They burst out of the Sweettooth Harmonics center into rain and wind, the storm still raging—but tired now, like a beast that had already spent most of its fury.

Thunder rolled farther away this time.
The rain came in sheets instead of knives.

Streetlights flickered weakly, reflections shattering across wet pavement as the group spilled into the open, breathless, soaked, hearts still racing.

Celeste limped slightly, blades still drawn, ears pinned flat as she scanned the rooftops on instinct.

Too open.

Too quiet.

Above them—shadows shifted.

Figures stood outlined against the stormlight on the roofline: Gideon’s guards. Still. Watching. Weapons already raised, patient as carrion birds.

Celeste’s stomach dropped.

“We’re not clear,” she whispered.

Wind howled down the street.

Rain hammered metal.

Then—

A sharp crack split the air.

Celeste cried out as something hot tore across her knee—not deep, not crippling, but enough. Her leg buckled and she hit the ground with a gasp, blades scraping sparks as she caught herself.

“Ow—! Stars—!”

Gideon’s voice drifted from the black, amused and close.

“Oh, do stop limping like that,” he said lightly. “I wasn’t asking.”

Another step. Slow. Certain.

“I’m telling you,” he continued. “I want my things.”

Celeste sucked in a breath, clutching her knee, teeth clenched.

“I—! I don’t—have—!” she protested, panicking, scrambling backward.

Arcade moved instantly.

He yanked the Data Shards out of Mezzo’s pockets in one clean sweep.

“Everyone listen to me,” he snapped, shoving one into Skye’s hand, one into Lumina’s, one into Mezzo’s. “You run. You do not stop. Park. Now.”

Gideon laughed softly.

“Oh goodie,” he purred. “Another chase.”

The gun cracked again.

BANG.

Arcade spun as the bullet punched through his quills with a sickening thwack, missing his head by inches. He staggered but stayed upright, breath knocked out of him.

“I’m—fine!” he barked hoarsely. “MOVE—!”

Mezzo didn’t hesitate.

He scooped Lumina up under one arm, grabbed Skye with the other, and bolted.

“PARK—RIGHT—NOW—NO LOOKING BACK—!”

They vanished into the dark at full sprint.

Celeste forced herself upright, knee screaming, blades shaking in her grip.

Topsy skidded to her side, eyes wide but bright.

“Okay!” she chirped. “Plan B! Or C! Or—ooh—SPLIT-UP DRAMATICALLY—!”

Another shot whined past them, shattering glass.

Celeste grabbed Topsy’s wrist.

“THIS WAY—!”

They tore down a side street—

—and then split.

Topsy veered left in a burst of glitter and confetti.

Celeste staggered right, teeth clenched, forcing her legs to obey.

Gideon’s footsteps followed.

Unhurried.

Playful.

“Oh don’t slow down for me,” he called. “I adore a wounded chase.”

A shot rang out—
Celeste ducked, slipped, caught herself on a wall.

“I—! Please—!” she panted, half-sobbing, half-running. “We already left—there’s nothing—!”

His laugh echoed.

“You’re a terrible liar,” Gideon replied pleasantly. “But an excellent distraction.”

Green light flickered ahead.

Night vision again.

Celeste’s heart hammered as she pushed forward, pain screaming, panic buzzing—

Running.

Stumbling.

Alive.

Behind her, Gideon followed—

Still amused.

The shot cracked again.

It missed—on purpose.

Celeste felt the heat of it skim past her ribs and yelped, stumbling as pain and panic tangled her steps.

Gideon’s laughter followed her down the street, smooth and delighted.

“You can run,” he called lazily, boots never rushing, never hurrying, “but I will find you, little freak of nature.”

Celeste spun half-around as she ran, breath ragged, fear spilling over into her voice.

“W-what do you want?” she shouted back. “Just—tell me!”

“Oh, kitten,” Gideon replied, amused. “You know exactly what I’m on about.”

She reached a rusted security gate and threw herself at it—

BANG.

The lock exploded. The gate slammed shut inches from her face.

Celeste shrieked and stumbled back, heart hammering.

“You know,” Gideon continued conversationally, stepping closer. “It isn’t yours. It was never meant to be.”

“I don’t—!” Celeste gasped, backing away. “If you want it—then—you’ll have to get it—!”

Gideon laughed outright.

“Listen to you,” he said warmly. “A peasant barking at her betters.”
His voice sharpened.
“You’re not fit to know what we already do.”

Another shot rang out—

It skimmed her tail.

Celeste cried out, clutching it instinctively as she staggered.

“But,” Gideon went on, clearly enjoying himself, “if you insist on playing this little game…”
A smile crept into his voice.
“…I suppose I can have some fun crippling Lady Umbranox’s pet project.”

