The party did not end so much as dissolve.
After my final set, people began to scatter—some slipping into side rooms, others clustering in small, conspiratorial circles. The garden emptied slowly, the laughter softening into murmurs, the clinking of glasses now part of the background hum of decadence. Inside, the air had grown thicker, a mix of perfume, sweat, and something animal. Masks tilted close, voices lowered. The orchestra had switched to quieter music, something meant to sound elegant but carried the pulse of exhaustion.
I sat alone near the edge of the hall, half in shadow, watching the glittering movement of strangers. My body still carried the aftershock of performance, the energy crawling through my veins with nowhere to go. The applause had already become a memory, the kind that fades the moment it ends.
For a while, I didn't think about anything. Then a question came—small, sharp, and unwelcome.
Whose companion is Kent?
No tether. No handler's orbit. That was wrong.
Where had he come from? Who was he here with? The party had swelled with masks and laughter, but I hadn't seen anyone approach him—not a whisper of acknowledgment, no shared glance, no belonging. He seemed to exist apart from the order of things, an uninvited guest who had always been meant to be there.
The thought made me uneasy.
Then Corvian appeared.
He stepped into view with that unhurried precision that made every movement look preordained. His mask was still on—black and white this time, the design clean and simple—but I would have known him even without it. The air around him changed when he entered a room. The lights seemed to adjust themselves, the noise thinning to make way for his presence.
He stopped in front of me, arms crossed loosely. "Are we done here?" he asked. "Shall we go?"
I looked at him for a moment, the exhaustion catching up to me. "I'm not going to meet Patrick Swanson."
His mouth curved slightly behind the mask. "You could have passed him by and you wouldn't know. Everyone here is masked. What did you expect?"
"Oh. Right." I ran a hand through my hair, staring at the floor for a second too long. "Yeah. I just—my mind is… okay. Yeah. Let's go."
I stood, straightening my jacket, the dizziness of the evening still lingering somewhere behind my ribs.
Before we could move, a hand touched my arm.
It was the woman who had presented me earlier in the night, her smile still bright but fraying at the edges, the way all performers' smiles did when the curtain dropped. "Wonderful job today, Hugo," she said, her tone light and practiced. "I'm so proud of you. Your paycheck was handed to your manager, Edgar. We're just thrilled we got to host you. You've been a delightful guest."
I blinked, caught off guard by her warmth. "Thank you," I said, managing a small smile. "Thank you for having me."
She leaned in slightly, lowering her voice. "You should definitely meet Igor."
The name hit me like a dropped glass. "Igor?"
"Yes," she said, beaming now. "The Igor. For our next event, we thought you two could collaborate—something dynamic, something different. We wanted to bring him tonight, but he's still on his world tour. You've heard of it, right?"
"Of course," I said, still processing. My words came slower, careful. "I mean, the Igor?"
Even Swanson had to wait his turn; money only moved the line so far.
"The very same," she replied. "We're planning our autumn ball two months from now, and I think it's perfect timing. Keep your schedule open—we'll be in touch."
I just stood there for a moment, caught between disbelief and amusement. Igor. The man whose televised illusions had made me want to perform in the first place. The man whose tricks I'd watched until I could recite them by memory.
My mouth opened, then closed again.
Corvian's eyes flicked toward me—sharp, silent, unreadable.
The woman excused herself with a gracious nod, already moving toward another group. I stayed still, the sound of the party swelling again, laughter spilling back into the air like perfume.
The Igor.
Somewhere in the chaos, I thought I saw Kent's silhouette moving along the far wall—still masked, still smiling at someone I couldn't see. A shadow pretending to be human.
I didn't know if the opportunity felt like a gift or another leash.
The crowd had thinned by the time Eddie appeared—his hair slightly undone, the first two buttons of his shirt open, his tie hanging from his pocket like a trophy of exhaustion. He grinned the way only someone drunk on victory and champagne could.
"There you are," he said, weaving through the last of the guests. "The car's waiting outside to take us back, but, Hugo—tell me honestly—after what we just made, do we really want to go back to that disgusting hotel?"
