Interrogations (impractical) and proposals (indecorous)...

The Vignoble Empoisonné tavern was deserted. Only the echoes of broken glasses, the smell of spilled wine, and the flickering light of lamps remained. At the bar, handcuffed with chains, Fatima crossed her legs and smiled as if she were in a ballroom rather than an impromptu interrogation.

Lucien positioned himself opposite her, pen in hand, like an excited chronicler.

"This has all the elements of an epic tragedy..."

Ayato shoved him away with his shoulder.

"Put down your pen, cheap Shakespeare. This isn't a literary contest."

Lucien snorted, but continued scribbling notes to jot down useful information.

Isolde leaned toward the dhampir, serious, the blade of her new weapon resting on the table like a silent threat.

"Speak. What do you know about the Pseudo-Castle?"

Fatima smiled with a feline gleam in her eyes.

"Ah, toujours si directe, dear Isolde. Good... Thalassomare." Her words drifted like a hypnotic chant. "A white aquatic semi-amphitheater, raised on an islet facing the harbor. The towers rise like petrified waves, frozen in an eternal roar. From the balconies, the harbor stretches out like a stage, and the entire city becomes a spectacle."

Vera, her hands clasped, murmured almost in horror:

"A spectacle... of suffering?"

"Oui, ma douce." Fatima tilted her head, delighting in the girl's discomfort. "Because its owner, the charming Anastasia Vodnikova, doesn't govern: she directs. Decay, hunger, misery... everything is her grotesque opera. For her, every cry is a note, every tear, a clap."

Lucien, with pen and notebook, was writing feverishly.

"Magnificent! An operatic villain! The cruel muse who turns life into theater..."

Ayato interrupted him.

"Yes, of course, 'magnificent.' I don't know what's worse: people suffering for entertainment, or you being so excited writing about it."

Isolde clicked her tongue.

"Focus."

Fatima smiled even more, noticing she had everyone's attention.

"But of course, I don't only know about Anastasia..." She drew out the words like someone cherishing a secret. "I can also tell you about the cher Luke Valmont."

The name hit like a bucket of cold water. Vera paled. Ayato straightened, his usual humor evaporated.

Isolde clenched her fists on the table.

"Speak."

Fatima laughed, a crystalline and poisonous sound.

"Luke didn't corrupt himself, not entirely. A distant cousin of mine, Jessica Scarlette de Montfroid, was his… shall we say, 'stage manager.' She manipulated him, weakened him, turned him into a shadow of himself, seeing his feelings of inadequacy after Dracula's death, feeling that his role as a hunter was over until the next resurrection."

Ayato looked at her with suppressed rage.

"So that's what it was..."

Fatima shrugged, amused.

"Ah, but make no mistake. Jessica was nothing more than a Jezebel. Even her name implies it. She touched the Ashen Lash, poisoned it with her necromancy, and with Dracula's influence on it, rendered it useless." If she had survived her fight with Isolde, she'd be with the Associates right now..."

Rydia, from a dark corner, hissed in annoyance.

"I knew that family of yours smelled rotten..."

Fatima laughed disdainfully, barely showing a flash of fangs.

"Dear Rydia, it's not my fault if some of my relatives are so... declassé."

Isolde glared at her.

"And you? Are you on Jessica's side?"

Fatima's smile faltered for a second, barely perceptible. Then she composed herself.

"Non, non. In fact, I should be thanking you, Isolde. Thank you for giving her what she deserves." Her eyes sparkled with a hint of twisted sincerity. "Anyway, that salopette didn't sit well with me."

An awkward silence fell over the room.

Vera lowered her gaze, her hands clenched.

"Why are you telling us this, if no one asked?"

"Because I want you to understand something, mes amis." Fatima leaned toward them, her chains clinking with a reddish glow in the light. "I'm not your enemy... at least, not today. And if you keep me close, I can give you more answers than any dusty book or blessed sermon."

Ayato exhaled smoke from his cigarette, grimacing bitterly.

"Great. Another lunatic aristocrat with information we need. Exactly what we were missing from the group."

Lucien raised his pen, excited.

"Oh, but think of the narrative, Ayato! The femme fatale who is both ally and traitor... It's perfect for my story!"

Ayato glared at him.

"If you don't shut your mouth in three seconds, I'll force that pen down your throat."

Isolde remained cool, though a trace of concern lingered in her eyes. Rydia, for her part, bit her lip with an ambiguous expression: half amused, half worried.

And in the midst of it all, Fatima smiled, arrogant and untouchable, as if she were still on stage.

"Vous ne vous débarrasserez pas de moi si facilement…"

After the interrogation, the atmosphere in the tavern had become dense, laden with secrets. 

Fatima, with the chains on her body, toyed with them as if they were gala bracelets.

"Bon..." she sighed dramatically, before lifting her chin. "I admit we got off on the wrong foot, and it wouldn't be fair to leave the relationship like that. How about... I make up for my mistake?"

Ayato raised an eyebrow, suspicious.

"What the hell do you mean by 'make up for'?"

"Very simple, mon cher." The dhampir leaned forward, smiling crookedly. "During your stay in Clémarine, you can stay at my residence. It will be more comfortable than any beggar's inn. And of course, you can keep a close eye on me... very close."

She paused deliberately, letting her eyes rest on Ayato.

"Especially you~"

Ayato nearly choked on his own cough.

"What?"

Fatima tilted her head, her tone oscillating between serpentine assertiveness and a ridiculously rehearsed tsundere air.

"It's not that I want your company, baka humain... but I admit your dark energy intrigues me. It would be... practical for me if we maintained a certain... close proximity."

The entire group stared at her in silence for a couple of seconds.

Ayato rubbed his face with both hands.

"Great. A vampiric crazy-tsundere. Just what I was missing in my life."

Lucien, excited, whispered as he scribbled in his notebook:

"The erotic tension, the veiled danger, the destiny that unites them... this is narrative gold!"

Isolde elbowed him brutally, nearly knocking him off his chair.

"Shut your mouth or I'll cut out your tongue."

Vera, her face flushed, babbled something about "indecencies," while Rydia snapped her fingers to cut through the atmosphere.

"Stop drooling over this harpy's provocations," she said sourly. "The important thing is that we have an infiltration window."

Everyone turned to her.

"Thalassomare is organizing a 'major cultural and artistic event,' a multi-space event with recitals, galleries, performances, and parades. But make no mistake: it's a hook." Rydia smiled maliciously. "Anastasia Vodnikova plans to absorb life energy on a massive scale. Cleanly, discreetly, and voluntarily. The audience will surrender their strength without realizing it."

The silence weighed heavily.

Isolde tightened her grip on the handle of her weapon.

"A sacrifice disguised as a festival. How convenient."

"Exactly." Rydia leaned against the wall, crossing her arms. "And we won't be the only ones trying to take advantage of it. Zeltha is likely there... or, failing that, Tatsuya Homura and Yuzuru Kurohime. All with the same goals as us."

Ayato grunted.

"Fantastic. A macabre opera with surprise guests. What's next, tickets sold at the entrance too?"

Fatima laughed softly, shaking the chains on her wrists like bells.

"Oh, mon chasseur sombre, make no mistake. In Clémarine, admission is already paid for. In blood."

Tensions continue to rise as the group (and Rydia) head to the residence of the Dhampir they fought and interrogated hours ago.