Chapter Two-Hundred Ninety-Two: Wired Infestations

Chapter 292

Wired Infestations

At PixelSun Securities, Tristan and Celeste were seated opposite Etsuko. Dressed in a black corset top paired with light-purple shorts, dark-purple tights, and black boots, Etsuko focused on her work while the two silently hoped she would keep her boots on.

Etsuko leaned forward, gazing intently at her computer screen. The monitor’s soft glow reflected sharply off the lenses of her cat-eye glasses as she analyzed the detailed scans. On the desk beside her lay the dead mouse Tristan had brought in, fitted with a miniature mind control device and an embedded listening bug. The computer’s hum filled the quiet room as she carefully evaluated every wire and signal trace of the subtle technology.

Etsuko: “I have never come across anything like this before…”

She muttered.

Etsuko: “Is Narcisse an inventor by any chance?”

She asked. Tristan shook his head.

Tristan: “No, Narcisse tends to be behind the times when it comes to technology. I believe he still uses that cathedral radio my grandfather owned.”

He replied.

Tristan: “Having been inside that mansion twice recently, I doubt there’s a single thing in there dating past the 1950s—no cell phones, no computers, and I’m fairly certain his television is still black-and-white.”

Etsuko: “Whoever designed this miniaturized both components with incredible precision. The mind control module overrides basic motor functions, while the listening bug transmits audio on a frequency standard scanners would completely miss. It's far beyond standard consumer or military tech.”

She stated in a matter-of-fact tone. Tristan curled his fingers into his trousers.

Tristan: “Do you have any idea who created this?”

Etsuko shook her head.

Etsuko: “No. The circuit layout uses a micro-lithography process that hasn’t even been commercialized yet. Whoever designed this wasn’t just trying to listen in—they engineered a direct neural interface capable of commandeering basic motor functions, while using an unregistered high-frequency band to broadcast the feed. “This seems like something created for the black market or crafted within the underground.”

She noted.

Tristan: “I saw Narcisse wearing a teleportation earpiece identical to the ones Dougal and Ichiro used. I learned that Borko Brava and Ichiro Tachibana partnered up around five or more years ago. Dougal took those devices directly from Borko after murdering him and throwing his corpse—along with his car—into the lake a few miles from his mansion.”

He explained.

Etsuko folded her arms across her chest.

Etsuko: “Did Narcisse work with Dougal?”

Tristan fell silent for a moment, then nodded soberly.

Tristan: “Yes… Yes, he did, but Dougal has been silent for months.”

Tristan pursed his lips and stroked his ponytail. Celeste blinked.

Tristan: “Etsuko, would you search international newspapers to see if any mention Dougal Springer?”

He asked, strained, and rubbed his jaw.

Etsuko: “Sore tooth, Tristan?”

Tristan shook his head and waved his hands.

Tristan: “No, no, nothing like that.”

Etsuko turned back to her computer terminal, her fingers flying across the mechanical keyboard as she queried international database archives. Line after line of text scrolled across the glowing monitor while she systematically searched global press records, cross-referencing archives from newspapers across various countries and continents.

After completing the comprehensive search, she paused and turned in her chair to face Tristan and Celeste, adjusting her cat-eye glasses.

Etsuko: “I’ve gone through global press records and international archives from every major region. There isn’t a single mention of Dougal Springer anywhere in any international newspaper.”

Tristan crossed one leg over the other.

Tristan: “I see.”

Celeste looked owlishly at Tristan.

Tristan reached into his inner suit jacket pocket and withdrew a small manila envelope containing her payment. He slid it smoothly across the desk toward Etsuko.

Tristan: “Here’s your payment for looking into this, Etsuko. Please, contact me the moment you discover who manufactured or engineered that mind-control device.”

Etsuko: “Going so soon?”

Tristan rose and straightened his suit jacket.

Tristan: “Yes, I need to contact pest control. That was one mouse; there will be more.”

