Ryxer Vannyer was at home, poring over papers stuffed with information about the famous casino and Sector 6 agent, Ethan Sinclair. Setting aside other issues to specifically pursue answers about Gwenda's case might seem foolish to his boss's eyes, and probably to everyone else's. But not to him. Gwenda was his friend; leaving that aside would be the last thing he'd do.

But there was a connection that Vannyer wasn't understanding. He furrowed his brow at his own handwriting, at the mind map on one of the papers.

The casino was closed, Rubben reacted to Gwenda's death a bit differently than Ryxer expected. As Darcy warned: Rubben and Gwenda have a history that shouldn't be talked about. And that clearly indicated something Vannyer should pursue and uncover, screaming in his head until he had the answers he needed.

The arena was linked with Gwenda, which linked to Rubben and the casino and the strange man he saw when he was there. On the same day Ethan Sinclair showed up in the sector. The first reaction he had was to stare at his face, trying to match it with another he found strangely similar. Until he realized it was none other than the casino man, who probably worked for Rubben. But the question was whether he could be a brother, or maybe not. There was only one way to find out, even if going to Rubben would be risky.

Ryxer diverted his eyes to the arrow on the table. It was wood from the Mystra forest, now dry and firm, impossible to break when the charm was lost. Pulling it out of one of the targets' chests was... unsettling. But now it was there, studying the shape of the sharp tip, the crest of a throwing blade inside a circle. That led somewhere, but Darcy refused to admit it and ordered him to leave the arrow in the sector. Of course, he took it home.

But this had to lead somewhere. Trytan's killer and the men in the cart were still at large, and it seemed Vannyer was the only one who had no clue who he was or how to get to him. As if Darcy were in on the whole scheme. So his boss's name was on that paper, interconnected with Rubben's and Gwenda's.

The information he had was scant. Courvin, the man who fought with Gwenda in the arena, and lost every time as far as rumors went, was interrogated. But all that came out of him was something worthless and some flirtation directed at Raux. After a kneecap to the groin that made the blood drain from Vannyer's face, Courvin shrank and fell asleep on the floor.

Vannyer smiled to himself. He loved playing that scene in his head every time. But now the competitor was showing up almost every day in the sector with a bouquet of flowers for his stern boss, as if to redeem himself and seek forgiveness that was far from happening. The first time he showed up there, chattering with Darcy until he was thrown out of the place, made the boss freeze. Ryxer believed she didn't know how to respond to it, so just staring at the flowers with slightly widened eyes was what gave away Raux on relationship matters. Vannyer didn't have the opportunity to approach with a smirk and tease her before Darcy threw the bouquet in the trash, which spun twice before settling down. Raux returned to her desk, and the agents who held back smiles focused on their work too. Ryxer swallowed hard to remain quiet and returned to his search.

Vannyer huffed and shook his head, returning to reality. The fact was, he was suspecting his boss. Darcy knew about the arrow and where it came from, and Ryxer probably did too. At first, Trytan's death had been what prompted him to be awake in the middle of the night doing exactly what Darcy had ordered. But this search took another path, going through Ethan Sinclair, Darcy Raux, Rubben, and, unbelievably, Ramelia.

Darcy was disappearing some afternoons, just like Ethan. Even though Gwenda was no longer here, Sinclair was still trying to unravel the case of the wall with Vannyer. And that clearly was absurd. He should be focused on his colleague's case, something inside Ryxer screamed to let Ethan do the explosion case work alone. After all, he was great at what he did, wasn't he?

Ramelia was Sinclair's boss; the idea of sending him to Sector 3 to be a spy was also on Ryxer's mind. The truth was, he needed to figure out this symbol on the arrow, and then things could move more easily. It would be one of the steps that would unravel the rest, but Vannyer wasn't sure, it was just a hypothesis.