I blinked at him, the sudden normalcy of his voice almost surreal after the night's delirium. "Now that I've paid off my debts," I said, "I think it's time to start looking for an apartment. But for tonight, let's just go back."
Eddie groaned, rubbing his face. "Come on, man. We can crash somewhere better. Anything better. Why torture ourselves with that mildew-smelling carpet again?"
I glanced at Corvian. He stood nearby, hands folded behind his back, the faintest tilt of his head catching the low amber light. His mask was gone now; the perfection of his face returned to the open world. "I don't mind whatever you two decide," he said calmly. "Let's do it."
"See?" Eddie clapped his hands once. "Even the gloomy friend approves. Come on, Hugo."
"Fine," I said, exhaling. "Fine. We'll go to a nice hotel tonight."
Eddie's grin spread wide. "Yes! Finally. Fucking finally, I get to sleep like a human being. The night I stayed at the Morrison—God, those mattresses were heavenly. That's what I need again."
"We're not going back to the Morrison," Corvian said, quiet but sharp enough to cut through Eddie's enthusiasm.
"No, no," I said quickly. "We're not going back. He's just daydreaming."
Eddie rolled his eyes. "Come on, Corrin, what's up? Why so fussy? The night was amazing."
Corvian's smile returned, slow and deliberate. "Oh, I bet it was amazing." His voice lingered in the space between them, smooth as silk over something poisonous. "You enjoyed it, didn't you?"
"Yeah," Eddie said, still grinning, unaware of the shift in tone. "I did."
Corvian's gaze sharpened, his words soft enough to sting. "You never really know what you've come in contact with, Eddie. Oh, sweet summer child."
He turned and began walking toward the exit, his steps silent against the marble, the weight of his presence trailing behind like smoke.
Eddie frowned, glancing at me. "What the hell is he talking about?"
I stepped closer, lowering my voice. "Eddie… did you do anything with anyone tonight?"
He hesitated, then laughed, rubbing the back of his neck. "I don't kiss and tell, you know?"
"Eddie." My voice came out sharper than I intended. "What do you mean? What did you do?"
He looked away, half-defensive, half-proud. "Oh, come on, Hugo. We said we wouldn't start anything, yeah, but what am I supposed to do when someone comes up to me? Be rude? She was…" He laughed again, softer this time, almost reverent. "She was so fucking hot. And, Jesus, she was amazing in bed. I mean—goddamn."
For a moment, everything inside me went still. The air pressed against my skin, heavy, colder somehow.
"Eddie," I said, forcing the words out, "let's go. Right now."
He looked confused, still smiling, about to say something else, but I didn't let him. I gripped his arm and started toward the door, the lingering scent of perfume and fire from the garden curling behind us like a warning left unsaid.
Corvian was already outside, waiting.
The drive to Stella Hotel passed in silence. Even Eddie, half-drunk and half-proud, had gone quiet somewhere between the city lights and the long roads of Ebonreach's east side. The car's windows were fogged with the weight of exhaustion, every breath leaving a ghost behind.
The Stella rose ahead of us like a shard of moonlight—white stone, high arches, the lobby spilling with chandeliers and hushed conversations. It was the kind of place where money made noise only in how quiet everything else was.
We checked in. The elevator hummed upward. Eddie yawned, muttering something about the pillows being worth a religion. When the doors opened, he peeled off to his room, promising to "sleep until the next century."
Corvian and I stepped into ours. The room smelled of linen and polished wood, the air cool, still.
He loosened his bowtie first, pulling it free with that same elegance he carried in every motion. The black ribbon slipped through his fingers like breath. Then he unfastened his blazer, tossed it onto the bed. His shirt caught the lamplight; his sleeves rolled back slowly, exposing wrists marked faintly with veins like drawn ink.
I stood near the window, every muscle tight. I couldn't look at him for long—every movement of his felt deliberate, practiced, almost ceremonial.
"Is your heart still with him?" he asked suddenly, voice low, even.
My chest tightened. "Who?"
Corvian smirked, the kind of smile that looked like it had been there before I was born. "Shall we see?"
