The hair straightener is less frightening now, its heat completely dwarfed by the enormity of this morning.

Astrid works as diligently as she did yesterday, mumbling about this nothing or that. Harriet isn’t listening. Can’t take her eyes off the mirror. Today’s outfit is already on. A green vest over a white blouse, more short skirts and tights. It’s less inconspicuous, and by that, she means she can’t see her underwear. But even if she did, it would feel like a moot point. It’s not the clothes she’s actually looking at.

The Sun has just left the peaks of the skyscrapers. Lurching back into view.

She's stunned, stunned, silent, like some mediaeval peasant who’s just seen the face of God. It’s the fundamental law of all Nocturni. The part of the curse one can never forget. And Soteris broke it. Cheating, perhaps, but… It doesn’t feel like cheating.

It feels far too real.

“You know, whateva shampoo you’se usin’, I-I get that you’re tryna impress me an’ all, really, it’s kind.” Astrid awkwardly laughs. Today Addana’s nowhere to be seen. “B-b-but you don’t ‘ave to use as much as-"

Harriet recoils. She can feel something wet and cold on her fingers, and fangs out, she twists to look. Astrid is kneeling over Harriet’s hand, blinking at her in confusion.

“Wh-whoa there, cowgirl.” Astrid smiles and holds up a small vial. “Just paintin’ your nails.”

“O-...oh.” Harriet shifts back. “So, uh… that’s how it’s done?”

“How else would it be done."

"Right." Harriet looks back at the mirror, blinking. Her nose curls at the foreign scent, the odd texture. “Um… we haven’t really had a chance ta chat, have we?”

“I’ve been chattin’ just fine.”

"Pffft." Harriet considers. She’d ask after the arm, but… “Uh… how was the Orphean?”

“Oh,” Astrid’s eyes flare. “You know.”

It’s the shortest response Astrid’s ever given. Which immediately raises an alarm.

“Actually, uh, I don’t know."

“What?” Astrid puffs up. “Unbound never told you?”

“Wh-why would the Unbound tell me?”

“Because it’s London’s fahkin' most hippity-hoppity spot!”

“Thought that was the Respite.”

“Ohhhhh.” Astrid gives a surprisingly vicious laugh. “'At's controversial. Though I guess you would be all friendly wiff 'em Shadow-Walk-"

“No.”

Astrid freezes. Harriet stares at her. Her tone is so forceful, so rigid, that there isn’t any way to manoeuvre around it.

“... okay,” Astrid’s smile keeps flipping off and on. “We don't 'ave to unpack... uh... um, while I was there, I got a pretty good snack.”

"Oh?" The tension quickly fades. "Were they cute or somethin’?”

“Ahhhhh…” Astrid tilts her head from side to side. “I guess? Not really me brand. But maybe he was cute in ‘at overweight, seventy-year-old-”

“Seventy!?”

“What’s the fuss? He ‘ad Viagra!”

Harriet turns to make sure Astrid can see that she's completely dumbfounded. "Ya... ya did... with yer..."

Harriet’s hands jerk about as she tries to find the gesture. Astrid lights up when she realises. "Yeah! So? An’ you haven’t?”

"No!" Harriet's aghast. "We're corpses!"

"That never stopped anyone!" Astrid puts her hands on her chest. "There's a long line of mortals that can vouch for me. I am still very fun."

“I-I-I don’t think I’d have fun playin’ mumble-peg with the elderly.”

“But it wasn't just any elderly!” Astrid skirts closer. “It’s Ettore fahkin’ Carvagna!”

“Who?”

Astrid tilts her head back. “See, if you didn’t live in the woods, you would fahkin' know ‘is! He’s like… right there between Guccio and Vuitton. The fashion king of Rome! An’ you know ‘at shite gets in the fahkin’ blood! Wallahi, I bite out a sliver of ‘at man’s talent, the Magistress gonna-”

“What Magistress?”

“Oh my God.” Astrid springs back to Harriet’s nails, shaking her head. “Magistress Dunstan?”

“Regina Dunstan?”

"Oh, so you do know someone?"

“Yeah. Ain’t she some debutante fer the New Sun?”

“Debutante?” Astrid laughs. “Yeah, maybe like, five fahkin’ centuries ago.”

Harriet deflates. Guess she's back to... not knowing anyone...

“Dunstan is like the… dhoaine rosín’s clan mother. Art, music, theatre, blood, dru- experiences.” Astrid gestures like she’s wiping sweat from her brow. “Orphean’s where we keep the best. Store it in our mental vaults. ‘At’s what dhoaine rosín are s’posed to do, innit? Curate shit?”

