XXXIII
The flame fades into nothing as they arrive in a warm pop of displaced air and scorched particles as they appear. Harry lands on the windowsill after flying away from Fon's shoulders, like a quiet guardian. His feathers catch the pale evening light as the sun begins to dip below the snowy skyline of the city outside. He lets himself sigh as they are in safe space, or safe as they can be. Luckily, the hotel room Dimtr chose is modest but cozy; functional, central, and—most importantly—low on foot traffic. A twin bed. A couch. An ancient radiator grumbling in the corner. Thick curtains still half-open from earlier.
Dimtr doesn't collapse into a chair, but he does stretch with a groan that cracks all the way up his spine.
"God, I'm still processing that meeting," he mutters. "But not enough to pass up questions."
Harry gives a soft croon from the sill—go on, it says without words. Dimtr turns to Fon, rubbing at his eyes. "So, Italy. You said it's the other main hub for Flames, right?"
Fon nods, arms crossed, still alert despite the exhausting day. "Yes. Most people think China and Italy are complete opposites, but in this, we mirror each other. Two centers of influence. Two cultures built on secrets."
"And run by criminals," Dimtr adds, not quite sarcastically.
Fon's mouth twitches. "Yes. That part too."
He moves to sit on the arm of the couch, facing Dimtr squarely. "The Mafia controls the flow of Flame knowledge in Italy, just like the Triads in China. The difference is… China has more structure as it's led by one power only. Italy, though? They have different Families. Territories. Bloodlines tied to specific Flames."
Harry ruffles his feathers on the windowsill but doesn't speak, curious to just be quiet and listen.
Fon tilts his head as he looks at Dimtr. "Do you want to leave Russia that badly?"
Dimtr pauses. Then shrugs, a little too sharply. "I can't stay."
His tone is matter-of-fact, not emotional. Like a conclusion he's already spent long nights coming to.
"I told my handlers I needed a break to research what I want, but they won't give it to me as I'm too precious to them to not be working on what they want. I still try to shift into other branches from time to time, and they somewhat allow it because the technology I tend to study is still related to what they want and I get results. However, it won't hold forever. They allowed this trip outside because they were too surprised I asked for it. And even then, they just thought I was going to the city to relax. I'm still under surveillance. When I go back, it's going to be questions because I never left the hotel, in their opinion. They will become wary and it won't be long until I'm not allowed to go out. I don't want that."
He doesn't say more. He doesn't have to.
Fon studies him in silence for a few heartbeats, then nods once.
"I have contacts in Italy," he says slowly. "They're not the kind you want to owe too much to, but they can help you create a new identity. A quiet one, if that's what you want. If not, you'll need to lay low while you learn how to function in that world and then when you're familiar, you can work or do research. It depends on you, really."
Dimtr's eyebrows lift. "You think they'll hire someone like me? I'm a scientist, not a combatant."
"Even with how the URSS hides information about you, you're still known. Not many prolific scientists with green hair, after all," Fon says dryly. "Also, you're interested in Flames and the supernatural, yes?"
"I am," Dimtr says. "Obscenely so. The things you two can do—I want to understand it. Study it. Use it, maybe."
Fon gestures faintly toward the window. "Then you'll have value even if it's not in battle."
Harry gives a soft chuff that sounds suspiciously like agreement, shifting slightly on the sill.
"And I'd rather see you among people who understand what you're trying to learn as Flames can be hard to learn about," Fon adds, quieter this time. "You won't be able to study it otherwise."
Dimtr leans back, eyes thoughtful, head tilted against the back of the chair. "Why so?"
"Because of who polices the Flame knowledge. They won't ever let it fall to the civilian sector, so they won't let you study it unless you're in the underworld."
Now Harry lifts his head, curious.
Fon's gaze darkens slightly at the questions in their eyes, though his tone remains even. "The ones policing us are the Vindice."
Dimtr's brow furrows. "What kind of organization are they?"
"No one knows," Fon says. "Where they came from. Who formed them. Not even the oldest families remember. It's as if they've always existed—just waiting. Watching."
Dimtr's eyes sharpen. "Like a supernatural secret police?"
Harry sends out a ripple of psychic. "Are they dangerous?"
"Yes," Fon replies aloud. "Extremely. Their job is to ensure Flame knowledge stays hidden from the world. Civilians can't know. If someone violates that rule…"
He doesn't finish the sentence.
"You've met them?"
"No," Fon says. "But I've seen what happens when they arrive. They use black Flames. Cold. All-consuming. Unlike any of the seven."
A silence falls as Harry shifts again, the glow of his feathers faint in the dim room. Then, finally, he speaks into the air: "They sound like Death."
Fon glances at him, but says nothing.
Dimtr's fingers tap thoughtfully against the arm of his chair. The silence stretches between them, companionable but contemplative. Then, quietly, "These contacts of yours, Fon… are there some who are independent?"
Fon looks up at him, brows furrowing slightly in thought. "Some. Not all. It depends on what you're looking for."
"I'm not looking to trade one leash for another," Dimtr mutters. "So, if I go to Italy—would they want me to join a family? Swear fealty? Be useful in ways I haven't agreed to yet?"