The floor trembled. Not violently, but like the ground itself was remembering something. My breath caught.
"Corvian—"
The world shifted.
In a single blink, the air changed—the scent, the color, the temperature. The room around me was gone.
This one was smaller. Cracked walls, skin of old paint curling from the concrete. A single dim bulb hung above, swaying slightly. The bed on the right was unmade, the sheets gray with use, a depression in the mattress where someone had been sitting. A couch opposite sagged under the weight of time. Clothes lay in heaps. A TV glowed mutely from the wall, the blue light washing everything pale.
I knew this place.
My throat closed.
"No," I whispered. "No, no, not this place."
My legs trembled; my hands wouldn't stop shaking. "Corvian, stop that shit—no. Not here. I said not this place!"
The room answered with silence. No sound. No shadow. He wasn't there.
"Corvian!" My voice cracked. I spun around. The air was too still. The memory should have had sound, motion, life—but everything was hollow. Even the mattress on the right was empty.
Then I felt it. That familiar pressure behind my eyes, the way the air thickened when he entered a space.
He appeared behind me.
Corvian clicked his tongue, the sound soft, patient, mocking. "Your memory is doing a counter-defense," he said, walking past me as though inspecting the walls. "You think I can't simply dismantle all your protective methods? I was being gentle. And yet, for the first time, a memory locks itself before I can enter it."
I stepped back, my voice shaking. "Stop. This isn't like anything else. This isn't a show, it's not one of your punishments. This—this is too much. You can't do this."
He sighed, scratching the back of his neck as though I were a tedious child. "Damn. Fine."
The light flickered once, twice—then changed.
And suddenly the bed on the right wasn't empty anymore. Riley sat there, elbows on his knees, face drawn and tired, his eyes red. Across from him, on the thin mattress on the floor, I was lying down. My younger self, sweat beading on his forehead, lips pale, body trembling like he'd been sick for days.
The sound returned. The low buzz of the TV. The slow rasp of someone breathing through pain. The room carried a different kind of silence now—not empty, but suffocating.
I watched it unfold, unable to move, unable to stop watching.
Corvian said nothing. He only looked at me—expression unreadable, something dark flickering behind his calm.
I felt the walls closing in, the air growing heavier. And I knew—this was no longer punishment. This was revelation.
Corvian's voice unfurled through the stillness, smooth as silk drawn over a blade. "Tell me, Hugo," he said slowly, almost tenderly. "Aren't you curious? About what happened that night?"
My throat tightened. I shook my head before the words even found me. "No. No, I'm not. I don't want to know what happened that night. Can you just—fuck, Corvian, stop. This is—this is not—"
He cut me off with a low chuckle, stepping closer, his shadow brushing the edges of my vision. "Relax. This isn't punishment. I just thought your heart was still with him." His voice dipped, almost playful. "And yet, you were sitting on another man's lap not even an hour ago. Damn, Hugo."
I could barely breathe. "It's not what you think it was. I—" The words stumbled, breaking under their own weight. "I tried to blur his memory, and then because I just— I don't know what happened, okay? I don't know. It wasn't something I wanted. He—he forced himself on me."
Corvian's composure cracked; his voice rose sharp, furious. "Oh, you fucking prick. You think I don't know what happened? You think I don't know that motherfucker?" He laughed, but it wasn't laughter—it was venom trying to sound amused. "Listen, Hugo, we're already here. Every time we enter a memory, you cry, you beg, you tell me to stop—and then we watch it anyway. Then you go back to pretending you're fine. So stop the performance. This—" he gestured to the trembling air around us "—this is the most important memory of your existence."
"I don't want to see it," I said, shaking, tears spilling before I could stop them. "I don't want to. You're just fucking with me. You think I can't get rid of you? You think I can't just let go of all this?"
He smiled, the kind of smile that made the world seem colder. "Good luck with that. Do it. Fucking do it. I'd love to watch you crawl back to the slums you came from. Stuck in this filth, with no one left. No family. No friends. No one. Just you, Hugo—the pathetic little thing who thinks the world owes him something."
My heart hammered against my ribs. His words felt carved into me, bone-deep.
