PRECISION

Outside, muffled voices and the occasional rattle of a streetcar punctuated the streetlamp-dimmed dusk that mingled with the scents of coal, smoke ,and city grime. The sound of honking horns and distant music from the halls of entertainment only dimmed as Bellamy shut the door to the apartment, not bothering to turn the lock. His home was modest for a three bedroom apartment. He split the rent with a young couple from the Atrean Islet, a grumpy older lawyer, and, of course, his brother. The wooden floors creaked in odd places, worsening in the chill of winter, but the insulation was good enough to keep the biting cold at bay.

Bellamy gently massaged chilled, stiff hands, working ambient heat into his fingers before reaching into his bag. He carefully unwrapped one of the many butcher-paper bundles he had received from Kye. The soft crinkle of paper echoed as he peeled it back, revealing the fresh meat – deep red, marbled, and almost too perfect to be real. He set it on the counter quickly, almost willing its presence away before temporarily retreating to his room to grab his personal butcher’s block and cast iron.

Explaining why he kept separate cookware had been an ordeal, looking back, his excuse had been flimsy at best – shellfish allergy, deathly allergic. But it worked. Kept his flatmates safe. Kept him from flipping up. He’d take the awkward conversations over the alternative. It also happened to make him their resident cook, which came with a little rent decrease which was always nice.

His knife bit into the flesh with satisfying resistance, the blade gliding through sinew and muscle. Each piece was roughly cut – just the right size to break down into tender shreds in a slow-simmering pot. The rhythm of chopping settled into something steady, meditative, the thud of the knife against the board a consistent backdrop to his thoughts.

With practiced precision, he retrieved another butcher’s block, a separate cutting board, and yet another knife before pulling more stew beef, this time from the icebox. A second round, uncontaminated. A second pot. One for himself, one for the rest.

The vegetables came next. Carrots, potatoes, and onions. The carrots were still caked in earth, needed a quick rinse. Water splashed into the basin, the sound crisp against the background hum only shattered by an occasional boiler bubble messing with the pipes. He set about peeling and slicing each vegetable, appreciating the differences in texture – the snap of carrot skin, the satisfying give of an onion under the blade, the sudden lack of resistance once he broke through a potato's skin.

Oil sizzled in two cast-iron skillets as they met the heat of the stove, fire crackling and popping softly beneath them. A dollop of lard melted into a thin shimmer of fat before he slid the meat into the pans. Each chunk landed with a hiss, the rich scent rising into the air and infiltrating every corner of the apartment almost immediately. He didn’t need to smell it to know, the old lawyer’s door creaking open and the familiar shuffle of worn slippers was a dead give away.

The old man sprawled onto the sofa with a weary sigh, a cheap booze bottle in one arm. “Mind bringing that bottle over here?” Bellamy asked, stirring each pot with their separate wooden spoons, turning each piece carefully so the edges caramelized in the rendered fat.

“Sure, son” The lawyer, with the grace to sound only mildly disgruntled, hauled himself up and hobbled over, sliding the bottle across the counter. Belllamy for his part had the grace to not drink the entire bottle as he unscrewed the cap and took a deep swig.

“Hits the spot,” he muttered, setting the bottle down before turning to the vegetables. The steady chop of his knife filled the room once more.

“You look like shit,” the older man finally observed, eyeing the bruising swell around Bellamy’s eye.

“I’m getting that a lot lately,” Bellamy chuckled, not looking up.

“Anything an old man like me would be worried about?”

“No.” Bellamy’s voice left no room for doubt. “Got this from a job.”

The lawyer grunted in acknowledgment, motioning for the bottle again. Bellamy took one more quick swig before sliding it back across the counter. “And you? Bit strong tonight.”

“Damn judges again. They’re stalling. Waiting me out, hoping no one else picks up the case once I’m mush and that I won’t come back to get them. Or at least until The G-O ratifies another legally sanctioned extermination clause into law.”

Bellamy paused in his chopping, setting the knife down with a quiet clink. “Yes, because I am an educated enough man to understand those words,” he said, voice dry. “Simply not educated enough to understand them in that order.”

