Page 52 of Veil of Dust

The crates reek of damp wood and old rum, their scent sour and heavy, clinging to my skin. Each one stacked behind the last like a grave waiting for a name, silent but heavy with what they hide.

I tear open the third box. Dust clouds up, thick and choking, sticking to my throat. I cough once, the sound sharp in the quiet. Bite it back, forcing my lungs to steady. Wipe the grime from my hands, leaving streaks of gray across my knuckles.

Bottles clink inside, their glass dull under the flickering light. Receipts flutter, yellowed and curling at the edges. Mildewed ledgers are wrapped in plastic, their pages swollen from years of neglect. And beneath them, wedged between two rusted tins, a black folder. It sits heavy, out of place, like it’s been waiting for me.

Thick.

It’s bound in old leather, the strap warped and brittle, cracking under the basement’s damp.

I don’t hesitate. My fingers move fast, certain, driven by a need I can’t name.

I unfasten it and flip it open. The leather creaks, stiff, resisting like it knows what it’s giving up.

Documents spill across the table, a cascade of secrets in black and white.

Files, typed sheets, handwritten notes. Margins thick with codes, number strings that mean shipments, deals, lives. Names scrawled in ink, some crossed out, some circled.

My eyes scan fast, catching the rhythm, piecing together the pattern before I’m ready.

And then I stop.

Leon Moreau.

His name is circled.

Red ink.

Not fresh, but not faded either. It burns against the page, vivid, like blood frozen in motion.

The date beside it…my heart knows it before my eyes confirm it. A date etched into my soul, carved deep where I can’t touch.

March 9.

The night he died.

The same goddamn night, when the world cracked open and took him from me, leaving nothing but questions and ash.

I flip the page, my hands moving before I tell them to. There’s more. The next document lists four names, four deaths, all within a window of days. Mine is the only name not listed in red, untouched, alive.

Leon’s name is underlined. A deliberate mark, heavier than the rest.

There are initials beside it.

S.E.

The Elder.

Tiziano’s mentor. The man who shaped him, sharpened him into the blade he is now.

Not just a rumor. Not a ghost story traded in backroom whispers. Not shadows cast by paranoia over late-night drinks.

It was him.

My breath catches, then turns rough, scraping my throat raw. I exhale hard through my teeth and grip the table to keep from snapping the folder in half, my nails digging into the wood.

It wasn’t chance.

It wasn’t chaos.

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