World On Fire: No More Heroes

by DrTwit

Marinette never thought there'd come a time where her only ally was Hawkmoth, but desperate times call for desperate measures. Three years after his death, Gabriel Agreste awakens to a Paris ruled by akumas and no heroes left to defend it. To save his son, and perhaps even his soul, he must team up with his arch nemesis, Ladybug, to save a future built by their mistakes.

42. Salvadore

30 Years Ago

That night was one of pressure, a blacked-out sky teased with spotlights that reflected a hellish red glow, while down below the cold gripped Gabriel in an unrelenting grasp. Clad in his dark suit, flushed in the colours of mourning, he was tightly wound from all sides – the moment he stepped out of the car there was only pressure.

The Salvadore Mansion dwarfed the city around it, the gothic, iron towers it wrapped together as walls stretched far past the mansion itself, claiming the surrounding streets and warehouses as its own property. Stepping through the gates only to be treated with enough buildings to make up a small village leading up to the actual gates to the mansion grounds, it was easy to feel like he'd left Paris behind and emerged onto someone's private kingdom sequestered in an eternal night.

He was painfully aware of Colt's eyes on him as they made their way down the solemn streets – empty, and yet Gabriel could not shake the feeling that they were full and that he was being watched, assessed, even before he entered the mansion. In the two months that Gabriel had spent with the man, he'd come to know Colt was a brazen and reckless man, the sort to charge into any encounter with the grace of a wrecking ball. That meant noting how cautious he was, how hesitantly he allowed Gabriel to venture further, struck an uneasy chord.

It had been a difficult endeavour gaining an audience with the infamous head of Colt's mystery club, and only half of it was because of how 'prestigious' the position was. The other half stemmed from Colt's repeated attempts to give Gabriel an out, which was hilarious to think about after the impassioned pitch Colt already gave him. However, as this night had drawn closer, Gabriel realized that Colt's employer easily threw the bull-headed man into an unsure slump. Gabriel would dare to say that he sometimes worried about Colt.

The gates leading to the mansion itself stood like the mouth of a beast waiting to swallow Gabriel whole. As he and Colt approached, the older man stopped abruptly, his gaze fixed on the iron bars as though they were alive, watching him with some malevolent intent. For a moment, the usual brashness and cocky demeanour Gabriel had grown accustomed to was replaced by an almost paternal seriousness.

"The moment you go through that door, there's no coming back." Colt's voice was low, but firm. "Are you sure you wanna do this?"

Gabriel arched a brow, his irritation already bubbling beneath the surface. "I faced down a magical gargoyle hell-bent on killing us. I think I can handle a job interview."

"This isn't a game, Gabe." Colt's voice wavered slightly, just enough to give away the weight of his concern. "These people will eat you alive if you give them an excuse."

"They sound intense."

"They have the power to snap their fingers and make sure you're never heard from again," Colt said, snapping his fingers for emphasis. The sharp sound echoed eerily off the surrounding buildings, making Gabriel's skin crawl despite himself.

Colt stepped closer, his expression grim. "Walk away now, and we can forget everything we saw. You can go back to your old life. But if you want the power to get up in the world, to survive the future? You better be ready to fight like hell."

Gabriel clenched his fists at his sides, his pride prickling at Colt's concern. Yet, somewhere deep down, a small part of him couldn't help but feel a faint flicker of... appreciation. It had been years since anyone had shown him this kind of consideration, even if it was coming from a man like Colt Fathom. Still, Gabriel refused to let that show.

He couldn't deny that there had been benefits to having Colt Fathom as a - he hesitated to say friend so instead he would use accomplice - these past two months.

"I get it," Gabriel finally said, his voice softer than before.

Colt nodded slowly, as if he were trying to convince himself that Gabriel truly understood. Letting out a deep sigh, he ran a hand through his hair and straightened his shoulders. "Alright. So, you ready for the point of no return?"

Gabriel's lips curled into a smirk, his determination solidifying. "Colt, the moment you opened my eyes to the world beyond our normal perception, there was no going back." His gaze shifted to the mansion looming in the distance, its shadow stretching toward them like an omen. "I can't just walk away from the things you've shown me, even if I wanted to."

For the first time that night, Colt allowed himself a grin, though it was tinged with unease. "Alright, then. Stand up straight, put on your best fake smile, and grit your teeth—there's gonna be a lot of snobs at this party."

Gabriel's smirk widened. "I've been gritting my teeth since before I had teeth."

Colt let out a laugh, the sound almost relieving the tension hanging in the air. Almost. Without another word, he stepped forward and pushed open the gates, the heavy groan of iron scraping against stone echoing ominously in the night. Gabriel followed close behind, his gaze fixed on the mansion that loomed larger with every step.

The heavy doors of the mansion swung open with a grace that belied their size, revealing a scene straight out of a dream—or a nightmare, depending on one's perspective. The grand entrance hall beyond was an ocean of Paris' elite, their polished shoes clicking against marble floors so pristine they seemed to glow. Crystal chandeliers bathed the room in golden light, their soft hum barely audible over the murmur of conversation and the delicate strings of a live quartet. Lavish tapestries hung from walls that stretched so high they seemed to disappear into the heavens, and every surface glittered with wealth that bordered on ostentation.

Gabriel hesitated on the threshold, his polished shoes just barely brushing the edge of the carpet that led into the room. His breath caught as his eyes drank in the opulence. He'd rarely seen such decadence, at least, not for long. Not since that night at Emilie's father's estate, the night he'd foolishly crashed one of their grand balls just for a chance to see her. He remembered the pain of that night vividly—how his stolen suit barely fit, how the servants immediately noticed his counterfeit invitation, and how her father's guards didn't hesitate to drag him out the moment they found him. He'd been beaten and tossed into the gutter like a piece of trash, the echo of Emilie's protests drowned out by her father's booming laughter.

The very night that brought him to Colt in the first place.

The memory tightened like a noose around his neck as he stepped inside. He couldn't help but wonder how long it would take for these people to see him for what he really was: a poor man playing dress-up. He adjusted his tie reflexively, a small, nervous tic he'd developed over years of masking his insecurities. The suit he dawned—a funeral suit for a funeral that never happened—felt heavy on his shoulders, like borrowed armour that didn't quite fit right.

And yet, as they moved deeper into the room, navigating through the crowd, something strange happened. No one stared at him. No one sneered or whispered behind painted fans. In fact, no one seemed to notice him at all. The many sharp gazes of Paris' upper crust passed over him like a breeze, their attention skipping over his presence entirely.

It was unnerving.

Colt, for his part, moved through the crowd with ease, his cocky smirk firmly in place. He greeted a few people with a nod or a wave, but his focus never wavered from their destination: the back of the room where food tables were set around the staircase. Gabriel followed, glancing nervously at the glittering crowd. He half-expected someone to grab him by the shoulder and sneer, What are you doing here? But the moment never came.

Instead, the crowd parted for them as if on instinct, their gazes flickering briefly in Gabriel's direction before sliding away as though he were invisible. He tried to convince himself it was a good thing—that their indifference was a blessing—but the weight of their dismissive glances pressed down on him all the same.

"Relax," Colt muttered, leaning in close as they reached the table of champagne glasses. "You're acting like you've never seen a rich bastard before."

Gabriel clenched his jaw, his voice low and bitter. "Not like this. Not from the inside."

Colt's laugh was sharp and humourless. "Get used to it. They're all just meat in fancy packaging, Gabe. Don't let the glitter blind you."

Gabriel busied himself with the drink Colt handed him, his fingers curled tightly around the glass like it was an anchor. He kept his gaze downward, feigning interest in the swirling liquid to avoid locking eyes with anyone in the room. "Does your society host parties like this often?" he asked, trying to fill the awkward silence with casual conversation.

Colt sipped his own drink, his sharp gaze darting around the room. "It keeps connections open and the money train rolling in, so yeah," he said with a smirk. "You'd be surprised how far you can get in life just shaking a few hands and pretending you're happy to see total strangers."

Gabriel frowned, his eyes drifting across the sea of glittering gowns and pristine suits. "Is everyone here in on it?"

Colt shook his head. "No. The guests are just our investors. They don't know, nor do they care, how we got any of the artifacts we show off. The real magic happens under our feet, in the sanctuary." He gave Gabriel a pointed look. "You'll probably meet a few members here and there, but try to keep your mouth shut."

Gabriel was about to press for more details when he noticed Colt stiffen beside him. His posture shifted; his normally cocky demeanour replaced with something more cautious. "Wait here," Colt muttered, his tone uncharacteristically serious. "Try not to look too out of place. I'll talk you up to Sal."

"Sal?" Gabriel echoed, raising an eyebrow.

Colt inclined his head toward the balcony. Beyond the railings sat a small group of men engaged in casual conversation, their body language far more relaxed than that of the tightly wound crowd below.

In the centre of it all, one man made himself known. An older Asian gentleman, silver hair flowing down his back, striking a tall, foreboding figure. His crimson robes covered him entirely, disguising the shape of his body, even his limbs, so that every movement looked like a shuddering form of smoke slinking into place. Gabriel would compare the figure to that of a classical vampire – refined, yet an edge of withheld savagery – broken up by a deep, black burn mark that disfigured the left side of the man's face, leaving his left eye a blind white void.

One look at the man and you immediately knew that he was the ruler of this domain.

"That's Giorno Salvadore," Colt said quietly. "It's his roof you're standing under."

Gabriel's breath hitched. Even from across the room, the man radiated an aura of quiet menace. He was the kind of figure who didn't need to shout or posture to command respect—or fear. "He doesn't exactly look like a Salvadore," Gabriel murmured, his voice barely audible over the hum of the crowd.

Colt shot him a warning glance. "Try not to say that to his face."

"Unlike you, I have some decorum."

"Don't get cocky now. I'd hate to lose my new partner so soon." Colt clapped Gabriel on the back, his grin returning briefly before he turned to ascend the staircase. "Just remember: No trouble."

Gabriel watched Colt disappear up the steps, not daring to follow him further and risk looking upon Salvadore again. Left to his own devices, Gabriel felt the weight of the room settle back on his shoulders. The grandeur of the mansion no longer felt awe-inspiring—it felt oppressive, a gilded cage closing in around him.

A few more sips of his drink brought him no comfort. "What does he think I'm going to do?" He grumbled to himself. "Start a brawl?"

Suddenly, there was an irritating clicking noise in his ear. Someone snapping their fingers repeatedly at him. "You there! I require service."

Gabriel turned his head slowly, already feeling his jaw tighten. Standing before him was a man who could only be described as the epitome of pompous excess. His suit was unnecessarily adorned with gilded buttons and embroidery, and the elaborate brooch on his chest was almost comically oversized. A thin moustache curled upward in a way that seemed to mirror the man's sneering expression.

