Baszo Baz wanted a favor done — a little message to the Red Sashes. Said they had something shiny worth stealing, and the Lampblacks were paying for the privilege.

Before we went in blind, I reached out to one of my whisper friends — the demon sort, not the living kind. Setarra. He’s been useful in the past, though “helpful” isn’t quite the word I’d use. I asked for a look at the place, and instead of giving me a vision like before, he stirred up the silt on the floor of our hideout — an old narrow boat half sunk in a canal.

The muck shifted and rippled until it formed the shape of the target building, clear as day, with another structure beside it — half-collapsed, leaning right into it like a drunk on a barstool. That’s why we decided to go in through the roof.

Didn’t know what the others were up to at that point. Wren was probably working on one of his disguises — though knowing him, it was just another moustache on top of his moustache. Slug would’ve been finding the quietest way in, and I’d bet Cuz was somewhere high up checking his sights and keeping watch with that rifle of his, the dog curled at his feet. Good crew. Each of them doing what they do best. 

Setarra seemed grumpy about the whole thing. Maybe he’s having woman troubles again. I should probably catch up before he decides I’m next on his list.

Before we set off, I tried to butter Baz up — literally. Pulled a fork from my cutlery set and told him it belonged to his grandmother. Said I’d tracked it down myself, out of respect for her service to “fine dining and organized crime.” He didn’t buy it, but it earned a chuckle, and it gave the others time to do their part.

Cuz kept him talking by suggesting maybe the Lampblacks should “rebrand,” since their name was a bit old-fashioned. Baz didn’t take kindly to that, but he didn’t throw us out either — and Wren made the most of the distraction. Disguised as a bag, of all things, he managed to pinch something from Baz’s desk. Turned out to be notes on the very job we were about to be offered. Not exactly useful, but impressive all the same.

The plan itself was simple. Wren and Cuz were to deliver a crate of sashes to a Red Sash training house as a cover, while me and Slug slipped in from the roof. Simple plans rarely stay that way, but they gave it a solid try.

They told me later it all went sideways from the first knock. Cuz’s dog bit one of the guards to stop him shooting, Cuz fired a shot that took the man down, and Wren broke open the crate to unleash a swarm of angry bees. The chaos gave them a perfect distraction to move, even if the air turned into pure noise and panic. By the time me and Slug made it in upstairs, the lower floor was sealed tight, buzzing and full of trouble.

Up top, things weren’t much calmer. I’d tried cutting the power — clever idea until the hatch slammed shut and tore the wiring out. Not my finest tinker, but it did the job. Inside, a Red Sash challenged us, so I flashed a forged safety notice and claimed I was from the Department of Window Security and Fall Prevention. He argued about bribes. Said he’d already paid the last inspector. I told him that one didn’t count, on account of him being “disappeared.” Asked for two coin to make it right. He grumbled and handed over one. I took it — half is better than none.

While he was still arguing, Slug moved in and handled it quickly — clean and quiet until I stepped in and made a mess of it. Tried to help, cracked the man with a headbutt, and somehow managed to floor Slug too. A potion broke in his pocket, flooding the room with silence thick enough to feel.

Then — crack. A shot punched through the floorboards and dropped the Sash where he stood. Later I learned Cuz had sent his dog upstairs to find the target, then took the shot through the ceiling. Sharp shooting, right when we needed it. Moments later, Wren and Cuz stormed in through the smoke and noise, and together we made quick work of grabbing what we came for. 

I bottled the dead man’s spirit on the way out. Might come in handy. Might just haunt me. Either way, it’s something to show for the night.

We got the goods and got out breathing. Haven’t decided what to do with it yet — turns out it’s worth far more than Baz let on. Twelve coin’s enough to make anyone pause and think.

For now, the bag’s hidden and no one’s asking questions. Maybe we’ll hand it over. Maybe we won’t.  Depends what feels right when the time comes.

— Havelock “Bob” Shepherd

Two of the lads were missing tonight. No word why. One was seen at the docks boarding a cruise ship — which I choose to believe was some daring reconnaissance mission and not an extended holiday. The other vanished into the fog. I’ll assume they’re both fine; it’s easier than worrying.

Still, there was no shortage of hands. We’ve gained a new one — Donovan. Solid bloke, calm when it counts, and the sort who fixes problems by walking straight through them. He’s already earned his place. I look forward to seeing what he’s capable of once he stops being polite about it.

