Several nights ter, Caruncle dreamed of Lopez.

  They were in a haunted house. You know, the kind you see in shitty pys—crooked hallways, too many doors, shadows that didn’t belong to anything. Somewhere in the distance, a pipe was leaking. Drip. Drip. Drip.

  Lopez was running like a defenseless little chicken. Arms filing, legs too slow, voice breaking into these pathetic, wheezing sobs.

  "Oh please don’t, please forgive me—"

  Caruncle wasn’t listening. She was admiring her drill.

  It was huge. Completely impractical. The kind of thing that looked like it belonged in a steampunk factory, designed by a lunatic with no regard for OSHA regutions. It hummed in her hands, vibrating like it was alive, like it was hungry.

  Lopez tripped and hit the floor. He didn’t even try to get up. He just curled into himself, arms up, shivering like a little wet rat.

  Caruncle knelt beside him, pressed the drill to his shin, and pulled the trigger.

  It shrieked through bone. Blood spurted like a broken pipe.

  Lopez howled. Not a real scream. No. Something weaker. Something that made her think of a dying cat stuck under a carriage wheel.

  “You are a pile of garbage,” she told him.

  Her voice came out wrong. Deeper. Almost inhuman.

  She didn’t think too much about that. She kept going.

  The other shin. The forearm. Every part that looked fragile. Every part that seemed like it would hurt the most. The drill tore through muscle and ligaments like they were paper.

  Blood hit her face. She didn’t blink.

  The drill kept going.

  Somewhere behind her, I sighed.

  “Well. You’re a murderer, Caruncle.”

  She didn’t answer.

  “You are trash too.”

  Still no answer. Just the wet, grinding sound of steel on flesh.

  She woke up angry. Not because of the dream. Not because of Lopez. But because it hadn’t been real. Because she hadn’t really made him suffer. She hadn’t really watched him squirm and cry and beg.

  Because in the end, she had used an axe.

  An axe.

  What kind of moron uses an axe?

  The axe had been messy. Too much effort, too much physical strain. The blood sptter was all wrong. The cuts weren’t clean. It had taken minutes to finish him off, and afterward, she hadn’t felt triumphant or powerful.

  She had just felt dirty.

  She clenched her jaw, gripping the bed sheets so tight her fingers hurt.

  An axe wasn’t enough.

  Lopez was dead. That should have been satisfying. It should have made everything better.

  It hadn’t.

  She muttered under her breath (in her mind, of course), “I will never use an axe again.”

  I rolled my eyes.

  The real problem wasn’t the axe. The real problem was that we were never going to find a drill that actually worked in the real world.

  ***

  Caruncle sat against the headboard, staring at nothing. Custodio sat nearby, stiff as ever. Valentin was there, too—polished, pleasant, an uninvited problem wrapped in silk.

  Downstairs, the police were everywhere—opening drawers, knocking on walls, looking for secrets they weren’t smart enough to find. I counted at least a dozen of them, all stomping around like they were about to uncover some great truth.

  They wouldn’t.

  Lopez had been dead for weeks. Things had been tense, but Caruncle had calmed down. A little.

  Valentin took her hand and kissed it. Her entire body shut down.

  Error. System failure. Rebooting.

  “I apologize for the intrusion, my dy.” His voice was soft, perfectly measured, like an expensive melody. “I know how inconvenient this must be, given your… recent illness.”

  His eyes, though. His eyes were annoyed.

  The trip had taken too long. He hadn’t expected this much effort.

  “This is a lovely manor,” he added, as if he actually cared.

  Caruncle nodded.

  She tried to keep her face neutral, professional, but looking at him made her feel like a child being handed a crown.

  Embarrassment coiled in her chest.

  Yes. I remembered the embarrassment, too.

  “Mr. Esparza,” Valentin turned to Custodio, all business now. “How does one live in a pce like this?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “The moor.” Valentin smiled, but it wasn’t warm. “In the capital, they call it ‘the moor with the broken sky.’ Always cloudy, but it never rains.”

