The heavy silence of the barbershop was broken only by the quiet scuff of boots as Felix Grayson departed, taking Petra Marlowe with him in a display of polite, almost mocking gentleness.
He left behind a ruin of a man. Dean Brennan still breathed, but his body was entirely paralyzed, shattered from the inside out. Whatever lingering mystical force Felix’s blade had injected into Dean’s veins was far beyond Ethan’s or Flint’s comprehension—some high-tier authority of the Lampbearers that bound the prisoner's soul as much as his flesh. Even Dean’s desperate urge to welcome death had been snatched away; he was now just cargo.
Before the remaining Duskwardens departed, they dragged Dean's limp form across the tiles. Then, they turned to Lucy's body. With terrifying, clinical efficiency, they bagged the dead proprietress and scrubbed every trace of crimson from the floor. By morning, if the salon were to open its doors to the public, the customers would walk over the clean tiles, completely oblivious to the slaughter that had stained them hours before.
Ethan sat hunched on the cold floor, his knees pulled to his chest.
His heart beat rhythmically, a solid proof of life, yet there was no sweet relief in survival. Instead, a suffocating weight pressed down on his lungs, turning each breath into a grueling chore.
Why Lucy? Ethan didn't know why Felix had singled her out, nor did he particularly care to untangle the aristocrat's logic. What truly terrified him—what made his skin crawl with a deep, existential dread—was how effortlessly one man could hold the scales of life and death.
Just moments ago, three of them—Ethan, Flint, and Lucy—had shared a silent, desperate prayer: Let it be them, not me.
A few hours prior, they had been drinking and talking like comrades. None of them had actively wished for the others' demise, but when the knife was held to their throats, survival instinct had stripped away all pretenses. They had silently wished for their companions to be the sacrifice, so long as they could walk away. If Lucy had survived and Ethan had died, would they have mourned him? Yes. But they wouldn't have lifted a finger to change the outcome.
Their true enemy was Felix. Yet, in their darkest moments, they had secretly hoped for their friends to die instead.
The realization hit Ethan like a physical blow only after the danger had passed. And the reason behind this twisted psychology was brutally simple: Felix Grayson was too powerful. He was so monstrously strong that they didn't even dare harbor the thought of his death.
Ethan knew nothing of the wider world, but Felix was the undisputed god of this miserable little corner of it.
Power was the ultimate currency in this dark world. With it, a man could stride fearlessly through the terrifying, suffocating night. With it, he could play judge, jury, and executioner, wrapping his slaughter in the clean mantle of justice. In the face of such absolute authority, Ethan’s simple, desperate desire just to survive felt pathetic—a beggar’s hope in a world ruled by kings.
"Why her..." Flint's voice cracked. His hands shook violently as he fumbled a crumpled cigarette out of his coat pocket.
Flick.
Flick.
Flick.
The cheap flint wheel sparked, but the flame refused to catch. Slowly, Flint turned his hollow eyes toward the empty space where Lucy’s body had lain just minutes ago. "You were so close... you were finally going to retire..."
Ethan looked up at the older man. He knew the agonizing conflict tearing Flint apart. Flint hadn't wanted to die, obviously. Did that mean Flint had wanted Ethan to take the fall? Not necessarily. He was simply drowning in the unfairness of it all. To a man like Felix, there was no difference between Ethan, Flint, Lucy, or even Dean Brennan. They were all insects. Getting an explanation for their deaths was a luxury none of them could afford.
"Flint," Ethan said softly.
The older harvester glanced over, his eyes bloodshot.
"If Lucy didn't deserve to die... who do you think should have?" Ethan asked.
Flint stiffened. The question hung in the air, cold and heavy.
Truth be told, when Felix had laid down his cruel ultimatum, Flint had run the numbers. His first priority was his own skin. But his second? If loyalty and history meant anything, he would have saved Lucy. The math of survival was simple, brutal, and left no room for sentiment. Sacrificing Ethan, the rookie, was the only logical choice. He liked the kid, sure. He saw immense potential in him. But when the reaper came knocking, potential was just a word. Only the living had a future.
Confronted with Ethan's calm gaze, Flint found his throat entirely dry. He couldn't form a single word.
Ethan read the guilt written all over the man’s face. He wasn't angry, nor did he feel any resentment. It was just human nature.
"Shouldn't the one who deserved to die..." Ethan paused, his voice barely a whisper, "...be the Lampbearer?"
Flint froze, his entire body turning to stone. The concept was so utterly foreign, so monumentally suicidal, that his mind hadn't even let the thought form.
