Morning in Graybridge had a special kind of damp that made brick look tired and people look guilty. The guild hall’s front steps were slick with mist, the street smelled like wet concrete and burned coffee, and the building itself creaked like it was trying to remember what dignity felt like. Upstairs, the lobby was technically cleaner than it had been a week ago, which meant you could now see the stains without tripping over them. The workstation fan hummed on the front desk like a tiny mechanical heartbeat, the chandelier flickered in bursts of commitment issues, and the crate of polyester capes sat in the corner with the quiet menace of a threat that was also a bulk purchase. Regis Vale stood at the window, hands behind his back, watching pedestrians hustle by and pretending he didn’t care what any of them thought. He cared enough to hate caring, which was a different kind of caring, and he refused to be psychologically audited by his own conscience.

  Seraphine Park strode across the lobby with her binder open, already juggling contractor schedules, escrow clauses, and a handwritten list titled “Things We Cannot Let Otto Touch.” Her voice was steady, sharp, and calm in the way that made a person feel both safe and judged. “The pest control contractor is scheduled for noon,” she said, tapping the page with a pen like it was a gavel. “Electrical inspection at three. Mold assessment tomorrow morning. We will be present for all of it. We will document. We will not accept surprise work. We will not accept ‘my cousin can do it cheaper.’” Her eyes flicked to Otto as she said the last line.

  Otto Pritchard hovered near the basement stairwell with a coil of cord and the posture of a man trying to look helpful without being perceived as a threat. “I wasn’t going to say cousin,” he protested, excited voice threaded with anxious jokes. “I was going to say ‘unlicensed genius.’”

  Seraphine didn’t blink. “No,” she replied.

  Otto nodded quickly. “Okay. I will be licensed later. In my heart.”

  Juno Alvarez sprawled across a chair like it owed her rent, boots up on a table Seraphine had just wiped, grin bright enough to be dangerous. “If the mold assessor sees the capes,” Juno said, “do you think they’ll file us as a psychological hazard?”

  Nia Kade sat on the arm of a different chair, posture relaxed, eyes sharp. She was stitching the tiny tracking tag into a small pouch like she was making a pet out of it. “If the mold assessor is smart,” Nia said softly, “they’ll pretend they didn’t.”

  Caleb Ward stood near the coffee station, carefully changing the filter with the gravity of a man disarming a bomb. He had stopped apologizing to gravity, but he still apologized to appliances. “I think I did it right,” he said, sincere and humble, holding the coffee pot like it might file a complaint.

  Mara Quell leaned against the wall near the front door, arms folded, gaze calm and watchful. She didn’t speak, but she shifted half an inch when footsteps passed outside, as if her body did threat math without notifying her brain.

  Regis turned from the window and spoke without raising his voice, clipped and controlled. “We are not a charity,” he said. “We are not a joke. We are not a caped pawnshop.” His eyes flicked to the crate, then to Seraphine. “We will establish a predictable supply chain and predictable responses. If Baron Silt wants predictability, he can predict this. I will dismantle him politely.”

  Seraphine’s mouth tightened. “Politely,” she repeated.

  Regis nodded once. “With receipts,” he added.

  Juno’s grin widened. “Violence goes to die, but paperwork goes to kill,” she said, then cupped her hands around her mouth and stage whispered at the ceiling, “That’s our brand.”

  Before Seraphine could correct her, the air in the lobby changed. Not a chill, not a magical wind, just a subtle shift in pressure, like the building itself sensed someone important approaching and didn’t know whether to lock the door or clean up. Mara straightened a fraction. Nia’s eyes lifted. Regis’s expression didn’t move, but the muscles in his jaw tightened slightly, because his instincts never forgot what power felt like when it walked on the same street as you.

