Sparks awoke to the obnoxious ping of his phone. He groaned and blindly slapped at the nightstand until his fingers found it. A reminder flashed on the screen:

  BREAKBALL LINEUP CONFERENCE – Today @ 1pm

  Right. That was today.

  He slid the phone aside and searched for the usual morning comforts—the smell of coffee, the sizzle of bacon, Reginald’s quiet footsteps moving about the house.

  Nothing.

  Just silence. And a cold draft sliding from under the bedroom door. He checked the time and found he'd overslept nearly an hour. It wasn't like Reginald to let him be off schedule. "Reginald?" he called, stepping barefoot onto the polished wood.

  The house gave no answer. Nothing but the faint tick of the crystal clock in the hallway.

  He wrapped his robe tighter around himself. "Reginald?"

  Still nothing.

  The quiet felt wrong. Like he'd walked into a room where someone had just stopped talking. The sudden ring of his phone made him jump. An unidentified caller demanded his attention. He answered without thinking. "Speak."

  "You've had a busy night."

  The modulation was thick, metallic—but unmistakable. Sparks felt his heart give one hard, angry kick.

  "V." he said, carefully neutral. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

  "We're not pleased with the quality of the company you've been keeping as of late. It will cause problems."

  Sparks descended the staircase slowly. Each step felt too loud in the hush of the manor.

  "The people I associate with are my business and my business alone," he growled through his teeth. "If you’re referring to the detective, I have that under control."

  The modulation wavered slightly from the ire in V's words. "You and I have different definitions of ‘control’. Go to the kitchen."

  Sparks’s jaw tightened. Being ordered around in his own house churned his stomach—but he obeyed.

  Both kitchen lights were off. Empty. Just a cardboard parcel on the center island, reflected in the polished granite like a little coffin. One corner of it sat in a small pool of dark red. Sparks’ fur prickled along his spine.

  "You're getting cozy with dangerous people. They will drag you down and by association, me. Remember that Pazienza, despite his name, is not known to be patient."

  Sparks approached the box. He didn’t want to. Part of him—a very smart, older part—wanted to walk away and never look at it again.

  He extended a claw and slit the tape.

  The flaps opened like a mouth.

  An acrid smell—vinegar and iron. A red lotus lay inside, petals streaked dark. A folded note sat beneath it, stamped with crimson fingerprints. He opened it with shaking fingers.

  "Remember, ANYTHING could have fit in this box. I'm still waiting for my money. -P"

  Beneath the note lay a punctured can of tomato sauce. Dozens of stab holes. The contents had bled through the cardboard and onto the counter. Sparks exhaled, tension draining from his shoulders.

  "Stay away from the detective and the reporter. Don’t cause trouble for us."

  The line went dead.

  The door leading to the back porch swung open. Sparks whirled, box clutched against his chest. Reginald jolted in surprise and worked to pull some thick gardening gloves off of his paws. "Master Sparks! I'm terribly sorry, sir. I was dealing with a rather stubborn piece of nature and lost track of time. Would you like me to make you breakfast? Coffee?"

  Sparks hurriedly put the note back inside the box and closed the flaps. "Just the coffee I think today, Reginald."

  He held the box tightly closed, hoping the corgi wouldn’t notice his shaking hands.

  "Oh! I didn't hear the mail arrive." His brow furrowed with concern. "Oh dear, it appears to be leaking. Was something you ordered damaged, sir?" He grabbed a nearby rag and set to cleaning up the mess on the counter.

  "The coffee, Reginald!" Sparks snapped, louder than he meant to. He cradled the box to his chest. "Please," he added, softer, over his shoulder.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  Reginald blinked, then dutifully turned to the stove.

  Sparks retreated to his study, making sure the door closed behind him. He opened a desk drawer and dropped the box inside, slamming it shut.

  Breathe.

  Breathe.

  The job was done. Once the payment cleared, this would all be over. He opened his banking app.

  "Payment pending – Howard Nulans."

  Of course.

  Reginald appeared in the doorway with a tray. Coffee and raspberry scones. "It’s not wise to drink on an empty stomach," the corgi said, voice polite but curt. "Shall I bring the car around? We wouldn’t want you late." Before Sparks could answer, Reginald placed the tray down and left the room. He picked up a scone and found it cold to the touch.

  *  *  *

  Sparks spent the entire drive refreshing the transfer app.

  Payment Pending.

  Again.

  Again.

  Kindling sensed his anxiety and purred even louder, circled tightly in his lap. The limo jerked to a stop in front of a large circular building crowned in gleaming quartz and animated banners. The Crystal Meadow Fireflies. One of Sparks’s first major purchases was ownership of an entire Breakball team. Fully funded and supported by his artistic works—and, until recently, a source of uncomplicated pride.

  Inside, the field was already buzzing with reporters and flashing lenses. The team was in warm-ups. Trilla Rendor, all slick white scales and tailored suit, approached with a clipboard tucked under her arm. She checked something off as she approached and met his eyes with a friendly smile.

  "Mr. Sparks," she smiled. "For a moment I thought we’d be starting without you."

  "Apologies, Ms. Rendor. My morning was busier than I had anticipated. How are we looking?"

  "Strong. Adrian’s been putting them through their paces—"

  FWEEEEEEEET

  An ear piercing whistle cut through the stadium like a gunshot. Coach Adrian Bellows stormed toward two gnoll twins currently wrestling on the turf.

