Silver.

Silver metal vaguely reflects his own image in the dim lighting. The sword resting between the man's legs, propped up by a lazy wrist. Metal glinting as it turns just slightly, catching the light and reflecting a sandy landscape.

His lungs feel coarse. Cold air making its way down his throat, resting like mint gum caught in the back of his mouth. Elevator air. His face feels cold as though ice water is right beneath him, unsteadying the ground. Ripples beneath his arms and legs, the carpet is at its end on the black glass floor. Cold air, cold floor, cold feeling, cold eyes, cold face. His eyes feel like they are frozen.

“Say, what else did he say I would get?”

The air is stale. Cold air falls, hot air rises; that’s all it is, Matthew tells himself. The air isn’t like a hospital. It’s not sterile. It’s not sterile. It doesn't feel like back alley smoke. Barely made breaths. Gasps for air, or a burning chest. Hands wrapped around throats. Silence in a hallway, or broken air conditioning. A buzz in the ears that only comes from cold. It’s from the cold. It is.

“Immunity. From adversaries. Depends on the context.”

It's not cold metal, on his back. Vague reflections in silver walls. Or dull cold stone. On his back, on his hands, on his knees, in his mouth, on his face. It's not metal hammering into him. It’s just cold, just a sword. Just a reflection. It's not a flaming sensation from his stomach or a heat bubbling in his core. It's not like a metal ribbed rod down his throat. It's not gravel piercing the face. It's not socked ears, cold by blood.

“I know that part, thank you. I meant, what do I get out of the deal other than oh so pretty jewelry.”

Cold flooring, just the floor. Pavement, or black glass. It's fine. The carpet doesn’t feel full of air, like bad felt. Or empty like porous gray sidewalk. Or a silver moving floor. It's just vague reflections. Not sweat, watery mirroring. No, just cold air. In his lungs. Underneath his clothes. In his shoes. On his face. In his eyes. His eyes aren’t watering. It's just sweat. He can’t sweat if it's cold, so it's not his eyes. It's not.

“If you sell your soul, you’d probably get more out of the deal. This was just the down payment.”

Eyes everywhere. Cold daggers, not a sword. Not looking down on him, from between black suit pants. Eyes on his back. On his back from fancy dressed people. Pompous in prose, in standing, in heels. Those at home in the cold. Who don’t feel the cold. Who don’t breathe. Cold air rises, hot air falls. That's all, Matthew tells himself. That's why the heat in his chest spread to his shoulders and hips, and thighs, and calves, and arms. His hands are cold, holding on by the soaking carpet.

“Hah! Down payment? What else am I getting from ‘the man’ himself?”

The carpet is silent, thudding not making its way through. It's just wind. His black shoes, dress shoes, aren’t tapping the ground in front of Matthew. It's not a familiar gait of heels, and unsteady steps. It's just his heartbeat making its way in his ear. Pounding in his head. Pounding his head.

Matthew gets pulled up by the back of his collar, stumbling back as Ninum drags him a couple steps away from where he was on the floor staring at his reflection. In the floor, in the sword, in the water of the soaked carpet. That white thing in the sand.

“Sorry, for my friend here. He’s had too much to drink,” Ninum smiles, arm thrown over his shoulder and violently rocking him back and forth, side to side.

Matthew's eyesight slowly clears, he’s stood in front of the lady of the hour, and the guard dog, “I’m not- I haven’t had anything to drink.” Matthew clears, stepping away from the demon but not any forward towards the two.

The woman leans back, hands gripping the railing as she rocks on her heels, turning towards him, “You sure? We could get you something,” she says with a smile, but making no movement to call over a waiter.

The area is silent, the crowd watching all of them with bated breath. High class and tall necks standing out with their glossy eyes, pounding dance music echoing throughout the colosseum like building. Everyone is staring, analyzing the group, silent talk between those closest to each other, a faux sense of hiding in the background, wanting attention but not. The man has yet to move.

The long black haired man stays seated as Talachi walks past, her eyes analyzing the crowd and the three infront of her, coming closer to the trio, “So, how can I help? Do you need something specific?” She asks, clasping her hands behind her back.

“Ah- no than-”

“Yes.” Matthew cuts in, having steadied his breath, or currently steadying it, “May we, talk somewhere else?”

