Gael's boots hit the stone floor with dull thuds as he sprinted down the halls. His eyes flicked over the peeling walls, the damp air that smelled like mold and decay, and the ventilation grates on the walls that were necessary for the dark dwellers.

It'd been too long since he was here, and he didn't miss the Sallow Hearth's basement a single bit.

Maeve, Cara, and Fergal trailed behind him, their footsteps softer than his, though just as urgent. They raced to the door at the end of the hallway—the only one with dim orange light spilling out—and with a swift turn, Gael skidded to a halt at the doorway to bask in the dreary sight.

He'd gone to so much effort just to keep Evelyn alive, and now there she was, hanging from chains on the wall, bloodied, bruised, and broken. She was barely alive. Barely breathing. Her clothes were in tatters, her skin pale, and her head hanging low like a marionette with cut strings. Even a deaf man would be able to hear her ragged breaths.

And there were the Repossessors, of course. About twenty or so of them were scattered around the dark and barren room with only a single bioarcanic lantern hung overhead, most of their faces masked with patchwork leather masks. Four of the Five Fingers with half-masks stood off to Evelyn's side with all sorts of torturous weapons, circling like vultures, while Lorcawn—the blasted, creepy old man—was standing tall right in front of her, turning around to see what the commotion was.

It was quite rare for Gael to see a man with eyes more bloodshot than his on a regular, drunken daily basis.

"Well, well. If it isn't the heroes of yesternight."

Fergal went into the room to stand in front of his men, who made up most of the grunts, while Gael, Maeve, and Cara remained by the door.

"I heard what you did to those Myrmurs," Lorcawn continued, stepping slowly towards Gael while the Repossessors parted around him to let him through. "Quite impressive. And I heard you've been treating my boys in Fergal's division, too. I must say, I am very grateful for that. You've been very helpful. But…"

But then he turned his head slightly, cruel and sharp eyes landing on Evelyn's fallen head.

"I think it'd be best if all of you clinic people stepped outside for a bit," Lorcawn finished, giving Gael a half-wink. "We've got a grudge to settle with the girl here. After all, she burned down one of our warehouses and injured my men. She's got to pay for that, don't you think?"

Maeve's fingers twitched at her sides, the tension in her jaw tightening as she ground her teeth. "Pay with… this?" she muttered.

Lorcawn shrugged, uncaring. His gaze landed on Evelyn's broken form once more. "The girl's young and pretty. After we're done making an example of her, we'll take her limbs. Lots of old fucks in the Western Ward would pay handsomely for those. Isn't that right, Fergal?"

Fergal didn't say a word. His face was stoic, but his body language was anything but still—like a predator circling just out of reach. The Finger wasn't the type of man to speak up without a reason, and in this case, the lack of words said more than any declaration ever could.

He didn't really like this, but it wasn't his call.

Gael, however, wasn't half as reasonable and half as sane. While it seemed like Lorcawn still had something to say, he walked over to the nearest Repossessor with a flask of alcohol hanging off his belt, snatched it, and then popped the cork to start guzzling it down right in front of everyone.

The alcohol hardly burned in his sore throat.

"... Heh." He chuckled, tossing the flask back at the confused Repossessor as he wiped his lips with the back of his hand. "Weak shit. You guys drink forty percent? Man, you haven't really lived until you try out some of the seventy percent stuff. I can introduce you to some good-ass local brands if you want."

Lorcawn's brow furrowed, a flicker of irritation crossing his features. "Excuse me—"

"I wanna be the one to do it," he interrupted, burping as he pointed past Lorcawn's shoulder and straight at Evelyn's head. "Me aside on several unfortunate occasions—lots of people do try on a regular basis—the brat tried to kill Cara, the clinic's biggest sponsor, and my wife." Then he paused for a moment to stare at the ceiling. Something didn't sound right. "No. My wife comes before… my sister? Or the sponsor? Whatever. I'm Bharnish. You don't seriously think I'm just gonna let that slide?"

The smile he flashed Lorcawn then was bright and cheery.

"I'll be the one to torture her to death," he said. "May I?"

Lorcawn's eyes now locked onto Gael with an almost predatory interest. His men whispered among themselves, their voices low and filled with something sinister, but Gael, as usual, ignored them. His attention was entirely on Lorcawn.

You don't speak to the carrion. If you wanna get shit done, you kneel to the butcher.

With a casual flick of his wrist, Gael reached into his coat and pulled out two syringes. The liquids inside shimmered under the dim lantern light: one glowing red, the other bright green. He held them up for all to see, the colors faintly illuminating the dark room as he began to speak.

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"These here," he said, tapping the syringes with a sharp, knowing look, "are poisons. The red one is thornbee venom, which comes from the stinger of a Nightspawn only found in the lowest layers of the Searing Caves. Dangerous stuff, harvested by hand, and only by the most foolish of fools." He smirked at that last part, swirling the other syringe. "The green one's called a Fool's Dream. This one's a bit of a mystery. Even the potion sellers don't know exactly where it comes from. Rumors say it's a byproduct harvested from the Gulchers' pipe-dwelling spit, and the people who harvest it are really tight-lipped about where they get it from. Oh well."

Lorcawn's eyes never left Gael's face, clearly intrigued.

"And when you mix them together…" Gael continued with a sharp grin, "you get a combination that hyperactivates the human senses to a ridiculous degree. Every nerve in the body flares up, screaming with sensation. Your heart races. Your skin burns. I hear the pain's unimaginable, because this shit don't kill quickly. It's slow and excruciating. I'd like to test if that's really the case."