Harriet frowns. From what Janet’s told her, that’s not untrue. In the Unbound, the clans are a forgotten thing, a relic from before her time. But in the Court, a few still serve some purpose, the Curators of the dhoaine rosín among them. The premise is simple: who better than immortals to know the histories of this land? It’s art, it’s language, it’s culture? Give the Curators an ear, and they can keep Britain's most ancient secrets preserved forever.

Except Janet didn’t believe them. Nobody in the Unbound did. It was an excuse, they would tell Harriet, a… what did Aisling call it, a Weezer dog? It wasn’t about art or history to people like Regina Dunstan, so much as…

“Aren’t the dhoaine rosín a buncha snarlin’ racists?”

“No!” Astrid shouts. Far too quickly. Then, she retreats a little. “... some. A couple are.”

“I thought their whole slogan was ‘Preservin’ White Britain.’”

“Yeah, okay, but that was before we started Keepin’ the folks from PR! I mean…” Astrid waves her hand across Harriet’s face. “... look at me! Not exactly Snow White, am I? If the dhoaine rosín were as racist as everyone says, would ‘ey have really Kept me?”

“Yeah?” In fact, that’s exactly what Janet accused them of.

Astrid looks at her, pouting. “Well, ‘ey aren’t. And don’t be finkin’ ‘at I’m blowin’ off the PR, ‘kay? I’m tight wiff everyone in the Orphean. Lotsa contacts, lotsa high places, so if youse ever lookin’ to go…”

“Astrid?” The girl perks up. Harriet hesitates, biting her lip. “I… I wanna ask ya a serious question.”

“Do I gotta give a serious answer?”

“I… I know yer tryna be nice, an’ I, erm, appreciate it, I guess, but…” Harriet exhales. “Do ya like this?”

“Like what?”

Fuck. Harriet closes her eyes. “Bein’ Kept?”

“Oh.”

For a moment, Astrid stops painting. She squints at the aquamarine colour of Harriet’s nails, deep in thought… then...

“It’s fine.”

“Fine!?” Harriet springs up.

“Yeah,” Astrid shrugs, going back to the polish. “Not really sure what else I’d say.”

“That it’s slavery!"

“Oh, now you’re being dramatic.”

“How?”

“‘The Keeping is not similar to slavery, indentured servitude, or any ovver human concept. It is a distinct institution tied to the unique cultural characteristics of the Nocturnal people.’ Cah’mon, ‘Arriet. Shit’s right there in the manual.”

If Harriet's brain cells could cry, they’d be sobbing. “So yer totally fine with never gettin’ ta leave?”

“Why would I leave?” Astrid grins. “Soteris pays me rents. Court law. You get yourself a theatre degree and find a better gig ‘an ‘at.”

“But ya don’t get ta stop. An’ if yer Keeper hurts you-”

“But Soteris don’t be hurtin’ me.” Astrid looks serious. “Inn’e?”

Harriet’s expression falls. She’s met scabs, of course, but this… there are stories. Stories of Kepts who couldn’t go home, who were worked like dogs, beaten, killed, worse. They have no power; their Keepers have no consequence. It’s inevitable. While Astrid is blithely oblivious about many things, there’s no way she hasn’t heard those stories.

They spread like ash.

“‘Arriet, look.’” The designer has moved to Harriet’s other hand. “If Keepin’s are as bad as you say, I don't fink Soteris would let us bitch about 'em."

Until he thinks it's a threat.

“I get ‘at youse and I’s might be a little different. I’m an allod, an' you ain’t.” She pauses, looking on the scrunchie on her wrist. “But… I mean…”

Harriet tunes her out. Addana was one thing, but Astrid’s a natural ally. If Harriet can’t fall back on her…

Suddenly, the keypad to her bedroom door beeps open, and soft loafers walk through. Randall Avery keeps his head down, eyes buried in packets and folders. He barely gives the girls a glance. “Fireside. Static across lavender strings. Orange spots. You’re surprisingly activated for… oh.” His voice dims, and his brows furrow. “Traynor.”

Astrid rears back, an awkward smile on her lips. “Randall! ‘Eyyyy! How’s it goin’, champ?”

“I was told you would be finished five minutes ago.” His face is completely expressionless, but his tone seems somewhat annoyed.

“Fi-...” Astrid blinks, looks at the clock, and Harriet can see her face fall. “Shit. I am so sorry.”

“You realise how little time we have, yes?”

‘A-’Arriet needed the coat of nails, right? So I thought-”

“I could report you.”

Astrid pales, but keeps her lips tightly closed. Harriet just watches, stunned.

Randall turns around. “Fifteen minutes. Not a second longer. This conference is risky enough, I will not have it compromised by delays.”

