Illusion Report

"...AED defibrillator, epinephrine injection, adrenaline,"

The brilliant neon glow from the distant shore spilled into the water, jostled by the waves, bleeding into patches of murky yellow and dim green that shimmered and rippled, swaying with the hull atop the black sea.

"Last one — broad-spectrum antibiotics, in case we end up being here a while."

Once each item had been introduced, the lid of a silver-white medical case snapped shut with a sharp click. A large hand with long fingers reached under the seat and pulled out a sleek black tube.

"This is a cauterizing gun. It seals large wounds, burns through blood vessels and nerves, and keeps a person from bleeding out. Remarkably useful."

With the same pleasant tone, that large hand gave a firm, cheerful slap to the shoulder of the man beside him — a man in a white coat.

"Allow me to introduce Dr. Nate. Good man. Not only did he supply everything you see here, he was kind enough to come in person to handle any complications that might arise... For instance, after I’ve cut off your limbs, he’ll make sure you neither die nor lose consciousness."

Dr. Nate said nothing. His lips pressed into a thin line, his face contorted, drained of all color — pale and greenish, like a smear of fog floating in the night.

The cauterizing gun was set down. Two hands came together in a loud, ringing clap. "Go on, then. Thank Dr. Nate."

The response was a muffled, incoherent groan — a man with his limbs bound behind his back, wrapped so thoroughly in tape from head to toe that only his eyes and nostrils were visible. He thrashed desperately, hard enough to rock the small boat, sending gentle ripples lapping outward across the dark water.

"I’ll pass that along to Dr. Nate for you. Don’t mention it — just doing what needed to be done."

The tall man in the expensive suit, his smile as easy and steady as ever, leaned forward and gave the bound figure an almost affectionate pat.

His black hair was swept back, sleek and immaculate, catching faint slivers of light against the dark expanse of sea.

"Don’t rush. I’m not done yet."

He spread his pale hands wide, then flipped his right hand over and grabbed — effortlessly, casually — pulling a heavy weight plate out from under the seat. "Each arm and leg, once severed, gets a twenty-five-kilogram plate tied to it. You’ll get to watch each one go — plunk — straight to the bottom of the sea..."

He let out a low whistle, his fingers moving with fluid ease, swaying from high to low like a school of fish diving into deep water.

"...Just like that."

The man mummified in tape let out another strangled, guttural roar — the sound of a wild animal thrashing inside a sack it couldn’t claw its way out of.

The man in the suit leaned back against his seat, eyeing his captive with a look of quiet amusement.

"Ready to talk?"

The bound man twisted violently. "Mmph — mmph!"

The suited man flicked open a knife and felt around for where the mouth was. The blade drove hard and deep across the tape — and blood and a ragged scream tore into the night air simultaneously.

Slender fingers reached into the bloody slit in the tape and pulled out a thick wad of medical cotton.

The moment it left his mouth, gasping and retching poured out of the man in ragged, broken waves: "Who — who are you? What do you want—"

The suited man leaned in close, fixing his prey with a stare. His eyes were black and flat, with not a single glint of light in them.

"I’ll cooperate with whatever you want, there’s no need to go this far..." As the bound man spoke, the cut on his lip tore wider, the pain twisting his face. His skin was wet and glistening in the darkness. "I’m nobody — I’m nothing to anyone..."

"That’s the wrong thing to say."

The suited man raised one finger and cut him off. "A nobody — like an extra in a film. They die, and nobody cares. If you want me to let you go, you first have to make me care about you. Isn’t that right?"

The bound man blinked, thrown off.

"You’re probably wondering — how do I get him to care? Well, I’d have to understand you first. Get inside your head. Feel something for you as a person."

The suited man laced his long fingers together, forming something like a pale bridge across the darkness. The face of his watch caught the faintest sliver of light.

"So. Tell me. Who are you?"

"I — my name is Ivan. I’m twenty-nine years old. My hometown—"

"No, I don’t want a résumé. Boring." The suited man cut him off, his tone almost encouraging. "I want to know — what are your hopes? Your disappointments? What do you dream about?"

Ivan, his face streaked with blood and tears, stared blankly. "My... my dreams?"

"Yes. Surely you didn’t plan to spend your whole life as Westley’s bodyguard."

Ivan flinched. Something shifted in his eyes — a flash of recognition.

"Does this have something to do with Mr. Westley—"

"Besides," the suited man went on, paying no attention, "Westley died yesterday — violently. And here you are today, already in no position to help yourself. Not much of a bodyguard. Probably for the best that career’s over."

"I don’t know anything..."

"Don’t waste your energy." The suited man’s thin lips split into a smile like the edge of a blade. "A man who can’t move me is nothing but a bag of skin. I don’t particularly care how many pieces of it end up at the bottom of the sea."

The boat fell silent for a few seconds.

"Start talking."

Ivan probably never imagined, not in his wildest dreams, that he’d find himself in a moment like this — spilling his heart out under these circumstances.

"I... all right. My dream... was to become someone like Mr. Westley."

"The richest man in the city? State assemblyman? Distinguished Contributor to Climate Policy?" The suited man smiled. "...Or the real power behind Blackmoor City?"

Ivan only nodded and said nothing. He stared dully toward the distant city — the neon signs, the skyscrapers, the glittering sprawl of Blackmoor City. Across Central Bay, lit up by a thousand lights, black waves gently rocked and nudged the little boat.

"Good." The suited man nodded. "And what did you actually do in pursuit of that dream?"

