Carnivale glistened after the rain—not clean, but slick with confession.

  Above the Market Spines, runoff from the artificial ceiling poured down like a quiet betrayal. High above the city’s caverned sky, The Hollow Sun—a suspended system of arcane mirrors, mist vents, and alchemical vents—had ruptured again. A flaw in the dome’s spine. Engineers would patch it by dawn, but for now, it rained.

  And when Carnivale wept, it did so with style.

  Water pooled in the cobblestone joints like spilled secrets, catching the pulse of red lanterns and shadowed glances. The downpour hadn’t cleansed the city. It had softened it, like meat left too long in blood, until the rot felt closer to the surface.

  Above the lower terraces of the Market Spines, wrought-iron gaslamps leaned on bent poles, their flames sputtering through mist like dying fireflies in a jar. Fog bled slowly from the ducts of forgotten alleys, thick as crypt-breath, curling through the bones of the Undercity. Incense smoke drifted lazily from apothecary stalls—sharp with clove, copper, dried lotus, and the sour tang of limestone steam.

  Stalls slouched under patchwork awnings, soaked to sagging. Vendors in gilded eyemasks whispered poison names like lovers, peddling opium-laced honeysticks and wine brewed to burn and forget. Music wafted from a rooftop gramophone—out of tune, out of time, the kind of song that sounded like it remembered dying.

  And all around: motion without rhythm. Paranoia in silk and soot. The people of Carnivale didn’t rush. They watched. They guessed. They felt the pressure building like a smile behind a closed door.

  Something had been breathing too loudly in the bones of the city.

  Elliot moved through Carnivale with the calm certainty of a man who knew every exit—and who owned half of them.

  His coat—Casimiri’s Unnamed Creation #007—clung to him like it had been grown, not stitched. Deep emerald, scaled, and patterned with the hide of a green basilisk, it shimmered under the flickering gas lamps like wet ink carved with secrets. Runes, subtle and shifting, pulsed beneath the surface—marks of old magic bound to silence and sovereignty. It didn’t hang. It coiled.

  The zippers gleamed like quiet blades. The carved gold buttons caught light like watchful eyes. It didn’t flap when he moved—it flowed, like it remembered being alive.

  The coat was more than fashion. It was folklore.

  Casimiri’s Unnamed Creations—a series of enchanted garments whispered about in the underworld, never numbered aloud, never claimed by their maker. But #007? Everyone knew that one.

  To street rats, it was armor. To monsters, a mirror. To Elliot Zalsha, it was the room falling quiet before he even entered.

  He didn’t wear it for warmth—he wore it like legends wore names.

  He didn’t splash when he walked. Didn’t shiver. Didn’t blink at the hiss of steam pipes or the rattle of chains being dragged in some unseen corner. He just moved—precise, surgical, untouched.

  His presence didn’t draw attention.

  It corrected it.

  Even the lanterns above him flickered quietly as he passed.

  People didn’t hush when he passed. They filled the silence with noise—

  Words, gestures, and thoughts layered thick with panic dressed as politeness.

  “Don’t stare. Keep walking.”

  “That coat’s just for show.”

  “I paid. Didn’t I? I paid—”

  They thought staying busy made them invisible. They didn’t know their thoughts rang louder than bells to him.

  Elliot didn’t need to dig deep. Just a surface skim—enough to find the fractures, the sweat behind the smirk, the twitch behind the bow.

  No one ever suspects their mind is leaking all their dirty little secrets.

  He moved through Carnivale like a rumor its victims weren’t allowed to forget—half warning, half reckoning. And the city didn’t part for him.

  It tilted.

  Like it remembered who wore that coat.

  The passersby could hear him mumble loudly. “I hate the spine. Should’ve taken the long route. But the Spine breathes when it wants something, and tonight it wheezed like a liar in church.”

  The Spine of Thorns wasn’t a real street. It was a mistake the city had decided to keep. Old scaffolding hung like a cage above rust-stained stone, dripping with condensation that smelled of moss and metal. Makeshift tents clung to the walls—stitched from tarpaulin, prayer cloth, and what looked like repurposed burial robes. Steam spilled low across the alley, thick with clove and rust, like the whole place had been exhaling through broken teeth.

  This was where you went when you had nowhere else, where people bartered in lousy information and worse apologies. Freelancers. Stitch-mages. Pit fighters between jobs. A few kids pretending not to be afraid. Elliot wasn’t here for business. He was here because something in the Spine stank of ritual.

  The city had been humming lately. Like it knew it was being watched.

  Too many patterns. Too many smiles in the wrong places.