As he reopens the door, Astrid shouts. “Randall, wait! The nails aren’t dry. It takes time to settle-”

“Dry them quickly.”

The door slams shut. The lock reapplied.

Harriet cringes at the space he left behind. “Jeez. What’s that guy’s problem?”

“Nuffin’.” Astrid hovers back over her hands. “Just stressed. Always been a bituvvah stickler.”

“Okay, but he’s never talked ta me like-” Harriet stops herself, blinking at the sudden rush that’s fallen over her hands. “What’re ya…”

She looks at Astrid. The girl’s teeth are grit, and there’s a faint amount of aether-sweat on her brow. The designer has each hand on Harriet’s wrists, glowing and warm, shaking them so quickly that all motion has become a blur. She’s using her powers.

“Nails gotta be dry.” She hisses.

Harriet squints. “What happens if yer reported?”

No answer.

She frowns. Maybe it’s not that Astrid’s too stupid to turn her back on Soteris.

Maybe it’s that she’s too smart.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Tok tok tok tok

She’s getting more used to the heels. But she can't get used to that sound.

Harriet takes back all she said about her outfit not being as horrid as the last. She’s in four-inch heels today, not three, padlocks rattling with each step. Tights veil all but her thighs. Today’s green vest shares a v-neck with the last, proudly displaying her collar. And worst of all, her hands are still cuffed. She keeps them by her skirt, in a futile effort to hide the way her hips sway in this get-up.

Since she was a kid, she’s been all bone. How does she even have this many curves to bend?

Randall sits on a barstool, reading papers, drumming his fingers along a steaming mug. His guard dog is still unseen. He’s fazed even less by the Sunlight than Astrid. But Harriet can’t help but note the way that light shines over his facial scars.

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With difficulty, she takes a seat by his side. Only when Randall hears her grunts and the rattling chains does he bother to lift his head. Five seconds pass. Then he frowns.

“Do you have to wear those handcuffs?”

Harriet grits her teeth, and playfully shakes her wrists. “Ya tell me.”

Another six seconds of silence, before Randall pushes the mug into her hands. “Drink. Soteris is at Ensei, meeting executives. I will be handling his responsibilities during that time.”

She grins. “Babysitter, right?”

It wasn’t a very good joke, but it would’ve been nice if he smiled. Or blinked. Really, anything but deadpan stare at her.

Harriet tries to shove away the awkwardness. “How’s the conference goin’, anyway?”

“I’ve been instructed to not tell you.” Oh. Cool. “Is there a problem with the coffee?”

Coffee? She peers into the mug. Sure enough, it looks no different than the cups Red used to pour for her.

“You need to drink it.” Randall says.

“Why?”

Twelve seconds of silence. Then Randall finally remembers to blink.

“Fine, fine! Don’t jump outta yer seat on my-” The moment the liquid touches her lips, Harriet wants to spit it back out. That’s not coffee. It tastes chalky. Metallic. Charged. “What the-”

Her eyes widen as she sets it down. Sees the way her skin now glows.

“Since you asked,” Randall starts. “Dyscrasias are aether extracts taken when certain areas of the subject’s brain experience heightened nervous activity. Fear, joy, grief, anger. Dyscrasias, in turn, can strengthen Nocturnal abilities where they best mimic the aether’s Aristotlean humours.”

"Okay." Harriet squints. "But why-"

“The Paradox, for example, is a Water-aligned invocation. Creative, transparent, flowing out and through other realms. It is triggered by phlegmatic humours, and the emotions of stress, passivity, dissociation. Creating an extract of it therefore requires-”

“Randall.” Harriet interrupts. “Why is it in coffee?”

“... Habit.” Randall says, after a pause. “I always conceal the blood. It’s taste, I find it quite disgusting.”

"An' I’m drinkin’ this dis-grace-ee-ah ‘cause…?”

“Soteris never relinquished the command that limits the amount of aether you’re allowed to expend. But I have an immediate need for your powers. The drink improves your blood’s potency.”

She squints. “Then what’s stoppin’ me from usin’ it ta escape?”

“The icicle I’ll send flying through your throat.”

He says it with the nonchalance of someone who clearly has.

Harriet snatches the folder he offers her, looks over its contents. “What are these?”

“Contracts. Publicly-sourced. I need new ones written between ourselves and each firm on this list." He taps a yellow notepad.

“An’ is there a reason they’re in Chinese?”

Calmly, Randall takes the packet back from her, scans it, then drops it back in her hands. “Korean.”

Harriet gives him a look.

“Paradox replicated our biometric codes, I can’t imagine language would be any significant barrier."

"An' I'm doin' this because...?"

"I was instructed to tell you that is privileged information."

"Great." Harriet rolls her eyes as she strains to flip through them all. "Jesus. There’s gotta be dozens.”

