“I apologize for the situation,” Shishito whispers above the dwindling warosoku candles. Wicks yet to be hand-snipped, they droop, curved and yellowish like a nureongi’s tail. The past hour has been silent, save for Ø’s slurping.

The corpse was re-wrapped with a backing chorus of sobbing, shaking onlookers. You consciously held back from vomiting as the courtesan’s bones were re-piled into the palanquin, thrown together, the whole kit and caboodle to be incinerated in secret. In the building’s lower stories, in the basement boilers.

Away from sight. To avoid losing face, you presume.

Huhu and Kathi scrubbed the floor alongside the gang’s cadets, whose blubbering you three tried to ignore as another bottle, one of red rice sake, appeared alongside a new decanter and black-and-white painted ceramic cups.

“This was an unexpected occurrence,” Shishito claims.

Ø glares at the bossman, her stablemate, through the silence. Her head is still, nostrils attacked with gummy incense lit to stifle the stench of murder.

“Are you sure this was unexpected?” You ask with intent, pouring him a cup of the worryingly crimson liquid. Your appetite is ruined, your stomach churning, but you still drink out of politeness. A hint of annoyance curls like the untrimmed wicks from your detached question. “You were quite calm, to a point.”

“The severity of the scene was unexpected. However, the occurrence itself,” he steels himself with his political tonality, “had been anticipated.”

“Of what, exactly?”

“Murder,” he admits.

“Shishi,” the mare growls, half-hour silence broken, “I had a feeling you didn’t drag me out here to train your girlies in the fine art of scalping their Johns.”

“Because if you did, you paid us too much,” you add.

“Yes, you both are correct. I confess I had ulterior motives in inviting you both here. You see…” he begins before Ø interjects, her heaving herself to a defiant stand. She’s wobbly. Her drink’s still in her hand—a display of athleticism that drips onto the mats, sullying them further.

“That’s low, Shishi. Thought I could trust you more than that,” she spits. Her familiarity recedes. Nostrils crinkle with disdain. Lips flip and show off her plastic teeth. “You know? No, I don’t expect you to trust me, but I thought you’d be smarter than this. You know what happens when you cross me—”

“If you should allow me, I would like to explain myself.”

“Fat chance. I’m not waiting around for your other gauntlet to drop, especially not when I’ve got a target on my back paid for by half the galaxy,” she looks down to you, now at her full two plus meters of height, the sleeves of her cobalt-blue furisode longer than her dress, the alteration made to her specifications as a supposed drill instructor, allowing her legs a greater span of freedom, showcasing the scars cutting up her thighs and marring her sorrel pelt up to her hand-tied pure-silk and ribboned sokgot unmentionables.

Her eyes connect with yours, teeth clenched with intoxicated anger. Telepathically, she communicates the tens of thousands of vulgarities that course through her veins. A childhood fist bares down, beating the bossman’s head into Agapio’s grime, over and over, until she nickers back to reality. She’s ready to get off this overcrowded rock. She’s stayed in one place for too long.

However, Shishito’s companionship has won you over. You’re still a foreigner in this criminal world, and the luxury of a steady employer fulfils a nostalgic desire for normalcy. The cup in your hand is warm, and the bossman’s face is crimson in the low-light of the few lamps that remain lit.

“Let’s hear an excuse or two,” you say. “After all, Boss Shishito’s hospitality is a welcome change of pace.” You gesture towards him as your mare begrudgingly accommodates, landing with a thud, her crossed legs unladylike in her short dress. “This is better than the flophouse again, right?”

An angry snort accompanies another slurp of alcohol.

Behind his rose tinted lenses, Shishito blinks. His calm eyes assess the situation. In the past few weeks, he has never seen you both disagree. Nor has he witnessed the Secret you both share, the ultra-sensitive telepathic connection that has brought you both together, intertwined in twin fates. What was once a mare on a war path is once more enjoying her decadent alcohol, loudly, sporting a look of distrustfulness.

Defiant, but compliant. For you two, he finally understands, it must be break or be broken.

“Thank you,” he resumes with trepidation. “I understand I’ve betrayed your trust. For that, I apologize profusely. However, I’ve had no choice. Murders like these have plagued the Intergalactic Settlement for nearly a galactic standard year. I’ve lost three girlies, now four, to this same sort of violence,” he admits with a stony tonality. “Needless to say, my men are displeased that their favorite girls are being dissected. And the girls are less than enthused about being dissected themselves.”

Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

Behind him, in the corner, Ke’s human mouth hangs ajar, a few molars missing, whistling in a deep sleep. He refused to leave his boss’s side, supposedly for the safety of all involved. Although the compound is shuttered, guards on alert, picking teeth with toothpicks and gambling amongst themselves out of sight, there’s no telling what lurks beyond the walls, he claimed with a learned, ass-kissing sort of loyalty. The two girlies, both asleep on his chest, the jindo snoring louder than the lieutenant, were simply too scared to return to the brothel they call a temporary home.

Your host sighs at the scene, nearly paternal, as an accountant would sum expenses.