The lawyer grumbled something under his breath before speaking louder. “Lousy people are still lousy, and the snow is making my old bones ache.”

Bellamy reached into the cabinet, pulling out a bay leaf which he slid into the broth, watching as it bobbed before settling beneath the surface. “Let’s hope some stew can warm those old bones of yours, aye.”

“What I’m hoping for,” the lawyer muttered, making his way back onto the couch.

The conversation lapsed into comfortable quiet, the bubbling of the pot filling the space between them. Bellamy adjusted the seasoning based on the old man’s feedback, adding a pinch more salt and a crack of pepper.

Ladling stew into two bowls,he switched to the uncontaminated ladle for the old man’s portion. He carried his brother’s bowl to their shared room before setting his and the lawyers at the table. They ate in silence, the warmth of the food settling between them like an unspoken understanding.

The old man left first and Bellamy set about stacking dishes, dropping the contaminated cookware on Callum’s desk. He might enjoy cooking, but he’d be damned if he was going to clean up. Bellamy passed the time un-bruising his body and black eye, channeling essence through him to mend the wounds. The sensations of using essence was different for everyone -- some felt it burn like fire inside their chest, others like a rush of something sharper than adrenaline or any drug through their veins. For Bellamy, it was nothing so visceral. Instead, it was as if he were a scaffold, and the essence were countless workers swarming over him, straining the supports until they creaked. The sensation set his nerves on edge.

Suddenly, his brother recorporealized inside the apartment by the door. Another casual display of his Harbinger ability. Bellamy’s eye twitched.

“Seriously?”

Callum grinned. “No one saw.” He and his brother looked quite alike, they both had the distinctive tanner skin of Coutama, with deep coffee brown eyes and short curly hair. They both wore simple clothes, but Callum always had a better mind for fitted cloth and the accessories to make him appear better off than he was.

Bellmay exhaled through his nose. It didn’t matter, if his brother thought he wasn’t seen. All it took was one set of prying eyes, one rumor, one overeager bastard with a holy book, and they were done.

People weren’t supposed to survive natural essence exposure, not without consequences. Some turned into twisted husks, some got burned out, and a rare few came back … wrong. Those ones? They were hunted.

“Accident when I was a kid,” Callum always said, some bought it or didn’t care too busy trying to figure out what to eat or when their next job would be.

Bellamy turned away, shaking his head. “How were classes?”

Callum ignored the question, sniffing the air. “Stew?”

“Aye.” Only a small note of jealousy managing to worm its way into the single word.

“Bet it tastes great” he hung up his coat and doffed his hat, hanging both by the door. He proceeded to step through the wall to their shared room, grabbed the bowl of stew, and then pulled himself and the soup through once more. His grin only seemed to widen as he greedily took in the scents of the stew, savoring every moment.

“Classes were fine” Callum started, still leaning over the stew, but not yet eating it. “Second semester and they’re still doing the intro work from grade school. He almost reluctantly brought the bowl to his lips before pouring its entire contents in his mouth and swallowing.

“Do you do that around your friends?” Bellamy scowled, seeing his hard work disappear.

“Oh yeah. Party trick. The girls love it”

“I’m no longer interested.” Bellamy grabbed his coat, heading for the door. “Keep your ability on for a while. Low attention. The zealots are in town.”

Callum froze, his hands now clammy, face tight, tension spreading through his in its entirety. “... You’re sure?”

“Yeah. Keep going to school. They’ll be watching for anyone suspiciously absent after news gets around”

“We could just leave” Callum hesitated, “Say we’re visiting family.”

Bellamy shook his head, “Sniffers at every station. You could get by, but I’m not stealing a car.”

Callum stood there, face scrunched in an approximation of pain before the hat he had just hung up smacked him in the face.

“Don’t be a baby about it,” Bellamy muttered, a poor excuse for comfort. “If one of them tries something, just punch them in the throat while they pray – they never finish their chants after that.” He gave a side glance at his brother, realizing he had done nothing to put his mind at ease.

