Chapter Text
The Opera Epiclese had been renovated three times in the last decade, yet it still smelled faintly of old velvet and rain-soaked stone. Modern Fontaine loved its glass, its LEDs, its live-streamed performances, but the building refused to forget what it had once been. It remembered crowds holding their breath. It remembered verdicts. It remembered guilt.
That night, the city pressed close around it.
Outside, neon signs reflected off puddles left by a passing drizzle. People clustered near the entrance, phones already raised, laughing, complaining about ticket prices, arguing about whether Lyney’s new routine relied too much on holograms this time. Someone sold candied chestnuts across the street. Someone else complained about bad signal.
Inside, the lights were warm. Intimate. Carefully engineered to make everyone look a little kinder than they were.
Freminet stood backstage with his hands tucked into the sleeves of his hoodie, shoulders slightly hunched, as if he could fold himself smaller if he tried hard enough.
He could hear the audience.
Not individual voices, just the sound of many. A low, restless hum that crawled under his skin.
Lyney paced in front of him, boots clicking softly against the polished floor.
“Okay,” Lyney said, clapping once. “Final check. Lynette?”
Lynette adjusted her gloves, expression neutral as always. “Equipment synced. Stage cues confirmed. No interference.”
“No interference,” Lyney echoed, grinning. “Love to hear that.”
Freminet swallowed.
Lyney noticed immediately.
“Oh no,” he said, stopping short. “Don’t tell me you’re nervous now. You were fine an hour ago.”
“I’m fine,” Freminet said automatically.
Lynette glanced at him. Not accusing. Just observant.
“You’re lying,” she said.
Freminet exhaled through his nose. “I’m—just thinking.”
“Dangerous hobby,” Lyney replied lightly, then softened. “Hey. You don’t even have to go onstage for long tonight. You know that, right?”
Freminet nodded. He knew. He always knew the logistics. The timing. The margins.
That wasn’t the problem.
Somewhere in the audience, rows back, maybe balcony, people were watching. Believing. Trusting the performance to be what it promised. What he had delivered before.
Freminet had learned, very early in life, how fragile that trust was.
“Five minutes,” a stagehand called.
Lyney’s grin sharpened into something focused. “Showtime.”
The performance began like it always did: flawlessly.
Lyney owned the stage the way some people owned a room just by breathing. He joked with the audience, teased volunteers, let the cameras catch his smile at just the right angle. Lynette moved like a shadow stitched to his side, precise and silent, making the impossible look effortless.
Freminet waited in the wings.
He counted his breaths. One. Two. Three.
He checked his phone without meaning to.
No new messages.
He told himself that was fine.
Then—
A ripple.
Not sound. Not sight. Something wrong.
Freminet felt it before anyone screamed.
A girl near the front row staggered. At first, people laughed, thought it was part of the act. Then she collapsed. Hard. The sound of her body hitting the floor cut through the music like a snapped wire.
The laughter died.
Another girl stood up abruptly, face pale, eyes unfocused. She vomited before collapsing to the ground.
Then another.
Then another.
The lights flickered.
“What the hell—” someone muttered into a microphone.
Freminet’s heart slammed against his ribs.
“Lyney,” he whispered, already moving.
Security rushed in too late. Medics stumbled over cables. Someone screamed for water. Someone else screamed for help.
And then—
The body.
Behind the stage.
The world slowed to something unbearable.
Freminet stood frozen as the shouting grew louder, more frantic. Police pushed through the backstage doors, hands already on their belts, faces tight with suspicion rather than concern.
A man in a dark coat pointed.
“There,” he said. “That one.”
Lyney turned, confusion flickering across his face. “Wait—what?”
They didn’t wait.
Hands grabbed Lyney’s arms. Hard. Unceremonious.
“This is a mistake,” Lyney said, voice still calm but edged now. “You need to listen to me.”
Freminet stepped forward. “He didn’t—!”
A hand shoved him back.
Lynette’s eyes widened—just slightly.
“Lyney,” she said.
“It’s okay,” Lyney replied quickly, forcing a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “It’s fine. We’ll sort this out.”
Freminet felt something tear inside his chest.
This wasn’t how things were supposed to go.
Phones were already out. Livestreams already rolling. Headlines already writing themselves.
MAGICIAN ACCUSED IN OPERA DEATH.
FATUI AFFILIATED PERFORMER UNDER INVESTIGATION.
Freminet barely remembered leaving the building.
Outside, the night air felt too cold, too sharp.
He stood on the steps of the Opera Epiclese, hands shaking, watching police lights paint the street red and blue.
His phone buzzed.
A message from Gaming.
Gaming:
hey, show went well?? you alive?
Freminet stared at the screen.
His vision blurred.
He typed. Deleted. Typed again.
Freminet: something went wrong
Freminet: lyney got arrested
Three dots appeared almost immediately.
Then—
Gaming:
what
Gaming:
are you okay??
Freminet didn’t answer right away.
He didn’t know if he was.
Above him, the Opera’s lights glowed on, uncaring.
And somewhere deep inside, a quiet, sinking certainty settled in:
This night wasn’t ending anytime soon.
The police station smelled like disinfectant and rain-soaked fabric. The kind of sterile cleanliness that never quite erased what had happened before, panic, sweat, blood carried in on sleeves and cuffs. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, too bright, too white, flattening everything into something unreal.
Freminet stood just inside the entrance, unsure where to put himself.
His hands were still shaking.
Not violently. Not enough for anyone to comment on it. Just enough that he noticed every tremor, every small betrayal of control. His fingers were cold, despite the warmth of the building. He rubbed his thumb against the side of his index finger over and over, grounding himself in the friction.
Lyney was gone.
That thought kept repeating in his head, blunt and unfinished, like a sentence that refused to resolve.
Lyney is gone.
Lyney is—
“Sit down.”
The officer’s voice snapped him back into his body.
Freminet blinked, then nodded, obeying without protest. The plastic chair creaked under his weight. It was uncomfortable in a way that felt intentional, too straight, too hard, like it didn’t want anyone settling in.
Across the room, Lynette stood with her arms crossed, posture perfect, expression unreadable. If Freminet hadn’t known her his entire life, he might have thought she was calm.
He knew better.
Her fingers were clenched just a little too tightly against her sleeves.
A door down the hall slammed shut.
Freminet flinched.
That was where Lyney had gone.
The sound echoed inside him, hollow and final, like the closing of a coffin lid.
Time stopped behaving normally after that.