  Custodio’s answering smile was barely there.

  “Please, now,” he said, voice clipped. “Keep it short.”

  Valentin sighed dramatically.

  “I am here because of your daughter.”

  Custodio’s expression didn’t change. “You are.”

  “Yes.” Valentin shifted slightly, brushing nonexistent dust from his sleeve. “She contacted me some time ago to discuss proposals for the abolition of svery. It is, after all, a subject of growing interest in the capital.”

  A pause.

  “A few nations have already taken steps forward, even the Basilian Kingdom. Now would be the perfect time to attempt the same here in Luciana.”

  Custodio looked bored.

  “Right.”

  “And well,” Valentin continued, watching for reactions, “I’ve been supporting her ideas ever since. However, certain people in the capital have become aware of her name, and… well.” He gestured vaguely toward the police. “I’d hate for a rumor to stain her reputation.”

  Custodio tilted his head. “Some people?”

  “People of power. Money.” Valentin shrugged. “Nothing noteworthy. But still, I’d like to ensure that her image remains untarnished.”

  Custodio gave him a long, unimpressed look.

  “You mean your image.”

  “Oh, please.” Valentin smiled. “In any case, I’m sure that if I help her, she can help me in return.”

  Custodio exhaled slowly. “And I’ve already told you—I don’t know anything about Lopez’s whereabouts.”

  Valentin did not believe him.

  But he was too polite to say that.

  “Of course,” he said smoothly. “Say, Mr. Esparza, tell me—how do you make your income?”

  “I’m a financial advisor.”

  “To whom?”

  “All my services are confidential.”

  “I see.” Valentin studied him. “And if the chief detective asked?”

  “Yes,” Custodio said ftly. “With an attorney.”

  Valentin sighed again, as if this was all beneath him.

  “Very well.”

  Another long pause. The officers downstairs were still knocking on things.

  “I would like to speak with Elena alone.”

  “I don’t think I can agree to that,” Custodio said immediately.

  Valentin let out a breathy, knowing ugh. “Surely you trust the reputation of a member of parliament?”

  “I don’t think I can, no.”

  Valentin’s smile flickered for just a second.

  Then, he turned directly to Caruncle.

  “Miss Elena.”

  Her entire world shifted.

  Oh no.

  “You understand why I’ve come.”

  He was looking at her. Directly at her. Using her name.

  “If you grant me just a moment,” he continued, voice like silk-wrapped steel, “I believe we’ll find common ground.”

  Caruncle’s stomach imploded.

  No, wait. Not imploded.

  Exploded.

  Atomized.

  You know the butterfly feeling? But worse? Like butterflies that set your organs on fire?

  That.

  Valentin had just obliterated her. And he didn’t even know it.

  “Miss Elena?”

  Reality flickered.

  The room wasn’t a room anymore.

  It was glittering fairy dust. The floor was celestial fabric. The air was divine.

  “Elena?”

  Caruncle nodded slowly.

  She was smiling, but her eyes were sad.

  There was also a weird, uncontrolble urge to ugh.

  "What a moron," she thought. What a moron, what a moron, what a moron—

  “See? The dy agrees,” Valentin said smoothly. “Shall we?”

  Custodio didn’t move for thirty full seconds.

  Then, finally, he stood—slowly, deliberately, turning toward the door.

  But before stepping out, he stopped.

  He gnced back at Valentin.

  “You know,” Custodio said, tone unreadable, “I’ve always wondered how the brother of a parliament member ended up as a sve.”

  Valentin didn’t even flinch.

  He simply looked out the window.

  “Believe me,” he said, voice distant. “I ask myself the same thing every day.”

  Then he smiled.

  Very sad.

  Custodio left.

  The door clicked shut.

  Caruncle sat there, still frozen.

  Everything was spinning.

  “I apologize for that, Miss Elena.”