With a sigh he continued, “Come on. I’m heading to The Last Dance and then Penny’s. I need someone to proxy bet on me and help me figure out who to bet on.”

Callum groaned. “Fuck, dude. I’m tired.”

“And I like paying your tuition, so let’s go.”

With a halfhearted grumble, Callum slouched after him. Bellamy gave him a small kick on the way out, guiding them into frostbitten streets. The city was never silent– the wind howled through alleyways, rails screeched, machinery hummed. But Bellamy never felt the weight of all that noise more than when he was with Callum.

Brotherhood meant trust. It meant knowing when to put everything on the table and when to hedge your bets and trusting whatever decision the other made had been done with the intent for both of them to succeed, but it also meant that he couldn’t just tell his brother to shut the fuck up and not talk when he was sharing.

“And then” he continued his mini-rant, “she had the audacity to look me in the eyes and start talking about a lack of studies on brain matter density”

Bellamy grunted, barely listening.

“That was her entire argument, a lack of a direct comparison to brain matter. By her logic a fucking whale or dolphin is more sentient than Verdan.”

“Oh wow”

“That’s insane Bellamy. It’s not even a lack of knowledge, I swear.”

“Crazy”

They’re fucking with me. They have to be. They’re trying to piss me off. The looks on every one else's faces though. They were horrified! They couldn’t believe she said that outloud”

“Yep”

It continued. All the way to The Last Dance. Every second until they walked in the doors.

THE LAST DANCE

The Last Dance wasn’t a bar so much as a boundary line. A place where killers drank with their marks, where debts could be settled over whiskey, dice, a knife, or all three at once. Bellamy had always liked it.

They stepped inside, and the wall of cigar smoke rushed to meet them as heat shot out the open door in time. The smell hit Callum at the same time the smooth lilting voice of Charley began her solo. The rest of the musicians playing quieter, the one handed pianist lightly tapped each key, the drummer focused on keeping the beat, but not drawing attention, something that they typically struggled with if it was any other singer. Her voice was practically hypnotic leaving both brothers stunned as they stood in the doorway until a rough grunt from the bouncer got their attention,

“Inside. Yer letting heat out”.

A little embarrassed, Callum fully made his way inside, following Bellamy who simply gave the man a nod. They found Viracio at his usual table on the second floor balcony that overlooked the rest of the speakeasy. He didn’t run The Last Dance according to himself, but it ran on his rules, and the money seemed to flow to him. He was a mob boss who built his power like a spider – layer by layer, thread by thread, until the whole web belonged to him. And if you got caught in it? You stayed caught.

Viracio looked up as they approached, sharp eyes flicking over them once before returning to his drink. “Sit,” he commanded.

Bellamy pulled out a chair, motioning for Callum to do the same.

“Took longer than I expected,” he said, sipping his drink. “That means you either got delayed, or you were being careful. Which?”

“Bellamy leaned back, unbothered by any insinuation. Viracio knew he wouldn’t put his brother in the line of fire if that was a possibility “Little of both”

“Good. I’d be disappointed if you got sloppy.” He set his glass down, fingers tapping once against the table, it was a deliberate action, but Bellamy didn’t know why. Everything he did was deliberate. He imagined it was exhausting.

“Still” the gang leader continued “the photographer I hired is probably freezing his ass off. Older gentleman from Coutama. Not a good combination for winter here.”

Bellamy grimmiced, only imagining, “I’ll open my tab to him. Twelve Ord limit”

A smile crept up Viracio’s face like moss, as he struggled and failed to hold in a laugh, causing him to almost double over on his desk. “Oh man oh man. That’s the best thing I’ve heard all day. You sure know how to balance the books Bellamy”.

Viracio waved in a guard standing by the door, who brought a large envelope and placed it in front of Bellamy. He picked it up, surprised by the weight.

Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

“Why the bonus?”

