#garden gate sales

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Red Lobster was killed by private equity, not Endless Shrimp

For the rest of May, my bestselling solarpunk utopian novel THE LOST CAUSE (2023) is available as a $2.99, DRM-free ebook!

A decade ago, a hedge fund had an improbable viral comedy hit: a 294-page slide deck explaining why Olive Garden was going out of business, blaming the failure on too many breadsticks and insufficiently salted pasta-water:

https://www.sec.gov/Archives/edgar/data/940944/000092189514002031/ex991dfan14a06297125_091114.pdf

Everyone loved this story. As David Dayen wrote for Salon, it let readers "mock that silly chain restaurant they remember from their childhoods in the suburbs" and laugh at "the silly hedge fund that took the time to write the world’s worst review":

https://www.salon.com/2014/09/17/the_real_olive_garden_scandal_why_greedy_hedge_funders_suddenly_care_so_much_about_breadsticks/

But – as Dayen wrote at the time, the hedge fund that produced that slide deck, Starboard Value, was not motivated by dissatisfaction with bread-sticks. They were "activist investors" (finspeak for "rapacious assholes") with a giant stake in Darden Restaurants, Olive Garden's parent company. They wanted Darden to liquidate all of Olive Garden's real-estate holdings and declare a one-off dividend that would net investors a billion dollars, while literally yanking the floor out from beneath Olive Garden, converting it from owner to tenant, subject to rent-shocks and other nasty surprises.

They wanted to asset-strip the company, in other words ("asset strip" is what they call it in hedge-fund land; the mafia calls it a "bust-out," famous to anyone who watched the twenty-third episode of The Sopranos):

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bust_Out

Starboard didn't have enough money to force the sale, but they had recently engineered the CEO's ouster. The giant slide-deck making fun of Olive Garden's food was just a PR campaign to help it sell the bust-out by creating a narrative that they were being activists* to save this badly managed disaster of a restaurant chain.

*assholes

Starboard was bent on eviscerating Darden like a couple of entrail-maddened dogs in an elk carcass:

https://web.archive.org/web/20051220005944/http://alumni.media.mit.edu/~solan/dogsinelk/

They had forced Darden to sell off another of its holdings, Red Lobster, to a hedge-fund called Golden Gate Capital. Golden Gate flogged all of Red Lobster's real estate holdings for $2.1 billion the same day, then pissed it all away on dividends to its shareholders, including Starboard. The new landlords, a Real Estate Investment Trust, proceeded to charge so much for rent on those buildings Red Lobster just flogged that the company's net earnings immediately dropped by half.

Dayen ends his piece with these prophetic words:

Olive Garden and Red Lobster may not be destinations for hipster Internet journalists, and they have seen revenue declines amid stagnant middle-class wages and increased competition. But they are still profitable businesses. Thousands of Americans work there. Why should they be bled dry by predatory investors in the name of “shareholder value”? What of the value of worker productivity instead of the financial engineers?

Flash forward a decade. Today, Dayen is editor-in-chief of The American Prospect, one of the best sources of news about private equity looting in the world. Writing for the Prospect, Luke Goldstein picks up Dayen's story, ten years on:

https://prospect.org/economy/2024-05-22-raiding-red-lobster/

It's not pretty. Ten years of being bled out on rents and flipped from one hedge fund to another has killed Red Lobster. It just shuttered 50 restaurants and declared Chapter 11 bankruptcy. Ten years hasn't changed much; the same kind of snark that was deployed at the news of Olive Garden's imminent demise is now being hurled at Red Lobster.

Instead of dunking on free bread-sticks, Red Lobster's grave-dancers are jeering at "Endless Shrimp," a promotional deal that works exactly how it sounds like it would work. Endless Shrimp cost the chain $11m.

Which raises a question: why did Red Lobster make this money-losing offer? Are they just good-hearted slobs? Can't they do math?

Or, you know, was it another hedge-fund, bust-out scam?

Here's a hint. The supplier who provided Red Lobster with all that shrimp is Thai Union. Thai Union also owns Red Lobster. They bought the chain from Golden Gate Capital, last seen in 2014, holding a flash-sale on all of Red Lobster's buildings, pocketing billions, and cutting Red Lobster's earnings in half.

Red Lobster rose to success – 700 restaurants nationwide at its peak – by combining no-frills dining with powerful buying power, which it used to force discounts from seafood suppliers. In response, the seafood industry consolidated through a wave of mergers, turning into a cozy cartel that could resist the buyer power of Red Lobster and other major customers.

This was facilitated by conservation efforts that limited the total volume of biomass that fishers were allowed to extract, and allocated quotas to existing companies and individual fishermen. The costs of complying with this "catch management" system were high, punishingly so for small independents, bearably so for large conglomerates.

Competition from overseas fisheries drove consolidation further, as countries in the global south were blocked from implementing their own conservation efforts. US fisheries merged further, seeking economies of scale that would let them compete, largely by shafting fishermen and other suppliers. Today's Alaskan crab fishery is dominated by a four-company cartel; in the Pacific Northwest, most fish goes through a single intermediary, Pacific Seafood.

These dominant actors entered into illegal collusive arrangements with one another to rig their markets and further immiserate their suppliers, who filed antitrust suits accusing the companies of operating a monopsony (a market with a powerful buyer, akin to a monopoly, which is a market with a powerful seller):

https://www.classaction.org/news/pacific-seafood-under-fire-for-allegedly-fixing-prices-paid-to-dungeness-crabbers-in-pacific-northwest

Golden Gate bought Red Lobster in the midst of these fish wars, promising to right its ship. As Goldstein points out, that's the same promise they made when they bought Payless shoes, just before they destroyed the company and flogged it off to Alden Capital, the hedge fund that bought and destroyed dozens of America's most beloved newspapers:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/10/16/sociopathic-monsters/#all-the-news-thats-fit-to-print

Under Golden Gate's management, Red Lobster saw its staffing levels slashed, so diners endured longer wait times to be seated and served. Then, in 2020, they sold the company to Thai Union, the company's largest supplier (a transaction Goldstein likens to a Walmart buyout of Procter and Gamble).

Thai Union continued to bleed Red Lobster, imposing more cuts and loading it up with more debts financed by yet another private equity giant, Fortress Investment Group. That brings us to today, with Thai Union having moved a gigantic amount of its own product through a failing, debt-loaded subsidiary, even as it lobbies for deregulation of American fisheries, which would let it and its lobbying partners drain American waters of the last of its depleted fish stocks.

Dayen's 2020 must-read book Monopolized describes the way that monopolies proliferate, using the US health care industry as a case-study:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/01/29/fractal-bullshit/#dayenu

After deregulation allowed the pharma sector to consolidate, it acquired pricing power of hospitals, who found themselves gouged to the edge of bankruptcy on drug prices. Hospitals then merged into regional monopolies, which allowed them to resist pharma pricing power – and gouge health insurance companies, who saw the price of routine care explode. So the insurance companies gobbled each other up, too, leaving most of us with two or fewer choices for health insurance – even as insurance prices skyrocketed, and our benefits shrank.

Today, Americans pay more for worse healthcare, which is delivered by health workers who get paid less and work under worse conditions. That's because, lacking a regulator to consolidate patients' interests, and strong unions to consolidate workers' interests, patients and workers are easy pickings for those consolidated links in the health supply-chain.

That's a pretty good model for understanding what's happened to Red Lobster: monopoly power and monopsony power begat more monopolies and monoposonies in the supply chain. Everything that hasn't consolidated is defenseless: diners, restaurant workers, fishermen, and the environment. We're all fucked.

Decent, no-frills family restaurant are good. Great, even. I'm not the world's greatest fan of chain restaurants, but I'm also comfortably middle-class and not struggling to afford to give my family a nice night out at a place with good food, friendly staff and reasonable prices. These places are easy pickings for looters because the people who patronize them have little power in our society – and because those of us with more power are easily tricked into sneering at these places' failures as a kind of comeuppance that's all that's due to tacky joints that serve the working class.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/05/23/spineless/#invertebrates

[indiapropertyads]

Posh Luxury Villa in Yapral Hyderabad Plot Size533 Yards, North west boo...

[houseofgates23]

If you are looking for aluminium driveway gates to secure your property, our Aluminium gates are available in a variety of styles and designs to fit your needs.

[hometoursandotherstuff]

Very wealthy art collector's very expensive artsy home is for sale. The 2000 modern home in Beverly Hills, CA has 7bds, 11ba, plus a 30 car garage, and is on the market for $39M. So, far, it's been on the market for 104 days, b/c who has $39M? Even if you do, you have to like a very modern, very artsy home. I like it, but I don't have $39M.

Look at that statue in the glass case. And, dotting the color coded bookshelves are the owner's Bearbrick collection. A gold one is in a case on the floor.

With such an art collection, I wonder if all the glass windows are safety glass or something, and how secure the doors are.

There's a mezzanine above, and pay special attention to the lighting on the ceilings. There's a lot of neon.

A very large statue complements the wall along the stairs.

Very sculptural "railing."

What a huge living room. Nice fireplace. Looks like the shelves are specially made for the statues.

At these prices the floors and walls must be marble.

In the half bath, have you ever seen a sink like this?

The dining room opens to a patio. I don't know what that wall is- an art installation, wine wall, I don't know. The chandelier is nice, but I'm not crazy about it.

The kitchen is very open. Did you ever notice that the very wealthy people don't like their kitchens to look like kitchens? Like, they hide the appliances.

The primary bedroom is ridiculously large.

There's a fabulous fireplace and display shelving.

Then, there's a separate area with a chaise. Look at the ceiling.

This looks like a home office on one side and a bath on the other.

Here's a dressing room/closet. (Who changes the neon lights? There are so many.)

In this bathroom a very wonky wall must be a form of art.

The secondary bedroom suite is as beautiful as many primary bedrooms I've seen. It's huge. The bath has a ribbed marble sink, which is unusual. And, in the shower, look at the neon along the seat.

There is an entire dining room set out in the garden.

And, this is the behemoth 30 car garage.

Gated entrance to the property.

The stunning grounds and pool.

There's the garage all lit up. 1.84 acre lot.

https://www.bexrealty.com/California/Beverly-Hills/2650-Benedict-Canyon-Dr/single-family-home/

[gooolabatooo]

This is art for the story “A Hive of 221Bs” by Shai Porter (@iwantthatcoat) for the When the Rose Speaks its Name Sherlock Holmes Anthology!

You can check out their blog @whentherosespeaks . This is a non-profit project, Returns from sales will be donated to AKT, a UK charity benefiting LGBTQIA+ youth.

Image Description: The setting of this image is a garden, Holmes and Watson. On the right of the picture, there are five apiaries and Holmes is in the middle of these bee hives. To the left, there is a big tree, and an outdoor furniture set with tea on the table; in front of it is Watson, opening a gate and walking towards Holmes.

Website | Tumblr | Instagram

[baalzebufo]

good ol fashioned razzmatazz

SO I wrote more... :) ive wanted to do a series of scenes from Gideon's life for a while now- moments in time we didn't see in the show. mostly past, maybe some present or future, depending. wanted to explore his life a little more, and the headcanons ive got surrounding it. drabbles is the best way to solve this because i cant write one long cohesive plot very well haha

ive got a handful of ideas in mind but this is the first one that i finished to any degree. just a little scene from his childhood. gideon makes his first sale, and learns something about himself.

‘What are you up to, sweetie?’

‘Shh- it’s a secret.’

Gideon hushed his mother as he ran over to the back door and shoved his face up against it, peering out through the frosted glass window into the car lot. His mother, Florence, turned her attention away from the oven for a moment to squint at him. He was wearing his favorite dress shirt, the dark blue one covered in golden stars- shorts and sandals for the weather, and his long hair was pulled back into a white braid. The sun caught on his hair through the window, and she could have sworn she saw it sparkle. What a strange little boy they had, she thought.

---

She remembers how tiny he was when she first held him, and how odd his shock of white hair had been. Odder still when she first saw the icy blue eyes he had- not like hers or Bud’s, not at all. Neither of them had even heard of what the doctors diagnosed him with before then. Some sort of ‘congenital condition’, for whatever that meant. All that fancy medical talk was a bit out of her area of expertise. All that mattered to her was that their little boy was alive- and now, at least on his way to better health.

Their little Gideon had been much more adventurous these days. Ever since the doctors had given him the OK during his last hospital visit, he’d seemingly been itching to get outside. He hummed loudly, like he was deep in thought.

Florence smiled. She reached over to the fridge.

‘Well, if you aren’t too busy with your secrets, could you do me a favor?’

‘Hm?’ He whipped his head over to look at his mother, who was holding a little tupperware container.

‘How about you go across the lot and take this to your dad for me?’

The wheels turned for a moment, and Gideon perked up instantly.

‘Y’mean it? On my own?’

‘Of course, hon. As long as you’re careful-’

He nodded, a smile creasing his face. Oh- she couldn’t help it, every time he smiled, she smiled too. Surely every mother thinks their child is the cutest kid on the planet, but well… she KNEW hers was. And she knew that they’d been very protective of him these past few months, what with the hospital scare and all. As much as she fretted about his health- she made a mental note to deep clean his room again this weekend- she couldn’t squash that spirit behind his eyes. It couldn’t hurt to let him out on his own for a little bit.

He took the container from her hands and tucked it under one of his arms, nodding solemnly.

‘Ah’ll handle it, ma’am!’ He stood up straight and gave a little salute, his face faux-stern, and she couldn’t help but laugh. He’d been watching too much TV lately, bless him.

She waved him off as he skittered out of the door, turning her attention back to the oven.

