The night helps me escape the chase into the shadows. The shadows help me reach into my warehouse. My warehouse provides me with safety where I can sleep.

  Morning comes, I rise from my throne, stretch, and reach for my spare clothes, slipping into them precisely.

  I place the note I took from Xandar's Mansion between pages of my diary and return it to the steel shelf and leave it for later. I'm not in the right mind of doing anything related to alchemy.

  I spend the rest of Friday working like usual. The entire day, I move through routines as if nothing happened, my eyes calm but alert, like a cog in the machine called society. Everyone treats me no differently today.

  Once the work is done, a public carriage that I hired—one that is part of my company takes me back home.

  The carriage glides along the cobblestones. Leather cushions hug my back. The smell of polished wood and oil fills the interior—comfort in motion.

  The carriage provides better service than its competitions. A great investment.

  At home, at the front door: “I am home,” I say as I open it.

  She rushes to hug me without saying a single word. Her arms squeeze around me, warmth pressing deep into my chest.

  I kiss her by the cheek.

  “Where were you?” she asks.

  “I was doing my mission.”

  “Did you have anything to do with what happened last night?” she whispers.

  “Lets talk inside.”

  I step in and close the door behind me. She holds my hand, then leads me to the living room where we sit across from each other at the table. We lean comfortably on our couches.

  I calm myself first, letting my breath settle.

  “So what is it?” she opens the conversation, eyes wary.

  “Before I tell you about last night, there’s something I’d like to show you.”

  I pull out my registry, place it on the table, and slide it toward her.

  She picks it up and studies it. Her brows furrow, confusion spreading across her face.

  “Thadeo Owright?”

  I nod. “That’s the name I got, when we signed up for our registries.”

  She turns the registry over in her hands, then places it back on the table. I pick it up and slip it into my pocket.

  “I’ve been living triple lives,” I continue. “With you, I am Len. On paper, I am Thadeo Owright. I still have one more identity, Damian Smith—this one assigned by the Hearthlight Order.”

  I hold back my Monsieur Abyss identity, keeping it hidden.

  She presses her hands to her temples, massaging slowly.

  “Ash?”

  The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  “My head hurts trying to process all of this,” she whispers, her voice strained.

  “Okay. Let me explain. When I am with you, I am me. With others, I am someone else.”

  “What does this have to do with last night? Do you even know what happened? There was a mounted pursuit in this neighborhood. Isn’t this supposed to be safe?” Her tone rises, worry painting every word.

  “Calm down.”

  I wait, observing her closely. She exhales, chest rising and falling as she tries to steady herself.

  “The Hearthlight Order didn’t hire me to be a clerk. They hired me to assassinate alchemists—those not aligned with them.”

  She freezes, eyes widening.

  “I have killed…” I lift a hand, counting silently on my fingers. “five… six…” I look at her. “Seven, including last night.”

  “Why are you telling me this? Why now?”

  “Because I was wrong. Hiding things from you is wrong. I should have known better—”

  “Stop!” she cuts me off, sharp and sudden. “Give me time to process this.”

  I swallow.

  “Len, I love you. You know I do… if you give me time—at least until Sunday—I will agree to whatever suggestions you have.”

  I nod in understanding.

  We rise and head to our bedroom, seeking comfort in each other. The day ends wrapped in quiet closeness.

  It feels good to be open.

  No. Half open.

  We sleep soundly that night.

  Good Saturday.

  Morning comes calm, with gentle kisses, our usual preparation, then breakfast.

  “Len?” she asks.

  “Yes, love?”

  “Can I use the carriage today?”

  “Sure.”

  “You’re not asking why?”

  “No. My concern is that you choose to leave the house and face the world again. That takes courage.”

  “That’s sweet, but actually I just want to go to the market. It’s been a while.”

  “Oh… okay. Buy me a box full of knives, some glass containers, and maybe something of your choosing from the Trinktek shop.”

  “Okay then…”

  After we finish our morning routine, we step into the day separately.

  The first stop is the Custodian building, where I meet Arjuna.

  “Good Saturday,” we greet each other.

  “Let me guess…” His eyes study me carefully. “You’re here to report Xarxar’s death.”

  “Yes.”

