Betrayal

The city stretched and yawned in the dark, its streets pulsing with a slower, hungrier rhythm. By night, Blackmire wasn't quieter—it just whispered instead of shouting. The alleys hummed with secrets. The canals held onto bodies a little tighter. The rooftops carried unseen figures scuttling like rats, and the air was thick with the scent of damp stone, old smoke, and bad intentions.

Valentine walked through it all, his cane tapping against uneven cobblestones, his thoughts heavier than his usual theatrics.

Markov.

The name stuck in his mind like a splinter.

No one knew where he'd come from. He wasn't a Blackmire-born menace like the usual lot, crawling up from the filth to claim their piece of the city's rot. No, Markov had appeared a few years ago—like a shadow suddenly deciding it wanted to be a man. No past, no records, no rumors that predated his presence. One day, he just was. And when he was, he already had power.

That was the strange part. Most men built their kingdoms in Blackmire. Markov arrived with one ready-made.

He didn't command a single gang. He didn't rule over some den of thieves, some seedy operation in a rotting warehouse. He had cells. Little pockets of people, moving in circles no one else could see. Men and women who never should have worked together, never should have been seen together—yet, for Markov, they did.

And they worked for him personally.

Anne had been one of them.

Valentine exhaled through his nose, a short, sharp thing.

Markov found the ones who were already lost. The ones society had chewed up and spat out. The desperate, the forgotten, the ones who didn't have anywhere else to go. He made himself a lighthouse for the drowning. A savior for the stranded. And then, once they were his—once he had them deep enough—he made them useful.

The Northern Watchtower's agents had finally tracked him down a few months ago. Cornered him, even. For a moment, it seemed like Blackmire had one less problem slithering in its veins.

Then he disappeared.

Not escaped. Disappeared.

No one knew how. No one saw him leave. One moment, he was a trapped rat, and the next, he wasn't.

And yet, just recently—when people thought Markov was still licking his wounds—a new deal. A new contact. A tailor of all things. As if the man had never been cornered at all.

Valentine didn't like it.

His fingers curled tighter around his cane as he walked.

Too many questions. Too many loose ends. And Markov had a habit of tightening loose ends with a noose.

Valentine reached his home. Grey Street was mostly dead by this hour, the usual drunks either passed out or gone, the rats free to scurry where they pleased. He stepped up to his door, unlocked it with the smooth ease of a man who had done this a thousand times, and stepped inside.

His eyes landed on the package immediately.

He had taken it after saving Anne. It had been there, abandoned in the chaos, and something about it… something about it had made him pick it up.

He let out a slow breath, rolling his shoulders, then walked over and set it on the table. His fingers brushed over the metal surface, cool and unyielding, the lock catching the faint glow of a streetlamp outside.

Anne had never even noticed the switch.

It had been too easy, really.

The girl had been running on fumes, dragging herself through the night with sheer willpower alone. After everything that had happened, after the alley, after the blood—after the attack—she was exhausted.

And exhaustion made people careless.

All it took was a quick hand and the right moment. The tailor hadn't even checked the package before slipping her the receipt. Why would he? This was Blackmire. People didn't check what they were being paid to move. They just moved it.

So Anne had handed over the package without a second thought, believing it to be the same one she had carried through the streets, the same one she had nearly died for.

But it wasn't.

The real one had been tucked under Valentine's coat before they even stepped inside the shop. What the tailor received was something else entirely—same weight, same size, same sense of importance. The old woman was to be thanked for it. But ultimately?

Just a box.

Nothing more.

Valentine let a smirk tug at his lips as he traced a finger along the edges of the real package. Whatever was inside, it had been important enough for Markov to want it delivered in the dead of night, important enough for Anne to be attacked over it.

And now, it was his.

He flexed his fingers.

The tailor would never know. Markov would never know.

And Anne… well.

She had already given it away.

He set his cane against the chair, cracked his neck, and sat down. The package was wrapped simply, nothing extravagant. Nothing that screamed of danger, but then again, the worst things never did.

He inhaled.

***

The box sat in Valentine's lap, dark and metallic, the lock catching the dim light in his room. It was heavier than it looked, with edges smooth from wear, as if handled often.

Valentine twirled a key between his fingers, then slid it into the lock. It didn't turn.

He tried another. Then another.

Nothing.

He sighed through his nose, setting the failed keys aside before trying more aggressive means—tapping the lock with his cane, prying at the seam with a knife, shaking it like a child throwing a tantrum with a stubborn toy.