  A sound rolled toward the building from outside, a blend of slow wheels, soft chimes, and the faintly theatrical scrape of something ornate being dragged across concrete. It was not subtle. It was not polite. It was attention arriving in advance of its owner. Juno slid her boots off the table so fast it almost looked like maturity, and Caleb froze mid coffee pour, eyes wide. Seraphine closed her binder and held it tighter like it could become a shield. Otto whispered, “Oh no,” with the reverence of a man who knew science could not save him from drama.

  The front door opened without anyone knocking, not because it was unlocked, but because the lock decided it didn’t want to be part of this. A wave of perfume hit the lobby, rich and dark and expensive, like roses that had witnessed a crime. Then Lady Rancor stepped inside.

  She arrived like a gothic parade float that had gained sentience and opinions. Her dress was layered black fabric, glossy and matte, stitched with subtle runes that didn’t glow but looked like they could if she got bored. Her hair was a cascade of midnight curls pinned with silver clips shaped like thorns. Her lips were painted a deep red that didn’t look fashionable, it looked deliberate. Jewelry hung at her throat and wrists in shapes that suggested trophies, and her eyes were bright, sharp, and delighted in the way a predator looked delighted when it found a new puzzle. Two thin attendants followed behind her, pale and silent, carrying a long rectangular gift box wrapped in black paper with a ribbon the color of fresh blood. The box was too big for anything good.

  Lady Rancor smiled at the room like she owned it, then looked directly at Regis Vale and smiled wider, as if she’d found a joke she’d been waiting to tell. “Regis,” she said, dramatic and teasing, voice smooth enough to sound polite while threatening a nightmare. “What a charming ruin you have.”

  Seraphine stepped forward, steady and sharp. “You are not scheduled,” she said.

  Lady Rancor’s gaze slid to Seraphine and the smile sharpened. “You must be Seraphine Park,” she purred. “The conscience. The binder. The adorable moral obstacle.”

  Seraphine’s posture stayed formal. “State your purpose,” she said, voice calm in a way that meant she was one insult away from violence.

  Lady Rancor’s eyes returned to Regis, and the air felt heavier, like the room had decided to listen. “I am the Alignment of Evil liaison,” she said, voice lilting, dramatic. “I am Lady Rancor. I bring greetings from those who still remember what power looks like when it stops pretending it’s helpful.”

  Juno leaned toward Caleb and whispered loudly, “Is this a job interview or a funeral?”

  Caleb whispered back, sincere and alarmed, “Both?”

  Nia said nothing. She simply watched Lady Rancor the way a person watched a knife someone else was twirling for fun.

  Regis’s voice remained clipped and controlled. “Greetings received,” he said. “State the rest.”

  Lady Rancor took one step closer, and the sound of her heels on the floor felt like punctuation. She tilted her head, studying him with bright curiosity. “You’re mysteriously familiar,” she said softly, and that sentence had too much weight for how lightly she spoke it. “It’s strange. I look at you and my teeth want to grin, but my instincts want to kneel, and my memory wants to scream.” She blinked once, as if irritated by her own thoughts, then laughed lightly. “How inconvenient.”

  Seraphine’s eyes narrowed. “He is the acting guild master of this branch,” she said firmly. “If you’re here to disrupt operations, leave.”

  Lady Rancor’s gaze flicked to Seraphine with a flash of amusement. “Operations,” she repeated, savoring the word like it was cute. Then her eyes snapped back to Regis, and the amusement shifted into something sharper, like flirtation wrapped in a blade. “You’re wearing a face I don’t recognize,” she said, then leaned in slightly as if sharing a secret. “But you’re shaped like someone I miss hating.”

  Regis did not move. His composure was perfect. His mind, however, slammed into an abyss and began screaming into it with the kind of silent fury that made galaxies nervous. He kept his voice smooth and cold. “You are mistaken,” he said. “That is a common condition.”

  Lady Rancor’s smile widened, and it was the kind of smile that meant she enjoyed being told no. “Oh,” she said, dramatic, teasing, “you even deny like him.”