He said resolutely. Celeste rose with him.

Etsuko: “I was hoping you two would massage my feet.”

She purred. Celeste and Tristan turned ashen.

Celeste: “Well, we gotta get… groceries! Come on, Tristan!”

She grabbed his arm and ran out of there in a flash.

~

Celeste and Tristan stood outside the building panting.

Celeste: “Saved by the bell!”

She gagged.

Tristan: “Y-Yes… Well, we don’t know who made those devices or where Dougal is.”

He cupped his chin.

Celeste: “I think that whale is dead.”

She drawled.

Tristan: “You don’t know how much I want that to be true, but when I thought he died… he came back.”

He twisted his mouth.

Celeste: “Tristan, Dougal was in jail. Most people knew that. Were you avoiding it?”

She tilted her head. Tristan shook his head.

Tristan: “Goodness no, Celeste. I was merely busy in my studies during that time.”

He stroked his ponytail.

Celeste stood on her tiptoes and patted his head. Tristan turned to her in surprise.

Celeste: “I think he’s dead this time, Tristan. I think Narcisse covered it up.”

She reassured him. Tristan smiled a bit.

Tristan: “...I hope so. Thank you, Celeste.”

~

Tristan arrived at Trémaux Law Office shortly after leaving PixelSun Securities. He pushed open the heavy wooden door, the bell jingling softly as he walked into the quiet reception area. Stepping past the front desk, he headed up the carpeted staircase to his private office on the second floor.

He unlocked his office door, crossed the room, and settled behind his polished mahogany desk. After adjusting his ponytail, he picked up the receiver and dialed the local pest control service.

Tristan: “Hello, yes, this is Tristan Trémaux calling. I require an immediate pest control inspection at my residence at 805 Hawthorn Lane. It appears I have a severe mouse problem.”

~

The warm evening air drifted over the concrete, carrying the faint scent of sunbaked palm fronds and distant ocean breeze. Fabien braced his forearms against the wood railing and let out a long, contented breath. His open blue flannel fluttered slightly in the wind, catching the sun against his white hair.

Across the suburban quiet of Juniper Street, everything felt entirely still. It was the kind of lazy, golden hour that made it easy to lose track of time. He tapped his fingers along the railing, a wry, anticipating grin lingering on his face as he looked toward the road.

Any minute now, Celeste would land on their lawn, and he couldn't wait to see how she’d react to the four-legged surprise currently making itself at home in their hallway.

Fabien’s attention shifted toward the street as the sharp, metallic clatter of miniature die-cast cars bounced off the curb. Two neighborhood kids—neither older than seven—were crouched by the driveway apron, completely engrossed in sending their brightly painted Hot Wheels launching off the sloped concrete into imaginary high-speed chases.

Fabien looked over to see Jaclyn, the self-appointed neighborhood hall monitor and HOA menace, marching down Juniper Street with a clipboard clutched like a riot shield against her chest. Her pastel visor was pulled down aggressively low, and her face was already turning a mottled, furious shade of red.

Jaclyn: “You two know the bylaws!”

She screeched, coming to a dead halt right in front of the kids and jabbing a manicured finger toward the ground.

Jaclyn: “Sidewalks are for pedestrian foot traffic only! Unregistered recreational equipment on shared residential pathways constitutes a nuisance and a direct safety violation! Where are your parents? Pack those metal contraptions up right now before I issue a formal property citation!”

The two boys froze, wide-eyed and terrified, clutching their tiny toy cars against their chests as if a dragon had just cornered them.

Fabien pushed off the patio railing, a razor-thin, mocking smirk curling his lips. Jaclyn loved nothing more than power-tripping over two inches of plastic and zinc.

He rested his hand on his hip while his white hair caught the breeze.

Fabien: “Careful, Jackie-babe.”

He called out, his smooth, heavily accented drawl dripping with effortless sarcasm.

