Twenty fifteen, Mollusc Era. Inkopolis’ skyline dissolved its last orange glow. The Great Zapfish wasn't yawning and coiling around its tower. It was the only thing on the news back then: our city patron is nowhere to be seen around Inkadia.

Unbeknown to the capital's general population, it was a delivery day.

The streets were infested with commuting citizens. The cars moved at a sluggish pace at the traffic lights. Some of the more impatient, bolder drivers and motorcyclists would opt for detours on side streets. Seeing someone suddenly yank the steering wheel towards the next alley wasn’t an odd sight. Thus, this driver’s tangled route blended in better, his shortcuts were stealthier.

Alas, they would still be late. As always, no free parking spots were available.

A head of urchin spikes, their tips neon green, shuffled higher on the passenger's headrest. "Anyway? Why the fuck we took the car?"

"Why not?" An inkling's sprawling smirk stopped just before his sunglasses: big plastic white shades, with tips sharply flicking outwards. The inkling's slightly-yellowed fangs went along with his ink. "You seen the fuckin' ting mate?"

The sports car had a custom paint job, a shimmering yellow, to match its owner. It looked like an ingot rolling around the capital's streets. Parking spot or not, it would've stood out to anyone, in any setting.

"...My point,” the urchin hissed through gritted teeth. “Man's gotta be subtle. You know what happened to your old man."

A doubtful grimace fell behind the clout glasses. "I'm not buyin' that breeze," the inkling’s pale fingers tapped on the leather-lined steering wheel, as he turned his head around the corners. "Listen. If they wanted him merked, they coulda just shot his brains out."

"A car accident gonna raise fewer questions," the urchin pulled at their necklace: a razor blade threaded through a ball chain. "See? They know how to be subtle. Not like you. You go for the most dumbass options. Like the fuckin’ Lampreyghini."

"Piss off," he sizzled through his chuckle. He had his limited mind too occupied to think of a better comeback.

Same old banter. It was their only mode of communication on the job. Though, this run was probably the least cosy one.

Their smooth operations had been thrown off by their boss' sudden elimination. A Sepia Market kingpin went down. Tresor Tiede was there at the establishment of the Market, and had been the only one able to maintain steady contact with the Underground. Obscene amounts of money flowed. Envy was inevitable. Bad blood was stirring up.

He was an enviable man, in all honesty. He was already making insane figures in one of Inkopolis’ biggest financial institutions, doing what he knew best: moving money around, sucking the competition dry. There wasn't much time left for actual recreation. He was blowing off steam reserving his Fridays at the glitziest strip club the capital could offer, to inhale pure lines off someone's thigh. And yet, it wasn’t ever enough; closer to the sun he aimed.

There was no satisfaction to be found in a concealed floor of an office building with no natural lighting. He was constantly searching for those adrenaline-inducing deals. Tresor took a liking for highs that keep you up at night. Tresor began buying these in bulk, and entered the Sepia Market's trading game. His son joined these games as well.

"Syro. You missin’ my point. His other car got clapped for nothin'. That one was bangin', a bloody V80 engine."

Of course, his son was too much of an unpolished stone to maintain some face-saving professionalism on the field. He was left in the care of one of Tresor's most loyal men to handle low-volume street trading. Barely an honour, Syro thought.

"The f-... Who cares about the fuckin' car?!" The urchin flailed their hands in frustration. "Shit’s worse than that! Where’s next? When? Who? We’re fucked!”

“Shut it already.” Parking took a lot of brain-power, and Syro didn’t have a volume knob, unlike the radio emanating a verbal waterfall of lyrics over a thousand snares per minute.

Finally, a clear parking spot revealed from their side. The yellow inkling reversed, and began nudging towards it. After two large turns of the wheel and some backwards-forwards action, they had finally stopped.

The urchin was the first to get out. They wouldn't drop the subject. “No jokes. We never answered anyone besides Tiede. Had he spoken to the Market admins about a backup? Who the hell knows who's second in chain?"

The yellow inkling took his sweet time to slide off the driver's seat. He stood up and slammed the door shut. Although his car would’ve fit a high-profile celebrity event, his attire didn’t match. His tank top was stuffed inside a pair of Adidace sweatpants, unmistakable by the three white stripes on their sides.

He briefly leaned on his convertible, and pulled at his gold chain. "You that fuckin’ stupid, mate? It’s Marzi motherfucking Tiede," he announced with a nauseating smirk.

The urchin puffed in disbelief. Yeah, right. In a stroke of defiance, they had already started walking to where the two should've already been, if not for the parking situation. The pair had ended up a number of streets away from the agreed drop-off location.

"Like you’d ever stand up to it. You’re nothin' more than a fuckin’ chav."

