The hovergloss locks onto the city’s skyrail and glides forward. After the initial acceleration, it hardly feels like the hovergloss is moving at all; only the flashing of buildings and streets signals our rapid advance.

“I’m not playing at anything,” I say. “I’m just...done.”

“Done,” she repeats without inflection, her mouth thinning. She rolls her eyes.

“Done,” I repeat, crossing my arms. I feel the ebb and flow of vitality around us as we pass over rush hour traffic.

“If you’re done, what are you going to do about it?” she asks, staring deeply into my eyes, demanding my attention.

“Do about what?”

“You tell me.”

I inhale deeply. “Mother...”

“You’re clearly ‘done’ with something, Ignatius,” she says softly, voice intense, eyes captivating and predatory. “What?”

“School.”

“Why?”

“It’s pointless, isn’t it?”

Her face doesn’t change. “No, it isn’t,” she responds. “It gets you a job.”

“Why do I even want to get a job? Besides, you’re the one who was so against me studying glossy programmatics in the first place.”

Though I’m working carefully to control my facial expressions to maintain a collected exterior, my heart is racing. I’m here, with Mother, talking to her.

For the first time in years, I actually have some sense of security. Even if the loop resets, the her of this loop is the same Mother I’ve always known, a flawless copy. Of anyone in my life, it’s her that I trust most to help me sort this mess out. I don’t plan to tell her about the loop and myself, of course–she’ll never believe me without proof, and proof could reset the loop. But I can ask her other things.

“You want a job,” she begins, “because without one you’re nothing but a waste of space.”

I laugh. “Why do I really want a job?”

“Because power is the only thing that matters,” Mother replies, voice scathing. “And real power is something you don’t have.”

“What do I want to use power for?” I drawl, looking out at the bay peeking through the skyscrapers. “Why not live in isolation somewhere far from society?”

This is a mildly serious question; it’s something I’ve been considering on and off for when I escape the loop.

“You’re awfully argumentative today,” Mother says, snorting. “It’s because power exists to be used. And if it’s not used willingly, well.”

“Well what?”

“Its use will be forced. Or, it might just be destroyed.”

“What do you want power for?” I ask. I stare at her expectantly, hands folded neatly over my lap. I know all about Mother’s unfulfilled ambitions.

Her mouth twists into a frown. “I want to destroy this wretched city.”

“Why?” I breathe. But I know why. Her single-minded purpose sends a shiver down my spine. She wants to kill Vanderlich. She wants him and his tower to burn.

“Because it is just,” she responds, eyes steely.

“What then, after?”

“Nothing.”

I blink.

“The best kind of goal is one that is simple,” she replies, leaning back and closing her eyes. “I live to see Vanderlich die. I don’t need anything more out of this life to be happy.”

She’s telling the truth. She doesn’t need me to exact vengeance for her.

“What happened to your direction, Ignatius?” Mother asks, eyes still closed. “You were going to get a degree and join a guild. A pathetic life, but a life nonetheless. Better than no degree at all.”

“You’re right,” I say. “I need something more. Something better than working for a guild.”

One eye snaps open. “You’re too pathetic to reach for anything higher.”

I chuckle. Mother can be so...draconian.

“Do you really mean that?” I know she does: Mother always says what she means. The me before the loop would have verified, however, futilely hoping that she’d take her words back.

“Yes.”

“Isn’t it pathetic to live your life for the sake of revenge?” I ask. I’ve always admired her for her resolve and devotion to Vanderlich’s downfall, but seeing her now, saying that the only thing she needs to do in her life is carry out his death...it’s more disappointing than I could have anticipated.

“It all depends on who you’re taking revenge against,” Mother replies, sitting up and giving me a serious look. “If a nobody like me dies to kill Vanderlich, I’d call that the worthiest of trades. If he dies killing someone like me, I’d call that the most pathetic of failures.”

I think to myself for a moment. “What kind of goal is fitting of someone like Vanderlich?”

“Men like that no longer have goals beyond self-preservation,” Mother spits.

“What if he tried to kill...?”

“We’re home,” Mother announces. “There’s something wrong with you, and I’m going to find out what.” She exits the hovergloss, dragging my hand behind her in a vice grip.

—

Our building is, unsurprisingly, as I remember it: decaying, ornate, palatial. The roof is spangled with crenellations, and a weathered, half-destroyed gargoyle grips onto the left wall, its head and wings replaced by curling ivy. While my great-grandfather owned the entire property, we now only hold title to a small sliver of the mansion-turned-multi-family-home.

