Corolla stared into his bottle of whiskey. A weaker orange in color than his luxurious suit and Dryhood steel mask. Whiskey came in a hundred forms and a hundred different variations. Corolla enjoyed the sweeter brands, though, like the more bitter, their effect nullified after endless and endless days of consumption.

He drank a mouthful, swallowing what tasted like candified syrup.

Some envied his ability to drink as much as he did without getting drunk. To Corolla, it was a self-inflicted curse. What was the point of drinking if not to get drunk?

His eyes stabbed the bottle, noting the surface line shrank a half-inch lower after every sip. The fireplace in front of him parched the air inside the rundown bar they occupied.

The room grew more humid by the second as a result of the firelight. Corolla thirsted more for the sweet taste of liquid candy, an addiction with no edge to be had. Before handing it over to Don across his body to his left, he took his last swig.

They both sat on the same brown leather couch, though they had a cushion between them as a buffer. Corolla didn’t like sitting too close to anybody, even Don. To sit close is to be close.

Don accepted the bottle graciously, nodding his head before drinking a small sip. He always knew how to stay on Corolla’s good side, though never would Corolla allow him to get any closer than he had, being his bodyguard and all.

Across from Corolla, a sly old man sat in an armchair adjacent to the fireplace. A newspaper in his hand, he folded the pages he finished before flipping to the other side.

Leon was an older man who had worked closely with Alphonse, Corolla’s father. To some in the syndicate, his gray hair indicated wisdom and experience. But to Corolla, he considered it lousiness. When there were dyes to change one’s hair, who in the world would choose to keep their hair gray?

But his hair was the least of his crimes, fashionwise. He suited in a kelp-green uniform, almost mirroring the design and patterns of Corolla’s. Leon had said he chose this hideous color scheme because it represented the Green Chefs.

Bastard, Corolla thought, eying him. Leon smirked, catching Corolla’s gaze. But the staring continued. Leon could only see his frown and not his arched eyebrows hidden under his mask.

“So,” Leon started. “You’ve done well with Igor.”

Corolla nodded. “Yes, we have. The shipment should be out of Soucrest now, heading to the Kitchen. Speaking of the Kitchen, why aren’t you there?” There wasn’t much effort to hide his resentment.

“Well,” Leon said. “As your Vice President, I would like to see our influence grow in Soucrest. After all, we’ve cut our greatest tie to the kingdom recently.”

“We were running low on supply,” Corolla said. He leaned forward. Why is it that I have to explain business to a man who has been involved in the same business longer than I have been alive? “Igor wasn’t the connection to Soucrest we needed to expand. I invested into Igor, like money into a stock. I was compensated for my contribution, all up until I pulled out with more than I put in.

“I did cut our tie to Igor. But, cutting is essential. Yes, we will lose a little profit, but think of the bottom line for once, Leon, and you’ll see that our Kitchen is about to be at full capacity for the first time in ages, and the resources harvested will carry us through the next year or so.”

Leon nodded. “Very well, you are the Boss. But, I would like to know your plan to expand into Soucrest.”

“We target the cities,” Corolla said.

“The cities?” Leon raised a brow. “The cities are heavily mandated, and policemen roam every street corner. We should start with the towns and have them bleed into the higher populated areas. That’s how your father would have done it.”

“I am not my father,” Corolla said bitterly. “My father is dead, unimportant to our business at this point.”

“Surely you can’t speak that way about—” Leon trailed off, catching Corolla’s glare. Leon liked to claw as far as he could but knew when to shut his mouth lest he sought Corolla’s wrath.

“My father’s empire has long since passed,” Corolla sighed. He hated Leon and his old connection to Alphonse. “In my father’s era, the towns were the better places to market to, yes. They were more independent, free, and rich. They could pay for our product, all the while they lived their steady lives. But since I’ve taken over, the towns got poorer while the cities only grew richer.”

“But sir,” Leon said. He sipped a small glass of water. Leon was clean of any and every addiction, alcohol, tobacco, and especially Gem Candy. Clean. Too clean.“It’s so hard to get any large cities addicted. Distribution is harder, the public resources are better off at helping those under our influence, and there is little ability for addiction to spread on its own. How do you suggest we hook a city to our product?”