---

Gideon shielded his eyes from the afternoon sun. The worst of his sensitivity to it may have gone away with the treatments, but it still got awful bright out in summer. But he’d power through it. After all, he had a mission.

He took off at a run down the winding garden path, rushing through the gate onto the concrete car lot. The weather was hot, but there was that fresh summer breeze blowing in his face that made him glad to be out of his room. He liked it in there plenty- he had books and instruments and more toys than he knew what to do with- but being cooped up in bed for so long had him yearning for the outdoors. He squinted, spying the towering figure of his father through the light glinting off the windows of his work building.

Giggling, he sprinted across the lot as fast as his legs could carry him into the shop.

‘Dad!’ He burst through the door, startling his father. Bud Gleeful whipped around from where he was sat across a little plastic table with a skinny spectacled gentleman, poring over a contract. He wore a battered looking old suit but held himself with an oddly aristocratic air. He seemed out of place on a used car lot.

‘Woah there, sunshine-’ Bud started, his sentence cut off with an oof- as Gideon jumped onto his lap. ‘Heavens, boy! What’s gotten into you?’

Gideon looked up at him- and then across the table to his latest customer. He had put the contract down and was looking down at the two of them, a smile creasing his cheeks. Bud raised a hand, a little embarrassed. ‘Oh my, I’m mighty sorry for the interruption, sir-’

‘Oh, no. It’s quite alright.’ He laughed- he had that fancy city-folk accent, Gideon noticed. He tilted his head to the side to get a better look at him. ‘Now who is this fine little fellow?’

‘Oh, well this is-’

‘Gideon!’ He piped up, folding his hands across his lap with a smile. ‘Gideon Charles Gleeful!’

‘Haha- yep. That’s my lil’ Gideon.’ Bud finished for him, resting one big hand on his son's shoulder. ‘This is my son. Little fella ain’t been too well recently, but he’s lookin’ fit as a fiddle now. Acting it, too! Well now, why’d you rush over here in such a hurry, boy? Does your mother know you’re-’

‘Oh, yeah! I brought ya’ this from mom.’ He held out the container to Bud, who picked it up- turned it over, then hummed in understanding.

‘Hah, oh yeah. I s’pose I did almost forget about lunch, all caught up in negotiatin’.’ He mused. ‘Thank you kindly, sweetheart.’ He leant down to kiss his forehead, which Gideon responded to by playfully swatting him away.

The moment was interrupted then by the man across the table clearing his throat. Gideon and Bud both turned their attention back to him.

‘Mr. Gleeful, I have to be honest- I wasn’t sure if this was the right car for me, a few minutes ago. Forgive me for my bluntness, but I was worried this place might not be… on the up-and-up, if you catch my drift.’ Gideon felt his fathers hand slip off his shoulder, a subtle change in his demeanor.

‘But… well, seeing you here- you seem like a real family man, Mr. Gleeful. Trustworthy. I’m sorry for doubting you.’ He chuckled. ‘I suppose I thought this contract might be too good to be true for a moment there.’

‘Nah, dad’s the best at this stuff!’ Gideon piped up- he felt Bud tense up for a second, about to hush him, but he carried on. ‘I’m gonna learn to sell cars just as good as his, someday! So you can tell yer kids to come buy from me!’

Bud held his breath a moment, but then the customer burst out laughing.

‘Oh- goodness, how sweet. You know what, Gideon? I’ll have to remember that.’

‘That’ll be Mr. Gleeful to you!’

Bud picked him up then, lifting himself out of his chair and carrying his son high up to perch on his shoulder. ‘Okay, that’s enough teasing, boy-’

‘Haha! No, no, he’s got it right.’ The skinny man stood too, pushing his glasses up his nose. ‘You know what? You’ve got yourself a sale, Mr. Gleeful.’

He held his hand out- up, above Bud’s, to Gideon. He grasped it firmly, grinning ear to ear and shook his hand. The gentleman nodded his head, then reached into his pocket and pulled out a crisp 20 dollar bill.

‘Forgive me for being forward- but may I give the young man a commission?’

Bud startled, glancing at it- then back to Gideon- then back to the money. ‘Oh, my- that’s awful kind of you sir, it certainly is! Of course you can.’

Gideon’s eyes lit up. He eagerly took the twenty, held it up to the light- then slipped it into his pocket. He squirmed- a sign for Bud to pick him up and let him down on the floor again- and stood up straight with his arms folded.

‘Thanks, sir!’ He chirped, and Bud leant down to pat the top of his head.

‘Now Gideon, do you think you could let the grown-ups handle the borin’ part of all this paperwork?’ He crouched to smile at his son.

‘Sure thing.’

‘Alright, sweetpea. Don’t spend your money all in one place, y’hear?’

‘Okay, dad!’

His mission complete, Gideon padded over to the door- leant over his shoulder to wave at the man his father was now pushing a pen into the hand of- and left the room.

Stopping on the sun-soaked car lot, he reached into his pocket and felt the dollar again. Thought about the look on that man's face when he gave him the money, for nothing but a few words and a smile. His dad had a pretty easy job, he figured. But he didn’t really understand the whole sales thing- not yet, at least.

---

Gideon would spend the rest of the day playing in the garden- until he got too hot and tired, and retreated back to his shaded room for a nap. He wouldn’t think too much about what happened that day.

But that night, his father would take them out to the diner and boast loudly about how his son- barely in his fifth year!- had made his first ever sale. He’d let him order dessert- seconds, too. And he’d ask Gideon to stop by the lot more often, especially if he wants to learn to be a salesman someday. He was one talented boy, his parents told him. Showered him with that notion, really. He was destined to be a big shot one day with a personality as glowing as his.

'You have a face folks would never say no to!' His father told him. He didn't mean much when he said it- more of a joke than anything. But something about it settled with Gideon, still learning about the world. Nobody would say no to him, huh...?

He figured that sounded pretty nice.

[asnowfern]

How Paper Is Made

Summary: Nesta found out Feyre was illiterate and decided to teach her. Set one year before the ACOTAR series.

A/N: Written for Day One of @nestaarcheronweek 2023: Sister. Enjoy!

Read on AO3

Feyre trudged through the snow exhausted as her sisters trailed after her. She had managed to snag two rabbits and a deer the day before. That's enough food to feed them for two weeks and provide them with coins from the sale of pelts. As usual, her two elder sisters were primed to snag whatever coin they could get from the sale of the pelts. Just as Feyre was about to enter the village, Nesta pulled on her tunic, holding her back to hiss at her, "Stop." 

"What are you doing?" Feyre asked indignantly. 

Nesta's eyes darted to the sign stuck to the village gates. "Can't you read?" Feyre stared at the sign, at the letters that made no sense to her, and shot Nesta an annoyed look. 

"The soldiers are coming in today, let's come back tomorrow." Nesta scoffed, Elain nodding behind her. 

It dawned on Feyre then that Nesta and Elain had no idea she was illiterate. So removed from her that they never even noticed the basic fact. She swallowed audibly, "Of course, I just missed it. That's all." 

With that, she turned around and headed back to the cottage, missing Nesta's narrowed gaze. 

After they returned from their fruitless trip, the trio of sisters went their separate ways. Feyre sighed in resignation and set out to dry out the remaining rabbit meat by herself. Because what was she really expecting? For her sisters to help? 

She stopped to get water halfway through the process, pausing when she saw some words written in the dirt outside the cottage. She stared at it.

"Read it." 

Feyre turned to the source of the command. Nesta leaned casually against the cottage, one hand brandishing a stick. Feyre felt heat blossom over her cheeks. She shook her head and stalked off, muttering, "I don't have time for this."

"You can't read." Not a question, a statement.

Feyre stopped in her tracks and turned around. She jutted out her chin defensively, "Why would a half-wild child need to read?" 

Nesta stopped her in a path before she could walk away and said softly, "Everybody should know how to read." 

Feyre scoffed, "The meat isn't going to dry itself."

Nesta's gaze was unwavering. "The meat has already been sliced, right? I'll finish up."

Feyre stared in disbelief. Never once had Nesta given the impression that she even knew how to dry meat, let alone offered to do it in her stead. She nodded numbly. 

By the time Freyre returned with a flask of water, Nesta was rubbing salt into the meat. She raised her head and gestured at the wordings in the sand. “Do you know the alphabet?”

Feyre nodded jerkily, face once again flushed. 

“Good. We will start with monosyllabic and the most essential two syllable words.”

Nesta turned out to be a much better teacher than she expected. While stern, she was patient in letting Feyre put together the words herself, only chiming in to give useful tips on stringing letters together. Once Feyre finished reading the words, the dirt was wiped and she was expected to write back the same words. The sisters continued into the evening, Elain joining in to give Feyre hints with no judgment in her eyes. It was only when Feyre closed her eyes that night, huddled with both sisters, that she realised the usual cold empty feeling in her chest was not as stark. 

The lessons continued daily after Feyre returned from her hunts. Nesta would wait for her by the space next to Elain’s garden with new words written in the ground. As the days went by, Feyre progressed from simple words to phrases and sentences. The area of dirt which they used seemed more and more small and inadequate. When Elain pointed it out, Nesta’s face turned thoughtful. 

Two days later, Feyre came home exhausted after hours of a fruitless hunt. Nesta was not waiting by Elain’s garden. Elain however, beamed at her as she approached. 

"Nesta is at the back." Her smile faltered at Feyre's frustrated expression. Her eyes trailed to Feyre's empty hands and registered the implication of a night of hunger that lied ahead of them. 

Elain stood up and grasped Feyre's hands in her own, "Shall we take the lesson outside today?"

Feyre froze in disbelief as her sister continued gently, one hand reaching out to tuck a stray strand behind her ears "We could forage together." 

The crunch of a dried leaf drew both sisters' attention. Nesta stared at the both of them, holding on to a few pieces of parchment. She narrowed her eyes.

"I thought we could have the lesson outside today." Elain suggested, her tone deceptively light. "While foraging in the woods."

Nesta frowned, conflict warring in her eyes. Gaze locked with Elain before her eyes moved to Feyre's empty hands. Her jaw clenched, "No." 

"Why not?" Elain challenged, eyebrows raised.

Nesta's eyes snapped back to Elain. Their gazes locked in a silent argument. Eventually, Nesta huffed, "Let me grab my coat." 

Nesta returned after a minute with her and Elain's coats in tow. She wordlessly passed one to Elain and continued to stride forward. 

Feyre snuck a glance at Elain who sported a triumphant glint. The trio trudged along the forest silently with Nesta leading a few paces in front of them. Feyre's mind whirled as she took in this foreign experience of going into the words with her sisters. When she said as much to Elain, Elain’s face turned contemplative. After a moment, she reminded her, “We used to go into the woods behind the manor all the time.” 

Feyre nearly stopped in her tracks. Memories of her trottering after Nesta and Elain as they played in the woods played in her head. Nesta pushing her in a homemade swing which hung from one of the trees and catching her when she fell while attempting to climb a tree. Memories that were left buried underneath years of anger and bitterness. 

“We did.” she said softly. Elain gave her a gentle, sad smile before changing the topic, launching a speech on the different types of fruits and mushrooms native to the area. Feyre and Nesta nodded along but stayed silent, happy to let Elain fill in the silence. 

"Willowberries would still be our best bet in making any sort of filling fruit puree really. Mixed in-" Feyre raised a closed fist to signal for silence. 

Having attracted Elain and Nesta's attention, Feyre raised her index finger to her lips and signaled to the right. The group fell silent as Feyre lowered herself to survey some track marks on the ground. Without saying another word, she drew her arrow and held her bow low. 

She took a few steps before she spotted it. A doe. Dinner.

Without hesitating, Feyre raised her bow and released an arrow in a single fluid motion. The arrow flew and struck true. 

They had venison stew with mushrooms for dinner that night. Ate in a sort of comfortable silence that was new to the family. Feyre had just finished washing up and was about to head to bed when Nesta intercepted her by shoving some parchment in her face. 

Feyre started to bristle when she noticed each parchment had a few sentences written at the top. She raised a questioning bow at Nesta.

"We will start working on your penmanship tomorrow. Copy each sentence ten times" Nesta instructed curtly and walked away, almost a little too quickly. 

Feyre inspected the paper in her hand, thumbing the surface. The paper was thick and its surface, uneven. It seemed handmade? When Feyre raised her head to search out her sister, Nesta was tucking herself into bed with Elain. There was a resolute look on her face. Recognising the truce that it was, Feyre carefully kept away the parchment. 

Her sisters did not follow her out to the woods again. But Feyre noticed that not all the food had to be brought to the table by her. Often, their meals would be accompanied by a variety of mushrooms and berries. 

Everyday, she would be presented with more pieces of parchment. Sentences became paragraphs and page length articles. Feyre found herself looking forward to her daily new reading materials. Some days it was a simple fairytale, other days were articles about balancing books and society etiquette. Everyday, Feyre absorbed them hungrily and dutifully wrote them back, even summarising some of the articles. Nesta raised an approving brow at those. 

Until one day she didn't. 

But not for a lack of trying. Feyre had injured her hand hunting. Her bandaged hand would be able to nock an arrow but not hold a pen. She bit back a frustrated sigh. 

"Here, let me." 

Feyre snapped her head up to see Nesta standing over her. She wordlessly took Feyre's injured hand and began to gently unwind the bandages. Feyre stilled - something about this was unfamiliar but not completely foreign. Another memory pierced through the fog to her - one of Nesta comforting her after she fell off the tree, of Nesta gently dressing her wound as she did now. 

"You've done this for me before." she pointed out quietly.

"You always were a wild thing." Nesta commented, her words were cutting but had no real bite to it.