Minutes stretched, then folded in on themselves. Voices blurred together, officers speaking in clipped tones, radios crackling, someone arguing quietly near the front desk. A television mounted high on the wall flickered to life, already broadcasting shaky footage from outside the Opera Epiclese.
The headline scrolled beneath it.
MAGIC SHOW TURNS DEADLY — POLICE INVESTIGATE POSSIBLE FOUL PLAY
Freminet couldn’t look away.
He watched himself in the background of the footage, hood up, face pale, eyes too large. He barely recognized that person. He looked like someone who had already been convicted by the frame.
“This is ridiculous,” Lynette said quietly, stepping closer to him. Her voice was steady, but there was a sharp edge beneath it. “They’re moving too fast.”
“They always do,” Freminet replied, his voice barely audible.
She studied him. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
He nodded. “I know.”
The words felt fragile. Like glass.
A different officer approached them, tablet in hand.
“We’re going to need statements,” he said.
“Separately.”
Freminet’s stomach dropped.
“Of course,” Lynette replied smoothly.
They were split apart.
The interrogation room was small. Too small.
The air felt stale, recycled too many times. A metal table bolted to the floor. Two chairs. A camera in the corner, its red light already on.
Freminet sat down when told to. The chair was colder than he expected.
The officer across from him didn’t look unkind. That somehow made it worse.
“State your name for the record.”
“Freminet.”
“Last name?”
He hesitated. “…Snezhevich.”
The officer raised an eyebrow but didn’t comment.
“Tell me what you saw tonight.”
Freminet closed his eyes.
The images rushed back in vivid, cruel clarity, the girl collapsing, the scream tearing through the theater, Lyney’s smile faltering for the first time in years.
He spoke slowly. Carefully. He described the performance. The timing. The cues. The moment things went wrong.
As he talked, he became acutely aware of his own body: the way his throat tightened, the way his lungs felt too small, the ache blooming behind his eyes. He didn’t cry. He didn’t break.
But his voice wavered anyway.
“And Lyney?” the officer asked.
Freminet opened his eyes.
“What about him?”
“Did you see him leave the stage area at any point?”
“No.”
“Did he seem… agitated?”
Freminet let out a short, humorless breath. “He’s a performer. He’s always moving.”
The officer tapped something into the tablet.
“Did he argue with anyone backstage?”
“No.”
“Did he know the victim?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
The questions kept coming. Each one felt like a needle, probing for weakness. For doubt. For something that could be twisted.
Freminet answered them all.
Still, when it was over, the officer’s expression didn’t soften.
They let him out of the room hours later.
The station was quieter now. Night had deepened outside, pressing its dark face against the windows.
Lynette was waiting for him.
“They’re holding Lyney overnight,” she said without preamble.
Freminet’s breath hitched.
“For how long?”
“They say until the investigation progresses.”
“That could be—”
“Days. Weeks. Longer,” Lynette finished.
Freminet sank back into his chair.
The weight of it settled fully then, crushing and absolute.
Lyney was alone.
In a cell that smelled like metal and regret, under lights that never turned off, surrounded by people who didn’t care how charming he was or how carefully he hid his fear behind humor.
Freminet pressed his hands against his face.
He felt useless.
Powerless.
Angry in a way that made his chest burn.
His phone vibrated.
He hesitated before pulling it out.
Gaming: fremi please answer
Gaming: im freaking out over here
Freminet swallowed hard.
His fingers hovered over the screen.
He wanted to tell him everything. The noise. The fear. The way the world felt tilted off its axis.
Instead, he typed:
Freminet: I’m okay
Freminet: Lyney isn’t
A pause.
Then—
Gaming:
do you want me to come
Freminet closed his eyes.
The thought of Gaming here, solid, warm, real, made his heart yearn. It hurt almost as much as the thought of him not being here.
Freminet: no
Freminet: not yet
Freminet: just stay there for me
The reply came quickly.
Gaming: always
Freminet’s chest tightened.
For the first time that night, his eyes burned.
When they finally left the station, the city felt different.
Fontaine at night was usually almost alive, music spilling from open windows, laughter echoing off wet pavement, the river glowing under streetlamps.
Tonight, it felt hollow.
Every sound was too loud. Every shadow felt accusatory.
As they walked home, Freminet lagged behind slightly, his gaze fixed on the ground. His reflection stared back at him from the slick pavement, distorted, fractured.
He thought of Lyney behind bars.
He thought of the girls who hadn’t walked out of the Opera Epiclese alive.
And beneath it all, quiet and poisonous, a thought he couldn’t stop:
What if they never let him go?
The night didn’t answer.
It only watched.
Morning in Fontaine did not arrive gently.
It came with the shrill trill of notification alarms, the low hum of news drones outside apartment windows, the metallic clatter of trams restarting their routes as if nothing had happened the night before. The city woke up hungry, for explanations, for blame, for someone to point at.
Freminet woke up to the sound of his phone vibrating itself half off the nightstand.
He lay there for a moment, staring at the ceiling, disoriented. The room was dim, curtains half-drawn, dust motes suspended in pale strips of light. His body felt heavy, like he’d been buried under wet sand. Every muscle ached from tension he hadn’t released.
Another vibration.
Then another.
His stomach twisted.
He reached for the phone with a hand that didn’t feel like his own.
The lock screen was chaos.
17 missed notifications.
9 messages.
3 voicemails.
And one headline notification, bold and unforgiving:
OPERA TRAGEDY: NEW EVIDENCE IMPLICATES LOCAL PERFORMER
Freminet’s breath caught.
“No,” he whispered, the word barely sound.
He sat up too fast, dizziness washing over him in a hot wave. The sheets tangled around his legs. His heart was already racing, each beat loud in his ears, like a countdown.
He opened the article.
The screen filled with images.
Still shots from the performance. Blurry security footage. A freeze-frame of Lyney mid-bow, his smile caught at an angle that made it look sharp. Wrong.
The text beneath it was worse.
Sources close to the investigation suggest inconsistencies in the suspect’s alibi…
Witnesses report unusual behavior prior to the incident…
The performer in question has known affiliations with controversial organizations…
Freminet felt sick.
His fingers trembled as he scrolled.
Comments loaded faster than he could read them.
Throw him in jail already.
Magic freaks always hiding something.
Of course it’s one of them.
I always knew that smile was fake.
His throat tightened painfully.
He dropped the phone onto the bed like it had burned him.
For a moment, he just sat there, hunched over, arms wrapped around himself. The room felt too small. The air too thin.