With a tilt of her head, her brown eyes having a tint amusement, flicker over to Mandy, barely standing on her own two feet and latched onto Ninum, “Does your friend need some help? I don’t do business with people not in their right state of mind.”

Matthews eyes latch onto Ninum first, before looking over to the stumbling woman. She tries to say that she’s perfectly fine, but she hiccups between each word. He shouldn’t have let Ninum convince him, he’s never even seen her drunk before.

“Galais, be a dear would you? Call her a cab?”

Talachi says to the tall guard, still sitting. Matthew can’t really trust someone he doesn’t know to take Mandy home, can he? She’s stumbling, but she isn’t involved in the deal, it shouldn’t be a factor into whatever is to come.

“Why do I have to?” Galais argues, leaning forward onto his sword, silk hair draping around him the further he goes before standing up.

Matthew quickly agrees, jumping onto the back of his words, “She won’t be a problem, she’s not relevant to the deal.”

The group seems to be at an impasse. Ninum of no help, her eyes still trained on Galais, while Mandys head whips around, staring at Matthew and mouthing words to herself. Galais is just standing there, waiting for an answer, in no mood to run errands. Except for, of course, Talachi, who waves over a waiter.

“There’s no need, the cabs are under my jurisdiction,” Looking away from Galais, she meets Matthews eyes, “Your friend will be fine.”

He doesn’t believe her, but he doesn’t have much room, between the sword and the cold business dignitary crowd. Not to mention, he needs this in for information. The questions around this woman doesn’t make the decision feel any safer either. She’s inherited the business, to her name, quicker than it usually takes, the tabloids didn’t make any notice about it despite the obvious discrepancies. And how would she control the cabs?

“You control the cabs?”

She looks back over to him, having picked up a wallet of sorts from the waiter's tray, a gold bag full of gold coins. Flicking one over to Galais, the gold spins in the air as she turns back to Matthew, curious to his words.

“Why wouldn’t I? They carry ads don’t they?” She says as if it's obvious.

He almost forgot that the front for unsavory business dealings is an advertisement agency. He didn’t expect for there to be deep enough control that it infected cabs and city travel. If she has the cabs, she’s obviously in control of everything on main street, isn’t she? Barely anyone remembers the fact Axis owns all the advertising agencies.

Continuing on with sending Mandy upstairs and out the door, the waiter takes the wallet, “So, your little friend here, practically drowning in the stench of alcohol, will be off on her way. Good with you?” She inquires, not expecting an answer as Galais comes forward and around them, offering an arm to Mandy.

Looking back at Matthew and Ninum, Mandy’s entirely confused as to why she’s being thrown to the wayside. Her eyes flicker between the two and she slowly lets go of Ninum’s arm, who’s not looking at her, lightly holding on to the man who’s illuminated in purple as the colored lights stream past the balcony.

“We’ll see you in the morning,” Matthew says to a passing Mandy, who just hums in acknowledgement.

The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

They walk towards the stairs, Galais’s tall stature highlighting Mandy's shorter one, not even reaching his shoulder. Ninum rips her eyes away from the couch and finally watches as Mandy and Galais leave. The air feels less cold now to Matthew, as well as the help of Ninum being stood slightly too close to him on his right, heat radiating off of her. Odd, given how little she’s wearing.

Regardless of their staring, the blonde woman begins walking back the way they came up, towards the gold doors flanked by guards. Matthew is quick to catch up after a moment, Ninum slowly behind him. The closer they get, the more details are seen on the door, spiraling etchings of deer and lions and peacocks. Ninum notices that the detailing of Talachis dress spirals in a feather-like pattern with eyes on the ends, the gold beading deliberate and fancy and close to the skin.

The doors hold feathered handels, pulled open by Talachi herself as she steps into her office. It's simple, the same black glass marbling on the walls and floor. A stark red carpet with gold tasseling decorates the main center, being held down by a deep dark wood desk with slight gold detailing around its edges, and two large leather arm chairs facing it in front of a gold table. Gold seems to be a theme, Matthew thinks to himself, running a hand through his hair.

The two of them sit down, Talachi on the edge of her desk next to a crystal skull vodka, “How can I help you? Information has to be bought at a high price, dirt can be bought for even higher, and specific advertisements should have been run through Dinara,” she tilts her head at them after counting off her fingers, eyes more focused on watching Matthew.

