Chapter 10: No one is laughing in the Background.

Ydoc descended the stairs with the rhythm of a man on stage. Each footfall seemed almost rehearsed, slow and deliberate, the black coat feathering out behind him like the wings of a trained performer about to bow before the crowd. And why shouldn’t he? He looked magnificent.

The coat did all the talking—pitch black silk rippling like ink in sunlight, trimmed in ghostly green. The fabric kissed his arms, draped over his shoulders in a way that made him look taller, slimmer, dangerous even. He was a silhouette made to walk through a masquerade and steal hearts with a glance. The Chupalla hat sat low over his brow, casting his eyes in shadow, giving him the aloof charm of someone far more important than he felt.

And—oh!—how he felt.

In this moment, Ydoc wasn’t just a boy from the woods. He wasn’t a victim, or a patient, or a shadow following someone else’s lead.

He was dashing. He was a partygoer. He imagined himself as one of those charming troublemakers from the stories—the kind who laughed too loudly, smoked too much, and never quite told the truth unless it made you love them more.

He reached the bottom of the stairs with the poise of a man walking onto a ballroom floor.

Edwards looked up from the couch.

There was a pause—a deliberate one. The television droned on, some pointless program filling the space with nonsense. Edwards didn’t blink. His eyes ran up and down Ydoc’s form like a tailor measuring not fabric, but intention.

And then—

“Well, well…” Edwards drawled, letting his voice hang. “Look at you.”

Ydoc felt his chest rise. He half-smiled, perhaps expecting a compliment. Perhaps—just for once—hoping to be seen.

Edwards whistled, clapped slowly, and leaned back, draping his arm across the back of the couch like a lazy monarch.

“Very theatrical,” he said, tone pleasant. “Like a… haunted librarian who got lost at a funeral and decided to stay for the catering.”

Ydoc’s smile twitched, but he held it.

“I mean that lovingly,” Edwards added. “You’re clearly having fun. It’s just... dramatic, isn’t it? All those feathers. Like you’re trying to seduce a murder of crows.”

Ydoc chuckled lightly—because it was funny. Because it had to be funny.

“You even took one of my hats,” Edwards continued. “That’s bold of you.”

He sat up, eyes narrowing with a polite curiosity. “Is this for the festival?”

Ydoc nodded. “I thought—”

“Oh no, no, it’s great,” Edwards interrupted. “I mean, it’s not what I’d wear, but you know. You’re doing your best.”

There it was—subtle, like a hairline crack in stained glass. The moment when support begins to curve sideways. Edwards stood now, slowly circling around Ydoc with the grin of a patron trying to understand a child’s painting hung proudly on a fridge.

“Hm. The sleeves are a bit long on you, aren’t they?” he mused aloud. “And that coat—it kind of swallows your frame, no? I mean, you’re what—five foot nothing in heels?”

Ydoc’s posture remained still, but his neck flushed.

Edwards chuckled softly behind him. “No, I get it. It’s cute. It’s like when a cat puts on a bowtie. All proud of itself.”

The words were sugar, but each one settled like a grain of sand in the mouth.

“Turn around,” Edwards said suddenly, and Ydoc obeyed. He spun on his heel, slowly, trying not to wobble, trying not to let the illusion crack.

Edwards nodded. “You clean up nice, I’ll give you that.”

And then, with a gentleness that cut deeper than cruelty, he added:

“But next time, tell me before you take my things. I could’ve helped you pick something more… flattering.”

Ydoc said nothing.

Because he had felt—for a moment—that he was beautiful.

And now, all he could feel… was wrong.

Edwards rose.

Gone was the fleece shirt from earlier. In its place, a light cream dress shirt—half-buttoned, half-daring—tucked into slacks that looked sculpted for him. Casual. Elegant. The kind of style born from years of knowing exactly who he was. A fox wearing a smile he didn’t earn today, but would wear anyway.

He adjusted his cuffs, glanced in the mirror, and spoke without turning.

“Oh, by the way—” he began, offhanded, like he was commenting on the weather. “It’s not a costume party.”

The words took a moment to register.

Ydoc stood stiff, a statue in shadow, mouth parting slightly. “W-what?”

Edwards turned now, slowly, with that same dazzling, venomous grin.

“I said… it’s not a costume party.” He gestured vaguely at Ydoc’s outfit. “So you can take off the tragic opera act.”

Silence. Ydoc’s breath hitched.

“Oh, sweetie,” Edwards continued, stepping closer. “What exactly did you think this was? A masquerade ball? A gothic prom? Gods, you're going to look like an extra in a student play.”

He laughed—not kindly.

“That coat is so dramatic it’s begging for thunder. And the hat? What are you, the town’s sexy undertaker?”

