CHAPTER 159: BIG MONEY NEVER COMES CLEAN

Dylan didn’t answer right away.

He let the silence thicken, stretch out like a taut rope between them. The kind of silence one uses to weigh the risks, to gauge the greed in the other’s pupils. He knew what he held. And more than that, he knew what he wanted them to believe he held.

So, slowly—almost theatrically—he slipped his hand under his tunic, just slow enough to seem hesitant. Not cautious, no. But... desperate. Like someone about to give up a part of themselves.

He pulled out the gem.

A soft pulse of light flickered from it now and then—amethyst in color, troubled by ink-black glints, as if the very light inside it was trying to break free.

A thin vapor drifted off the gem at intervals, almost invisible but definitely there. And when he held it over the ritual table, even the jars lining the laboratory seemed to react. Bubbles rose for no reason. An eyeball floating in greenish gel rotated slightly toward them.

The Skinweaver approached, slowly.

A long, pale finger brushed the gem’s surface. A faint charge, almost imperceptible, lit up the sigil on his bald skull. He closed his eyes. Drew in a long breath. And murmured:

"Still intact."

He carefully picked it up and placed it inside the same iron circle as before. The runes lit up in a sharp red, and the room was immediately filled with a deep, muffled heartbeat from nowhere. A thum-thum, organic and irregular.

The gem shimmered faintly, a dense and evasive light.

The Skinweaver stepped back, eyes still shut.

Then he said:

"You haven’t tasted it yet. Good."

He opened his eyes.

"Who did it really belong to?"

Dylan raised his hands in a tired, almost tragic gesture.

"As I said. My parents’." He paused. Then, lower: "Well... that’s what I say when I don’t feel like answering."

The Skinweaver gave a short, joyless laugh. His teeth were too neat. Too white.

"You’re poor. But you hold the gem of a noble or an elite hunter. So you lie. But it’s a clever lie. Well-crafted."

He leaned over the gem again. The shadow of the curtain made of viscera quivered behind him, for no reason.

"You want gold? I can give you that. But not like this. Not like a client."

He straightened.

"You could sell it for one-fifty. Maybe two hundred if you found some desperate rookie hunter. But here... I can give you much more. If you agree to work for me. Just one delivery. One job. One exchange. And I’ll pay you three hundred. Clean."

Dylan didn’t flinch. He already knew that line was coming. And he wasn’t here to sell. Not really. He wanted in. To observe. To understand the networks. The tensions. What was truly being traded behind closed doors.

So he leaned into the role.

"Three hundred? And I don’t sell anything? Just a little delivery?"

The Skinweaver smiled. He turned to a shelf, pulled out a long box covered in stitched skin. He placed it on the table without opening it.

"I want you to deliver this. That’s it. No questions. Don’t open it. It must reach the High-Terrace before tomorrow night. Into the hands of a man named Gael. You tell him you’re from me. You hand it over. You leave. Then you come back here for your payment."

Jonas, still in the corner, cleared his throat.

"The High City? Have you seen this guy’s face? They’ll gut him at the gate."

But the Skinweaver didn’t acknowledge the comment.

He placed the box before Dylan.

"Your choice. You can sell the gem for scraps. Or earn your day’s worth."

Dylan looked at the box. Then at the gem. Then at the Skinweaver.

He sensed the trap wasn’t inside the box. It was in the path the box demanded.

And yet... he smiled.

"Alright. Deal."

——

Jonas swore under his breath, but Dylan didn’t even flinch.

The Skinweaver inclined his head slowly, almost ceremoniously. He slid the box toward Dylan, who took it in both hands. The stitched leather felt warm, as if it breathed slow and deep. Dylan said nothing, but he could feel the weight of the contract far more than the box itself. He stuffed it into his bag, adjusted the strap across his shoulder.

"By tomorrow night. To Gael," he repeated.

The Skinweaver nodded.

"If he finds out you opened the box... or even hesitated... he’ll have your eyelids torn off and nailed to your forehead so you never forget to watch your own mistakes."

He didn’t say it like a threat. Just... like a fact.

Dylan nodded, a glint of defiance in his eye.

"Charming. Hope he’s as funny as you."

The Skinweaver didn’t answer. He was already turning away, hands plunged into a basin where bits of shriveled skin floated as if the conversation had ended.

Jonas didn’t wait. He pushed open the door and slipped outside, visibly nervous. Dylan followed. As soon as they crossed the threshold, the door slammed shut behind them—like a jaw snapping closed.

The black market felt darker now than when they’d arrived. Quieter, too. Or maybe it was the box in Dylan’s bag that made everything seem heavier.

They walked in silence for several minutes, weaving through the more crowded alleys, avoiding stares, passing once again under the faded red cloth, past the blind statues, the doomsayers ranting their twitching prophecies.

When they finally reached some distance, Jonas stopped abruptly. He turned to Dylan, his expression hard.

"You’re insane."

Dylan raised an eyebrow.

"For agreeing to deliver a box made of stitched skin for three hundred gold pieces?"

"No. For agreeing to deliver it to Gael."

The name lingered a moment in the air.

"He’s not just some collector. He’s a Threshold. An intercessor. He’s the guy they call when a transaction goes beyond this world. When someone wants to deal with things that don’t have names."

Dylan looked at him for a long moment. Then, calmly:

"As long as he’s got gold, I don’t give a damn who he talks to in his basement."

Jonas exhaled sharply and shook his head.

"We’ll see if you’re still saying that tomorrow night."