"You sacrificed your cousin," he went on, voice low but seething. "Marked him, gave him away for a devil's favor. You didn't even care. You ignored your aunt's begging. You left her crying over him while you chased your ambition." His gaze flicked up, cutting. "Then you blurred your friend's memory because you were jealous. Possessive. Then you throw yourself at Kent—like some desperate, trembling creature looking for comfort in chaos. You're filth, Hugo. Disgusting. And don't get me started on Eddie."
I clenched my jaw so hard my teeth ached. "What do you have to say about Eddie?"
Corvian's eyes gleamed, almost amused again. "Oh, I have plenty to say about Eddie. But not yet. That's for later." He tilted his head slightly. "Because now, it's showtime. It's Riley's turn under the spotlight."
Before I could speak, the air thickened. The walls pulsed once.
Riley's voice broke through the static. "Hugo. Can you hear me?"
I was lying on the thin mattress, half-conscious, my body slack. The sheets were twisted beneath me. I could feel the ghost of that exhaustion—the nausea, the taste of something bitter on my tongue, the warmth of alcohol and something else coursing through me.
From the bed, my other self murmured, words slurred and dragging. "Yeah. Yeah, I can hear you. I'm just… I'm having trouble opening my eyes. But I can hear you."
Riley rubbed his face, took a shaky breath. "I've been thinking," he said, "about what happened. With the ring. And with Cole. And every time I try not to, every time I walk away from it, it's still there. That night keeps playing in my head. Over and over. Like it's stuck."
His voice cracked slightly. "I don't know what I did to deserve this. You know? I was watching over my people. I didn't deserve that. I didn't deserve to be thrown out like that."
On the mattress, my body shifted weakly, my voice small and distant. "Just leave."
"I can't just leave." Riley's tone sharpened, unraveling into anger and pain. "I can't. I'm fucking broken, Hugo. Torn apart. I look like shit. I feel like shit."
His hand went to his hair, tugging at it, his eyes glistening under the flickering light. "And you—" he swallowed, looking toward the bed, toward me—"you're the only one who knows what it's like. To be used up and spat out by something bigger than us. And yet you're here, lying there, pretending you don't know me anymore."
I felt myself tremble watching it—watching me lie there, barely conscious, while he tried to stitch himself back together in the same poisoned air.
Corvian stood behind me, silent now, letting the memory play like a wound reopening.
The air smelled of old plaster and sweat, the kind of smell that stayed in your clothes, that made you carry a place with you long after you left.
And I—both versions of me—was trapped inside it.
Riley's voice kept breaking in and out of itself, like a record caught on a scratch. The words came in waves—one moment clear, the next drowned by the static of memory. His hands trembled when he spoke, though he tried to hide it by leaning forward, elbows on his knees.
I wanted to close my eyes, to shut it out before it started, but Corvian's presence behind me was a wall. His silence was sharper than any command.
So I told it. I told him.
"It started with Marek," I said. The name came out dry, bitter. "That bastard and his gang jumped Cole's boys near the underpass—cornered them over that strip by the old bakery, the one we used to cut deals on. Marek wanted it back. He thought Cole's people had stepped on his turf again. I remember Riley saw it happen—those kids getting beaten with batons, kicked like animals. He couldn't stand it. He never could."
The memory flickered, colors bleeding into each other. I could see it now: Riley pulling up in that dented gray car, doors slamming, his friends behind him with bats, pipes, rage. They came down on Marek's men with a storm's fury. The air cracked with it—grunts, glass breaking, the thud of fists. Riley always fought like it meant something. He wasn't protecting just a corner of street—he was defending what little pride he still had left in this world.
"But it wasn't their fault," I whispered. "Cole's people had started it days earlier. Marek's gang was just paying it back."
Corvian didn't speak, didn't move. His silence asked for more.
"When Marek heard that Riley led the counterattack," I said, voice trembling, "he lost it. Said Cole's dogs had no business raising hands on his men. So he called for a meeting—one of those filthy backroom sit-downs where everyone pretends it's business."
Riley's shadow sat there in the room, head lowered, listening to me tell his story like confession.