  Valentin spoke like a man who wasn’t actually sorry. Like a man who had practiced the art of apologizing without meaning a single word.

  “The whole matter with my brother is, frankly… ridiculous,” he continued, “but nevertheless quite tragic for my family. And I don’t like to talk about it.”

  That st part was almost convincing.

  Almost.

  He stared at the door for a long time, as if repying Custodio’s words in his mind, considering them like one might consider an insult that almost nded but not quite.

  Then, finally, he turned back to her.

  Caruncle hadn’t moved.

  She was watching him carefully, bancing on a knife’s edge between curiosity and calcution.

  “You know something?” Valentin said lightly, reaching into his coat. “The first time I ever heard of you was because of my brother.”

  His fingers closed around something. A wallet. He pulled it out with deliberate slowness.

  “You’re in the photo they sent me.”

  He opened the wallet and took out a small, expensive-looking print. A rare kind of photograph, too costly for common people.

  He held it out to her.

  “My brother’s casket.”

  Caruncle’s fingers twitched.

  She took the photo.

  The body inside was barely visible—stiff, pale, distant. But Elena?

  Elena took up half the damn frame.

  Her lips were sad, but her eyes were furious.

  Something about it felt almost staged. Like the photographer had seen her standing there, seen the raw emotion twisting her face, and thought, Yes. That’s the shot.

  “I think the photographer was actually focused on you when he took this,” Valentin mused, ughing softly. “The composition feels a little… off, don’t you think?”

  Caruncle didn’t answer.

  She handed the photo back and turned to stare out the window.

  She looked sad.

  Valentin tucked the print back into his wallet and sighed. “But anyway… I’ve been putting this off for a while, but I’ll most likely have to ask your father for permission to move his body. I’d like to pce him in a cemetery in the city. Not with our family, maybe, but closer to me.”

  Caruncle’s hands moved on their own.

  There was a familiar feeling rising up in her chest—the kind of feeling that made her want to throw everything down the drain and set the drain on fire.

  She wrote something quickly, barely thinking.

  “What happened to your brother?”

  Her hand trembled.

  Calm down.

  Valentin exhaled slowly, tapping a finger against his knee.

  “I…” He hesitated. “I don’t know how to answer that, honestly.”

  For the first time since he arrived, he looked uncomfortable.

  “I don’t talk about my brother to anyone,” he continued, avoiding her gaze. “I hope you don’t take it personally, but I’d rather not get into that.”

  Caruncle just stared.

  “Are your parents still living?” She wrote. Huh, now she remembers them...“No,” Valentin answered himself, sighing. “My mother died almost ten years ago.” His voice softened. “When Caruncle…” He trailed off. “Well. It doesn’t matter. She’s resting now. That’s what matters to me.”

  A long silence.

  Then, Valentin looked back at her, expression shifting.

  “There’s something I want to ask you instead.”

  Caruncle felt something cold slide down her spine.

  “You see, since I saw you in that photo, I’ve been thinking about you quite a lot.”

  She kept her expression neutral. Not too neutral. Just enough.

  “I know what you are.”

  Caruncle’s breath hitched.

  “I know why you came looking for me.”

  I froze.

  "Caruncle, I think we’re toast." I thought.

  She gripped the edge of the bedsheet.

  Valentin leaned in slightly, watching her closely.

  “I think you’re a woman trying to escape your father’s side. I can see it.”

  Oh.

  "Nevermind."

  “When you came to me with your little emancipation idea, I knew you were looking for something bigger.” Valentin waved a hand, his voice calm. “Because this pce? That man? He’s insane.”

  Caruncle’s heart was pounding.

  “Your father killed Lopez,” Valentin continued. “I don’t know why, I don’t know how, but I can bet he did it. He isn’t right in the head. So I came here to propose something to you.”

  Caruncle raised her hands. Fine. Go on.

  “If you don’t testify against him, the whole investigation could drag on forever. Not enough evidence. Not enough proof. But if you do…” Valentin tilted his head. “I could recommend you for a job in the capital.”

