It was 6:50 PM at the same Chinese restaurant where Howard Leyman had once met Ch'en, though the atmosphere tonight carried a different weight.
Rain pattered against the windows, a steady drumbeat that framed the silhouettes of passersby wielding umbrellas beneath the dim streetlights.
Howard sat at a corner table, his coat draped over the chair, and checked his watch.
Time was closing in swiftly.
His thoughts churned, heavy with concern. They centred on Liskarm—a pragmatic yet resolute Vouivre from Blacksteel's B.P.R.S. unit, once partnered with Franka, would be contracted to Rhodes Island in the future for security and defence.
She wielded a handgun and a flash shield with precision, her resolve forged by a dream: to liberate her homeland from the Sargon imperial forces that had overrun it.
Howard knew her story well, and it gnawed at him.
He signalled the waiter and ordered a glass of water, his voice steady despite the unease coiling in his gut.
With a past like hers, the trajectory was all too predictable—noble intent veering into perilous choices.
The waiter soon returned, setting the glass before him with a quiet clink.
Howard murmured his thanks and stared at the water, its surface rippling faintly under the restaurant's warm lights.
He understood the butterfly effect—small actions spiralling into chaos.
Surely, he reasoned, Liskarm wouldn't align herself with some dubious Colombian outfit for the resources to fuel her cause.
Yet doubt lingered, sharp and insistent.
As the clock struck seven, Howard's eyes lifted to meet a figure approaching his table.
Silver hair gleamed under the soft glow, blue horns curved gracefully, and a casual outfit—jeans and a jacket—cloaked her usual tactical rigour.
Liskarm took her seat across from him, her posture straight, her expression guarded.
"Good evening, Liskarm," Howard greeted, his tone measured.
"Evening, Leyman," she replied, her voice calm yet edged with her characteristic firmness, a soldier's cadence tempered by resolve.
"Would you care to order anything?" he asked, gesturing to the menu.
She shook her head.
"It's fine. I don't require anything."
Howard gave the glass a slight shake, took a sip of water, and set it down with purpose.
"I have some questions for you," he began, his gaze steady.
"How much do you know?"
Liskarm frowned, her brows knitting in confusion.
"Know about what, exactly? What are you driving at?"
Howard tilted his glass idly, then rephrased with a quiet intensity.
"How much do you know?"
She exhaled, a touch of exasperation in her tone.
"I don't know what you're referring to, Leyman. Why did you call me here?"
He pressed forward, undeterred.
"I know everything," he said, placing the glass down firmly.
"Your ambitions—to build a formidable personal mercenary force."
Liskarm flinched, a subtle crack in her composure.
Howard continued, his voice low but unwavering.
"It's no simple feat. It demands resources—considerable expense—and not just any ragtag band can challenge the Sargon imperial might. Among the personnel present when that weaponry vanished, you were there."
Liskarm sighed, her eyes narrowing.
"Are you accusing me, Leyman? Besides,"
"I've heard the culprits were already apprehended—rumours from within Blacksteel itself."
Howard sighed in return, leaning back.
"Liskarm, you're treading a dangerous path. I understand the weight you bear—it's hard to endure. Just tell me who's behind it, and you'll have nothing to fear."
Her face crumpled briefly, a flash of anger igniting in her eyes.
She slammed her hand on the table, the sound reverberating through the restaurant, drawing startled glances from other patrons.
"Contrary to your suspicions," she snapped, rising abruptly, "I am not who you think I am; I remain loyal to Blacksteel."
With that, she turned and stormed out, her silver hair swaying with each determined step.
Howard watched her go, then called after her retreating figure, his voice calm yet cutting.
"The sin of greed fells every soul, no matter how righteous their cause."
And so it ended.
He left the restaurant shortly after, the rain now a steady drizzle against his coat as he walked home.
His phone buzzed—a message from his secondary line.
It was Elen, delivering the results of the truck sensor data he'd sent her. Howard sighed, scanning the text.
It confirmed his suspicions—a thread tied to Liskarm's presence, subtle but damning.
Paolo, meanwhile, had reported back earlier with little to show from the black market, but it mattered little now.
Howard tapped out a quick payment to them, his mind elsewhere.