Fabien: “One of those toy convertibles might blow a tiny tire and total your clipboard. Shall I call the National Guard, or do you have the kindergarten threat under control?”

Jaclyn whipped around so fast her pastel visor nearly spun off her forehead, her face contorting from bureaucratic annoyance into pure, venomous outrage. Abandoning the two bewildered kids—who took the cue to scramble down the street, clutching their miniature cars—she stomped to Fabien’s property line, stopping inches from the curb as if crossing onto his lawn might contaminate her heels.

Jaclyn: “Oh, you think you’re terribly funny, don’t you, Fabien Bellegarde?!”

She shrieked, the vein along her neck pulsing violently as she shook her heavy metal clipboard like an accusatory weapon.

Jaclyn: “You want to talk about safety hazards and public nuisances? How about we talk about section 14-B of the residential noise ordinance! Or did you conveniently forget about the ungodly racket coming from your bedroom at two in the morning last Thursday?!”

Across the street, a sheer curtain twitched in a neighbor’s front window, but Jaclyn couldn't care less about suburban subtlety. Her voice echoed down the sun-drenched cul-de-sac with crystal clarity.

Jaclyn: “The entire block could hear you and that delinquent girl screaming like wild animals and shaking the walls, banging against the headboard, screeching at the top of your lungs until the streetlights flickered! It is utterly repulsive, decadent, and downright shameless behavior! My bedroom window is next door, Fabien, and I was forced to listen to your entire vulgar performance until three in the morning! I have three separate complaints drafted for the board, and if I hear so much as another groan vibrating through my stucco, I will have the municipal marshal cite you for disturbing the peace!”

Fabien didn’t even blink. He simply tilted his head, letting a lock of messy white hair fall across his brow, his emerald-green eyes dancing with effortless, wicked amusement. Instead of the scandalized retreat she clearly anticipated, he rested both forearms languidly over the railing.

A slow, devastatingly smug smirk curved across his lips.

Fabien: “Well, Jackie-babe, if you wanted private coaching on how to keep a partner properly satisfied, all you had to do was ask nicely. There’s no need to take your frustration out on the children just because your own evenings are tragically quiet.”

He said wryly.

Jaclyn’s face flushed an even deeper, furious shade of magenta, her mouth twisting into a bitter sneer. She stabbed her index finger against the metal clip of her board, her glare sharp enough to strip paint off the fence.

Jaclyn: “Don’t flatter yourself, Fabien!”

She spat, her shrill voice dropping into a venomous, resentful snap.

Jaclyn: “Some of us happen to be married to men who have more important things to do than act like degenerate alley cats! While you’re busy making a vulgar spectacle of yourself, my husband is out in the garage until midnight every single night, dedicating his mind to real work!”

She let out a sharp, ragged scoff that sounded like grinding gears, rolling her eyes toward the heavens.

Jaclyn: “Not that a sixty-two-year-old man should be wasting his retirement tinkering away on those useless, idiotic inventions of his! Motorized trash can lids, automatic hedge clippers that can’t cut a single leaf—it’s completely ridiculous! He’d rather breathe in solder fumes and talk to circuit boards than spend five minutes in the house, but at least his stupid machines don’t shake the neighbor’s drywall!”

Fabien tilted his head back and let out a soft, delighted laugh that made Jaclyn’s jaw clench so hard her teeth clicked. He tapped his bare foot against the patio, completely unfazed by the sudden marital confession echoing across the street.

Fabien: “Ah, so the secret is out.”

He drawled, his grin widening into something effortlessly infuriating.

Fabien: “The poor man isn’t inventing, Jackie-babe—he’s building an escape route. Can anyone really blame him?”

Celeste landed on their lawn with cat-like precision.

Celeste: “What’s the screeching about, Fab?”

She called out, her voice a sharp, gravelly drawl as she marched toward their house, completely ignoring Jaclyn’s very existence.

Celeste: “I could hear this harpy three blocks away.”

Jaclyn puffed up like an indignant bird, clutching her clipboard to her chest.