“Yes. And from diverse countries, as well. Counterproductively, I think. Japanese executives rarely work with South Koreans; only the suicidal Chinese would dare partner with a company from Taiwan. Putting them all in a conference room seems like a recipe for conflict. But Soteris-"

“Y’know…” Harriet interrupts, growlin’. “Hate ta make a bad impression on my first lil’ day an' all, but this could take hours. A printer’s faster.”

Randall peers over at her mug, takes it, tries a small sip. “Not authentically.”

That makes Harriet’s eyes grow wide. She looks back at the dozens of names on his list. “D-… ya have signed contracts with these people, right?”

"Again, that is classified-"

"Tell me or I stop."

"Not yet."

“Not…” Her mouth hangs open. “So yer committin' fraud?"

“Perhaps. But since they haven’t yet entered the record books, the risk of exposure is…” Randall cuts himself short. She’s taken the papers and shoved them towards his turtleneck. He searches her face. “... Red splotches on a violet hue. Black clouds strangling the yellow sky. I have offended you. Why?”

“Why do ya think I’m offended, magic man?”

“To an Unbound, office tasks must seem quite menial.”

"Oh, go ta Hell." Harriet scowls. "This is robbery. Yer robbers.”

“Robbers?” His face curls, like it’s the first time he’s heard the word. “And you consider this an immoral act?”

“Pretty up there, yeah.”

“A moment.” Randall lifts his finger, then leans down to grab a bookbag. Harriet watches him shuffle through a mass of files, before pulling and opening a single, thin manila folder. “In the years following the American Civil War, Harriet McClintock resurfaced in the Western United States as an accomplice to the outlaw group known as the Black Banners.”

“How do ya-”

“At the organisation’s apex, private detective agencies alleged that the Banners were involved in the destruction of some two-hundred properties, as well as bank heists, carriage hijackings, kidnappings, and the murders of multiple law officers, businessman-”

“It’s not the same as-”

“-and, in one case…” Randall sets the file on the table “... the shooting of a twelve-year-old child.”

Harriet trembles as Randall looks at her. Her fangs are out, her eye twitching. He calmly folds his hands.

“I find it quite strange that you’re so hostile to our actions. Forgive me if I sound crass, but in comparison to your network, I believe our pursuits are quite noble."

She stares angrily at him for a long time. “We didn’t steal ta make rich men richer. We were tryna make a better world.”

“Conveniently, Soteris and I want the same thing.”

“Is that so?”

“Follow your orders and we will show you.”

Harriet doesn’t move. After a while, Randall shrugs.

“You do realise that you have no choice in this matter, yes? If you continue to resist, I will simply summon Ms. Chiagozie to restrain you until your Keeper can offer a more suitable punishment.”

“Maybe I jes’ wanna provoke ya.”

“Provoke away,” Randall replies. “But remember that the stakes for this project are much higher for yourself than our own. If Polyphron fails, you will still be here, trapped, alone, in chains. You will have lost only our argument that the Court authorities shouldn’t put a stake in your heart and leave you to burn in the Sunlight.”

“A lotta Unbound would prefer that,” she hisses.

"Many would. Not you.” His eyes glow. A blue aura surrounds Harriet’s mug, nudging itself closer. “Drink your coffee.”

Seconds pass. They can hear a clock tick. Then, slowly, Harriet scoops back up the contracts, squinting at the text.

“I’m gonna need a couple hours.”

“That I can offer.”

“An’ jes’ so we’re clear, I’m still hopin’ ya jerks fail.”

“I will find some way to solace myself.”

“Grand.” She lifts a brow. “Are ya jes’ gonna watch me or…”

“One more thing.” Randall’s returned to the deadpan. “I want to make certain that you’re aware of the mortal employees that attend this building. The Law of Secrecy prevails.”

“Yeah, we got that in the Unbound, too. Don’t worry, I ain’t gonna show my fangs.”

“You misunderstand my point. I’m trying to say that your fellow employees will not help you.”

A pause. The air takes a chill.

“I’m sure you’re aware, many within the Court don’t take the laws seriously. I do. And so I will say now that asking for their aid, even talking to them, could put them in peril.” He delivers the threat calmly, robotically, until he reaches out and holds her wrists.

“They have families, Fireside. Don’t make me do what I must.”

There's something genuine in his voice. The vaguest hint of despair. Harriet looks up. Tries to keep the scowl. Randall’s skin is ice cold. But, eventually...

“... Yeah. Fine. I won't."

"Thank you." He smiles, and lets her go. She quickly skirts back.

“But yer a real monster fer usin’ ‘em like that, ya know?”

