When Lucas Knox spotted Moriarty at the gala in Medway Castle, he nearly hadn’t recognised him.
Lucas had only gone in the first place as part of a deal he’d arranged online: a few thousand in crypto, in exchange for a drive supposedly filled with classified government data. The whole thing had gone down in literal flames, and it was as he fled the scene with all the other guests that Lucas saw Moriarty—older, and looking like a man, but definitely Moriarty.
It was impossible to keep track of him in the chaos, but even that brief glimpse stoked a tangle of hate and bitterness that had been smouldering for years.
Lucas looked up every photo he could find from the event and spotted Moriarty in the background of a few shots, in the company of a man Lucas didn’t know. A few of his contacts in the city confirmed Moriarty had been living and operating in London for a few years now.
Years. And Lucas never knew.
Moriarty wasn’t exactly pleased to hear from him, which is to say he blocked Lucas immediately and repeatedly. There was precious little information to dig up online; Moriarty’s email accounts were locked down tight, as were his financials. Lucas couldn’t even figure out exactly where Moriarty lived, although he’d managed to track most of his activities to Camden.
Frustrated and furious, Lucas took to hanging around the borough. He spotted Moriarty more days than not, and even managed to follow him a few times—although he always managed to slip away sooner or later.
Then he’d tailed Moriarty to that restaurant, and seen him with the man from the photos: Sebastian Moran.
And Jay had kissed him.
Lucas wasn’t jealous. Moriarty was barely fuckable back when they’d worked together, and the hormones and surgery had done nothing for his looks. But he’d rejected Lucas all those years for one girlfriend after another, and now he liked cock all of a sudden?
It was insulting.
Lucas turned his attention to Moran. That was its own challenge; the man was barely online, but Lucas managed to dig up a few details. Moran was supposed to be ex-military, but he worked as some kind of consultant these days; no real threat there. Lucas tried getting into his accounts, but Moran’s security was nearly as tight as Moriarty’s.
And that gave away, more than anything else, exactly how much Moriarty cared about him.
So he’d dropped Moran’s home address into the Fractal Storm group chat, with simple instructions: “Teach the bitch a lesson.”
Only now the whole chat couldn’t shut up about Batch nearly being killed by some naked psycho with a knife.
Whatever. Lucas didn’t need them. He’d find some way to get at Moriarty—either directly, or through Moran. They had to be lucky every time; he only had to be lucky once.
And then Moriarty had resurfaced, right out in the open.
Lucas didn’t even get the satisfaction of seeing Moriarty afraid, until he happened to glance across the street and see Moran talking to Romayne Bellamy. And wasn’t that interesting.
Despite Moriarty’s insistence Lucas wasn’t smart enough for whatever scam they were running, it wasn’t hard to figure out. He’d followed Bellamy after she left the meeting with Moran, getting close enough to sneak into her phone via Bluetooth and read through her messages.
There was a single, perfect window where Lucas could slip in and take Bellamy’s money for himself. Only an idiot would pass up an opportunity like that.
Bellamy led Lucas into the sitting room, and he made himself as comfortable as possible on her white leather sofa. He opened the satchel and produced the contract he’d mocked up; most of it was just AI-generated filler, but the stack of papers was intimidatingly thick and marked with the letterhead of Moriarty’s fake production company.
“It’s all the usual terms,” Lucas said, projecting enough confidence to steam-roll over any of Bellamy’s hesitations. “You pay in a percentage of the film’s operating budget, which entitles you to the same percentage of the profits.”
As he’d hoped, Bellamy flipped through the contract with only a cursory look at each page before signing.
“Right.” Lucas whisked the papers away. “Now we just need you to transfer your funds into the production’s holding account.” He drew a slip of paper from his satchel. “I have the account details here.”
Bellamy took the slip, studying it carefully as she reached for her phone. Then she smiled, and placed the paper firmly on the coffee table. “I’m not going to do that.”
Lucas blinked, then gestured to the signed papers. “But—”
“You see,” Bellamy said, savouring the words, “I got a call from my bank last night. They warned me a scammer might be trying to steal my money.”
Lucas went very still.
