If there was one store in all of Caerleon that everyone seemed to know by name, regardless of race, creed, coin, or station, it was the Pixie Pantry, the Crossroad City's most beloved candy and confectionery shop, whose reputation had spread far beyond Avalon's borders into places where Caerleon itself was spoken of with the awe reserved for cities half-built from history and half-built from myth.
Over the years, the shop had earned the affectionate title of one of Caerleon's seven wonders, and although no one could say with certainty when it had first opened its doors, rumor insisted that the Pixie Pantry had stood there since the city's earliest days, serving sweets to generations of students, travelers, merchants, knights, diplomats, scholars, adventurers, and weary souls simply looking for a little brightness to carry with them. From morning until evening, the place was usually crowded with academy students spending pocket money, adults surrendering to nostalgia, and visitors passing through on their way to lands beyond the city, some entering out of novelty, some from curiosity, and most because one visit had a way of turning into habit.
Inside, the shop felt less like a business than a carefully preserved childhood dream, its wooden shelves, carved ceiling beams, and polished counters shaped with a whimsical elegance that made every corner seem lovingly considered. Glass jars of every size lined the walls from floor to ceiling, each filled to the brim with candies in every shade imaginable, some gleaming with glassy translucence, others rich and solid with sugar-dusted surfaces, while a few were so delicately crafted that they looked less like sweets than treasures meant to be displayed beneath museum glass.
There were candies as simple and familiar as taffy twists and caramel squares, but beside them rested confections shaped into jeweled fruits, miniature castles, sleeping dragons, tiny spellbooks with edible gold leaf along the edges, and crystalline flowers bundled into bouquets so intricate that even Ryan found himself staring at them a second longer than he meant to. Warm amber light glowed from the sconces overhead, mingling with the tinted radiance of stained-glass windows until the entire store shimmered beneath a soft kaleidoscope of color, turning jars, counters, ribbons, wrappers, and polished floorboards into something faintly magical.
Ryan stood with his back against the counter, arms crossed while he slowly worked a lemon lollipop between his teeth, its sharp sweetness cutting across his tongue as he fought down the familiar itch for a cigarette with the stubborn discipline of a man who had survived worse temptations than nicotine but still resented having to behave himself. His dark eyes followed Nora and Evie as they moved through the empty shop with wonder brightening every line of their faces, the two girls hurrying from shelf to shelf with the reverence of children stepping into a story they had only ever seen from the outside.
Evie pointed excitedly at a bouquet of crystalline flower candies bound together with a ribbon of spun sugar, her tail swaying behind her with barely contained joy, while Nora tried to maintain some trace of restraint despite the way her amber eyes kept widening whenever she found another jar more beautiful than the last. The air itself seemed thick with sweetness, carrying the layered scent of cocoa, caramel, toffee, vanilla, candied citrus, roasted nuts, warm sugar, and a dozen stranger flavors Ryan could not immediately place, each one blending into the next until breathing felt almost indulgent.
Behind the counter stood an elven man dressed in a crisp white shirt patterned with red vertical stripes, paired with matching white slacks and polished white shoes that looked immaculate despite the constant presence of sugar, flour, syrup, and children. His platinum-blond hair had been swept neatly back from his face, his mustache curled with theatrical precision above rosy cheeks, and his lavender eyes shone with the same whimsical warmth that seemed woven into every inch of the store around him. With his elbows resting on the counter and his hands tucked beneath his chin, Pierre Le Cordon, legendary owner of the Pixie Pantry, watched the two dragon girls with an expression so tender that it made him appear less like a shopkeeper guarding his wares and more like an artist watching someone discover the purpose of his life's work.
"Sacré bleu," Pierre murmured as a pleased sigh escaped him. "It warms my heart like a mug of hot chocolate on a cold winter evening, seeing children so fascinated by what these old hands have made."
His gaze lingered on Evie as she leaned closer to a jar of star-shaped candies that glimmered faintly from within, and although his smile remained, sadness touched the corners of it. "I have seen these little dragon children outside my store more than once, monsieur, always looking through the glass as if the door were meant for everyone but them, and every time I tried to step outside and invite them in, they ran before I could say a proper word."
Ryan's expression tightened slightly, though he kept his attention on the girls rather than turning fully toward Pierre.
Pierre shook his head, his mustache dipping with the motion as he folded his hands together upon the counter. "It is no surprise, I suppose," he continued quietly. "Not with the way this city treats them, and not with how many doors have been closed in their faces before they were ever old enough to understand why."
"Tell me about it." Ryan exhaled through his teeth as the shrinking lemon lollipop scraped lightly against them. "Hate, bigotry, and every flavor of 'ism' seem to be real staples no matter where I end up, because people get mighty creative when they want to invent reasons to look down on somebody, and once they're done convincing themselves that one kind of cruelty is unacceptable, they either find another target or dress the same old ugliness up in a brand-new coat."
His dark eyes followed Evie as she hurried back toward Nora with a handful of wrapped toffees cupped carefully in both palms. Ryan's jaw tightened around the lollipop before he shifted it to one side of his mouth. "Frankly, I'm getting real sick of it."
He remained quiet for a moment longer before glancing back over his shoulder at the elven confectioner behind the counter.
"By the way, thanks for all this," he added, gesturing loosely toward the empty shop. "I know if word gets out that you shut the place down just so a couple of Dragonborns could shop in peace, shit might hit the fan."
Pierre gave a soft, theatrical scoff and waved him off with one gloved hand. "Bah, candy apples, you offend me by making kindness sound so complicated," he said. "I was already closing for the day, the store was empty, and two little ones who have stared through my window for far too long finally crossed the threshold, so truly, it was the least I could do."
Ryan nodded slowly. "Still, thanks anyway," he said, pulling the lollipop from his mouth and holding it between two fingers as he leaned more comfortably against the counter. "By the way, I heard you had to rebuild this whole place from scratch."
Pierre's expression shifted before Ryan even finished speaking, the warmth in his face dimming beneath the weight of memory.
Ryan gave a low, humorless scoff. "Burgess and his sons of bitches really went to town on this damned city."
"Mon Dieu, that is putting it lightly," Pierre replied, rolling his eyes. "The worst part is that just before the lockdown, I had left for Carcassonne to compete in the Sugar Fairy Cup, a magnificent affair that lasted two full weeks and required every ounce of patience, precision, and artistry I possessed."