“I won't deny it," Randall returns to his own files. "But let's not throw those accusations around wildly, shall we? We live in glass houses, and I've never murdered a child."

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Harriet sighs. Hands sinking into her head. The past two hours and fifteen minutes have been exhausting. The ‘coffee’ is gone, along with a second and third batch. Surrounding her is a pile of packets, now towering up to her eyes. With a pen, she strikes off Jai-Pyo Jeonja, the final name on the list, and then crashes into the countertop. Randall is as he’s always been; quiet, studious, always watching. She had realised quickly that his eyes were less often trained on his work, then they were trained on hers.

“There are more efficient to expend your bloodstream,” he announces, ignoring her groans.

“Oh, now ya tell me?”

“I merely express that we may wish to consider training for optimization of-”

The sounds of a beeping door cut them both off. She listens to the lurch of metal, two shoes walking in. Though she can smell his cologne, Harriet’s decided that with Soteris, she’s never going to meet his eyes until she’s spoken to. Not that it would ever take long.

“Fireside.” The outfit is splendid. You look quite tame.”

Grimacing, she turns to look at him. Wouldn’t you know, he’s wearing a green vest to match hers! But…it’s hard to explain. His collar’s fully buttoned, his sleeves unironed, his hair - normally gelled - now a raggedy, boyish mess. He’s also wearing large, black glasses.

Weird. One would think, if he needed them, he’d have brought them out while he was reading.

"Sleep well?" He asks, clearly reveling in the chance. She isn't ordered to reply. “And it looks like the documents have arrived! Fantastic! Now, of course, I had contingencies if you two failed-”

“How are the investors?” Randall rises, interrupting.

Soteris smiles back. “Jet-lagged, hungover, struggling to remember their English. Exactly how we want them. But that also makes them crabby." He snaps his fingers "Come along! The Kept can carry the paperwork.”

“I-” Harriet sputters, but the men are already halfway out of the room. She slides onto the floor, wobbling for a moment, before scooping up the packets as best as her cuffed hands will allow her. She bristles, of course, but quietly, knowing he’d enjoy that, too. Bastard.

Why the fuck did she even ask...

The moment she leaves the door, Harriet’s greeted by a wall of sound. The sight of dozens of people. They crowd around rows of desks, hammocks, bean bags, conference rooms with glass walls. Young, sharp, flush and colourful. Harriet watches them all as she hobbles past. Most are too busy working or talking or joking to notice, but some meet her with curiosity, occasional pity.

A couple just stare at her ass.

She opts to hold the papers over her cleavage. One good thing.

"Do you like it?" Soteris almost makes her jump with how suddenly he's wrapped an arm around her side. "It still awes me every morning."

He tilts his head to the glass. Harriet spies it, for another moment. That yellow blaze that blinds her when she tries to look. It’s only in daylight that she can truly see how enormous this city has gotten.

She smirks. “Am I s’posed to be impressed?”

They reach the lift in short order, cleaned of the mess her battle with Randall had left. She turns around, struggling to hold all the papers, when she feels cold metal fall over her face. “HEY!”

“Don’t squirm,” Soteris whispers, last night's visor in his hands.

The equipment clips on. Gears spin to life, and the machine expands, shrouding her eyes in darkness.

“Don’t want you to know where we’re going,” he explains.

“Why? Scared?”

Harriet growls, until she feels his hand on her bare skin, and it turns into more of a yelp.

"You know..." She can feel his smirk. "This makes you quite accessible...."

"We are in an elevator," Randall says, slightly annoyed.

Soteris' chuckle is dismissive. He turns to Harriet. “I grant you permission to Paradox. I imagine you’ll have a hard time copying things when you can’t see them.”

“Pretty easy ta imagine an anvil fallin’ on yer head," she says curtly.

“Cute.” Soteris’ voice turns stern. “Avery, any more clues as to how this power works?”

“Only hypotheses,” the Poisoned One replies. “Most likely, the aether is withdrawing particles through microscopic conduits with Gwyllion that match the desired property. But without further testing, I-”

“Can she create something alive?”

Silence. When Harriet realises that Randall won’t speak, she answers herself. “He said particles. Not people.”

“I didn’t give you permission.”

“Ya want my powers or not?”

Another pause. He grips her just a little bit tighter. “Waves, then. If you could project an image-”

“Project what, Chrysanthou?” Randall asks.

“The plan’s second phase.”

Ding. Harriet is pushed forward as the lift doors slide open. Thankfully, the papers are taken from her straining hands as she listens to the echo of her footsteps. They’re in a garage. She can sniff out the petrol and leather of a car. She hears a door open.

“In.”

“I’m goin’!” His intensity is off the charts. Nerves, maybe, but it puts her on edge. Not great when he has this much power...

