The early morning traffic was light, and the sky was a mottled gray. Patches embarked on a short and uneventful bus ride straight to Dragon Tower at the advice of a helpful commuter, who had spotted him reading the schedule and made time to ask him where he was going, and if he needed any help. The effect of the new shirt had been instantaneous. Patches was impressed. He'd felt overexposed walking out, it was surprising passerby hadn't run away faster than the day before.

But they seemed to welcome him to the fold. He tried to sit still. The old cotton itched a bit.

The bus pulled up without fanfare beside the smooth tiled face of the building. After dropping off its passengers, it went around the circular traffic island and exited the lot. It was followed but about five identical looking buses that did the same thing. The flow seemed infinite, every load in well pressed suits and completely occupied with their phones or papers. No one gave him a second glance, some gave him no glances at all and nearly walked into him. Any number of passerby he had seen yesterday could have been on their way, right here, and he wouldn’t have known.

Patches followed the line from Bus 45 through the entrance.

The flow ended roughly three meters into the lobby. Visitors were surrounded by a collection of marbled white walls and hallways, all leading off without of any sort of sign or guide. While he came to a stop, the crowd around him seemed able to choose their paths without so much as raising their heads and they soon dissipated. Two more busloads streamed through. Patches asked for reception, and he was pointed to some unseen corner the room he was already in. Eventually, he was left standing in the middle of the wide, shell-smooth entrance hall.

He was not quite alone. He saw now that the view was clear, two men in bulky uniforms were standing by the entryway. Guards of some sort. Only two for the whole building? That couldn’t be correct, there must have been more outside.

There was also a desk, blue glass perched on a massive bean-shaped white base, staffed by a slender man and pale woman. It was unlabeled, but close enough to his idea of a reception table. He approached them and took a moment to admire the smoothness of the table. It had no sharp corners. And there was nothing on it but a few computer monitors, thin as cardboard.

“May I help you?” the woman asked.

“I’m here to see Mr. Long.”

The receptionists exchanged long looks. It was a bit early in the day for the oddballs to be coming in with such demands.

“Do you have an appointment?”

“I…” Patches contemplated a ridge of light in the glass. “Maybe you can tell me if I do.”

“Er, sorry. I may have misheard - so you do have an appointment?”

“An acquaintance said he would help. His name is Ritz, I met him yesterday, and he said to come in.”

“Did you get confirmation from him?”

“I’m not sure how I could,” Patches frowned. He hadn’t considered that. “Sorry. I’m not so sure about the details.”

The receptions exchanged another succinct glance and the woman tapped her keyboard loudly. “Unfortunately, if you don’t have a confirmed appointment, we can’t let you see Mr. Long. He could be in the middle of a meeting.”

“Oh. I’m sorry, is he in one now?”

“He may well be. He’s a busy man.”

“I heard. Are you sure, though?”

The woman sighed. “I'll check for you. Just a moment. Can I have your name?"

He told her and she began hammering the keys into the sleek white keyboard, which was also pleasantly bean-shaped. She and the man both had very dextrous hands. Patches put his own hand on the table and inspected it. There were two black welts from over a week ago that were on the mend, and a very small gash he had acquired during a Ring of Light bout involving wooden chairs. The gash was more a result of the infected splinter than the injury itself. The pale blue reflection on the table hid the redness of it well.

Even without the bruises he knew he couldn’t type as fast as these two, though. They must have been highly qualified.

The woman glanced over at his hand where it rested and pursed her entire face as though she had gulped down a lemon.

Patches moved his hands behind his back. “Did you find something?”

“Well, you may have an appointment, it seems.”

Ritz had pulled through after all. “Oh. Good. Thank you.”

“Please take a seat.” She gestured.

“When is the appointment?”

“Mr. Long has some business to complete. He’s a busy man. So please,” she said, smiling blandly. “Have a seat.”

Patches had not even been aware there were chairs in the corner she pointed at. There were several benches in fact, bean-shaped and the same marbled color as the floor and walls. He sat on one and regarded the flat expanse of ceiling. The small circular lights were inset, rather than protruding. It made the whole thing look very smooth. He wondered if it were possible to do such a thing in his own room.

He might have gazed at the lights for half an hour or so before something intruded his sight. It was the rectangular frame of the guards who had been standing at the doorway. Or that’s what it appeared at the time - at the doorway there were now four guards, in addition to the two standing above him.

“Morning, sir,” said one of them.

Patches said nothing.

“I need you to come with me.”

“Am I meeting Mr. Long?”

“Just stand up.”

The receptionists were gone. Or perhaps they had lowered their heads behind their monitors. Patches stared into the forehead of the guard right in front of him, and stood up. The guards gave each other that knowing look, as the receptionists had done. They were very close and there were six of them. Not the best of situations. Patches was also quite sure one of them was coming around his right side, his blind spot. He only knew this because the room was so quiet, and the reflections carried so far across the infinitely polished surfaces. The Ring had no mirrors, so all the flickering of light flung about Long's gleaming lobby stood out painfully clear.