He reached up and curled the tip of his mustache between two fingers, though the gesture carried none of his earlier playfulness. "Then, when I tried to return, I discovered that Caerleon had become a cage from which I was locked out, and by the time I was allowed back through the gates months later, my entire livelihood had been ransacked, gutted, and left in ruins."
Ryan's face hardened as Pierre looked past the jars of candy and polished shelves, his gaze settling somewhere far beyond the shop he had managed to rebuild.
"I owe Lady Genevieve more than I can ever repay," Pierre continued. "She gave me shelter during that turbulent time, offered me a place to rest my head, a kitchen in which to keep my hands from forgetting their craft, and most importantly, she reminded me that a man is not ruined merely because his shop has been reduced to splinters."
His expression darkened again as he folded his hands atop the counter, the curl of his mustache twitching with restrained anger. "As for the recompense granted by that blasted Wizarding Council, oui, it helped me rebuild these walls, replace my equipment, and fill the shelves once more, but coin is such a poor apology when it comes from cowards who waited until the damage was done before discovering their conscience."
Ryan let out a quiet breath, the corner of his mouth lifting into a grim smirk that held more anger than amusement. "Sheesh, Pierre, careful now," he said, though there was no real reprimand in it. "You keep talking like that, and I might start thinking you got a temper under all that sugar."
Pierre pressed one hand dramatically to his chest. "Why monsieur Ashford, I am but an artist, and a confectioner whose shop was destroyed by tyrants, so naturally I have a temper, but unlike certain people, I have chosen to express it through caramel work and the occasional strongly worded insult."
Ryan chuckled under his breath despite himself, then glanced toward the front windows where the last of the autumn light pooled along the glass. "Yeah, I get you," he said. "Truth be told, if I wasn't worried about getting myself locked up abroad, Avalon would probably be digging fresh graves for those old sacks of shit."
Pierre's gaze drifted back toward Evie and Nora, who were now standing together before a shelf of sugar-glass butterflies with fragile wings tinted in pink, blue, violet, and gold beneath the warm glow of the shop lanterns. For a moment, the old confectioner simply watched them, his earlier smile fading as his eyes lingered on the fresh cuts marking Evie's face, the dirt staining the hem of her dress, and the bruises darkening the places where her scales did not protect her skin.
The sight softened his expression with a sorrow that sat uneasily beneath all his theatrical charm. "If you do not mind me asking, monsieur," he said carefully, "were they... how shall I put this in a kinder way? Were they ambushed?"
Ryan's gaze darkened immediately, the muscles along his jaw tightened as though he had to hold back the words he truly wanted to use. "That's a real polite way of putting it," he said at last. "Too polite, if I'm being honest."
Pierre's eyes flicked toward him, concern deepening as Ryan finally looked back over his shoulder.
"Speaking of which," Ryan continued as his expression settled into something more focused, "you've been around here a long time, haven't you?"
Pierre blinked, caught for a moment by the sudden turn in the conversation, before giving a small nod and smoothing one gloved hand over the front of his striped shirt. "I would like to think so, no?" he replied. "Long enough to know which children steal bonbons, which nobles pretend not to love caramel, and which fools in this city are far too proud of their own ignorance."
Ryan studied him for a second, then asked, "You know a man named Corey Mills?"
"Mills?" Pierre repeated, tapping his chin as he searched his memory, though recognition came quickly enough that he snapped his fingers with a soft click. "Ah, oui, Mills, as in the local woodworker? Of course, I know him, sacré bleu, everyone in Caerleon knows Corey Mills."
His gaze slid toward the shelves around them, toward the carved woodwork, the rebuilt counters, and the polished beams overhead, and his expression twisted with reluctant acknowledgment. "In fact, he was one of the men who helped me rebuild this very shop."
Ryan's eyebrow lifted slightly, and Pierre must have seen the question forming before he asked it, because the elf raised one gloved hand as though to keep the matter from sounding too charitable.
"Do not mistake me, I am not praising him too warmly," Pierre added, distaste creeping into his words. "The man is a shark with a hammer and a saw, and his prices are atrocious enough to make even a banker weep into his ledger, but after the Siege, many of his competitors were dead, ruined, or gone from the city entirely, so those of us who needed work done had very few hands to choose from."
Ryan's face hardened at that, his eyes narrowing with the quiet attention of a man assembling pieces of a picture he already disliked.
Pierre leaned in slightly over the counter while lifting the back of one gloved hand near his lips. "And between you and me, monsieur, I heard the only reason Monsieur Mills survived those days so comfortably was because he gave Norsefire names that were not his to give."
His eyes darkened. "Neighbors, rivals, people who had argued with him over coin, people whose wood he wanted, people whose shops stood where opportunity might later stand. Nothing was proved, of course, because in Caerleon, many terrible things are known without ever becoming official truth, but the rumor has followed him in the past months."
Ryan stared at Pierre for a long moment, the lollipop forgotten between his fingers as the suspicion in his expression sharpened into grim understanding. "Did he now?" he asked, one eyebrow rising as a humorless breath left him. "Hell, I'd believe that."
Pierre's mouth pressed into a thin line. "Oui," he said quietly. "I fear many of us would."
Ryan's gaze settled into something steady, the kind of calm that usually meant there was nothing peaceful left behind it. "And hypothetically," he said, turning the lollipop slowly between his fingers as a dangerous little smirk began to tug at the corner of his mouth, "if I were to pay Mister Mills a visit sometime soon."
He paused. "I mean, strictly as a concerned customer, of course, just in case I found myself needing a new table, a chair, or maybe something long, sturdy, and real good for swinging, where exactly would a guy go?"
Pierre went still behind the counter, and Ryan could see the moment the question reached whatever sharp little corner of the confectioner's mind understood precisely what had not been said aloud. His gaze flicked once toward the girls, then returned to Ryan as the pieces arranged themselves neatly behind his expression. For a heartbeat, Pierre's lips parted as though he might ask a question, but whatever thought touched his tongue was swallowed before it could become sound.
"Well, monsieur," Pierre said at last, "if you are in need of good carpentry, Mister Mills keeps both his workshop and his home on the west end, down by the canal, in one of those narrow stone buildings with the crooked shutters and the old lantern posts outside."
He tapped one gloved finger thoughtfully against the polished counter. "There is a sign above the door, carved with his family name and a rather uninspired little oak tree, so I assure you, even a man who has enjoyed too much wine could find the place if he had reason enough to look."