  “Xarxar was assassinated by a masked rider. Are you him?”

  “No.”

  He exhales a sharp breath, face tightening with annoyance. “If you’re here to report something I already know, don’t even bother coming at all.”

  “So about—”

  He clicks his tongue once. “No, no, no… I will not recommend you for a salary increase. You may return to Gary.”

  His hand gestures me away. “Shoo… shoo…”

  I leave the building with quiet confidence, not disappointment.

  The only person who could connect me to the masked rider is an idiot.

  After Custodian, I head to my own workplace—the Hearthlight building, straight to Gary’s office.

  “Good Saturday,” we greet each other as usual.

  “Gary, I’ve finished the mission assigned by the Custodian Order.”

  “Finished?”

  “Yes.”

  “You didn’t kill the first target… did you kill the second one?”

  “No.”

  He exhales softly. “That happens… Now go back to work. We’ll call you again if there are new assignments.”

  Just as I turn to leave, he calls me back. “Len, report this to Master Veyr.”

  I nod.

  After leaving Gary’s office, I take the elevator up, heading straight to the Clocktower office.

  “Good Saturday, Len,” he greets me. “What brings you here?”

  I give him enough information about the deaths of Xandar’s sons—Aram’s disciples—without revealing that I was the one who assassinated them. I frame it as if someone else carried out the deed.

  There’s a flicker of hesitation on his face.

  “You know… it’s strange. All your targets are dead, yet somehow you didn’t do it,” he remarks.

  “I did kill one.”

  “Ah, yes. What was his name again? Alfro? Alfri?”

  “Alfrey,” I correct, calmly.

  “How did you kill him again?”

  “He was already struggling on the floor—he had lost a fight in the lavatory.”

  He frowns slightly. “Weird… you just happened to be in the right place at the right time to deliver the finishing blow.”

  I chuckle softly, though my face stays expressionless.

  “Thanks for the report. You may go,” he says, gesturing toward the door.

  I leave his office and return to my clerk duties—helping clients, assisting the community, mentoring Miriam so she can become a better clerk.

  When the sun sets, I step out of the building.

  In the plaza, I glance up at the clocktower of Hearthlight, through the glassy panel, a shadow stands—watching. A figure. Still. Probably Veyr, observing me.

  I hop into a waiting carriage and say to the jarvy, “Let’s travel through the Northern Outskirt.”

  “Monsieur?” he asks, seeking confirmation.

  “Just move.”

  The carriage rolls forward, wheels clattering softly against the cobblestones. My eyes scan every corner, every window, every reflection. Carriages pass, people move, lanterns sway. Every glance could be a watcher. Every movement could be a sign.

  We follow random routes.

  After a while, once I’m certain we’re unobserved, I instruct the jarvy to turn east of Hearthlight. The carriage rattles over cobblestones, crossing a major intersection. Lanterns reflect off the polished wood and metal, shadows stretching long.

  Finally, it slows and stops before a narrow alley between florist shops. The carriage travel costs me ten Phens—half of my monthly salary as Hearthlight agent.

  I step down, calculating each movement as I enter the alley.

  From the alley I reach my warehouse. With no one follows me, I enter and lock it in from the inside.

  I grab my diary from one of the steel shelves and set it on the table between liquid lanterns, the warm glow washing over the pages.

  I flip through, scanning for the torn marks that match Xarxar’s note. One of the remaining five fits perfectly.

  Then I remove the liquid container from one of the liquid lanterns. Twist the lid. The white liquid turns into kuor as soon as it comes into contact with air.

  Slowly, I pour it directly onto the note.

  A moment later.

  The paper drinks the kuor, fibers swelling, knitting the tear shut. Xarxar’s note merges seamlessly, fusing with my diary.

  The letters crawl. Slowly at first, writhing like serpents across the page, twisting in agonizing spirals. My eyes track the motion, reluctant yet compelled. They slither toward the edges, each line trembling, bending, reshaping.

  And then they snap.

  Everything locks into place. Coherent. Ho

  rrifyingly precise. Clear. Materials, methods, costs… every secret laid bare.

  An image appears—cold and empty. Shadows coil inside shadows. Below it, the instructions. Above it, a declaration.

  Perfect Grade.

  Umbral Vial.