Chapter Two-hundred Seventy-Four: Shadows of the Beaumont Lineage

Chapter 274

Shadows of the Beaumont Lineage

The water in the canal was black and dead-still, carrying a greasy film that barely stirred beneath the creeping floor of mist. Ahead, the entrance loomed like a carnival relic forgotten by time: a warped wooden arch painted in the blistered, sun-bleached pink of long-dead summers. Across its brow, faded crimson lettering spelled out TUNNEL OF LOVE, crowned by a single neon heart that buzzed with a low, electric hum, bleeding a sickly crimson light into the gloom.

Stranded in the stagnant pool floated the swan. Once a vessel for stolen glances and nervous hand-holding, it now resembled an ossified ghost. Its molded fiberglass skin was cracked and scabbed with rust, green moss blooming in the seams. Cobwebs stretched taut between its curved neck and blunt orange beak, shivering in the cool draft that seeped from the dark cavern behind it. Synthetic ivy draped down from the corrugated iron roof in limp, suffocating garlands, looking less like festive foliage and more like nooses dangling over the threshold.

Beyond the arched heart, the tunnel opened into absolute, unyielding blackness. The air tasted of rot, damp metal, and stale carnival grease—the suffocating scent of cheap magic long turned sour. Whatever romance the ride had promised decades ago had decomposed into something quiet and hungry, waiting patiently at the end of the water.

Narcisse stood and marveled at the sight with Tristan hoisted over his shoulder. He slapped Tristan’s ass. He gasped and gnashed his teeth. Tristan glared at his uncle with hatred.

Narcisse: “Here we are, my naughty little nephew!”

Narcisse stepped gingerly onto the rotting fiberglass edge of the swan boat, the vessel groaning under the shift in weight. He didn't bother to set Tristan down, instead maneuvering until he could drop his nephew onto the hard, cracked bench beside him. The boat rocked violently, the stagnant water slapping against its sides with a sound like wet meat hitting pavement. Narcisse sat heavily, the movement sending a fresh cascade of dust and cobwebs drifting into the stale air. He settled himself, the proximity to the dark water doing nothing to dull his grin. The boat went down the tunnel.

The ribbed metal ribs of the tunnel arched overhead like the skeleton of a swallowed leviathan, rusted to the bone and weeping steady, rhythmic drops into the murk below. The sickly pink glow from the entrance faded within paces, snuffed out by an oppressive, swallowing dark that seemed to drink whatever light dared enter.

Dry, petrified tendrils of fake ivy hung like dead snakes from the curved ceiling, brushing against the rotting wood and shattered remnants of old ride partitions that jutted from the water like broken tombstones. Dead bulkhead lamps—caged in corroded wire and choked with decades of cobwebs—stared out from the steel walls like cataract-filmed eyes that had forgotten how to see.

A thick, spectral fog churned across the surface of the canal, clinging to the waterline and masking the true depth of what lay beneath. Every faint ripple stirred the stench of stagnant iron, mildew, and wet decay. The silence in the belly of the tunnel wasn't merely the absence of sound; it was a heavy, suffocating pressure, broken only by the subterranean dripping echoing from deep within the unseen bend ahead.

Tristan’s discomfort grew as the boat drifted down the tunnel. Narcisse put his arm over Tristan. He put Tristan’s wingtip Oxford up to his nose and inhaled, humming to himself. Tristan’s face twisted with disgust.

Narcisse: “Ah, Tristan, it’s not stinky at all! Smells like vanilla, sandalwood with a hint of mint!”

He beamed.

Narcisse: “Ah, your brother’s feet kind of stink and your father’s feet reek, so it’s nice one of Charlotte’s sons takes after the Beaumont side.”

He said as he pressed his lips to Tristan’s head. Tristan jerked away.

Lean fingers dug firmly into Tristan’s shoulder while Narcisse stroked his nephew’s hair, leaning down to press his lips against the top of Tristan’s head. Tristan jerked his head away, his eyes squeezed tightly shut. Rendered completely powerless by the ethereal-prowess-suppressing ropes, he could only endure being trapped alongside his predatory uncle.

Narcisse smiled at Tristan.

Narcisse: “I loved seeing those midgets tickle your feet.”

Tristan glowered at him.

Tristan: “Of course, you did.”

Narcisse: “I think they enjoyed tickling you more than that silly Mayor Sully that Balderico has held captive.”

He chuckled.

Tristan: “Mayor?”

Tristan raised an eyebrow.

Narcisse: “My apologies… I wasn’t paying attention to the ramblings of a rubber duck-obsessed loon when I was focused on how to torment you.”

He crooned.