Setaara deserves a mention too. Last time she nearly caused as much trouble as she solved, but tonight she came through. Said the cadets were being kept safe from the ghosts by the tower nearby and the flood of light spilling off it. “Safe enough,” she said. I still brought salt. Habit, mostly.

Between jobs I finally started my Trap and Train project. Early stages, but promising. Found one rat with a scar across its ear and the kind of defiance I respect. I’ve named him Sergeant. He listens better than most people I’ve met. I also had a word with my demonic acquaintance — useful as ever, if a bit condescending. The air still smells faintly of burnt paper.

While I was busy with my rats, Wren wandered off for his usual paper to check the day’s horoscope. He says it helps him plan; I’m starting to believe him. Afterwards he began work on what he called a “superior disguise,” which mostly looked like a jacket covered in rocks. No moustache visible this time — unless it was hiding underneath. Meanwhile, Donovan spent his downtime cleaning the base. It’s been a while since I lived anywhere that clean. Feels … oddly nice.

At the site, I roused the spirits near the front of the building to make a proper fuss. It worked. A cadet sprinted off for the Spirit Wardens. I tried the back door and my tools promptly snapped in the lock. Donovan forced it open with brute strength while I offered moral support, then used the door itself as a shield. “Donovan” felt too formal for shouting mid-panic, so I shortened it to Shakes. He didn’t seem to mind.

Wren strolled in dressed as a Spirit Warden. The viewing orb caught him immediately before it spontaneously broke. Shakes found the paperwork and the location we needed — rack twelve — tossed a spiritbane vial to the clerks up front to help them hold the line, then barred the reception door. Afterwards he joined us in the evidence room, admired the weapon rack, and decided to keep a flail for later.

Then the real Wardens arrived. Tall, silent, and somehow wrong. I panicked. Shouted over to Wren for my horoscope — he didn’t even hesitate. It wasn’t promising, so I made my own luck and hurled the Red Sash spirit bottle from the last job straight at them. Bright light, loud noise, thoroughly satisfying. The backlash left my head ringing — Level 1 injury: Howling.

While catching my breath I noticed something strange. Each time I looked directly at one of the Spirit Wardens, the world seemed to hush, like the air itself was listening. When I looked at two of them together, the silence grew deeper. Even the ghosts felt it. I’ll try not to think too much about that.

Wren was already rummaging through the evidence room while I was still in the admin office. After I found the spork that seemed to call to me — a faint hum, almost like a heartbeat — I went to help Wren, and Shakes told us which rack to check. I Attuned to the crates until our prize revealed itself: a piece of a human face, floating in preservation fluid. The label read Nick Travolta. Whoever he was, I hope he’s not missing it.

We got out in one piece. I think it was dock workers we delivered to; hard to tell. They insisted on meeting in a silverware storeroom, and I may have been distracted by the faint breathing of the spoons when the lamps flickered. Whoever they were, they seemed pleased.

It’s strange, really. I’ve worked alone for so long that I’d forgotten what a crew feels like. Loud, messy, unpredictable — but when it works, it’s something else. We got each other out. That’s more than most can say in this city. Sergeant will be fed well tonight.

Downtime was productive, in the odd way it tends to be with this crew. I pushed my Trap and Train project further — Sergeant and his brood are responding well, and I’ve nearly finished the first stage. It’s strange how comforting their little squeaks have become.

To clear our names from the previous job, I asked Setarra to whisper through the Ghost Field that it wasn’t us. Whether he spoke truth or creative fiction, the heat faded either way.

Cuz and Shakes seem to have entered an unspoken cleaning competition aboard the boat. It’s spotless — unsettlingly so. Cuz also began a project titled “Piss Off Casta,” which I have chosen not to unpack.

Slug finished the blueprints for his grappling hook gun and began assembling the first prototype.

Wren was absent the whole evening — out on personal business. Strange how quickly the table feels emptier without someone.

We had two separate jobs, each from a different side of the street.

The Red Sashes hired us to disrupt a Crow-run soup kitchen — loudly, publicly, humiliatingly.
The Crows hired us to make the Lampblacks look bad in front of Fanuella — “Fanny Annie” to those reckless enough to say it aloud.

Two clients. Two agendas.
We decided to handle both at once, using Annie as the pivot, and let the blame fall neatly on the Red Sashes. Efficient and deeply irresponsible — in other words, perfect.

