Chapter 18, The unnecessary
I slink low, still twitching with caffeine and purpose, every muscle taut with the thrill of the hunt, even if I already know, deep down, that it’s just another dead end in a city full of them. My nose leads, tail rigid, each breath separating out the tang of old copper, bitter dyes, and fear. Master’s eyes catch every flicker, but it’s my world now, my senses, and I let them drag me forward like a bloodhound on velvet.
I trace the scent through the velvet-and-gilt labyrinth, weaving between tables where broken gamblers and fading beauties nurse their poisons and their ghosts. No one even looks twice at the catgirl on all fours, eyes wild, tail slicing the air. I skirt the edge of the bar, muscles bunching, every nerve electric, until the scent sharpens, behind a faded silk curtain.
I freeze, hackles rising, pupils blown wide, every line of me screaming silent warning. My head snaps to the left, chin high, ears forward, arm extending with animal urgency, pointing, just like a housecat catching a rat in the pantry, but with a predator’s certainty. I flick my tail and lock my gaze on Master, holding the line tight, the Bond singing hot and sharp between us.
There. Back room. Prey is close, or what’s left of it, production, secrets. Even in a den of broken things, a cat knows when to point. And I never miss.
His voice cuts through the haze, low, expectant, the single syllable hanging between us like a challenge. “Well?” The Bond snaps tight, forcing every nerve to attention. I flick my ears, nose twitching, letting my instincts run cold and clinical as I focus past the taste of caffeine and frustration. This isn’t just about scent now. It’s about detail, danger, opportunity.
I lean closer to the curtain, letting my body melt into shadow, pupils wide, breath held. The scents come clearer, leather, expensive soap, clove cigarettes, notes too refined for this district, even in a den that apes nobility. Not just production, but the perfume of money, influence, the quiet rot that leaks down from the top.
Perception Check, 13 +5, Feline Enhanced Senses: +2 = 20
There, under the rustle and the murmur of distant conversation, I catch it, two distinct heartbeats, slow and measured, neither showing the panic of a worker nor the wild pulse of a thug on edge. Their voices are soft, pitched just above a whisper, vowels clipped and careful, the way only those with power bother to speak. A scrap of words floats through: “account books, tonight’s quota, old routes still viable” then a low, amused laugh, the sort that makes you want to claw someone’s face for their arrogance alone.
My tail twitches, flicking back toward Master, eyes narrowing with the knowledge. I glance up, voice flat, bored, but precise. “Two inside. Not muscle. Posh sorts, money, power. They’re talking business, not blood.” I let the information linger.
He slides through the curtain, smooth, silent, the way only Master can move when he’s hunting, not hunted. I follow, fluid and twitching, keeping low for now, letting my presence melt into the velvet gloom. The moment we cross the threshold, the Kipma’s squalor vanishes. This isn’t just a back room, it’s a different world entirely, one reserved for the select few who own the city’s secrets instead of being broken by them.
The air is heavy, perfumed, untouched by the smoke and sweat outside. The walls are panelled in dark, polished wood, every inch carved with intricate patterns, flowers twined with thorns, old noble crests hidden among the curls. Gold leaf gleams in the corners, catching the low, honeyed glow from glass lamps shaped like lilies. The floor beneath my hands is thick, soft carpet, as rich and deep as the kind nobles die to stain.
A long table, black walnut and impossibly glossy, dominates the centre. Silver candlesticks burn with clear, steady flames, real wax, a pointless luxury. Across from us sit two men, both pale and carefully composed, dressed in tailored coats of bottle green and midnight blue, lace cuffs flicking at their wrists. One wears a ring the size of a goblin’s tooth, the other sips amber liquor from a crystal glass so thin it sings when he sets it down. Their faces are lean, eyes cold, mouths fixed in small, secret smiles.
Between them, ledgers lie open, pages lined with neat, looping figures. Stacks of gold and silver coins rest beside polished inkwells and an ivory letter-opener. A bottle of red wine sits untouched in a bucket of ice. The only other sound is the steady tick of a clock set into the mantel, mahogany, gold filigree, its face carved with moon phases and a silver cat chasing the hands round and round.