Narcisse’s long, pallid fingers spidered across the sensitive skin of Tristan’s neck, his touch light yet possessive. The low, rhythmic scraping of his fingernails against Tristan's throat sent a jolt of pure revulsion through the younger man, forcing a jagged, involuntary gasp from his lungs.

Tristan: “AhahahahaahahaAHAHAHA!!”

Tristan bucked against the contact, his muscles locking in a desperate, futile attempt to shrink away from the predatory intimacy as Narcisse’s cold breath fanned against his ear, punctuating the torment with a soft, triumphant hum.

Narcisse pulled his arm tightly around Tristan, finally letting his fingers go still. Chest heaving as he caught his breath, Tristan cast a grim glance at the dark, stagnant water below before fixing his uncle with a look of utter revulsion.

Narcisse offered his nephew a smile. In the faint light filtering through the cavernous corridor, a golden reflection flickered in his emerald eyes. His fingers trailed down Tristan’s chest to his torso, causing Tristan to shudder and buck.

Tristan: “DON’T!”

He rasped venomously. Narcisse scowled, his gaze dropping to the chain of Tristan’s pocket watch draped across his vest. He hooked a finger around a link, trailing his fingers over the metal with a slow, deliberate scrape that made the chain chink faintly in the silence. Tristan heaved and panted.

Narcisse: “What is this?”

Narcisse jerked Tristan’s head back by grabbing him from behind, a sneer twisting his face as he forced his nephew’s head back. Tristan’s nostrils flared, a surge of raw fury and irritation boiling up within him.

Narcisse: “...What is this, Tristan?”

He hissed through clenched teeth as he held up his pocketwatch. Tristan swallowed hard.

Tristan: “My pocketwatch.”

Narcisse glowered at his nephew.

Narcisse: “Your pocketwatch?”

He yanked Tristan’s hair with a harsh, joyless chuckle. Tristan gasped, grinding his teeth against the sharp spike of pain.

Narcisse: “...This pocketwatch belonged to my father—your grandfather.”

He reiterated slowly, holding the pocketwatch up to his face. Tristan locked his hateful glare on his uncle.

Tristan: “Yes, I know.”

Narcisse’s jaw tightened.

Narcisse: “He was supposed to give this to me, but no, he told me on our many hunting expeditions it was supposed to go to Charlotte’s son…”

He growled. Tristan glared at him.

Narcisse: “And he told me he would ‘become his prince.’ You would be his prince after everything I did for that man!”

A bitter laugh escaped him as his rage boiled over. Snarling, he thrust the watch back into Tristan’s pocket.

Narcisse caressed Tristan’s hair. Tristan’s stomach churned with a nauseating mixture of fear and contempt as Narcisse’s fingers lingered. The obsession over the pocketwatch—his grandfather’s legacy—revealed a depth of petty, generational jealousy that was as pathetic as it was dangerous.

Bound and suppressed by ropes, Tristan felt the suffocating weight of his own physical helplessness in the belly of this rotting tunnel. Yet, beneath the tremors of his skin and the instinctive urge to recoil, a cold, hard ember of defiance remained. He would endure the predatory strokes and the hissed threats, keeping his mind a fortress that Narcisse could never truly breach. He was a Beaumont by blood; he couldn’t change that, but he refused to let this madman or his mother break him.

Tristan: “...I wanted to ask you something.”

Narcisse turned to Tristan, cupping his chin and tracing his thumb over his lips. Tristan shuddered and cleared his throat.

Tristan: “Why did you send a mind-controlled DashDish delivery boy to my secretary’s apartment?”

The question hung in the air. Narcisse smiled, gently gliding his knuckles over Tristan’s cheek.

Narcisse: “Why on Reona would I do that?”

Tristan: “He had a chip on his neck that fell off when I confronted him. This is your doing. Who else would have done that?”

He cross-examined.

Narcisse chuckled.

Narcisse: “I was merely given instructions.”

Tristan: “Who?”

Narcisse reached into the inner lining of his velvet suit jacket, his movements fluid and rehearsed. He withdrew a thick, cream-colored envelope, the paper heavy and expensive. On its face, a sharp, elegant script in black ink read: For the Pink Top Ripper. With a thin, knowing smile, he leaned in close and slid the envelope deep into the breast pocket of Tristan’s suit jacket, patting the fabric twice to ensure it stayed put.

Narcisse: “You’re a smart boy. You’ll figure it out.”

Tristan blinked, feeling a sense of dread when Narcisse handed him that envelope.

~

Jaxon ran through the abandoned amusement park in terror, trying to get away from the massive alligator he and Fabien saw.

The shadows of the amusement park seemed to stretch and twist as Jaxon sprinted, his breath coming in ragged, panicked bursts. He rounded a sharp corner near a row of boarded-up game booths, his eyes straining against the gloom, and slammed headlong into a solid, unyielding wall of muscle. The impact was jarring, knocking the wind from his lungs as he went sprawling backward. He hit the cracked pavement with a heavy grunt of shock, his heart hammering against his ribs as he looked up to see the hulking figure he had blindly collided with.