Jaclyn: “Celeste Marcella! I was just informing your delinquent boyfriend about the multiple community violations—”

Celeste: “Save it, Jackie-babe.”

She snapped without breaking stride, rounding on the older woman with a toothy, dangerous grin and a glare that could peel chrome.

Celeste: “Take your stinky shoes, your clipboard, and visor to your house before I decide to test my grip strength on your neck.”

Jaclyn gasped, sputtering soundlessly, then turned on her white tennis shoes and power-walked furiously down the street, muttering about lawsuits and municipal marshals the entire way.

Fabien chuckled softly, watching the HOA terror scurry away before shifting his emerald gaze back to Celeste.

Fabien: “Flawless timing, ma chérie. As always.”

Celeste rolled her eyes, with an amused smirk tugging at her lips.

Celeste: “You always find a way to rile her up. What did you even do today while I was out?”

Fabien’s smile turned instantly mysterious and entirely too fond. He caught her hand and turned back toward the open patio doors.

Fabien: “Come inside…”

He said smoothly.

Fabien: “There’s someone very important I need to introduce you to.”

He led her inside their house and closed the door behind them.

Celeste: “All right, spill it, Fab. What kind of mess did you get into while I was—”

Her voice cut off as a soft, rhythmic pitter-patter echoed from the hallway tile.

Out trotted Ashley.

The tiny black kitten marched into the center of the living room rug with utter, unearned authority. Her bell-like chirp cut through the quiet, her tail pointed straight up toward the ceiling like an exclamation mark. The moment she spotted Celeste, the little fuzzball came to a dead halt, puffed out her chest, and let out an extraordinarily loud, squeaky mew of challenge.

Celeste froze. Her sharp, punk-rock scowl melted into genuine, wide-eyed bewilderment as she stared down at the creature, which barely came up past the top of her boots.

Celeste: “Fab…”

She said slowly, her gravelly voice dropping an octave as she pointed her finger toward the floor.

Celeste: “What is that?”

Fabien: “That…”

He purred, leaning his back against the wall with his hands casually buried in his denim pockets.

Fabien: “She’s Ashley. I picked her up from the shelter this afternoon. She matches your jacket, she screams at people twice her size, and she refuses to apologize for existing. I figured she was practically your child.”

Ashley, entirely unimpressed by Celeste’s deadly aura, scampered forward on tiny, clumsy paws. She bumped her sleek, miniature head straight against the side of Celeste’s heeled boot, purring so loudly the vibration seemed to buzz right through the leather. Then, with complete disregard for personal safety, she flopped onto her back across Celeste’s instep.

Celeste looked down at her foot, then shot Fabien a sharp, half-lidded glare that tried—and entirely failed—to hide the fond smirk tugging at the corners of her mouth.

Celeste: “Ashley, huh?”

She muttered, slowly sinking into a crouch until she was eye-level with the kitten, extending her hand for her to sniff.

Celeste: “Little punk thinks she owns the place already.”

Ashley didn’t stay on the floor for long. Abandoning Celeste’s boot, the tiny black kitten spun around, locked her sights on Fabien, and bounded straight toward his bare feet.

With a determined chirp, she sank her miniature needle-claws into the tough denim of his light-wash jeans and began scaling him like a tree.

Fabien let out a soft huff of surprise and held his hands out just in case she slipped, but the kitten didn’t hesitate. She scrambled past his knee, hooked her claws into the fabric covering his thigh, and used the edge of his open blue flannel to scramble up his ribs. Finding a steady grip on the faded black cotton of his tank, Ashley made one final, victorious hoist until she was perched triumphantly across the slope of his right shoulder.

Once there, she dug her claws gently into the blue flannel for balance, leaned forward, and nudged her cold, velvet nose right under the curve of Fabien’s jaw. A ferocious, rumbling purr vibrated against his neck as she tilted her chin toward Celeste and glared down with supreme authority.

