The day to meet Professor Isaak Silva is here.
I wear the blue blazer and strap my cylindrical bag over my shoulder as usual. My diary sits in my pocket, alongside the Damian Smith Registry and my warehouse key.
Early in the morning, I hop into a carriage and instruct the jarvy: the alley between the florist shops. The carriage moves through the quiet streets, and I step down at the alley.
I walk from the alley to my warehouse, then to an open street. At the fork, I turn right toward the market.
I walk through the market until I find the smithshop.
"Excuse me," I say, approaching the clerk outside. "I'm the one who ordered the chair that looks like a throne."
"Ah, that weird chair," he smiles. "Come." He gestures for me to follow him inside.
I follow him. We stop in front of a chair.
It is a monolith of dark, unreflective wood—bog oak. Its high back is carved with jagged, geometric reliefs that don't quite form a pattern, creating valleys of deep shadow even under direct light. Where the armrests meet the seat, the wood is polished to a glassy sheen from the friction of countless palms.
"This is your chair, monsieur," he says.
I step closer and run my finger over it. The surface feels like touching frozen velvet. The wood is unnaturally cold, as if it draws heat out of the air rather than reflecting it. The carvings are sharp and precise; the edges of the throne don't feel rounded by time, but honed like a blade.
"I want you to deliver this to my warehouse," I say, my heart thumping.
"Okay, monsieur."
The clerk calls porters to lift it.
I have the porters place my chair opposite the entrance.
I pause.
"Two inches left," I say.
They move it.
I nod—then have them move it back again, a fraction.
I also have them rearrange my heavy table to match the chair.
I tip the porters ten rocks each before they leave.
The room now smells of old beeswax and oxidized iron.
I walk to my throne.
I stop.
I don't sit.
I examine it again.
It fits.
When I sit, it doesn't resist me. It yields with a sighing hiss of air, conforming to my frame with precision. It is unnervingly comfortable, supporting every vertebra and joint so perfectly that I feel weightless, yet the structure remains rigid.
My fingers rest on the armrests.
I leave them there.
Moments pass. It is almost time for morning class.
I take my time walking back to the street, then turn left at the fork. Straight through the vaporgates and their mist, crossing into the clear grounds of Haverstock University.
I enter through the vestibule. Students murmur.
"Jacksen is scary," a voice says.
"It happened in the JCR?" another whispers.
"Poor Kayla."
No one speaks of Damian Smith.
No one speaks of me.
From the vestibule, through the hall, I climb to the third floor and enter the first room on my right—3-1.
It is already filled.
Female students sit in the front.
Male students in the back.
I climb to the highest tier—the back row.
I sit.
I wait.
Then—
The door opens.
"KYAAAAAAAA!"
High-pitched screams tear through the room.
Professor Silva enters. He walks to the platform and places his bag and a decanter on the desk. He stands at the center.
"Shhh." He raises a finger to his lips.
The room falls silent.
He steps forward and scans the classroom.
His eyes lock on me.
"Damian." He curls his fingers, gesturing me forward.
I stand and go to him. "Yes, Professor?"
He turns me toward a girl in the front. "This is Kayla."
Kayla lifts her hand and waves.
"You sit next to her," he whispers. "She's beautiful, isn't she?"
I look at her.
Then back at him.
His gaze flicks to my lips, then back to my eyes, a whisper of amusement.
"She's my type," I whisper, forcing my lips to stretch. I try to be natural.
I sit next to her. Brunette. Blue hair. Soft, clean lips. She smells of citrus.
"I'm Kayla," she whispers.
"Damian," I whisper back.
"Cough."
Professor Silva winks at me.
Some students whisper.
A beat.
"Okay, class. What is today's topic?"
A boy in the back raises his hand.
"Yes, you," Silva points at him.
"Cultists' mad rituals," the boy says.
"Correct," Silva replies. "You may kiss a girl."
The boy steps out of his seat and walks toward one of the girls in the front. He kisses her.
"KYAAAAAAAA!"
The class erupts.
"Shhhhhhh!" Silva presses a finger to his lips as the boy returns to his seat.
"The Lucid Choir is an example," he pauses. "They spread Luxianity. They spread to our neighbor across the channel—the Rozarian Empire."
He moves toward a girl near him and looks down at her.
She looks up.
"Do you know what they do?"
"I don't know, Professor," she says.
He moves to another and asks the same.
"I don't know," another girl shakes her head.
He returns to the platform and picks up the decanter.
"Look at this. Beautiful, isn't it? The Rozarian Empire is obsessed with clarity. They call it Luxianity. They believe the soul is a defect unless it is transparent. They swallow salts until their very throats turn to glass, all so their Prophet can look inside them and see… what? Purity?"
He points at the decanter.
CRAAAAAACK.
He throws it to the floor. It shatters.
"THIS IS MADNESS!" he yells, his voice echoing through the room. "Madnessssssss…."
He approaches a girl in the front row and places his hand on her face.
"Do you want to join them?"
"No," the girl says, her face turning red.
He pulls her closer and kisses her.
"KYAAAAAAAA!"
The class erupts again.
Before the class ends, he calls me.
"Come to my chamber."
I nod.
I follow him. We climb to the fourth floor through a long corridor. He opens a door and gestures me in.
I walk in first. He follows and closes the door.
Suddenly, he hugs me from behind. His hands grip my waist tightly. His breath is warm on my neck.
"Professor?"
Then—he licks my neck.
I break his grip and step away.
"What was that for?" I ask.
"Nothing," he smiles. "Did you like my gift?"
"Your gift?"
A beat. He studies me before speaking.
"Kayla."
"Kayla?" I ask. "What do you mean?"
"She's beautiful and hot. You can have her." He licks his finger.
I shudder. My chest tightens. My muscles seize, turning leaden and rigid.
"Thanks, Professor," I say, swallowing.
He walks to his bed, bends, and pulls out a wooden box. He turns and presses it into my hands.
"Open it."
I look at him, then at the box.
I lift the lid, his eyes never leaving mine.
"It's empty, Professor?"
I close the box.
"Okay," he exhales. "Take this box and bring it to Lethor Hospital."
I hold it against my waist.
"Professor, about the girl—"
"Shhhh," he cuts me off. "I know what you want. For now, settle with Kayla. You can play with her however you like."
"Understood." I stretch my lips.
"Damian, you're special," he smiles. "Now go. Return after you finish."
I show him my natural smile before leaving his room.
I walk out of the main building, slow and deliberate.
I pause at the edge of the vaporgates' mist. Beyond the mist, the smog swirls like a solid wall. I step forward carefully, letting the mist cloak my movement. Only when I'm fully obscured do I pick up pace, running in measured bursts.
I don't look back.
My heart is racing.
I run towards the alley of my warehouse as fast as I can.
Once I'm in the alley, I stand still.
I close my eyes. I picture Ashlynn. Her smile. Her smell. Her skin. The way she speaks. Her amber eyes. And the mole under her left eye.
I exhale a small breath.
My heartbeat slows.
I look around.
No one follows me.
I open my warehouse, enter then lock it from the inside.
I place the wooden box on the table.
Lift the lid.
Look inside.
An evidence.
IAMs.
Gold.