Ryan's smirk widened slightly, though his eyes remained cold. "That right?"
Pierre gave a small, regretful sigh and drummed his fingers along the counter. "Sacré bleu, it is such a shame, truly, because with the Tower stretched so thin these days and so many patrols drawn toward the gang-infested districts, I daresay that particular stretch by the canal is scarcely guarded after dark."
His gaze lifted to Ryan's with a pleasant little smile that did not reach the sharper intelligence beneath it. "A real shame indeed, monsieur, for a neighborhood to be left so exposed."
Ryan stared at him for a moment before a low chuckle slipped out as he pushed away from the counter and shook his head. "Jesus," he said, the edge of his smirk sharpening into something that almost looked impressed. "You're as twisted as a candy cane."
Pierre pressed a gloved hand to his chest with theatrical offense, though the amusement in his lavender eyes betrayed him. "Monsieur Ashford, I must insist that a candy cane is not twisted, merely shaped with purpose."
Ryan tilted his head, his grin widening as he pointed the lollipop toward Pierre. "Yeah," he said. "You and I are gonna get along just fine."
Pierre swept into a graceful bow, one hand tucked behind his back and the other extended with the polished flourish of a stage performer accepting applause after a flawless trick. "I aim to please," he replied, rising with a smile as bright and dangerous as spun sugar pulled too thin over flame, "because, as I have already said, I am an artist."
The light tap of small claws against the hardwood drew both men's attention away from their quiet conversation, and when they turned, Evie was standing before the counter with a brown paper bag held proudly in both hands. Her pink hair bobbed around her face as she bounced lightly on the balls of her feet, unable to contain the excitement shining through.
"Mister Pierre, Mister Ryan, I picked out my candy," she announced, before reaching into the bag and pulling out a piece that looked like a finely cut sapphire, its polished blue surface catching the amber light as though someone had trapped a piece of the evening sky inside sugar. She popped it into her mouth with both eyes bright, only to squeeze them shut a second later as a delighted shiver ran through her from head to tail. "It's so sweet, and it's so good," she said, bursting with wonder. "I've never tasted anything like this before."
Ryan slipped the lollipop back into his mouth just as the warmth in his chest became a little too obvious, his cheeks flushing faintly as he bit down hard enough to shatter the remaining candy between his teeth while he turned his gaze elsewhere. Pierre, naturally, noticed everything and responded with a sly little grin, his lavender irises glittering with far too much understanding before he leaned forward over the counter.
"C'est magnifique, ma petite," Pierre said, one gloved hand resting over his heart. "You make an old elf very happy when you enjoy his work so much." His gaze then shifted toward Nora as she approached the counter with her own bag held more carefully against her chest, and his smile broadened with theatrical warmth. "And I suppose you too have discovered your own little treasure trove, mademoiselle?"
Nora nodded, her golden eyes sweeping across the shelves, the jars, the ribboned boxes, and the glowing displays. "Everything here looks so amazing," she said, quiet with awe. "It feels magical, and I wish I could spend forever in here."
"Oh, mademoiselle," Pierre replied, placing both gloved hands upon the counter, "you and your friends are welcome in the Pixie Pantry anytime."
Nora's expression dimmed at once. "But..." Her gaze fell to the polished floor, her tail sweeping once behind her while her wings twitched against her back. "I don't know. I don't want people to cause trouble for you because of us."
"Bah," Pierre said, sweeping one gloved hand through the air. "The people of Caerleon can suck on my lemon drops if they dislike my choices, and they may respect who I welcome into my shop, or they may satisfy their sweet tooth somewhere else." He folded his arms, lifting his chin with unmistakable pride. "And believe me, there is not one store in all of Avalon that can match my wares, so if they wish to punish themselves by leaving, I shall survive such tragedy with grace."
Nora looked as if she wanted to believe him, but worry still lingered in her eyes, and Pierre, seeing it plainly, let his expression soften as he leaned forward once more. "However," he continued, gentler now, "if you are still nervous, you may knock upon my back door after closing, and I will let you in when the streets are quiet. It is better that way, perhaps, no? No crowds, no cruel little whispers, and none of those judgmental little bâtards pressing their noses to the glass while pretending they have better manners than they do."
Ryan chuckled and glanced between the two girls. "You heard the man."
Evie's smile turned so bright that Ryan honestly thought she might burst from the force of it, and she spun toward Nora. "Did you hear that?" she cried, barely able to keep her feet still as her tail wagged wildly behind her. "We can come back! We can really come back, and I can try everything else."
"All right, all right," Ryan said, rolling his eyes with a grin he made no real attempt to hide. "Seriously, kiddo, I'm starting to think all that sugar might be a bad idea." He reached into his jacket and looked toward Pierre with one eyebrow raised. "What's the damage, Doc?"
Pierre lifted a hand. "Non, monsieur, this one is on the house," he said, his gaze lowering fondly toward the girls as the playfulness in his face gave way to something sincere. "And I hope that when you go to sleep tonight, your dreams are as sweet as the candy I make."
For a moment, Nora and Evie simply stared at him, their eyes wide with a kind of disbelief that made the gift feel heavier than it should have been, and then their smiles bloomed at once as gratitude overtook them. "Thank you, Mister Pierre!" they cried together, before turning toward Ryan and bowing their heads with the same earnestness. "Thank you, Mister Ryan."
Ryan smiled and gave them a small nod.
Nora took Evie's hand and glanced toward the windows, where the last of the evening had deepened into the bluish glow of early night. "It's getting late, and we should head back," she said, though she looked once more at both men before leaving. "Thank you so much, both of you."
Evie nodded quickly beside her, clutching her candy bag against her dress, and as the two girls headed for the entrance, the little dragon girl looked back over her shoulder and waved with such open joy that the whole shop seemed brighter for it.
"Stay safe," Ryan called after them, leaning one shoulder against the counter as the bell above the door chimed softly. "And try not to get into any more trouble, alright?"
The door closed behind them with another gentle ring, and both men watched as Nora and Evie passed the storefront window, their figures briefly framed by the stained-glass glow before the street swallowed them into the lamp-lit evening and carried them out of sight.
Ryan drew in a deep breath once they were gone, held it for a moment, and then exhaled slowly as the warmth of the scene settled into something harder beneath his ribs. "Well," he said, turning back toward Pierre, "that's over and done with, but like folks say back home, night's still young, and I've got a hell of a lot of steam to blow off."
"For that," Pierre replied, studying him with a knowing look, "I have no doubt."
