Monster

Veyne was relentless.

His words slithered through conversation like a blade slipped between ribs, prying deeper stion, each observation that left Lior feeling stripped raw, picked apart, laid bare beneath a gaze too sharp for any ordinary man.

He had asked of Lior's life, his family, his city, his losses—he had taken, taken, taken, until it seemed there was nothing left to give. Until Lior wondered if he had anything at all Veyne hadn't already stolen from him with nothing but a silver tongue and a knowing smirk.

And then—just as easily as he had pried open Lior's ribs and rummaged through the marrow—he relented.

Veyne leaned back, exhaling slow through his nose, and with all the casual generosity of a man who had already taken his fill, he gestured loosely with one gloved hand.

"Alright," he said, as if this were merely another game, another gamble. "You get one."

Lior blinked.

"One?"

Veyne's smile twitched wider. "One question. Ask wisely."

The words settled between them, heavier than they should have been.

Lior had been allowed nothing in this world without cost. Every answer he had ever received had been wrestled from the hands of those who would rather see him starve than speak. But here, now—this man, this thief, this thing that had so easily slipped inside his ribs and made himself at home—was offering him something freely.

He could ask anything.

Anything.

The weight of it pressed down on him, an unbearable thing. His thoughts ran in circles, a mind used to survival trying to grasp at what could possibly be worth asking a man like Winston Veyne.

Where did you come from?

How did you get into this?

Are you even real?

But those were things he might learn in time. Veyne gave too much away in his games, letting too many things slip when he thought himself untouchable. Or maybe he wanted him to know this. He guessed later to be probable. But those answers would come.

So what was worth asking?

His fingers curled.

His mind whispered, over and over, the single thought he had not dared to voice until now.

Because no man like this should exist. No man should be able to look at another and peel them apart without a single scratch on himself. No man should be able to hold a gun to his head and smile, should be able to carve through the world like he was made for nothing else.

This was not a man.

So what was he?

Lior met his eyes, steady and cold.

And he asked:

"What monster are you?"

***

For the first time since they had met, Winston Veyne's face stilled.

The ever-present smirk, that air of effortless amusement, the grin that slithered through every word he spoke—it didn't disappear, not entirely. But for the briefest second, it cracked.

His expression faltered, the careful mask slipping just enough to reveal something beneath it. Something deeper. Something cold. What slipped wasn't human—that he was sure.

Lior saw it.

And so did Raquin.

The gambler had been lounging against the table, looking as if this were nothing more than another one of Veyne's games, another moment to be watched and dissected for whatever advantage it might grant him. But now—now he was sitting up straighter, his fingers twitching against his knee. His mind was working fast.

Shit.

Because he had seen it too.

Lior's words had landed deeper than expected. He hadn't just prodded at the surface. He had struck something beneath the flesh, something real, something Veyne hadn't been expecting to be laid bare.

But then—

Then Veyne smiled again.

And it was different.

It was not the smirk of a man who had been caught. It was not the grin of someone pleased with being seen.

It was the smile of something that wanted to be seen. That wanted you to realize. That enjoyed the fact that you had looked behind the curtain and found something staring back.

It was wrong.

Lior felt it more than saw it.

It was a grin that should have reached his eyes—but didn't.

Something curled, slow and deliberate, in the back of Lior's skull, the kind of unease that wasn't born of fear, but understanding. He had thought himself ready. Thought himself prepared for whatever answer Veyne would give.

But when the man finally spoke—

It was something he could have never guessed.

Something that changed everything.

Because Winston Veyne leaned in, close enough that Lior could see the weight behind those pale eyes, the endless something coiled deep beneath the surface—

And he answered.

"Monster?"

A slow inhale.

"Oh, boy. You're still thinking too small."

***

Lior, still as stone, dared not peer into those eyes. He felt the agonizing gaze, one that could eat him, as if what stared back wasn't human. He had made a mistake. Thought himself too arrogant just because Veyne was very easy to talk to. He had forgotten who the man was.

Wanted by more cities than people Lior had known in his life. Without a doubt, that man was a monster. But what kind? He shouldn't have prodded to find. Because he really wasn't ready.

Fortunately, Veyne put the same grin back on his face. His hand rubbing across the windowsill. 

"Shall we start then boy?" He asked.

Beyond the window, beyond the smoke and fog and industries, were towers and buildings that kissed the clouds, some cluttered close enough to be sharing secrets. But even they were lies. For this was Blackmire. Men with briefcases and portmanteau walked with an aim, unlike the dregs outside who stayed aimlessly all their lives. Merely surviving. 

