var(--accent2); font-style: italic; margin-bottom: 1.5em; font-size: 0.95em; line-height: 1.4; border-left: 3px solid var(--accent); padding-left: 1em; background: rgba(255, 0, 0, 0.05); padding: 0.8em 0 0.8em 1em; border-radius: 0 3px 3px 0; } .skin-options { display: flex; flex-direction: column; gap: 1.5em; } .option-group { background: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.2); border: 1px solid var(--accent2); padding: 1.2em; border-radius: 5px; box-shadow: 0 0 8px rgba(255, 0, 0, 0.1); } .option-group h4 { color: var(--accent2); margin-bottom: 1em; font-size: 1.1em; text-transform: uppercase; letter-spacing: 1px; border-bottom: 1px solid var(--accent2); padding-bottom: 0.5em; } .special-options { border-color: var(--accent); background: rgba(255, 0, 0, 0.05); } .special-options h4 { color: var(--accent); border-bottom-color: var(--accent); } .skin-options input[type="radio"] { margin-right: 0.8em; margin-bottom: 0.1em; accent-color: var(--accent); transform: scale(1.2); cursor: pointer; } .skin-options input[type="radio"]:checked { accent-color: var(--accent2); } .skin-options { color: var(--text); line-height: 1.8; } .error-message { background: rgba(255, 0, 0, 0.2); border: 1px solid var(--accent); color: var(--accent2); padding: 1em; border-radius: 5px; text-align: center; margin-bottom: 1em; font-weight: bold; animation: pulse 0.5s ease-in-out; } @keyframes pulse { 0% { transform: scale(1); } 50% { transform: scale(1.02); } 100% { transform: scale(1); } } .continue-button { text-align: center; margin-top: 2em; } .continue-button button { padding: 1.2em 2.5em; background: linear-gradient(45deg, var(--accent), var(--accent2)); color: #ffffff; border: none; border-radius: 5px; font-size: 1.2em; font-weight: bold; cursor: pointer; transition: all 0.3s ease; box-shadow: 0 0 20px var(--accent); text-shadow: 1px 1px 2px rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.8); text-transform: uppercase; letter-spacing: 1px; } .continue-button button:hover { background: linear-gradient(45deg, var(--accent2), var(--accent)); box-shadow: 0 0 25px var(--accent); transform: translateY(-3px); } /* Light mode */ .lm .appearance-section { background: rgba(240, 237, 229, 0.3); box-shadow: 0 0 10px rgba(212, 175, 55, 0.1); } .lm .appearance-section:hover { box-shadow: 0 0 15px rgba(212, 175, 55, 0.2); } .lm .section-description { background: rgba(212, 175, 55, 0.05); border-left: 3px solid var(--accent); } .lm .option-group { background: rgba(240, 237, 229, 0.2); border-color: var(--accent2); box-shadow: 0 0 8px rgba(212, 175, 55, 0.1); } .lm .special-options { background: rgba(212, 175, 55, 0.05); border-color: var(--accent); } .lm .skin-options input[type="radio"] { accent-color: var(--accent); } .lm .skin-options input[type="radio"]:checked { accent-color: var(--accent2); } .lm .error-message { background: rgba(212, 175, 55, 0.2); border: 1px solid var(--accent); color: var(--accent2); } .lm .continue-button button { color: #000000; text-shadow: 1px 1px 2px rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.3); } </style>

<div class="character-creation-header"> <h1 class="bloodlines-title">Eyes & Face</h1> <p class="subtitle">Windows to souls that have seen too much.</p> </div> In Sordia, eyes are weapons. Currency. Confessional booths where secrets spill without permission.<br><br> You've learned to read the language written in iris and pupil. The slight dilation that betrays a lie. The way certain eye colors open doors while others slam them shut. The sources who trust blue eyes, the contacts who fear brown ones, the editors who promote based on assumptions they make about intelligence written in genetic lottery.<br><br> Your eyes have watched corruption bloom in boardrooms. Have stared down the barrels of guns held by people who thought you knew too much. Have reflected the flames of buildings burned to hide evidence, the neon of clubs where information gets traded like flesh, the fluorescent glare of morgues where stories end.<br><br> What do your eyes reveal? What do they hide?<br><br> <div class="character-name">$fullName<<if $nickname>> (a.k.a. "$nickname")<</if>></div> <div id="character-details"> <div class="appearance-section"> <h3>Eyes</h3> <p class="section-description">The mirrors of souls that reflect too much truth for this city's comfort.</p> <div class="eye-options"> <div class="option-group"> <h4>Standard Colors</h4> <<radiobutton "$eyes" "light-blue">> Light Blue - Crystalline ice that suggests innocence until you look closer<br> <<radiobutton "$eyes" "deep-blue">> Deep Blue - Sapphire depths that hide secrets beneath beauty<br> <<radiobutton "$eyes" "gray-blue">> Gray-Blue - Storm clouds that shift between trust and suspicion<br> <<radiobutton "$eyes" "light-green">> Light Green - Pale jade that seems to see through every deception<br> <<radiobutton "$eyes" "emerald-green">> Emerald Green - Rich forest depths that suggest ancient wisdom<br> <<radiobutton "$eyes" "hazel-green">> Hazel-Green - Shifting verdant gold that changes with mood and lighting<br> <<radiobutton "$eyes" "amber">> Amber - Golden fire that burns with intelligence and predatory awareness<br> <<radiobutton "$eyes" "light-brown">> Light Brown - Warm honey that invites confidence before exploiting it<br> <<radiobutton "$eyes" "dark-brown">> Dark Brown - Deep earth that reveals nothing until you earn the privilege<br> <<radiobutton "$eyes" "gray">> Gray - Silver steel that reflects the world back without judgment<br> <<radiobutton "$eyes" "violet">> Violet - Rare purple that marks you as different, memorable, potentially dangerous </div> <div class="option-group special-options"> <h4>Heterochromia</h4> <<radiobutton "$eyes" "hetero-blue-green">> Blue & Green - One eye trusts, one eye questions, both remember everything<br> <<radiobutton "$eyes" "hetero-brown-blue">> Brown & Blue - Warmth and ice in perfect contradiction<br> <<radiobutton "$eyes" "hetero-green-brown">> Green & Brown - Forest and earth, nature's own rebellion<br> <<radiobutton "$eyes" "hetero-gray-amber">> Gray & Amber - Steel and fire, logic and passion at war<br> </div> </div> </div> <div class="appearance-section" id="facial-hair-section"> <h3>Facial Hair</h3> <p class="section-description">Do you have facial hair? Everyone can grow facial hair - genetics don't follow traditional rules in Sordia.</p> <div class="facial-hair-options"> <<radiobutton "$facialHair" "none">> None<br> <<radiobutton "$facialHair" "stubble">> Stubble<br> <<radiobutton "$facialHair" "moustache">> Moustache <br> <<radiobutton "$facialHair" "goatee">> Goatee <br> <<radiobutton "$facialHair" "short-beard">> Short Beard<br> <<radiobutton "$facialHair" "full-beard">> Full Beard <br> <<radiobutton "$facialHair" "long-beard">> Long Beard <br> <<radiobutton "$facialHair" "soul-patch">> Soul Patch<br> <<radiobutton "$facialHair" "sideburns">> Sideburns <br> <<radiobutton "$facialHair" "anchor">> Anchor Beard </div> </div> <div id="error-message" class="error-message" style="display: none;"> Complete your reflection before proceeding. In Sordia, unfinished faces suggest unfinished thoughts. </div> <div class="continue-button"> <<button "Continue to Body">> <<if !$eyes>> <<replace "#error-message">>Choose how the world sees into your soul. Eyes cannot lie in Sordia.<</replace>> <<run $("#error-message").show().delay(4000).fadeOut()>> <<elseif !$facialHair>> <<replace "#error-message">>Select your facial hair choice. Even none is a choice.<</replace>> <<run $("#error-message").show().delay(4000).fadeOut()>> <<else>> <<switch $eyes>> <<case "light-blue">><<set $eyesDescription to "light blue eyes like winter sky, clear and cold.">> <<case "deep-blue">><<set $eyesDescription to "deep blue eyes like sapphire depths, beautiful and mesmerizing.">> <<case "gray-blue">><<set $eyesDescription to "gray-blue eyes like storm clouds, shifting between warmth and warning.">> <<case "light-green">><<set $eyesDescription to "light green eyes like pale jade, seeming to see through every lie, every careful construction, every mask people wear.">> <<case "emerald-green">><<set $eyesDescription to "emerald green eyes that burn with intelligence, beautiful and dangerous as cut gems, impossible to ignore.">> <<case "hazel-green">><<set $eyesDescription to "hazel-green eyes flecked with gold that shift color with lighting and emotion, impossible to categorize or predict.">> <<case "amber">><<set $eyesDescription to "amber eyes like liquid gold, burning with predatory intelligence that misses nothing and forgives even less.">> <<case "light-brown">><<set $eyesDescription to "light brown eyes warm as honey, inviting trust and confidence before using both as weapons when necessary.">> <<case "dark-brown">><<set $eyesDescription to "dark brown eyes deep as rich earth, revealing nothing until you've earned the privilege of seeing beneath the surface.">> <<case "gray">><<set $eyesDescription to "gray eyes like polished steel, reflecting the world back without judgment, impossible to read or manipulate.">> <<case "violet">><<set $eyesDescription to "rare violet eyes, purple depths that mark you as different, memorable, impossible to forget.">> <<case "hetero-blue-green">><<set $eyesDescription to "heterochromatic eyes - one blue, one green - ocean and forest, beautiful and unsettling in equal measure.">> <<case "hetero-brown-blue">><<set $eyesDescription to "heterochromatic eyes - one brown, one blue - warmth and ice, beautiful and unsettling in equal measure.">> <<case "hetero-green-brown">><<set $eyesDescription to "heterochromatic eyes - one green, one brown - forest and earth, beautiful and unsettling in equal measure.">> <<case "hetero-gray-amber">><<set $eyesDescription to "heterochromatic eyes - one gray, one amber - steel and fire, beautiful and unsettling in equal measure.">> <</switch>> <<if $facialHair is "none">> <<set $facialHairDescription to "none">> <<else>> <<switch $facialHair>> <<case "stubble">><<set $facialHairDescription to "stubble">> <<case "moustache">><<set $facialHairDescription to "moustache">> <<case "goatee">><<set $facialHairDescription to "goatee">> <<case "short-beard">><<set $facialHairDescription to "short beard">> <<case "full-beard">><<set $facialHairDescription to "full beard">> <<case "long-beard">><<set $facialHairDescription to "long beard">> <<case "soul-patch">><<set $facialHairDescription to "soul patch">> <<case "sideburns">><<set $facialHairDescription to "sideburns">> <<case "anchor">><<set $facialHairDescription to "anchor beard">> <</switch>> <</if>> <<run $("#error-message").hide()>> <<goto "Body">> <</if>> <</button>> </div> <style> .character-creation-header { text-align: center; margin-bottom: 2em; } .character-name { font-size: 1.3em; color: var(--accent); text-align: center; margin-bottom: 2em; font-weight: bold; text-shadow: 0 0 8px var(--accent); border-bottom: 1px solid var(--accent); padding-bottom: 1em; } .appearance-section { background: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.3); border: 1px solid var(--accent); padding: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 1.5em; border-radius: 5px; box-shadow: 0 0 10px rgba(255, 0, 0, 0.1); transition: all 0.3s ease; } .appearance-section:hover { box-shadow: 0 0 15px rgba(255, 0, 0, 0.2); transform: translateY(-2px); } .appearance-section h3 { color: var(--accent); margin-bottom: 0.5em; font-family: var(--accentFont); text-shadow: 0 0 5px var(--accent); font-size: 1.4em; text-transform: uppercase; letter-spacing: 1px; } .section-description { color: var(--accent2); font-style: italic; margin-bottom: 1.5em; font-size: 0.95em; line-height: 1.4; border-left: 3px solid var(--accent); padding-left: 1em; background: rgba(255, 0, 0, 0.05); padding: 0.8em 0 0.8em 1em; border-radius: 0 3px 3px 0; } .eye-options, .facial-hair-options { color: var(--text); line-height: 1.8; } .eye-options input[type="radio"], .facial-hair-options input[type="radio"] { margin-right: 0.8em; margin-bottom: 0.1em; accent-color: var(--accent); transform: scale(1.2); cursor: pointer; } .eye-options input[type="radio"]:checked, .facial-hair-options input[type="radio"]:checked { accent-color: var(--accent2); } .option-group { background: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.2); border: 1px solid var(--accent2); padding: 1.2em; margin-bottom: 1em; border-radius: 5px; box-shadow: 0 0 8px rgba(255, 0, 0, 0.1); } .option-group h4 { color: var(--accent2); margin-bottom: 1em; font-size: 1.1em; text-transform: uppercase; letter-spacing: 1px; border-bottom: 1px solid var(--accent2); padding-bottom: 0.5em; } .special-options { border-color: var(--accent); background: rgba(255, 0, 0, 0.05); } .special-options h4 { color: var(--accent); border-bottom-color: var(--accent); } .error-message { background: rgba(255, 0, 0, 0.2); border: 1px solid var(--accent); color: var(--accent2); padding: 1em; border-radius: 5px; text-align: center; margin-bottom: 1em; font-weight: bold; animation: pulse 0.5s ease-in-out; } @keyframes pulse { 0% { transform: scale(1); } 50% { transform: scale(1.02); } 100% { transform: scale(1); } } .continue-button { text-align: center; margin-top: 2em; } .continue-button button { padding: 1.2em 2.5em; background: linear-gradient(45deg, var(--accent), var(--accent2)); color: #ffffff; border: none; border-radius: 5px; font-size: 1.2em; font-weight: bold; cursor: pointer; transition: all 0.3s ease; box-shadow: 0 0 20px var(--accent); text-shadow: 1px 1px 2px rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.8); text-transform: uppercase; letter-spacing: 1px; } .continue-button button:hover { background: linear-gradient(45deg, var(--accent2), var(--accent)); box-shadow: 0 0 25px var(--accent); transform: translateY(-3px); } /* Light mode */ .lm .appearance-section { background: rgba(240, 237, 229, 0.3); box-shadow: 0 0 10px rgba(212, 175, 55, 0.1); } .lm .section-description { background: rgba(212, 175, 55, 0.05); } .lm .option-group { background: rgba(240, 237, 229, 0.2); border-color: var(--accent2); box-shadow: 0 0 8px rgba(212, 175, 55, 0.1); } .lm .special-options { background: rgba(212, 175, 55, 0.05); border-color: var(--accent); } .lm .error-message { background: rgba(212, 175, 55, 0.2) !important; border: 1px solid var(--accent) !important; color: var(--accent2) !important; } .lm .continue-button button { color: #000000; text-shadow: 1px 1px 2px rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.3); } </style>

<div class="character-creation-header"> <h1 class="bloodlines-title">Body</h1> <p class="subtitle">The architecture of survival carved in flesh and choice.</p> </div> Bodies tell stories in Sordia. Your body is a weapon. A shield. What story does your body look like?<br><br> <div class="character-name">$fullName<<if $nickname>> (a.k.a. "$nickname")<</if>></div> <div id="character-details"> <div class="appearance-section"> <h3>Body Shape</h3> <p class="section-description">What is your built?</p> <div class="body-options"> <<radiobutton "$bodyShape" "lean">> Lean <br> <<radiobutton "$bodyShape" "athletic">> Athletic<br> <<radiobutton "$bodyShape" "muscular">> Muscular <br> <<radiobutton "$bodyShape" "average">> Average <br> <<radiobutton "$bodyShape" "curvy">> Curvy <br> <<radiobutton "$bodyShape" "soft">> Soft <br> <<radiobutton "$bodyShape" "chubby">> Chubby <br> <<radiobutton "$bodyShape" "stocky">> Stocky <br> </div> </div> <div class="appearance-section"> <h3>Chest Appearance</h3> <p class="section-description">What does your chest look like?</p> <div class="chest-options"> <div class="option-group"> <h4>Chest Type</h4> <<radiobutton "$chestType" "flat">> Flat <br> <<radiobutton "$chestType" "small-breasts">> Small Breasts <br> <<radiobutton "$chestType" "medium-breasts">> Medium Breasts <br> <<radiobutton "$chestType" "large-breasts">> Large Breasts <br> <<radiobutton "$chestType" "muscular-chest">> Muscular Chest <br> <<radiobutton "$chestType" "broad-chest">> Broad Chest <br> </div> <div class="option-group special-options"> <h4>Surgical History (Optional)</h4> <<radiobutton "$chestSurgery" "none">> No Surgery <br> <<radiobutton "$chestSurgery" "top-surgery-recent">> Recent Top Surgery <br> <<radiobutton "$chestSurgery" "top-surgery-healed">> Healed Top Surgery <br> <<radiobutton "$chestSurgery" "mastectomy-single">> Single Mastectomy<br> <<radiobutton "$chestSurgery" "mastectomy-double">> Double Mastectomy <br> <<radiobutton "$chestSurgery" "breast-aug-scars">> Breast Augmentation <br> </div> </div> </div> <div class="appearance-section"> <h3>Freckles & Moles</h3> <p class="section-description">Natural marks across your skin. You can choose multiple</p> <div class="body-options"> <div class="option-group"> <h4>Freckles</h4> <<checkbox "$lightFreckles" false true>> Light Freckles - Subtle scattered dots.<br> <<checkbox "$heavyFreckles" false true>> Heavy Freckles - Dense constellation covering face and shoulders<br> <<checkbox "$bodyFreckles" false true>> Body Freckles - Freckles scattered across arms, chest, and back<br> </div> <div class="option-group"> <h4>Moles & Beauty Marks</h4> <<checkbox "$faceMole" false true>> Facial Mole - Prominent mole on face (like cheek, chin, or forehead)<br> <<checkbox "$beautyMark" false true>> Beauty Mark - Classic beauty spot near mouth or eye<br> <<checkbox "$bodyMoles" false true>> Body Moles - Various moles scattered across your body<br> <<checkbox "$birthmarkMole" false true>> Birthmark - Distinctive birthmark<br> </div> </div> </div> <div class="appearance-section"> <h3>Genitalia</h3> <p class="section-description">What kind of genitalia do you have?</p> <div class="genital-options"> <<radiobutton "$genitalia" "penis">> Penis<br> <<radiobutton "$genitalia" "vulva">> Vulva<br> </div> </div> <div id="error-message" class="error-message" style="display: none;"> Complete your physical truth before proceeding. In Sordia, half-known bodies suggest half-lived lives. </div> <div class="continue-button"> <<button "Continue to Style">> <<if !$bodyShape or !$chestType or !$genitalia>> <<replace "#error-message">>Complete your physical looks before proceeding. In Sordia, half-known bodies suggest half-lived lives.<</replace>> <<run $("#error-message").show().delay(4000).fadeOut()>> <<else>> <<switch $bodyShape>> <<case "lean">> <<set $bodyShapeDescription to "lean frame">> <<case "athletic">> <<set $bodyShapeDescription to "athletic build">> <<case "muscular">> <<set $bodyShapeDescription to "muscular frame">> <<case "average">> <<set $bodyShapeDescription to "average build">> <<case "curvy">> <<set $bodyShapeDescription to "curvy build">> <<case "soft">> <<set $bodyShapeDescription to "soft build">> <<case "chubby">> <<set $bodyShapeDescription to "chubby frame">> <<case "stocky">> <<set $bodyShapeDescription to "stocky build">> <</switch>> <<switch $chestType>> <<case "flat">> <<set $chestTypeDescription to "flat chest">> <<case "small-breasts">> <<set $chestTypeDescription to "small breasts">> <<case "medium-breasts">> <<set $chestTypeDescription to "medium breasts">> <<case "large-breasts">> <<set $chestTypeDescription to "large breasts">> <<case "muscular-chest">> <<set $chestTypeDescription to "muscular chest">> <<case "broad-chest">> <<set $chestTypeDescription to "broad chest">> <</switch>> <<if !$chestSurgery>> <<set $chestSurgery to "none">> <</if>> <<switch $chestSurgery>> <<case "none">> <<set $chestSurgeryDescription to "">> <<case "top-surgery-recent">> <<set $chestSurgeryDescription to " with recent top surgery scars showing horizontal lines">> <<case "top-surgery-healed">> <<set $chestSurgeryDescription to " bearing healed top surgery scars with faded lines">> <<case "mastectomy-single">> <<set $chestSurgeryDescription to " with single mastectomy scars showing asymmetrical lines">> <<case "mastectomy-double">> <<set $chestSurgeryDescription to " with double mastectomy scars showing bilateral scars">> <<case "breast-aug-scars">> <<set $chestSurgeryDescription to " with subtle augmentation scars">> <</switch>> <<set $chestFullDescription to $chestTypeDescription + $chestSurgeryDescription>> <<switch $genitalia>> <<case "penis">> <<set $genitaliaDescription to "dick">> <<case "vulva">> <<set $genitaliaDescription to "vagina">> <</switch>> <<run $("#error-message").hide()>> <<goto "Style">> <</if>> <</button>> </div> </div> <style> .character-creation-header { text-align: center; margin-bottom: 2em; } .character-name { font-size: 1.3em; color: var(--accent); text-align: center; margin-bottom: 2em; font-weight: bold; text-shadow: 0 0 8px var(--accent); border-bottom: 1px solid var(--accent); padding-bottom: 1em; } .appearance-section { background: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.3); border: 1px solid var(--accent); padding: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 1.5em; border-radius: 5px; box-shadow: 0 0 10px rgba(255, 0, 0, 0.1); transition: all 0.3s ease; } .appearance-section:hover { box-shadow: 0 0 15px rgba(255, 0, 0, 0.2); transform: translateY(-2px); } .appearance-section h3 { color: var(--accent); margin-bottom: 0.5em; font-family: var(--accentFont); text-shadow: 0 0 5px var(--accent); font-size: 1.4em; text-transform: uppercase; letter-spacing: 1px; } .section-description { color: var(--accent2); font-style: italic; margin-bottom: 1.5em; font-size: 0.95em; line-height: 1.4; border-left: 3px solid var(--accent); padding-left: 1em; background: rgba(255, 0, 0, 0.05); padding: 0.8em 0 0.8em 1em; border-radius: 0 3px 3px 0; } .body-options, .chest-options, .genital-options { color: var(--text); line-height: 1.8; } .body-options input[type="radio"], .chest-options input[type="radio"], .genital-options input[type="radio"] { margin-right: 0.8em; margin-bottom: 0.1em; accent-color: var(--accent); transform: scale(1.2); cursor: pointer; } .body-options input[type="checkbox"], .chest-options input[type="checkbox"] { margin-right: 0.8em; margin-bottom: 0.1em; accent-color: var(--accent); transform: scale(1.2); cursor: pointer; } .body-options input[type="radio"]:checked, .chest-options input[type="radio"]:checked, .genital-options input[type="radio"]:checked { accent-color: var(--accent2); } .body-options input[type="checkbox"]:checked, .chest-options input[type="checkbox"]:checked { accent-color: var(--accent2); } .option-group { background: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.2); border: 1px solid var(--accent2); padding: 1.2em; margin-bottom: 1em; border-radius: 5px; box-shadow: 0 0 8px rgba(255, 0, 0, 0.1); } .option-group h4 { color: var(--accent2); margin-bottom: 1em; font-size: 1.1em; text-transform: uppercase; letter-spacing: 1px; border-bottom: 1px solid var(--accent2); padding-bottom: 0.5em; } .special-options { border-color: var(--accent); background: rgba(255, 0, 0, 0.05); } .special-options h4 { color: var(--accent); border-bottom-color: var(--accent); } .error-message { background: rgba(255, 0, 0, 0.2); border: 1px solid var(--accent); color: var(--accent2); padding: 1em; border-radius: 5px; text-align: center; margin-bottom: 1em; font-weight: bold; animation: pulse 0.5s ease-in-out; } @keyframes pulse { 0% { transform: scale(1); } 50% { transform: scale(1.02); } 100% { transform: scale(1); } } .continue-button { text-align: center; margin-top: 2em; } .continue-button button { padding: 1.2em 2.5em; background: linear-gradient(45deg, var(--accent), var(--accent2)); color: #ffffff; border: none; border-radius: 5px; font-size: 1.2em; font-weight: bold; cursor: pointer; transition: all 0.3s ease; box-shadow: 0 0 20px var(--accent); text-shadow: 1px 1px 2px rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.8); text-transform: uppercase; letter-spacing: 1px; } .continue-button button:hover { background: linear-gradient(45deg, var(--accent2), var(--accent)); box-shadow: 0 0 25px var(--accent); transform: translateY(-3px); } /* Light mode */ .lm .appearance-section { background: rgba(240, 237, 229, 0.3); box-shadow: 0 0 10px rgba(212, 175, 55, 0.1); } .lm .section-description { background: rgba(212, 175, 55, 0.05); } .lm .option-group { background: rgba(240, 237, 229, 0.2); border-color: var(--accent2); box-shadow: 0 0 8px rgba(212, 175, 55, 0.1); } .lm .special-options { background: rgba(212, 175, 55, 0.05); border-color: var(--accent); } .lm .error-message { background: rgba(212, 175, 55, 0.2) !important; border: 1px solid var(--accent) !important; color: var(--accent2) !important; } .lm .continue-button button { color: #000000; text-shadow: 1px 1px 2px rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.3); } </style>

<div class="character-creation-header"> <h1 class="bloodlines-title">Style & Presentation</h1> <p class="subtitle">How you weaponize fabric, flesh, and choice.</p> </div> Style is survival in Sordia. Your appearance determines which spaces welcome you and which assumptions follow you into every room.<br><br> What is your style in Sordia?<br><br> <div class="character-name">$fullName<<if $nickname>> (a.k.a. "$nickname")<</if>></div> <div id="character-details"> <div class="appearance-section"> <h3>Fashion Style</h3> <p class="section-description">The outfit you wear into battle, whether the battlefield is a boardroom or back alley.</p> <div class="style-options"> <<radiobutton "$outfitStyle" "classic-noir">> Classic Noir - Trench coats, fedoras, timeless detective aesthetic<br> <<radiobutton "$outfitStyle" "modern-noir">> Modern Noir - Contemporary cuts in black, grey, sharp professional edge<br> <<radiobutton "$outfitStyle" "investigative">> Investigative - Practical journalist wear, pockets for recording devices<br> <<radiobutton "$outfitStyle" "femme-fatale">> Femme Fatale - Sharp suits/dresses, dangerous elegance, commanding presence<br> <<radiobutton "$outfitStyle" "street-reporter">> Street Reporter - Weathered jackets, comfortable shoes, ready for anything<br> <<radiobutton "$outfitStyle" "academic-dark">> Academic Dark - Tweed and wool in somber tones, intellectual gravitas<br> <<radiobutton "$outfitStyle" "dark-academia">> Dark Academia - Gothic scholarly aesthetic, burgundy and black, vintage books vibe<br> <<radiobutton "$outfitStyle" "light-academia">> Light Academia - Scholarly elegance in cream and beige, optimistic intellectualism<br> <<radiobutton "$outfitStyle" "urban-professional">> Urban Professional - Sharp business wear with subtle dark touches<br> <<radiobutton "$outfitStyle" "beat-cop-casual">> Beat Reporter - Rumpled shirts, coffee-stained ties, lived-in look<br> <<radiobutton "$outfitStyle" "art-deco">> Art Deco - 1920s-inspired elegance, geometric patterns, vintage glamour<br> <<radiobutton "$outfitStyle" "shadow-chic">> Shadow Chic - All black everything, sleek and mysterious </div> </div> <div class="appearance-section"> <h3>Piercings</h3> <p class="section-description">Metal through flesh - whether for style, rebellion, or personal expression.</p> <div class="style-options"> <div class="option-group"> <h4>Facial Piercings</h4> <<checkbox "$eyebrowPiercing" false true>> Eyebrow - Metal bar above your eye<br> <<checkbox "$septumPiercing" false true>> Septum - Ring through your nose that you can flip up to hide<br> <<checkbox "$nostrilPiercing" false true>> Nostril - Simple stud on one side of your nose<br> <<checkbox "$lipPiercing" false true>> Lip - Ring or stud through your lip<br> <<checkbox "$tonguePiercing" false true>> Tongue - Hidden piercing that only shows when you talk or eat<br> <<checkbox "$bridgePiercing" false true>> Bridge - Bar across the bridge of your nose between your eyes<br> <<checkbox "$cheekPiercing" false true>> Cheek - Studs that create fake dimples </div> <div class="option-group"> <h4>Ear Piercings</h4> <<checkbox "$standardLobesPiercing" false true>> Standard Lobes - Basic ear piercings for earrings<br> <<checkbox "$multipleLobesPiercing" false true>> Multiple Lobes - Several holes in your earlobes<br> <<checkbox "$cartilagePiercing" false true>> Cartilage - Piercings in the upper part of your ear<br> <<checkbox "$industrialPiercing" false true>> Industrial - Long bar connecting two holes across your ear<br> <<checkbox "$tunnelPlugsPiercing" false true>> Tunnels/Plugs - Stretched earlobes with large holes<br> <<checkbox "$earWeightsPiercing" false true>> Ear Weights - Heavy jewelry that stretches your ears over time </div> <div class="option-group special-options"> <h4>Body Piercings</h4> <<checkbox "$navelPiercing" false true>> Navel - Belly button piercing<br> <<checkbox "$nipplesPiercing" false true>> Nipples - Piercings through your nipples<br> <<checkbox "$genitalPiercing" false true>> Genital - Intimate piercings<br> <<checkbox "$surfacePiercing" false true>> Surface - Bars under your skin that create raised bumps<br> <<checkbox "$microdermalsPiercing" false true>> Microdermals - Small gems anchored under your skin </div> </div> </div> <div class="appearance-section"> <h3>Tattoos</h3> <p class="section-description">Permanent ink that tells your story, marks memories, or just looks cool.</p> <div class="style-options"> <div class="option-group"> <h4>Size & Coverage</h4> <<checkbox "$smallHiddenTattoo" false true>> Small & Hidden - Small tattoos hidden under clothes<br> <<checkbox "$smallVisibleTattoo" false true>> Small & Visible - Small tattoos on wrists, neck, or hands<br> <<checkbox "$mediumPiecesTattoo" false true>> Medium Pieces - Hand-sized tattoos with detail<br> <<checkbox "$halfSleeveTattoo" false true>> Half Sleeve - Tattoos covering half your arm<br> <<checkbox "$fullSleeveTattoo" false true>> Full Sleeve - Your entire arm is tattooed<br> <<checkbox "$legSleeveTattoo" false true>> Leg Sleeve - Tattoos from thigh to ankle<br> <<checkbox "$backPieceTattoo" false true>> Back Piece - Large tattoo covering your back<br> <<checkbox "$chestPieceTattoo" false true>> Chest Piece - Tattoo across your chest<br> <<checkbox "$fullBodyTattoo" false true>> Full Body - Tattoos covering most of your body </div> <div class="option-group"> <h4>Placement & Style</h4> <<checkbox "$faceNeckTattoo" false true>> Face/Neck - Tattoos you can't hide with normal clothes<br> <<checkbox "$handFingersTattoo" false true>> Hands/Fingers - Tattoos on your hands or fingers<br> <<checkbox "$traditionalTattoo" false true>> Traditional Style - Classic tattoo style with bold lines<br> <<checkbox "$geometricTattoo" false true>> Geometric - Mathematical patterns and shapes<br> <<checkbox "$blackworkTattoo" false true>> Blackwork - Solid black tattoos<br> <<checkbox "$watercolorTattoo" false true>> Watercolor - Soft, painted-looking tattoos<br> <<checkbox "$culturalTattoo" false true>> Cultural - Traditional designs from your heritage </div> </div> </div> <div class="appearance-section"> <h3>Scars & Marks</h3> <p class="section-description">The marks life left behind - accidents, surgeries, fights, or choices.</p> <div class="style-options"> <<checkbox "$minimalScars" false true>> Minimal - Few scars, careful life or good medical care<br> <<checkbox "$surgicalScars" false true>> Surgical - Clean scars from medical procedures<br> <<checkbox "$defensiveScars" false true>> Defensive - Scars on your arms from protecting yourself<br> <<checkbox "$burnScars" false true>> Burn - Scars from fire, heat, or chemicals<br> <<checkbox "$bladeScars" false true>> Blade - Knife or blade scars from fights<br> <<checkbox "$bulletScars" false true>> Bullet - Gunshot scars<br> <<checkbox "$deliberateScars" false true>> Deliberate - Self-inflicted scars<br> <<checkbox "$extensiveScars" false true>> Extensive - Many scars from a rough life </div> </div> <div class="appearance-section"> <h3>Jewelry & Accessories</h3> <p class="section-description">The finishing touches that complete your look and tell people who you are.</p> <div class="style-options"> <div class="option-group"> <h4>Rings</h4> <<checkbox "$signetRing" false true>> Signet Ring - Family ring or personal symbol<br> <<checkbox "$multipleRings" false true>> Multiple Rings - Rings on several fingers<br> <<checkbox "$statementRings" false true>> Statement Rings - Big, bold rings that get attention<br> <<checkbox "$brassKnuckles" false true>> Ornamental Knuckles - Decorative knuckle jewelry </div> <div class="option-group"> <h4>Chains & Necklaces</h4> <<checkbox "$simpleChain" false true>> Simple Chain - Basic metal chain<br> <<checkbox "$pendant" false true>> Pendant - Chain with a meaningful charm<br> <<checkbox "$choker" false true>> Choker - Tight necklace around your throat<br> <<checkbox "$layeredChains" false true>> Layered Chains - Multiple necklaces at once<br> <<checkbox "$heavyChain" false true>> Heavy Chain - Thick, substantial chain </div> <div class="option-group"> <h4>Bracelets & Watches</h4> <<checkbox "$expensiveWatch" false true>> Expensive Watch - Luxury timepiece<br> <<checkbox "$smartWatch" false true>> Smart Watch - Digital watch with apps<br> <<checkbox "$vintageWatch" false true>> Vintage Watch - Classic old-style watch<br> <<checkbox "$multipleBracelets" false true>> Multiple Bracelets - Several bracelets stacked together<br> <<checkbox "$cuffs" false true>> Cuffs - Wide metal bands around your wrists<br> <<checkbox "$charmBracelet" false true>> Charm Bracelet - Bracelet with meaningful charms </div> <div class="option-group special-options"> <h4>Other Accessories</h4> <<checkbox "$prescriptionGlasses" false true>> Prescription Glasses - Glasses you need to see<br> <<checkbox "$sunglasses" false true>> Sunglasses - Dark glasses for style or protection<br> <<checkbox "$hatCollection" false true>> Hat Collection - Various hats you like to wear<br> <<checkbox "$scarves" false true>> Scarves - Neck scarves for warmth or style<br> <<checkbox "$gloves" false true>> Gloves - Hand covering for style or protection<br> <<checkbox "$designerBag" false true>> Designer Bag - Expensive, fashionable bag<br> <<checkbox "$practicalBag" false true>> Practical Bag - Functional bag for carrying stuff<br> <<checkbox "$walletChain" false true>> Wallet Chain - Chain connecting your wallet to your clothes </div> </div> </div> <div id="error-message" class="error-message" style="display: none;"></div> <div class="continue-button"> <<button "Continue to Review">> <<if !$outfitStyle>> <<replace "#error-message">>Select your fashion style before proceeding. In Sordia, incomplete presentations suggest incomplete preparation.<</replace>> <<run $("#error-message").show().delay(4000).fadeOut()>> <<else>> <<switch $outfitStyle>> <<case "classic-noir">> <<set $outfitStyleDescription to "classic noir">> <<case "modern-noir">> <<set $outfitStyleDescription to "modern noir">> <<case "investigative">> <<set $outfitStyleDescription to "investigative">> <<case "femme-fatale">> <<set $outfitStyleDescription to "femme fatale">> <<case "street-reporter">> <<set $outfitStyleDescription to "street reporter">> <<case "academic-dark">> <<set $outfitStyleDescription to "academic dark">> <<case "dark-academia">> <<set $outfitStyleDescription to "dark academia">> <<case "light-academia">> <<set $outfitStyleDescription to "light academia">> <<case "urban-professional">> <<set $outfitStyleDescription to "urban professional">> <<case "beat-cop-casual">> <<set $outfitStyleDescription to "beat reporter">> <<case "art-deco">> <<set $outfitStyleDescription to "art deco">> <<case "shadow-chic">> <<set $outfitStyleDescription to "shadow chic">> <</switch>> <<run $("#error-message").hide()>> <<goto "Character Appearance - Review">> <</if>> <</button>> </div> <style> .character-creation-header { text-align: center; margin-bottom: 2em; } .character-name { font-size: 1.3em; color: var(--accent); text-align: center; margin-bottom: 2em; font-weight: bold; text-shadow: 0 0 8px var(--accent); border-bottom: 1px solid var(--accent); padding-bottom: 1em; } .appearance-section { background: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.3); border: 1px solid var(--accent); padding: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 1.5em; border-radius: 5px; box-shadow: 0 0 10px rgba(255, 0, 0, 0.1); transition: all 0.3s ease; } .appearance-section:hover { box-shadow: 0 0 15px rgba(255, 0, 0, 0.2); transform: translateY(-2px); } .appearance-section h3 { color: var(--accent); margin-bottom: 0.5em; font-family: var(--accentFont); text-shadow: 0 0 5px var(--accent); font-size: 1.4em; text-transform: uppercase; letter-spacing: 1px; } .section-description { color: var(--accent2); font-style: italic; margin-bottom: 1.5em; font-size: 0.95em; line-height: 1.4; border-left: 3px solid var(--accent); padding-left: 1em; background: rgba(255, 0, 0, 0.05); padding: 0.8em 0 0.8em 1em; border-radius: 0 3px 3px 0; } .style-options { color: var(--text); line-height: 1.8; } .style-options input[type="radio"] { margin-right: 0.8em; margin-bottom: 0.1em; accent-color: var(--accent); transform: scale(1.2); cursor: pointer; } .style-options input[type="checkbox"] { margin-right: 0.8em; margin-bottom: 0.1em; accent-color: var(--accent); transform: scale(1.2); cursor: pointer; } .style-options input[type="radio"]:checked { accent-color: var(--accent2); } .style-options input[type="checkbox"]:checked { accent-color: var(--accent2); } .option-group { background: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.2); border: 1px solid var(--accent2); padding: 1.2em; margin-bottom: 1em; border-radius: 5px; box-shadow: 0 0 8px rgba(255, 0, 0, 0.1); } .option-group h4 { color: var(--accent2); margin-bottom: 1em; font-size: 1.1em; text-transform: uppercase; letter-spacing: 1px; border-bottom: 1px solid var(--accent2); padding-bottom: 0.5em; } .special-options { border-color: var(--accent); background: rgba(255, 0, 0, 0.05); } .special-options h4 { color: var(--accent); border-bottom-color: var(--accent); } .error-message { background: rgba(255, 0, 0, 0.2); border: 1px solid var(--accent); color: var(--accent2); padding: 1em; border-radius: 5px; text-align: center; margin-bottom: 1em; font-weight: bold; animation: pulse 0.5s ease-in-out; } @keyframes pulse { 0% { transform: scale(1); } 50% { transform: scale(1.02); } 100% { transform: scale(1); } } .continue-button { text-align: center; margin-top: 2em; } .continue-button button { padding: 1.2em 2.5em; background: linear-gradient(45deg, var(--accent), var(--accent2)); color: #ffffff; border: none; border-radius: 5px; font-size: 1.2em; font-weight: bold; cursor: pointer; transition: all 0.3s ease; box-shadow: 0 0 20px var(--accent); text-shadow: 1px 1px 2px rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.8); text-transform: uppercase; letter-spacing: 1px; } .continue-button button:hover { background: linear-gradient(45deg, var(--accent2), var(--accent)); box-shadow: 0 0 25px var(--accent); transform: translateY(-3px); } /* Light mode */ .lm .appearance-section { background: rgba(240, 237, 229, 0.3); box-shadow: 0 0 10px rgba(212, 175, 55, 0.1); } .lm .section-description { background: rgba(212, 175, 55, 0.05); } .lm .option-group { background: rgba(240, 237, 229, 0.2); border-color: var(--accent2); box-shadow: 0 0 8px rgba(212, 175, 55, 0.1); } .lm .special-options { background: rgba(212, 175, 55, 0.05); border-color: var(--accent); } .lm .error-message { background: rgba(212, 175, 55, 0.2) !important; border: 1px solid var(--accent) !important; color: var(--accent2) !important; } .lm .continue-button button { color: #000000; text-shadow: 1px 1px 2px rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.3); } </style>

<div class="character-creation-header"> <h1 class="bloodlines-title">The Mirror's Verdict</h1> <p class="subtitle">Truth reflected in glass and choice.</p> </div> The mirror doesn't lie. Can't lie. Won't lie when everything else in Sordia does.<br><br> You study the reflection that will walk into boardrooms and back alleys, that will face down editors and criminals, that will carry the weight of every story you choose to tell or bury.<br><br> This is who you are. This is who Sordia will see.<br><br> <div class="character-name">$fullName<<if $nickname>> (a.k.a. "$nickname")<</if>></div> <div class="character-description"> <<set $fullName to $firstName + " " + $lastName>> <div class="character-description"> <<if $height is "very-short">>You're short. Short enough that people look right over you. Big mistake.<<elseif $height is "short">>Not tall, but that works for you. Hard to hit a small target.<<elseif $height is "average">>Average height. Blend in when you need to. Stand out when it matters.<<elseif $height is "tall">>Tall enough to see over crowds. Tall enough to be remembered.<<elseif $height is "very-tall">>You tower over most people. Hard to hide, impossible to ignore.<<elseif $height is "towering">>You cast long shadows. People notice you coming from blocks away.<</if>> <<if $bodyShape is "lean">>Lean and sharp-edged. The kind of build you get from missing too many meals and getting too little sleep.<<elseif $bodyShape is "athletic">>Built strong. The kind of muscle that comes from real work, not a gym.<<elseif $bodyShape is "muscular">>Powerful. Every scar tells a story about violence survived.<<elseif $bodyShape is "average">>Average build. Nothing flashy, but it gets the job done.<<elseif $bodyShape is "curvy">>Curves in all the right places. Softness in a world full of sharp edges.<<elseif $bodyShape is "soft">>Soft around the edges. You still find ways to enjoy life in this hellhole city.<<elseif $bodyShape is "chubby">>Fuller figure. Proof you haven't let Sordia starve the joy out of you yet.<<elseif $bodyShape is "stocky">>Solid as a brick wall. The kind of build that doesn't back down from anything.<</if>><br><br> <<if $hairLength is "bald">>Your head is shaved clean. No bullshit. No hiding.<<if $headCovering is "yes">> You usually keep it covered. One more layer of protection.<</if>><<else>><<if $hair is "black">>Black<<elseif $hair is "dark-brown">>Dark brown<<elseif $hair is "medium-brown">>Medium brown<<elseif $hair is "light-brown">>Light brown<<elseif $hair is "dark-blonde">>Dark blonde<<elseif $hair is "blonde">>Blonde<<elseif $hair is "platinum">>Platinum<<elseif $hair is "auburn">>Auburn<<elseif $hair is "chestnut">>Chestnut<<elseif $hair is "copper">>Copper<<elseif $hair is "ginger">>Ginger<<elseif $hair is "salt-pepper">>Salt and pepper<<elseif $hair is "gray">>Gray<<elseif $hair is "white">>White<<elseif $hair is "blue">>Blue<<elseif $hair is "purple">>Purple<<elseif $hair is "pink">>Pink<<elseif $hair is "green">>Green<<elseif $hair is "red">>Vivid red<<elseif $hair is "teal">>Teal<<elseif $hair is "silver">>Silver<<elseif $hair is "rainbow">>Rainbow-colored<<elseif $hair is "ombre">>Ombre<</if>> <<if $hairTexture is "straight">>straight<<elseif $hairTexture is "wavy">>wavy<<elseif $hairTexture is "curly">>curly<<elseif $hairTexture is "coily">>coily<<elseif $hairTexture is "kinky">>kinky<</if>> hair <<if $hairLength is "buzzcut">>is buzzed close to your scalp<<elseif $hairLength is "pixie">>is cut in a pixie style<<elseif $hairLength is "short">>is cut short<<elseif $hairLength is "ear-length">>reaches your ears<<elseif $hairLength is "chin-length">>reaches your chin<<elseif $hairLength is "shoulder">>falls to your shoulders<<elseif $hairLength is "waist">>cascades to your waist<<elseif $hairLength is "hip">>flows down to your hips<</if>><<if $hairStyle is "natural">><<elseif $hairStyle is "layered">>, styled in layers<<elseif $hairStyle is "side-part">>, parted to one side<<elseif $hairStyle is "middle-part">>, parted down the middle<<elseif $hairStyle is "undercut">>, with an undercut<<elseif $hairStyle is "fade">>, faded at the sides<<elseif $hairStyle is "ponytail">>, pulled back in a ponytail<<elseif $hairStyle is "high-ponytail">>, swept up in a high ponytail<<elseif $hairStyle is "low-bun">>, twisted into a low bun<<elseif $hairStyle is "high-bun">>, secured in a high bun<<elseif $hairStyle is "messy-bun">>, gathered in a messy bun<<elseif $hairStyle is "space-buns">>, styled in space buns<<elseif $hairStyle is "braid">>, woven in a single braid<<elseif $hairStyle is "french-braid">>, plaited in a French braid<<elseif $hairStyle is "dutch-braid">>, styled in a Dutch braid<<elseif $hairStyle is "crown-braid">>, arranged in a crown braid<<elseif $hairStyle is "fishtail braid">>, woven in a fishtail braid<<elseif $hairStyle is "double-braid">>, split into double braids<<elseif $hairStyle is "afro">>, shaped in an afro<<elseif $hairStyle is "box-braids">>, sectioned into box braids<<elseif $hairStyle is "cornrows">>, braided into cornrows<<elseif $hairStyle is "twists">>, twisted<<elseif $hairStyle is "locs">>, grown into locs<<elseif $hairStyle is "bantu-knots">>, styled in Bantu knots<<elseif $hairStyle is "puff">>, gathered in a puff<</if>>.<<if $headCovering is "yes">> You choose to cover your hair, another layer in the careful construction of who you are.<</if>><</if>> <br><br> You have beautiful $eyesDescription Windows to a soul that's seen too much. They catch lies in the twitch of an eyelid. Spot fear in the way powerful people's gazes slide away from uncomfortable truths. See the reflection of neon signs in puddles of blood. <<if $facialHair and $facialHair isnot "none">> <<if $facialHair is "stubble">>Stubble shadows your jaw<<elseif $facialHair is "moustache">>A mustache frames<<elseif $facialHair is "goatee">>A goatee outlines<<elseif $facialHair is "short-beard">>A short beard covers<<elseif $facialHair is "full-beard">>A full beard dominates<<elseif $facialHair is "long-beard">>A long beard commands<<elseif $facialHair is "soul-patch">>A soul patch marks<<elseif $facialHair is "sideburns">>Sideburns frame<<elseif $facialHair is "anchor">>An anchor beard shapes<</if>> the mouth that speaks truths people die for.<</if>><br><br> <<if $skin is "vitiligo">>Your skin tells a story in patches of light and dark, vitiligo mapping across your body like abstract art. Some see it as a flaw, you know it's a reminder that beauty doesn't follow rules.<<else>><<if $skin is "porcelain">>Porcelain skin<<elseif $skin is "fair">>Fair skin<<elseif $skin is "light">>Light skin<<elseif $skin is "tan">>Tan skin<<elseif $skin is "tanned beige">>Tanned beige skin<<elseif $skin is "bronze beige">>Bronze beige skin<<elseif $skin is "golden brown">>Golden brown skin<<elseif $skin is "russet brown">>Russet brown skin<<elseif $skin is "dark brown">>Dark brown skin<<elseif $skin is "ebony">>Ebony skin<</if>> shows the wear of someone who's lived.<</if>> <<set $frecklesMolesList to []>> You have <<if $lightFreckles>><<set $frecklesMolesList.push("light freckles scattered across your face like delicate constellations")>><</if>> <<if $heavyFreckles>><<set $frecklesMolesList.push("heavy freckles forming dense patterns across your face and shoulders")>><</if>> <<if $bodyFreckles>><<set $frecklesMolesList.push("freckles scattered across your arms, chest, and back like a map of summer days")>><</if>> <<if $faceMole>><<set $frecklesMolesList.push("a prominent facial mole that draws attention")>><</if>> <<if $beautyMark>><<set $frecklesMolesList.push("a classic beauty mark that adds character to your face")>><</if>> <<if $bodyMoles>><<set $frecklesMolesList.push("various moles dotting your body like punctuation marks in flesh")>><</if>> <<if $birthmarkMole>><<set $frecklesMolesList.push("a distinctive birthmark that tells its own story on your body")>><</if>> <<if $frecklesMolesList.length gt 0>> <<print $frecklesMolesList.join(", ")>> mark your skin with natural patterns.<</if>><br><br> Your clothes send a message before you even open your mouth. <<if $outfitStyle is "classic-noir">>Classic noir style<<elseif $outfitStyle is "modern-noir">>Modern noir look<<elseif $outfitStyle is "investigative">>Practical reporter gear<<elseif $outfitStyle is "femme-fatale">>Femme fatale elegance<<elseif $outfitStyle is "street-reporter">>Street-smart functionality<<elseif $outfitStyle is "academic-dark">>Scholarly darkness<<elseif $outfitStyle is "dark-academia">>Dark academia sophistication<<elseif $outfitStyle is "light-academia">>Light academia style<<elseif $outfitStyle is "urban-professional">>Urban professional polish<<elseif $outfitStyle is "beat-cop-casual">>Casual reporter practicality<<elseif $outfitStyle is "art-deco">>Art deco glamour<<elseif $outfitStyle is "shadow-chic">>Shadow chic minimalism<</if>> that tells people exactly what kind of threat you are.<br><br> <<set $piercingsList to []>> <<if $eyebrowPiercing>><<set $piercingsList.push("an eyebrow piercing that catches light like small rebellion")>><</if>> <<if $septumPiercing>><<set $piercingsList.push("a septum ring you can flip up when discretion demands it")>><</if>> <<if $nostrilPiercing>><<set $piercingsList.push("a simple nostril stud that adds edge to your profile")>><</if>> <<if $lipPiercing>><<set $piercingsList.push("a lip piercing that makes every word feel more dangerous")>><</if>> <<if $tonguePiercing>><<set $piercingsList.push("a hidden tongue piercing that only shows when you speak")>><</if>> <<if $bridgePiercing>><<set $piercingsList.push("a bridge piercing that draws attention to your penetrating gaze")>><</if>> <<if $cheekPiercing>><<set $piercingsList.push("cheek piercings that create artificial dimples")>><</if>> <<if $standardLobesPiercing>><<set $piercingsList.push("standard ear piercings")>><</if>> <<if $multipleLobesPiercing>><<set $piercingsList.push("multiple lobe piercings creating constellation patterns in your ears")>><</if>> <<if $cartilagePiercing>><<set $piercingsList.push("cartilage piercings that follow the curves of your ears")>><</if>> <<if $industrialPiercing>><<set $piercingsList.push("an industrial bar cutting across your ear")>><</if>> <<if $tunnelPlugsPiercing>><<set $piercingsList.push("stretched lobes with tunnels")>><</if>> <<if $earWeightsPiercing>><<set $piercingsList.push("ear weights that stretch your lobes")>><</if>> <<if $navelPiercing>><<set $piercingsList.push("a navel piercing")>><</if>> <<if $nipplesPiercing>><<set $piercingsList.push("nipple piercings")>><</if>> <<if $genitalPiercing>><<set $piercingsList.push("intimate piercings")>><</if>> <<if $surfacePiercing>><<set $piercingsList.push("surface piercings creating raised bumps under your skin")>><</if>> <<if $microdermalsPiercing>><<set $piercingsList.push("microdermals with small gems anchored under your skin")>><</if>> <<if $piercingsList.length gt 0>> Metal pierces your flesh: <<print $piercingsList.join(", ")>>. Each piece carefully chosen, each placement deliberate.<</if>> <<set $tattoosList to []>> <<if $smallHiddenTattoo>><<set $tattoosList.push("small tattoos hidden beneath your clothes")>><</if>> <<if $smallVisibleTattoo>><<set $tattoosList.push("small visible tattoos")>><</if>> <<if $mediumPiecesTattoo>><<set $tattoosList.push("medium-sized tattoos with intricate detail")>><</if>> <<if $halfSleeveTattoo>><<set $tattoosList.push("a half-sleeve that transforms your arm into living art")>><</if>> <<if $fullSleeveTattoo>><<set $tattoosList.push("a full sleeve telling an epic story from shoulder to wrist")>><</if>> <<if $legSleeveTattoo>><<set $tattoosList.push("leg tattoos flowing from thigh to ankle")>><</if>> <<if $backPieceTattoo>><<set $tattoosList.push("a back piece that transforms your spine into a masterpiece")>><</if>> <<if $chestPieceTattoo>><<set $tattoosList.push("a chest piece sitting above your heart like armor")>><</if>> <<if $fullBodyTattoo>><<set $tattoosList.push("extensive tattoos covering most of your body")>><</if>> <<if $faceNeckTattoo>><<set $tattoosList.push("face and neck tattoos that can't be hidden")>><</if>> <<if $handFingersTattoo>><<set $tattoosList.push("hand and finger tattoos making every gesture a statement")>><</if>> <<if $traditionalTattoo>><<set $tattoosList.push("traditional-style tattoos with bold lines")>><</if>> <<if $geometricTattoo>><<set $tattoosList.push("geometric tattoos in mathematical patterns")>><</if>> <<if $blackworkTattoo>><<set $tattoosList.push("solid black tattoos")>><</if>> <<if $watercolorTattoo>><<set $tattoosList.push("watercolor tattoos with soft, painted effects")>><</if>> <<if $culturalTattoo>><<set $tattoosList.push("traditional cultural designs honoring your heritage")>><</if>> <<if $tattoosList.length gt 0>> Ink flows across your skin: <<print $tattoosList.join(", ")>>. Every design carries weight, memory, stories you've chosen to wear forever.<</if>> <<set $scarsList to []>> <<if $minimalScars>><<set $scarsList.push("minimal scarring suggesting a careful life or good medical care")>><</if>> <<if $surgicalScars>><<set $scarsList.push("clean surgical scars speaking to medical necessity")>><</if>> <<if $defensiveScars>><<set $scarsList.push("defensive scars on your arms telling stories of protection and survival")>><</if>> <<if $burnScars>><<set $scarsList.push("burn scars twisting across your skin like frozen flames")>><</if>> <<if $bladeScars>><<set $scarsList.push("blade scars mapping the violence you've survived")>><</if>> <<if $bulletScars>><<set $scarsList.push("bullet scars marking moments when death came calling")>><</if>> <<if $deliberateScars>><<set $scarsList.push("deliberate scars speaking to pain you chose to carry")>><</if>> <<if $extensiveScars>><<set $scarsList.push("extensive scarring mapping a life lived on the edge")>><</if>> <<if $scarsList.length gt 0>> Your scars tell their own stories: <<print $scarsList.join(", ")>>. Each mark a lesson learned, a price paid, a moment when you chose to keep going despite the cost.<</if>> <<set $accessoriesList to []>> <<if $signetRing>><<set $accessoriesList.push("a signet ring")>><</if>> <<if $multipleRings>><<set $accessoriesList.push("multiple rings across your fingers")>><</if>> <<if $statementRings>><<set $accessoriesList.push("bold statement rings demanding attention")>><</if>> <<if $brassKnuckles>><<set $accessoriesList.push("ornamental knuckle jewelry")>><</if>> <<if $simpleChain>><<set $accessoriesList.push("a simple chain resting against your throat")>><</if>> <<if $pendant>><<set $accessoriesList.push("a meaningful pendant hanging close to your heart")>><</if>> <<if $choker>><<set $accessoriesList.push("a choker encircling your throat")>><</if>> <<if $layeredChains>><<set $accessoriesList.push("layered chains creating complex patterns against your chest")>><</if>> <<if $heavyChain>><<set $accessoriesList.push("a heavy chain making its presence known with every movement")>><</if>> <<if $expensiveWatch>><<set $accessoriesList.push("an expensive watch on your wrist")>><</if>> <<if $smartWatch>><<set $accessoriesList.push("a smart watch keeping you connected")>><</if>> <<if $vintageWatch>><<set $accessoriesList.push("a vintage watch on your wrist")>><</if>> <<if $multipleBracelets>><<set $accessoriesList.push("multiple bracelets stacked on your wrists")>><</if>> <<if $cuffs>><<set $accessoriesList.push("wide metal cuffs encircling your wrists")>><</if>> <<if $charmBracelet>><<set $accessoriesList.push("a charm bracelet on your wrist")>><</if>> <<if $prescriptionGlasses>><<set $accessoriesList.push("prescription glasses framing your piercing gaze")>><</if>> <<if $sunglasses>><<set $accessoriesList.push("sunglasses")>><</if>> <<if $hatCollection>><<set $accessoriesList.push("a hat on your head")>><</if>> <<if $scarves>><<set $accessoriesList.push("scarves")>><</if>> <<if $gloves>><<set $accessoriesList.push("gloves protecting your hands")>><</if>> <<if $designerBag>><<set $accessoriesList.push("an expensive bag carrying the tools of your trade")>><</if>> <<if $practicalBag>><<set $accessoriesList.push("a practical bag carrying the tools of your trade")>><</if>> <<if $walletChain>><<set $accessoriesList.push("a wallet chain")>><</if>> <<if $accessoriesList.length gt 0>> The finishing accessoires complete your look: <<print $accessoriesList.join(", ")>>.<</if>> <br><br>This is you. This is how Sordia will see you when you walk into rooms full of people who want you dead. </div> <div class="ready"> <h1 class="bloodlines-title">You ready for this?</h1> </div> <div id="reflection-controls"> <div class="mirror-buttons"> <<button "Adjust the Reflection">> <<replace "#edit-menu">> <div class="edit-choices"> <h4>What needs refinement?</h4> <div class="edit-grid"> <<button "Skin" "Character Appearance">><</button>> <<button "Hair" "Hair">><</button>> <<button "Face" "Face">><</button>> <<button "Body" "Body">><</button>> <<button "Style" "Style">><</button>> </div> <<button "Cancel">> <<replace "#edit-menu">><</replace>> <<run $("#reflection-controls").show()>> <</button>> </div> <</replace>> <<run $("#reflection-controls").hide()>> <</button>> <<button "Accept the Truth" "GenderROChoice">> /* This mirror shows who you are. Time to use it. */ <</button>> </div> </div> <div id="edit-menu" class="edit-interface"> /* Edit options will appear here */ </div> <style> .character-creation-header { text-align: center; margin-bottom: 2em; } .character-name { font-size: 1.4em; color: var(--accent); text-align: center; margin-bottom: 2em; font-weight: bold; text-shadow: 0 0 10px var(--accent); border-bottom: 2px solid var(--accent); padding-bottom: 1em; } .ready { text-align: center; margin: 3em 0; padding: 2em; border-top: 2px solid var(--accent); border-bottom: 2px solid var(--accent); } .ready h1 { margin: 0; animation: pulse-glow 2s ease-in-out infinite alternate; } @keyframes pulse-glow { from { text-shadow: 0 0 20px var(--accent); } to { text-shadow: 0 0 30px var(--accent), 0 0 40px var(--accent2); } } #character-mirror { background: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.4); border: 2px solid var(--accent); padding: 2em; margin-bottom: 2em; border-radius: 8px; box-shadow: 0 0 20px rgba(255, 0, 0, 0.2); transition: all 0.3s ease; } #character-mirror:hover { box-shadow: 0 0 25px rgba(255, 0, 0, 0.3); transform: translateY(-3px); } .reflection-narrative { color: var(--text); line-height: 1.7; font-size: 1.05em; } .reflection-narrative p { margin-bottom: 1.5em; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-word; } .reflection-narrative p:last-child { margin-bottom: 0; text-align: center; font-weight: bold; color: var(--accent2); font-size: 1.1em; } #reflection-controls { text-align: center; margin-top: 2em; } .mirror-buttons { display: flex; gap: 2em; justify-content: center; flex-wrap: wrap; } .mirror-buttons button { padding: 1.2em 2em; background: linear-gradient(45deg, var(--accent), var(--accent2)); color: #ffffff; border: none; border-radius: 5px; font-size: 1.1em; font-weight: bold; cursor: pointer; transition: all 0.3s ease; box-shadow: 0 0 15px var(--accent); text-shadow: 1px 1px 2px rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.8); text-transform: uppercase; letter-spacing: 1px; min-width: 200px; } .mirror-buttons button:hover { background: linear-gradient(45deg, var(--accent2), var(--accent)); box-shadow: 0 0 20px var(--accent); transform: translateY(-3px); } .edit-interface { background: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.4); border: 1px solid var(--accent); padding: 2em; border-radius: 5px; margin-top: 1em; box-shadow: 0 0 15px rgba(255, 0, 0, 0.2); } .edit-choices h4 { color: var(--accent); text-align: center; margin-bottom: 1.5em; font-family: var(--accentFont); text-shadow: 0 0 5px var(--accent); font-size: 1.2em; text-transform: uppercase; letter-spacing: 1px; } .edit-grid { display: grid; grid-template-columns: repeat(auto-fit, minmax(150px, 1fr)); gap: 1em; margin-bottom: 2em; } .edit-grid button { padding: 1em; background: linear-gradient(45deg, var(--accent2), rgba(255, 0, 0, 0.3)); color: var(--text); border: 1px solid var(--accent2); border-radius: 3px; cursor: pointer; transition: all 0.3s ease; font-weight: bold; } .edit-grid button:hover { background: linear-gradient(45deg, var(--accent), var(--accent2)); color: #ffffff; transform: translateY(-2px); box-shadow: 0 0 10px var(--accent); } .edit-choices > button { padding: 1em 2em; background: linear-gradient(45deg, #cc0000, #990000); color: #ffffff; border: none; border-radius: 5px; cursor: pointer; transition: all 0.3s ease; font-weight: bold; text-transform: uppercase; letter-spacing: 1px; display: block; margin: 0 auto; } .edit-choices > button:hover { background: linear-gradient(45deg, #990000, #cc0000); transform: translateY(-2px); box-shadow: 0 0 10px #cc0000; } /* Light mode adjustments */ .lm #character-mirror { background: rgba(240, 237, 229, 0.4); box-shadow: 0 0 20px rgba(212, 175, 55, 0.2); } .lm #character-mirror:hover { box-shadow: 0 0 25px rgba(212, 175, 55, 0.3); } .lm .edit-interface { background: rgba(240, 237, 229, 0.4); box-shadow: 0 0 15px rgba(212, 175, 55, 0.2); } .lm .edit-grid button { background: linear-gradient(45deg, var(--accent2), rgba(212, 175, 55, 0.3)); border-color: var(--accent2); } .lm .edit-grid button:hover { background: linear-gradient(45deg, var(--accent), var(--accent2)); color: #000000; } .lm .mirror-buttons button { color: #000000; text-shadow: 1px 1px 2px rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.3); } .lm .edit-choices > button { background: linear-gradient(45deg, var(--accent), var(--accent2)); color: #000000; } .lm .edit-choices > button:hover { background: linear-gradient(45deg, var(--accent2), var(--accent)); } </style>

<h1 style="margin-block-end:0;">Select RO's Gender</h1> <p>All of your Romantic Opponents (ROs) are gender-selectable. Please set them now :) </p> <ul> <li> <<link "Set them now">> <<set $setNow = true>> <<goto "SetROAce">> <</link>><br><br> </li> </ul> <ul> <li> <<link "I'll set them later">> <<set $setNow = false>> <<goto "Choose Career Background">> <</link>> </li> </ul>

<div class="ch1-header"> <h1 class="bloodlines-title">Prologue</h1> </div> <div id="prologue-content"> CONTENT WARNINGS: Graphic violence and gore Body horror Strong language/profanity Death and murder Disturbing imagery Blood and injury descriptions Mental health themes Supernatural horror elements Substance use<br><br> FRIDAY, MARCH 22, 2044<br><br> The french fry snaps between Maud's teeth like a brittle bone breaking under pressure. She stares at it, half-chewed and greasy, suspended between her stained fingertips in the dim glow of the streetlight filtering through the cracked windshield. <br><br> The taste coats her mouth—salt and oil and something vaguely chemical that burns the back of her throat. Fast food made by fast hands for fast deaths. Perfect for Sordia. Perfect for her.<br><br> She studies the pathetic remnant before lobbing it at the windshield with practiced precision. Thwack. It hits dead center, a greasy missile striking its target. It slides down the glass in slow motion, leaving a slick trail like a slug's path or maybe like the trail of blood she'll soon be following through Sordia's underbelly. The metaphor makes her lips twitch. <br><br> //So fucking poetic tonight, aren't we, Maud?//<br><br> The cheap composition notebook wobbles precariously on her knees, its blue-lined pages gulping ink as her pen stutters across the paper, a seismograph of her chaotic brain. <br><br> Maud's handwriting lurches drunkenly across the page, letters that start confident but dissolve into jagged lightning bolts by the end of each sentence. Just like her thoughts. Just like her life. Start strong, end in chaos.<br><br> The journal had been Patch's idea. //Journaling for the criminally unhinged//, her therapist had called it in that deadpan voice that made Maud want to find out if therapists' intestines looked the same as everyone else's. <br><br> //"Express your feelings in a constructive way,"// they'd said, their wire-rimmed glasses sliding down their nose as they made another note. Always making stupid notes.<br><br> "Fuck that," Maud mutters to the empty car, the words crystallizing in the cold air. She snorts, a harsh sound like sandpaper against metal, and kicks her boots onto the dashboard of the stolen sedan. <br><br> The cracked leather protests beneath her steel-toed boots, another injury for this poor vehicle to bear. The car had been easy to boost. An older model with shit security and an owner who'd left it running while they dashed into a convenience store. Amateur hour. Maud had been blocks away before they'd even returned with their Slushie.<br><br> "Step one: Admit you're a fucking lost cause!" she announces to the rearview mirror, mimicking Patch's serious tone with exaggerated precision. Her reflection stares back, hollow-eyed and sharp-edged. <br><br> <div class="main-button">[[Next|Prologue Part 2]]</div>

The jagged scar that runs from her left temple to the corner of her mouth pulls tight when she smiles, a crooked line that splits her face like a crack in a porcelain doll. <br><br> The mirror cracks when she punches it, spiderwebbing her reflection into a dozen fractured Mauds, all wearing the same feral grin. "Step two: Write a eulogy for your sanity!"<br><br> The pain in her knuckles feels good, grounding, a sharp counterpoint to the dull ache that lives permanently behind her eyes. Blood smears across the reflective surface. Bright red against the silvered glass. She flexes her hand, watching as tiny glass shards catch the light, embedded in her skin like miniature stars.<br><br> //Dear fucking Diaree//, she writes, pressing down so hard the pen nearly cuts through the paper.<br><br> The pen tears through the page anyway, ink bleeding like a gut wound, pooling in dark constellations. Words fail her. They always do. How do you journal when your brain is a scorched battlefield? <br><br> Patch had made it sound so easy. //Manage your emotions. Process your experiences. Find your center.//<br><br> She laughs. A sharp, barking sound that echoes off the alley's brick walls, startling a mangy rat that had been investigating a pile of trash nearby. The creature freezes. Red eyes gleaming in the darkness, before scuttling away into the shadows. Smart rat. Run while you can.<br><br> What's next in Patch's toolbox of normality? Yoga? Kale smoothies? //Breathe through the chaos, Maud! Find your happy place!// She imagines Patch in their neatly pressed clothes, sitting cross-legged on a bamboo mat, incense burning as they chant affirmations to the universe. The image is so incongruous with the reality of them that it makes her laugh again, harder this time, until her ribs ache with it.<br><br> She doodles a stick figure hanging from a noose made of therapist buzzwords—"mindfulness," "trauma response," "coping strategy." The ink bleeds through to the next page, leaving ghost impressions. Like memories. Like ghosts. Like the shadows that cling to her wherever she goes.<br><br> The cold fries taste like cardboard dipped in grease, but she shoves another fistful into her mouth anyway, crunching louder, meaner. *Crunch-crunch-CRUNCH*—like grinding teeth. Or bones. Food is fuel, nothing more. <br><br> She barely tastes it anymore, just registers textures and temperatures. Hot. Cold. Soft. Hard. Sweet. Salty. The nuances of flavor were one of the first things to go when the Umbra blood awakened in her veins. A small price to pay for power, though sometimes she misses the simple pleasure of tasting something good.<br><br> The barista's heart-dotted name scrawled on her coffee cup from earlier floats into her head again. "Maud" with a little heart over the "i" that doesn't exist. Miaud. What a stupid fucking name.<br><br> The girl had been pretty, all soft edges and warm smiles, with eyes that hadn't yet been hardened by Sordia's particular brand of cruelty. She'd smelled like cinnamon and hope, an intoxicating combination that had made Maud linger longer than was safe. She wonders what the barista would taste like. If her blood would carry notes of that cinnamon warmth, or if it would be copper-bright like everyone else's. <br><br> The barista was cute and normal. Almost cute enough to make her want to be normal too. To be the kind of person who goes on coffee dates and worries about mundane things like rent and reality TV shows.<br><br> Almost. But not quite.<br><br> <div class="main-button">[[Next|Prologue Part 3]]</div>

The city presses in against the car windows, a living entity hungry for weakness. Not just the reek of piss and wet concrete that seeps through the vents, or the stench of dumpsters and diesel fuel that permanently hangs in Sordia's air, but the sound of it.<br><br> The distant wail of a meth-head screaming at shadows only he can see. The way the subway's rumble vibrates in her teeth whenever a train passes beneath the streets. How the flickering neon from the strip club across the street pulses like a dying heartbeat, casting alternating washes of red and blue across her face like police lights in slow motion. The constant drip of something wet hitting the sedan's roof that might be rain or might be something leaking from the apartment buildings looming overhead. Probably both.<br><br> Sordia isn't a place; it's a festering wound, a parasite that's sunk its teeth into the coastline and refuses to let go. A leech with skyscraper teeth, gnawing at her ribs every time she breathes its toxic air. The city is dying. Has been dying for decades, but refuses to acknowledge its own decay. Just like her. Just like all of them.<br><br> She scratches her arm where the Umbra marks begin, nails digging red trenches into her pale skin. The black veins beneath pulse in response, a network of darkness spreading from her wrist to her elbow like cracks in marble. They're getting longer, spreading farther each time she transforms.<br><br> //Get out. Get out. Get out.//<br><br> The mantra echoes in her skull, a desperate prayer to a god she stopped believing in years ago. Get out of Sordia. Get out of this life. Get out before the shadows eat her from the inside out, leaving nothing but a husk that walks and talks but isn't Maud anymore. If there's even a Maud left to save.<br><br> Escape plans flicker through her mind like a broken film reel, scenes jumping and cutting without warning. She's been planning her exit for 1 year, 4 months, 34 hours, and 55 seconds—not that she's counting. She laughs. Sudden and jagged.<br><br> "Tick-tock, tick-fucking-tock!" she sings, stabbing the page with her pen until the tip breaks off, embedded in the paper like a tiny missile. She fishes another from her jacket pocket, stolen from the bank two weeks ago, a whole box of them sitting in her shitty apartment next to stolen painkillers and a gun that doesn't belong to her. The list erupts like shrapnel across the page, each item a fragment of the desperate creature she's become:<br><br> 1. Kick the assholes' asses (salt their graves, leave glitter confetti—party foul!).<br> 2. Karaoke with N (scream Highway to Hell until the bar explodes. Encore!).<br> 3. Tell K that you love her<br> 4. Pink hair (because if she's gonna burn out, she'll do it neon).<br> 5. Find inner peace (cue Kung Fu Panda Shifu Ascending song—then dropkick the Dalai Lama).<br> 6. Right some wrongs (or wrong some rights. Potato, potahto).<br><br> Her hand hovers over that third item, the only one without a joke. No. Not gonna happen. Nope, nope , nope! <br><br> <div class="main-button">[[Next|Prologue Part 4]]</div>

The pen hovers over the page, dripping ink that pools and spreads like a bloodstain. It bleeds into a Rorschach blot that looks like a screaming face. Or a heart. Or //them//.<br><br> She slams the journal shut with enough force to send a tremor through the car's frame, as if she could trap the thoughts inside its pages.<br><br> "Who's gonna read this?" she mutters, kicking the glove compartment open with the toe of her boot. The latch breaks with a satisfying snap, the door hanging limply as a half-empty whiskey bottle clatters to the floor. <br><br> She snatches it up, unscrewing the cap with practiced ease and taking a swig that burns all the way down. The alcohol barely affects her anymore but the ritual of it is comforting. Normal. Human.<br><br> Fuck stability. Fuck belonging. Fuck Patch and their belief that she can be saved. But her throat tightens anyway. 30% of Sordia’s population gets murdered anyway. It’s only a matter of time until it’s her turn, especially in her line of work. <br><br> She imagines her words printed in smudged newsprint after they find her body: //Diary of A Crazy Umbra-Blooded Girl Who Lost Her Own Mind//. Catchy title. Good for the Sordia Daily Crier, always looking for sensational stories to distract from the city's slow collapse. Infamy's a better epitaph than she tried.<br><br> A cat scurries past the sedan's bumper, a streak of orange in the gloom. Maud leans on the horn—HONK!—the sound shattering the night's relative quiet. She grins as the cat bolts, back arched and fur standing on end. <br><br> "Run, little thing! Run!" she calls after it, voice raw with something that might be envy. To be small, to be fast, to live purely on instinct rather than this constant war between human and other...<br><br> Her laughter dies when she glances at her phone. 7:03 PM. The screen's cracked, lines radiating outward from the center like a frozen spiderweb, but the time is still visible. <br><br> He should have called by now. The guy they were tracking should have been apprehended, squeezed for information, then disposed of cleanly. But her phone remains silent, and the knot in her stomach tightens. Aww, her lackey's probably dead. And if the lackey's dead, the guy might have escaped.<br><br> Five more minutes. She’ll wait.<br><br> <div class="main-button">[[Next|Prologue Part 5]]</div>

She reads through the stupid diary again and hates every word she's written. One misspelled Karaoke ("Kar-ee-okie? Fuck it"). Words scratched out and rewritten. Ink blots where she pressed too hard. <br><br> She probably misspelled everything because she sucks. //She sucks, she sucks, she sucks//. The mantra beats in time with her pulse, the familiar self-loathing that's been her constant companion since childhood.<br><br> The page survives long enough for her to scrawl a postscript, letters slanting crazily as the whiskey hits her bloodstream: P.S. If you're reading this, I'm either dead or I have successfully freed myself of this shithole. Either way, buy me a shot. She considers signing it, but who else's fucked-up diary would this be?<br><br> She rips the journal page out with a satisfying tearing sound, crumpling it into a tight ball between her palms. The paper is warm, almost alive. "Garbage. Trash. Dumpster fire," she mutters, each word punctuated by squeezing the ball tighter, as if she could compress her thoughts into nothingness.<br><br> The car door rips open with a screech of rusted metal that sets her teeth on edge. Blood spatters across Maud's diary in a fine mist, tiny droplets that bloom on the page like crimson flowers. <br><br> Vince lunges into the sedan with the grace of a wounded animal, his face contorted with rage and pain. The metallic scent of blood hits her immediately—sharp, sweet, calling to the darkness coiled in her veins.<br><br> His shirt is soaked with it. The white fabric turned a glistening red that appears almost black in the dim light. His right arm hangs awkwardly, and she can see the tear in his sleeve where a bullet must have grazed him. Not dead, then. But not victorious either. Loser.<br><br> "Fuck's sake, Maud, what are you doing?!" His voice cracks like thin ice over a frozen lake, high and brittle with pain and something that might be fear. His eyes dart around the car's interior, taking in the scattered french fries, the open journal, the whiskey bottle clutched in her hand. Judging. Always judging.<br><br> Maud glances up, deliberately casual, twirling the pen between her fingers like a tiny baton. The cheap plastic feels warm against her skin, comforting in its familiarity. Round and round it goes, a hypnotic blue blur. <br><br> Therapy homework or murder weapon? she muses. Decisions, decisions. The pen would work in a pinch—jammed into an eye socket or through the soft underside of a jaw. She's done more with less.<br><br> "Hmm? Writing in my diary, Vinny-pooh! My therapist says it's—"<br><br> <div class="main-button">[[Next|Prologue Part 6]]</div>

"Oh my God, shut up! Our target shot me and got away because you were writing in your fucking diary!" <br><br> His voice rises to a near-shriek on the last word, face contorted with fury. He slams his good hand against the dashboard hard enough to dislodge more fries, which tumble to the floor like greasy confetti.<br><br> Vince's spit flies from his mouth in a fine mist, landing on her cheek like acid rain. She resists the urge to flinch, to wipe it away. Never show weakness. That's the first rule of surviving in Sordia. <br><br> Maud feels one droplet slide down her skin with scientific detachment, leaving a trail of rage and desperation in its wake. Weaklings are so messy when they're angry, she thinks. All bodily fluids and undignified noises. Not like her. She's learned to kill quietly, to bleed internally, to swallow screams until they calcify in her lungs.<br><br> The words hit Maud like raindrops—first one, then another, then a deluge. Target. Shot. Away. Diary. Each syllable a tiny bullet piercing her carefully constructed shield of indifference. <br><br> She tilts her head, a bird-like motion that Patch says makes her look "unsettlingly predatory," watching as Vince clutch his right arm to his chest. Blood seeps through his fingers, staining his white shirt crimson. Such a cliché, wearing white on a job. Like he wanted to showcase every injury, every failure.<br><br> Something dark and delicious stirs in her chest as she watches him suffer. There's a special kind of beauty in wounded people. The way pain strips away their masks, leaving behind raw, whimpering animals. Vince is always so composed, so smug in his position. Seeing him like this, reduced to his most basic components of pain and fear, makes her feel aroused in a way that has nothing to do with the Umbra blood.<br><br> A giggle bubbles up her throat, escaping before she can swallow it down. It doesn't sound entirely human, even to her own ears—a little too high, a little too sharp, like glass breaking in slow motion. <br><br> "Oopsie-daisy! Did the big bad man get a boo-boo? Do you want me to kiss it better?" She pouts, lower lip protruding in an exaggerated display of mock sympathy. Her eyes widen with false innocence, lashes fluttering like insect wings.<br><br> Vince's face darkens to a dangerous shade of purple, veins bulging at his temples like tiny snakes beneath his skin. His pulse is visible there, a frantic staccato beat that calls to the predator in her. <br><br> Maud wonders if human heads can actually explode from anger. POP! Like overripe fruit stepped on in summer heat. She'd love to see that—brain matter and skull fragments painting the interior of their stolen sedan in abstract patterns. Art installation: The Consequences of Pissing Off Maud. Mixed media: blood, bone, and brain on upholstery.<br><br> "Yeah, yeah, I get it, Vinny-pooh," she rolls her eyes, stretching like a cat waking from a nap. Her bones crack—one-two-three—a little percussion solo that echoes in the confined space. The sound is oddly satisfying, like bubble wrap popping.<br><br> She grabs a handful of cold fries from the dashboard, making sure to chew extra slowly. Crunch. Crunch. Crunch. Just to watch his eye twitch. Each twitch is like a tiny victory, a reminder that she can get under his skin without even trying.<br><br> Mental note: This is definitely going in the diary later—filed under 'People Who Need Killing.' Or maybe 'Funniest Tantrums.' She hasn't decided yet. Maybe she'll create a whole new category just for Vince and his particular brand of superiority complex.<br><br> "You think this is a joke?" Vince spits, flecks of saliva landing on her cheek and lips. The droplets taste like copper and fear when her tongue darts out to lick them away.<br><br> His blood pressure must be through the roof. She can practically taste the adrenaline pouring off him in waves. "The bastard got away! We could lose everything because you couldn't tear yourself away from your precious diary!"<br><br> The words are meant to wound, to make her feel guilty for not being where she was supposed to be. But she had better things to do. Like writing in her diary. <br><br> Maud ignores his tantrum, licking salt from her fingers with exaggerated pleasure. Her tongue sweeps across each digit, slow and deliberate, pink muscle working methodically to capture every grain. <br><br> She maintains eye contact the entire time, enjoying the way his disgust mingles with something darker, something he probably doesn't even recognize in himself. The vein in his forehead is throbbing, she notes with glee. Three... two... one... and—<br><br> "So, which way did our little rascal run? Left? Right? Up a tree? Down a rabbit hole?" She grins, watching his face contort with frustration. Dancing on people’s last nerves is so much fun. It's one of the few genuine pleasures left in her life—pushing people until they crack, finding the exact pressure point that makes them snap. <br><br> With Vince, it's always his pride. He hates failing almost as much as he hates needing help, especially hers.<br><br> "To the right." Vince grimaces, pressing harder on his wound as if trying to physically contain his own weakness. The blood squeezes between his fingers nonetheless, thick and dark, almost black in the shadowy interior of the car. <br><br> It drips onto the upholstery, each droplet spreading into a miniature archipelago of pain. "Before he shot me, I managed to wound him in the leg. Just follow the blood trail—you're so good at that, aren't you, freak?"<br><br> Oh wow. Something cold and sharp slides down Maud's spine, like an icicle being dragged along her vertebrae. That name. That fucking name. A kaleidoscope of memories flashes behind her eyes. Breathe or you'll kill him right here. One, two, three. Patch's counting technique. It almost never works, but she tries anyway.<br><br> Vinny-pooh must be having a really bad day to pick a fight with her. A sharp grin splits her face, all teeth and no humor. He knows better. He knows what happened to the last person who called her that, knows how they found him three days later with his skin turned inside out, frozen mid-scream in an alley she can’t even remember the name of. <br><br> He knows better than to poke the monster wearing Maud's skin like a borrowed coat.<br><br> <div class="main-button">[[Next|Prologue Part 7]]</div>

Before he can blink, her hands are around his throat, squeezing. The diary falls to the floor, forgotten. His skin feels hot under her fingers, fever-warm and slick with sweat. His pulse races beneath her thumbs, a frightened lamb trying to escape the wolf's jaw.<br><br> She can feel his Adam's apple bobbing desperately as he tries to swallow, to breathe, to beg. So fragile. So easy to break. Humans are just wet paper bags filled with bones and organs, held together by nothing but wishful thinking and a thin layer of skin.<br><br> "Hmm, Vinny-pooh~" Her voice comes out in a sing-song whisper. The shadows in the car deepen, stretching toward them like curious spectators gathering for a show.<br><br> "In therapy today, I promised to get a better grip on my emotions and kill less people, but you are seriously—" squeeze "—getting—" squeeze "—on my nerves right now."<br><br> His eyes bulge, bloodshot and watery, face turning an interesting shade of blue that reminds her of the sky before a storm. Little red vessels burst in the whites of his eyes, creating a constellation of blood stars under pressure they were never meant to handle.<br><br> Maud leans closer, close enough to count his eyelashes, to feel his ragged breath on her face. His breath smells like fear and cigarettes, a heady combination that makes her dizzy with power.<br><br> I could end him right now, she thinks. Just a little more pressure. Just a little longer. Then silence. The world would be short one more asshole, and she'd be free of his constant judgment, his thinly veiled contempt. The shadows would drink his fear, feast on his last moments. They're hungry tonight, roiling beneath her skin like caged beasts.<br><br> But then who would she have to torment on long stakeouts? Who would bring her coffee just the way she likes it. Black as her soul with three sugars because she's "sweet enough to cause diabetes"? Who would roll his eyes when she makes inappropriate jokes at crime scenes? Besides, Boss would be pissed. And a pissed-off Boss is worse than letting Vince live any day.<br><br> "Don't you ever think you can talk to me like that. You screwed up, and now you're looking for someone to blame. Like the pathetic scum that you are. So don't pick a fight with someone out of your league, okay~? Be a good boy now and let me correct your mistake."<br><br> She releases him suddenly, fingers leaving red marks on his neck that will bloom into bruises by morning. My signature, she thinks with glee. A claim that says Maud was here baby! Like a cat pissing on a tree, marking her territory.<br><br> He collapses against the car door, gasping like a landed fish. Each breath is a wet, desperate sound that fills the car, drowning out the distant city noises. His eyes burn with rage and humiliation, but he doesn't dare speak. Smart boy. He's learning.<br><br> "Well, let's not keep the Boss waiting too long," she says, voice deliberately light. She pats his cheek, harder than necessary, feeling the sting on her palm. "Try not to bleed out on the upholstery. It's not our car, but I still have standards."<br><br> Maud hops out of the car in one fluid motion, the night air cool against her flushed skin. The temperature has dropped since she's been sitting in the car, the city settling into its nocturnal rhythm.<br><br> Her breath forms small clouds that dissipate almost instantly, ghosts of exhalations past. Her heart pounds in her chest. Adrenaline and anticipation making her feel light-headed, almost giddy. <br><br> Blood scent hangs in the air. Metallic, sweet, calling to her like a siren's song. Her pupils dilate involuntarily, nostrils flaring as she inhales deeply. The Umbra blood stirs, responding to the promise of violence, of hunt, of feast.<br><br> She's scanning the ground for dark droplets, for the trail that will lead her to her prey. The alley stretches before her, a canyon of brick and concrete littered with the detritus of urban life. Broken bottles, discarded needles, fast food wrappers dancing in the breeze. <br><br> But she doesn't see those things. She sees only the path, the story written in blood spatter and disturbed dust. The target went right, then left at the intersection, limping heavily on his wounded leg. Desperation makes people sloppy, leaves signs that might as well be neon billboards to someone with her particular talents.<br><br> The hunt begins.<br><br> <div class="main-button">[[Next|Prologue Part 8]]</div>

Maud closes her eyes, blocking out the city's neon chaos. The constant sensory assault of Sordia. The blaring horns, the shouting drunks, the pulsing music from a dozen competing nightclubs—fades to a distant hum as she focuses inward, then outward in a different way. <br><br> Her senses reach beyond the dumpsters and piss-soaked alleys, past the smothering filth of urban decay until she hears it—fast, irregular breathing. Fear and adrenaline making it sharp and ragged. But above all, she smells it. Blood has a voice all its own, and it's singing to her like a fucking lullaby.<br><br> Come to me, come to me, come to me.<br><br> The first whistle splits the night. High and sweet and terrible. The sound emerges from her lips without conscious thought, an ancient call that predates language, predates humanity itself. <br><br> Shadows stir at her feet, pooling like liquid darkness, hungry children reaching for their mother. Cold spreads through her body like poison, her skin crawling as the darkness tests her worthiness. Only the cold ones, the broken ones, the Umbra-blooded can embrace the shadow like this. Only those born with darkness in their veins can command it, can become one with it.<br><br> Her pace quickens as she begins to mutter ancient words: "Umbra carnem devorat, sanguis nocti cedit. Anima mea tenebris data est.." The language is older than Latin, older than Sanskrit, syllables that feel like shards of ice on her tongue. <br><br> The shadows respond, slithering across the ground like oil spills given purpose, undulating with a life of their own. They circle her ankles, writhing with anticipation, eager to join with her flesh, to transform her into something beyond human comprehension. The air around her drops ten degrees, frost forming on nearby puddles, crystallizing in delicate patterns that crunch beneath her boots.<br><br> The transformation begins at her fingertips. Black veins spreading upward beneath her skin. <br><br> The darkness moves with deliberate slowness, a lover's caress that both hurts and heals. Her nails blacken and extend, hardening into obsidian daggers that pierce through her own flesh with a sound like breaking glass. <br><br> Blood wells from the wounds, bright crimson against the encroaching dark, but instead of dripping down, it's sucked back in, turning to tar beneath her skin. The pain is exquisite, a burning cold that makes her nerve endings sing.<br><br> A scream catches in her throat as her radius and ulna snap simultaneously, bone shards puncturing through her forearms like macabre porcupine quills. <br><br> The fragments hang suspended for a heartbeat, gleaming white in the moonlight, before liquefying into a slurry of marrow and shadow that oozes back into her flesh. <br><br> Her skin bubbles and splits as if being boiled from within, peeling away in long, wet strips that curl like burned paper. Beneath is not muscle and sinew but a writhing mass of sentient darkness, hungrily consuming what remains of her humanity.<br><br> "Umbra umbram vocat," she gasps through the agony, voice dropping octaves until it resonates at frequencies that make rats flee from nearby sewers, squeaking in blind terror. <br><br> The words taste like ash and iron, ancient syllables that were never meant for human tongues to speak.<br><br> Her ribcage expands suddenly. violently. Cracking outward with wet pops as individual ribs pierce through intercostal muscles and skin. The sound is obscene, organic, like stepping on cockroaches with bare feet. <br><br> Dark ichor, not blood, oozes from the wounds, sliding down her torso in rivulets that move against gravity, defying physics as shadows are wont to do. <br><br><br><br> The exposed ribs blacken and curve like fingers reaching for the night sky before dissolving into smoke that clings to her form, reshaping her silhouette into something no longer recognizable as human.<br><br> Her jaw dislocates with an audible crack that reverberates through her skull, mouth stretching impossibly wide as her teeth fall out one by one, pattering to the ground like bloody hailstones. <br><br> They dissolve upon impact, each tooth becoming a tiny pool of darkness that races back to join the greater whole. New teeth erupt from bleeding gums, not teeth but needle-like protrusions of solidified darkness, hundreds of them filling her mouth in overlapping rows. <br><br> Her tongue splits down the middle, forking and elongating until it lolls obscenely from her distended mouth, tasting the air like a serpent seeking prey.<br><br> "Carnem meam sacrifico," she manages through her deformed mouth, the words garbled but potent. I sacrifice my flesh. The ancient prayer of those who walk between worlds, who offer their humanity as currency for power beyond mortal comprehension.<br><br> Her spine arches backward until vertebrae snap, one after another in rapid succession—crack-crack-crack—the sound like somebody stomping on bubble wrap filled with fluid. <br><br> Bone splinters pierce her skin from within, a forest of white daggers that quickly blacken and melt. <br><br> Her back splits open from neck to tailbone, skin and muscle peeling away like pages in a book to reveal not a spinal column but a writhing column of living shadow that pulses and writhes like a massive centipede. <br><br> It undulates with hungry purpose, segments shifting and realigning as it adapts to its new freedom.<br><br> The shadows surge upward, plunging into the open wound of her back, penetrating deeper into her core.<br><br> They burrow beneath remaining skin, lifting it from muscle, separating tissue from tissue with meticulous cruelty. Where they pass, flesh blackens and sloughs away like overripe fruit left too long in the sun. <br><br> Her organs liquefy one by one—first her liver, then kidneys, then lungs collapsing into pools of midnight that swirl within the hollow cavity of her torso. Only the brain and heart remain intact, for now.<br><br> Her heart beats frantically against her exposed sternum, a frantic drumbeat counting down her humanity's final moments. The muscle strains against invisible constraints, as if trying to leap from her chest and escape its inevitable fate. <br><br> The shadows encircle it, caressing the pulsing muscle almost lovingly before plunging inward. Her heart swells, blackens, and bursts—spraying void-essence instead of blood, each droplet a universe of darkness.<br><br> "ipsa tenebris fio," she whispers as her eyes dissolve in their sockets, vitreous humor turning to black mercury that spills down her cheeks like tears. I become darkness itself. The final prayer, the point of no return. <br><br> Her vision doesn't dim—instead, it expands, seeing beyond the visible spectrum into realms of heat and fear and life-force. The world becomes a pulsing tapestry of energy signatures, each living thing a beacon of varying intensity.<br><br> The transformation culminates in a horrific implosion as her remaining flesh tears itself apart. Skin rupturing from forehead to feet in a network of jagged lacerations. Muscle shreds itself from bone, sinew unravels like wet string, organs collapse into primordial soup. <br><br> For one terrible moment, Maud is inside-out, a grotesque display of a human turned wrong, before the shadows surge forward to fill the void where humanity once existed.<br><br> They knit themselves into her essence, becoming her new skin, her new bones, her new heart. What remains is a silhouette cut from the fabric of night itself, a humanoid shape outlined in darkness so deep it seems to devour light. Where blood once flowed, currents of shadow pulse. Where eyes once were, twin voids now gaze upon the world, seeing not light and color but life-force and fear.<br><br> She is nothing. Everything. A nightmare made of shadow and spite.<br><br> The city opens its secrets to her now. Every dark corner whispers her name—Maud, Maud, Maud—a whisper that fills the spaces between heartbeats. Every shadow becomes an extension of her being, a sensory organ that feeds information directly to her consciousness. <br><br> She flows through the streets like spilled ink, following the sweet scent of terror and gunpowder. The prey is close, his fear a beacon that calls to the predator she has become.<br><br> The city transforms through shadow-sight. Every darkened window becomes an eye, every patch of darkness a mouth ready to devour. Her consciousness spreads like ink in water, tasting everything at once. Pain. Pleasure. Fear. Desire. Life and death. The full spectrum of human experience laid bare before her.<br><br> Heartbeats thunder through walls. A drunk sleeping in a doorway (his liver rotting, dreams full of regret), rats scurrying through trash (hungry, always hungry), a couple fucking in an apartment above (sweat-slick skin, gasping breaths). Their heat signatures burn like stars through her dark vision, constellations of life and warmth that make what's left of her humanity ache with want. To be warm again. To feel without the filter of shadow between her and the world.<br><br> She flows between reality's cracks, becoming one with every shadow. The asphalt's pores welcome her, let her seep through like water through sand only to emerge blocks away, coalescing into semi-solid form wherever darkness gathers.<br><br> A dog barks as she ripples past, tail between his legs, eyes wide with terror. Animals always know. They recognize an Umbra-blooded in full transformation, remember in their genetic memory when shadows hunted beneath ancient moons.<br><br> She tastes copper on the air. His blood calling her home like a beacon. Each droplet a breadcrumb, each panicked breath a signpost pointing the way. He's moving northeast, toward the abandoned factory district. Smart but ultimately futile. There's nowhere in Sordia dark enough to hide from what she's become.<br><br> "I'm coming for you," she sings into the darkness, her voice no longer human but a chorus of whispers, each syllable layered with echoes of previous utterances. "Drip, drip, drip." The sound of his blood hitting concrete, a metronome counting down to his inevitable end.<br><br> The city's sounds crystallize in her awareness. Car engines growl twelve blocks east, cylinders firing in precise sequence. A baby cries in the building above, lungs still new and perfect, unmarred by Sordia's toxic air. Music thuds from a basement club, bass pounding like an artificial heart, bodies writhing in chemical-induced ecstasy. <br><br> But loudest of all is him. His panicked breathing, his stumbling footsteps, his racing heart pumping out more sweet blood for her to follow.<br><br> She slips through a drain pipe, its rust and slime nothing to her now, emerges from a puddle's reflection like a distorted mirror image climbing into reality. She dances between streetlights, each pool of illumination parting around her like water around a stone, leaving her untouched by its revealing glare. <br><br> The hunt makes what's left of her humanity shiver with dark joy, primal satisfaction coursing through whatever passes for veins in her current form.<br><br> The shadows whisper location after location, eager to help corner their prey. A pack hunting as one, sharing information through channels beyond human comprehension. Left at the intersection. Through the collapsed fence. Behind the dumpster. Cowering now, leg bleeding freely, gun clutched in trembling hands. They can taste his fear, rich and complex like aged wine. <br><br> They hunger for more.<br><br> She is everywhere. She is nowhere. She is the darkness itself, and her prey has nowhere to hide.<br><br> <div class="main-button">[[Next|Prologue Part 9]]</div>

<h1 class="bloodlines-title">Meanwhile...</h1> Razor-sharp pain lanced through his leg with each footfall, blood spattering the pavement behind him like obscene breadcrumbs. The bullet had torn through muscle but missed bone, small mercies. <br><br> Jace clutched the wound as he ran, cursing between gasps for air. His fingers came away slick and warm, coated in crimson that appeared black in the dim streetlights. The sight made his stomach lurch, but he pushed the nausea aside. No time for weakness now.<br><br> Shit, shit, shit. Nothing was going right. The job was supposed to be easy. In and out. Getting some intel. But everything had gone sideways the moment that psycho had spotted him, eyes gleaming with something that wasn't quite human, smile too wide for her face.<br><br> His gun was gone, dropped somewhere during the initial confrontation. The data packet was compromised, encryption failing as he'd been forced to disconnect mid-transfer. <br><br> And now he was leaving a trail of blood like some wounded animal in a nature documentary, marking his path for any predator to follow. For her to follow.<br><br> Time was running out fast. He could feel it slipping away with each labored breath, with each drop of blood that painted the concrete beneath his feet. <br><br> The rendezvous point was still ten blocks away, might as well be ten miles in his current condition. He needed somewhere to hide, to regroup, to bind his wound before he bled out in Sordia's indifferent streets.<br><br> The dark alley beckoned like salvation. A narrow passage between towering buildings, hidden from the main streets by overflowing dumpsters and the skeletal remains of a delivery truck abandoned long ago. Just a place to catch his breath, to think. To not die in the next five minutes. <br><br> Jace stumbled into the shadows, collapsing against a dumpster with a metallic clang that seemed to echo forever. The smell of rotting food turned his stomach, sweet-sour decay that filled his nostrils and coated his tongue, but it was better than the metallic stench of his own blood.<br><br> His hands shook violently as he fumbled for his cigarettes, the pack crushed and damp with sweat in his jacket pocket. A stupid indulgence in the middle of a crisis, but he needed something, anything to calm his racing heart before it exploded in his chest. <br><br> The flame from his lighter illuminated his blood-slicked fingers, making them gleam wetly in the momentary burst of light. He took a deep drag, the nicotine flooding his system with false calm, smoke filling his lungs like a comforting blanket.<br><br> The phone in his pocket felt like a ticking bomb, the weight of it a constant reminder of his failure. Blood made the screen slippery as he pulled it out, smearing across the glass in abstract patterns. <br><br> His fingers trembled as he frantically tapped through encryption protocols, trying to salvage what data he could before it was too late. The upload bar crawled across the screen with maddening slowness—73%... 85%... 92%... Complete. <br><br> At least that was done. Whatever happened to him now, the information was secure. His employer would get what they paid for, even if Jace wouldn't be around to collect the other half of his fee. <br><br> He cursed the day he took this job, cursed his own stupid desperation for accepting it. The money had seemed worth it at the time. Enough to get out of Sordia for good, to start fresh somewhere the sun still shone and the rain didn't burn your skin. Nothing seemed worth this now, not with death breathing down his neck.<br><br> The cigarette hit the ground, still smoking, orange ember glowing against black asphalt. Time to move. But something was wrong. The darkness behind him felt... alive. Watching. Hungry. The shadows seemed deeper than they should be, more substantial somehow, as if they had weight and texture beyond the simple absence of light. <br><br> Jace stiffened, the hairs on his neck standing at attention, his body screaming danger danger danger. He turned slowly, eyes straining against the gloom. Nothing. Just shadows and trash and—<br><br> His own shadow seemed to ripple against the wall, though there was no wind to move it. The silhouette's edges blurred, then sharpened, then... shifted. Did it just... smile? A mouth opening where no mouth should be, a gash of deeper darkness in the black outline of his form.<br><br> No. Impossible. The nicotine was making him paranoid. That and blood loss. He needed to move, needed to put as much distance as possible between himself and that woman with the too-wide smile and the eyes like bottomless wells. Needed to—<br><br> The shadow's teeth were definitely growing sharper now, its edges stretching toward him like grasping fingers. His own shadow was *hungry*. Terror flooded his system as he watched it peel itself from the wall, reaching for him with hands made of pure darkness. This wasn't happening. This couldn't be happening. Shadows didn't move on their own. Shadows didn't have teeth.<br><br> "What the f—"<br><br> Before he could try to run, something reached from behind. Black arms, too long, too cold, yanked him back with crushing force. His spine cracked against brick, the impact sending starbursts across his vision, white-hot pain radiating outward from the point of contact. <br><br> Fingers like ice wrapped around his throat, digging into his windpipe with inhuman strength. They yanked him back against the bricks as something began to materialize from the darkness itself.<br><br> A torso formed from the wall, human-shaped but wrong, like smoke given flesh. The proportions were off—limbs too long, joints bending at impossible angles, head cocked too far to the side like a curious predator. The rest stayed one with the shadows, rippling and writhing against the bricks. Solid arms replaced the shadow ones around his throat, but they were no warmer. No more human.<br><br> "Boo."<br><br> <div class="main-button">[[Next|Prologue Part 9.5]]</div>

Maud could feel his heart hammering against his ribs, a desperate drum solo reaching its crescendo. She could smell the acrid stench of pure fear mixed with a tang of urine, the most honest response a body can give when faced with its own mortality.<br><br> Her shadow-arms held him easily as he struggled, each movement growing weaker as his strength ebbed along with his blood and hope. Such fragile things, humans. So easy to break. So quick to surrender to despair. <br><br> She could drink this forever, this distilled essence of terror, this pure expression of what it means to face the unknown and find it wanting.<br><br> "Scared-scared-scared, like a little mouse!" she sang, her voice rippling with too many harmonics, like a choir of the damned speaking in unison. The sound echoed oddly in the confined space, bouncing back with subtle differences, as if the shadows themselves were joining in her song. <br><br> "Is the little mouse afraid of the big bad shadow? He SHOULD be!"<br><br> Her form rippled between shadow and flesh, caught in that unique space between monster and human. Not quite one, not quite the other, but something new altogether. <br><br> But her arms, her face—those were solid enough to play with her prey. She let her features shift and flow, revealing glimpses of bone-white teeth one moment, a void-black maw the next. <br><br> The constant transformation was partly for effect—fear fed on uncertainty, on the inability to predict what comes next and partly because she couldn't help it. The shadow wanted to express itself in all its terrible glory.<br><br> Her therapist would probably call this a "stress response." They're always saying she needs healthier coping mechanisms than violence. Maybe painting. Maybe yoga. Maybe deep breathing exercises that don't end with someone else not breathing at all. The thought made her shadow-lips curl in amusement.<br><br> "How are you feeling right now?" she purrs against his ear, then suddenly barks with laughter. "Wait, wait—I know this one! On a scale of one to ten, with ten being ABSOLUTELY TERRIFIED—" she leans in close, needle-teeth grazing his earlobe, "—you're at what, a hundred? A thousand? Your heart's going boom-boom-BOOM!"<br><br> She taps his chest with one shadow-claw, mimicking his frantic heartbeat with each tap. Each touch leaves a smear of frost on his shirt, ice crystals blooming across the fabric like deadly flowers. The shadows writhe with bloodlust, begging her to tear him apart, to feast on his terror until there's nothing left but an empty husk. To consume him entirely, body and soul, leaving nothing behind but a memory that fades with the morning light.<br><br> She doesn't get an answer, just a small whimpering sound that bubbles from his throat like the last air escaping a drowning man's lungs. His eyes have gone glassy, pupils so dilated they've nearly swallowed the iris. Fight-or-flight has given way to freeze, his body's last desperate attempt at survival when all other options have failed.<br><br> "Kai would say I'm being messy again," she sighs, mood shifting abruptly. Something almost wistful crosses her features, a flicker of humanity in the void-mask.<br><br> "She likes things neat and tidy. Plans and backup plans. Excel spreadsheets for everything, can you believe that? Color-coded and shit. Me? I like the CHAOS!" The last word booms through the alley as her form briefly expands, engulfing more of the wall behind them. Brick crumbles under the pressure, mortar turns to dust, leaving ragged holes where her darkness pushed through.<br><br> His pulse flutters frantically under her grip, a hummingbird trapped in a cage of bone. So fragile. So determined to keep beating despite everything. Life clinging to itself with desperate tenacity. <br><br> She should probably process these violent urges in her diary later. Maybe buy those colorful stickers Patch recommended. Or those little frowny-face emoticons to mark the really bad days. "Dear Diary, today I terrified a man until he pissed himself. On the emotional regulation scale, that's definitely a frowny face day."<br><br> "You know," she muses, as he chokes and struggles, tears and snot streaming down his face, "my therapist says I should practice empathy. So let's role-play—I'll be the ruthless shadow-monster, and you be the terrified prey about to die! Oh wait..." She giggles, the sound echoing wrongly through the alley, bouncing off bricks with too many harmonics. It splits and multiplies, becoming a chorus of laughter from invisible throats. "We're already doing that! HAHAHAHA!"<br><br> Her laughter cuts off abruptly, replaced by a somber expression that looks wrong on her monstrous face. The shadows settle momentarily, rippling with something almost like remorse. "It's not your fault, you know. Wrong place, wrong time—story of my life too! We could've been FRIENDS in another lifetime. Pen pals! We could write letters about how much everything SUCKS!"<br><br> The man stares at her, uncomprehending, caught between terror and confusion at her mercurial shifts. His brain can't process the emotional whiplash, can't reconcile the monster before him with its oddly human speech patterns. <br><br> Something in him breaks, she can see it happen, the moment when the mind decides reality is too much to bear. His eyes unfocus slightly, retreating to some inner sanctuary where shadow-monsters don't exist.<br><br> "I'll tell you everything," he finally manages to croak out, voice a ruined thing. "Who hired me. What they wanted. Everything. Just please let me live." Aww, he really has a pathetic voice. Like a mouse caught in a trap, squeaking for mercy it knows won't come.<br><br> Kill him. Kill him. KILL HIM. The shadows whisper in her mind, her instincts clawing for release. They tug at her consciousness, hungry for the moment when terror turns to death, when the light leaves his eyes and his soul joins the darkness. When the last spark of his being gutters out like a candle in a hurricane.<br><br> Honestly, she would love to end it here and just break his neck. Feel the satisfying snap of vertebrae between her shadow-hands, watch as his body goes limp, a puppet with cut strings. But Boss wanted him alive. Besides, she needed to work on her control issues anyway. Patch would be so proud if she could bring herself to spare him. Another gold star on her behavioral chart. Another step toward something resembling sanity.<br><br> Bummer.<br><br> "But then again," she sighs dramatically, mood whiplashing again as she drags talons down his cheek, leaving frost-bitten furrows in their wake, skin turning white then blue then black with killing cold, "I did promise to work on my impulse control issues—"<br><br> <div class="main-button">[[Next|Prologue Part 11]]</div>

BANG!<br><br> The bullet catches her completely by surprise—no presence sensed, no warning at all. One moment she's savoring the anticipation of information extraction, the next there's a supersonic piece of metal passing through the air where her head would be if she were still human. <br><br> It misses her by millimeters, shadow-substance parting instinctively around the foreign object.<br><br> Her prey isn't so lucky. The round catches him square between the eyes, a perfect kill shot that turns the back of his skull into a red mist. <br><br> He goes limp in her grasp, painting the wall with brain matter in a rather artistic splatter pattern. For a moment, she stays half-formed, processing this rude interruption, this theft of what was rightfully hers.<br><br> "What the—HEY! That was MINE!" she shrieks, voice cracking with genuine outrage that echoes down the alley, shattering the few intact windows that line it. "MY toy! MY game! MINE!"<br><br> The body twitches once, twice, then hangs like meat from her grasp. Eyes vacant, mouth slack, a puppet whose strings have been not just cut but burned away. <br><br> There's no satisfaction in this, no culmination of the hunt. Just an abrupt cessation, a period where there should have been an ellipsis.<br><br> Then a slow, wicked smile curls her lips as understanding dawns. Oh. Oh. Of course she didn't sense anyone. Someone else is playing in her territory. Someone worth hunting.<br><br> "Now that's just RUDE," she calls out, fully materializing as she lets the body slump to the ground. The corpse hits the pavement with a wet thud, blood pooling beneath it like spilled wine. Dark and glistening in the dim light, already cooling, already becoming just another piece of discarded trash in Sordia's endless refuse. <br><br> "I was in the middle of a BREAKTHROUGH! Do you know how much therapy costs these days? Sixty bucks an hour! HIGHWAY ROBBERY!"<br><br> She spins in a circle, arms outstretched like a demented ballerina, scanning the surrounding rooftops, windows, doorways. The shadows extend from her fingers like streamers, tasting the air, searching for the slightest disturbance. <br><br> "Come out, come out, wherever you are! Let's play!" Her voice lilts up and down, childlike excitement warring with predatory hunger. The juxtaposition is jarring, like a nursery rhyme played in a minor key.<br><br> The night offers no response but the distant wail of sirens and the ever-present hum of Sordia's restless pulse. The shooter is gone or hiding so well that even her shadow-senses can't detect them. <br><br> Her smile only grows sharper, needle-teeth gleaming in the dim light. How... deliciously interesting. A worthy opponent at last. Someone who can challenge her, make her work for her kills. A rare find in a city of easy prey.<br><br> "Fine, be that way!" she pouts, lower lip protruding in an exaggerated expression that looks obscene on her monstrous face. Then she grins maniacally, mood shifting again with dizzying speed.<br><br> "Ready or not, here I COME!" She makes exaggerated gun noises with her mouth—"Pow! Pow! Pow!"—mocking the bullet that stole her prey. Her shadow-substance ripples with each explosive sound, like a pond disturbed by thrown stones.<br><br> Her senses stretch outward, tasting the darkness for any hint of disturbance. The shadows around her writhe with anticipation, eager for a new game, a worthier opponent than the cooling corpse at her feet. <br><br> They reach into every crevice, every crack, every hidden space within a three-block radius, seeking the interloper who dared interfere with their hunt.<br><br> But she couldn't sense the sniper's presence anywhere. The little fucker was already gone. Slipping away between one heartbeat and the next. Leaving nothing but a cooling corpse and a mystery that makes her shadow-blood sing with excitement. <br><br> She pouts once more, lower lip protruding impossibly far. How boring. How frustrating.<br><br> <div class="main-button">[[Next|Prologue Part 12]]</div>

The body slumps at Maud's feet like a broken puppet, still warm but emptying fast, life's crimson tide flowing out to stain the concrete beneath their feet. Brain matter drips down the brick wall in slow, viscous rivulets, gray and pink and utterly fascinating in its grotesque display. <br><br> At least he died with a proper jumpscare. Her therapist's always saying she should find silver linings in disappointing situations. This one's silver lining comes with a side of gray matter and skull fragments.<br><br> "Hmm, let's see what secrets you were carrying, shall we?" She gives his head a playful little kick, watching it loll to the side with morbid fascination. The exit wound is impressive, a ragged hole the size of her fist where the back of his skull used to be. <br><br> "My boss doesn't like incriminating evidence being photographed, okay? Nothing personal—well, I guess it is personal NOW! Hahaha!"<br><br> Not that he protests, dead men tell no tales and all that jazz. Or was it dead men don't wear plaid? She can never remember these sayings correctly. Idioms are so confusing, full of contradictions and historical references that make no sense in Sordia's fractured reality.<br><br> Humming the latest pop song stuck in her head, something about dancing on the ashes of your enemies, very catchy chorus, she starts her morbid treasure hunt. <br><br> Her Umbra form has gradually retracted, leaving behind a more human-shaped Maud, though her eyes still swirl with darkness and her fingers remain unnaturally elongated. The transformation is never complete anymore, not since the Umbra has taken root so deeply in her being. <br><br> Parts of it always remain, visible reminders of what lurks beneath her skin.<br><br> "Let's see what we have here!" she announces to the empty alley, voice echoing off brick walls. She kneels beside the corpse, unconcerned with the blood soaking into her pants. It's hardly the first time she's been covered in someone else's bodily fluids, and it certainly won't be the last. <br><br> "Phone, cigarettes, and—score!—ten bucks. Finders keepers, losers get their brains blown out!" she sing-songs, pocketing the cash with a flourish. Her therapist says she needs to celebrate small victories. Finding money definitely counts.<br><br> The phone's locked, of course, protected by passcodes and biometrics designed to keep secrets secret. But that's what corpse fingers are for. Modern security systems haven't yet adapted to users being dead when their devices are accessed. <br><br> She presses his still-warm digit to the sensor with a theatrical flourish, like a magician revealing the climax of a trick. "Open sesame! Abracadabra! Digital necromancy!" The screen lights up obligingly, bathing her face in its blue glow. Modern technology is so accommodating to the criminally inclined.<br><br> "Let's see what kind of perverted stuff you have hidden here, huh?" She wiggles her eyebrows at the corpse, an audience that never complains about her jokes. <br><br> "Don't worry, I won't kink-shame. Much. Unless it's feet stuff—that's just WEIRD." She cackles at her own words, then stops abruptly, tilting her head like a bird considering a worm. <br><br> "Wait, am I talking to a corpse? That's probably on the 'unhealthy coping mechanisms' list. Oopsie!"<br><br> Patch would definitely have something to say about her tendency to monologue to the dead. Probably ask probing questions about her need for an audience that can't judge her, can't leave her, can't betray her like the living inevitably do. The thought makes her scowl, shadows briefly swirling around her fingertips before she forces it back down.<br><br> Scrolling through the bland interface, she can't help but pout. The phone's boring, a work phone, stripped clean of personality. One number in the contacts. One email in the inbox. <br><br> Not even a cute cat wallpaper or a personal photo as the lock screen. Just the default background that came with the device. How depressing. How utterly soulless. Even in death, this man is tedious.<br><br> "Seriously? Not even ONE dirty text? No last-minute confessions? BOOORING!" she whines, kicking at a nearby trash can. It topples with a satisfying crash, contents spilling across the alley. Fast food wrappers, broken bottles, used needles. The rubble of Sordia's endless cycle of consumption and disposal.<br><br> The notes app, though—now that's interesting. "Ooh, what's this? Your personal spank bank? Let's see..." The app contains twelve detailed entries, each with a name, a photo, and cryptic notations that look like surveillance records.<br><br> Her Umbra side purrs with curiosity as she scrolls through the photos, darkness swirling in her eyes as she recognizes faces. Targets? Contacts? Both?<br><br> Boss's face fills the first image, looking pissed off in that uniquely intimidating way only they can manage. The photo was clearly taken without their knowledge today.<br><br> "Pfft, someone caught them at a good angle. Though honestly, when do they ever have a bad angle?" She turns the phone to show the corpse, as if seeking confirmation.<br><br> "Look at that expression, it's their 'someone fucked up and now I have to fix it' face. I get that look a LOT! At least twice before breakfast!"<br><br> The next photo shows that asshole rich CEO kid who she dislikes. One of those corporate golden kids who pretend to care about Sordia's improvement while siphoning money into offshore accounts. <br><br> "Fancy! Moving up in the world, were we? Though honestly, taking photos of rich spoiled assholes is like collecting pictures of particularly well-dressed rats. Squeak-squeak!"<br><br> She swipes through the next few with growing boredom, providing running commentary to her deceased audience like a deranged museum tour guide. <br><br> "Boring... don't know them... oh wait, is that—no, never mind...”<br><br> Her finger freezes mid-swipe. "What the actual fuck?" The sixth photo shows Patch exiting their makeshift clinic. <br><br> Medical bag clutched tight in one hand, shoulders hunched against Sordia's perpetual drizzle. They look exhausted, dark circles prominent under their eyes after probably stitching up half the neighborhood for free.<br><br> "Well, well, well. Looks like someone's been doing their homework." Her voice drops lower. <br><br> "Patch? Really? What kind of sick game are you playing?" She presses the corpse's cold cheek like she's scolding a naughty child. Patch is one of the few decent people left in this cesspool of a city. But at least there isn’t a picture of Kai. <br><br> “Oh look, someone who needs a better hairstylist than me, and that's saying something!" She slips back into the manic commentary.<br><br> Her own $hair hair is a disaster. Choppy layers, grown out to show dark roots, the result of a drunken self-haircut three months ago that she's never bothered to fix.<br><br> More strangers. More targets? Then another photo, herself, walking out of her favorite coffee shop, looking at her phone. The same café where the cute barista works, the one who puts hearts over non-existent i's. <br><br> Her breath catches. Judging from her outfit, the image must be a couple months old—the leather jacket she lost in a firefight with the Crimson Hand, boots she'd had to abandon after they got soaked in something caustic during a job gone wrong.<br><br> "Oh, so you've been watching me too?" she hisses at the corpse, genuine anger flaring. The shadows respond, temperature dropping several degrees. Frost forms on the blood pooling beneath the body. <br><br> "Stalking little creep!" She kicks his head for good measure, hard enough that something cracks inside what remains of his skull. The sound is satisfying, like stepping on bubble wrap.<br><br> Then she reaches the last photo, thumb swiping almost casually across the screen. The image loads.<br><br> Her fingers freeze and the playful commentary dies in her throat. The shadows around her writhe in response to her sudden surge of rage, stretching toward her like hungry pets sensing a meal. <br><br> They coil around her arms, her throat, her waist, responding to emotions she can't contain. She blinks, again and again, but the image doesn't change. <br><br> <div class="main-button">[[Next|Prologue Part 13]]</div>

"Why the fuck," she whispers, voice dropping to something inhuman, a register that makes rats scurry for cover and cockroaches burrow deeper into the walls, "do you have a picture of my <<if $gender is 'cisgender-male' or $gender is 'transgender-male'>>brother<<elseif $gender is 'cisgender-female' or $gender is 'transgender-female'>>sister<<else>>sibling<</if>>?"<br><br> The one she hasn't spoken to in... hmmm, has it been three years? The photo must be recent. <<if $hairLength is "bald">>The sleek curve of <<if $nickname>>$nickname<<else>>$firstName<</if>>'s skull catches the light. Being bald looks far better on $firstName than Maud remembers. Before, she always used to joke that you are so bald, you’re basically a walking anti-hair ad.<</if>><br><br> There are those <<if $eyes is "light-blue">>crystalline sky-blue<<elseif $eyes is "deep-blue">>intense sapphire<<elseif $eyes is "gray-blue">>stormy gray-blue<<elseif $eyes is "light-green">>pale jade<<elseif $eyes is "emerald-green">>vivid emerald<<elseif $eyes is "hazel-green">>hazel-flecked green<<elseif $eyes is "amber">>golden-amber<<elseif $eyes is "light-brown">>warm honey-brown<<elseif $eyes is "dark-brown">>deep chocolate<<elseif $eyes is "gray">>silver-gray<<elseif $eyes is "violet">>unusual violet<<elseif $eyes is "hetero-blue-green">>striking heterochromatic blue and green<<elseif $eyes is "hetero-brown-blue">>mismatched brown and blue<<elseif $eyes is "hetero-green-brown">>captivating green and brown<<elseif $eyes is "hetero-gray-amber">>fascinating gray and amber<</if>> piercing eyes that have always been too perceptive for Maud's comfort.<br><br> <<if $gender is "transgender-male">> <span id="transition-memory">Maud remembers being there when $mcHe started $mcHis transition, remembers <<link "holding $mcHis hand through the first shots, the first surgeries">><<replace "#transition-memory">>Maud remembers being there when $mcHe started $mcHis transition, remembers holding $mcHis hand through the first shots, the first surgeries. $firstName looks so comfortable in $mcHis skin now. Complete in a way $mcHe never did before.<</replace>><</link>> or <<link "the long conversations about identity, the gradual changes in how he presented to the world">><<replace "#transition-memory">>Maud remembers being there when $mcHe started $mcHis transition, remembers the long conversations about identity, the gradual changes in how he presented to the world. $firstName looks so comfortable in $mcHis skin now. Complete in a way $mcHe never did before.<</replace>><</link>>. $firstName looks so comfortable in $mcHis skin now. Complete in a way $mcHe never did before.</span> <</if>><<if $gender is "transgender-female">> <span id="transition-memory-f">Maud remembers the early days of $mcHis transition, the shared secrets and midnight conversations. <<link "The way $mcHis face softened over time, the curves that appeared in places once angular and straight">><<replace "#transition-memory-f">>Maud remembers the early days of $mcHis transition, the shared secrets and midnight conversations. The way $mcHis face softened over time, the curves that appeared in places once angular and straight. $firstName has grown into $mcHimself, beautiful and authentic in ways that make Maud's throat tighten with an emotion too complicated to name.<</replace>><</link>> or <<link "The growing confidence as $mcHe embraced $mcHis true self, the joy in small moments">><<replace "#transition-memory-f">>Maud remembers the early days of $mcHis transition, the shared secrets and midnight conversations. The growing confidence as $mcHe embraced $mcHis true self, the joy in small moments of affirmation. $firstName has grown into $mcHimself, beautiful and authentic in ways that make Maud's throat tighten with an emotion too complicated to name.<</replace>><</link>>. $firstName has grown into $mcHimself, beautiful and authentic in ways that make Maud's throat tighten with an emotion too complicated to name.</span> <</if>> <<if $height is "very-tall" or $height is "tall" or $height is "towering">>$firstName is still tall, towering over whoever took the photo, a presence that commands attention without trying. Maud remembers teasing $mcHim about ducking through doorways, about seeing dust on top of refrigerators normal humans never notice.<<elseif $height is "very-short" or $height is "short">>$firstName is still compact, a concentrated force of personality in a smaller frame. Maud remembers teasing $firstName endlessly, hiding her snacks in the highest cupboards. In the picture $firstName stands with a posture Maud instantly recognizes, a stance that speaks of quiet confidence, neither imposing nor meek, simply present, grounded in a way Maud has never quite managed to achieve.<</if>><br><br> The $outfitStyle outfit $firstName wears in the photo complements $mcHis $bodyShape body perfectly, a far cry from the awkward teenager who used to raid Maud's closet.<br><br> $firstName is smiling at someone off-camera.<<if $gender is "cisgender-male" or $gender is "transgender-male">>Her brother<<elseif $gender is "cisgender-female" or $gender is "transgender-female">> Her sister<<else>>Her sibling<</if>> looks good. Healthy. Happy in a way Maud can barely remember feeling.<br><br> The phone's screen cracks in Maud's grip, spiderweb fractures racing across the glass like lightning seeking ground. The damage isn't intentional. Her control is slipping. Umbra-strength bleeding into her human form, making her stronger than the technology in her hands.<br><br> "Hey, friend?" Her voice becomes cold, all playfulness evaporating like morning dew under Sordia's toxic sun. The shadows around her writhe and stretch, responding to her rage, feeding on it, amplifying it in a feedback loop of darkness and fury. <br><br> "We need to have a serious talk about why you had this particular photo."<br><br> The corpse, predictably, remains silent. But that doesn't stop her from leaning in close, close enough to count the pores on what remains of his face, close enough for her breath—cold as winter—to stir his blood-matted hair.<br><br> Frost spreads across the corpse's skin as her control slips further, ice crystals forming in delicate patterns that would be beautiful if they weren't born of such rage. <br><br> The temperature in the alley plummets until each breath comes out as steam, a visible reminder that she's still partly human, still needs oxygen despite the shadows coursing through her veins. Ice crystals form on the dead man's eyelashes, turning them white with rime.<br><br> "Oh wait," she giggles, but it's a broken sound, like glass being crushed underfoot, jagged and dangerous. "You're DEAD! D-E-A-D! Guess I'll have to find whoever sent you instead."<br><br> She stands slowly, shadows coiling up her legs like angry serpents seeking warmth. They twist and writhe, forming patterns that hurt to look at directly, fractals of darkness that suggest depths beyond human comprehension. <br><br> Patch always says family is a trigger point for her, a sore spot that never quite heals no matter how many coping mechanisms they try to implement. For once, they might be right.<br><br> "Seems like someone's been playing a little game," she whispers, shadows pooling in her palms like living oil, thick and viscous and eager to be shaped to her will. "Watching my <<if $gender is "cisgender-male" or $gender is "transgender-male">>brother<<elseif $gender is "cisgender-female" or $gender is "transgender-female">>sister<<else>>sibling<</if>>, taking pretty little pictures. That's—that's—that's NOT OKAY!"<br><br> The last words explode from her in a shriek that shatters a nearby window, glass raining down around her in a crystalline shower. <br><br> She doesn't notice, doesn't care. The fragments bounce off her shadow-infused skin without leaving a mark, just another reminder that she's no longer entirely human.<br><br> Time to find out who's been stalking her <<if $gender is "cisgender-male" or $gender is "transgender-male">>brother<<elseif $gender is "cisgender-female" or $gender is "transgender-female">>sister<<else>>sibling<</if>>. Time to follow this thread back to its source, to the spider at the center of the web. And then... well, her therapist also says she shouldn't make threats or kill unnecessarily. That violence should be a last resort, not a first response. That there are always other ways to resolve conflict.<br><br> "Sorry, Patch," she murmurs, darkness flooding her eyes once more, turning them into twin voids that reflect no light. "But there is no other way."<br><br> She's never been good at following advice anyway.<br><br> <<if $background is "investigative">> [[Continue Chapter 1|CH1P1:IJ]] <</if>> <<if $background is "war">> [[Continue Chapter 1|CH1P1:WC]] <</if>> <<if $background is "whistle">> [[Continue Chapter 1|CH1P1:WB]] <</if>> <<if $background is "tabloid">> [[Continue Chapter 1|CH1P1:TR]] <</if>>

<div class="ch1-header"> <h1 class="bloodlines-title">CH1: The City That Eats Its Young</h1> </div> //Going live in 3, 2, 1…//<br><br> The camera's red light burns. Hot. Angry. Like a cigarette pressed against flesh until it blisters.<br><br> Behind you, Kent Grey's mansion bleeds federal agents through every door and window. Black SUVs with tinted glass. Tactical gear that catches emergency lights in harsh angles. The kind of late-night raid that turns senators into corpses, politically speaking.<br><br> You taste copper in the October air. Sweat. Blood. Probably from someone's split lip—a reporter who got too close to the federal perimeter.<br><br> “This is $fullName with Channel 6 News, and I’m standing outside the home of a man who thought his money could buy him silence.” Your voice comes out steady. Clear. The voice of someone who knows exactly what they’re talking about. <br><br> “Tonight, City Councilman Kent Grey sits in handcuffs. Being Arrested for the brutal murders of Silvia De Luca and her six-year-old daughter Jane.”<br><br> A pause. Let that sink in. Let the audience process the word ‘brutal’. And ‘six-year-old’ in the same sentence.<br><br> The mansion squats behind you like a tumor made of Georgian columns and old money. White stone that probably cost more than most people make in a decade. You can smell the corruption sweating out of the stone itself. Twenty years of dirty money has a stench that seeps into marble and never quite washes out.<br><br> CRD agents swarm through Grey's manicured garden. Their boots crush five-hundred-dollar roses without care.<br><br> "Murders that police initially blamed on a random robbery gone wrong." Your voice cuts through the wind and helicopter noise overhead.<br><br> "My investigation began two months ago when Maria De Luca came to my office with a photograph and a story nobody wanted to believe." You grin mirthlessly. "She is seventy-three years old, a cancer patient, confined to a wheelchair after a stroke. Silvia De Luca was her daughter and Jane her granddaughter. She knew someone was lying."<br><br> "And she was right. The official story is a lie." You hold up thick folders of evidence. "My investigation reveals that Silvia and Jane De Luca were murdered by a hired Umbra assassin in a conspiracy that reaches into Sordia's highest political circles." This is it. The moment two months of digging finally pays off. Time to burn down some careers.<br><br> "Documents obtained through Freedom of Information Act requests #2044-8829 show Silvia De Luca wasn't a random robbery victim." You flip through bank statements, letting the camera capture transaction details. "She was Senator Kent Grey's secret mistress and the mother of his illegitimate child."<br><br> Behind you, more federal vehicles arrive. The kind of specialized units they deploy when corruption involves murder and treason.<br><br> "Banking records reveal systematic payments from Grey's personal accounts to De Luca over six years." You pause, letting that revelation settle. "Grey was paying hush money to keep their affair and Jane's paternity secret."<br><br> Follow the money. Always follow the money. It leaves stains that survive bleach and congressional immunity.<br><br> Hotel registry records place both of them at the Meridian downtown multiple times. Text messages from De Luca's recovered smartphone document their relationship and her growing financial demands.<br><br> Smart woman, keeping evidence of his lies. Too bad intelligence doesn't stop bullets when powerful men get tired of paying for their mistakes.<br><br> "But here's where the case turned deadly." Your voice hardens. "When De Luca demanded more money to support Jane, their lifestyle and her sick mother, Grey refused. Instead of paying, he decided elimination was cheaper."<br><br> The wind shifts. Carries now the stench expensive cologne bleeding from the mansion's open doors.<br><br> "Maria knew her daughter wasn't killed in some random robbery." The satisfaction in your voice could draw blood.<br><br> The mansion's front door hangs open like a wound. Marble floors visible inside. Crystal chandeliers that cost more than houses. All that wealth built on lies, betrayal, and now blood money.<br><br> "The crime scene photos don't lie." Your voice gets harder. Sharper. "Silvia De Luca was executed that was professional work. Single bullet to the back of the skull. No struggle. No defensive wounds. It probably happened too fast for her to react."<br><br> You can see those photos burned into your memory. Silvia's body twisted on hardwood floors. Blood pooled around her head like spilled wine. Dark. Sticky. Jane was killed after witnessing her mother's death. Her small body next to her mother's. Blood in blonde hair that would never grow another inch. Stuffed dinosaur clutched in hands that would never draw another picture. Six years old. <br><br> Professional killers charge extra for family packages. Someone paid premium rates to make sure both mother and daughter died the same night.<br><br> "Jane De Luca was six years old." The words taste like stale coffee. "The autopsy report said she died last. After watching her mommy get shot. The killer made sure she understood what was happening before pulling the trigger."<br><br> "See, Silvia had money problems." You lean into the camera. Let viewers see the face of a <<if $gender is 'cisgender-male' or $gender is 'transgender-male'>>man<<elseif $gender is 'cisgender-female' or $gender is 'transgender-female'>>woman<<else>>person<</if>> who spends sleepless nights following paper trails and connecting the dots. "Single mom trying to raise a kid and take care of her sick mother. All while living way above her means. Credit cards maxed out. Shopping debts up to her eyeballs. Always wanting the next shiny thing."<br><br> Through the mansion's dining room window, you can see the long table where Grey entertained his wife and legitimate children while texting his secret mistress about when he could sneak away for another rendezvous. The same surface where he probably planned his daughter's execution between courses.<br><br> Greed makes people stupid. Silvia got greedy, Grey got desperate, and Jane got dead.<br><br> "July 15th text from Silvia to Grey." Your voice carries the weight of evidence that survived deletion attempts and hard drive magnets. "'Jane keeps asking why daddy never comes home. I can't keep lying to a six-year-old anymore.'"<br><br> "Grey's response?" You pause. Let the question hang in the air. "'Our arrangement works fine. Don't complicate things, Silvia.'"<br><br> "The ultimatum came July 20th." Your voice drops. Gets intimate. "Silvia wanted Grey to acknowledge Jane publicly. Stop treating his daughter like a dirty secret with a low budget monthly payment plan or she'd sell her story to every tabloid in the city."<br><br> The mansion's library gleams through tall windows. Thousands of books Grey probably never opened. Decorative literacy for a man who spent decades using the Constitution as toilet paper.<br><br> Bet half those books are about justice and democracy. The irony could choke you.<br><br> "Grey's answer came five days later." You step closer to the camera until your face fills the frame. "Not acknowledgment. Elimination."<br><br> That word hangs in the air. Heavy. Final. Like a coffin lid slamming shut.<br><br> "This is where the conspiracy deepens." You lean into the camera, letting emergency lights catch the stubbornness in your eyes. "It wasn’t him alone planning the murder. Enter Lillian Frost, a twenty-eight-year-old Fae bloodline socialite who began an affair with Grey earlier this year."<br><br> Phone records show the escalation. Frost contacting Grey more frequently as De Luca's demands increased. Two people with money and power deciding that murder was more convenient than honesty.<br><br> Hell hath no fury like a woman with abandonment issues and homicidal tendencies.<br><br> "Frost used her supernatural abilities and social connections to infiltrate De Luca's life as her closest friend." Your voice turns to steel. "Over several weeks, she gathered detailed intelligence about both victims' daily routines, security arrangements, and Jane's schedule."<br><br> "Banking records from Frost's personal accounts show a fifty-thousand-dollar withdrawal on July 22nd." You hold up the financial documentation. "Three days before the murders. Federal sources confirm this money was used to hire the Umbra assassin known as 'Rio.'"<br><br> The mansion's lights flicker—either power issues or feds cutting utilities to prevent evidence destruction. Perfect symbolism. Grey's empire going dark while truth finally sees daylight.<br><br> "Her Fae abilities include memory modification and appearance alteration." You step directly into the camera's range. "She could be anyone. Anywhere. The neighbor who remembers too much about your schedule. The barista who asks personal questions. Anyone who makes you feel unusually comfortable."<br><br> "This wasn't random street violence." You gesture toward the mansion, toward everything wrong with Sordia's power structure. "This was calculated murder designed to protect a senator's political career and a socialite's romantic interests." Kent and Lillian thought they could buy their way out of consequences.<br><br> Look how wrong they were. But Lillian is still missing. 72 hours of head start.<br><br> Seventy-two hours is forever when you have trust fund money. When you have supernatural abilities. When your bloodline gives you advantages that normal people can't fight. Enough time to buy new identities, destroy more evidence, disappear into whatever hole rich murderers crawl into when they need to hide.<br><br> You stare into the camera lens. Feel those hours like rocks in your gut. Each one precious. Wasted. Each one bringing her closer to disappearing forever into whatever hole rich people crawl into when they need to wash blood off their hands.<br><br> “Lillian Frost has been missing for 72 hours.” Your voice shakes. Just a little. The kind of tremor that comes from knowing exactly how much damage someone can do when they have unlimited resources and nothing left to lose. <br><br> “This woman helped plan the murder of a six-year-old child.” You let the reminder hang in the air. Six years old. Barely knew how to spell her name before they snuffed her out. “And she has the resources to disappear forever.”<br><br> You pull out the photograph. Some charity bullshit. Lillian in a dress that costs more than your car. Perfect makeup. Perfect hair. Perfect everything except that rotten soul. “Let me be very clear about who we’re looking for.”<br><br> You hold the photo closer. Let viewers burn her face into their memory. This isn’t some abstract criminal. This is real. She’s real. The blood on her hands is real.<br><br> “Frost has distinctive silver-blonde hair and violet eyes.” The description matters. More than usual. Because Frost isn’t stuck with one face. She can change. Shift. Become someone else when it suits her. “She’s about five-six, maybe 120 pounds.”<br><br> “If you think you see her, don’t approach. Call CRD immediately.” You recite the number slow. Clear. Let it stick. Because this bitch is dangerous in ways that go beyond money and connections.<br><br> The mansion's front door opens wider. Movement catches your peripheral vision—CRD agents forming a tactical escort around something important.<br><br> The sound you’ve been waiting for. Heavy footsteps. Official voices. The payoff that makes two months of sleepless nights worth something.<br><br> You turn. Let the camera capture it.<br><br> Kent Grey emerges into the emergency lights like a vampire dragged into sunlight. Hands zip-tied behind his back. Silver hair disheveled for the first time in twenty years of photo ops. His expensive suit wrinkled, stained with sweat that reeks of stress and anger.<br><br> Grey's face is gray. Fitting. His face shows nothing. Years of political training. Don’t look guilty. Don’t look scared. Don’t give the cameras anything they can use. But his eyes tell a different story.<br><br> Eyes darting between news cameras like a cornered animal calculating escape routes that don't exist. For money that can’t buy his way out of federal charges. This time at least.<br><br> The CRD team moves with professional precision. Black tactical gear. Automatic weapons.<br><br> Grey's eyes find yours across the chaos. For a moment—just a heartbeat—politician stares at journalist. The man who ordered a six-year-old's execution meeting the <<if $gender is 'cisgender-male' or $gender is 'transgender-male'>>man<<elseif $gender is 'cisgender-female' or $gender is 'transgender-female'>>woman<<else>>person<</if>> who exposed it.<br><br> You smile. Cold. Sharp. Empty of everything except satisfaction. Message delivered, you child-killing bastard.<br><br> Grey's jaw tightens. He looks away first.<br><br> The agents guide him toward the unmarked federal vehicle. No ceremony. No dignity. Just a murderer getting transported to the cage where he'll die. You turn back to the camera.<br><br> The satisfaction of seeing one killer in cuffs wars with the frustration gnawing at your gut. One down. One still breathing free air she doesn’t deserve.<br><br> “Kent Grey is in federal custody tonight,” you tell the viewers. Let them see justice happening behind you. Let them know it’s possible, even in Sordia. Even when it takes months of bleeding yourself dry to achieve it. “But Lillian Frost still remains free.”<br><br> “To anyone watching who thinks money can wash blood off their hands.” Your voice drops. Gets sharp. “Or that bloodline privileges put you above the law. Or that a child’s life matters less than your convenience.”<br><br> The message isn’t just for Frost. It’s for every rich asshole watching. Every entitled piece of shit who thinks wealth makes them untouchable. Every monster who believes power means never facing consequences.<br><br> “You’re wrong.”<br><br> “Maria De Luca asked me to find her daughter’s and granddaughters killers two months ago and I did.” Each word precise. Sharp. Carved from stubbornness that doesn’t bend. <br><br> “I will always find out the truth. Always.”<br><br> Truth is like cancer. Invisible at first, then spreading everywhere, eventually killing everything built on lies.<br><br> You meant every word. You will drag the truth out of whatever hole she’s hiding in. You will make sure a six-year-old’s death means something more than just another statistic.<br><br> It’s not just your job. It’s who you are. The thing that drives you to dig when everyone else gives up. To keep bleeding yourself dry until you hit bedrock truth.<br><br> That’s why they call you the Leech. You latch on and don’t let go until you’ve sucked every drop of truth from the veins of the story.<br><br> You look into the camera one last time. “This is $fullName, Channel 6 News. And Lillian Frost, wherever you are, whatever face you’re wearing, we’re coming for you.”<br><br> Jake your cameraman lowers the camera. Red light dies. Broadcast ends.<br><br> <span id="hand-text">That itch in your <<link "left">><<set $handItch to "left">><<replace "#hand-text">>That itch in your left hand has calmed down.<</replace>><</link>> or <<link "right">><<set $handItch to "right">><<replace "#hand-text">>That itch in your right hand has calmed down.<</replace>><</link>> hand has calmed down.</span> The obsession that’s been eating you alive for months starts to quiet. Not disappearing. Never that. But settling into something manageable.<br><br> Maria De Luca has her answers. Not complete justice yet. But answers. That’s worth something in Sordia. Worth everything when it’s all you can give.<br><br> The story isn’t over. Won’t be over until Frost is in a cage where she belongs.<br><br> But the hardest part is done. The conspiracy is blown open. The lies are scattered like broken glass.<br><br> Everything else is just hunting.<br><br> And you’re very, very good at hunting.<br><br> The Leech doesn't let go. Ever.<br><br> <div class="continue-button"> <<button "Continue">> <<goto "CH1P2">> <</button>> </div>

<h1 style="margin-block-end:0;">ACE</h1> <b>Andre / Anaya “Ace” Reid</b> — Your best friend, your backup, and one of the few people left who’ll pick up the phone when your name flashes on it. Ace works for the CRD, the folks who handle everything criminally bloodline related. Some say they’re too good for Sordia. You’re just hoping the city doesn’t eat them next. <ul> <li> <<link "Andre Reid (male)">> <<set $aceName = "Andre">> <<set $aceHe = "he">> <<set $aceHim = "him">> <<set $aceHis = "his">> <<set $aceHimself to "himself">> <<set $aceHeC to "He">> <<set $aceHimC to "Him">> <<set $aceHisC to "His">> <<set $aceHimselfC to "Himself">> <<set $aceGender = "male">> <<set $acemet = true>> <<goto "SetROArden">> <</link>> </li> <li> <<link "Anaya Reid (female)">> <<set $aceName = "Anaya">> <<set $aceHe = "she">> <<set $aceHim = "her">> <<set $aceHis = "her">> <<set $aceHimself to "herself">> <<set $aceHeC to "She">> <<set $aceHimC to "Her">> <<set $aceHisC to "Her">> <<set $aceHimselfC to "Herself">> <<set $aceGender = "female">> <<set $acemet = true>> <<goto "SetROArden">> <</link>> </li> </ul>

<h1 style="margin-block-end:0;">DR. ARDEN</h1> <b>Dr. Arden</b> — Dr. Arden runs a neutral clinic in the undercity, patching up anyone who can crawl through the door. They're blunt, cold, and don’t care who you are, only how bad you're bleeding. They don’t take sides, don’t make friends, and don’t ask questions. But if you’re dying, they’re your last best chance. <ul> <li> <<link "Dr. Arden (male)">> <<set $ardenName = "Dr. Arden">> <<set $ardenHe = "he">> <<set $ardenHim = "him">> <<set $ardenHis = "his">> <<set $ardenHimself to "himself">> <<set $ardenHeC to "He">> <<set $ardenHimC to "Him">> <<set $ardenHisC to "His">> <<set $ardenHimselfC to "Himself">> <<set $ardenGender = "male">> <<set $ardenmet = true>> <<goto "SetROE">> <</link>> </li> <li> <<link "Dr. Arden (female)">> <<set $ardenName = "Dr. Arden">> <<set $ardenHe = "she">> <<set $ardenHim = "her">> <<set $ardenHis = "her">> <<set $ardenHimself to "herself">> <<set $ardenHeC to "She">> <<set $ardenHimC to "Her">> <<set $ardenHisC to "Her">> <<set $ardenHimselfC to "Herself">> <<set $ardenGender = "female">> <<set $ardenmet = true>> <<goto "SetROE">> <</link>> </li> </ul>

<h1 style="margin-block-end:0;">EGON/EMME</h1> <b>Egon / Emme Han</b> — Heir to one of the most powerful Draegon families in the city, and the youngest CEO to ever make the top board. Sharp suit, sharper tongue. Egon/Emme moves through the world like it owes them something, and maybe it does. They’re arrogant, calculating, and impossible to impress. <ul> <li> <<link "Egon Han (male)">> <<set $eName = "Egon">> <<set $eHe = "he">> <<set $eHim = "him">> <<set $eHis = "his">> <<set $eHimself to "himself">> <<set $eHeC to "He">> <<set $eHimC to "Him">> <<set $eHisC to "His">> <<set $eHimselfC to "Himself">> <<set $eGender = "male">> <<set $emet = true>> <<goto "SetROLuz">> <</link>> </li> <li> <<link "Emme Han (female)">> <<set $eName = "Emme">> <<set $eHe = "she">> <<set $eHim = "her">> <<set $eHis = "her">> <<set $eHimself to "herself">> <<set $eHeC to "She">> <<set $eHimC to "Her">> <<set $eHisC to "Her">> <<set $eHimselfC to "Herself">> <<set $eGender = "female">> <<set $emet = true>> <<goto "SetROLuz">> <</link>> </li> </ul>

<h1 style="margin-block-end:0;">LUZ</h1> <b>Lucian / Lucia “Luz”</b> — A crime boss with too much charm and not nearly enough mercy. Luz runs their empire with a grin, a drink in hand, and pink-tinted shades. No one really knows where they came from. All anyone knows is: you don’t cross them, and you don’t ever mistake their smile for kindness. <ul> <li> <<link "Lucian (male)">> <<set $luzName = "Lucian">> <<set $luzHe = "he">> <<set $luzHim = "him">> <<set $luzHis = "his">> <<set $luzHimself to "himself">> <<set $luzHeC to "He">> <<set $luzHimC to "Him">> <<set $luzHisC to "His">> <<set $luzHimselfC to "Himself">> <<set $luzGender = "male">> <<set $luzmet = true>> <<goto "Choose Career Background">> <</link>> </li> <li> <<link "Lucia (female)">> <<set $luzName = "Lucia">> <<set $luzHe = "she">> <<set $luzHim = "her">> <<set $luzHis = "her">> <<set $luzHimself to "herself">> <<set $luzHeC to "She">> <<set $luzHimC to "Her">> <<set $luzHisC to "Her">> <<set $luzHimselfC to "Herself">> <<set $luzGender = "female">> <<set $luzmet = true>> <<goto "Choose Career Background">> <</link>> </li> </ul>

<div class="ch1-header"> <h1 class="bloodlines-title">CH1: The City That Eats Its Young</h1> </div> //Going live in 3, 2, 1…//<br><br> The camera's red light burns. Hot. Angry. Like a cigarette pressed against flesh until it blisters.<br><br> Behind you, Kent Grey's mansion bleeds federal agents through every door and window. Black SUVs with tinted glass. Tactical gear that catches emergency lights in harsh angles. The kind of late-night raid that turns senators into corpses, politically speaking.<br><br> You taste copper in the October air. Sweat. Blood. Probably from someone's split lip—a reporter who got too close to the federal perimeter.<br><br> "This is $fullName with Channel 6 News, reporting from what can only be described as a domestic war zone." Your voice comes out steady. Clear. The voice of someone who's stood in too many places where innocent people die for the convenience of those in power.<br><br> "Tonight, City Councilman Kent Grey sits in handcuffs. Arrested for the brutal murders of Silvia De Luca and her six-year-old daughter Jane."<br><br> A pause. Let that sink in. Let the audience process the word 'brutal'. And 'six-year-old' in the same sentence.<br><br> The mansion squats behind you like a tumor made of Georgian columns and old money. White stone that probably cost more than most people make in a decade.<br><br> You’ve seen this before in other places. Different uniforms, different languages, same results. The structure changes, but the bodies always look the same.<br><br> CRD agents swarm through Grey's manicured garden. Their boots crush five-hundred-dollar roses without care.<br><br> "Murders that police dismissed as collateral damage from street crime." Your voice cuts through the wind and helicopter noise overhead.<br><br> "My investigation began two months ago when Maria De Luca came to my office with photographs of her dead family and wounds that wouldn't heal." You hold up crime scene evidence—raw, unfiltered truth. "She is seventy-three years old, a cancer patient, confined to a wheelchair after a stroke. Silvia De Luca was her daughter and Jane her granddaughter. She knew someone was lying about how her family died."<br><br> "And she was right. The official story isn't just wrong, it's disinformation designed to hide a planned execution." Your voice carries the weight of someone who's documented too many cover-ups in too many places where truth dies first.<br><br> This is it. The moment two months of documenting an assassination finally pays off. Time to show people what murder looks like when rich people order it.<br><br> "The evidence tells the story police refused to document." You display forensic photographs with precision. "Silvia De Luca wasn't killed in some random robbery.<br><br> She was Senator Kent Grey's secret mistress and the mother of his illegitimate child." Behind you, more federal vehicles arrive. The kind of specialized units they deploy when corruption involves murder and treason.<br><br> "Physical evidence reveals systematic payments from Grey's personal accounts to De Luca over six years." You pause, letting that revelation settle. "Grey was paying rates to keep their affair and Jane's paternity buried."<br><br> Follow the blood trail. Always follow the blood trail. It tells stories that survive congressional immunity and witness elimination.<br><br> Hotel records documenting their rendezvous. Text messages that read like intelligence interceptions. Financial transfers that funded a secret life while a child grew up asking why daddy never came home.<br><br> Smart woman, keeping evidence of his lies. Too bad intelligence doesn't stop bullets when powerful men get tired of paying for their mistakes.<br><br> "But here's where the situation escalated." Your voice hardens. "When De Luca demanded more money and that Grey acknowledge his daughter instead of just funding her silence, he chose elimination over accountability."<br><br> The wind shifts. Carries now the stench expensive cologne bleeding from the mansion's open doors.<br><br> "My assessments completely contradict Detective Captain Pozzo's cursory investigation that somehow missed a six-year affair, fifty thousand dollars in payments, and enough forensic evidence to convict a war criminal."<br><br> Every covered-up killing, every sanitized casualty report, every family told their loved ones died for nothing… they all leave scars that throb when you smell official lies covering up fresh blood.<br><br> The mansion's front door hangs open like a wound. Marble floors visible inside. Crystal chandeliers that cost more than houses. All that wealth built on lies, betrayal, and now blood money.<br><br> "The physical evidence documents systematic brutality." Your voice gets harder. Clinical. "Forensic analysis shows Silvia De Luca died from a single gunshot wound to the occipital region, that means the head. It’s a professional execution technique for immediate neutralization."<br><br> You can see those medical photographs burned into your memory like images from too many conflict zones. Silvia's body twisted on hardwood floors. Blood pooled around her head like spilled wine. Dark. Sticky. Jane was killed after witnessing her mother's death. Her small body next to her mother's. Blood in blonde hair that would never grow another inch. Stuffed dinosaur clutched in hands that would never draw another picture. Six years old.<br><br> Professional contractors charge premium rates for family elimination packages. Someone paid a hefty sum to ensure both mother and daughter were neutralized the same night.<br><br> "Jane De Luca was six years old." The words taste like stale coffee. "The autopsy report confirms she died second. After watching her mother get shot. The killer made sure she understood what was happening before pulling the trigger which was an unnecessary cruel act."<br><br> "See, Silvia had more than financial problems." You lean into the camera. Let viewers see the face of a <<if $gender is 'cisgender-male' or $gender is 'transgender-male'>>man<<elseif $gender is 'cisgender-female' or $gender is 'transgender-female'>>woman<<else>>person<</if>> who has seen death and destruction more times than you can count.<br><br> "A single mom trying to raise a kid and care for her sick mother on hush money that wasn't enough. All while Grey lived like a warlord with his legitimate family, treating his secret daughter like an inconvenient liability."<br><br> Through the mansion's dining room window, you can see the long table where Grey entertained his wife and legitimate children while texting his secret mistress about when he could sneak away for another rendezvous. The same surface where he probably planned his daughter's execution between courses.<br><br> Combat zones teach you that power makes people stupid. Silvia got desperate for recognition, Grey got panicked about exposure, and Jane got dead because it was decided that a six-year-old was an acceptable casualty for political survival.<br><br> "July 15th intercepted communications between Silvia and Grey's private phone." Your voice carries the weight of evidence that survived deletion attempts and hard drive magnets."'Jane keeps asking why daddy never comes home. I can't keep lying to a six-year-old anymore.'"<br><br> "Grey's response?" You pause. Let the question hang in the air. "'Our arrangement works fine. Don't complicate things, Silvia.'"<br><br> "The ultimatum came July 20th through secure channels." Your voice drops. Gets intimate. "Silvia demanded Grey acknowledge Jane publicly or she'd expose their relationship to every media outlet in the city."<br><br> The mansion's library gleams through tall windows. Thousands of books Grey probably never opened. Decorative literacy for a man who spent decades using the Constitution as toilet paper.<br><br> Every volume contains more humanity than the man who plotted his daughter's death over dinner.<br><br> "Grey's answer came five days later that would seal Silvia’s and Jane’s fate." You step closer to the camera until your face fills the frame. "Not acknowledgment. It was fifty thousand dollars transferred to hire professional killer."<br><br> That phrase hangs in the air. Heavy. Final. Like a coffin lid slamming shut.<br><br> "But Kent didn’t work alone. This is where another player comes in." You lean into the camera, letting emergency lights catch the hardness in your eyes. "Enter Lillian Frost, a twenty-eight-year-old Fae bloodline socialite who became Grey's second operational asset."<br><br> Communication intercepts reveal the plan. Frost's contact with Grey intensifying as De Luca's demands became a liability. Two cheating lovers deciding elimination was more cost-effective than Grey growing a spine.<br><br> Hell hath no fury like a woman who realizes she's sharing her target with his baby mama.<br><br> "Frost used her supernatural abilities and social connections to infiltrate De Luca's life as her closest friend." Your voice turns to steel. "Over several weeks, she gathered detailed intelligence about both victims' daily routines, security arrangements, and Jane's schedule."<br><br> "Banking records from Frost's personal accounts show a fifty-thousand-dollar withdrawal on July 22nd." You hold up the financial documentation. "Three days before the murders. Federal sources confirm this money was used to hire the Umbra assassin known as 'Rio.'"<br><br> The mansion's lights flicker—either power issues or feds cutting utilities to prevent evidence destruction. Perfect timing. Grey's empire going dark while leaked truth finally sees daylight.<br><br> "Her Fae abilities include memory modification and appearance alteration." You step directly into the camera's range. "She could be anyone. Anywhere. The neighbor who remembered too much about your schedule. The barista who asked personal questions. Anyone who made you feel comfortable while gathering information to kill you."<br><br> "This wasn't random street violence." You gesture toward the mansion, toward everything wrong with Sordia's power structure. "This was calculated murder designed to protect a senator's political career and a socialite's romantic interests."<br><br> Kent and Lillian thought they could commit a crime with money and connections. Look how wrong they were. But Lillian still has seventy-two hours of operational mobility and resources most people can't imagine.<br><br> Seventy-two hours is forever when you have trust fund money. When you have supernatural abilities. When your bloodline gives you advantages that normal people can't fight. Enough time to buy new identities, destroy more evidence, disappear into whatever hole rich murderers crawl into when they need to hide.<br><br> You stare into the camera lens. Feel those hours like shrapnel working its way to vital organs. Each one precious. Wasted. Each one bringing her closer to establishing deep cover and disappearing forever.<br><br> “Lillian Frost has been missing for 72 hours.” Your voice shakes. Just a little. The kind of tremor that comes from knowing exactly how much damage someone can do when they have unlimited resources and nothing left to lose. <br><br> “This woman helped plan the murder of a six-year-old child.” You let the reminder hang in the air. Six years old. Barely knew how to spell her name before they snuffed her out. “And she has the resources to disappear forever.”<br><br> You pull out the photograph. Some charity bullshit. Lillian in a dress that costs more than your car. Perfect makeup. Perfect hair. Perfect everything except that rotten soul. “Let me be very clear about who we’re looking for.”<br><br> You hold the photo closer. Let viewers burn her face into their memory. This isn’t some abstract criminal. This is real. She’s real. The blood on her hands is real.<br><br> “Frost has distinctive silver-blonde hair and violet eyes.” The description matters. More than usual. Because Frost isn’t stuck with one face. She can change. Shift. Become someone else when it suits her. “She’s about five-six, maybe 120 pounds.”<br><br> “If you think you see her, don’t approach. Call CRD immediately.” You recite the number slow. Clear. Let it stick. Because this bitch is dangerous in ways that go beyond money and connections.<br><br> The mansion's front door opens wider. Movement catches your peripheral vision—CRD agents forming a tactical escort around something important.<br><br> The sound you’ve been waiting for. Heavy footsteps. Official voices. The payoff that makes two months of sleepless nights worth something.<br><br> You turn. Let the camera capture it.<br><br> Kent Grey emerges into the emergency lights like a vampire dragged into sunlight. Hands zip-tied behind his back. Silver hair disheveled for the first time in twenty years of photo ops. His expensive suit wrinkled, stained with sweat that reeks of stress and anger.<br><br> Grey's face is gray. Fitting. His face shows nothing. Years of political training. Don’t look guilty. Don’t look scared. Don’t give the cameras anything they can use. But his eyes tell a different story.<br><br> Eyes darting between news cameras like a cornered animal calculating escape routes that don't exist. For money that can’t buy his way out of federal charges. This time at least.<br><br> The CRD team moves with professional precision. Black tactical gear. Automatic weapons.<br><br> <br><br> Grey's eyes find yours across the chaos. For a moment—just a heartbeat—politician stares at journalist. The man who ordered a six-year-old's execution meeting the <<if $gender is 'cisgender-male' or $gender is 'transgender-male'>>man<<elseif $gender is 'cisgender-female' or $gender is 'transgender-female'>>woman<<else>>person<</if>> who exposed it.<br><br> You smile. Cold. Sharp. Empty of everything except satisfaction. Message delivered, you child-killing bastard. Grey's jaw tightens. He looks away first.<br><br> The agents guide him toward the unmarked federal vehicle. No ceremony. No dignity. Just a murderer getting transported to the cage where he'll die. You turn back to the camera.<br><br> The satisfaction of seeing one killer in cuffs wars with the frustration gnawing at your gut. One down. One still breathing free air she doesn’t deserve.<br><br> “Kent Grey is in federal custody tonight,” you tell the viewers. Let them see justice happening behind you. Let them know it’s possible, even in Sordia. Even when it takes months of bleeding yourself dry to achieve it. “But Lillian Frost still remains free.”<br><br> “To anyone watching who thinks money can wash blood off their hands.” Your voice drops. Gets sharp. “Or that bloodline privileges put you above the law. Or that a child’s life matters less than your convenience.”<br><br> The message isn’t just for Frost. It’s for every rich asshole watching. Every entitled piece of shit who thinks wealth makes them untouchable. Every monster who believes power means never facing consequences.<br><br> “You’re wrong.”<br><br> “Maria De Luca asked me to find her daughter’s and granddaughters killers two months ago and I did.” Each word precise. Sharp. Carved from stubbornness that doesn’t bend. <br><br> “I will always find out the truth. Always.”<br><br> Truth is like cancer. Invisible at first, then spreading everywhere, eventually killing everything built on lies.<br><br> You meant every word. You will drag the truth out of whatever hole she’s hiding in. You will make sure a six-year-old’s death means something more than just another statistic.<br><br> It’s not just your job. It’s who you are. The thing that drives you to dig when everyone else gives up. To keep bleeding yourself dry until you hit bedrock truth.<br><br> That’s why they call you the Leech. You latch on and don’t let go until you’ve sucked every drop of truth from the veins of the story.<br><br> You look into the camera one last time. “This is $fullName, Channel 6 News. And Lillian Frost, wherever you are, whatever face you’re wearing, we’re coming for you.”<br><br> Jake your cameraman lowers the camera. Red light dies. Broadcast ends.<br><br> <span id="hand-text">That itch in your <<link "left">><<set $handItch to "left">><<replace "#hand-text">>That itch in your left hand has calmed down.<</replace>><</link>> or <<link "right">><<set $handItch to "right">><<replace "#hand-text">>That itch in your right hand has calmed down.<</replace>><</link>> hand has calmed down.</span> The obsession that’s been eating you alive for months starts to quiet. Not disappearing. Never that. But settling into something manageable.<br><br> Maria De Luca has her answers. Not complete justice yet. But answers. That’s worth something in Sordia. Worth everything when it’s all you can give.<br><br> The story isn’t over. Won’t be over until Frost is in a cage where she belongs.<br><br> But the hardest part is done. The conspiracy is blown open. The lies are scattered like broken glass.<br><br> Everything else is just hunting.<br><br> And you’re very, very good at hunting.<br><br> The Leech doesn't let go. Ever.<br><br> <div class="continue-button"> <<button "Continue">> <<goto "CH1P2">> <</button>> </div>

<div class="ch1-header"> <h1 class="bloodlines-title">CH1: The City That Eats Its Young</h1> </div> //Going live in 3, 2, 1…//<br><br> The camera's red light burns. Hot. Angry. Like a cigarette pressed against flesh until it blisters.<br><br> Behind you, Kent Grey's mansion bleeds federal agents through every door and window. Black SUVs with tinted glass. Tactical gear that catches emergency lights in harsh angles. The kind of late-night raid that turns senators into corpses, politically speaking.<br><br> You taste copper in the October air. Sweat. Blood. Probably from someone's split lip—a reporter who got too close to the federal perimeter.<br><br> "This is $fullName with Channel 6 News, and I'm standing outside the home of a man who thought deleting emails could buy him silence." Your voice comes out steady. Clear. The voice of someone who knows that digital trails never really disappear when you know where to look.<br><br> "Tonight, City Councilman Kent Grey sits in handcuffs. Arrested for the brutal murders of Silvia De Luca and her six-year-old daughter Jane."<br><br> A pause. Let that sink in. Let the audience process the word 'brutal'. And 'six-year-old' in the same sentence.<br><br> The mansion squats behind you like a tumor made of Georgian columns and old money. White stone that probably cost more than most people make in a decade. You used to work inside systems like the ones that built this place. Every permit, every approval, every inspection, all processed through databases you knew how to access. Back when you naively thought the system worked for justice instead of just the highest bidder.<br><br> CRD agents swarm through Grey's manicured garden. Their boots crush five-hundred-dollar roses without care.<br><br> "Murders that police tried to bury deeper than deleted server logs." Your voice cuts through the wind and helicopter noise overhead.<br><br> "My investigation began two months ago when Maria De Luca came to my office with a story nobody wanted to believe." You hold up printed emails and bank records. <br><br> "She is seventy-three years old, a cancer patient, confined to a wheelchair after a stroke. Silvia De Luca was her daughter and Jane her granddaughter. She knew someone was covering up the truth."<br><br> "And I had the digital access to prove it." Your smile carries the satisfaction of someone who just cracked every password they thought was secure. "The official story is a lie, and I have the leaked documents to prove it."<br><br> This is it. The moment two months of hacking and inside sources finally pays off. Time to burn down some careers with their own deleted emails.<br><br> "Internal bank records show Silvia and Jane De Luca weren't random robbery victims." You flip through printed banking statements obtained through backdoor access. "Silvia was Senator Kent Grey's secret mistress and the mother of his illegitimate child."<br><br> Behind you, more federal vehicles arrive. The kind of specialized units they deploy when corruption involves murder and treason.<br><br> "Hacked banking records reveal systematic payments from Grey's personal accounts to De Luca over six years." You pause, letting that revelation settle. "Grey was paying hush money to keep their affair and Jane's paternity secret while his wife thought he was faithful."<br><br> Always follow the digital trail. Rich people leave electronic fingerprints on everything they touch. But it helped that the wife was fed up with her husband as well and wanted to dispose of him. Better to work with a whistleblower than life the rest of your life with a cheater and murderer.<br><br> Leaked email chains between Grey and his financial advisor. Compromised hotel records placing them together dozens of times. Text messages recovered from deleted phone backups that read like a soap opera of lies and betrayal.<br><br> Smart woman, keeping evidence of his lies. Too bad intelligence doesn't stop bullets when powerful men get tired of paying for their mistakes.<br><br> "But here's where our sordid love story turns deadly." Your voice hardens. "When De Luca demanded more money to support Jane and threatened to go public, Grey decided elimination was cheaper than alimony."<br><br> The wind shifts. Carries now the stench expensive cologne bleeding from the mansion's open doors.<br><br> "These leaked records completely contradict Detective Captain Pozzo's forty-eight-hour investigation that somehow missed a six-year affair, financial evidence, and enough digital proof to convict a saint."<br><br> They thought digital destruction meant permanent concealment. They forgot that someone with my background knows how to resurrect electronic ghosts.<br><br> The mansion's front door hangs open like a wound. Marble floors visible inside. Crystal chandeliers that cost more than houses. All that wealth built on lies, betrayal, and now blood money.<br><br> "The leaked evidence tells the real story." Your voice gets harder. More specific. "Recovered hotel records place Grey and Silvia at the Meridian downtown forty-seven times over six years. Deleted text messages show Grey promising to leave his wife 'someday' while Silvia raised his daughter alone."<br><br> You can see those photos burned into your memory. Silvia's body twisted on hardwood floors. Blood pooled around her head like spilled wine. Dark. Sticky. Jane was killed after witnessing her mother's death. Her small body next to her mother's. Blood in blonde hair that would never grow another inch. Stuffed dinosaur clutched in hands that would never draw another picture. Six years old.<br><br> Professional killers charge extra for family packages. Someone paid premium rates to make sure both mother and daughter died the same night.<br><br> "Jane De Luca was six years old." The words taste like the stale coffee. "The leaked autopsy report—not the corrupted version released to media—shows she died last. After watching her mommy get shot. Someone accessed the coroner's database to alter those findings twelve minutes after the real report was uploaded."<br><br> "See, Silvia had money problems." You lean into the camera. Let viewers see the face of a <<if $gender is 'cisgender-male' or $gender is 'transgender-male'>>man<<elseif $gender is 'cisgender-female' or $gender is 'transgender-female'>>woman<<else>>person<</if>> who spends sleepless nights infiltrating secure systems and sell people out like it’s nothing. "Single mom trying to raise a kid and care for her sick mother on hush money that wasn't enough. All while Grey lived like a king with his legitimate family."<br><br> Through the mansion's dining room window, you can see the long table where Grey entertained his wife and legitimate children while texting his secret mistress about when he could sneak away for another rendezvous. The same surface where he probably planned his daughter's execution between courses.<br><br> Digital infidelity makes people stupid. Silvia got greedy for recognition, Grey got desperate to protect his reputation, and Jane got dead because daddy decided his political career mattered more than his daughter's life.<br><br> "July 15th text message from Silvia to Grey's private phone." Your voice carries the weight of evidence that easily bypassed every deletion attempt and hard drive magnets."'Jane keeps asking why daddy never comes home. I can't keep lying to a six-year-old anymore.'"<br><br> "Grey's response?" You pause. Let the question hang in the air. "'Our arrangement works fine. Don't complicate things, Silvia.'"<br><br> "The ultimatum came July 20th through compromised phone records." Your voice drops. Gets intimate with the satisfaction of someone who just cracked the case wide open. "Silvia wanted Grey to acknowledge Jane publicly or she'd sell her story to every tabloid in the city."<br><br> The mansion's library gleams through tall windows. Thousands of books Grey probably never opened. Decorative literacy for a man who spent decades using the Constitution as toilet paper.<br><br> Bet there's not a single book about fatherhood or responsibility in that whole collection.<br><br> "Grey's answer came five days later, and it wasn't flowers." You step closer to the camera until your face fills the frame. "It was fifty thousand dollars transferred to hire a professional killer."<br><br> That phrase hangs in the air. Heavy. Final. Like a coffin lid slamming shut.<br><br> "This is where the conspiracy gets even worse." You lean into the camera, letting emergency lights catch the relentlessness in your eyes. "Enter Lillian Frost, a twenty-eight-year-old Fae bloodline socialite and Grey's OTHER secret mistress."<br><br> Leaked phone records show the escalation. Frost contacting Grey more frequently as De Luca's demands increased. Two cheating lovers deciding that murder was more convenient than Grey growing a spine.<br><br> Hell hath no fury like a woman who realizes she's sharing her married boyfriend with his baby mama.<br><br> "Frost used her supernatural abilities and social connections to infiltrate De Luca's life as her best friend." Your voice turns to steel. "Over several weeks, she gathered intelligence about both victims' daily routines while pretending to care about a woman whose murder she was planning."<br><br> "Compromised banking records show Frost withdrew fifty thousand dollars cash on July 22nd." You hold up the leaked financial documents. "Three days before the murders. Sources confirm this money hired the Umbra assassin known as 'Rio.'"<br><br> The mansion's lights flicker—either power issues or feds cutting utilities to prevent evidence destruction. Perfect timing. Grey's empire going dark while leaked truth finally sees daylight.<br><br> "Her Fae abilities include memory modification and appearance alteration." You step directly into the camera's range. "She could be anyone. Anywhere. The neighbor who remembered too much about your schedule. The barista who asked personal questions. Anyone who made you feel comfortable while gathering information to kill you."<br><br> "This wasn't random street violence." You gesture toward the mansion, toward everything wrong with Sordia's power structure. "This was calculated murder designed to protect a senator's political career and a socialite's romantic interests." Kent and Lillian thought deleted emails could wash away blood.<br><br> Look how wrong they were. But Lillian still has seventy-two hours of head start and unlimited money.<br><br> Seventy-two hours is forever when you have trust fund money. When you have supernatural abilities. When your bloodline gives you advantages that normal people can't fight. Enough time to buy new identities, destroy more evidence, disappear into whatever hole rich murderers crawl into when they need to hide.<br><br> You stare into the camera lens. Feel those hours like deleted files you can't recover. Each one precious. Wasted. Each one bringing her closer to disappearing forever.<br><br> "Lillian Frost has been missing for 72 hours with unlimited resources." Your voice shakes. Just a little. The kind of tremor that comes from knowing exactly how much damage someone can do when they have everything and nothing to lose.<br><br> "This woman helped plan the murder of a six-year-old child." You let the reminder hang in the air. Six years old. Barely knew how to spell her name before they snuffed her out. "And she has the money to disappear forever."<br><br> You pull out the photograph from leaked social media archives. Some charity bullshit. Lillian in a dress that costs more than your car. Perfect makeup. Perfect hair. Perfect everything except the soul that should be rotting somewhere. "Let me be very clear about who we're looking for."<br><br> You hold the photo closer. Let viewers burn her face into their memory. This isn’t some abstract digital ghost. This is real. She’s real. The blood on her hands is real.<br><br> “Frost has distinctive silver-blonde hair and violet eyes.” The description matters. More than usual. Because Frost isn’t stuck with one face. She can change. Shift. Become someone else when it suits her. “She’s about five-six, maybe 120 pounds.”<br><br> “If you think you see her, don’t approach. Call CRD immediately.” You recite the number slow. Clear. Let it stick. Because this bitch is dangerous in ways that go beyond money and connections.<br><br> The mansion's front door opens wider. Movement catches your peripheral vision—CRD agents forming a tactical escort around something important.<br><br> The sound you’ve been waiting for. Heavy footsteps. Official voices. The payoff that makes two months of sleepless nights worth something.<br><br> You turn. Let the camera capture it.<br><br> Kent Grey emerges into the emergency lights like a vampire dragged into sunlight. Hands zip-tied behind his back. Silver hair disheveled for the first time in twenty years of photo ops. His expensive suit wrinkled, stained with sweat that reeks of stress and anger.<br><br> Grey's face is gray. Fitting. His face shows nothing. Years of political training. Don’t look guilty. Don’t look scared. Don’t give the cameras anything they can use. But his eyes tell a different story.<br><br> Eyes darting between news cameras like a cornered animal calculating escape routes that don't exist. For money that can’t buy his way out of federal charges. This time at least.<br><br> The CRD team moves with professional precision. Black tactical gear. Automatic weapons.<br><br> Grey's eyes find yours across the chaos. For a moment—just a heartbeat—politician stares at journalist. The man who ordered a six-year-old's execution meeting the <<if $gender is 'cisgender-male' or $gender is 'transgender-male'>>man<<elseif $gender is 'cisgender-female' or $gender is 'transgender-female'>>woman<<else>>person<</if>> who exposed it.<br><br> You smile. Cold. Sharp. Empty of everything except satisfaction.<br><br> Message delivered, you child-killing bastard.<br><br> Grey's jaw tightens. He looks away first.<br><br> The agents guide him toward the unmarked federal vehicle. No ceremony. No dignity. Just a murderer getting transported to the cage where he'll die. You turn back to the camera.<br><br> The satisfaction of seeing one killer in cuffs wars with the frustration gnawing at your gut. One down. One still breathing free air she doesn’t deserve.<br><br> “Kent Grey is in federal custody tonight,” you tell the viewers. Let them see justice happening behind you. Let them know it’s possible, even in Sordia. Even when it takes months of bleeding yourself dry to achieve it. “But Lillian Frost still remains free.”<br><br> “To anyone watching who thinks money can wash blood off their hands.” Your voice drops. Gets sharp. “Or that bloodline privileges put you above the law. Or that a child’s life matters less than your convenience.”<br><br> The message isn’t just for Frost. It’s for every rich asshole watching. Every entitled piece of shit who thinks wealth makes them untouchable. Every monster who believes power means never facing consequences.<br><br> “You’re wrong.”<br><br> “Maria De Luca asked me to find her daughter’s and granddaughters killers two months ago and I did.” Each word precise. Sharp. Carved from stubbornness that doesn’t bend. <br><br> “I will always find out the truth. Always.”<br><br> Truth is like cancer. Invisible at first, then spreading everywhere, eventually killing everything built on lies.<br><br> You meant every word. You will drag the truth out of whatever hole she’s hiding in. You will make sure a six-year-old’s death means something more than just another statistic.<br><br> It’s not just your job. It’s who you are. The thing that drives you to dig when everyone else gives up. To keep bleeding yourself dry until you hit bedrock truth.<br><br> That’s why they call you the Leech. You latch on and don’t let go until you’ve sucked every drop of truth from the veins of the story.<br><br> You look into the camera one last time. “This is $fullName, Channel 6 News. And Lillian Frost, wherever you are, whatever face you’re wearing, we’re coming for you.”<br><br> Jake your cameraman lowers the camera. Red light dies. Broadcast ends.<br><br> <span id="hand-text">That itch in your <<link "left">><<set $handItch to "left">><<replace "#hand-text">>That itch in your left hand has calmed down.<</replace>><</link>> or <<link "right">><<set $handItch to "right">><<replace "#hand-text">>That itch in your right hand has calmed down.<</replace>><</link>> hand has calmed down.</span> The obsession that’s been eating you alive for months starts to quiet. Not disappearing. Never that. But settling into something manageable.<br><br> Maria De Luca has her answers. Not complete justice yet. But answers. That’s worth something in Sordia. Worth everything when it’s all you can give.<br><br> The story isn’t over. Won’t be over until Frost is in a cage where she belongs.<br><br> But the hardest part is done. The conspiracy is blown open. The lies are scattered like broken glass.<br><br> Everything else is just hunting.<br><br> And you’re very, very good at hunting.<br><br> The Leech doesn't let go. Ever.<br><br> <div class="continue-button"> <<button "Continue">> <<goto "CH1P2">> <</button>> </div>

<div class="ch1-header"> <h1 class="bloodlines-title">CH1: The City That Eats Its Young</h1> </div> //Going live in 3, 2, 1…//<br><br> The camera's red light burns. Hot. Angry. Like a cigarette pressed against flesh until it blisters.<br><br> Behind you, Kent Grey's mansion bleeds federal agents through every door and window. Black SUVs with tinted glass. Tactical gear that catches emergency lights in harsh angles. The kind of late-night raid that turns senators into corpses, politically speaking.<br><br> You taste copper in the October air. Sweat. Blood. Probably from someone's split lip—a reporter who got too close to the federal perimeter.<br><br> "This is $fullName with Channel 6 News, and do I have a story for you tonight." Your voice comes out smooth. Sly. The voice of someone who's made a career turning other people's darkest secrets into must-see television.<br><br> "Tonight, City Councilman Kent Grey sits in handcuffs. Arrested for the brutal murders of Silvia De Luca and her six-year-old daughter Jane."<br><br> A pause. Let that sink in. Let the audience process the word 'brutal'. And 'six-year-old' in the same sentence.<br><br> The mansion squats behind you like a tumor made of Georgian columns and old money. White stone that probably cost more than most people make in a decade.<br><br> Rich people and their dirty little secrets. But you've learned that the bigger the house, the bigger the skeletons rattling around inside. This place has enough closet space for a whole graveyard.<br><br> CRD agents swarm through Grey's manicured garden. Their boots crush five-hundred-dollar roses without care.<br><br> "Murders that police tried to sweep under the rug faster than a senator's browser history." Your voice cuts through the wind and helicopter noise overhead.<br><br> "My investigation began two months ago when Maria De Luca came to my office with a story that makes your favorite daytime drama look realistic." You gesture toward the mansion with cold satisfaction. "She is seventy-three years old, a cancer patient, confined to a wheelchair after a stroke. Silvia De Luca was her daughter and Jane her granddaughter. She knew someone was lying about how her family died."<br><br> "And she was right. But the truth is so much worse than she imagined." Your smile carries no warmth, just the sharp edge of someone about to gut a reputation.<br><br> This isn't just about murder. This is about what happens when a powerful man can't keep his dick in his pants and decide murder is cheaper than child support."<br><br> This is it. The moment two months of manipulating sources and exploiting people's weaknesses finally pays off. Time to destroy some lives with their own dirty secrets.<br><br> "Silvia De Luca wasn't some random robbery victim." You flip through photographs with precision. "She was Senator Kent Grey's secret mistress and the mother of his bastard child."<br><br> Behind you, more federal vehicles arrive. The kind of specialized units they deploy when corruption involves murder and treason.<br><br> "Banking records I obtained through sources reveal systematic hush money payments from Grey's personal accounts to De Luca over six years." You pause, letting that revelation cut deep. "Grey was paying to keep their affair secret while his daughter grew up asking why daddy never came home."<br><br> Follow the people. Always follow the people. Rich people always thinks they’re so secretive but leave trails like breadcrumbs, and I'm very good at following them all the way to their most humiliating moments.<br><br> Hotel receipts documenting their affair. Text messages that read like bad romance novels written by sociopaths. Financial records showing Grey valued his reputation more than his child's life.<br><br> Smart woman, keeping evidence of his lies. Too bad intelligence doesn't stop bullets when powerful men get tired of paying for their mistakes.<br><br> "But here's where this sordid little affair turns into something out of a Greek tragedy." Your voice hardens. "When Silvia demanded Grey acknowledge his daughter instead of just paying her off, he decided elimination was more effective than responsibility."<br><br> The wind shifts. Carries now the stench expensive cologne bleeding from the mansion's open doors.<br><br> "These revelations completely destroy Detective Captain Pozzo's investigation that somehow missed a six-year affair, financial evidence, and enough DNA proof to stock a genetics lab."<br><br> Every deleted text, every covered-up payment, every lie told to protect a powerful man's image—they all left you hungry for the truth that would burn his world down.<br><br> The mansion's front door hangs open like a wound. Marble floors visible inside. Crystal chandeliers that cost more than houses. All that wealth built on lies, betrayal, and now blood money.<br><br> "The evidence tells the story they don't want you to hear." Your voice gets harder, more cutting. "Hotel records place Grey and Silvia at the Meridian downtown for their little rendezvous while his wife thought he was working late. Text messages show Grey promising to leave his wife 'someday'. The same lie cheating bastards have been using since the invention of marriage."<br><br> Professional killers charge extra for family packages. Someone paid premium rates to ensure both mother and daughter died the same night.<br><br> "Jane De Luca was six years old." The words taste like stale coffee. "The real autopsy report shows she died last. After watching her mommy get shot. Because apparently, Grey's fatherly instincts extended to making sure his daughter understood what was happening before he had her killed."<br><br> "See, Silvia wasn't just some desperate single mom." You lean into the camera. Let viewers see the cunning face of a <<if $gender is 'cisgender-male' or $gender is 'transgender-male'>>man<<elseif $gender is 'cisgender-female' or $gender is 'transgender-female'>>woman<<else>>person<</if>> who will use everything you have to your advantage. <br><br> "She was a woman trying to raise Grey's child on hush money that wasn't enough while he lived like a king with his legitimate family. Getting tired of being treated like a dirty secret."<br><br> Through the mansion's dining room window, you can see the long table where Grey entertained his wife and legitimate children while texting his secret mistress about when he could sneak away for another rendezvous. The same surface where he probably planned his daughter's execution between courses.<br><br> Years of manipulation teach you that people are simply stupid. Silvia got tired of being hidden, Grey got scared of exposure, and Jane got dead because daddy couldn't handle the truth.<br><br> "July 15th text from Silvia to Grey." Your voice carries the weight of evidence that survived deletion attempts and hard drive magnets. "'Jane keeps asking why daddy never comes home. I can't keep lying to a six-year-old anymore.'"<br><br> "Grey's response?" You pause. Let the question hang in the air. "'Our arrangement works fine. Don't complicate things, Silvia.'"<br><br> "The ultimatum came July 20th." Your voice drops, gets intimate with the satisfaction of watching a house of cards collapse. "Silvia wanted Grey to acknowledge Jane publicly or she'd sell her story. Pictures, receipts, DNA evidence. Everything needed to destroy his perfect political image."<br><br> The mansion's library gleams through tall windows. Thousands of books Grey probably never opened. Decorative literacy for a man who spent decades using the Constitution as toilet paper.<br><br> The rich and their libraries. Always trying to look sophisticated when idiocy is the only thing that exists inside those houses. Their sloppiness could make you laugh.<br><br> "Grey's answer came five days later." You step closer to the camera until your face fills the frame. "Not acknowledgment. A contract killer and fifty thousand dollars in blood money."<br><br> That phrase hangs in the air. Heavy. Final. Like a coffin lid slamming shut.<br><br> "But wait… it gets worse." You lean into the camera, letting emergency lights catch the cunning in your eyes. "Enter Lillian Frost, a twenty-eight-year-old Fae bloodline socialite who makes sociopaths look like amateurs."<br><br> Phone records reveal the escalation. Frost calling Grey more as De Luca's demands increased. Two cheaters deciding that murder was easier than Grey growing a conscience.<br><br> Hell hath no fury like an idiot woman who finds out she's sharing her married boyfriend with his baby mama and instead of confronting the man the bitch blames the other woman.<br><br> "Frost used her supernatural abilities and social connections to infiltrate De Luca's life as her best friend." Your voice turns to steel. "Over several weeks, she gathered intelligence about both victims' daily routines while pretending to care about a woman whose murder she was planning."<br><br> "Banking records from Frost's personal accounts show a fifty-thousand-dollar withdrawal on July 22nd." You hold up the financial documentation. "Three days before the murders. Federal sources confirm this money was used to hire the Umbra assassin known as 'Rio.'"<br><br> The mansion's lights flicker—either power issues or feds cutting utilities to prevent evidence destruction. Perfect timing. Grey's empire going dark while leaked truth finally sees daylight.<br><br> "Her Fae abilities include memory modification and appearance alteration." You step directly into the camera's range. "She could be anyone. Anywhere. The neighbor who remembered too much about your schedule. The barista who asked personal questions. Anyone who made you feel comfortable while gathering information to kill you."<br><br> "This wasn't random street violence." You gesture toward the mansion, toward everything wrong with Sordia's power structure. "This was calculated murder designed to protect a senator's political career and a socialite's romantic interests."<br><br> You can see those photos burned into your memory. Silvia's body twisted on hardwood floors. Blood pooled around her head like spilled wine. Dark. Sticky. Jane was killed after witnessing her mother's death. Her small body next to her mother's. Blood in blonde hair that would never grow another inch. Stuffed dinosaur clutched in hands that would never draw another picture. Six years old.<br><br> Kent and Lillian thought money and supernatural powers could erase their crimes. They were wrong. But Lillian still has seventy-two hours and unlimited resources.<br><br> Seventy-two hours is forever when you have trust fund money. When you have supernatural abilities. When your bloodline gives you advantages that normal people can't fight. Enough time to buy new identities, destroy more evidence, disappear into whatever hole rich murderers crawl into when they need to hide.<br><br> You stare into the camera lens. Feel those hours like missed opportunities. Each one precious. Wasted. Each one bringing her closer to vanishing forever.<br><br> "Lillian Frost has been missing for 72 hours with unlimited resources." Your voice shakes slightly with contempt. "This woman helped plan the murder of a six-year-old child for the most pathetic reason imaginable: Sharing a man who wasn't worth killing for."<br><br> “This woman helped plan the murder of a six-year-old child.” You let the reminder hang in the air. Six years old. Barely knew how to spell her name before they snuffed her out. “And she has the resources to disappear forever.”<br><br> You pull out the photograph. Some charity bullshit. Lillian in a dress that costs more than your car. Perfect makeup. Perfect hair. Perfect everything except that rotten soul. “Let me be very clear about who we’re looking for.”<br><br> You hold the photo closer. Let viewers burn her face into their memory. This isn’t some abstract criminal. This is real. She’s real. The blood on her hands is real.<br><br> “Frost has distinctive silver-blonde hair and violet eyes.” The description matters. More than usual. Because Frost isn’t stuck with one face. She can change. Shift. Become someone else when it suits her. “She’s about five-six, maybe 120 pounds.”<br><br> “If you think you see her, don’t approach. Call CRD immediately.” You recite the number slow. Clear. Let it stick. Because this bitch is dangerous in ways that go beyond money and connections.<br><br> The mansion's front door opens wider. Movement catches your peripheral vision—CRD agents forming a tactical escort around something important.<br><br> The sound you’ve been waiting for. Heavy footsteps. Official voices. The payoff that makes two months of sleepless nights worth something.<br><br> You turn. Let the camera capture it.<br><br> Kent Grey emerges into the emergency lights like a vampire dragged into sunlight. Hands zip-tied behind his back. Silver hair disheveled for the first time in twenty years of photo ops. His expensive suit wrinkled, stained with sweat that reeks of stress and anger.<br><br> Grey's face is gray. Fitting. His face shows nothing. Years of political training. Don’t look guilty. Don’t look scared. Don’t give the cameras anything they can use. But his eyes tell a different story.<br><br> Eyes darting between news cameras like a cornered animal calculating escape routes that don't exist. For money that can’t buy his way out of federal charges. This time at least.<br><br> The CRD team moves with professional precision. Black tactical gear. Automatic weapons.<br><br> Grey's eyes find yours across the chaos. For a moment—just a heartbeat—politician stares at journalist. The man who ordered a six-year-old's execution meeting the <<if $gender is 'cisgender-male' or $gender is 'transgender-male'>>man<<elseif $gender is 'cisgender-female' or $gender is 'transgender-female'>>woman<<else>>person<</if>> who exposed it.<br><br> You smile. Cold. Sharp. Empty of everything except satisfaction.<br><br> Message delivered, you child-killing bastard.<br><br> Grey's jaw tightens. He looks away first.<br><br> The agents guide him toward the unmarked federal vehicle. No ceremony. No dignity. Just a murderer getting transported to the cage where he'll die.<br><br> You turn back to the camera.<br><br> The satisfaction of seeing one killer in cuffs wars with the frustration gnawing at your gut. One down. One still breathing free air she doesn’t deserve.<br><br> “Kent Grey is in federal custody tonight,” you tell the viewers. Let them see justice happening behind you. Let them know it’s possible, even in Sordia. Even when it takes months of bleeding yourself dry to achieve it. “But Lillian Frost still remains free.”<br><br> “To anyone watching who thinks money can wash blood off their hands.” Your voice drops. Gets sharp. “Or that bloodline privileges put you above the law. Or that a child’s life matters less than your convenience.”<br><br> The message isn’t just for Frost. It’s for every rich asshole watching. Every entitled piece of shit who thinks wealth makes them untouchable. Every monster who believes power means never facing consequences.<br><br> “You’re wrong.”<br><br> “Maria De Luca asked me to find her daughter’s and granddaughters killers two months ago and I did.” Each word precise. Sharp. Carved from stubbornness that doesn’t bend. <br><br> “I will always find out the truth. Always.”<br><br> Truth is like cancer. Invisible at first, then spreading everywhere, eventually killing everything built on lies.<br><br> You meant every word. You will drag the truth out of whatever hole she’s hiding in. You will make sure a six-year-old’s death means something more than just another statistic.<br><br> It’s not just your job. It’s who you are. The thing that drives you to dig when everyone else gives up. To keep bleeding yourself dry until you hit bedrock truth.<br><br> That’s why they call you the Leech. You latch on and don’t let go until you’ve sucked every drop of truth from the veins of the story.<br><br> You look into the camera one last time. “This is $fullName, Channel 6 News. And Lillian Frost, wherever you are, whatever face you’re wearing, we’re coming for you.”<br><br> Jake your cameraman lowers the camera. Red light dies. Broadcast ends.<br><br> <span id="hand-text">That itch in your <<link "left">><<set $handItch to "left">><<replace "#hand-text">>That itch in your left hand has calmed down.<</replace>><</link>> or <<link "right">><<set $handItch to "right">><<replace "#hand-text">>That itch in your right hand has calmed down.<</replace>><</link>> hand has calmed down.</span> The obsession that’s been eating you alive for months starts to quiet. Not disappearing. Never that. But settling into something manageable.<br><br> Maria De Luca has her answers. Not complete justice yet. But answers. That’s worth something in Sordia. Worth everything when it’s all you can give.<br><br> The story isn’t over. Won’t be over until Frost is in a cage where she belongs.<br><br> But the hardest part is done. The conspiracy is blown open. The lies are scattered like broken glass.<br><br> Everything else is just hunting.<br><br> And you’re very, very good at hunting.<br><br> The Leech doesn't let go. Ever.<br><br> <div class="continue-button"> <<button "Continue">> <<goto "CH1P2">> <</button>> </div>

<div class="chooseb-header"> <h1 class="bloodlines-title">Choose Your Career Background</h1> </div> <div class="cards"> <div class="card-container"> <<link "">> <<run Dialog.create("War Correspondent", "card-dialog").wikiPassage("War Info").open();>> <</link>> <img src="https://i.imgur.com/D47m6bo.png" alt="War card (default)" class="card dark-mode-img"> <img src="https://i.imgur.com/YDCdzEu.png" alt="War card (light)" class="card light-mode-img"> </div> <div class="card-container"> <<link "">> <<run Dialog.create("Tabloid Reporter", "card-dialog").wikiPassage("Tabloid Info").open();>> <</link>> <img src="https://i.imgur.com/Wc6qnq6.png" alt="Tabloid card (default)" class="card dark-mode-img"> <img src="https://i.imgur.com/lN4adFQ.png" alt="Tabloid card (light)" class="card light-mode-img"> </div> <div class="card-container"> <<link "">> <<run Dialog.create("Whistleblower", "card-dialog").wikiPassage("Whistle Info").open();>> <</link>> <img src="https://i.imgur.com/TLhP6kI.png" alt="Whistle card (default)" class="card dark-mode-img"> <img src="https://i.imgur.com/U1aLUBB.png" alt="Whistle card (light)" class="card light-mode-img"> </div> <div class="card-container"> <<link "">> <<run Dialog.create("Investigative Journalist", "card-dialog").wikiPassage("Investigate Info").open();>> <</link>> <img src="https://i.imgur.com/WrCgoBG.png" alt="Investigate card (default)" class="card dark-mode-img"> <img src="https://i.imgur.com/Nv9fKOw.png" alt="Investigate card (light)" class="card light-mode-img"> </div> </div> <<set $allowFullDescription = true>>

The voice was a caress against his ear, intimate and terrible. He felt lips curling into a smile against his skin, teeth sharp enough to draw blood pressing ever so gently against his neck. The points dimpled his flesh without quite breaking it. A hunter playing with its prey, savoring the moment before the kill.<br><br> "No, no, no, no," he whispered, the words a desperate prayer to a god that had abandoned the world long ago, if it had ever existed at all. Terror flooded his system, adrenaline and cortisol dumping into his bloodstream in quantities that would kill him if the creature holding him didn't do it first.<br><br> The stories were true. All those whispered tales in dive bars, those urban legends passed around like ghost stories to frighten children—they were all true. Umbra blood. Of course it had to be a shadow-blood freak. How did he miss this? A Mob Boss always has those fuckers around. He thought there was only one, they tricked him! The way they tracked him so easily made him curse his luck. <br><br> He'd heard stories of those freaks, everyone in Sordia had. Scary Stories whispered in bars when the alcohol loosened tongues. The Umbra bloodline. The abominations that walked among them. But stories didn't prepare you for reality. Nothing could prepare you for staring into the abyss and having it smile back.<br><br> "You're one of them," he choked out, the words barely audible. His bladder released without warning, warm urine running down his leg, mixing with the blood to create a puddle at his feet. <br><br> He didn't even feel shame—only pure, animal fear. He knew he was totally fucked. No one escaped an Umbra-blood. Not when they were hunting. Not when they had your scent.<br><br> Each breath came shorter than the last, like trying to inhale underwater. His chest heaved in desperate spasms as his heart hammered so hard it felt like it might burst through his ribs, a trapped bird throwing itself against its cage. The edges of his vision began to darken, narrowing to a tunnel focused solely on the nightmare before him.<br><br> Those inhuman hands tightened, and he felt the wall rippling against his back or maybe the wall is his captor, reality bending in ways that made his mind scream in protest. <br><br> Ice spread from those fingers into his veins, like death itself was seeping into his blood. His extremities went numb first—fingertips, toes, the tip of his nose—then the cold crawled inward, toward his core, a creeping paralysis that promised oblivion.<br><br> "I have money!" he screamed, voice cracking with desperation. "I'll give you whatever you want! Please! I have a daughter! She's only six!" The lie tumbled out desperately. He had no children, had never even been in a relationship that lasted longer than six months. But he was willing to invent any fiction that might save him. "She needs me. Please."<br><br> He thrashed, kicked, but it was like fighting the night itself. His foot passed through what should be a leg, encountering only arctic cold and a sensation like plunging into syrup. <br><br> Darkness swirled around him, tendrils of shadow slithering up his legs like possessive serpents, binding him to the spot. They whispered as they moved, thousands of voices speaking in languages long dead, offering promises and threats in equal measure.<br><br> More of the figure emerged from the wall. A face formed next to his, but calling it a face was like calling a hurricane a breeze. It was the suggestion of human features, a sketch made by an artist who had only ever heard faces described but never seen one.<br><br> The vague suggestion of human features shifted and flowed like oil on water, never settling, never solid. Nose becoming mouth becoming eye becoming ear in a constant dance of transformation. It made his eyes water to look at it, his brain struggling to process what it was seeing.<br><br> Where eyes should be, twin vortices of absolute darkness swirled, pulling at his sanity just by looking into them. They were portals to somewhere else, somewhere cold and empty and hungry. The longer he stared, the more he felt himself being pulled in, his essence unraveling like a sweater caught on a nail.<br><br> The mouth was a jagged tear across the lower portion, stretching impossibly wide to reveal rows of teeth like obsidian needles, some curving backward like fishhooks. Black ichor dripped from between those teeth, sizzling when it hit the ground, eating through concrete like acid. The tongue that darted between those teeth was forked and glistening, tasting his fear on the air.<br><br> The creature's skin—if it could be called that—rippled with patterns of deeper darkness, like shadows within shadow. Fractal patterns of void that hurt to look at, each layer revealing more complexity, more wrongness. It wasn't meant for human eyes to see, for human minds to comprehend.<br><br> Veins of midnight pulsed beneath the surface, carrying something colder than blood. Occasionally, the outer layer of darkness parted, revealing glimpses of a ribcage formed of crystallized shadow, or organs that pulsed with negative light, consuming rather than producing energy.<br><br> He somehow recognized the psycho girl that had spotted him. Even though she had been a human before, the smile was the same. Wide and terrible and promising pain. She was truly a monster. <br><br> Her form continued to shift and distort, limbs elongating unnaturally, fingers extending into foot-long talons that phased in and out of solidity. Her hair had become a writhing mass of shadow-tendrils that moved with apparent consciousness, reaching toward his face as if curious about the texture of his skin, the taste of his tears.<br><br> "Please," he gasped, but the word froze in his throat as those shadow-fingers squeezed. His windpipe creaked under the pressure, cartilage straining to its breaking point. "I don't want to die," he sobbed, tears streaming down his face, cutting clean tracks through the grime and blood. "Not like this. Please, not like this."<br><br> His vision began to tunnel, darkness encroaching from the edges but it was impossible to tell if it was from oxygen deprivation or if the shadow-freak was literally consuming his sight. <br><br> In desperation, he clawed at the arms holding him, his nails breaking against a substance that felt simultaneously solid and incorporeal, like trying to grasp smoke that had decided to grasp back.<br><br> His terror was intoxicating, a heady perfume that filled the alley. It tasted like candy, sweet and addictive on her shadow-tongue. The panic in his eyes was delicious, liquid fear pooling in those wide pupils as they darted frantically, searching for an escape that didn't exist. <br><br> <div class="main-button">[[Next|Prologue Part 10]]</div>

You pull the earpiece from your left ear. Plastic slick with sweat despite the October chill.<br><br> Jake lowers the camera. Gentle. Careful. The Sony FX9 costs more than most people's cars, and in Sordia, that camera is the only honest witness left. His cigarette-stained fingers shake a little as he detaches the lens. The tremor could be exhaustion. Could be withdrawal. Could be the kind of fear that comes from owing money to people who collect debts in fingers.<br><br> Your throat feels like sandpaper.<br><br> "The truth will set you free," Kafka wrote. "But not until it's finished with you." And you're not finished. Won't be finished until Frost is dragged into the light.<br><br> "That was..." Isla's voice trails off as she coils XLR cables with precision. Her Abyssal bloodline makes her fingers slightly webbed, barely noticeable unless you know to look. Three years as the crew's sound tech, and she still tries hiding them in her sleeves. "That was something else, $firstName."<br><br> The way she says your name—not Leech, not the nickname that follows you through Sordia—sounds almost like respect. Almost.<br><br> <ul> <li> <<link '"Something else? That\'s the best you\'ve got? A six-year-old died and you\'re giving me participation trophy commentary?"'>> <<set $islaChoice to "cutting">> <<run setup.setTrait('deflecting', ($deflecting || 50) - 3)>> <<set $islastat to Math.max(0, ($islastat || 0) - 3)>> <<goto "CH1P2.1">> <</link>><br><br> </li> </ul> <ul> <li> <<link '"Shakespeare said all the world\'s a stage. Tonight we just showed them what happens behind the curtain."'>> <<set $islaChoice to "deflecting">> <<run setup.setTrait('deflecting', ($deflecting || 50) + 3)>> <<goto "CH1P2.1">> <</link>><br><br> </li> </ul> <ul> <li> <<link '"Your audio work made the difference. Those wiretaps were clean enough to make angels weep."'>> <<set $islaChoice to "soft">> <<run setup.setTrait('soft', ($soft || 50) + 3)>> <<set $islastat += 1>> <<goto "CH1P2.1">> <</link>> </li> </ul>

<<if $islaChoice is "cutting">>Isla flinches, goes back to her cables without another word. The October air between you crystallizes into something sharper.<<elseif $islaChoice is "deflecting">>Isla's expression shifts to professional neutral, but there's understanding in her eyes. She recognizes that you don't want to talk about it. Deflection... it's the unofficial language of Sordia.<<elseif $islaChoice is "soft">>Isla's exhausted face brightens slightly. "Angels don't weep in Sordia. They just invoice for emotional damages." The dark humor catches you off guard maybe she gets it after all.<</if>><br><br> "Coffee incoming!" Vex announces, materializing from shadows between news vans like caffeinated chaos incarnate. The intern bounces on his heels, somehow still wired after hours on site. Star-flecked grey Chronos eyes glitter with that unsettling brightness that makes you wonder what they're actually experiencing right now.<br><br> They thrust a cup at you, steam rising in the cold air. But there's also a flask in their other hand, amber liquid visible through scratched metal. A thermos dangles from their elbow, and an energy drink can is wedged under their arm.<br><br> "Figured you'd want options," Vex says, that perpetual smile never wavering. "After a broadcast like that, you usually want the... oh wait, that hasn't happened yet. Or has it? Sorry, long day."<br><br> Ah, you forgot. Some people from the Chronos Bloodline can see past, present and future all at once. Most can't function. Vex functions just fine, which is somehow worse.<br><br> You take <br><br> <ul> <li> <<link "Coffee">> <<set $drinkChoice to "coffee">> <<run setup.setTrait('intuitive', ($intuitive || 50) - 1)>> <<goto "CH1P2.2">> <</link>><br><br> </li> </ul> <ul> <li> <<link "Tea">> <<set $drinkChoice to "tea">> <<run setup.setTrait('deflecting', ($deflecting || 50) + 1)>> <<goto "CH1P2.2">> <</link>><br><br> </li> </ul> <ul> <li> <<link "Energy Drink">> <<set $drinkChoice to "energy drink">> <<run setup.setTrait('calculated', ($deflecting || 50) - 1)>> <<goto "CH1P2.2">> <</link>><br><br> </li> </ul> <ul> <li> <<link "Alcohol">> <<set $drinkChoice to "alcohol">> <<run setup.setTrait('soft', ($soft || 50) - 3)>> <<goto "CH1P2.2">> <</link>> </li> </ul>