He stood like a monument of pure, unapologetic audacity. Easily towering over seven feet tall, he possessed the broad, barrel-chested bulk of a former strongman who had long since traded barbell discipline for late-night Cheetos and draft beer. A generous belly pressed forward, heavy and round. His head was bald, gleaming under the twin moons, framed by a thick, blue beard that bristled with easy, untamed confidence. A grin tugged at the corners of his mouth—the sort of smile worn by a man who knew he was a spectacle and relished every single set of staring eyes.

His attire—if it could even be dignified by the word—defied all known laws of modesty. Stretched to its absolute structural limits across his pale, burly frame was a single, violently neon-pink mankini. The thin strips of fabric hitched over his massive shoulders and plunged down to his waist.

Polished black combat boots sat on his feet. They were sleek, laceless, and heavy enough to crack the asphalt with every step.

With a motion far swifter than his massive frame suggested, the man reached down and clamped a thick, calloused hand around Jaxon’s ankle. Before Jaxon could even register the touch, he was hoisted effortlessly into the air. The world tilted and blurred as he was jerked upward, eventually coming to a swinging halt, dangling upside down before the grinning giant like a prize catch.

Jaxon: “H-HEY! PUT ME DOWN!”

He screamed.

The giant’s chuckle was a low rumble that Jaxon could feel through the grip on his ankle. With a slow, deliberate movement, the man reached down with his free hand, his thick fingers hooking into the elastic of Jaxon’s Chelsea boots. He peeled them off one by one, followed by the sheer socks, tossing them carelessly into the shadows where they landed with soft, rhythmic thuds. Jaxon’s bare feet, pale and vulnerable in the moonlight, dangled helplessly in the air as the man’s grin widened. Jaxon laughed nervously.

Jaxon: “N-No! Nohohohohohohoho!”

He laughed and thrashed as he was held upside down.

The massive man popped Jaxon’s toes into his mouth, greedily sucking on them. As the slick roll of the giant’s tongue slicked across his toes, Jaxon clenched his teeth, trying to suppress a sudden burst of laughter. When he felt the man’s massive tongue glide over his soles, Jaxon erupted into laughter.

Jaxon: “WAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!”

The giant man removed his feet from his mouth and smiled down at Jaxon. Jaxon’s heart hammered against his chest.

The giant’s tongue began a relentless, rhythmic dance across the arches and heels of Jaxon’s pale feet, finding every sensitive nerve with predatory precision.

Jaxon: “WAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!! NOHOHOHOHOHOHOHOHO!! WAHAHAHA!!”

His world dissolved into a cacophony of his own helpless shrieks and gasps, his body bucking wildly against the man’s iron grip. Every light graze of warm tongue felt like an electric shock to his hypersensitive skin, sending jolts of pure, agonizing ticklishness through his entire frame. He was completely at the mercy of his own biology, his lungs burning as he struggled to draw air between gusts of hysterical, uncontrollable laughter that echoed through the derelict park.

Jaxon: “AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!! NOHOHOHOHOHOHO!! STAHAHAHAHAP!”

He whined.

Jordi emerged from the shadows of the rusted Ferris wheel, his eyes widening as he spotted the massive, neon-pink-clad giant looming over a hysterical Jaxon. Seeing his boyfriend dangling upside down and helpless under the man’s relentless assault, a surge of protective fury boiled over within him.

Without a second’s hesitation, Jordi charged across the cracked asphalt, his boots thundering a rhythmic war drum against the pavement. He launched himself forward, channeling every ounce of his momentum into a single, devastating blow that connected squarely with the giant’s jaw.

The blow connected with a wet, meaty thud, but the giant’s head didn’t even snap back; it was like punching a granite cliffside draped in velvet.

The man merely blinked, his grin never wavering as he absorbed the impact without so much as a grunt. He stopped tickling Jaxon. Before Jordi could pull his hand back, the giant’s free arm blurred in a casual, backhanded sweep. The sheer force of the counter-strike caught Jordi squarely in the chest, launching him into the air like a ragdoll. He sailed backward through the gloom, his body slamming violently into the rusted, skeletal frame of a nearby carousel. The impact with the decorative woodwork and iron poles was jarring, sending a cacophony of splintering timber and groaning metal echoing through the park as Jordi crumpled to the ground.

Dangling helplessly in the giant’s iron grip, Jaxon watched in horror as Jordi fell.

Jaxon: “JORDI!”

He shrieked, his voice cracking as he thrashed against the mankini-clad man.

Jaxon: “HELP ME! JORDI!! PLEASE! LET ME GO!”