Bootsteps thundered behind him—his guards catching up.

Celeste’s eyes darted, calculating through panic.

“Down the side alley,” she blurted desperately, pointing. “You’ll corner me there—see? I can’t go far—!”

She limped forward, breathing hard.

“Please—stop—my cardio is terrible—!”

Gideon chuckled.

“I will,” he said lightly. “Once I have what I want.”

Celeste fumbled in her pocket with shaking hands, yanked out the USB, and hurled it across the pavement.

“There!” she cried. “I don’t have it—take it—!”

Gideon didn’t even look at where it landed.

He smiled.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he said softly. “You really think that is what I want?”

He stepped closer.

“No,” he continued. “You’re the better prize.”

Celeste let out a frightened, helpless little meow, ears flat, eyes wide—

—and suddenly—

BOOM.

Glitter, fire, and rainbow smoke erupted between them as Topsy’s rocket detonated, confetti screaming through the air.

“DISTRACTION TIME!” Topsy whooped.

Celeste didn’t think.

She ran.

Behind her, through the swirling smoke, Gideon’s voice rang out—cold now, amused no longer.

“Oh,” he called smoothly, “you’ve made an enemy of me now, little cat.”

The smoke swallowed his silhouette.

Gideon didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to.

“Bring me the cat alive.”

The men in the alley stiffened anyway.

“I don’t care how many limbs you break,” he continued mildly, fingers steepled, eyes following the flicker of a mana map suspended in the air. “I don’t care how much collateral you leave behind. But you will bring her to me breathing.”

A pause.

“And if she resists,” he added, almost thoughtfully, “remind her who owns the city tonight.”

The command rune flared.

Outside, the storm answered.

Celeste kept running.

Rain lashed sideways, mana-lightning tearing jagged scars across the sky as the street flooded under her boots. Water surged around her ankles, then her calves, glowing faintly with unstable energy.

“Topsy—!” she gasped.

“I know, I know!” Topsy chirped back, already veering off. “You run! I’ll be very distracting!”

Celeste didn’t get a chance to argue.

Topsy vaulted onto a stalled tram, cackling as she hurled a candy orb into the pursuing squad. It burst into a cloud of shrieking, sticky confetti-zombies.

“HI FRIENDS,” Topsy sang. “WRONG CAT.”

Shots cracked. Shouts followed.

Celeste kept going.

She splashed through a stream that used to be a road, leapt a fallen sign, slipped on mana-slick stone and barely caught herself before tumbling headlong into the flood. The storm howled overhead, runes screaming in the air like torn banners.

Then—

She saw the alley.

Too narrow.
Too dark.
Perfect.

Celeste ran.

Boots slapped wet stone, lungs burning, ears flat against her head as shouts ricocheted down the street behind her.

“—this way!”

She skidded around a corner, nearly collided with a stack of bins, then saw it—

A side alley. Too narrow. Too dark. Perfect.

She slipped, feet going out from under her, and half-fell, half-slid down the sloped alleyway on her side, sparks of pain flaring up her hip. At the end of it—

A door.

Old. Wooden. The paint peeling like it had given up sometime before Celeste was born.

She didn’t knock.

She slammed into it, tumbled inside, and the door creaked shut behind her.

Dust. Ink. Old paper. Alcohol.

So much alcohol.

Celeste scrambled, ducking under the nearest table just as voices passed the alley mouth outside.

Inside the shop, someone snorted.

Then laughed.

“Mm. Either I’m drunk,” a voice slurred pleasantly, “or my shop has acquired… ambience.”

Celeste froze.

Across the shop, slumped behind the counter like a man who had lost a long, exhausting war with gravity, sat an older badger. Grey-striped face. Bloodshot eyes. Bottle in one paw, glasses sliding off his snout.

He squinted vaguely in her direction.

“Oi,” he said. “No loitering.”

He stood up to make the point.

Immediately tripped over something unseen.

“—AND ESPECIALLY no loitering,” he added, landing on his back with a thud that rattled several shelves.

“I—I’m sorry!” Celeste hissed, crawling out from under the table. “I was just—hiding—very briefly—sorry—”

She headed for the door.

“Wait.”

She paused.

The badger had pushed himself upright, bottle dangling dangerously as he leaned in close. Too close. Uncomfortably close.

He squinted at her face.

“…Bianca?”

Celeste blinked. “Oh—no—um. I’m Celeste. Though—funny enough—my middle name is Bianca. Isn’t that funny?”

The badger leaned even closer.

He smelled like dust, ink, and regret.

“…Right,” he said softly. “Hallucination.”

Celeste frowned. “Why would you hallucinate me?”

“Because,” he said, nodding with the solemnity of a priest delivering last rites, “I was an arsehole of a father.”

