Musho had been Eugene's lightning in a bottle, his unlikely success story that stood out amongst his countless escapades.

Eugene had never trusted even the most crooked and underhanded of law enforcement. If they were willing to turn their back on the very institution they worked for, they were willing to turn their back on him: the infamous man whose head was worth much more than a pretty penny. Associating with men such as that was a one-way ticket to a catastrophe.

But Musho was different; his games always focused on the long-term. He knew Eugene was too valuable of an asset to subdue and hand to his colleagues in hopes of a set award or an uncertain promotion. No, that'd be such a waste— in the long-term, he could accumulate much more wealth by letting Eugene do what he does best. In exchange for turning a blind eye and orchestrating openings for the thief behind the scenes, Musho could receive a generous share of Eugene's consistent income.

Eugene stayed in Zau for much longer than he anticipated because of Musho. But Eugene was still fairly young at the time. He willingly played Musho's games, yet he was still naive enough to think the best of him.

Musho was just a guard back then. A high-ranking guard, but a guard nonetheless. He was just a simple guard stationed on the streets, but the power was already shooting for his head.

There was an alleyway where the two usually met and discussed business (if they didn't choose to go drink their hearts out at the nearest bar). That day, Eugene entered as he usually did: needlessly theatrical. Leaping from the rooftops down onto the cover of a dumpster, cartwheeling off that dumpster to the ground without breaking a sweat— it was flamboyant in every sense. Musho was waiting in the typical royal blue uniform with a cigar in hand, shaking his head with a snicker.

"There's my favorite thief!" Musho spoke with a thick Zau accent: quick with clipped vowels and constant dropped R's. "You're late. I was worried you got yourself caught."

"As if I'd let that happen in such a boring manner that it wouldn't become the instant talk of the town. The day I'm caught, it'll be a sight to behold."

Eugene raised his hand to effortlessly catch the spare cigar Musho tossed to him. He tucked it into his waistband; he wasn't much of a smoker, but he knew better than to refuse gifts from his benefactors.

"I'm sure it will. But try to put that off for a while, you hear? I'd like to keep the money flowing for a while longer." Musho offered a playful wink. Normally, Eugene would smile in return, but he remained deadpan. "Now, on the matter of business—"

"Hold on. Before we get into that, there's something I need to ask you about."

Musho looked at Eugene with a single brow raised. Eugene stood beneath the challenging gaze (that didn't match the man's grin) without as little as a shudder.

"I saw what happened earlier today," Eugene said. Musho only continued to stare at him. "In the town square. With the boy."

Musho's eyes flickered with recognition. "Oh, that. For a common thief, he put up such a fight. He was quite the squirmer."

The man lifted his hand toward Eugene. There was a jagged tear in the fabric of his glove that revealed a nasty red cut underneath, likely done by a dagger.

"Brat didn't know when to give up. Thought he could get away with slashing me— I made sure the others gave him a good lesson he wouldn't forget."

Eugene grimaced at those words, quickly turning his face to shield it. The image was still fresh in his mind— Musho standing feet away with his hands folded behind his back, watching as the guards under his command mercilessly threw up their batons before thrusting them down with all their strength.

The boy— who had to have been in his teen years— was still breathing at the end of it. Eugene was amazed by that.

"What about it, Star?" Musho asked, pulling Eugene from the memory. "Why bring it up?"

"Because it was cruel. And unnecessary."

Musho's lingering smile finally left his face. "And?"

"And I wanted to ask why you did it. You said it yourself: he was just a common thief. What you did, comparatively, was much more callous."

"You're not far above a common thief yourself, Starid." Full surname. Musho wasn't happy. "It's not wise for you to try and take a moral high ground with me."

It was a thinly veiled threat, not overt but meant to come across clearly. Eugene understood it clearly. But he crossed his arms and pursed his lips, regardless.

"Pardon. I just thought you were above that."

Musho didn't respond. He instead grabbed Eugene's chin, turning his head to face him. Eugene restrained the urge to answer with his fist, staring into a pair of pale, ghoul-like eyes.

"... I like you a lot, Starid. A lot more than I probably should." Musho's voice was dangerously low. "So don't go pushing your luck. Remember where you stand."

Eugene brushed Musho's hand away with a gentle sway of his arm. He refused to let a dent in his stone-like composure show its face. "Understood. What were you going to say before I interrupted you? In regards to 'business.'"

Musho's lips stretched into a wide smile. "Ah, right. So, as I was saying—"

Everything went on as normal. Eugene's words were as quickly forgotten as the beating of a boy whom society had deemed unimportant. That meeting ended without a hitch, as did the next, and the next.

But it wasn't long after that conversation that Eugene decided to leave Zau behind him. And he didn't foresee ever returning.

* * *

Eugene will forever remember that moment outside of the motel. He'll remember how Bari forced him to sit down before explaining everything with a cold, hollow voice and a detached guise. And Bari spared Eugene no detail; he told him everything.

Everything he knew, that is. Bari made that fact painfully clear: he likely only knew the surface of Flint's pain.

That evening outside the motel, alongside every other cursed detail, Bari told Eugene about the scars on Flint's stomach.

Although Eugene was well aware of their existence, the horror of the markings did not fully cement themselves in his mind until he saw them for himself.

It wasn't that long ago when he first saw it. It happened shortly after Eugene worked his magic— making deals with the right people and moving more than questionable assets— and set up a small home not far from Robin's school. It was a weekend morning, and Eugene and Bari were talking about something— Eugene can't remember what, exactly— in the kitchen. The moment was benign; Eugene would have expected it to be forgotten within a week's time.

But he wasn't ever going to forget this. A shriek sounded over their heads. Something fell to the ground with a thud. Eugene and Bari were both darting up the stairs in seconds without so much as a shared glance.

Eugene threw the bedroom door open. The sight waiting behind it was heart-wrenching, sending it to plunge into his stomach. But it was by no means unfamiliar.