Feyre stared at her sister's hands, entranced by the cyclical movement as the bandages were wound around her hand. Then she spotted them, multiple miniscule cuts on her sister's hands from making the parchment for her. Feyre felt her chest tightened at the sight.

Angry Nesta who would rip apart the world for Elain but not for her. Feyre had resented her for it. Angry Nesta who hated cutting wood would do so and painstakingly process it into pulp and paper for her. All so she could read - a skill that is debatably useless to her. 

"Why did you stop?" she asked, "You used to fight for us." 

Nesta's hand stilled imperceptibly before moving to continue wrapping, her movements now rushed and impatient. 

"What's the point?" she snapped and walked away.

Feyre never received another reading parchment after that night. 

**

Feyre glared at the bill in dismay. 

Two hundred gold marks squandered on alcohol. Two hundred gold marks used to enable her sister's addiction and self-destructive behaviour. 

She had tried giving Nesta space but the inner court was right - it was high time to adopt a different approach.

She needs structure. Cut her off from her vices. Perhaps some time in Illyria will build discipline.

Feyre winced at the thought. Nesta would resent her for it. She might save her sister at the cost of permanently fracturing their relationship. No, there had to be other ways. 

She absentmindedly thumbed through the stacks of paperwork on her desk and nicked her fingertips. A splinter covered hand came to mind.

Structure. What Nesta needed is structure. 

With a determined glint, Feyre puts her plan in motion the next day, winnowing to Nesta's rundown apartment. She knocked on the door firmly. Frowning after a few minutes of inactivity, she knocked again and called out, "Nesta? I know you're in there." 

The door swung open, revealing an irate elder Archeron. An unkempt male Fae was dressing himself in the background, his eyes bulged at the appearance of his High Lady. His eyes dotted towards Nesta, as if noticing for the first time who he actually spent the night with. 

"Out." Feyre hissed as she stalked into the apartment. She surveyed the simple layout and zoomed in on the buckets and stool which sat by the foot of the bathtub. A pit of regret formed in her stomach. How could she have forgotten? Feyre made a mental note to make the enquiries once she got back. 

"To what do I owe the honour, High Lady of the Night Court?" Nesta asked sarcastically after the male fled the apartment, arms crossed as she remained standing by the entrance.

Feyre swallowed a breath and reached into her bag to retrieve a stack of familiar papers. "We never finished our lessons." 

"Excuse me?" Nesta asked with genuine surprise in her eyes. 

"Our reading and writing lessons." Feyre clarified, "We never finished them." 

"I'm sure your precious Court can teach you." she scoffed, jerking her head, "Ask Rhysand."

Feyre shook her head, eyes blazing, "You've been my teacher." 

Nesta rolled her eyes, "Because there was nobody else."

"See it through." she grounded out through gritted teeth, frustration bleeding into her voice. 

"No." she jerked her head once more, this time in the direction of the door, "Leave." 

Feyre stood her ground, twin pairs of blue-grey eyes staring each other down. Feyre's expression softened, "You teaching me to read saved my life."

She paused, cautiously observing Nesta's expression, "I might have died under the Mountain if you hadn't taught me. When the words forming her riddles appeared and spikes descended on Lucien, my first thought was thank goodness I know how to read. You did that." 

"Then you can carry on by yourself." Nesta responded stubbornly, "You don't need me." 

Feyre shook her head fervently, grabbing for her sister's hands, "You're my sister. I want it to be you."

She continued, seizing the opportunity as Nesta's walls faltered, "Twice a week. I could come to you or we could meet somewhere else. Your choice."

Time stretched painfully between the seconds before Nesta finally replied, "Fine."

Feyre gave a wry smile, "I'll provide the paper." 

End

[brf-rumortrackinganon]

I'm with you on divorce watch. On top of "Meghan's moved on from the royals" and "Harry's holding back her Hollywood comeback", Sussex PR also put out articles about the Olive Garden yesterday - on Page Six and a number of the usual Reach publications. It's going on the market soon for sure.

https://archive.ph/X1sYm

Here’s the link

Totally, Olive Garden is absolutely going on the market soon. I’ve heard rumors but your Page Six article totally validates it. No one commissions a “our house is beautiful, come learn about it” piece like this unless they’re trying to attract buyers ahead of a sale. Usually these pieces appear in more esteemed publications like Architecture’s Digest or the Sunday magazines. It must hurt that Meghan only got Page Six to bite.

It’s such a money pit. I’m pretty sure they bought it intending to flip it (as Meghan’s BFF Ellen does) but it was too much work, and allegedly haunted cursed (Montecito is partially on a Native American burial ground and centuries-old bones were found at or near the Sussexes’ estate). Taxes and insurance are also sky-high, they have a mortgage on it, utilities also have to be atrociously high. Someone did some speculative math on it once and I think they said the costs of a place like that is somewhere around $400K a month. PER MONTH. No wonder Harry is fighting so hard for his IPP. He needs diplomatic status so the UK will make his house a diplomatic mission and pay the bills for him. Allegedly, of course.

My theory is they’re going to spin selling the house as they need more privacy. Remember the story from summer that there was a celeb house tour guide taking people to the Olive Garden and the tourists were taking pictures of the front gates?

Edit: I added links to articles and stories about the Native American history of Montecito.

[respectthepetty]

Plant Daddy Dome

Round 3 of I-Should've-Just-Binged-This-When-It-Was-Finished!

Find Round 1 and Round 2 here.

Many people have pointed out that the same flower Khatha first sees Dome with is the same flower that Dome gives Anthika. This flower, Lily of the valley, represents rebirth and happiness. The lotus on Anthika's card and tattoo also represents rebirth.

However, Lily of the valley is a very biblical flower. The flower symbolizes the tears Eve cried when she was banished from Eden, the flower is used for gauging someone's pureness at heaven's gate, and it's poisonous.

Adam & Eve

In the bible, Adam and Eve aren't separated. They are banished from Eden, but Midnight Museum offering up the tale with the now-humans being separated seems intentional. Throughout this opening sequence, Dome narrates how God won't help those who don't help themselves and how God gives us what we need in unexpected ways.

Because I'm my own worst enemy, Khatha seeing Dome with the Lily of valley as Dome exits the flower shop would be similar to Adam watching a crying Eve leave the garden of Eden. Dome returns to Eden the shop only to encounter the serpent Anthika who he gives the flowers that represent rebirth and pureness. Ton and Anne should be Adam and Eve, but...Khatha is immortal. We don't know how long he has been immortal. If he was lonely, a gift from a God could have come in a small boat. However, these two could have done something to upset God, and they were separated.

Cursed Objects

June told Khatha they are similar. She didn't state how, but June's grief over her betrayal of her lover drowned her and made her a ghost. June's cursed object was the wedding dress. When Dome entered Zone 16, the dress was the first item to go missing (the mannequin is no longer wearing the dress).

The typewriter was the next to start acting out

When Jib and his crew rob the museum, all the remaining cursed items were taken

June commented that the moths were the only objects that were alive, and Anthika told Ton he didn't deserve life.

However, June, who is attached to the dress, is alive. The writer who couldn't finish his story was attached to the typewriter. Ton had a heartbeat and so did Anne.

These objects aren't objects. They are people who have been cursed...through their own doing. That's the curse. God won't help them until they help themselves. June said immortality is a curse, and her and Khatha are the same. Khatha said he wasn't cursed, but at the end of episode six, who doesn't have a heartbeat? Dome.

What if Adam and Eve were banished from the garden and separated, not just in space but time. Both cursed, but one can never die, and the other never really alive.

And what if they have what they need to not be cursed since God delivers salvation in unexpected ways?

Stray Thoughts

Khatha offered Ton controlled freedom. He told Ton that he had to go back to the museum but he didn't have to stay contained in Zone 16. June is currently living this situation, but why is Triphop there? In the pilot, Triphop exhibited some supernatural powers and the shadow people lurked around him.

Is he also cursed and that is why his grandfather brought him to the museum?

The kids in the fifth episode (salt) transported to Anthika's place, where we saw the salt lady and the piano teacher merge into Anthika. The kid in the fourth episode (evil round stone) ran to her place, and the other kid had the same tattoo as her. The kid stated they needed to tell the museum owner about the stone. The incident that happened in episode four was briefly mentioned in episode five.

Tay's character told Anthika he had tested Dome several times. Jib wasn't the one to pick up the museum's card in the alley; it was a gloved hand. The antique shop owner stated he wasn't purchasing the stolen goods, but a MAN had left the lotus card in case anyone wanted to sale some odd items. Dome saw an evil presence in the mirror.

Tay's character made sure Jib got the card to rob the museum. He made sure that the cursed items would find their way out into the world (with no intention of getting them himself except for the bbq body), so they would test Dome. Also, we know Anthika, and possibly by extension Tay's character, can change appearances, so have they impersonated other characters?

The issue with the tests are the human aspect of them. Anthika only saw Ton as an object. The salt lady and the piano teacher (who were possibly Anthika) only saw the daughter and stepmother as pawns in their game. Anthika is collecting worshipers and sacrifices not people. Anthika wants servants.

Khatha worried about what would happen to the boy with the stone when Bam said he would go to jail for murder. It seemed as if Dome resurrected Rin to give Moth what he wanted. Dome and Khatha helped the writer finish his story. Khatha saw Ton's humanity.

Anthika's followers were in maid outfits and asking people if they were happy or felt like they belonged. The stories so far have dealt with loss of love, finding happiness, and a sense of belonging, but Anthika is offering an escape from all of that.

I don't think Dome is an alien, but if he is, is he showing that humanity is worth the hassle?

And the way to beat this new god is leaning into the human parts of themselves. They must love each other and work as a group. They must find happiness.

Because to beat a god, Dome and Khatha have to be human. Will Khatha have to give up his immortality (a rib) to make Dome human since God helps us differently than what we expect?

[theownerofsich]

Palace of the Lopukhin

Located on an island in the middle of the Ros River. City of Korosten.Ukraine.

It was built in 1789 by Prince Stanisław Poniatowski, its architecture, in the neo-Gothic style, looks stunning. Of particular note are the entrance gates, executed in the spirit of French defensive architecture. Many contemporaries note that the palace (along with the adjacent territory, park) was long considered one of the richest in Europe. Founded in 1782 and intended as his own summer residence. In fact, the building was erected on the remains of a fortress of Polish princes, which was built on the Ancient Rus' hillfort of the town of Korosten. Initially, talented architects named Lindsay and Muntz worked on the building project. With the participation of Prince Lopukhin, the exterior of the building was significantly transformed – separate features of romanticism, classicism, supplemented with elements of Gothic, appeared. Fortunately, the revolutionary events of those times did not affect the integrity and present beauty of the palace. To this day, it has survived practically in its original form. The history of the property is controversial.

Lopukhin, in 1799, purchased the estate from the Polish leader Stanisław Poniatowski, giving him 10,000 rubles in silver. A corresponding decree was separately prepared. It stated that along with the palace, trees, lands, crockery, library, and garden were transferred. One of the heirs of the estate was the most enlightened Prince Nikolai Petrovich Demidov. If the former owners of the object had enough income not only for living but also for maintaining the entire economy, then the newly minted owner began to experience significant financial difficulties. The situation was exacerbated by the abolition of serfdom, the improper lifestyle of Nikolai Petrovich. Even the work of two sugar factories of his own did not save the situation, despite the fact that other industrialists made good money on similar enterprises. It got to the point that by 1897, Lopukhin-Demidov was forced to take out a loan of 2.5 million rubles. The estate, which was estimated at that time at 4,167 thousand rubles, was mortgaged. Such significant "infusions" did not change the situation. Therefore, the prince decided to transfer his debts to the state. In 1901, he applied for guardianship of the estate in order to reduce the total debt. The historical importance of the palace, its integrity played a positive role in this matter.

By 1902, the unfavorable condition of the estate served as an impetus for its sale, transfer to the state balance. The lack of working capital, excessive indebtedness, the obligations of the Lopukhin-Demidov family contributed to the activation of this process. Numerous efforts did not allow getting rid of debts. Again, in 1907, the palace was laid down for another 66 and a half years. The composition of the guardianship management changed several times, while the total debt continued to grow. The situation began to get out of control, and Nikolai Petrovich turned to the emperor for help. It turned out that the cause of all the troubles was the manager, whom they did not prosecute after proving his guilt. Nikolai Petrovich planned that within the next three to four years, he would be able to settle private debts, a little later – with the rest. At the end of 1910, the Most Enlightened One died. His wife applied for the preservation of guardianship over the inheritance. The descendants of Lopukhin-Demidov (sons) rarely visited the estate, preferring other countries.

The estate went through a difficult time during World War II, in 1944. In Korosten, the 80-thousand-strong army of German invaders was based, who were successfully "knocked out" from their positions .For this operation, the city was awarded the Order of the 1st degree. By February 14, the city was completely liberated from the fascists. Today, there is a thematic museum in the estate dedicated to the Great Battle.

[carbo-ships]

Christmas

AO3 posting: [link] words: 1,976

Christmas fell on a Monday that year, which meant preparations for the day prevented Ardis from spending the weekend with Aether and the ghouls as she typically would have. It was, of course, one of the biggest days of the year at her monastery, and nothing more than an average weekday at the satanic ministry.

She was, however, permitted to visit them after the evening service on Christmas day. Ardis transported to the outer wall as soon as she could, eager to see her friends. The heavy gate swung open almost immediately after she rang the bell, revealing Aether. He must have been waiting there for her. Before she could even greet him, he pulled her into a tight hug. "I missed you so much," he murmured into her hair, placing a gentle kiss there.

