Gary calls me to his office early in the morning.
"Good Monday, Len," he greets me, standing by the window.
"Good Monday."
I walk toward his desk. The morning light cut through the blinds in sharp lines, splitting the room into exact bands of brightness and shadow. Everything felt measured—nothing out of place.
A moment.
He turns, walks to his desk, then sits. Every paper was aligned; pens rested perfectly in their holder. The room hummed quietly.
"About Professor Silva," he says. "He has one more pet he uses to deliver IAM."
I nod.
"Alfrey Ferchild," he says. "No portraits."
"How do I find him?"
"I heard he goes to the same university you—Damian Smith—attends," he continues. "Find him."
"Okay," I say. "So after that I just need to capture him? For interrogation?"
"No."
He exhales. The faint crease in his sleeve caught the light, the slight tilt of his chair marked a calculation. The room held its breath with him.
"Kill him."
The word settles. The room feels smaller.
My fingers curl, then relax. I nod anyway.
Another choice tightens my path.
"I already killed Willan," he says. "Alfrey is the only pet Silva has left." He looks at me. "If both students die, what do you think will happen?"
"I will become his new pet."
"Exactly."
I leave Hearthlight Building and return to my hotel room.
The room is empty. Ashlynn was gone, leaving nothing behind but the sterile sting of soap and the annoying hiss of the vent.
I change out of my rigid Hearthlight uniform and into a blue student blazer. The new cylindrical bag straps over my shoulder to finish the look.
Then I move to the bathroom, kneeling on the floor to reach under the wooden vanity. The gold I glued there waits for me. I pry it free with steady strength—some of it breaks, and wood chips scatter across the floor. I gather the chips carefully, brushing them aside until the surface is clean, then slip the gold into my pocket alongside Damian Smith Registry and Nathan's folded paper.
Leaving the hotel, I hop into a carriage that rumbles through narrow streets, stopping at the alley between the florist shops. I step down and walk past Thadeo Owright's red brick warehouse. At the end of the alley, I take a left to leave it, moving straight into the street. At the fork ahead, I take a right, following the road that leads directly to the market.
"Excuse me, do you know where I can find a Smith?" I ask a nearby merchant.
"Just keep walking—you'll see Smithshop," he replies.
"Ok, thanks."
Rocks litter the cobblestones. I bend, pick them up—one, two, three… more—into the bag they go. Passersby glance, some frown, some shrug. I ignore them.
I approach a clerk standing outside a shop. "Excuse me, I would like to purchase some furniture."
"Sure," he says, walking inside. "What kind?"
"Huge table, three steel shelves, and three chests," I say. "Chair too—a big one. Looks like a throne."
"Huge wooden table, steel shelves and chests, three each, plus a chair that you mentioned," he repeats.
"Yes."
"We can get everything today except the chair," he adds. "Delivery costs extra."
"I'll also pay for delivery. When can I get the chair?"
"In four days—Friday," he says, holding up four fingers.
"Got it."
The purchase costs me 110 rocks. Porters appear, ready to follow. I lead them to the warehouse.
I unlock the red brick warehouse. The air smells faintly of brick and dust. Large table in the middle, chests line the eastern wall, shelves the western. Every placement precise.
I hand the porters 10 rocks each as a gift. They nod and leave.
Alone, I step back. My warehouse. My chair—the throne—will complete it.
I place the remaining rocks among the steel chests, emptying my bag. Then, climbing the shelves, I tuck the gold and Nathan's folded paper into a crack along the end of a dark timber support beam.
I have finished what I came for.
I return to the street fork, take a left opposite the market. The looming silhouette of the clocktower comes into view. I walk through the vaporgates, the filtered mist parts the city smog, revealing Haverstock University.
Students pass by, some entering, some leaving.
The gravel paths crunch underfoot, leading me to the main building—a monolithic pillar of vitrified blue brick.
Through the heavy oak doors, I enter the vestibule, then to the hall and climb the grand staircase.
On the second floor, the library spreads before me, visible through stained glass set between dark oak panels. I slip inside; the noise of the grand atrium fades. The air is thick with decaying parchment. Oak bookcases rise like ribs toward the shadowed ceiling. Long study tables scatter liquid lanterns, their pools of light reflecting on polished surfaces.
I pull a book from a shelf and step close to a glass panel, looking out at the grand staircases stretching from the first to the fourth floor. My gaze drifts between the students in the library and the ones navigating the stairways.