He sobbed and gasped for air, reaching out toward the crumpled form of his boyfriend while the giant simply rumbled with amusement, unmoved by the plea.

Jordi pushed himself up from the splintered wreckage of the carousel, his jaw tight as he gnashed his teeth against the searing ache in his ribs. He barely had time to find his footing before the giant’s massive hand closed around his neck like an iron collar. With a grunt of effortless power, the mankini-clad titan swung Jordi around and launched him through the air. Jordi’s body collided with the rusted metal gates of the neighboring bumper car arena, the impact ringing out with a deafening, discordant clang as he slumped against the cold steel.

The giant shifted his iron-clad grip, swinging Jaxon’s body around in a swift, dizzying arc that ended his blood-rushing upside-down position. With a grunt of casual exertion, he hauled Jaxon upright, tucking him securely against his massive, neon-pink-clad side. One tree-trunk of an arm clamped firmly around Jaxon’s waist, pinning him like a sack of grain against the unyielding wall of his torso, while Jaxon’s bare feet dangled helplessly inches above the cracked pavement.

Jordi pushed himself up from the cold steel of the bumper car arena, a jagged cough tearing from his throat. A slow, crimson stream of blood dripped from his split lip and battered nose, splattering onto the cracked asphalt. The blood dripped down his face, neck, and seeped through his shirt. He ignored the dizzying throb in his head, his gaze fixing onto the neon-pink giant with a raw, predatory intensity.

With a fluid, practiced motion, he reached into his pocket and whipped out a silver balisong knife. The latch disengaged with a barely audible click, and in the next heartbeat, the steel came alive.

His wrist snapped with lethal grace, sending the blade handle looping over the back of his knuckles in a silver blur. Jordi’s fingers danced with fluid, terrifying precision, whipping the twin handles in a rhythmic, mechanical cadence that sang of violence. The cold steel spun through a gravity-defying aerial roll, caught seamlessly between his thumb and forefinger, only to whip back into a rapid, whistling figure-eight. Each rotation cut through the stagnant night air like a razor-sharp whisper, the polished blade flickering under the twin moons.

Jordi surged forward, his body a coiled spring of calculated aggression. He closed the distance in a heartbeat, the balisong flashing like a silver streak before burying itself deep into the giant’s massive shoulder. A dull, sickening thud echoed, but the titan didn’t even flinch.

Instead, he looked down at the blade protruding from his flesh and then up at Jordi, a slow, mocking smirk spreading across his face as if the lethal strike were nothing more than a mosquito bite.

Before Jordi could wrench the knife free, the giant’s hand clamped around his wrist with the speed of a striking cobra. With a casual flick of his wrist, he hurled Jordi through the air once more. Jordi’s body soared across the path, crashing with a violent, splintering roar into the abandoned ticket booth of the “Tilt-A-Whirl,” the wooden structure collapsing around him in a cloud of ancient dust and debris. The giant wrenched the knife out and tossed it on the ground.

Jordi groaned, a wet, rattling sound that caught in his throat as he clawed at the splintered remains of the ticket booth. His movements were sluggish and agonizing, his fingers slipping on the blood-slicked wood as he tried to heave his battered frame from the debris.

Thick, crimson blood surged from the deep gash on his forehead and the puncture in his shoulder, falling in heavy, rhythmic droplets that pooled.

A few feet away, Jaxon’s spirit seemed to fracture at the sight of his boyfriend’s broken form. He sobbed uncontrollably, his voice raw and ragged.

Jaxon: “STOP HURTING HIM!”

Sobbing hysterically, Jaxon struck frantically against the giant’s massive head. Unbothered, the behemoth snapped his head backward and clamped his lips over Jaxon’s in a forceful kiss. Jaxon’s muffled screams echoed into the giant's mouth as his arms thrashed helplessly in the air.

Through the red haze of his own blood and the nauseating spin of the world, Jordi’s blurring vision fixated on a splash of faded gray paint amidst the splintered wood of the ticket booth. It was a child’s mechanical ride-on elephant, a heavy cast-iron relic with a rusted coin slot and a chipped trunk frozen in a permanent trumpet.

Gritting his teeth against the agony in his ribs, Jordi lunged for the iron beast, his fingers locking around the cold metal frame. With a guttural roar of sheer desperation, he heaved the heavy machine upward. He swung the iron elephant in a wide, punishing arc. The cast-iron head collided with the giant’s temple with a thunderous, metallic crack that drowned out Jaxon’s muffled screams. The giant’s eyes rolled back, his iron grip finally slackening as his massive frame listed to the side and crashed into the asphalt like a felled oak, rendering him instantly unconscious.