Viracio smiled like someone who had five answers prepared, but just thought of a sixth. “Because I like you. You’re reliable. I pay well for reliability”

The smile was infectious and soon Bellamy found himself doing the same, he pocketed the envelope, not bothering to count it out. Viracio didn’t deal in false generosity. If he overpaid, it was an investment, not a mistake.

Callum, with all the subtlety of a brick through a car window, whispered to his brother, “Are you going to do more jobs for him?”

Bellamy was surprised by the interruption, he honestly forgot he had brought the kid for a moment, but he considered the question. He hadn’t expected the bonus, and it was a nice bonus. It was a trap of course. The honeypot. But if it was this sweet he couldn’t imagine minding that much. He was already a rat trapped in a nesting doll of boxes. What was one more layer.

“It depends” Bellamy recovered, “I’m not a violent man, but you can count on my discretion”

Viracio nodded, “Then I’ll have work for you soon. I’ll walk both of you out. Need the old man to get a good shot of us. Hold the envelope in your hand. I don’t want the photo to leave anything to the imagination. Callum, you can come out a minute after us, don’t want to get you in the shot"

They began walking downstairs, Callum getting a drink from the bar as he waited, still captivated by the singing.

“So” Viracio began, “you were already planning on Penny’s weren’t you?.” It was less a question than a statement, so Bellamy only confirmed with a “Yes”.

“Good, better to spend the IOU than let it go to waste” Bellamy didn’t have time to let the implications of that statement fully sink in before Viracio continued, “I know you said you’re not violent, but that’s frankly not true. You’re just not a killer. I respect that I do. The slums needs everybody. So I don’t need you to kill nobody. Just rough someone there up who owes me.” He turned and handed Bellamy a photo of a woman in a well tailored suit, smoking a cigar at the bar”.

“Just rough her up a bit, embarrass her if you can, and tell her to come to The Last Dance ready to deal”.

Bellamy paused, fingers curling around the edge of the photo, but his mind had already started drifting. The job seemed simple enough – embarrass a woman with money. They did that enough themselves. But that was the problem. Bellamy has been in this position before. An easy job, only to find himself dragged deeper. At least when Kye had given him her job she had told him how fucked he was. No. There was no “simple” for men like Viracio. He didn’t deal in small.

He could hear his … father’s voice in his head: Everyone gets a little taste before the real hunger kicks in. One step too many boy.

The thin bead of hesitation lingered in his chest. “Fine” the words fell out of his mouth unbidden, flat but steady “I’ll do it. But I want hazard pay if things go down”

Viracio patted him on the back, pulling out a second envelope from his jacket pocket as they went to step out of the building “Tell you what, let’s make this whole thing easier. I’ll go with you and your brother. If things get crazy I can see it first hand”, and with that he opened the door and crossed the threshold, holding it open for Bellamy with one hand, and holding out the envelope with the other.

And that was the moment Bellamy knew for sure: another layer had been added to the nesting doll.

PENNY’S

Penny’s was, to put it in as plain words as possible, a place that dealt in pleasures. Those who didn’t fully get it – that just drifted through without taking note of their surroundings – would only see it as a den of lowlifes and degenerates. A simple space for simple people where a pretty face would smile at you or where a not-so-pretty face would get punched in the ring. But if you looked closer, if you could see past the haze of smoke, drink and dance you’d realize Penny’s was built around something much more complex

At its core it was a machine designed around vice. The strippers were part of it sure, but not just in the way most people thought. They weren’t there simply for their athleticism and admittedly nice figures, men and women – although Callum didn’t partake in the former – moving gracefully around poles or in various acts of seduction. No, they were there to build the atmosphere. To draw people in. To make them forget their inhibitions and their morals, to strip them down, in turn, to nothing but their desires. The drugs, the alcohol, the promises of pleasure – they weren’t just luxuries; they were tools. And like any good tool, they worked together in harmony to bleed your wallet dry.

A beautiful combination of ideas, Callum thought. The world was full of people who never noticed its beauties, who never took the time to consider which artists shaped the canvas they walked on, the structure of it all was intoxicating to him.