  Caruncle wrote quickly. “Go on.”

  Valentin studied her for a moment.

  “I know you’ve had trouble finding work because you’re mute.” His voice was suddenly, irritatingly, gentle. “I understand that.”

  She hated that.

  “But I know of an opportunity. A family I’m acquainted with—struggling financially, could use the help. And, if I’m being honest, your condition might actually work in your favor.”

  He let that sit in the air for a moment, before continuing.

  “They’d pay you properly. Give you a pce to sleep. It’s honest work.”

  Caruncle tapped her fingers against her palm, waiting.

  Valentin smiled. “You’d be a maid.”

  Caruncle’s expression didn’t change.

  Slowly, she nodded once.

  “And who is this family?” She wrote.

  “Felicity Valbuena.” Valentin stood, dusting off his coat. “You would work for her family.”

  Caruncle nodded again, slowly.

  She didn’t say anything else.

  She didn’t need to.

  Valentin studied her for a second longer, then nodded to himself.

  “I’ll let you think about it until next week,” he said, adjusting his cuffs. “Your father clearly isn’t in the best mood, and I doubt he’ll let us lodge here.” He turned toward the door, but paused.

  Then, looking back at her, he added, almost like an afterthought:

  “Oh, before I forget again—what did you get to know about Caruncle before he died? Anything you could tell me?"

  Caruncle didn’t move for a few seconds.

  Then, she wrote on the board.

  “Caruncle was a very sad, sad man.”

  Valentin stepped closer, reading the words carefully.

  “I see.” His voice was softer now. “Did he ever say anything about me? About our family?”

  She shook her head.

  She was looking down now.

  Not paying attention to him anymore.

  Valentin exhaled through his nose, watching her for a moment longer. Then, finally, he straightened.

  “Alright. Thank you for your time, Miss Elena.” He stepped back toward the door. “I appreciate your honesty.”

  He left.

  The door clicked shut.

  Caruncle sat there, still frozen.

  A strange, foamy sensation crept up the back of her skull.

  It wouldn’t stop.

  ***

  Sebastian sat on the edge of a chair, his face drawn tight.

  “I don’t understand,” he muttered. “Why would a man keep people chained up like that?”

  His voice was low, tired, disgusted.

  “I don't want to sound like a sve owner or anything, but... people aren’t doing physical bor, their aptitudes rot to nothing. I thought maybe he’d have them doing forced work, but no—every single one of them was in a dark cell. It wasn’t even a pntation. It was just… a prison. A prison built by a lunatic.”

  Custodio and Mortimer ughed.

  Sebastian’s head snapped up.

  “…What?”

  “It’s just funny hearing you say that,” Custodio smirked.

  “What?”

  “Nevermind. Go on.”

  Sebastian hesitated, then scowled. “I talked to some of the prisoners.”

  “What did they say?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Custodio raised a brow. “You don’t know?”

  “Well, nobody wanted to talk to me.” Sebastian exhaled sharply. “A lot of them were too weak to even lift their heads when I undid their chains.”

  “Did anyone attack you?” Mortimer asked.

  “A few tried,” Sebastian admitted. “But they were too weak to actually hurt me.”

  “Oh, really?” Custodio smirked. “Then how do you expin the bck eye?”

  Mortimer chuckled. “Yeah, you fall down some stairs?”

  The two men ughed.

  Sebastian clenched his jaw.

  “Shut up.”

  Custodio smirked. “What about race? What kind of people did Lopez like to keep?”

  Sebastian frowned. “What?”

  “Oh, yeah,” Mortimer added. “Let’s talk about race.”

  “Were there many Bck people?” Custodio asked.

  Sebastian hesitated. “No… I mean, there weren’t that many. Most of them were Lucianan or mixed. Only one man was fully Basilian.”

  “Oh,” Custodio mused. “So not many Bcks, huh?”

  He chuckled.