Ryan nodded. "You know, that was a real good thing you did for them," he said, the words rougher than sentiment but honest all the same. "If there were more folks like you around these parts, maybe the world wouldn't be such a damn shithole."
Pierre straightened behind the counter, and for once, the theatrical air around him quieted into something older and more thoughtful. "We cannot hope for the world to be only sugar and sweets, monsieur," he said. "We can only hope to become the good we wish to find within it."
Ryan looked at him without speaking, and Pierre's gaze softened as his gloved fingers rested lightly against the polished wood of the counter.
"In truth, I know exactly what it is to be alone and unwanted," Pierre continued. "I know the pain, I know the hurt, and most of all, I know the rage that comes when you realize the world has decided your worth before you have even been allowed to prove yourself."
His fingertips tapped once against the counter. "At times, I find that rage slipping into my craft, turning sugar bitter on the tongue and making chocolate dark enough to taste almost like grief, but for others, I fear it bleeds into something far more metallic, something black and heavy that sinks deep inside a person until it twists the shape of them."
Ryan's expression slackened just slightly, though the tightening of his jaw gave away how sharply the words had landed.
Pierre watched him with neither judgment nor fear. "I have met my fair share of men like you, Monsieur Ashford," he said gently. "Men who have tasted more blood and steel than sugar and sweetness, men who have learned their craft in places far darker than any kitchen I have ever known, and while I have spent my life shaping caramel, chocolate, and spun sugar into beautiful things, you have been shaped by battle, loss, and whatever roads brought you here."
Ryan's gaze lowered for a moment, his fingers closing around the bare stick of his ruined lollipop.
"But I see something very clearly," Pierre continued, and a small, sincere smile touched his face. "You have taken the pain inside you and wielded it for good, rather than letting it become another weapon turned against the innocent."
Ryan plucked the bare lollipop stick from his mouth and turned it between his fingers, his smirk returning. "Yeah, well, my old mentor used to say a fire either warms you or kills you," he said. "You can let it burn you alive from the inside out, or you can douse some evil sumbitch in gasoline, and light him up like a damned Christmas tree."
Pierre's brows lifted slightly, though he did not interrupt, and Ryan stepped away from the counter as the taps of his polished loafers carried through the quiet shop. He flicked the stick into a nearby bin without looking, then rolled his neck once as if easing the last of the softness from himself before the night outside had a chance to demand something colder.
"Besides," he added as he crossed toward the entrance, "if you're gonna hurt someone, make damn sure it's someone who deserves it."
He reached the wooden door and wrapped one hand around the handle, pausing only long enough to pull it open and let the chill autumn air slip into the shop, carrying with it the damp scent of stone streets, canal water, fallen leaves, and the distant smoke of evening hearths. The silver bell overhead chimed softly above him, bright and delicate against the hush of the empty store, and Ryan stood framed in the doorway for a moment before glancing back over his shoulder at Pierre.
"Oh, here's a heads up," he said, gesturing loosely toward the carved shelves, polished counters, and whimsical woodwork that filled the Pixie Pantry with so much charm. "You might wanna start looking for a new woodworker."
The grin he gave Pierre was brief, sharp, and entirely too satisfied, and then he stepped out into the autumn night, letting the door swing closed behind him with another soft ring of the bell as the warmth of sugar and stained glass sealed itself away from the cold.
Pierre remained behind the counter, watching the place where Ryan had disappeared into the street, and after a long moment he shook his head with a sigh.
"Sacré bleu," he murmured.
****
Several miles from Caerleon's city center, far from the bright shopping district where the Pixie Pantry glowed behind stained glass and sugar-warm windows, the city's industrial quarter sprawled along old canals, narrow lanes, and rows of practical stone buildings that had endured more winters than most of their owners could count. It was a district of masons, carpenters, smiths, builders, farriers, tinkers, and merchants who served the working bones of the Crossroad City, a place where Tower guards came in search of a new sword, housewives brought battered pots to be mended, apprentices hauled timber through the streets before dawn, and laborers drank themselves warm after long days spent shaping the city with their hands.
The quarter was older than many of Caerleon's districts, dating back to the days when the city had been little more than a sprawling settlement gathered beneath the rising shadow of Castle Excalibur, and there were families there who claimed, with no small amount of pride, that their bloodlines could be traced back to the craftsmen who had built the mammoth structure over the course of nearly a century, raising stone upon stone until it became the icon that now stood watch over the city.
Night had settled over the district with the heavy chill of autumn, seeping through the seams of old doors, slipping beneath window frames, and pressing itself into every crack between stone and wood, though within one modest home beside the canal, that cold was kept at bay by the flickering warmth of a hearth. The house was old and patched together in the way many working homes were, its walls layered with timber from different decades, some boards dark with age while others were newer and paler where repairs had been made after the Siege.
Moss clung to the grey stones of the foundation, and beside the house stood a broad wooden workshop filled with the tools of the trade, with saws, chisels, planes, mallets, clamps, and measuring rods hanging from steel hooks along the walls while unfinished chairs, half-shaped table legs, and cabinet frames waited beneath a fine blanket of sawdust for the following morning. The workshop smelled of cut wood, oil, varnish, and labor, and even in the dark it carried the busy disorder of a man whose hands were rarely still.
Inside the home, however, the evening had taken on the false comfort of domestic peace, with Corey Mills seated at the dinner table before a bowl of beef stew while his wife moved between the hearth and the counter, slicing bread beside the warm glow of the fire. The room itself was not large, but it had been made livable through years of ordinary care, furnished with a worn rug facing the fireplace, a low coffee table marked by old scratches, modest chairs polished smooth by use, and walls decorated with painted portraits of family members long dead beside photographs that captured birthdays, holidays, apprentice ceremonies, and happier moments carefully preserved behind glass.
It was the sort of room that should have belonged to simple contentment, yet the man at the table filled it with something coarser, something that turned warmth into possession and family pride into ugliness.
Corey lifted a spoonful of stew to his mouth, chewed with obvious satisfaction, and nodded as though he had just confirmed a truth that needed to be passed down with the seriousness of scripture. "Mmm," he said, pointing his spoon toward Aspen without lowering the bowl from his other hand. "See, boy, this right here is why I married your mother."
His gaze shifted toward the woman with short brown hair, and his grin softened just enough to seem affectionate, though there was still too much arrogance beneath it to make the tenderness clean. "She makes one mean beef stew, and your grandpa, Gods rest his soul, always told me that if a woman can cook as well as your mom, you don't do a damn thing to let her leave."
