Chapter 7: The Client With Teeth

Lu’dunum lifts his hands from the ruined vat.

They sizzle.

Not dramatically. Not explosively. Just a quiet, humiliating hiss as the pale fur along his fingers curls away and blackens at the tips. His skin beneath is pink and irritated, blistering in tiny crescents.

He gives a sheepish laugh.

“Ah ha… well. We can make Red men.”

He gestures vaguely at the vat, which now resembles a swamp of brown-red sludge streaked with chemical foam and half-dissolved remnants. It no longer glows. It no longer churns elegantly.

It sulks.

Angelica’s grin stretches a little too far across the mirror.

“Oh,” she breathes, eyes sparkling. “Red is romantic.”

Envy snaps.

The ladle goes first — hurled violently off the platform, clattering against a distant metal brace. Then the slotted spoon. Then a small measuring rod he hadn’t even used.

“DAMN IT, LU’DUNUM!”

He says the name with such precise enunciation it feels ceremonial. Each syllable sharp enough to cut.

His glasses reflect nothing but red glare.

“This will take me months to fix!” he roars, pacing in sharp, angular strides. His movements flicker between fury and eerie calm — shoulders tight, then relaxed; voice raised, then cool and even.

Almost as if two performances are fighting for dominance.

“The Husk mortality rate alone—” he pauses mid-rant, smoothing his coat as if regaining composure. “—acceptable.”

A small shrug.

A smile.

Then it snaps back into rage.

“THE VAT WAS NOT FOR US!”

He rounds on Lu again, voice climbing.

“A GRAND PRICK!” He jabs a finger toward the ruined sludge. “The BIGGEST— has already made a purchase on this vat!”

Lu recoils visibly.

His ears flatten.

“I’m sorry, Envy! I—I will… fix it.”

Angelica laughs lightly from the mirror.

“Oh he can fix it,” she purrs, coiling lazily. “We can sell Sweet Lu as an escort for the client. Say… two weeks?”

She beams, clearly delighted with herself.

There is a pause.

Envy turns slowly toward the mirror.

He leans in.

His voice lowers to a whisper meant only for her.

“It was for Pride.”

The word drops heavy.

Not loud.

Not theatrical.

Disdain saturates it.

Angelica’s smile falters only slightly.

Her hands lift, claws curling inward as realization sets in.

Even she understands.

Even she knows.

Her joke had teeth.

And Pride’s purchases are not refundable.

The sludge in the vat gives a final unpleasant bubble.

No one laughs now.

The sludge burbles once more, sulking in its own failure.

Angelica straightens suddenly in the mirror.

Her eyes widen.

Her hands shoot upward like a student who just remembered the answer.

“Oh my loves! I’ve got an idea!”

Envy is still rubbing the side of his face, trying to massage composure back into place.

She beams.

“My cult is only an hour from town,” she chirps brightly. “We can just kill thirty of my men and use them as emergency fodder!”

She says it the way someone might suggest ordering takeout.

Envy freezes.

Then—

His expression brightens.

Not fully.

But enough.

“Yes…” he murmurs, calculating. “Thirty fresh subjects would recalibrate viscosity ratios.”

Angelica tilts her head, as if remembering something sweet.

“And…” she adds delicately, her tone syrupy, “we will have dear Lu kill half of them for us.”

Envy’s smile reaches his eyes.

“Oh,” he breathes. “Oh, that is good.”

Lu immediately crosses his arms, tail puffing defensively.

“Hey! I don’t want to kill anyone!”

He actually barks the protest to the side, ears flat.

Envy turns slowly toward him.

That smile.

That delighted, predatory smile.

“Oh,” he says softly. “You don’t?”

Lu stiffens.

Which means he hates the idea.

Which makes it delicious.

Envy spins on his heel with theatrical flair. His discarded cooking tools rattle across the metal floor—

And then they fly.

Ladle. Spoon. Rod.

All snapping upward at dangerous speed, metal bending and warping mid-air. They twist, melt, reform—

Into a pair of sleek, ink-black knives.

One slaps cleanly into Envy’s waiting hand.

The other is forced into Lu’s palm.

Envy grabs Lu by the shoulders, pulling him into the pose.

Angelica presses closer to the mirror, coiling in ecstatic anticipation.

The synthwave pulses louder.

Envy and Angelica shout in unison—

“MURDER PARTY!!”

The electric bass surges.

Lu just stands there, holding the knife awkwardly, looking like someone who showed up to a bake sale and accidentally joined a revolution.

The vat behind them gives a defeated, sticky plop.

Lu jerks his arm back from the knife as if it might bite him.

“But the Tea Party!” he blurts, ears flattening again. “We promised the Tea Party!”

Angelica tilts her head slowly.

“Oh, Lu…” she coos.

Her voice shifts into honey.

“You don’t want to make me sad, right?”

She raises her hands — those beautifully cut, ritual-marked hands — and without hesitation draws a thin blade lightly across her own palm.

It is shallow.

Barely enough to break the surface.

No blood spills.

But the effect is immediate.

Both boys flinch violently.

Envy hisses through his teeth.

Lu gasps, clutching his stomach as if something inside him twisted.

The linked pain is subtle — not catastrophic — but enough to make their nerves scream in sympathy.

Angelica smiles softly.

See? I can.

Envy grabs Lu by the collar and leans into his ear.

“Fucking knock it off,” he growls low and tight. “She is being so nice to you. The least you can do is play nice for her. She is fixing your mistake.”

Each word lands like a stamp.

Lu’s eyes sting.

“But—it was an accident,” he stammers weakly. “And—and Cheshire will be mad at us.”

Angelica brightens instantly.

“Oh, don’t you worry!” she sings. “I already used my get-out-of-jail card for us!”

She presses her hands to her cheeks, blushing, coiling with excitement.

“Now we can even have a picnic together!”

Envy straightens immediately, fully leaning into the fantasy.

“Yes!” he exclaims, turning grandly. “A picnic with you, my love. Ah… and he can hold our umbrella.”

Angelica giggles.

“And take our picture!”

The music pulses.

The vat sludge burps unpleasantly in the background.

The platform sways lightly under their theatrical excitement.

Then—

A voice enters.

Low.

Measured.

Steeped in disdain.

“Oh yes,” it says smoothly, “and we all can skinny dip in Lake Ire.”

The music seems to thin.

Even the synth waves hesitate.

Lake Ire.

A vast body of bubbling, toxic black ink so volatile it eats through metal and bone.

Only one being in the Divide can stand in it untouched.

All three turn toward the newly descended mirror.

It lowers slowly, almost lazily, into view.

Broad shoulders fill the frame first.

A military officer’s cap sits low, brim casting a shadow over most of the face.

The attire is reminiscent of a World War II officer — tailored coat, structured vest, medals that catch faint glints of green industrial light. Chains and insignia hang neatly.

On the right shoulder—

A bronze-gold star glimmers.

But the man beneath the uniform…

He is not gray.

Not pale.

Not flesh.

He is ink.

Deep.

Absolute.

So dark it seems to swallow the light around him rather than reflect it.

His silhouette almost distorts the edges of the mirror.

One eye is visible beneath the brim.

Glowing.

Yellow.

Wide.

Unamused.

Flat.

He does not smile.

He does not perform.

He does not indulge in theatrics.

He does not pretend.

The mirror does not shimmer around him.

It stabilizes.

Envy’s posture shifts instantly.

Angelica’s coil tightens.

Lu drops the knife.

It clatters loudly.

The officer adjusts his cap slightly, two fingers brushing the brim.

Silence settles heavy over Doma Tasu.

Even the sludge in the vat stops bubbling.