My part began with persuading Annie to host the soup kitchen at one of her venues. I Attuned through a soup spoon — dependable as always — and convinced her it was in her best interest. She agreed, though I suspect she thinks I’m a culinary medium.

Shakes prepared by starting a bar fight and beating a Lampblack unconscious in order to steal his uniform.
Cuz sent Wilf to scout the area.
Slug collected herbs — ominous ones — to make the soup catastrophically memorable.

When the kitchen opened, the herbs took effect instantly. One man tasted the broth, turned grey, and promptly began emptying himself across the floor. Others followed in a violent chorus. Slug’s hand turned red from handling the herbs. A promising omen.

I saw the wall of soup spoons — too many, too tempting — only to realise they were wooden. I turned instead to some abandoned crates and recovered a butter knife and a cake fork, but slipped in the spreading filth and hit the ground hard.
Level 1 Harm: Bruised Ego.

Cuz, in a moment of inspiration or madness, started a fire composed almost entirely of shit. The Crows panicked. Someone yelled for the brigade. Slug produced forged papers to shift the blame toward the Red Sashes.

Shakes shadowed Annie in his Lampblack disguise. He and Cuz — side by side — look like mismatched brothers: Schwarzenegger and DeVito. Tension there. Can’t tell if it’s rivalry or affection.

I forged a supporting document and sprinted it to the Crows. The smoke overwhelmed me shortly after.
Level 1 Harm: Choked.

That’s when Inspector Crowcule Poicrow arrived — a Crow higher-up running the entire operation.
Tall, sharp-nosed, immaculate coat, moustache sharp enough to cut rope. He surveyed the scene with the expression of a man whose city had once again failed him.

Cuz managed to distract him long enough for Slug to pull off a dramatic escape — swinging out a window with Fanny Annie using his new grappling hook, the pair of them vanishing into the smoke like a chaotic painting.

Shakes dealt with a thug by tearing a door off its hinges and using it as a club. Effective, if dramatic.I attempted to leave, but was intercepted by a member of the Brigade who insisted I stay put. I, in what I believed to be a friendly gesture, asked him for a hug. He declined the tender option and shoved me hard enough to crack something.
Level 2 Harm: Bruised Ribs.

In the end, we escaped. Made fourteen coin between us.
More importantly: filthy, coughing, limping — we left together.

It’s been a long time since I could say that.
Feels good, in its own strange, terrible way.
Sergeant will dine well tonight.

Finished the rat project today. Sergeant and the others are coming along nicely — clever little things. Honestly, they listen better than most people I’ve worked with.

Spent coin to get my ribs sorted. Still ache, but at least I can lean sideways without sounding like a kettle.
Shakes wasn’t with us tonight. I’ve only known him a few weeks, but after two jobs together it already feels strange when he’s not there.

We had two options for work:

1. Help the Red Sashes — two coin each.
    
2. Escort some rich teenager who wanted to watch a real gang fight — one coin each.
    

We didn’t take it for the money.
We took it because he said he could pass future work our way.
That, and he looked like the sort of lad who’d wander into a blade without supervision.

We met him in a “posh dive bar” — which in Brightstone only means they wash the cups.
Telquin, around thirteen or fourteen, spotty, awkward, and trying desperately to look like a local.
He’d picked the best version of everything cheap:

• the “finest” knock-off jacket,
   
• the “highest quality” coal-stained boots,
   
• hair so greased it reflected candlelight like polished metal.
   

I’m fairly sure he spends more on hair products than the four of us spend on food.

Slug scouted the area and found the perfect layout: Lampblack bar on one side, Crow bar on the other. A natural arena.
Exactly what the kid wanted. Terrible idea.

Cuz found a good vantage point for him.
I asked Setarra to keep Bluecoats distracted when things inevitably got loud. The demon sounded excited, which isn’t comforting.

Wren used a contact to get himself hired for a shift in one of the pubs. Honestly impressive — I didn’t know he could pretend to work that convincingly.

Slug tried removing all the streetlights except those directly between the bars. He nearly succeeded.

Then Wren told the Lampblacks that the Crows had been calling them “sissies” and saying their name was outdated.
That’s all it took.

The Lamps stormed out and hurled the first glass. Naturally it hit Wren.

Cuz’s dog got grabbed by the Crows and locked inside their bar.
Cuz responded by shooting the door.
That’s when both sides finally spotted each other — and the real entertainment began.

I would love to say I was focused, but I wandered off to a shop window hoping they sold cutlery.
They didn’t. Very disappointing.