There are no guards. No weapons in sight. Just the quiet confidence of men who know that danger, when it comes, will arrive politely and ask to be announced. The scent of their cologne is so sharp it cuts through the velvet, citrus and sandalwood over the copper tang of coin. The whole room is theatre, an illusion of order and civility set atop a city’s worth of violence and decay.
I pause, half-shadow, half-beast, tail sweeping the carpet as I watch Master take his place in this strange, polished den. Here, the only law is money. And the price is always blood.
Master doesn’t barter, doesn’t smile, doesn’t lower himself to the velvet rules of men who measure worth in ounces of gold and ounces of nerve. He simply commands, voice cold and sharp. “Pounce.”
The word detonates in my skull, the Bond whipping every muscle into feverish action. I lurch up from the floor, claws out, tail lashing, the caffeine and mania from Embercrack tea still fizzing under my skin. For an instant I’m all violence, all hunger, every instinct turned outward, intent written in the way my ears flatten, in the savage gleam of my teeth. I don’t leap with the finesse of a performer in the arena, I lunge like a cornered beast.
The two upper-class men freeze. One starts to turn, eyes widening as I come for him, a flash of terror, disbelief, a nobleman realising too late the rules have changed and he’s not immune to the teeth in the dark.
Agility Roll,12 +4, Caffeine, Mania: +2 = 18
My body slams into his, weight and claws driving him back over the fine walnut table. Silver scatters, ledgers tumble, the wine bottle crashes to the floor. My claws dig deep, teeth at his throat, the rich tang of cologne giving way to hot blood. He doesn’t even have time to scream, my jaws close, savage, brutal, ending him in a wet, shuddering snap.
It’s not graceful, but it’s unstoppable, pure, sloppy violence, the truth of the street laid bare against velvet and gold. He’s dead before he hits the ground, body crumpling.
In the same breath, Master acts, cold, precise, already tracking the second man, who is scrambling to rise, hand reaching for nothing, lips mouthing words that never mattered. Master’s crossbow is levelled. His eyes are flat, cynical, not a flicker of mercy. He squeezes the trigger.
Attack Roll, 15, +3(DEX), Copper-Iron, +4 = 22
The bolt slams home, clean through the man’s shoulder and deep into the wood-panelled wall behind him. He screams, a thin, pitiful wail. Blood spatters. He twitches, eyes wild with disbelief, pinned and powerless.
The taste of the real world floods his mouth. Master stands, calm as ever, lowering the crossbow with the steady hands of a man who’s done this too many times for it to ever matter. I crouch over my kill, mouth smeared with blood, tail lashing, eyes fixed on the survivor.
Master’s voice rolls out, cold and dry. “Well, maybe next time I should specify.” His tone hangs in the gloom, no scolding, just that cynic’s edge, amusement curdled into necessity. Blood drips from my chin, tail still twitching, the velvet stained where I landed. I can taste the copper, the panic thick in the air, but I hold myself in check, letting the Bond coil between us.
Master is all business now, efficiency in motion. He turns, stepping over the scattered ledgers and spilled gold, boots crunching glass, and grabs the surviving man by the collar. The bolt already pins him to the wood, blood soaking his expensive shirt, face gone grey and wild. Master leans in, “Listen here. You’re going to give me all the details on the Crimson. Names. Everything you know.”
The man blubbers, lips pale, sweat rolling down his temples. For a moment he tries to be brave, tries to call on money and power to shield him, but the pain is real, and the mask shatters quickly. He shakes, one hand feebly clawing at the bolt in his shoulder. “I, I don’t know. I don’t know anything! I just keep the books for Kipma, you understand? I keep accounts, I handle payments, I’m not, please, Crimson’s just a word. Please, gods.”
His voice breaks. The Bond feeds me the truth, fear, helplessness, the stink of lies, but mostly just ignorance. He really doesn’t know. He’s just another suit, another worm wriggling under the boots of men who never get their hands dirty. The panic in his eyes is real, and he has nothing to barter but pleas and tears.