"He didn't come here to save anyone," Ethan continued, staring blankly at the metal shutter of the storefront. "This was a game to him. He could have wiped us all out without blinking. Instead, he chose to execute exactly one. Do you think that makes him merciful, Flint? Do you feel like thanking him for sparing us?"
Ethan let out a hollow laugh. "Dean Brennan kidnapped Bandit. By the city's laws, he’s a criminal, a monster. But during my time with him, he didn't lay a finger on the dog. Lucy harbored us, making her an accomplice. But if she had any other choice, she would have preferred a quiet, peaceful life."
His gaze drifted back to the blood-scrubbed floor. After a long silence, he spoke again, his voice carrying the weight of a ghost.
"If Lumcore hadn't hiked their prices, I never would have gone out for a Nightharvest. Ryan and Chloe would be safe. I wouldn't be standing in this room, a part of a world I have no business belonging to. Before Ryan died, he kept telling me he did nothing wrong, that he just wanted to live. In truth, he betrayed me, and when it came to Chloe, he chose to look the other way.
"I can't tell right from wrong anymore, Flint. Maybe survival is the only morality left. Maybe justice is just a word reserved for those who hold the power of life and death over others."
Ethan looked down at his calloused palms, his knuckles white. "I want to live. I've never seen the beautiful parts of this world, if they even exist. I don't know what's out there worth holding onto. But I still want to live. And just wanting it isn't enough."
He curled his hands into fists. "Begging, groveling, playing the victim... none of it guarantees survival. The only way to truly own your life is to be like that Lampbearer. To be so powerful that people don't even dare to wish you dead. At least, that's how I see it."
Flint stared at the eighteen-year-old boy, completely dumbfounded. A veteran of his years would never speak with such raw, unvarnished conviction, yet coming from Ethan, it didn't sound like naive teenage rebellion. It sounded like cold, hard truth.
Flint had felt that burning fury against the world's injustice once. But age had worn it down into smooth, cynical pragmatism. The better he got at surviving, the less he cared about what was fair. But Ethan's flat, deadpan delivery was a stray spark landing on the dry tinder of Flint's forgotten youth.
"But he's a Lampbearer..." Flint muttered, the brief spark in his eyes dying out instantly. He finally got his cigarette to light, taking a deep drag as the familiar sense of utter helplessness washed over him again.
"Yeah, he's terrifying," Ethan agreed, extending an open hand.
Understanding the gesture, Flint slid a cigarette between Ethan’s fingers and clicked his lighter. Ethan took a slow drag, fighting down the cough that threatened to rattle his chest.
"But there are already too many things in this world that terrify me," Ethan said, staring through the rising smoke. "One more won't make a difference."
"Oh, my sweet Petra! Look at what they did to you!"
Inside the opulent Marlowe estate, Mrs. Marlowe clutched her daughter's arms, tears streaming down her face. Petra’s eyes welled up, though she remained quiet. The villa was brilliantly lit, every expensive ornament exactly where she had left it. Yet, after only three days in captivity, her own home felt entirely alien.
"I shall leave you to your family reunion," Felix Grayson said smoothly from the grand entryway. "If you will excuse me."
"You have my deepest gratitude, Felix," Victor Marlowe said, offering a formal bow of appreciation. "Without your intervention, I might have lost my only daughter."
"Just doing my duty," Felix replied with a charming smile. "I only hope you don't resent me for temporarily commandeering your Duskwardens."
"Nonsense! The Duskwardens belong in the hands of those who can wield them effectively," Mayor Marlowe assured him, his voice thick with sincerity. "Besides, they are not my personal army. If you ever require their services again, you need only ask."
"I appreciate that." Felix offered a polite nod, his gaze drifting to Petra. She was already staring back at him, her expression unreadable. "Get some rest, Petra. I'll see you back at the academy."
Petra looked away, refusing to meet his eyes.
Victor frowned at his daughter's silence. "Petra, Felix is speaking to you. Show some respect."
"Mom, I'm tired," Petra whispered to Mrs. Marlowe, completely ignoring her father.
"Of course you are, sweetheart. Let's get you up to bed. Everything else can wait," Mrs. Marlowe said, immediately ushering her daughter toward the grand staircase.
"Ah, please forgive her, Felix. She’s terribly shaken up," Victor apologized, turning back to the young nobleman.
Felix merely smiled, his composure unbothered. "No offense taken. Goodnight, Mayor."
Once the front doors clicked shut behind Felix, the warm, politician’s smile on Victor Marlowe’s face vanished, replaced by a cold, calculating frown.
Upstairs, Petra stepped into her bedroom.