“And, what, pray tell,” Randall says when he's reached his seat. “Is phase two?”

Soteris waits for the car to move. Harriet jostles, blinking as she hears metal gates slide apart. They must have protection from the Sun. Her eyelashes bump against the visor's glass.

“It’s actually quite simple.” She feels Soteris pull her in by the shoulder. “Fireside Paradoxes me five miles away, and I announce Project Hestia to the world in two places at the same time."

The driver is turning far too frequently. Probably to throw her off. Harriet has time to meditate on these things, since they’re all stunned into silence.

Randall goes first. “Are you mad!?”

“You were right, Avery! The venue wasn’t large enough to house all our guests. It’s a good thing I intended that."

“Intended that?” For the first time she can recall, Harriet hears Randall laugh. “Do you intend to throw a rubbish bin over their heads, too!?”

“This is my market, Randall, not yours. Remember that before you-”

“Five million quid!” Randall shouts. “That is how much this little stunt has cost us already.”

“Seven million,” Soteris corrects. “Now that there’s a second venue.”

“And you’re hedging seven million on someone you didn’t know you’d have, with a power that might not even work.”

“But we have her,” Soteris replies, rubbing her arm. “And she’ll make it work.”

Harriet gasps. He starts squeezing. Far too much.

“She has to.”

“W-Wait!” Harriet sputters, trying frantically to look around. “Even if I can, which…” She tries to gesture, but gets stuck on the cuffs. “Aren’t these people at each other’s throats!?"

"Where did you learn that?" Soteris hisses.

"Addana," Randall answers. "She's been reporting fights all morning.”

A pause. The grip loosens. Harriet exhales, even though she's lost the instincts that would instruct her to. “Ya... ya know what’s gonna happen when ya split them inta red an’ blue, right?”

Soteris laughs. A light, patronising, infuriating laugh. “You think I’m not aware of their little squabbles?"

She starts when he digs a finger through her choker, forces her closer to his voice.

"As the industry says, that’s not a bug…”

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

“... it’s a feature.”

Han Sung-Gyu sips his champagne delicately, his million-won suit sharp and expertly pressed. The lobby is crowded, stuffed with bigger, sweatier men, and an army of waitstuff armed with smiles and trays. They’re at the BAFTA 195, a gorgeous space of dark colours, velvet carpets, Roman arches. He takes a halloumi stick without looking, ignoring the attendants all. Focusing on the real names.

Wei Shihong stands across from him, drunk, lecherous, making passes at any girl who can't swerve in time. His telecom company makes him one of the richest men in Beijing. It was built off the bones of his rival, GTG, whose last executive, Zhao Meilin, now in radio, is also in the room. They watch each other like hawks, the hatred burning clean through any entrepreneur who dares pass. It’s so intense, in fact, that they miss the glare of their Cantonese friend, Chuck Lam, who’s hoping to expand his Hong Kong empire to the mainland by eating both of them.

Features. Sung smiles, remembering his time at UST, or sweating away at Samsung. How sweet and easy the life of an executive seemed to him then. Then they started drawing zeroes on his check. His colleagues vanished, the gold diggers came, and he found himself ankle-deep in this constant nest of vipers.

Suddenly, he’s rattled. A heavy shoulder spills his drink, pushes him hard onto a table’s white cloth. He springs up, insulted, only to baulk at a sneering Japanese man.

“Inu wa taberu hito,” the man smirks. “Ochitsui te kudasai!”

Two men following him laugh. Whatever they were saying, it was clearly not kind.

Sung frowns, ready to snarl back at them. But they’re already walking past.

Lost in a sea of hundreds just like them.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

“These men didn’t become titans through kindness.” Soteris continues. “They got here by selling envy. Anger. Fear. And because they sell so well, they think they’re immune to it.”

Harriet can feel Soteris’ arm slide over her chest. Offering even less release.

“I'm going to prove them wrong.”

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

“Good morning, gentlemen,” a chirpy English voice interrupts Sung’s thoughts. He turns to see a woman in a green vest, short skirt, and long, quite incorrect, bow. “Welcome to Ensei.”

At her flanks, translators, similarly dressed, bow with their words.

“Ohayo gozai masu!”

“Huānyíng láidào-!”

“ - chào mừng bạn đến-”

“Selamat datang ke Ensei!”

“We are sorry to inform you that the venue has unexpectedly reached capacity. Therefore, some guests will not be able to attend-"

The rest is last in an uproar. A tsunami of curses and swears.

“-all please look at your complimentary pagers-”

“Húshuōbādào!” One mogul shouts.

“Sung.” His firm's other representative, Pak Tae-Hyun, the software engineer, rushes to him. “She can’t be serious?”