  Juno’s hand shot up like she was in class. “Question,” she said, grin bright, voice fast. “Are we doing a romcom subplot right now?”

  Seraphine snapped, “Juno.”

  Lady Rancor turned her head toward Juno slowly, as if deciding whether to admire her audacity or remove it. “You are adorable,” Lady Rancor said. “If you keep speaking, I might keep you.”

  Juno nodded enthusiastically. “That’s fair.”

  Mara shifted, subtle and silent, stepping half a pace so her body was between Lady Rancor and the civilians in the lobby, but she did it so smoothly it looked like she’d always been there. Lady Rancor’s eyes flicked to Mara for a heartbeat, then away, as if acknowledging a deterrent without respecting it yet.

  Lady Rancor snapped her fingers once. The attendants stepped forward with the long gift box and set it gently on the front desk beside the humming workstation like they were placing a coffin next to a baby. The ribbon gleamed. The black paper looked too expensive to waste on something that would not hurt someone’s feelings.

  “A diplomatic gift,” Lady Rancor announced, voice bright with fake innocence, “for the Graybridge branch. Consider it a gesture of goodwill. Consider it a warning. Consider it… entertainment.”

  Seraphine’s voice stayed steady but tight. “We do not accept gifts from hostile parties,” she said.

  Lady Rancor smiled wider. “It’s not hostile,” she said sweetly. “It’s affectionate.”

  Regis looked at the box. He did not flinch. “Open it,” he said, voice clipped.

  Seraphine hissed, “Regis.”

  Regis didn’t look at her. “Open it,” he repeated, tone unchanged. “We do not allow unknown objects to remain sealed in our building.”

  Otto whispered, excited and terrified, “This is how bombs happen.”

  Nia’s eyes stayed on the box, calm. “This is how embarrassment happens,” she murmured.

  Caleb stepped closer, earnest. “I can open it carefully,” he offered.

  Lady Rancor’s gaze slid to Caleb. “You are precious,” she said, then waved a hand lazily. “Do it.”

  Caleb swallowed, grabbed the ribbon like it might bite, and untied it slowly. The bow fell apart with the soft sound of expensive material losing its dignity. He peeled back the black paper, revealing a sleek white box beneath with elegant lettering. His eyes narrowed as he read. “What is that?” he asked, and his voice had the tone of a man recognizing danger but not yet understanding its shape.

  Juno craned her neck. “Read it,” she urged. “Out loud. Drama demands it.”

  Caleb read it anyway, voice faltering. “Aurelius Grimm,” he said. “Collector’s Edition. Full body comfort pillow. Premium plush. Scented.”

  Seraphine went still. Her face did not change at first. Then something behind her eyes sparked, confusion and moral outrage colliding like two cars in a parking lot. “Excuse me?” she said, steady voice sharpening into a weapon.

  Regis maintained perfect composure while mentally falling into an abyss, punching the abyss, then screaming at the abyss for not having a manager. His voice remained clipped and controlled. “Remove it,” he said, and the sentence sounded like he was talking about hazardous waste.

  Caleb lifted the lid slowly. Inside was a vacuum sealed bundle of fabric that looked innocuous for half a second, and then the seal popped with a soft whoosh and the pillow expanded with the slow confidence of something that had been designed by a person who hated decency. It unfurled into an unmistakable full length body pillow, printed in vivid detail with the image of Aurelius Grimm in full villain regalia, dark armor, cape, cold eyes, and a faint smirk that looked like it knew it didn’t belong here. The pillow’s hair looked glossy. The armor highlights looked lovingly rendered. The expression looked like it had been curated by someone who had stared at his face too long and decided to monetize obsession. A tag dangled from the seam that read Squeeze For Comfort.

  For one solid heartbeat, the lobby went silent except for the workstation fan.

  Then Juno made a choking sound, half laughter, half disbelief. “No way,” she gasped. “No. Way.”

  Otto whispered, awestruck, “That’s… incredible craftsmanship.”