As the giant’s massive weight settled into the dirt, the adrenaline that had fueled Jordi’s desperate counter-attack vanished in an instant. His knees buckled, and he collapsed onto the cracked asphalt beside the splintered remains of the ticket booth, his breath coming in shallow, wet rattles.

Jaxon, suddenly freed from the behemoth’s slackened grip, scrambled across the pavement on his hands and knees, terrified. He threw his arms around Jordi’s battered frame, pulling him close as a fresh wave of sob-wracked tears spilled onto Jordi’s blood-slicked shirt.

Jaxon: “Jordi… Oh, Jordi…”

He held Jordi close. A red glow began to emanate from his hands, the warm light washing over Jordi’s broken form as the jagged wounds began to knit themselves back together, sealing the skin and erasing the bruises until only the drying blood remained as a testament to the violence.

Jordi, his strength fully restored and his skin unblemished by the recent violence, pulled himself up and wrapped his arms tightly around Jaxon. He drew him in close, anchoring them both in the quiet aftermath of the chaos, and leaned down to kiss him deeply. He raked his fingers through Jaxon’s red-black tresses, not wanting to let him go.

~

Fabien walked through the park, his hands shoved in his jeans pockets.

Fabien: “Stupid fucking Jiro… Leaving me to fend for myself against that alligator.”

He muttered.

Suddenly, two heavy metal balls whistled through the air, hurtling toward Fabien with lethal precision. Just before impact, a thick, tensioned rope snapped out between them, spinning wildly as it caught him across the chest.

Fabien: “What the fuck?!”

The cord coiled around his torso and arms in a blurring instant, binding him tight and sweeping his legs out from under him. He hit the asphalt with a heavy thud, gasping as he lay immobilized on the ground. Fabien gnashed his teeth as he struggled against his bonds.

Fabien barely had time to process the impact before four diminutive figures emerged from the shadows of a nearby funhouse, their movements synchronized and eerily silent. They were no taller than four feet; their faces were etched with the weathered cynicism of career carnies, looming over him like gargoyles in the moonlight.

One of the men knelt beside Fabien’s bound legs and hooked a calloused thumb under the strap of his left flip-flop, and followed suit with his right flip-flop. With a swift, practiced jerk, he peeled the footwear away, exposing Fabien’s bare soles to the damp night air. Fabien’s entire body spasmed at the mere anticipation of contact, his breath hitching in a sharp, jagged gasp as his toes curled instinctively. Knowing his feet were his most vulnerable point, the sight of the small man’s reaching fingers sent a surge of pure, panicked adrenaline through him, his muscles locking in a futile, bound struggle to protect his extreme sensitivity.

The four diminutive figures descended upon his exposed soles with a practiced, relentless ferocity, their fingers dancing across his arches in a blur of motion. Fabien erupted into hysterical, uncontrollable laughter, his body arching off the cold asphalt as the extreme sensitivity of his feet turned the light, skittering touch into a localized storm of agonizing ticklishness.

Fabien: “WAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!! OHOOHOHOHOHOHAHAHAHA!!”

He writhed and thrashed against the constricting ropes, his lungs burning as he gasped for air between shrieks of helpless mirth that echoed through the derelict amusement park. Every digging poke and feather-light graze sent fresh jolts of electricity through his frame, reducing the usually laid-back man to a sobbing, bucking mess at the mercy of the carnies’ merciless digits.

Fabien: “WAHAHAHAHAHAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!! HEHEHEHEHEHAHAHAHAHAHAA!”

One of the diminutive men reached into his pouch and produced a humming electric toothbrush, its bristles vibrating in a high-pitched blur. As the mechanical whir pressed against the sensitive arches of Fabien’s bare feet, his eyes nearly rolled back in his head.

Fabien: “WAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAA!! OHOHOHOHO ÇAHAHAHAHA SUFFIT!”

The concentrated, rapid-fire vibrations sent a violent surge of ticklishness through his entire nervous system, far more intense than any human finger could produce. He let out a strangled, high-pitched shriek of laughter that turned into a continuous, bucking roar of mirth, his legs kicking frantically in a desperate, futile effort to escape the electric torment.

Fabien: “WAHAHAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAAA!!”

His extreme sensitivity transformed the mechanical hum into a localized Reonaquake of agony and pleasure, leaving him gasping for air as he writhed uncontrollably on the asphalt.

Fabien: “WAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA NOHOHOHOHOHOHOHON!!!”

Suddenly, a violent, crystalline explosion of frost shattered the air. A concentrated blast of jagged ice slammed into the cracked asphalt directly between the diminutive men’s feet, sending a plume of frozen mist and sharp shards. The small men yelped in surprise, their synchronized precision breaking as they scrambled and leaped backward to avoid the sudden, freezing impact. The relentless hum of the electric toothbrush was yanked away from Fabien’s soles as his tormentors retreated into the shadows, their predatory assault momentarily shattered by the frigid interference.