"Oh, listen to you," his wife said, though she smiled as she came around the table and kissed him lightly on the cheek. "Can never could get enough of that silver tongue of yours." She then headed back to the kitchen counter next to the stove.
Aspen, seated beside his father with his own bowl in front of him, grimaced as if he had been forced to witness something unbearable. "Eww, Dad, that's gross."
Corey chuckled and took another spoonful, amusement rumbling through him as he leaned back in his chair. "Wait till you're older," he said after swallowing. "It'll make more sense then." He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand before turning toward his wife, pride creeping back into his expression with a darker kind of satisfaction. "Oh, and guess what? Your boy made the old man proud today."
His wife paused with the bread knife halfway through the loaf, her brows lifting with cautious curiosity. "Oh?" she asked. "Do tell."
"Well," Corey said, his grin widening as he clapped Aspen on the back hard enough to jolt him slightly in his seat, "he got into it with one of them scalie kids and beat the hell out of her."
Aspen wore a smug little smile that seemed to grow stronger beneath his father's approval, and Corey, seeing that pride reflected back at him from his son's face, appeared to take it as proof that the lesson had settled exactly where he wanted it. His wife's smile, however, faded into a thin, uneasy line, the warmth leaving her expression.
"Seriously," Corey went on, scoffing as he stirred his stew with his spoon, "you'd think they'd learn to stop stinking up places they ain't wanted. If that softhearted tart Ramonda didn't keep making excuses for them, they would've been exterminated long ago, and maybe Graymark will finally have the spine to see to it properly." He lifted his bowl slightly, as if raising a toast to the thought. "Man's got my vote, I can tell you that."
Concern drew itself across his wife's face as she looked from Corey to Aspen. "Corey, honey," she said carefully, setting the knife down beside the half-sliced bread, "maybe we shouldn't be encouraging this. He's still a boy, and he doesn't need to be looking for trouble. It's better if he just stays away from them, ignores them, and lets them go wherever they're going."
Corey's expression hardened with contempt. "Ignoring them is what made them bold," he said, his fingers tightening around the spoon while the firelight threw ugly shadows across his face. "Tolerating them is what made them think they can walk around like normal folks, put their hands on the same doors, stand in the same shops, breathe the same air, and expect the rest of us to smile along like there ain't something wrong with that."
His eyes narrowed, and the pride he had shown Aspen darkened into something far more vicious, something old and bitter that had clearly lived inside him long before his son was ever born. "I'm sick and tired of these holier-than-thou types preaching equality and acceptance, filling young heads with the idea that the Gods made us all the same, because that's a load of shit and everybody knows it even if half this city's too spineless to say it out loud. There's us, and there's them, and I won't be talked down to by some soft-handed bastard who thinks I ought to share my God-given space with my lessers."
His wife's face tightened at that, though her concern did not fade. "But what if someone takes it real personal, Corey?" she asked. "What if someone comes for us because of what you said, or because of what he did? What if they come for Aspen? Words don't always stay words, and hate has a way of finding its way back to the people who thought they were safe using it."
Corey leaned back in his chair, the annoyance in his stare was almost as cruel as the smile that followed. "Are you listening to yourself, woman?" he asked, letting out a scoff as he gestured vaguely toward the world beyond their warm little room. "Ain't nobody gives a damn about those scalies. Hell, half the time they don't even give a damn about each other. How do you think I managed to sell so many of them out to those Norsefire cunts without one of them ever having the spine to come knocking on my door?"
The words left him with the casual ugliness of a confession he did not believe he needed to fear, and for a moment even the crackle of the hearth seemed quieter beneath the weight of what he had admitted. His wife merely stared at him, while Aspen looked from one parent to the other.
Corey, however, only smirked.
"You see any of them stepping up to claim their pound of flesh?" he asked as he lifted another spoonful of stew like the matter bored him more than it troubled him. "No, you don't, because they're cowards, every last one of them, and cowards get walked over. That's the rule of the world, whether you like hearing it or not."
He turned back to Aspen, and the pride in his face became something uglier than anger, something that looked almost like instruction.
"Next time," Corey said, "you crack one of their heads open with a rock and come tell me how many hits it takes. I'd be real curious to know whether they're built anything like real dragons."
Aspen's grin returned, mischievous and eager beneath the hearth light.
"Corey!" his wife snapped, her concern breaking into open alarm as she stepped away from the counter.
Corey opened his mouth to answer, no doubt with some dismissive retort about softness, discipline, or the way the world really worked, but before he could say a word, a knock sounded at the door.
The room fell into a sudden, uneasy quiet.
All three of them turned toward the front of the house, where the firelight did not quite reach the threshold and the old wood of the door stood dark against the chill pressing in from outside. Corey's brow furrowed as he slowly lowered his spoon back into the bowl, the irritation in his face now touched by suspicion.
"That's strange," he muttered, pushing his chair back from the table as the legs scraped against the floorboards. "Don't recall us expecting company at this hour."
The door rasped beneath another knock, louder this time, and Corey's irritation sharpened as he snatched the napkin from his lap and wiped the stew from his mouth with a hard swipe. The wooden chair scraped against the floorboards when he pushed himself upright, and by the time he had tossed the napkin back onto the table, the knocking had grown heavier, no longer polite enough to be called a request.
"Alright, alright, I'm coming," he barked, tugging his brown slacks higher around his waist as he started toward the front of the house with his shoulders hunched and his temper already rising.
The knocking came again before he had crossed half the room, harder this time, each blow thudding through the wood with enough force to make the hinges tremble. Corey's face twisted with outrage as he reached for the knob, his mouth already opening around the first words of a threat.
"Son of a bitch, hold on, I said I was com—"
The front door exploded inward.
A deafening blast tore through the old wood and turned it into a storm of splinters, iron fragments, dust, and broken latchwork, the sound ripping through the little home with enough force to shake the windowpanes and send the family portraits knocking crooked against the walls. Corey had only the briefest instant to register the fire-bright flare beyond the threshold before something slammed into his chest with brutal force and hurled him off his feet. He hit the floor hard on his back as he slid several feet across the floor, breath driven from his lungs in a strangled gasp as Aspen and his mother screamed from the table, both of them clapping their hands over their ears and ducking low while the remnants of the door clattered across the floorboards around them.
