Finale

“Wake up now, morning’s here.”

“Ugh… Where am I? If this is a joke—”

“Ha! A joke, huh? If there’s a joke in the room, it’s you—and the barrels of slapstick you brought with you.”

Judy was just beginning to open her eyes—eyes heavy with a headache that wasn’t from her migraines. She was in an unfamiliar room, strapped at the wrists and ankles to a table. Her gaze locked on the looming silhouette beside her, but it was no use. She couldn’t make out the face. She had been kidnapped, clearly—and drugged during the ordeal. For a moment, she thought: They probably didn’t need the ropes. I couldn’t lift a finger even if I tried.

“At least you’re breathing.” Continued the giant of a man after a moment of pause. “That’s something. Some of the wannabe heroes I’ve heard about as a boy fell into eternal sleep right here on this table.”

What the hell was he talking about? Stories? What stories? And most importantly—who the hell was this guy, and what did he want from her?

“If it’s money you’re after, I can pay. There’s a bank in the ci—”

“Ah yes, the ‘glorious’ city—and cities.”

She nearly snapped: “What’s so wrong with cities?” But she bit her tongue. Even though his face was still blurry, it was clear this man had plenty to say—and maybe she should listen.

“I’m the current Tailor of these lands. My service is nearly done. A new Tailor has been chosen—already being prepared. Just a few loose ends to tie up. Almost there.”

“So you’re the infamous Tail—Wait, what? Another Tailor already? What is this, a clan or something? What the hell are you trying to do?”

“We could accept the term ‘clan’, just because it has a nice old-world ring to it. Or a ‘tribe’, perhaps. We’re simply people who’ve lived in these lands for centuries, and we’re determined not to let our way of life fall into the hands of the Uniformists like you represent. That’s the whole point.”

“…And for that, you kill anyone you see as a threat; is that it?”

“Let’s call it ‘being lost.’ After all, you and I will both be erased from the records. The targets are carefully chosen—insignificant enough not to spark any real investigation, but still capable of delivering a message. At least for those who are daring enough to take a look.”

“You know what’s going to happen now? This sick delusion of yours is going to blow up in your face. My partner—and more importantly, my boss—when they hear about this, the whole damn planet is going to know what you’re doing. You hear me? The whole damn planet!”

“Please. Don’t try to suggest I didn’t notice you weren’t alone in that bed. I even thought for a second about taking your boyfriend too. But I doubt his absence will cause much trouble.”

“He’ll come for me. He’ll find me, I swear he will! And all of you—all of you—will pay for this, I swear it!”

“Brave words. But I don’t think your lover’s insane. And if not him, then no one will come. Either way, there won’t be much left to find by the time we’re done here.”

–

Where was she?

Despite the fact that waking up alone was the first thing he remembered from that morning, she—Judy—had vanished. He shot upright in bed, not caring that the creaking wood beneath his feet echoed sharply through the quiet room. He searched every corner, frantically; but she was gone. No Judy, not even a scribble or a note. Then he noticed: Her bag was still in the room.

The unease that had begun to gather in his gut twisted tighter.

He didn’t even hesitate. He knocked on the innkeeper’s door, never mind the hour. No answer. Back in his room, he grabbed his coat and rushed out into the cold morning breeze.

“She’s got to be around here somewhere,” he thought. After all, this town—discounting the dozing excavators and the half-built scaffolding—wasn’t that big. And if we’re talking about Judy, well… she was never one to wander far. Especially in such threatening circumstances.

It was that half-light, the kind of hour where it’s hard to tell if the night is ending or just beginning again. He circled the inn, then headed toward the Central Market. The place, even in silence, hummed with a strange liveliness. He leaned against the statue—the one symbolizing the Storm—and lit a cigarette, trying to piece together where she might’ve gone.

The sun had only just begun to unfurl itself when he noticed smoke rising from deeper within the town.

Worry, instinct, and curiosity merged into one single command: Run! He flicked the cigarette into the communal tray beside the statue and ran—toward the smoke.

As he got closer, the shape of a burning house began to emerge from the haze. His lungs, ravaged by years of smoking, screamed for mercy as he pushed himself forward anyway. He ran as fast as he could.

But what he saw when he arrived. He had never been more stunned in his life.

Not the flames consuming the house. Not even the fact that he had run hundreds of meters without stopping. No. What froze him in place was this: Across from the burning home, a man—solidly built—had pulled up a wooden chair and was calmly smoking a pipe. As he walked toward the scene, something in him began to unravel. Thought slipped from him, like mist, like skin peeling from bone. He wasn’t sure if this lightness was helpful or horrible. But then—the scream.

A scream from within the flames. A voice he knew. And yet… even panic seemed too distant now. It was like being underwater.

He moved toward the chair slowly, at a pace that would’ve made a turtle seem impatient. The unspeakable man on the chair ignored to acknowledge his presence. As all the memories of Judy—his Judy—flashed before his eyes. He wanted to ask. He had so many questions—for himself, and for the man now within reach.

But when he opened his mouth, all that came out was a shrill whimper… followed by tears, a relentless flood.

For years, he had tried to melt the ice between them from underneath. And each time, all it did was drench him. Now, though, Hurricain was burning. He reached for the wooden chair in front of him—in a faint effort to steady himself. Alas, he couldn’t resist anymore. Something, like an invisible black hand from below, was dragging him down. Even the smoke of this wretchedness carried a cleansing purge within.

And just before he collapsed entirely, the last thing his senses registered was the sharp scent of clove tobacco from the man’s pipe.

“The expected storm never came.
But Hurricain burns-all the same.”