7:01 p.m. — The Outskirts of Memory
Velvenna sat beneath the timefold tree, eyes glazed, lips moving in silent mimicry.
"She called you 'Papa-Bot' when you stopped making faces. Thought it was funny."
Not Nice sat nearby, revolver across his lap, watching her with the cold stillness of a man who'd long forgotten how to twitch at tenderness.
"She still thinks it," Velvenna murmured, face wet with tears that were not hers. "Still giggles when you open doors too fast. She thinks you're… trying to pretend you're normal."
He didn't respond. Couldn't. The words cracked inside him like glass in icewater. She was too far gone into his past to hear her own voice anymore.
And then—Knock.
A sound that shouldn't exist here. Not in the Fractured Chronoscape. Not in Velvenna's garden, where time itself whispered in reverse.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Not Nice stood, slowly.
He hadn't heard a knock in years. Not since his deal. Not since the day he signed away everything.
A ripple parted the veil of bent time—like fingers unbuttoning the sky—and from it stepped a man in a coat made of clauses.
Paper-thin layers fluttered around his body like ancient legal scrolls bound by silk and blood.
Eyes like typewriter keys. Voice like a gavel cracking bone.
"I am Murne, Auditor of the Pactum Arcana," he announced.
Velvenna snapped out of her trance like someone slapped her soul.
"Auditor?" she said, voice trembling. "Already?"
Murne nodded, adjusting a monocle that wasn't there. "Unregistered emotional transference clause. Companion-level binding without formal approval. Illegal clausework. Fragmentation of original identities detected."
He turned his gaze to Not Nice.
"You have begun to unravel. And when one thread comes loose—"He waved a hand. Time around the garden twisted, flowers crumbling and blooming in the same instant.
"—the whole Tapestry frays."
Not Nice reached for Hourbringer.
Murne didn't flinch.
"You could shoot," he said. "Use a moment. Burn another memory. Slow me down. But we both know that won't stop a Clauseborn."
"What do you want?" Not Nice asked.
"To test the authenticity of your pain," Murne said, smiling faintly. "To see if you still deserve what little emotion you bargain for."
He tossed something to the ground.
A tiny glass orb.
Inside it?
A memory. His memory. One he hadn't chosen to sacrifice.His daughter, six years old, playing in the snow. Looking up.Saying:
"If you ever get too tired, Papa, I'll feel for you. I promise."
Velvenna dropped to her knees. "That's not mine," she whispered.
"No," Murne said, stepping closer. "But it soon might be."
Memory Trial InitiatedPerspective Host: VelvennaSubject: Not Nice (Contractor #0489-A)Clause Auditor: Murne
The glass orb pulsed once—then shattered, dissolving into ash-light that wove itself into Velvenna's skin. She gasped, eyes wide, and fell forward, catching herself with trembling fingers.
And just like that—She was there.
Not in the garden. Not in the Chronoscape.
She stood in a winter-draped memory, breath fogging in the crisp air of a playground long since forgotten.
A girl—small, bundled in blue, cheeks pink from cold—chased snowflakes like they were butterflies. She giggled. Looked up.
"Papa!"
Velvenna turned. She was inside him now—his body, his view, his absence. The world around her dulled. Sound was filtered. Color, muted. And worst of all—emotionless.
The child ran into his arms. Hugged him.
He did not feel it.
He knelt. Ruffled her hair. He remembered loving her—he knew this was a moment he once cherished—but through his eyes, it was like petting an object. Like going through the motions of an empty script.
"You look tired," the girl said softly."Do you still like snow?"
Velvenna, from inside him, wanted to scream. Say something. Touch her. Break. Cry.
But she couldn't. He couldn't.
"If you ever get too tired, Papa, I'll feel for you. I promise."
The words hit like hail. Not Nice flinched, but only in the memory. Velvenna sobbed, furious and helpless, watching this living husk kneel in the snow like a man buried alive.
Then—
The real Not Nice—outside the memory—gasped.
The ring was glowing.
Reclaimant pulsed crimson-black. A soul was burning in its chamber.
Murne nodded slowly. "You feel that?"
Not Nice staggered forward. Hand to chest. Breath ragged.
"She meant it," he said. "She really—"
Velvenna collapsed as the trial ended, coughing out light and snow, her body shaking from residual resonance.
"Did I pass?" Not Nice asked.
Murne didn't answer immediately. He circled the contractor like a vulture in thought.
"You're dangerously close to evolving."
"To what?"
"To someone who no longer needs the ring."
The idea hung in the air like fog over a grave.
Murne extended a page from his coat—a clause etched in mirror-ink, shimmering with paradox.
"This is a Binding Key. Not the one you want. But it leads there. An old contractor died without fulfilling it. You could… inherit their pursuit."
Velvenna looked up, dazed. "A shortcut?"
Murne shook his head. "A trap. Or a path. Depending on who you are becoming."
He faded backward into a fold of silk clauses, vanishing with a whisper:
"You kill to feel. What happens when you feel without killing?"