<<if $drinkChoice is "coffee">>You take the coffee. Black. Bitter. Like drinking liquid regret. "Coffee is a way of stealing time," Terry Pratchett said. You're stealing time from sleep, from sanity, from whatever's left of your soul.<<elseif $drinkChoice is "tea">>You accept the thermos. Earl Grey, if your nose works. Like pretending you're British while Rome burns around you.<<elseif $drinkChoice is "energy">>You grab the can. Synthetic caffeine and enough sugar to kill a diabetic at twenty paces. Reckless. Efficient. Honest about what it is—poison that keeps you vertical.<<elseif $drinkChoice is "alcohol">>You take the flask. Whatever's inside burns worse than the truth you just broadcast. Sometimes the only way forward is through the bottom of a bottle.<</if>><br><br> Sam your field producer emerges from the production van, tablet in hand, their Fae features arranged in that expression of professional concern that's about as genuine as a three-dollar bill. Today their eyes are green, but you've seen them cycle through the whole spectrum during a single conversation. They move with an uncanny grace, each step calculated to seem natural while being anything but.<br><br> "Phenomenal broadcast, $firstName," Sam says, their voice carrying that musical quality that makes everything sound like either a compliment or a curse. "The rating projections are astronomical. Though I have to wonder, did you consider the liability implications of naming Frost directly without her being formally charged?"<br><br> Classic Sam. Praise wrapped around a knife, slipped between your ribs while you're still processing the compliment. The Fae can't lie directly, but Sam has turned implication into high art.<br><br> <ul> <li> <<link '"I don\'t recall asking for your legal opinion, Sam. Last I checked, you produce segments, not jurisprudence."'>> <<set $samChoice to "confrontational">> <<run setup.setTrait('relaxed', ($relaxed || 50) - 1)>> <<set $samstat -= 1>> <<goto "CH1P2.3">> <</link>><br><br> </li> </ul> <ul> <li> <<link '"Frost helped murder a six-year-old. Legal can kiss my entire ass if they have a problem with that."'>> <<set $samChoice to "relaxed">> <<run setup.setTrait('relaxed', ($relaxed || 50) + 1)>> <<goto "CH1P2.3">> <</link>><br><br> </li> </ul> <ul> <li> <<link "Liability? In Sordia? That's like checking for gas leaks while the whole damn city burns around you.">> <<set $samChoice = "cynical">> <<run setup.setTrait('hopeful', ($hopeful || 50) - 1)>> <<set $samstat += 1>> <<goto "CH1P2.3">> <</link>> </li> </ul>

<<if $samChoice is "confrontational">>Sam's smile never changes, but their eyes shift toward amber—annoyed. "Of course. Simply thinking of the station's interests. And yours, naturally." The way they say 'naturally' suggests anything but.<<elseif $samChoice is "relaxed">>Sam nods, but their expression says they're filing this away. "How... colorful. Though I suppose color is your specialty, isn't it? All that blood makes for such vivid television."<<elseif $samChoice is "cynical">>Sam actually laughs, genuine for once. "How honest. Most people pretend journalism is noble. You just admit you're here to watch things burn."<</if>><br><br> Jake stumbles a bit lifting the heavy tripod, catching himself against the news van. His hands shake more noticeably now. <br><br> "Careful with that," he mutters to himself, checking the tripod for damage with the obsessive attention of someone who knows broken equipment means broken kneecaps when you can't pay your debts. His phone buzzes. He doesn't check it, but his whole body tenses like someone just pressed a gun to his spine.<br><br> <ul> <li> <<link '"Jake, you look like someone pissed in your coffee and charged you for cream. What\'s your take on tonight?"'>> <<set $jakeChoice to "hardened">> <<run setup.setTrait('soft', ($soft || 50) - 1)>> <<set $jakestat -= 2>> <<goto "CH1P2.4">> <</link>><br><br> </li> </ul> <ul> <li> <<link '"You filmed everything tonight. Every angle, every reaction. Notice anything I missed?"'>> <<set $jakeChoice to "calculated">> <<run setup.setTrait('calculated', ($calculated || 50) - 1)>> <<set $observation += 1>> <<goto "CH1P2.4">> <</link>><br><br> </li> </ul> <ul> <li> <<link '"Something\'s eating you, and it\'s not just my broadcasting style. Spill."'>> <<set $jakeChoice to "intuitive">> <<run setup.setTrait('intuitive', ($intuitive || 50) - 1)>> <<set $jakestat += 1>> <<goto "CH1P2.4">> <</link>> </li> </ul>

<<if $jakeChoice is "hardened">>Jake's jaw clenches. "My take? You just painted a target on your back the size of Grey's mansion. Frost has friends. The kind who don't file lawsuits, they file obituaries." He lights a cigarette with shaking hands. "But you already know that. You get off on it."<<elseif $jakeChoice is "calculated">>Jake considers, smoke curling from his nostrils. "Not today but you manipulated that assistant... Sarah? Made her think she was doing the right thing. She'll never work again, you know that? Just try not to leave too many broken people behind." He turns away.<<elseif $jakeChoice is "intuitive">>Jake laughs, bitter as burnt coffee. "You really want to know? Fine. The way you talked about Jane... reminded me why I got into this business. Before the gambling, before everything went to shit. We were supposed to matter. To make things matter." His voice cracks slightly. "Tonight you did something good. And I filmed it. But it makes me wonder how many nightmares I still have to endure before I can finally quit."<</if>><br><br> Vex drops a case of equipment, the crash making everyone jump. They stare at the scattered gear with confusion.<br><br> "Sorry! I thought someone else was going to drop that, but it was me. It's always me." They kneel to collect the pieces, muttering, "The heart is missing, but you already knew that. Or will know."<br><br> The words hang in the air. Your <<if $handItch is 'left'>>left<<elseif $handItch is 'right' >>right<</if>> hand starts itching.<br><br> "Vex," you call out. "What heart?"<br><br> They look up, star-flecked eyes wide with panic. "Did I say heart? I meant... nothing. No I meant! What did I mean? Sometimes I remember things that haven't happened yet or have already happened, and they leak out. Like when you—" They physically slap both hands over their mouth.<br><br> Your blood goes cold. "What about me?"<br><br> They begin to respond when that eerie look in their eyes seems to die. "Hmm what was I going to say? Sorry I don’t know why I always forget so fast" Vex looks like they might cry. "I'm very tired and should stop talking now please just forget what I said..."<br><br> You just shrug, too tired to care right now.<br><br> Sam approaches with the equipment manifest, their tablet glowing with unnecessary brightness. "Everything's accounted for. Excellent work as always, $firstName. Though I do wonder what you'll do for an encore. It's hard to top exposing a senator's child murder conspiracy."<br><br> "There's always another story," you reply, feeling exhaustion winning against the <<if $drinkChoice is 'coffee'>>coffee<<elseif $drinkChoice is 'tea'>>tea<<<<elseif $drinkChoice is 'energy drink'>>energy drink <<elseif $drinkChoice is 'alcohol'>>alcohol<</if>> you poured down your throat. "Sordia's like a corpse, the longer you look, the more maggots you find."<br><br> "How poetic," Sam agrees, their eyes shifting to violet—genuine interest. Then they snap the tablet shut. "Come on, let’s get back to the station."<br><br> The last cable is coiled and stowed. Tripods collapse with a metallic click, lenses capped and cases snapped shut. <br><br> Jake hefts the final crate toward the van, his movements careful despite the tremor in his hands. Isla falls in beside him, exhaustion etched in every step. Vex lopes after them, still inexplicably energized, and Sam trails with the tablet now balanced under one arm.<br><br> The group crosses the lawn toward the news van. Without a word, the side door of the van slides open.<br><br> [[Continue|CH1P3]]

The breath against your ear comes without warning.<br><br> Hot. Familiar. Carrying the scent of coconut oil and gunpowder, that particular combination that you would recognise everywhere.<br><br> "Mi love how yuh mek di whole city watch yuh expose corruption like is a Sunday sermon," the voice whispers, low and teasing in that patois that only comes out when $aceHe is trying to make you smile or annoy you. "But yuh still look like yuh need some good food and a proper bed, Leech."<br><br> You don't need to turn around to know who it is. Only one person in Sordia gets away with calling you that name like it's an endearment rather than an insult. Only one person would dare get this close without you hearing them approach, those CRD stealth training courses paying off.<br><br> You turn, and there they are. Your best friend since sophomore year of high school, when you both thought journalism and justice were the same thing. Before Sordia taught you they were barely distant cousins who stopped talking after a family feud.<br><br> <<if $acemet is false>> <strong>Who stands behind you?</strong><br><br> <ul> <li> <<link 'Your best friend Andre with his amber eyes that see right through your. Tough when it matters, soft when it counts, and always ready to have your back.'>> <<set $aceName = "Andre">> <<set $aceHe = "he">> <<set $aceHim = "him">> <<set $aceHis = "his">> <<set $aceHimself = "himself">> <<set $aceHeC = "He">> <<set $aceHimC = "Him">> <<set $aceHisC = "His">> <<set $aceHimselfC = "Himself">> <<set $aceGender = "male">> <<set $aceGenderSet = true>> <<goto "CH1P3.1">> <</link>><br><br> </li> </ul> <ul> <li> <<link 'Your best friend Anaya with her amber eyes that see right through your. Tough when it matters, soft when it counts, and always ready to have your back.'>> <<set $aceName = "Anaya">> <<set $aceHe = "she">> <<set $aceHim = "her">> <<set $aceHis = "her">> <<set $aceHimself = "herself">> <<set $aceHeC = "She">> <<set $aceHimC = "Her">> <<set $aceHisC = "Her">> <<set $aceHimselfC = "Herself">> <<set $aceGender = "female">> <<set $aceGenderSet = true>> <<goto "CH1P3.1">> <</link>> </li> </ul> <<else>> [[Continue|CH1P3.1]] <</if>>

<<if $aceGender is "male">> Andre Reid stands before you in his CRD tactical gear, the federal badges gleaming against black kevlar like accusations. Six feet of controlled power that moves with the confidence of someone who's survived enough fights to know which ones to avoid. His light blonde buzzcut catches the emergency lights, military-sharp fade edges precise enough to cut yourself on. The burn scars twisting around his right ear have faded to pink now, but you remember when they were fresh. When he couldn't hear you screaming his name through the smoke.<br><br> His amber eyes cut through Sordia's perpetual twilight, sharp enough to see through bullshit but warm enough to make you believe people might still be worth saving. The septum ring and eyebrow piercings should make him look less official, but somehow they just make him more dangerous. Like someone who doesn't need regulations to define his authority. <<elseif $aceGender is "female">> Anaya Reid stands before you in her CRD tactical gear, the federal badges gleaming against black kevlar like promises she can't keep. Five-foot-six of coiled energy that makes taller agents step back when she enters a room. Her blonde braids catch the emergency lights, each one precisely maintained despite the fourteen-hour shifts that would break lesser agents. The burn scars twisting around her right ear have faded to pink now, but you remember when they were fresh. When she couldn't hear you screaming her name through the smoke.<br><br> Her amber eyes cut through Sordia's perpetual twilight, sharp enough to dissect lies but warm enough to make you forget this city eats hope for breakfast. The septum ring and eyebrow piercings should make her look less official, but somehow they just make her more dangerous. Like someone who doesn't need a badge to command respect. <</if>><br><br> The cross earring catches light as Ace tilts $aceHis head, studying you with that particular expression that means $aceHe is cataloging damage. Physical. Mental. The kind that doesn't show up on medical reports.<br><br> <<link '♡ [Obvious Crush] Your heart does that stupid thing where it forgets how to beat properly. Everyone knows but Ace. You\'re subtle as a brick through a window, but at least you\'re honest about it.'>> <<set $relationshipType to "obvious">> <<goto "CH1P3.2">> <</link>><br><br> <<link '♡ [Secret Crush] You\'ve gotten good at hiding it. The way your pulse jumps when $aceHe smiles. How you memorize every detail of $aceHis face while pretending to look at crime scene photos. Nobody knows. Or at least, nobody says anything. Plausible deniability is your only defense against feelings that could ruin everything.'>> <<set $relationshipType to "secret">> <<goto "CH1P3.2">> <</link>><br><br> <<link '[Best Friend] Ace is family. The kind you choose rather than the kind that abandons you. Anything else would complicate something that\'s already one of the only uncomplicated good things in your life. Romance is for people who haven\'t seen each other covered in blood and vomit and worse.'>> <<set $relationshipType to "besties">> <<goto "CH1P3.2">> <</link>><br><br>

"You look like something the harbor coughed up after a three-day bender," Ace says, but there's fondness beneath the observation. "When's the last time you ate actual food? Not some in and out bullshit."<br><br> Jake glances over from where he's loading equipment, catches sight of the CRD uniform, and suddenly finds the van's interior fascinating. Federal agents make everyone nervous, but especially people with gambling debts to the Triads. <br><br> Isla's expression goes carefully neutral. Abyssal bloodlines and federal agents have the kind of history that ends in containment facilities and "disappeared" reports. Sam's eyes shift to that particular shade of green that means they're memorizing everything for later use. Probably already composing the gossip they'll spread. Vex just waves enthusiastically before Isla grabs their arm.<br><br> "We'll get the rest loaded," Isla says, her tone making it clear this isn't a suggestion. "Take your time." The crew disperses with the efficiency of people who recognize when they're not wanted. Or when staying might mean answering questions about their own dealings with Sordia's criminal element. In seconds, you're alone with Ace.<br><br> Ace is part of the Containment Response Division or CRD for short. For the uninitiated, that's the federal department that handles crimes involving bloodlines and human crimes. The people who show up when supernatural abilities meet criminal intent.<br><br> Must be nice, having actual resources and government backing.<br><br> "That broadcast tonight... hell of a thing. I will definitely watch the recording later." $aceHeC playfully nudges your shoulder.<br><br> <ul> <li> <<link '♡ "Planning to watch me work all night? I do my best performances when someone\'s paying close attention."'>> <<set $aceChoice to "bold">> <<run setup.setTrait('bold', ($bold || 50) + 1)>> <<set $ace_romance += 1>> <<goto "CH1P3.3">> <</link>><br><br> </li> </ul> <ul> <li> <<link '♡ "You always watch my stuff this closely? Makes me wonder what else you pay attention to about me."'>> <<set $aceChoice to "shy">> <<run setup.setTrait('shy', ($shy || 50) + 1)>> <<set $ace_romance += 1>> <<set $acestat += 1>> <<goto "CH1P3.3">> <</link>><br><br> </li> </ul> <ul> <li> <<link '♡ "Good thing you like watching me work. I could use someone who appreciates my... technique."'>> <<set $aceChoice to "oblivious">> <<run setup.setTrait('oblivious', ($oblivious || 50) + 1)>> <<set $acestat += 1>> <<goto "CH1P3.3">> <</link>><br><br> </li> </ul> <ul> <li> <<link '♡ "Right, the cable incident. Nothing sexier than nearly face-planting during a murder confession, right?"'>> <<set $aceChoice to "awkward">> <<run setup.setTrait('awkward', ($awkward || 50) + 1)>> <<set $ace_romance += 1>> <<goto "CH1P3.3">> <</link>><br><br> </li> </ul> <ul> <li> <<link '♡ "At least you get front-row seats to all my disasters. Some people pay good money for that kind of entertainment."'>> <<set $aceChoice to "clumsy">> <<run setup.setTrait('clumsy', ($clumsy || 50) + 1)>> <<set $ace_romance += 1>> <<set $acestat += 1>> <<goto "CH1P3.3">> <</link>><br><br> </li> </ul> <ul> <li> <<link '"Someone had to call out the bullshit. Six-year-old girl dies, and half the city pretends it\'s just Tuesday in Sordia."'>> <<set $aceChoice to "supportive">> <<run setup.setTrait('soft', ($soft || 50) + 1)>> <<set $acestat += 1>> <<goto "CH1P3.3">> <</link>><br><br> </li> </ul> <ul> <li> <<link '"Just another dead kid for Sordia\'s collection. At least this time someone bothered to count her as human."'>> <<set $aceChoice to "cynical">> <<run setup.setTrait('hopeful', ($hopeful || 50) - 1)>> <<goto "CH1P3.3">> <</link>> </li> </ul>

<<if $aceChoice is "bold">>Ace grins, completely missing the innuendo. "Oh, I always pay attention when you're working. You get this intense look, like you're solving the world's problems one question at a time." $aceHeC pauses thoughtfully. "It's... captivating, actually. Really draws you in."<<elseif $aceChoice is "shy">>Ace's expression turns earnest, oblivious to the flirtation. "Of course I pay attention. You notice everything—the way people fidget when they lie, how their voices change." $aceHeC steps closer without realizing. "I like watching you think. Your face gets all serious and focused. It's... nice."<<elseif $aceChoice is "oblivious">>Ace nods enthusiastically, missing the double meaning entirely. "Your technique is something else. The way you corner suspects, make them comfortable before you go for the throat..." $aceHeC shakes $aceHis head admiringly. "I could watch you work all day. You're really good with your hands—I mean, with questions."<<elseif $aceChoice is "awkward">>Ace laughs, completely missing the sarcasm. "Are you kidding? You recovered like a pro. Most people would've been flustered, but you just kept going." $aceHeC grins warmly. "There's something attractive about someone who doesn't let anything stop them. Wait, I mean—that came out wrong."<<elseif $aceChoice is "clumsy">>Ace's eyes light up with genuine affection. "Best entertainment in the city. You make even the disasters look graceful somehow." $aceHeC bumps your shoulder playfully. "Plus I get to be there for all your best moments. It's like having a front-row seat to genius in action."<<elseif $aceChoice is "supportive">>Ace nods grimly. "Jane De Luca deserved better than being a statistic. What you did tonight?" $aceHeC meets your eyes. "That's why good journalists matter. Even in this hellhole."<<elseif $aceChoice is "cynical">>Ace's jaw tightens. "Christ, you're dark tonight. But you're not wrong." $aceHeC looks away briefly. "At least someone's keeping count. Most people stopped caring about the body count years ago."<</if>><br><br> "We make a good team," you say, watching federal agents catalog evidence you spent two months gathering. "Your CRD intel, my ability to manipulate grieving grandmothers into trusting me. Real heartwarming stuff."<br><br> <<if $aceGender is "male">> Andre snorts, crossing his arms in a way that makes his tactical vest strain. "You say manipulate, I say convinced. Maria De Luca knew exactly what she was doing when she came to you. She wanted blood, and you delivered." <br><br><<elseif $aceGender is "female">> Anaya rolls her eyes, shifting her weight in that way that means she's calculating sight lines and exit strategies even while talking. "You gave Maria De Luca what she needed—truth. The fact that it destroyed Grey is just karma working overtime." <</if>> "Speaking of Grey," you say, watching federal agents catalog evidence you spent two months gathering. "You know he's going to fight this. His lawyers are probably already drafting motions. Money like his doesn't go down easy. It learns to swim in the legal system."<br><br> Ace's expression darkens. "Yeah, we know. Klein, Hutchison, and Vasquez took his case. They got the Draken heir off that trafficking charge last year."<br><br> "The one where they found twelve bodies in his basement?"<br><br> "Allegedly found. According to Klein, it was performance art." Ace's disgust is palpable. "But we've got him on the financial transfers. The hotel records. Your broadcast made sure the whole city knows what he did. Hard to find an impartial jury now."<br><br> "Impartial juries are for people who can't afford partial judges," you point out. Orwell would be proud. Or spinning in his grave. Probably both.<br><br> <ul> <li> <<link '"Grey will walk. They always do. Different rules for different bank accounts. Justice is just a word poor people use when they can\'t afford lawyers."'>> <<set $aceChoice2 to "cynical">> <<run setup.setTrait('hopeful', ($hopeful || 50) - 1)>> <<set $acestat += 1>> <<goto "CH1P3.4">> <</link>><br><br> </li> </ul> <ul> <li> <<link '"What\'s your actual case against him? Because financial records can be disputed. Hotel records show affair, not murder. And his confession on my broadcast? Coercion under duress."'>> <<set $aceChoice2 to "methodical">> <<run setup.setTrait('intuitive', ($intuitive || 50) - 1)>> <<set $acestat += 2>> <<goto "CH1P3.4">> <</link>><br><br> </li> </ul> <ul> <li> <<link '"Maybe this time will be different. The evidence is solid. Public pressure is massive. Even bought judges have limits when dead children start trending on social media."'>> <<set $aceChoice2 to "hopeful">> <<run setup.setTrait('hopeful', ($hopeful || 50) + 1)>> <<set $acestat += 1>> <<goto "CH1P3.4">> <</link>> </li> </ul>

<<if $aceChoice2 is "cynical">>Ace's hands clench into fists. "Not this time. I won't let him walk. Jane De Luca was six years old, $firstName. Six." $aceHisC voice carries the weight of every case that slipped away. "Maybe you're right. Maybe justice is just a comfort word for people who can't accept reality. But sometimes we need those words to keep going." $aceHeC gestures at the crime scene around them. "We have to believe it matters, even when it doesn't. Otherwise, what's the point of any of this?"<<elseif $aceChoice2 is "methodical">>Ace nods slowly. "We've got more than that. Rio Montenegro. The Umbra assassin Grey hired." $aceHeC lowers $aceHis voice, glancing around. "He's in custody. Talking. Gave us everything - times, payments, instructions." $aceHeC hesitates, then trusts you with more. "Rio's not exactly elite tier. More like... discount supernatural muscle. Which makes me wonder why Grey went cheap for something this important, probably trying to save as much as he could."<<elseif $aceChoice2 is "hopeful">>Ace stares at you in genuine surprise. "$firstName the optimist? Should I check for head trauma?" But $aceHis teasing is warm. "You might be right though. Director Hawke herself is overseeing this case. She doesn't like child killers, and she really doesn't like rich ones who think money makes them untouchable." $aceHeC studies your face with something like fondness. "It's nice, hearing you hope for something. This city hasn't killed that part of you yet."<</if>> "What about Frost?" you ask, steering toward safer ground. "Any leads on where she might be hiding?"<br><br> <<if $aceGender is "male">> Andre runs a hand over his buzzcut, a gesture you recognize as frustration. "Few possibilities. Her family has property in Vermont, but that's too obvious. More likely she's using her Fae powers to alter her appearance, blend in somewhere public." <<elseif $aceGender is "female">> Anaya adjusts one of her braids, a nervous habit she's had since high school. "Few possibilities. Her family has property in Vermont, but that's too obvious. More likely she's using Fae connections to alter her appearance, blend in somewhere public." <</if>><br><br> "Fae bloodlines can literally become anyone else," you mutter. "She could be standing next to us and we wouldn't know."<br><br> "Not exactly," Ace corrects. "They can alter appearance, but they can't lie directly. Ask the right questions, and they have to dance around the truth. It's just finding them to ask those questions that's the problem."<br><br> <ul> <li> <<link '"So while you\'re playing procedural theater, Frost is probably three time zones away laughing at your warrant paperwork. Brilliant strategy."'>> <<set $aceChoice3 to "cutting">> <<run setup.setTrait('deflecting', ($deflecting || 50) - 1)>> <<goto "CH1P3.5">> <</link>><br><br> </li> </ul> <ul> <li> <<link '"Different tools, same goal. I corner them with questions they can\'t dodge, you corner them with badges they can\'t bribe. Usually works."'>> <<set $aceChoice3 to "analytical">> <<run setup.setTrait('relaxed', ($relaxed || 50) + 1)>> <<set $acestat += 2>> <<goto "CH1P3.5">> <</link>><br><br> </li> </ul> <ul> <li> <<link '"Your rules are why killers walk free. Frost is running because she knows the system protects people with money and connections. Prove me wrong."'>> <<set $aceChoice3 to "blunt">> <<run setup.setTrait('calculated', ($calculated || 50) - 1)>> <<set $acestat -= 1>> <<goto "CH1P3.5">> <</link>> </li> </ul>

<<if $aceChoice3 is "cutting">>Ace's jaw tightens, but there's no real anger. Just tired frustration. "You think I enjoy the paperwork? Think I wouldn't rather drag her out of whatever five-star hideout she's using?" $aceHeC runs a hand through $aceHis hair. "But without warrants, without procedure, nothing sticks. You get to drop truth bombs and walk away. I have to build cases that survive lawyers like Klein." $aceHeC meets your eyes. "Jane De Luca deserves justice that actually puts someone in prison, not just good TV ratings."<<elseif $aceChoice3 is "analytical">>Ace nods approvingly. "Exactly. Your broadcast flushed her out faster than six months of surveillance would have." $aceHeC pauses, then adds., "You're really good at making people uncomfortable, you know that? The way you ask questions, it's like watching someone pick locks with words." $aceHeC doesn't seem to realize how that sounds. "Frost won't see you coming the same way she sees us coming."<<elseif $aceChoice3 is "blunt">>Ace goes quiet for a long moment. When $aceHe speaks, there's raw honesty in $aceHis voice. "You're not wrong. The system is fucked. Rich killers buy their way out while poor kids end up in body bags." $aceHeC looks away. "But those rules? They're the only thing standing between justice and revenge. Some days I can't tell the difference anymore." $aceHeC meets your eyes again. "Maybe that's why I need someone like you around. To remind me when the rules are protecting the wrong people."<</if>><br><br> The October wind picks up, carrying the smell of rain and decay. Ace shivers slightly, the tactical gear is built for protection, not warmth.<br><br> "Listen," Ace says, checking $aceHis phone. "I should tell you, there's talk at CRD. About you."<br><br> Your try not to grimace. "Good talk or 'accidentally fall down some stairs' talk?"<br><br> "Both. Some people think you're a hero for exposing Grey. Others think you're a liability who doesn't know when to stop digging." Ace meets your eyes directly. "Director Hawke wants to bring you in as a consultant. Official capacity."<br><br> The offer hangs between you like a loaded gun. Working with CRD officially means protection, resources, inside information. It also means rules, oversight, and painting an even bigger target on your back.<br><br> "Think about it," Ace says before you can respond. "It's not an offer she makes lightly."<br><br> A phone buzzes. Ace pulls out $aceHis CRD-issued device, frowning at the screen.<br><br> "Shit. I’ve gotta go." $aceHeC looks torn between duty and whatever $aceHe sees in your exhausted face. "Listen, lunch tomorrow? Ma and Pa’s restaurant, usual table?"<br><br> The invitation is routine. You've been having lunch at the Reid family restaurant since high school, when Ace's mom decided you needed more nutritious food and made it her personal mission to fix that.<br><br> <ul> <li> <<link '♡"A date with the Reid family? Better than most actual dates I\'ve had. At least your mom won\'t try to sell me information."'>> <<set $aceChoice5 to "bold">> <<run setup.setTrait('bold', ($bold || 50) + 1)>> <<set $ace_romance += 1>> <<set $acestat += 1>> <<goto "CH1P3.6">> <</link>><br><br> </li> </ul> <ul> <li> <<link '♡"Your family lunch invitations are the only appointments I never want to cancel. Says something about my social life, probably."'>> <<set $aceChoice5 to "shy">> <<run setup.setTrait('shy', ($shy || 50) + 1)>> <<set $ace_romance += 1>> <<set $acestat += 1>> <<goto "CH1P3.6">> <</link>><br><br> </li> </ul> <ul> <li> <<link '♡"Your mom\'s cooking beats takeout and loneliness. Plus Imani always has better answers to my questions than most of my sources."'>> <<set $aceChoice5 to "oblivious">> <<run setup.setTrait('oblivious', ($oblivious || 50) + 1)>> <<set $acestat += 1>> <<goto "CH1P3.6">> <</link>><br><br> </li> </ul> <ul> <li> <<link '♡"Should I pretend I haven\'t been looking forward to this all week? Because that would be lying."'>> <<set $aceChoice5 to "awkward">> <<run setup.setTrait('awkward', ($awkward || 50) + 1)>> <<set $ace_romance += 1>> <<set $acestat += 1>> <<goto "CH1P3.6">> <</link>><br><br> </li> </ul> <ul> <li> <<link '♡"Perfect. I\'ll try not to interrogate your family about their personal lives this time. Old habits and all that."'>> <<set $aceChoice5 to "clumsy">> <<run setup.setTrait('clumsy', ($clumsy || 50) + 1)>> <<set $ace_romance += 1>> <<set $acestat += 1>> <<goto "CH1P3.6">> <</link>><br><br> </li> </ul> <ul> <li> <<link '♡"Your mother\'s the closest thing I have to family therapy. Cheaper and better food than actual therapy."'>> <<set $aceChoice5 to "grateful">> <<run setup.setTrait('soft', ($soft || 50) + 1)>> <<set $acestat += 1>> <<goto "CH1P3.6">> <</link>><br><br> </li> </ul> <ul> <li> <<link '"Might be the only thing that convinces me the world isn\'t completely fucked. Your family\'s proof good people still exist."'>> <<set $aceChoice5 to "tired">> <<run setup.setTrait('soft', ($soft || 50) + 1)>> <<set $acestat += 1>> <<goto "CH1P3.6">> <</link>><br><br> </li> </ul> <ul> <li> <<link '"I need food that isn\'t from a vending machine. Your family happens to provide that."'>> <<set $aceChoice5 to "hardened">> <<run setup.setTrait('hardened', ($hardened || 50) + 1)>> <<set $acestat += 1>> <<goto "CH1P3.6">> <</link>> </li> </ul>

The van pulls away from Grey's mansion.<br><br> Jake's driving. Sam murmurs into their phone, already spinning the broadcast into tomorrow's headlines. Isla is stealing glances at her phone. Vex hums something tuneless and wrong.<br><br> You tune them out. Let their voices blur into white noise as you press your forehead against the cold glass of the window.<br><br> Sordia spreads before you like a wound that learned to breathe.<br><br> The upper district gleams with lies polished to mirror brightness. Glass towers that scrape the sky, each one a monument to someone's greed. The Han Building dominates the skyline—a red, goldish dragon wrapped around black glass, subtle as a gunshot.<br><br> "You okay back there?" Jake asks, catching your eye in the rearview mirror.<br><br> "I'm admiring the view," you mutter. Oscar Wilde said we are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars. In Sordia, even the stars are just distant explosions. Dead light from dead things, arriving too late to matter.<br><br> The van drives through the city's layers. Each one darker than the last. Each one more honest about what this place really is.<br><br> You were born in 2018, right when this city was tearing itself apart and trying to rebuild as something new. You don't remember New York—that died six years before you existed. Don't remember Arcadia either, that dream collapsed into Sordia while you were still learning to walk.<br><br> All you've ever known is this. The normalized dysfunction. The systematic inequality that everyone pretends is just market forces. The way supernatural abilities became another form of privilege, like being born rich or connected.<br><br> Your earliest memories are of integration already being normal. Kids in your kindergarten class who could breathe fire. Teachers who had to use special equipment to contain Primordial tantrums. The way everyone just accepted that some people were more equal than others, depending on what ran through their veins.<br><br> The Incident—that's what they call it in the histories you studied. December 31st, 2012. Styx, an extremist cult with a god complex, planted their “blood bomb” right in Times Square. Midnight hits, and forty-seven Bloodborn hostages are forced to turn into their forms on live TV. Fire, claws, wings you name it while fourteen million people watched.<br><br> By morning, the clips were everywhere. Shaky phone cams. Screams in the background. People asking if it was real. Two days later, markets were bleeding, churches were splitting, and people demanding answers that the government weren’t ready to give. <br><br> That was the moment the world stopped pretending the supernatural was just stories.<br><br> Centuries of hiding, of careful integration, of passing as human. Gone in seventy-two hours of one single live stream and viral videos. Turns out everyone knew someone who was a little different. A little strange. A little too good at specific things.<br><br> The war started two weeks later.<br><br> By the time you were old enough to understand what had happened, it was already ancient history. The Blood Wars that followed—2013 to 2016—were just scary stories adults told. Warnings about what happens when species try to extinct each other in the streets.<br><br> They call it the Blood Revolt in polite company. Like it was organized. Like there were leaders and demands and negotiation tables. But the older generation remembers what it really was... a bloodbath. Trying to see which race could erease each other first.<br><br> Humans had numbers. Technology. Fear that made them vicious.<br><br> Bloodlines had power. Abilities that made conventional warfare obsolete.<br><br> The military tried to maintain order. Then they discovered half their ranks were bloodlines who'd been hiding in plain sight. Brother turned on brother. Lovers discovered they'd been sleeping with the enemy. Children were tested, sorted, separated.<br><br> New York burned for six months straight. Not metaphorically. Literally. Infernal bloodlines turned Manhattan into their personal playground, contracts and fire painting the skyline red. The Draegons claimed Central Park, declaring it sovereign territory. The Abyssal bloodlines took the harbors, sinking any ship that tried to leave.<br><br> The war officially ended with the Peace Accords of 2016. Bloodlines could live openly but had to register. Humans couldn't discriminate but could "protect themselves." <br><br> Everyone pretended it was peace.<br><br> New York died that day. In its place, they renamed the city: Arcadia.<br><br> A new beginning, the politicians promised. A paradise where all species could thrive.<br><br> The name lasted six months. Long enough for reality to sink in. For the body count to stabilize at merely horrific instead of apocalyptic. For everyone to realize paradise was just another word for hell with better marketing.<br><br> Someone spray-painted "Sordia" on the new city hall, coming from the Latin word of "sordid" that stuck like blood on concrete. The city of filth. Of compromised morals and broken promises. Of coexistence through mutual assured destruction.<br><br> They tried to change it back. Fought for "Arcadia" again. But Sordia had already infected the collective unconscious minds of the people. It was what the city was. What it had always been, even before the masks came off.<br><br> Now, twenty years later, the war continues in boardrooms and back alleys. Humans vs. humans. Bloodlines vs. bloodlines. And humans vs. bloodlines. Reality looks even harsher. It’s the cursed number 23. Only 23 families—20 Bloodline families and 3 human families—rule over Sordia but that’s enough to keep everything under their control.<br><br> And the eleven bloodlines each claimed their piece of this city:<br><br> Draegons like the Hans control finance, their reptilian features and breath weapons making them living symbols of power. Different types based on their scales—red dragons breathing fire, blue ones controlling lightning. They hoard wealth like their mythological ancestors, but now it's in hedge funds and real estate instead of caves.<br><br> Umbra are the shadows you never see coming. Most can barely turn invisible in dim light, maybe whisper through shadows. But the seven—the only ones powerful enough to matter—can become living darkness. Phase through walls. Control entire neighborhoods of shadow.<br><br> Seraph bloodlines barely exist anymore in Sordia. The healing angels everyone wanted to harvest. Their blood cures diseases some say. Their organs reverse aging others argue. Officially there's one in Sordia—a thirteen-year-old kid under federal protection. Unofficially, maybe more but they hide so deep no one can say for sure. During the wars, they tried to help everyone. That painted targets on their backs that never washed off.<br><br> Infernal bloodlines run the system with their contract magic and fire control. Every major law firm has one on retainer. When they make deals, the contracts burn themselves into your soul. Literally. Break them and you burn from the inside out. They smell like sulfur and expensive cologne.<br><br> Fae own entertainment and can't lie directly, but they've turned implication into high art. They shapeshift, charm, and manipulate emotions through supernatural charisma. The casinos, theaters, and high-end brothels where species mixing happens behind closed doors, all Fae territory. Their glamour makes lies more profitable than truth ever was.<br><br> Chronos bloodlines see time wrong. Past, present, future all bleeding together. Most go insane. The functional ones become perfect analysts or perfect asylum patients. Vex is one of the lucky ones who can sort of navigate the temporal soup their brain serves them daily.<br><br> Manitou speak to the dead and it shows. Cold skin, sunken eyes, that thousand-yard stare of someone who's seen too many ghosts. They run the morgues and funeral homes, conduct séances for grieving families, and occasionally raise the recently dead for one last goodbye. The dead talk to them constantly. No wonder most look exhausted.<br><br> Abyssal bloodlines control water and everything in it. They run the docks, taking their cut of everything that enters Sordia by sea. Webbed fingers, sometimes blue-tinged skin, the ability to breathe underwater indefinitely. During storms, they're the only ones who seem truly happy.<br><br> Ifrit are wish-granters bound by their own promises. They become negotiators, diplomats, people who make impossible deals happen. They can control wind, shapeshift, bind agreements with supernatural force. But every wish has a price, usually one you don't see until it's too late.<br><br> Chimaera are the broken ones. Mixed bloodlines that shouldn't exist, their genetics trying to tear themselves apart. The government makes them wear suppression collars, blinking red lights that mark them as walking disasters. Most die young. The ones who survive are either incredibly lucky or incredibly dangerous.<br><br> Primordials are forces of nature barely contained in human form. Earth, Fire, Water, Air, each one a walking natural disaster. When they lose control, neighborhoods could disappear. The city keeps exact counts, tracks them like weapons of mass destruction. When they fight, the city holds its breath and hopes the damage stays under eight figures.<br><br> You watch it all blur past. This city built on bones and betrayal. Where everyone lies because truth is a luxury no one can afford. Where justice is a word people use when they mean revenge, and law is what you call it when the powerful want to stay that way.<br><br> The middle districts slide by where integration actually worked, sort of. Mixed families figuring out what happens when your kid might breathe fire or see ghosts or turn invisible during tantrums. Community centers offering "genetic counseling for mixed heritage" and "ability management for adolescents." Success that created problems nobody planned for.<br><br> "Still with us?" Isla asks, turning in her seat. "You've been staring out that window for twenty minutes."<br><br> "Thinking," you reply.<br><br> "About?"<br><br> About this city that eats its young and calls it natural selection. But you don’t answer her, just shrug.<br><br> Channel 6's building squats in the distance. Another few minutes and you'll be back at your desk. But something gnaws at you. The question that's driven you since you first picked up a recorder and asked someone why they were lying.<br><br> Why do you do this? Why do you bleed yourself dry for stories that changes mostly nothing? Why do you keep dragging truth into the light when Sordia prefers its darkness?<br><br> Why do you expose the truth?<br><br> <ul> <li> <<link '[Justice] Because someone has to. Every story matters, every truth deserves to be told, even if nothing changes. Maybe especially then.'>> <<set $motivationChoice to "justice">> <<set $forjustice += 1>> <<set $moral += 1>> <<run setup.setTrait('hopeful', ($hopeful || 50) + 1)>> <<run setup.setTrait('soft', ($soft || 50) + 1)>> <<goto "CH1P4.1">> <</link>><br><br> </li> </ul> <ul> <li> <<link '[Self-Satisfaction] Because you\'re good at it. Because there\'s nothing quite like watching someone\'s face when they realize you know all their secrets. When they understand that you\'re the one with power now.'>> <<set $motivationChoice to "satisfaction">> <<set $forself += 1>> <<set $corrupt += 1>> <<run setup.setTrait('calculated', ($calculated || 50) + 1)>> <<run setup.setTrait('hopeful', ($hopeful || 50) - 1)>> <<goto "CH1P4.1">> <</link>><br><br> </li> </ul> <ul> <li> <<link '[Revenge] Because they deserve it. Every single one of them. The ones who pretend this city works. Who profit from its rot. Who step on people like you because they can.'>> <<set $motivationChoice to "revenge">> <<set $forrevenge += 1>> <<set $corrupt += 1>> <<run setup.setTrait('confrontational', ($relaxed || 50) - 1)>> <<run setup.setTrait('hopeful', ($hopeful || 50) - 1)>> <<goto "CH1P4.1">> <</link>> </li> </ul>

<<if $motivationChoice is "justice">>You became a journalist because secrets make you physically ill. That itch in your <<if $handItch is 'left'>>left<<elseif $handItch is 'right' >>right<</if>> hand that won't stop until you've dragged every lie into daylight. In a city that runs on deception, you're an antibody. A fever. Something that shouldn't exist but does, making the comfortable uncomfortable one expose at a time. You tell yourself it's noble. Some days you even believe it.<<elseif $motivationChoice is "satisfaction">>You became a journalist for the high. The rush of cornering prey that thought it was predator. Truth isn't noble, it's a weapon, and you've gotten very good at using it. Every source you burn, every reputation you destroy, every secret you expose feeds something hungry inside you. The same hunger that makes Draegons hoard gold and Umbra collect shadows. Yours just happens to feed mostly on other people's destruction.<<elseif $motivationChoice is "revenge">>You became a journalist to hurt them back. All of them. Every politician who sold out their constituents. Every CEO who got rich on supernatural advantages. Every powerful piece of shit who thinks they're untouchable. The truth is your weapon, and you're very good at making it hurt. They created you through their cruelty, and now you're their consequence. Sordia taught you that everything is transactional. This is yours, their pain for your satisfaction.<</if>><br><br> It’s a hard life in Sordia after all.<br><br> Everyone has their way of coping with it. Jake's got his cigarettes and his gambling. Isla has her daughter, something pure to protect in all this filth. Sam has their games, their manipulations that make them feel in control. Vex has... whatever temporal dissociation provides, living in three timelines at once so none of them hurt as much.<br><br> And you? You've got your own poison. The thing that keeps you functional when functional is just another word for "not quite dead yet."<br><br> What's your vice?<br><br> <<link '[Smoking] The cigarette pack in your pocket weighs more than your press credentials. Always has.'>> <<set $vice to "smoking">> <<set $addiction += 1>> <<run setup.setTrait('calculated', ($calculated || 50) + 1)>> <<goto "CH1P4.2">> <</link>><br><br> <<link '[Alcohol] The flask in your jacket isn\'t for show. Whiskey, usually. Sometimes whatever burns enough to make you forget for a few hours.'>> <<set $vice to "alcohol">> <<set $addiction += 1>> <<set $isolation += 1>> <<run setup.setTrait('soft', ($soft || 50) - 1)>> <<goto "CH1P4.2">> <</link>><br><br> <<link '[Gambling] Your bookie knows you better than your own uncle. Cards, races, which politician gets arrested next, everything\'s a bet when you need the adrenaline spike of maybe losing everything.'>> <<set $vice to "gambling">> <<set $recklessness += 1>> <<set $corrupt += 1>> <<run setup.setTrait('calculated', ($calculated || 50) - 1)>> <<goto "CH1P4.2">> <</link>><br><br> <<link '[Obsessive Work] Sleep is for people who can close their eyes without seeing bodies. You\'ve got seventeen active investigations, forty-three pending leads, and a contact list that reads like Sordia\'s Most Wanted.'>> <<set $vice to "work">> <<set $isolation += 1>> <<set $moral += 1>> <<run setup.setTrait('intuitive', ($intuitive || 50) - 1)>> <<set $observation += 1>> <<goto "CH1P4.2">> <</link>><br><br> <<link '[Reckless Risk-Taking] You don\'t have a death wish. Death wishes are for people who want to die. You just need to remember you\'re alive.'>> <<set $vice to "risk">> <<set $recklessness += 2>> <<run setup.setTrait('calculated', ($calculated || 50) - 2)>> <<run setup.setTrait('confrontational', ($relaxed || 50) - 1)>> <<goto "CH1P4.2">> <</link>><br><br> <<link '[Hookups] Bodies are easier than hearts. Names you forget before morning are safer than ones that might matter.'>> <<set $vice to "hookups">> <<set $isolation += 2>> <<set $corrupt += 1>> <<run setup.setTrait('deflecting', ($deflecting || 50) - 1)>> <<goto "CH1P4.2">> <</link>>

<<if $vice is "smoking">>Your fingers itch for nicotine the way your <<if $handItch is 'left'>>left<<elseif $handItch is 'right' >>right<</if>> hand itches for truth. First one at fourteen, stolen from Ben's pack when he thought you were asleep. Now it's ritual. Light up before an interview. After a broadcast. Hemingway said "write drunk, edit sober," but you've found "investigate anxious, write through smoke" works just as well. The cancer won't get you. Something faster will.<<elseif $vice is "alcohol">>You're not an alcoholic, that would require admitting you have a problem instead of a solution. Started the day you covered your first massacre. Ended never. Fitzgerald drowned his genius in gin. You're drowning something else. Something that might have been conscience once.<<elseif $vice is "gambling">>The debt isn't the point. The risk is. That moment when everything hangs on a card flip, when control is just an illusion you're paying interest on. Dostoyevsky wrote "The Gambler" because he knew, sometimes you need to lose everything to remember you had nothing worth keeping.<<elseif $vice is "work">>When one story ends, three more begin. Your apartment is just where you keep your notes. Your life is the work. Kafka died editing. You'll die investigating. There are worse ways to go than drowning in truth.<<elseif $vice is "risk">>Chasing sources into dangerous territory. Confronting Bloodborns without backup. Playing chicken with people who don't brake. Your scars are a roadmap of bad decisions that somehow didn't kill you. Yet. Thompson said "faster, faster, until the thrill of speed overcomes the fear of death." He was right about everything except the overcoming part.<<elseif $vice is "hookups">>You've got a collection of people across Sordia who know your body but not your last name. Who you can call when the walls close in and you need to feel something that isn't anger or emptiness. Connection without connection. Touch without trust. Anaïs Nin wrote about eroticism as escape. She didn't mention it's also armor.<</if>><br><br> The van hits a pothole, jolting you from your thoughts. You're in the Industrial Corridor now, where supernatural abilities became blue-collar tools. Graffiti covers every surface—gang tags, bloodline supremacist symbols, the occasional attempt at art that gets painted over within days.<br><br> Warehouses employing Chimaera-enhanced workers for heavy lifting. Distribution centers using Ifrit drivers who navigate perfectly in any weather. The integration that actually worked, until human workers realized they couldn't compete with someone who could lift three tons or see in complete darkness.<br><br> A group of Chimaera kids huddle in a doorway, their suppression collars blinking red in the darkness. One looks up as the van passes, and you see scales on one side of her face, fur on the other. Her eyes are different colors. One human brown, one reptilian gold. She can't be more than twelve.<br><br> In ten years, she'll probably be dead. Genetic instability. Organ failure. Or just the wrong place at the wrong time in a city that treats her existence as a mistake.<br><br> "Shit," Jake mutters, swerving around a burning trash can. "City gets worse every day."<br><br> "No," you correct him. "It's exactly the same. We just get better at seeing it."<br><br> Sam turns from the front seat, those color-shifting eyes studying you with interest. "Such pessimism. And here I thought exposing Grey would have you celebrating."<br><br> "Grey's just a symptom," you reply. "Cut off one head, ten more grow back. All with better lawyers."<br><br> "Then why bother?" Sam asks, and for once, the question seems genuine rather than manipulative.<br><br> You think about Jane De Luca's stuffed dinosaur. About Maria asking you to find her daughter's killer. About Ace saying the work matters, even when it doesn't seem to.<br><br> "Because someone has to," you finally answer. "Because if we stop trying, they win by default."<br><br> "They win anyway," Jake points out, lighting another cigarette with shaking hands.<br><br> "Maybe. But at least we make them work for it."<br><br> The van descends further. Past the pretense of order into Sordia's true face. Where humans and bloodlines mix in ways the Accords pretend don't happen. Where species supremacist groups plot their next atrocity.<br><br> You can see Willowbrook Medical Research Facility in the distance. Officially studying genetic therapies for integration-related health issues. Unofficially, everyone knows they're doing something darker in those underground levels.<br><br> Your sister disappeared into these streets three years ago. Just walked out on you and never came back. You've looked, but Umbra who don't want to be found stay that way. Sometimes you wonder if she's dead and you're just too stubborn to accept it.<br><br> The Channel 6 building rises from the murk like a middle finger to good taste. Concrete and glass held together by spite and advertising revenue. Your home away from home. The place where you turn Sordia's pain into content for people to consume between commercials.<br><br> "Home sweet home," Vex chirps, bouncing in their seat.<br><br> This city. This fucking city that took everything from you and gave you nothing back but the ability to document other people's tragedies. That turned you into someone who weaponizes truth because lies are the only currency that spends.<br><br> You love it.<br><br> You hate it.<br><br> But it’s still home.<br><br> The van door slams shut behind you. Another night in Sordia ends. Another one begins.<br><br> The city that eats its young is still hungry.<br><br> And so are you.<br><br> [[Continue|CH1P5]]

The Channel 6 newsroom buzzes with post-broadcast energy. Phones ringing. <br><br> Keyboards clattering. The organized chaos of journalism pretending it matters in a city that forgets everything by morning.<br><br> Jake disappears toward the editing bay without a word, probably to hide the tremor in his hands with busywork. Isla heads for the sound booth, phone already pressed to her ear, probably checking on her daughter again. Sam glides toward their desk, fingers flying across their tablet before they even sit down. Vex bounces off somewhere, muttering about "time getting thick again" and "the door that keeps knocking."<br><br> You're halfway to your own desk when the intercom crackles.<br><br> "$firstName. My office. Now."<br><br> Nasir's voice. Not a request.<br><br> Your <<if $handItch is 'left'>>left<<elseif $handItch is 'right' >>right<</if>> hand starts that familiar itch. The one that says something's coming that you won't like.<br><br> The elevator ride to the top floor takes forty-seven seconds. You've counted. Every time. Like knowing the exact duration of your ascent to Nasir's domain gives you some kind of control. Knowledge is power, Bacon wrote. In Sordia, knowledge is just knowing how fucked you are with precision.<br><br> The executive floor reeks of money trying to hide its source. Marble that costs more than most people's homes. Art that's probably stolen but definitely expensive. The kind of calculated opulence that says "I'm successful" while carefully not saying how.<br><br> Nasir's office door is solid mahogany. No nameplate. If you don't know whose office this is, you don't belong here.<br><br> You knock once. Sharp.<br><br> "Enter."<br><br> The office hits you like a fever dream.<br><br> Floor-to-ceiling windows frame Sordia's skyline, the city spreading like a infected wound toward every horizon. The glass is one-way, reinforced, probably bulletproof. Nasir can see everything. No one can see him.<br><br> Persian rugs layer the floor, genuine, hand-woven. They muffle footsteps, making every approach feel like sneaking even when you're invited. The patterns are geometric, hypnotic, designed to draw the eye down when you should be watching what's in front of you.<br><br> His desk isn't a desk, it's a statement. Brazilian rosewood, extinct in the wild, polished to mirror brightness. The surface is almost empty. Just a family photo of his wife and kids, a gold-inlaid pen that costs more than your monthly salary and a single manila folder that might as well have "YOUR NEXT PROBLEM" stamped across it.<br><br> Behind the desk, shelves of first editions. Actual books, not digital displays. Leather-bound spines with gold lettering in languages you recognize and several you don't. <br><br> Persian. Arabic. Props or genuine interest? With Nasir, the performance and the person are inseparable.<br><br> The air smells like sandalwood and something else. Ozone, maybe. The kind of charge that builds before lightning strikes. Ifrit bloodlines can manipulate air, and Nasir's office always feels like breathing before a storm.<br><br> He doesn't look up when you enter. Just continues writing with that obscene pen, his hand moving in smooth, practiced strokes. The dark hair that should be still shifts slightly, responding to air currents that don't exist. Or shouldn't exist.<br><br> "Sit," he says without looking up.<br><br> Two chairs face his desk. Both leather. Both designed to make you sink just enough to feel vulnerable. You choose the left one because you always choose the left one, and Nasir notices patterns like other people notice blood.<br><br> He finishes writing. Sets down the pen down. Then those dark eyes find yours, and you remember why Nasir Khan makes your survival instincts scream even though he's never raised a hand to anyone in your presence.<br><br> "$firstName." He says your name like he's tasting it. Testing its weight. "That was quite a broadcast tonight."<br><br> <ul> <li> <<link '"Just another day in paradise. Nothing says \'quality journalism\' like watching senators get dragged away in federal custody on live TV."'>> <<set $nasirChoice1 to "deflecting">> <<run setup.setTrait('deflecting', ($deflecting || 50) + 1)>> <<goto "CH1P5.1">> <</link>><br><br> </li> </ul> <ul> <li> <<link '"Grey\'s in custody, Frost is exposed, and the public knows what happened. Mission accomplished. What\'s next on your agenda?"'>> <<set $nasirChoice1 to "methodical">> <<run setup.setTrait('intuitive', ($intuitive || 50) - 1)>> <<set $nasirstat += 1>> <<goto "CH1P5.1">> <</link>><br><br> </li> </ul> <ul> <li> <<link '"A six-year-old girl got murdered and everyone was content to sweep it under expensive rugs. Someone had to give a damn."'>> <<set $nasirChoice1 to "blunt">> <<run setup.setTrait('soft', ($soft || 50) + 1)>> <<set $moral += 1>> <<goto "CH1P5.1">> <</link>> </li> </ul>

<<if $nasirChoice1 is "deflecting">>Nasir's smile sharpens, genuine amusement flickering in his dark eyes. "Your talent for understatement never fails to entertain me. Though watching a senator's downfall is hardly routine television." He leans forward, fingers steepled. "The visuals alone will play for weeks - you standing there while federal agents swarm around Grey. Excellent theater." His tone shifts, business-like. "Speaking of which, your next case awaits."<<elseif $nasirChoice1 is "methodical">>Nasir nods approvingly. "Efficient. Direct. You turned months of investigation into ten minutes that destroyed a senator and implicated Sordia's social elite." Those piercing eyes study you like you're a particularly interesting specimen. "The CRD is already using your footage in their case files. You've made yourself indispensable to this story." He taps the folder. "Which brings me to your next project. Someone else needs your particular talent for finding buried bodies."<<elseif $nasirChoice1 is "blunt">>Nasir pauses, something unreadable crossing his features. "How refreshingly honest. Most people dress up their motivations in prettier language." He rises, moving to the window with fluid grace. "You know what I find fascinating about you? You still believe someone gives a damn about dead children in this city, while simultaneously perfecting the art of public destruction." He turns back, silhouetted against Sordia's neon glow. "That contradiction makes for compelling television. Speaking of which..."<</if>><br><br> He pushes the manila folder closer.<br><br> "Open it."<br><br> Inside: A photograph of a middle aged woman probably in her late 50s who looks like money learned to walk. Marguerite Asher. Blonde hair that probably costs more to maintain than your rent. Cheekbones that could cut glass. Blue eyes with those telltale star-flecks that mark her as part of the Chronos Bloodline.<br><br> You recognize her immediately. "Marguerite Asher," Nasir says, returning to his chair. "Of the Asher family. Disappeared two weeks ago."<br><br> You know about the Asher family. They’re part of the 23 families who unofficially rule Sordia. And you’ve written quite a mean expose about them a year ago. You already know where this is going.<br><br> Your jaw tightens. "I'm hunting Lillian Frost."<br><br> "You were hunting Lillian Frost," Nasir corrects. "Now you're investigating the disappearance of one of the most powerful women in Sordia."<br><br> <ul> <li> <<link '"Fuck that. Frost murdered a child. She\'s still out there. That\'s the story that matters."'>> <<set $nasirChoice2 to "confrontational">> <<run setup.setTrait('relaxed', ($relaxed || 50) - 1)>> <<set $nasirstat -= 1>> <<set $moral += 1>> <<goto "CH1P5.2">> <</link>><br><br> </li> </ul> <ul> <li> <<link '"I\'ll do both. Hunt Frost while investigating Asher. Sleep is for people without obsessive work disorders anyway."'>> <<set $nasirChoice2 to "reckless">> <<run setup.setTrait('calculated', ($calculated || 50) - 1)>> <<set $recklessness += 1>> <<goto "CH1P5.2">> <</link>><br><br> </li> </ul> <ul> <li> <<link '" What\'s your real interest in Marguerite Asher? This isn\'t about ratings."'>> <<set $nasirChoice2 to "calculated">> <<run setup.setTrait('intuitive', ($intuitive || 50) - 1)>> <<set $observation += 1>> <<set $nasirstat += 1>> <<goto "CH1P5.2">> <</link>><br><br> </li> </ul> <ul> <li> <<link '"Another rich person goes missing, another rich family wants their toy back. Why should I care?"'>> <<set $nasirChoice2 to "cynical">> <<run setup.setTrait('hopeful', ($hopeful || 50) - 1)>> <<set $corrupt += 1>> <<goto "CH1P5.2">> <</link>> </li> </ul>

<<if $nasirChoice2 is "confrontational">>Nasir's eyes narrow. The air in the room thickens, becomes harder to breathe. Classic Ifrit pressure manipulation. "The story that matters," he says slowly, "is the one I tell you to pursue. Frost is a murderer, yes. She'll be caught eventually. But Marguerite Asher is the more important case now. When someone like that disappears, the entire city's power structure shifts." He leans forward. "Her family controls thirty percent of Sordia's predictive markets. Without her, those markets are in chaos. That's billions of dollars, $firstName. That's the kind of story that gets federal attention. Gets us federal protection. So yes, fuck your moral crusade. This is about survival." The threat is implicit but clear.<<elseif $nasirChoice2 is "reckless">>Nasir actually laughs. Not his usual controlled chuckle, but genuine amusement. "Ambitious. Stupid, but ambitious." He rises again, moving around the desk to stand uncomfortably close. You can smell his cologne, sandalwood and jasmine, probably costs more than your camera equipment. "You'll burn out in a week trying to juggle both. But..." He pauses, and you feel air currents shift around you, playful, threatening. "If you can deliver on Asher, I'll give you resources for Frost. Off the books. My personal contacts. Do we have a deal?" His hand extends. You know better than to shake hands with an Ifrit, their contracts are binding in ways that transcend legal. But sometimes you have to dance with the devil who signs your paychecks.<<elseif $nasirChoice2 is "calculated">>Nasir's expression shifts, becomes something more genuine and therefore more dangerous. "Clever. You've learned to see the angles." He returns to his chair, fingers drumming a pattern on the Brazilian rosewood. "Marguerite's daughter, Evelyn, is a friend. We share certain... interests. She asked for my help. I'm offering yours." The admission costs him something. Nasir doesn't usually reveal personal connections. "But you're right. It's not just about ratings. The Asher family has something I need. Finding Marguerite might answer questions I've been looking for." The honesty is more unsettling than his usual manipulation.<<elseif $nasirChoice2 is "cynical">>Nasir's smile turns sharp. "Because I sign your paychecks. Because without this job, you're just another angry voice screaming into Sordia's void." He opens a drawer, pulls out a tablet, slides it across. On screen: your bank balance, your debts, your financial entire life laid bare. "You owe forty-seven thousand in student loans. Your apartment costs three thousand a month. Your investigation into Grey cost you another twelve thousand in bribes and information. You need this job, $firstName. More importantly, you need me." He lets that sink in.<</if>><br><br> Yeah shit, you have no choice.<br><br> You take the Asher file, feeling its weight. Another missing person. Another powerful family. Another story that will probably end in bodies.<br><br> "When do I start?" you ask, already knowing the answer.<br><br> "Next week. After you've slept, showered, and remembered how to look like a professional instead of someone who's been living on nothing but <<if $drinkChoice is 'coffee'>>coffee<<elseif $drinkChoicer is 'tea'>>tea<<<<elseif $drinkChoice is 'energy drink'>>energy drink <<elseif $drinkChoice is 'alcohol'>>alcohol<</if>> and obsession for two months." Nasir looks down on his paperwork in front of him again, indicating the meeting is over. <br><br> "$firstName? Don't disappoint me. I've invested too much in you to watch you implode now."<br><br> The words trigger a memory. Two years ago. When everything changed.<br><br> <<if $background is "investigative">> You'd just published the Riverside Murders investigation. Seven dead sex workers, all from a Bloodline, all killed with silver-laced weapons. The police had written them off as territorial disputes. You'd proven it was a serial killer. Specifically, Detective Raymond Cross, who'd been hunting Bloodline prostitutes for sport.<br><br> The story destroyed Cross but also destroyed you. Death threats. Lawsuits. Your editor at the Tribune fired you for "reckless journalism that endangered the paper's reputation."<br><br> Blacklisted from every major outlet in Sordia.<br><br> Then Nasir called.<br><br> "I read your piece on Cross," he'd said, sitting in this same office, behind this same desk. "Meticulous. Thorough. Completely without mercy. I need someone like that."<br><br> "I'm unemployable," you'd pointed out.<br><br> "By cowards," he'd corrected. "I'm not a coward. I'm offering you a job, a platform, and protection. In exchange, you work for me. You investigate what I tell you to investigate. You publish what I approve for publication."<br><br> "That's not journalism. That's propaganda."<br><br> "It's survival," he'd said. "And in Sordia, that's the only journalism that matters."<br><br> You'd taken the deal because rent was due and principles don't pay bills. Two years later, you still owe him for saving your career. Even if you suspect he had ulterior motives for hiring someone desperate enough to do anything for a story.<br><br> <<elseif $background is "tabloid">> You'd been at the Sordia Inquirer, turning celebrity scandals into circulation gold. Your specialty: catching powerful people in compromising positions and making them pay, either in money or in public humiliation.<br><br> Then you'd caught the wrong person. David Han, a member of the Hans, in a Fae brothel. The photos were perfect. Damning. Worth a fortune. When you published them you thought this was your big break.<br><br> Instead, they'd buried your career. The Inquirer fired you. Your sources stopped returning calls. The message was clear: you'd overplayed your hand.<br><br> Nasir had approached you at a bar, three whiskeys deep into self-pity.<br><br> "I heard the Hans destroyed you," he'd said, sliding into the booth across from you.<br><br> "Fuck off."<br><br> "I'm offering you a job."<br><br> "I said fuck off."<br><br> "Channel 6 needs someone who understands that information is currency. Someone who knows how to make powerful people uncomfortable. Someone the Hans already hate, which means you've got nothing left to lose."<br><br> "What's the catch?"<br><br> "You work for me. You get your stories out. Your methods stay within boundaries I set of course. In exchange, I give you resources and protection the Inquirer never could."<br><br> You'd laughed. "You want to control me."<br><br> "I want to channel your talent. There's a difference."<br><br> Two years later, you're still not sure if there is. But Nasir kept his word about protection.<br><br> The Hans haven't touched you since. Or maybe it’s better to say, yet. Since you’ve recently wrote another exposé about another member.<br><br> <<elseif $background is "war">> You'd been in the Bloodline Integration Zones, the militarized neighborhoods where species integration was enforced at gunpoint.<br><br> Embedded with CRD units, documenting the violence everyone pretended wasn't happening.<br><br> The Clearwater Massacre changed everything. Seventeen Chimaera teenagers, executed by a CRD unit who claimed they were "resisting integration." You'd had footage proving it was murder. Footage of agents laughing as they opened fire.<br><br> Your network, Global News, refused to air it. "Too inflammatory." "Could destabilize integration efforts." "Not in the public interest."<br><br> You'd leaked it online instead. The video went viral. The agents were prosecuted. The network fired you for "violating journalistic ethics."<br><br> Nasir had found you at the memorial service for the Clearwater victims.<br><br> "That took courage," he'd said.<br><br> "It took stupidity. I'm unemployable now."<br><br> "By networks that value stability over truth. I value different things." He'd handed you a business card. "Channel 6 needs someone who's willing to show Sordia what it doesn't want to see. Someone who's already proven they'll sacrifice everything for the story."<br><br> "Why would you want that?"<br><br> "Because comfortable lies are killing this city faster than uncomfortable truths ever could. And because I think you're addicted to adrenaline and danger, and I can provide both."<br><br> He wasn't wrong. Two years later, you're still chasing the high of dangerous truth, and Nasir keeps providing targets.<br><br> <<elseif $background is "whistle">> You'd worked inside the Mayor's office, data analysis for public health. That's where you'd discovered the Primordial Special Program. Official government resources being used to track, capture, and experiment on Primordial blooded people because of their elemental abilities.<br><br> You'd tried internal channels first. Then the press. Then, in desperation, you'd dumped everything online. Thousands of documents proving systematic genocide for war profit.<br><br> The leak destroyed the program but also destroyed you. Federal prosecution for theft of classified documents. Your lawyer negotiated a plea deal: no jail time, but you'd never work in government again. No news outlet would touch you, too much legal liability.<br><br> Nasir had approached you at the courthouse, right after sentencing.<br><br> "That was brave," he'd said.<br><br> "That was stupid."<br><br> "Sometimes they're the same thing." He'd studied you with those dark eyes that seemed to see too much. "I need someone who understands how power really works in this city. Someone who's already proven they'll burn their whole life down for truth."<br><br> "I'm a felon. Unemployable. Probably on several watch lists."<br><br> "Perfect. That means you've got nothing left to lose and everything to prove. Channel 6 will give you the platform to keep exposing what needs exposing. Under my guidance, of course."<br><br> "Your control, you mean."<br><br> "My protection," he'd corrected. "The people you exposed have long memories and longer reach. You need someone like me between you and them."<br><br> Two years later, you're still not sure if Nasir is protecting you or just using you. Probably both. <</if>> The memory fades as Nasir smirks slightly knowing exactly what you were thinking.<br><br> "Well," he says finally, setting down that obscene gold pen with deliberate precision. "That concludes our business for the evening."<br><br> The air in the room shifts. Subtle. The way atmosphere changes before lightning strikes. You know this dance. Have been dancing it for a year now, depending on which version of your life you're living.<br><br> Nasir rises from his chair with that fluid Ifrit grace that makes you wonder how much of his movement is human and how much is elemental. He doesn't walk around the desk so much as flow, like smoke given form and expensive tailoring.<br><br> "Now," he says, voice dropping to something more intimate, more dangerous, "let's discuss pleasure."<br><br> He stops just outside your personal space. Close enough that you can smell his cologne—sandalwood and jasmine, probably costs more than most people's rent.<br><br> "Dinner," he says, and it's not quite a question. "Or perhaps we skip the pretense and go straight to dessert?"<br><br> <ul> <li> <<link '♡ You\'ve been down this road with him before. A year of motel rooms. It\'s probably a mistake, but in Sordia, what isn\'t?'>> <<set $nasirChoice to "accept">> <<set $nas_hookup to true>> <<set $nasirstat += 2>> <<set $corrupt += 3>> <<set $isolation += 1>> <<goto "CH1P5.2.1">> <</link>><br><br> </li> </ul> <ul> <li> <<link 'Same offer, different day. He\'s persistent, you\'re stubborn, and this is getting old.'>> <<set $nasirChoice to "refuse">> <<set $nas_hookup to false>> <<set $nasirstat -= 1>> <<set $moral += 1>> <<goto "CH1P5.2.2">> <</link>> </li> </ul>

You sigh. The kind of exhale that carries exhaustion and resignation.<br><br> "Nasir..." you start, but he's already smiling. That predator's expression that says he knows he's won before you've even finished capitulating.<br><br> "A year," he murmurs, moving closer. "A year of this, and you still pretend to hesitate."<br><br> You and Nasir started this thing—affair, arrangement, mutual self-destruction whatever you want to call it—about a year ago. The lines got blurred fast. Using him? Him using you? Maybe it goes both ways <br><br> Now you're here, in his office after hours, about to accept the same proposition he has been making for the last twelve months again.<br><br> It's not love. You're both too damaged for that. It's need. Hunger. Two people using each other as escape from a city that eats everyone eventually. He gets the thrill of having a secret he shouldn't. You get to feel something other than anger for a few hours.<br><br> This city is corrupt to its core. You never claimed you weren't a little corrupt yourself.<br><br> "What kind of date are we talking about?" you ask, already knowing the answer.<br><br> <ul> <li> <<link '♡"The kind where we both pretend this is about anything other than two broken people avoiding their problems in the most complicated way possible?"'>> <<set $nasirRomanceChoice to "bold">> <<run setup.setTrait('bold', ($bold || 50) + 1)>> <<set $nasirstat += 1>> <<goto "CH1P5.2.1.1">> <</link>><br><br> </li> </ul> <ul> <li> <<link '♡"I... you know I can\'t say no to you. Even when I should. Especially when I should."'>> <<set $nasirRomanceChoice to "shy">> <<run setup.setTrait('shy', ($shy || 50) + 1)>> <<goto "CH1P5.2.1.1">> <</link>><br><br> </li> </ul> <ul> <li> <<link '♡"Let me guess - expensive hotel, plausible deniability, and we both pretend this is about the story. Same script as always?"'>> <<set $nasirRomanceChoice to "analytical">> <<run setup.setTrait('awkward', ($awkward || 50) + 1)>> <<set $nasirstat += 1>> <<goto "CH1P5.2.1.1">> <</link>><br><br> </li> </ul> <ul> <li> <<link '♡ "You\'re being unusually direct tonight. Usually there\'s more subtext and expensive dinner involved before we get to this point."'>> <<set $nasirRomanceChoice to "oblivious">> <<run setup.setTrait('oblivious', ($oblivious || 50) + 1)>> <<goto "CH1P5.2.1.1">> <</link>><br><br> </li> </ul> <ul> <li> <<link '♡ You stand up too quickly and immediately walk into the edge of his desk. "Shit. Smooth. Really selling the sophisticated journalist image here."'>> <<set $nasirRomanceChoice to "clumsy">> <<run setup.setTrait('clumsy', ($clumsy || 50) + 1)>> <<set $nasirstat += 1>> <<goto "CH1P5.2.1.1">> <</link>> </li> </ul>

You look at Nasir, really look at him. The calculated casual posture. The hunger in his eyes that has nothing to do with food. The way he's already assuming you'll say yes because power like his rarely hears no.<br><br> "I appreciate the offer," you say, standing carefully, making sure to keep the chair between you, "but I'll pass."<br><br> Something flickers across his face. Surprise, maybe. Or irritation. With Nasir, the two look remarkably similar.<br><br> "It was worth a try," he observes, not moving from his position.<br><br> "One might think you'd stop asking."<br><br> "Where's the fun in that?" He laughs, but there's an edge to it. "Besides, everyone has a price. I simply haven't found yours yet."<br><br> "My price isn't something you can afford." You meet his eyes directly. "I'd want you to not be my boss."<br><br> "So your price is me being someone else entirely."<br><br> "Exactly."<br><br> He studies you for a long moment, then shrugs with indifference. "Your loss, $firstName. I'm told I'm quite memorable."<br><br> "I'm sure you are. But I prefer my complications to come from stories, not from people who sign my paychecks."<br><br> <ul> <li> <<link '"Besides, fucking the boss is such a cliché. I thought you had better taste than that."'>> <<set $nasirRefusalChoice to "cutting">> <<run setup.setTrait('deflecting', ($deflecting || 50) - 1)>> <<set $nasirstat -= 2>> <<goto "CH1P5.2.2.2">> <</link>><br><br> </li> </ul> <ul> <li> <<link '"You\'re an attractive man, Nasir. But we both know this would end badly. For me more than you."'>> <<set $nasirRefusalChoice to "relaxed">> <<run setup.setTrait('relaxed', ($relaxed || 50) + 1)>> <<set $nasirstat += 1>> <<goto "CH1P5.2.2.2">> <</link>><br><br> </li> </ul> <ul> <li> <<link '"I make it a rule not to sleep with anyone who uses words like \'pleasure\' unironically. It\'s kept me safe so far."'>> <<set $nasirRefusalChoice to "deflecting">> <<run setup.setTrait('deflecting', ($deflecting || 50) + 1)>> <<set $nasirstat += 1>> <<goto "CH1P5.2.2.2">> <</link>><br><br> </li> </ul> <ul> <li> <<link '"Right. Dinner. Hotel. Pretend it means something. Wake up tomorrow with you looking at me like I\'m a business acquisition. I\'ve seen this movie. The ending sucks."'>> <<set $nasirRefusalChoice to "cynical">> <<run setup.setTrait('hopeful', ($hopeful || 50) - 1)>> <<set $corrupt += 1>> <<goto "CH1P5.2.2.2">> <</link>> </li> </ul>

<<if $nasirRomanceChoice is "bold">>Nasir's smile turns predatory, eyes gleaming with appreciation. "There's that brutal honesty I find so intoxicating." He moves closer, heat radiating from his Ifrit bloodline. "Two broken people, you say? Perhaps. But we break so beautifully together." His fingers trail along your jaw. "Stop analyzing this to death and let me remind you why complicated feels so much better than simple."<<elseif $nasirRomanceChoice is "shy">>Nasir's expression goes soft, almost tender. "There it is. That admission you hate making." He steps closer, voice dropping to something gentle. "You don't have to say no, $firstName. You never have to with me." His fingers find yours, thumb tracing across your knuckles. "I like that you can't resist me. It's honest. Real. So much more genuine than all the games people play in this city."<<elseif $nasirRomanceChoice is "analytical">>Nasir chuckles, genuine amusement flickering in his dark eyes. "You've memorized our pattern. How very thorough of you." He loosens his tie with deliberate slowness. "No hotel tonight. No dinner. No pretense about the story." He steps closer, backing you against the desk. "Just us, this office, and that analytical mind of yours finally switching off for a few hours."<<elseif $nasirRomanceChoice is "oblivious">>Nasir raises an eyebrow, clearly entertained by your complete miss of the situation. "Direct? $firstName, I've been anything but subtle for the past year." He moves into your space, hands bracing on either side of your chair. "The expensive dinners, the private meetings, the way I look at you when you're not paying attention?" His lips curve in a knowing smile. "You really don't see it, do you? That laser focus of yours has some interesting blind spots."<<elseif $nasirRomanceChoice is "clumsy">>Nasir steadies you with inhuman grace, his Ifrit reflexes making your clumsiness look even more pronounced. "A year of this and you still move like you're surprised to find furniture in the room." But he's smiling, hands lingering on your waist. "It's almost endearing. Almost." He pulls you closer, voice dropping. "Though maybe we should relocate somewhere with less sharp edges for you to collide with."<</if>><br><br> His response hangs in the air between you. The office feels smaller suddenly. Warmer. The mahogany door might as well be miles away.<br><br> "And I want to go on a date with you now. The kind," Nasir finally answers your original question, voice dropping to something that makes your pulse skip, "that involves a hotel suite, no clothes, and forgetting our respective damage for a few hours."<br><br> He steps closer, close enough that backing away would require climbing over the chair. "Unless you have other plans?"<br><br> <ul> <li> <<link '"You know I don\'t have other plans. "(will lead to intimate encounter)'>> <<goto "CH1P5.2.1.1.2">> <</link>><br><br> </li> </ul> <ul> <li> <<link '"Actually, I do have plans. They involve going home, showering off this day, and passing out until my alarm reminds me why I hate consciousness."'>> <<goto "CH1P5.2.1.1.3">> <</link>><br><br> </li> </ul>

"No," you admit, the word tasting like surrender. "No other plans."<br><br> "Good," Nasir says, and the satisfaction in his voice should probably worry you more than it does. "Come here."<br><br> He doesn't wait for you to move. Just reaches out, fingers curling around your wrist, pulling you up from the chair with gentle insistence. You could resist. You don't.<br><br> "You know," he murmurs, hands finding your waist, "you look exhausted. When's the last time you actually slept? Not passed out from exhaustion, but actually slept?"<br><br> "Sleep is for people who don't have murderers to catch."<br><br> "Sleep," he corrects, pulling you closer, "is for humans. Which, despite your best efforts to prove otherwise, you still are."<br><br> His hand slides up to cup your jaw, thumb tracing the dark circle under your eye with surprising gentleness. "Let me take care of you tonight."<br><br> The words should sound wrong coming from him. Nasir doesn't take care of people. He uses them, manipulates them, discards them when they're no longer useful. But the way he's looking at you right now...<br><br> The kiss is familiar and strange all at once. A year of this and it still catches you off-guard, the way he kisses like he's trying to consume you. Like he's trying to breathe you in and make you part of him. His tongue traces your lower lip, demanding entry that you grant without thinking.<br><br> His hands gently grab your throat, angling your head for better access. You grab his shoulders for balance, for something solid in a world that's spinning too fast. He tastes like expensive coffee and mint.<br><br> The desk presses against your back—when did you move?—and Nasir crowds closer, eliminating any space between your bodies. You can feel his heart steadily drumming through the expensive fabric of his suit.<br><br> "You're thinking too much," he murmurs against your mouth. "Stop thinking."<br><br> "I can't—"<br><br> He kisses you again, harder this time, swallowing whatever protest you were about to make. One hand slides down your side, fingers skating across bare skin.<br><br> "Hotel," he says, pulling back just enough to speak. His pupils are blown wide, and his usually perfect hair is mussed from your fingers. "Now. Before I decide my desk is sturdy enough for what I want to do to you."<br><br> The words send heat flooding through you. "Your desk is Brazilian rosewood. It's definitely sturdy enough."<br><br> He laughs, dark and promising. "Tempting. But I have plans that require more privacy and fewer windows." He steps back, giving you room to breathe, to remember why this isn't the best idea.<br><br> You don't remember. Or you do and you don't care.<br><br> "Get your things," he orders, already moving toward his private bathroom to fix his appearance. "Meet me in the garage in five minutes. Level B3, the executive section."<br><br> You pull out your phone, typing quickly:<br><br> <div class="bl-bare-wrap"> <div class="bl-bare-msg out"> <div class="bl-bare-bubble">Going to be late tonight. Following a lead on the Frost story. Don't wait up.</div> <div class="bl-bare-time">Uncle Ben · delivered</div> </div> </div> It's not entirely a lie. Nasir is connected to everything in this city. Maybe between whatever you're about to do, you'll actually learn something useful. That's what you tell yourself, anyway.<br><br> "$firstName," Nasir calls from the bathroom doorway. He's fixed his hair, straightened his tie, looks perfectly composed except for the hunger still burning in his eyes. "Hurry up will you?"<br><br> "Yeah," you agree, gathering the Asher file. "Let’s go."<br><br> [[Continue|CH1P6.1]]

You're exhausted and not up for entertaining Nasir's whim. He doesn't wait for you to move. Just reaches out, fingers curling around your wrist, pulling you up from the chair with gentle insistence. You could resist. You don't.<br><br> "You probably need it," he murmurs, hands finding your waist, "you look exhausted. When's the last time you actually slept? Not passed out from exhaustion, but actually slept?"<br><br> "I don't remember but at this point I could probably survice on two hours."<br><br> "Sleep," he corrects, pulling you closer, "is essential for humans. Which, despite your best efforts to prove otherwise, you still are."<br><br> His hand slides up to cup your jaw, thumb tracing the dark circle under your eye with surprising gentleness. "You should really take a breather."<br><br> The words should sound wrong coming from him. Nasir doesn't take care of people. He uses them, manipulates them, discards them when they're no longer useful. But the way he's looking at you right now...<br><br> The kiss is familiar and strange all at once. A year of this and it still catches you off-guard, the way he kisses like he's trying to consume you. Like he's trying to breathe you in and make you part of him. His tongue traces your lower lip, demanding entry that you grant without thinking.<br><br> His hands gently grab your throat, angling your head for better access. You grab his shoulders for balance, for something solid in a world that's spinning too fast. He tastes like expensive coffee and mint.<br><br> The desk presses against your back—when did you move?—and Nasir crowds closer, eliminating any space between your bodies. You can feel his heart steadily drumming through the expensive fabric of his suit.<br><br> "You're thinking too much," he murmurs against your mouth. "Stop thinking."<br><br> "I can't—"<br><br> He kisses you again, harder this time, swallowing whatever protest you were about to make. One hand slides down your side, fingers skating across bare skin.<br><br> "I hope you feel a little energized now," he says, pulling back just enough to speak. His pupils are blown wide, and his usually perfect hair is mussed from your fingers. "You should probably go. Now. Before I decide my desk is sturdy enough for what I want to do to you."<br><br> The words send heat flooding through you. "Your desk is Brazilian rosewood. It's definitely sturdy enough."<br><br> He laughs, dark and promising. "Tempting. But I want to respect your wishes." He steps back, giving you room to breathe.<br><br> "Get your things," he orders, already moving toward his private bathroom to fix his appearance. "Get a good nights sleep."<br><br> You head for the door, files tucked under your arm. The weight of them feels heavier now, like they've absorbed some of the tension in the room.<br><br> "$firstName," Nasir calls as you reach for the handle. You pause but don't turn around. "Be careful with the Asher investigation. The Twenty-Three Families don't appreciate journalists who dig too deep."<br><br> "Since when has that stopped me?"<br><br> "Since never. Which is why I keep expecting to identify your body one of these days."<br><br> "Your concern is touching."<br><br> "My concern is practical. You're expensive to replace."<br><br> You leave without responding, closing the mahogany door with a soft click that sounds oddly final.<br><br> [[Continue|CH1P5.2.2.2.2]]

The newsroom is mostly empty now. Just the overnight staff monitoring feeds, waiting for Sordia to bleed something newsworthy. Your desk is exactly as you left it.<br><br> You drop into your chair, the Asher file spreading across your desk like tarot cards predicting someone else's doom. Marguerite's photo stares up at you, those Chronos star-flecked eyes holding secrets you need to uncover.<br><br> But first, Frost.<br><br> Your phone buzzes. Unknown number.<br><br> <div class="bl-bare-wrap"> <div class="bl-bare-msg in"> <div class="bl-bare-bubble">Have information about L.F. Fork n' Knife, midnight. Come alone. -Riley</div> <div class="bl-bare-time">unknown number</div> </div> </div> Your eyes narrow immediately. It’s Riley from the docks who sometimes feeds you shipping manifests.<br><br> Fork n' Knife is a 24-hour diner in the neutral. The kind of place where deals get made and bodies occasionally get found in the dumpster out back. Perfect for an informant who doesn't want to be seen in better lighting.<br><br> You check the time: 10:47 PM. Just enough time to review the Asher file and make it to the diner if you leave in an hour.<br><br> The desk lamp casts shadows across Marguerite's photograph.<br><br> You open your laptop, pulling up everything you can find on Marguerite Asher. <br><br> Socialite. Philanthropist. Board member of twelve different charities that probably launder more money than they donate. Married to Thomas Asher, another Chronos bloodline, though he died seven years ago in what was officially ruled a suicide.<br><br> You pack up quickly. Laptop, recorder, the Tranquilizer pen you keep pretending is for writing on a notebook. The Asher file goes in your bag, might as well do some reading at the diner while waiting for your mysterious informant.<br><br> The newsroom's exit sign glows red in the darkness. You pause beneath it, looking back at the place where you spend more time than your apartment. Where you turn the truth into content.<br><br> You push through the door into Sordia's permanent twilight. The Fork n' Knife awaits.<br><br> [[Continue|CH1P6.2]]

The motel room reeks of decades-old cigarette smoke and something chemical. Sweet. Like someone tried to mask rot with air freshener and gave up halfway through. <br><br> Neon bleeds through the thin curtains. Pink and blue alternating in a rhythm that makes your head pound. Or maybe that's just your heartbeat. Hard to tell anymore when Nasir's presence fills spaces the way smoke fills lungs. Invasive. Ultimately toxic.<br><br> The door clicks shut behind you. Then the deadbolt. Then the chain. Each sound more final than the last. Nasir's hands are steady as he secures each lock.<br><br> "Charming room," you say, because someone has to break the tension before it breaks you. Your fingers trail along the dresser, coming away with a film of dust that probably predates your birth. "Really outdid yourself with the ambiance."<br><br> Nasir turns from the door. "That was the only room left." His voice carries that particular tone. The one that sounds professional in boardrooms and predatory in places like this. "It has its charms besides we won’t stay long, won’t we?"<br><br> The air conditioner wheezes in the corner. Broken for years, probably, but still trying. The carpet beneath your feet has stains you don't want to identify. Some dark. Some darker.<br><br> Nasir crosses the room in three strides. No hesitation. No pretense of conversation or foreplay through words. His hands are on you before you can form another comment, and maybe that's the point. Maybe he's tired of your deflections. He just wants what you both came here for.<br><br> His fingers work with with ease. Not his first time undressing someone in a hurry. Definitely not his first time undressing you.<br><br> "Nasir—" you start, but his mouth is on yours before you can finish. <br><br> The kiss tastes like his mint gum and the lies he tells his wife. Your back hits the wall hard enough to rattle the generic landscape painting hanging crooked beside you. His body presses against yours, all that expensive fabric against your rapidly exposed skin, and the contrast makes you shiver. Or maybe that's just him.<br><br> Your clothes falls to the floor. His jacket follows, tossed carelessly onto the questionable armchair in the corner. You've seen him fold that jacket with religious precision in his office. Here, it's just another obstacle between his skin and yours.<br><br> His hands map your body like he's memorizing it. Fingers trace your ribs. Palm flat against your stomach. Thumb brushing lightly over your nipple that makes you gasp into his mouth.<br><br> "I've been thinking about this all day," he murmurs against your throat. Teeth grazing skin in a way that might leave marks.<br><br> His pants join the growing pile of expensive fabric on the stained carpet. His shirt follows, revealing the body underneath. You've seen him shirtless before.<br><br> He's all lean muscle and bronze skin. His chest rises and falls with controlled breathing, each exhale carrying that subtle refreshness that makes the air shimmer just slightly around him.<br><br> His hands, when they reach for you, are architect's hands. Long fingers, precise movements, soft. His wedding ring catches light from the desk lamp.<br><br> He's not young anymore, the lines around his eyes speak to years of negotiation, manipulation, the careful balance of running a news station while maintaining whatever other interests occupy his time. But age has refined rather than diminished him. Made him more dangerous, not less.<br><br> He walks you backward toward the bed, mouths still connected, hands still exploring. The mattress squeaks when the backs of your knees hit it.<br><br> Nasir's weight presses you down into sheets that smell like industrial bleach and hygienic cleaner. His mouth travels from your lips to your jaw to your neck, each kiss a promise of what's coming.<br><br> His hand slides between your bodies. Finds exactly where you want it. Your hips arch off the mattress, and he smiles against your skin. That particular smile he saves for moments like this.<br><br> The neon continues its assault through the curtains. Pink when his mouth finds your nipple and his tongue swirls around it. Blue when your nails dig into his shoulders. Pink again when he asks you how to do this.<br><br> "How do you want to do this?," Nasirs eyes are practically glowing.<br><br> <ul> <li> <<link '"You want him beneath you."'>> <<set $nasirPosition to "top">> <<if $genitalia is "vulva">> <<goto "CH1P6MCVT">> <</if>> <<if $genitalia is "penis">> <<goto "CH1P6MCDT">> <</if>> <</link>><br><br> </li> </ul> <ul> <li> <<link '"You want him above you."'>> <<set $nasirPosition to "bottom">> <<if $genitalia is "vulva">> <<goto "CH1P6MCVB">> <</if>> <<if $genitalia is "penis">> <<goto "CH1P6MCDB">> <</if>> <</link>><br><br> </li> </ul> <ul> <li> <<link '"Your bodies collide (fade to black)."'>> <<set $nasirPosition to "fadeout">> <<set $nasirstat += 1>> <<goto "CH1P6.1.2">> <</link>> </li> </ul>

Fork n' Knife squats seventeen blocks south, deep in the neutral zone where territories blur and allegiances shift with the light. Or lack thereof. You should take a cab. But something about walking through Sordia's rot feels appropriate tonight. Penance, maybe.<br><br> Besides you’re armed. Your hand moves unconsciously to your jacket pocket, fingers brushing the tranquilizer pen. Series 9 inhibitor, a gift from Ace. Enough sedative to drop most Bloodlines in five to twenty seconds.<br><br> The first three blocks pass is corporate landscape. Glass and steel pretending the decay doesn't creep higher each year. Security guards who nod because they recognize you from the broadcasts. The illusion of safety that money buys in bulk.<br><br> Block seven, the pretense dies entirely. Here, integration means something different. Means humans and bloodlines mixing in ways the Accords never imagined. A Fae prostitute negotiates with a client, her glamour making her appear as whatever he needs. An Infernal bookie takes bets on which politician gets arrested next, contracts burning themselves into desperate gamblers' skin.<br><br> The street is too quiet for 9 PM. No dealers on corners. No working girls in doorways. No homeless huddled against the perpetual drizzle. Even the rats have fucked off somewhere.<br><br> The streetlights flicker. Die. One by one, like someone's playing with the switches.<br><br> The alley mouth yawns as you pass. Dark. Narrow. Hidden from the main streets by overflowing dumpsters and the skeletal remains of a delivery truck. Just another dead space in a city full of them.<br><br> Something feels wrong. The darkness behind you feels... alive. Watching. Hungry. The shadows seem deeper than they should be, more substantial somehow, as if they have weight and texture beyond the simple absence of light.<br><br> Before you can turn, something reaches from behind. Black arms, too long, too cold, yank you backward with crushing force. Your spine cracks against brick, the impact sending starbursts across your vision, white-hot pain radiating outward from the point of contact.<br><br> Fingers like ice wrap around your throat, digging into your windpipe with inhuman strength. They yank you back against the bricks as something begins to materialize from the darkness itself.<br><br> A torso forms from the wall, human-shaped but wrong, like smoke given flesh. The proportions are off, limbs too long, joints bending at impossible angles, head cocked too far to the side like a curious predator. The rest stays one with the shadows, rippling and writhing against the bricks.<br><br> Terror floods your system. Pure, adrenaline and fear that makes your heart hammer against your ribs. Umbra. Has to be.<br><br> <<if $background is "war">> But terror is an old friend. You've felt it in war zones, in firefights, in that hospital siege where children bled out in your arms. Terror doesn't paralyze you anymore. It sharpens you.<br><br> Your body reacts before conscious thought. The bad leg screams as you pivot, but muscle memory from embedded assignments takes over. Your elbow drives back hard into what should be ribs. It connects with something solid.<br><br> A grunt. Surprised.<br><br> The grip on your throat loosens just enough. You twist, using the creature's surprise to create space. The tranq pen is already in your hand, cap flicking off with practiced ease. You drive it toward where a neck should be—<br><br> Shadow-hands catch your wrist, but the movement brings you closer. Close enough to smell something familiar beneath the supernatural cold. Leather and cigarette smoke and—<br><br> No. Your mind rejects the thought even as your body continues to fight. You bring your knee up hard, connecting with what feels like a stomach. Another grunt, this time tinged with annoyance rather than surprise.<br><br> "Shit," the shadow-thing mutters, and that voice, distorted as it is, triggers something in your memory you can't quite catch.<br><br> You press the advantage. The flashlight is in your other hand now, thumb on the button. You roll your weight forward, using your bad leg as a pivot despite the screaming pain. The maneuver is ugly but effective, forcing the creature to adjust its grip.<br><br> For a moment, you're both off-balance. You drive forward with everything you have, muscle memory from covering three different war zones guiding the takedown. The shadow-thing goes down and you follow, using momentum and desperation in equal measure.<br><br> You land on top, knees pinning what should be arms, the tranq pen pressed to where a throat should be, flashlight ready to blind whatever face might be hiding in that writhing darkness. <<else>> Your journalist's mind races even as your body freezes. Document. Understand. Survive. The tranq pen is in your pocket now you just need to get it.<br><br> The shadow-figure doesn't squeeze harder. The realization breaks through your paralysis. This is your moment to act.<br><br> You struggle, not with any real technique but with determination. Your hand fumbles for the pen while your other reaches for the flashlight. You manage to grasp both weapons, though shadow-hands wrap around your wrists before you can use them.<br><br> You're caught in a strange stalemate. You with your weapons ready but unable to use them right now, the creature holding you but not attacking. Like two dancers frozen mid-step, each waiting for the other to make the next move.<br><br> The position is absurdly intimate. Your faces are close enough that you can feel cold breath against your cheek. Can smell leather and cigarettes and something else, something achingly familiar that your mind refuses to process.<br><br> Something ignites inside of you. You twist hard. It's not a trained move, just pure stubbornness, but it works. Sort of.<br><br> The tranq pen hovers inches from shadow-flesh that might dissolve at any moment. But the flashlight points now vaguely upward, ready to activate. <</if>><br><br> Your fingers find the tactical flashlight on your keychain. Military grade. A gift from Ace. 1000 lumens. Enough to temporarily blind someone in close quarters.<br><br> Your thumb finds the button. You squeeze your eyes shut and activate the light, 1000 lumens exploding through the alley.<br><br> Pure white light that turns shadow into substance.<br><br> The figure recoils but doesn't release you completely. In that brilliant instant, shadows fall away like discarded clothing, revealing a face that stops your heart.<br><br> Bright pink choppy hair, $skin with dark circles that speak of sleepless nights and worse. Brown lipstick, chipped and reapplied without care. Piercings you don't remember—eyebrow, multiple ear piercings that weren't there three years ago.<br><br> But the eyes. Even with shadows still swirling in their depths, even with an edge of something inhuman lurking there, you know those eyes. You've looked into them a thousand times across breakfast tables and when you held her close.<br><br> "Boo," she says, grinning with the same crooked smile she had when she was eight and had just put a dead rat in your uncle’s shoes.<br><br> "Maud?" Your voice cracks on her name. Three years of searching, of missing person reports, of dreams where you find her body in various states of decay. And here she is. Alive. Changed.<br><br> And she's smiling. Not the cheeky, playful smile of the sister you remember. This smile has more teeth. This smile has enjoyed the violence. Grinning like it's the best thing that's happened all week.<br><br> She laughs, wild and broken and achingly familiar. The sound echoes off brick walls with too many harmonics, as if multiple voices are laughing at once.<br><br> <<if $background is "war">> "Nice moves," she says, not even trying to struggle despite you still pinning her. "When did you learn to actually fight? This is bullshit, $firstName. You were supposed to be soft. Desk-soft. Not all..." she gestures vaguely at your position, "competent and shit."<br><br> You're suddenly aware of how this must look. You straddling your sister in a dark alley, weapons pressed to her throat. You scramble backward, and she steps a couple feet away with unnatural grace, shadows lifting her like puppet strings. <<else>> "Not bad," she says, untangling herself from your impromptu wrestling match with fluid grace. "You actually fought back. I'm impressed. And slightly offended that you were going to stab me with—wait, is that MY pen? The one I lost? $firstName, you THIEF!"<br><br> The accusation is so absurd, so perfectly Maud despite everything else being wrong, that you almost want to face palm yourself out of habit.<</if>><br><br> You take a better look at her. She must be twenty-three years old now, but she looks older. Looks like Sordia has been chewing on her and she's been chewing back.<br><br> She's lean now. Like a blade that's been sharpened down to its essential purpose. Wiry muscle visible through tears in her leather jacket that's seen better decades. Every movement contains coiled energy, like she's always one second from violence or vanishing.<br><br> The scars are new too. A jagged line runs up her left hand, disappearing beneath the sleeve, the kind of mark that says someone tried to pin her down and learned why that's impossible. More scars web across her knuckles. Fighter's marks.<br><br> Now in the light you take a closer look at her eyes and it almost stops your breath.<br><br> Pure black. No iris, no sclera, just endless dark that reflects your flashlight like oil on water. Full Umbra manifestation. The kind that takes years to develop or trauma to trigger. When she left, she could barely go invisible in dim light. Now she looks like she could swallow darkness and breathe out void.<br><br> "Hey $firstName," she says, and her voice is exactly the same. That slight rasp like she's been screaming or smoking or both. "You look like shit."<br><br> <<if $hair is "pink">>"And still stealing my aesthetic, I see. I look way better with pink hair than you."<</if>><br><br> She moves closer, and shadows move with her. Not following, moving with her, like extensions of her body. The streetlight at the alley mouth flickers, dims, as if her presence drinks the light.<br><br> <ul> <li> <<link 'Three years since the fight that ended everything. Three years since she chose to leave and never come back. Three years of nothing but anger and resentment.'>> <<set $siblingRelationship to "broken">> <<run setup.setTrait('hopeful', ($hopeful || 50) - 2)>> <<set $maudstat -= 3>> <<goto "CH1P6.3">> <<set $corrupt += 1>> <</link>><br><br> </li> </ul> <ul> <li> <<link 'Three years of silence that started with a fight and settled into indifference. You mourned her leaving, then moved on. She was your sister. Now she\'s just someone you used to know.'>> <<set $siblingRelationship to "neutral">> <<run setup.setTrait('deflecting', ($deflecting || 50) + 1)>> <<goto "CH1P6.3">> <</link>><br><br> </li> </ul> <ul> <li> <<link 'Three years of missing her even when you hated her for leaving. Three years of looking for her in every shadow. The fight broke things, but maybe broken doesn\'t mean irreparable.'>> <<set $siblingRelationship to "fixable">> <<run setup.setTrait('soft', ($soft || 50) + 1)>> <<set $maudstat += 2>> <<set $moral += 1>> <<goto "CH1P6.3">> <</link>> </li> </ul>

The Fork n' Knife's door announces your entrance with a death rattle disguised as a bell.<br><br> The diner still looks like shit. Red vinyl booths patched with duct tape that's turned grey with age and grease. Black and white checkered linoleum floor, half the tiles cracked, some missing entirely, revealing concrete beneath like exposed bone. The walls are mint green, or were, decades ago. Now they're the color of old money.<br><br> Fluorescent lights flicker overhead, one tube completely dead, another stroking out in real-time. The irregular lighting makes everyone look sick. Or maybe they are sick. Hard to tell in Sordia.<br><br> The counter runs along the left side, chrome stools with torn cushions that leak yellow foam like infected wounds. Behind it, a kitchen that probably violates at least seventeen health codes just by existing. The grill hisses and spits, tended by a cook whose cigarette dangles from his lips, ash threatening to season whatever's dying on the hot metal. The smell hits harder than the visuals. Rancid fryer oil, coffee, smoke and a hint of vanilla.<br><br> Three other patrons haunt the space. A Chimaera girl in the corner booth, suppression collar blinking red, picking at fries with fingers that end in scales. An old man at the counter, human probably, nursing coffee and staring at nothing with the thousand-yard stare of someone who's seen Sordia eat everyone he loved. A couple in business suits trying not to touch anything, clearly lost, clearly regretting whatever GPS error brought them here.<br><br> The waitress approaches like she's walking to her own execution. Around forty-something, looks human, with the kind of exhaustion that sleep can't fix. Her name tag says "Dolores" but her eyes say "gave up hoping twenty years ago." <br><br> She recognizes you immediately. Of course she does, it’s one of you go-to spots with sources who want to stay anonymous.<br><br> There. Third booth from the back. You recognize Riley's jacket—worn leather, too big for their frame. They're hunched behind an enormous menu, the laminated monstrosity hiding their face completely. Paranoid even for Riley. But then, paranoia keeps people breathing in Sordia.<br><br> You slide into the booth. Same side as always. Back to the wall, view of both exits.<br><br> "Rough night?" you ask, settling into cracked vinyl. "You look like you're hiding from someone."<br><br> The menu doesn't move. Riley's voice comes out strange. Lower. Rougher. Like they've been smoking or screaming.<br><br> "Just careful. You know how it is."<br><br> Something's off. The cadence is wrong. Riley talks fast, nervous energy spilling into run-on sentences.<br><br> "Right," you say slowly. Dolores the waitress approaches, and you order without looking at the menu. "Just a <<if $vice is 'alcohol'>>a gin<<else>>water<</if>> for me. Whatever pie won't kill me."<br><br> "Make it two black coffees for me," Riley says from behind the menu fortress.<br><br> You frown. "Since when do you—"<br><br> The menu slams down on the table hard enough to make the salt shaker jump.<br><br> Someone leans across the booth. Close. Too close. Into your space like they own it. Their face fills your vision, and you're staring into eyes that shouldn't exist. Pure black. No iris, no sclera, just endless dark that reflects the diner's fluorescent lights like oil on water.<br><br> The smell hits next. Leather and cigarette smoke and something achingly familiar that your brain refuses to process because it can't be, it's been three years, she's gone—<br><br> "Boo," Maud says.<br><br> That crooked grin. The same one she had when she was eight and put a dead rat in your uncle's shoes.<br><br> <ul> <li> <<link 'Three years since the fight that ended everything. Three years since she chose to leave and never come back. Three years of nothing but anger and resentment.'>> <<set $siblingRelationship to "broken">> <<run setup.setTrait('hopeful', ($hopeful || 50) - 2)>> <<set $maudstat -= 3>> <<goto "CH1P7.1.2">> <<set $corrupt += 1>> <</link>><br><br> </li> </ul> <ul> <li> <<link 'Three years of silence that started with a fight and settled into indifference. You mourned her leaving, then moved on. She was your sister. Now she\'s just someone you used to know.'>> <<set $siblingRelationship to "neutral">> <<run setup.setTrait('deflecting', ($deflecting || 50) + 1)>> <<goto "CH1P7.1.2">> <</link>><br><br> </li> </ul> <ul> <li> <<link 'Three years of missing her even when you hated her for leaving. Three years of looking for her in every shadow. The fight broke things, but maybe broken doesn\'t mean irreparable.'>> <<set $siblingRelationship to "fixable">> <<run setup.setTrait('soft', ($soft || 50) + 1)>> <<set $maudstat += 2>> <<set $moral += 1>> <<goto "CH1P7.1.2">> <</link>> </li> </ul>

The Fork n' Knife's door announces your entrance with a death rattle disguised as a bell.<br><br> The diner still looks like shit. Red vinyl booths patched with duct tape that's turned grey with age and grease. Black and white checkered linoleum floor, half the tiles cracked, some missing entirely, revealing concrete beneath like exposed bone. The walls are mint green, or were, decades ago. Now they're the color of old money.<br><br> Fluorescent lights flicker overhead, one tube completely dead, another stroking out in real-time. The irregular lighting makes everyone look sick. Or maybe they are sick. Hard to tell in Sordia.<br><br> The counter runs along the left side, chrome stools with torn cushions that leak yellow foam like infected wounds. Behind it, a kitchen that probably violates at least seventeen health codes just by existing. The grill hisses and spits, tended by a cook whose cigarette dangles from his lips, ash threatening to season whatever's dying on the hot metal. The smell hits harder than the visuals. Rancid fryer oil, coffee, smoke and a hint of vanilla.<br><br> Three other patrons haunt the space. A Chimaera girl in the corner booth, suppression collar blinking red, picking at fries with fingers that end in scales. An old man at the counter, human probably, nursing coffee and staring at nothing with the thousand-yard stare of someone who's seen Sordia eat everyone he loved. A couple in business suits trying not to touch anything, clearly lost, clearly regretting whatever GPS error brought them here.<br><br> The waitress approaches like she's walking to her own execution. Around forty-something, looks human, with the kind of exhaustion that sleep can't fix. Her name tag says "Dolores" but her eyes say "gave up hoping twenty years ago." <br><br> She recognizes you immediately. Of course she does, it’s one of you go-to spots with sources who want to stay anonymous.<br><br> "Booth," Maud says, not a request. Already moving toward the back corner, the one with sight lines to both exits and no windows behind it.<br><br> You follow, hyperaware of how normal you must look next to her.<br><br> Maud slides into the booth with liquid grace. You take the opposite bench, vinyl squeaking protest under your weight. The table between you is formica pretending to be wood, scarred with initials, gang signs, and what might be claw marks.<br><br> "Two coffees," Maud tells Dolores without looking at her. Without asking what you want. "Black. And..." She actually looks at the menu, grease-stained and laminated sometime during the last century. "Two Terminator burgers. Fries. Onion rings. And pie."<br><br> Something snaps inside you. The presumption. The casual way she's ordering for you like three years of nothing means nothing. Like she has any right to sit here and pretend this is fine.<br><br> Dolores returns with coffee that looks like motor oil and might taste worse. Sets the mugs down with the careful precision of someone who's learned not to make sudden movements around predators.<br><br> <ul> <li> <<link '"Actually, I\'m not staying."'>> <<set $maudAggressiveChoice to "leave">> <<set $maudstat -= 3>> <<run setup.setTrait('soft', ($soft || 50) - 2)>> <<goto "CH1P7.2_LEAVE">> <</link>><br><br> </li> </ul> <ul> <li> <<link 'Pick up your coffee. Let her think you\'re going to drink it. Then throw it in her face and walk out.'>> <<set $maudAggressiveChoice to "coffee">> <<set $maudstat -= 4>> <<run setup.setTrait('relaxed', ($relaxed || 50) - 2)>> <<goto "CH1P7.2_COFFEE">> <</link>><br><br> </li> </ul> <ul> <li> <<link 'Hear her out. You came this far.'>> <<set $maudAggressiveChoice to "stay">> <<goto "CH1P7.2_STAY">> <</link>> </li> </ul>

"So," you say, voice carefully neutral. "We're doing this."<br><br> "Doing what?" Maud asks, all fake innocence. She pulls out another cigarette, the silver Zippo catching light as she flicks it open. The flame dances, and for a second you swear the shadows dance with it. "Having coffee? Catching up? Pretending we're a functional family?"<br><br> "Answering questions."<br><br> "Ooh, an interrogation!" She claps her hands, shadows mimicking the gesture a half-second behind like they're on delay. "Should I lawyer up? Miranda rights? Do I get one phone call?"<br><br> You're not in the mood for her games. Your <<if $handItch is 'left'>>left<<elseif $handItch is 'right' >>right<</if>> hand itches with the need for truth, for something solid in all this deflection.<br><br> You have three questions burning in your mind. Time to get some answers.<br><br> <<link "Where have you been for three years?">> <<replace "#question1">><br><br> She exhales smoke that mingles with darkness, the combination creating patterns that hurt to track.<br><br> "Around," she says, waving vaguely. "Here. There. Everywhere. Nowhere." She grins wider. "That's the thing about me, $firstName. I can be everywhere and nowhere all at once."<br><br> "That's not an answer."<br><br> "Sure it is! Just not the one you want." She taps ash onto the table, not bothering with the tray. "Fine, you want specifics? I've been in the undercity. In the towers. I've traveled around a bit, making some life experiences."<br><br> "For three years?"<br><br> "Time's weird when you're mostly working. Especially if I'm playing the big bad monster~," she says, and for a moment her edges blur, like she's forgetting to stay solid. "Sometimes I'd lose days. Sometimes minutes felt like months. You ever try to keep track of time when you're a mass of darkness?"<br><br> She's deflecting, but there's truth buried in the evasion. You can feel it, that itch in your <<if $handItch is 'left'>>left<<elseif $handItch is 'right' >>right<</if>> hand getting stronger.<br><br> "You could have fucking sent a word."<br><br> "Could I though?" She leans forward, black eyes reflecting nothing. "Hey $firstName, I'm turning into living darkness and sometimes I forget I'm human, how's journalism?' Yeah, that would've gone great. You guys would have put me away for sure."<br><br> You want to push, but there are other questions. More pressing ones. <</replace>> <</link>> <span id="question1"></span><br><br> <<link "What are you doing now? What's your actual job?">> <<replace "#question2">><br><br> Maud laughs, high and bright and slightly unhinged. "Job? You make it sound so... corporate." She pulls her legs up, sitting cross-legged in the booth like a child. "I fix problems. Remove obstacles. Make sure certain people stay certain places."<br><br> "You're an enforcer."<br><br> "Enforcer sounds so thuggish." She pouts, bottom lip jutting out dramatically. "I prefer... badass consultant. Peaceful coordinator. Nightmare prevention specialist!"<br><br> "Maud."<br><br> "Fine, fine." She waves her hand, shadows trailing from her fingers like smoke. "I work for someone who values my particular skill set."<br><br> "Such as?"<br><br> "Such as being able to grab nosy journalists from shadows and drag them into alleys!" She grins. "Such as being able to move through the city unseen. Such as being able to make problems disappear without anyone knowing they were there."<br><br> She's still dancing around it. Still not giving you the full truth. <</replace>> <</link>> <span id="question2"></span><br><br> <<link "What do you want from me?">> <<replace "#question3">><br><br> She goes still. Completely still, like shadows frozen in time. Then, suddenly, she's moving again, all manic energy and too-wide smiles.<br><br> "What I want?" She spreads her arms wide, and the shadows behind her spread too, forming shapes that might be wings, might be hands, might be nothing at all. "I want to keep my big sibling from getting murdered! Ta-da!"<br><br> The shadows literally form jazz hands behind her. Actual shadow hands, wiggling their fingers in synchronized celebration.<br><br> "What the fuck—"<br><br> "From now on," Maud announces, standing on the booth seat like she's making a proclamation, "I'm your bodyguard! Your shield! Your defender!" She strikes a pose, one hand on her hip, the other pointing dramatically at the ceiling. "Maud the Magnificent, at your service!"<br><br> "Absolutely not."<br><br> "Too bad!" She drops back down, bouncing slightly on the cracked vinyl. "Not your choice, $firstName-bear. I've already decided."<br><br> "You can't just—"<br><br> "Can't I?" She tilts her head, studying you with those impossible black eyes. "Who's gonna stop me? You?"<br><br> "Maud, I don't need—"<br><br> "Oh, but you do." Her voice drops, becomes something darker. More serious. "You really, really do."<br><br> [[Continue|CH1P8.1]] <</replace>> <</link>> <span id="question3"></span><br><br>

"So!" she announces, spinning on her heel to walk backward, facing you. "Transportation!"<br><br> "We can walk. Or take the subway. Or—"<br><br> "Boring!" Maud sing-songs, pulling out a set of keys from her jacket. They jingle with too many keychains—a rubber duck, a skull, something that might be a tooth. "I've got wheels now! Part of the whole 'being more human' thing."<br><br> She says 'being more human' like it's a costume she's trying on. Like humanity is something you can practice until you get it right.<br><br> "Since when do you drive?"<br><br> "Since about six months ago when I realized car chasing is fun." She grins, pink hair catching the broken streetlight. "Patch said I should try normal human activities. Connect with my human side again. Stop being so—" She makes air quotes with her fingers, shadows mimicking the gesture, "—weird."<br><br> “And who is Patch?” <br><br> “My Doctor!”<br><br> The car sits at the alley's mouth like a predator waiting to strike. It's a beat-up sedan, probably fifteen years old, painted matte black because of course it is. The bumper's held on with duct tape and what might be wishful thinking. One headlight's cracked. The other flickers like it's communicating in Morse code.<br><br> "This is your car?"<br><br> "Isn't she beautiful?" Maud runs her hand along the hood lovingly. "I call her Christine. You know, like the murder car from that old movie?"<br><br> "That's not reassuring."<br><br> "It's not supposed to be!" She pops the trunk with her key fob, the lid rising with a squeal of protest. "Oh, right! I almost forgot!"<br><br> You're still processing the fact that your sister owns a car when she says, with the casual tone of someone mentioning they bought milk: "I should probably explain about Riley."<br><br> Your blood freezes. "What about Riley?" <br><br> "Yeah! So funny story—" She leans against the trunk, grinning. "I was doing a job at the docks last week. You know, standard work stuff, making sure certain shipments went to certain places without certain people noticing."<br><br> She pulls out Riley's phone from her pocket, waves it like a trophy. Ah shit you know you forgot to ask a crucial question.<br><br> "And I hear this guy—your Riley—talking to someone. And he says your name! $firstName this, $firstName that, $firstName's been sniffing around the Frost case." Her black eyes glitter with manic energy. "And I'm thinking, how does this random dock worker know my sibling? Very suspicious!"<br><br> "Maud, what did you do?"<br><br> "I followed him! For like three days!" She's bouncing on her heels now, excited to share.<br><br> "Very not freaky behavior, surveillance. Patch would be proud! And then when he was alone, I might have grabbed him with shadows… okay that part wasn't very human but it was efficient and had a conversation!"<br><br> "You kidnapped him?!"<br><br> The trunk light illuminates what shouldn't be there. What can't be there. But is.<br><br> Riley your informant from the docks, the one who feeds you shipping manifests and union gossip, lies curled in the trunk like discarded luggage. His hands are zip-tied behind his back, mouth covered with duct tape that's coming loose at the edges. His eyes are wide, whites showing all around, the kind of terror that comes from spending hours in darkness with someone who is darkness.<br><br> "Maud, what the fuck—"<br><br> "Surprise!" She claps her hands, delighted. "See? I'm being less freaky! Humans kidnap people all the time in this city!"<br><br> Riley makes a muffled screaming sound through the tape, thrashing against the zip-ties. There's a dark stain on his jeans, he's pissed himself at some point during this nightmare. The trunk reeks of fear-sweat and urine.<br><br> You lunge forward to free him, but Maud catches your wrist. Her grip is ice-cold, inhumanly strong.<br><br> "Wait wait wait! Let me explain the process!" She's bouncing on her heels, excited to share. "So first, I followed him for like three days, very human behavior, surveillance—and then I waited until he was alone, grabbed him with shadows—okay that part wasn't very human but it was efficient—and then I put him in the trunk and asked him questions!"<br><br> "You kidnapped my informant?" You feel a headache coming.<br><br> "Borrowed! I borrowed him for a chat!" She's grinning wider now. "Put him in the trunk for a bit with water! I gave him water every four hours! Very responsible!"<br><br> The casual way she says it makes your skin crawl. <br><br> Riley's trying to say something through the tape. You reach for him again, and this time Maud doesn't stop you. You rip the duct tape off, he screams. Loud enough that someone might hear, might call the cops, might—<br><br> "FUCK YOU!" He's crying, snot and tears mixing on his face. "FUCK BOTH OF YOU PSYCHO FUCKS!"<br><br> He struggles against the zip-ties, manages to sit up, and spits at you. The saliva lands on your jacket.<br><br> "Riley, I didn't—"<br><br> "You sent this fucking freak after me?" His voice cracks. "I helped you! I gave you information! And this is what I get?"<br><br> "I didn't send her, I didn't know—"<br><br> He raises both middle fingers, wrists still bound. "We're done. DONE. You want dock information? Find another rat. Better yet, go fuck yourself with a rusty—"<br><br> Maud leans in, curious. "Ooh, what should they fuck themselves with? I love creative cursing!"<br><br> Riley screams again, tries to scramble out of the trunk. You grab the pocket knife from your bag, cut the zip-ties. He practically falls out of the car, stumbles, catches himself on a dumpster.<br><br> "Stay the fuck away from me," he gasps, backing away. "Both of you. If I see either of you again, I'm calling CRD. I'll tell them everything."<br><br> He runs. Stumbles. Runs again. Disappears around the corner like the hounds of hell are chasing him.<br><br> Which, technically, they might be if Maud decides to follow.<br><br> You turn to stare at your sister. She's examining her nails, shadows curling around her fingers like smoke.<br><br> "That went well!" she announces.<br><br> "Well? You kidnapped my informant. I've lost a source I've been cultivating for two years."<br><br> "But I got his phone! That's how I found out about his connection to you. All these texts about dock manifests, shipping schedules. Very boring stuff, honestly." She pulls it out, waves it like a trophy. "See? Mission accomplished!"<br><br> "But here's the genius part!" She continues, ignoring your horror. "I used his phone to text you! Pretending to be him! Because let's be real—" Her expression shifts, becomes almost vulnerable for a second. "If I'd contacted you directly, would you have come?" The question hangs between you. The answer is obvious to both of you.<br><br> "You could have just stolen his phone," you say, voice flat. "Picked his pocket. Grabbed it when he wasn't looking."<br><br> Maud freezes mid-celebration. Her head tilts, considering this. The shadows around her go still.<br><br> "Huh." She taps her chin. "That... would have been simpler."<br><br> "And wouldn't have involved kidnapping."<br><br> "But way less fun!" She tosses the phone to you. "This way I learned all about his operation, his contacts, his weird obsession with that bartender at O'Malley's, did you know about that? Very detailed texts. Anyway, he seemed upset though. People are so sensitive about temporary confinement."<br><br> The casual way she says it sends ice through your veins. This isn't normal. This is something else. Something broken in a way that can't be fixed with therapy or medication or whatever the hell this Patch has been trying.<br><br> Your little sister kidnapped someone and put them in a trunk. For practice. To be more human again.<br><br> "Maud..." Your voice comes out steady somehow. "Kidnapping people isn't human behavior. It's criminal behavior."<br><br> "Same thing in this city!" She shrugs, already moving to the driver's side door. "Besides, he's fine! Bit traumatized, probably needs new pants, but fine! I even gave him water! Every four hours! Very responsible."<br><br> "Every four…how long was he in there?"<br><br> "Only like eighteen hours! I wanted to make sure I had time to go through everything properly." She slides into the driver's seat, adjusting mirrors that definitely aren't angled for driving. "You coming? Or are you going to stand there looking all morally superior?"<br><br> <ul> <li> <<link '"You terrorized my informant for eighteen hours because you were curious? What the fuck is wrong with you?"'>> <<set $maudChoice5 to "cutting">> <<run setup.setTrait('deflecting', ($deflecting || 50) - 1)>> <<set $maudstat -= 2>> <<goto "CH1P9.1">> <</link>><br><br> </li> </ul> <ul> <li> <<link '"Walk me through this. You heard my name, followed him for three days, kidnapped him, interrogated him, and then impersonated him to get me here?"'>> <<set $maudChoice5 to "methodical">> <<run setup.setTrait('intuitive', ($intuitive || 50) - 1)>> <<set $observation += 1>> <<goto "CH1P9.1">> <</link>><br><br> </li> </ul> <ul> <li> <<link '"He\'s definitely going to report this. You\'ve compromised my entire network."'>> <<set $maudChoice5 to "hardened">> <<run setup.setTrait('soft', ($soft || 50) - 1)>> <<set $corrupt += 1>> <<goto "CH1P9.1">> <</link>> </li> </ul>

<<if $maudChoice6 is "cutting">>Maud's laugh is sharp enough to draw blood. "At least I know I'm wearing a mask. You stand in front of cameras pretending journalism matters while this city eats itself. Which one of us is really delusional?" The shadows pulse with her words. "Besides, that bitch never had control. She never wanted to. There's a difference." She pauses, tilts her head. "I think."<<elseif $maudChoice6 is "methodical">>"Control means choosing," Maud says, each word precise as a scalpel cut. "That bitch didn't choose. She never tried and it made her into something else." Her fingers drum against the steering wheel in a pattern that hurts to follow. "I choose every terrible thing I do. Every line I cross. That's control." She meets your eyes. "That's the difference between madness and methodology."<<elseif $maudChoice6 is "soft">>Something flickers across Maud's face. Not quite pain. Not quite recognition. Something worse, acknowledgment. "Nobody's who they were before, $firstName. Not you. Not me." The shadows around her soften slightly, become less aggressive. "But I'm not that bitch. I won't become her. I keep mine on a leash. A very long, very flexible leash, but still."<<elseif $maudChoice6 is "confrontational">>Maud's expression doesn't change but the air in the car becomes electric. Dangerous. "You want to talk about becoming like that bitch? How many people have you destroyed with your stories? How many lives have you ruined for the truth?" She leans closer. "We're both monsters, $firstName. The only difference is I'm honest about it."<</if>><br><br> Behind you, someone lays on their horn for a solid ten seconds. The sound breaks whatever spell held the moment together.<br><br> Maud faces forward. Puts the car in drive. Accelerates without checking mirrors or caring about the chaos behind them.<br><br> "That bitch lost herself completely," she says, voice returning to its usual sing-song quality but with something darker underneath. "I know exactly who I am and where my edges are. I just choose to blur them sometimes."<br><br> Christine's engine coughs. Sputters. Continues somehow.<br><br> You want to push further. To dig until you hit truth-bone. But something in Maud's grip on the steering wheel stops you and the way shadows keep reaching for her like they want to comfort or consume.<br><br> So you leave it. Let whatever you wanted to tell her die in your throat.<br><br> The rest of the drive passes in relative silence. Relative because Maud sings along to a pop song on the radio. Because Christine's engine provides a symphony of mechanical distress. Maud takes another corner too fast. Your stomach drops as two wheels briefly leave the ground before crashing back down.<br><br> The apartment building appears suddenly, looming out of the darkness like something that grew rather than was built. Maud pulls into an alley beside it, parks at an angle that blocks at least two other vehicles.<br><br> "Home sweet hellhole," she announces, killing the engine. It dies with a relieved wheeze.<br><br> "C’mon I want to show you my place," she looks excited as she lams the car door shut. You reluctantly follow her. No turning back now.<br><br> [[Continue|CH1P11]]

<div class="maud-header"> <h1 class="bloodlines-title">Maud POV</h1> </div> Maud paces. Three steps left. Pivot. Three steps right. Pivot.<br><br> Twelve faces stare back at her. Twelve pieces of a puzzle that makes her teeth ache with wrongness.<br><br> <<if $siblingRelationship is "broken">> $firstName sleeps in her bed. The bed she offered because what else was she supposed to do? Let $mcHim curl up on the couch like a stranger? $firstName might hate her but $firstName is still blood. The only family she has left. So yeah, she gave $mcHim the bed. Doesn't mean she has to like it. Doesn't mean it doesn't sting that $firstName took it without even a thank you. Typical. But she'll stand watch anyway because that's what she does. Guards the people who'd rather she didn't exist. <<elseif $siblingRelationship is "neutral">> $firstName sleeps in her bed. Probably the first real sleep $firstName had in days, judging by how $mcHe collapsed earlier. She should feel something about that. Pride maybe, that she can still provide safety. Instead she feels... nothing. Just the familiar weight of responsibility. Of keeping $firstName alive because that's her job. Has always been the job. Even when $mcHe barely acknowledges her anymore. <<elseif $siblingRelationship is "fixable">> $firstName sleeps in her bed. The face finally relaxed, that perpetual furrow between $mcHis brows smoothed away. $firstName looks younger like this. Like the sibling she remembers from before everything went to shit. Maybe they can fix this. Maybe there's still something worth salvaging in the wreckage of what they used to be. The thought makes something in her chest twist painfully. Hope is such a dangerous thing. <</if>> She stops pacing. Stares at the photos again.<br><br> Wrong. Wrong. WRONG.<br><br> The feeling crawls up her spine.<br><br> Someone has it out for them. But why? The question makes her shadows writhe with agitation.<br><br> She moves toward the bedroom without conscious thought. Feet silent on creaking floorboards that should announce her presence but don't. The shadows muffle everything. Always have.<br><br> $firstName lies there, one arm thrown over $mcHis head, mouth slightly open. Vulnerable in a way that makes something twist in Maud's chest.<br><br> She stands over the bed. Watching. The permanent marker from earlier is still in her pocket. Maud can't help but snicker. It would be so easy. Just a little mustache. Maybe some devil horns.<br><br> Her phone vibrates. The screen illuminates her face in the darkness, making her black eyes seem deeper. Hungrier.<br><br> <div class="bl-bare-wrap"> <div class="bl-bare-msg in"> <div class="bl-bare-bubble">Package needs relocating. Usual place. One hour. Don't be late, darling.</div> <div class="bl-bare-time">Luz</div> </div> </div> A smile curves her lips. Luz. One of the rare persons in this rotting city who makes her feel something other than broken. So she doesn't mind that Luz owns her just as much as the shadows do. Different leash. Same collar.<br><br> But $firstName is right there. Sleeping. Trusting her enough to be unconscious in her presence.<br><br> She walks back to the living room. The transformation starts at her fingertips. Black veins spreading upward beneath her skin like ink through water. "Shh, shh, shh," she whispers to the shadows. "Quiet now. Can't wake the baby."<br><br> Her nails blacken and extend, hardening into obsidian daggers that pierce through her own flesh with a sound like breaking glass. She bites down on her tongue hard enough to taste copper. Can't scream. Can't wake $firstName. Can't let $mcHim see this.<br><br> What would you think if you saw me like that, $firstName? Would it bring it all back? No. She won't risk it. Won't give $firstName that particular flavor of PTSD on top of everything else. $mcHeC's already seen too much. Already carries too many scars from that night, even if $mcHe never talks about it.<br><br> Her radius and ulna snap simultaneously—CRACK-CRACK—bone shards puncturing through her forearms. The fragments hang suspended for a heartbeat before liquefying into a slurry of marrow and shadow that oozes back into her flesh.<br><br> Her ribcage expands suddenly. Violently. Cracking outward with wet pops as individual ribs pierce through skin. Dark ichor oozes from the wounds, sliding down her torso in rivulets that move against gravity. The exposed ribs blacken and curve like fingers reaching for the night sky before dissolving into smoke.<br><br> Her jaw dislocates with an audible crack. Mouth stretching impossibly wide as teeth fall out one by one, pattering to the floor. New teeth erupt from bleeding gums—not teeth but needle-like protrusions of solidified darkness, hundreds of them filling her mouth in overlapping rows.<br><br> The transformation completes with a horrific implosion as her remaining flesh tears itself apart. For one terrible moment, she is inside-out, a grotesque display of humanity turned wrong, before the shadows surge forward to fill the void.<br><br> She is nothing. Everything.<br><br> But she needs more tonight. Needs to be in two places at once. Needs to handle Luz's business while keeping watch over $firstName.<br><br> The splitting is somehow worse than the transformation.<br><br> She places her shadow-clawed hands against her sternum and pulls. The sound is wet. Organic. Like tearing raw meat with bare hands. Her chest cracks open along an invisible seam, darkness spilling out like blood from a wound that goes deeper than flesh.<br><br> "One for Luz, one for $firstName," she mutters through her needle teeth. "Sharing is caring! HAHAHA!"<br><br> The shadow substance pools on the floor, writhing, gathering mass. Rising. Taking shape.<br><br> Two Mauds now. Identical voids cut from reality. Both pure darkness given form, silhouettes that devour light.<br><br> They regard each other with eyes that are just deeper holes in already void faces. "You stay," the original whispers, voice like grinding glass. "Keep watch. Make sure nothing touches $mcHim."<br><br> The copy tilts its head. Understanding without words. It settles into the corner where darkness is deepest, becoming one with the shadows there.<br><br> The original Maud moves to the window. Her form rippling with anticipation. Luz is waiting.<br><br> "Going to see our favorite crime boss," she tells the copy, though it already knows. "Try not to let $firstName wake up and freak out about the shadow demon in the corner, yeah? That would be awkward!"<br><br> The copy doesn't respond. Just watches. Waiting. Guarding.<br><br> The original dissolves into smoke, bleeding through the window cracks and into the night. The real Maud, heading off to do whatever she has to do.<br><br> The copy remains. A perfect duplicate. Indistinguishable from the original except for being the one left behind. It watches $firstName sleep with eyes that don't exist, guards $mcHim with claws that will protect, loves $mcHim with a heart made of darkness.<br><br> In the bed, $firstName shifts, mumbles something unintelligible. The shadow-Maud goes perfectly still, becomes just another patch of darkness in a room full of them. $firstName settles back into deep sleep, never knowing death itself stands watch in the corner. Never knowing $mcHis sister has split herself in half just to keep watch.<br><br> Outside, racing through Sordia's streets as living shadow, the real Maud laughs. The sound echoes off buildings, makes windows rattle, sends cats yowling and dogs whimpering.<br><br> "Ready or not, here I come!" she shrieks to the night. "Hope you have something fun for me to relocate! Maybe someone who screams pretty! Or bleeds in interesting patterns! Or—ooh!—maybe both!"<br><br> After all, for Maud, love looks like a monster standing guard while its other half goes to serve another monster.<br><br> And Maud has always been very good at being exactly the monster everyone needs.<br><br> [[Continue|CH1P13]]

<<if $aceChoice5 is "bold">>Ace laughs. "Mom's way better than any date. She actually listens when you talk, remembers what you like, and feeds you properly." $aceHeC pauses, then adds without thinking, "Plus she thinks you're perfect exactly as you are. Which is... I mean, she's got good judgment about people." <<elseif $aceChoice5 is "shy">>Ace's expression goes soft. "Mom always asks about you, you know. Wants to make sure you're eating, sleeping, taking care of yourself." $aceHeC chuckles, stracthing $aceHis head. "She says I relax more when you come over. Makes the whole house feel more... alive. She's right about that." <<elseif $aceChoice5 is "oblivious">>Ace grins. "Imani's going to grill you about investigative techniques again. She probably wants to be a journalist like you when she grows up." $aceHeC doesn't notice the pride in $aceHis voice. "Says you're the coolest person she knows. Can't argue with that assessment." <<elseif $aceChoice5 is "awkward">>Ace tilts $aceHis head, genuinely confused. "Why would you lie about that? Of course you've been looking forward to it. We all have." $aceHeC says it like it's normal to barge into the Reid's family home unannunced. "Mom's been planning the menu all week. Dad's been practicing stories to tell you. They can't wait to see their pickney." <<elseif $aceChoice5 is "clumsy">>Ace chuckles. "Last time you asked Tasha about her dating life for twenty minutes. She loved it. Said it was like having a professional therapist who actually cared about the answers." $aceHeC looks fondly at you. "Family loves having you around. Makes everything more interesting." <<elseif $aceChoice5 is "grateful">>Ace nods seriously. "She'd adopt you if you let her. Says you need someone to worry about you properly." $aceHeC pauses. "She's not wrong. Someone should be looking out for you the way you look out for everyone else." <<elseif $aceChoice5 is "tired">>Ace's expression goes gentle. "Then you need us more than ever. Real food, real people, reminder that good still exists." $aceHeC steps closer. "Plus we miss you when you're not there.." <<elseif $aceChoice5 is "hardened">>Ace nods. Doesn't push. "Fair enough. Ma's cooking keeps you functional. That's reason enough." $aceHeC understands what you're not saying anyway. "You don't have to say more than that. Just show up. Eat. Leave when you need to." $aceHeC meets your eyes. They're full of warmth. <</if>><br><br> Ace's phone buzzes again. More insistent.<br><br> "Fuck. I really have to go." $aceHeC looks back at the mansion, then at you. "You did good tonight, $firstName. Jane De Luca got justice because you wouldn't let go. That matters."<br><br> "Even if Frost gets away?"<br><br> <<if $aceGender is "male">> Andre's expression hardens. "We'll find her. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but nobody escapes forever. Not in Sordia." He reaches out, squeezes your shoulder once. The contact is brief but solid. Grounding. "Get some rest. You need it."<<elseif $aceGender is "female">> Anaya's jaw sets with determination. "We'll find her. I've got contacts in the Fae community who owe me favors. Someone will talk eventually. They always do." She reaches out, squeezes your shoulder once. The contact is brief but warm. Real. "Get some sleep. You look like something that crawled out of Sordia's sewers and decided to become a journalist." <</if>><br><br> "Charming as always," you mutter, but there's no heat in it.<br><br> Ace starts walking backward toward their CRD vehicle, still talking. "Noon tomorrow. Don't be late. Ma will send out search parties, and by search parties, I mean my sisters, and they're worse than any bloodline criminal."<br><br> "Wouldn't miss it," you call back.<br><br> <<if $relationshipType is "obvious" or $relationshipType is "secret">> "And $firstName?" Ace pauses at $aceHis vehicle. "Be careful tonight. Don't go seeking trouble alone." The fact that they've noticed your tell, that they pay that much attention, makes your heart do complicated things. <<else>> "And $firstName?" Ace pauses at $aceHis vehicle. "Whatever you're not telling me about this case, just remember you're not invincible. Even leeches can bleed." The warning is professional. The concern behind it isn't. <</if>><br><br> You watch Ace disappear into the maze of emergency vehicles, $aceHis CRD badge catching the light one last time before the darkness swallows them.<br><br> The van honks behind you. Jake leaning out the driver's window.<br><br> "You coming, or are you gonna stand there mooning after your fed friend all night?"<br><br> "I don't moon," you snap, climbing into the van.<br><br> "Sure you don't," Jake mutters, pulling away from the crime scene.<br><br> Sam turns from the front seat, eyes that particular shade of violet that means they're about to say something cutting. "Interesting relationship dynamic you have with Agent Reid. All that unresolved tension must be exhausting."<br><br> <<if $relationshipType is "obvious" or $relationshipType is "secret">> "There's no tension," you lie, badly.<<else>> "There's no tension," you answer, honestly.<</if>><br><br> <<if $relationshipType is "obvious" or $relationshipType is "secret">>"Of course not," Sam agrees, which means they don't agree at all. "Just two people who've known each other since high school, work cases together, and have lunch dates with each other's families. Completely platonic."<<else>> "If you say so," Sam shrugs, which means they don't care at all and just wanted to tease you. And because you didn’t give them a reaction they got bored. Typical.<</if>><br><br> The van carries you away from Grey's mansion. <br><br> <<if $relationshipType is "obvious" or $relationshipType is "secret">> Tomorrow, you'll have lunch with Ace and pretend your heart doesn't do stupid things when $aceHe smiles. You'll eat your favourite meal and let Imani interrogate you about journalism and try not to think about how Ace's hand felt on your shoulder.<<else>> Tomorrow, you'll have lunch with Ace, eat your favourite meal and let Imani interrogate you about journalism.<</if>><br><br> Tonight, you're just tired. Bone-deep, soul-sick tired from carrying Jane De Luca's story for two months.<br><br> But somewhere in Sordia, Lillian Frost is still breathing.<br><br> And your <<if $handItch is 'left'>>left<<elseif $handItch is 'right' >>right<</if>> hand is already starting to itch again.<br><br> [[Continue|CH1P4]]

<<if $nasirRefusalChoice is "cutting">>Nasir's expression doesn't change, but the air pressure in the room shifts slightly, classic Ifrit emotional response. "Cliché? Perhaps. But clichés become clichés because they work." He moves back behind his desk, reestablishing professional distance with the same grace he does everything. "And my taste is impeccable. It's why I keep asking you despite your charming inability to recognize opportunity." The dismissal in his voice is clear. You're no longer interesting now that you've refused. "I will respect your wishes and won't ask you again. Close the door on your way out."<<elseif $nasirRefusalChoice is "relaxed">>"Such careful logic," he muses, fingers drumming on the desk. "Always weighing costs and benefits. It's what makes you a good journalist and a terrible gambler." He turns to look out at the city lights. "You're probably right. It would end badly. Most things in Sordia do so why not have fun?" He waves a hand dismissively. "But I will respect your wishes and I won't ask you again."<<elseif $nasirRefusalChoice is "deflecting">>Nasir actually laughs at that, genuine amusement breaking through his usual calculated demeanor. "And here I thought my vocabulary was one of my selling points." He straightens his already perfect tie. "Very well. Keep your rules, $firstName. They're adorable." He returns to his seat. "But I will respect your wishes and won't ask again."<<elseif $nasirRefusalChoice is "cynical">>"You're right those movies suck," Nasir snickers, and for a moment something else flickers in his eyes. "But you're right about one thing. I do acquire things. People. Companies. Information. I like the thrill of it but I will respect your wishes and won't ask you again" He looks directly at you.<</if>><br><br> You head for the door, files tucked under your arm. The weight of them feels heavier now, like they've absorbed some of the tension in the room.<br><br> "$firstName," Nasir calls as you reach for the handle. You pause but don't turn around. "Be careful with the Asher investigation. The Twenty-Three Families don't appreciate journalists who dig too deep."<br><br> "Since when has that stopped me?"<br><br> "Since never. Which is why I keep expecting to identify your body one of these days."<br><br> "Your concern is touching."<br><br> "My concern is practical. You're expensive to replace."<br><br> You leave without responding, closing the mahogany door with a soft click that sounds oddly final.<br><br> [[Continue|CH1P5.2.2.2.2]]

The room settles into a comfortable quiet that follows sex with Nasir.<br><br> You're both sprawled across the ruined bed, sheets tangled and damp, reeking of sweat and cum. His leg is thrown over yours.<br><br> The air conditioner gives one last wheeze and dies completely.<br><br> His fingers trace lazy patterns on your shoulder. Abstract designs that might be letters, might be nothing.<br><br> Then his phone rings.<br><br> The sound is harsh. Electronic. It's coming from his jacket, crumpled on that questionable armchair, and the specific ringtone Vivaldi's "Winter" that means it's important.<br><br> "Fuck," he mutters, but he's already moving.<br><br> The transformation is instant and absolute. Between one breath and the next, he shifts from private Nasir to business Nasir who owns half of Sordia's information pipeline. His shoulders straighten. His expression smooths into something professionally neutral.<br><br> Even naked, padding across the stained carpet, he looks like he's walking into a boardroom.<br><br> "Yes?" His voice is steady. Controlled. No hint that sixty seconds ago he was moaning your name.<br><br> You watch from the bed, sheet pulled up to your waist like modesty matters now. Like there's any dignity left to preserve.<br><br> "I see." His free hand is already reaching for his clothes. "When?" He balances the phone between ear and shoulder as he pulls on his underwear. Then his pants. Each movement graceful. How many times has he dressed while he had to shift from personal to professional without missing a beat?.<br><br> "No, that's unacceptable." His shirt goes on next, fingers working buttons. <br><br> You should probably be getting dressed too.<br><br> "Handle it," he says into the phone. "I don't care what it takes. Handle it."<br><br> He ends the call with a sharp tap. Stands there for a moment, fully dressed now.<br><br> "I have to go." Not an apology. Just a statement.<br><br> "Business emergency?"<br><br> "Something like that." He picks up his jacket, shrugs it on. Thousand-dollar fabric settling over his body. <br><br> He moves toward the door, then stops. Turns back. Crosses to the bed in three quick strides and cups your face in his hands. The kiss is bruising.<br><br> "Thursday," he says against your mouth. "Same time."<br><br> Not a question. Just an assumption that you'll be there.<br><br> Then he's gone. The door clicks shut with the same finality it opened with. The same three locks that trapped you in now keep the world out. Keep you in.<br><br> You should probably shower and go too. So you do exactly that.<br><br> Once you step out of the shower yo see your phone has a new message.<br><br> <div class="bl-bare-wrap"> <div class="bl-bare-msg in"> <div class="bl-bare-bubble">Have information about L.F. Fork n' Knife, midnight. Come alone. -Riley</div> <div class="bl-bare-time">unknown number</div> </div> </div> Your eyes narrow immediately. It’s Riley from the docks who sometimes feeds you shipping manifests.<br><br> Fork n' Knife is a 24-hour diner in the neutral zone. The kind of place where deals get made and bodies occasionally get found in the dumpster out back. Perfect for an informant who doesn't want to be seen in better lighting.<br><br> You check the time: 11:47 PM. Just enough time to walk there if you leave immediately. You pack up quickly.<br><br> You push through the door, back to business. The Fork n' Knife awaits.<br><br> [[Continue|CH1P7.1]]

The words barely leave your mouth before you're moving. Your hands find his chest, push with enough force to topple him backward onto the mattress. The cheap springs protest, but hold. Everything in this place is built to withstand worse.<br><br> You follow him down, thighs bracketing his hips before he can recover his balance. His hands immediately find your waist.<br><br> "$firstName—" he starts, voice honeyed even now, even with you above him.<br><br> "Save the charm for someone who believes it," you cut him off, grinding down just enough to feel him hard against you through thin fabric. <br><br> His laugh rumbles through his chest, vibrating against your palms. "Such a romantic. No wonder I hired you."<br><br> "You hired me because I'm good at seeing through bullshit." You reach between you, dealing with zippers and barriers swiftly. <<if $nipplesPiercing>>One hand finds your chest, fingers tracing the metal there with practiced familiarity before applying pressure that makes you arch against him. "Beautiful," he murmurs, thumb circling the jewelry with the same methodical attention he applies to everything.<</if>>The condoms are where they always are in places like this. But Nasir brought his own. Black packaging, because even his protection has to make a statement. "And right now, the truth is you want to until you forget about whatever you're working on."<br><br> "Partially correct," he murmurs, eyes tracking your movements as you tear the wrapper with your teeth. Those sharp eyes that miss nothing, calculating even now. "I want you to fuck me until we both feel some stress relief."<br><br> You position yourself above him, taking your time. Not to tease, but to watch the way his carefully constructed composure cracks just slightly at the edges. The way his fingers tighten on your hips. The way his breathing changes when you hover just out of reach.<br><br> "Then let’s do just that," you tell him, lowering yourself slowly. Letting him feel every inch as you take him inside. The stretch burns in the best way. <br><br> <<if $genitalPiercing>>The familiar weight of metal shifts as you settle onto him, the piercing adding layers of sensation that make your breath catch. Nasir's hand immediately find your clit, thumbs circling the piercing slwoly, but applying enough pressure and movement that makes your hips jerk involuntarily .<</if>> The groan he makes when you're fully seated on him is worth the three weeks of celibacy. His head tips back, exposing the long line of his throat.<br><br> You start moving, finding a rhythm that makes your thighs burn and your breath catch. His hands guide, letting you set the pace while his hips roll up to meet yours.<br><br> <<if $vice is "hookups">> Your body sings with the familiar high. This is what keeps you functional. Physical release without the messy complications that get people killed in Sordia. <</if>><br><br> "That reminds me," he says, voice rougher but still maintaining that smooth quality even as you ride him. "Found anyone interesting lately? Besides me of course."<br><br> <<if $relationshipType is "secret" >> Your rhythm falters slightly. Ace's amber eyes flash through your mind. You push the thought away, grinding down harder to cover the hesitation. "No one worth the complication," you manage. <<elseif $relationshipType is "obvious">> "There's... Ace might be..." The words slip out between gasps. His hands tighten on your hips, a knowing smile spreading across his face even as his breath hitches. "Your best friend?" His laugh vibrates through both of you. "Oh, $firstName. That's deliciously complicated." <<else>> "Romance requires trust," you gasp out, speeding up. "Trust requires stupidity. Not that stupid. I don’t want any complications." <</if>><br><br> His thumb finds your clit, circling with practiced precision as you continue to move above him. "Speaking of complications," he continues, remarkably composed for someone being thoroughly fucked, "the Marguerite Asher case."<br><br> "I can't believe it," you gasp, incredulous. "Now you want to discuss—fuck—work?"<br><br> "Multitasking," he breathes, angling his hips to hit deeper. "I just want you to understand better. Her daughter came to me. She’s desperate for answers."<br><br> You lean forward, changing the angle in a way that makes you both groan. "So you're using me to—ah—help your friend?"<br><br> "Not just help my friend. I'm giving my best investigator a story that needs telling," he corrects, his composure finally starting to crack as you clench around him. "Marguerite would never just vanish. She'd burn the city down before abandoning her empire."<br><br> <ul> <li> <<link '♡"When I crack this, you owe me more than just a bonus."'>> <<set $nasirDialogue to "bold">> <<set $nas_romance += 1>> <<goto "CH1P6MCVT 2">> <</link>><br><br> </li> </ul> <ul> <li> <<link '♡"Do you really think I can find her?"'>> <<set $nasirDialogue to "shy">> <<set $nas_romance += 1>> <<goto "CH1P6MCVT 2">> <</link>><br><br> </li> </ul> <ul> <li> <<link '♡"She probably just—oh fuck—needed a vacation from this shithole city."'>> <<set $nasirDialogue to "oblivious">> <<goto "CH1P6MCVT 2">> <</link>><br><br> </li> </ul> <ul> <li> <<link '♡"Should we be—fuck—discussing classified cases while—this is so inappropriate—"'>> <<set $nasirDialogue to "awkward">> <<set $nas_romance -= 1>> <<goto "CH1P6MCVT 2">> <</link>><br><br> </li> </ul> <ul> <li> <<link '♡"You lose your rhythm, nearly falling forward. \'Shit, sorry, just surprised you\'d—\'"'>> <<set $nasirDialogue to "clumsy">> <<goto "CH1P6MCVT 2">> <</link>><br><br> </li> </ul> <ul> <li> <<link '"She\'s dead. A week means dead in Sordia."'>> <<set $nasirDialogue to "cynical">> <<goto "CH1P6MCVT 2">> <</link>> </li> </ul>

His hands are everywhere at once. Not rough, but insistent. <<if $nipplesPiercing>>One hand finds your chest, fingers immediately seeking the metal he knows so well. "These drive you insane," he says with quiet confidence, thumb and forefinger working the jewelry with practiced skill. He watches your face intently as he applies pressure, twisting slightly in the way that makes your back arch involuntarily.<<else>>One plays with your nipples, the other grips your hip, thumb tracing the bone with something between possession and appreciation.<</if>><br><br> "You know what your problem is?" he says against your neck, teeth grazing but not quite biting. Always leaving himself deniability. "You think everything has to be a fight."<br><br> "And you think everything can be negotiated," you gasp as his fingers slide between your legs, finding you wet. No pretense. Just straight to what you both want.<br><br> He pushes two fingers inside, then three, stretching you with the same methodical precision he applies to everything. "Some things can. Like this. We could have been doing this years ago if you hadn't been so suspicious."<br><br> "I'm a journalist. Suspicion is literally my job." Your hips rock against his hand, seeking the friction he's deliberately withholding from your clit. "Besides, you like the challenge."<br><br> "True," he agrees, curling his fingers to hit that spot that makes your vision blur. "I do appreciate someone who makes me work for it. Though work seems like the wrong word for something this mutually beneficial."<br><br> You reach between you, wrapping your hand around his cock. He's hard, leaking, ready. "Everything's a business metaphor with you."<br><br> "And everything's an investigation with you. Looking for hidden motives." He pulls his fingers out, using the wetness to slick his cock. "Sometimes, $firstName, things are exactly what they seem."<br><br> He positions himself between your legs. Hooks one over his shoulder. Lines himself up with precision that makes you ache. Then he's pushing inside, slow and steady and inevitable, and your back arches off the mattress. <<if $genitalPiercing>>His fingers find the piercing with practiced ease, circling the metal as he fills you completely. The added stimulation makes your hips jerk involuntarily, a gasp escaping your lips at the intensity. "There," he murmurs against your throat, voice rough with satisfaction as he circles the piercing with deliberate skill.<</if>> "Look at me." His hand cups your jaw, forces your eyes to meet his. "I want to see you when you come apart."<br><br> He starts moving. Deep, deliberate thrusts that push the air from your lungs. The cheap bed frame slams against the wall with each impact.<br><br> <<if $vice is "hookups">> Your body sings with the familiar high. This is what keeps you functional. Physical release without the messy complications that get people killed in Sordia. <</if>><br><br> "You know," he says conversationally, as if he's not currently fucking you into the mattress, "I've been wondering about your personal life."<br><br> "Now?" you gasp, nails raking down his back. "You want to chat now?"<br><br> "I'm curious," he continues, hitting a particularly deep angle that makes you see stars. "Anyone catching your interest? Besides me of course."<br><br> <<if $relationshipType is "secret">> Ace's face flashes through your mind. That damned earnest smile. You dig your nails deeper into his shoulders. "No one—fuck—no one I can afford." <<elseif $relationshipType is "obvious">> "Ace is—" you start before you can stop yourself. He smiles even as he continues his punishing pace. "The CRD agent? Interesting choice. Very... morally complicated." <<else>> "Interest requires—ah—energy I don't have." <</if>><br><br> His hand snakes between your bodies, fingers finding your clit, working it in tight circles that match his thrusts. "Speaking of interests," he says, maddeningly composed despite the sweat beading on his skin, "Marguerite Asher."<br><br> "I can't believe it," you gasp, incredulous. "Now you want to discuss—fuck—work?"<br><br> "Multitasking," he breathes, angling his hips to hit deeper. "I just want you to understand better. Her daughter came to me. She’s desperate for answers."<br><br> "So you're using me to—ah—help your fr—?" Your words are cut off by a particularly deep thrust.<br><br> "Not just help my friend. I'm giving my best investigator a story that needs telling," he corrects, his composure finally starting to crack as you clench around him. "Marguerite would never just vanish. She'd burn the city down before abandoning her empire."<br><br> <ul> <li> <<link '♡"I\'ll find her, and—fuck—you\'ll give me whatever resources I need."'>> <<set $nasirDialogue to "bold">> <<set $nas_romance += 1>> <<goto "CH1P6MCVB 2">> <</link>><br><br> </li> </ul> <ul> <li> <<link '♡"Her daughter... she really wants my help?"'>> <<set $nasirDialogue to "shy">> <<set $nas_romance += 1>> <<goto "CH1P6MCVB 2">> <</link>><br><br> </li> </ul> <ul> <li> <<link '♡"Maybe she just—ah—ran off with a lover?"'>> <<set $nasirDialogue to "oblivious">> <<goto "CH1P6MCVB 2">> <</link>><br><br> </li> </ul> <ul> <li> <<link '♡"This is—we shouldn\'t—fuck—mixing business with—oh fuck—"'>> <<set $nasirDialogue to "awkward">> <<set $nas_romance -= 1>> <<goto "CH1P6MCVB 2">> <</link>><br><br> </li> </ul> <ul> <li> <<link '♡"Your leg slips off his shoulder. \'Shit—sorry—the case—it\'s distracting—\'"'>> <<set $nasirDialogue to "clumsy">> <<goto "CH1P6MCVB 2">> <</link>><br><br> </li> </ul> <ul> <li> <<link '"She\'s dead. A week means dead in Sordia."'>> <<set $nasirDialogue to "cynical">> <<goto "CH1P6MCVB 2">> <</link>> </li> </ul>

You're hard. Nasir notices, because of course he does. Those calculating eyes miss nothing. <<if $nipplesPiercing>>One hand finds your chest, fingers tracing the metal there with practiced familiarity before applying pressure that makes you arch against him.<</if>><br><br> "Ambitious," he says, amused. "Though I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. You never know when to quit."<br><br> "Funny, coming from the man who bought a news station just to control narratives." You run your hand down his spine, feeling the way his muscles tense and relax. "Turn over."<br><br> He does. With the kind of fluid grace that reminds you of a cat, even when he's face down on cheap motel sheets.<br><br> You reach for the lube, warming it between your fingers. He's done this before. Of course he has. A man like Nasir has tried everything at least once, probably more. But the way he gasps when you curve your finger just right tells you it's been a while. <br><br> Maybe since before the wife. Before he had an image to maintain that didn't include getting fucked in cheap motels by his subordinate.<br><br> You answer by circling his entrance with a slick finger, watching the way his shoulders tense then deliberately relax. He's letting you in.<br><br> The first finger slides in easier than expected. "All those late nights at the office," you say, adding a second finger. "Standing behind my desk. Reading over my shoulder. Was this what you were thinking about?"<br><br> "Among other things," he admits, pushing back against your hand. "Your complete inability to accept editorial oversight was also a frequent consideration."<br><br> "You mean my refusal to bury stories that made you uncomfortable." You add more lube, a third finger, stretching him thoroughly. Not because you have to, but because you want to watch him slowly come apart.<br><br> "I mean your stubborn insistence on printing every piece of truth regardless of consequences." His voice is rougher now, that polish starting to crack. "It's admirable and infuriating in equal measure."<br><br> "Just like your need to control everything is transparent and oddly attractive." You pull your fingers out, reaching for a condom. "We're both control freaks, Nasir. The difference is I admit it."<br><br> He laughs, looking back at you with those dark eyes. "You think I don't know exactly what I am? I bought a news station, $firstName. That's not the action of someone in denial about their control issues."<br><br> <<if $genitalPiercing>>You position yourself behind him, lined up and ready. "Then what is it?" The piercing adding weight and sensation as you push forward slowly. The metal shifts and warms as you enter him, Nasir's breath hitching into something between a gasp and a groan. His fingers clutch the sheets as you sink deeper, making his back arch involuntarily. "Fuck," he breathes, voice losing some of that calculated control as you bottom out completely, buried fully inside him.<<else>>You position yourself behind him, lined up and ready. "Then what is it?" You're, pushing forward slowly as Nasir's body opens for you. His breath hitches into something between a gasp and a groan, fingers clutching the sheets as you sink deeper. The heat and pressure are overwhelming, his body gripping you perfectly. "Fuck," he breathes, voice losing some of that calculated control as you bottom out completely, buried fully inside him.<</if>><br><br> "Investment in the future," he says as you push forward slowly, watching his body open for you. "In truth."<br><br> You bottom out with a groan, fully inside him. The heat, the pressure, the way his body grips you, it's overwhelming and perfect.<br><br> <<if $vice is "hookups">> Your body sings with the familiar high. This is what keeps you functional. Physical release without the messy complications that get people killed in Sordia. <</if>><br><br> "Your lens, you mean," you say, starting to move. Slow at first, letting him adjust.<br><br> "Our lens," he corrects, pushing back to meet your thrusts. "You think I don't value your perspective?"<br><br> You speed up gradually, finding a rhythm that makes him gasp beneath you. "Speaking of perspectives," he manages, remarkably coherent for someone getting thoroughly fucked, "seeing anyone these days?"<br><br> <<if $relationshipType is "secret">> Your hips stutter. Ace's laugh echoes in your memory. "No one stupid enough to—fuck—get involved with me." <<elseif $relationshipType is "obvious">> "Ace has been—" The admission slips out with a thrust. "Your best friend?" His laugh vibrates through both of you. "Oh, $firstName. That's deliciously complicated."<<else>> "People are distractions," you grunt, angling deeper. <</if>><br><br> You reach around, wrapping your hand around his cock. He's hard again, or still, leaking against the sheets. "Let's discuss something more interesting," he says, voice finally showing strain. "Marguerite Asher."<br><br> "I can't believe it," you gasp, incredulous. "Now you want to discuss—fuck—work?"<br><br> "Multitasking," his composure cracks as you hit his prostate. "I just want you to understand better. Her daughter came to me. She’s desperate for answers."<br><br> "So you're using me to—ah—help your friend?" You thrust particularly hard.<br><br> "Not just help my friend. I'm giving my best investigator a story that needs telling," he pushes back, taking you deeper. "Marguerite would never just vanish. She'd burn the city down before abandoning her empire."<br><br> <ul> <li> <<link '♡"I\'ll find her. And you\'ll give me everything I need to do it."'>> <<set $nasirDialogue to "bold">> <<set $nas_romance += 1>> <<goto "CH1P6MCDT 2">> <</link>><br><br> </li> </ul> <ul> <li> <<link '♡"You really think I can help your friend?"'>> <<set $nasirDialogue to "shy">> <<set $nas_romance += 1>> <<goto "CH1P6MCDT 2">> <</link>><br><br> </li> </ul> <ul> <li> <<link '♡"Maybe she\'s just taking a break from the pressure?"'>> <<set $nasirDialogue to "oblivious">> <<goto "CH1P6MCDT 2">> <</link>><br><br> </li> </ul> <ul> <li> <<link '♡"We shouldn\'t be discussing—fuck—this is so inappropriate—"'>> <<set $nasirDialogue to "awkward">> <<set $nas_romance -= 1>> <<goto "CH1P6MCDT 2">> <</link>><br><br> </li> </ul> <ul> <li> <<link '♡"You lose rhythm, nearly slipping out. \'Shit—sorry—just processing—\'"'>> <<set $nasirDialogue to "clumsy">> <<goto "CH1P6MCDT 2">> <</link>><br><br> </li> </ul> <ul> <li> <<link '"She\'s dead. A week means dead in Sordia."'>> <<set $nasirDialogue to "cynical">> <<goto "CH1P6MCDT 2">> <</link>> </li> </ul>

"Are you ready?," Nasir says, and there's something calculating in his smile. Something that reminds you he's dissected a thousand power structures before breakfast. Why you should be wary of him, but aren't.<br><br> He pushes you onto your back with surprising force.<br><br> "Let's see if you're as observant when you're the one being observed," he murmurs, crawling over you with deliberate slowness. Each movement calculated for effect. "You spend so much time analyzing everyone else. Taking them apart with that sharp mind of yours."<br><br> Your cock hardens at the look he’s giving you. At being the subject rather than the investigator.<br><br> He notices, naturally. Wraps his hand around your length and strokes with the same precision he applies to everything else. "Interesting. The relentless truth-seeker likes being the mystery for once."<br><br> <<if $nipplesPiercing>>His free hand finds your chest, fingers playing with the metal and flesh with maddening slowness, applying just enough pressure to make you gasp.<</if>><br><br> "There's no mystery here," you counter, though your breath catches when his thumb circles the head of your cock. "Just mutual opportunism."<br><br> "Is that what we're calling it?" His hand continues its maddening rhythm, slow enough to build tension, not quite enough to satisfy. "I prefer to think of it as an exchange of valuable intelligence."<br><br> You reach for him, but he catches your wrists, pressing them into the mattress. "Patience, $firstName. You're always rushing toward conclusions. Sometimes the journey reveals more than the destination."<br><br> The philosophy lecture while he's stroking your cock is so perfectly Nasir that you actually laugh. "Do you practice these lines, or do they just come naturally?"<br><br> "Natural talent," he says, releasing your wrists to reach for supplies. "Like your talent for pushing every button except the ones that would actually get you what you want."<br><br> He tears open a condom packet with his teeth, maintaining eye contact. Then lubricant, warmed between his fingers with the patience of someone who's never had to rush anything in his life.<br><br> "You know what I've noticed about you?" he continues conversationally, as if he's not circling your entrance with a slick finger. "You're so focused on exposing everyone else's truth, you forget to relax."<br><br> The first finger slides in, and you bite back a response. He works you open with the same methodical attention he probably applies to contracts. Thorough. Unhurried.<br><br> "Your body's more honest than your mouth," he observes, adding a second finger. <br><br> "Fuck," you breathe as he curves his fingers just right. "Your pillow talk is still terrible."<br><br> "And yet you keep coming back." A third finger now, stretching you with careful precision. "What does that say about your standards?"<br><br> "That I have a weakness for people who are bad for me," you admit, hips rocking against his hand despite yourself.<br><br> "Bad for you?" He pulls his fingers out, positioning himself between your legs. "I prefer to think of myself as... educational."<br><br> He pushes inside slowly. So slowly you want to grab his hips and pull him in faster. But that would be showing your hand. Admitting need.<br><br> <<if $genitalPiercing>>His hand wraps around your cock, thumb immediately finding the piercing with practiced precision. His fingers work the jewelry with calculated skill, applying pressure and movement that makes your hips jerk involuntarily. <<else>>His hand wraps around your cock, stroking with practiced precision that makes your breath catch. He works you with calculated skill, thumb circling the head in patterns that make your hips jerk involuntarily.<</if>><br><br> The head of his cock breaches you, and his eyes flutter closed for just a moment. Then they open again, fixed on yours with that calculating intensity.<br><br> "Fuck," you breathe, hands fisting in the sheets.<br><br> <<if $vice is "hookups">> Your body sings with the familiar high. This is what keeps you functional. Physical release without the messy complications that get people killed in Sordia. <</if>><br><br> "Feels good?" He pushes deeper, maddeningly controlled. "You know what else might feel good? Having someone in your life besides your stories."<br><br> He starts moving, slow enough to drive you insane. "Are you seriously—fuck—asking about my love life now?"<br><br> "When else would you be honest about it?" He hits your prostate with precision, making you see stars.<br><br> <<if $relationshipType is "secret">> Your falter slightly. Ace's amber eyes flash through your mind. You push the thought away, grinding against Nasir harder to cover the hesitation. "No one worth the complication," you manage. <<elseif $relationshipType is "obvious">> "There's... Ace might be..." The words slip out between gasps. His hands tighten on your hips, a knowing smile spreading across his face even as his breath hitches. "Your best friend?" His laugh vibrates through both of you. "Oh, $firstName. That's deliciously complicated." <<else>> "Romance requires trust," you gasp out, speeding up. "Trust requires stupidity. Not that stupid. I don’t want any complications." <</if>><br><br> His hand wraps around your cock, stroking in time with his thrusts. "Speaking of things you can't afford to ignore," he says, infuriatingly composed, "Marguerite Asher."<br><br> "I can't believe it," you gasp, incredulous. "Now you want to discuss—fuck—work?"<br><br> "Multitasking," he speeds up slightly, just enough to scramble your thoughts. "I just want you to understand better. Her daughter came to me. She’s desperate for answers."<br><br> "So you're using me to—ah—help your fr—?" Nasir thrusts particularly hard.<br><br> "Not just help my friend. I'm giving my best investigator a story that needs telling," he clarifies, thumb swiping over the head of your cock. "Marguerite would never just vanish. She'd burn the city down before abandoning her empire."<br><br> <ul> <li> <<link '♡"I\'ll find her. But I want—fuck—full access. No restrictions."'>> <<set $nasirDialogue to "bold">> <<set $nas_romance += 1>> <<goto "CH1P6MCDB 2">> <</link>><br><br> </li> </ul> <ul> <li> <<link '♡"Evelyn... she really wants me to investigate?"'>> <<set $nasirDialogue to "shy">> <<set $nas_romance += 1>> <<goto "CH1P6MCDB 2">> <</link>><br><br> </li> </ul> <ul> <li> <<link '♡"Maybe she eloped? Secret romance?"'>> <<set $nasirDialogue to "oblivious">> <<goto "CH1P6MCDB 2">> <</link>><br><br> </li> </ul> <ul> <li> <<link '♡"This is—we can\'t—discussing work while—this is insane—"'>> <<set $nasirDialogue to "awkward">> <<set $nas_romance -= 1>> <<goto "CH1P6MCDB 2">> <</link>><br><br> </li> </ul> <ul> <li> <<link '♡"Your hand slips, knocking over the lube. \'Fuck—sorry—distracted by—\'"'>> <<set $nasirDialogue to "clumsy">> <<goto "CH1P6MCDB 2">> <</link>><br><br> </li> </ul> <ul> <li> <<link '"She\'s dead. A week means dead in Sordia."'>> <<set $nasirDialogue to "cynical">> <<goto "CH1P6MCDT 2">> <</link>> </li> </ul>

<<if $nasirDialogue is "bold">>His eyes gleam with professional hunger even as his hips buck up involuntarily. The combination of your demand and the way you're riding him strips away his usual calculated facade. "Name your price. After. Fuck, $firstName—" His hands grip your hips harder, that smooth voice finally cracking. "Whatever resources you need. Full discretion. Just don't stop moving like that."<<elseif $nasirDialogue is "shy">>His hands steady your hips, guiding you back into rhythm with surprising gentleness. Even through the haze of pleasure, his voice carries genuine conviction. "I wouldn't have asked if I didn't. You're brilliant that's why I trust you." His thumb finds your clit again, circling with renewed focus. "Evelyn needs someone who sees through bullshit. That's you, $firstName. Always has been."<<elseif $nasirDialogue is "oblivious">>He actually laughs, the vibration making you both moan. His composure cracks just enough to show genuine disbelief. "Marguerite doesn't take vacations. She takes scalps." He thrusts up harder, as if emphasizing his point through action. "That woman would burn down a beach resort for interrupting her quarterly projections. Try again, $firstName. Think like the journalist I hired."<<elseif $nasirDialogue is "awkward">>He pulls you down for a hungry kiss. When he releases you, his smile is all predator. "$firstName. We passed inappropriate I don't know how many hookups ago." His fingers dig into your hips, controlling your rhythm now. "This is who we are. We mix business with everything. Stop pretending otherwise and focus on what I'm telling you."<<elseif $nasirDialogue is "clumsy">>He catches you with practiced ease, clinging to you while thrusting up harder. You clench around his dick harder in return. "Focus. On the case later. On this now." He starts moving with deliberate precision, hitting angles that make coherent thought impossible. "Marguerite's daughters need someone sharp. Be sharp. After I'm done making you incoherent."<<elseif $nasirDialogue is "cynical">>His rhythm falters slightly, something flashing across his face… concern? Calculation? It's gone before you can identify it. "Perhaps. But Marguerite was tougher than that. Find her, $firstName." He speeds up, as if trying to fuck the cynicism out of you. "Evelyn deserves answers, even if those answers are brutal. She's paying for truth, not comfort."<</if>><br><br> "The story will be huge," he gasps, his control finally shattered as you speed up, chasing your orgasm. "Missing CEO from one of the 23 famili—fuck, $firstName, just like that—" The rest of his words are lost as your climax hits, your body clenching around him, pulling his own release from him like a confession.<br><br> You collapse forward onto his chest, both of you breathing hard.<br><br> "Same time next month?" he asks, pressing a kiss to your temple that manages to be both tender.<br><br> "Yeah," you reply, already calculating how long you need to stay before going back.<br><br> [[Continue|CH1P6.1.2]]

<<if $nasirDialogue is "bold">>He grins even as his rhythm starts to falter, that honeyed voice rough with arousal and approval. "Whatever you need. Full support. Shit, you're incredible when you're demanding." He leans down, biting your neck hard enough to mark. "Unlimited budget. Access to private databases. My personal contacts. Just solve this, $firstName. Show everyone why I keep you despite your complete inability to follow editorial guidelines."<<elseif $nasirDialogue is "shy">>He slows his pace, pressing his forehead to yours in an unexpectedly intimate gesture. His eyes, usually calculating, show some mirth. "I want your help. I trust you with this." His hand finds yours, interlacing fingers even as he continues moving inside you. "The daughter asked for the truth. That's you, whether you believe it or not. I believe it enough for both of us."<<elseif $nasirDialogue is "oblivious">>He actually stops mid-thrust to stare at you with complete incredulity. The loss of friction makes you whimper, which seems to remind him of the task at hand. "Marguerite's only love was power. Try again." He resumes with punishing force, each thrust punctuating his words. "That woman. Would. Never. Choose. Romance. Over. Empire. Think, $firstName. Use that brilliant brain before I fuck it completely out of you."<<elseif $nasirDialogue is "awkward">>He silences you with a kiss that's all teeth, his control finally cracking. When he pulls back, his smile is sharp. "We mix everything else. Why stop now?" His pace becomes almost brutal, as if he's trying to drive the hesitation out of you through sheer physical overwhelming. "Stop overthinking. Some of our best decisions happen when we mix business with pleasure. This case needs your instincts, not your propriety."<<elseif $nasirDialogue is "clumsy">>He catches your leg with one hand, pushing it higher than before, changing the angle to something devastating. "Then let me help you focus." His other hand finds your clit, circling with intent precision that makes your back arch off the mattress. "Marguerite first. Then distraction. Then you can fall apart. But right now, I need you present. Evelyn is counting on someone who can compartmentalize."<<elseif $nasirDialogue is "cynical">>His rhythm falters slightly, something flashing across his face… concern? Calculation? It's gone before you can identify it. "Perhaps. But Marguerite was tougher than that. Find her, $firstName." He speeds up, as if trying to fuck the cynicism out of you. "Evelyn deserves answers, even if those answers are brutal. She's paying for truth, not comfort."<</if>><br><br> "The story will be huge," he pants, his control finally breaking, "Missing CEO from one of the 23 famili—fuck, $firstName, just like that—"<br><br> You're both close now, bodies moving desperately, chasing release.<br><br> You want to argue, but your orgasm hits before you can form words. Your body clenches around him, back arching off the mattress. He follows immediately, your name mixed with curses in at least two languages as he comes.<br><br> He collapses beside you rather than on you, both of you staring at the water-stained ceiling as reality seeps back in.<br><br> "Your pillow talk needs work," you finally say.<br><br> "Your deflection is predictable," he counters, but there's fondness in it.<br><br> He lifts off you eventually, disposing of the condom with the same efficiency he probably uses to sign death warrants for stories that get too close to truths he needs hidden. You lie there, boneless, thoughtless, exactly as he intended.<br><br> [[Continue|CH1P6.1.2]]

<<if $nasirDialogue is "bold">>He moans approval, pushing back to meet your thrusts with desperate enthusiasm. "Everything. Resources, access, whatever—fuck—you're perfect when you take charge." His composure completely shattered now, that honeyed voice reduced to gasps and pleas. "Evelyn will have her answers. The station will have its exclusive. And you'll have whatever you demand. Just keep fucking me exactly like that while you make your demands."<<elseif $nasirDialogue is "shy">>He reaches back, hand finding yours where it grips his hip, squeezing with surprising tenderness given the circumstances. "I know you can. I trust you with this." He turns his head to look at you, eyes unusually sincere. "You see patterns others miss. You dig when everyone else gives up. Evelyn needs that tenacity. I need it. Don't doubt yourself now, not when it matters most."<<elseif $nasirDialogue is "oblivious">>He actually laughs, breathless and incredulous, the sound vibrating through both of you. "Marguerite Asher doesn't break. She breaks others." He clenches around you deliberately, making you groan. "That woman treats pressure like foreplay. The more intense, the more engaged she becomes. Think like a journalist, $firstName, not a travel agent. Someone took her. Find out who."<<elseif $nasirDialogue is "awkward">>He clenches around you with deliberate intent, effectively scrambling your higher brain functions. "Everything about us is inappropriate. Focus." His voice carries that edge of command even while face-down on cheap sheets. "Evelyn needs someone who can handle messy situations. Clearly, you can. Stop second-guessing and start investigating. After. Definitely after. But commit to it now while you're too overwhelmed to overthink."<<elseif $nasirDialogue is "clumsy">>He pushes back forcefully, keeping you inside with practiced control. "Process later. Fuck now." His hand reaches back to grip your hip, guiding your rhythm. "The case will require your full attention. So does this. Learn to compartmentalize, $firstName. Marguerite's daughter needs someone who can focus despite distractions. Consider this practice."<<elseif $nasirDialogue is "cynical">>His body tenses beneath you, muscles coiling with something beyond physical response. "Then prove it. Give Evelyn answers." His grins while trying to muffle his groan in the pillow. "Evelyn is not naive, $firstName. She knows she might be gone. But knowing and confirming are different beasts. She needs certainty to move forward. Give her that certainty, even if it's brutal."<</if>><br><br> "The story will be huge," he gasps as you speed up, both of you close. "Missing CEO from one of the 23 famili—fuck, $firstName, just like that—" <br><br> "Come for me," you say, angling your hips to hit his prostate with every thrust. <br><br> That does it. He comes with a sound that's almost a scream, muffled by the pillow. His cock pulses in your hand, painting the sheets with thick ropes of cum. His ass clenches around you, impossibly tight, pulling your own orgasm from you like confession pulled from a guilty man.<br><br> You thrust deep one final time and come harder than you have in months. Your vision goes white. Your body shakes. You collapse forward onto his back, both of you breathing like you've run a marathon.<br><br> The room smells like sex and sweat and latex. Somewhere in the distance, a siren wails, racing toward some other disaster.<br><br> You pull out carefully, disposing of the condom, trying not to think about how empty you feel without him around you.<br><br> [[Continue|CH1P6.1.2]]

<<if $nasirDialogue is "bold">>His pace becomes rewarding, hitting your prostate with each thrust in a rhythm designed to destroy coherent thought. "Whatever you need. I trust you completely with this." His hand speeds on your cock. "Full access to archives. My personal intelligence network. Classified contacts. Evelyn chose well when she came to me. I'm choosing well by giving this to you. Prove us both right."<<elseif $nasirDialogue is "shy">>He leans down, breath hot against your ear, his voice losing its usual calculated tone. "I want you to investigate. I believe in you." His weight presses you into the mattress, somehow making everything more intense. "Evelyn trusts my judgment. I trust yours. Stop doubting yourself, $firstName. You're brilliant when you let yourself be. This case needs that brilliance, not false modesty."<<elseif $nasirDialogue is "oblivious">>He pauses mid-thrust, cock buried deep, to stare down at you with complete bafflement. "Marguerite Asher's only romance was with power itself." He resumes with punishing force. "She'd eat a romantic partner alive. Literally, possibly, given her connections. Think harder, $firstName. Someone took her. Someone with serious resources and even more serious balls."<<elseif $nasirDialogue is "awkward">>He silences you by hitting your prostate repeatedly with surgical precision, reducing you to wordless gasps. "We're already insane. Might as well be productive." His hand works your cock with matching rhythm. "The Asher daughters need someone who can handle unconventional situations. Clearly, that's you. Stop fighting your nature and embrace it. The case needs your particular brand of brilliant dysfunction."<<elseif $nasirDialogue is "clumsy">>He catches the bottle without missing a thrust, displaying reflexes that remind you why he's survived Sordia's corporate wars. "Focus. On the case tomorrow. On this now." He changes angle slightly, making stars explode behind your eyelids. "Marguerite's disappearance will require your complete attention. No room for distraction. Consider this a lesson in maintaining concentration under extreme circumstances. You'll need it."<<elseif $nasirDialogue is "cynical">>His grip on your cock tightens almost painfully before resuming its rhythm. "Then prove it. Give her daughters closure." His voice carries something raw, almost vulnerable. "They're prepared for the worst, $firstName. They're Ashers. But prepared and confirmed are different things. They need facts to plan their response. Whether that's rescue or revenge depends on what you find. Find it fast."<</if>><br><br> "The story will be huge," he gasps as he speeds up, both of you close. "Missing CEO from one of the 23 famili—fuck, $firstName, just like that—"<br><br> His hand speeds on your cock as his thrusts become erratic. The dual sensation overwhelms you, pulling your orgasm from you like a confession. You come with a sound that might be his name, might be a curse, might be both. Your vision whites out as your body clenches around him, pulling his own orgasm from him, groaning your name as he fills you.<br><br> He collapses beside you rather than on you, both of you staring at the water-stained ceiling as reality seeps back in. The sound of sirens in the distance. The rattle of the air conditioner.<br><br> He lifts off you eventually, disposing of the condom. You lie there, boneless, thoughtless, exactly as he intended.<br><br> [[Continue|CH1P6.1.2]]

<<if $maudChoice5 is "cutting">>Maud's grin falters slightly. "Terrorized is a strong word. I prefer... aggressively interviewed." She kicks at a piece of trash. "And I wasn't just curious. Someone at the docks knowing your name while you're investigating murders? That's dangerous, $firstName. I was protecting you." The shadows around her pulse defensively. "But fine, judge me for caring in the only way I know how."<<elseif $maudChoice5 is "methodical">>"Exactly!" Maud claps her hands. "See, when you lay it out like that, it's very logical! Very step-by-step!" She counts on her fingers, shadows mimicking the gesture. "Identify threat, investigate threat, neutralize threat, use threat's resources. Textbook operation!" She grins wider. "Well, if textbooks included kidnapping. Which they should, honestly. Very effective."<<elseif $maudChoice5 is "hardened">>"No he won't," Maud says with disturbing confidence. "I made it very clear that reporting anything would be... inadvisable. Something about shadows that follow people home, get into their dreams, make them question reality." She examines her nails. "He won't talk. Too scared. Too smart. Both." She looks up at you. "Your network was already compromised if dock workers are gossiping about your investigations."<</if>><br><br> You should walk away. Call Ace.<br><br> She spins the keys around her finger. "Come on, $firstName-bear. Let's get out of here before someone actually calls the cops."<br><br> But she's humming again, that broken melody, and her black eyes are reflecting the streetlight in ways that remind you of oil spills. Of pollution. Of things that poison everything they touch but are still, somehow, necessary parts of the ecosystem.<br><br> Deep inside you know that in her own completely fucked up way, she was gathering the courage to talk to you again but didn’t know how to face you yet.<br><br> So you get in the car.<br><br> The interior smells like cigarette smoke and something metallic. The passenger seat has suspicious stains you don't examine too closely. There's an air freshener hanging from the mirror, pine scent, which just makes everything smell like someone tried to hide a corpse in a forest.<br><br> "Seatbelt!" Maud chirps, clicking hers into place. "Safety first!"<br><br> The juxtaposition of safety concerns from someone who just admitted to kidnapping is so absurd you almost laugh hysterically. Almost.<br><br> She turns the key. The engine coughs, dies. Tries again. On the third attempt, it groans to life, sounding like it's powered by spite.<br><br> "Christine's temperamental," Maud explains, patting the dashboard affectionately. "But she runs! Usually..."<br><br> She checks the mirrors, all three positioned at completely wrong angles for driving—and adjusts the rearview to show the ceiling.<br><br> "Perfect," she declares, then throws the car into drive.<br><br> The sedan lurches forward like a wounded animal learning to walk. Something in the engine makes a grinding sound that definitely isn't normal. Maybe isn't even mechanical. Probably is the car's soul trying to escape.<br><br> "So!" Maud says, taking a turn without signaling or, apparently, looking. "Let’s go to my place!"<br><br> "We need to plan this properly," you say, gripping the door handle as she runs a red light. Not deliberately. She just doesn't seem to notice it exists.<br><br> "Planning! Yes! I love planning!" She swerves around a taxi, the driver's horn blaring. Maud waves cheerfully at his extended middle finger. "We should make lists! And charts! With red string! I have so much red string!"<br><br> Another turn, tires squealing. Your <<if $handItch is 'left'>>left<<elseif $handItch is 'right' >>right<</if>> hand is itching but this time with the very reasonable desire to grab the wheel.<br><br> "Maud—"<br><br> "Oh, also!" She cuts you off, accelerating through a yellow light that's definitely red by the time you pass under it. "I should mention…I don't technically have a license."<br><br> "What?"<br><br> "Yeah, turns out they require things like 'writing tests' and 'driving test.' Very boring if you ask me!"<br><br> The car hits a pothole hard enough to make something fall off the undercarriage. It clangs against the asphalt behind you.<br><br> "That's probably fine," Maud decides, not slowing down.<br><br> She merges into traffic without looking, guided apparently by pure luck. Other cars swerve. Horns blare. Someone shouts.<br><br> "I love driving!" Maud announces, grinning wider as she takes another corner at a speed that makes the tires scream. "Just people in metal boxes trying not to die!"<br><br> The speedometer creeps past what should be possible in a car this old. The engine makes sounds like it's negotiating with death.<br><br> The city blurs past and the occasional pedestrian diving for safety. Your sister drives like a psycho—without regard for physics, laws, or basic survival instinct.<br><br> But somehow, you're still alive.<br><br> "Hey $firstName?" Maud says, finally slowing down slightly as traffic thickens.<br><br> "What?"<br><br> "I really am sorry about Riley. I know he was useful to you."<br><br> The apology catches you off-guard. It sounds almost... genuine.<br><br> "Just... maybe next time try talking to people first? Before the kidnapping?"<br><br> "I'll consider it," she says, then grins. "But no promises. Kidnapping is surprisingly effective!"<br><br> The engine makes another dying sound. The check engine light flickers on. Then off. Then on again, like it's having an existential crisis.<br><br> "Perfect," Maud declares. "Christine's expressing herself!"<br><br> You close your eyes and try not to think about how your investigation into a murdered mistress with her child has led to sitting in a possibly stolen car with your definitely criminal psycho sister.<br><br> In Sordia, family reunions should come with warnings. Apparently, they also come with felonies and vehicles that violate the laws of physics.<br><br> [[Continue|CH1P10]]

The car lurches through another red light.<br><br> Your phone vibrates. Uncle Ben's name illuminates the cracked screen. You thumb out a quick message while gripping the door handle with your other hand as Maud takes a corner at physics-defying speeds.<br><br> <div class="bl-bare-wrap"> <div class="bl-bare-msg out"> <div class="bl-bare-bubble">Won't make it back tonight. Got caught up in something. Tomorrow.</div> <div class="bl-bare-time">Uncle Ben · delivered</div> </div> </div> The response is immediate. Like he's been waiting by the phone. Like he always does when you're out chasing stories that might get you killed.<br><br> <div class="bl-bare-msg in"> <div class="bl-bare-bubble">Be safe, please.</div> <div class="bl-bare-time">Uncle Ben</div> </div> "Texting and driving is dangerous," Maud sing-songs, swerving around a delivery truck with inches to spare. "Or texting while someone else is driving. Same thing really when you think about it."<br><br> "Nice work on the Grey broadcast," Maud says suddenly, taking another turn without signaling. Her black eyes never leave the road but something in her voice shifts. Becomes less manic. More... present. "Very dramatic. Very you."<br><br> The comment catches you off-guard. Your <<if $handItch is 'left'>>left<<elseif $handItch is 'right' >>right<</if>> hand starts itching. That familiar sensation when something doesn't add up.<br><br> <<if $siblingRelationship is "broken">> "Though you always did love the sound of your own voice," she adds, snickering. "Some things never change, even when everything else goes to shit." <<elseif $siblingRelationship is "neutral">> "You’re good at getting people to listen," she continues, in a sing-song voice. "Very badass." <<elseif $siblingRelationship is "fixable">> "Made me proud," she says quietly, so quietly you almost miss it over Christine's death rattle engine. "Seeing you tear that bastard apart on live television. I was really proud..." She trails off, shadows curling around her fingers on the steering wheel. <</if>><br><br> "You watched it?"<br><br> The surprise in your voice is genuine. You can't picture Maud sitting still long enough to watch anything, let alone your broadcasts. Let alone caring enough to pay attention.<br><br> "I always watch when you're live." She says it matter-of-factly. "Every single time." The admission hangs between you. Heavy. Loaded with implications you're not ready to unpack.<br><br> A red light approaches. Maud doesn't slow down. Doesn't even acknowledge its existence. Cars honk. Swerve.<br><br> You know you will regret it but you have to ask. The question forms before you can stop it. Before your better judgment can intervene. Before self-preservation can remind you that some doors shouldn't be opened.<br><br> "How far has it gone, Maud?"<br><br> She knows what you mean. The stiffening of her shoulders tells you that much. The way shadows suddenly writhe more violently around her.<br><br> "Are you becoming like—"<br><br> The car stops.<br><br> Not slows down. Not pulls over. Stops. Dead center in the middle of the street. It throws you forward against the seatbelt hard enough to bruise.<br><br> Maud turns to look at you. Really look at you.<br><br> Her black eyes are voids. Not metaphorically. Literally. Light falls into them and doesn't come back. The shadows in the car deepen, thicken, become something almost solid. The temperature drops, you begin to shiver slightly.<br><br> Behind you, horns blare. Angry. Insistent. Headlights pile up, turning the interior into a shifting pattern of light that can't quite penetrate the darkness emanating from your sister.<br><br> "I have it under control," she says.<br><br> Five words. This voice is colder. And somehow you don’t believe her.<br><br> <ul> <li> <<link '"Under control? You kept a man in your trunk for eighteen hours. That\'s not control, that\'s deranged."'>> <<set $maudChoice6 to "cutting">> <<run setup.setTrait('deflecting', ($deflecting || 50) - 1)>> <<set $maudstat -= 2>> <<goto "CH1P10.1">> <</link>><br><br> </li> </ul> <ul> <li> <<link '"Define control. Because from where I\'m sitting, kidnapping informants and driving without a license doesn\'t suggest emotional regulation."'>> <<set $maudChoice6 to "methodical">> <<run setup.setTrait('intuitive', ($intuitive || 50) - 1)>> <<set $observation += 1>> <<goto "CH1P10.1">> <</link>><br><br> </li> </ul> <ul> <li> <<link '"I\'m worried about you. This isn\'t who you were before... everything."'>> <<set $maudChoice6 to "soft">> <<run setup.setTrait('soft', ($soft || 50) + 1)>> <<set $maudstat += 1>> <<goto "CH1P10.1">> <</link>><br><br> </li> </ul> <ul> <li> <<link '"Bullshit. You\'re one bad day from becoming exactly like her."'>> <<set $maudChoice6 to "confrontational">> <<run setup.setTrait('relaxed', ($relaxed || 50) - 1)>> <<set $maudstat -= 1>> <<goto "CH1P10.1">> <</link>> </li> </ul>

The apartment door opens into darkness.<br><br> "I’m not good with lights as you know," Maud says from somewhere in the black, her voice coming from three different directions at once. "But since you're all human and probably need to see..."<br><br> A single bulb flickers to life. Then another. Then several more in sequence, each one revealing another layer of chaos that makes your desperate need to understand what the fuck you're looking at.<br><br> The apartment is a crime scene waiting to happen. Or maybe one that already has.<br><br> Pizza boxes tower. Clothing drapes from every surface—black jeans, black shirts, black jackets, black everything, like Maud's entire wardrobe is in mourning for her sanity. Empty energy drink cans form small pyramids on surfaces that might have once been tables but are now archaeological sites of caffeine addiction.<br><br> The floor is barely visible beneath layers of newspapers, printouts, photographs scattered like leaves after a storm. Some are crumpled, others pristine. Dirty plates stack in corners.<br><br> But it's the wall that stops you cold.<br><br> Every vertical surface has been transformed into a sprawling investigation board. Red string crisscrosses between photographs, some scribbled notes, medical documents, financial records. The strings form patterns that hurt to follow.<br><br> "Welcome to my mind palace," Maud announces, spreading her arms wide. "Or mind prison. Depends on the day."<br><br> She kicks a path through the debris, sending empty takeout containers skittering into dark corners.<br><br> "Kitchen's through there if you want something to drink. Bathroom's down the hall. Bedroom's where you'll sleep since I don't really need to anymore."<br><br> Your eyes can't stop tracking the wall.<br><br> "How long have you been working on this?"<br><br> "Time's relative when you don't sleep much," Maud says, already at the wall, fingers tracing connections between clippings. "But specifically? Two days since I caught Jace taking photos and since someone put a bullet through his skull before he could tell me everything."<br><br> She says it so casually. Like murder is just normalcy in whatever conspiracy she's mapping.<br><br> <<if $siblingRelationship is "broken">>"One condition," you say. "After this is done, you get the fuck out of my life. I never want to see you again."<<elseif $siblingRelationship is "neutral">>"I'm helping because this is a story," you clarify. "Not because we're okay. We're not okay."<<else>>"You're buying me so much therapy after this," you mutter. "So much therapy."<</if>><br><br> "Deal," Maud says immediately. Then, quieter: "Thank you."<br><br> "Start from the beginning," you say, moving closer to the wall as well. "Who was Jace?"<br><br> Maud pulls out a phone, you guess it’s hers. The screen is cracked and there's dried blood on the case.<br><br> "Jace Morrison. Twenty-eight. Human. Worked as a freelance photographer, which was obviously bullshit because his equipment was too expensive for someone making artist wages." She scrolls through the phone with practiced efficiency. "I caught him Tuesday night, taking photos of Luz during a deal."<br><br> She projects an image from the phone onto the least cluttered section of wall. It shows Luz from a distance, But it's not a casual photo. It's surveillance. Professional. The angle, the clarity despite the distance, the way $luzHe is centered in frame like a target.<br><br> "So my partner and I hunted him down," Maud continues, her tone shifting to something darker. "Vinny-Pooh got shot or something and I had to do all the hard work of tracking him down."<br><br> "What did you do?"<br><br> "I wanted to ask questions." She grins, but it doesn't reach her black eyes. "Sadly he was shot before I could ask anything."<br><br> Maud moves to the center of the wall, where twelve photographs you have already seen briefly at the diner are printed out and arranged in a circle. Each one is a surveillance shot, taken from a distance but with professional clarity. Your stomach turns when you see your own face among them.<br><br> "Let's meet our fellow targets," Maud says with false cheer. "The twelve people someone thinks are worth watching and cataloging.I spent yesterday gathering some intel on a few people who I didn’t know."<br><br> She points to the first photo, upper left.<br><br> "Marguerite Asher. Chronos bloodline. Fifty-eight years old. Works as a strategic consultant for three different Fortune 500 companies, which is impressive considering she only appears to work about four hours a week." Maud taps the photo. "Missing for a week now. No body. No ransom. No trace."<br><br> Even in the surveillance shot, she seems to be looking at something beyond the camera's view.<br><br> "Next: Linnea Frost, the murdering bitch. Fae bloodline. Thirty-one." The second photo shows her with her real features, silver-blonde hair that seems to shine depending on the angle and softly glowing violet eyes. "Heiress to the Frost business. Can make people remember things that never happened. Missing for 72 hours. Question is has she fled the country because she murdered her lovers other mistress and kid or did something else happen?"<br><br> Maud moves to the third photo. "Yours truly." The surveillance shot captures her mid-laugh, same $hair as you. "You already know my resume. Umbra bloodline disaster. Professional problem. Part-time kidnapper, full-time guardian of ungrateful <<if $gender is 'cisgender-male' or $gender is 'transgender-male'>>brother<<elseif $gender is 'cisgender-female' or $gender is 'transgender-female'>>sister<<else>>sibling<</if>>."<br><br> The fourth photo makes you lean closer. "Dr. Arden. Manitou bloodline. Thirty-eight. Runs that neutral underground clinic."<br><br> <<if $ardenmet is false>> In the photo you see a... <ul> <li> <<link '...man with pale skin and piercing grey eyes that seem almost lifeless, as if they’ve seen too much.'>> <<set $ardenName = "Dr. Arden">> <<set $ardenHe = "he">> <<set $ardenHim = "him">> <<set $ardenHis = "his">> <<set $ardenHimself to "himself">> <<set $ardenHeC to "He">> <<set $ardenHimC to "Him">> <<set $ardenHisC to "His">> <<set $aceHimselfC to "Himself">> <<set $ardenGender = "male">> <<set $ardenmet = true>> <<goto "CH1P11.1">> <</link>><br><br> </li> </ul> <ul> <li> <<link '...woman with pale skin and piercing grey eyes that seem almost lifeless, as if they’ve seen too much.'>> <<set $ardenName = "Dr. Arden">> <<set $ardenHe = "she">> <<set $ardenHim = "her">> <<set $ardenHis = "her">> <<set $ardenHimself to "herself">> <<set $ardenHeC to "She">> <<set $ardenHimC to "Her">> <<set $ardenHisC to "Her">> <<set $ardenHimselfC to "Herself">> <<set $ardenGender = "female">> <<set $ardenmet = true>> <<goto "CH1P11.1">> <</link>> </li> </ul> <<else>> [[Continue|CH1P11.1]] <</if>>

<<if $maudChoice is "cutting">>Maud's laugh is sharp, brittle. "Urban legend? Oh, $firstName. Always with the dramatic descriptions." Her smile turns vicious. "Uncle Ben stopped asking after a year. You know why? Because he was relieved. One less broken thing to worry about." She leans forward, shadows writhing. "At least I became something interesting. You're still the same angry little truth-seeker, just with better press credentials."<<elseif $maudChoice is "deflecting">>"Cute quote. But Nietzsche also said 'one must still have chaos within oneself to be able to give birth to a dancing star.'" Maud's grin is all teeth. "Guess which philosophy I chose to follow? Besides—" She gestures to herself with mock grandeur. "—look at me! I'm practically a work of art."<<elseif $maudChoice is "soft">>Maud goes quiet, studying your face like she's seeing you for the first time in years. "Different methods," she repeats slowly. "You document the monsters. I became one." She traces patterns in spilled coffee with one finger. "Sometimes I wonder what would've happened if we'd stuck together. Probably would've burned down half the city by now."<</if>><br><br> The food arrives like a grease bomb detonating on the table. The burgers are massive, bleeding red juice that might be ketchup, might be food coloring, definitely isn't FDA approved. Fries glisten with enough oil to fuel a small generator. Onion rings that could double as life preservers. And pie that might have been apple, once, in a past life.<br><br> Maud attacks her burger with the enthusiasm of someone who hasn't eaten in days. Maybe she hasn't.<br><br> "Fuck, that's actually good," she says through a mouthful, but keeps eating. "Remember that place near school? Johnson's? This is way better."<br><br> "Johnson's got shut down for health violations."<br><br> "After we exposed them for using rat meat." Maud grins, and for a second she's thirteen again, proud of their first investigation. "God, we were so fucking naive."<br><br> You pick at your own burger. It tastes like regret and industrial lubricant, but your stomach doesn't care.<br><br> "Remember the thing with Vice Principal Harrison?" Maud continues, demolishing fries between burger bites. "You figured out he was embezzling from the fundraiser money."<br><br> "You broke into his office to get the evidence."<br><br> "And Ace kept watch. Nearly pissed himself when security showed up." She laughs, actual warmth in it. "We hid in that supply closet for three hours. You kept quoting Shakespeare to keep calm. Ace was doing that thing where he makes everything a joke when he's scared. And I was just trying not to let the shadows leak out."<br><br> "They fired Harrison because of that story."<br><br> "They transferred him to another school district where he's probably still stealing," Maud corrects. "But for like a week, we thought we were heroes. Thought we'd changed something."<br><br> She pauses, burger halfway to her mouth.<br><br> "That's when I knew you'd become this. A real journalist. You had that look when we published the story. Like you'd tasted blood and wanted more."<br><br> "And you?"<br><br> "I knew I'd become something else." She sets down the burger.<br><br> <ul> <li> <<link '"So we were always doomed to become this. You...something, me a leech, Ace a federal cop. The corruption-busting trio becomes part of the system we fought."'>> <<set $maudChoice2 to "cynical">> <<run setup.setTrait('hopeful', ($hopeful || 50) - 1)>> <<set $corrupt += 1>> <<goto "CH1P7.2.3">> <</link>><br><br> </li> </ul> <ul> <li> <<link '"We did good work though. Those stories mattered."'>> <<set $maudChoice2 to "hopeful">> <<run setup.setTrait('hopeful', ($hopeful || 50) + 1)>> <<set $maudstat += 1>> <<set $moral += 1>> <<goto "CH1P7.2.3">> <</link>><br><br> </li> </ul> <ul> <li> <<link '"That was children playing at justice. This is the real work. Uglier but more effective."'>> <<set $maudChoice2 to "hardened">> <<run setup.setTrait('soft', ($soft || 50) - 1)>> <<set $corrupt += 1>> <<goto "CH1P7.2.3">> <</link>><br><br> </li> </ul>

<<if $maudChoice2 is "cynical">>Maud's laugh is bitter. "Maybe. Or maybe we just grew up and realized the system doesn't change. It adapts. It absorbs. It makes you think you're fighting it while you're really feeding it." She gestures at the diner around you. "Look where our principles got us. You're owned by Nasir. I'm one of the monsters parents warn their kids about. And Ace..." She shakes her head. "Ace still thinks the badge means something."<<elseif $maudChoice2 is "hopeful">>Maud studies you with those black eyes. "You really believe that?" When you nod, something in her expression shifts. "Maybe you're right. Maybe those kids we helped avoid recruitment into the Blood Gangs are living normal lives now. Maybe Harrison's victims got some closure." She picks up an onion ring, examines it like it holds answers. "Or maybe we just made ourselves feel better while the city kept eating people. Hard to tell from here."<<elseif $maudChoice2 is "hardened">>"Effective?" Maud leans forward. "You think what we do is effective? You expose corruption, they find new ways to hide it. I terrorize the worst of them, new ones take their place." But then she nods slowly. "But yeah, it's real. Realer than our little school newspaper crusade. At least now when we draw blood, it actually bleeds."<</if>><br><br> She finishes her burger, attacks the pie with the same enthusiasm. Apple, definitely apple, though possibly apple that's seen better decades.<br><br> "This is disgusting," she announces, taking another bite anyway.<br><br> You watch her eat with the focus of someone who hasn't worried about their next meal in three years. Maybe hasn't had many meals at all. The shadows make her hard to track, but they probably make normal life impossible too. Can't exactly walk into a grocery store when darkness bends around you like a living thing.<br><br> "Why are you really here, Maud?" The question comes out before you can stop it. "I want the real reason. What brought you back now?"<br><br> She sets down her fork. Looks at you with those impossible black eyes. The shadows around her pulse once, twice, like a heartbeat made of darkness.<br><br> "That's the right question," she says grinning. "Took you long enough to ask it." She reaches into her jacket, and for a moment you tense, but she just pulls out a cigarette. Lights it with the same silver Zippo from the alley.<br><br> [[Continue|CH1P8]]

She reaches into her jacket—the same leather jacket that's seen better decades—and pulls out a manila folder. Ah fuck not another folder. Slaps it on the table between the coffee cups and grease stains.<br><br> "Look," she says, all playfulness evaporating. <br><br> You open the folder.<br><br> Photos spill out like accusations. Your fingers freeze on the first one.<br><br> Lillian Frost, caught in profile outside a restaurant you don't recognize. The photo's recent—you can tell by the construction scaffolding in the background that went up last month.<br><br> The next photo: Marguerite Asher, the missing Chronos aristocrat whose case Nasir just assigned you.<br><br> "Recognize them?" Maud asks, but she's not looking at you. She's watching the other patrons, the shadows, the door. Always watching.<br><br> "Frost and Asher." Your <<if $handItch is 'left'>>left<<elseif $handItch is 'right' >>right<</if>> hand is burning now. "Someone's been surveillance on them."<br><br> "Keep going."<br><br> You recognise everyone in those pictures. They’re all someone important in Sordia.<br><br> The next photo makes your blood freeze.<br><br> It's you. Walking out of Channel 6, probably a month ago based on the clothes. <br><br> And then—<br><br> "Is that..."<br><br> "Me!" Maud says brightly, pointing at her own photo. "Don't I look good? Love what the shadows do for my complexion."<br><br> In the photo, she's emerging from an alley, her original <<if $hair is 'pink'>> dark brown hair>><<else>> $hair hair<</if>> unmistakable even in the grainy image. There is blood on her clothes and a wide grin on her face.<br><br> "Someone's been watching us," you say, the words tasting like copper in your mouth.<br><br> "Ding ding ding! Give the journalist a prize!" Maud's grin is sharp as broken glass. <br><br> "Turns out we're on the list too, $firstName. Isn't that fun? We're targets! Together! Like a family reunion, but with more death or abduction!"<br><br> You look up at her, and she's not smiling anymore. The shadows around her writhe with barely contained violence.<br><br> <ul> <li> <<link '"Walk me through it. Step by step. How did you obtain these photographs?"'>> <<set $maudChoice81 to "methodical">> <<run setup.setTrait('intuitive', ($intuitive || 50) - 1)>> <<set $observation += 1>> <<goto "CH1P8.2">> <</link>><br><br> </li> </ul> <ul> <li> <<link '"You tortured someone for information?"'>> <<set $maudChoice81 to "confrontational">> <<run setup.setTrait('relaxed', ($relaxed || 50) - 1)>> <<set $maudstat -= 1>> <<goto "CH1P8.2">> <</link>><br><br> </li> </ul> <ul> <li> <<link '"He\'s dead, isn\'t he? The person who took these."'>> <<set $maudChoice81 to "intuitive">> <<run setup.setTrait('intuitive', ($intuitive || 50) + 1)>> <<set $maudstat += 1>> <<goto "CH1P8.2">> <</link>> </li> </ul>

<<if $maudChoice81 is "methodical">>Maud rocks back and forth slightly, like a child with a secret. "Well, there was this guy. Sneaking around, taking pictures, being all suspicious and spy-like. Very unprofessional, really. So I grabbed him like I grabbed you, but less gentle and I wanted to have a chat." She grins. "Well, I chatted. He mostly screamed. Shadows in the lungs make it hard to talk, you know?"<<elseif $maudChoice81 is "confrontational">>"Torture is such an ugly word!" Maud protests, but she's grinning. "I prefer... aggressive negotiation. Enhanced interrogation. Forceful fact-finding!" She leans forward conspiratorially. "Besides, he was taking pictures of my boss. That's rude. Rudeness should be punished."<<elseif $maudChoice81 is "intuitive">>Maud's grin falters for just a second. "Not my fault! Well, not entirely. Turns out some people's hearts just can't handle being wrapped in shadows. Who knew?" She shrugs.<</if>><br><br> "Did you kill him?" The question comes out hesitant, not sure you want the answer.<br><br> Maud snickers, actually snickers, like you've said something genuinely funny. "Nope! Man, $firstName, what do you think I am?" She pauses. "Don't answer that. But no, I didn't kill him. Wanted to. Really, really wanted to. But someone else killed him before me."<br><br> "Who was he working for?"<br><br> "That's the million-dollar question, isn't it?" Maud points at another photo from the folder. "But he was snooping around my boss when I caught him, so..."<br><br> You look at the photo and your stomach drops.<br><br> <<if $luzmet is false>> <ul> <li> <<link 'Pink-tinted sunglasses. Heterochromatic eyes—one red, one black. Half-white, half-black hair styled to perfection. A chilling smile. The face of Lucian stares right back at you.'>> <<set $luzName = "Lucian">> <<set $luzHe = "he">> <<set $luzHim = "him">> <<set $luzHis = "his">> <<set $luzHimself to "himself">> <<set $luzHeC to "He">> <<set $luzHimC to "Him">> <<set $luzHisC to "His">> <<set $luzHimselfC to "Himself">> <<set $luzGender = "male">> <<set $luzmet = true>> <<goto "CH1P8.3">> <</link>><br><br> </li> </ul> <ul> <li> <<link 'Pink-tinted sunglasses. Heterochromatic eyes—one red, one black. Half-white, half-black hair styled to perfection. A chilling smile. The face of Lucia stares right back at you.'>> <<set $luzName = "Lucia">> <<set $luzHe = "she">> <<set $luzHim = "her">> <<set $luzHis = "her">> <<set $luzHimself to "herself">> <<set $luzHeC to "She">> <<set $luzHimC to "Her">> <<set $luzHisC to "Her">> <<set $luzHimselfC to "Herself">> <<set $luzGender = "female">> <<set $luzmet = true>> <<goto "CH1P8.3">> <</link>> </li> </ul> <<else>> [[Continue|CH1P8.3]] <</if>>