"I didn’t do anything," Ivan said quickly. "Mr. Westley’s death had nothing to do with me—"

"Wrong direction." A pale hand swept through the darkness — the gesture of a director talking an actor through a scene. "I didn’t say you were involved in his death. But after he died — you did nothing at all?"

"I don’t understand..."

"A character with ambitions and no action is impossible to sympathize with." The suited man sounded almost exasperated, like someone watching a protégé waste their potential. "If you won’t help yourself, why would I do it for you?"

Ivan held his bleeding mouth open, hesitated for a few seconds, then said, tentatively: "After Mr. Westley died... I didn’t leave. I stayed. Does that count for anything?"

"Oh?"

"He fired me the night before," Ivan said quickly. "I was supposed to go. But I didn’t want to leave the Westley Family, so I just... didn’t tell anyone."

"Why did he fire you?"

"Bad timing." Ivan’s wet, gleaming mouth went still. After a moment, he said quietly: "I didn’t do anything seriously wrong... I just tried on a pair of trousers..."

The suited man raised one eyebrow and one corner of his mouth. "Trousers?"

"Yes... hear me out and you’ll understand." He paused, then said: "Did you know that Mr. Westley had a very quiet voice? When I first started working for him, it surprised me. A man of that importance — I expected someone who projected authority. Loud. Commanding."

Ivan’s teeth were stained red with blood, but he seemed to have forgotten about the wound entirely. Once he’d started talking, he couldn’t stop.

"Later I understood. The quieter he spoke, the harder everyone around him had to listen. When he opened his mouth, he wasn’t concerned about whether people could hear him. That was their problem to worry about.

"Even the way he modulated his voice was deliberate — every detail, a kind of mastery. So in my off hours, I started to study him. The way he carried himself, the way he dressed. I found a cologne close to his. People started looking at me differently when I walked out the door."

The suited man held out a cigarette to Ivan.

He drew on it. On the dark sea, the cherry glowed red for a moment. His cheek spasmed with pain, but his voice and expression were steadier now.

"Around this time, Mr. Westley and a group of us staff were staying at the Upper State Manor. Two nights ago, he went to attend a banquet. I was on my rest rotation and didn’t go with him. When he came back unexpectedly early, he walked in and caught me — right there in his room, pulling on a pair of trousers.

"He probably thought I was fooling around with someone... his face went completely purple. But how could I have been doing something like that? He didn’t believe me — shoved me aside and went through the whole bathroom, the walk-in wardrobe, everywhere — until he finally confirmed I really was alone..."

Ivan let out a bitter laugh. "That’s when he realized I was wearing his trousers. I only wanted to know what it felt like — to wear them. But he flew into a rage, fired me on the spot, and told me to pack up and leave first thing in the morning."

The suited man threw his head back and laughed — a deep, resonant sound that rang out and broke against the night.

"Entertaining. But that’s all it is." His large hand came to rest on the cauterizing gun. "You dream of wealth and power at the very top, and the one action you’ve taken toward it is sneaking into someone’s trousers? What could you possibly accomplish with that?"

"It’s not that simple,"

Ivan was stung into anger for a moment, flecks of blood flying as he argued back.

"Dressing and acting like him was only one part of it. I never passed up a real opportunity either. The moment I heard Mr. Westley had died in his study yesterday, I realized — the news of my firing hadn’t gotten out yet. Only he and I knew. He was dead. If I said nothing, it was as if I’d never been fired. Nobody would know.

"So I rushed to the study door right away. On the surface, I was guarding the scene and waiting for the police. But while I was there, I secretly—"

Ivan stopped dead.

In the darkness, the only sounds left were the waves against the hull and his own heavy, labored breathing.

The suited man stared at Ivan and slowly leaned forward — like a great python lowering itself, inch by inch, down from a branch.

"So..." he said softly, "you went inside the study."

Ivan seemed to realize it then — that when an interrogator never reveals what they’re after, the person being questioned will stumble into confessions they didn’t even know they shouldn’t make.

"...And what did you do once you were inside?"

Ivan refused to answer. The suited man raised both hands. In the darkness between sea and sky, they looked like two vast, blurred white fans — large enough to swallow an adult man’s entire face.

"Strange, isn’t it? I walked you through all the first-aid equipment, but I never showed you what I planned to use to take your arms and legs off. That’s because I only remembered on the way here — I forgot to bring the bone saw. Fortunately, I have some confidence in my grip... Score the skin, and you can peel it back layer by layer. Bones are even easier — brace them against the edge of the boat and one good stomp will crack them clean."

In the darkness, the suited man split into a silent smile. His teeth were white and even and sharp.

"Why did you go into the study?"

This time Ivan answered fast. "I — I just wanted to see if there was anything worth taking... maybe something valuable lying around. I saw a watch—"

"Why did you go into the study?" The suited man’s hand came to rest, gently, on Ivan’s arm.

Ivan swallowed a mouthful of blood and saliva mixed together.

"You likely already know that what went missing from Westley’s study doesn’t belong in this world. Anyone who touches it when they shouldn’t — it drags them under. Just like where you are right now. Sky above, sea below, nowhere left to go."

The suited man closed his eyes and drew a long, slow breath through his nose — pulling in the salt of the sea, the petrol smell of the engine, and Ivan’s fear, all together, deep into his lungs.

When he spoke again, his voice had gone rough.

"The Illusion from the study — where have you hidden it?"