Flint was curled up in the corner, his face hidden in his knees which he hugged close to his chest. He rocked back and forth, back and forth much too quickly for the motion to be soothing. His breaths were pained, jagged, and shallow, mixing with stifled sniffles and sobs. He looked so small— as if he were making himself as small as possible in hopes that the bedroom would overlook him and not swallow him whole.

But the world itself still loomed over him, pressing and pressing and pressing and making him shake like a frightened animal.

Bari moved to approach him, but Eugene raised his arm to block his path.

Let me handle this. Let me do something good. Let me do something right, for once.

No words were said, but Bari understood. He stood in place as Eugene stepped forward, stepping over the chair that lay on its side. Flint must have knocked it over in his panic.

Eugene bent onto one knee and let his fingertips graze the carpet. "Flint? Can you hear me?"

Flint raised his head only slightly, letting his eye peek out from his tangled arms. "Eu...Eugene...?"

"Yes, it's only me. Can you tell me where you are right now?"

"I..." he tucked his face back into his knees. "Risha... he's... he's here... he won't leave...!"

"Easy, Flint, easy." Eugene kept his hands planted on the floor to restrain himself from reaching out to the boy. "Remember where we are, alright? Focus on where you are."

Something soft nudged at Eugene's shoulder. He glanced back to Bari holding a stuffed elephant— something soft, squishy, with a grounding fluffy texture. Something perfect.

"Here, Flint. I want you to take this." Eugene took the plush toy from Bari's hands and extended it towards Flint. "It'll help you focus."

Flint lowered his knees and opened his arms, reaching out to accept the plush.

And for just a quick moment, Eugene saw it.

Before panic had seized him and sent Eugene and Bari bolting, Flint was finishing getting dressed. He was almost done, except for the collared shirt draped on his shoulders. It was unbuttoned, leaving his chest and stomach exposed. And his stomach—

Deep, deep burns. Sickenly deep, deep red and tough, wrinkled skin. Jagged, uneven yet perfectly legible letters that spell out—

Flint pulled his knees back up, squeezing the plush between his chest and legs as his arms wrapped around its neck. He reflexively ran his fingers through the faux fur as he buried his face in the top of its head.

And just like that, the letters were gone from Eugene's sight.

Eugene shut his eyes tight to keep himself from gawking. He grit his teeth, fighting against the wince that was forming on his face.

Each new mark he saw on his son's body— all so horrific in the fact that their origin was left to his imagination— reignited raw, sharp pain in Eugene's soul. It was like he was still sitting outside the motel, hanging onto Bari's each and every word as it all kept getting worse and worse than he could have ever envisioned.

"Eugene?" Bari called.

Eugene took a breath and swallowed hard. He swallowed everything, from the disgust to the sorrow, and forced it all to stay down. Not now, he kept telling himself, not now. Flint was in front of him, clearly distressed, and he needed to be his support.

Eugene's eyes fluttered open. A mask of composure eased over his features.

"Flint... I want you to look around, and tell me all the brown things in this room."

Flint kept his face hidden in the plush as he shook his head.

"You can do this," Eugene said.

"I can't..." Flint muttered, his voice muffled by the plush.

"You can, Flint. You can do this. Look up for me, at least for just a moment. Tell me what brown things you could see."

Flint peered up just enough so his eye could peek from over the elephant's head. He spoke through hitched breaths. "...The... the drawers."

"Good. What else?"

"The shelves... a-and my desk. And the window sill."

"Good, good. How about blue? Tell me what blue things you see."

"The carpet... a-and the curtains..."

"Keep going. You're doing wonderfully."

"A-and the comforter. A-and Lulu's cat bed."

"And red? Can you see any red things?"

"The hairbrush on the drawer. And the tissue box. A-and the sweater hanging on my wardrobe..." Flint slowly lowered his knees and fully raised his head. He kept a death grip on the stuffed elephant. "I'm home..."

Eugene nodded. "That's right. You're home."

"...I'm home... and I'm safe..."

"Yes..."

"A-and Risha... isn't here."

"Absolutely not. You're okay, Flint. And you're going to be okay."

"...Okay." Flint sniffled and brushed away a tear with his thumb. "I'm— I'm sor—"

"Don't say sorry. You have nothing to be sorry for." Eugene kept calm as he offered a smile, keeping all his raging emotions hidden behind it. "Why don't you come downstairs with us? We could watch something. And we never did decide on dinner. Why don't you choose tonight? Anything you'd like."

Something bright flickered in Flint's eye. "Cake?"

Eugene paused. "Uh—"

The green of Flint's eye seemed to grow more vibrant. "Chocolate cake?"

"You did say 'anything,' old man," Bari said as he poked Eugene's back with a smug grin. Eugene rolled his eyes.

"I'm sure we could get you some cake, but we should get some real food in you first." Eugene stood up and extended a hand out towards Flint. "Come on. Let's get you out from the corner."

Slowly, cautiously, Flint reached out and grabbed Eugene's hand. The man pulled his son up and helped him get onto his feet.

* * *

That morning reawakened a memory.

From the moment Bari had uttered the word "Woodgate" outside of that motel, Eugene's mind immediately raced to Musho. He remembered a sudden run-in with the man. He remembered Musho telling him he had taken a position as a prison warden. But beyond that, Eugene's recollections of that meeting were clouded at best.

It was still enough for a seething Eugene to want Musho dead.

There was more to that memory, however, and Eugene knew it deep down. He wasn't ready to reflect on it— the shock and the horror were still all too fresh, agitated and inflamed. It would have been too much, so it remained submerged and dormant; he didn't dare prod it awake.

But seeing those scars on Flint's stomach...

That sight latched onto the finer edges of the memory and yanked it to the surface, leaving Eugene little choice but to mull over it and all the implications.

I couldn't have known, he kept telling himself over and over again. I couldn't have known.

It was spring, he believes. He was in the region of Demeu at the time— he doesn't recall if there was a specific reason why. Aside from him being knowledgeable about the area, likely not. He was wandering through city streets when a palm suddenly slapped onto his back.