“Your real name is Lucas Knox,” Bellamy went on. “DB Endicott and Rafe Morrison aren’t making a movie—they’re impostors, working for you.”
“What?” Lucas blurted out, scrambling to catch up. “No, that’s not—”
“I’ve already transferred all my money, somewhere you’ll never get at it.” Bellamy smiled, slow and vicious. “It’s not all bad, though. You’re famous now.”
She’d angled herself toward the potted plant next to the sofa, and too late Lucas spotted the glint of a camera lens hidden within the foliage.
“I’ve been streaming this whole meeting, live,” Bellamy said. “Say hello to my fans, Lucas.”
Romayne was genuinely amazed at the speed with which Lucas Knox fled her flat.
She pulled up the control panel for the livestream on her phone and, with a cheerful sign-off into the camera, killed the feed. The stream had already done numbers, and the recording was sure to go viral. She’d do a recap video of the whole incident, of course—it would give her a chance to flesh out the narrative and tug the audience’s heartstrings a bit.
As Romayne turned over potential video titles in her head, her phone rang. The bank was calling—again. She answered and put the phone to her ear. “Hello?”
“Ms. Bellamy,” said a stern voice. “My name is Yasmin. I’m calling from the loans department at C&S Bank.”
“Why?”
“We’ve received an alert—it looks like you’ve just transferred all your balances to a numbered account with St Cuthbert’s Bank in the Cayman Islands.”
“Yes,” Romayne said irritably; clearly, C&S’s right hand didn’t talk to its left. “Just like you told me to.”
There was a pause. “I beg your pardon?”
“Someone from your bank called me last night,” Romayne said. “She warned me I’d been targeted by a scammer named Lucas Knox, and told me to transfer my money into a secure account the bank had set up to protect it.”
“Ms. Bellamy, we never called you. We certainly wouldn’t have instructed you to transfer your money to another bank.” Yasmin’s voice took on a combative edge. “I find it much more likely you moved all your funds offshore because you plan to leave the country and renege on your debts.”
“That doesn’t make any sense,” Romayne shot back, mind whirling. “I’m not going anywhere, you can’t just accuse me of—”
“As your loan officer,” Yasmin said, “I’m allowed to make certain calls if I believe repayment is at risk. Which I do. Under the terms of your agreement with the bank, I’m calling all your business loans.”
“You want the money back?” Romayne’s heart raced, pulse pounding in her ears. “All of it?”
“Yes, Ms. Bellamy. Immediately.”
Romayne hurried to her office, fingers flying over the keyboard of her laptop as she logged into the Cayman account.
It showed a balance of zero. Her money was gone.
The pub was cramped and dark, with sticky floors and peeling varnish on all the tables, and the beer selection was absolute shit. The main thing the place had going for it, as far as Lucas was concerned, was that it sat well outside his usual range. Nobody would think to look for him here.
He’d spent the past few hours huddled over his phone, struggling to stay ahead of the damage Romayne Bellamy’s fans were causing. They were stupid and lacked anything resembling actual hacking skill, but there were so damn many of them. Vitriol piled into the direct messages of every social account he had. Someone had managed to track down one of his email addresses, the inbox of which was rapidly filling up with hate mail, threats, and spam.
An hour ago, an alert from his home security system had informed him of an intrusion. Specifically, a Special Operations team had kicked down the door.
Lucas barely noticed as someone slid into his booth; he only looked up when a full pint glass landed on the table.
There was a girl sitting across from him. She was pretty and delicate with long curly hair, and offered him a wry smile as she said, “You looked like you needed another drink.”
Lucas had started to wonder if this was going too well.
The girl—Kitty—invited him back to her hotel, a few blocks away. It was possible he’d had a few too many; he stumbled a little as they made their way down the hall to her room. He wasn’t thinking clearly. He should—
Kitty turned on her heel to face him as she strode backwards down the hall, hair framing her face in a bright halo, full lips curved into an enticing smile.
It was probably fine.
Kitty slid her key-card into the lock and opened the door to her room, gesturing for Lucas to step inside. The room was dark, and it was only once the door closed behind him that Lucas noticed Moriarty sitting in the armchair near the windows.