  Seraphine turned her head slowly toward Otto with a look that could strip paint. Otto clamped his mouth shut and raised both hands. “I mean, terrible,” he corrected quickly. “Morally.”

  Nia’s gaze stayed fixed on the pillow, expression unreadable. “Scented,” she said quietly, like that was the most damning detail.

  Caleb stared at the pillow, face red, and then looked at Regis like he’d just found a dead body in the break room. “Why is there a body pillow of him?” Caleb asked, sincere and horrified. “Who would make that?”

  Lady Rancor clasped her hands under her chin and beamed, dramatic and teasing. “I would,” she said. “I did. It’s a limited run. The Alignment of Evil has merchandising initiatives. We’re very modern now.”

  This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  Seraphine’s voice rose, controlled anger breaking through discipline. “This is obscene,” she said. “This is harassment. This is… this is psychologically invasive.”

  Lady Rancor blinked, then pouted slightly, and the pout carried the energy of a tantrum that could level a block. “It’s a gift,” she said, tone sharp with fake innocence. “It’s diplomacy. It’s satire. It’s adorable.”

  Regis kept his face neutral. Inside his head, he was lighting every concept on fire. He stared at the pillow like it had personally insulted his ancestors. “Remove it from my desk,” he said softly, and that softness was more threatening than shouting.

  Lady Rancor’s eyes brightened at the softness, cheeks coloring just a fraction, and she looked genuinely pleased. “You’re still like this,” she murmured, then frowned a second later as if she’d said too much. “I mean, you are still… like yourself.” She straightened and returned to dramatic teasing. “You can keep it,” she said. “It’s comforting. It reminds you of home.”

  Seraphine snapped, “He does not need comfort from a villain body pillow.”

  Juno leaned over the desk and poked the pillow’s printed armor. “Does it come with a voice box?” she asked. “Because if it says ‘kneel’ I’m leaving.”

  Lady Rancor laughed brightly. “No voice box,” she said. “But if you squeeze the right area, it crinkles.”

  Juno froze. “Nope,” she said. “Absolutely not.”

  Mara stepped closer, silent deterrent energy intensifying, and gently lifted the pillow with two fingers like it was contaminated. She didn’t grimace, but her eyes held a blunt question. “Trash?” Mara asked.

  Regis’s voice stayed clipped. “Hold,” he said.

  Mara paused, then held the pillow at arm’s length like she was carrying a bag of something that could leak dignity. She did not look amused. She looked like she was reconsidering the entire concept of textiles.

  Lady Rancor watched Mara holding it and sighed theatrically. “Such disrespect,” she said. “It’s art.”

  Seraphine’s voice remained steady but sharp. “State your real purpose,” she said. “You didn’t come here to deliver a pillow.”

  Lady Rancor’s eyes slid back to Regis, and the air felt heavier again. “I came for you,” she said, and she didn’t bother pretending otherwise. Her dramatic tone softened into something more intimate, more dangerous. “Come home.”

  Regis didn’t blink. “No,” he said, zero warmth.

  Lady Rancor’s smile flickered, and for a moment her expression looked like a person being rejected who didn’t know whether to cry or stab. Then she recovered with a laugh that sounded too bright. “Oh,” she said, and the word came out like she’d bitten into it. “Still the same. Still cold. Still pretending you’re above us.” Her gaze sharpened, flirtation turning into threat in the same breath. “You cannot hide in a broken guild hall forever. Your scent is wrong. Your face is wrong. But you feel… familiar. Like a shadow wearing a mask.”

  Seraphine stepped forward, steady and firm. “He is not leaving,” she said. “And you are not recruiting in this building.”

  Lady Rancor’s eyes flashed. “You,” she said to Seraphine, voice dramatic, teasing threats curling around the words, “are bold. I like bold. Bold people either become legends or puddles. Which do you prefer?”

