The room had gone still again, the kind of stillness that gathered before negotiations—or executions.

  Corvin leaned back in his chair, cigar smoke curling like thought above his head. “You misunderstand, cat,” he said slowly, voice deliberate and measured. “I am a man of considerable influence. Wealth. Connections. Fumehold’s veins run deep, and my hand rests on the pulse. What you’ve done here today—while impressive—was… costly. Yet not beyond repair. You and I could reach an arrangement.” He paused, letting each word roll out with a deliberate, practiced patience. “A favorable decision benefits us both.”

  Quasi blinked at him. “Is there a reason you talk like molasses trying to lecture a clock?” he asked, tone dry. “I’ve met snails that get to the point faster. You sound like a washed-up mafia boss trying to sell dignity by the pound.”

  The corner of Corvin’s mouth twitched, the smallest crack in his composure. “I choose my words carefully,” he said, still calm. “They are the currency of men who live long enough to regret speaking too soon.”

  Quasi tilted his head, unimpressed. “You mean you’re slow. It’s fine, I’ve seen it before. Early-onset pompousness. The symptoms are the same—droning speeches, an inability to shut up, and terrible taste in furniture. Don’t worry, it’s not fatal… until I make it that way.”

  Corvin exhaled through his nose, unamused, and turned to the man beside him. “Mr. Dalmare,” he said, addressing the Gambino representative, “perhaps you would explain to our guest that there is merit in coming to an agreement.”

  The man—slim, dark suit immaculate, hair silvering at the temples—frowned faintly. “With respect, Mister Malvek,” he said, his tone crisp and professional, “I’d prefer to stay out of this particular mess.” His eyes drifted to Quasi. “If one of Fumehold’s major crime lords finds himself at metaphorical gunpoint in his own office, perhaps he’s not the partner we’d hoped he was.”

  Quasi grinned. “Finally, someone with taste.”

  Dalmare didn’t return it. His gaze shifted past Quasi, to the child half-hidden behind a chair. “The Gambino family finds kidnapping children… distasteful,” he said, voice low but sharp. “We prefer to deal with men who understand the value of certain lines not being crossed.”

  That landed like a thrown knife. Corvin’s hand twitched near a pistol under the desk. Quasi’s grin widened, feral and toothy.

  “See? Even the mob has standards, Corvin. You’re losing the moral high ground to organized crime.”

  The air was tightening—seconds from snapping—when the door banged open. Quasi turned to the sound, surprised.

  “Myers!” The name hit the room like a strike of thunder.

  The old man stood framed in the doorway, staring forward. His cane gleamed faintly in the lamplight. His gaze ignored Quasi, ignored Corvin, locking onto the small child.

  “Clay!”

  The girl turned, eyes wide.

  He crossed the room in an instant—no hesitation, no measured grace—just motion born of terror and relief colliding. His cane clattered as he dropped it and wrapped his arms around her, pulling her tight against his chest.

  “Thank the gods,” he breathed. His voice, always calm and careful, broke around the edges. “You’re safe.”

  Clay buried her face against him, giggling, but happy.

  For a heartbeat, the world stopped. The tension, the guns, the smoke—all of it hung suspended around that quiet reunion.

  Quasi, still on the desk, flicked an ear and muttered, “Took you long enough, old man.”

  Corvin’s hand, now resting on the pistol, hesitated.

  Dalmare watched in silence, calculating what this new variable meant.

  And in that fragile, breath-held stillness, the balance of power in the room shifted entirely.

  The door burst open again—this time not with panic, but with purpose. Heavy boots clanked, claws scraped, and fur bristled as the rest of Quasi’s entourage poured into the office.

  Mishka was first, eyes gleaming as she barked sharply at Quasi. The sound echoed off the walls, cutting through the smoke and the perfume of burnt ink.

  Quasi looked down from his vantage point, one ear twitching. “Yes, yes, you’ve found me. Now stop barking.”

  Behind her came Boriss, grinning wide, face streaked with a grin. “Comrade Quasi!” he boomed, voice full of laughter. “You make proper Russian mess downstairs. Is very nice. Like mother when angry!”

  Quasi chuckled, flicking the last of the spilled ink from his paw. “Took some effort, but I’m thrilled to have your professional approval.”