Mother takes in the looming structure with a huff and leads me up the stairs by the hand, like I’m an unruly child. The mansion has one door that opens into a gloomy hallway, its candelabras lit by undying flame. It’s a luxury that the mansion inherited from its past–if the flames ever extinguish, I can’t imagine the landlord replacing them with anything other than low-cost glow lamps.

We traverse the hallway and its dank, dried-blood-colored carpet, its floral designs sinister in the low light. Mother pulls a key from her coat pocket and finesses it into the lock made finicky by age. After jimmying the key around a bit, and twisting the knob, the tumbler catches and the door creaks open.

She tugs me forward into the house, as though I either don’t know the way or am moving far too slowly for her liking. I shake my head and follow her lead, keeping with her aggressive pace.

“If you hate this place so much,” I begin, “why do you still live here?”

As I wait for her response, I feel the energy of death circulating around the property. There used to be a private graveyard in the back, which I knew about, and expected. But there are also several bodies buried under the property, and one suspiciously stashed in one of the residences.

“It’s the best property for the price,” she snaps. When Father made the choice to sell the mansion before his untimely death, he did so only after securing a fifty-year agreement from the landowner to pay utilities costs for the building, including our own privately-owned sliver.

“But you hate it,” I retort. “We have the money. We don’t need this place.” I gesture to the peeling wallpaper. Free utilities aren’t worth Mother’s angst.

After climbing another set of stairs, we reach the door to our house. Mother had our personal lock replaced a few years ago, so the key slides in without issue, and she unlocks the portal with a sharp twist of her fingers. The room is long and thin: a rectangular table spans its center, while an antique and cloudy mirror stands off in the corner next to an equally antique (and chipped) dresser. A patterned carpet lays across the floor, an heirloom of the past. It’s slightly too big for the room, and curves up into the crown molding, but is in pristine condition: I think Mother would rather die than let her “priceless” rug fall into disrepair.

“What happened to Zefur?” I ask. I can’t feel her vitality anywhere.

“Dead,” Mother states, face devoid of emotion. “I wasn’t planning to tell you immediately, given...” she gestures to my entire body. “The fact that you’re back for mental health reasons, but since you asked, I’m not going to lie.”

“How?” I ask. Zefur had only been six.

She shrugs off her coat and peels off her black heels. “Ate rat poison.”

How unfortunate. I really missed Zefur. “What did you do with her body?” I know I’m not going to like the answer when I ask: I haven’t detected a cat’s corpse anywhere nearby.

“I threw her out with the trash,” Mother replies. “What did you expect me to do? We don’t own the backyard.” She looks away, clearly frustrated. “I liked the cat too, you know. But it died, and I needed to get rid of it.”

I sigh. No chance of getting the body back, then. But she’s right: there isn’t really anywhere else for her to put a dead animal but the trash.

I settle into one of the seven chairs along the dining room table, kicking off my shoes and draping my coat on its high back.

She joins me, sitting in the chair to my right, leaning up against the back and letting out a tired groan. “When you’re old, your back is going to hurt too, you know.”

“What have you been doing?” I ask. Her life is a series of schemes, circles within circles of deceit. Being in the loop and having to lie all the time has finally given me an awareness of how exhausting her life must be.

“Settling the accounts of Johann Orlief,” she says.

“Why?” I lean into the table, clasping my arms on the wood. “How is he connected to Vanderlich?”

“Cousin,” she answers. “A third cousin, but a cousin nonetheless. He sees Vanderlich every so often, and sometimes does business for him.”

“So, then. What’s the end-game?”

Mother’s eyes darken. “I plan to eventually work for his rival, Vanderlich’s brother, Liam.”

I shake my head slightly. How could one family have business competition within itself? The wealth of the Vanderlich and extended family empire...just thinking about it left a bitter taste in my mouth. Mother had beaten disgust into me like a reflex.

“Good luck with that,” I say, voice hard, though genuine.

As I take in her tired form, her wrinkles and creases, her declining vitality, her worn-out cartilage, I feel pity wash over me. Though Mother is by all-accounts a fairly brutal parent, I can’t deny that I care about her.

“If Vanderlich were to die tomorrow, what would you do?” I ask.

“I would destroy this city.”

“If the city burned to ash, what would you do?”

She gives me a cool look, as though daring me to contest her. “I’d burn with it. If everything burns, why should I be the exception?”

I look away and roll my eyes. She believes what she’s saying, but Mother has always been dramatic. If push came to shove, I doubt she’d really throw her life away so easily.