His head began buzzing. He couldn’t see too clearly. It was more like he didn’t see anything at all. But his arm shot out to the right and collided, crushing, by the bone of his palm, a human face. It wasn’t a good feeling, though that was mainly because it had been unintentional. Judging distances was another one of his weaknesses. In the Ring of Justice, he could generally start where he wanted, with Castor there too, he could take his time. That was good, because he tended to overshoot.

Castor wasn’t here. He overshot completely. There was a yell of protest and the guards came running.

---

Magnus had his head thrown over the back of his armchair, eyes closed. The blinds were drawn over his massive wall-covering windows. He was not in the mood to see the skyline at the moment, it reminded him he had work to do that he had no interest in doing. It was all such a hassle. Early morning conferences, breakfast skipped so he could log in early, every guest late by at least ten minutes. Piles of forms to sign off, designs to check, his eyes were dry already from looking at so many screens. Checking up on Mr. Verd, his security detail, his scheduled train out, his state of mind. So much went into making sure no hidden corners of this whole massive system didn’t bring the whole thing crashing down.

And now some altercation was going on downstairs. No doubt some ungrateful citizen, here to file a complaint about their personal shortcomings as if Magnus should be both sorry for his neglect of their valuable personage and take personal responsibility for fixing it. The toilet they broke by slamming their fat ass down, their dog they had let run onto a road, their kid's bad grades and rotten teeth - it just kept coming. The yapping coming over the phone was drilling into his head and planting the seeds of a massive migraine. He pulled the reciever back to his face and said smoothly,

“Just tell him to come back later.”

“He’s giving us some trouble-”

“Yeah, call security and they'll help him out.”

“He’s assaulting security!”

Sometimes it was amazing anything in the city functioned at all.

“I don’t know if - Mr. Long, listen - stop! His records say he’s associated with the church. The church, he’s one of those, you know, the, the-”

He turned down the volume slightly and pondered. A priest turning up at the Tower, assaulting the guards, refusing to leave. It seemed a little late for Tiamat to be sending out a hit on him. Maybe someone had lost their job as a result of their prisoner’s escape and was now on a lengthy trail for revenge. That didn’t sound much like the character of the church or its staff, though. When you were there, you followed the lord’s best set plan, gun to head, or fingers to throat - whatever they gave you, unless you had better ideas, you took it. But, if you wriggled out of it somehow, if you were more clever or god forbid, more powerful that the staff - they wouldn’t come running. And one lunatic barging in didn't seem like a plan formed by the leaders of a massive covert fighting ring.

“Mr Long? Sir?”

“Can you give Tiamat Cielo a call for me? Tell her to get in touch around lunchtime.”

“Mr Long!” came two voices in unison.

“Hope I don’t regret that.”

A thump.

“And just send up that guest if you can’t get rid of him. I’ll take care of it.”

---

He’d said it with the breeze and ease of an film star's heroic boss, but up came the heaving one-man disaster, in most ill fitting shirt imaginable, splattered with fresh blood, and Magnus sat stiff in his chair cursing them both dead.

But they were not to die before he’d had breakfast. While Patches was on the way up, Magnus called for a quick setup, and was tipping hot tea out of an ornate ceramic kettle by the time his guest dropped onto the seat across from him. The dining-slash-meeting table was very long and wide. Good, they were a safe distance apart, walled off by a few baskets of bread.

Magnus took a sip of tea and nearly burned his mouth. He sat in silence and his guest seemed content to wait, staring at the unmoving curtain as if it were a widescreen television. No movement at all. It was somewhat eerie. Magnus closed his eyes one more time, gathered his thoughts and started.

“Patches is it? Help yourself.”

“No, thank you.”

Fine. No need to get up.

“So, that scuffle downstairs. You must have really wanted to make your appointment.”

“Yes.” Patches looked at his hands below the table. What he really needed was a napkin. “Sorry for the trouble. I didn’t know when I would be able to get another one. Everyone I spoke to said it was difficult to make an appointment.”

“I see. You spoke to Uriel and Ritz, didn’t you? They had… varying things to say about you.” Magnus smiled. “They were positive, I assure you. By certain standards. You wouldn’t guess from Uriel’s face, but he’s actually quite an understanding person.”

Uriel’s specific words had been ‘you deal with that dense motherfucker, I don’t want anything to do with this.’

“I have to say, it’s unusual to be talking to one of the priests, here in the office. You work in the Ring, I assume. You actually look somewhat familiar.” It wasn’t a lie, though Magnus had to admit, aside from the blood and the face-obscuring bandage, Patches looked positively common. “I actually paid a visit to the Rings earlier this week. My first time there! Talked to your boss - er, organizer. Nice woman.”