  He moved past a dying lantern, letting the green scales of his coat catch the light, glittering like a wound. A slow shimmer ran along the stitched basilisk hide as he passed under steam.

  “Let them see it. Let them guess. Fear buys me five more seconds than a threat does.”

  Most eyes dipped when he passed.

  One didn’t.

  A thick-set man with busted knuckles pretended to haggle near an incense stall. His thoughts pulsed—fast, frantic, and loud. “He won’t know it’s me. Just a coat. Just swagger. Can’t be one of the Houses. House blood never walks without a shadow.”

  “Wrong on all counts.” Elliot thought as he paused. Didn’t turn. Didn’t reach.

  Just let the silence stretch until the man blinked too hard, broke his stare, and turned down a side alley in a rush.

  A beat later, a scream rang out. Raw. Familiar.

  Elliot exhaled through his nose.

  Sloppy.

  He followed the sound, boots soundless on wet stone.

  The alley was narrow, lined with chipped runes and the scent of burnt salt. A frightened beggar cowered beside a drain. Across from him, the thug—Tank—was pinned to the wall by three emerald psionic needles driven through his shoulders. His muscles spasmed against the restraint. Blood ran like ink.

  Elliot stood calmly, spinning another needle between his gloved fingers.

  Tank’s scream split the air like a whip through canvas.

  Elliot sighed. “Alright, alright. We get that it hurts. No need to get theatrical.”

  The thug gasped, spit trailing down his chin. “Please, man—I was gonna pay—”

  “I hate this kind of work sometimes,” Elliot said, tone light—like he was apologizing for a missed dinner reservation. “But you know how it is. One delinquent opens the floodgates.”

  He stepped closer, boots gliding through the puddles without sound, and tapped the man’s collarbone with the tip of the fourth needle.

  “You see—oh, forgive me—I never got your name.”

  “T-Tank.”

  “Ah…grazie mille, Tank. Very honest”

  He leaned in. His voice dropped a note.

  “You’ve been running your little powder shop under our name for six weeks. Haven’t paid tribute in three. That’s not ambition, Tank. That’s theft.”

  Tank whimpered. “I-I was gonna—”

  “You always were gonna.” Elliot clicked his tongue.

  “I need some answers in that dome of yours. And truth be told, it’s easier to extract when you're in pain. So… I must make you suffer. I’ll try to keep it humane. And brief.”

  He tapped twice along the thick muscle near Tank’s neck.

  “There’s a nerve cluster here. Underrated little bastard. Most doctors lie and say the pain's manageable. But I like to keep things transparent.”

  He looked him in the eyes. Voice flat.

  “This is going to hurt.”

  Then, he drove the needle in.

  Tank’s scream tore down the alley like a flayed trumpet.

  “AHHHHH—STOP! PLEASE—STOP!!”

  Elliot placed a hand gently on the man’s cheek, almost comforting. His emerald eyes flared, pulsing once. The needles glowed. Threads of psionic light spidered from the points of entry—mapping memories, tugging surface thoughts like silk from a wound.

  “There we go,” Elliot whispered. “Done.”

  He yanked the needles free.

  Tank snarled, lungs full of panic, and swung wildly. A last-ditch attempt at pride.

  Elliot slipped the strike, pivoted low, and drove a precise punch into his throat. Tank stumbled—but didn’t fall.

  So Elliot finished it.

  Two more strikes: one sharp shot to the ribs—enough to crack cartilage—and a final blow just beneath the left ear, where bone thins and consciousness bleeds easy.

  Tank collapsed like a folding chair.

  As he slumped forward, Elliot caught it—a psychic ripple, the kind that slips loose when the body forgets to hold secrets.

  —under the pipe, behind Morrow’s stall—wrapped in synthcloth—

  Elliot exhaled slowly, watching the man crumple.“So that’s where you’re hiding my money. You really should’ve paid on time, Tank. Now you will have to part with all of it.”

  He ran a hand through his hair, half-streaked with blood, as light footsteps padded behind him.

  He didn’t need to look.

  A boy—maybe twelve, maybe younger—stood there with a satchel too big for his shoulders and eyes too tired for his age. He’d been the one to tip Elliot off in the first place. Elliot handed him a single silver coin without a word.

  “Under the Pipe. Morrow’s stall. Bring it to the Jade dropbox. No detours.”

  The boy nodded once. Elliot let him vanish back into the mist. Efficient. Trusted. Fast enough to matter.

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  He turned to Tank, still unconscious but breathing.

  Then to the beggar, who hadn’t moved from his spot in the shadows.

