The rain came back in thin, needling sheets that turned the streets into veins of dirty glass.
Zayn watched from Mera's window as the city blurred and sharpened with each gust. People hunched into their coats, Threads pulsing faintly around them like animal breath in cold air. Somewhere beyond the rooftops, the Weir tower's pale light pulsed through the mist, steady as a heartbeat.
Behind him, the room smelled of damp wood and old soap. On the table lay the day's wages from the processing hall: a small stack of coins, heavy for their size. Next to them sat a folded scrap of paper with Hask's cramped handwriting—shifts, deliveries, codes.
Zayn turned the paper between his fingers.
"Money," he thought, "is the most honest Thread in this city. It binds everyone equally, saint and thief. It also screams its presence wherever it goes."
Coins bought food, shelter, access. But what he lacked was not only coin. It was safety. Position. A rope above the pit.
Someone knocked, three quick raps.
"Come in," Zayn said.
Renn slipped inside, shaking water from his coat.
"You missed Karst's second tantrum," he said. "He tried to shake Hask for more cut. Hask threatened to report him to the Wardens. They both left angry, which is the best outcome we could have hoped for."
Zayn sat on the edge of the bed. "What do people do when they get caught between Council law, Temple doctrine, and syndicate pride?" he asked.
Renn snorted. "Die," he said. "Or vanish into a Null block. Or beg someone like Karst to own them, because at least then they know who's holding the leash."
"A choice between different collars is not freedom," Zayn thought. "It is merely a selection of masters."
Aloud, he said, "And you? Whose leash is around your neck?"
Renn's jaw tightened. "No one's," he said. "I keep to the edges. Enough work to live, not enough to draw attention."
"You intervene when Karst uses children to test Hunger-batches," Zayn said. "You drag half-dead strangers out of the rain and bring them to Mera. You volunteer to introduce them to your shadowy employer. That sounds like attention to me."
Renn looked away. "We don't all get to be monsters," he muttered.
Zayn's lips twitched.
"You say that like it's a luxury," he thought. "As if conscience were not a knife you hold to your own throat."
Renn cleared his throat. "There's a job tonight," he said. "Not from Hask. From Karst."
Zayn raised an eyebrow. "You work for him now?"
"I live near lower Weir," Renn said. "Everyone who lives near lower Weir works for Karst sooner or later, whether they admit it or not. This one's simple. Move a package from a temple storage to a safehouse. No direct violence, no Wardens—if it goes right."
"If," Zayn repeated.
Renn grimaced. "He asked for me. I want you there. Another pair of hands. Another Thread. In case it doesn't go right."
"You trust me?" Zayn asked.
Renn hesitated. "I trust that you like living," he said. "And that you're smart enough to know that if I go down, your path to steady work gets much narrower."
"A pragmatic trust," Zayn thought. "Built not on faith, but on shared risk. Better than most, but still a chain."
Zayn stood. "All right," he said. "Tell me the plan."
Renn outlined it quickly.
A small side-entrance to a mid-tier Loomist shrine near the river. An internal store-room where the temple held confiscated Thread-goods until the Council processed them. A guard rotation with a single blind spot. A contact inside who would leave the right cabinet unlatched at the right time. Get in, lift one crate, get out, deliver it to a safehouse two streets from Karst's usual haunt.
"What's in the crate?" Zayn asked.
Renn spread his hands. "Karst thinks it's Hunger stock," he said. "Strong blend. Things the Temple wants to 'redeem' or 'dispose of'."
Zayn's eyes narrowed. "You're stealing from a temple for a man who sells addiction to children."
Renn's mouth twisted. "When you say it like that, it sounds stupid," he said. "But the Temple's not destroying those vials. They're using them in their own 'treatments' and 'tests'. Karst moving them changes the name on the abuse, not the fact of it."
"Justice," Zayn thought, "often wears different uniforms to perform the same acts."
Aloud, he said, "And your benefit?"
Renn shrugged. "Karst owes me. Debts are leverage. Leverage keeps people alive."
Zayn nodded slowly.
"Very well," he said. "I will help. But on my own terms."
Renn frowned. "What terms?"
"If something goes wrong," Zayn said, "I will protect myself first. If that means leaving you behind, I will. If that means giving Karst someone else to feed his anger to, I will. If that means removing inconvenient memories from anyone who sees my face, I will do it without asking your approval."
Renn stared at him. "You're… joking," he said weakly.
Zayn met his gaze. "I am many things," he said. "A comedian is not one of them."
He saw the realization land—the flicker of fear, the calculation, the grudging acceptance.
"You're honest about it," Renn said. "That's almost worse."
"Honesty," Zayn thought, "is a blade most people are too polite to use. They prefer lies cushioned with good intentions."
"Do we still have an agreement?" he asked.
Renn exhaled. "Yes," he said. "We do."
"Good," Zayn said. "Then let's go steal from holy men."
They left after dusk.
The city changed with the light. Shadows pooled in alley mouths, thick as old blood. Lanterns painted the wet cobblestones in sickly colours. The Weir tower pulsed, casting faint waves through Threads that made Zayn's skin prickle.