“Fuck,” Lucas spat, and turned back to the door—but Moran had slipped in behind him, blocking the exit.
“All right, fine,” Lucas said quickly, backing away from both of them. “I sniped Bellamy from you. Really, I did you a fucking favour—she was onto the whole thing.”
“Lucas,” Moriarty said, flat and bored, “I already knew you’d go after Bellamy. I was counting on it.”
“You tipped her off,” Lucas said, rage and humiliation building as he realised: “You did this to me. All of it. Again.”
He wasn’t sure what he’d thought would happen when he lunged for Moriarty, but it quickly didn’t matter. A hand clamped down on the back of Lucas’ neck, his arm twisted painfully behind his back as Moran shoved him face-first onto the bed.
“Fuck, fuck, I’m sorry!” Lucas gasped, his mouth running without much direction from his brain—which, itself, was screaming he’s going to kill me, he’s going to kill me over and over again. “I’m sorry! I didn’t—!”
Moriarty was standing now, moving to the side of the bed. “Give me his hand.”
Moran’s grip shifted from Lucas’s neck to his other arm, resisting his attempts to twist it free as he moved his wrist to the edge of the bed and held it there. His hand dangled over empty air.
“Oh god,” Lucas groaned, “not my fingers, please—”
A cool, boxy shape pressed against Lucas’ palm; his fingers closed automatically around it. Moriarty laid his own hand over Lucas’s, pushing his fingertips firmly against hard plastic.
For the first time, Lucas noticed Moriarty was wearing gloves. As was Moran.
Moriarty pulled the box away and dropped it into a plastic bag, which he dangled in front of Lucas’ face. “Remember this?”
It wasn’t a box. It was the computer drive he’d arranged to buy at the gala, three weeks ago.
“This drive happens to have some very sensitive government information on it,” Moriarty explained. “Now it’s also got your fingerprints on it. I don’t need to tell you what would happen if it landed in the wrong hands.”
Lucas’ stomach churned with dread. The wrong hands, in this case, were many and varied. “The fuck do you want?”
“Mutually assured destruction,” Moriarty replied brightly. “This drive is going into a safe deposit box. If anything happens to me or Moran or even our friend Kitty here, and there’s even a hint you were responsible, then the location of that box gets sent to the police, and MI-5, and a few other agencies just to be sure. Got it?”
Lucas nodded. He wasn’t sure it was a good idea to speak.
“Good.” Moriarty took a step back, and to Moran, said, “You can let him up now.”
“Just a second.” Moran shifted over Lucas as he leaned forward. “I just want you to know,” he said softly, in Lucas’s ear, “that I heard what you said to Jay. Every word.”
He grabbed one of Lucas’s fingers, twisting and wrenching back at an impossible angle until the joint snapped.
Lucas screamed.
“There.” Moran’s weight lifted from Lucas’ back. “Now we can go.”
New York Sentinel Prints “Most Anticipated Films” List Featuring Movie That Doesn’t Exist
Rebecca Provenzano, TechRat Magazine
An edition of the New York Sentinel published this past weekend featured a list of the newspaper’s “Most Anticipated Films of 2025,” which included an ostensibly upcoming movie titled Whispers in the Velvet Fog. There is no such film in production.
The list, written by Sentinel contributor Simon Tatham, describes Whispers in the Velvet Fog as “a wuxia-inspired independent fantasy film influenced by Celtic myth and history.” Tatham’s source for information about the film appears to be a press release posted by film news website MovieBlast, which laid off many of its staff last year following its acquisition by media conglomerate NetZeal. Neither MovieBlast nor NetZeal responded to a request for comment.
In a public statement, the Sentinel said, “We are currently investigating how our yearly ‘Most Anticipated Films’ list came to feature an entirely fictitious production. The New York Sentinel remains committed to rigorous journalistic standards, and we are taking this error very seriously.”
Contract negotiations between the New York Sentinel and its journalists in the Sentinel Guild are currently underway, and sources within the union report ongoing conflicts over the newspaper’s use of generative AI in its reporting.
It was a good day for Kitty’s neck, which meant she could work from the desk instead of her bed. She’d managed to shoot a new set of SecretStar photos earlier in the week, which just needed a few touch-ups before they’d be ready for upload.