"You there! I require service." The man's voice was high-pitched, demanding, and utterly lacking in any semblance of politeness.

Gabriel stiffened but did his best to remain composed. "I'm not a servant," he clarified, resisting the urge to snap back. "I'm a guest."

He just stared at Gabriel; eyes narrowed in condescension. "A guest, you say?" He looked Gabriel up and down, his lip curling as if he were judging a lower-class specimen. "I can hardly believe it. Look at that dreadful suit. Absolutely atrocious. Were you dragged out of a gutter before they let you in here?" The man's sneer deepened as he continued to size Gabriel up.

I'm literally dressed better than most of the people here, Gabriel thought to himself, his pulse quickening. These people are so obsessed with appearances, yet they wouldn't recognize a decent tailor if it hit them in the face.

He fought the urge to let his temper flare. Patience, he reminded himself. Stay composed. Don't make a scene. Not yet.

But the man's relentless tirade continued, his voice high, whiny and superior. "A true gentleman knows how to dress, unlike you. This is a high society gathering, not a street brawl. I wonder how you managed to get past the gatekeepers."

Gabriel's patience was wearing thin, but he swallowed the snarky remark threatening to spill from his lips. He would not give this man the satisfaction of a fight. Instead, he forced a smile and replied through clenched teeth, "If you really care about my attire that much, I'm sure you'd be happier looking away from me and rejoining your companions."

The man wasn't satisfied, however. His smirk widened, and he waved a dismissive hand in Gabriel's direction. "Maybe if you were to grovel a little, I'd consider allowing you to remain in my presence." He leaned in closer, his breath smelling faintly of cigar smoke. "Unless, of course, you want to leave now—after all, it's no place for a peasant in disguise."

That was it.

Gabriel's patience snapped like a brittle twig. With a snide smile, he said, "I think you should go back to your little corner, take your pompous attitude with you, and leave the real conversations to people who don't need to play dress-up to feel important."

The man's eyes flared with rage. "You dare—"

Before Gabriel could react further, the man shoved him hard, making him stumble back, the drink nearly sloshing out of his hand. The crowd around them didn't so much as glance at the display.

"You don't belong here," the man spat, now almost nose-to-nose with Gabriel. "Apologize. Get on your knees and beg for my forgiveness, or else." His eyes gleamed with a malicious satisfaction, and Gabriel could sneer internally that this was the highlight of the man's night.

Gabriel's jaw clenched. He wasn't about to grovel for this idiot. He might not be able to pick a fight, but he wasn't going to let the man get away with his arrogance either.

But then the man stepped forward, striking Gabriel hard across the face. The force of it sent Gabriel reeling, his face stinging with humiliation and rage. The man wasn't done. "You're nothing but dirt," he sneered. "I could beat you bloody right here, and no one would care. That's the difference between you and the people who matter here."

Gabriel's hands balled into fists, and his vision blurred with fury. His pride screamed at him to fight back, to show the man just how wrong he was. But his mind, ever calculating, held him back. He bit his tongue, holding back the torrent of anger that threatened to consume him. Don't give in, he thought. It's not worth it.

He nodded, swallowing the pain and humiliation. "You're right," Gabriel said quietly, his voice forced but calm. "I'm nothing compared to you. Please forgive me."

The man scoffed, his arrogance now fully on display as he turned to rejoin his friends. "That's more like it."

At the sound of a glass chiming, the room fell into a collective hush. Gabriel turned toward the source, finding himself staring up at the second-floor balcony where Salvadore stood, a crystal goblet in hand. The man's crimson robes seemed to shimmer under the dim chandeliers, the light bouncing off the intricate patterns woven into the fabric – his attire tailor made to play with the environment and make him the centre point. His presence loomed over the room like an oppressive fog, and yet his smile, warm and inviting, carried none of the malice that Gabriel could feel radiating from him.

The masses swelled up and puffed out their chest under the man's radiance, seeing only his pride; they couldn't see the disgusted sneer that hid underneath, nor the venomous tip of a man restraining himself from burning them all to ash.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Salvadore began, his voice rich and velvety, carrying effortlessly through the room without the need for amplification. "Tonight, we celebrate not only the success of our latest endeavours but the unity that binds us all together. Each and every one of you plays a vital role in the future."

In your future, Gabriel mentally hissed. The elite thought they were here to celebrate themselves, their generous investment in their own expansion, but if Colt was accurate, they were funnelling their money into Salvadore's design, Salvadore's vision. He'd turned them into peasants serving his whims without them even knowing, or caring.

Gabriel's stomach churned, but he couldn't pull his gaze away. There was something unnatural about the way Salvadore moved, the way he gestured just so with his goblet as though choreographed by some unseen hand. Every inflection of his voice seemed to form a vice around Gabriel's throat, compelling him to listen, to believe.

"And to those of you who are new to our illustrious circles…" Salvadore's blind eye briefly swept over the crowd, but it was his good eye—sharp, calculating, and far too knowing—that stopped on Gabriel for the briefest of moments. "...I extend my warmest welcome. May this evening mark the beginning of a prosperous journey for us all."

Gabriel froze as Salvadore's gaze lingered; his polite smile unwavering. But that vile sensation he'd felt earlier, the one that had been clawing at his senses since the moment he walked through the doors, now surged to the forefront. Salvadore's gaze was a curse upon him, rooting him to the spot and forcing him to swallow a lump of dread.

Hidden beneath his suit, the butterfly brooch fastened to Gabriel's chest—Nooroo—seemed to shift ever so slightly, its subtle movement sending faint vibrations through his skin. Gabriel could feel the distress as though it were his own, a sensation akin to a shudder rippling across his chest.

What are you sensing, Nooroo? Gabriel thought desperately, his hand twitching at his side, aching to press against the brooch as if it could provide comfort. He felt the sharp prickle of sweat running down the back of his neck.

Salvadore raised his goblet higher, his crimson robes billowing slightly as if stirred by an unseen breeze. "To the strength of our collective will and the power of our shared ambition!" he declared, his voice rising into a haunting song. "To a future forged by our hands and written in the stars!"

A cheer erupted through the crowd, glasses raised high as the room reverberated with their applause. Gabriel clapped along reluctantly, his movements stiff and mechanical. Every instinct screamed at him to look away, to avoid Salvadore's gaze, but he couldn't. The man's presence held him captive, as though something far older and far darker than human ambition lurked behind those burning eyes and that disarming smile.

As Salvadore sipped from his glass, his good eye flickered toward Gabriel once more, and though the man's expression didn't change, Gabriel swore he saw something shift in his gaze. A knowing look. A silent promise.

The vile sensation pulsed again, stronger this time, and Gabriel swore his knees might buckle under its weight. Nooroo shuddered violently beneath his clothes, a barely restrained panic that mirrored Gabriel's own. It only ebbed away when Salvadore's form slivered through the doors behind him.

"What the hell happened to your face?"

Gabriel blinked and suddenly Colt was there, brows furrowed and a 'I leave you alone for five minutes' comment tucked behind tense wrinkles.

"I ran into a gentleman's fist." Gabriel grunted with a sneer, running his fingers over his cheek to feel out the damage for himself. A thin stream of blood trickled down his lip. Great, now he truly looked the part for Salvadore. "Terribly rude of me, I know."

His eyes must have unintentionally gravitated towards his attacker because Colt was already glaring daggers at the man. "Ah, that prick." He muttered under his breath. Colt reached down to push up the cuffs of his jacket, and winding back his clenched fist. "I think someone needs to be shown a little proper-"

Gabriel immediately moved himself in the way of Colt's soon-to-be path of destruction, waving a condescending finger under Colt's nose. "No trouble, remember?"

Colt's expression shook, every muscle working to keep back the inner fighter that was eager to draw blood. Eventually, Colt let his frustration boil out and release in a quick burst of steam hissing from his lips. "Right, right."

He smoothed his cuffs back into place with a sight, jabbing his thumb over his shoulder back towards the stairs, "Well, I've put in the good word for you; you just need to carry it home."

Gabriel felt his throat tighten as if there were a noose around it. "You mean…?"

Colt nodded solemnly, both men's gazes moving up to the door that loomed over everything. "He's waiting for you."

Gabriel's throat felt tight as his gaze followed Colt's gesture. For a moment, he couldn't move. The doors seemed impossibly far away, and every step toward them felt like it would lead him further into the maw of something ancient and hungry. He straightened his tie with shaking hands, summoning whatever scraps of pride he had left to hold himself together.

As Gabriel ascended the grand staircase, every step felt heavier than the last. The laughter and clinking glasses of the party below faded into a dull hum, overtaken by the sound of his own heartbeat pounding in his ears.

By the time he reached the double doors, he felt as though the air itself was pressing down on him, suffocating and inescapable. With one final breath, he pushed the doors open and stepped into the lion's den.

The dazzling lights and opulence of the party were lost on Salvadore's atelier, there was only a shroud of darkness that danced around a lit fireplace on the far side of the room. The outside world with its illusions and pleasantries was left behind the slam of the door, leaving Gabriel in a raw embrace, stripped of all pretence within the belly of the abyss.

Without the splendour of his carefully designed party surroundings, Salvador was pale and gaunt. A husk wrapped in royal garb. He sunk into his chair, the united shades of red from his outfit, to the carpet and the fireplace's hellish glare all so easily faded together, making the man out like a severed head rising from his throne.

Gabriel secluded himself to the edge of the shadows, waiting for permission to venture further. From across the room, he could feel Salvadore's silent stare, and somehow, he could only feel it from the blinded eye. It was as if Salvadore wasn't looking at him, but sensing him, opening him up and running his fingers through Gabriel's insides.

Eventually, Salvadore beckoned Gabriel into the light. Gabriel couldn't make out any expression from the man, the conflicting lighting of the room allowing the flames to create a burning outline of the man while the shadows strangled his facial features.

The weight of it brought a bead of sweat to Gabriel's temple, and his chest tightened as if something had wrapped its fingers around his heart. He wanted to move, to look away, but that eye—lifeless, and yet far too alive—pinned him in place like a bug under glass.

Eventually, Salvadore raised a hand, his fingers curling in a slow, deliberate motion to beckon Gabriel forward. The gesture was small, but it carried the weight of a command that could not be ignored.

Gabriel stepped forward reluctantly, his polished shoes clicking against the hardwood floor. Each step felt heavier, dragging him further into the belly of the abyss. The shadows seemed to cling to him, swallowing him whole, until he crossed the threshold of light cast by the fireplace.