Still, it refused to budge.

"Fine," he muttered, standing up. "We're doing this the fun way."

He grabbed his coat, tucked the box under his arm, and made his way into the Blackmire night.

***

The engineer's house was tucked in the mess of Blackmire's industrial district, where soot and iron mixed in the air. The windows were dark, the street nearly empty, save for the occasional drunk stumbling home.

Valentine raised his fist and knocked. Loudly.

Then again.

Then—just for fun—a third time.

"Charlie, dearest, wake up! It's me, your dear friend in need!"

No response.

Valentine knocked harder. "It's a puzzle, Charlie! You love puzzles!"

Silence.

A floorboard creaked above him. Then a window creaked open.

A very tired, very unamused Charlie leaned out, his hair a mess, his glasses slightly askew. "No."

Valentine beamed. "No what?"

"No to whatever you need."

"But you don't even—"

"No."

Valentine tilted his head. "Charlie."

Charlie rubbed his face. "Valentine."

"This is cruel."

"This is necessary."

"I could be dying."

Charlie glanced at him, deadpan. "Are you?"

"…No."

"Then go away."

And with that, Charlie shut the window.

Valentine was not a man who took no for an answer.

Especially not from someone who owed him at least four favors and one deeply embarrassing secret.

So, naturally, he knocked again. Harder.

Then he kicked the door for good measure.

"Charlie! You wound me!"

Silence.

Valentine narrowed his eyes. "I know you're still awake."

Nothing.

He tried again, rapping his knuckles against the wood in a steady, obnoxious rhythm. Knock-knock-knock. Knock-knock-knock. Knock-knock-knock.

Somewhere inside, something crashed. Then, finally—the lock turned.

The door opened just enough for Charlie to stick his face out, his glasses now completely askew, his expression one of exhausted why-do-I-even-bother resignation.

"You are the most persistent bastard," Charlie muttered.

Valentine grinned. "You love that about me."

"I tolerate that about you."

"Same thing."

Charlie sighed, stepping aside just enough for Valentine to slip in before he could protest further.

Charlie's home was as chaotic as ever—half-built contraptions, tools scattered on every available surface, and stacks of blueprints precariously close to toppling. The whole place smelled of oil, smoke, and something vaguely metallic.

Valentine set the box on a worktable, dusting it off dramatically.

"Tell me, dear Charlie, do you believe in destiny?"

Charlie eyed him. "I believe in bad decisions, and you seem to be full of them."

Valentine tapped the box. "And yet, here we are."

Charlie sighed, running a hand through his mess of hair. "Fine. Let me see it."

Valentine smirked. "I knew you'd come around."

"Shut up."

Charlie adjusted his glasses, leaning down to inspect the lock. He ran a finger over the seam, muttering under his breath.

"This isn't just any metal. Where the hell did you—"

Then, suddenly—a voice from deeper inside the house.

Feminine. Drowsy.

"Charlie? Who's at the door?"

Valentine stilled.

Then—slowly, slowly—his head turned toward Charlie, a wicked grin spreading across his face.

Charlie, in return, went stiff as a board.

Valentine gasped, dramatic as ever. "Charlie. Do you have a woman in your house?"

Charlie visibly fought the urge to throttle him. "It's—" He closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. "It's not what you think."

"Oh, no, no, dear friend," Valentine leaned on the table, watching with pure delight. "This is exactly what I think."

From the back room, the voice called again—this time, more curious.

"Charlie?"

Valentine's grin widened.

Charlie muttered, "I hate you."

Valentine, brimming with amusement, whispered back, "I love me."

Valentine placed a dramatic hand over his heart, his grin turning downright predatory.

"Charlie, Charlie, Charlie," he purred, circling the poor man like a particularly smug shark. "You sly, secretive little engineer. All this time, I thought you were married only to your gadgets."

Charlie's expression was a man on the verge of murder.

Valentine turned toward the voice's origin, hands cupped around his mouth.

"Hello, mysterious woman!"

Charlie lunged.

Valentine dodged.

Charlie grabbed him by the lapels, yanking him down to eye level. "If you say one more word, I will personally ensure you never see the inside of this workshop again."

Valentine blinked.

Then, without missing a beat—he turned his head and shouted,

"Madam, did you know your dear Charlie has been withholding secrets from his very best friend?"

Charlie clapped a hand over his mouth.

A moment of silence.