She smiled as she hugged him back. "I missed you, too." When they finally pulled away, he shut the gate behind them and took her hand in his. Aether led her through the gardens toward the residential building, residual frost crunching under their boots. It was a cold evening, but Ardis's hand felt warm in his. They quickly stepped inside and closed the door to keep the heat in.

"Did you have a nice Christmas?" Aether asked her as they walked through the stone halls. It was warm indoors, which Aether still wasn't fully used to. When he first arrived, the ministry was working on a much smaller budget. Running the heating was a luxury. However, thanks to the success that came with Papa Emeritus IV's rise to power, those days were over. The ticket and merchandise sales kept the residential building cozy throughout the winter.

"It was certainly busy, but everything came together nicely. The services were lovely. You'd have liked them," she said with a smile. "We got to break out the good candles, and the fancy vestments... It was exhausting, but worth the effort.

Aether grinned. "I'm glad to hear it. And now, it's time to relax. You have been working too hard." They soon reached the ghouls' den, and Aether opened the door.

When Ardis stepped through the doorway, she gasped. In the corner of the room sat a Christmas tree, carefully decorated in string lights, red ornaments, and golden tinsel. A long garland was draped across the mantle over the lit fireplace. Eleven stockings were densely crammed together so they would all fit. Scattered around the room were all of the ghouls, dressed in festive sweaters of varying quality. Papa stood in the middle of the crowd, cozy in his red velveteen tracksuit with a Santa hat atop his head. They all greeted her with warm smiles. "What... What's..." Ardis stuttered, her eyes darting around the room in surprise and amazement.

"We, um..." Aether started awkwardly. "We wanted you to feel at home." He squeezed her hand. "Did we do alright?"

"Oh, Aether," she squeaked, throwing her arms around him and burying her face in his shoulder. He hugged her back tightly. "Is all this really just for me?"

"Of course it is," he cooed, kissing her temple as the others smiled at them. When she pulled away, he caressed her cheek lovingly. "It's important to you, so it's important to us."

Aether finally released her to let her say hello to the rest of her friends. Swiss scooped her into his arms, making her laugh, then handed her to Sodo. The stoic ghoul caught her awkwardly then carefully reacquainted her feet with the floor before accepting her affection with an ingenuine eye-roll that very poorly hid just how fond he was of her. After she greeted the other ghouls, Papa plopped down on the loveseat and patted his knee. "Come along, cara ," he called to her, "tell Santa what you want for Christmas!"

Ardis giggled with delight and skipped over to him, settling into his lap. He pecked her cheek and wrapped his arms around her. "Oh, Papa, you look adorable!" she fawned.

"What can this old man do for his little angel, eh? You've been a very good girl this year," Papa teased, giving her a little squeeze.

Her wings fluttered as she let out a childlike laugh, overcome with glee. "I don't need a single thing. You've already done so much for me. And I can't thank you enough for all of this," she said, gesturing to the festive room.

"Oh, don't thank me," he said dismissively. "It was Aether's idea. All I did was put on a funny hat and help him herd the others."

She gazed at Aether adoringly. His back was turned as he shed his jacket and pulled on a Christmas sweater. The collar got stuck on one of his horns for a moment, and Swiss had to come assist him.

"But really, Ardis," Papa said, drawing her out of her trance, "is there anything I can do to make this day any better for you? Just say the word, cara . Your wish is my command."

She thought for a moment. What did she want? Was there anything Papa could provide that was missing? An idea struck her. She leaned close to whisper in his ear, too embarrassed to make her request out loud. "Can the three of us cuddle again sometime? Like we did on the tour bus?"

A smile stretched across his lips. "As long as Aether agrees to it, I'm more than willing," he whispered back before kissing her cheek. "Not tonight, though. I believe your ghoul has something planned for you."

"H-He does?" she asked, her cheeks warming.

Papa put his finger to his lips playfully. "I've said too much. All in due time, my pet. But yes, I'd be more than happy to cuddle tomorrow evening. You can even spend the night again, if you'd like."

She practically beamed at him. "Oh, yes please!"

He gave her another little squeeze before she climbed off of his lap to return to Aether's side. The ghouls all eventually settled into the various couches to watch a movie. While Papa voted for Die Hard , insisting that it was technically a "Christmas movie", the group ultimately decided on The Nightmare Before Christmas . Ardis was tucked blissfully into Aether's side as they watched. He had his arm around her, periodically pulling her closer. It was so nice to have a moment to relax like this. She giggled when Swiss and the ghoulettes sang along to the songs. Papa took it upon himself to do his best impression of Oogie Boogie.

It was late when the movie finished, and Papa was clearly getting sleepy. “Aether, go on and give Ardis her present before I doze off,” he said with a yawn.

Ardis looked up at Aether in surprise. “You got me something?”

“Of course,” Aether chuckled. “Sodo, dig it out of her stocking for me, will you?”

Sodo nodded, standing from his seat with a grunt. He approached the mantle and his hand dove into one of the stockings to retrieve a small wrapped box.

Aether accepted it as he thanked him before handing it to Ardis. It was only about the size of the palm of his hand. “Just a little something.”

Ardis carefully tore off the paper and removed the lid. Inside was a necklace with a silver pendant in the shape of the quintessence symbol. Her cheeks flushed. That was Aether’s symbol. “Oh, Aether…”

“I hope that isn't too tacky,” Aether chuckled. “Swiss insisted it was a good idea. I wanted you to have something to remind you of me when you're away.”

Swiss laughed. “I was thinking of it more like a dog tag.”

“Shut up, Swiss,” Aether barked back. “It’s, well… Perhaps. I’m proud that you're mine. I want people to know that you’re mine. But mostly the first thing.”

She smiled at him bashfully. “Could you put it on for me?”

He grinned back at her. “Of course.” She swept her long braids over one shoulder as he took the necklace out of the box. Unclasping the dainty chain, he looped it around her neck and fastened it behind her.

She let her fingers gently touch the shiny pendant just below her collarbone and smiled to herself. She was his. “I love it, Aether. Thank you.”

“You're very welcome.” He kissed her forehead lovingly.

Papa stood from his seat and followed suit, giving her a quick kiss on the forehead. “It’s time for this old man to go to bed. I’ll see you tomorrow morning at breakfast, okay?”

Ardis nodded. “Good night, Papa.”

“Good night, cara .” With that, he exited the ghouls’ den.

“I imagine you're probably getting tired as well, aren't you?” Aether asked her. “You’ve had quite a long day.”

As if on cue, she yawned. “I suppose so,” she giggled.

“Let’s get some sleep, then,” he said, standing up and offering her his hand. “Good night, everyone.”

They all said farewell, and Ardis and Aether walked hand in hand to his bedroom. When he opened the door, Ardis spotted what Papa had been alluding to earlier that evening.

Tied to the center of his headboard was a sprig of mistletoe.

Ardis gasped. "Oh!" While not practiced in her homeland, she was well aware of the tradition. She knew what mistletoe meant.

Aether cleared his throat awkwardly, suddenly a bit self-conscious. Perhaps he'd overdone it. "I, er, hope that isn't too forward of me."

"N-No! I just, um... wasn't expecting that." They'd spent countless nights kissing in his bed, but it was always something that just happened . Not something he ever explicitly requested. He'd never gone, Good evening, Ardis, shall we make out tonight?

"It's, well..." he mumbled sheepishly. "This is what I'd like for Christmas. I trust this presents itself as a request rather than a demand, yes?" he clarified quickly.

"Yes, of course," she assured him. "I... I'd love to," she admitted bashfully, her wings fluttering a bit.

Relief flooded Aether's system and a broad smile appeared on his lips. "Well, in that case, let's get ready for bed." He let go of her hand so they could both change into their sleeping clothes. Ardis moved to the drawer that Aether had cleaned out for her and pulled out a comfy pair of sweatpants and one of Aether's old t-shirts. She was comfortable changing in the same room as him now, with the understanding that he would have his back turned and wouldn't stare. He was always on his best behavior in those vulnerable moments, of course, even when it went against his ghoulish instincts. He'd worked hard to earn her trust and intended to keep it.

When they'd both changed, they made their way to the communal bathroom to brush their teeth. As they stood together at the sink, Aether's gaze drifted to the reflection of the shower stalls behind them. He'd often imagined asking her to shower with him. She'd say no. He knew that. But still... Maybe someday, he told himself. The thought of helping her wash her small back almost made his tail wag.

They returned to his room when they were done and said their prayers at the foot of his bed before he turned to her with a grin. "Shall we?"

Ardis gave a little nod, returning his smile. She lied on her back on the center of the bed and Aether carefully crawled over her. She couldn't help but giggle. Being so close to him like this made her a bit giddy.

He laughed as well, gently rubbing his nose against hers. "You're so cute, you know that?" He took her new necklace off for her and set it on the nightstand where it would be safe. They gazed at each other lovingly for a moment before he leaned close again, his eyes closing and his breath fanning over her lips. “Merry Christmas…”

[hometoursandotherstuff]

Thanks to cuteaquarium for sending this gorgeous 1924 estate that's for sale in Seattle, WA. Modeled after a British Manor, the 6bds, 7ba, home is priced at $14.9M.

Wow, classy Seattle property. Look at the entrance doors and gardens.

Beautiful sitting room with doors to a patio with a view of Lake Washington and the Cascade Mountains.

Wet bar tucked discreetly in the wall.

This is definitely a man cave style place to relax with friends, or just with a good cigar or pipe, and a glass of dessert wine.

The dining room is cozy with upholstered chairs and a fireplace.

The kitchen is fabulous. Well-thought-out, not just pick a cabinet and have them installed. They chose beautiful white, timeless Shaker style cabinets featuring cupboards, china cabinets, glass doors, and closets. The only counter is on the large island. Isn't the wood beautiful? And, the quartz top is perfectly matched.

But, the focal point is the stove. They had it set into the wall to mimic an ancient cooking fireplace. Cabinets on both sides hold cooking utensils, the copper backsplash is gorgeous, and the pot filler tops it all off.

A statue stands on a plinth in the hall by the stairs.

The railing features variously carved balusters and the stairs are covered in leopard print carpet.

A spiral staircase wraps around this interesting, and very sturdy, column.

The only area of the primary bedroom they show is the set of double doors opening to a terrace with a stunning view.

One of the bath's has a marble tub in front of a window.

Beautiful home office. I like the brown paint on the coffered ceiling.

And, every estate must have a wine cellar.

The garden is a beautiful green frame for the lake and mountains.

No matter where you look there's a gorgeous view.

Closeup of the outside lantern details.

Sculptural architecture makes the home look old.

Thick textured balusters in the gated entrance.

A dining terrace.

Very elegant estate on a 9,021 sq ft lot.

Lit up at dusk.

https://www.zillow.com/homedetails/Seattle-WA-98112/349486709_zpid/

[annikavelde]

{.889.}

.:ANATOMY:. Body: Ebody - Reborn w/ Waifu Chest Hair: BarberYumYum - B24 Tattoos: Endi - Huli Jing

.:CLOTHING:. Hat: Ayashi - Kagura Kasa Mask: CRYPTID - Lycan's Bite Mesh Top: Ameth - Mesh Net *NEW* @ The Warehouse Sale Bra: Vermilion - Pure Chaos Bra Sleeves: Kottr - Natsu Sleeves Corset: CerberusXing - Firmly Bound Harness Skirt: Aloe - Mira Skirt Katanas: Val'More - Aniamist Samurai - Sword Stockings: Aloe - Nova Boots - Fishnet

.:SCENE:. Torii Gate: ATTIC - Spring Torii White *NEW* @ ACCESS Moon: Anc Ltd - Moon - Clear Tree: HPMD - Garden Tree 10 - Fantasy Pose: GOYO - Roo

[sugarycandies]

The Chronicles of Hollow House

Chapter 1

Pairing: BTS x Reader (One-Shots per each member)

Genre: 18+ MINORS DNI, Smut with Plot, Slowburn, Supernatural, Horror-Themes, Angst

Synopsis: A house across the street serves as a warning. It had an outside so perilous and terrifying that no one was reckless enough to strut inside. Regardless, the noises inside the house bud concerningly, nurturing the curiosity of Y/N. One night, she sees someone, something, prowling outside of the house. The following day, she receives a formal invite to a dinner party at the house. She can only wonder what lies inside such an infamously avoided household.

Word Count: 3k

MASTERLIST

*Can be read as separate two-parters (Introduction + Specific Character Chapter)

════════════════════════════════════

Entry #31

The house stood taller than any other on the block. I ran by it today, every time I walk past it I just get the feeling I’m being watched. I hate that thing and I never want to go near it in my life. Who the hell is living there?

(Y/N) lived in a cottage-like house. A well-tended and nice garden decorated the outside, as a small grey brick wall hugged around it, leaving a gate to enter from. She prided herself on making her house look approachable and nice. It was a small house, but a homey one nonetheless. Yet, no one would be even able to see her beautiful exterior other than herself, and that was due to the house.

An enormous, decrepit, and sordid house that sorely sat upon the hill across from her own leaned over any goers through the street. Throughout the years, never once had it been put up the sale, but no one had ever seen anyone outside of the house before either. Whenever a package was left outside, or the mailbox got too full, the mail inside if it disappeared. Sometimes when someone came to knock on the door, no one would come to answer. It has been sworn that truly, no one ever lived there at all.

It was a full moon, hanging above the two houses on the solemn street. (Y/N) sat in her kitchen, making herself a meal, stirring the pot that held some pasta boiling inside. Her kitchen was compact and woody, but fit the vibe of her house. While she cooked, she hummed along to a song playing on her phone, a distance away from her. 

