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, and the smoke from years of cheap cigars and cheaper spellwork still clung to the beams. Every surface seemed stained with something—violence, secrets, the kind of silence that came after too many bad decisions.

Lucien stepped over the threshold and the shift hit him. The way it always did when moving back into the lower plane. Veilshade fell off like a weighted shroud, and Valthara Prime's filth pressed in. The Crimson Room, nestled in the city's bones, was one of the few places that didn't pretend. No glamour, no neon grace. Just rust and rot and ghosts.

The lanterns overhead threw out a tired red glow from rusted hooks, barely clinging to the ceiling. They buzzed in and out, casting long, sick shadows that crawled over the cracked walls in twitchy spasms. Not natural shadows. These moved like they remembered things. Bad things. And they pressed close, like they were waiting for someone to scream.

Lucien Blackmoore didn't flinch. He sank into the cracked leather chair at the back like it owed him a confession. The thing groaned under his weight, springs protesting, leather creaking in a way that felt almost familiar. Like the chair knew him, knew the weight he carried, and was already bracing for the next round.

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

That damn thing had its own pulse now. Cold and steady, like it was keeping score of every secret he'd bought and every name inked in blood. The weight of it wasn't just physical anymore. It pressed inward. Into his ribs, his breath, his memory. Sometimes, when it pulsed wrong, he swore he could feel the names—whispered curses just behind his ear.

LEDGER PULSE: GREED INDEX SPIKE 3%

"Your greed blinds you."

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

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

Cassian's sigil.

Crude. Rushed. Like he'd dug it in with a broken blade and a shaking hand. Lucien leaned forward, eyes narrowing. That mark wasn't just vandalism. It was a message. The kind that didn't come with subtlety. He'd seen Cassian's work before—when the man still had control, when the madness came dressed in purpose. This wasn't that.

This was Cassian slipping.

LEDGER ALERT: SYMBOL ANALYSIS COMPLETE

Threat Origin: Cassian Proxy

Pattern Match: 74% unstable

Impact: 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 already been swept up.

"Room's crawling tonight," she said, voice gravel-wrapped, rough 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 offered 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 INTERCEPTED

Source: Syndicate Broadcast, Eastern Undergleam

Cassian Proxy Activity: Confirmed

Network Node: Unstable

Counter-strategy Analysis: In Progress…

"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 COMPLETE

Cassian Behavior: Unstable

Proxy Network: Fractured

Suggested Action: Counter-seeding false glyphs, bait signature traps, feed disruption

Codex 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 be called hope. "We start breaking mirrors."

Then softer, bitter, like the words had been clawing their way out of his throat for hours:

"Valthamur's leash chafes."

The Ledger surged again—harder, colder.

LEDGER PULSE: OATH BINDING ACTIVE

"You're bound to me."

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. And 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 time.