Back in the action, Wren disguised a broom as a rifle to shift blame away from Cuz.
Slug used his cloak to guide Telquin in closer — the kid was practically vibrating with joy.

Sergeant tugged my coat, so I gave him a note to deliver to the Crows:
“You smell worse than your soup kitchen.”
He delivered it proudly in his tiny top hat.
One Crow immediately recognised my handwriting and charged at me.

I pulled out my pistol and a spirit bottle, looked him straight on, and said, “Really?”

To my surprise, he stopped.
Just… stopped.
Turned around and rejoined the main brawl.
Miracles exist.

Meanwhile, Telquin broke free again — desperate for a closer look.
Slug nudged him perfectly into someone’s elbow, which knocked him half-senseless.

Then Slug fired his grappling hook, swooped down like some kind of bat-themed vigilante, scooped the kid up, and carried him to a rooftop.
For a moment, silhouetted in the flickering streetlight, he genuinely looked like he meant to do that.

The downpour had been going all night, and the lights Slug tampered with were shrieking like kettles mixed with grieving widows.
Hearing that through the Ghost Field was awful.

Wren was overwhelmed by the emotional noise of it all and fled in tears.

Cuz kneecapped the Crow who’d come for me and made it look like a Lampblack attack. Smooth as anything.

Then the air changed — that tight, heavy feeling right before something bad arrives.

Spirit Wardens.

I saw the masks, and I ran.
Didn’t even pretend to think about it.

Slug and Telquin stayed on the roof, the kid watching the chaos like it was a theatre performance meant solely for him.

Once we scattered and regrouped, Telquin was ecstatic.
Kept saying it was “the best night of his life.”
I assume the concussion helped.

He paid extra, too.

Six coin total between the four of us.

Oh — and we agreed on a name tonight:

Fits us far too well.
Didn’t expect to feel this connected to a group again, but here we are.

Sergeant will dine well tonight.

We returned to the barge and found it occupied.

Setarra stood on the deck as if he’d always belonged there. Beside him was another presence — far larger, broader, and heavier in the air. It did not speak. Its face resembled molten stone held in a shape that suggested a face rather than fully achieving one.

Setarra said we had drawn the attention of a collaborator.

The collaborator has requests.

They want the head and heart of Bazso Baz, and the right arm and head of Lissa, the Crow who currently holds the district. Setarra delivered this information calmly, as if reciting a bill of materials. I did not ask what refusal would entail.

Downtime followed.

I paid a Bluecoat to redirect suspicion toward the Red Sashes. The adjustment was effective. I also began the second phase of rat training, focusing on observation and information gathering. Sergeant shows aptitude. More than I am entirely comfortable with.

Our standing has shifted.
Lampblacks have fallen quiet.
The Red Sashes are displeased.
The youths of Brightstone, inexplicably, seem to like us.

Cuz secured a vault for storage. Practical, well built. I was allowed to install a small coat hook inside for Sergeant’s hat. It was agreed that he should not know the code.

I loaned Cuz one of the rats — the one that carries ammunition. It performed as expected.

Slug spent the evening with his companion from the soup kitchen affair. They visited a cemetery. I assume this was meaningful to them.

The job itself came from the Crows.

They wanted a Lampblack establishment burned.

Wren identified the target: The Cosh’d Flame. Closed for a private event. Two staff present — one known to him, one a street urchin. Cuz mapped the exits. I attempted to determine the nature of the gathering and failed.

Slug succeeded.

It was a wake.

For two Lampblacks killed during the unrest we caused previously.

We proceeded anyway.

Entry was made through the rear. Wren dismissed his contact quietly. The room beyond was full, subdued, and already heavy with drink.

Wren entered openly, disguised as Bazso Baz, and raised a toast. It was accepted without question.

Wilf was placed inside as a pub dog. I remained in the kitchen, laying coal and fuel carefully. If the fire was to happen, it would not falter.

Slug attempted to relieve the mourners of their valuables. A spiritbane charm detected him and he was forced out, mistaken for something spectral.

Wren ordered flaming sambucas for the room. When the urchin questioned his authority, events accelerated.

Cuz fired an incendiary round from the roof, misreading a moment. The shot struck the coffin.

Panic followed.

One man moved for the door. Slug blocked it.
Wren spilled flaming sambuca across the bar by accident.
I removed the urchin from the premises without drawing notice.