From the kitchen, he heard movement.
The clink of a mug against a counter.
Footsteps.
A knock, soft but deliberate.
“Freminet?” Arlecchino’s voice, calm and steady.
“You’re awake.”
He swallowed. “Yeah.”
She opened the door without waiting for permission.
She looked… different this morning.
Still composed, still sharp, but there were faint shadows beneath her eyes. Her hair was pulled back more tightly than usual. She held a mug in one hand, steam curling upward, carrying the bitter scent of black coffee.
She took one look at him and sighed.
“You’ve seen it.”
He nodded.
She set the mug down on his desk and leaned against it, arms crossed. “Fontaine loves a spectacle,” she said dryly. “Even better when it bleeds.”
“That article—” Freminet’s voice cracked. He stopped, pressing his lips together.
Arlecchino watched him closely. “They don’t have proof,” she said. “They have noise.”
“Noise kills,” he replied quietly.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Outside, a siren wailed, then faded.
Downstairs, the atmosphere was tense in a quieter way.
Lynette sat at the table, scrolling through her tablet with stiff, mechanical motions. Every few seconds, her jaw tightened. A plate of untouched toast sat in front of her, butter melting into a glossy pool.
Lyney’s chair was empty.
The absence was a physical thing. A hollow at the table. A silence that didn’t belong.
“Morning,” Freminet said, though it felt like a lie.
Lynette looked up. “They’re camped outside.”
He froze. “Who?”
“Reporters. Influencers. People with phones and opinions,” she replied flatly. “They’ve been there since dawn.”
Arlecchino pulled out a chair and sat. “We will not be engaging.”
“They’re saying things,” Lynette continued, her voice low. “About Lyney. About us.”
Freminet’s fingers curled into the hem of his hoodie. “Like what?”
She hesitated.
Arlecchino answered instead. “That we’re hiding him. That we staged it. That the Opera is corrupt.” A thin smile curved her lips. “Some are calling for my resignation from the board.”
Freminet let out a shaky laugh. “That didn’t take long.”
Arlecchino’s gaze sharpened. “This is not funny.”
“I know,” he said softly. “I just… I don’t know what else to do.”
Lynette finally pushed her plate away. “We need to talk to someone.”
“Who?” Freminet asked.
She met his eyes. “Someone who isn’t afraid of public pressure.”
Arlecchino nodded slowly. “I know a man.”
The streets outside were chaos.
Cameras flashed the moment they stepped out of the building. Voices overlapped, shouted questions crashing into each other like waves.
“Is your brother guilty?”
“Do you condemn his actions?”
“Were you paid to stay silent?”
Freminet’s head pounded.
He kept his gaze down, shoulders hunched, feeling every stare like a physical weight. The smell of wet concrete and cheap cologne filled his nose. Someone bumped into him; he stumbled, heart lurching.
A hand caught his arm.
Lynette, steady and grounding.
“Keep walking,” she murmured.
A voice cut through the noise.
“Freminet!”
He flinched.
A reporter shoved a microphone toward his face. “Did you know Lyney was capable of this?”
Something snapped.
He looked up.
His voice was quiet, but it carried.
“He’s innocent.”
The crowd stilled, just for a heartbeat.
The reporter smirked. “And how can you be so sure?”
Freminet’s hands shook, but he didn’t look away.
“Because I know him,” he said. “And you don’t.”
Arlecchino stepped forward then, presence sharp as a blade. “This conversation is over.”
They moved again, faster now.
But the words lingered, clinging to Freminet’s skin.
The building where Wriothesley worked did not look like a place that reopened cases.
It was too quiet for that.
Concrete, steel, glass, layers of gray stacked into something that felt less like an office and more like a verdict. No banners, no slogans. Just a plaque near the entrance, polished but understated:
DEPARTMENT OF SPECIAL OVERSIGHT
Freminet stood at the bottom of the steps and felt very, very small.
The city sounded different here. No performers, no music drifting from cafés, no chatter. Even the air felt heavier, colder against his lungs. Somewhere inside the building, machines hummed softly, a constant mechanical breath.
“This is him?” Freminet asked, voice barely above a whisper.
Lynette nodded. “Wriothesley. Former prosecutor. Current… something else.”
Arlecchino adjusted her gloves. “He left the public eye because he refused to play games. That makes him dangerous. And useful.”
Freminet swallowed. His palms were damp.
They walked inside.
Wriothesley’s office was not what Freminet expected.
No walls lined with certificates. No framed photos. Just a large desk, two chairs, and a wide window overlooking the industrial district. The light that filtered in was pale and sharp, casting long shadows across the floor.
Wriothesley himself leaned against the desk, arms crossed.
He was tall, broad-shouldered, dressed casually, too casually for someone with this much authority. His eyes were sharp, amused in a way that didn’t quite reach kindness.
“So,” he said, voice low and measured, “the infamous magician family finally knocks on my door.”
Lynette didn’t react.
Lyney wasn’t there. That absence still hurt.
Arlecchino stepped forward. “You’ve seen the footage.”
“I’ve seen what they want me to see,” Wriothesley replied. His gaze flicked to Freminet. “And what they don’t.”
Freminet stiffened.
Wriothesley tilted his head. “You’re the diver.”
Freminet nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“You don’t look like a killer.”
“That doesn’t mean anything,” Freminet said quickly, then flushed. “I—I mean—”
Wriothesley chuckled. “Relax. I said look, not are.”
He gestured to the chairs. “Sit. Convince me.”
Lumine and Aether arrived halfway through the conversation.
Freminet heard their voices before he saw them, familiar, grounding, cutting through his nerves like sunlight through water.
“Sorry we’re late,” Lumine said, slipping into the room with easy confidence. “Security downstairs was… enthusiastic.”
Aether offered a sheepish grin. “Perks of being known everywhere.”
Wriothesley raised an eyebrow. “Ah. The Travelers. Of course you’re involved.”
Lumine crossed her arms. “We were there the night it happened.”
That got his attention.
Freminet leaned forward instinctively. “You saw it?”
“We saw pieces,” Aether said carefully. “Enough to know the story doesn’t line up.”
Lumine pulled out her phone and slid it across the desk. “We started connecting dots.”
On the screen: a timeline.
Disappearances. Donations. Shell corporations linked to medical research facilities. One name repeating quietly in the background, buried under layers of legality.
Vacher.
Freminet’s stomach dropped.
