Chapter 18: Spilling Tea

Outside, the midday sun finally broke through the clouds, but Apricot felt none of its warmth. She stormed down the sidewalk, humiliation burning under her skin.

I tried to do it the right way, and I failed.

Her hands were trembling. She didn’t notice until her fingers brushed her coat pocket and missed the zipper twice. She ducked into the shade of a bus shelter and pressed her back against the glass, drawing shaky breaths until the tremor ebbed.

A flash of claws behind her eyelids. That wet hiss, crawling out of the dark.

She clenched her jaw and shoved the image down.

Think. Think.

A bus groaned to a stop in front of her, its doors folding open with a metallic clatter. She boarded on reflex, swiped her transit card with numb fingers, and found a seat near the back. The bus lurched forward. City scenery smeared into motion through the window: office towers, gaudy billboards hawking cybernetic upgrades, pedestrians streaming through the steel canyons below.

No one looked at her. No one noticed her trembling.

If I can’t get a gun legally, how do I get one at all?

Her stomach twisted, but desperation forced her to follow the thought. She had no contacts in the criminal world, no idea where to even start. Wandering blind through back-alley markets was a good way to end up in a situation far worse than the one she was trying to survive. Cortez had the street connections, but after the train incident he’d cut her loose. He wanted nothing to do with her chaos, and she couldn’t blame him.

She stared at her reflection in the window glass, pale and hollow-eyed, and ran through the short list of people she knew.

Her thoughts snagged on a name.

Solenne.

Solenne Amsel. Traffic cop, mostly, but still on the force. If anyone knew how illegal firearms circulated through this city, it would be her. And Solenne was off-duty today. She’d mentioned having the afternoon free.

The problem was obvious. Solenne was by the book. A direct question about black-market guns would earn Apricot a lecture at best, handcuffs at worst. But if she framed it as research for an article, Solenne might share what she knew without asking why Apricot really needed it.

It felt wrong. Manipulative. Using a friend’s trust as a skeleton key.

But the alternative was waiting in the dark for something with claws.

She pulled out her phone and typed before she could lose her nerve.

Hey! Want to grab tea? I’m stressed about my next article and could use your brain. My treat.

She hit send and watched the arrow streak away. Her knee bounced. Every second of silence felt like a verdict.

Her phone chimed.

Sure. Lotus Tea House at 4?

Apricot exhaled. Relief, guilt, and something colder braided together in her chest. She pocketed the phone and leaned her forehead against the cool glass, watching the city blur past.

She would turn whatever she learned into an article. That wasn’t a lie. Solenne just didn’t need to know the rest.

---

The Lotus Tea House was a quiet refuge wedged between high-rises and corporate towers. Red lanterns cast warm halos on polished dark wood. Cozy raised platforms ringed the room, each with lounge chairs and low tables. A pianist near the entrance played something slow and drifting that mingled with the faint clink of porcelain.

Normally the place would have soothed her. This afternoon, the calm only made her tension stand out more starkly.

Solenne arrived right on time, her compact silhouette threading between tables until she spotted Apricot and lifted a hand. She still wore her uniform trousers and blouse, jacket off, sleeves rolled to the elbows, hair pulled back in a neat ponytail. Off-duty posture, but the sharp eyes were still working.

“So,” Solenne said, sliding into the chair across from her. “Why tea at this hour?”

Apricot busied herself with the jade teapot the server had left behind. Fragrant steam curled between them. “Can’t a girl invite her friend without an ulterior motive?”

Solenne took a slow sip and let the silence stretch. “Your text sounded desperate, Apri. What do you want to know?”

No point pretending. Solenne read people for a living.

“I’ve been digging into that bank robbery,” Apricot said, pulling her notepad from her coat. The familiar weight of it in her hand steadied her. “The suspects had illegal firearms. The official reports didn’t say where they came from. I started wondering how someone in this city would even get an illegal weapon.” She kept her tone academic. “Generally speaking.”