“The gamblers like the girlies, the dealers like the girlies, the muscle like the girlies... Without the girlies, I’ve got less of a cut to send upstairs to the Consortium every few cycles. Not enough credits to send as a take, and...” he gestures a hand through the air, circling and wiggling his last four fleshy fingers, “I don’t need to explain what happens in my business.”

“Your business?” the mare slurs. “That what you call it? You know, I’ve got a crew out there, too, somewhere. But today I’m here doing just your business?”

“Our business,” he corrects.

“That’s right. It’s called respect, Shishi, smarten up.”

“Please,” you interject with both hands, “continue.”

“Thank you,” he sighs. “At first, I thought it was another Family, another Consortium. After all, it’s understandable that someone steps out of line and messes up once or twice, unfortunate events occur, no matter how much we avoid them. I know I’ve has my fair share, especially when I grew old enough to make trouble.”

“After you flunked off of Agapito?”

“Yes,” he admits. His faux-humility falters, glare becoming pronounced. Yet he continues. “But then another girlie went under. And a third. So, I spread a rumor through the Settlement that I was bringing in hired help, a friend,” he over-emphasizes, “from Agapito. To train my merchandise, to protect my assets.”

“Well clearly it didn’t work,” Ø sneers.

“No, it did,” he holds a four-fingered pause. “Alcohol imports showed up on time, protection money came in with less fuss, the Three-Star Family invited us to a score where they ripped off a jewelry shipment. Kids like Ke have turned into real earners lately.”

“Congratulations,” you toast.

“Thank you. Again, I am forever grateful for you both,” he returns your smile. “However, my plan only worked for certain criminals, the kind who have something to lose, the ones who know politics, anyone from the Families. But this, this is worse. If my threat went unheard, it means we don’t know who’s slashing my girls, or why. Can’t appeal for clemency, can’t wage a war, if these attacks are random. It’s out of my control and outside the infrastructure where I can make an impactful move.”

“Are your girlies the only ones affected?” you pry.

“Don’t know. I’m not about to ask. If on the off-chance it’s another Family, and I don’t know, I’ll look weak. Or, worse, if it’s someone on the periphery, a civilian, and I can’t handle this in-house, I’ll look even weaker. If I send my guys kicking up dust, everyone will know. Then something bad’s bound to happen. Our arcology is… A fragile ecosystem.”

“And we’re your invasive species,” you remark. Your host grins, his tired eyes following his hand pour you another full glass.

“If you’d like to continue under my employment, sure. You see, Ø, a broker of sorts recommended you. Turns out you have some good friends, and many of them are sharper I when it comes to these matters.”

“Recommended me for what? Wasting my own time?”

“To find who’s killing my girlies, should your presence itself not work. In return, during your stay, I’ll continue to clean up whatever you break, so long as you exercise discretion and keep things quiet,” he bargains, “not to mention, you still get all the amenities I can offer.”

“Including our evening chats?” you joke.

“I’d hope so, to make up for this cycle’s unfortunate circumstances. A chance to make up for tonight’s lackluster hospitality, if you’ll take it.”

“Shut up,” Ø slurps. “Get to the offer. What’s the pay?”

“I’ll double your current training fee,” he retorts.

“And have that backdated, to when we first began employment?” you pry.

“Of course,” he concedes through gritted teeth before the mare shouts once more.

“Dead or alive?”

“Alive, and I can’t budge on that,” he snaps. “I either need a captive to justify a war, or someone I can make an example of.”

Ø lets the stillness hang. The pay isn’t enough to bring in a mass-murderer. Alive at least. For the first time in months it’s a buyer’s market, and you both relish the unfamiliar position.

“In return for your open-mindedness,” he bargains, “I’ll give the both of you a night with Madame Soonyeong.”

Ø’s ears perk up, her aloof form betrayed by the excessive alcohol that stains her dress.

“How private are you talking?”

“Private enough, if she takes to you. She’s the only Whisperer we have in the Settlement, so you can guess she doesn’t come cheap. Mind-reading, Whispering, is a kinder, more expensive sort of entertainment, unlike the eight-limb boxing we attended, or the fan-tan parlor where we took lunch last week,” his explains to you, the analytical eyes of a bossman rifling through his factbook, adding notes on you both with a disarming smile. “We’ll go tomorrow night, see if she chooses you both for the evening. She’s quite exclusive. But, something tells me that my previous experience is going to differ from yours.”

“You know,” you negotiate, “I’ve only heard of this Whispering thing once before—”

“Alright,” Ø interjects with a nod, content with both pay and prey, relieving you of your normal negotiation duties. “We’re in. Right?”

“Sure,” you agree in tandem. Maybe you could’ve worked the cost higher. Or found out why the mare’s interested in Whispering, whatever it may be. You’d ask, search her subconscious, were it not clouded with warmed liquor and the need to disrobe before passing out.

“But, Shishi” she shouts, commanding attention through a devious smile, “doesn’t matter how far back we go, how much you money-whip us, or how liquored up you think you can get me, none of that matters at all. Cross me like this again,” the gladiatrix slurs, impolitely holding the ceramic decanter to her lips for a selfish final pull, using her other finger to gesture towards your host, circling the air around his zig-zagging nose, nasal bridge bearing Ø’s handiwork, “and you know what’ll happen.”

“Of course,” he agrees. “It’s our business.”