I then summoned a ghost and sent it into the room crying out as the deceased. This unsettled everyone, including Wren, who spilled more burning drink. The fire took hold.

Wilf dragged coal across the floor, feeding the spread and limiting movement.

Wren attempted to take the cash behind the bar. The heat made this impossible. I was unable to assist.

By the time the Lampblacks forced their way out, the kitchen and bar were fully involved. Slug redirected them with a gesture and a lie.

As I left, I affixed a note to a nearby wall.

Love from the Red Sashes.

We did not stay.

The fire did what it was meant to do.
The message was clear.

When we returned, Sergeant appeared satisfied.

I am less certain.

Only Cuz and I turned up this time.

With the others absent, we agreed it was still enough to make decisions. Two votes constitutes a majority if you’re decisive about it. We also agreed that the boy — Clementine — is dead weight unless we give him work. As it was only us present, we voted on behalf of everyone else as well. I expect they’ll understand once it starts making money.

We want a gambling den. Either to build one or take one over.

Our broker has identified a suitable location, though it sits uncomfortably close to an existing game called The Half Measure. At various points, each of us has been barred from it. The proprietor is Rigeny, who stands at four foot four and three-quarters and despises us on principle.

Clementine is four foot four and a half.
Cuz is four foot five.

This felt worth noting.

Downtime was productive.

I completed the rat training focused on information gathering. They’re efficient now, and worryingly quiet when working.
I also reduced some stress by selling a stained teaspoon. I couldn’t be bothered to polish it and decided it was better off circulating.

Because it was only the two of us, we brought in an expert: Docker Dave.
Independent. Principled. No hurting women. He resembles Gepetto, if Gepetto had spent his life on the docks and learned when not to ask questions.

We decided to take over an existing gambling den rather than start from nothing. It’s next to Rigeny’s place, which felt appropriate. She already hates us, saving time.

The plan was to discredit the current operators, assume control, and give Clementine a position as an apprentice barman. This would make him useful and put coin in his pocket. If nothing else, it would teach him how to watch people.

Outside, we saw a patron being escorted out. Cuz took it upon himself to console the man, explaining gently that he’d been cheated and that the whole operation was rigged. The patron accepted this explanation enthusiastically and left shouting about scams and corruption to anyone who would listen.

Entry required payment. We had to lift all four-foot-something of Cuz so he could speak through the slot in the door, but eventually they let us in.

I brought an extra deck of cards.

Dave entered first. Then Cuz and I followed.

Inside were several games, one of which involved a knife chained to the table. I took this as a sign that things occasionally got out of hand.

We sat at the same table as Dave and played a few rounds to settle in.

When the moment came, Dave began coughing — the agreed signal. I turned and told him to shut up, loudly, hoping to draw attention. Unfortunately, luck is rarely on my side in gambling dens. The bouncer noticed and warned me to calm down.

That was enough.

While I was being spoken to, Cuz slipped our deck in with the dealer’s. When all five of us — myself, Cuz, Dave, and the others — laid our hands down, it was immediately obvious there were duplicates.

Dave took over. He launched into a convincing explanation about fixed games and bad faith. While the room reacted, Rigeny approached with a tray of drinks. She saw us, froze, dropped the tray, and began shouting that we were banned and shouldn’t be there.

Cuz responded by producing his Ammo Rat. After tasting the drug intended for the drinks “for quality control” — I have never seen eyes triple in size so quickly — he launched the rat with his catapult into the spilled alcohol. He then shouted something about trees following him, declared himself spiked, and lay down.

This escalated matters.

The crowd turned. Accusations flew. Cuz and I were dragged into the back office, where we found a Crow — the one running the place. The door slammed shut behind us.

Out of instinct, I reached for the spork I’d acquired at auction — a piece that must once have been an heirloom to someone, or several someones. The weight of it felt crowded, as if too many dinners, arguments, reconciliations, and final meals had pressed themselves into the metal and never left.

The tines were worn thin and even, polished by generations of hands rather than any deliberate care. The bowl still held a faint curve that caught the light just right. It was absurdly beautiful. I began polishing it without thinking, letting the rhythm settle me, the history humming faintly under my fingers like a distant crowd.

After a short discussion, it was agreed that we would take over management of the den to restore trust. Somehow, this argument worked.

There was banging on the door. I removed the hinges at precisely the wrong moment. A man fell through, face first. The chained knife from the earlier game came loose in the commotion and skittered across the floor. We kicked it aside.