Tired of waiting for an order that made sense in his head, Ryxer got up and left home, ignoring the cold wind. He ran through the city streets until he reached that place he always imagined himself entering and unraveling everything. Vannyer looked at that symbol right above the entrance on the door. He swallowed hard before trying to open it. Locked.

Ryxer cursed and turned around, looking around as if searching for someone who could help him. For a moment he thought of Gwenda, of the dimples on both sides of her mouth that rarely had a smile, but whatever movement she made, those depths in her cheeks appeared. When Gwenda was so focused she stuck her tongue out and licked her lips, the dimples appeared out of nowhere. And when she raised her big, sparkling brown eyes to Vannyer, what she let show in her gaze was so radiant and comforting that he needed to avoid eye contact. It was a sign of who Gwenda was, a sign of the incredible woman behind all that intense scheme the agent created for herself.

Ryxer returned to reality at the moment he heard someone else further down the street. He furrowed his brow and followed the sound of laughter and nonsensical shouting.

More than a month had passed since Gwenda had left, and things couldn't be slower. Ethan was still on the wall case, which, in a way, was good when Vannyer needed to focus on unraveling Trytan's death, as Darcy asked. But he had the feeling she already knew.

Vannyer wandered down the almost deserted street, only the sound of his boots on the coarse sand was true to his own ears. A man was pushed out of a bar right across the street, and Ryxer stopped.

— Get out of here!

He staggered away, laughing, so drunk he thought he would fall flat on his face any moment.

Something broke inside the bar, and the blond man who had pushed the drunkard turned around. Ryxer and he locked eyes. In the midst of the darkness and the light from a few local street lamps, Vannyer could see the fire in those eyes. So familiar even at night.

— Ryxer? — The man asked — Ryxer Vannyer?

The agent tilted his head, puzzled.

— Do I know you? — he asked and approached cautiously.

It's true that a lot of people knew him, but not by that name.

— Bruce — he said — Bruce Matchstone.

Vannyer blinked. Bruce, Gwenda's cousin. A faint smile appeared on the agent's face, just as it did on Bruce's, but his was filled with intense grief and pain. Ryxer felt bad.

He cleared his throat and approached Bruce with more confidence.

— I’m sorry for your loss.

The returning smile was weak.

— Deaths happen all the time. Gwenda’s days were numbered.

Ryxer frowned.

— You know. — Bruce swallowed hard and looked down at the ground. — She was in an eternal addiction. Always work and the arena. One day or another, it would have killed her even without the explosion. I wish I could have helped more.

Vannyer began to lose strength. It wasn’t pity, but understanding.

— You're doing a great job at the bar. That’s already a big thing, especially when the owner herself couldn’t take a break to manage it.

Bruce started biting the inside of his cheek while looking at Ryxer. They were close enough now to see even the color of each other's eyes. Bruce’s caramel eyes were clear.

— That’s what killed her. — he said, dryly — Not stopping to take care of what mattered. I’m the only family she had left, and even that didn’t mean anything. I don't know if she missed me like she missed her father, but I was here, waiting for her to ask for help and to start accepting what she once gave me. A new life. We both know she was too proud. — Bruce shook his head in denial, biting his lower lip harshly. — She was my family; it will always hurt. — He nodded towards the bar before heading to the small door. — Want to come in?

Ryxer exhaled and nodded, feeling sleepy and not quite sure what he was doing there. Since the last time he had frequented this place, he had forced himself to forget where it was, and, mysteriously, there was Vannyer, entering and escaping the cold of the night.

The stuffy, fragrant air hit him, along with the violins that played almost every night. The music filled his ears with weak, stormy joy and sadness.

Bruce was already behind the counter, moving gently among the other attendants there, so flexible that his feelings were almost palpable. The grief lingered in this place, whether they liked it or not.

Ryxer sat on a stool and rested his elbows on the counter before running a hand through his short hair, taking a deep breath. He let his arm drop, fist clenched, just as Gwenda’s cousin appeared with a bottle of wine and two small glasses, skillfully serving them.