I have the sudden, unbidden impulse to give her what she wants. Even if it means restarting the loop, I’d only have to redo Menocht. I might never have the chance again: I wouldn’t have the will and hatred needed to actually raze Jupiter to ash outside of the loop.

But...it could be a fun challenge, I think to myself. Destroying Jupiter without triggering a restart.

—

I settle into my room and change into an old pair of casual clothes. Thankfully, I won’t have to wait long to receive my current wardrobe: Academia Hector said it would send over my belongings in the next 24 hours for pickup at a transfer station. I stare into the mirror, adjusting my collar and combing back my hair with a hand. I detect the slightest trace of faded energy on my bed, likely the place where Zefur died.

I fall onto my comforter, my head resting next to the darkened spot. I envision her in my mind, little Zefur...if there was more vitality to work with, I’d try and form it into a soul gem. Unfortunately, what’s left of her is akin to the dust upon my dresser, thin and easily swept away.

After a moment of reflection, I head out the door. If I’m back in Jupiter, I might as well walk around the city a bit before I destroy it.

Mother’s still sitting at the table when I emerge. “Where are you off to?”

“Nowhere in particular.”

“I still can’t figure out what you’re planning,” she admits. “Something must have changed, for you to come home like this, though I sincerely doubt it’s anything related to your supposedly attempted suicide.”

I raise an eyebrow, pulling down my shirt sleeve. “You don’t think I was serious when I made this?”

“You’re too much of a coward to invite an early end,” she says dismissively. “Besides, I was told that you cut yourself right in front of your roommate; you were never in any danger. This outcome was exactly what you wanted, but for the life of me, I can’t understand what you have to gain.” She shakes her head, lips curling into a slight grin. “Feel like sharing your plot with Mother?”

“I still can’t figure out what I’m planning,” I reply with a chuckle. “I might tell you, someday, when I know.”

She gives me a wry smile. “I can appreciate you trying to be secretive, for once.” She yawns. “Maybe you’re finally learning. Or not.”

I grab my coat as I swing past the dining table and open the front door. “I’ll have dinner on my own,” I call out from the threshold. Mother grunts in acknowledgement and I close the door.

Soon enough, I’m out in front of the house. As I’m considering where to go, my train of thought is cut off by the sound of a familiar voice. As if I could forget Vasil’s obnoxious baritone.

On a whim, I decide to give the watchers a small spectacle.

“Vasil,” I call out, turning around. “Long time no see.”

He sneers and straightens up at my calm demeanor.

“You’re back,” he says, folding his arms. “I can't say I’m surprised you faltered before the end. You made it three years, but...” he shrugs. “So close, my friend. So close.”

I roll my eyes. “University is a waste of time.”

His eyes narrow. “For you, maybe. If I went, I’d actually make something of myself.”

Oh, Vasil; you can’t even pass rudimentary math courses. Vasil is one of those people who is mean and bitter at the world because he hates himself. I have a better sense of what he feels, now: Menocht has, in many ways, forced me to confront my fears and flaws. But rather than turn me mean, Menocht has made me...distant, numb.

“Maybe I can help you,” I say, smiling thinly.

He snorts and takes a step forward, puffing himself up like a lion. “Shut up, Ian,” he bellows. “Like you could–“

I freeze Vasil in place, seizing control of his bones so that they remain stationary against his struggling muscles.

“Vasil,” I say, false concern saturating my voice. “Are you...?”

Vasil topples over, pupils constricting with fear.

“Let me help.” I run over, dropping to my knees. I place a hand over his heart. “Oh, poor Vasil...” His heart jumps, like it’s been shocked by thunder. A shrill whine escapes his throat.

Noticing that he’s trying to speak, I relax the bones in his jaw.

“Who are you?” he shrieks. “You’re not–”

I seize the bones in his jaw, closing his mouth.

“Shh,” I gesture. “Quiet, now. It’s just me, Ian.” I relax his jaw again, then give him a look.

“Of course,” he replies hoarsely, his eyes filled with fear. “Yeah, Ian. Okay.”

I smile to myself. Still no restart, and it seems like Vasil believes me to be an imposter, giving me leeway to act out of character.

“This city has pushed you down at every turn, Vasil. How would you like to push back?”

His eyebrows furrow. “Push back?”

“Can you do a few things for me? Hmm?”

“S-sure. Yeah, anything.”

I give him a calculating look and caress his neck with a finger, tracing his carotid artery.

“Bring me to your Brothers.”