The lights in the low ceiling room doesn’t make anything in this room feel comfortable, Matthew notices, “I’m looking for information about ‘crushed petals?’”

Her smile drops, “I don’t deal in that. That was my fathers business,” she circles back around to her desk, rifling through the files on her desk, “And if you wanted information of that kind, why not just ask your demon? You're losing your soul either way.”

Matthew goes still at the words. By no means should she be able to know that, he hasn’t told anyone about the deal. He wasn’t followed out to the diner, he would have seen someone behind him. Advertisement doesn’t reach all the way out there, does it? In a ghost town? Where tumbleweeds are more common than people? How wo-

“Funnily enough, I was wondering the same thing,” Ninum says, relaxing into the arm of the chair, “He tried to sell his soul for some kind of gambit. Shapeshifting, can you believe it?” She gestures to the woman across from here, as if they’d be in agreement that he’s an idiot.

She agrees with a laugh, “Oh, absolutely. It would have been much easier to wish for truth,” the manilla folder in hand goes still, unmoving in her hand as she looks over to him.

“Say, Ms. Demon. Who do you work for?” Ninum is asked, causing her to tear her gaze away from the glass bottle with a reflection of gold around its crown.

With a tight smile, red, “You know I can’t answer that.”

“Oh, fun! A high roller. What a shame I don’t have to sell my soul to get what I want,” Talachi tilts her head with the same tight smile, before looking back over to him, “And you? Your name?”

“Matthew-”

She gestures her folder at him, relaxing her stance, “I got you fired, didn’t I? And that’s why you're here? ‘Cause you got too close to the truth? Says here you were an investigative reporter.”

She stalks slowly around her desk as Matthew looks down at his hands. How is he supposed to go from here? Try a gambit? Of course she fired him, why wouldn’t she? He’s sure that the actor is involved, Hell, he has dirt on the guy, but now he’s here in the lion’s den, in front of the woman who got him fired. What choice does he have here? Try to lie? Lay out the truth?

The thoughts racing through his mind make him deaf to the sound of a quiet, sharp scrape against wood, as well as practiced footfalls getting closer to him. Neither the quiet twinkling of beads against beads. Obviously, he doesn’t hear the heels stop either, nor a slight lightshow of iridescences that was already dulled by the fluorescent bulbs almost overpowering its gleam dance on the floor.

He runs his hands through his hair before looking up at her, who’s staring at a relaxed smirking Ninum with a clenched right hand, “You know your father dealt in ‘petals,’ I’m just trying to figure out how they're being distributed. Who’s making them, maybe. Can I bargain for that information?”

Her brown eyes are hidden behind rapid fluttering of eyelids that he wouldn’t have seen if he didn’t look up, “Oh?” She steps back from almost crossing to their side of the gold rectangular table, “That’s it? Just the petals?”

“Yes? My lead was on Arley? The actor?” Why would she be surprised, Matthew wonders. He was fired for that, wasn’t he? Arley getting in contact with her?

“My bad then! Let's see what else you have on file,” She giddily skips back over to her desk, throwing herself into her chair and reads off the information, “Mother; Deceased, of diamphotoxin from some leptinotarsa beetle infection. On the date-”

He talks over her, trying to get her to stop, only muffling the date, “This seems unnecessary-”

“Father; N/A,” She ignores him, only to click her tongue behind dark red lips and mutters at the information, “Lucky asshole.”

But, her eyes light up at the next, “And, you used to work at the famed ‘Muidios Purity’ on the main street! No wonder you live in a high-rise near the tower,” she taps the back of her hand on the information, turning back towards him in her chair.

Shouldn’t she have already known this?

“Wow, a high roller! Who would have guessed,” Ninum chimes in, mirroring Talachi’s relaxed figure as she throws her legs over the chair arm, facing him as her Valentino platforms dangle in the air.

Chuckling in the meanwhile, “I almost feel bad now. If I had known that you were looking directly into the petal distribution, I want to say I would have helped you!” Talachi leans forward in her chair, holding her head with her laced hands.

A tone of sympathy makes it into her tone, “Say, how about I make it up to you?”

“Make it up to me?” She fired him, and now she’s trying to apologize? Was it not because of the actor? The petals are what caused this-

“Yep! We both don’t like the petal business, I’m assuming, so why don’t I have you investigate for me? Into those who are on shaky ground already, close to ruining their images regardless of my attempts-”

The golden doors behind them open, streaming in faint booming music as Galais walks into the room. He has his bag over his shoulder, but his sword is still in his right hand. The doors slam behind him, cutting off the loud sounds.