It was why he could never just be a spectator. To lose yourself in it, to be guided by the painter's purpose and experience their creation as they intended. There was something beautiful about it. His eyes lingered on a woman just entering from behind the stage, her body poised, deliberate. He had an eye for numbers, sure, but he knew the true value of a well-placed flirt. He gave it some thought, scanning the crowd of people taking into account how many there were, how wealthy they looked, who they were currently looking at, and ran some estimations. He caught her eye and she beamed at him, Callum returning a slight grin, one that said, I know what they’re paying you and it's not enough.

“Callum if you don’t stop gawking at the girls I swear to god” Bellamy hissed in his ear as Callum broke from his revere.

Callum grumbled, muttering under his breath something about “just because you can’t feel touch, doesn’t mean I can’t”, catching up to his brother he started to put on the charm, “well, you and Viracio are going down to the fighting pits right? He can place the bet instead. I can be the look out up here, you got an IOU you’re not going to use, so I can sit up here for free, and ten minutes before your fight you can come get me”

Bellamy, for his part, rolled his eyes. He had brought his brother here to take his mind off The Congregation of Purity, not to… Wait. This is exactly what he wanted. With a grunt, he subtly reached into his pocket and slipped Callum one of the envelopes. “That includes your allowance and tuition. If you spend it all that’s on you”

Now it was Callum’s turn to roll his eyes, just as subtly pocketing the envelope. “Just come get me when they start setting odds for your fight”.

Bellamy gave Callum one last look before nodding, “Don’t wander off”

Callum waved a dismissing hand before heading towards the bar to get a drink, “Now, to find that woman from earlier”.

The stairwell opened up into a dim, warmly lit basement, it’s heavy wooden doors a clear barrier between the haze of the club and the violent haze of excitement coming from the pit. The primal roaring of the crow, the music of foot work, the satisfying crack of a punch landing just right. The pit was alive with violence –a brutal back-and-forth where two fighters' strategies slowly bled onto their opponents each round, each strike, each desperate move.

The tension in the air was thick, it wasn’t just the fighting that gripped him – it was the chaotic raw, unchecked hunger of it all. Fighting wasn’t just a sport here. It was control. A way to claim what you wanted without apology, guilt, or conscience. As the match reached a fever pitch, each fighter thinking they were losing on points and trying for a knockout, the room surged louder still. Bellamy felt a deep pull towards it. Despite himself it spoke to him in ways he couldn’t ignore.

Over to the side of the announcers box several men were taking and writing down bets, people gathering around the table as they struggled to tear their eyes away. The fight ended in a messy knockout, one of the fighters giving every last piece of energy in a hail merry uppercut that knocked out his opponent. A clamor of cheering excited shouts as groups celebrated and pale complexions in others as they realized exactly how much they had lost.

A part of it pulled at his heart strings. People blamed the poor and desperate all the time, but seemed to forget they were poor and desperate. Sixty Ord could get a single man or woman through the month if they were savvy and had roommates. Most people made eighty Ord, most in the slums half that. If you needed sixty to live and made only forty … it didn’t take Callum to figure out the numbers didn’t match up, and if someone had people to take care of. He’d rather not think about it. All to say he didn’t blame them for their bets, he just knew that if that uppercut missed they’d be the ones cheering and the others would be pale faced.

It was the worst zero sum game.

The sobering remembrance brought him out of thoughts of fighting and he remembered why he hated this place. Why he had refused to fight here again. He scanned the room again, looking for the woman in the picture Viracio had given him, and he could feel a headache fighting through numbness as he saw her in the announcers booth counting earnings. He shot a dirty look at Viracio who simply shrugged. “To be fair I said rough her up or embarrass her”

Had he? Bellamy couldn’t remember the exact wording. Unless he wanted to wait in a back alley for the obviously powerful woman to leave with several body guards and then jump her, it didn’t matter. He had agreed to help Viracio, but if things got too intense, he wasn’t above bowing out early. He could deal with an angry Belemay, he wasn’t so confident about the people backing up Kye. So his goal first and foremost was to search for any signs of Harbingers here, or even those who risked the smallest doses of essence possible, just enough to give them a boost, but not enough that they’d gain powers.