  Elliot reached into his coat, pulled two more silver coins, and tossed them to the ground beside the body.

  “Get him to a patch-doc. Tell them he missed tribute.”

  The beggar blinked, then nodded quickly. Elliot was already walking away. Behind him, the alley sucked in steam like a dying lung. He knew in his heart today was going to be a long day.

  The Spine eventually faded behind him like steam off a cooling blade.

  Elliot didn’t rush. The weight in his coat shifted with every step, the pockets heavy with tools, tension, and a city’s worth of watching.

  He didn’t know where he was headed yet. But the Unsleeping City had a habit of walking him to the right door if he kept his eyes open.

  And tonight, the streetlights were blinking a little too slow.

  Halfway through Needle Row, he passed a vendor hunched over a folding table. A velvet tray displayed a line of teeth—canines, molars, one gold crown. Still bloody at the roots.

  “Noble stock,” the vendor said without being asked. “From Craester. The whole family went quiet last week.”

  Elliot didn’t break stride.

  But the man’s thoughts floated anyway:

  —found her face-up, water clean, not a mark on her—teeth were perfect—smile too wide—ribbon or something? —left the eyes, too much trouble—

  Just noise.

  But the kind of noise the city used instead of sirens.

  The gaslamps ahead flickered like dying candles—burning too bright, too white. The mist bent oddly around them, caught in currents that didn’t match the wind. It made the world ripple, like heat on glass, and painted every movement in slow strokes.

  Elliot slowed his pace.

  The Steps of Opal rose before him—cracked marble stairs curling around the skeletal remains of an old observatory. Its dome had collapsed years ago, but the iron frame still clawed at the air, black against the false stars.

  At its base stood a stage. If you could call it that.

  A rusted platform held together by prayer wires and habit. A mic crackled from its crooked stand. The speaker buzzed and popped, and then—

  She sang.

  The woman was tall, rail-thin, cloaked in a midnight dress of wet feathers that clung to her like oil. Her eyes were closed. Her arms hung loose, but her voice—Her voice moved like fog through a graveyard. Low. Sweet. And aching.

  "Smile for me in silver sleep,

  Where breath forgets to bloom...

  One kiss of red, one ribbon deep,

  Beneath the laughing moon."

  Elliot paused at the edge of the mist, boots still on the stone.

  The crowd was small. Ten, maybe twelve souls.

  But none of them clapped. None shifted. None blinked.

  They watched her like animals watch an incoming storm—silent, aware, and hoping it passed without noticing them.

  No notes pinned. No enforcers on edge. Just a group of people letting that kind of song drift over them like sleep.

  Elliot tilted his head slightly, letting the song scratch inside his skull.

  Something about the chorus twisted.

  Too precise. Too clean. Like it had been written to echo off stone long after the singer was gone.

  He looked at her one last time. Her eyes were still closed. A faint smile on her lips. Like she already knew the ending of a joke he hadn’t heard yet.

  It unsettled him—or perhaps it was the success. The rising whispers of his name in alleys that used to spit on it. Fame was a slow poison in a place like this. You stopped looking over your shoulder just long enough for something to smile back.

  So, he took the longer route.

  South through corridors no one paved, toward streets no one claimed.

  Nightvine twisted like a broken promise between two abandoned tenements—half-paved, half-collapsing. The kind of street that existed between zoning laws. Steam curled low over shattered bricks and copper drainpipes, hissing from ruptured vents that no one could seal.

  Elliot moved through it like breath through a blade. Focused. Unhurried.

  And then—contact.

  A small frame collided with his hip. Fast hands. Fast breath.

  Pickpocket.

  The kid couldn’t have been more than six or seven. Ragged coat, patched sleeves, cheeks hollowed out by days without food.

  Elliot didn’t look. He caught the boy’s wrist mid-reach, fingers closing around it like a snare.

  The kid froze, mid-motion, eyes wide.

  And the boy's thoughts spilled out—too fast to hide, too raw to edit. "coin-coin-coin-get food-find Mira-don’t see the red mask-don’t look at the teeth-don’t look up—don’t look up—don’t—"

  Elliot’s grip loosened. Not out of calculation. Not entirely. The boy was small. Fast. Dirty-faced, wide-eyed. Six, maybe. Around the same age Elliot had been when he lifted a silver reliquary from the head of the Red Society.

  He remembered Alia's cough. His brother Damien’s ribs like piano keys. The cold.

  He’d stolen for them, just like this one was doing now. Except Elliot had stolen from Smile. And Smile noticed.

  He reached inside the Emerald Overcoat, pulled a coin pouch—light but real—and dropped it into the boy’s palm.