He reached his apartment, the weight of the evening settling over him like the damp air outside.
***
The next day had dawned, and at Blacksteel's headquarters, a sizable gathering convened.
Inside a hall designed for thirty, all those tied to the missing shipment incident had been summoned.
Liskarm found herself a seat near the back, her hands clasped tightly in her lap.
Her heartbeat thrummed faster than usual, a restless rhythm against the murmur of the crowd.
At the front centre, he emerged—Howard Leyman, the detective.
He stepped forward, greeting the assembly with a casual wave, a lollipop tucked in his mouth.
His energy seemed heightened, a stark contrast to his usual demeanour, yet an unsettling tension lingered in the air, a creeping shadow beneath his vigour.
He pulled a chair to the centre, its legs scraping the floor, and sat with a flourish.
"Apologies for the abrupt summons," he began, his voice carrying a note of regret.
His eyes flicked briefly to Liskarm, a fleeting glance, before returning to the room at large.
"I must first extend my gratitude to you all for attending. Your presence is appreciated."
He paused, letting the words settle, then continued.
"After considerable effort—weeks of sifting through this tangled affair—we've finally apprehended those responsible for the theft."
A ripple of murmurs passed through the hall.
Howard rose, clapped his hands once with a sharp crack—and then everything shifted.
From every entrance, Blacksteel's high-calibre operatives stormed in, their rifles raised, voices barking commands.
"Hands up! Now!" The room froze, thirty pairs of hands lifting in unison.
Liskarm, caught in the sudden chaos, complied with a jolt of panic, her training overriding her shock.
"Kneel!" came the next order, and they did, the sound of knees hitting the floor echoing in the stunned silence.
A bewildered voice broke through, trembling with confusion.
"What's happening here?"
Howard sat again, pulling the lollipop from his mouth with a slow, deliberate motion.
He twirled it between his fingers, his expression hardening.
"There were no thieves caught," he said, his tone cutting through the tension.
"Because you are the thieves."
The room erupted in a mix of gasps and bewildered stares.
Some faces paled; others twisted in shock. Howard leaned forward, resting an elbow on his knee, and began to speak, his voice a steady cadence.
"Let's start with a few names, shall we?"
He pointed to a wiry Sarkaz near the front.
"Kaelin—new ring today, a rare Originium ruby at it center , costs a small fortune in Lungmen creds."
He shifted to a feline with sleek ears.
"Mira—carrying a custom-tuned comms device, latest model from Raythean, not exactly standard issue."
He named three more.
"Torrin—a Sankta with a tailored jacket lined with rare Laterano silk; Veyra—a Caster sporting a new staff foci, pure Originium crystal; and Dorn—a Liberi with a set of imported Columbian cigars, premium grade."
Each item gleamed with extravagance, far beyond their pay.
Realisation dawned on their faces. Howard laughed—a sharp, mirthless sound—and tossed the lollipop onto the table.
"Did you truly think us so dull? Those purchases—extravagant, debt-free, on your salaries? Impossible without an external windfall."
He leaned back, his tone growing colder.
"It was clever, I'll grant you—how you evaded the tests. Devil's Whisper, wasn't it? A rare pill from the black market, prized by liars and traitors. It reshapes the mind, aligns your thoughts with the falsehoods you spin—makes your lies indistinguishable from truth.
"No arts scan, no interrogation could pierce it. The enemy company must have bought them."
His laughter returned, louder, tinged with a manic edge as he slapped the table.
"Greed—truly the simplest sin to stoke! No matter how one resists, its whisper always prevails. The payout from betraying Blacksteel was too enticing.
"Once the bait was cast—my little announcement yesterday—you plunged into indulgence, assuming we'd sweep it under a false cover-up to save face."
Then he stopped. His eyes darkened, the levity draining from his features, replaced by a gravity that thickened the air.
"In the end," he said, his voice low and deliberate, "loyalty is a phantom. Money turns the world's gears. Ideals crumble like relics in the face of riches."
The hall fell silent, the weight of his words pressing down on the kneeling figures.
Liskarm's hands trembled slightly, her jaw tight, though her face betrayed no further emotion.
Morrison behind the force could not help but clench his fist; his nightmare had become reality.
"It really is true. Those closest to you are always the ones who betray you.