Solenne’s eyes narrowed a fraction. “Generally speaking?” she echoed. “You’re not writing a how-to guide, I hope.”

“An exposé. Black-market networks, how criminals bypass the system. Purely informational.”

Solenne studied her, fingers tapping the table. Then she sighed. “I can’t give you anything classified. But broadly? This city is riddled with underground markets. More than you’d ever guess. There’s an entire division at the department dedicated to busting them, and every time we raid one, we find firearms mixed in with everything else.”

Apricot jotted notes, the familiar rhythm of pen on paper helping to blunt the sharp edge of her real interest. “So they’re common. Widespread.”

“Very.” Solenne’s brows drew together, a faint shadow passing behind her eyes. “The problem is the dealers are careful. Paranoid. They vet their customers hard. Most of them can sniff out a cop from a mile away.” She paused. “We’ve lost officers trying to get inside those networks.”

“How do you track them? Any telltale signs a journalist could look for?”

Solenne leaned in, lowering her voice even though their booth was tucked away from the room. “They use symbols. The most common one we encounter is a three-point crown with a pitchfork through the center. That’s the mark of an illegal arms dealer.”

Apricot sketched the emblem into her notebook. Crown. Pitchfork. Rough but recognizable.

“If you see that graffiti,” Solenne continued, “there’s a dealer nearby. The pitchfork’s handle usually doubles as an arrow pointing toward the meeting spot or the entrance. A directional marker only insiders are meant to notice.” She sat back, watching Apricot scribble. “Our undercover teams spend days combing back alleys looking for those marks.”

Crown, pitchfork, arrow at the base.

Something tightened in Apricot’s chest. Not excitement. Closer to the feeling of a lock turning.

She buried it behind the notepad.

“How dangerous are these places?” she asked, keeping her voice even. “Realistically.”

Solenne didn’t smile. “I’m a cop, and I wouldn’t walk into one without backup. The people running these markets don’t hesitate to use their own merchandise on uninvited guests.” Her voice was flat with experience. This wasn’t hypothetical for her.

Apricot nodded, trying to hold her face in the shape of professional curiosity while her stomach turned. She pictured herself stepping into some dimly lit warehouse. Hardened criminals turning to stare.

Solenne watched her for a long moment, concern narrowing those sharp eyes.

“Apricot,” she said quietly. “Promise me you’re not going to do anything reckless with what I just told you. Research is fine. But I’d hate to see you poking around those places.” Her voice was gentle, but the warning beneath it was real. “No story is worth that.”

The words landed like a hand on her shoulder. Warm. Protective. In the way.

Guilt crept up Apricot’s neck. She closed the notebook and slipped it back into her coat. “Don’t worry,” she said, and the lie came out smooth, practiced. “It’s all for the article. No field trips into danger. I promise.”

Solenne held her gaze a beat longer than comfortable. Then she exhaled and offered a small, reluctant smile. “All right. But if I don’t see a brilliant exposé out of all this, I’m coming for you.”

Apricot managed a thin smile back. It was the best she could do.

She changed the subject. “How are things with Arjun?”

Solenne’s expression softened instantly. “Oh, him,” she said, rolling her eyes in a way that barely hid her grin. The shift was so complete it stung to watch. Easy warmth. Ordinary happiness. The kind of life Apricot was lying to protect.

They talked for another twenty minutes. Dating news, campus gossip, small domestic complaints about nothing. Normal conversation, the kind Apricot hadn’t let herself enjoy in what felt like a long time. She laughed at the right moments, teased when expected.

Beneath the performance, her thoughts circled a sketch in her notebook.

A tiny crown. A pitchfork.

~

In the far corner of the Lotus Tea House, beyond the warm glow of the lanterns, four men occupied a shadowed booth behind a folding screen and several tall potted ferns. Empty cups and crumb-dusted dessert plates suggested they had lingered far past their welcome.