Renn led them toward the river, keeping to side streets and back passages. Twice they waited in doorways as Wardens passed, their boots precise, Null-bands on their wrists glimmering faintly.
Eventually, the silhouette of the shrine rose ahead: a modest structure of pale stone, twin arches framing dark wooden doors. A Loom symbol was carved above the entrance—a stylised web with a single bright knot at its centre. Smaller buildings clustered around it: dormitories, kitchens, an office.
They didn't go to the main doors.
Renn took a narrow path between the shrine and the river wall, to a side door half-hidden in shadow.
"Storage," he whispered. "Sera works nights here. If she pulled through, the latch will be loose."
"And if not?" Zayn asked.
"Then we adapt," Renn said.
The door opened under his hand with a soft creak.
Inside, the air smelt of incense, paper, and faint chemical tang. Shelves lined the walls, stacked with crates and jars. Thread-goods, confiscated offerings, records.
Renn slipped in. Zayn followed, closing the door silently behind them.
A single lantern burned low in a corner. Shadows hunched in the rafters.
"There," Renn murmured, pointing.
A cabinet near the back stood slightly ajar. Hunger codes marked its front: HU-9, HU-11, HU-13.
Renn moved toward it.
Zayn stayed near the door, senses stretched.
Threads moved in the building: a cluster of sleepy, low pulses above—dormitories. A brighter, disciplined hum to the left—an office, perhaps. A faint, restless quiver in a side room—someone awake, reading, or praying.
And one Thread close by, approaching.
"Someone is coming," Zayn whispered.
Renn froze. "From where?"
Zayn tilted his head, listening with more than ears.
"Left," he said. "Hallway. One person. Their Thread is… Echo, maybe. Or Silence."
Renn cursed under his breath. "Sera," he mouthed. "She must have finished early."
Footsteps approached.
Renn's hand went to the hilt of a knife at his belt.
"Don't," Zayn said quietly. "Blood in a shrine is a nuisance. And messy."
"Then what?" Renn hissed.
The footsteps reached the door. A soft knock, then it opened.
A young woman in a simple temple robe stepped in, carrying a ledger and a lantern. Her hair was braided back, her features plain. Her Thread pulsed with a careful rhythm—a Domain tied to sound, Zayn thought. Echo, but muted.
Her eyes widened when she saw them.
"Renn?" she whispered. "What are you doing? You can't—"
Renn moved forward, hands raised. "Sera, listen," he said. "We go in, we take one crate, we walk out. No one gets hurt. You get paid, and—"
"Paid?" she repeated, voice shaking. "This is Temple stock, Renn. We'd both be—"
Her gaze flicked to Zayn. Fear sharpened.
"Who is he?" she demanded. "You brought a stranger into the shrine?"
"An ally," Renn said. "A friend."
Friend.
The word sat between them like a lie someone had embroidered in gold thread.
Zayn watched Sera's throat work.
"I should call the Wardens," she whispered. "I should—"
"You should think," Zayn said softly.
Her eyes snapped back to him.
"If you call them," Zayn said, stepping closer, "what happens? They find us here. They find the cabinet open. They find out someone told us the rotation, the latch, the codes."
Sera's face drained of colour.
"They will ask who in the Temple knew these things," Zayn continued. "They will not believe you just happened to walk in at the right moment. And even if you tell them you were innocent, even if you tell them you tried to stop us, their duty will be to suspect. To watch you. To mark your file. Forever."
"I didn't—" she began.
"Not yet," Zayn said. "But you said 'paid' like it was old habit, not a new word. This is not your first compromise, Sera. It is simply the first one getting crowded."
Renn shot him a warning look. Zayn ignored it.
Sera's hands trembled. The lantern rattled.
"I just… I just wanted enough to get my brother into a clinic," she said. "He's Thread-burnt. The Temple said they'd put him on a list. It's been four months."
"Of course it has," Zayn thought. "Pain without profit is a slow priority."
Aloud, he said, "So you sold information. A rotation here, a door there. Little things. No heat. No blood."
She swallowed. "Nothing important," she said. "Nothing that would hurt anyone."
"You've been lying to yourself," Zayn thought. "The most dangerous wounds are the ones cut with a smile."
He stepped closer, until the edge of the lantern light brushed his face.
"There is a simple path forward," he said. "Let us take one crate. You never saw us. We were never here."
Her brow furrowed. "I can't just forget," she said. "I walked in. I saw—"
"You misunderstand," Zayn said calmly. "I am not asking you to forget. I am telling you that you will."
Renn's eyes widened. "Zayn," he hissed. "Don't—"
Zayn reached.
His new Thread surged like a snake uncoiling, slipping from the hollow behind his ribs into the air between them. Sera's Echo-thread shimmered, sensing something, too late.
He did not try to erase her entirely. That would be crude, dangerous. He aimed for one specific knot: the memory of this room at this moment, of his face, of his voice. The knowledge that she had ever stepped into the storage while they were here.
