In the dimly lit confines of his office, Sebastian Beirut sat behind a mahogany desk, his fingers steepled as he listened to Alira's quiet, measured voice. There was no warmth in his gaze as he regarded her, only a simmering resentment veiled by cold professionalism.

Alira stood by the window, her sleek figure framed by the amber glow of the city lights. She crossed her arms, her face a careful mask of neutrality as she delivered the news. "Vargas found Maria Eitencantos. Or what's left of her, anyway. And the bloodied mess she left behind. He's putting the pieces together faster than we anticipated."

Beirut leaned back in his chair, his sharp eyes narrowing. The faint flicker of irritation crossed his otherwise calm demeanor. "Of course he is," he muttered. "Vargas is no fool. He's been doing this for decades. It was only a matter of time before he stumbled onto the truth."

Alira turned, her smirk razor-sharp, her eyes gleaming with something distinctly inhuman. "And you're... fine with that?"

"Fine?" Beirut repeated, his tone laced with mild amusement. "Hardly. But neither am I surprised. Vargas has always been thorough. That tenacity is why I enlisted his services in the first place—long before he had any inkling of what lay beneath the surface. It’s just a shame he’s no longer working for me, but against me."

“Bah, you and him have such a wonderful friendship. If only I could have something like that”, Alira commented, making a mocking sad expression.

Beirut’s jaw tightened, and his hands clenched the armrests of his chair. "Spare me your theatrics. Don’t pretend you know me so well, you’re not even Alira”, his voice was laced with venom, but the thing wearing his wife’s face only laughed.

"Ah, but isn’t this what you wanted?" she teased, taking a step closer to the desk. Her movements were fluid, too perfect, like a predator toying with its prey. "You made the deal. You brought me here. Don’t tell me you’re regretting it now?"

Beirut glared at her, his indignation simmering just beneath the surface. "You think I don’t know what you’re doing? You’re trying to undermine me. To make me doubt myself. But I haven’t come this far just to let you derail everything."

Alira—or rather, the thing inside her—laughed again, a sound that sent a shiver down his spine. "Oh, Sebastian, you’re so dramatic. I’m not undermining you. I’m helping you. After all, this whole operation hinges on us staying ahead of Vargas, doesn’t it?"

"He won’t get ahead," Beirut said sharply, rising from his chair. His imposing frame cast a shadow across the room, but Alira didn’t flinch. If anything, her smile widened, taunting him. "Vargas is smart, but he’s still human. He’ll follow the trail we’ve left for him, right into the trap."

"And if he doesn’t?" she asked, tilting her head in mock curiosity. "If he’s smarter than you give him credit for? If he unravels this little conspiracy of yours before you’re ready?"

Beirut’s fists clenched, and he took a step closer to her, his voice low and dangerous. "Then I’ll deal with him. Just like I’ve dealt with everyone else who got in my way. But let’s get one thing straight—you don’t call the shots here. I do."

“Yes, whatever you say ‘dear husband’”, Alira emphasized the last word in a mocking tone.

“Shut up, Rambael”, Beirut growled, the name dripping with contempt. “I’ve tolerated your games long enough. There’s no one else here. Drop the act.”

The thing wearing Alira’s face froze for a moment, then turned to face him fully. Her expression shifted from one of amusement to cold menace. “What did you just call me?” she asked, her voice low and dangerous.

“You heard me,” Beirut snapped, leaning forward. “There’s no need for pretense when it’s just us. I’ll do what I damn well want in my own office.”

A smirk spread across her lips, and she chuckled softly, shaking her head. “Sebastian,” she said, almost mockingly, “you really have no head for acting, do you? Let me remind you of something—you invited me here and I intend to perform. I’m just method acting, dear husband.” She leaned closer, her voice dripping with false sweetness. “And the key to a convincing performance is staying in character at all times.”

Beirut scoffed, folding his arms. “Some demon you are.”