Mrs. Marlowe, finally composed, sniffed the air and wrinkled her nose. "Petra, darling, get out of those dreadful clothes and take a hot bath immediately."
Petra had bathed just that afternoon, but her mother’s sensitive nose had caught the faint, metallic scent of the lower-district slums clinging to her skin. Petra looked down at her clothes. They were actually quite clean.
"They didn't... do anything to you, did they?" Mrs. Marlowe asked, her voice dropping to a panicked whisper. Petra was wearing a completely different outfit from the day she was taken, and a mother's mind naturally jumped to the worst possible conclusions.
"No, Mom. They actually... treated me decently."
"Decently? Look at you! You look like a street urchin!" To Mrs. Marlowe, her daughter’s pristine, high-born aura had been completely stripped away, replaced by the rough edges of a stray.
Petra didn't know how to explain the bizarre dynamic of her captivity. To put her mother's mind at ease, she simply nodded, took the silk bathrobe her mother had laid out, and walked toward the bathroom.
"Bandit?" her mother called out suddenly from the hallway.
Petra spun around instantly, the name slipping through her defenses before she could think.
But her mother wasn't looking at her. At the door, a plump, stubby-legged corgi had nudged the door open, its tongue lolling out as its tail wagged a mile a minute.
Dawn broke, casting pale gray light through the dust motes.
Neither Ethan nor Flint had slept. They leaned against the stained wallpaper, surrounded by a small graveyard of crushed cigarette butts.
"Join The Harvesters' Union," Flint said. It was the third time he had extended the offer, but the weight behind the words had changed completely. It was no longer a casual recruitment; it was a plea for solidarity in a world that wanted them dead.
Yet, Ethan remained silent. The horrors of the night had shaken him, but the cold, numbing influence of the Voidseep within him had already digested his fear, leaving him far calmer than the veteran harvester.
"Still hesitating?" Flint asked, surprised.
"Flint, I've been running the numbers," Ethan said, turning his head. "How did he find us?"
Flint blinked, fumbling to light another cigarette. "He's a Lampbearer. They have ways."
"Maybe. But according to what Dean Brennan let slip, they aren't omniscient," Ethan said, his brow furrowing as he pieced the puzzle together. "We used The Passage to get here. No tracks, no trail. Unless the Lampbearer can actively track the residual energy of The Passage, there’s no physical way he could have followed us. And Dean wouldn't have risked using it if he thought Felix could track it."
He leaned closer. "Dean is weaker than Felix, but that doesn't mean the Nightbound as a whole is weaker than the Lampbearers. Felix mentioned they’ve been gathering intelligence on the Nightbound. If that’s true, the reverse must be true as well. Dean's entire strategy was built around avoiding the Lampbearers. So... my guess? Felix didn't find us by tracking Dean."
Ethan had never claimed to be a genius. He was simply meticulous, willing to obsess over every scrap of data, filtering out the impossibilities until only the ugly truth remained.
Flint listened, his face growing darker by the second. By the time Ethan finished, Flint’s knuckles were white.
"So what are you saying?" Flint gestured with a trembling hand toward the empty spot on the floor. "If it wasn't you, and it wasn't the masked bastard... that leaves me and Lucy. You saying one of us sold us out?"
Under normal circumstances, a veteran like Flint would have analyzed the theory logically. But the grief of Lucy's death was still raw, a festering wound looking for an outlet. Ethan’s cold deduction had struck a nerve.
"It wasn't Lucy," Ethan said flatly, ignoring the warning signs.
Flint let out a harsh, dry laugh. He surged to his feet, lunging forward to grab Ethan by the collar, slamming him hard against the wall.
"So it's me then?!" Flint roared, his breath hot and smelling of cheap tobacco. "You think I sold her out?!"
Ethan didn't flinch. He didn't even get angry. Instead, he focused his mental energy on his wrist, forcibly suppressing the frantic writhing of the Voidthread beneath his skin. The symbiotic parasite had sensed Flint's hostility and was rearing its head, ready to strike.
Ethan could feel Flint's rage, but he also knew it wasn't true malice. He didn't want the Voidseep to tear the older man apart. In a weird way, Ethan found the entity's behavior almost pathetic. When Felix Grayson had been standing right there, radiating absolute, crushing power, the Voidseep had stayed dead silent, playing dead. Now, facing a grieving, broken harvester, it wanted to act like a predator. Even ancient void monsters, it seemed, knew how to pick their battles.
Pushing the thought aside, Ethan looked Flint dead in the eye, his voice steady.
"Flint. How many people in The Harvesters' Union knew about this safehouse?"