Suddenly, she heard a loud ‘thud!’, making her stutter for a second, freezing. She carefully listened as she felt her limbs lock up. The noise had originated from the end of the hall, echoing through. She didn’t feel as alone as she was before, and she had never felt so terrified of that feeling. It crept up her back and whispered along her neck, locking her joints. Slowly, she reached over to her phone, pausing the music to listen closer. Tap. Tap. Tap.

Looking around her kitchen, she reached for a steak knife nearby, gripping the handle tightly. She flipped the blade around in her hand, the sharp side out first. With an inexperienced hand, she pointed the knife outwards as she looked down her hall. Darkness cascaded across the walls, making the end of the hall imperceptible. The light switch mocked her from the other end of the hall, forcing herself to plunge in.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

(Y/N) walked further into the hallway, fearful, but pushing through as she flicked on the light, making the walk seem much less intimidating. The knife led her forwards as she tried to listen again for the noise. A crash came directly from the door next to her: her bedroom door.

(Y/N) sharply inhaled in preparation for what she might see. She slowly opened the door, leading with her knife. She used the tip of her foot to push open the door, it creaked open meticulously, dragging onwards. The breeze brought her skin to goosebumps, and in front of her she saw her window, pried up, curtains flipping around in the breeze.

“Whoever the hell is in here, I’m calling the police!” she yelled, holding her knife as she looked around, not seeing anyone, “So you better fucking run!”

“Mrrreow!”

(Y/N) gasped as she looked down, just to be met with a black cat rubbing up against the door, pushing it open more. Looking closer at her room now, she noticed a couple of candles had been knocked down, as well as some beads. Her trashcan had been ransacked.

“Oh,” she whispered feeling a bit more sympathetic now. She must have left open the window on accident, although she swore she hadn’t, “Poor baby, are you hungry?”

The cat meowed again, before jumping over to her desk when suddenly he came eye to eye with something. The cat quickly grabbed a small ring on her desk, took it in his mouth, and jumped back out the window. (Y/N) gasped at how quickly it had happened.

“Hey!” She yelled looking out the window, running over to it, “Give that back!”

(Y/N) pushed through the window and looked out, watching the cat scurry across over to the house across the street, the house. Outside of the house was a figure that she could barely make out in the distance, slowly reaching down and petting the cat, it was large and extremely muscular. It grabbed the ring out of the mouth of the cat, and slowly held it up, he had large claws that barely silhouetted in the light. (Y/N) gasped as she watched, was this the person who lived next door? The figure turned and met eyes with her as she hung out the window, and she felt a strike in her chest. 

He had glowing, yellow eyes.

She lept out of the window and slammed it shut, quickly shutting her curtains and drawing them tight. Her fingers ran up to the top of the window and locked it in place. Who? No, what, was that? Anxiously (Y/N) ran her fingers through her hair as she tried to keep her composure, her chest pulsing upwards and down with her heavy breaths to steady her posture.

Yellow eyes haunted her dreams.

The next morning, (Y/N) woke up, sleeping in without the sun to wake her up, curtains drawn still. She moved her limbs sluggishly as she rubbed her eyes, looking into the mirror to see dark circles drawn below. The knife still sat on her dresser. Hungry, she walked out to make something for breakfast.

Ding dong!

Her head whipped over to the door. She gulped. Slowly, she heads over to peak through the eye hole, squinting one eye to peer through. All she saw was her porch and the house that loomed into the distance. No one. An envelope slipped under the door, and she stopped looking for a second confused before she peered through the hole again. No one. How the hell did the letter get there?

The envelope was a deep red, a wax seal elegantly placed holding it together. Ms. (Y/N) was written on the front. Curiosity pulled her like she was drawn by a string to the letter, as she shakily picked it up. She dug under the wax seal and lifted it up with her nails, a small cardstock-like paper inside. A note, that had been addressed to her.

Dear (Y/N),

You are humbly invited on this day, October 24th, to visit our humble abode, Hollow House, on the top of the hill. We believe we have something of yours, and now you have a secret of ours. We’d like to discuss it over a humble dinner. Tonight at 5 pm, show up and knock on the door three times in quick succession. State your name, and the door will be unlocked for you. Head down the hall, and you will meet my butler to bring you to us.

If you fail to arrive, we will have to take measures into our own hands.

Dearly,

Kim Namjoon

(Y/N) felt her hair rise as she read the letter. She couldn’t tell if was a threat or an invitation. She ran her finger over it before looking at the time, she only had a couple of hours. Part of her didn’t want to go, but the last sentence kept her going.

If you fail to arrive, we will have to take measures into our own hands.

Despite everything in her begging for her not to go, to pretend she had never seen the invite at all, she showed up. Right at 5 pm, she trekked up the hill, looking decently nice. She wore a tight red dress, wearing lipstick to match, and a jacket that hugged her shoulders from the cold. Every single part of the letter had shown an element of elegancy, so she felt pressured to present so.

Heading up to the door, she noticed the intricate detailing of the wood. It had to have been decades old by its victorian style, but still, the gold on the knob was perfectly shined as if it hadn’t aged past a month. She raised her fist, knocking three times. Upon the third knock, the door swung open on its own, almost knocking (Y/N) back in surprise.

The hall was a mahogany wood, dressed in a red carpet and wallpaper. Old paintings and portraits of men hung against the wall, seven men, in particular, each to their own frame. She looked across the frames, were these family members? The air was thick, and she felt crowded and tight as she walked down the empty hallway. There was an ethereal chorus of people around her blind to the eye.

“Hello?” She called down the hallway, an opening was at the far end, and she kept going down the hallway, hesitant.

“Goodevening (Y/N), we’re expecting you.” She gasped, feeling the voice upon the back of her neck.

When she turned, she was met by a tall man, dressed in a nice black suit, his hair slicked back. She could have sworn he wasn’t there before.

“My name is Seokjin, I’ll show you to Mr. Kim.” He said with a bow, “Please, follow me. I will take your coat.” he swiftly wrapped an arm around her, taking her jacket off. He slung it over the arm that hung at a 90-degree angle in front of him, bringing it with him.

“Uh- thank you,” she said gulping, “How did you get behind me, I could have sworn there was no one there.”

“I was there the entire time,” he said simply as he walked, not addressing the concern fully. There had been too many strange coincidences over and over again, and (Y/N) was getting overwhelmed with trying to find rationality in all of them.

She was brought to a long table, seven seats across it. At the end stood a man, with his hair slicked back, and hands folded. The rest of the men held their heads down, the only other seat open 

“Good evening,” The man at the end of the table said, “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance. My name is Kim Namjoon, the owner of this house.”

Seokjin moved to pull a chair for (Y/N) out, motioning for her to sit, to which she hesitantly complied. He moved past to stand behind Kim Namjoon’s chair, watching from afar.

“I believe last night you saw something, unexplainable.” He said, narrowing his eyes. Two of the boys looked further down, pouting, “In trade for this ring, If you promise not to disclose any information we give you, we will explain.”

(Y/N) at this point barely cared about the ring, all she wanted was answers to everything that was happening, and she nodded.

“This is Jeon Jungkook,” Namjoon motioned to Jungkook, who was sitting closest to him, and he finally looked up, he held an innocent look, “You saw him and Hoseok here last night.”

“I only saw one man.” (Y/N) corrected.

“Hoseok,” Namjoon said, and another boy stood up.

“I’m so sorry Ma’am!” He quickly jumped out of his seat and bowed, “Jungkook and I were just playing a game, I broke into your house and stole your ring as a bet!” 

Namjoon nodded at the apology.

“That’s impossible, it was a cat,” (Y/N) interjected.

“Hoseok here has the ability to turn into a cat,” Namjoon said, and Hoseok slowly sat down nodding. “And Jungkook here is a werewolf.”

(Y/N) paused for a second, at first she could have sworn it off as a joke, but everything in her just told her it was impossible. 

“We have protected the supernatural in my family for generations,” Namjoon said, looking around the table, “We have created a family here, and this information and what you saw tonight would put my family in grave danger. I can’t have that.”

“So, werewolves, vampires, all of that is real?” (Y/N) asked looking around, none of these boys were human, and that settled in. It made everything make sense, the letter, the strange circumstances surrounding everything. It was all because it wasn’t rational to begin with. 

“Precisely,” Namjoon said, “Their existence has been attempted to be wiped out and portrayed as fiction since their discovery. My family has sworn to protect them as they are as humane as us. I will do anything to protect these people, including covering up your disappearance if so necessary. If you do not wish that, then we can enter a legally binding contract in order to make sure this does not get told to anyone.”

(Y/N) looked at the boys surrounding her. Each of them looked either scared, angry, or both. Namjoon, in the center of them all, hung over them all protectively. She realized then the true nature of this house- the real reason why it felt so abandoned. It was because they had to for their safety.

“Alright,” she nodded, “I won’t tell anyone.”

A collective sigh of relief came from the boys, as they relaxed in their seats. Namjoon let a satisfied smirk come to his face.

“But I want to help.”

Namjoon’s eyebrows raised, and everyone turned to look at her in shock.

“You’re just protecting these people?” she said looking around at everyone, “I’ll help since I’m the only other one that knows. I can bring you all food and run errands outside of the house. I’ll help with whatever is needed.”

“Oh my god, can you get us a tv?” One of the boys peered up, “I’ve always wanted a tv!”

“Taehyung,” Namjoon looked over to him, “You can't spring these questions-”

“Sure.” (Y/N) said, “I have an extra one in my bedroom that I don’t use.”

“Namjoon please let her stay!” Taehyung turned, letting out his bottom lip in a pleading glance, “I like her already! She’s going to get us a tv!”

Namjoon paused and then looked forward at (Y/N). “Fine. We will accept your help.”

“Then introduce me to all of you,” she said with a smile, “I’ll run errands for you so that you all don’t risk exposing yourselves.”

“We will chat over this dinner then.” Kim Namjoon nodded, as Seokjin brought out plates of food for the two of you, “I did promise food after all.”

Entry #32, October 24, 2022.Today I learned about the seven men that inhabit Hollow House (The House), and I have contracted myself to help their cause. Why? A mix of curiosity and empathy. They all seemed extremely sheltered and a bit uptight to rules, and I wanted to alleviate that. Plus, they have all unveiled a secret to me that I have stumbled upon by accident, the nature of their supernatural abilities. I want to know how this works and why the Kim family is the way they are. They seemed like normal boys most of all, minus the occasionally terrifying behaviors.

First, Namjoon, is the (human?) owner of the house, and a descendant of the Kim family. He seems extremely protective and caring about everyone in there, going as far as to threaten to kill me. He invited me over to dinner and gave me back the ring. The others seem to respect him a lot. I’m not sure if he fully trusts me yet. I want to gain that trust.

Min Yoongi didn’t speak much if at all during my meeting with him, but from what I know he isn’t alive. He seemed to float when he walked, and his voice when he did speak was airy and barely comprehensible. He seemed off, a bit too closed off.

Jung Hoseok was the cat who broke into my house, so I assume he is a shapeshifter. He seemed apologetic over the situation from last night. During our meal he talked a lot, so he seems very outgoing. He seemed like a fun person to hang around with and he pushed for conversation.

Kim Taeyhung had the sharpest teeth and didn’t eat his meal in the slightest. All he drank was this deep, red wine that Seokjin poured separately. Yet, he spoke with me a bit, he seems kind of outgoing as well. I assumed from this he might be a vampire, and during the meal whenever his stomach rumbled, he looked at me in hunger.

Park Jimin was simply a mix of the most angelic but dived into the darkest smiles I’ve ever seen in my life. He kept looking at me during the entirety of the meal I had. His eyes were extremely dark, almost pulling me in. I have no idea what sort of supernatural creature he is, I can’t put a label on him.

Kim Seokjin seemed to take on the role of the butler in the house, yet he kept appearing and reappearing at the quickest speeds I have ever seen. He seemed extremely polite, and I didn’t get the opportunity to learn much about him during the conversation as he kept quiet next to Namjoon the entire time. I wonder if there is a way to have a conversation with just him.

Finally, Jeon Jungkook. He is the yellow eyes that kept appearing in my dreams. So he was a werewolf? It was a full moon, so I guess that makes sense. He seemed to have quite an apologetic nature for last night too, but he seemed extremely intrigued by me there. Why did he want my ring in the first place anyways to go as far as to tell Hoseok to break in for it? 

By learning more about this place, I’ve got seven more questions to learn about. But I will be the one to uncover what truly they mean, what goes on inside the walls. What are the stories of these people that so have gone as far as to know my name? Part of me wonders what I’ve wrapped myself into. But I’ve gone too far deep now, so there’s no stopping what lies behind the Hollow House.

════════════════════════════════════

Taglist: @otomehideout-indecentconfessions To be added please comment + add if you want to be tagged for a specific character chapter.

[dorminchu]

Insult to Injury: The Director’s Cut — Chapter 06

a\n: Commissioned art by @marianaillust​ and @addictivities​ respectively.

Also: ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

VI: WHY CAN’T I FORGET YOU, AND START MY LIFE ANEW?

At twenty eight Safin had no family or friends to call upon, nor piety. Nothing left to cling to but indomitable rage, sluiced away to expose the rot beneath artifice. The matter of his survival depended entirely on his abilities. For twenty eight years, he sought the wrong answer to his existence. A fleeting moment of vengeance could never compare to a legacy. Gostan endeavored to leave himself behind in a more permeable way than obituary.