  Mortimer nodded. “Jeez, this Lopez guy sounds like a real piece of work.”

  Sebastian stared at them. “You’re seriously calling him a bigot?”

  Custodio shrugged. “Well, it’s not like he was buying livestock. He was too picky for a man in his position.”

  Sebastian’s stomach turned.

  Mortimer exhaled. “Honestly? He was probably overpaying. Everybody knows the market value’s higher for certain groups.”

  Sebastian froze.

  His skin crawled.

  He had nothing to say.

  “Why was the Basilian man there, anyway?” Custodio asked.

  Sebastian hesitated. “Uh… He said his wife was Lucianan, and—”

  “Right,” Custodio cut in.

  Sebastian frowned. “And he mentioned taking a loan from Lopez.”

  “Sure,” Mortimer muttered.

  “Lopez was about to take his wife as payment,” Sebastian continued, “but the man offered himself instead, so she and their children could leave.”

  The two men ughed.

  “I wonder,” Custodio smirked, “what kind of thinking leads a man to that decision.”

  “I don’t know. He said he’d only been there for a year, but he already wanted to go home. His family’s on the other side of the country.”

  “Well, hopefully, he makes it.”

  “Did you free them all?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did they actually leave?”

  “Not that many,” Sebastian admitted. “Some said they wanted to rest before going. A few needed help standing. Some had lost fingers.”

  “…And you didn’t help them?” Custodio asked.

  Sebastian exhaled. “I didn’t want to stay too long. And I didn’t want them to remember my face.”

  “I was covering myself at first, but it was hard to breathe in that pce.”

  Custodio raised a brow.

  “So you just left them there?”

  Sebastian tensed. “I mean—yes. What else was I supposed to do?”

  Mortimer hummed. “I think that if you start something, you should finish it.”

  “What?”

  “Come on,” Custodio scoffed. “These people have been mistreated for years. Who’s to say some of them won’t turn on the others?”

  “…Seriously?”

  “They might not even leave.” Mortimer shrugged.

  “They’ll die of hunger,” Custodio mused.

  “Indeed.”

  Sebastian’s eye twitched.

  “You’re a jackass.”

  Sebastian suddenly stood.

  “You know what?” His voice was dangerously calm.

  “I think you’re right.

  I should finish what I started.”

  Before anyone could respond, he turned and stormed out.

  Mortimer and Custodio exchanged a gnce.

  Caruncle remained silent.

  Minutes passed.

  Then—

  “FUCK YOU AND YOUR BOOK TOO!”

  Sebastian burst back into the room.

  Holding Custodio’s grimoire.

  On fire.

  He threw it onto the floor.

  The fmes devoured the pages in seconds.

  Custodio screamed.

  “WHAT?! YOU MORON!” He lunged forward, but by the time he reached the book—

  It was already nothing but ash.

  “That had the resurrection spell!” Custodio roared.

  “What the fuck did you use to burn it?!”

  Sebastian smiled.

  “White phosphorus.”

  Custodio’s eye twitched.

  “How did you even get–”

  “I’ve abandoned my studies in magic,” Sebastian continued, voice eerily casual. “Now I’m studying chemistry.”

  “You. Absolute. Moron.” Custodio looked like he was about to strangle him.

  “What,” Sebastian sneered, “so you didn’t memorize it?”

  “The spell was five-thousand characters long.” Mortimer spoke slowly.

  “Composed mostly of nonsensical words and sylbles. It is not easy to learn.”

  Sebastian shrugged.

  “Don’t care.”

  Mortimer exhaled.

  “You know what you just did, boy?” His voice was cold.

  “You’ve doomed us all.”

  Body transpntation.

  Transmutation.

  All of it—gone.

  “We are now fated to die.”

  Sebastian simply smiled wider.

  He turned toward the door.

  Paused.

  And then, in the calmest voice imaginable—

  “Good.”

  He walked out.

  End of Act 3.

  "On a Body Now Undead."