He let that sink in, enjoying the reaction of the room, but Lorcawn almost immediately stepped to the side and gestured at Evelyn.

"Do you, now?" he said. "I'm interested, too. Do it right here. I want to see it in effect."

The Repossessors parted as well, but if they were looking for some sort of hesitation, they weren't going to find it in a drunk man. Gael stepped forward without hesitation.

"I want her whole body afterwards, though," he said casually, glancing at Lorcawn as he passed through the crowd. "She was a Myrmur Host, I'll have you know. Live ones don't come very frequently. There's a shit ton of research I wanna do on her, so in return for not letting you boys have her limbs, I'll continue healing your men for free every time you come through my doors. How's that for a deal?"

Lorcawn's eyes twinkled. "That's a deal I can work with provided your poison impresses me."

With the Palm's assertion, Gael glanced over his shoulder to look back at Maeve. The quick flicker of her eyes didn't go unnoticed. A moment of hesitation lingered. He wondered if she'd snap at him as she usually did, but instead, all she did was stand there. Listening. Watching. Her lips were pressed tight, but there was a quiet acceptance in her posture that caught him a little off guard.

It was almost as if she… trusted him.

… Yeah, right.

He scoffed quietly, shaking off the thought. Before he knew it, he was standing right in front of Evelyn. This close up, he couldn't help but notice how deathly frail her form was, and when she barely lifted her head to see who was to be her torturer now, the life in her eyes was completely dim.

They were the eyes of a gutter rat who'd already given up on life, but only her own.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. Her muddy hair falling before her face muffled her voice, and her bloody lips trembled so hard she barely got the words out, but he heard her loud and clear. "Please… take care of my hounds."

Gael didn't respond as she continued in a barely audible voice, listing off the names of her hounds one by one. What each of them liked, what made them happy, what their daily routines were. Every detail she could manage to recall, she recited despite the pain wracking her. He could admire that. At least her mind was still somewhat intact.

He waited until she was done with everything she wanted to say, and then he drove his needles into both sides of her neck.

Her body jerked, but she didn't scream. She didn't even twitch. Her body went into immediate convulsions—shuddering, thrashing, her skin cracking like brittle porcelain, fluids leaking from every orifice as if her very form was unravelling. Her bloody and haggard face contorted in silent agony, her eyes wide and unfocused, yet no sound passed her lips. No sound could. The muscles in her throat were constricting so much that not even a single breath could wheeze itself out.

Her limbs jerked once more before going still. Her head lolled forward, eyes blank, and finally—finally—the faintest breath escaped her lips before even that stilled.

"Huh," he mumbled. "That wasn't nearly as slow as I thought it'd be. Just goes to show you can't trust a single damned rumor in this part of the city, eh?"

But Lorcawn tilted his head, making a silent gesture, and one of his Fingers stepped forward to check for a pulse. Gael stepped aside. The man's hands moved slowly and carefully as he felt for any signs of life on Evelyn's neck, but after a moment—and it was a long moment, at least thirty seconds of listening—he turned around to nod at his boss.

That was Lorcawn's cue to chuckle.

"Well, well. Looks like we found ourselves a real doctor here."

Gael didn't respond to that, but his eyes flicked over. The Palm was still smiling with his eyes, evidently pleased with the spectacle.

"I'm glad we're on the same page, Plagueplain Doctor. You've proven useful. You've got the touch for sure," Lorcawn continued, hands curled behind his back as he turned to walk out of the room. The Repossessors started to follow. "As for the three-headed hounds, I'll leave them all to you. They'll be under your care now. Consider them a little bonus for being such a good doctor under our employ."

Gael gave him a smile, a quick flash of teeth. "Do feel free to pop into the clinic every once in a while. I can do grafting surgeries as well."

Lorcawn gave him one last nod, short and amused, before filing out the room with the rest of the Repossessors.

That left only Gael, Maeve, Cara, and Fergal in the dimly lit room.

The silence in the room stretched on for what felt like an eternity. Cara stood near the door, her sharp eyes scanning for any signs of movement or lingering threats—and only once she was completely certain the Repossessors were truly gone did she nod at Gael.

His lips twisted into something between a grimace and a smirk as he raised his hand to Evelyn's chest, giving her a quick, forceful slap.

Her body jerked. She gasped, a breath so sharp, so desperate that it echoed around the room. Her chained limbs flailed, and her head whipped side to side as her body tried to make sense of the sudden rush of air and the agonizing sensation of life returning.

"What… how am I—"

"Aight," Gael muttered, pulling out a notebook so he could start scribbling in it while Cara and Maeve rushed forward, unlocking the chains that bound her to the wall. "Hypothesis proven: the symbiote elixir can continue to intercept minor curses and venoms if there's traces of it remaining in the patient's bloodstream. Case in point, I gave you three doses of the symbiote elixir for three Myrmur hearts, so you had just enough of it left over that the thornbee venom couldn't really kill you. I bet it still hurts like shit, though."

While Maeve and Cara lowered Evelyn to the floor, she blinked up at them, her eyes still bloodshot and pained.

She scanned the room slowly, eyes catching onto Cara, then on Maeve and Gael, and lastly on Fergal, who still stood near the door alone.

Her gaze wavered, teary, as she saw him simply standing there, making no move to intervene.

Then, her voice came—a tremor in her words like broken glass.

"... Why?" she whispered, tears welling in her eyes, her voice thin. "Why didn't you kill me?"

Gael paused, his hands stopping mid-scribble as he met her puzzled gaze.

"Bloodless Mandate," he said, his tone flat. "I won't kill for no good reason. Besides, you're not allowed to die until you tell me exactly what happened here."

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