  The kid looked up, confused. Suspicious.

  “Careful who you steal from,” Elliot murmured. “Some debts don’t stay paid.”

  He let go. The boy didn’t thank him.

  Elliot sighed deeply and straightened his coat. The kind of sigh that tried to leave something behind in it.

  A few turns later, the streetlights turned thin and mean again. Rusted lanterns, flickering neon through cracked glass, painting the wet stone in crooked halos. He was heading toward Vineglass—the kind of place where favors waited with knives behind their backs.

  And sure enough—

  “You again,” Elliot said smoothly, voice like velvet drawn across a dagger’s edge. “Didn’t I suggest you wait by the fishmonger’s stall?”

  Kerr didn’t look up right away. She was crouched by the gutter, idly tracing circles in a puddle with one gloved fingertip, like she was stirring tea. When she stood, it was with the kind of balance dancers and liars usually had.

  “I tried,” she said cheerfully, brushing off the front of her coat. “But the stench back there could strip paint off a cathedral.”

  Elliot gave a dry nod. “That was probably the perfume aisle.”

  Kerr grinned. “The Unsleeping City always delivers.”

  He crouched beside her, resting one arm across his knee, his coat fanning out like smoke. “And this charming alley didn’t seem like a bad idea?”

  “Seemed quiet,” she replied. “Well—quieter.”

  “You’re not worth mugging yet,” he said, looking at her coat. “But stick around. I can make you popular.”

  “Oh good,” she said brightly. “I’ve always wanted to be loathed by strangers.”

  She reached into her coat and produced a folded, wax-sealed slip of parchment, holding it out like a party invitation.

  “A body,” she said. “Rain Quarter. North edge. Past the broken apothecary. Seated posture. No struggle. Strange setup.”

  Elliot took the envelope, sliding it into his coat without breaking eye contact.

  Kerr smiled as if she’d just passed a test. “Figured you’d want to know. Word is, when something weird happens in this city... it either finds you, or you’re already walking toward it.”

  Elliot tilted his head. “Is that a fact?”

  “Let’s call it a pattern,” she said. “And I like patterns. They’re predictable—until they’re not.”

  His gaze lingered on her longer than necessary. “You were passing through?”

  “Drifting,” she replied. “The rain draws out all the city’s strangest sounds. This one felt different. Like the part of a song no one remembers, but hums anyway.”

  A beat passed between them.

  “I didn’t stay,” she added quickly. “Didn’t touch anything. I’m not a meddler.”

  “You’ve got the look of someone who visits crime scenes recreationally.”

  “I prefer ‘civilian curiosity.’ Sounds less creepy.”

  “We’ll put it on a badge,” Elliot muttered.

  “I collect strange moments,” she said, brushing her hands together like the conversation was just part of her morning routine. “Stillnesses. Places where things stop making noise.”

  She stepped closer with sudden enthusiasm, like someone recognizing a celebrity they didn’t want to make weird.

  “I’ve always wanted to meet you, by the way. Though I sort of pictured it involving coffee. Not corpses.”

  “You’re surprisingly chipper,” Elliot said flatly.

  “Thanks! You’re surprisingly taller than I imagined.”

  He blinked.

  “Oh, that sounded weird. I just meant—your coat always gets mentioned first in the stories. It’s like a main character. So I expected someone shorter underneath.”

  Elliot looked at her like she was an ink blot waiting to be diagnosed.

  He’s not laughing. Too direct? No—just unexpected. He’s testing the tone. That’s fine. Let him.

  Keep it light. Gods he’s tall. Is that a dagger or is he just happy to see me...Don’t blink too often. Don’t stare.

  “Kerr,” she said quickly, sticking out a hand. “Just Kerr.”

  “Kerr what?”

  “Just Kerr,” she repeated with a playful tilt of her head. “Though I do respond to ‘You again,’ if said with flair.”

  Elliot sighed—half warning, half exasperation. “If this turns out to be another noble staging their own death, I’m billing you for boots and breakfast.”

  “I’d never get between a man and his breakfast,” she said sweetly. “Besides... I think this one was meant for you.”

  She turned and walked, not in a rush, coat trailing behind her like a page being turned.

  Elliot didn’t follow immediately.

  The Unsleeping City hummed quietly behind them, rain hissing in the gutters.

  He’d seen enough bodies to know the difference between a death and a message.

  And the way she had said meant for you?

  It stuck.

  He followed—not because he trusted her.

  But because the ones who smiled that easily in this city were always worth watching.