His hand reached for his sheathed dagger as he pivoted to a carefree face. The large man— his once dirty-blond hair having gone completely gray and the crinkles around his eyes having increased ten-fold— raised his hands over his chest with a smile on his face. Even after all these years, that smile hadn't changed. It still looked unnaturally light and weightless against the man's sunken, chiseled features.

Eugene lowered his hand from the sheathed blade. "...Musho?"

"Didn't mean to scare you, Star. I was calling out to you, but you didn't seem to hear me."

Musho dropped his hands and shoved them into the pockets of his khakis. It was strange to see him wearing anything but a guard's uniform; if it weren't for that token smile, Eugene might not have recognized him at all.

It was even stranger to see Musho approach him with that same misleadingly upbeat disposition. Eugene had left Zau without a word. He would've imagined that there would be some leftover resentment on Musho's part.

But Musho was all smiles. "Surprised? You and me both. It's been a long time. Has it been twenty years? Give or take?"

"...What are you doing here?"

"In Demeu? Visiting family. Riveting, I know." Musho laughed. "I kid, I kid. But I'm finished with my obligations for the day, and the night is still young. Let's grab a drink, Star. Like old times."

Eugene raised his brow. "You... want to grab a drink with me?"

"I wouldn't have asked if I didn't."

"But I vanished on you."

"Yes, but it was something I always anticipated. That's the nature of these types of dealings: at any moment, the other party could pick up and leave without a trace. I choose to count my blessings. I was lucky you stuck around as long as you did."

Eugene released a breath he didn't realize he was holding.

"So come on already, old friend!" Musho folded his arms as his smile bared his teeth. "Grab a drink with me! We've got decades' worth of catching up to do!"

Against his better judgment, Eugene nodded.

Even back then, he didn't like Musho. Not since he watched Musho order others to gang up on and beat a teenager did Eugene harbor anything but animosity toward him. But it's been several decades since they last met, and curiosity had gotten the best of Eugene. Part of him had wondered what came of Musho after he left.

And it wasn't like he had much else to do. This at least served as a distraction from his depressive episodes that like to come and go.

"Excellent! Come on. I know just the place."

Musho led Eugene to a bar tucked away in the corner of the city, cowering from the bright lights and the bustling bodies that stormed the roads. The interior was as peacefully quiet as the exterior: the tables and the counter were completely empty except for a couple huddled in their own little corner. The lighting was dim, and the dominant color was a deep burgundy that was easy on the eyes.

The two men sat at the counter. The bartender immediately moved to serve them; Musho ordered (for a reason Eugene could not fathom) a fernet while Eugene asked for a glass of whisky. The drinks came out fast, and Musho quickly downed his and asked for another.

Musho was always a big drinker. Eugene used to be, too. But then he lost one of his children, and alcohol became his only weapon to chase away the grief.

It was an endless battle; Eugene would drink to the point where everything went numb and he couldn't feel anything, but just when he began to feel secure in that senselessness, sobriety would creep toward him. Grief would come along with it, and Eugene was back to sucking down bottle after bottle until consciousness escaped him.

The longer that went on, the more useless he became. It took the most relentless and cutthroat of verbal lashings from his fed-up twelve-year-old son for Eugene to snap out of it.

Since then, Eugene usually avoided alcohol. But Musho didn't need to know that. So he sipped on the whisky, hoping the alcohol would loosen him up just enough to where this wouldn't be the most awkward interaction in his life.

"So, tell me!" Musho's voice was loud and boisterous— a given since he had finished drink two, and the bartender was sliding drink three across the counter. "What has my favorite thief been up to of late, hm? I haven't heard of you much in the news. Don't tell me you've retired already!"

"Perhaps don't announce it to the world," Eugene scoffed. "No, I haven't retired. I've just been laying low."

"You, laying low? I never thought I'd see the day! What possessed you? The heat became too much?"

"Nothing of the sort. I had children to look after, so I couldn't afford to take unnecessary risks."

"Children?" Musho's face went slack with astonishment. "You're a father?"

"Mhm." Eugene took another sip and focused on that burning sensation in his throat.

"Never saw you as the type," Musho said (as if he knew the first thing about who Eugene was). "How'd it happen? Knock up the wrong—"

"No. I took in street children."

"Oh? Couldn't imagine doing something like that. I'd worry they had fleas! Ha, I kid! I kid!" Musho laughed, though Eugene knew he wasn't joking. "Where are they now? Left the nest?"

"Mostly."

"Mostly? What do you—"

"My eldest died."

For once, Musho was stunned into silence. Eugene took another sip of whisky, letting a fire engulf his throat yet again. He lowered the glass, staring at his reflection in the goldish-brown liquid.

Cole told him not long ago that he had somber eyes. Eugene couldn't help but agree.

"What about you, Musho?" Eugene asked. "How's life been for you? Still patrolling the streets?"

Musho jumped on the overt ploy to change the subject. With a sway of his hand, everything Eugene had said was forgotten as the spotlight shifted.

"No, I'm beyond the streets now. I actually run a prison. You're looking at the warden of Woodgate Maximum Security!"

"Oh. Really?"

"Yup. It's not a bad gig, I'll admit." Musho took a swing of his drink. The bitter taste made him wince. "It's annoying as hell, though. I swear to you, Star, I swear."

Eugene snorted. "You swear what?"

"I'm being serious!" Musho flailed his arm before smacking an empty glass back onto a counter. "I get the most troublesome of lowlives for prisoners!"

"Well... you run a prison. I'm not sure what you were expecting."

"You don't understand, Star! There's this one kid— there's this one fucking kid that is going to be the actual end of me! Brat knows he can't escape— he should know he can't escape— but he keeps trying no matter what I have my men do to him!"

Musho went to take another swing, but realized the glass was empty as it touched his lips. He lowered it with a sigh, oblivious to the way Eugene's brows knit together as one side of his mouth drew back.

"What you... have your men do to him?" he echoed. Musho rolled his eyes and slammed his fist into Eugene's arm.

