Humans fell for all types of lust.
The lust for love, for touch, for the fleeting warmth of another heartbeat.
The lust for life, for the sharp air in the lungs and the chance to feel tomorrow.
The lust for flesh, in all its sweat and shame.
And the lust for the heavenly masquerade–the rapture of pretending to be something greater than what you are.
Such was the thrill Locke Lamora had always pursued.
The stairwell crackled with broken concrete and tension. Shmuel's mechanical hand was still smoking from the earlier shot, his stance wide, his human eye narrowed with caution. Locke, holding Imogen tight, tilted his head, his grin widening like a stage mask.
"Aren't you being a little bit serious to the innocent me?" Locke teased, sliding his tongue against the edge of a tooth as though savoring the moment.
Shmuel's reply was blunt, stripped of patience.
"I could be less serious if you give my employer back from your hands."
Locke's smirk sharpened, his coat rustling as though whispering secrets.
"Unnegotiable, then…"
His free hand snapped, and suddenly steel glinted. Knives burst into the air.
Clang! Clang!
Shmuel swung his arm to deflect, the first three blades ricocheting off with sparks. But the fourth dug into the plating of his left arm.
"Tch–" Shmuel hissed, jerking back.
Imogen grit her teeth. Blood welled faintly from her red eyes as they processed faster than Locke's sleight of hand.
"Be careful! His coat–It's a dimensional container! He pulls his weapons out of i–"
She didn't finish.
A sweet, cloying scent filled her nose as Locke brushed the edge of his coat sleeve across her face. A mist, faint but potent, slipped past her lips.
Her words caught in her throat. Her limbs weakened instantly.
Locke's voice lowered as he patted her head with the same hand that had just silenced her.
"My, my… I hadn't even used it once since I started dragging her around. Must be the perk of those pretty little mechanical eyes of hers, seeing through my tricks without me even using it."
Her body slackened against him, she drowned in chemical haze.
Locke looked up at Shmuel, knives glinting once more between his fingers.
The stairwell shook under their clash. Locke moved like a shadow, coat fluttering unnaturally. Knives streamed out in arcs, gleaming from every impossible angle. Each flick of his wrist birthed more steel, raining down in unpredictable patterns.
Shmuel's mechanical arm snapped upward, intercepting. Sparks burst as blades shattered against reinforced plating. He advanced, step by step, his right fist coiling back. One strike landed against the railing, and the metal warped inward.
Locke slipped sideways, dragging Imogen close. His feet skimmed broken concrete for escape. His entire form screamed forward momentum, the ground floor his stage.
Shmuel fired a shot from his left arm, chamber igniting. The mechanical limb exploded forward with acceleration, pulverizing the stair under Locke's next step. The staircase collapsed downward in a thunderous roar, sending dust and rebar spiraling into the abyss.
Locke leapt, coat whipping open. The fall should have been a death sentence, but knives stabbed outward, embedding into walls, forming a ladder of steel mid-air. He swung off them, bounding further down. Imogen's unconscious body swung in his grip, his other hand never loosening.
Shmuel followed. His body slammed into walls, kicking off debris with brute force. Concrete cracked under his boots as he launched himself floor to floor, momentum crashing like artillery. Each strike from his mechanical hands was a cannon blast, sending rubble flying to block Locke's descent.
Locke twisted through gaps like smoke, knives carving handholds where none existed. His coat shimmered faintly, warping the trajectory of falling debris, bending fate itself for escape.
Shmuel's advance was relentless. Even when a blade pierced through his shoulder joint, he tore it free with a snarl and drove himself faster. His goal was singular—Imogen. His hands clawed forward, steel fingers brushing the trailing edge of Locke's coat.
Locke hurled another cascade of knives upward, the blades spinning into hooked chains, latching into beams above. He yanked, swinging down past three floors at once, momentum stealing him closer to the ground.
Shmuel didn't falter. Both chambers in his mechanical arms rotated, the last bullets primed. His fists detonated forward with twin bursts of recoil, launching his body through collapsing walls. He tore across the gap, debris raining down like meteors around him, his shadow falling over Locke.
One aiming to descend.
The other aiming to intercept.
Dust fell in sheets as Locke bounded down the stairwell, knives flashing like silver comets as he carved through the air. Each flight he descended, the Gentleman Bastard leader seemed more untouchable, weaving between Shmuel's lunges, dragging Imogen with him like a trophy.
Shmuel pursued, every step a thunderous crack that split the concrete beneath his boots. His mechanical arms struck railings, banisters, walls—anything to turn them into weapons. Knives bounced against steel plating, ricocheting into walls, sparking against the dim light of emergency lamps.
On floor 25, Locke's coat swirled open, spitting out hooked chains tipped with jagged blades. They lashed out like whips, wrapping around stair beams, snapping them apart to rain rubble into Shmuel's path. Shmuel barreled through the falling debris, shielding his head with one arm and striking apart a chain with the other.
