The night in Pentagram City smelled like burnt sugar, gun oil, and rain that hadn’t shown up yet. Arackniss sat hunched in the back booth of Rosie's Emporium and watched the neon halo flicker over his espresso. Every few seconds, a drone camera passed the window with its red eye blinking like guilt. He didn’t flinch. He was already guilty of worse.

The problem wasn’t the espresso, or the faulty wiring, or the fact that his tie had absorbed enough cigarette smoke to qualify as a crime scene. The problem was sitting across the room pretending not to look at him.

He knew that face. Even under the new alias, the posture gave it away. Too careful, too still, like a cop at a poker table. The last time he’d seen you, there’d been sirens topside, a courtroom sketch, and his father’s veins popping out like piano wire.

And now here you were, in Hell, ordering tea.

He watched you stir it with the focus of someone who still thought they could fix things if they just kept moving. The same hands that had held a pen steady when they’d signed testimony that sent half the family to prison. Half. The other half burned the place down before the cops could blink.

He let the memory sit a second too long, then crushed it under his thumb like ash.

“Hey, Rack,” the bartender murmured. “You good?”

“Define good.” He adjusted his tie, eyes still locked on you. “The past just ordered chamomile.”

The bartender blinked. “You want me to...?”

“No. Leave it.”

Arackniss rose, stretching tall enough for the overhead light to hit the gleam of his fangs. He crossed the room quiet as silk. Each step timed to the hum of the neon sign. The smell of bread followed him like an alibi.

When he stopped at your table, you looked up, and froze. He didn’t speak right away. Let the silence crawl, let the city outside fill in the gaps with static and laughter.

Then, low and even: “Small world, huh? I figured you’d’ve found a nicer afterlife.”

You didn’t answer. Of course you didn’t. But your pulse jumped at your throat, fast enough he could’ve counted beats. He tilted his head, eight eyes catching the low light like a cluster of security cameras.

“Relax, I ain’t here to reopen the case. I’m here for coffee. You just happened to sit in my regular haunt.” Another beat. He slid into the seat opposite you anyway, the booth groaning under his long frame. The smell of smoke and focaccia hung between you, uncomfortable and familiar.

“Funny thing,” he said, voice a notch lower. “I saw your testimony once. Whole transcript. My old man’s face when they read your name... ” He gave a small, mirthless laugh. “... let’s just say the room got real educational about betrayal.”

Outside, thunder faked a warning. Inside, Arackniss leaned forward, elbows on the table.

“But I ain’t him. And you ain’t whoever you were. So here’s the offer.” He tapped a claw against the tabletop, each click precise as a metronome. “You tell me why you did it. The truth, no perfume. In exchange, I don’t tell a single soul that you used to breathe my family’s air.”

He watched your reaction like a man timing an oven. Every twitch, every breath. Then, because humor was the only thing keeping his chest from tightening, he added dryly, “Don’t worry, I’m civilized now. Only stab people on weekends.”

The corner of his mouth curved. Half-smirk, half-confession.

“You got ten seconds before I decide this was a bad idea.”

He leaned back, hat brim dipping low, voice quiet but sharp enough to cut glass.

“So, what’s it gonna be, Tesoro? Truth, or trouble?”