There it was: the dirty compromise. The town needed the ledger unspooled, but to get at the ledger he would have to let some other dirt lie while he pulled the thread. Brendon felt the old circuitry shift under his skin: the capacity to be moral in small things and still make deals in the dark for larger outcomes.
"I won't make evidences disappear," he said. "I won't let you touch forensics. That is the line I will hold. And you must too."
Drago's tail curled at the foot of the chair, a dark, polite gesture. "I don't want your forensics. I juat want names on paper. I want to know who is signing contracts. Only I can give you that. But you have to let me have my city-slice, my map inked with what I owe people. We can keep this quiet... for now. Bring me a photograph of the ledger you want examined. I'll tell you which contractors are receiving micro-payments and who's cooking the books. I'll do it because I like... being useful."
Brendon considered the shape of the choice. He could go through legal channels and wait for warrents to unspool into months, while Kelvin's counsel delayed indefinitely. Or he could sit in the lair and barter away political neatness for a faster thread in the right places. He thought of Whitney's portrait on his desk — human, fragile, waiting — and how slow law could be when a person's life was the currency.
"All right," he said. "Tell me the contractor's name. But I'm putting it in writing through Tyson. You get nothing beyond what you give. The line is forensic integrity — nothing goes there."
"Fair enough," Drago said. "Appearances matter even in my trade." He flicked his claw and a young man ducked forward from the dim. He brought a file and set it on the table. "Start with Flim & Flam. They've been getting small, repeated transfers. Look up invoice 332-A and tell me who signed it."
Brendon took the file with a careful hand. The name felt like oddly familiar. He slid a glance across the room — at the men who watched them — and then asked the question he'd been turning on a blade edge.
"Do you know anything about the video? The staging? The person who filmed it? Who uploads those things?"
Drago's expression darkened for the first time that night. "Ah. The theater. That's the part that entertains me." He propped one massive elbow on the armrest and let his snout rest on his scaled wrist. "If I were to speak in theatrics, I'd say: the man who makes theater is not always the author of the tragedy. The director orders scenes, but a footman lights the candle. The upload? That was a signal. Someone very careful with platforms chose Eris Noir as the staging house. Then the image gets purchased by small players in the Dark net, who resell clips for chaos. The man who filmed? My guess — a fixer for Kelvin. He likes authenticity, so he hires men who pretend they are the main. He wants raw reaction, not studio polish."
"So Kelvin commissioned the performance," Brendon said slowly. "Made it look real... for a sick entertainment for those Dark net users?"
Drago gave a small, sad smile. "People pay for authenticity like they pay for s€x. They prefer it live. Kelvin sells authenticity for clients who want to see the city burn in a glass of champagne. He profits on attention. That attention turns into subscriptions. That's his business model: turn scandal into a product."
Brendon's skin prickled. The mechanic was ugly and banal: scandal churned into money, money into a veil. "And this Mark — a courier. He's just a cog."
"Perhaps," Drago said. "But cogs break too. Sometimes they snap at the wrong moment. Sometimes they hang and leave a story on the limb."
"Does anyone else know?" Brendon pressed. "Mayor? Council? Someone inside the station?"
Drago's laugh was slow and ceremonial. "Oh, there are always more people in every story than the press likes to print, Wolf. Mayors are cash-flows with better shirts. They like to pretend they are above the gutter. But they have a niche for spectacle once they notice it's profitable. If you trace the shell companies to the people who volunteer city contracts, the names flicker in and out like motes. It's a messy business. Politicians smell like insurance policies and clean linen and the right place to put a bribe. You want the list? It will appear if you dig right. But they will come for your head as soon as you give it a name. Are you ready for that?"
Brendon thought of Mayor Guerieo's clipped voice, his threats, his sudden public fury. He thought of the way the mayor had demanded direct reports. He thought of the stakes: if he lifted the curtain on improper transfers and connections to Kelvin, the town would ignite. "I'm ready to be held accountable," he said. "As long as we have something stronger than conjecture. I won't feed the press a stew of rumors. We will do the work: ledgers, invoices, bank trails. But will do it clean."
Drago's pupils narrowed with something like respect. "You are a stubborn animal, Wolf. Perhaps that's why we tolerate each other." He pushed himself up and, for a moment, seemed less like a cartoon villain and more like a tired man with a ledger. "I'll have my people pull the contractor names and the odd transfers. You give me something in return."
Brendon's jaw clenched. "You want protection. A finger kept out of yours on certain raids. You want the station to look the other way if we stumble into your minor businesses."
"You say it as if it's indecent." Drago said. "I say it as if it's practical. I don't want to be inconvenienced. I want a map that points me to men who steal my turf. You want a map that points you to men who steal people and money. We can trade the maps."
Brendon thought about the compromises that had saved lives before: the times he'd let small crimes slide to get a big conviction later. He thought about the nights in prison, the bitterness of verdicts that had nothing to do with the truth.
"All right," he said finally. "We will keep it narrow. Flim & Flam first. You give me the names. No raids on our tail. No fingerprints wiped out. Anything criminal we find proper — we will process it."
Drago's smile was a closing of a deal. "Fine. I like your terms. Keep your teeth, Wolf. Keep your honor. Let me keep my ledger. And keep your mouth shut about the means."
As Brendon rose to go, Drago's voice became a little mischievous. "By the way," he added, casually. "You're being played in one theater: myth. The town loves its monsters. You like the wolf stories — all mysterious but surprisingly noble and wild. Do you enjoy it, Brendon? Being one the legend?"
The question landed like a stone in a still pool. Brendon had been asked variants of it before. How did you answer a myth?
"No," he said after a beat. "I don't like being the headline. I like being useful."
Drago cocked his head. "Ah. Utility — the mortal's delight. Still, legends pay rent in easier ways. People fear you and give you room to act. But they also throw stones at the shadow you cast. Pick which you want, Wolf. The world rarely gives both."
When he left the lair, the rain had started. The warehouse behind him settled back into a low, dangerous hum. Brendon threaded the file into his jacket pocket like a live thing and felt the weight of a bargain settle onto his shoulders. He'd left with more than a name. He'd left with a direction: Flim & Flam, micro-transfers, possible Ledeau-linked renovations, Kelvin's taste for spectacle. He'd also left with the tacit demand to keep certain windows closed.
On the long walk back toward the river, the town's neon signs blinked like tired sentinels. In the distance, trams sighed past the railway. He felt the hunger for sleep settle back in. He also felt the old, private ache of someone who had made a trade he would have to live with: the private law of the streets, where every favor owed was a candle lit in a room with no exits.
He would wake Tyson with the contractor name map in the morning and, under his breath, he would authorize how to take the next steps. He would let Camelia touch administrative lines as Ninja Fox had suggested — but only in channels he could cut off if they threatened forensics. He would follow the trail Drago had delivered, and he would watch for the mayor's fingerprints on those contracts.