Reza's right wing drooped.
It wasn't folded away. It drooped—like a door with its hinges torn off, hanging from his back and swaying with every breath. The joint at the wing root gave one last creak, then fell silent. Bone-Eroding Powder had seeped into the deepest part of the cartilage, completely corroding the living bone connecting the wing to his shoulder blade into powder.
Reza lowered his head and stared at his wing.
He tried moving it. His right wing didn't respond. He tried again, the muscles in his shoulder tightening like stone, but the wing only swayed like a piece of cloth hanging from a rope. His left wing opened halfway without him realizing it, as if trying to support the right, but that only made his body tilt, shifting his center of gravity to the right and nearly sending him stumbling.
The marsh was quiet. The other half-beast in the tree didn't move. Four golden eyes stared down through the darkness.
"Your right wing won't get better," the cat merchant said, his voice flat. "Bone-Eroding Powder's effect on cartilage is irreversible."
Reza raised his head.
His eyes had changed. This wasn't the cold, condescending look from before. This was something burning up from the depths of his pupils, scorching hot, like skin pressed beneath a branding iron. A crow that could never fly again.
He said nothing. His beak opened and closed. His claws clenched at his sides until the knuckles turned white, the sharp tips of his talons piercing his own palms. Black blood seeped between his fingers. The drops fell into the marsh mud and were swallowed by it, leaving not even a trace.
"I'll kill you." At last, he spoke, his voice squeezed out from the deepest part of his throat. "Someday."
"Suit yourself." The cat merchant put the second pill back in his leather satchel. "But before then, tell me who hired you."
Reza laughed. The half-beast's laughter rasped out through his beak, even uglier than before, like broken glass grinding against itself.
"You want to know?" He took a step back, dragging his right wing through the mud and leaving a long trail behind. "Go ask the dad of that kid who runs the ice cream shop."
The cat merchant's ears stopped.
Both ears froze halfway through their turn, as if someone had pressed them in place. Beneath his cloak, his tail went rigid, but he didn't move.
"What?"
"His dad." Reza's golden eyes fixed on him, the smile at the corners of his beak twisting like a scar. "Buried in debt, unable to pay it back, watching his wife become mayor while his son's crappy little shop made more money than he had in his entire life—what do you think he felt?"
The cat merchant said nothing. Winston's voice echoed in his mind—"This is what my dad left me. He said a person in business ought to look the part." That gentleman's hat. The tiny dried flower on the hatband. The way Winston always reached up to straighten it whenever it tilted.
His dad had given him that hat.
Reza turned and lifted his chin toward his companion in the tree. The half-beast spread his wings and dropped silently beside him, propping up his left arm.
"He didn't pay much," Reza said, glancing back at the cat merchant one last time. "But it was easy work. Splash some acid on those soft, helpless things. Who couldn't do that?"
His right wing dragged through the mud, its feathers caked in black marsh sludge. The feathers of his tail drooped behind him as well, their tips scoring a shallow line in the muck. The two half-beasts slowly disappeared into the depths of the marsh, one supporting the other, like two crooked dead trees leaning together.
The cat merchant stood where he was for a long time without moving.
The wind blew in from the marsh, carrying dampness and the smell of rotting leaves. Three holes burned through his cloak from the acid, their edges still giving off thin wisps of white smoke. A small patch of red on his left sleeve where the acid had splashed was already swollen, but he didn't touch it.
He closed his eyes.
All he could see was Winston. Winston standing behind the counter making ice cream, one part of his body stretching to reach the ingredients on the shelf while another stirred. When Winston pushed the bowl over, his core glowed a warm orange. When Winston said, "Welcome to Pobo Ice Cream," his hat was straight.
He opened his eyes and walked toward town.
At daybreak, he stood outside the mayor's round building.
The morning fog hadn't cleared yet, and a thin layer of white vapor floated over the marsh. The round building's surface gave off a faint glow through the mist, like a stone sunk beneath the water. He stood at the entrance for a while—not hesitating, but thinking about how to say it.
The mayor came out. She looked at him, the white light of her core perfectly still.
First she saw the three holes in his cloak. Then she saw the swelling on his left arm. She didn't ask a thing. She simply shifted her body to the side, clearing the entrance.
He walked in.
The gel floor was soft beneath his feet. His paw pads sank in slightly, and when he lifted each paw, the floor gently tugged at it. The air carried a faint salty scent, just like the last time he'd come.
He told her everything. The Night Crow clan, crop fluid, the two methods of attack, and the employer's identity. He spoke slowly, each sentence brief, as if setting stones on the table one by one.
When he got to the employer, he paused.
"It was Winston's father."
When the words left his mouth, he heard what was in his own voice—not anger, but a heavy weight pressing down on his chest. He thought of Master. Master had taught him everything, and in the end, he had killed her. Winston's father had left his son a hat, then hired people to throw acid on his son's neighbor.
Some things in this world could be taken back after being given away. Some couldn't.
The mayor was silent for a long time after hearing him out.
Her body didn't change, and neither did the light of her core. But the cat merchant noticed that her surface—that deep indigo color—had developed the finest cracks, like the first fracture across a sheet of ice. The cracks began at the middle of her body and spread upward, passing the edge of her core, then traveled back down until they reached the bottom where she touched the ground. They were so fine that no one would notice them without looking closely. But they were there.
"I knew he was out there," she said at last, her voice still steady, like a stone resting beneath the water. "I didn't know he would do something like this."