“That man,” he whispered. “He—he funded part of the Opera renovations.”
Wriothesley’s expression darkened. “And experimental therapy labs. And private clinics. All under the guise of ‘rehabilitation.’”
Lynette’s fingers curled slowly. “The girls.”
“Yes,” Lumine said softly. “They weren’t random.”
The room felt colder.
“They targeted vulnerable people,” Aether continued. “Runaways. Those without strong family ties. They promised help.”
“And then,” Freminet said, voice trembling, “they used them.”
Wriothesley straightened. “This is not coincidence,” he said flatly. “This is a system.”
Night fell before they realized how long they’d been there.
By the time Freminet stepped back outside, the city lights reflected off rain-slick pavement. Neon signs bled color into puddles. The air smelled like ozone and wet metal.
His phone buzzed.
Gaming:
hey
you alive
Freminet smiled weakly and typed back.
Freminet: barely
Freminet: but we’re onto something
Gaming responded almost instantly.
Gaming:
I knew it
I told them you weren’t lying
they didn’t listen but still
Freminet’s chest ached in a way that was almost warm.
Later, alone again, Freminet sat on the edge of his bed, hands gripping the fabric of his pants.
The truth was heavy.
Knowing meant responsibility. Knowing meant danger.
He stared at the wall, thoughts spiraling. Lyney in a cell. The girls who would never come home. The city smiling while rot festered underneath.
His breath came shallow.
He stood abruptly and grabbed his jacket.
The water would calm him.
It always did.
He didn’t notice the storm rolling in.
Night settled over Fontaine like a held breath.
The rain had stopped hours ago, but the streets still gleamed, slick with reflected light. Neon signs shimmered on the pavement like broken constellations, trembling every time a distant tram passed. The city felt hollow now, too quiet for something that had swallowed so many voices.
Freminet moved through it without really seeing it.
His boots splashed softly as he crossed an empty street. The hood of his jacket was pulled low, shadows cutting his face into something sharp and unreadable. Each step felt automatic, detached, as if his body had decided where to go without asking him.
The water called him.
Not with sound, but with memory.
Cold. Pressure. Silence. A place where thoughts slowed, where feelings blurred into something easier to endure.
By the time he reached the docks, his chest already felt tight.
The sea was restless tonight.
Dark waves rolled against the concrete barriers, slapping rhythmically, impatient. The wind carried salt and iron, stinging his nose, clinging to his skin. Somewhere far away, a buoy chimed, a lonely, hollow sound.
Freminet stood at the edge and stared down.
Just a little deeper, he told himself.
Just enough to clear my head.
He changed quickly, movements practiced, almost ritualistic. Suit on. Seals checked. Mask secured. Each click of gear grounded him, gave his hands something familiar to do while his mind unraveled.
When he stepped into the water, the cold bit immediately.
He gasped despite himself.
The shock was sharp, bracing, stealing the breath from his lungs before he forced himself to exhale slowly. The surface rippled around him, city lights fracturing and then vanishing as he submerged.
Silence took him whole.
Down here, everything softened.
The world narrowed to breath and movement, to the gentle resistance of water against his limbs. The deeper he went, the more distant everything became, faces, voices, fear.
Pressure wrapped around him like an embrace.
Freminet closed his eyes for a moment and let himself drift.
Images surfaced uninvited.
Lyney’s smile, too bright behind bars.
Lynette’s steady gaze, trying not to fracture.
The girls’ names scrolling endlessly on Lumine’s screen.
Gaming’s voice, warm and close, saying
« I need to see you again. »
His chest tightened.
He kicked downward harder.
The water grew colder.
Lights from the surface faded into nothing, replaced by a deep, endless blue. His ears rang faintly as pressure increased, a dull ache blooming behind his eyes.
You’re going too far, a distant part of him warned.
But stopping felt worse.
Down here, he didn’t have to explain himself. Didn’t have to be brave or strong or useful. The water didn’t expect anything from him.
His breathing grew shallow.
He checked his gauge, numbers blurred for a moment before snapping into focus. Still safe. Still fine.
Just a little longer.
Then the current shifted.
It wasn’t violent, just enough to pull
.
Freminet adjusted instinctively, angling his body, but the water resisted, dragging him sideways. The sensation was subtle at first, like fingers brushing fabric.
His heart rate spiked.
He kicked again, harder.
The current answered.
Panic arrived quietly.
Not as screaming terror, but as confusion.
The water pressed in from all sides now, heavier, denser. His movements felt slower, clumsier, as if the sea itself had thickened around him. His breath fogged the inside of his mask.
Up, he thought. I need to go up.
He turned, but the direction felt wrong. Everything looked the same. Dark. Endless. It had never felt like that before.
His chest burned.
He inhaled too fast. The regulator hissed loudly in his ears, an intrusive, mechanical sound that shattered the calm he’d chased.
Okay. Calm down. Just—
His foot snagged on something.
A sharp tug jerked him backward.
Freminet’s heart slammed against his ribs.
He twisted, hands scrabbling blindly until his fingers closed around torn netting, ghost-pale and drifting like seaweed. It wrapped tighter as he struggled, threads biting into his suit.
His breath hitched.
No. No no no—
He pulled harder.
The net pulled back.
Fear bloomed full and vicious.
His thoughts scattered, flashing too fast to catch.
I shouldn’t have come.
Lyney.
Gaming.
I don’t want to die like this.
His vision narrowed at the edges, dark spots blooming like ink in water. His lungs screamed, each breath feeling thinner than the last.
He fought the net desperately now, movements wild, inefficient. The pressure in his chest became unbearable, a crushing weight that made every inhale feel stolen.
I can’t—
A sharp pain exploded in his shoulder as he twisted too hard.
The net tightened.
His breath broke into panicked gasps.
A hand closed around his wrist.
Firm. Certain.
For a split second, Freminet thought he was hallucinating.
Then another hand gripped his harness, powerful enough to yank him free in one decisive motion. The net tore away, drifting uselessly as he was hauled upward.
Light cut through the dark.
A silhouette moved beside him, sleek, controlled, utterly calm.
Clorinde.
She didn’t waste time.
She signaled sharply, fingers slicing through the water: Up. Now.
Freminet nodded weakly, throat burning, limbs trembling as they ascended together. Each meter upward eased the pressure, air rushing back into his lungs in ragged, desperate gulps.
The surface broke violently.
Freminet coughed hard, choking, saltwater burning his throat as Clorinde held him steady, her grip unyielding until his breathing slowed.