<<if $maudChoice4 is "accepting">>Maud's grin is pure satisfaction mixed with genuine relief. "There's the $firstName I remember. Always willing to chase the story, even when it's dangerous as hell." She stubs out her cigarette. "Don't worry, I'll try not to kill anyone unless they really deserve it. Can't promise they won't deserve it, though."<<elseif $maudChoice4 is "reluctant">>Maud's expression softens slightly, something almost vulnerable flickering across her features. "Terrible ideas are my specialty. But you're right—I do understand this world in ways most people can't." She pauses. "Or won't. We'll figure it out as we go. We always did before."<<elseif $maudChoice4 is "resistant">>Maud laughs, delighted by your obvious internal struggle. "Your way, huh? And what exactly is your way? Because my way involves a lot more stabbing and significantly less paperwork." She leans back, shadows curling around her like satisfied cats. "But fine. We'll try the civilized approach first. When it fails spectacularly, we switch to my methods."<</if>><br><br> You sigh. "We can investigate together. It's literally my job anyway, Nasir assigned me the Asher case, and if Frost is involved, even better."<br><br> Maud starts to cheer, but you hold up a hand.<br><br> You hesitate but you need to ask."Does this mean you’re back now in our lives?"<br><br> "Back?" Maud's expression shifts through several emotions too fast to track. "<br><br> She starts gathering the photos, shoving them back in the folder with zero organization.<br><br> "This is gonna be fun! Dangerous but fun!"she sing-songs, totally ignoring your question. Typical.<br><br> She stands abruptly, shadows pooling around her feet.<br><br> "Come on, $firstName-bear. Let's go solve a mystery and try not to die!"<br><br> "We're not done talking about this—"<br><br> "We're so done! Moving on! Moving forward! Moving at the speed of shadow!" She heads for the door, then spins back. Maud's already at the door, holding it open with theatrical flourish.<br><br> "Come on, big <<if $gender is 'cisgender-male' or $gender is 'transgender-male'>>bro<<elseif $gender is 'cisgender-female' or $gender is 'transgender-female'>>sis<<else>>sib<</if>>?. Time to show you what I've been up to the last couple of days and to remember what we were like as a duo." Her grin softens, becomes something almost genuine. <br><br> You hesitate. “Now?”<br><br> You look at the folder in your hands. At your sister haloed in broken neon, shadows bending around her like loyal pets. At the coffee growing cold on the table.<br><br> Three years of silence, and now this. What has your life come to in a span of just a few hours? A partnership built on… whatever the hell just happened. But maybe that's all you can expect. Maybe that's all family means here, people who'll bleed with you, even if they won't heal with you.<br><br> "Fine," you say, standing. "But if you do something stupid—"<br><br> "You'll flash-fry me with your tactical flashlight, yeah yeah." She's bouncing on her heels like an excited child. "I missed you being all grumpy and threatening. It's adorable!"<br><br> "I'm not adorable." You grumble.<br><br> "You're super adorable! Like a tiny angry journalist with a truth addiction and trust issues!"<br><br> <<if $height is "very-short">>"I'm not tiny, I'm... compact."<br><br> "See? Tiny and defensive about it! Peak adorable behavior!Now let’s go to my car!"<<elseif $height is "short">>"I'm not that short. You're just... vertically overprivileged."<br><br> "Aww, look at you trying to make shortness sound professional. So cute!Now let’s go to my car!"<<elseif $height is "average">>"We're literally the same height, Maud."<br><br> "Yeah, but I'm taller in spirit! It's all about the attitude, $firstName!"<<elseif $height is "tall">>"I'm literally taller than you."<br><br> "Not in spirit! Now let’s go to my car!"<<elseif $height is "very-tall">>"I'm a full head taller than you, how am I tiny?"<br><br> "Tiny angry journalist energy! Height doesn't matter when you're that concentrated with righteous fury! Now let’s go to my car!"<<elseif $height is "towering">>"I tower over you. Literally."<br><br> "And yet you're still adorable! Like an angry tiny skyscraper with feelings. Now let’s go to my car!"<</if>><br><br> You follow her out into Sordia's darkness, the folder heavy in your hands. Your sister dances ahead, shadows trailing behind her like breadcrumbs. Like she's leaving a path for you to follow.<br><br> Or like she's marking territory.<br><br> Whatever's in these photos, whatever connects Frost and Asher and you and Maud and the rest of the people have, it's big.<br><br> "Hey Maud?" you call as you walk.<br><br> "Yeah?"<br><br> "Your apartment better not be a complete disaster."<br><br> She laughs, bright and unhinged. "Oh, it absolutely is!"<br><br> You're going to regret this. Every single part of this.<br><br> [[Continue|CH1P9]]

<<if $siblingRelationship is "broken">> The anger hits like a physical blow. Your hand moves before thought, shoving her back across the table. "What the fuck, Maud?"<<elseif $siblingRelationship is "neutral">>You don't move. Don't react. Just stare at someone who used to matter. "Maud." <<elseif $siblingRelationship is "fixable">>Your heart stops. Restarts. Hammers against ribs that suddenly feel too small. "What the... Maud?"<</if>><br><br> She pulls back slightly but stays leaning over the table, elbows planted next to your coffee cup, chin resting on laced fingers. Studying you like you're something fascinating she found under a rock.<br><br> You do the same in return.<br><br> You take a better look at her. She must be twenty-three years old now, but she looks older. Looks like Sordia has been chewing on her and she's been chewing back.<br><br> She's lean now. Like a blade that's been sharpened down to its essential purpose. Wiry muscle visible through tears in her leather jacket that's seen better decades. Every movement contains coiled energy, like she's always one second from violence or vanishing.<br><br> The scars are new too. A jagged line runs up her left hand, disappearing beneath the sleeve, the kind of mark that says someone tried to pin her down and learned why that's impossible. More scars web across her knuckles. Fighter's marks.<br><br> You take a closer look at her eyes and it almost stops your breath.<br><br> Pure black. No iris, no sclera, just endless dark that reflects your flashlight like oil on water. Full Umbra manifestation. The kind that takes years to develop or trauma to trigger. When she left, she could barely go invisible in dim light. Now she looks like she could swallow darkness and breathe out void.<br><br> "Hi $firstName," she says, voice exactly the same. That slight rasp. "You look like shit."<br><br> Pink hair, choppy and uneven. Dark circles cratering beneath those impossible black eyes. Brown lipstick, chipped and reapplied without care. Piercings you don't remember—lip, eyebrow, too many in her ears to count.<br><br> <<if $hair is "pink">>"And still stealing my aesthetic, I see. I look way better with pink hair than you."<</if>> The waitress returns with coffee. Doesn't comment on Maud's appearance, the way shadows pool around her, or how the lights flicker. In Sordia, you learn not to see things.<br><br> Something snaps inside you. The trickery. The casual way she just appeared like three years of no contact means nothing. Like she has any right to sit here and pretend this is fine.<br><br> Dolores returns with coffee that looks like motor oil and might taste worse. Sets the mugs down with the careful precision of someone who's learned not to make sudden movements around predators.<br><br> <ul> <li> <<link '"Actually, I\'m not staying."'>> <<set $maudAggressiveChoice to "leave">> <<set $maudstat -= 3>> <<run setup.setTrait('soft', ($soft || 50) - 2)>> <<goto "CH1P7.2_LEAVE">> <</link>><br><br> </li> </ul> <ul> <li> <<link 'Pick up your coffee. Let her think you\'re going to drink it. Then throw it in her face and walk out.'>> <<set $maudAggressiveChoice to "coffee">> <<set $maudstat -= 4>> <<run setup.setTrait('relaxed', ($relaxed || 50) - 2)>> <<goto "CH1P7.2_COFFEE">> <</link>><br><br> </li> </ul> <ul> <li> <<link 'Hear her out. You came this far.'>> <<set $maudAggressiveChoice to "stay">> <<goto "CH1P7.1.3">> <</link>> </li> </ul>

<<if $siblingRelationship is "broken">>The anger hits first. Three years of it. She left. Walked out during the worst time of your lives and never looked back. Never called. Never sent word she was alive. Just vanished like you meant nothing. "You attacked me," you say, voice flat. Dead. The way you've practiced saying her name in your head for three years. "I grabbed you," she corrects, with casual indifference. "There's a difference. If I'd attacked you, we'd be having this conversation in a hospital. Or a morgue."<<elseif $siblingRelationship is "neutral">>Recognition comes without the expected punch of emotion. Three years is long enough to process abandonment, to accept it, to file it away under "things that happened" rather than "wounds that still bleed." She's standing there, but she might as well be a stranger wearing your sister's face. "Maud," you say, testing the name. It feels foreign on your tongue now. Like a word from a language you used to speak. "$firstName," she replies, and there's something in her voice. Expectation, maybe. Hope. She's waiting for anger or tears or some sign that her disappearance mattered. But you've moved past needing to give her that satisfaction. "You look different," you observe, because it's true and because it's safer than anything else you might say.<<elseif $siblingRelationship is "fixable">>The hurt hits first, sharp and immediate as a blade between ribs. Three years of wondering if she was alive. Three years of looking for her, of hoping every Umbra report might be her. Three years of loving someone who might have been dead, of hating someone who chose to let you think she was. "Maud." Her name comes out broken. Relieved. Furious. Everything you've felt for three years compressed into one word. "Hey, $firstName-bear," she says, using the childhood nickname like it hasn't been three years since she walked away. Like she has the right to tenderness when she's the one who broke it. Your mind is reeling. She's alive, she's here, and despite everything, you're glad.<</if>><br><br> <ul> <li> <<link '"Three years, Maud. Three years of nothing, and you announce yourself by assaulting me in an alley? Were you always this fucked up, or is this new?"'>> <<set $maudChoice0 to "cutting">> <<run setup.setTrait('deflecting', ($deflecting || 50) - 1)>> <<set $maudstat -= 2>> <<goto "CH1P6.4">> <</link>><br><br> </li> </ul> <ul> <li> <<link '"Get the fuck away from me. You don\'t get to just appear after three years and act like this is normal."'>> <<set $maudChoice0 to "confrontational">> <<run setup.setTrait('relaxed', ($relaxed || 50) - 1)>> <<set $maudstat -= 1>> <<goto "CH1P6.4">> <</link>><br><br> </li> </ul> <ul> <li> <<link '"Fuck, Maud. I could have hurt you. Why didn\'t you just... approach me normally?"'>> <<set $maudChoice0 to "soft">> <<run setup.setTrait('soft', ($soft || 50) + 1)>> <<set $maudstat += 1>> <<goto "CH1P6.4">> <</link>> </li> </ul>

<<if $maudChoice0 is "cutting">>Maud's grin widens, showing too many teeth. "Always this fucked up. You just couldn't see it through all that big sibling concern." She blows you a kiss, her eyes holding some kind of fondness. "But you fought back. Good for you. Most people just piss themselves when I grab them from shadows." She moves closer, shadows writhing around her feet. "Though technically, you assaulted me. I was just saying hello. You're the one who went straight to fighting." The casualness with which she dismisses three years of absence makes you want to hit her again.<<elseif $maudChoice0 is "confrontational">>Maud laughs, the sound sharp as breaking glass. "Normal? In Sordia? That's adorable." She doesn't move away. If anything, she steps closer, shadows pooling at her feet like obedient pets. "And I'll go wherever I want, whenever I want. Perks of being me." She grins wider. "Uncle Ben would be so proud. Or horrified. Probably both." She's not going anywhere, and you both know it.<<elseif $maudChoice0 is "soft">>Something flickers across her face, surprise maybe, that you care about her wellbeing. "Normally," she repeats, like the word is foreign. "I don't do normal anymore, $firstName. Haven't for three years." She stretches, bone cracking. "Besides, I needed to know if you'd gotten soft. If you could still defend yourself." Her expression shifts slightly. "You can. Good. You're going to need it." The concern in her voice is buried deep, but it's there.<</if>><br><br> The alley feels smaller with her in it. Like the shadows are pressing closer, drawn to her presence. A rat scurries past and freezes when her shadow touches it, trembling until she lets it go.<br><br> "You're one of the seven," you say, the words tasting like ash. "The confirmed Umbra threats."<br><br> "Among other things," she agrees, she pulls out a cigarette, lights it with a silver Zippo that definitely wasn't hers three years ago.<br><br> "They call me 'Orca' on the official lists, which is hilarious. Like I'm some kind of killer machine" She grins again, flicking ash from her cigarette. <br><br> A car drives by the alley mouth, headlights washing over you both. In that moment of illumination, you see her clearly.<br><br> "Why are you back?" you ask. "Why tonight?"<br><br> She doesn't answer immediately. Takes a long drag from her cigarette, shadows curling with the smoke.<br><br> "Because," she finally says, "you're about to stumble into something you don't understand. And despite everything you're still my <<if $gender is 'cisgender-male' or $gender is 'transgender-male'>>brother<<elseif $gender is 'cisgender-female' or $gender is 'transgender-female'>>sister<<else>>sibling<</if>>. And for me, that means something."<br><br> She drops the cigarette, crushes it under her boot.<br><br> "Look," she says, "I didn't come here to rehash our shit. I came because—" She stops. Tilts her head like she's listening to something you can't hear. "Fuck. I’m hungry. Let’s go eat."<br><br> Before you can process it she grabs your arm with her hand this time, not shadows. Her touch is ice-cold but solid. Real. "Come on."<br><br> <ul> <li> <<link 'Let her take you to the diner. You need answers.'>> <<set $fightChoice to "follow">> <<goto "CH1P6.4_FOLLOW">> <</link>><br><br> </li> </ul> <ul> <li> <<link 'Pull away. "I\'m not going anywhere with you."'>> <<set $fightChoice to "refuse">> <<set $maudstat -= 3>> <<goto "CH1P6.4_REFUSE">> <</link>> </li> </ul>

<div class="character-creation-header"> <h1 class="bloodlines-title">Hair</h1> <p class="subtitle">Crown yourself with choice or rebellion.</p> </div> Hair tells stories in Sordia. Stories of rebellion, conformity, desperation, privilege. The color you choose—natural or otherwise—broadcasts messages before you speak. The way you wear it determines whether you blend into crowds or command attention from across a room.<br><br> What story will your hair tell?<br><br> <div class="character-name">$fullName<<if $nickname>> (a.k.a. "$nickname")<</if>></div> <div id="character-details"> <div class="appearance-section"> <h3>Hair Color</h3> <p class="section-description">Choose your hair colour. Do you stand out or do you blend in?</p> <div class="tab-selector"> <<link "Natural Colors">> <<replace "#hair-color-options">> <div class="hair-options natural-colors"> <<radiobutton "$hair" "black">> Black<br> <<radiobutton "$hair" "dark-brown">> Dark Brown<br> <<radiobutton "$hair" "medium-brown">> Medium Brown<br> <<radiobutton "$hair" "light-brown">> Light Brown<br> <<radiobutton "$hair" "dark-blonde">> Dark Blonde<br> <<radiobutton "$hair" "blonde">> Blonde <br> <<radiobutton "$hair" "platinum">> Platinum<br> <<radiobutton "$hair" "auburn">> Auburn <br> <<radiobutton "$hair" "chestnut">> Chestnut <br> <<radiobutton "$hair" "copper">> Copper <br> <<radiobutton "$hair" "ginger">> Ginger <br> <<radiobutton "$hair" "salt-pepper">> Salt & Pepper <br> <<radiobutton "$hair" "gray">> Gray <br> <<radiobutton "$hair" "white">> White <br> </div> <</replace>> <</link>> | <<link "Unnatural Colors">> <<replace "#hair-color-options">> <div class="hair-options unnatural-colors"> <<radiobutton "$hair" "blue">> Blue <br> <<radiobutton "$hair" "purple">> Purple <br> <<radiobutton "$hair" "pink">> Pink <br> <<radiobutton "$hair" "green">> Green <br> <<radiobutton "$hair" "red">> Red <br> <<radiobutton "$hair" "teal">> Teal <br> <<radiobutton "$hair" "silver">> Silver <br> <<radiobutton "$hair" "rainbow">> Rainbow <br> <<radiobutton "$hair" "ombre">> Ombre <br> </div> <</replace>> <</link>> </div> <div id="hair-color-options"> <div class="hair-options natural-colors"> <<radiobutton "$hair" "black">> Black<br> <<radiobutton "$hair" "dark-brown">> Dark Brown<br> <<radiobutton "$hair" "medium-brown">> Medium Brown<br> <<radiobutton "$hair" "light-brown">> Light Brown<br> <<radiobutton "$hair" "dark-blonde">> Dark Blonde<br> <<radiobutton "$hair" "blonde">> Blonde <br> <<radiobutton "$hair" "platinum">> Platinum<br> <<radiobutton "$hair" "auburn">> Auburn <br> <<radiobutton "$hair" "chestnut">> Chestnut <br> <<radiobutton "$hair" "copper">> Copper <br> <<radiobutton "$hair" "ginger">> Ginger <br> <<radiobutton "$hair" "salt-pepper">> Salt & Pepper <br> <<radiobutton "$hair" "gray">> Gray <br> <<radiobutton "$hair" "white">> White <br> </div> </div> </div> <div class="appearance-section"> <h3>Hair Texture</h3> <p class="section-description">How your hair moves, falls, rebels.</p> <div class="hair-options"> <<radiobutton "$hairTexture" "straight">> Straight <br> <<radiobutton "$hairTexture" "wavy">> Wavy <br> <<radiobutton "$hairTexture" "curly">> Curly <br> <<radiobutton "$hairTexture" "coily">> Coily <br> <<radiobutton "$hairTexture" "kinky">> Kinky <br> </div> </div> <div class="appearance-section"> <h3>Hair Length</h3> <p class="section-description">Choose your hair length.</p> <div class="hair-options"> <<radiobutton "$hairLength" "bald">> Bald <br> <<radiobutton "$hairLength" "buzzcut">> Buzzcut <br> <<radiobutton "$hairLength" "pixie">> Pixie Cut <br> <<radiobutton "$hairLength" "short">> Short <br> <<radiobutton "$hairLength" "ear-length">> Ear Length<br> <<radiobutton "$hairLength" "chin-length">> Chin Length <br> <<radiobutton "$hairLength" "shoulder">> Shoulder Length <br> <<radiobutton "$hairLength" "waist">> Waist Length <br> <<radiobutton "$hairLength" "hip">> Hip Length<br> </div> </div> <div class="appearance-section" id="hairstyle-section"> <h3>Hairstyle</h3> <p class="section-description">How you choose to arrange your hair.</p> <div class="style-options"> <div class="option-group"> <h4>Simple Styles</h4> <<radiobutton "$hairStyle" "natural">> Natural <br> <<radiobutton "$hairStyle" "layered">> Layered <br> <<radiobutton "$hairStyle" "side-part">> Side Part <br> <<radiobutton "$hairStyle" "middle-part">> Middle Part <br> <<radiobutton "$hairStyle" "undercut">> Undercut<br> <<radiobutton "$hairStyle" "fade">> Fade<br> </div> <div class="option-group"> <h4>Updos & Braided Styles</h4> <<radiobutton "$hairStyle" "ponytail">> Ponytail <br> <<radiobutton "$hairStyle" "high-ponytail">> High Ponytail <br> <<radiobutton "$hairStyle" "low-bun">> Low Bun <br> <<radiobutton "$hairStyle" "high-bun">> High Bun <br> <<radiobutton "$hairStyle" "messy-bun">> Messy Bun <br> <<radiobutton "$hairStyle" "space-buns">> Space Buns <br> <<radiobutton "$hairStyle" "braid">> Single Braid <br> <<radiobutton "$hairStyle" "french-braid">> French Braid <br> <<radiobutton "$hairStyle" "dutch-braid">> Dutch Braid<br> <<radiobutton "$hairStyle" "crown-braid">> Crown Braid <br> <<radiobutton "$hairStyle" "fishtail braid">> Fishtail Braid <br> <<radiobutton "$hairStyle" "double-braid">> Double Braids<br> </div> <div class="option-group"> <h4>Cultural & Textured Styles</h4> <<radiobutton "$hairStyle" "afro">> Afro <br> <<radiobutton "$hairStyle" "box-braids">> Box Braids <br> <<radiobutton "$hairStyle" "cornrows">> Cornrows <br> <<radiobutton "$hairStyle" "twists">> Twists<br> <<radiobutton "$hairStyle" "locs">> Locs/Dreadlocks<br> <<radiobutton "$hairStyle" "bantu-knots">> Bantu Knots <br> <<radiobutton "$hairStyle" "puff">> Puff <br> </div> </div> </div> <div class="appearance-section"> <h3>Head Covering</h3> <p class="section-description">Do you cover your hair?</p> <div class="hair-options"> <<radiobutton "$headCovering" "none">> None <br> <<radiobutton "$headCovering" "yes">> Hair Covering<br> </div> </div> <div id="error-message" class="error-message" style="display: none;"> Complete your hair before proceeding. In Sordia, half-finished appearances suggest half-finished thoughts. </div> <div class="continue-button"> <<button "Continue to Face">> <<if !$hair or !$hairTexture or !$hairLength>> <<replace "#error-message">>Complete your hair before proceeding. In Sordia, half-finished appearances suggest half-finished thoughts.<</replace>> <<run $("#error-message").show().delay(4000).fadeOut()>> <<elseif $hairLength neq "bald" and !$hairStyle>> <<replace "#error-message">>Choose a hairstyle or select 'bald' if you have no hair to style.<</replace>> <<run $("#error-message").show().delay(4000).fadeOut()>> <<else>> <<if $hairLength is "bald">> <<set $hairStyle to "none">> <</if>> <<if !$headCovering>> <<set $headCovering to "none">> <</if>> <<set $hairDescription to $hair>> <<set $hairTextureDescription to $hairTexture>> <<set $hairLengthDescription to $hairLength>> <<if $hairLength is "bald">> <<set $hairStyleDescription to "bald">> <<else>> <<set $hairStyleDescription to $hairStyle>> <</if>> <<if $headCovering is "none">> <<set $headCoveringDescription to "none">> <<else>> <<set $headCoveringDescription to "your hair is covered">> <</if>> <<run $("#error-message").hide()>> <<goto "Face">> <</if>> <</button>> </div> <style> .character-creation-header { text-align: center; margin-bottom: 2em; } .character-name { font-size: 1.3em; color: var(--accent); text-align: center; margin-bottom: 2em; font-weight: bold; text-shadow: 0 0 8px var(--accent); border-bottom: 1px solid var(--accent); padding-bottom: 1em; } .appearance-section { background: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.3); border: 1px solid var(--accent); padding: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 1.5em; border-radius: 5px; box-shadow: 0 0 10px rgba(255, 0, 0, 0.1); transition: all 0.3s ease; } .appearance-section:hover { box-shadow: 0 0 15px rgba(255, 0, 0, 0.2); transform: translateY(-2px); } .appearance-section h3 { color: var(--accent); margin-bottom: 0.5em; font-family: var(--accentFont); text-shadow: 0 0 5px var(--accent); font-size: 1.4em; text-transform: uppercase; letter-spacing: 1px; } .section-description { color: var(--accent2); font-style: italic; margin-bottom: 1.5em; font-size: 0.95em; line-height: 1.4; border-left: 3px solid var(--accent); padding-left: 1em; background: rgba(255, 0, 0, 0.05); padding: 0.8em 0 0.8em 1em; border-radius: 0 3px 3px 0; } .tab-selector { margin-bottom: 1em; text-align: center; border-bottom: 1px solid var(--accent2); padding-bottom: 0.5em; } .tab-selector a { color: var(--accent2); transition: all 0.3s ease; } .tab-selector a:hover { color: var(--accent); } .hair-options, .style-options { color: var(--text); line-height: 1.8; } .hair-options input[type="radio"], .style-options input[type="radio"] { margin-right: 0.8em; margin-bottom: 0.1em; accent-color: var(--accent); transform: scale(1.2); cursor: pointer; } .hair-options input[type="radio"]:checked, .style-options input[type="radio"]:checked { accent-color: var(--accent2); } .option-group { background: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.2); border: 1px solid var(--accent2); padding: 1.2em; margin-bottom: 1em; border-radius: 5px; box-shadow: 0 0 8px rgba(255, 0, 0, 0.1); } .option-group h4 { color: var(--accent2); margin-bottom: 1em; font-size: 1.1em; text-transform: uppercase; letter-spacing: 1px; border-bottom: 1px solid var(--accent2); padding-bottom: 0.5em; } .error-message { background: rgba(255, 0, 0, 0.2); border: 1px solid var(--accent); color: var(--accent2); padding: 1em; border-radius: 5px; text-align: center; margin-bottom: 1em; font-weight: bold; animation: pulse 0.5s ease-in-out; } .continue-button { text-align: center; margin-top: 2em; } .continue-button button { padding: 1.2em 2.5em; background: linear-gradient(45deg, var(--accent), var(--accent2)); color: #ffffff; border: none; border-radius: 5px; font-size: 1.2em; font-weight: bold; cursor: pointer; transition: all 0.3s ease; box-shadow: 0 0 20px var(--accent); text-shadow: 1px 1px 2px rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.8); text-transform: uppercase; letter-spacing: 1px; } .continue-button button:hover { background: linear-gradient(45deg, var(--accent2), var(--accent)); box-shadow: 0 0 25px var(--accent); transform: translateY(-3px); } /* Light mode */ .lm .appearance-section { background: rgba(240, 237, 229, 0.3); box-shadow: 0 0 10px rgba(212, 175, 55, 0.1); } .lm .section-description { background: rgba(212, 175, 55, 0.05); } .lm .option-group { background: rgba(240, 237, 229, 0.2); border-color: var(--accent2); box-shadow: 0 0 8px rgba(212, 175, 55, 0.1); } .lm .continue-button button { color: #000000; text-shadow: 1px 1px 2px rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.3); } .lm .error-message { background: rgba(212, 175, 55, 0.2) !important; border: 1px solid var(--accent) !important; color: var(--accent2) !important; } </style> <<script>> $(document).on('change', 'input[name="hairLength"]', function() { if ($(this).val() === "bald") { $("#hairstyle-section").hide(); } else { $("#hairstyle-section").show(); } }); <</script>>

<<if $ardenGender is "male">> The photo shows a pale man with sharp, angular features and black hair that falls in messy waves. Even from a distance, his grey eyes seem to assess everything with surgical precision. He's wearing a pristine white coat over dark clothing, the contrast stark even in the grainy photo. <<elseif $ardenGender is "female">> The photo shows a pale woman with sharp, angular features and black hair pulled back in a messy bun. Even from a distance, her grey eyes seem to assess everything with surgical precision. She's wearing a pristine white coat over dark clothing, the contrast stark even in the grainy photo. <</if>><br><br> "The good doctor who patches up anyone who can crawl through the door," Maud continues. "Doesn't take sides, doesn't make friends, doesn't ask questions. $ardenHeC can speak to the dead. AND my therapist Patch! We’re practically besties right now."<br><br> The fifth photo makes Maud's expression shift to something more bright. "Luz. Infernal bloodline. Thirty-three. Crime boss who runs half the undercity."<br><br> <<if $luzGender is "male">> The surveillance shot captures him mid-gesture, pink-tinted glasses catching the light. His hair, split down the middle, dark on one side, white on the other makes him impossible to mistake for anyone else. Even in the photo, his presence dominates the frame. The slight smile visible beneath the glasses promises either pleasure or pain, possibly both. <<elseif $luzGender is "female">> The surveillance shot captures her mid-gesture, pink-tinted glasses catching the light. Her hair, split down the middle, dark on one side, white on the other makes her impossible to mistake for anyone else. Even in the photo, her presence dominates the frame. Red lips curved in a smile that promises either pleasure or pain, possibly both. <</if>><br><br> "Luz runs their empire with contracts you can't break and charm that makes you want to sign them anyway," Maud adds. "Honestly best boss of the year award should go to $luzHim."<br><br> The sixth photo shows someone whose face you already know and wish you didn't.<br><br> <<if $emet is false>> <ul> <li> <<link 'A man with golden eyes that pierce and a smile that doesn’t reach them. Smoke drifts from his cigarette. Egon Han. The CFO of HanTech.'>> <<set $eName = "Egon">> <<set $eHe = "he">> <<set $eHim = "him">> <<set $eHis = "his">> <<set $eHimself to "himself">> <<set $eHeC to "He">> <<set $eHimC to "Him">> <<set $eHisC to "His">> <<set $eHimselfC to "Himself">> <<set $eGender = "male">> <<set $emet = true>> <<goto "CH1P11.2">> <</link>><br><br> </li> </ul> <ul> <li> <<link 'A woman with golden eyes that pierce and a smile that doesn’t reach them. Smoke drifts from her cigarette. Emme Han. The CFO of HanTech. '>> <<set $eName = "Emme">> <<set $eHe = "she">> <<set $eHim = "her">> <<set $eHis = "her">> <<set $eHimself to "herself">> <<set $eHeC to "She">> <<set $eHimC to "Her">> <<set $eHisC to "Her">> <<set $eHimselfC to "Herself">> <<set $eGender = "female">> <<set $emet = true>> <<goto "CH1P11.2">> <</link>> </li> </ul> <<else>> [[Continue|CH1P11.2]] <</if>>

<<if $eGender is "male">> Egon Han the CFO of HanTech stares out from the photo with golden eyes that seem to judge everything they see as insufficient. Tall, imposing, with sharp jawline and slicked-back black hair with golden streaks. Even in surveillance, his posture is perfect, his suit immaculate. <<elseif $eGender is "female">> Emme Han the CFO of HanTech stares out from the photo with golden eyes that seem to judge everything they see as insufficient. Tall, imposing, with sharp features and long black hair with golden streaks. Even in surveillance, her posture is perfect, her red jumpsuit immaculate. <</if>><br><br> <<if $background is "tabloid">>The one that made your live a living hell after $eHis cousin David's scandal.<</if>><br><br> "Youngest CFO to ever make the board. And the kind of person who treats people like spreadsheet entries. A fucking asshole."<br><br> The seventh photo is slightly blurred, as if the subject wouldn't stay still. "Alex Merga. The rumoured last Seraph in Sordia. Thirteen years old." The image shows someone with an almost ethereal quality. "Is guarded 24/7 and apparently can heal… adopted by the Schneider Family."<br><br> The eighth photo shows a man who seems to flow rather than simply exist. "Pierre Mellaneos. Abyssal bloodline. Thirty-five. Owns the largest import/export business on the eastern docks." The image captures him near water, and even in the still photo, there's something fluid about his movement. "Controls shipping. Has connections to every major crime family but stays neutral."<br><br> The ninth photo makes Maud whistle appreciatively. "Aadhya from the Kumar family. Ifrit bloodline. Twenty-eight. Corporate negotiator who's never lost a case." The woman in the photo has bronze skin and eyes that burn even in the surveillance shot. Her hair seems to move despite the still image. "Brokers deals between corporations and bloodline families. Charges seven figures per negotiation."<br><br> The tenth photo shows someone massive. "Moten. Primordial earth type. Age forty. Runs underground fighting rings." The figure in the photo is more mountain than man, with visible veins of what might be mineral deposits running under his dark skin. "Has been undefeated. Everyone fights, everyone bleeds."<br><br> The eleventh photo is unsettling in a different way. "Robin Reeves. Chimaera bloodline. Twenty-six." The photo shows someone whose features don't quite settle into a fixed form. <br><br> Patches of scaled skin along the left jawline that transition into what might be fur or feathers around the temple. One eye burns gold with a slit pupil while the other remains human brown. Their mouth stretches too wide, revealing canine teeth that belong in a predator's skull rather than a human face. <br><br> Bone ridges push against the skin of their forehead like horns trying to emerge. wearing one of those mandatory dull metal suppression collars. "Some kind of anarchist and bodyguard for hire who is currently in prison."<br><br> And finally, the twelfth photo. You. Captured leaving the Channel 6 building, smiling at someone out of shot.<br><br> "$firstName. Human. Twenty-six. Investigative journalist with more curiosity than self-preservation." Maud's voice softens slightly. "The only human on this list."<br><br> You study the board patterns intently. "Everyone else is from a bloodline."<br><br> "Not just any bloodlines," Maud corrects, connecting strings between photos with practiced movements. "One from each major type. No duplicates."<br><br> She starts listing, shadows pointing to each photo in turn: "Chronos, Fae, Umbra, Manitou, Infernal, Draegon, Seraph, Abyssal, Ifrit, Primordial, Chimaera. That's all eleven major bloodline classifications and then you, human."<br><br> You feel a headache coming. "So someone is hunting powerful bloodlines? One of each type. Plus me, for reasons unknown."<br><br> "But that's not even the interesting part," Maud says, her eyes gleaming with manic energy. "Look at the profiles. Every single person on this list is considered exceptional within their bloodline. Not just powerful, but specifically notable."<br><br> She starts rattling off details: "Marguerite's precognition is off the charts. Luz has more binding contracts than any Infernal on record. Moten could create earthquakes that would destroy a whole city block."<br><br> Maud's shadows writhe with agitation. "Two are already missing. No bodies. No demands. Just gone or dead, no idea."<br><br> The weight of it settles over you. Someone is out there with a grudge. You're involved too.<br><br> <ul> <li> <<link '"We need to be strategic. Warning the others could trigger whatever plan is in motion. But not warning them could get them killed."'>> <<set $maudChoice7 to "calculated">> <<run setup.setTrait('calculated', ($calculated || 50) + 1)>> <<set $maudstat += 1>> <<goto "CH1P11.3">> <</link>><br><br> </li> </ul> <ul> <li> <<link '"Fuck it. We should warn everyone immediately. Mass text. Public broadcast. Make it impossible to pick us off quietly."'>> <<set $maudChoice7 to "reckless">> <<run setup.setTrait('calculated', ($calculated || 50) - 1)>> <<goto "CH1P11.3">> <</link>><br><br> </li> </ul> <ul> <li> <<link '"Let me guess, we can\'t go to the cops because they\'re probably compromised, can\'t warn the targets because they won\'t believe us, and can\'t stop looking because we\'re already marked."'>> <<set $maudChoice7 to "cynical">> <<run setup.setTrait('hopeful', ($hopeful || 50) - 1)>> <<goto "CH1P11.3">> <</link>> </li> </ul>

<<if $maudChoice7 is "calculated">>"Look at you, thinking like a predator," Maud says approvingly. "Problem is, who would believe us? 'Hi, you don't know me, but someone's collecting powerful bloodlines and you're on the list.' They'd think we're insane."<<elseif $maudChoice7 is "reckless">>Maud laughs, sharp and delighted. "Chaos! I love it! Except..." Her expression falls. "Whoever's doing this has left no traces. Going public might just accelerate their timeline. Plus, half these people would assume it's a trap."<<elseif $maudChoice7 is "cynical">>"Bingo!" Maud grins. "Welcome to paranoia, population: us. Though technically the cops aren't compromised, they're just useless. Bit of a difference."<</if>><br><br> The wall looms above you both, twelve faces staring down like a jury. Or victims. Or both.<br><br> "My question is," Maud says quietly, "why you? Everyone else makes sense. Powerful people, influential positions, notable abilities. But you're just human."<br><br> "Thanks for the pep talk." You huff.<br><br> "No, think about it." She starts pacing, shadows writhing with agitation. "What makes you special enough to be on this list? What do you have that's equivalent to me?"<br><br> Your <<if $handItch is 'left'>>left<<elseif $handItch is 'right' >>right<</if>> hand throbs. "I have no idea. We both know I didn’t inherit any Umbra genes. But as far as I can tell I’m an influential person as well.”<br><br> "Let's go through this calmly," you say, but even as the words leave your mouth, you feel like..<br><br> <<link '[Chewing Lip] Your teeth find your bottom lip, biting the skin until you taste copper.'>> <<set $nervousTick to "lip">> <<run setup.setTrait('calculated', ($calculated || 50) - 1)>> <<goto "CH1P11.4">> <</link>><br><br> <<link '[Pen Clicking] Your fingers find the ballpoint pen in your pocket, clicking it in rapid succession. Click-click-click.'>> <<set $nervousTick to "pen">> <<run setup.setTrait('relaxed', ($relaxed || 50) - 1)>> <<goto "CH1P11.4">> <</link>><br><br> <<link '[Foot Tapping] Your foot starts its familiar rhythm against the floor. Tap-tap-tap.'>> <<set $nervousTick to "foot">> <<run setup.setTrait('confrontational', ($relaxed || 50) - 1)>> <<goto "CH1P11.4">> <</link>><br><br> <<link '[Grimacing] Your face contorts involuntarily, jaw clenching, forehead creasing. The expression of someone bracing for impact.'>> <<set $nervousTick to "grimace">> <<run setup.setTrait('soft', ($soft || 50) - 1)>> <<goto "CH1P11.4">> <</link>>

<<if $nervousTick is "lip">>You catch yourself biting your lip again, tasting blood.<<elseif $nervousTick is "pen">>Your fingers automatically reach for a pen to click, finding nothing.<<elseif $nervousTick is "foot">>Your foot starts its anxious tapping before you consciously register the stress.<<elseif $nervousTick is "grimace">>Your jaw clenches involuntarily, that familiar tension creeping across your face.<</if>> You start to recreate the pattern. "Marguerite disappeared a week ago. Linnea 72 hours ago." Your mind races, connecting dots. "That's roughly a weekly schedule."<br><br> "Which means someone else disappears in about four days," Maud adds, her manic energy suddenly focused. "Unless they accelerated after I caught Jace."<br><br> You move closer to the wall, studying the surveillance photos. "We need to figure out why these specific people. There are two possibilities I can see."<br><br> "Theory one: someone's settling scores. Look at this list, we've all hurt people. Corporate exploitation, criminal empires, exposing secrets. Maybe someone lost everything because of one of us and wants revenge."<br><br> "Revenge on twelve unconnected people?" Maud challenges, but she's listening.<br><br> "Or twelve very connected people. What if there's something linking us we don't see yet? Some deal, some event, something that ruined someone's life?" You tap your temple. "The surveillance suggests planning. Patience. This isn't random violence, it's personal."<br><br> Maud considers this, shadows writhing. "Could be. Sordia's full of people with grudges. But organizing something this complex? That takes resources."<br><br> She’s right but there is another theory forming in your head. “Theory two: corporate warfare. Someone's systematically removing power players to destabilize Sordia's economy. Look at the targets—crime boss, CFO, corporate negotiator. Take them out, create a power vacuum."<br><br> "And the thirteen-year-old Seraph?" Maud asks.<br><br> "I mean they’re apparently the last Seraph in Sordia." You look at the faces of the people. "This could be about restructuring Sordia's entire power structure."<br><br> Maud whistles low. "That's some next-level conspiracy shit. I love it. Completely insane, but I love it." She grins, all teeth. "So which theory is your favourite? I like the conspiracy angle!!"<br><br> <<link '[Theory 1] Someone\'s settling scores. Revenge against twelve people who\'ve all hurt someone badly enough to want them dead.'>> <<set $investigationTheory to "revenge">> <<run setup.setTrait('intuitive', ($intuitive || 50) + 1)>> <<set $observation += 1>> <<goto "CH1P11.5">> <</link>><br><br> <<link '[Theory 2] Corporate warfare. Someone\'s systematically removing power players to destabilize Sordia\'s entire economic structure.'>> <<set $investigationTheory to "conspiracy">> <<run setup.setTrait('calculated', ($calculated || 50) + 1)>> <<set $observation += 1>> <<goto "CH1P11.5">> <</link>>

<<set $twelvePhotosDiscovered to true>> <<if $investigationTheory is "revenge">>You've decided to pursue the personal angle. Someone with a grudge, resources, and patience.<<elseif $investigationTheory is "conspiracy">>You've decided to follow the conspiracy thread. Too many power players, too systematic, too precise. This is about reshaping Sordia's entire structure. The question is who benefits from that level of chaos.<</if>><br><br> <<if $investigationTheory is "revenge">>"Theory 1 sounds the most logical to me, but—" A massive yawn escapes before you can stop it. The adrenaline that's kept you running is finally crashing.<br><br><<elseif $investigationTheory is "conspiracy">>"Theory 2 sounds the most logical to me, but—" A massive yawn escapes before you can stop it. The adrenaline that's kept you running is finally crashing.<</if>> "Shit, what time is it?" You check your phone. 3:47 AM. You've been at this for too long.<br><br> "You should sleep," Maud says suddenly, energy shifting from manic to calm. "Tomorrow we hit Jace's apartment early. Six, maybe seven. See what other breadcrumbs he left behind."<br><br> There goes your Saturday. "Six," you groan. "On a Saturday after I just successfully completed my De Luca story. I hate this."<br><br> "Would you prefer our stalker gets a head start?" She's already moving toward the bedroom, kicking debris out of the path. "Besides, it's not like you're going home at four in the morning. The subways stopped running and I'm not letting you take a cab while someone's hunting you."<br><br> She's right. Your apartment suddenly feels very far away.<br><br> "Fine. But I need at least three hours of actual sleep."<br><br> "Three hours, got it. I'll even try to be quiet." She tosses a relatively clean shirt at you. "Bathroom's down the hall and next time let’s do a real pyjama party~”<br><br> Honestly you don’t complain. She leads you to her bedroom. It's marginally cleaner than the rest of the apartment, though that's not saying much. The bed is unmade, sheets tangled like someone fought a war in them.<br><br> She starts clearing papers off the bed roughly while you find something that passes for sleepwear and start getting ready for bed, exhaustion hitting like a physical weight. The adrenaline of the night finally wearing off, leaving you hollow and stretched thin.<br><br> As you're settling into the bed that smells like Maud, a thought occurs.<br><br> "Have you talked to uncle Ben yet?"<br><br> Maud freezes in the doorway. For a moment, the shadows in the room seem to reach for her, as if trying to pull her into themselves.<br><br> <ul> <li> <<link '"He\'s been waiting for you to come home for years, Maud. He never stopped hoping."'>> <<set $maudChoice8 to "soft">> <<run setup.setTrait('soft', ($soft || 50) + 1)>> <<set $maudstat += 1>> <<goto "CH1P11.6">> <</link>><br><br> </li> </ul> <ul> <li> <<link '"You\'re being a coward. Ben deserves to know you\'re alive and in the city."'>> <<set $maudChoice8 to "confrontational">> <<run setup.setTrait('relaxed', ($relaxed || 50) - 1)>> <<set $maudstat -= 1>> <<goto "CH1P11.6">> <</link>><br><br> </li> </ul> <ul> <li> <<link '"He\'s not getting younger, Maud. If something happens to him while you\'re avoiding him, you\'ll never forgive yourself."'>> <<set $maudChoice8 to "methodical">> <<run setup.setTrait('intuitive', ($intuitive || 50) - 1)>> <<set $observation += 1>> <<goto "CH1P11.6">> <</link>> </li> </ul>

<<if $maudChoice8 is "soft">>"Hope is just disappointment that hasn't happened yet," Maud says, not turning around. "Besides, I'm not home. I'm just... geographically closer to where home used to be." She laughs, brittle. "Ben doesn't need to see me. Trust me, it's better this way."<<elseif $maudChoice8 is "confrontational">>"Ben deserves a lot of things," Maud snaps, shadows flaring. She turns, eyes completely black. "I'm protecting him by staying away."<<elseif $maudChoice8 is "methodical">>Maud's shoulders tense. "That's a really specific form of emotional manipulation, $firstName. Did you practice that in the mirror?" But her voice wavers. "I know he's not... I know time is..." She trails off. "Just don't push me."<</if>><br><br> She leaves without another word, door clicking shut with finality. You're left alone with the ghost of her presence.<br><br> You lie back on sheets. The ceiling has water stains that form patterns your tired brain tries to interpret as omens. Through the thin walls, you hear Maud moving around.<br><br> Tomorrow you'll dig into Jace Morrison's life and death. Tomorrow you'll get closer to understanding what the fuck is going on right now.<br><br> But for now, you just need to close your eyes. Recharge.<br><br> The last thought before sleep takes you is a question that burns inside you: Who will be next?<br><br> Tomorrow, the hunt for answers is starting. If someone is out there collecting people on a weekly basis you’re on a tight time frame.<br><br> But tonight, you're safe.<br><br> Relatively speaking.<br><br> [[Continue|CH1P12]]

"You're one of the seven," you say, the words tasting like ash. "The confirmed Umbra threats."<br><br> "Among other things," she agrees, her smile wide.<br><br> "They call me 'Orca' on the official lists, which is hilarious. Like I'm some kind of killer machine." She grins again, flicking ash from her cigarette. “Aww I missed these family reunions!”<br><br> <ul> <li> <<link '"\'Orca\'? That\'s what they\'re calling you? At least serial killers get creative code names. Yours sounds like a marine biology textbook."'>> <<set $maudChoice00 to "confrontational">> <<run setup.setTrait('relaxed', ($relaxed || 50) - 1)>> <<set $maudstat -= 1>> <<goto "CH1P7.1.4">> <</link>><br><br> </li> </ul> <ul> <li> <<link '"Three years of radio silence and you show up out of the blue.. That\'s not coincidence. What do you want, Maud?"'>> <<set $maudChoice00 to "intuitive">> <<run setup.setTrait('relaxed', ($intuitive || 50) + 1)>> <<goto "CH1P7.1.4">> <</link>><br><br> </li> </ul> <ul> <li> <<link '"I spent months following every shadow in this city, thinking maybe one of them was you. Turns out I was right to be paranoid."'>> <<set $maudChoice00 to "hopeful">> <<run setup.setTrait('hopeful', ($hopeful || 50) + 1)>> <<set $maudstat += 2>> <<goto "CH1P7.1.4">> <</link>> </li> </ul>

"Luz," you whisper, the name like poison on your tongue.<br><br> Everyone in Sordia knows Luz. The crime lord who appeared out of nowhere and now runs a portion of the undercity with an iron fist wrapped in designer gloves. The Infernal who makes contracts that burn you from the inside out if you break them.<br><br> "Surprise!" Maud shouts, throwing her hands up. Shadow confetti actually manifests and falls around her. "I work for the scariest person in Sordia! Well, one of them!"<br><br> "Why the fuck would you work for $luzHim?" you whisper-scream, leaning across the table.<br><br> She drums her fingers on the table, shadows mimicking the rhythm. "Because, Luz saved my life. Saw potential in me. So yeah, I work for them. Loyalty for a good life. Fair trade, duh."<br><br> "Besides, Luz is actually pretty cool once you get to know them. $luzHeC has a cat! Mr. Whiskers. He's adorable." Maud counters, grinning. She leans back. <br><br> You stare at the photos spread across the table. Frost. Asher. You. Maud. Luz. All connected somehow.<br><br> "So what exactly do you want me to do with this?" you ask, already knowing you won't like the answer.<br><br> "Investigate! Obviously!" Maud bounces in her seat. "You're the journalist, I'm the big bad monster. Together we're like... like a really dysfunctional buddy cop movie! You do the thinking, I do the threatening, we solve the mystery, save the day, maybe don't die!"<br><br> She leans forward, eyes glittering with manic enthusiasm.<br><br> "Plus, Luz assigned me to look into this... well, assigned me to look into it alone but $luzHe doesn’t have to know... and since you're a target too, I need to keep you alive.<br><br> "Win-win!"<br><br> "I'm not—"<br><br> "AND," she continues, ignoring your protest, "we can live together! At my place! It'll be like old times!"<br><br> "Absolutely not."<br><br> "Come on! I have a couch! And running water! Usually!"<br><br> "Maud, no."<br><br> You don't like to admit it but yes she is right, you need to investigate this, especially if you're somehow involved in it as well. It can't be a coincidence that both Marguerite and Linnea, two people in those photos, have already disappeared.<br><br> <ul> <li> <<link '"You\'re right. Two people are already missing, and whoever\'s behind this clearly has resources. We work together."'>> <<set $maudChoice4 to "accepting">> <<run setup.setTrait('relaxed', ($relaxed || 50) + 1)>> <<set $maudstat += 1>> <<goto "CH1P8.4">> <</link>><br><br> </li> </ul> <ul> <li> <<link '"This is probably a terrible idea. But you\'re the closest thing I have to someone who understands what we\'re dealing with."'>> <<set $maudChoice4 to "reluctant">> <<run setup.setTrait('intuitive', ($intuitive || 50) - 1)>> <<set $observation += 1>> <<goto "CH1P8.4">> <</link>><br><br> </li> </ul> <ul> <li> <<link '"I work alone. Always have. I don\'t need—" You pause. "Shit. I do need backup, don\'t I? Fine. But we do this my way."'>> <<set $maudChoice4 to "resistant">> <<run setup.setTrait('intuitive', ($intuitive || 50) + 1)>> <<set $maudstat += 1>> <<goto "CH1P8.4">> <</link>> </li> </ul>

<h1>War Correspondent</h1> You’ve reported from the front lines, dodged bullets, and lived to write about it. You've seen the worst of humanity and survived it. But the trauma lingers, and some stories you couldn’t—or wouldn’t—publish still haunt you.<br><br> <strong>Defining Past Event - The Clearwater Massacre (2039):</strong> You were embedded with CRD units in the Bloodline Integration Zones, documenting the violence everyone pretended wasn't happening. Seventeen Chimaera teenagers were executed by a CRD unit who claimed they were "resisting integration." You had footage proving it was cold-blooded murder—agents laughing as they opened fire on kids whose only crime was existing in the wrong neighborhood. Your network, Global News, refused to air it. "Too inflammatory," they said. You leaked it online instead. The video went viral. Only a few agents were prosecuted. The network fired you for "violating journalistic ethics." The families of those teenagers still send you Christmas cards.<br><br> <strong>Main Informant: "Bulldog" (Detective Mario Santos)</strong> - Disabled war veteran who lost both his legs during active duty. He understands the cost of truth-telling and feeds you information about cases that get buried for "national security" reasons. Meets you at the VA medical center during his physical therapy sessions.<br><br> People respect your work, but they also fear what you could become.<br><br> <<button "CONFIRM">> <<set $background to "war">> <<run setup.setTrait('disliked', ($disliked || 50) + 20)>> <<set $specialTrait to "hardened">> <<set $observation to 15>> <<set $storytelling to 7>> <<run Dialog.close()>> <<goto "Prologue">> <</button>> <<button "RETURN">> <<run Dialog.close()>> <</button>>

<h1>Investigative Journalist</h1> You were known for chasing corruption in the highest places, exposing scandals that others were too afraid to touch. You believe in facts, justice, and digging deep... but enemies are watching, and your past exposés may have left dangerous people still walking free.<br><br> <strong>Defining Past Event - The Riverside Murders Investigation (2039):</strong> You spent eight months investigating seven dead sex workers, all from different Bloodlines, all killed with silver-laced weapons. The police had written them off as territorial disputes between rival supernatural factions. You proved it was Detective Raymond Cross, who'd been hunting Bloodline prostitutes for sport, using his badge to access crime scenes and plant evidence that pointed to gang violence. Your exposé was meticulous, thorough, and completely without mercy. It destroyed Cross—he was sentenced to life in prison—but it also destroyed you. Death threats flooded your voicemail. Lawsuits buried you in legal fees. Your editor at the Tribune fired you for "reckless journalism that endangered the paper's reputation." Every major outlet in Sordia blacklisted you. The families of the victims sent you flowers, but flowers don't pay rent.<br><br> <strong>Main Informant: "Archive" (Dr. Sarah Kim)</strong> - Former city hall clerk who was demoted to file management after asking too many questions. She has encyclopedic knowledge of municipal records and can find any document that officially exists—and many that officially don't. Meets you in the basement archives after hours or at the public library, trades information for coffee and respect for her expertise.<br><br> Some call you stubborn. You call it thorough. The difference has kept you alive this long.<br><br> <<button "CONFIRM">> <<set $background to "investigative">> <<run setup.setTrait('disliked', ($disliked || 50) + 10)>> <<set $specialTrait to "stubborn">> <<set $research to 15>> <<set $storytelling to 8>> <<run Dialog.close()>> <<goto "Prologue">> <</button>> <<button "RETURN">> <<run Dialog.close()>> <</button>>

<h1>Whistleblower</h1> You weren’t always a journalist. You came forward with a truth that others tried to bury—risking everything. Now, you live in the shadows, paranoid but principled. What you revealed shook the system... but some secrets aren’t meant to be uncovered. Perk: Insider knowledge, moral authority, coded contacts.<br><br> <strong>Defining Past Event - The Primordial Special Program Leak (2039):</strong> Working as a data analyst in the Mayor's office, you discovered that government resources were being used to track, capture, and experiment on Primordial-blooded people because of their elemental abilities. Official documents detailing systematic genocide for weapons research. You tried internal channels first, then the press, then finally dumped everything online—thousands of classified files proving that your own government was running concentration camps in the city's industrial district. The leak destroyed the program but also destroyed you. Federal prosecution for theft of classified documents. Your lawyer negotiated a plea deal: no jail time, but you'd never work in government again. The program's victims were quietly released, but thirty-seven people remain missing. Their families still call you, asking if you've found anything new.<br><br> <strong>Main Informant: "Golden Boy" (Alexander Rocheford III)</strong> - Trust fund heir whose family fortune comes from fraud investments. He buys classified information from corrupt officials purely for entertainment, then trades it to journalists like you for the thrill of watching powerful people squirm. Meets you at exclusive restaurants he owns or at his yacht, always impeccably dressed, treats espionage like an expensive hobby.<br><br> People hate you. They call you a relentless prick.<br><br> <<button "CONFIRM">> <<set $background to "whistle">> <<run setup.setTrait('disliked', ($disliked || 50) - 30)>> <<set $specialTrait to "relentless">> <<set $networking to 15>> <<set $storytelling to 7>> <<run Dialog.close()>> <<goto "Prologue">> <</button>> <<button "RETURN">> <<run Dialog.close()>> <</button>>

<h1>Tabloid Reporter</h1> Sensationalism was your bread and butter. You dug through trash—literal and figurative—to get headlines that sold. You’re good at reading people and even better at spinning a story. But no one takes you seriously… and you might have faked one too many “exclusive scoops.”<br><br> <strong>Defining Past Event - The David Han Scandal (2039):</strong> You were at the Sordia Inquirer, turning celebrity scandals into circulation gold. Your specialty was catching powerful people in compromising positions and making them pay, either in money or public humiliation. Then you caught the wrong person: David Han, a member of the Hans—one of the Twenty-Three Families—in a Fae brothel. The photos were perfect. Damning. Worth a fortune. You thought this was your big break when you published them. Instead, they buried your career. The Inquirer fired you within hours. Your sources stopped returning calls. Other outlets blacklisted you. The message was clear: you'd overplayed your hand.<br><br> <strong>Main Informant: "Diamond" (Valentina Cross)</strong> - High-end escort who services politicians, businessmen, and crime bosses from all communities. Her clients trust her with secrets because they assume she's too "unimportant" to be dangerous. She trades information for more information/protection—you keep her name out of stories, and she gives you dirt on the city's power brokers. Meets you in luxury hotel lobbies, always perfectly composed, treats information as currency.<br><br> People despise you, they say you're a manipulative ass. You prefer to call it people skills.<br><br> <<button "CONFIRM">> <<set $background to "tabloid">> <<run setup.setTrait('disliked', ($disliked || 50) - 20)>> <<set $specialTrait to "manipulative">> <<set $persuasion to 15>> <<set $storytelling to 10>> <<run Dialog.close()>> <<goto "Prologue">> <</button>> <<button "RETURN">> <<run Dialog.close()>> <</button>>

<div class="codex-section"> <h3>Bloodlines</h3> <p>Eleven main supernatural bloodlines exist in Sordia, each with unique abilities and characteristics. Click any card to learn more about their powers and weaknesses.</p> <div class="bloodline-grid">  <div class="bloodline-card" onclick="toggleBloodlineCard(this)"> <div class="bloodline-header"> <div class="bloodline-symbol">♒︎</div> <div> <h3 class="bloodline-title">Abyssal</h3> <div class="bloodline-tagline">"The depths have their own rules"</div> </div> </div> <div class="bloodline-preview"> Masters of water in all its forms, from crushing ocean depths to scalding steam. They command tides, breathe underwater indefinitely, and draw strength from aquatic environments. </div> <div class="bloodline-powers"> <div class="power-category"> <h4>Aquatic Mastery</h4> <ul class="power-list"> <li><strong>Hydrokinesis:</strong> Control water movement, pressure, and temperature</li> <li><strong>Underwater Breathing:</strong> Function underwater indefinitely without air supply</li> <li><strong>Tidal Control:</strong> Create large waves and water surges</li> <li><strong>Marine Communication:</strong> Understand and command sea life</li> <li><strong>Pressure Adaptation:</strong> Function at crushing depths that would kill normal humans</li> </ul> </div> <div class="power-category"> <h4>Water Manipulation</h4> <ul class="power-list"> <li><strong>Ice Formation:</strong> Freeze water instantly into weapons, barriers, or tools</li> <li><strong>Steam Generation:</strong> Convert water to scalding vapor for attacks</li> <li><strong>Moisture Extraction:</strong> Pull water from air, plants, or living beings</li> <li><strong>Water Walking:</strong> Move across water surface as if solid ground</li> </ul> </div> <div class="power-category"> <h4>Identification Markers</h4> <ul class="power-list"> <li>Slight webbing between fingers and toes</li> <li>Skin remains cool and slightly damp regardless of humidity</li> <li>Hair with blue or green tints that never appears completely dry</li> <li>Exceptional lung capacity and swimming ability</li> </ul> </div> <div class="bloodline-weaknesses"> <h4>Critical Weaknesses</h4> <p>Dehydration vulnerability causes rapid strength loss. Heat sensitivity and desert/arid environments significantly reduce abilities. Some powers work better with saltwater than fresh water.</p> </div> </div> <div class="expand-indicator">⌄</div> </div>  <div class="bloodline-card" onclick="toggleBloodlineCard(this)"> <div class="bloodline-header"> <div class="bloodline-symbol">ᛝ</div> <div> <h3 class="bloodline-title">Chimaera</h3> <div class="bloodline-tagline">"We are what happens when nature breaks its own rules"</div> </div> </div> <div class="bloodline-preview"> Genetic hybrids with unpredictable combinations of abilities from multiple bloodlines. Highly unstable but potentially the most powerful when their mixed heritage aligns properly. </div> <div class="bloodline-powers"> <div class="power-category"> <h4>Physical Mutations</h4> <ul class="power-list"> <li><strong>Enhanced Senses:</strong> Superhuman hearing, smell, night vision, or taste</li> <li><strong>Natural Weapons:</strong> Claws, fangs, spines, or hardened bone projections</li> <li><strong>Protective Features:</strong> Armored skin, poison immunity, or camouflage</li> <li><strong>Size Alterations:</strong> Unusual height, muscle mass, or proportions</li> </ul> </div> <div class="power-category"> <h4>Hybrid Powers</h4> <ul class="power-list"> <li><strong>Mixed Abilities:</strong> Unpredictable combinations of multiple bloodline powers</li> <li><strong>Power Amplification:</strong> Abilities enhanced beyond normal bloodline limits</li> <li><strong>Elemental Fusion:</strong> Combine different elemental abilities (fire + ice)</li> <li><strong>Adaptive Evolution:</strong> Develop new abilities in response to threats</li> </ul> </div> <div class="power-category"> <h4>Identification Markers</h4> <ul class="power-list"> <li>Patches of textured, colored, or unusually thick skin</li> <li>Pronounced canine teeth, unusual eye colors, animal-like features</li> <li>Heightened senses causing sensitivity to normal stimuli</li> <li>Mandatory tranquilizer choker to suppress power fluctuations</li> </ul> </div> <div class="bloodline-weaknesses"> <h4>Critical Weaknesses</h4> <p>Severe genetic instability causes health crises and power failures. Identity crisis issues, drug sensitivity, and instinct override during conflicts. Often targeted for research and exploitation.</p> </div> </div> <div class="expand-indicator">⌄</div> </div>  <div class="bloodline-card" onclick="toggleBloodlineCard(this)"> <div class="bloodline-header"> <div class="bloodline-symbol"> ☆</div> <div> <h3 class="bloodline-title">Chronos</h3> <div class="bloodline-tagline">"Past, present, future… it's all happening right now"</div> </div> </div> <div class="bloodline-preview"> Time and mind manipulators who see across temporal boundaries. They possess precognition, telepathy, and in rare cases can alter timeline events themselves. </div> <div class="bloodline-powers"> <div class="power-category"> <h4>Temporal Abilities</h4> <ul class="power-list"> <li><strong>Precognition:</strong> See potential futures from minutes to years ahead</li> <li><strong>Retrocognition:</strong> View past events by touching objects or locations</li> <li><strong>Time Dilation:</strong> Slow personal perception for enhanced reactions</li> <li><strong>Temporal Phasing:</strong> Briefly step outside normal time flow</li> <li><strong>Future Memory:</strong> Remember events that haven't happened yet</li> </ul> </div> <div class="power-category"> <h4>Psychic Powers</h4> <ul class="power-list"> <li><strong>Telepathy:</strong> Read thoughts and mental communications</li> <li><strong>Psychometry:</strong> Gain object history through touch</li> <li><strong>Dream Projection:</strong> Enter others' dreams to gather information</li> <li><strong>Mental Shielding:</strong> Protect mind from psychic attacks</li> </ul> </div> <div class="power-category"> <h4>Identification Markers</h4> <ul class="power-list"> <li>Eyes with star-like flecks that appear to move and shift</li> <li>Spiral-shaped birthmarks on hands, arms, or shoulders</li> <li>Speak about future events as if they already occurred</li> <li>Digital clocks and timepieces malfunction in their presence</li> </ul> </div> <div class="bloodline-weaknesses"> <h4>Critical Weaknesses</h4> <p>Temporal displacement causes "time lag" and reality dissociation. Information overload triggers seizures. Physical fragility and struggle to distinguish between visions, memories, and current reality.</p> </div> </div> <div class="expand-indicator">⌄</div> </div>  <div class="bloodline-card" onclick="toggleBloodlineCard(this)"> <div class="bloodline-header"> <div class="bloodline-symbol"> 𓆩𓆪</div> <div> <h3 class="bloodline-title">Draegon</h3> <div class="bloodline-tagline">"We built this city. We own this city."</div> </div> </div> <div class="bloodline-preview"> Draconic heritage grants enhanced strength, elemental breath weapons, and innate understanding of wealth. Divided into Chromatic (aggressive) and Metallic (noble) subtypes with color-based powers. </div> <div class="bloodline-powers"> <div class="power-category"> <h4>Shared Draconic Abilities</h4> <ul class="power-list"> <li><strong>Enhanced Strength:</strong> Lift 3-10x normal human capacity</li> <li><strong>Scale Manifestation:</strong> Grow protective scales during danger</li> <li><strong>Wealth Sense:</strong> Detect valuable materials instinctively</li> <li><strong>Economic Intuition:</strong> Supernatural understanding of markets</li> <li><strong>Extended Lifespan:</strong> Live 3-5x longer than normal humans</li> </ul> </div> <div class="power-category"> <h4>Chromatic Dragons (Aggressive)</h4> <ul class="power-list"> <li><strong>Red:</strong> Fire breath, wealth magnetism, territorial dominance</li> <li><strong>Blue:</strong> Lightning breath, storm calling, electronic manipulation</li> <li><strong>Green:</strong> Acid breath, poison immunity, plant manipulation</li> <li><strong>Black:</strong> Acid breath, swamp adaptation, decay manipulation</li> <li><strong>White:</strong> Ice breath, arctic adaptation, hibernation ability</li> </ul> </div> <div class="power-category"> <h4>Metallic Dragons (Noble)</h4> <ul class="power-list"> <li><strong>Gold:</strong> Fire breath, healing abilities, wisdom enhancement</li> <li><strong>Silver:</strong> Ice breath, truth detection, flight mastery</li> <li><strong>Bronze:</strong> Repulsion breath, water breathing, justice sense</li> <li><strong>Copper:</strong> Slowing breath, earth manipulation</li> <li><strong>Brass:</strong> Sleep gas, social mastery, desert survival</li> </ul> </div> <div class="power-category"> <h4>Identification Markers</h4> <ul class="power-list"> <li>Scale-like skin texture, usually concealed under clothing</li> <li>Slit-pupil eyes in colors matching draconic type</li> <li>Bone density 2-3x normal (heavy footsteps, difficulty floating)</li> <li>Unconscious hoarding behavior for type-specific objects</li> </ul> </div> <div class="bloodline-weaknesses"> <h4>Critical Weaknesses</h4> <p>Obsessive greed makes them manipulable through appeals to wealth. Territorial compulsion and pride vulnerability trigger irrational responses. Sensitivity to specific poisons.</p> </div> </div> <div class="expand-indicator">⌄</div> </div>  <div class="bloodline-card" onclick="toggleBloodlineCard(this)"> <div class="bloodline-header"> <div class="bloodline-symbol">𐦍</div> <div> <h3 class="bloodline-title">Fae</h3> <div class="bloodline-tagline">"Everything has a price, darling. Everything."</div> </div> </div> <div class="bloodline-preview"> Nature-bound shapeshifters with supernatural charm and contract magic. Masters of deals, glamour, and making others see exactly what they want them to see. </div> <div class="bloodline-powers"> <div class="power-category"> <h4>Nature Manipulation</h4> <ul class="power-list"> <li><strong>Phytokinesis:</strong> Accelerate plant growth, control vegetation</li> <li><strong>Seasonal Influence:</strong> Alter local weather patterns</li> <li><strong>Animal Communication:</strong> Understand and communicate with wildlife</li> <li><strong>Natural Camouflage:</strong> Blend seamlessly into natural environments</li> </ul> </div> <div class="power-category"> <h4>Shapeshifting Abilities</h4> <ul class="power-list"> <li><strong>Appearance Alteration:</strong> Change hair, eyes, height, facial features</li> <li><strong>Species Mimicry:</strong> Take the form of animals</li> <li><strong>Glamour Projection:</strong> Appear more attractive or trustworthy</li> <li><strong>Age Shifting:</strong> Appear older or younger than actual age</li> </ul> </div> <div class="power-category"> <h4>Social Manipulation</h4> <ul class="power-list"> <li><strong>Supernatural Charm:</strong> Influence emotions through conversation</li> <li><strong>Memory Implantation:</strong> Plant false memories or alter existing ones</li> <li><strong>Loyalty Induction:</strong> Make others feel devoted or protective</li> <li><strong>Contract Magic:</strong> Create mystically binding agreements</li> </ul> </div> <div class="power-category"> <h4>Identification Markers</h4> <ul class="power-list"> <li>Hair or eyes that shift color with mood or lighting</li> <li>Freckles arranged in constellation or geometric patterns</li> <li>Voice with unusual musical quality or perfect pitch</li> <li>Plants grow noticeably faster in their presence</li> </ul> </div> <div class="bloodline-weaknesses"> <h4>Critical Weaknesses</h4> <p>Iron sensitivity causes pain and power disruption. Cannot break their word without severe anguish. Struggle to lie directly, must use misdirection. Some powers require specific rituals.</p> </div> </div> <div class="expand-indicator">⌄</div> </div>  <div class="bloodline-card" onclick="toggleBloodlineCard(this)"> <div class="bloodline-header"> <div class="bloodline-symbol">✴︎⚱</div> <div> <h3 class="bloodline-title">Ifrit</h3> <div class="bloodline-tagline">"Your wish is my command… for the right price"</div> </div> </div> <div class="bloodline-preview"> Air elementals capable of true flight and wish fulfillment. They bind their powers to artifacts and excel at granting desires with carefully worded conditions attached. </div> <div class="bloodline-powers"> <div class="power-category"> <h4>Atmospheric Control</h4> <ul class="power-list"> <li><strong>Wind Manipulation:</strong> Control air currents, create tornadoes</li> <li><strong>Flight Capability:</strong> Achieve true flight through air manipulation</li> <li><strong>Weather Influence:</strong> Summon storms, dispel clouds</li> <li><strong>Oxygen Control:</strong> Create areas of thin or oxygen-rich air</li> <li><strong>Sound Manipulation:</strong> Use air pressure to amplify or muffle sounds</li> </ul> </div> <div class="power-category"> <h4>Appearance Shifting</h4> <ul class="power-list"> <li><strong>Complete Transformation:</strong> Take entirely different physical forms</li> <li><strong>Smoke Form:</strong> Become incorporeal mist to avoid attacks</li> <li><strong>Size Alteration:</strong> Grow larger or shrink smaller than human proportions</li> <li><strong>Gender Shifting:</strong> Change biological sex and gender presentation</li> </ul> </div> <div class="power-category"> <h4>Wish/Contract Magic</h4> <ul class="power-list"> <li><strong>Desire Fulfillment:</strong> Grant requests with attached conditions</li> <li><strong>Artifact Binding:</strong> Channel abilities through lamps, rings, jewelry</li> <li><strong>Contract Creation:</strong> Establish mystically binding agreements</li> <li><strong>Tool Enhancement:</strong> Improve object effectiveness supernaturally</li> </ul> </div> <div class="power-category"> <h4>Identification Markers</h4> <ul class="power-list"> <li>Hair that moves without wind and changes color with mood</li> <li>Extremely angular facial features and bone structure</li> <li>Speak in formal, contractual language even casually</li> <li>Always carry significant personal artifacts</li> </ul> </div> <div class="bloodline-weaknesses"> <h4>Critical Weaknesses</h4> <p>Major powers tied to specific physical objects. Vulnerable to binding through properly constructed contracts. Earth-based attacks disrupt air abilities. Risk of contract slavery.</p> </div> </div> <div class="expand-indicator">⌄</div> </div>  <div class="bloodline-card" onclick="toggleBloodlineCard(this)"> <div class="bloodline-header"> <div class="bloodline-symbol">Ψ</div> <div> <h3 class="bloodline-title">Infernal</h3> <div class="bloodline-tagline">"We deal in blood, sweat, and binding contracts"</div> </div> </div> <div class="bloodline-preview"> Demonic heritage grants pyrokinetic abilities and supernatural contract magic. They excel at making deals that always seem to favor them in the end. </div> <div class="bloodline-powers"> <div class="power-category"> <h4>Pyrokinetic Abilities</h4> <ul class="power-list"> <li><strong>Fire Generation:</strong> Create and control flames without fuel source</li> <li><strong>Flame Weaponry:</strong> Form fire into solid weapons and projectiles</li> <li><strong>Heat Aura:</strong> Raise temperatures to dangerous levels</li> <li><strong>Thermal Vision:</strong> See heat signatures through walls</li> <li><strong>Fire Immunity:</strong> Complete resistance to burns and heat damage</li> </ul> </div> <div class="power-category"> <h4>Contract Magic</h4> <ul class="power-list"> <li><strong>Supernatural Binding:</strong> Create unbreakable mystical agreements</li> <li><strong>Soul Contracts:</strong> Bind life force as collateral for deals</li> <li><strong>Debt Collection:</strong> Supernaturally track owed obligations</li> <li><strong>Contract Sensing:</strong> Detect lies about intentions or agreements</li> </ul> </div> <div class="power-category"> <h4>Enhanced Physical Traits</h4> <ul class="power-list"> <li><strong>Heat Tolerance:</strong> Function normally up to 150°F</li> <li><strong>Pain Immunity:</strong> Continue fighting through severe injuries</li> <li><strong>Intimidation Aura:</strong> Project supernatural menace</li> <li><strong>Enhanced Metabolism:</strong> Require less food and sleep</li> </ul> </div> <div class="power-category"> <h4>Identification Markers</h4> <ul class="power-list"> <li>Heterochromia or eyes that glow like embers when angry</li> <li>Consistently elevated skin temperature (99-104°F)</li> <li>Small unexplained scars that never fully heal</li> <li>Electronics overheat during emotional stress</li> </ul> </div> <div class="bloodline-weaknesses"> <h4>Critical Weaknesses</h4> <p>Water and extreme cold negate fire abilities and cause rapid hypothermia. Cannot break their own supernatural agreements without death. Emotional volatility triggers uncontrolled fire manifestations.</p> </div> </div> <div class="expand-indicator">⌄</div> </div>  <div class="bloodline-card" onclick="toggleBloodlineCard(this)"> <div class="bloodline-header"> <div class="bloodline-symbol">༒︎</div> <div> <h3 class="bloodline-title">Manitou</h3> <div class="bloodline-tagline">"The dead have so much to say, if you know how to listen"</div> </div> </div> <div class="bloodline-preview"> Death-touched mediums who communicate with spirits and the deceased. They can sense approaching death and sometimes even attempt to reverse it temporarily. </div> <div class="bloodline-powers"> <div class="power-category"> <h4>Spirit Communication</h4> <ul class="power-list"> <li><strong>Mediumship:</strong> Communicate with deceased entities and spirits</li> <li><strong>Ghost Sight:</strong> See supernatural beings invisible to others</li> <li><strong>Spirit Channeling:</strong> Allow spirits temporary body control (dangerous)</li> <li><strong>Ancestral Knowledge:</strong> Access deceased family members' memories</li> <li><strong>Séance Mastery:</strong> Conduct group spirit communication</li> </ul> </div> <div class="power-category"> <h4>Death-Related Abilities</h4> <ul class="power-list"> <li><strong>Death Sense:</strong> Detect recent deaths and approaching mortality</li> <li><strong>Corpse Animation:</strong> Temporarily animate dead bodies</li> <li><strong>Soul Tracking:</strong> Follow spiritual essence of recently deceased</li> <li><strong>Death Prediction:</strong> Sense when someone will die within weeks</li> </ul> </div> <div class="power-category"> <h4>Exorcism/Cleansing</h4> <ul class="power-list"> <li><strong>Spirit Banishment:</strong> Force entities to leave areas or people</li> <li><strong>Cleansing Rituals:</strong> Purify locations of negative energy</li> <li><strong>Protective Wards:</strong> Create barriers against malevolent forces</li> <li><strong>Soul Healing:</strong> Treat spiritual trauma and supernatural damage</li> </ul> </div> <div class="power-category"> <h4>Identification Markers</h4> <ul class="power-list"> <li>Consistently cold skin temperature (94-96°F)</li> <li>Eyes that seem to look through people rather than at them</li> <li>Comfort in morgues, hospitals, cemeteries</li> <li>Unusual knowledge about recently deceased strangers</li> </ul> </div> <div class="bloodline-weaknesses"> <h4>Critical Weaknesses</h4> <p>Constant spirit contact causes progressive mental deterioration. High risk of permanent possession by malevolent entities. Physical decay and difficulty maintaining normal relationships.</p> </div> </div> <div class="expand-indicator">⌄</div> </div>  <div class="bloodline-card" onclick="toggleBloodlineCard(this)"> <div class="bloodline-header"> <div class="bloodline-symbol">♒︎<br> ᨒ<br> ঌ<br> ༄<br> </div> <div> <h3 class="bloodline-title">Primordial</h3> <div class="bloodline-tagline">"The original elementalists"</div> </div> </div> <div class="bloodline-preview"> Pure elemental manipulation on a devastating scale. Each individual masters one element completely: Earth, Fire, Water, or Air. Their powers affect city blocks, not just rooms. </div> <div class="bloodline-powers"> <div class="power-category"> <h4>Universal Traits</h4> <ul class="power-list"> <li><strong>Devastating Scale:</strong> Abilities affect areas measured in city blocks</li> <li><strong>Single Element Focus:</strong> Complete mastery over their chosen element</li> <li><strong>Physical Gestures:</strong> Require martial arts movements to direct energy</li> <li><strong>Emotional Triggers:</strong> Powers intensify during emotional stress</li> </ul> </div> <div class="power-category"> <h4>Earth Primordials</h4> <ul class="power-list"> <li><strong>Geokinesis:</strong> Control massive amounts of rock, soil, stone</li> <li><strong>Seismic Manipulation:</strong> Create earthquakes and ground fissures</li> <li><strong>Metalbending:</strong> Control refined metals with earth particles</li> <li><strong>Lavabending (Rare):</strong> Heat earth to molten state</li> </ul> </div> <div class="power-category"> <h4>Fire Primordials</h4> <ul class="power-list"> <li><strong>Pyrokinesis:</strong> Create and control fire without fuel</li> <li><strong>Lightning Generation:</strong> Separate energy to create electrical bolts</li> <li><strong>Blue Fire Mastery:</strong> Flames hot enough to melt steel instantly</li> <li><strong>Combustionbending (Rare):</strong> Explosive beams through forehead</li> </ul> </div> <div class="power-category"> <h4>Water Primordials</h4> <ul class="power-list"> <li><strong>Hydrokinesis:</strong> Manipulate water pressure, temperature, movement</li> <li><strong>Phase Control:</strong> Instantly freeze to ice or convert to steam</li> <li><strong>Healing:</strong> Accelerate natural healing through water manipulation</li> <li><strong>Bloodbending (Forbidden):</strong> Control water in living beings</li> </ul> </div> <div class="power-category"> <h4>Air Primordials</h4> <ul class="power-list"> <li><strong>Aerokinesis:</strong> Generate and direct powerful wind currents</li> <li><strong>True Flight:</strong> Sustained flight (extremely rare achievement)</li> <li><strong>Vacuum Creation:</strong> Remove all air from specific areas</li> <li><strong>Weather Control:</strong> Influence large-scale atmospheric patterns</li> </ul> </div> <div class="power-category"> <h4>Identification Markers</h4> <ul class="power-list"> <li>Glowing vein-like markings that pulse with elemental energy</li> <li>Element-specific physical traits (dense bones, temperature variations)</li> <li>Unconscious environmental effects around their element</li> <li>Distinctive martial arts fighting stances and movements</li> </ul> </div> <div class="bloodline-weaknesses"> <h4>Critical Weaknesses</h4> <p>Each element has natural counters (water vs fire, earth vs air). Physical exhaustion from overuse. Emotional instability causes uncontrolled manifestations. Cannot learn other elements.</p> </div> </div> <div class="expand-indicator">⌄</div> </div>  <div class="bloodline-card" onclick="toggleBloodlineCard(this)"> <div class="bloodline-header"> <div class="bloodline-symbol">⬭</div> <div> <h3 class="bloodline-title">Seraph</h3> <div class="bloodline-tagline">"Angels in a city that crucifies miracles"</div> </div> </div> <div class="bloodline-preview"> Angelic healers with light-based powers and divine charisma. They can cure any wound or disease but at great personal cost to their own life force. </div> <div class="bloodline-powers"> <div class="power-category"> <h4>Healing Manifestations</h4> <ul class="power-list"> <li><strong>Regenerative Healing:</strong> Cure injury, illness, poison through touch</li> <li><strong>Resurrection Touch:</strong> Restore life within minutes (extremely costly)</li> <li><strong>Disease Purification:</strong> Eliminate genetic disorders, cancers, curses</li> <li><strong>Mental Healing:</strong> Treat psychological trauma and supernatural fear</li> <li><strong>Healing Aura:</strong> Passive 10-foot radius healing field</li> </ul> </div> <div class="power-category"> <h4>Light-Based Abilities</h4> <ul class="power-list"> <li><strong>Light Weaponry:</strong> Create solid constructs of hardened light</li> <li><strong>Photokinetic Projection:</strong> Generate brilliant illumination or lasers</li> <li><strong>Blinding Flash:</strong> Light bursts that can permanently blind</li> <li><strong>Light Teleportation:</strong> Travel instantly along light beams</li> <li><strong>Purifying Radiance:</strong> Light that burns through darkness</li> </ul> </div> <div class="power-category"> <h4>Charismatic Powers</h4> <ul class="power-list"> <li><strong>Divine Presence:</strong> Inspire hope, calm, courage automatically</li> <li><strong>Command Authority:</strong> Issue irresistible commands during crisis</li> <li><strong>Truth Compulsion:</strong> Make others unable to lie in their presence</li> <li><strong>Peaceful Aura:</strong> Prevent violence in immediate vicinity</li> </ul> </div> <div class="power-category"> <h4>Identification Markers</h4> <ul class="power-list"> <li>Eyes that glow faintly in darkness (gold, silver, white, blue)</li> <li>Skin with subtle luminescent quality when emotional</li> <li>Hair catches light impossibly, never appears dirty</li> <li>Photographs may show unusual light effects or auras</li> </ul> </div> <div class="bloodline-weaknesses"> <h4>Critical Weaknesses</h4> <p>Every healing drains their own life energy. Overuse causes accelerated aging and premature death. Compulsive healing tendency. Powers weaken in absolute darkness. Market value: $50M+ alive.</p> </div> </div> <div class="expand-indicator">⌄</div> </div>  <div class="bloodline-card" onclick="toggleBloodlineCard(this)"> <div class="bloodline-header"> <div class="bloodline-symbol">☾</div> <div> <h3 class="bloodline-title">Umbra</h3> <div class="bloodline-tagline">"The ones you never see coming"</div> </div> </div> <div class="bloodline-preview"> Shadow manipulators who control darkness itself. They become invisible in dim light, travel through shadows, and create solid constructs from the void between light. </div> <div class="bloodline-powers"> <div class="power-category"> <h4>Shadow Manipulation</h4> <ul class="power-list"> <li><strong>Umbrakinetic Constructs:</strong> Create solid weapons, barriers from shadows</li> <li><strong>Shadow Camouflage:</strong> Invisible in anything darker than noon sunlight</li> <li><strong>Shadow Teleportation:</strong> Travel instantly between dark areas</li> <li><strong>Shadow Storage:</strong> Hide objects within shadows for later retrieval</li> <li><strong>Darkness Solidification:</strong> Give shadows physical weight and mass</li> </ul> </div> <div class="power-category"> <h4>Advanced Shadow Powers</h4> <ul class="power-list"> <li><strong>Shadow Animation:</strong> Create independent shadow creatures</li> <li><strong>Individual Shadow Manipulation:</strong> Control others' shadows</li> <li><strong>Shadow Conversion:</strong> Transform body parts into living shadow</li> <li><strong>Umbral Phasing:</strong> Become intangible by merging with shadows</li> <li><strong>Light Absorption:</strong> Negate light-based attacks completely</li> </ul> </div> <div class="power-category"> <h4>Psychological Powers</h4> <ul class="power-list"> <li><strong>Fear Projection:</strong> Induce primal terror through darkness aura</li> <li><strong>Memory Displacement:</strong> Make themselves forgettable</li> <li><strong>Shadow Sight:</strong> See clearly in absolute darkness</li> </ul> </div> <div class="power-category"> <h4>Identification Markers</h4> <ul class="power-list"> <li>Skin remains cold (94-96°F) regardless of environment</li> <li>Eyes appear completely black with no visible iris or pupil</li> <li>Absence of shadow in bright light or shadow moves independently</li> <li>Electronics malfunction when emotionally distressed</li> </ul> </div> <div class="bloodline-weaknesses"> <h4>Critical Weaknesses</h4> <p>Bright lights cause physical pain, nausea, and power failure. Strobe lights trigger seizures. Extended bright exposure causes permanent power damage. Powers fail without existing shadows.</p> </div> </div> <div class="expand-indicator">⌄</div> </div> </div> </div>

<div class="codex-section"> <h3>Sordia</h3> <p>A decaying metropolis built on the bones of old New York, where humans and bloodlines coexist in uneasy tension. From Henry Hudson's guided exploration to the modern Twenty-Three Families, every chapter of this city's history has been shaped by supernatural forces. Click any period to explore the hidden history.</p> <div class="timeline-container"> <div class="timeline-line"></div>  <div class="timeline-period"> <div class="timeline-card" onclick="toggleTimelineCard(this)"> <div class="timeline-header"> <div class="timeline-dates">1624-1664</div> <h3 class="timeline-title">The Dutch Period</h3> </div> <div class="timeline-subtitle">First Contact</div> <div class="timeline-preview"> New Amsterdam succeeded because Fae Bloodline Dutch colonists could communicate with local supernatural communities. The famous "purchase" of Manhattan was actually a complex supernatural treaty between Lenape Manitou Bloodlines and Dutch traders. </div> <div class="timeline-details"> <div class="timeline-section"> <h4>New Amsterdam: The Original Covenant</h4> <ul class="timeline-events"> <li><strong>1609:</strong> Henry Hudson's exploration guided by Manitou Bloodline members of the Lenape people, who recognized his ship through spiritual visions and chose to make contact rather than remain hidden.</li> <li><strong>1624:</strong> Dutch West India Company's settlement succeeded because Fae Bloodline Dutch colonists could communicate with local supernatural communities. The "purchase" of Manhattan was actually a complex supernatural treaty: Lenape Manitou Bloodlines retained spiritual authority over burial grounds (now Washington Heights and Central Park), Dutch Fae and Ifrit traders gained commercial rights to the harbor, Seraph Bloodline healers from both groups established the first integrated medical practices.</li> <li><strong>1643-1645:</strong> Kieft's War appeared to be Dutch-Native conflict, but was actually the First Bloodline War—younger Bloodlines challenging the territorial agreements their elders had negotiated. Umbra Bloodline assassinations on both sides escalated until Seraph healers negotiated peace.</li> <li><strong>1653:</strong> The wall built across lower Manhattan (Wall Street) contained Draegon-forged metal that made the wall almost unbreakable, creating the first supernatural protection wall.</li> </ul> </div> <div class="timeline-section"> <h4>Hidden Infrastructure</h4> <ul class="timeline-events"> <li><strong>1658:</strong> Construction of the first windmill included Ifrit Bloodline engineering that could harness more wind. The mill's basement levels housed the first Underground Council—representatives from all settled Bloodlines who coordinated territorial agreements and managed integration with arriving human immigrants.</li> </ul> </div> </div> <div class="timeline-expand-indicator">⌄</div> </div> </div>  <div class="timeline-period"> <div class="timeline-card" onclick="toggleTimelineCard(this)"> <div class="timeline-header"> <div class="timeline-dates">1664-1776</div> <h3 class="timeline-title">The English Period</h3> </div> <div class="timeline-subtitle">The Great Concealment</div> <div class="timeline-preview"> The English conquest succeeded partly because Umbra Bloodline spies had infiltrated Dutch colonial administration. Colonel Richard Nicolls was secretly Chronos Bloodline. This period institutionalized supernatural secrecy that would last for centuries. </div> <div class="timeline-details"> <div class="timeline-section"> <h4>New York: Institutionalizing Secrecy</h4> <ul class="timeline-events"> <li><strong>1664:</strong> The English conquest succeeded partly because Umbra Bloodline spies had infiltrated Dutch colonial administration. Colonel Richard Nicolls, who accepted the city's surrender, was secretly Chronos Bloodline—his enhanced negotiation abilities prevented bloodshed during the transition.</li> <li><strong>1674:</strong> The Great Fire that burned much of the city was actually started by Infernal Bloodline families destroying records of supernatural involvement in colonial governance. Official histories blame accident, but the fire strategically targeted specific buildings containing evidence of supernatural integration.</li> <li><strong>1690s-1720s:</strong> The Pirates of New York included several Abyssal Bloodline captains who could navigate by supernatural means and survive shipwrecks that would kill normal humans. Captain William Kidd's buried treasure was never found because an Ifrit Bloodline contractor honored his contract with Kidd even after death and never lets anyone find it.</li> </ul> </div> <div class="timeline-section"> <h4>The Bloodline Underground</h4> <ul class="timeline-events"> <li><strong>1735:</strong> The Zenger Trial (freedom of press case) was defended by lawyer Andrew Hamilton, who was secretly Fae Bloodline. His supernatural charisma and ability to inspire trust helped establish legal precedents that would later protect Bloodline civil rights during integration.</li> <li><strong>1741:</strong> The New York Conspiracy hysteria was triggered by Primordial Bloodline manifestations during an unusual heat wave. Several enslaved people with uncontrolled fire abilities caused actual supernatural incidents, but the colonial government was convinced it was because they wanted to burn the city and gain freedom. They executed or hanged the people rather than acknowledge supernatural activity.</li> <li><strong>1763:</strong> The Stamp Act Crisis was coordinated partly through Umbra Bloodline communication networks that could pass messages instantly across the colonies. The Sons of Liberty included several Bloodline members who used supernatural abilities for intelligence gathering and resistance operations.</li> </ul> </div> </div> <div class="timeline-expand-indicator">⌄</div> </div> </div>  <div class="timeline-period"> <div class="timeline-card timeline-crisis" onclick="toggleTimelineCard(this)"> <div class="timeline-header"> <div class="timeline-dates">1776-1783</div> <h3 class="timeline-title">Revolutionary Period</h3> </div> <div class="timeline-subtitle">The Bloodline War of Independence</div> <div class="timeline-preview"> George Washington's crossing of the Delaware succeeded because Abyssal Bloodline scouts could predict ice conditions and Ifrit Bloodline soldiers could navigate perfectly in the blizzard. Hidden supernatural heroes shaped American independence. </div> <div class="timeline-details"> <div class="timeline-section"> <h4>Supernatural Involvement in Revolution</h4> <ul class="timeline-events"> <li><strong>1776:</strong> George Washington's crossing of the Delaware succeeded because Abyssal Bloodline scouts could predict ice conditions and Ifrit Bloodline soldiers could navigate perfectly in the blizzard. The famous painting depicts a romanticized version—it hides the supernatural assistance that made the tactical surprise possible.</li> <li><strong>1776-1783:</strong> The Great Fire and British occupation created chaos that Bloodline families used to relocate, establish new identities, and strengthen their hidden networks. Loyalist and Patriot sympathies often broke along Bloodline family lines rather than purely political considerations.</li> <li><strong>1783:</strong> Evacuation Day (British departure) was celebrated by both humans and Bloodlines alike. Some Bloodline families had spent seven years planning for post-war expansion and had developed sophisticated methods for maintaining secrecy during the coming American period.</li> </ul> </div> <div class="timeline-section"> <h4>Hidden Revolutionary Heroes</h4> <ul class="timeline-events"> <li><strong>Nathan Hale:</strong> The famous spy who regretted having "but one life to give" was Manitou Bloodline. His execution was so traumatic that his spirit provided intelligence to Manitou operatives for decades afterward.</li> <li><strong>Benedict Arnold:</strong> His betrayal was motivated partly by Draegon Bloodline greed, but also by British promises of supernatural recognition that the Continental Congress couldn't match.</li> <li><strong>Alexander Hamilton:</strong> Chronos Bloodline whose financial genius included supernatural intuition about economic systems. His banking innovations were designed to accommodate supernatural wealth that couldn't be easily traced through normal financial instruments.</li> </ul> </div> </div> <div class="timeline-expand-indicator">⌄</div> </div> </div>  <div class="timeline-period"> <div class="timeline-card" onclick="toggleTimelineCard(this)"> <div class="timeline-header"> <div class="timeline-dates">1783-1840</div> <h3 class="timeline-title">Early American Period</h3> </div> <div class="timeline-subtitle">Building the Hidden City</div> <div class="timeline-preview"> When New York briefly served as national capital, Bloodline families gathered from across the new nation. The first Federal Hall included hidden chambers where supernatural representatives could observe Congress while remaining concealed. </div> <div class="timeline-details"> <div class="timeline-section"> <h4>The Federal Capital Period</h4> <ul class="timeline-events"> <li><strong>1784-1790:</strong> When New York briefly served as national capital, Bloodline families from across the new nation gathered in the city. The first Federal Hall included hidden chambers where supernatural representatives could observe Congress while remaining concealed from human officials.</li> <li><strong>1792:</strong> The Buttonwood Agreement that established the New York Stock Exchange was negotiated partly by Draegon Bloodline and Chronos Bloodline financiers who understood that supernatural wealth needed legitimate investment channels. Early trading included coded transactions that moved supernatural resources alongside human capital.</li> </ul> </div> <div class="timeline-section"> <h4>Infrastructure and Growth</h4> <ul class="timeline-events"> <li><strong>1807:</strong> Robert Fulton's steamboat was powered by both steam and Ifrit Bloodline enhancement. The supernatural elements were kept secret, but explained why early steamships were more reliable than engineering should have allowed.</li> <li><strong>1811:</strong> The Commissioner's Plan (Manhattan's grid system) was surveyed partly by Primordial Bloodline engineers. The grid's regularity made it easier for Bloodline families to establish territorial boundaries and coordinate their hidden activities.</li> <li><strong>1817-1825:</strong> Erie Canal construction employed Chimaera Bloodline workers whose enhanced strength could move massive stones and work in dangerous conditions. The canal's success made New York the dominant port.</li> </ul> </div> <div class="timeline-section"> <h4>The Cholera Years</h4> <ul class="timeline-events"> <li><strong>1832:</strong> The Cholera Epidemic was contained partly through Seraph Bloodline healers working secretly alongside human doctors. Official medical records credited improved sanitation, but supernatural healing prevented the disease from reaching European epidemic levels.</li> </ul> </div> </div> <div class="timeline-expand-indicator">⌄</div> </div> </div>  <div class="timeline-period"> <div class="timeline-card" onclick="toggleTimelineCard(this)"> <div class="timeline-header"> <div class="timeline-dates">1840-1920</div> <h3 class="timeline-title">Mass Immigration Era</h3> </div> <div class="timeline-subtitle">The Great Hiding</div> <div class="timeline-preview"> The Irish Potato Famine brought entire Fae Bloodline clans whose traditional lands had become uninhabitable. Five Points became the first true integrated neighborhood where human Irish immigrants lived alongside Fae and Primordial Bloodline families. </div> <div class="timeline-details"> <div class="timeline-section"> <h4>Irish Immigration (1840s-1850s)</h4> <ul class="timeline-events"> <li><strong>1845-1852:</strong> The Irish Potato Famine brought not just human refugees but entire Fae Bloodline clans whose traditional lands had become uninhabitable. These families settled in Five Points and established the first Bloodline mutual aid societies disguised as ethnic organizations.</li> <li>The Five Points became the first true integrated neighborhood where human Irish immigrants lived alongside Fae and Primordial Bloodline families. The area's reputation for violence was partly due to supernatural conflicts that human authorities couldn't understand or control.</li> </ul> </div> <div class="timeline-section"> <h4>German Immigration (1848-1870s)</h4> <ul class="timeline-events"> <li><strong>1848:</strong> German Revolutionary refugees included Seraph and Draegon Bloodline families fleeing European supernatural persecution. They established "Little Germany" on the Lower East Side as a cover for the first organized Bloodline cultural preservation efforts in America.</li> <li><strong>1860s:</strong> German beer gardens and social clubs provided cover for Bloodline community meetings. The elaborate German cultural festivals included coded supernatural ceremonies that maintained old-world traditions while adapting to American secrecy requirements.</li> </ul> </div> <div class="timeline-section"> <h4>Civil War Era (1861-1865)</h4> <ul class="timeline-events"> <li><strong>1861-1865:</strong> The Civil War Draft Riots were triggered partly by Primordial and Infernal Bloodline manifestations during July heat waves. Uncontrolled supernatural abilities among stressed immigrant populations caused actual fires and violence, but newspaper reports blamed everything on anti-draft sentiment.</li> <li><strong>Supernatural Underground Railroad:</strong> Umbra and Manitou Bloodline families operated parallel networks helping both escaped slaves and supernatural refugees fleeing persecution. Some documented Underground Railroad "safe houses" were actually Bloodline sanctuaries protecting supernatural families from discovery.</li> </ul> </div> <div class="timeline-section"> <h4>Industrial Growth (1870-1900)</h4> <ul class="timeline-events"> <li><strong>1869:</strong> Brooklyn Bridge construction required Draegon Bloodline engineering to work with the massive stone foundations and Abyssal Bloodline labor for underwater construction that would have killed normal humans. The bridge's famous "supernatural" survival record was literally supernatural.</li> <li><strong>1880s:</strong> Skyscraper development was made possible partly by Chronos Bloodline understanding of structural engineering and Ifrit Bloodline workers who could handle dangerous high-altitude construction. Early skyscrapers included hidden floors accessible only through supernatural means.</li> <li><strong>1883:</strong> The Brooklyn Bridge opening celebration included secret Bloodline ceremonies acknowledging supernatural contributions to the construction. These ceremonies established traditions for Bloodline involvement in major public works that continued for over a century.</li> </ul> </div> <div class="timeline-section"> <h4>Eastern European Immigration (1880-1920)</h4> <ul class="timeline-events"> <li><strong>1880-1920:</strong> Jewish immigration from Eastern Europe included Seraph and Umbra Bloodline families fleeing supernatural pogroms that targeted both human and Bloodline Jewish communities. The Lower East Side became the most supernaturally dense neighborhood in American history.</li> <li>Italian Immigration brought Infernal and Chimaera Bloodline families who established the first supernatural organized crime networks. What historians call early Mafia activity included actual supernatural enforcement and protection services for both human and Bloodline communities.</li> <li><strong>1907:</strong> Ellis Island processed over 1 million immigrants, including thousands of Bloodline refugees. Immigration officials who were also part of a Bloodline secretly trained to recognize supernatural traits, and separate processing areas handled Bloodline families who needed special documentation and settlement assistance.</li> </ul> </div> </div> <div class="timeline-expand-indicator">⌄</div> </div> </div>  <div class="timeline-period"> <div class="timeline-card" onclick="toggleTimelineCard(this)"> <div class="timeline-header"> <div class="timeline-dates">1900-1929</div> <h3 class="timeline-title">Early 20th Century</h3> </div> <div class="timeline-subtitle">The Golden Age of Secrecy</div> <div class="timeline-preview"> Progressive Era reforms were supported by Bloodline communities after the Triangle Shirtwaist Fire killed 23 Bloodlines. World War I saw segregated Bloodline military units whose supernatural abilities were classified as military secrets. The Cotton Club's "magical" performances were literally magical. </div> <div class="timeline-details"> <div class="timeline-section"> <h4>Progressive Era Reforms</h4> <ul class="timeline-events"> <li><strong>1901:</strong> Triangle Shirtwaist Factory Fire killed 146 workers, including 23 Bloodline employees whose supernatural abilities should have helped them escape. The tragedy revealed that even supernatural advantages couldn't overcome systematic workplace safety violations, leading to Bloodline support for labor reforms.</li> <li><strong>1904:</strong> Subway construction employed thousands of Chimaera and Umbra Bloodline workers who could operate safely in dangerous underground conditions. The subway system included hidden stations and tunnels for Bloodline transportation that remain secret to this day.</li> </ul> </div> <div class="timeline-section"> <h4>World War I Era (1917-1918)</h4> <ul class="timeline-events"> <li><strong>1917-1918:</strong> World War I saw thousands of Bloodline soldiers serve in segregated units whose supernatural abilities were classified as military secrets. Their enhanced senses, strength, and healing abilities gave American forces significant advantages that were attributed to superior training and equipment.</li> <li><strong>1918 Flu Pandemic:</strong> The 1918 Flu Pandemic was contained in New York partly through Seraph Bloodline healers working secretly with public health officials. The city's lower death rate compared to other major cities was attributed to better medical infrastructure, but supernatural healing made the real difference.</li> </ul> </div> <div class="timeline-section"> <h4>Prohibition Era (1920-1933)</h4> <ul class="timeline-events"> <li><strong>1920:</strong> Prohibition created the first major Bloodline criminal enterprises. Infernal Bloodline families could produce alcohol through distillation, Umbra smugglers could move shipments invisibly, and Draegon financiers could launder supernatural profits through legitimate businesses.</li> <li>Speakeasies in Greenwich Village and Harlem included supernatural establishments where Bloodline families could socialize openly while maintaining cover as ethnic social clubs. These venues established cultural traditions that influenced post-integration entertainment.</li> <li><strong>1925:</strong> The Cotton Club in Harlem was secretly owned by Ifrit Bloodline investors who used Fae and Seraph performers to create entertainment impossible for purely human establishments. The club's reputation for magical performances was literally magical.</li> </ul> </div> </div> <div class="timeline-expand-indicator">⌄</div> </div> </div>  <div class="timeline-period"> <div class="timeline-card timeline-crisis" onclick="toggleTimelineCard(this)"> <div class="timeline-header"> <div class="timeline-dates">1929-1945</div> <h3 class="timeline-title">Depression and War Era</h3> </div> <div class="timeline-subtitle">Crisis and Consolidation</div> <div class="timeline-preview"> The Stock Market Crash was predicted by several Chronos Bloodline families who used their supernatural financial instincts to protect their wealth. WWII transformed New York into a supernatural intelligence hub with Bloodline scientists aiding the Manhattan Project. </div> <div class="timeline-details"> <div class="timeline-section"> <h4>The Great Depression (1929-1939)</h4> <ul class="timeline-events"> <li><strong>1929:</strong> The Stock Market Crash was predicted by several Chronos Bloodline families who used their supernatural financial instincts to protect their wealth. However, Bloodline mutual aid societies prevented complete economic collapse in supernatural communities by sharing resources through non-monetary exchanges.</li> <li><strong>1930s:</strong> Public Works Programs employed thousands of Bloodline workers whose supernatural abilities could accomplish massive infrastructure projects efficiently. The Triborough Bridge, Lincoln Tunnel, and LaGuardia Airport were completed ahead of schedule partly due to supernatural labor.</li> <li><strong>WPA Arts Projects:</strong> WPA Arts Projects included Bloodline artists whose works contained hidden supernatural elements. Murals in public buildings included coded symbols that remain undetected by human art historians.</li> </ul> </div> <div class="timeline-section"> <h4>World War II (1941-1945)</h4> <ul class="timeline-events"> <li><strong>1941-1945:</strong> WWII transformed New York into a supernatural intelligence hub. Umbra Bloodline agents gathered information behind enemy lines, Infernal operatives provided psychological warfare capabilities, and Draegon families coordinated supernatural resources for the war effort.</li> <li><strong>The Manhattan Project:</strong> The Manhattan Project included Bloodline scientists whose supernatural abilities aided in atomic research. Several Nobel Prize winners were secretly Bloodline, though their supernatural advantages were classified as "extraordinary human talent."</li> <li><strong>U-boat Defense:</strong> German U-boat attacks on the East Coast were countered partly by Abyssal Bloodline naval personnel who could detect submarines through their powers. The U.S. Navy's success protecting New York harbor owed significant debt to supernatural intelligence.</li> </ul> </div> </div> <div class="timeline-expand-indicator">⌄</div> </div> </div>  <div class="timeline-period"> <div class="timeline-card" onclick="toggleTimelineCard(this)"> <div class="timeline-header"> <div class="timeline-dates">1945-1970</div> <h3 class="timeline-title">Post-War Boom</h3> </div> <div class="timeline-subtitle">The Perfect Cover</div> <div class="timeline-preview"> Post-war suburban expansion allowed Bloodline families to establish new identities in planned communities. Jackie Robinson breaking baseball's color barrier was supported by Fae Bloodline activists who used supernatural charisma to influence team owners and media coverage. </div> <div class="timeline-details"> <div class="timeline-section"> <h4>Suburban Expansion</h4> <ul class="timeline-events"> <li><strong>1945-1960:</strong> Post-war suburban development allowed Bloodline families to establish new identities in planned communities. Levittown and similar developments included supernatural families whose enhanced abilities were explained as wartime technical training or foreign expertise.</li> <li><strong>1947:</strong> Jackie Robinson breaking baseball's color barrier was supported by Fae Bloodline activists who used supernatural charisma to influence team owners and media coverage. Robinson himself was human, but his success was aided by supernatural civil rights advocates.</li> <li><strong>1950s:</strong> Television production in New York employed Bloodline performers and technicians whose supernatural abilities enhanced entertainment quality. Early TV's "golden age" owed much to Bloodline creativity disguised as human innovation.</li> </ul> </div> <div class="timeline-section"> <h4>Urban Renewal</h4> <ul class="timeline-events"> <li><strong>1946-1970:</strong> Robert Moses's urban renewal projects unknowingly destroyed several historic Bloodline neighborhoods, forcing supernatural families to relocate and adapt their hidden communities to new urban geography. This displacement contributed to later tensions during integration.</li> <li><strong>1964-1965:</strong> World's Fair in Queens showcased American technology that included secret Bloodline innovations. The "futuristic" exhibits featured supernatural technologies disguised as advanced human engineering.</li> </ul> </div> </div> <div class="timeline-expand-indicator">⌄</div> </div> </div>  <div class="timeline-period"> <div class="timeline-card timeline-crisis" onclick="toggleTimelineCard(this)"> <div class="timeline-header"> <div class="timeline-dates">1970-1990</div> <h3 class="timeline-title">Crisis Era</h3> </div> <div class="timeline-subtitle">The Breaking Point</div> <div class="timeline-preview"> The Fiscal Crisis nearly exposed Bloodline financial networks when city budget analysis revealed mysterious revenue sources. The 1977 Blackout was caused partly by Umbra Bloodline children whose stress-induced power manifestations overloaded the power grid. </div> <div class="timeline-details"> <div class="timeline-section"> <h4>Urban Decline</h4> <ul class="timeline-events"> <li><strong>1970s:</strong> The Fiscal Crisis nearly exposed Bloodline financial networks when city budget analysis revealed mysterious revenue sources that auditors couldn't trace. Draegon Bloodline emergency loans saved the city from bankruptcy while keeping supernatural involvement secret.</li> <li><strong>1977:</strong> The Blackout was caused partly by Umbra Bloodline children whose stress-induced power manifestations overloaded the power grid. The widespread looting included supernatural looters whose abilities allowed them to access secured areas.</li> <li><strong>Son of Sam:</strong> Son of Sam killings terrified the city partly because Bloodline families recognized the attack patterns as supernatural predation. David Berkowitz was human, but several copycat crimes were committed by unstable Bloodline individuals whose supernatural abilities made them far more dangerous.</li> </ul> </div> <div class="timeline-section"> <h4>Cultural Renaissance</h4> <ul class="timeline-events"> <li><strong>1980s:</strong> Hip-hop culture in the Bronx was pioneered partly by young Bloodline artists. Early rap battles included coded references to supernatural experiences that human audiences interpreted as creative metaphors.</li> <li><strong>1970s-1980s:</strong> CBGB and the punk movement included Bloodline musicians as well. The underground music scene provided cover for Bloodline cultural expression that seemed like artistic innovation.</li> <li><strong>Wall Street Boom:</strong> Wall Street boom of the 1980s was dominated by Draegon Bloodline and Chronos Bloodline traders whose supernatural financial instincts generated massive profits. The era's excess was fueled partly by supernatural wealth that couldn't be easily traced or regulated.</li> </ul> </div> </div> <div class="timeline-expand-indicator">⌄</div> </div> </div>  <div class="timeline-period"> <div class="timeline-card" onclick="toggleTimelineCard(this)"> <div class="timeline-header"> <div class="timeline-dates">1990-2010</div> <h3 class="timeline-title">Renaissance Era</h3> </div> <div class="timeline-subtitle">The Golden Age of Hiding</div> <div class="timeline-preview"> Crime reduction under Mayor Giuliani succeeded partly because Bloodline communities had developed sophisticated conflict resolution systems. The extraordinary heroism displayed by some first responders during 9/11 recovery was literally extraordinary. </div> <div class="timeline-details"> <div class="timeline-section"> <h4>Economic Revival</h4> <ul class="timeline-events"> <li><strong>1990s:</strong> Crime reduction under Mayor Giuliani succeeded partly because Bloodline communities had developed sophisticated conflict resolution systems that reduced supernatural violence. Community policing worked better when some community members had enhanced senses for detecting threats.</li> <li><strong>Tech Boom:</strong> Tech boom included several Bloodline entrepreneurs whose supernatural abilities aided software development and business innovation. Early internet companies benefited from Draegon financial backing and Ifrit contract negotiations that human competitors couldn't match.</li> <li><strong>2008 Financial Crisis:</strong> Financial crisis of 2008 was weathered better by New York partly because Chronos Bloodline financial institutions had supernatural risk assessment abilities that predicted the collapse and protected their investments.</li> </ul> </div> <div class="timeline-section"> <h4>Cultural Expansion</h4> <ul class="timeline-events"> <li><strong>1990s-2000s:</strong> Gentrification displaced traditional Bloodline neighborhoods while creating new integrated communities. Artists' lofts in SoHo and Williamsburg housed Bloodline artists whose supernatural abilities influenced contemporary art movements.</li> <li><strong>9/11 Recovery:</strong> 9/11 Recovery was aided by Bloodline rescue workers whose supernatural abilities helped locate survivors and clear debris. The extraordinary heroism displayed by some first responders was literally extraordinary. Seraph healers, Chimaera enhanced strength, Infernal firefighters and Umbra search capabilities saved lives while maintaining secrecy.</li> </ul> </div> <div class="timeline-section"> <h4>The Hidden Infrastructure</h4> <ul class="timeline-events"> <li><strong>2000s:</strong> Bloomberg's modernization unknowingly incorporated Bloodline-designed systems into city infrastructure. Smart city technologies included supernatural elements disguised as advanced sensors and data analytics.</li> </ul> </div> </div> <div class="timeline-expand-indicator">⌄</div> </div> </div>  <div class="timeline-period"> <div class="timeline-card timeline-crisis" onclick="toggleTimelineCard(this)"> <div class="timeline-header"> <div class="timeline-dates">2010-2016</div> <h3 class="timeline-title">The Exposure Era</h3> </div> <div class="timeline-subtitle">Everything Changes</div> <div class="timeline-preview"> The Styx organization detonated their "blood bomb" in Times Square during New Year's Eve 2012, exposing 47 Bloodlines to millions of witnesses and live television coverage. Within hours, supernatural abilities became impossible to deny. </div> <div class="timeline-details"> <div class="timeline-section"> <h4>The Revelation</h4> <ul class="timeline-events"> <li><strong>2012:</strong> Styx organization detonated their "blood bomb" in Times Square during New Year's Eve celebration, exposing 47 Bloodline individuals in their enhanced forms to millions of witnesses and live television coverage. Within hours, smartphone footage and social media made supernatural abilities impossible to deny.</li> <li><strong>The 48-Hour Panic:</strong> The 48-Hour Panic saw stock markets crash worldwide as the reality of supernatural abilities destroyed assumed economic models. Religious groups declared everything from the Second Coming to demonic invasion. Government officials worldwide faced demands for explanations about what they had known and when.</li> </ul> </div> </div> <div class="timeline-expand-indicator">⌄</div> </div> </div> </div>  <div class="blood-wars-container"> <h3 class="blood-wars-title">The Blood Wars (2013-2016)</h3> <div class="war-phases"> <div class="war-phase"> <h4>2013: Phase One - Revelation Riots</h4> <ul> <li>Human supremacist groups like "Pure Blood" and "Human Heritage Foundation" organized attacks on suspected Bloodline businesses and neighborhoods</li> <li>Bloodline families retaliated with open displays of power—Infernal arson consumed entire blocks in Queens, Umbra assassinations eliminated human extremist leaders, Draegon families crashed local banks to punish hostile communities</li> <li>Federal martial law declared three times as violence spread beyond NYC to Philadelphia, Boston, and Washington DC and across the whole world</li> </ul> </div> <div class="war-phase"> <h4>2013-2014: Phase Two - The Fracturing</h4> <ul> <li>Bloodline families turned on each other as centuries-old territorial agreements collapsed under public scrutiny</li> <li>The Seraph Dynasties attempted to position themselves as "good supernaturals" by publicly healing human victims, earning hatred from other Bloodlines who saw this as betrayal</li> <li>Primordial-blooded individuals lost control during stress responses, creating localized natural disasters that destroyed entire neighborhoods</li> </ul> </div> <div class="war-phase"> <h4>2014-2015: Phase Three - The Grinding</h4> <ul> <li>Economic warfare replaced street violence as Draegon families used supernatural financial abilities to destroy human businesses while human hackers targeted Bloodline digital assets</li> <li>Psychological warfare through Fae illusions and Umbra terror campaigns traumatized both communities</li> <li>Child disappearances spiked as both sides took hostages to pressure opponents</li> <li>Mass migration saw over 2 million people flee the New York metropolitan area</li> </ul> </div> <div class="war-phase"> <h4>2015-2016: Phase Four - The Exhaustion</h4> <ul> <li>Casualty estimates reached 200,000 dead or missing across both communities</li> <li>Economic collapse made basic services unreliable; infrastructure failed as supernatural and human workers couldn't coordinate repairs</li> <li>Moderate voices from both communities—human families with Bloodline friends, Bloodlines who wanted their normal lives back—began secret negotiations</li> <li>International pressure mounted as refugee crises spread to other cities and economic disruption affected global markets</li> </ul> </div> </div> <div class="timeline-section"> <h4>The Covenant Accords (2016)</h4> <p>The Brooklyn Museum Accords were negotiated in the ruins of the museum after a Primordial manifestation destroyed the original building. Key provisions:</p> <ul class="timeline-events"> <li><strong>Legal Recognition:</strong> Bloodlines gained full citizenship rights with constitutional protections against discrimination</li> <li><strong>The Twenty-Three Families:</strong> Twenty major Bloodline Houses and three human dynasties established as semi-official governing council</li> <li><strong>Reparations Fund:</strong> $500 billion pool (mostly Draegon family wealth) for war damage reconstruction</li> <li><strong>Joint Law Enforcement:</strong> CRD Division created with both human and Bloodline agents</li> <li><strong>Amnesty Provisions:</strong> War crimes by both sides granted immunity in exchange for cooperation with reconstruction</li> <li><strong>Integration Mandates:</strong> Public schools, workplaces, and housing required to accommodate both communities</li> </ul> </div> </div> <div class="timeline-container"> <div class="timeline-line"></div>  <div class="timeline-period"> <div class="timeline-card" onclick="toggleTimelineCard(this)"> <div class="timeline-header"> <div class="timeline-dates">2016-2018</div> <h3 class="timeline-title">The Arcadia Period</h3> </div> <div class="timeline-subtitle">The Dream</div> <div class="timeline-preview"> "Arcadia" rebranding campaign featured celebrities from both communities promoting integration. Mixed marriages increased 300% and supernatural artists showcased their abilities in mainstream venues. But warning signs emerged quickly. </div> <div class="timeline-details"> <div class="timeline-section"> <h4>Initial Success</h4> <ul class="timeline-events"> <li><strong>2016-2017:</strong> "Arcadia" rebranding campaign featured celebrities from both communities promoting integration. Bloodline healers worked in public hospitals, enhanced athletes competed in professional sports with ability classifications, supernatural artists showcased their abilities in mainstream venues.</li> <li><strong>Celebrity Integration:</strong> Mixed marriages increased 300% as legal barriers fell and social acceptance grew from the human side but not from the Bloodline side. Celebrity couples like actor Kit Harrington (human) and actress Rose Leslie (Fae Bloodline) appeared on magazine covers promoting "love beyond species."</li> <li><strong>Economic Integration:</strong> Economic integration seemed successful as Bloodline abilities enhanced productivity across industries. Construction projects finished ahead of schedule, medical treatments improved dramatically, and financial services became more efficient.</li> </ul> </div> <div class="timeline-section"> <h4>Early Warning Signs</h4> <ul class="timeline-events"> <li><strong>2017:</strong> Workplace discrimination complaints spiked as human employees realized they couldn't compete with supernatural advantages in hiring and promotions. School system stress as mixed-heritage children began manifesting unpredictable abilities that teachers couldn't handle. Housing segregation emerged voluntarily as both communities preferred neighbors who understood their needs. Political manipulation accusations as Bloodline candidates used supernatural charisma in campaigns.</li> <li><strong>2018:</strong> The Genetic Crisis emerged as first generation of post-war mixed children began showing severe health problems—power manifestations that harmed the children themselves, genetic incompatibilities that caused organ failure, psychological instabilities that required supernatural expertise to treat.</li> </ul> </div> <div class="timeline-section"> <h4>The Collapse into Sordia</h4> <ul class="timeline-events"> <li><strong>Late 2018:</strong> Citizens began calling their city "Sordia" as integration problems became undeniable: Economic inequality as supernatural advantages created unfair competition, Political corruption as Bloodline families used abilities to manipulate democratic processes, Social segregation as both communities retreated to familiar neighborhoods, Institutional capture as Bloodline individuals assumed positions in government, business, and academia where their abilities provided insurmountable advantages.</li> <li><strong>2019:</strong> Mayor Bill de Blasio officially adopted "Sordia" as the city's new name, acknowledging that "Arcadia was a beautiful dream, but dreams don't pay the rent or keep the lights on."</li> </ul> </div> </div> <div class="timeline-expand-indicator">⌄</div> </div> </div>  <div class="timeline-period"> <div class="timeline-card" onclick="toggleTimelineCard(this)"> <div class="timeline-header"> <div class="timeline-dates">2019-2044</div> <h3 class="timeline-title">Modern Sordia</h3> </div> <div class="timeline-subtitle">Normalized Dysfunction</div> <div class="timeline-preview"> Twenty-eight years after the Covenant Accords, Sordia is a city where everyone knows the rules and the system generates enough prosperity to make the inequalities tolerable. It's not the utopia Arcadia promised, but it's not the war zone of the Blood Wars either. </div> <div class="timeline-details"> <div class="timeline-section"> <h4>Institutional Evolution</h4> <ul class="timeline-events"> <li><strong>2019-2025:</strong> System stabilization as both communities learned to navigate new realities: Economic stratification based on supernatural advantages became accepted as "market forces", Educational tracking sorted children by genetic potential rather than merit, Political representation evolved into official Bloodline constituency systems, Legal frameworks developed separate courts for supernatural-involved cases.</li> <li><strong>2025-2035:</strong> Generational change as children who grew up post-integration assumed leadership: Mixed-heritage individuals created new cultural traditions blending both communities, Human adaptation through technology, genetic therapy, and pharmaceutical enhancement, Bloodline normalization as supernatural abilities became regulated professional qualifications rather than existential threats, Economic specialization where different communities dominated industries suited to their abilities.</li> <li><strong>2035-2044:</strong> Mature integration characterized by: Systemic inequality that functions efficiently rather than chaotically, Cultural synthesis that maintains distinct community identities within shared urban systems, Political sophistication where corruption operates through legal channels and institutional capture, International normalization as other cities worldwide followed the "Sordia Model" for supernatural integration.</li> </ul> </div> <div class="timeline-section"> <h4>Current Reality (2044)</h4> <ul class="timeline-events"> <li>Twenty-eight years after the Covenant Accords, Sordia in 2044 is a city where everyone knows the rules, most people follow them, and the system generates enough prosperity to make the inequalities tolerable. It's not the utopia Arcadia promised to be, but it's not the war zone it was during the Blood Wars.</li> <li>For most residents, that's enough.</li> </ul> </div> </div> <div class="timeline-expand-indicator">⌄</div> </div> </div> </div>  <div class="persecution-section"> <h3 class="persecution-title">The Persecuted Bloodline: Seraph Extinction</h3> <div class="timeline-section"> <h4>The Seraph Catastrophe (2013-2044)</h4> <ul class="timeline-events"> <li><strong>The Double Persecution (2013-2018):</strong> Religious Extremists immediately declared Seraphs to be demonic deceptions—false angels sent to corrupt humanity through miraculous healing. The "True Faith Militias" specifically targeted Seraph healing centers with bombs, claiming that supernatural healing violated God's will and that suffering was divine punishment.</li> <li>Simultaneously, medical corporations and wealthy elites recognized Seraphs as ultimate medical resources. Healing organs and Seraph blood could cure any disease, reverse aging, and restore damaged tissue. The black market value of a living Seraph reached $50 million by 2015.</li> <li><strong>Industrial-Scale Horror:</strong> The harvesting operations became industrial-scale horror: Kidnapping rings specialized in capturing Seraph children whose healing abilities were strongest, Medical experimentation in private clinics where Seraph subjects were kept alive while their organs were repeatedly harvested and regenerated, Blood farming operations where captured Seraphs were drained regularly, their healing abilities keeping them alive through the process, Breeding programs attempting to create Seraph children specifically for medical exploitation.</li> </ul> </div> <div class="timeline-section"> <h4>The Great Dying (2018-2025)</h4> <ul class="timeline-events"> <li>The Covenant Accords of 2016 officially protected Seraph rights, but enforcement proved impossible. Seraph healing was too valuable, and their public visibility during the war years made them easy targets.</li> <li>Official statistics recorded 847 Seraph deaths between 2016-2020, but CRD estimates suggest over 50,000 Seraphs were murdered, harvested, or disappeared during this period. Entire Seraph family lines vanished overnight.</li> <li><strong>The Aurora Protocol (2019):</strong> A secret Seraph emergency plan where surviving families went into complete concealment: Power suppression through painful daily medication that blocked healing abilities, Genetic masking through experimental procedures that hid Seraph markers in blood tests, Identity destruction where families abandoned their names, homes, and all connections to Seraph heritage, Scattered placement where family members were separated and relocated to different cities.</li> </ul> </div> <div class="timeline-section"> <h4>Current Status: The Lost Bloodline (2044)</h4> <ul class="timeline-events"> <li>Officially, there is one known Seraph in all of Sordia: 13-year-old Alex, who lives under 24-hour protection.</li> <li>CRD estimates suggest 50-200 Seraphs may still be alive in Sordia, but their concealment is so complete that even the CRD division cannot locate them.</li> </ul> </div> </div> <div class="persecution-section"> <h3 class="persecution-title">The Umbra Problem (2012-2044)</h3> <p><strong>THE UMBRA PROBLEM:</strong> Unlike the Seraphs that were successfully persecuted, Umbra proved impossible to hunt effectively. Early attempts during the Blood Wars (2012-2016) to track and eliminate Umbra individuals failed catastrophically. By 2018, most enforcement agencies gave up active Umbra hunting. This led to the current situation where Umbras live freely but largely powerless.</p> <div class="timeline-section"> <h4>POWER DISTRIBUTION CRISIS</h4><br> <ul class="timeline-events"> <li><strong>The Weak Majority (95% of Population):</strong> Most Sordia Umbras can only perform basic shadow manipulation: Slight Invisibility (Become hard to notice in dim lighting, but still clearly visible), Minor Fear Aura (Make others slightly uncomfortable, but not terrified), Shadow Whispering (Communicate through shadows over short distances), Basic Concealment (Hide small objects in shadows temporarily), Memory Fading (Make themselves somewhat forgettable, but not completely).</li> <li>These weak Umbras work normal jobs: janitors, night security guards, theater technicians, subway maintenance workers, and other positions where minor shadow abilities provide small advantages without drawing attention.</li> <li><strong>The Terrifying Seven (the 5%):</strong> Only seven confirmed Umbras in all of Sordia possess abilities dangerous enough to warrant official classification: Chalk, Marlowe, Dexter, Vega, Oda, Neo, and Orca (a.k.a Maud).</li> </ul> </div> </div> </div>

<div class="codex-section"> <h3>The Twenty-Three Families</h3> <p>The ruling mix of old blood and old money who control the precincts, the papers, and the people. They meet monthly in Central Commerce Tower, dividing Sordia among themselves like cutting a cake. Each slice drips with blood.<br><br> They call themselves the Council of Families. The city calls them the shadow government. The streets call them what they are: the monsters who wear human faces and decide who lives, who dies.<br><br> And every citizen, whether they know it or not, serves one master or another. The only choice is which monster you feed. Click any card to learn more about the families.</p> <div class="family-grid">  <div class="family-card" onclick="toggleFamilyCard(this)"> <div class="family-header"> <div class="family-crest">☆</div> <div class="family-info"> <h3 class="family-name">Asher Family</h3> <div class="family-bloodline">Chronos Bloodline</div> <div class="family-business">Asher Predictive Solutions - Market forecasting, investment consulting, strategic planning</div> </div> </div> <div class="family-preview"> The Asher building doesn't need windows. Matriarch Marguerite Asher sees everything that matters before it happens, and what she sees, she shapes. What she shapes, she owns. </div> <div class="family-details"> <div class="family-section"> <h4>Criminal Operations</h4> <ul class="family-operations"> <li><strong>Market Manipulation:</strong> Predict stock movements and position accordingly</li> <li><strong>Political Consulting:</strong> Know election results before votes are cast</li> <li><strong>Insurance Fraud:</strong> Predict "accidents" then ensure they occur</li> <li><strong>Investment Schemes:</strong> Never fail because they see collapses in advance</li> </ul> </div> <div class="family-corruption"> <h4>Methods of Control</h4> <p>They don't break laws—they predict which laws will be broken and position themselves accordingly. Their greatest weapon isn't seeing the future, it's ensuring their visions come true through any means necessary.</p> </div> </div> <div class="family-expand-indicator">⌄</div> </div>  <div class="family-card" onclick="toggleFamilyCard(this)"> <div class="family-header"> <div class="family-crest">𐀪</div> <div class="family-info"> <h3 class="family-name">Athanasiou Family</h3> <div class="family-bloodline">Human</div> <div class="family-business">Athanasiou Holdings - Real estate development, construction, hospitality management</div> </div> </div> <div class="family-preview"> Don Stavros Athanasiou built his criminal empire proving that humans can be more monstrous than any bloodline. The Mirage Collective operates through fear, torture, and systematic brutality. </div> <div class="family-details"> <div class="family-section"> <h4>Criminal Operations</h4> <ul class="family-operations"> <li><strong>Elaborate Heists:</strong> Complex planning over supernatural power</li> <li><strong>Protection Rackets:</strong> Fear-based rather than magical compulsion</li> <li><strong>Territory Control:</strong> Conventional violence and intimidation</li> <li><strong>Anti-Bloodline Warfare:</strong> Specialized in neutralizing supernatural abilities</li> </ul> </div> <div class="family-corruption"> <h4>Methods of Control</h4> <p>Superior organization, ruthless efficiency, and absolute willingness to use any method necessary. Equipped with cutting-edge HanTech anti-bloodline technology to level the playing field.</p> </div> </div> <div class="family-expand-indicator">⌄</div> </div>  <div class="family-card" onclick="toggleFamilyCard(this)"> <div class="family-header"> <div class="family-crest">☆</div> <div class="family-info"> <h3 class="family-name">Awiakta Family</h3> <div class="family-bloodline">Chronos Bloodline</div> <div class="family-business">Awiakta International Bank - Financial services, investment management, economic consulting</div> </div> </div> <div class="family-preview"> Chairman Aiyana Awiakta's bank vault extends through seventeen different time periods simultaneously. She knows exactly when every market will rise or fall across multiple timelines. </div> <div class="family-details"> <div class="family-section"> <h4>Criminal Operations</h4> <ul class="family-operations"> <li><strong>Temporal Trading:</strong> Profit from futures that haven't happened yet</li> <li><strong>Impossible Insurance:</strong> Policies that pay for disasters that never occur</li> <li><strong>Timeline Investments:</strong> Companies that don't exist yet but will</li> <li><strong>Alternative Currency:</strong> Loans requiring payment in currencies from other timelines</li> </ul> </div> <div class="family-corruption"> <h4>Methods of Control</h4> <p>Trading algorithms process data from adjacent timelines where different economic decisions were made. Financial products that seem impossible but deliver exactly as promised.</p> </div> </div> <div class="family-expand-indicator">⌄</div> </div>  <div class="family-card" onclick="toggleFamilyCard(this)"> <div class="family-header"> <div class="family-crest">☆</div> <div class="family-info"> <h3 class="family-name">Campiron Family</h3> <div class="family-bloodline">Chronos Bloodline</div> <div class="family-business">Campiron Systems & Solutions - IT services, security systems, data analytics</div> </div> </div> <div class="family-preview"> Melinda Campiron discovered that digital information can be accessed across temporal boundaries, monitoring communications before they're sent and altering historical records retroactively. </div> <div class="family-details"> <div class="family-section"> <h4>Criminal Operations</h4> <ul class="family-operations"> <li><strong>Temporal Surveillance:</strong> Monitor communications before they're sent</li> <li><strong>Historical Manipulation:</strong> Alter records retroactively</li> <li><strong>Probability Mapping:</strong> Predict future crimes and affairs</li> <li><strong>Timeline Database:</strong> Records of every possible variation of significant events</li> </ul> </div> <div class="family-corruption"> <h4>Methods of Control</h4> <p>Temporal firewalls protect client data by spreading it across multiple timeline variations. Information becomes impossible to steal because it doesn't exist completely in any single timeline.</p> </div> </div> <div class="family-expand-indicator">⌄</div> </div>  <div class="family-card" onclick="toggleFamilyCard(this)"> <div class="family-header"> <div class="family-crest">Ψ</div> <div class="family-info"> <h3 class="family-name">Cayne Family</h3> <div class="family-bloodline">Infernal Bloodline</div> <div class="family-business">Cayne Security Solutions - Private military, bodyguard services, police academy training</div> </div> </div> <div class="family-preview"> General Mikhail Cayne's compound doesn't appear on city maps. His family provides both shield and sword—today's protector becomes tomorrow's executioner, depending on who pays better. </div> <div class="family-details"> <div class="family-section"> <h4>Criminal Operations</h4> <ul class="family-operations"> <li><strong>Corrupt Police Academy:</strong> Train officers bound by supernatural obligations</li> <li><strong>Blood Contracts:</strong> Mystical bonds making betrayal impossible</li> <li><strong>Protection Rackets:</strong> Shield and sword services to same clients</li> <li><strong>Information Trading:</strong> Know every secret, witness every meeting</li> </ul> </div> <div class="family-corruption"> <h4>Methods of Control</h4> <p>Contracts written in clients' blood create mystical bonds. Default results in flames appearing wherever you hide. Network of corrupt cops throughout city law enforcement.</p> </div> </div> <div class="family-expand-indicator">⌄</div> </div>  <div class="family-card" onclick="toggleFamilyCard(this)"> <div class="family-header"> <div class="family-crest">ᨒ</div> <div class="family-info"> <h3 class="family-name">Cerwyn Family</h3> <div class="family-bloodline">Primordial Earth</div> <div class="family-business">Cerwyn Construction & Energy Solutions - Urban development, oil extraction, mining operations</div> </div> </div> <div class="family-preview"> Foreman Augustus Cerwyn commands his empire from a man-made island he summoned from the ocean floor. His mining operations target geological formations that suppress supernatural abilities. </div> <div class="family-details"> <div class="family-section"> <h4>Criminal Operations</h4> <ul class="family-operations"> <li><strong>Power Suppression:</strong> Construction materials that weaken bloodline abilities</li> <li><strong>Underground Networks:</strong> Tunnel systems for smuggling and disposal</li> <li><strong>Evidence Disposal:</strong> Geological "accidents" that bury problems permanently</li> <li><strong>Territory Control:</strong> Buildings that literally suppress supernatural opposition</li> </ul> </div> <div class="family-corruption"> <h4>Methods of Control</h4> <p>Every building constructed with Cerwyn concrete gradually weakens bloodline powers. Underground tunnels serve as smuggling routes and are lined with power-suppressing minerals.</p> </div> </div> <div class="family-expand-indicator">⌄</div> </div>  <div class="family-card" onclick="toggleFamilyCard(this)"> <div class="family-header"> <div class="family-crest">༒︎</div> <div class="family-info"> <h3 class="family-name">Dalca Family</h3> <div class="family-bloodline">Manitou Bloodline</div> <div class="family-business">Dalca Spiritual Solutions - Grief counseling, medium services, supernatural consulting</div> </div> </div> <div class="family-preview"> Medium Valentina Dalca built her spiritual empire on the principle that death doesn't end obligation—it creates opportunities. The dead serve as her intelligence network beyond the grave. </div> <div class="family-details"> <div class="family-section"> <h4>Criminal Operations</h4> <ul class="family-operations"> <li><strong>Spirit Espionage:</strong> Dead spies gathering information from conversations</li> <li><strong>Supernatural Possession:</strong> Influence living through spiritual control</li> <li><strong>Intelligence Trading:</strong> Secrets revealed by deceased loved ones</li> <li><strong>Hidden Treasure Recovery:</strong> Dead reveal locations of buried wealth</li> </ul> </div> <div class="family-corruption"> <h4>Methods of Control</h4> <p>Compel the dead to serve as invisible spies. Clients seeking communication with deceased loved ones inadvertently provide information about their own secrets and vulnerabilities.</p> </div> </div> <div class="family-expand-indicator">⌄</div> </div>  <div class="family-card" onclick="toggleFamilyCard(this)"> <div class="family-header"> <div class="family-crest">𐦍</div> <div class="family-info"> <h3 class="family-name">Frost Family</h3> <div class="family-bloodline">Fae Bloodline</div> <div class="family-business">Frost Garden Design & Entertainment Group - Landscape architecture, nightclub chain</div> </div> </div> <div class="family-preview"> Lord Theron Frost's gardens produce exotic plants that shouldn't survive Sordia's climate, flowering supernatural narcotics tailored to specific bloodlines. His clubs are addiction factories. </div> <div class="family-details"> <div class="family-section"> <h4>Criminal Operations</h4> <ul class="family-operations"> <li><strong>Supernatural Narcotics:</strong> Bloodline-specific drugs with enhanced effects</li> <li><strong>Addiction Manufacturing:</strong> Clubs designed to create psychological dependency</li> <li><strong>Intelligence Gathering:</strong> Sex workers collect secrets in private rooms</li> <li><strong>Employee Control:</strong> Staff paid partially in drugs, creating loyalty</li> </ul> </div> <div class="family-corruption"> <h4>Methods of Control</h4> <p>Hybrid plants produce narcotics like Draegon cocaine that burns hotter and Chronos heroin offering glimpses of alternate timelines. Staff dependency ensures absolute loyalty.</p> </div> </div> <div class="family-expand-indicator">⌄</div> </div>  <div class="family-card" onclick="toggleFamilyCard(this)"> <div class="family-header"> <div class="family-crest">𓆩𓆪</div> <div class="family-info"> <h3 class="family-name">Han Family</h3> <div class="family-bloodline">Draegon Bloodline</div> <div class="family-business">HanTech Corporation - Bloodline suppression/enhancement technology, military equipment</div> </div> </div> <div class="family-preview"> Matriarch Mei Lin Han's corporation sells weapons to both sides. Suppression technology for law enforcement, enhancement technology for criminals wealthy enough to afford premium service. </div> <div class="family-details"> <div class="family-section"> <h4>Criminal Operations</h4> <ul class="family-operations"> <li><strong>Dual Production:</strong> Same research creates suppressors and enhancers</li> <li><strong>Black Market Sales:</strong> Enhanced weapons to crime families and terrorists</li> <li><strong>Technology Trafficking:</strong> Premium supernatural military advantages</li> <li><strong>War Profiteering:</strong> Ensure neither side gains complete dominance</li> </ul> </div> <div class="family-corruption"> <h4>Methods of Control</h4> <p>Parallel production lines ensure both law enforcement and criminals depend on HanTech equipment. Neural dampeners for agents become neural amplifiers for crime bosses.</p> </div> </div> <div class="family-expand-indicator">⌄</div> </div>  <div class="family-card" onclick="toggleFamilyCard(this)"> <div class="family-header"> <div class="family-crest">𐦍</div> <div class="family-info"> <h3 class="family-name">Kestrel Family</h3> <div class="family-bloodline">Fae Bloodline</div> <div class="family-business">Kestrel Environmental Solutions & Modeling Agency - Ecological consulting, fashion industry</div> </div> </div> <div class="family-preview"> Mother Lyralei Kestrel's building grows from earth like a living organism. Her environmental organization and modeling agency both serve as cover for sophisticated human trafficking operations. </div> <div class="family-details"> <div class="family-section"> <h4>Criminal Operations</h4> <ul class="family-operations"> <li><strong>Human Trafficking:</strong> Models and environmental activists recruited as victims</li> <li><strong>Resource Recycling:</strong> Victims who outlive usefulness become fertilizer</li> <li><strong>Environmental Cover:</strong> Conservation projects hide disposal operations</li> <li><strong>Talent Exploitation:</strong> Promise career launches to attract targets</li> </ul> </div> <div class="family-corruption"> <h4>Methods of Control</h4> <p>Genuine environmental activism provides perfect cover. Definition of "conservation" includes using human resources efficiently. Urban forest projects literally fed by human remains.</p> </div> </div> <div class="family-expand-indicator">⌄</div> </div>  <div class="family-card" onclick="toggleFamilyCard(this)"> <div class="family-header"> <div class="family-crest">✴︎⚱</div> <div class="family-info"> <h3 class="family-name">Khan Family</h3> <div class="family-bloodline">Ifrit Bloodline</div> <div class="family-business">Khan Media Group & Medical Systems - News outlets, hospitals, medical research</div> </div> </div> <div class="family-preview"> Dr. Maahir Khan controls information and health through supernatural contracts. Patients and journalists are bound by mystical obligations preventing them from revealing family secrets. </div> <div class="family-details"> <div class="family-section"> <h4>Criminal Operations</h4> <ul class="family-operations"> <li><strong>Information Control:</strong> Journalists compelled to report approved stories</li> <li><strong>Pharmaceutical Manufacturing:</strong> Experimental drugs violating international law</li> <li><strong>International Partnerships:</strong> Overseas experimental facilities</li> </ul> </div> <div class="family-corruption"> <h4>Methods of Control</h4> <p>Treatment agreements become mystical bonds. Employment contracts compel journalists to obey. Medical staff bound by obligations making betrayal impossible.</p> </div> </div> <div class="family-expand-indicator">⌄</div> </div>  <div class="family-card" onclick="toggleFamilyCard(this)"> <div class="family-header"> <div class="family-crest">✴︎⚱</div> <div class="family-info"> <h3 class="family-name">Kumar Family</h3> <div class="family-bloodline">Ifrit Bloodline</div> <div class="family-business">Kumar, Kumar & Associates - Sordia's most prestigious law firm</div> </div> </div> <div class="family-preview"> Patriarch Rajesh Kumar built his empire on supernatural contracts that bind souls. His law firm doesn't just win cases—they make losing impossible through mystical agreements. </div> <div class="family-details"> <div class="family-section"> <h4>Criminal Operations</h4> <ul class="family-operations"> <li><strong>Soul-Binding Contracts:</strong> Agreements that bind opposing parties to failure</li> <li><strong>Supernatural Enforcement:</strong> Contract breach results in spontaneous combustion</li> <li><strong>Witness Elimination:</strong> Legal disappearances through binding contracts</li> <li><strong>Criminal Protection:</strong> Every major crime family as clients</li> </ul> </div> <div class="family-corruption"> <h4>Methods of Control</h4> <p>When words are spoken by an Ifrit, they become supernatural chains. Clients don't just sign documents—they bind their souls to agreements. Justice dies daily in their courthouse.</p> </div> </div> <div class="family-expand-indicator">⌄</div> </div>  <div class="family-card" onclick="toggleFamilyCard(this)"> <div class="family-header"> <div class="family-crest">♒︎</div> <div class="family-info"> <h3 class="family-name">Melraenos Family</h3> <div class="family-bloodline">Abyssal Bloodline</div> <div class="family-business">Melraenos Global Shipping - Container transportation, port operations, maritime insurance</div> </div> </div> <div class="family-preview"> Harbor Master Thalassien Melraenos commands a fleet moving more than cargo—his ships transport people who don't exist, weapons that shouldn't exist, and substances that couldn't exist elsewhere. </div> <div class="family-details"> <div class="family-section"> <h4>Criminal Operations</h4> <ul class="family-operations"> <li><strong>Human Trafficking:</strong> Supernatural beings and slaves between international markets</li> <li><strong>Weapons Smuggling:</strong> Experimental weapons in hidden compartments</li> <li><strong>International Network:</strong> Ships under dozens of flag registrations</li> <li><strong>Substance Trafficking:</strong> Materials that violate all international laws</li> </ul> </div> <div class="family-corruption"> <h4>Methods of Control</h4> <p>Manifest logs show legal cargo while hidden compartments carry illegal materials. International web of subsidiaries makes tracking impossible. Every container tells a story—he controls which stories reach their destinations.</p> </div> </div> <div class="family-expand-indicator">⌄</div> </div>  <div class="family-card" onclick="toggleFamilyCard(this)"> <div class="family-header"> <div class="family-crest">ঌ</div> <div class="family-info"> <h3 class="family-name">Nowak Family</h3> <div class="family-bloodline">Primordial Fire</div> <div class="family-business">Nowak Security Corporation - Military contracting, bounty hunting, personal protection</div> </div> </div> <div class="family-preview"> General Kazimierz Nowak's compound burns eternally. His fire-bloodline mercenaries handle contracts too dangerous for conventional military, too illegal for government forces. </div> <div class="family-details"> <div class="family-section"> <h4>Criminal Operations</h4> <ul class="family-operations"> <li><strong>Supernatural Warfare:</strong> Military-grade force against supernatural communities</li> <li><strong>Evidence Destruction:</strong> Fire abilities eliminate witnesses and proof</li> <li><strong>Mercenary Contracts:</strong> Missions too dangerous for conventional forces</li> <li><strong>Training Fatalities:</strong> 30% recruit death rate in trials by fire</li> </ul> </div> <div class="family-corruption"> <h4>Methods of Control</h4> <p>Fire-forged contracts make betrayal literally impossible. Violence is the universal language they speak most fluently. Dead recruits become fuel for compound's eternal flames.</p> </div> </div> <div class="family-expand-indicator">⌄</div> </div>  <div class="family-card" onclick="toggleFamilyCard(this)"> <div class="family-header"> <div class="family-crest">♒︎</div> <div class="family-info"> <h3 class="family-name">Ondine Family</h3> <div class="family-bloodline">Primordial Water</div> <div class="family-business">Ondine Wellness & Municipal Water Authority - Medical spas, water treatment, sewage management, pharmaceutical research</div> </div> </div> <div class="family-preview"> Dr. Cascade Ondine controls every drop of water flowing through Sordia's infrastructure—both clean and waste. Her empire promises healing through hydrotherapy while secretly manipulating water content in human bodies and using the sewage system for body disposal. </div> <div class="family-details"> <div class="family-section"> <h4>Water Infrastructure Control</h4> <ul class="family-operations"> <li><strong>Water Supply Manipulation:</strong> Contaminate or purify city water for district-level leverage</li> <li><strong>Sewage System Control:</strong> Complete authority over waste water treatment and disposal</li> <li><strong>Underground Transportation:</strong> Use sewer tunnels for smuggling and covert movement</li> <li><strong>Body Disposal Network:</strong> Dissolve evidence and remains through sewage treatment manipulation</li> <li><strong>Infrastructure Terrorism:</strong> Threaten both water supply and waste management for compliance</li> </ul> </div> <div class="family-section"> <h4>Medical & Pharmaceutical Operations</h4> <ul class="family-operations"> <li><strong>Water-Based Pharmaceuticals:</strong> Dependency-inducing drugs distributed through water supply</li> <li><strong>Information Extraction:</strong> Gather intelligence from vulnerable patients during healing</li> </ul> </div> <div class="family-corruption"> <h4>Methods of Control</h4> <p>Complete dominance over both ends of Sordia's water cycle—from clean supply to waste disposal. Every healing creates dependency while sewage control enables perfect evidence disposal. Bloodbending makes physical resistance impossible, while infrastructure control makes entire districts vulnerable to their influence.</p> </div> </div> <div class="family-expand-indicator">⌄</div> </div>  <div class="family-card" onclick="toggleFamilyCard(this)"> <div class="family-header"> <div class="family-crest">𐀪</div> <div class="family-info"> <h3 class="family-name">Rocheford Family</h3> <div class="family-bloodline">Human</div> <div class="family-business">Rocheford Political Foundation - Campaign management, civic organization, public service</div> </div> </div> <div class="family-preview"> Senator Marcus Rocheford turned humanity's disadvantage of being underestimated into Sordia's most powerful political machine. Numbers win elections, and elections decide who makes the laws. </div> <div class="family-details"> <div class="family-section"> <h4>Criminal Operations</h4> <ul class="family-operations"> <li><strong>Election Rigging:</strong> Poll workers, media manipulation, voting machine technicians</li> <li><strong>Bloodline Registration:</strong> Database of every supernatural individual for sale</li> <li><strong>Legislative Control:</strong> Draft laws that appear to protect humans but enable exploitation</li> <li><strong>Information Trading:</strong> Sell bloodline data to highest bidders</li> </ul> </div> <div class="family-corruption"> <h4>Methods of Control</h4> <p>Perfect the art of human corruption without supernatural powers. Win elections by exact margins needed to avoid suspicion. Children positioned in key government roles throughout the system.</p> </div> </div> <div class="family-expand-indicator">⌄</div> </div>  <div class="family-card" onclick="toggleFamilyCard(this)"> <div class="family-header"> <div class="family-crest">𐀪</div> <div class="family-info"> <h3 class="family-name">Schneider Family</h3> <div class="family-bloodline">Human</div> <div class="family-business">Church of Human Salvation - Religious organization, charity work, community outreach</div> </div> </div> <div class="family-preview"> High Priest Wilhelm Schneider preaches that killing bloodlines is spiritual purification earning eternal reward. His congregation operates through cells of true believers committing systematic murder. </div> <div class="family-details"> <div class="family-section"> <h4>Criminal Operations</h4> <ul class="family-operations"> <li><strong>Religious Terrorism:</strong> Cells of believers targeting bloodline families</li> <li><strong>Mass Murder:</strong> Home invasions, workplace attacks, bombing campaigns</li> <li><strong>Seraph Protection:</strong> Claim divine mandate to protect Alex for immortality</li> <li><strong>Holy War:</strong> Systematic extermination disguised as salvation</li> </ul> </div> <div class="family-corruption"> <h4>Methods of Control</h4> <p>Convince followers that murder is spiritual purification. Alex Prophecy claims protecting the last Seraph will grant immortality. Children compete for Alex's favor to inherit leadership.</p> </div> </div> <div class="family-expand-indicator">⌄</div> </div>  <div class="family-card" onclick="toggleFamilyCard(this)"> <div class="family-header"> <div class="family-crest">☾</div> <div class="family-info"> <h3 class="family-name">Shaed Family</h3> <div class="family-bloodline">Umbra Bloodline</div> <div class="family-business">Shaed Security Consulting - Corporate security audits, risk assessment, privacy consulting</div> </div> </div> <div class="family-preview"> Hilda Shaed built her headquarters in a dimensional pocket accessible only through shadows. Her operatives move as living shadows, gathering intelligence for the highest bidder. </div> <div class="family-details"> <div class="family-section"> <h4>Criminal Operations</h4> <ul class="family-operations"> <li><strong>Shadow Surveillance:</strong> Operatives move as living shadows through the city</li> <li><strong>Information Trading:</strong> Files on every significant person in Sordia</li> <li><strong>Dimensional Security:</strong> Headquarters cannot be detected or infiltrated</li> <li><strong>Intelligence Brokerage:</strong> Secrets sold to highest bidders at optimal times</li> </ul> </div> <div class="family-corruption"> <h4>Methods of Control</h4> <p>Maintain files on families, lovers, children, and fears of every important person. Information never appears in official reports but always finds its way to the right buyer at the right price.</p> </div> </div> <div class="family-expand-indicator">⌄</div> </div>  <div class="family-card" onclick="toggleFamilyCard(this)"> <div class="family-header"> <div class="family-crest">𓆩𓆪</div> <div class="family-info"> <h3 class="family-name">Takahashi Family</h3> <div class="family-bloodline">Draegon Bloodline</div> <div class="family-business">Takahashi Import/Export - International trade, cultural exchange, traditional arts</div> </div> </div> <div class="family-preview"> Oyabun Hiroshi Takahashi built his yakuza crime family on ancient principles of honor and loyalty. His clan members are bound by oaths where dishonor results in death or permanent power loss. </div> <div class="family-details"> <div class="family-section"> <h4>Criminal Operations</h4> <ul class="family-operations"> <li><strong>International Smuggling:</strong> Operations requiring absolute trust between participants</li> <li><strong>Protection Rackets:</strong> Clients must trust their protectors completely</li> <li><strong>Money Laundering:</strong> Traditional businesses where honor prevents theft</li> <li><strong>Seppuku Protocol:</strong> Collective suicide rather than allow clan corruption</li> </ul> </div> <div class="family-corruption"> <h4>Methods of Control</h4> <p>Traditional yakuza structure enhanced by Draegon supernatural oaths. Honor-bound loyalty makes betrayal impossible. Mystical compulsion to commit ritual suicide preserves clan integrity.</p> </div> </div> <div class="family-expand-indicator">⌄</div> </div>  <div class="family-card" onclick="toggleFamilyCard(this)"> <div class="family-header"> <div class="family-crest">༒︎</div> <div class="family-info"> <h3 class="family-name">Tsinajinnie Family</h3> <div class="family-bloodline">Manitou Bloodline</div> <div class="family-business">Tsinajinnie Funeral Homes & Memorial Services - Burial services, cremation, grief counseling</div> </div> </div> <div class="family-preview"> Gaagii Tsinajinnie built his empire on the truth that dead people tell the best stories. Every corpse becomes a source of information, every funeral an intelligence gathering operation. </div> <div class="family-details"> <div class="family-section"> <h4>Criminal Operations</h4> <ul class="family-operations"> <li><strong>Necromantic Intelligence:</strong> Extract secrets from recently deceased</li> <li><strong>Death Surveillance:</strong> Control every major funeral home in Sordia</li> <li><strong>Information Brokerage:</strong> Final secrets, hidden passwords, buried treasures</li> <li><strong>Cemetery Networks:</strong> Every worker owes them favors</li> </ul> </div> <div class="family-corruption"> <h4>Methods of Control</h4> <p>Death becomes a surveillance network extending beyond the grave. Politicians, executives, crime bosses—everyone eventually requires their services, providing intelligence gathering opportunities.</p> </div> </div> <div class="family-expand-indicator">⌄</div> </div>  <div class="family-card" onclick="toggleFamilyCard(this)"> <div class="family-header"> <div class="family-crest">♒︎</div> <div class="family-info"> <h3 class="family-name">Vellaeron Family</h3> <div class="family-bloodline">Abyssal Bloodline</div> <div class="family-business">Vellaeron Marine Services & Luxury Yachts - Deep sea salvage, underwater construction, elite yacht clubs</div> </div> </div> <div class="family-preview"> Captain Nerida Vellaeron operates in ocean depths where surveillance cannot reach and evidence dissolves in salt water. Her yacht clubs serve as neutral territory for criminal negotiations. </div> <div class="family-details"> <div class="family-section"> <h4>Criminal Operations</h4> <ul class="family-operations"> <li><strong>Body Disposal:</strong> Weighted chains and oceanic trenches</li> <li><strong>Submarine Smuggling:</strong> Containers that never appear on radar</li> <li><strong>Underwater Meetings:</strong> Chambers below surveillance reach</li> <li><strong>Neutral Territory:</strong> Yacht-based negotiations for rival families</li> </ul> </div> <div class="family-corruption"> <h4>Methods of Control</h4> <p>Ocean keeps secrets better than any grave. Underwater logistics for criminal elite. Violence on Nerida's ships results in permanent disappearance beneath the waves.</p> </div> </div> <div class="family-expand-indicator">⌄</div> </div>  <div class="family-card" onclick="toggleFamilyCard(this)"> <div class="family-header"> <div class="family-crest">♒︎</div> <div class="family-info"> <h3 class="family-name">Veridan Family</h3> <div class="family-bloodline">Abyssal Bloodline</div> <div class="family-business">Veridan Shipping Solutions - Container logistics, port management, maritime insurance</div> </div> </div> <div class="family-preview"> Admiral Aleksander Veridan controls illegal flow of goods across international waters through underwater shipping lanes invisible to conventional surveillance. The ocean recognizes no laws. </div> <div class="family-details"> <div class="family-section"> <h4>Criminal Operations</h4> <ul class="family-operations"> <li><strong>Underwater Shipping:</strong> Lanes invisible to conventional surveillance</li> <li><strong>International Smuggling:</strong> Operations beyond any nation's jurisdiction</li> <li><strong>Weapons Trafficking:</strong> Disguised as machine parts</li> <li><strong>Human Cargo:</strong> Sedated and stored in pressurized containers</li> </ul> </div> <div class="family-corruption"> <h4>Methods of Control</h4> <p>Submarines travel through unmapped ocean trenches, docking at underwater facilities beyond legal jurisdiction. International law becomes meaningless when operations occur in spaces that don't officially exist.</p> </div> </div> <div class="family-expand-indicator">⌄</div> </div>  <div class="family-card" onclick="toggleFamilyCard(this)"> <div class="family-header"> <div class="family-crest">༄</div> <div class="family-info"> <h3 class="family-name">Voss Family</h3> <div class="family-bloodline">Primordial Air</div> <div class="family-business">Voss Airlines & Atmospheric Solutions - Commercial aviation, weather consulting, air cargo</div> </div> </div> <div class="family-preview"> Skymaster Suri Voss commands the city's airways and the air itself. Her family doesn't predict weather—they manufacture it, selling storms to enemies and clear skies to allies. </div> <div class="family-details"> <div class="family-section"> <h4>Criminal Operations</h4> <ul class="family-operations"> <li><strong>Atmospheric Warfare:</strong> Unexpected turbulence and freak windstorms for rivals</li> <li><strong>Transportation Monopoly:</strong> Competitors cannot travel efficiently between cities</li> <li><strong>Weather Manipulation:</strong> Control atmospheric conditions for profit</li> <li><strong>Aviation Control:</strong> Ground competing airlines while operating in impossible conditions</li> </ul> </div> <div class="family-corruption"> <h4>Methods of Control</h4> <p>Exclusive contracts with every major corporation ensure rivals cannot travel efficiently. Twin sons' rivalry has created localized weather wars above Sordia, causing unpredictable climate.</p> </div> </div> <div class="family-expand-indicator">⌄</div> </div> </div> </div>

"Actually," you say, standing before the coffee even cools, "I'm not staying."<br><br> Your hand finds your middle finger, raises it with deliberate slowness. Let her see it. Let her understand exactly what you think of this reunion.<br><br> "Fuck you, Maud. Fuck your dramatic entrances. Fuck your shadow tricks. And fuck whatever game you think we're playing."<br><br> You turn and walk. Each step away from that booth feels like reclaiming something she stole three years ago.<br><br> Behind you, chair legs scrape. Fast. Too fast.<br><br> "$firstName, wait—"<br><br> You push through the diner door. The neon cuts through drizzle, painting everything in sickly colors. Your home is not too far away. You just need to get there. Get gone. Get away from—<br><br> Footsteps behind you. Running.<br><br> "I said wait!" Maud's voice carries that edge now. The one that used to precede really bad decisions. "You can't just fucking walk away from this!"<br><br> "Watch me." You don't slow down. Don't look back.<br><br> "There are people taking photos of you!" She's right behind you now, close enough you can hear her breathing hard. "You're on a list! You're in danger and you don't even—"<br><br> "Then mail me the fucking details!" You spin on her, and she nearly collides with you. "You don't get to disappear for three years and then drag me into whatever fresh hell you've created!"<br><br> She's panting slightly. Not from exertion. From something else. Frustration. Desperation. The shadows around her writhe with agitation.<br><br> "I didn't want to do this." She's not looking at you anymore. She's looking past you, at the street, at the shadows pooling in doorways. "I really, really didn't want to do this."<br><br> <ul> <li> <<link '"Do what? Threaten me? Go ahead. Add it to the list of shit you\'ve pulled."'>> <<set $maudAbductChoice to "defiant">> <<goto "CH1P7.2_ABDUCTION">> <</link>><br><br> </li> </ul> <ul> <li> <<link '"Fine. You have five minutes. Talk."'>> <<set $maudAbductChoice to "relent">> <<goto "CH1P7.2_DINER_RETURN">> <</link>> </li> </ul>

You pick up the coffee. Wrap both hands around the mug like you're savoring the warmth. Let her think you're settling in.<br><br> Maud starts to speak. "So, you really went all in on the—"<br><br> You throw the coffee in her face.<br><br> The liquid is scalding. She recoils with a sound between a gasp and a snarl, shadows exploding outward instinctively. The mug shatters on the table. Other patrons freeze. Dolores reaches for something under the counter.<br><br> "Fuck you," you say, standing. "Fuck your disappearing act. Fuck your tricks. And fuck whatever you think gives you the right to waltz back into my life."<br><br> Coffee drips from Maud's hair, down her face, soaking into her leather jacket. For a moment, she just stares at you. Black eyes wide. Shadows writhing around her like living things that can't decide whether to attack or defend.<br><br> Then she laughs. High and sharp and slightly unhinged.<br><br> "Okay," she says, wiping coffee from her eyes with the back of her hand. "Okay. I deserved that. That was actually... yeah, I had that coming."<br><br> You're already moving toward the door. Every eye in the diner tracks you. The Chimaera girl in the corner looks impressed. The old man at the counter doesn't even blink.<br><br> "$firstName, wait!" Chair legs scrape as Maud scrambles after you. "Just wait a fucking second!"<br><br> You push through the door. Neon and drizzle. Your home is not too far away. You just need to—<br><br> She catches up outside. Breathing hard. Coffee still dripping from her pink hair.<br><br> "You done?" she asks. Not angry. Almost... respectful? "Got it out of your system?"<br><br> "Not even close." You keep walking. "Stay away from me, Maud."<br><br> "Can't do that." She's matching your pace now, walking beside you like this is normal. Like you didn't just assault her with scorching liquid. You knew it wouldn't affect her in the slightest but maybe that's why it makes you even more frustrated. "You're in danger. Like, actual, legitimate danger. And I—"<br><br> "I don't care."<br><br> "There is someone after you!" The desperation in her voice makes you pause despite yourself. "You're on a list. You're being watched. And you're walking around like you're invincible when you're actually—"<br><br> "Then send me the files! Email them! Leave them on my doorstep! You don't need to stage dramatic reunions to—"<br><br> "I didn't want to do this," Maud says again, and this time her voice is different. Resigned. "I really, really didn't want to do this."<br><br> <ul> <li> <<link '"Do what?"'>> <<set $maudAbductChoice to "wary">> <<goto "CH1P7.2_ABDUCTION">> <</link>><br><br> </li> </ul> <ul> <li> <<link '"...Fine. One hour. Show me what you have."'>> <<set $maudAbductChoice to "relent">> <<goto "CH1P7.2_DINER_RETURN">> <</link>> </li> </ul>

You follow her back into the diner. Every step feels like swallowing glass, but you follow anyway.<br><br> Because despite everything, despite three years of silence <<if $maudAggressiveChoice is "coffee">>and coffee-throwing<</if>>, she wouldn't be here if it wasn't important. Wouldn't risk this reunion if people weren't actually in danger.<br><br> You slide back into the booth. Same vinyl that squeaked before. Same formica table. Dolores brings new coffee without comment, though she's watching Maud like she might explode.<br><br> Maud wraps her hands around the mug, shadows curling with the steam. For a moment, she looks exactly like she did at seventeen. Same way of holding coffee. Same slight hunch of shoulders.<br><br> The silence stretches. Awkward doesn't begin to cover it.<br><br> "Thanks," she says finally. Quietly. "For coming back."<br><br> <<if $maudAggressiveChoice is "coffee">>"You literally stalked me outside. Let's just get this over with."<<else>>"Let's just... get to it."<</if>><br><br> [[Continue|CH1P7.2_STAY]]

When she finishes, she steps back. The shadows retreat from her, pooling in corners like guilty dogs. In the apartment's dim light, you can see her clearly now.<br><br> Your breath comes too fast. Too shallow. The apartment walls press in.<br><br> "I know what you're thinking," Maud says, smoke curling from her lips but the smoke is wrong, too dark, tinged with shadow.<br><br> "You promised." Your voice cracks on the word. On the betrayal. "We made a promise. After that night—.You promised I'd never have to see it again."<br><br> Your hands clench behind the chair, nails digging into palms. The pain helps. Grounds you.<br><br> "You broke it. You made me watch you—" You can't finish. Can't describe what you witnessed. "And then you shoved that shit inside me. Down my throat. Through my eyes—"<br><br> The shaking gets worse. You bite it back, force control through sheer spite.<br><br> "Untie me. Right fucking now. Or I swear, Maud, when I get out of this chair—"<br><br> "I know." She takes a long drag, shadows dancing with the smoke. Won't meet your eyes. <br><br> She crouches down in front of you. Eye level now. You can see the pink hair is a mess, the piercings are crooked, there are dark circles under those impossible void-black eyes.<br><br> "I hate myself for doing this. I hate that I broke our promise. But you are going to die, and what's worse, breaking a pinky promise or burying my sibling?"<br><br> "Don't." Your voice shakes with rage. "Don't you fucking dare act like this was for me. You could have talked to me—"<br><br> "I tried! You were going to walk away!"<br><br> "So you kidnapped me instead? Violated me with your shadows? Made me part of—" You can still feel them inside, cold residue coating your lungs. "I can still taste them, Maud."<br><br> She reaches out slowly, carefully, to wipe something from your cheek. Sweat. Or tears. You're not sure anymore.<br><br> You flinch away. Hard.<br><br> Something breaks in her expression.<br><br> "I'm going to show you why I had to do this," she says, voice barely above a whisper. "And then I'm going to untie you. And once the job is done and you want to run, if you want to never see me again, I'll let you. I'll understand."<br><br> "How fucking generous." The words taste like copper. Like blood from your split lip. "You break your promise, force darkness down my throat until I vomit it back up, and now you'll let me leave? Such a saint."<br><br> Your breathing is still too fast. The walls still too close. But anger helps. Anger is better than the panic clawing at your chest.<br><br> "I'm not asking for forgiveness." She stands, moves to that wall covered in red string and photographs. Won't look at you. Can't. "I'm asking for you to listen. Really listen. Because you're in danger and you won't believe me unless I make you see it."<br><br> She pulls another cigarette from the pack, lights it with that silver Zippo even though one's already burning. The smoke curls around her like it's part of her. Like she's part of it.<br><br> "So here's how this works," Maud continues, her voice taking on that sing-song quality that means she's barely holding it together. "You're going to ask me questions. I'm going to answer them. And then I'm going to show you why I broke our promise."<br><br> Your <<if $handItch is 'left'>>left<<elseif $handItch is 'right'>>right<</if>> hand itches. That familiar need for truth, even when you're zip-tied to a chair in your sister's chaos apartment as you still feel whatever the shadows left behind coating your throat.<br><br> "Fine," you bite out. "Questions. Let's start with the obvious."<br><br> <<link "Where have you been for three years?">> <<replace "#question1">><br><br> She exhales smoke that mingles with the shadows in the apartment, the combination creating patterns that hurt to track.<br><br> "Around," she says, waving vaguely with her cigarette. "Here. There. Everywhere. Nowhere." She grins, but it doesn't reach her eyes. "That's the thing about me, $firstName. I can be everywhere and nowhere all at once."<br><br> "That's not an answer."<br><br> "Sure it is! Just not the one you want." She taps ash onto the floor, not bothering with anything resembling an ashtray. "Fine, you want specifics? I've been in the undercity. In the towers. I've traveled around a bit, making some life experiences."<br><br> "For three years?"<br><br> "Time's weird when you're mostly working. Especially when you're turning into living shadow half the time." She gestures at herself, and for a moment her edges blur, like she's forgetting to stay solid. "Sometimes I'd lose days. Sometimes minutes felt like months. You ever try to keep track of time when you're a mass of darkness?"<br><br> She's deflecting, but there's truth buried in the evasion. You can feel it, that itch getting stronger.<br><br> "You could have sent a word. A text. Anything."<br><br> "Could I though?" She leans against the wall, black eyes reflecting nothing. "Hey $firstName, I'm turning into living darkness and sometimes I forget I'm human, how's journalism? Yeah, that would've gone great. You would have tried to help, or worse, tried to stop me."<br><br> She takes another drag, and you can see her hand shaking slightly.<br><br> "I wasn't ready for you to see what I was becoming. What I had to become to survive." <</replace>> <</link>> <span id="question1"></span><br><br> <<link "What are you doing now? What's your actual job?">> <<replace "#question2">><br><br> Maud laughs, high and bright and slightly unhinged. "Job? You make it sound so... corporate." She starts pacing, shadows following her movements. "I fix problems. Remove obstacles. Make sure certain people stay in certain places. Or stop breathing."<br><br> "You're an enforcer."<br><br> "Enforcer sounds so thuggish." She pouts, bottom lip jutting out dramatically even though you're the one tied to a chair. "I prefer... shadow consultant. Darkness coordinator. Nightmare prevention specialist!"<br><br> "Maud."<br><br> "Fine, fine." She waves her hand, shadows trailing from her fingers like smoke. "I work for someone who values my particular skill set."<br><br> "Such as?"<br><br> "Such as being able to grab nosy journalists from shadows and drag them through the city!" She grins, gesturing at you. "Such as being able to move through Sordia unseen. Such as being able to make problems disappear without anyone knowing they were there."<br><br> She crouches down again, meeting your eyes.<br><br> "I'm good at what I do, $firstName. Really good. And my boss pays well enough that I have an apartment, food, and the resources to investigate things like..." She gestures to the wall. "Like whatever the fuck is happening to us."<br><br> She's still dancing around it. Still not giving you the full truth. But you can work with this. <</replace>> <</link>> <span id="question2"></span><br><br> <<link "What do you want from me?">> <<replace "#question3">><br><br> She goes still. Completely still, like shadows frozen in time. Then, suddenly, she's moving again, all manic energy and too-wide smiles.<br><br> "What I want?" She spreads her arms wide, and the shadows behind her spread too, forming shapes that might be wings, might be hands, might be nothing at all. "I want to keep my big sibling from getting murdered! Ta-da!"<br><br> The shadows literally form jazz hands behind her. Actual shadow hands, wiggling their fingers in synchronized celebration, which would be funny if you weren't zip-tied to a chair.<br><br> "What the fuck—"<br><br> "I'm your bodyguard now! Your shield! Your defender!" She strikes a pose, one hand on her hip, the other pointing dramatically at the ceiling. "Maud the Magnificent, at your service!"<br><br> "You kidnapped me."<br><br> "Because you wouldn't listen!" She drops the pose, suddenly serious. Shadows curl around her feet like anxious pets. "I tried talking first, $firstName. And you were going to walk away and get yourself killed and I couldn't—"<br><br> Her voice breaks slightly.<br><br> "I won't lose you."<br><br> The admission hangs in the air between you. Raw. Honest. The most vulnerable you've seen her since she revealed herself.<br><br> "So yeah," she continues, voice returning to false brightness. "You're stuck with me now. Whether you like it or not."<br><br> [[Continue|CH1P7.2_ABDUCTION3A]] <</replace>> <</link>> <span id="question3"></span><br><br>

"I'm going to untie you now," Maud says finally. "And you're going to look at these photos properly. Really look at them. And then we're going to figure out what the fuck we're going to do about this."<br><br> "What makes you think I won't run the second I'm free?"<br><br> "Because." She moves behind you, and you hear a knife click open. "Even if you hate me, you're a journalist. An obsessive, self-destructive journalist. And this is the story of your career. Two missing people, ten potential targets, you included." The zip ties fall away from your wrists. Blood rushes back into your hands, painful and pins-and-needles. "You'd rather die than walk away from this story, especially because Linnea is involved as well."<br><br> She cuts the ties on your ankles next. You could kick her. Could fight. Could run.<br><br> You don't.<br><br> Because she's right. Damn it, she's right.<br><br> You stand slowly, rubbing feeling back into your wrists. The apartment looks different when you're not being held captive in it. Still a disaster. Still covered in evidence of obsessive investigation. But now you can see the method in the madness.<br><br> The wall is a work of art. Disturbed art, but art nonetheless. Red string connecting victims to locations to potential suspects. Financial records showing unusual transfers. Medical documents with highlighted sections. Newspaper clippings dating back months.<br><br> You turn to face her. She's watching you with an expression you can't quite parse. Hope and fear and something else. <br><br> "I still hate that you kidnapped me," you say.<br><br> "I know." She offers a small smile. Crooked. Uncertain. "For what it's worth, I hated doing it. Made me feel like..." She trails off. Doesn't need to finish. You both know who she means.<br><br> "You're not her," you hear yourself say. You don't know if you mean it or because this was your mantra. <br><br> Something breaks in her expression. Relief maybe. <br><br> "So," she says, voice artificially bright. "Now that we've had our heartwarming moment, want to help me figure out who's hunting Sordia's most interesting people?"<br><br> You look at the wall. At the photos. At your own face staring back from surveillance footage you never knew existed.<br><br> At Maud, your terrible sister who kidnapped you because she couldn't figure out any other way to keep you safe.<br><br> <<if $siblingRelationship is "broken">>"One condition," you say. "After this is done, you get the fuck out of my life. I never want to see you again."<<elseif $siblingRelationship is "neutral">>"I'm helping because this is a story," you clarify. "Not because we're okay. We're not okay."<<else>>"You're buying me so much therapy after this," you mutter. "So much therapy."<</if>><br><br> "Deal," Maud says immediately. Then, quieter: "Thank you."<br><br> You move to the wall. Start examining photos with the same methodical attention you'd give any investigation. Maud joins you, and for the first time in three years, you're working together again.<br><br> The silence that falls between you isn't comfortable. But it's not hostile anymore either.<br><br> It's something. And for now, something is enough.<br><br> [[Continue|CH1P7.2_ABDUCTION5]]

You follow her out of the alley, hyperaware of how the shadows seem to bend around her, creating pockets of darkness that shouldn't exist under the streetlights. She moves differently than you remember. Fluid, predatory.<br><br> "So," you say as you walk, "the Fork n' Knife. That was you?"<br><br> She glances at you, something like amusement in those black depths. "R for 'Really thought you'd figure it out faster.' But yeah, that was me. Figured you wouldn't come if you knew it was your estranged sister wanting to chat."<br><br> "You figured right."<br><br> "And yet here we are." She stops suddenly, head tilted. She looks at the Fork n' Knife's neon sign, barely a block away now. "I’m buying, by the way. Since I’m the one with the big money now."<br><br> She pushes through the Fork n' Knife's door without waiting for your response. The neon light catches on her pink hair, on the blood still staining her clothes from where you wounded her. She doesn't look back to see if you're following.<br><br> She knows you will.<br><br> Because despite three years of silence, despite the anger that sits like acid in your chest, <<if $siblingRelationship is "broken">> she wouldn’t just turn up after three years if it wasn’t urgent. <<else>> she's still your sister.<</if>><br><br> You follow her into the diner.<br><br> [[Continue|CH1P7.2]]

You pull back. Hard. Decisive.<br><br> "I'm not going anywhere with you," you say. Each word drops like venom. "You don't get to attack me and then invite me to dinner like that makes it okay."<br><br> Maud's hand hovers in the air where your arm was a second ago. Something flickers across her face. Hurt maybe. Or surprise that you'd actually refuse.<br><br> "$firstName—"<br><br> "No." You take another step back. "You want to talk? Send me a fucking email. Leave a note. Don't jump me in an alley and then expect me to trust you."<br><br> "It's not about trust." Her voice is strained now. Desperate. "It's about keeping you alive. There is someone—"<br><br> "Then call the cops. Call Ace. Call anyone who isn't me!" You're backing toward the alley exit now. Toward light and people and safety. "I'm done, Maud. Whatever you're involved in, whatever danger you think I'm in, handle it yourself."<br><br> "I can't." She's not following you. Just standing there in the middle of the alley, shadows writhing around her feet like they're as agitated as she is. "That's not my problem."<br><br> "It will be when you're the one who disappears!" She's shouting now, shadows exploding outward.<br><br> You stop at the alley mouth. Something in her voice makes you pause for a second despite everything. The raw fear underneath the anger. But then you shake it off and continue walking. Fuck this. Fuck her.<br><br> "I didn't want to do this," Maud says, and her voice has changed again. Gone flat. Resigned. "I really, really didn't want to do this. But you won't listen. And you're going to die. And I can't—"<br><br> The shadows move.<br><br> [[Continue|CH1P7.2_ABDUCTION]]

She reaches into her jacket and pulls out that manila folder. Slaps it on the floor in front of you since you can't exactly reach for it.<br><br> "Now," she says, all playfulness evaporating. "Let me show you why I had to do this."<br><br> She opens the folder. Photos spill out onto the floor at your feet.<br><br> The first photo makes your blood run cold.<br><br> Lillian Frost. The missing Fae socialite. Caught in profile outside a restaurant, unaware she's being watched.<br><br> "This one," Maud says, picking it up, "disappeared three days ago. No ransom. No body. Just gone."<br><br> She throws another photo down.<br><br> "Marguerite Asher. Chronos aristocrat. Missing for two weeks. Same deal. No demands. No trace."<br><br> More photos cascade down. You recognize faces. Names. People you've reported on, people you've seen at galas, people who matter in Sordia's complex hierarchy.<br><br> And then—<br><br> "Is that..." Your voice breaks.<br><br> "You!" Maud says with forced brightness, holding up your photograph. "Walking out of Channel 6, looking very journalistic and determined. Don't you look good? The camera loves you."<br><br> It's really you. Walking out of Channel 6, probably a month ago based on the clothes. She throws it down with the others. Then another photo. And then—<br><br> "Is that..."<br><br> "Me!" Maud says brightly, pointing at her own photo. "Don't I look good? Love what the shadows do for my complexion."<br><br> In the photo, she's emerging from an alley, her original <<if $hair is 'pink'>> dark brown hair>><<else>> $hair hair<</if>> unmistakable even in the grainy image. There is blood on her clothes and a wide grin on her face.<br><br> "Someone's been watching us," you say, the words tasting like copper in your mouth.<br><br> "Ding ding ding! Give the journalist a prize!" Maud's grin is sharp as broken glass. <br><br> "Turns out we're on the list too, $firstName. Isn't that fun? We're targets! Together! Like a family reunion, but with more death or abduction!"<br><br> You look up at her, and she's not smiling anymore. The shadows around her writhe with barely contained violence.<br><br> Your mind is working despite the zip ties. The journalist in you can't help but catalog information. "How did you get these?"<br><br> <ul> <li> <<link '"Walk me through it. Step by step. How did you obtain these photographs?"'>> <<set $maudChoice3 to "methodical">> <<run setup.setTrait('intuitive', ($intuitive || 50) - 1)>> <<set $observation += 1>> <<goto "CH1P7.2_ABDUCTION3B">> <</link>><br><br> </li> </ul> <ul> <li> <<link '"You tortured someone for information?"'>> <<set $maudChoice3 to "confrontational">> <<run setup.setTrait('relaxed', ($relaxed || 50) - 1)>> <<set $maudstat -= 1>> <<goto "CH1P7.2_ABDUCTION3B">> <</link>><br><br> </li> </ul> <ul> <li> <<link '"He\'s dead, isn\'t he? The person who took these."'>> <<set $maudChoice3 to "intuitive">> <<run setup.setTrait('intuitive', ($intuitive || 50) + 1)>> <<set $maudstat += 1>> <<goto "CH1P7.2_ABDUCTION3B">> <</link>> </li> </ul>

<<if $maudChoice3 is "methodical">>Maud rocks back and forth slightly, like a child with a secret. "Well, there was this guy. Sneaking around, taking pictures, being all suspicious and spy-like. Very unprofessional, really. So I grabbed him like I grabbed you, but way less gentle, and I wanted to have a chat." She grins. "Well, I chatted. He mostly screamed. Shadows in the lungs make it hard to talk, you know?"<<elseif $maudChoice3 is "confrontational">>"Torture is such an ugly word!" Maud protests, but she's grinning. "I prefer... aggressive negotiation. Enhanced interrogation. Forceful fact-finding!" She leans forward conspiratorially. "Besides, he was taking pictures of my boss. That's rude. Rudeness should be punished."<<elseif $maudChoice3 is "intuitive">>Maud's grin falters for just a second. "Not my fault! Well, not entirely. Turns out some people's hearts just can't handle being wrapped in shadows. Who knew?" She shrugs.<</if>><br><br> "Did you kill him?" The question comes out hesitant, not sure you want the answer.<br><br> Maud snickers, actually snickers, like you've said something genuinely funny. "Nope! Man, $firstName, what do you think I am?" She pauses. "Don't answer that. But no, I didn't kill him. Wanted to. Really, really wanted to. But someone else killed him before I could finish my interrogation."<br><br> "Who was he working for?"<br><br> "That's the million-dollar question, isn't it?" Maud points at another photo from the folder. "But he was snooping around my boss when I caught him, so..."<br><br> She holds up a photo, and your stomach drops.<br><br> <<if $luzmet is false>> Pink-tinted sunglasses. Heterochromatic eyes visible even through the lenses—one red, one black. Hair split perfectly down the middle, half white and half black, styled to perfection. A smile that promises violence wrapped in charm.<br><br> <ul> <li> <<link 'The face of Lucian stares right back at you.'>> <<set $luzName = "Lucian">> <<set $luzHe = "he">> <<set $luzHim = "him">> <<set $luzHis = "his">> <<set $luzHimself to "himself">> <<set $luzHeC to "He">> <<set $luzHimC to "Him">> <<set $luzHisC to "His">> <<set $luzHimselfC to "Himself">> <<set $luzGender = "male">> <<set $luzmet = true>> <<goto "CH1P7.2_ABDUCTION3C">> <</link>><br><br> </li> </ul> <ul> <li> <<link 'The face of Lucia stares right back at you.'>> <<set $luzName = "Lucia">> <<set $luzHe = "she">> <<set $luzHim = "her">> <<set $luzHis = "her">> <<set $luzHimself to "herself">> <<set $luzHeC to "She">> <<set $luzHimC to "Her">> <<set $luzHisC to "Her">> <<set $luzHimselfC to "Herself">> <<set $luzGender = "female">> <<set $luzmet = true>> <<goto "CH1P7.2_ABDUCTION3C">> <</link>> </li> </ul> <<else>> Luz. The crime lord who runs a portion of the undercity with an iron fist wrapped in designer gloves.<br><br> [[Continue|CH1P7.2_ABDUCTION3C]] <</if>>

"Luz," you whisper, the name like poison on your tongue.<br><br> Everyone in Sordia knows Luz. The crime lord who appeared out of nowhere and now runs a significant portion of the undercity. The Infernal who makes contracts that burn you from the inside out if you break them.<br><br> "Surprise!" Maud shouts, throwing her hands up. Shadow confetti actually manifests and falls around her. "I work for one of the scariest people in Sordia!"<br><br> "Why the fuck would you work for $luzHim?" Your voice rises despite being tied to a chair.<br><br> She drums her fingers against her thigh, shadows mimicking the rhythm. "Because Luz saved my life. Saw potential in me when I was nothing but a scared kid who couldn't control her powers." Her expression softens slightly. "So yeah, I work for $luzHim. Loyalty for a good life. Fair trade."<br><br> She crouches down again, meeting your eyes.<br><br> "Besides, Luz is actually pretty cool once you get to know $luzHim. $luzHeC has a cat! Mr. Whiskers. He's adorable." Maud grins. "And $luzHe pays well enough that I can afford to investigate weird shit like this."<br><br> You stare at the photos spread across the floor. Frost. Asher. You. Maud. Luz. All connected somehow.<br><br> "So what exactly do you want me to do with this, investigate?" you ask, already knowing you won't like the answer.<br><br> "Ding ding ding!" Maud claps her hands, shadows mimicking the gesture. "Give the journalist a prize! Though technically you're the prize. We all are. Question is: for what?"<br><br> She leans forward, eyes glittering with manic enthusiasm."You're the journalist, I'm the big bad monster. Together we're like... like a really dysfunctional buddy cop movie! You do the thinking, I do the threatening, we solve the mystery, save the day, maybe don't die!"<br><br> "Plus, Luz assigned me to look into this... well, assigned me to look into it alone but $luzHe doesn’t have to know... and since you're a target too, I need to keep you alive.<br><br> "Win-win!"<br><br> "I'm not—"<br><br> "AND," she continues, ignoring your protest, "we can live together! At my place! It'll be like old times!"<br><br> "Absolutely not."<br><br> "Come on! I have a couch! And running water! Usually!"<br><br> "Maud, no."<br><br> You don't like to admit it but yes she is right, you need to investigate this, especially if you're somehow involved in it as well. It can't be a coincidence that both Marguerite and Linnea, two people in those photos, have already disappeared.<br><br> [[Continue|CH1P7.2_ABDUCTION4]]

"Start from the beginning," you say, moving closer to the wall as well. "Who was Jace?"<br><br> Maud pulls out a phone, you guess it’s hers. The screen is cracked and there's dried blood on the case.<br><br> "Jace Morrison. Twenty-eight. Human. Worked as a freelance photographer, which was obviously bullshit because his equipment was too expensive for someone making artist wages." She scrolls through the phone with practiced efficiency. "I caught him Tuesday night, taking photos of Luz during a deal."<br><br> She projects an image from the phone onto the least cluttered section of wall. It shows Luz from a distance, But it's not a casual photo. It's surveillance. Professional. The angle, the clarity despite the distance, the way $luzHe is centered in frame like a target.<br><br> "So my partner and I hunted him down," Maud continues, her tone shifting to something darker. "Vinny-Pooh got shot or something and I had to do all the hard work of tracking him down."<br><br> "What did you do?"<br><br> "I wanted to ask questions." She grins, but it doesn't reach her black eyes. "Sadly he was shot before I could ask anything."<br><br> Maud moves to the center of the wall, where twelve photographs you have already seen briefly at the diner are printed out and arranged in a circle. Each one is a surveillance shot, taken from a distance but with professional clarity. Your stomach turns when you see your own face among them.<br><br> "Let's meet our fellow targets," Maud says with false cheer. "The twelve people someone thinks are worth watching and cataloging.I spent yesterday gathering some intel on a few people who I didn’t know."<br><br> She points to the first photo, upper left.<br><br> "Marguerite Asher. Chronos bloodline. Fifty-eight years old. Works as a strategic consultant for three different Fortune 500 companies, which is impressive considering she only appears to work about four hours a week." Maud taps the photo. "Missing for a week now. No body. No ransom. No trace."<br><br> Even in the surveillance shot, she seems to be looking at something beyond the camera's view.<br><br> "Next: Linnea Frost, the murdering bitch. Fae bloodline. Thirty-one." The second photo shows her with her real features, silver-blonde hair that seems to shine depending on the angle and softly glowing violet eyes. "Heiress to the Frost business. Can make people remember things that never happened. Missing for 72 hours. Question is has she fled the country because she murdered her lovers other mistress and kid or did something else happen?"<br><br> Maud moves to the third photo. "Yours truly." The surveillance shot captures her mid-laugh, same $hair as you. "You already know my resume. Umbra bloodline disaster. Professional problem. Part-time kidnapper, full-time guardian of ungrateful <<if $gender is 'cisgender-male' or $gender is 'transgender-male'>>brother<<elseif $gender is 'cisgender-female' or $gender is 'transgender-female'>>sister<<else>>sibling<</if>>."<br><br> The fourth photo makes you lean closer. "Dr. Arden. Manitou bloodline. Thirty-eight. Runs that neutral underground clinic."<br><br> <<if $ardenmet is false>> In the photo you see a... <ul> <li> <<link '...man with pale skin and piercing grey eyes that seem almost lifeless, as if they’ve seen too much.'>> <<set $ardenName = "Dr. Arden">> <<set $ardenHe = "he">> <<set $ardenHim = "him">> <<set $ardenHis = "his">> <<set $ardenHimself to "himself">> <<set $ardenHeC to "He">> <<set $ardenHimC to "Him">> <<set $ardenHisC to "His">> <<set $aceHimselfC to "Himself">> <<set $ardenGender = "male">> <<set $ardenmet = true>> <<goto "CH1P11.1">> <</link>><br><br> </li> </ul> <ul> <li> <<link '...woman with pale skin and piercing grey eyes that seem almost lifeless, as if they’ve seen too much.'>> <<set $ardenName = "Dr. Arden">> <<set $ardenHe = "she">> <<set $ardenHim = "her">> <<set $ardenHis = "her">> <<set $ardenHimself to "herself">> <<set $ardenHeC to "She">> <<set $ardenHimC to "Her">> <<set $ardenHisC to "Her">> <<set $ardenHimselfC to "Herself">> <<set $ardenGender = "female">> <<set $ardenmet = true>> <<goto "CH1P11.1">> <</link>> </li> </ul> <<else>> [[Continue|CH1P11.1]] <</if>>

"Maud—" you start.<br><br> "You're look hungry," she cuts you off, still studying the menu like it contains state secrets. "When's the last time you ate something good?"<br><br> The echo of Ace's words from earlier makes something twist in your chest. Different people, same concern. Or same observation of your self-destruction.<br><br> "I can order for myself."<br><br> "True" Maud looks up, black eyes unreadable. "But isn’t it funnier to try something new? "<br><br> Dolores returns with cutlery. "Food'll be up in fifteen," she mutters, already retreating.<br><br> Maud wraps her hands around the mug, shadows curling with the steam. For a moment, she looks exactly like she did at seventeen. Same way of holding coffee. Same slight hunch of shoulders.<br><br> The silence stretches. Awkward doesn't begin to cover it. Three years of nothing, and now you're sitting in a diner that serves food that might be criminally negligent, pretending this is normal.<br><br> Pretending your sister didn't just grab you with those shadow tentacles.<br><br> "So," Maud says finally, "you really went all in on the journalism thing."<br><br> "You really went all in on the not coming back thing."<br><br> She snorts. "I needed to do my own stuff. You know I never fitted in."<br><br> "That's what you think."<br><br> "I don’t regret it." She sips her coffee, makes a face. "Wow, that's awful. Some things don't change."<br><br> "Some things do." You gesture at her. All of her. The bubblegum pink hair, the piercings, the leather and the shadows under her eyes. "You used to be—"<br><br> "What? More boring? Weaker?" There's an edge in her voice now, sharp as the knives she probably has hidden somewhere. "I used to be so angry, $firstName. I still am."<br><br> She sets down her mug harder than necessary. Coffee sloshes.<br><br> "Then I realized normal was never an option. Not for me anyway. I never stood a chance."<br><br> <ul> <li> <<link '"So you ran. Left me to deal with Uncle Ben asking where you went while you played at being Sordia\'s newest urban legend."'>> <<set $maudChoice to "cutting">> <<run setup.setTrait('deflecting', ($deflecting || 50) - 1)>> <<set $maudstat -= 2>> <<goto "CH1P7.2.1">> <</link>><br><br> </li> </ul> <ul> <li> <<link '"Nietzsche said \'whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process he does not become a monster.\' You seem to have skipped that memo entirely."'>> <<set $maudChoice to "deflecting">> <<run setup.setTrait('deflecting', ($deflecting || 50) + 1)>> <<goto "CH1P7.2.1">> <</link>><br><br> </li> </ul> <ul> <li> <<link '"Normal was never the point. Survival was. We both chose different methods of not letting this city kill us."'>> <<set $maudChoice to "soft">> <<run setup.setTrait('soft', ($soft || 50) + 1)>> <<set $maudstat += 1>> <<goto "CH1P7.2.1">> <</link>> </li> </ul>

Maud's expression changes.<br><br> Not slowly. Not with warning. One second she's standing there, desperation and regret warring on her face. The next, something flickers behind her black eyes. Something ancient. Something hungry.<br><br> The temperature drops twenty degrees in an instant. Your breath comes out in visible clouds. Frost spreads across the pavement in intricate crystalline patterns that crunch beneath your feet as you stumble backward.<br><br> Maud's fingers start to blacken. Not like frostbite. Like rot. Like something is consuming her from the inside out, spreading upward from her fingertips in thick, pulsing veins that writhe beneath her skin like parasites.<br><br> "Maud—" you start, but the word dies in your throat.<br><br> Her nails extend. No, not extend—erupt. They punch through the tips of her fingers with the sound of tearing fabric, forming into obsidian claws that gleam wet in the streetlight. Blood wells around them, but instead of dripping, it's sucked back into her skin, turning black, turning to something that isn't blood anymore.<br><br> She's muttering something. Words in Latin, syllables that feel wrong in your ears. That make your teeth ache and your body vibrate. The shadows around her feet begin to pool, to gather, to writhe like living things reaching for their mother.<br><br> "Umbra carnem devorat—"<br><br> Her bones break.<br><br> Not a single snap. A cascade. Her radius and ulna fracture simultaneously with wet pops that make your stomach lurch. White bone shards punch through her forearms like quills, gleaming in the dim light for a single heartbeat before they liquefy, before they melt back into her skin as something dark and viscous and wrong.<br><br> It is exactly like back then...<br><br> Your legs won't move. All you can do is watch as your sister unmakes herself.<br><br> Maud's skin begins to bubble. Blisters form across her exposed flesh, swelling and bursting in rapid succession, each rupture releasing not pus but darkness, liquid shadow that oozes down her arms and drips onto the pavement where it writhes. The flesh beneath isn't muscle. It's something else. Something that moves independently, that watches with awareness that skin shouldn't possess.<br><br> Her ribcage expands violently. You hear each rib crack as it breaks through intercostal muscle, punching through her shirt, through her leather jacket, through her skin. The sound is obscene, it's organic and wet and fundamentally wrong. Dark ichor streams from the wounds, sliding upward instead of down, defying gravity as it moves to coat her torso in a second skin of living shadow.<br><br> "Maud, stop—" you choke out, but she's beyond hearing.<br><br> Her jaw dislocates. The crack reverberates through your skull like a gunshot. Her mouth stretches impossibly wide, wider than anatomy should allow, and her teeth begin to fall. They patter to the ground like bloody hailstones, each one dissolving into shadow the moment it hits pavement. New teeth erupt from her bleeding gums. It's hundreds of them, needle-sharp and overlapping in rows like a shark's maw, made of solidified darkness that gleams like wet obsidian.<br><br> Her tongue splits down the middle with a sound like tearing leather. It elongates, forking, becoming serpentine as it lolls from her distended mouth. She's panting now, each breath a wet rattle that shouldn't come from anything living.<br><br> Then her spine breaks.<br><br> Vertebrae snap in rapid succession—crack-crack-crack-crack—up her back like someone playing a xylophone of bone. Her body arches backward at an impossible angle, and you watch in frozen horror as her spine punches through her skin from neck to tailbone. White bone spears pierce through her clothing, through her flesh, standing at attention for one terrible moment before they blacken and melt and reform as something that writhes like a massive centipede made of living shadow.<br><br> The smell hits you then. Copper and rot and ozone. The scent of something that should be dead but isn't, that should be impossible but very clearly exists.<br><br> Her torso splits open.<br><br> Skin and muscle peel away like the pages of a book, revealing not organs but a writhing mass of shadows that pulse and surge within the cavity of her chest. You can see her heart—still beating, still frantically pumping—silhouetted against the darkness. It swells. Blackens. And bursts, spraying void-essence instead of blood, each droplet hangs in the air before rushing back to join the whole.<br><br> "ipsa tenebris fio," Maud whispers, and her voice is layered now, a chorus of whispers speaking in unison.<br><br> Her eyes dissolve.<br><br> They liquefy in their sockets, vitreous humor turning to black mercury that spills down her cheeks like tears. But she's still looking at you. Twin voids where her eyes used to be. And they see you. They see everything.<br><br> For one terrible, impossible moment, you see her inside-out, a grotesque display of a human turned wrong, before the shadows surge forward to claim what remains.<br><br> What stands before you isn't Maud anymore.<br><br> It's a humanoid shape outlined in darkness so deep it seems to devour the streetlights around it. Where your sister stood, now there's a hole in reality, a void that moves with purpose, that breathes though it has no lungs. That watches though it has no eyes.<br><br> The thing that was Maud tilts its head. The movement is wrong. Too fluid. Too inhuman.<br><br> And then it moves.<br><br> <<if $background is "war">>Your body reacts before your mind catches up. Training from war zones kicks in. Drop. Roll. Create distance. But there's nowhere to go. The shadows are everywhere, closing in from all sides, and for the first time since you left the war zones, you feel that old terror creeping back in.<<else>>You stumble backward, hands coming up instinctively. You kick, but it's like kicking smoke. There's nothing to fight. Nothing solid. Just darkness that moves with purpose, with hunger, with—<</if>><br><br> The shadows erupt.<br><br> From the pavement beneath your feet. From the walls beside you. From the spaces between streetlights. They surge upward like a tidal wave of darkness, and the first tendril that touches your ankle is so cold it makey you freeze immediately.<br><br> Ice. Pure, ice. The cold shoots up your leg, makes your muscles seize, makes your bones feel like they're shattering from the inside out. You're falling, hitting pavement hard enough to knock the air from your lungs, hard enough to split your lip, and the taste of your own blood fills your mouth as more shadows surge forward.<br><br> [[Continue|CH1P7.2_ABDUCTION 1]]

The world tilts.<br><br> You're not on the ground anymore. You're rising, lifted by shadows that wrap around you like chains. But something's wrong. The shadows aren't just holding you—they're probing. Sliding against your face, your neck, circling your mouth like they're testing the seal of your lips.<br><br> Looking for a way inside.<br><br> "No," you manage to gasp, trying to twist away. "Maud, what are you—"<br><br> The first tendril forces itself between your teeth.<br><br> It tastes like grave dirt and copper pennies and the smell of burnt hair. Like licking a battery while choking on smoke. The shadow writhes against your tongue, thick and viscous, not quite liquid, not quite solid, something alive and aware and hungry.<br><br> You try to bite. Your jaw gets forced open.<br><br> More shadows pour in. They surge down your throat in a torrent of cold darkness, stretching your esophagus until you feel something tear. You gag violently, body convulsing, but they keep coming, keep filling you, threading through your trachea and flowing into your lungs like roots burrowing through soil. <br><br> Your chest expands. Ribs creak with the pressure. You can't breathe. Can't scream. Can only feel as the darkness pumps itself into you, inflating your lungs with shadows.<br><br> You're drowning. Drowning in shadow while standing in open air, your body rejecting the invasion.<br><br> The shadows multiply. They pour through your nose, both nostrils flooding simultaneously with that grave-dirt taste. You feel them crawling up your sinuses, pressing against the backs of your eyeballs from the inside, making your vision bulge and distort.<br><br> Your vision goes dark. Not because you're losing consciousness, it's worse. The shadows are in your eyes now, threading through your optic nerves like worms through an apple. You can feel them sliding across your eyeballs, coating your pupils, seeping through your tear ducts.<br><br> But the worst part, the part that makes you want to vomit except you can't because your stomach is full of shadow, is how they feel at home there.<br><br> The shadows breach your pores.<br><br> You feel each individual penetration. Hundreds of tiny invasions as darkness forces its way through your skin, through follicles, through sweat glands, burrowing into as deep as they can. Your skin crawls from the inside out. You watch in horror as black veins spread across your hands, your arms, mapping your blood vessel system in darkness.<br><br> Your blood turns cold. Not metaphorically. Literally. You feel your core temperature plummet as the shadows mix with your bloodstream, threading through arteries and capillaries, wrapping around your heart like a death's embrace.<br><br> For one terrible moment, your heart stops.<br><br> Silence. Stillness. The space between beats where death lives.<br><br> Then it starts again—thump-thump, thump-thump—but the rhythm is wrong. Too slow. Too deliberate. Like it's not entirely yours anymore.<br><br> The pain finally hits.<br><br> Every cell in your body screaming as the shadows, change you from the inside out. <br><br> Making you less human. Less solid. Less real.<br><br> Making you light enough for Maud to carry.<br><br> The street falls away beneath you. Buildings blur past in smears of neon. Wind tears at your clothes but you barely feel it.<br><br> You try to look at her, at what she's become. But where her eyes should be, there are only voids. Perfect circles of absolute nothingness, blacker than the shadow-mass around them, like someone cut holes in reality and all the light in the universe is pouring into them and will never, ever come out. <br><br> And from somewhere in that darkness, you hear her voice. Voices. Multiple versions speaking over and under and through each other:<br><br> "Had to— tenebris necessitas —couldn't carry you without— you understand? You understand?" The words tumble out faster, overlapping. "Too heavy, needed you to be part of—fuck, fuck, I'm sorry— mea culpa, mea maxima culpa —but you wouldn't listen, you never listen and—"<br><br> A sound that might be laughter or screaming or both, escape her. "Did you see your face? When I split open? Fucking priceless. That look of 'oh god my sister's insides are outside'—classic. CLASSIC."<br><br> The shadows inside you pulse in rhythm with her fractured monologue. You can feel her panic now, bleeding through the darkness you share. Feel her terror. Her guilt. Her desperate, clawing need to protect you. <br><br> A rooftop appears below. Someone stands there smoking. They look up. Their cigarette falls from slack lips. See them stumble backward, see them trip over their own feet and fall—<br><br> "Whoops," Maud giggles, and it's the sound of sanity snapping. "Probably shouldn't have flown so low. Probably gave them nightmares for life." <br><br> When you finally descend, the landing is almost gentle. Almost. You're lowered into the apartment through a window that wasn't open before, that shatters inward as the shadow-mass forces through it, glass spraying across the floor in a glittering carpet of violence.<br><br> You're deposited in a chair. The shadows inside you retreat.<br><br> The sensation is worse than when they entered. You feel them leaving, pulling out of your pores, your eyes, your mouth. They exit through every orifice, leaving trails of cold slime across your skin. You vomit darkness, thick, viscous shadow that splashes onto your lap, onto the floor, pooling between your feet before it crawls back toward Maud like it's going home.<br><br> Your chest convulses. You cough up more shadow, each heave bringing up less solid, more liquid, until finally it's just normal vomit mixing with the darkness in a puddle that reeks of stomach acid and grave dirt.<br><br> And then you watch as Maud transforms back.<br><br> It's not like watching a video in rewind. It's worse. The darkness peels away from Maud's form in sheets, revealing raw, glistening flesh beneath. Bone knits itself back together with audible cracks. Her jaw snaps back into place with a sound that makes you flinch. Those hundreds of needle-teeth retract into her gums.<br><br> Her eyes reform last, first as empty sockets, then as gelatinous orbs, then as actual eyes that roll and focus.<br><br> She's panting. Gasping. Trembling. Human again, or human-shaped at least.<br><br> And she's laughing. Manic, broken laughter that sounds like joy and horror having a knife fight in her throat.<br><br> "Fucking NAILED it!" she wheezes, pulling out zip ties with shaking hands that are still slightly too long, still have shadows pooling under the fingernails. "Didn't drop you even once! New personal record!" She moves behind you, secures your wrists. Zip ties. The plastic bites into your wrists as Maud secures them behind the chair. Professional. Practiced. Like she's done this before.<br><br> "I'm sorry," she keeps saying. Over and over like a prayer. "I'm so sorry. I didn't want this. I tried to talk but you wouldn't listen and you're going to die if someone doesn't protect you and I can't—"<br><br> She secures your ankles to the chair legs. The zip ties are tight enough to hurt but not tight enough to cut off circulation. There's expertise in that distinction.<br><br> [[Continue|CH1P7.2_ABDUCTION 2]]