So fighting pits were a safe place to start his investigation. There was a small wooden bar on the opposite side of the betting table, and as the floor was quickly cleaned and the next fighters brought in causing the last bets to close. Buying himself and Viracio a drink they sat at a nearby table studying the fighters and discussing with each other casually.

“I used to fight here y’know. When I first got to Velnias” Bellamy offered through a sip of liquor.

“I did actually. One of the reasons my people found you. Couldn’t figure out why you quit though”

Bellamy hesitated, wondering if this was a time or place to share, but he’d likely be working with Viracio for a while. He had told the mob boss his requirements, he wouldn’t budge on those, giving him the reason why may help. “My opponent. They killed him after the match. He made a dumb bet, dead man walking anyways. I was undefeated. They told him if they beat me they’d let him go”

Viracio’s face twisted in disgust as he slammed back his own drink. “You ever think about how it gets worse. Every year” he watched a wiry kid, not more than sixteen duck under a clumsy haymaker. “The slums, I mean.”

Bellamy nodded, “I keep thinking we’ve hit bottom. Or that I’ve saved up enough finally for it to not be my problem”

“And then the taxes increase, or the city stops taking care of those nice apartments at the edge of midtown that grow into the slums, or Spearhead finally fucks up and dies” Viracio nodded.

“And the people in charge, they don’t even have to pretend. To them it’s all just numbers. Slips of paper. A calculation on how much they can squeeze before someone breaks. Most days, I think about breaking them back.

Bellamy nodded slowly, surprised by the gang leader’s earnestness. It wasn’t what he had expected, although everyone in the slums had a chip on their shoulder, it just depends how it manifested. He still shot him a sideways glance. They both knew that line of thinking led to places neither of them could afford to go.

A man approached their table leaning in close and motioning with his head to the announcers box, “The boss says she’d like to talk to you” directing the comment at Viracio. They both stood up and the guard put a hand in front of Bellamy to which Viracio rolled his eyes, “He comes or neither of us do. Better to cut your loses here”

The guard only nodded, putting up a cursory amount of resistance before walking them towards the booth.

The announcer’s booth sat in contrast to the rest of the pit. Where the fighting floor was raw and bumpy, stained with blood, and intentionally difficult to navigate, this space was pristine. Tiled floor, clean lines, polished wood, faint scent of expensive cologne masking the smells of sweat and desperation. And at the center of it all was the woman who ran the show.

Penny Devereaux

The last name was spoken in hushed tones all over Velnias. Always with an edge of bitterness or fear. The Devereaux were one of the largest crime families in Velnias. They operated at the intersection of vice, finance, and information- an insidious trifecta that made them an underworld staple. Lots and lots of people owed them money, word was even some of the banks had taken out loans. They were, unfortunately, also who you went to when you needed a deal brokered. Technically Penny shouldn’t have a fighting pit, that was the domain of the Volkov Syndicate which dealt in blood, but through backroom dealing and likely a lot of kickbacks they didn’t say anything about it.

She leaned back in her chair, a smirk playing at the corner of her lips as she studied them. “Ah, Viracio. I’ve been meaning to have a word with you.” She gave Bellamy a once-over, gaze trailing over him like he was just another pawn on the board, barely worth noting. She let out a short exhale through her nose– amusement? Disappointment? – before flicking her attention back to Viracio.

“And you brought a friend. How quaint.”

Viracio didn’t bite. He just arched a brow, voice calm, detached. “Funny that. Every time I told you I was coming, you seemed to have some pressing engagement. Your family calling you uptown or something?”.

Penny let out a sharp scoff. “Hardly pressing. Just rats showing up where they don’t belong.”

Viracio gave a slow, deliberate nod. “Mmm. Shame you haven’t caught them yet.” Then a beat. His smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Speaking of which – glad I caught you.”

“Yes, let us talk. You’re costing me money and not just me, I think the only family you haven’t pissed off is the Holloway Group. So we’ve come to a consensus. You cease your operations and we don’t turn the slums upside down and sick the hounds on your ass” she let the words hang.