Fabien chuckled, turning his cheek to nuzzle the top of the kitten’s sleek head lightly.

Fabien: “Look at that. She’s barely seven weeks old and already knows the best view in the house.”

~

Tristan returned to his mansion on Hawthorn Lane shortly after ending his call with the exterminators. A pair of white service vans from the local Pest control company were parked along the sweeping driveway, their hazard lights blinking softly against the fading twilight.

Inside, two technicians in heavy canvas coveralls were wrapping up a comprehensive sweep of the expansive foyer and ground floor. The lead exterminator—a tall man with a clipboard tucked under one arm and a heavy flashlight in hand—spotted Tristan as he stepped through the front entrance.

Exterminator: “Mr. Trémaux?”

He asked, stepping forward and wiping his brow.

Exterminator: “We’ve completed a thorough inspection of the premises, top to bottom. Checked the wall cavities and crawlspaces.”

Tristan adjusted his suit jacket lapels, his expression serious.

Tristan: “And what did you find?”

Exterminator: “We located and cleared eight mice in total from various points throughout the house.”

He reported, pointing toward a steel tray set on the entryway table.

Exterminator: “All dead, looks like. We’ve collected them right here for disposal.”

Tristan approached the tray and looked down. He opened a nearby drawer, pulled out a small pair of stainless steel tweezers, and carefully turned over the first tiny corpse. His pulse quickened.

Underneath the fur along the back of the neck sat a microscopic metal housing, identical down to the finest trace of wire to the device Etsuko had examined at PixelSun Securities. He moved to the second mouse, then the third, fourth, and fifth—each one bore the same miniaturized high-frequency listening bug and neural mind-control interface grafted seamlessly into its spine.

Every single one of the eight mice had been converted into a living, remote-operated surveillance drone.

Tristan set the tweezers down, his jaw tightening into a grim, hard line as a cold knot settled in his stomach. Narcisse wasn’t merely attempting a casual wiretap—he had blanketed Tristan’s entire home in high-tech underground espionage.

~

Later that evening, warm candlelight flickered across the polished mahogany table in the mansion’s grand dining room. Tristan sat at the head of the table, flanked by Jasper, Victor, and Bastien. In the center of the table sat a large serving bowl of steaming chicken linguine, a basket of freshly baked bread, and glasses filled with rich Chianti wine.

Victor smiled brightly as Jasper carefully plated a generous portion of chicken linguine.

Victor: “Oh, this smells absolutely divine, Bastien!”

He exclaimed, his blue eyes sparkling in the ambient candlelight.

Bastien smiled warmly, took a sip of his Chianti, then set the glass back down on the cloth napkin.

Bastien: “Thank you, Father. I made sure the crust on the bread was nice and crisp, just the way you like it.”

Jasper reached across the table and gently squeezed Victor’s hand, offering a fond smile before turning to Tristan.

Jasper: “It’s wonderful to have everyone gathered around the table together like this.”

Tristan lifted his glass of Chianti, swirling the dark red liquid gently before taking a subtle sip. Though the lingering thought of Narcisse’s surveillance devices weighed heavily on his mind, he offered his family a composed, gentle smile.

Tristan: “Indeed it is, Jasper. Thank you for preparing such a splendid dinner, Bastien.”

Bastien nodded genially, took a piece of warm bread, and dipped it into the rich pasta sauce.

Oliver stretched out and rested his forepaws on Tristan’s thigh. Tristan patted Oliver’s head and forced a smile.

Tristan: “So, Jasper, are you going away for your birthday?”

Tristan picked up his fork, carefully twirling a portion of the steaming chicken linguine before taking a deliberate bite. He savored the rich, savory sauce, letting it perfectly complement the deep, robust notes of the Chianti wine he sipped immediately after. Jasper gaped at him in confusion.

Jasper: “N-No, Tristan, I have no plans for anything like that.”

Tristan: “You don’t want to go away and make your day special with Papa?”

