Where Proxies Leave Scars

The Crimson Room wasn't built for comfort. It wasn't built for anything soft, really. You didn't walk into it so much as get swallowed. The place had a way of sinking into you—slow and sticky, like blood drying under your nails. It smelled like burnt incense that never quite masked the coppery reek of old blood. Smoke from years of cheap cigars and cheaper spellwork still clung to the beams overhead. Every surface seemed stained with something—violence, secrets, the kind of silence that settled after too many bad decisions.

Lucien stepped over the threshold and the shift hit him. The way it always did when sliding back into the lower plane. Veilshade slipped off like a weighted shroud, and Valthara Prime's filth pressed in thick and unrelenting. The Crimson Room, nestled deep in the city's bones, was one of the few places that never pretended. No glamour, no neon grace. Just rust, rot, and ghosts still clinging to the walls.

The lanterns overhead cast a tired red glow from rusted hooks, barely hanging to the cracked ceiling. Their light buzzed on and off, flickering long, sick shadows that crawled across the cracked walls in twitchy spasms. These weren't natural shadows. They moved like they remembered things. Bad things. And they pressed close, like they were waiting for someone to break down and scream.

Lucien Blackmoore didn't flinch. He sank into the cracked leather chair at the back like it owed him a confession. The springs groaned beneath his weight, leather creaking in a way that felt almost familiar—like the chair recognized the burden he carried and braced itself for the next round.

His crimson coat bunched around him, faded in places where old spellfire had kissed it too close. The lining split along one edge, threads frayed like nerves stretched too thin. Still, it had outlasted plenty who thought they could outplay him. He tugged the collar higher, hiding the edge of the Ledger nestled beneath his shirt.

That damn thing had its own pulse now. Cold and steady, counting every secret he'd bought, every name inked in blood. The weight wasn't just physical anymore. It pressed inward—into his ribs, his breath, his memory. Sometimes, when it pulsed off-beat, he swore he could hear the names whispered just behind his ear, cursed and eager.

LEDGER PULSE: GREED INDEX SPIKE 3%"Your greed is what blinds you."

His fingers drifted to the brass watch on his wrist. He rubbed it with his thumb, slow and tired. The face was scratched and dulled from years of use, but the ticking hadn't missed a beat—not like him. He spun it once and caught it without looking. The motion always helped him think.

The door across the room looked worse than usual. Warped from heat or time—maybe both. Paint flaked like dry scabs, corners cracked, and low along the frame was a fresh gouge.

Cassian's sigil.

Crude and rushed, like it had been dug in with a broken blade and a shaking hand. Lucien leaned forward, eyes narrowing. That mark wasn't vandalism. It was a message. One that never came with subtlety. He'd seen Cassian's work before—when the man still had control, when madness had a purpose. This was different.

This was Cassian slipping.

LEDGER ALERT: SYMBOL ANALYSIS COMPLETEThreat Origin: Cassian ProxyPattern Match: 74% unstableImpact: Psychological pressure, proximity warning"He hunts me."

The door groaned open, hinges crying out like a drunk waking too fast. Jyn Serra stepped through, shoulder first. She moved like someone who didn't trust the floor to hold—light on her feet, tight in the chest, gaze scanning the shadows like they might bite.

Her curls bounced around her jawline, damp from the street, but she didn't seem to notice. Her eyes were sharp, but not sharp like a blade—sharp like broken glass, the kind that cuts even when you think it's been swept up.

"Room's crawling tonight," she said, voice rough and gravel-wrapped from too many sleepless shifts. She dropped a scuffed holo-pad on the counter near Lucien with a thud. "Cassian's not just scratching sigils on doors anymore. He's worming into the feeds. Static's full of him. Took me an hour to gut it clean."

Lucien gave a thin, crooked grin, tired at the edges. He tapped his watch against the arm of the chair, just for the noise. "This place might be hell," he said, "but it's my kind of hell. And right now? Feels like the ghosts want a word."

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, red light dragging across his cheekbones like dried blood. "Show me."