She opened her mouth—

Footsteps stopped outside.

“Check the shops.”

Celeste’s ears flattened again. She ducked back instinctively—

—but the badger was already moving.

Drunk, yes.
Unsteady, absolutely.
But sharp.

He yanked the door open and glared at the men outside like they had personally offended the concept of literature.

“Are you planning to buy a book,” he demanded, “or just stand there frightening the bindings?”

One of the men blinked. “Sir, we’re—”

“Because,” the badger continued, jabbing a paw toward a display, “I will recommend something, and it will be long, dense, and emotionally punishing.”

“…We’ll check elsewhere.”

“Good,” he snapped. “This shop is for people who read.”

He slammed the door shut, slid the bolt, then leaned back against it and exhaled.

“…Right,” he muttered. “I’m calling you real. Less headache that way.”

Celeste peeked out.

“…Thank you.”

He waved a paw vaguely. “Sit. Hide. Read something. Don’t touch the first editions.”

She did.

She curled up on the floor with a battered manga volume, the kind with dog-eared pages and handwritten notes in the margins.

After a while, her breathing slowed.

That’s when she noticed it.

Mr. Grams had pulled out a ledger.

But it wasn’t inventory.

Symbols spilled across the pages—equations, recursive diagrams, impossibly tight logic spirals. Mana theory. Physics. Things Celeste had only ever seen in restricted archives or Arcade’s worst nightmares.

She stared.

“…You’re really good at math,” she said softly.

He didn’t look up.

“Was,” he corrected. “Still am. Regrettably.”

Celeste turned the page of her manga.

Outside, the storm raged on. Somewhere, Topsy was probably still laughing.

Inside the shop, dust motes drifted, ink dried, and the world—just for now—couldn’t reach her.

For now, that was enough.

Celeste shifted where she sat, glancing around the shop again. The dust, the shelves, the smell of ink and old paper—it all felt oddly safe.

“…Um,” she said softly. “I didn’t actually ask.”

The badger paused mid-swig.

“Ask what?”

“Your name.”

He looked at her for a long moment, unreadable. Then he lifted one claw and pointed at the desk.

Celeste leaned forward.

There, half-buried under papers and old receipts, was a small holographic name display. It flickered weakly, like it was running on spite alone.

GRAMS
Books • Ledgers • No Refunds

The projection glitched, the letters warping slightly before stabilising again.

“Oh,” Celeste said, smiling. “Mr. Grams.”

He grunted. “Close enough.”

She hesitated, then added, “I’m Celeste.”

The name hung there between them.

Mr. Grams’s ears twitched.

Something passed over his face—disappointment, maybe, or something heavier and quieter than that. He didn’t comment. Just nodded once and looked away like he’d expected something else and told himself he was foolish for it.

“…Right,” he said. “Celeste.”

For a while after that, Mr. Grams kept glancing over the rim of his glasses at her like she might evaporate if he blinked too hard.

Then he disappeared behind the counter.

There was a clatter.
A muttered argument with a drawer.
A triumphant “ah-HA” that sounded like it had lost a bar fight.

He returned and set a small plate beside her.

Strawberry cookies. Soft. Still warm somehow.

And a bottle of rose lemonade—the good kind, with real petals floating inside like it was trying too hard to be fancy.

Celeste stared.

Then—

“EEEE—!”

“Volume,” Mr. Grams snapped instantly. “This is a bookshop, not a petting zoo.”

She clamped both paws over her mouth, eyes shining. “S-sorry! They’re my favourite!”

He squinted at the plate. “Lucky guess.”

Celeste frowned, suspicious. “…How did you know?”

“Statistics,” he said, already turning away. “Or fate. Or I’m brilliant. Pick one.”

She nibbled a cookie, tail flicking happily, the sugar settling her nerves in a way she hadn’t realised she desperately needed.

When the storm outside eased and the world felt marginally less murderous, Mr. Grams reappeared with a small stack of books tied together with twine. Manga. Old fantasy paperbacks. A poetry book so battered it looked like it had survived a war.

He added a folded raincoat on top.

“Wear that,” he said gruffly. “You look like the sort who forgets weather exists.”

Celeste stood, clutching everything. “Thank you… really.”

He waved her off. “Remember to brush your hair.”

She blinked. “I do brush my hair.”

“Poorly,” he said without hesitation. “Utterly useless at it.”

She snorted, trying not to laugh.

Mr. Grams had already turned away, wobbling back toward the counter, rummaging for his bottle like it had personally betrayed him.

“…Celeste,” he added, not looking back. “Try not to get caught.”

She nodded, slipping into the rain with her books held tight.

Behind her, the shop light dimmed.

And Mr. Grams went back to pretending the universe made sense at the bottom of a bottle.