“What could be sweeter than sugar and honey? Only a convincing lie.”

  – A weary jester.

  The two days of relative freedom passed in quiet routine. I devoted part of it to finally progressing through Season 4 of Water and Ice. The episodes proved disappointingly mundane—predictable twists and recycled emotional beats. Episode 3, “Drenched in Crimson Love", had promised much: Hendro was stabbed in a rain-soaked alley, blood mingling with water, Miyala kneeling beside him to confess her love as life ebbed away. A poignant moment, perhaps—yet utterly baffling. Why declare one’s heart when the object of affection is dying? It struck me as theatrical rather than sincere, a human penchant for melodrama over practicality. I sighed through the remaining episodes, already anticipating the two films that bridged to season 5.

  When not watching, I practised healing arcane on the leader—still stored in my shadow, still very much alive. I broke bones methodically: a femur, ribs, and vertebrae. I tore organs free—the liver, spleen, and lungs—watching them regenerate under controlled spells. The screams were muffled within the darkness, but the wet snaps and ragged gasps were satisfying in their precision. He made an excellent subject: durable, responsive, endlessly repairable. Boredom crept in after a time, yet I persisted. Dedication deserved recognition—even if only a private pat on the back for perseverance.

  Midway through one session—testing whether a human spine could bend a full 360 degrees without permanent severance—a young bureau attendant delivered a smartphone. He entered just as the leader’s back gave a sickening crack; the boy paled, eyes wide at the wet crunch and the muffled howl that followed. He thrust the device into my hand and fled without a word. I examined the phone—sleek, modern, and already configured with Bureau apps—and stored the leader’s discarded organs in a pocket of shadow for later disposal. A simple cleaning spell erased the blood from floor and furniture; the room smelt faintly of ozone and lemon.

  When I judged my practice sufficient, I released the leader back into shadow storage, cleaned once more, and finished Season 4. The finale left me unmoved.

  On the third day, a text from Richard arrived: 'My office.' Now.

  I dressed simply—a charcoal suit, black gloves, and a vulture-skull cane—and made my way there. A cup of tea waited on the desk, steam curling gently. Richard typed furiously, brow furrowed.

  I pulled out a chair and sat. “Good afternoon",

  He glanced up, took a sip of his own tea, and began without preamble.

  “We have confirmation: the underground ring operates from a restaurant that opens at 8 p.m. ‘Le Festin des Sirènes'. It doubles as a slave-trade hub—patrons are served both cuisine and people.”

  I lifted my cup, inhaling the herbal aroma—chamomile, bergamot, and faint honey. I sipped. Humans selling their own kind without trial or accusation. As expected of this race. Though, to be fair, certain fae—particularly the scaled ones—were scarcely any better.

  “Understood,” I replied. “I shall dress appropriately. Where shall we rendezvous?”

  “My office, 6 p.m.", he said.

  I nodded and continued sipping. The tea was refined, yet something was missing—perhaps a touch of bergamot zest or a hint of something sharper.

  Then I remembered the leader. With a casual gesture, I released him from shadow at the far corner of the office. He collapsed in a heap—naked, trembling, his skin pale and unmarked from the healing. Sunlight poured through the open windows; he stared at it as though beholding divinity itself. Tears streamed down his face; whimpers escaped his throat—wordless, broken.

  The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

  Richard looked up, disapproval etched in every line of his face.

  I ignored him and finished my tea. He sighed, picked up the phone, and summoned someone to collect the man. As attendants entered and dragged the leader away—he was still whispering hoarsely about the light—I checked the time on my new phone: 11 a.m. Plenty of hours remaining.

  I bid Richard good day and returned to my room.

  The afternoon I spent studying runes—tedious, infuriating things. Even in my prior existence, I had despised them, yet they remained ubiquitous in human arcane practice. I forced myself through the material, supplementing with darkness-element spells: shadow weaving, phantom duplication, and suffocation variants. Useful refinements.

  My phone alarm chimed at 5:30 p.m. I dressed carefully: one of the new suits—deep navy with subtle charcoal pinstripes—paired with the Pendora fedora, black silk-lined gloves, and polished leather oxfords. The ensemble felt balanced: elegant yet understated.

  Richard called as I was choosing a pocket square. “Hurry up.”

  I selected a simple white silk one, tucked it in place, and headed to his office.

  By the time I reached Richard’s office, the bureau halls were filled with the quiet movement of evening shifts. I greeted those I passed with a polite “Good evening".

  He stood as I entered. His attire was striking: a crisp white suit, a bright red tie, a black rose pinned to the lapel, trousers embroidered with faint black rose motifs, and shoes gleaming obsidian. His hair was partially braided and tied back in a neat ponytail. Handsome, in a sharp, modern way.

  He handed me an invitation envelope. I followed him out; he locked the door, and we descended to a waiting bureau car.

  The ride passed in near-silence. Richard outlined the plan: enter as patrons, identify targets, and signal for containment once inside the lower levels. Solid, methodical. Then he added, almost casually: “Don’t do anything stupid.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

  He gave me a knowing look and said nothing more. The radio played a gentle song about rain—soft piano, wistful vocals. I listened, mildly offended. Stupid? I had done nothing of the sort. False accusations.

  We arrived at ‘Le Festin des Sirènes’—an elegant fa?ade of dark stone and frosted glass, with water motifs etched subtly into the windows. The driver dropped us off and circled to park. We entered.

  Inside was opulent: velvet drapes in deep teal, crystal chandeliers shaped like cascading waves, and soft blue lighting that mimicked an underwater glow. A string quartet played faintly in the corner—violins and a cello weaving a delicate, almost hypnotic melody. The scent of cinnamon and seared meat drifted from the kitchen.

  At the reception, Richard presented his invitation card; I did the same. The hostess—a poised woman in a mermaid-scale dress—scanned both, smiled professionally, and said someone would escort us shortly.

  We waited twenty minutes. Appetisers arrived unbidden: delicate oysters on ice, caviar blinis, and tiny foie gras toasts. I sampled each politely. Richard ate nothing.

  Eventually an older gentleman appeared—monocle gleaming and suit immaculate. He greeted us with practised warmth and led us to a mirrored elevator. He scanned his card against what appeared to be a reflective panel; the doors closed, and we descended.

  The doors opened to violins—louder now—and the rich scent of cinnamon, smoke, and something metallic beneath it. We stepped into a vast subterranean chamber: high ceilings draped in black velvet and tables arranged in concentric rings around a central stage. Far more people than Richard’s estimate of thirty—closer to 150 or more. Men and women in formal attire, laughing, drinking, and with eyes gleaming with anticipation. Servers glided among them with trays of champagne and small, artful plates.

  “Welcome to Ventre de la Sirène,” the gentleman said smoothly— “the belly of the siren, if you will. I trust you enjoy your evening.”

  He pressed a button; the elevator doors closed behind us.

  I accepted a mimosa from a passing tray—orange and champagne, bright and effervescent—and took a slow sip. The bubbles danced on my tongue. Richard accepted nothing.

  I surveyed the room with calm interest. Something about the atmosphere felt… expectant. Predatory. A faint undercurrent of arcane residue lingered in the air—subtle, masked by perfume and food, but unmistakable.

  I smiled faintly into my glass.

  This promised to be an eventful evening.