Gasping heavily for air, Fabien looked up through tear-filled eyes. He anticipated finding Tristan, but to his utter surprise, Charlotte was standing before him. As the small men fled, she stepped forward and knelt by his side. Fearing that she was about to continue the merciless tickling on his bare soles, Fabien instinctively pulled back and curled his toes in apprehension.

Charlotte cupped Fabien’s jaw and traced her thumb over his lips as she examined him.

Fabien: “Wh-What do you want with me?”

He stammered and jerked his head away. Charlotte then conjured a sharp shard of ice, slicing through the ropes and setting Fabien free.

Fabien rubbed his arms and snatched his flip-flops. He balanced on his left foot as he put on his right flip-flop, then balanced on his right foot as he put on his left. Charlotte stood next to him.

Charlotte: “You got taller since we last saw each other.”

Fabien pulled away.

Fabien: “The last time we saw each other?! That was when Jiro healed you! I never met you before!”

He snapped. Charlotte looked away, hurt.

Charlotte: “Do you not remember me, Julien? You gave me this for my 16th birthday!”

She said, reaching into her fur-trimmed coat and pulling out a compass. She turned it over to show her initials, “C.B.”, on the back.

Fabien: “Lady, I never gave that to you. I wasn’t even born when you turned sixteen! I am NOT Julien!”

He snapped at her. Charlotte looked away, not wanting to remember seeing Julien’s burnt remains in her driveway, but the man standing before her looked so much like him.

Charlotte: “I never knew you were so ticklish, Julien.”

Fabien bared his teeth.

Fabien: “I’m FABIEN. Stop calling me Julien! He was my UNCLE. He went missing before I was born.”

He turned around and embraced himself.

Charlotte: “Is your last name Laurent?”

Fabien shook his head.

Fabien: “NO! That was my mother’s maiden name!”

He fired back.

Charlotte: “...Is she Francine?”

Fabien’s eyelids dipped, recalling what Ichiro told him. He didn’t want to associate himself with his parents.

Fabien: “Yes.”

Charlotte looked away. She remembered Julien telling her he had a little sister back in Argentville and said his sister’s name was Francine.

She turned to Fabien and inspected the younger man. As she studied him, a hollow ache settled in Charlotte’s chest. Every line of Fabien’s face—the sharp, familiar set of his jaw, and that particular flash of white-hot defiance in his emerald eyes—was a cruel mirror of the man she had lost. It was as if a ghost had reached out from the deepest recesses of her memory and stepped into the moonlight, solid and breathing. She found herself caught in a dizzying tether between two worlds, struggling to reconcile the decades of grief for Julien with the jarring reality of his nephew who carried his likeness.

Charlotte: “Julien really is dead…”

She embraced herself and looked away.

Fabien: “Yeah, well, when he ran away from home, he never came back, and since he was involved with you and your crazy brother, I knew he was dead.”

He spat.

Charlotte: “I didn’t kill Julien!”

She spat venomously.

The tense silence between Fabien and Charlotte shattered with rapid, heavy footfalls echoing against the asphalt. Out of the swirling mist, Celeste appeared, her eyes locked onto the pair with a cold, focused intensity. She spotted Fabien and, without a word, lowered her shoulder and charged toward them like a guided missile.

Charlotte’s head snapped toward the incoming threat. With a sharp, guttural hiss, she thrust her hands forward, summoning a jagged, crystalline blast of ice. Celeste didn’t slow down; with a fluid, athletic grace, she twisted her body mid-stride, the freezing projectile missing her by a mere hair’s breadth and shattering harmlessly against a rusted lamppost behind her.

Closing the final few feet in a blur of motion, Celeste coiled her strength and unleashed a devastating punch. Her fist buried itself deep into Charlotte’s stomach with a sickening, heavy thud that drove the air from the older woman’s lungs. The sheer force of the impact launched Charlotte backward. She sailed through the air, her body slamming violently into the skeletal wooden frame of a nearby shooting gallery. The structure groaned and partially buckled under the weight of the collision as Charlotte slumped to the ground, her head lolling to the side as she slipped into unconsciousness.

Fabien rushed to Celeste and wrapped his arms around her.

Fabien: “Merci, mon chaton.”

The two kissed deeply, then broke apart.

Fabien: “You got me from the crazy lady.”

~

The oppressive darkness of the tunnel finally began to surrender, the air thinning as the swan boat glided toward a shimmering crescent of light. As they breached the threshold, the boat emerged back into the open air, the twin moons casting a silver pallor over the stagnant canal. Narcisse didn't even have time to adjust his eyes before a shadow streaked across the lunar glow. Deimos descended from the sky, his face a mask of righteous fury as he hurtled directly toward the swan boat.