<<if $maudChoice00 is "confrontational">>Maud throws back her head and laughs, genuinely delighted. "There's the $firstName I remember! Always with the cutting observations." She flicks ash with theatrical precision. "You know what? You're right. 'Orca' is boring as hell. I was hoping for something more... poetic. 'Nightshade' maybe, or 'Dead Walker.'" Her grin turns sharp. "But the police lacks imagination. They probably named me after the first thing they could think of."<<elseif $maudChoice00 is "intuitive">>Maud's smile doesn't waver, but something shifts behind her eyes. Calculation matching calculation. "Look at you, connecting dots before I've even finished talking. Some things never change." She takes a drag, considering. "You're right, of course. My timing isn't coincidental. But the question isn't what I want—it's what you need."<<elseif $maudChoice00 is "hopeful">>Maud goes very still, cigarette forgotten between her fingers. "You looked for me." It's not a question, and her voice is softer than it's been since she appeared. "I know." She looks away, shadows curling tighter around her. <</if>><br><br> She stubs out her cigarette in the pie.<br><br> The conversation lulls. You're processing three years compressed into three minutes.<br><br> "Why are you really here, Maud?" The question comes out before you can stop it. "I want the real reason. What brought you back now?"<br><br> She sets down her fork. Looks at you with those impossible black eyes. The shadows around her pulse once, twice, like a heartbeat made of darkness.<br><br> You could just get up and leave. But you don’t. She knows you will stay and listen.<br><br> Because despite three years of silence, despite the anger that sits like acid in your chest, <<if $siblingRelationship is "broken">> she wouldn’t just turn up after three years if it wasn’t urgent. <<else>> she's still your sister.<</if>><br><br> "That's the right question," she says, grinning. "Took you long enough to ask it."<br><br> She reaches into her jacket, and for a moment you tense, but she just pulls out another cigarette. Lights it with the same silver Zippo.<br><br> [[Continue|CH1P8]]

//The first lie anyone ever told you was that parents had to love their children.<br><br> That love was automatic. Unconditional. Written into biology like hunger or breathing.<br><br> Your parents proved that one wrong early.<br><br> The closet smells like old shoes and broken promises.<br><br> You're eight years old, curled against the back wall with a nightlight that casts everything in sickly yellow. The book in your lap is too heavy, too adult, stolen from the library three weeks ago when Mrs. Chen wasn't watching. You're not supposed to have it. The words are hard. Some you don't understand yet.<br><br> But anything is better than listening to what's happening outside.<br><br> Glass shatters. Something expensive, probably. Mom—Dee—screams words you're not supposed to know. Dad—Ivo—screams back. His voice slurs, consonants bleeding together like wounds left open too long.<br><br> You press your thumb against the page, following the sentence for the third time.<br><br> "The opposite of love isn't hate," you whisper, testing the words. "It's indifference. Hate requires... requires you to care enough to feel something."<br><br> The sentence sits wrong in your mouth. Too big. Too complicated. But something about it feels true in a way that makes your stomach hurt.<br><br> Another crash. Closer this time. The apartment's not big enough for their rage.<br><br> You don't flinch anymore. Flinching is for kids who still think someone might come save them.<br><br> "What're you doing?"<br><br> The voice is small. Sleepy. You look up.<br><br> Maud stands in the closet doorway, pink nightgown hanging off one shoulder. She's five, all knobby knees and wild dark hair that never stays in the ponytail you tried to make earlier. She rubs her eyes with tiny fists, yawning so wide you can see her missing front tooth.<br><br> "Reading," you say. Keep your voice flat. Normal. Like the screaming isn't happening.<br><br> "Oh." She steps inside, closes the door behind her carefully. Too carefully for a five-year-old. "Are they still at it?"<br><br> "Yeah."<br><br> Maud nods, settling beside you against the wall. Her shoulder presses against yours, small and warm and trusting in a way that makes something in your chest ache.<br><br> Outside, Dee shrieks something incoherent. Ivo responds with the meaty sound of fist meeting wall. Or maybe not wall. You don't want to know.<br><br> Maud's hand finds yours in the dark.<br><br> "What's your book about?" she asks.<br><br>// <ul> <li> <<link '"It\'s about people who hurt each other even when they don\'t mean to. About how love and hate aren\'t actually opposites."'>> <<set $flashbackChoice1 to "honest">> <<run setup.setTrait('confrontational', ($confrontational || 50) + 1)>> <<goto "CH1P13.1">> <</link>><br><br> </li> </ul> <ul> <li> <<link '"It\'s about people trying to understand each other. About how feelings are confusing but that\'s okay."'>> <<set $flashbackChoice1 to "protective">> <<run setup.setTrait('soft', ($soft || 50) + 1)>> <<goto "CH1P13.1">> <</link>> </li> </ul>

//<<if $flashbackChoice1 is "honest">> You don't sugarcoat it. Never learned how.<br><br> "It's about people who hurt each other even when they don't mean to," you say, voice flat. Clinical. Like you're reading a report instead of explaining something to a five-year-old. "About how love and hate aren't actually opposites. About indifference being worse than both."<br><br> Maud blinks at you. Processing. Her face scrunches up in that way it does when she's trying to understand big concepts with a small brain.<br><br> "That's sad," she finally says.<br><br> "Yeah."<br><br> "But you like it?"<br><br> You shrug. "It makes sense. More sense than..." You gesture vaguely at the door. At the screaming beyond it. At everything.<br><br> Maud nods slowly, like this is perfectly reasonable. Like eight-year-olds reading philosophy during domestic violence is just another Tuesday.<br><br> Maybe it is. For you, anyway.<br><br> "Will you read it to me?" she asks.<br><br> The faith in her voice cuts deeper than any crash from outside ever could.<br><br><<elseif $flashbackChoice1 is "protective">> You look at Maud's face. Five years old. Already seen too much. You can give her this, at least. One thing that doesn't have to be complicated or scary or real.<br><br> "It's about people trying to understand each other," you say, softening the edges. Making it palatable. "About how feelings are confusing but that's okay. Everyone gets confused sometimes."<br><br> It's not exactly a lie. Just... edited. Redacted. The version you'd tell if you weren't eight and already too tired to pretend the world isn't exactly what it is.<br><br> "Oh." Maud's shoulders relax slightly. "That sounds nice."<br><br> Nice. Sure. If you squint and ignore everything the book actually says.<br><br> But she's smiling now, small and sleepy and trusting. That's worth the deception.<br><br> "Will you read it to me?" she asks.<br><br> You nod. Protection comes in different forms. Sometimes it's calling the cops. Sometimes it's lying about philosophy books.<br><br><</if>>// [[Continue|CH1P13.2]]

//You open the book wider so she can see. The pages are dog-eared, margins full of notes from whoever owned it before. Previous reader had neat handwriting. Probably someone who had a real family.<br><br> "Okay," you say. "But some of the words are hard."<br><br> "That's okay. You're smart. You'll figure them out."<br><br> The faith in her voice makes something in your chest crack. Hairline fracture. Nothing visible. Everything felt.<br><br> You start reading. Not from the beginning—the beginning makes even less sense than the middle—but from where your thumb held place. Your voice is quiet, barely audible over the chaos beyond the closet door, but Maud leans in close and listens like you're telling the most important story in the world.<br><br> Maybe you are. Maybe this closet, this stolen book, this moment where you make sense of words too big for you—maybe this is the only story that matters.<br><br> The sentences are complex. You stumble over "existential" and "dichotomy" and "inherent." But you sound them out, piece them together, keep going. Maud doesn't understand half of it. You don't understand half of it.<br><br> But her breathing evens out. Her grip on your hand loosens slightly.<br><br> Twenty minutes pass. Maybe thirty. Time moves weird in closets.<br><br> Then—<br><br> //DING-DONG.//<br><br> The doorbell cuts through everything. The fighting stops instantly, replaced by frantic whispers and the shuffle of bodies trying to look presentable.<br><br> You sigh. Close the book carefully, making sure to keep your place.<br><br> Stand up.<br><br> "Stay here," you tell Maud. "I'll handle it."<br><br> She nods, already knowing the routine.<br><br> The apartment looks like a war zone. Broken lamp. Shattered picture frame. Dark stain on the carpet that might be wine or might be blood. Dee's slumped on the couch, mascara streaked down her face like war paint. Ivo's by the kitchen, nursing his knuckles.<br><br> They don't look at you. Never do during times like this.<br><br> You unlock the door.<br><br> Officer Walsh stands there. You know him. He's been here eleven times in the past year. You keep count. He's got kind eyes and a tired face and a wedding ring he fidgets with when he's uncomfortable.<br><br> He's fidgeting with it now.<br><br> "Hey, kid," he says softly. "Got another call from the neighbors."<br><br> "Yeah." You step aside so he can see the damage. "They were fighting."<br><br> Walsh takes it in. The wreckage. Your parents pretending to be sober. You, eight years old in pajamas that are too short and with cartoon characters you're too old for, standing there like this is normal.<br><br> Because it is normal. Your normal, anyway.<br><br> "Mr. and Mrs. $lastName," Walsh says, voice shifting from soft to official. "We've talked about this."<br><br> "We're fine," Dee slurs. "Just a disagreement. Happens in every marriage."<br><br> "Not like this it doesn't."<br><br> Walsh signals to the other officers behind him. Two you recognize. One you don't. They move past you with the practiced efficiency of people who've done this before.<br><br> Walsh crouches down so he's eye level with you. Like that makes it better. Like making himself small changes anything.<br><br> "I'm gonna get you kids out," he tells you. Voice gentle. Promising. "We're taking your parents in tonight. Social services will place you somewhere safe. Somewhere better than this."<br><br> <<if $handItch is "right">>Your right hand starts to itch a little you start scratching it subtly.<<elseif $handItch is "left">>Your left hand starts to itch a little you start scratching it subtly.<</if>><br><br> //Liar.//<br><br> //Liar.//<br><br> //Liar.//<br><br> The word echoes in your head like a drumbeat. Like a prayer said so many times it stops meaning anything.<br><br> This is what he said last time. And the time before that. And the first time, back when you were six and still stupid enough to believe his words.<br><br> The reality: Dee and Ivo will be out by tomorrow afternoon. Disorderly conduct. Public intoxication. Maybe assault if they're feeling ambitious at the station. But no real charges. Never any real charges.<br><br> Because you're poor. Because you live in the kind of building where neighbors call the cops but never testify. Because the system has bigger problems than two addicts who can't stop destroying each other long enough to remember they have kids.<br><br>// <ul> <li> <<link '"Sure. Just like last time."'>> <<set $flashbackResponse to "cutting">> <<run setup.setTrait('confrontational', ($confrontational || 50) + 1)>> <<goto "CH1P13.3">> <</link>><br><br> </li> </ul> <ul> <li> <<link '"We\'ll be fine. Neighbor usually comes over."'>> <<set $flashbackResponse to "deflecting">> <<run setup.setTrait('calculated', ($calculated || 50) + 1)>> <<goto "CH1P13.3">> <</link>><br><br> </li> </ul> <ul> <li> <<link '"Okay."'>> <<set $flashbackResponse to "hardened">> <<run setup.setTrait('hopeful', ($hopeful || 50) - 1)>> <<goto "CH1P13.3">> <</link>><br><br> </li> </ul> <ul> <li> <<link '"...Thank you, Officer Walsh."'>> <<set $flashbackResponse to "softish">> <<run setup.setTrait('soft', ($soft || 50) + 1)>> <<goto "CH1P13.3">> <</link>> </li> </ul>

//<<if $flashbackResponse is "cutting">> The words come out sharp. Blade-edged. Eight years old and already too good at cutting through bullshit.<br><br> "Sure. Just like last time."<br><br> Walsh flinches. Barely. Just a tightening around his eyes that you wouldn't notice if you weren't already watching for it. Already cataloging every micro-expression like evidence for a case you'll never get to prosecute.<br><br> "Kid—"<br><br> "And the time before that," you continue, voice flat. Empty. "They'll be out tomorrow. Maybe the day after if paperwork's slow. Then we do this again next month. Or next week. Depends on when Ivo cheats on Dee again."<br><br> His jaw works. Wants to argue. Wants to promise it'll be different this time. But he's been a cop in Sordia long enough to know when he's beaten by truth.<br><br> "I'm trying," he says finally. Quietly. Like that matters.<br><br> You don't respond. Trying isn't the same as succeeding. You learned that difference the hard way.<br><br> The silence between you stretches. Uncomfortable. Accusing. An eight-year-old shouldn't be able to make a grown cop feel guilty, but here you are, doing it anyway.<br><br> "Stay safe," Walsh finally says.<br><br> Defeated. Dismissed. Done.<br><br> <<elseif $flashbackResponse is "deflecting">> You sidestep the promise like you're dodging something thrown at your head. Smooth. Practiced. Eight years old and already an expert at verbal evasion.<br><br> "We'll be fine. Neighbor usually comes over."<br><br> Not engaging with his fantasy about social services and somewhere better. Not calling him a liar to his face. Just... redirecting. Offering an alternative that lets him feel less guilty about abandoning two kids to the system's apathy.<br><br> Walsh's expression shifts. Relief mixed with something that might be shame if you cared enough to identify it properly.<br><br> "Mrs. Byrne from 4B?" he asks.<br><br> "Yeah."<br><br> He nods, latching onto this lifeline you've thrown him. A solution that isn't his responsibility. "She's a good woman. I'll make sure she knows to check on you."<br><br> "Okay."<br><br> The conversation's over. You've given him an out. He's taken it. Transaction complete.<br><br> Some part of you—the part that's still young enough to believe adults should do better—hates that this is how it works. But the rest of you, the part that's already too old, knows this is survival. Give them what they need to walk away without too much guilt. Make it easy for them to leave.<br><br> "Stay safe, kid," Walsh says.<br><br> "Always do."<br><br> <<elseif $flashbackResponse is "hardened">> "Okay."<br><br> One word. Flat. Empty. Giving him exactly what he needs to hear and nothing more.<br><br> Your face doesn't move. Doesn't show disappointment or hope or any of the things an eight-year-old should feel when someone promises rescue. Because you stopped feeling those things six months ago when you realized the promises were just noise people made to feel better about doing nothing.<br><br> Walsh studies your face. Searching for something. Some crack in the armor. Some proof you're still a kid who needs saving.<br><br> You don't give him the satisfaction.<br><br> "Kid," he tries again, voice gentler now. Concerned. Like gentleness ever fixed anything. "I know it's hard to trust—"<br><br> "Okay," you repeat. Same tone. Same empty acknowledgment.<br><br> His mouth tightens. You watch him realize he's talking to a wall. Watch him understand that whatever made you a child already died and what's standing in front of him is just a small, efficient machine that knows how to survive.<br><br> It should bother you more. That you made a grown man look at you with something like fear.<br><br> It doesn't.<br><br> "Alright," he says finally. Giving up. "You know how to reach me if you need anything."<br><br> You nod. Once. Precise.<br><br> He leaves it there. What else can he do?<br><br> <<elseif $flashbackResponse is "softish">> "...Thank you, Officer Walsh."<br><br> The words feel strange in your mouth. Formal. Like something from a TV show about families who have dinners together and parents who don't get arrested.<br><br> But some part of you—small, getting smaller every day—still wants to believe. Still wants to hope that maybe this time, someone will actually follow through.<br><br> Walsh's expression softens. Genuine warmth. He reaches out like he might pat your head, then thinks better of it. Cops learn quick not to touch kids from houses like this. Never know what scars you'll find.<br><br> "You're a good kid," he says. "Smart. Strong. You shouldn't have to deal with this."<br><br> //But I do,// you don't say. //Because should and do are different words with different meanings and Sordia doesn't care about should.//<br><br> Instead you just nod. Let him have this moment where he feels like he's making a difference. Where his promises mean something.<br><br> "We'll do better this time," he adds. "I'll talk to my supervisor. Make sure social services actually follows up."<br><br> <<if $handItch is "right">>Your right hand twitches again.<<elseif $handItch is "left">>Your left hand twitches again.<</if>> Subtle. He doesn't notice.<br><br> But you do. Your body knows what your heart won't admit yet.<br><br> "Okay," you say. Softer than before. "Thank you."<br><br> He smiles. Sad. Sorry. Useless.<br><br> Then he's standing, calling to his officers, doing his job while pretending it'll matter.<br><br><</if>>// [[Continue|CH1P13.4]]

//The other officers cuff your parents. Dee's crying now, the ugly kind of crying that makes her face red and swollen. Ivo's swearing under his breath, promising violence in terms creative enough to make even the veterans tense.<br><br> You don't look at them as they're led past.<br><br> Haven't looked at them during an arrest since you were seven. Found out it's easier that way. Easier to pretend they're strangers. Just two more addicts in a city full of them.<br><br> The door closes. Walsh lingers for a moment, probably hoping you'll cry or beg or do something that proves you're still salvageable.<br><br> You don't.<br><br> "I'll check in tomorrow," he says.<br><br> <<if $handItch is "right">>You don't know why but you want to scratch your right hand again.<<elseif $handItch is "left">>You don't know why but you want to scratch your left hand again.<</if>><br><br> Then he's gone too.<br><br> You lock the door. Test it twice. Force of habit.<br><br> The apartment feels bigger now. Quieter. The kind of quiet that should be peaceful but isn't. You remember that you're eight and alone and responsible for a five-year-old who thinks you have all the answers. <br><br> You don't have any answers.<br><br> Just a stolen library book and the certain knowledge that nothing changes. Not really. Not in ways that matter.<br><br> It presses down on your shoulders until you start breathing faster. You need to calm down. Turn on the lights. You don't like the dark. Back to the closet.<br><br> Maud's exactly where you left her, nightlight casting shadows across her face. She looks up when you enter, eyes questioning.<br><br> "They took Dee and Ivo," you report. "Neighbor's probably coming soon."<br><br> Maud processes this. Nods once. "Okay."<br><br> No tears. No fear. Just acceptance.<br><br> You did that. Taught her that. And you don't know if that makes you a good sibling or a bad one.<br><br> "Can you finish the story?" she asks.<br><br> The story. Right. The book about people who hurt each other. About love and hate and indifference.<br><br> You settle back against the wall. Open to your place. Clear your throat.<br><br> "The author says," you begin, voice steady despite everything, "that we're all just trying to matter. To prove we existed. That we meant something to someone, somewhere. Even if it's just for a moment."<br><br> "Do we matter?" Maud asks.<br><br> The question hangs in the yellow nightlight glow.<br><br> You think about lies. About promises that break before they're finished being spoken. About police officers with kind eyes and social workers who never have enough resources and parents who love pills more than people.<br><br> You think about Maud's hand in yours. About stolen books and closet sanctuaries and the way she believes you're smart enough to figure out the hard words.<br><br> "Yeah," you say finally. "We matter."<br><br> Another lie. Maybe. Probably.<br><br> But this one feels different.<br><br> This one might be worth believing.<br><br> You keep reading. Your voice fills the closet with words too big and concepts too complex and a story that doesn't have a happy ending but at least has an ending. Maud's breathing evens out again. Her head drops against your shoulder.<br><br> The book talks about meaning and purpose and the desperate human need to be remembered.<br><br> You're eight years old, reading philosophy you don't always understand to a five-year-old who's already learned that home isn't safe and parents aren't guarantees and sometimes the person who saves you is the one whose hand you're holding.<br><br> The words blur together.<br><br> Your own eyes grow heavy.<br><br> The nightlight flickers but holds.<br><br> Outside, Sordia continues its endless cycle of violence and vice and broken people breaking each other.<br><br> Inside the closet, two kids pretend that words in a book can build walls thick enough to keep the world out.<br><br> Maybe they can.<br><br> Maybe they can't.<br><br> You keep reading anyway.<br><br> Your voice trails off mid-sentence.<br><br> Sleep takes you both.<br><br>// [[Continue|CH1P13.5]]

You wake up.<br><br> Not eight anymore. Not in a closet. Not listening to your sister's sleepy breathing. <br><br> You're twenty-six.<br><br> The ceiling above you isn't yours. Wrong texture. Wrong cracks. Wrong everything.<br><br> Memory filters through sleep fog. Maud's apartment. You crashed here after... after yesterday's chaos. After the photos.<br><br> The nightmare clings like smoke. Like memory. Like the truth that never quite lets go no matter how many years you put between then and now.<br><br> You sit up. Scrub your face. Force the past back down where it belongs.<br><br> But Maud's voice echoes anyway. Five years old and asking if you mattered. Believing you when you lied and said yes.<br><br> Some truths stick.<br><br> Some lies become reality.<br><br> And some nights, you wake up still eight years old, still in that closet, still trying to figure out if love and hate are really opposites or if indifference is the thing that destroys us all.<br><br> <<if $motivationChoice is "justice">>That eight-year-old reading stolen philosophy learned something Officer Walsh never could: the truth matters even when no one listens. Maybe especially then.<<elseif $motivationChoice is "satisfaction">>That eight-year-old reading stolen philosophy learned the most important lesson: knowledge is power. And you've been collecting it ever since.<<elseif $motivationChoice is "revenge">>That eight-year-old reading stolen philosophy learned what indifference really meant. Now you make sure the indifferent ones feel exactly what you felt. Every. Single. Time.<</if>><br><br> Sordia's morning light filters through Maud's curtains. Grey. Weak. The kind of daylight that looks like it's already given up.<br><br> But you don't care. You need answers.<br><br> You need to figure out what the hell those photos mean and why you're in it.<br><br> But first, you need to stop your <<if $handItch is "right">>right<<elseif $handItch is "left">>left<</if>> hand from itching every time you remember Officer Walsh's promises.<br><br> Because eighteen years later, you're still waiting for someone to keep one.<br><br> [[Continue|CH1P14]]

You smell coffee. Burnt toast. Something that might be eggs or might be a crime against breakfast foods.<br><br> The bedroom door is open. Kitchen sounds drift through—metal on ceramic, water running, Maud humming something off-key that might be //Birds of a feather//.<br><br> You find yesterday's clothes crumpled on the floor. Pull them on. They smell like Maud's cigarette smoke.<<if $maudChoice3>>And shadows. They still smell like shadows. Like the ones she forced down your throat.<</if>><br><br> The apartment looks worse in daylight. What passed for atmospheric chaos at 4 AM reveals itself as legitimate disaster zone. <br><br> <<if $maudChoice3>>Your wrists still ache from the zip ties. Every time you see those red strings on the wall, you remember being bound to a chair. Being violated with darkness. Being told it was for your own good.<br><br> The anger sits in your chest like a living thing.<</if>> Maud stands at the stove, her back to you. Still wearing all black—ripped jeans, tank top, leather jacket slung over a chair. Pink hair a wild tangle. <br><br> Then she turns.<br><br> Fresh cuts mark her face. Three parallel lines across her left cheek, still angry red. A split lip that's scabbed over. Bruising around her jaw that's blooming purple-black. Her knuckles are scraped raw.<br><br> <<if $siblingRelationship is "broken">>She looks like she's been in a fight. Good. Maybe whatever she fought hurt her as badly as she hurt you.<<elseif $siblingRelationship is "neutral">>She looks like she's been in a fight. Not surprising, given her line of work.<<elseif $siblingRelationship is "fixable">>She looks like someone used her face as a punching bag. Your stomach twists with concern you're not ready to acknowledge.<</if>><br><br> "Morning, sunshine!" She grins, which makes the split lip crack. Fresh blood wells. She licks it away absently. "Coffee's burnt, toast is cremated, and the eggs are... optimistic. Breakfast of champions!"<br><br> <<if $maudChoice3>>The cheerfulness grates. Like last night didn't happen. Like she didn't kidnap you, tie you up, force shadows down your throat until you vomited darkness.<br><br> Like you're supposed to just sit here and eat breakfast and pretend she didn't violate every boundary you had.<</if>><br><br> <ul> <li> <<link '"What happened to your face?"'>> <<set $breakfastChoice to "concerned">> <<run setup.setTrait('soft', ($soft || 50) + 1)>> <<set $maudstat += 1>> <<goto "CH1P14.1">> <</link>><br><br> </li> </ul> <ul> <li> <<link '"You look like you lost a fight with a cheese grater."'>> <<set $breakfastChoice to "deflecting">> <<run setup.setTrait('deflecting', ($deflecting || 50) + 1)>> <<goto "CH1P14.1">> <</link>><br><br> </li> </ul> <ul> <li> <<link '"Let me guess. Work."'>> <<set $breakfastChoice to "knowing">> <<run setup.setTrait('calculated', ($calculated || 50) + 1)>> <<goto "CH1P14.1">> <</link>><br><br> </li> </ul> <ul> <li> <<link '[Say nothing, just stare]'>> <<set $breakfastChoice to "silent">> <<run setup.setTrait('confrontational', ($confrontational || 50) - 1)>> <<goto "CH1P14.1">> <</link>> </li> </ul>

<<if $breakfastChoice is "concerned">>"This?" She touches her cheek, shadows curling around her fingers like they want to soothe the wound. "Oh, you know. Work stuff. Had a meeting with some associates who disagreed with Luz's management style. We came to an understanding." Her grin widens despite the split lip. "They understood that disagreeing is bad for their health." <<if $siblingRelationship is "fixable">>Something flickers in her expression when you ask. Like she wasn't expecting concern. Like it matters that you noticed.<</if>><<elseif $breakfastChoice is "deflecting">>Maud barks a laugh that turns into a wince. "Cheese grater wishes it could do this kind of damage! Nah, this is premium-grade face-rearranging courtesy of three guys who thought numbers meant advantage." She touches the cuts proudly. "You should see them. Actually, you can't. Two are in the hospital, one's in the ground. Guess which one started it?"<<elseif $breakfastChoice is "knowing">>"Bingo!" She points at you with a spatula, grinning through split skin. "See, this is why you're the smart one. Yeah, Luz needed some... personnel issues resolved. Turned out the personnel had friends. The friends had knives. I had shadows." She shrugs. "Mathematics worked out in my favor."<<elseif $breakfastChoice is "silent">>Maud holds your stare, that manic grin slowly fading. The silence stretches. Uncomfortable. Heavy with things neither of you wants to say. Finally, she breaks first, looking away. "Work," she mutters, turning back to the stove. "Just work."<</if>><br><br> She slides a plate across the counter. The eggs are definitely overcooked. The toast is charcoal masquerading as bread. The coffee smells like it died hours ago and is now haunting the pot.<br><br> <<if $siblingRelationship is "broken">>"Bon appétit," she says with false cheer, like this isn't the first time she's tried feeding you in three years. Like you're supposed to just sit here and eat breakfast and pretend last night's kidnapping — or all the years before that— didn't happen.<<elseif $siblingRelationship is "neutral">>"It's edible," she offers. "Probably. I mean, I ate some earlier and I'm still standing." She pauses. "Mostly standing."<<elseif $siblingRelationship is "fixable">>"I know it's shit," she admits quietly. "But I tried. That counts for something, right?" The vulnerability in her voice makes something in your chest ache.<</if>><br><br> You look at the disaster masquerading as breakfast. At Maud's battered face. At the conspiracy wall looming behind her like a monument to paranoia.<br><br> <<if $vice is "smoking">>Your fingers itch. Different from the truth-itch. This is the nicotine-itch. The one that says mornings require fire and tar and something to do with your hands besides think about eight-year-old you reading philosophy in a closet.<br><br> You pull out your pack. Light up before the food even touches your lips.<<elseif $vice is "alcohol">>Your fingers itch for something stronger than burnt coffee. Something that burns going down and numbs the edges of nightmares that won't quite fade. You spot a bottle of whiskey on the counter, cap already off. Breakfast of champions indeed.<<elseif $vice is "gambling">>Your phone buzzes. Betting app notification. The Sordian Raptors are playing tonight. The odds are shit but the risk is there, singing its siren song. Your fingers hover over the screen, that familiar itch building.<<elseif $vice is "work">>You pull out your phone automatically. Three missed calls from the station. Seven emails. The story about Grey is blowing up and there's follow-up to do, angles to chase, truth to excavate from the rubble—<<elseif $vice is "risk">>The apartment is on the fifth floor. No fire escape. One exit. You catalog the danger automatically, that part of your brain that craves the edge, the maybe-this-kills-me-maybe-it-doesn't thrill.<<elseif $vice is "hookups">>Your phone has two unread messages. One from that bartender. One from the CRD agent you definitely shouldn't be sleeping with. Both want to know if you're free tonight.<</if>><br><br> <<if $vice is "smoking">>Maud watches smoke curl from your lips. "Still on that death-by-increments plan, I see." She lights her own cigarette, because of course she does. "We can be lung cancer buddies. Very cute of us, dying slowly together."<<if $maudChoice3>><br><br>"At least cancer asks permission first," you mutter.<br><br> Her cigarette pauses halfway to her mouth. The hit lands. You can see it in the way she flinches.<</if>><<elseif $vice is "alcohol">>Maud raises an eyebrow as you pour whiskey into the coffee. "Breakfast of champions. Irish style." She doesn't judge. <<if $maudChoice3>>Which is rich, considering.<br><br>"At least when I poison myself, I choose it," you say, taking a long drink. "Consent and all that."<br><br> She goes very still. "Point made."<<else>>Just pulls out her own glass. "Cheers to making terrible decisions before 7 AM."<</if>><<elseif $vice is "gambling">>Maud peers at your phone screen. "The Raptors are shit right now. But you knew that." <<if $maudChoice3>>She pauses, reading your expression. "You're going to bet on them anyway. Because bad odds are better than no control at all, right?"<br><br> The psychology cuts too close. "Don't analyze me."<br><br> "Wouldn't dream of it."<<else>>Her grin is sharp. "You're going to bet on them anyway, aren't you? I love that about you. Embracing the losing odds like a lifestyle choice."<</if>><<elseif $vice is "work">>"Phone down," Maud orders, shadows flickering with irritation. "The story can wait two hours. You can't investigate shit if you're dead from exhaustion. Or worse, from whoever's collecting names."<<if $maudChoice3>><br><br>"Funny," you say without looking up. "Didn't care about my autonomy last night. Why start now?"<br><br> "That's not—" She cuts herself off. "Fine. Work yourself to death. Not like I can stop you."<br><br> "No. You can't."<</if>><<elseif $vice is "risk">>Maud catches you assessing the exits. "One way out, terrible odds, probably compromised security. And you're still here." <<if $maudChoice3>>She doesn't smile. "I know what you're thinking. How fast you could get out if I tried to... if I did it again."<br><br> "And?"<br><br> "You wouldn't make it." Her voice is flat. Honest. "But I wouldn't stop you from trying. Not anymore."<<else>>She grins. "Risk junkie meets death trap. It's like you're trying to make my job as your bodyguard impossible."<</if>><<elseif $vice is "hookups">>"Two messages at 6 AM? Wow you're popuar," Maud observes, because of course she's watching. <<if $maudChoice3>>She pauses. "At least they ask before touching you." You growl.<br><br> The air between you could shatter glass.<br><br> "I'm sorry," she whispers. "I'm so fucking sorry."<br><br> You don't respond. Can't. The words would come out wrong. Too angry or not angry enough.<<else>>She doesn't ask who. Doesn't need to. "Maybe focus on not dying before your next hookup, yeah?"<</if>><</if>><br><br> <<if $maudChoice3>>The silence is oppressive. Every second stretches, loaded with last night's violation. With zip ties and shadows and broken trust.<br><br> Maud clears her throat. "So. Jace's apartment. We should—"<br><br> "We're not okay," you cut her off. Voice flat. Final. "Don't pretend we are."<br><br> "I wasn't—"<br><br> "You were." You stand, leaving the eggs untouched. "Let's just get this over with."<br><br> She nods. Doesn't argue. The shadows around her look almost apologetic.<br><br> Too bad shadows don't undo trauma.<<else>>You force down the eggs. They taste like shit. The coffee is worse.<br><br> "So," Maud says, all false brightness. "Ready to break into Jace's apartment and see what breadcrumbs he left behind?"<</if>><br><br> You sigh. <br><br> [[Continue|CH1P14.2]]

Twenty minutes later, you're both in Christine—heading toward the address Maud has for Jace Morrison's apartment.<br><br> The morning traffic is brutal. Sordia's always brutal, but morning rush hour turns it into a special circle of hell. Cars packed tight. Horns screaming. The city waking up angry.<br><br> <<if $maudChoice3>>You sit as far from Maud as the car allows. Which isn't far. But it's something. A statement written in inches and deliberate body language.<br><br> She doesn't comment. Just drives, jaw tight, shadows curling anxiously around the steering wheel.<br><br> The silence is different from yesterday's silence. That was anticipation. This is aftermath. The kind that leaves shrapnel embedded in soft tissue.<</if>> Maud drives like traffic laws are suggestions for people who lack imagination. Christine's engine makes sounds that should require a priest and an exorcism.<br><br> She takes a corner too fast. "You slept okay?" she asks, like it's a normal question.<br><br> "Fine."<br><br> "Liar." But she doesn't push. Just keeps driving, keeps humming.<br><br> She glances at you. "I'm sorry I wasn't better. Back then. That I couldn't protect you the way you protected me."<br><br> "You were literally five—"<br><br> "Let me finish." Her voice shakes slightly. "You read to me every night. Made me believe we mattered when everything else said we didn't. And I just... I want to be that for you now. Even if you don't want me to be."<br><br> She takes a breath. "I never thanked you. For all those nights. For keeping us safe when nobody else would."<br><br> The words settle between you. Awkward. Genuine. Maud doesn't do genuine often.<br><br> "You don't have to—"<br><br> "Yeah. I do." She grips the steering wheel tighter. "You deserved better than what we got. Both of us did."<br><br> She laughs, bitter. "Guess that's why you investigated with logic and I became a shadow monster. Different coping mechanisms for the same bullshit childhood."<br><br> "We both survived."<br><br> "Did we though?" She glances at you. "Or did we just become really good at pretending?"<br><br> You don't know what to say to that. Don't know how to bridge three years and a childhood's worth of trauma.<br><br> So you say nothing.<br><br> Christine wheezes around another corner. Buildings blur past, getting progressively shittier as you head deeper into the neighborhoods where rent is cheap and questions are expensive.<br><br> "Jace's place is in Westpoint," Maud says. "Photographer with expensive equipment living in Westpoint. That alone says something's wrong. Nobody with real money lives where the rent is measured in how many break-ins per month you can survive."<br><br> She's right. Westpoint is where people go when they're hiding. Or desperate. Or both.<br><br> The building appears. Five stories of water-stained concrete and broken dreams. Half the windows are boarded up. The other half should be.<br><br> Maud parks Christine in an alley. The engine dies with a sound like relief.<br><br> "Ready?" she asks.<br><br> <<if $maudChoice3>>You're not. Not even close. Not ready to pretend you trust her. Not ready to work with someone who violated you less than twelve hours ago.<br><br> But people are dying. Disappearing. And you're on that list.<br><br> Sometimes survival means working with monsters.<<else>>You're not. Not even close.<</if>><br><br> But you nod anyway.<br><br> [[Continue|CH1P15]]

Jace's apartment is on the third floor. The hallway smells like piss and mold. Flickering fluorescent lights cast shadows that don't need Maud's help to look wrong.<br><br> The door has three locks. Professional-grade deadbolts that cost more than a month's rent in this shithole.<br><br> "Expensive security for a dead photographer," you observe.<br><br> Maud's already working the locks, shadows flowing from her fingers like living lockpicks. "Yeah. Guy knew someone might come looking." The first lock clicks. "Question is—was he just a cautious guy or scared of the client?"<br><br> Second lock. Third lock. The door swings open with a soft creak that sounds too loud in the abandoned hallway.<br><br> The apartment is dark. Curtains drawn tight. No light except the dim glow from the hallway behind you.<br><br> <<if $maudChoice3>>You step inside, keeping distance between yourself and Maud. Trust is a luxury you can't afford. Not with her. Not after last night.<</if>> Maud closes the door. Locks it from the inside. Shadows curl up the walls, spreading across the ceiling like searching fingers. They illuminate the space in that wrong, hungry way shadow-light does. All inverse angles.<br><br> The apartment is bigger than it should be. Two rooms visible from here. Kitchen to the left. Living room straight ahead. Bedroom door on the right, half-open.<br><br> "Remind me who this guy was again?" "Jace Morrison," Maud says quietly, her voice harder than usual. "I caught him two days ago. Was taking surveillance photos of Luz." Her shadows flicker with agitation. "I hunted him down. Cornered him in an alley. Was about to make him talk."<br><br> She pauses. "Then someone put a bullet through his brain before I could extract anything useful." She kicks at empty air. "Pissed me off."<br><br> "So you know nothing," you say.<br><br> "I know he was hired," Maud counters. "I know someone wants all twelve of us badly enough to hire surveillance AND an assassin." Her eyes meet yours. "And I know someone wanted Jace dead before he could tell me who."<br><br> <<if $vice is "work">>Your investigator instincts kick in. This is a crime scene now. Evidence to gather. Truth to excavate from the carefully organized remains of someone's last days.<<elseif $vice is "smoking">>You light a cigarette. The smoke curls up toward shadow-lit ceiling. Wrong mixing with wrong. Somehow fitting.<<else>>The air feels heavy. Like walking into a tomb that's still warm.<</if>><br><br> <<set $evidenceFound to 0>> <<set $foundPayments to false>> <<set $foundVideo to false>> <<set $foundNotes to false>> <<set $foundEquipment to false>> <<set $cluesFound to []>> <<set $laptopPasswordAttempts to 0>> <<set $laptopUnlocked to false>> <<set $maudSolvedPassword to false>> "We need to search everything," you say. "Every room. Every corner. No skipping."<br><br> Maud nods. "Then let's start systematically."<br><br> [[Begin searching|CH1P15.LivingRoom]]

The living room is a photographer's workspace. Expensive equipment everywhere—cameras, lenses, lighting rigs. Thousands of dollars worth of gear for someone living in Westpoint.<br><br> But that's not what catches your eye first.<br><br> A lottery ticket. Pinned to the wall above the desk like a trophy. Not a winner—the numbers don't match. But someone took time to frame it. Make it visible.<br><br> You step closer. Read the numbers printed in faded ink.<br><br> //Lucky Numbers: 07 - 12 - 23 - 27 - 19 - 15//<br><br> Below it, scrawled in sharpie: "Gambler's prayer - these are my salvation."<br><br> <<if $vice is "gambling">>"Lucky numbers," you mutter. Recognizing the ritual. The superstition. The desperate hope that mathematics and fate might align.<<else>>"Lottery ticket on the wall," you say. "Guy had gambling problems?"<</if>><br><br> Maud glances at it. "Jace had debts. Expensive ones. One reason he took the surveillance job." She touches the ticket. "These numbers meant something to him."<br><br> You photograph the ticket with your phone. Evidence. Or maybe just context. Hard to tell yet.<br><br> <<set $cluesFound.push("lottery")>> A laptop sits on the coffee table. Still plugged in. Screen dark but the power light glows steady green.<br><br> "Computer," Maud says, moving toward it. "That's where the good stuff will be. but of course it's password protected."<br><br> You need to guess the password. You need to finish searching. Systematically. Thoroughly.<br><br> "Bedroom next," you say.<br><br> [[Search the bedroom|CH1P15.Bedroom]]

The bedroom is sparse. Bed made with military precision. Nightstand. Dresser. Nothing personal except a single photo frame on the dresser.<br><br> Jace with someone who might be family. Might have been. Past tense for everything now.<br><br> You pick up the frame. Study the photo. Two people. Smiling. Younger versions. Before surveillance work. Before murder contracts. Before bullets.<br><br> Someone wrote on the back. You flip it over.<br><br> //"My lucky charm - 12 Jul 2027"//<br><br> A year. Significant enough to write down. Significant enough to keep.<br><br> "Sentimental," Maud observes. Shadows curling around the frame like they're trying to read the photograph's emotional weight.<br><br> <<if $soft > 60>>"Everyone's sentimental about something," you say quietly. Even killers. Even surveillance contractors. Even the dead.<<else>>You photograph the inscription. Evidence. Context. Truth hiding in personal moments.<</if>><br><br> <<set $cluesFound.push("photo")>> Under the bed, you find something more substantial.<br><br> A metal case. Locked. Professional-grade, the kind designed to survive fires and floods.<br><br> "Let me," Maud says. Shadows pry at the lock, patient and precise. The case opens with a decisive click.<br><br> Inside: a leather journal. Handwritten notes. Some pages water-damaged or torn. Others in code. But enough is readable.<br><br> You flip through carefully. Jace's handwriting is neat, methodical.<br><br> //"Client is paranoid. Watches everyone. Trusts no one."//<br><br> You keep reading.<br><br> //"Not random selection. These are big fishes"//<br><br> //"Client knows victims personally? Or just researched well? They won't say."//<br><br> //"Payment through usual channels. Shell companies. Professional money laundering."//<br><br> //"Hope they don't get you too."//<br><br> That last line makes your stomach twist. Written in shakier handwriting. Like Jace knew. Like he understood what he'd gotten into.<br><br> <<set $foundNotes to true>> <<set $evidenceFound += 1>> "Kitchen," you say. "Then we'll tackle the computer."<br><br> [[Search the kitchen|CH1P15.Kitchen]]

The kitchen is cleaner than it should be. Dishes washed and put away. Trash taken out. The fridge hums quietly, probably empty.<br><br> You check anyway. Condiments. Leftover takeout that's started to grow things. Beer.<br><br> But there's a calendar. Magnetic. Stuck to the fridge door.<br><br> Most dates are blank. But one is circled. Heavily. Red marker worn through the paper from repeated tracing.<br><br> //October 23rd//<br><br> Someone wrote underneath in cramped handwriting: "Lucky day. Has to be."<br><br> "Date means something," Maud observes. Shadows flickering around the calendar like they can read meaning from desperate hope.<br><br> <<if $vice is "work">>"Pattern recognition," you say. "Dates, numbers, sequences. Everything's data. Everything connects."<<else>>You photograph it. Another piece. Another fragment of a dead man's desperation.<</if>><br><br> <<set $cluesFound.push("calendar")>> Then Maud opens the cabinet under the sink.<br><br> "Fuck."<br><br> Surveillance equipment. High-end cameras, audio bugs, GPS trackers. Thousands of dollars worth of spy gear, carefully organized in plastic containers.<br><br> <<if $vice is "work">>"This is professional-grade," you say, recognizing equipment you've only seen in investigative journalism circles. "This isn't retail. This is agency-level shit."<</if>><br><br> "He wasn't just taking photos," Maud says. "He was tracking all twelve of us. Audio surveillance. GPS locations." She picks through the equipment. "How the fuck did he have access to all of us without anyone noticing?"<br><br> The cabinet also contains something else: a small notebook, zip-tied to the back panel. Maud rips it free.<br><br> More notes. Technical specifications. Installation dates for bugs and trackers. All twelve victims had devices placed on or near them.<br><br> Your name appears multiple times. Dates when bugs were planted. Locations of trackers.<br><br> //Sep 12 - Audio device, $firstName's car (installed while at Channel 6)//<br> //Sep 15 - GPS tracker, $firstName's jacket pocket (planted at coffee shop)//<br> //Sep 18 - Additional audio, apartment building (hallway maintenance access)//<br><br> "He had help placing these," you say. Your <<if $handItch is 'left'>>left<<elseif $handItch is 'right'>>right<</if>> hand itches furiously. "Some of these locations... you can't just walk in and plant bugs."<br><br> Maud's expression darkens. "Then it has to be an Umbra. Jace was definitely human." Her shadows pulse with barely contained rage.<br><br> <<set $foundEquipment to true>> <<set $evidenceFound += 1>> "Back to the living room," you say. "Time to crack that laptop."<br><br> [[Return to the laptop|CH1P15.LaptopPassword]]

You gather everything in the living room. Laptop still glowing with payment records. Journal laid open. Video frozen on that shadowed figure.<br><br> Maud pulls up the video again. Freezes it on the shrouded figure. Studies the stance, the shadow work, the way darkness moves around them.<br><br> "That's one of us," she repeats. "I'm sure of it now. The way they hold themselves. The shadow manipulation technique. And the journal proves they worked closely with Jace for weeks."<br><br> <<if $siblingRelationship is "broken">>"You keep saying 'us' like you're part of some exclusive club."<<elseif $siblingRelationship is "neutral">>"Seven Umbras," you say. "That's a small pool."<<elseif $siblingRelationship is "fixable">>"Tell me about them," you say quietly. Because if one of them is hunting you, you need to know.<</if>><br><br> She ignorey you. Maud starts counting on her fingers. Shadows curl around each one as she names them.<br><br> "First let me tell you about them. We have Neo. My coworker. My mentor."<br><br> The shadows around her pulse. Protective. Almost defensive.<br><br> "Neo taught me everything. How to hunt. How to kill. How to disappear." She pauses, and something flickers across her face. "We both work under Luz. We both have contracts with $luzHim. Neo's been with Luz around five years, maybe? They're tight."<br><br> Maud's jaw tightens slightly. "Luz was in those surveillance photos. One of the twelve targets. If Neo wanted Luz dead, Luz would definitely already know. The contract binds you to Luz. So if you have harmful intentions against Luz or the syndicate you're practically a walking corpse." Her voice goes firm. Certain. "Neo wouldn't betray that. They have nothing to gain."<br><br> You study the video again. The figure's stance. The way they move. Professional. Controlled. Cold.<br><br> "So it was Neo that taught you surveillance work and how to use your Umbra powers?" you ask carefully.<br><br> "Yep. They taught me everything," Maud beams. "Tracking targets. Coordinating with information brokers. Reading people's patterns. How to kill someone with a pen." She catches your expression. "Ahem anyway Neo wouldn't work with Jace. Wouldn't need to. Neo has direct access to better intel through Luz's network."<br><br> The logic makes sense.<br><br> "Second: Marlowe."<br><br> Maud's expression shifts. "Marlowe's... complicated. He takes side jobs. Assassination contracts. Not picky about employers if the money's right." She meets your eyes. "He's the most likely. Needs cash. Skilled enough. And he's worked surveillance support before, knows how to coordinate with information gatherers."<br><br> <<if $soft > 60>>Something in the way she says it makes you ask: "You know him well?"<<elseif $confrontational > 60>>"So he's a sellout," you say flatly.<<else>>"Mercenary work."<</if>><br><br> "We're... friendly. Sort of." Maud's shadows flicker. "Marlowe talks too much when he's nervous. Gets jumpy. But when there's money involved?" She shrugs. "Different person. Professional. Cold. He'd take this job if the price was right."<br><br> "Third: Dexter."<br><br> Her shadows flicker anxiously. "Dexter lives in the tunnels half the time. Paranoid. Off-grid. Doesn't trust anyone." She pauses. "They're smart. Scary smart. The kind of smart that knows how to disappear completely. If they're involved, we'll never find proof."<br><br> <<if $vice is "risk">>"Underground," you say. "Literally and figuratively. That's good cover for an assassin."<<elseif $vice is "work">>"Investigative nightmare," you note. "No paper trail, no witnesses, no digital footprint."<<else>>Perfect camouflage for a killer.<</if>><br><br> "Could be them. They'd coordinate with Jace but keep maximum distance. Minimal contact." Maud's expression goes thoughtful. "But the video shows too much proximity. Dexter doesn't do face-to-face meetings if they can avoid it."<br><br> "Fourth: Chalk."<br><br> "Chalk's bitter as fuck. Hates everyone. Especially other Umbras." Maud's tone goes flat. "She thinks we're all sellouts. Too visible. Too reckless. She lives in the shadows properly, fake identity, fake life, no one knows she's Umbra."<br><br> "She's a killer?"<br><br> "Professional assassin. Clean. Methodical. Corporate espionage, executive eliminations, hostile takeover facilitation, you name it." Maud's shadows pulse. "Works entirely through brokers. Never meets clients directly. Definitely never meets surveillance contractors."<br><br> "Fifth: Vega."<br><br> There's grudging respect in Maud's voice. "Vega's a mercenary. Takes contracts openly. Doesn't hide what he is." She pauses. "Professional as fuck. Efficient. But he's visible. Public. People know he's Umbra. He doesn't do surveillance coordination, he does direct elimination."<br><br> "I respect him. Don't like him. He'd sell out anyone for the right price." She meets your eyes.<br><br> "Sixth: Oda."<br><br> Maud's voice softens. Almost. "Oda's... different. She actually tries to help people. Uses her powers for justice. Basically a shadow Robin Hood."<br><br> She looks at you. "So that's six. Plus me. Seven Umbras in Sordia."<br><br> "And one of them wants us for something," you say. <br><br> Maud pulls up the video one more time. Studies the shadowed figure's movements frame by frame.<br><br> "I think we should start with Marlowe first. He's the easiest to find and doesn't really hide."<br><br> You nod slowly. "Question is," you say, "how do we find him?"<br><br> <<if $investigationTheory is "revenge">> [[Continue|CH1P15.Theory1]] <<elseif $investigationTheory is "conspiracy">> [[Continue|CH1P15.Theory2]] <</if>>

"If this is personal," you say, thinking it through, "someone hired Marlowe through connections. Through the Umbra community itself."<br><br> <<if $calculated > 60>>"Social networks leave traces," you continue. "People talk. People brag. People complain. If Marlowe took a high-profile job, someone in his community knows."<<elseif $soft > 60>>"He works in theater," you say. "Creative people. Social people. He has friends, colleagues. Someone's seen him recently."<<else>>"We need to talk to other Umbras," you conclude. "Someone's heard something."<</if>><br><br> Maud's expression shifts. "Then we're going to //The Eclipse//."<br><br> "The Eclipse?"<br><br> "Underground bar in Westpoint. Neutral Umbra territory." She starts gathering evidence, shadows carefully photographing everything. "Everyone drinks there—even the ones who hate each other. Bartender's name is Magnus. He knows everything about Umbra community drama."<br><br> <<if $vice is "alcohol">>"A bar," you say. "I can work with that."<<elseif $vice is "smoking">>You light a cigarette, thinking. "Social gathering spot. Gossip central."<<else>>"And people talk when they drink."<</if>><br><br> "Exactly." Maud pulls out her phone, checking the time. "The Eclipse opens at sunset. That gives us a few hours."<br><br> She looks at you. <<if $maudChoice3>>"I know you don't trust me. But this is our best shot. Marlowe drinks there. His friends drink there. If he's been acting different, flush with cash, avoiding his usual spots—Magnus will know."<<else>>"We'll ask around. See if Marlowe's been there recently. If he's been bragging about new work. If anyone's seen him with Jace."<</if>><br><br> You consider it. The Eclipse means witnesses. Neutral territory. Social intelligence gathering. Finding Marlowe through his community, his connections, his drinking buddies.<br><br> Personal approach. Human intelligence. The messy, imprecise art of gossip and observation.<br><br> <<set $theoryChoice to "Eclipse">> "The Eclipse it is," you say.<br><br> [[Continue|CH1P15.2]]

"If this is professional," you say, studying the payment records still glowing on Jace's laptop, "Marlowe was hired through official channels. Someone brokered the contract."<br><br> <<if $calculated > 60>>"Follow the money," you continue. "These payments came through shell companies. Professional money laundering. That means professional brokers. Contract middlemen."<<elseif $vice is "work">>"Investigative rule number one: there's always a paper trail," you say. "Even in murder for hire."<<else>>"Someone connected Marlowe to this job," you conclude. "Someone who keeps records."<</if>><br><br> Maud nods slowly. "Then we're going to //The Trade//."<br><br> "The Trade?"<br><br> "Eastern Docks." She's already packing up evidence, shadows moving quickly. "That's where high-level contracts get brokered. Organized crime, corporate hits, political assassinations. If someone hired Marlowe professionally, there's a broker. Someone who arranged it."<br><br> <<if $vice is "work">>"Documentation," you say. "Even criminals keep records."<<elseif $vice is "gambling">>"Leverage," you understand. "Proof of payment. Insurance against double-crosses."<<else>>"And they'll talk?"<</if>><br><br> "For the right price." Maud's grin is sharp. "Or the right threat. The Trade keeps records because records are currency. You want to know who hired an Umbra? Someone there brokered it. Someone there has documentation."<br><br> She checks her phone. <<if $maudChoice3>>"I know you're pissed at me. But this is the fastest way to get answers. We find the broker, we find the client. We find the client, we find out why you're on that list."<<else>>"The Trade's not exactly friendly territory. But they're professional. They understand business. We ask the right questions, threaten the right people—we'll get our answers."<</if>><br><br> You consider it. The Trade means hard intelligence. Transaction records. Professional networks. Finding Marlowe through the business side of murder—brokers, contracts, payment terms.<br><br> Transactional approach. Follow the money. The cold, precise mathematics of assassination as industry.<br><br> <<set $theoryChoice to "Trade">> "The Trade it is," you say.<br><br> [[Continue|CH1P15.2]]

<<set $jaceApartmentSearched to true>> You take one last look at Jace's apartment. At the evidence. At your own face staring back from surveillance photos.<br><br> Someone wants you. Wanted all twelve of you. Paid good money for it. Hired professionals.<br><br> <<if $foundNotes>>//Hope they don't get you too.//<<if $vice is "risk">> Too late, Jace. They already tried.<</if>><</if>><br><br> Maud finishes documenting everything.<br><br> "Ready?" she asks.<br><br> <<if $maudChoice3>>You're not ready. Won't be ready. Not ready to pretend the tension between you doesn't exist. Not ready to rely on someone who violated your trust.<br><br> But you're on the list.<br><br> Sometimes finding out the truth means working with people who've hurt you.<<else>>You nod. Marlowe is out there. Answers are out there. Truth is out there.<br><br> You just have to find it before you're next.<</if>><br><br> <<if $theoryChoice is "Eclipse">>"The Eclipse, then," you say. "Let's see what Magnus knows."<<else>>"The Trade, then," you say. "Let's see who's brokering murder contracts."<</if>><br><br> Maud grins. Sharp. Dangerous. The grin of someone who knows violence is coming and doesn't mind.<br><br> "Then let's go—"<br><br> Her phone rings. Loud. Aggressive. The ringtone is something obnoxious that sounds like a cat being murdered by a synthesizer.<br><br> Maud checks the screen. Her expression shifts. "Shit." She answers. "Yeah?"<br><br> You can't hear the other side, but you watch Maud's face cycle through annoyance, resignation, and finally acceptance.<br><br> "Now? Are you fucking—" She listens. "Fine. FINE. Give me two hours." She hangs up with more force than necessary. "Luz needs me.."<br><br> <<if $siblingRelationship is "broken">>"So you're ditching me," you say flatly.<<elseif $siblingRelationship is "neutral">>"Work calls," you say. Not surprised. Never surprised when Maud prioritizes literally anything over you.<<else>>"You have to go," you say almost dissapointedly. Because of course she does. Because Luz always takes priority.<</if>><br><br> "Not ditching," Maud protests. <<if $maudChoice3>>"Look, I know you don't trust me. I know things are fucked between us. But this is just a delay." <<else>>"I'll handle this, then we hunt Marlowe tonight." <</if>>She checks her phone for the time. "What time is it? Noon? Fuck. You have that lunch thing with Ace, right?"<br><br> You'd almost forgotten. Your mind's been on rollercoaster the last 24 hours. <br><br> "Yeah," you admit. "Wait how do you... just... nevermind."<br><br> "Perfect." Maud's already moving toward the door, shadows gathering at her feet. "I'll drop you off. We'll meet up tonight. <<if $theoryChoice is "Eclipse">>Outside The Eclipse. Nine PM. Don't be late—Magnus gets cranky after ten.<<else>>Eastern Docks, near The Trade. Nine PM. Bring cash. Brokers don't talk for free.<</if>>"<br><br> <<if $vice is "smoking">>You light another cigarette as you head for the door. The smoke trails behind you like a ghost.<<elseif $vice is "alcohol">>Your flask is empty. You'll need to fix that before the night really starts.<<elseif $vice is "gambling">>Your phone buzzes. Betting app. The odds are changing. Everything's a gamble now.<<elseif $vice is "work">>Your phone has six missed calls. The story's breaking. But you have a bigger story now. One that might kill you before you can write it.<<elseif $vice is "risk">>The thrill hums in your veins. This is it. The edge. The maybe-this-kills-you-maybe-it-doesn't moment you're always chasing.<<else>>You follow Maud out into the hallway. Into Westpoint's dim corridors. Into whatever comes next.<</if>><br><br> [[Continue|CH1P16]]

Christine's death rattle engine finally can rest for a bit as Maud turns off the car.<br><br> Maud just pats the dashboard like it's a dying pet. "Good girl."<br><br> The street stretches before you. Familiar. You can smell curry goat from here. Jerk spices that make your mouth water despite everything.<br><br> "You're not coming in," you say. Not a question.<br><br> Maud's fingers drum against the steering wheel. Knuckles tap out a rhythm only she can hear. "Ace's family sees me as their little pickney. Sweet little Maud who used to help Mrs. Reid with dishes and steal Anthony's desserts."<br><br> "They still see you that way."<br><br> "They shouldn't." Her black eyes fix on the restaurant's warm glow spilling onto Sordia's streets like an infection of hope. "People who see me as that girl tend to end up disappointed."<br><br> You unbuckle your seatbelt. "Ace deserves to know you're back. $aceHeC has been looking for you too, you know. When you disappeared, $aceHe tore apart half the undercity trying to find you."<br><br> Something flickers across Maud's face. Too fast to name. Gone before you can catalog it.<br><br> "Tell $aceHim..." She trails off. Starts again. "Tell $aceHim I said—" She cuts herself off with a laugh. "Never mind. Just tell $aceHim I'm alive and thriving."<br><br> <<if $siblingRelationship is "broken">> "That's all you're giving me? After everything?" Your voice comes out sharper than intended.<<elseif $siblingRelationship is "neutral">> "I'll tell $aceHim. But eventually you'll have to tell $aceHim yourself."<<elseif $siblingRelationship is "fixable">> "$aceHeC will want to see you. You know that, right?"<</if>><br><br> <<if $siblingRelationship is "broken">>Maud's smile is all teeth. No warmth. "It's all I've got to give, $firstName. Take it or leave it."<<elseif $siblingRelationship is "neutral">>"Eventually," she agrees, which means never. "Now go. Before our CRD idiot sends out a search party."<<elseif $siblingRelationship is "fixable">>"I know." Her voice goes soft. "But not today. Today I'm still the girl who kept a man in her trunk. Let me be that for a little longer before I have to see the disappointment in Marcia's eyes."<</if>><br><br> You climb out of Christine. The October air hits different here. Warmer somehow. Like the Reid family's kitchen generates its own microclimate of safety.<br><br> "Tonight," Maud reminds you through the open window. "Don't forget."<br><br> "How could I?" You slam the door harder than necessary.<br><br> Christine coughs once. Twice. Somehow starts. Maud's wave is mocking as she pulls away, shadows already curling around the car like they're trying to drag it back to whatever darkness spawned it.<br><br> You turn toward the restaurant.<br><br> [[Continue|CH1P16.1]]

<strong>Reid's Island Kitchen</strong> announces itself in hand-painted letters above the door. Green and gold. The colors bleeding slightly. Below it, smaller script: <em>Taste Di Islands. Feel Di Love.</em><br><br> The windows glow amber. Inside, you can see mismatched wooden tables worn smooth by years of elbows and plates. Each one tells stories in scratches and stains that no amount of polish can erase. The walls are painted a warm terracotta that reminds you of sunset over beaches you've never seen but somehow remember.<br><br> Jamaican artwork covers every available surface. Bright paintings of Kingston street markets. Framed photographs of Blue Mountains disappearing into clouds. Hand-carved masks that Anthony's mother sent from St. Ann Parish before she died. A massive canvas near the back shows a woman in traditional dress, her smile captured mid-laugh, surrounded by grandchildren who look suspiciously like young versions of Ace and $aceHis siblings.<br><br> Tropical plants crowd the corners. Monstera leaves as big as dinner plates. Bird of paradise flowers that shouldn't survive Sordia's pollution but somehow thrive here. Spider plants cascading from macramé hangers that Marcia made during her brief crafting phase. The greenery softens edges, makes the space feel alive in ways most of Sordia forgot how to be.<br><br> The bar along the left wall is reclaimed driftwood. Smooth from ocean and time. Bar stools with woven rattan seats that creak when you sit but never break. Behind it, bottles catch light. Rum in shades of amber and gold. Sorrel wine that Marcia makes every December. Coconut water in glass bottles with hand-written labels.<br><br> Ceiling fans spin lazy circles. Not fast enough to actually cool anything. Just enough to keep the jerk smoke moving. To distribute the smell of allspice and scotch bonnet peppers and brown sugar until it seeps into your clothes, your nose, your memories.<br><br> Bob Marley plays from speakers that have seen better decades. "Three Little Birds" mixing with laughter and the sizzle of meat hitting hot pans. The bass line thrums in your chest. Familiar. Home in a way your actual home has never managed to be.<br><br> You push open the door.<br><br> The bell above rings. Brass. Probably older than you. Probably older than this version of Sordia.<br><br> "LORD HAVE MERCY!" The scream comes from the kitchen before you fully cross the threshold. "ANTHONY! ANTHONY, YUH HEAR ME? COME NOW!"<br><br> Marcia Reid explodes through the kitchen doors like a hurricane. Fifty-five years old and moving like she's got springs in her joints. Her dark skin glows with kitchen heat. Grey streaks thread through locs pulled back in a bright yellow wrap that matches her apron. The apron itself is stained with years of meals. Curry turmeric. Jerk marinade. Evidence of love served one plate at a time.<br><br> She doesn't slow down. Doesn't give you time to brace.<br><br> Impact.<br><br> Marcia's hug hits like being wrapped in warm bread dough. Soft. Consuming. Smelling of coconut oil and ginger and that particular perfume she's worn since before you can remember. Her arms lock around you with strength that shouldn't surprise you anymore but somehow still does.<br><br> "Mi pickney!" She pulls back just enough to cup your face in hands that are calloused from decades of kitchen work. "Look pon yuh. Yuh look like duppy nearly catch yuh. When last yuh eat? When last yuh sleep?"<br><br> <<if $relationshipType is "obvious" or $relationshipType is "secret">> Her eyes narrow with that particular expression mothers perfect. The one that sees through bullshit and bad decisions with x-ray precision. "And how tings wid yuh and mi odda pickney? Yuh two figure out yuhself yet or yuh still dancing round each other like two chicken wid no head?"<</if>> "Mrs. Reid—"<br><br> "Marcia." She swats your shoulder. Not hard. Just enough to make the point she's made a thousand times. "How many years now and yuh still calling me Mrs. Reid like we stranger?"<br><br> "Marcia," you correct, because some habits die hard but this woman has earned her first name a thousand times over. "I'm fine. Just been busy with—"<br><br> "With nearly getting yuhself killed on live television." Her hands move to your shoulders. Squeeze once. "I watch di whole broadcast. Nearly have heart attack when yuh corner that man. Anthony had fi hold me down, keep me from driving to that mansion and dragging yuh out."<br><br> "That would have made excellent television," you mutter.<br><br> <<if $relationshipType is "obvious" or $relationshipType is "secret">>"Yuh think mi joking." Marcia's smile turns sly. Knowing. "But mi serious bout di other ting too. When yuh and Ace stop playing games? Life too short fi waste time pretending yuh don't see what everybody else see clear as day." <br><br> Before you can formulate a response<</if>>Marcia is already pulling you deeper into the restaurant. Past tables where regulars wave. Past the bar where a couple nurses beers and curry goat. Toward the back where the kitchen door swings open and closed with the rhythm of a heartbeat.<br><br> "ANTHONY!" Marcia bellows again. "YUH DEAF NOW? GET OUT HERE!"<br><br> The kitchen door slams open.<br><br> Two figures emerge. Both arguing. Both gesturing wildly.<br><br> Anthony Reid comes first. Fifty-eight years old. Built like he used to box, which he did before Marcia made him quit after the third concussion. His chef's whites are splattered with today's specials. Brown stew chicken judging by the color. Jerk marinade around the collar. His head is clean-shaven. Has been since male pattern baldness started winning that war twenty years ago. Laugh lines bracket his mouth. The kind earned through decades of finding joy in feeding people.<br><br> Behind him, matching him argument for argument, comes Ace.<br><br> <<if $aceGender is "male">>Andre Reid in a white chef's apron over tactical pants. Because apparently he came straight from work and got drafted into kitchen duty. His buzzcut catches the light. The burn scars on his right ear stand out more in the kitchen's harsh fluorescents. His hands—those hands that can field-strip a CRD-issue weapon in thirty seconds—are currently holding a wooden spoon like it's evidence in a murder trial.<<elseif $aceGender is "female">>Anaya Reid in a white chef's apron over tactical pants. Because apparently she came straight from work and got drafted into kitchen duty. Her braids are tied back with a bandana that's definitely one of Anthony's old ones. The burn scars on her right ear stand out more in the kitchen's harsh fluorescents. Her hands—those hands that can disarm suspects twice her size—are currently holding a wooden spoon like it's a weapon.<</if>><br><br> "Too much thyme," Ace is saying, voice carrying that particular tone of someone who knows they're right and won't back down. "I told you already. The rice needs subtlety, not a botanical garden."<br><br> "Subtlety?" Anthony's laugh booms. "Yuh get that word from yuh CRD manual? Rice need flavor, pickney. Bold flavor. Yuh cooking like yuh afraid fi offend the vegetables."<br><br> "I'm not afraid of—" Ace cuts off mid-argument. Amber eyes lock on you. Expression shifts from combative to something softer. Warmer. "Oh. Hey."<br><br> Anthony follows $aceHis gaze. His face breaks into a grin that could power Sordia's electric grid.<br><br> "THERE YUH ARE!" He crosses the distance in three strides. Pulls you into a hug that lifts you off the ground. <<if $height is "tall" or "very-tall" or "towering">> Which shouldn't be possible given his height advantage isn't that significant but Anthony Reid has always operated on his own physics.<</if>> "Look pon yuh! Beautiful as always. Mi see di broadcast. Yuh mash up that politician real good. Real good."<br><br> He sets you down. Keeps one hand on your shoulder like he's afraid you'll evaporate if he lets go completely.<br><br> <<if $relationshipType is "obvious" or $relationshipType is "secret">>"So when yuh two putting label pon this ting?" Anthony asks, gesturing between you and Ace with his free hand. Direct. Blunt. No shame. "Significant others? Partners in crime?Boonoonoonoos? What we calling it these days?"<</if>> <<if $relationshipType is "obvious">>You don't miss a beat. Because subtle isn't in your vocabulary when you want something. "Ask your kid. I've been making my intentions pretty clear. Some people just have selective observation skills."<br><br> "WHAT?" Ace's voice cracks slightly. Wooden spoon clattering to the floor. "You have not—I mean, we're—that's not—Stop teasing me like that."<br><br> "Oh this getting good," Anthony mutters, grin widening.<br><br> Marcia just shakes her head fondly. "Told yuh, Anthony. Told yuh mi baby oblivious."<<elseif $relationshipType is "secret">> The question makes your stomach flip. You've practiced this deflection. Perfected it. "We're friends, Anthony. Good friends."<br><br> "Friends." Anthony's tone suggests he's tasted bullshit before and recognizes the flavor. But he doesn't push. Just squeezes your shoulder once more. "Alright then. Good friends who care bout each other. That work too."<br><br> Relief and disappointment war in your chest.<</if>> "Now," Marcia claps her hands together. Sharp. Decisive. "Yuh staying for lunch, obviously. What yuh want? We make whatever yuh craving."<br><br> What's your go-to comfort food at Reid's?<br><br> <<link '[Jerk Chicken] The spice hits different when Marcia makes it. Perfect char. Perfect heat. Perfect everything.'>> <<set $favoriteDish to "jerk-chicken">> <<goto "CH1P16.2">> <</link>><br><br> <<link '[Curry Goat] Rich. Tender. The kind of meal that makes you believe in something beyond Sordia\'s rot.'>> <<set $favoriteDish to "curry-goat">> <<goto "CH1P16.2">> <</link>><br><br> <<link '[Callaloo & Ackee] The vegetarian option that doesn\'t taste like punishment. Greens that actually have flavor.'>> <<set $favoriteDish to "callaloo-ackee">> <<goto "CH1P16.2">> <</link>><br><br> <<link '[Vegetable Rundown] Coconut curry vegetables that make meat-eaters question their life choices. Rich. Creamy. Perfect.'>> <<set $favoriteDish to "veg-rundown">> <<goto "CH1P16.2">> <</link>><br><br> <<link '[Rice & Peas with Plantain] Simple. Clean. The kind of meal that works for any dietary restriction. Comforting.'>> <<set $favoriteDish to "rice-plantain">> <<goto "CH1P16.2">> <</link>>

<<if $cookingChoice is "anthony">>You take another bite. Let the flavors settle. "Anthony wins." The man pumps his fist like he just won the lottery. "HA! Mi tell yuh! Mi TELL yuh! Nobody beat di original recipe!" Ace groans. Dramatic. Theatrical. But there's a smile underneath it. "Fine. You win this round, old man." "This round? Every round!" Anthony is already dancing. Actually dancing. A little shuffle that makes Marcia laugh and shake her head. "Gracious winner yuh not," she says fondly. "Why be gracious when mi can be RIGHT?" Anthony pulls you into another hug. Squeezes once. "Yuh have good taste. Always did."<<elseif $cookingChoice is "ace">>You taste both again. Give yourself time to be sure. "Ace wins." <<if $aceGender is "male">>Andre's grin could light the whole restaurant. "YES! Finally! Pops, admit it. The student has surpassed the master."<<elseif $aceGender is "female">>Anaya's grin could light the whole restaurant. "FINALLY! Pops, admit it. The student has surpassed the master."<</if>> "Surpassed nothing," Anthony grumbles, but he's smiling. Proud despite the loss. "Yuh lucky $firstName have soft spot fi innovation." "Is not soft spot." You defend your verdict. "Is good cooking. $aceHeC did good." Ace's expression goes soft. Warm. That particular look that means something but you're not quite sure what. <<if $relationshipType is "obvious" or $relationshipType is "secret">>"Thanks, $firstName." The way $aceHe says your name makes your pulse jump.<<else>>"Thanks, $firstName. Means a lot coming from you."<</if>> "Now go do di dishes," Marcia says cheerfully to Anthony. "And remember—grease trap too." Anthony's groan is theatrical. "Mi raise traitor child. Betray mi fi clean grease."<<elseif $cookingChoice is "tie">>You set down your fork. "They're both perfect. Different but equally good. I can't choose." Silence. Both Anthony and Ace stare at you like you've grown a second head. "That's coward answer," Anthony says. "That's diplomatic answer," Marcia corrects. "And it mean both yuh doing dishes." "WHAT?" They say it in unison. Perfect harmony of indignation. "Both yuh cook. Both yuh lose. Both yuh clean." Marcia's logic is unassailable. "Now stop complaining and go do yuh punishment." Their synchronized groaning makes you smile despite everything.<</if>><br><br> The meal that follows is everything you needed without knowing you needed it. Warmth. Laughter. The kind of normal that Sordia usually doesn't permit. You eat until your stomach hurts in the good way. Until the knot between your shoulder blades loosens slightly.<br><br> But eventually, the lightness fades. Reality seeps back in like floodwater through cracked walls.<br><br> Ace must see something shift in your expression. $aceHeC leans forward, elbows on the table. Professional mode sliding into place. The glimmer in $aceHis eyes dimming. "Okay. What's wrong? And don't say nothing because you've been carrying something heavy since you walked in. Mi can tell."<br><br> <<if $relationshipType is "obvious" or $relationshipType is "secret">>The fact that $aceHe can read you that well should probably annoy you. Instead it just makes your chest warm.<<else>>Years of friendship have made you readable to each other. Blessing and curse in equal measure.<</if>><br><br> You glance at Anthony and Marcia. Both are busy with guests.<br><br> "Maud's back."<br><br> Ace goes very still. That particular stillness that means $aceHe's processing. Running scenarios. Calculating risks. "Back. As in your live? As in alive?"<br><br> "Both."<br><br> "When? Where? Is she okay?" The questions tumble out rapid-fire. "What happened to her?"<br><br> You tell $aceHim everything. About Jace. The surveillance photos. The twelve targets. Maud working for Luz. The plan to investigate tonight. You don't soften edges. Don't minimize danger. Ace deserves honesty. That is what you promised each other.<br><br> By the end, Ace's jaw is tight enough to crack teeth. $aceHisC hands have curled into fists on the counter.<br><br> <ul> <li> <<link '"She needs us. Both of us. Whatever she\'s done, whatever happened, she\'s still Maud. She\'s still our family."'>> <<set $aceConvo2 to "nice">> <<run setup.setTrait('soft', ($soft || 50) + 1)>> <<set $maudstat += 2>> <<set $acestat += 2>> <<goto "CH1P16.4">> <</link>><br><br> </li> </ul> <ul> <li> <<link '"She should have come to you three years ago. But she didn\'t. Now we deal with the situation we have, not the one we wish we had."'>> <<set $aceConvo2 to "neutral">> <<run setup.setTrait('calculated', ($calculated || 50) + 1)>> <<set $observation += 1>> <<goto "CH1P16.4">> <</link>><br><br> </li> </ul> <ul> <li> <<link '"She made her choices. Working for Luz, not reaching out, keeping you in the dark. Those were all her decisions."'>> <<set $aceConvo2 to "harsh">> <<run setup.setTrait('hardened', ($hardened || 50) + 1)>> <<set $maudstat -= 1>> <<goto "CH1P16.4">> <</link>><br><br> </li> </ul> <ul> <li> <<link '"She let you think she was dead for three years. She doesn\'t deserve your loyalty. She sure as hell hasn\'t earned mine. She is not worth it."'>> <<set $aceConvo2 to "mean">> <<run setup.setTrait('hardened', ($hardened || 50) + 2)>> <<set $maudstat -= 2>> <<set $acestat -= 2>> <<goto "CH1P16.4">> <</link>> </li> </ul>

The October night swallows you both. Reid's Island Kitchen glows behind you like a lighthouse. Warm. Safe. Everything Sordia usually isn't.<br><br> Ace walks beside you. Silent for now. But you know questions are coming. Plans. Strategies. Because that's what you do. What you've always done. Watch each other's backs even when watching each other's backs means walking into fire.<br><br> The bags of food feel heavy in your hands. Proof that somewhere in this rotting city, people still care enough to feed strangers like family.<br><br> <<if $relationshipType is "obvious" or $relationshipType is "secret">>$aceHisC hand brushes yours. Accident. Has to be. $aceHeC doesn't even notice.<<else>>$aceHisC tactical boots echo. Steady. Reliable.<</if>><br><br> "Still nervous about tonight?" Ace asks.<br><br> <<if $theoryChoice is "Eclipse">>"The Eclipse is neutral territory. We'll be fine."<br><br> "Neutral doesn't mean safe." Ace's voice is firm. "I'll meet you there around nine-fifteen."<<elseif $theoryChoice is "Trade">>"The Trade is where the paper trail leads."<br><br> <<if $aceGender is "male">>Andre's jaw clenches. "That place is a death trap. I'm coming. Nine PM. Non-negotiable."<<elseif $aceGender is "female">>Anaya's expression darkens. "I've lost agents there. Nine PM. I'll be there."<</if>><</if>><br><br> You reach your building. Broken buzzer. Peeling paint. Home.<br><br> "Tell Ben about Maud," Ace says. "He deserves to know she's back."<br><br> "I will."<br><br> The streetlight catches $aceHis amber eyes.<br><br> <<if $relationshipType is "obvious" or $relationshipType is "secret">>$aceHeC checks $aceHis phone. Oblivious to how your heart races.<<else>>$aceHeC adjusts $aceHis jacket. Professional.<</if>><br><br> <ul> <li> <<link '♡"You know, most people wouldn\'t drop everything to help chase down killers with me. But you always do. Makes a person feel special."'>> <<set $aceChoice17 to "bold">> <<run setup.setTrait('bold', ($bold || 50) + 1)>> <<set $ace_romance += 1>> <<set $acestat += 1>> <<goto "CH1P17.1">> <</link>><br><br> </li> </ul> <ul> <li> <<link '♡"I really like spending time with you. More than I probably should admit." You look away. "Your family too, obviously."'>> <<set $aceChoice17 to "shy">> <<run setup.setTrait('shy', ($shy || 50) + 1)>> <<set $ace_romance += 1>> <<set $acestat += 1>> <<goto "CH1P17.1">> <</link>><br><br> </li> </ul> <ul> <li> <<link '♡"See you tonight then. Try not to look too good in that tactical gear. It\'s distracting."'>> <<set $aceChoice17 to "oblivious">> <<run setup.setTrait('oblivious', ($oblivious || 50) + 1)>> <<set $ace_romance += 1>> <<set $acestat += 1>> <<goto "CH1P17.1">> <</link>><br><br> </li> </ul> <ul> <li> <<link '♡"I should probably let you go. Even though I don\'t really want to. Let you go, I mean. Not—fuck, I\'m bad at this."'>> <<set $aceChoice17 to "awkward">> <<run setup.setTrait('awkward', ($awkward || 50) + 1)>> <<set $ace_romance += 1>> <<set $acestat += 1>> <<goto "CH1P17.1">> <</link>><br><br> </li> </ul> <ul> <li> <<link '♡"Tonight\'s going to be great. You, me, Maud, chasing down a serial killer. It\'s like a date. A really weird, dangerous date."'>> <<set $aceChoice17 to "clumsy">> <<run setup.setTrait('clumsy', ($clumsy || 50) + 1)>> <<set $ace_romance += 1>> <<set $acestat += 1>> <<goto "CH1P17.1">> <</link>><br><br> </li> </ul> <ul> <li> <<link '"Your family means a lot to me. You mean a lot to me. Just wanted you to know that."'>> <<set $aceChoice17 to "grateful">> <<run setup.setTrait('soft', ($soft || 50) + 1)>> <<set $acestat += 1>> <<goto "CH1P17.1">> <</link>><br><br> </li> </ul> <ul> <li> <<link '"Be careful tonight. I know you can handle yourself, but humor me. I need you in one piece."'>> <<set $aceChoice17 to "protective">> <<run setup.setTrait('soft', ($soft || 50) + 1)>> <<set $acestat += 1>> <<goto "CH1P17.1">> <</link>><br><br> </li> </ul> <ul> <li> <<link '"Working cases with you is the only time Sordia doesn\'t feel completely fucked. So thanks for that."'>> <<set $aceChoice17 to "honest">> <<run setup.setTrait('hard', ($hard || 50) + 1)>> <<set $acestat += 1>> <<goto "CH1P17.1">> <</link>><br><br> </li> </ul> <ul> <li> <<link '"See you at nine. Try not to arrest anyone important before I get there."'>> <<set $aceChoice17 to "casual">> <<run setup.setTrait('hard', ($hard || 50) + 1)>> <<set $acestat += 1>> <<goto "CH1P17.1">> <</link>> </li> </ul>

<<if $favoriteDish is "jerk-chicken">>"Jerk chicken," you say without hesitation. "The way you make it. Not that dry garbage they sell at the market stalls."<br><br> Marcia beams. "Mi know it! Mi already have some marinating. Been waiting fi yuh to come by." She turns to Anthony and Ace. "Both yuh make di chicken. Best dish win."<br><br> "Easy," Anthony says immediately. "Mi been making jerk since before yuh was born, pickney."<br><br> Ace's competitive instinct kicks in. "Maybe it's time for a changing of the guard, old man."<<elseif $favoriteDish is "curry-goat">>"Curry goat," you say, mouth already watering. "The one that falls off the bone."<br><br> "Ah yes!" Anthony pumps his fist. "Finally someone wid good taste. Mi make di best curry goat in all Sordia."<br><br> "Your curry goat is good," Ace concedes. "But mine's better. More balanced."<br><br> "Balanced?" Anthony scoffs. "Curry supposed to punch yuh in di mouth, not shake yuh hand politely."<br><br> Marcia laughs. "Both yuh make di goat. We see who win."<<elseif $favoriteDish is "callaloo-ackee">>"Callaloo and ackee," you say. "The vegetarian one that doesn't taste like cardboard."<br><br> "Now yuh talking!" Marcia's approval radiates warmth. "Too many people forget vegetables have flavor. Both yuh," she gestures at Anthony and Ace, "make di callaloo. Show $firstName what yuh can do."<br><br> "Vegetarian challenge accepted," Ace says, already moving toward ingredients.<br><br> Anthony cracks his knuckles. "Mi make callaloo that have meat-eaters converting. Watch and learn, pickney."<<elseif $favoriteDish is "veg-rundown">>"Vegetable rundown," you say. "That coconut curry situation that makes me forget meat exists."<br><br> "Excellent choice!" Marcia claps her hands. "Rundown is art. Coconut milk, vegetables, just right spice. Both yuh," she points at Anthony and Ace, "make di rundown. Best one win."<br><br> "My rundown is legendary," Anthony declares.<br><br> "Your rundown is adequate," Ace counters. "Mine actually has depth."<br><br> "Depth? DEPTH?" Anthony looks genuinely offended.<<elseif $favoriteDish is "rice-plantain">>"Rice and peas with plantain," you say. "Simple. Clean. Perfect."<br><br> "Simple food done right is hardest food," Marcia nods approvingly. "Both yuh make it. Rice and peas, fried plantain. Show $firstName who di real chef is."<br><br> "This'll be quick," Anthony says confidently. "Rice and peas mi specialty."<br><br> "Everything is your specialty according to you," Ace mutters, but $aceHe's smiling. "Let's see if the rice backs up the talk."<</if>><br><br> "Wait," you say, catching on. "You're making them compete?"<br><br> "Competition make food taste better," Marcia says matter-of-factly. "Plus watching these two fight over seasoning never get old." She winks. <br><br> Anthony's competitive instinct kicks in immediately. "Mi accept. Easy win."<br><br> "You haven't won yet, old man," Ace shoots back, but there's a grin starting to form. That particular expression that means $aceHe's already mentally preparing $aceHis recipe.<br><br> "Old man?" Anthony's laugh booms again. "Mi show yuh old man. Mi cook circles round yuh."<br><br> "Both yuh too prideful," Marcia says, but she's smiling. She turns to you. Guides you to a chair at the table closest to the kitchen. Prime viewing position. "Sit. Watch di show. And remember when yuh judging—honesty important, but also mi the one who fed yuh through university."<br><br> "That's bribery," you point out.<br><br> "Is not bribery." She presses a kiss to the top of your head. "Is just reminder of who love yuh best."<br><br> Marcia disappears, leaving you with Anthony and Ace who are already trash-talking while pulling out ingredients. The energy between them is competitive but warm. Familiar. The kind of ribbing that only comes from people who love each other enough to give each other shit.<br><br> Marcia emerges one more time. Sighs. Wistful and theatrical.<br><br> "Yuh know," she says to no one in particular but making sure everyone hears, "Ace woulda make such good chef. Such good instincts. Such creativity." She looks at Ace, who's already elbow-deep in prep work. She sighs wistfully. "But no. Had to go save di world instead."<br><br> "Muma—" Ace starts.<br><br> "Mi not complaining," Marcia continues like $aceHe hasn't spoken. "Is noble work. Important work. But sometimes mi think bout all di food yuh coulda make. All di people yuh coulda feed instead of arrest."<br><br> <<if $aceGender is "male">>"Mi feed people," Andre protests. "Just differently. With justice instead of jerk chicken."<<elseif $aceGender is "female">>"Mi feed people," Andre protests. "Just differently. With justice instead of jerk chicken."<</if>><br><br> "Justice don't taste as good," Marcia says pragmatically. Then she's gone again, back to her own preparations.<br><br> The next thirty minutes pass quickly. Anthony and Ace move around the kitchen like dancers who've rehearsed this routine. Which they have. Years of holiday meals and Sunday dinners and impromptu cooking competitions have turned them into a well-oiled machine despite their bickering.<br><br> "Yuh burning di onions," Anthony calls out.<br><br> "They're caramelized," Ace shoots back. "There's a difference."<br><br> "Caramelized is what we call burning when we trying fi be fancy."<br><br> You watch them work. Let the familiar rhythm soothe something raw inside you. The restaurant fills with smells that make your mouth water and your chest ache in equal measure. This is what home should smell like. What family should sound like. All the things that Sordia taught you not to expect.<br><br> Finally—thirty-seven minutes by your count—both dishes are plated.<br><br> They both stand there. Watching you like their lives depend on your verdict.<br><br> "The loser," Marcia announces from where she's suddenly appeared at your elbow, "has to do all di dishes tonight. And clean di grease trap. And take out garbage for whole week."<br><br> "Serious?" Ace's eyes widen.<br><br> "Dead serious," Anthony confirms, grinning like he's already won.<br><br> "No pressure, $firstName," Ace says, but $aceHis eyes say there's absolutely pressure.<br><br> You look at both plates. Then you take a bite.Let the flavors settle on your tongue.<br><br> <ul> <li> <<link '[Choose Anthony] His dish tastes like every Sunday dinner you\'ve ever had here. Traditional. Perfect. The kind of cooking that makes you believe in family even when yours is broken.'>> <<set $cookingChoice to "anthony">> <<set $anthonystat += 2>> <<goto "CH1P16.3">> <</link>><br><br> </li> </ul> <ul> <li> <<link '[Choose Ace] The innovation surprises you. $aceHeC took everything familiar and made it new without losing what made it good. That takes skill.'>> <<set $cookingChoice to "ace">> <<set $acestat += 2>> <<goto "CH1P16.3">> <</link>><br><br> </li> </ul> <ul> <li> <<link '[Declare a Tie] They\'re both perfect. Different but equally good. Choosing would be lying and you\'ve had enough of lies for one day.'>> <<set $cookingChoice to "tie">> <<set $anthonystat += 1>> <<set $acestat += 1>> <<goto "CH1P16.3">> <</link>> </li> </ul>

<<if $aceConvo2 is "nice">>Relief crashes over Ace's face like a wave. $aceHisC whole body seems to relax. "Thank you," $aceHe says, voice rough. "$firstName, I—" <br><br> $aceHeC stops. Breathes. "When she disappeared, I looked everywhere. Called in every favor. Harassed every informant. Drove my captain insane with off-book investigations." $aceHis amber eyes are bright. <br><br> $aceHeC reaches out, grips your arm. Tight. "Whatever she's done. Whatever it costs. She's our family. And we don't abandon family."<<elseif $aceConvo2 is "neutral">>Ace nods slowly. Forces $aceHimself to breathe. To think. "You're right. We deal with what we have." $aceHeC runs both hands over $aceHis face. When they come away, there's something determined in $aceHis expression. <br><br> "But $firstName, I need you to understand something. I don't care what choices she made. I don't care that she didn't come to me." $aceHis voice goes fierce. Protective. <br><br> "She's my sister in everything but blood." $aceHeC meets your eyes. "I'm helping her. Whatever it takes. I just—I hope you understand that."<<elseif $aceConvo2 is "harsh">>Ace's jaw tightens. $aceHeC looks away, then back at you. "Yeah. They were her decisions." The words come out careful. Controlled. <br><br> "Bad ones. Dangerous ones. Ones that hurt people who love her." $aceHeC takes a breath. "But you know what? She's still our Maud for me. Still family." $aceHis expression goes stubborn. "She made mistakes. Big ones. That doesn't mean I'm giving up on her.." A pause.<br><br> "I hope you can understand that."<<elseif $aceConvo2 is "mean">>Ace goes very still. When $aceHe speaks, $aceHis voice is low. "$firstName. I respect you. I love you. But Maud still has my loyalty." $aceHisC hands are shaking.<br><br> "You don't get to decide that. You don't get to tell me she's not worth saving." $aceHeC stands straighter.<br><br> "She's my sister too. In every way that matters. She left? Yeah. That hurts. That fucking destroys me. But she's back now. And I will burn down every crime lord in Sordia before I let anything happen to her. And I would do the exact same thing for you." <br><br>$aceHeC stares you down. "So you can help or not. But I'm going. With or without you."<</if>><br><br> <<if $aceConvo2 is "mean">>The silence that follows is thick. Heavy. You've never seen Ace this angry. Not at you. Not at anyone who matters.<br><br> Finally, you break it.<br><br> "I'm going with her tonight."<br><br> Ace's expression doesn't soften. Doesn't warm. "Good. Then we're done talking about whether she deserves help." $aceHis voice is flat. Final.<br><br><<else>>"I'm going with her tonight," you say quietly.<br><br><</if>> "Then I'm coming with you." Not a question. A statement. Final. The kind of tone that means arguing would be pointless.<br><br> <ul> <li> <<link '"You sure? This could get messy. Federal agents investigating crime scenes without warrants tends to complicate things."'>> <<set $aceConvo3 to "methodical">> <<run setup.setTrait('intuitive', ($intuitive || 50) - 1)>> <<set $acestat += 1>> <<goto "CH1P16.5">> <</link>><br><br> </li> </ul> <ul> <li> <<link '"Good. I was going to drag you along anyway. Two people is safer than one in Luz\'s territory."'>> <<set $aceConvo3 to "intuitive">> <<run setup.setTrait('intuitive', ($intuitive || 50) + 1)>> <<set $acestat += 2>> <<goto "CH1P16.5">> <</link>><br><br> </li> </ul> <ul> <li> <<link '"This isn\'t CRD business. This is personal. You don\'t have to get involved."'>> <<set $aceConvo3 to "confrontational">> <<run setup.setTrait('relaxed', ($relaxed || 50) - 1)>> <<set $acestat -= 1>> <<goto "CH1P16.5">> <</link>><br><br> </li> </ul> <ul> <li> <<link '"Wouldn\'t expect anything less. You and me against whatever Sordia throws at us."'>> <<set $aceConvo3 to "relaxed">> <<run setup.setTrait('relaxed', ($relaxed || 50) + 1)>> <<set $acestat += 1>> <<goto "CH1P16.5">> <</link>> </li> </ul>

<<if $aceConvo3 is "methodical">>"Messy is my entire job description," Ace points out. "And technically I'm off-duty. Just a concerned citizen helping a friend investigate a potential crime. If evidence happens to be discovered..." $aceHeC shrugs. "Happy accident."<<elseif $aceConvo3 is "intuitive">>"Exactly. Plus Maud knows me. She might actually listen if I tell her she's making catastrophically bad decisions." Ace's expression goes fond despite everything. "She used to listen. Sometimes. When she felt like it."<<elseif $aceConvo3 is "confrontational">>"Don't have to?" Ace's laugh is sharp. "Maud is family. You're family. Someone's hunting both of you. I'm already involved. Have been since the moment you talked to me in Highschool."<<elseif $aceConvo3 is "relaxed">>"Standard operating procedure," Ace agrees, returning to cooking. Some of the tension bleeds from $aceHis shoulders. "Though I'm starting to think our friendship might be hazardous to my life expectancy."<</if>><br><br> "I'll text you the location later." You glance at the clock. You should really show your face to your uncle. "I need to go home now. Uncle Ben is probably waiting for me." Suddenly you notice something. Three faces peer around it like a sitcom establishing shot.<br><br> Tasha. Keisha. Imani. All grinning like sharks who've scented blood.<br><br> "Oh no," Ace mutters.<br><br> "OH YES," Keisha announces, bouncing into the room. "Did someone say $firstName's here? Because we definitely heard $firstName's here."<br><br> All three sisters descend on you like a coordinated strike force.<br><br> Tasha gets there first. Twenty-three and nursing school hasn't softened her at all. She immediately starts checking you over. "When's the last time you slept? Ate? Took vitamins? Your eyes have that 'running on spite' look."<br><br> "I literally just—"<br><br> "One meal doesn't count when you've been running on fumes for weeks." Tasha continues her assessment. Pulls down your lower eyelid to check something. "You're dehydrated. Probably vitamin D deficient. When's your last physical?"<br><br> "Can you not doctor me right now?"<br><br> "Someone has to. You clearly don't." Tasha releases you but her expression stays concerned. "You look like shit, $firstName. Professional medical opinion."<br><br> Keisha has no such medical concerns. She just wants gossip. Nineteen and university has only sharpened her journalistic instincts. "Forget the health check. Tell me everything about the Grey broadcast. Did you practice that confrontation? Was it improvised? How did you get him to crack? I need to know for my investigative journalism class."<br><br> "No," you and Ace say simultaneously.<br><br> "No what?" Keisha's eyes widen with false innocence.<br><br> "No you can't write about it," Ace clarifies. "No you can't interview $firstName for class. No you can't publish anything about tonight."<br><br> "But—"<br><br> "No."<br><br> Keisha pouts but she's already mentally filing away everything for later use. You recognize that look. You've made that look. She's definitely writing about this. Just not officially.<br><br> Imani says nothing. Just studies you both with those fifteen-going-on-thirty-five eyes. Processing. Calculating. Already three steps ahead of everyone else in the room. She will be going places. You just know it. A genius in the making.<br><br> Then their gazes slides between you and Ace. Lands there. Stays there.<br><br> <<if $relationshipType is "obvious">>Oh no.<br><br> "So," Imani says, voice carrying that particular tone that means someone's about to get roasted. "When will you label your relationship?"<br><br> "IMANI." Ace groans. "We are not—there's no—"<br><br> "There's obviously something," Imani interrupts, completely unbothered by her older sibling's distress. "<br><br> "We're working on it," you say, shrugging casually. Why pretend? "Your sibling's the one being oblivious."<br><br> "I AM RIGHT HERE," Ace protests.<br><br> "Good," Keisha chimes in. "Then you can hear us say you're being an idiot."<br><br> Tasha nods agreement. "Facts. Even Mama has a betting pool going. She says by Christmas you'll figure it out."<br><br> "I HATE THIS FAMILY," Ace announces to the ceiling.<<elseif $relationshipType is "secret">>You freeze. Keep your expression carefully neutral. "Pretending what?"<br><br> "Nothing," you say too quickly. "There's nothing to pretend about."<br><br> Imani's smile says she's not buying it. Never bought it. Will never buy it. "Uh-huh. Sure. That's why you both look at each other like that."<br><br> "Like what?" Ace asks, genuinely confused.<br><br> "Like you're both trying really hard not to look like you're looking." Imani snickers.<br><br> "There's nothing—we're just friends," you insist.<br><br> "Best friends," Ace adds.<br><br> You need to change the subject. Immediately. "How's school, Keisha?"<</if>><br><br> "Speaking of danger," Imani says, casually. "Maud's really back?"<br><br> The temperature in the room drops several degrees.<br><br> "Yeah," you confirm. "She's back."<br><br> "Is she..." Tasha's tough exterior cracks. "Is she okay? Like, relatively?"<br><br> "Define okay."<br><br> "Shit." Tasha's laugh has no humor. "That bad?"<br><br> "She's alive. Changed. But alive."<br><br> Tasha's eyes go shiny. She blinks rapidly. "Tell her to come home," Keisha adds, voice going soft.<br><br> "She said hi," you offer. It's not much. But it's what you have. "She wanted you to know she's alive. That she's thinking about you."<br><br> "That's something," Tasha says, wiping her eyes. "Better than nothing."<br><br> Marcia and Anthony emerge with perfect timing. Like they've been waiting for the emotional temperature to peak before intervening.<br><br> "Alright, alright," Marcia claps her hands. "Yuh three. Out. Let $aceName and $firstName breathe."<br><br> "But Mama—" Keisha starts.<br><br> "OUT. Now. Before mi make yuh do dishes."<br><br> The threat of dishes achieves what nothing else could. All three sisters scatter like startled birds.<br><br> [[Continue|CH1P16.6]]

Marcia packages up food without asking. Containers stack up. Enough to feed you and Ben for days. Maybe weeks if you're strategic about portions.<br><br> "For Ben," she says, pressing bags into your hands. "Tell him I come visit. Mi not see him in too long."<br><br> "I'll tell him," you promise, throat tight.<br><br> Anthony pulls you into one more hug. Kisses the top of your head like you're one of his own. "Be safe, yuh hear? Come back to us."<br><br> Ace grabs $aceHis jacket. CRD badge gleaming even in the soft restaurant lighting. "I'll walk you home. Then we can plan tonight properly."<br><br> <<if $relationshipType is "obvious">>Imani makes kissing noises from where she's supposedly not listening. Tasha elbows her. Keisha grins. Anthony and Marcia try to look innocent and fail completely.<br><br> "Goodbye, family," Ace says pointedly. "Thank you for being the absolute worst."<br><br> "We love yuh too, pickney," Marcia calls. "And we love $firstName! Bring $mcHim by more often!"<br><br> "Preferably with wedding planning," Keisha adds helpfully.<br><br> "KEISHA."<br><br><<elseif $relationshipType is "secret">>"Be careful," Tasha calls after you both. "And $firstName? Whatever you're not telling us about your feelings? We already know. Just FYI."<br><br> Your face feels hot. Ace looks confused. You don't elaborate.<<else>>"Watch each other backs," Anthony says seriously. "Like always."<br><br> "Always," you both agree.<</if>> Marcia calls after you both. "And $firstName? Bring Maud home. When she ready. Bring her home." So she heard it too. Great.<br><br> She smiles brightly. "And always remember, yuh always have a home here. Always."<br><br> You wave. Can't trust your voice not to crack.<br><br> [[Continue|CH1P17]]

<<if $aceChoice17 is "bold">><<if $aceGender is "male">>Andre grins. "Well yeah, you're my best friend. Of course I'm going to help." He says it like it's obvious. <br><br>"That's what partners do. Besides, Ma would kill me if I let you get in trouble alone."<<elseif $aceGender is "female">>Anaya laughs. "You make it sound special! That's just what friends do for each other." Completely missing the point. "Plus this case is interesting. Professional curiosity."<</if>><<if $relationshipType is "obvious">> Your attempt at flirting went right over $aceHis head. As usual.<br><br><<elseif $relationshipType is "secret">> Safe. $aceHeC didn't catch anything.<</if>> <<elseif $aceChoice17 is "shy">><<if $aceGender is "male">>Andre's expression warms. "I like spending time with you too. And yeah, the family loves having you around." <br><br>He squeezes your shoulder. Brotherly. "You're practically a Reid at this point."<<elseif $aceGender is "female">>Anaya beams. "Aw, we love spending time with you too! You fit right in with the chaos." <br><br>She doesn't notice the way you emphasized 'you.' "Family dinners are better when you're there."<</if>><<if $relationshipType is "obvious">> Family. Always family. Never more.<<elseif $relationshipType is "secret">> The redirect worked. You're safe.<</if>> <<elseif $aceChoice17 is "oblivious">><<if $aceGender is "male">>Andre laughs, completely missing the flirtation. "Tactical gear is practical, not fashionable. But thanks? I think?" He adjusts his vest self-consciously. "Kevlar's not exactly known for being attractive."<<elseif $aceGender is "female">>Anaya strikes a pose, playful. "This old thing? It's literally just protective gear." Totally oblivious. "But I appreciate the confidence boost before we hunt down a serial killer!"<</if>><<if $relationshipType is "obvious">> The flirt went completely unnoticed. Story of your life.<<elseif $relationshipType is "secret">> At least $aceHe didn't catch on. Small victories.<</if>> <<elseif $aceChoice17 is "awkward">><<if $aceGender is "male">>Andre tilts his head. "Bad at what? Saying goodbye?" He looks genuinely confused. "It's okay, you're tired. Long day. Get some rest before tonight."<<elseif $aceGender is "female">>Anaya giggles. "You're always awkward when you're exhausted. It's kind of endearing." She pats your arm. Friendly. "Go sleep. You're clearly running on fumes."<</if>><<if $relationshipType is "obvious">> Even your fumbling didn't clue $aceHim in.<<elseif $relationshipType is "secret">> Crisis averted. Barely.<</if>> <<elseif $aceChoice17 is "clumsy">><<if $aceGender is "male">>Andre bursts out laughing. "A date? Yeah, because nothing says romance like investigating murder." He's genuinely amused. "Maud would love that. 'How was your evening?' 'Great, third-wheeled on a murder investigation date.'"<<elseif $aceGender is "female">>Anaya cracks up. "Oh my god, the worst date ever. 'So what do you do for fun?' 'I hunt serial killers with my best friend.'" She's completely missed your intent. "That's hilarious."<</if>><<if $relationshipType is "obvious">> The joke covered your actual feelings. Perfectly. Just another missed shot.<<elseif $relationshipType is "secret">> The joke covered your actual feelings. Perfectly. Safety through humor.<</if>> <<elseif $aceChoice17 is "grateful">><<if $aceGender is "male">>Andre's smile is genuine. Warm. "You mean a lot to me too. You're family." He says it simply. "Always will be."<<elseif $aceGender is "female">>Anaya's smile is genuine. Warm. "You mean a lot to me too. You're family." She says it simply. "Always will be."<</if>><<if $relationshipType is "obvious">> Family. The word used to feel comforting. Now it just stings.<<elseif $relationshipType is "secret">> Family. Safe category. Friend zone fortified.<</if>> <<elseif $aceChoice17 is "protective">><<if $aceGender is "male">>Andre smiles. "I need you in one piece too. Can't have my partner getting hurt. We're a team."<<elseif $aceGender is "female">>Anaya smiles. "I need you in one piece too. Can't have my partner getting hurt. We're a team."<</if>><<if $relationshipType is "obvious">> Partner. Team. All the right words meaning all the wrong things.<<elseif $relationshipType is "secret">> The professional distance helps. Keeps things simple. Safe.<</if>> <<elseif $aceChoice17 is "honest">><<if $aceGender is "male">>Andre's eyes shine. "Same. Working with you reminds me why I do this." He squeezes your hand. "We're lucky to have each other."<<elseif $aceGender is "female">>Anaya's eyes shine. "Same. Working with you reminds me why I do this." She squeezes your hand. "We're lucky to have each other."<</if>><<if $relationshipType is "obvious">> The hand squeeze lingers. Means everything to you. Means friendship to $aceHim.<<elseif $relationshipType is "secret">> You pull your hand back before the touch becomes too much. Before you give yourself away.<</if>> <<elseif $aceChoice17 is "casual">><<if $aceGender is "male">>Andre grins. "No promises. You know how I am with corrupt politicians." He waves. "Later, $firstName."<<elseif $aceGender is "female">>Anaya grins. "No promises. You know how I am with corrupt politicians." She waves. "Later, $firstName."<</if>><<if $relationshipType is "obvious">> Easy banter. Comfortable distance. Sometimes you wish it hurt less.<<elseif $relationshipType is "secret">> Keeping it light. Keeping it safe. Exactly as it should be.<</if>><</if>><br><br> $aceHeC prepares to leave. <<if $relationshipType is "obvious">>Oblivious to your feelings. To the way you look at $aceHim. Everyone sees it but $aceHim. You're not even subtle about it. A dark thought nags on your conscience: What if Ace isn't oblivious but just can't see you as anything else? The thought makes your heart ache.<<elseif $relationshipType is "secret">>You've gotten good at hiding it. The way your pulse jumps. How you memorize details while pretending not to. Plausible deniability is your only defense. You can't have feelings for your best friend. It could destroy everything.<</if>><br><br> "See you tonight," you call.<br><br> <<if $aceGender is "male">> "Nine PM!" Andre calls back, already walking. "Don't start without me!" <<elseif $aceGender is "female">> "Nine PM sharp!" Anaya waves without turning around. "Be safe!" <</if>> <br><br> You watch Ace disappear into Sordia's night. <<if $relationshipType is "obvious">> Oblivious to your feelings... <<elseif $relationshipType is "secret">> You've gotten good at hiding it... <</if>> <br><br> You turn around to get inside.<br><br> [[Continue|CH1P18]]

You climb three flights because the elevator's been broken since August. Maybe July. Time blurs when nothing gets fixed.<br><br> Your key scrapes the lock. The bags of Reid family food feel heavier with each step.<br><br> The door opens before you can turn the key all the way.<br><br> Uncle Ben stands in the doorway. Fifty-eight years old but looking older. Grey threading through his hair that needs cutting. Stubble that's past the 'rugged' stage into 'forgot to shave this week.' His cardigan is the soft blue one that you bought him three Christmases ago. <br><br> But his smile. His smile is pure warmth.<br><br> "There's my favorite journalist." His voice carries the remnants of an old New York accent called Bronx that thirty years in Sordia couldn't quite erase. "You're late. I was starting to worry you'd gotten yourself killed."<br><br> "Only almost killed," you say, stepping inside. "I'm getting better at not dying."<br><br> "That's my ambitious nibling. Always aiming high." He takes the food bags from your hands. Notices the Reid's Island Kitchen logo. His expression softens further. "Marcia and Anthony?"<br><br> "Who else? They packed enough to feed an army."<br><br> "They're such good people." Ben heads toward the kitchen. His steps are careful. Measured. The walk of someone who hasn't left the apartment in years. Who's forgotten how to move through spaces that aren't these four walls. "I'll heat this up you've probably already eaten."<br><br> The apartment you and Ben live in is small but clean. Ben keeps it that way. Gives him something to do during the endless days when the outside world feels too big. Too dangerous. Too full of things that could go wrong.<br><br> You follow him to the kitchen. Watch him unpack the containers.<br><br> "How was your day?" you ask. The routine question.<br><br> "Same as always." Ben doesn't look up. Doesn't need to. You both know what 'same' means. "Did my exercises. Therapist called. We talked about maybe trying the balcony next week." He laughs. No humor in it. "Same conversation we've had for six months."<br><br> "Progress is progress."<br><br> "Progress is glacial." He finally meets your eyes. "But I'm trying. This time I really do. I promise." He trails off.<br><br> Your chest tightens. Maud's words echo in your head. <em>Don't tell Ben I'm back. Not yet.</em><br><br> But looking at him now. At the way his hands shake slightly as he portions out food. At the hope he won't let himself feel anymore. At the loneliness he wears like a second cardigan.<br><br> The choice sits heavy on your tongue.<br><br> <ul> <li> <<link 'Tell him Maud is back. He deserves to know.'>> <<set $toldBenAboutMaud to true>> <<set $maudstat -= 1>> <<run setup.setTrait('soft', ($soft || 50) + 1)>> <<goto "CH1P18.1">> <</link>><br><br> </li> </ul> <ul> <li> <<link 'Don\'t tell him that Maud is back. He doesn\'t need the false hopes.'>> <<set $toldBenAboutMaud to false>> <<set $maudstat += 1>> <<run setup.setTrait('calculated', ($calculated || 50) + 1)>> <<goto "CH1P18.2">> <</link>> </li> </ul>

"Ben." Your voice comes out rougher than intended. "Maud's back."<br><br> The container slips from his hands. Curry sauce splatters across the counter. Ben doesn't notice. Doesn't move. Just stares at you like you've spoken a language he forgot existed.<br><br> "What?"<br><br> "She's alive. She's back. I saw her today."<br><br> "Is she—" His voice cracks. "Is she okay? Is she hurt? Where is she? Why didn't she—" Ben stops. He knows exactly why she didn't come. <br><br> You tell him. About the case. The parts you can share without getting him more worried. You don't mentionthat she is a criminal now, working for Luz. The darkness in Maud's eyes that wasn't there before.<br><br> By the end, Ben's gripping the counter. Tears streaming down his face that he's not bothering to wipe away.<br><br> "She's alive." He says it like a prayer. Like absolution.<br><br> "She is."<br><br> <<if $siblingRelationship is "broken">>"You two haven't gotten along for a long time," Ben says quietly. Sad acceptance in his voice. "I always wished I could fix that. Make you both see each other differently. But some things..." He trails off. "I'm just glad you found her. Even if you hate each other."<<elseif $siblingRelationship is "neutral">>"You and Maud." Ben's laugh is hollow. "Never quite friends. Never quite enemies. Just... existing around each other." He wipes his eyes. "I used to hope that would change. Maybe if she comes back it will."<<elseif $siblingRelationship is "fixable">>"I know things were getting better between you two," Ben says. "Before she left." His voice cracks. "Maybe that's why this hurts more. You guys were trying."<</if>><br><br> "I need to see her." He's already moving. Toward the door. Toward the outside he hasn't faced in years. "I need to—"<br><br> He stops three feet from the door. Breathing hard. Hand pressed against his chest. The panic setting in. The fear that's kept him trapped.<br><br> He could never do it. Not for himself. Not for you. Not for Maud.<br><br> "I can't." The words break him. "I can't even—she's finally back and even now I can't—"<br><br> You guide him back to the couch. Sit with him while he shakes. While he cries. While he hates himself for being broken.<br><br> "Bring her here," he finally says. Voice raw. "Tomorrow. For dinner. Please. I'll cook. I'll make her favorites. Just—" He grabs your hands. "Please bring her home. Even if it's just for one night."<br><br> <ul> <li> <<link '"I\'ll tell her. Whether she shows up is her problem, not mine."'>> <<set $benResponse to "blunt">> <<run setup.setTrait('hard', ($hard || 50) + 1)>> <<set $benstat -= 3>> <<goto "CH1P18.1.1">> <</link>><br><br> </li> </ul> <ul> <li> <<link '"Can\'t promise she\'ll come. Can\'t promise she\'ll stay. Can promise I\'ll ask."'>> <<set $benResponse to "guarded">> <<run setup.setTrait('calculated', ($calculated || 50) + 1)>> <<set $benstat += 1>> <<goto "CH1P18.1.1">> <</link>><br><br> </li> </ul> <ul> <li> <<link '"She\'s not the same person who left. Don\'t expect tearful reunions and apologies."'>> <<set $benResponse to "cutting">> <<run setup.setTrait('hard', ($hard || 50) + 1)>> <<set $benstat -= 5>> <<goto "CH1P18.1.1">> <</link>><br><br> </li> </ul> <ul> <li> <<link '"I\'ll try. For you. Not for her."'>> <<set $benResponse to "protective">> <<run setup.setTrait('soft', ($soft || 50) + 1)>> <<set $benstat += 2>> <<goto "CH1P18.1.1">> <</link>> </li> </ul>

You swallow the truth. Let it sit heavy in your stomach. You won't tell him that Maud is back. Not because you respect Maud's wishes. It's ecause you want to spare Ben. He has suffered so much. <br><br> "Same old, same old," you say casually. "Case is moving forward. Might have leads soon."<br><br> Ben nods. Accepts it. Because he trusts you. Because he has no reason not to.<br><br> You eat dinner together. Ben talks about his day. About the new book he's reading. About some documentary he watched about bloodline history. Normal boring conversation.<br><br> "You're working too hard again," Ben says, studying your face. "I can tell. You get that look. Like you're chasing something you can't quite catch."<br><br> "That's just my face."<br><br> "No, it's not." He sets down his fork. "You're running yourself into the ground. Again. Just like with the De Luca case. Just like with every case." He pauses. "When's the last time you did something that wasn't work?"<br><br> <ul> <li> <<link '"Work is what I\'m good at. Everything else is just killing time between investigations."'>> <<set $benDinnerResponse to "workaholic">> <<run setup.setTrait('hard', ($hard || 50) + 1)>> <<set $benstat -= 3>> <<goto "CH1P18.2.1">> <</link>><br><br> </li> </ul> <ul> <li> <<link '"I went to lunch today. At Ace\'s family restaurant. That counts as non-work, right?"'>> <<set $benDinnerResponse to "deflective">> <<run setup.setTrait('bold', ($bold || 50) + 1)>> <<set $benstat += 1>> <<goto "CH1P18.2.1">> <</link>><br><br> </li> </ul> <ul> <li> <<link '"When you start going outside, I\'ll start taking breaks. Deal?"'>> <<set $benDinnerResponse to "deflective-sharp">> <<run setup.setTrait('deflecting', ($deflecting || 50) - 1)>> <<set $benstat -= 5>> <<goto "CH1P18.2.1">> <</link>><br><br> </li> </ul> <ul> <li> <<link '"I know. I\'ll slow down after this case. I promise."'>> <<set $benDinnerResponse to "soft-lie">> <<run setup.setTrait('soft', ($soft || 50) + 1)>> <<set $benstat -= 1>> <<goto "CH1P18.2.1">> <</link>> </li> </ul>

Your room waits at the end of the hall. Small. Yours. The one space in Sordia that belongs to you.<br><br> You push open the door.<br><br> <strong>Your room reflects who you are. Who you've become in this city.</strong><br><br> <ul> <li> <<link ' Chaos - Messy but functional. Papers everywhere. Cups multiplying. You know where everything is even if nobody else would.'>> <<set $roomStyle to "messy">> <<goto "CH1P18.4">> <</link>><br><br> </li> </ul> <ul> <li> <<link 'Cozy Haven - Warm blankets. String lights. Plants you somehow keep alive. The softest place in Sordia.'>> <<set $roomStyle to "cozy">> <<goto "CH1P18.4">> <</link>><br><br> </li> </ul> <ul> <li> <<link 'Dark Aesthetic - Black walls. Band posters. Candles and incense. Gothic undertones. Mood lighting only.'>> <<set $roomStyle to "goth">> <<goto "CH1P18.4">> <</link>><br><br> </li> </ul> <ul> <li> <<link 'Minimalist Order - Everything has a place. Clean lines. No clutter. Peace through simplicity.'>> <<set $roomStyle to "minimalist">> <<goto "CH1P18.4">> <</link>><br><br> </li> </ul> <ul> <li> <<link 'Academic Grunge - Books stacked everywhere. Notes pinned to walls. Coffee-stained research. Organized intellectual mess.'>> <<set $roomStyle to "academic">> <<goto "CH1P18.4">> <</link>><br><br> </li> </ul> <ul> <li> <<link 'Urban Vintage - Thrifted furniture. Retro posters. Record player. Deliberately curated nostalgia for decades you never lived.'>> <<set $roomStyle to "vintage">> <<goto "CH1P18.4">> <</link>><br><br> </li> </ul> <ul> <li> <<link 'Soft Pastel - Pale colors. Gentle aesthetics. Stuffed animals. The room feels like a breath of fresh air in Sordia\'s grime.'>> <<set $roomStyle to "pastel">> <<goto "CH1P18.4">> <</link>><br><br> </li> </ul> <ul> <li> <<link 'Cottage Core - Dried flowers. Vintage quilts. Embroidered pillows. Like a countryside dream in the middle of urban hell.'>> <<set $roomStyle to "cottage">> <<goto "CH1P18.4">> <</link>><br><br> </li> </ul> <ul> <li> <<link 'Princess Vibes - Everything pink. Fairy lights. Tulle curtains. Stuffed animals on the bed. Unapologetically you.'>> <<set $roomStyle to "princess">> <<goto "CH1P18.4">> <</link>> </li> </ul>

<<if $roomStyle is "messy">>Papers cover every surface. Case files mixed with bills mixed with takeout menus. Coffee cups in various stages of ancient. Your bed is unmade because why bother when you're just going to mess it up again. Clothes exist in two states: clean pile and dirty pile. You know exactly where everything is. The chaos has a system. Only you understand it.<<elseif $roomStyle is "cozy">>String lights cast warm gold across cream walls. Plants crowd the windowsill—succulents mostly, because you're not home enough for high-maintenance greenery. Your bed is a nest of soft blankets and too many pillows. A thrifted armchair sits in the corner, draped with your favorite throw. Candles you never light. Photos of people who matter. The room breathes comfort.<<elseif $roomStyle is "goth">>Black walls eat the light. Band posters—create a timeline of your music taste. Candles cluster on surfaces, wax dripping down to form stalactites. Incense burns: sandalwood tonight. Dark curtains block out Sordia's neon. Your bedspread is black. Your mood lighting is purple.<<elseif $roomStyle is "minimalist">>Clean lines. Neutral colors. Everything has a place and returns to it. Your bed is made with precision. One small plant. One framed photo. Your desk holds only your laptop and one notebook. No clutter. No mess. No chaos. The room breathes order in a city defined by disorder.<<elseif $roomStyle is "academic">>Books everywhere. Stacked on shelves. Piled on the floor. Creating towers on your desk. Research notes pinned to walls—red string connecting ideas like a conspiracy theorist's dream. Mugs with rings stained into your desk. Highlighters in every color. Post-its marking important pages. The organized mess of someone who thinks for a living.<<elseif $roomStyle is "vintage">>Thrifted furniture tells stories in scratches and worn fabric. A record player sits on a milk crate, vinyl collection alphabetized beside it. Posters from the '70s, '80s, '90s decorate your walls. Lava lamp. Rotary phone that doesn't work. String lights shaped like Edison bulbs. Everything is a carefully curated aesthetic of decades you never lived in but somehow miss.<<elseif $roomStyle is "pastel">>Soft colors wash everything in gentle light. Lavender walls. Mint green accents. Baby blue bedspread. Stuffed animals arranged on your bed. Fairy lights in warm white. A diffuser releasing lavender scent. The room feels like a breath of fresh air in Sordia's grime..<<elseif $roomStyle is "cottage">>Dried flowers hang from the ceiling. Lavender, baby's breath, eucalyptus creating a garden overhead. Vintage quilts layer your bed. Embroidered pillows you made. Mason jars hold wildflowers that somehow survive in Sordia's pollution. Wicker baskets organize your things. A crocheted blanket draped over a wooden chair. The room smells like herbs and old books. Like a countryside dream in the middle of urban hell.<<elseif $roomStyle is "princess">>Pink. Unapologetically, defiantly pink. Blush walls. Rose gold accents. Your bed is a cloud of tulle and satin. Fairy lights twinkle like stars you can't see through Sordia's smog. Stuffed animals crowd every surface—bears, bunnies, a unicorn someone gave you as a joke that you genuinely love. A vanity with a heart-shaped mirror. Makeup organized in crystal containers. The room is soft and completely at odds with everything Sordia represents. That's exactly why you love it.<</if>><br><br> You drop your bag. Peel off your jacket. The weight of the day settles into your bones.<br><br> The shower calls. Hot water. Twenty minutes of not thinking. Preparation for tonight.<br><br> The bathroom mirror shows someone who has seen better days. Someone whose eyes look dull and lifeless. <br><br> <<if $relationshipType is "obvious" or $relationshipType is "secret">>Your mind drifts to Ace. To amber eyes and oblivious smiles. To the way $aceHe'll be there tonight. Watching your back.<<else>>Your mind drifts to tonight. To Ace and Maud and the hunt for Marlowe. To the twelve faces in those photographs. To Jane De Luca's justice and Lillian Frost's continued existence. To the work that never ends.<</if>><br><br> Shower. Change. Prepare.<br><br> By the time you're dressed, the clock reads 8:17 PM. <<if $theoryChoice is "Eclipse">>The Eclipse opens at sunset. Magnus will be pouring drinks. Umbras will be gathering. Gossip will be flowing. You have forty-five minutes before meeting Ace and Maud.<<elseif $theoryChoice is "Trade">>The Trade never closes. Just gets more dangerous as night deepens. Maud will meet you outside. Ace will provide federal backup. You have forty-five minutes before meeting ace and Maud.<</if>><br><br> One more check. Phone. Wallet. Press credentials. <<if $vice is "smoking">>Cigarettes.<<elseif $vice is "alcohol">>Flask, just in case.<<elseif $vice is "work">>Notebook and three pens.<<else>>Everything you need.<</if>><br><br> Ben's voice carries from the living room. TV noise. Laughter from a sitcom he's seen a hundred times. The sound of someone making peace with walls that have become the world.<br><br> <<if $toldBenAboutMaud is true>>Tomorrow you'll bring Maud home. If she agrees. If she's brave enough. If Ben can handle seeing what she's become.<br><br> Tonight you follow a lead.<<else>>The secret stays buried. For now. You will decide when Ben learns the truth about Maud. You just carry the weight of knowing.<br><br> Tonight you follow a lead.<</if>><br><br> Time to go.<br><br> <<if $investigationTheory is "revenge">> [[Continue|CH1P19.Theory 1]] <</if>><br><br> <<if $investigationTheory is "conspiracy">> [[Continue|CH1P19.Theory 2]] <</if>>

<<if $benResponse is "blunt">>Ben flinches. "Right. Of course. Her choice." His voice goes small, trying to hide the hurt and failing. <br><br> "I just—thank you. For telling me she's alive. That's more than I had this morning." <<elseif $benResponse is "guarded">>Ben exhales long and shaky, relief and anxiety tangled together. "That's all I'm asking." His hands grip yours tighter, desperate. <br><br> "Just ask her. Just let her know the door's still open. That I'm still here." <<elseif $benResponse is "cutting">>Ben's face crumples, then hardens, then crumples again. "I know. You think I don't know that?" His voice barely a whisper. <br><br> "I've spent every day imagining what she's become. What Sordia's done to her."<br><br> He pulls his hands away, wraps them around himself instead. "But she's still my daughter. Changed or not. Broken or not." His voice breaks completely. "I just want to see her."<<elseif $benResponse is "protective">>Ben's expression crumbles completely. "For me." He repeats it like a lifeline, like salvation. "You'd do this for me." His hands shake worse, emotion too big to contain. <br><br> "You're family," you say simply. "She might be blood. But you're family." The distinction matters. Blood is biology. Family is choice. "<</if>><br><br> You stand, finishing this conversation. "I need to get ready." The excuse is weak but true. "Meeting Ace tonight. Following up on the case."<br><br> "Be careful." Ben's voice is automatic, hollow. "You always say you will be. Never are."<br><br> You can only nod. You try to uphold your promises but...<br><br> Spoiler: you usually can't. But you try anyway.<br><br> You head for your room. <br><br> [[Continue|CH1P18.3]]

<<if $benDinnerResponse is "workaholic">>Ben's expression falls. "That's not healthy. You know that's not healthy." The disappointment clear in his voice.<br><br> "Neither is not leaving the apartment for years, but here we are." The words come out sharper than intended. Ben flinches. Goes quiet. Shit. You didn't mean—<br><br> "You're right," Ben says finally, soft and resigned. "We're both pretty fucked up, aren't we?" He sets down his fork, stares at his plate.<br><br> "Yeah," you admit. "We are." At least you're honest about it. <<elseif $benDinnerResponse is "deflective">>Ben's lips twitch, almost a smile. "You and Ace. That family has adopted you more thoroughly than any legal paperwork could manage." <br><br> He shakes his head fondly. "Marcia calls me sometimes. Asks if you're eating enough. If you're sleeping." There's warmth in his voice, gratitude for people who worry about you when he can't leave to check himself. <br><br> "We're both worried about you. It's a whole network of concern." His smile fades. <br><br> "But lunch isn't rest." "It's good fuel," you offer weakly. "It's not rest," Ben repeats, firmer this time.<<elseif $benDinnerResponse is "deflective-sharp">>The silence that follows is sharp, cutting through the comfortable dinner atmosphere. Ben's face goes carefully blank. <br><br> "That's not fair." His voice is quiet, controlled. "I know," you say. Don't apologize. Can't. The words are already out, hanging between you like accusations. "But it's true." <br><br> "We're both trapped," Ben says quietly, meeting your eyes. "Just in different ways. Mine is fear. What's yours?" The question lands heavy. You don't answer. Don't know if you can.<br><br> <<elseif $benDinnerResponse is "soft-lie">>Ben studies your face, looking for the lie. He finds it easily. "You said that after the Grey case," he says gently, no accusation, just sadness. "And the case before that. And the one before that."<br><br> Each repetition a reminder of broken promises. "This time I mean it," you insist, but even you don't believe the words.<br><br> "Do you?" Ben's voice is so sad. "Because I don't think you know how to slow down anymore. I don't think you know how to stop." He's not wrong. You both know he's not wrong. The work is the only thing that makes sense. <</if>> You finish dinner quietly. Help clean up. <br><br> "Get some rest," Ben says, patting your shoulder. "You look like you're about to fall over."<br><br> "I've got some work tonight. Don't wait up."<br><br> Ben looks at you sadly. "Be safe." It's what he always says. What he can't enforce. What he hates himself for not being able to protect you from. "I love you."<br><br> "Love you too."<br><br> [[Continue|CH1P18.3]]

The Eastern Docks smell like everything Sordia wants to forget.<br><br> Salt and rust. Dead fish and diesel fuel. The particular stench of corruption so thick you can taste copper on your tongue.<br><br> The meeting spot is an old shipping container near the water's edge. Rusted. Abandoned. Perfect for conversations that need shadows. Maud chose it. Obviously.<br><br> She's already there when you arrive. Leaning against the container. Shadows pooling around her feet like they're waiting for orders. Her posture screams tension. Coiled. Ready to bolt or fight.<br><br> "You're late," she says when you're close enough. Voice flat.<br><br> <<if $siblingRelationship is "broken">>"Traffic," you reply. Matching her tone. "Ready to do this?"<<elseif $siblingRelationship is "neutral">>"Got here as fast as I could." You stop a few feet away. Safe distance. "You okay?"<<elseif $siblingRelationship is "fixable">>"Sorry. Ben wanted to talk." You move closer. Careful. "You find anything useful?"<</if>><br><br> <<if $toldBenAboutMaud is true>>But before that... the words sit heavy on your tongue. Need to come out now. Before everything else. Before Ace arrives and complicates things further.<br><br> "I told Ben you're back."<br><br> Maud's head snaps toward you. Eyes wide. Then narrow. Dangerous. "You what?"<br><br> "He deserved to know. He's been—"<br><br> "I specifically told you not to." Her voice drops. "I said don't tell Ben. Those were my exact words. Don't. Tell. Ben."<br><br> <<if $siblingRelationship is "broken">>"And I decided your instructions were stupid," you snap back. "He's been falling apart for three years. You don't get to dictate who knows what when you're the one who abandoned him."<br><br> "Abandoned?" Maud takes a step forward. Shadows exploding around her. "I was PROTECTING him. I was keeping him SAFE from—"<br><br> "From what? The truth? That you're alive?"<br><br> "From ME!" The words rip out of her. Raw. Wounded. "From what I've become! From the things I've done!"<br><br> She stops. Breathes. "Let's not talk about Ben now."<br><br> <<elseif $siblingRelationship is "neutral">>"He needed to know," you say firmly. "I couldn't watch him deteriorate anymore."<br><br> "That wasn't your choice to make." Maud's hands clench. Unclench. "You had no right—"<br><br> "He's my uncle too. I have every right."<br><br> She stops. Breathes. "Let's not talk about Ben now."<br><br> <<elseif $siblingRelationship is "fixable">>"I know you said not to," you admit quietly. "But he was hurting so much. Missing you so much. I couldn't keep lying to him."<br><br> She stops. Breathes. "Let's not talk about Ben now."<br><br> <</if>> <<else>>"Ben still doesn't know," Maud states. Not a question. She knows you well enough. Knows you wouldn't have told him. Not yet.<br><br> "You asked me not to." Simple. True. Doesn't mean you feel good about the lie.<br><br> "Thank you." Quiet. Genuine. The first real warmth you've heard from her all day.<br><br> <</if>> Silence stretches. Uncomfortable. Full of three years of absence. Three years of questions neither of you wants to ask.<br><br> "So." Maud straightens. All business. "The plan. We need to get into The Trade. Find Kade. Make him tell us who hired Marlowe." She pauses. "It won't be easy. Information brokers don't crack under pressure. We'll need—"<br><br> "I brought someone," you interrupt.<br><br> Maud goes very still. That particular stillness that precedes violence. "What?"<br><br> "Someone who can help. Someone with resources we'll need."<br><br> "I said no one else." Her voice drops. Dangerous. "I specifically said this stays between us. No outside involvement. No—"<br><br> "Who?" The word comes out sharp. Demanding. "Who did you tell?"<br><br> You open your mouth to answer. But you don't need to.<br><br> Footsteps on gravel. Quick. Purposeful. Someone who knows where they're going.<br><br> <<if $aceGender is "male">>Andre rounds the corner of the shipping container. Baseball cap pulled low. Sunglasses even though it's night. Hoodie zipped high. Face mostly hidden. Hair hidden under a beanie. No visible badge. Trying for inconspicuous. But the way $aceHe carries $aceHimself screams law enforcement to anyone who knows how to look.<br><br> $aceHisC amber eyes lock onto Maud. Stop.<<elseif $aceGender is "female">>Anaya rounds the corner of the shipping container. Baseball cap pulled low. Sunglasses even though it's night. Hoodie zipped high. Face mostly hidden. Braids tucked under a dark cap. No visible badge. Trying for inconspicuous. But the way $aceHe carries $aceHimself screams law enforcement to anyone who knows how to look.<br><br> $aceHisC amber eyes lock onto Maud. Stop.<</if>><br><br> Maud's face goes through three emotions in rapid succession. Shock. Disbelief. Fury.<br><br> "No." She takes a step back. "No. You didn't. Tell me you didn't—"<br><br> Ace doesn't listen. Doesn't stop. Just closes the distance in three long strides and pulls Maud into $aceHis arms. Crushing. Desperate. The kind of hug that says <em>don't ever disappear again.</em><br><br> Maud goes rigid. Frozen. Like she forgot how bodies work. How embraces feel. Her hands hover in the air. Unsure. Lost.<br><br> Then she melts. Just for a second. Arms come up. Wrap around Ace's waist. Face presses into $aceHis shoulder. Breathing $aceHim in. Remembering.<br><br> It lasts maybe five seconds. Then reality crashes back.<br><br> Maud shoves Ace away. Hard. Steps back like $aceHe's burning. "What the hell?" Her voice shakes. Anger and something else. Something rawer. "Why are you HERE? How did you—" She rounds on you. "You told $aceHim?"<br><br> <<if $confrontational > 60>>"Yes," you say flatly. "We need backup. Real backup. $aceHeC has resources we don't."<<elseif $soft > 60>>"$aceHeC deserves to know you're alive," you say quietly. "I couldn't keep that from $aceHim."<<else>>"We're walking into a criminal hub to interrogate an information broker," you point out. "Forgive me for wanting federal support."<</if>><br><br> "Federal support?" Maud's laugh has no humor. "You brought a CRD agent to a meeting about my illegal activities with my crime boss employer? Are you TRYING to get me killed?"<br><br> "I'm not here as CRD," Ace cuts in. "I'm dressed like this for a reason. Off the books. No badge. No official capacity. Just me."<br><br> "Just you." Maud repeats it. Disbelief sharp enough to cut. "There's no 'just you' anymore, Ace. You're federal. You took an oath. You can't just—"<br><br> "Watch me." <<if $aceGender is "male">>Andre's jaw sets. Stubborn. Immovable. "You think I'm letting you walk into danger without backup? You think I'm sitting this out while you risk your life?"<<elseif $aceGender is "female">>Anaya's jaw sets. Stubborn. Immovable. "You think I'm letting you walk into danger without backup? You think I'm sitting this out while you risk your life?"<</if>><br><br> "I can handle myself," Maud snaps. "I've been handling myself just fine—"<br><br> "Have you?" Ace takes a step forward. Anger flashing in $aceHis eyes. "Because from where I'm standing, you work for a crime boss. You kill people for money. You live in shadows and can't even go home to your own uncle because you're in too deep." $aceHisC voice cracks slightly. "That's not fine, Maudie. That's not even close to fine."<br><br> The childhood nickname hits like a physical blow. Maud's composure fractures. Just for a second.<br><br> "Don't call me that." Barely a whisper. "You don't get to call me that anymore."<br><br> "Why not?" Ace's voice goes soft. "Because you ran away? Because you changed? You're still the girl who helped my dad prep ingredients. Who played card games with my sisters. Who fell asleep on our couch during Sunday dinners."<br><br> Maud looks away. Can't meet $aceHis eyes. "That girl is gone."<br><br> "Bullshit." Simple. Direct. "You're right here. Standing in front of me. Breathing. Alive. Maybe you've changed. Maybe you've done things you regret. But you're still Maud. Still family."<br><br> The word hangs in the salt-heavy air. Family. Complicated. Broken. But real.<br><br> <<if $siblingRelationship is "fixable">>"We don't have time for this," you say quietly. Gently. "The Trade is waiting. Kade is waiting. We can fight about who told who what after we survive the night."<<elseif $siblingRelationship is "broken">>"Touching reunion," you say. Voice flat. "Can we focus on not getting killed now?"<<else>>"We need to move," you point out. "This conversation can happen later. When we're not exposed in a criminal district after dark."<</if>><br><br> Maud takes a shaky breath. Nods. Shadows curl around her shoulders. Armor returning. "Fine. Fine. $aceHeC's here. Nothing I can do about it now." She looks at Ace. Really looks at $aceHim. "But if this goes south. If Luz finds out I brought federal into $luzHis territory. If my position gets compromised—"<br><br> "It won't," Ace promises. "I'm just another hired hand. Anonymous muscle. No one needs to know who I really am."<br><br> "They'll know." Maud's voice is certain. "Brokers they read faces. Body language. They'll know you're law enforcement the second you open your mouth."<br><br> "Then I won't talk much." Ace's smile is tight. Determined. "I'll be the strong silent type. Very mysterious. Very intimidating."<br><br> Despite everything Maud almost smiles. Almost. "You're terrible at silent. You talk in your sleep."<br><br> "That was ONE TIME." Ace protests. "And I was recovering from a concussion."<br><br> The moment breaks the tension. Just slightly. Just enough to breathe.<br><br> You clear your throat. "So. The plan. How do we get in?"<br><br> Maud takes a shaky breath. Nods. Shadows curl around her shoulders. "Fine. $aceHeC's here. Can't change that now." She looks at Ace. Really looks. "But you keep that disguise on. You keep your mouth shut unless absolutely necessary. And if anyone even SUSPECTS you're CRD—"<br><br> "They won't," Ace promises. "I'll be careful. Professional. Just another hired gun."<br><br> "You better be." Maud turns to the real problem. "The Trade. Getting in is the first challenge. Security will assess us at the door. Decide if we're worth letting in or if we're trouble."<br><br> "What kind of business happens there?" you ask.<br><br> "Contracts. Brokering. High-level criminal transactions." Maud lists them off. "Information trading. Weapon deals. Specialist recruitment. If it's illegal and expensive, The Trade facilitates it."<br><br> <<if $background is "investigative">>"I've broken stories about places like this," you say. "Know how they operate."<<elseif $background is "tabloid">>"I've dealt with information brokers," you offer. "Different context. Same principles."<<elseif $background is "whistle">>"I've navigated grey markets before," you add. "Classified intel trading. Similar structure."<<elseif $background is "war">>"Seen these in conflict zones," you say. "Black market hubs. Same setup. Different city."<</if>><br><br> "Then you know the door is the first test," Maud continues. "We need to look like potential clients. People with money and problems that need solving."<br><br> "What's our cover story?" Ace asks. All business now.<br><br> "We're looking for a specialist," Maud says. "Someone who can handle a delicate situation. We've heard The Trade connects clients with the best freelancers in Sordia."<br><br> "Vague enough to be believable," you observe. "Specific enough to sound legitimate."<br><br> "Exactly." Maud's eyes fix on The Trade in the distance. "Once we're inside, we find a broker. Someone who handles high-profile contracts. Umbra specialists. That's who would have connected Marlowe to his client."<br><br> "And convince them to tell us who paid for surveillance on twelve targets," you finish.<br><br> "By whatever means necessary." Maud's smile is sharp. Dangerous.<br><br> <<if $confrontational > 60>>"Violence is on the table?" Direct question.<br><br> "If talking fails," Maud confirms. "Brokers don't crack easy. We might need leverage."<<elseif $soft > 60>>"There has to be another way," you say. "Something that doesn't end in bloodshed."<br><br> "Maybe." Maud sounds doubtful. "If we can offer value. Information for information."<<else>>"We trade," you suggest. "Give them something valuable. Get Marlowe's client information in return."<br><br> Maud nods slowly. "That could work. If we have something worth trading."<</if>><br><br> <<if $background is "investigative">>"Municipal corruption files," you offer. "Officials with bloodline connections. Documented evidence."<<elseif $background is "tabloid">>"Scandal archives. Celebrity blackmail material. Dirt on people who think they're untouchable."<<elseif $background is "whistle">>"Leaked documents. Asset seizure records. Payoff information. Insurance against powerful people."<<elseif $background is "war">>"Combat intel. Weapons routes. Black market supply chains. Connection networks."<</if>><br><br> "That might buy us an audience," Maud admits. "Maybe even answers. If the broker thinks we're worth the risk."<br><br> "And if they don't?" Ace's hand moves to where $aceHis weapon would be. Finds nothing. Adjusts awkwardly.<br><br> "Then I get us out." Maud's shadows pulse. Ready.<br><br> "By killing them?" The question comes out before you can stop it.<br><br> Maud doesn't flinch. "If necessary."<br><br> The answer sits heavy between the three of you. Truth. Ugly truth. But truth.<br><br> <<if $aceGender is "male">>Andre looks like he wants to argue. Wants to remind her about laws and morality and all the things he swore to uphold. But he doesn't. Just nods once. "Your call. But I want it on record that I hate this plan."<<elseif $aceGender is "female">>Anaya looks like she wants to argue. Wants to remind her about laws and morality and all the things she swore to uphold. But she doesn't. Just nods once. "Your call. But I want it on record that I hate this plan."<</if>><br><br> "Noted." Maud almost smiles again. "Your objection has been recorded and promptly ignored."<br><br> "Story of my life with you," Ace mutters. But there's warmth in it.<br><br> You watch them. The easy rhythm starting to return. Not perfect. Not healed. But familiar. <br><br> "Ready?" you ask.<br><br> They both nod. United. At least for now.<br><br> The three of you stand in silence. Looking at The Trade. The building leans like it's drunk. Or maybe just tired of standing upright in a city that rewards corruption. Neon bleeding across cracked walls. Music barely audible over water lapping against the pier. <br><br> "Last chance to back out," Maud offers. Doesn't expect anyone to take it. But says it anyway.<br><br> "Not a chance," Ace replies immediately. "I'm not letting you walk in there alone."<br><br> "Same," you add. <<if $vice is "work">>"I need answers. I need to know why I'm on that list."<<elseif $vice is "smoking">>You light a cigarette. The flame briefly illuminates three faces. Determined. Ready.<<elseif $vice is "alcohol">>You take a sip from your flask. "Besides. I've survived worse. Probably."<<else>>"We're in this together now. For better or worse."<</if>><br><br> Maud nods slowly. Shadows gathering around her like armor. Like wings. Like the darkness that's kept her alive in Sordia's underbelly. "Then let's go find out who wants us so bad. And make them regret it."<br><br> The three of you move toward The Trade. Together. Broken pieces trying to function as a whole. Not a team. Not yet. But something. Three people with a common goal.<br><br> Sordia's neon bleeds across your faces as you approach the entrance. The Chimaera bouncer straightens. Watches. Calculates threat levels.<br><br> Time to walk into the monster's mouth and see if you can walk back out.<br><br> [[Continue|CH1P20]]

The Chimaera bouncer is seven feet of mutation and muscle. Scales cover the left side of his face. Reptilian. Iridescent green that catches the neon light. The right side is human. Mostly. Scarred tissue bridges the gap where reptilian and human features war for dominance.<br><br> His eyes are mismatched. One human brown. One vertical-slit yellow. Both track your approach with predatory focus.<br><br> "Maud." The bouncer's voice is gravel and broken. "Someone expecting you?"<br><br> "Krane my boy! Different business tonight." Maud's shadows curl around her feet. Casual. Relaxed. The body language of someone who belongs. "These are clients of Luz. Need specialist help."<br><br> The bouncer's yellow eye fixes on you. Then Ace. Calculating. "I don't know these faces."<br><br> "That's the point." Maud doesn't miss a beat. "Client confidentiality. Luz values discretion."<br><br> "Luz values profit." Krane crosses massive arms. Scales catching light. "And I value not letting random people into my establishment just because someone drops the boss's name."<br><br> The challenge hangs in the air. Heavy. Dangerous.<br><br> Ace stays silent. Hat pulled low. Sunglasses hiding eyes. Playing the part. Professional muscle with nothing to say.<br><br> This is on you.<br><br> Time to see if your skills are worth anything in the real Sordia.<br><br> <<if $career is "investigative">> [[⌕ Claim you're a private contractor who specializes in finding people who don't want to be found.|CH1P20_Investigative]] <<elseif $career is "warCorrespondent">> [[⌕ Claim you're ex-military contractor with extraction experience .|CH1P20_WarCorrespondent]] <<elseif $career is "whistleblower">> [[⌕ Claim you're a corporate fixer who handles sensitive acquisitions.|CH1P20_Whistleblower]] <<else>> [[⌕ Claim you're an information broker from out of town.|CH1P20_Tabloid]] <</if>>

You keep your voice level. Professional. The tone you use when interviewing sources who don't trust easily.<br><br> "I'm a private contractor. Skip tracer. I find people who don't want to be found." You meet Krane's eyes directly. "Luz has a... situation. Someone with valuable information disappeared two weeks ago. The usual channels haven't worked. So $luzHe has reached out to someone with no local connections. No ties to the families. Someone who can operate without every information broker in Sordia knowing about it."<br><br> Krane's expression doesn't change. "What's your name?"<br><br> The moment of truth. Give him enough to seem legitimate without anything he can actually verify.<br><br> "$firstName. Based out of Detroit before this. Specialized in bloodline tracking. Umbra, specifically." You pause. "Which is why Luz wants an Umbra for the retrieval. Takes one to find one, especially when they're using their abilities to stay hidden."<br><br> "Detroit." Krane's pupils contract. Processing. "Rough territory for bloodline work after the purges."<br><br> "That's why I left." You lean into the lie. "Luz offered better pay and less chance of getting shot by supremacists. All I need is access to the private section. Talk to some information brokers. Find my target. Collect my fee. Everyone's happy."<br><br> Krane studies you. The calculation in his eyes is sharp. Dangerous.<br><br> [[⌕ "Look, I know about the Wednesday night shipments. The containers that arrive when dock security is minimal. Luz mentioned you'd be paranoid about infiltration after the Mirage Collective tried that stunt last month. I get it. But I'm not here to fuck with anyone's operation. I'm here to do a job and leave."|CH1P20_Investigative_Success]]<br><br> [[⌕ "You want credentials? Fine. Call Luz. Ask about the Detroit skip tracer. But while you're making that call, my target is getting further away and Luz is getting more pissed about delays. Your choice."|CH1P20_Investigative_Fail]]<br><br> [[⌕ "You don't know me. I don't know you. But we both know Luz doesn't send people without reason. Let me through, I do my job, I leave. Simple."|CH1P20_Investigative_Fail]]<br><br>

You don't waste time with elaborate stories. Military types respect directness.<br><br> "Ex-contractor. Private military before the market dried up." You gesture to the slight limp. "Worked extraction operations in Jakarta during the bloodline suppression campaigns. Luz hired me for a retrieval job. Needs someone with combat experience who isn't connected to local operations."<br><br> Krane's posture shifts. Assessing you not as a threat but as a professional. "What company?"<br><br> Shit. Specific question. Need a specific answer.<br><br> "Operated independently after Blackwater collapsed. Small team. Discrete jobs." You meet his eyes. "The kind that don't appear in official records. Which is exactly why Luz wants someone like me."<br><br> "Uh-huh." Not convinced. "And your friend?" He nods toward Ace.<br><br> "Logistics." Ace steps forward smoothly. $aceHisC voice is calm. "Extraction requires coordination. I handle transportation, equipment, timing. Standard two-person operation." <br><br> Krane studies you both. His eyes linger on your stance, your posture, the way you distribute weight to favor your good leg. Combat veteran recognizing combat veteran. Maybe.<br><br> [[⌕ "Look, I know this is unusual. This job needs someone they don't know. Someone who can handle complications if the retrieval goes sideways. That's me. Former PMC with bloodline combat experience and no local surveillance watching my movements."|CH1P20_WarCorrespondent_Success]]<br><br> [[⌕ "You've got the look. Contractor before this? Maybe military before that? Then you know how it works. Sometimes the job requires outsiders. New faces. Plausible deniability. Luz gets that. Question is whether you're going to trust Luz's judgment or make this complicated."|CH1P20_WarCorrespondent_Fail]]<br><br> [[⌕ "I'm not asking permission. Luz hired me for a job. You're delaying that job. How do you think that conversation goes when Luz asks why the retrieval took longer than projected?"|CH1P20_WarCorrespondent_Fail]]<br><br>

You've spent years navigating corporate structures. Time to use that experience.<br><br> "I'm a corporate fixer. I handle sensitive acquisitions." You keep your voice professional. Businesslike. "Information. Assets. People. Things that need to move quietly through official channels without attracting attention."<br><br> Krane's expression doesn't change. "What corporation?"<br><br> "Multiple clients. That's the point." You lean into the lie. "I specialize in extracting data and personnel from secured facilities. Luz has a... situation. Someone took something that belongs to $luzHim. Something valuable. Something that requires someone with access to corporate security systems and no obvious connections to $luzHis organization."<br><br> "Uh-huh." Skeptical. "And this requires visiting the Trade because...?"<br><br> "Because the thief went underground. Literally. Disappeared into Sordia's information black market." You gesture around. "Luz needs someone who can navigate corporate structures and criminal networks. Someone who understands how both sides operate. That's me."<br><br> Ace adds smoothly, <<if $aceGender is "male">>"I handle the technical side. Security bypasses. Digital forensics. Standard support for corporate extraction operations."<<else>>"I handle the technical side. Security bypasses. Digital forensics. Standard support for corporate extraction operations."<</if>> Krane studies you both. Not convinced. Getting more suspicious by the second.<br><br> [[⌕ "Look, I know you're paranoid. I know about the CRD raid that's being planned for next week—east entrance, targeting unlicensed HanTech weapons. And I know Luz pays you well enough that you don't want complications. So let me through, I do my job, I leave, and everyone's operations continue without disruption."|CH1P20_Whistleblower_Success]]<br><br> [[⌕ "This is a simple risk-benefit analysis. The risk of letting me through is minimal—I'm not here to interfere with Trade operations. The benefit is that Luz's situation gets resolved without complications. The risk of refusing is that Luz becomes... displeased with obstacles. Your call."|CH1P20_Whistleblower_Fail]]<br><br> [[⌕ "I have information about upcoming CRD operations against the Trade. Details about surveillance, timing, targets. Let me through, and I'll share what I know. Simple transaction. Everyone benefits."|CH1P20_Whistleblower_Fail]]<br><br>

You read people for a living. Time to use those skills.<br><br> "I'm an information broker. Out of town. No local connections." You keep your voice casual. Professional. "Luz needs someone to handle a discrete transaction. Something that requires a face that isn't already catalogued by every surveillance system in Sordia."<br><br> Krane's eyes narrow. "What kind of transaction?"<br><br> "The kind that requires an Umbra intermediary." You gesture to Maud. "Someone disappeared with something valuable. Someone with shadow-travel capabilities. Luz needs that item retrieved. Needs someone unknown to coordinate the exchange."<br><br> Ace adds, <<if $aceGender is "male">>"I handle verification. Make sure what we're buying is actually what we're paying for. Standard broker operation."<<else>>"I handle verification. Make sure what we're buying is actually what we're paying for. Standard broker operation."<</if>> "Uh-huh." Not convinced. "And Luz couldn't use $luzHis regular brokers because...?"<br><br> "Because the target knows Luz's people. Knows their faces. Would spot them immediately." You lean into the performance. Reading Krane's micro-expressions. His tells. "This requires someone new. Someone the target hasn't seen before. Someone who can walk into a meeting without triggering alarms."<br><br> It's close enough to truth to be convincing. But Krane still looks skeptical.<br><br> [[⌕ "Look, I get it. You don't know me. That's the point. I'm nobody. Just another face in the crowd. But I know about Luz's operation. I know about the protection money paid to keep CRD raids scheduled for convenient times. And I know Luz doesn't send people here without authorization. So either you trust Luz's judgment, or you don't."|CH1P20_Tabloid_Success]]<br><br> [[⌕ "Come on. Do I look like a cop? Like a journalist? I'm just trying to do a job and get paid. Same as everyone else down here. No drama. No complications. Just business."|CH1P20_Tabloid_Fail]]<br><br> [[⌕ "I'm offering you something here. I'm an information broker. I know things. Things about upcoming CRD operations. Things about rival families. Let me through, and we can talk about mutually beneficial arrangements. Everyone profits."|CH1P20_Tabloid_Fail]]<br><br>

<<set $tradeEntry to "success">> <<set $bouncerThreat to false>> <<set $calculatedVsReckless += 1>> Something shifts in Krane's expression. The Wednesday shipments aren't common knowledge. The Mirage infiltration attempt is even less so.<br><br> "How do you know about Mirage?"<br><br> "Because Luz briefed me on current threats before sending me here." You keep your voice steady. "Told me about the bouncer at the private entrance who's good at his job. Paranoid. Smart. Said you'd give me shit but would let me through once I proved I actually know what I'm talking about."<br><br> Maud laughs. "Told you they were legit, Krane. Luz doesn't send amateurs."<br><br> Krane's hand moves away from his weapon. Not relaxed. Just... less immediately threatening.<br><br> "You've got twenty minutes," he says. "Find your target. Don't cause problems. Don't touch anything that isn't yours. And if I find out you're lying about who you work for, they won't find enough of you to identify."<br><br> "Understood."<br><br> He steps aside. The stairs beckon. Dark. Dangerous. Full of answers.<br><br> [[Descend into the private section.|CH1P21]]

<<set $tradeEntry to "fail">> <<set $bouncerThreat to true>> "Call Luz?" Krane's voice drops an octave. Dangerous. "You want me to bother my employer because you can't provide basic verification? That's not how this works."<br><br> His hand closes around the neural disruptor's grip. "Here's what I think. I think you're fishing. Using Luz's name to get access. Maybe you're press. Maybe you're law enforcement. Maybe you're just stupid. Don't really care which."<br><br> "Wait—"<br><br> "You've got five seconds to leave before I make you leave."<br><br> The shadows around Maud explode outward. Darkness coalescing into something almost physical. Her grin is wide. Feral. Wrong.<br><br> "Or," Maud says, voice sing-song, "we can do this the fun way."<br><br> [[Continue|CH1P20_Maud_Intervention]]

<<set $maudViolence to "triggered">> Krane's neural disruptor clears its holster. Enhanced Chimaera reflexes. Aimed at Maud.<br><br> "Stand down. I don't care who you work for. You threaten me, I respond."<br><br> Maud laughs. Delighted. "Oh please threaten me back. I love when they threaten back."<br><br> "Maud," you start, but she's already moving.<br><br> The disruptor fires. Blue-white electrical discharge.<br><br> Maud becomes shadow. The blast passes through empty air. Scorching concrete behind where she stood. She reforms closer. Grin widening.<br><br> "My turn."<br><br> She moves fast. Umbra-fast. Krane is enhanced but outmatched.<br><br> His backup weapon—conventional firearm—appears. He fires. Three shots. Center mass. Head. Heart.<br><br> Maud's form splits. Multiplies. Bullets punch through shadows. Ricochet off metal somewhere in darkness.<br><br> She materializes inside his guard. One hand wraps around his throat. The other produces a blade. Obsidian-black. Wrong.<br><br> "Maud, stop!" you shout.<br><br> She doesn't look at you. Eyes locked on Krane's face. Drinking his fear.<br><br> "He tried to shoot me, $firstName." Reasonable. Explaining obvious facts. "Can't let that slide."<br><br> The blade moves toward Krane's throat—<br><br> A soft thwip cuts through the air.<br><br> Krane's eyes roll back. The neural disruptor clatters to concrete. He goes limp in Maud's grip.<br><br> Maud releases him. Spins. Shadows exploding outward.<br><br> Ace stands ten feet away. Tranquilizer gun still raised. Smoke wisping from the barrel.<br><br> Silence. Dangerous. Absolute.<br><br> Then Maud moves. Fast. Closing the distance between them in a blur of shadow and fury.<br><br> "What the FUCK?" She's in Ace's face now. Shadows writhing. "You shot him?"<br><br> "Yes." Ace doesn't back down. Doesn't lower the weapon. "You were about to kill him."<br><br> "He shot at me first!"<br><br> "And now he's unconscious instead of dead." Ace's voice is calm. Infuriatingly calm. "Problem solved."<br><br> "I HAD IT UNDER CONTROL." Maud's voice rises. Sharp. Dangerous.<br><br> "You had a murder under control." Ace finally lowers the tranquilizer. "Different things."<br><br> "You don't get to make that call!" Maud's hands clench. Shadows pulsing around her like a heartbeat. "You don't get to just—to just shoot people and decide how this goes!"<br><br> "Neither do you." Simple. Direct. "Not when it puts $firstName at risk. Not when it compromises the entire operation."<br><br> "Oh, so this is about protecting $firstName?" Maud's laugh has no humor. "Or is this about you playing federal agent? Can't turn it off, can you? Always have to be the good guy. Always have to save people."<br><br> "Someone has to." Ace's jaw sets. Stubborn. "Especially when you're busy trying to kill everyone who looks at you wrong."<br><br> "He SHOT at me!"<br><br> "And you escalated!" Ace steps forward. Matching her energy. "You could have backed down. Could have walked away. But no. You had to pull a fucking shadow blade and go for his throat."<br><br> "That's how this world works!" Maud gestures around. At the Trade. At Sordia. "That's how you survive down here! You show weakness, you die!"<br><br> "You're not surviving. You're escalating. There's a difference."<br><br> They're inches apart now. Both breathing hard.<br><br> "Stand down," you say. Stepping between them. "Both of you."<br><br> Silence. Tense. Fragile.<br><br> Maud breaks first. Exhales. Shadows settling slightly. "Fine. Whatever." She glares at Ace. "But next time you shoot someone to 'save' me, I won't be so forgiving."<br><br> "Noted." Ace holsters the tranquilizer. "Now help me move him before someone sees."<br><br> "Why should I?"<br><br> "Because I just saved you from a murder charge and this is how you say thank you." Ace is already moving toward Krane's unconscious form. "Grab his legs."<br><br> Maud mutters something that sounds like profanity in three different languages. But she grabs Krane's legs.<br><br> They carry him to a trash can near the entrance. Ace props him up against it. Arranges him to look passed out. Drunk maybe. Maud adds shadows around him. Concealment. Makes him harder to notice casually.<br><br> "Twenty minutes," Ace says quietly. "Maybe thirty before he wakes. We need to move."<br><br> "I know how tranquilizers work," Maud snaps.<br><br> "Then stop arguing and start moving."<br><br> Another glare. But the immediate crisis has passed.<br><br> Ace looks at you. "Maud definitely knows what she's doing."<br><br> "I'm aware." You look at the concealed Krane. "We good?"<br><br> "For now." Ace adjusts $aceHis disguise. Hat. Sunglasses. Hoodie. "But we need to move. Other security will notice eventually."<br><br> Maud is already heading toward the entrance. Shadows gathering around her like armor. "Then stop talking and start walking."<br><br> The stairs into the private section beckon. Dark. Dangerous. Full of answers.<br><br> Time to find them.<br><br> [[Descend into the private section.|CH1P21]]

<<set $tradeEntry to "success">> <<set $bouncerThreat to false>> <<set $hardVsSoft += 1>> Krane's eyes narrow. "Mirage has surveillance on Luz's people?"<br><br> "That's the working theory." You keep your voice level. Professional. "Which is why $luzHeS brought in outside contractors for this particular job. Need someone Mirage doesn't have facial recognition data on. Someone who can move through the Trade without triggering alerts."<br><br> "And you need an Umbra because...?"<br><br> "Target has Umbra capabilities. Shadow travel, concealment, the works. Can't track someone like that with conventional methods. Need someone who operates in the same spectrum."<br><br> It's close enough to the truth to be convincing. Krane processes this, his expression calculating.<br><br> Maud grins. "See? Told you they were here for legitimate business. Well." Her grin widens. "Legitimate by our standards."<br><br> Krane's hand moves away from his weapon. "Twenty minutes. You find your Umbra contact. You handle your retrieval. You leave. Don't cause problems. Don't draw attention. And if I find out this is bullshit, you'll wish I'd just shot you at the entrance."<br><br> "Fair enough."<br><br> He steps aside. Professional courtesy between people who understand violence as a trade.<br><br> [[Descend into the private section.|CH1P21]]

<<set $tradeEntry to "fail">> <<set $bouncerThreat to true>> "You're not asking permission?" Krane's voice goes flat. Dangerous. "On my territory? At my post?"<br><br> His hand blurs to the neural disruptor. Fast. Too fast.<br><br> "That's a mistake," he says. "One you're about to regret."<br><br> Before you can respond, the temperature plummets. Your breath turns to mist.<br><br> Maud's shadows erupt like living things. Wrapping around Krane's wrist. Stopping the draw.<br><br> "Now, now," Maud purrs. "That's no way to treat Luz's guests, is it?"<br><br> Her grin is delighted. Anticipatory. The expression she wears right before someone starts bleeding.<br><br> [[Continue|CH1P20_Maud_Intervention]]

<<set $tradeEntry to "success">> <<set $bouncerThreat to false>> <<set $calculatedVsReckless += 1>> <<set $corruption += 1>> Krane's expression shifts. The CRD raid isn't public knowledge. Neither is the Mirage situation.<br><br> "How do you know about the raid?"<br><br> "Because I still have contacts in city government. That's how corporate fixers operate." You keep your voice steady. "Information is currency. I know about the raid. I know it's scheduled for Tuesday morning. I know they're using the new neural dampeners from Han Tech. And I know that if you want to relocate sensitive inventory before then, you have about sixty hours."<br><br> Silence. Krane processes this. Calculating value versus risk.<br><br> Maud adds helpfully, "Luz mentioned they had good intel sources. Guess that's what $luzHeS meant."<br><br> "Twenty minutes," Krane finally says. His hand moves away from his weapon. "You find your contact. You handle your extraction. You leave. And if that raid information is wrong, we'll have a very different conversation."<br><br> "It's not wrong."<br><br> "For your sake, it better not be." He steps aside. "Third platform. East tunnel. Don't touch anything. Don't photograph anything. Don't cause problems."<br><br> [[Descend into the private section.|CH1P21]]

<<set $tradeEntry to "fail">> <<set $bouncerThreat to true>> "You're trying to trade information?" Krane's voice drops. Dangerous. "Offering intelligence in exchange for access? That's exactly what an infiltrator would do."<br><br> His hand moves to the neural disruptor. "Here's my risk-benefit analysis: The risk of letting potential spies into the private section is fucking massive. The benefit of kicking your ass out is zero complications. Easy choice."<br><br> "Wait, I can explain—"<br><br> "You're done explaining." The weapon clears its holster.<br><br> The shadows around Maud surge. Darkness pooling like oil. Coalescing into shapes that shouldn't exist in three dimensions.<br><br> "Krane," Maud says, voice sweet. Wrong. "You're being rude to Luz's clients. That's bad manners. Want me to teach you better manners?"<br><br> Her grin is anticipatory. Delighted. The expression that precedes violence.<br><br> [[Continue|CH1P20_Maud_Intervention]]

<<set $tradeEntry to "success">> <<set $bouncerThreat to false>> <<set $deflectingVsCutting -= 1>> Something flickers in Krane's expression. The CRD payment schedule isn't widely known.<br><br> "How do you know about the CRD schedule?"<br><br> "Because information is my business. Just like security is yours." You keep your voice level. Confident. "Luz vetted me before sending me here. Gave me enough information to prove I'm legitimate. Which I just did. So unless you want to explain to Luz why you're questioning $luzHis operational decisions, maybe we skip the rest of the interrogation?"<br><br> Maud grins. "They're good, yeah? Luz picks quality people."<br><br> Krane's hand moves away from his weapon. Slowly. Still calculating. But the immediate threat has passed.<br><br> "Twenty minutes," he says. "Third platform. East tunnel. You handle your transaction. You leave. Don't cause problems. Don't draw attention to my post. And don't make me regret this."<br><br> "Understood."<br><br> He steps aside. Professional. Still suspicious. But letting you through.<br><br> [[Descend into the private section|CH1P21]]

<<set $tradeEntry to "fail">> <<set $bouncerThreat to true>> "You're trying to bribe me?" Krane's voice goes cold. "With information? That's exactly what someone trying to infiltrate would do. Build trust. Offer value. Get access."<br><br> His hand closes around the neural disruptor. "I'm done with this conversation."<br><br> "Wait—"<br><br> "You've got five seconds to leave. Five. Four—"<br><br> The temperature crashes. Your breath turns to mist.<br><br> Maud steps forward, shadows pooling around her like living darkness. Her eyes are black. Empty. Reflecting nothing.<br><br> "Three's my favorite number," she says. Voice playful. Wrong. "Let's see what happens at three."<br><br> Her grin is wide. Anticipatory. The expression she wears right before someone stops breathing.<br><br> [[Continue|CH1P20_Maud_Intervention]]

You pull out your phone. Check the address. Cross-reference with Sordia's map. <br><br> "Marlowe's warehouse," you say, already mentally mapping the route. "We know where it is. Let's go now while we have momentum."<br><br> "Agreed," Ace says. <<if $aceGender is "male">>His hand rests where his CRD-issue weapon usually sits. Ready. "Strike while the intel's fresh. He won't expect us tonight."<<elseif $aceGender is "female">>Her hand rests where her CRD-issue weapon usually sits. Ready. "Strike while the intel's fresh. He won't expect us tonight."<</if>><br><br> "No." Maud's voice cuts through the planning. Flat. Final.<br><br> You both turn to stare at her.<br><br> "No?" you repeat.<br><br> "N-O. No." Maud's shadows pulse around her boots like agitated pets. "You two aren't going anywhere near an Umbra's territory at night. Are you insane? Actually insane?"<br><br> "We've handled worse," Ace argues. $aceHisC tone stays patient. The same voice $aceHe uses with $aceHis youngest sister when they're being stubborn. "We'll be careful."<br><br> "Careful." Maud laughs. The sound's wrong. Brittle. "You want to be careful around a level-seven Umbra at night. During our hunting hours. When we're strongest. When shadows are everywhere and you two glow like neon signs screaming 'please murder us.'"<br><br> "I mean... Yeah okay you have a point," Ace admits reluctantly.<br><br> "Of course I have a point!" Maud's voice rises. Gets that manic edge. "Umbras are nocturnal predators. Marlowe's had years to set up his territory. Every shadow's a weapon. Every dark corner's a death trap. And you two—" She gestures at you both. "You're walking flashlights to him. He'll see you coming from blocks away."<br><br> "Then what do you suggest?" Ace asks. $aceHeC crosses $aceHis arms but $aceHis expression stays soft. Listening. <br><br> "I'll scope it out myself. Later. First I have to talk to Luz. Besides Marlowe knows me. Knows Luz. I can find a reason to talk with him." Maud grins, showing too many teeth. "I'll bring my lackey Vince. He's useful for sniffing out traps. Oh did I mention I have a lackey now?"<br><br> "And we just do nothing?" you ask. The journalist in you hates delay. Hates giving targets time to disappear.<br><br> "You wait," Maud corrects. "You two get your shit together. Equipment. Backup plans. Actual preparation instead of 'let's see what happens.'" She looks at Ace. "You don't even have your full CRD gear. What're you gonna do, arrest him with harsh language?"<br><br> Ace's jaw tightens. Then relaxes. "She's right. My equipment's still at headquarters."<br><br> "Tomorrow night," Maud says. Firm. "We do this properly after I scoped out the place. With an actual plan that doesn't end with $firstName or you bleeding out in an alley."<br><br> The three of you stand there. Sordia's neon bleeding colors across the pavement. Traffic sounds in the distance. The city's endless mechanical heartbeat that never stops.<br><br> "Tomorrow night then," you concede. <<if $background is "investigative">>"Fine. We do proper reconnaissance. Floor plans. Security systems. Escape routes."<<elseif $background is "tabloid">>"Fine. I've seen enough 'tragic deaths' to know they all start with 'seemed like a good idea at the time.'"<<elseif $background is "whistle">>"Fine. Marlowe's probably very careful. We need to match that preparation if things go south."<<elseif $background is "war">>"Fine. I've seen too many people die rushing into situations without intel."<</if>><br><br> "My place," Maud offers. "It's closer to Marlowe's territory. We meet at sunset. Go in prepared."<br><br> "Text me the address," $aceHe tells Maud. Then softer: "And come home soon, yeah? Don't stay out all night doing whatever shadowy nonsense you're planning."<br><br> Maud's grin goes crooked. Almost genuine. "Aww, you worried about me, Ace?"<br><br> "Always," Ace says simply and before she can react $aceHe ruffles her hair. "Eugh stop that!," Maud protests. "I am not a kid anymore!"<br><br> "Keep trying to tell yourself that pickney." But Ace's smiling. That real smile that makes $aceHis scars crinkle at the corners. "Get some rest. Both of you. Tomorrow's gonna be complicated."<br><br> $aceHeC reaches out, squeezes your shoulder.<br><br> "Be careful," $aceHe says to you. "And make sure you get home safe. And try to get everything out of your system."<br><br> "No promises," you say. "We're two complicated people."<br><br> "Fair point." Ace adjusts $aceHis jacket. "See ya."<br><br> $aceHeC walks away. Hands in pockets. Shoulders set against Sordia's endless night. $aceHisC silhouette disappears around a corner, swallowed by neon and darkness.<br><br> Then it's just you and Maud.<br><br> Your sister. Your disaster. <br><br> "So," Maud says. Her voice loses the manic edge. Goes quiet. Almost human. "You wanted to talk. Let's talk."<br><br> The city hums around you. Waiting. Watching. Sordia never sleeps, but it sure as hell knows when to shut up and listen.<br><br> [[Talk to Maud|CH1P23]]

The Trade sprawls before you.<br><br> Not one room. Not simple. The converted warehouse opens into something vast. Multiple levels connected by metal staircases. Walkways crisscrossing overhead like industrial spiderwebs. The skeleton of the old factory remains, but everything inside has been gutted and rebuilt.<br><br> For buying and selling secrets.<br><br> The ground floor buzzes with hushed activity. Dozens of people conducting business in voices that don't carry. Private booths line the walls, soundproofed with heavy curtains. Digital screens display market rates for information. All available if you have the cash.<br><br> A marketplace for things that shouldn't be for sale. Where secrets become currency.<br><br> "This place gives me a headache," Ace mutters, eyes scanning the crowd with professional wariness. $aceHisC hand rests near $aceHis hip. Old habit.<br><br> "Then you'll love what comes next," Maud says. Her shadows coil around her like excited pets. "We need to find Marlowe's broker. And brokers love to talk. Eventually."<br><br> The way she says 'eventually' makes your stomach tighten.<br><br> Ace catches it too. "Maud. We're gathering information. Not starting a war."<br><br> "Why not both?" But Maud moves forward, shadows settling slightly. Controlled. For now.<br><br> <<set $brokerClues to { kade: 0, sera: 0, max: 0, lenny: 0 }>> <<set $brokerSuspect to "">> <<set $visitedAreas to []>> <<set $investigationCount to 0>> [[Start investigating->TradeHub]]

<div class="investigation-box"> <h3>Investigation Progress</h3> <<if $investigationCount gte 3>> <p class="ready">You've gathered enough information to make an identification</p> <<else>> <p class="gathering">Continue gathering information (<<print $investigationCount>>/3 sources checked)</p> <</if>> </div> <div class="choice-cluster"> <<if !$visitedAreas.includes("kiosk")>>[[⌕ Check the digital kiosk->TradeKiosk]]<br><</if>> <<if !$visitedAreas.includes("crowd")>>[[⌕ Talk to people in the crowd->TradeCrowd]]<br><</if>> <<if !$visitedAreas.includes("bar")>>[[⌕ Visit the bar area->TradeBar]]<br><</if>> <<if !$visitedAreas.includes("service")>>[[⌕ Check service room areas->TradeService]]<br><</if>> <<if $investigationCount gte 3>> <br>[[You're ready to identify the broker->BrokerIdentification]] <</if>> </div>

<<if !$visitedAreas.includes("kiosk")>> <<set $visitedAreas.push("kiosk")>> <<set $investigationCount += 1>> Near the center, a digital kiosk displays a directory. Services organized by category. Clinical. Businesslike. As if this is a legitimate enterprise.<br><br> Maud scrolls through with jerky, impatient movements.<br><br> <div class="kiosk-interface"> <h3>☰ Trade Directory - Public Services</h3> <span class="info-display">Surveillance Support – Level 2, Room 7</span><br> <span class="info-display">Identity Verification – Level 1, Room 12</span><br> <span class="info-display">Corporate Intelligence – Level 3, Room 4</span><br> <span class="info-display">Asset Recovery – Level 1, Room 8</span> </div> "Public services," Ace mutters. "The real business happens off the books."<br><br> <<if $research gte 5>> <div class="skill-success"> <span class="skill-name">[Research Check: Success]</span><br> You access system logs showing recent broker activity: Four independent operators with significant transactions:<br> "K.M." - encrypted communications, high security protocols<br> "S.R." - multiple corporate client meetings<br> "M.D." - extremely high transaction volume<br> "L.P." - moderate activity, standard security <<set $brokerClues.kade += 1>> <<set $brokerClues.sera += 1>> <<set $brokerClues.max += 1>> <<set $brokerClues.lenny += 1>> </div> <<set $research += 1>> <<else>> <div class="skill-partial"> You find basic directory information but nothing about individual brokers. </div> <</if>> <<else>> You've already checked the kiosk.<br><br> <</if>> [[Continue investigating->TradeHub]]

<<if !$visitedAreas.includes("crowd")>> <<set $visitedAreas.push("crowd")>> <<set $investigationCount += 1>> You scan the ground floor. Dozens of people conducting business in whispers. Exchanges happening in shadows. Money changing hands for secrets that shouldn't be sold.<br><br> <<if $observation gte 2>> <div class="skill-success"> <span class="skill-name">[Observation Check: Success]</span><br> Your eyes catch patterns. Body language. Who's comfortable. Who's nervous.<br><br> There—near the eastern wall. Five Chimaera clustered together. Mixed genetics visible in scales, fur, unusual eye colors. They're watching the room. Tracking movements. Information brokers themselves.<br><br> The tallest one, a woman with scales running down one arm and silver fur on the other, notices your attention. Her eyes narrow. Assessing whether you're a threat or an opportunity.<br><br> </div> <<set $observation += 1>> <p class="skill-increase">Observation +1</p> <<else>> <div class="skill-partial"> Near the eastern wall, you spot a group of Chimaera. They look like they know things. Like they sell things.<br><br> </div> <</if>> You approach carefully. All five turn to watch. Ready to scatter or fight depending on what happens next.<br><br> The tall woman shifts her weight. Balanced. "Help you with something?"<br><br> Her voice is neutral. But her hand hovers near her jacket. Everyone here is armed. Everyone here is dangerous.<br><br> "Looking for information," you say. "About brokers who operate here."<br><br> "Don't know what you're talking about." Too fast. Rehearsed. Definitely lying.<br><br> The others exchange glances. Nervous energy rippling through the group.<br><br> <div class="choice-cluster"> <<if $persuasion gte 5>>[[⌕ Offer payment for information->ChimaeraPersuade]] <br><</if>> <<if $observation gte 5>>[[⌕ Point out her tells->ChimaeraObserve]] <br><</if>> [[⌕ Let Maud intimidate them->ChimaeraIntim]]<br> [[⌕ Walk away->TradeHub]] </div> <<else>> You've already questioned the Chimaera group. They scattered after your conversation.<br><br> [[Continue investigating->TradeHub]] <</if>>

<<if !$visitedAreas.includes("bar")>> <<set $visitedAreas.push("bar")>> <<set $investigationCount += 1>> A small bar operates in the corner. People nurse drinks. Conduct quiet business.<br><br> The bartender is Abyssal. Webbed fingers. Cool skin. Seen everything twice.<br><br> You approach. Order drinks.<br><br> <<if $networking gte 2>> <div class="skill-success"> <span class="skill-name">[Networking Check: Success]</span><br> You make small talk. Establish rapport. Then: "Hypothetically, if someone needed a specialist arranged. Surveillance work. Discreet. Who would handle that?"<br><br> The bartender wipes a glass. "Hypothetically? Kade handles sensitive arrangements. Charges triple but worth it for complicated work. Sera sometimes, but she's more corporate side. Max and Lenny don't usually touch specialist contracts."<br><br> She slides your drinks over. "Hypothetically."<br><br> <<set $brokerClues.kade += 2>> <<set $brokerClues.sera += 1>> </div> <<set $networking += 1>> <<else>> <div class="skill-partial"> <span class="skill-name">[Networking Check: Partial]</span><br> She's friendly enough but gives nothing substantial. "Four brokers operate here. That's common knowledge."<br><br> <<set $brokerClues.kade += 1>> <<set $brokerClues.sera += 1>> <<set $brokerClues.max += 1>> <<set $brokerClues.lenny += 1>> </div> <</if>> <<else>> You've already visited the bar.<br><br> <</if>> [[Continue investigating->TradeHub]]

<<if !$visitedAreas.includes("service")>> <<set $visitedAreas.push("service")>> <<set $investigationCount += 1>> The listed service rooms occupy both Level 1 and Level 2. Official businesses operating within The Trade's infrastructure. Legitimate fronts for information exchange.<br><br> You decide to visit a few. Ask questions. Pose as potential clients looking for referrals to independent brokers.<br><br> "Split up or stay together?" Ace asks.<br><br> "Together," you reply. "Less suspicious that way. Just clients shopping for services."<br><br> Maud yawns dramatically. "This is the boring part."<br><br> "The boring part keeps us alive," Ace counters.<br><br> <div class="choice-cluster"> [[⌕ Start with Identity Verification (Level 1)->IdentityVerification]]<br> [[⌕ Visit Surveillance Support (Level 2)->SurveillanceSupport]]<br> [[⌕ Check Contract Brokerage (Level 2)->ContractBrokerage]] </div> <<else>> You've already visited the service rooms and gathered information.<br><br> [[Continue investigating->TradeHub]] <</if>>

You've gathered enough information. Time to piece it together.<br><br> Ace, Maud, and you huddle near a quiet corner. Review what you've learned.<br><br> "Four names keep coming up," Ace says. "Kade, Sera, Max, and Lenny."<br><br> "I vote we just beat the information out of all of them," Maud suggests cheerfully.<br><br> "We're not doing that."<br><br> You think through the clues. Jace needed someone for surveillance. High-risk work. Premium pay—fifty thousand upfront, another fifty on completion. Someone discreet who handles complicated operations.<br><br> <div class="investigation-box"> <h3>Identify Marlowe's Broker</h3> <p class="objective">Based on what you've learned, who brokered the contract?</p> </div> <div class="broker-profiles"> <div class="profile-card"> <h4>Kade</h4> <p>• Expensive, secretive</p> <p>• Handles sensitive work</p> <p>• Paranoid security setup</p> <p>• Mentioned for complex arrangements</p> </div> <div class="profile-card"> <h4>Sera</h4> <p>• Corporate intelligence focus</p> <p>• Professional, connected</p> <p>• Sometimes handles sensitive work</p> <p>• Polished operation</p> </div> <div class="profile-card"> <h4>Max</h4> <p>• Extremely high volume</p> <p>• Rapid turnover style</p> <p>• Quantity over quality</p> <p>• Many small contracts</p> </div> <div class="profile-card"> <h4>Lenny</h4> <p>• Standard middleman work</p> <p>• Generic security contracts</p> <p>• Nothing particularly special</p> <p>• Moderate activity</p> </div> </div> Who brokered Marlowe's contract?<br><br> <div class="choice-cluster"> [[Kade - The specialist->GuessKade]]<br> [[Sera - The corporate broker->GuessSera]]<br> [[Max - The volume broker->GuessMax]]<br> [[Lenny - The standard broker->GuessLenny]] </div>

"It's Kade," you say.<br><br> Ace nods slowly. "I was thinking the same. Jace needed surveillance. Long-term, complicated, multiple targets. That's not Max's volume business or Lenny's standard work. Sera does corporate intelligence—mostly legitimate. Kade specializes in expensive, secretive operations. Exactly what Jace would need."<br><br> <<set $brokerSuspect to "kade">> <<set $observation += 5>> [[Find Kade->Level3Arrival]]

"Sera," you say. "The corporate broker."<br><br> Ace frowns. "Why her?"<br><br> "She handles sensitive work. Good connections—"<br><br> "Corporate work," Maud interrupts. "Legitimate stuff. This surveillance was off-the-books. That's not Sera's territory."<br><br> Ace nods. "Think it through. Expensive, secretive, complicated surveillance. Who specializes in exactly that? We should take our chances with Kade."<br><br> "That's what I was thinking too," Maud confirms. She gives you a side-glance. "Looks like your deduction skills need some work."<br><br> [[Find Kade->Level3Arrival]] <<set $brokerSuspect to "kade">> <<set $observation to -3>>

"Max," you say.<br><br> Maud shakes her head immediately. "No way. This contract was complicated. Expensive. Long-term surveillance of multiple targets. That's not volume work."<br><br> Ace agrees. "Max does rapid turnover. Quick money. This operation needed someone who specializes in extended operations."<br><br> You review the evidence. They're right.<br><br> "Kade makes more sense," Ace looks at you. "Expensive, secretive specialist. That's Kade."<br><br> "That's what I was thinking too," Maud confirms. She gives you a side-glance. "Looks like your deduction skills need some work."<br><br> [[Find Kade->Level3Arrival]] <<set $brokerSuspect to "kade">> <<set $observation to -3>>

"Lenny," you say.<br><br> Ace raises an eyebrow. "The generic broker? Why?"<br><br> "He handles security work—"<br><br> "Standard work," Maud interrupts. "Nothing specialized. Nothing complicated. Everyone said he's generic."<br><br> You pause. Review the clues. Lenny kept appearing as background noise. Never as someone who handles complex, expensive operations.<br><br> Ace thinks. "My guess is that it's Kade. Expensive specialist who handles exactly this kind of sensitive work."<br><br> "That's what I was thinking too," Maud confirms. She gives you a side-glance. "Looks like your deduction skills need some work."<br><br> [[Find Kade->Level3Arrival]] <<set $brokerSuspect to "kade">> <<set $observation to -3>>

"Now we find him," Ace says.<br><br> "Level 3," you say. Multiple sources mentioned that. "Back corridor. Room 15."<br><br> Maud's shadows coil eagerly. "Let's go."<br><br> The three of you head for the stairs.<br><br> Level 2 passes in a blur. Maud doesn't stop to explore. Doesn't pause at any of the rooms. She's locked onto the target now. Focused in the way that means someone's about to have a very bad time. <br><br> Level 3 is darker. Quieter. Fewer people up here. The business conducted at this level requires more discretion. More privacy. More money. <br><br> The back corridor stretches ahead. Shadows thick despite the overhead lights. Maud moves through them like they're welcoming her home. Her element. Her territory <br><br> At the end, an unmarked door. Heavy. Reinforced. A camera watches from above. <br><br> Maud knocks. Three sharp raps that sound like gunshots in the quiet corridor. <br><br> "Go away." The voice from within is male. Annoyed. "Not taking clients." <br><br> "Not a client!" Maud calls back, voice bright. Cheerful. "Here about Marlowe. Just want to chat. Promise it'll be quick." <br><br> Silence. <br><br> Then: "I don't know anyone named Marlowe." <br><br> "Wrong answer!" Maud's shadows slam into the door. Not trying to break it. Just making a point. The metal dents. "Let's try again. You're Kade. You broker contracts for Umbra operators. Marlowe uses you. We know this. So open the door before I open it for you." <br><br> "Maud let's not destroy property yet." <br><br> Ace steps forward. "We're trying to find Marlowe. We just need information. That's all." <br><br> More silence. <br><br> Then locks clicking. One. Two. Three. The door opens a crack. A face appears in the gap. Male. Middle-aged. Expensive casual wear. Eyes that calculate risk like a machine. <br><br> "You have thirty seconds before I call security," Kade says. <br><br> Maud's shadows shoot forward. Into the gap. Through it. Wrapping around Kade's wrist before he can pull back. Not tight. Not painful. Just there. A demonstration.<br><br> "Or," Maud says sweetly, "you could invite us in. Be polite. Answer our questions. And keep all your fingers attached to your hand. How's that sound?" <br><br> Kade's expression doesn't change but his other hand moves toward something. Weapon. Panic button. <br><br> "I wouldn't," Maud warns. The shadows tighten. Just a fraction. "I'm very fast. And very creative. And I really, really want to talk to you about Marlowe." <br><br> "Maud." Ace's voice carries warning. "Stand down." <br><br> "I'm being nice!" Maud protests. "I haven't hurt him yet. That's nice." <br><br> Kade looks between the three of you. Calculation happening fast. Three against one. Not great odds. <br><br> "Five minutes," he says finally. "Then you leave." <br><br> Maud's shadows release. She bounces through the doorway like she's been invited to a party. You and Ace follow. The room beyond is larger than expected. Multiple monitors. Security feeds from across The Trade. A command center disguised as a broker's office. <br><br> Kade closes the door. Locks it. His hand hovers near his desk. Definitely a weapon there. <br><br> "Marlowe," Maud says, settling into a chair without being invited. "Recent contracts. Where he is now. Who hired him. Chop chop. Clock's ticking."<br><br> "I don't give out client information." Kade's voice is steady. Professional. "That's my entire business model. Discretion."<br><br> "Discretion's great! Love discretion." Maud's shadows start writhing again. "But see, here's the thing. Marlowe's in trouble. Real trouble. And we need to find him. So you can be discreet. Or you can be helpful. But you can't be both."<br><br> "I don't know where he is."<br><br> "Wrong answer again!" Maud's voice goes sing-song. "You're bad at this game. Want to know what happens when people are bad at my games?"<br><br> Her shadows shoot across the room. Fast. Wrapping around Kade's wrist. Slamming his hand down onto the desk. Hard enough to make the monitors shake.<br><br> "Maud!" Ace moves. Fast.. But Maud's faster.<br><br> A shadow spike erupts from the desk. Thin. Sharp. Positioned directly over Kade's hand. Not touching. Not yet. Just hovering. A promise. <br><br> "I can push this through your hand," Maud says conversationally. "Through all the little bones. Tendons. Nerves. Won't kill you. But you'll never use this hand the same way again. Want to keep playing the quiet game?" <br><br> "Maud!" Ace grabs her shoulder. Tries to pull her back. "Stand down. Now." <br><br> "He's lying!" Maud doesn't move. Doesn't release her shadows. "He knows about Marlowe's contract. He's just being stubborn. I hate stubborn."<br><br> "We don't torture people for information!" Ace's voice rises. Angry now. Really angry. "That's not how this works!"<br><br> "It's how I work!" Maud shoots back. "And it gets results faster than asking pretty please!"<br><br> "Both of you, stop," you say, trying to sound calmer than you feel. "This isn't helping."<br><br> "Fine. FINE." Maud releases the shadows. They withdraw. The spike dissolves. But her eyes stay fixed on Kade. "But if he keeps lying, I'm going to get creative. And you won't like creative."<br><br> Kade pulls his hand back. Flexes his fingers. Making sure they all still work. His expression has shifted from professional neutrality to genuine fear.<br><br> Smart man.<br><br> "Marlowe," Ace says, voice hard. CRD agent mode now. All business. "You're going to tell us what you know. Not because she's threatening you. But because two people are already dead. And I don't know how long I can hold her back."<br><br> Kade's calculation shifts again.<br><br> "Jace came to me with a contract," he finally says. Words coming fast now. Self-preservation kicking in. "Jace is a low-level fixer. Usually handles small jobs. Stolen cargo. Nothing big."<br><br> So Jace was here. "And?" Maud prompts. Shadows still coiled. Ready. <br><br> "He had money. Real money. The kind Jace never has." Kade pulls up files on his monitor. "Said his contractor needed an Umbra. Specifically. For long-term surveillance. Paid premium rates for discretion." <br><br> "Did he say who his contractor was?"<br><br> "I don't know who the contractor is," Kade admits. "Jace wouldn't say. But whoever they are, they have serious money. Jace brought cash. Fifty thousand upfront. Another fifty on contract completion. That's not the kind of money people like Jace just have lying around." <br><br> "So you connected him with Marlowe," you say. <br><br> "That's what I do. I'm a broker. I match jobs with contractors." Kade's voice carries defensiveness. Justification. "Marlowe accepted. Said the money was good. Terms were clear. Standard surveillance operation." <br><br> "When did you last see him?" Ace asks. <br><br> Kade hesitates. Maud's shadows pulse. Reminder. <br><br> "A week ago. He came back. Pissed off. Said the job was a nightmare. The targets were spread across the city. The timeline kept changing. And whoever was giving Jace instructions kept adding complications." <br><br> "The contract's still active?" you ask. <br><br> "As far as I know, yes. Marlowe hasn't completed it." <br><br> Maud leans forward. "Where is he now?" <br><br> "He mentioned a warehouse. Old place in the Southern Docks District. Said he was using it as a temporary base while he figured out his next move." Kade pulls up a map. Marks a location. "Warehouse Seven. Near the water. Multiple exits. Good sightlines." <br><br> "That's it?" Maud asks. "One location?" <br><br> "That's all he told me. Marlowe's paranoid. Smart. He wouldn't tell me everywhere he might go. Just the one place in case I needed to reach him for job updates. He probably has others." <br><br> Ace copies the location information. "And you have really no idea who Jace's contractor is?" "None. Which is why I want nothing to do with this." Kade stands. Moves to his door. "I just connected JAce and Marlowe. Now Marlowe's on his own. I know that Jace is dead. I did my job. The rest is not a fight I'm interested in."<br><br> "You're scared," Maud observes. Not mocking. Just stating fact. <br><br> "I'm smart. There's a difference." Kade unlocks his door. "Find Marlowe or don't. But leave me out of it. I've told you everything I know." <br><br> The three of you leave. Kade locks the door behind you. Multiple mechanisms clicking into place. Sealing himself away from whatever storm is coming. <br><br> Back through the dark corridor. Down the stairs. Through the levels of The Trade where business continues its hushed rhythm. Nobody looks at you. Nobody asks questions. <br><br> Outside, Sordia's air hits you. Heavy. <br><br> [[Continue->CH1P22]] <<set $theoryChoice to "conspiracy">> <<set $tradeVisited to true>>

<<if $persuasion gte 2>> You pull out cash. Not threatening. Professional. "I'm not looking for names. Not looking to cause problems. Just need general information. Who handles what kind of work here."<br><br> The woman eyes the money. Then you. Calculating.<br><br> <<if $persuasion gte 5>> <div class="skill-success"> <span class="skill-name">[Persuasion Check: Critical Success]</span><br> You add more bills. "I know information has value. I'm willing to pay for quality."<br><br> That shifts the dynamic. She takes the money. Makes it disappear.<br><br> "Four main independents," she says, voice low. "Kade runs the most expensive operation. Very secretive. Paranoid security. Only takes high-risk contracts. Charges triple but delivers results."<br><br> She glances at her group. They're watching for threats. "Sera handles corporate intelligence. Very professional. Good connections. Sometimes takes sensitive work but mostly stays legal side."<br><br> "Max is volume. Lots of small contracts. Rapid turnover. Quantity over quality. Doesn't specialize."<br><br> "Lenny's standard security stuff. Middleman work. Nothing particularly impressive."<br><br> A pause. Then: "Someone came through three weeks ago. Fixer type. Nervous. Had serious money. Asked about Umbra contractors specifically. That narrows it down—Kade's your best bet for Umbra work. Sera sometimes, but she's not usually Umbra-focused."<br><br> <<set $brokerClues.kade += 2>> <<set $brokerClues.sera += 1>> </div> <<set $persuasion += 1>> <<else>> <div class="skill-success"> <span class="skill-name">[Persuasion Check: Success]</span><br> She takes the money. Counts it. Nods.<br><br> "Four brokers. Kade's expensive and secretive. Sera does corporate work. Max is all volume. Lenny's generic."<br><br> She pockets the cash. "If someone needed expensive, complicated work arranged, probably Kade or Sera. They're the serious operators."<br><br> <<set $brokerClues.kade += 1>> <<set $brokerClues.sera += 1>> </div> <<set $persuasion += 1>> <</if>> The group disperses quickly. Smart people who know when a transaction is complete.<br><br> [[Continue investigating->TradeHub]] <</if>>

<<if $observation gte 3>> "You're lying," you say calmly. "Your pupils dilated. Your breathing changed. Your hand moved toward your weapon when I mentioned brokers."<br><br> The woman freezes. The others tense.<br><br> "I'm not a threat," you continue. "But I will find out what I need to know. You can make this easy or difficult."<br><br> She relaxes slightly. Impressed despite herself. "You've got eyes."<br><br> <<if $observation gte 5>> <div class="skill-success"> <span class="skill-name">[Observation Check: Critical Success]</span><br> You notice more. The way she glances at a man in the group. The way he shifts uncomfortably. He's dealt with one of these brokers recently. Knows something specific.<br><br> "Your friend there," you say, nodding at him. "He's been to one of them. Recently. Which one?"<br><br> The man swallows. "Kade. Delivered a package two weeks ago. Paranoid bastard. Triple-locked door. Cameras everywhere. Wouldn't even open the door all the way."<br><br> The woman cuts in: "Kade specializes in Umbra work. Expensive. Secretive. If someone needed an Umbra contractor arranged, that's who they'd use. Sera sometimes too, but she's more corporate side. Max and Lenny don't touch Umbra contracts—too risky."<br><br> <<set $brokerClues.kade += 2>> <<set $brokerClues.sera += 1>> </div> <<set $observation += 1>> <<else>> <div class="skill-success"> <span class="skill-name">[Observation Check: Success]</span><br> "Four brokers," she says. "Kade, Sera, Max, Lenny. Kade's the paranoid one. Expensive. Sera's corporate. Max is volume. Lenny's standard."<br><br> She studies you. "You look for patterns. So look at this one—expensive work, secretive arrangements, that's Kade or Sera territory."<br><br> <<set $brokerClues.kade += 1>> <<set $brokerClues.sera += 1>> </div> <<set $observation += 1>> <</if>> The group leaves quickly. You got what you needed.<br><br> [[Continue investigating->TradeHub]] <</if>>

Maud steps forward. Her shadows ripple outward. Just enough to be noticed. Just enough to be threatening.<br><br> "We can do this nice," she says, voice sing-song. "Or we can do this fun. I prefer fun. But my friends here are boring."<br><br> The Chimaera woman's eyes widen. Recognition. Fear. She knows what an Umbra can do.<br><br> "Whoa, hey—" one of the men starts.<br><br> Maud's shadows shoot forward. Wrapping around his ankle. Not hurting. Not yet. Just... holding.<br><br> "Four brokers!" the woman blurts. "Kade, Sera, Max, Lenny. That's all I know!"<br><br> "Details," Maud presses. The shadows tighten.<br><br> "Kade's expensive! Secretive! Does complicated work! Sera's corporate intelligence! Max is volume business! Lenny's standard contracts! That's everything!"<br><br> Ace's hand lands on Maud's shoulder. "That's enough."<br><br> Maud pouts but releases her shadows. The group scatters immediately. Running for exits.<br><br> <<set $maudRelationship += 1>> <<set $aceRelationship -= 1>> <<set $brokerClues.kade += 1>> <<set $brokerClues.sera += 1>> <<set $brokerClues.max += 1>> <<set $brokerClues.lenny += 1>> "That wasn't necessary," Ace says quietly.<br><br> "But it was effective," Maud replies cheerfully.<br><br> [[Continue investigating->TradeHub]]

Level 1, Room 12. The door is unmarked except for a small placard: <span class="info-display">Identity Verification Services</span><br><br> Inside, the office is sterile. White walls. Minimal furniture. A single desk where a young man works on a computer. Human. Maybe mid-twenties. Nervous energy.<br><br> He looks up as you enter. "Can I help you?"<br><br> "Looking for referrals," you say. "Need someone who can arrange... specialized documentation."<br><br> His eyes flicker. He knows what that means. "I just verify credentials. I don't arrange anything."<br><br> Too defensive. He's dealt with this before.<br><br> <<if $persuasion gte 3>> <div class="skill-success"> <span class="skill-name">[Persuasion Check: Success]</span><br> "I'm not asking you to arrange anything," you say smoothly. "Just pointing me toward someone who could. Professional referral. Nothing that implicates you."<br><br> He relaxes slightly. "There are independent brokers. Level 3. They handle... complicated requests."<br><br> "Names?" you press gently.<br><br> He glances at his door. Making sure no one's listening. "Kade if you need absolute discretion. He's expensive but reliable. Charges triple but delivers exactly what's promised. Sera if you want corporate-level documentation. Max if you need volume work done fast. Lenny's standard stuff."<br><br> "Which one would you use?" you ask. Testing.<br><br> "Depends on the job. But..." He lowers his voice. "About three weeks ago, someone came through. Fixer type. Needed credentials for an Umbra contractor. I only know because he asked about verification protocols for shadow-manipulation abilities. That's specialized work. Kade territory."<br><br> <<set $brokerClues.kade += 2>> <<set $brokerClues.sera += 1>> </div> <<set $persuasion += 1>> <<else>> <div class="skill-partial"> <span class="skill-name">[Persuasion Check: Partial]</span><br> "I can't help with that," he says. "But there are independent brokers. Level 3. Kade, Sera, Max, Lenny. They handle... different types of work."<br><br> He won't say more. You've hit his limit.<br><br> <<set $brokerClues.kade += 1>> <<set $brokerClues.sera += 1>> <<set $brokerClues.max += 1>> <<set $brokerClues.lenny += 1>> </div> <</if>> [[Visit another room->ServiceChoice1]]

Level 2, Room 7. You climb the metal stairs. The building's industrial skeleton visible everywhere. Factory bones housing modern crime.<br><br> The surveillance office is larger. Multiple monitors showing security feeds from across The Trade. A woman works at a central desk. Fae bloodline—hair shifting between brown and green depending on the light. Sharp eyes that track everything.<br><br> "Surveillance consultation?" she asks before you can speak.<br><br> "Information, actually," you reply. "Looking for someone who could arrange... extended surveillance work. Multiple targets."<br><br> Her expression doesn't change. Professional. "We provide equipment and technical support. Not personnel referrals."<br><br> "Understood. But hypothetically, if someone needed that arranged—"<br><br> "Hypothetically," she interrupts, "there are independent brokers. They handle personnel connections."<br><br> She types something on her keyboard. Not looking at you. Making this conversation deniable.<br><br> <<if $observation gte 3>> <div class="skill-success"> <span class="skill-name">[Observation Check: Success]</span><br> You notice her screen. Reflected in the monitors behind her. She's pulled up a file. Four names. Four profiles.<br><br> You can't read details from this distance. But you catch fragments.<br><br> <span class="clue-text">K.M. - Specialty: High-risk surveillance, Umbra contractors, Premium rates</span><br> <span class="clue-text">S.R. - Specialty: Corporate intelligence, Legal documentation</span><br> <span class="clue-text">M.D. - Specialty: Volume contracts, Rapid deployment</span><br> <span class="clue-text">L.P. - Specialty: Standard security, Basic surveillance</span> She notices you looking. Closes the file quickly. But not before you see a note attached to K.M.'s profile: <span class="clue-text">"Recent request - Umbra surveillance, 12 targets, rotating schedule"</span><br><br> "Hypothetically," she says carefully, "for complex surveillance involving specialized abilities, Kade handles those arrangements. He's expensive. Paranoid about security. But reliable."<br><br> "Others?" you ask.<br><br> "Sera does corporate surveillance. Very professional. Max does volume work—quantity over quality. Lenny's basic security monitoring."<br><br> She turns back to her screens. Conversation over.<br><br> <<set $brokerClues.kade += 2>> <<set $brokerClues.sera += 1>> </div> <<set $observation += 1>> <<else>> <div class="skill-partial"> <span class="skill-name">[Observation Check: Partial]</span><br> "Four independents operate here," she says. "Kade, Sera, Max, Lenny. They handle different types of contracts. That's all I can tell you." <<set $brokerClues.kade += 1>> <<set $brokerClues.sera += 1>> <<set $brokerClues.max += 1>> <<set $brokerClues.lenny += 1>> </div> <</if>> [[Visit another room->ServiceChoice2]]

Level 2, Room 15. Right next to Surveillance Support. The official contract brokerage office.<br><br> Inside, it's surprisingly corporate. Clean. Professional. Like a real business. A Draegon sits behind the desk—golden eyes, scales visible at his temples. Mid-forties. Expensive suit.<br><br> "Contract consultation?" he asks. Voice smooth. Practiced.<br><br> "We're shopping around," Ace says. Professional mode. "Looking to understand the market. What services are available."<br><br> The Draegon smiles. Too perfect. Too white. "We provide contract mediation. Legal documentation. Dispute resolution. All above-board."<br><br> "Of course," you say. "But if someone needed... less official arrangements?"<br><br> His smile doesn't waver. "There are independent operators. They handle more... flexible contracts."<br><br> "Recommendations?" you press.<br><br> <<if $research gte 3>> <div class="skill-success"> <span class="skill-name">[Research Check: Success]</span><br> While he talks, you scan the office. Notice patterns. The filing system. The way documents are organized.<br><br> On his desk, partially visible under other papers, you spot a reference sheet. Broker contact protocols. You memorize what you can see:<br><br><br><br> <span class="clue-text">Kade (K.M.) - Level 3, Room 15, Back corridor. Protocol: Encrypted contact only. Specialty: High-risk, Umbra-focused, Extended surveillance. Fee structure: Premium (3x standard). Recent activity: Multiple Umbra placements.</span><br><br> <span class="clue-text">Sera (S.R.) - Level 2, Room 18. Protocol: Direct contact accepted. Specialty: Corporate intelligence, Legal contracts.</span><br><br> The rest is covered. But you've seen enough.<br><br> "Four independents," he continues, unaware you've read his files. "Kade specializes in high-risk arrangements. Very discreet. Sera handles corporate work. Max does volume contracts. Lenny provides standard services."<br><br> "For surveillance work," you ask carefully, "which would you recommend?"<br><br> "Depends on complexity. For extended surveillance requiring specialized abilities, Kade's your best option. He's expensive but has the best Umbra connections in The Trade."<br><br> <<set $brokerClues.kade += 2>> <<set $brokerClues.sera += 1>> </div> <<set $research += 1>> <<else>> <div class="skill-partial"> <span class="skill-name">[Research Check: Partial]</span><br> "Four main independents," he says. "Kade, Sera, Max, and Lenny. They each have different specialties and price points. I can't provide more specific recommendations without knowing your exact needs."<br><br> <<set $brokerClues.kade += 1>> <<set $brokerClues.sera += 1>> <<set $brokerClues.max += 1>> <<set $brokerClues.lenny += 1>> </div> <</if>> He stands. Indicating the meeting is over. "If you decide you need official contract mediation, we're here. Otherwise, good luck with your search."<br><br> Professional dismissal. You leave.<br><br> [[Finish visiting service rooms->TradeHub]]

<div class="choice-cluster"> <<if !visited("SurveillanceSupport")>>[[Visit Surveillance Support (Level 2)->SurveillanceSupport]]<br><</if>> <<if !visited("ContractBrokerage")>>[[Check Contract Brokerage (Level 2)->ContractBrokerage]]<br><</if>> [[You have enough from service rooms->TradeHub]] </div>

<div class="choice-cluster"> <<if !visited("IdentityVerification")>>[[Visit Identity Verification (Level 1)->IdentityVerification]]<br><</if>> <<if !visited("ContractBrokerage")>>[[Check Contract Brokerage (Level 2)->ContractBrokerage]]<br><</if>> [[You have enough from service rooms->TradeHub]] </div>

