A man leaned in the doorframe that wasn't there a moment ago—coat black enough to drain color from the wall, gloves immaculate, a ledger twin to the one on the table tucked under one arm. Hair combed with care. Smile like a balanced equation. But Arthur didn't recognize this man.
Arthur: "I'm sorry, who may you be again?"
???: "Sirius von Shadow," the man said, with the gentle vanity of a host introducing himself at a party. "Do forgive the manners of my house. It rarely receives guests who aren't in debt."
Arthur (murmuring): "Von Shadow…"
Arthur stepped between Sirius and the ledger without thinking about it.
Arthur: "I'm looking for a jester in a murder mask."
Sirius's smile warmed by two degrees:"Ah. My cousin in chaos."
He moved into the room without walking; it was more like the room agreed to relocate so he could occupy it.
Sirius: "He can be hard to leash. But you know that, Sir Morningstar."
Arthur's fingers tightened around the sword hilt at his hip. He hadn't given his name.
Sirius tilted his head, pitying.
Sirius: "Names are the cheapest coin in Vanterra. You wear yours loudly; all principles do." He set his ledger on the bar cart with reverence. "You've come to ask about Harlekin. And I've come to tell you something unsatisfying."
Arthur: "What do you know about Harlekin?" he asked politely.
Sirius: "Harlekin plays for laughter, the Syndicate plays for ledger lines. Where our purposes meet, we applaud each other. Where they diverge, we step into different shadows and exchange invitations."
Arthur: "And tonight?"
Sirius: "Tonight, we wrote each other a very funny joke." He glanced at the ledger on the table. "Don't touch that. It records debts owed by people who don't know they owe yet. I dislike spoilers."
Arthur: "Harlekin works for you?"
Sirius (pleased): "Incorrect, a messenger approached him. A Voice. And then—if I may quote your friend—Harlekin decided he had better things to do."
Arthur: "Me…"
Sirius spread his hands: "Who can resist a knight who argues with storms?"
Arthur took a step forward: "What's his play? You didn't call me here to exchange poetry."
Sirius's eyes sharpened: "No. I called you here to give you what you came for: tension. You live on it. Harlekin eats it. We sell it." He nodded at the door. "He's on the move. He will not strike the girl tonight. He intends to test the scaffold. He will tug at Vanterra's wires and watch who stumbles."
Arthur: "Why tell me?"
Sirius: "Because it amuses me," he said, and the smile vanished so quickly it wasn't sure it had been there. "And because the Syndicate dislikes mess. Harlekin loves mess. We love Harlekin on nights when mess makes money or brings any kind of benefit." He glanced at the glasses on Arthur's face, the way water glances off a blade. "Tonight is not one of those nights."
Arthur: "So he is a von Shadow... Help me stop him."
Sirius's eyebrows went up, genuinely entertained: "A knight asking a thief for a favor. We should have recorded this. Very well. One hint. The clown enjoys stages. He will choose a place with an audience that pretends it doesn't want to watch."
Arthur filed it away: "The Skytrack," he said. "Or the glass opera. Or the holo-bazaars."
Sirius smiled like a teacher whose pupil had nearly gotten the answer: "Closer. Think louder."
Arthur pivoted to leave: "If you cross me, I'll cut your book in half."
Sirius's voice softened, edged with something hungry: "You can try."
Arthur left the way he'd come, the wall sighing closed behind him like a curtain.
Vanterra's Trans-Strata Skytrack roared above the city in figure-eight loops, each maglev carriage a glass bullet full of tourists, hustlers, and people who pretended not to look down. Arthur took the utility ladder, boots steady on wet rungs. Wind pulled at his coat. The neon was a river beneath.
He reached the maintenance spine and ran. The city flashed by: holo-billboards, a temple that adored light, and a market that smelled of fried noodles and stolen credit. On the outer curve, he saw it—a carriage slowing unexpectedly at a viewing point mid-loop, lights dimming, the driver pounding the console like it had grown teeth.
Smoke seeped from the ventilation grilles. Black. Playful.
Arthur vaulted the last barrier and dropped onto the carriage roof, rolled, and drew his blade in one movement. The wind tore at his coat; rain stung his face. He sliced through the emergency hatch's seal and dropped inside.
Passengers blinked at him—one screamed, and a few filmed him because habit was stronger than fear. The cabin lights stuttered and went soft, diffused through a veil that shouldn't have been there.
Harlekin sat on the railing at the back of the carriage like a cat that owned the sun. He clapped, lazy and sharp.
Harlekin: "You found me, gold boy. I'm touched."
Arthur leveled his blade: "Step away from them."
Harlekin tilted his head: "I was never near them. See?" He gestured, and the smoke pulled back from the passengers like a curtain, revealing that none of them had so much as a smudge on their clothes. "I don't need hostages to make a point."
Arthur: "What point?" he asked, voice like a tightened strap.
Harlekin slid down the rail and stood on the floor without a sound.
Harlekin: "That I can stop Vanterra's heart with a giggle and a cough. That I can write a joke in smoke above the city, and the Reapers will laugh even if they didn't write it with me."
Arthur pressed: "Why bait me instead?"
Harlekin's voice dropped, intimate as a whisper through a confession screen.
Harlekin: "Because you and I share a connection, I wish I could simply tear apart with dear life, but for some reason I can't. I despise it, and I despise you, Arthur. Your principles. The moment they crack, the audience screams."
The train jerked. The driver swore. Harlekin didn't look away from Arthur as the carriage's lights went out completely and the city's neon became a smear through the windows.
Harlekin: "Let's play a game; you keep everyone safe. I keep my fun. If you win, I'll leave the girl and you alone. If I win—" He tapped his hat. "I'll show you the face that wears this."
Arthur: "Harlekin von Shadow," he said, and the clown stilled a fraction too long.
Then he laughed—loud, delighted.
Harlekin: "Oh, you have been paying attention."
The train screamed as the emergency magnetics fought smoke in the circuitry. Passengers grabbed seats, poles, and each other. A child cried, then swallowed it because her mother squeezed her hand like a promise.
Arthur took one step forward: "You chose the wrong stage."
Harlekin spread his arms. Smoke blossomed: "No, knight. I chose the only one that lets the whole city hear you fall."
The carriage jolted—and the forward coupling snapped with a metallic shriek, the first car lurching away like a bead slipping a string. Arthur's eyes rolled once toward the ceiling, a prayer or a curse. He moved.
Harlekin moved too, laughing into the blackout. Their clash was a flare in a storm, two arguments crashing, the city below a smear of lightning and glass.
Outside, on a nearby maintenance platform, a black-coated figure watched from the rain and did not interfere. Sirius opened his ledger, a page fluttering by itself, and wrote one line in neat, impeccable hand:
"The knight hunts; the jester sings; the city learns the chorus."
He closed the book with a precise click.
Inside the carriage, Arthur drove Harlekin back against the rear door, steel steady, breath measured. The clown bled a thread of smoke from a cut in his sleeve and applauded with his other hand, genuinely thrilled.
Harlekin (whispering): "Encore."
Arthur: "Not tonight."
As the train howled through Vanterra's neon throat, the knight's blade drew a line between chaos and consequence, and for a heartbeat the whole city balanced on its edge.