He felt the shape of it: fresh, bright, still forming.
He grasped it and pulled.
For an instant, resistance. Her mind fought, not with power, but with instinct. A life clinging to its own continuity.
"People scream that their memories make them who they are," Zayn thought. "Yet the moment you tug, they let go more easily than they think. Identity is not a fortress. It is a house built on sand."
The knot came loose.
Zayn let the rest of her mind flow around the gap, smoothing the edges so they did not catch. He did not touch her brother, her debts, her first small compromise. Only this one.
Sera blinked.
Her Thread stuttered, then resumed its rhythm.
The lantern in her hand wobbled, then steadied.
She looked at Renn, then at Zayn, and frowned slightly—as if seeing strangers in a place where no one should be, but without the shock of recognition.
"Renn?" she said slowly. "You shouldn't be back here. This area's restricted."
Renn stared. His mouth opened, then closed.
"You're right," Zayn said smoothly, stepping back into the shadows between shelves. "He took a wrong door. We were just leaving."
Renn caught on. "Yeah," he said. "Sorry, Sera. Kitchen door was locked. Didn't realise this was storage."
She sighed. "You'll get me in trouble," she muttered. "Go on. Use the front."
Renn nodded, moving past her toward the hallway, hands empty.
Zayn followed, careful not to look too long at the crate they had come for. He felt his Thread settling, sated.
In the corridor, out of Sera's sight, Renn grabbed his arm.
"What did you do?" he whispered.
"I took away a moment," Zayn said. "That is all."
Renn's grip tightened. "You erased her memory," he said. "Without asking. Without warning."
Zayn tilted his head. "You didn't warn her you were selling information to a syndicate," he said. "She didn't warn the Temple she was opening their doors. We all use Threads for our own purposes. Mine is simply more… efficient."
"That's not the same," Renn said.
"It is identical," Zayn replied quietly. "We all reshape the world to fit our needs. Some do it with lies. Some with laws. Some with knives. I do it with absence."
They emerged into the night air.
Renn let go of his arm as if burned.
"She'll notice," he said. "Somehow. People know when they've lost something."
"Do they?" Zayn thought. "Or do they simply feel an ache they blame on the weather, on age, on fate?"
Aloud, he said, "She will remember walking the halls. She will remember carrying a lantern. She will remember worrying about her brother. She will not remember seeing us. The mind hates holes. It will stitch the gap with some harmless thread: perhaps she stopped to pray, or to tighten a latch. She will sleep uneasy, but she will not know why."
"That's monstrous," Renn said.
Zayn smiled faintly.
"Monstrous is a word people use when they see the exact same impulses they hide under softer names," he thought.
"To you," he said, "it is monstrous. To me, it is tidy. No blood. No bodies. No screaming. Only a moment that no longer exists."
Renn looked back toward the shrine, jaw clenched.
"You could have done that to me," he said. "At any time."
"I still can," Zayn said. "But I haven't. That should tell you something."
"That you need me," Renn said bitterly.
Zayn's eyes glinted. "Exactly," he said.
He stepped closer, lowering his voice.
"Understand this, Renn," he murmured. "I do not believe in trust. I believe in aligned interests. Right now, yours and mine point in the same direction. You know this city. I know how to disappear. Together, we survive better. If that ever changes…" He let the sentence trail off.
"…you'll wipe me away?" Renn finished.
"Or something subtler," Zayn said. "Sometimes it is useful for a man to remember exactly enough to feel guilty, but not enough to act."
Renn shivered.
Zayn turned toward the river, rain beading on his hair.
"Relax," he said. "Tonight, I did you a favour. Sera will not speak of what she does not recall. You owe me."
"I never agreed to—" Renn began.
"That is the beauty of leverage," Zayn said, not looking back. "It does not require agreement. It only requires reality."
He smiled to himself.
"In my first life," he thought, "I tried to drag the world toward some imagined justice. I died clinging to the idea that truth would save anyone. Now I see clearly: truth is a blade. Memory is a cage. The only real freedom is control over what remains and what vanishes."
Behind them, the Loomist shrine stood quiet, its carved symbol gleaming faintly in the rain. Inside, Sera would be frowning at her ledger, feeling a small, nameless discomfort as she tried to remember whether she had already checked the storage room.
She would find nothing missing.
That was the point.
Zayn walked beside Renn through the wet streets, feeling the city's Threads hum around them—crowded, tangled, blind to the new pattern he had begun to weave.
He had tested his power on a stranger and found it held. No backlash. No Seer bursting through the door. No Loomist voice booming from the heavens.
Only a hole where a danger had been.
"A man who bleeds in public is a martyr," Zayn thought. "A man who removes the knife and the memory of the wound is a survivor. I have no interest in martyrdom."
The rain fell harder.
Somewhere, the Central Weir's light pulsed, indifferent.
Zayn Morel's Domain, knotted from the ashes of Elric Veyne, purred like a satisfied beast.
And the first true step toward becoming the monster he chose to be had been taken with no one but him fully aware it had happened at all.