{Gait}

Matt adhered himself to Razor like a good bodyguard. This required an upgrade in dress. What would Lucy think of the fancy black tuxedo? To him, clothes covered and provided him with pockets. That’s it. But maybe she’d appreciate the tailored-cut shoulders and the cufflinks at his wrists? Nah. The inside jacket lined with throwing knives might impress her, though. All perfectly sharpened and balanced. With all the lethal in his suit, he slicked the fringe of his auburn hair back and tried his best to melt into the crowd.

The boss wore red tonight. It contrasted strangely against his navy blue skin and pale blue hair. A phenomenal host, he greeted his guests and escorted a few select clients to the booths himself. Matt observed the shifts in his personality with each individual. The life in his eyes, the ease of his posture, and the congeniality in his voice. Everything varied based on the company.

Matt learned a lot shadowing that man.

“Surely, it’s low risk enough tonight for you to engage one of the young ladies with a dance?” Razor spared him a friendly grin and nodded in a Lyrik’s direction.

Before the evening started, the black-skinned, yellow-feathered woman—and the rest of the Lyriks—followed the Pain Curator upstairs from that abyss he called a bedroom. Also, the location of his personal office and vault. Come to think of it, Pehton was the only Lyrik Matt noticed from outside the Emporium.

The exotic female caught them looking and hurried over. She. Curtsied. To Razor. It was… bizarre. From Matt’s limited understanding, the Lyriks warded Gait. Why in the hell would they physically bow to a merchant?

Her yellow eyes ducked low, never meeting Matt’s.

The Pain Curator offered her to the redheaded human. “Will this one suffice?”

Perplexed, Matt shook his head. “No, thank you.” He plastered a warm smile to relieve any impoliteness on his part.

“You’re dismissed, Oleen.”

The Lyrik returned to the party, volunteering to entertain other guests.

Razor tsked. “You have a one-track mind. It’s dangerous to leave tensions unattended. Makes you sloppy in your work. And since your work is protecting me or handling wares around my Emporium—I think you see where I’m going with this.” He gestured at the pitch-black woman once more with the glass in his nail-less hand. “Oleen is fair game. The other Lyriks are also fairly receptive. Except Triss. She’s mine. Keep your hands off.”

Matt nodded along at the strange turn in the conversation when a thought struck him. “What about Executive Warden Pehton?”

“She’s still her own. For now.” Razor smirked with a menacing intensity.

It distracted Matt so much he almost didn’t notice Puk, the Mon3 drone, approach from the rear. The man leaned in and whispered to Razor, who turned with an inconvenienced frown. “Again?”

Puk nodded solemnly.

“Switch shifts with Matt. I want him on 324.” Razor turned to him and explained, “324 is special. But I understand you have a certain gift. No emotional scarring. Got it? Remember, the goal is not to break them but to ease them into this way of life.”

Eager for a shift change, Matt tore out of the tuxedo jacket while rushing to the black basement entrance. Stripped off the white shirt. Collecting a black bodysuit and hood, he finished changing in the locker room. Matt took a deep breath before donning the anonymous gear. He wore it. The Numbered wore it. Only his height lent to any identity.

Everything black. Floor, ceiling, walls, rigging, instruments—Abyssal. A vacuum of pain. He hurried down to the third floor of Hell. Located the correct bunk and the small Numbered inside. The unimpressive height concerned him, and he flashed back to all the underage girls he delivered to Justice Lee at the Cult of Night compound.

But this wasn’t sexual. The Numbered exchanged their pain for credits. Paid pain-workers. That excused some of the hedonism—

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Sniffle.

Sob.

324 cried in their bunk. The hood muffled the sound enough so Matt couldn’t discern gender. But definitely clocked the age as under eighteen. He scooped the lightweight person in his arms and carried them three floors back upstairs to the zones. The rotation chart marked flogging for tonight. Well, if they weren’t crying before, they certainly would after. It was one of few instruments that soothed him. Matt took it seriously.

The person whimpered as Matt laid them on the cool black floor. No, not person. The Numbered. He tied the restraints from the walls and ceiling until 324 formed a sagging X. A small one.

The young man shook his head and took a deep breath. He always broke the most important rule. Not to assuage his conscience. Matt wondered if he ever got one of those. No, he broke the rule to leave them more pliable. To improve the results of the follow-up evaluation. The more Numbered he accrued, the more he found himself in Razor’s favor.