Marzi shrugged in his walk. "Not anymore, innit? My man didn't write no will. Right, he just went like," the inkling snapped his fingers. "One day, ‘ere. Next one," his fingers made a crude gun shape, and mimicked his own theory. At the squeeze of his thumb, his long ear slammed into his shoulder, to act out a gruesome bullet impact, "Pwoosh. An’ his assets go to the next of kin. That's that."

Tresor did not get shot, Syro would’ve been quick to rebut, though the delivery point came up in their sights. The alley they were on was clear. It was carefully chosen, as there were no windows overlooking it. Both sides of the pavement were lined with garages and back doors for the local businesses. Fresh graffiti was sprayed over the old existing pieces, which used to be littered with tags. The singular surveillance camera had also been sprayed on, at the old man's orders, may he rest in peace.

The two came closer to an innocuous manhole. The design was the same as all the district’s other manholes. Marzi raked the dirt off it with his right sneaker, hands still in his tracksuit's pockets.

"Come on, love. Get on it. On your knees," Marzi commanded.

"Not funny."

"You ain’t done the knockin' by now? You disobeying orders?"

"Fuck you. If you gonna play, this is my last run and I'm out," Syro pointed at him with twitchy aggression.

"An' who's gonna cover your ass?"

"I've been doin’ this for longer than you. I don't need no idiot chief in charge."

"Issit? Guess who's controlling these ends now. One wasteman jumpin' ship is nothin' to my Trade."

"...You know what? The boys downstairs can scratch you off too. I hope they do, when they see how you wanna run the Market."

"Whew. You can’t ‘ave a joke for shit," Marzi slurred under his breath. He then shifted his balance, stomping his foot on the manhole's cover with his entire body weight.

Bang, bang, bang.

An oddly hollow sound echoed underneath.

"Tresor would be rolling in his damn grave if he knew you'd be finessin' his suppliers." Syro needed the last word, before they had to cut it out. They had to move quickly for what followed.

The manhole cover suddenly shifted by itself, uncovering the murky tunnel underneath. It was too dark to see inside, though a vague violet glow came and went: someone's bioluminescence.

Various packages began emerging from the hole. Most were boxes tightly wrapped in basic packing tape, and others were resealed padded envelopes. The two swiftly stuffed them in their gym bags. The two alternated between keeping an eye out, and taking the day’s stock.

A sharp purple-tipped hand emerged from the manhole. It was time for the other side of the trade. Syro brought forward the other gym bag on their shoulder, and opened it up. The items they had to offer in trade were similarly packed at first glance, if it weren't for, oddly enough, the exposed kelp crisps packets.

“Why they always ask for kelp crisps?” Syro murmured their dilemma.

“Why you puttin’ so many questions? Do as they fuckin’ say, so they do as we fuckin’ say."

A non-answer. Syro wasn't sure what they expected from Marzi, if anything. Before they shrugged it off, the kelp crisps were grabbed in the same hurry. As soon as the wares finished pouring, Syro helped slide the manhole cover back in place, feeling the other dealer doing their part from below. They haven't seen each other's faces, yet here they were, practicing courtesy. Marzi stepped on the cover for good measure, then trailed to the car, albeit with less impetus.

This was a light delivery, yet the gym bags weighted tons on Marzi's shoulders. One corner of his mouth would hang heavy on his face as well, while he stared deep into his sunglasses' polarizer. Whatever was left of the sun took a dip into the skyscrapers behind him. Right before his shadow disappeared into the twilight, it stretched for the intersection, where a car's rolling tires would cut it at its thighs. His step stuttered.

"Oy," Syro broke the silence. "Can't keep up?"

Marzi shook off the bag straps, then pulled them back up. "These're half-loads. Makes you wonder why they call you to pick up fuckin' pocket change."

"It's spreadin' the distribution thin," Syro routinely recited. "Can't risk bein' busted with a full load. It's worse on their side. They got cameras and shit everywhere, you done know. You gonna have to think about their protocols before askin' for big shipments."

"Yeah, asshole, don't have to spell it like I'm in bloody diapers. Can't you cut it?"

Despite their instinct, Syro decided against the low-hanging insult. It became too grating how atypical this run felt. Marzi's game was crumbling. He snapped at every little thing during the delivery.

"Mate... You need to chill. You can't go straight into the lead after, uh, the shock. You're in shock. How 'bout takin' some time off the Trade to..." they sought another word, though it was better to lay it flat. "Why not take a day to mourn?"

Marzi stopped to turn. Instead of appreciation, Syro received a fistful of their tank top raised to their chest. The dulled razor blade hanging from their ball chain necklace got buried under the fabric. Marzi's breath fell hot on their nose.

"You fuckin' done with the stupid questions? Huh? My man thinkin' the globe stops turnin' when every man gets clapped?"