He wasn't going to be them.

His eyes focused at the devil that stood smiling by the window. And he only had one thought.

I will never be him. 

To never be a monster. 

"What do you want me to do?" He asked. 

Veyne smirked and eyed Raquin, who shrugged and left through the door, giving Lior a glance. But Lior didn't look back. 

Once Raquin left, Veyne walked towards the chair and sat down close to Lior, and moved himself close enough the distance between them was barely an arm.

"My little assistant, your job from now, is just to watch." 

***

To an outsider, Blackmire was a corpse of a city. A place long past saving, its bones held together by rust and desperation. But those who knew it—who truly understood it—saw something else.

They saw a beast.

It breathed, it devoured, it lived.

And at its center, the Internal City, the true Blackmire, pulsed like a rotten, blackened heart.

The inner city of Blackmire was where the powerful thrived and the desperate bled. A place that had outgrown its own law, ruled not by decree, nor councils, but by the only force that mattered: greed.

It was a labyrinth of towering spires and sinking streets, of soot-stained stone and bridges that stretched like skeletal fingers between buildings too tall, too thin, too wrong. It was not a city built with beauty in mind—it was built like a wound, patched together with the sweat and blood of men who would never taste the wealth they built.

The buildings rose high, leaning inward, so the sky was only a sliver, choked by smog and smoke from the endless factories. Nothing here was clean. The streets were slick with rainwater that never ran clear, with filth that had seeped so deeply into the brickwork that Blackmire itself smelled of rust, oil, and something metallic that never quite left the nose.

Cobbled roads cracked under the weight of carriages that never stopped, never slowed—where pedestrians learned quickly that stepping in the way of the rich meant becoming part of the pavement.

And looming above all, casting long, jagged shadows over the streets?

The financial district.

A monument to theft dressed in silk.

Some said, once they stepped in, their lives were never the same. The rest stopped breathing before they could step back.

In truth, the heart of Blackmire belonged to its wealthiest, to the bankers, the merchant-lords, the trade magnates who had rewritten the rules of power in their favor. But their wealth? Their influence? It was built on the backs of those they crushed beneath their boots.

The old banking halls, their columns streaked with soot, were not temples to coin—they were fortresses, guarded as fiercely as any castle. Money didn't just change hands here; it was war.

Deals were struck in backrooms, fortunes were gutted with the flick of a pen, and no debt ever went unpaid. If coin could not be taken, then flesh would do just fine.

It was in these marble halls, behind doors that locked soundlessly, that men disappeared, that fortunes were stolen before the ink had dried, that kings of industry signed contracts in blood.

The real rulers of Blackmire did not wear crowns. They wore ledgers. And they could have a man killed with a single misplaced decimal.

There was no truth. Only victory. 

For every gold-trimmed ledger, for every rich bastard sitting in a mahogany-lined office high above the city, there were a thousand below them who clawed and fought just to survive.

The markets in the Internal City were unlike those in the outer slums. These weren't bustling, lively places full of street performers and hopeful merchants. This was where the real trade happened.

Where men whispered about things best left unsaid.

Where flesh and information were sold at the same stall.

Where the wrong glance could cost a man his life.

The silent markets—where no haggling was needed, where prices were paid without question, and where the only thing spoken was the soft rustle of money changing hands.

The rat alleys, where the desperate fled, where debts were collected with broken bones, where men vanished into the dark and never reappeared.

And beneath even these, buried under the weight of the city itself?

The forgotten tunnels. The old veins of Blackmire, where smuggling routes ran deep, where whole societies thrived beneath the streets, their laws different, their gods unknown. Some claimed the city itself remembered what had been buried, that it whispered in the cracks, that if you listened too closely, the walls would tell you secrets never meant for mortal ears.

At night, Blackmire's Internal City glowed. Gas lamps flickered in their sconces, stretching long shadows over the streets. Buildings hummed with electricity stolen from failing power grids, neon signs casting eerie halos in the mist. The bridges between rooftops became highways for those who knew how to move unseen, and the canals—dark, still, and oil-slicked—reflected the city's glow like a shattered mirror.

But it was all a lie.

No amount of light could burn away Blackmire's darkness.

It was a city that did not sleep, that did not forgive, that did not let go.

The powerful ruled, the desperate schemed, and the dead?

The dead simply fed the city.