Gostan's facility in the Kuril Islands, The Poison Garden. Before it was repossessed by the FSB, his father and a man called The Cipher worked together. Gostan had the knowledge of myriad poisons while The Cipher provided funding. Assassinations became suicides. Alternatives to euthanasia. Guntram Shatterhand, a colleague of The Cipher's, took command after Gostan died. An affluent horticulturalist, he could never appreciate its beauty.

Safin’s first job for QUANTUM began with Guntram Shatterhand and The Pale King. “You’ve worked for Shatterhand before,” said the contact. “In ’96, the Austria job.” Safin disguised his ignorance with a protracted stare. “Lucky for you, The Pale King isn’t one to hold a grudge. All that matters is that you accomplish the job.”

A colleague of The Pale King, The Cipher, otherwise known as Le Chiffre, was the kind of man who bet his entire fund in a short sale. If he crippled smaller economies in the process, so be it. The Pale King had functioned as QUANTUM’s head of finance until the mid-nineties, when Le Chiffre took control and spent the next decade at his own whims. Funding wars, drug cartels, human trafficking, gambling, nothing was below Le Chiffre’s interest. The Pale King had enough of it.

MI6’s new operative, 007, was his own complication. A real wildcard, with no problem blowing up an embassy in Madagascar to apprehend Le Chiffre’s bomb-maker. His recent attack on a private airbase put Le Chiffre in the public headlines and cost his latest stock investment. Not to be outdone, Le Chiffre decided to host a last-ditch game of poker at the Casino Royale in Royale-les-Eatix in order to break-even.

Vesper Lynd, a British Treasury agent with no prior field experience. After her lover was detained out of MI6’s jurisdiction, she struck a deal with Le Chiffre for his survival. The prize money should be transferred through Le Chiffre’s account back to The Pale King.

007 waltzed into the casino and introduced himself to the socialites as James Bond, as though he were a celebrity. He did not smoke. Drank steadily. Not to excess. Played well, up until one of Le Chiffre’s associates slipped digitalis in his martini. As 007 drank, the regulars at the table had not touched their own. And when 007 excused himself, staggering away from the table, the game proceeded as if nothing had happened.

Lynd excused herself as well. When 007 walked back into the casino, perspiring but otherwise unbowed, Le Chiffre’s confidence could not recover. By the end of the night 007 walked out of the Royale a very rich man, arm-in-arm with Vesper Lynd.

At around five in the morning, Safin was given the order. Le Chiffre was holding them both north of Dieppe.

The vehicle used to transport 007 and Lynd, parked in front of the gate to the French-style summer villa. A hasty departure from the Royale left less time to tighten security. No men on post outside the villa. Aside from his silenced PB and bulletproof mask, at a distance Safin could pass for a standard concierge. Two guards playing cards under the naked bulb, summarily dispatched. The woman, bound at the wrists and ankles, did not look up. With a pistol to the back of her head she shuddered to life, hackles raising.

“Vesper Lynd?” Her trembling worsened against the gun’s barrel. “Where is the money?”

“Password,” she whispered. “It’s an account I have to transfer, there’s a password—”

“Who else knows?”

“No one.” Lynd shuddered. “Just me.”

The gun lifted. From his breast pocket he produced a small cloth. "Thank you." His gloved hand clapped over her mouth and nose. She struggled but could do little with her arms and legs tied. The chair rattled with her resistance. When she went limp, Safin pocketed the rag and moved over to the unlocked door. The stench of stale blood and sweat mingling with freshly-brewed coffee.

007, tightly secured at the ankles and wrists against an upturned chair, stripped naked. The outline of Le Chiffre, crouched with a knife. He rose on the balls of his feet but did not look at the door directly.

“Is the car ready?” Safin did not answer. 007 struggled against the dirty floor, punch-drunk. Le Chiffre nudged the side of his head with a polished shoe, eliciting an animal sound of distress. “Inform the driver I will be running late.”

Safin raised the pistol and shot Le Chiffre in the knee. Le Chiffre cried out, crumpled to the dirty floor, dropping the knife. As he scrambled for it, Safin closed the distance and stepped on his hand. Physical violence itself was often redundant during an interrogation. Psychological warfare, the anticipation of a threat, could give a better indication of a man’s psyche and frailties.

Safin kicked him in the stomach. A gurgling rasp, Le Chiffre doubled over and wheezed. “You know what I’m going to ask.”

“The money? Look—I’ll get the money. You go back up those stairs and tell—”

“Either you’re a degenerate,” said Safin coldly, “or grossly incompetent. Perhaps both. I’ve waited twenty eight years to speak with you.”

Le Chiffre swallowed dryly, his eyes flickering to the PB. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

Safin’s grip tensed. “Gostan Radinovich. You sold his weapons to the highest bidder and slaughtered the rest of his family. But you weren’t careful.”

Le Chiffre’s eyes flickered. His mouth thinned. “Wasn’t anything personal. If you put that gun down, I’ll come quietly.” His hand shifted underneath him. A hidden weapon. A pager. It made little difference, with Lynd’s word.

“There’s only one thing you can do for me,” said Safin quietly.

A silenced shot. Le Chiffre’s expression froze. The rivulet of blood bloomed from his forehead. He convulsed softly where he lay, his body exhuming itself of waste, Safin lowered the gun, regaining his composure.

A low, animal groan. 007, semiconscious in the dirt. His skin crusted with blood, as was the metal cane laid beside the upturned chair. Safin averted his eyes out of respect.

That same morning, 007 and Lynd were relocated to a private clinic to receive medical attention. The Pale King’s money was transferred into the account a few months later.

⁂

During the late-aughts, Safin was offered a long-term contract as a fixer by Marco Sciarra, one of SPECTRE’s assassins. Concerned for his wife’s security as well as his own, Sciarra was looking for someone reliable and discerning. Just a button man, as Sciarra put it. His colleagues would gather, talking about anything that came to mind over alcohol and perhaps. The occasional trouble with spouses. If there was a mistress who’d overdosed in the guest bathroom, or a subordinate who couldn’t keep his hands away from someone’s daughter, Safin would take care of it. In this way, Safin gained a deeper understanding into their company woes.

Le Chiffre’s death was weatherable—outside of his monetary value, he had always been weak-willed and perverse. The loss of Dominic Greene, along with the Pale King’s kidnapping, put several more QUANTUM members in the public eye. They already had informants within the CIA, INTERPOL, and to a lesser degree MI6. After the deal in Bolivia fell through, The Pale King began liquidizing QUANTUM’s assets. While this was a significant loss, it presented an opportunity for redemption. Establishing connections with more disciplined operatives, and requesting favours—by 2012, he had amassed enough power and funds to create a private intelligence agency in QUANTUM’s shadow. The Pale King would never reach the level of success he had once had, his loyalty to the company was paramount.

SPECTRE had to diversify its portfolio. Collaborating frequently with smaller, unscrupulous groups looking for a cut of their earnings. Exceptions had to be made for their cohorts, undeserving of a seat around the table at the Palazzo Cadenza. A wordless divide formed between the old blood and new. The head of SPECTRE became increasingly utilitarian and ruthless. Like Le Chiffre before him, he was never “too good” for any business. SPECTRE’s pursuits branched out into counterfeit pharmaceuticals and human trafficking and terrorism.

Their latest operative, a Brazilian with bleached hair, was making the rounds, introducing himself. Safin happened to make eye contact, the Brazilian sauntered over and said, "Lucifer, isn’t it?"

Safin noted the concave in his jaw, slight droop of his eyelid. "Tiago Rodriguez."

The Brazilian huffed. "I haven’t been called Tiago since my resignation from MI6." He took up a spot on the wall next to Safin, as if they were having a casual conversation. "I confess, I assumed you would be older." They sized each other up. “Sciarra is a good friend of mine. He spoke highly of you.” Silva’s eyes scanned his face. The scars imbued. “You dealt with Le Chiffre and 007. Yet you’re still only a fixer.”

“It’s my assignment.”

Silva’s mouth curled. “You learn a lot about a man, in his final moments. It’s very intimate. I’m curious. What was Le Chiffre like?”

“How much does SPECTRE pay for your dental?”

The room went quiet.

Silva, unmoved, looked him in the eyes. Something cold and precise. The same part of him that woke up every morning, in Hong Kong.

His melodic laugh cut through the tension. “That’s very good!” Safin hesitated. This wasn’t really working out the way he’d intended. "It’s strange, Lucy," Silva was saying, glued to his spot along the wall, "you’re the only one here I seem to have any commonality with. Both of us, intelligence officers. Abandoned by superiors in the line of service. Out for revenge in our own ways.”

No one in his life had ever called him Lucy. If they had, it would’ve lasted all of two seconds before they were summarily dealt with. It wouldn’t do to make an enemy of Silva. “How long have you spent rehearsing this?”

"I’ve always had a knack for improvisation."

Best to humour his ego a little. “What is your business with SPECTRE?”

"Cybersecurity. It’s far from my only endeavor. Just between us—I’ve been fortunate enough to establish a contact in Hong Kong. By the next quarter I should have my own investment." Safin said nothing. "I’d even be willing to give you a discount."

"I’m not interested."

Silva huffed. "Oh, come now. No one is that antiquated."

"It’s bad for business, to shit where you eat. Look what happened to Greene."

Silva hummed, as if this was a point worth meditation. "You’ll learn to compromise, if you ever come to work for SPECTRE. Don’t let your intelligence get in the way of an opportunity." He clapped him on the shoulder.

That same year Silva’s quest for vengeance ended with MI6’s head of SIS, Olivia Mansfield. 007’s interference cost them intel on a dozen NATO agents, and their hitman Patrice; Safin assumed his seat. The surviving members of SPECTRE assembled at the Palazzo Cadenza.

Their leader, Ernst Stavro Blofeld, surveyed them with a look of polite but unmistakable disapproval. Time and time again, Blofeld pulled the organisation away from certain collapse. Despite the string of incidents over the last six years, there was no lasting ill-will felt towards him from any member at the table. They were bound together by something deeper than the need for money or power.

"It is a shame," he said, "that we have lost two of our operatives. I will commend Patrice for his efforts, with NATO. And Silva for his tenacity. Yet, he also drew SPECTRE’s name into the light. We have made this mistake before, with Mr. Greene. There will be no repetitions, going forward." His voice was light and flat. He had an enigmatic smile and childlike gleam about his eyes whenever discussing a topic of interest, or destroying his enemies—there was little difference. Silence around the table in anticipation of his decree. Blofeld smiled. "At the same time, it would be foolish not take advantage of this opportunity. MI6’s standing has been brought into question. We are already in the process of infiltrating their numbers. Now we will see to it that they devour each other.”

⁂

By 2014, the hot topic of contention among SPECTRE operatives was the new head of SIS. "Mallory is a thorn in our side," said Max Denbigh, the latest import from MI5. "But not impermeable. He’s just cleared out a derelict lab down in London for construction. We believe he plans to manufacture a biological weapon, similar to the one used during the false flag operation in West Africa."

A former SAS Lieutenant Colonel, the only stain on Mallory’s immaculate record was Project Heracles. Peace did not exist without the threat of consequence. The cruelest man could not return to a family of distended corpses. In theory, Heracles was more efficient than a traditional assassination or malfunctioning automobile. Somewhere down the line, every man became expendable. Most did not appreciate this truth while they were alive.

Denbigh was on pace to become Director-General of the Joint Security Service—a proposed merge of MI5 and MI6 into one branch for the sake of transparency, which should go into effect next year. During this period, a series of global terrorist incidents would generate favour towards the proposed global surveillance initiative, “Nine Eyes”. SPECTRE would be given immediate, unrestricted access through the Centre for National Security. Contact had been quietly established from a private intelligence compound in the Saharan desert.

"SPECTRE’s machinations were achieved with careful planning," Dr Vogel said. "If we allow Heracles to fall into the wrong hands, the weapon will point back to the scientists.”

"We can simply dispose of them as necessary."

"The nanobots require DNA samples," Blofeld said. "By what means would these be acquired?"

"You’re familiar with Smart Blood? That’s a tracking device we inject into the arm of every operative in the Joint Security Service. With Heracles, an injection won’t even be necessary. All it takes is a little DNA and skin contact."

“But it will be impossible to control,” said Abrika. “What is to stop a group with ill-intent from targeting our families?”

Denbigh shook his head. "It’s only an idea. It will be fine-tuned during development. Progress will be much smoother once the Nine Eyes programme is complete."

"What worked in Africa," said Safin coolly, "will not suffice for the rest of the world."

Denbigh glared across the table at Abrika. “We could be accomplishing far more than we have been, relying on ground missions.” His eyes fell on Safin as he said this. “With no disrespect to our operatives, perhaps it’s time we reevaluated our approach.”

“Doctor Vogel,” said Blofeld, “has already delivered on her shipments. It is Mr. White who came up short. A quarter of a million.” Blofeld’s hands on the table remained still, like a taxidermized model. "Since last year, we’re just not pulling in numbers like we used to." A casual glance in White’s direction provoked no response. "I don’t wish to diminish your contributions, Mr. White. You’ve been a loyal friend from the beginning. No doubt, this is just another rough quarter we have to endure. But given our current diplomatic standing in Africa,” Blofeld said, “I believe Sciarra and Guerra should be capable of handling Safin’s responsibilities for the time being. Field missions are well and good, but if you spend all of your life on the ground it’s easy to neglect the bigger picture." The smile on Blofeld’s face never touched the eyes; it was just another mechanical action. "If there are no objections," said Blofeld, "then we’ll conclude the meeting here."

Safin turned his head to the head of the table. His voice was taut. "With respect to your decision, I think 007 is more of a threat to our operation than—"

"—I fail to see how this is your concern," Blofeld said with a wave of his hand. "Denbigh is keeping tabs on him."