They clinked their glasses in a toast to nothing and drank. When Vannyer finished his glass and Bruce was swirling his own, watching the whirlpool that formed, Ryxer asked:

— Have you heard about Rubben?

Bruce remained focused as he answered gently:

— That son of a bitch Rubben locked himself in his own dungeon. — He shrugged and took the last sip before setting the glass down on the counter. — Doesn’t surprise me.

— Do you know what happened with Gwenda and him?

Bruce sighed.

— Knowing is a strong word. Gwen was never very open. I had to go after things on my own.

Of course.

It was Gwenda; Vannyer wouldn’t expect less.

Bruce patiently refilled the glasses once more.

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— That bastard bought her and abused her in every possible way. I don’t like talking about it. — He frowned and looked at his drink as if seeing his own reflection. Gwenda’s reflection. — She relived that trauma again. I don’t know the details, but I remember when I saw her for the first time after months, more destroyed than ever.

Gwen's cousin downed his drink as if desperate to drive himself crazy, get drunk, and forget his position.

— What do you mean, relived it?

He pounded the counter, and Vannyer thought it might be better to pull Bruce away before he ended up breaking something. It seemed he was a bit weak with alcohol or utterly shattered inside by grief. Probably the latter, because Ryxer remembered he was a man lost in drink before Gwenda found him this job. As far as he knew, Bruce had come to hate the taste of alcohol.

— You worked with her and didn’t know. — He stared at him. — I’m not the one who should tell you this, and I doubt she would forgive you if you dug into past cases or asked your boss about it. — Bruce paused for a long time. — She was sold to Darcy, wasn’t she? — Vannyer remained silent. — Arth Cheack invaded Carsany and captured Gwenda. The only victim of Arth Cheack that he kept captive, gagged when not eating, with her feet and hands bound from dawn till late at night. And the only thing he did was watch from afar with devouring death-filled eyes as my cousin withered away in that place. — Bruce removed his hand from the glass, avoiding gripping it too tightly, Ryxer noticed. — She didn’t see sunlight, refused to eat and drink until forced. Gwen didn’t give me details, but I could see what that guy did to her. Worse than Rubben. — Bruce sighed again. — Rubben had a certain limit, as far as I noticed. He liked Gwenda, might beat her after a failed mission, but didn’t go beyond that. Arth Cheack invaded her privacy, invaded everything Gwenda was. In mind and body, he left his mark as a reminder. He made Gwen a weak woman wearing a deceitful layer, pretending to be strong while killing mystics and destroying opponents in the arena. But that’s all she did, because it was all useless. The more recognition she got from the people, the more destruction she brought to her side, pretending to be someone she wasn’t. Strong and fearless, courageous... a joke. Gwenda was weak, a little dog behind her master, unable to have her own life. She killed mystics for revenge for what was done to her and the people she loved, and she participated in the arena to show no mercy to anyone. Gwen didn’t have the courage to face her true self; she was a cowardly liar and manipulator. All to convince herself she wasn’t weak and could be a consequence-free assassin, smiling at the blood accumulating on her hands. She had been affected for a long time; it was only a matter of time before she left.

Bruce swallowed hard, and continued:

— I admire her. Don’t take my rant as something bad, I’m just marking the history of a woman who went through a lot and was still fighting, but Arth Cheack was practically the end of the Gwenda I knew. I love my cousin with all my being. Gwen was strong for enduring all that and wanting to give her best, but weak because she got carried away by the romanticization of things that shouldn’t be romanticized. I don’t know if you understand me; you seem to want to sleep while I’m here telling the story of Gwenda Matchstone Oxwinder, a side no one has ever heard. — Bruce paused, then let out a breath that sounded like a laugh, patting Vannyer’s shoulder in a gesture of camaraderie. — Don’t worry, you can come ask me anything you want about her. But promise me you’ll write a book, just like she wanted to do with the ideas she had when she was young.

Vannyer remained silent for a long time.