Salvadore leaned forward slightly, his features flickering and shifting in the uneven firelight. The flames outlined him in burning orange, but the shadows clung tightly to his face, warping his expression into something unreadable. A king in his infernal court.

The noise that escaped Salvadore was almost inhuman. A low, rattling sound, somewhere between a hiss and a groan. It was the sound of air escaping a corpse—bereft of emotion, only the byproduct of a machine still churning despite the absence of life. Gabriel stiffened at the noise, his hands twitching to grip the lapels of his jacket, though he forced himself to keep his arms stiff at his sides.

"Mr. Belmond has graced you with his insufferable presence, I see," Salvadore rasped, his voice like dry parchment crumbling in a fire.

Gabriel didn't respond immediately, unsure of the correct answer. Every question was a test of character, he was sure Salvadore was looking for a certain response to showcase something about Gabriel's instincts. Would he want Gabriel to complain about Belmond's attitude, show that he intends to not take disrespect lightly? Or was Salvadore looking to see that Gabriel knew his place, that he wouldn't dare talk ill of his betters the moment the opportunity arose?

His hesitation earned a low chuckle from Salvadore, though it lacked humour. "And you suffered it in silence," Salvadore observed. "Why?"

Gabriel weighed his words carefully, knowing the wrong response could end this meeting before it truly began. "Keeping my head down benefited me more."

Salvadore leaned forward slightly, the firelight catching the burn mark on his face and accentuating it in grotesque detail. "You know, if it had been Chalot in your position, Mr. Belmond would have a broken jaw; damn the consequences."

It was hard not to groan internally at the reminder of Colt's fake name. The oaf had the personality of a child sometimes, bouncing on the balls of his feet as he explained, oh-so-proud of himself, that it was the letters of his name in a different order. And then looking at the floor like a kicked, ugly puppy when Gabriel quite succinctly explained how dumb it was.

Bringing himself back into the moment, Gabriel tilted his head slightly, trying to decipher the intent behind Salvadore's observation. Did Salvadore want him to start a ruckus? Make a show of force? "My… Apologies, Sir?"

"Ah," Salvadore said, his expression unreadable in the shifting shadows. "You think I mean this to insult you. No, no." He waved a hand dismissively, as though brushing away the notion. "It was a wise decision to keep yourself in check, which is why Chalot would never be able to do it on his own."

Salvadore continued, gesturing faintly as though orchestrating some invisible symphony. "That is the difference between the dullards and the visionaries of the world, my boy. To know how to suffer the indignities of lesser characters to achieve greater ambition."

Gabriel tried to ignore the uncomfortable knot tightening in his stomach. "Is that what you call these parties?" he asked, his tone tinged with the slightest hint of sarcasm that he couldn't quite suppress.

"More or less," Salvadore said with a low chuckle. "It's illuminating, isn't it? Seeing how much the greedy of the world will scramble for all this wealth and prestige, only to throw it at my feet for the hint of a greater design in this world." He leaned closer, the light from the fire casting his face in sharp relief. "The value in money pales in comparison to the value of purpose, of meaning, of mattering."

Salvadore's white eye seemed to pierce straight through him, and Gabriel had to fight not to flinch under its weight. "It's why they sneer at your suit," Salvadore continued, his voice soft but razor-sharp. "They can see the fine craftsmanship, but without the rich material, it is only the tatters of a man without direction. Not even greed or desire to guide him."

Gabriel swallowed hard, feeling his cheeks flush in quiet shame. But then a flicker of defiance sparked within him, and he raised his chin just slightly. "I can assure you, the suit did have a purpose when I made it," He said, his voice steady despite the tension in his chest. "But its purpose… was never fulfilled."

Salvadore tilted his head, intrigued. "Ah, you're a tailor?"

"An apprentice," Gabriel admitted, "but I have ambitions to be more one day."

A strange, almost genuine smile tugged at the corners of Salvadore's lips, though it didn't reach his eyes. "Good. Ambition is a start." He leaned back in his chair, the flickering fire casting a devilish glow across his features. "But ambition without direction is like a thread without a needle—useless."

The flames crackled, their sound filling the void of silence between Gabriel and Salvadore. Each word from the older man hung heavy in the air, twisting in Gabriel's mind like smoke curling from the fire. He tried to stand still, but it was as though his feet moved of their own accord, shuffling him imperceptibly closer to the seated figure. Or maybe it wasn't him moving—maybe it was the room itself, shrinking around him, pulling him into Salvadore's orbit.

"Do you even know what brought you here before me this day, Boy?" Salvadore asked, his voice like a blade cutting through the oppressive quiet. "Curiosity? Desperation?"

Gabriel hesitated. There was no right answer, only one that wouldn't immediately damn him. He grasped for something truthful but not exposing. "Necessity?"

Salvadore's lips curled into what could barely be called a smile, more the ghost of approval than an expression. "Exactly. Power can come from a desire, but it will always be outstripped by the power that comes from a need. That is, if you are willing to fulfill that need."

The way Salvadore spoke wasn't like a man simply imparting wisdom; it was like a puppeteer tugging at strings. Gabriel felt his mind pulled along, forced to trace the lines of Salvadore's words as though they were the only path in a dark maze. He wasn't sure whether to feel honored or violated.

"There are only two things that matter in this world," Salvadore continued, his hands steepling in front of him, casting long, sharp shadows against the red glow. "What you need and what you are willing to take. What those around you require, and what they are willing to give you in return. Everything is a negotiation, a transaction, a commitment."

Gabriel tilted his head, trying to decipher the man's intent. "And what if what someone requires is more than what you are willing to pay?"

Salvadore's white, sightless eye seemed to glint with an eerie light. "Then you tell them what they really require." He leaned forward slightly, the firelight making his scarred face look almost molten. "It's much like your… fashion industry."

Gabriel blinked. "Fashion?"

Salvadore gestured lazily with one hand, as though Gabriel's confusion bored him. "People will tell you what they desire all the time—these unrealistic, ridiculous dreams they want you to shoulder because they are too inadequate to fulfil them by their own hands." His voice hardened, like a whip snapping through the air. "If you listen to people's desires and create what they want, then you have no power at all. You're giving them power over you; letting them make you."

The statement cut deeper than Gabriel wanted to admit. For all the pride he took in his craft, there was a bitter truth in what Salvadore said. How many of his designs had been dictated by the whims of clients? How much of his creativity had been bent to serve others?

"And what's the alternative?" Gabriel countered, keeping his voice even despite the unease clawing at his chest. "Disregarding everyone else's desires for your own selfish ends?"

Salvadore chuckled darkly, a sound that felt more mocking than amused. "Selfishness and selflessness are words ordained by the conmen at the top to keep you at the bottom." He waved his hand dismissively, as though brushing away centuries of moral philosophy. "They shackle you with morals designed to keep you subdued, to make your suffering under their boot heel a virtue while they profit off your back."

His voice dropped lower, taking on an almost conspiratorial tone. "Because they fear you and all you could accomplish without them."

Gabriel narrowed his eyes. "Morality aside, failing to fulfil one's desires would put them at odds with me and push me ever further from my goal. So then what benefit is there to casting it aside?"

"You don't answer their desire," Salvadore said, leaning forward, his blind eye boring into Gabriel like a drill. "Nor do you ignore it. You create people's desires. They buy what you decide to sell. They think what you want them to think. You become the one who makes people."

The words sent a shiver down Gabriel's spine, though he couldn't tell if it was fear or… something else. Something darker. He glanced down at his suit, suddenly feeling the weight of his own stitching, the hours of labour he'd poured into crafting something that was dismissed by men like Belmond. The suit wasn't flawed, but it wasn't powerful either. Not yet.

"What you value," Salvadore continued, his voice soft but laced with venom, "what you think you want—that is you under the spell of a world designed by your betters."

As far as Gabriel was concerned, Salvadore levitated off of his chair, the rolls of his robe sucked into the lush of the carpet as he hovered past. The light seemed to follow him and him alone, leaving it impossible to focus on anything but the man and what he ordained to be illuminated. He tamed the darkness and bent it to serve him.

He now allowed Gabriel to glimpse the wall. It was a display—a history, meticulously curated and grotesquely proud. Relics of a past steeped in secrets hung across the wall like the remains of a vivisected creature. Torn pages, browned with age and edged with the smudges of hands long dead, were pinned between shards of shattered artifacts. Uniforms that once stood as symbols of something long forgotten were stretched across frames, their tattered edges drooping as if even they mourned what had become of them.

It wasn't a collection. It was a statement.

"This is what you will never find in the hands of your betters," Salvadore intoned, stepping closer to the wall, his voice reverberating with authority. "The true currency of the world. The untold histories. The real secrets." He ran his hand along the tattered sleeve of one of the uniforms, a ghost of a smile haunting his scarred lips. "The pieces others would rather see buried, for fear that someone else might rise to claim them."

Gabriel tried to speak but found his throat dry, his words caught in the web Salvadore spun around him. Instead, his gaze flicked back to the relics, his mind racing. These were not mere antiques or trophies. They were weapons. Tools for domination. Every stitch of fabric, every shard of stone, every speck of dust on that wall screamed of bloodshed and conquest.

And yet, something about the display drew him closer. A twisted fascination took root in his chest, driving him to step into the faint glow of the artifact-laden wall. Nooroo stirred against him again, a soft vibration of unease, but Gabriel barely noticed. His fingertips hovered near the closest object, a pendant that defied Salvadore's darkness with it's gleam, the pulsating light drawing him in.

"What is all this?" Gabriel finally rasped, unable to tear his eyes away.

Salvadore's head tilted, his expression unreadable. "It is what the world has been shaped by, and what it will continue to be shaped by. Knowledge and power, hidden from the unworthy and wielded only by those bold enough to take it."

Gabriel's fingers twitched, nearly brushing the pendant. But as his hand moved closer, Salvadore's voice dropped, low and sharp.

"Careful, boy."

Gabriel froze, his fingers inches from the jewel. Salvadore's blind eye gleamed faintly in the firelight as his head turned just enough to cast a shadow over his scarred face.

"To touch is to commit."

Gabriel's hand fell to brush against the fabric of the uniform under the pendant, another red affair, but this one far less extravagant. It was old, worn and made to fit a smaller man with simpler tastes. It looked like some sort of monk garment.

Actually, now that he thought about it, he knew he'd seen it before.

"This suit," Salvadore's voice broke through Gabriel's reverie, smooth and deliberate, "was designed for me, a fabrication of another world that held me down and demanded I accept less."

The answer set in when Gabriel's gaze found the pendant again, positioned over the point where every curve of the uniform folded back into; a symbol he'd only seen once before. That night, two months ago, in the depths of Notre Dame, where he and Colt found a corpse wearing this exact same outfit, bearing a similar symbol.