  Seraphine’s jaw tightened, but her voice did not waver. “I prefer lawful consequences,” she said.

  Lady Rancor’s mouth twitched, amused despite herself. “Oh, you’re cute,” she said. “You think the law matters to me.”

  Clarissa Wye chose that exact moment to walk in, because consequences loved entrances almost as much as villains did. The front door opened again, and Clarissa stepped into the lobby with her rolling suitcase of binders like a storm in business attire. Her gaze landed on Lady Rancor first, then the expanded body pillow in Mara’s hands, then Regis’s face, then Seraphine’s expression. Clarissa’s mouth tightened. “What,” Clarissa said, legal tone flat, “is happening.”

  Juno lifted a hand. “Diplomacy,” she said cheerfully.

  Nia murmured, almost inaudible, “Harassment.”

  Otto whispered, “Merchandise.”

  Clarissa’s eyes narrowed. “Lady Rancor,” Clarissa said, voice crisp and calmly threatening. “Alignment liaison. Your presence here is unfiled.”

  Lady Rancor turned slowly toward Clarissa, and the grin that formed was delighted and mean. “Auditor Wye,” she purred. “Still alive. Still boring. Still trying to make chaos behave with paperwork.”

  Clarissa didn’t flinch. “Still trying,” she replied. “Still succeeding.”

  Lady Rancor laughed softly, then snapped her gaze back to Regis as if Clarissa was a side dish. “Come home,” she repeated, voice sweet and sharp. “You can have real resources. Real allies. Real power. Not this.” She gestured toward the flickering chandelier, the battered desk, the crate of capes, and the sad coffee station like she was pointing at a poverty exhibit. “You can stop playing hero. You can stop pretending you care. You can stop being graded by a cheerful gremlin.”

  Regis’s jaw tightened at the last line, not because she’d insulted him, but because she’d accidentally hit the truth. He kept his voice immaculate. “No,” he said again, and the word was a wall.

  Lady Rancor’s cheeks colored again, like rejection from him was a compliment she couldn’t stop enjoying. “You’re so cruel,” she said, dramatic and teasing, voice wobbling between flirtation and violence. “It makes me want to bite you.” She caught herself, then added quickly, sharper, “Metaphorically. Mostly.”

  Juno leaned toward Caleb and whispered, “This is absolutely a romcom subplot, but written by a serial killer.”

  Caleb whispered back, sincere, “Do we have to watch?”

  Nia said nothing. That silence felt like a knife set on a table.

  Mara shifted again, subtle, placing herself in the clean line between Lady Rancor and everyone else, still holding the body pillow like a cursed trophy. Lady Rancor noticed. Her gaze flicked to Mara, then to the pillow, then back to Regis. “You surround yourself with good people,” Lady Rancor said softly, and the softness made it worse. “That’s either a weakness or a confession.”

  Regis’s voice stayed clipped and controlled. “It is a strategy,” he said.

  Lady Rancor’s smile sharpened. “Everything is a strategy to you,” she said. “That’s why I adore you.”

  Seraphine’s voice snapped, sharp and steady. “Stop,” she said. “You do not speak to him like that.”

  Lady Rancor turned her head toward Seraphine slowly, and the air seemed to thicken as if the room itself felt the threat. “Or what?” Lady Rancor asked, dramatic teasing threat in every syllable. “You’ll file a complaint? You’ll glare? You’ll threaten me with ethics? I have eaten ethics and used them as garnish.”

  Clarissa’s voice cut in, calm and legal. “Threatening civilians in a guild hall during a recorded visit is poor optics,” Clarissa said. “It is also actionable.”

  Lady Rancor blinked, then laughed like the idea delighted her. “Actionable,” she repeated. “You are adorable too.”

  Regis watched the interplay and kept his face neutral, but internally he was building a model. Lady Rancor was dangerous, yes, but she was also performing. She wanted reaction. She wanted a crack. She wanted him to flinch and confirm something she could not prove because the cosmic blind spot still held. She had circled him like a cat around a box, suspicious the box contained a predator. If he gave her anything, she would chew through the gap.

