Defy Not

The shadows of the old banking house stretched long and heavy, creeping like fingers over the dust-covered marble floor. The air smelled of old paper, ink, and something sharper—like the lingering ghost of long-settled debts.

Lior sat across from Winston Veyne, who lounged like a man with no worries in the world, legs crossed, hands folded lazily over his knee. His coat, a deep midnight blue, was draped over the chair like an afterthought, its fine stitching a stark contrast to the decay of the building. His shirt, crisp but slightly unbuttoned, spoke of a man who walked the line between elegance and carelessness with practiced ease. His dark hair was curled at the edges, that defied order, much like the man himself.

And his eyes—his eyes gleamed with something dangerous. Not violence, but amusement. Amusement, and the quiet, unshakeable confidence of a man who had never lost a game he didn't rig himself.

"So, tell me, street rat," Veyne said, voice as smooth as silk over steel. "What's your story?"

Lior stiffened. He didn't answer. Wouldn't answer.

Veyne only smiled wider. "Ah, you're thinking about lying. Smart boy. But tell me—what kind of lie do you think would fool me?"

The words slithered through the air like a patient viper. Lior swallowed, feeling the weight of Raquin's presence beside him, quiet, watching. A test. This was a test.

He said nothing.

Veyne chuckled, shaking his head. "You're clever. I'll give you that. But everyone talks, eventually. It's just a matter of knowing which buttons to press." He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, and when he spoke next, his voice dipped lower. Almost casual.

"Your father's still alive, isn't he?"

Lior flinched.

Not much. Barely. But enough.

Veyne grinned.

Lior clenched his jaw. "What do you want?"

"Want? Oh, my dear boy, it's not about what I want." Veyne waved a hand. "It's about what you want. And what you're willing to do to get it."

Lior stayed silent.

Veyne sighed, shaking his head with exaggerated disappointment. "You're no fun. I thought you'd be more talkative after all that brilliant scheming in the market. But I suppose the real question is..." His voice took on a teasing lilt, a conman's melody. "Do you really think you're cut out for this life?"

Lior's fists clenched at his sides.

"I think," he said, voice steady, "I don't have much of a choice."

Veyne studied him. His smile, ever-present, never quite reached his eyes. "Oh, there's always a choice, Lior." He tilted his head. "You're just not willing to live with the other ones."

A beat of silence.

Then—

With a flick of the wrist, faster than Lior could react, Veyne pulled a gun from his coat.

And before Lior could even think, before his brain could register the shift, the cold mouth of the barrel pressed against his forehead.

Like it was nothing.

Like it was an afterthought.

Like Veyne was simply making breakfast.

Lior didn't move.

Didn't breathe.

The world shrank to the weight of the gun against his skin, the steady calm in Veyne's posture, the slow, deliberate smirk curling on the man's lips.

Raquin didn't move either. He simply watched.

This was normal.

This was a game.

Veyne's finger rested lazily against the trigger, his thumb tapping a slow rhythm against the metal. He looked at Lior like he was studying something new, something uncertain.

"Now," Veyne murmured, almost conversational, "tell me, street rat—how do you feel?"

The gun was real.

That was the only thought that mattered.

It wasn't a trick. Not some sleight of hand, not a mere prop to scare him straight. The weight pressing against his forehead was heavy and cold, the metal firm against his skin. The scent of oil and steel lingered in the air between them, unmistakable.

Veyne's finger rested lightly on the trigger. Not enough to pull, but close enough. Close enough that it wouldn't take more than the twitch of a muscle.

Lior felt his throat tighten, but he forced himself to stay still. Forced himself to think.

It was a test.

It had to be.

Veyne was playing with him. Trying to see how he'd react. Trying to gauge his worth.

But what if it wasn't?

The thought slithered into his mind, whispering, curling, digging.

What if Veyne had simply decided? What if this was a game to him, a joke? What if the man who had just smiled and laughed was no different from the rot in this city? No different from those who killed for sport, for boredom?

What if he had made a mistake?

His pulse pounded in his ears, deafening.

He could die.

He would die.

If Veyne so much as sneezed wrong, he would die.

His body tensed, his instincts screaming at him to do something, anything—run, fight, beg. But he did nothing.

Instead, his mind wandered.

To the burning.

To the crackling of fire in the cemetery, to the air thick with smoke and decay, to the way the woman had stood, watching as what remained of a man was reduced to embers.

To the way the ashes had swirled, weightless, scattering into nothing.

Nothingness.

That's all it would be.

His life, his breath, his thoughts—all of it would snuff out in an instant.

He saw his mother, sitting in silence, staring at the ground as if she had already lost everything.

He saw his father, turned away, distant, barely there.

He saw Cass, sleeping on the cold floor, stubborn and alone.

He saw Tally, curling up beside him, safe. For now.

And if he died?

What changed?

The world moved forward. The city rotted. The sun would rise again.

His family would grieve, for a time. Or maybe they wouldn't. Maybe they'd just carry on, the same way they had been before.

Maybe he was already dead to them.

The thought should have frightened him.

It didn't.

A strange detachment settled over him, something hollow and quiet.

What was death, really, but the absence of struggle? The end of hunger? The end of running and stealing and clawing to survive?

What was death, but peace?

His breathing evened.