Maud leads you six blocks. No destination in mind. Just walking.<br><br> She stops at a corner where Sordia's neon doesn't quite reach. Where shadows pool thick and comfortable. <br><br> "So." Maud doesn't look at you. Watches the street instead. Watches shadows move and traffic pass. Her fingers drum against her thigh. Rapid. Nervous. "You wanted to talk. Really talk. About what? About—" She laughs. Sharp. Broken. "About how I fucked everything up? How I'm a disaster? How I—"<br><br> She cuts herself off. Bites her lip hard enough you see blood.<br><br> About everything. About three years of silence. About showing up like no time passed.<br><br> About the fact that your sister—your only sister—disappeared without a word and came back like it was nothing.<br><br> <<if $vice is "smoking">>You light a cigarette. The ritual steadies your hands. Gives you something to do while finding words. <<elseif $vice is "alcohol">>You wish you had a drink. Something to burn away the sharp edges of this conversation. Something to make the words come easier.<<elseif $vice is "work">>You mentally organize your thoughts. Questions. Accusations. The interview structure for the hardest story you've had to cover in a while. Your own sister.<<else>>You take a breath. Hold it. Let it out slow. Steady yourself for what comes next. For words that can't be unsaid.<</if>><br><br> "Three years, Maud." Your voice comes out quieter than intended. Rougher. "Three years without a word. Without a call. Without a single fucking text to let me know you were alive."<br><br> Maud's shadows pulse. Agitated. Defensive. "Yeah. Three years. You—you counting? Keeping—keeping score? Want me to apologize for every day? Every hour?"<br><br> Her voice jumps. Erratic. The way it does when she's scared and trying to hide it with aggression.<br><br> <<if $siblingRelationship is "fixable">>"Every single day," you say. The truth tastes like copper. Like blood from biting your tongue too long. "Every single day I wondered if you were alive. If you were safe. If you'd ever come home."<br><br> Something flickers in Maud's expression. Pain. Guilt. Quickly buried under that manic grin.<br><br> <<elseif $siblingRelationship is "neutral">>"Hard not to count when Uncle Ben kept asking if I'd heard from you," you say. "When your birthday passed and you weren't there. When every holiday was you-shaped hole in the room."<br><br> Maud flinches. Actually flinches. Shadows recoiling like she's been hit.<br><br> <<else>>"Hard not to count when people kept asking if you were dead," you say. Flat. Cold. Every word a blade. "When I had to keep lying that you were fine. When I had to pretend your absence didn't destroy our family even more."<br><br> Maud's jaw clenches. Eyes flash. "Destroy you? I SAVED you—"<br><br> "Don't," you cut her off. "Don't you fucking dare."<br><br> <</if>> The moment stretches. Taut. Fragile.<br><br> "That fight we had," Maud starts. Stops. Her hands shake. She shoves them in her pockets. "That night. That—that last night before I—" She laughs. Wrong. Broken. "You remember? Course you remember. How could you forget, right? Blood everywhere. Your blood. My fault. All my—"<br><br> She's spiraling. The words coming faster. Jumping between thoughts.<br><br> "I remember," you say. Cutting through her panic.<br><br> How could you forget.<br><br> The screaming. The accusations. Things said that can't be unsaid. Her powers flaring—shadows erupting like living things, hungry and violent. Your head bleeding. The claws made of darkness that tore through skin. Uncle Ben trying to separate you both while Maud lost control of everything.<br><br> The look on her face when she realized what she'd done. When she saw your blood on shadows that were part of her.<br><br> "I hurt you." Maud's still not looking at you. Her voice goes small. Almost childlike. "Made you bleed. Nearly—nearly killed you because I couldn't—" Her breath hitches. "I couldn't control it. The shadows. The rage. Everything inside me just—just exploded and I couldn't stop it couldn't make it stop couldn't—"<br><br> The scar on your temple itches. Phantom pain from a wound that healed wrong. That left a mark shaped like claws made of darkness. Shaped like your sister's inability to control what she is.<br><br> "And Uncle Ben." Maud's voice cracks completely. "Uncle Ben. Just—just existing near him hurt him. He couldn't handle me. Always waiting. Always watching. Always expecting me to—to—"<br><br> She makes a sound. Half laugh, half sob.<br><br> "Always waiting for baby Maud to snap. To lose it. To try to murder everyone." She finally looks at you. Black eyes wet. Desperate. "I was killing him slowly. Just by being there. Just by existing in his space."<br><br> "That's not—" you start.<br><br> "It IS!" Her voice rises. Sharp. Manic. "It is and you KNOW it! I was a mistake! A—a broken thing pretending to be a person! Living in that house. Pretending I could be normal. Pretending I belonged when every day I could FEEL myself becoming more like //her//. More unstable. More dangerous. More—"<br><br> She cuts off. Breathing hard. Shadows writhing around her boots like agitated snakes.<br><br> "I needed out, $firstName." Quieter now. Broken. "I needed to figure out who I am. What I am. Without Uncle Ben's heartbroken looks. Away from you. Without feeling like I'm one bad day away from destroying everyone I love."<br><br> The words hang between you. Heavy. True. Horrible.<br><br> "I couldn't be fixed there," Maud whispers. "Couldn't be saved like you all wanted to. So I left. Left to see if—if maybe away from you both I could be something other than a disaster. Something other than the thing that ruins everything. That sucks at everything."<br><br> She laughs again. That broken sound that's becoming too familiar.<br><br> <ul> <li> <<link '"I understand why you left. I wish you\'d told me, but I understand. You were drowning and you needed air."'>> <<set $maudTalkChoice1 to "forgiving">> <<run setup.setTrait('soft', ($soft || 50) + 2)>> <<set $maudstat += 3>> <<goto "CH1P23.1">> <</link>><br><br> </li> </ul> <ul> <li> <<link '"Three fucking years, Maud. You couldn\'t send ONE message? ONE sign you were alive? We thought you were DEAD."'>> <<set $maudTalkChoice1 to "angry">> <<run setup.setTrait('cutting', ($cutting || 50) + 2)>> <<set $maudstat -= 2>> <<goto "CH1P23.1">> <</link>><br><br> </li> </ul> <ul> <li> <<link '"You left us to deal with the aftermath. Uncle Ben aged five years wondering if you were dead. You abandoned us."'>> <<set $maudTalkChoice1 to "disappointed">> <<run setup.setTrait('calculated', ($calculated || 50) + 2)>> <<set $maudstat -= 1>> <<goto "CH1P23.1">> <</link>><br><br> </li> </ul> <ul> <li> <<link '"I thought you were dead. Every news story about bodies. Every bloodline attack. I wondered if it was you. Do you know what that did to me?"'>> <<set $maudTalkChoice1 to "desperate">> <<run setup.setTrait('soft', ($soft || 50) + 2)>> <<set $maudstat += 1>> <<goto "CH1P23.1">> <</link>> </li> </ul>

<<if $maudTalkChoice1 is "forgiving">> "I understand why you left," you say. The words come easier than expected. Surprising yourself. "You were drowning. And sometimes when you're drowning, you can't think about who you're leaving behind. You just need air."<br><br> Maud's eyes widen. Like she didn't expect this. Like she came prepared for rage and got something else entirely.<br><br> "You—" Her voice catches. Breaks. "You're not—not pissed? Not—"<br><br> "I'm furious," you correct. Honest. Raw. "I'm so fucking angry I could scream. But I get it. You felt trapped. Broken. Like you were poison to everyone around you."<br><br> You step closer. Careful. The way you'd approach a wounded animal.<br><br> "I wish you'd told me. Wish you'd let me help instead of disappearing. But I understand needing to run. Needing to figure yourself out alone. I did that too."<br><br> Something in Maud's expression cracks. Not quite relief. Not quite guilt. Something messy and complicated between.<br><br> "I'm sorry," she whispers. Then louder. Desperate. "I'm so fucking sorry, $firstName. I should've—I could've—I should've called or—or sent something or—"<br><br> She's spiraling again. Words tumbling out.<br><br> "But I didn't know what to say! Didn't know how to explain! Every time I picked up the phone I—I froze and I couldn't—couldn't find the words to—to make it better to—"<br><br> "Hey." You cut through her panic. Firm. Grounding. "You're here now. That's what matters. You came back."<br><br> Maud's breath hitches. "Yeah. Yeah I—I came back. For this. For—" She gestures vaguely. "For murder investigations and conspiracy shit because apparently that's when I show up. When there's blood and death and—"<br><br> "You showed up," you repeat. "That counts for something."<br><br> Her shadows settle. Still agitated but no longer violent. No longer trying to lash out at everything.<br><br> "I don't know how to fix three years," she admits. Small. Vulnerable. "Don't know how to—to make it right to—"<br><br> "One day at a time," you say. <<if $background is "investigative">>"We gather evidence. We build a case. We reconstruct what was broken piece by piece."<<elseif $background is "tabloid">>"We write a new story. One that doesn't end with everyone hating each other."<<elseif $background is "whistle">>"We expose the damage. We acknowledge it. Then we figure out how to move forward."<<elseif $background is "war">>"We survive. That's what we do. We survive and we keep moving forward."<</if>><br><br> A small smile. Barely there. Crooked. But real. "One day at a time," Maud echoes. Testing the words. "Yeah. Yeah okay. I can—I can do that maybe."<br><br> <<elseif $maudTalkChoice1 is "angry">> "Three fucking years, Maud!" Your voice rises. Control slipping. "You couldn't send ONE message? ONE sign you were alive? We thought you were DEAD!"<br><br> Maud's shadows spike. Defensive. Aggressive. "I was figuring shit out—"<br><br> "Figuring shit out?" You laugh. Bitter. Broken. Furious. "I was figuring out how to tell Uncle Ben his niece might be dead in a ditch somewhere! How to sleep knowing my sister abandoned me! How to keep functioning when you just—just VANISHED!"<br><br> "I NEEDED SPACE!" Maud shouts back. Black eyes blazing. "I needed to not be the family fuck-up for five fucking minutes! Needed to breathe without you and Ben watching me like—like I'm a bomb about to explode!"<br><br> "You ARE a bomb!" The words rip out. Raw. True. Cruel. "You're unstable! Dangerous! And instead of letting us help you ran away like a coward!"<br><br> Maud's face changes. "COWARD?" Her voice goes high. Manic. "You think—you think I'm a COWARD? I left to SAVE you! To keep you safe from ME!"<br><br> "That's bullshit and you know it!" you yell. "You left because you're selfish! Because it was easier to run than face what you did! Easier to disappear than deal with the consequences!"<br><br> "BECAUSE YOUR HELP WAS KILLING ME!" Maud's voice cracks. Goes raw and desperate. "Every worried look! Every careful word! Every time Ben flinched when I walked past! I was drowning in your help, $firstName! Had to leave or I was gonna take you down with me!"<br><br> The words hang in the air. Both of you breathing hard. Shadows writhing between you like living things trying to devour everything.<br><br> "I'm sorry," Maud finally says. Quieter but still sharp. Still defensive. "I'm sorry I hurt you. Sorry I left. Sorry I'm still fucked up and broken and wrong."<br><br> She meets your eyes. Challenging.<br><br> "But I'm not sorry I survived. Even if you hate me for how I did it."<br><br> <<elseif $maudTalkChoice1 is "disappointed">> "You left us to deal with the aftermath," you say. Flat. Controlled. The disappointment tastes like ash in your mouth. "Uncle Ben aged five years wondering if you were dead. I became the responsible one. The one holding everything together. You abandoned us."<br><br> Maud flinches. Shadows recoiling. "I know—"<br><br> "Do you?" You keep your voice level. Clinical. <<if $background is "investigative">>The journalist analyzing facts and presenting evidence.<<elseif $background is "whistle">>The analyst listing violations and documenting failures.<<elseif $background is "tabloid">>The reporter cataloging damage and assigning blame.<<elseif $background is "war">>The correspondent documenting casualties and counting costs.<</if>> "Uncle Ben couldn't sleep. Every time the phone rang, he jumped. Every knock at the door, he hoped it was you. Every day he got older waiting."<br><br> "Don't," Maud says. Voice small. Begging. "Don't do that don't—"<br><br> "And me?" You continue. Relentless. Each word precise. Cutting. "I had to become the responsible one. The one who kept it together. Who lied ad had to reassure everyone that you were fine when I had no fucking idea if you were breathing."<br><br> "I said I'm sorry—"<br><br> "Sorry doesn't fix it, Maud." The words come out colder than intended. Sharper. "Sorry doesn't give Uncle Ben back the nights he couldn't sleep. Doesn't give me back the three years I spent wondering. Doesn't undo the damage."<br><br> Maud's shadows coil. Defensive. Hurt. Lashing out at empty air.<br><br> "What do you want from me?" Her voice rises. Gets that edge. "Want me to—to grovel? Beg? I can't undo it! Can't go back and—and make different choices! Can't fix what's broken!"<br><br> "I want you to understand what you did," you say. Each word deliberate. "I want you to acknowledge that running away—no matter how necessary—had consequences. For people who loved you. Who still love you despite everything you put us through."<br><br> She looks away. Can't hold your gaze. Won't face what she's done.<br><br> "I understand," she whispers. "I do. I just—I don't know how to make it right. Don't know how to—to fix this to—"<br><br> "Neither do I," you admit. "But we're here now. So we figure it out. Together. Like we should have three years ago before you decided running was easier than staying."<br><br> <<elseif $maudTalkChoice1 is "desperate">> "I thought you were dead." Your voice breaks. Can't help it. Three years of fear bleeding through. Pouring out. "I thought I'd lost you forever. Every news story. Every body. Every bloodline attack. I wondered if it was you."<br><br> Maud's face crumples. "$firstName—"<br><br> "Every unidentified corpse. Every Umbra incident in the news. Every time CRD announced casualties—" You can't stop. The words pouring out like blood from a reopened wound. "I wondered if it was you. If you were gone and I'd never know. If I'd spend the rest of my life wondering."<br><br> "I'm sorry," Maud whispers. "$firstName I'm so sorry I'm—"<br><br> "You're my sister." The words taste like salt. Like tears you won't let fall. Like grief you've been carrying for three years. "My only sister. The only family I have left besides Uncle Ben. And you disappeared like—like you never existed. Like we meant nothing."<br><br> Maud's shadows reach for you. Instinctive. Trying to comfort. She pulls them back violently. Remembering. Remembering what her touch can do. What her powers did last time.<br><br> "I was scared," she admits. Voice breaking. Cracking apart. "So fucking scared I'd—I'd kill you. Actually kill you. Like I almost did that night. The blood. Your blood on my hands on my shadows and I couldn't—" She chokes on the words. "Couldn't risk it. Couldn't risk becoming like //her// and—and hurting everyone I love. Everyone I—"<br><br> "So you hurt us differently," you say. Not accusing. Just stating fact. Raw. Honest. "You hurt us by leaving. By making us think you were dead."<br><br> "Yeah." She laughs. Wet. Broken. Wrong. "Yeah I did. Because I'm a disaster. I'm a walking catastrophe who destroys everything. Even when I'm trying to protect people. Even when I'm trying to—to do the right thing for once."<br><br> You both stand there. Two siblings. Two broken people trying to figure out how to be family again.<br><br> "I missed you," you finally say. Simple. True. Vulnerable. "Every single day. I missed you."<br><br> Maud's breath hitches. Goes ragged. "I missed you too. So fucking much. Every day. Every night. Every—" Her voice breaks completely. "Every time I wanted to call but couldn't because I didn't know what to say didn't know how to—"<br><br> <</if>> The moment stretches. Fragile. Raw. Bleeding.<br><br> But there's more. There's always more with Maud.<br><br> You've been watching her tonight. Really watching. The way her shadows move—erratic, violent, hungry. The manic energy that never settles. The casual violence. The unhinged grin that says something fundamental's broken inside her.<br><br> The way she talks to herself. The way her thoughts jump. The way she loses track of reality sometimes.<br><br> <<if $handItch is 'left'>>Your left<<elseif $handItch is 'right'>>Your right<</if>> hand itches. The truth-itch. The one that says ask the question you're afraid to ask. The question that might break you both.<br><br> [[Ask about her stability|CH1P23.2]]

"Maud," you say carefully. Slowly. Like defusing a bomb. "How long do you have?"<br><br> She goes still. Completely still. Even her shadows freeze mid-writhe.<br><br> "What?" Flat. Dangerous.<br><br> "Your mental stability." You push forward. Have to. Someone has to say it. "The unhinged energy. The way you talk. The way your thoughts jump. The casual violence. It's getting worse, isn't it? You're deteriorating."<br><br> "I don't know what you're—"<br><br> "Don't." Your voice cuts through her denial. Sharp. Final. "Don't lie to me. Not about this."<br><br> Maud's expression goes cold. Dangerous. Shadows spiking violently. "I'm not the same as that bitch."<br><br> "Not yet," you say. Each word careful. Precise. "But you're heading there. The power usage. The constant transformation. Every time you use your abilities, it pulls you deeper. Makes it harder to stay human. To stay you."<br><br> "Fuck you," Maud spits. Black eyes blazing with something between rage and terror. "You don't—you don't know what you're talking about you don't—"<br><br> "You know exactly that she started out like you." You won't let this go. Can't. "Then it got worse. Year by year. The paranoia. The violence. The days she didn't recognize us. The days she tried to—"<br><br> You stop. Breathe.<br><br> "I. Am. Not. Mom." Each word bitten off. Furious. Terrified.<br><br> "Then prove it," you challenge. "Get help. Use your abilities less. Take the medication that stabilizes Umbra brain chemistry. Let doctors help you before it's too late before you—"<br><br> "MEDICATION?" Maud's laugh is manic. Broken. Wrong. "You want me drugged? Docile? Turned into a fucking zombie? Want me slow and stupid and NOT ME anymore?"<br><br> "I want you alive!" The words explode out. "I want you HERE! Present! Not lost to whatever madness is eating you from the inside!"<br><br> Silence. Even traffic seems to hold its breath.<br><br> Maud's breathing hard. Fast. Shadows writhing violent and chaotic around her.<br><br> <ul> <li> <<link '"Please, Maud. I can\'t lose you. Let me help you. Let doctors help you. Don\'t make me watch you disappear."'>> <<set $maudTalkChoice2 to "gentle">> <<run setup.setTrait('soft', ($soft || 50) + 2)>> <<set $maudstat += 2>> <<goto "CH1P23.3">> <</link>><br><br> </li> </ul> <ul> <li> <<link '"You\'re being selfish. Again. You\'d rather die insane than accept help? Rather put us through watching you become Mom?"'>> <<set $maudTalkChoice2 to "harsh">> <<run setup.setTrait('cutting', ($cutting || 50) + 2)>> <<set $maudstat -= 3>> <<goto "CH1P23.3">> <</link>><br><br> </li> </ul> <ul> <li> <<link '"The statistics don\'t lie. Umbras without treatment deteriorate. Average lifespan thirty-five. Psychosis by thirty. You\'re twenty-three. You know the numbers."'>> <<set $maudTalkChoice2 to "clinical">> <<run setup.setTrait('calculated', ($calculated || 50) + 2)>> <<set $observation += 1>> <<set $maudstat -= 1>> <<goto "CH1P23.3">> <</link>><br><br> </li> </ul> <ul> <li> <<link '"I\'m scared, Maud. I\'m terrified I\'m watching you disappear. That I\'ll lose you forever. Please don\'t make me bury you."'>> <<set $maudTalkChoice2 to "vulnerable">> <<run setup.setTrait('soft', ($soft || 50) + 2)>> <<set $maudstat += 1>> <<goto "CH1P23.3">> <</link>> </li> </ul>

<<if $maudTalkChoice2 is "gentle">> "Please, Maud." You step closer. Slow. Careful. "I can't lose you. Let me help you. Let doctors help you."<br><br> Something flickers across Maud's face. Pain. Fear. Anger.<br><br> "You can't help me," she says. Quieter now. Almost broken.<br><br> "That's not true—"<br><br> "It IS true!" Her voice rises again. Desperate. "You think medication fixes this? Think some fucking pills turn off the shadows? Make the voices stop? Make me NORMAL?"<br><br> "They stabilize brain chemistry," you insist. Gentle. Patient. "They help Umbras maintain control. Keep the deterioration slow. There are doctors. Specialists. People who understand what you're going through—"<br><br> "I AM IN CONTROL!" Maud shouts. Shadows exploding around her. Violent. Chaotic. "I'm FINE! I'm—I'm managing! I don't need drugs! Don't need doctors! Don't need to be FIXED!"<br><br> But her voice cracks. Her hands shake. Her shadows move without her conscious direction.<br><br> She's lying. You both know she's lying.<br><br> <<elseif $maudTalkChoice2 is "harsh">> "You're being selfish," you say. Cold. Cutting. Each word a blade. "Again. You'd rather die insane than accept help? Rather put us through watching you become her?"<br><br> Maud's eyes flash. Dangerous. Hurt. She looks like she wants to strangle you. "Selfish? SELFISH?"<br><br> "Yes. Selfish." You don't back down. Won't let her hide behind anger. "You disappeared for three years. Now you're back and you're clearly deteriorating. But instead of getting help you're pretending everything's fine. That you're in control. Spoiler alert: you're not."<br><br> "Fuck you," Maud snarls. Vicious. Wounded. "You don't—you don't know anything about—"<br><br> "I know what denial looks like," you shoot back. "And I'm watching you do the exact same thing."<br><br> "I'M NOT HER!" Maud screams. Shadows writhing violent and hungry. "I'm not her! I'm not—I'm NOT INSANE! I'm FINE!"<br><br> <<elseif $maudTalkChoice2 is "clinical">> "The statistics don't lie," you say. <<if $background is "investigative">>The journalist presenting facts and evidence.<<elseif $background is "whistle">>The analyst showing data and documentation.<<else>>Flat. Unemotional. Clinical.<</if>> "Umbras without treatment deteriorate. Average lifespan: thirty-five. Average onset of permanent psychosis: thirty. You're twenty-three, Maud. You know the numbers."<br><br> Maud's jaw clenches. "Statistics aren't—aren't destiny. Aren't—"<br><br> "They're probability," you counter. Relentless. "And right now your behavior suggests you're on the fast track. The power usage. The mental instability. The casual relationship with violence. The way your thoughts jump. The manic episodes—"<br><br> "Stop it," Maud warns. Voice low. Dangerous.<br><br> "Eighty-seven percent of Umbras who refuse treatment end up institutionalized or dead within ten years," you continue. Each statistic a nail in her coffin. "Ninety-three percent lose the ability to distinguish reality from delusion. One hundred percent—"<br><br> "STOP IT!" Maud's voice cracks. Breaks. "Just fucking STOP! I don't need your statistics! Don't need your fucking research! I'm FINE! I'm—"<br><br> <<elseif $maudTalkChoice2 is "vulnerable">> "I'm scared, Maud." Your voice breaks. Can't help it. Can't hide it anymore. "I'm terrified I'm watching you disappear. That you'll become like her and I'll lose you forever. That one day I'll get a call and you'll be—"<br><br> You stop. Can't finish. Can't say the words.<br><br> The words hit her like physical blows. She actually staggers. Shadows recoiling.<br><br> "$firstName—"<br><br> Your breath hitches. "I can't lose you permanently. Not when there's treatment. Not when there's help. Not when you could—could survive this if you just—"<br><br> "The treatment changes you," Maud shivers. "Makes you slow. Weak. Not—not yourself anymore."<br><br> "Better than dead," you say. Maybe even a little desperate. "It's better than becoming something that wears your face but isn't you anymore."<br><br> "You don't understand," she says. Voice breaking. "The shadows. They're part of me. Part of who I am. Taking medication means—means cutting off part of myself. Killing part of what makes me ME."<br><br> "You're already dying," you say gently. Honestly. "The madness is eating you. I can see it. Uncle Ben saw it before you left. That's why you ran, isn't it? Because you knew. You knew you were losing yourself and you were scared."<br><br> Maud's breath comes harsh. Ragged. Desperate. "I'm FINE," she insists. But her voice shakes. Her whole body shakes. "I'm—I'm in control I'm—"<br><br> <</if>> Maud shakes her haid. She spreads out her arms. "You want to know how much control I have?"<br><br> Her shadows spike. Violent. Aggressive. Hungry.<br><br> "I split myself in TWO to keep you safe! Made a COPY! A whole other me so I could be in two places! That's not—that's not something casual Umbras do! That's high-level manifestation! That's POWER!"<br><br> She's bragging. Defending. Proving her strength.<br><br> But her hands won't stop shaking.<br><br> "That's exactly the problem!" you shout back. "That kind of power usage accelerates deterioration! Every transformation. Every manifestation. Every time you push your abilities you're burning through your sanity! You're—"<br><br> "SHUT UP!" Maud's voice goes raw. Animal. Something breaking inside her. "You don't—you don't know what it's like! Living with this! Being this! You're fucking HUMAN! You don't UNDERSTAND!"<br><br> "Then make me understand!" you yell. "Explain it! Help me see! TALK TO ME!"<br><br> "I CAN'T!" Her voice cracks completely. Shatters. "Because you're not one of us, okay? You're fucking weak. You'll never understand.You're just human."<br><br> <<if $siblingRelationship is "broken">> Something hot and vicious twists in your chest. <br><br> "Don't you fucking dare," you say. Voice low. Dangerous.<br><br> "Don't you dare call me weak because I'm human. I've survived in this city without powers. Without bloodline advantages. Without any of the shit you take for granted." You step closer. Not backing down. Not this time. Not ever again.<br><br> "I've cleaned up your messes with nothing but my wits and my will. Covered for you when you disappeared without a trace. Protected you from consequences you should have faced."<br><br> Your voice drops. Gets colder. Harder. "You know what takes real strength, Maud? Being powerless in a city full of bloodborns and surviving anyway. Making it through every day knowing you're outmatched. Outgunned. Outnumbered. And doing it anyway."<br><br> You meet her eyes. Hold her gaze with pure defiance. "So yeah. I'm human. I don't have shadows. Don't have powers. Don't have whatever makes you so fucking special. But I'm not weak. And you using me when it's convenient then throwing me away because I can't understand your precious bloodborn suffering? That's not strength. That's cowardice. That's you being too scared to face what you're becoming."<br><br> Have you been jealous of Maud being an Umbra and not you? Yes. Have you felt inadequate? Yes. But will you let her stomp all over you? Hell no. <br><br> <<elseif $siblingRelationship is "neutral">> The words sting more than they should.<br><br> But you've faced worse than dismissal. Survived worse than casual cruelty from someone you love.<br><br> "Don't," you say. Voice quiet. But there's an edge to it.<br><br> "Don't use 'human' like it's a weakness. Like it makes me less. Like it means I can't understand suffering."<br><br> You hold her gaze. Steady. Unshakable. "You're right. I'm not an Umbra. Don't have powers. Don't know what it's like to feel madness eating away at your mind from the inside."<br><br> Your voice stays even. "But I know what it's like to watch people destroy themselves. To be helpless while they make choices that will kill them. To have no power to save them except words they won't listen to. There are enough reasons in the city to go mad."<br><br> You step closer. Not aggressive. Just present. Just there. "I've been here, Maud. Every breakdown Mom or you had. Every manic episode. Not because I had to be. Not because powers compelled me. Because I chose to be." You pause. Let that land.<br><br> "That's strength. Choice. Free will. Staying when it would be easier to leave. Fighting when there's no guarantee of winning."<br><br> Your voice hardens slightly. "So maybe I don't understand what it's like to be you. But don't mistake my humanity for weakness. People aren't weak just because they bleed easier."<br><br> <<else>> The words cut deeper than you expected.<br><br> But they also ignite something. Something that's been building through years of being the lesser sibling. The powerless one. The human.<br><br> "I'm human," you say.<br><br> Voice cracking. But not breaking. Not this time. "I know. I've always known. The world made sure I never forgot it." <br><br> The hurt bleeds into anger. Into something stronger than grief. "But don't you dare call me weak."<br><br> Your voice rises. "I've been here, Maud. Every fucking day. When you were too manic to sleep for three days straight. When you broke down crying because you were scared you were becoming her. I'm the one constantly trying to fix this family!"<br><br> You step forward. Not backing down. Not letting her tower over you with her powers and her bloodline superiority. "I held you. I listened. I stayed. Not because I had powers that compelled me. Not because bloodline instinct drove me. Because I chose to. Because I loved you. Because I'm your fucking family."<br><br> Your hands clench. But your voice stays strong. "You know what takes real strength? Being human in a world full of bloodborns and surviving anyway. Walking streets where people can kill you with a thought and making it through alive. Building a career. Making connections. Protecting people like you—" You point at her. Accusatory. Defiant. "—who have all the power in the world and still manage to fuck everything up."<br><br> Your voice cracks but doesn't break. "So maybe I don't understand what it's like to have powers. To be special. To be bloodborn. But I understand what it's like to love someone who's destroying themselves. To watch them choose death over treatment because they're too proud. Too stubborn to accept help."<br><br> You meet her eyes. "And I've done it without shadows. Without abilities. With nothing but determination and love."<br><br> "So don't you dare imply I'm weak just because I'm human. People aren't weak because they don't have powers. They're weak when they have every advantage and still choose to fail."Your hands clench. Nails biting into palms.<br><br> Your voice goes quiet. Deadly quiet. "You have power, Maud. More than most. But you're still choosing to die. So who's really the weak one here?"<br><br> <</if>> Maud is quiet for a while, she can't look you into the eyes. <br><br> "I'm sorry, you're right $firstName. You're not weak, you're really strong. But medication won't save me," she continues. Quiet now. Wrung out. "It'll just make the decline slower. Gentler. It'll let me watch myself disappear inch by inch instead of burning out fast and bright."<br><br> "Slow decline means more time," you argue. "More years. More chances. More life. And there are always improvements!"<br><br> "More years of being a zombie," Maud counters. Bitter. Defeated. Already mourning herself.<br><br> "More years of feeling my thoughts slow down. My powers fade. My self erode away until I'm just—just some drugged-up shell that wears my face." She meets your eyes.<br><br> Black and empty. Hollow. But there's something dangerous glinting in the depths. Something that knows exactly what it's choosing.<br><br> "I'd rather burn fast than fade slow. I'd rather die as myself than survive as something less." Silence falls. Heavy. Suffocating.<br><br> <<if $maudChoice3>> The moment stretches. Taut as a wire. Ready to snap.<br><br> "I will never take the medication," Maud finally says. Certain. Final as a death sentence itself. Her decision is made and you can't change it. <br><br> "This is something I will never do."<br><br> The words hang between you now. <br><br> And there's still one more thing you need to talk about. One more wound that needs addressing.<br><br> "There's something else," you say. Voice hard. "Something we need to talk about."<br><br> [[Address the abduction|CH1P23.4]] <<else>> The moment stretches. Taut as a wire. Ready to snap.<br><br> "I will never take the medication," Maud finally says. Certain. Final as a death sentence itself. Her decision is made and you can't change it. <br><br> "This is something I will never do."<br><br> The words hang between you now. <br><br> But the biggest question remains. The one that determines everything else.<br><br> "Where do we go from here?" you ask. "Us. Our relationship. Where do we go from here?"<br><br> [[Address your relationship|CH1P23.5]] <</if>>

"You used your powers on me," you say. Each word carefully controlled. "You abducted me. Wrapped me in shadows and transported me to your apartment against my will."<br><br> Maud goes very still. Completely still. Even her shadows freeze.<br><br> "You promised," you continue. Voice shaking with suppressed rage. With betrayal. "After that night. You PROMISED you'd never use your abilities against me again."<br><br> "I needed you to see the photos—" Maud starts. Defensive. Scrambling.<br><br> "YOU BROKE YOUR PROMISE!" The words explode out. "The one thing! The ONE THING I asked! Don't use your powers on me! Don't manipulate me! Don't treat me like everyone else you can control!"<br><br> "I didn't hurt you," Maud protests. "I just—just transported you. Just moved you. I didn't—"<br><br> "OF COURSE YOU DID! WITHOUT MY CONSENT!" You step closer. Furious. Shaking. "You didn't ask. Didn't explain. Didn't give me a CHOICE. Just trapped and took me!"<br><br> Your heart beats fast. The wound that never healed right. The reminder of what happened when your mother lost control. When Maud lost it. <br><br> "I gave you my word," you say. Voice low. Dangerous. "After that night. After what you did. I forgave you. I said we could move past it. But only if you promised—SWORE—you'd never use your abilities on me again."<br><br> Maud's shadows coil. Defensive. Agitated. "It was the fastest way—the safest way to—"<br><br> "I don't CARE if it was the fastest way!" you yell. "I don't care if it was necessary! You gave me your WORD! Your word was supposed to mean something! Was supposed to mean you understood boundaries! That I could trust you to—to—"<br><br> You stop. Breathe. Force the words out.<br><br> "To be different. That I could trust you at all. Tat you weren't the same like Mom. That you were different."<br><br> That lands. Hard.<br><br> Maud flinches like you've hit her. Shadows recoiling violent and hurt.<br><br> "That's not—I'm not—" Maud's voice cracks. Breaks. "How many times do I have to repeat myself?! I'm not like her I'm NOT—"<br><br> "You ARE," you insist. Relentless. "The moment you used your abilities on me without permission you became exactly what you swore you'd never be. Exactly what you promised you wouldn't become."<br><br> The silence that follows is heavy. Suffocating.<br><br> "I'm sorry," Maud finally whispers. "You're right. I fucked up. I just—the photos. The urgency. The need to show you NOW. I wasn't—wasn't thinking about—"<br><br> "That's not an excuse," you say. Cold. Final.<br><br> Maud's expression crumbles. Shadows writhing chaotic and desperate around her.<br><br> "I know," she says resigned.<br><br> "It's never okay," you repeat. Firm. Absolute. "Using your powers on me without consent is never okay. No matter the reason. No matter the urgency. NEVER. Get that into your fucking brain."<br><br> She nods. Broken. "Never again. I swear. I SWEAR on everything I won't—won't use my powers on you. Ever. Not even to help. Not even to save you. Never."<br><br> <<if $siblingRelationship is "fixable">>"I want to believe you," you say. Honest. Vulnerable. "But trust once broken doesn't heal clean. You'll have to prove it."<<elseif $siblingRelationship is "neutral">>"I don't know if I can trust you anymore," you say. Uncertain. "This time try to keep your word. Or we can't do this. Can't work together. Can't be family if I can't trust you."<<else>>"I can't trust you anymore. And I will never trust you again," you say actually calm. Final. "You broke something that was already broken. I didn't know how but you completely destroyed it. This can't be fixed Maud. We can't be fixed."<</if>><br><br> Maud nods again. Shadows settling. Subdued. Defeated. "I understand. I'll—I'll prove it. However long it takes. I'll prove you can trust me."<br><br> But trust, once shattered, doesn't rebuild easy. You take a bigh breath.<br><br> The biggest question remains. The one that determines everything.<br><br> "Where do we go from here?" you ask. "Us. Our relationship. What are we to each other now?"<br><br> [[Address your relationship|CH1P23.5]]

Maud looks at you. Really looks at you. Black eyes searching for something. Hope maybe. Forgiveness. Understanding.<br><br> "What do you want us to be?" she asks. Careful. Uncertain. Terrified of the answer.<br><br> <<if $siblingRelationship is "fixable">> "Family," you say. Simple. True. Painful. "Broken family. Fucked-up family. Dysfunctional disaster family. But family."<br><br> Something in Maud's expression softens. Cracks. Relief and disbelief warring across her face.<br><br> "Yeah?" Her voice breaks. Small. Hopeful. Terrified. "You—you still want—"<br><br> "Yeah." You <<if $vice is "smoking">>drop your cigarette. Crush it under your boot.<<else>>take a breath. Steady yourself.<</if>> "We've got shit to work through. Years of it. Mountains of trauma and damage. But we're blood. We're siblings. That has to count for something."<br><br> "It counts for everything," Maud whispers. Desperate. Grateful.<br><br> She moves first. Hesitant. Like she's afraid you'll reject her. Afraid you'll pull away. Arms coming up slowly. Offering. Asking permission this time instead of taking.<br><br> You step into the hug.<br><br> It's awkward. Stiff. Three years of distance doesn't dissolve in one embrace. Her body's tense against yours. Shadows curling around you both—gentle this time. Protective instead of violent. Like she's trying to shield you from the world instead of being the danger.<br><br> "I missed you," she mumbles into your shoulder. Voice muffled. Raw. "So fucking much. Every day. Every—"<br><br> "I know," you say. Your arms tighten around her despite everything. Despite the hurt. "I missed you too."<br><br> You stand there. Two siblings. Two broken people trying to figure out how to be whole together. Trying to rebuild something that was shattered.<br><br> When you finally pull apart Maud's eyes are wet. She wipes them quickly. Embarrassed. Vulnerable in a way she rarely allows.<br><br> "We'll figure it out," you say. Firm. Believing it. Making yourself believe it. "One day at a time."<br><br> "One day at a time," she echoes. Testing the words. Holding onto them. "Yeah. Yeah I can—I can do that."<br><br> <<if $toldBenAboutMaud is true>> "You know uncle Ben wants you home." You watch her reaction. Watch her process. "Wants you at dinner tomorrow night. If you're ready. If you think you can handle it."<br><br> Her breath hitches. Shadows pulsing. Agitated. Emotional. "He wants—he's not—he doesn't hate me?"<br><br> "He could never hate you," you say. Honest. True. "He's worried. Hurt that you left. But he loves you, Maud. He's always loved you. Even when you were at your worst."<br><br> Maud's shadows pulse faster. Chaotic. Anxious. "I don't—I don't know if I can face him. After everything. After three years of—of nothing. But I think I want to. I think... I want to see him. I—I promise I will come tomorrow."<br><br> <<else>> "Call Uncle Ben," you say. Firm but gentle. "Tomorrow. He deserves to know you're alive."<br><br> Maud flinches. "I don't—what do I even say to him? How do I—"<br><br> "Start with 'I'm alive,'" you suggest. "Start with 'I'm sorry.' Go from there. He's been worried sick. Three years of not knowing. Of wondering. He deserves better than that."<br><br> "Okay," she agrees. Voice small. "Tomorrow. I'll call. I promise. I'll—I'll figure out what to say. I'll call you too, promise."<br><br> <</if>> <<elseif $siblingRelationship is "neutral">> "I don't know," you admit. Honest. Careful. "Not enemies. Not strangers. But not... what we were. Not yet. Maybe not ever."<br><br> Maud nods slowly. Understanding. Processing. "Neutral ground."<br><br> "Something like that." You shrug. Trying to find words for complicated feelings. "We've got history. We're blood. But trust takes time. Forgiveness doesn't come easy. Not after three years."<br><br> "Fair," Maud says. Accepting it. Resigned to it. "More than fair actually. I fucked up. Multiple times. Massively. I can't expect instant forgiveness. Or expect things to just—just go back to how they were."<br><br> "No," you agree. "You can't."<br><br> She extends her fist. Hesitant. Offering.<br><br> You bump it. Acknowledgment. Not affection but not hostility either. Neutral territory.<br><br> "We'll figure it out," Maud says. "One day at a time. Maybe. If we're lucky."<br><br> "One day at a time," you echo. Non-committal. Cautious.<br><br> <<if $toldBenAboutMaud is true>> "By the way Uncle Ben wants you at dinner tomorrow." You say. Flat. Matter-of-fact.<br><br> Maud's expression shifts. Uncertain. Wary. "Does he."<br><br> "Yeah." You don't elaborate. Don't push. Don't make it emotional. "Your choice if you show up. I'm just passing along the message."<br><br> "Right." She nods. Careful. " I—I promise I will come tomorrow."<br><br> You nod back. That's all you can ask for. That's all she's willing to give.<br><br> <<else>> "Call Uncle Ben," you say. "Tomorrow. He deserves to know you're alive."<br><br> "I will," Maud promises. Careful. Measured. "Tomorrow. I'll call him and you too. Promise."<br><br> "Good," you say. Leaving it at that.<br><br> <</if>> <<else>> "I don't think I want any kind or relationship with you," you say. Honest. "You left. You lied. You broke promises. Multiple times. I don't think we can be anything anymore."<br><br> Maud's face hardens. Goes cold. Defensive. "Right. Of course. Should've expected that."<br><br> "Don't," you warn. Voice sharp. "Don't act like you're the victim here. You made choices. Choices that hurt people. Choices that destroyed trust. Choices that broke us."<br><br> "I KNOW!" Maud snaps. Shadows flaring violent and aggressive. "You think I don't know? Think I don't carry that every fucking day? That I don't wake up remembering what I did?"<br><br> "Then do better," you say. Merciless. Cold. "Stop making excuses. Stop justifying. Stop expecting forgiveness you haven't earned. Just do fucking better."<br><br> "I'm TRYING!" Her voice cracks. Desperate. Furious.<br><br> "Try harder," you say. Each word a knife. Each word final.<br><br> The words hang between you. Sharp. Cutting. True.<br><br> Maud's fists clench. Shadows coiling violent around her. For a moment—just a moment—you think she's going to hit you. Actually hit you. Let the rage and hurt explode into violence.<br><br> You tense. Ready. Almost wanting it. Wanting the release of physical confrontation instead of this emotional bloodletting.<br><br> Her fist comes up—<br><br> Shaking. Trembling with restrained violence. With fury barely contained.<br><br> And stops. Inches from your face. Hovering there. Threatening but not connecting.<br><br> "Fuck you," she whispers. Venomous. Broken. "Fuck you for being right. Fuck you for not forgiving me. Fuck you for making me feel like the monster everyone already thinks I am."<br><br> "I'm not making you feel anything," you say. Cold. Unyielding. "Your actions did that. Your choices. Your betrayals. Don't blame me for the consequences of what YOU did."<br><br> Her fist drops. But the rage doesn't fade. Just transforms. Hardens into something colder. More distant.<br><br> "Fine," she snarls. Sharp. Final. "FINE. We'll work together. We'll find Marlowe. We'll solve the little mystery. We'll stop whatever conspiracy's happening. But after?"<br><br> She meets your eyes. Distant. Hurt beyond words.<br><br> "After we're done. You want nothing to do with me? You want to cut me out of your life? Consider it done, you'll finally be rid of me like you always wanted."<br><br> "Good," you say. Even though it's not. Even though something inside you screams that you're breaking something that can never be fixed. That you're destroying the last connection to your only sibling.<br><br> But you're too angry. Too hurt. Too done with Maud's chaos and destruction and excuses to care. It's time to step back from the edge. It's time to let go. Maybe that's the best for everyone.<br><br> "Glad we understand each other," Maud says. Voice matching yours. Dead.<br><br> <<if $toldBenAboutMaud is true>> "By the way Uncle Ben wants you at dinner. I told him I'd pass along the message. Do what you want with it. Not my problem." You do this for Ben. This is your last act of kindness towards her.<br><br> " I—I promise I will come tomorrow," Maud says nonchomittal. As if her promises mean anything to you anymore. "Not your concern either way."<br><br> "Right," you say. "Not my concern."<br><br> <<else>> "Call Uncle Ben if you want," you say. Dismissive. Done. "I'm done being the middleman. I'm done caring about what you do or don't do. Not my problem anymore."<br><br> "Right," Maud says. Bitter. Broken. "Not your problem. Nothing about me is your problem. Got it. Crystal fucking clear."<br><br> "Finally," you sneer.<br><br> "I'll call you about the investigation later. Promise." She can't look you into the eyes.<</if>> <</if>> Silence stretches. Heavy with everything said and unsaid. With damage done and wounds opened. <br><br> "Tomorrow night," Maud finally says."1am. My place, tell Ace. We find Marlowe."<br><br> "Tomorrow night," you agree. Same tone. Same distance.<br><br> She turns to leave. Shadows already gathering around her. Preparing to disappear into Sordia's endless dark. To vanish like she does. Like she always does.<br><br> "Maud," you call out. Despite everything. Despite the anger. Despite the hurt.<br><br> She stops. Doesn't turn around. Doesn't look back. Just waits.<br><br> <<if $siblingRelationship is "fixable">>"Be safe," you say. Meaning it. "Come home in one piece."<br><br> Her shoulders relax slightly. Shadows settling. "Pfff who do you think I am? My name isn't Orca for nothing. But... thanks. You too $firstName... stay safe I mean."<br><br> <<elseif $siblingRelationship is "neutral">>"Don't die before we figure this out," you say, trying to bridge the gap a little.<br><br> "Wasn't planning on it, my name isn't Orca for nothing," she smiles a little. Crooked.<br><br> <<else>>"Try not to get yourself killed," you say. Cold. Dismissive. "Would be inconvenient for the investigation."<br><br> "Wouldn't want to inconvenience you," she shoots back. Bitter. Wounded. "My name isn't Orca for nothing. So fuck you for thinking I'm weak." She shows you the finger.<br><br> <</if>> "I'll pick you up tomorrow so wait for me. I promise. And this time I mean it, my words will mean something, okay?" Her smile is sharp. Her eyes glowing eerily. Then she's gone. Dissolved into shadows. Into night. Into Sordia's endless darkness like she was never there at all.<br><br> You stand alone on the street corner. Neon bleeding colors across pavement. Traffic passing endless and indifferent. The city grinding on like it always does. Like it doesn't care about broken families and siblings who can't figure out how to love each other without destroying each other.<br><br> <<if $vice is "smoking">>You light another cigarette. Let the smoke fill your lungs. Burn away the sharp edges.<<elseif $vice is "alcohol">>You need a drink. Need something to dull this ache.<<elseif $vice is "work">>You need to work. Need to focus on the case. On facts and evidence instead of feelings.<<else>>You just stand there. Breathing. Existing. Processing.<</if>><br><br> Now you go home. Process what just happened. Survive another day in Sordia.<br><br> One day at a time.<br><br> Just like you and Maud promised each other years ago.<br><br> If those promises mean anything anymore.<br><br> <<if $toldBenAboutMaud is true>> [[Continue|CH1P24_A]] <</if>><br><br> <<if $toldBenAboutMaud is false>> [[Continue|CH1P24_B]] <</if>><br><br>

The kitchen smells good.<br><br> Garlic sizzling in olive oil. Fresh basil torn by Ben's careful hands—he never cuts it, says the knife bruises the leaves. Something about respect for the ingredient. Tomato sauce simmering low and slow the way he learned from dog-eared cookbooks you've watched him read a hundred times.<br><br> Ben hums while he cooks. <br><br> Off-key. Always has been. The melody wanders through something that might be Sinatra if Sinatra had been tone-deaf and less concerned with pitch. You've heard this song—this attempt at a song—since childhood.<br><br> "She's gonna love this." He stirs the sauce with that wooden spoon he's had since before you were born. The one Maud used to steal for sword fights in the hallway. "Maud always loved my pasta. Remember? She used to sneak seconds when she thought I wasn't looking."<br><br> You remember.<br><br> <<if $siblingRelationship is "fixable">> Too many things. The good things that hurt worse than the bad ones. Maud stealing seconds, grinning with sauce on her chin like a kid who got away with something.<br><br> Maud doing dishes next to you, flicking bubbles in your face until you were both laughing too hard to breathe.<br><br> Maud curled up on the couch during bad movie marathons, throwing popcorn at the screen when the plot got stupid.<br><br> The memories sit in your chest like broken glass.<br><br> <<elseif $siblingRelationship is "neutral">> Enough. The obligatory family dinners. The polite conversations that said nothing real. The way she'd smile at Ben's jokes even when they weren't funny, before she stopped pretending. Before any of you stopped pretending.<br><br> The memory feels hollow. Like something you're supposed to feel more about than you do.<br><br> <<elseif $siblingRelationship is "broken">> Too much. Every broken promise wrapped in her smile. Every bad call dressed up as necessity. Every lie. The slow death of the sister you used to have, replaced piece by piece with something that only looked like her. Wore her face. Used her voice. But wasn't her anymore.<br><br> The anger sits in your throat like acid.<br><br> <</if>> "Set three places." <br><br> Not asks. Says. Like it's already decided. Like she's already here. Like the past three years didn't happen and his little girl is coming home for Sunday dinner just like old times.<br><br> You do it.<br><br> Three plates. The good ones—white porcelain with blue trim that somehow survived your childhood, every bad year, every reason to give up on nice things. Three forks from the mismatched set. Three wine glasses even though Maud probably drinks something stronger these days. <br><br> The table looks wrong.<br><br> <<if $siblingRelationship is "fixable">> Too hopeful. But maybe that's okay. Maybe hoping is what family does. What family is supposed to do. Maybe tonight is the night she comes back. Really comes back. Not just her body but her—the sister you grew up with, the one who knew you before the world got complicated.<br><br> You want to believe it so badly it physically hurts. A knot under your ribs. Tight. Unforgiving.<br><br> <<elseif $siblingRelationship is "neutral">> Too formal. Too much like forcing something dead back to life through sheer will and expensive china. But Ben needs this. So you'll sit through it. You'll make polite conversation. You'll pretend the empty chair doesn't speak louder than any of you ever could.<br><br> The resignation settles over you like dust.<br><br> <<elseif $siblingRelationship is "broken">> Too much like a lie. Like you're all playing house. Pretending the girl coming to dinner is someone she's not. Someone she'll never be again. But Ben needs this fantasy. So you'll set the table and you'll endure it and you'll choke on every bite if that's what it takes.<br><br> Your jaw aches from clenching.<br><br> <</if>> Ben checks his watch. <br><br> The old Timex with the cracked crystal he refuses to replace. Says it still tells time, doesn't it? Says working is what matters, not looking pretty. The philosophy of a man who fixes things until they can't be fixed anymore.<br><br> "Seven-thirty. She said eight, right?"<br><br> "She said eight."<br><br> "Good. Good. That gives the sauce time to really..." He trails off. Tastes it from the spoon. Considers with the gravity of a man who's perfected this recipe through years. Nods. "Perfect. Just like she remembers."<br><br> <<if $siblingRelationship is "fixable">> "She'll love it."<br><br> You mean it. Want it to be true with an intensity that scares you.<br><br> <<elseif $siblingRelationship is "neutral">> You say nothing. <br><br> Better than lying. Better than admitting you don't know what Maud loves anymore.<br><br> <<elseif $siblingRelationship is "broken">> You bite back the comment about whether Maud remembers anything beyond her next fix. Her next disappearing act. Her next excuse.<br><br> The words taste bitter on your tongue anyway.<br><br> <</if>> Seven forty-five crawls past.<br><br> Ben adds more salt to the pasta water. Tests it with his finger. Burns himself slightly but doesn't flinch. Just shakes his hand and mutters about old men and old reflexes getting slower. <br><br> He sets out the nice napkins. The cloth ones from the drawer you never open. Folds them into triangles at each place setting like this is a restaurant. Like this is special.<br><br> "You think she'll want wine?" He holds up a bottle of red he's been saving. The label is dusty. The year on it is older than you are. "Or should I put out beer? She used to love that cheap stuff. What was it called? Rolling Rock?"<br><br> "I don't know what she drinks now."<br><br> The admission hangs in the air. <br><br> Heavy. True. Damning. Ben's smile flickers but doesn't die—that stubborn optimism that's kept him going through everything else. He sets out both. Wine and beer. Covering all bases. Hoping for the best the way he always hopes for the best even when the best stopped showing up years ago.<br><br> Seven fifty-five.<br><br> The pasta water boils. Vigorous. Angry. Bubbles breaking the surface like tiny explosions. Ben drops in the linguine. Stirs it gently. Talks to it like it's alive. Like it can hear him. Like talking to pasta is normal when you're nervous.<br><br> "Eleven minutes. Perfect timing. She'll walk through that door right when it's ready."<br><br> Eight o'clock comes.<br><br> Ben checks the door. Checks his watch. Checks the door again. The movement is automatic. Muscle memory from waiting for things that don't come.<br><br> "Traffic maybe. You know how Sordia gets at night. All those checkpoints. CRD stopping cars for random searches. She probably got caught up."<br><br> "Yeah. Traffic."<br><br> The lie tastes like ash.<br><br> Eight-oh-five.<br><br> The pasta is ready. Al dente. Perfect. The way Maud likes it—liked it—used to like it.<br><br> Ben drains it. The steam rises, fogs his glasses. Tosses it with the sauce. Plates it with care. Each serving arranged just so. Presentation matters. Everything matters when you're trying to prove love through marinara and carefully torn basil.<br><br> "Should we..." He looks at the door. At the table. At you. "Maybe we should wait? She's probably just running late. You know Maud. Always late to everything. Remember her eighth-grade graduation? Missed her own name being called because she was outside smoking with—"<br><br> "I remember."<br><br> Eight-fifteen.<br><br> The food sits on the table. <br><br> Steam rising. Then not rising. Then just sitting there. Getting cold. Getting wrong. The sauce that looked perfect five minutes ago now looks congealed. Separated. Like something died on good china.<br><br> Ben sits. Stares at the door. Stands. Checks the window. Sits again.<br><br> His knee bounces under the table. That nervous energy he only gets when he's worried and trying not to show it. When he's holding everything together with hope and stubbornness and nothing else.<br><br> <<if $siblingRelationship is "fixable">> "She's coming." <br><br> You say it like conviction. Like if you believe hard enough it becomes true. "She promised. Maud promised she'd be here."<br><br> "I know." Ben smiles. Wants to believe it. Needs to believe it.<br><br> You want to believe it too. God, you want to.<br><br> <<elseif $siblingRelationship is "neutral">> "She's coming. Maud promised."<br><br> The words sound hollow even to you. Ben doesn't contradict. Doesn't agree. Just nods like he's heard what you said and is choosing to interpret it generously.<br><br> Optimism as survival strategy. <<elseif $siblingRelationship is "broken">> "She's coming," he says.<br><br> She's not. You know she's not. Maud's promises are smoke, look solid from a distance, disappear the moment you try to hold them. But you don't say that to a man who's spent three hours cooking for a ghost.<br><br> You just nod.<br><br> <</if>> Eight-thirty passes.<br><br> Eight forty-five.<br><br> Nine o'clock hits like a verdict.<br><br> Your plate sits untouched.<br><br> You can't. Physically cannot put food in your mouth right now. Your throat feels closed. Your stomach feels wrong. Everything feels wrong in a way that makes eating impossible.<br><br> <<if $siblingRelationship is "fixable">> Because she promised. <br><br> Looked you in the eye and promised. And you believed her because you wanted to believe her. Because you needed to believe the girl you grew up with was still in there somewhere. That she still kept promises. That family still meant something.<br><br> The disappointment is a physical weight on your chest.<br><br> <<elseif $siblingRelationship is "neutral">> Because this is exactly what you expected and somehow that makes it worse. <br><br> The predictability of disappointment. The routine of it. Another empty chair. Another cold dinner. Another night of Ben hoping for something that died years ago.<br><br> You feel nothing. The absence of surprise is its own kind of pain.<br><br> <<elseif $siblingRelationship is "broken">> Because you knew. <br><br> Fucking knew this would happen. And you let it happen anyway. Let Ben hope. Let him cook and plan and set three places. You shouldn't have told him about Maud. Shouldn't have given him this to hope for.<br><br> The anger burns behind your ribs.<br><br> <</if>> "We should eat." <br><br> Ben's voice is quiet. The kind of quiet that hurts more than yelling. Than accusation. "You need to eat."<br><br> "Not hungry."<br><br> "$firstName—"<br><br> "I said I'm not hungry."<br><br> The words come out sharper than you meant. Harsher. Ben flinches—actually flinches—and you hate yourself for it. He looks at the food. Doesn't touch it either. <br><br> The only sound is the kitchen clock ticking and somewhere in your chest something breaking so quietly no one else can hear it.<br><br> Maud's plate sits perfect. Untouched. Waiting.<br><br> Nine-thirty crawls past.<br><br> Ben stares at his pasta. The good food. The food he made with love and hope and the kind of stupid faith that parents have about their children no matter how many times those children prove them wrong.<br><br> All without looking at the third place setting. At the pristine plate.<br><br> Ten o'clock.<br><br> The wine Ben opened has oxidized. Turned bitter. The beer has gone warm. The pasta is definitely cold now. Inedible. A waste of three hours and good ingredients and hope that should have known better.<br><br> Ten-thirty.<br><br> Eleven.<br><br> Ben is fading. You can see it in the way his shoulders slump. The way his eyes blink slower. Like staying awake is becoming a choice he has to keep making.<br><br> Eleven-fifteen.<br><br> He yawns. Tries to hide it. Fails. The vulnerability of it makes something twist in your chest.<br><br> "You should go to bed."<br><br> "I'm fine. I can wait up. She might still—"<br><br> "Ben—"<br><br> "Just a little longer. I'll just—"<br><br> Another yawn. Bigger this time. Jaw cracking with it. He's exhausted. Has been since dinner started getting cold at eight-fifteen. Has been for years, probably. The exhaustion of hoping for things that don't come.<br><br> Eleven-thirty.<br><br> "Go to bed." <br><br> Your voice is firmer this time. Gentler. The combination of command and care that you learned from him. "Get some sleep."<br><br> "But Maud—"<br><br> "She's not coming!"<br><br> The words explode out of you. <br><br> Too loud. Too sharp. Cutting through the apartment like a knife. The truth always sounds too loud when you finally say it.<br><br> Ben stops. Stares at you. Hurt flickering across his face.<br><br> "She's not coming." <br><br> You repeat it. Quieter this time. Gentler. But the truth doesn't get softer just because you lower your voice. "She's not. You know she's not."<br><br> Ben's shoulders sag. All the fight draining out of him at once. Leaving behind just an old man who wanted to believe. Who needed to believe. Who built an entire evening around faith in something that was never going to show up.<br><br> "Yeah." His voice is hollow. "Yeah, I know."<br><br> He doesn't argue after that. Just shuffles toward his bedroom. Each step heavier than the last. He pauses at the threshold. Hand on the frame. Looks back at you.<br><br> "You'll come get me if she—"<br><br> "I will."<br><br> He nods. Lingers in the doorway. Hand trembling slightly against the wood. "She just wasn't ready. That's... that's okay. She'll come when she's ready."<br><br> <<if $siblingRelationship is "fixable">> The lie is kind. <br><br> You want to believe it. Need to believe it almost as much as he does. "Maybe tomorrow."<br><br> "Maybe tomorrow." Ben echoes it. Doesn't believe it either but appreciates the effort. Appreciates that you're trying.<br><br> The shared delusion feels almost warm.<br><br> <<elseif $siblingRelationship is "neutral">> The lie is necessary. <br><br> You let it stand. Let it fill the space between you. Soft and useless but better than nothing. "Get some sleep, Ben."<br><br> He nods. Leaves. Takes his hope with him. The apartment feels colder without it.<br><br> <<elseif $siblingRelationship is "broken">> The lie makes you angry. <br><br> She wasn't ready? She was never going to come. Never. The certainty of it sits in your gut like lead. But you don't say that. You just nod. Let him keep this one small piece of faith even though it's killing him by inches.<br><br> Ben's face crumples slightly. He knows. He knows you know. But neither of you can say it out loud. The truth is too heavy for him to bear.<br><br> <</if>> His bedroom door closes.<br><br> Soft. Careful. Like he's afraid of disturbing you. Like he's the one who should apologize for today.<br><br> The apartment is too quiet now. <br><br> Just the refrigerator hum. Just the distant sirens. <br><br> You pull out your phone. Type.<br><br> <div class="bl-bare-wrap"> <div class="bl-bare-msg out"> <div class="bl-bare-bubble">She didn't show up.</div> <div class="bl-bare-time">delivered</div> </div> <div class="bl-bare-msg in"> <div class="bl-bare-bubble">Fuck. I'm sorry $firstName. You ok?</div> <div class="bl-bare-time">Ace</div> </div> <div class="bl-bare-msg out"> <div class="bl-bare-bubble">She wants to pick me up later before we go to Marlowe. Probably got cold feet after the way she treated Uncle Ben all those years ago. Or she stood us up because Luz is more important now. I will talk to her about it later. It's all just so tiring Ace.</div> <div class="bl-bare-time">delivered</div> </div> <div class="bl-bare-msg in"> <div class="bl-bare-bubble">Maybe she really wasn't ready to face him yet. I have to wrap up here first but shouldn't be long. I'll meet you at her place later. We'll figure out what to do :)</div> <div class="bl-bare-time">Ace</div> </div> <div class="bl-bare-msg out"> <div class="bl-bare-bubble">Thanks.</div> <div class="bl-bare-time">delivered</div> </div> </div> You stare at the screen. The blue light harsh in the dim apartment. Your reflection in the black glass looks tired. Looks done.<br><br> [[Continue|CH1P24.1]]

Your phone sits on the coffee table.<br><br> Silent.<br><br> Mocking.<br><br> Ben's in his bedroom. Door closed. Light off. Asleep already. You didn't tell him about Maud. Didn't mention she's back in Sordia. Didn't say anything about tonight.<br><br> Because Maud asked you not to.<br><br> Because Maud said she'd call him herself. Tonight. Finally face him after three years of silence. Three years of him waiting. Three years of wondering if his little girl was alive.<br><br> You were waiting the whole day for her to call him.<br><br> Or at least get a confirmation that Maud actually kept her promise for once.<br><br> <<if $siblingRelationship is "fixable">> She'll call him.<br><br> She promised. Looked you in the eye and said she wanted her words to mean something. That has to count for something.<br><br> Doesn't it?<br><br> <<elseif $siblingRelationship is "neutral">> Maybe she'll call. Maybe she won't.<br><br> You've learned not to count on Maud for anything. Learned not to expect. Learned not to trust her words.<br><br> <<elseif $siblingRelationship is "broken">> She won't call.<br><br> You know she won't. This is what Maud does—makes promises she never intends to keep. And you're the idiot sitting here believing her words mean anything. But this time. This is really her last chance.<br><br> <</if>> Seven-thirty crawls past.<br><br> You check your phone. No messages. No missed calls. No investigation updates from work. No confirmation that Maud called Ben.<br><br> Just silence.<br><br> The apartment hums around you. Refrigerator. Distant sirens. The clock on the wall ticking seconds that feel like hours.<br><br> Eight o'clock hits.<br><br> Your phone buzzes.<br><br> Finally.<br><br> You grab it too fast. Almost drop it. Fingers clumsy with anticipation.<br><br> <div class="bl-bare-wrap"> <div class="bl-bare-msg in"> <div class="bl-bare-bubble">Still coght up in sumthing. Couldn't call Ben tonight. Towmorow maybe.</div> <div class="bl-bare-time">Maud</div> </div> </div> The words sit on your screen. Internally you cringe. her grammar is as bad as it was in 8th grade.<br><br> But still the message is clear. So Casual. So Easy. Like breaking promises costs nothing. Like three years of silence plus one more night doesn't matter. Like Ben's nothing worth to her at all.<br><br> Your jaw clenches.<br><br> <<if $siblingRelationship is "fixable">> No.<br><br> No, she said she'd call. She fucking promised. Looked you in the eye. Said it like she meant it.<br><br> <<elseif $siblingRelationship is "neutral">> Of course.<br><br> Of course she couldn't. When does Maud ever follow through? When has she ever done what she said she'd do?<br><br> <<elseif $siblingRelationship is "broken">> Fucking typical.<br><br> You knew it. Knew she'd do this. Knew the promise was empty before she finished making it.<br><br> <</if>> You don't text back.<br><br> You call.<br><br> The phone rings. Once. Twice. Three times. Each one feeling longer than the last.<br><br> She answers on the third ring. "What?"<br><br> "You said you'd call him tonight."<br><br> "Yeah, well, things came up—"<br><br> "Things always come up with you, Maud."<br><br> Your voice is sharp. Cutting. The anger you've been swallowing all evening rising like bile. You're fed up. "You said you wanted your words to mean something. Remember? You said that to me."<br><br> Silence on the other end.<br><br> Static. Breathing. The weight of unspoken excuses.<br><br> Then: "Don't start with me right now."<br><br> "Don't start?" The words come out louder than you intended. "You made this promise—"<br><br> "I know what I fucking said."<br><br> Her voice rises to match yours. "But I'm in the middle of something and I can't just—I'll call him tomorrow, okay? One day isn't going to—"<br><br> "It's been three years, Maud. Three years of him wondering if you're alive. And you can't take five minutes to call him because what—you're too busy running errands for Luz?"<br><br> Silence.<br><br> "Don't," Maud says. Her voice drops. Goes cold. "Don't bring Luz into this."<br><br> "Why not?" You're standing now. Pacing. The apartment too small to contain what's building in your chest. "That's what this is about, isn't it? You're back but suddenly you can't spare time for your own family because you're too busy being Luz's loyal little—"<br><br> "Fuck you that's noot true!"<br><br> "No, fuck you, Maud." Your hand is shaking. Gripping the phone too hard. "You walked away from us. You chose this. Chose Luz. Chose whatever the fuck you do for that psychopath over—"<br><br> "You don't know anything."<br><br> "I know enough. You abandoned Ben." The words taste like poison. Like truth. "I know you left me to pick up the pieces. I know you're so far up Luz's ass you can't even—"<br><br> "At least I'm doing something that matters!" Her voice cracks. Raw. Angry. "At least I'm not pretending I'm making a difference when all I'm doing is—"<br><br> "When all I'm doing is what, Maud? Say it."<br><br> "When all you're doing is feeding your delusion." She laughs. Bitter. Sharp. "You've always been thinking you made a difference with your stories. Meanwhile you're the laughing stock in Sordia. No one cares about—"<br><br> "And what are you doing? Killing people for a crime lord?"<br><br> Silence.<br><br> You can hear her breathing. Fast. Shallow. Furious.<br><br> "I'm surviving," she says finally. "I'm doing what I have to do to survive in this fucking city. Something you wouldn't understand because you've always had the better connection with Ben. Always had someone to fall back on. I didn't have that luxury—"<br><br> "That is complete bullshit and you know it. You had us." Your throat is closing. "You had us and you left."<br><br> "I left because I had to leave."<br><br> "No." The word comes out quiet. Deadly. "You left because it was easier than staying. Because running is what you do. It's all you've ever done. Run away and break promises and disappoint everyone who's stupid enough to give you a chance."<br><br> "Stop—" "He was the one who showed us what familial love felt like, Maud. He was the one who showed up. He was the one who let you sleep in his bed until you were 14 because of your nightmares. And tomorrow he'll wake up and has no clue that you're back. I'll have to look him in the eye and pretend I don't know his daughter chose Luz over him."<br><br> "I said stop."<br><br> Her voice is shaking. You can hear it. The crack in her armor. The hurt bleeding through.<br><br> Good.<br><br> You want it to hurt. You're so tired of her shit. <br><br> "You're killing him," you say. Each word deliberate. Precise. "Slowly. Every time you do this. You're killing him and you don't even care because you're too busy—"<br><br> "I told you, I'm trying to fix things!"<br><br> She's yelling now. Actually yelling. "I'm trying to make things right. To make it safe for... nevermind. I just need—I just need time—" "Time." You laugh. It sounds wrong. Broken. "We all need time Maud. But three years of it? And what did we get? Nothing. There is never enough time. Time runs out for everyone eventually Maud."<br><br> "That's not fair—"<br><br> "Fair?" Your voice rises. "You want to talk about fair? What's fair about leaving me to deal with this? To watch him break every time when he gets a call and he thinks it's from you? To hold him together when you're the one tearing him apart?"<br><br> "I never asked you to—"<br><br> "You didn't have to ask!" You're shouting now. Can't stop. Don't want to stop. "He's basically our father. We were your family and you threw us away like we meant nothing. Like we were nothing."<br><br> "That's not—"<br><br> "And the worst part?" Your voice drops. Goes quiet. The kind of quiet that's worse than screaming. "The worst part is that somewhere under all the bullshit, there was still the sister I grew up with. But are you still there? Or is there's just whatever Luz made you into?"<br><br> Silence. Long. Heavy.<br><br> "I have to go." Her voice is empty now. Scraped clean. "I'll pick you up at eleven-thirty. We'll talk then."<br><br> "Why bother?" The words come out flat. Final. "We both know you won't show up. You never do. But hey at least I'm used to it."<br><br> The line goes quiet.<br><br> Then: "Eleven-thirty. Don't leave without me."<br><br> You open your mouth. Close it. The words forming before you can stop them.<br><br> "You know what the saddest part is, Maud? I don't think you left because you had to. I think you left because you wanted to. Because we weren't enough for you. We never were. And now you're too much of a coward to admit that staying gone was easier than coming back and facing what you did to us."<br><br> <<if $siblingRelationship is "fixable">> "Maud—"<br><br> "Eleven-thirty. I promise. For real this time."<br><br> Her voice softens. Just a fraction. Just enough to make you want to believe. "I'll be there. I swear."<br><br> <<elseif $siblingRelationship is "neutral">> "Maud, wait—"<br><br> "Eleven-thirty. Don't leave without me."<br><br> A pause. Static. "I'll actually show up this time."<br><br> The qualifier makes it worse somehow.<br><br> <<elseif $siblingRelationship is "broken">> "Maud, you can't just—"<br><br> "Eleven-thirty. Be ready."<br><br> No apology. No acknowledgment. Just orders. Always orders with her.<br><br> <</if>> The dial tone doesn't come.<br><br> Just silence. Then dead air. She hung up.<br><br> You stare at your phone. At the ended call. At the last cruel thing you said still hanging in the air like smoke.<br><br> The worst part is you meant it.<br><br> Every word.<br><br> The anger sits in your chest. Hot. <br><br> But underneath the anger is something else too.<br><br> You shove it down. You thought after your talk things could maybe change.<br><br> Eight-thirty.<br><br> You text Ace. Your hands are still shaking.<br><br> <div class="bl-bare-wrap"> <div class="bl-bare-msg out"> <div class="bl-bare-bubble">How's work?</div> <div class="bl-bare-time">delivered</div> </div> <div class="bl-bare-msg in"> <div class="bl-bare-bubble">Doing some boring surveillance rn.</div> <div class="bl-bare-time">Ace</div> </div> <div class="bl-bare-msg out"> <div class="bl-bare-bubble">Maud didn't call Ben. Said she'll do it tomorrow.</div> <div class="bl-bare-time">delivered</div> </div> <div class="bl-bare-msg out"> <div class="bl-bare-bubble">We had a fight.</div> <div class="bl-bare-time">delivered</div> </div> </div> Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again. The hesitation visible even in text.<br><br> <div class="bl-bare-wrap"> <div class="bl-bare-msg in"> <div class="bl-bare-bubble">How bad?</div> <div class="bl-bare-time">Ace</div> </div> <div class="bl-bare-msg out"> <div class="bl-bare-bubble">Bad.</div> <div class="bl-bare-time">delivered</div> </div> <div class="bl-bare-msg in"> <div class="bl-bare-bubble">You okay?</div> <div class="bl-bare-time">Ace</div> </div> <div class="bl-bare-msg out"> <div class="bl-bare-bubble">I said everything that needed to be said...Again. I can't get through to her Ace.</div> <div class="bl-bare-time">delivered</div> </div> <div class="bl-bare-msg in"> <div class="bl-bare-bubble">I'm sure she'll understand. She knows how much you care about Ben.</div> <div class="bl-bare-time">Ace</div> </div> </div> You stare at the message. The kindness in it. The assumption that what you said was justified. <br><br> Maybe it was. Maybe it wasn't. <br><br> You don't respond.<br><br> Nine o'clock.<br><br> Nine-thirty.<br><br> Ten.<br><br> You sit on the chair. Wait. The apartment is too quiet around you. Just the refrigerator hum. Just distant sirens. Just you and the clock counting down to eleven-thirty.<br><br> To food with Maud. To her place. If she even shows up after what you said.<br><br> The anger has cooled. Left behind something uglier. The replay of your own words echoing in your head.<br><br> Your jacket hangs by the door. Keys already in your pocket. Phone charged. Ready to leave the moment she arrives. <br><br> If she arrives.<br><br> Ten-thirty.<br><br> Eleven.<br><br> You check your phone. No messages from Maud. Nothing. The screen is blank except for old notifications. News alerts. Work emails. Nothing that matters.<br><br> Eleven-fifteen.<br><br> Eleven-thirty hits.<br><br> No doorbell. No phone call. No Maud.<br><br> <<if $siblingRelationship is "fixable">> Maybe she's running late.<br><br> Traffic. Something came up. She'll be here. She promised. For real this time. She said for real this time.<br><br> <<elseif $siblingRelationship is "neutral">> Late.<br><br> Of course she's late. When has Maud ever been on time? When has she ever done what she said when she said she'd do it?<br><br> <<elseif $siblingRelationship is "broken">> Not coming.<br><br> Of course she's not coming. She doesn't care. Doesn't care about Ben. Doesn't care about you. Doesn't care about anything but herself and whatever the fuck she's doing.<br><br> <</if>> You text her.<br><br> <div class="bl-bare-wrap"> <div class="bl-bare-msg out"> <div class="bl-bare-bubble">Where are you?</div> <div class="bl-bare-time">delivered · read</div> </div> </div> No response.<br><br> The read receipt sits there. Proof she saw it. Proof she's choosing not to answer.<br><br> <div class="bl-bare-wrap"> <div class="bl-bare-msg out"> <div class="bl-bare-bubble">Maud?</div> <div class="bl-bare-time">delivered · read</div> </div> </div> Delivered. Read. Nothing.<br><br> Maybe she's not answering because of what you said. Maybe you went too far. Maybe she's done with you the way you told her you were done with her.<br><br> Maybe you pushed your sister away for good.<br><br> You call.<br><br> Straight to voicemail. Her voice—recorded, cheerful, fake—telling you to leave a message.<br><br> You call again.<br><br> Voicemail.<br><br> Again.<br><br> Voicemail.<br><br> Your hand is shaking. You grip the phone harder.<br><br> You text Ace.<br><br> <div class="bl-bare-wrap"> <div class="bl-bare-msg out"> <div class="bl-bare-bubble">She didn't show up. Where the fuck is she?</div> <div class="bl-bare-time">delivered</div> </div> <div class="bl-bare-msg out"> <div class="bl-bare-bubble">What if she's not coming because of what I said?</div> <div class="bl-bare-time">delivered</div> </div> </div> You stare at the messages. At the admission.<br><br> Delete the second one before you can send it.<br><br> <div class="bl-bare-wrap"> <div class="bl-bare-msg out"> <div class="bl-bare-bubble">She didn't show up. Where the fuck is she?</div> <div class="bl-bare-time">delivered</div> </div> </div> Send.<br><br> [[Continue|CH1P24.1]]

You approach the laptop. Flip it open.<br><br> The screen comes to life. Desktop background—generic cityscape. But no file access. Just a password prompt.<br><br> Enter Password:<br><br> Six empty boxes. Waiting. Demanding.<br><br> "Fuck," Maud mutters. "Of course he locked it."<br><br> <<if $vice is "work">>"Professional paranoia," you observe. "Keep the evidence secured. Even from yourself."<<else>>Makes sense. You don't hire surveillance contractors and leave your records unprotected.<</if>><br><br> You've found the clues scattered around Jace's life. Lottery numbers. 07-12-23-27-19-15. Calendar date. October 23rd. Photo year. 12 Jul 2027. <br><br> Six digits. Lucky numbers. A gambler's password.<br><br> <<if $vice is "gambling">>"I know this type," you mutter. "Superstitious. Ritualistic. Lucky numbers aren't random. They mean something." You study the clues. "Dates. Personal numbers. Always personal."<<else>>Numbers scattered across a dead man's life. Lottery tickets. Dates. Desperate hopes turned into digital keys.<</if>><br><br> "Try it," Maud says. Shadows hovering over the keyboard. Eager. Impatient.<br><br> <div style="background: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.3); border: 2px solid var(--accent); padding: 2em; margin: 2em 0; border-radius: 5px; text-align: center;"> <h3 style="color: var(--accent); font-family: var(--accentFont); margin-top: 0;">ENTER 6-DIGIT PASSWORD</h3> <<textbox "_passwordInput" "" autofocus>> <<button "ENTER">> <<if _passwordInput is "120727">> <<set $laptopUnlocked to true>> <<goto "CH1P15.LaptopSuccess">> <<else>> <<set $laptopPasswordAttempts += 1>> <<if $laptopPasswordAttempts >= 2>> <<goto "CH1P15.MaudSolvesIt">> <<else>> <<goto "CH1P15.LaptopFail">> <</if>> <</if>> <</button>> <div style="background: rgba(255, 0, 0, 0.1); border: 1px solid var(--accent); padding: 1em; margin: 2em 0; border-radius: 5px;"> <h4 style="color: var(--accent); margin-top: 0;">Clues Found:</h4> Lottery ticket: 07-12-23-27-19-15 ("Gambler's prayer")<br> Calendar: October 23rd circled ("Lucky day")<br> Photo inscription: "My lucky charm - 12 Jul 2027"<br> </div> </div>

The password accepts.<br><br> Green checkmark. Access granted.<br><br> Desktop loads. Clean. Organized. Dozens of folders labeled with dates and initials. Professional work. <<if $vice is "work">>Exactly how you'd organize your own investigation files.<<else>>The kind of system that says //I was careful. I kept records. I protected myself.//<</if>><br><br> "We're in," Maud whispers. Shadows curl around the laptop screen like they're reading the data themselves.<br><br> <<if $vice is "gambling">>"Date format," you mutter. Recognition settling cold in your gut. "Day, month, year. The lottery had 12. The photo had Jul, meaning 07 and 2027. 12/07/27. That's what gamblers do. Dates that mean something. Personal anchors."<<else>>"The numbers connected," you say. Lottery picks. Photo year. Date format. A dead man's password built from fragments of meaning.<</if>><br><br> "Smart but not smart enough," Maud says. <br><br> Worth dying to protect, apparently.<br><br> [[Access the files|CH1P15.LaptopUnlocked]]

<<if $maudSolvedPassword>> Maud navigates the desktop with shadow-enhanced precision. Folders. Files. Jace's entire surveillance operation laid bare. <<else>> "Bingo," you whisper. "Let's see what secrets Jace died protecting." <</if>><br><br> Recent files catch your attention immediately.<br><br> //SURVEILLANCE_TARGETS//<br><br> Your stomach drops before <<if $maudSolvedPassword>>she<<else>>you<</if>> even click<<if not $maudSolvedPassword>>s<</if>> it. You already know what's inside. You've seen those photos twice now. Once when Maud first showed you. Once more at her apartment when you went through everything in detail.<br><br> "We don't need to go through these again," you say quickly. "We know the twelve targets. What we need is the money trail. Payment records. Who hired him."<br><br> Maud nods, understanding. "Smart. Photos don't tell us shit we don't already know." She navigates to financial folders instead.<br><br> Bank transfers. Cryptocurrency. Wire transactions through shell companies with names like "Meridian Holdings LLC" and "Apex Ventures Corp."<br><br> Thousands of dollars. Tens of thousands. For surveillance photos of people who would die days later.<br><br> "Can we trace these?" you ask.<br><br> Maud shakes her head. "Not easily. These are professional money laundering chains. Whoever paid Jace knew how to hide."<br><br> <<if $vice is "work">>"Save everything," you order. "Every transaction. Every shell company name. We'll need forensic accountants but—"<<else>>The money trail glows on screen. Breadcrumbs that lead nowhere but prove someone wanted twelve people dead badly enough to fund it.<</if>><br><br> "Wait." Maud's voice drops. "There's a video."<br><br> She opens a file labeled //CLIENT_MEETING_Oct19.// No sound. Grainy footage from what looks like a dashcam or hidden camera.<br><br> The timestamp says three weeks ago. Night. Poorly lit alley somewhere in Sordia—could be anywhere, could be nowhere specific.<br><br> Two figures. One must be Jace. The other...<br><br> Shadows. Literal shadows. The figure is cloaked in darkness that doesn't match the light.<br><br> They exchange something. Envelope for envelope. Jace gets cash. The other one gets... photos? A memory stick? The angle doesn't show.<br><br> The person's face never enters frame. Always turned away. Always in shadow. Deliberately obscured.<br><br> "That's shadow work," Maud says quietly. Her voice has gone cold. Professional. "That's one of us."<br><br> You turn to look at her. "You're sure?"<br><br> "I know that stance. The way the shadows move. That's not amateur hour." She pauses the video, studies the frozen frame. "Jace was killed by a clean headshot. I didn't even sense the shooter and I was right fucking there." Her shadows pulse with agitation. "Only another powerful Umbra could pull that off in my territory without me noticing."<br><br> <<set $foundPayments to true>> <<set $foundVideo to true>> <<set $evidenceFound += 2>> "How many powerful Umbras are in Sordia?" you ask.<br><br> "Seven of us. Including me." Maud's expression goes grim. "And whoever's in that video worked closely with Jace. Met with him personally. Took surveillance intel from him." She taps the screen. "This wasn't a distant contractor situation. This was hands-on. Collaborative."<br><br> The implications sit heavy between you.<br><br> "We have everything," you say. "Equipment. Notes. Videos. Payment records. Time to piece this together."<br><br> [[Piece together the evidence|CH1P15.UmbraExplanation]]

ACCESS DENIED<br><br> The password boxes shake. Flash red. Reset to empty.<br><br> Wrong. Wrong combination. Wrong numbers.<br><br> "Fuck," Maud hisses. Shadows flickering with frustration. "Try again. Think about the pattern."<br><br> <<if $vice is "gambling">>"Gamblers don't pick random numbers," you say. Thinking through the psychology. "They pick meaningful ones. Dates. Patterns they believe in. Lucky days."<<else>>The clues are there. Scattered across Jace's life. You just need to connect them correctly.<</if>><br><br> The lottery numbers. The calendar date. The photo year. Six digits. They have to connect somehow.<br><br> "One more shot," Maud says. "Then if we can't get it, I'll try something else."<br><br> [[Try again|CH1P15.LaptopPassword]]

ACCESS DENIED<br><br> The boxes flash red. Again. Second failure.<br><br> Wrong. Still wrong. The password remains locked. Jace's secrets staying buried behind six digits you can't crack.<br><br> "Fuck this," Maud says. Shadows surge forward, wrapping around the laptop like living smoke. "I'm done playing nice."<br><br> <<if $confrontational > 60>>"What are you—"<<elseif $soft > 60>>"Maud, wait—"<<else>>"Can you actually—"<</if>><br><br> Her shadows sink into the device. Not physically. Something deeper. Something that makes the screen flicker and distort. Shadow work bleeding into technology. Into circuitry. Into code itself.<br><br> "Umbra trick," she mutters. Voice strained with concentration. "Shadows exist in the gaps. Between ones and zeros. Between locked and unlocked." Sweat beads on her forehead. "Between secure and—"<br><br> CLICK.<br><br> The laptop unlocks. Desktop loads. Access granted through force rather than knowledge.<br><br> Maud sags slightly. Shadows retreating. "There. Fuck passwords. Fuck lucky numbers. I just went through the fucking backdoor."<br><br> <<if $vice is "work">>"Brute force hacking," you observe. "Not elegant but effective."<<elseif $vice is "gambling">>"Cheating," you say. Can't help the slight smile. "That's cheating the system."<<else>>"That works too."<</if>><br><br> She grins. Tired. Sharp. "Neo taught me that. When locks won't open and you're out of time? Stop asking permission. Take what you need."<br><br> <<if $siblingRelationship is "broken">>Typical Maud. Breaking rules. Taking shortcuts. Never bothering with the proper way when violence and power work faster.<<elseif $siblingRelationship is "neutral">>You're not sure whether to be impressed or concerned. Probably both.<<else>>"Show-off," you mutter. But you're relieved. The files are open. That's what matters.<</if>><br><br> <<set $laptopUnlocked to true>> <<set $maudSolvedPassword to true>> [[Access the files|CH1P15.LaptopUnlocked]]

You set the phone down. Stare at the door.<br><br> You're rooted to this spot. To this chair. To this moment.<br><br> She promised to pick you up before 1 AM. Said she'd come get you. The promise was clear. Maybe that's why you don't move. To test, one last time, if her words really mean something.<br><br> Her place is exactly seventeen minutes away by car. You know because you've memorized the route. <br><br> Seventeen minutes.<br><br> Which means if she leaves now—if she's just running late like she always runs late—she should arrive by 12:47 at the latest.<br><br> Eleven-forty.<br><br> Eleven-fifty.<br><br> Midnight.<br><br> The clock on the microwave glows red. Counting down. Marking time.<br><br> You watch it.<br><br> Can't look away.<br><br> 12:15.<br><br> 12:30.<br><br> 12:33.<br><br> The doorbell rings.<br><br> Your heart stops.<br><br> Restarts.<br><br> Pounds so hard you can feel it in your throat. In your fingers. In every part of you that's suddenly alive and terrified and hopeful and angry all at once.<br><br> She came.<br><br> She actually—<br><br> Your feet suddely remember how to move. You bolt to the door. <br><br> <<link " ⌕ Pissed. Yank it open ready to scream where the fuck she's been." "CH1P24.2">> <<set $doorOpening to "pissed">> <<set $cutting += 2>> <</link>><br><br> <<link "⌕ Relieved. Just relieved she's alive. She's here. Nothing else matters." "CH1P24.2">> <<set $doorOpening to "relieved">> <<set $soft += 2>> <</link>><br><br> <<link "⌕ Sarcastic. Oh look who finally decided to show up." "CH1P24.2">> <<set $doorOpening to "sarcastic">> <<set $deflecting += 2>> <</link>><br><br> <<link "⌕ Cold. Icy. She doesn't get emotion right now." "CH1P24.2">> <<set $doorOpening to "cold">> <<set $hardened += 2>> <</link>><br><br>

<<if $doorOpening is "pissed">> You cross the apartment in three strides. Grab the door handle. Yank it open so hard the hinges complain.<br><br> "Where the fuck—"<br><br> <<elseif $doorOpening is "relieved">> You're at the door before you consciously decide to move. Hand finding the handle. Turning it. Pulling.<br><br> Relief flooding through you so strong it's almost painful.<br><br> She came. She's here. She's—<br><br> <<elseif $doorOpening is "sarcastic">> You take your time getting to the door. Let the bell ring twice. Three times. Make her wait like she made you wait.<br><br> When you finally open it, you're already smiling. The sharp kind. The kind that cuts.<br><br> "Well well well, look who finally—"<br><br> <<elseif $doorOpening is "cold">> Every emotion on your face is locked down tight because she doesn't get to see what this did to you. Doesn't get to know she hurt you. Again.<br><br> Your hand finds the handle. Turns it. Pulls.<br><br> Face blank. Voice dead.<br><br> <</if>> It's not Maud.<br><br> Ace stands in your doorway.<br><br> Still in $aceHis CRD tactical gear. Federal badges gleaming dull in the hallway light.<br><br> $aceHeC's smiling. Wide.<br><br> <<if $doorOpening is "pissed">> The anger dies in your throat. Chokes on itself. Because that smile is wrong and Ace's eyes are wrong.<br><br> <<elseif $doorOpening is "relieved">> The relief curdles. Sours. Turns into something that tastes like ash.<br><br> <<elseif $doorOpening is "sarcastic">> Your smile falters. Dies. Because this isn't funny. This isn't right. Something about Ace's face is broken.<br><br> <<elseif $doorOpening is "cold">> Your blank expression cracks. Just slightly. Just enough. Because that smile on Ace's face is worse than tears. Worse than anger. Worse than anything.<br><br> <</if>> "Hey!" Ace says. <br><br> Voice bright. Cheerful. Wrong. All wrong. The tone doesn't match the eyes. Doesn't match the tremor in $aceHis hands.<br><br> "Sorry I'm late. Traffic was—traffic was—"<br><br> $aceHeC laughs.<br><br> High. Sharp. The sound shatters against the silence of the hallway.<br><br> Then $aceHe's crying.<br><br> Not sobbing. Not breaking down. Just tears. Streaming down $aceHis face while $aceHe keeps smiling. Keeps laughing. Like two different people are using the same body and neither knows what the other is doing. Like something fundamental broke and the pieces are trying to function independently.<br><br> "Ace?"<br><br> Your voice sounds far away. Distant. Like you're hearing yourself from underwater. "What's wrong? What—"<br><br> "Nothing!" <br><br> Another laugh. More tears. The combination makes your skin crawl. "Nothing's wrong. Everything's—everything's—"<br><br> Shit.<br><br> Did Ace see another kid like Jane? Another body. Another failure. Another thing that can't be fixed.<br><br> $aceHisC hands are shaking. The ones that normally never shake. The ones that pull triggers and save lives and never miss. The ones you've watched stay steady through everything.<br><br> You forget about Maud immediately. She can wait. Your best friend needs you now.<br><br> "Can I come in?" <br><br> Ace asks it like a question. Like you might say no. Still smiling. Still crying. The disconnect is terrifying.<br><br> You step aside.<br><br> Automatic. No thought required. Ace stumbles in—not walking straight, not walking like someone who knows where they are. Walking like someone who's somewhere else entirely and the body is just going through motions. Muscle memory without consciousness.<br><br> "I was following her today."<br><br> The words tumble out fast. Too fast. Tripping over each other like they're running from something. "I knew she would go after Marlowe alone. But I lost her. For seventeen minutes I lost her. I ran as fast as I could. I promise you that. I finally figured out where the hideout was but then I got there and—"<br><br> $aceHeC laughs.<br><br> Cries.<br><br> Does both at the same time and the combination is worse than either alone. Worse than anything you've heard come out of a human throat.<br><br> "The door was open. That's—that's weird, right? Doors shouldn't be open. Marlowe's place. His hideout. But the door was open and I went in and—"<br><br> $aceHisC smile is cracking now.<br><br> Fracturing. Breaking into pieces that don't fit back together. That never will.<br><br> "There was so much blood, $firstName."<br><br> The way Ace says your name makes something in your chest seize. Stop. Refuse to beat.<br><br> "So much. And she was just—she was just lying there. Like she was sleeping. Like she'd wake up if I just—if I just—"<br><br> More tears. More laughter. The sounds getting confused. Getting tangled. Becoming something that isn't either one anymore. Something inhuman.<br><br> "I called it in. Did compressions. Followed protocol. Everything by the book. Everything exactly right. But she was already—she'd been—"<br><br> $aceHisC hands come up.<br><br> Cover $aceHis face. The smile finally dying. The laughter cutting off mid-note.<br><br> What's left is just grief.<br><br> Raw. Unfiltered. The kind that doesn't know how to hide itself.<br><br> "The reanimation would never have worked." Ace whispers, $aceHis hollow eyes meeting yours. "Her heart was missing."<br><br> Ace laughs louder. Can't seem to stop. Hands dropping. Looking at you with eyes that have seen something they can't unsee.<br><br> "Someone cut out her heart. Just—just took it. Her eyes were still open. She was looking at me. And I couldn't do anything. I couldn't do anything at all. Again. I was useless. Useless, useless, useless, useless, useless." Ace hides $aeHis face behind $aceHis face again. Starts rocking back and forth.<br><br> In the light you can see Ace's hands clearly.<br><br> They're still full of blood.<br><br> Your sister's blood.<br><br> Dark. Dried in the creases of $aceHis palms. Under $aceHis fingernails. Staining the tactical gloves $aceHe's still wearing like $aceHe forgot to take them off. Like $aceHe came straight here from—<br><br> No.<br><br> You can hear your own heartbeat loud in your ears. Too loud. Too fast. Too alive.<br><br> Yomehow you can't hear what Ace is saying because the words don't make sense. Don't fit together into anything real. Into anything that could be true.<br><br> Heart missing.<br><br> Maud's heart.<br><br> Missing.<br><br> "The ME confirmed it twenty minutes ago."<br><br> Ace's voice is dead now. Empty. Like $aceHe used up all the emotion and there's nothing left but facts. Clinical details. Protocol. "$firstName, Maud is dead. I'm so sorry. I'm so fucking sorry. I tried. I swear I tried but she was already—she'd been—"<br><br> The words keep coming but you stopped hearing them.<br><br> Stopped processing them.<br><br> Stopped understanding how sounds become meaning because nothing means anything anymore.<br><br> Because there's a difference between knowing something and realizing something and right now you're crossing that line whether you want to or not. Being dragged across it. Forced to stand on the other side where everything is different and nothing will ever be the same.<br><br> Maud is dead.<br><br> Your sister is dead.<br><br> The girl who was supposed to walk through that door. Who was supposed to pick you up before 1 AM. Who promised. Who said that this time her words meant something.<br><br> Dead.<br><br> Heart missing.<br><br> Gone.<br><br> <<if $toldBenAboutMaud is true>> The table is still set. Three plates. The third one still perfect. Still waiting. Still expecting someone who will never come because she can't come because she's dead and her heart is missing and Ace's hands are covered in her blood.<br><br> <</if>> Maud is dead.<br><br> The thought sits in your head like a foreign object. Like something that doesn't belong. Like a sentence in a language you don't speak.<br><br> Your sister is dead and you're still standing here and the refrigerator is still humming and somewhere in Sordia people are still living their lives like nothing happened.<br><br> Because that is the cruel thing, isn't it? The world keeps spinning even if your own just has stopped.<br><br> Is that how Maria felt when she heard the news about her daughter and granddaughter being murdered? How did she react when she heard they were gone? <br><br> The word spins inside your head. <br><br> Gone. Gone. Gone. <br><br> Just... gone? <br><br> <<link "⌕ Collapse. Legs give out. Can't stand. Can't breathe. Can't exist." "CH1P24.3">> <<set $griefResponse to "collapse">> <<set $soft += 2>> <</link>><br><br> <<link "⌕ Laugh. The sound rips out of you. Wrong. Jagged. Broken." "CH1P24.3">> <<set $griefResponse to "laugh">> <<set $hardened += 2>> <</link>><br><br> <<link "⌕ Nothing. Feel nothing. Stand there. Numb. Empty. Gone." "CH1P24.3">> <<set $griefResponse to "numb">> <<set $deflecting += 2>> <</link>><br><br> <<link "⌕ Rage. Scream. Destroy. Make it hurt on the outside because inside is too much." "CH1P24.3">> <<set $griefResponse to "rage">> <<set $cutting += 2>> <</link>><br><br> <<link "⌕ Relief. She's finally gone. The waiting is over. You're free." "CH1P24.3">> <<set $griefResponse to "relief">> <<set $hardened += 2>> <<set $cutting += 2>> <<set $corrupt += 1>> <</link>><br><br>

<<if $griefResponse is "collapse">> Your legs stop working.<br><br> Just. Stop.<br><br> Like someone cut the strings. Like gravity suddenly remembered you exist and decided to pull harder.<br><br> You go down. Hard.<br><br> Knees hit floor. The impact should hurt. Probably does hurt. You can't feel it. Can't feel anything except the way your chest is trying to turn inside out. The way your lungs forgot how to work. The way every cell in your body is screaming no no no no no—<br><br> Ace catches you.<br><br> Arms around you before you hit the floor completely. Pulling you close. Holding you together because you can't hold yourself.<br><br> You can't breathe.<br><br> Can't get air past the thing lodged in your throat. The thing that feels like grief and sounds like screaming when it finally breaks free.<br><br> The sound that comes out of you doesn't sound human.<br><br> Raw. Animal. The noise something makes when it's dying.<br><br> Maybe you are.<br><br> Maybe part of you just died and this is what's left. This thing on the floor in Ace's arms making sounds that shouldn't exist.<br><br> "I've got you," Ace whispers. Over and over. Mantra. Promise. Lie. "I've got you. I'm here. I've got you."<br><br> But $aceHe doesn't. No one does.<br><br> Because Maud is dead and nothing will ever be okay again.<br><br> <<elseif $griefResponse is "laugh">> You laugh.<br><br> The sound tears out of your throat. Wrong. Too high. Too sharp. Edges that cut on the way out. You can't stop.<br><br> The laughter keeps coming. Keeps bubbling up from somewhere dark and broken inside your chest. Where it's been building for three years. For every missed call. Every broken promise. Every night wondering if she was alive or dead in a ditch somewhere.<br><br> Now you know for sure.<br><br> Dead. Heart missing.<br><br> Ace starts laughing too. What a surreal feeling.<br><br> But then Ace stops. Seems to remember that $aceHe has to be strong for you.<br><br> "$firstName—" Ace reaches for you. Concerned. Like you're having a breakdown.<br><br> You probably are.<br><br> "She couldn't even—" The words come between laughs. Can't stop laughing. Can't stop because if you stop you'll scream and if you scream you won't stop. "She couldn't even keep her heart. Couldn't even—couldn't even die normally. Had to make it—had to make it weird—"<br><br> The laughter chokes off. Turns into something else. Something worse.<br><br> Sobs that sound like laughing that sound like dying.<br><br> Ace pulls you close. You fight it. Push against $aceHim. Don't want comfort. Don't deserve comfort. Don't deserve anything except this pain because you knew. You fucking knew something was wrong and you just—you just waited. Just sat here waiting like an idiot while your sister was dying somewhere with her heart being cut out for whatever reason.<br><br> "It's not your fault," Ace says. Reading your mind. Or maybe you said it out loud. Maybe you're saying a lot of things out loud. "It's not your fault. You couldn't have known. You couldn't have—"<br><br> But you did know. Somehow you did.<br><br> <<elseif $griefResponse is "numb">> Nothing. You feel nothing.<br><br> The words are there. Floating in the air between you and Ace. "Maud is dead." "Heart missing." All the words that mean your sister isn't breathing anymore.<br><br> You understand the words. Understand what they mean. Can't feel them.<br><br> Can't feel anything.<br><br> Your body is still standing. Your heart is still beating. Your lungs are still breathing. Everything is still working. All the parts functioning normally.<br><br> Except the part that's supposed to hurt right now.<br><br> That part is offline. Gone. Static where feelings should be.<br><br> "$firstName?"Ace is watching you. Worried. Scared."$firstName?" Ace is watching you. Worried. Scared. "Say something. Please." <br><br> What is there to say.<br><br> Maud is dead. Okay. Noted. Filed away with every other terrible thing that's happened. Another entry in the growing list of reasons why hope is for people who haven't learned better yet.<br><br> "I need to tell Ben," you say. Your voice sounds normal. Conversational. Like you're discussing weather. "He's asleep. He should know."<br><br> "$firstName—"<br><br> <<if $toldBenAboutMaud is true>> "He made dinner. Three hours. He made her favorite." You're still talking. Can't stop talking. Easier than feeling. "It got cold.He'll want to know why she didn't come." <</if>><br><br> "$firstName, you're in shock."<br><br> Are you? You don't know. Does it matter?<br><br> Ace is reaching for you. You step back. Automatic. Don't want to be touched right now. Don't want comfort. Don't want anything except this nothing. This static. This blessed absence of feeling.<br><br> Because if you feel this—<br><br> If you let yourself feel this—<br><br> You won't survive it.<br><br> <<elseif $griefResponse is "rage">> Rage. Pure.<br><br> Burning through your chest like acid. Like fire. Like something that needs to destroy before it destroys you first.<br><br> Your hand finds the counter. The wine glasses Ben set out. The beautiful ones. Crystal. Expensive.<br><br> You sweep them off.<br><br> They shatter against the floor. Explosion of glass and sound and destruction.<br><br> Not enough.<br><br> Next are the plates. The good ones. White with blue trim. Survivors of childhood and bad years but they won't survive this now.<br><br> Gone. Destroyed.<br><br> Broken into pieces like everything else.<br><br> "$firstName—" Ace tries to grab your arm. Stop you. Save you from yourself.<br><br> You yank away. Spin on $aceHim. The words come out sharp. Cutting. Cruel.<br><br> "She's dead. You said she's dead. Her heart is missing. Where were you? Where the fuck were you? You're CRD. You're supposed to—you're supposed to—"<br><br> It's not fair. You know it's not fair.<br><br> But fair doesn't exist right now. Right doesn't exist. Only this rage. This need to hurt something because you hurt and pain should be shared. Pain should be equal.<br><br> "I'm sorry," Ace says. Tears streaming down $aceHis face. "I'm so sorry. I tried. I swear I tried."<br><br> "Not hard enough." You're screaming now. Angry tears. Hot. Burning tracks down your face. "Not fucking hard enough because she's dead. She's dead and you're here and she's not and nothing—nothing—"<br><br> The rage cracks. Breaks.<br><br> What's underneath is worse. So much worse.<br><br> You collapse against the counter. Legs giving out. Ace catches you. Holds you while you scream into $aceHis shoulder. While you pound your fists against $aceHim. While you break into so many pieces neither of you will ever find them all.<br><br> <<elseif $griefResponse is "relief">> Relief. The feeling floods through you. Cool. Clean. Wrong.<br><br> So fucking wrong.<br><br> But real.<br><br> Your sister is dead and you feel relieved and what kind of monster does that make you?<br><br> No more waiting. No more wondering. No more three AM panic attacks wondering if she's alive or dead or suffering somewhere. No more broken promises. No more disappointments. No more hoping for something that was never going to happen anyway.<br><br> She's dead. It's over.<br><br> You're free.<br><br> "Oh shit," you whisper. The relief curdling. Turning rancid. Becoming something worse than grief. "Oh shit oh shit oh shit—"<br><br> Because you're relieved your sister is dead and that makes you worse than whoever killed her. That makes you the real monster. The one who's been waiting for this. Who knew it would end like this. Who maybe wanted it to end like this so you could stop carrying the weight of her around your neck.<br><br> The relief shatters.<br><br> Breaks apart into guilt so crushing you can't breathe under it.<br><br> You wanted this. Some part of you wanted this. Wanted her gone. Wanted the pain to stop. Wanted to be free of the obligation as an older sibling.<br><br> "I'm sorry," you say. Not to Ace. To Maud. To the ghost of her. "I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm so fucking sorry—"<br><br> But are you really? Doesn't a part still think maybe this death is kinder to her than anything down the line? She refused to take the medications after all. There is no telling what she would have become. <br><br> Ace grabs you. Pulls you close. Holds you while you shake apart. While the relief and guilt and grief tangle together into something toxic. Something that will poison you from the inside out if you let it.<br><br> "It's okay," Ace whispers. "Whatever you're feeling. It's okay. You're allowed to feel it."<br><br> But you're not. You're not allowed to feel relieved that your sister is dead.<br><br> That's not how this works. That's not how any of this works.<br><br> You can never tell Ace or anyone for that matter about your true feelings.<br><br> <</if>> Time stops meaning anything.<br><br> Could be minutes. Could be hours. Could be years for all you know. All you know is Ace is there. Holding you. Letting you break. Letting you be whatever you need to be right now.<br><br> You pull away from Ace.<br><br> You move to the window. Legs unsteady. Vision blurry. Everything wrong.<br><br> Sordia sprawls below.<br><br> Neon lights painting the darkness in familiar patterns. Traffic moving through streets like blood through veins. People going about their lives—walking, talking, laughing, living. The city breathing. Living. Continuing.<br><br> Like nothing happened. Because to them nothing did. <br><br> The city doesn't care. Never has. Never will. It keeps moving because that's what Sordia does. What it's always done. Consume and continue. Feed and forget.<br><br> You've always known this. Always said it. The words that everyone in Sordia knows but pretends not to hear.<br><br> The city that eats its young.<br><br> That's what this place is. What it's always been. Built on bones and blood and broken promises. A machine that takes and takes and takes until there's nothing left to take. That swallows people whole. That grinds them down into nothing and spits out whatever's left—if it bothers spitting at all.<br><br> You've seen it before.<br><br> Documented it. Reported on it. Made a career out of exposing how Sordia devours its own. Won awards for articles about bodies in alleyways. About overdoses in luxury penthouses. About missing kids who stayed missing.<br><br> But seeing it and experiencing it are different things.<br><br> Now you know.<br><br> Now you understand.<br><br> The difference between reporting on death and feeling it. Between writing about loss and living inside it. Between observing the machine and being caught in its gears.<br><br> Maud was eaten.<br><br> Consumed. Processed by the machine. Her heart literally ripped out and taken somewhere. By someone. For some reason that makes sense to monsters who live in a city built for them.<br><br> The neon below blinks.<br><br> Red. Blue. Green. Colors that promise things they can't deliver. Entertainment. Safety. Escape.<br><br> All lies.<br><br> Sordia doesn't save anyone. Doesn't protect anyone. Just feeds. Always hungry. Always hunting. Always finding the next one to grind down. To hollow out. To use up.<br><br> A memory surfaces.<br><br> Uninvited. Unwanted. Sharp enough to draw blood.<br><br> "In the city of dreadful night," you whisper to the glass, your breath fogging it for a moment before disappearing. "The light is out of all save death."<br><br> Maud was six. Maybe seven. You were supposed to read her a bedtime story but couldn't find the book—the one about the rabbit who wanted to run away. Maud was crying. Upset in that way only children can be when routines break. Couldn't sleep without her story.<br><br> So you read her poetry instead.<br><br> From that old book you stole from the library. The one with the cracked spine and yellowed pages that smelled like dust. You picked a poem at random. Didn't know what it meant. Didn't care. Just needed to read something to make her stop crying.<br><br> "As I came through the desert thus it was." <br><br> Your voice then, young and uncertain. Maud curled up against you. Her hair tickling your chin. Her breathing evening out. "As I came through the desert: Hell is mild and piteous matched with that accursèd wild."<br><br> She didn't understand the words.<br><br> Neither did you really. But your voice was soothing. The rhythm was right. Your voice lulled her even as she complained.<br><br> Maud kept saying how boring it was. You kept reading anyway.<br><br> "A large black sign was on her breast that bowed. A broad black band ran down her snow-white shroud."<br><br> The memory hurts.<br><br> Hurts worse than anything else tonight. <br><br> Because you read her a poem about death and didn't know it. Read her a poem about a woman carrying her own burning heart through the desert. About blood and rage and fear. And now it came true.<br><br> "As I came through the desert thus it was."<br><br> The words come out louder now. Breaking the silence. Ace doesn't ask. Doesn't interrupt. Lets you speak. Lets you do whatever this is... a ritual, breakdown, prayer? <br><br> "As I came through the desert: Hell is mild and piteous matched with that accursèd wild."<br><br> You remember Maud crossing her arms stubbornly. Saying she wanted the rabbit story. Listening anyway because you were there and she trusted you.<br><br> "A large black sign was on her breast that bowed."<br><br> You're the older sibling. Reading to your sister. Keeping her safe from nightmares was your job. From the dark. And you did. From everything except what came for her tonight.<br><br> "A broad black band ran down her snow-white shroud."<br><br> You didn't protect her.<br><br> Couldn't protect her.<br><br> Failed at the first job that you ever had in life.<br><br> "That lamp she held was her own burning heart." <br><br> The image overlaps—seven-year-old Maud asleep against your shoulder and Maud dead on the ground with her heart missing. Blood. Empty chest cavity. Eyes still open.<br><br> "Whose blood-drops trickled step by step apart."<br><br> The words become like a mantra.<br><br> "The mystery was clear. Mad rage had swallowed fear."<br><br> You repeat it.<br><br> The whole thing. Again. And again. Each iteration a little louder. A little more desperate. Like if you say it enough times it will make sense. Like poetry can explain what nothing else can.<br><br> "As I came through the desert thus it was, as I came through the desert—"<br><br> A cold comfort settles in your stomach.<br><br> The bitter satisfaction of being right. Of always knowing. Of carrying this truth in your bones since you were old enough to understand what Sordia is but always hesitant to speak it out loud.<br><br> You'd die young in Sordia.<br><br> You. Ace. Maud. Tasha. Keisha. Imani. Jake. Sam. Isla. Vex.<br><br> The city takes everyone eventually. You knew this. Have known this. Thought about it often. The only question was order. Sequence. Who goes first.<br><br> And now you know. Maud went first.<br><br> You freeze.<br><br> Your eyes widen. Something clicking into place. A memory surfacing through the grief—sharp, urgent, important.<br><br> Something someone told you a couple of days ago.<br><br> Who was it? (After 3 attempts you get a hint, after annother 3 attempts you get ANOTHER hint, that should be pretty obvious.)<br><br> <<if $vexNameAttempts is undefined>> <<set $vexNameAttempts to 0>> <<set $vexNameCorrect to false>> <</if>> <<if not $vexNameCorrect>> <div class="password-input-container"> <div class="password-box"> <<textbox "$vexNameInput" "" autofocus>> <<button "Remember">> <<if $vexNameInput.toLowerCase().trim() is "vex">> <<set $vexNameCorrect to true>> <<replace "#vex-feedback">> <div class="correct-answer">Vex. That's right. Vex.</div> <</replace>> <<replace "#vex-hints">><</replace>> <<replace "#vex-continue">><br><br><<include "CH1P24.4">><</replace>> <<else>> <<set $vexNameAttempts++>> <<replace "#vex-feedback">> <div class="wrong-answer">No, that's not right...</div> <</replace>> <<replace "#vex-hints">> <<if $vexNameAttempts >= 3>> <div class="hint-box"> <strong>Hint:</strong> That person was at Grey's mansion with you. </div> <</if>> <<if $vexNameAttempts >= 6>> <div class="hint-box"> <strong>Hint:</strong> That person is Chronos. </div> <</if>> <</replace>> <</if>> <</button>> </div> <div id="vex-feedback"></div> <div id="vex-hints"></div> </div> <div id="vex-continue"></div> <<else>> <div class="correct-answer">Vex. That's right. Vex.</div><br><br> <<include "CH1P24.4">> <</if>>

<div class="end-demo"> <h1 class="bloodlines-title">Meanwhile...</h1> </div> The gallery opening is perfect cover.<br><br> Art collectors mingling with money launderers. Wealthy donors who don't ask where the cash comes from. The kind of crowd that sees what they want to see.<br><br> Not someone planning to walk out with three Manets that will never reach their supposed buyers.<br><br> Tonight Luz is handling the people. So Neo's handling logistics. The truck. The bribes. The route out of the city. <br><br> And Luz is alone in a room full of Sordia's elite, playing cultured.<br><br> $luzHeC stands in front of Caravaggio's "Judith Beheading Holofernes."<br><br> On loan. Worth millions. Judith's face is calm—bored, even—as she saws through Holofernes's throat. Blood sprays. His face twists in agony. Her maid watches. Waits to collect the head.<br><br> Beautiful.<br><br> Some pretentious curator is talking about brushwork when it hits.<br><br> Not pain. Not yet.<br><br> Wrongness.<br><br> Something hooked behind $luzHis sternum. Pulling. Hard.<br><br> Then it burns.<br><br> The contract mark over $luzHis heart ignites. Actually ignites. Searing through skin. Through muscle. The same fire $luzHe inflicts on traitors turning inward. Consuming.<br><br> Luz's champagne glass cracks.<br><br> Fingers go numb.<br><br> The curator keeps talking. Something about chiaroscuro. About darkness.<br><br> All Luz can feel is burning.<br><br> The contract is breaking.<br><br> No.<br><br> Broken.<br><br> The connection severs like a rope under tension snapping. When it snaps the backlash hits like a physical blow.<br><br> $luzHisC skin starts to burn.<br><br> Not just the mark. Everywhere. Hands. Arms. Under the expensive outfit, $luzHis chest cooks from the inside. The contract was woven into every cell and now those cells are rejecting the break.<br><br> "The way he captures the moment of violence," the curator says. "Not the before or after. The during. The precise second of death."<br><br> Luz nods.<br><br> Keeps $luzHis face neutral even as $luzHis legs start shaking. Even as the burning spreads down $luzHis spine. Across $luzHis shoulders.<br><br> The phantom ache comes next.<br><br> Worse than burning. The sensation of something ripped out. Amputated. A piece of $luzHimself carved away and the wound left raw.<br><br> Seventy contracts. Had seventy.<br><br> Now sixty-nine.<br><br> The space where the contract used to pulse is empty. Hollow.<br><br> $luzHeC knows immediatly which contract has disappeared. <br><br> Maud.<br><br> One of $luzHis precious Umbras. Fucking dead.<br><br> "Are you alright?" The curator's looking at $luzHim now. "You don't look so good."<br><br> Luz smiles.<br><br> Same smile $luzHe's been wearing all night. Warm. Charming. Even though $luzHis skin feels like it's peeling off in sheets. Even though $luzHis hands shake so badly $luzHe has to press them flat against $luzHis thighs.<br><br> "Just moved by the piece." $luzHe grits through $luzHis teeth. "Caravaggio knew how to make violence look like art."<br><br> The curator laughs. Buys it. "Indeed."<br><br> Luz takes a step toward the next painting.<br><br> $luzHisC knee buckles.<br><br> Just slightly. $luzHeC catches $luzHimself on the wall. Makes it look casual. Like examining the brushwork up close.<br><br> The burning gets worse.<br><br> $luzHisC chest feels like someone's holding a blowtorch to it. The contract mark—there for years—searing itself deeper. Punishing $luzHim for the break. For the loss.<br><br> For failing to keep what was Luz's alive.<br><br> Sweat beads at $luzHis temples.<br><br> $luzHeC wipes it away. Adjusts the pink glasses. Everything costs something. Standing. Breathing. Pretending.<br><br> But Luz is good at pretending.<br><br> "Excuse me." Still steady. Still perfect. "I need some air."<br><br> The curator nods. "Of course. The Caravaggio can be overwhelming."<br><br> Luz wants to laugh but all they manage is a grimace as they walk toward the exit.<br><br> Each step is agony. The burning has spread to $luzHis legs. $luzHis feet. Like walking on hot coals.<br><br> $luzHeC doesn't rush. Doesn't run. Measured steps. Calm exterior. A hand trailing along the wall for support that looks like appreciation.<br><br> Outside.<br><br> The night air is cold against burning skin.<br><br> Luz makes it three steps before $luzHis legs give out. $luzHeC catches $luzHimself on brick. Leans there. One hand pressed flat against the wall. The other clutching $luzHis chest where the mark burns.<br><br> The valet is watching.<br><br> Luz forces $luzHimself upright. Pulls out $luzHis phone. The screen blurs. $luzHis vision going in and out.<br><br> Calls Neo.<br><br> Two rings.<br><br> "Yes?"<br><br> "Come get me." Luz's mild tone is different now. Tight. Strained. No one here to perform for except the valet and the valet doesn't matter. "Now."<br><br> "What happened?"<br><br> "Maud's contracts broke."<br><br> Silence.<br><br> "Five minutes."<br><br> The line goes dead.<br><br> Luz slides down the wall.<br><br> Can't help it. Can't stand anymore. The burning has consumed everything. Every nerve. The mark on $luzHis chest carved down to bone.<br><br> $luzHeC pulls at $luzHis collar.<br><br> Needs to see it. Under the expensive shirt, the contract mark is angry red. Blistered. Like someone pressed a brand and held it there. The intricate pattern of flames and binding usually invisible on $luzHis body now visible. Bleeding.<br><br> So Maud's dead? How the fuck did that happen?<br><br> One of $luzHis Umbras. Rare. Valuable. Trained. Someone Luz had spent years cultivating. Teaching. Binding.<br><br> Someone who was supposed to be untouchable under Luz's protection. And now she's dead and Luz is paying the price.<br><br> The phantom ache pulses.<br><br> "Shit," Luz curses. This is what happens when contracts break through death instead of betrayal.<br><br> The fire turns inward. Turns on $luzHim.<br><br> Four and a half minutes later, Neo's car pulls up.<br><br> Black. Sleek. Tinted windows.<br><br> The door opens.<br><br> Luz doesn't stand. Can't. Neo comes to get $luzHim. Actually has to help $luzHim up. Strong hands under $luzHis arms. Supporting weight.<br><br> "Boss—"<br><br> "Get me in the fucking car."<br><br> Neo does.<br><br> The door closes. Tinted windows hide them.<br><br> Finally—finally—Luz lets it crack.<br><br> $luzHeC rips off the pink glasses.<br><br> Throws them. They hit the window. Fall.<br><br> The heterochromatic eyes that meet Neo's are furious. One red. One black. Both burning with rage that has nothing to do with the contract's fire.<br><br> "An Umbra." $luzHis voice shakes. Not with pain. With fury. "I lost an Umbra tonight, Neo. One of my best fucking assets. Three years of investment. Three years of training. Gone."<br><br> Neo says nothing. Knows better. Hands steady on the wheel.<br><br> Luz slams $luzHis fist against the window. The impact reverberates through the car. Through $luzHis bones. "She was your responsibility."<br><br> Neo's jaw tightens. The only visible sign of emotion on that stone face. "Yes. I fucked up." Neo's eyes stay on the road. Hands steady. Voice steady. "She said she had something to do for you alone. I didn't ask. It was my mistake."<br><br> The admission should help.<br><br> Doesn't.<br><br> $luzHeC leans back. Closes $luzHis eyes. The burning hasn't stopped. Won't stop. Not until $luzHis body accepts the loss. Until the contract's fire burns itself out.<br><br> Could take hours. Could take days.<br><br> "I want you to find the person who killed Maud. And when you find them?" Luz's smile is terrible. Vicious. The kind of smile that has made $luzHim legendary in Sordia's undercity. "I want them alive, Neo. I want to bind them myself. I want to watch their skin cook while they scream and beg and realize exactly what they took from me."<br><br> Neo nods once. Understanding. Accepting.<br><br> "And Neo?" Luz opens one eye. The red one. It catches the passing streetlights like fresh blood. "This doesn't happen again. Ever. Because if you fuck up like that again..."<br><br> The threat hangs unfinished. Doesn't need to be finished.<br><br> They both know what happens to people who cost Luz this much.<br><br> Neo drives in silence. Doesn't offer apologies. Doesn't make excuses. Just drives while Luz burns and plots revenge.<br><br> Losing people is bad for business.<br><br> Losing Maud is worse.<br><br> Someone just made a very expensive mistake.<br><br> [[Continue|CH2P1]]

<<set $maudDead to true>> <<set $timelineRecap to true>> Vex.<br><br> Your intern. The one who's always confused about what day it is. <br><br> The Chronos bloodline kid who sees things before they happen.<br><br> You remember now. That conversation. Days ago. Before everything went to shit.<br><br> Vex had looked at you with those strange star-flecked eyes and said something. Something that didn't make sense then.<br><br> //"The heart is missing, but you already knew that. Or will know."//<br><br> You hadn't understood.<br><br> You do now.<br><br> Vex knew.<br><br> Vex fucking knew.<br><br> [[Continue|CH1_Interlude 2]]

Westpoint at night is different.<br><br> Just the smell of rain on concrete and cheap perfume mixing with cheaper liquor. Neon reflects in puddles that never quite dry. The kind of neighborhood where nobody asks questions and everybody lies.<br><br> The Eclipse doesn't advertise. No sign. No bouncer out front. Just a door painted matte black between a pawn shop and a massage parlor that definitely isn't licensed. The only marking is a small crescent moon etched into the metal. Silver. Faint. You'd miss it if you didn't know to look.<br><br> Maud's already there when you arrive. Leaning against the brick wall next to the door. Shadows curl around her boots like loyal dogs. Her posture screams bored but her eyes track every movement within a three-block radius.<br><br> "Took you long enough," she says when you're close. Voice flat.<br><br> <<if $siblingRelationship is "broken">>"Traffic," you reply. Matching her tone. "Ready to do this?"<<elseif $siblingRelationship is "neutral">>"Got here as fast as I could." You stop a few feet away. Safe distance. "You okay?"<<elseif $siblingRelationship is "fixable">>"Sorry. Ben wanted to talk." You move closer. Careful. "You find anything useful?"<</if>><br><br> <<if $toldBenAboutMaud is true>>But before that... the words sit heavy on your tongue. Need to come out now. Before everything else. Before Ace arrives and complicates things further.<br><br> "I told Ben you're back."<br><br> Maud's head snaps toward you. Eyes wide. Then narrow. Dangerous. "You what?"<br><br> "He deserved to know. He's been—"<br><br> "I specifically told you not to." Her voice drops. "I said don't tell Ben. Those were my exact words. Don't. Tell. Ben."<br><br> <<if $siblingRelationship is "broken">>"And I decided your instructions were stupid," you snap back. "He's been falling apart for three years. You don't get to dictate who knows what when you're the one who abandoned him."<br><br> "Abandoned?" Maud takes a step forward. Shadows exploding around her. "I was PROTECTING him. I was keeping him SAFE from—"<br><br> "From what? The truth? That you're alive?"<br><br> "From ME!" The words rip out of her. Raw. Wounded. "From what I've become! From the things I've done!"<br><br> She stops. Breathes. "Let's not talk about Ben now."<br><br> <<elseif $siblingRelationship is "neutral">>"He needed to know," you say firmly. "I couldn't watch him deteriorate anymore."<br><br> "That wasn't your choice to make." Maud's hands clench. Unclench. "You had no right—"<br><br> "He's my uncle too. I have every right."<br><br> She stops. Breathes. "Let's not talk about Ben now."<br><br> <<elseif $siblingRelationship is "fixable">>"I know you said not to," you admit quietly. "But he was hurting so much. Missing you so much. I couldn't keep lying to him."<br><br> She stops. Breathes. "Let's not talk about Ben now."<br><br> <</if>> <<else>>"Ben still doesn't know," Maud states. Not a question. She knows you well enough. Knows you wouldn't have told him. Not yet.<br><br> "You asked me not to." Simple. True. Doesn't mean you feel good about the lie.<br><br> "Thank you." Quiet. Genuine. The first real warmth you've heard from her all day.<br><br> <</if>> Silence stretches. Uncomfortable. Full of three years of absence. Three years of questions neither of you wants to ask.<br><br> "So." Maud straightens. All business. "The plan. We need to get into The Eclipse. Find Magnus. Make him tell us what Marlowe's been up to." She pauses. "It won't be easy. Bartenders don't break confidences. We'll need—"<br><br> "I brought someone," you interrupt.<br><br> Maud goes very still. That particular stillness that precedes violence. "What?"<br><br> "Someone who can help. Someone with resources we'll need."<br><br> "I said no one else." Her voice drops. Dangerous. "I specifically said this stays between us. No outside involvement. No—"<br><br> "Who?" The word comes out sharp. Demanding. "Who did you tell?"<br><br> You open your mouth to answer. But you don't need to.<br><br> Footsteps on wet pavement. Quick. Purposeful. Someone who knows where they're going.<br><br> <<if $aceGender is "male">>Andre rounds the corner. Leather jacket instead of tactical gear. Jeans. Boots that don't scream law enforcement. Baseball cap pulled low. Trying for inconspicuous. But the way $aceHe carries $aceHimself—shoulders back, eyes scanning, hand hovering near hip where his service weapon usually sits—screams cop to anyone who knows how to look.<br><br> $aceHisC amber eyes lock onto Maud. Stop.<<elseif $aceGender is "female">>Anaya rounds the corner. Leather jacket instead of tactical gear. Jeans. Boots that don't scream law enforcement. Hair loose instead of the usual tight braids. Trying for inconspicuous. But the way $aceHe carries $aceHimself—shoulders back, eyes scanning, hand hovering near hip where her service weapon usually sits—screams cop to anyone who knows how to look.<br><br> $aceHisC amber eyes lock onto Maud. Stop.<</if>><br><br> Maud's face goes through three emotions in rapid succession. Shock. Disbelief. Fury.<br><br> "No." She takes a step back. "No. You didn't. Tell me you didn't—"<br><br> Ace doesn't listen. Doesn't stop. Just closes the distance in three long strides and pulls Maud into $aceHis arms. Crushing. Desperate. The kind of hug that says <em>don't ever disappear again.</em><br><br> Maud goes rigid. Frozen. Like she forgot how bodies work. How embraces feel. Her hands hover in the air. Unsure. Lost.<br><br> Then she melts. Just for a second. Arms come up. Wrap around Ace's waist. Face presses into $aceHis shoulder. Breathing him in. Remembering.<br><br> It lasts maybe five seconds. Then reality crashes back.<br><br> Maud shoves Ace away. Hard. Steps back like $aceHe's burning. "What the hell?" Her voice shakes. Anger and something else. Something rawer. "Why are you HERE? How did you—" She rounds on you. "You told $aceHim?"<br><br> <<if $confrontational > 60>>"Yes," you say flatly. "We need backup. Real backup. $aceHeC has resources we don't."<<elseif $soft > 60>>"$aceHeC deserves to know you're alive," you say quietly. "I couldn't keep that from $aceHim."<<else>>"We're walking into a criminal bar to interrogate people about murder," you point out. "Forgive me for wanting federal support."<</if>><br><br> "Federal support?" Maud's laugh has no humor. "You brought a CRD agent to The Eclipse? To an Umbra bar? Are you TRYING to start a massacre?"<br><br> "I'm not here as CRD," Ace cuts in. "I'm dressed like this for a reason. Off the books. No badge. No official capacity. Just me."<br><br> "Just you." Maud repeats it. Disbelief sharp enough to cut. "There's no 'just you' anymore, Ace. You're federal. You took an oath. You can't just—"<br><br> "Watch me." <<if $aceGender is "male">>Andre's jaw sets. Stubborn. Immovable. "You think I'm letting you walk into danger without backup? You think I'm sitting this out while you risk your life?"<<elseif $aceGender is "female">>Anaya's jaw sets. Stubborn. Immovable. "You think I'm letting you walk into danger without backup? You think I'm sitting this out while you risk your life?"<</if>><br><br> "I can handle myself," Maud snaps. "I've been handling myself just fine—"<br><br> "Have you?" Ace takes a step forward. Anger flashing in $aceHis eyes. "Because from where I'm standing, you work for a crime boss. You kill people for money. You live in shadows and can't even go home to your own uncle because you're in too deep." $aceHisC voice cracks slightly. "That's not fine, Maudie. That's not even close to fine."<br><br> The childhood nickname hits like a physical blow. Maud's composure fractures. Just for a second.<br><br> "Don't call me that." Barely a whisper. "You don't get to call me that anymore."<br><br> "Why not?" Ace's voice goes soft. "Because you ran away? Because you changed? You're still the girl who helped my dad prep ingredients. Who played card games with my sisters. Who fell asleep on our couch during Sunday dinners."<br><br> Maud looks away. Can't meet $aceHis eyes. "That girl is gone."<br><br> "Bullshit." Simple. Direct. "You're right here. Standing in front of me. Breathing. Alive. Maybe you've changed. Maybe you've done things you regret. But you're still Maud. Still family."<br><br> The word hangs in Westpoint's damp air. Family. Complicated. Broken. But real.<br><br> <<if $siblingRelationship is "fixable">>"We don't have time for this," you say quietly. Gently. "The Eclipse is waiting. Magnus is waiting. We can fight about who told who what after we survive the night."<<elseif $siblingRelationship is "broken">>"Touching reunion," you say. Voice flat. "Can we focus on not getting killed now?"<<else>>"We need to move," you point out. "This conversation can happen later. When we're not standing in the open in Umbra territory after dark."<</if>><br><br> Maud takes a shaky breath. Nods. Shadows curl around her shoulders. Armor returning. "Fine. Fine. $aceHeC's here. Nothing I can do about it now." She looks at Ace. Really looks at $aceHim. "But if this goes south. If someone recognizes you. If my position gets compromised because I walked in with a fucking federal agent—"<br><br> "It won't," Ace promises. "I'm just another shadow walker's friend. Anonymous plus-one. No one needs to know who I really am."<br><br> Maud studies $aceHim. Long. Hard. Then sighs. "Keep your mouth shut. Don't make eye contact with anyone who looks dangerous. And for fuck's sake, don't tell anyone you're CRD or we're all dead."<br><br> "Got it."<br><br> She turns to the black door. Reaches for the handle. Pauses.<br><br> "Rules," she says, not looking back. "The Eclipse is neutral territory. No violence inside. Anyone starts shit, Magnus throws them out permanently. Sometimes literally." She glances over her shoulder. "That means you keep your cool no matter what you hear. No matter who's in there. We're gathering intelligence, not starting wars."<br><br> <<if $calculated > 60>>"Understood," you say. "Information gathering only. No provocations."<<elseif $soft > 60>>"We'll be careful," you promise. "Just want to talk to people."<<else>>"I know how to behave," you mutter. "Contrary to popular belief."<</if>><br><br> Maud pulls open the door.<br><br> Darkness. Music. The smell of alcohol and something else. Something that makes the hair on your neck stand up. Shadow magic saturating the air like humidity.<br><br> "Welcome to The Eclipse," Maud says. "Try not to die."<br><br> She steps inside. You follow. Ace brings up the rear, hand casually near his concealed weapon.<br><br> [[Enter The Eclipse|CH1P20.Theory1]]

The Eclipse is exactly what you'd expect from an Umbra bar and nothing like it at the same time.<br><br> It's dark. Obviously. But not pitch black. Purple-tinted lights cast everything in perpetual twilight. The kind of lighting that makes everyone look like they're bruised. Like they're already dead and just haven't stopped moving yet.<br><br> The bar itself runs the length of the left wall. Black marble. Veined with silver that catches the dim light. Behind it, bottles glow softly. Bioluminescent labels. Blue. Green. Violet. Drinks you've never seen in regular Sordia establishments.<br><br> The bartender is massive. Not tall—wide. Built like someone took a boulder and taught it to pour drinks. His skin is dark enough that he almost disappears into the shadows. Almost. But his eyes glow faintly silver. Umbra manifestation. Always active. Always watching.<br><br> Magnus. Has to be.<br><br> The patrons scatter throughout the space. Booths line the right wall, each one shrouded in darkness that seems thicker than natural. You can see silhouettes. Hear murmured conversations. But details blur. Faces become unrecognizable.<br><br> Tables in the center are more exposed. Still dim, but visible enough to make out features. A woman with shadows crawling up her arms like living tattoos drinks alone. Two men play cards with a deck that shifts colors. A group in the back corner laughs too loud at a joke you can't hear.<br><br> Everyone stops talking when you enter.<br><br> Not all at once. Gradually. Conversations dying like lights going out one by one. Until the only sound is the music—something slow and bass-heavy that seems to pulse from the walls themselves.<br><br> Maud doesn't hesitate. Walks straight to the bar like she owns the place. Confidence or insanity. With her, probably both.<br><br> "Magnus," she greets. Casual. Familiar. "Looking good. How's married life treating you?"<br><br> "Maud." Magnus's voice is gravel and honey. Smooth despite the roughness. "Can't complain. You bring strays now?" His silver eyes fix on you. Then Ace. Assessing. "Non-Umbras. In The Eclipse. Bold."<br><br> "They're with me," Maud says. Not asking permission. Stating fact. "We need information. Willing to pay for it."<br><br> "Information costs," Magnus replies. He doesn't move. Doesn't reach for glasses or bottles. Just watches. "But so does trust. Can't sell what I don't have."<br><br> "Then let us earn it," you say. <<if $vice is "work">>Journalist instincts kicking in. Information always has a price. Question is what currency he accepts.<<elseif $calculated > 60>>Reading the room. The power dynamics. This isn't about money. It's about proving you understand their world.<<else>>Hoping you sound more confident than you feel.<</if>><br><br> Magnus's silver eyes narrow. Studying. Then he smiles. Teeth too white in the purple light. "Alright. You want my trust? Pass my test." He gestures to the bottles behind him. "Seven drinks. Distilled in darkness. Enhanced with Umbra essence."<br><br> Seven bottles appear on the bar. Each glowing faintly. Each a different color.<br><br> "One of them is our hospitality drink," Magnus continues.<br><br> <<if $vice is "alcohol">>"A drinking test." You can't help but grin slightly. "Now we're speaking my language."<</if>> "What happens if we choose wrong?" you ask carefully.<br><br> Magnus shrugs. Massive shoulders rolling. "No trust. No information. No second chances."<br><br> Maud leans against the bar. Shadows coiling around her fingers. "He's not bluffing, $firstName. This is standard Eclipse protocol. You want in, you prove you respect the culture. Prove you're not just another human or bloodborn trying to exploit us."<br><br> You nod. Time to study the seven bottles.<br><br> [[Continue|CH1P20.Theory1_DrinkTest]]

Seven bottles. Seven choices. One safe option buried among six potentially lethal mistakes.<br><br> Magnus arranges them in a line. Each one glowing with internal light. Each one beautiful and probably deadly in equal measure.<br><br> "Void's Tears," he says, tapping the first bottle. Midnight black liquid that seems to absorb light. "Tastes like forgetting. Like the space between heartbeats. People who drink this lose time. Hours. Days. Sometimes memories."<br><br> "Shadowmist," he continues, moving to the second. Pale grey that swirls like smoke. "Makes you see things that aren't there. Or maybe things that are there but shouldn't be visible."<br><br> "Eclipse Blood," third bottle. Deep crimson with black veins. "Named for what it does to your blood. Turns it cold. Sluggish. Some go into hypothermic shock within minutes."<br><br> "Dusk Wine," fourth. Purple-gold gradient. "Suppresses your life force. Makes shadows think you're already dead. Which is useful if you're trying to hide. Less useful if you actually want to keep breathing."<br><br> "Nightshade Whiskey," fifth. Green with silver flecks. "Actual nightshade. Enhanced with shadow essence. Creates beautiful hallucinations before the paralysis sets in."<br><br> "Silver Veil," sixth. Clear liquid that shimmers. "Dissolves the barrier between you and shadow. People who drink this sometimes step into the Dark and can't find their way back."<br><br> "Twilight Mead," seventh and final. Honey-gold with purple undertones. "Sweet. Made from flowers that only bloom in partial darkness. It will either make you the happiest person in the room or very horny."<br><br> He steps back. Crosses his arms. "Choose."<br><br> <<if $vice is "alcohol">>Years of drinking kick in. Reading bartenders. Understanding bar culture. You've been in enough establishments to recognize the pattern—the dangerous drinks are described with warnings, but the safe one? It's called a "hospitality drink." That's bartender code for "this is what we serve to show we're welcoming you."<br><br> Plus, Magnus's body language when he described it was different. Relaxed. Almost fond. The way bartenders get when talking about their craft versus their weapons.<br><br> The choice is obvious.<<else>>You study the bottles. Try to read meaning in the descriptions.<</if>><br><br> Maud stays quiet. This is your test. Not hers.<br><br> Ace shifts slightly. Watching. Trusting you to make the right call.<br><br> [[⌕ Choose Void's Tears - the forgetting drink|CH1P20.Theory1_DrinkFail]]<br> [[⌕ Choose Shadowmist - the hallucinogenic smoke|CH1P20.Theory1_DrinkFail]]<br> [[⌕ Choose Eclipse Blood - the hypothermia inducer|CH1P20.Theory1_DrinkFail]]<br> [[⌕ Choose Dusk Wine - the life force suppressor|CH1P20.Theory1_DrinkFail]]<br> [[⌕ Choose Nightshade Whiskey - the beautiful death|CH1P20.Theory1_DrinkFail]]<br> [[⌕ Choose Silver Veil - the shadow dissolver|CH1P20.Theory1_DrinkFail]]<br> <<if $vice is "alcohol">>[Advantage: Your knowledge never let's you down] [[⌕Choose Twilight Mead - you know the Umbra drink|CH1P20.Theory1_DrinkSuccess]]<<else>>[[⌕Choose Twilight Mead - the happy/horny drink|CH1P20.Theory1_DrinkSuccess]]<</if>><br>

<<set $eclipseTest to "failed">> <<set $magnusTrust to false>> You reach for the bottle. Commit to your choice.<br><br> Magnus moves faster than someone his size should be able to. His hand clamps around your wrist. Grip like iron. Stopping you before your fingers close around the glass.<br><br> "Wrong," he says. Voice flat. Final.<br><br> <<if $vice is "alcohol">>"What? I've been drinking my whole adult life. I know—"<<else>>"But I thought—"<</if>><br><br> "You thought wrong." Magnus releases your wrist. "That drink would have put you in a coma. Or worse. Depending on your bloodline sensitivity." His silver eyes harden. "You failed the test. Which means you don't understand our culture. Don't respect it."<br><br> "We just need information about Marlowe and then—" you start.<br><br> "And I just need customers who aren't idiots," Magnus interrupts. "Guess we're both disappointed." He crosses his arms. "But I'm feeling generous. You want information about Marlowe? Fine. Go talk to Olenna. Booth in the far corner. Red hair. Can't miss her."<br><br> Maud's shadows pulse. Agitated. "Magnus—"<br><br> "That's the only thing I will tell you," he says. "Take it or leave. Either way, we're done here."<br><br> You turn toward the indicated booth. Maud and Ace follow.<br><br> [[Approach Olenna|CH1P20.Theory1_WrongPerson]]

<<set $eclipseTest to "passed">> <<set $magnusTrust to true>> You reach for the Twilight Mead. Honey-gold liquid catching the purple light.<br><br> <<if $vice is "alcohol">>"That is the hospitality drink," you say with confidence. "I've been in enough bars to recognize the pattern. Classic bartender move."<br><br> Magnus's eyebrows rise slightly. Impressed. "You've got experience."<br><br> "Too much," you admit. "But it pays off sometimes."<<else>>"This one," you say simply. Hoping your instincts are right.<</if>><br><br> Magnus's expression doesn't change. But something shifts in his silver eyes. Approval maybe.<br><br> "Smart," he says. "Or lucky. <<if $vice is "alcohol">>Though with you, seems like experience more than luck.<</if>> Either way, you chose correctly." He produces three glasses. Pours the Twilight Mead with practiced efficiency. "Most of you Zero's go for Silver Veil. Sounds mystical. Romantic. 'Dissolving barriers.' They think it'll give them insights into our world."<br><br> "Instead it kills them," you observe.<br><br> "Slowly." Magnus slides glasses across the bar. One for you. One for Ace. One for Maud. "Twilight Mead is the traditional welcome drink. We offer it to show we're not trying to kill you. Yet."<br><br> Maud grins. Picks up her glass. "Told you $firstName's clever."<br><br> You drink.<br><br> <<if $vice is "alcohol">>The taste hits different when you know what you're drinking. Honey and rain and something floral you can't quite name. Sweet without being cloying. Warm without burning. It's good. Really good. The kind of drink you'd order again if this wasn't a criminal bar in Sordia's underbelly.<br><br> You savor it. Let it settle. Professional appreciation for quality craft.<<else>>It tastes like honey and rain. Like sunset over water you've never seen. Warm without burning. Sweet without cloying. It slides down your throat and settles in your chest like a gentle promise. Safe. Welcome. Home in a way that doesn't make sense but feels true anyway.<</if>><br><br> Ace drinks too. $aceHisC The first genuine relaxation you've seen since entering. "Phew at least I feel happy and not horny."<br><br> "Good," Magnus says. Satisfaction in his voice. "You respected the test. Understood the culture. That earns you conversation." He leans forward slightly. "What do you want to know?"<br><br> "Marlowe," you say. Getting straight to it. "We need information about Marlowe."<br><br> Magnus's expression shifts. Neutral. Professional. "Marlowe's a regular. But I don't share client business. Even to people who pass my test."<br><br> "Then what was the point of the test?" you challenge.<br><br> "The test proves you're not idiots," Magnus replies. "Doesn't make you entitled to information I don't have." He pauses. Considers. "But I can point you to someone who does."<br><br> He nods toward a table in the back corner. "Dice. The one losing at cards again." Magnus's voice carries something almost like fondness. "Him and Marlowe used to be... involved. Still close though. Marlowe talks to Dice when he won't talk to anyone else."<br><br> You follow Magnus's gesture. See a lean figure hunched over a card table. Shadows flickering around his hands as they deal. Chips piling up in front of Dice's opponent. Loss written in the slump of his shoulders.<br><br> "Dice likes to gamble," Magnus adds. Voice dry. "Unfortunately, he's terrible at it. But he talks when he's drinking. And he's definitely drinking tonight. You want to know about Marlowe's recent activities, his state of mind, his plans—Dice is your best bet."<br><br> "Intimate sources," you say. "Always the best kind for understanding motivation."<br><br> "One warning," Magnus says. His silver eyes harden slightly. "Dice is protective of Marlowe. You approach wrong, accuse wrong, push too hard—he'll shut down. Or worse." He taps the bar once. Final. "You earned access. Don't waste it by disrespecting Dice's relationship with Marlowe."<br><br> "Understood," you say.<br><br> [[Approach Dice|CH1P20.Theory1_Dice]]

You approach Dice's table carefully. The person hunched over losing cards barely glances up as you arrive.<br><br> Lean build. Pretty features. Shadows moving around him like restless pets. His eyes—when they finally meet yours—are dark brown. Warm despite the danger radiating from every line of his body.<br><br> "Help you?" Dice asks. Voice rough. Tired. The tone of someone who's lost three hands in a row and knows the fourth won't be any better.<br><br> "Magnus said you might be able to help us," you say. "We're looking for information about Marlowe."<br><br> Something shifts in Dice's expression. Guard going up. But there is still an interest. "Who's asking?"<br><br> "Someone investigating a pattern of murders. Marlowe's name came up."<br><br> Dice studies you. Long. Then Maud. Then Ace.<br><br> "Marlowe's not a killer," Dice snickers. "He's a lot of things—reckless, dramatic,a cheat—but he's not a murderer."<br><br> "Maybe not," you concede. "But he's probably involved somehow."<br><br> Dice looks down at his cards. At the losing hand. At the chips he has already lost.<br><br> "Information like that has value," Dice says quietly. "Marlowe's my... whatever we were. But I don't sell him out for free." He looks up. Meets your eyes. "You want what I know? You play for it."<br><br> "Play what?" you ask.<br><br> Dice produces three dice from their pocket. Actual dice. Sets them on the table.<br><br> <<if $vice is "gambling">>"A dice game." The pull is immediate. Familiar. Dangerous. Your hands already itching to feel the weight of dice. The rush of chance. Shit, you've missed this..<br><br> Focus. This isn't about the addiction. This is about information. But the game... the game is calling. But you also know something Dice probably doesn't realize—you can read people when they gamble. Years of playing taught you the tells. The micro-expressions. The way someone holds dice or card when they're confident versus when they're bluffing.<br><br> You've got an edge here. If you're smart about it.<</if>><br><br> Maud's hand touches your shoulder. "Your call, $firstName."<br><br> [[Accept the game|CH1P20.Theory1_DiceGame]]<br>

The booth Magnus pointed to is shrouded in thick shadow. You can barely make out a silhouette. Red hair catching purple light. Sharp features. Bored expression.<br><br> Olenna looks up as you approach. One eyebrow raises.<br><br> "Can I help you?" Voice slightly irritated.<br><br> "Magnus sent us," you say. "We're looking for information about Marlowe."<br><br> "Marlowe." Olenna repeats the name like it's foreign. "Don't know anyone named Marlowe."<br><br> "You sure? Umbra. Works theater district sometimes."<br><br> "I'm sure." Olenna returns to her drink. Dismissive. "Magnus must be mistaken. Or fucking with you. Hard to tell with him."<br><br> Maud's shadows flare. "He sent us to you specifically—"<br><br> "And I'm specifically telling you I don't know shit about Marlowe." Olenna's voice stays flat. "Now unless you're buying me a drink, we're done."<br><br> Dead end. Useless. Magnus deliberately sent you to someone who can't—or won't—help.<br><br> Of course. You failed his test. He's punishing you by wasting your time.<br><br> Before you can respond, someone laughs from the adjacent table.<br><br> "Fucking priceless," a voice says. Rough. Amused. "Magnus sent you to Olenna? That's hilarious. Olenna hasn't left this booth in three days. Wouldn't know current events if they bit her in the ass."<br><br> You turn.<br><br> A person sits at the card table you passed earlier. Lean. Dangerous-looking. Shadows clinging to him like a second skin. He's grinning. All teeth. Entertained by your situation.<br><br> "You want info about Marlowe," he continues, shuffling cards with practiced ease, "you talk to me. Name's Dice."<br><br> "So you're the friend?" you ask.<br><br> "Better." Dice's grin widens. "I'm the person he talks to when he's drunk and emotional and can't shut up about his problems. Which lately? Is every time I see him." He sets down the cards. "But I don't give information for free. Especially not to people Magnus deliberately fucked over."<br><br> "What's your price?" Maud asks immediately.<br><br> "A game." Dice produces a set of dice from their pocket. Actual dice. "You interested?"<br><br> As if you could say no. <br><br> [[Play Dice's game|CH1P20.Theory1_DiceGame]]<br>

<<run window.resetDiceGame()>> Dice gestures to an empty seat. "Sit. Let's see if luck's on your side tonight."<br><br> The table is scarred wood. Burn marks from cigarettes. Stains from spilled drinks that might be alcohol or might be blood. Hard to tell in the purple light.<br><br> You sit. Maud hovers behind you. Shadows coiling protectively. Ace takes position on your left.<br><br> Dice sits across from you. Produces three six-sided dice. Black with silver pips. Sets them on the table between you with exaggerated care.<br><br> "Rules are simple," Dice says. "I roll first. You get three tries to match my total. Match it exactly, you win. Miss all three times, I win. And if you win, I tell you everything I know about Marlowe. If I win..." Their smile turns predatory. "I'll think of something interesting."<br><br> <<if $vice is "gambling">>You're already calculating odds. Three six-sided dice. Possible totals from 3 to 18. Three attempts. The statistics run through your head automatically. You're getting excited.<br><br> "Just like last week," you mutter. The familiar weight of risk settling in your chest. Heavy. Comfortable.<</if>> <<if $calculated > 60>>You calculate the odds. Three six-sided dice means totals from 3 to 18. The most common result would be 10 or 11—statistical average. Three attempts gives you approximately... you run the numbers. Not terrible odds if luck cooperates.<<else>>You nod. Accept the terms. Hope that Lady luck is on your side today.<</if>> "One condition," Ace interjects. "No Umbra manipulation. Let's make it fair."<br><br> Maud can't help but look at Ace pityfully. <br><br> Dice's smile doesn't falter. "Wouldn't dream of cheating." He points at Maud. " I know who she is. I'm sure as hell not going to cheat with her right next to me. Besides where's the fun in that?"<br><br> <<if $vice is "gambling">>You don't miss the way his left hand twitches when he says "cheating." Not guilt. Habit. Dice has definitely cheated before. Probably often. But you also see the sweat on his forehead. Maud's effect. This will be fair. Which means your reading skills matter more than ever.<</if>> Dice picks up the dice. Shakes them in cupped hands. The sound echoes in the sudden quiet. Everyone in the nearby tables watching now. Entertainment. Or potential violence. Either works in The Eclipse.<br><br> Dice throws.<br><br> The dice clatter across scarred wood. Bounce. Roll. Settle.<br><br> "Eleven," Dice announces. Moderate difficulty. Probable, but not easy.<br><br> You can work with this.<br><br> "Match that," Dice says. Leaning back. <<if $vice is "gambling">>Your hands shake slightly as you pick up the dice. Not fear. Anticipation. The rush. The need. The weight of chance in your palm. The moment before the throw when everything is possible.<br><br> Focus. Read the table. Read Dice. You've got this.<<else>>You pick up the dice carefully. They're heavier than expected. Cool against your palm.<</if>><br><br> <<if $vice is "gambling">>[Advantage: You have bonus luck in your throws]<</if>><br> [[Roll attempt one|CH1P20.Theory1_Roll1]]

:: CH1P20.Theory1_Roll1_Animated {"position":"3200,9000","size":"100,100"} <<set $currentAttempt to 1>> <<set $diceRolled to false>> <<if $vice is "gambling">>You shake the dice. Feel the weight shift. Listen to the sound. Old muscle memory taking over. You used to be able to control throws through pure practice. Not magic. Just... skill. Hundreds of hours in back rooms taught you the physics of it.<br><br> You approach the table with purpose. Not wild. Controlled.<<else>>You shake the dice. Feel the weight shift in your palm. Ready yourself.<</if>><br><br> <div class="dice-container"> <div class="dice-table"> <div class="dice-target"> TARGET: <span class="dice-target-number">11</span> </div> <div class="dice-display"> <div class="die die-1">?</div> <div class="die die-2">?</div> <div class="die die-3">?</div> </div> <div class="dice-roll-button"> <button class="dice-roll-btn" onclick=" var btn = this; btn.disabled = true; btn.style.opacity = '0.5'; btn.style.cursor = 'not-allowed'; rollDiceAnimation(1, function(total) { document.querySelector('.dice-result').style.opacity = '1'; if (total === 11) { document.querySelector('.continue-win-1').style.display = 'block'; } else { document.querySelector('.continue-section-1').style.display = 'block'; } }); "> THROW THE DICE </button> </div> <div class="dice-result" style="opacity: 0;"> You rolled: <span class="dice-total" id="roll1-total">0</span> <div class="dice-status lose" id="roll1-status" style="display: none;">Not quite...</div> <div class="dice-status win" id="roll1-win" style="display: none;">PERFECT MATCH!</div> </div> <div class="dice-attempts"> Attempt 1 of 3 </div> </div> </div> <div class="continue-win-1" style="display: none;"> [[Continue|CH1P20.Theory1_DiceWin]] </div> <div class="continue-section-1" style="display: none;"> <<if $vice is "gambling">>Fuck. Not quite. But you saw something in that throw. The way the dice bounced. The table has a slight warp near the center. Causes dice to favor certain faces. You can use that.<br><br> And Dice's expression—they relaxed when you missed. Just slightly. They're more nervous about you winning than they're letting on.<br><br> Two more chances. You've got this.<br><br><</if>> "Not quite," Dice says. Still smiling. "Two more chances."<br><br> [[Roll attempt two|CH1P20.Theory1_Roll2]] </div>

<<set $currentAttempt to 2>> <<set $diceRolled to false>> <<if $vice is "gambling">>Fuck. Not quite. But you saw something in that throw. The way the dice bounced. The table has a slight warp near the center. Causes dice to favor certain faces. You can use that.<br><br> And Dice's expression—they relaxed when you missed. Just slightly. They're more nervous about you winning than they're letting on.<br><br> Two more chances. You've got this.<br><br><</if>> "Not quite," Dice says. Still smiling. "Two more chances."<br><br> <<if $vice is "gambling">>Second throw. You adjust your approach. Aim for the warped section of the table. Control the bounce. Years of practice guiding your hand.<br><br> You also watch Dice's hands. The way their fingers drum against the table. Nervous habit. Tells you they're worried.<br><br> Good. Let them worry.<<else>>You gather the dice again. Shake them. Focus.<</if>><br><br> <div class="dice-container"> <div class="dice-table"> <div class="dice-target"> TARGET: <span class="dice-target-number">11</span> </div> <div class="dice-display"> <div class="die die-1">?</div> <div class="die die-2">?</div> <div class="die die-3">?</div> </div> <div class="dice-roll-button"> <button class="dice-roll-btn" onclick=" var btn = this; btn.disabled = true; btn.style.opacity = '0.5'; btn.style.cursor = 'not-allowed'; rollDiceAnimation(2, function(total) { document.querySelector('.dice-result').style.opacity = '1'; if (total === 11) { document.querySelector('.continue-win-2').style.display = 'block'; } else { document.querySelector('.continue-section-2').style.display = 'block'; } }); "> THROW THE DICE </button> </div> <div class="dice-result" style="opacity: 0;"> You rolled: <span class="dice-total" id="roll2-total">0</span> <div class="dice-status lose" id="roll2-status" style="display: none;">Strike two...</div> <div class="dice-status win" id="roll2-win" style="display: none;">PERFECT MATCH!</div> </div> <div class="dice-attempts"> Attempt 2 of 3 </div> </div> </div> <div class="continue-win-2" style="display: none;"> [[Continue|CH1P20.Theory1_DiceWin]] </div> <div class="continue-section-2" style="display: none;"> <<if $vice is "gambling">>Two failures. The familiar pit opening in your stomach. The desperate need to win. To prove luck hasn't abandoned you completely.<br><br> But no. Focus. This isn't about proving anything. This is about information. About Marlowe.<br><br> One more chance. You read the table. Read Dice. You know where to aim now. You know the tells.<br><br> Just one more.<<else>>Strike two. One chance remaining.<</if>><br><br> "Last chance," Dice says. <<if $vice is "gambling">>Their voice has tension now. Actual tension. They're sweating slightly. They don't want you to win. Whatever "something valuable" they have planned—they really want it.<br><br> Which makes you want to win even more.<<else>>Leaning back in their chair.<</if>> "Make it count."<br><br> Ace's hand touches your shoulder. Brief. Grounding. "You've got this."<br><br> <<if $vice is "gambling">>[Final advantage: You've read the table, you know Dice's nervous patterns, you have one perfect throw left]<br><</if>> [[Roll attempt three|CH1P20.Theory1_Roll3]] </div>

<<set $currentAttempt to 3>> <<set $diceRolled to false>> <<if $vice is "gambling">>Two failures. The familiar pit opening in your stomach. The desperate need to win. To prove luck hasn't abandoned you completely.<br><br> But no. Focus. This isn't about proving anything. This is about information. About Marlowe.<br><br> One more chance. You read the table. Read Dice. You know where to aim now. You know the tells.<br><br> Just one more.<<else>>Strike two. One chance remaining.<</if>><br><br> "Last chance," Dice says. <<if $vice is "gambling">>Their voice has tension now. Actual tension. They're sweating slightly. They don't want you to win. Whatever "something valuable" they have planned—they really want it.<br><br> Which makes you want to win even more.<<else>>Leaning back in their chair.<</if>> "Make it count."<br><br> Ace's hand touches your shoulder. Brief. Grounding. "You've got this."<br><br> <<if $vice is "gambling">>[Final advantage: You've read the table, you know Dice's nervous patterns, you have one perfect throw left]<br><</if>><br> Last chance.<br><br> <<if $vice is "gambling">>You take a breath. Center yourself. This is what you trained for. What you spent years perfecting before you quit. Before you realized the cost.<br><br> But the skills remain. Muscle memory. Physics understanding. Pattern recognition.<br><br> You know exactly where to aim. Exactly how hard to throw. Exactly how the dice will bounce on this warped section of table.<br><br> The math is simple. The execution is everything.<br><br> You pick up the dice. Feel the weight. The balance. The potential.<br><br> This is it. The moment where skill meets chance. Where experience pays off. Where your addiction becomes an advantage.<br><br> Fuck, you hate this. Love this. Need this.<<else>>You pick up the dice. Feel the weight. The potential. The risk.<br><br> Please. Just this once. Let it work.<</if>><br><br> <div class="dice-container"> <div class="dice-table"> <div class="dice-target"> TARGET: <span class="dice-target-number">11</span> </div> <div class="dice-display"> <div class="die die-1">?</div> <div class="die die-2">?</div> <div class="die die-3">?</div> </div> <div class="dice-roll-button"> <button class="dice-roll-btn" onclick=" var btn = this; btn.disabled = true; btn.style.opacity = '0.5'; btn.style.cursor = 'not-allowed'; rollDiceAnimation(3, function(total) { document.querySelector('.dice-result').style.opacity = '1'; if (total === 11) { document.querySelector('.continue-win').style.display = 'block'; } else { document.querySelector('.continue-lose').style.display = 'block'; } }); "> FINAL THROW </button> </div> <div class="dice-result" style="opacity: 0;"> <div id="skill-text" style="display: none; margin-bottom: 0.5em; font-style: italic; opacity: 0.9;"> The dice hit exactly where you aimed. The warp in the table does its work. Physics and probability bending to skill and experience. </div> You rolled: <span class="dice-total" id="roll3-total">0</span> <div class="dice-status lose" id="roll3-status" style="display: none;">Not enough...</div> <div class="dice-status win" id="roll3-win" style="display: none;">PERFECT MATCH!</div> </div> <div class="dice-attempts"> Attempt 3 of 3 — FINAL THROW </div> </div> </div> <div class="continue-win" style="display: none;"> [[Continue|CH1P20.Theory1_DiceWin]] </div> <div class="continue-lose" style="display: none;"> [[Continue|CH1P20.Theory1_DiceLose]] </div> <script> // Show skill text if gambling skill was used setTimeout(function() { if (State.variables.gamblingSkillUsed) { const skillText = document.querySelector('#skill-text'); if (skillText) skillText.style.display = 'block'; } }, 2000); </script>

<<set $diceGameResult to "win">> <<if $vice is "gambling">><<set $gamblingTension += 1>><</if>> <<set $marlowIntel to "obtained">> Eleven.<br><br> Perfect match.<br><br> For a moment, nobody speaks. Just stares at the dice. At the impossible.<br><br> Then Dice laughs. Genuine. Surprised. "Well shit. Didn't expect that." They lean back, hands behind their head. "Alright. You won fair. I'll talk."<br><br> <<if $vice is "gambling">>The rush hits you like a drug. Pure. Electric. Dangerous. Your hands shake slightly as you pull them back from the table. Victory. Sweet. Addictive. But this time earned through skill, not just luck.<br><br> You controlled the table. Read the patterns. Used years of experience to bend probability in your favor. Because when gambling stops being chance and becomes skill, that's when it becomes truly addictive. <<else>>Pure luck. The dice fell right. No skill. Just chance. But the rush is the same. Victory. Validation. Like the high you chase from each story.<</if>> Relief floods through you. Overwhelming. Unexpected.<br><br> "Marlowe," you say. Getting back to business before the moment passes. "Tell us about Marlowe."<br><br> [[Continue|CH1P20.Theory1_Information]]

<<set $diceGameResult to "lose">> <<if $vice is "gambling">><<set $gamblingTension += 2>><</if>> Wrong. Again.<br><br> Three chances. Three failures.<br><br> Dice's smile widens. "Tough luck. Guess you owe me now."<br><br> <<if $vice is "gambling">>"One more try," you hear yourself say. Desperate. Pathetic. The addiction talking. "Double or nothing. I can—"<br><br> "No." Maud's hand clamps on your shoulder. Firm. "We're done gambling."<br><br> The words hit like cold water. Reality crashing back.<br><br> Fuck.<<else>>Your stomach sinks. "What do you want?"<</if>><br><br> "Neural tranquilizer," Dice says. Simple. Direct. "I know one of you has one. CRD issue. Military grade. That's my price."<br><br> All eyes turn to Ace.<br><br> Ace's jaw tightens. "How did you—"<br><br> "You move like federal," Dice interrupts. "And only CRD carries those specific tranqs. Enhanced formula. Works on bloodlines." He shrugs. "I'm observant."<br><br> "I'm not giving you CRD equipment," Ace says flatly. "That's a felony."<br><br> "Then I'm not talking." Dice stands. "Pleasure doing business. Or not doing business. Either way, we're done here."<br><br> He turns to leave.<br><br> Maud moves. Fast. Shadows exploding around her. Darkness wrapping around Dice's throat. Lifting him off the ground. Slamming him back against the wall hard enough to crack plaster.<br><br> "Bad idea," Dice chokes out. "Magnus—"<br><br> "Is about to throw me out anyway," Maud finishes. Her voice has that wrong quality. Too bright. Too sharp. The manic edge bleeding through. "So I might as well make it worth the ban."<br><br> The entire bar erupts. Patrons standing. Weapons appearing. Magnus vaulting over the bar.<br><br> "MAUD!" Magnus roars. "STAND DOWN!"<br><br> She doesn't. Shadows tightening. Dice's face going purple. Eyes bulging.<br><br> "Tell us about Marlowe," Maud says. Voice cheerful. Wrong. "Or I see how long Umbras can survive without oxygen. Spoiler: I already know the answer. Want to test it?"<br><br> [[Continue|CH1P20.Theory1_BarFight]]

Dice leans back in their chair. Looks at you with something that might be respect. Or might just be surprise that you won.<br><br> "Alright," they say. "Here's what I know about Marlowe."<br><br> They take a drink first. Preparing. Or maybe just needing liquid courage to betray someone they care about.<br><br> "Three weeks ago, Marlowe changed. Overnight. He went from his usual broke-dramatic-artist self to... something else. Flush with cash. Paranoid. Wouldn't say where the money came from."<br><br> "He started acting weird," Dice continues. "Checking over his shoulder constantly. Jumping at sounds. He'd get phone calls and leave the bar to take them. Always came back looking worse."<br><br> "Did you hear any of the conversations?" Maud asks.<br><br> "Fragments." Dice's expression goes distant. Remembering. "Once I followed him outside. Heard him say 'I know what I agreed to' Like he was arguing with someone."<br><br> There it is.<br><br> "He say anything else?" you press. "Anything about who hired him? What the job was?"<br><br> Dice thinks. Then his eye's light up. Bingo.<br><br> "A week ago, he was drunk. Really drunk. Pissed off kind of drunk." Dice's voice goes quiet. "He told me he was working surveillance for a guy called Jace. Apparently that guy paid him fifty thousand upfront. And another after surveillance is completed."<br><br> Jace. You're on the right track after all. "There is more. Marlowe thought that Jace was a lackey as well. That someone else was pulling the strigs. He kept complaining that the job was a nightmare. The targets were spread across the city. The timeline kept changing. And whoever was giving Jace instructions kept adding complications." <br><br> "The contract's still active?" you ask. <br><br> "As far as I know, yes. Marlowe hasn't completed it." <br><br> Maud leans forward. "Where is he now?" <br><br> "He mentioned a warehouse. Old place in the Southern Docks District. ," Dice says. "Warehouse seven, it's near the water. There's a broken neon sign—says 'Stage' but the S is out. Just says 'tage.' Can't miss it."<br><br> "That's it?" Maud asks. "One location?" <br><br> "That's all he told me. Marlowe's paranoid. Smart. He wouldn't tell me everywhere he might go. Just the one place in case I needed to reach him for some... fun. He probably has others." <br><br> He sets down his drink. Looks at you directly.<br><br> "When you find him," Dice says voice pissed, "tell him I said he's a fucking idiot. And I know he cheated with Lyanna. Fucking prick. But we're still on for next Friday."<br><br> "Sure," Maud chirps brightly. <br><br> Dice nods. Collects their dice. Returns them to their pocket. The game is over.<br><br> [[Continue|CH1P21.Theory1]]

<<set $barFight to true>> Everything happens at once.<br><br> Magnus lunges for Maud. Ace draws his weapon. Three patrons rush forward. The woman with shadow tattoos throws her glass. Someone flips a table.<br><br> Chaos has errupted.<br><br> Maud laughs. Delighted. She releases Dice—drops them gasping to the floor—and her shadows explode outward. Defensive. Aggressive. Tentacles of darkness that grab. Strike. Choke.<br><br> "Fuck it," you mutter, grabbing a bottle from the bar. Makeshift weapon. If this is happening, might as well commit.<br><br> Ace fires once. Into the ceiling. The sound deafening in the enclosed space.<br><br> Everyone freezes. For exactly two seconds.<br><br> Then Magnus's fist connects with Ace's jaw. The impact lifts $aceHim off $aceHis feet. Slams $aceHim into the bar. Blood exploding from $aceHis split lip.<br><br> "NO GUNS!" Magnus bellows. "HOUSE RULES!"<br><br> Ace spits blood. Wipes his mouth. Grins. "Fair enough." And tackles Magnus. The collision takes out an entire shelf of bottles.<br><br> Maud has Dice again. Shadows wrapped around his throat. Lifting him off the ground. Squeezing. "Let's try this again," she sing-songs. "Tell me about Marlowe. Everything. Or I make your brain hypoxic. Permanently."<br><br> "Fine!" Dice gasps. "Fine! Jesus fucking—"<br><br> "Start talking." Maud's shadows tighten fractionally. Warning.<br><br> "Three weeks ago—" Dice chokes. "New job. A guy named Jace hired him. Surveillance work. Lots of cash like fifty thousand upfront."<br><br> "Did Jace work for someone else?" Maud demands.<br><br> "Don't know!" Dice's feet kick uselessly. "Just kept talking about hating the job! That things kept constantly changing!"<br><br> "Where is he?" you ask. Moving closer. "Where's Marlowe staying?"<br><br> "Old place in the Southern Docks District near the water! Old warehouse place!" Dice's eyes are rolling back. Consciousness fading. "Broken sign! Says 'tage!' That's all I know! Please!"<br><br> Maud studies him. Considers. Then releases. Dice collapses to the floor. Coughing. Gasping. Alive but barely.<br><br> Around them, the bar fight continues. Ace and Magnus trading blows that crack ribs and split skin. Patrons smashing chairs. Glass everywhere. Purple light catching on blood and alcohol in equal measure.<br><br> "We got what we came for," Maud announces cheerfully. Shadows receding slightly. "Time to go!"<br><br> She grabs your arm. Grabs Ace's arm. Physically drags him away from Magnus. The bartender is bleeding from a cut above his eye. Ace's lip is split. Both look like they'd happily continue.<br><br> "You're banned!" Magnus roars. Voice carrying over the chaos. "All three of you! Permanently! If I ever see you in here again—"<br><br> "You'll what? Kill us?" Maud grins. Blood-spattered. Manic. "Get in line!"<br><br> She clears a path with Umbra tentacles. Patrons scatter. Nobody stupid enough to stop a high-threat Umbra mid-violence.<br><br> You stumble out into Westpoint's night. Back into normal air. Normal darkness.<br><br> Behind you, The Eclipse's door slams shut. Locks clicking. Audible even from outside.<br><br> Dice's gasping voice follows you out: "Tell Marlowe he's an idiot! I know he fucking cheated with Lyanna! But we're still onn for next Friday!"<br><br> Then silence.<br><br> "Well," Maud says brightly, wiping blood off her hands. "That went well."<br><br> Ace touches $aceHis split lip. Winces. "Magnus hits like a fucking truck."<br><br> "Ex-boxer," Maud supplies cheerfully. "Also we're definitely banned for life."<br><br> "Next time maybe we try not starting bar fights?" you suggest tiredly.<br><br> "Where's the fun in that?" Maud grins.<br><br> [[Continue|CH1P21.Theory1]]

<<set $theoryChoice to "revenge">> <<set $eclipseVisited to true>> The air outside tastes clean after The Eclipse's thick atmosphere. Comparatively clean anyway. Still Sordia. Still pollution and rain and decay.<br><br> You walk three blocks before anyone speaks.<br><br> <<if $barFight is true>>"That was insane," Ace says finally. Blood still dripping from $aceHis split lip. "Magnus hit like a truck."<br><br> "Ex-boxer," Maud supplies cheerfully. "Also probably pissed we destroyed his bar."<<else>>"Well," Ace says finally. "That was interesting."<br><br> "That was fun!" Maud corrects.<</if>><br><br> [[Continue|CH1P22]]

:: Clues {"position":"500,500","size":"100,100"} <div class="clues-header"> <h1 class="bloodlines-title">Evidence Log</h1> <p class="clues-subtitle">The truth assembled from fragments. Every piece matters. Every connection counts.</p> </div> <div class="evidence-container">  <div class="evidence-section"> <div class="section-header" onclick="toggleSection('victims-section')"> <span class="section-icon">⚠</span> <h2>The Twelve Targets</h2> <span class="expand-arrow">▼</span> </div> <div id="victims-section" class="section-content"> <p class="section-intro">Twelve faces. Twelve lives under surveillance. Two already gone. Ten remaining. The clock is ticking.</p> <div class="victims-grid">  <div class="victim-card missing"> <div class="victim-status">MISSING</div> <div class="victim-header"> <span class="victim-number">01</span> <div class="victim-info"> <h3>Marguerite Frost</h3> <div class="victim-bloodline">Umbra</div> <div class="victim-occupation">Crime Boss - Frost Syndicate</div> </div> </div> <div class="victim-details"> <p><strong>Disappeared:</strong> March 15, 2033</p> <p><strong>Last Seen:</strong> Her penthouse in Tower District</p> <p><strong>Connection:</strong> Controls shadow-based smuggling operations</p> </div> </div>  <div class="victim-card missing"> <div class="victim-status">MISSING</div> <div class="victim-header"> <span class="victim-number">02</span> <div class="victim-info"> <h3>Linnea Asher</h3> <div class="victim-bloodline">Fae</div> <div class="victim-occupation">CFO - Verdant Holdings</div> </div> </div> <div class="victim-details"> <p><strong>Disappeared:</strong> March 19, 2033</p> <p><strong>Last Seen:</strong> Corporate headquarters</p> <p><strong>Connection:</strong> Financial manipulation through Fae charm abilities</p> </div> </div>  <div class="victim-card active"> <div class="victim-status">TARGET</div> <div class="victim-header"> <span class="victim-number">03</span> <div class="victim-info"> <h3>$fullName<<if $nickname>> "$nickname"<</if>></h3> <div class="victim-bloodline">Human</div> <div class="victim-occupation">Investigative Journalist</div> </div> </div> <div class="victim-details"> <p><strong>Status:</strong> Under surveillance, aware of threat</p> <p><strong>Recent Activity:</strong> Exposed Julian De Luca corruption</p> <p><strong>Connection:</strong> Unknown - investigating</p> </div> </div>  <div class="victim-card deceased"> <div class="victim-status">DECEASED</div> <div class="victim-header"> <span class="victim-number">04</span> <div class="victim-info"> <h3>Maud $lastName</h3> <div class="victim-bloodline">Umbra</div> <div class="victim-occupation">Enforcer - Luz's Organization</div> </div> </div> <div class="victim-details"> <p><strong>Found:</strong> [Chapter dependent]</p> <p><strong>Cause of Death:</strong> Heart surgically removed</p> <p><strong>Connection:</strong> Your sister, discovered the surveillance pattern</p> </div> </div>  <div class="victim-card watched"> <div class="victim-status">WATCHED</div> <div class="victim-header"> <span class="victim-number">05</span> <div class="victim-info"> <h3>$luzName "Luz"</h3> <div class="victim-bloodline">Infernal</div> <div class="victim-occupation">Crime Boss - Rouge Empire</div> </div> </div> <div class="victim-details"> <p><strong>Status:</strong> Active surveillance detected</p> <p><strong>Territory:</strong> Undercity entertainment district</p> <p><strong>Connection:</strong> Binding contracts, extensive criminal network</p> </div> </div>  <div class="victim-card watched"> <div class="victim-status">WATCHED</div> <div class="victim-header"> <span class="victim-number">06</span> <div class="victim-info"> <h3>Executive [Identity Unknown]</h3> <div class="victim-bloodline">Draegon</div> <div class="victim-occupation">Corporate Sector</div> </div> </div> <div class="victim-details"> <p><strong>Status:</strong> Photo surveillance only</p> <p><strong>Details:</strong> High-rise office, expensive suits</p> <p><strong>Connection:</strong> Under investigation</p> </div> </div>  <div class="victim-card watched"> <div class="victim-status">WATCHED</div> <div class="victim-header"> <span class="victim-number">07</span> <div class="victim-info"> <h3>Doctor [Identity Unknown]</h3> <div class="victim-bloodline">Unknown</div> <div class="victim-occupation">Medical Sector</div> </div> </div> <div class="victim-details"> <p><strong>Status:</strong> Photo surveillance only</p> <p><strong>Details:</strong> Clinical setting, medical equipment visible</p> <p><strong>Connection:</strong> Under investigation</p> </div> </div>  <div class="victim-card watched"> <div class="victim-status">WATCHED</div> <div class="victim-header"> <span class="victim-number">08</span> <div class="victim-info"> <h3>[Identity Unknown]</h3> <div class="victim-bloodline">Chimaera</div> <div class="victim-occupation">Unknown</div> </div> </div> <div class="victim-details"> <p><strong>Status:</strong> Photo surveillance only</p> <p><strong>Details:</strong> Mixed genetic markers visible</p> <p><strong>Connection:</strong> Under investigation</p> </div> </div>  <div class="victim-card watched"> <div class="victim-status">WATCHED</div> <div class="victim-header"> <span class="victim-number">09</span> <div class="victim-info"> <h3>Youth [Identity Unknown]</h3> <div class="victim-bloodline">Seraph</div> <div class="victim-occupation">Approximately 13 years old</div> </div> </div> <div class="victim-details"> <p><strong>Status:</strong> Photo surveillance only</p> <p><strong>Details:</strong> Possibly last Seraph in Sordia</p> <p><strong>Connection:</strong> Critical - why target a child?</p> </div> </div>  <div class="victim-card watched"> <div class="victim-status">WATCHED</div> <div class="victim-header"> <span class="victim-number">10</span> <div class="victim-info"> <h3>[Identity Unknown]</h3> <div class="victim-bloodline">Abyssal</div> <div class="victim-occupation">Unknown</div> </div> </div> <div class="victim-details"> <p><strong>Status:</strong> Photo surveillance only</p> <p><strong>Connection:</strong> Under investigation</p> </div> </div>  <div class="victim-card watched"> <div class="victim-status">WATCHED</div> <div class="victim-header"> <span class="victim-number">11</span> <div class="victim-info"> <h3>[Identity Unknown]</h3> <div class="victim-bloodline">Primordial</div> <div class="victim-occupation">Unknown</div> </div> </div> <div class="victim-details"> <p><strong>Status:</strong> Photo surveillance only</p> <p><strong>Connection:</strong> Under investigation</p> </div> </div>  <div class="victim-card watched"> <div class="victim-status">WATCHED</div> <div class="victim-header"> <span class="victim-number">12</span> <div class="victim-info"> <h3>[Identity Unknown]</h3> <div class="victim-bloodline">Unknown</div> <div class="victim-occupation">Unknown</div> </div> </div> <div class="victim-details"> <p><strong>Status:</strong> Photo surveillance only</p> <p><strong>Connection:</strong> Under investigation</p> </div> </div> </div> <div class="pattern-analysis"> <h4>Pattern Analysis</h4> <ul> <li><span class="clue-marker">⚡</span> Weekly disappearance schedule detected</li> <li><span class="clue-marker">⚡</span> Mix of bloodlines - no single type targeted</li> <li><span class="clue-marker">⚡</span> Mix of power levels - from children to crime bosses</li> <li><span class="clue-marker">⚡</span> Geographic spread across all Sordia districts</li> <li><span class="clue-marker">⚡</span> No obvious connection between victims yet identified</li> </ul> </div> </div> </div>  <<if $investigationTheory>> <div class="evidence-section"> <div class="section-header" onclick="toggleSection('theory-section')"> <span class="section-icon">💭</span> <h2>Working Theory</h2> <span class="expand-arrow">▼</span> </div> <div id="theory-section" class="section-content"> <<if $investigationTheory is "revenge">> <div class="theory-box revenge-theory"> <h3>Theory: Personal Vendetta</h3> <p class="theory-description">Someone is settling scores. These twelve people have all hurt someone—exploited, betrayed, destroyed lives. Maybe they ruined the wrong person. Maybe that person lost everything and wants revenge.</p> <div class="theory-evidence"> <h4>Supporting Evidence:</h4> <ul> <li>Systematic surveillance suggests patience and planning</li> <li>Targets include known exploiters (crime bosses, corrupt executives)</li> <li>Personal nature of attacks - not random violence</li> <li>Methodical approach indicates emotional investment</li> </ul> </div> <div class="theory-questions"> <h4>Questions to Answer:</h4> <ul> <li>What connects these specific twelve people?</li> <li>Who did they collectively harm?</li> <li>Why wait to strike now?</li> </ul> </div> </div> <<elseif $investigationTheory is "conspiracy">> <div class="theory-box conspiracy-theory"> <h3>Theory: Corporate Warfare</h3> <p class="theory-description">Someone is systematically removing power players to destabilize Sordia's economy. Take out the right targets, create power vacuums, reshape the city's entire structure.</p> <div class="theory-evidence"> <h4>Supporting Evidence:</h4> <ul> <li>Targets span multiple power sectors (criminal, corporate, medical)</li> <li>Removing these people would create massive instability</li> <li>Requires significant resources to organize</li> <li>Strategic timing and precision execution</li> </ul> </div> <div class="theory-questions"> <h4>Questions to Answer:</h4> <ul> <li>Who benefits from this level of chaos?</li> <li>Which organization has these resources?</li> <li>What's the endgame after destabilization?</li> </ul> </div> </div> <</if>> </div> </div> <</if>>  <div class="evidence-section"> <div class="section-header" onclick="toggleSection('chapter1-section')"> <span class="section-icon">📁</span> <h2>Chapter 1: The Revelation</h2> <span class="expand-arrow">▼</span> </div> <div id="chapter1-section" class="section-content expanded">  <div class="evidence-card"> <div class="evidence-header"> <span class="evidence-icon">📸</span> <h3>The Twelve Photographs</h3> <span class="evidence-date">March 22, 2033</span> </div> <div class="evidence-body"> <p><strong>Source:</strong> Maud's apartment wall</p> <p><strong>Description:</strong> Surveillance photographs of twelve individuals, connected by red string. Professional quality, taken from concealment. Timestamps show rotating weekly schedule.</p> <div class="evidence-significance"> <strong>Significance:</strong> Two subjects already missing when photos discovered. Suggests ongoing operation with methodical timeline. </div> </div> </div>  <div class="evidence-card"> <div class="evidence-header"> <span class="evidence-icon">💀</span> <h3>Jace Morrison - Deceased Contractor</h3> <span class="evidence-date">March 22, 2033</span> </div> <div class="evidence-body"> <p><strong>Status:</strong> Killed by Maud in alley confrontation</p> <p><strong>Occupation:</strong> Freelance surveillance specialist</p> <p><strong>Equipment:</strong> High-end cameras, encrypted phone, professional-grade surveillance gear</p> <div class="evidence-list"> <h4>From His Phone:</h4> <ul> <li>Encrypted messages about "Project Harvest"</li> <li>Schedule of twelve targets with rotation times</li> <li>Contact information for broker</li> <li>Payment confirmation: $50,000 upfront</li> </ul> </div> </div> </div>  <div class="evidence-card"> <div class="evidence-header"> <span class="evidence-icon">🏠</span> <h3>Jace's Apartment Search</h3> <span class="evidence-date">March 23, 2033</span> </div> <div class="evidence-body"> <p><strong>Location:</strong> Modest apartment, lived alone</p> <div class="evidence-list"> <h4>Discovered:</h4> <ul> <li><strong>Computer Files:</strong> Detailed surveillance logs with timestamps</li> <li><strong>Financial Records:</strong> Total payment $100,000 ($50k upfront, $50k completion)</li> <li><strong>Project Name:</strong> "Project Harvest" referenced multiple times</li> <li><strong>Broker Connection:</strong> All contracts arranged through intermediary at The Trade</li> <li><strong>Encrypted Communications:</strong> Client identity completely obscured</li> </ul> </div> <div class="evidence-significance"> <strong>Significance:</strong> Professional operation with serious funding. Client took extensive precautions to remain anonymous. </div> </div> </div>  <div class="evidence-card"> <div class="evidence-header"> <span class="evidence-icon">🏭</span> <h3>The Trade - Broker Identification</h3> <span class="evidence-date">March 23, 2033</span> </div> <div class="evidence-body"> <p><strong>Location:</strong> Undercity black market hub in converted factory</p> <p><strong>Investigation Method:</strong> <<if $background is "investigative">>Info broker cover<<elseif $background is "war-correspondent">>Weapons dealer cover<<elseif $background is "whistleblower">>Corporate intel cover<<elseif $background is "tabloid">>Manipulation and social engineering<</if>></p> <div class="evidence-list"> <h4>Four Brokers Identified:</h4> <ul> <li><strong>Kade:</strong> Expensive, secretive, handles high-risk work with Umbra contractors</li> <li><strong>Sera:</strong> Corporate intelligence specialist, professional operations</li> <li><strong>Max:</strong> High-volume contracts, quantity over quality</li> <li><strong>Lenny:</strong> Standard security monitoring, basic contracts</li> </ul> </div> <div class="broker-conclusion"> <h4>Conclusion:</h4> <p><strong>Kade identified as most likely broker</strong> based on:</p> <ul> <li>Works with Umbra specialists (Jace was surveilling Umbras)</li> <li>Handles expensive, complex operations</li> <li>Paranoid security matches operation sophistication</li> <li>Recent contract matching our parameters mentioned</li> </ul> </div> <div class="evidence-significance"> <strong>Kade's Information:</strong> Confirmed he brokered the contract. Client contacted through encrypted channels only. Paid in cryptocurrency. Kade never saw client face-to-face. Dead end for direct identification. </div> </div> </div>  <div class="evidence-card critical"> <div class="evidence-header"> <span class="evidence-icon">💔</span> <h3>Maud $lastName - Deceased</h3> <span class="evidence-date">[Chapter Dependent]</span> </div> <div class="evidence-body"> <p><strong>Status:</strong> Found dead</p> <p><strong>Cause of Death:</strong> Heart surgically removed with precision</p> <p><strong>Location:</strong> [To be determined by story progression]</p> <div class="evidence-list critical-evidence"> <h4>Critical Details:</h4> <ul> <li>Surgical precision suggests medical knowledge or specialized tools</li> <li>Heart removed while victim was alive (evidence of trauma response)</li> <li>No defensive wounds - suggests surprise or overpowered quickly</li> <li>Shadow powers didn't protect her - killer had counter-measure</li> </ul> </div> <div class="evidence-significance"> <strong>Implications:</strong> The killer can overcome even powerful Umbra abilities. They have medical expertise or specialized equipment. The heart removal is ritualistic or has specific purpose - not random violence. </div> </div> </div> </div> </div>  <div class="evidence-section"> <div class="section-header" onclick="toggleSection('timeline-section')"> <span class="section-icon">⏱</span> <h2>Timeline of Events</h2> <span class="expand-arrow">▼</span> </div> <div id="timeline-section" class="section-content"> <div class="investigation-timeline"> <div class="timeline-event"> <div class="timeline-date">March 15, 2033</div> <div class="timeline-content"> <strong>Marguerite Frost disappears</strong> <p>Crime boss, Umbra bloodline. Last seen at her penthouse.</p> </div> </div> <div class="timeline-event"> <div class="timeline-date">March 19, 2033</div> <div class="timeline-content"> <strong>Linnea Asher disappears</strong> <p>CFO of Verdant Holdings, Fae bloodline. Last seen at corporate headquarters.</p> </div> </div> <div class="timeline-event critical"> <div class="timeline-date">March 22, 2033 - Evening</div> <div class="timeline-content"> <strong>De Luca Broadcast</strong> <p>You expose Julian De Luca's corruption on live television.</p> </div> </div> <div class="timeline-event critical"> <div class="timeline-date">March 22, 2033 - Late Night</div> <div class="timeline-content"> <strong>Maud's Revelation</strong> <p>Maud abducts you, reveals surveillance photos. Admits to killing Jace Morrison.</p> </div> </div> <div class="timeline-event"> <div class="timeline-date">March 23, 2033 - Morning</div> <div class="timeline-content"> <strong>Jace's Apartment</strong> <p>Search reveals encrypted files, payment records, Project Harvest references.</p> </div> </div> <div class="timeline-event"> <div class="timeline-date">March 23, 2033 - Afternoon</div> <div class="timeline-content"> <strong>The Trade Infiltration</strong> <p>Identify Kade as broker. Confirm he arranged surveillance contract but doesn't know client.</p> </div> </div> <div class="timeline-event future"> <div class="timeline-date">~March 26, 2033 (Estimated)</div> <div class="timeline-content"> <strong>Next Disappearance Expected</strong> <p>Based on weekly pattern. Approximately 4 days from last discovery.</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div>  <div class="evidence-section"> <div class="section-header" onclick="toggleSection('leads-section')"> <span class="section-icon">🔍</span> <h2>Active Leads</h2> <span class="expand-arrow">▼</span> </div> <div id="leads-section" class="section-content"> <div class="leads-grid"> <div class="lead-card urgent"> <h4>⚡ URGENT: Next Victim</h4> <p>Weekly pattern suggests next disappearance in ~4 days. Must identify and warn potential targets.</p> </div> <div class="lead-card"> <h4>Project Harvest</h4> <p>What does this name mean? Harvest suggests collection, taking something from the targets.</p> </div> <div class="lead-card"> <h4>The Missing Hearts</h4> <p>If Maud's heart was removed, were previous victims' hearts also taken? Need to investigate.</p> </div> <div class="lead-card"> <h4>Bloodline Pattern</h4> <p>Twelve different bloodlines targeted. Significance? Ritualistic purpose?</p> </div> <div class="lead-card"> <h4>Client Identity</h4> <p>Resources to fund $100k surveillance. Access to medical expertise. Counter-measures for bloodline powers.</p> </div> <div class="lead-card"> <h4>The Seraph Child</h4> <p>Why target a 13-year-old? Last Seraph in Sordia makes them valuable. Trafficking? Worse?</p> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div> <div class="back-button"> <<button "Return">><<goto $return>><</button>> </div> <script> function toggleSection(sectionId) { const section = document.getElementById(sectionId); const header = section.previousElementSibling; const arrow = header.querySelector('.expand-arrow'); if (section.classList.contains('expanded')) { section.classList.remove('expanded'); arrow.textContent = '▼'; } else { section.classList.add('expanded'); arrow.textContent = '▲'; } } // Expand first section by default document.addEventListener('DOMContentLoaded', function() { const firstSection = document.getElementById('chapter1-section'); if (firstSection) { firstSection.classList.add('expanded'); const header = firstSection.previousElementSibling; const arrow = header.querySelector('.expand-arrow'); if (arrow) arrow.textContent = '▲'; } }); </script> <style> /* Main Container */ .clues-header { text-align: center; margin-bottom: 2em; border-bottom: 2px solid var(--accent); 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<div class="clues-header"> <h1 class="bloodlines-title">Journal</h1> <p class="clues-subtitle">The truth assembled from fragments. Every piece matters. Every connection counts.</p> </div> <div class="evidence-container">  <div class="evidence-section"> <div class="section-header" onclick="toggleSection('victims-section')"> <h2>The Twelve Targets</h2> <span class="expand-arrow">▼</span> </div> <div id="victims-section" class="section-content"> <<if $twelvePhotosDiscovered>> <p class="section-intro">Twelve faces. Twelve lives under surveillance. Two already missing. The pattern is clear—one from each bloodline, plus you.</p> <div class="victims-grid">  <div class="victim-card missing"> <div class="victim-status">MISSING</div> <div class="victim-header"> <span class="victim-number">01</span> <div class="victim-info"> <h3>Marguerite Asher</h3> <div class="victim-bloodline">Chronos</div> <div class="victim-occupation">Strategic Consultant</div> </div> </div> <div class="victim-details"> <p><strong>Age:</strong> 58</p> <p><strong>Details:</strong> Works for three Fortune 500 companies despite only working ~4 hours per week</p> <p><strong>Status:</strong> Missing for a week</p> </div> </div>  <div class="victim-card missing"> <div class="victim-status">MISSING</div> <div class="victim-header"> <span class="victim-number">02</span> <div class="victim-info"> <h3>Linnea Frost</h3> <div class="victim-bloodline">Fae</div> <div class="victim-occupation">Frost Business Heiress</div> </div> </div> <div class="victim-details"> <p><strong>Age:</strong> 31</p> <p><strong>Appearance:</strong> Silver-blonde hair, glowing violet eyes</p> <p><strong>Ability:</strong> Can make people remember things that never happened</p> <p><strong>Status:</strong> Missing for 72 hours</p> </div> </div>  <div class="victim-card <<if $maudDead>>deceased<<else>>watched<</if>>"> <div class="victim-status"><<if $maudDead>>DECEASED<<else>>WATCHED<</if>></div> <div class="victim-header"> <span class="victim-number">03</span> <div class="victim-info"> <h3>Maud $lastName</h3> <div class="victim-bloodline">Umbra</div> <div class="victim-occupation">Enforcer for Luz</div> </div> </div> <div class="victim-details"> <p><strong>Age:</strong> Your sister</p> <p><strong>Ability:</strong> Shadow manipulation</p> <<if $maudDead>> <p><strong>Status:</strong> Found dead. Heart missing.</p> <<else>> <p><strong>Status:</strong> Aware of threat, investigating</p> <</if>> </div> </div>  <div class="victim-card watched"> <div class="victim-status">WATCHED</div> <div class="victim-header"> <span class="victim-number">04</span> <div class="victim-info"> <h3>Dr. Arden</h3> <div class="victim-bloodline">Manitou</div> <div class="victim-occupation">Underground Clinic Doctor</div> </div> </div> <div class="victim-details"> <p><strong>Age:</strong> 37</p> <<if $ardenGender is "male">> <p><strong>Appearance:</strong> Pale man, sharp angular features, black messy hair, grey eyes</p> <<elseif $ardenGender is "female">> <p><strong>Appearance:</strong> Pale woman, sharp angular features, black hair in messy bun, grey eyes</p> <<else>> <p><strong>Appearance:</strong> Pale, sharp angular features, black hair, grey eyes</p> <</if>> <p><strong>Ability:</strong> Can speak to the dead</p> <p><strong>Details:</strong> Neutral territory. Patches up anyone who can pay.</p> </div> </div>  <div class="victim-card watched"> <div class="victim-status">WATCHED</div> <div class="victim-header"> <span class="victim-number">05</span> <div class="victim-info"> <h3>$luzName "Luz"</h3> <div class="victim-bloodline">Infernal</div> <div class="victim-occupation">Crime Boss</div> </div> </div> <div class="victim-details"> <p><strong>Age:</strong> 33</p> <<if $luzGender is "male">> <p><strong>Appearance:</strong> Pink-tinted glasses, two-toned hair (black/white), heterochromatic eyes</p> <<elseif $luzGender is "female">> <p><strong>Appearance:</strong> Pink-tinted glasses, two-toned hair (black/white), heterochromatic eyes, red lips</p> <</if>> <p><strong>Territory:</strong> Runs half the undercity through Rouge</p> <p><strong>Ability:</strong> Binding contracts that cannot be broken</p> </div> </div>  <div class="victim-card watched"> <div class="victim-status">WATCHED</div> <div class="victim-header"> <span class="victim-number">06</span> <div class="victim-info"> <<if $eGender is "male">> <h3>Egon Han</h3> <<elseif $eGender is "female">> <h3>Emme Han</h3> <<else>> <h3>$eName Han</h3> <</if>> <div class="victim-bloodline">Draegon</div> <div class="victim-occupation">CFO of HanTech</div> </div> </div> <div class="victim-details"> <p><strong>Age:</strong> 29</p> <<if $eGender is "male">> <p><strong>Appearance:</strong> Golden eyes, sharp jawline, slicked-back black hair with golden streaks</p> <<elseif $eGender is "female">> <p><strong>Appearance:</strong> Golden eyes, sharp features, long black hair with golden streaks</p> <</if>> <p><strong>Details:</strong> Perfect posture, immaculate appearance</p> </div> </div>  <div class="victim-card watched"> <div class="victim-status">WATCHED</div> <div class="victim-header"> <span class="victim-number">07</span> <div class="victim-info"> <h3>Alex Merga</h3> <div class="victim-bloodline">Seraph</div> <div class="victim-occupation">Last Seraph in Sordia</div> </div> </div> <div class="victim-details"> <p><strong>Age:</strong> 13 years old</p> <p><strong>Appearance:</strong> Almost ethereal quality (photo slightly blurred)</p> <p><strong>Ability:</strong> Can probably heal</p> <p><strong>Details:</strong> Guarded 24/7. Adopted by Schneider Family.</p> </div> </div>  <div class="victim-card watched"> <div class="victim-status">WATCHED</div> <div class="victim-header"> <span class="victim-number">08</span> <div class="victim-info"> <h3>Pierre Mellaneos</h3> <div class="victim-bloodline">Abyssal</div> <div class="victim-occupation">Import/Export Business Owner</div> </div> </div> <div class="victim-details"> <p><strong>Age:</strong> 35</p> <p><strong>Appearance:</strong> Fluid movement, photographed near water</p> <p><strong>Territory:</strong> Eastern docks - largest import/export business</p> <p><strong>Details:</strong> Connected to every major crime family but stays neutral</p> </div> </div>  <div class="victim-card watched"> <div class="victim-status">WATCHED</div> <div class="victim-header"> <span class="victim-number">09</span> <div class="victim-info"> <h3>Aadhya Kumar</h3> <div class="victim-bloodline">Ifrit</div> <div class="victim-occupation">Corporate Negotiator</div> </div> </div> <div class="victim-details"> <p><strong>Age:</strong> 28</p> <p><strong>Appearance:</strong> Bronze skin, eyes that burn, hair that moves in still photos</p> <p><strong>Details:</strong> Never lost a case. Charges seven figures per negotiation.</p> </div> </div>  <div class="victim-card watched"> <div class="victim-status">WATCHED</div> <div class="victim-header"> <span class="victim-number">10</span> <div class="victim-info"> <h3>Moten</h3> <div class="victim-bloodline">Primordial (Earth)</div> <div class="victim-occupation">Underground Fighting Ring Operator</div> </div> </div> <div class="victim-details"> <p><strong>Age:</strong> 40</p> <p><strong>Appearance:</strong> Massive build, visible mineral deposit veins under dark skin</p> <p><strong>Details:</strong> Undefeated fighter. Could create earthquakes destroying entire city blocks.</p> </div> </div>  <div class="victim-card watched"> <div class="victim-status">INCARCERATED</div> <div class="victim-header"> <span class="victim-number">11</span> <div class="victim-info"> <h3>Robin Reeves</h3> <div class="victim-bloodline">Chimaera</div> <div class="victim-occupation">Anarchist / Bodyguard for Hire</div> </div> </div> <div class="victim-details"> <p><strong>Age:</strong> 26</p> <p><strong>Appearance:</strong> Features don't settle - scaled skin transitioning to fur/feathers, one gold slit-pupil eye, one human brown eye</p> <p><strong>Details:</strong> Wears mandatory metal suppression collar. Currently in prison.</p> </div> </div>  <div class="victim-card active"> <div class="victim-status">YOU</div> <div class="victim-header"> <span class="victim-number">12</span> <div class="victim-info"> <h3>$fullName<<if $nickname>> "$nickname"<</if>></h3> <div class="victim-bloodline">Human</div> <div class="victim-occupation">Investigative Journalist</div> </div> </div> <div class="victim-details"> <p><strong>Age:</strong> 26</p> <p><strong>Status:</strong> Under surveillance, aware of threat, investigating</p> <p><strong>Details:</strong> Recently exposed Julian De Luca corruption</p> </div> </div> </div> <div class="pattern-analysis"> <h4>Pattern Analysis</h4> <ul> <li>One representative from each of the eleven major bloodline classifications, plus one human</li> <li>Every person is considered exceptional within their bloodline - not just powerful, but specifically notable</li> <li>Mix of power levels: crime bosses, corporate executives, a 13-year-old child, a prisoner</li> <li>Geographic spread across all Sordia districts</li> <li>Two already missing (Marguerite Asher, Linnea Frost) - no bodies, no demands, just gone</li> <<if $maudDead>><li>Maud found dead - heart missing</li><</if>> </ul> </div> <<else>> <p class="no-evidence">No evidence discovered yet.</p> <</if>> </div> </div>  <div class="evidence-section"> <div class="section-header" onclick="toggleSection('theory-section')"> <h2>Working Theory</h2> <span class="expand-arrow">▼</span> </div> <div id="theory-section" class="section-content"> <<if $investigationTheory>> <<if $investigationTheory is "revenge">> <div class="theory-box revenge-theory"> <h3>Theory: Personal Vendetta</h3> <p class="theory-description">Someone is settling scores. These twelve people have all hurt someone—exploited, betrayed, destroyed lives. Maybe they ruined the wrong person. Maybe that person lost everything and wants revenge.</p> <div class="theory-evidence"> <h4>Supporting Evidence:</h4> <ul> <li>Systematic surveillance suggests patience and planning</li> <li>Targets include known exploiters (crime bosses, corrupt executives)</li> <li>Personal nature of attacks - not random violence</li> <li>Methodical approach indicates emotional investment</li> </ul> </div> <div class="theory-questions"> <h4>Questions to Answer:</h4> <ul> <li>What connects these specific twelve people?</li> <li>Who did they collectively harm?</li> <li>Why wait to strike now?</li> </ul> </div> </div> <<elseif $investigationTheory is "conspiracy">> <div class="theory-box conspiracy-theory"> <h3>Theory: Corporate Warfare</h3> <p class="theory-description">Someone is systematically removing power players to destabilize Sordia's economy. Take out the right targets, create power vacuums, reshape the city's entire structure.</p> <div class="theory-evidence"> <h4>Supporting Evidence:</h4> <ul> <li>Targets span multiple power sectors (criminal, corporate, medical)</li> <li>Removing these people would create massive instability</li> <li>Requires significant resources to organize</li> <li>Strategic timing and precision execution</li> </ul> </div> <div class="theory-questions"> <h4>Questions to Answer:</h4> <ul> <li>Who benefits from this level of chaos?</li> <li>Which organization has these resources?</li> <li>What's the endgame after destabilization?</li> </ul> </div> </div> <</if>> <<else>> <p class="no-evidence">No working theory established yet.</p> <</if>> </div> </div>  <div class="evidence-section"> <div class="section-header" onclick="toggleSection('chapter1-section')"> <h2>Chapter 1: The Revelation</h2> <span class="expand-arrow">▼</span> </div> <div id="chapter1-section" class="section-content"> <<if $jaceKilled>>  <div class="evidence-card"> <div class="evidence-header"> <h3>The Twelve Photographs</h3> <span class="evidence-date">XXX</span> </div> <div class="evidence-body"> <p><strong>Source:</strong> Maud's apartment wall</p> <p><strong>Description:</strong> Surveillance photographs of twelve individuals, connected by red string. Professional quality, taken from concealment. Timestamps show rotating weekly schedule.</p> <div class="evidence-significance"> <strong>Significance:</strong> Two subjects already missing when photos discovered. Suggests ongoing operation with methodical timeline. </div> </div> </div>  <div class="evidence-card"> <div class="evidence-header"> <h3>Jace Morrison - Deceased Contractor</h3> <span class="evidence-date">XXX</span> </div> <div class="evidence-body"> <p><strong>Status:</strong> Killed by an unknown assailant during a confrontation with Maud</p> <p><strong>Occupation:</strong> Freelance surveillance specialist</p> <p><strong>Equipment:</strong> High-end cameras, encrypted phone, professional-grade surveillance gear</p> <div class="evidence-list"> <h4>From His Phone:</h4> <ul> <li>Encrypted messages</li> <li>Schedule of twelve targets with rotation times</li> <li>Contact information for broker</li> <li>Payment confirmation: $50,000 upfront</li> </ul> </div> </div> </div>  <<if $jaceApartmentSearched>> <div class="evidence-card"> <div class="evidence-header"> <h3>Jace's Apartment Search</h3> <span class="evidence-date">XXX</span> </div> <div class="evidence-body"> <p><strong>Location:</strong> Modest apartment in Westpoint</p> <div class="evidence-list"> <h4>Discovered:</h4> <ul> <li><strong>Computer Files:</strong> Detailed surveillance logs with timestamps</li> <li><strong>Financial Records:</strong> Total payment $100,000 ($50k upfront, $50k completion)</li> <li><strong>Encrypted Communications:</strong> Client identity completely obscured</li> </ul> </div> <div class="evidence-significance"> <strong>Significance:</strong> Professional operation with serious funding. Client took extensive precautions to remain anonymous. </div> </div> </div> <</if>>  <<if $theoryChoice is "Eclipse" and $eclipseVisited>> <div class="evidence-card"> <div class="evidence-header"> <h3>The Eclipse Investigation</h3> <span class="evidence-date">March 23, 2033</span> </div> <div class="evidence-body"> <p><strong>Location:</strong> Underground bar in Westpoint, neutral Umbra territory</p> <p><strong>Bartender:</strong> Magnus - knows everything about Umbra community</p> <div class="evidence-list"> <h4>Information Gathered:</h4> <ul> <li>Marlowe has a hideout at the Southern Docks</li> <li>Dice & Marlowe have/had a fling??</li> <li>Marlowe is unhappy about his current contract</li> </ul> </div> </div> </div> <</if>>  <<if $theoryChoice is "Trade" and $tradeVisited>> <div class="evidence-card"> <div class="evidence-header"> <h3>The Trade - Broker Identification</h3> <span class="evidence-date">XXX</span> </div> <div class="evidence-body"> <p><strong>Location:</strong> Undercity black market hub in converted factory at the Eastern Docks</p> <p><strong>Investigation Method:</strong> <<if $background is "investigative">>Info broker cover<<elseif $background is "war-correspondent">>Weapons dealer cover<<elseif $background is "whistleblower">>Corporate intel cover<<elseif $background is "tabloid">>Manipulation and social engineering<</if>></p> <div class="evidence-list"> <h4>Four Brokers Identified:</h4> <ul> <li><strong>Kade:</strong> Expensive, secretive, handles high-risk work with Umbra contractors</li> </ul> </div> <div class="evidence-significance"> <strong>Kade's Information:</strong> Confirmed he brokered the contract. Client contacted through encrypted channels only. Paid in cryptocurrency. Kade never saw client face-to-face. Dead end for direct identification. </div> </div> </div> <</if>>  <<if $maudDead>> <div class="evidence-card critical"> <div class="evidence-header"> <h3>Maud $lastName - Deceased</h3> <span class="evidence-date">XXX</span> </div> <div class="evidence-body"> <p><strong>Status:</strong> Found dead</p> <p><strong>Critical Detail:</strong> Heart missing</p> <div class="evidence-list critical-evidence"> <h4>What This Means:</h4> <ul> <li>Someone has started killing, but what happened to Linnea & Marguerite?</li> <li>Heart removed</li> <li>Umbra powers couldn't protect her - killer had counter-measures</li> <li>Timeline accelerating - weekly pattern may be breaking down</li> </ul> </div> <div class="evidence-significance"> <strong>Implications:</strong> The killer can overcome even powerful Umbra abilities. This is personal. This is planned. And you're still on the list. </div> </div> </div> <</if>> <<else>> <p class="no-evidence">No evidence collected yet.</p> <</if>> </div> </div>  <div class="evidence-section"> <div class="section-header" onclick="toggleSection('timeline-section')"> <h2>Timeline of Events</h2> <span class="expand-arrow">▼</span> </div> <div id="timeline-section" class="section-content"> <<if $timelineRecap>>>> <div class="investigation-timeline"> <div class="timeline-event"> <div class="timeline-date">XXX</div> <div class="timeline-content"> <strong>Marguerite Asher disappears</strong> <p>Strategic consultant, Chronos bloodline.</p> </div> </div> <div class="timeline-event"> <div class="timeline-date">XXX</div> <div class="timeline-content"> <strong>Linnea Frost disappears</strong> <p>Frost business heiress, Fae bloodline. Missing for 72 hours.</p> </div> </div> <div class="timeline-event critical"> <div class="timeline-date">XXX</div> <div class="timeline-content"> <strong>De Luca Broadcast</strong> <p>You expose Kent Grey's corruption on live television.</p> </div> </div> <div class="timeline-event critical"> <div class="timeline-date">XXX</div> <div class="timeline-content"> <strong>Maud's Revelation</strong> <p>Maud abducts you, reveals surveillance photos.</p> </div> </div> <<if $jaceApartmentSearched>> <div class="timeline-event"> <div class="timeline-date">XXX</div> <div class="timeline-content"> <strong>Jace's Apartment</strong> <p>Search reveals encrypted files and payment records</p> </div> </div> <</if>> <<if $eclipseVisited or $tradeVisited>> <div class="timeline-event"> <div class="timeline-date">XXX</div> <div class="timeline-content"> <<if $theoryChoice is "Eclipse">> <strong>The Eclipse Infiltration</strong> <p>Investigated Umbra community for leads through Magnus.</p> <<elseif $theoryChoice is "Trade">> <strong>The Trade Infiltration</strong> <p>Identified Kade as broker. Confirmed he arranged surveillance contract but doesn't know client.</p> <</if>> </div> </div> <</if>> <<if not $maudDead>> <div class="timeline-event future"> <div class="timeline-date">XXX</div> <div class="timeline-content"> <strong>Next Disappearance Expected</strong> <p>Based on weekly pattern. Approximately 4 days from last discovery.</p> </div> </div> <</if>> </div> <<else>> <p class="no-evidence">Timeline will be constructed as events unfold.</p> <</if>> </div> </div>  <div class="evidence-section"> <div class="section-header" onclick="toggleSection('leads-section')"> <h2>Active Leads</h2> <span class="expand-arrow">▼</span> </div> <div id="leads-section" class="section-content"> <<if $twelvePhotosDiscovered>> <div class="leads-grid"> <<if not $maudDead>> <div class="lead-card urgent"> <h4>URGENT: Next Victim</h4> <p>Weekly pattern suggests next disappearance in ~4 days. Must identify and warn potential targets.</p> </div> <<else>> <div class="lead-card urgent"> <h4>Pattern Breaking - URGENT</h4> <p>Maud's death may signal timeline acceleration. How many more days do we have?</p> </div> <</if>> <<if $maudDead>> <div class="lead-card"> <h4>The Missing Hearts</h4> <p>If Maud's heart was removed, were previous victims' hearts also taken? Need to investigate.</p> </div> <</if>> <div class="lead-card"> <h4>Bloodline Pattern</h4> <p>Twelve different bloodlines targeted. Significance?</p> </div> <div class="lead-card"> <h4>Client Identity</h4> <p>Resources to fund $100k surveillance. Access to medical expertise. Counter-measures for bloodline powers.</p> </div> <div class="lead-card"> <h4>The Seraph Child</h4> <p>Why target a 13-year-old? Last Seraph in Sordia makes them valuable. Trafficking? Worse?</p> </div> </div> <<else>> <p class="no-evidence">No active leads yet.</p> <</if>> </div> </div> </div> <script> function toggleSection(sectionId) { const section = document.getElementById(sectionId); const header = section.previousElementSibling; const arrow = header.querySelector('.expand-arrow'); if (section.classList.contains('expanded')) { section.classList.remove('expanded'); arrow.textContent = '▼'; } else { section.classList.add('expanded'); arrow.textContent = '▲'; } } // Expand victims section by default document.addEventListener('DOMContentLoaded', function() { const victimsSection = document.getElementById('victims-section'); if (victimsSection) { victimsSection.classList.add('expanded'); const header = victimsSection.previousElementSibling; const arrow = header.querySelector('.expand-arrow'); if (arrow) arrow.textContent = '▲'; } }); </script> <style> /* Main Container */ .clues-header { text-align: center; margin-bottom: 2em; border-bottom: 2px solid var(--accent); 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<div class="ch1-header"> <h1 class="bloodlines-title">CH2: The City That Doesn't Bury Clean</h1> </div> <div id="cwPrompt" style="text-align:center; margin: 1.5em 0;"> Do you want to see the content warnings for this chapter? (Warning: Spoilers)<br> <<link "Yes">><<run Dialog.setup("Chapter 2 — Content Warnings"); Dialog.wiki("- Character death (sibling)\n- Funeral / grief\n- Attempted Cannibalism\n- Attempted filicide\n- Loss of bodily autonomy / body control\n- Body horror / organ removal\n- Character injury and unconsciousness\n- Discrimination against human species\n- Non-consensual kiss\n- Possible character death (bad ending)"); Dialog.open();>><</link>>  |  <<link "No">><<replace "#cwPrompt">><</replace>><</link>> </div> //The bedroom door opens. <br><br> No warning. No knock. Just the soft complaint of hinges Ben swore for months he'd get around to fixing. Never did. Some things just don't get fixed in time. Lamplight spills into the hallway around him, soft at the edges, catching the side of his face.<br><br> He's a silhouette in the doorway.<br><br> Gray cardigan. Hair mashed flat on one side from the pillow.<br><br> He looks at you. At Ace. At the state of the room.<br><br> He does the math.<br><br> You watch him do it and there's nothing you can do to stop it. Can't intervene. Can't protect him from the answer his brain is already calculating.<br><br> He does the math. He gets the answer.<br><br> "$firstName." Not a question. Not yet.<br><br> His eyes go to Ace first. To the CRD badge. To the tactical gear. To the hands—<br><br> He looks away from the hands.<br><br> "Everything okay?"<br><br> <<if $toldBenAboutMaud is true>> <<set $benstat +=5>> He knew she was here. You gave him that. He made pasta. Set three places. Opened wine and beer because he didn't know what she drank anymore. He waited until eleven-thirty before his body gave out. He went to bed believing she just wasn't ready. Believing in tomorrow.<br><br> He knows. He's going to make you say it anyway.<br><br> Because this is the kind of truth that has to be spoken. That has to be given shape in the mouth before it becomes real. Before it can be grieved.<br><br> "Ben—"<br><br> "Where is she." Three words. Can barely speak them. Like he's conserving his voice.<br><br> <<elseif $toldBenAboutMaud is false>> <<set $benstat -=20>> He has no idea she was here. Doesn't know about any of it. Doesn't know she was in the city. In Luz's orbit. Six blocks from this apartment at three in the morning last week. Doesn't know she chose not to come.<br><br> He just woke up to the wrong sounds. Looked at Ace's hands and looked away.<br><br><br><br> "Ben." Your voice comes out wrong. You hear it. He hears it. "Sit down."<br><br> "I don't want to sit down." Even half-asleep, stubborn to the bone. The voice of a man who won't hand fear that much power until he absolutely has to. "What happened. What's wrong."<br><br> <</if>> Ace doesn't speak. Doesn't move. Good. This one's yours to carry.<br><br> "There's something I have to tell you," you say.<br><br> The apartment is very quiet.<br><br> The fridge hums along like nothing's wrong. Neon bleeds thin through the curtains. The clock above the stove keeps ticking, indifferent, like it doesn't know it should have the decency to stop for this.<br><br> <<if $siblingRelationship is "fixable">> "Maud is dead." The sentence holds together fine right up until the last word and then your voice just breaks. Cracks in a way it doesn't do on the job. Doesn't do with a gun in your face. You didn't know there was still that much left in you to give away.<br><br> <<elseif $siblingRelationship is "neutral">> "Maud is dead." It comes out flat. Even. The same voice you'd use to read a name off a case file. Because that's what she's been to you for a while now, isn't she. A name. A file. You hate, distantly, how little it costs you to say it.<br><br> <<elseif $siblingRelationship is "broken">> "Maud is dead." Said clean. No shake in it. And for one ugly second underneath the grief there's something that isn't grief at all. Something closer to relief. This is your shame to carry and yours alone. You swallow it down hard before it can reach your face. Not here. Not in front of him.<br><br> <</if>> Ace's eyes stay fixed on Ben, like looking away would mean admitting this is real. $aceHisC hands stay at $aceHis sides.<br><br> "I'm so sorry," $aceHe whispers. Barely sound at all. He whispers it again a second later, quieter, like $aceHe doesn't notice $aceHe's repeating $aceHimself. Like it's the only sentence $aceHis mouth still remembers how to make.<br><br> <<if $toldBenAboutMaud is true>> Ben's hand finds the doorframe. Grips it.<br><br> He stands there in his cardigan and his sleep-flattened hair. Gripping the frame. Doesn't make a sound for a long time. Long enough that Ace shifts slightly behind you, uneasy with it.<br><br> His shoulders drop. Just—go. Like whatever was holding them up has been quietly cut.<br><br> "How."<br><br> One word. No inflection. <br><br> He wants facts. Facts have edges you can hold onto. Grief doesn't. Grief gets into everything, seeps into corners you didn't know you had.<br><br> You tell him. All of it. The warehouse. Marlowe. Ace arriving. The parts where your voice wants to break but you don't let it. He needs someone steady. He needs one person in this room who isn't coming apart at the seams.<br><br> "Her heart," Ben says, when you finally stop talking. Working through it out loud, piece by piece, like that's the only way it'll go down. "Someone took her heart."<br><br> "Yes."<br><br> He nods. Slow. The nod of a man feeding something unbearable to his brain in careful increments, because the whole thing at once would be too much.<br><br> "Okay," he says.<br><br> And then his legs just stop holding him. He goes down along the doorframe. Slow at first and then not. Sinks until he's sitting in the gap between the hall and his own bedroom. Cardigan pooling around him, as he puts his face in both hands like he can hold himself together that way.<br><br> He cries into his palms. Doesn't try to stop it. Doesn't try to make it quiet. Not this time.<br><br> <<elseif $toldBenAboutMaud is false>> Two things cross Ben's face in fast succession.<br><br> First: Maud. Dead. Gone.<br><br> Second: Maud was here. She was back.<br><br> You watch him understand both at once and it might be the worst thing you've ever done to another person.<br><br> "She was back," he says. Quiet. Careful. Still not quite believing it completely. "She was already back."<br><br> "Ben—"<br><br> "How long."<br><br> Not a question. An accounting.<br><br> You tell him.<br><br> His jaw moves. His hand stays on the doorframe. He doesn't let go of it. Doesn't look away from you. Doesn't give you anywhere to hide from what this looks like—$firstName, who knew. Who stayed quiet. Who let him go to sleep every night without knowing his daughter was alive and in the city and choosing not to call.<br><br> "You knew," he says. The words come out slow. Measured. Like he's deciding what shape they should take before he lets them out. "You knew she was here."<br><br> "I was going to tell you—"<br><br> "$firstName." Ben cuts you off.<br><br> He doesn'tsound angry. Anger would be easier to sit with. This is the thing that lives past angry. Quieter. Smaller. The thing that sounds exactly like disappointment wearing your name.<br><br> "I know I can't go anywhere." His voice cracks. "I know there's nothing I could have done. I know that. But I would have wanted to know she was breathing." He stops. Starts again. Forcing it. "You should have told me."<br><br> His grip on the doorframe slips. He folds. Slow. Down to the hallway floor. Back against the frame. Knees drawn up like he's trying to take up less space than he is.<br><br> He cries into his sleeve, face hidden, shoulders shaking. Turned slightly away like even here, on the floor, some part of him is still trying not to make this harder for you.<br><br> That's the part that splits something clean down the middle.<br><br> That even now, he's the one protecting you.<br><br> <</if>> You don't move. Almost do, for a second. A step forward. Hand already lifting toward his shoulder before you've decided to make it.<br><br> You look down at it first. Habit. Some old instinct.<br><br> All you see is red.<br><br> Red to the wrist. Blood drying dark in the lines of your palm, caught under your nails the way it got caught under Ace's. Hers.<br><br> You blink. The blood disappears. Your hand is clean again. Was that your unconsciousness reminding you that it's your fault too?<br><br> You do your own version of the math Ben did in the doorway a minute ago, and it comes back with the same answer every time: these hands don't belong anywhere near him. Not on his shoulder. Not anywhere close. You pull the hand back before it reaches him.<br><br> Curl it into your side instead. Fingers digging into your own arm hard enough to leave a mark that'll actually be real by morning. Don't touch him. Can't. Not with whatever's on your hands, real or not.<br><br> Ben doesn't ask you to leave.<br><br> He never does. That's the thing about Ben. He could. He has every right to. Could send you both out. Shut the door. Grieve alone in the dark. He doesn't. He stays in the doorway. Cries. And lets you see it happen.<br><br> Some people can only survive a thing if someone's there to watch them survive it.<br><br> Ben has always known that.<br><br> Eventually it slows. Not stops. Slows. He wipes his face with his sleeve—the cardigan, the soft one, elbows worn thin from years of exactly this kind of use. He looks at you with the expression of a man who's just made up his mind about something.<br><br> "Tell me everything from the beginning," he says. "About what she was doing. Where she'd been. What she was—" A break. He swallows. "I want all of it."<br><br> So you tell him.<br><br> All of it. The whole week. You don't spare him a single piece.<br><br> He doesn't ask you to.<br><br>// [[Continue|CH2P1.1]]