Sung-Gyu feels a vibration along his leg and slides the grey shape from his pocket. It beeps red, and hangul letters fly past his screen.

“An dwaeyo!” He scowls. He's getting kicked out, for the first event? And they want to work with his products? It’s in Leonardo, a four-star brand, halfway across the city. “Eori sugeun!”

“Leonardo. Sung-gyu, why would Chrysanthou do this? He must know-"

“He knows." Sung nods. "He just thinks we're second class!"

The hall has erupted into dozens of similar conversations, clenched fists, growing anger.

“A second location has been selected." As the translators try their best to relay to the furious crowd, the waitstaff start pulling doors open. “ Jika anda mahu sila cari jalan anda ke pintu…”

“Ko ay ang kotse ko!” One of the Filipino salesmen throws his pager into the air. “Fuck this!”

“Sung…” Tae-Hyun looks around. “What do we do?”

“We leave!” Sung-Gyu puffs up. “Whatever Whiz Kid the Greek claims to be, he-”

“He made the Ares Gate!” Tae-Hyun replies. “Do you know the value of that knowledge? Not even Hwang Woo-suk could work blood like...”

Sung growls through grit teeth. The bastard. Tae-hyun is right.

“Ghapsida,” he whispers, and the two men walk for the doors. Most of the room follows. Deeply insulted, and yet not insulted enough. On his way out, Sun sees the same pack of Japanese radio men. Eyes glued to their pagers, beeping green. He scoffs. Of course they came first. The jjokbari always do.

He’s too angry to truly see those men’s faces. Matsuzawa. Haruhiko. Iesada Jomei. Each of their expressions is wrapped in different levels of shock, grief, disgust. When they see Sung pass, the emotions double.

“They let him go!?”

“Kyōkida!”

“Goukaku shi ta!?” Jomei points. “For him!?”

Matsuzawa can’t believe it. Struggling to control his breath. He owns more radio signals than any man in Asia. Practically royalty. He should be getting drip-fed oysters, not left in the cold! Excluded from that exclusive conference when the fucking Koreans get to go! It's an outrage!

At least…

That’s what his pager is telling him.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

“Slice them apart. Pit the halves against themselves. And they’ll race to the bottom, just to win first.” Soteris pauses, letting his words hang. “The product won’t even matter."

Harriet stares at the darkness that she thinks is in his direction, shaking her head. She’s seen some real slimeballs before, but him?

“An’ if ya fail?” She asks.

Soteris chuckles. “I don’t.”

“Well I hope ya do. I’ll be crossin’ my fingers. This is sick.”

She doesn't hear a reply.

“Risky, at the very least,” the Veneficii adds.

“Everyone in the Court is scared of risk. Look where it’s gotten you.”

She lurches back. The car has stopped. She can hear doors open, feel cool air. She starts to climb out, before the grip tightens around her. Harriet hears Soteris’ whispers, lips grazing along her skin.

“Copies. Can you do it?”

“I don’t know."

“What’s stopping you?”

Where’s this intensity coming from? He made her pancakes yesterday, but all morning, he's been... “Copies have ta be flawless. Any interruption will throw it off. If somebody stops ya- ah!"

He puts his hand around her neck. Not pulling, not squeezing, just… letting it hang.

“Improvise.” He growls.

With a thrust, he yanks off the headset and leaves her blinking at garage lights.

“Randall, make sure she doesn’t do anything clever.”

She’s trembling. On her knees. Looking past her legs at the limousine that carried her. More hands take her arms. Lighter, softer. She’s brought to her feet with difficulty, staring into the scowl of a woman a head shorter than her.

“What are you bloody dazed at? Cah’mon!”

It’s not Astrid. These hands are warm.

Harriet’s being pulled through the garage, into poorly-lit halls. She can hear the din of conversation just beyond the wall. “Uh…. d-do ya-”

“Yeah, yeah, Connolly, I know.” So the woman knows her code-name. Maybe an event planner? “Hurry up! We’re already-”

The woman yanks, then stops. They both hear the rattle of Harriet’s chains.

Harriet pales. She can remember Randall’s threat, imagine exactly what will happen if she… “L-look!” She raises her arms in defense. “I-i-i-it I-I-I-”

“Again!?”

Harriet quirks. With a snarl, the smaller woman digs a hand through her pocket, withdrawing a keychain. She harshly grabs Harriet’s wrists, unlocking the cuffs.

“That fucker…" She hisses as she moves. "Every fucking-”

“D-Does he always do this?”

The other woman gives her a look. “Word of advice? Stuff the accent. These pigs didn’t come here for a Playboy mansion.”