His chest was tight, eyelids heavy, and eyes burning as he held back the tears that could escape at any moment. Bruce, whether noticing or not, didn’t comment on it.

He never even suspected that Gwenda had been a victim of Arth Cheack. Darcy had made it clear it was another woman, the same one who died burned and Arth went after, ending up with scarred arms and hands.

— Of course, my cousin was capable of anything, but she hid behind a veil of lies and disorder. She was broken. Without Darcy, Gwenda would panic. She never lived on her own; how could she know if she could? — Bruce grabbed a towel from the inner counter and threw it over his shoulder.

— That’s a good point. — Vannyer shot back.

Gwenda’s cousin gave a weak, awkward smile before picking up the empty glasses that had just arrived and taking them to the sink.

Ryxer continued:

— Gwenda became a different person after Arth Cheack. Obviously, she wouldn’t stay the same. — He started to trace circles on his glass, following the line at the top. — All I saw in that woman was strength and determination, and I highly doubt that was a lie. Gwenda could be anything but a liar about her own personality.

— That’s the problem, she didn’t have a personality anymore. She absorbed from Arth Cheack and Rubben and combined the two into one, forming Gwenda’s.

— And why not accept that Gwenda was never the same and move on? Are you saying you were disappointed that they destroyed who she was? That’s a bit ignorant.

Bruce shook his head.

— No. All I know is that Gwen became someone else, hiding who she was before everything. The real Gwen wasn’t dead, just locked away. Killing was painful for her, I could see it every time we talked, in her eyes consumed by regret. That’s why she was weak, because the courage was a lie and she had pity, she just refused to show it.

— I believe that. But I never saw pity in Gwenda when it came to outlaws, murderers, and unwelcome intruders. And if she didn’t have the damn courage, I don’t think she’d be where she is now.

— Dead. — Bruce finished.

— Accomplished all of this. — Vannyer corrected.

— It doesn’t change the fact that she’s dead.

No, it didn’t.

— Accomplished what, exactly? — asked Gwenda’s cousin. — A mountain of money? Yeah, because that was worth it in the end. — The irony in the last sentence didn’t go unnoticed by Ryxer.

He shrugged.

— People change. Gwenda could very well have ended up being who she was today, even without Rubben and Arth Cheack. You’re saying these things because you missed who Gwenda used to be.

Bruce gave a small smile and almost laughed in Vannyer’s face.

— I’m saying this because I loved her and knew her. I know she wasn’t who she showed.

Ryxer raised his hands in surrender and agreed, not in the mood to argue about it.

Bruce clearly wanted his cousin back even before she died. And Gwenda might indeed have been lying about being merciless and completely out of control when she saw a mystic, but what Vannyer had seen in the agent... he highly doubted Bruce was right. Gwenda might have been weak before everything, but later she became ruthless.

The thing was, Matchstone was tough and had many rivals, always wanting to go all the way and finish whatever she was doing. When drunk, on her birthday night, Ryxer saw who Gwenda once could have been, who she locked away inside herself.

Her cousin might have an efficient point of view, but Ryxer had seen how the former agent was in the field, cleaning her weapons with indifference and blowing brains out as if she were hitting darts on a wall for fun. And then the little smile of victory.

Bruce didn’t see that part of the Shooter but had his own opinions.

Someone entered the bar, and Ryxer glanced sideways at the robust figure barely fitting into his clothes.

Courvin scanned the place until his eyes landed on Vannyer. A shiver ran down his spine as the competitor smiled at him. Ryxer looked away to his glass and drank the rest of what was left. Bruce was already taking some orders, his expression serious.

— I’m starting to believe in destiny.

Ryxer closed his eyes, wondering if ignoring the man beside him was a good idea.

— Wherever I go, you’re there. Is this your doing, detective?

Courvin grabbed the bottle and drank from the neck, chugging the alcohol. When he showed no sign of stopping anytime soon, Ryxer turned to him and watched as he gulped it all down at once.