He asked.

Jasper: “No, I hadn’t planned on that. Do you not want me here?”

Bastien flicked his gaze at Jasper and at Tristan.

Tristan: “Jasper, that is simply not true. I just… wondered if you and Papa would like to get out of this mansion… and away from us kids.”

He laughed nervously.

Jasper placed his fork down on the edge of his plate and exchanged a warm, knowing glance with Victor. A soft, reassuring smile eased across Jasper's face as he leaned slightly across the table toward Tristan.

Jasper: “Tristan, as much as I appreciate the thought, Victor and I couldn’t be happier right here with all of you. Having our family gathered together at this table is the best gift I could ask for.”

Victor chuckled softly, taking a sip of his Chianti before nodding in agreement.

Victor: “He’s right, Tristan. We’ve had more than enough quiet over the years. A lively home with my boys is precisely where we want to be.”

Bastien smiled fondly, setting down his piece of bread to pass the bowl of chicken linguine back toward the center of the table. He glanced at Tristan.

Tristan: “I think going away would be ideal for your first vacation together.”

He smiled.

Victor: “Tristan, do you not approve of Jasper?”

He asked, his bottom lip trembling. Tristan waved his hands.

Tristan: “That’s not it at all, Papa! I just feel… a vacation from this chaos would be good for you both!”

He managed a strained smile. Oliver looked up into Tristan’s eyes and let out a soft meow.

Jasper smiled gently and shook his head, looking over at Victor before turning his gaze back to Tristan.

Jasper: “That’s very thoughtful of you, Tristan, truly. But a getaway isn’t necessary right now. Being here with you and the rest of our family is exactly where I want to be.”

He kissed Victor’s hand. Tristan’s right eye twitched, and he clenched his hands into tight fists.

Tristan: “Hahaha, why on Reona would you want to stay here?! Of all the places in this country—or anywhere else in the world—you choose to be HERE?! Papa spent fifteen whole years in a coma! For goodness’ sake, take him on a proper trip!”

He burst out, his voice cracking with exasperation as he slammed his palms against the edge of the dining table, rattling the fine silverware and Chianti glasses. He leaned forward, his green eyes wide with urgency as he looked between Jasper and Victor.

Tristan: “Go to the coast! Go to Argentville, or Neo-Kobe, or anywhere! You two deserve white-sand beaches and quiet evenings without a single crisis! I am begging you, please—let me arrange a private charter, book the finest suite to wherever you go, and send you both away!”

He burst out, his voice cracking with exasperation.

Victor: “Why are you like this, Tristan?! When you get like this, you scare me!”

He cried.

Victor: “Your mother got like this when she didn’t get her way… and so did… he.”

He said in a small voice.

Tristan’s breath hitched in his throat. A suffocating silence fell over the dining room as the color drained completely from his face, replaced by a sudden, terrifying wave of pure fury.

Tristan: “DO NOT FUCKING COMPARE ME TO THEM!”

He roared, his voice booming through the grand hall as he slammed his fists onto the table so hard the Chianti glasses rattled violently. The room temperature dropped instantly, a thin layer of crystalline frost spreading across the polished mahogany beneath his trembling hands.

Tristan: “I am NOTHING like Charlotte! I am NOTHING like Narcisse! How DARE you bring them into this when all I have ever done—every single day of my fucking life—is bleed myself dry trying to protect this goddamn family?!”

His chest heaved, his green eyes burning with unshed tears and unbridled rage as he glared down at Victor.

Bastien froze, his fork hovering inches from his plate, while Jasper instinctively moved to place a protective arm around Victor’s trembling shoulders. Tristan turned his harsh, furious gaze away, his jaw locked tight as he fought to regain control over his ragged breathing.

Oliver padded softly across the frost-chilled floor and gently placed his front paws against Tristan’s leg, letting out a quiet, comforting purr. Tristan’s shoulders dropped as he took a shuddering breath, the icy aura around him gradually dissolving. Trembling, he reached down and carefully scooped the cat up into his arms, holding him close to his chest as he closed his eyes and tried to calm his racing heart.