Corolla eyed the glass Leon drank out of, gilded by Corolla’s attire. It had been a long time since Corolla last took a sip of anything that wasn’t poison. Looking at the clear, clean liquid, Corolla felt himself thirsty. He quickly glanced left, seeing Don sip the bottle of whiskey, minding his own business. He didn’t involve himself with the politics of the Green Chefs.

“We give it out for free,” Corolla said flatly.

Leon almost spat out his drink. His grimace showed for a few seconds before he realized who exactly he was talking to. Corolla had the job Leon always wanted but could never have. Alphonse could have handed the syndicate off to him, but he instead bestowed it onto Corolla to run. And it had turned out better that way.

Maybe not for Corolla, but the syndicate was doing great.

“The generations these days aren’t so liberal with how they spend their money,” Corolla explained. “They don’t experiment with anything that costs them money. If we want to break in, we have to start playing the current game instead of relying on the old way. Your way.”

Leon smirked. “My way, your father’s way, paved the way to the success we are experiencing now. The traditional way of things is a valid one, you must admit.”

Corolla frowned. To his left, Don handed over the whiskey. Corolla grabbed at it with his left hand, not looking, not thinking.

“Damn it!” Don yelled right before Corolla grabbed. As soon as Corolla snatched it, the bottle exploded in his gauntlet’s grasp, shattering to the heavy electric shock his Soulsmithed metal glove provided. His hand sparked. The splash of whiskey nearly struck him in the eye, the left of his mask catching a few traces.

His mask had been the second most expensive part of his body, costing hundreds of gold coins to be purchased. Whiskey stains weren’t easy to get out of Dryhood steel. Fortunately, his suit was as immune to stains as Corolla was to poison. It slid off like a kid going down a slide.

“Whoops,” Corolla said dryly. The folds on Leon’s wrinkled forehead drooped into folds as he lowered his brows with a twitch of his mouth. The accident was an accident, but seeing Leon’s expression ignited a glimpse of joy through Corolla’s bitter heart.

Don, on the other hand, was breathing heavily. “I’ll…” he paused, looking from the drenched couch up to Corolla’s sparking gauntlet. Don stood up. “I’ll go clean this up.”

Corolla nodded. “Thank you, Don,” he said as his bodyguard crossed to the bar table to retrieve a roll of paper towels. Corolla regretted almost killing him; he didn’t deserve such treatment. Out of everyone under Corolla, from Leon down to the bottom with the Green Chef’s muscle, only Don had ever truly pleased Corolla. When he returned to the couch, he pulled Corolla’s rubber scarf, wrapping it over to his gauntlet to wrap it up.

“For your safety,” Don said, tying the rubber into a knot. “While your gauntlet is wet, it will spark. Let it dry first before removing it.”

“Thank you,” Corolla said again.

Don nodded before moving to the floor to clean up the mess.

“That gauntlet is dangerous,” Leon said. “Why wear it all the time?”

“It’s like my mask,” Corolla said, leaning forward, free to move his left hand however he pleased, only he couldn’t grab anything with the scarf wrapped over it, not that he could with it off, as everything he touched received a deadly surge. “It’s a part of who I am at this point. My mask, my suit, and my gauntlet are all my way of marketing my image.”

Leon frowned. “I thought it was the Green Chefs, not the Orange Chefs.”

“Green is an ugly color to wear,” Corolla said, hoping it would upset Leon. And it did, as Leon pulled the collar of his puke-green jacket. “Besides, Orange stands out.”

“Oh yeah?” Leon asked, getting more passive-aggressive by the second. He drank the remainder of his water, setting the glass down carefully on the short table beside him, twisting it, creasing the fine wooden surface underneath. “I don’t see how ‘The Green Chefs’ stands out any better than ‘The Green Dragons.’”

“Our new name is more accurate,” Corolla said. “Our number one source of income comes from the movement of our drugs. We cook things, Leon. We aren’t dragons, and we don’t breathe fire. And we exist, of course.”