Rain had started again.
They sat on the edge of the dock in silence.
Freminet’s hands shook uncontrollably, fingers numb, teeth chattering despite the towel wrapped around his shoulders. His head throbbed, a dull, lingering ache behind his eyes.
Clorinde crouched in front of him, expression unreadable.
“That wasn’t training,” she said finally.
Freminet swallowed. “I know.”
“You went too deep.”
“I know.”
She studied him for a long moment. “You weren’t listening to your body.”
His voice cracked. “I didn’t want to.”
The words hung between them, heavy and honest.
Clorinde sighed softly, not angry. Tired. “You don’t get to disappear like that,” she said. “Not when people need you.”
Freminet’s gaze dropped to his shaking hands.
“Someone’s waiting for you,” she added quietly. “Don’t forget that.”
Later, back in his room, Freminet sat on the floor with his back against the bed, knees pulled to his chest.
His phone lay beside him.
He stared at it for a long time before unlocking it.
Gaming:
you still there?
Freminet’s fingers trembled as he typed.
Freminet:
yeah
Freminet: I almost wasn’t
Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.
Gaming:
don’t joke like that
Gaming: please
Freminet pressed his forehead to his knees, breath hitching.
Freminet:
I won’t
Freminet: I promise
The words felt fragile,but real.
For the first time that night, his chest eased just a little.
He lay back, staring at the ceiling, rain tapping softly against the window.
The water had not taken him.
Not tonight.
And not soon either.
Liyue at night smelled like incense and rain.
Gaming lay flat on his back on the floor of his room, staring at the ceiling beams like they might crack open and tell him what to do. The window was open just enough to let the city breathe in, distant laughter from the streets below, wind chimes knocking softly, the low murmur of people who were alive and moving and fine.
He was not.
His phone rested on his chest, screen dark now, but the words were burned into him anyway.
« I almost wasn’t. »
The sentence replayed over and over, sharp as glass.
Gaming swallowed hard, throat tight. His hands were shaking again. He pressed them flat against his ribs, like he could physically keep his heart from clawing its way out.
He laughed once, short, broken, humorless.
“Idiot,” he whispered to the ceiling. “Absolute idiot.”
But he wasn’t talking about Freminet.
Earlier that night, he had been fine. Or close enough to pretend.
He’d been practicing steps in the courtyard, muscles burning, sweat cooling against his skin. The rhythm had come naturally, like it always did, footwork precise, body loose, breath controlled. For a while, it worked. The world narrowed to movement and balance and the familiar ache of exertion.
Then his phone buzzed.
He ignored it.
Again.
He didn’t want to check. Didn’t want to hope. Didn’t want to spiral.
But the third buzz, something in his chest had known.
Now he wished he’d never looked.
Gaming rolled onto his side and pulled his knees up, curling inward like a child.
The room felt too big.
He thought of Fontaine: cold water, dark depths, the way Freminet talked about diving like it was the only place his thoughts ever slowed down. Gaming had always joked about it, teased him, you’re basically a fish at this point, never once stopping to think that water wasn’t just a hobby.
It was an escape.
A dangerous one.
Gaming squeezed his eyes shut, breath hitching as images he’d never seen formed anyway. Freminet alone in the dark. Panic blooming behind his eyes. Cold stealing his breath.
I wasn’t there.
The thought hit harder than anything else.
He punched the floor once, knuckles stinging. Then again. And again.
“Fuck,” he choked, voice cracking. “Fuck, Freminet—”
His chest burned. Tears blurred his vision before he could stop them, hot and humiliating as they slid down his temples and into his hair.
He didn’t wipe them away.
He couldn’t. He wanted to burn. Anything but to feel whatever was blooming inside his chest.
It wasn’t just fear.
It was guilt.
Because part of him,some ugly, cowardly part, had once thought distance was safer.
That letting time pass would soften everything. That if he stayed quiet, stayed polite, stayed good, nothing would hurt as badly.
Instead, it had nearly killed the person he loved.
Gaming pressed his face into his arm, breathing shakily.
“I should’ve said it sooner,” he whispered. “I should’ve—”
I love you.
I’m scared too.
Don’t go somewhere I can’t follow.
All the words he’d swallowed clawed their way back up now, bitter and useless.
His phone buzzed again.
Gaming flinched violently, heart leaping into his throat. He snatched it up so fast it nearly slipped from his hands.
Freminet:
I’m okay
Freminet: Clorinde saved me
Freminet: please don’t worry
Please don’t worry.
Gaming laughed again, this time wet and broken, a sound that barely deserved to be called laughter.
“Don’t worry?” he whispered hoarsely. “Are you kidding me?”
His thumbs hovered over the screen, shaking.
He typed.
Deleted.
Typed again.
Deleted again.
What could he say without crossing lines he’d promised himself not to cross yet?
What could he say that wouldn’t sound like a confession screaming to be free?
Finally:
Gaming:
you scared the hell out of me
Gaming: don’t do that again, okay
Gaming: I mean it
Three dots appeared almost instantly.
Freminet:
I know
Freminet: I’m sorry
Freminet: I won’t
Gaming stared at the words until they blurred.
“I believe you,” he murmured. “I just hate that I can’t be there.”
He sat up slowly, wiping his face with the back of his sleeve. His reflection in the dark window startled him, eyes red, jaw clenched, expression raw and unguarded.
This was what loving someone from afar did.
It hollowed you out.
He imagined Freminet curled up in his room, damp hair, shaking hands, pretending he was fine because that was what he always did. Gaming wanted, needed, to touch him. To ground him. To say you don’t have to drown to be worth saving.
Instead, he was here.
Miles away.
Useless.
While Freminet’s brother was in jail.
His phone buzzed one last time.
Freminet:
thank you for waiting for me
Freminet: really
That did it.
Gaming pressed the phone to his chest and broke.
Not loudly. Not dramatically.
Just quiet, wrecked sobs that shook his shoulders as he folded forward, forehead against his knees. Every breath felt like glass. Every tear felt like it was pulling something vital out of him.
“I’d wait forever,” he whispered into the empty room.
“I’d cross oceans. I’d dive after you myself if I could.”
The thought settled heavy and solid in his chest.
He meant it.
He got to Wriothesleys office later, early in the morning, wrapped in layers of concern he didn’t quite know how to accept.
Lumine had shown up first, hair still damp from rain, eyes sharp with worry she tried, and failed, to hide.
“You scared everyone,” she said, arms crossed tight. Then, softer, “You scared me.”