Ydoc’s hands twitched. He didn’t know what to do with them.

Edwards circled again, more briskly now, like a shark finding rhythm in blood. “You’re going to be walking beside me,” he said, “and I’ll have to explain why my date looks like a depressed grey crow who just discovered couture.”

The words stung. But the tone—the casual disgust behind them—burned.

“And gods help me,” Edwards added, pausing to eye Ydoc’s posture, “if anyone thinks we matched on purpose.”

Ydoc’s throat felt tight.

“You wasted all that time,” Edwards muttered. “And for what? You think this outfit makes you interesting? Mysterious? It makes you pathetic.”

Edwards reached forward—fast—and yanked Ydoc’s arm.

A sharp tug. Sudden. It hurt.

Ydoc flinched, letting out a tiny gasp before clamping it shut with his teeth.

Edwards leaned in. His voice dropped, low and too close.

“Don’t make me look stupid tonight.”

Ydoc didn’t move.

“You already do, standing there like a sad prince from a ruined kingdom.”

His arm was still gripped. Fingers too tight. Too familiar.

But then—like nothing had happened at all—Edwards softened. He smiled. He tapped Ydoc gently on the chest.

“At least,” he said, with mock sweetness, “you managed to cover that bruise. Very clever.”

Ydoc’s eyes went wide. His lip trembled.

“And remember,” Edwards whispered now, brushing invisible lint from Ydoc’s collar, “if anyone asks… you fell. Down the stairs. Got it?”

Ydoc nodded.

A single nod. Enough to hold the illusion.

Because there was still no proof. No camera. No witness. Only the shape of a moment pressed into skin like a whisper no one would believe.

And still—Ydoc wore the coat.

And still—the hat stayed on.

For now
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The sting still lingered in Ydoc’s arm when Edwards finally released him.

The fox-man said nothing. He just… backed away.

One slow step. Then another.

He muttered now—under his breath—as he began moving around the room with shallow purpose, like a man collecting his sanity from scattered furniture.

“…coat was a mistake. Always is,” he hissed, grabbing his wallet from the mantel. “Every time. You let him dress up, he thinks he’s someone.”

He moved to the kitchen counter. A drawer opened.

A pen.

A hair comb.

A small, thin blade slipped into a sheath under his sleeve.

“Just like last time,” he growled, voice low, eyes not meeting Ydoc’s. “Gives himself a name. A little swagger. Starts escaping the script.”

Ydoc blinked. “…What?”

Edwards didn’t answer. He was muttering faster now, pacing slightly, half-frantic, like he was searching for lines he’d forgotten.

“It always spirals. Always becomes a mess,” he said, tapping his temple. “It was supposed to be simple. A party. A stage. A night. That’s all. But no, you put on that damn thing and now we’re in act two already—and I don’t even have the lighting right!”

Ydoc flinched at the sudden volume.

“What are you talking about—?”

The TV cut in with a sharp buzz.

“... and in other news, the meteorologists have confirmed the monsoon is still on track. Callio’s Rain is expected to begin early tomorrow morning, just after the Festival of the Stars concludes.”

Ydoc glanced toward the screen.

Edwards stopped.

For the first time in minutes, his breathing steadied.

He stared at the broadcast with narrowed eyes. A moment of quiet reverence. Like a priest watching a prophecy fulfill itself.

“…Thank god,” he whispered. “One thing I can count on.”

Ydoc frowned. “The… rain?”

Edwards nodded once, slowly.

“Callio’s Rain. It always comes. The festival ends, and then the storm begins. That’s the way of it. That’s the clockwork. The only real clock in this stupid little snow globe.”

He looked over, eyes flicking back to Ydoc like they could see too much.

“You think you’re the only one who forgets things? No, darling. I remember everything—and that’s the curse. The script resets, and we all play along. Except you. You put on a coat and start improvising.”

He laughed bitterly.

Ydoc didn’t understand.

To him, it sounded like nonsense. Like a man trying to justify a tantrum. And yet—Edwards wasn’t yelling. He wasn’t cruel now. He was… afraid?

“I shouldn’t go tonight,” Edwards muttered again. “That fox’ll be there. I can feel it. That slut... Always shows up when the lights are brightest.”

Ydoc tilted his head. “Who?”

Edwards waved him off.

“And the singers. Hah. All-female folk group. Great. Fantastic. Just what I need. Harmonies and trauma.”

He turned to Ydoc and smiled. It was unwell.

“Don’t ask who. It’ll ruin the twist.”

Ydoc stared.

Then—like a switch—Edwards composed himself. Fixed his collar. Adjusted his sleeves.

“All right. Let’s go,” he said cheerfully. “We’ve got a part to play.”

But his eye twitched.

And Ydoc wasn’t sure who the part was for anymore.