Tristan: “DEIMOS!”

Narcisse didn't flinch. With a casual, almost bored flick of his wrist, a purple bubble manifested around the flying man. Deimos’ momentum was instantly snuffed out as he slammed against the interior of the conjured bubble, his eyes widening in shock.

Deimos: “You sneaky motherfucker…!”

Narcisse: “You were always such a brute, Deimos. You really must learn to knock before dropping in.”

With a sharp, dismissive shove of his palm, Narcisse sent the bubble hurtling away from the canal. It streaked through the air with a low, humming whistle before crashing violently into the rusted, skeletal remains of the “House of Mirrors.” The attraction groaned and shattered under the impact, a cacophony of splintering wood and exploding glass echoing through the park as the bubble vanished, leaving Deimos buried beneath the wreckage of a thousand jagged reflections.

Tristan: “DEIMOS!”

He cried, thrashing against his bonds.

Narcisse stepped out of the swan boat with a graceful leap, landing firmly on the damp canal bank while Tristan remained hoisted over his shoulder. In his free hand, he loosely gripped Tristan’s wingtip Oxfords by the heels. With a low, mocking chuckle, he set Tristan down on the cracked asphalt before dropping the shoes beside his nephew’s bare feet. Tristan gnashed his teeth as he tried to free himself.

The relative silence of the bank was shattered by a low, guttural vibration that seemed to emanate from the very depths of the canal. The black, oily surface of the water began to churn, air bubbles hissing as they broke through the greasy film. Slowly, a prehistoric nightmare ascended from the murk. First came the snout, scarred and moss-colored, followed by a pair of cold, vertical-slitted eyes that caught the sickly crimson glow of the neon heart.

A massive alligator, easily spanning twenty feet in length, hauled its bulk onto the bank beside the swan boat. Its scales were like armor plating, slick with canal rot and glistening under the twin moons. It loomed over Narcisse and the bound Tristan, its massive jaws parting to reveal rows of jagged, yellowed teeth. A hiss, like steam escaping a pressurized valve, rattled from its throat, the scent of swamp decay and old blood washing over them as the beast claimed the threshold of the tunnel.

Tristan’s breath hitched, a sharp, jagged sound that quickly dissolved into a raw, visceral scream. He scrambled backward on the cracked asphalt, his bound limbs thrashing in a desperate, frantic attempt to put distance between himself and the prehistoric maw. His eyes were wide with terror as he watched the massive beast’s tail sweep across the bank, leaving a heavy, rhythmic trail in the grime. Deimos rose from the wreckage, and his jaw dropped at what he saw.

Deimos: “TRISTAN!!”

He bellowed. He tried to move, but his leg was lodged in the wreckage.

Deimos: “FUCK!!”

He roared.

Narcisse, however, remained unmoved. He watched the alligator’s advance with an air of clinical detachment, a faint, mocking smile playing on his lips. As the beast lunged, its jaws snapping inches from his boots, Narcisse simply raised his hand. A violent pulse of purple energy erupted from his palm, instantly enveloping the twenty-foot predator in a shimmering, translucent bubble. The alligator thrashed against the barrier, its prehistoric roars muffled into low, vibrating thuds.

With a slow, deliberate motion, he began to curl his fingers into a tight, possessive fist. The purple bubble responded instantly, shrinking with a high-pitched, metallic whine as it exerted impossible pressure on the creature within. The alligator’s scales began to buckle and crack, the sound like dry timber snapping in a storm. Narcisse’s grin widened as he gave one final, decisive squeeze.

The bubble collapsed entirely, crushing the massive beast into a localized explosion of blood. A heavy, hot rain of crimson blood and mangled innards erupted outward, drenching Narcisse’s velvet suit and splashing across Tristan’s horrified face. Tristan screamed and cried, the metallic scent of swamp rot and fresh slaughter filling his nostrils as the remnants of the alligator slid off his skin in heavy, rhythmic drips. Narcisse simply wiped a stray drop of blood from his cheek, his emerald eyes gleaming with a terrifying, triumphant light.

Deimos grunted, his muscles straining against the jagged remnants of the “House of Mirrors.” Every movement was a battle against the heavy, splintered beams and the thousands of razor-sharp glass shards that pinned him down. He heaved against a fallen support pillar, the rusted metal groaning in protest as he shoved it aside, his breathing heavy and ragged in the suffocating dust. With a final, explosive surge of strength, he kicked through a wall of fractured reflections, stumbling out from the wreckage with his clothes torn and his skin mapped with shallow crimson cuts. A purple glow emitted from him as he healed his own wounds.