"You… You're a guardian!"

"I was."

The words carried the weight of a lifetime. They hung in the air, heavy and unyielding, before sinking into Gabriel's chest like lead. Salvadore's blind eye glimmered faintly in the firelight, the light and shadow dancing across his scarred face as he turned to fully face Gabriel.

"A long time ago," Salvadore continued, his tone devoid of pride or nostalgia. "When the world was simpler. When I still believed in the purity of duty, in the sanctity of the miraculous, and the lies the Guardians fed us to keep us obedient."

"Why would you need me and Chalot to find the outpost at Notre Dame? Wouldn't you have already known?"

Salvadore's lips twisted into something resembling a smirk, but it lacked humor. "Ah, if it were only so simple," he said, voice tinged with a faint wistfulness. "Some secrets were… Taken from me when I started my new life."

Salvadore stepped under the glare of the fireplace, the flames dimming and curling away as though recoiling from his presence. He seemed to revel in the eerie effect, his silhouette growing sharper and more commanding. Gabriel's eyes couldn't help but follow.

"I was once a loyal fanatic of the Guardian Order," Salvadore began, his voice slipping into a cadence that felt both reverent and bitter. "Taken from Italy as a child by one of their scouts, trained to protect the world from the shadows that dare not be acknowledged. Most of all, I was among those stationed at the main temple, guarding the greatest secret of all: the miraculous."

Gabriel's curiosity pushed through the growing unease in his chest. "And where are they all now?"

Salvadore gestured for Gabriel to join him by the fire, the faint flickers of light in his blind eye reflecting like molten gold. Gabriel hesitated but eventually moved forward. The closer he came, the more he felt the heat of the flames trying to pull him in, to consume him.

"Lost," Salvadore replied flatly.

His voice, calm as ever, continued as Gabriel's focus wavered between the man and the hypnotic dance of the flames.

"One of the younger students, a troubled, ambitious boy, stole one of the miraculous. The Peacock. Desperate for power, he abused the… charity of his teachers and wielded it to unleash a terrible sentimonster upon the temple."

As Salvadore spoke, the fire seemed to change, as though his words were guiding it. Gabriel felt his surroundings shift, his consciousness diving headfirst into the flames. Suddenly, he was no longer in the atelier but standing in snow-draped mountains, gazing down at a grand temple carved into the rock.

Then came the screams.

The memory unravelled before his eyes: the roar of a monstrous beast, its shadow engulfing the temple as flames consumed it. He watched helplessly as guardians, clad in the same humble uniforms as the one displayed earlier, were scattered like leaves in a storm. Their cries for salvation echoed through the mountains, only to be swallowed by the wind.

"I valiantly tried to save my brothers and sisters," Salvadore's voice echoed in the vision, reverberating through the chaos. "But even I stood no chance against such a creature."

The scene burned itself into Gabriel's mind as he was yanked back to reality, his chest heaving like he'd surfaced after drowning. His knees felt weak as his gaze snapped back to Salvadore, who stood stoically by the fire, one hand pressed against the blind side of his face.

"I was so close to retrieving at least the miraculous of the butterfly, it was within my grasp…"

Gabriel suddenly felt an incessant need to make sure his jacket was buttoned up over his chest.

Alas, despite my best efforts," Salvadore continued, his tone never wavering, "the villain made off with all of the miraculous."

Gabriel swallowed hard. "And you? You were spared?"

Salvadore's hand moved slowly from his face, his blinded eye gleaming faintly in the flickering light. "Two of us survived that day. But in my bid to escape and pursue the boy, I triggered one final safety measure of the Guardians—one that stripped me of my knowledge." His voice dropped. "And my eye."

"How did you go from that to… this?" Gabriel gestured vaguely around him.

Salvadore's chuckle was low and humorless. "I hiked back to civilization, penniless, shattered, and burdened by the weight of failure. And then, I stole, cheated, and lied my way back to my homeland. What little I could wrest from distant relatives was not enough to thrive, but it was enough to start over."

His gaze turned cold, distant. "In my youth, the Guardians were my world—perfect order and discipline. But they were easily shattered by the simple desires of one boy. I returned to the greater world to find it steeped in that very same chaos, that only spared the Guardians because it did not know of them. That is when I saw through the illusion of their righteousness and the corruption of what surrounded me."

Salvadore turned to his desk, retrieving a frame with the care one might give a priceless artifact. Gabriel's eyes narrowed as he glimpsed the photo—a younger Salvadore with a woman at his side and a small girl cradled in his arms. A family. A future.

"That was when I saw the future before me," Salvadore said, his voice soft but resolute. "A brighter one of order. A grand revolution to shatter the illusions and awaken those worthy of it. But that future had nothing for the man I was, it needed a different man, more than a man – one supreme being that could fix everything."

Salvadore's thumb brushed the edge of the photo frame. "And it needed someone who could keep what I built safe."

His gaze met Gabriel's, the firelight catching the faintest trace of something unspoken. For the first time, Gabriel wondered if the man standing before him believed his own words—or if, like the rest of the world, Salvadore was simply caught in his own illusion.

"Do you make this address to all potential members, or have I just entered at the right time?"

Salvadore's head tilted slightly, a slow, deliberate motion like a snake measuring its prey. "They get the basics, of course," he began, his voice curling around the room, "but that's because what they need to know is why I stand at the top. They don't need to know what they can do for me, only that they will do it."

The weight of Salvadore's gaze fell on Gabriel like a boulder, rooting him to the spot. "But you," Salvadore continued, a sliver of a smile forming, "you're a man who yearns to understand, to know why he's doing what he's doing."

The older man began to pace, his crimson robe flowing with an almost supernatural grace. It slithered around Gabriel like a living thing, forming the illusion of a circle trapping him inside. Gabriel stood his ground, unwilling to flinch.

"I see my future," Salvadore said, voice deepening with conviction, "and I see one by my side who will be instrumental to securing it, who understands my vision. An apprentice to carry my power." He paused, his blind eye glinting like molten silver in the firelight. "But this role is unfulfilled. The man who will take it does not exist yet. No, his fragments are strewn across my floor, waiting to be moulded."

Gabriel's jaw tightened. "Which means the current members of your circle have left you wanting."

Salvadore stopped mid-step, his smile widening as though Gabriel had passed some unspoken test. "They serve me well," he admitted, "but at the end of the day, the likes of Chalot are followers, born to serve. No great ambition, no scheme to their mind, a hollow creature with desires only for another to fulfil them."

His words dripped with disdain, his gaze distant as though seeing through the walls and into the minds of his flock. "They look up to men like us, leaders who give them meaning and purpose. A tool is worthless without a hand to divine what it should be used to achieve."

Gabriel dared to push back, his voice steady. "Respectfully, you don't know me at all, Sir."

"I know the only things that matter about you, Boy," Salvadore said, his tone softening, but only slightly. "I look into your eyes, and I can see it all—the yearning, the hunger, that pure hatred simmering under the surface. The true details are meaningless because I know what I see: a kindred spirit."

He leaned closer, his presence like a weight pressing down on Gabriel. "You're untampered, untrained, and unruly, but in time, you could become a fine vessel for my grand design."

Gabriel couldn't ignore the similarities between Salvadore's words and Colt's pitch from months ago. Both men spoke of survival, ambition, and power, but where Colt was a salesman, Salvadore was a prophet. Colt appealed to Gabriel's sense of pragmatism; Salvadore reached into something deeper, something darker.

The man guided Gabriel back to the fire, slipping behind him like a phantom, his voice now barely above a whisper yet suffocating in its intensity. "Look into the flames, Boy," he urged, his breath warm against Gabriel's ear. "See the future you could burn into the world if you would only light the match. Envision the man you need to be, with the weaknesses of humanity stripped from you."

His voice grew softer still, almost reverent. "What do you see?"

Gabriel hesitated, his gaze locked on the flames, their flickering forms seeming to show visions of possibilities. "I see…" He took a breath. "I see myself taking your mansion off your hands."

The air thickened with silence. Gabriel braced himself for the worst—a rebuke, a scornful laugh, or worse, Salvadore's fury. Instead, there was nothing but stillness. He wanted Gabriel's confidence; he wants to know how hard Gabriel believes his own illusion; and Gabriel needed to be more than a whimpering newbie. "I figure that if you're setting your sights on Paris, one mere building would mean very little to you."

And then Salvadore laughed.

It was a dry, ragged sound, like parchment being torn in two. "Your first desire is to seize my assets, hm?"

Gabriel turned sharply, shaking off the phantom hold Salvadore seemed to have on him. He faced the older man head-on, his voice firm. "What could be better to gain than that which belongs to the supreme being?"

It was the right answer—or, at least, close enough. Salvadore waved his hand dismissively, and the door behind Gabriel creaked open.

The light from the hallway spilled into the room, revealing an empty corridor. The party was over, the guests long gone. Salvadore stepped back into the shadows, his voice now distant but still commanding.

"Your initiation awaits."

Gabriel descended the steps accompanied, but alone. Without the life blood of the shining lights and mingling bodies, the mansion had become a different world, an extension of Salvadore's dark domain held up by troches guiding him down the path. He couldn't see the walls, the boundaries – he couldn't see the steps he walked upon, only where he needed to be.

Each step felt heavier than the last, the weight of Salvadore's words pressing down on him like an invisible shroud. He told himself it was the fatigue of the day, the culmination of physical strain and mental exhaustion, but deep down, Gabriel knew it was something more. The air here was different—thicker, colder. It tasted of ancient secrets and lingering malice, wrapping around him like a cloak he couldn't shed.

It had been a two-minute journey up the steps, yet returning down those same steps felt like hours had passed him by before he reached the bottom. By all rights, he should have seen the set up in the hall even from up on the second floor. Yet it was only when he placed his foot on that last step that the circle revealed itself to him, a table that wrapped around the lobby in the shape of a horseshoe, allowing an even distribution of 8 chairs on either side for the members, with the middle head point occupied by an empty throne.

The scene had an almost theatrical quality to it, every detail crafted with precision and purpose. The chairs seemed too large, too grand for any human occupant, yet they stood waiting, expectant. The empty throne at the centre was unmistakable—a seat of power, untouched by the chaos of the room, its surface polished to a mirror-like shine. The torches lining the walls flickered in perfect rhythm, casting long shadows that danced around the table.

Gabriel's breath hitched as he stepped into the circle, feeling as though he had crossed an invisible threshold. Every instinct in his body screamed at him to leave, to run, yet his legs carried him forward. His gaze flicked to the empty throne, then to the seats flanking it.

