It was late when Veritas returned to La Marquise. The rain hadn't stopped. It soaked through his coat, clung to his sleeves. The foyer was dim, gold sconces casting long shadows over peeling wallpaper. No jazz played. No voices echoed from the ballroom.
Too quiet.
He paused, water dripping from his collar, eyes narrowing. Something felt off.
Then he stepped inside.
They were waiting.
Chéri stood near the entrance, arms folded, posture stiff. The usual glint in his eyes was gone.
Lune lingered by the staircase, his face set in a hard expression Veritas barely recognized. No longer the soft younger brother who sang to chandeliers and cried at movies. This boy glared.
And in the center, unmoving, eyes like frost—Mr. Black. Hands behind his back. Shoes glinting under the chandelier. Still. Tense. Like a storm waiting for the first crack of thunder.
Rouge leaned against the far wall, half-sunken into the shadows. Only his silhouette moved—a flicker of a watchful eye, a glint of silver from the ring on his gloved hand.
Veritas stopped. The air had changed.
He let out a slow, quiet breath. "Something wrong?"
No one answered.
Mr. Black took a step forward. His voice was low, and sharp enough to draw blood.
"Where is she."
Veritas raised his brows. Smiled faintly. "Safe."
Mr. Black's gaze sharpened.
"She was mine to reach. You weren't supposed to touch her."
Veritas tilted his head. The smile twitched. "You were too slow. Someone had to act."
From across the room, Lune's voice snapped through the tension:
"Someone? You're not someone. You're a coward hiding behind a ledger."
That made Veritas pause. He turned toward him, eyes colder now.
"So now you're a moralist?"
Lune didn't flinch. He didn't look away.
Chéri shifted—just slightly—but didn't speak. He stayed planted in front of the door. Between Veritas and escape.
Then, like a ghost rising from velvet shadow, Rouge stepped out.
Quiet. Composed. Calm.
"He's right, you know," Rouge said softly. "That wasn't your call."
Veritas stilled. His throat worked once.
"You told him."
Rouge didn't deny it. He didn't have to.
"I saw where you went," he said. "I followed. I told him everything."
Veritas took a slow step back. Rain still dripped from his coat onto the marble floor.
He turned toward the exit—but Mr. Black moved, blocking the path.
"You crossed the line," he said.
Then it happened all at once:
Lune stormed out, fists clenched, jaw trembling.
Chéri stepped forward, placing himself fully between Veritas and Mr Black. Not just a barrier—but a shield.
And Rouge, always the last to act, always the one who watched—finally turned.
His voice was quiet. Unyielding.
"You don't get to hide behind 'family duty' anymore. You kidnapped her, Veritas. That's not justice. That's cruelty."
Veritas said nothing.
But in his silence, the damage was done. The room was fractured.
The Ensemble was broken.
And somewhere beneath the marble floor and theater boards… the city of Amorélline kept its secrets.
For now.
---
The city was a haze of amber and smoke. Rooftops shimmered in the mist, distant lights flickering like stars dying in slow motion.
Veritas stood alone on the ledge of an old building near the Marquise, collar up, cigarette trembling slightly between two fingers. The skyline stretched wide before him, cold and glimmering, but he wasn't admiring the view. He never did.
Then—he heard it.
A shift of gravel. A familiar stillness.
Rouge.
Of course.
He didn't turn, just spoke into the wind.
"You followed me."
Rouge's voice was calm. Controlled. But underneath it—something coiled.
"You're not as hard to track as you think."
Veritas smirked and lit another match. The flame wavered. So did his hand.
"Thought you'd be back at the Marquise, playing loyal."
"I had questions."
"Let me guess. Morality hour?"
A beat.
"She's just a girl," Rouge said flatly. "And that debt isn't yours to collect. It was your parents'. You're seventeen."
Veritas exhaled smoke like a curtain.
"Didn't peg you for soft."
"I'm not."
"Then why do you care?"
Rouge stepped closer, boots quiet against the gravel. His eyes didn't flinch.
Veritas chuckled dryly.
"This about your old flame?""The one who got caught in your 'business'?"
Silence.
"He died, didn't he? Shot in some alley. Wrong place, wrong time. That why you've been playing the silent saint?"
Rouge didn't move. Didn't blink.
But his voice—cut like glass.
"I've fought. I've killed. But I never kidnapped."
Veritas scoffed.
"Please. Don't pretend you're clean."
"I'm not. But I still know what's wrong."
That stung. More than he wanted to admit. He flicked ash off the roof's edge and stared into the fog.
"You think Black's better?" he muttered. "You think he hasn't been trying to control her too? Every note, every stage cue, every conversation?"
Rouge's tone didn't shift.
"He wanted to see her again. That's all.""You? You locked her in a room. That's not love. That's revenge."
A beat passed. The air stilled.
Veritas looked down at his cigarette—nearly gone.
He didn't answer at first. Just stared at the ember, watching it pulse faintly in the mist.
Then, softly—almost like an afterthought:
"You know…""I always thought you and I were the same."
Rouge said nothing.
"Same hats. Same shadowy past. Same quiet knife in the dark. I used to think—maybe you were the older brother I never got."He laughed, but there was no warmth in it."Guess we're more different than I realized."
He dropped the cigarette. Watched it disappear over the edge.
"Pathetic," he muttered.
Then, without another glance, Veritas turned—disappearing down the fire escape like smoke vanishing into a storm.
---
But the words stuck. Even as the fog swallowed the city, Rouge's voice clung to him like the scent of ash—quiet, accusing.
And for the first time, Veritas wasn't sure who he was fighting for anymore.