  So he gave her nothing. He gave her politeness so immaculate it felt like a slap.

  “Lady Rancor,” Regis said, voice smooth and cold, no warmth at all, “your offer is declined. Your gift is refused. Your presence is tolerated for the duration of whatever formal nonsense this is. Then you will leave. If you threaten my staff again, you will be removed. Not harmed. Removed. You will be escorted from the property like an unwanted solicitation.”

  Lady Rancor stared at him, lips parting slightly, and her cheeks colored again, brighter this time. She looked furious and pleased at the same time, as if her emotions were trying to fistfight each other. “You,” she hissed, and the word trembled with something dangerously fond. “You’re impossible.”

  Regis didn’t blink. “Yes,” he replied.

  Juno whispered, “He said yes to being impossible. That’s confidence.”

  Lady Rancor’s eyes glinted, and shadows at her feet shifted like they had thoughts. The lights in the lobby flickered, not the usual chandelier drama, but a sharper flicker, like the building itself had flinched. Lady Rancor’s voice lowered, teasing threats turning into nightmare imagery. “Do you know what we do to traitors?” she murmured. “We don’t kill them. Killing is mercy. We make them watch themselves fail. We build a little stage and we put them on it and we let the world laugh until their bones feel hollow. We take their name and we turn it into a joke.” Her eyes stayed locked on Regis. “Come home.”

  Regis’s expression remained perfect. Inside, his mind curled into a quiet, cold rage. “No,” he said, the word almost gentle.

  Lady Rancor made a sound, half laugh, half growl, and for a second it looked like she might actually attack, diplomatic consequences be damned. Mara’s stance shifted, bones ready. Caleb’s shoulders tightened, ready to burst leap. Nia’s fingers flexed slightly, ready to bend perception. Otto’s hand moved toward his nonlethal gadget bag like he was about to throw a net at a high tier villain and pray. Seraphine’s eyes sharpened with calm fury, and Clarissa’s posture went rigid with legal intent, like she was already drafting the report in her head.

  Then Lady Rancor stopped herself, and the stop was almost more frightening than the attack would have been. She inhaled slowly, eyes narrowed, and smoothed her expression back into dramatic amusement. “Fine,” she said brightly. “You want to play hero. You want to sit in your little broken hall and pretend you’re building something. Have fun.” She stepped closer to the desk and tapped the gift box lid lightly as if it were a joke only she understood. “Keep the pillow,” she added, then frowned as if realizing she’d been too generous. “Or burn it. Whatever. Just remember, you don’t get gifts like that from enemies. You get them from people who miss you.”

  Seraphine’s voice was sharp. “We are not keeping it.”

  Mara lifted the pillow slightly like she was ready to throw it directly into the street.

  Lady Rancor’s gaze snapped to Mara and the pillow, and she pouted again, dramatic. “Rude,” she said. Then her eyes returned to Regis, and her expression turned serious, a warning slipping out from under the flirtation. “There is a bigger game,” she said, voice measured for the first time. “Someone in the Guild’s upper ranks is playing Graybridge like a NEX farm. Engineered incidents. Controlled villains. Hero humiliation cycles. You’re not the first branch they’ve tried to starve into obedience.” Her smile returned, sharp and pleased. “But you are the first one that made them nervous.”

  Nia’s eyes narrowed slightly. She didn’t speak, but her silence shifted, suddenly attentive in a way that felt like a door closing.

  Clarissa’s gaze sharpened. “Name,” Clarissa said, legal calm.

  Lady Rancor laughed. “Oh, Auditor,” she said. “If I had a name, I would not be here. I would be somewhere far away, drinking something expensive, watching the fireworks.” She leaned in toward Regis again, close enough that her perfume tried to become a memory. “Be careful,” she murmured. “You are not just fighting Baron Silt. You are fighting a system that profits from your suffering.”