The kitchen phone rang, indicating someone was trying to buzz into the building. Kitty hurried to the kitchen and picked up the handset with a brusque, “Hello?”
“It’s me,” said Sebastian’s voice.
Kitty thumbed the button to open the door, and a few moments later let him into her flat.
“Here,” Sebastian said, and handed her an envelope.
Kitty opened it; there was a letter inside, and she quickly scanned the contents. It informed her, in so many words, that Wayward Talent was being dissolved and that this rendered Kitty’s contract with them null and void.
“Once Bellamy’s loans were called,” Sebastian explained, “she had to sell all her businesses.”
“And you bought the agency,” Kitty guessed.
“With her own money.” Sebastian seemed more than a bit pleased about that. “The new buyers have concluded the operation is no longer viable, so all the agency’s models are being released from their contracts.”
Kitty had her account back, and nobody could take it from her again. She had to brace herself against the kitchen counter for a moment.
Sebastian was smiling, bright and genuine.
Kitty took a breath to regain her composure. “I have something for you.”
Clearly baffled, and more than a little wary, Sebastian nevertheless followed as Kitty stepped back into the studio.
She retrieved the packaging tube propped up against her desk and handed it to him. He took it with a puzzled expression.
“You can open it,” Kitty said.
Sebastian popped the end of the tube open, retrieved the print inside, and unrolled it.
It was a copy of the piece on her wall: the portrait of her friend Alina wearing the kintsugi mask, which Sebastian had stared at for such a long, heartbreaking moment. Sebastian went still, his puzzled look slipping into something raw and open—there was fear in it, fear at being seen, but also gratitude and relief.
With reverent care, he rolled the print back up and slid it back into the tube. “Thank you,” he said, almost too quiet to hear.
The text Sebastian received from Jay after he left Kitty’s flat was, as always, terse:
Marigold, 8pm
Sebastian arrived a few minutes early, but while the interior of the cinema was lit, there didn’t seem to be anyone else around. A sign on the door read, “Closed for Private Event.” Sebastian pulled out his phone and texted Jay:
Cinema’s closed
The response came within seconds:
Come in, lock the door behind you
Screening room
Sebastian did as instructed, walking past the empty box office into the lobby. The bar was unattended; in fact, there didn’t seem to be any staff around at all.
The screening room had been beautifully restored. Crystal chandeliers hung from an arched, moulded ceiling accented in gold leaf. The seats were all comfortable red velvet recliners, except for the row nearest the screen; those were replaced by a series of sofas wide enough for two or three and long enough to lie down.
Jay sat tucked into the corner of the nearest sofa. Next to him was a tray with an ice bucket, a bottle of champagne, two empty flutes, and a bag of popcorn.
“I thought about doing this naked with rose petals,” he said dryly, “but it’s not actually that warm in here.”
Sebastian laughed and scanned the room. “Please tell me we’re the only ones here.”
Jay reached over to the arm of the sofa and picked up a remote—the remote for the projector. “Just us,” he confirmed. “Come on, sit down.”
Sebastian sat at the edge of the sofa, then slid over until he was reclined against the cushions next to Jay.
For a long time, the Marigold had been the only place Sebastian felt safe. And then it had burned. But Jay bought it for him, arranged to have it all restored, and now he was here, tonight—because he’d missed the reopening. Because he wanted Sebastian to have whatever it was he needed from this place.
Sebastian leaned up to brush his lips gently across Jay’s. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet,” Jay said, with an apologetic note. “I picked the movie.”
“Which is?” Sebastian asked, with mounting dread.
“Meg 2: The Trench.”
Sebastian groaned and threw his head back against the cushions. “Oh, god.”
Jay laughed, grinning deviously, and that set Sebastian off, too.
“Why?” Sebastian managed to gasp out.
“The movie can’t actually be good,” Jay insisted, giggling, “or you won’t want to fool around while we’re watching it.”
Sebastian raised an eyebrow. “Oh, you want to fool around?”
Before Jay could answer, Sebastian lunged and tackled him down into the cushions, kissing the laugh from his mouth.
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