I stand, blood drying on my claws, ears flicked back in disappointment. I circle the table, slow, deliberate, letting my tail brush the toppled wine, the scattered coins, making a game of how close I can get to him before he flinches. I watch his face, tracking every tremor, every whimper, hunger and frustration battling in my mind. I want to break him. I want to dig out something useful, something worth the price of all this velvet ruin.
I grin, wide and sharp, eyes glittering with cruel delight. I crouch beside him, voice soft, too soft, claws just a whisper from his face. “You hear that, Master? He’s just a little worm. No secrets. No spine. All money and no power. Maybe next time we’ll find someone who bleeds information, not just blood.”
I lean in, letting my breath stir the hair at his ear. “You’re lucky, darling. I’m bored of you already.”
My tail coils, lazy and menacing, waiting for Master’s next move, every sense singing for the next order, the next kill, the next shadow to chase in this city where hope and violence wear the same perfume.
Master’s words slide through the air “Oh please, kitten, don’t be so sure. Your nose did lead us here after all. And let’s not forget, the Crimson has annoyed a great many people. We came all the way here.”
The Bond flares, hot, taut, electric, and my spine arches in response, tail curling high, pupils sharpening to razor-thin cuts of thrill and dread. He’s not done. Not close. And neither is the world.
The pinned noble whimpers. A pathetic, wet sound. He still hasn’t understood who he’s dealing with.
Master doesn’t hesitate. He doesn’t posture. He doesn’t give that upper-class parasite time to breathe. He simply begins, one heavy, clinical blow after another, each punch the workman’s rhythm of a man who stopped believing in fair fights long ago. The crack of knuckles against jawbone echoes through the chamber.
I watch him work, and the Bond lights up with cruel, manic satisfaction. He hits like his in a bad mood, all gritty efficiency and savage punctuation, no theatrics, no mercy. A punch to the cheekbone, skin splits. A knee to the ribs, air leaves the man’s lungs in a choking sob. Another blow, this time to the throat, not enough to crush, just enough to remind him he breathes only because Master lets him.
Blood spatters the ledger pages, staining neat rows of numbers with the truth. The crystal glass on the table rattles. The candles flicker. And the noble’s manicured world collapses blow by blow.
I crouch on the table like a feral idol, ears twitching at each impact, tail flick-flick-flicking in manic delight. Caffeine still buzzes under my skin. The scent of fear is thick, spiced with iron, sweat, and the slow loss of hope. I lick the drying blood from my claws absently, eyes never leaving Master, drinking in the violence like warmth.
But the man, he’s empty. Every time Master demands, the man stutters the same broken refrain between blows. And every time, Master answers with another strike. Calm. Mechanical. Noir-cold. A backhand splits the noble’s lip. A punch to the gut. A grip in the collar jerks him upright only to be slammed into the panelled wall again, bolt jarring deeper into his shoulder with a shriek.
Still nothing. No names. No locations. No secrets. Just bones softening under fists and a life unwinding in blood and tears.
I move closer, crawling over the fine carpet on all fours, head tilted in twitchy fascination. This man is useless, a ledger boy in silk pretending to understand danger, and now he finally tastes it in its purest form. I breathe him in, nose brushing his hair, listening to the frantic rattle of his heart. It beats like a broken drum, fast, erratic, hollow.
Master slams him again. The sound is wet.
“Nothing,” I murmur, voice touched with manic glee and sly bitterness. “He’s just a doll dressed as a man. Shake him and all you get is dust.”
The noble trembles, crying now, not from pain, but from the realisation that the world he believed in was a lie. No guards. No lawyers. No safety net. Just two predators in a gilded room.
Master doesn’t stop right away. His fists slow, but they don’t stop, not until every shred of possibility is squeezed out of the man like water from a rag. Blood drips from the noble’s chin, pattering softly on the velvet carpet like rain on a grave.
When Master finally steps back, breathing slow and even, the noble is barely conscious. His face is ruined, swollen, his breath bubbling through split lips.
He really knows nothing. We came all this way. And in the end... this lead is empty. A dead end dressed in gold.