  They walked in silence. Kerr kept a few paces ahead—not quite leading, not quite following—like someone who wasn’t sure if they were meant to be part of the scene or just observing it. She moved lightly, hands in her coat pockets, boots tapping puddles without hesitation. Her head tilted every so often, as if listening to a sound only she could hear.

  The alleys narrowed. The rooftops leaned in. The Unsleeping City folded over them.

  When they reached the edge of the Rain Quarter, the mist hung heavier—sour and metallic, like breath held too long.

  Two city guards stood at the mouth of the alley. One was scribbling onto a clipboard without looking down, his pencil tracing nonsense across blank paper. The other just looked tired. They saw the coat before they saw the man, and their postures straightened like clocks clicking into place.

  “Zalsha,” one of them said, voice going stiff. A half-badge dangled from his belt like an afterthought. “This is an active—”

  Elliot pulled his glove snug and didn’t break stride. “Tell me you’re here for more than decoration.”

  The guard blinked. “We were told to secure—”

  “Then consider it secured.”

  Elliot’s voice didn’t raise, but the weight behind it settled fast. He reached into his coat, flipped a silver token across his fingers, and let it drop into the man’s palm.

  Unofficial. Unmistakable.

  “Half an hour,” Elliot said. “And I want the alley quiet.”

  The guard opened his mouth. Thought better. Nodded.

  The line of men peeled back like stage curtains.

  Only one of them dared to think: That coat. That ring. They say he hears your thoughts.

  Elliot met that one’s eyes and winked—just a flicker of green beneath the gaslight. Then turned forward, expression calm as ever. That guard would sleep uneasily tonight.

  The scent hit before the scene did.

  Iron. Lilies. Guilt.

  The Unsleeping City always smelled like rot, but this… this was composed.

  The Rain Quarter sagged beneath cracked murals and hanging lamps. Red paper lanterns drifted above like tired prayers, their glow catching slick bricks and puddles warped with memory. Steam slithered from the gutters. A breeze moved through like it didn’t want to be there.

  She sat on a bench that hadn’t existed yesterday.

  Old wood. Recently lacquered. Too recently. The girl’s posture was still—too still. Chin lifted, hands folded gently in her lap, rain pooling in her open palms like an unanswered question.

  Yuan-ti. Young. Barely grown.

  Her skin bore a greenish sheen beneath the mistlight, lips stitched shut with gleaming black thread. Precise work. No blood. Her eyes were closed—not in peace, but in posed calm.

  A crimson ribbon ran through her chest, pinned into the bench’s back with a slim golden hairpin—too ornate for the alley, too casual for cruelty. The ribbon trailed like confetti from a birthday gift no one wanted.

  Her dress was pale silk. Clean. Too clean. The hem soaked where it met the stones. She had no shoes. Just bruises around the heels and a tarnished ankle bracelet, the kind sold cheap in street stalls and worn until forgotten.

  Kerr stopped beside Elliot, hands slipping from her pockets. She didn’t speak right away.

  When she did, her voice was soft. Almost reverent.

  “…Gruesome,” she murmured. “But kind of... haunting, isn’t it?”

  Elliot said nothing.

  “The symmetry,” she added. “The texture. It’s weirdly gentle. Like someone loved her.”

  Elliot’s breath fogged faintly. Not from the cold. He stepped forward. One hand brushed the hilt of his blade. The other found the silver ring on his index finger—serpent-wrapped, an emerald set in its jaws.

  It pulsed. Once.

  Cold. Focused.

  And the world dimmed.

  No chanting. No glyphs. Just silence. And the last breath a soul leaves behind. Elliot’s vision closed in at the edges. Sound thinned like it was afraid to interrupt. His boots felt distant. His thoughts became narrow, specific. The city hushed.

  The girl’s body did not move. But her final thought pressed against his ribs like a whisper through cloth: “They said… I would be beautiful…”

  Elliot’s throat tightened. Not in grief. Not even in pity. In awe.

  She hadn’t been murdered. She had been arranged.

  The ring pulsed again. And the world returned.

  Kerr’s voice followed, easy and curious. “Did it say anything?”

  Elliot didn’t answer. His eyes locked on her folded hands. Tucked between her fingers was a letter, sealed in wax. The crimson ribbon ran through it—piercing the envelope like it had always been part of her.

  He took it.

  The paper was soft from the rain, but the ink hadn’t run.

  Five words, neat and looping, stared up at him:

  For our Old Friend E.

  He stared at it. The ink stayed still. But his stomach didn’t.

  Someone knew. Not just his name. His past.

  He slid the letter into his coat and straightened.