//An hour later, Ben goes back to his room.<br><br> Not to sleep. You already know how this goes. He'll sit on the edge of the mattress in the dark. Staring at the wall until his body just loses consciousness. But he needs the door shut. Needs to not be looked at while it happens.<br><br> The door closes soft behind him.<br><br> Careful. Like he's afraid of waking something.<br><br> Across the room, Ace is still there.<br><br> <<if $griefResponse is "rage">> Still there after you told him it was $aceHis fault. Watched it land. Watched $aceHim take it standing. No argument in $aceHim, like $aceHe'd already decided $aceHe owed you that much and more.<br><br> <<elseif $griefResponse is "collapse">> Still there because when your knees went out in the kitchen, $aceHe was the one who got a hand under your arm before the floor could. Hasn't fully let go since. Not even now, with a couch cushion's worth of space between you that neither of you closed.<br><br> <<elseif $griefResponse is "numb">> Still watching you sideways. $aceHeC's done it since the kitchen. Checking, every few minutes, whether you're still there or if you've gone somewhere $aceHe can't follow.<br><br> <<elseif $griefResponse is "laugh">> Still there even after you couldn't stop laughing in the kitchen, the sound coming out all wrong, nothing like a laugh should sound. $aceHe didn't step back from it.<br><br> <<elseif $griefResponse is "relief">> Still there for the half-second where the first expressionyou made wasn't grief. Told you whatever you're feeling is okay. Doesn't know what you're actually feeling. Can never know.<br><br> <</if>> Ace is on your couch. The one that's a size too small for either of you. Jacket balled up in $aceHis lap like $aceHe didn't know what else to do with $aceHis hands. They're clean now. You didn't watch it happen but you heard the water running in your bathroom for a long time, longer than washing hands should take.<br><br> Ace has the same expression $aceHe walked in with. Completely, utterly, wrecked. <br><br> You look at $aceHim. $aceHeC looks back.<br><br> Six years and you've never once had to think about the distance between you and Ace. Never had to calculate where to sit, how close counts as close, whether your shoulder finding $aceHis is something you're allowed to do without asking. Some things you just knew, the way you know how the doorknob turns in your own apartment, worn smooth from your own hand.<br><br> You don't know it right now.<br><br> The couch has more than enough room for you to close it. Slide over. Let your shoulder do what it's done a hundred times before without you thinking about it once. You don't move.<br><br> Neither of you says anything.<br><br> You didn't see her. That's the thing sitting between you right now, the thing you can't get around no matter which way you look at it. $aceHeC did. $aceHeC had both hands pressed to her chest counting out compressions that were useless. You got the aftermath. $aceHeC got the whole thing. Start to finish. And there's no asking your way into knowing what that looks like from the inside. You wouldn't know where to start.<br><br> And underneath that, quieter, a question you're not proud of and can't quite kill: whether you can still look at $aceHim the way you did yesterday. $aceHeC was there. $aceHeC had trailed her and didn't tell you. $aceHeC kept it a secret. From you. You weren't given the chance to be there.//<br><br> <<link '⌕ You can\'t look at Ace. Not right now. Maybe not for a while.'>> <<set $deflecting += 2>> <<set $aceView to "distance">> <<goto "CH2P1_Distance">> <</link>><br><br> <<link '⌕ You won\'t let go. You need Ace closer. You can\'t be alone in this.'>> <<set $intuitive += 2>> <<set $aceView to "codependency">> <<goto "CH2P1_Codependency">> <</link>><br><br> <<link '⌕ Blame. Wrong. Unfair. You blame Ace anyway.'>> <<set $soft -= 2>> <<set $aceView to "blame">> <<goto "CH2P1_Blame">> <</link>><br><br> <<link '⌕ Nothing changes. Ace is still your person. No one can take that.'>> <<set $soft += 2>> <<set $aceView to "unchanged">> <<goto "CH2P1_Unchanged">> <</link>>

//You look at the table.<br><br> At the floor. At the curtains. At the clock. At anything in this apartment that isn't Ace's face.<br><br> The problem is simple. Obvious. Ace was there. Ace is in every image your brain kept from tonight. At the door. Smiling wrong. Crying wrong. Blood under $aceHis fingernails and tactical gear. And now you can't look at $aceHim without all of it running again behind your eyes, unasked, on a loop you don't know how to shut off.<br><br> Your brain filed it. Cross-referenced it. Tagged $aceHim to the worst night of your life whether $aceHeC deserves that or not. You didn't ask it to do that. It just did.<br><br> "I'm okay," you say. The lie lands flat between you. Ace doesn't challenge it. $aceHeC knows exactly which silences to leave alone. This one $aceHe leaves alone.<br><br> $aceHeC stands.<br><br> "I'll call tomorrow," Ace says.<br><br> "Yeah."<br><br> "$firstName—"<br><br> "Tomorrow." One word. $aceHeC understands your abruptness. Picks up $aceHis jacket. Doesn't try again. Doesn't look at you on the way out either.<br><br> The door closes. Soft. Careful.<br><br> You stare at it for a while.<br><br> Then you sit down on the floor of your own living room, because the couch is four feet too far and the floor is right here and you're so tired your body just picks for you.<br><br>// [[Continue|CH2P2]]

//The morgue smells like bleach and something underneath the bleach. Something no amount of industrial cleaning product fully covers. You've smelled it before. Crime scenes. Back alleys. One particularly bad evening covering the Clearwater aftermath but it's different here. Contained. Concentrated. The smell of a place that processes the dead the way factories process raw material. Efficient. Unsentimental.<br><br> You've been sitting in the hallway for eleven minutes.<br><br> You know it's eleven minutes because the clock on the wall opposite has a second hand that sticks every time it hits the forty-two second mark. Catch. Release. Catch. Release. You've been watching it because watching it is better than thinking about what's behind the door with the frosted glass panel.<br><br> Ace offered to come. You said no.<br><br> Ben wanted to. He couldn't.<br><br> You said you'd be fine. You said this was part of the job. You said you needed to see the report. Needed the information. Needed to treat this like any other case.<br><br> You've been sitting in a plastic chair in a basement hallway for eleven minutes watching a broken clock.<br><br> The door with the frosted glass opens.<br><br> "Reid?"<br><br> The man in the doorway is somewhere between forty and sixty and looks like the years didn't come in order. Tall. Gaunt in the way of people who forget to eat because something else is always more demanding. His skin has the permanent gray undertone you've learned to associate some people with Manitou bloodline. His eyes have that distant quality that look through people rather than at them.<br><br> He's looking through you right now.<br><br> "$firstName $lastName," you correct.<br><br> "Right." He doesn't apologize. "Soren Vael. ME assigned to case 2234-M." He looks at the clipboard in his hand rather than at you. "Didn't expect you this early."<br><br> <<if $firstName is "Soren">> "Soren," he repeats, flat. Then just sighs like these were the worst news he heard today. "I won't be calling you that." Already back to the clipboard. "You'll be Number Two." You hold your tongue. You don't have the energy to fight him on it. <br><br> <</if>> "Ace—Detective Reid—said I could come for the preliminary findings."<br><br> "Preliminary." He says it like a verdict. "Come in then."<br><br>// [[Continue|CH2P2.1]]

// You catch $aceHis sleeve before $aceHeC can stand all the way up. "Don't go."<br><br> Ace sets the jacket back down without a word. Doesn't ask you to explain why the thought of this apartment emptying out feels like something you might not survive tonight.<br><br> "Okay." $aceHeC sits back down, close enough your arm ends up against $aceHis.<br><br> No gap. $aceHeC's warm. Solid. The only thing in this apartment right now that's still breathing on its own.<br><br> Ace doesn't reach for you first. Doesn't pull you in. Just stays exactly where you put $aceHim, arm against arm, lets you set the distance.<br><br> You feel $aceHis breathing even out after a minute, slower, matching yours.<br><br> There's a small, still-functional part of your brain that knows this isn't a solution. That you can't rebuild yourself out of another person. That Ace cannot be the load-bearing wall of your entire interior life without something eventually giving way in both of you.<br><br> You know this.<br><br> You lean your head against $aceHis shoulder anyway.<br><br>// [[Continue|CH2P2]]

//Blame doesn't care about fair.<br><br> It finds the nearest target and sticks. That's the whole mechanic of it. The closest available person who was there and couldn't stop it.<br><br> You can't stop looking at Ace's hands.<br><br> Clean now. Scrubbed raw under the nails. Doesn't matter. You know what they looked like an hour ago, held out toward you like an apology $aceHeC didn't have the words for.<br><br> Ace was there. Ace is CRD. Badge. Years of training that's supposed to add up to a different ending than the one you got. Ace knocked on your door with your sister's blood still drying under $aceHis fingernails and said //I tried I promise I tried// and—<br><br> Maud is still dead.<br><br> You cross your arms, chin tipping up. "You said you were following her." Flat. "You said you lost her. Seventeen minutes."<br><br> Ace goes very still.<br><br> "$firstName—"<br><br> "Seventeen minutes." The number sits in your mouth like gravel. "What happened in seventeen minutes."<br><br> "I couldn't—I've told you. I ran as fast as I—"<br><br> "Not fast enough."<br><br> The words land. You watch them land. Watch $aceHis jaw tighten around them, shoulders square, the same stance $aceHeC takes walking into a scene $aceHeC already knows is bad.<br><br> Ace scrubs a hand over $aceHis jaw. "I know." Voice rough. "I know."<br><br> //I know that. I know you know. I don't care.//<br><br> You look at $aceHim. The same face you've known for years. The person who has been the constant. Your anchor.<br><br> All you feel is angry.<br><br> "You should go." Ace doesn't protest. $aceHeC stands. Picks up $aceHis jacket. Stops at the door, hand flat against the frame.<br><br> "Tomorrow," $aceHe says. Not a question. A promise.<br><br> You don't answer. Turn your back to $aceHim.<br><br> The door closes.<br><br> You're alone in the apartment. Just you, Ben's closed door and his muffled crying.<br><br> Congratulations. You pushed away the only person you have left.<br><br>// [[Continue|CH2P2]]

//Ace is still your person.<br><br> Maud being gone doesn't touch that. Grief doesn't touch it. Six years and you've never once had to think twice about letting $aceHim through your door at three in the morning covered in someone else's blood. You're not about to start now. Remove $aceHim and something collapses that you don't know how to rebuild.<br><br> You cross the room. Sit next to $aceHim.<br><br> $aceHisC hand is on the cushion between you. You put yours over it. $aceHeC turns $aceHis palm up. Holds on.<br><br> You bump $aceHis shoulder with yours. "Hey."<br><br> $aceHeC bumps back, a little harder. "Hey."<br><br> Neither of you talks for a while. You don't need to. <br><br> Maud is gone. Ben is behind that door, not sleeping but weeping. The investigation is still waiting. The case still open. The killer still out there somewhere with your sister's heart and a reason that hasn't been found yet.<br><br> All of that is true.<br><br> Ace is still your person.<br><br> You trace your thumb over $aceHis knuckles. "She was an idiot."<br><br> Ace makes a sound. Not a laugh. Not crying. Something living in between the two.<br><br> "The biggest."<br><br> "She should have called."<br><br> "Yeah."<br><br> "She should have—" You squeeze your eyes shut. Try again. Nothing comes out the second time either.<br><br> $aceHisC hand tightens around yours.<br><br> "Yeah." Quiet. Wrecked. "She really should have."<br><br>// [[Continue|CH2P2]]

//The room is colder than the hallway.<br><br> The lights are the particular shade of fluorescent that makes everything look wrong. Makes skin look wrong. Makes you look wrong, if the reflection in the steel cabinet doors is anything to go by.<br><br> Three tables. Two empty. One with a sheet.<br><br> Your feet stop moving.<br><br> You weren't aware they'd started moving again after the hallway. Some autopilot function that carried you in here, through the door, past the sink where Soren is pulling on a second pair of gloves. But they've stopped now. Of their own accord. Like they made a decision your brain didn't sign off on.<br><br> "Case file's here." Soren sets it on the steel table beside the—beside the—<br><br> He sets it on the table.<br><br> "I can take you through the findings first if you need—"<br><br> "No." You hear yourself say it. "I want to see her."<br><br> Soren looks at you for the first time since you shook hands. Actually looks. His pale gray eyes take in something in your expression and whatever they find makes him pause.<br><br> "Next of kin?"<br><br> "<<if $gender is 'cisgender-male' or $gender is 'transgender-male'>>Brother<<elseif $gender is 'cisgender-female' or $gender is 'transgender-female'>>Sister<<else>>Sibling<</if>>." The words come out detached.<br><br> He nods. Picks up the corner of the sheet.<br><br> "Take a breath," he says. Not unkind. The tone of someone who has learned to give this warning through repetition.<br><br> You don't take a breath.<br><br> He pulls back the sheet.<br><br> // [[Continue|CH2P2.2]]

//The first thing you register is the pink hair.<br><br> Still pink. Still hers. Tangled at the crown where it dried against a surface, but bright enough that for one lurching second it looks wrong—too alive, too Maud—against the steel and the light and everything else.<br><br> Your hand finds the edge of the steel table before you've told it to.<br><br> You braced yourself for a body on the drive over. You made yourself ready.<br><br> That's not what's in front of you.<br><br> Maud is the girl who stole a wooden spoon to have sword fights with you in the hallway. Who made you read her poetry she hated to her face just so she could mock the rhymes. Who ate seconds of pasta at midnight and thought Ben never noticed the missing container by morning.<br><br> Lean. Wiry. Built like someone who never once sat through a whole meal without her knee going under the table. Without her fingers finding something to spin or pick apart. Still now. Completely still, in a way you've genuinely never seen on her. That's the worst part. Maud was never still. Not once in twenty-three years. And now she almost looks... peaceful. The sleeve tattoos are visible now where the sheet ends, ink she got at fifteen over Ben's very loud objections.<br><br> Her eyes are closed.<br><br> Something in your chest unclenches for exactly one second before you catch yourself being grateful for it. Grateful someone thought to close them, which means some part of you had already pictured the alternative on the way down in the elevator. <br><br> Then you look lower.<br><br> The sheet is folded across her at the waist. Above it—her chest.<br><br> Or what's left of it.<br><br> The incision starts at the sternum. The skin has been peeled back in the clean way of a procedure, not the ragged way of violence—which is somehow worse—retracted on both sides to expose the cavity beneath. The ribs have been spread. You can see them. White. Wet. Holding open a space the size of a fist that is entirely, completely empty. The surrounding tissue a deep bruised red darkening toward the edges where it was severed clean and stayed severed. No ragged tearing. No frantic edges. Just—an opening. A hollow where something central used to be.<br><br> Where her heart used to be.<br><br> The absence of it is louder than anything else in the room. Louder than the refrigeration units humming behind the wall. Louder than your own pulse going too fast in your ears.<br><br>// <<link '⌕ Look away. You can\'t look at it. You can\'t.'>> <<set $deflecting += 2>> <<set $autopsyReaction to "lookaway">> <<goto "CH2P2.3">> <</link>><br><br> <<link '⌕ Don\'t look away. Force yourself to see it. Burn it into your memory. Remember exactly what was done to her.'>> <<set $relaxed -= 2>> <<set $autopsyReaction to "lookat">> <<goto "CH2P2.3">> <</link>><br><br> <<link '⌕ Your hand goes to your own chest. Automatic. Like you\'re checking yours is still there.'>> <<set $intuitive += 2>> <<set $autopsyReaction to "ownchest">> <<goto "CH2P2.3">> <</link>><br><br> <<link '⌕ Nothing. Your brain buffers. Goes white. You stand there.'>> <<set $intuitive -= 2>> <<set $autopsyReaction to "nothing">> <<goto "CH2P2.3">> <</link>>

//<<if $autopsyReaction is "lookaway">> You look at her face instead.<br><br> At the pink hair. At the closed eyes. At the familiar shape of her jaw.<br><br> You don't look at her chest again. Keep your eyes pinned to the hairline, to a strand that's come loose and dried at an angle it never would have dried at on its own.<br><br> You will see it anyway. Later. In the dark. The hollow space. The retracted skin. The white of the ribs holding open something that should never be open.<br><br> Your jaw aches. You've been clenching it since the door opened and you only notice now, when you try to swallow and can't quite manage it the first time.<br><br> <<elseif $autopsyReaction is "lookat">> You look at it.<br><br> You make yourself look.<br><br> The hollow space. The cavity where her heart was. Not approximate—you know anatomy. You've written about bloodline autopsies. You know what a pericardium is, where it sits and what the great vessels look like when they've been severed at the root. You know all of this. It doesn't help.<br><br> There's a hole in your sister's chest the size of her heart and you're standing five feet from it in a room that smells like bleach and something underneath the bleach. The clock somewhere behind you keeps doing that thing, catch, release, catch, release.<br><br> Your knees feel wobbly but you look at it until it's part of your memory. Until it just becomes information.<br><br> Until you can carry it.<br><br> You're not sure you can carry it.<br><br> <<elseif $autopsyReaction is "ownchest">> Your hand finds your sternum.<br><br> Automatic. Before you can stop it. Palm flat against your clothes. Pressing in. Feeling the thumb knock underneath. Present. Rhytmic. Steady. While you look at hers.<br><br> At what isn't there. You can almost feel the warmth of it. Your own heart under your hand.<br><br> You press harder. Fingers curling into the fabric of your clothes until the knuckles ache. Like enough pressure could make your own heartbeat explain something about why it's still going and hers isn't.<br><br> You don't know how long you stand like that.<br><br> <<elseif $autopsyReaction is "nothing">> Your brain goes quiet.<br><br> The room narrows to a tunnel with the hollow space at the far end of it. Soren's voice, when it comes, sounds like it's traveling through water. The hum of the refrigeration units drops out entirely. Then comes back too loud.<br><br> The hollow space. The retracted skin. The clean-severed tissue and the ribs spread wide and the complete absence of the thing that makes a person go.<br><br> You look at it.<br><br> Nothing happens inside you.<br><br> Your hands have gone cold. You notice that before you notice anything else. Fingers stiff at your sides. You note, distantly, that this is what shock must look like from the inside. The mercy the brain extends before it lets the rest of you catch up. You're aware of this.<br><br> None of that makes the static white space smaller.<br><br> <</if>> "Case file's here when you're ready," Soren says. Behind you. Giving you the room.<br><br> You pull your spine straight before you trust your voice with anything. "Okay."<br><br> Not ready. But the word that functions as ready when nothing else will.<br><br> "The findings."<br><br>// [[Continue|CH2P2.4]]

//Soren pulls a rolling stool to the table. Sits. Opens the file. He has reading glasses he doesn't put on, just holds between two fingers while he looks at the pages.<br><br> "Official report won't be filed until Monday," he says. "But Detective Reid requested I speak with you. Given the—" He pauses. Chooses a word. "—circumstances."<br><br> "I appreciate it."<br><br> "Don't." He says it without malice. Just fact. "I have four other cases open. This is a courtesy I'm extending to a federal request, not a personal gesture."<br><br> "Understood."<br><br> He finds the page he wants.<br><br> "Female. Twenty-three. Umbra bloodline, fully expressed." He reads the physical identifiers. Pink hair, black eyes—he describes the eyes as noted during intake, the particular reflective quality that had to be documented separately from standard ocular coloring. You listen to your sister described in clinical terms and you don't look at her and you don't look away from her and you don't know what to do with your hands.<br><br> "Cause of death." He puts the reading glasses on. Squints. "Exsanguination secondary to surgical excision of the cardiac organ."<br><br> "Her heart."<br><br> "Her heart. Yes."<br><br> You already knew this. Ace told you. The preliminary report told you. You knew.<br><br> Knowing and hearing it in this room, five feet from her body, are different worlds.<br><br> You cross your arms, dig your fingers into your own elbows. "Walk me through it. All of it."<br><br> He looks at you over the reading glasses. Assessing. Then back to the file.<br><br> "The incision site is inconsistent with a frenzied attack." He turns a page. "No tearing at the entry point. No secondary cuts suggesting hesitation or repositional attempts. The sternum was opened with something purpose-built. The ribs were spread using a technique that suggests—" He pauses. "Knowledge. Medical training, possibly, or training of the more... sinister kind."<br><br> "So someone's done it before."<br><br> "Probably." He says it like it costs him nothing. He's spent a career learning to hand people the worst sentence of their lives in the same tone he'd use to read a grocery list. "The excision itself is clean. Connective tissue severed at precisely the right points. The great vessels—pulmonary artery, aorta, the vena cava—cut once each. They are a little more damaged. So someone had to do it in a hurry and it got messy."<br><br> He sets the file down for a moment.<br><br> "Whoever did this came for one thing and took one thing. The cavity you're looking at—" He doesn't gesture toward the table. Doesn't need to. You're both aware of exactly what you're looking at. "—is the exact dimensions of a healthy heart for someone her age and build. Nothing extra was taken. Nothing surrounding it was heavily damaged beyond what the procedure required."<br><br> "She didn't fight?," you ask. It comes out quiet. You didn't mean it to come out at all. But you'd clocked it without meaning to when you first looked at her. No bruising across her knuckles. No defensive marks on her forearms. Nothing to suggest her hands did anything at all to defend herself.<br><br> Soren takes off the reading glasses again.<br><br> "No," he says. "She didn't. Which brings me to the toxicology."<br><br> He reaches into the file for a second sheet.<br><br> "We found a compound in her bloodstream." He hands it over. "Unfamiliar. I had a colleague at the university forensic lab run a secondary analysis. Neither of us could identify it with certainty.No matches in any standard database." He pulls off the gloves. Starts on a second pair. "It's either newly synthesized or something that's never been formally catalogued. The second option is unlikely, but not impossible. There are bloodline-specific compounds that have circulated in underground markets for decades that official toxicology databases have never encountered."<br><br> "Or it's new." You set the sheet back down on the table, careful not to let it touch anything. "Someone made something new."<br><br> "Probably. Someone made something specifically designed to incapacitate Umbra bloodline individuals who couldn't be fully neutralized by existing technology." He says this carefully. Like he knows what it means. "Maud—the deceased—was one of seven confirmed high-expression Umbras in Sordia. Existing neural inhibitors don't work at full expression levels. That's documented."<br><br> "Someone solved that problem." You look at the sheet. Numbers. Chemical notation. None of it means anything to you.<br><br> Your thumb finds the edge of the table, presses hard enough to hurt. "What does it do?"<br><br> "It's a paralytic." He replies simply. "Fast-acting. Bloodline-specific in its mechanism, or we believe so—the compound targets the neural pathways. Not identical to manufactured CRD suppression technology, something more organic in composition, but the outcome is comparable." He takes the sheet back. <br><br> "Based on concentration decay rates and estimated time of death—" He checks the file. "Detective Reid reported losing visual on her at approximately—"<br><br> "Seventeen minutes." Your voice comes out steadier than you feel. "Ace lost her for seventeen minutes."<br><br> "Yes." He nods. "Seventeen minutes between last confirmed living contact and discovery. Based on the compound's half-life in Umbra bloodline physiology—which we're extrapolating, this isn't a documented substance—she was most likely incapacitated during that window."<br><br> The cold of the room gets under your collar different now. A chill that has nothing to do with the refrigeration.<br><br> "She would have retained full respiratory function. Full consciousness. No capacity to move."<br><br> "She was awake?"<br><br> "Yes." Seventeen minutes.<br><br> Maud lying in that warehouse. Awake. Paralyzed. Her shadows useless. The compound in her bloodstream, whatever it was, specifically designed to neutralize bloodline function. Minutes of knowing what was coming. Of not being able to scream. Of not being able to do the one thing she'd always been able to do, which was move. Run. Fight. Survive.<br><br> Your legs feel distant.<br><br> "You need to sit down," Soren says.<br><br> "I'm fine."<br><br> "You're going to fall down," he grumbles. "There's a stool behind you."<br><br> You find the stool with a hand behind your back before your eyes leave the table. You sit on it.<br><br> "One more thing." Soren moves to the table. Sets the file beside the body. Strips off the gloves.<br><br> "The bloodline analysis," he continues. "Her Umbra expression level was full. One of the highest we've documented." He turns a page. "There's evidence of recent extreme power use. Prior to death—twenty-four to forty-eight hours. Shadow tissue strain consistent with a major manifestation event."<br><br> The warehouse photographs. The shadows frozen in the walls.<br><br> She burned herself out before this. Used everything she had on something. Came in already empty.<br><br> "Is that relevant to whether she could have—"<br><br> "To whether residual power might have counteracted some of the compound's suppressive effects. Possibly." He closes the file. "A fully rested high-expression Umbra might have had more resistance. We can't know."<br><br> He says it like a fact. You hear it like a verdict.<br><br>// [[Continue|CH2P2.5]]

The tile is cold against your cheek.<br><br> Al-Noor's bathroom floor. You know the grout lines by now. The crack running diagonal from the drain, the water damage in the bottom corner of the stall. Your knees are on the tiles. Your hands are on the rim of the toilet. You're throwing up again. <br><br> You've been here a while.<br><br> The nausea comes in waves, pulling back far enough to convince you it's finished and then coming back stronger. Each time it retreats, the dream fills the space. The steel table. The pink hair. The hollow chest. You've learned not to close your eyes because closing your eyes is just a faster route back to the morgue.<br><br> Your throat is destroyed.<br><br> Not sore. Destroyed. A night that went from shisha to cigarettes to something someone passed you at 2 AM that smelled herbal and definitely wasn't only herbal. To something else around 3 AM. Back to cigarettes. Ending here on the floor. You swallow and it hurts. Every breath scratches on the way in.<br><br> You've been smoking since you were eighteen. Long enough that you don't think about it as a choice anymore. It's just part of how you move through certain situations. Waiting outside crime scenes. Sitting in lobbies while officials decide whether to talk to you. The corridor outside the morgue while Soren prepared the room. Three cigarettes one after another, not tasting any of them.<br><br> Last night was different.<br><br> Last night you smoked with the single-minded focus of someone trying to solve a problem with the wrong tool. The problem being: Maud is dead. The problem being: you were in that morgue and you saw the hollow in her chest and now it lives in your head. Cigarettes don't fix that. You knew going in. You did it anyway, because knowing something doesn't always change what you do, and the only other option was sitting in your apartment while trying to avoid Ben.<br><br> You've been coming to Al-Noor for two years. Since the Reston piece, when you needed somewhere that didn't ask anything of you. Al-Noor doesn't ask anything of you. The server doesn't check on you. The booth in the back left corner fits a person who needs to sit somewhere without being seen doing it. You've smoked through worse nights here than this one.<br><br> Though not many.<br><br> You sit back against the stall wall. Cold tile through your clothes, cold floor under your legs. The ventilation fan above you runs at the speed of something that has long since given up on its purpose. Somewhere in the lounge on the other side of the door, the low hum of people keeping each other company at an hour that doesn't have a name. Three languages you can pick out. The soft percussion of coals being moved. The television running in the background.<br><br> You look at your hands.<br><br> They're shaking. Not much. Fine enough that you'd miss it if you weren't looking. Post-nicotine tremor. The body submitting its grievances after a night of too much. You press your hands flat on your thighs until they stop.<br><br> You reach for the cigarette pack. Two left. You've gone through a pack and a half since midnight. Possibly more. You consider them. Your throat has filed a formal complaint and you should probably honour it.<br><br> You light one anyway.<br><br> The first drag is terrible. The second is less terrible. By the third your shoulders have come down from somewhere around your ears. That's what it does. Not pleasure. Not calm, just the relief of a body getting what it's been wanting for the past twenty minutes. A thing to hold. A thing with a shape and a clear end.<br><br> You smoke it slowly.<br><br> You remember what Soren said: //there's nothing here. Her spirit isn't present.//<br><br> Not faded. Not scattered. Absent. The way a room is absent when someone hasn't been in it in months.<br><br> The compound itself: nothing in any toxicology database. Engineered specifically to paralyze Umbras. Someone looked at the gap in existing bloodline suppression technology and they filled it. That takes resources. Knowledge. Time. A very specific reason to need it.<br><br> You press that thought down hard. Not here. Not at 6 AM on a bathroom floor. That thought needs a desk and a full night's sleep and at least one cup of actual water for your throat. That thought needs you to be sure before you put it anywhere near paper, because once you write it down the world changes around it.<br><br> You've written things down before that changed the world around you. You know what it costs. You're not doing it until you're ready.<br><br> Maud would tell you to just say it. To yourself, at least. She didn't understand the journalist habit of keeping things provisional. Of refusing to commit to a conclusion until you had enough to back it up. <br><br> Maybe. Maybe you're just making yourself wait.<br><br> The cigarette burns to your fingers. Ben had strong opinions about cigarettes for a man who'd never smoked one. You'd absorbed them without meaning to. But did any of his children listen to him? No.<br><br> You stand up. Use the stall wall. First attempt. It actually works.<br><br> The sink. Cold water from the tap, cupped in your hands, drink and spit and drink again until your mouth tastes like something other than vomit and last night. You look at yourself in the mirror. Tired. Worn out. Functional. Which is what matters.<br><br> You go back out into the lounge.<br><br> The server sees you come out of the bathroom and goes to get fresh tea without being asked, which is one of the reasons you've been coming here for two years. You slide into the back booth. The shisha pipe sits cold and dead in front of you. The second-to-last cigarette is in your hand before you've thought about it. You look at it. You let it stay unlit and drink the tea instead when it arrives, because you've earned at least this much credit with yourself tonight.<br><br> The small plate of something sweet comes with the tea, same as it always does. You eat it. Your body needs something that isn't ash.<br><br> Outside the frosted window, Sordia is turning into morning. The elevated rail makes its first run, audible even through the walls. The neon signs are thinning in the growing gray. The city preparing to be daytime again.<br><br> You think about what's next.<br><br> Maud needs to be buried, which means the investigation has to wait until after the service, which means you need to—<br><br> You look at your phone. The date on the screen.<br><br> Oh no.<br><br> The funeral is at ten. It is nine forty-one. Fuck!<br><br> Forty-three messages. Seventeen missed calls. All from Ace.<br><br> <div class="bl-bare-wrap"> <div class="bl-bare-divider">that night</div> <div class="bl-bare-msg in"> <div class="bl-bare-bubble">$firstName where are you</div> <div class="bl-bare-time">23:14</div> </div> <div class="bl-bare-msg in"> <div class="bl-bare-bubble">please just tell me you're okay</div> <div class="bl-bare-time">23:31</div> </div> <div class="bl-bare-msg in"> <div class="bl-bare-bubble">i'm coming to find you if you don't answer</div> <div class="bl-bare-time">23:47</div> </div> <div class="bl-bare-msg in"> <div class="bl-bare-bubble">it's 2am</div> <div class="bl-bare-time">02:00</div> </div> <div class="bl-bare-msg in"> <div class="bl-bare-bubble">it's 3am</div> <div class="bl-bare-time">03:00</div> </div> <div class="bl-bare-msg in"> <div class="bl-bare-bubble">i called ben. he doesn't know where you are</div> <div class="bl-bare-time">03:22</div> </div> <div class="bl-bare-msg in"> <div class="bl-bare-bubble">i called the hospitals. you're not in any of them. good. still going to kill you.</div> <div class="bl-bare-time">03:41</div> </div> <div class="bl-bare-msg in"> <div class="bl-bare-bubble">it's 4am</div> <div class="bl-bare-time">04:00</div> </div> <div class="bl-bare-msg in"> <div class="bl-bare-bubble">$firstName</div> <div class="bl-bare-time">04:17</div> </div> <div class="bl-bare-msg in"> <div class="bl-bare-bubble">$firstName please</div> <div class="bl-bare-time">04:33</div> </div> </div> Every hour, sometimes more, all night. Ace who found the body. Who has been awake every single one of the same hours you've been awake, sending these into the dark without knowing if you'd see them.<br><br> And now Ace is already there. Waiting.<br><br> Ace's last message sits at the top of the thread:<br><br> <div class="bl-bare-msg in"> <div class="bl-bare-bubble">i'm already at the funeral parlor. the service is in twenty minutes. where are you.</div> <div class="bl-bare-time">09:32</div> </div> That was sent nine minutes ago.<br><br> You leave two fifties on the table. More than the tab. You're not counting. You grab your jacket and you go. The server looks up. You don't stop to explain. The door to Al-Noor hits the cold morning air and you're already running.<br><br> But the dream won't fade. It clings to you.<br><br> The morgue. The fluorescent lights. Maud on the steel table — the pink hair still too bright under that light, the kind of bright that belongs in hallways and kitchen arguments and not in that room. The hollow in her chest. The size of it.<br><br> And then Maud sitting up. That smile, the wrong width of it. The words she said in a voice that was hers and wasn't.<br><br> //You never once managed to actually save anyone.//<br><br> Maud is dead.<br><br> It keeps landing with the same weight every time.<br><br> And underneath the mess, the questions you've been circling all night.<br><br> Vex is gone.<br><br> That's what the message from Sam said. Three words, no context. //Vex is gone.// Not sick, not running late, not reachable. Gone. <br><br> Vex said: //The heart is missing, but you already knew that. Or will know.//<br><br> You logged it as another Vex ramble. A Chronos fragment arriving sideways, past and future scrambled because to a precognitive the tenses collapse into one. You filed it. You didn't follow up.<br><br> Vex knew. And now Vex is gone.<br><br> Did they run because they couldn't stop it? Because knowing the future was coming and having no way to change it finally became too much? Or is Vex part of whatever is going on?<br><br> You can't find the answer. Not while running. Not now.<br><br> You type back with one hand while you run:<br><br> <div class="bl-bare-wrap"> <div class="bl-bare-msg out"> <div class="bl-bare-bubble">Coming. I'm sorry.</div> <div class="bl-bare-time">09:45</div> </div> </div> You pocket the phone without answering because you need both arms for this.<br><br> The elevated rail stop is two blocks from Al-Noor. If the southbound line is running on time you can be at the parlor in eighteen minutes. If it's not running on time you're going to have to get a cab and the morning traffic through the canal district is going to make you want to scream.<br><br> You get to the stop.<br><br> The board says four minutes.<br><br> You stand on the platform with your lungs burning. Partly the running. Mostly the night. You watch the track. You think about Maud. About what you're running toward. The funeral. The people. Ace's face when $aceHe sees you. The casket. Whatever version of a funeral you manage to be present for now that you're going to be late.<br><br> The train arrives.<br><br> You get on.<br><br> [[Continue|CH2P3]]

Something warm and wet hits your face.<br><br> You come back in pieces. First: cold. Concrete cold. Second: smell. Garbage. You're lying on garbage. A split bag. Contents everywhere. Third: the warm wet thing happens again.<br><br> You open your eyes. A dog is pissing on your leg.<br><br> Small dog. Focused. The dog's owner — an elderly woman in a green coat — is standing at what she considers a safe distance, holding the leash, watching this happen.<br><br> She sees you looking at her.<br><br> "Good morning," she wrinkles her nose.<br><br> You close your eyes. Yo don't even care anymore. You have the worst hangover.<br><br> The dog finishes. The woman and the dog leave quickly. The alley continues being an alley.<br><br> You stay flat for another thirty seconds.<br><br> The alley is somewhere in the canal district. You can smell the water two blocks east, that particular low rot of Sordia's canals at low tide. The fire escape above you drips in the slow irregular rhythm of something that's never been fixed. It's gray light, the thin kind that comes before actual morning. A delivery truck passes at the end of the alley. Pigeons on the fire escape.<br><br> You assess.<br><br> Press badge: in your jacket pocket. Present. Phone: screen cracked in the bottom left corner. New. Happened at some point last night when you stopped being vertical. Keys: present. Wallet: lighter than it should be. Jacket: a loss.<br><br> You sit up.<br><br> The world tips. You put both hands flat on the garbage bag under you and wait for it to stop. The hangover sits directly behind your eyes. You know this hangover. You've had it multiple times before in your adult life and both times you swore it was the last time.<br><br> You're a liar.<br><br> You know you started at some bar, three blocks from the morgue, because you needed somewhere to be that wasn't your apartment. A bar needs nothing from you except a stool and a tab. You sat there and drank whiskey with the focus of someone doing a job. The job being: get through the night. That one bar at some point stopped being enough. After that is where the reconstruction gets patchy.<br><br> You were outside. You were walking. You were in another bar. Then another. And another. There was a fight. Then... nothing.<br><br> Then the dog.<br><br> The second attempt to stand works. You're upright in a canal district alley at 6 AM with a cracked phone screen and a stranger's dog's contribution to wake you up.<br><br> You walk north toward the canal path.<br><br> The cold morning air is better than any indoor air you've been in all night. You breathe it in and feel the hangover begin its slow, unwilling negotiation with the fact that you're moving.<br><br> The canal path is empty at this hour except for a man walking a greyhound who doesn't look at you, and a woman in full running gear who clocks your general state of disaster as she passes quickly and says nothing. You appreciate that. You're in no position to be acknowledged right now.<br><br> You remember what Soren said: //there's nothing here. Her spirit isn't present.//<br><br> Not faded. Not scattered. Absent. The way a room is absent when someone hasn't been in it in months.<br><br> The compound itself: nothing in any toxicology database. Engineered specifically to paralyze Umbras. Someone looked at the gap in existing bloodline suppression technology and they filled it. That takes resources. Knowledge. Time. A very specific reason to need it.<br><br> You press that thought down hard. Not here. Not at 6 AM with a hangover. That thought needs a desk and a full night's sleep and at least one cup of actual water for your throat. That thought needs you to be sure before you put it anywhere near paper, because once you write it down the world changes around it.<br><br> You've written things down before that changed the world around you. You know what it costs. You're not doing it until you're ready.<br><br> Maud would tell you to just say it. To yourself, at least. She didn't understand the journalist habit of keeping things provisional. Of refusing to commit to a conclusion until you had enough to back it up. <br><br> Maybe. Maybe you're just making yourself wait.<br><br> The canal turns and the residential block opens up on your right. The older buildings, pre-integration. Five storeys each with the fire escapes rusting uniformly down the fronts. This is one of the stretches where Sordia looks like what it used to be. When it was still called New York. Before the war started. You like this. <br><br> The whiskey did what it was supposed to do. Drowned out the memories of the morgue and the hollow under the burn at the back of your throat. Whiskey's only ever good for so long, though. Somewhere past hour three the numbness starts thinning at the edges, the way ice goes translucent right before it cracks, and by hour four it's gone soft enough that everything comes rushing back in at once.<br><br> Your mouth tastes like you slept on garbage... you slept on garbage.<br><br> A kiosk materializes at the corner where the canal path meets the residential block. You go in without deciding to. Order water. Buy sunglasses. Then whatever bread thing is under the glass on the counter, and sit on a stool and drink the water in two long pulls. The headache steps back slightly. The world steadies.<br><br> Eight minutes. Just this. The yellow light, trying to hydrate while also trying not to throw up.<br><br> You think about what's next.<br><br> Maud needs to be buried, which means the investigation has to wait until after the service, which means you need to—<br><br> You look at your phone. The date on the screen.<br><br> Oh no.<br><br> The funeral is at ten. It is nine forty-one.<br><br> Forty-three messages. Seventeen missed calls. All from Ace.<br><br> <div class="bl-bare-wrap"> <div class="bl-bare-divider">that night</div> <div class="bl-bare-msg in"> <div class="bl-bare-bubble">$firstName where are you</div> <div class="bl-bare-time">23:14</div> </div> <div class="bl-bare-msg in"> <div class="bl-bare-bubble">please just tell me you're okay</div> <div class="bl-bare-time">23:31</div> </div> <div class="bl-bare-msg in"> <div class="bl-bare-bubble">i'm coming to find you if you don't answer</div> <div class="bl-bare-time">23:47</div> </div> <div class="bl-bare-msg in"> <div class="bl-bare-bubble">it's 2am</div> <div class="bl-bare-time">02:00</div> </div> <div class="bl-bare-msg in"> <div class="bl-bare-bubble">it's 3am</div> <div class="bl-bare-time">03:00</div> </div> <div class="bl-bare-msg in"> <div class="bl-bare-bubble">i called ben. he doesn't know where you are</div> <div class="bl-bare-time">03:22</div> </div> <div class="bl-bare-msg in"> <div class="bl-bare-bubble">i called the hospitals. you're not in any of them. good. still going to kill you.</div> <div class="bl-bare-time">03:41</div> </div> <div class="bl-bare-msg in"> <div class="bl-bare-bubble">it's 4am</div> <div class="bl-bare-time">04:00</div> </div> <div class="bl-bare-msg in"> <div class="bl-bare-bubble">$firstName</div> <div class="bl-bare-time">04:17</div> </div> <div class="bl-bare-msg in"> <div class="bl-bare-bubble">$firstName please</div> <div class="bl-bare-time">04:33</div> </div> </div> Every hour, sometimes more, all night. Ace who found the body. Who has been awake every single one of the same hours you've been awake, sending these into the dark without knowing if you'd see them.<br><br> And now Ace is already there. Waiting.<br><br> Ace's last message sits at the top of the thread:<br><br> <div class="bl-bare-msg in"> <div class="bl-bare-bubble">i'm already at the funeral parlor. the service is in twenty minutes. where are you.</div> <div class="bl-bare-time">09:33</div> </div> That was sent nine minutes ago. Fuck!<br><br> You run. But you shouldn't. In fact it's one of the worst ideas you ever had. <br><br> But the dream won't fade. It clings to you.<br><br> The morgue. The fluorescent lights. Maud on the steel table — the pink hair still too bright under that light, the kind of bright that belongs in hallways and kitchen arguments and not in that room. The hollow in her chest. The size of it.<br><br> And then Maud sitting up. That smile, the wrong width of it. The words she said in a voice that was hers and wasn't.<br><br> //You never once managed to actually save anyone.//<br><br> Maud is dead.<br><br> It keeps landing with the same weight every time.<br><br> And underneath the mess, the questions you've been circling all night.<br><br> Vex is gone.<br><br> That's what the message from Sam said. Three words, no context. //Vex is gone.// Not sick, not running late, not reachable. Gone. <br><br> Vex said: //The heart is missing, but you already knew that. Or will know.//<br><br> You logged it as another Vex ramble. A Chronos fragment arriving sideways, past and future scrambled because to a precognitive the tenses collapse into one. You filed it. You didn't follow up.<br><br> Vex knew. And now Vex is gone.<br><br> Did they run because they couldn't stop it? Because knowing the future was coming and having no way to change it finally became too much? Or is Vex part of whatever is going on?<br><br> You can't find the answer. Not while running. Not now.<br><br> You type back with one hand while you run:<br><br> <div class="bl-bare-wrap"> <div class="bl-bare-msg out"> <div class="bl-bare-bubble">Coming. I'm sorry.</div> <div class="bl-bare-time">09:45</div> </div> </div> You pocket the phone without answering because you need both arms for this.<br><br> A cab materializes half a block away like a mercy. You flag it. Get in. Give the address. The driver pulls out. You sit in the back and watch the canal district blur past and you don't think about anything for thirty seconds, which is all you can manage.<br><br> The cab moves through morning traffic. You look at your jacket. You look at your hands.<br><br> You're going to your sister's funeral from a garbage alley with a cracked phone and someone's dog's piss on your leg. You think about Maud. About what you're running toward. The funeral. The people. Ace's face when $aceHe sees you. The casket. Whatever version of a funeral you manage to be present for now that you're going to be late.<br><br> Maud would have something to say about that.<br><br> [[Continue|CH2P3]]

You blink. <br><br> The Den empties slowly.<br><br> It always does. People who come here at 6 AM don't leave in a hurry. The guy at the far table's been running the same three chips back and forth across his knuckles for an hour, losing to a dealer with dead eyes and no interest in wrapping things up early.<br><br> A woman in yesterday's dress checks her cards a fourth time like the numbers might've changed since the last look. They settle up at Hester's window one at a time, count out crumpled bills slow, fold them into pockets already worn thin from the habit, before finally pushing out into Sordia like the morning air's colder than the smoke-thick room they're leaving.<br><br> The Draegon businessman from the far corner packs up first. Jacket back on. Scales covered. Back to looking like someone whose name belongs on a building. Then the two women from the middle table who've been at it since before you arrived, folding up their game. The room loses its hum in pieces.<br><br> Jake is still across the table from you."You okay?" You blink a couple of times. "Yeah why wouldn't I be?"<br><br> Jake shrugs. "It seems like you took a power nap for a second there."<br><br> He didn't ask. Just came with you when you said you needed a distraction. Which was four hours ago or six hours ago, you stopped checking. His chip count is down. Not too badly but down. Yours is about even. That's the best this night could do for you and you knew it going in.<br><br> Neither of you has slept.<br><br> Every time your eyes got heavy the morgue started up behind them and you pulled back from it. Jake dealt the next hand without comment.<br><br> You've been playing cards with Jake for two years. You know his tell — a half-second pause before he raises on a strong hand. Subtle enough that most people at this table have missed it entirely. You've been working around it the whole time without telling him. Because the information is more useful in practice than the conversation would be. Tonight you've been watching for it not to win anything but to have something to watch for. Something concrete and present. A thing to track.<br><br> The Den's ceiling has a stain that looks like a star. You've been staring at it for hours in the gaps between hands.<br><br> Jake stacks his chips. Snaps them into towers of five without looking, muscle memory doing the counting for him.<br><br> You push your remaining stack an inch forward. "Another hand."<br><br> He looks at you. Doesn't move to deal yet.<br><br> You tap the felt once, twice. "One more."<br><br> He deals.<br><br> You play it out. Aten-high straight that you build slowly across the board, keeping your face still, watching Jake for the pause. He doesn't find a strong hand this round. He folds at the river. You take the pot back to roughly even and it means absolutely nothing.<br><br> Jake studies you over his cards while he restacks his chips. "Your eyes have gone funny."<br><br> "Losing someone does that."<br><br> "Yeah." He squares the stack, taps it level against the felt. "I know. We have the same ones now."<br><br> You believe him. Jake lost his younger brother a couple of years ago in circumstances the police report called ambiguous and that Jake has never discussed directly.<br><br> Hester makes her final circuit.<br><br> She moves through the remaining tables without speaking. Eleven years running this place. Nine fingers. An expression that has never once suggested she finds any of this remarkable. She reaches your table. Looks at Jake. Looks at you. Moves on.<br><br> Jake gathers the deck, squares it between both palms. "Last hand."<br><br> You deal this time. Split the deck the way Ben showed you once, a long time ago in the kitchen, thumbs finding the exact pressure without thinking about it. The cards find each other in the riffle. You deal two to Jake and two to yourself.<br><br> You look at your cards.<br><br> Two queens.<br><br> The community cards come down: six, jack, two, nine. Nothing changes for you. Nothing changes for Jake. He folds early. You win with the pair, a small pot. And it is the least important hand of poker in the history of the game.<br><br> The two queens sit on the felt in front of you after the hand. You look at them for a second before Jake scoops them back into the deck. You and Maud used to play cards at the kitchen table. Snap, mostly. Maud always won because Maud had faster hands and no guilt about it. She'd slap the pile so hard the cards flew and she'd laugh at the same time.<br><br> You collect your chips.<br><br> You haven't thought about the Snap cards in years. The mind does that. Cruel, what turns up when you weren't the one digging for it.<br><br> You and Jake stand up.<br><br> You cash out at Hester's window. Down from where you started, same as every night. The house takes its cut and the balance of the night is settled and you button your jacket and go with Jake through the back door and out into the early morning.<br><br> Sordia at this hour is quiet and gray. The smell of the city starting its day. Exhaust. Something frying in a kitchen somewhere. And the low chemical tang that's just Sordia being Sordia.<br><br> You've been in the Den until closing a lot of times in the past two years. Each time, the night has ended approximately here: outside, cold, hungry, and often times more in debt.<br><br> The math of the Den. It doesn't fix anything. It just gives the clock something to run against while you wait for the worst of it to recede<br><br>. You think about what you're going to do with what you have.<br><br> You remember what Soren said: //there's nothing here. Her spirit isn't present.//<br><br> Not faded. Not scattered. Absent. The way a room is absent when someone hasn't been in it in months. He said it with the particular weight of a Manitou medical examiner who has spent thirty years reading death and has rarely said this before. <br><br> The compound itself: nothing in any toxicology database. Engineered specifically to paralyze Umbras. Someone looked at the gap in existing bloodline suppression technology and they filled it. That takes resources. Knowledge. Time. A very specific reason to need it.<br><br> You press that thought down hard. Not here. Not at 6 AM inside a gambling den. That thought needs a desk and a full night's sleep and at least one cup of actual water for your throat. That thought needs you to be sure before you put it anywhere near paper, because once you write it down the world changes around it.<br><br> You've written things down before that changed the world around them. You know what it costs. You're not doing it until you're ready.<br><br> Maud would tell you to just say it. To yourself, at least. She didn't understand the journalist habit of keeping things provisional. Of refusing to commit to a conclusion until you had enough to back it up. <br><br> Maybe. Maybe you're just making yourself wait.<br><br> Jake is looking at the street.<br><br> "That dock contact." He doesn't turn. "I'm calling him today."<br><br> You look at him.<br><br> "He moves product through the canal network." Still watching traffic, not you. "If a compound like that came through Sordia in the past year like precursors, anything that needed waterfront logistics, he'd know something."<br><br> "It'll cost you."<br><br> Jake exhales through his nose, short. "Your sister's dead. It outweighs the cost."<br><br> You look down at your own feet instead of answering right away. "Thanks, Jake."<br><br> "Don't make it a thing." He's already got his hands in his pockets, already turning, already three steps into leaving before the sentence finishes.<br><br> You watch him go for a second. Then you think about what's next.<br><br> Maud needs to be buried, which means the investigation has to wait until after the service, which means you need to—<br><br> You look at your phone. The date on the screen.<br><br> Oh no.<br><br> The funeral is at ten. It is nine forty-one. Fuck! Forty-three messages. Seventeen missed calls. All from Ace.<br><br><br><br> <div class="bl-bare-wrap"> <div class="bl-bare-divider">that night</div> <div class="bl-bare-msg in"> <div class="bl-bare-bubble">$firstName where are you</div> <div class="bl-bare-time">23:14</div> </div> <div class="bl-bare-msg in"> <div class="bl-bare-bubble">please just tell me you're okay</div> <div class="bl-bare-time">23:31</div> </div> <div class="bl-bare-msg in"> <div class="bl-bare-bubble">i'm coming to find you if you don't answer</div> <div class="bl-bare-time">23:47</div> </div> <div class="bl-bare-msg in"> <div class="bl-bare-bubble">it's 2am</div> <div class="bl-bare-time">02:00</div> </div> <div class="bl-bare-msg in"> <div class="bl-bare-bubble">it's 3am</div> <div class="bl-bare-time">03:00</div> </div> <div class="bl-bare-msg in"> <div class="bl-bare-bubble">i called ben. he doesn't know where you are</div> <div class="bl-bare-time">03:22</div> </div> <div class="bl-bare-msg in"> <div class="bl-bare-bubble">i called the hospitals. you're not in any of them. good. still going to kill you.</div> <div class="bl-bare-time">03:41</div> </div> <div class="bl-bare-msg in"> <div class="bl-bare-bubble">it's 4am</div> <div class="bl-bare-time">04:00</div> </div> <div class="bl-bare-msg in"> <div class="bl-bare-bubble">$firstName</div> <div class="bl-bare-time">04:17</div> </div> <div class="bl-bare-msg in"> <div class="bl-bare-bubble">$firstName please</div> <div class="bl-bare-time">04:33</div> </div> </div> Every hour, sometimes more, all night. Ace who found the body. Who has been awake every single one of the same hours you've been awake, sending these into the dark without knowing if you'd see them.<br><br> And now Ace is already there. Waiting.<br><br> Ace's last message sits at the top of the thread:<br><br> <div class="bl-bare-msg in"> <div class="bl-bare-bubble">i'm already at the funeral parlor. the service is in twenty minutes. where are you.</div> <div class="bl-bare-time">09:33</div> </div> That was sent nine minutes ago.<br><br> The parlor is twelve minutes on foot, eight by cab. Your run. Try to flag a cab. <br><br> But the dream won't fade. It clings to you. The morgue. The fluorescent lights. Maud on the steel table — the pink hair still too bright under that light, the kind of bright that belongs in hallways and kitchen arguments and not in that room. The hollow in her chest. The size of it.<br><br> And then Maud sitting up. That smile, the wrong width of it. The words she said in a voice that was hers and wasn't.<br><br> //You never once managed to actually save anyone.//<br><br> Maud is dead.<br><br> It keeps landing with the same weight every time.<br><br> And underneath the mess, the questions you've been circling all night.<br><br> Vex is gone.<br><br> That's what the message from Sam said. Three words, no context. //Vex is gone.// Not sick, not running late, not reachable. Gone. <br><br> Vex said: //The heart is missing, but you already knew that. Or will know.//<br><br> You logged it as another Vex ramble. A Chronos fragment arriving sideways, past and future scrambled because to a precognitive the tenses collapse into one. You filed it. You didn't follow up.<br><br> Vex knew. And now Vex is gone.<br><br> Did they run because they couldn't stop it? Because knowing the future was coming and having no way to change it finally became too much? Or is Vex part of whatever is going on?<br><br> You can't find the answer. Not while running. Not now.<br><br> You type back with one hand while you run:<br><br> <div class="bl-bare-wrap"> <div class="bl-bare-msg out"> <div class="bl-bare-bubble">Coming. I'm sorry.</div> <div class="bl-bare-time">09:45</div> </div> </div> You pocket the phone without answering because you need both arms for this.<br><br> Inside a cab the street passes in the window. The gray morning. The bridges. The buildings getting older and then newer. Your jacket smells like a Den session. Your eyes feel like they've been open for twenty hours because they have been open for twenty hours. The're probably bloodshot too.<br><br> You watch the streets pass by. You think about Maud. About what you're running toward. The funeral. The people. Ace's face when $aceHe sees you. The casket. Whatever version of a funeral you manage to be present for now that you're going to be late.<br><br> [[Continue|CH2P3]]

You can taste the blood from biting your tongue as a fist connects.<br><br> Your shoulder takes the wall. Your lip splits. Clean. At the left corner. Your eye has been hurting since the first hit has swollen enough to cut your left field of vision in half.<br><br> You stay on your feet.<br><br> This surprises the man who hit you. You can see him recalculate.<br><br> Here's how it started: you and Isla have been walking since 3 AM. She stayed with you the whole time without requiring explanation. Carrying her thermos.<br><br> There were three men leaning on the wall. You and Isla were passing and one of them cat-called her. Isla's jaw went tight and she kept walking. She's got a seven-year-old. She can't afford what responding to it creates.<br><br> Isla kept walking. You went back.<br><br> You said something provocative to the man. Started shoving him. The friend hit you first. The man said something about Isla that you are not going to repeat and swung. The anger that's been looking for somewhere to go since the morgue finally had somewhere to land.<br><br> You took two hits. You gave three back. You stayed upright. Mostly.<br><br> One of the guys pulled a knife. The adrenaline was doing its thing. You wanted him to attack you with it. Wanted to prove that a measly knife could never hurt you.<br><br> That was the moment Isla decided to come back. With police officers.<br><br> The men ran.<br><br> You spit blood onto the pavement.<br><br> "Your lip needs pressure." Isla's already holding a folded tissue out to you. She came prepared for several categories of emergency tonight, apparently, including this one.<br><br> You take it. You press it to your lip. You walk.<br><br> You've been doing this for two hours. Just walking. The two of you. Every time you slow down near a bench or a doorway, something in your chest starts climbing back up your throat, so you keep moving before it gets there. The morgue's easier to outrun than to outsit.<br><br> "You wanted that to happen," Isla says.<br><br> "Yes."<br><br> She really tries not to judge it. She does. That's one of the things about Isla. She cares a lot. She doesn't like violence. She's a bad liar. You can practcally read the emotions from her face. <br><br> Your eye is throbbing. Your lip has slowed. Your hands are steady, the adrenaline burning out the tremor that's been in your fingers since the morgue. That's the trade you made without meaning to. A split lip for ten minutes where your hands didn't shake. Where there was nothing in your head except the next hit coming and how to answer it.<br><br> It's wearing off now. You can feel it going. You want to fight someone else again.<br><br> She holds your gaze, steady. "Please quit. You have people that need you. Don't make Ben lose you so soon too."<br><br> She's right and you know she's right, which is one of the reasons you've been walking with Isla tonight and not alone. She thinks about consequences with a clarity you don't always have when you're in the middle of crashing out.. <br><br> She's also the one paying for her daughter's Chimaera treatment through a network of underground clinics because the standard options don't exist. Isla understands better than most what it costs to move carefully through a city that has decided certain people don't need protecting.<br><br> You remember what Soren said: //there's nothing here. Her spirit isn't present.//<br><br> Not faded. Not scattered. Absent. The way a room is absent when someone hasn't been in it in months. He said it with the particular weight of a Manitou medical examiner who has spent thirty years reading death and has rarely said this before. <br><br> The compound itself: nothing in any toxicology database. Engineered specifically to paralyze Umbras. Someone looked at the gap in existing bloodline suppression technology and they filled it. That takes resources. Knowledge. Time. A very specific reason to need it.<br><br> You press that thought down hard. Not here. Not at 6 AM with a swollen eye and a split lip. That thought needs a desk and a full night's sleep and at least one cup of actual water for your throat. That thought needs you to be sure before you put it anywhere near paper, because once you write it down the world changes around it.<br><br> You've written things down before that changed the world around you. You know what it costs. You're not doing it until you're ready.<br><br> Maud would tell you to just say it. To yourself, at least. She didn't understand the journalist habit of keeping things provisional. Of refusing to commit to a conclusion until you had enough to back it up. <br><br> Maybe. Maybe you're just making yourself wait.<br><br> The canal is at the end of the block. You both stop at the railing and look at the water. Dark. Moving. Indifferent. Sordia's canals have been here longer than the city around them. They'll be here after the city goes.<br><br> You've stood at canal railings in this city before. Usually when you needed to think clearly, when the newsroom walls started closing in and you needed somewhere with actual air.<br><br> Isla stands beside you. Not touching the railing. Hands in her jacket pockets.<br><br> "Thank you," you say. "For tonight."<br><br> She looks at you sideways. "You almost lost a tooth."<br><br> "One hit was that close?"<br><br> "Two, actually."<br><br> The canal moves. The city moves around it. Somewhere above you the elevated rail makes its second run of the morning, the sound of it dropping through the air and fading east.<br><br> You think about what's next.<br><br> Maud needs to be buried, which means the investigation has to wait until after the service, which means you need to—<br><br> You look at your phone. The date on the screen.<br><br> Oh no.<br><br> The funeral is at ten. It is nine forty-one. Fuck!<br><br> Forty-three messages. Seventeen missed calls. All from Ace.<br><br> <div class="bl-bare-wrap"> <div class="bl-bare-divider">that night</div> <div class="bl-bare-msg in"> <div class="bl-bare-bubble">$firstName where are you</div> <div class="bl-bare-time">23:14</div> </div> <div class="bl-bare-msg in"> <div class="bl-bare-bubble">please just tell me you're okay</div> <div class="bl-bare-time">23:31</div> </div> <div class="bl-bare-msg in"> <div class="bl-bare-bubble">i'm coming to find you if you don't answer</div> <div class="bl-bare-time">23:47</div> </div> <div class="bl-bare-msg in"> <div class="bl-bare-bubble">it's 2am</div> <div class="bl-bare-time">02:00</div> </div> <div class="bl-bare-msg in"> <div class="bl-bare-bubble">it's 3am</div> <div class="bl-bare-time">03:00</div> </div> <div class="bl-bare-msg in"> <div class="bl-bare-bubble">i called ben. he doesn't know where you are</div> <div class="bl-bare-time">03:22</div> </div> <div class="bl-bare-msg in"> <div class="bl-bare-bubble">i called the hospitals. you're not in any of them. good. still going to kill you.</div> <div class="bl-bare-time">03:41</div> </div> <div class="bl-bare-msg in"> <div class="bl-bare-bubble">it's 4am</div> <div class="bl-bare-time">04:00</div> </div> <div class="bl-bare-msg in"> <div class="bl-bare-bubble">$firstName</div> <div class="bl-bare-time">04:17</div> </div> <div class="bl-bare-msg in"> <div class="bl-bare-bubble">$firstName please</div> <div class="bl-bare-time">04:33</div> </div> </div> Every hour, sometimes more, all night. Ace who found the body. Who has been awake every single one of the same hours you've been awake, sending these into the dark without knowing if you'd see them.<br><br> And now Ace is already there. Waiting.<br><br> Ace's last message sits at the top of the thread:<br><br> <div class="bl-bare-msg in"> <div class="bl-bare-bubble">i'm already at the funeral parlor. the service is in twenty minutes. where are you.</div> <div class="bl-bare-time">09:33</div> </div> That was sent nine minutes ago.<br><br> You apologize to Isla. Then you start to run. <br><br> "Cab is faster than the rail this time of morning." Isla shouts. You don't turn back but raise your hand for a thumbs-up. You continue running.<br><br> But the dream won't fade. It clings to you.<br><br> The morgue. The fluorescent lights. Maud on the steel table — the pink hair still too bright under that light, the kind of bright that belongs in hallways and kitchen arguments and not in that room. The hollow in her chest. The size of it.<br><br> And then Maud sitting up. That smile, the wrong width of it. The words she said in a voice that was hers and wasn't.<br><br> //You never once managed to actually save anyone.//<br><br> Maud is dead.<br><br> It keeps landing with the same weight every time.<br><br> And underneath the mess, the questions you've been circling all night.<br><br> Vex is gone.<br><br> That's what the message from Sam said. Three words, no context. //Vex is gone.// Not sick, not running late, not reachable. Gone. <br><br> Vex said: //The heart is missing, but you already knew that. Or will know.//<br><br> You logged it as another Vex ramble. A Chronos fragment arriving sideways, past and future scrambled because to a precognitive the tenses collapse into one. You filed it. You didn't follow up.<br><br> Vex knew. And now Vex is gone.<br><br> Did they run because they couldn't stop it? Because knowing the future was coming and having no way to change it finally became too much? Or is Vex part of whatever is going on?<br><br> You can't find the answer. Not while running. Not now.<br><br> You type back with one hand while you run:<br><br> <div class="bl-bare-wrap"> <div class="bl-bare-msg out"> <div class="bl-bare-bubble">Coming. I'm sorry.</div> <div class="bl-bare-time">09:45</div> </div> </div> You pocket the phone without answering because you need both arms for this.<br><br> Inside a cab the street passes in the window. The gray morning. The bridges. The buildings getting older and then newer. Your eye throbs. Your lip pulls when you press it closed. You look like you've been in a fight at your sister's funeral, which is a sentence Maud would have used against you for years.<br><br> You watch the streets pass by. You think about Maud. About what you're running toward. The funeral. The people. Ace's face when $aceHe sees you. The casket. Whatever version of a funeral you manage to be present for now that you're going to be late.<br><br> [[Continue|CH2P3]]

Your head is on your desk.<br><br> You know you were asleep because your neck's locked at an angle that only happens when you go under sitting up, chin tucked toward your collarbone instead of resting on anything. The keyboard edge has left a mark on your left cheek, the raised imprint of individual keys still visible when you rub at it. Your right hand is still on the mouse. Your body decided it was done and shut itself down without asking you, sometime between the third draft and the fourth.<br><br> The newsroom is dark.<br><br> The fluorescents are on their midnight-to-six automatic cycle. The other desks run on standby blue. The assignment screens are off. The scanner hums on standby in the corner. The floor is completely empty. Just you and the machines in the dark, the whole space between the night cycle and the morning shift.<br><br> Your monitor is still on.<br><br> Documents still open: forty-nine lines of notes. Three failed drafts. And one file you apparently called //ACTUAL STORY (unpublishable)// at 4:47 AM. The timestamp in the corner says 6:09 AM. You were down for roughly an hour.<br><br> You sit up. Roll your neck until something in it pops. Drink from the coffee on your desk. Cold for hours, bitter enough to make your face grimace on the way down. You put it down. Pick it up again anyway.<br><br> The dream got through even the desk sleep. It always gets through. The morgue. The lights. The table. The hollow. Maud sitting up on the steel table with that smile. Your hands find your eyes now the same way they must have in your sleep. There are faint knuckle-marks pressed into your cheekbones already, going soft, like you spent the whole hour trying to push the image away.<br><br> You look at the monitor.<br><br> The notes you built through the night read back to you in the order you wrote them.<br><br> The compound: purpose-built, nothing in any toxicology database, engineered specifically for a high-expression Umbra. The CRD absorptions: three cases, three sealed files, no public investigation. Soren's note about the absent spirit: not standard, not explained, still sitting outside every framework you have for it.<br><br> You remember what Soren said: //there's nothing here. Her spirit isn't present.//<br><br> Not faded. Not scattered. Absent. The way a room is absent when someone hasn't been in it in months. He said it with the particular weight of a Manitou medical examiner who has spent thirty years reading death and has rarely said this before. <br><br> The compound itself: nothing in any toxicology database. Engineered specifically to paralyze Umbras. Someone looked at the gap in existing bloodline suppression technology and they filled it. That takes resources. Knowledge. Time. A very specific reason to need it.<br><br> You press that thought down hard. Not here. You stop because the next word is a name and you're not writing it in a Channel 6 document at 6 AM. That thought needs you to be sure before you put it anywhere near paper, because once you write it down the world changes around it.<br><br> You've written things down before that changed the world around you. You know what it costs. You're not doing it until you're ready.<br><br> Maud would tell you to just say it. To yourself, at least. She didn't understand the journalist habit of keeping things provisional. Of refusing to commit to a conclusion until you had enough to back it up. <br><br> Maybe. Maybe you're just making yourself wait.<br><br> You close that note.<br><br> You open a new one and write the things you can write: //Compound sourcing — Jake's dock contact, waterfront logistics, precursor trace. Fae movement — Sam has names. Cross-reference with CRD oversight committee—//<br><br> You stop again. Read the same line four times without any of it going in, cursor blinking at the end of a sentence that isn't finishing itself.<br><br> You save the note. Encrypted folder. External drive. Triple redundancy. The promise you made to yourself.<br><br> You sit back and look at the ceiling.<br><br> The air's gone thick the way it always does by this hour. Burnt coffee from a pot nobody bothered to switch off, the ghost of someone's microwaved dinner three nights old, the particular mustiness of carpet that's absorbed a decade of spilled everything. You know this ceiling. You know the light fittings. The way the emergency exit sign at the far end flickers on its third flash every cycle. You've spent a lot of nights in this room. Some of them good. None of them quite like this one.<br><br> Sam appears in the corridor at the other end of the floor.<br><br> Their head tilts as they get closer, eyes doing a slow pass over the desk-sleep marks on your face. The cold coffee. The clock.<br><br> You straighten in your chair. "The Fae names. The family heads who own docks. I need them."<br><br> Sam stops at the edge of your desk. Doesn't answer right away. Just turns a stylus over between two fingers while they think it through.<br><br> "It's not safe to give them to you right now."<br><br> "I know."<br><br> "Jake's dock contact might have something on the precursors," you say.<br><br> "That would be a good place to start."<br><br> Sam's eyes have gone gray this morning, shifting slow the way they do when they're exhausted. They study you a moment longer.<br><br> "You should sleep at some point," they say.<br><br> "After the funeral."<br><br> "After the funeral." Sam doesn't push it further, just reaches over and nudges your cold coffee an inch closer to you before they turn to go, like that's the only argument they're willing to make right now.<br><br> You look at the notes one more time, the whole architecture of what you have and what you don't. Then you close the documents and save everything and stand up.<br><br> You find your jacket on the back of the chair.<br><br> Stand in the dark newsroom for a moment. The blue standby glow from a dozen screens. The light coming through the windows that means Sordia has decided to attempt another day. <br><br> You think about what's next. You look at your phone.<br><br> The date on the screen.<br><br> Oh no.<br><br> The funeral is at ten. It is nine forty-one. Fuck!<br><br> Forty-three messages. Seventeen missed calls. All from Ace.<br><br> <div class="bl-bare-wrap"> <div class="bl-bare-divider">that night</div> <div class="bl-bare-msg in"> <div class="bl-bare-bubble">$firstName where are you</div> <div class="bl-bare-time">23:14</div> </div> <div class="bl-bare-msg in"> <div class="bl-bare-bubble">please just tell me you're okay</div> <div class="bl-bare-time">23:31</div> </div> <div class="bl-bare-msg in"> <div class="bl-bare-bubble">i'm coming to find you if you don't answer</div> <div class="bl-bare-time">23:47</div> </div> <div class="bl-bare-msg in"> <div class="bl-bare-bubble">it's 2am</div> <div class="bl-bare-time">02:00</div> </div> <div class="bl-bare-msg in"> <div class="bl-bare-bubble">it's 3am</div> <div class="bl-bare-time">03:00</div> </div> <div class="bl-bare-msg in"> <div class="bl-bare-bubble">i called ben. he doesn't know where you are</div> <div class="bl-bare-time">03:22</div> </div> <div class="bl-bare-msg in"> <div class="bl-bare-bubble">i called the hospitals. you're not in any of them. good. still going to kill you.</div> <div class="bl-bare-time">03:41</div> </div> <div class="bl-bare-msg in"> <div class="bl-bare-bubble">it's 4am</div> <div class="bl-bare-time">04:00</div> </div> <div class="bl-bare-msg in"> <div class="bl-bare-bubble">$firstName</div> <div class="bl-bare-time">04:17</div> </div> <div class="bl-bare-msg in"> <div class="bl-bare-bubble">$firstName please</div> <div class="bl-bare-time">04:33</div> </div> </div> Every hour, sometimes more, all night. Ace who found the body. Who has been awake every single one of the same hours you've been awake, sending these into the dark without knowing if you'd see them.<br><br> And now Ace is already there. Waiting.<br><br> Ace's last message sits at the top of the thread:<br><br> <div class="bl-bare-msg in"> <div class="bl-bare-bubble">i'm already at the funeral parlor. the service is in twenty minutes. where are you.</div> <div class="bl-bare-time">09:33</div> </div> That was sent nine minutes ago.<br><br> You run, taking the stairs. Sam appears in the corridor behind you, holding their coffee.<br><br> "Cab from the south exit is faster than the rail this time of morning."<br><br> You don't ask how Sam knows that. Sam always knows that.<br><br> But the dream won't fade. It clings to you.<br><br> The morgue. The fluorescent lights. Maud on the steel table — the pink hair still too bright under that light, the kind of bright that belongs in hallways and kitchen arguments and not in that room. The hollow in her chest. The size of it.<br><br> And then Maud sitting up. That smile, the wrong width of it. The words she said in a voice that was hers and wasn't.<br><br> //You never once managed to actually save anyone.//<br><br> Maud is dead.<br><br> It keeps landing with the same weight every time.<br><br> And underneath the mess, the questions you've been circling all night.<br><br> Vex is gone.<br><br> That's what the message from Sam said. Three words, no context. //Vex is gone.// Not sick, not running late, not reachable. Gone. <br><br> Vex said: //The heart is missing, but you already knew that. Or will know.//<br><br> You logged it as another Vex ramble. A Chronos fragment arriving sideways, past and future scrambled because to a precognitive the tenses collapse into one. You filed it. You didn't follow up.<br><br> Vex knew. And now Vex is gone.<br><br> Did they run because they couldn't stop it? Because knowing the future was coming and having no way to change it finally became too much? Or is Vex part of whatever is going on?<br><br> You can't find the answer. Not while running. Not now.<br><br> You type back with one hand while you run:<br><br> <div class="bl-bare-wrap"> <div class="bl-bare-msg out"> <div class="bl-bare-bubble">Coming. I'm sorry.</div> <div class="bl-bare-time">09:45</div> </div> </div> You pocket the phone without answering because you need both arms for this.<br><br> Inside a cab the street passes in the window. The gray morning. The bridges. The buildings getting older and then newer. You smell like you haven't showered in days. Which you haven't. Your eyes feel like they've been open for twenty hours because they have been open for twenty hours. The're probably bloodshot too.<br><br> You watch the streets pass by. You think about Maud. About what you're running toward. The funeral. The people. Ace's face when $aceHe sees you. The casket. Whatever version of a funeral you manage to be present for now that you're going to be late.<br><br> [[Continue|CH2P3]]

The ceiling is not yours.<br><br> Wrong light fixture. The radiator knocks every forty seconds with the reliability of a clock. Upstairs neighbor moving around their kitchen. Someone else's building. Doing its morning without you.<br><br> The smell is fabric softener and old takeout and a candle that burned out hours ago.<br><br> The body beside you is asleep. Six inches of careful space between you. You don't know if they take their coffee black. Don't know their last name, actually, now that you think about it, just the first. Even that might be a lie people tell in bars at 2 AM.<br><br> You lie still.<br><br> The dream tries to start up and you let it this time instead of fighting. Fighting makes it worse. The morgue. The lights. Maud on the table. The pink hair too bright. The hollow that was fist-sized. The version of Maud that sat upright and looked at you with eyes that went dark and deep. The cold of fingers on your wrist.<br><br> The radiator knocks. You breathe.<br><br> Last night was for this. For a stranger's hands and a stranger's mouth and nothing in your head except the next five seconds, because there wasn't room in any of it. You wanted to be a body and nothing else for a few hours. You got that.<br><br> You don't apologize to yourself for that. You never have.<br><br> The cost is the morning. Getting dressed in the dark so you don't wake someone whose last name you don't know. The interior of a room you'll never see again. You bought yourself a few hours. Now it's morning, and the morgue's already back in your chest exactly where you left it, like it just moved over to make room and slid right back once you were done.<br><br> You ease out of the bed. Practiced. Six inches to the floor, which is someone else's floor, cold under your feet. Your shoes are by the door. Jacket on the chair. Press badge in the jacket pocket. You check this first. Always. Before anything else.<br><br> Present.<br><br> You stand at the door for a moment. The door closes quietly behind you.<br><br> Hallway. Elevator. Lobby, where the overnight desk attendant doesn't look up. The door to the street.<br><br> Sordia at 6 AM. Delivery trucks. The early shift walking fast with their heads down. The neon cycling through its last loops before the daylight makes it pointless. The canal smell coming in from two blocks east.<br><br> You've reported on this city for years now. You know the sound of it at this hour. The way it keeps moving regardless of what's happening to any individual person inside it. Cities don't pause. That's what cities are.<br><br> You remember what Soren said: //there's nothing here. Her spirit isn't present.//<br><br> Not faded. Not scattered. Absent. The way a room is absent when someone hasn't been in it in months. He said it with the particular weight of a Manitou medical examiner who has spent thirty years reading death and has rarely said this before. <br><br> The compound itself: nothing in any toxicology database. Engineered specifically to paralyze Umbras. Someone looked at the gap in existing bloodline suppression technology and they filled it. That takes resources. Knowledge. Time. A very specific reason to need it.<br><br> You press that thought down hard. Not here. Not at 6 AM after having sex. That thought needs a desk and a full night's sleep and at least one cup of actual water for your throat. That thought needs you to be sure before you put it anywhere near paper, because once you write it down the world changes around it.<br><br> You've written things down before that changed the world around you. You know what it costs. You're not doing it until you're ready.<br><br> Maud would tell you to just say it. To yourself, at least. She didn't understand the journalist habit of keeping things provisional. Of refusing to commit to a conclusion until you had enough to back it up. <br><br> Maybe. Maybe you're just making yourself wait.<br><br> The street is quiet. The delivery trucks have moved on. The early shift has mostly passed. It's that gap between the two. The city having shed the night and not fully dressed itself in morning yet. You stand in it for a moment. Alone on the pavement.<br><br> You think about what's next.<br><br> Maud needs to be buried, which means the investigation has to wait until after the service, which means you need to—<br><br> You look at your phone.<br><br> The date on the screen.<br><br> Oh no.<br><br> The funeral is at ten.<br><br> It is nine forty-one. Fuck!<br><br> Forty-three messages. Seventeen missed calls. All from Ace.<br><br> <div class="bl-bare-wrap"> <div class="bl-bare-divider">that night</div> <div class="bl-bare-msg in"> <div class="bl-bare-bubble">$firstName where are you</div> <div class="bl-bare-time">23:14</div> </div> <div class="bl-bare-msg in"> <div class="bl-bare-bubble">please just tell me you're okay</div> <div class="bl-bare-time">23:31</div> </div> <div class="bl-bare-msg in"> <div class="bl-bare-bubble">i'm coming to find you if you don't answer</div> <div class="bl-bare-time">23:47</div> </div> <div class="bl-bare-msg in"> <div class="bl-bare-bubble">it's 2am</div> <div class="bl-bare-time">02:00</div> </div> <div class="bl-bare-msg in"> <div class="bl-bare-bubble">it's 3am</div> <div class="bl-bare-time">03:00</div> </div> <div class="bl-bare-msg in"> <div class="bl-bare-bubble">i called ben. he doesn't know where you are</div> <div class="bl-bare-time">03:22</div> </div> <div class="bl-bare-msg in"> <div class="bl-bare-bubble">i called the hospitals. you're not in any of them. good. still going to kill you.</div> <div class="bl-bare-time">03:41</div> </div> <div class="bl-bare-msg in"> <div class="bl-bare-bubble">it's 4am</div> <div class="bl-bare-time">04:00</div> </div> <div class="bl-bare-msg in"> <div class="bl-bare-bubble">$firstName</div> <div class="bl-bare-time">04:17</div> </div> <div class="bl-bare-msg in"> <div class="bl-bare-bubble">$firstName please</div> <div class="bl-bare-time">04:33</div> </div> </div> Every hour, sometimes more, all night. Ace who found the body. Who has been awake every single one of the same hours you've been awake, sending these into the dark without knowing if you'd see them.<br><br> And now Ace is already there. Waiting.<br><br> Ace's last message sits at the top of the thread:<br><br> <div class="bl-bare-msg in"> <div class="bl-bare-bubble">i'm already at the funeral parlor. the service is in twenty minutes. where are you.</div> <div class="bl-bare-time">09:33</div> </div> That was sent nine minutes ago.<br><br> You start running. Fast. Then running when you hit the wider street and the funeral is twenty-two blocks north and you have twelve minutes.<br><br> But the dream won't fade. It clings to you.<br><br> The morgue. The fluorescent lights. Maud on the steel table — the pink hair still too bright under that light, the kind of bright that belongs in hallways and kitchen arguments and not in that room. The hollow in her chest. The size of it.<br><br> And then Maud sitting up. That smile, the wrong width of it. The words she said in a voice that was hers and wasn't.<br><br> //You never once managed to actually save anyone.//<br><br> Maud is dead.<br><br> It keeps landing with the same weight every time.<br><br> And underneath the mess, the questions you've been circling all night.<br><br> Vex is gone.<br><br> That's what the message from Sam said. Three words, no context. //Vex is gone.// Not sick, not running late, not reachable. Gone. <br><br> Vex said: //The heart is missing, but you already knew that. Or will know.//<br><br> You logged it as another Vex ramble. A Chronos fragment arriving sideways, past and future scrambled because to a precognitive the tenses collapse into one. You filed it. You didn't follow up.<br><br> Vex knew. And now Vex is gone.<br><br> Did they run because they couldn't stop it? Because knowing the future was coming and having no way to change it finally became too much? Or is Vex part of whatever is going on?<br><br> You can't find the answer. Not while running. Not now.<br><br> You type back with one hand while you run:<br><br> <div class="bl-bare-wrap"> <div class="bl-bare-msg out"> <div class="bl-bare-bubble">Coming. I'm sorry.</div> <div class="bl-bare-time">09:45</div> </div> </div> You pocket the phone without answering because you need both arms for this.<br><br> Sordia blurs past you. The buildings. The bridges. The morning shift workers. The canal. The elevated rail overhead. You run. <br><br> You think about Maud. About what you're running toward. The funeral. The people. Ace's face when $aceHe sees you. The casket. Whatever version of a funeral you manage to be present for now that you're going to be late. And what you're going to look like coming in late to your own sister's funeral in yesterday's clothes.<br><br> Maud would have something to say about that.<br><br> You run even faster.<br><br> [[Continue|CH2P3]]

//Soren moves to the sink. Begins washing his hands.<br><br> "There's one more thing." He says it to the sink. To his hands. Not looking at you. "This is outside the official report."<br><br> "Tell me."<br><br> "I'm Manitou." He turns off the tap. Stands there a moment, water still dripping off his knuckles. "Weaker bloodborn. I can't channel. I can't hold a séance. What I can do is sense." He dries his hands, slow, more thorough. Still not looking at you. "When someone dies recently—especially violently, especially young—there's normally residual spirit. Presence. Trace. Fading, but present. It's why I work here. I can sense it before it dissipates. Sometimes it's relevant to the case. Manner of death. Final emotional state."<br><br> He turns. Looks at the body.<br><br> "There's nothing here," he sighs. The fluorescent hum fills the silence where your next breath should be.<br><br> "Her spirit isn't present." He picks his file back up. Holds it. Doesn't open it, just turns it over once in his hands like he needs something to do with them. "That's... not what I typically encounter. Not with cases like this. I don't know what it means. I'm telling you as an observation. Not a conclusion."<br><br> Your hands curl at your sides, nails finding your palms.<br><br> "So where is her spirit?" you ask.<br><br> "I don't know." He means it. "I'm telling you what I sense. What I don't sense. It could mean that she has found he peace and already moved on. It could mean the compound did something else to her. It could also mean that another Manitou is involved, trapping her spirit. I'm not able to predict—"<br><br> "But it's possible she's still somewhere." You've already stepped closer to the table without deciding to.<br><br> A pause. "It's possible."<br><br> You look at the pink hair. At the shape of her face you'd know in the dark, in a crowd, from the back of her head across a room.<br><br> Not gone. Just not here.<br><br> You don't know if that makes it better.<br><br> You press two fingers to the edge of the table, right where her shoulder would be under the sheet. "Can I have a minute."<br><br> "Take your time." He's already moving toward the door, the kind of man who knows exactly when to stop being in a room. "I'll be in the hall."<br><br> The door closes.<br><br>// [[Continue|CH2P2.6]]

//Silence.<br><br> The refrigeration units hum. Low. Constant.<br><br> You look at your sister.<br><br> Twenty-three years old. Pink hair. Black eyes closed. The sleeve tattoos and the jagged scar and the wiry build that never stopped moving until someone made it stop. The chest—<br><br> You look at her chest. At the hollow. At the space the size of a fist that used to contain her heart.<br><br> You reach out. Stop yourself.<br><br> Your hand hovers over hers for a moment. The familiar shape of her knuckles. Her wrist bones. The ink of the tattoo sleeve starting at the wrist. Fingers trembling just enough that you notice, and you pull back before they land. Don't touch her. Afraid of your own hand shaking against her skin and not stopping. Afraid it won't shake at all.<br><br> Your jaw sets. "I'm going to find out what happened."<br><br> The words feel enormous and stupid. The kind of promise that sounds like a movie cliché until you're in a morgue making it to a body that can't hear you.<br><br> "Someone made something specifically for you." Your hands curl at your sides, nails biting in. "Solved you like a problem. I'm going to find out who. I'm going to find out why. I'm going to—"<br><br> The word sticks. You swallow.<br><br> "Something. I don't know what yet. But something."<br><br> The refrigeration hums.<br><br> Sordia outside, doing what it does. Not knowing. Not caring.<br><br> You take one last look at her face.<br><br> The closed eyes. The stillness. The pink hair bright as anything under these terrible lights, the specific shade you've made fun of and then stopped making fun of and then just started thinking of as her color. The color of Maud.<br><br> You should go.<br><br> You turn. Get one step toward the door, toward the hallway, toward Soren waiting on the other side of it.<br><br> "Leaving so soon?"<br><br> The voice hits you like a fist to the sternum. You whirl.<br><br> She sits on the edge of the steel table with her legs dangling like she's perched on a kitchen counter instea of an autopsy table. Like she's done this a thousand times. Like nothing is wrong. The sheet pooled at her hips. One hand raised in a small, lazy wave. Fingers wiggling at you like you're the one who's late to something.<br><br> Her chest moves when she breathes. It shouldn't. The cavity opens and closes with it, a wet, obscene little give at the edges, blood shifting inside the hollow like water in a bowl someone's carrying too fast.<br><br> The breath you take snags in your throat.<br><br> Her eyes seem alive. Black. Light falls into them and doesn't come back. The way they looked in the car that night, temperature dropping, shadows thickening around her boots like living things.<br><br> She's looking at the ceiling.<br><br> Then she's looking at you.<br><br> "Took you long enough," she giggles. Her voice sounds wrong. The pitch is hers, the cadence is hers, but there's something underneath it, almost distorted. "I was starting to think you'd just leave a girl hanging. Rude, even for you."<br><br> "Maud—"<br><br> "Oh, don't do the voice." She hops down off the table. Bare feet, bare hollow chest, sheet sliding off entirely now and pooling at her ankles like she couldn't care less. "The scolding one. You've been doing the scolding one all your life and it's not a good look on you."<br><br> The cavity gapes with every step she takes toward you, ribs catching the fluorescent light. Wet. White. The tissue at the edges beginning to weep. Thin dark rivulets tracking down the inside of her ribcage, pooling low where her heart should sit. A gush of blood trickling down her body towards the floor.<br><br> She looks down at it like she just remembered it's missing. Looks back up at you.<br><br> "Weird, right?" She smiles.<br><br> The smile is wrong. The smile is Maud's. The sharp-edged grin you grew up across from. The one that preceded most of the worst decisions she ever made and it's entirely wrong. Too wide. Holding without wavering.<br><br> This smile just holds.<br><br> She tilts her head, studying you like you're the strange thing in the room. "You know what's funny."<br><br> "Maud—"<br><br> "I lay there." The smile doesn't move. "For seventeen minutes and thirty-seven seconds. I counted. I had nothing else to do." She tilts her head further. You can hear her neck crack. "And I kept thinking—" The voice gets softer. Lighter. Sing-song. "—$firstName will come. $firstName will—what do you call it. Investigate. Report on it. Make it a story."<br><br> "I'm going to find out who did this—"<br><br> "You're not." She clicks her tongue. Like the answer's already written down somewhere and she read it and it's just slightly disappointing. "That's the thing. About you." She takes another step.<br><br> Her feet hit the floor with a hollow knock, not the slap of skin against tile.<br><br> She walks toward you. Still smiling. Bare feet on the cold floor and she doesn't flinch. She doesn't flinch. She walks toward you and something in your spine knows before your brain does that you need to step back but the wall is already behind you. You didn't feel it arrive.<br><br> "You'll write it down." Maud tips her head, studying your face like a puzzle she's finally getting to solve. "Your hand will itch when you sniff out a lie. You'll get the adrenaline, the rush you crave so much." She sounds genuinely interested by this. "I always wondered. About that." She's very close now. Close enough that you can see—<br><br> Her chest.<br><br> Close enough now that you can see the hollow in full detail you didn't want. The depth of it. There is fresh blood dripping from it, faster now, like the walking disturbed something.<br><br> The tissue at the edges has begun to weep like the slow dark ooze of something that's been open too long. A thin rivulet tracks down the inside of her ribcage. Pooling in the lowest point of the cavity, faster and faster. The flesh at the margins has begun to darken beyond bruising.<br><br> She is standing upright with an open chest cavity and she is looking right at you.<br><br> You need to look away.<br><br> "And then," she snickers, "you'll do nothing."<br><br> "That's not—"<br><br> "You're not a detective." Her head tilts the other direction. The smile doesn't move. "You're not CRD. You're not Umbra. You're not anything. You're just the $firstName who grew up in the wrong place and learned to ask questions and—" She leans in. Voice dropping to a whisper. "—never once, not once in your entire life, managed to actually save anyone."<br><br> "That's not—"<br><br> "Eight years old." Her head cocks, patient, the way you'd explain something to a slow child. "Apartment door. Officers Walsh and what was the other one's name? You remember. You remember every name. That's the thing about you. All that memory and nothing useful done with it."<br><br> "Stop—"<br><br> "I'm the third one," Maud says. Her voice loses the sing-song. Goes flat. "Of the twelve. But there will be more. Until there is no one left but you—"<br><br> She reaches out.<br><br> Her hand closes around your wrist. Cold. Colder than the room, the units, the steel table you've had your back against for the last minute.<br><br> You pull. It doesn't give. Her grip is a manacle and you feel a bruise starting under her fingers before you've even finished trying to wrench free.<br><br> "Useless," she hums. Quiet. Almost gentle.<br><br> Right into your face. Her black eyes on yours. The smile finally gone.<br><br> Then she pulls.<br><br> Your hand goes with hers. Into the hollow before you understand what's happening, past the spread white of her ribs and into the wet dark center of her own chest. You feel warmth. But not the warmth of a person. The warmth of something recently opened. Blood pools thick around your knuckles, coats your fingers to the second joint before you manage to yank free. The smell hits a second later, copper and something faintly sweet underneath, thick enough to coat the back of your throat. Still warm. Warmer than anything in this room has a right to be.<br><br> It doesn't come off. You know it won't, even staring right at it. Red running down into the creases of your palm.<br><br> "You are the most useless person I have ever known!" Her voice cracks up into something jagged, every trace of the sing-song gone. She grabs the front of your jacket with her free hand and hauls you up. For someone who's supposed to be dead her strength is obscene. Your shoulder blades crack against the wall hard enough to knock the air clean out of you.<br><br> "You absolute—" She shoves you again, the back of your skull ringing off the tile, white sparking at the edges of your vision. "You wanted me dead. Admit it! You let—"<br><br> She's shaking you now, both fists twisted into your clothes, your head snapping against the wall with every word.<br><br> All you can think is: What the f—<br><br>// <<if $vice is "smoking">>[[Continue|CH2_Smoke]] <<elseif $vice is "alcohol">>[[Continue|CH2_Alcohol]] <<elseif $vice is "gambling">>[[Continue|CH2_Gambling]] <<elseif $vice is "work">>[[Continue|CH2_Work]] <<elseif $vice is "risk">>[[Continue|CH2_Risk]] <<elseif $vice is "hookups">>[[Continue|CH2_Hookup]] <</if>>

<<set $funeralDirectorClue to "none">> The parlour is a smal building. Pale grey facade, the colour of things that have given up on colour. No signage beyond a small brass plate by the door. Feldman & Sons, Funerary Services. The kind of place that doesn't advertise. It doesn't need to. People find it when they need it.<br><br> You find it ten minutes after ten.<br><br> <<if $vice is "smoking">>Your throat is still ruined. Every breath scrapes going in, going out. Your fingers still smell of it, ash worked into the creases of your nails no amount of scrubbing the bathroom managed to get out.<br><br> <<elseif $vice is "alcohol">>You still stink of piss. Your head is throbbing in time with your own pulse. Lilies, floor polish and the sweet chemical undertone of embalming fluid hit you at the door and your stomach nearly turns right there on the steps. There's a stain on your collar you don't remember getting and would rather not think too hard about.<br><br> <<elseif $vice is "gambling">>Your hands won't stop. Small movements. Thumb against forefinger. Forefinger against ring finger. Not nerves. Not exactly. Just adrenaline with nowhere left to go, muscle memory still shuffling chips that aren't there anymore. Your jacket pocket feels too light without the weight of them.<br><br> <<elseif $vice is "work">>Your left cheek has a keyboard crease that's only just beginning to fade. Your eyes are red-rimmed. Unfocused at the edges. The glassiness that comes from staring at a screen for six hours straight. There's a pen-ink smudge on the side of your hand you missed washing off. Sam calls this look "the academic haunting." You didn't find it funny at the time. Still don't.<br><br> <<elseif $vice is "risk">>The eye is worse in the morning light. Yellow-purple at the edges. Swollen enough to cut your field of vision on the left. Your split lip has crusted over but pulls when you press your mouth flat. You don't regret it. That's probably the problem.<br><br> <<elseif $vice is "hookups">>You're out of breath and sweating. One button on your done up wrong from getting dressed too fast in the dark. Your jaw's gone slack, eyes fixed somewhere past the middle distance. The exact look of someone who went looking for something all night and came back with nothing but sore feet and someone else's smell still on your skin.<br><br> <</if>> Ace is on the front steps.<br><br> Not pacing. Not on the phone. Not doing anything at all except standing there. Arms folded. Eyes on the street. Waiting for you.<br><br> $aceHeC sees you at twenty metres. Doesn't move. Lets you close the distance.<br><br> Up close, $aceHe looks exactly like you feel. Dark circles bruised deep under both eyes. <br><br> $aceHeC looks at you for a moment. The sweep is slow. Something in $aceHisC jaw ticks, like $aceHeC can't decide whether to be relieved you're upright or furious you took this long.<br><br> <<if $vice is "smoking">> $aceHisC nose wrinkles first. "You reek like an ashtray." $aceHeC reaches out, almost touches your sleeve, stops. "How many, since last night?"<br><br> You don't answer that. Look past $aceHisC shoulder at the door instead, like the funeral parlour's suddenly very interesting.<br><br> <<elseif $vice is "alcohol">> $aceHeC leans in a fraction, catches the smell, leans back out like it physically hit $aceHim. "Jesus. You smell like gin and... why do you smell like piss?"<br><br> You tug at the collar without meaning to, like that'll fix it now. It doesn't.<br><br> <<elseif $vice is "gambling">> $aceHisC eyes drop to your hand, still doing the thumb-against-forefinger thing without your permission. "You were out gambling again." Not a question.<br><br> You shove the hand into your pocket, out of sight, like that undoes anything.<br><br> <<elseif $vice is "work">> $aceHeC reaches up before you can stop $aceHim, thumb brushing the crease still fading on your cheek. "You fell asleep at your desk again." Flat. $aceHeC's said this sentence to you before. More than once.<br><br> You duck back out from under $aceHisC hand before it fully lands. "I was working."<br><br> <<elseif $vice is "risk">> $aceHisC jaw tightens at the eye first, then the lip. "Who hit you." Not a question either. "Actually don't. I don't want to know before the funeral."<br><br> You don't correct $aceHim. Let $aceHim believe whichever version's easier to carry into that building.<br><br> <<elseif $vice is "hookups">> $aceHisC eyes catch on the button done up wrong. $aceHeC seems to decide against saying anything about it directly. "Good night?" Dry. Not quite landing as the joke $aceHeC wants it to be.<br><br> You don't answer that either. Not right now. Not five minutes from your sister's funeral.<br><br> <</if>> $aceHisC arms fold back over $aceHisC chest once $aceHeC's done looking. "Anyway you look like shit."<br><br> <<link '⌕ You shrug, already looking past Ace at the building. "Been better."'>> <<set $aceArrivalChoice to "deflecting">> <<set $acestat -= 1>> <<run setup.setTrait('deflecting', ($deflecting || 50) + 1)>> <<goto "CH2P3.1">> <</link>><br><br> <<link '⌕ You shove your hands in your pockets. "What else did you expect?"'>> <<set $aceArrivalChoice to "cutting">> <<run setup.setTrait('deflecting', ($deflecting || 50) - 1)>> <<goto "CH2P3.1">> <</link>><br><br> <<link '⌕ You reach out, squeeze Ace\'s arm briefly. "I know. I\'m sorry I wasn\'t here sooner."'>> <<set $aceArrivalChoice to "soft">> <<set $acestat += 1>> <<run setup.setTrait('soft', ($soft || 50) + 1)>> <<goto "CH2P3.1">> <</link>><br><br> <<link '⌕ You look away first, already stepping toward the door. "Let\'s just go in."'>> <<set $aceArrivalChoice to "hardened">> <<set $acestat -= 1>> <<run setup.setTrait('soft', ($soft || 50) - 1)>> <<goto "CH2P3.1">> <</link>>

<<if $aceArrivalChoice is "deflecting">> Something almost like a laugh. Too tired to be a real one. $aceHeC nods once.<br><br> "Yeah." A pause. "Me too."<br><br> $aceHeC falls into step beside you, close enough that $aceHis shoulder bumps yours once on the stairs. Doesn't say anything else. Doesn't need to.<br><br> <<elseif $aceArrivalChoice is "cutting">> $aceHeC doesn't flinch. Just takes it, the way $aceHe takes a lot from you. Not because $aceHe has to, but because $aceHe's decided you're worth the edges.<br><br> "Fair," $aceHe says quietly.<br><br> Ace doesn't push. Doesn't ask where you were. Doesn't point out that you didn't answer $aceHis calls. Just holds the door open a little wider, like that's easier right now than saying anything else.<br><br> <<elseif $aceArrivalChoice is "soft">> $aceHeC uncrosses $aceHis arms.<br><br> Takes one step forward and wraps both arms around you. Tight. Doesn't say anything. Just exists for the eleven seconds it takes you both to remember how to breathe at a normal rate.<br><br> You can feel $aceHis pulse against your collarbone, hammering too fast for something as simple as worry. $aceHeC's been scared.<br><br> $aceHeC lets go before you pull away.<br><br> <<elseif $aceArrivalChoice is "hardened">> $aceHisC's eyes do a second pass over you. The shut-down set of your jaw. The not-now in the line of your shoulders.<br><br> Doesn't push.<br><br> "Yeah," $aceHe says. Steps back from the door. Makes room. "Okay."<br><br> You swallow against something tightening in your throat. $aceHeC gave that up too easily. Didn't even make you ask twice.<br><br> <</if>> Ace turns for the door first. You roll your shoulders back until something in your spine cracks.<br><br> $aceHisC hand rests on the door handle, not turning it yet. "Ben tried." $aceHeC keeps $aceHis eyes on the handle. Not you. "Couldn't get out of the house. I left his coat on the front seat."<br><br> "I know." The words come out flat, scraped of anything underneath them. You press your thumbnail into the pad of your other finger. Hard. "I'll call him after."<br><br> That's enough for Ace. $aceHeC pushes the door open.<br><br> [[Go inside.|CH2P3.2]]

Small.<br><br> That's the first thing you realize. Deliberately small. Not the hushed grandeur of a proper funeral home with a lobby and a waiting room and flowers arranged to suggest that death is manageable. One room. Dark wainscoting. Eight chairs arranged in two short rows facing a low platform where the casket sits. Closed.<br><br> Eight chairs. That's the math of who's here.<br><br> Marcia Reid is in the front row on the right. She's sitting with both hands clasped together in prayer and her head slightly bowed. When you see her face you understand that she's been crying since before you got here. Probably since Ace told her. Her cheeks are still wet. She isn't trying to fix it.<br><br> Anthony is beside her. His hand is over hers. His eyes are red-rimmed. He's been crying too. Anthony Reid. Who laughs at everything. Who made food for the whole neighbourhood after a flooding two years ago. Who made you feel like a loved person the first time youand Maud showed up at his restaurant not knowing how to ask for anything. He's sitting in a chair in a funeral parlour with his jaw set and his eyes red and his hand over his wife's. And there is nothing to feed anyone today and he knows it and it is visibly killing him.<br><br> Behind them: the girls.<br><br> Tasha is first. Nursing school gave her a vocabulary for rooms like this and she's using every word of it to stay upright. Back straight. Face managed. Eyes doing the controlled-blink thing you recognise from people who've been trained not to cry in professional contexts and are losing the battle. She's losing the battle. The composure is intact but it's cracking at every seam. Her hands are folded tightly in her lap.<br><br> Keisha is beside her, and Keisha has not attempted composure at all. She's crying. The tears are just coming and she isn't stopping them or wiping them. She's furious and heartbroken at the same time and both things are entirely visible on her face. You recognise it. It's the expression of someone who needed this person to make it and they didn't and that is unacceptable and grief and rage have fused into one feeling with no name.<br><br> Imani is at the end. She's the only one who isn't visibly crying, and not because she isn't feeling it. You know better than that. She's the one cataloguing. Taking in the room. The casket. The cloth. The candles. Ace's face. Your face. Processing in real-time, the way she always does. She sees you come in. Her chin drops slightly. That's all. That's Imani's version of what's in Keisha's face and what's breaking down Tasha's composure. She carries things like that.<br><br> There is one more chair in the front row, on the left.<br><br> Ace placed Ben's coat on it. Folded carefully because it was the only thing there was to do for Ben right now. A placeholder for a person who loved Maud and couldn't be here and now sits alone in his apartment carrying that.<br><br> You look at the coat on the chair for a moment longer than you mean to.<br><br> And: no one else. That's the other math. You know Maud worked for Luz for three years. You know Neo exists. The syndicate's reach. And the particular web of people who Maud moved through and with and beside. Not one of them is here. Not a single face from that world.<br><br> You file that away. The journalist part of your brain that never fully switches off. You file it and don't look at it yet.<br><br> The man at the front of the room is standing beside the casket with his hands folded. You've spoken to him twice. Once on the phone two days ago when you were still running on adrenaline and got three sentences in before he said //I know what you need, I've done this before// in a voice that made you believe him. And once yesterday morning when you came here to go over the specifics. You were eternally grateful for the Reid's finding this place and him.<br><br> Jenkins. Sixties. Pale. Slight. With the quality of his own stillness and eyes that are the particular flat grey of someone who has spent a lifetime in rooms like this. Umbra. Every Bloodborn who dies gets assigned a priest of their own kind.<br><br> He nods when he sees you. Small. Professional. The nod of someone who is ready when you are.<br><br> Marcia looks up. She sees you. She rises.<br><br> It takes her four steps to cross the room and she covers all of them at speed. It's the speed of a woman who has been waiting to do this since she heard about the news and has been holding herself back until you were actually here. Actually someone she could get her arms around. She doesn't say anything. Neither do you. She holds on for long enough that you both breathe properly for the first time in a while.<br><br> When she steps back her eyes are wet again, fresh, and she looks at your face. Really looks. And she says: "Mi pickney."<br><br> Two words. It's not directed at you specifically. It's directed at the general situation. At the chair with Ben's coat. At the casket. At all of it. She wipes her face with the back of her hand. Decisive. And nods once like she's settling something with herself.<br><br> Anthony steps up. Hugs you as tight as possible before he puts both hands on your shoulders. Looks at you with those red-rimmed eyes for a long moment. "Yuh made it," he sniffles. Not relief. Not accusation. Just... acknowledgment. He doesn't say anything else. He steps back. Goes back to Marcia. His hand finds hers again before he's even fully turned.<br><br> Jenkins gestures for everyone to sit.<br><br> <<link '⌕ You slide into the seat next to Ace.'>> <<set $funeralSeat to "ace">> <<goto "CH2P3.3">> <</link>><br><br> <<link '⌕ You take a seat alone, across the aisle, keeping the distance.'>> <<set $funeralSeat to "alone">> <<goto "CH2P3.3">> <</link>>

<<if $funeralSeat is "ace">> You sit next to Ace. $aceHisC shoulder is three inches from yours. $aceHeC doesn't move to close the gap. Neither do you.<br><br> <<else>> You sit alone. Cross the aisle and take the far chair. Away from the Reids. And they understand. Ace sits with $aceHis family. Doesn't look at you.<br><br> <</if>> Jenkins moves to the front of the room.<br><br> He clasps both hands loosely in front of him, the posture of a man who's given this exact speech more times than he's bothered counting. "We are here for the Dimming. My name is Jenkins. I understand none of you are Umbra, so I'll explain everything we do today, step by step."<br><br> "Maud $lastName was Umbra." He doesn't look at anyone as he says this. His gaze seems slightly distant. "When an Umbra dies, the shadow substance that constitutes their biological nature begins its dissolution. Without the Dimming, it does not dissolve cleanly. It escapes the body. Disperses into the dark. The person who was does not get to remain. Not even as a body to return to earth." A pause. "We are here to prevent that. To hold her together long enough for what is left to rest."<br><br> Keisha makes a sound. Small. Almost nothing. You hear it anyway.<br><br> Jenkins moves to the first of the room's windows. From his jacket pocket he produces a length of dark cloth. Black, but wrong the way a hole in a photograph is wrong. The fabric's own folds swallowed up instead of catching any shadow of their own. He covers the window. Moves to the second. Covers it. The room dims further. Not to full darkness. A lamp in the corner still burns. Low. But to a grey that sits flat and thin, the way dusk looks.<br><br> "The Sealing of Mirrors," he says, almost to himself. "Shadow has two halves. The cast form. And the reflection. At death, with an Umbra unable to control their ability, the reflection may attempt to anchor independently. It fractures the soul substance. We remove the option." He pauses at a small mirror near the door, angles it toward the wall. "The ones who are gone do not need to see themselves from two directions."<br><br> He returns to the front. From a case beside the platform he removes six candles. The wax sits white-pale, bloodless. The candle produces light. Clean, steady light. But it casts no shadow. Nothing. The room fills with glow that has no dark edge anywhere except around the casket, where the shadows seem to thicken rather than thin. Seem to breathe. Seem to pool and swell and settle like something recognising the sound of its name before its name has been spoken.<br><br> Maud's shadow substance. Moving. Still moving. Even now.<br><br> Something in your chest seizes and you make yourself breathe through it.<br><br> Jenkins lights each candle in sequence. The room becomes stranger with each one. More shadowless. More wrong in the way a photograph is wrong when the light is too even. Too clean. Nothing left for the dark to hold.<br><br> Then he speaks.<br><br> Not in English. Not in any language you know with any certainty, though the bones of it are Latin.<br><br> <em>"Umbra nata es. Umbra mortua es. Nomen tuum in nocte manet."</em><br><br> You didn't study Latin past secondary school. So you don't understand what he is saying.<br><br> "<em>Maud $lastName.</em>"<br><br> The name resonates. Not just sound. Something in the air changes when he says it. The temperature in the room drops all at once. Cold enough that the hair along your arms lifts under your sleeves. The shadows around the casket thicken for a moment.<br><br> Then one peels away from the rest.<br><br> Long. Thin. Faster than anything cast by a candle has any right to move. It shoots up the near wall, across the ceiling, and drops through the space above Anthony's head. Not around him. Through him. Anthony flinches so hard his chair scrapes against the floor, both hands slapping to the back of his own neck like something touched him there.<br><br> "<em>Maud $lastName.</em>"<br><br> Again. Different. Lower. The candlelight flickers erratically.<br><br> More of them break loose this time. Three, four, thin dark ropes of it unspooling off the casket and racing along the walls, the ceiling, the floor between the chairs. Too fast to track. One slides directly beneath Tasha's chair and she jerks her feet up off the floor, composure finally cracking for one full second before she forces them back down. Another brushes past Keisha's shoulder, close enough that Keisha's crying stutters into something closer to a gasp, her hand flying up to the spot like she's checking for a bruise that isn't there.<br><br> Imani doesn't flinch. Just tracks one with her eyes, head turning slow, the only person in the room treating this like something to be studied instead of survived.<br><br> One passes close enough to you that the cold of it drags straight through your chest. Gone before you can even finish flinching. For half a second your own heartbeat sounds wrong in your ears. Muffled. Underwater. Before it rights itself.<br><br> "<em>Maud $lastName.</em>"<br><br> The third time is the hardest. Your ears pop. Like a change in altitude. Like something in the room's air pressure just gave way. Every loose thread of shadow in the room snaps back toward the casket at once. The room settles into something dense and still after it.<br><br> Marcia has her hand over her mouth. Anthony is whispering silent prayers. Tasha's composure is intact but she's not looking at the casket anymore. She's looking at the floor. Keisha is crying without sound. Imani is the only one still watching Jenkins directly. Tracking everything. Not missing a movement.<br><br> <<if $funeralSeat is "ace">> Ace's shoulder presses into yours.<br><br> Just the small shift of a body that needed the contact. You don't move away. Neither of you speaks. The shoulder stays.<br><br> <<else>> Across the aisle, Ace has his head down. $aceHisC hands are clasped between $aceHis knees. $aceHeC is not looking at the casket. $aceHeC is not looking at the jacket on the empty chair. $aceHeC is not looking at anything at all.<br><br> You look at $aceHim for a moment. Then you look at the casket.<br><br> <</if>> Jenkins opens a long flat case and removes a length of material he calls, in English, the *fil umbrae* — the shadow thread. Not silk. Not linen. It moves wrong in his hands. Heavier than its size should allow, pooling instead of falling the way real fabric would. He drapes it with ceremony over the length of the casket, smoothing each edge flat with both palms.<br><br> "The binding," he says quietly. "This is what anchors the shadow substance to the physical form during the rites. Without this, what we are doing would not hold." A pause. "It is not a restraint. It is an invitation for the shadow to remain where it was loved. Most of them accept it."<br><br> <em>Most of them.</em><br><br> He doesn't explain the exception.<br><br> Then he speaks the last phrase. Longer this time. More complex. You catch fragments, nothing complete.<br><br> <em>"Umbra carnem devorat, caro umbram absolvit. Dimitto te. In tenebris quiesces, Maud $lastName. Nox te recipit."</em><br><br> The shadows around the casket contract. All at once. Quick. Like a held breath released — and then they're gone. The casket looks ordinary. The shadowless candles burn the same as before. The temperature climbs back to normal in one long exhale you feel move through the whole room at once, chairs creaking as seven people breathe out together without meaning to.<br><br> Maud's shadow substance has been given permission to dissolve slowly. Naturally. Inside the body.<br><br> Jenkins exhales. The first genuinely human thing he's done since entering the room.<br><br> "The Dimming is complete." He folds his hands the same way he did at the start, like closing a book. "The shadows have been laid to rest. Maud is now free."<br><br> [[Continue.|CH2P3.4]]

Silence in the room for a moment. Just the candles with their wrong, shadowless light.<br><br> Then Jenkins turns and looks at you.<br><br> Time for your speech. You could not speak. That was also an option. Jenkins would move on. The service would conclude. No one would say anything about it.<br><br> You stand up.<br><br> <<if $siblingRelationship is "fixable">> <<goto "CH2P3_FF">> <<elseif $siblingRelationship is "neutral">> <<goto "CH2P3_FN">> <<else>> <<goto "CH2P3_FB">> <</if>>

"Mary Oliver asked: <em>Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?</em>"<br><br> "I never asked her that," you say. Your voice is rougher than you expected. More present. "Or at least not in the way I should have. I had enough years where I could have and I didn't ask it."<br><br> The room is very quiet.<br><br> "Maud was... she was the wrong shape for everything. For childhood. For family. For the particular life she ended up building. She was too loud for it. Too present. Too much." You pause. "She knew that. She knew it better than anyone. She once told me that she was built wrong for the world and the world was going to have to deal with it." A breath. "I think she spent most of her life figuring out if there was a version of her that could fit somewhere. And I think she never realized that she always was the perfect fit for us."<br><br> Keisha makes a sound. Tasha presses her shoulder into Keisha's.<br><br> "We lost three years. That's on both of us. That's not a simple pill to swallow and I'm not going to make it one standing here." The words are harder to say out loud than they were to think. "But she came back. She showed up again. With the same laugh she had at five years old. She showed up and she was trying. That matters. That has to matter."<br><br> <<link '⌕ "I didn\'t have enough time with the version of her that was almost okay. I\'m going to be angry about that for a long time."'>> <<set $speechEnd_fixable to "honest">> <<run setup.setTrait('relaxed', ($relaxed || 50) - 2)>> <<goto "CH2P3.5">> <</link>><br><br> <<link '⌕ "She protected me. She always did, even when I didn\'t let her. Even when I didn\'t deserve it. That\'s who she was."'>> <<set $speechEnd_fixable to "soft">> <<run setup.setTrait('soft', ($soft || 50) + 2)>> <<goto "CH2P3.5">> <</link>>

"James Baldwin wrote: <em>Not everything that is faced can be changed, but nothing can be changed until it is faced.</em>"<br><br> "Maud faced things," you say. "Most of them headfirst and sideways. That was her method. She didn't come at anything from the expected angle."<br><br> The words are measured. Accurate. This is the speech you practiced in your head.<br><br> "She was twenty-three years old. She'd already done more damage and more repair work than most people accumulate in a lifetime. She was complicated in ways I'm not going to simplify standing in front of her casket." You pause. "She was funny. She was frightening. She cared about the people she decided to care about in a way that was absolute, even when the expression of it was — " A brief pause. "Unorthodox."<br><br> Marcia's mouth twitches. Briefly.<br><br> "She came back. Whatever happened in the three years she was gone, she came back. And she was working on it. She was working on becoming whatever the next version of herself was going to be." Something tightens in your chest. You keep your voice flat against it. "She didn't get to finish that."<br><br> <<link '⌕ "That\'s the facts. She didn\'t get to finish. And that is the worst part of all of this."'>> <<set $speechEnd_neutral to "stark">> <<run setup.setTrait('soft', ($soft || 50) - 2)>> <<goto "CH2P3.5">> <</link>><br><br> <<link '⌕ "She mattered. She was going to matter more. I think that\'s the thing worth holding onto."'>> <<set $speechEnd_neutral to "hopeful">> <<run setup.setTrait('hopeful', ($hopeful || 50) + 2)>> <<goto "CH2P3.5">> <</link>>

"Raymond Carver wrote: <em>That's all we have, finally, the words, and they had better be the right ones.</em>"<br><br> "I don't have the right ones," you say.<br><br> You almost sat back down at that. Almost let it be just the sentence and the quote and the silence. But there's something unfinished in standing up, and you've never been able to leave a sentence half-built, which is probably the problem you're working with right now.<br><br> "We didn't fix it," you say. "The three years. What happened before them. What happened during them. We had a window recently and we... we couldn't fix it." The words feel inadequate to what you mean by them. They always did. The words were never right between you and Maud and now there will be no further attempts at finding better ones. "I'm not going to stand here and ask forgiveness for that. She wouldn't want that. She'd have made a joke about it and then changed the subject and then come back to it three weeks later sideways, the way she did with everything important."<br><br> Ace is watching you. You don't look at $aceHim.<br><br> "What I'll say is this." One breath. Steady. "She knew. The people she loved, she loved them completely. Even when she was wrong, even when she was difficult, even when she was — what she was. She loved completely. That was real." Your voice wants to do something in the last word but you don't let it. "That was always real."<br><br> <<link '⌕ "I\'m sorry we didn\'t have more time to do better. I\'m going to be sorry about that for a long time. She deserved the chance to come back home to Ben."'>> <<set $speechEnd_broken to "regret">> <<run setup.setTrait('soft', ($soft || 50) + 2)>> <<goto "CH2P3.5">> <</link>><br><br> <<link '⌕ "She deserved honesty more than she deserved comfort. So that\'s what I\'ve got. That\'s the only thing I can give her that she would have actually wanted."'>> <<set $speechEnd_broken to "honest">> <<run setup.setTrait('relaxed', ($relaxed || 50) - 2)>> <<goto "CH2P3.5">> <</link>>

You sit down.<br><br> Then Jenkins moves to the front again. He says a few words. He says Maud's name one more time. Not as part of the rite now, just as: acknowledgment. As: she was here. He closes the casket. Then he indicates, quietly, that the service is complete. And that is how fast a funeral in Sordia is completed. You have one hour and that's it. Because the bodies keep piling up and the next one is probably waiting.<br><br> No one moves immediately.<br><br> Jenkins steps further back, out of the aisle, and starts working his way down the row of candles, pinching each wick between two fingers. Each one that goes out drops a small shadow back into the room. His own, first. Then the casket's. Then the chairs'. By the time the last wick goes dark the room looks like any other room. Windows still covered. Mirror still turned to the wall. But ordinary again, underneath all that.<br><br> Marcia is the first to stand. She puts a hand on the casket for a moment. One hand. Flat. For ten seconds. She whispers something that is only for Maud's ears. Then she removes it. Then Anthony. Then Tasha, Keisha, Imani. And then Ace. $aceHisC hand grips the edge of the casket like it's the only thing holding $aceHim upright. Tears track steady down $aceHis face, and $aceHis mouth is moving rapidly but you can't make out what Ace is saying.<br><br> After Ace is done, $aceHe turns towards you. Eyes lifeless. Before you can say anything Ace walks past. Outside the funeral parlor.<br><br> Everyone has gone forward. Everyone except you.<br><br> [[Continue.|CH2P3.6]]

You cross the room.<br><br> Seven steps. You count them without meaning to. Seven steps from where you were sitting to where she is.<br><br> The casket is closed. Of course it is. You knew it would be. You arranged it that way. You knew you couldn't look at that a second time in any context and remain functional. So you made the decision and standing here now you understand, with a clarity you didn't have yesterday, exactly what you gave up by making it.<br><br> You put your hand on the wood.<br><br> It's cold. Colder than the room. A casket shouldn't be colder than the room it's sitting in. You register it without moving your hand.<br><br> <<if $siblingRelationship is "fixable">> Your thumb finds a knot in the wood grain, traces the ring of it once. "Hey."<br><br> You don't know what you expected to feel standing here. Something dramatic, probably. Something that matches the size of it. What you feel instead is a very ordinary, very specific grief about one thing: the pink hair. You keep thinking about the pink hair under the morgue lights. How wrong the colour was in that room. How it belonged fluttering at midnight when she was making terrible decisions and laughing about them. How it belonged in Ben's kitchen, which she never came to anymore but might have. Might have, given enough time.<br><br> "You were getting there," you tell the wood. "I need you to know I saw that. I saw you working on it." Your hand stays flat. The cold doesn't change. "I'm angry about the timing. That's going to be with me for a while. But I saw you."<br><br> You stand there for another moment.<br><br> That's all. Your throat's closed around whatever else was supposed to come out, and nothing pushes past it.<br><br> <<elseif $siblingRelationship is "neutral">> You don't say anything immediately.<br><br> You thought you would have something prepared. You've had since the morgue to find the right words. Which should be sufficient time. It isn't. You stand at the casket with your hand on the wood and the words don't come and you let them not come because forcing them would produce the wrong ones.<br><br> What you have instead is a series of images. The evidence of a person. Maud at five in a closet, shoulder pressed to yours. Maud at sixteen eating three plates at Reid's and falling asleep on the sofa. Maud in her car called Christine taking corners too fast. Maud with photographs spread across a table and that particular light in her face when she thought she was about to discover something important.<br><br> You file them. The way you file everything.<br><br> "I didn't know you well enough," you say finally. Low. Factual, the way you'd deliver a fact you're not proud of. "I thought I did. I didn't." A pause.A pause. Your hand presses flatter against the wood. "I'm going to find out what happened to you. That's the thing I can actually do. So that's what I'm going to do."<br><br> It isn't a eulogy. It's a promise. You think she would have preferred that.<br><br> <<elseif $siblingRelationship is "broken">> Standing here is harder than the speech was.<br><br> The speech had a structure. This is just you and the casket and seven steps of distance you can't walk back further than this.<br><br> You don't know what to say. You thought, arriving at this moment, that whatever's been sitting in your chest since the morgue would finally settle into something you could name. It doesn't. It just sits there, exactly as heavy, exactly as shapeless as it was before.<br><br> You think about what you said in the speech. <em>She loved completely. That was always real.</em><br><br> You think about the three years. About what you said in them, and what you didn't say.<br><br> Your palm slides flat against the lid. "You should have met Ben."<br><br> That's all. Not the right words. Not the words that match the size of the three years. Or the size of the recent weeks. <br><br> You let it sit there, unanswered, the way everything with her always eventually was.<br><br> <</if>> You stand there for another moment.<br><br> Then you take your hand back. Turn.<br><br> [[Continue|CH2P3.7]]

Marcia comes to meet you halfway.<br><br> She takes your face in both hands. Briefly. Thumbs pressing light against your cheekbones, tilting your face slightly toward the window light. Checking the color under your eyes. The way your jaw's holding itself too tight. Then she releases you and exhales through her nose. A decision made.<br><br> "Yuh eat anything today?" she asks.<br><br> "No."<br><br> "Mm." She nods. "Mi have food in di car. Yuh not leaving without eating something. We can argue about it after."<br><br> Anthony turns from the window. His eyes are redder than before. He wipes both palms down the front of his shirt once, squares his shoulders, and only then steps forward. His voice, when he speaks, is quivering a little.<br><br> "Maud," he says. Just the name. Like he needs to say it out loud one more time to make it real. Or bearable. Or anything other than what it is. He puts his hands in his pockets. "Twenty-three years old." A pause. His jaw works. "Mi know she wasn't — mi know di things she did, di life she live. But yuh know what mi see when mi look at her?" He taps his chest once. "Mi see di girl who used to come to wi restaurant and eat with a smile. Dat is mi pickney. Always gon be mi pickney."<br><br> His voice breaks on the last word. Just slightly. And he presses his mouth flat. Marcia makes a sound. Small. Her hand finds Anthony's arm.<br><br> "Wi was gonna go to her." Marcia's voice is rougher than usual. She wipes her face with the back of her hand. "When she was ready. When she — mi know she needed time, but mi was going to show up pon her doorstep and make her eat something proper and have it out with her whether she want it or not." A short exhale. Something that's almost a laugh and entirely isn't. "Mi run out of time."<br><br> "Wi all run out of time," Anthony says, and he says it to Marcia but he's looking at you.<br><br> The three of you stand with that for a moment.<br><br> Then you remember that you have to thank them. For this. For being here. For the service. For all of it. <br><br> Marcia stops you with a small lift of her hand.<br><br> "$firstName." Quiet. "Wi didn't cover dis."<br><br> You stop.<br><br> "Wi try." Anthony's eyes are steady on yours. "Mi call three places. Find Jenkins through di third one. Took some doing, yuh don't find people who handle Umbra rites just anywhere, dem don't exactly advertise. Mi was ready fi pay whatever it cost." He pauses. "But when wi reach dis morning, it was already arrange. All of it. Everything pre-paid. Wi think it was yuh."<br><br> Nobody says anything for a second. Somewhere behind you a chair creaks under someone shifting their weight, too loud in a room that's gone otherwise completely silent.<br><br> <<link '⌕ You keep your voice level, giving nothing away. "I see."'>> <<run setup.setTrait('deflecting', ($deflecting || 50) + 1)>> <<set $reidsResponse to "calculated">> <<goto "CH2P3.8">> <</link>><br><br> <<link '⌕ You grab Macria\'s arm. "Who else knew she died? Who did you tell?"'>> <<run setup.setTrait('deflecting', ($deflecting || 50) - 1)>> <<set $reidsResponse to "journalist">> <<goto "CH2P3.8">> <</link>><br><br> <<link '⌕ You go still. "That doesn\'t—" You stop.'>> <<run setup.setTrait('soft', ($soft || 50) + 1)>> <<set $reidsResponse to "unguarded">> <<goto "CH2P3.8">> <</link>><br><br> <<link '⌕ You hold their gazes without blinking. "It wasn\'t me."'>> <<run setup.setTrait('soft', ($soft || 50) - 1)>> <<set $reidsResponse to "direct">> <<goto "CH2P3.8">> <</link>>

<<if $reidsResponse is "calculated">> "I see."<br><br> Marcia's eyes stay on your face a beat longer. She doesn't press. "Mi didn't think it was a problem — mi thought maybe—" She stops. Looks at Anthony. "Wi just figure it was yuh. Mi sorry if dat was wrong fi assume."<br><br> You cover her hand with yours. "It's alright. Thank you for trying to cover the funeral expenses. Both of you."<br><br> <<elseif $reidsResponse is "journalist">> "Who did you tell?" It comes out exactly as sharp as you meant it.<br><br> Marcia's palm connects with your arm. Not to hurt. But hard enough.<br><br> "Watch yuh mouth." Her finger's already up before the sting fades. "Mi know yuh grieving. Mi grieving too. But yuh don't come at mi like dat, not today, not ever." She holds your gaze, doesn't blink first. "Mi told nobody. Which mean whoever arrange dis never hear it from wi."<br><br> You rub the spot on your arm, more from reflex than pain. "You're right. I'm sorry." You're ashamed of how you spoke. <br><br> <<elseif $reidsResponse is "unguarded">> "That doesn't—"<br><br> You stop.<br><br> Because you were going to say it doesn't make sense. That there's no one else who would.<br><br> Marcia's hand covers yours. Brief. "She had more people than yuh knew." Quiet.. "Always did, dat girl. Collect people and den act surprise dat dem care about her. Like it was an accident every time." The fond, exasperated shake of her head worn now for Maud instead of for you. "Every single time."<br><br> Your throat tightens around whatever was going to come next. You swallow it instead. "Yeah. I'm starting to understand that."<br><br> <<elseif $reidsResponse is "direct">> "It wasn't me."<br><br> Anthony's glance flicks toward Jenkins's corner and back. "Den someone know quickly. And know exactly what she needed. Di rites, di right man to do dem." Yuh don't find Jenkins by accident. Someone who know Umbra tradition, who know her specifically, dem arrange all of dis before any of wi even think to." His jaw sets.<br><br> "Yes."<br><br> Marcia studies you the way she's been doing all morning, head tilting a fraction. "Dat should comfort yuh or frighten yuh?" No lightness in it. She actually wants the answer.<br><br> You don't have one for her yet.<br><br> <</if>> The three of you stand in the small quiet of it for a moment.<br><br> Marcia squeezes your hand once, firm, before letting go. "Come to dinner. Dis week, next week, whenever yuh can manage. Anthony will cook." Her eyes sweep your face one more time, same as before. "Yuh don't have to be okay. Mi kitchen don't require okay."<br><br> "I'll call."<br><br> "Yuh better." Warm. No room for negotiation in it. She turns back to Anthony, who slides an arm around her, and for a moment they just stand there, her forehead tipping briefly against his shoulder.<br><br> You step away and let them have that.<br><br> [[Talk to the sisters|CH2P3.9]]

Tasha reaches you first. She checks you over you quickly.<br><br> "I'm not going to say anything," she says. Her voice is rougher than usual. "I just need to know you're — okay. Functionally. That's all."<br><br> "Functionally okay," you say.<br><br> She nods. Accepts it. Then her composure cracks properly. Just for a moment. She pulls you in. Brief. Fierce. and then releases you and steps back and presses her knuckles to her mouth and breathes through her nose until she's got it again.<br><br> "Sorry," she says. Doesn't trust herself with more words right now. Steps back to give Keisha room.<br><br> "She was trying," Keisha says. Not a question. Not even really addressed to you — more like she needs to say it one more time. Out loud. To someone who was there.<br><br> Keisha's jaw works. She wipes her face. "Then this is—" She stops. Starts again. Picks a different word. "This is wrong. This is completely wrong."<br><br> "Keisha—" Tasha starts, the warning tone.<br><br> "I know." She already knows whatever Tasha was going to say. "I know. I'm just—" She exhales. Shaky. "She used to send Ace the worst memes at two in the morning. The absolute worst ones. And $aceHe'd show me in the morning and they were always so terrible and I—" She stops. Looks at the floor. "I liked knowing she was out there doing that. Somewhere. To someone else maybe but still doing it."<br><br> She wipes her face again. Pointless. Fresh tears already. She grips your arm once, tight, and then releases it.<br><br> Imani has been standing slightly apart from all of this. She's been watching the casket. She's been watching you.<br><br> The silence extends for a moment.<br><br> Then Imani says, very quietly: "You're going to find out who did it."<br><br> Not a question. Tasha goes still. Makes a small warning sound.<br><br> "I'm not asking $mcHim to confirm it," Imani says, without looking at Tasha. Still looking at you. "I'm just... saying it. Because it's true." She holds your gaze. "And I think you should know that we know. So you don't have to protect us from it. And I want you to find this person and I want you to kill them."<br><br> "Imani." Tasha's voice is sharp. Imani finally looks at Tasha. Her expression doesn't change. "You were thinking it," she says simply. "We were all thinking it but you won't say it. Well... I do."<br><br> Tasha opens her mouth. Closes it. Keisha, very quietly, does not disagree.<br><br> The room is quiet.<br><br> You look at Imani. Fifteen years old. Standing in a funeral parlour, having just said the thing everyone in the room was carrying and none of the adults were going to say out loud. The thing you've been carrying since the morgue. The real question is... would you? <br><br> <<link '⌕ You nod once, eyes fixed on the casket. "Yeah."'>> <<run setup.setTrait('relaxed', ($relaxed || 50) + 1)>> <<set $imanifResponse to "relaxed">> <<goto "CH2P3.10">> <</link>><br><br> <<link '⌕ You straighten, something hardening behind your eyes. "I\'m going to find out the truth. Whatever that means."'>> <<run setup.setTrait('relaxed', ($relaxed || 50) - 1)>> <<set $imanifResponse to "confrontational">> <<goto "CH2P3.10">> <</link>><br><br> <<link '⌕ Your grip tightens on the edge of the pew. "Don\'t say things like that."'>> <<run setup.setTrait('deflecting', ($deflecting || 50) - 1)>> <<set $imanifResponse to "cutting">> <<goto "CH2P3.10">> <</link>><br><br> <<link '⌕ "I\'ll do what I can." You look away. Back at the casket. Back at the street through the window. Anywhere but her.'>> <<run setup.setTrait('deflecting', ($deflecting || 50) + 1)>> <<set $imanifResponse to "deflecting">> <<goto "CH2P3.10">> <</link>>

<<if $imanifResponse is "relaxed">> "Yeah."<br><br> That's it. Nothing else.<br><br> Tasha makes a sound through her nose. Sharp. She looks away. Her jaw works once and then stops.<br><br> Imani nods. Once. "Good. I'm going to hold you to it," she holds your eyes as she says it.<br><br> <<elseif $imanifResponse is "confrontational">> "I'm going to find out the truth. Whatever that means."<br><br> Imani looks at you for a long moment. She can hear the gap between what you said and what she said and she is deciding, right now, whether to make you close it.<br><br> She doesn't make you close it.<br><br> "Okay," she says. Then: "Same thing." You're not sure it is. She's not sure either.<br><br> Tasha squeezes your arm once. Firm. Brief. "Be careful," she says. Not a request.<br><br> <<elseif $imanifResponse is "cutting">> "Don't say things like that."<br><br> It comes out wrong. Too sharp. Not at her. Or not only at her.<br><br> Imani doesn't flinch. "Why not?"<br><br> Not a challenge. An actual question. She wants to know.<br><br> "It's not okay," but you don't have a clear answer. Wasn't it a normal question to ask living in a place like Sordia?<br><br> Imani reads all of that in your face. She's been reading faces since before she had the vocabulary for what she was reading.<br><br> "Okay," she shrugs. Meaning several things. None of them: //I believe you.//<br><br> <<elseif $imanifResponse is "deflecting">> Imani watches you look away.<br><br> She doesn't call it out. She's fifteen and she's already figured out that calling it out doesn't work with you. It just makes you better at the dodge. So she just watches you not look at her and waits until you're done not looking at her.<br><br> "Okay," she says, when you come back. Her voice is even. "Let's see how long you can do it."<br><br> It is not entirely clear whether she means the answer or the looking away.<br><br> <</if>> You look at the time. You need to talk to Jenkins before he leaves. Keisha catches your arm as you start to step back.<br><br> Her eyes are still wet. Her grip on your arm is solid. Certain.<br><br> "Come to dinner soon," she says. "Ma's going to cook for forty people and there's only gonna be six of us. We need the numbers." A sound that's almost a laugh and mostly isn't. "And I have about forty questions about investigative journalism. Not tonight. But soon."<br><br> "Soon," you promise.<br><br> Tasha's hand lands briefly on your shoulder. One last look. Then she walks to her parents.<br><br> Imani says nothing. She looks at you for a moment with those eyes that catalogue everything and forget nothing. Then she turns back to where here parents are.<br><br> [[Time to talk to Jenkins|CH2P3.11]]

He's in the far corner, folding the *fil umbrae*. The material doesn't behave like fabric should. He folds it anyway. Methodical. Like he's done this a thousand times and will do it a thousand more.<br><br> He doesn't look up when you approach. He knew you were coming before you moved.<br><br> "Jenkins."<br><br> His hands don't stop moving. "I've been waiting for this conversation since the rites ended." Not unkind. Not warm.<br><br> "Who arranged this service? You told me it got covered. I assumed it was the Reid's."<br><br> The folding continues. One more third, corner squared against corner. His hands go very still right as he answers. "The arrangement was made anonymously."<br><br> "I know." You stay where you are. Arms crossed, a full arm's length back The same distance you'd give a source who hasn't decided yet whether to talk. "I'm asking what you can tell me anyway."<br><br> He sets the cloth down. Looks at you directly for the first time. His eyes are the same flat grey as before. Not unkind. Not warm. Lifeless but somehow present. The eyes of someone who has looked at a great deal and kept most of what he saw to himself.<br><br> "Standard in my work," he says. "Privacy obligations. Clients who prefer anonymity have reasons that are generally their own business." A pause. "I'll tell you this much. The arrangement was made in good faith. The person who made it must have known your sister." He goes back to folding. The conversation has reached his limit and he's told you where that limit is and is now waiting to see what you do with it.<br><br> <<link '⌕ "The payment method. Not the name. Just the method. That\'s not protected information and you know it."'>> <<run setup.setTrait('calculated', ($calculated || 50) + 1)>> <<if $networking >= 10 or $observation >= 10>> <<goto "CH2P3.12_Success">> <<else>> <<goto "CH2P3.12_Fail">> <</if>> <</link>><br><br> <<link '⌕ "Someone paid for my sister\'s funeral before her body was cold. You\'re going to help me find out who."'>> <<run setup.setTrait('deflecting', ($deflecting || 50) - 1)>> <<if $calculated >= 50>> <<goto "CH2P3.12_Success">> <<else>> <<goto "CH2P3.12_Fail">> <</if>> <</link>><br><br> <<link '⌕ You\'ve been watching him since the rites ended. There\'s something in this room he keeps not looking at.'>> <<run setup.setTrait('calculated', ($calculated || 50) + 1)>> <<if $calculated >= 55>> <<goto "CH2P3.12_Success">> <<else>> <<goto "CH2P3.12_Fail">> <</if>> <</link>><br><br> <<link '⌕ "Alright. I appreciate you telling me what you could."'>> <<run setup.setTrait('deflecting', ($deflecting || 50) + 1)>> <<if $calculated >= 55>> <<goto "CH2P3.12_Success">> <<else>> <<goto "CH2P3.12_Fail">> <</if>> <</link>>

<<set $funeralDirectorClue to "success">> You've been watching him since before you approached. Old habit. The antenna that makes you impossible at dinner parties and indispensable in rooms where people are lying. And what you've been clocking in Jenkins since the rites ended is an avoidance. Small. Specific. He'll look at the cloth. He'll look at you. He looks left. At the wall. At his own hands.<br><br> He doesn't look at the case in the corner. The one with the burgundy dispatch seal on the outer flap.<br><br> You don't look at it either. "The burgundy courier."<br><br> A pause. Short. He's making a decision.<br><br> "I can't confirm the client's identity," he shrugs. "I can confirm that the payment came through a service that requires a pre-existing account. Not cash. Not a bank transfer." He smooths the cloth that doesn't need smoothing. "You understand what that says about the client's position."<br><br> A rich person. Was it her murderer? Someone from Luz's syndicate? "Thank you," you say.<br><br> He nods. Goes back to the cloth. Time for you to go.<br><br> [[Continue|CH2P3.13]]

<<set $funeralDirectorClue to "fail">> He doesn't move. Doesn't shift. Just holds his position and says, with the exact same flat courtesy he's used for everything: "I'm not in a position to say more."<br><br> You push once. He says it again. Same words. He's been doing this work for thirty years and he is not going to break for a journalist with hollow eyes in a funeral parlour. Not because he doesn't have anything to give but because he's been paid a very specific amount to not give it and he intends to honour that.<br><br> You believe him. That's almost worse.<br><br> "Thank you," you say.<br><br> He nods. Goes back to the cloth. Time for you to go.<br><br> [[Continue|CH2P3.13]]

You step outside.<br><br> The cold is useful. Something to feel that isn't what's been sitting in your chest since the morgue.<br><br> Ace is leaning against the wall to the left of the door. Head back. Eyes closed. Not sleeping, the shoulders are too for sleep. <br><br> <<if $aceView is "blame">> The last time you saw $aceHim you told $aceHim it wasn't fast enough. The words are still there between you. They don't disappear just because time has passed and you've stood in the same room for an hour. Some things don't disappear. They just get quieter.<br><br> $aceHeC opens $aceHis eyes when $aceHe hears you. Looks at you directly.<br><br> You look back at $aceHim. The face you've known for years. Still the same. Still $aceHim.<br><br> Neither of you mentions what you said. It's there and you both know it's there and you leave it there for now because this morning has been long enough already.<br><br> <<elseif $aceView is "codependency">> The last time you saw $aceHim you asked $aceHim to stay. $aceHeC stayed. Your anchor. You fight the urge to reach out. To touch.<br><br> $aceHeC opens $aceHis eyes. Looks at you. Something in $aceHis expression shifts. Relief, maybe. The relief of someone who wasn't sure what would be on your face today and is finding it manageable.<br><br> <<elseif $aceView is "distance">> You didn't ask $aceHim to stay last night. $aceHeC left when you needed $aceHim to leave, which was the right thing. Which you have mixed feelings about.<br><br> $aceHeC opens $aceHis eyes when $aceHe hears you. Doesn't say anything about the unanswered messages. Doesn't push. That restraint is either generosity or it's going to cost you both something later. You're not sure which.<br><br> <<elseif $aceView is "unchanged">> Same as always. That's the terrifying thing and the only good thing. Ace is your person. Everything else is wreckage but that's still standing.<br><br> $aceHeC opens $aceHis eyes. Sees you. The corner of $aceHis mouth moves. Not a smile. Too tired for a smile. But the hint of one. <br><br> <</if>> "They sealed it," $aceHe whispers. Not looking at you. Looking at the street. "CRD. Official classification is accidental. Acute cardiovascular failure, cause inconclusive." $aceHisC jaw works once. "Case archived."<br><br> Accidental. The compound that doesn't exist in any database. The absent spirit. The hollow chest.<br><br> Accidental. Acci—fucking—dental.<br><br> Something burns up through your ribs that is too hot to be grief and too exhausted to be rage. It lives in the space between them. The scorched place.<br><br> $aceHeC drags a hand down $aceHis face, presses $aceHis fingers massaging $aceHis temples. "I filed for review. Same day denial. I don't know who signed it yet."<br><br> <<link '⌕ Your voice sharpens. "You did everything right and Maud is still dead and the CRD just filed her under inconclusive. That\'s the system you work for."'>> <<run setup.setTrait('relaxed', ($relaxed || 50) - 1)>> <<set $aceFuneralTalk to "corrupt">> <<set $aceCorruptionPoints += 1>> <<set $acestat -= 2>> <<goto "CH2P3.14">> <</link>><br><br> <<link '⌕ You pull out your phone, already typing a note. "Find out who signed it. That name is going to matter."'>> <<run setup.setTrait('calculated', ($calculated || 50) + 1)>> <<set $aceFuneralTalk to "calculated">> <<set $acestat += 2>> <<goto "CH2P3.14">> <</link>><br><br> <<link '⌕ You rest a hand on Ace\'s shoulder. "It\'s not on you. The decision was made above you and it was wrong. Those are both true at the same time."'>> <<run setup.setTrait('soft', ($soft || 50) + 1)>> <<set $aceFuneralTalk to "soft">> <<set $acestat += 2>> <<goto "CH2P3.14">> <</link>><br><br> <<link '⌕ You shake your head slowly. "The official record doesn\'t change what happened. I don\'t need it to say the right thing to know the right thing."'>> <<run setup.setTrait('soft', ($soft || 50) - 1)>> <<set $aceFuneralTalk to "hardened">> <<set $acestat += 2>> <<goto "CH2P3.14">> <</link>>

<<if $aceFuneralTalk is "corrupt">> $aceHeC doesn't argue.<br><br> That's the thing. $aceHeC doesn't argue because $aceHe can't. Because it's true. Because $aceHe's been sitting with the same thought and chose not to say it out loud because Ace needs desperately to believe in he good of people.<br><br> $aceHisC eyes close briefly. Open. Something has shifted in them. Something that was whole before has a crack in it now and the crack is your shape.<br><br> <<elseif $aceFuneralTalk is "calculated">> $aceHeC straightens slightly. The shift from grief-still to operational.<br><br> "I'm already on it," $aceHe says. "Cross-referencing with the oversight committee roster. Someone above Hawke signed it and they did it fast, maybe too fast." $aceHisC voice has the focus of someone who has been thinking about this for a while.<br><br> "That's what I thought," you say.<br><br> $aceHeC looks at you. Something moves between you. The ease that happens when two people who are good at this are working the same problem from different angles and both know it.<br><br> <<elseif $aceFuneralTalk is "soft">> $aceHeC exhales. <br><br> "I know," $aceHis voice sounds rough. "I know both things are true. Knowing doesn't make the seventeen minutes smaller."<br><br> "No," you say. "It doesn't."<br><br> $aceHeC glances at you. Brief. And something in $aceHis face loosens slightly at the edges. <br><br> <<elseif $aceFuneralTalk is "hardened">> $aceHeC's quiet for a moment.<br><br> Then $aceHe makes a sound. Not quite a laugh. Not quite not one. "That's very you," $aceHe snorts.<br><br> "Am I wrong?"<br><br> "No." $aceHeC looks at the street. "No it's not wrong." $aceHisC hands go into $aceHis pockets. "I just... I filed the report. I did it correctly. I followed every step." A pause. "And now there's a sealed file with Maud's name on it and the word accidental and I have to walk past it every day I go into work."<br><br> "Yeah," you say. "You do."<br><br> <</if>> The street moves around you..<br><br> Ace's shoulder finds the wall behind you both, weight shifting until $aceHe's half-leaning into it. "I keep thinking about the seventeen minutes." Very quiet. Like $aceHe didn't mean to say it out loud and it came out anyway.<br><br> "Ace—"<br><br> "I know what you're going to say." Quick. Ace voice stays level. Barely. "I'm not there yet."<br><br> You don't push it.<br><br> That might be its own kind of grace. Or it might be cowardice. You're not sure you have the capacity to know which right now.<br><br> $aceHeC tabs you on your shoulder. "Hey." Quieter this time. $aceHisC eyes come to you properly for the first time since you came outside. All of you. Not just your face. "How are you doing. Actually."<br><br> <<link '⌕ ♡ "Worse than I\'m telling everyone else. You\'re the only one getting the real answer."'>> <<set $aceFuneralChoice to "bold">> <<run setup.setTrait('bold', ($bold || 50) + 1)>> <<set $ace_romance += 1>> <<set $acestat += 1>> <<goto "CH2P3.15">> <</link>><br><br> <<link '⌕ ♡ You don\'t answer right away. Look at the street instead. "I don\'t know yet," you say finally. "I\'m still figuring out what I\'m supposed to feel."'>> <<set $aceFuneralChoice to "shy">> <<run setup.setTrait('shy', ($shy || 50) + 1)>> <<set $ace_romance += 1>> <<set $acestat += 1>> <<goto "CH2P3.15">> <</link>><br><br> <<link '⌕ ♡ "I keep trying to write the story in my head. The one I\'d file if this happened to someone else. It\'s the only way I know how to process things." You stop. "That\'s probably not a normal answer."'>> <<set $aceFuneralChoice to "awkward">> <<run setup.setTrait('awkward', ($awkward || 50) + 1)>> <<set $ace_romance += 1>> <<set $acestat += 1>> <<goto "CH2P3.15">> <</link>><br><br> <<link '⌕ ♡ You push off the wall to answer and miscalculate the distance. End up half a step closer to Ace than you meant to be. "Fine," you say, voice slightly higher. "I\'m fine."'>> <<set $aceFuneralChoice to "clumsy">> <<run setup.setTrait('clumsy', ($clumsy || 50) + 1)>> <<set $ace_romance += 1>> <<set $acestat += 1>> <<goto "CH2P3.15">> <</link>><br><br> <<link '⌕ ♡ "Cold," you murmur absentmindedly. "The steps are cold." You don\'t notice that you mean something else.'>> <<set $aceFuneralChoice to "oblivious">> <<run setup.setTrait('oblivious', ($oblivious || 50) + 1)>> <<set $ace_romance += 1>> <<set $acestat += 1>> <<goto "CH2P3.15">> <</link>><br><br> <<link '⌕ You lean back against the wall, closing your eyes for a second. "Still standing. That\'s the whole answer today."'>> <<set $aceFuneralChoice to "soft">> <<run setup.setTrait('soft', ($soft || 50) + 1)>> <<set $acestat += 1>> <<goto "CH2P3.15">> <</link>><br><br> <<link '⌕ You cross your arms, stepping back half a pace. "Don\'t ask me that right now."'>> <<set $aceFuneralChoice to "hardened">> <<run setup.setTrait('soft', ($soft || 50) - 1)>> <<set $acestat -= 1>> <<goto "CH2P3.15">> <</link>>

<<if $aceFuneralChoice is "bold">> $aceHeC reaches over without asking and stills your hand where it's been picking apart the hem of your sleeve, closing $aceHis fingers over yours. Doesn't let go right away.<br><br> "Good." No hedge in it at all. "I want the real answer."<br><br> $aceHeC says it the way $aceHe says most things that matter. Like it's obvious. Like the obvious things are the ones worth saying plainest.<br><br> <<if $relationshipType is "obvious">>$aceHisC thumb moves once over your knuckles. Absent. Like $aceHe doesn't even register doing it. You very much register it. $aceHeC lets go before it can turn into anything.<<elseif $relationshipType is "secret">>Your palms have gone damp.You are fraking out. Internally. Ridiculous, given everything else happening today, and entirely beside the point. $aceHeC lets go before it can turn into anything.<</if>> <<elseif $aceFuneralChoice is "shy">> $aceHeC doesn't push you to fill the silence. Just waits while you look at the street. While you find the words. While you come back to $aceHim on your own.<br><br> "Still figuring it out," $aceHe says when you finish. Not echoing you. Agreeing. "Me too."<br><br> Ace tilts $aceHis head back against the wall. Closes $aceHis eyes for a second. "Tell me when you know. I want to hear it."<br><br> <<if $relationshipType is "obvious">>Your mouth's gone dry. You swallow around nothing, nod once, too stiff to pass for casual.<<elseif $relationshipType is "secret">>The redirect lands soft, no follow-up question behind it. Your shoulders drop half an inch you didn't know you'd been holding up.<</if>> <<elseif $aceFuneralChoice is "awkward">> $aceHeC goes quiet.<br><br> You hear it as soon as it leaves your mouth. Too honest. Badly timed. Exactly the kind of thing that slips out when your brain's still running on reporter mode.<br><br> "That's not a normal answer." $aceHeC rubs the back of $aceHis neck. "That's a //you// answer." $aceHeC looks at you sideways. A small smile on $aceHis lips. "There's a difference."<br><br> <<if $relationshipType is "obvious">>You can't help the grin that gets away from you. Even now. Even here. It's easy, falling into this with $aceHim. Easier than it has any right to be today.<<elseif $relationshipType is "secret">>Kindly meant. Nothing more read into it. You still want the sidewalk to open up and take you.<</if>> <<elseif $aceFuneralChoice is "clumsy">> Your ankle catches wrong on the uneven curb and you pitch half a step sideways. Tight into $aceHim.<br><br> $aceHisC hand closes around your elbow before you've even finished stumbling. Steady. Easy. Like some part of $aceHim had already been braced for it.<br><br> "Careful." There's a laugh trying to get out, not quite managing to stay hidden. "One tragedy a day's the limit."<br><br> "Fine." You straighten up, extracting your elbow before your face can fully commit to expose your mortification. "Right."<br><br> $aceHeC doesn't call you on it. Just watches. Mouth twitching, while you find something extremely important to look at on the sidewalk that does not require $aceHis help to observe.<br><br> <<if $relationshipType is "obvious">>You can still feel exactly where $aceHis hand was. A warm print through your sleeve that takes its time fading.<<elseif $relationshipType is "secret">>$aceHeC doesn't push. Doesn't mention it again. You step back to the distance you're supposed to keep, ears still hot.<</if>><<elseif $aceFuneralChoice is "oblivious">> $aceHeC looks at you sideways.<br><br> "You're cold?"<br><br> "The steps," you clarify. "They're cold."<br><br> "Right." $aceHeC is already shrugging out of $aceHis jacket. Doesn't ask. Doesn't make a thing of it. Drapes it over your shoulders before you can tell $aceHim not to bother. <br><br> You don't correct $aceHim. Can't, really. Not without explaining what you actually meant, and you're not entirely sure you could, even if you tried.<br><br> "The food thing is also a problem." $aceHe pushes off the wall, already got $aceHis phone half out of $aceHis pocket. "We're fixing that first. Ma packed enough for twenty people. I'll bring some over for Ben."<br><br> Practical. Immediate. $aceHimC turning the conversation into something Ace can do something about because that is simply $aceHim and that's always been how $aceHe loves people. By feeding them. By fixing the fixable things. By doing something useful with the worry so it doesn't eat $aceHim alive.<br><br> <<if $relationshipType is "obvious">>You clutch $aceHis jacket tighter around yourself. $aceHisC smell calming you down. Ace hates the cold but would always make sure you're taken care of. Extremely $aceHim. Extremely adorable.<<elseif $relationshipType is "secret">>You got $aceHis jacket. Completely by accident. You'll take it. You're freaking out a little. Internally of course.<</if>> <<elseif $aceFuneralChoice is "soft">> $aceHeC nods.<br><br> "Okay." Quiet. "Still standing is enough for today."<br><br> $aceHeC fistbumps your shoulder. Barely. There and gone. Something in your chest goes tight and warm seeing ace act a little bit moe like $aceHimself. <<elseif $aceFuneralChoice is "hardened">> $aceHeC absorbs that. Doesn't push. Doesn't do the thing where people ask again in different words hoping you'll change your answer.<br><br> "Okay," $aceHe smiles slightly. Meaning: I hear you. Meaning: I'm not going anywhere just because you told me not to ask. Meaning: I'll still be here when you're ready to answer.<br><br> Ace doesn't say any of that out loud. $aceHeC doesn't need to.<br><br> <</if>> A delivery van passes. Someone's music bleeds from a window two floors up.<br><br> You look at $aceHim. $aceHeC's looking at the street again. The sharp profile. The burn scar at $aceHis right ear, pale in the morning light. He hasn't shifted his weight once since you sat down.<br><br> You've known $aceHim for years. Stood on a lot of steps with $aceHim. This one's different. This one has Maud's absence sitting in it, and everything neither of you has said out loud yet.<br><br> "I have to go," you say.<br><br> $aceHeC turns. Looks at you. Reads you. $aceHeC's always been good at reading you. Too good, sometimes.<br><br> "Okay," $aceHe says. "Where are you going?"<br><br> "Just some work I have to finish," your hand's started itching again. That low crawl under the skin. You scratch at it without thinking. Ace notices immediately.<br><br> $aceHeC looks at you a moment longer. You can see the want to come along sitting right behind $aceHis eyes, and right next to it, the understanding of why you have to do this part alone.<br><br> "Check in," $aceHe mumbles. "Afterwards. I need to know you're—" $aceHeC stops. Starts over. "Check in."<br><br> "I will."<br><br> You step off the stairs.<br><br> Ace stays where $aceHe is. Watches you go. You don't look back. Not because you can't, but because looking back would mean seeing $aceHis face and you don't have room for guilt right now. Not with everything else you're carrying.<br><br> The city opens up in front of you.<br><br> [[Continue|CH2P4]]

The guard at the front desk is young. Too young for the particular lines on his face. He barely looks up when you push through the glass door.<br><br> The lobby is beige. Chairs bolted to the floor at precise intervals. A rack of leaflets that nobody has touched. //Family Resources. You Are Not Alone.// The smell of industrial cleaner doing its best over something underneath that cleaning can't reach. Something older. Something that had time to settle into the walls.<br><br> "How can I help you?"<br><br> You set your ID on the counter. "I'm here to see a patient."<br><br> That gets him to look up. Not at you. At his screen. His fingers hover over the keyboard.<br><br> "Name and relation?"<br><br> "Delilah $lastName."<br><br> "She's my mother." That word feels wrong in your mouth.<br><br> He types. Scrolls. Types again. The fluorescent light above his desk buzzes. You're the only one who hears it. Everyone else probably stopped hearing it a long time ago.<br><br> He stops scrolling.<br><br> "Patient hasn't had a visitor in—" A pause. He looks at his screen. Then at you. Then back at his screen. Something crosses his face that isn't quite pity. More like the careful neutrality of someone who has learned that their reactions are part of someone else's worst day. "Four years."<br><br> "I know."<br><br> "Last visit on file—" He stops. Looks at his screen. Looks at you. Back at his screen. "Four years. That was you."<br><br> "I know."<br><br> "Wait, there's actually a more recent visit logged. Six weeks ago." He tilts the screen slightly, checking something. "A Mathilde $lastName."<br><br> You flinch. Hard. It's been over ten years since you last heard her full name spoken out loud. She always detested that name. But most importantly Maud was here. Six weeks ago. You make a mental note to ask Dee about it later.<br><br> "Are you alright?" The guard asks.<br><br> "I'm fine," you snap back a little harsher than you meant to. "I still need to see her."<br><br> His look is full of skepticism. Eventually he reaches for the phone.<br><br> They make you wait twenty-three minutes.<br><br> You watch the clock on the far wall. One of those large institutional ones with a second hand that stutters instead of sweeping. Stutter. Pause. Stutter. Like it's having second thoughts. Like even time moves differently in here, not a flow but a series of reluctant concessions.<br><br> You don't sit in any of the bolted-down chairs. You stand near the door you came in through. Which is the door out. You're very tempted by it.<br><br> [[Continue|CH2P4.1]]

A woman in blue scrubs comes through the locked internal door and gives you the look. The one that's half professional assessment. Half something she doesn't let all the way through. She introduces herself. Dr. Something. You don't memorize it. You don't need to. You follow her through the door and the smell changes immediately. Gets more sweaty and stale now that the lobby's polite antiseptic is behind you.<br><br> She talks while she walks. You catch only a few pieces of it.<br><br> Something about controlled environment. Minimal stimulation protocols. The restraint vest, which is what it sounds like — thick-seamed, cream-coloured, designed specifically for Umbra patients, the lining engineered to block bloodline powers. She cannot reach shadows while wearing it. Pre-visit injection. Standard protocol. May produce a window of clarity.<br><br> "How long does the window last?" you ask hoping that you'll be lucky.<br><br> "It varies." She says it the way doctors say things they have said too many times to soften the disappointment. "Should your mother start to act out, stay seated. Stay calm. Don't raise your voice. Don't lean toward the glass."<br><br> "The glass?"<br><br> "We finally got it. There's a partition between you. For your protection and hers." A brief glance at you, the kind that says she has read your file. "Standard for high-expression bloodline patients with documented incident history."<br><br> You follow her through two more locked doors into a short hallway that ends at a room with a reinforced window set in the wall. Wire mesh through the glass so it won't shatter if someone puts a fist through it. Through it: a chair. A table bolted to the floor. A slot of grey sky through a window too high to see out of. And in the chair on the far side of the glass, your mother.<br><br> You stop.<br><br> You had a plan about not stopping. You have been carrying the plan since the parking lot. You stop anyway.<br><br> She looks like you. She looks exactly like you.<br><br> That is the thing nobody prepares you for. Seeing family after a long absence. The faces you share. Your jaw on her face. The shape of your nose. The way your eyes are set. The angle of them. The only difference is the colours. The exact same as Maud's. You are looking at yourself thirty years forward. Broken open and left to bleed dry. Weathered down by life.<br><br> She's thin. The restraint vest — cream-coloured, thick-seamed, the Umbra-specific lining visible in the faint shimmer at the edges — swallows the top half of her. Her hands are folded on the table below it. They are your hands. Older. Thinner. The knuckles more prominent. But the same hands. The same particular length of finger. The same way they rest.<br><br> That's the worst part. It's always the specific things.<br><br> You sit down on your side of the glass. Two feet of reinforced partition between you. Her eyes find you through it. They don't warm.<br><br> "Well," she cackles with glee. The speaker grille in the glass passes her voice with a faint crackle. Lower than you remember. Ground down to something rougher. But the same voice. Some things survive everything. "Look what the gutter dragged in."<br><br> The nurse is already at her shoulder with the syringe. Dee doesn't flinch. She turns her head toward the ceiling and exhales through her nose while the needle goes in. She stays like that. Eyes half-closed. While the medication moves through her. You watch the tremor in her hands slow. Not stop. Slow. Like something turned down. Not off.<br><br> Her eyes come back. Different now. Cleaner. The window, the doctor said. You watch it open.<br><br> "Sit," Dee says. You're already sitting. "I won't bite... this time." A pause. A small, private smile. "Does your shoulder still hurt?"<br><br> The sentence lands exactly where it's aimed. You don't let it show.<br><br> But memories don't ask for permission. That is the thing about memory. It has no manners. No sense of occasion. No understanding of when is the wrong time. It arrives when the conditions are right. The conditions right now are: her voice through the speaker grille. The hands on the table that are your hands. The grey slot of sky. The smell underneath the antiseptic that cleaning cannot reach. And you are not here anymore.<br><br> You are eleven years old. You are coming home from school.<br><br> [[Continue|CH2P4.2]]

//It is a Tuesday in October.<br><br> You know this because Mrs. Heller handed back the English tests and you got a ninety-four and you have been carrying it in your bag since eight this morning. A ninety-four might help. You have tested this theory before. Dee has been having a bad few weeks. <br><br> Not the worst kind of bad. Not the kind where the apartment goes dark and you and Maud sit with your backs against your bedroom door and don't make a sound. The ordinary bad. The kind where she doesn't get off the couch much, the dishes stack up and she looks at you sometimes like she is trying to remember something. A ninety-four is evidence of something. Proof. Here, look. Look what I did. Maybe it helps.<br><br> Maud is at the playground today.<br><br> You climb the stairs to the second floor. You find your key. You put it in the lock.<br><br> The kitchen light is off. You stand in the open doorway and you do not go in.<br><br> The rule installed itself in your body after Dee's last crash-out. Dee keeps the kitchen light on because she says it keeps the shadows away. Her words. You didn't fully understand them then, but you understood what they meant in practice: the kitchen light being on means things are normal-ish. The kitchen light being off means crashout. This is the only hint you get. How to anticipate her moods.<br><br> The kitchen light is off today.<br><br> You stay in the doorway. Unsure.<br><br>// [[Continue|CH2P4.3]]

//The apartment is quiet in the wrong way. Not the easy quiet of an empty place. This quiet has something in it. The living room is dim. Curtains half-drawn. Afternoon light coming through in thin strips that land on the floor and go still. You can see most of the room from here. The couch. The coffee table. The bookshelf with the photo of Dee and your father from before you were born. The two of them laughing at something outside the frame. Ivo's arm around her shoulders. The only time your parents were happy. Probably. <br><br> No Dee on the couch.<br><br> "Mom?" You're eleven and you still call her that sometimes. On the days when she seems like you can calm her down. "Dee?"<br><br> Silence. You step inside. You leave the front door open. <br><br> Kitchen. Empty. Messy dishes scattered around the sink. A cup on the counter with a ring of dried tea at the bottom. The window above the sink shows the narrow gap between buildings and two pigeons on a ledge and nothing else.<br><br> Hallway.<br><br> You don't call out again. You've learned this: on certain kinds of days, calling out is not helpful. On certain kinds of days, small and quiet is better than large and loud. Because large and loud draws attention and attention is not something you normally want from Dee or Ivo.<br><br> Bathroom. Empty.<br><br> Dee's bedroom door is open.<br><br> You push it wider.<br><br> Dark. Fully dark. The dark that means the shadows in there are being used for something. You reach for the light switch.<br><br> The light comes on. The room is empty.<br><br> You stand there. You let yourself feel the first edge of relief. She's not here. She went out. She left the kitchen light off by accident. She is fine and she is out and everything is—<br><br> The bedroom door swings closed behind you. You did not touch it.<br><br> You turn around.<br><br> Dee is standing against the wall.<br><br> She has been there the whole time. You don't know how you missed her. Except that you do know. The Umbra dark fills around things. Makes them part of it. Lets a person with the blood pull shadow around themselves and become a piece of the room. The shadow along the baseboard by her feet is still moving. Slow. Like something settling back into place now that it's been seen. Small ripples of dark crawling up the wall behind her and going still one by one.<br><br> She has been against that wall since before you turned the light on. She is wearing the blue dress.<br><br> This is the detail that will live in you the longest. Not what comes after. The blue dress. The one she wore to your play when you were five. The one you thought was her favourite because something in her face became softer. Because she smiled and the smile looked like happiness instead of the thing that wears happiness's face. You had thought the dress meant something. You had filed it away as proof that the good version of her was real.<br><br> The dress.<br><br> She is standing with her shoulders at the wrong angle. You will try to describe this later to Walsh. To Maud. To yourself in the dark and the words will never be quite right. Not wrong like a person who is hunching. Wrong like her body has arranged itself around something inside.<br><br> Her spine curves inward in the wrong place. Her head is tilted to one side further than heads tilt. Her arms hang just slightly too far from her body. The elbows bent just slightly too much. Like a person drawn by a five year old.<br><br> Her eyes are fully black. Like Maud's sometimes. Not the tired near-black of her bad ordinary days. Black all the way through, no white left anywhere in them, like someone poured ink into the sockets and it just stayed.<br><br> She is smiling.<br><br> Wide. Real. The muscles of it working correctly. The corners pulling up. The teeth showing. It is the most wrong thing about her. Worse than the eyes and worse than the angle of her body, because it is genuine. Whatever she is right now, she is genuinely glad.<br><br> Her head tips back a fraction. Her nostrils flare once. Twice. Like she's tasting the air of the room. Cataloguing something in it that you can't smell yourself. You have a sick, immediate certainty that whatever she's smelling is you.<br><br> "There you are," she coos. Her voice is hers. That is something you will never be able to explain fully. Not a monster wearing your mother's voice, but your mother.<br><br> She tilts her head, and something underneath the smile shifts. Settles. Like she's just made a decision she's been circling for weeks and finally stopped fighting. "I let go. God, do you know how good that feels?"<br><br> She takes one step off the wall. Her bare feet make no sound at all against the floorboards. None.<br><br> "They don't stop, you know." She points at her head. "The voices. Never once, not for years, and everyone just expects me to keep smiling through it. Keep trying to live normally. Keep pretending I care about this shit." Another step. Unhurried. "And Ivo." Her mouth twists around the name like something rotten. "Ivo's off with another woman again. Thinks I don't know. Thinks I'm too tired and stupid to notice and I'm supposed to just sit here. Hold it together. For what? For you selfish shits?"<br><br> "Dee—" Your voice comes out smaller than you mean it to.<br><br> Her head snaps toward the sound of her name. Too fast. The motion wrong in the same way her elbows are wrong. "Don't." Sharp. Almost bored. "I am so sick of being needed by people who never once ask if I have anything left to give. Because I don't. I don't have anything left. Not one more day of it." Something in her face goes almost gleeful. Almost relieved. Like she's been waiting years for permission to say it out loud. "So I'm done pretending. Do you understand? I'm just—" A short, sharp laugh. "—done."<br><br> Her tongue drags once, slow, over her bottom lip. "Because I'm tired of fighting the voices. And I'm so, so hungry." She clutches her belly. Rocking back and forth like she has a bad cramp.<br><br> Then her arms stretch out towards you. She moves.<br><br> Your body acts faster than your brain. You run.<br><br> You run through the door. Into the hallway. You hear her behind you and the sound is wrong. The footsteps too light. Too quick. More than two of them somehow. The shadows on the hallway walls peel loose and reach ahead of her. Thin dark ropes. Stretching along the ceiling. The floor. Sliding across your path like something testing the width of the space before deciding whether you'll fit through it. One brushes your bare ankle. Cold enough to burn. Your leg buckles for half a stride before you catch yourself.<br><br> You are heading for the front door. If you can get there fast enough.<br><br> She is faster. She is faster than you knew a person could be. Faster than she has any right to be. She catches you in the kitchen doorway.<br><br> Both hands close on your shoulders from behind. Fingers digging in hard enough that you'll find four small bruises there tomorrow. One for each fingertip. She pulls you back. You lose the doorframe. Your hands scrape wood. A splinter catching under one nail. You barely register the sting before she pivots. Fluidly. Boneless. Completely wrong for a human body. It makes you crash into the wall.<br><br> The impact is solid. Your shoulder first. Then the side of your head. Aflat crack of skull against plaster loud enough that you feel it more than hear it. White sparks bloom behind your eyes. You scream. Your ears ring high and thin. A single flat tone that swallows every other sound for a second before the apartment comes rushing back in too loud. The drip from the kitchen faucet. Your own breath. Her breathing, close. Too close.<br><br> Your bag hits the floor. The English test is still in there. You think of this for one half-second completely against your will. The ninety-four. The way you were going to show her. As you slide down the wall, the plaster leaving a smear of paint dust on your body.<br><br> She watches you slide down the wall. Her head tilts the other way.<br><br> Her hands come up in front of her. Fingers curling slow. Deliberate. Like she's testing whether they still work the way she remembers. "Running makes it more interesting." A small, delighted huff of breath escapes her. Almost a laugh. Nothing human in the shape of it. "I didn't know this could be so exhilarating!"<br><br> You push yourself up. Both feet. Blood in your mouth from where you bit your cheek on impact. Warm and coppery. You swallow it down without thinking. You make yourself stand.<br><br>// <<link '⌕ You say her name. Not Dee. The other one. On the chance that it still means something.'>> <<run setup.setTrait('soft', ($soft || 50) + 1)>> <<set $flashChoice1 to "soft">> <<goto "CH2P4.4">> <</link>><br><br> <<link '⌕ You don\'t say anything. You stand there and look at her. That\'s all.'>> <<run setup.setTrait('soft', ($soft || 50) - 1)>> <<set $flashChoice1 to "hardened">> <<goto "CH2P4.4">> <</link>><br><br> <<link '⌕ You look past her. The front door. She is between you and it. Three steps. Maybe four.'>> <<run setup.setTrait('calculated', ($calculated || 50) + 1)>> <<set $flashChoice1 to "calculated">> <<goto "CH2P4.4">> <</link>><br><br> <<link '⌕ You don\'t think about it. Door. That\'s the only thought.'>> <<run setup.setTrait('calculated', ($calculated || 50) - 1)>> <<set $flashChoice1 to "reckless">> <<goto "CH2P4.4">> <</link>><br><br>

<<if $deeReply is "soft">>You press your palm flat against the counter on your side of the glass. "She was her own person. Not you, not Ivo. Her own."<br><br> Dee studies you for a long moment through the partition, head tilted a fraction. "Yes." Something in it that isn't entirely mockery. "She was. I'll give her that. She went further than either of us did."<br><br> <<elseif $deeReply is "hardened">>You lean back from the glass, arms crossing. "What does it matter now? She's not here to argue with you about it."<br><br> Dee's expression doesn't change, not even a flicker. "No." Relieved. "Thankfully she's not. That pest better never visit me again."<br><br> <<elseif $deeReply is "methodical">>You keep your voice level, finger tapping once against the counter before you still it. "What did she say, when you told her that?"<br><br> Dee mimicks your gesture. Taps one nail against the edge of her tray, unhurried, considering. "She said: I'm nothing like you, bitch. Which was endearing." A slow smile. "But we both know Maud loves to lie to herself." She watches you take that in, clearly savoring it.<br><br> <<else>>"You enjoyed it," you say. "Telling her that."<br><br> Dee holds your gaze through the glass. Chin lifting slightly. "Of course." No apology in it at all. "She always thought she'd escaped something. I enjoyed reminding her you can't outrun the blood. Nobody can."<br><br><</if>> A silence sits between you. Through the glass.<br><br> Dee leans back in her chair, rocking slightly back and forth. The picture of someone entirely comfortable in her own skin. "I gave her six months." Her voice is entirely calm. Like someone delivering a verdict they have already made peace with.<br><br> "During that visit she already looked like a ghost, and I thought: six months. Maybe eight, if she's careful." A small, satisfied huff of breath. "But she was never careful." One corner of Dee's mouth curls up, slow, genuine. "I told her. I said: I give you half a year, sweetheart. Before you're sitting across a glass from someone wearing one of these." She points to the vest with her chin, doesn't look down at it, keeps her eyes on you the whole time. Her eyes are filled with glee. "I told her I was genuinely looking forward to it. Having her here. We could have been company for each other, finally. We were never very good at it when we were both outside."<br><br> <<link '⌕ You let your eyes drift to the window. "She died."'>> <<run setup.setTrait('calculated', ($calculated || 50) + 2)>> <<set $deeTellVar to "calculated">> <<goto "CH2P4.8">> <</link>><br><br> <<link '⌕ You slam your palm flat on the table. "She\'s already dead, Dee."'>> <<run setup.setTrait('calculated', ($calculated || 50) - 2)>> <<set $deeTellVar to "reckless">> <<goto "CH2P4.8">> <</link>><br><br> <<link '⌕ Your hands twist together in your lap. "She\'s not coming. Maud\'s gone."'>> <<run setup.setTrait('soft', ($soft || 50) + 2)>> <<set $deeTellVar to "soft">> <<goto "CH2P4.8">> <</link>><br><br> <<link '⌕ You check the door. You need to get this over with. "Maud was murdered. Your prediction is a little off."'>> <<run setup.setTrait('soft', ($soft || 50) - 2)>> <<set $deeTellVar to "hardened">> <<goto "CH2P4.8">> <</link>><br><br>

<<if $deeTellVar is "calculated">>The silence after her last word stretches out. She lets it. You let it. And then:<br><br> "She died." You say it evenly. No extra weight on it. You give it the same delivery you would give a fact that you needed another person to have. You watch her face intently.<br><br> <<elseif $deeTellVar is "reckless">>"She's already dead, Dee."<br><br> You say it right across her last word. No pause. No buildup. The sentence lands like something thrown.<br><br> <<elseif $deeTellVar is "soft">>You let her finish. You let the last word sit in the air between you. Then:<br><br> "She's not coming." Your voice cracks. "Maud's gone."<br><br> <<else>>"Maud is dead," you say without preamble. "She was murdered. Your prediction is a little off."<br><br> The words come out flat. You mean them to land hard and they do.<br><br> <</if>> Dee goes very still. Not the stillness of shock. You have learned to read the difference. <br><br> "Murdered." She rolls the word once, testing the weight of it in her mouth like she's deciding whether she likes the taste.<br><br> "Yes."<br><br> She sits still for a while. Then a chuckle escapes her. The chuckle becomes a snicker and the snicker becomes a full-blown laugh. she throws her head back. Her whole body practically vibrates from joy.<br><br> "FINALLY!" She strains forward against the vest, testing it once, hard, then gives up just as quickly and settles back.<br><br> She twists in the restraints, turning toward the nurses by the door instead of you. "Did you hear that?" Bright. Delighted. Like she's sharing good news at a dinner party. "Did you hear? She's finally dead." A high pitched laugh aimed at them. The nurses quickly avoid her eyes.<br><br> You try not to react to her outburst. Nothing about being in this room has been easy. But this particular outburst is honest. And it makes you want to bash her head into the table.<br><br> That's when Dee's head turns. Not with her shoulders. Not the way a neck should carry a head around. It keeps going. Past where a chin should stop against a shoulder. Past where the vertebrae should lock. A full, slow rotation. A wet grinding click marking each new degree, until she's facing you again with her front body still pointed at the nurses. Her smile hasn't moved through any of it.<br><br> "THERE YOU ARE." The voice that comes out of her is not the voice that has been in the room for the last twenty minutes. It is the other one. The one that comes from somewhere the medication can surpress but cannot keep out forever.<br><br> She's up and moving before the nurses can catch her. Launching forward off the chair straight at the glass. The first hit is her shoulder. The second is her skull. Full force. The crack of it loud enough that you flinch back in your own seat.<br><br> The vest holds. You watch her strain against it. Body angled wrong again. Spine curving inward in the wrong place. Head tilting too far. The same angles from the hallway, sixteen years later.<br><br> She does it again.<br><br> And again. Wild. Frustrated. Rabid. Blood starts on the third hit. A bright smear against the glass that spreads wider with each impact after. Her forehead opening somewhere above the eyebrow. She doesn't seem to register the pain at all. If anything each hit seems to please her more. Mouth stretching wider. Saliva starting to gather at the corners of it. A thin string of drool swinging loose and breaking free to spatter the glass along with the blood.<br><br> The glass holds. It does not so much as crack. The wire mesh and reinforced frame doing exactly what they were designed to. Her face is right there on the other side of it. Black eyes and the wide real smile is back. Her tongue drags once over her bottom lip.<br><br> "I JUST NEED—" Wet now. Garbled around the drool and blood running into her own mouth. But she keeps forming the words anyway. Keeps hitting the glass on every syllable.<br><br> The nurses finally reach her. She grabs an arm. Gets shoved off entirely. Has to come back at it from the other side. It takes both of them and a third who's run in from the hall to finally pin her down, and even then her head keeps straining forward. Trying for one more hit Smearing what's already there into a wider red handprint of a stain across the glass between you.<br><br> The second injection happens fast and less practiced than the first. Hands fumbling with the cap. Then Dee finally goes down. Sagging back into the chair all at once like something's been switched off. Blood runs down from her hairline into one eyebrow. Drips off her jaw and mixes with the drool still stringing from her open mouth. Her eyes drift to the slot of sky. Lips still moving around words you can't hear through the glass and will never know the shape of.<br><br> A doctor's hand finds your arm. Steers you toward the door. His voice pitched low and urgent in a way it wasn't before.<br><br> You go. You make it to the doorway. You stop. You turn around.<br><br> You've decided. This is the last time you will ever see your mother.<br><br> <<link '⌕ You pause at the door, one hand on the frame. "I hope you dream about something good sometimes."'>> <<run setup.setTrait('soft', ($soft || 50) + 1)>> <<run setup.setTrait('hopeful', ($hopeful || 50) + 1)>> <<set $deeLastWords to "soft">> <<goto "CH2P4.9">> <</link>><br><br> <<link '⌕ You smile mirthlessly. "She was better than you gave her credit for. So am I. You should know that."'>> <<run setup.setTrait('soft', ($soft || 50) - 1)>> <<run setup.setTrait('hopeful', ($hopeful || 50) - 1)>> <<set $deeLastWords to "hardened">> <<goto "CH2P4.9">> <</link>><br><br> <<link '⌕ Nothing. You look at her one more time. Then you turn around.'>> <<run setup.setTrait('deflecting', ($deflecting || 50) + 1)>> <<run setup.setTrait('relaxed', ($relaxed || 50) + 1)>> <<set $deeLastWords to "deflecting">> <<goto "CH2P4.9">> <</link>><br><br> <<link '⌕ You forhead touches the glass, as close as you can get to her before you go. "She came here to ask how to stop becoming you. You and Ivo were the problem. Rot in hell bitch."'>> <<run setup.setTrait('deflecting', ($deflecting || 50) - 1)>> <<run setup.setTrait('relaxed', ($relaxed || 50) - 1)>> <<set $deeLastWords to "cutting">> <<goto "CH2P4.9">> <</link>><br><br>

<<if $deeLastWords is "soft">>"I hope you dream about something good sometimes."<br><br> You say it to the grey sky and the bolted-down chair and the small medicated shape of your mother who cannot hear you. You say it because you mean it, which surprises you a little. Not warmly. It is not a warm feeling. It is something smaller and more practical than warmth. The desire for a person to have one thing that is not this. Even if you are not the one who can give it to them. Even if they would not thank you for wanting it.<br><br> It is not forgiveness. You don't know yet what forgiveness looks like from here, or if it's even the right word for the thing you're working toward. But it is something. You leave it in the room with her.<br><br> <<elseif $deeLastWords is "hardened">>"She was better than you gave her credit for." Your voice doesn't waver once. "So am I. You should know that."<br><br> The words come out steady. You mean all of them. You have been meaning all of them for years and here, finally, is somewhere to put them. Into the room. Into the air. Into the back of her head and the grey sky. Not for her. She cannot hear you. For the part of you that has been carrying them this whole time and is ready to put them down.<br><br> It doesn't fix anything. You didn't think it would.<br><br> <<elseif $deeLastWords is "deflecting">>You say nothing.<br><br> You hold onto the doorframe a second longer than you need to. There is too much to say. Which starts to feel like the same thing as nothing the longer you stand here. You've spent years putting sentences together for this moment and none of them were ever right. The fact that none of them were right has always been the reason you said nothing. You make that choice one final time, and you know it's the last time you'll get to make it.<br><br> Some things are for keeping. Maybe that's fine.<br><br> <<else>>"She came here to ask how to stop becoming you." You spit it straight at the glass. Straight at her slumped shape behind it. "Ivo and you were the problem, not us. Rot in hell, bitch."<br><br> The words land where they're aimed. Into the room. Into the air. Into the back of her head. Into whatever part of her is still in there behind the illness and the medication. You don't know if any part of her is still in there. You say it anyway.<br><br> You're not sorry you said it.<br><br> <</if>> You turn around. You walk back down the hall with the buzzing light and the clock that stutters and the rack of leaflets nobody touches. Through the first locked door. The second. The lobby. The guard who doesn't look up as you pass. The glass door. The chain-link fence. Outside.<br><br> Fresh air hits you. You immediately feel better. You did your duty. You told Dee about Maud and now you never have to see her again. Only Ivo is left and then... then you're finally free to close that chapter of your life for good.<br><br> [[Continue|CH2P5]]<br><br>

//<<if $flashChoice1 is "soft">>"Mom." The word comes out before you decide to say it. Not Dee. The other name. She doesn't answer. Whatever is wearing her face just tilts its head and smiles wider.<<elseif $flashChoice1 is "hardened">>You don't say anything. You stand up and you look at her and you keep looking at her. It is the only thing left but you want her to see the hatred in your eyes.<<elseif $flashChoice1 is "calculated">>You look past her. The front door. She is between you and it but there is a gap on the left side. You count the steps.<<elseif $flashChoice1 is "reckless">>Door. That is the only thought in your head. Not Dee, not the shadow, not the pain in your shoulder. Door.<</if>><br><br> Her head tilts back.<br><br> "There you are," she says again. Warmly. Like she is proud of you for getting up.<br><br> You try to go for the front door again.<br><br> She lets you get three steps.<br><br> Then the shadow on the floor moves. Not the way shadows move when the light shifts. These move toward you, fast, cold enough that you feel them coming before they arrive. Wrap tight around your ankles.<br><br> Your ankles stop getting the messages your brain is sending them. Your legs stop being yours. Not painful. Just absent. The way a limb goes when you've slept on it wrong, except total, all the way to the hip. You go down face-first. Catch yourself on your palms. Skin tearing on the floorboards. Your chin hits the floor anyway, teeth clacking together hard enough to make you lose a tooth.<br><br> "There," she sing-songs.<br><br> Her footsteps behind you. Slow now. Unhurried. She crouches beside you and you can smell her. Her soap and the specific smell of her that you have known your whole life.<br><br> "They're finally happy now." Her hand pinches your cheek. "Do you hear that? Finally they're happy. All it took was letting go." A soft laugh, delighted with herself. "I always knew I deserved a little happiness."<br><br> She leans down. Her cheek drags along yours. Slow. Suddenly her tongue follows the same path. One long stripe from your jaw up to your temple. You freeze. The shock just too much. She really wants to eat you.<br><br> "Mm." Satisfied. Almost smug about it. "There it is."<br><br> "I want it." The gentleness in it is real. That's the part you'll never be able to explain later. To anyone. "You have so much. You have always had so much warmth in you and you don't even feel it." Her nails scratch your cheek. "I want all of it. Why shouldn't I. I gave up everything for just a chance at a good life. Look where it got me. Now I'll just take whatever I want for myself."<br><br> Your voice comes out muffled by the floor. "Dee. Mom, stop. You have to stop right now. Please."<br><br> "Shh." Her thumb strokes once along your temple. Wiping away where her tongue had been. Like she's tidying up after herself. "It won't take long. And then it'll finally be quiet in here. Isn't that nice? Isn't that nice for both of us?"<br><br> Her hands on your shoulders. Rolling you onto your back. You let it happen because you have no choice about it. The shadow grips your arms and legs tightly. The floor has your back. You can't move. You're caged. Plus you are eleven years old and you know you can't do anything about what is coming.<br><br> She looks down at you. The smile hasn't moved.<br><br> "I can finally be happy," she says. And she means it.<br><br> She lowers her head to your shoulder.<br><br> The bite is slow.<br><br> Her teeth find the curve of your left shoulder, where the neck and shoulder meet, and press into the skin first. Testing the pressure. Then she bites down. Hard.<br><br> White pain, immediate and total, blotting out everything else for a full second before your body finds a sound to make with it. Something high and raw that doesn't sound like you at all.<br><br> "No." The word comes out thin. "No. No. No."<br><br> "Mama." Your voice shrinks down to almost nothing. You'll be ashamed of that later, in the long silence of the aftermath. "Mama, stop. Dee. Stop."<br><br> She doesn't stop.<br><br> You feel the exact moment the skin gives way under her teeth. Blood is running hot down into the collar of your shirt. Soaking into fabric that will never come clean no matter how many times it's washed.<br><br> A pulling sensation follows the pain. Deep. Wrong in a way that has no name for an eleven-year-old's vocabulary. Something being drawn out of you that isn't just blood. That leaves a hollow, sucked-dry feeling behind it every place it passes through.<br><br> Above you, muffled against your own skin, she makes a sound. Low. Shuddering. Almost a moan. She sighs against the wound. You feel her exhale. Right into the open bite.<br><br> You struggle against her and the shadows pinning your arms and legs. Get nothing for it but the shadows tightening further. Cold ropes of dark cinching down until your fingers go numb past the wrist.<br><br> You scream.<br><br> The front door opens and there is Maud standing in it.<br><br> Maud who is eight years old and the smallest person you know and who looks at the hallway. Taking in the hallway in one sweep. You on the floor. Dee crouched over you. Blood trickling down her chin and dripping off the point of it. One steady drop landing dark on the collar of her blue dress.<br><br> She does not freeze. Maud has never frozen in her life. <br><br> She crosses the distance from the door to Dee in a flat run. Eight years old. No hesitation. "Let $mcHim go!" Screamed loud enough to crack. Loud enough that a neighbor's dog starts barking through the wall. She hits Dee from the side with everything her whole body has. Shoulder-first. The impact knocks Dee's head sideways. You hear the awful wet sound of Dees teeth tearing free of your skin instead of releasing clean.<br><br> The bite releases. Air hits the open wound and it's worse than the bite itself, a cold, screaming kind of pain that has you gasping.<br><br> The shadow around your legs thins. Not gone, but loosened, like something interrupted mid-grip. You pull your legs toward you. They respond. Barely. But they respond.<br><br> Maud's landed on Dee, both of them against the wall, and she's already pulling herself upright, planting her small body between you and Dee like that's ever going to be enough.<br><br> She grabs your wrist and hauls, voice shaking even as she keeps her face flat and furious. "Get up. $firstName. Get up right now."<br><br> You get up. Your hand comes away from your shoulder wet and dark. There's a piece of you that registers, distantly, that you should be more afraid of that than you currently have room to be. You are on your feet when Dee gets on hers. Blood. Your blood. Still wet and shining on her bottom lip.<br><br> Dee turns toward Maud.<br><br>// <<link '⌕ "Dee." You make yourself say it clearly. "Look at me. I\'m right here."'>> <<run setup.setTrait('soft', ($soft || 50) + 1)>> <<set $flashChoice2 to "soft">> <<goto "CH2P4.5">> <</link>><br><br> <<link '⌕ You step in front of Maud. One step. Body in the way. That is all you have.'>> <<run setup.setTrait('soft', ($soft || 50) - 1)>> <<set $flashChoice2 to "hardened">> <<goto "CH2P4.5">> <</link>><br><br> <<link '⌕ You go still. Small and quiet. Don\'t be the loudest thing in the room.'>> <<run setup.setTrait('calculated', ($calculated || 50) + 1)>> <<set $flashChoice2 to "calculated">> <<goto "CH2P4.5">> <</link>><br><br> <<link '⌕ You shout her name. Loud as you can. Anything to keep her looking at you, not at Maud.'>> <<run setup.setTrait('calculated', ($calculated || 50) - 1)>> <<set $flashChoice2 to "reckless">> <<goto "CH2P4.5">> <</link>><br><br>