"You're no idiot. You know Zau's prisons. Corporal punishment is just a part of the process, and then some. One of my men has made an actual fucking art out of the whole thing— a member of the Risha family. A light mage. You should see him in action. Really makes torture look like a god damn art. And that kid fumbled his way into becoming his favorite! He treats him like his personal toy! I mean it— inmates and guards alike have taken to calling the brat his pet!"

Eugene swallowed hard. He asked in direct defiance of the dread slowly creeping up to overtake his chest: "How old's the kid?"

"Dunno— sixteen? Seventeen? Maybe even eighteen—?"

That wasn't far from Bari's age. Eugene's stomach felt strangely heavy—

"Couldn't care less. Brat's always causing a heap of trouble— and on top of that, he's got some sticky fingers, too. You can't bring in a pack of cigarettes without worrying about them going missing," Musho rambled. "You wanna hear something wild?"

Eugene was absolutely certain he didn't. "Mm?"

"With Keres— you know, that light mage I was just telling you about— I usually just leave him to his methods, no matter how brutal. But if he comes up with something a bit more... experimental, he'll ask me about it first. I just say yes, more often than not. But he comes to me one day and asks about essentially branding the kid." A slight smirk flitted across Musho's face, brimming with amusement. "Wanted to burn the word 'prisoner' across his stomach. Fucking wild, right? So initially, I said no. Initially."

Eugene gripped the handle of his glass. He wanted to take another gulp, but an unease tightened the muscles in his arm and rendered him stiff.

"But get this. Not even a week ago— the day before I left for Demeu— that brat came crashing through my ceiling!"

"He... crashed through your ceiling?"

"Yes! He was climbing through the vents— got in through the duct in his cell— and when the ceiling couldn't support him anymore, he came plummeting down right into my office! It was a mess! Plaster and chipped paint everywhere! An expensive ass pain to clean up!"

Bile was rising into Eugene's throat. "So, you..."

"Shouted for my men. They grabbed him before he could run, and I gave them the order right then and there. Drag him to a solitary cell, strip him of his jumpsuit, and strap him down as tight as possible with his stomach bare."

Eugene gagged and reached for his mouth. Musho laughed.

"A little too much to drink, old friend?"

Musho smacked Eugene's back, then swept the mug from his hand.

"I'll take this off your hands, then." He threw his head back and drank the remainder of Eugene's liquor. The glass slammed onto the counter with another, louder thud. "Where was I? Oh, yes. That crazy brat. You have no idea how excited Keres was when I called him in. Gave him my blessing to burn that word into his skin, and he was like an excited little child. I knew the brat was in for another living hell, but he was lucky I hadn't gotten angry enough to want him dead. See, he's gotten pretty damn close. He's been pushing my patience for years now. But because he's so young, I figure I ought to show him a little mercy. He's young enough as to where, if we keep thoroughly breaking him alongside his spirit, he should eventually fall in line like all the rest."

Eugene gagged again, but it escaped Musho's notice. The man was too occupied by the shimmer of empty glasses and memories that kept his smirk plastered across his face.

"You know, I walked down the solitary block not too long after I gave Keres the okay. The screams, Star, the screams. I would've felt bad for the little shit stain if he wasn't such a pain in my ass. Actually, I'd call it cathartic—"

"I think I should go." Eugene stood up from his seat. He tossed a small cloth bag of coins into Musho's hands. "This should cover my drink."

"Ah, not the drinker you used to be, eh?" Musho leaned forward and gave Eugene's arm another pat. His friendly, jovial attitude made him want to heave. "It was good to see you. I've always wondered how you've been handling yourself. Hell, I got worried when you dropped off the map! Wouldn't be like the thief I teamed up with to get caught without making a grand show out of it."

Eugene slowly nodded... because Musho was correct.

Eugene was Musho's lightning in a bottle, an unlikely success story that stood out amongst his years of underhanded dealings and hidden cruelties.

And sometimes lightning strikes.

* * *

Zau hasn't changed at all.

Gothic architecture colored a deep burnt umber and accented by white. Streets of brick lined with lanterns illuminating the night. Women in dresses and men with traditional button-ups and trousers. Carriages riding alongside buggies with honking horns. Phone booths and newspaper stands. Forgotten papers skipping across the walkways.

Eugene stands underneath a reddened evening sky, leaning beside the entrance of what he remembered to be Musho's favorite bar. This is far from his ideal method of tracking someone down— standing somewhere they're likely to cross while praying they show their face. But for his plan to play out properly— for this revenge of his to be somewhat satisfying— it's necessary.

"Make him suffer," Bari had told him.

Eugene hadn't explained the motivations of his little "trip," but Bari surmised his intent. He met Bari's glare and wondered if he mirrored the vengeful look in his child's eye.

"I intend to," Eugene answered.

Eugene sighs and runs his thumb over the vile buried deep in his pocket. His heart had been banging against his chest, but he's been waiting here for so long that the anxiety has long begun to die.

"Five more minutes," he murmurs. "Five more minutes, and I'm finding a place to lay my head for the night."

On the opposite side of the road, as if drawn by the declaration, a large, full figure emerges from the street corner. Eugene's heart pounds again. The sound is almost enough to overshadow the searing rage that ignites at the sight of the man. Almost.

The recognition's immediate: Musho turns his head, and then his eyes focus on Eugene, narrow, then widen. That same damned smile Eugene detests creeps onto his face as he hastens across the road.

There's no turning back now... as if Eugene would even want to turn back.

"Now, this is an unexpected sight!"

It's just as it was before: Musho approaches Eugene, buoyant and animated, with a friendly touch. Eugene grinds his teeth as Musho playfully slaps his hand onto his shoulder and refuses to recede.

"Star in Zau's borders! I thought you had left this place behind you for good. But here you are, right in front of me!"

Musho's voice is lively. It doesn't have the sheer volume and force that comes with alcohol's influence, but it's still light as it bounces through the air.