  Boriss’s grin widened as his gaze settled on Corvin behind the desk. “And who is fat man?” he asked, pointing with the tip of his finger. “He look like Cillian in suit—but is little taller, little uglier.”

  Quasi turned to Corvin, tail flicking lazily. “Ah, yes, allow me to introduce him properly,” he said with exaggerated cheer. “This is Corvin Malvek, connoisseur of human misery, collector of questionable art, black-market enthusiast, part-time philosopher, and full-time idiot. He runs this fine establishment where you can buy anything—provided you don’t mind the screaming in the basement.”

  Boriss laughed. “He look like man who bribe priest to be forgiven wholesale.”

  “Exactly,” Quasi said, nodding solemnly. “He’s got that face that says, ‘I’ve never done a day of honest work, but I do have opinions about wine.’”

  Corvin’s hand twitched near the pistols trigger. His face remains composed, but has grown incredibly agitated.

  Quasi stretches on the desk before sauntering closer, tail curling. “Now, where were we?” he mused aloud. “Ah, yes.” His eyes gleamed. “We were going to discuss your death. How you’d like to go about it.”

  Corvin stiffened, but Quasi continued, tone light and conversational. “Option one—quick. Bang, flash, scream, done. No fuss. Option two—slow. I get creative. Fire, claws, maybe a touch of poetic irony. Option three—you make me laugh, and I give you five extra seconds to pray to whatever god you worship before I throw you out a window.” He glanced at the windowless walls. “After I make said windows.”

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  Corvin’s knuckles whitened on the pistol grip. Sweat beaded near his temple as he prepared to lift and shoot.

  Quasi smiled, teeth white against the soot. “I’m open to negotiation, of course. But you should probably decide fast—”

  A gunshot cracked through the room.

  The sound was sharp and final.

  And for a heartbeat, no one moved.

  The crack of the gunshot still rang in their ears when Corvin Malvek slumped backward in his chair.

  A neat, smoking hole sat perfectly centered in his forehead. The cigar tumbled from his fingers, hissing out against the carpet.

  Daiyu stood by the door, one hand steady on her engraved pistol. The silver etchings glowed faintly before fading as the smoke curled from the barrel. Her breath came out slow—controlled—but her eyes flicked to Quasi with a hint of uncertainty.

  Quasi stared at her. His tail stopped moving. His expression froze somewhere between disbelief and outrage.

  “Why,” he said slowly, “did you do that?”

  Daiyu blinked. “He was reaching for his gun—”

  “I know he was reaching for his gun!” Quasi snapped, leaping from the desk, tail puffing. “That was the point! I was waiting for him to try it! You think I’d let a washed-up, beige-loving, bargain-bin mobster actually shoot me? He’d have died mid-trigger pull just for the audacity!”

  He waved a paw toward the corpse. “And now look at this! Blood all over the rug! Do you have any idea how hard it is to get brain matter out of woven wool? You need vinegar, salt, ice water, and the patience of a saint! And don’t even get me started on the smell—ugh!”

  Daiyu’s mouth opened and closed. “I—uh—I’m sorry?”

  Quasi spun on her, gesturing dramatically. “Do you have any idea how rare it is to get a proper conversation with a mafia boss before setting him on fire? You ruined it! He was right there! I was in the zone!”

  Daiyu, now visibly uncomfortable, holstered her weapon. “I… I’m sorry. It looked like he was about to—”

  Quasi sighed and shrugged, irritation melting into lazy indifference. “Eh. He was going to die anyway. Guess you just beat me to it.”

  He yawned, stretching. “Still… points for initiative.”

  He hopped lightly back onto the desk, paws smeared with blood, and glanced at his crew. “Well. Since the big boss is dead, I guess that’s our cue to head back to the ship. I’m tired. Someone must carry me.”

  Myers, still kneeling beside Clay, reached across the desk to pick up the runed necklace. The jewel pulsed faintly in his hand. He wiped it clean, then gently slipped it around Clay’s neck again. The child stirred faintly, clutching it as if recognizing the touch.

  Across the desk, Dalmare finally rose. His expression remained composed, though a faint pout creased his mouth as he eyed the pendant. Still, he said nothing.

  “We can’t return to Sparkhold tonight,” Myers said quietly, standing. “The gates are closed after dusk. We’ll need to find somewhere to stay until morning.”

