The border was a silent abyss, the stillness of the dead violated only by the droning of a thousand flies. They swarmed in black clouds, settling on the motionless forms where the bleeding had finally ceased. The iron stench of slaughter hung heavy in the stagnant air.
Amidst the ruin, the assassin moved with the discipline of a machine. He stripped the foreign cloth from his body and dressed himself in the coarse, sweat-stained uniform of a Durkenes soldier. Before securing the torso plate, he paused, a knife gleaming in his hand. With the detachment of a surgeon, he drew the blade across his ribs—a clean incision to sell the lie. He struck his own side to bruise the flesh, the impact forcing a sharp hiss through his teeth. Pain registered. It did not matter. He offered it no repentance, only the cold acknowledgment of necessity.
He sank to the ground, breathing controlled, and gripped his left boot. He twisted his ankle until it yielded, the sound swallowed by the flies. Pain registered. It did not matter. His brows twitched, a microscopic betrayal of the agony, but he steeled himself against the scream, letting the discipline wash over the sensation.
The struggle to rise was a war of attrition against his own treacherous body. Grinding his teeth against the screaming protest of his shattered joint, he buckled the heavy armor into place, the metal pressing unkindly against his open wound. He seized a spear from a nearby corpse and snapped the shaft over his knee, fashioning the splintered wood into a crude crutch. He used it to hobble through the mire, dragging the dead—one by one, limb by heavy limb—into a singular, grotesque mound with the efficiency of a mortician.
From the cold hand of a general, he pried a flintlock lighter. The spark caught, and the pyre erupted. The flames climbed with a glorious, blinding intensity, a roaring beacon against the pitch black of midnight, yet they consumed the dead with a voracious silence. He stood rigid, balancing on his broken ankle and the stick, watching the fire dance in his dark eyes. He did not move until the last embers had turned the bodies to grey ash and the heat had faded to a memory.
Only then did he turn his back on the scorched earth. He limped toward the horizon, where the pale sands of the desert gave way to the dark silhouette of the forest. Every step was agony, but it was a vehicle. He was one step closer.
Vane ran.
Not the careful stride he used in public. Not the measured pace of an administrator.
He ran.
The night air cut against his lungs as he crossed the fractured streets. Somewhere behind him, someone was calling names. A woman knelt beside a man who wouldn't stand. A boy staggered with blood matting his hair.
He didn't stop.
A jagged line split the road ahead; he leapt it without slowing. Walls bore thin scars where plaster had peeled back. Windows hung crooked in their frames.
Too precise.
Too selective.
One house untouched.
The next gashed open.
The pattern pressed itself into his thoughts even as he pushed them aside.
Julius.
Stone ceiling. Stone walls. Stone shelves.
He ran harder.
From the main quarters of Vines into the narrower stretch that led toward Cecan, the air grew thinner, quieter. The lamps along the street flickered unevenly. Dust still hovered low to the ground, refusing to settle.
When the club came into view, it stood exactly as it had hours ago.
Doors intact. Windows dark. Sign unmoved.
Too intact.
Vane slowed only long enough to steady his breathing.
He stepped inside.
Silence greeted him.
No overturned chairs. No shattered bottles.
For one second, relief almost reached him.
Then he saw it.
A line.
Clean.
Unmistakable.
It began at the entrance and ran straight through the centre of the floorboards, slicing the room in two as if drawn by a blade. It did not wander. It did not spider outward.
It cut.
Vane crouched, fingers brushing the edge.
The wood was split cleanly down to the stone beneath.
Not shattered.
Separated.
The crack continued toward the back of the club.
Toward the cupboard.
Toward the hidden door.
His hand tightened.
He stood.
And followed it.
Vane pushed the cupboard aside.
It moved as it always had — reluctant at first, then obedient.
Behind it, the door stood untouched.
All three locks hung straight. No scratches. No strain.
He stared at them for a long second.
Then his eyes lowered.
The crack in the floor ran clean and narrow toward the entrance — and stopped.
Not curved.
