I arrived back at the warehouse in the midsection still carrying the weight of what I’d witnessed in that circular room, the image of severed heads and Mavus’s painted smile burned into my retinas like an afterimage that refused to fade no matter how many times I blinked.
My hands were still trembling slightly—not with fear exactly, more with the adrenaline aftermath of genuine terror mixed with frustrated helplessness at being moved around like a chess piece by someone who could see the entire board while I fumbled in partial darkness.
But I forced my breathing to steady, rolled my shoulders back with deliberate precision, and pulled my performance mask into place with the practiced ease of someone who’d learned that showing weakness was often more dangerous than the weakness itself.
By the time I pushed through the heavy metal door that marked the warehouse entrance, my expression had settled into something approaching my usual confident smirk, though anyone looking closely might have noticed the slight tightness around my eyes that suggested the smile didn’t quite reach all the way through.
The warehouse had transformed dramatically since the last time I’d seen it, evolving from abandoned industrial space into something that actually resembled a functional operation.
The oppressive darkness that had characterized the place before had been pushed back by dozens of oil lamps mounted along the walls at regular intervals, their warm golden light creating pools of illumination that overlapped and merged until the entire space glowed with steady radiance.
Someone—probably Atticus, knowing his attention to detail—had organized the lighting with deliberate care, positioning each lamp to maximize coverage while minimizing shadows where accidents could happen or enemies could hide.
The old machinery that had been rusting in corners when we’d first claimed this space had been cleaned, polished, and in several cases actually restored to working condition, their metal fittings gleaming and their mechanical components humming with renewed purpose.
I recognized some of the equipment from my limited knowledge of drug manufacturing—distillation columns that separated compounds based on boiling points, grinding mechanisms that reduced raw materials to powder with precise consistency, heating elements that maintained exact temperatures for chemical reactions that required careful control.
Dozens of crew members moved throughout the space with the organized chaos of an ant colony, each person seemingly knowing exactly what their role was and executing it with practiced efficiency—some hauling crates of raw materials from one station to another, others carefully measuring substances with tools that looked expensive and probably illegal, a few maintaining equipment with the focused attention of people who understood that mechanical failure could mean anything from lost product to catastrophic explosions.
In the center of all this controlled mayhem stood Atticus and Dregan, their contrasting frames creating an almost comical silhouette—Atticus tall and lean in his grey robes that somehow remained pristine despite the industrial environment, his silver hair slicked back with such precision it looked like it had been painted onto his skull, glasses perched on his nose catching lamplight and throwing it back in brief flashes.
Beside him Dregan seemed almost cartoonishly short by comparison, the dwarf’s stocky frame radiating the kind of solid density that suggested you could hit him with a hammer and the hammer would break first.
His orange hair blazed in the lamplight like an open flame, wild and unkempt in ways that defied any attempt at styling, and his beard cascaded down his chest in a waterfall of tangled copper that probably contained several small civilizations if you looked closely enough.
A wide grin split Dregan’s face the moment he spotted me approaching, his expression transforming from concentrated attention on whatever Atticus had been saying to pure delighted welcome.
"Well fuck me sideways and call me a brothel!" he bellowed, his voice carrying across the warehouse and making several nearby workers jump. "Look what the cat dragged in! And the cat’s got excellent taste in what it drags, I might add!" He elbowed Atticus in the ribs with enough force to make the scholar wince. "Atticus, quit staring at your fucking clipboard and look who decided to grace us with his presence!"
Atticus looked up from the papers he’d been reviewing with the long-suffering patience of someone who’d spent years dealing with Dregan’s particular brand of enthusiasm.
"I can see perfectly well, thank you. Unlike some people, I’m capable of peripheral vision and basic spatial awareness." But his tone carried warmth beneath the dry delivery, and when his eyes met mine they crinkled slightly at the corners with genuine pleasure. "Loona. Good to see you’re still alive and relatively intact."
I spread my arms in a gesture of theatrical presentation. "Alive, intact, and looking devastatingly attractive as always. You know me—I wouldn’t dare die without ensuring I looked good doing it."