His shoulders loosened.

He looked up at Veyne—not in fear, not in defiance.

Just looked.

And Veyne—

Veyne grinned.

A slow, amused smirk that stretched across his face, full of something wicked, something entertained.

"Oh?" he murmured, tilting his head as if Lior had just done something particularly fascinating. "That's interesting."

His thumb tapped against the gun. Once. Twice.

Then, as effortlessly as he had drawn it, he pulled the barrel away.

The pressure vanished. The moment passed.

Lior's skin burned where the cold metal had been.

Veyne leaned back, spinning the gun in his hand before slipping it smoothly back into his coat. "You didn't flinch," he mused. "Not many do that."

Lior stayed silent.

Veyne studied him a moment longer, his smirk still lingering, his eyes sharp with something unreadable.

Then, with a chuckle, he leaned back into his chair, stretching like a man perfectly at ease.

"Alright," he said. "I've decided. I like you."

Veyne watched him like a cat toying with a mouse, head tilted, eyes bright with amusement. The grin still hadn't left his face, like he had just been given the most entertaining puzzle in the world.

He drummed his fingers lazily against the arm of his chair, as if the gun at Lior's temple had been nothing more than a casual greeting.

"Alright," he drawled, stretching the word out. "Now that we've had our fun, let's talk, hmm?"

Lior exhaled slowly, his heart still steady, though his body felt the aftershocks of adrenaline. He was still alive. That was enough.

"For starters," Veyne continued, crossing one leg over the other, "tell me, Lior Morel—what exactly does a boy like you do?"

Lior met his gaze, the weight of it pressing down on him like a challenge.

"I survive."

Another smirk. "Ah. A noble profession."

Veyne leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on his thighs. "And how, exactly, does a boy like you survive?"

Lior exhaled, feeling the weight of Veyne's scrutiny settle around him. It wasn't just a question. It was a test, another one.

He had passed the first—hadn't flinched, hadn't begged. But this? This was different.

He chose his words carefully. "I take what I need."

Veyne's lips curled. "A thief, then."

"If that's what you want to call it."

"Oh, it's not about what I want, Morel. It's about what you are."

The words lingered, pressing against Lior's ribs, waiting for him to accept them.

Veyne watched him, sharp and patient, like a predator waiting to see if its prey would bolt or stay still.

Lior didn't bolt.

"…Fine," he said. "I'm a thief."

Veyne's smirk widened. "Good boy."

Lior grit his teeth.

Veyne leaned back again, looking entirely too pleased. "So. A thief with a name. And not just any name—Morel."

He let the word hang in the air, as if tasting it. Testing its weight.

"I wonder," Veyne mused, tapping his fingers on the chair, "what keeps a boy like you tied to that name? You've got no gang, no crew, no marks carved into your skin. Yet you keep it." His eyes gleamed. "Why?"

Lior didn't answer.

Veyne hummed. "It's funny, isn't it? Names can be as valuable as gold. Or as heavy as chains."

Lior's jaw tightened.

He knew where this was going.

Veyne leaned forward again, all charm and lazy curiosity. "Tell me, Morel. Who's waiting for you back home?"

Lior didn't want to answer.

But he knew, instinctively, that staying silent would be worse. Veyne was pulling something from him, drawing him in with that effortless charm, that sharp amusement, that knowing look.

And he was winning.

Veyne studied him with quiet amusement, waiting. Always waiting.

Lior hesitated, then exhaled through his nose. Fine. He'd play along.

"I have a mother," he said, voice even. "A father."

Veyne's brow arched. "How sweet."

Lior ignored the comment. "An older brother."

Veyne gave a knowing hum. "Ah. The one who makes sure you don't turn into something like me?"

Lior's fingers twitched.

Veyne smirked. "Go on."

"…And a younger sister."

At that, Veyne's expression shifted. Not quite interest—something else. Amusement, but softer.

"A little one, huh?" He tilted his head. "How old?"

"Two."

Veyne let out a slow whistle. "Barely old enough to understand how rotten the world is."

Lior's jaw tightened.

Veyne grinned. "That why you do it? Why you steal?"

Lior didn't answer.

He didn't have to.

Veyne stretched out, drumming his fingers against his knee. "Let me guess—things aren't exactly comfortable at home."

Lior's lips pressed into a thin line.

Veyne chuckled. "Didn't think so." He gave a mock sigh. "The city's a cruel mistress, isn't she? Takes more than she ever gives."

Lior's gaze flickered up.

For the first time, Veyne's expression was unreadable.

Then, just as quickly, the grin returned. "And yet here you are, still taking." He leaned forward, resting his chin on one hand. "Tell me, Morel—how long do you think you can keep it up?"

Lior didn't know the answer to that.

But he knew one thing.

"As long as I have to."

Veyne's grin widened. "Good answer."

Lior kept talking about the things on the other side, about the way he has been living. Stealing.

Veyne listened. He didn't interrupt, didn't laugh. Just listened.

Lior wasn't sure why he kept talking. Maybe it was because Veyne had already seen the worst of him—the detached stare, the willingness to accept death without a flinch. Maybe it was because he knew Veyne could pick him apart piece by piece, whether he resisted or not.

Or maybe it was because, for the first time, someone actually asked.

And for some reason, that was enough.