“I-” But Harriet’s being dragged along before she can reply, thrust through large double doors. There’s dozens of blurs, dozens of faces. She sees platters with sugar treats, caviar, little hot dogs, shrimps in… glasses? She’s pushed into the mass, clutching a table for balance. All the men in the room wear suits, some large, some small, speaking languages she can’t begin to comprehend.

“Xièxiè-”

“-keiretsu wa sō wa kangaenai darou-”

"Um... e-excuse..."

Someone practically shoves her aside. It’s overwhelming. White clouds forming in her sight. She blinks a few times, looking for exits. But there are no windows, no clear front doors. And even if she could leave, it’s daylight.

“Look at their R+D,” one of the businessmen say in English as she waltzes past. “Toshiba, Sony, Fujitsu, they aren’t building the swiftest hoover anymore, the coldest fridge. No, it’s all about computers now. So why would Chrysanthou-”

She doesn’t see the hand slide out. Grab her ass.

“Eeeek!”

While she blanches, the three businessmen laugh. She skirts around, indignant. The best-dressed takes a few steps towards her.

“That’s a good squeal, 'hot stuff.'” He smiles to himself, saying the last like he's imitating something. “How about, after your shift, we go to my hotel and-”

“Hajime!”

A door opens, and the businessman steps back.

Harriet follows his eyes to find the largest man she’s ever seen. His belly barely stuffs into his suit, his waistline several orders of magnitude larger than his attendant’s. Thin, beady eyes search a room full of men that stare at him. All of them alert, frozen, like gophers.

“Hajime…”

“The investor?”

“Mereka mengatakan ..”

“- Earphone King-”

Half the room immediately bows. All the women in green. A number of businessmen, too. Unsure what to do, Harriet joins them. Her newest creeper, however, rushes to the large man’s side.

“Hajime-san!” He seems flustered. “What are you…?”

“I am here to watch the Greek,” Hajime replies, in perfect English. “They call him a man of boldness.”

“But… y-you never go to Europe.”

“That’s how I know. He was bold enough to invite me.”

Doors open for Hajime as he crosses the hall, right into what seems like a theatre and stage. Other businessmen follow. Harriet keeps to her position, but shrivels, hisses, when that same bastard squeezes her bottom again. He smiles.

“Later.”

She closes her eyes. Exhales. But just as the windchimes start to fade, her breath fills with the scent of cigarette smoke. “Quickly,” Randall helps her up.

“Who was that?”

He guides her through a side door. “Someone who shouldn’t be here.”

They’re quickly in a backstage area. She sees wires and pipes and curtains and ropes. “Seems like the others look up ta him.”

“He’s made half their market.”

“Well, that’s what ya want, right? Big investors?”

“No.” Randall scowls, those pale eyes glowing. “Too big is dangerous.”

Soteris is right in front of them, fiddling over two screens, and to his right, the stage. She’s confused by the sight: it looks like a cut-out kitchen, replete with a telly, walls, a door. In the centre sits a black, plastic table with wheels. The shape on top of it is covered by a cloth.

Hestia.

“The stage needs copying too.” Soteris turns around, holds out his arms. “How do I look?”

“Like a dork,” she replies, squinting at the glasses. “Why?”

“Let’s just say…” Soteris steps away, letting her see the second screen. “I know my audience.”

It’s a stage just like theirs, but empty.

Suddenly, something pulses against her neck. Needly, sharp. She glances to her side and sees Randall’s arm extended towards her. Icicles rising from his fingers. Seeing her terror, he tilts his head.

"Nothing clever."

“You. Me. The stage." Soteris turns harsh. "Copies, now.”

“Chill out! Gonna be a bit hard ta focus when-”

“Randall?”

"Jeezus!" The needle stabs just a hair’s width deeper.

Soteris leans back into her ear. “You want my respect? Earn it now. You want that gun taken away…”

Her face clenches at that. To his knowing, venomous smirk. "Ya wouldn't," she whispers.

"You have no idea."

Harriet looks at the screens. Imagines the air, the noise, the floorboards of the other room. Aether starts pummelling through her skin. She can feel the sparks.

Steady...

She clenches her fists, as bright as the spotlights.

Steady...

Her eyes open.

The world is strange. In her left eye, she sees the screens, the Poisoned One, but in the right… it’s... uncomfortable. Hard to describe. She sees the other stage. Both places, at once.

And Soteris is in each of them.

“Oh my God." Randall watches the screen, which indeed shows two stages.

Soteris unstraightens his tie. “Good start.”

It makes her bristle. But before Harriet can bark, Soteris slides off his shoes. Stretches his soles as the curtains fall back. She watches take a deep breath. Eyes lighting up to the sight of two crowds.

“Showtime.”