  Regis held her gaze, clipped and controlled. “Noted,” he said.

  Lady Rancor’s cheeks colored again at the lack of warmth, and she looked annoyed about it. “Stop doing that,” she snapped suddenly, and the snap was almost cute if you ignored the murder aura.

  Regis didn’t move. “Doing what?” he asked.

  “Being so calm,” Lady Rancor hissed. “It makes me want to set something on fire.”

  Otto whispered, terrified and fascinated, “Same.”

  Seraphine turned her head slowly toward Otto again.

  Otto snapped his mouth shut and raised both hands. “I meant metaphorically,” he squeaked.

  Lady Rancor stepped back, dramatic composure returning. She turned toward the door with a swirl of black fabric and a final lingering glance over her shoulder at Regis that looked like a promise and a threat having a private argument. “Come home,” she said one more time, voice teasing threats wrapped in velvet. “Or don’t. Either way, I’ll see you again.” Then she smiled at Seraphine. “Try not to combust,” she added sweetly. “It would be a waste of such righteous anger.”

  Seraphine’s voice was steady but razor sharp. “Leave,” she said.

  Lady Rancor left, attendants following, the door closing behind her with a soft click that somehow sounded like the end of a sentence.

  For three seconds, nobody spoke.

  Then Juno erupted into laughter so hard she had to grab the back of a chair. “A body pillow,” she gasped. “She brought you a body pillow. This city is unreal.”

  Caleb’s face was red. “Why is it scented?” he demanded, sincere outrage on behalf of everyone’s nose.

  Nia finally spoke, quiet and precise. “Because she wanted it to linger,” she said. “She wanted a reminder that she can enter our space and leave something behind.”

  Clarissa’s voice was flat. “It is also evidence,” she said.

  Seraphine looked like she might actually combust. “Regis,” she said, sharp, “tell me you didn’t recognize her.”

  Regis kept his composure. His voice remained clipped, controlled. “I recognized a threat,” he said. “Nothing else.”

  Seraphine’s eyes narrowed. “She called you familiar,” Seraphine pressed. “She brought a pillow with Aurelius Grimm’s face on it. Explain.”

  Regis looked at the pillow still held at arm’s length by Mara, then at Seraphine. His mind screamed again. Out loud, he said, “The Alignment of Evil enjoys theatrics.”

  Juno wiped tears from her eyes and pointed at the pillow. “Theatrics?” she squealed. “That thing has a squeeze tag.”

  Mara looked down at the tag, then up at Regis. “Burn?” Mara asked again, blunt.

  Regis’s jaw tightened. “Yes,” he said.

  Otto brightened. “Controlled fire?” he asked hopefully.

  Seraphine snapped, “No.”

  Otto’s shoulders slumped. “Okay.”

  Nia’s eyes stayed on Clarissa now. “She said someone in upper ranks is playing the city,” Nia murmured. “That matches Pax’s explanation. It means the pressure isn’t just local.”

  Clarissa nodded once, legal calm. “I will file,” she said. “I will escalate. I will request oversight review. I will request Guild audit access.”

  Regis’s smile was thin. “Good,” he said.

  Caleb looked between them, sincere worry in his eyes. “What do we do?” he asked. “If the Guild itself is part of it?”

  Seraphine’s voice softened slightly, still firm. “We do what we’re doing,” she said. “We build something real. We document everything. We refuse to become a farm.”

  Juno grinned, still riding the absurdity. “Also we burn the pillow,” she said. “Because if we don’t, I’m going to accidentally cuddle it in the middle of the night and wake up ruined.”

  Mara’s eyes narrowed. “No cuddle,” she said.

  Juno held up both hands. “I’m joking,” she said quickly. “Mostly.”