"James Bond has lost us more funding and connections in five years than in the syndicate’s history. If our goal is to weaken the new SIS, as you suggested last year, then we should target their rogue agent."

"I assure you," said Blofeld curtly, "it is within our interest to be patient. It is imperative that we do not fall prey to obsessive suspicion.”

Safin held his tongue.

⁂

Twelve hundred miles away, Madeleine opened the door to her apartment. She kicked off her shoes and set them aside in the closet. She stumbled into her laundered clothes in the basket, from the day before. She cursed and sat down on the side of the freshly-made bed. After three months, she was falling into her new life. The apartment in Lakkegata, a twin room on the topmost floor. Split between kitchen and bedroom, with separate a bathroom. Glass doors on the furthest wall led to a red-brick patio. Amenities included in the bill. No locks on the bedroom doors. Bi-weekly cleaning.

Most affluent twenty-somethings wouldn’t have the presence of mind to think like a criminal. They were caught up in more pressing dilemmas, like aging parents and taxes and strained friendships. Substance abuse. Lack of self-fulfillment. In a clean, well-lit apartment complex, you didn’t need a portable safe stored between the coats and the shoes. Why ever think about installing a hidden camera in the potted plant, unless you were prone to paranoia?

In the safe; prepaid phone, false identification. Voice protector. Beretta, untouched since Zürich. Spare ammo. Cleaning kit. License to carry.

In the space behind the wall, behind the outlets you could make a crawlspace. Store money, jewels. Anything small or easy to misplace from drawers.

As a child, her father’s colleagues were faceless men in double-breasted suits. After her mother died, he figured he could stop dragging Madeleine along to business parties. Feigning interest in her schooling. Her hobbies. Choice of friends. Her mother would have a lot to say about her taste in men.

Last week, her receptionist pulled her aside during lunch and explained she really couldn’t keep fielding her calls. It wasn’t her father. Just a recruiter from the MSF, who knew her from a friend of a friend. "I’m in the middle of putting together a charity gala. You know the conference hall at the Raddison Blu hotel? I was wondering if you would be interested in attending, since you’ve been so loyal to our foundation." To make the MSF look good. Another injection into the public eye. Madeleine called back and said she would love to.

Living alone, there were no prerequisites for her behavior. A copy of Les Fleurs du Mal placed strategically on the end-table. If it was moved, the cleaner had been here. The television was only useful if she was in the mood to listen to music. White noise. Reading aloud to herself in the empty room, or working. On a clearer day she’d sit on the patio and look across at the buildings opposite. The gentler breeze on her face, sunlight. Ambient traffic below. Perhaps she’d rise from her seat just in time for the silenced shot to pierce her breast. Falling back into the chair, blood staining the red brick. Perhaps it would be more subtle. The patio door sliding open. A hand on her back sending her headfirst over the metal railing. It could be the maid.

Another empty casket and eulogy. A small handful of colleagues she hadn’t talked to in years would materialize, offer their condolences. Then everyone would go home. Her father's final mistake, rectified.

Without the emotional baggage, her gun was a necessary evil. Without practise, it was simply taking up space. So she had taken to frequenting the nearest gun club, twice a week.

She'd reached a point of stability, not comfort. Taking point. Raising the gun. Eyes on the target. Her hands trembled a little. Each shot, a new perforation in the target. Stench of gunpowder. Acrid taste of human rot in the back of her throat. Rush of saliva flooding her mouth. Standing in the snow, clutching the gun in her freezing hands. In the gallery. What guiltless monster said, I did it, and it was nothing personal. You won’t go the way of your mother? What drove a killer towards empathy, if not a different kind of madness?

The one constant in her life was Hinx, her new CPO. He went with her to the range. He had a wrestler’s build, dark eyes. His forearms were thicker than her neck, and he hardly said more than a few sentences to her. His silence was a comfort where Safin’s offered ambiguity.

The other constant, she'd encountered during her first foray to the Raddison Blu hotel. It was her father's idea to visit for her birthday. A quiet, awkward dinner, engaged in a one-sided conversation. All she had to do was nod along, but she brought up her mother. In Zürich, she left behind her old shame. Cowardice masked as civility. She said, without using names, that she'd figured it out herself. She made some excuse to get away.

Conrad was a little older than her but not by much. Clean-cut. Sandy hair. He didn’t give his last name, but he bought her a drink at the bar two floors down. The staff in the restaurant were rather aloof, they both agreed. And there was no harm in a drink. She told him about her clinical psychiatry and he told her about his work in business. It really didn’t matter much. Plenty of men saw the veneer of a well-dressed, attractive woman out drinking by herself and looked no further than the enigma in her eyes. Vulnerability molded into dependence.

But surely, said Madeleine, he didn’t invite her to drink with out of the goodness of his heart.

He got a kick out of that, for some reason. She was awfully cynical.

But you haven’t denied it, she said, offering a smile that didn’t touch her eyes.

Of course, she didn’t sit down out of the goodness of her heart either. There was no such thing as a free lunch. She took another sip. Her head buzzing.

It took very little effort to convince him into going back into his apartment. A meaningless affair to staunch the void inside her heart. It never solved anything but it was something to do to escape the alternative of being left alone with her own reflection. Better, to be percieved as enigmatic and untouchable and desirable. She was picturing his face in the newscast. Another dead body. Someone’s son, perhaps. The only stakes were another dead body. No exploded cars. No broken bodies decorating the pavement. Polite good-byes, no excitement there. 

She had very little time or interest in ingratiating herself with another person. Desire was flattering, but pointless in the long-term, once the spark subsided and there was nothing left to barter. As she got older, the ache in her chest became easier to weather.

Conrad was someone to hold in the dark. Their trajectories were so far removed there was no sense in comparing them.

She woke up early. The sun had yet to surface. There was hardly any sunlight in Norway, this time of year. That morning in Zürich felt years apart, yet inescapable. The overwhelming promise of dread at her door. That sense of peace, clarity, in its wake.

Two hours from now, she had to be in the office. 

Conrad was awake.

He said that he’d like to get to know her better. He’d enjoyed talking to her.

Considering his offer. A means of staving off that emptiness, just for a while. Of rebuilding what was once lost. Smothering all of her unreasonable fears with a veneer of safety. Conrad didn’t have to learn every secret. Nor did she have to understand all of his.

She’d gotten off on normalcy in France, and to a larger degree in her father’s care. There wasn’t anyone in her new life to miss her.

At the apartment, the only signs of activity were her misplaced sheets. The running washer-and-dryer combo. The dishwasher to be emptied. Groceries in the fridge. No alcohol. Maybe go out and have a drink, what could that hurt? It forced improvisation, socialization. Blending in with the people on the street. Waiting for the car to explode. Each night, the weight on the bed was only hers. She showered, redressed and took a couple painkillers. No one was offering her tea.

⁂

The private clinic ran several different operations, including a diversion program. Their focus was on rehabilitative incarceration. Madeleine’s pool of patients came from a selective list. Kęstutis, the senior corrective counsellor, called her a rubber stamp. A short man with heavy-rimmed glasses and thinning brown hair, he was usually fair when it came to the bureaucratic side of her job.

Her office was a bit more spacious. Cream walls, dark wood furniture. Everything was too clean and smelled a little like disinfectant. About as reassuring as a trip to the dentist. No amount of tireless work was going to erase her status as Mr. White’s daughter. Every morning, she placed the gun on the front desk, the staff avoided eye contact. Secure in her office, buried in papers.

The clientele possessed a debonair that would suggest opulence. Always looking to talk their way out of their situation. Offering bribes. Some would attempt charm. They’d take notice of how well she was dressed. Her perfume. Making small talk that only wasted their allotted time with her. She took down their reactions with a detached interest. Yes, of course you’re feeling disrespected. It’s natural. You were in the right, you had to defend yourself.

Guerra, her latest client, in his late thirties. He dressed in a two-piece suit. Madeleine watched him through the window, speaking to the receptionist. Leaning on the counter a little too long. Guerra was here on drug charges. When the door opened he took a seat, body language placid. "You’re new," he said. "How long have you been working here?"

"A few months."

Guerra’s eyes shifted past her, toward the window. "Your receptionist is a little uptight. You’re not going to be like that, are you?"

Madeleine’s attention flickered to follow. The receptionist’s interest in her paperwork a little too protracted. During each session, Hinx was never out of sight. Through the slats of the blinds, on the other side of the door.

“I mean, I don’t know whose dick she had to suck to get this job. It’s a disgrace.” He shrugged. “You’re White’s daughter? Guess you’d know a thing or two about it.”

That didn’t take very long. Madeleine looked him in the eyes. “You will conduct yourself appropriately, while you’re in this office.” Guerra stared back, indifferent on the surface. “Do you not want to be cleared of these charges?”

The flash of insult in his eyes. Shoulders tense. “I was referring to nepotism.”

“You understand,” said Madeleine, “this process requires your cooperation. When I write this report, it doesn’t only reflect on my judgement, but your competence.” Her hand slipped under the desk, on a small button under the lip. She kept her voice stable. “My verdict is the only thing keeping you out of prison. You really think it’s prudent to disrespect me?”

Guerra was unpleasant, but his weakness made it easy enough to corral him into submission. Just another spawn of a successful businessman who’d never faced the consequences for his behavior. He’d brood or make idle threats and take it out on someone else who didn’t have a CPO like Hinx to look after them. Another bloated corpse on the cover of that day’s tabloid, hauled from the belly of the Akerselva river.

The only difference between her and the trust-funds cycling through her office was her clean record.

 ⁂

Next morning, Madeleine came into work. Guerra had canceled their meeting without so much as an explanation. A stocky woman with greying hair and sharp eyes sitting in the reception area, introduced herself as Klebb.

Madeleine bade her into the office. "You’ll have to excuse me. My last client cancelled this morning. I wasn’t expecting anyone else."

The woman did not sit. Under her arm, a manilla folder. Closing the door behind her, she drew the blinds. "You’ve been reassigned."

"I wasn’t notified. You will have to speak to my—"

“I am not here to be coached, Doctor." The woman set the folder down on the desk. "When did you last speak to Lyutsifer Safin?"

Madeleine hesitated. The woman’s eyes scanned her face. "Three—months ago."

"In the seventeen years I have known him, he has never spoken as openly to an outsider as he did to you."

Madeleine hesitated. She hadn’t told anyone a word about Zürich.

"We have eyes everywhere," said Klebb, with the barest hint of a smile. "The recording from the safehouse provides fragments. Not the whole picture. Safin is the son of an intelligence officer who dealt with many poisons. Before he was discharged from service, he was quite formidable."

"He was discharged? For what reason, if I may ask?"

Klebb smiled. It was not a pleasant or natural look on her face. More like something practised. The cruelty shone through. "A canister of herbicide ruptured and exploded at close-quarters. Most of the documents were destroyed to erase his identity." At last, she took a seat opposite Madeleine's desk. “While he was old enough to be attending school in the orphanage, there were many physical fights with other children.”

"Did he initiate these fights?” Klebb stared at her. "Perhaps he felt as if he had no one to protect him from harm."

"It is possible," said Klebb. "He was given many psychological evaluations, but was able to clear all of them. Nevertheless he kept getting in trouble. When he was nine years old, he was set to be counselled on the threat of expulsion. A month after this, the psychologist assigned to him was found dead in his office. It was suspected at the time to be Safin’s doing but unable to be proven. The case was overlooked.”

"Did he get in any more fights after this incident?"

Klebb paused. "If so, they were struck from the record. He was only an orphan."

“I don’t follow your logic.”

“He has no tolerance for what he perceives as a lack of professionalism." Klebb said with a slight scoff. "He has always been this way, even as a boy. Forward-minded. The whims of a progressive activist serve no purpose in his line of work.” Klebb paused. “That is our issue, Doctor. If he is willing to be so open with you, what else is he willing to give up?”

Madeleine was staring at the binder full of Guerra's documents. “If you cannot provide anything more substantial than allegations, I'm afraid I cannot help you.”

Klebb’s eyes narrowed. "Are you suggesting I am mistaken?"

“You are asking me to profile a man I knew for all of one week. You asked for my opinion. I don’t see the correlation you’re making.” Klebb’s scowl deepened. Madeleine said, "I’d like to prepare for my next client."

Klebb left without a word.

Kęstutis came down for a visit. “Ms. Klebb was here to see you.”

“I cannot help her.”

Kęstutis paused. "Is it safe to say, that you would be able to profile Safin accurately if he were in-person?"

Madeleine stared at the stack of papers regarding Guerra’s case. “I imagine so.”

"And you are due to attend the charity event in March?"

"That’s correct."

"Very good," said Kęstutis, smiling the same way Klebb had. "I believe we can negotiate."

⁂

After Silva’s termination, Blofeld enforced a new policy. Every operative and guard at the Palazzo Cadenza must undergo mandatory visits to a specialized clinic, selected by Blofeld. The operative’s families and associates must be vetted, in the interest of preventing another crisis.

As long as he said whatever the therapist was looking to hear, he’d get out in a matter of hours.

The clerk at the front desk—a lithe man in his mid-twenties—was speaking to the client, in this case an elderly woman with dyed hair and too much makeup. "I haven’t seen you before."

"Yes, I’m new to Oslo." He readjusted his glasses. "I take it you’re here for an appointment?"

Ms. Bartlett confirmed this. "Are you English?"

"Originally," said the clerk. "I’m sorry, I’m rather busy."

The plate on his desk read Winston.

Safin gave his name—Zahov—and appointment—issues relating to peripheral neuropathy.