Leon smirked. “You know I jest,” he said. “I respect you dearly, Boss. You are the President, and your words are as good as law.”

Corolla nodded. All of those words he just said, none of them meant anything of value to Corolla. He feinted loyalty, and Corolla understood his father’s old friend. Yet, Corolla still kept him around and delegated a good portion of the business to him.

While they weren’t on the same page, Leon had an ability—Corolla hesitated to admit—to run things efficiently. Their partnership, while contentious at times, was vital to the business. Without either of them, the syndicate would crash.

So, Corolla kept him alive.

Corolla could order anyone dead, from peasants to noblemen to kings. Corolla could snap his fingers, and a blade would head their way. Or, if Corolla wanted to get his suit dirty, he could kill anyone himself. While tedious at times—and as depressing as killing had been to him—Corolla had a better chance of achieving someone’s death by using his own hand to do it.

The Hand of Death, Corolla thought, looking at his gauntlet covered in rubber in front of him. Anyone touched by his fingers died to his fingers. To most people’s surprise, Corolla had been extraordinarily competent in a fight, even if his skill had been artificial instead of earned.

No one can touch me, Corolla thought. His fingers jolted slightly under the scarf as he bent them one by one, his nerves dulling ever so slightly. But I can reach everyone.

For his skill, he indebted himself to addiction to achieve his abilities. Drink after Gem Candy, Gem Candy after drink, he repeated that until he became tolerant of death itself.

It was an excuse he once came up with to kill himself. But, as fate determined it—damned fate—his plan worked.

That damn potion was supposed to kill him, not be what made him invincible.

Damn tolerance, Corolla sighed, drinking from a glass of ale Don prepared for him.

“Sir,” Don bowed his head. “We have three informants ready to report to you.”

“They are here?” Corolla asked.

“Yes, sir,” Don said. “They are right outside. Are you willing to meet with them?”

“I suppose.”

“Very well,” Don said, moving to the front door. He whispered some to them before turning. Three separate men entered the bar following Don, moving over to kneel in front of Corolla. Don sat down on the couch to the left of Corolla. “First, we have Ponzo.”

“I’m Ponzo, sir,” a curly red-haired man said. He seemed youthful, new, and green to the Chefs. “Reporting.”

“Carry on,” Corolla waved his hand, encouraging him to speak.

“Right sir, well, as a Midhelm plant, it appears King Reagle is up in arms about his son, Dean Novac, deserting Midhelm.”

“So?”

“Well, you see, sir, well, Dean Novac ran south into Soucrest. And, coincidentally, he, oh, and one of his former bodyguards, um, Quin Hrole, were captured by Soucrest Colorswords nearby to Igor shortly after your… business.”

“And?” Corolla asked. He sighed, leaning forward. “Speak to me in some confidence, if you will. I don’t have all night to wait for you to puzzle together a sentence.”

“Dean and Quin are now serving under Symond Whyte’s Agency, Boss. Now, if we should, we could sell the news we collected to King Reagle, possibly score a few gold coins out of it.”

“Do we have anybody in Midhelm at the moment? Specifically Novacia City or close by?”

“No sir,” the informant—Corolla had already forgotten his name—said. “The closest proper informant is in lower Norcrest, but he is quite secluded, spreading the remainder of our Candy supply there.”

“Well,” Corolla said, quickly sipping a bit of his ale. “Valuable information, but unimportant ultimately. First of all, the agencies in Soucrest are quite public, so by the time we reach King Reagle, he’ll probably already know. And besides, Reagle is the type to torture the information out of somebody, rather than pay a snitch.”

“Yes, Boss,” the informant bowed his head before standing up, hurrying to leave the bar.

Better to leave quickly than fear Corolla’s wrath, he presumed most of them thought. Though, for the most part, Corolla was harmless.

“Next,” Corolla pointed to the next man up.

He bowed his head. “Sir Corolla,” he said, high pitched for a man, though a man with his thick black beard. “I am stationed in Falcon Hill, sir. And, only two days ago, the Soucrest King announced a full pursuit of those responsible at Igor.”

“That’s us,” Corolla said softly.