So he leaned forward and whispered against their hood, “We both know I have no choice but to hurt you. But I want you to know that I don’t want to. One day, you’ll fulfill the contract, and he’ll release you. Play the part until then.”

324 broke down and racked with sobs. This was the usual reaction to the reintroduction of hope. He absorbed the response and observed their emotions. Emotions he’d never understand.

Perimeter lighting illuminated the floors and ceiling only enough to see the blood splatter the walls and drip to the floor. Drains set around the room would take care of that. The black space soaked in the red like a vampire. Or an Icarus.

Matt ripped and tore into 324’s back and shoulders. For hours. Razor required six-hour shifts out of each Numbered every two days. 324 differed with this daily schedule. He wondered why. They weren’t particularly resilient. Quite the opposite. They cried more than anyone he worked so far. Begged at times. It meant Matt stuck to a completely professional approach. Strikes evenly apart, allowing them to heal. None harder or lighter than the last. No aggression or perversion. Strictly business.

By the end of the shift, the Numbered passed out three times. He took 324’s shivering, unconscious body to the spray and washed away the blood. The water revived them, and the tears started anew. Soft, silent ones. When he returned them to the bunk, he carefully tested for the least painful position. Professional. No undue harm. As he turned to leave, the small person grabbed his arm. A question passed between them. One he couldn’t answer. When he took their wrist to pull them away, he squeezed gently.

324 wept as if their heart broke.

Who the fuck was this person, and why the hell did Razor put them through daily shifts? As Matt stripped in the lockers and hit the showers, he took small comfort in knowing that at least now he took responsibility of 324. No telling what kind of abuse the others put the Numbered through. Easy to get carried away and all that.

Matt broke into the kitchens, starving and exhilarated. A familiar voice reached him from the addition.

“You haven’t really done anything to deserve how I’ve treated you,” Sagan offered Razor.

If she only knew.

“Well…” Damn. The amount of charm Razor laid into his voice impressed even Matt. “I’m sure I’ve done something to deserve it.”

She laughed as if despite herself while idly fingering an axe. “I appreciate the food. I was starving.”

Matt peered around the corner at the buffet the Pain Curator laid out for the Seamswalker. He only loaded that thing down for parties. And her. Matt ignored it, preferring the simpler fare. But wow, Sagan loved that shit.

“You’ve been busy. You haven’t slept, have you? Here let me get that.” Razor reached over and brushed a smear of food from her cheek.

The Seamswalker blushed lightly under her freckles and let him. With her chin cupped in his hand, Matt expected the alien to linger or worse—kiss her. But to both his and apparently Sagan’s surprise, the Pain Curator dropped his hand the moment the food disappeared.

“I slept a few days, but I’ve been all over the Vast Collective since then. I’m a little exhausted. But I still plan to attend the gala with you. As promised.”

Matt shook his head and stepped away. He grabbed some ingredients for his sandwich as the pair wandered closer.

“I’m delighted to hear that. But please don’t feel obligated. So much transpired since I extended the invitation.” Razor stepped into the kitchens with a friendly nod to acknowledge Matt’s presence.

Sagan beamed. “I already have a dress in the works.”

The Pain Curator smiled at her with a flash in his gray eyes. “I looked forward to seeing it. But that’s not the only reason you came to me. Is it?”

She looked away for a heartbeat.

Through the tension, Matt took a loud bite of his sandwich. Lettuce and pickles crunched in his teeth.

Breaking into a bright fit of laughter, Sagan shot the redheaded human a pretty smile before turning back to Razor with something akin to embarrassment in her eyes. “An experience? I wanted to try this port before I got rid of it.”

“Ahh. I’m still curating your next one. But if you don’t mind something less personal—”

“I’m happy to try anything.”

Wow. She said that awfully fast.

Razor turned his back on her for a moment, and Matt caught the most disturbing, satisfied smile on his face. When he faced her again, the Pain Curator held a capsule. “I can ease your troubles. Allow me one second to load it.” He headed for the booths.

In his absence, Sagan shivered. “I hate when the green shifts around with the orange in his eyes. Don’t you?”

Matt fought to swallow the colossal bite in his mouth to question her. “Sagan—”

“I’m ready for you!”

“Be back.” She Seamswalked across the warehouse.

And left Matt with another mystery to solve.