"Dr Swann is running behind schedule," the clerk said. "She’ll be with you in a few minutes."

Dr Swann.

Safin nodded curtly. The waiting room, sterile, uninteresting. Guerra, who had been coming here for weeks, was sitting opposite the window into the office. The blinds were drawn. Hinx stood by the door.

He caught Safin’s eye and nodded. Just a pair of white-collar businessmen. “Cancelled. Now I’m stuck sitting on my ass waiting for a new therapist.” He scoffed. "No hard feelings about the assignment, eh?"

Safin said nothing. His mind was consumed by the scope of his approach. The usual story wouldn’t work as easily with a familiar party. Swann’s veritable grudge against him and his family. Whatever she had been told might not be true.

Guerra made some blasé remark about urine sample and/or collection. Company perks. Perhaps if he didn’t fuck, Safin said, he would not be in this situation.

The corner of Hinx’s mouth turned up.

Guerra’s scoff was mirthless. “Now you can talk.”

“I have no choice but to listen.”

“Mr. Zahov?”

Safin stood up, tense. Walked into the office. Dr Swann glanced up over her desk. Indifferent to him. "Have a seat and we’ll begin."

No sign of familiarity. Dr Swann levelled with him. He did not break eye contact or hesitate to answer anything. Walking through general questions. "What is your relationship to your parents?"

"My father was an officer. I have two brothers and a sister. We are not close."

"You grew up in Russia?"

"Moscow."

"And you attended military school from 1993 to ‘96."

"Transferred."

Dr Swann paused. "There is a discrepancy, between what you have told me and what I have here." Safin glanced up sharply. "Psychological evaluation in ‘92, followed by hospitalization. Three weeks. Then, military school."

Safin told her a story of a kid who coerced him to steal eggs from the industrial refrigerator. It fell onto him and killed him. He’d only heard about it secondhand, from the older kids. But Dr Swann listened attentively. "These kinds of situations aren’t always so cut and dry. There are a lot of factors, in your life and I’m willing to guess, in this boy’s situation as well."

His tone lowered. "Your life is different from mine."

"In what way?"

He looked at her outfit. The well-tailored suit and dress. Shoes to match. "You understand the theory. You see patients on the other side of a desk. You go home. You do not live as they do."

"It’s common for children who have gone through to place the blame on themselves."

Safin scowled at her. "It’s fear of harm that keeps men in line." He glanced at the bowl of pink candies. "Upset a power structure, you create a vacuum. Many smaller operations fighting for control. There are no scruples. They impose their will upon the same people who were promised civility under the original hierarchy. Someone must keep the peace."

“Is that how you view yourself? As a lesser evil?”

"Where they cannot act, I have no qualms." He sat back in the chair. "My options are… limited, with respect to my condition."

"Does it concern you, that you might die with your work unfinished?"

He frowned slightly. "I will die at the whims of my failing body." At the hands of an enemy operative; whichever comes first. "I’ve made peace with it."

"And what if you were to become so sick, you couldn’t continue?"

He looked her directly in the eyes. "That’s inevitable for every one of us, Dr Swann." A small smile she did not return. He let the silence hold, studying her past the point of normalcy. She did not break it, nor acknowledge his attention.

The meeting concluded. “Will that be all?”

“Yes, I think so.” She paused. “You’re only scheduled here for one meeting.”

“You seem preoccupied,” he said.

“I’ve had a busy morning.”

He stood as though to leave.

Noting the weariness in her posture, spine a little too stiff. Beneath the immutable shell, what else was there?

“Are you all right, Madeleine?”

She stiffened. The erosion of that formal barrier into a tacit acknowledgement. Better to give one’s enemy an out than close every door. “I’m fine, thank you.” She met his gaze. The color of her irises, closer to grey than blue. This would not be the last time they spoke.

Clearance took anywhere from a couple weeks to a month, irrespective of orders. Blofeld preferred to keep each operative in the dark, working as usual. This way the verdict was a surprise.

Without new orders from Blofeld, he had to lie low. This was not strictly unusual. Mr. White told him to keep an eye on his daughter, and this did not necessitate making his presence known to the outside world.

Hinx confirmed a few key points: Madeleine did see her father in November, according to the staff at the restaurant in Raddison Blu. She frequented the gun range twice a week. She would go out with a handful of colleagues from the clinic, but never took anyone home.

The bug in her apartment, planted by the housekeeping, depicted another side to Dr Swann. Still going through the motions. Alone, with a glass of white wine. She drank more often when she was alone, but never to excess. The door would close after the sound of the pneumatic hiss. Anything to fill the empty space.

Her instinctual fight-or-flight response rewritten into a constant, soothing panic.

Conrad was Dr Swann’s longest-running foray. He’d talked her into Kavakava to learn Argentine tango. Despite the pretense of familiarity, Madeleine was never seen with him, or spoke of him outside of work. Safin would be able to get what he was after without any complications. He waited for Conrad to arrive home from work. "Waiting for someone?"

Conrad side-eyed him over his glasses. "Yeah. My girlfriend." Fumbling with a cigarette. Older than he looked, at a glance. "She’s not usually this late."

"How long have you been engaged?"

"A couple weeks." Conrad frowned slightly. "We’re not—sorry, I’ve got to take this."

“Put the phone down. She’s still at the clinic.” Conrad’s hand went still. “You’re just something to occupy her time.”

“What the hell?”

"You’re a sensible man," said Safin, "and I have no qualms with you." Eye-to-eye. “I’m letting you off easily. You are not to contact her again.”

Standing against the wall further back, in a white dress shirt and black dress which hugged her ass but didn’t cling. She looked as if she’d rather be anywhere else, but the trouble wasn’t worth the effort of moving her feet.

Madeleine didn’t strike him as the type to become overtly attached. They understood each other well, in that sense.

They locked eyes across the room. Recognition flashed over her face like a shadow. She inclined her head.

Leading him through the outer ring of dancers. Away from the centre. His only frame of reference was ballroom dancing at Kazan military school. This wasn’t the same. To be led, and follow, in lockstep with the other dancers. No words exchanged.

Under different circumstances, they might have met. A harmless, miserable existence, ignorant of the intimate relationship with one's mortality. He had surrendered his purpose to a singular goal. He felt that same urgency which she so desperately chased after. That tireless imperative for security. To blend into the shape of normalcy, among this crowd. Understood, if only for a few minutes.

⁂

The people working at the clinic, said Madeleine, were especially callous. She never appreciated what she had before, too busy pushing others away. The stamp of nepotism she couldn’t quite shake, no matter how many hours she put in.

Madeleine scoffed. “You insert yourself into my evening and don’t have the decency to explain yourself?”

"I see."

"You don’t seem surprised."

“You’re becoming a better actor than you were in France.” The look in her eyes did nothing to deter him from studying her. 

“How long have you been following me?” There was a lower pitch to her voice. A frenzy beneath the anger. Safin said nothing. “Perhaps I misled you. But you need to let this go.”

Safin looked at her clearly. “This?”

“It is not conducive to my interests, to be seen with someone from work.”

"I’ll walk with you," he said. She looked up. "It was not my intention to disturb you."

At the slightly dilapidated front desk of the hotel, she checked in under an alias. Long corridors in a faux Soviet-style. “There’s a piano bar, here. I haven’t gone there myself. You’d like it.” Up the lift. Following down the hall. Unable to outpace her loneliness. He couldn’t take his attention off her. The artificial smell of her perfume, permeative on his clothes, burned into his senses if he inhaled too deeply. Eating away at his restraint. She stopped at her room, unlocked the door.

“Well, this is it.” Her shoulder pushed the door a little wider. “It’s rather cold,” she said. “I needn’t have asked you to accompany me all this way.”

For each life she cast aside to spare her own, she only injured herself. So he would have a little coffee, for her sake.

This occupation and lifestyle left no time for conventional relationships. A psychological evaluation did not stop him from considering her in ways best left tacit. It was her profession to get into the heads of clients unsure of themselves.

Madeleine’s room was a suite with separate bedrooms. L’Occitane products in the bathroom. With a little scowl, she mentioned how the establishment down the street was rented to a loud party. “It’s usually like this, the later it gets.” She glanced at the window. Expression shifting. “But I don’t mind the noise as much as I used to.” Even with the windows closed, the beat of the synth permeated through the room. The strobe flickered, as did her resolve. “I don’t—usually do this.”

“With one of your clients?”

Madeleine hummed. “There’s a first for everything, isn’t there?” Plush carpet muffled the sound of her approaching footsteps. His window of opportunity or entrapment, shrinking around him. This close, all she had to do was wrap her arms around his neck. A hidden lens in the lamp within a twenty-foot radius. Her eyes, closer to grey than blue, fixed on him. Caught in an epiphany. “Oh, come on,” she muttered, “that was a joke. I would never do something so indecent.”

What had been covert on the dancefloor, in her office, was no longer so. He allowed her to close the distance.

The truth about women, Silva once told him, is that you can do anything to them, except bore them.

A greater purpose and justification leaving no room for error. That was his only peace. Tracking down his father, obtaining the history of his family’s company, there was no end in sight. This woman offered him the simple pleasure of her company.

Drawing her against his chest. Pressing her to the doorframe. Running his hands over her shoulders, arms, small of her back. His mouth found the pulse beneath her jaw.

Unbuttoning her blouse. Her ribs expanding, deflating. Her attention on him unflinching. The crane of her neck an invitation. He laid his fingers along the jumping pulse.

Tugging her underwear aside, pushing into her. She shuddered, draped her arms around his neck. Forehead to the side of his.

Softer, smaller hands over his clothed stomach. Unfastening his belt. Sliding into his pants to wrap around him. He grabbed her wrist and squeezed down to the bone. The flicker in her eyes, adjacent to fear, carried no hopelessness. A recognition, acknowledgement: I’m a monster, just like you.

Mr. White had always been impartial. She’d been taking the same birth control for years. There was no compunction.

Pointing him into her flesh. The riot of illumination limned the room, over her skin. The glint of her sclera, pupils dilated.

He cradled her face in his palm, never closing his eyes. A flush stained her cheeks, down her throat, below. Her nipples scraped against his clothed chest. Her expression recalling that quiet moment in Zürich, cradling the gun.

In his arms, far more intimate. Her soft, panicked breaths against his cheek. She could order him to kill, and he’d only ask for a name.

Leaning against each other, her mouth just under his ear, she said, “You knew I was being followed.” Safin went still. “You took care of it.” He nodded. So slightly it could be dismissed as turning his face into hers. “Thank you,” she breathed.

⁂

A few hours previously, Conrad walked up the street into a nearby cafe. He passed by the row of booths to his left and had a seat in the furthest corner. The man seated across barely looked up from his laptop. “Were you followed?”

“No.” Conrad handed over a glasses case. “Tell your friend to leave me the hell alone.”

Q's typing slowed. He looked up.

“This guy cornered me,” Conrad muttered. “Outside my apartment. Says I’m not to be speaking to her anymore.” He shook his head. “Thought he was one of yours.”

“Well,” said Q in a practiced tone of indifference, “perhaps you should reconsider your approach.”

“She wasn’t that interested in me to begin with,” Conrad said. “Hell if I know what her taste in men is.”

She’s bored, Conrad. You have to be a little more exciting.

Conrad scoffed, made a half-gesture towards his ear. “He’s got a fucking line for everything.”

Q nodded vaguely. His keystrokes paused. “That’s all I need for now.”

Conrad left toward the bathrooms.

Q left to a rented room two blocks from the cafe. In his room, he took his laptop and removed the glasses from the case and plugged it in, silently reviewing the footage. His earpiece crackled:

Safin, wasn’t it?

“Most of the patients in that psychiatric clinic have had ties with QUANTUM in some form or another,” said Q. “He’s an exception.”

Why’s he interested in her?

“Dr Swann’s father is the Pale King.” A beat of silence. “You remember Le Chiffre?”

A derisive exhale. All too clearly.

“Well, seems he and White and Dominic Greene met in the same division of the French Foreign Legion. There’s another man, Shatterhand. I couldn’t find anything definite on him in the archives.”

She’s our link into their new headquarters.

“Perhaps. Still doesn’t explain Safin’s game.”

It's probably just an affair. Let me handle it. Q exhaled. Smoothing this over to M wasn't his idea of time well-spent. Additional stress went to his aching jaw. Come on, I’d get the information within a fraction of the time.

“You’ve got other uses outside of filling paperwork.”

Let me guess, he brought up parliament again, didn’t he?

“Acatama, actually.”

Scoff from the earpiece. That was eight years ago. Look, Conrad obviously can’t sort out his—

“Double-oh seven,” Q said, “I don’t exactly disagree here, but it’s beside the point.”

What’s the worst I’ve done?

Q paused. “In the field?”

I doubt Dr Swann’s only living here for routine psychological evaluations.

“I suppose not,” said Q dryly. “I’m of no use in that regard.”

I’ll ask around. She still works at the clinic?

Q stiffened. “Double-oh seven—”

Now, Q. I’ll be a good boy. I won’t blow up any buildings.

The call ended.

“I don’t get paid enough for this,” Q muttered to no one.

Safin's alias, Zahov, is taken from Avakoum Zahov versus 07, an unofficial(?) Bond novel by Andrei Gulyashki. You can read about its creation in this article.

The line about women and boring them comes from the 2013 film The Counselor, coincidentally spoken by a character played by Javier Bardem.

Still trying to get a hold on 007 & Winston | Q’s characterization. I’ve always liked the idea that 007's one-liners amuse him more than anyone else, but he’s charismatic enough to get away with it. Next chapter will be his "on-screen" debut.