Without saying another word, Tristan turned away from the dining table, cradling Oliver securely in his arms. He left the quiet, tense dining room and carried the cat up the grand staircase to the second floor. He stepped into his bedroom and softly shut the door behind them, leaving the house’s heavy silence outside.

~

Late that night, silence settled heavily over the mansion. Tristan sat on the leather sofa in the corner of his bedroom, bathed in the soft glow of a single reading lamp. His long white hair was undone, falling loosely around his shoulders in quiet disarray. Clad in silver silk pajamas that shimmered softly in the dim light, he rested a heavy leather-bound book open on his lap.

Between his long fingers, he held a black-and-gold Sobranie cigarette. A thin thread of fragrant smoke curled upward into the still air, drifting toward the tall windows as he turned a page in quiet solitude.

Deimos walked through the door with Oliver in his arms. He placed the cat down.

Deimos: “Your father cried himself to sleep.”

Tristan shook his head and drew a breath.

Tristan: “A surprise to none.”

He muttered dryly.

Deimos: “Jasper told me everything.”

He strolled to the sofa and sat by him.

Deimos: “You should have told them.”

Tristan: “Papa is going to be unhappy and compare me to them no matter what I do.”

He growled. Deimos hung his head.

Deimos: “Tristan, I still deal with ungrateful fucking family members—I get it.”

He began.

Deimos: “But… I think he needs to know why you want him and Jasper out of here.”

Tristan lifted his cigarette to his lips, took a slow drag, inhaled a plume of fragrant smoke, then exhaled.

Tristan: “I did this so Papa can resume being happy. Why are they so fucking hell-bent on not listening to me?”

He replied, his voice cracking with emotion. He removed his glasses to wipe his eyes. Deimos put his muscular arms over Tristan’s slender frame and pulled him close.

Deimos: “ ‘Cause family fuckin’ sucks, and they want to make things difficult for us.”

Tristan leaned forward and pressed the glowing tip of his Sobranie cigarette into the glass ashtray, extinguishing it with a slow, deliberate twist. Setting his glasses aside on the side table, he let out a long, weary sigh and leaned back into Deimos’ solid warmth, nesting his head against his chest as Deimos wrapped his arms tightly around him.

Deimos: “Tristan, just say the word. I can go across the pedway and tell your father and stepfather that Narcisse is going to fucking strike.”

He said firmly.

Tristan fell silent, pausing to contemplate Deimos’ words. He stared down at his lap as the seconds ticked by, weighing the consequences before finally lifting his eyes to meet Deimos’ steadfast gaze with a quiet, resolute nod.

Tristan: “All right... go ahead and tell them.”

He murmured.

Deimos unclasped his arms from around Tristan and stood up from the sofa. He gave Tristan’s hand a firm, reassuring squeeze, then turned and stepped out of the bedroom, closing the door softly behind him.

He traversed the pedway that connected Tristan’s wing to the main quarters. Deimos’ heavy boots clicked against the polished floorboards until he reached the double doors of Victor and Jasper’s room.

He rapped his knuckles firmly against the dark wood three times.

A moment later, the door opened. Jasper stood in the doorway in his nightshirt, his eyes tired and brow creased with concern. Beyond him, Victor slept on in his bed.

Jasper: “Deimos? What is it? Is Tristan all right?”

He asked softly, lowering his voice.

Deimos stepped past the threshold, his imposing frame filling the doorway. His expression was dead serious as his violet eyes moved from Jasper to Victor.

Deimos: “Tristan was trying to get you two out of the house because it isn't safe here.”

He stated plainly.

Deimos: “Narcisse.”

Deimos said, his voice dropping into a low, quiet rumble.