Turning back over his shoulder to look back at Talachi, “Wouldn’t you already know who’s involved?”

“Of course I do, that's why I can point you in the right direction. All you have to do is dig a little deeper, into the things they don’t tell me, and you can find your trail back to the one in charge.” She says flippantly as Galais stays in his stance beside the door despite her nodding her head to her side.

If she knows so much about these people, why does she want him involved, Matthew thinks to himself, “What do you get out of this?”

The smile comes back to her face, genuine or not from its previous sneer, “You get a cover, and a steady stream of money. I get a janitor. It’s a win win, yeah?”

“I-”

“How about you think about it, and I can give you your first assignment in two days at, let's say, the cafe near here? The one with green awnings?”

“Wai-” He stands up from his chair, Ninum following slowly.

“Good, good,” She stands from her chair, her hands shooing them away towards the door, “Now go on, I have others to attend to!”

The two, Matthew and Ninum turn around, making their way towards the door. Matthew doesn’t like how silent and stale this room is compared to the outside, despite the beating bass and drums of the music almost making its way through.

Walking past Galais, his sword on his left, Ninums left arm slowly lights the closer they get. Like a fire spread behind or beneath the bones, like light shining through skin. A burning heat emmantes from her left the closer she gets, the closer she is to the sword, heat waves seem to flutter out of her skin, moving her hair. Wavering air quickly dissipates the further they get from Galais and his, weapon, Matthew notices, her arm calming down from its skeletal display. And the man was barely focused on her, head barely turning, just barely shifting the blade's blunt gray side to follow her. He was likely following her with his eyes, before he made his way to the center between the chairs before Talachi.

“The boss has more to offer you, if you’d like. You won’t even have to sell your soul for it.”

She scoffs behind them, “More to offer? I’ve practically got my own throne, what more would I need from you? Or is it for you?”

A small laugh leaves him, “Besides that, you're a primary asset to him. You don’t need to bother with other contracts or smaller disputes.”

The doors slam behind them, they no longer privy to the conversation.

—

Standing on the side of the road, below a clear umbrella held by the tall Native American man, Mandy isn’t sure what to make of this night.

It was going well, she thought at first. It was going well! Talking over drinks, banter, the memories go through her mind as Mandy rubs her arms. She even had her hair newly braided, she got a nice dress with her pathetically low wages for the cost. Nice white heels, now stained by murky rain water on the sidewalk.

The blinding lights around her aren’t made to cull headaches either. She really shouldn’t have drank so much. Her date didn’t even have anything to drink. And Hell! What kind of banter or excuse is it that you get put on sabbatical by your boss? How bad does your addiction have to be that you get put on sabbatical by the devil!? Can she even call Ninum her date?

There was no progress. They aren’t compatible with each other, that's all it is. Nothing else. Nothing to do with being passed up for golden eye candy, or barmen with fancy eyes that understand her better than Mandy does. Nope. She doesn’t care.

She doesn’t care her makeup is probably running from the hot air under the umbrella, despite the water running around them. Or that her shoes are probably ruined. Or the fact she couldn’t even find good enough earrings in time, she had just foregone them. Or the lack of a necklace. She doesn’t even like her hair, it gets in the way too much for her, having to constantly push it back.

Looking up, the clear umbrella reflects the lights shining from the doorway and the neon advertisements on the street, the raindrops plopping in tandem with the ticking of the man's watch. She didn’t even notice that on his left wrist. She was leaning on it wasn’t she? Wasn’t he sitting with something on that seat back in there? And why is his hair so nice and smooth in the humidity?

Looking back up to his face, unable to read it, “Do you think I’m pretty?”

Looking up from his phone, it's impossible to tell the reaction in his eyes from behind his sunglasses, “What?”

—

Finally outside the building, Matthew comes to the realization.

He had absolutely no control over that conversation. He just accepted a job, that, while in his favor, doesn’t make sense in how he’s gotten it.

Ninum opens her black umbrella, holding it above herself as she looks back at the closed doors lined in gold, “Well, isn’t she prideful,” she smiles and walks off into the rain, leaving him behind near the stone still guards.