How many times has this deceptively bright voice gone low as it sentenced Eugene's boy to further suffering?

"I was remembering a game... Risha made me play."

Flint had finally come out from beneath his bed. Eugene kept his hands on his lap— Flint had made it clear he did not want to be touched— as he hung onto Flint's every word, dreading whatever would come next. But he bit his tongue and forced his face blank, letting Flint share the burden of his memory.

Flint reached out and took one of Eugene's hands. Eugene flinched.

"He'd tear off all my nails, one by one..." Flint grazed the end of Eugene's fingers with his fingertips, each motion heavy with thought. "And for each time I screamed or cried, he'd break one of my fingers."

Eugene was thankful that Flint's focus was on his hand. That way, he couldn't see the tears he blinked from his eyes. He bit his tongue harder, a coppery taste filling his mouth as Flint let out a wry laugh.

"I... I wasn't very good at that game."

Adrenaline races through Eugene's veins, screaming at him to act. Though he keeps his hands plunged in his pockets, they itch towards the dagger on his belt as if possessed.

"Tell me, what brings you here, old friend?" Musho asks. "Surely you didn't just wander your way back."

It takes all the restraint and force in Eugene's body, making his muscles all go tight, to put forward a smile in response.

Not yet. Musho will be dead soon, but not yet.

"I had business to take care of," Eugene says, each word harder to force out than the last. "And I figured before I left, I might as well pay my old associate a visit."

If Musho has noticed the strain in Eugene's voice, he doesn't show it. He remains perked in posture as he finally drops his hand from Eugene's shoulder.

"Daw, how thoughtful! Well, personally, I'd love to hear of your recent escapades, and I have quite the damn tale to tell myself. The last couple of years have been quite eventful, let me tell you. I hope you're ready for a real story, Star."

'Yes, go on. Tell me about all the pain you put my son through.'

The thought rattles through Eugene's skull, resonating louder and louder. He bits his lip to keep the words from escaping his mouth.

"... You tend not to disappoint on that front, Musho," he says instead. He turns towards the bar's entrance, removing his gaze from the man's yellowing teeth. "Shall we grab a drink?"

"Hm..." Musho's gaze flickers to the bar, then back to Eugene. "Not here. They're closing soon. I was going to catch a quick drink here, but with you here? We're going to need more than a few minutes."

"...Where to, then?"

"...Home, I suppose. I have plenty of alcohol stored away, though drinking in the house is nowhere near as fun as going out."

Eugene raises his brow. "You're inviting a notorious thief into your house?"

"No, I'm inviting you. Hah, I kid, I kid!" Musho snorts out an obnoxious laugh as he pokes Eugene with his elbow. "I know you, Star. You're the last person I'd expect to steal from me. You're a man of honor."

'As if you'd know a thing of honor.'

This thought rings louder than last. Eugene digs his teeth deeper into his lip, keeping the words submerged.

Eugene nods, and Musho turns his back to him.

"It's agreed, then. I'll lead the way."

Musho begins to walk forward. Eugene follows, the pleasant image of his blade lodged between the man's shoulder blades easing the trembling of his arms.

* * *

"Leave your shoes at the door. Oh, and grab those files on the counter there."

Musho unlocks his front door and steps through the entryway. Eugene steps in after him, instantly allured by the warm reds and oranges of the decor. It was far from aristocratic, but the house was well-furnished with a respectable sense of style. Framed paintings with signatures tucked in their corner, vases and ornaments strategically scattered throughout, cream walls accenting a rouge carpet— Eugene hadn't expected Musho to keep such an orderly, welcoming home.

Funny how that works: he causes such grief only to return to the sweet embrace of his upper-middle class status.

A bundle of files waits near the door. Eugene counts at least ten folders stacked on top of each other, and when he sweeps them all into his arms, he finds that they are deceptively heavy.

"What are these?" Eugene asks.

Musho looks over his shoulder as he leads Eugene into his dining room. He winks. Eugene, by some miracle, manages to keep his face from contorting into a grimace.

"Well, Star, what's a story without proper presentation?"

Musho snickers, oblivious to how Eugene drags his feet as he bears an increasingly heavy chest.

The dining room table, long and veiled by a white tablecloth, is a welcome sight. Without waiting for Musho's prompt, Eugene sets the files on the foot of the table and slumps into a chair.

"I'll be right back," Musho says. "I have rum in the cellar. Rum and coke fine with you?"

Eugene nods, and Musho disappears into the hallway. He is left with only his convictions and whatever "presentation" lies concealed within those folders.

Eugene stares at the files. The back of his throat begins to ache. It's a fight to swallow.

But he still opens the file sitting on the top of the stack.

Bari's voice from that ever lingering night— from that moment outside the motel room— reverberates in his ears.

"Flint stabbed him with his own pocket knife before he could do anything to me. Then he got off me, stumbled towards Flint while reaching for him, and Flint stabbed him again. Right in the throat, that time."

Bari paused, likely trying to gauge Eugene's demeanor. There wasn't much to analyze; just as before, he had his face hidden by his arms as his folded hands laid atop his forehead. Bari probably wanted to hear Eugene speak, but there was nothing for the man to put into words. There was only the melancholy of a long, miserable realization.

Bari finally continued after a heavy exhale. "...He collapsed, and Flint sorta just... snapped. Started stabbing him over and over again, screaming for him to die long after he was already dead. It admittedly scared me at first— I mean, you should've seen it. But it was more sad to watch, than anything. And it probably did more harm for him than good. Almost immediately, he was in and out of reality. He... told me later he was scared of himself because of what he did."

Eugene can understand why. The sight was horrific.

Inside the file is a pair of autopsy reports accompanied by photos of the respective naked bodies sprawled across metal tables. The first corpse— that of Gabriel Rinno— was largely unscathed aside from the massive, gaping stab wound in the stomach that drained it of life. It was night and day compared to the second; the man that Flint killed.

The stab wounds that coated the corpse of Keres Risha were countless.