  From the far side of the room, Veynar turned, holding the runed quill he’d been examining earlier. “I have a facility nearby,” he offered in his calm, almost detached tone. “Plenty of space. Secure, private. We can rest there until dawn.”

  Quasi yawned again, eyes half-lidded. “Good enough for me. Lead the way.”

  The group began to file out—Myers guiding Clay, Boriss whistling tunelessly, Yuto keeping quiet but watchful, Mishka padding silently beside him. Nepenthes followed last, pincers twitching faintly.

  When the door finally swung shut behind them, silence reclaimed the office.

  Dalmare remained where he stood for a moment, hands in his pockets. He looked down at Corvin’s lifeless form, the blood soaking deep into the rug.

  After a pause, he exhaled softly through his nose. “He was right about one thing,” he murmured, adjusting his cufflinks. “That stain will be hell to clean.”

  Then he turned and left.

  ***

  The walk through Fumehold took nearly ten minutes—ten long, echoing minutes of violet-lit tunnels and the soft hiss of gas flowing through pipes above. The group’s footsteps thudded against damp stone until at last Veynar stopped before what appeared to be a dead end: a thick slab of metal framed in concrete.

  The “door,” if it could be called that, was battered with old gouges and scorch marks—signs of past attempts to pry, melt, or blast it open.

  “We’re here,” Veynar said simply.

  Quasi tilted his head from his perch in Daiyu’s arms, tail flicking. “That door looks fake.”

  “You are perceptive.” Veynar gave a thin smile. He stepped forward and knocked—once, twice, three times, then again in a rhythm that made no sense until the last beat landed like a code being completed.

  A moment passed. Then the air shifted. Pressure hissed through unseen vents, and the entire wall shuddered before sinking downward, grinding like the slow breath of some buried machine.

  The ground trembled until the stone face vanished, revealing a corridor large enough for a carriage to drive through. Pale glass tubes ran along the ceiling, glowing with the same violet gas that lit the rest of Fumehold, but steadier—cleaner.

  “This is the back entrance to my shop,” Veynar said, turning. “Quickly, if you would. The wall will reseal itself in moments.”

  They stepped through. As the wall rumbled shut behind them, Quasi gave a small nod of appreciation. “Reinforced steel, multi-layered cement, gaslock mechanism,” he murmured. “Now that’s home security. If I ever start a supervillain career, I’m stealing your contractor.”

  The hallway ahead opened into something that looked halfway between a laboratory and a madman’s shrine to science. Racks of glass cylinders hissed softly. The air smelled faintly of oil and antiseptic. Tables lay cluttered with tools—some surgical, some alchemical, and some disturbingly unclassifiable.

  Boriss let out a low whistle. “Ahh. Is very nice. Like doctor’s office… if doctor hated patients.”

  “What is this place?” Myers asked, cane tapping against the floor as his eyes swept the room.

  “My workshop,” Veynar replied, voice calm as he moved past them. “Where I conduct my experiments, and my surgeries.” He reached a metal table and ran a gloved finger along its surface, revealing a streak through the dust. “My assistants should have kept it clean. Hmm. They must have been killed after my capture months ago. Pity—it takes time to train good help.”

  Nepenthes’ eyes gleamed faintly in the violet light. “I approve of your methods,” she said, tone perfectly neutral. “Efficient use of dead space. Though your sanitation practices are… lacking.”

  Veynar inclined his head in acknowledgment, though his expression didn’t change. “A fair criticism.”

  He walked to the far end of the chamber, where another door waited—smaller, sealed tight. With a flick of a nearby switch, a line of pipes hissed to life. Violet gas pulsed through transparent tubing, filling the room beyond with soft, living light.

  When he opened the door, the group found themselves staring into what could only be described as a ward: a long room lined with a dozen beds, each draped in dust-coated but pristine sheets. Old medical instruments gleamed faintly on a rolling tray nearby. The air smelled faintly of iron and old linen.

  “This will suffice for the night,” Veynar said, stepping inside. “The beds are clean, and the facility is sealed. You’ll be safe here.”

  Quasi hopped down from Daiyu’s arms, padding into the room and sniffing a bed before curling onto it without hesitation. “Perfect,” he yawned. “I love it when my accommodations come with mild existential dread.”

  Boriss chuckled and patted the wall. “Da. Is like home.”