She paused. The cracks didn't disappear, but neither did they spread any farther. She was holding herself together. A mayor, inside her own building, hearing that her husband had hired someone to hurt one of her residents—she was holding herself together.
"Does Winston know?" the cat merchant asked.
"No," the mayor said. "He thinks his dad just ran off because of his debts."
Silence.
The cat merchant looked at the cracks on the mayor's surface. He thought of Winston's core—the one that always glowed with a warm orange light. What would happen to it if Winston found out?
"I can find him," the cat merchant said, "but what happens next is for you to deal with yourselves."
The mayor's core flickered once. Briefly, brilliantly, like a knife turning in the darkness.
"Bring him back."
Three days later, the cat merchant brought a slime back to Jelly Town.
He didn't say what had happened during those three days. Mud from different places clung to Lolo's three heads—red, gray, and black—which meant they had visited at least three different locations. Two new scratches marked the cat merchant's cloak. They weren't acid burns, but cuts from something sharp. His leather satchel held fewer pills and one more crumpled IOU.
The slime's body was a murky gray, with so little transparency that the light of his core was almost invisible. He was half a body shorter than Winston, his outline blurred and unable to hold a human shape. His edges kept running downward like a candle nearly burned to the end. Standing on the membrane path, his body constantly listed to one side, then slowly righted itself, only to tilt again and straighten once more, like a drunk struggling to stand upright.
Winston stood outside the ice cream shop and saw him.
His hat wasn't crooked. It sat firmly on top of his head, perfectly still. But his core—the one that had always glowed with a warm orange light—was out. Not dimmed. Out, as if someone had pinched out the wick.
"Dad," he said.
Only one word. When it emerged from his body, not even a ripple crossed his surface. Flat. Dead. Like water without a breath of wind.
The gray slime stood on the membrane path, his body trembling. Liquid dripped constantly from his edges, leaving a ring of gray puddles on the ground. The puddles slowly spread, growing paler and paler, as if something inside his body were leaking away bit by bit.
The mayor came out of the round building. She slid in front of the gray slime and stopped.
The two slimes faced each other. One was a deep indigo, steady as a tower; the other was a murky gray, barely able to stand. There were more cracks on the mayor's surface than there had been three days earlier, but her core was as steady as a white stone nailed into the center of her body.
"Kneel," the mayor said.
He knelt. Slimes had no knees, but the upper half of his body collapsed downward, his core nearly touching the ground. When he sank, a ring of gray liquid splashed from his edges, like a bowl filled too full being pressed down.
"Speak."
He spoke.
His voice was small and halting, like water seeping through a crack. He spoke of debt, gambling, the organization, jealousy, and hatred. He said that when he saw his wife become mayor, something inside him broke. He said that when he saw the line outside his son's ice cream shop, the broken thing turned into a thorn. He said that when he found the Night Crow clan, he knew what he was doing, but did it anyway.
When he finished, the marsh was very quiet. Even the marsh bugs had stopped chirping.
Winston stood outside the shop, perfectly still.
There were no ripples on his surface. His core gave off no light. His hat remained perfectly straight.
He said nothing.
The cat merchant stood beside him and watched Winston. He had seen many kinds of silence. Some silences were empty, containing nothing at all. Others were full, crammed with so much that not a single word could squeeze out. Winston's silence was the second kind.
The mayor said nothing either. She stared at the gray slime for a long time, then turned to the cat merchant.
"There's a jail in town," she said, her voice unchanged. "I'll notify the border patrol."
The gray slime nodded—or rather, the upper half of his body tipped forward slightly.
"I'll go myself," he said.
He stood and walked toward the east side of town. After a few steps, he stopped and looked back at Winston.
His core lit up for an instant. Very dimly, very briefly, like a match struck in the wind before going out.
"I'm sorry."
Winston didn't answer.
The gray figure slowly disappeared at the end of the membrane path. As he walked, his body kept trickling downward, leaving behind a broken gray trail, like a road in the process of vanishing.
The cat merchant stood beside Winston without saying a word. He watched Winston, watched the gentleman's hat, watched the extinguished core.
After a long time, Winston moved.
He turned, walked into the shop, and went behind the counter. He picked up a bowl and began making ice cream. His movements were exactly the same as always—one part of his body stretched to reach the ingredients on the shelf while another stirred.
He made Dad's Tears.
The cat merchant walked into the shop and sat down on a gel mat. He didn't speak or look anywhere else. He simply watched Winston make ice cream.
Winston pushed the bowl in front of him. The ice cream was pale gray, its surface covered in a fine layer of salt frost, like a thin sheet of ice had formed over it.
"I came up with this flavor," Winston said softly, "when I first opened the shop. I missed him, so I made a salty flavor and called it Dad's Tears."
He paused.
"Now that I think about it, I guess I didn't get the name wrong."
The cat merchant scooped up a spoonful and put it in his mouth.
It was salty, with a hint of sourness and a very deep bitterness. But after he swallowed, there was the faintest sweetness at the back of his tongue, like something hidden at the very bottom, nearly forgotten. He remembered the warmth of the jewel at Master's chest. Some things couldn't be taken back once they were given away, but that didn't mean they had disappeared. They had simply gone somewhere else.
He didn't say it was good. He just took another spoonful.
Winston stood behind the counter, his hat perfectly straight, his core still dark. But a very shallow ripple appeared across the surface of his body.
Outside, Lolo lay on the membrane path, all three heads turned toward the shop, six eyes quietly watching them.