Vladimir fidgeted where he sat, fingers twitching nervously in his lap, eyes stubbornly avoiding the two figures looming at the base of the stairs.
"S-So…" he mumbled, voice strained, "You want any tea?"
Marcus didn't respond. He just stared—harder, sharper, until the air between them felt like a coiled spring. The offer died in Vladimir's throat.
Alexa, ever the contrast, leaned against the railing with a lazy smile that never reached her eyes. "Listen, Vladimir," she purred, tone feather-light but razor-edged, "you're young. You've still got a lot of years ahead of you. Are you sure you want to throw them away protecting some boss who'd sell you out the second you got inconvenient?"
Vladimir lifted his head, blinking. "I'm in my sixties."
He jabbed a thumb at himself for emphasis.
Alexa blinked, then laughed—light and dismissive. "Ah, right. Mortals. Forgot that's considered 'old' when your spine actually ages." She rolled her eyes, though the smirk never wavered. "Immortality kinda scrambles your sense of time."
Marcus exhaled another stream of smoke. "Don't make this harder than it has to be," he said flatly, no inflection, no patience. "I can make you talk. I'd rather not. But keep playing dumb, and I will."
Vladimir let out a long groan, rubbing the back of his neck like it would calm the nerves buzzing in his skull. After a beat, he threw up his hands.
"Alright, alright! I'm making drugs for Victor Reed, okay? The mob boss guy! Big, loud, likes suits—that guy."
Marcus swore under his breath, dragging his hand down his face. "God damn it. I knew I should've disciplined him back at the damn club."
Alexa tilted her head, stepping closer. Her tone was almost sweet now, but her eyes were sharp enough to draw blood. "Those three we saw leaving—are they the ones running deliveries for Victor?"
Vladimir hesitated, his eyes darting to the locked safe across the room. "Sometimes. It's a rotation system. Different guys show up depending on the week. But those three? They've been the ones to come by twice now."
Marcus turned his full attention on him again. "And how long," he said slowly, dragging the question out like a blade, "have you been making drugs?"
Vladimir's eyes lit up, his tone suddenly perking with pride. "Oh, since I was a teenager! Found this old chemistry set in a dumpster when I was fourteen and—"
"Not in general," Marcus cut him off sharply, smoke curling from his mouth as he spoke. "How long for Victor."
"Oh." Vladimir cleared his throat. "Oh. Right. About three months now. Started rough, real sloppy stuff. But the new batches?" He grinned, practically glowing with self-satisfaction. "Practically perfect."
Alexa gagged, face contorting with disgust. "Calling that perfect while wasting vampire blood makes you a special kind of idiot."
Marcus didn't react to the comment—he was already moving forward with the next question. "What else do you use, besides vampire blood?"
Vladimir hesitated, then mumbled something under his breath.
Marcus leaned forward. "What?"
"…Werewolf blood," Vladimir said, quieter now.
The room fell dead silent.
Marcus's eye twitched—just once, but enough to betray the sharp spike of fury flooding through him. His prosthetic arm clicked as he clenched his fist, the reinforced joints flexing with dangerous tension.
"What the fuck kind of self-respecting werewolf would work with you?" he snarled, suddenly in Vladimir's face, close enough that the alchemist could see his own terrified reflection in the rage boiling behind Marcus's eyes.
Vladimir nearly shriveled into the couch, lips trembling, words failing.
"Marcus, dear~" Alexa cooed, stepping in with a graceful sway and resting a hand gently on his tense bicep. "Not every werewolf is honorable and upstanding. Some are just as desperate, greedy, and short-sighted as your average mortal. You know that."
Marcus drew in a sharp breath through his nose, then exhaled slowly. He stepped back, the pressure of his presence finally easing off Vladimir like a storm cloud drifting away. The older man sagged in his seat, pale and clammy, like his soul had nearly evacuated through his pores.
"There's… there's a werewolf named Wade," Vladimir stammered, eyes darting between them. "He's the one helping Victor. Has a whole pack under him. He's—he's their leader."
Marcus pressed a hand to his temple, dragging his fingers down his face with a groan. "Of course he is. One headache turns into a whole goddamn migraine…"
He fished a weathered black notebook out of his coat and flipped it open. "What does he look like?"
Vladimir rattled off the details, voice still trembling but steadier now that the yelling had stopped. Marcus jotted everything down without looking up.
Meanwhile, Alexa strolled over to the cluttered worktable with idle interest. Her fingers danced across the labeled vials until she slipped two small ones into her palm—vampire blood, werewolf blood. She glanced back to make sure neither of the men were paying close attention, then tucked them into the space between her breasts with the fluid grace of someone who'd done this sort of thing before.
She returned just as Marcus finished scribbling.
"So," she said, brushing nonexistent dust from her shoulder. "What do we do with him now?"
Marcus closed the notebook with a snap and tucked it away.
"He keeps working. Like nothing's changed." He looked to Vladimir, voice firm. "You dilute the product. Less potent, less addictive. Keep Victor happy, but slow him down."
Vladimir nodded quickly, sweat clinging to his temples. "Y-Yeah. Got it. I can do that. Totally. No problem."
Marcus turned toward the stairs with Alexa close behind. But halfway up, he paused, one boot resting on the bottom step. He looked over his shoulder, expression dark.
"If you breathe a word of this to anyone—" his voice dropped into something cold, absolute, "—you don't even want to imagine what I'll do to you."
Vladimir swallowed hard. "Understood. Got it."
"Good." Marcus continued climbing without another glance.
"See you later, Vladimir~" Alexa called sweetly, throwing a wink over her shoulder.
And then they were gone.
Vladimir slumped forward with a long, guttural sigh, hands gripping his knees.
"Ugh. Human greed," he muttered bitterly. "Is there a worse weakness?"