A young waitress in a cheongsam approached with a fresh pot of tea. Conversation at the table died at once. She refilled their cups with practiced grace, each man offering a polite nod or thin smile. The heavyset one with iron-gray hair lifted a hand to signal he’d had enough.

She bowed. “Enjoy, gentlemen.”

Her footsteps faded behind the screen. The moment she disappeared, the air at the corner table thickened.

Naju set his teacup down with a deliberate clink. The genial facade dropped from his face.

“Something needs to be done about Kyo,” he said, low and measured. “She has no respect for the Order. None.”

Ujima, at his left, ran a tired finger around the rim of his cup. His heavy-lidded eyes, gray as his hair, stayed fixed on the table.

“We all watched her murder my brother,” Naju continued. His voice roughened. Beneath the table, his fists clenched until the knuckles blanched. “And everyone celebrated. Because of some prophecy written by a senile old woman. They treated her like a hero for spilling his blood.” A muscle worked in his jaw. “I will not allow this to stand.”

Ujima cleared his throat. “I agree, Naju,” he said quietly. Pain lived in his eyes, but so did caution. “But Kyo has the lower Order’s loyalty. They adore her now. If we move directly against her, they’ll revolt. They’ll claim we disrupted the prophecy. And if the rituals fail, they’ll lay the blame at our feet.”

He sipped his tea. It had gone cold, but the habit steadied him.

The third man leaned forward, his face mostly swallowed by shadow. “Don’t pretend innocence, Ujima. We all know what needs to be done.” His gaze swept the booth. “Kyo must be killed. She’s become a threat to everything the Order was built to protect.”

At the blunt word, Ujima flinched. His eyes darted toward the screen as if the waitress might still be nearby. But their corner remained sealed in shadow. The pianist’s melody drifted through the air, serene and oblivious.

Naju exhaled slowly. He had been waiting for someone to say it aloud.

“Quietly,” he said. “Decisively.” His dark eyes moved to the fourth man, the only one who had not spoken.

Hegia.

Lean and composed, the youngest of the group. He sat with fingers steepled, his expression untouched by the conversation around him. The mention of murder had not stirred his face.

“The question,” Hegia said softly, “is who will carry it out.”

The three older men exchanged glances. Naju’s rage made him bold but not reckless. Kyo was powerful, and any assassin who failed would pay with his life. Ujima kept his eyes on his tea. The third man drummed his fingers, clearly hoping someone else would volunteer.

Hegia straightened. The decision was already carved into his posture.

“I will,” he said.

Every head turned.

“I already have an opportunity,” he continued, his voice flat and certain. “Kyo and I are meeting tomorrow evening at the old Orpheum Theater to discuss the future of the Order.” A faint, humorless line touched his mouth. “We’ll be on the balcony level. It’s a long drop.”

He let the implication settle.

Naju leaned closer, lowering his voice to a whisper. “You’re certain you can do it cleanly? No struggle. No alarm.”

Hegia nodded once. “Quick. One moment we’ll be talking. The next, she’ll be gone.” No bravado. Just the calm of a man who had already rehearsed it. “I do this for Mitsura. He didn’t deserve that death.”

Ujima closed his eyes, his lips moving in a silent prayer. The third man thumped his chest once in grim solidarity.

Naju looked at each of them in turn. Their faces were solemn, unified, and terrified of the cost should this secret escape. “This meeting never happened,” he said. “No one outside this booth can know we even spoke of Kyo.”

“It will not leave this table,” Hegia said, firm and unwavering. “After tonight, we never speak of this again.”

They held each other’s gaze. Then, one by one, they inclined their heads. A silent oath bound by grief and necessity.

Beyond the screen, the pianist drifted into a new melody. Cups clinked. Servers murmured. The Lotus Tea House continued its gentle, ignorant evening.

The four men rose separately, drifting out by different exits and different paths. They left behind a few coins on the table and the cooling scent of spiced tea in half-empty cups.