CHAPTER 161: DREAM A LITTLE DREAM OF ME

The 99th floor didn’t look like an office at all. Hermes stepped out of the elevator expecting glass walls, cubicles, and more of that sterile corporate polish he’d seen downstairs. Instead, it felt like walking into someone’s home.

No, someone’s museum.

The air smelled faintly of polish and old paper, the kind of scent that clung to archives and cathedrals. A wide, open space stretched out before him, divided into living room, study, and lounge without walls. White and gold dominated, the kind of sleek that made every surface gleam, but the longer he looked the more it felt curated...

Like a stage set. A place designed not just to be lived in, but to give an impression about its dweller.

Against one wall, rows of vinyl records gleamed behind glass, beside an honest-to-gods phonograph with its brass horn catching the light. There were display cases too, filled with odd trinkets. An ivory compass, a jeweled dagger, a cracked porcelain mask that looked like it belonged in a forgotten ritual.

But then a TV screen the size of a wall sat across the room, incongruous but humming with standby life. A little Rumba robot zipped past his feet before trundling toward a corner, where a taller servant robot stood with a tray balanced in mechanical fingers.

Steam curled from a silver teapot on the tray, and Hermes swore he caught the faint scent of biscuits, butter-sweet and warm, so out of place in this cavernous luxury that his stomach growled before he could stop it. He hadn’t eaten since last night, and suddenly he felt it.

At the very center of it all sat a grand piano. Black, glossy, commanding the room.

Someone was seated at it.

And as Hermes froze in the doorway, music rolled across the room like a tide. Smooth, practiced, paired with a low, warm voice.

"Sweet dreams ’til sunbeams find you,

Sweet dreams that leave all worries behind you,

But in your dreams, whatever they be,

Dream a little dream of me..."

Hermes’s heart lurched against his ribs. He knew that voice.

Conney was practically vibrating beside him, her entire body doing a poor job of containing her excitement. She flailed her hands at him in silent, frantic encouragement. As if saying: Go on, go on!

Hermes pinched the bridge of his nose. "...Great."

He walked forward. His boots clicked against the marble, the sound swallowed by the piano’s notes.

Raphael didn’t look up until the final line left his lips. Then he turned, still smiling, eyes like liquid gold. "My Lord."

Hermes scowled. "Your music taste is a bit... outdated, don’t you think?"

"True." Raphael’s fingers rested on the keys, lingering as though reluctant to break the moment. "I suppose I’m just an old soul."

Hermes snorted, folding his arms. "That’s one way of putting it."

Raphael rose from the piano with that same unshakable grace, crossing the room to where the servant robot already held out two glasses on its tray. "May I offer you something? Tea, wine, coffee?"

Hermes waved a hand, still scowling. "Whatever’s fine."

Raphael selected a glass and placed it on the table between two seats, then turned to Conney. "Constance."

"Conney!" she corrected automatically, beaming like a child caught misbehaving.

"Conney," Raphael repeated patiently. "Would you give us a moment?"

Her whole face fell. "But—"

"Please."

She huffed, clearly torn between obedience and her burning need to spectate. At the last moment, she whipped out her phone, raised it, and—snap.

Hermes shot to his feet. "Wait—hey—delete that—!"

But she was already gone, vanishing in a blur of freckles and red curls, the sound of her laughter echoing faintly as the elevator doors shut behind her.

He groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "...Unbelievable."

"My apologies." Raphael’s voice was calm, tinged with genuine regret. "Her... interests make her enthusiastic."

"I’m not worried about her interests," Hermes muttered, dropping heavily into one of the seats. "I’m worried about why I’m even here. If this is just some elaborate shipping fantasy—"

"It isn’t."

Raphael gestured to the bouquet Hermes still carried. Hermes scowled down at it like it had betrayed him and shoved it back into Raphael’s hands.

"Here. Your flowers. I don’t need them."

Raphael accepted them without a flicker of offense, cradling them almost reverently before setting them aside. His smile never dimmed. "Then allow me to explain."

Hermes sank back, arms crossed tight. Distrust crackled off him like static.

Raphael lowered himself into the opposite seat. He leaned forward slightly, golden eyes steady.

"The press is circling you. But it isn’t only them. There’s a force moving beneath all this, subtle but deliberate, nudging the tide against you."

Hermes’s jaw tightened. "And why should I believe you?"

"Because I know what’s driving it."

Something in Raphael’s tone made Hermes still. He hated how easily it cut through his defenses, how a part of him leaned forward despite himself.

Raphael continued, voice lowering. "This isn’t simply about guild rivalries or jealous colleagues. This is revenge. For... Eirwyn."

The name struck like a fist.

Hermes froze. The glassy perfection of the room faded, sound muffled under the rush of blood in his ears. His hands curled into fists against his arms, nails digging into fabric.

Images threatened to surge up from memory. Pills, cryogenic tank, vampire... but he forced them down with a strangled breath.

"...What did you just say?"

Raphael tilted his head, smile small but unshaken. "Eirwyn."

Hermes leaned forward, teeth clenched. "What do you know about Eirwyn?"

Silence stretched. Raphael’s gaze didn’t waver, as though he could see the storm inside Hermes and refused to flinch from it. For a moment, Hermes hated him for it.

He hated him for his calm, for his composure, for speaking that name like it wasn’t jagged glass.

Finally, Raphael’s lips curved into something faint, almost knowing.

"Tell me, my Lord," he murmured. "Do you know the Thirteen Stripes?"

The words hung in the air, heavy, foreign. Hermes’s pulse thudded in his ears. He didn’t know if it was a person, an organization, or a warning. But he knew one thing.

The game had just shifted.

And Raphael was at the center of it. He just didn’t know if they’re playing on the same side.