Most were on the torso, bundled together on the stomach and the chest. Eugene can't tell where each entry of the knife began and ended— the wounds blurred together into longer, jagged cuts where the flesh hardly clung to the body. But the examiners were able to see what he can't, giving an exact number to the pocket knife's blows:

Thirty-three.

Flint stabbed this man thirty-three times.

Most of the wounds were inflicted post-mortem. The man was already dead, but the blade kept plunging in and out of his skin.

It's hard to imagine this being done by Flint's hands— kind, sincere Flint who would always run off to pet the nearest dog or chase a group of geese. Gentle, caring Flint who would dote on his little sister and carry her on his back if she got too tired to walk. Eugene's sweet, thoughtful little boy who was an eager big brother to his younger siblings.

It hurts to know he was pushed this far, and knowing how that act left its mark transformed the hurt into a pulsing, lasting ache.

"I can't... I can't... I can't..."

It was only a butter knife. The instant Flint held it, however, a haze swamped his eye as he sprung up from his chair and threw it across the room.

"I can't... I can't... I can't...!"

His breaths were quick and shallow as he backed into the wall. Eugene rushed to him, but had long learned not to touch him. He instead bent down onto his knee, staring up at his trembling son.

"You're okay, Flint. You're safe." Eugene spoke in a whisper. "Can you hear me? Nod if you can hear me."

Flint swallowed, gasped for air, then nodded.

"Good, good—"

"Don't say that!" Flint snapped, throwing his hands over his ears. "Don't say it like that! He'd always say it like that! He'd say it w-when I finally listened a-and did what he said so he could keep hurting me and—!"

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I understand." With the little leeway his voice had, Eugene raised it. "Listen. Could you hold your hands out for me?"

Flint sniffed, took another sharp gasp of air, and nodded again. He slowly inched his shaky hands away from his ears, then cautiously extended out his palms as if begging. He couldn't hold them steady; they looked ready to retract at any moment.

But as Eugene looked up into a wary eye clouded with memory, he counted his blessings. This was a delicate trust he held dear.

Eugene reached for Flint's waistband and unlatched the keychain attached to his belt loop. At the end of the chain was a plush ball covered with long, yellow faux fur. He plopped it into Flint's hands, and Flint clenched it as he brought his fists to his chest. He frantically combed through the fur with his thumbs.

"Remember to breathe, Flint," Eugene said. "Would you like to talk through this? I'm here to listen."

"... I can't hold it," Flint murmured, drawing the plush ball to his chin. "The knife... I can't hold the knife..."

"Why? Is there something wrong with the knife?"

"...I... I killed him with it."

A hand slaps onto Eugene's shoulder. He jumps and hears Musho laugh behind him.

"Did I actually manage to sneak up on the great Starid? Are we getting a bit careless?" Musho leans forward, peeking over Eugene's shoulder. "Oh, wow. Of all the files to open first. You sure picked a doozy."

"...A 'doozy.'"

Eugene closes the folder and swivels in his chair. He faces Musho, who is holding a sealed bottle of gold rum.

"Yes. These were two of my men: my best disciplinarian and a poor dolt who was in the wrong place at the wrong time. A couple of inmates killed them— or, well, I guess 'inmate' isn't the right word anymore." Musho snorts, sounding almost amused as he places the rum on the table. "They're escaped convicts now."

"These men... were they in the crossfire of an escape?" Eugene asks (as if he's not fully aware of the circumstances behind their deaths).

"Exactly. Just wait till you see the pipsqueak who turned Keres into a knife block! Scrawny little thing. I always knew he was crazy, but I had no idea the kid was a straight-up violent lunatic."

Eugene says nothing in response. He only slants away from Musho as a pounding pain fills his skull.

"Deep breaths, Flint. Remember, deep breaths."

It was one of those rare moments where Flint threw himself onto Eugene, face flushed red and coated in tears. Eugene always embraced these moments, taking the chance to hold his boy close and run his hand through his hair. It brought budding nostalgia— Flint would rarely ever cry as a child, but when he did, he'd latch onto Eugene like an infant.

"I didn't mean to." Flint's breath hitched as he spoke. He always had a bit of an accent from his years in Zau, but it noticeably thickened as he fought back sobs. "I didn't want to hurt it."

Eugene drew his brows together, a line forming between them. It was only when Flint flicked his head back to glance at the sidewalk that Eugene understood.

The butterfly's aquamarine wings only twitched once before going motionless. It remained sprawled across the sidewalk where it had once sat unnoticed, oozing a slickly green goop from its crushed limbs.

"Oh, Flint..."

"Believe me!" Flint screamed, voice wavering in his desperation. "I-I didn't mean to step on it! I didn't mean to hurt it! Really! I didn't mean it!"

"I know, I know. Of course you didn't. It's alright—"

"But I killed it! It's all my fault! Everything! But I never— I never wanted to hurt anybody! But they all— they all— they all just kept hurting me!"

Musho's words couldn't have been more backward.

Musho walks to a cabinet in the corner of the room, its doors made of freshly-polished glass to display the decorative plates and cups that line the shelves. He grabs the two simplest glasses from inside and places them beside the rum.

"It's insane. Not only has the city been on my ass because of this, but Zau's government won't lay off me, either! It's been over a year, and I'm still slaving over these files every other week," Musho continues. Eugene just now notices how worn the folders are at their edges. "...Guess I oughta hurry up so I could get to telling the full story, huh? Just let me grab the coke, and I'll sit right down, alright?"

Without waiting for Eugene's answer, Musho once again scampers off and disappears into the hallway.

Eugene couldn't have imagined a more perfect scenario if he tried.

The second Musho's out of sight, Eugene breathes in and pulls his vile from his pocket. Though he acts with crucial haste, he wills his hands to remain steady as he screws open the rum and pours the bronze liquid into the glasses, filling them roughly halfway. A bit of rum splashes onto the table that he rushes to wipe away with his sleeve as he pops open the vile. He sprinkles a white, crystalized powder into one of the glasses— Musho's glass. The white specs float on the surface, Eugene's gaze darting to find something to use as a mixer. He settles on using the vile itself, sticking it into the drink and swirling it until the white disintegrates.