“I’m sorry,” Freminet murmured, staring at the floor.
She sighed and bumped her shoulder gently against his. “We’re past apologies. You’re alive. That’s what matters.”
Aether arrived not long after, carrying coffee and an air of forced normalcy that cracked the moment he saw Freminet’s pale face.
“Never do that again,” he said flatly.
Freminet nodded.
“I mean it,” Aether added. “You don’t get to just… disappear on us.”
The word hit harder than intended.
Disappear.
Freminet’s hands curled in his lap. He thought of Gaming’s messages. Of the way his chest had hurt reading them, not from guilt, but from how much he’d been cared about without realizing it.
“I don’t want to,” he said quietly.
Lumine and Aether exchanged a look.
Then Lumine straightened. “Good. Because we don’t have time for you to fall apart right now.”
Freminet blinked. “What?”
She pulled out her phone and placed it on the table between them. On the screen: documents, photos, names, connections mapped out in sharp lines and red annotations.
“The investigation didn’t stop while you were unconscious,” she said. “And things just got worse.”
Freminet swallowed. Concerning.
“Where are Father and Lynnete?” He wondered. He hadn’t seen them all day, and they weren’t at home either.
Lumine smiled.
“In action.”
Aether started explaining.
The disappearances weren’t random.
That much was clear now.
Girls, students, performers, interns, connected loosely to the opera district, vanishing after late rehearsals or performances. At first, the cases had been treated separately. Runaways. Accidents. Isolated incidents.
They weren’t.
Aether leaned against the wall, arms crossed. “We traced financial records tied to a private research group operating under a cultural preservation grant.”
Freminet frowned. “Research?”
“Human experimentation,” Lumine said bluntly. “Disguised as neurological studies. Stress responses. Emotional thresholds.”
Freminet’s stomach twisted.
“And the opera?” he asked.
“The perfect hunting ground,” Aether said grimly. “Bright lights. Crowds. People slipping in and out unnoticed.”
Freminet’s hands trembled slightly.
“…they’re all dead,” he said.
It wasn’t a question.
Lumine didn’t look away. “Yes.”
The word landed like a physical blow.
Freminet felt cold spread through him, deep and numbing. Faces flashed through his mind, girls he’d passed backstage, shared polite nods with, smiled at in passing. People who had lived.
His breath hitched.
“This is my fault,” he whispered.
“No,” Lumine said immediately. “It isn’t.”
“I was there,” he insisted, voice cracking. “Performing. Distracting people. Making it easier.”
Aether shook his head. “That’s not how responsibility works.”
Freminet laughed weakly. “Feels like it does.”
It has started with him. Since that first show with Furina. The dates matched.
That night, alone in his room, the silence pressed in again, but differently this time.
He sat on the edge of his bed, phone in his hands, staring at the message thread that had become a lifeline.
Gaming hadn’t texted again after his last reassurance.
Probably asleep.
Probably worried.
Probably trying not to spiral the same way Freminet was.
Freminet typed slowly.
Freminet:
I’m home
Freminet: investigation is going okay
Freminet: I promise I won’t do anything stupid again
The words felt small. Insufficient.
After a long moment, he added:
Freminet:
I’m scared
Freminet: but I’m still here
He set the phone down and lay back, staring at the ceiling.
For the first time since the investigation began, since the water nearly took him, Freminet let himself feel something other than guilt.
Anger.
Cold, sharp, steady anger at the people who had done this. At the system that had let it happen. At the silence that had swallowed victims whole.
His fingers curled into the sheets.
I won’t disappear, he thought.
And I won’t let this be forgotten.
Outside, Fontaine’s lights reflected off wet pavement, bright and uncaring.
Inside, Freminet stayed awake, heart aching, alive, and determined.
The investigation did not belong to heroes.
It belonged to people who knew how to make things vanish.
Long before the public learned that Lyney’s name had been cleared, long before newspapers printed retractions in fonts too small to matter, the House of the Hearth had already moved.
They did not announce it.
They did not ask permission.
They did not knock.
Arlecchino’s office overlooked Fontaine’s financial district, glass walls reflecting a city that believed itself civilized. On her desk lay no weapons, only documents, tablets, ledgers, contracts. Names written in neat, merciless rows.
“These men,” she said calmly, tapping one file with a gloved finger, “believed their research would be protected by culture grants and public sentiment.”
A pause.
“They were mistaken.”
Members of the House stood around her, not children, not quite adults, all trained to listen without interrupting. Their expressions were unreadable, faces schooled into neutrality.
“The experiments were funded through shell companies,” Arlecchino continued. “The same shell companies that donate generously to the opera, to public officials, to ‘youth preservation initiatives.’”
She smiled faintly. It did not reach her eyes.
“Cut off the money.”
Everything revolved around it.
That was the first order.
What followed was not loud.
Accounts were frozen overnight.
Permits quietly revoked.
Researchers found their labs locked, their access denied, their names scrubbed from databases they once owned.
Phones rang and rang, unanswered.
One man tried to flee Fontaine by private transport. The vessel never departed. Another attempted to bargain, emails sent at 3 a.m., filled with apologies and promises. They were archived, forwarded, and used.
The House did not touch the bodies.
They touched everything else.
Meanwhile, Wriothesley performed his own role.
Publicly, he was distant. Detached. The official stance was unchanged: the case against Lyney remained “under review.” No comment. No updates. No signs of interference.
Privately, he was a storm contained behind iron discipline.
“The evidence doesn’t line up,” he said flatly during one closed-door meeting, files spread across a steel table. “And you know it.”
Across from him sat two senior officials, stiff-backed, defensive.
“It’s politically safer to let the narrative stand,” one said.
Wriothesley leaned forward, eyes cold. “Then you should start preparing for when it doesn’t.”
He leaked nothing, but he withheld everything. Reports stalled. Requests for transfers denied. Every procedural delay that could be justified, was.
Lyney remained in juvenile detention, yes, but untouched. Untested. Unbroken.
To the public, it looked like negligence.
To those watching closely, it was protection.
And then there was Lynette.
Invisible, as always.
She did not attend meetings. She did not argue. She did not make demands.
She listened.
Backstage staff talked. Interns whispered. Janitors remembered faces and schedules and things they hadn’t thought mattered. Lynette remembered all of it.
She walked through opera corridors like a shadow, recording voice memos, snapping photos, collecting fragments of truth others discarded.
One night, she handed a drive to Wriothesley without a word.