The members all sat in their seats, no sound escaping them, yet Gabriel could see their lips moving, their chairs shuffling and the table shaking. Colt sat closest to the throne, an almost dead look to him as he stared into the space in front of him, as still as a statue. Next to him, the man from before, Belmond, was slumped back, a drunken blush on his rosy cheeks as he raised his glass to the weaselly-looking man who came after him.

It was Belmond who broke the spell by spotting Gabriel through the darkness, his sneer cutting through whatever fog dominated them.

"Oh, I see now, I should have known." His laughter was barbed wire on Gabriel's ear, dragging several heads to take in the scuffed creature trespassing in their domain. "Of course, Chalot's plus one would be such a scruffy delinquent. Did you pull him off the street?"

Gabriel clenched his jaw but held his tongue, his hands curling into fists at his sides. He was used to ridicule from men like this, but there was something about Belmond's oily tone that set his nerves on fire.

Colt shifted his seat, filling the room with the raw snap of him cracking his knuckles. "Belly-Boy, you're gonna wanna shut your yapper real quick."

Belmond waved at him like one would viewing a tiger from the other side of a zoo's cage, knowing no matter how much they poked and prodded at it they would be spared its wrath. "My apologies, but I don't take commands from common thugs."

Gabriel could see Colt's fists tighten; his whole body taut like a coiled spring ready to snap. For a moment, he thought Colt would lunge across the table and throttle the man right then and there. Instead, Colt turned his head slightly, just enough to catch Gabriel's eye, delivering a silent nod.

"Gentleman, we stand here today with a new potential family member before us."

Belmond made the mistake of letting his disbelief show, loudly laughing at the jest Salvadore surely made.

When no laughter followed his, Belmond froze, his expression faltering as he realized the gravity of the moment. Salvadore's unblinking, scowling visage loomed over the room, silencing any remaining doubts.

Gabriel wanted to take pleasure in the man's fear, but for the life of him, he couldn't find his inner sadist in that moment.

Belmond cleared his throat, trying to redirect his words. "I… I don't understand, my Supreme." He gestured toward the table and the sixteen chairs surrounding it. "There are no more available seats in the circle. Surely, we're not going to make an exception for this ruffian."

Salvadore's gaze burned cold and unyielding as he spoke, each word deliberate and heavy. "I would not dare to pervert our traditions, my son." His lips curled into something resembling a smirk, though it lacked any warmth. "That is why he'll be vying for your seat."

The reaction was immediate. Belmond's face twisted into a mask of fear and fury, his eyes bulging. "W-What?" he stammered, his voice cracking. The confidence he'd exuded earlier was gone, replaced by a panicked, almost feral desperation.

It would have been comical from afar, the bulging-eye'd expression that rippled through a man who thought himself untouchable. Up close, however, Gabriel felt the cold chill that fell across the room and the foul omen that hung in the air.

It didn't take a genius to know where this was going, how such a secretive society would ensure no loose ends in letting a member go; Gabriel initiation was clear before him, and there was no escaping it. Salvadore intended to make him fight for his future and earn it in blood.

Before Belmond could protest further, Colt was on his feet. His chair scraped loudly against the floor as he stormed around the table, his movements quick and purposeful. With a single fluid motion, he grabbed Belmond by the collar and yanked him out of his chair. "Get up," Colt growled, his voice low and dangerous.

Belmond thrashed, trying to shake Colt off, but he was no match for the other man's sheer strength. "Unhand me, you brute!" he spat, his bravado cracking as Colt dragged him across the floor and dumped him unceremoniously in the center of the room. "You can't do this!"

Gabriel stood motionless, his heart pounding in his chest. He didn't need anyone to explain what was coming next. The silence in the room was deafening as Salvadore's voice rose above it, smooth and commanding. "The Supreme decides what can and can not be done."

The world faded around Gabriel, the furniture, the mansion, the people, all of it washed away by the blackness of his mind, leaving only the man in front of him. The man who must be cut down by his hand.

"I am the Supreme." The Supreme's voice came not from outside, but from within, taking root deep within his heart with dagger's point. "Your life has been that of a worm, grovelling under the rule of giants with no power to change what has already been written."

Each accusation came with a reverb, a pulsating, throbbing sensation that slivered under the flesh and muscle tissue. "I offer you the power to take on your own destiny, your own name, to have a role in the tapestry of history as I reshape this putrid world."

The vile serpent reached it's home in his heart, a space carved out by the promise of the dagger, where blood was substituted for the ambrosia of purpose. It wrapped it's body around the organ, tightening knot after knot over his heart, his lungs, his ribs – squeezing them so tight he could hear them crack.

From the darkness an instrument was cast down at Gabriel's feet. A metal bar; simple, crude, blunt, savage. This would not be a civilised execution that could be handwaved between blinks.

"All I ask in return… Is your devotion."

Briefly, Gabriel wondered how far ahead this was planned, if Salvadore only decided on this initiation after evaluating Gabriel mere minutes before, or if everyone knew before this night that Belmond would potentially be meeting his end.

There was power in how casual the affair was, another element to the display Salvadore laid out. Belmond was a wealthy man, most likely a man with many connections, many influences that would notice his disappearance, and yet Salvadore could dispose of him with ease, Salvadore could snap his fingers and get away with any crime.

Even the heights of riches and wealthy could not compare to Salvadore's power.

"We don't have to do this." Belmond focused on bluster and pleading, a man ill-suited to this act. And Gabriel didn't note that observation as an insult, but an admittance of his own darkness. After all, for all the worst he could assume of Belmond, the man made no move, nor even a glance, for the weapon. Belmond's first priority was to find a clean solution.

It would fade the moment he realized that there could be no third option, but there was something to admire in his denial.

The fact that Gabriel had already accepted the situation, that he hadn't the heart for one moment to delude himself otherwise, that he was already making observations and schemes in his head; he didn't know what that said about him.

Belmond continued, falling to his knees, perfectly presenting himself for the guillotine. "W-We can run! I can pay you, set you up like a king with his own army."

There was no verbal response from Gabriel, just the glare of an unknown light source hitting his glasses, and reflecting the weapon in his lens.

"Good god man, you can't honestly be considering this." Belmond cried out, "I admit, my behaviour was appalling, but some venomous words and a punch isn't something you're willing to kill over, right?"

One of them would die soon enough, that much was clear. The act of killing would not be what stains their souls in the aftermath. It was simple inevitability, either one killed the other, or Salvadore killed them both, there was no choice to made in what must be done. And morality demanded choice. When someone pointed a gun to your head and instructed you to kill, there was no right and wrong, there was only survival.

Whether or not Gabriel would kill for Salvadore was not the test.

The sin laid in how Gabriel would conduct himself, how much force would be needed to keep Gabriel past that line, how much he could stomach. Gabriel didn't need to prove that he could commit monstrous acts, he needed to prove that he could be the monster and convince himself to love it.

He made a show of it, fiddling with the button of his suit and letting the material go slack in his hand. He was careful handling it, stripping the jacket from his shoulders and neatly folding up on his arm. He was delicate placing it on the floor, out of harms way, and all in Salvadore's eye. It was a simple act of apathy, of inhumane disconnection that gave Salvadore the display he craved.

"Am I someone you're willing to die for, Belmond?" He asked the quivering man before him simply.

He bent down slowly, his hand closing around the cold, rough steel of the metal bar. Belmond froze, his words faltering into silence as he stared at the weapon in Gabriel's grasp. The room, once filled with the murmurs of spectators, now held its collective breath.

Belmond's eyed the bar like it only now hit him that there was a weapon in the first place. "I… I don't understand the question?"

Gabriel straightened, the weight of the bar pulling at his arm, grounding him in the reality of what he was about to do. He wasn't sure whether the pounding in his ears was his own heartbeat or the faint echoes of Salvadore's voice whispering promises of power.

"No, you don't, do you." He mused, "I guess that's the difference between you and the people that matter."

It was the perfect amount of pettiness spoken through a thin sneer. Gabriel had to sell the illusion, had to convince not just the audience but himself. He had to create his world, one where the sickening, sadistic grin he bore as he inched closer to his victim was righteous. Belmond would die. He would deserve to die, simply because Gabriel decreed it. Because Gabriel had the power.

He had to do it

He had to stomach it.

He had to love it.

He had to become the man who would bring the world to its knees without guilt or regret, who would do right by those he treasures even at the cost of their respect and decency. Even if he became something that they feared, or even loathed.

The weapon came above his head, and in the split second it consumed his gaze Belmond vanished. In his place there was a far more despicable, wretched creature; Gabbi Grassete, bundled in his hand-me-downs, patched together with rags and desperation. Gabriel looked upon the snivelling coward before him with nothing but disgust. A cowering man who appeases failure isn't worthy of happiness.

For Emilie. For the life she yearned for. For his children, and their children. For the world he was born to create. For the only things that mattered in this life.

For his future, Gabbi Grassette must die.

Perhaps it was appropriate that he arrived wearing the funeral clothes he'd never gotten to use.

He would become Gabriel Agreste.

The bar came down. The first scream, combined with the crunch of bones, rattled in his mind; and he knew this first sound would never leave him.

He would become Hawkmoth.

A second swing. Another crunch drowns out whatever muffled plea Gabbi made.

He would become Shadowmoth.

The jaw was caved in this time, leaving no more room to cry out for mercy that could never be answered.

He would become Monarch.

Blow after blow after blow. Gabriel could not stay his hand, putting more and more vigour into every move, taking to throwing himself into the swing. The question of when his victim would die had long since been lost to this natural, sadistic instinct that had laid dormant in his sick little mind for years.

He would become the monster, whatever monster he needed to be.

He would no longer be denied.

The metallic bar slipped from Gabriel's hands, clattering against the marble floor with a deafening finality. His chest heaved, the room spinning around him. He didn't need to look down to know that the remains of Belmond were unrecognizable. The audience around him erupted into murmurs, some in awe, others recoiling, but none denying that he had passed the test.

The sound of murmurs and the crackling of torches barely registered in Gabriel's mind as he stood over the mutilated remains of Belmond. His heart pounded in his chest, the weight of his actions crashing over him in waves. He could feel the eyes of the Circle upon him, judging, weighing, assessing.

Then, the blood began to move.

It started as a slow ripple across the pooling crimson, like a serpent stirring beneath the surface. Gabriel froze, watching with a mixture of dread and morbid fascination as the blood slithered across the marble floor. It seemed to defy gravity, winding its way upward like a living thread, weaving through the air until it coiled around his arm.

"What the-" was all he managed before the blood tightened its grip, sinking into his flesh. A white-hot pain exploded through him, and he staggered backward, clutching at his arm as the blood burrowed deeper, tearing through muscle and bone with the grace of a drill.