Some are here to study. Some work on tasks. A few couples exploit the silence to flirt, pressing brief kisses.
Time passes by.
DING.
The bells ring. Students spill from the corridors, first to third floors, moving in frantic swarms, shoulders bumping, elbows jostling for the staircases.
Among them, Professor Silva stands on the third-floor walkway, a cluster of students around him, hanging on his every word.
I walk to the mezzanine. Above me, on the third-floor walkway, Professor Silva and the his students. His voice is low, careful, but carries across the corridor. I inch along the edge, every step deliberate, staying just out of his sightline.
A name floats from the group, soft and casual, yet precise. One of the girls calls to a tall, broad-shouldered student: "Alfrey, you'll ruin the experiment again if you don't pay attention."
Confirmation.
My heart ticks a fraction faster.
I note Alfrey's posture, the way he leans on the railing, the subtle bulge of muscle under his sleeves—enough to make a fight possible if it comes to that. I remain hidden, letting the crowd provide cover. Every movement calculated; no step creaks, no edge catches light.
I shift along the mezzanine for a better angle. A moment passes.
The group disperses. Professor Silva climbs to the fourth floor. Alfrey, with three girls, descends to the second floor, turning toward the east connector.
Grey daylight strikes through the windows, illuminating Alfrey's profile—strong jaw, heavy brow, dark hair, blue eyes.
They reach the end of the bridge and push through the double oak doors. Brass plate: Junior Common Room.
I slip through just before the door slams.
The common room is dim, amber-hued. Brass wall sconces flicker against dark wood, and the massive marble fireplace throws long, dancing shadows. The harsh glare of the heights is gone, replaced by the low, confident murmurs of elite students and the rhythmic clack of billiard balls.
I move toward a long mahogany sideboard crowded with crystal decanters of Port and Sherry, silver trays of biscuits, and heavy pewter tankards. The faint smell of aged liquor and polished wood hangs in the air.
I lift a bottle of absinthe and fill a tankard, the liquid catching the firelight in faint green glimmers. I position myself carefully, moving so Alfrey can't see me, and angling around the three girls so they don't catch sight of me either.
Then—
"Curse you, Ferchild."
The murmur comes from a thin, trembling boy nearby, frantic energy buzzing like static.
I approach his table from behind. His tankard is empty. Slowly, deliberately, I swap it with mine. The faint metallic scent of pewter mixes with the sharp green of absinthe. I retreat, each step measured, timing precise.
I watch him lift the tankard, tilt it, swallow. His eyes twitch. His hand jerks slightly. Nothing else.
I don't linger. I slip toward the lavatory. All stalls are empty. I slide into one, lock it. The latch clicks, final.
A moment passes.
Voices rise from the Common Room—shouts, colliding bodies, chaos spilling across corridors. The noise peaks, then fades, swallowed by the building.
I wait, pressed against the cold stall wall, breathing shallow. Every shadow seems to lean closer, every creak of timber magnified.
BAM.
A door slams.
Footsteps enter—two sets.
Click.
The door locks.
"What's your problem, you prick?"
The other mutters something under his breath. I stay still, letting them settle into the space, letting the tension hang.
Then—
POW.
The door rattles, shouts ricocheting off the tiles.
Thuds—sharp, sudden—strike the porcelain sinks. Boots skid across wet stone. Something clatters: a soap dish, a metal trash can, the echo bouncing back. Grunts slice the chaos, harsh and quick.
A thump, then a scraping drag along the wall. Words hissed through gritted teeth, indistinct but full of anger.
CRACK.
A fist meets tile—loud, ringing. Another responds, muffled curse following. Shoes scrape, water hissing underfoot.
"Damn, you!"
A crash, a sharp exhale, then—silence for a heartbeat, broken by a chair or stall door slamming. A short, pained grunt.
Footfalls slow, heavier now, calculated.
"DIEEEEE!"
The yell cracks, trembles. Another object drops with a clatter. The room stills.
Only one voice remains, ragged, victorious, each labored breath sharp against the tiles.
Click.
The door unlocks. Footsteps retreat, fading into the distance. A low, uneven breathing lingers.
I open my stall and step out.
Alfrey Ferchild lies on the floor, whimpering, bleeding, too weak to even cry out.
I kneel above him, placing my hands on his neck.
He doesn't even know why this happens.
Then—
I escape through the lavatory window.
Alfrey's struggle ends as mine is about to start.