For several seconds, Corey could do nothing but lie there beneath the drifting haze of dust and powdered wood, his chest burning as though someone had poured coals beneath his ribs. He tried to suck in a breath and coughed instead, the sound wet and ragged in his throat. A metallic taste spread across his tongue, far stronger than panic alone could account for, and when he coughed again, blood speckled his lips and chin. Groaning, he lifted his head just enough to look down at himself, and terror cut through his confusion when he saw dark red blooming across the front of his shirt in scattered, ugly bursts.
"Rock salt."
The voice came from the ruined doorway, calm enough to be worse than rage, and Corey's eyes dragged upward through the dust.
A man stepped through what remained of the threshold with the chill night air at his back, splintered wood crunching beneath his polished loafers as a lit cigarette rested between his lips, its ember burning a dull amber in the gloom while smoke curled upward in thin, poisonous ribbons and carried with it the unholy stench of something that only vaguely resembled tobacco, drifting into the ruined house with him like the smell of death given shape.
In his hands, a long, carbon-black weapon Corey didn't recognize, twin barrels gleaming beneath the hearthlight. He moved with the grim steadiness of a man who had already made his decision before he ever knocked, and as he crossed into the room, he broke the weapon open. Two crimson casings ejected and struck the floorboards with light metallic taps before rolling to a stop.
Corey stared at him, horror widening his eyes as recognition finally landed. It was Professor Ashford from earlier, the man who had stood between him and those dragon girls, the man he had threatened, dismissed, and walked away from as though the matter had ended the moment he decided it had.
Ryan pulled two fresh shells from his pocket and slid them into place before snapping the weapon shut again, the sound sharp enough to make Aspen flinch violently at the table.
"Doesn't kill you," Ryan said, low and rough as his gaze lowered to Corey writhing on the floor. "But it sure hell hurts like a sumbitch."
He lifted his eyes toward Aspen then, and the boy's face drained of every smug little trace of pride he had worn at dinner. He sat frozen beside his mother, one hand gripping the edge of the table while the other trembled uselessly near his bowl, and Ryan's expression darkened with a murderous calm that made the hearthlit room feel suddenly much colder.
A smirk tugged at Ryan's lips as he exhaled a thick plume of smoke through the spaces between his teeth, letting it spill slowly into the warm air while the ember at the end of his cigarette glowed like a small, hateful star.
"Miss me," he said, tilting the shotgun slightly as his eyes locked onto the boy, "Ass-pen?"
****
"Twelve years old," Ryan said, quiet and cold as the shotgun remained angled in his hands, "and you're already evil as hell."
Aspen trembled where he sat, his earlier grin gone completely, while Ryan's attention lowered toward Corey, who was still sprawled on the floor beneath the drifting dust and shattered remains of his own front door. "Then again," Ryan added, his eyes narrowing with disgust, "your daddy's a real piece of work, so I guess I shouldn't be too surprised."
Across the room, Corey's wife stood frozen beside the counter with her hands trembling near the half-cut loaf of bread, her face pale beneath the amber glow of the hearth as her gaze flickered toward the knife lying beside the cutting board. Ryan noticed the movement immediately, though his eyes sharpened not on the blade, but on the wand resting just beyond it, half-hidden near the folded cloth and close enough for a desperate hand to reach. He tilted his head slightly, giving her one chance to think better of it.
"Ma'am," he said, "don't do it."
For a moment, nobody moved, and in that narrow silence the whole room seemed to hold its breath beneath the crackle of the fire, the shallow groans coming from Corey, and the frightened rasp of Aspen trying not to sob. The woman's eyes stayed fixed on the wand, and Ryan could see the decision forming before her body followed it, could see fear curdling into panic and panic driving her straight past the warning he had just given.
She lunged.
Her fingers closed around the wand and swept it up toward him in one frantic motion, but Ryan was already moving, the shotgun rising to his shoulder with brutal precision as he thumbed down the hammer with audible click and pulled the trigger. Another blast tore through the house, loud enough to swallow every scream in the room, and the rock salt caught her in the chest with enough force to hurl her backward into the cabinets. Wood cracked beneath the impact, plates and crockery tumbled from the shelves, and glass shattered across the floor in a glittering storm as she collapsed in a heap among the broken dishes, the wand slipping from her hand and rolling uselessly across the boards.
"Mom!" Aspen screamed, tears spilling freely now as he shoved himself up from the chair in blind terror.
Before he could take so much as a step toward her, Ryan swung the shotgun back on him, the twin barrels stopping the boy cold.
"Sit your bitch ass down!" Ryan snarled, the words cutting through the smoke and ringing aftermath of the blast with enough force to pin Aspen in place.
Aspen stood shaking beside the table, his face twisted with fear as he looked from his mother's motionless body to the weapon aimed squarely at him, and Ryan's expression hardened when the boy failed to move quickly enough. He gestured toward the chair with the barrel, his patience thinning into something sharp and dangerous.
"Park your little Klan-lovin' ass right back in that chair," Ryan said, "or I swear to God almighty, Doctor Adani's gonna need a whole medical team and a damn fine arts degree just to figure out where your ugly mug begins and where the floorboards end, capiche?"
Aspen nodded erratically, his breathing breaking into ragged little sobs as he eased himself back into the chair with both hands raised.
Ryan's gaze lowered to Corey once more as the man coughed from the floor, another wet splatter of blood marking his lips while a broken groan dragged itself out of his chest. Ryan took one final drag from the cigarette, letting the smoke burn slow through his lungs before he pulled it from his mouth and flicked it onto the hardwood. It struck the floor with a soft tap, ash scattering around the dying ember as the tip glowed once, then began to fade, only for Ryan to set his polished loafer over it and grind it out with a slow twist of his heel.
Ryan exhaled a thick plume of smoke through his teeth, watching it drift over Corey's broken form before he rolled his eyes with hard, humorless impatience. "Oh, quit your damned moaning," he said. "I've been hit by those rounds before, and it ain't that bad."
"'Sides, if I'd really wanted to do some damage, and believe me, I did, I could've loaded this thing with something a hell of a lot nastier," Ryan continued, his mouth twitching with cold amusement as he allowed the thought to settle. "But if I had done that, you'd be halfway down to Hell by now, and knowing the kind shitstain you are, I doubt anyone up here would give a damn."