Then—soft footsteps.

Valentine felt the grin radiating off his face even through Charlie's hand.

And finally, stepping into view from the back room, came her.

A woman, sleep-mussed and wrapped in a man's shirt—Charlie's shirt. She squinted at the scene before her: Charlie wrestling a grinning Valentine like a desperate man trying to keep a wild dog from bolting into a party it wasn't invited to.

Valentine, elated, wrenched Charlie's hand free.

"Oh, my dear lady," he greeted, sweeping into an exaggerated bow. "My sincerest apologies for intruding upon your nocturnal rendezvous."

The woman—who clearly had no idea what she had just walked into—blinked at him. Then at Charlie. Then back at Valentine.

"…Who the hell is this?"

Charlie, still gripping Valentine's coat as if trying to physically hold his sanity together, exhaled sharply.

"This," he muttered darkly, "is Valentine Fontaine."

Valentine straightened, beaming. "At your service."

Charlie, still gripping him. "He is also leaving."

Valentine pouted. "So soon? But we were just getting to know each other."

Charlie did not respond. He was too busy dragging Valentine toward the door.

Valentine, refusing to be removed without further theatrics, dug his heels in. "Wait, wait, before I go—what's her name, Charlie? Or should I guess?"

"I will kill you."

"Oh, I hope so, what a way to go."

The woman, finally seeming to wake up properly, crossed her arms. "If he's your friend, Charlie, why does he look like he enjoys torturing you?"

Valentine gasped. "A woman of perception!" He shot her a wink. "I like you already."

Charlie pinched the bridge of his nose, inhaling slowly like a man trying to find inner peace and failing spectacularly. The woman, now fully awake and smirking slightly, leaned against the doorframe with crossed arms.

"So, Valentine," she said, testing the name on her tongue. "You seem to know Charlie quite well."

Valentine clutched his chest as if wounded. "Know him? My dear, I have suffered alongside him. I have bled in the name of our shared struggles. We are bonded by fate itself."

Charlie gave him a flat look. "You once got me arrested."

"Details," Valentine dismissed with a wave.

The woman arched an eyebrow. "Arrested?"

Charlie exhaled through his teeth. "He tried selling counterfeit invitations to the Mayor's Gala."

"Ah-ah," Valentine interrupted, wagging a finger. "First of all, I succeeded in selling them. It was only when you tried to get in that things went awry."

Charlie crossed his arms. "You printed the name 'Valntine Fontain' on the invitations."

Valentine clapped his hands together. "A rare misstep! One must appreciate the imperfections in art."

The woman snorted. "So you're a conman."

Valentine put a hand to his chest, offended. "A visionary, my dear. A humble entrepreneur in the grand bazaar of life."

Charlie muttered, "A menace."

The woman smirked. "I like him."

Valentine grinned. "You see, Charlie? Someone appreciates me."

Charlie shook his head. "She also likes to set things on fire when she's mad, so forgive me if I don't trust her judgment."

Valentine's eyes lit up. "Oh, you and I are going to get along splendidly."

The woman chuckled. "Call me Jessica."

"Jessica," Valentine repeated, testing the name like a fine wine. "Tell me, Jessica, since we are now intimate acquaintances, what other delightful tidbits about Charlie's life can you share?"

Jessica smirked. "Did he ever tell you about the time he tried building a mechanical cat?"

Charlie groaned. "Oh, no—"

Valentine's face split into pure delight. "Mechanical cat?"

She nodded. "Oh, yeah. A whole automaton. It was supposed to be sleek, elegant, the perfect pet."

Charlie rubbed his temples. "It should have worked."

Jessica ignored him. "But instead of a graceful feline, it ended up with five legs, a horrific hissing mechanism, and would chase anything that moved."

Valentine collapsed onto Charlie's workbench, laughing so hard he nearly sent a pile of gears clattering to the floor. "Charlie, you mad genius! Where is this abomination?"

"Destroyed," Charlie grumbled. "It tried to murder my landlady."

She added, "And the tailor's apprentice. And that one poor priest."

Valentine wiped a tear from his eye. "Saints above, why have you never told me this?"

Charlie gritted his teeth. "Because I knew you would react exactly like this."

Valentine sat back, still grinning. "Jessica, you've made my night."

She chuckled, bumping Charlie's shoulder with her own. "He's a disaster, but he's my disaster."

Charlie sighed heavily. "I hate you both."

Valentine patted his shoulder. "We know."