//<<if $flashChoice2 is "soft">>"Dee." You say it as clearly as you can. "Dee, look at me. I'm right here." She doesn't. Her eyes move past you like you're already part of the background.<<elseif $flashChoice2 is "hardened">>You step in front of Maud. One step. It accomplishes nothing. Dee's gaze moves around you the way water moves around a stone.<<elseif $flashChoice2 is "calculated">>You go still. Everything you know from years of watching her on her bad nights: small. Quiet. Wait. None of it helps. <<elseif $flashChoice2 is "reckless">>You shout her name. As loud as you've ever shouted anything, filling the hallway with sound. It means nothing at all. She doesn't redirect.<</if>> Her head cocks, delighted, that same breathy wonder you'd hear from her over a good piece of gossip. "Oh. The trash is here too. I didn't know you were home."<br><br> Maud's chin comes up. "You finally lost it old hag. Step back from $firstName. Right now. Step back."<br><br> "You have so much of it," Dee says. She is not speaking to you anymore. Only to Maud. "More than I had at your age." Her smile softens into something almost maternal. "You got the best of me you disgusting shit. You really did. But you shouldn't interrupt Mommy when she is eating."<br><br> "Maud." You say it as clearly as you can from where you're standing. "Maud, don't let her—"<br><br> The shadow moves.<br><br> It pours from the walls and corners with a speed and direction you have never seen before. Not gathering toward you this time but targeting Maud. Maud responds the only way something young and frightened responds to something old and experienced.<br><br> It lashes out.<br><br> You can't make out the scuffle. It's too fast for you to see anything. All you can do is clutch your shoulder and try to get to the door.<br><br> Suddenly you hear Maud scream. You turn around. Maud's fists drop open. Her shoulders fall. Her head tilts and the expression on Maud's face goes blank.<br><br> From across the room, still inside what's left of her own body, Dee laughs.<br><br> From Maud's mouth, Dee laughs.<br><br> You have read the phrase "blood ran cold" so many in books. You understand it for the first time, standing in your hallway with your shoulder bleeding, that it is not a figure of speech.<br><br> "Look at both of you," Dee says. From both mouths. The same voice from two angles. "My babies. Look at you both."<br><br> Maud's body turns toward you.<br><br> Not Maud. Maud's body. Maud's feet on the floor. Maud's arms at her sides. Maud's face wearing Dee's expression and Dee's voice coming from Maud's throat.<br><br> "She is exactly like me," Dee says. From Maud. To you. "Isn't she beautiful? Isn't that exactly what I knew she would be." Maud's head tilts. "She is a monster, a freak, just like her mother. And she is going to show you. I always wanted to pit you two against each other anyway."<br><br> "Let her go." Your voice is flat. The shaking has stopped, replaced by a strange, hollow steadiness. "Let Maud go right now."<br><br> "She is right here." Gentle. Patient. "She can feel everything I'm doing. She can hear you. She's screaming, actually." A pause Dee clearly savors. "She says some very rude things about me."<br><br> The shadow wraps your ankles.<br><br> You go down again. Same as before, the same clean absence of your legs, and this time the shadow is heavier and more thorough. It covers your legs and your arms and when you try to push yourself up it is there. Not gripping. Just present. The Umbra way of holding prey: not quite force, but impossible to move through.<br><br> You are on your back on the hallway floor once more. You cannot move.<br><br> Maud walks toward you.<br><br> Not the way Maud walks. Maud walks like she's always about to run somewhere. Quick and loose in the joints. This is slower. Each step lands a half-second wrong, heel then toe in the wrong order, like something behind her is working levers it hasn't fully learned yet. Her arms don't swing. They just hang. Her head bobs slightly out of time with her feet, a marionette worked by someone still getting the hang of the strings.<br><br> "You always were the practical one," Dee says, from Maud's mouth. Something like affection in it. Real affection. "That's why I always loved you more. Ivo loved Maud. You know that. She has his features. His way of seeing things. He loved her more than he loved you and I think you've always known it." Maud's knees fold, jerky, dropping her into a crouch over you a half-beat too fast. "But me. I always loved you more. You look like me. You're the human I always wanted to be."<br><br> You are looking up at Maud's face.<br><br> Your sister's face. Eight years old. The untied lace on her left shoe. And Maud is crying. Asteady, silent stream, her whole face wet with it while none of her actual features move to accommodate the crying at all. The tears just run, down over Dee's borrowed smile, dripping off her jaw onto your collarbone. Warm where they land.<br><br> "Maud." You say it steadily. You make yourself say it steadily. "You are in there. I know you are in there. You can hear me. You can stop this."<br><br> Maud's head tilts, the exact angle Dee's does. Underneath it, for half a second, you catch her eyes fighting, Not black. Not fully. A thin ring of white flickering at the very edge of the iris before the black floods back in and swallows it.<br><br> "She loves you so much." From Maud's mouth. "That's what makes this so beautiful. She loves you and she's going to do this anyway. Because the blood is blood. Because this is what we are." Maud's hand comes up to your cheek, thumb dragging once through the tears still falling from her own face and smearing them into your skin. Gentle. Wrong. "Show $firstName what we are, Maud."<br><br> Maud's fingers dig into your shoulder. You feel her nails bite in. For one full second her whole body seizes still. Elbow locked. Head shaking side to side. Wild. Fast. A clear no. Her mouth opens. A sound claws its way up out of her that isn't a word. Isn't Dee's voice either. A gluttural growl.<br><br> Maud's head lowers. To your shoulder. The same shoulder.<br><br> "MAUD. MAUD, STOP. STOP. STOP."<br><br> The scream comes out of you from somewhere that has no name. You can feel it everywhere at once. Chest and throat, it vibrates through your whole body. You scream her name and you scream stop and you scream every version of no you have. The tears keep running down Maud's face and Dee laughs from across the room. Nothing works. Maud bites into the wound that Dee already made.<br><br> And bites deeper. This pain is different. Sharper. Smaller teeth finding purchase in torn tissue that was never given a chance to close. Now somewhere above you, muffled against your own skin, you can hear her. The real her. Maud. Still in there, making a high, broken sound against the bite like she's the one being hurt.<br><br> The world goes white again. Not unconscious. Not completely.<br><br> The white clears.<br><br> Maud's hands, which have been pressing your arms flat, are lifting.<br><br> Slowly. With every muscle shaking, fingers curling and uncurling like she's relearning how they work. Lifting the way something held underwater pulls itself back to the surface. And with them, the shadow holding your legs pulls back too.<br><br> Maud's head comes up. Your blood is dripping from her mouth onto your shirt.<br><br> Her eyes are hers. Completely, entirely hers. Present. Awake. Looking past you at something above and behind your shoulder. Looking at Dee. What is in her face is not fear anymore. There is an expression on herface you have only seen on Maud with you and sometimes Ivo before: delight.<br><br> Maud stands up. She goes for Dee. This time it's Dee who can't move.<br><br> She hits Dee and takes her down and this time she does not stop. She takes Dee to the floor and she bites. You have never seen Maud act like that before. Like a wild animal. You will remember that this is the first time. You will remember the grunts Maud makes. The same awful wet tearing sound as before. Except now it's coming from your eight-year-old sister's mouth, and it's Dee's voice that rises this time. High. Furious. And underneath the fury, for just a second, something that sounds almost like fear.<br><br> Dee screams. You sit up.<br><br> Your shoulder is bleeding through your shirt. Your legs are shaking but they are yours again. You look at the room. The shadow is pulling back into the corners. Thinning. <br><br> You need something heavy.<br><br> The lamp is too light. The bookshelf is too far. The vase on the shelf by the window is perfect.<br><br> It is heavy in your hands. You cross the room.<br><br> You bring it down on the back of your mother's head. Three times until it breaks. Again. Again. Again.<br><br> The ceramic makes the sound that heavy ceramic makes against a skull. A dull, solid sound and Dee stops. All the way. Finally.<br><br> Maud sits back.<br><br> The room is quiet.<br><br> You and Maud on the floor. Dee against the wall, unconscious or dead. You have no idea. The vase in pieces.<br><br> Maud is shaking. Her hands. Her shoulders. All of her. She's looking at her own hands, turning them over slowly like she's checking they're actually attached to her. Still hers- Still doing what she tells them. Not at Dee. Not at you. Just her hands.<br><br> "Maud."<br><br> She doesn't look up.<br><br> "Maud. Look at me."<br><br> She looks up. Her eyes find yours. What is in them — the horror at herself, the fear of herself, the love for you that has not gone anywhere — is the most naked thing you have ever seen on another person's face. <br><br> "I couldn't stop," she gulps.<br><br> "I know." Your shoulder aches, a deep, sick throb.<br><br> "I bit you. I—"<br><br> "I know. Maud. Come here."<br><br> She comes. Crosses the small distance between you on the floor and puts both arms around you but she does not cry. The shaking runs through her for a long time. The crying never comes.<br><br> You press your good hand into her hair, absent, more reflex than comfort. "I think I killed her."<br><br> Maud shakes her head against your shoulder. "She's breathing. Sadly."<br><br> "I think I might have killed her," you say again, because your brain is still processing this and it seems important to say it out loud.<br><br> "She's breathing," Maud says again, firmly, the way she says things she needs to be true.<br><br> There is only one thing you can do now.<br><br> You call Officer Walsh.<br><br> Walsh comes within twenty minutes.<br><br> "Is there somewhere you can go tonight?" Walsh asks.<br><br> "Not immediately," you say as he wraps your shoulder.<br><br> Walsh looks at you for a moment. "I think I found one of your relatives. His name is Benjamin $lastName. He's Dee's brother, lives in Sordia as well." He takes out a receipt and writes a number on the back of it. "You should call him."<br><br> You fold the receipt and put it in your pocket. <br><br> The people Walsh called come and take Dee on a stretcher with straps that glow faintly at the edges.<br><br> You ride in an ambulance with Maud to the hospital so your shoulder can get treated properly. They are very professional. They don't look at you or Maud more than they have to.<br><br> "Pinky swear," she whispers.<br><br> "What?"<br><br> She holds out her hand. Smallest finger extended.<br><br> "I'm never doing that again," she says determindedly. "Any of it. The bloodline stuff. The shadow stuff. I'm never letting anyone do that to me again and I'm never doing it to you or anyone else. Pinky swear."<br><br> You look at her. Her smallest finger. Waiting. Eight years old. The lace still untied.<br><br> "Maud," you say carefully. "Your bloodline doesn't go away just because you don't use it."<br><br> "I don't wanna use it," she sniffs. "Pinky swear. Come on."<br><br> You wrap your smallest finger around hers.<br><br> Is this really a promise she can keep? The blood is the blood after all. It does what it does. But she means it right now. Right now she means it completely and the pinky swear is not about the future. It's about this moment.<br><br> You hold it.<br><br> "Okay," you try to smile. "Okay. Pinky swear."<br><br> She holds it one moment longer. Then lets go.<br><br> You look at the phone in your hand. Walsh's number still on the screen. You type in the new number Walsh gave you. <br><br> Benjamin. He could be the same or even worse than your parents. But you're desperate. You have to get out of this hellhole. For good this time. <br><br> You press call. It rings twice.<br><br> A voice softer than you expected answers. "Hello?"<br><br>// [[Continue|CH2P4.6]]

You are back in the chair.<br><br> The glass in front of you. The beige. The buzzing light. The slot of grey sky through the unreachable window. The hands on the table on the other side of the glass that are your hands. Older. And the eyes that found you the moment you sat down and haven't let go since.<br><br> That was years ago. And the person on the other side of this glass is still watching you. Waiting for you to say something first.<br><br> You say something first.<br><br> You keep both hands flat on your side of the counter, voice level. "Hello, Dee." Neutral. Even. You give her nothing.<br><br> She gives you nothing back. But her eyes move, just briefly, to the door behind you. An involuntary check. She does it quickly and she covers it quickly. But you see it. She tips her head, taking you in top to bottom. "You look terrible. Like something that's been wrung out and hung up at the wrong angle."<br><br> "Something happened," you confirm.<br><br> She watches you. A blissful smile on her face.<br><br> "Before we get to that." You lean back in your chair. Steady. "I found out at the front desk that Maud was here six weeks ago. I didn't know about that visit. I need to know what she wanted."<br><br> The change in Dee's face is small and controlled. A slight tightening around the eyes. A flatness at the corners of her mouth.<br><br> She blows a piece of lint off the vest that isn't there, buying herself a second. "She came to ask about your father."<br><br> Ivo.<br><br> "She wanted to know about his connections." The medication is working. She's slow. Reaching for words with the concentration of someone who knows they're there but can't always find them quickly. "Old connections. The families he worked with before and sold drugs to." She shakes her head. "I told her I didn't know where the pest was. I haven't known where Ivo is for ten years. I told her that."<br><br> "Was that all she asked about?"<br><br> One corner of Dee's mouth lifts. Not a smile. The eyes stay flat while it happens. "No. She also asked me something else. Something I found quite funny." Her words slur a little. "She asked me if there was a way to stop what happens. To Umbra. The deterioration. Without the medication."<br><br> "She wanted to know if there was another way. Some old method. Some bloodline practice. Something that keeps you from ending up—" She gestures with her head at the room around her. The vest. The glass. All of it. "Here."<br><br> "And is there?"<br><br> Dee laughs. It comes out of her suddenly. Genuinely. The first completely unguarded thing she has done since you sat down. A short, bright laugh. Then she's looking at the slot of sky above the window. Mouth still curved. Eyes gone distant and pleased.<br><br> "No. There is not. I told her exactly that. I told her: no, you trash. There is no other way. You take the medicine or you end up in a room like this one, wearing something like this." She wriggles around her restraint vest, two fingers. "I told her she could look all she liked. I told her she could ask every old family and every bloodline doctor and every Umbra elder still breathing. The answer would be the same. You cannot outrun the voices, the blood." She sneers. "She didn't look like she believed me."<br><br> "She wouldn't." You've had years to know that about her.<br><br> "No. She never did believe the things she didn't want to believe." Dee's voice shifts. A degree of disgust. "She was always like that. Even as a girl. If reality didn't suit her she would find a way around it. Charm it, fight it, go through the back and try again."<br><br> She looks back at you through the glass. "She got that from me. The persistence. The refusal to accept limits." Her expression settles. "I wanted to rip her eyes out. To drop her from a high building and watch her body break."<br><br> She's looking at you now with the same unhappiness she's aimed at you your whole life. The look of someone deciding, again, which parts of you belong to which parent.<br><br> "You look like me," she scoffs.<br><br> "I know." <br><br> "You have always looked like me and you were always more like him." She says it without much cruelty in it. As a fact. Something she catalogued and filed away a long time ago. "And Ivo liked Maud more. Ironic. She looked like him and acted like me and you look like me and act like him. I loved you more for it and he loved her more for it. You always think it'll be the other way round. That you'll love the one who acts like you. But it doesn't work like that."<br><br> You stay very still.<br><br> <<link '⌕ You have to restrain yourself from jumping forwad. "She was her own person. Not you, not Ivo. Her own."'>> <<run setup.setTrait('soft', ($soft || 50) + 1)>> <<run setup.setTrait('relaxed', ($relaxed || 50) - 1)>> <<set $deeReply to "soft">> <<goto "CH2P4.7">> <</link>><br><br> <<link '⌕ You glance at the clock, unbothered. "What does it matter now? She\'s not here to argue with you about it."'>> <<run setup.setTrait('soft', ($soft || 50) - 1)>> <<run setup.setTrait('calculated', ($calculated || 50) + 1)>> <<set $deeReply to "hardened">> <<goto "CH2P4.7">> <</link>><br><br> <<link '⌕ You sit back, letting the silence stretch before you speak. "What did she say when you told her that?"'>> <<run setup.setTrait('intuitive', ($intuitive || 50) - 1)>> <<run setup.setTrait('deflecting', ($deflecting || 50) + 1)>> <<set $deeReply to "methodical">> <<goto "CH2P4.7">> <</link>><br><br> <<link '⌕ A humorless smile flickers and fades. "You enjoyed it. Telling her that."'>> <<run setup.setTrait('deflecting', ($deflecting || 50) - 1)>> <<run setup.setTrait('hopeful', ($hopeful || 50) - 1)>> <<set $deeReply to "cutting">> <<goto "CH2P4.7">> <</link>><br><br>

You sit at an abandones bus stop outside the facility and breathe. Cracked plastic panel. Electrical tape peeling at the corners. Nobody waiting for anything.<br><br> The air tastes like exhaust and wet concrete. Cold enough to sting the back of the throat. Better than in there. Everything is better than in there.<br><br> You pull out your phone.<br><br> <<if $background is "investigative">> She picks up on the third ring. The sound behind her is paper and old ventilation and the specific overhead hum of a room where nothing glamorous has ever happened. She sounds like someone who has been there since seven this morning and fully intends to still be there at ten tonight. You know she doesn't have strong feelings about it anymore.<br><br> "Archives." Just the department. Not even her name. She only uses the full greeting for numbers she doesn't trust.<br><br> "It's $firstName."<br><br> A small exhale. The sound of someone already in the middle of something. Reluctantly deciding this is probably the more urgent problem. "Mm. Hang on."<br><br> Rustling. Papers. Something being moved off a chair. <br><br> "Okay. What?"<br><br> "I need to see you oday. Usual spot. I have a new job for you. I can't get into it on the phone. Codeword: Bloodhound. And I need you to start looking for someone. His name is Ivo. No idea about what last name he currently has. He's my father. I lost track of him a while back."<br><br> Quiet. There's a difference between Sarah Kim's silence and the archive's silence and you've learned to read both.<br><br> "How long ago."<br><br> "Long enough. Whatever you can pull. Records, filings, current address. Nothing that flags anything."<br><br> "Okay." A beat. Then: "You good?" She asks it like she has time and like she doesn't.<br><br> "I'm fine."<br><br> "Okay," she says again, and this time it means: I don't believe you, but I have a pile on this desk and we can park that for now. The sound of her settling back into her chair. The creak of it. "Come by at our usual place at eight. And bring me real coffee. I mean it."<br><br> "Last time was real."<br><br> "The corner place."<br><br> "It was closed—"<br><br> "It is never closed, $firstName." Flat. A woman who has had this argument before and found it exhausting then too. "Eight."<br><br> The line clicks.<br><br> You stand there with the phone still to your ear for a second. Old habit. The kind that forms when you spend enough time waiting for people to add something.<br><br> She asked if you were okay. She was already halfway back to her work when she asked it and the answer was always going to be the manageable version. But she asked.<br><br> //Ivo. Only you're left.//<br><br> You put the phone in your pocket. You start walking.<br><br> <<elseif $background is "war">> He picks up on the second ring. The noise behind him is wrong for the VA. The wrong kind of room entirely. Bar noise. Glasses and low music. <br><br> "Yeah."<br><br> One syllable. Loose at the edges. Not sloppy. Never sloppy. Not even like this but loose. You know the sound of Mario Santos sober and the sound of Mario Santos a few drinks in. This is the second one.<br><br> "It's $firstName."<br><br> "Hey." He gets louder immediately, the way he does when he's been drinking and trying to connect. "Good timing, bad day?"<br><br> "I need to see you today. Usual spot. I have a new job for you. I can't get into it on the phone. Codeword: Bloodhound. And I need you to start looking for someone. His name is Ivo. No idea about what last name he currently has. He's my father. I lost track of him a while back."<br><br> A pause. A swallow of something going down.<br><br> "Parents." He says it like the word is the punchline and the joke at the same time. A short laugh. "Fuckers, right?"<br><br> "Something like that."<br><br> Another swallow. The glass going down somewhere. "When do you need it?"<br><br> "Bloodhound is more important. Just try to give me some idea when we meet later."<br><br> "I've got therapy at six, done by eight. Come by after, we'll go through it." A pause. Somebody on his end says something. He covers the phone. Says something back. Laughs at it. Then: "You sound like shit, by the way. Just so you know."<br><br> "Thanks."<br><br> "That's not a compliment. You want to come down here? I'm at Kelsey's. Buy you a drink. Sounds like you've earned one."<br><br> "I can't."<br><br> "Alright." No push. No judgment.<br><br> He hangs up. Already back to whoever he was talking to before you called.<br><br> He didn't ask for context. Didn't need it. Parents leave the same shape of hole in different sizes, that's the whole of it according to Mario Santos and you're inclined to agree.<br><br> //Ivo, you fucker. I'm coming for you.//<br><br> You put the phone in your pocket. You start walking.<br><br> <<elseif $background is "whistle">> It rings six times. You're counting. You're about to give up when he picks up.<br><br> "You have genuinely terrible timing as always." His voice is carrying. Big room. Good acoustics. The kind of space designed to make everything sound important. "I'm in the middle of something."<br><br> "It's $firstName."<br><br> "I know who it is. $firstName. Hello. What do you want, I'm in the middle of something suuuper important."<br><br> "Then I'll be quick."<br><br> "Please." A sound that might be him setting down a glass or picking one up. Hard to tell with Alexander. He is always doing something somewhere. Typical case of a nepo baby being bored.<br><br> "I need to see you today. Usual spot. I have a new job for you. I can't get into it on the phone. Codeword: Bloodhound. And I need you to start looking for someone. His name is Ivo. No idea about what last name he currently has. He's my father. I lost track of him a while back." <br><br> A pause. Then: "Sorry... father?"<br><br> "Yes."<br><br> "You have one of those." He says it with genuine surprise. Like he's just found out an interesting fact about a person he thought he knew. "Is this about the job or is this personal?"<br><br> "Both."<br><br> "Oh." His voice lifts slightly. That specific tone. The one that comes out when something interrupts his boredom. "That's actually more interesting than what I was doing." The background noise drops. He's moved somewhere quieter or turned away from the room. You can practically hear him deciding. " You know having Daddy issues is pretty overrated. Is it dangerous?"<br><br> "Might be."<br><br> "Even better." A beat. You wait. This is the part where he makes you wait. "Thursday. Noon."<br><br> "Sooner."<br><br> "I have a thing—"<br><br> "I'm not negotiating."<br><br> A small exhale. Not annoyed. Alexander Rocheford III is genuinely charmed when people don't negotiate with him. It's the only language he respects because it's the only one he rarely hears. "This evening. Eight. You know where. And for the love of god learn to relax a little."<br><br> "And $firstName—" He always does this. The last thing, right as you're about to hang up. You wait for it. "We really need to go shopping together. Your wardrobe looks so... iffy."<br><br> You don't answer.<br><br> "See you at eight," you say and hang up first.<br><br> //Ivo. Only you're left. Time to sort out my Daddy issues then.//<br><br> You put the phone in your pocket. You start walking.<br><br> <<elseif $background is "tabloid">> She picks up on the second ring. No greeting.<br><br> "Who is this."<br><br> "$firstName."<br><br> Two steps on marble. She's moved away from whoever she was standing near before you've finished saying your name. Valentina Cross doesn't stay anywhere she can be overheard. "I'm with someone."<br><br> "This won't take long."<br><br> A pause. The kind that will cost you something. "Fine make it quick."<br><br> "I need to see you today. Usual spot. I have a new job for you. I can't get into it on the phone. Codeword: Bloodhound. And I need you to start looking for someone. His name is Ivo. No idea about what last name he currently has. He's my father. I lost track of him a while back."<br><br> Silence on the line. The lobby hush behind it. Somebody laughing somewhere far off at something that has nothing to do with you. <br><br> "Your father," she says.<br><br> "Yes."<br><br> "You want me to find your father."<br><br> "Yes."<br><br> "That's not what I do." She says it the same way she'd note an item isn't on the menu. "I don't find people. I find information about people who are already findable."<br><br> "Then find the information. I'll find him."<br><br> A pause. The calculating kind. "You'll owe me more."<br><br> "Fine."<br><br> "Tonight. Eight." Her heels on marble again. Moving back toward wherever she came from. The conversation already filed and finished in her head. "And sort out your personal life separately next time. It's unprofessional."<br><br> "Eight," you say ignoring her sharp tongue.<br><br> She has already hung up.<br><br> //Ivo. Only you're left. Time to sort out my personal life.//<br><br> You put the phone in your pocket. You start walking.<br><br> <</if>> [[Continue|CH2P6]]<br><br>

The key is cold in your hand.<br><br> You've been standing outside her door for almost a full minute. Long enough to know you're stalling. Too short to admit it to yourself.<br><br> The hallway smells like the building. Old carpet. Someone's cooking bleeding through from the third floor. The institutional smell of a place that gets cleaned on schedule but never quite feels clean. Maud's door is the same brown as all the others on this floor. A crack in the upper right corner. A small succulent on the floor to the left of the door in a terracotta pot. Withered.<br><br> You put the key in the lock. You turn it. You go in.<br><br> The apartment didn't change since the last time you were here. It still is pure chaos. Still feels like someone lives in it.<br><br> A mug by the sink. Half-full. The coffee in it has gone cold and has left a ring.<br><br> She made coffee. Was it in the morning or at night when you were supposed to meet? You don't know which. You don't know when it was, exactly, when she made coffee for the last time. Nobody will ever know that. <br><br> Thin afternoon light coming through the window. Making the apartment look like a serene painting.<br><br> The apartment still expects her. That's the thing. The objects in it are still arranged around her presence. The charger by the floor. Waiting to be used. The coat hooks full of her leathe rjackets. The empty pizza boxes that have cumulated into a small tower because that's the only thing she apparently eats. Greasy. Unhealthy. But somehow still fits her.<br><br> You stand in the middle of her floor and breathe.<br><br> <<if $siblingRelationship is "fixable">> Things had been getting better. You know that. You're not making it up. Not rewriting history to make this hurt more than it should. Things had actually been getting better. You'd been feeling it. The wall going down a brick at a time, and for once you hadn't been the one putting them back.<br><br> You were going to say it. Not the whole of it. You weren't there yet. But enough. You'd been getting there. You'd actually been getting there and somewhere in you. You'd been counting on having more time to get to the part where you said it out loud.<br><br> She's dead. She died not knowing. Whatever was almost repaired is permanently unfinished now and she will never know you were trying. And you will never get to tell her. And the version where you made it in time, to truly reconcile, is gone forever.<br><br> //She died not knowing you wanted to forgive her because you thought you had time. That's one you're going to have to carry with you for the rest of your life.//<br><br> <<elseif $siblingRelationship is "neutral">> The thing you can't locate is the thing you're supposed to feel.<br><br> It should be here by now. The weight of grief. The identifiable thing that people talk about when they talk about losing someone. You've been waiting for it since Ace showed up at your door and did the math on your face. It keeps not arriving in any form you recognize. What you have instead is a kind of blankness. It might be shock. It might be something else. You're not ready to look at it straight on yet.<br><br> She deserved someone who would know what they felt when she was gone.<br><br> //You don't know what that makes you. You're not ready to know.//<br><br> <<else>> What you keep circling, standing in the middle of her floor, is this: some part of you is relieved.<br><br> Not about her being dead. Not that. At least you think so? But the specific version of your relationship. The one that was never going to be anything other than what it was. The one you had stopped hoping would change. That version is done now. No more choosing to stay away. No more conversations that go nowhere. No more.<br><br> You've been standing in her apartment for less than two minutes and that's what your mind keeps coming back to.<br><br> //What the hell does that make you.//<br><br> <</if>> The apartment doesn't answer. The mug by the sink. The leather jackets. The pizza boxes doubled up and overstacked and exactly how she left it.<br><br> You need to move. You need to get through this.<br><br> But first... just for a moment. In the room that was hers. Where there is no one watching. No one is going to ask how you're holding up. You can be honest here. For thirty seconds. Before you go back to being the version of yourself that has things to do.<br><br> <<link '⌕ A laugh gets out before you can stop it. Not because it\'s funny. Because it\'s over.'>> <<run setup.setTrait('deflecting', ($deflecting || 50) + 3)>> <<set $griefResponseNow to "relief">> <<set $corrupt += 1>> <<goto "CH2P6.1">> <</link>><br><br> <<link '⌕ You laugh. It gets out and it doesn\'t stop. You can\'t make it stop.'>> <<run setup.setTrait('calculated', ($calculated || 50) - 3)>> <<set $griefResponseNow to "hysterical">> <<goto "CH2P6.1">> <</link>><br><br> <<link '⌕ You sit down. You cry. You let yourself.'>> <<run setup.setTrait('soft', ($soft || 50) + 3)>> <<set $griefResponseNow to "sad">> <<goto "CH2P6.1">> <</link>><br><br> <<link '⌕ You\'re furious. At her. At yourself. At the fact that she left before you settled any of it.'>> <<run setup.setTrait('relaxed', ($relaxed || 50) - 3)>> <<set $griefResponseNow to "angry">> <<goto "CH2P6.1">> <</link>><br><br> <<link '⌕ You wait for it. The grief. Or the anger. Or anything. Nothing comes. Just you standing in her apartment feeling absolutely nothing.'>> <<run setup.setTrait('soft', ($soft || 50) - 3)>> <<set $griefResponseNow to "numb">> <<goto "CH2P6.1">> <</link>><br><br> <<link '⌕ You\'re guilty. You go over it once. Twice. Three times. Looking for where you went wrong. And then a fourth time, because you\'re not sure you found it.'>> <<run setup.setTrait('calculated', ($calculated || 50) + 3)>> <<set $griefResponseNow to "guilt">> <<goto "CH2P6.1">> <</link>><br><br>

The apartment is small enough that the search doesn't take as long as you want it to.<br><br> You start at the desk. Surprisingly the mess has a logic to it. Receipts in one pile. Notebooks in another. A folder labeled TAX 2043 that turns out not to be tax documents. It's handwritten notes. Cramped. Abbreviated. Using shorthand you don't know. The kind of system that only makes sense to the person who built it. You photograph every page. You'll try to decode it later.<br><br> Next are the drawers: Pens. A broken charger. A sealed envelope with no label on it. Takeout menus for two places nearby. Half a roll of stamps. A lip balm with the cap missing. You take the sealed envelope. You leave the rest.<br><br> Then the bookshelf.<br><br> You stop in front of it.<br><br> Maud hated reading. That's not a cruel thing to say — it's just a fact, the kind she said herself, loudly, whenever anyone handed her something longer than a paragraph. Words didn't sit still for her. They moved, rearranged themselves, slid off the page before she could catch them. She was never tested. You used to wonder about that. Dyslexia, probably. The kind that gets missed in kids who are too loud and too funny for anyone to look closer.<br><br> And yet.<br><br> The shelf in front of you is full. Two rows deep in places. Philosophy — more than you expected, some of it clearly worked through hard, spines cracked and covers bent back. Political history. Titles in at least one language you don't read. Post-it notes marking pages. Annotations visible through the covers where the paper is thin.<br><br> She built this. Probably slowly. Probably with difficulty. And apparently told no one.<br><br> //You didn't know she read.//<br><br> You stand with that for a second. Something is being kept here that she didn't want found. People who hide things tend to hide them in books.<br><br> Which one?<br><br> <<link '⌕ [1] <em>Thus Spoke Zarathustra</em> — Nietzsche'>> <<set $bookChoice to "nietzsche">> <<goto "CH2P6.3">> <</link>><br><br> <<link '⌕ [2] <em>The Dispossessed</em> — Ursula K. Le Guin'>> <<set $bookChoice to "leguin">> <<goto "CH2P6.3">> <</link>><br><br> <<link '⌕ [3] <em>No Longer Human</em> — Osamu Dazai'>> <<set $bookChoice to "dazai">> <<goto "CH2P6.3">> <</link>><br><br> <<link '⌕ [4] <em>Man\'s Search for Meaning</em> — Viktor Frankl'>> <<set $bookChoice to "frankl">> <<goto "CH2P6.3">> <</link>><br><br> <<link '⌕ [5] <em>Pedagogy of the Oppressed</em> — Paulo Freire'>> <<set $bookChoice to "freire">> <<goto "CH2P6.3">> <</link>><br><br> <<link '⌕ [6] <em>The Double</em> — Dostoevsky'>> <<set $bookChoice to "double">> <<run setup.setTrait('intuitive', ($intuitive || 50) + 3)>> <<set $observation += 3>> <<goto "CH2P6.3">> <</link>><br><br>

<<if $griefResponseNow is "relief">> It comes out small. A breath that goes wrong on the way out. Or goes right in a way you weren't expecting. Either way it's a laugh. Loud. Private Aimed at nobody.<br><br> You press your hand over your mouth. Trying to quiet it down. To stop it. But you can't.<br><br> It's done. That's what the laugh is about. The terrible relief of a chapter that is now permanently closed. All the things you were never going to say to each other. All the versions of the conversation you rehearsed and never had. None of it matters anymore. It can't be repaired and it can't be ruined. It just is. The way finished things are.<br><br> <<if $siblingRelationship is "fixable">> You hate yourself a little for it. Not a lot. Just enough. Things had been getting better and now there is no chance to build on this. Somehow you're glad. Somehow you're not.<br><br> Now you'll never have the chance to talk to her again. To see her again. Or to hug her again. That's the part that sits underneath the relief. The part that isn't relief at all. <br><br> <<elseif $siblingRelationship is "neutral">> It's not relief about the death.At least you don't think so. It's something smaller and more honest. The relief of not having to keep deciding what she was going to be to you. The decision has been made by something outside you. And you didn't have to make it. That is its own particular kind of terrible gift.<br><br> You sit with that for a moment. You don't fight it.<br><br> <<else>> You've felt this before. Different circumstances. The same shape of feeling. When something that has been a source of weight for a long time finally ends. Permanently. Forever. It kind of feels like happiness. It feels like: that's finally done now.<br><br> You let it be what it is.<br><br> <</if>> The apartment is still. You lower your hand. You breathe out slowly.<br><br> <<elseif $griefResponseNow is "hysterical">> It starts as almost nothing. A sound that gets caught wrong on the way out. And then it isn't nothing anymore.<br><br> You laugh. You cover your mouth and it doesn't help. Your legs decide they've had enough and you sit down on Maud's couch without fully meaning to. And you laugh. You can't tell what it's about. Not relief. Not exactly. Not grief either. Or not in any form you'd call it that. Something that has been sitting in your chest for days that couldn't be words.<br><br> It goes on too long. You know it's going on too long. You can hear it going on too long and you still can't stop it.<br><br> Your ribs hurt. Somewhere in the middle of it the laughing shifts. Not stops. Shifts- There might be crying underneath it. It doesn't matter. The room is empty. Nobody is going to see this or record it or ask you to explain it.<br><br> <<if $siblingRelationship is "fixable">> //She didn't know.// The thought surfaces in the middle of it. //You were getting there and she didn't know and now she never will.//<br><br> That's the thing underneath the laughing. You can feel it. It doesn't stop the laughing. Nothing stops the laughing right now. But it's there.<br><br> <<elseif $siblingRelationship is "neutral">> Maybe this is it. Maybe this is the grief and it just doesn't look like grief from the inside. Just pressure with no name. Needing somewhere to go. It found somewhere.<br><br> <<else>> You don't try to label your feelings. Whatever this is, it's been waiting for a room with no one watching. Now it has one.<br><br> <</if>> It stops on its own. Eventually. The way these things do when they've finished.<br><br> You sit in the silence after and breathe. Wipe your face with the back of your hand. Roll your shoulders. <br><br> You stand up.<br><br> <<elseif $griefResponseNow is "sad">> It comes without warning. One second you're standing in the middle of her floor cataloguing things with your eyes. The next your throat has closed and the room has gone a little blurry.<br><br> You sit on the couch. You don't fight it. You've been holding it since through the morgue. Through Dee's room. Through the phone calls. Maud's apartment is the first place today with no one in it to see you hold it together.<br><br> You cry. Quietly.<br><br> <<if $siblingRelationship is "fixable">> You miss her. And you miss the version of the future where you got there. Where you finished what you'd started. Said what you'd been getting ready to say and she knew. The relationship was getting better — it really was — and you're crying for that too. The future that was almost real.<br><br> It was so close. That's the cruelest part. It was actually so close.<br><br> <<elseif $siblingRelationship is "neutral">> You're not fully sure what you're crying for. That's part of it. The not-knowing. The sense that something was possible once — in some earlier version of both your lives — that got let go of so gradually you didn't mark the moment. And now the door's been locked from the other side. Now you'll never know what was on the other side of it.<br><br> <<else>> It's grief. Real grief. Whatever the relationship between you was. She was Maud. Your relationship may not have been fixable. But she was still a person, regardless of anything else. You can hold both things. You always could.<br><br> <</if>> You let it out. You don't rush it..<br><br> When it's done, you breathe. You straighten. You are still here.<br><br> <<elseif $griefResponseNow is "angry">> The anger is already there when you reach for it. It was always going to be anger. You feel it consuming you. You ball your hands into fists.<br><br> Your foot connects with the pizza box tower before you've decided to do it. The whole stack goes. Cardboard edges catching air. Boxes sliding and splaying across the floor. One lid popping open and scattering crumbs across the floor. Next is the cupboard. You take out her mugs. And you throw them. At the walls. At the floor. Screaming and cursing while doing it.<br><br> <<if $siblingRelationship is "fixable">> You're angry at yourself. At her. For leaving you. At how close you were to fix your relationship. At the fact that things had actually been getting better. All that momentum. All those careful small steps. They go nowhere now. Permanent. Sealed.<br><br> <<elseif $siblingRelationship is "neutral">> You're angry at her. You know how that sounds. You're angry anyway. At the leaving, at the dying without warning you. At the fact that she made the whole question of what you were to each other permanent in the most irreversible way. When you were still somewhere in the middle of working it out.<br><br> The anger doesn't have a clear target. It just fills the room and stays there.<br><br> <<else>> You're just so angry. At her. At yourself. Neither one feels wrong and the split doesn't resolve into something clean. At her for going without telling you anything. For ghosting you for three years. For tricking you again and again and again. For leaving you behind. At yourself for the whole shape of the years before that. Which is not a new feeling but has never had quite this much weight attached to it.<br><br> <</if>> You look at what you've done. The apartment is worse now. It was already a disaster and you've made it more of one. You don't care. That's the room matching what's inside you for once.<br><br> You breathe in. You breathe out. The anger doesn't leave. It doesn't work like that. But it shimmers down. Good enough.<br><br> <<elseif $griefResponseNow is "numb">> You wait.<br><br> That's the honest version of it. You stand in the middle of her apartment and you wait for the thing that's supposed to arrive. The grief. The anger. The relief, even. Any of it. Any named thing with edges and a center that you could point at and say: that. That's what this is.<br><br> Nothing comes.<br><br> The apartment is still. The mug by the sink. The charger trailing nowhere. The tower of pizza boxes. You catalogue them and you feel... what? The information. Just the information. Like reading a file. Like standing in a stranger's space and noting what's there for a story that isn't yours.<br><br> This is Maud's apartment. Maud is dead. Those two sentences should connect to emotions and they don't.<br><br> <<if $siblingRelationship is "fixable">> //The relationship was getting better.// You know that. You know that and you're standing here and that should be devastating and it isn't. You don't know if that means you're broken. Or just delayed. Or if this is what shock actually looks like from the inside and not from the outside. The not-knowing is almost worse than the emptiness.<br><br> //What kind of person feels nothing right now.//<br><br> <<elseif $siblingRelationship is "neutral">> //She deserved someone who would fall apart.// The thought arrives flat and certain. //Someone who would feel something. Someone who would stand in her apartment and not be able to function.// And instead here you are. Functioning. Taking stock. Present and operational and completely, utterly hollow.<br><br> //What does that make me. Seriously. What does that make me.//<br><br> <<else>> You keep waiting for it to mean something. For the complicated shape of who you were to each other to translate into something you can feel now that she's gone. It doesn't. Whatever was between you, it apparently doesn't produce grief in you.<br><br> //That's the most honest thing I've thought since I walked in here.// You're not sure it's something you're proud of.<br><br> <</if>> You stand there until the waiting starts to feel ridiculous. Until it's just you in a dead woman's apartment expecting your own emotions to show up and receiving no response.<br><br> //What the hell is wrong with me.//<br><br> The thought doesn't produce anything either. Guilt without the feeling of it. Self-disgust that runs on the surface without going anywhere. You're the wrong kind of empty right now and you know it. That knowledge also produces nothing and at some point you have to stop trying to feel things and just move.<br><br> You move.<br><br> <<else>> It starts reasonably.<br><br> You run it from the top: the last time you saw her. The last time you called. The things you said and the things you didn't. Looking for the thing you did wrong. The moment it would have been different if you'd chosen differently. You can do this cleanly if you stay clinical about it. Treat it like an investigation. Like sourcing a story back to the point of failure. Cause and effect. Action and consequence.<br><br> <<if $siblingRelationship is "fixable">> The relationship was warming up. You know that. So it wasn't that. It wasn't neglect. It wasn't cruelty. You were trying and you didn't get there in time and that's a tragedy but it's not a crime. You know that You know that—<br><br> //—unless I was too slow on purpose.// The thought slides in sideways. //Unless some part of me was relieved to have a reason to take it slow. To not commit to the forgiveness yet. Safe to want to forgive without having to do it.//<br><br> You push it out. You bring it back to the facts. You were trying. You were. You have evidence of that.<br><br> //Do you though? Show it. What's the evidence.//<br><br> <<elseif $siblingRelationship is "neutral">> You stayed neutral because it felt fair. Because the relationship was complicated and you weren't willing to pretend otherwise. That's reasonable. You didn't abandon her. You were just... careful. Holding a measured distance.<br><br> //Was that distance actually care, or was it just comfortable.// The question arrives without malice, which makes it worse. //Was neutral a position I chose or a position I settled into because it required less of me.//<br><br> You push it aside. Try to. You've been through this before, this particular loop, and you know where it goes if you let it run.<br><br> //She knew I cared. She had to know. I was there, more or less. More or less.//<br><br> <<else>> The broken version: yes. You know the whole of it. You've catalogued it before and you can do it again without much effort. All the ways it went wrong. All the ways you let it go wrong. All the versions of events where you made different choices and didn't end up here. In her apartment.<br><br> You know exactly where the guilt should come from. That's not the problem. The problem is when you follow the thread further back. Past the obvious choices. Past the ones you can name. And start looking at older things. Earlier things. The kind of thing you're not sure are actually yours to carry and you start carrying them anyway just to make the math add up.<br><br> //Stop.//<br><br> <</if>> You stop. You try to stay on the facts. But the facts have doors and some of those doors open onto things you didn't intend to find when you walked in here.<br><br> Was it you? Partly you? More than partly? If someone had done this sooner. If you had seen it coming. If the last few days had been different... if... if —<br><br> //If someone was watching me.// The thought is new and completely unasked-for. //If whoever got Maud has been watching the whole time. Watching me too. If they already know what I'm doing right now...//<br><br> That's not guilt. That's something else. But it came in through the same door and now it's here and your eyes go to the window before you've decided to look there.<br><br> Outside: the street. A car parked across the road. Someone walking a dog past without looking up.<br><br> Normal. All of it normal. You exhale.<br><br> //Get it together.//<br><br> The guilt is real. The paranoia is a passenger. You don't have to follow it anywhere it wants to go.<br><br> You stand up. You breathe out. You file it all. The guilt. The what-ifs. The uninvited fear. And you let it fester.<br><br> <</if>> Time to work.<br><br> [[Continue|CH2P6.2]]<br><br>

<<if $bookChoice is "nietzsche">> You pull out the Nietzsche. It's been read. Actually read. Spine cracked in three places. A sticky note on the inside cover with something in someone's slanted handwriting you can't fully make out. You flip through it. No hollowed pages. No gap. Just a book she apparently worked through.<br><br> You put it back. As you slide it into place, the book beside it shifts. Nudged by the movement and tips forward off the shelf.<br><br> It hits the floor spine-up. Something slides out from between the pages and skids across the floorboards.<br><br> A phone. Matte black. Cheaper than her main one. A slight crack running diagonally across the lower right corner of the screen. A strip of clear tape over it. A short charging cable tangled with it.<br><br> You look at the book it fell from. //The Double.// Of course.<br><br> You pick up the phone. Press the button. The screen wakes up. Not password protected. Fourteen missed notifications.<br><br> [[Continue|CH2P6.4]]<br><br> <<elseif $bookChoice is "leguin">> You pull out the Le Guin. Thick paperback. Creased spine from being read flat. Maud apparently got through. You flip through it. No hidden compartment. No gap. Just a book.<br><br> You put it back. As you slide it into place, the book beside it shifts. Nudged by the movement and tips forward off the shelf.<br><br> It hits the floor spine-up. Something slides out from between the pages and skids across the floorboards.<br><br> A phone. Matte black. Cheaper than her main one. A slight crack running diagonally across the lower right corner of the screen. A strip of clear tape over it. A short charging cable tangled with it.<br><br> You look at the book it fell from. //The Double.// Of course.<br><br> You pick up the phone. Press the button. The screen wakes up. Not password protected. Fourteen missed notifications.<br><br> [[Continue|CH2P6.4]]<br><br> <<elseif $bookChoice is "dazai">> You pull out Dazai's. Thin. The cover is slightly warped. Like it got wet once and dried wrong. Maud's handwriting in the margins. You flip through it. No hidden compartment. No gap. She just read it.<br><br> You put it back. As you slide it into place, the book beside it shifts. Nudged by the movement and tips forward off the shelf.<br><br> It hits the floor spine-up. Something slides out from between the pages and skids across the floorboards.<br><br> A phone. Matte black. Cheaper than her main one. A slight crack running diagonally across the lower right corner of the screen. A strip of clear tape over it. A short charging cable tangled with it.<br><br> You look at the book it fell from. //The Double.// Of course.<br><br> You pick up the phone. Press the button. The screen wakes up. Not password protected. Fourteen missed notifications.<br><br> [[Continue|CH2P6.4]]<br><br> <<elseif $bookChoice is "frankl">> You pull out Frankls. Small. Read to pieces. Spine taped at some point. Tape now yellowing. You open it. A folded piece of paper falls out. You unfold it: a grocery list in Maud's handwriting. Just a grocery list. No hidden compartment. No gap.<br><br> You put it back. As you slide it into place, the book beside it shifts. Nudged by the movement and tips forward off the shelf.<br><br> It hits the floor spine-up. Something slides out from between the pages and skids across the floorboards.<br><br> A phone. Matte black. Cheaper than her main one. A slight crack running diagonally across the lower right corner of the screen. A strip of clear tape over it. A short charging cable tangled with it.<br><br> You look at the book it fell from. //The Double.// Of course.<br><br> You pick up the phone. Press the button. The screen wakes up. Not password protected. Fourteen missed notifications.<br><br> [[Continue|CH2P6.4]]<br><br> <<elseif $bookChoice is "freire">> You pull out Freire's. Dry. Barely touched. Spine still stiff. Pages slightly fused the way new books are. <br><br> You put it back. As you slide it into place, the book beside it shifts. Nudged by the movement and tips forward off the shelf.<br><br> It hits the floor spine-up. Something slides out from between the pages and skids across the floorboards.<br><br> A phone. Matte black. Cheaper than her main one. A slight crack running diagonally across the lower right corner of the screen. A strip of clear tape over it. A short charging cable tangled with it.<br><br> You look at the book it fell from. //The Double.// Of course.<br><br> You pick up the phone. Press the button. The screen wakes up. Not password protected. Fourteen missed notifications.<br><br> [[Continue|CH2P6.4]]<br><br> <<else>> You pull out the Dostoevsky. It's heavier than expected. The cover sits slightly proud of the pages. Not the natural swell of a well-read book but the specific thickness of something added to the inside.<br><br> You open it.<br><br> The centre has been cut out. A neat rectangular hollow. Inside: a phone Matte black. Cheaper than her main one. A slight crack running diagonally across the lower right corner with a strip of clear tape over it. A short charging cable coiled beneath it.<br><br> //The Double.// You look at the title on the spine. //Yeah, Maud. Very funny.//<br><br> You press the button. The screen wakes up. Not password protected. Fourteen missed notifications.<br><br> [[Continue|CH2P6.4]]<br><br> <</if>>

You sit down on the edge of the couch with the phone in both hands.<br><br> Fourteen notifications. Three threads. Two saved contacts. One bare number.<br><br> You open the first thread. No saved name. Just a number.<br><br> <div class="bl-phone-wrap"> <div class="bl-tabs"> <button class="bl-tab active" onclick="blThread(this,'e')">— unsaved —</button> <button class="bl-tab" onclick="blThread(this,'boss')">Boss</button> <button class="bl-tab" onclick="blThread(this,'patch')">Patch</button> <button class="bl-tab" onclick="blThread(this,'kai')">Kai</button> </div> <div class="bl-phone-shell"> <div class="bl-notch"></div> <div class="bl-screen"> <div class="bl-statusbar"> <span>21:04</span> <div class="bl-statusbar-right"> <span>▲▲▲</span> <span>⬛ 74%</span> </div> </div> <div id="bl-e" class="bl-panel active"> <div class="bl-chat-header"> <div class="bl-avatar">?</div> <div> <div class="bl-contact-name">+XX XXX XXX XXXX</div> <div class="bl-contact-sub">no contact saved</div> </div> </div> <div class="bl-chat-body"> <div class="bl-divider">7 days ago</div> <div class="bl-msg out"> <div class="bl-bubble">did u do what i wantd reptiel cfo ass???</div> <div class="bl-time">19:14</div> </div> <div class="bl-msg in"> <div class="bl-bubble">I did what you asked, crazy bitch. Don't contact me again.</div> <div class="bl-time">20:51</div> </div> <div class="bl-msg out"> <div class="bl-bubble">🖕</div> <div class="bl-time">20:52</div> </div> </div> </div> <div id="bl-boss" class="bl-panel"> <div class="bl-chat-header"> <div class="bl-avatar">B</div> <div> <div class="bl-contact-name">Boss</div> <div class="bl-contact-sub">last seen 3 days ago</div> </div> </div> <div class="bl-chat-body"> <div class="bl-divider">3 days ago</div> <div class="bl-msg out"> <div class="bl-bubble">going quiet for a bit. somthing to chek out</div> <div class="bl-time">19:11</div> </div> <div class="bl-msg in"> <div class="bl-bubble">don't die~</div> <div class="bl-time">19:12</div> </div> </div> </div> <div id="bl-patch" class="bl-panel"> <div class="bl-chat-header"> <div class="bl-avatar">P</div> <div> <div class="bl-contact-name">Patch</div> <div class="bl-contact-sub">last seen 4 days ago</div> </div> </div> <div class="bl-chat-body"> <div class="bl-divider">4 days ago</div> <div class="bl-msg out"> <div class="bl-bubble">mort held agian btw. u were right as usuall 🙄</div> <div class="bl-time">14:03</div> </div> <div class="bl-msg out"> <div class="bl-bubble">comign in to see u soon, my unoffical therapist haha</div> <div class="bl-time">14:03</div> </div> <div class="bl-msg in"> <div class="bl-bubble">I am not your therapist. When are you coming? I want to check the hold before the end of the month.</div> <div class="bl-time">14:21</div> </div> <div class="bl-msg out"> <div class="bl-bubble">nxt week. ill message</div> <div class="bl-time">14:35</div> </div> <div class="bl-msg in"> <div class="bl-bubble">I'll be here.</div> <div class="bl-time">14:36</div> </div> </div> </div> <div id="bl-kai" class="bl-panel"> <div class="bl-chat-header"> <div class="bl-avatar">K</div> <div> <div class="bl-contact-name">My Kai</div> <div class="bl-contact-sub">last seen 5 days ago</div> </div> </div> <div class="bl-chat-body"> <div class="bl-divider">5 days ago</div> <div class="bl-msg out"> <div class="bl-bubble">let's talk when im bak. i care about u</div> <div class="bl-time">23:11</div> </div> <div class="bl-msg in"> <div class="bl-bubble">don't lie</div> <div class="bl-time">23:33</div> </div> </div> </div> <div class="bl-homebar"></div> </div> </div> </div> You open the first thread and stop.<br><br> The number isn't saved. But there is only one retialian cfo ass that comes to your mind. //I did what you asked, crazy bitch. Don't contact me again.//<br><br> $eName.<br><br> You read it again. Then you look at the thread header. Bare number. No name. Now you have to sit with the fact that Maud somehow had $eHis number. That they were apparently in contact. That $eHe did something for her a week ago before she died and drew a hard line after it.<br><br> You've written about $eName. You know $eHis public face and enough of what's underneath it. What you don't know is how Maud got anywhere near $eHim, or what she could possibly have asked for that $eHe delivered.<br><br> You take out your own phone. Screenshot. Close.<br><br> Second thread. Saved as: Boss.<br><br> Luz. Has to be. Luz. You know Luz. You've written the exposé. You know the money and the reach and the particular way $eHe operates. You also know Maud worked for $luzHim. Adored $luzHim. That's the thread. Months of it. And the last message Luz sent her, on her death day, one minute after Maud said she was going quiet to check something out:<br><br> //don't die~//<br><br> She did, though. She did exactly that.<br><br> //You're going to have a lot to say to Luz.//<br><br> Screenshot. Close.<br><br> Third thread. Saved as: Patch.<br><br> Warmer. Months of it. Longer on Maud's side. The name in the replies is Arden — you've heard of $ardenHim. Tried to find out more when it surfaced in research and didn't get far. A Manitou. Skilled enough that people find their way to $ardenHim. Arden is careful enough that no address exists anywhere you can reach. Word of mouth only. And the mouths don't open easily.<br><br> You scroll back through the thread. Visits. Check-ins. Maud calling Arden her unofficial therapist. Arden pushing back on that every time. And Mort. Maud's name for it, you realise. The deterioration. The thing that comes with being Umbra and untreated and getting worse by degrees. You knew she was getting worse. You didn't know she had someone trying to slow it down.<br><br> The last message from Arden: *I'll be here.* Four days ago. She didn't go.<br><br> //She was handling it. On her own. And she didn't say a word.//<br><br> Then you see the fourth thread.<br><br> Saved as: My Kai.<br><br> Short. Five days ago, Maud's last message: //let's talk when im bak. i care about u.// The reply: //don't lie.//<br><br> You don't know who Kai is. You have no idea. And Maud who kept everything close. Who saved almost no one's name in any phone. Who ran on adrenaline and Luz and not much else as far as you ever knew, saved this one as //My Kai//.<br><br> She cared about someone. Someone who didn't believe her when she said so. And she died without getting to have that conversation.<br><br> //You're going to have to tell them.//<br><br> Whoever Kai is, they're sitting somewhere right now not knowing. Waiting for Maud to come back.<br><br> You put both phones in your pocket. You stand up.<br><br> Three people who couldn't be more different. All on the list. At least her Kai isn't on it. You need to talk to them. To warn them. The other's too. You need to move before whoever is working through that list does.<br><br> You look at the apartment one more time. The mug. The leather jackets. The pizza boxes. The bookshelf. You see Christine's key's on the counter and grab it.<br><br> You lock the door behind you.<br><br> [[Continue|CH2P6.5]] <script> function blThread(btn, id) { document.querySelectorAll('.bl-panel').forEach(function(p){ p.classList.remove('active'); }); document.querySelectorAll('.bl-tab').forEach(function(t){ t.classList.remove('active'); }); document.getElementById('bl-' + id).classList.add('active'); btn.classList.add('active'); } </script>

The call comes before you've made it out of the building. You're still in the stairwell when your phone buzzes in your pocket.<br><br> NASIR calling.<br><br> You look at it for one ring. Just to decide. Then pick up.<br><br> "$firstName." Warm. Unhurried. The voice he uses when he has all the time in the world. "I heard about your sister. I'm very sorry."<br><br> "World travels fast it seems."<br><br> "It really does. How are you holding up."<br><br> "I'm fine."<br><br> "Of course you are." There's a smile in it. Fond, almost. "Were you two close?"<br><br> <<if $nas_hookup>> You've talked about Maud with him before. Not much. Pieces. Late. The way things come out when the professional distance collapses a little. He's heard enough to know the shape of it. Asking anyway is just Nasir being thorough.<br><br> <<else>> It's a reasonable question. You answer it the way you answer most things right now: briefly.<br><br> <</if>> "It was complicated."<br><br> "It always is." Gently. Like he understands, what that means. "I've been thinking about the investigation. Where things stand. I wonder if it might make sense to let the team carry the load for a few days while you—"<br><br> You're at the bottom of the stairwell now. Street door in front of you.<br><br> You interrupt him immediately.<br><br> <<link '⌕ Your voice cracks slightly, hands gripping your phone tighter. "I can\'t stop now. I need this. Please don\'t take it away from me right now."'>> <<run setup.setTrait('soft', ($soft || 50) + 2)>> <<set $nasirRefusal to "soft">> <<set $nasirstat += 2>> <<goto "CH2P6.6">> <</link>><br><br> <<link '⌕ Your tone goes flat and final. "I\'m not standing down. This is my case. That\'s not changing."'>> <<run setup.setTrait('soft', ($soft || 50) - 2)>> <<set $nasirRefusal to "hardened">> <<set $nasirstat -= 2>> <<goto "CH2P6.6">> <</link>><br><br> <<link '⌕ You keep your tone light, breezy. "I will be careful. Have I ever not been? Trust me to do my job."'>> <<run setup.setTrait('deflecting', ($deflecting || 50) + 2)>> <<set $nasirRefusal to "deflecting">> <<set $nasirstat += 1>> <<goto "CH2P6.6">> <</link>><br><br> <<link '⌕ Your voice sharpens. Clipped. "She\'s dead, Nasir. This is how I handle it. Let me handle it."'>> <<run setup.setTrait('deflecting', ($deflecting || 50) - 2)>> <<set $nasirRefusal to "cutting">> <<set $nasirstat -= 1>> <<goto "CH2P6.6">> <</link>><br><br>

The Sordia Veterans Affairs Medical Center is not a place people linger after hours unless they have to.<br><br> The main building closes its public-facing doors at seven. What stays open past that is the rehabilitation wing. Physiotherapy. Occupational therapy. The long corridor of treatment rooms that runs along the east face of the building and smells of antiseptic and clean rubber. Fluorescent overhead. Linoleum floors worn to a specific shade of grey-beige that suggests decades of institutional footwear. The staff who work the evening sessions are used to the patients who prefer the later slots: the ones who don't want to wait in the daytime lobby with everyone else. Who have their reasons for keeping this particular part of their life quiet. Or who simply find it easier to come when the building is less full of its own noise.<br><br> Mario Santos has had a standing Thursday evening appointment for two years. He comes for the prosthetics check-in, the maintenance calibration on his legs. Both of them gone. Below the knee. Fitted after the IED on a road outside a village in his third tour whose name he has told you once and never repeated. He was medically discharged afterwards. Stayed in as long as they would let him. Lost his purpose for a while when he came home. Sometimes still is. Then he tried to build something that made use of what he knew. Information.<br><br> You met him two years ago. You were working a story about a soldier whose death had been officially attributed to an accident. Mario was the one who'd filed the original incident report. The one that didn't match the official version. He didn't give you the story. He gave you a question: //"Ask them what the road was called. If they answer correctly, they were there. If they don't, find out why they're pretending they were."//<br><br> They didn't answer correctly.<br><br> He's been your source since. The cases that get buried. The files that disappear into classification without explanation. The names of people who asked too many questions and stopped asking. You keep his name out of everything. That's the arrangement. It has held.<br><br> The bench outside the rehabilitation wing is bolted to the wall beside the accessible entrance. Positioned under an overhang so it stays dry. Mario is already there when you arrive. Jacket on. Wheelchair facing the car park. A cigarette burning between two fingers. <br><br> You sit on the bench beside his wheelchair.<br><br> He doesn't say anything immediately. Lets the street do the talking for a few seconds. Traffic going past. The distant sound of music from an open window above. The pizza scooter on the return run.<br><br> "You're late."<br><br> "You said eight."<br><br> "It is eight-oh-six."<br><br> "Mario."<br><br> "I'm just joking." He takes a drag. Exhales sideways. Away from you. A habit so old you've stopped noticing it consciously. "You look like shit."<br><br> "You said that on the phone."<br><br> "You've gotten worse since the phone." He looks at you. He was always a great people reader. "How are you actually doing."<br><br> You open your mouth. Close it.<br><br> "I'm not great," you say. Which is apparently what comes out when you've been carrying it for too long.<br><br> Mario nods. Takes another drag. "Tell me what you've got."<br><br> This is why people talk to Mario Santos.<br><br> "Two names. First: Marlowe."<br><br> You give him the profile. Umbra bloodline. Assassin for hire. Had his hide-out in a warehouse. How he is specifically connected to a production company in the arts district. Four years of verifiable presence. Known face in the scene. Known within the Umbra community, which is insular but not invisible.<br><br> You tell him that he's slippery. That's the problem. The Umbra community closes ranks when one of their own is being looked for. Not out of loyalty specifically but out of collective self-preservation. Because every time an Umbra is found by the wrong people it ends badly for everyone in the radius. Getting to Marlowe means getting to the edges of the community first. Careful. Indirect.<br><br> "His family," you add. "Whatever you can find. Parents, siblings, anyone he's stayed close to. People don't go completely dark when they're running. They create distance but they don't cut everything. If he's in contact with anyone from before, it'll be family or maybe someone from his theater."<br><br> Mario has been quiet through all of this. He stubs the cigarette on the edge of the bench arm. Looks at the street.<br><br> "The warehouse lease," he says. "What name was it under?"<br><br> "I don't know. That's part of what I need."<br><br> "Property records. I know someone." He puts an unlit cigarette between his fingers, holds it without lighting it. "Second name."<br><br> "Vex Morrison." You reach into your bag. Pull out the photograph. A Channel 6 staff ID photo. Printed out. You hand it to him. "Chronos bloodline. Twenty-two. They're listed as an intern at Channel 6. Started interning about six months ago."<br><br> Mario looks at the photograph. Something in his attention calibrates.<br><br> "Eww a Chronos fucker. Those weirdos always freaked me out. What's their power?" he grimaces.<br><br> "Passive precognition. Uncontrolled. They don't know they're doing it. They say things like predictions, references to events that haven't happened yet and they don't register that's what they're doing. Or at least I thought so until recently." Vex is the biggest mystery to you. Innocent or guilty? You need more information about them.<br><br> "What do you want from them?"<br><br> You tap the photograph. "I want to know where they are. Because as of now, Vex Morrison is not at Channel 6, not at their listed address, and not answering any means of contact. They've been gone for at least forty-eight hours."<br><br> Mario hands the photo back.<br><br> "Chronos going missing," he says. He looks at the street. "I'll look for them. I have contacts who work with unregistered bloodlines, off-CRD. If Morrison is findable, I'll find them." He pockets the cigarette.<br><br> "That's everything I have," you say. "What about Ivo?"<br><br> He reaches into his jacket. Pulls out a folded sheet. Handwritten. Tight and even. "Your father has been in Sordia the whole time."<br><br> You take the paper.<br><br> "He hasn't left the city." He leans forward, elbows on his knees. "He's been here under a maintained identity. Not flagged anywhere because the identity has been clean for years. He's not a transit record. He's a local."<br><br> You unfold the paper. Read it.<br><br> A name. And a note in Mario's printing: //Church affiliation — Seraph community, confirmed active, location approximate.//<br><br> "A Church?" you're baffled.<br><br> "It's called The Order of the Resplendent." He looks at you directly. "There are several organisations in Sordia that operate under religious cover, some of them are genuinely what they present as, which makes them harder to dismiss. This one sits at the intersection of the two. It has a public face like charitable work, community outreach, the kind of thing that doesn't attract scrutiny. But the people who move through it—" he taps the page— "This one is a hardcore cult. Trying to find the messiah of Seraphs for whatever reason. They also do deals with the black markets. Trading weapons, women, money, you name it. They have 50 churches in Sordia alone."<br><br> "Ivo is human though."<br><br> "I know. Which makes his connection to the Order more fucked up, not less." He turns the cigarette over in his fingers. "What I found is that he was seen. About a year ago. In the company of a nun from the Order of the Resplendent. The collar is distinctive, my source described it correctly. They were seen together twice at a market in the Havrel district." He pauses. "He couldn't tell me who either of them were. He only recognised the robes."<br><br> You sit with that for a moment.<br><br> Your father. Somewhere in this city. Walking through a market in Havrel with a nun. This is absolutely deranged. Maud would have loved it.<br><br> //He was here the whole time.//<br><br> A car goes past slow, headlights sweeping briefly across the bench. "Three days," Mario says. "I'll have more on Marlowe and Vex. Ivo will require more time if you want an address rather than a community." He looks at you.<br><br> "Sounds good to me." You give him a tired smile.<br><br> He almost laughs. Not quite. "Okay." He reaches down beside his chair. The gym bag you'd clocked when you arrived. He unzips it just enough, tilts it toward you so the street doesn't see inside. "Favour called in."<br><br> Inside: a pair of Cold Cuffs. Banded. CRD-issue restraint bands. Neural dampeners embedded in the cuffs. Auto-tightening lock nodes. Matte black. New enough to still have the manufacturer's marking on the band, though the serial number on each unit has been filed off. And beneath them, a Field Anchor. The DROP unit. Disc-shaped. Palm-sized. The suppression device that turns bloodline abilities off in a closed space. Fifteen-second activation delay. Thirty-minute operational window.<br><br> "Cold Cuffs hold anything short of a Draegon," Mario says quietly. Eyes on the street. "The DROP is pre-emptive. You use it before you need the cuffs, while they're still figuring out what's happening. They work in sequence. DROP drops the power level. Cuffs keep it down after the field ends." He zips the bag and passes it to you. "My guy pulled them from a supply order that was already written off. Three units were listed as destroyed in a field incident eight months ago. Two of those units are in that bag."<br><br> "The third?"<br><br> "He kept it. He says hello, by the way."<br><br> You take the bag. "Tell him I owe him one."<br><br> "He knows." Mario leans back on the bench. "He says he'll collect it in whisky, not cash."<br><br> "That's a terrible exchange rate."<br><br> "He's aware." Mario looks at you. "Three days. Same bench. Come back with more than you're leaving with." He stretches out his fist.<br><br> "Of course. I'm not called Leech for nothing." You fist bump him as you stand up.<br><br> The car park is quiet. A light above the rehab wing door buzzes faintly. The bag is heavier than it looks. Mario is already looking at the car park again, this time he takes out his whiskey flask. That means it was a bad day again and he wants o be alone.<br><br> You start walking. The night is still young and you have some people to meet.<br><br> [[Continue|CH2P8_Arden]]

You stop at the corner place first.<br><br> It is not closed. It has never been closed. You go in and order a coffee.<br><br> The barista sets the cup on the counter. You pay. You go.<br><br> The Vellum Branch of the Municipal Library closes at nine. At eight it's half-empty and working toward empty. The last of the study crowd packing up around the reading room tables. Chairs scraping old parquet. A librarian doing slow circuits with a returns trolley as if there's no particular hurry. Which there isn't, because nothing in the Vellum Branch has been in a hurry since approximately 1987. <br><br> The building itself is the kind of civic architecture that was built to outlast everything. Heavy stone. High ceilings. The persistent smell of paper. Old climate control. And the particular dust that only accumulates in places people treat carefully.<br><br> You go past the main reading room. Past the periodicals corridor with its low shelving and its microfilm readers that nobody uses. Past the stairs down to the local history archive, which is where the smell gets specific. Old ink. Old binding glue. The nineteen-forties in preserved form. The archive door has an OUT OF ORDER sign on it that has been out of order itself for at least three months.<br><br> Third row from the wall. End of the carrel. The one with the broken overhead light that has generated seven maintenance requests in eight months. None of which have progressed past the initial logging stage, is where you go.<br><br> Sarah Kim is already there.<br><br> She is always already there. You have never arrived before her and you have stopped expecting to. She has one folder open. Two more stacked beside it. Her coat is on the back of the chair. Her bag is under the carrel. She is doing what she always does when she's working: reading something. Pen in hand. Making marks with the efficient shorthand she's developed over years in a job over years at city hall where nobody gives you enough time to write things out properly.<br><br> That job ended when she asked one question too many about a demolition permit that shouldn't have been approved and a building that shouldn't have come down when it did. She was demoted within the week. Reassigned from the planning office to file management. Given a basement. A trolley. And the implicit understanding that people who know too much stay useful longer when they stay quiet. She understood the message. She did not change her behaviour. She simply became harder to catch. You found her two years ago for a major investigation, when you needed someone who could pull a municipal document that officially didn't exist anymore. A colleague gave you a name. You showed up at the library with a coffee. The wrong order. The wrong place. The wrong everything. All in all a terrible first impression. Sarah just looked at you for about four seconds and said: //"The corner place, not the chain on Aldgate. Next time."// There has been a next time, consistently, since then. She doesn't look up when you sit.<br><br> You set the coffee on the table beside her elbow. The cup from the corner place. Her specific order, which you know by now.<br><br> She looks up. Looks at the cup. Looks at you.<br><br> She picks it up. Checks the lid. Sets it back down before she's even taken a sip. "The corner place."<br><br> "The corner place."<br><br> Something in her expression softens. She picks up the cup. Takes a sip to check. Then she sets it down and turns the face-down folder right-side up. You catch a glimpse of the name on the tab: your own. She adjusts it before you can read further.<br><br> "You look terrible." It comes out the same way she'd note a filing error..<br><br> "I've been told."<br><br> "Good. Then I don't need to elaborate." She opens the folder. The pen is already in her hand. "Codeword Bloodhound. Tell me what you have."<br><br> The library murmurs around you. Someone two rows over packing a bag. A cart going past the end of the row. The overhead ventilation doing its low constant work.<br><br> "Two names. First: Marlowe."<br><br> You give her the profile. Umbra bloodline. Assassin for hire. Had his hide-out in a warehouse. How he is specifically connected to a production company in the arts district. Four years of verifiable presence. Known face in the scene. Known within the Umbra community, which is insular but not invisible.<br><br> You tell her that he's slippery. That's the problem. The Umbra community closes ranks when one of their own is being looked for. Not out of loyalty specifically but out of collective self-preservation. Because every time an Umbra is found by the wrong people it ends badly for everyone in the radius. Getting to Marlowe means getting to the edges of the community first. Careful. Indirect.<br><br> "His family," you add. "Whatever you can find. Parents, siblings, anyone he's stayed close to. People don't go completely dark when they're running. They create distance but they don't cut everything. If he's in contact with anyone from before, it'll be family or maybe someone from his theater."<br><br> Sarah writes. The pen moves in steady careful marks. She doesn't ask for clarification. She doesn't ask how you got any of this. She is, as she has always been, a person who understands the difference between information she needs and information she's better off not having.<br><br> She nods oonce. Makes a note. "The Warehouse lease, what name was it under?"<br><br> "I don't know. That's part of what I need."<br><br> "I'll pull the property records." She writes something. "Go on. Second name."<br><br> "Vex Morrison." You reach into your bag. Pull out the photograph. A Channel 6 staff ID photo. Printed out. You slide it across the table. "Chronos bloodline. Twenty-two. They're listed as an intern at Channel 6. Started interning about six months ago."<br><br> Sarah looks at the photo. Looks at you.<br><br> "The Chronos on your floor," she hums in recognition.<br><br> "Yes."<br><br> She says nothing for a moment. "Their abilities... what do you know about them?"<br><br> "Passive precognition. Uncontrolled. They don't know they're doing it. They say things like predictions, references to events that haven't happened yet and they don't register that's what they're doing. Or at least I thought so until recently." Vex is the biggest mystery to you. Innocent or guity? You need more information about them.<br><br> "What do you want from them?"<br><br> You tap the photograph. "I want to know where they are. Because as of now, Vex Morrison is not at Channel 6, not at their listed address, and not answering any means of contact. They've been gone for at least forty-eight hours."<br><br> Sarah looks at the photograph again. Then she writes something. More than she usually writes for a single point, which means she's already thinking three steps ahead.<br><br> "Chronos disappearances are unusual," she says. She caps the pen briefly. "The more likely explanations in my opinion is that they saw something they shouldn't have, and whoever they saw it about found out. They followed a timeline and got pulled into it. Or they left voluntarily because they were frightened." She pauses. "The least useful scenario would be if their disappearance is unrelated to your investigation and I spend three days on a dead thread."<br><br> "I don't think it's unrelated."<br><br> "If you say so." She writes again. "I'll look for them. I have some methods that should give us some information." She looks up. "The photograph helps."<br><br> "That's everything I have," you say. "What about Ivo?"<br><br> She turns to the face-down folder. Opens it. Two pages. Typewritten. Her standard format. Not much. She would have led with it if there were more.<br><br> "Your father," she says, "has been in Sordia the entire time."<br><br> You hear it. You don't say anything immediately.<br><br> "He hasn't left the city." She turns the first page toward you. "He's been here, operating under a new identity. That's why you couldn't find him."<br><br> "How did you find him?"<br><br> "People who maintain clean identities in the same city for a long time leave particular kinds of traces. Patterns that are too careful to be random, gaps in records that are too consistent to be accidental. I followed the gaps." She turns the second page. "What I can tell you is where he is, contextually. Not an address. But a community."<br><br> You look at the page. A name you know. And beside it, handwritten in Sarah's pen: //Church affiliation — Seraph community, confirmed active, location approximate.//<br><br> "A Church?" you're baffled.<br><br> "It's called The Order of the Resplendent. There are several organisations in Sordia that operate under religious cover, some of them are genuinely what they present as, which makes them harder to dismiss. This one sits at the intersection of the two. It has a public face like charitable work, community outreach, the kind of thing that doesn't attract scrutiny. But the people who move through it—" she taps the page— "This one is a hardcore cult. Trying to find the messiah of Seraphs for whatever reason. They also do deals with the black markets. Trading weapons, women, money, you name it. They have 50 chruches in Sordia alone."<br><br> "Ivo is human though."<br><br> "I know. Which makes his connection to the Order more interesting, not less." She turns the page back. "What I found is that he was seen. About a year ago. In the company of a nun from the Order of the Resplendent. The collar is distinctive, my source described it correctly. They were seen together twice at a market in the Havrel district." She pauses. "He couldn't tell me who either of them were. He only recognised the robes."<br><br> You sit with that for a moment.<br><br> Your father. Somewhere in this city. Walking through a market in Havrel with a nun. This is absolutely deranged. Maud would have loved it.<br><br> //He was here the whole time.//<br><br> You photograph both pages. You don't say what you're thinking. Sarah isn't asking.<br><br> "Three days," she says, returning to her main folders. The folder goes face-down again. "I'll have more on Marlowe and Vex. Ivo will require more time if you want an address rather than a community." She looks at you.<br><br> "Sounds good to me." You give her a tired smile.<br><br> She nods satisfied with the outcome. "There's one more thing." She reaches into the bag under the carrel without ceremony and sets a flat case on the table between you. Medical-looking. <br><br> You open it.<br><br> Two auto-injectors. Series 9. Each one the length of your palm, matte black casing, the auto-trigger tab on the side. CRD-issue. The kind of thing that does not appear in civilian inventory through any documented process.<br><br> "NINE," Sarah says, keeping her voice below the ambient hum of the ventilation. "Two units. The first is standard calibration. Broad spectrum, sedation onset within twenty to forty seconds on most known bloodline types, dosage within tolerance range." She doesn't look at the injectors while she talks about them, which is a habit of hers with things she'd prefer not to be seen discussing in a public library. "The second is modified. Higher concentration, slower release. For a subject with a fast metabolism or an active resistance profile."<br><br> "Where did these come from." You can't hide your surprise.<br><br> She picks up her coffee. Takes a sip. Sets it down. Looks at you innocently. "The provenance is not something that belongs in your records."<br><br> That means: black market. Carefully sourced. Deniable. You don't push it.<br><br> She reaches into the bag again. Produces a second item. A Static Field Unit. The Scrambler.<br><br> "Twelve-minute window under active suppression," she says. "More if you're running it on low. Battery pack is charged. There's a spare cell in the slot on the back. Swap it when the indicator light goes amber, not red, because by red you're already down to three minutes." She slides it across the table. "Don't run it near civilians if you can avoid it. The field suppresses bloodline traits within a five-metre radius but the harmonic interference affects everyone inside it. Headaches, disorientation, short-term memory gaps. It doesn't discriminate."<br><br> You put both items in your bag. You are aware of what you're now carrying and it's definitely more different than carrying a notebook or a recorder.<br><br> The library is quieter now. The last of the study crowd gone. The trolley wheels going distant. Closing time approaching.<br><br> "Thank you Sarah, I mean it. I definitely owe you." She looks at you for a moment. Not long. The expression that crosses her face is hard to read. Mostly because she works at making it hard to read. <br><br> "I looked for him because you asked," she just shrugs. "That's the job."<br><br> "The job doesn't cover everything you do."<br><br> She picks up her pen. Turns back to her folders. "Three days," she says. "Corner place coffee again. I mean it."<br><br> You almost say something else. But Sarah has already started to write into one of her folders again. She's basically unapproachable once in work mode.<br><br> You stand. You walk out of the carrel. The librarian with the trolley nods as you pass. You nod back.<br><br> The main doors open onto the wide stone steps.<br><br> You start walking. The night is still young and you have some people to meet.<br><br> [[Continue|CH2P8_Arden]]

The problem with the //Elsinore// is the aesthetic.<br><br> There is no dress code, technically. What there is: a yacht that looks like Alexander Rocheford III designed it by asking what would happen if the Capitol from a dystopian novel threw a party and forgot to stop. All white and gold and deliberate excess. The kind of glamour that has stopped trying to be subtle and is daring you to find it embarrassing. Everyone who boards it looks like they were cast. The music is always too loud. The drinks are always too good. Nobody is quite sober and nobody is quite serious and that is the point. Entirely.<br><br> He texts you before every meeting with instructions on what to wear. Specific instructions. He has opinions. You have never once followed them. He finds this funnier than compliance would be. The refusal is the entertainment. And keeping Alexander Rocheford III entertained is, you have learned, the most reliable way to keep him useful. You arrive looking exactly dressed in your normal everyday clothes. This is deliberate on your part. It is also, you suspect, exactly what he wants.<br><br> The Rocheford family power is old enough to look respectable. What it looks like now is the Rocheford Political Foundation. Campaign management. Civic organisation. Public service. Senator Marcus Rocheford giving speeches about democratic values with the practiced sincerity of a man who has rigged enough elections to know exactly what winning looks like. What this family actually is looks a little different once you dig deeper. It's basically machine. Poll workers. Voting technicians. A database of every registered bloodline individual in Sordia available for sale to whoever needs it. Legislation drafted to look protective while enabling exploitation. Children positioned throughout the system in roles that matter. The perfect art of human corruption without supernatural powers. As the Senator himself has reportedly described it. Though never on record.<br><br> Alexander is one of those children. He was positioned. He has simply decided to use the access for his own purposes rather than the family's. Which is either a betrayal or a hobby depending on how you look at it. He buys classified information from corrupt officials the way another person might collect art. Because it's interesting. Because he can. Because watching the people those files describe try to manage their exposure when it leaks is genuinely the most fun he has in a given month. He doesn't sell it. He doesn't leverage it for money. He trades it to journalists he finds worth talking to. In exchange for the entertainment of watching something finally become public and consequential. Senator Marcus Rocheford has, as far as you know, no idea his son is doing any of this. Or perhaps he does and finds it beneath comment. With the Rochefords it is difficult to tell.<br><br> You met him at a gallery opening two years ago. You were there for a story that had nothing to do with him. He came over. Looked at your press lanyard and said: //"You're working the wrong angle on Councillor Pryce."// You'd told him to elaborate. He said he would — somewhere that wasn't a gallery opening — and gave you a card with a pier number on the back.<br><br> The file he gave you at that first meeting ended a career. You kept his name out of it entirely. He was delighted. He said: //"Same time next month and bring something interesting, I'm easily bored."//<br><br> You have been bringing him interesting things ever since.<br><br> Pier 9 is not the kind of pier that gets inspected with enthusiasm. The //Elsinore// is moored at its usual berth. Eighty feet of sailing yacht. Immaculate white hull with a light-catching quality in the evening. Running lights beginning to come on as the sky goes from grey to actual dark.<br><br> The music reaches you before the gangway does. Something with brass. Very loud. Loud enough that it's drowning out the water sounds and the distant harbour machinery because Alexander loves testing what he can get away with and the answer so far has been: quite a lot. Someone is laughing above decks.<br><br> The deckhand at the gangway knows your face. He steps aside without a word.<br><br> The deck has the quality of a space that has been curated rather than decorated. Everything here is exactly what it should be and nothing is trying too hard. Teak boards worn to the right shade of honey. Ropes coiled correctly. On the forward deck, two people are laughing at something and a third is refilling their glass. None of them register you. This is by design. The //Elsinore// hosts a certain kind of person, and they have learned how not to notice things that aren't their business.<br><br> You find Alexander at the stern. Draped over a teak lounge chair. Glass in one hand. Jacket open. Dark trousers. Shoes that cost more than some people's monthly rent. He's looking at the harbour lights with the expression he uses when he's bored but in a way that he still appears to look mildly interesting.<br><br> He clocks you before you cross the deck.<br><br> "Aww, you didn't dress up for me." The tone is teasing. But he looks pleased. Genuinely. Privately pleased. The way he always looks when you defy some expectation of his. The refusal is funnier to him than the compliance would have been.<br><br> "Don't."<br><br> "I'm not doing anything, I'm simply observing." He sits up. Properly. Which from Alexander counts as attentiveness. "Come here. Sit. You're making me anxious standing there looking like you're about to deliver bad news."<br><br> "I am the one who should be saying that," you mutter.<br><br> "I've got some good news. But I want to hear what you need from me first. Now sit." He gestures at the chair across from him. A member of the crew materialises briefly with a second glass and disappears again before you can say anything about it. The harbour moves behind Alexander's shoulder. The lights of other boats. The long dark line of the breakwater. The city's ambient glow cutting the sky low and orange. Alexander watches the harbour.<br><br> "Two names. First: Marlowe."<br><br> You give him the profile. Umbra bloodline. Assassin for hire. Had his hide-out in a warehouse. How he is specifically connected to a production company in the arts district. Four years of verifiable presence. Known face in the scene. Known within the Umbra community, which is insular but not invisible.<br><br> You tell him that he's slippery. That's the problem. The Umbra community closes ranks when one of their own is being looked for. Not out of loyalty specifically but out of collective self-preservation. Because every time an Umbra is found by the wrong people it ends badly for everyone in the radius. Getting to Marlowe means getting to the edges of the community first. Careful. Indirect.<br><br> "His family," you add. "Whatever you can find. Parents, siblings, anyone he's stayed close to. People don't go completely dark when they're running. They create distance but they don't cut everything. If he's in contact with anyone from before, it'll be family or maybe someone from his theater."<br><br> Alexander listens without looking at you. He turns the glass slowly in his hand. When you finish, the silence holds for a few seconds.<br><br> "The warehouse lease," he says. "What name was it under?"<br><br> "I don't know. That's part of what I need."<br><br> "I'll pull the property records." He sets the glass down. "Second name."<br><br> "Vex Morrison." You reach into your bag. Pull out the photograph. A Channel 6 staff ID photo. Printed out. You slide it across the low table. "Chronos bloodline. Twenty-two. They're listed as an intern at Channel 6. Started interning about six months ago."<br><br> Alexander looks at the photograph. His expression is perfectly composed. He picks it up. Studies it with the focused attention of someone committing a face to memory.<br><br> "Hmm. Chronos are entertaining at least." He sets the photograph down. "They look young. Channel 6 is an interesting placement for people like them." He looks at you. "What can they do?"<br><br> "Passive precognition. Uncontrolled. They don't know they're doing it. They say things like predictions, references to events that haven't happened yet and they don't register that's what they're doing. Or at least I thought so until recently." Vex is the biggest mystery to you. Innocent or guilty? You need more information about them.<br><br> "What do you want from them?"<br><br> You tap the photograph. "I want to know where they are. Because as of now, Vex Morrison is not at Channel 6, not at their listed address, and not answering any means of contact. They've been gone for at least forty-eight hours."<br><br> Alexander sets the photograph down. Looks at the harbour lights.<br><br> "Chronos going missing," he says. "I'll look for them. I have people who move through parts of the city that don't leave records. If Morrison is somewhere findable, I'll find them."<br><br> "That's everything I have," you say. "What about Ivo?"<br><br> He reaches into his jacket — the inside pocket, the one he uses for things that don't leave records. Produces a single card. Monogrammed, because of course it is. He places it on the table.<br><br> On the back, in his handwriting — extravagant, somehow still legible — a few lines. A name. An affiliation. A note.<br><br> You read it.<br><br> "Your father has been in Sordia the whole time." Alexander says it before you can.<br><br> "He hasn't left the city." He continues. "He's been here under a long-held identity — clean, maintained, the kind that doesn't appear in standard searches."<br><br> You look at the card. A name. And beside it, in his handwriting: //Church affiliation — Seraph community, confirmed active, location approximate.//<br><br> "A Church?" you're baffled.<br><br> "It's called The Order of the Resplendent." He picks up his glass. "There are several organisations in Sordia that operate under religious cover, some of them are genuinely what they present as, which makes them harder to dismiss. This one sits at the intersection of the two. It has a public face like charitable work, community outreach, the kind of thing that doesn't attract scrutiny. But the people who move through it—" he taps the card— "This one is a hardcore cult. Trying to find the messiah of Seraphs for whatever reason. They also do deals with the black markets. Trading weapons, women, money, you name it. They have 50 churches in Sordia alone."<br><br> "Ivo is human though."<br><br> "I know. Which makes his presence in their orbit interesting rather than obvious." He sets the glass down. "What I found is that he was seen. About a year ago. In the company of a nun from the Order of the Resplendent. The collar is distinctive, my source described it correctly. They were seen together twice at a market in the Havrel district." He pauses. "He couldn't tell me who either of them were. He only recognised the robes."<br><br> You sit with that for a moment.<br><br> Your father. Somewhere in this city. Walking through a market in Havrel with a nun. This is absolutely deranged. Maud would have loved it.<br><br> //He was here the whole time.//<br><br> You put the card in your pocket. You don't say what you're thinking. Alexander isn't asking.<br><br> "Three days," he says, looking back at the harbour. "I'll have more on Marlowe and Vex. Ivo will require more time if you want an address rather than a community." He looks at you.<br><br> "Sounds good to me." You give him a tired smile.<br><br> "Now." He straightens. The shift in energy is deliberate. He reaches under his chair. Brings out a black case, the size of a hardback book. Sets it on the table. "Professional courtesy."<br><br> You open it.<br><br> Inside: a TYPE 4 SHORT. The CRD-issue compact sidearm. Modular. Clean. No serial number visible. Three magazines, each loaded differently: standard ballistic. Cryo-gel rounds in the second. Neural disruptor rounds in the third. And beside the weapon, a SHELL. The neural protection headgear. Collapsible and flat. the kind that protects against psychic interference. Memory alteration. Charm effects. Chronos precognitive targeting. It folds small enough to fit in a coat pocket.<br><br> "The Short came from a procurement contact," Alexander boasts, puffing out his chest a little. "The Shell I had in inventory. I have a standing arrangement with a supplier who finds things in places where questions about origins would be inconvenient for everyone." He meets your look. "The cryo rounds are for temperature-based suppression. I made no inferences about your list."<br><br> "You made several inferences."<br><br> "I included a range of options." The faint smile. "Wear the Shell when things get specific. Chronos targeting is subtle — you won't notice it's happening until it's already happened. And given that you have a missing Chronos and you're about to start talking to some interesting people, keeping your decision-making clean seems prudent."<br><br> "Thanks." You close the case.<br><br> "Three days. Same pier." He's already looking back at the harbour. "Be less tragic by then. The look isn't doing you any favours."<br><br> "I'll work on it."<br><br> "Mm." He waves you off. "Go."<br><br> You walk back across the deck. The deckhand at the gangway nods. You go down the gangway and onto the pier.<br><br> The harbour is cold. Dark. Enormous. The //Elsinore// sits at its berth behind you with its running lights. Loud music. And the richest of the rich.<br><br> You start walking. The night is still young and you have some people to meet.<br><br> [[Continue|CH2P8_Arden]]

The Hotel Cerise does not advertise.<br><br> It has no need to. The kind of people who stay at the Cerise already know it exists. And the kind of people who don't know it exists are not who it is for. Six floors. Forty-two rooms. A building designed that signals old money rather than new. No marble atrium. No chandelier scaled for spectacle. Instead it has a dark timber panelling. Low lighting. Upholstered furniture in deep greens and charcoals that absorbs sound rather than reflecting it. Fresh flowers on the reception desk. White. Staff who move efficiently and make no unnecessary eye contact. The rooftop bar does not have a menu visible from the lift. You step out and tell them what you want.<br><br> Valentina Cross has been coming to the Cerise for three years. Not to stay. To be seen. In the subtle way that her work requires. Her clients are politicians. Senior officials. Businessmen. And the outer ring of people who handle money for crime bosses who need it handled discreetly. They bring their secrets here the way anyone brings something valuable to a place that looks safe. Because the view is beautiful. Because she is beautiful. Because a man who has just told you something he has never told anyone else is not thinking clearly enough to remember that she is listening.<br><br> They think she is unimportant. This is the core of what she does. They trust her with things they would never tell an equal because they do not consider her one. She has built a career on that miscalculation. She trades in what she hears. Carefully. To people she selects herself. For things she values more than money: information that protects her. Names that keep her safe and the occasional journalist who will keep her name out of print in exchange for access and insider knowledge of the upper class she has to navigate.<br><br> You met her two years ago. You were three months into a story about a city councillor who was being blackmailed. The blackmailer was using information that could only have come from inside a very private room. You were stuck. A source pointed you toward a woman who might know something. You came to the Cerise, not knowing what to expect. You sat at the rooftop bar for twenty minutes before you noticed that the woman sitting alone in the corner booth had been watching you.<br><br> She came over. Sat down without asking. Ordered for herself without looking at you.<br><br> //"You're looking for the room,"//she'd said. //"I know who booked it."//<br><br> You gave her nothing in exchange for that first conversation. She didn't ask for anything. By the second meeting she had made clear what she wanted: her name stays out of everything. You get access to what she hears. You give her everything you know about current potential clients. And occasionally you have to do favors. No question's asked. That's the arrangement.<br><br> The rooftop bar is quieter at eight than at six. The private booths run along the far wall. Each one screened by frosted glass panels. Visible enough to be seen. Private enough that the conversation doesn't carry. The city spreads out beyond the railing. Amber and dark. The wind off the rooftop carries the smell of the night and whatever the kitchen is sending up through the ventilation. You are already in the booth. Valentina's booth. The one with sightlines to the lift and the stairwell door and the bar itself. You have never once arrived here and found her already seated. She is always the second one. This is a calculated move. To make you wait.<br><br> She steps off the lift at eight exactly. Dark dress. Red Heels. Red Lipstick. Icy blonde hair done for an evening that either has already happened or will happen after this. She crosses to the booth without looking at the bar. Slides in across from you and does a single sweep of the room before her black eyes settle on you.<br><br> "You look exhausted."<br><br> "I'm aware."<br><br> She says nothing more about it. Doesn't really care. For her it's always about business. "Tell me what you need."<br><br> "Two names. First: Marlowe."<br><br> You give her the profile. Umbra bloodline. Assassin for hire. Had his hide-out in a warehouse. How he is specifically connected to a production company in the arts district. Four years of verifiable presence. Known face in the scene. Known within the Umbra community, which is insular but not invisible.<br><br> You tell her that he's slippery. That's the problem. The Umbra community closes ranks when one of their own is being looked for. Not out of loyalty specifically but out of collective self-preservation. Because every time an Umbra is found by the wrong people it ends badly for everyone in the radius. Getting to Marlowe means getting to the edges of the community first. Careful. Indirect.<br><br> "His family," you add. "Whatever you can find. Parents, siblings, anyone he's stayed close to. People don't go completely dark when they're running. They create distance but they don't cut everything. If he's in contact with anyone from before, it'll be family or maybe someone from his theater."<br><br> Valentina listens without moving. She does not take notes. She does not need to.<br><br> "The warehouse lease," she says when you finish. "What name was it under?"<br><br> "I don't know. That's part of what I need."<br><br> "I know someone who can pull the property records." A beat. "Second name."<br><br> "Vex Morrison." You reach into your bag. Pull out the photograph. A Channel 6 staff ID photo. Printed out. You slide it across the low table. "Chronos bloodline. Twenty-two. They're listed as an intern at Channel 6. Started interning about six months ago."<br><br> Valentina picks up the photograph. "A cutie. Would do really great in my business. What powers do they have?"<br><br> "Passive precognition. Uncontrolled. They don't know they're doing it. They say things like predictions, references to events that haven't happened yet and they don't register that's what they're doing. Or at least I thought so until recently." Vex is the biggest mystery to you. Innocent or guilty? You need more information about them.<br><br> "What do you want from them?"<br><br> You tap the photograph. "I want to know where they are. Because as of now, Vex Morrison is not at Channel 6, not at their listed address, and not answering any means of contact. They've been gone for at least forty-eight hours."<br><br> She sets the photograph down. "Chronos going missing," she says. "I'll look for them. If Morrison is findable, I'll find them."<br><br> "That's everything I have," you say. "What about Ivo?"<br><br> She produces nothing visible. No paper. No card. Nothing that can be traced back to her. Her word of mouth is basically her only trade. At least in person. "Your father," she says, "has been in Sordia the entire time."<br><br> You hear it. You don't say anything immediately.<br><br> "He hasn't left the city." She continues before you have time to respond. "He's been here, operating under a maintained identity. That's why you couldn't find him."<br><br> She says it cleanly. Without preamble. It hits the way it's designed to hit.<br><br> "How did you find him?"<br><br> "People who maintain clean identities in the same city for a long time leave particular kinds of traces. Patterns that are too careful to be random, gaps in records that are too consistent to be accidental. I followed the gaps." She meets your eyes. "What I can tell you is where he is, contextually. Not an address. But a community."<br><br> "A Church?" you're baffled.<br><br> "It's called The Order of the Resplendent. There are several organisations in Sordia that operate under religious cover, some of them are genuinely what they present as, which makes them harder to dismiss. This one sits at the intersection of the two. It has a public face like charitable work, community outreach, the kind of thing that doesn't attract scrutiny. But the people who move through it—" she looks at you steadily— "This one is a hardcore cult. Trying to find the messiah of Seraphs for whatever reason. They also do deals with the black markets. Trading weapons, women, money, you name it. They have 50 churches in Sordia alone."<br><br> "Ivo is human though."<br><br> "I know. Which makes his connection to the Order more suspicious, not less." She doesn't fill the pause. "What I found is that he was seen. About a year ago. In the company of a nun from the Order of the Resplendent. The collar is distinctive, my source described it correctly. They were seen together twice at a market in the Havrel district." She pauses. "He couldn't tell me who either of them were. He only recognised the robes."<br><br> You sit with that for a moment. The neroli smell. The muffled sounds from the main floor.<br><br> Your father. Somewhere in this city. Walking through a market in Havrel with a nun. This is absolutely deranged. Maud would have loved it.<br><br> //He was here the whole time.//<br><br> Valentina says nothing. She has already given you everything she has. She doesn't fill the silence with anything it doesn't need.<br><br> "Three days," she says. "I'll have more on Marlowe and Vex. Ivo will require more time if you want an address rather than a community." She looks at you.<br><br> "Sounds good to me." You give her a tired smile.<br><br> She stands. Goes to the small side cabinet. Reaches behind the linens. Sets a cream-coloured gift bag on the table. The kind from a boutique. The kind that looks like everything it is not.<br><br> You open it.<br><br> Inside: a Behavioral Codex Unit. The FILE. Compact. Cncrypted. Pre-loaded with full bloodline threat profiles. Identification markers. Power variants. Known weaknesses, containment notes for every type in the database. This one has been scrubbed. No CRD metadata. No serial numbers, no originating paperwork. Clean as a stone.<br><br> "A client left it as payment," Valentina says. "He owed me information he didn't have, so he offered equipment instead. I have no use for it. You evidently do."<br><br> Beneath the FILE: a cylinder. Dark grey. The size of a thermos. Roughly. The kind of object that could be anything and is specifically one thing. Civilian-grade explosive device. Modified detonator. Timed rather than wireless. Simple. Reliable. The kind of device that works when other things don't.<br><br> "That one came from a different client," Valentina says. "He wanted information. He paid in kind. I've been looking at it for three months deciding what to do with it." She meets your eyes. "Your situation resolved the question."<br><br> "How do I use it."<br><br> "The collar on the cap rotates to three positions. Thirty seconds. Sixty seconds. Two minutes. Set it. Pull the pin on the side, there's a small pin, not obvious, you'll feel it and place it. It does not respond to wireless interference and it does not communicate with anything. Do not drop it onto a hard surface before you've armed it. Do not place it near active electronics within two metres of detonation." She pauses. "Don't use it anywhere you want to go back to."<br><br> "Three days. Same place." You zip your bag.<br><br> She's already standing, smoothing her dress once. "Cerise. Eight. And $firstName—" she uses your name. Once. "I will need a favor from you. Soon."<br><br> She walks back toward the lift at the same unhurried pace she arrived with. Men at the bar look up. She moves through the room the way she always moves through rooms. Like she belongs entirely and owes nothing to anyone in it. The lift doors open. Close. She's gone.<br><br> You sit for a moment. The city spreads out past the railing. Indifferent and enormous.<br><br> You stand. Take the lift down. Walk out through the lobby, past the white flowers on the reception desk and through the front door onto the street.<br><br> The cold is immediate. After the timber and the low light and the careful quiet of the Cerise, the street air hits specifically. Traffic going past. The bus stop at the corner with its single waiting figure. The ordinary undesigned texture of a city that has no idea what just happened in the room you left behind.<br><br> You start walking. The night is still young and you have some people to meet.<br><br> [[Continue|CH2P8_Arden]]

Finding Arden is not like finding any other person.<br><br> There's no name in any public directory. No listing. No address. You've already checked. Before the informant meeting, in the window between the morgue and Maud's building, when you were running every thread you had on the phone contacts. Nothing. Not a clinic name. Not a business registration. Not a single record that puts a doctor called Arden anywhere that can be found by anyone with a computer and a purpose.<br><br> What you have is a bloodline type, a street reputation, and a phone thread saved as Patch.<br><br> Manitou doctors are rare. Manitou doctors who operate underground are rarer still. Manitou doctors who do both kinds of medicine — physical and spiritual — and maintain neutral ground doing it are a near-singular category in Sordia's undercity. Someone knows where they are. The question is finding someone who'll say.<br><br> No address means you ask around. And asking around in this city means going to the places where the right people sit and talking to enough of them until someone talks back.<br><br> You start in the Havrel district. It's the only place to start.<br><br> [[Enter the Havrel district|CH2P8_Lab_Enter]]

The first thing you notice is the smell.<br><br> Antiseptic losing a slow war against mildew. Underneath both, the copper trace of blood that no amount of cleaning has ever quite managed to shift. The undercity doesn't smell like Sordia up top, where the air recyclers run on schedule and the streets get hosed down twice weekly. Down here the city breathes differently. Harder. Like something that's been running for a long time on not enough.<br><br> The Havrel district at night has the quality of a place that has decided to ignore you until proven relevant. Storefronts half-shuttered. Lights low behind glass. The Manitou community has been here for four generations. The undercity runs through the bones of this neighbourhood like a second set of pipes.<br><br> You know Sordia's margins the way you know all of its margins: well enough to navigate, not well enough to belong. The people in the corners of these streets know the difference immediately.<br><br> The main street splits ahead of you. Market stalls to the left. Still half-alive at this hour. A quieter residential lane to the right. Straight ahead the road narrows into the older part of the district. Darker. Dess foot traffic.<br><br> You need to find someone who knows this neighbourhood well enough to point you somewhere real. The question is who to ask first.<br><br> [[⌕ Head left toward the market stalls|CH2P8_Lab_Market]]<br><br> [[⌕ Head right into the residential lane|CH2P8_Lab_Residential]]<br><br> [[⌕ Go straight into the older district|CH2P8_Lab_OldDistrict]]<br><br>

The market stalls at this hour are the ones that don't deal in anything that spoils. There is dried goods, secondhand cloth, small hardware. The vendors are winding down but haven't left yet, which means they're in the particular mood of people who are tired and would rather be elsewhere but will still talk if the question is interesting enough.<br><br> You try the closest one: a man selling bundled herbs and paper sachets. Maybe sixty. Manitou by the colour of his paleless eyes. You ask if he knows a doctor in the area. Underground. Does both kinds of work.<br><br> He looks at you for a long moment. Then he starts packing up his display without answering. Done. Not hostile just not your resource.<br><br> You try the woman at the next stall over. She sells small bottles of something that might be lamp oil or might be something else. You ask the same question.<br><br> "Wrong street," she says, without looking up. "You want the old district. Past the fountain. Left at the ironmonger." She pauses. "Maybe."<br><br> Maybe. That's something.<br><br> [[⌕ Head to the old district|CH2P8_Lab_Residential]]<br><br> [[⌕ That "maybe" bothers you. Try someone else in the market first|CH2P8_Lab_Market_Second]]<br><br>

The residential lane is quiet in the way of streets where people live and don't want to be bothered by people who don't. Curtains drawn. Lights on upstairs. Off downstairs. The only person visible is a woman walking a small dog. Moving fast. Head down.<br><br> You try her anyway. Ask about a Manitou doctor in the district. Underground. Word of mouth.<br><br> She doesn't stop walking. "Don't know anything about that." She seems to know something and has decided you don't get it.<br><br> You try a man sitting on his front step smoking. He listens to your question and then says: "Try the market. Someone over there will know." He points back the way you came.<br><br> Dead end. The residential lane isn't going to give you anything tonight.<br><br> [[⌕ Try the market stalls|CH2P8_Lab_Market]]<br><br> [[⌕ Try the older district instead|CH2P8_Lab_OldDistrict]]<br><br>

The older part of the district is darker and quieter. The buildings here predating Sordia's last architectural period by fifty years. Different stone. Different proportions. Narrow streets that weren't designed for the traffic. There's a fountain at the centre of a small square. Dry. The cracked basin full of moss and red flowers.<br><br> You scan the square. Three people visible. An elderly man on a bench, asleep or close to it. Two teenagers sharing something against the far wall, who look at you with the immediate assessment of people deciding whether you're a problem.<br><br> You approach the bench. The man is not asleep. His eyes are open, watching the fountain. <br><br> You ask about the doctor. He listens. Then says: "Left at the ironmonger. Take the lane past it. Ask the woman at the corner with the red door." He pauses. "Don't say who sent you."<br><br> [[⌕ Find the ironmonger and turn left|CH2P8_Lab_Ironmonger]]<br><br>

You try two more vendors. The first one — a teenage girl selling salvaged electronics components — shrugs and says nothing. Doesn't know or doesn't want to say.<br><br> The second, an older man with silver threading at his temples, gives you a long slow look and then says:<br><br> "You're not from here."<br><br> "No."<br><br> "You're not rich."<br><br> "No."<br><br> "Then the kind of doctor you're thinking of has no reason to see you." He goes back to his inventory. "Past the fountain. Left at the ironmonger. After that you're on your own."<br><br> Same directions as the bottle-seller. Two sources saying the same thing. That's enough.<br><br> [[⌕ Head to the old district|CH2P8_Lab_OldDistrict]]<br><br>

Past the fountain. You find it, a small dry square with a basin someone has turned into a planter. The street ahead narrows. To the left, an ironmonger's shop, shuttered now but identifiable by the hardware hanging outside the door that nobody bothered to bring in.<br><br> Left at the ironmonger.<br><br> [[⌕ Turn left at the ironmonger|CH2P8_Lab_IronmongerLeft]]<br><br>

Past the ironmonger, the lane drops off the main drag and into something older. Narrower. The buildings on either side lean slightly toward each other at the upper floors. Three doors on the left. Two on the right. No signage on any of them.<br><br> [[⌕ Go to the open door halfway down, someone's in|CH2P8_Lab_WrongDoor]]<br><br> [[⌕ Keep going to the corner with the red door|CH2P8_Lab_RedDoor]]<br><br>

You push the door open.<br><br> It's a storage room. Someone has been living in part of it — a folding cot against the wall, a small cooking setup, clothes on a line strung between two ceiling pipes. A man in his thirties is sitting on an upturned crate eating something from a tin, and he looks at you with the particular expression of someone whose home you have just walked into without knocking.<br><br> "Sorry," you say. "Wrong door."<br><br> He points back the way you came without speaking. You back out and close the door behind you.<br><br> //Right. The corner. The red door.//<br><br> [[⌕ Continue to the corner with the red door|CH2P8_Lab_RedDoor]]<br><br>

The corner. The red door is there. Faded red. The colour of something that used to be brighter, now the colour of old brick in the right light. A woman sits on the step outside it. Late forties, perhaps. She's mending a shirt and she clocks you about ten metres out and doesn't look away when you approach.<br><br> "I'm looking for a doctor," you say.<br><br> "Plenty of those," she says.<br><br> "Not plenty. One specific one. Underground. Manitou.$ardenHisC name is Arden." You hold her gaze. "I was told to ask at the red door."<br><br> She keeps mending. "Who died?" she asks.<br><br> "My sister."<br><br> A pause. She looks up at you properly for the first time. Something in her face shifts. <br><br> "Straight down the lane," she says. "Where it bends again, there's a fork. Don't take the right fork. Left only. Then right at the end, into the yard. Door at the back of the yard."<br><br> She goes back to her hands.<br><br> "Thank you," you say.<br><br> She doesn't respond.<br><br> [[⌕ Follow the directions|CH2P8_Lab_Fork]]<br><br>

The lane bends. The fork is where she said it would be. One path going right. Opening onto what looks like a wider street with more light. One path going left. Narrow. Darker. Less inviting.<br><br> [[⌕ Go left|CH2P8_Lab_LeftFork]]<br><br> [[⌕ Go right|CH2P8_Lab_RightFork]]<br><br>

The left path is narrow enough that you'd brush the walls on both sides if your arms were out. The stone is damp here, sheltered from sun and wind for a very long time. You can't see the end of it from where you enter.<br><br> You go in anyway.<br><br> It opens after twenty metres into a small yard. Cramped. Dark. The overflow of the buildings pressing in on all sides. Broken paving underfoot. A single outdoor light above a door at the far end. Bulb yellowed with age. Putting out barely enough to see by.<br><br> The door at the back of the yard.<br><br> You cross to it. You knock.<br><br> Nothing.<br><br> You knock again. Three times. Firm.<br><br> A long pause. Then footsteps on the other side. The door opens two inches on a chain, and a pair of eyes looks at you from the gap. Young. Female. Giving you nothing.<br><br> "Someone died," you say. "I need to speak with the doctor. I was sent here."<br><br> The eyes consider you. A silence long enough to become uncomfortable.<br><br> Then the chain slides back.<br><br> [[⌕ Go inside|CH2P8_ClinicEntrance]]<br><br>

The right fork opens onto a wider street. Better lit. More people. You walk it for two minutes looking for a yard, a back door, anything that matches what the woman described.<br><br> Nothing. Residential on one side, shuttered small businesses on the other. No yard. No back entrance. Just the ordinary nighttime business of a neighbourhood that doesn't know you're looking for something in it.<br><br> You've gone the wrong way.<br><br> //She said left only.//<br><br> [[⌕ Go back to the fork and take the left path|CH2P8_Lab_LeftFork]]<br><br>

The door opens into a short corridor. Bare walls. Single overhead light. The smell of antiseptic already present, underneath something older and moldy. The young woman steps aside without speaking. She locks it behind you and gestures toward the inner door at the end of the hall.<br><br> You go through it.<br><br> The room on the other side is not what the exterior suggested.<br><br> It has been rebuilt. That's the first impression. The bones of the original space are still there. The height of the ceiling. The proportions of the walls. But everything else has been stripped and put back differently. What was probably storage is now a waiting area.<br><br> Mismatched chairs line two walls. A dozen of them. Different heights. Different materials. All roughly usable. The collection of a place that takes what it can get and considers aesthetics a luxury for people with better problems. A low table between them holds nothing. A single lamp in the corner does real work against the overhead fluorescent, which has been left off. Fluorescent lights that buzz just below the threshold of notice. Just above the threshold of comfort. Peeling laminate floor. A poster about bloodline-related health complications that is seven years out of date.<br><br> Dried herb bundles hang from a rack near the back wall, and beneath the antiseptic smell there's something green and older underneath it. The particular quality of Manitou practice, though you've never been somewhere that practiced it and don't have a word for what makes it different from ordinary medicine.<br><br> People are waiting.<br><br> A teenage boy against the far wall. Silver-tinted skin. The shimmer of a bloodline fever. An older man with his hand wrapped in cloth that's been changed at least once tonight, watching the middle distance with the practiced patience of someone who has waited in worse places. Three more against the back wall. You clock them and don't look directly, you immediately recognize the tattoo on their arm. You recognize it immediately. Luz's sigil.<br><br> Nobody tracks you. Nobody cares. This is not a place where people have the energy for curiosity about strangers.<br><br> The young woman who let you in has disappeared. You stand just inside the inner door and let the room settle around you.<br><br> You clock the desk at the far end of the room, and the woman behind it.<br><br> [[Continue|CH2P8_Clinic]]<br><br>

She doesn't look up when you approach.<br><br> You take a second to look at her. She looks Hawaiian. Early to Mid-thirties. She's wearing dark scrubs and her right sleeve is pushed up past the elbow, showing a tattoo that runs from the wrist upward. You see shark teeth, triangular and interlocking. Above it, a lauhala weave. Higher up, where the sleeve covers it, the edge of something larger. Ancestor figures facing outward. The people who came before. Still watching. The tattoo disappears into the fabric. You don't see all of it.<br><br> Her hair is long and curly, pulled up into a bun that's mostly held through a long shift and is trying to hold on. <br><br> "Sign-in sheet's on the right," she doesn't look up as she says it. Calm. Efficient. A voice that has given this exact sentence several hundred times. "Wait time's about two hours. If you're bleeding heavily, say so now. If you think you're having a cardiac event, say so now. Everything else waits."<br><br> "I'm not here as a patient."<br><br> She looks up. One of those rapid, practised assessments. Three seconds. Top to bottom, back to your face. Not bleeding. Not grey. Not swaying. <br><br> "You're new," she says. Not unfriendly. Not friendly either. Her voice is low and even and gives nothing away.<br><br> "Just came in," you say.<br><br> "And the woman at the door let you through?"<br><br> "She did."<br><br> She looks at you steadily. "What did you tell her?"<br><br> "Someone died. I need to speak to the doctor. $ardenHeC is the only one who can help me."<br><br> "Those aren't walk-in appointments." She scoffs. "The doctor prepares. The space, the herbs, the channeling. It takes time. And it costs. It's three thousand minimum." She looks at you." You almost laugh. You don't because she isn't joking and you don't have that kind of cash."<br><br> "Not on me tonight. But I really need to see the doctor."<br><br> Her gaze travels to your jacket. Her eyes narrow.<br><br> "We don't do press consultations," she snaps, going back to her clipboard. "We don't do interviews, we don't provide background, we don't make comments. You can try the CRD bloodline health office uptown. They have a press liaison." Shit. You forgot that some Manitou's basically have X-ray vision.<br><br> "I'm not here for an interview." You set both hands flat on the desk. "I need to speak to Dr. Arden." "You say that." She tilts her head slightly. "You want to tell me you're good for the three thousand, or is there something else? Because the door is still open. I don't keep it open long."<br><br> The three thousand is not something you can produce in the next thirty seconds and she knows it.<br><br> She picks the clipboard back up. "Then I can't help you. Dr. Arden's consultations run high, especially for press. The lights stay on because someone pays for them." She glances toward the waiting room. "There are people in those chairs who've been waiting since seven this morning. I need the space."<br><br> She's already writing. The conversation, from where she's standing, is over.<br><br> You stubbornly stay exactly where you are. Ten seconds pass.<br><br> She notices. The pen slows for a fraction. Then continues.<br><br> "You're still standing there," she clicks her tongue in annoyance.<br><br> "I am," you say.<br><br> You have to give her something worth hearing.<br><br> <<link '⌕ You keep your voice low, steady. "The person who died was close to me. I\'m not here for a story. I just need five minutes with the doctor. That\'s all I\'m asking."'>> <<run setup.setTrait('soft', ($soft || 50) + 2)>> <<set $kaistat -= 1>> <<set $clinicRefuse to "soft">> <<goto "CH2P8_Clinic2">> <</link>><br><br> <<link '⌕ You cross your arms, planting yourself in the doorway. "I\'ve already been to the ME. The CRD. The funeral director. I\'m not leaving until this one does the same."'>> <<run setup.setTrait('soft', ($soft || 50) - 2)>> <<set $kaistat -= 1>> <<set $clinicRefuse to "hardened">> <<goto "CH2P8_Clinic2">> <</link>><br><br> <<link '⌕ You lean casually against the desk. "Tell the doctor someone needs to speak about a recent patient. That\'s all. Let $ardenHim decide whether to come out."'>> <<run setup.setTrait('relaxed', ($relaxed || 50) + 2)>> <<set $kaistat -= 1>> <<set $clinicRefuse to "relaxed">> <<goto "CH2P8_Clinic2">> <</link>><br><br> <<link '⌕ You step closer, forcing her to hold your gaze. "I think the doctor knew the person who died and I think Arden is going to want to hear from me. You\'re making that decision for $ardenHim right now."'>> <<run setup.setTrait('relaxed', ($relaxed || 50) - 2)>> <<set $kaistat -= 3>> <<set $clinicRefuse to "confrontational">> <<goto "CH2P8_Clinic2">> <</link>><br><br>

<<if $clinicRefuse is "soft">> Something passes across her face. Brief. The smallest recalibration.<br><br> It closes again fast.<br><br> "I'm sorry," she says. And she means it. That's the thing. She genuinely means it and it doesn't move her an inch. "That doesn't change what it costs."<br><br> <<elseif $clinicRefuse is "hardened">> She puts the pen down. Looks at you properly. The assessment slower this time, registering the list you just gave her, filing what it means about how long today has already been.<br><br> "Every door closing doesn't entitle you to this one," she says. Not unkind. Plain. "That's not how the undercity works."<br><br> <<elseif $clinicRefuse is "relaxed">> She tilts her head slightly. Weighing the inconvenience of passing a message against however long this is going to take if she doesn't.<br><br> "The doctor's time isn't mine to hand out," she says. "And 'recent patient' means nothing to me without a name." She holds your gaze.<br><br> <<else>> The room goes quiet. You feel a chill traveling down your body.<br><br> She looks at you. A beat. Two.<br><br> "Saying that to me," she says finally, "doesn't get you closer to the doctor. It gets you closer to the door."<br><br> <</if>> You don't move.<br><br> She picks the clipboard back up. Goes back to writing. The conversation, as far as she's concerned, has been over twice now.<br><br> You stay. Four minutes. Maybe five. The fluorescent overhead makes its sound. The dried herb bundles near the back wall move slightly in the air from the vent. Everything else is still.<br><br> She sets the clipboard down with a precision that means a decision has been made.<br><br> She comes around the desk.<br><br> Not fast. Not threatening. She moves the way she's moved through this whole conversation. Unhurried. She stops between you and the waiting room chairs, close enough that this is clearly a boundary and not a suggestion.<br><br> "I'm going to ask you one more time," she sighs. "Nicely." Her voice is the same temperature it's been since you walked in. "Please leave."<br><br> "I can't do that."<br><br> She looks at you for a moment.<br><br> Then something changes.<br><br> It isn't dramatic. It doesn't look like anything from the outside. Her face doesn't shift. Her posture doesn't change. She doesn't raise her hands or speak or do any of the things you've ever associated with a bloodline displaying. She just looks at you. And then the room is different.<br><br> Not cold. Not dark. Not any of the things you'd have words for.<br><br> The room is full.<br><br> They come in the color of old bruises gone pale. A thin, sourceless blue. The kind of light that doesn't cast a shadow because it isn't really light at all. Dozens first. Then more. Layered behind and through each other like photographs stacked and left to bleed together, until you can't tell where one ends and the next begins. The nurse stands in the middle of it. Ordinary. Untouched. The only warm-colored thing left in a room gone entirely blue. Her outline sharp where everything else has gone soft at the edges.<br><br> Most of them are unremarkable. An old man in a cardigan you could imagine dying peacefully in a chair somewhere. A woman mid-sentence, mouth still moving around words that never finish. But some of them aren't. A figure with half a face. The other half simply not rendered. Like whatever drew them ran out of information partway through. A child. Too still. Head at an angle no neck should hold. Something low near the floor that might have been a person once and now just drags itself between the chair legs, and you make yourself stop looking at it before you can decide for certain.<br><br> They're all talking. No. They're wailing. Moaning.<br><br> Thousands of voices arrive at once. Overlapping. None of them waiting their turn. Pleading. Demanding. Begging. Simply repeating the same three words over and over in different mouths until the words stop being words and become a texture. A pressure against your skull from the inside. //Help me. Find me. Let me out.// You can't isolate a single one of them and that's the worst part. Your brain keeps trying anyway. Keeps reaching for one voice to hold onto, but the constant wailing is too much. You try to cover your ears.<br><br> They reach for you.<br><br> Hundreds of hands. Some whole. Some not. Fingers spreading toward you from every distance and every angle. But every single one of them stops short. An inch from your skin. Like they've hit something invisible and unyielding stretched taut around your body. You can feel the pressure of them even through whatever's holding them back. A hundred small points of cold testing the same barrier at once. patient and endless and utterly without mercy. Pressing in from every angle. Moaning. Trying to grab you. To get inside oy your body. To posess you. To tear you apart.<br><br> It lasts three seconds.<br><br> Then it lifts. The room is just a room again.<br><br> Your heart is going. You can feel it going. Hammering the proof of itself against your ribs. You are very aware of it. The living, fragile fact. In a way you weren't four seconds ago. Your ears are still ringing faintly with the shape of the voices. A static hum that takes a moment to fade all the way out.<br><br> She hasn't moved. Her expression hasn't changed.<br><br> "Next time I won't be so nice. The door is behind you," she says simply before returning to her desk.<br><br> You go. Immediately.<br><br> The door closes behind you and the undercity swallows you whole. Neon bleed from two streets over. <br><br> You stand in the yard and breathe for a moment.<br><br> Right. You press your back against the wall and look up at the sliver of sky above the roofline. Dark. No stars. The particular overcast of a Sordia night that has too many lights below it to allow for anything above.<br><br> You're going back in.<br><br> That's the only fact that matters right now. You've come too far through this district to leave with nothing. Arden was Maud's contact. Arden knew something about what she was going through before she died. And nobody else in this city is going to give you that.<br><br> You need another way in. You just need to figure out how.<br><br> You look at the yard. The door you just came out of. Locked now. The back wall of the building. Two storeys up to the first window. The passage you came through. Narrow. Connecting back to the lane. The building on the left, sharing a wall with the clinic. A fire escape visible on its far face.<br><br> You get out your notebook. Start writing.<br><br> //Maud would have been through that wall already. Probably would have been through it three minutes ago, complaining loudly the entire time.//<br><br> //Yeah// you think bitterly. //You're not here.//<br><br> You close the notebook. You start looking at the fire escape. There is a window.<br><br> [[Continue|CH2P8_Clinic3]]

<<set $ardentrulymet to true>> <<if $background is "investigative">> You've been at the window for six minutes.<br><br> This isn't excessive. It's due diligence. Old single-pane glass. Painted latch: the mechanism is simple. The gap at the frame is your entry point. Insert something thin. Locate the pivot. It should be roughly three centimetres in from the left edge. You know this from a building survey you pulled two years ago for a piece on undercity infrastructure and apply lateral pressure at the correct angle and the latch releases. The window opens. Clean. Quiet. You've definitely thought this through.<br><br> You can't see inside because whatever's on the other side of the glass is covered by something. A blind or a shade. And from out here it just looks dark. Back room, probably. Storage. Something unused. Perfect entry.<br><br> You have your press card. You've identified the pivot. You begin.<br><br> The card goes in. Lateral pressure at the correct angle. You feel the mechanism, exactly where it should be. You push. The card slips two millimetres to the left and the glass, which has been under-maintained for approximately eight years and has been waiting for precisely this amount of incorrectly-angled force, separates from the frame in two clean pieces and falls inward.<br><br> You were already leaning into it. There is no longer anything to lean against.<br><br> Dammit. You had been so close to the pivot.<br><br> <<elseif $background is "war">> The fire escape is rusted. That registers as a fact and not a deterrent. You've climbed worse. You've climbed worse while being actively shot at, which means the rust barely registers as a consideration.<br><br> The ladder cooperates until the third rung from the top, which turns out to have a strong opinion about the angle your left leg makes when you weight it wrong. The adjustment is loud. The fire escape announces it to the entire lane in a sound like a tin of loose change dropped down a stairwell.<br><br> You hold still for ten seconds. Nothing happens. Good.<br><br> The window is dark. Whatever's on the other side has been covered over. A blind or a shade. Probably a back room. You try the frame out of habit. Get nothing. And use your shoulder at the lower corner, which is the cleanest break for old glass. The pane goes. Two pieces. Inward.<br><br> Clean. Fast. Loud.<br><br> <<elseif $background is "whistle">> You know the trick.<br><br> Old single-pane glass: maximum stress at the lower corners of the frame. A small hard object. A coin. A pen cap, applied at precisely the right angle fractures the pane cleanly. Not a smash. A tap. You've done this before. In circumstances you're not going to think about right now and it takes about four seconds once you've committed.<br><br> The window is dark. Something's covering the inside A blind or a shade. It's probably the back room.<br><br> You have a coin. You locate the lower corner. The angle: correct. You apply force.<br><br> The glass fractures exactly as expected. Both pieces inward. Controlled. Like a professional. Your arm is already through the gap — you were reaching for the latch — so when the glass goes, you go with it, which was not part of the plan but is now irreversibly part of what's happening.<br><br> The trick worked. The entry is technically the problem.<br><br> <<else>> You read about this once.<br><br> Profile series. Three years ago. Reformed cat burglar. Four parts. The subject included a sidebar on residential window entry. You skimmed over it briefly but you think you remembe rthe steps.<br><br> The window is dark from outside. A blind or a shade covering the glass. Probably a back room. You work with what you have.<br><br> //Step One: Identify a suitable entry point. Single-pane windows with a visible frame gap respond well to lateral pressure.//<br><br> The window has a gap. Step one: complete.<br><br> //Step Two: Insert a thin, flat implement between the sash and the frame. Apply lateral pressure toward the latch.//<br><br> You use your press card. You've considered the irony. Step three was about where to plly it. Left or right. You're pretty sure the article specified this. You're almost certain it specified this. You pick left. You apply pressure.<br><br> The glass goes. Both pieces inward. The article mentioned this was a stress point. What the article did not have was a Step Four of how much pressure to apply, or if it did, you don't remember it because you loose your footing as you crash through the frame.<br><br> The direction was probably right. It was definitely something else.<br><br> <</if>> The blind collapses inward with the glass. Billowing out through the frame as you go through it. Everything goes dark. Fabric over your face. Your arm. Your shoulder.<br><br> Then something catches you.<br><br> You don't see it. The blind is still in your face but you feel it: tight across your forearm. Higher up your arm. Unexpected. It holds for half a second and then gives. Snapping. And the force of it redirects you sideways. The world tilts and the floor arrives before you've finished calculating where it should be.<br><br> For a moment everything is still.<br><br> You pull the blind off your face and lie there for a moment. Breathing.<br><br> Your left hand is bleeding. The glass from the sill got there before you did. You look at it. Not deep. Shallow. A clean line across the palm. Then you look at what's around your forearm, which turns out to be a length of yellow caution tape. HAZARD, it says, in black letters. Repeating. There's a torn end where it was stretched across the inside of the window frame and wasn't quite strong enough to stop you.<br><br> You sit up.<br><br> The room on the other side of the broken window is a treatment room.<br><br> You know this because there is a table in the centre with paper sheeting that crinkles every time its occupant moves and its occupant. The teenager from before, with the bloodline fever is currently sitting on the table with the expression of someone who was in the middle of a quiet and uneventful appointment until approximately four seconds ago.<br><br> The doctor is not sitting.<br><br> $ardenHeC 's turned from the counter. Chart in hand. $ardenHeC 's looking at you.<br><br> The coat is the first thing that catches your eyes: pristine in a way nothing else about $ardenHim is, like the one flag planted on a hill that's long lost the battle around it. Under it: dark turtleneck. Sleeves down and staying down. $ardenHeC has scarred pale hands that paused scribbling something down. <<if $ardenGender is "male">>His hair is in messy waves that's been pushed back throughout the shift. You can tell from the sections that have been overridden and keeps falling forward anyway.<<else>>Her hair mostly in a bun and trying to stay there after a long shift after. Wild strands loose around her face.<</if>> The dark circles under $ardenHis eyes are deep enough that for one disorienting second you think of the room you just left, and every pale, hungry thing crowded into it.<br><br> Then the eyes.<br><br> The photo didn't get those. It got the colour. Grey. Roughly. But missed everything that matters. They don't catch the overhead light the way eyes normally do. Flat. Matte. The quality of old stone. The kind of grey that makes you think, briefly and against your will, of rooms with no windows. Of doors that only go one way. Cold. Lifeless.<br><br> Those eyes move across you. The blind. The caution tape around your arm. The left hand. The blood on $ardenHis floor. It makes you slightly uncomforatble. The way $ardenHe takes you in and categorize you in about two seconds sbout to produce a verdict. You, right now, are being assessed for how much of a problem you are going to be.<br><br> The verdict isn't good.<br><br> $ardenHisC gaze goes to the window. Back to you.<br><br> $ardenHeC sets the chart down. Slow. The gesture of someone buying a second to decide how angry they're allowed to be in front of a patient. "My window."<br><br> The patient on the table has gone very still, eyes flicking between you. The window. And the doctor. Hands pressed flat against the paper sheeting like moving might make them part of whatever this is.<br><br> You are on the floor. The caution tape is around your arm. Your left hand is bleeding. You have about fifteen seconds before this becomes a conversation about leaving.<br><br> <<link '⌕ ♡ You try to place yourself into a favorable position and wink. "I needed to speak to you badly enough to climb a fire escape and ruin a window. I think that at least earns me two minutes."'>> <<run setup.setTrait('bold', ($bold || 50) + 2)>> <<set $ardenMeetChoice to "bold">> <<set $arden_romance += 1>> <<set $ardenstat += 1>> <<goto "CH2P8_Clinic4">> <</link>><br><br> <<link '⌕ ♡ "I\'m — sorry. About the window. I didn\'t — " You stop. The hand. The tape still around your arm. "I needed to speak to you."'>> <<run setup.setTrait('shy', ($shy || 50) + 2)>> <<set $ardenMeetChoice to "shy">> <<set $arden_romance += 1>> <<set $ardenstat += 1>> <<goto "CH2P8_Clinic4">> <</link>><br><br> <<link '⌕ ♡ You rub the back of your neck, wincing. "Heeey so the window was an accident. Partial accident. I needed to see you and the front wasn\'t — you\'re a very difficult person to find, by the way. That\'s probably on purpose."'>> <<run setup.setTrait('awkward', ($awkward || 50) + 2)>> <<set $ardenMeetChoice to "awkward">> <<set $arden_romance += 1>> <<set $ardenstat += 1>> <<goto "CH2P8_Clinic4">> <</link>><br><br> <<link '⌕ ♡ You hold up your left hand. For a reason that made sense before you remembered it was bleeding. You lower it. The caution tape slides down your arm. "Hi."'>> <<run setup.setTrait('clumsy', ($clumsy || 50) + 2)>> <<set $ardenMeetChoice to "clumsy">> <<set $arden_romance += 1>> <<set $ardenstat += 1>> <<goto "CH2P8_Clinic4">> <</link>><br><br> <<link '⌕ ♡ "To be fair — " you glance at the window, then back at $ardenHim " — the front door didn\'t work either. I\'m running out of entrances."'>> <<run setup.setTrait('oblivious', ($oblivious || 50) + 2)>> <<set $ardenMeetChoice to "oblivious">> <<set $arden_romance += 1>> <<set $ardenstat += 1>> <<goto "CH2P8_Clinic4">> <</link>><br><br> <<link '⌕ You brush glass dust off your sleeve, all business. "Your front desk sent me away. Someone died and you\'re the last lead I haven\'t exhausted. I need five minutes."'>> <<run setup.setTrait('deflecting', ($deflecting || 50) + 2)>> <<set $ardenMeetChoice to "platonicdeflecting">> <<set $ardenstat += 1>> <<goto "CH2P8_Clinic4">> <</link>><br><br> <<link '⌕ You quickly stretch out our left arm. "I have information about a recent patient of yours. Patient confidentiality doesn\'t extend to the dead. I need five minutes."'>> <<run setup.setTrait('deflecting', ($deflecting || 50) - 2)>> <<set $ardenMeetChoice to "platoniccutting">> <<set $ardenstat += 1>> <<goto "CH2P8_Clinic4">> <</link>><br><br>

<<if $ardenMeetChoice is "bold">> $ardenHisC gaze lands on the wink. Stays there for a moment. $ardenHisC brow furrows.<br><br> "The fire escape and the window suggest some degree of commitment," $ardenHe pinches the bridge of $ardenHis nose. "The wink doesn't. It's entirely unnecessary." $ardenHeC sets the chart on the counter. A small definitive click of plastic against laminate. "Two minutes. Get off the floor. You can explain while I deal with your hand."<br><br> <<elseif $ardenMeetChoice is "shy">> $ardenHisC eyes flick to the broken frame. Then back to you. $ardenHeC doesn't say a word about the apology. Moves straight past it like it was never offered.<br><br> "You needed to speak to me badly enough to climb a fire escape and come through a window." Flat. Clinical. Gaze drops to your hand. Half a second. Comes back up. $ardenHeC picks up the chart, sets it aside. "Two minutes. Get off the floor. Talk while I work."<br><br> <<elseif $ardenMeetChoice is "awkward">> $ardenHisC's eyes go to the window. Then back to you. None of the rambling gets a reaction at all.<br><br> "It is," $ardenHe says. "On purpose." $ardenHisC gaze goes to the window. The frame. The missing glass. The cold air coming through it. Then back to you. "People who are supposed to find me find me. People who aren't don't. You found me through a window." $ardenHeC looks at the caution tape around your arm, still trailing its torn end. "Technically that counts." $ardenHeC sets the chart down. "Two minutes. Get off the floor. Talk while I work."<br><br> <<elseif $ardenMeetChoice is "clumsy">> $ardenHisC gaze goes to the raised hand. To the bleeding. To the caution tape sliding down your arm. Back up to your face.<br><br> A second passes. $ardenHeC just looks at you like $ardenHe is genuinely recalculating something about the last ten seconds of $ardenHis day.<br><br> "That," $ardenHe says eventually, with the care of someone choosing a precise word for a situation that doesn't have one, "is a presentation." $ardenHeC moves toward the supply counter. "Two minutes. Get off the floor. I'll deal with the hand while you tell me why you're here."<br><br> <<elseif $ardenMeetChoice is "oblivious">> $ardenHeC looks at the window. At you. Back at the window.<br><br> "That is an accurate description of your situation," $ardenHe says. No inflection. No irony. Just: confirming the assessment. "You had a door. The door didn't work. You found a window. The window is now gone." $ardenHeC looks at the one remaining option — the chair in the corner. "You have one entrance left." $ardenHeC moves to the supply counter. "Two minutes. Sit down. Talk while I work on your hand."<br><br> <<elseif $ardenMeetChoice is "platonicdeflecting">> $ardenHeC takes this in. The front desk. The death. The last lead.<br><br> "Five minutes is optimistic," $ardenHe mumbles. "You have two." $ardenHeC sets the chart on the counter without looking at it. "Get off the floor. I'll look at your hand while you tell me who died and why you think I'm the last person who can help you. In that order."<br><br> <<else>> $ardenHeC is quiet for a moment.<br><br> "That's technically accurate," $ardenHe mumbles. Not admiring it. Not objecting to it. $ardenHisC gaze moves to the caution tape around your arm, to the torn end of it. "You chose to make that argument from my floor. It's still accurate." $ardenHeC sets the chart down. "Two minutes. Get off the floor. Talk while I work."<br><br> <</if>> The patient on the table is discharged one minute later. The door closes. You are alone with Dr. Arden and the broken window and the cold air coming in through it.<br><br> $ardenHisC gaze comes back to you. Then drops to your left hand, which is bleeding in a slow, steady way onto $ardenHis floor. The grey eyes come back up. Something in $ardenHis expression shifts. "How deep."<br><br> "Shallow. It's fine."<br><br> "You're bleeding on my floor. It is not fine." $ardenHeC sighs. $ardenHeC pulls a stool to where you're standing. Sits. Gestures at the chair across from $ardenHim.<br><br> "Sit down." Probably not the first time $ardenHe's said it. You sit.<br><br> $ardenHeC takes your left hand. $ardenHisC grip is very light. Cold. Precise. Two fingers bracing your palm flat while $ardenHis thumb turns it toward the light. You watch the grey eyes move across the cut with total focus, Then $ardenHisC hand reaches for the butterfly clips without ever quite letting go of yours. Holding your hand steady with one set of fingers while the other retrieves what $ardenHeC needs. Once $ardenHe got then, $ardenHe sets your hand down to work.<br><br> "This is shallow," $ardenHe concludes.<br><br> "I told you."<br><br> "I know. I'm telling you I agree." $ardenHeC cleans the cut with antiseptic. No warning. You manage not to flinch. "Who died."<br><br> "My sister." The words come out even. You've said them enough times in the past days that they've stopped sounding like yours. "She was murdered three days ago. I have reason to believe you knew her." You watch $ardenHis hands on yours. The chipped black polish. The scarring that disappears up past the sleeve. "I need to speak to her."<br><br> A pause.<br><br> "What was her name?" $ardenHe asks.<br><br> "Maud."<br><br> $ardenHisC hands still for exactly one second. It's brief enough that you'd miss it if you weren't watching.<br><br> $ardenHeC sets down the antiseptic. Looks at you directly. "Maud $lastName," $ardenHe says. Not a question. A confirmation.<br><br> "Yes."<br><br> $ardenHeC is quiet for a moment. Then $ardenHe looks at you again. At your face specifically. With the expression of someone pulling a reference image to cross-check and something clicks.<br><br> "The journalist. Channel 6." $ardenHisC jaw works once. "She showed me — " $ardenHeC stops. Starts again. "She talked about you. Frequently. In a way that was—" Another stop, longer this time. $ardenHisC jaw settles. "She was very proud of you."<br><br> "I don't follow the news." $ardenHeC's already back at the butterfly clip. $ardenHeC presses the clip closed. "I didn't make the connection until now."<br><br> "Will you do it?" you ask. "The séance. Is that the right word for it?"<br><br> "It's one word for it." $ardenHeC releases your hand. Stands. Moves to the small sink in the corner. Runs the water. "It's not a simple process. It takes a lot from me and I'm exhausted today. I need help because it requires someone to anchor the contact on this side."<br><br> "You'd need another Manitou."<br><br> "I'd need Kai." $ardenHeC turns off the tap. Stands there a moment with $ardenHis back to you, drying $ardenHis hands. "She has to agree to it. It's not something I can ask her to do without warning." A pause. "She knew Maud."<br><br> Your ears catch on the name. Kai.<br><br> Arden's word is still in the air and you're already running the other thread from Maud's phone. The short one, saved as //My Kai// — //let's talk when im bak. i care about u.// — //don't lie.// The reply that didn't believe her. The person sitting somewhere right now not knowing—<br><br> The treatment room door opens.<br><br> [[Continue|CH2P8_Clinic5]]

<<set $kaitrulymet to true>> She walks in mid-sentence. Eyes on a clipboard. Already talking.<br><br> "The Thursday supply order's short three units of the nerve block, do you want me to—" She looks up.<br><br> The same brown eyes. The same curly hair. The same tattoo at the forearm. The same woman who stood between you and your goal. Who showed you what it meant to be a Manitou. Fuck.<br><br> She clocks you in the same two seconds she clocked you the first time. The result is different. Her face moves through several things in rapid succession. The last of which is not the calm professional from the desk. The last one lands closer to dangerous. Pissed.<br><br> She takes one step forward. The room temperature drops a few degrees.<br><br> "Arden." Low. A warning. "Why is the press still in your clinic."<br><br> "Kai." $ardenHeC moves. Not fast. Just certain. Placing $ardenHimself exactly between you and her. A hand finds her shoulder. "Thirty seconds. Before you do anything. Give me thirty seconds."<br><br> Her eyes cut to $ardenHim. Some silent negotiation passing between them in under two seconds.<br><br> "Thirty seconds," she growls.<br><br> Arden doesn't move.<br><br> "Maud is dead." Quiet. No preamble. The same flat clinical delivery as everything else out of $ardenHim, except $ardenHis voice catches, half a beat, right on the name. "She was murdered three days ago. This is her <<if $gender is "male">>brother<<elseif $gender is "female">>sister<<else>>sibling<</if>>."<br><br> Kai doesn't move for a long moment. The clipboard is still in her hand. She clenches it tighter to her chest. Then something in her face breaks open. Brief. Grief moving through before she gets hold of it and closes it back up.<br><br> She puts the clipboard down. Turns slightly away. Draws a breath.<br><br> Then she starts talking. Fast. Loud. In ʻŌlelo Hawaiʻi. Maud's name in the middle of it. And then the words shift:<br><br> "—auē, Maud— lôlô! Hûpô, pupule wahine— lapuwale— auē nō hoʻi—" She goes quiet. Clutching her arms like a lifeline.<br><br> <<link '⌕ "I know. She drove everyone around her crazy. I think that was how she loved people."'>> <<run setup.setTrait('soft', ($soft || 50) + 2)>> <<set $kaistat += 1>> <<set $kaiGriefChoice to "soft">> <<goto "CH2P8_Clinic6">> <</link>><br><br> <<link '⌕ "She\'s gone. She can\'t argue back. Save it for when you can actually reach her."'>> <<run setup.setTrait('soft', ($soft || 50) - 2)>> <<set $kaistat -= 5>> <<set $kaiGriefChoice to "hardened">> <<goto "CH2P8_Clinic6">> <</link>><br><br> <<link '⌕ You say nothing. You let her have every word of it. It wasn\'t meant for you anyway.'>> <<run setup.setTrait('relaxed', ($relaxed || 50) + 2)>> <<set $kaistat += 1>> <<set $kaiGriefChoice to "relaxed">> <<goto "CH2P8_Clinic6">> <</link>><br><br> <<link '⌕ "If you want to finish that conversation help me reach her. That\'s the only way she gets to answer."'>> <<run setup.setTrait('relaxed', ($relaxed || 50) - 2)>> <<set $kaistat -= 2>> <<set $kaiGriefChoice to "confrontational">> <<goto "CH2P8_Clinic6">> <</link>><br><br>

<<if $kaiGriefChoice is "soft">> She looks at you. The assessment in her eyes different from the one at the desk. Not professional this time. Something rawer underneath it. Checking whether you actually mean what you just said.<br><br> Her eyes go to the broken window. The cold air moving the edge of the blind that's left. <br><br> Her jaw works once, twice, before she trusts herself to keep going."She was such an idiot." But the word doesn't land like an insult.<br><br> <<elseif $kaiGriefChoice is "hardened">> Her eyes come to you. Sharp. For a second you think she's about to turn the anger on you instead.<br><br> "I know she's dead." She scoffs, daring you to say something soft about it. "I'm not talking to her because I think she can hear me. I'm talking to her because—" She stops herself. Jaw tight. Hands curling loosely at her sides. "Because I'm angry and she's not here to be angry at, so."<br><br> A silence.<br><br> You lean back against the counter, arms loose. "Fair enough."<br><br> She looks at you for another moment. Her shoulders drop half an inch. Not warmth exactly. More like she's decided you're not going to be a second problem on top of the first one.<br><br> <<elseif $kaiGriefChoice is "relaxed">> You say nothing.<br><br> She finishes cursing. The words trailing off into the quiet, and stands there with her hands loose at her sides. Her face going through various emotions all at once. She's blinking hard. Twice. Jaw tight. Throat working around something she doesn't let out. She looks at you eventually. You look back.<br><br> Her chin dips Once. Small.<br><br> <<else>> She goes still. The anger draining visibly out of her shoulders as she turns to actually look at you. Really look. The same clocking assessment from the front desk but slower this time.<br><br> "If I could finish that conversation, I would want to." Her voice has dropped somewhere between the front-desk professional and the grief from a minute ago. "Is that what you're asking for."<br><br> "Yes."<br><br> She breathes out through her nose. Slow.<br><br> <</if>> Kai's eyes go to Arden, skipping right past you. "I need a moment."<br><br> Arden glances at you briefly. Then at Kai. "Take it."<br><br> $ardenHeC follows her out.<br><br> The door closes behind them both. You sit in the treatment room. You can't make out words. Just the low register of $ardenHis voice. Even. And then Kai's. A little less even. And then a silence that goes on longer than seems like talking.<br><br> Five minutes. The door opens.<br><br> Kai comes back first. She goes to the sink in the corner without looking at you. Runs water over her shaking hands. Turns it off. When she turns around her eyes are slightly red at the edges.<br><br> She picks up the clipboard from where she left it, voice back to its even, front-desk register. "We'll need to prepare the space. You'll need to tell us everything you know about how she died. What state she was in. If there was anything unusual about the circumstances." She looks up from the clipboard, meets your eyes. "Normally spirits who were murdered don't disappear so easily. We need to know what we're working with."<br><br> Behind her, Arden leans in the doorframe. Arms crossed. Eyes on you.<br><br> "We'll try," $ardenHe says quietly. "That's all we can tell you right now. We'll try to reach her."<br><br> It's the most anyone has offered you since the morgue.<br><br> "Thank you," you say.<br><br> Neither of them responds to that. Arden pushes off the doorframe, already turning, tipping $ardenHis head once toward the hallway behind $ardenHim. "Follow us."<br><br> [[Continue|CH2P8_Clinic7]]<br><br>

The séance room is at the end of the corridor.<br><br> Past the supply closet. Past a corkboard dense with overlapping flyers and handwritten notes and a photograph someone tacked up years ago. Past a door marked WARNING KEEP OUT that Kai doesn't bother explaining. The last door is plain. No marking. Kai opens it and you go through.<br><br> Cold.<br><br> That's the first thing. Not the cold of an unheated room. The clinic is warm enough. The heating rattles but it works. This is different. The kind of cold that doesn't come from the air. It sits in the walls. That has been here longer than the furniture.<br><br> The room is small. White walls with cracks running from the corners like something has expanded and contracted in them so many times it's left a record. A single shelf on the far wall holds three things: a shallow bowl. A folded piece of dark cloth. A stick of chalk. Nothing dramatic. Nothing theatrical. The chalk has been used and replaced so many times the shelf underneath it has turned faintly white in a ring.<br><br> One table in the centre. Solid. Reinforced. Sitting slightly lower than a standard table like its legs have been shortened or its weight has pressed it down over years. The surface is scratched. Grip marks. Places where hands have held on.<br><br> Two chairs on one side of it. One on the other. No windows.<br><br> Kai closes the door and the sound of the clinic disappears. Not muffled. Gone. Like a lid coming down.<br><br> You sit in the single chair. Arden sits across from you, Kai at $ardenHis right. The three of you and the cold and the white walls and the scratch marks on the table.<br><br> Kai sets both hands flat on the table, voice dropping into the same measured register from the desk. "I'll explain what's going to happen. Ask questions before we start, not during. Once we begin, you stay in that chair and you stay quiet. Whatever you hear, whatever you see, you don't touch either of us. Are we clear on that?"<br><br> "Yes."<br><br> "Good." She leans forward slightly, hands flat on the table. "Arden is a conduit. When $ardenHe opens a channel, the spirit uses $ardenHis body to communicate. $ardenHeC will speak in their voice. $ardenHeC may move the way they moved. $ardenHeC may experience what they experienced in their final moments." Her fingers spread slightly wider against the wood. "And you should brace yourself."<br><br> "The temperature," you realize.<br><br> "It drops when the veil thins. Yes. That's normal." She glances at Arden. A look that lasts less than a second. $ardenHisC eyes flicking down to her hands and back up. Some routine the two of them have run through more times than either bothers counting anymore. "What I do is hold the perimeter. The dead aren't just the people you come here to reach. There are always more. Everywhere, all the time, most of us just can't feel them. In this room, with Arden open, they can try to come through. My job is to make sure they don't. Arden focuses on one. I keep the rest out."<br><br> "What happens if you can't?"<br><br> "Then Arden can get posessed," she shrugs. Plain. "Which is why we don't let that happen." Her hands on the table glow, very briefly. A pulse of warmth through the cold air. There and gone. A demonstration. "Recent violent deaths are more intense. The spirit carries the imprint of how they died. Whatever your sister experienced, Arden will experience some part of it too. That's not something you can prepare for. I'm telling you so you're not surprised when it's hard to watch."<br><br> You absorb this. The scratch marks on the table. The chalk. The bowl.<br><br> Kai taps one knuckle once against the wood. "One more thing. If she's there to reach, she'll know it's you. The recently dead recognize the living they were attached to. That can help or it can complicate things, depending on what she was carrying." She sits back. "Questions."<br><br> You have about forty of them. You ask none of them.<br><br> "No," you say. Kai nods. Looks at Arden.<br><br> Arden leans forward. Elbows on the table. "Tell me what happened to her. Everything you know. I need the full picture. How she died, where, what state she was in beforehand. The more you give me the closer I can get."<br><br> So you tell them.<br><br> The warehouse off the canal district. The ME's findings. Her heart being cut out of her chest while conscious. The compound in her blood, Umbra-specific, paralytic, not in any database. Soren's observation about the spiritual residue, or the absence of it.<br><br> You don't tell them that Maud was on a list. You don't tell them that you're on it too. And you don't tell them, not while you need them focused on Maud, that Arden's name is on it as well. Not yet anyway. One thing at a time.<br><br> $ardenHeC listens without interrupting. Without reacting. When you finish $ardenHe's quiet for a moment.<br><br> "She burned out her powers before she died."<br><br> "That's what Soren said."<br><br> "She was always working twice as hard." $ardenHeC looks at the table. "If she used everything she had, she was probably at her limit." $ardenHisC thumb traces one of the scratches in the wood. "She always liked living dangerously."<br><br> $ardenHeC looks at Kai. Kai's chin dips. Barely. A fraction of a nod that Arden seems to read just fine.<br><br> Arden turns back to you. "We'll try. That's what I can tell you." Flat. Honest. No promise dressed up bigger than what it actually is.<br><br> You nod once. "I know."<br><br> "Stay in the chair. Stay quiet." Arden straightens. Rolls $ardenHis neck once. "Don't reach for me. And stay in your seat. Whatever happens."<br><br> You press your back against the chair and hold very still.<br><br> The séance begins.<br><br> They don't perform it. That's the first thing you notice. There's no flashy ritual. No ceremony. Kai places her hands on the table. Palms down. And closes her eyes. The air in the room shifts in a way that has nothing to do with ventilation. The warmth that pulsed from her earlier becomes something sustained. A low pressure around the edges of the space. Like a tide coming in. Like something being held back.<br><br> The temperature drops.<br><br> Not gradually. It's there and then it's less there and then it's gone. Replaced by a cold that has no source. That comes from everywhere and nowhere. That sits in your lungs with each breath and doesn't leave. Your body starts shivering slightly.<br><br> Arden closes $ardenHis eyes.<br><br> Silence. Completely. The clinic on the other side of the door might as well not exist. It's just this room. This cold. The sound of your own breathing, and Arden across the table with $ardenHis hands flat on the scratched surface and $ardenHis face completely still.<br><br> You watch.<br><br> Nothing happens for a long time. Long enough that you start to wonder if this is what it looks like to the human eye. Just stillness. Just breathing. Just waiting. But then something changes in Arden's expression. Not movement. The opposite. A quality of absence. Like watching a house go dark room by room from the outside. Something that was behind $ardenHis eyes retreating to make room.<br><br> The scratch marks on the table.<br><br> $ardenHisC fingers curl against the surface.<br><br> Something is wrong. You feel it before you understand it. The quality of the room shifting. The sense of something reaching and finding not resistance but absence. Like a hand going through fog. Kai's jaw tightens. Her hands press harder against the table and the warmth around the edges of the room pulses. Once. With the urgency of someone reinforcing a wall they weren't sure would hold.<br><br> A sound comes from Arden.<br><br> Not a word. Not yet. Something between a breath and a catch, the sound of someone finding a door locked that should have been open. $ardenHisC head tips forward slightly. $ardenHisC fingers curl tighter against the wood. Knuckles white. Fingers leaving a bloody trail.<br><br> Then —<br><br> $ardenHisC mouth opens and the word that comes out doesn't belong to $ardenHim. It's wrong. Slightly distorted. Recognizable and not quite the same. But still, you'd recognize your sister's voice anywhere.<br><br> "Fool." The smile that stretches across $ardenHis face looks eery. It stretches the corners of $ardenHis mouth wider than $ardenHis face was built to hold. Teeth showing all the way. $ardenHisC grey eyes have gone somewhere else entirely. Unfocused. Yet aimed. For one full second you're not looking at Arden at all. You're looking at whatever's left of Maud coming through. Something about the wrongness of it reaches all the way down into your stomach and turns it over.<br><br> One word. And then silence. The connection breaks.<br><br> It breaks hard. Arden's back hits the chair. $ardenHisC eyes open. Unfocused. Taking a second too long to find the room. $ardenHisC hands come off the table and $ardenHe draws a breath that doesn't sound like $ardenHis own. The temperature begins to climb back. Slow. Like something reluctant to leave.<br><br> Kai has both hands on the table still. Pressing down. The warmth around the room's edges fading as she brings the perimeter back down. She watches Arden. Looking for any warning signs.<br><br> She reaches over. Presses two fingers briefly to the back of $ardenHis wrist. "Arden."<br><br> "Here," $ardenHe coughs. The word comes out rough.<br><br> Here. Present. $ardenHimselfC.<br><br> You haven't moved from the chair. Your hands are in your lap. Pressed together hard. Fingernails in your palms. The cold is leaving the room slowly and the fluorescent light overhead looks too bright and too ordinary. The scratch marks on the table are exactly where they were. The whole thing lasted maybe six minutes and felt like longer.<br><br> You press your palms harder together. "What does fool mean."<br><br> Arden looks at you. The grey eyes finding focus again. The familiar assessment returning by degrees.<br><br> "She was too fragmented,"$ardenHis voice is rough at the edges. The way voices get after they've been used for something they're not designed for. "The violent death creates a—" $ardenHeC stops, starts again. "The spirit fractures. The more traumatic the death, the more scattered the remains. What comes through is pieces." $ardenHeC turns one hand over. Studies the torn skin at the knuckles like it belongs to someone else. "Her pieces are scattered further than I've encountered before. That one word was all that held together long enough."<br><br> You're on your feet before you've decided to stand.<br><br> The chair scrapes back hard enough to catch on the floor tile. You don't notice you're pacing until you're three steps into it. Your body running on whatever's left after days without sleep — which is apparently not patience. Not anymore. Not one more drop of it.<br><br> "Fool." You say it out loud again. Harder this time. Like repeating it will make it make sense. "That's it? That's what she used it on?" You turn at the wall, come back the other way. "She had one shot. One. Through everything you just described — fractured, scattered, barely held together long enough to get a word out — and the word she picked was fool." Your voice is climbing. You can hear it climbing but you don't care. "What am I supposed to do with that? Print it? Put it on her fucking headstone? It doesn't tell me who did this. It doesn't tell me why. It doesn't tell me anything."<br><br> You stop across the table from Arden, both palms flat on the wood this time, leaning towards $ardenHim.<br><br> "Can you bring her back? Try again, right now, push through the fragmentation, whatever it takes. Or—" the next words come out faster. Uglier. Half-formed before you've thought them through "—did you see anything. When you were in there. Flashes. Images. Anything from how she died, what she saw, who was standing over her. Anything at all that isn't one useless word."<br><br> "No." Arden immediately refuses. "It doesn't work like that. I'm not a recording. I don't get to choose what comes through, and pushing a fragmented spirit harder doesn't get you more, it risks losing the fragment entirely, or losing me in the process. I saw nothing. I felt nothing except the word. That's the honest answer, and I'm not going to pretend otherwise to make this easier for you."<br><br> "Sit down." Kai's voice cuts flat across the room. Already half out of her chair like she's ready to close the distance herself if you don't.<br><br> You don't want to be thrown out of this room. Not with this much still unanswered. You sit.<br><br> "Fool," you whisper again. Not to Arden. Just the word.<br><br> Maud's voice, through someone else's mouth. One word. Which could mean anything. //Thanks for nothing Maud.//<br><br> You look at your hands in your lap. You breathe in. Breathe out. You're calm once more.<br><br> Arden looks considerably worse than $ardenHe did twenty minutes ago. The pallor of $ardenHis skin has deepened to something sickly yellow. The grey eyes are still slightly unfocused at the edges. $ardenHisC hands, flat on the table now, have a faint tremor that $ardenHe's not bothering to hide or isn't aware of.<br><br> "You look terrible." It's out before you think better of it.<br><br> "Thank you for the medical assessment." $ardenHisC voice is dry even when rough. "The aftereffects of channeling a fragmented spirit are more severe than full contact. The body attempts to anchor something that isn't fully there. It's the equivalent of trying to catch smoke." $ardenHeC flexes one hand, watches the tremor in it. "The physical symptoms resolve in approximately twenty-four hours. The cognitive disorientation is shorter. The cold doesn't fully leave for two or three days."<br><br> "The cold?"<br><br> $ardenHeC continues to look at $ardenHis hands. The tremor. "The dead run cold. When something moves through you and then leaves, it takes some of your body temperature with it. Not measurably. Just perceptibly." $ardenHeC puts $ardenHis hands in $ardenHis lap. "It's manageable."<br><br> Kai is already up. Moving to the shelf. The folded cloth comes off it and she passes it to Arden without a word. $ardenHeC takes it and wraps it around $ardenHis hands.<br><br> You look at Arden across the table. At the cloth around $ardenHis hands. The yellow-grey cast still sitting under $ardenHis skin. The careful way $ardenHe's breathing. Like $ardenHe's counting each one.<br><br> <<link '⌕ ♡ You let your eyes drag over $ardenHim, slow. "You know, for someone who just came back from the dead, you\'re remarkably functional." You smile. A little unprofessional. "It\'s almost impressive."'>> <<run setup.setTrait('bold', ($bold || 50) + 2)>> <<set $postSeanceChoice to "bold">> <<set $arden_romance += 1>> <<set $ardenstat += 1>> <<goto "CH2P8_Clinic8">> <</link>><br><br> <<link '⌕ ♡ You don\'t say anything for a moment. You watch $ardenHim wrap the cloth around $ardenHis hands. "Is there — is there anything I can do?"'>> <<run setup.setTrait('shy', ($shy || 50) + 2)>> <<set $postSeanceChoice to "shy">> <<set $arden_romance += 1>> <<set $ardenstat += 1>> <<goto "CH2P8_Clinic8">> <</link>><br><br> <<link '⌕ ♡ You pick at a loose thread on your sleeve, words tumbling out too fast. "So — that happens every time. You just. Do that regularly. That\'s your Tuesday. I don\'t know why I said Tuesday. How often does this happen?"'>> <<run setup.setTrait('awkward', ($awkward || 50) + 2)>> <<set $postSeanceChoice to "awkward">> <<set $arden_romance += 1>> <<set $ardenstat += 1>> <<goto "CH2P8_Clinic8">> <</link>><br><br> <<link '⌕ ♡You reach across the table before you think about it. Stop yourself halfway. Your hand sits in the air between you for a half-second before you pull it back. "Sorry. I forgot."'>> <<run setup.setTrait('clumsy', ($clumsy || 50) + 2)>> <<set $postSeanceChoice to "clumsy">> <<set $arden_romance += 1>> <<set $ardenstat += 1>> <<goto "CH2P8_Clinic8">> <</link>><br><br> <<link '⌕ ♡ You glance at your phone screen, missing the point entirely. "The twenty-four hours of after-effects. Does that mean you\'re off tomorrow? Because I\'m coming back tomorrow and I\'d rather you were coherent."'>> <<run setup.setTrait('oblivious', ($oblivious || 50) + 2)>> <<set $postSeanceChoice to "oblivious">> <<set $arden_romance -= 3>> <<set $ardenstat -= 5>> <<goto "CH2P8_Clinic8">> <</link>><br><br> <<link '⌕ You lean forward. Elbows on the table. Eyes sharp with focus. "She was there. That one word — she was there. Which means she can be reached, right? If we try again when she\'s less fragmented."'>> <<run setup.setTrait('hopeful', ($hopeful || 50) + 2)>> <<set $postSeanceChoice to "hopeful">> <<set $ardenstat += 1>> <<goto "CH2P8_Clinic8">> <</link>><br><br> <<link '⌕ You let out a short, humorless breath through your nose. "One word. After all of that. What does it take to get more than a word?"'>> <<run setup.setTrait('hopeful', ($hopeful || 50) - 2)>> <<set $postSeanceChoice to "cynical">> <<goto "CH2P8_Clinic8">> <</link>><br><br>

<<if $postSeanceChoice is "bold">> $ardenHeC holds your gaze for a moment. Perfectly level.<br><br> "Remarkable." $ardenHeC flexes the hand that's still faintly shaking. "That's exactly the word I'd have chosen for a body that's about to lose feeling in its own fingers for the next several hours." $ardenHeC starts folding the cloth Kai handed $ardenHim. Precise corners. Not a flicker of anything on $ardenHis face. "I'll be sure to mention the compliment to whoever's holding my coffee cup for me tomorrow when Kai is not there, since I won't be steady enough to do it myself."<br><br> "That wasn't really the compliment I was going for."<br><br> "No," $ardenHe agrees, entirely unbothered. "I don't imagine it was."<br><br> <<elseif $postSeanceChoice is "shy">> $ardenHeC glances up at the question, hands going still around the cloth for half a second too long.<br><br> The color climbs the back of $ardenHis neck before $ardenHe seems to notice it's happening. Visible even against the pallor still sitting under $ardenHis skin. A flush $ardenHe clearly wasn't expecting to have to manage on top of everything else today.<br><br> "No." Too fast. $ardenHeC clears $ardenHis throat. Drops $ardenHis eyes back to the cloth. Finishes the wrap $ardenHe was already halfway through. "There's nothing to do. It resolves on its own." A beat where $ardenHe seems to hear how curt that came out. "But thank you. For asking."<br><br> $ardenHeC doesn't look at you again for a few seconds after that.<br><br> <<elseif $postSeanceChoice is "awkward">> $ardenHeC blinks at you. Slow. Deadpan.<br><br> "It is not my Tuesday." $ardenHeC lets that sit a second before continuing, tone never once shifting. "I don't, in fact, channel fragmented, violently deceased spirits on a weekly recurring basis. That would be a very different clinic. Possibly a very different career." $ardenHeC tilts $ardenHis head, the picture of total sincerity. "But I appreciate you checking."<br><br> "I genuinely don't know why I said Tuesday."<br><br> "I believe you." $ardenHeC goes back to the cloth around $ardenHis hands without so much as a twitch of a smile. "Wednesdays are for the moderately fragmented ones."<br><br> <<elseif $postSeanceChoice is "clumsy">> $ardenHisC eyes track your hand the whole half-second it hangs in the air between you. Then, slower, back up to your face.<br><br> $ardenHeC doesn't say anything about it. Doesn't ask what you forgot, or why your hand went toward $ardenHim and not the table. $ardenHeC just clears $ardenHis throat, a little rough still, and goes back to the cloth with more focus than the task strictly requires.<br><br> "It's fine." $ardenHeC doesn't look up. The tips of $ardenHis ears have gone faintly red, easy to miss if you weren't already looking right at $ardenHim.<br><br> <<elseif $postSeanceChoice is "oblivious">> $ardenHeC looks at you for a long moment. Extremely unimpressed.<br><br> "I would prefer you didn't come back." No hesitation. No attempt to soften it. "I don't do well with interruptions during work hours. You've been annoying enough for one day already. And I don't like being pressured into anything." $ardenHisC arms cross. "I currently don't find your presence particularly delightful, so please don't threaten me with more of it."<br><br> Ouch. "Noted."<br><br> "Good." $ardenHeC nods once, entirely satisfied the matter's settled.<br><br> <<elseif $postSeanceChoice is "hopeful">> $ardenHeC's quiet for a second. Weighing the question with the same care $ardenHe gave the diagnosis.<br><br> "It's possible." $ardenHeC doesn't oversell it. "Fragmentation isn't necessarily permanent. If she has time to settle, gather what's left of herself, a second attempt could get more than a word." $ardenHisC jaw sets. "I won't promise you that, though. I've seen fragments that never resolve further than the first contact. I'd rather you know that going in than have you build a plan around something I can't guarantee."<br><br> "I'd still want to try again."<br><br> "Then we will." $ardenHeC folds the cloth over, sets it aside. "Just not this week."<br><br> <<elseif $postSeanceChoice is "cynical">> $ardenHeC doesn't flinch at the edge in your voice. If anything $ardenHis expression flattens further. Matching it.<br><br> "Time. Rest. A less violent death, ideally, though that one's out of anyone's control at this point." $ardenHisC tone stays perfectly level. "I know that's not the answer you want. It's the honest one." $ardenHeC looks down at $ardenHis own hands, the tremor still faintly visible. "I gave you what I had today. It cost both of us something to get one word. Next time, if there is one, might cost more and get you less. I'd rather you walked in knowing that than expecting a conversation."<br><br> You don't have anything to say to that.<br><br> <</if>> Kai sets a glass of water on the table in front of Arden and a small tablet beside it. She squeezes $ardenHis shoulder once on her way past. "I'll get the rest." She goes out. The door closes.<br><br> It's just you and Arden now. Maybe now is the time to tell $ardenHim.<br><br> You turn your chair slightly toward $ardenHim. "There's something else."<br><br> $ardenHeC looks at you. Waiting.<br><br> "Maud wasn't killed because of her profession. At least I don't think so." You watch $ardenHis face. It gives nothing. "She was on a list. Someone compiled a list of specific targets and she was on it."<br><br> You point slowly at yourself. "I'm on it too." A beat where your hand drops, then rises again, pointing at $ardenHim instead. "And so are you."<br><br> $ardenHisC expression doesn't shift. Not even slightly. Is the Doctor really so unshakable?<br><br> "You should disappear for a while." You lean forward over the table. "Both of you. Close the clinic, find somewhere else until I can figure out who is behind all of this."<br><br> Arden picks up the water glass. Takes a sip. Sets it down. "No."<br><br> "Arden—"<br><br> "No." $ardenHeC keeps looking at you. Steady. "This clinic sees sixty-three patients a week on average. Seventeen of them have no other option for medical care in Sordia. Four are in active treatment for conditions that require continuity. If I close this clinic, those four people experience medical consequences within days." $ardenHisC head shakes once. Final. "I'm not leaving."<br><br> "You're on a list of people someone is killing."<br><br> $ardenHeC leans away. Putting more distance between you. "I've been on several lists of people various factions in this city would prefer dead. The clinic is still open."<br><br> "Maud didn't think anyone would come after her either." Something tightens in $ardenHis expression. Brief. Real.<br><br> "That's not a comparison that moves me," $ardenHe states. "It's a comparison that changes the subject." $ardenHisC eyes close for a second before $ardenHe opens them. "Besides, I have ways to protect myself."<br><br> You stare at $ardenHim. $ardenHeC stares back. Implacable. The grey eyes that doesn't reflect light, sitting on you with the flat patience of someone who has made $ardenHis decision and is now simply waiting for you to reach the same conclusion $ardenHe has.<br><br> <<link '⌕ You count the points off on your fingers, one by one. "Your patients need you alive. A week away costs them a week. You being dead costs them everything. The math isn\'t complicated."'>> <<run setup.setTrait('calculated', ($calculated || 50) + 2)>> <<set $ardenstat -= 5>> <<set $bickerChoice to "calculated">> <<goto "CH2P8_Clinic9">> <</link>><br><br> <<link '⌕ You throw your arms up in frustration. "I\'m not asking you to disappear forever. A week. Maybe two. Just until I find the thread and pull it."'>> <<run setup.setTrait('calculated', ($calculated || 50) - 2)>> <<set $ardenstat -= 2>> <<set $bickerChoice to "reckless">> <<goto "CH2P8_Clinic9">> <</link>><br><br> <<link '⌕ You exhale, rubbing a thumb over your knuckles. "Fine. Don\'t close the clinic. But you should at least know what you\'re dealing with before you decide you\'re untouchable."'>> <<run setup.setTrait('deflecting', ($deflecting || 50) + 2)>> <<set $ardenstat += 1>> <<set $bickerChoice to "deflecting">> <<goto "CH2P8_Clinic9">> <</link>><br><br> <<link '⌕ You flash a sharp, humorless smile. "Then don\'t. Get your heart cut out of your chest for all I care."'>> <<run setup.setTrait('deflecting', ($deflecting || 50) - 2)>> <<set $ardenstat -= 3>> <<set $bickerChoice to "cutting">> <<goto "CH2P8_Clinic9">> <</link>><br><br>

<<if $bickerChoice is "calculated">> "I'm aware of the math." $ardenHisC fingers curl loosely around the water glass without lifting it. "The math also accounts for the fact that I have spent years making this clinic my home." $ardenHisC tone doesn't waver. "You've done the arithmetic on one variable."<br><br> <<elseif $bickerChoice is "reckless">> "A week." $ardenHeC turns the water glass a quarter turn on the table. Watching the motion instead of you. "In a week, the person on your list who killed your sister may have moved. May have cleared their tracks. May have killed someone else." $ardenHeC pushes the glass an inch away. Precise. "Hiding doesn't find threads. You know that."<br><br> <<elseif $bickerChoice is "deflecting">> "I know what I'm dealing with. I deal with the consequences of Sordia's violence every shift. A list of targets is not a new category of problem." $ardenHeC simply shurgs. "I'll take additional precautions. That's the extent of the concession."<br><br> <<else>> The room goes quiet.<br><br> $ardenHisC hand goes still around the water glass, grabbing it slightly harder before $ardenHe deliberately loosens the grip.<br><br> "I know she's dead," $ardenHe almost whispers. "You don't need to use her to make your argument. It doesn't change my answer."<br><br> <</if>> "You're—" You stop. Start again. "You're not going to move on this."<br><br> "No."<br><br> "Even though it's—"<br><br> "No."<br><br> You sit back. Look at the ceiling for a moment trying not to lash out. Then back at Arden.<br><br> "Fine." You can't hide the irritation in your voice.<br><br> "Fine." $ardenHeC mirrors it without seeming to notice $ardenHe's doing it.<br><br> A silence. Not comfortable. Not hostile. More like two people who have just run into each other's walls and are deciding what to do next.<br><br> Arden breaks it first. The way $ardenHe apparently breaks every silence: on $ardenHis own terms, at the moment $ardenHe's decided is right, not a second before.<br><br> $ardenHisC gaze sharpens. "You're not leaving either."<br><br> "What?"<br><br> "You came here to tell me to disappear. You're on the same list. You've had the same information I now have for longer than I have. But I'm a Manitou and I can defend myself if it comes down to it but you're a human." $ardenHisC grey eyes stay fixed on your face. Unmoving. "And you're still here. Still investigating. Why."<br><br> "Because Maud is dead, someone killed her—"<br><br> "That's what you're investigating. Not why you haven't stopped." $ardenHisC thumb runs once along the rim of the glass. "Why haven't you disappeared?"<br><br> You open your mouth.<br><br> "You're an addict," $ardenHe scoffs. "Not to substances. To stories. Not because it's healthy. Not because anyone asked you to. Because you can't stand not knowing, and you've built your entire career, your entire self-concept, around being the person who finds out. How many people have you hurt with that attitude? You couldn't write about your sister's death from the outside, so you made yourself the story's centre." $ardenHisC gaze doesn't waver. "You told me to disappear, and you tell yourself it's because of Maud that you can't. She's part of the reason. We both know she isn't the main one. You've been working backwards from the conclusion since before you came through the window."<br><br> "That's not—"<br><br> $ardenHisC mouth curves. Small. Humorless. "I'm a doctor. People tell me that frequently. They're usually wrong." $ardenHeC reaches over and pops another tablet into $ardenHis mouth. "You want the rest?"<br><br> You really don't.<br><br> <<if $siblingRelationship is "broken">> "You and Maud weren't close when she died." $ardenHeC knows. Maud probably told $ardenHim everything in their private sessions. "Whatever she told me, it wasn't a happy account. Fights. Silence. Jealousy. A toxic cycle. Things said that neither of you took back." $ardenHisC gaze hardens. "You're not here because you lost someone you loved. You're here because you lost someone you were still angry at, and now the anger has nowhere left to go except into finding out who did this. It's easier than sitting with what you didn't fix while she was alive to fix it with."<br><br> <<elseif $siblingRelationship is "fixed">> "You knew exactly who she was," $ardenHis gaze pierces through you. "The version of her she'd actually become, not who she used to be. You're one of the few people in her life that did." $ardenHisC eyes never waver. "And now you're the only one left who carries that. You can't let the story end without meaning because it would mean she became who she was for nothing. And you can't let that stand."<br><br> <<else>> "You're not sure what you had with her by the end." $ardenHisC voice stays even. "Which is the part you can't close. A clear ending like feeling the grief, the loss and then you're done. You could manage that. What you have instead is a question that died with her." $ardenHeC lets that sit. "So you turned it into a different question. One you can actually chase."<br><br> <</if>> You say nothing. You look at the scratch marks on the table.<br><br> <<if $background is "investigative">> "You've spent years believing that if you expose something, it stops. That truth is a mechanism for change," $ardenHe continues mercilessly. "Maud's death is testing that belief in a way your previous work never did." You start to realize why Maud hired Arden as her therapist. $ardenHeC sees things too clearly. "You're also afraid that if you're wrong — if exposing this doesn't fix it — then the thing that makes you who you are doesn't work. That's the part this is really about."<br><br> <<elseif $background is "war">> "You've seen enough death to know it doesn't always have a meaning you can extract from it," $ardenHe continues mercilessly. "You documented things that happened anyway. People who died anyway. You kept going because stopping meant admitting the documentation didn't help." You start to realize why Maud hired Arden as her therapist. $ardenHeC sees things too clearly. "This feels different because it's personal. But the mechanism is the same. You can't stop because stopping is the thing you've never learned."<br><br> <<elseif $background is "whistle">> "You understand what it costs to go against the current," $ardenHe continues mercilessly. "You've done it before with higher stakes and less personal reason. The difference now is that it's personal, and personal makes the compulsion feel like virtue." You start to realize why Maud hired Arden as her therapist. $ardenHeC sees things too clearly. "It might be virtue. It's still compulsion."<br><br> <<else>> "You built a career lying to people for a living," $ardenHe continues mercilessly. "Fabricated quotes. Doctored context. Whatever got the headline that sold papers, regardless of whether it was true or who it destroyed on the way to print." You start to realize why Maud hired Arden as her therapist. $ardenHeC sees things too clearly. "You know exactly what it's like to have blood on your hands from a story. You've destroyed so many lifes, done it countless times. Now it's your sister, and suddenly the truth actually matters to you? No. You smell the next headline. More fame for you."<br><br> <</if>> The room has been quiet for a while. You realize you've been staring at the table for most of it and make yourself look up.<br><br> "Are you done?" You spit.<br><br> "Professionally speaking, yes," $ardenHe nods seriously. "I don't charge for unsolicited psychological assessments. You're welcome."<br><br> You hate this. You hate that you came in here to tell $ardenHim to be careful and are now sitting with the feeling of having been very precisely taken apart by someone who wasn't even trying hard.<br><br> You pull your notebook out. Tear a page from near the back. Blank. No notes on it. Write your number. Slide it across the table.<br><br> "Life update." You tap the edge of the page twice before letting go of it. "Every day at noon. Send it. I want to know you're still breathing."<br><br> $ardenHeC looks at the torn page. At your handwriting. Back at you.<br><br> "I'll consider it," $ardenHe nods simply. Which means $ardenHe won't.<br><br> "Not optional." You stand, chair scraping back. "I'll be back tomorrow."<br><br> "The window will be repaired by tomorrowy you'll need to use the another entrance," $ardenHe deadpans.<br><br> "Then I'll use the door." You pick up your notebook, "This time Kai will let me in. Probably."<br><br> "Good luck with that."<br><br> You walk to the door. Your hand finds the frame. Fingers curling around the edge of it. You stop.<br><br> There's a quote. There's always a quote swirring in your head. It's one of the habits you can't break. This magpie collecting of other people's words for moments your own fail you.<br><br> "Winston Churchill," you say, perfectly pleasant. "'You have all the virtues I dislike and none of the vices I admire.'"<br><br> <<link '⌕ You show Arden the finger. Then you go.'>> <<set $goodbyeGesture to "finger">> <<set $ardenstat -= 1>> <<goto "CH2P8_Clinic10">> <</link>><br><br> <<link '⌕ ♡ You turn around just long enough to wink at Arden. Then you go.'>> <<set $goodbyeGesture to "wink">> <<set $ardenstat -= 1>> <<set $arden_romance += 1>> <<goto "CH2P8_Clinic10">> <</link>><br><br> <<link '⌕ You stick your tongue out at Arden. Fully. Without any pretence of dignity. Then you go.'>> <<set $goodbyeGesture to "tongue">> <<goto "CH2P8_Clinic10">> <</link>><br><br> <<link '⌕ You turn just long enough to give Arden a crisp, theatrical mock-salute. Then you go.'>> <<set $goodbyeGesture to "salute">> <<set $ardenstat -= 1>> <<goto "CH2P8_Clinic10">> <</link>><br><br> <<link '⌕ You don\'t turn around. You just go.'>> <<set $goodbyeGesture to "nothing">> <<goto "CH2P8_Clinic10">> <</link>><br><br>

<<if $goodbyeGesture is "finger">> $ardenHeC rolls $ardenHis eyes, visible even in your peripheral vision as you turn back toward the corridor. A short exhale through the nose follows it. The sound of someone deciding a reaction isn't worth the effort of a full sentence.<br><br> "Mature," $ardenHe mutters, already closing $ardenHis eyes tiredly. Leaning back on the chair.<br><br> <<elseif $goodbyeGesture is "wink">> $ardenHisC eyebrows draw together. Sharp. The irritation clear on $ardenHis face. You take it as a win. Serves $ardenHim right. //Beautiful idiot//.<br><br> <<elseif $goodbyeGesture is "tongue">> $ardenHeC stares at you. Actually speechless for a second.<br><br> "How old are you, exactly." $ardenHisC tone stays completely level, like the question is genuinely diagnostic. "I need to update your chart."<br><br> You count it as a win regardless. You hold his stare a second longer than necessary. Do it again. Quick. Then you go. You can't hold back a chuckle.<br><br> <<elseif $goodbyeGesture is "salute">> "You're not in the military. Nevermind. Just go." $ardenHeC pinches the bridge of $ardenHis nose. Eyes briefly closed. "You're giving me a headache."<br><br> You count that as a win. The door swings shut behind you.<br><br> <<else>> The quote does the work. You let it. You don't look back.<br><br> <</if>> The corridor is quieter than when you walked through it an hour ago. You meet Kai on the way out. She looks up when she hears you. She nods once. Want's to go back to Arden.<br><br> You stay where you are.<br><br> Because Maud's phone is in your bag and you've been through it front to back twice now. And the word //don't lie//. That word has been sitting in you since you first read it.<br><br> You look at Kai's hands clutching medicine. You don't know what kind of relationship she and Maud had. And if you should get involved in that.<br><br> <<link '⌕ You catch her eyes. "I went through her phone," you say a little embarrassed. "Looking for leads." You notice Kai squeezing the medicine more tightly to her chest. "She saved you as \'My Kai.\' And what she sent you, the last thing, I know she meant it."'>> <<run setup.setTrait('soft', ($soft || 50) + 2)>> <<set $kaiPhoneChoice to "tell">> <<set $kaistat -= 5>> <<goto "CH2P8_Clinic11">> <</link>><br><br> <<link '⌕ You pick up your bag and walk past the desk without stopping.'>> <<run setup.setTrait('soft', ($soft || 50) - 2)>> <<set $kaiPhoneChoice to "leave">> <<goto "CH2P8_Clinic11">> <</link>><br><br>

<<if $kaiPhoneChoice is "tell">> She looks at you. Not the way she looked at you at the front desk. Something sharper. "Don't assume shit," she growls.<br><br> You open your mouth.<br><br> "Do you know what?" Kai's eyes pierces through you. "If she really loved me, if she really meant it, how come she never once mentioned you?" She laughs bitterly. "I had no idea who you were until you told us. Not one word. In all the time I knew her."<br><br> You don't have an answer for that. Because it's a real question.<br><br> "So." Kai turns to leave, she looks back at you with a bitter smile. "Don't assume things about your sister since you clearly knew her as well as me."<br><br> She doesn't look at you again. You stand there for a moment. Then you pick up your bag and go through the door.<br><br> <<else>> You're at the door when Kai's voice catches you.<br><br> "Did she leave anything?"<br><br> You stop. You don't turn around.<br><br> There's a beat. Long enough that Kai probably sees the hesitation for what it is. Long enough that she's hoping.<br><br> "No," you say keeping your face neutral. "Nothing."<br><br> A pause on her end. Small. Then: "Okay." She doesn't push. She won't.<br><br> You go through the door.<br><br> Kai will never know. Not from you. Not today. The name //My Kai// stays in Maud's phone and in your bag and nowhere else.<br><br> That's the difference between you and the dead, maybe. The ability to choose what to leave unfinished. <</if>> You're outside again.<br><br> //Fool.//<br><br> You've been turning it over since it happened. What it was aimed at. What Maud was trying to say with that. Whether the word was a warning or an accusation or just the first syllable of something longer that didn't make it through. The most Maud thing. Of course your sister would be the same i the afterlife.<br><br> You pull out your notebook again. Write at the top of a clean page: //Spirit fragmented. blocked. scattered.// Then: //what does it take to scatter a spirit? How to make it whole?// Then: //Fool. why that word.//<br><br> You put the notebook away. Standing in a lane writing questions isn't the same as answering them.<br><br> You pull your jacket tighter and start walking toward the light at the end of the lane. Your day is not over yet.<br><br> [[Continue|CH2P8_Clinic12]]<br><br>

<div class="ch1-header"> <h1 class="bloodlines-title">Arden POV</h1> </div> The door closes.<br><br> Arden doesn't move. Not yet. There's a discipline to the after. The cold is still coursing through $ardenHis body. The tremor working its quiet way through $ardenHis hands beneath the cloth. The residue of a voice in $ardenHis throat that wasn't $ardenHis and won't fully clear for a day or two at least.<br><br> Fighting it makes it worse. $ardenHeC has learned this the hard way enough times that Arden has stopped fighting the process. Just sits in it and lets it run its course while $ardenHis mind does what it does regardless: turns things over. Picks at them one at a time. Whether $ardenHe wants it to or not.<br><br> The window broke at exactly 8:47 in the evening. $ardenHeC noted the time automatically; the habit's older than $ardenHe can remember. The kind of clinical record-keeping that runs beneath everything else like a second pulse. Like patients triaged. Symptoms catalogued. Time of entry. Time of exit. Time of death when it comes to that.<br><br> The glass went inward. Someone followed through it.<br><br> A <<if $gender is 'cisgender-male' or $gender is 'transgender-male'>>man<<elseif $gender is 'cisgender-female' or $gender is 'transgender-female'>>woman<<else>>person<</if>>, tangled in the roller blind with caution tape looped around one arm, while the left hand bled steadily onto the floor. //Shallow. Frame glass. Needs a clip.// That part Arden has already assessed without consciously choosing to. Because that's simply how $ardenHe works. Well-being first. Context second.<br><br> Then $mcHe opened $mcHis mouth, and Arden wished $mcHe didnt.<br><br> <<if $ardenMeetChoice is "bold">> $mcHeC winked at $ardenHim. From $ardenHis floor. Blood running off $mcHis left hand. Caution tape still tangled around $mcHis arm. $mcHeC pushed up onto the uninjured one. Waved the bleeding hand like it wasn't there, and grinned like the whole scene was going according to some plan only $mcHe was in on.<br><br> //"I needed to speak to you badly enough to climb a fire escape and destroy a window. I think that at least earns me two minutes."//<br><br> Arden's mouth had opened. Nothing came out of it for a full second. An actual, measurable gap where $ardenHe simply has no response prepared for someone bleeding on $ardenHis floor and grinning about it. $ardenHeC recovered by reaching for the only thing that still made sense in the room: the broken window behind $mcHim. $ardenHeC gave $firstName the two minutes. Hours later, Arden was still faintly irritated at how little resistance that decision required.<br><br> <<elseif $ardenMeetChoice is "shy">> //"I'm — sorry. About the window. I didn't — "// $mcHeC stops. Looks down at the tape still wrapped around $mcHis arm.<br><br> Arden already has the refusal loaded. A version of //not today, come back when it's not through my window// prepared. The same line $ardenHe's used on three other people this month. Now that Arden thinks about it $ardenHe really needs to fix that window soon. But then $mcHe looks back up at him.<br><br> $mcHisC $eyes eyes hold Arden's for a second too long. Just utterly exhaustion. Arden can relate.<br><br> //"I needed to speak to you."//<br><br> The refusal doesn't make it out. $ardenHeC has decided. Arden sets the gauze down instead. $mcHeC will get two minutes.<br><br> Arden is still not entirely sure, an hour later, what changed $ardenHis mind between one sentence and the next.<br><br> <<elseif $ardenMeetChoice is "awkward">> //"Heeey — so the window was an accident. Partial accident."// Arden lets it pass. //"I needed to see you and the front wasn't—"// $ardenHeC lets that pass too. And then, tacked on at the very end like it had been waiting its turn the whole time: //"You're a very difficult person to find, by the way. That's probably on purpose."//<br><br> //Of course it is.// Arden thinks. The thought comes with more weight behind it than $mcHe could possibly know. No directory. No listed address. No digital footprint worth finding. Built that way on purpose. For reasons that have nothing to do with modesty. $mcHeC found $ardenHim anyway. Through a window. Bleeding.<br><br> Something in $ardenHis chest does an unfamiliar, unwelcome thing at that. Half flattered that someone noticed the effort it took, half something closer to alarm. People who notice things like that don't usually stop at noticing. $ardenHeC's already wondering how much further $mcHe intends to dig..<br><br> <<elseif $ardenMeetChoice is "clumsy">> $mcHeC raises the bleeding hand. Freezes. Stares at it like it's just occurred to $mcHim, mid-motion, that raising a bleeding hand was maybe not the plan. Lowers it. The tape slides further down $mcHis arm.<br><br> //"Hi."//<br><br> Arden just looks at $mcHim. Doesn't say anything back right away. Can't, actually. For a second. Caught somewhere between the urge to huff, which $ardenHe suppresses on reflex, and the urge to grab the gauze, which wins out mostly because it's the easier of the two impulses to act on. $ardenHeC's aware, distantly, that $ardenHe's a little entertained.<br><br> <<elseif $ardenMeetChoice is "oblivious">> //"To be fair —"// $mcHeC glanced at the window. Back at Arden. //"— the front door didn't work either. I'm running out of entrances."// <br><br> Arden stood there a second, genuinely trying to find the hole in that logic. It shouldn't be amusing but it is, slightly, in a way $ardenHe doesn't let reach $ardenHis face. $ardenHeC's more used to people who dress up a bad decision as a good one. $mcHeC just stated it like a fact and moved on. Arden finds that, against $ardenHis better judgment, sort of likeable.<br><br> <<elseif $ardenMeetChoice is "platonicdeflecting">> //"Your front desk sent me away. Someone died and you're the last lead I haven't exhausted. I need five minutes."// <br><br> No apology in it anywhere. Just the facts. Stacked in the order that gets the fastest yes. Arden respects that kind of efficiency. $ardenHeC uses it $ardenHimself, on people who'd otherwise take ten minutes to ask $ardenHim for something that takes ten seconds to answer. $ardenHeC gives $mcHim two minutes.<br><br> <<else>> //"I have information about a recent patient of yours. Patient confidentiality doesn't extend to the dead. I need five minutes."//<br><br> Legally accurate. Arden's checked. $mcHeC said it flat, from the floor, blood still running onto the linoleum, like $mcHe'd rehearsed it in the car on the way over and decided the window was a reasonable price for the delivery. Arden's dealt with a lot of people who show up with an argument already loaded. Most of them are more annoying about it than this.<br><br> <</if>> And then Maud.<br><br> Arden has sat in this room with a lot of grief. Most of it walks through the door on their own two feet. Sits down across the table. Give $ardenHim a name. Then wait to find out whether Kai and Arden can pull it off.<br><br> The after of it is always the same. Unpleasant. But manageable. The cost of the thing Kai and $ardenHim do.<br><br> The channel had opened and found not a spirit but a scatter. The pieces of Maud spread out in a way that suggested not just a violent death but a person so broken, it would take a long while for the spirit to recover. To heal. To put herself whole again. Something about that keeps nagging at $ardenHim, and $ardenHe can't yet place why.<br><br> Arden has no idea how long it will take. How $ardenHe could even speed the process along so Maud can properly rest. That's the part that sits worst.<br><br> One word that came through anyway — //Fool// — in a voice Arden recognized from three years of patching her up. Literally. Plus figureatively. Three years of $ardenHim somehow becoming Maud's therapist and listening to whatever is on her mind. A voice that will stay in $ardenHis throat for longer than $ardenHe'd like. The dead always stay longer when they've left something unfinished.<br><br> The notebook page is still on the table. Every day at noon. A phone number in messy handwriting.<br><br> Apparently someone wants to kill $ardenHim now. $ardenHeC is on the same list. Maud was on it and Maud is dead. Arden feels a headache coming. //Not again.//<br><br> It doesn't change anything. The clinic stays open because $ardenHis patients depend on it. Plenty of them don't have the luxury for the clinic to close for one single day. $ardenHeC said as much and meant every word of it. The clinic will stay open. No room left in that decision for negotiation. But the list is probably real. $ardenHisC name on it is probably real.<br><br> When $firstName went towards the door, it made Arden feel relieved. Until $mcHe had the nerve to turn around and start quoting Churchill. Arden was entirely unimpressed. Then $mcHe finally left.<br><br> <<if $goodbyeGesture is "finger">> Middle finger raised. Unhurried. Not looking back.<br><br> //Insufferable//. Arden thought, and doesn't bother softening it even inside $ardenHis own head.<br><br> <<elseif $goodbyeGesture is "wink">> A wink, on the way out, after everything that just happened in this room.<br><br> Arden watches the door swing shut and feels genuinely irritated without really knowing why.<br><br> <<elseif $goodbyeGesture is "tongue">> Tongue out. Fully. No attempt at dignity, on the way through $ardenHis own clinic door.<br><br> Arden stares at the space where $mcHe was standing for several seconds after $mcHe's gone. //Childish//.<br><br> <<elseif $goodbyeGesture is "salute">> A mock salute. Theatrical. The kind that means the opposite of respect.<br><br> Arden had pinched the bridge of $ardenHis nose and told $mcHim to go before the headache got worse. It hadn't worked. The headache came anyway. $ardenHeC suspects, in hindsight, it was always going to.<br><br> <<else>> No parting gesture at all. Just the words hanging in the air behind $mcHim, and then the sound of the door.<br><br> <</if>> Unwillingly Arden thinks that $firtName is a different kind of insufferable Maud used to be. But still similar. $ardenHeC hadn't clocked the resemblance until just now. $ardenHeC wishes $ardenHe still hadn't.<br><br> Arden is still thinking about this when $ardenHe hears Kai opening the door.<br><br> Arden quickly picks up the notebook page from the table. Tucks it into $ardenHis coat pocket.<br><br> She doesn't come all the way in. Stands in the frame a moment. Arms loose at her sides. Watching $ardenHim the way she watches every patient in the first minute after a hard session. Checking color. Checking hands. Checking whether $ardenHe's actually present behind $ardenHis own eyes yet.<br><br> Arden opens $ardenHis mouth. "Do you want to talk about Ma—"<br><br> "No." Immediate. Quick. "I don't want to talk about it. Not yet."<br><br> $ardenHeC doesn't push. $ardenHeC understands the mechanics of that particular door. Knows exactly what it costs to keep it shut and how little good it does anyone to force it. Kai changes the topic immediately. "Thursday order's still short. I need an answer now or we're pulling from the buffer."<br><br> Arden pushes $ardenHimself up. Both hand braced on the table, as a full-body ache courses through $ardenHis body once $ardenHe tries to walk. "Pull from the buffer. Order eight units on Friday to compensate. I'll send the bill to the idiot."<br><br> Kai studies $ardenHim a second. "Eight." She nods once. "Right." She doesn't move from the doorway. "You should eat."<br><br> "I'm aware."<br><br> "That wasn't a suggestion."<br><br> Arden starts to move. The room is just a room again. The séance over. The dead gone quiet the moment $ardenHe stops reaching for them.<br><br> "We have a follow-up tonight." $ardenHeC's already moving toward the door. "Have the file ready."<br><br> Kai steps back to let $ardenHim through first. Not courtesy. Or not only courtesy. She stays close on $ardenHis left. Exactly where she'd need to be if $ardenHis knees decided to stop cooperating between here and the hallway. It's happened before. She's not taking chances tonight.<br><br> "Already is." She falls into step behind Arden. "So is your Ramen."<br><br> [[Continue|CH2P9_E]]

Han Tower doesn't look like a place that belongs to Sordia.<br><br> That's the first thing you think, standing on the opposite pavement. The building rises out of Sordia's upper district like a declaration. All Glass and steel. The Han family dragon climbs the exterior in red from base to spire. Floor by floor. Seams in the stonework lit from within so the creature seems to writhe faintly if you watch it long enough. As if the building itself is ascending. One slow coil at a time It will keep doing it long after you've stopped watching. Forty-seven stories.<br><br> Private security is above the twentieth floor. Biometric locks on the executive elevator bank. A detail you only know because you pulled the building permits for your article. Facial recognition is also updated every day, because the Han family doesn't make the same mistake twice. And somewhere in this city there's a junior security tech whose entire job is making sure of that.<br><br> Your name is somewhere in that system. Not on a good list.<br><br> Behind you, Sordia keeps doing what Sordia does. A bus wheezing past. Someone's radio bleeding out of a cracked window three storeys up. The whole ordinary, grimy churn of the city going on completely indifferent to the fact that forty-seven floors of glass and old money are standing right here pretending none of it exists below the twentieth floor.<br><br> You've been watching for twenty-three minutes. Long enough to map what matters. The service entrance is on the east side. Down a maintenance road that the city's planning commission clearly decided was someone else's problem. No visible cameras at the entrance itself. Which means nothing. Han Tower uses embedded lens tech in the wall fixtures. But more importantly: no guard. Just a heavy reinforced door and a security pad mounted beside it.<br><br> And every eleven to thirteen minutes, a rotation of maintenance staff.<br><br> In. Out. In. Nobody checks credentials at the door. The checks happen inside At the staff desk. On the ground floor. Which is further than you need to go tonight.<br><br> The plan is simple. Because simple is the only kind that works.<br><br> The janitor uniform costs thirty-eight credits from a supply shop two streets east. Cash. No receipt. The man behind the counter doesn't look up when you pay and you don't give him a reason to. The overalls are slightly too large and the cap is a particular shade of utilitarian grey that makes you invisible in any building with a maintenance contract. You've used this before. Different buildings. Different stories. Different reasons for being somewhere you weren't supposed to be.<br><br> This one is different. This is $eName Han's building.<br><br> You put the cap on in the alley behind the shop. Pull it low. Check your reflection in a dark window.<br><br> You don't look like yourself. Good.<br><br> The maintenance road smells like drainage systems and standing water. A thick, mineral damp that clings to the back of your throat. The kind every underground car park in this city seems to breathe out no matter how new the concrete is. You walk it without hurrying. Hurrying is suspicious. Maintenance staff move with purpose but not urgency. And you've spent twenty-three minutes learning it from across the street.<br><br> The security pad is mounted to the right of the door. Numeric keypad. Six digits. A small screen with a blinking cursor.<br><br> You don't try to guess. Guessing triggers lockouts. Guessing is what people do when they haven't done their homework, and your homework started the week you filed the exposé and knew what was coming. The old code probably doesn't work anymore. They change it daily.<br><br> You look left.<br><br> There's a corkboard mounted to the wall about two metres from the doo. The kind of practical, unseen thing that exists in every service corridor of every building in Sordia and gets ignored so completely that people forget what they've pinned to it. A maintenance rotation schedule. Yellowed at the edges. Six columns across the top. Each labelled with a unit designation:<br><br> <div style="text-align:center; letter-spacing:0.1em; color:#888; font-size:0.85em; margin: 1em 0; line-height:1.9;">UNIT 77 — 06:50  |  UNIT 24 — 06:10  |  UNIT 68 — 07:55<br>UNIT 41 — 04:45  |  UNIT 15 — 07:15  |  UNIT 83 — 05:20</div> You stare at it a second too long before it clicks. It's not a duty roster. It's not printed in any order a planner would use. It's pinned like whoever made it never expected anyone to actually read it end to end.<br><br> But you're not anyone. <br><br> Whoever built this rotation was thinking about who walks through this door first every morning, and who walks through it last. Not the order the paper happens to hang in.<br><br> Earliest to latest. That gives you an order. And each unit number gives you a digit.<br><br> Six units. Six digits. You just have to do the sorting yourself and not get it wrong.<br><br> You look at the pad next. Run your eyes across the surface. Six of the keys are shinier than the rest. You notice the dimmed polish of repeated use. Hundreds of fingers pressing different six digits at the start and end of every shift. It doesn't tell you the order. But it tells you you've got the right six numbers, whatever order you land on.<br><br> You adjust the cap. Enter the code.<br><br> <div id="hanpad-wrapper"> <style> #hanpad-wrapper { max-width: 300px; margin: 2em auto; padding: 28px 24px 20px; background: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.4); border: 2px solid var(--accent); border-left: 4px solid var(--accent2); border-radius: 10px; box-shadow: 0 0 20px rgba(255, 0, 0, 0.3); font-family: "inconsolata", monospace; text-indent: 0; } .lm #hanpad-wrapper { background: rgba(212, 175, 55, 0.1); box-shadow: 0 0 20px rgba(212, 175, 55, 0.3); } .hanpad-label { text-align: center; font-family: var(--accentFont); font-size: 0.9em; letter-spacing: 0.2em; text-transform: uppercase; color: var(--accent); text-shadow: 0 0 8px var(--accent); margin-bottom: 18px; } #hanpad-display { background: var(--background); border: 1px solid var(--accent2); color: var(--accent); font-size: 1.5em; letter-spacing: 0.5em; padding: 14px 10px; text-align: center; border-radius: 6px; margin-bottom: 6px; min-height: 2.2em; display: flex; align-items: center; justify-content: center; text-shadow: 0 0 8px var(--accent); transition: color 0.2s, text-shadow 0.2s; } #hanpad-display.error-flash { color: var(--accent); text-shadow: 0 0 14px var(--accent); } #hanpad-display.success-color { color: #00ff00; text-shadow: 0 0 14px #00ff00; } #hanpad-attempts { text-align: center; font-size: 0.65em; letter-spacing: 0.1em; text-transform: uppercase; color: var(--accent); min-height: 1.2em; margin-bottom: 16px; } .hanpad-grid { display: grid; grid-template-columns: repeat(3, 1fr); gap: 7px; margin-bottom: 10px; } .hanpad-btn { background: var(--background); border: 1px solid var(--accent); color: var(--text); font-family: "inconsolata", monospace; font-size: 1.05em; padding: 15px 8px; border-radius: 5px; cursor: pointer; transition: all 0.3s ease; text-align: center; letter-spacing: 0.05em; } .hanpad-btn:hover:not(:disabled) { background: var(--accent); color: var(--background); box-shadow: 0 0 10px var(--accent); } .hanpad-btn:active:not(:disabled) { transform: scale(0.95); } .hanpad-btn:disabled { opacity: 0.3; cursor: not-allowed; } .hanpad-btn.special { font-size: 0.6em; letter-spacing: 0.1em; text-transform: uppercase; color: var(--accent2); } .hanpad-btn.special:hover:not(:disabled) { background: var(--accent2); color: var(--background); box-shadow: 0 0 10px var(--accent2); } #hanpad-status { text-align: center; font-family: var(--accentFont); font-size: 0.75em; letter-spacing: 0.15em; text-transform: uppercase; min-height: 1.4em; padding: 6px 0 2px; color: var(--text); opacity: 0.7; transition: color 0.2s; } #hanpad-status.err { color: var(--accent); opacity: 1; animation: hanshake 0.28s ease; } #hanpad-status.ok { color: #00ff00; opacity: 1; } @keyframes hanshake { 0%,100%{transform:translateX(0)} 20%{transform:translateX(-5px)} 60%{transform:translateX(5px)} } </style> <div class="hanpad-label">Han Tech Security — Service Access</div> <div id="hanpad-display">_ _ _ _ _ _</div> <div id="hanpad-attempts"></div> <div class="hanpad-grid" id="hanpad-grid"> <button class="hanpad-btn" onclick="hp(1)">1</button> <button class="hanpad-btn" onclick="hp(2)">2</button> <button class="hanpad-btn" onclick="hp(3)">3</button> <button class="hanpad-btn" onclick="hp(4)">4</button> <button class="hanpad-btn" onclick="hp(5)">5</button> <button class="hanpad-btn" onclick="hp(6)">6</button> <button class="hanpad-btn" onclick="hp(7)">7</button> <button class="hanpad-btn" onclick="hp(8)">8</button> <button class="hanpad-btn" onclick="hp(9)">9</button> <button class="hanpad-btn special" onclick="hpClr()">CLR</button> <button class="hanpad-btn" onclick="hp(0)">0</button> <button class="hanpad-btn special" onclick="hpEnter()">ENT</button> </div> <div id="hanpad-status">Awaiting input</div> </div> <div id="hanpad-scene" style="display:none; margin-top: 1.5em; line-height: 1.8;"> The pad blinks red a third time.<br><br> Somewhere down the corridor, a door clunks open. Footsteps. A woman in the same grey overalls as yours rounds the corner. Badge swinging against her chest. Phone light throwing shadows across the walls.<br><br> She looks at you. At the pad. At the little status light blinking like it's given up.<br><br> "Reader's been glitching all week," she sighs, not really asking. She swipes her own badge without waiting for you to answer. The lock clicks. "Ticket's been open for days. Nobody fixes anything around here."<br><br> You mutter something about being new. 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The freight elevator stops at floor twenty-five.<br><br> Han Tower runs a two-tier access system. Service card for floors one through twenty-five. Executive maintenance card for anything above.<br><br> You push the caddy out. Look left. Look right.<br><br> Floor twenty-five hums with the low, constant sound of a building's guts working somewhere behind the walls. Ventilation. A vending machine buzzing faintly down the corridor. Bare fluorescent tubes overhead instead of the recessed lighting you'd bet money exists two floors below. A service hub. Break room on the left. Door propped with a folded cardboard wedge. Supply storage on the right. Padlocked. A small supervisor's station at the corridor junction ahead. A desk,. A monitor bank showing four grainy feeds. A rolling chair pushed back at an angle like whoever sat in it left in the middle of something.<br><br> The station is empty. The supervisor is somewhere on the floor. The half-drunk coffee on the desk still steams faintly. A thin ring of condensation already forming on the particleboard beneath the mug. Not long gone.<br><br> On the hook beside the monitor: a key card on a red lanyard. The plastic sleeve around it scuffed pale at the corners from years of being clipped and unclipped to a belt loop.<br><br> Red-bordered. Executive maintenance access.<br><br> Right there.<br><br> <<link "⌕ You clocked the camera rotation on the way up. Know the exact window. Count down from six. Move on zero. The card is off the hook and back behind the caddy before the lens completes its arc.">><br> <<set $observation += 1>><br> <<set $keycardMethod to "observation">><br> <<goto "CH2P9_E4">><br> <</link>><br><br> <<link "⌕ You pre-researched the supervisor rotation schedule. Cross-referenced with the building's posted shift log. The desk will be empty for exactly four minutes at this hour. You've been planning for this window since yesterday.">><br> <<set $research += 1>><br> <<set $keycardMethod to "research">><br> <<goto "CH2P9_E4">><br> <</link>><br><br> <<link "⌕ You knock the caddy into the supply storage door. Loud enough to carry. A face appears in the break room doorway. You say there's a spill on thirty-two, someone needs to check the mopping schedule. The face disappears. Forty-five seconds.">><br> <<set $persuasion += 1>><br> <<set $keycardMethod to "persuasion">><br> <<goto "CH2P9_E4">><br> <</link>><br><br> <<link "⌕ A maintenance worker rounds the corner just as you reach the desk. You pick up the clipboard instead of the card. Frown at it like it contains a problem. Ask if they know which floor the pump relay issue is on. By the time they're pointing toward the freight elevator, the card is in your pocket.">><br> <<set $storytelling += 1>><br> <<set $keycardMethod to "storytelling">><br> <<goto "CH2P9_E4">><br> <</link>><br><br>