It wasn't just pain—it was an invasion. Gabriel's body felt like it was being unravelled, his insides rearranged by molten sludge forcing its way through his veins. He fell to his knees, clawing at his skin, but there was no stopping the inferno that coursed through him. His vision blurred, the world around him twisting and warping as if it, too, were being consumed by the blood.

The agony surged upward, reaching his neck. Gabriel's hands shot to his throat as the sensation shifted—sharp, precise, like a blade carving into him from the inside. The incision wasn't just pain; it was deliberate, methodical, as if something was marking him, branding him. He gasped for air, but his throat felt constricted, the blood itself had become a noose tightening around his neck.

Then, with a sickening burst, the blood erupted from his throat in a crimson spray. Gabriel choked, his hands flying to his neck, but instead of finding torn flesh, he felt something else—an unnatural opening, perfectly circular. He could feel the air rushing in and out of it, not through his lungs, but through this unholy mark.

The blood spiralled through the air, drawn with purpose, and Gabriel's eyes followed it in horror as it was sucked into the ring on Salvadore's finger. The moment the last drop disappeared, the mark on Gabriel's neck tightened, the sensation shifting. It no longer felt like an open wound; it felt like a collar. A tether. And that tether led directly to Salvadore.

Someone pulls him to his feet. Someone cleans him up. Someone slaps him on the back. Someone chants into his ear. "A baptism of blood has proved you worthy."

Gabriel's breath caught, his gaze snapping up to meet the Supreme's. For the first time since he'd entered the mansion, Salvadore smiled—a wide, gleaming grin that was more terrifying than anything Gabriel had seen that night. "You may now wear our symbol with pride; we welcome you to the circle, Brother."

Salvadore rose from his throne, his movements as fluid and deliberate as the blood that had bound Gabriel to him. The room, still pulsing with the fervent applause of the Circle, felt suffocating. Every sound, every cheer, echoed with a weight that pressed against Gabriel's chest, reminding him of the chain now tethered to his soul.

"Brothers and sisters," Salvadore called out, his voice cutting through the cacophony with surgical precision, "we are witness to the birth of something extraordinary. A man, stripped of weakness, reborn in the fires of necessity."

The applause grew louder, reverberating off the walls as Salvadore descended the dais. He walked toward Gabriel with an air of authority that seemed to silence the very shadows that surrounded them.

Gabriel's stare met Salvadore's, his voice hoarse yet steady. "Gabriel."

It was a name he'd used, but never felt before. Simply something he used to put distance between himself and his past, a playful accident of Emilie mistakenly thinking that Gabbi was a nickname.

But now it was a name, it was his name.

Salvadore tilted his head, his expression inscrutable, though his single seeing eye seemed to gleam with interest. "And who is Gabriel?"

Gabriel straightened, the aches and pains of his body momentarily forgotten. He felt the blood-tether around his throat tighten, a silent reminder of his new place in this twisted hierarchy. But instead of shrinking beneath its grip, he leaned into the tension, allowing it to steel his resolve.

"The man I need to be."

---

28 Years Later – Past

Colt Fathom. Chalot Moth. Defect. This hollowed out shell of a man had acquired many names over the years, and they all slipped through his fingers like water. It didn't seem right for a creature like him to have a name. A name was an identity, a persona, a person – and he hasn't been a person since the day Gabriel ripped him from his body.

Colt was a name on a gravestone nobody ever visited. Defect was a weapon Lila wielded against her enemies. Chalot was a pleasant mask he sometimes allowed himself to believe was a face, one that allowed him to speak to his nephew once again.

When he looked back over Colt's memories, he didn't process them like he was there, he processes them like he was sitting in the audience. Colt Fathom's life was an old film reel with terrible quality and scuffed colours. The silver lining there was that it made it easier to reflect on those moments without the filter of his own paranoia and judgment blurring the obvious.

The rub was that all the memories came in fuzzy, with grease on the lens of the camera. He'd rewind to Adrien's eighth birthday, teasing Felix over not wanting to admit that he actually put thought into the finger painting he made for Adrien's present.

He'd stop on the frame where he glances over at Amilie, catching one of the rare instances that the woman would ever give him a smile, would ever look at him with anything other than disgust – and he couldn't make out her lips, a terrible glare coming from the light in her eyes.

However, not all memories received that treatment. No, no, no. When he thought of Gabriel, the screen turning back to the day Gabriel finished the job that his wife started, it was crystal clear. There was a quality frame of Hawkmoth's sneer as Colt's body fell. Fast forward to every fucking monologue that petulant, pretentious prat performed in front of Emilie's corpse. To chanting to himself inside his ridiculous butterfly lair. To the hours wasted pawing at a blank canvas, bringing those gawdy outfits to life.

Oh yes, those glorious last few months were where the graphical quality really shined. Watching Gabriel shamble behind closed doors like a corpse, choking on his own rotten insides as he was slowly eaten alive by Chat Noir's cataclysm, the thousands of second chances Gabriel spent destroying his body only to be humiliated again and again – all in pristine detail for the ghost that followed his every step.

That was the stitch. The akuma that bound him to this wretched form, it only used a piece of the man, his hatred, his spite, his bile. Memories he cherished, experiences he dared to love, they were numb to him; denied to him. All he had, all he could focus on, all he could get a sensation from was his hatred for Gabriel.

In death, Gabriel's corpse had become Colt's world.

Chalot had been stuck on paperwork for the past few hours, signing off on new projects to aid in their war. When Felix and Lila's voices cut through the haze, he had been staring blankly at a proposal for tracking powder, invisible to everything but specialized sensors that would allow them to make their targets unintentionally leave a trail behind.

Lila had propped herself up on the edge of the desk, legs innocently swinging in a manner not befitting an assistant. Then again, Lila had never been one to let another assign her a role. She was a born actress who dawned many masks in her life. The only reason Colt didn't question the persona she used with him was because he knew her before she took the name Lila, he knew what it was like when she was speaking genuinely, when she wasn't drowning in an identity constructed.

The day he met her he knew she was beyond being a child no matter what her age suggested. He didn't know what she was, the core being that wore the name Lila was a mystery to a man as simple as Colt, but he sure as hell knew that she'd lost her ability to be a kid. She'd been so tiny back then, a mouse staring up at a mountain. Bodies rested at her feet, blood splattered her cheeks and a smoking gun rested in Colt's fingers.

And her only reaction had been to ask if he was a 'row-dee-oh' clown.

The story of Colt's life could be succinctly summed up as the process of trading one master for another, each more mad and bizarre than the last. But he almost didn't mind Lila. She was a constant, a comfort, something his life never had – in the quiet moments he would admit that they were friends, that he appreciated the tenderness he didn't deserve but still yearned for.

But every now and then that dark look would linger in her eye and their interaction came from re-connecting to a stalling tactic. It reignited his paranoia, had him waiting with bated breath for her to pull a Gabriel, tensing for a hit that never came. Waiting to be alone again. Despite how fond he was of the kid, he wasn't ignorant that there was a devil inside her mind that would make that old bastard Salvadore proud.

In that sense, he was Lila's limiter, the anchor that pulled her back from the edge her body so instinctively wanted to leap from. In those moments, she became a runaway vehicle, and he was the town crier steering people out of the way of her path of destruction. Yet, for all his efforts, he still hadn't managed to keep her and Adrien out of each other's way; they were both too damn stubborn for it.

"You stole them, I know it was you." Felix emerged from the edge of Chalot's vision, lunging forward to throw himself under Lila's nose – a snarl hidden behind a tense, curled lip. He had his mother's eloquence, but father's fury.

Father… Colt knew that he'd lost the right to be called Felix's father long ago, but the force of habit never left his mind even if he managed to catch himself from saying it to Felix's face. He'd been honest when he told Chat Noir that he hadn't wanted Felix anywhere near this business. Just like he'd wanted Amilie and Adrien far, far away. But those boys grew up to be stubborn little bastards in both the best and worst ways. It was in their genes, he supposed, neither of them capable of staying away from something so big – whether for the noblest or selfish of reasons, they needed to have their finger on the pulse of the situation.

On second thought, Amilie was as stubborn a them to. Colt was sure that the only reason she remained in London was because Felix would physically relocate her if she tried to enter the chaos of Paris.

It was still hard to look at Felix like this. When he was trapped with Gabriel Colt had seen Gabriel's meetings with Felix, and eventually Argos, of course. But there was something different about seeing Felix, all grown up, in the flesh – or lack there of it. As a wayward spirit, the years of the Hawkmoth war was like a dream, a raging rapid of semi-coherent details that seem solid in the moment but drip through your fingers the moment you try to grasp them.

Before the day of their reunion, Colt only remembered Felix as a child, not even a teenager. And even back then, they had problems. Since Felix's birth, Colt always felt an insurmountable gap between them. He took after his mother, her class, her style, her demeanour, her interests – and that little insecure voice in the back of Colt's head, the one that always struck Colt at the worst of times, insisted the child had Amilie's hatred of Colt too. That nothing he'd do would ever change that he was the dirty, overgrown oaf that acted as everybody else's burden. It didn't help that, for the first few months, Colt had to wear a red clown nose because little Felix found his face too scary.

He never blamed Felix for that, it just made it easy to think it was over before it had begun. And no good father should have let that thought fester.

It got better, for a good period of Felix's childhood Colt felt that they'd found their rhythm and managed to turn the eloquent hostilities into loving jabs of two prideful hearts that didn't know a better way of expressing affection – maybe that was what Felix inherited from Colt. He'd always failed to understand Felix's hobbies, but Felix didn't seem to hold it against him anymore and he still tried to get into them anyway. Sometimes, Colt could even coax Felix into getting on his shoulders, Felix would never admit it, but he liked having the highest view.

Looking back on it, Adrien had been a great help in building bridges even as a child, always knowing the right word or insult to unite the father and son. Besides, nothing gets a kid talking about their father more than debating who'd kick whose ass.

And for the record, without the miraculous, Colt would eat that skinny bastard for breakfast.

The tension of a broken marriage still loomed over them no matter how hard Colt and Amilie tried to keep it hidden from Felix. The couple never liked each other, and that distaste only increased when their parents announced that they were to be wed after Emilie and Gabriel cut contact to run off to Tibet and stumble upon the miraculous that started all this madness. No matter how hard you try, that amount of bitter venom will always seep into the marriage, as passive aggressive jabs launched in good company, as drinking, as venomous barbs lashing out at their backs, and as shouting matches.

Part of him marvelled that neither party ever cheated on the other. He supposed that they were both too prideful to do that, seeing it as breaking, as admitting to crumbling before the other.