His throat barely moved, and his lips started to get wet and shiny. A drop ran down Courvin’s jaw, and Vannyer followed it with his eyes to a thick scar cutting from the bottom of the chin to almost the middle of the cheek, passing over the firm jawline.

When he nearly finished the bottle, Courvin squinted and swallowed whatever was in his mouth before licking his lips, sucking any trace of drink. He opened his eyes and placed the bottle in front of him before crossing his hands and looking at someone behind the counter, his face impassive.

Vannyer followed his gaze and found Bruce staring at the competitor as if he were seeing a painting he found interesting. Ryxer raised his eyebrows.

— I think your friend likes me.

Something tightened in Vannyer, and he frowned. Bruce greeted the two with a nod before moving away again to serve other customers, his face a faint shade of red, but at least he wasn’t pale like before. When they were talking about Gwenda.

Ryxer sighed.

— What do you want?

Courvin shrugged, brushing his shoulder against the agent’s, who pretended nothing happened.

— From you? Nothing. But your little friend seems like a good match.

Vannyer turned to the competitor, incredulous.

— You came to talk to me about him?

— I didn’t come to talk to you. Like I said: this here — he indicated Ryxer and himself with his finger — is destiny’s work.

— You didn’t say a fucking thing.

Courvin tilted his head and stared at him, indignant.

— You could be a little less rude, don’t you think?

Vannyer looked him up and down, taking in everything he should and letting the scars on Courvin’s face and neck slide by.

— You were interested in my boss. — he said, without enthusiasm — and suddenly, Bruce became your target. You'll be burned at the stake if an old man discovers your crush.

— Bruce? — Courvin seemed surprised, ignoring what Vannyer said — Matchstone? — The competitor looked again at Gwenda’s cousin.

— Any problem? — The question slipped out of Ryxer before he could contain it.

— That family is a bit weird.

— You’re saying that because you lost to Gwenda every time you competed with her.

— I’d be an idiot to refuse Bruce just because Gwenda beat me. This guy is cute, don’t you think?

Ryxer rolled his eyes and huffed before turning back to his glass.

— Bruce isn’t my target. — Courvin admitted. — But he suits you.

Ryxer narrowed his eyes and frowned.

— I’m not attracted to men.

Courvin gave him a look that clearly said he didn’t believe that for a second. His eyes were shining with dancing flames, as if challenging Ryxer.

— Man. — Courvin slapped Ryxer’s back — you send a very wrong message.

The competitor ordered another drink, served by a too-shy Bruce to respond to Courvin, who smiled with feline gentleness, not taking his eyes off Bruce out of sheer teasing and provocation.

Vannyer stared at his glass in the meantime.

You send a very wrong message.

And what did that mean, exactly? That he seemed to like men? He rubbed his face with one hand, refusing to remember Cressint.

Tired and now with his hair messed up as if he’d just woken up, he settled for beer for the rest of the night, lazily sharing it with the man beside him who started talking and didn’t stop. Ryxer could only agree with anything, sometimes closing his eyes and almost letting nightmares drag him away from reality. Apparently, he’d have to pay for the dozens of bottles.

He couldn’t tell if it was the drink keeping him warm inside and feeling safe there, he didn’t know if it was the calm music making Ryxer feel good amidst all that, finding his rightful place. Courvin, the more he drank, the more agitated he seemed to get, and Vannyer more tired.

Any discomfort faded, and his work became a lesser burden as he laughed at Courvin’s endless stories and let the sound of the instruments invade his soul. Bruce commented one thing or another while working.

Gwenda’s cousin was calm, always making rational comments and laughing as gently as a prince, which impressed Ryxer. But Bruce’s calm and patient temperament was divine, so different from Gwenda that it made Vannyer dizzy. Even knowing it was the drink messing with his brain.

After that night, receiving peace and laughter from people different from the usual, there was no place to hide, and Vannyer was fully aware of the truth he carried. A truth outside his paradigms and beliefs.