We returned to the main room, announced new, honest management, and offered a round of drinks on the house. Even Rigeny accepted that this might calm things down.

It did.

And that is how we became the proud owners of a gambling den.

Clementine now has a job.
The crew has turf.
And Rigeny hates us slightly more than before.

All told, a productive evening.

I overindulged.

It happens. Sometimes the vice takes the reins, and sometimes you wake up with less stress and more consequences than you bargained for. This time, the consequence was immediate.

I caused a war with the Red Sashes.

They responded with an order.

Bazso Baz was to die.

The Red Sashes wanted the war ended before it rooted itself too deeply. Killing Baz would cauterise the wound. That was their reasoning.

We also had a separate obligation. The demon who had approached us earlier — through Setarra — had named its price clearly: a head and a right arm. Baz fit both requirements neatly.

Two ledgers. One solution.

We learned Baz was meeting someone connected to Cuz. A cousin. Details unclear, and perhaps irrelevant. I used Attune to let the restless dead drift where they always drift — near habit, near secrecy, near shame. They brought back what mattered.

Not morality.
Routine.

Baz took a train, jumped off early, and met Cuz’s cousin in a quiet, dark place where he felt safe. It turns out Baz had a thing for them. The attachment seemed genuine enough to make him careless.

We followed the pattern.

Cuz positioned himself on a rooftop opposite the meeting point, rifle steady, ready to take the shot. I believe he intended to. Perhaps he needed to.

Me, Slug, and Wren waited inside the dark room below, along with Wilf. The dog did not like the air. His ears twitched at nothing visible.

Wren was dressed as the cousin. Convincingly enough.

Baz arrived on schedule.

Wren greeted him warmly. Baz responded eagerly. For a moment, it looked almost tender.

Then Baz said he wanted his usual position.

He bent over the stocks we had prepared.

They snapped shut cleanly.

Slug threw a silence vial. Sound collapsed inward, swallowed whole.

Baz’s mouth opened.

Nothing came out.

I stepped forward and shot him point blank.

There was no grandeur to it. Just finality. Like striking through a name in ink.

Blood spread across the floorboards.

Then something else spread — a faint vibration through the room, like the air itself recoiling.

Baz was not a small man in life. He was larger in death.

From across the way, Cuz saw the shot and adjusted. The kill was no longer his to take, so he shifted to overwatch, covering us instead.

Baz’s men reacted quickly.

Cuz fired. Suppression, not execution. One round shattered badly and injured a bystander. Two of Baz’s men went down screaming, clutching ruined faces.

The city charges interest on everything.

We worked quickly.

Three of us together, and it was still ugly work. We removed Baz’s right arm and head for the demon who had requested them. The smell of copper and damp timber will linger longer than I’d like.

Slug relieved Baz of a necklace worth four coin. Efficient as ever.

Then the disguises began.

Wren dressed as Baz. For the second time. I’m beginning to suspect he has more than a professional interest in the man. The dedication was impressive — posture, expression, even the slight tilt of arrogance.

Slug dressed as a woman, using Baz’s head as a monoboob. In low light and heavy rain, it was disturbingly effective.

I squeezed it.

Not subtly. Not discreetly.

I don’t know what I expected. Confirmation of texture, perhaps. It yielded slightly under pressure. Warm still. Wrong.

The others saw.

No one said anything at the time.

I caught Baz’s spirit using my small butterfly catcher. It resisted like a hooked thing thrashing against line. Then it settled.

I called Tempest. A storm rolled in unnaturally fast, rain hammering rooftops and drowning the alleyways in noise.

Slug fired his grappling hook first. We swung across to the rooftop where Cuz waited. Wren followed with his own line. We regrouped briefly under the downpour.

Cuz moved in a mechanical rhythm — firing, reloading, stepping, covering. He put a round into a Spirit Warden’s knee as they arrived. They knew only that they had been shot at.

And the only figure they saw moving through the storm was Wren, wearing Baz’s face — not literally, thank god.

We escaped on a pump trolley along the track, exposed to the rain and the open night. No cover. Just the sound of wheels rattling on metal and water running down our faces.

None of us could look at one another.

I tried to explain the squeezing.

Something about reflex. About tension. About curiosity.

I was told, very clearly, to shut the fuck up.

I did.

Bazso Baz is dead.

The Red Sashes have what they wanted.

The demon will receive its payment.

The war has stopped.

And Baz is in my jar.

I suspect none of those statements mean peace.