He reviewed it in silence.
Then he exhaled slowly. “That’ll do it.”
The resolution came not as a revelation, but as an inevitability.
A joint statement. Carefully worded. Regret expressed without accountability. An independent inquiry announced. Charges redirected. Names removed.
Lyney’s innocence was declared not with applause, but with paperwork.
The headline the next morning read:
MISATTRIBUTED EVIDENCE LEADS TO WRONGFUL DETENTION
Small. Bloodless. Cowardly.
But effective.
Lyney walked free.
The perpetrators were never paraded in chains.
They vanished instead, careers ended, reputations erased, assets seized, experiments exposed in reports too technical for public outrage but damning enough for history.
Arlecchino read the final summary alone.
“Good,” she said.
She closed the file and stood.
“Make sure the families are compensated,” she added quietly. “Anonymously.”
One of the House members hesitated. “And the public?”
Arlecchino paused at the door.
“The public does not need monsters,” she said. “They need closure.”
Then she left.
Elsewhere, Wriothesley removed Lyney’s file from his desk and placed it in storage.
“Take care of your brother,” he told him simply.
Lyney nodded, eyes sharp, grateful, furious all at once.
And Lynette, standing a little behind, adjusted her gloves and looked away, already moving on to the next silence that needed listening to.
The city slept that night, believing justice had been done.
Only those who had worked in the dark knew the truth:
It had been managed.
And sometimes, that was the only way it survived.
Dinner was late.
Not because anyone was busy, but because no one wanted to be the first to sit.
The House of the Hearth dining room was warm in a way that felt almost intrusive after weeks of cold halls and locked doors. The lights were dimmed to a gentle amber, reflecting off polished wood and porcelain plates laid out with care that bordered on reverence. Soup steamed softly in bowls no one touched yet. Bread cooled on the table, crust cracking faintly as it settled.
Freminet sat with his hands folded in his lap, shoulders tense, spine straight in the way he had learned meant be good, be quiet, don’t cause waves. His fingers still smelled faintly of salt no matter how much he scrubbed them.
Across from him, Lyney hadn’t taken his eyes off him once.
Lynette sat between them, calm as ever, though her foot tapped once every few seconds against the floor. Arlecchino presided at the head of the table, posture relaxed, gaze sharp enough to notice everything.
The clink of a spoon against porcelain finally broke the silence.
“Eat,” Arlecchino said mildly. “This is not an execution.”
Lyney snorted once, sharp and humorless. “Could’ve fooled me.”
Freminet flinched.
Lyney noticed.
That was what snapped something in him.
He pushed his chair back with a scrape that made Lynette wince. “Okay. No. We’re not doing this polite silence thing.”
Arlecchino lifted an eyebrow but said nothing.
Lyney leaned forward, palms flat on the table, eyes burning, not angry, not exactly. Terrified. “Do you have any idea what it felt like,” he said, voice shaking despite himself, “to be told my little brother nearly drowned because he went too far out and didn’t come back?”
Freminet’s breath caught.
Lyney’s voice cracked. “They said you’d gone alone. That you didn’t signal. That you—” He swallowed hard. “That you might not have wanted to come back.”
Silence fell like a dropped curtain.
Freminet’s ears rang. His chest tightened so hard it hurt to breathe.
“That’s not—” he started, then stopped. Tried again. “I didn’t— I wasn’t trying to—”
“Then what were you doing?” Lyney demanded, softer now, worse for it. “Because everyone thought—everyone—”
Lynette finally spoke. “They thought you wanted to disappear.”
The word hung there. Disappear. Ugly. Heavy.
Freminet shook his head violently. “No. No, I swear, I didn’t. I never—” His voice wobbled, and he hated it. “I just… I went deeper than I meant to. I lost track of time. Of my air. I thought I could make it back up.”
His hands trembled as he clenched them into fists. “I didn’t want to die.”
Lyney froze.
Freminet looked up, eyes bright, desperate. “I wanted to breathe. I wanted everything to stop hurting for a minute. That’s all.”
The room felt suddenly too small.
Lynette’s tapping foot stopped.
Lyney sank back into his chair slowly, like his legs had given out beneath him. He dragged a hand down his face. When he spoke again, his voice was wrecked. “You scared me half to death.”
“I’m sorry,” Freminet whispered. “I swear it was an accident.”
Arlecchino cleared her throat,not sharply, not coldly. Just enough to remind them she was there.
“Accidents,” she said, “have consequences whether they are intended or not.”
Freminet nodded, shame blooming hot in his chest.
“But,” she continued, gaze softening just a fraction, “they do not define you.”
She looked at Lyney. “You assumed intent because fear filled the gaps.”
Then at Freminet. “And you assumed silence would protect others.”
A pause.
“Both assumptions are incorrect.”
Lynette reached out and placed her hand over Freminet’s. It was steady. Grounding. “Next time,” she said quietly, “you don’t go alone.”
Freminet nodded, tears finally slipping free.
Lyney stood abruptly and pulled Freminet into a hug before he could think better of it. Tight. Fierce. Shaking.
“Don’t do that again,” Lyney muttered into his hair. “I don’t care how dramatic it sounds.”
Freminet laughed weakly through tears. “You’re the dramatic one.”
“That’s my job,” Lyney shot back hoarsely.
For the first time in weeks, the room felt whole.
The announcement came three days later.
Not in a courtroom.
On a stage.
The opera house was full to bursting, cameras lining the aisles, lights hot enough to prickle skin. Murmurs rippled through the audience like wind through tall grass. Anticipation. Curiosity. Hunger.
Furina stood center-stage, resplendent, composed, theatrical as ever, but her eyes were serious now.
“This city,” she began, voice carrying effortlessly, “adores spectacle.”
A pause.
“But today is not about illusion.”
Behind her, the screens lit up.
Evidence. Timelines. Names. Transactions. The truth laid bare not with drama, but with precision.
The real perpetrator was revealed piece by piece, a respected researcher, a benefactor, a man who hid behind philanthropy and prestige while destroying lives in private laboratories. Gasps echoed. Whispers sharpened into outrage.
“And Lyney,” Furina continued, turning slightly as the lights shifted, “was never the villain.”
Lyney stepped into the light.
Not in chains. Not in shadows.
Free.
The audience erupted, confusion first, then realization, then applause that thundered through the hall. Some cried. Some shouted his name. Some looked ashamed.
Lyney bowed, not flamboyant, not smug. Just grateful.