Syro's fingers started uncurling Marzi's, each of his dry knuckles were giving into their strength. They pushed him away, putting a cautionary distance. Both were on a defensive stance, muscles tensed, anticipating the other to jump at their neck again.

"Yo, don't act loose. You bein' a dick about it just to look macho."

"Don't wanna hear none of that. One second off the Trade is gonna give the bastards chances. Every man wanna be the kingpin, and I'm guardin' the crown," Marzi readjusted his sunglasses. No trace of his sight was allowed to slip past.

"Be the kingpin or the clown, I don't give a fuck, but don't dare make the Tilda Trade your circus. Not while I breathe, not while you need me. And you will, I'll make sure of that. For the sake of Tresor, not yours," they made a point to give the sourest stare. Syro's tongue could've dripped venom at that point.

By the time Marzi though of some reply, Syro was opening the trunk by themselves, throwing their bags with little care for their contents.

It didn't matter who ended up calling the shots in place of Tresor, as long as Syro stayed the advisor. As long as the crosshair wasn't aimed for them, they'd stay in it for as long as needed, to honour their sole duty.

There isn't a thing she hasn't tried yet.

Techniques of breathing in and out, a chart of points around the body to tenderise for various ailments, mantras and affirmations to create the right mindset, pieces of paper with various prompts to jab at the inner turmoil and put it in order. These materials are scattered around the apartment without rhyme or reason.

The spiritual guide in front of her is one of the best, and priciest. You wouldn't be able to tell from appearances. He dresses deceivingly simple, all items from the basic Splash Mob cotton collection, and poses an austere life enriched by his inner livings. Executives and paparazzi-haunted celebrities testified their paths of change wouldn't have been possible without his guidance. They were led by the power of auto-suggestion to reach some sort of intrinsic desires, once the gunk of the metropolitan life and battling got swiped cleanly by this man.

Silviana also derives a sense of peace and awareness through his teachings, though something isn't clicking. This is only pouring more mud on top of her mental bog.

Every such session, her tongue itches to spill a dramatic confession, to vent her tired spleen of the images she holds locked down, the heights of pleasure and violence. She can't bring herself to it. She isn't worried of the bare details getting exposed to this man; he assured confidentiality through his price. She lacks the faith that this effort would go anywhere, with anyone. It is definitely beyond the realm of incense sticks. It will end up institutionalising her at best, and incarcerating her at worst.

"Keep up the good work. You've been making amazing progress," is how the guide always ends the sessions.

Silviana nodded, a hint of a smile tracing on her. Indeed, she is displaying behaviours any awakened mind would bring about. She pleases the guide by parroting his teachings. She memorised just how every sane and balanced inkling breathed. Her tentacles no longer flash in uncontrollable chromatophore spasms. Yet, she is still controlling this intrinsic process of holding on her colour, believing that the guide can't detect how heavily involved her consciousness is in it.

She remains seated in a cross-legged position while the guide gathers his gear from the open-plan living room. The penthouse is now in the same order as it was bought, with just its stock, sleek minimalist furniture. Silviana's serene smile keeps following him around. The guide is also a master of control, otherwise he'd seem a sham. Her lips may smile, though her eyes can't. Silviana keeps a heavy chain around her still, and its weight shows. The guide won't let himself get deeply unnerved by it, whenever she follows his instructions to the letter. There's nothing to critique, though everything's still gravely off.

The counselled also feels her effect on her guide. She makes the air expand and compress around anyone with just her sapphire eyes. Their depth is an abyss with no way back. It's a remnant of the business of emotion she was so involved in. It's a habit that's hard to grow out of. If Silviana causes him a career-related breakdown down the line, she won't feign any surprise.

Hence, there always is a next session. There's no comforting resolutions in her case file, if she had to guess.

The room's cleared of yoga mats. When she is finally alone, she calmly breaks out of the self-induced trance. She walks the width of the room around the glass wall, which frames a postcard-worthy view of Inkopolis Tower and the surrounding buildings. It's still missing its main resident, the Great Zapfish. Yet another ugly thing happening in this city. A butterfly's flap in the hurricane.

Her true self ends bubbling up with no escape, and a torrent of tears falls over the city. In the midst of the sky, in a safe luxury tower, someone silently weeps. She's lost track of how many days she spent mourning. She keeps pulling at her right index finger, as if she wanted it ripped out of her hand. As much as she tries, it's too fused to her to give up so easily. She'll have to live with the faint feeling of a pulse under it forever.

She's going nowhere. This was meant to be their home. Pieces of herself perish in between these walls. All of her time in this apartment gets pulled into a black hole, from which she keeps fooling herself something may come out. It won't come anytime soon. She has to go somewhere else.

She picks her baby blue phone and cancels the next appointment.