When Eugene slips the vile back into his pocket, he finally allows himself to breathe out. Not a moment too soon, Musho re-emerges, hauling a twelve-pack of cola beneath his arm. He lifts a brow at the sight of the filled glasses, but there is delight in his smile.

"Oh! You made yourself useful!"

Eugene nods. "Yes. Now sit down. I want to hear your story."

"Alright, alright. Don't get your panties in a bunch!"

Musho sits in the chair beside Eugene and drops the twelve-pack to the floor. He tears an opening and tosses a can into Eugene's hands.

"...Guess I should start by setting the scene. It was a pretty normal day... I think it was a weekday." Musho cracks open a can of his own. He pours the soda into his glass and mixes it with his pointer finger. "There was an incident earlier in the morning— a brat managed to weasel his way out from the common area. But that kid was always everywhere he shouldn't be, so even that wasn't unusual. But in the middle of the day, boom! A bunch of inmates start fighting each other, it quickly devolves into an all-out brawl, and all my men are caught completely off guard."

Musho pauses to bring his glass to his lips.

Eugene struggles not to stare, settling for intently watching him from the corner of his eye as he pours his cola into his glass. For a moment, questions he has hardly considered suddenly rush him, trying to knock him from his chair. What if Musho gets thrown off by the taste? What if he suddenly wises up, throws his glass down, and questions Eugene's intent?

As Musho throws his head back, Eugene's anxieties are thrown along with it. The fool downs the drink in one go, slamming the glass back onto the table with a satisfied sigh.

His fate has been sealed.

Eugene would like to think the exact time is thirty-three minutes.

Thirty-three minutes, slowly counting down. Thirty-three minutes until Musho dies. And any minute now, Eugene won't have to keep up his ruse...

But not yet.

He won't let the opportunity to toy with him slip through his fingers.

He will taunt Musho just as Musho's men taunted his son.

"It took over an hour for my men to get everything back under control. Once the prison was in lockdown... well, someone found Rinno's body in the hall. There was another man there, too, barely conscious. I had to run down to deal with that, and as I'm trying to find out what happened from this guy who could hardly get a word out, someone rushes down shouting 'you're not gonna believe this!' And, well, I didn't believe it!" Musho laughs. Eugene wonders how much the lives of his men meant to him, if at all. "Keres was the last person I expected to get killed on the job, but I had to believe it when I saw that mess of a body. Barely had time to comprehend it all when I was told we had three prisoners unaccounted for."

As Eugene feigns a sip of his drink, Musho reaches for the files. He digs through them to retrieve three files, one notably thinner than the other two. He lines them side by side in front of Eugene before opening them, unveiling mugshots that top each of them.

The man in the first mugshot isn't anyone Eugene recognizes: dark skin adorned by beauty marks, dark eyes, dark hair with red highlights at its tips. This must be Dami. Bari hadn't spoken highly of him, but Eugene read between the lines and noticed a begrudged gratitude Bari held.

The second mugshot is of Bari— Eugene has to look for a long moment to recognize him. Bari's typical jet-black hair was dyed a stark, blinding blond that threw Eugene off completely, even though everything else about him was exactly the same. The color didn't suit him, but the half-agitated, half-exacerbated glare on his face was patently Bari. The camera caught him mid-eye roll, and Eugene could practically hear the tapping of his feet just by looking at the photo alone. It was the same person Eugene reunited with at that motel.

The third mugshot results in whiplash from that familiarity.

The Flint that Eugene found in that motel was scarred, yes, but he was also well-kempt. His hair was neatly trimmed, his skin was free of fresh wounds, and his remaining eye was brimming with many emotions that muddied together. The Flint he sees in the mugshot before him almost looks like a deliberate antithesis: his wild hair was long and uncut, tangled, and matted, inexplicable stains smeared his jumpsuit, and his eyes were dull, reflecting no light. The most immediate detail, however, that captures Eugene and refuses to relent is the red, swelling mark on his cheek and the cut oozing blood on the side of his face.

The Flint that Eugene found in the motel had escaped his personal hell. The Flint that Eugene now stares at was still caught in the middle of it.

"Twenty..."

None of Eugene's children, save for Alister, knew their exact birth dates. To compensate, Eugene simply asked each of them to choose a day to call their birthday. Flint chose a day in mid-October.

The day was approaching soon. Flint stared at the calendar hung up on the fridge, his eye half-lidded as if in a daze. Eugene watched him from the kitchen table

"...I lost track of the years, so I'm not sure if I'm right." Flint looked back at Eugene. "But if what Bari told me is true... I'm going to be turning twenty, right?"

Eugene nodded. Flint looked back at the calendar, lips drawn back in a pained wince.

"...Twenty." He choked on the word. "It's kind of sad to think about, you know. All my teenage years... they were wasted in that place."

There's nothing more Eugene wants than to slam the file shut. However, the mugshot holds its grip, keeping him hostage to the pair of eyes worn down by years of constant, unyielding anguish.

"We eventually concluded the massive fight was just a ploy to escape set up by these three. A gang leader, a kid who's barely been there for a month, and a crazy, stubborn brat." Musho tilts his head, noting Eugene's captivation. "Curious about that brat, eh? That, right there, is Keres's murderer."

Musho says nothing more, likely expecting Eugene to look up at him in awe. To gawk in disbelief. To question him. To doubt him. But Eugene just keeps his gaze on the mugshot, no longer fighting the scowl that hardened his features like stone.

"He's bleeding," he says.

"Yeah, he was being pretty damn difficult that day." Musho groaned at the memory as he reached for the rum. "He was young, so we had to keep updating his mugshot as he got older. It should've been a quick process, but he fought like we were gonna hang him."

"Considering the scars on his face, I'm sure he had reason to assume the worst."

