Page 11 of Veil of Dust

Alfeo laughs. It's harsh, ugly—the kind of sound that makes people lock their doors.

“I don’t do favors,” he says. “I do what pays.”

I step closer. The handle of the blade is right at my chest.

“You ever pull that thing on me again,” I say, voice flat, “you better make sure I don’t get back up.”

He rises slowly, like he’s deciding whether to make another move.

But he doesn’t.

He just looks at me.

I don’t look away.

He blinks first.

He looks at the blade, makes a move to touch it, but then he hesitates, chuckling.

Then, he turns and walks out.

No threats. No smart-ass lines.

Like he thinks the fight’s over.

He’s wrong.

Next time, I won’t let him walk away.

Alfeo’s a loaded gun with no safety.

And I’m done waiting for him to fire.

The door shuts behind Alfeo. The sound is too loud, too final.

Then—nothing.

Not calm. Not relief. Just a silence that feels like it’s pressing in. All the tension, all the anger I didn’t use, just sits there. Nowhere to go. It thickens around me like smoke that won’t clear.

I don’t move at first.

Then, I drag the crate back into place, sit down, and light another cigarette.

My hands are steady now.

The smoke tastes bitter, but not from the cigarette. It’s the aftertaste of holding everything in. That tight, sharp feeling that comes after you talk yourself down. The kind of control that doesn’t feel clean, just necessary.

I open the drawer.

Inside, wrapped in an old scarf the color of a storm, is my tarot deck. The corners are soft from years of use. The edges are worn from sweat, time, and too many nights like this. They still smell like Sylvie’s oils—cedar, rose, sea salt, and burnt thyme. Memory, all of it.

I haven’t touched them since last night.

Didn’t need to.

But now, I do.

I need something clearer than the bullshit Alfeo brought in.

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