I closed the distance between us, taking in the warehouse with exaggerated approval. "You two have been busy. This place actually looks like a legitimate operation instead of a condemned building. I’m impressed. Genuinely impressed, not just saying it to be polite."
Dregan puffed up like a peacock displaying feathers, his chest expanding until I worried his shirt buttons might achieve escape velocity.
"Damn right we’ve been busy! Been working our balls off getting this operation up and running." He gestured around the warehouse with obvious pride. "We’ve got production capacity for three different compounds now, quality control that would make legitimate pharmaceutical operations weep with envy, and a distribution network that’s already starting to turn profit!"
"The profit margins are still relatively modest," Atticus interjected with scholarly precision, "but they’re growing at a sustainable rate that suggests we’ll hit our projected targets within the next quarter, assuming no major disruptions to supply chains or unexpected regulatory interference from the Spire."
"Regulatory interference is just fancy talk for ’someone trying to fuck us,’" Dregan translated helpfully. "And if someone tries to fuck us without permission, we fuck ’em right back! Harder! With implements they didn’t know could be used for fucking!" He paused, stroking his beard thoughtfully. "Actually that came out more threatening than I intended. Point is, we’re doing well. Real well."
I felt something warm and uncomfortable settle in my chest, genuine affection mixing with pride at what they’d accomplished in such a short time. "I mean it," I said, letting sincerity bleed into my voice. "You two have built something real here."
Atticus adjusted his glasses with one finger, a gesture I’d learned meant he was feeling emotional but trying to maintain professional composure. "We learned from the best," he said quietly. "You showed us it was possible to build something from nothing. To take chaos and turn it into structure. We’re just following the blueprint you provided."
"Except with more explosions!" Dregan added cheerfully. "You’d be amazed how many things can explode in a drug manufacturing operation if you’re not careful. We’ve only had three fires so far, which Atticus tells me is actually quite good for a startup in this industry!"
"Four fires," Atticus corrected. "You’re forgetting the incident with the distillation column last Tuesday."
"That wasn’t a fire, that was aggressive evaporation!"
"It produced flames visible from three blocks away."
"Aggressive. Evaporation."
I laughed despite myself, the sound genuine and cleansing after the horror of the library. This was good. This was real. These were my people, doing work that mattered, creating something that would outlast whatever schemes Mavus Grey was orchestrating in shadows I couldn’t see.
But Atticus’s expression shifted then, becoming more serious, his scholarly demeanor reasserting itself as he fixed me with a look that suggested he knew I hadn’t come here just for social visits.
"Not that we don’t appreciate the compliments and the company," he said carefully, "but I suspect you had a specific reason for requesting this meeting. What do you need, Loona?"
I reached down and pulled the envelope from my boot—I’d learned early on that boots were excellent hiding places for documents you didn’t want discovered in casual searches—and extended it toward Atticus with deliberate casualness that suggested this was no big deal while also being extremely careful not to damage the contents. "I need you to look at this. Tell me if you have access to the ingredients required."
Atticus took the envelope with the reverent care of someone handling potentially explosive materials, which given the nature of our business wasn’t entirely metaphorical.
He broke the seal with one careful finger and extracted the papers inside, unfolding them with precise movements while Dregan immediately pressed closer, standing on his toes and craning his neck to get a better view over Atticus’s arm.
I watched Atticus’s expression shift as he read, cataloging each micro-expression with the attention of someone who’d learned to read people the way others read books.
Curiosity came first, his eyebrows rising slightly as he took in whatever the recipe described. Then interest, his eyes tracking faster across the page as he absorbed the technical details.
Then concern, subtle but unmistakable, a tightening around his mouth and a slight furrow appearing between his brows.
Finally something approaching alarm, his eyes going wide behind his glasses and his breathing becoming slightly more shallow.
His head snapped up so fast I heard his neck crack audibly, and when he spoke his voice carried an edge I rarely heard from him.
"Where did you learn about this recipe?" The question came out sharp, almost demanding, stripped of his usual scholarly politeness. "This isn’t common knowledge. This isn’t even uncommon knowledge. This is the kind of formula people kill to keep secret."