Floor 23—Locke leapt the entire flight in one glide, his knives embedding into the wall to act as rungs. Imogen's limp form swung, brushing against the dust-choked wall. Shmuel growled, leaping after him, landing heavy enough that the steps buckled and bent like paper.
Steel clashed against steel. A knife cut across Shmuel's shoulder, barely missing his neck. He countered with a hammering strike from his left fist, smashing a railing into shrapnel and forcing Locke to release one chain to parry. Sparks sprayed as steel ground against steel, the recoil nearly jerking Imogen from his grasp.
At the landing of floor 20, they broke apart, Locke pivoting with a dancer's grace, Shmuel skidding to a halt with weight that shook the entire stairwell.
Locke flicked another blade into his grip, twirling it lazily between his fingers. "I had already checked your profile," he said, voice calm despite the chaos, "which said you are timid and only a grade 8 fixer. That doesn't seem to fit you right now."
Shmuel rolled his shoulders, one arm dented and sparking where knives had buried deep. He flexed it anyway, eyes narrowing. "Someone probably already rubbing his personality onto me… which caused my personality to change abruptly."
Locke chuckled, tilting his head. "Not gonna explain that wasn't what a grade 8 should have."
Shmuel lifted his arm, clenching the fist tight. The chambers were empty, the smell of gunpowder faint in the stale stairwell air. "Most of it came from the bullets…"
"Ah, right." Locke's grin widened, his knives humming as he spread them in a fan. "You're out of them. This could prove to be easier now."
Shmuel's fist connected. A deafening crack echoed through the stairwell as metal and flesh met. Locke's body doubled for a moment, his breath stolen, his grip on Imogen faltering. His smile flickered. Imogen slipped from his arm by an inch, her weight dangling dangerously over the stairwell gap.
"Maybe not much easier," Locke twisting his body to tighten his grip on her waist. His knives flared out defensively, slashing in every direction to force Shmuel back.
His steps were relentless, his ruined arm swinging wide to batter through the storm of steel. Locke's movements grew sharper, wilder—more desperate.
Shmuel's punches slammed into walls to close off escape paths, while Locke vaulted, rolled, and carved new ones open with his dimensional coat. Imogen dangled, half-conscious, like the rope in a tug of war that neither could afford to lose.
As Shmuel's hand brushed against her sleeve, a blinding slash of light carved the stairwell apart. A sword swung upward, releasing a beam of pure energy that screamed through the air. It struck Shmuel in the chest, sending him crashing against the wall with bone-breaking force. Dust exploded outward, choking the narrow shaft with smoke.
Footsteps descended with weight. Armor gleamed in the dim light, polished even amid the decay. The figure stepped into view, a knight clad in an ornate plate, sword humming faintly from its recent discharge. His eyes, sharp and unwavering, fell on Imogen.
"By order of the Brithelm Syndicate," his voice rang, "I, Sir Cleges, claim the runaway princess. She is to be taken home."
Locke's smile returned even as his body ached from Shmuel's blow. He shifted Imogen securely in his arms, bowing his head just slightly, he'd been waiting for this all along.
Dust still floated from the beam that Caius Lucius had unleashed, but already the knight lowered his blade, his gaze settling squarely on Locke and the girl he carried.
"You've held her long enough," Caius said, "Name your terms."
Locke, despite his bruised body and shallow breaths, straightened with the poise of a man on stage. His free hand swept theatrically, as if presenting Imogen to the audience of shadows lining the stairwell. His grin hadn't dulled; if anything, the pain made it sharper.
"Simple requests, noble knight," Locke replied, "A handsome sum to prove my worth, and fame enough to crown my name. The man who dared pluck the jewel from Brithelm's vault—only to return her as proof of loyalty. A performance, you see, where all leave satisfied."
Caius nodded, slow and deliberate, like a man weighing contracts instead of swords. "If coin and recognition are your prize, Brithelm pays well for loyalty. Deliver the princess to me, unharmed, and you will have what you ask."
Heavy footsteps echoed from the far side of the hall above. Kamina emerged, swagger intact, descending with the weight of someone who never learned how to tiptoe. His katana rested against his shoulder, his grin daring the entire building to stand in his way.
From the opposite hall below, another figure climbed into view. Pisanio–armor dented, crimson streaked across every plate, visor raised to reveal tired but resolute eyes. Each step left behind faint droplets, a trail of the knights who had fallen trying to hold him back.
Only Caius Lucius remained now.
The knight's head turned, first to Kamina, then to Pisanio. His stance didn't falter, blade unwavering, presence filling the stairwell like a steel wall.