The holo-pad flickered, static crawling over its surface like frost spiders. Jyn slid her thumb along the edge and the feed burst into motion—shaky projections stitched together like half-melted memories. Sound spiked, then dipped. A mess of whispers, glitchy frames, and distant screams. Cassian's voice bled through, warped and choppy.

"This is his mess, alright," Lucien muttered, eyes pinned to the feed. "Half-threats and noise. He thinks he's some prophet, spitting out doom like it's poetry."

Jyn snorted and leaned against the far wall, arms crossed tight. "More like a drunk with a megaphone and no clue who's still listening. But he's loud. Too loud. I tracked one of his proxies hitting a syndicate drop—east Undergleam. Burned the place down to piping. Left a sigil melted right into the steel."

Lucien winced. "Subtle as always. That's Cassian for you. But chaos like this only works if someone's steering it."

"He's got someone," Jyn said flatly. "A tether. I can feel it. Somebody keeping him close enough to aim but far enough to keep his fingerprints clean."

Lucien chewed the inside of his cheek, watching a broken loop play on the holo-feed—Cassian's symbol twisting in blue flame, flickering, then gone. "A handler? Gods help us. Man could barely leash himself last time we saw him."

She shrugged. "Someone's doing it. And if they can point him at the right target, that means they can point him at us."

LEDGER SYSTEM: THREAT INTEL INTERCEPTEDSource: Syndicate Broadcast, Eastern UndergleamCassian Proxy Activity: ConfirmedNetwork Node: UnstableCounter-strategy Analysis: In Progress..."The Proxies are my fault."

He rubbed at his temple. "Then we stay out of his crosshairs. Throw up mirrors, lay false trails. Keep him chasing shadows."

The room creaked. Lanterns above swung just enough to stir the air, casting the space into fresh patterns of red and black. Jyn stepped into one of the light shafts, and for a second, her face looked almost haunted.

"I missed this," she said, half-smiling. "You, sharp. Dangerous again. For a while there I thought you'd started buying your own bullshit."

Lucien chuckled, though there wasn't much joy in it. "Cassian's good at pulling the bastard out of me."

A laugh cracked from the next booth over. Two gutter-runners, drunk on something glowing and sour-smelling, raised half-empty glasses. One of them, a thin woman with a scar tracing her temple, jabbed a finger at Lucien.

"Blackmoore! You still owe me a favor from last Beltane!"

Lucien raised a lazy hand. "Get in line, sweetheart. I owe this city half my soul and the other half's in escrow."

Jyn shook her head, biting back a grin. "You keep bleeding and pretending you don't. One day, the city's gonna collect."

"Maybe," he said, quiet again. His eyes dropped to the feed. "But not tonight. Tonight we plan."

Outside, something shrieked in the wind. The windows rattled. The whole room seemed to hunker down, bracing for whatever came next. Lucien pressed a fingertip to the pad, froze a frame mid-glitch—Cassian's outline blurred in distortion, like the system couldn't bear to hold his image.

"This game isn't over," he said. "It's barely started."

LEDGER ANALYSIS COMPLETECassian Behavior: UnstableProxy Network: FracturedSuggested Action: Counter-seeding false glyphs, bait signature traps, feed disruptionCodex Whisper: "He hunts me."

He stood, coat dragging behind him, leather hissing against the chair's sides. The Ledger pulsed once, hard, like it agreed.

Jyn fell in beside him, jaw set. "So what now?"

"Now?" Lucien cracked his knuckles, voice rough with something too old to call hope. "We start breaking mirrors."

Then softer, bitter, like words clawing their way out for hours:"Valthamur's leash chafes."

The Ledger surged again—harder, colder.

LEDGER PULSE: OATH BINDING ACTIVE"We are bound together"

Lucien didn't argue. Not out loud.

But something in his spine stiffened. He stepped through the door like it might bite him on the way out.

The shadows shifted in his wake. The Crimson Room swallowed him again. Lucien Blackmoore—soul-broker, manipulator, maybe martyr if the wind turned cruel—walked back into the war.

And every step he took, the Ledger kept track.