He broke the shotgun open again, and the two spent red cartridges ejected with a sharp metallic snap, still smoking faintly as they struck the floorboards and rolled through the haze of gunpowder and sawdust. Aspen once again flinched at the sound, his tear-streaked face turned toward the weapon as though the shells themselves were alive, while Corey dragged in another ragged breath and tried to shift beneath the pain burning across his chest.
"But I needed you breathing," Ryan continued, glancing up at Aspen long enough for the boy to understand that every word was meant for him too. "And believe it or not, I ain't gonna orphan a poor kid just to prove a damned point. I know what that's like, and I wouldn't wish it on anyone."
His eyes drifted back to Corey, and the faintest trace of pity vanished before it could fully form. "Then again, I'm also not about to leave a kid with a jackass for a dad if said daddy's idea of parenting is teaching him how to hate before he's even old enough to understand what he's turning into, so I guess tonight's gonna be a teaching moment for both of you."
Ryan reached into his pocket and removed two fresh cartridges, sliding the first into place with slow, careful precision. "Corey freakin' Mills," Ryan said, "you are what a man back home would call rotten to the core. Hell, if you had grown up in the south, you'd probably have a white hood sitting pretty in your closet somewhere."
He slipped the second cartridge into the chamber and snapped the shotgun shut. "Just another miserable sumbitch who thinks he's better than everyone else because they look different, were born different, worship a different God, or came into this world with scales, horns, ears, tails, tusks, wings, or whatever other excuse people like you need to convince yourselves that cruelty counts as common sense."
Ryan let out a quiet chuckle.
"Now, I ain't gonna stand here and pretend everyone walks around clean as a whistle when it comes to prejudice," he went on. "People are messy, people are scared of what they don't know, and sometimes folks grumble, judge, or say something stupid because they were raised wrong or never had the guts to question what got poured into their heads when they were young."
His gaze hardened as he looked down at Corey, the firelight catching along the dark metal of the shotgun. "But most people, decent ones anyway, learn to keep the worst of themselves on a leash. They grow, they shut their mouths, they mind their business, and they don't let every ugly little thought they've ever had become the only thing holding their spine straight."
Corey choked on another breath, blood bubbling at the corner of his mouth before he spat weakly against the floorboards, and Ryan's grip tightened along the shotgun's barrel as his patience thinned.
"Then there are people like you," Ryan said, taking a knee as he lowered himself closer to Corey's level while bracing one hand against the gun, his face now near enough that the man could see exactly how little fear waited there. "People who shove their heads so far up their own asses they start mistaking the dark for daylight, then walk around thinking the whole world owes them applause for waving their hate around in public."
Corey tried to speak, but whatever words he meant to spit out dissolved into another wet cough.
Ryan did not give him the mercy of pretending to listen.
"Most of the time, people don't care enough to stop you when all you're doing is running your mouth," he continued. "It's a free country where I'm from, and people can say all kinds of stupid, hateful, ignorant garbage if they've got the stomach for it. First Amendment and all that."
His eyes narrowed, and the last trace of dry humor faded from his face. "But when that hate stops being words and starts turning into fists, rocks, broken horns, bruised skin, and little girls crying because some spoiled brat was taught to think hurting them made him righteous, that's where people like me draw the line."
Ryan leaned a fraction closer, the shotgun resting between them like a promise that had already been kept once and could be kept again.
"You had every chance to straighten your kid out," he said. "Instead, you looked at what he did and called it right. You took a scared little girl's pain and turned it into story time round steak and mashed potatoes, then sat at that table grinning like you'd passed down some grand tradition instead of poisoning your own kid one word at a time."
Aspen let out a shaky breath from the table, and Ryan's eyes flicked toward him only briefly before returning to Corey.
"So, here's the lesson," Ryan said. "Hate can live in your head if you're too weak to kill it, but the second you put it in your hands and use it to hurt someone who never deserved it, you stop being a man with an opinion and start being a problem that somebody else is gonna solve."
Ryan rose to his feet and gave Aspen one brief glance, just long enough to make sure the boy understood that he was meant to watch, before both of his hands tightened around the shotgun. His gaze then dropped to Corey's right hand where it lay trembling against the floorboards. "And this?" he said. "This is me solving it."
The butt of the shotgun came down across Corey's knuckles with a crack that cut through the room and turned Aspen's breath into a strangled sound. Corey's scream tore out of him as more of a tortured groan than anything clean enough to be called pain, his body jerking against the floorboards while Ryan lifted the weapon again and brought it down with the same merciless force.
Bone gave beneath the blows, breaking in ugly fragments as each strike drove the stock down with merciless force, bending fingers out of shape, splitting skin across swollen knuckles, and tearing loose fingernails while Corey thrashed and tried uselessly to drag his arm away. Ryan followed every desperate movement with cold precision, bringing the weapon down again and again until what remained was a ruined mass of blood, broken flesh, and splintered bone.
Corey's cry rose into something piercing, and Ryan silenced it with the butt of the shotgun driven hard across his face. The first strike split his lip and snapped his head sideways, while the second landed with a sickening crunch against his cheek and jaw, sending blood and broken enamel across the floor.
"How's that, huh?!" Ryan shouted, his smile stretching into something wild and vicious as the anger he had kept banked all evening finally burned through the last of its restraint. "Ain't this your idea of fun? Tell me, jackass, you having fun yet?!"
He drove the stock into Corey's face once more before kicking him hard in the ribs, the impact rolling the man onto his side in a wet, broken cough. Ryan stepped after him, lifted one polished loafer, and brought the sole down against the side of Corey's head with enough force to make Aspen jolt out of his chair as if something inside him had finally snapped loose from fear.
The boy rushed forward, sobbing openly now, and grabbed at Ryan's jacket with both hands. "Stop, please, stop, stop!" he cried, each word spilling out of him in a desperate rush as he tried to pull Ryan back from the ruin of his father.
Ryan caught Aspen by the collar in one fist and hauled him close, bending down until the boy had no choice but to meet the fury burning in his face. "Stop?" he repeated, the word coming out in a low growl. "Funny, I didn't hear you saying that when it was somebody else crying."
Aspen shook violently, tears running down his cheeks as his hands clutched at Ryan's wrist.
"I thought you liked this part, kid," Ryan continued, dragging him closer. "I thought watching somebody hurt got you off. Made you feel real big, don't it? Isn't that what your daddy taught you?" His teeth bared slightly. "She was a little girl. All she wanted was to make friends, and you and your sick little buddies decided to turn her into a punching bag because you figured nobody would give a damn what happened to her."