Viracio exhaled, slow. Almost disappointed.

“I’m sure it’s unsettling.”

He met Penny’s gaze, steady, unblinking.

“All those feelers you have in the city. The brokers, the informants, plants in the police, and the snitches in the alleyways – yet somehow, none of you have a clue how I’m doing it. How I’m pulling your business out from under you while you’re still sitting in your chair.”

His voice was even. As if he was lecturing a class on the details.

“Tonight, the Volkovs will sign the deal. If they don’t the mill wakes up tomorrow to no workers. If they hesitate, the factory sits empty, and they start bleeding before sundown, and then another factory goes, and then another, and then another. That’s already decided.”

He leaned in, just slightly.

“And when that happens? The first crack forms. Maybe you try to fix it. Maybe one of you panics. Maybe someone gets desperate and takes a shot at the wrong person.”

“And maybe you think that you can kill me before any of that. That one of your guards can jump across the table and snap my neck or put a bullet between my eyes, and maybe they could, but then you’ll wake up next week and realize in horror nothing has changed. Your supply lines are still getting hit, the factories are still shut down, no one's buying drugs or indulging in the small pleasures. Then the families will go to war.”

A pause. He let the silence work for him.

“Maybe you’ll win, but then again there are five of us. The odds aren’t great.”

Then, he sat back like the matter was settled. “Care to take that gamble?”

Penny’s smirk faltered for just a fraction of a second. A tiny crack in the armor. But that was all it was, a tiny flicker, then it was gone. It was replaced by a slow inhale, her fingers drumming lazily against the arm of her chair.

She let the silence stretch between them, forcing Viracio to wait as if she still had control of this conversation. But Viracio didn’t fidget. He didn’t fill the void. He just watched.

Annoying.

Penny exalted , shifting her wait slightly “Quite the little speech” she mused, feigning indifference. “You practice that in the mirror? Or do your rats repeat it back to you while you stroke their fur.”

She had wanted a reaction, maybe a twitch of the jaw, a clench of the hands, but Viracio just titled his head slightly, studying her. Like he was measuring how long it would take for the realization to set in.

The fucking audacity.

Penny had spent her whole life knowing things before anyone else. That was the Devereaux’s family's power– the whisper of a deal before it was inked, before it was glimmering in someone's eye – the shift in the underworld before the blood hit the streets. And yet.. This little bastard had been moving under their noses, building something, and she still didn’t know how much less what.

That meant he was a problem.

And problems got solved.

She pushed herself up from her chair, rolling her shoulders like the weight of the conversation was already boring her. “Alright Viracio. You’ve made your point. You’re clever, you’ve got your little operation running in the shadows and now you want us all quaking in our boots. I get it.”

She took a step closer, tone dropping.

“But you’re forgetting something. This city still belongs to us. And in Velnias, power isn’t just about who moves the pieces – it’s about who bleeds for them.”

She turned slightly gesturing toward the far side of the pit. The crowd had been murmuring, the tension thick as they waited for the results of their conversation. They couldn’t hear any of it through the thick, bullet proof glass, but the sharp among them knew something was happening.

She gestured down towards a seat at the side of the pit, there a broad-shouldered man studied the movement of the current fighters, his leg bounced slightly and he was stripped to the waist, hands wrapped, eyes cold.

Pavel here,” Penny said, letting the name settle, “is a problem-solver. You’ve been costing me money, Viracio. So how about a show match between two bleeders. Your man” she flicked a hand toward Bellamy without so much as a glance "versus my champion. A little entertainment for the night. If he wins, I get the others to sign your little union deal tonight and you get to keep running around like a particularly clever rat. But if he loses, we take his head and parade it around the slums”

She let the weight of it hand, savoring the widening eyes of the little rat as he realized what she just proposed. She pressed him before he could compose himself, “do we have a deal?"

Viracio didn’t get the chance to open his mouth before Bellamy cracked his knuckles, rolling his neck with an audible ‘pop’

“We do.”