“Speaking of character,” she continued, her tone shifting to playful yet predatory, “shall we do what husbands and wives do?” She took a step toward him, her fingers moving slowly to the neckline of her dress, pulling it down just enough to expose a hint of her cleavage. Her movements were deliberate, calculated, like a cat toying with its prey.

Before she could say another word, Beirut’s rage exploded. His hand darted to the pistol holstered at his side, and in one swift motion, he fired a shot directly at her chest.

The room seemed to freeze as the bullet hurtled toward her, but at the last possible moment, she moved with inhuman speed. Her hand lashed out, plucking the bullet from the air with a casual grace that defied belief. She held it up between her fingers, examining it with a bemused smile.

“Touchy, aren’t we?” she said, her tone light and teasing. “I was only joking.”

Beirut’s face contorted with fury. “Don’t you dare desecrate her body like that!” he roared, slamming his fist onto the desk. “You think this is funny? You think I won’t destroy you?”

Rambael’s expression softened slightly, and she raised her hands in mock surrender. “Relax, Sebastian,” she said, her voice soothing but insincere. “I’m sorry. It was just a joke. I wouldn’t dream of upsetting you.”

Beirut glared at her, his chest heaving with suppressed rage. He knew better than to trust her words, but for now, he had no choice but to let the moment pass. The tension in the room was palpable, a battle of wills between two predators locked in a deadly game.

Stolen story; please report.

Rambael dropped the bullet onto the desk with a soft clink, her smirk returning. “There, all better now. Let’s not ruin this delightful partnership over a little misunderstanding, hmm?”

Her eyes gleamed with mischief as she sauntered toward Beirut, her movements fluid and deliberate. “You know,” she said, “I still can’t quite figure out why you didn’t just kill that mercenary on the moon. It would have solved so many problems. Quick, clean, and oh-so-satisfying.”

Beirut leaned back in his chair, pinching the bridge of his nose. He was already regretting not shutting down this conversation before it started.

“I had my reasons,” he muttered, not meeting her gaze.

Rambael chuckled, the sound low and sharp. “Oh, do enlighten me, dear. What possible reason could you have for letting him walk away alive? He’s a liability. A loose thread.”

Beirut sighed, his tone laced with irritation. “Because Vargas called dibs.”

That stopped Rambael in her tracks. She blinked, and then a grin spread across her face, wide and incredulous. “Dibs? You’re telling me you spared a man because of... Investigator etiquette?” She doubled over in laughter, clutching her sides. “Oh, that’s rich! The great Sebastian Beirut, reduced to following playground rules.”

Beirut’s expression darkened. “It’s not that simple, and you know it. Killing him would have raised too many suspicions. Vargas is already breathing down my neck, and if I’d eliminated someone he had marked for questioning, it would have been like painting a target on my back.”

Rambael straightened, wiping a tear from the corner of her eye. “So you’re telling me the mighty Beirut, slayer of horrors, is afraid of little Vargas?”

Beirut’s fists clenched, his voice low and venomous. “I’m not afraid of him. But he’s smart, relentless, and, most importantly, untouchable as long as the Federation has their eyes on him. Taking out that mercenary would have sent up too many red flags. We’re trying to stay under the radar, remember?”

Rambael tilted her head, studying him with a faint smirk. “Ah, yes. The grand plan. Stay quiet, keep your head down, and hope Vargas doesn’t piece it all together.” She tapped a finger to her chin, feigning thoughtfulness. “Tell me, Beirut, how’s that working out for you so far?”

Beirut shot her a glare but said nothing.

“Relax,” she said, her tone suddenly light and teasing. “I’m only joking. Mostly. But you might want to figure out what to do about Vargas sooner rather than later. He’s not the type to let things go.”

Beirut leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk. “I know. And that’s exactly why I didn’t kill the mercenary. Every move has to be calculated. Precise. I won’t give him an excuse to turn his full attention on me. Not yet.”

Rambael’s smile lingered, but her eyes glinted with something darker. “Fair enough. But don’t wait too long, dear. Because when the time comes to make your move, you’ll need to decide: do you want to be the hunter or the hunted?