Not jagged.
Stopped.
Right at the edge of the hidden door.
As if the earth had known where not to trespass.
Vane did not blink.
Slowly, he unfastened the first lock.
Then the second.
Then the third.
Each click sounded louder than it should have.
The door opened with its usual long creak — dry, familiar.
He stepped inside and began descending.
His boots struck the stairs in quick rhythm. One hand slid along the wall for balance.
At the bottom, he halted.
He looked up instinctively.
The ceiling above him was intact.
Not a single stone displaced.
Not a grain fallen.
And yet—
Through the narrow seam where the stairwell met the club above, he could see it: the continuation of the crack.
Perfectly aligned.
Above was split.
Below was untouched.
His gaze swept the chamber.
The shelves stood.
The cupboards remained upright.
But the floor—
Papers covered it in uneven drifts. Files scattered as though dropped in haste.
Not crushed.
Not buried.
Simply fallen.
It did not match.
Nothing matched.
"Julius."
His voice carried, low and steady.
No answer.
"Julius."
He moved forward now, slower.
There was no scent of dust thick enough for collapse. No debris heavy enough to wound.
Whatever had happened here—
it had chosen what to disturb.
He passed the table where they had sat only hours before.
The lantern still burned.
And the bread—
untouched.
A figure shifted beneath the table and slowly rose, dust clinging to his sleeves.
"Yes, yes… I am safe, Mr. Administrator."
Julius straightened with effort, one hand briefly resting on the table before he let go. There was irritation in his voice, but no fear.
Vane looked at him without relief.
"Well," he said evenly, "that's bad news."
Julius frowned. "Bad news? You wanted me to die there?"
"Who knows," Vane replied, his tone flat. "You might have been crushed with a rock and somehow survived without a drop of blood. That would have been impressive."
Julius let out a dry breath. "I didn't survive by miracle. I survived because I didn't move. If I had stepped out from under that table—" He stopped, then lifted his hand and pointed behind him. "Look there. There's a—"
Vane followed the direction of his finger.
"Oh! Where is it?"
Julius moved around the table, looking at the floor, then beneath the edge again as if something had rolled away.
Vane watched him with narrowed eyes. "I see," he said slowly. "You're pretending you weren't hurt."
Julius straightened. "Why would I pretend? I'm serious. There was a stone. It almost fell on me."
"That's all?" Vane asked, unimpressed.
Julius stared at him. "You're not concerned about me at all, are you?"
Vane didn't answer that. Instead, his gaze lifted toward the ceiling. "I'm more concerned about that cut above."
Julius followed his line of sight.
The ceiling bore a thin line — straight, deliberate — like something had traced it with a ruler. No splintering. No collapse. Just a clean division running across stone that should not divide so neatly.
"A cut…" Julius muttered. "It looks like it was drawn with a pencil and scale." His voice lowered. "And yet nothing fell on me."
Vane's eyes shifted to the floor where the files lay scattered. "Look at those," he said. "They've fallen out."
Julius frowned. "From the shaking."
"Not entirely," Vane replied. "If it were the shaking, the cupboards would have come down with them. But they're still standing. Only some files are out. As if they were taken."
Julius looked at the shelves again, this time slower.
"Speaking of which…" he said after a pause, "I think I saw something."
Vane's attention sharpened instantly. He stepped closer. "What?"
Julius hesitated. "It felt like a memory. Fragmented."
"What did you see?" Vane asked. "A prophecy? Something that's about to happen?"
"I don't know." Julius' eyes dropped to the floor. "I don't even know how to describe it. I… don't want to."
Vane studied him. "Does it make you sad?"
Julius let out a quiet breath. "It hurts. Whatever it was… it hurt. I don't want to say it aloud."
Silence settled between them for a moment.
"Then we discuss it tomorrow," Vane said at last, placing a hand briefly on Julius' shoulder. "Don't force it."
Julius nodded once. "Yeah."
Vane's eyes drifted back to the table. "You didn't eat the bread."