"Marek told Cole," I continued, "that there were only two ways this ended. Either he hands Riley over, or every one of his runners, every dealer, every courier wearing Cole's name gets hunted down. No safe spot, no peace, no business. Just war. And Marek wasn't bluffing. He was the kind of man who'd burn an entire block to make a point."
I drew a breath that scraped my chest raw. "Cole didn't even fight it for long. He just… thought about the numbers, the cost. How much the business would lose if he didn't bend. He tried to look like it wasn't eating him alive, but everyone in that room saw what he was doing. He gave Riley up."
The image of it was burned into me—the way Cole's hand trembled slightly as he agreed, the way the others pretended not to notice, not to breathe. A single man traded for the safety of hundreds. Simple math. Business before loyalty.
"They dragged him out that night," I said. "They didn't just beat him. They made sure he'd never forget it. Marek's people tied him to a chair in some basement behind the port—beat him until he couldn't stand, broke two of his ribs, left him bleeding in the dark for hours. They cut his arm open with a bottle, poured liquor in the wound, and laughed while he screamed. When Cole sent someone to retrieve him, he was half-dead. Half of his face swollen black."
I swallowed hard, feeling the words corrode as they left my mouth. "And when he came back, he didn't look like Riley anymore. Something in him was gone. Like Marek didn't just take revenge—he hollowed him out."
Riley on the bed looked at me then. Not the memory version—the real one, or whatever the memory allowed to become real. His gaze was glazed, but behind it was something like recognition.
"I kept thinking," he murmured, "that Cole would show up. That he'd change his mind halfway through. But he didn't. He let them. He let them."
The sound of his voice broke something inside me.
In the background, the flickering TV showed a news channel muted, a woman smiling blankly at the camera while the world fell apart beneath her.
Riley dragged his hands down his face. "You remember the smell that night?" he said. "The bleach. The mold. The air felt wrong. Like everything in the room was already dying."
I did. God, I did.
Riley's voice dropped then, quiet in a way that made my skin crawl. "The air felt wrong," he said, eyes fixed on nothing. "Like everything in the room was already dying."
He hesitated. His jaw clenched; his throat worked as if the next words had to fight their way out. When he finally spoke again, his tone was smaller—raw, stripped of the bravado he used to wear like armor.
"When I woke up," he said, "they were still there." His eyes flicked toward me, and for a heartbeat I wished he hadn't. "They weren't done, Hugo." He drew in a shaky breath. "They took turns. I couldn't move. I couldn't even scream. Every time I thought it was over, another one stepped in."
He exhaled, a trembling sound somewhere between a sigh and a sob. "You know what it's like to wake up and not know which part of you belongs to you anymore? I counted the cracks in the ceiling until morning and refused to close my eyes for any of them."
My stomach turned. The air thickened, pressing against my ribs. The TV's flickering light painted us both in pale blue—his face hollowed, mine burning.
"I remember the smell of them," Riley whispered. "The liquor. The sweat. The way they laughed when I tried to crawl." He paused, the silence after his words stretching until I thought I'd choke on it. "Cole knew exactly what kind of men Marek kept around. He knew what would happen."
I wanted to tell him to stop. To cover my ears. To run. But all I did was sit there, shaking, every breath like a knife sliding in and out.
Behind me, Corvian remained still—watching, listening, feeding on the truth like it was prayer.
I felt my knees give. My mouth went dry, and the words came out before I even realized I was speaking. "I didn't know," I said, barely a whisper.
"I didn't know," I whispered again, voice cracking under its own weight. "I didn't know they did that."
The room stayed the same—Riley still sitting there, words spilling like blood from an old wound—but I couldn't stop shaking my head. My hands went to my face, then to my hair, desperate for something to hold.
"If only I didn't drink that much that night," I said, the words trembling, broken between breaths. "If I didn't smoke that much… maybe I would've—"
My voice faltered. "I was right there, wasn't I? I was right fucking there."
Corvian's gaze lingered on me with an awful stillness, eyes reflecting something close to pity—but sharper, as if he found beauty in the ruin of realization.