Aspen's eyes widened, his entire face crumpling beneath the weight of what Ryan was forcing him to hear.
"Well, guess what?" Ryan said, keeping his grip tight enough to hold him still without shaking him. "Somebody does."
The boy's sobs hitched in his throat as Ryan's gaze sharpened.
"And when I'm done here, I'm gonna pay your friends a little house call, and I'm gonna make sure every single one of them understands exactly what you and your daddy brought down on their doorstep," Ryan said. "Then I'm gonna tell them your name, and we'll see if they still think you're their pal when their parents are scraping what's left of them off the floor, and asking why the devil himself came knocking after dark."
Ryan shoved him back just enough to make him stumble, though he kept one fist tangled in the boy's shirt as he looked down at Corey. The man lay half-curled on the floor, coughing through a mouthful of blood, broken teeth, and ragged breaths while pieces of enamel floated in the red pooling beneath his lips. His face had become a swollen mess of torn skin, purpling bruises, and blood-matted stubble.
Ryan's eyes shifted to the woman still lying motionless among the broken plates and scattered glass, then returned to Aspen with a hard promise in them.
"Now you listen, and you listen good," he said, pulling the boy close again until Aspen stood trembling on the edge of collapse. "If you ever bully or hurt anyone again, if your daddy ever tells you to bully or hurt anyone again, if he doesn't tan your damned hide himself the next time he hears you so much as look at another kid like they were born beneath you, I promise you I'm gonna come right back through that door."
Aspen shook his head frantically, but Ryan did not let him look away.
"And next time," Ryan said, gesturing toward Corey's ruined body with the shotgun, "I'm bringing something a helluvalot lot bigger, louder and nastier."
He leaned in close enough that Aspen's frightened breathing seemed to disappear beneath the weight of his words. "You can bet your faggy little ass on that."
For a moment, Ryan did not move. He simply stared into the boy's tear-soaked face while his own breathing came deep and uneven, each inhale dragging through the anger still burning in his chest as though some part of him wanted to keep going and another, older part knew exactly where that road ended. His grip remained locked in Aspen's collar until the boy's trembling became impossible to ignore, and only then did Ryan's expression twist with disgust.
"Twelve years old, my ass," Ryan muttered, the words low and bitter as he released Aspen with a shove that sent the boy stumbling backward onto the floorboards.
Aspen landed hard on his rear and scrambled away with both hands behind him, sobbing as he looked up at the man who had turned his home into a lesson carved in blood, splinters, and shattered dishes. Ryan stood over him for another second, the shotgun loose in one hand, and then he pointed at the boy with the same hand that had dragged him close.
"Screw… you," he said.
Ryan turned away before the boy could answer, resting the shotgun's barrel across his shoulder as he walked toward the ruined doorway with the measured calm of a man forcing himself not to look back.
Broken wood crunched beneath his loafers, the cold autumn air spilling through the wreckage and thinning the smell of stew, smoke, blood, and gunpowder that clung to the room. Behind him, Aspen sobbed, Corey groaned through the ruin of his mouth, and the house that had been warm with firelight and cruelty only minutes before sat broken open to the night.
Ryan reached the ruined threshold before something seemed to stop him, and for a moment he stood there. "Oh," he said, glancing back over his shoulder as if the thought had only just occurred to him. "Damn near slipped my mind."
Ryan's gaze moved over the wreckage without a flicker of regret before settling on the boy again, and the warning in his expression turned so cold that even the fire in the hearth seemed to shrink from it.
"You tell your mommy and daddy that if any of you so much as think about running your mouths to those Tower assholes about what happened here tonight, I want you to do me a favor," Ryan said as he held Aspen's tearful stare. "I want you to think real damn hard about how much you like it here."
Aspen swallowed shakily.
"Because if I so much as see one of those graycoats darken my doorstep," Ryan continued, "I'm gonna make sure this whole damn town hears exactly how your daddy's a no-good, loose-lipped little snitch. Sure, maybe it's all just rumors and hearsay right now, but if there's one thing I'm really good at, it's diggin' up dirt."
Something darker moved through his expression then, not quite a smile and not quite anger.
"See, back where I'm from, we've got a little saying," Ryan said as his gaze stayed fixed on Aspen. "Snitches get stitches."
He let the words hang there long enough for the boy to understand that they were not a joke, then his smirk sharpened by the smallest degree.
"You ever see what happens when folks end up on the wrong side of an angry mob?" Ryan asked, leaning just close enough for the threat to settle beneath the boy's skin. "Try me, kid, and you and your mom and pop will find out real quick, real hard."
He then stepped out into the chill, letting the darkness swallow him as he left the Mills family behind in the wreckage of their own choices.
****
Ryan walked down the dimly lit street with the shotgun resting across his shoulder and one hand tucked into his pocket, his polished loafers tapping against the cold stone. Behind him, the neighborhood drew awake, and one by one, doors slammed open along the narrow lane as warm light spilled from homes, workshops, and shuttered storefronts onto the cobblestones. Men and women stepped out in nightclothes, work aprons, and hastily thrown coats, their faces marked with confusion and alarm.
A few of them hurried toward the Mills's home, calling questions into the night as others lingered in their doorways with lanterns raised. Ryan did not slow for them. He simply kept walking through the chill autumn air, his expression calm beneath the faint glow of the streetlamps, the darkness taking him piece by piece as the noise behind him swelled into panicked voices and running footsteps.
As he walked, Ryan slipped the cigarette case from his front pocket and flicked it, drawing one cigarette free before catching it between his teeth and tucking the case away. A moment later, a silver lighter appeared in his hand, its metal surface catching a brief glint of streetlamp glow before he snapped it open, struck the flint, and brought the small flame to life beneath the cigarette's tip. He drew just enough to coax the ember awake, and continued down the canal road while the first thin thread of smoke trailed behind him.
After several paces, he closed his eyes and took a deeper pull, filling his lungs with smoke. The burn settled through his chest with a familiar cruelty, sharp enough to make the cold feel cleaner by comparison, and when he finally exhaled, the smoke left him in a slow, pale stream, carrying with it something that had been coiled tight inside him since the start of the new term.
"Welp, I feel better," he muttered, carrying lightly into the empty stretch of street ahead. "I gotta do this more often."
A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, and as he continued down the canal road, Ryan began to whistle, the tune drifting behind him in the cold like the final note of a bad idea that had felt far too satisfying to regret.