In Colt's head it was ironic that their marriage, and his relationship with Felix, was probably at it's best after the sickness hit. When his body started to fail, when his resolve began to crumble, when Colt fucking Fathom had to walk with a cane. They went through hundreds of doctors trying to figure out what was wrong with him, and no one could find an answer because, according to medical charts, he was completely fine.

At that point, Colt considered it to be his years under Salvadore's foot finally catching up with him, that maybe the old bastard left a curse behind as one final victory beyond the grave. Lord knows it would make sense, the amount of horrific magic Colt had let that man unleash upon his body without question, it was a miracle Colt had taken so long to start facing side-effects.

He never questioned the timing of it. He never questioned that Gabriel didn't suffer it also. He never questioned why Felix never seemed to get sick. He never questioned how Felix's mere presence started to hurt him.

Until one night when a journalist posted a piece about esteemed actress Emilie Agreste taking time off after an alleged illness.

And just like that, the story fell into place for him.

Felix was there when he figured it out. The boy was sleeping soundly next to Colt's bed and, as Colt stared at his sleeping form, he couldn't help but feel something tugging at his heart, something violent and insistent, a crack being ripped open into a wound. He'd thought it was just pain born from shame, that his pride hated knowing that his son had to see him like this, so weak and helpless. But no, it was nothing so mundane, it was what he felt whenever Felix was near, something that he'd tried to ignore over the years but had only grown stronger the older Felix got.

His son was killing him.

But the bigger revelation was that his son was designed to kill him.

It wasn't Felix's fault. Even back then he knew it wasn't Felix's fault. But that didn't stop his mind from wondering, from looking back on all those moments, all those times where it seemed impossible for the two to be on the same wavelength, all those problems in their relationship – and wondering if it was by design, if Amilie influenced the Peacock in some way, if the game really was rigged from the start so Colt's eventual demise would be easier to take. He wasn't the expert, he barely had any idea how the miraculous worked when he created Felix, he hadn't even known that the amok could be used to control Felix; all he needed was a little ignorance for his mind to spiral.

In his rage and despair, he hurt his son. And after that day, he lost his son. Damaging the amok, Felix's heart and soul, had been a mistake, a result of thoughtlessly lashing out with no considering of what was on the fist he was blindly slamming into his bedside table. But Felix's stuffed bunny? The one he commanded Felix to tear in half to the tune of 'You're too damn old to be playing with toys'? That had been the wrath of a petty little man who was jealous of a stuffed animal, who valued feeling powerful over the feelings of his own son.

He hadn't been the one to bright Felix aboard, that was entirely Lila who saw an avenue to convince Felix of their cause. Briefly, Colt had considered keeping his identity hidden from Felix, keep his head down and let the boy never think of him again. But he couldn't bring himself to lie any more, not to Felix; the boy deserved some honesty.

Felix was good at remaining composed, at keeping his thoughts under wraps when he wanted them to be, so Colt never saw what his reaction to the information was. All Felix gave him was a scoff and a comment about scum sticking to his boot before reminding Lila to keep Defect collared and out of his way. It was a while before Felix ever directly addressed Defect.

Back in the present, the two were still arguing over his desk, and Chalot had lost track of what they were talking about. Fighting came naturally to them, they were both big, domineering personalities that demanded to have the last word, whether it be a jab about Lila's master plan or a reminder of Felix's hand in it, the two always had something to rip each other's throats out over.

"I didn't see your name on them." Lila offered a sickly innocent grin tinged with a knowing edge.

Oh right, Lila had stolen something from Felix.

"You know the Vandal Bites are off limits!"

…Wait.

The crackers?

The two supervillains were fighting over fucking crackers?!

Felix jabbed his finger into Lila's chest, the two's kwamis hovering over the scene with shared disinterest. "They ease my stress levels and stop me from throttling you."

"Really?" Lila gave a mocking gasp, "I'd never have guessed since you're always so snippy."

Felix's fingers flexed in a strangling motion before he pulled back, scoffing. "You have the manners of a goat."

Lila clapped her fingers together with a thoughtful smile. "And you run like a girl, we can't all be perfect."

Chalot internally groaned at the sight before him, watching the terrors of Paris reduce themselves to the level of playground insults. They were about one level above shoving each other around and yelling 'I know you are, but what am I?'. The kwamis moved over to him, looking expectantly down at him like he was supposed to do something.

He just shrugged and leaned back, he may be their boss on paper, but he was only a henchmen in this operation; they were the brains and heart of the matter.

Felix's gentleman mask flinched, his fingers turning into a tight fist. "I assure you; I punch like a man."

Did they have nothing better to do?

"With those twigs you call arms?" Lila let out a wheezing laugh. "Yeah, sure."

They just kept going.

"Must you be so insufferable?"

"Of course, I've always been an only child, so I need to take all that sibling pestering energy out on somebody."

And going. God, how did they have time to do this?

"I'm sure if you did have a brother, he'd have killed himself the moment he found out he was related to you."

They were so loud Colt couldn't get out a straight thought. He'd never be able to get any paperwork done at this rate.

"So, you're saying all it'll take to get you out of my hair is a blood transfusion?"

And now Lila was literally sticking her tongue out Felix.

And Colt had had enough.

Any further conversation was cut off when Chalot's body shot from his seat, his hands lunging forward and snapping up both adult children by their ears. Considering how underneath the fake skin there was only metal and wires, it took an insane amount of control for this to only mildly pinch the two.

He, quite literally, dragged them up by their ears, a lion holding his cubs by the scruff of their necks.

"Ow! Hey!" Lila whined like a girl decades young, feebly smacking at Chalot's hands.

Felix didn't scratch, his body folded in on itself, desperately trying to maintain his composure as he growled. "Quit it!"

He pulled them closer, his grip not enough to harm, but enough to make them listen to him. "You are two grown adults with the power of gods at your fingertips, standing with the heads of the world's leading corporation in revolutionary technology, and masterminding a global conspiracy to rewrite the fabric of reality." He glowered at them sternly for one silent moment, seeing both of them look abashedly at their feet. "Can you stop acting like bickering brats for one lousy minute!?"

The fingers released them, letting the two stumble back, cheeks puffed, lips pouting and fingers idly rubbing their ear lobes. They took one glance at each other, huffed and spun around, both trying to out stoic the other.

"He started it…" Lila murmured.

"The witch was messing with my belongings." Felix grumbled.

Chalot had never been so happy to hear the chime of the elevator. He didn't care if it was Tomoe dragging him into another headache inducing meeting, he'd take anything to get out of this conversation. "Oh, thank god we have company."

Weevil Irving had always been a nervous person, especially in the wake of the immortal Salvadore's demise, but Colt knew something was about to go down when the man burst through the door breathless and guilty.

"I-I'm sorry, Sir." He spluttered. "I tried to tell them that this was a bad idea, but they insisted. They insisted!"

The other two lieutenants let their presence be known by shoving Weevil aside. Thompson looked quite pleased with himself as he caught Colt's eye, showing off those pearly whites while Smith pushed through and strode across the room to his desk.

Thompson strutted into the room like he owned it, his wide grin gleaming under the dim fluorescent lights. "Shut up, Weasel."

Weevil retreated to the doorway, whimpering. "It's Weevil…"

Colt leaned back in his seat, already sensing another headache waiting to happen. "Mr. Thompson, might I remind you that you are required to request an appoint-"

Smith cut him off without a word, pulling her pistol free and levelling it at Chalot's head in one smooth motion. "We need to talk, Boss," she said, her voice calm and almost conversational, though her finger hovered far too close to the trigger for comfort.

Thompson, not to be outdone, lunged forward and grabbed Lila by the face, his massive hand clamping down over her mouth. He lifted her off the ground like she weighed nothing, his grin widening as her muffled protests reached his ears. Felix watched on, amused and crossing his arms even as Duusuu hovered over his ears, shivering.

"If I hear one word," Thompson said, his tone dripping with false cheer, "Just one transformation phrase, your head will be splattered across this floor before you even get to the second syllable."

Smith took a step closer to Chalot, her gun never wavering. "We've been thinking, Mr. Fathom," she said, her voice light and casual. "Our contract really sucks."

Chalot's gaze flickered toward the trembling Weevil in the doorway. Colt is only a little surprised. They shouldn't know his real name, even if at this point it was meaningless information. He sighed, rolling his eyes as he gestured toward Smith with an almost offended expression. "Your aim's off," He remarked dryly, gesturing for her to adjust the gun slightly. "If you're going to threaten me, at least do it right."

Smith blinked, momentarily caught off guard by his utter lack of concern. Meanwhile, Thompson tightened his grip on Lila, drawing a groan of pain from her that made Chalot's mechanical fingers twitch.

"Is dementia hitting you early, Old Timer?" Thompson sneered. "We're not playing around. We're negotiating. Either you comply, or we drop you and the kiddies and make off with all the loot in your vault."

Smith grinned, her finger brushing the trigger. "And maybe we help ourselves to those pretty little miraculous you've got locked away."

Chalot didn't flinch, his gaze steady and cold. "No."

Smith's grin faltered. "What do you mean, 'no'?"

"I mean no," Chalot repeated, his tone as flat as the steel reinforcing his frame. "Your contract is already mighty generous—much more than you deserve, frankly. So no, I won't be renegotiating it. Now put the gun down or put your money where your mouth is."

Felix, for all his composed exterior, couldn't help the faint smirk that curled at his lips. "I am curious, though," he said, tilting his head slightly. "In the version of events where you succeed, how exactly did you think threatening your boss would work out for you the next day?"

Thompson's grin returned, wider and more menacing than before. "We've been thinking—"

"Thinking a lot," Smith interjected.

"—and we realized that we know an awful lot about you and your little operation," Thompson finished, his tone almost sing-song.

"Some we got from you, and some we got from Weevil." Smith nodded. "And we wouldn't mind sharing it with the highest bidder."

Weevil whimpered from the doorway. "I-I didn't mean to, sir! Honest!"

Chalot didn't even bother looking at him. "In hindsight, trusting a government rat to keep his mouth shut was stupid."

He returned his full attention to the two thugs, his voice calm and measured as he added, "So, you fellas are looking to hit me with some blackmail?"

"It's not like we're asking for much," Smith said with a shrug. "We just want higher pay."

"And some benefits," Thompson added.

Smith smirked. "Oh, and some better rooms. Those glorified prison cells you've got us in are insulting."

Thompson's shoulders shook with laughter, his grin stretching wider. "And I want some freedom. Hate being confined to the tower."

Chalot stared at them for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, he leaned forward in his seat, folding his hands on the desk.