"You," Caius said to Pisanio, voice carrying a controlled wrath. "I expected more from you. A knight of Brithelm, sworn to guard the royal line. And yet here you stand–bathed in your brothers' blood. A fool. A traitor. For what? To drag the princess outside the safety of her home, into the jaws of this damned place?"
Kamina planted his feet on the cracked stairwell, pointing the tip of his katana toward Caius with that unstoppable grin of his.
"People like you are always talking about loyalty, duty, family name, all that junk!" Kamina shouted, his voice echoing down the stairwell. "But let me ask you this, tin man–what do you know about someone throwing everything they've got into securing another person's happiness?"
Caius's gaze didn't waver. "Happiness? A child's dream. The princess has safety, power, protection. That is enough. What you spout is selfish delusion."
"Then call me selfish! 'Cause if the brat wants to chase her own damn happiness, who the hell are you to stop her?!" Kamina took a step forward, "That's the difference between you and those who are living. If I think something's worth it, I'll put my life on the line. That's how I live! That's how I'll die!"
For a moment, his eyes flicked back toward the stairwell above. "Tch. That guy better not croak up there. I didn't drag him into this mess just to watch him bite it…."
Pisanio said "Imogen deserves her own happiness. That was true the moment I swore to protect her, and it will remain true until my final breath. I have chosen my side. And I will never regret it."
"Traitors, dreamers, and fools. All of you. You would tear down everything Brithelm stands for, just for one girl's childish desire. Then so be it–I'll cut you all down where you stand."
Locke gave out an amused whistle. "Ahh… splendid. Such conviction. Such passion. Do continue–this stage has never burned brighter." He shifted Imogen slightly in his grip.
Kamina shot forward and Katana drew high for the clash. Caius met him with calm precision, swinging his greatsword then light erupted, a blinding beam tearing through the stairwell.
Kamina brought his blade up, teeth bared, bracing as the energy collided against the katana. The sheer force roared like a thunderclap, launching him backward, boots scraping against stone. His shoulders strained, arms trembling against the torrent–
Then more beams came. A flurry of slashes cut the air, each one birthing a crescent of blinding light that smashed into Kamina. One, two, three–each impact hammered him farther back until his spine slammed against the wall with a crack. The stairwell shook, dust raining down.
"Grrraahhh!!" Kamina roared against the pressure, his silhouette swallowed in white flashes.
Pisanio's sword gleamed. He swung downward, releasing his own arc of condensed force. The strike ripped across the stairwell like a wave, slamming into Caius's side and forcing him to halt his relentless barrage.
That single beat of reprieve was all Kamina needed. He kicked off the wall, legs coiled like springs, and blurred past Caius in a streak of motion.
Locke barely turned his head when Kamina burst in front of him. Their clash shook the landing–katana sparks against knives. But Kamina wasn't looking to play. He twisted, cocking his fist back, and drove a right hook square into Locke's jaw.
"GUHH—!" Locke's head snapped to the side, body staggering. Before he could recover, Kamina followed with a vicious kick to his chest, boots slamming into him like a cannon shot. Locke was sent sprawling across the floor, knives scattering.
Imogen's body lurched as Locke's grip slipped. But before she could fall, Kamina snatched her into his arms.
"Gotcha, brat."
Kamina glanced down at Imogen in his arms, her head slumped against his chest, her breath shallow but steady. His brow furrowed.
"…Why is she sleeping?"
Locke wiped a streak of blood from the corner of his mouth. He tapped the inside of his coat, letting a faint wisp of chemical vapor rise between his fingers.
"Just a little kiss of sleeping toxin," he said lightly, voice rolling with theatrical ease. "Nothing too harmful for her highness. She'll wake up soon enough–perhaps with a headache, perhaps with sweeter dreams than she could ever get."
And in Kamina's arms, Imogen stirred faintly, her lashes trembling.
A hush fell over the crashing steel and echoing shouts, and when she opened her eyes, she was no longer in the stairwell.
Stone walls stretched high above her, lit by flickering torches. The air was cool, carrying the scent of iron and damp stone. She knew this place—or thought she did. The Castle of Maidens.
Ahead of her, a figure walked, robes brushing the cold floor. Long white hair flowed behind her, its tips dipped in crimson. Imogen's breath caught in her throat.
"Mother…?"
The woman didn't turn. She kept moving deeper into the corridors, her footsteps echoing faintly, always just out of reach.
Imogen ran after her, boots slapping against the stone, every nerve burning with urgency. She reached out her hand, her mechanical eyes glowing as they strained to focus.
"Wait–please! Don't leave me again!"
Her mother's silhouette flickered at the corner of the torchlight, as if the world itself was trying to swallow her whole.
No matter how fast Imogen chased, the distance never closed.
The castle halls stretched endlessly, shadows swallowing the way forward.
She reached again, fingers trembling–
And the dream swallowed her whole.