  "CIG! THE PLAY IS OVER! FIG! YOU COULDA BROKE CIG'S ANKLE! THERE'S NO TRIPPING IN BREAKBALL! BOTH OF YOU— FIVE LAPS — MOVE!"

  The twins groaned and began to jog around the field.

  "PUT SOME MUSTARD ON IT! YOU TWO STILL GOT TO FINISH YOUR DEFENSE DRILLS! OH! HEY THERE MR. SPARKS!"

  The white bellbird coach waved as the crowd of reporters immediately swiveled in his direction and bombarded him with questions.

  "Any comment on the lounge fire, Mr. Sparks?"

  "Do you see the Fireflies going all the way this year?"

  "How goes your defense after the diner incident?"

  Sparks gave them a quick dismissive wave and hurried over to the coach. "That bird-brain hasn't a quiet bone in his body," he muttered to himself. "Coach, I hope you're showing our good side to the press."

  "VULTURES! EVERY LAST ONE OF THEM! BUT THEY WANT A SHOW? I'LL GIVE 'EM A SHOW!"

  Sparks winced and pulled the coach aside. "Adrian. Friendly reminder—we do want the press on our side." Bellows shut his beak and shook his wattle with an embarrassed nod. "Now then, how's the team looking?"

  Adrian answered at a much more agreeable volume. "The team's looking phenomenal. Fig and Cig have the defense locked down. Willis stepped up as Vanguard Captain. And Thatch—" he whistled low. "That kid is a weapon."

  That last bit of news made Sparks smile. Leo Thatch had taken his father’s death hard. Sparks had hoped the team would give him some direction… maybe even something to live for. "Sounds like a strong lineup. Let's get this scrimmage started."

  "ALL RIGHT FIREFLIES! IT'S SHOWTIME!"

  The field cleared as the players left to don their gear. The rules were reviewed with the press. The playing field was a large rectangle divided into three zones. The middle zone was the largest and considered neutral territory or 'No Man's Land' as the players called it. Strikers scored, Vanguards would block and Defenders guarded their home zone with all necessary force. Points were scored for every six seconds a player could remain in control of the Breakball within the opponent's scoring area.

  Coach Bellows announced the players one at a time as they entered the field in full gear. The Defenders entered first, armor plated and spiked. The Vanguard corps followed, led by Willis and his arcane gauntlet. His boar tusks gleamed in the spotlight, ready for action.

  "And now… Number 23 — Striker — Leo Thatch!"

  The crowd went wild, encouraged by a family of white and gold furred hamsters cheering the loudest. What should have been an electrifying moment felt somber. Leo raised a fist in acknowledgement…then turned and locked eyes with Sparks in the crowd.

  No excitement. No joy. Just a cold, flat expression that pinned Sparks to his seat.

  "Is Leo all right?" Sparks asked.

  Trilla leaned in. "What do you mean? Oh, that's just how he is. Wait ‘till you see him in action!"

  Just over Leo's shoulder, an elderly mole woman in the stands mirrored Leo's cold, unblinking gaze. Unconsciously, Spark wiped his paws against his slacks.

  A blink. She was gone.

  Coach Bellows blew the whistle, and the game began.

  The Strikers and Vanguards flooded No Man’s Land, fighting for control of the Breakball. Every player.

  Except Leo.

  Sparks frowned. "Are you sure he's okay?" he asked again.

  Trilla's mouth curled in a knowing smirk. "Just watch."

  The ball kicked loose and Leo exploded into motion. In one fluid burst he cut across the midfield, snatched the ball, and slid behind his Vanguard line like he’d rehearsed it a thousand times. He dipped under one Defender, spun past another and dove into the scoring zone just long enough to ping a point before retreating back to the neutral zone.

  Sparks blinked. It was elegant—and unnerving.

  The rest of the first half followed the same rhythm: Leo motionless, watching, then striking like a knife in the dark. Nearly every point for the red team was his. The crowd loved it.

  By the final minutes, the blue team had adjusted. They worked to keep the ball as far from Leo as possible. The score sat at 18 – 17, blue in the lead. One more point would tie it.

  Leo crouched. Sparks recognized the posture before he understood it: a sprinter’s stance. Their eyes met again. A single cold, silent challenge.

  He tore across the turf. The ground behind him frosted over in a trail of white. Vapor rose off his footprints. For a moment, Sparks could see his breath.

  Cig lunged for a tackle.

  Leo didn’t dodge. He jumped—a twisting, mid-air contortion that sailed clean over the gnoll. When he landed in the end zone, the turf cracked beneath him with a spiderweb of ice. Cig screamed as frost exploded up his leg, locking his knee in a solid sphere of ice.

  The whistle blew. Point scored. Tie game.

  The blue defenders rushed in. Leo slammed a fist into the frozen turf and a dome of ice erupted around him, buying him the final six seconds.

  18 – 19. Red wins.

  Leo shattered the dome and ball with one contemptuous spike of his arm and walked off the field without a word.

  Cig writhed on the ground, his sister pawing at the ice fused around his knee. Sparks leapt from the sidelines and pressed his hands against it, channeling heat through his pads. The ice slowly melted. Medical staff arrived and loaded the gnoll onto a stretcher.

  Coach Bellows slapped Sparks on the back. "WHAT’D I TELL YA? WE’RE GOING TO THE SHATTER BOWL FOR SURE!"

  Sparks watched Leo's silhouette disappear into the tunnel.

  Somewhere deep inside, something cold settled into his chest and refused to leave.