"Oh, don't pity him. It was his own doing. Crazy brat was set on escaping."

Eugene watches Musho's face as he pours and mixes a second drink. It's relaxed, at ease. The corner of his mouth is quirked upward in a slight grin— a sight that makes heat flood Eugene's face.

"...The last time we met, you told me a story," Eugene says through bared teeth. "A boy set on escaping...and a guard who treated him as his toy. A guard who branded the word 'prisoner' on his stomach."

"Oh, I did? I don't remember. Perhaps I was already too drunk to recall!"

Musho's voice goes high with another chortle, still ever so careless despite Eugene letting his mask slip. Eugene closes his eyes and pictures strangling him until it's nothing more than a faint, hoarse whisper.

"...There's something I'm failing to comprehend, Musho."

"And that is?"

Eugene opens his eyes and glares directly at the man beside him. Musho flinches and leans backward, the whites of his eyes standing out against the pale blue of his irises.

"You call this boy crazy. You call him a lunatic. But what else did you expect to happen? Would you not lash out at your torturer if given the chance? Or are you going to pretend that you're above that when you're not above ordering the mutilation of a child?"

Musho's arm jerks in a sudden convulsion, sending the glass in his hand crashing to the ground. The glass shatters. Brown liquid flows past the legs of the chairs.

Eugene doesn't give it recognition, continuing to speak without pause.

"If you are to call the boy a lunatic, then you must recognize that he's only a lunatic you've created. Everyone wound, every blow dealt on Risha's body— you are equally to blame."

Musho opens his mouth to respond, but his eyes clamp shut in a sudden spasm. His legs kick. His arm jerks again. Eugene's gaze darts to the clock hanging above the entryway.

Twenty-seven minutes. Musho has twenty-seven minutes to live.

Each second will be precious.

"What the fuck—" Musho speaks in a gasp as half of his face scrunches inward, one eye squeezing shut as the other goes wide. "What the fuck— has gotten into—?!"

"I'm grateful that you're such a heavy drinker, Musho. You chug everything down without thought, so you didn't notice the taste."

"You— What did you do?!"

Eugene stands from his chair, his expression easing into a cold, blank stare. "Those convulsions are going to go on for a bit. They'll get worse, and eventually, you'll stop breathing and die of asphyxiation. Or perhaps you'll go into cardiac arrest, first. Either way, the result is the same."

"You— You poisoned me?!"

"And here I thought you would be too oblivious to read between the lines."

Eugene turns away, stepping towards the cabinet and glancing over the fine china displayed inside. He puts his finger on the glass, tracing over a leaf-based pattern etched into a plate. He hears a thud of a heavy body falling to the ground.

"Why?!" Musho shouts.

Eugene peers over his shoulder to see Musho trying to push himself back to his feet, but his arms spasm and send him plummeting back to the floor. He looks back at the china, keeping his back turned.

"Perhaps I was just trying to make the world a better place, Musho."

"Don't bullshit me! You're no righteous poser!"

Despite himself, Eugene lets out a short chuckle. "You're right. I'm acting only out of spite."

"For what?!" There's another thud of a collapsing body. "I haven't done shit to you!"

"...The last time we met, I told you about my children. Do you remember that?"

"Your children—?! What does that have to do with—?!"

"Do you remember that, Musho?"

"Yes, yes! Vaguely! You said one of them died or something!"

"My eldest." Eugene hangs his head, his hands shaking at his sides. "I said that my eldest died."

"Starid! Stop toying with me and get to the fucking point!"

"The fucking point, Musho, is that I was wrong. My eldest was alive." Eugene's body goes tense, his trembling shoulders rising as his hands clench. "My boy's alive, but he's endured more than I could think to imagine. He's alive, but you can see it. His body— it's absolutely drowning in all sorts of scars, head to toe. He's still so young, but he already has clumps of white hair sprouting in his bangs. He's missing an eye; the socket's damaged beyond repair."

Eugene finally turns around. He stomps to Musho, standing over him with a puffed chest and his breaths slow and deep like a boar's. Musho gawks up at him, and although his face twists and contorts in continuous spasms, Eugene can see the realization forming.

"There are letters burned across his stomach," he says. "I'm sure you can guess what it spells out."

Musho slackens his jaw. He blinks harshly, though Eugene can't tell if it's from the spasms.

"He's... your kid." The words spill from Musho's gaping mouth slowly. "He's... your kid. God... god dammit! Of course he's your kid, it makes too much damn sense! Brat had your stubbornness!"

"Funny, you always liked me for that trait." Eugene lowered himself to his knees. "You're not completely right, though. My boy's much more resilient than his old man ever was."

"Yeah, right. Your brat was quite the crier, let me tell you—"

Musho shrieks as Eugene's fist flies straight into his stomach. The wind is knocked from his lungs.

He tries to wrap his hands around his stomach, but his arms are no longer his own as they twitch and thrash of their own accord. His eyes, hardened and bitter, only now begin to shift into horror as he watches Eugene take the dagger from his belt. His pupil dilates as if to swallow the sight whole.

"You're going to die, Musho." All the hatred, all the anger, all the frustration and sorrow that Eugene had swallowed back bleeds out from his voice full force. There's no more need to restrain anything. "There's only one variable at hand..."

He brandishes the blade dangerously close to the man's face.

"And that's how excruciating I choose to make your death."

"No, don't—"

Musho's jaw locks. He struggles to speak past it, past the convulsions that are only growing more violent by the second. But even if he managed to spit out what he fought so hard to say, Eugene wouldn't care to hear it.

No one listened to his son's pleas. No one showed his son mercy.

So Eugene aims straight for the eye.

* * *

Eugene couldn't imagine what kind of monster could do such a thing for fun. It was the most disgusting thing he's done in his life.

He stands in the bathroom, letting the sink run water over his bloodied hands. So many overwhelming, wrenching emotions rush through him, but there's also a release that fills him with pure euphoria.

He's done what he came here to do.

His boy's waiting for him at home.

He's ready to go home.