  Regis stared at the pillow again, and for a second his composure almost cracked, not into fear, but into pure offended disbelief at the universe’s willingness to humiliate him with merchandise. He inhaled slowly, then spoke with clipped control. “Mara,” he said. “Remove it from the building.”

  Mara nodded once and started toward the back door, holding the pillow like it was a sack of cursed flour.

  As Mara reached the threshold, the air shimmered with a familiar System presence, bright and smug at the worst possible moment. Regis stiffened slightly. Seraphine’s eyes narrowed. Juno leaned forward like she wanted to fight the ceiling. Otto’s face lit up, because Otto loved any external validation even if it came from a gremlin.

  StarBuddy chimed triumphantly. [SIDE QUEST COMPLETE! REWARD: MORALE BOOST!]

  Regis closed his eyes for one beat, the kind of slow blink a man did right before making a decision that would get him banned from polite society. He opened them and looked at Seraphine, voice still controlled. “If I ever meet the person who coded that,” Regis said softly, “I will file a complaint directly into their soul.”

  Seraphine’s mouth twitched despite herself. “Focus,” she said, firm.

  Nia’s soft sarcasm surfaced. “At least the System approves of our emotional suffering,” she murmured.

  Caleb blinked. “What side quest did we complete?” he asked, sincere.

  Juno pointed at the departing pillow. “Survive the body pillow incident,” she said. “Reward: morale boost. Trauma included.”

  Otto whispered, reverent, “We’re leveling up.”

  Clarissa snapped her suitcase shut with a crisp click. “I will return,” she said, legal calm. “This visit will be documented as unauthorized diplomatic interference. That pillow will be tagged as harassment artifact. If Lady Rancor returns, I will require security measures.”

  Regis nodded once. “We will be ready,” he said.

  Seraphine squared her shoulders, binder already opening again as if paperwork could cleanse evil. “We need to inform Pax,” she said. “We need to revise our public event plan. If upper ranks are manipulating NEX, then our community engagement is not just bait for Silt. It’s bait for whatever is above him.”

  Nia’s eyes sharpened. “Good,” she murmured. “I like bigger targets.”

  Caleb looked worried. “Do we?” he asked, sincere.

  Juno grinned. “We didn’t ask,” she said. “But we got.”

  Mara returned a minute later, hands empty, expression unchanged. “Gone,” Mara said.

  Regis exhaled slowly. “Good,” he replied, clipped.

  Juno leaned back in her chair, eyes bright. “So,” she said, “today we got threatened, flirted with, and gifted cursed plush.” She counted on her fingers. “That’s three things. That’s basically a productive workday.”

  Seraphine shot her a look. “We are not normalizing this,” Seraphine said.

  Juno nodded enthusiastically. “Agreed,” she said. “We are traumatizing it.”

  Regis turned toward the workstation, the tiny fan still humming like it didn’t understand any of this. His gaze fell on the Guild dashboard, the cheerful percentages, the smug progress ring, the notion that hope could be measured. Lady Rancor’s warning echoed in his mind, upper ranks playing the city like a farm, engineered suffering, controlled villains. He hated being part of someone else’s system. He hated being graded. He hated being observed. And yet, he had a team behind him that had moved rubble, changed filters, learned restraint, cried over not exploding, and stood between civilians and monsters without needing applause.

  Regis’s voice remained clipped, controlled, but something in it sharpened into intent. “We continue,” he said.

  Seraphine nodded, firm. “We continue,” she echoed.

  Nia’s mouth twitched. “We hunt,” she added quietly.

  Juno grinned. “We meme,” she said.

  Caleb swallowed, then nodded anyway. “We help,” he said, sincere.

  Mara’s voice was blunt. “We stand,” she finished.

  Regis looked at the door Lady Rancor had used like it might dare to open again. “Let the upper ranks play,” Regis said softly. “They have forgotten what it feels like when the board flips.”

  StarBuddy chimed triumphantly. [SIDE QUEST COMPLETE! REWARD: MORALE BOOST!]