"Here's what I can do," he said evenly. "I can move you to the toilet, where you can flush yourselves away with the other pieces of shit."

Smith shook her head, "I don't think he gets that we're serious."

Thompson shrugged, "Guess he's pretty dumb."

"Look at that face, of course he's dumb." She shook the gun, "So, we'll just have to make ourselves clearer."

Smith's warning shot fired with a deafening crack, and Colt staggered backward as the bullet tore into his head.

It didn't feel like a man being shot. It was a sensation detached from pain, the awareness of damage rather than the experience of it. He acknowledged that his face had been blown apart, that something had gone wrong within his framework, but it was as if the sensation was filtered through layers of static. The world dimmed momentarily as he hit the floor, his vision flickering with digital artifacts that should have been impossible for human eyes to perceive.

Above him, the chaos unfolded in its absurdity.

"You were supposed to shoot him in the arm!" Thompson roared, rounding on Smith as his panicked voice cracked.

"I'm the explosives girl, not the marksman!" Smith snapped back, lowering her pistol and glaring at it like it was somehow responsible for her mistake.

"You were at point-blank range, what did you even need to aim at?"

"The recoil messed me up, okay?"

Lila, rubbing her bruised jaw from where Thompson had tossed her aside, let out a dry, scornful laugh. "I knew you guys were idiots, but… wow."

"Watch your mouth, you little bi—" Thompson began, but the rest of his insult died in his throat when the impossible happened.

Chalot—no, Defect—rose from the ground.

The hole in his face was grotesque, a gaping wound that revealed not blood or bone but the metallic skeleton underneath. The two thugs stumbled back, their bravado crumbling into pure, visceral terror. Smith made a strangled noise of disbelief, her eyes locked on the horrifying visage of the ghost in the machine they had just tried—and failed—to kill.

"What the fuck!?" Thompson yelled, his voice cracking in horror. "What the fuck are you!?"

Defect didn't answer with words. His movements were mechanical and deliberate as he reached out, grabbing both Smith and Thompson by the throats with a single, smooth motion. His grip was unrelenting, his hands more like industrial clamps than human appendages, squeezing hard enough to silence their struggling gasps.

The room fell silent except for the faint sound of Felix and Lila transforming behind him, their power surging in tandem with the rising tension.

Defect's voice rumbled like distant thunder, a terrible growl that filled the room as he hoisted the two struggling thugs higher into the air. "Do you know why I hired you three?"

The question hung in the air like a guillotine. Thompson and Smith, their faces purple from lack of oxygen, tried to thrash and claw, but it was useless against Defect's unyielding hold. He wasn't waiting for an answer, but the pause that followed his question made it clear that he wanted them to feel the weight of his words before he spoke again.

"Because the truth of the matter is… You're scum." His tone was cold and clinical, cutting through the air like a blade. "You have skills I need, yes, but that's the most important thing."

Smith's pistol clattered to the floor as her hands clawed uselessly at the vice-like grip around her neck.

"You are all vile, wretched vermin who have sunk as low as a human possibly can. The fact that you still live is God's greatest joke on the world."

Behind him, he heard the flash of Chrysalis and Argos coming to life.

Defect didn't turn, didn't acknowledge them. His focus remained entirely on the two bodies dangling in his grasp. "The blood you've spilled, the lives you've ruined, the things you've done that the courts and heroes let you get away with… If I snapped your necks right now, if I dragged your corpses through the streets waving them like a banner while shouting your crimes, the world would throw me a fucking parade."

The thugs choked and gurgled, their eyes wide with terror. In a way, they were Colt's comfort. He had no delusion that he was a good man, he might have never been a good man, but there was value, some sort of reassurance, in surrounding yourself with worst people. Made you almost feel human.

"Alive, you're redemption stories. Dead, you're just another set of monsters who finally got what they deserved. That is the truth of your existence." His grip tightened, just enough to make the sound of cartilage groaning under pressure echo in the room.

He let the silence linger, as if to make sure they understood, before continuing. "Helping us change the world is the sole act in your pathetic, disgusting existence that has any worth."

When he wrung them dry, when he knew their bodies couldn't handle any more before their lungs gave out, only then did he allow his grip to loosen and the to crumble to the ground. And so, he let them breathe.

"But perhaps you still need to be reminded of that…"

Before he chose Smith to throw against the wall, the woman's back letting out a sickening crack upon impact.

"Lila, didn't you say you were looking for a test subject? I think maybe it's time for Miss Smith to relive her super villain days."

Smith barely recovered from the blow, holding a bruised jaw as she tried to push herself off the wall, before Argos' feather cut through the air like a knife and pinned her hand to the wall. She cried, she struggled, but the razor-sharp feather didn't move.

Chrysalis giggled, making sure to stomp down on the fallen Thompson's head as she hopped over to her pinned prey. "Scruffy, you shouldn't have."

"Wait, no, we realize that we were wrong." Smith spluttered through her pain, cowering before Chrysalis' shadow. "Please, stop this!"

"Oh, but I can't!" Chrysalis squealed, crouching just under Smith and taking hold of the woman's chin, tilting it to her. She grinned, but there was no joy, no warmth in it. There was only satisfaction. "You see, I was such a big fan of Rupture as a kid. Even got to see one of your greatest crime sprees up close."

Chrysalis leaned in close. "Do you remember me?" In that moment, the playful act dropped and there was only spite. "It's okay if you don't, but…" And in a flash, the persona came back as Chrysalis jumped to her feet and spun of her heel, a little girl squealing about a celebrity. "I've been dreaming of giving you a new suit since forever."

She strutted to Argos, the office her runway and the two would-be blackmailers her captive audience. At the end of her journey she dropped into a sweeping bow, holding aloft her cane towards Felix, the top end opening to reveal a pure white butterfly, yet uncorrupted by her negative emotions.

Colt had to roll his eyes when Argos responded in kind, dramatically unfurling his fan in a grand gesture dragging it up above his head and snatching a feather from it. Pinned between two fingers, the amok was held up to his lips and blown away, gently flying into the cane's compartment, which was then promptly shut.

Damn theatre kids.

Chrysalis tipped an imaginary hat to Argos before clicking her heel against the floor and twirling back to Smith. As she moved, the head of the cane shook with furious vigour, pure white unstable sparks lighting up the interior and showcasing a silhouette of the butterfly and amok melting into one another.

Chrysalis raised the cane, the crackling energy radiating down its length, illuminating the room with sharp, jagged light. She twirled it, slow and deliberate, savouring the anticipation of what was to come. The energy pulsed in rhythm with her movements, and Smith's body convulsed against the wall. Her head lolled back, her eyes rolling into the whites as a strangled groan escaped her lips.

"Let's see if my adjustments worked," Chrysalis mused, the edge of her voice as sharp as the sparks flying off the cane. She pulled it back, then forward again, like a puppeteer controlling invisible strings. Smith's body jerked in response, moving as if yanked by some unseen force.

The energy in the cane grew wilder, the light shifting from sharp whites to eerie purples and reds. With one final, deliberate pull, Chrysalis yanked the cane backward. Smith let out a guttural scream, her chest arching forward unnaturally, and then—with a horrifying sound of flesh ripping—her chest tore open.

What should have been blood and bone spilled from the wound was instead a vortex of glowing purple energy, swirling and lashing out like a wild beast. The unstable energy writhed violently, its tendrils snaking around Smith's body, tethering her to the cane.

Chrysalis gave the cane a sharp twist, forcing the energy to retract. The tendrils dug deep into the gaping wound, tearing through the magical essence of Smith herself. With one final pull, something dark, burning, and alive ripped free from within Smith's heart and surged back up the length of the cane.

Smith's body slumped against the wall, limp but still breathing, her head lolling to one side. A thin trail of purple smoke drifted from her chest wound, which began to seal itself shut, leaving behind an eerie, faint glow under her skin.

Chrysalis turned away, her back to the broken woman as she held up the cane. The head of it opened with a mechanical click, and the energy rushed inside, settling into its compartment. From the cane's tip, something fluttered out—a butterfly with feathers instead of delicate, gossamer wings.

Argos stepped closer, his fan twitching nervously in his hand. "Did it work?"

Chrysalis extended her hand, and the creature landed on her finger, folding its feathery wings delicately. Her face lit up in awe as she brought it closer, examining every inch of her creation.

"It's…" she whispered, her voice trembling with something that could almost be called reverence. "It's magnificent." Her lips curled into a triumphant smile. "It's perfect."

"What is it exactly?" Colt asked.

Chrysalis held it up to the light, the soft, pulsing glow illuminating her face. "An akuma is an experience," she explained. "An amok is an emotion."

She paused, gazing at the butterfly. "This," she declared, "My finest creation… Is a Memento."

---

Next Time: Honest Heart

Adrien was painfully aware that her eye never left him, even as she ducked into the morning glow to sprinkle bread into the ducks' path he could feel her gaze searching for him at her back, devoted to the only thing in the world that deserved her attention. He also realized, in that moment, how his eyes never left her. How they roamed and yet couldn't escape her, the rest of the world drowned out by the woman he hated most. He told himself that it was paranoia, not interest, that he was watching for the moment her true face broke free and she pulled a weapon from the folds of her pocket. He told himself that the butterfly had some unknown sway over him, that something else was keeping him in place, a spell, a curse, something other than himself.

It had to be, because he couldn't imagine any other reason he so readily blurted out "You're Lila Rossi."

Cerise tilted her head back, the surprise on her face only a brief flash before being replaced with a smile. She wasn't expecting his accusation, yet she didn't fear how much he knew. "I am."

"You're Chrysalis." He spat, his tongue barbed with venom, hoping for the satisfaction of seeing her scramble.

But he got nothing. She rose to her full height, turning to him at the perfect angle to let the sun's light hit her back with a heavenly glow that did not belong on such a devilish woman. "Yes."

She saunted over to him, his eyes betraying him to roam over her, to see the parts that were so explicitly Lila that he never bothered to notice before, and how naturally she moved. She was a predator, a monster, and she was advancing upon him. He should feel fear, he should feel anger; he shouldn't feel intrigued by how daintily, yet purposeful, she managed to move.

"And Chalot..." He just couldn't stop his mouth from moving. There was so many alarm bells that this information should tip off for her, but she was unaffected. All he could see when she loomed under him, her hands clasped behind her back and her eyes swimming in his own, was how happy she was to hear him say it. He'd figured her out, and she loved him for it, didn't she?

"Is your dear old uncle, yes." She admitted with a breathless edge. She'd been drowning in the deep end of her own façade, and Adrien had just pulled her to the surface. Even in his attempt to hurt her, to corner her; he'd only pleased her.