“Yes, sir,” the informant replied. “Though, their intelligence hasn’t yet pointed the finger at us or anybody else. Though, they do suspect that it may be a crime Syndicate.”

“Hmm,” Corolla muttered. To him, being so close to the massacre—being the man responsible—he found it hard from another perspective to not assume it had been the Green Chefs. Somewhat local, having their Kitchen located in Gleon to Soucrest’s east, and with how dedicated they were to the drug aspect of crime, the Chefs seemed so easy to blame. “Anything else?”

“Well,” the informant hesitated, fingering his beard. “Recently, three men visited Igor to investigate. One was a Colorsword general named Gordon Fall, the king’s brother. Another we don’t know much about. But, the third was none other than Ranun Spring himself.”

“That’s not good,” Corolla said. “The Soucrest King is getting himself too involved. Any ideas on how to slow him down?”

“Well, we could kill him.”

Corolla laughed bitterly. “Are you a fool?”

“Sorry, sir, it was just a suggestion.”

“A poor one,” Corolla noted. He sighed, finishing his ale, handing his glass over to Don. Don stood, moving to the bar to refill his drink. “No, something close to home, without actually being his home.”

“His wife? His son?”

Corolla shook his head. “No, that would only stir him up more. I’m thinking something that throws him off track completely.”

“Boss?”

Corolla sighed, accepting his glass of ale from Don, sipping on it while he thought. Something close to home, but something that will throw him off track…

“Burn his city down,” Corolla said. “Make it seem an accident. Target a building prone to exploding, something that could remove any if not all evidence of terrorism. Make it seem like an accident.”

“I’ll… get right on it, sir,” the informant said, bowing his head. “Is that all you need of me, sir?”

Corolla nodded. The man got up and abandoned the bar.

That left-most informant was the last remaining.

“Speak,” Corolla commanded. He decided to drink his ale slowly this time.

“Sir, I bring a message from Dormoor.”

“Dormoor?” Corolla coughed, speaking before his throat could swallow the ale. “I thought I instructed a full retreat out of the city. They are too strict for our product; we’ll never be able to sell there.”

“Right, sir,” the informant said shyly. He dyed his hair a silver color, though his roots were edging out brown. Youth accompanied his style of hair more than age did Leon. “But, before one of our plants left, Dormoor recently discovered a revelation. An oddity.”

“And what’s that?” Corolla asked, egging him to speak on.

“If you recall, our plant informed us that Aidan Payne, Lord of Dormoor, had two large Soulgems in his possession.”

Corolla nodded. Two large Soulgems were a lot of souls. Everyone’s soul, unchanged by consumption of Gemchemy products, produced one quart Gem. Four quarts made a small, eight small made a medium, and sixteen mediums made a large. In total, two large Soulgems equaled around a thousand souls, give or take a couple of tens as sizes weren’t always accurate. One of those Soulgems would be about a fifth of what they would get out of Igor, factoring in investment’s returns.

“And we’ve decided that Lord Aidan’s security was too strong,” Corolla said. “He would never let anyone but himself and his mage get access to those stones.”

“Sir,” the informant smiled, almost audaciously as he had good news to share. “Our plant informed me that they were enchanting humans for the better part of a year or two now. He only now discovered this, as they finally found success, putting one of his Soulgems into a young girl.”

Corolla perked up. “And this girl… is she well protected?”

“She spends most of her day with only a swole servant, sir. For most of the day, she doesn’t meet with Lord Aidan at all.”

“So,” Corolla said. “She’s easier to access than their other Soulgem, right?”

“That’s correct, sir.”

Corolla lifted from his seat, twitching a smile. “Our implant, is he—”

“Skilled?” the informant finished his sentence for him. Normally, Corolla would have snapped at him for his insolence, though this was a special occasion. Somebody other than Don did an excellent job. “He’s well-practiced, sir. He’s killed before and is more than capable of an assassination.”

“Good,” Corolla smiled. He lifted the glass of his ale, finishing it before tossing it to the counter, shattering it on impact. The bang rang in his ears, but it didn’t irritate him. “Now, tell our plant that her corpse needs to be at the Kitchen by the beginning of Fall or his service will no longer be welcome.”