Deimos: “Tristan found surveillance bugs and mind control devices planted inside mice throughout the mansion. Narcisse has this whole place wired, and he’s gearing up to strike. Tristan wasn’t trying to push you away—he was trying to shield you.”

Jasper gaped at him disbelievingly.

Jasper: “Deimos, what is this? Are you making stuff up?”

He asked him. Deimos blinked.

Deimos: “NO! I can show you the dead mice!”

Jasper folded his arms across his chest.

Jasper: “Listen, I know you have a temper, and I know you love Tristan dearly, but it’s cruel to make stuff up, especially about that dreadful man.”

He said sternly.

Deimos: “I am NOT making shit up! I can show you the dead mice! Why would Tristan want you two to go?!”

He snapped.

Jasper: “I know you love Tristan… I am not trying to replace his mother—”

Deimos slammed his calloused hand against the wall.

Deimos: “Tristan HATES that bitch, and he’s a twenty-three-year-old man, not a twelve-year-old boy! He’s FINE with you two! This is why he’s doing this!”

He bellowed at him.

Jasper quietly stepped out into the hallway, pulling the door shut behind him.

Jasper: “Keep your voice down.”

He whispered hoarsely.

Jasper: “Deimos, has Tristan told you I wish to propose to his father on my birthday?”

He asked him.

Deimos: “Yeah, he briefed me, but he’s not fucking upset about that! WILL YOU FUCKING LISTEN TO ME, YOU FAT BASTARD?!”

He barked at him.

Jasper stared at him, his brow furrowing deeply as his expression hardened with quiet resolve.

Jasper: “If Tristan truly found those things, then he should have brought them to us himself. Instead, you chose to shout at me in the middle of the night. Until I see proof with my own eyes, I refuse to panic Victor over more rumors and ghost stories about Narcisse.”

Deimos clenched his hands into tight fists.

Jasper: “Hurling insults and raising your voice is not getting your point across.”

Deimos: “Yeah, nothing fucking gets through that fat head, unless I put it on a platter!”

He snapped. Jasper drew back, hurt.

Jasper: “Go on back to bed, Deimos. It’s late, and waking everyone up won’t solve anything tonight. I will talk to Tristan in the morning.”

Deimos stared at him for a long moment, his jaw tight, before angrily turning back and stomping down the pedway.

Jasper turned quietly and stepped back into his bedroom, shutting the door softly behind him. He removed his glasses, setting them carefully on the nightstand, and stood beside the bed for a long moment, gazing fondly down at a sleeping Victor. Crawling quietly into bed, Jasper pulled Victor close and held him in a gentle embrace.

~

Deimos stormed into Tristan’s bedroom and slammed the door behind him. He paused, looking around the quiet room, before spotting the open balcony door fluttering gently in the night breeze. He crossed the room and stepped onto the terrace, where Tristan stood leaning against the stone railing and gazing out into the night.

Deimos stepped up behind him and wrapped his arms around Tristan’s slender frame, embracing him closely against his chest. Tristan leaned back into Deimos’ warmth and let out a soft, weary breath.

Tristan: “I heard everything.”

He murmured.

Deimos: “I hate to say this, Tristan, but I think you’re going to have to be the one to tell your father.”

Tristan’s eyelids dipped, and he heaved a deep sigh.

Tristan: “I didn’t want to be the one to break the news to him.”

He removed his glasses and wiped his eyes.

Deimos: “Well, if you don’t, Narcisse will, and everyone will have a bad time.”

He buried his head into Tristan’s soft white tresses.

Tristan lifted his gaze to the night sky, watching the twin moons glow brightly through the dark atmosphere. He stared up at the two moons, his thoughts racing with heavy foreboding. He thought about how hard he had fought to keep his family safe, yet how quickly Jasper had dismissed Deimos’ warning as mere rumors. He reflected on the inescapable reality that he alone would have to deliver the bitter truth to his father, knowing full well the pain and terror it would bring, but understanding that silence would only leave them completely vulnerable to Narcisse’s impending strike.