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The sound of heavy glass against wood is calming.
Making a cocktail is always the beginning.
A prelude to a friendly conversation. To the closing of a deal. To an unspoken confession.
Over the years, Ashveil has witnessed it all. For a solitary guest, he always has a story—if they choose to start the conversation.
For now, it is only him and the heavy tumbler that has yet to be filled.
The ice knife dances between his fingers like a die. A few precise motions, and the rough block of ice becomes a gemstone of clarity. Moments later, it rests at the bottom of the low glass, ready to become the centerpiece alongside golden bourbon and a charred slice of orange.
The chime of the bell pulls him from his contemplation of the thin stream of smoke curling from beneath the rim of the smoking cloche.
A brief glance is enough for recognition to flicker in his eyes.
“Mr. Moze, welcome back to our modest establishment. Would you like a drink?”
The man who entered moved without a sound. As before, he wore a hood, his manner giving away someone who does not wish to be seen.
“A delivery for the lady,” the newcomer said shortly, appearing at the counter faster than one would expect. His black cloak, under the muted warm glow of the bar lights, left much to the imagination, while the medical mask on his face made him completely unrecognizable.
“Please wait. I need to finish my order,” Ashveil said smoothly, gesturing for the courier to take a barstool, while he himself placed a small round tray together and walked deeper into the lounge, toward the private, crimson-draped booths.
“Your drink, my lady,” he said, placing the bourbon on the table with a hand resting lightly behind his back. With a slightly sweeping motion, he lifted the lid from the glass.
In response, a faint chittering and hissing rose from beneath the table, and something—disturbingly reminiscent of a slick gray tentacle—began to crawl along the rim.
“And a pleasant evening to you. I am glad the service meets your expectations.”
Returning to the counter, Ashveil found the hooded courier still standing near the bar stools.
“Come with me,” he motioned, leading him behind the counter, toward the place where, between bulky bottles, a doorway hidden behind crimson fabric led into the back rooms.
As soon as the drapery fell shut behind them, the surrounding space plunged into absolute darkness.
“You do navigate the dark well, don’t you?” Ashveil asked politely as he moved forward.
“Here, it’s useless.”
“Just making sure you won’t trip.”
It was true—the space behind Ashveil’s bar was completely empty.
And yet, something darker than the darkness itself dripped from the fingers of his right hand, laying out a narrow but perfectly steady path ahead of them.
They did not walk long—about two minutes—but the oppressive silence around them stretched each second into something eternal.
Ashveil glanced at his watch. The hands remained completely still, yet the moment they took a few more steps, the second hand twitched and leapt forward to the next thin division.
“We’re here,” he said calmly, raising his hand to eye level and snapping his fingers in front of him.
The crisp sound echoed through the previously hollow space, and the world immediately snapped back into shape.
Out of the corner of his eye, Ashveil noticed the courier’s hand twitch toward his belt, and he smiled to himself.
Even the most restrained people show emotion when faced with the unknown.
Good. It meant he could still surprise someone.
They stood in a narrow corridor. To the right, slanted light fell through windows, scattering golden dust in the air. To the left, against a white-painted wall, stood a heavy iron door.
Behind them—and a few steps ahead—the space dissolved once again into the familiar impenetrable darkness.
“After you,” Ashveil said, pulling the door open and revealing the room beyond to the frozen courier.
No daylight reached this place. Its only source of illumination was a lamp above the table, carving shapes out of the darkness—shelves of tools, a furnace, a ventilation hood, a grinding station, and countless other things that now stood as lifeless silhouettes around the perimeter of the small room.
And at the desk, with his back to them, sat him.
A soft, feline satisfaction pressed against Ashveil’s chest.
Watching this man work was, for him, the height of pleasure.
By nature, Ashveil was a contemplator—and to witness the greatest master under the wing of the Hunt at work was nothing short of a miracle. A dangerous miracle, of course; any random observer risked being impaled by whatever he happened to be crafting at the moment.
“Master,” the courier greeted quietly. “I am here on behalf of General.”
The man at the desk turned toward them for only a fraction of a second before returning to his work.
“The case is on the counter. The instructions are inside—your lady will understand.”
The courier found the heavy box with his eyes and picked it up.
Before he could straighten, Ashveil waved a hand.
“Leave us, Mr. Moze.”
As soon as the door closed behind him, Ashveil took several steps toward the desk. Now that the Master was seen in profile, he could once again admire his focused face framed by black hair with reddish ends, his stubborn features, and the faint crease between his brows. On the table lay sketches and drafting tools; in his hands, a mechanical pencil.
“Why did you bring him?”
“The case would’ve been too heavy for my arthritis,” Ashveil said lightly, bending his arm as a thin black stream slipped from beneath his sleeve and curled toward the Master’s neck, where a pair of glasses hung on a golden chain. “Let them carry their own burdens.”
“You’re putting on a show.”
“Only a little,” Ashveil smiled.
The black tendril curled gently, brushing aside a strand of hair that had fallen across the Master’s face.
“Yingxing, you’re tired. Why don’t you take a break?”
“I have to finish.”
“Alright. I won’t touch you. Just come on your own, okay? I’ll be waiting.”
No answer—only a sidelong glance.
The liquid appendage twitched, then vanished. In its place, Ashveil’s face was suddenly close to Yingxing’s cheek.
“Take care of your eyes,” he whispered, closing his eyes as he lightly touched the other’s cheekbone with the tip of his nose.
A snap of fingers—and the workshop, the corridor, and the warm scent of resin on skin vanished.
Once again, they stood in the muted light of the bar, the saxophone drifting somewhere in the background, the clink of glasses echoing softly.
The courier’s expression was impossible to read. He simply stood before the counter with the case in his hands, while Ashveil was exactly where he was supposed to be—across from him, calmly polishing a glass with a cloth.
“Have a good evening, Mr. Moze. Do come again.”
The courier did not respond.
Watching him leave, Ashveil lazily tilted his gaze toward the ceiling, then smirked to himself as something inside the bones of his right hand began to tremble in anticipation—a corrosive shadow, alive and hungry.
“You’re easy to persuade,” he murmured under his breath, turning toward a carefully hidden bottle of Xianzhou wine, while the sudden scent of resin lingered around him.