Julius gave him a look. "There's still time."
Vane pressed his shoulder lightly. "You complain and still refuse food."
"Ow," Julius muttered, brushing him off.
Vane exhaled. "I'm going home. I still have to check on my family."
Julius looked around at the mess. "And I'm supposed to do what?"
"To begin with," Vane said, "clean the files."
He paused.
Then stepped closer, lowering his voice near Julius' ear.
"And think about the earthquake."
Julius's expression changed — just slightly. "I understand."
"I'll look from my side," Vane added.
"Yeah."
Then—
A scream.
Sharp. Raw.
"WOAAHHH! NOOOO!"
The sound tore through the ceiling from above.
Both men froze.
Vane's head tilted upward.
"…Those voices," he murmured.
Julius's eyes lifted too.
"They sound familiar."
Above them, the club doors had been pushed open in haste.
The manager stood just inside the entrance, barefoot, hair uncombed, dressed in a white vest with no shirt beneath and loose trousers that looked more suited for a shoreline than a city night. He must have run straight from his quarters.
He didn't step further at first.
He simply stared.
The lanterns along the wall flickered over the long crack that split the floor from entrance to back wall. Chairs had shifted slightly from their places. Fine dust lingered in the air like a thin veil.
"What… what has this club become?"
His voice was small against the emptiness.
He walked forward slowly, shoes scraping over wood that no longer lay perfectly even. His widened eyes traced the straight fracture across the centre of the hall, following it as if hoping it would bend or fade.
It didn't.
"So much damage…" he muttered, pressing a hand to his mouth. "What am I supposed to tell the chairman?"
His knees gave way before he seemed to realize he was falling.
He dropped onto the floor beside the split line, hands clutching his head, staring at the crack as though it had personally betrayed him.
"OH NO!"
The manager sprang to his feet as though jolted by a thought more terrifying than the crack itself. He hurried toward the back, nearly slipping where the floor dipped unevenly. His breathing had grown loud in the hollow quiet of the club.
The cupboard had been moved.
The hidden entrance stood exposed.
The door beyond it — open.
Wide open.
For a second he only stared, fingers twitching uselessly at his sides. It looked less like damage and more like intrusion. Like someone had known exactly where to go.
"Robbed…" he whispered hoarsely. "We've been robbed…"
He stepped closer, peering down the stairwell. The darkness below seemed undisturbed. No smoke. No collapse. No obvious ruin.
His gaze flicked back to the crack that had stopped neatly before the entrance.
"Woof…" he breathed shakily, wiping sweat from his temple. "Inside is safe then…"
But his eyes returned to the open door.
"…Then why is it open?"
He reached toward it, hesitating just before the threshold.
That was when he heard it.
Footsteps.
Fast.
Not measured.
Wild.
Racing toward the club from outside.
The sound grew louder by the second, echoing through the fractured hall.
He froze where he stood.
"Sir!"
"Ah!" The manager flinched violently, hand flying to his chest as he turned.
Vane stood a few steps away, breath slightly uneven but posture composed.
"Good evening, sir."
"There is nothing good about this evening," the manager snapped, gesturing toward the split floor. "Not after a tremor. Not after the files may have been stolen."
"They haven't been stolen," Vane replied evenly. "They are safe. The first thing I did when I arrived was check the chamber."
The manager searched his face. "You already went down?"
"Yes."
A pause.
"I see," the manager muttered, though the tension did not leave his shoulders. "Even so, I want to check it myself."
"Sir, I've handled it," Vane said gently. "There's no need for you to strain yourself tonight. Please rest. I'll take responsibility."
The words were smooth.
His expression steady.
But a thin sheen of sweat clung to his temples, catching the lantern light in a way that did not match his calm tone.
"Vane," the manager said, stepping closer. "Move aside."
"I've completed the inspection," Vane repeated. "Everything is in place."
The manager stopped directly in front of him now. Their faces were only a short distance apart.
He narrowed his eyes.
"You're hiding something," he said quietly. "Aren't you?"