Beirut’s tense silence was broken by the sharp buzz of his communicator. His eyes darted to the device on his desk, its screen flashing with Vargas’s name. For a moment, he didn’t move, his hand tightening into a fist as he considered ignoring it.

Rambael leaned against the edge of the desk, her head tilted in mock curiosity. “Well, aren’t you going to answer that?” she asked with a smirk. “Ignoring him would only make him more suspicious, don’t you think?”

Beirut’s jaw clenched as he weighed his options. With a heavy sigh, he snatched the communicator and pressed the answer button. “This is Sebastian,” he said, his voice steady but carrying a hint of irritation.

“Sebastian,” Vargas’s voice came through, cool and professional. “I’m working on a new case that I need your help with”.

“Shoot”, Beirut gave the affirmative for Vargas to continue his questioning.

“You’ve dealt with demons before, haven’t you? I could use some insight.”

Beirut’s gaze shifted to Rambael, who was leaning casually against the desk, watching him with her ever-present, unsettling smile. She tilted her head, giving him a slow nod, her hand gesturing for him to proceed.

He cleared his throat, forcing his voice into a neutral cadence. “I’ve had some... experience,” he replied cautiously. “What exactly do you need to know?”

“Everything. Rituals, manifestations, hierarchies—anything that can help me identify what we’re dealing with.”

Beirut’s eyes flicked back to Rambael. Her smile widened, her lips mouthing the word entertain him.

“Demons,” Beirut began, his tone measured, “are manifestations of chaos and corruption, drawn to the mortal realm by power, greed, or desperation. They’re not just mindless entities—they’re cunning, patient, and incredibly dangerous.”

He leaned forward, his elbows resting on the desk as he continued. “They are mortals who have been granted a portion of the power of the Old Gods through unadulterated devotion. Before the War in Heaven when we used to worship the gods, they were referred to as apostles. Each of the patron gods have their own types of demons with varying abilities under their control.”

“Interesting,” Vargas replied, his voice thoughtful. “What do you know about changelings?”

Beirut hesitated for a moment, glancing at Rambael. She raised a brow, her eyes glinting with amusement.

“Changelings,” Beirut said, his voice quieter now, “They are specialized demons with a knack for infiltration. They don’t rely on brute force; instead, they sow discord from within by mimicking mortals. Their disguises are near-perfect, but they’re not infallible. They can’t replicate Aera signatures, and prolonged exposure to specially-enchanted artifacts can disrupt their form.”

There was a pause on the other end before Vargas spoke again. “That’s... unsettling. Thanks for the insight, Beirut. I’ll be in touch if I uncover anything else.”

Beirut’s grip on the communicator tightened. “A changeling demon?” he repeated, feigning surprise. “Do you have any idea where it might be now?”

“Not yet,” Vargas admitted. “But it’s cunning, and its actions suggest a larger agenda. I’ll need access to more records and resources to piece this together.”

Beirut nodded, his mind racing. “I’ll ensure you have everything you need,” he said. “Send me the details of your findings. I’ll coordinate with you to expedite this investigation.”

On the other side of the desk, Rambael’s eyes gleamed with amusement as she mouthed, Good boy. Beirut’s lip twitched, but he kept his composure.

Beirut ended the call and set the communicator down with a shaky exhale. Rambael clapped slowly, her grin widening.

“Beautifully done,” she teased. “Such a dutiful Investigator, playing along so convincingly. It’s almost... endearing.”

“Don’t patronize me,” Beirut snapped, his voice low but seething.

“Well, that was enlightening,” she said, her tone mocking. “Your precious little Investigator getting closer to the truth by the second. How exciting. Be sure not to squander that donation that dear Maria gave her life for”.

Beirut shot her a venomous glare. “You think this is a game?”

“Oh, it is,” Rambael purred, leaning closer. “And you’re losing, Sebastian. Tick-tock.”