The click is quiet. Precise. The door swings inward on well-maintained hinges and reveals nothing dramatic. Just a corridor.<br><br> You step through.<br><br> The heat hits before your eyes adjust.<br><br> Not temperature exactly. Your skin picks it up first. A prickle across the back of your neck. The small hairs on your arms lifting under your sleeves before your brain has even registered "warm." By the time it does, sweat's already starting at your forehead. Your clothes sticking faintly to your spine. You know about this. The way Draegon bloodlines run hot enough to alter the air around them. To raise the baseline temperature of any space they inhabit long enough that the building itself stops feeling like architecture and starts feeling like something breathing. You've only experienced it a couple of times before. It's thicker than you remember. Heavy. Humid-feeling. Despite the dry air conditioning working somewhere overhead, like standing too close to a radiator that never quite finishes heating a room.<br><br> The service corridor is immaculate.<br><br> That's what gets you. Not the lobby — you haven't seen the lobby yet — but this. The maintenance entrance. The part nobody is supposed to see. The walls are clean. The floors are clean. The utility shelving running along the left wall is organised with a precision that would embarrass most executive offices. Bins labelled by supply type and restock date. A laminated inventory sheet zip-tied to the frame. Corners squared like someone measures them. Everything labelled. Everything in its place. No exception made for the fact that this corridor sits behind a reinforced door and a security pad and not a single executive will ever walk through it.<br><br> Excessive. Obsessive. Exactly what you'd expect from the youngest CFO in Han Holdings history.<br><br> A perfect metaphor for how this building works. Nothing allowed to be imperfect. Not even the parts no one looks at. Especially those.<br><br> You spot a cleaning caddy left near the entrance. Plastic. Industrial. Aspray bottle of glass cleaner still half-full in the top slot. A bundle of grey microfiber rags stuffed in beside it. One rubber glove draped over the handle. You pick it up. The plastic handle's slightly tacky. Someone else's sweat dried into the grip ahead of yours. It's heavier than it looks. Wheels catching slightly on the seam where the corridor tile meets the elevator lobby's marble.<br><br> The cap is low.<br><br> You've read $eName Han's file so many times you could recite it at speed. Youngest CFO in the Han family's corporate history. Draegon bloodline. Runs the company's bloodline technology division. The neural inhibitors. The dampeners. The equipment that makes certain kinds of power invisible when HanTech decides it should be. And three months ago, Maud texted $eHim.<br><br> <em>Leave me alone crazy bitch.</em>That was $eHis response.<br><br> Which means they knew each other and $eName Han is going to tell you what it was whether $eHe intends to or not.<br><br> You adjust the caddy's handle. Start moving.<br><br> The corridor forks. Left: freight elevator. Right: the service stairwell that connects — according to floor plans filed with Sordia's public records office one year ago before Han Tower's last renovation, which updated everything except the emergency exit documentation — to the upper floors without badging through the executive checkpoint.<br><br> You go right.<br><br> The caddy's wheels make no sound on the marble floor.<br><br> In a building built entirely on the performance of importance, you have become furniture. That's the trick. Not to seem like you belong, but to seem like you're not worth noticing. There's a difference. The first one requires a convincing story. The second one just requires knowing that people in expensive suits are constitutionally incapable of looking at the person pushing the cleaning cart.<br><br> $eName Han is forty-six floors above you. You start climbing.<br><br> [[Continue|CH2P9_E3]]

<<if $keycardMethod is "observation">> The card is in your left pocket before the camera finishes its arc. Six seconds. You counted. Silently. Teeth pressed together the whole time. Your pulse slams twice against your collarbone. Hard. You don't look back. People who look back are always the ones who get caught.<br><br> <<elseif $keycardMethod is "research">> Four minutes. You're back behind the caddy in two. Breath even. Hands steady enough that you almost feel disappointed there wasn't more to it. The window holds exactly as long as the schedule said it would. It always does, when you've done the research properly. Your shoulders drop half an inch you didn't know were up. Not adrenaline. Just the quiet relief of a plan working exactly the way you built it.<br><br> <<elseif $keycardMethod is "persuasion">> Forty-five seconds is more than enough. Card in your pocket before the face reappears asking what spill, your own expression already arranged into something bored by the time you're rounding the corner. Your heartbeat's still up, a little, but your face never let's on.<br><br> <<elseif $keycardMethod is "storytelling">> The maintenance worker nods seriously about the pump relay and heads toward the freight elevator, already half-convinced there's a problem waiting for him somewhere on thirty-two. You didn't lie about anything he could actually check. You just asked a question shaped like a fact and let him fill in the rest himself. People do that. Give them half a sentence with confidence behind it and they'll build the other half for you, every time.<br><br> <</if>> The executive elevator bank is around the corner. Different from the freight elevator, key card required for access. The red card works. The doors open. You push the caddy in and press floor forty-six.<br><br> This elevator is nothing like the one from before.<br><br> Dark panelling on three walls. Mahogany, by the look of the grain. Deep reddish-brown under a finish so even it barely catches the light. No seam visible anywhere between one panel and the next. A thin strip of Han red runs along the base of each wall. Inlaid rather than painted on. The dragon crest is etched into the metalwork above the button panel. Brushed steel. Not chrome. Every scale of the thing individually cut. Precise enough that you could probably count them if the doors stayed open long enough. Everything about it assumes you already know what you're looking at.<br><br> The floor is marble. Black veined with red. Polished to a shine that throws your own outline back up at you faintly when you look down. It's warm beneath the caddy's wheels. Warmer than marble has any business being. Heat bleeding up from somewhere below the surface the same way it did in the corridor outside.<br><br> The smell is the part that gets you.<br><br> Cedar first. Sharp and dry. Cold metal underneath it. A mineral tang you get off old brass fittings polished too many times. And under both of those, something green. Not flowers. Nothing that sweet. More like wet leaves and crushed stems.<br><br> You've been in expensive rooms before. You've sat across from people whose offices cost more than your apartment and whose watches cost more than their offices. None of those rooms smelled like this. This is old wood polish worked into panelling for forty years. Beeswax reapplied so many times it's stopped being a smell and started being part of the building's own skin The exact scent of a family that's owned the top floor long enough for the top floor to just be another room in the house.<br><br> The doors close. You go up.<br><br> You notice that the elevator is quieter. The kind of quiet that costs money to engineer. No mechanical hum. No cable vibration. Just the faint sense of upward movement and the display counting floors. Twenty-six. Twenty-nine. Thirty-two.<br><br> You think about $eName Han.<br><br> Elliot Ward. Amira Smith. Callum Brooks. Three names you wrote into the public record under the headline <em>The Ascension Project</em>, published in The Marrow. A neural interface program running in Han Tower's sub-basement 3. Seventeen participants recruited under the promise of bloodline enhancement, told they were part of something revolutionary. Three of them permanently disabled because $eName Han looked at Dr. Yara Kim's safety report, the one recommending immediate suspension due to neural feedback complications and decided to ignore it. To maintain the timeline.<br><br> Ward needs a walker to cross his own apartment now. Smith's left hand stops working at random. Brooks has seizures that ended his career. HanTech paid all three of them $340,000 to stay quiet. Ward broke the NDA anyway. You filed the story the week after.<br><br> You've been doing this for years now. Long enough to know that most people in positions like $eHim believe, with genuine conviction, that the story will never catch up with them. Not because they're stupid. Because most of the time it doesn't. Most of the time the settlement holds. The sources stay quiet. The margin note stays in the file where no one can reach it. Most of the time a journalist has to be content with having written something true and having almost nobody read it. But somehow you managed to make it public.<br><br> HanTech declined detailed comment. $eName Han did not respond to multiple interview requests. Twelve emails. Four months. Two formal queries through the press office. Nothing.<br><br> $eName Han. A few floors above you right now. Probably finishing a meeting. Unaware that the journalist who published that margin note above the fold is in the executive elevator with a cleaning caddy and two stolen key cards and a list with $eHis name on it.<br><br> Forty-four. Forty-five.<br><br> Forty-six.<br><br> The executive corridor is also different from the floors below. Fewer people. Better light. Han family red at the carpet borders. The dragon crest in the wall panels at regular intervals. Enough of it that it stops feeling like decoration and starts feeling like a reminder.<br><br> The maintenance staff on these floors are human. All of them. Not a policy in writing. Han Holdings doesn't commit to paper what it doesn't want to defend but a pattern clear enough in the quarterly staffing reports that anyone patient enough to request them can read it. The people who make decisions in this building are bloodborn. The people who keep it running are not. <br><br> You push the caddy past two junior executives who talk through you without registering the interruption. <br><br> You find the supply closet on the third door. East corridor. Unmarked. Unlocked. Inside: cleaning supplies. A dry mop. Rplacement bulbs. And a ventilation grille on the north wall positioned at an angle that gives you a partial sightline to the main corridor's camera rotation.<br><br> You stand at the correct angle and map it.<br><br> Eight minutes. The near-field camera on the south checkpoint sweeps left every ninety seconds. Holds for fifteen. Returns. The fixed camera above the elevator bank leaves a four-foot blind spot along the left wall if you approach from the east with your face angled down and something in front of you at the right height.<br><br> Something like a cleaning caddy.<br><br> Guard rotation: two per shift, exchanging every twenty-two minutes. The last exchange happened seventeen minutes ago. You have five minutes before the next one. During those five minutes there is a four-minute window when the south camera is at far sweep and the near guard is signing the checkpoint log with his back to the bank.<br><br> You know this because you spent forty minutes on this floor before you were banned. Because knowing things before you need them is the only genuine advantage a journalist has in a building full of people who would prefer you know nothing at all.<br><br> You check your watch. Close the supply closet.<br><br> You check your watch one more time. Recheck the caddy's position. Settle your breathing.<br><br> Ninety seconds is enough. It has to be enough. You make yourself believe that.<br><br> [[Continue|CH2P9_E5]]

<<if $eFirstMeetingChoice is "calculated">> You start talking before $eHe can say anything.<br><br> "Your project. Ascension. Sub-basement three. Seventeen participants. Three permanently disabled." You hold $eHis gaze. "You ignored the safety report because the timeline mattered more than the people in it. You did it to beat Jin Han to the succession. You did it because your Mommy told you to prove yourself and you didn't care what that cost." You look at $eHim with disdain. "And you think you're better than us hu—"<br><br> "Thirty seconds." $eName cuts you off,. Sharper than before. A thin curl of heat rising off $eHis collar like something just under $eHis skin got closer to the surface. "The next sentence out of your mouth better be one I don't already know, or we're done here." <br><br> <<elseif $eFirstMeetingChoice is "reckless">> Something flickers behind $eHis eyes. Gone as fast as it arrives. The only tell $eHe gives you.<br><br> "Casualties." $eHeC bites the word off short. "Every research programme has setbacks." $eHeC stops there. Doesn't elaborate.<br><br> $eName raises one hand. Flat. Cutting the air between you. "I don't have to explain myself to you. Thirty seconds." $eHis voice drops rougher. "Before I decide I've wasted enough of my evening. Use them."$eHeC's decided that the next sentence out of your mouth is going to be the one that matters or $eHe's done.<br><br> <<elseif $eFirstMeetingChoice is "bold">> $eName Han stares at you.<br><br> "Are you—" $eHeC stops. "Are you flirting with me." A short, sharp sound comes out of $eHim. Not quite a laugh. Or maybe exactly a laugh. The kind that only happens when something's genuinely, personally absurd. "You are unbelievable. You are genuinely unbelievable."<br><br> The amusement drains out of $eHis face fast, replaced by something colder underneath it. "You're not on my level. I want to be very clear about that. Not professionally. Not as a concept. You are not someone I would touch." The golden eyes don't waver. "I've met pesty journalists before. I've never met one with the nerve to stand in my elevator and—" $eHeC flicks one hand at you. A single dismissive motion that takes in the caddy. The overalls. All of it. And finds every piece of it wanting. "This."<br><br> $eHeC exhales through $eHis nose. Short. A thin thread of heat visible in the air for half a second before it's gone. "Thirty seconds. Tell me why you're here."<br><br> <<elseif $eFirstMeetingChoice is "shy">> $eName stares at you.<br><br> "Can you—" $eHeC echoes the last part back at you. Slow. Like it's a phrase in a language $eHe doesn't speak. "Can you start over."<br><br> $eHisC brows knit together. Genuinely thrown. Mouth parting slightly like $eHe's about to say something and then discarding it before it gets out. It's a strange thing to watch happen on a face that clearly doesn't get thrown often. "Are you that dumb? No. You cannot start over. There are no restarts in life."<br><br> $eHeC studies you a second longer. Something flickering hot and quick behind the gold of $eHis eyes. Irritation. Probably. "Thirty seconds to tell me what you want. I'll start counting."<br><br> <<elseif $eFirstMeetingChoice is "awkward">> $eName Han looks at the overalls.<br><br> One corner of $eHis mouth pulls. Not quite a smile. Not quite a sneer. Something that sits uncomfortably between the two. "You put that on and you became invisible. No one looked at you twice." You can practically feel the condescend drip with every word out of $eHis mouth. $eHisC gaze dragging back up from the caddy to your face like $eHe's reassessing you all over again from the ground up.<br><br> "You know what that means. That's exactly where people like you belong." $eHeC reaches out and flicks a piece of lint off your shoulder that may or may not have actually been there. The gesture somehow more insulting than if $eHe'd just said it outright. "Janitor suits you better than journalist. You can pick up the trash too, while you're at it. You'll get multiple uses out of one uniform."<br><br> $eName picks at $eHis nails. Uninterested. Like the insult cost $eHim nothing to deliver and this is more interesting. "The fact that you chose it on purpose doesn't make it clever. It makes it accurate. You have thirty seconds to tell me what you want."<br><br> <<elseif $eFirstMeetingChoice is "clumsy">> $eName Han watches the caddy hit the wall. Watches you grab it. Fumbling. One bottle rolling out and rattling across the floor before you manage to catch it against your shoe.<br><br> "I won't." $eName's voice snaps flat across the space between you. Cutting off whatever agreement you were fishing for before you'd even finished asking.<br><br> $eHeC watches you shove the bottle back into the caddy. Watches your face do whatever it's doing while you try to recover some shred of composure. Something in $eHis expression shifts like $eHe's genuinely trying to work out the mechanics of what just happened in front of $eHim.<br><br> "I genuinely don't understand how someone as catastrophically graceless as you has survived this long in this city." $eHeC tips $eHis head. Studying you the way you'd study something unusual pinned under glass. "Statistically, you should be dead already. Multiple times over."<br><br> "You have thirty seconds." A beat where $eHe almost, almost looks like $eHe's fighting the urge to keep watching you fumble instead of getting to the point. "Use them before I change my mind."<br><br> <<elseif $eFirstMeetingChoice is "oblivious">> $eName's whole body goes rigid.<br><br> "No." $eHeC nearly chokes on the word. One hand snapping out toward your shoulder like $eHe means to physically stop you and stopping $eHimself an inch short of touching you a second time tonight. "Absolutely not. Put that back on."<br><br> "It's like a hundred and ten degrees in here—"<br><br> "I am aware of the temperature. I am the temperature." $eHisC eyes dart, involuntary, to the small black dome mounted in the upper corner of the elevator, then back to you. Jaw tight. "There are cameras in this elevator. Cameras that record directly to a server three of my board members have access to. Put. It. Back. On."<br><br> You zip it back up. Mostly to see the relief actually move across $eHis face before $eHe catches it and smooths it back into irritation.<br><br> "Thirty seconds." $eHisC voice comes out rougher than $eHe probably intends. "Talk. And stay dressed while you do it."<br><br> <</if>> [[Continue|CH2P9_E8]]

"Does the name Maud ring a bell?" $eName's eyes drift toward the corner of the elevator. Unfocused for a second. Before they immediately snap back on your face. Realizing the name you just spoke out loud. "Ah."<br><br> "Maud is my sister. She's dead now. First I want to know how you two knew each other."<br><br> $eName's brow arches. Almost delighted. "So that freak was your sister." Not hostile. Almost amused. Like something's just clicked satisfyingly into place for $eHim.<br><br> "After the exposé ran. I let it slip to Luz what I intended to do with you." $eHisC voice is conversational. Even. "Make you disappear. Permanently." $eName huffs. "Luz probably passed it on. Your sister showed up."<br><br> $eName's mouth twists. The contempt clear on $eHis face. "Luz loves it. Treats every piece of information like a chip to be played wherever it causes the most damage. I've known for years but my guard was down that night."<br><br> "Your sister was a shadow-thug." $eName says it the way you'd say something mildly distasteful. "I find them unlikeable as a category. The whole... flickering. The way they move when they don't want to be seen." $eHeC looks at you. "She got into my office. I don't know how. She told me what would happen if I touched you. Listed every detail." $eHisC eyes narrow slightly, remembering it. "She didn't leave much to the imagination."<br><br> "She thought proximity to the Infernal virus gave her reach." $eName's gaze settles on yours. Cold and precise. "She was half right. The other half got her killed."<br><br> "Good riddance." $eName continues unbothered. $eHisC mouth curls into something that isn't quite a smile. Warmth visibly rising off $eHis skin as $eHe says it, like satisfaction runs hot in $eHim the same way anger does.<br><br> You already knew Maud was murdered. You know what it cost her.<br><br> What you didn't know, what sits in you now like something swallowed wrong, is that after the Ascension piece ran, you'd waited for the big retaliation. The Han family had resources. Reach. A grudge. You'd been careful, but careful only goes so far. Nothing came. You'd assumed it was Nasir. That his position offered some protection.<br><br> It wasn't Nasir.<br><br> Maud came here. Maud stood in this building, got into $eName Han's office. Past security. Past the special bodyguards. And threatened $eName. For you. And then walked out and never said a word to you about any of it. Never.<br><br> <<if $siblingRelationship is "broken">> The feeling that moves through you isn't gratitude. It's something harder. More complicated. Anger. Frustration. Of finding out someone protected you without asking. Without telling. When you'd spent years being the person who didn't need protection. And didn't want it and. Especially didn't want it from her. You didn't ask for this. You wouldn't have. That she did it anyway, and said nothing, hurts your pride. Dignity. It sits there. Festering.<br><br> <<elseif $siblingRelationship is "neutral">> You can't decide what to do with it. She protected you. Quietly. Without asking. Without telling. You didn't know until this moment and you can't ask her now. You don't know if that was Maud's version of love or Maud's version of control. Both of those things are true about her and you can't pull them apart. The not-knowing is a mystery that will always be at the back of your mind. It will never be resolved.<br><br> <<elseif $siblingRelationship is "fixable">> You almost want to sit down. The guilt arrives fully formed. Immediate. She was protecting you the whole time. While you were being careful and keeping your head down. Thinking you were handling it. She was the reason the Han family wasn't handling you. And when the person who created the list came for her, you weren't there. You couldn't do for her what she'd been doing for you without telling you.<br><br> <</if>> "She was murdered. Her heart was removed while she was still alive." You hold $eHis gaze. Ignoring $eHis taunts. "Twelve people including me are on a list. One from each major bloodline. Two already went missing before Maud and now someone got Maud." "You're the Draegon on the list."<br><br> $eName says nothing at first. "I don't believe you," $eHis voice is hostile. But more evaluated. Which tracks. You're a journalist with a documented grudge against the Hans. Standing in $eHis elevator in stolen maintenance clothes. Making claims about a potential serial murder. The credibility gap is significant.<br><br> You pull the folder.<br><br> Hidden inside the uniform since. Against the lining. Flat against your ribs. Pre-prepared. Because you knew you'd need something that existed outside your word, something that couldn't be dismissed as a journalist constructing a narrative around a family death.<br><br> $eName takes it. Opens it. Reads.<br><br> Fast. Actually fast. The golden eyes move across the pages with extreme speed of. Probably one of $eHis Dreagon skills. Still, this is a person who reads the way most people don't. For the holes. For the gaps. For the places where the argument overreaches. $eHeC's looking for the flaw in the logic and moving on when $eHe doesn't find one. The list. All twelve names. All eleven bloodlines. The murder timeline. The three victims so far: Marguerite Asher (potentially dead), Linnea Frost (potentially dead), Maud $lastName (dead). The method. The detail that never appeared in any press coverage because Ace kept it out of the official record. $eName turns pages without slowing.<br><br> You wait.<br><br> The paper. The folder. The sound of $eName Han turning pages in a stopped elevator, dry and crisp against the total silence around both of you.<br><br> <<if $nervousTick is "lip">>Your teeth find your lip before you register it. The skin splits along the same line it always does. You've been doing this since you can remember. It's never once helped. You taste copper. You stop. Two seconds pass and your teeth find it again.<br><br> <<elseif $nervousTick is "pen">>The pen comes out. It always does. A journalist's reflex. The kind you've spent years not managing to break. Your hand goes to your pocket and the pen is in your fingers and you click it once before you've made any conscious decision to do so. Then twice. Repeat it. Again. And again.<br><br> <<elseif $nervousTick is "foot">>Your foot starts tapping against the elevator floor before you notice. A quiet, rhythmic sound. In the total silence of this stopped elevator, it carries further than iyou realize.<br><br> <<elseif $nervousTick is "grimace">>Your jaw tightens. The tension crawls across your face the way it always does when you're waiting for something you can't control. A source deciding whether to talk. A verdict. A person reading something you handed them.<br><br> <</if>> "Stop that." $eName doesn't look up from the folder.<br><br> <<if $nervousTick is "pen">> You stop. The pen is still in your hand. Two seconds pass. Your thumb moves.<br><br> $eName looks up. The golden eyes find the pen. Then your face. Then the pen again. Tracking the small motion of your thumb with a focus that has nothing to do with curiosity and everything to do with how close $eHe currently is to losing $eHis patience entirely.<br><br> "Put it away," $eName scoffs. Like the pen personally offended $eHim.<br><br> "It's just pen clicking. It helps me." You hold your ground but $eHe's already talking over you.<br><br> "This is the most irritating sound I've ever heard. If I hear it sound one more time, this conversation ends." $eName warns and you know $eHe means it.<br><br> You sigh but put it away. You hold it still. This time you manage it.<br><br> <<else>>You stop. Two seconds pass. Your body does it again.<br><br> $eName looks up. The golden eyes find <<if $nervousTick is "lip">>your mouth<<elseif $nervousTick is "foot">>your foot<<elseif $nervousTick is "grimace">>your jaw<</if>>. Then your face. There's a version of this look that ends with you actually on fire. You can tell. Watching the heat gather faint and visible in the air around $eHim, that $eHe's at least considered it as an option in the last two seconds. $eHeC decides against it. Returns to reading instead. Jaw set. Like patience is a discipline $eHe's actively practicing rather than a trait $eHe naturally has.<br><br> You hold still. You manage it. Barely.<br><br> <</if>> $eName closes the folder.<br><br> "This proves nothing." $eHeC drops it onto the caddy's edge. Unceremonious. "A list of names and a death timeline. Anybody could compile this. This is exactly what a journalist with a personal connection to one of the victims would—"<br><br> "Give me the folder back then." you hold out your hands expectantly. <br><br> $eName looks at you incredulously. "You gave it to me." $eHeC grabs the folder again. //Petty ass.//<br><br> "I gave it to you to read. You've read it. Give it back." You know the game $eHe wants to play and you refuse to give him the upper-hand.<br><br> $eHeC doesn't move. Holds the folder like someone who has decided, on principle, not to do the thing being asked.<br><br> You reach for it.<br><br> $eHeC doesn't let go.<br><br> What follows is brief and undignified. Two people fighting over a manila folder in a stopped elevator, which is precisely why it's almost funny and precisely why it makes $eName furious. Because $eName Han does not do undignified. $eHisC grip doesn't loosen. Yours doesn't either. And for three full seconds it's just the two of you yanking a piece of paper back and forth like children fighting over the last toy. The folder tears down the middle with a sound too loud for how little effort it actually took. Both of you end up holding half.<br><br> $eName looks at the half in $eHis hands. At the half in yours. Then, with the exact pettiness of someone who has never once lost an argument in $eHis entire life, tears $eHis half again. Smaller. Even smaller. Until it's confetti. $eName drops the pieces on the floor.<br><br> //Petty, selfish ass.//<br><br> Fine. Two can do that. You tear yours too, scatter it after $eHis, because you have a copy every page and the original after all. Which makes the whole gesture completely, satisfyingly pointless on $eHis end.<br><br> The pieces are on the floor between you. Neither of you moves to pick them up.<br><br> "Even if this is accurate—" $eName lets the sentence hang a moment, studying you like $eHe's already decided what's coming next won't impress him. "—your function here is what. You're not a detective. You're not CRD. You're a journalist with a dead sister and a grudge." $eHisC eyes settle on yours. "What value do you have for me?"<br><br> This is the pitch you were waiting for. The slight opening. This is what you came here to make. You've thought about it since you left Arden's clinic. How to frame it. How to make it something $eName would consider instead of dismiss in the first sentence. You know $eHe'll dismiss it. $eHeC's going to make that disgusted face. The one $eHe makes when something offends $eHim but $eHe still needs to weigh it before $eHe throws it out. That's how you get into an arrogant person's head. You need ten seconds of consideration. You built the whole argument around getting those ten seconds.<br><br> <<link '⌕ Surely $eHe will listen to reason. "You\'re supposed to work with me. I have information and access. You have resources and reach. We both have stakes in this. That\'s a partnership whether you want to call it that or not."'>> <<run setup.setTrait('calculated', ($calculated || 50) + 1)>> <<set $eBickerChoice to "pitch1">> <<set $estat += 1>> <<goto "CH2P9_E9">> <</link>><br><br> <<link '⌕ "I know things about this investigation that aren\'t in that folder. I\'ve already spoken to the Manitou on the list. I know how the killings work. You don\'t." You gloat. "Right now I\'m the most useful person in your building."'>> <<run setup.setTrait('relaxed', ($relaxed || 50) + 1)>> <<set $eBickerChoice to "pitch2">> <<set $estat -= 3>> <<goto "CH2P9_E9">> <</link>><br><br> <<link '⌕ You\'re so frustrated with $eHim, you drag a hand down your face. "Two are already missing. Maud is dead. You may be next. You can throw me out of this elevator or you can use the fact that I walked into your building to warn you." You let that sit. "Your call."'>> <<run setup.setTrait('calculated', ($calculated || 50) - 1)>> <<set $eBickerChoice to "pitch3">> <<set $estat -= 1>> <<goto "CH2P9_E9">> <</link>><br><br> <<link '⌕ "I\'m the only person in Sordia who\'s actively investigating this list. And my goal is to warn everyone. That makes me the only person whose interest in keeping you alive is self-interest. But the good kind." Your smile doesn\'t reach your eyes. "Think about that."'>> <<run setup.setTrait('relaxed', ($relaxed || 50) - 1)>> <<set $eBickerChoice to "pitch4">> <<set $estat -= 5>> <<goto "CH2P9_E9">> <</link>><br><br>

<<if $eBickerChoice is "pitch1">> "Partnership." $eName lets the word sit in the air a second. Head tilting back slightly like $eHe's checking $eHe heard it right. "Someone as weak and unremarkable as you." $eHisC mouth curls, mocking now. "And you're proposing a partnership."<br><br> "I'm proposing the only arrangement that makes sense for both of us." You cross your arms. "Whether we call it that or not."<br><br> "I will not be calling it that." $eName looks away. Contempt written plain across $eHis face.<br><br> <<elseif $eBickerChoice is "pitch2">> $eName Han looks at you like $eHe wants to strangle you for real this time.<br><br> "The most useful person in my building." $eHeC lets the phrase hang there like it physically offends $eHim to repeat it. "You're a species that lives fifty, sixty years if you're lucky, dies of things my blood cured itself of centuries ago, and you want me to believe you're useful to anyone. You're a human, in a building full of people who could crush you between two fingers without spilling a drink." $eHisC lip curls. "You'll always be a pathetic human. Nothing you do changes what you are."<br><br> "And I know things you don't." You keep going stubbornly. Ignoring the insult entirely. "Those aren't mutually exclusive."<br><br> <<elseif $eBickerChoice is "pitch3">> $eName looks at you. Your frustration is visible. $eHeC can see it. From the small smile on $eHis lips $eHe's definitely enjoying it.<br><br> "You may be next first." One shoulder lifts. Too lazy to be a real shrug. "Yes. You'll definitely die before me. I'm sure of it."<br><br> <<elseif $eBickerChoice is "pitch4">> $eName Han goes quiet. "The only person." $eHeC repeats it low. Not quite to you. More like $eHe's turning the logic over. Testing the weight of it before deciding whether to dismiss it outright.<br><br> "And you want me to believe you have a big enough heart to help me out?" $eName scoffs. "Me? The one you wanted to destroy. Don't make me laugh."<br><br> "This isn't about just you." You throw both hands up in frustration. "This is about saving all our asses!"<br><br> <</if>> "You're useless," $eName growls. Clean and direct. "A human journalist. No bloodline, no standing, no resources that matter in this investigation. What exactly are you going to do that I can't do better with a single phone call? My resources—"<br><br> "Won't help you." You grin at him, satisfaction sitting plain across your whole face. "Because they hate you. People talk to me because they know I'm after the truth and I'll actually print it, consequences or not. Sources who've watched everyone else in this city fold the second a Han lawyer sends a letter. Or you send out a hit. People don't talk to you because they're afraid of you, and afraid doesn't get you information, it gets you exactly what people think you want to hear."<br><br> "That will change," $eName counters. "I have access to networks you've never—"<br><br> "Sure you do." You hold $eHis gaze. "Enough money to own everyone in the room. Right up until someone of your network decides you're more valuable dead." You spread both hands, the picture of reasonableness. "You can buy silence. You can buy compliance. How much actual loyalty do you think that money's ever bought you? Because from where I'm standing, not much. Fear and honesty don't sit in the same room together and that's a different kind of access money's never once been able to buy. You know that. It's why you're still standing here instead of having already thrown me out."<br><br> The heat in the elevator is almost unbearable now. You can feel the sweat dripping down your forehead. <br><br> $eName is not going to say you're right. $eName Han is constitutionally incapable of saying you're right. But $eHe's still here. $eHeC's still talking. That is its own answer. Both of you know it. Neither of you says so.<br><br> "As for what you cost me," $eName suddenly changes the topic. Of course $eHe needs to have the last word. "What you cost this company. That hasn't changed. It hasn't been addressed and now, with your guard dog gone, I will make you pay for it."<br><br> <<link '⌕ ♡ "Oh, devastating." You don\'t look scared. Not even slightly. Instead you smile seductively. "Keep going. I\'m almost interested."'>> <<run setup.setTrait('bold', ($bold || 50) - 1)>> <<set $eFinalChoice to "bold">> <<set $estat -= 5>> <<set $e_romance += 1>> <<goto "CH2P9_E10">> <</link>><br><br> <<link '⌕ ♡ $eName Han says I will make you pay and something about the phrasing makes your brain go somewhere it absolutely should not go right now. You look at $eHim. At the floor. Back at $eHim. "Right." You clear your throat. "The career. Yes. Very threatening."'>> <<run setup.setTrait('shy', ($shy || 50) + 1)>> <<set $eFinalChoice to "shy">> <<set $estat -= 2>> <<set $e_romance += 1>> <<goto "CH2P9_E10">> <</link>><br><br> <<link '⌕ ♡ You laugh. The wrong kind of laugh. A little bit of dismissal. A little nerves. Just the sound that comes out when your brain can\'t find the right response and settles for the wrong one. You can hear it in the air the second it happens. "Sorry," you say. "I don\'t — you were saying."'>> <<run setup.setTrait('awkward', ($awkward || 50) + 1)>> <<set $eFinalChoice to "awkward">> <<set $estat -= 3>> <<set $e_romance -= 1>> <<goto "CH2P9_E10">> <</link>><br><br> <<link '⌕ ♡ <<if $nervousTick is "lip">>You bite your lip. Right here. Right now. E sees it. <<elseif $nervousTick is "pen">>The pen clicks. Once. You both hear it. <<elseif $nervousTick is "foot">>Your foot taps. Audible. In a stopped elevator. <<elseif $nervousTick is "grimace">>Your jaw clenches. Visibly. E clocks it immediately. <</if>>"I\'m — sorry. That was involuntary." A beat. "For the record I do take your threats seriously."'>> <<run setup.setTrait('oblivious', ($oblivious || 50) + 1)>> <<set $eFinalChoice to "oblivious">> <<set $estat -= 2>> <<set $e_romance += 1>> <<goto "CH2P9_E10">> <</link>><br><br> <<link '⌕ ♡ You go for a cutting comeback and step back at the same time. Your heel catches the edge of the caddy behind you. You stumble, catch yourself on the wall an inch from $eName, and land on: "I—" You give up entirely. "That was going somewhere. It\'s not anymore."'>> <<run setup.setTrait('clumsy', ($clumsy || 50) + 1)>> <<set $eFinalChoice to "clumsy">> <<set $estat -= 2>> <<set $e_romance += 1>> <<goto "CH2P9_E10">> <</link>><br><br> <<link '⌕ "Good luck with that. You have to survive the next few weeks first." You give a short, dry huff.'>> <<run setup.setTrait('hopeful', ($hopeful || 50) - 1)>> <<set $eFinalChoice to "cynical">> <<set $estat += 1>> <<goto "CH2P9_E10">> <</link>><br><br> <<link '⌕ "Then we have a problem. Because I need you alive, and the thing you want to do to me and the thing you need to do right now are not the same thing." You hold $eHim\'s gaze, waiting. "Decide which one matters more."'>> <<run setup.setTrait('hopeful', ($hopeful || 50) + 1)>> <<set $eFinalChoice to "hopeful">> <<set $estat += 1>> <<goto "CH2P9_E10">> <</link>><br><br>

<<if $eFinalChoice is "cynical">> $eName's mouth flattens. For a second. One second. No more. Something uncertain moves behind the gold before $eHe shuts it down and covers it with a sneer.<br><br> "Careful," $eHe warns. "Threats sound different coming from someone standing in the blind spot of a security camera in my own building."<br><br> <<elseif $eFinalChoice is "hopeful">> $eName doesn't answer right away. $eHisC hand flexes once at $eHis side. Like $eHe's weighing the cost of admitting you've got a point against the cost of standing here arguing about it for another five floors.<br><br> <<elseif $eFinalChoice is "bold">> $eName blinks. Once. Slow. Like $eHe's genuinely questioning $eHis life choices that made $eHim end up here.<br><br> "I am telling you I intend to destroy your career and your response is that you find it interesting. You find this—" $eHe gestures, one sharp motion that takes in the whole stalled elevator. $eHimself. The torn folder still scattered at your feet "—interesting."<br><br> "Almost interesting." You hold $eHis stare with an easy grin. "Don't oversell it." $eHeC looks at you with the look of someone watching something genuinely revolting happen in slow motion.<br><br> $eHeC looks at you like you've personally offended several generations of $eHis family in a single sentence, which, given the fact that you're a lowlife human in $eHis eyes fliritng with a powerful bloodbown, you might genuinely have. The scales at $eHis collarbone catch the overhead light differently as $eHe studies you. Brighter. .<br><br> <<elseif $eFinalChoice is "shy">> $eName's eyes narrow, tracking the exact half-second your face did something you didn't mean to let it do.<br><br> "The career." $eHeC says it slow. Deliberately. "You thought I meant—" $eHeC stops. Actually stops. For the first time all evening, something almost like genuine surprise flickering through before $eHe smooths it back into contempt. "You actually thought I meant something else."<br><br> There is only one route you can go now. Denial. "I don't know what you mean." You lift your chin, holding what's left of your composure together through sheer stubbornness. Sweat dripping down your neck. This time it's not only from the heat of the Draegon's presence. <br><br> "Get out of my elevator." $eHisC voice has dropped. "Now."<br><br> <<elseif $eFinalChoice is "awkward">> $eName stares at you like you've grown a second head mid-sentence. "You laughed."<br><br> "I did."<br><br> "I just told you I'm ending your career." $eHeC says it again. Slower this time. Like repetition might make the sentence land the way it's supposed to.<br><br> "I heard you." You shrug, palms up. "I have to say you're kind of funny."<br><br> $eHeC doesn't have a response ready for that. You watch $eHim not have one. Watch the golden eyes flick briefly toward the ceiling. Like $eHe's asking whatever $eHe answers to for patience $eHe clearly doesn't have much left of.<br><br> $eName Han looks at you for a very long moment. "I don't understand you," $eHe says finally. Less an insult than a genuine conclusion.<br><br> <<elseif $eFinalChoice is "oblivious">> $eName Han's eyes go to <<if $nervousTick is "lip">>your mouth<<elseif $nervousTick is "pen">>the pen<<elseif $nervousTick is "foot">>your foot<<elseif $nervousTick is "grimace">>your face<</if>> and stay there.<br><br> <<if $nervousTick is "pen">>You click it again. $eHeC doesn't tell you to stop this time.<br><br> Instead the plastic goes warm in your hand. Then hot. Fast. The heat climbing from where your fingers wrap around it until you yelp and drop it. Shaking your hand out, a thin red line already rising across two fingers where the metal clip seared skin.<br><br> "Oops. I told you I wouldn't repeat it a thrid time." $eName doesn't even try to sound like $eHe means it. $eHisC face is full of scorn<br><br> <<elseif $nervousTick is "lip">>Your teeth find your lip again. The skin splits. You taste copper.<br><br> $eName's nose wrinkles. Sharp. An actual physical recoil. "Stop that." $eHisC voice has an edge of real revulsion in it now. Not just irritation. "I'm part Draegon. Blood carries. Yours especially. It's disgusting." $eHeC takes half a step back like the smell might follow $eHim. "I am not spending the rest of this ride nauseous because you can't leave your own mouth alone."<br><br> <<elseif $nervousTick is "foot">>Your foot taps once against the floor.<br><br> $eName's shoe comes down on top of it. Sudden. Just long enough to make you suck a breath in through your teeth.<br><br> "Sorry." $eHeC doesn't sound sorry at all. $eHeC doesn't even look down. "Reflex."<br><br> You don't believe $eHim for a second. Neither does $eHe expect you to.<br><br> <<elseif $nervousTick is "grimace">>Your face tightens.<br><br> $eName tips $eHis head. Studying your face like $eHe's genuinely never seen anything quite like it. "You know, I don't think I've ever seen anyone this unattractive before.." $eHisC tone is almost conversational. Like $eHe's making a passing observation about the weather. "It's actually impressive. A real accomplishment."<br><br> You stop doing it. Mostly out of spite.<br><br> <</if>> <<elseif $eFinalChoice is "clumsy">> $eName watches you catch yourself against the wall,. One hand braced flat beside $eHis shoulder. Close enough that $eHe goes very still for a second before $eHe steps back out of the way. Not helping you. Just clearing the collision zone.<br><br> $eHisC gaze drops to the caddy. Still rocking slightly on its wheels from where your heel clipped it. Then back to your face. "Was that meant to intimidate me before or after you nearly fell over."<br><br> "Before." You straighten up. Chin lifting despite the humiliation still burning in your ears. "It was a very good comeback."<br><br> "I'll never know." $eHeC almost, almost looks like $eHe's fighting something at the corner of $eHis mouth. "Tragic, honestly."<br><br> <</if>> You know the conversation is over. You've both had enough of each other.<br><br> You reach and hit the button for the ground floor yourself.<br><br> It resumes. A small lurch. Then motion. The display begins counting down. The doors open.<br><br> Two of $eHis people are already standing there. Dark suits. Hands loose at their sides.<br><br> You say it as you walk out behind $eHim. Not loudly. Aimed at $eHis back because you can't keep your mouth shut: "Pride is spiritual cancer: it eats up the very possibility of love, or contentment, or even common sense."<br><br> C.S. Lewis.<br><br> $eHeC ignores it completely. Doesn't look back at you. Turns instead to the two suits by the elevator, already dismissing you from $eHis attention as $eHe speaks: "That one is not a staff member. Remove this human from the building and fire everyone who cleared this Leech through the service entrance tonight or had any kind of contact."<br><br> You're already moving before $eName can finish $eHis sentence. Already breaking into a run for the far lobby doors. On your way past $eHim, you don't bother going around. Your shoulder catches $eHis. Hard. $eName doesn't move an inch.<br><br> It was petty. But extremely satisfying.<br><br> $eHeC turns. Just $eHis head. Not breaking $eHis own stride toward whatever $eHe's about to do next.<br><br> "Niccolò Machiavelli." $eHeC calls after you. "It is better to be feared than loved, if you cannot be both." The gold in $eHis eyes goes flat and cold. "You're a weak, small human, Leech. You walked into my building to play investigator with a torn folder and a stolen costume. That's all you are. Remember who you came to see. I will never work with you. You're lucky I didn't kill you. Remember that before the next person you try on your list decides you're not worth the trouble either."<br><br> Not a speech. A verdict. Your blood's already boiling before $eHe finishes the last words.<br><br> You continue to run faster.<br><br> The lobby blurs past. Marble underfoot slick enough that your shoes nearly lose purchase on the first turn. The Han dragon crest inlaid into the floor smearing red at the edge of your vision every time you cross it. Security peels off the walls in your peripheral view. Two. Then three. Moving. Extremely fast.<br><br> You don't go for the front doors.<br><br> Left. The service corridor. The one you memorized from floor plans filed. Your shoulder clips the corner hard enough to bruise. You don't stop to feel it.<br><br> The corridor behind you fills with footsteps. Fast. Gaining. Somewhere close a radio crackles, a voice calling out a floor number. A direction. Your description.<br><br> The stairwell door is exactly where the plans said it would be. You hit the bar with both hands. Full weight behind it. It gives with a bang loud enough to announce your exact position to everyone still hunting for it.<br><br> You don't care. You're already three steps down.<br><br> Your own breathing gets loud in the stairwell. Ragged. Bouncing back at you off bare walls. Two floors down. Three. A door alarm somewhere above you starts screaming. Too late to help anyone catch you and too loud to ignore.<br><br> Ground level. The maintenance door. The same one you came in through. You hit it running. Shoulder-first, and it opens onto the same drainage-and-standing-water smell from before. The same maintenance road. Except now you're sprinting down it instead of walking it like you belong.<br><br> The alley. The street. Night air hits your lungs raw and cold after the building's warmth. And for one disorienting second the temperature drop is almost worse than the running.<br><br> You don't stop until you're two blocks clear and folded half over against a wall. Hands on your knees. Sucking air that tastes like exhaust and rain instead of cedar and money.<br><br> You made it out.<br><br> [[Continue|CH2P9_E11]]

Your breath tears in and out of you in ragged pulls and then you're laughing.<br><br> Your knees buckle enough that you catch yourself against the wall with one flat palm. Brick scraping cold and rough under your skin. This is the kind of laugh that lives right next to hysteria. Sleep-deprived. A little unhinged. Close enough you're genuinely not sure which side you're on. Your body's been running on adrenaline for days straight and it's started treating the panic like fuel instead of an emergency. Burning through whatever's left of you to keep going.<br><br> You knew. That's the part that's funny, if any of this is actually funny. You knew from the second you stepped into that elevator that $eName Han was never going to work with you. Not really. Not the way you'd pitched it. Not as a partnership. Not as anything that resembled two people on the same side of a problem. You'd watched $eHis hands the whole time. The way they never once opened. Stayed either flat on a surface or crossed over $eHis own chest. A <<if $eGender is "male">> man <<elseif $eGender is "female">> woman <</if>> who doesn't hand things over. Only takes them.<br><br> The folder's in pieces on that elevator floor forty-three stories up. Kicked into the corners by whoever's cleaning that mess up on the Han family's dime.<br><br> But.<br><br> A wild grin stretches across your face. <br><br> Your palm still has the ghost of the impact. The shoulder-check you gave $eHim on your way past. The deliberate, petty little collision you did out of spite. It wasn't only spite. Your fingers remember what they did in that half-second of contact while hoping $eName wouldn't notice. The flat drop of the USB into $eHis pocket.<br><br> Your plan had worked brilliantly. $eName hasn't noticed. Yet.<br><br> Your number's on it. And a draft. Incomplete. Still rough in places. Missing at least two confirmations you'd wanted before you'd normally let anything out of your hands. Of the story that actually matters. The Ascension piece. The continuation. This will definitely impact the vote that's going to decide whether the CEO chair goes to $eHim or to Jin Han. You've had your sources on it for months. One of them even named. On record. Willing to be quoted the second you need them to be. The others are still blacked out. A sacrifice you had to make.<br><br> It's not finished. It doesn't need to be finished. It needs to be dangerous enough that $eHe reads the first page and understands exactly what you're holding. And it is. You made sure of that before you ever put the cap on tonight. As if you'd ever let go of a story.<br><br> At the bottom, one line, the only part of the draft you wrote specifically for $eHim instead of for a reader:<br><br> //Work with me and I'll give you the rest of the names of my sources or don't and this goes public. Call me tomorrow.//<br><br> $eHeC hasn't found it yet. You picture it anyway. You'd pay good money to see it in person and you're never going to get the chance and that, which is a real pity.<br><br> You laugh harder. Loud enough that it echoes flat off the brick behind you. Loud enough that a man three doors down glances over from where he's locking up a shuttered storefront and decides, wisely, that whatever's happening to you isn't his problem tonight. You can't stop.<br><br> Then you cough. Hard. Doubling over with it. Your body finally cashing the check your lungs have been writing since the stairwell. You brace both hands on your knees and let it run its course. The laugh and the cough tangled together until you can't tell which one's actually driving.<br><br> //Get it together.// You say it in your own head in something close to Ben's voice. Soft and a little exasperated. The tone he'd use if he could see you right now. Hunched in an alley in a stolen janitor's uniform at whatever ungodly hour this is. Laughing like a lunatic about a flash drive. //Remember your sanity. You're going to need it.//<br><br> You straighten up slow. Your shoulder throbs where it clipped the stairwell corner. Your palm's raw where you slammed the fire door open. Somewhere under the janitor's overalls there's a bruise blooming on your hip from falling through Arden's window. Your palm still throbs. And your calves have that deep, electric shake that means you ran further and harder than your body's forgiven you for yet.<br><br> Worth it.<br><br> "Take that, you arrogant lizard," you mutter out loud. To nobody. To the empty street, to the general direction of a forty-seven-story building you can't even see from here anymore. It helps a little.<br><br> You check your phone. The screen's cracked in one corner. A new addition you don't remember happening, though at this point you're not ruling anything out. Almost eleven PM..<br><br> You've established contact with Arden and $eName. Which leaves the one you've been avoiding all night without quite admitting to yourself that's what you were doing.<br><br> Luz.<br><br> You've interviewed killers. You've stood in rooms with people who'd genuinely, calmly explain to you exactly how they'd hurt you if the mood struck, and mean every word of it. You've kept your voice steady through all of it because steady is the job.<br><br> Luz is different. Luz is the only source on your entire list who scares you not because of what Luz might do, but because you've never once, in three years of knowing each other, been able to tell what Luz actually wants. You've written a couple of articles about $luzHim. Everyone else you can read. Dee's cruelty. $eName's arrogance. Even Kai's guarded grief all have a shape you can work with. Predict. Plan around. Luz doesn't have a shape. Luz has angles. And every single one of them is calculated to show you exactly as much as serves some purpose you're not privy to.<br><br> You push off the wall. Your legs hold. Mostly. You'll take mostly.<br><br> Somewhere in this city, Luz already knows you're coming. You're sure of that. Probably doesn't know when or where but $luzHe knows you'll come.<br><br> You start walking back to Christine. Whatever's coming next, you're going to have to do it running on fumes. On your last wits. And on your trademark stubbornness that's gotten you this far and shows no sign of quitting now.<br><br> [[Continue|CH2P9_E12]]

<<if $nasirRefusal is "soft">>"I can't stop now. I need this. Please don't take it away from me right now."<br><br> A pause. When he speaks again his voice has shifted. Closer. Warmer. "I'm not taking anything away from you." Smooth. Like he already knew you'd say it like that. "I just want you where I can see you."<br><br> <<elseif $nasirRefusal is "hardened">>"I'm not standing down. This is my case. That's not changing."<br><br> "No." A beat. Easy. Almost approving. "I didn't think it would." The tone of someone who asked the question already knowing the answer.<br><br> <<elseif $nasirRefusal is "deflecting">>"I will be careful. Have I ever not been? Trust me to do my job."<br><br> "I do trust you." The smoothness of it is the thing that irritates you a little. Like the clarification was something you needed. "That's exactly why I want to know where you are."<br><br> <<else>>"She's dead, Nasir. This is how I handle it. Let me handle it."<br><br> A pause. Not discomfort. Porbably more calculating. When he speaks it's measured and unhurried. The way he is when he has already decided.<br><br> "I know." The gentleness of it lands wrong somehow. "That's why I'm asking."<br><br> <</if>> He sighs. The sound of someone caring about a person who is making a choice they can't be stopped from making. "Report to me. Forty-eight hours. You call, you tell me where you are, what you have, what you need. That's the deal."<br><br> "Deal."<br><br> "And $firstName." <<if $nas_hookup>>His voice drops. That register he uses that sits right at the edge of sounding unprofessional. "If it gets bad, I mean actually bad, not just hard, you come to me. Not just for the story. That's separate."<br><br> "Nasir—"<br><br> "Not up for discussion."<br><br> <<else>>His voice sounds worried. "You're one of my best. Don't do something that can't be undone." A pause. "For the story's sake."<br><br> For the story's sake. Right.<br><br> "Be safe. I mean that."<br><br> <</if>> "I'll brief you when I have something solid."<br><br> "Fair enough." He accepts it without a second thought. Which is somehow more disarming than his normal pushback. "I just want to make sure you're not out there alone with this. Not today."<br><br> "Forty-eight hours," you say, ignoring the last part. And you hang up before anything else gets said. <br><br> You push the door open and step out into the street.<br><br> Christine's parked half on the curb outside Maud's apartment. Windows down the way Maud probably always leaves them. Nobody in this neighborhood is desperate enough to boost a fifteen-year-old matte black sedan held together with duct tape and a bumper that's more optimism than metal at this point. You're pretty sure that Maud never once locked her. There's nothing in this car worth the effort of breaking a window that's already open.<br><br> You drop into the driver's seat. The smell hits you the second the door shuts. Cheap floral air freshener gone stale years ago. Cigarette smoke worked so deep into the fabric it'll probably outlive the car itself Underneath both of those. Faint. Stubborn. The ghost of Maud's perfume.<br><br> You turn the key.<br><br> Christine coughs. Once. Twice. A dry, rattling wheeze like something clearing its throat before a speech it doesn't want to give, and then nothing. Just the click of the starter turning over on empty.<br><br> You smack the flat of your palm once against the dashboard. "Come on."<br><br> Nothing.<br><br> You try the key again. Pumping the gas the way you've learned you have to. Muttering under your breath the whole time. "Let's go, Christine. Not today. I really do not have the day for this today."<br><br> Third try's the charm. The engine catches with a shudder that runs up through the seat and into your spine. Settles into something that might generously be called idle. Even one of the vents starts blowing warm air that smells faintly of burnt dust and fries.<br><br> The radio crackles on by itself.<br><br> Full volume. No warning. At the absolute worst possible moment. Now the opening bars of Bonnie Tyler's //Total Eclipse of the Heart// blast out of Christine's blown speakers like the car's decided to personally weigh in on your day.<br><br> You stare at the dashboard.<br><br> Of all the songs. Of every single song that exists. Maud had to listen to fucking //Total Eclipse of the Heart//. Your dead sister is now missing a literal heart and Christine has decided now is the moment to bring up hearts, eclipses, and turning around bright-eyed, at a volume that's making the door panel buzz.<br><br> You smack the dial. It doesn't turn off. You smack it again. Harder. The volume drops half a notch out of pure spite before climbing right back up.<br><br> "Unbelievable." You say it to the car, to the universe, to whatever's responsible for wiring this shitty car. "Unbelievable."<br><br> You consider, briefly, walking instead. Dignity intact. Ears intact. No eighties power ballad announcing your arrival to the entire block.<br><br> You check the time. You do the math. Walking gets you there in twenty-five minutes. You have twelve. Christine is the only option.<br><br> //Right.//<br><br> You pull out into traffic with the chorus swelling behind you. Your informant is waiting after all.<br><br> <<if $background is "investigative">> [[Continue|CH2P7_Sarah]] <<elseif $background is "war">> [[Continue|CH2P7_Mario]] <<elseif $background is "whistle">> [[Continue|CH2P7_Alexander]] <<else>> [[Continue|CH2P7_Valentina]] <</if>>

<<set $etrulymet to true>> This is the first time you see $eName Han in person. Through glass. Through the full-length partition of the main conference room. From the east corridor junction where the blind spot holds. Two board members across the table from $eHim.<br><br> You have seen the press photos. Hundreds of them. Analyzed Videos. The official releases. Event photos. The unflattering frames — which weren't really unflattering— from the week the exposé ran. When every publication that picked up the story searched for the worst one they could licence. In press photos, $eName Han is controlled. Precise. Aware of every angle. It's always the same three-quarter angle in nearly every shot. Chin tipped just enough to catch the light along the jaw. Hands never fidgeting. Never crossed defensively. You'd know that angle blind at this point. You've stared at it long enough.<br><br> In person, $eHe doesn't need to have done that work. $eHeC simply has that natural strong pesence.<br><br> The thing about studying someone from press materials is that press materials are a negotiation. Every photo is a decision about what to show. Every interview is a decision about what to say. <br><br> You spent months reading $eName Han through the results of those decisions. Through the controlled angles. The carefully calibrated statements. The precise language depending on the event. You built the Ascension Project case without a single word from $eHim. <br><br> But the person on the other side of that glass right now is not the person you built from those materials. You know what $eHe did. You know what it cost three people and maybe more. You know the margin note verbatim. You know the timeline of every board meeting where the project was discussed and what was said in each one. The case is solid.<br><br> None of that told you the golden scales at $eHis peeking out at $eHis collarbone would catch the overhead light and throw it back half a shade warmer than the light actually is. Like $eHe's standing in front of a fire nobody else can see. A scattering at the jaw. A stronger concentration at the collarbone. Visible at a gap. Not the full display of lineage that some Draegon bloodlines maintain. Nowhere near the coverage you've seen in field photos of the older, more traditional families. Just enough that nobody in that conference room would ever mistake it for jewelry. A Han inheritance. Worn without apology. Without making it a performance. Which is its own kind of performance, but a considerably more effective one.<br><br> The heat coming off $eHim is faint. Distorting the air just slightly around $eHis shoulders the way asphalt distorts air in summer. The way $eHe carries $eHis own weight looks proud. Regal. Like walking beside $eHim would be a privilege. None of that is captured in any press photos either.<br><br> Research builds a person in two dimensions. Your file is always accurate but sometimes incomplete. You still find it strange. Every time. The gap between research and reality.<br><br> <<if $eGender is "male">> The hair is slicked back. Black threaded with gold that catches the overhead light differently at the temple. A few strands have pulled loose. The only thing about him that isn't perfectly in place. The suit is dark. Gold in the weave at certain angles. Everything screams luxurious. The jaw is sharp. Egon is tall. Six foot one if you had to guess. <br><br> <<elseif $eGender is "female">> The hair falls past her shoulders in a sheet. The gold threading settling differently from ordinary hair when she turns. Catching the overhead light in a way that makes you aware she knows exactly how it moves. The jumpsuit is dark red. Her lipstick matches it to the exact same shade. Emme is tall. Six foot two if you had to guess. Six foot three with her heels on. With her height she's taller than all of the other people in that conference room. But she holds that height with pride. She probably enjoys looking down at her peers. The accessories she wears are all gold. Gold at both wrists. Gold at her throat. Gold on three fingers of her left hand.<br><br> <</if>> The board members rise. Handshakes. The conference room begins to clear.<br><br> $eName's assistant materialises at $eHis elbow. Holding out a coffee $eName doesn't take. A short shake of the head. The assistant turns away, coffee still in hand.<br><br> $eName turns. Toward the executive elevator bank.<br><br> You check the camera. Far sweep. Guard at the log. Now.<br><br> Fourteen steps from the junction to the elevator bank. You take them at the correct pace. Purpose without urgency. Caddy angled. Face down. Four feet inside the blind spot the entire way. The guard doesn't look up. The camera is at far sweep. The centre elevator doors are open.<br><br> You step in. The caddy's front wheels clearing the door sensor as it begins to close.<br><br> $eName steps in right after you.<br><br> $eHisC eyes sweep the interior. Land on you.<br><br> Maintenance. Caddy. Grey overalls.<br><br> $eHisC nose wrinkles. Faint. The exact expression of someone catching a smell they'd rather not identify. $eHisC brow furrows next. Like $eHe's trying to work out why you're still standing in $eHis elevator instead of immediately scattering. Then $eHe seems to answer $eHis own question. Staff. Beneath the question entirely.<br><br> $eHeC turns away. Shoulders angling toward the doors. Done with you before the doors have even finished closing.<br><br> One second. Filed. Gone.<br><br> $eHeC doesn't look at you again after that first second. Doesn't need to. Has already decided in the time it took to blink that you're not a person worth a second look. Just a piece of lobby furniture that's ended up slightly in the wrong place. Present. Inferior.<br><br> $eHeC faces forward and presses the button to the lobby. Weight slightly ahead. Trying to create as much distance between you and $eHim as possible. //Arrogant bastard.//<br><br> The doors shut.<br><br> [[Continue|CH2P9_E6]]

The elevator moves.<br><br> Two floors. Three. The lobby counter ticking down.<br><br> You don't look at the counter. You look at the back of $eName Han's head. The hair. The gold threading. The way $eHe faces forward and occupies the elevator like it belongs to $eHim.<br><br> It does belong to $eHim. That's the thing. You are about to remind $eHim that some things that belong to you can still be used against you.<br><br> The warmth hits at close range differently than through glass. Not heat exactly. Closer to standing near an oven with the door just opened. A wall of it pressing against the side of your face nearest $eHim. Cigarette smoke underneath something sharper. Cedar and something almost peppery. Expensive enough that it doesn't smell like anything you could name off a shelf.<br><br> The moment the elevator arrives at the lobby, you lose every advantage the confined space gives you. You need to make $eName Han interested enough in what you know to hear you out. And you need to not get burned alive doing it. Pitching that someone wants to murder $eName directly to the Draegon CFO at close range was not on your 2044 bingo card.<br><br> It still pisses you off. You've been writing about $eName Han for months. Reading every filing. Cross-referencing every board minute. Building a case brick by brick out of documents $eHe never had to hand over voluntarily. And none of it made you real to $eHim. You could publish $eHis name in every paper in Sordia and $eHe'd still walk past you on the street without registering you as a person.<br><br> Because that's what the gold in $eHis skin buys: the right to never have to notice who's noticing you. You've spent your whole career working twice as hard to get half as far. Chasing sources who won't call back. Footnoting every claim six ways because nobody extends you the benefit of the doubt $eHis family's name and bloodline buys automatically. Every single time. Without $eHim lifting a finger for it. $eName Han has never once had to prove $eHe belonged in a room. You've had to prove it in every room you've ever walked into. <br><br> You hit the //stop// button.<br><br> The elevator halts between floors with a small lurch.<br><br> $eName looks at the panel. Looks at you. One eyebrow lifts. The exact look of double-checking that the maintenance worker behind $eHim actually just did what $eHe thinks you did. $eName hits //resume//. Like correcting a mildly embarrassing mistake that isn't $eHis to be embarrassed about.<br><br> You hit //stop// again.<br><br> $eHeC hits //resume// harder this time. A flat little jab of one finger. The universal gesture for 'I am done with this'.<br><br> You are going to ignore the message. You hit //stop//. Again.<br><br> $eName's jaw sets. $eHeC hits the button a third time and leaves $eHis hand flat against the panel afterward, like $eHe's daring you to disobey $eHim directly.<br><br> $eName turns fully toward you. Golden eyes narrowed to slits. Pupils gone thin and vertical. The gold in them gone a shade brighter. Like something behind them just turned the temperature up.<br><br> "If you press that button one more time," $eName growls. "Who do you think you are. Do you have any concept of who you are standing in front of right now."<br><br> You go for it anyway.<br><br> $eHisC hand closes around your wrist before you get there. Fast. Hot enough to feel through your sleeve. The momentum of the grab yanks you half a step forward. Close enough that your shoulder knocks into $eHis chest.<br><br> $eHeC flinches a little like you've burned $eHim. Not the other way around. Disgust flashing plain across $eHis face at the sudden, unwanted contact.<br><br> You use the half-second $eHe spends recoiling. Your free hand finds the button and presses it again. Hard. And stays there.<br><br> $eName goes immediately for that hand too. Reaching across your body for it. You twist your shoulder out from under the grab before $eHis fingers close on anything. The two of you jostling for the same six inches of space in front of the panel. $eHisC grip still locked around your other wrist. Both of you refusing to be the one who steps back first. $eHeC crowds in to get better leverage on the button. You plant your feet and don't give $eHim the room. Somewhere in the scramble you're the one left standing directly in front of the panel and $eName stands where you were before.<br><br> "Remove your hand." $eHeC reaches for your free wrist again. Then $eHis eyes look to where $eHe's actually still holding you. Close enough now to smell the scent's on your collar. Something in $eHis face closes off entirely. $eHeC lets go limmediately. Shaking $eHis hands in disgust. Visibly recalculating what it would mean to actually attack the maintenance worker $eHe still, technically, thinks you are. $eName probably never had to repeat $eHimself before as well. Experiencing, with considerable displeasure, what it feels like to be about to.<br><br> You of course don't remove your hand.<br><br> The heat in the elevator spikes. Sudden. Enough that the back of your neck goes damp under your collar. Will $eHe burn you to a crisp now and be done with it?<br><br> $eName steps back instead. Crosses $eHis arms. Like putting distance between $eHis own temper and your stubborn hand is the only remaining no-kill strategy $eHe has left.<br><br> $eHisC eyes move across you properly now. The caddy. The overalls. The cap pulled low.<br><br> $eName's eyes narrow. Gaze dropping once to your hand still flat on the button before coming back to your face. "Start talking." $eHisC voice has dropped low. Edged with the heat you felt spike through the elevator a minute ago. "Unless you'd rather I char you where you're standing and let building maintenance figure out the paperwork." $eName seems too realize something, then groans. "I swear, if you're here to beg me for a raise, you can forget it."<br><br> "Okay okay, I got it," you raise your arms up in surrender. You reach up and take the cap off.<br><br> $eName's eyes focus. At close range the irises don't catch light the way human eyes do. They hold it. The pupils contract to points as they focus on you. Assessing. One second. Two. Predatory isn't quite right. Apex is closer. <br><br> Then $eHis eyes widen slightly in recognition. $eHisC slits thinning further.<br><br> You built a case against this person without ever being in the same room. You know the names of $eHis sources. $eHisC researchers. $eHisC lawyers. But you forgot that $eName knows names too. $eHeC never saw you in person before. Only in photos or recordings.<br><br> $eName Han is looking at you for the first time. $eHisC expression changes instantly.<br><br> "You." A displeasing growl escapes $eHis lips.<br><br> <<if $background is "tabloid">> "The Leech." $eName's lip curls. Not a smile.<br><br> "Of all the—" $eHeC stops. The golden eyes move across you. Up. Down. Back up. With the disgust of someone who has stepped in dog-shit on a very expensive pair of shoes. "You published photos of my cousin in a Fae brothel. You wrote about my project. And now you are standing here." $eHisC gaze drops to the uniform for one moment and stays there. Returns to your face. Wrinkles $eHis nose. "In that."<br><br> "Tabloid journalists." The contempt in it now has heat. "You are the rot inside the walls of this city. You crawl through other people's lives with your little cameras and your sources like little rats." Something in $eHis expression sharpens. "We ended your career once. I was going to do it again, properly, after the Ascension piece. And instead here you are. In my elevator. I it my lucky day or are you just plain stupid?" $eHeC looks you over once more. Head to foot. Unimpressed. "I thought you'd be more impressive in person. But looking at you now all I see is a mutt."<br><br> "Tell me what you want before I strangle you to death." You can literally see the smoke rise from $eHis body. <br><br> <<else>> $eName's lip curls, just slightly, like the word itself tastes bad in $eHis mouth. "The journalist."<br><br> "Twelve emails." $eHeC counts it off like $eHe's reading it back to you from a file $eHe never opened. "I ignored every single one, because people like you don't warrant a reply, let alone my attention." $eHeC scoffs, short and sharp through $eHis nose. You swear you can see faint smoke coming from $eHis nostrils. "And yet here you are anyway. In my elevator."<br><br> $eHisC gaze holds yours. Unblinking. Gold catching the overhead light in a way that makes it hard to look away first.<br><br> $eHisC jaw tightens once. The gold in $eHis eyes seems to burn. "Say what you came to say." $eHeC leans in a slight fraction. Close enough that you feel the heat wave coming off $eHim before $eHe finishes the sentence. "Then get out before I strangle you to death, you little mutt."<br><br> <</if>> The elevator is a very small space for two people who each have their own long, detailed list of reasons to dislike the other.<br><br> <<link '⌕ ♡ "Wow you definitely have a way with words. I\'ve spent four months building a case against you without ever being in the same room." You lean back against the elevator wall, smiling boldly. "Being hated by you in person is considerably more interesting than I expected."'>> <<run setup.setTrait('bold', ($bold || 50) + 1)>> <<set $e_romance += 1>> <<set $estat += 1>> <<set $eFirstMeetingChoice to "bold">> <<goto "CH2P9_E7">> <</link>><br><br> <<link '⌕ ♡ "I had a response planned for all of that." You press your lips together, glancing down at your shoes. "It was better in my head. Let me start over."'>> <<run setup.setTrait('shy', ($shy || 50) + 1)>> <<set $e_romance += 1>> <<set $estat -= 1>> <<set $eFirstMeetingChoice to "shy">> <<goto "CH2P9_E7">> <</link>><br><br> <<link '⌕ ♡ "For the record, the uniform was a choice." You do finger guns. "A bad one. But a choice."'>> <<run setup.setTrait('awkward', ($awkward || 50) + 1)>> <<set $e_romance -= 1>> <<set $estat -= 1>> <<set $eFirstMeetingChoice to "awkward">> <<goto "CH2P9_E7">> <</link>><br><br> <<link '⌕ ♡ The caddy handle slides out of your grip and hits the elevator wall. Loud. A bottle falls out. You try to grab it. Look at $eHim. "I\'m going to need you to pretend that didn\'t happen." You wince, still crouched over the spilled bottle. "I will do the same for everything you just said."'>> <<run setup.setTrait('clumsy', ($clumsy || 50) + 1)>> <<set $e_romance += 1>> <<set $estat += 1>> <<set $eFirstMeetingChoice to "clumsy">> <<goto "CH2P9_E7">> <</link>><br><br> <<link '⌕ ♡ It\'s too hot to think straight. You start peeling the overalls down off one shoulder, fingers already working the zipper. "Sorry — I need about four fewer layers or I\'m going to pass out."'>> <<run setup.setTrait('oblivious', ($oblivious || 50) + 1)>> <<set $e_romance += 2>> <<set $estat -= 1>> <<set $eFirstMeetingChoice to "oblivious">> <<goto "CH2P9_E7">> <</link>><br><br> <<link '⌕ "Got it all out of your system? Good." You hold $eHis gaze. "Then it\'s my turn."'>> <<run setup.setTrait('calculated', ($calculated || 50) + 1)>> <<set $estat += 1>> <<set $eFirstMeetingChoice to "calculated">> <<goto "CH2P9_E7">> <</link>><br><br> <<link '⌕ You take one step toward $eHim. Just one. "You know what you are?" Your voice drops. "You\'re someone who left three people disabled, wrote them cheques to stay quiet, and called it a research programme. That\'s what you are. In case you forgot."'>> <<run setup.setTrait('calculated', ($calculated || 50) - 1)>> <<set $estat -= 1>> <<set $eFirstMeetingChoice to "reckless">> <<goto "CH2P9_E7">> <</link>><br><br>

<div class="ch1-header"> <h1 class="bloodlines-title">$eName POV</h1> </div> The limousine door closes with a soft, engineered click, and Kenji's already pulling out before $eName's fully settled into the seat. Eyes forward. The privacy partition slides up without being asked. Kenji's driven $eName long enough to know exactly when silence is the only acceptable service.<br><br> $eName lights a cigarette. Exhales against the tinted glass, Watching the smoke flatten and spread across it before the cabin's filtration pulls it away. Sordia slides past outside in long smears of neon. Blurred at this speed into something almost pretty, which is more than the city deserves on its own merits.<br><br> $eHeC thinks about Maud.<br><br> Specifically: Maud being dead. Relief. Clean. Uncomplicated. Lucky. The woman had been a problem. Unpredictable. Tangled up with Luz in ways $eHe'd never fully mapped. Immune to most of the usual leverage, and crazy. $eHeC still remembers the afternoon she stood in $eHis office and made her threat. $eName had believed her. That alone was an irritation worth noting; $eHe does not, as a rule, believe threats. Maud had been unhinged that day. Sharp-eyed and half feral. She'd drawn blood before it was over. Unpleasant. $eHeC still catches the ghost of it sometimes. A phantom ache where her teeth found skin.<br><br> //Good riddance//, $eHe thinks. Good that she's gone. One threat fewer in a city that generates them faster than $eHe can retire them.<br><br> $eHisC mind moves to the Leech next. With the same cold, sorting attention $eHe gives anything that needs asessing inconveniences correctly before $eHe can stop thinking about it. A Leech. A human. No bloodline advantage. No corporate standing. Nothing that should function as leverage against $eHim. And yet $mcHe managed to break into Han Tower. Reached the executive floor. Gotten into $eHis own elevator, and talked back to $eHim. The entire way down. Like the fact of $eHis existence didn't automatically outrank $mcHis.<br><br> Bloodborns are superior. Power. Longevity. Capability. The gap between what a Draegon survives and what a human survives measured in decades most humans don't get to see. The gap between $eHim and a Leech stringer isn't a contest.<br><br> And yet.<br><br> The cigarette's down to almost nothing. $eHeC wants another. $eHisC hand goes to $eHis pocket for the case, and finds something else first. Small. Hard-edged. Unfamiliar under $eHis fingers.<br><br> $eHeC pulls it out. A USB drive.<br><br> $eHeC doesn't remember putting it there. Turns it over once between two fingers. Frowning slightly at it like it might explain itself if $eHe looks hard enough. Lights the next cigarette off the end of the first before stubbing that one out. Then slides the drive into the reader built into the car's console.<br><br> The files open.<br><br> Another folder. A full timeline. Sources, their names blacked out cross-referenced against each other in ways the journalist hadn't published anywhere yet. A name — not blacked out — $eHe recognizes. From inside $eHis own company. Evidence. Lots of it. And as a headline: //Ready For The Ascension Project 2.0?//<br><br> It isn't exaggerated.<br><br> $eHeC reads. Smokes. Reads further.<br><br> "Fuck."<br><br> Kenji says nothing from the front seat. Eyes still on the road behind the partition's smoked glass. He's heard that word out of $eName before. Exactly twice in eleven years. Both times it meant $eHe was about to murder someone. It is a rare word. It means the evening is not, in fact, over yet.<br><br> $eName has read through all the files. The last line sits alone, set apart from the rest, bolded:<br><br> <em>Work with me and I'll give you the rest of the names of my sources or don't and this goes public. Call me tomorrow.</em> Underneath is $mcHis number. In that moment $eName hates $eHis photographic memory.<br><br> $eHeC continues to stare at the screen.<br><br> The second cigarette burns down to the filter between $eHis fingers without $eHim noticing. Ash curling off the end unattended until it drops onto the seat and $eHe still doesn't look away from the display.<br><br> "How," $eHe hisses, each word given its own separate weight, "dare $mcHe."<br><br> $eHeC closes the document. Opens it again. Reads the last line a second time, like rereading it might change what it says.<br><br> It doesn't. It sits there exactly as arrogant as the first time.<br><br> It reminds $eHim. Distantly. Unpleasantly. Of the first morning the Ascension leak broke. That same drop in the stomach. The same recalculation of who, exactly, had access to something $eHe'd believed was sealed. $eHeC hates the comparison the second it forms and can't unmake it.<br><br> The fury that follows is cold. Total. Visible on $eHis face. Which makes it considerably worse than if $eHe'd managed to keep it off. $eHeC has spent decades training $eHis expression into something that gives nothing away under pressure. Right now $eHe isn't managing it at all.<br><br> $eHeC closes the files. Sits back against the leather. Lights a third cigarette without once looking away from the window.<br><br> <<if $eFirstMeetingChoice is "bold">>$eHeC's replayed that grin more times in the last twenty minutes than $eHe's willing to admit to anyone. Including $eHimself. $eHeC's surrounded, daily, by people who flatter $eHim out of fear or flatter $eHim out of ambition. $eName has grown so used to sorting every interaction into one of those two drawers that $eHe genuinely doesn't have a third drawer for whatever that was. Especially because something like interest stirred in $eHim as well. It unsettles $eHim more than the flirting itself ever could have. $eName clearly needs a partner. Soon.<br><br> <<elseif $eFirstMeetingChoice is "shy">> It irritates $eHim, generally, when people can't say what they want. $eHeC fires assistants for exactly that. For stuttering. Stammering. For forgetting about the meetings. For burying a simple request under four sentences of hedging because they're too afraid of $eHim to just ask. <br><br> $mcHisC stumble was different. $eName is still turning that over. $eHeC made $mcHim do that. Made $mcHim drop the red thread. Right there. On the spot. In front of $eHim. <br><br> There's a small, ugly satisfaction sitting in $eHis chest about that fact that $eHe doesn't particularly want to examine further tonight. $eHeC's used to people going quiet around $eHim. $eHeC's not used to noticing that it happened. Or caring that it did.<br><br> <<elseif $eFirstMeetingChoice is "awkward">>$eHeC'd looked $mcHim over properly in that elevator. Longer than the moment required, before $eHe'd caught $eHimself doing it. <br><br> The caddy. The overalls. And somewhere in the middle of the assessment, without $eHis permission, an actual once-over. Down and back up. For one second. One $eHe's not proud of. $eHeC'd thought something along the lines of: were $mcHe not human, were $mcHe not the specific brand of parasite $eName spent months hating on principle, $eHe might have looked twice for an entirely different reason. $eName had shut the thought down before it finished forming. $eHeC's still annoyed it formed at all.<br><br> <<elseif $eFirstMeetingChoice is "clumsy">> $eHeC keeps replaying the caddy. The way it slid clean out of $mcHis grip. Handle sliding across $mcHis palm too fast for $mcHim to close $mcHis fingers back around it. One of the bottles had gone with it. Spinning loose across the floor. $eHeC remembers watching $mcHim lunge after it. Off-balance. One arm windmilling for the wall, and just barely trap it against the side of $mcHis own shoe.<br><br> $eHeC keeps circling back to the contradiction in that. This is, apparently, the same human capable of talking $mcHis way onto $eHis executive floor. But $mcHe couldn't hold a caddy handle steady for four seconds once $eName was actually looking at $mcHim. $eHeC finds it genuinely entertaining, more than $eHe expected to.<br><br> <<elseif $eFirstMeetingChoice is "oblivious">> $eHeC keeps snagging on the zipper. The half-second where the humans fingers actually found it. Pulled it down an inch before $eHe got a hand up to stop $mcHim. In that inch, before the panic about the cameras even registered, the collar had slipped enough to bare the line of the Leeches throat.<br><br> $eName's teeth had ached. An actual, physical want. Sudden and unwelcome. Gone immediately. Surpressed. The hunger $eHis kind carries closer to the surface than most Draegon families like to admit in polite company. The kind $eHe'd assumed would only awaken with other Draegons..<br><br> The shame arrives half a second behind the want. And it's worse for how long it lingers. $eName is disgusted with $eHimself. Replaying it. Not for the instinct existing. But for the fact that it had aimed itself at $mcHim. A human. The Leech.<br><br> <<elseif $eFirstMeetingChoice is "calculated">> $eHeC's still faintly appalled, replaying it. People do not speak to $eHim like that. Board members choose their words around $eHim the way you'd choose your footing on ice. And this human walked in and called $eHim out. Try to hold $eHim accountable. How pathetic. $eHeC'd wanted, in the moment, to shut $mcHim up. Annoying rat.<br><br> <<elseif $eFirstMeetingChoice is "reckless">> $eHeC feels, replaying $mcHis own line about casualties, precisely nothing. That's not a failure of feeling. It's the correct amount. The world $eHe operates in is corrupt from the foundation up. Has been for longer than $eHis family's held any part of it. The only people who ever climb high enough to matter are the ones who stopped pretending otherwise a long time before $eHe did. Is $eHe a monster. Yes. Has $eHe ever once claimed to be anything else. No. $eHeC finds the whole exchange, on reflection, a waste of thirty seconds $eHe could have spent on something that mattered.<br><br> <</if>> It's safe to say that this lowlife is irritating. Banned from the building. Again. And, $eName concedes, with the bitterness reserved for conclusions $eHe'd rather not reach, apparently correct about at least one thing tonight.<br><br> The USB is still in $eHis other hand. $eHeC closes $eHis fist around it. Slow. The casing gives with barely any resistance at all. Plastic cracking. The drive folding into something small and useless between $eHis fingers. $eHeC lets the pieces fall to the floor of the car.<br><br> Sordia keeps moving past the window. Neon smearing by at exactly the same speed as before. Indifferent to the fact that $eHis entire evening has just been ruined by a human.<br><br> $eName thinks back to the quote she left hanging in the air on her way out. //Pride is spiritual cancer.// It's stupid. Some academic who spent his entire short human life writing children's stories about talking lions and then, somewhere in his fifties, decided that qualified him to lecture the rest of his species on morality before dying. Like all of them do. Well before he'd finished having a single original thought. A man who never once burned hot enough to actually understand what he was condemning.<br><br> Oh, $eName will show $mcHim what a mistake this was to challenge $eHim. Properly, this time.<br><br> Just wait for it.<br><br> [[Continue|CH2P10_Luz]]

Club Rouge sits three blocks ahead. You're stopped at the edge of a streetlight, one foot still in the shadow between two buildings. Watching.<br><br> Red neon spells out the name in cursive that's meant to look handwritten. Bleeding faint pink onto the wet pavement below it. A line's already formed at the door. Coats. Bare shoulders. A bouncer built like a doorframe deciding who gets past the velvet rope and who doesn't. Music thumps through the brick in a steady pulse you feel vibrating through our whole body from here.<br><br> You've never gotten into Club Rouge through that door. Not once. Not for any story. Not with any press badge you've ever flashed. The bouncer's eyes have slid past you before like you were part of the sidewalk.<br><br> But tonight's different. Tonight you'll enter. One way or another.<br><br> Neo's gone. You confirmed it before you decided to try your chances. Luz's right hand. Maud's mentor. An Umbra. Part of the seven. Gone. Somewhere north. Settling some dispute that Luz apparently didn't trust anyone else to handle.<br><br> And Luz is inside. You confirmed that too. A source who tends the bar Wednesdays through Sundays. Paid enough to text you the second Luz walks in and again the second Luz leaves. Luz walked in forty minutes ago. Luz hasn't left.<br><br> You thought of two ways through that door.<br><br> Either you try to go in quiet. In somebody's uniform. The same trick that got you forty-six floors up in Han Tower a few hours ago.<br><br> Or you go down the absolute crazy path. The one that could cost you everything. The one you saved for grave emergencies. You walk straight up to that rope and make sure the whole line hears and sees exactly what you're carrying. A bomb.<br><br> Both ideas are bad. You've rarely had worse ones but lived through them, which isn't the comfort it should be.<br><br> The line shuffles forward half a step. Somewhere past that door, under all that bass, Luz already knows you're on your way. Luz always knows.<br><br> You just have to pick how you're getting to $luzHim.<br><br> <<link "⌕ Undercover. Find a way past the bouncer undercover.">> <<set $luzApproach to "undercoverleech">> <<goto "CH2P10_UndercoverLeech">> <</link>><br><br> <<link "⌕ Loud. Gloves are off. It's time to risk it all. Use the bomb.">> <<set $luzApproach to "crazyleech">> <<set $corrupt += 1>> <<goto "CH2P10_CrazyLeech">> <</link>><br><br>

You cut down the side alley next to the club, the one that dead-ends at a fire door and a row of dumpsters, because side alleys are where the actual information lives. Front doors just have rules pinned to them.<br><br> You hear her before you see her.<br><br> A woman. Early twenties maybe. Leaning against the brick with one arm wrapped around herself and a phone pressed hard to her ear. Pacing a tight three-step line back and forth like the alley's too small to hold whatever she's feeling.<br><br> "No — mom, I know. I know." A pause, her free hand dragging back through her hair. "It's my first night, okay, I can't just — no, you don't get it, the Madame Mary basically pimps us out to whoever Luz decides needs entertaining, that's the whole arrangement, that's how the deal works." Her voice cracks up half an octave. Thin and close to tears. "If I don't impress tonight, if I mess up even one number, the Madame doesn't get to send anyone else here again, and she's going to — I don't even want to think about what she's going to do to me if that happens." A shaky breath. "I hate this. I hate this so much. I didn't sign up to be somebody's audition."<br><br> You stay very still against the wall. You continue listening. You even catch her name 'Laney'. You know how you're getting in now.<br><br> <<link "⌕ Persuasion. Talk to her directly. Offer her the exit she clearly wants.">> <<set $luzEntryMethod to "persuasion">> <<set $persuasion += 3>> <<goto "CH2P10_UndercoverLeech2">> <</link>><br><br> <<link "⌕ Storytelling. Give her a reason to trust you that isn't the truth.">> <<set $luzEntryMethod to "storytelling">> <<set $storytelling += 3>> <<goto "CH2P10_UndercoverLeech2">> <</link>><br><br> <<link "⌕ Networking. You know someone who knows the Madame Mary. Use it.">> <<set $luzEntryMethod to "networking">> <<set $networking += 3>> <<goto "CH2P10_UndercoverLeech2">> <</link>><br><br> <<link "⌕ Observation. Wait. Watch. Let her make the decision for you.">> <<set $luzEntryMethod to "observation">> <<set $observation += 3>> <<goto "CH2P10_UndercoverLeech2">> <</link>><br><br> <<link "⌕ Physical. She's alone in an alley. You don't need her conscious for this to work.">> <<set $luzEntryMethod to "physical">> <<set $physical += 3>> <<goto "CH2P10_UndercoverLeech2">> <</link>><br><br>

<<set $luzobsession to true>> <<set $luzflirt = +1>> This is crazy. You know it's crazy. You didn't walk three blocks and stand under a streetlight for ten minutes weighing quiet against loud just to talk yourself out of the loud option now.<br><br> You're tired in a way that's stopped feeling like tired and started feeling like something else. A low, constant hum underneath your own skin. Sixteen-plus hours deep into a day that's already tested your limits so many times today and hasn't once let you sit down long enough to actually process any of it. You're probably starting to become delusional. The street's got a faint tilt to it that has nothing to do with the pavement. The only emotion you have left is anger. Pure hatred. <br><br> You hate Luz. Luz put a knife in Maud's hand the first time and called it opportunity. Luz handed a broken, young woman her first job and every job after it. Until the girl who used to love listening to your goodnight stories turned into someone who took contracts and didn't ask questions about what happened after. Luz made her a killer. You don't know how many people Maud had killed because of choices Luz engineered for her. You know it's more than zero. You know Luz slept fine every single night regardless.<br><br> You're going in. The only question left is how hard the door's going to fight you on it.<br><br> You need something reckless enough to catch a bouncer off guard before he can so much as reach for a radio. And you already know exactly what that is.<br><br> Your bag's weight settles different against your hip when you shift it forward. Heavier than it should be for its size. The way dense things always are. You've carried it for two years without ever once pulling it out for anything other than moving it from one hiding place to another. You only ever meant to use it if things got bad enough that dying seemed like the more likely outcome of not using it. Sixteen hours ago you'd have said tonight didn't qualify. Sixteen hours ago you hadn't watched your mother bash her own skull against reinforced glass. Hadn't broken in through a window. Hadn't been chased through a forty-seven-story building by men paid to catch you. Tonight qualifies now.<br><br> You picked it up off a contact. A demolitions man who'd survived the Bloodwars by being better at building things that ended arguments than anyone else on either side of them. He'd called it, without a trace of irony, 'Da Bomb.' The kind of stupid, blunt nickname that only makes sense once you've seen what the thing actually does. It's small enough to fit in your palm. Dense enough that you've never once forgotten it's in the bag with you. It doesn't need a wire or a timer switch or anything a bomb squad would recognize on sight. It needs your hand. Your actual print. Read off the casing the second you press your thumb flat against it.<br><br> You'd read the specs once. Years ago. In a briefing you weren't technically cleared to see. A single unit like this leveled four blocks of the old financial district during the worst week of the Bloodwars. The week people still bring up in low voices when the anniversary comes around. The week that gave half the surviving veterans the PTSD they still carry whenever something backfires too close or a car door slams too loud. You've interviewed three of them for stories over the years. None of them will say the actual name of the operation out loud. They just go quiet and change the subject. You've learned not to push past that silence.<br><br> Once you activate it with your own print, it stays live for five minutes. Nobody else's hand stops the clock once it's running. Not a bomb squad. Not a Draegon. Not Luz $luzHimself standing right next to it. Only yours. Which means the second you press your thumb down, you've built yourself a hard, unbreakable deadline. And you're the only person on earth who can defuse it before that deadline arrives.<br><br> You breathe in. Hold it. Let it out slow through your nose. You press your thumb flat against the casing.<br><br> A soft click. A single red light blinks awake along the seam. Steady. Patient. Counting down from a number you don't look at because looking at it won't make it move any slower.<br><br> You push through the crowd toward the front of the line. Shoulder-first. Ignoring the protests that start and die fast the second people actually look at your raised hand. The bouncer clocks you coming and steps forward automatically, already reaching to block you the way his whole job trains him to.<br><br> You hold the device up between you. Red light blinking steady against your palm.<br><br> "You know what this is?" Your voice comes out fast. Too loud. Edged with something that isn't quite steady anymore. You let it stay that way because a person who sounds completely calm holding a bomb doesn't read as dangerous. A person who sounds like they've got nothing left to lose does. "Because I really, genuinely do not care right now whether you believe me or not. I have had the single worst day of my entire life, and you are currently standing between me and the only thing that's going to make any of it make sense."<br><br> He goes white. Actually white. The color draining out of his face fast enough that you watch it happen in real time. His whole body going rigid. His eyes drop to the light. Come back up to your face. Drop again.<br><br> "That's not—" His voice comes out thin, nothing like the low, bored authority he's used through the whole night. "That's not a real—"<br><br> You take one more step into his space. Close enough now that he flinches. "Test me and find out." Flat. Fast. Final. "Or clear the area and let me through. I need Luz. Now. Do you really want to die for someone who doesn't give a shit about you?"<br><br> He doesn't test it.<br><br> He backs up two full steps. Hands coming up in front of him. Then he's shouting. Not at you. Past you. To the line still queued up behind the velvet rope, voice cracking with panic that spreads faster than any words could. "Move! Everybody move, now, get back—"<br><br> The line doesn't need telling twice. People catch sight of what you're holding and the recognition hits like a wave rolling backward through the crowd. Person to person. Faster than you'd have thought possible. A woman near the front actually screams. Then everyone's moving at once. Shoes scraping pavement. Someone's heel snapping clean off in the scramble. A man dragging his date bodily away from the rope by one wrist. Bags dropped. A drink glass shattering somewhere off to your left. Ignored entirely in the rush. Within ten seconds the space in front of the club has cleared into a rough, panicked circle with you standing dead center of it. The bouncer flat against the wall with both palms raised like that's going to do anything at all if this goes the way he clearly thinks it might.<br><br> You don't wait for the crowd to finish scattering. You walk straight through the open door. Past the velvet rope nobody's manning anymore. Into the noise and heat and bass of Club Rouge with a live bomb still cradled in one hand and a five-minute clock ticking down against your palm.<br><br> The door swings shut behind you. Muffling the screaming outside down to something distant and unimportant.<br><br> Inside, the club hasn't caught up yet. Music's still going. People at the bar still laughing. Dancers still moving through whatever number was already underway when you walked in. You've got maybe twenty seconds before word travels from the front door to the floor. Before someone's radio crackles and considerably less than five minutes before the thing in your hand stops being a threat and starts being a promise you never actually wanted to keep.<br><br> Your eyes go to work immediately, scanning past the oblivious crowd.<br><br> Front row first, because front row's always where the real danger sits. Men leaning forward over their tables to take a bette rlook at the dancers. Hungry for exactly the kind of looking they've paid a cover charge for. One already has his phone half-raised. Thumb hovering like he's deciding whether tonight's the night he risks the no-photography rule stenciled by the door. No Luz.<br><br> The bar next. Bottles lined up catch the stage lights and throw them back in sharp little flares of amber and green. A bartender's working two shakers at once. Wrists moving in a blur that's more muscle memory than actual concentration. Ice rattling loud enough to carry even over the crowd. No Luz.<br><br> The far wall, where a cigarette girl in a costume matching yours weaves between tables with a tray strapped to her front. Hips swaying in a rhythm that's clearly more habit than performance at this point in her shift. No. The raised platform near the DJ booth- Two women in matching silver draped over the railing watching the room instead of the stage. No. A door at the back corner catches your eye next. Unmarked. Maybe. You file it and keep scanning.<br><br> Then something pristine white catches at the edge of your vision. Off to the left. Past where the stage lights actually reach. In a booth sunk so deep into its own pocket of shadow you'd have missed it entirely if the lights hadn't illuminated it for a few seconds.<br><br> Luz.<br><br> <<if $luzGender is "male">> He sits low in the booth's cushions. One arm draped loose along the seat back. A tailored jacket cut close enough through the shoulders to show off the build underneath it. Lean. Coiled. The wolf cut is unmistakable even in the dim light. Choppy layers on top left deliberately messy. The sides cropped short. The white half of it falling loose over one brow while the black half is tucked behind his ear. Warm-toned rings catch what little light reaches the booth. One on nearly every finger. The collar of his shirt sits open enough to show a flicker of a tattoo starting at the collarbone climbing up his neck.<br><br> <<else>> She sits low in the booth's cushions. One arm draped along the seat back. A dress cut to skim close through the bodice before flaring loose at the hip. Deep red shot through with a thread that catches gold whenever she shifts. Her hair stops right at the jaw. Chin-length and wavy. The white half framing one side of her face and the black half tucked behind her ear on the other. Warm-toned rings catch what little light reaches the booth. Stacked two and three to a finger. And a thin gold chain traces down her throat toward a pendant shaped like something that might be a flame or might be a knife, depending on the angle. You can see a flicker of a tattoo starting at the collarbone climbing up her neck.<br><br> <</if>> Five other people crowd the same booth. Drinks in hand. Laughing at something you can't hear from here. Two of them are watching the stage. Luz isn't. Luz's attention is entirely on the man and woman flanking them. Head tipped toward whichever one just said something. Pink-tinted lenses catching a stray flicker of stage light and throwing it back gold.<br><br> You've got a countdown running and a building full of people who are comfortable. Untouchable. Certain nothing in this city could possibly reach far enough to actually threaten them.<br><br> You're about to prove otherwise.<br><br> [[Continue|CH2P10_CrazyLeech2]]

<<if $luzEntryMethod is "persuasion">> You step out of the shadows. Hands visible. Unhurried. Laney flinches so hard she nearly drops the phone.<br><br> "I'm not going to hurt you." You keep your voice low. Even. "I heard enough of that to know you don't want to be here tonight."<br><br> "Who—" She backs up half a step. Phone still clutched to her chest. "Are you with the Madame? Is this a test? Because I swear I was about to go back in, I just needed a minute—"<br><br> "I'm not with her." You continue to hold both hands up. Palms out. "I don't care what you tell them. I care that you look like you'd rather be anywhere else on earth right now."<br><br> That's what breaks her. Not the offer. Not yet. Just being seen. She presses the heel of her hand against one eye. "I can't just leave. She'll blacklist me from every venue that owes her a favor. That's most of them."<br><br> "Or you take the bus fare I'm about to hand you and you're three states away by morning." You dig into your jacket. Count out enough for a ticket and then some. "Your call. But nobody's making you walk back through that door."<br><br> She stares at the cash like it might be a trick. Takes it anyway. "Tell them I quit." She's already running. Already crying again. "Tell them whatever gets me out of here."<br><br> <<elseif $luzEntryMethod is "storytelling">> "Laney, right?" You say it like you already know her. Like this is routine. "I'm from the Madame's office. Quality control."<br><br> Her whole face goes white. "I — I haven't even gone on yet, I don't understand, was it something I—"<br><br> "It's not about your dancing." You keep your voice bored. Clipboard-official. The tone of someone who's delivered this exact line forty times. "We flag girls sometimes. First-night nerves, mostly. Better to pull you now than have you freeze up in front of Luz's people and make the whole house look bad."<br><br> "So I'm — I'm fired? Already?"<br><br> "You're sent home. And fired. Don't ever come back to us again. We won't be so nice the next time we see you." Your voice turns sharp. Watching it land exactly the way you needed it to. Merciless. "Go. Before someone else comes looking for you."<br><br> She doesn't need telling twice. She's gone before you've even finished the sentence. Costume tag left swinging on its hook by the fire door. Too rattled to think twice about how convenient the timing is.<br><br> <<elseif $luzEntryMethod is "networking">> You've got Sasha's number pulled up before Laney's even off the phone with her mother. Four rings. A groggy "this better be good," and thirty seconds of explaining gets you exactly what you need.<br><br> You cross the alley. "Laney?"<br><br> She jumps. Phone falling from her ear. "Who told you my name—"<br><br> "Sasha did." You watch her whole posture change at the name. Recognition. Relief. You know Madame Mary. Sasha was another dancer who you helped escape her clutches once. She owes you. "She said you'd want out before call time. Told me to tell you there's a car two streets over, no questions, no charge. You can come live with her for a while."<br><br> "Sasha's — she actually—" Laney's already grabbing her bag. "Oh my god. Okay. Okay." She peels the costume tag off her strap and shoves it at you without you even having to ask. "Tell her I owe her. Tell her I owe her everything."<br><br> She's gone in under a minute. Practically running for the mouth of the alley.<br><br> <<elseif $luzEntryMethod is "observation">> You don't approach yet. You just watch.<br><br> The bag propped against the wall by her feet isn't what you'd expect from someone in this line of work. No makeup case. No spare heels. Just a canvas tote with a corner of something rigid poking out the top. You edge close enough to read the spine without her noticing: a law textbook. The kind with a cracked cover and a hundred yellow tabs bristling out the side. Thick and expensive and clearly read more than once.<br><br> Not a habit. Not someone running from a debt or a dealer. Someone putting herself through school the hard way and hating every second of the compromise it's costing her.<br><br> You step out of the shadow. "You're studying law."<br><br> Laney spins. Phone dropping to her side. "How do you — who are you?"<br><br> "Nobody who matters." You nod at the tote. "That's a bar exam prep book, not a cheap knockoff. You're not doing this because you want to. You're doing this because someone convinced you it's the fastest way to pay for the thing you actually want."<br><br> Her jaw works. She doesn't deny it.<br><br> "It's not worth it." You keep your voice plain. No pressure in it. "Whatever the Madame's offering, the connections, the recommendation, whatever — it is not worth one more night of this if you've already got a real way out sitting in that bag. Go home. Study. Skip this line of work."<br><br> Laney looks at the bag. At the door behind her. At you.<br><br> "You don't even know me," she says. Quiet.<br><br> "No. But I know what it looks like when someone's about to talk themselves into something they'll regret for the credential." You shrug. "Your call."<br><br> She's quiet a long moment. Then she picks up the bag and unclips the costume tag from her belt loop. Holding it out to you like she's not entirely sure why she's doing it. Only that she wants it out of her hands. "I don't even know your name."<br><br> "You don't need to." You take it. "Go pass the bar."<br><br> <<else>> You're behind her before she's finished the sentence.<br><br> One hand over her mouth. One arm locking around her shoulders. You take her down to the ground slow enough that her head doesn't hit anything harder than your own forearm on the way. She goes still fast. You know the pressure points. You've had to learn them the hard way more than once. You drag her behind the dumpster. Prop her against the wall in a position that'll read as passed out drunk if anyone finds her before she wakes up. You take the costume tag off her bag. The ID badge clipped inside it. And leave her phone tucked into her jacket where she'll find it when she comes to.<br><br> <</if>> You slip through the fire door into a narrow concrete hallway that smells like hairspray. Cigarette smoke. And something sweetly synthetic underneath both. Cheap perfume applied in bulk to cover the first two.<br><br> A man in half a sequined costume, feathers still pinned flat against his chest, catches sight of you and frowns. "You're not—" He stops. Squints. "Wait, are you new? Where's Laney?"<br><br> "Laney bailed." You say it flat. Tired. Like you've had this exact conversation eleven times tonight already. "Panic attack. The Madame Mary sent me as backup."<br><br> He doesn't question it for even a second, which tells you everything about how often this exact scenario plays out backstage at Club Rouge. "Oh, thank god, we're already down two from last week." He waves you deeper into the hallway, already moving. "Costumes are in the back room, wardrobe girl's on break so just grab whatever fits. Hurry, though, call's in like twenty minutes."<br><br> The back room is a cramped closet of a space. Mirrors lining one wall. Three costumes hung out on a rolling rack. Vegas showgirl vibes. All of them. The theme's stamped across a laminated card taped to the mirror in gold cursive, 'RHINESTONE INFERNO'.<br><br> Three options, and you have approximately eleven minutes to dress in one.<br><br> The first is a fitted red bodysuit with a plunging front. Gold piping tracing every seam. Cuffed sleeves that end just past the elbow in a burst of loose crimson fringe. A wide belt studded in rhinestones sits low on the hip. The headdress paired with it is smaller. Sleeker. A single sweep of red and gold feathers rising back off the crown instead of fanning wide. More crown than costume. The trousers are tight enough to be its own hazard.<br><br> The second is unmistakably built for spectacle. A corseted bodice in the same red, boned tight through the ribs. Scattered with hand-sewn crystals that catch the vanity lights and throw them back in every direction. The skirt is barely a skirt at all. A high-cut brief with a cascade of feathered fringe at the hip that'll move like liquid the second you take a step. The headdress for this one is enormous. A full fan of red and gold plumes rising a foot and a half above the head. Anchored by a rhinestone band that's going to leave a mark on your forehead by the end of the night. Heels you already know you're going to regret.<br><br> The third is a fitted jumpsuit. Deep red with a plunging keyhole cut down the sternum. Sleeveless. Gold chain draped loose across the collarbones instead of fringe. The waist is cinched with the same rhinestone belt as the first option. But the leg cut flares wide at the ankle instead of tapering. The headdress pairs a smaller crown of feathers with a half-veil of fine gold chain that drapes down over one side of the face. Striking. This comes with flat, glittering boots instead of heels.<br><br> These are the only options? And you have to choose one? Ugh.<br><br> <<link "⌕ The bodysuit. Fitted. Plunging front. Gold piping. Fringe cuffs. A sleek crown of feathers instead of a full headdress.">> <<set $luzCostume to "bodysuit">> <<goto "CH2P10_UndercoverLeech3">> <</link>><br><br> <<link "⌕ The corset and skirt. Crystal-scattered bodice. Feathered hip fringe. A headdress the size of a small umbrella.">> <<set $luzCostume to "corset">> <<goto "CH2P10_UndercoverLeech3">> <</link>><br><br> <<link "⌕ The jumpsuit. Keyhole cut. Gold chain. Flared leg. A half-veil of chain instead of full feathers.">> <<set $luzCostume to "jumpsuit">> <<goto "CH2P10_UndercoverLeech3">> <</link>><br><br>

<<if $luzCostume is "bodysuit">> You grab the bodysuit off the rack. The cuffed sleeves ending just past the elbow in a burst of loose crimson fringe. The trousers are tight enough to be their own hazard. You wrestle into it in under ninety seconds. Buckle the wide rhinestone belt low on your hip. Settle the crown of feathers against your scalp. Smaller than you expected.<br><br> You look in the mirror and physically flinch. You look, unfortunately, like you know exactly what you're doing. You do not.<br><br> <<elseif $luzCostume is "corset">> You go for the corset option, because apparently tonight you've decided to commit. The corset laces tight through the ribs in a way that's going to make breathing an active decision for the next hour. You're like a living disco ball. Crystals scattered across the bodice catching every vanity bulb and throwing it back doubled. You're like a living disco ball. The skirt is barely a skirt. It moves like liquid the second you shift your weight. The headdress alone takes both hands and a held breath to settle. Already promising you a headache by the end of the number.<br><br> You look in the mirror and physically flinch. You look, unfortunately, like you know exactly what you're doing. You do not.<br><br> <<else>> You grab the jumpsuit. Deep red. The plunging keyhole cut down and very prominent on your sternum. The gold chain is draped loose across your collarbones instead of fringe. The rhinestone belt cinches the waist. The leg flares wide at the ankle. And the headdress pairs a small crown of feathers with a half-veil of fine gold chain that drapes down over one side of your face.<br><br> You look in the mirror and physically flinch. You look, unfortunately, like you know exactly what you're doing. You do not.<br><br> <</if>> One of the worst days of your life. You're fairly confident ranking it.<br><br> You're still working the last hook when the man from the hallway sticks his head back in,. Now fully in his own costume. Looking somehow completely unbothered by any of it.<br><br> "Okay, they changed the routine this week, so forget whatever Laney would've told you." He holds up both hands, demonstrating with his fingers pointed like tiny feet. "Ten counts. Left, left, right, forward, back, left, right, forward, forward, right. Then hold on the final pose till the lights cut." He says all of this at the speed of someone who has said it forty times tonight already and has zero patience left for a slow learner. "Got it?"<br><br> You do not have it. You nod anyway.<br><br> "Left, left, right, forward, back—" you mutter it under your breath, trying to burn it into muscle memory you don't currently possess. Adjusting the headdress with hands that are shaking slightly. Whether from adrenaline or the sheer absurdity of the last twenty minutes you genuinely can't tell anymore.<br><br> Someone claps twice. Sharp. From somewhere out past the hallway. A voice pitched to carry over hairspray fumes and pre-show chatter alike. "Places, everyone! Showtime in five!"<br><br> You look at yourself in the mirror. Red. Gold. Feathers. A headdress you're already regretting and somewhere past that door Luz is somehwere. Past a stage you're apparently about to walk out onto in front of god knows how many people. The one person who actually unnerves you.<br><br> Oh, shit.<br><br> [[Continue|CH2P10_UndercoverLeech4]]

An emcee steps out under a single spotlight at the front of the stage. Mic in hand. A grin already pinned in place before he even opens his mouth. Sequined jacket catching every flash of colored light thrown across him. One hand smoothing down his lapel like he's about to announce a headliner instead of the house cast.<br><br> "Ladies, gentlemen, and everyone in between—" He sweeps the mic out toward the crowd. Drawing the moment out. "Club Rouge is proud to present tonight's Rhinestone Inferno." He drops his voice theatrically low. Letting the pause sit before the payoff. "Please welcome our cast to the stage."<br><br> That's you. You step out from the wings and the heat hits first. Banks of stage lights angled down hot enough that the feathers pinned at your temple feel like they're one degree from singeing. The air itself gone thick and close the way it does directly under that much wattage. Your skin prickles immediately. Sweat starting at your forehead before you've even taken your mark. The floor underfoot is worn smooth in a wide arc from years of exactly this: dancers' boots scuffing the same path night after night until the varnish gave up entirely. Replaced by a dull, scarred sheen. It catches the lights wrong.<br><br> Music hasn't started yet. You've got maybe fifteen seconds of house lights still half-up before it doe. Your eyes go straight to work instead of settling on the choreography like they're supposed to.<br><br> Front row first, because front row's always where the real danger sits. Men leaning forward over their tables. Hungry for exactly the kind of looking they've paid a cover charge for. One already has his phone half-raised. Thumb hovering like he's deciding whether tonight's the night he risks the no-photography rule stenciled by the door. No Luz.<br><br> The bar next. Bottles lined up catch the stage lights and throw them back in sharp little flares of amber and green. A bartender's working two shakers at once. Wrists moving in a blur that's more muscle memory than actual concentration. Ice rattling loud enough to carry even over the crowd. No Luz.<br><br> The far wall, where a cigarette girl in a costume matching yours weaves between tables with a tray strapped to her front. Hips swaying in a rhythm that's clearly more habit than performance at this point in her shift. No. The raised platform near the DJ booth- Two women in matching silver draped over the railing watching the room instead of the stage. No. A door at the back corner catches your eye next. Unmarked. Maybe. You file it and keep scanning.<br><br> Then something pristine white catches at the edge of your vision. Off to the left. Past where the stage lights actually reach. In a booth sunk so deep into its own pocket of shadow you'd have missed it entirely if the lights hadn't illuminated it for a few seconds.<br><br> Luz.<br><br> <<if $luzGender is "male">> He sits low in the booth's cushions. One arm draped loose along the seat back. A tailored jacket cut close enough through the shoulders to show off the build underneath it. Lean. Coiled. The wolf cut is unmistakable even in the dim light. Choppy layers on top left deliberately messy. The sides cropped short. The white half of it falling loose over one brow while the black half is tucked behind his ear. Warm-toned rings catch what little light reaches the booth. One on nearly every finger. The collar of his shirt sits open enough to show a flicker of a tattoo starting at the collarbone climbing up his neck.<br><br> <<else>> She sits low in the booth's cushions. One arm draped along the seat back. A dress cut to skim close through the bodice before flaring loose at the hip. Deep red shot through with a thread that catches gold whenever she shifts. Her hair stops right at the jaw. Chin-length and wavy. The white half framing one side of her face and the black half tucked behind her ear on the other. Warm-toned rings catch what little light reaches the booth. Stacked two and three to a finger. And a thin gold chain traces down her throat toward a pendant shaped like something that might be a flame or might be a knife, depending on the angle. You can see a flicker of a tattoo starting at the collarbone climbing up her neck.<br><br> <</if>> Five other people crowd the same booth. Drinks in hand. Laughing at something you can't hear from here. Two of them are watching the stage. Luz isn't. Luz's attention is entirely on the man and woman flanking them. Head tipped toward whichever one just said something. Pink-tinted lenses catching a stray flicker of stage light and throwing it back gold.<br><br> The music starts.<br><br> Shit. You need to focus.<br><br> <style> .luz-dance-game { max-width: 420px; margin: 1.5em auto; background: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.4); border: 2px solid var(--accent); border-radius: 12px; padding: 1.2em; text-align: center; color: var(--text); font-family: "arsenal", sans-serif; box-shadow: 0 0 20px rgba(255, 0, 0, 0.3); } .lm .luz-dance-game { background: rgba(212, 175, 55, 0.1); box-shadow: 0 0 20px rgba(212, 175, 55, 0.3); } .luz-dance-game h3 { font-family: var(--accentFont); color: var(--accent); text-shadow: 0 0 8px var(--accent); letter-spacing: 0.1em; margin: 0 0 0.5em; font-size: 1em; } .luz-sequence-display { font-family: "inconsolata", monospace; font-size: 1.05em; letter-spacing: 0.12em; color: var(--accent2); margin: 0.8em 0; min-height: 1.5em; } .luz-arrow-row { display: flex; justify-content: center; gap: 0.6em; margin-top: 1em; } .luz-arrow-btn { background: var(--background); border: 2px solid var(--accent); color: var(--text); font-size: 1.4em; width: 60px; height: 60px; border-radius: 8px; cursor: pointer; transition: background 0.15s, color 0.15s, box-shadow 0.15s; } .luz-arrow-btn:hover:not(:disabled) { background: var(--accent); color: var(--background); box-shadow: 0 0 10px var(--accent); } .luz-arrow-btn:disabled { opacity: 0.3; cursor: default; } .luz-arrow-btn.correct-flash { background: #00ff00 !important; border-color: #00ff00 !important; color: #000 !important; box-shadow: 0 0 14px #00ff00; } .luz-arrow-btn.wrong-flash { background: #ff3b3b !important; border-color: #ff3b3b !important; color: #fff !important; box-shadow: 0 0 14px #ff3b3b; } .luz-count-label { font-size: 0.85em; color: var(--text); opacity: 0.75; margin-top: 0.6em; } .luz-result-box { margin-top: 1em; font-family: var(--accentFont); font-size: 1em; color: var(--accent); text-shadow: 0 0 8px var(--accent); min-height: 1.5em; } .luz-continue-link { display: none; margin-top: 1em; color: var(--accent); text-decoration: underline; cursor: pointer; font-size: 0.95em; } .luz-continue-link:hover { color: var(--accent2); text-shadow: 0 0 8px var(--accent); } </style> <div class="luz-dance-game" id="luzDanceGame"> <h3>RHINESTONE INFERNO — YOUR CUE</h3> <div class="luz-sequence-display" id="luzSeqDisplay">Get ready. Ten counts. From memory.</div> <div class="luz-count-label" id="luzCountLabel">Count 1 of 10 — press the correct move</div> <div class="luz-arrow-row"> <button class="luz-arrow-btn" onclick="luzPress('LEFT', this)">◄</button> <button class="luz-arrow-btn" onclick="luzPress('BACK', this)">▼</button> <button class="luz-arrow-btn" onclick="luzPress('FORWARD', this)">▲</button> <button class="luz-arrow-btn" onclick="luzPress('RIGHT', this)">►</button> </div> <div class="luz-result-box" id="luzResultBox"></div> <div class="luz-continue-link" id="luzContinueLink" onclick="luzGoContinue()">Continue →</div> </div> <script> (function() { var sequence = ["LEFT","LEFT","RIGHT","FORWARD","BACK","LEFT","RIGHT","FORWARD","FORWARD","RIGHT"]; var currentCount = 0; var score = 0; var seqDisplay = document.getElementById("luzSeqDisplay"); var countLabel = document.getElementById("luzCountLabel"); var resultBox = document.getElementById("luzResultBox"); var continueLink = document.getElementById("luzContinueLink"); var buttons = document.querySelectorAll(".luz-arrow-btn"); setTimeout(function() { if (currentCount < sequence.length) { seqDisplay.textContent = "Go."; } }, 2000); window.luzPress = function(direction, btn) { if (currentCount >= sequence.length) return; var correct = (direction === sequence[currentCount]); if (correct) score++; if (btn) { btn.classList.add(correct ? "correct-flash" : "wrong-flash"); setTimeout(function() { btn.classList.remove("correct-flash", "wrong-flash"); }, 280); } currentCount++; if (currentCount < sequence.length) { countLabel.textContent = "Count " + (currentCount + 1) + " of 10"; } else { buttons.forEach(function(b) { b.disabled = true; }); countLabel.textContent = ""; seqDisplay.textContent = ""; resultBox.textContent = "You landed " + score + " out of 10 counts."; try { SugarCube.State.variables.luzDanceScore = score; } catch(e) {} continueLink.style.display = "inline-block"; } }; window.luzGoContinue = function() { var target; if (score <= 4) { target = "CH2P10_UndercoverLeech5_Fail"; } else if (score <= 9) { target = "CH2P10_UndercoverLeech5_Stumble"; } else { target = "CH2P10_UndercoverLeech_Perfect"; } try { SugarCube.Engine.play(target); } catch(e) { continueLink.textContent = "[ Continue to next passage: " + target + " ]"; } }; })(); </script>

<<set $luztrulymet to true>> Count four of the second pass and your foot lands wrong.<br><br> Not close-to-wrong. Not a beat-off. Recoverable. Nobody-will-notice wrong. Your ankle rolls on the turn. Your shoes finding exactly the wrong angle against the stage floor, and your whole center of gravity goes with it. Arms pinwheeling for balance you don't have. Feathers sliding hard to one side. Swinging across your face. Blinding you for the one second that actually mattered.<br><br> You go over the edge of the stage.<br><br> Not a graceful stumble backward into the wings. Straight off the front lip. Past the first row of chairs, and directly onto a table. Your hip catching the edge of it first. Glasses scattering. Someone's drink going airborne in a bright arc of amber that lands across three separate laps. The table itself shrieking sideways on its legs under your weight before finally giving up and dumping you the rest of the way to the floor in a tangle of feathers and rhinestones and pure, undiluted humiliation.<br><br> The room goes loud. Laughter. Some of it. A shriek from the woman whose drink you wore now soaking into your outfit. Somewhere close, a man's voice, delighted: "Oh, that's gotta hurt."<br><br> //It does hurt.// You catalogue it distantly. Hip. Wrist. The heel of one palm scraped raw against the table's edge on the way down. But you need to ignore that for now. Because right now two men in black are already peeling off the wall near the stage and moving toward you with the purpose of removing problems before they become bigger problems. Their purpose is you.<br><br> You don't have thirty seconds. You barely have ten. Fuck. This is not going like you wanted at all. Time to improvise. <br><br> You're up before your body's fully agreed to it. Ignoring the hip. Ignoring the wrist. Shoving through a gap between two chairs while the room's still laughing at you instead of watching you, and you use every scrap of that head start to close the distance to the booth in the corner. Luz's booth. Still sunk in its pocket of shadow. Five faces turning toward the commotion just half a beat too slow to actually stop what happens next.<br><br> Your hand finds the strap you've hidden in your outfit. You've got the auto-injector out and the cap thumbed off before anyone at that table has finished processing that the dancer who just fell off the stage is now standing directly over their boss.<br><br> You press it against the side of Luz's throat and depress the plunger before a single person at that table can move.<br><br> "Nobody moves." Your voice comes out steadier than you feel. Steadier than a person covered in someone else's cocktail and bleeding slightly from one palm has any right to sound. "Nobody touches me. I'm not here to hurt anyone."<br><br> The sedative hits fast. Luz's whole body goes loose in the booth's cushions in under four seconds. Muscles unspooling one after another like a puppet with the strings cut gentle instead of all at once. The man and woman flanking Luz freeze. Hands halfway to reaching for something. Caught between obeying you and reacting to the fact that their boss just went slack in the middle of a sentence.<br><br> Luz's head tips. Slow. Unable to fully turn but managing to angle enough to actually look at you. Pink-tinted lenses slipping half an inch down the bridge of $luzHis nose. Revealing one red eye and one black one. Both of them disturbingly clear and alert despite a body that clearly can't move on command anymore.<br><br> "I want to talk about Maud." You keep the injector pressed light against $LuzHer throat. A promise more than a threat at this point. The dose is already in. There's nothing left to deliver. But they don't need to know that yet. "That's all. I want answers."<br><br> Something shifts behind Luz's mismatched eyes. Recognition. Arriving slow through whatever chemical fog is currently spreading through their bloodstream. The corner of their mouth manages, against considerable odds, to curl. Something feels wrong.<br><br> "So you're the one Maud talked about all the time." Slurred. Soft. Thrilled despite everything. "Huh."<br><br> You open your mouth to answer. You never get the chance.<br><br> Something connects with the back of your skull. Hard. Sudden. The whole room tilts sideways and goes white at the edges before it goes black altogether. Luz's face the last thing you register. Half-drugged and still somehow amused, watching you go down.<br><br> [[Continue|CH2P10_Luz2]]

Cold water hits your face like a slap. Dragging you out of the dark so fast your whole body jerks against the ropes before your brain's even caught up to being awake.<br><br> You sputter. Blinking water out of your eyes. The first thing that swims into focus is a person walking away with an empty bucket. Unbothered. Like dousing someone awake is just another item on tonight's checklist.<br><br> Your wrists are bound to the arms of a wooden chair. Zip ties biting into skin already gone numb. Your ankles the same. Lashed to the front legs. You test the give. None. Not even a fraction of an inch. The panic that's been sitting at the back of your throat since the water hit finally breaks loose.<br><br> Shit. Shit, shit, shit.<br><br> The warehouse around you is vast and mostly dark. Exposed rafters disappearing up into shadow. A single work light rigged somewhere overhead throwing a hard circle of white across the concrete floor. You're sitting dead center of it. Cold air moves through the space in slow currents. Carrying the smell of rust and old motor oil.<br><br> "Great. You're finally awake. I was getting bored." Luz sits in a second chair pulled up close to yours. A tumbler of scotch loose in one hand. The ice has melted down to a single thin sliver floating in amber. Luz swirls it once, Bored. Looks you over top to bottom. The look of someone who's been sitting in exactly that position for a long time apparently having all the tie in the world.<br><br> A second figure stands a few feet behind Luz's shoulder. Arms crossed. Neon green hair catching the work light in a way that makes it look almost lit from within.<br><br> Neo.<br><br> Weren't they supposed to be in the north, settling some dispute? That's what your source told you. That's the entire reason tonight was even possible. Ah. It was a trap.<br><br> Luz watches the confusion move across your face and smiles. Clearly enjoying every second of your realization. "You're wondering why my right hand is standing right there when you were so sure they'd left town." Luz sets the tumbler down on a crate and leans forward. Elbows on knees. "I knew you were coming. I didn't know when, and I didn't know what mood you'd arrive in. Reasonable, <<if $luzApproach is "crazyleech">> or holding a bomb in my own club, as it turns out <</if>> so I put a little false information where I knew it would find its way to you. I wanted to see how you'd actually approach me, given the choice." The smile widens. "<<if $luzApproach is "crazyleech">>Turns out you don't do subtle. Now." <<else>> "Turns out you like playing sexy James Bond, huh? Anyway."<</if>> Luz spreads both hands. "We can finally talk properly. In peace. On my terms."<br><br> <<link '⌕ ♡ You test the ropes once. Hold Luz\'s gaze the whole time. "Comfortable chair. Very intimate setup for a first date."'>> <<run setup.setTrait('bold', ($bold || 50) + 1)>> <<set $luzWakeChoice to "bold">> <<set $luzstat += 1>> <<set $luz_romance += 1>> <<goto "CH2P10_Luz3">> <</link>><br><br> <<link '⌕ ♡ You steal a look at Luz\'s face. This close. Properly lit for the first time all night. Your pulse kicks up hard against the ropes at your wrists. Fast enough that it takes you an actual second to confirm that\'s not the fear talking. You drop your eyes to your own lap fast. Jaw tight. Furious at your own body for picking now of all moments to react like this.'>> <<run setup.setTrait('shy', ($shy || 50) + 1)>> <<set $luzWakeChoice to "shy">> <<set $luzstat += 2>> <<set $luz_romance += 1>> <<goto "CH2P10_Luz3">> <</link>><br><br> <<link '⌕ ♡ "So, hi." You clear your throat, glance around the warehouse. "This is — yeah. This is happening. Cool. Great. Love a warehouse."'>> <<run setup.setTrait('awkward', ($awkward || 50) + 1)>> <<set $luzWakeChoice to "awkward">> <<set $luzstat += 1>> <<set $luz_romance += 1>> <<goto "CH2P10_Luz3">> <</link>><br><br> <<link '⌕ ♡ You try to cross your arms for effect, forget you can\'t, and the sudden lurch nearly tips the whole chair sideways before Luz\'s hand shoots out and steadies it.'>> <<run setup.setTrait('clumsy', ($clumsy || 50) + 1)>> <<set $luzWakeChoice to "clumsy">> <<set $luzstat += 1>> <<set $luz_romance += 1>> <<goto "CH2P10_Luz3">> <</link>><br><br> <<link '⌕ ♡ You tip your head toward the ropes. "You didn\'t have to go through all this trouble just to get me alone, you know."'>> <<run setup.setTrait('oblivious', ($oblivious || 50) + 1)>> <<set $luzWakeChoice to "oblivious">> <<set $luzstat += 1>> <<set $luz_romance += 1>> <<goto "CH2P10_Luz3">> <</link>><br><br> <<link '⌕ You yank hard against the ropes once, glaring. "I proposed a diner. Neutral ground." You jerk your chin at the ropes. "You couldn\'t just wait thirty minutes?"'>> <<run setup.setTrait('calculated', ($calculated || 50) - 1)>> <<set $luzWakeChoice to "recklessplatonic">> <<set $luzstat += 1>> <<goto "CH2P10_Luz3">> <</link>><br><br> <<link '⌕ You keep both hands still against the ropes, refusing to give them the satisfaction of a struggle. "You went to a lot of trouble for a conversation you could\'ve had at the funeral."'>> <<run setup.setTrait('calculated', ($calculated || 50) + 1)>> <<set $luzWakeChoice to "calculatedplatonic">> <<set $luzstat -= 1>> <<goto "CH2P10_Luz3">> <</link>><br><br>

<<set $luztrulymet to true>> Count four of the second pass, and your foot lands a half-beat off. Close enough that you might have covered it. Might have folded the mistake into the choreography and kept moving. Except the girl beside you catches your hip with her shoulder at exactly the wrong moment- Both of you already off-balance. You go down together.<br><br> Hard. Onto your tailbone. Both palms slapping the stage floor to catch yourself, and the momentum takes the third dancer down with you in a tangle of feathers and bare legs and one very loud, very undignified yelp that definitely wasn't part of the choreography. She grabs for the fourth dancer's arm on the way down and takes them with her. The fifth doesn't even see it coming. Trips over someone's outstretched leg and goes sprawling half a second later. Sequins scattering across the boards like something detonated.<br><br><br><br> The room erupts. Laughter and a scattered cheer and someone near the front actually applauding the fall like it was the best part of the show. The music keeps going. Oblivious. The other dancers further down the stage adjusting their formation around the gap you just left in it.<br><br> Fuck. This is not going like you wanted at all. Time to improvise. You're up fast. Favoring the hip you landed on, and in the commotion with five dancers down. The crowd's attention split three different directions. A stagehand already jogging out from the wings to help everyone up. Nobody's actually watching where you're going once you're back on your feet.<br><br> You use it. You dash off the edge of the stage on the side closest to Luz's booth. Weaving between two cocktail tables before anyone thinks to track you. Before the two security guards near the bar even fully register that one of the fallen dancers didn't head backstage.<br><br> Luz's booth is right there. Still shadowed. Five faces. Two of them finally turning to look at the stage now that the fall's drawn real attention. The rest still oblivious.<br><br> Your hand finds the strap you've hidden in your outfit. You've got the auto-injector out and the cap thumbed off before anyone at that table has finished processing that the dancer who just fell standing directly over their boss.<br><br> You press it against the side of Luz's throat and depress the plunger before a single person at that table can move.<br><br> "Nobody moves." Your voice comes out steadier than you feel. "Nobody touches me. I'm not here to hurt anyone."<br><br> The sedative hits fast. Luz's whole body goes loose in the booth's cushions in under four seconds. Muscles unspooling one after another like a puppet with the strings cut gentle instead of all at once. The man and woman flanking Luz freeze. Hands halfway to reaching for something. Caught between obeying you and reacting to the fact that their boss just went slack in the middle of a sentence.<br><br> Luz's head tips. Slow. Unable to fully turn but managing to angle enough to actually look at you. Pink-tinted lenses slipping half an inch down the bridge of $luzHis nose. Revealing one red eye and one black one. Both of them disturbingly clear and alert despite a body that clearly can't move on command anymore.<br><br> "I want to talk about Maud." You keep the injector pressed light against $LuzHer throat. A promise more than a threat at this point. The dose is already in. There's nothing left to deliver. But they don't need to know that yet. "That's all. I want answers."<br><br> Something shifts behind Luz's mismatched eyes. Recognition. Arriving slow through whatever chemical fog is currently spreading through their bloodstream. The corner of their mouth manages, against considerable odds, to curl. Something feels wrong.<br><br> "So you're the one Maud talked about all the time." Slurred. Soft. Thrilled despite everything. "Huh."<br><br> You open your mouth to answer. You never get the chance.<br><br> Something connects with the back of your skull. Hard. Sudden. The whole room tilts sideways and goes white at the edges before it goes black altogether. Luz's face the last thing you register. Half-drugged and still somehow amused, watching you go down.<br><br> [[Continue|CH2P10_Luz2]]

<<set $luztrulymet to true>> Ten for ten. Both passes clean. Every count landing exactly where it's supposed to. When the lights cut on the final pose you hold it a half-second longer than necessary just to feel your own heartbeat catch up with what your body just did.<br><br> Applause. Real applause. You barely have time to register it before someone taps your shoulder from behind. A stagehand , already gesturing you and two other dancers off toward the floor instead of the wings.<br><br> "You three. Table in the corner wants company." He says it like this happens every night, because it probably does. "Go on."<br><br> Bingo. You go.<br><br> The booth's exactly as full as it looked from the stage. Five people crowded into cushions built for maybe four comfortably. A half-eaten plate of something fried shoved to one corner. The guy who called you over is mid-thirties. One arm already stretched along the back of the booth. He looks you over. Unhurried. Then pats on his own thigh without saying a word. He doesn't need to. His face already said it. An invitation you have zero intention of accepting.<br><br> The other two dancers settle onto laps without hesitation. Practiced. The whole transaction wordless and clearly routine. One arm going around a shoulder. A hand landing on a knee. Nobody at that table blinking twice.<br><br> Ugh.<br><br> You don't sit next to him.<br><br> Before anyone at that table can fully register what's happening, you cross the last two feet in one motion and land directly in $luzHis lap instead. Both arms looping around Luz's neck like you belong there. Like this was always the plan.<br><br> The booth goes still. Every face turns. The guy in the expensive shirt makes a small, offended noise that nobody at the table bothers acknowledging, because everyone's attention has narrowed entirely to you and the person whose lap you just claimed.<br><br> Up close, Luz smells like vanilla and cigarette smoke layered together. Warm against the cold air still clinging to your own skin. The pink-tinted lenses sit close enough now that you can see your own reflection twinned and warped in them. Distorted at the edges. One hand comes up automatically to steady you at the waist. Reflexive. Now you can read what $luzHis tatto says 'Kiss here.' You use that half-second of contact to close the last distance instead.<br><br> You lean in like you're about to kiss $luzHis throat.<br><br> You press the auto-injector against it instead. Angled so your own shoulder blocks the motion from every other set of eyes at the table. You depress the plunger before Luz's grip on your waist can turn into anything more than surprise.<br><br> "I need to talk to you," you breathe it right against $luzHis ear. Low enough that only Luz hears it over the club noise. "You're sedated. Just listen to what I have to say and then I'll be gone."<br><br> The sedative works fast. You feel it happen under your own hands. The muscle across Luz's shoulders going loose first. Then the grip at your waist. Fingers slackening one by one until they're just resting there instead of holding on. Loose enough that you could stand up right now and be three steps gone before anyone at this table reacted.<br><br> You don't walk away yet.<br><br> "I want to talk about Maud." Still quiet. Still close enough to pass as something else entirely to anyone watching from three feet away. "Not here. Somewhere neutral. Half an hour, at—"<br><br> You don't get the location out.<br><br> Luz's head tips back against the booth cushion. Slow. The drug pulling at every muscle except, apparently, the ones controlling that mouth. Finding your face despite everything. Pink-tinted lenses slipping half an inch down the bridge of $luzHis nose. Revealing one red eye and one black one. Both of them disturbingly clear and alert despite a body that clearly can't move on command anymore. The smile that spreads is delighted in a way that has nothing to do with the sedative and everything to do with whatever's happening behind those eyes.<br><br> "So you're the one Maud talked about all the time." Slurred. Soft. Thrilled despite everything. "Huh."<br><br> Your stomach drops before your brain catches up to why.<br><br> This sedative doesn't leave a person their voice. Ace told you that $aceHimself. Two weeks ago. Sedation onset within five to twenty seconds. Full-body. Speech among the first things to go. Luz just delivered a complete sentence, thirty seconds after a dose that should have Luz's jaw hanging slack against $luzHis own chest by now.<br><br> Shit. Is this a trap?<br><br> You're off Luz's lap before you've finished the thought. Scrambling backward out of the booth. Boots catching on someone's discarded jacket on the floor. You back straight into something solid behind you. A wall of a chest that definitely wasn't there a second.<br><br> You don't get the chance to turn around and see whose it is.<br><br> Something connects with the back of your skull instead. Hard. Sudden. The whole booth tilts sideways. Gold and pink and red blurring into each other before the world goes white at the edges and then swallows itself whole. The last thing you register, going down, is Luz's smile. Still there. Still watching you fall.<br><br> [[Continue|CH2P10_Luz2]]

You spot the emcee first. Standing at the edge of the stage with the mic still loose in one hand. Chatting with a stagehand like his job's already done for the night.<br><br> You cross to him fast. Weaving between tables. Hold the device up between you the second you're close enough for him to actually see it clearly.<br><br> He doesn't need it explained. His whole face drains the same way the bouncer's did outside. Mouth opening around a question that never makes it out. You grab the mic out of his hand. He let's you. Like it's suddenly on fire and steps back so fast he nearly trips over a monitor cable.<br><br> You take the stairs up onto the stage two at a time.<br><br> The dancers still mid-number scatter the second they clock what's happening. One girl actually drops out of her turn entirely. Feet slapping the boards as she bolts for the wings. Another shoving past you so hard her elbow catches your ribs on the way. You don't stop for either of them. You cross the stage floor with the mic gripped in one hand and the bomb steady in the other. Your eyes go straight to the booth in the shadow before your feet have even found their mark under the lights.<br><br> Luz is already looking back.<br><br> Your eyes meet across the whole width of the room. Over a hundred oblivious heads. The DJ, three seconds behind everyone else's reaction, still riding the fade of the last track — finally clocks the shape of what's happening on his own monitor and kills the music dead mid-beat.<br><br> Nobody coughs. Nobody clinks a glass. The room goes so quiet you can hear the air conditioning cycle on somewhere above the stage. A low hum that was there the whole time and only becomes audible now that everything else has stopped. Every head turns toward the stage. Toward you.<br><br> You lift the mic.<br><br> <<link '⌕ "Luz!" You scream it, half-laughing, wild-eyed under the stage lights. "I\'ve come for you!"'>> <<run setup.setTrait('calculated', ($calculated || 50) - 1)>> <<set $luzOpeningLine to "reckless">> <<set $luzstat += 3>> <<goto "CH2P10_CrazyLeech3">> <</link>><br><br> <<link '⌕ "Luz." Flat. Even, loud enough to carry without you raising it at all. "You have three minutes to decide how tonight ends."'>> <<run setup.setTrait('calculated', ($calculated || 50) + 1)>> <<set $luzOpeningLine to "calculated">> <<set $luzstat -= 3>> <<goto "CH2P10_CrazyLeech3">> <</link>><br><br> <<link '⌕ "Luz!" You point the mic-holding hand straight at the booth. "Get up. You don\'t get to just sit there after what you did to her."'>> <<run setup.setTrait('relaxed', ($relaxed || 50) + 1)>> <<set $luzOpeningLine to "confrontational">> <<set $luzstat -= 2>> <<goto "CH2P10_CrazyLeech3">> <</link>><br><br> <<link '⌕ "Luz." You wave casually. A slow, lazy grin spreading across your lips. "Hey. Gotcha."'>> <<run setup.setTrait('relaxed', ($relaxed || 50) + 1)>> <<set $luzOpeningLine to "relaxed">> <<set $luzstat += 2>> <<goto "CH2P10_CrazyLeech3">> <</link>><br><br>

<<set $luztrulymet to true>> <<if $luzOpeningLine is "reckless">> The laugh that comes out of you afterward isn't entirely on purpose. It bubbles up somewhere between the adrenaline and the exhaustion and comes out cracked. Too loud for the mic. Echoing back at you off the club's own speakers. A few people near the front flinch away from the sound of it. Like unhinged is somehow scarier than the bomb itself. Your free hand is shaking. Just slightly. You don't bother hiding it. A shaking hand and a live bomb read as considerably more dangerous together than either one does alone.<br><br> Across the room, Luz's hand presses flat against $luzHis own chest like the laugh physically delighted $luzHim. "Oh, I like the crazy ones. Do that again."<br><br> You don't do it again. You've only got so much unhinged in the tank tonight.<br><br> <<elseif $luzOpeningLine is "calculated">> You don't move once the words are out. Don't fidget, don't shift your weight, don't do anything with your free hand except keep it steady around the bomb. A hundred people staring at someone who isn't shaking read that as more dangerous. Not less. You watch it happen across the front row. Shoulders drawing in. Chairs creaking as people lean away from you without meaning to.<br><br> Luz goes still too. But the smile doesn't hold the way it did a second ago. Thins out at the edges. Something behind the pink lenses sharpening. "Careful." Calm. But not warm. "I don't like people who try to order me around in business. It tends to end badly for them." The smile comes back, but slower this time. "Let's see if you can actually finish what you started."<br><br> <<elseif $luzOpeningLine is "confrontational">> Your arm stays extended, finger pointed dead at the booth, muscles locked tight enough that you already know they'll ache tomorrow if you live long enough to feel it. You don't lower it. You want Luz to see exactly where this is aimed, no ambiguity left anywhere in the room about who this is for.<br><br> Your arm stays extended. Finger pointed dead at the booth. Muscles locked tight enough that you already know they'll ache tomorrow if you live long enough to feel it. You don't lower it. Don't soften the line of your own shoulders. You watch two people at a nearby table physically shift their chairs to put a body between themselves and your outstretched hand. Good. Let them be afraid of you.<br><br> Luz's smile doesn't waver, but something behind the pink lenses sharpens. Something behind the pink lenses goes cold for exactly one second. The amusement dropping away entirely before it's smoothed back over, so fast you'd almost convince yourself you imagined it. "That's a lot of feeling for someone I've met exactly zero times before tonight." Luz leans forward slightly. Elbows on the table. "You should be careful. You don't actually know what you're accusing me of yet. I'd hate for you to waste it before you've got the details."<br><br> <<else>> You let the mic dangle loose at your side for a second afterward. Entirely unhurried. Like the whole room isn't currently one bad decision away from catastrophe. A woman near the bar actually laughs, short and disbelieving, before catching herself. The calm reads wrong to her faster than any shouting would have, and you watch the confusion spread through the crowd nearly as fast as fear would.<br><br> Luz's mouth curves slow. Delighted. One hand lifting to toast you with a glass filled with whiskey. "Gotcha," Luz repeats back at you. Tasting the word like it's funnier the second time. "Cute. I've had people try considerably harder than that and still miss." The glass tips toward you. Mock salute. "Congratulations. You're the first this year."<br><br> <</if>> You bring the mic back up.<br><br> "You know what I'm holding in my hand?"<br><br> Somebody near the bar recognizes it before you've even finished the sentence. A strangled, disbelieving "oh my god" that carries further than it should. Now the word spreads through the room exactly the way it did outside. Person to person. Faster than sound should reasonably travel.<br><br> "Three minutes." You say it flat, final, watching the number do its work on every face turned toward you. "Scramble."<br><br> The room detonates into motion.<br><br> Chairs scrape backward hard enough to topple. Glasses shatter against the floor in a chain reaction of dropped hands. The crowd surges toward the exits in a solid mass of bodies. Elbows. Shoulders. Someone screaming near the back in a high. Continuous note that doesn't stop even as the crush carries them toward the door. A man trips over a fallen chair and gets trampled half over before two strangers haul him back up without breaking their own stride.<br><br> The bar empties in seconds. Bottles left rocking on their shelves. A bartender vaulting the actual bar top rather than waste time going around it. Security guards who spent the whole night keeping people in now spend the next thirty seconds actively helping shove them out.<br><br> You watch all of it happen with the mic still loose in your hand. The bomb's red light blinking steady against your palm. Counting a number you refuse to look down at.<br><br> One person doesn't move.<br><br> Luz stays exactly where $luzHe is. Low in the booth's cushions. One arm still draped along the seat back even as the five people who were crowded in beside them scatter in every direction. The man and woman who'd been leaning into Luz gone in an instant. Chairs overturned in their wake. Nobody sparing a backward glance at the person they were laughing with thirty seconds ago. Luz doesn't call after them. Doesn't seem to notice they're gone at all.<br><br> The pink-tinted lenses stay locked on you the entire time. Luz's head tilts a few degrees to one side. The mouth curves up at one corner. Slow. Unhurried. Stays there. The same unbroken smile the whole way through. None of it flickering even once toward fear or anger. One hand comes up and taps two fingers against the rim of an abandoned glass on the table. A slow, idle rhythm. Like Luz is listening to music only $luzHe can hear.<br><br> The room empties fast. Within a minute it's just you on the stage. Luz alone in that booth. The last stragglers vanishing through the front door in a scramble of dropped bags and abandoned coats. The bass-heavy silence of an empty club settling in behind them.<br><br> You step down off the stage. Cross the floor between fallen chairs and spilled drinks. Past a table still spinning slightly from someone's hasty exit. Until you're standing close enough to that booth to see the exact shade of red behind Luz's right eye and the flat, endless black of the left.<br><br> Luz speaks first.<br><br> "You've got to be the one Maud was always talking about." Said slow. Almost delighted. One hand coming up to push the pink lenses a half inch down the bridge of $luzHis nose. Studying you properly over the top of them. "The resemblance is in the theatrics. She'd have loved this entrance."<br><br> "Yes." You don't lower the bomb. Don't lower your voice either. "I'm her <<if $gender is 'cisgender-male' or $gender is 'transgender-male'>>brother<<elseif $gender is 'cisgender-female' or $gender is 'transgender-female'>>sister<<else>>sibling<</if>>."<br><br> "Mm." Luz settles back into the cushions. Entirely unbothered. Like the two of you are having a normal conversation. "And here I thought tonight was going to be boring."<br><br> "I want to talk."<br><br> "You have my full attention." Luz spreads both hands. Palms up. Gesturing at the empty club around them. The overturned chairs. The abandoned drinks. The total absence of anyone else in the room. "I'd say you've earned it."<br><br> "Not here. You think I'd stay too long in your territory? I'm not stupid."<br><br> One of Luz's eyebrows lifts. Slow. "No?"<br><br> "Neutral ground." You keep your eyes on Luz's face. Refuse to let your gaze drop to the clock you can feel counting down against your own palm. "You know the diner on Threll and Ninth. Open all night. Public enough that neither of us tries anything stupid." You name the time. Thirty minutes from now. Enough of a window to get clear of this building and let your own pulse come down before you're anywhere near Luz again. "There. Then."<br><br> Luz considers this with a sigh. Head tipping back against the booth cushion. "That's boring." Said like a genuine complaint. Like you've personally disappointed $luzHim by suggesting fluorescent lighting and bad coffee over whatever more theatrical alternative Luz had already been imagining. "But fine. I'll allow it."<br><br> Your eyes flick. Involuntary. To the device in your hand. The light's ticking faster now. Or maybe that's just your own heartbeat lending it urgency it doesn't actually have. One minute. Maybe less.<br><br> You need to go.<br><br> The second this thing goes quiet in your hand, you do not want to be anywhere within reach of Luz. Not out of fear exactly. More the plain, practical understanding that a person who just held an entire club hostage probably shouldn't linger to chat once the leverage runs out.<br><br> "Thirty minutes," you remind $luzHim sharply again. Already backing away from the booth. Bomb still held steady in front of you like it's the only thing keeping this whole conversation civil. which it probably does. "Don't be late."<br><br> "Wouldn't dream of it." Luz's mouth curves wider, and the two fingers on the glass rim keep tapping the same slow rhythm. "I do so love a <<if $gender is 'cisgender-male' or $gender is 'transgender-male'>>man<<elseif $gender is 'cisgender-female' or $gender is 'transgender-female'>>woman<<else>>person<</if>> who commits to a bit."<br><br> You keep backing away. Eyes on Luz the entire time. Refusing to turn your back on that booth even now.<br><br> You don't see what's behind you.<br><br> Your shoulder blades meet something solid and unmoving. A wall of a chest. You don't even get the half-second you'd need to spin around and see whose it is.<br><br> Something connects hard against the side of your neck.<br><br> The room tilts violently sideways. Red and gold and black smearing together at the edges of your vision. Luz's face the last clear thing you register. Mouth still curved. Fingers still tapping that same rhythm against the glass. Then the whole world goes white and then swallows itself into nothing at all. Shit.<br><br> [[Continue|CH2P10_Luz2]]

<<if $luzWakeChoice is "bold">> Luz's eyebrows lift, head tilting toward Neo like they're sharing a private joke. "Tied to a chair and still flirting." Back to you, mismatched eyes narrowing with real interest now. "I like you."<br><br> Luz reaches out. Catches your jaw between thumb and forefinger. Tilting your face up a fraction. Not rough. Just certain. The grip of someone who's never once wondered whether $luzHe was allowed to touch what $luzHe wanted to touch. "Careful. Keep talking like that and I might start thinking you mean it." Luz's thumb drags once along your lips before letting go entirely. Leaving the skin there feeling several degrees warmer than the rest of you. "And then I'd have to decide what to do about it, which complicates an evening I was hoping to keep simple."<br><br> <<elseif $luzWakeChoice is "shy">> Luz notices exactly where your eyes went and exactly how fast you dragged them back down. And of course doesn't let it pass unremarked. "Oh, that's interesting." Luz leans forward slightly. Studying your face with open curiosity. "Your pulse did something. I felt it."<br><br> Luz sits back. Entirely unbothered by being looked at. Clearly used to exactly this reaction from exactly this angle. "Stare all you want. I'm aware of what I look like." A wide smile. More amused than smug. "You can tell me it was the ropes that did that to your pulse. I won't believe you, but you're welcome to try."<br><br> <<elseif $luzWakeChoice is "awkward">> Luz laughs. A short, surprised sound. Glancing at Neo. Neo doesn't react. Luz turns back to you anyway. Still grinning. "You are far too charming for someone currently zip-tied to furniture. It's genuinely inconvenient."<br><br> "Normally I find people like you exhausting." Luz leans back. Arms crossing. Studying you with something that's shifted from amusement into actual reassessment. "All that stumbling, all that second-guessing yourself mid-sentence. Usually makes me want to leave the room. You, somehow, I find charming instead. I'd like to know why that is, at some point. Preferably once you're no longer tied to a chair, so I can actually enjoy figuring it out."<br><br> <<elseif $luzWakeChoice is "clumsy">> Luz's hand stays braced on the back of your chair a beat longer than the catch actually required. Steadying it with an ease that suggests this isn't the first time Luz has kept someone from toppling over in this exact spot. "Careful. Wouldn't want you concussed before the interesting part."<br><br> $luzHeC straightens. Brushing invisible dust off their own sleeve. Entirely unbothered. "There are considerably better ways to end up in my arms than nearly braining yourself on my warehouse floor, for what it's worth." A slow, sideways smile. "I'm just saying. Options exist."<br><br> <<elseif $luzWakeChoice is "oblivious">> Luz's whole face lights up. Delighted. One hand pressing flat to $luzHis own chest like $luzHe has just been handed something precious. "Did you just—" Luz turns fully toward Neo, practically vibrating with it. "Neo. Neo, did $mcHe just say that to me. Tell me you heard that too, I need a witness."<br><br> Neo says nothing. Neo has clearly learned, over however many years of standing behind that particular chair, that answering is never actually required.<br><br> $luzHeC turns back to you. Grinning outright now. "Amore, if I'd wanted you alone, I'd have taken you a long time ago." Luz leans in slightly. Eyes bright with the joke you're not in on. "This is considerably more effort than 'alone' requires."<br><br> You have absolutely no idea what part of what you just said earned that. Luz watches the confusion sit on your face for a second. Then laughs outright. Loud and genuinely amused. Entirely unbothered that whatever charm just got deployed clearly bounced straight off you without leaving a mark.<br><br> <<elseif $luzWakeFlirt is "recklessplatonic">> Luz actually laughs. Real and unguarded. Head tipping back against the chair. "Because I wanted to see your face the second you woke up, and that diner doesn't let me do that."<br><br> $luzHeC straightens back up. Still grinning. One hand gesturing loosely at the whole setup. The chair. The ropes. The warehouse itself. "And thirty minutes felt like an awfully long time. Call it insurance." The grin sharpens at the edges. "Also I don't dance to anyone else's schedule. And technically I didn't agree to yours. You'll learn that about me. I don't like having to listen to demands in my own territory."<br><br> <<else>> Luz's mouth curves, one hand tapping once against the arm of their own chair like punctuation. "The funeral had an audience. This doesn't. I find people say very different things when nobody else is listening."<br><br> Luz spreads both hands. "Consider this the more honest venue. And considerably harder for you to walk away from before we've actually finished."<br><br> <</if>> You take a breath. Slow. Force your own racing pulse down a notch. You know exactly what this is. You've interviewed people who'd hurt you without blinking. Sat across tables from killers who explained their reasoning calmly over coffee. You kept your voice steady through all of it because steady is the only currency that ever works in rooms like this one.<br><br> There are only two ways tonight goes from here. You survive. Or you don't. Everything that happens in between is just the negotiation for which one it's going to be.<br><br> "I wanted to talk to you, that was my goal. I got an audience, not in the way I planned but this will have to do now. Let me talk first. I want to talk about Maud." You keep your voice level. Hold Luz's mismatched eyes. "Let's talk about how you're part of the reason she became what she became. Part of the reason she's dead."<br><br> Luz doesn't flinch. If anything, the statement seems to relax $luzHim further into the chair. One leg crossing over the other. "Is that the accusation? That I made her." A small, considering tilt of the head. "She was always going to become exactly what she became. I didn't build that girl from nothing. I recognized what was already there and gave it somewhere to go." Luz's gaze doesn't waver. "And weren't we generous enough to pay for the funeral? Neo handled most of the arrangements personally, actually, since I was rather occupied of my own." A glance toward Neo, who inclines their head once, silent confirmation.<br><br> "You put her on this." Your voice comes out sharper than you mean it to, the ropes biting into your wrists as you lean forward as far as they'll allow. "The list. The investigation. You gave her that job and she died doing it. You could have given her support. Resources. Anything. Instead you sent her out alone."<br><br> Luz actually laughs at that. Not cruel exactly, more genuinely entertained. The sound bouncing flat off the warehouse's high ceiling. "I had better things to do than babysit a job I trusted her with. She wanted it, if you're curious. Came to me herself, practically begging for the assignment, desperate to prove she could handle something bigger instead of the work I usually gave her." Luz's expression shifts, something almost thoughtful crossing it now. "I'll admit in hindsight I may have overestimated her. She was talented. She was also, underneath all of it, considerably less stable than she let anyone believe, including herself. That instability is what got her killed, not any failure of support on my part."<br><br> "That's convenient." You don't let it go. You latch on. "She was unstable because you kept loading more onto her. Job after job, no gap between them, no room to actually recover. Where's Neo in all this? Neo's standing right ther. They look pretty stable to me. Funny how the person you ran into the ground is the one who's dead." You lean forward as far as the ropes allow. "You bled her dry, and then when she finally cracked from it, you called that her problem instead of yours. If you knew she was unstable, you should have given her time. Instead you gave her another job." Your jaw sets. "You overestimated yourself. Admit it. You were wrong." Something ugly and satisfied rises in your chest, watching it land. "You had two of the most dangerous Umbras this city's ever seen under your thumb. You were almost untouchable. And now you've lost one, and it's entirely your own doing. Congratulations Luz."<br><br> Something crosses Luz's face fast. A flash of something real. Ugly. Then it's gone. Luz's mouth flattens. The corners that were curved a second ago dropping into something with no warmth left in it at all. The mask slides back into place so fast you'd almost doubt you saw it slip if your own pulse weren't still racing from watching it happen.<br><br> The chair scrapes back hard enough to shriek against the concrete. "What do you think this business actually is." Luz's voice has dropped. Already crossing the space between you before the sentence finishes. "You think I run a nightclub and collect favors and that's the whole of it?"<br><br> One hand closes around your jaw. Hard. Fingers digging in deep enough to bruise. Wrenching your face up to meet Luz's own. The heat coming off Luz's palm stings. Like being grabbed by something straight out of an oven. "I kill people." A short, humorless laugh. Right in your face. Close enough you can smell smoke underneath it. "I burn people. I've had people assassinated over debts smaller than what you're currently owing me in patience." The grip tightens further. Tilting your head another inch. Forcing you to hold eye contact you'd very much like to break. "I deal in drugs, in bodies, in money laundered so many times it forgets where it started. I build an empire out of the parts of this city nobody else wants to touch."<br><br> "People like me, outcasts, the damned, the ones who came out wrongm we don't get old." The red eye isn't flat up close at all. SIt's glowing bright ike a flame. Never settling. "We die young. If the job hadn't taken Maud, the next one would have. Or the one after that." The black eye gives nothing back. No light. No reflection. A hole where an eye should be. "Eventually I'd have had Neo handle her myself. The day she got too unstable to trust with anything sharp. That's just business."<br><br> Luz lets go of you. No warning in it. Your own head whips sideways with the force of the release. Jaw aching hot where those fingers were a second ago. A dull throb already spreading up into your ear. "It's all just business." Luz straightens. Unbothered. Like the last ten seconds didn't happen at all. "At the end of the day."<br><br> You work your jaw once. Testing it. Watching Luz the whole time. Refusing to let the wince show on your face.<br><br> "She was an asset." Luz doesn't sit back down. Stands over you instead. "A good one. I'll admit I played her too fast. Spent her before she was ready to be spent." Both eyes stay locked on you. Unblinking. A slow smile spreading on $luzHis lips."But she didn't have a future. Not really. I knew that. Neo knew that." Luz crouches down. Bringing both of you level. Close enough that the heat off Luz's skin presses against your own face like standing near an open flame. "I'd bet good money you knew it too and so did she."<br><br> Rage climbs up through you so fast it nearly steals your voice entirely. "Whatever she was to me that was never yours to decide." Your hands strain against the ropes without your permission. Hands clenching into fists. "Who gave you the right. Who gave any of you the right, deciding who gets a future and who doesn't, like it's a resource you get to allocate." You're so sick of this world. The people. The injustice of it all.. "That's the actual sickness in people like you. Money and power convincing you it comes with a say in who's allowed to keep existing."<br><br> "It's honest." Luz's tone stays even, almost gentle. "I don't need convenient. I have money for convenient." The smile returns,. Calculating in a way that makes the hair on your arms rise before Luz has even finished the thought. "Which brings me, actually, to why you're here instead of somewhere considerably less comfortable."<br><br> Something in the air shifts. You feel it before you understand it. Neo straightening slightly behind Luz's shoulder. The warehouse's quiet going somehow denser.<br><br> "I lost Maud." Luz says it plainly."Which means I lost the person continuing the work she started. I need someone clever enough to pick that thread back up. I've heard quite a lot about you, over the years, some of it from Maud herself, most of it from people who've made the mistake of underestimating you." Luz leans forward once more. Elbows on knees. Mismatched eyes holding yours with total focus. $luzHeC looks so at ease when $luzHe smiles lazily at you. "I'd like to offer you a contract."<br><br> You nearly choke on your own spit.<br><br> "Why not Neo?" It's the first thing out of your mouth. Half stall. Half genuine question. "Or you. Why do you need me for this at all?"<br><br> "Neo's occupied with other matters." Luz doesn't so much as glance back at Neo, who doesn't react either, standing exactly as still as before. "And I could help personally sometimes if I have the hours to spare, but I have an empire to run and more assassination attempts on my own life this year than I've bothered keeping an exact count of. One more kill list doesn't move me the way it apparently moves you." Luz's mouth curves. "The rest of my people are useful but none of them are clever enough the way this particular problem requires. You, apparently, are."<br><br> You know exactly what a contract with Luz means. You've seen the aftermath of it on other people. The tattoo that marks a life bound to Luz's word. The way people who wear that mark stop making decisions that are entirely their own anymore. A contract with Luz isn't a job offer. It's the end of every choice you'd otherwise get to make for the rest of your life. Sealed in something you can't simply walk away from once it's signed. You would rather take your chances with death than agree to that.<br><br> "I want to work with you." You say it fast, before Luz can read the refusal building behind your eyes and decide it's not worth continuing this conversation at all. "I do. I'm not saying no to that. I'm saying no to the contract specifically."<br><br> [[Continue|CH2P10_Luz4]]

Luz goes very quiet.<br><br> "That's not an argument." Flat. Final. Luz's chin tips toward the dark behind their own shoulder. "Neo."<br><br> Neo steps into the light.<br><br> The work light hits Neo's eyes and they're black, all the way through, no white anywhere left in them. The shadow at Neo's feet doesn't match the light overhead. Stretches wrong. Too long for the angle. Pooling and thickening around Neo's boots like something with its own weight. Its own patience. It ripples once. Unprompted. The way water does right before something surfaces in it.<br><br> "You know what they call Neo, out on the street." Luz says it conversationally, like sharing a piece of local trivia. "The Ripper. Rather on the nose, I've always thought, but it's stuck, the way the good nicknames do." Luz's mouth curves. Small. "Neo doesn't use guns. Never has. Says they're impersonal. I've never argued the point."<br><br> Your whole body goes cold in a way that has nothing to do with the warehouse's temperature.<br><br> "Luz—" Your voice comes out thinner than you want it to. The composure you've been holding onto all night finally cracking straight down the middle. "We don't have to do this. I can still—"<br><br> "You had your chance." Luz's tone doesn't change at all. Still even. Still almost kind. "Several of them, actually, if we're counting honestly. I gave you considerably more patience tonight than I've given most people who've sat in that chair." Luz stands. Smoothing one hand down the front of $luzHis outfit. Like preparing to leave a meeting that's simply run its natural course. "Neo will make it quick."<br><br> Neo tilts their head at you. Studying. The way you'd study a piece of meat before deciding where the first cut goes. "It's a shame." Neo's voice is rough. Probably not used much. It's the first thing you've heard them say all night.<br><br> Your whole body locks against the ropes. "Plea—"<br><br> "Your sister's heart came out while she was still breathing." Luz's grin stretches across $luzHis face. "There's a symmetry in that I can't resist. Family resemblance, all the way to the end." A hand flicks. Dismissive. "Neo."<br><br> You can't get words out fast enough to argue with that. Your mouth opens around something — a plea, a threat, you don't even know which — and nothing comes out at all, your whole throat locked around the horror of what Luz just suggested.<br><br> Neo's shadow moves before Neo does.<br><br> It peels off the floor and up Neo's own arm in a single fluid ribbon. Thickening as it climbs. Folding itself into the shape of a blade curved along Neo's fist. Not metal. Not quite anything you have a word for. Black and wet-looking and somehow sharper for it. Edges that seem to drink the work light instead of catching it. Neo crosses the space between you in three steps. Boots silent on the concrete despite their weight.<br><br> "Please—" It tears out of you. Ugly. Useless. Your voice already cracking around the shape of the word.<br><br> One hand slams flat against your sternum. Pinning your whole body back into the chair with a force that knocks the air clean out of you. The shadow-blade finds your collar and drags it open. The fabric parting easy. Exposing the line of your own throat and chest to the cold air.<br><br> The cut is fast. Deep. Not a testing line. Neo doesn't test. The blade opens your chest from collarbone to sternum in one quick motion. And for a half-second there's nothing. A strange dead silence where the pain should be. Your body too shocked to catch up to what just happened to it.<br><br> Then it arrives. All of it. At once.<br><br> White. Total. Blotting out the warehouse. Blotting out Luz's voice. Blotting out everything except your own scream tearing loose into a room that swallows it whole and gives nothing back. Blood floods hot and fast down your ribs. Soaking into what's left of your clothes. Dripping steady onto the concrete between your bound ankles. Your vision strobes. Bright. Black. Bright. Wrong. Your own heartbeat slamming so hard against your ribs you can feel it in your teeth.<br><br> Neo doesn't pause to let you catch up. The shadow at Neo's other hand thickens fast. Wrapping the fingers first. Climbing knuckle to wrist in a glove of solid dark that doesn't reflect any light at all, and then that hand plunges into the open wound.<br><br> You feel every inch of it.<br><br> The give of skin already parted. The wet, tearing resistance of muscle fiber separating under fingers that don't slow down for any of it. Something cracks. A rib. Maybe two. The sound traveling up through your own bones before the pain of it even registers as separate from everything else. The shadow-wrapped hand pushes past all of it. Reaching for something deeper and finds it — closes around it — and you feel your own heart still beating against fingers that have no business being anywhere near it.<br><br> You buck against the ropes so hard the chair legs skip and shriek against the concrete. Your whole body a single animal reflex trying to get away from something it can't possibly get away from.<br><br> Somewhere past the roar of your own pulse, you hear Luz's voice, distant, almost bored: "Careful with the incision. I want it to actually resemble the original. It seems disrespectful to the theme otherwise."<br><br> Neo's grip inside your chest adjusts, almost gentle for a single terrible second, before it isn't gentle at all.<br><br> The pull that follows is the worst thing you have ever felt in your life. Worse than the cut. Worse than the crack of your own ribs. Your entire chest cavity screams with it. A pressure and a tearing both at once. Vessels giving way one after another in a rapid, wet succession you can somehow feel individually, each one its own small, agony layered on top of the last. Your own heartbeat is the loudest sound in the world for exactly three more beats. Hard. Frantic. Unmistakable. And then it isn't beating against your ribs anymore. It's beating in Neo's fist. Already lifting clear of your chest. Slick and dark and still working for one horrible second longer.<br><br> Now you know — with a clarity that arrives far too late to matter — exactly what yous sisters last seventeen minutes felt like from the inside.<br><br> The white takes the room whole. Takes Neo's face above you. Unmoved. Unhurried. Already turning to show Luz what's in their hand. Takes the last, thin thread of your own pulse.<br><br> Then nothing.<br><br> — <br><br> Luz watches the whole thing without looking away once. Hands still folded behind $luzHis own back. Expression settled into something almost peaceful.<br><br> Neo straightens. The shadow sliding back off gloved fingers and folding itself down into something small. Dark. Closed. Tucked away like nothing happened at all. What's left in their other hand goes still. Set down on the crate beside Luz's empty tumbler with a soft, wet sound neither of them reacts to.<br><br> Luz steps forward once. Looks down at what's left in the chair. "Shame. $mcHeC had promise." A shrug. Already turning away. Already moving on. "But promise isn't loyalty, and I don't build my empire on empty promises."<br><br> Luz pauses at the edge of the light. Glancing back one last time.<br><br> "Clean this up." $luzHeC starts walking. "Put $mcHis body into some plastic bags and dump $mcHim into the ocean."<br><br> The work light hums. Steady. Indifferent. Neo gets to work.<br><br> <div class="end-demo"> <h1 class="bloodlines-title">BAB END — THE RIPPER</h1> </div>

Luz settles back into the chair across from you. Watching you with the patient, unhurried attention of someone who has all night and knows it.<br><br> "Here's my actual concern." Luz's fingers tap once against the arm of the chair. "A contract keeps people honest. Keeps them from disappearing the second things get difficult, from selling what they learn to the highest other bidder, from deciding halfway through that their own skin matters more than the deal. Without one, what exactly do I have holding you to any of this? "<br><br> Luz's head tilts. Unreadable. "You know I like to be fully in control and without a contract you'd still be very... autonomous."<br><br> <<link "⌕ \"I wasn't sure where else to go. I'm — I'm in over my head and I need help. I wouldn't betray you.\"">> <<goto "LuzBadEnd1">> <</link>><br><br> <<link "⌕ \"Because autonomous is exactly why my sources trust me. The second I'm marked as yours, every door I currently have open closes. You'd be trading a reporter people talk to for an asset people run from.\"">> <<goto "LuzBadEnd1">> <</link>><br><br> <<link "⌕ \"Because control isn't the same thing as reliability. You had complete control over Maud and she still ended up dead with nothing finished. Control didn't keep her alive or keep the job done. It just meant you owned the failure too.\"">> <<goto "LuzBadEnd1">> <</link>><br><br> <<link "⌕ \"Maybe the real issue isn't me. Maybe you don't actually know how to work with someone you can't fully own.\"">> <<goto "LuzBadEnd1">> <</link>><br><br> <<link "⌕ \"You already ran this experiment. Maud was bound to you completely, and she still ended up dead with nothing to show for the binding except a corpse. A contract didn't protect her and it didn't protect your investment. Maybe unbound and motivated actually outperforms bound and expendable.\"">> <<goto "LuzBadEnd1">> <</link>><br><br> <<link '⌕ "I don\'t disappear from stories. That\'s not a threat I need a contract to enforce, it\'s just who I am. You want proof, look at tonight."'>> <<goto "LuzBadEnd1">> <</link>><br><br> <<link "⌕ \"Because someone who chooses to stay useful to you works harder than someone who has no choice about it. Forced loyalty breeds resentment. You'd have an asset who's always looking for the exit. I'd actually want to be here.\"">> <<goto "CH2P10_Luz5">> <</link>><br><br> <<link "⌕ \"I've got protection lined up already. People who'd notice if I disappeared. You don't want that kind of attention on you.\"">> <<goto "LuzBadEnd1">> <</link>><br><br> <<link "⌕ \"You owe her this much at least. Let me do this without the leash. For Maud.\"">> <<goto "LuzBadEnd1">> <</link>><br><br> <<link "⌕ \"You could always just kill me if I try to walk. That's control too, technically.\"">> <<goto "LuzBadEnd1">> <</link>><br><br>

Luz's fingers still. Resting against the arm of the chair instead of tapping it. The head tilt that follows is slower than the last one. Actual reconsideration.<br><br> "Someone who chooses to stay useful works harder than someone who has no choice about it." Luz repeats it back. "You're not wrong. I've watched bound people give me the minimum a contract technically requires and not one ounce more, always looking for the loophole that gets them out early. Maud never did that. She actually wanted to be here. That's rarer than you'd think."<br><br> Luz taps $luzHis finger against $luzHis chin as if in thought. "Fine. No contract. So what do we do instead? I still need something. You've talked me out of my favourite leash. You haven't talked me out of needing to hold onto anything at all."<br><br> You roll your shoulders back as far as the ropes let you. Buying yourself a second to actually think instead of just react. "There's are two grey option you haven't offered me." Luz's eyes gleam. The interest of someone recognizing a move they respect more than they expected to. You decide to continue. <br><br> <<link '⌕ "Let\'s do a blood oath." You turn your bound wrist as far as it\'ll go, offering the palm. "I want the terms set before either of us bleeds for it."'>> <<set $luzBloodOath to true>> <<set $luzstat += 1>> <<goto "CH2P10_BloodOath">> <</link>><br><br> <<link '⌕ "You told me you hate empty promises. Let me do a vow, then." You hold Luz\'s stare. Steady. Refusing to blink first. "Say the terms. I\'ll swear to them out loud, right here, with Neo as witness. That\'s the only proof I\'ve got to give you."'>> <<set $luzstat -= 1>> <<goto "CH2P10_Alliance">> <</link>><br><br>

"There's a grey option you haven't offered me. A blood oath." Luz's eyes gleam. The interest of someone recognizing a move they respect more than they expected to. You decide to continue. "It's weaker than a contract. Still mutual for both of us and both of us will be bound, but only for a set term instead of forever. When the pact is fulfilled, it's over. Clean."<br><br> Luz laughs. Loud. Real. The sound bouncing flat off the warehouse rafters. Head tipping back far enough that you catch the line of $luzHis throat working. "A blood oath." Luz shakes $luzHis head slowly, still grinning. "Where exactly did you read up on that, out of curiosity. That's not exactly a topic that comes up in the average library."<br><br> "I did a piece on Infernal contract law two years ago. Nobody ran it." You keep your chin up. Refusing to let the laugh rattle you. "Doesn't mean I didn't do the research. It's a real risk. For both of us, which is the part I actually like about it. You'd be as bound to me as I'd be to you, for however long we set the term. Neither of us gets to cheat it without the magic turning on the one who tried."<br><br> "Of course you did." Luz's amusement settles into something more considering. Eyes narrowing slightly. "Here's my actual problem with it, though. Why would I willingly bind myself to you? A blood oath asks something of both of us, and I don't see what I'm gaining by putting my own name on that particular hook."<br><br> You lean into the ropes once more. Meeting Luz's stare dead on. "Isn't this boring for you, though? Owning people." Your mouth tips, humorless. "Doesn't it get old? Doesn't this—" you tip your chin at the space between you, at the whole strange negotiation "—make it more interesting than the usual routine?"<br><br> Something flickers behind Luz's eyes, and for once it isn't calculation. It's closer to genuine consideration. The look of someone turning an idea over and finding, against their own expectations, that they actually like it.<br><br> "There's also the practical argument, if boredom doesn't move you." You keep going before Luz can answer. Pressing the advantage while it's still open. "I'm human. In the long run, I'm useless to you. You said it yourself, we don't get old, we die young, and I'm going to die younger than most of your people just by virtue of not having a bloodline advantage at all. A contract locks you into decades of diminishing returns on an asset with a short shelf life. An oath doesn't. It runs its term and it's done, no obligation hanging around past its actual use."<br><br> Luz's mouth curves. You press on before the moment can close.<br><br> "And think about what happens if I die anyway, mid-contract. I know what a contract does. I know you felt Maud go. It weakened you, didn't it?" You hold Luz's gaze, unflinching. "You really want to gamble on a second binding to a mortal who's actively hunting someone dangerous enough to have already killed three bloodborns? Can you actually survive two deaths like that back to back, that close together? Or does the oath's shorter term at least cap how much damage a second loss could do to you?"<br><br> "You're either extremely clever or extremely reckless, throwing that argument at the person deciding whether to bind themselves to you." Luz's voice has dropped. More thoughtful than anything that's come out of that mouth all night. "I find I don't entirely mind which one it turns out to be."<br><br> Luz stands. Crossing to the crate where the empty tumbler still sits. Comes back with a short, curved knife you didn't notice before. Plain. Unadorned. Luz turns it once in the light. Considering.<br><br> "Let's define the terms properly, then, since you clearly know enough to insist on it." Luz crouches down in front of the chair. "We work together until whoever's killing those on the list is found and dealt with. Both of us contribute what we have. My resources, your access, whatever it takes. And for the duration, we stay loyal to that goal and to each other. No selling the other out. No walking away early because it's gotten difficult. That's the oath. Agreed?"<br><br> "Agreed." The word comes out steadier than you feel.<br><br> "I don't have paper on me, and frankly paper's beneath this kind of arrangement anyway." Luz sets the knife flat across one palm. Studying it. "We'll do it the old way. Spoken."<br><br> Luz's voice drops into something you don't recognize as any language you've ever heard. Low. Guttural. Syllables that catch strange in the back of the throat. Consonants that seem to scrape against something under the words themselves. <em>"Kar'esh voth ilarune, dho'kaan sye vel horyn."</em> The warehouse's temperature climbs half a degree as Luz speaks. $LuzHisC right eye has turned three shades of red brighter. The air around both of you going thick. Charged. Like the moment before a storm actually breaks.<br><br> You don't understand a single syllable of it. You understand, somehow, exactly what it means anyway. Blood binding blood. Will meeting will. Until the debt's paid or death claims one of you first.<br><br> Luz draws the blade across $luzHis own palm without flinching. A clean, practiced line. Blood welling up dark. Almost black. Then Luz reaches for your bound hand, and for the first time all night, cuts the rope at your wrist free. Just the one hand. Just enough. $luzHeC turns your palm up before you've fully registered you're loose.<br><br> "This part will sting." Luz doesn't sound apologetic about it. <br><br> The blade opens your palm fast. A single clean stroke. The pain is sharp and immediate and somehow smaller than everything else that's happened to your body tonight. Blood wells up quick. Dark red against your skin.<br><br> Luz presses their own palm flat against yours.<br><br> The contact is instant and overwhelming. Heat, first, so much of it that you nearly pull back on reflex. Luz's blood impossibly warm where it meets your own. Mixing between your palms in a way that feels less like liquid and more like something with its own intention. Seeking the wound instead of just pooling in it. Your whole arm goes rigid. Muscles locking from wrist to shoulder, and somewhere under the pain you feel something else entirely. A pull. Deep. Like a hook setting somewhere behind your sternum that has nothing to do with the cut on your hand.<br><br> Luz's grip tightens, and you watch, unable to look away, as something rises to the surface of your joined palms. Not blood exactly. Something darker moving through the blood. Tracing lines that don't feel random at all. Curling and looping into a shape. The pattern burns as it forms. A slow, spreading heat that sinks past your skin and settles deep into your skin. When Luz finally pulls back, releasing your hand, there's a mark left behind on your palm. Red gone nearly black at the edges. A small circle first. Closing on itself. Then three curved lines meeting at its center like a flame caught mid-flicker and frozen there. The pattern burns as it forms. A quick, spreading heat that sinks past your skin.<br><br> You turn your own hand over. Staring at it. The mark stares back. Faintly warm under your fingertip when you press against it. Like something still settling into place.<br><br> Luz turns $luzHis own palm up. The mark sitting there is identical, down to the exact angle of every curve<br><br> "There." Luz flexes the marked hand once. Testing it. Entirely unbothered by what just happened to either of you. "Done. Simple, really, which is kind of broing."<br><br> "That's it?" Your voice comes out rougher than you mean it to.<br><br> "That's it." Luz straightens. Tucking the knife away. "Oh one more thing, since you clearly did your research and I'd hate to leave a gap in it." Luz says it lightly, almost as an afterthought. "The oath only breaks two ways. One of us dies. Or one of us breaks the terms we just agreed to like selling the other out, walking away early, any of it." A small, almost pleasant shrug. "If that happens, the marked hand is the price we have to pay. Falls off at the wrist. Rather effective deterrent, I've always thought."<br><br> You feel the blood drain out of your own face."You didn't mention that part before I agreed." You curse.<br><br> "You didn't ask." Luz's mouth curves, entirely unbothered by the omission. "I'm telling you now, out of what I consider genuine courtesy. Don't break the terms, and it's never going to matter." Luz tips $luzHis head. Studying the mark on $luzHis own palm one more time before letting the hand drop. "I'd start being very careful about which promises you make from here on out, if I were you. You're very gullible."<br><br> <<if $luzApproach is "undercoverleech">> [[Continue|CH2P10_Luz6Undercover]] <</if>> <<if $luzApproach is "crazyleech">> [[Continue|CH2P10_Luz6Crazy]] <</if>>

"An alliance. Spoken." You lift your chin. Meeting Luz's mismatched eyes head-on. "Not blood. A vow said out loud from me, witnessed by Neo. I know it's weaker than an oath or a contract but a spoken promise still carries weight, doesn't it? Better than just an empty promise. You know that probably better than anyone in this room. It binds only me, even if it's not as absolute as a contract or blood."<br><br> "A word-of-mouth pact." Luz's mouth curves. "It's very weak. Breakable, with enough will though."<br><br> "Weak isn't the same as nothing." You hold the eye contact, refusing to let the ropes at your wrists distract you into looking away. "I came to you tonight. Nobody dragged me here and I'm still sitting in this chair negotiating instead of trying to talk my way out the door. That's not nothing. If I make you a vow, out loud, in front of Neo as a witness, I'm still bound. You know exactly what breaking a witnessed vow can cost a person. It could curse me or bring me misfrotune. I'd be gambling that just as much as I'd be gambling blood."<br><br> Luz's gaze drops briefly to your bound wrists, then back up. "Interesting that you're offering me the smaller magic with the longer leash instead of the bigger magic with the shorter one."<br><br> Luz studies you a long moment. The work light throwing sharp shadow across one side of $luzHis face. Mismatched eyes giving away nothing. $luzHisC expression sours slightly. The interest from a moment ago cooling. "A spoken vow." Luz drags a hand back through $luzHis own hair. Visibly unenthused. "Weaker magic and still a promise in its shape.<br><br> "It's still real magic and not just any kind of promise." You hold your ground. Chin still up despite the ache running the length of your bound arms. "You know exactly what happens to people who break a witnessed vow in this city. It's not nothing just because it's not blood. People who go back on a spoken promise end up cursed, or unlucky in ways that follow them for years."<br><br> Luz considers it. Mouth twisting into disgust. "I see you've read up on vows. Hm, fine." Said on an exhale, more bored than excited. "The vow, then. Though I want it on record that I find this considerably less interesting than the alternatives."<br><br> "Noted." You don't let the small victory show on your face.<br><br> Luz stands. Rolling one shoulder like shaking off the last of the disappointment, and looks around the warehouse floor for a second like searching for something that isn't there before apparently deciding not to bother. "No paper. Doesn't matter for this kind either way. The words carry the weight themselves." Luz crouches back down in front of the chair. Levels with you again.<br><br> Luz's voice drops into something you don't recognize as any language you've ever heard. Low. Guttural. Syllables that catch strange in the back of the throat. Consonants that seem to scrape against something under the words themselves. <em>"Vareth kaal, sye vel horyn."</em> The warehouse's temperature climbs half a degree as Luz speaks. $LuzHisC right eye has turned three shades of red brighter. The air around both of you going thick. Charged. Like the moment before a storm actually breaks.<br><br> You don't understand a single syllable of it. You understand, somehow, exactly what it means anyway. A Promise made. <br><br> "Let's define the terms properly, then, since you clearly know enough to insist on it." Luz crouches down in front of the chair. "We work together until whoever's killing those on the list is found and dealt with. Both of us contribute what we have. My resources, your access, whatever it takes. And for the duration, we stay loyal to that goal and to each other. No selling the other out. No walking away early because it's gotten difficult. That's the pact. Agreed?"<br><br> "Agreed." The word comes out steadier than you feel.<br><br> "Do you swear it." Luz's mismatched eyes hold yours. Entirely serious now. "Loyalty to this alliance until the killer's found. No selling me out. No walking away because it's gotten difficult. Say it plainly. I want to hear the actual words, not an implication of them."<br><br> "I swear it." Your voice comes out steady. Steadier than you expect given how hard your pulse is going. "Loyalty to the alliance. No betrayal. Until we find whoever did this."<br><br> Luz nods once. Satisfied. $luzHeC turns $luzHis head toward the dark at the edge of the work light. "Neo. Witness this."<br><br> Neo steps forward without a word. Black eyes catching the light wrong. Exactly like Maud's. It's the shadow at Neo's feet that moves first. Stretching thin across the concrete. Unspooling toward both you and Luz at once like something reaching for two separate anchors before returning back at Neo's feet. "I witness the pact."<br><br> Something closes around your throat.<br><br> Not hands. Not rope. A thin band of red. Materializing out of nothing. Ringed with small, delicate spikes pointing inward. Resting light against your skin for one deceptive second before it starts to shrink.<br><br> You see the exact same thing happen to Luz and to Neo simultaneously. Three identical bands cinching down in perfect unison. And for one long, terrible moment you can't get air past your own throat at all. Your chest heaving uselessly against a collar that isn't loosening no matter how hard your body fights it. Your vision swims at the edges. Dark creeping in from both sides. Your own pulse roaring loud enough to drown out every other sound in the warehouse.<br><br> Then, right at the point where panic tips over into something worse, the band goes still.<br><br> It holds there for a beat that stretches far longer than it should. Tight enough that you can feel every one of those small spikes pressing forcefully into your skin. You can feel blood dripping down your throat. Your breath is coming in short. Rationed pulls through a throat that's barely cooperating.<br><br> And then it starts to fade. Not loosening first. Just thinning. The red draining out of it in slow degrees until the whole thing dissolves into something you can't see at all. The pressure slowly easing away.<br><br> You gasp in a full breath. Ragged. Your whole chest working overtime to make up for the air that was denied. You press your chin down instinctively to check what's left.<br><br> A mark. Faint. Barely visible. A thin pale line circling your throat exactly where the band sat. Not a bruise. Not a burn. Just a soft indent in the skin. The kind of mark you'd only notice if you already knew to look for it. You feel almost nothing. A whisper of warmth and nothing more.<br><br> Across from you, Luz rolls $luzHis neck once. Testing it. An identical faint ring visible for a second in the work light before it settles into the same near-invisible trace yours has. Neo, behind Luz's shoulder, doesn't react at all beyond a slow blink. The mark at their own throat already fading same as the other two.<br><br> "There." Luz's voice comes out a touch rougher than before, clearing it once. "Sealed and witnessed." Luz studies you for a moment, something almost approving in the look before $luzHe chuckles. "That part's always more unpleasant than people expect. Nobody warns you about the throat."<br><br> "You could have warned me." Your own voice comes out hoarse. Throat still raw from the seconds you couldn't use it at all.<br><br> "I could have." Luz doesn't sound sorry about it. "But where would the fun be in that."<br><br> Luz straightens. All business again now that the ritual's finished. "The alliance is sealed. You're bound to me exactly as much as I'm now bound to you. No more, no less, and only as far as those spoken words carry it." Luz's gaze drops to your wrists, still lashed tight to the chair. "Which, for the record, is not nearly far enough to earn you an early release tonight."<br><br> "Of course not," you manage, dry despite the ache in your throat.<br><br> Neo steps back into the shadow at the edge of the work light without a word. Shape folding back into the dark like it was never fully separate from it to begin with. Luz watches you a moment longer. Eyes tracking the faint mark at your throat.<br><br> <<if $luzApproach is "undercoverleech">> [[Continue|CH2P10_Luz6Undercover]] <</if>> <<if $luzApproach is "crazyleech">> [[Continue|CH2P10_Luz6Crazy]] <</if>>

Luz walks forward until they're standing directly over the chair. Looking down at you with the same amusement from before.<br><br> "That was entertaining to watch, for what it's worth. The dancing." Luz's mouth curves, considering. "You've got no formal training at all, do you. It showed. Charmingly. For future reference, though, sedatives don't really work on me anymore. Not the standard kind anyway. My blood's built up a tolerance."<br><br> <<link '⌕ ♡ You catch your own bottom lip between your teeth for half a second. "Noted. I\'ll bring something stronger next time."'>> <<run setup.setTrait('bold', ($bold || 50) + 1)>> <<set $luzUndercoverChoice to "bold">> <<set $luzstat += 1>> <<set $luz_romance += 1>> <<goto "CH2P10_Luz7Undercover">> <</link>><br><br> <<link '⌕ ♡ You catch Luz\'s gaze doing a slow, hungry pass over the costume you\'re still wearing and remember, all at once, exactly how little of it is actually covering you right now. You sputter, look away fast.'>> <<run setup.setTrait('shy', ($shy || 50) + 1)>> <<set $luzUndercoverChoice to "shy">> <<set $luzstat += 1>> <<set $luz_romance += 1>> <<goto "CH2P10_Luz7Undercover">> <</link>><br><br> <<link '⌕ ♡ "Good to know for next time, haha." Your laugh comes out a half-beat late, too loud for the empty warehouse. You clear your throat to cover it.'>> <<run setup.setTrait('awkward', ($awkward || 50) + 1)>> <<set $luzUndercoverChoice to "awkward">> <<set $luzstat += 1>> <<set $luz_romance += 1>> <<goto "CH2P10_Luz7Undercover">> <</link>><br><br> <<link '⌕ ♡ You try for a dismissive shrug and forget your shoulders are pinned by the ropes. The motion collapses into an awkward half-jerk instead.'>> <<run setup.setTrait('clumsy', ($clumsy || 50) + 1)>> <<set $luzUndercoverChoice to "clumsy">> <<set $luzstat += 1>> <<set $luz_romance += 1>> <<goto "CH2P10_Luz7Undercover">> <</link>><br><br> <<link '⌕ ♡ "I didn\'t expect you to actually be watching that closely." You blink, not quite catching why that came out sounding the way it did. "Maybe I was more memorable than you thought."'>> <<run setup.setTrait('oblivious', ($oblivious || 50) + 1)>> <<set $luzUndercoverChoice to "oblivious">> <<set $luzstat -= 1>> <<set $luz_romance += 1>> <<goto "CH2P10_Luz7Undercover">> <</link>><br><br> <<link '⌕ "So the sedative failing wasn\'t actually a setback for you tonight. That\'s good to know for the partnership, right? One less thing that could\'ve derailed this."'>> <<run setup.setTrait('hopeful', ($hopeful || 50) + 1)>> <<set $luzUndercoverChoice to "platonichopeful">> <<set $luzstat -= 1>> <<goto "CH2P10_Luz7Undercover">> <</link>><br><br> <<link '⌕ You give a slow, humorless smile, not a trace of warmth in it. "Thanks for the tip. Next time I need to take you down, I\'ll bring something stronger."'>> <<run setup.setTrait('hopeful', ($hopeful || 50) - 1)>> <<set $luzUndercoverChoice to "platoniccynical">> <<set $luzstat -= 1>> <<goto "CH2P10_Luz7Undercover">> <</link>><br><br>

Luz drags the chair forward. Scraping it across the concrete until the two of you are close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off Luz's skin again. $luzHeC holds up the bomb between two fingers like a piece of evidence at a trial.<br><br> "This." Luz turns it once, studying the casing with interest. "This was a very good fake. Convincing enough that it actually fooled me, which doesn't happen often."<br><br> You grin. Wide. Letting the satisfaction show plain on your face. You earned this one, and you're not about to pretend otherwise. "The trick's believing it yourself. If you're convinced it's real, everyone in the room is convinced too. Nobody checks the wiring on something they've already decided is about to kill them." You shrug. Unbothered. "Helps to know someone who builds exact replicas for a living, too. All of it down to the gram."<br><br> Luz's eyes narrow. Considering. "Neo searched you the second you went down. Nothing on you but the fake." Luz hums. "So either you still have the real one sitting somewhere, or it never existed at all."<br><br> You let the grin hold. Giving nothing else away.<br><br> Luz sets the device down on the crate beside the empty tumbler. Studying your face like trying to read a language they're only half fluent in. "I genuinely can't tell if that's a yes or a very good bluff." The corner of Luz's own mouth curves. "I find I don't actually mind not knowing."<br><br> <<link '⌕ ♡ Your grin turns cocky. "Careful. Keep saying things like that and I\'ll start leaving everything ambiguous."'>> <<run setup.setTrait('bold', ($bold || 50) + 1)>> <<set $luzBombChoice to "bold">> <<set $luzstat += 1>> <<set $luz_romance += 1>> <<goto "CH2P10_Luz7Crazy">> <</link>><br><br> <<link '⌕ ♡ Being looked at like that. Seen. Makes something in your chest squirm. You look away fast.'>> <<run setup.setTrait('shy', ($shy || 50) + 1)>> <<set $luzBombChoice to "shy">> <<set $luzstat += 1>> <<set $luz_romance += 1>> <<goto "CH2P10_Luz7Crazy">> <</link>><br><br> <<link '⌕ ♡ "You can\'t read me, I can\'t read you." You nod along to your own logic like it\'s airtight. "Match made in heaven, honestly—" The words are out before you can catch them.'>> <<run setup.setTrait('awkward', ($awkward || 50) + 1)>> <<set $luzBombChoice to "awkward">> <<set $luzstat += 1>> <<set $luz_romance += 1>> <<goto "CH2P10_Luz7Crazy">> <</link>><br><br> <<link '⌕ ♡ You try for a nonchalant head-tilt back at Luz and misjudge the angle. Nearly cracking your skull against the chair frame.'>> <<run setup.setTrait('clumsy', ($clumsy || 50) + 1)>> <<set $luzBombChoice to "clumsy">> <<set $luzstat += 1>> <<set $luz_romance += 1>> <<goto "CH2P10_Luz7Crazy">> <</link>><br><br> <<link '⌕ ♡ "I like that about you too, actually." You mean it as a general observation about Luz\'s personality. It does not land as one.'>> <<run setup.setTrait('oblivious', ($oblivious || 50) + 1)>> <<set $luzBombChoice to "oblivious">> <<set $luzstat += 1>> <<set $luz_romance += 1>> <<goto "CH2P10_Luz7Crazy">> <</link>><br><br> <<link '⌕ You perk up slightly, testing the ropes with new interest. "So the pact\'s done, we\'re partners now. Does that mean these ropes are coming off any time soon, or is that a separate negotiation?"'>> <<run setup.setTrait('hopeful', ($hopeful || 50) + 1)>> <<set $luzBombChoice to "platonichopeful">> <<set $luzstat += 1>> <<goto "CH2P10_Luz7Crazy">> <</link>><br><br> <<link '⌕ You let out a short, humorless laugh, eyes flicking pointedly to the ropes. "Enjoy the mystery while it lasts. I plan on being considerably less ambiguous the second these ropes come off."'>> <<run setup.setTrait('hopeful', ($hopeful || 50) - 1)>> <<set $luzBombChoice to "platoniccynical">> <<set $luzstat -= 3>> <<goto "CH2P10_Luz7Crazy">> <</link>><br><br>

<<if $luzBombChoice is "bold">> Luz's eyebrows lift. Tongue dragging slow across $luzHis own bottom lip like tasting the cocky grin you just threw at $luzHim. "Careful. I might take you up on that."<br><br> <<elseif $luzBombChoice is "shy">> Luz notices the shift immediately. The way you looked away, and doesn't let it pass without comment. "There it is." Luz's head tilts, something almost predatory in the stillness that follows. "You go still and skittish, like a rabbit that's heard something move in the grass. I could watch that happen all night and not get bored of it."<br><br> <<elseif $luzBombChoice is "awkward">> Luz blinks, actually thrown for half a second, before a short laugh breaks loose. "Match made in heaven. Bold declaration for someone who's still tied to a chair in my warehouse." Luz shakes their head. Still grinning. "I'll allow it."<br><br> <<elseif $luzBombChoice is "clumsy">> Luz watches the near-collision with open amusement. "Careful. Wouldn't want you dying now, after all the effort you put into staying alive tonight. That would be a genuinely embarrassing way to waste a good night's work."<br><br> <<elseif $luzBombChoice is "oblivious">> Luz's mouth twitches. Fighting a real laugh, before leaning in half an inch closer than the moment strictly calls for. "You like that about me, do you." Something low and warm creeps into the words. "Careful with a line like that around someone who takes compliments as invitations."<br><br> <<elseif $luzBombChoice is "platonichopeful">> Luz actually laughs at that. "Separate negotiation. Small steps." Luz's gaze flicks to the ropes at your wrists, before coming back to your face. "You'll get there. Patience isn't your strongest skill, is it."<br><br> <<else>> Luz's smile drops fast. Replaced by something flatter. Closer to the edge from earlier. "Don't mistake my good mood for an opening." Low. A warning, not a joke. "We have a truce. That's not the same as permission to test how far it stretches."<br><br> <</if>> Eventually Luz sits back. Arms folding loose. Watching you with an attention that has shifted into something you don't have a clean name for. Not quite the cold assessment from earlier. Not quite anything soft either. Somewhere in between. Unsettling for exactly that reason.<br><br> "I've have to give you some kudos. You've managed to catch me by surprise. You walked into my club with a fake bomb and argued your way out of dying." Luz counts it off almost idly. One finger tapping against their own forearm with each point. $luzHisC gaze sharpens. Genuinely searching your face now. "You've got a fire in you. Maud was right about you. It's rare. I haven't run into it more than once or twice."<br><br> Luz pushes up out of the chair once more. Restless suddenly. "Things have been predictable for a long time in my corner of this city. Same threats. Same posturing. Same people running the same tired angles at me, over and over, none of them ever actually surprising me." Luz stops in front of you again. Closer than before. "You're not boring. You're the first genuinely interesting thing that's happened to me in a while."<br><br> Luz reaches for the bomb and raises it in a mock toast before letting it fall on the ground. "To a great partnership."<br><br> You don't see the rest of it coming.<br><br> Luz's hand closes around your jaw before you can react at all. Fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. Blunt nails pressing crescents into your skin. Tilting your face up until your neck aches with the angle. Then Luz's mouth is on yours.<br><br> Teeth first. Luz catches your bottom lip and bites down. Hard. Hard enough that you hiss against the sting. Your mouth opens on reflex around the pain. You taste copper almost immediately, your own blood welling thin where the bite broke skin.<br><br> Luz's tongue is there the instant your lips part. Underneath the smoke and something faintly sweet there's a third taste. Thick. Bitter. Trickling down the back of your own throat before you fully understand what's happening. Before you can do anything but feel it slide past the point of no return. Chemical enough that your whole mouth starts going numb at the edges within seconds. Spreading fast along your gums. Down the inside of your cheeks.<br><br> Your eyes go wide.<br><br> <<link "⌕ Bite down. Hard. Whatever's happening, you're not taking it lying down.">> <<set $luzBombReact to "bite">> <<set $luzstat += 3>> <<set $luz_romance += 3>> <<goto "CH2P10_Luz8Crazy">> <</link>><br><br> <<link "⌕ Thrash. Wrench against the ropes. Against Luz's grip. Against all of it at once.">> <<set $luzBombReact to "thrash">> <<set $luzstat += 1>> <<set $luz_romance += 1>> <<goto "CH2P10_Luz8Crazy">> <</link>><br><br> <<link "⌕ You freeze completely. You're too shocked to react.">> <<set $luzBombReact to "freeze">> <<set $luzstat -= 3>> <<set $luz_romance -= 3>> <<goto "CH2P10_Luz8Crazy">> <</link>><br><br>

<<if $luzBombReact is "bite">> You bite down. Hard. Your teeth finding the edge of Luz's lip and tongue and closing before you can think better of it.<br><br> The hiss that comes out of Luz is sharp. More surprised than actually hurt. Luz pulls back an inch. Blood welling bright at the corner of $luzHis own mouth. $luzHisC blood and yours on $luzHis lips. The look on $LuzHis face is nothing close to angry. Half-lidded instead. Hungry.<br><br> "Feisty." Luz drags their tongue slow along $luzHis bottom lip. Chasing the last of it. Eyes never once leaving your face while they do. "I like it." The words come out lower than before, almost a purr, like the pain was the best thing to happen to them all night. "Do that again and I might forget I have somewhere to be."<br><br> <<elseif $luzBombReact is "thrash">> You thrash.<br><br> Every part of you fighting the ropes. The grip on your jaw. The mouth still on yours. Your whole body straining uselessly against restraints that don't give an inch no matter how hard you pull.<br><br> Luz lets go. Unhurried. Takes $luzHis time about it. One hand trailing slow down the side of your throat on the way back, before finally releasing you entirely. Luz licks $luzHis own lips clean. Slow. Eyes tracking every inch of you gasping and straining with open, unbothered satisfaction.<br><br> "Thanks for the meal." Luz's voice comes out warm. Indulgent. Savoring the aftertaste of the word the same way they just savored everything else. "Truly. You fight so much prettier than most people bother to."<br><br> <<else>> You freeze.<br><br> Every muscle locked rigid. Your whole body gone still. Shock simply overriding every other instinct you have. Luz pulls back immediately. Studying your blank, frozen face with something that looks almost like annoyance. Like a letdown of someone who ordered something they'd been looking forward to and got served the bland version instead.<br><br> "Boring." Luz grumbles. Mouth pulling into a small, unimpressed frown that doesn't reach the rest of $luzHis face. "Are you scared?"<br><br> <</if>> You couldn't say anything even if you wanted to. You cough. Hard. Doubling forward as far as the ropes allow. Trying to spit out whatever Luz administered. Your throat's already going thick. Numb at the edges. The taste of smoke and bitterness coating the inside of your mouth no matter how many times you try to clear it.<br><br> "What—" Your voice comes out slurred. Wrong. The word barely making it out whole. "What did you give me."<br><br> Luz says something back. You watch $luzHis mouth move. Shaping words you can't quite catch anymore. The warehouse tilts sideways. The work light smearing into a long white streak across your vision. Luz's face is the last thing you can still make out at all before even that starts sliding out of focus. $luzHisC head is tipped to one side. Both eyes crinkled at the corners with genuine amusement. Teeth showing behind parted lips. Mouth curved in something too pleased to be called a smile and too cruel to be called anything softer.<br><br> Then nothing. Everything goes black once more.<br><br> //Ah, shit. Not again.//<br><br> <div class="end-demo"> <h1 class="bloodlines-title">END OF CHAPTER 2</h1> </div>

<<if $luzUndercoverChoice is "bold">> Luz's gaze catches on your mouth and stays there a full second longer than it needs to. "You're doing that on purpose." $luzHisC tongue drags once along the inside of $luzHis own bottom lip. Considering. "I appreciate the boldness. Most people trying to manage me lead with subtle flattery."<br><br> "Filed away for later," Luz adds. Stepping in close enough that you catch the smoke smell again. Sharper this close. Two fingers hook under your chin. Brief. Before letting go entirely. "I do enjoy someone who commits to a bit, even tied to a chair in my warehouse at three in the morning."<br><br> <<elseif $luzUndercoverChoice is "shy">> Luz doesn't miss the sputter. The fast drop of your eyes toward your own knees. $luzHeC clicks $luzHis tongue once. Satisfied with $luzHimself for causing it. "There it is." Luz rocks back on $luzHis heels. Arms folding loose across $luzHis chest.<br><br> "You're considerably easier to fluster than the last several hours would've suggested." $luzHeC sounds genuinely more curious than mocking. "I'm going to enjoy figuring out what else does that to you. Purely for research purposes, of course."<br><br> <<elseif $luzUndercoverChoice is "awkward">> Luz's mouth twitches. Fighting it for exactly one second before losing entirely. "That landed exactly as badly as you clearly think it did." Luz shakes $luzHis head. Still grinning. Shoulders actually shaking with it now. "Somehow I don't mind it. Keep going. I want to see how much worse you can make this."<br><br> <<elseif $luzUndercoverChoice is "clumsy">> Luz watches the failed shrug collapse into a half-jerk against the ropes and doesn't bother hiding the amusement this time. A real laugh breaking loose. Loud enough that it bounces flat off the warehouse rafters. One hand slapping once against $luzHis own knee. "You've spent this entire night fighting for your life. You sometimes seem so competent and then sometimes... you're not. I find that combination considerably more interesting than it has any right to be." Luz straightens. Wiping the last of the laugh off $luzHis own face.<br><br> <<elseif $luzUndercoverChoice is "oblivious">> Luz's eyebrows lift. Genuinely thrown for a second. "Memorable." Luz repeats it. "That's one word for it, certainly." A short exhale. Almost a laugh. Not quite making it all the way there. One hand drags back through $luzHis own hair. The white and black halves catching the work light differently as it falls back into place.<br><br> "Sure," Luz says finally. Mouth pulling sideways like biting back whatever the actual thought was. "Mostly because I don't think you meant it the way it came out, and I find that considerably funnier than if you had."<br><br> <<elseif $luzUndercoverChoice is "platonichopeful">> Luz actually laughs at that. Arms uncrossing to gesture loosely at the whole situation. The chair. The ropes. The warehouse. "One less thing, yes." Luz's gaze drops to your bound wrists. Lingers there a second. Then comes back up to your face. "You're better at finding the actual silver lining in a genuinely bad night than most people who've sat exactly where you're sitting. Most of them just cry. Or beg. You did neither, which I appreciate."<br><br> <<else>> Luz's expression flattens to match yours exactly. The warmth from a second ago folding away like it was never there at all. "Noted." Short. Clipped. Luz's arms cross. "I'll be sure to upgrade my own precautions accordingly, given you've apparently already started planning the next time you try to take me down when we just made a deal."<br><br> Luz continues to just looks at you. Unreadable. $luzHisC mouth curves into something thinner than a smile. "I do appreciate that you're not pretending otherwise. Most people in your position would lie about that part. You're just telling me outright. I haven't decided yet if that makes you smarter or more foolish than the rest of them."<br><br> <</if>> Eventually Luz sits back. Arms folding loose. Watching you with an attention that has shifted into something you don't have a clean name for. Not quite the cold assessment from earlier. Not quite anything soft either. Somewhere in between. Unsettling for exactly that reason.<br><br> "I've have to give you some kudos. You've managed to catch me by surprise. You infitrated my club, somehow became a dancer and tried to drug me ." Luz counts it off almost idly. One finger tapping against their own forearm with each point. $luzHisC gaze sharpens. Genuinely searching your face now. "You've got a fire in you. Maud was right about you. It's rare. I haven't run into it more than once or twice."<br><br> Luz pushes up out of the chair once more. Restless suddenly. "Things have been predictable for a long time in my corner of this city. Same threats. Same posturing. Same people running the same tired angles at me, over and over, none of them ever actually surprising me." Luz stops in front of you again. Closer than before. "You're not boring. You're the first genuinely interesting thing that's happened to me in a while."<br><br> Luz raises $luzHis hand in a mock toast. "To a great partnership."<br><br> You don't see the rest of it coming.<br><br> Luz snaps $luzHis fingers once. Sharp. Neo's immediately moving.<br><br> They grip the back of your neck with one hand. Tilting your face up until your neck aches with the angle. Holding you steady. Before you can react they press a small glass vial to your lips with the other hand. No warning. Just cold glass forced hard against your mouth and tipped before you can clamp your jaw shut against it. Whatever's inside floods past your lips fast. Thick. Bitter. Trickling down the back of your own throat before you fully understand what's happening. Before you can do anything but feel it slide past the point of no return. Chemical enough that your whole mouth starts going numb at the edges within seconds. Spreading fast along your gums. Down the inside of your cheeks.<br><br> Your eyes go wide.<br><br> You cough. Hard. Doubling forward as far as the ropes allow. Trying to spit out whatever Luz administered. Your throat's already going thick. Numb at the edges. The taste of smoke and bitterness coating the inside of your mouth no matter how many times you try to clear it.<br><br> "What—" Your voice comes out slurred. Wrong. The word barely making it out whole. "What did you give me."<br><br> Luz says something back. You watch $luzHis mouth move. Shaping words you can't quite catch anymore. The warehouse tilts sideways. The work light smearing into a long white streak across your vision. Luz's face is the last thing you can still make out at all before even that starts sliding out of focus. $luzHisC head is tipped to one side. Both eyes crinkled at the corners with genuine amusement. Teeth showing behind parted lips. Mouth curved in something too pleased to be called a smile and too cruel to be called anything softer.<br><br> Then nothing. Everything goes black once more.<br><br> //Ah, shit. Not again.//<br><br> <div class="end-demo"> <h1 class="bloodlines-title">END OF CHAPTER 2</h1> </div>