Lynette stood at his side. Freminet just behind them, hands clasped tight, heart pounding, lungs full.
For the first time since the water closed over his head, he felt steady.
Seen.
Alive.
And as the curtain fell and the lights dimmed, one truth rang louder than any applause.
Fontaine’s “justice” was a mere excuse for a fancy tittle.
The opera house was empty now.
Or nearly so.
Velvet seats stretched out in orderly rows, the stage lights dimmed to a soft blue glow meant for cleaning crews and ghosts of performances past. Dust motes drifted lazily in the air, catching the light like suspended thoughts.
Neuvillette stood at the edge of the stage, hands folded behind his back, posture immaculate as always. The echo of the crowd’s applause still lingered faintly in the walls, like a memory the building refused to let go of.
Behind him, Furina lounged dramatically across a velvet chair that absolutely was not meant for lounging. One leg draped over the armrest, head tipped back, sighing as if she had just finished a five-hour soliloquy rather than a carefully calculated public revelation.
“Well,” she said brightly, breaking the silence, “that went marvelously, don’t you think?”
Neuvillette did not turn around.
“It went,” he said evenly, “as it had to.”
Furina scoffed. “You’re no fun. The nation was on the edge of hysteria, the truth was unveiled in a single, devastating act, reputations were shattered, tell me that wasn’t at least a little theatrical.”
“Theatrics,” Neuvillette replied, finally turning to face her, “are not a substitute for justice.”
She placed a hand dramatically over her chest. “Oh, don’t wound me like that. I’d think the Chief Justice of Fontaine would appreciate a good performance. After all, our entire legal system is basically courtroom drama with better lighting.”
Neuvillette’s gaze sharpened. “Our system exists to uncover truth.”
“And yet,” Furina said, sitting up now, eyes bright and sharp beneath the playfulness, “truth alone has never satisfied Fontaine.”
She gestured broadly at the empty seats. “They don’t come here for verdicts. They come for meaning. For emotion. For catharsis. You know that as well as I do.”
Neuvillette exhaled slowly, like a tide pulling back from shore. “And that,” he said quietly, “is precisely the problem.”
Furina tilted her head. “Still think I was wrong to play my part?”
“I think,” Neuvillette said, choosing his words with surgical care, “that you understood the people better than most.”
She blinked, just once.
Then smiled, smaller this time. Real.
“Oh my,” she said lightly. “Is that praise I hear?”
“It is an observation.”
She laughed. “You always say that like it makes it less dangerous.”
A pause.
Neuvillette looked out at the stage, at the place where lies had been dismantled and truth reconstructed into something the city could finally accept. “You were once considered Fontaine’s ruler,” he said. “A symbol.”
Furina leaned back again, gaze drifting upward. “Symbols are exhausting,” she replied. “They never get to sit down.”
“And yet,” he added, “you continue to act.”
Her smile softened. “Someone has to. You hold the scales. I hold the mirror.”
Neuvillette regarded her for a long moment. Then, very quietly, “Fontaine survived today not because of spectacle… but because truth was given a voice the people could hear.”
She met his eyes. “See? Teamwork.”
A beat.
“Don’t let it go to your head,” he said.
She grinned. “Too late.”
They stood there a moment longer, law and theater, water and light, two pillars of a city that could not exist without both.
Somewhere far above, the pipes hummed softly.
Fontaine breathed.
And for once, justice did not drown.
The meeting room overlooked Fontaine’s harbor, all glass and steel and carefully curated elegance. Rain traced slow, deliberate paths down the windows, as if the city itself were listening.
Furina arrived first, boots clicking too loudly against the polished floor on purpose. She dropped into a chair without asking, crossing her legs, chin lifted, every inch the former star of Fontaine’s grandest stage.
Moments later, Arlecchino entered.
She did not announce herself. She never needed to.
Her presence settled into the room like cold ink bleeding through paper, quiet, controlled, impossible to ignore. She removed her gloves slowly, deliberately, and placed them on the table as if laying down terms rather than fabric.
“Well,” Furina said, clapping her hands once, sharp and bright. She had prepared for this moment, now braver than what she used to. Only the subtle but constant twitch of her eye betrayed her. “If it isn’t the most terrifying philanthropist-corporate-military-hybrid Fontaine’s ever had the pleasure of negotiating with.”
Arlecchino’s lips curved, barely.
“And if it isn’t Fontaine’s most accomplished actress,” she replied calmly. “You play many roles well.”
“Flattery from you?” Furina leaned forward. “I should frame this moment.”
“Do,” Arlecchino said. “It will not make it less true.”
A pause. The rain grew heavier.
They studied each other, two women who understood power intimately, though they wielded it in entirely different ways.
“You knew,” Furina said at last, voice lighter than her eyes. “About the experiments. About what was happening to those girls.”
“I suspected,” Arlecchino corrected. “Suspicion is enough when children are involved.”
Furina’s fingers tightened against the armrest. “And you still let the system rot long enough for it to explode onstage?”
“I let Fontaine reveal itself,” Arlecchino said evenly. “Your justice system required spectacle to act. I merely ensured the truth survived long enough to be seen.”
Furina laughed, short, humorless. “You sound like Neuvillette.”
“A compliment,” Arlecchino replied.
“Debatable.”
Silence settled between them, thick but not hostile.
“At least tell me this,” Furina said, quieter now. “The children. Lyney. Lynette. Freminet. You didn’t send them into this blindly.”
Arlecchino’s gaze sharpened, something almost fierce passing beneath her composure.
“I would never,” she said. “The House of the Hearth does not sacrifice its own.”
Furina studied her, searching for cracks. Finding none.
“…They’re lucky,” Furina admitted. “To have someone who doesn’t pretend affection is free.”
“Nothing is free,” Arlecchino said. “Least of all safety.”
Furina exhaled, leaning back. “You know, for someone painted as Fontaine’s villain, you did more for justice than half its institutions.”
Arlecchino stood, reclaiming her gloves. “Villains are useful,” she said coolly. “They are permitted to act where heroes must hesitate.”
Furina smiled, tired but genuine. “If I ever return to the stage,” she mused, “I’d like to play you.”
Arlecchino paused at the door.
“You would fail,” she said without turning. “You feel too much.”
“Rude,” Furina replied. “But fair.”
The door closed softly behind Arlecchino.
Furina remained seated, listening to the rain, to the distant hum of a city still learning how to live with truth instead of drowning beneath it.
For the first time in a long while, the curtain had fallen, but truth remained.