Deimos didn’t waste a second. He descended like a meteor, his fist forward. Narcisse barely had time to widen his eyes before Deimos connected. The punch landed with a bone-shattering boom. The impact was so absolute that it sent Narcisse hurtling backward like a ragdoll. He sailed through the air in a violent arc before crashing into the center of the canal, the black, oily water erupting in a massive, towering plume as it swallowed him whole.

Deimos, his chest heaving with exertion, didn’t wait for Narcisse to reach the dry ground. He sprinted across the cracked asphalt to where Tristan lay bound and trembling. Ignoring the slick, rhythmic drips of alligator blood that coated his boyfriend, Deimos reached down and seized the ethereal-prowess-suppressing ropes.

With a guttural roar of defiance, he channeled his raw strength, the cordage groaning and snapping under the impossible pressure until it fell away in useless, frayed heaps. The moment the weight was gone, Tristan’s strength failed him; he collapsed forward, falling into Deimos’ waiting arms. They clung to one another in a crushing, desperate embrace, their hearts hammering against their ribs in a frantic, shared cadence. Amidst the carnage and the looming shadow of Narcisse, they found each other’s lips in a deep, agonizingly intense kiss, a brief and feverish connection that tasted of salt, iron, and a survival they weren't yet ready to surrender.

The surface of the canal churned and broke as Narcisse breached the oily film, rising from the black depths like a vengeful spirit. He emerged slowly, the stagnant water cascading off his blood-drenched velvet suit in thick, rhythmic sheets, yet his posture remained unnervingly straight and unbothered. A menacing glint flickered in his emerald eyes as he waded through the swirling murk, stepping back onto the bank with a predatory grace that betrayed no hint of the impact he had just endured. He stood tall, a dark silhouette against the crimson glow of the neon heart, ready to confront Deimos once more.

Deimos stood and put his hands up, and braced his feet apart, ready for combat.

Before the first blow could be struck, the four diminutive men scrambled from the shadows, their small feet pounding a frantic, uneven rhythm against the asphalt as they rushed toward Narcisse. They crowded around him, their faces pale and eyes wide with urgent concern as they tugged at the hem of his blood-stained velvet jacket. One of them pointed a trembling finger back toward the shooting gallery.

Narcisse: “What now?!”

He rasped and followed them to the shooting gallery.

Narcisse’s emerald eyes flared with a sudden, agonizing realization as he reached the shattered remains of the shooting gallery. He stood paralyzed for a heartbeat, his gaze locked on Charlotte’s limp, pale form slumped amidst the splintered wood. A primal, guttural scream of absolute fury erupted from his throat, a sound that seemed to vibrate through the very foundation of the amusement park. He lunged forward, falling to his knees as he scooped her up in a possessive, trembling embrace.

Cradling Charlotte against his blood-stained chest, Narcisse slowly turned his head towards Deimos. His face was no longer a mask of clinical detachment; it was twisted into a sneer of pure, unadulterated hatred. He didn’t speak, but the silent promise of retribution in his eyes was more deafening than his scream. With a deliberate, measured motion, he reached up and pressed the button embedded in his ear.

The four diminutive men instantly scrambled away in the shadows. Charlotte and Narcisse vanished.

Celeste, Fabien, Jaxon, and Jordi joined Tristan and Deimos.

Tristan: “Is everyone okay?”

Jaxon: “Yes…”

He smiled up at Jordi.

Tristan: “The mayor is somewhere in this park. We have to get to him.”

~

The group moved with a grim, shared purpose through the decaying heart of the park, their footsteps crunching over the skeletal remains of forgotten attractions. In the shadowed alcove behind the derelict Hall of Wonders, they found him. A heavy iron cage, rusted and primitive, sat isolated in the center of a patch of overgrown weeds. Inside, Mayor Sully sat huddled on the cold, damp floor, stripped entirely naked and shivering violently.

Celeste stepped forward, her face a mask of cold determination as she seized the heavy padlock with both hands. She twisted the metal until the mechanism groaned and shattered, the broken lock falling into the weeds with a dull thud. She yanked the cage door open, its hinges screaming in protest.

Sully blinked up at them, his eyes hollow and brimming with a traumatized disbelief. He rose unsteadily, his bare feet treading gingerly on the rusted bars as he stepped out of his confinement. Jordi stepped forward, unfurling a thick, woolly blanket he had scavenged from the carousel wreckage. He draped it carefully over the Mayor’s trembling shoulders, anchoring the man in the first bit of warmth he had felt in hours.

Tristan: “Are you okay, Mr. Stone?”

The contact seemed to break the last of Sully’s defenses. The Mayor collapsed against Tristan, embracing him. Tristan hugged him back. A jagged, soul-wracked sob tore from Sully’s throat, followed by a torrent of hysterical weeping. He clung to Tristan’s bloodied suit, his body shaking with the weight of his ordeal as the group stood silently watching.