Harry croons softly from the window, wings rustling in that way that says good question.
Fon leans forward slightly, elbows on his knees. "If you want stability, resources, and protection… then yes, you'd likely need to join a Family. The largest and most structured is the Vongola. They keep most of the territory in order. They'd love a scientist with your mind—especially one curious about Flames."
Dimtr makes a face. "So I'd be joining the mafia."
"Anyway, you'll be joining the Mafia if you want to study Flames. Though they're not all criminals the way the media paints them," Fon says with the patience of someone who's heard the same objections dozens of times. "But yes, most of their methods are… not legal by conventional standards. Though Vongola is more controlled than others, they still have a bloody history."
There's a long pause before Fon adds, more softly, "If you'd rather build something of your own, I have… a colleague."
Dimtr looks up again. "Colleague?"
Fon leans back, resting one ankle across his knee. "Renato. He's… someone who owes me a favor. He's one of the best hitmen in the world. Still young, but already well-connected. Smart. Independent."
Harry's head tilts. "A hitman?" comes through his psychic voice, dry and skeptical.
Fon gives him a faint smile. "One of the most principled ones I've met."
Dimtr laughs quietly. "That's a sentence I never thought I'd hear."
Fon shrugs. "He operates alone, but he knows everyone. And if you're looking to build something without pledging yourself to a Family, he can help you create a false identity and introduce you to people who might… tolerate independence."
Dimtr hums under his breath, weighing options. "So it's Vongola for security… or Renato for freedom and a lot more danger."
"Yes," Fon says simply.
Harry flaps once and lands on the couch's backrest near Dimtr, letting his tail drape over the edge. His golden eyes are thoughtful.
"Which would you prefer?" Harry asks through their link. "To belong? Or to forge something new?"
Dimtr looks at him, then out the window at the falling dusk.
"I think," he says finally, "I'd rather be uncomfortable and free… than safe and watched again."
Fon nods slowly. "Then I'll send word to Renato."
Dimtr glances at him. "And you trust him?"
Fon considers it.
"I don't trust many people," he says. "But I know which way he'll pull the trigger. And that's rare."
Harry huffs a soundless laugh, smoke curling from his beak. That sounded exactly like a recommendation from someone like Fon.
XXXIV
The city is quiet in the way only very late nights can be—when the last traffic has passed and the wind hums alone between buildings. Dimtr is curled on the narrow bed, one hand flung over the side, breath soft and slow. Fon is less dramatic in his sleeping posture, tucked beneath a light blanket in a meditation pose that eventually folded into sleep, back resting against the wall.
Harry stays in the windowsill. His feathers shimmer faintly in the moonlight, shadows dancing along his wings, and for a long time, he is still. Then, softly—so softly it isn't even thought directly to anyone, but more like letting a breath go—he says into the night, "Death?"
No answer. Only the rustling trees. The city breathing.
But then, slowly—presence. Not sound. Not form. But sensation. Like fingers brushing along his beak. A phantom hand stroking down the back of his neck in a way that feels too familiar to startle him. It is cold, but not cruel. A touch as old as endings.
"Finally decided to stop ignoring me?"
The voice is in his mind, but not the way telepathy feels. It's like a truth echoing up from beneath his bones. And Harry exhales—not a croon, not a chirp. Just air, soft and long.
"I didn't mean to ignore you," he admits quietly, in the still language of thought. "I just… I tried to disconnect for a while. I didn't think… I didn't think you were still listening after you left me here."
Death's touch lingers, almost amused. "You didn't even try to contact me, little bird. How would you have known?"
Harry winces inwardly. The shame is subtle, but it burns.
"You're right," he says. "I'm sorry."
Silence stretches for a moment, but it's not cold. Just patient.
"But I think I needed it," Harry continues, quieter now. "The solitude. The silence. Years of not being anyone. Of just thinking. Watching. Breathing."
Death hums—no voice, just resonance. A lullaby in reverse. Still, the gentle strokes across his feathers continue.
Harry lowers his head slightly, cheek brushing against the glass pane.
"I never thanked you," he says. "For this. For giving me this new chance. I still miss them—my friends. Like you'd miss a limb you forgot how to use. But… I haven't been as content in a long time as I've been here."
A pause. Then Death says, almost lightly, "Content. But not happy."
Harry's feathers ruffle defensively.
"Content is enough. It's more than I had for years. It's…" He hesitates. "Peaceful. Bearable."
There is no judgment in the voice that follows. Just something terribly, terribly old. And soft.
"But I want you to be happy."
The words don't fall like a demand or a dream. They just… land. And Harry—Harry feels something in his chest flutter, something small and aching and stubborn. He doesn't know what to say for a long moment. Eventually, he asks, fragile and raw: "Do you think I'll get to be?"
The answer is immediate. "I know so."
Then, gentler, like wrapping a warm cloth around a frayed wound. "It will be hard. There will be weight and shadow. But what is light if it does not shine against darkness?"
Harry lowers his head fully now, tucking it beneath a wing, heart thrumming slow and uncertain. He doesn't say anything else. He doesn't need to.
Death is still there.
Still listening.
Still holding him, without arms.
And for the first time in years, Harry lets himself rest into a deep sleep.