“Nice… oh, you must have been the one who made the donation.”

“Donation is one way of saying it. More accurate, a partial donation, partial business transaction.”

“Did you see the end of the event?”

“As a matter of fact, I did.” Magnus started buttering a roll solemnly. ”It’s a shame about what happened. That it didn’t go through.”

“Yes. A shame.”

Magnus glanced up. Patches was staring at him dead center, or would have been if he had two eyes. The one he had was wide and dull as a stone, not a hint of amusement, or any human thought, in there. Magnus chewed slowly. Patches didn’t seem particularly bright, but he seemed to know enough to be dangerous.

It was dangerous enough that he had made his way out here on his own, dead set on “meeting.”

“Are you alright?” Patches asked without changing expression.

Magnus swallowed and coughed lightly. “Yep. Just fine, thanks for asking. So, about this event business. If it’s related to that, I would guess Tiamat sent you?”

“No, that’s not it.”

“Or another boss, she did say she was only one of several organizers… how is she, by the way?”

“She’s good. Happy. Happier than normal. But, I’m here myself...”

“Investigating the incident.”

“Not exactly.”

“So you’re not here about what happened that day?”

“I am, but…” He struggled to voice his reason. He was staring at the table now. There was nothing in front of him, so he was evidently just looking at the wood grain. A thousand yard stare, right into nothing.

It was starting to dawn on Magnus that he wasn’t actually facing an assassin. The guy was uncomfortable. Unable to focus, unable to phrase what he wanted - he was clearly hired for brawn, and with nobody was telling him what to do, he wasn’t exactly prepared for negotiations and subtle small talk. Obviously there was something on his mind, but it would take months for him to form the words himself. That’s right, what Uriel had said - he didn’t care who was at the Rings or where the prisoner was - he had never so much as touched on the latter. No, what really got to him was-

“You’re looking for this guy Val.”

For maybe half a second, that one bleary eye cleared. “Yes, that’s it.”

“I thought as much. Uriel and Ritz both said that’s all you were interested in. Why might that be?”

Discomfort seemed to overwhelm Patches and he held for a few minutes as if he hadn’t heard. Magnus gave him some time to think and checked his phone clock, finished roughly half of his roll before picking up a new piece. Space on his plate ran out; he mopped up the fallen crumbs and crusts with a cloth napkin. This took at least a minute. Finally, Patches rested his hands on the table and took the plunge. “I know he was there that night.”

“Oh? How do you know?”

“Something happened. I felt - I heard his name from a man who was there and it struck me that I knew him.”

“Yeah, he probably took your prisoner, the way he is.”

A risky (and rather hamfisted) hint, but Patches seemed to brush it off. “At the same time, there’s so much I can’t be sure of. I want to say you’re right. That we know the same person, like a friend. The problem is, I don’t know the way he is. It seems that I don’t anymore. I knew him at one time, but it was not a time either of us was well. You, and Ritz and Uriel all seem to know the way he is, though you can’t tell me where to find him or how to speak to him. But I need to do it. I can’t stop until I know he-”

Was that true frustration, jealousy even, or just a lapse of concentration? Magnus inspected his guest. That one eyed hole of expression flattened itself again.

"Sorry. I'm imposing."

“You two were close, then?”

“I thought so. It’s been a long time.”

“Say, a few years?”

“Many years.”

Magnus rolled this thought over in his mind.

“It’s tough. You miss someone and it seems like he’s hit everyone else in the meantime.”

“I don’t-”

“Don’t beat yourself up too bad, what we say - Ritz, Uriel and I - are only based on a couple interactions. We don’t know him as well as it sounds. Maybe you’ve noticed, but the most we can say is that he’s hard to find. Unfortunately.”

“I see.”

“We just have a lot of judgments because he’s a… he enjoys making an impact.”

“That does sound like him.”

“And you know he took a contestant from the Ring.”

Magnus sealed his smile into place and hoped this wouldn’t go sour.

“It does sound so much like something he would do. Taking what isn’t his. Running along for no reason. Protecting what doesn’t deserve to live. That… that sort of thing. That was so long ago, I remember almost nothing. But when the contestant disappeared, and there was a wind through the tunnel I knew it was someone I knew. It had to be him. I just want to… I just want to tell him something. If I am allowed. I’m starting to think--” Patches rubbed his knuckles blindly. “I doesn’t matter, I can’t be sure of anything if you can’t tell me where he is.”

The incoherent babbling almost made Magnus wish for just a single punch so he could arrest the guy and throw him out. But at least he'd gotten the point.

“Then I’m sorry. I can't help you at the moment.”

“That’s too bad.”

“He’ll turn up. Eventually.”

With that finely handled note, Magnus slouched back in his chair. Patches was now back to the grindstone of staring at the table, dejectedly. Well, about as dejectedly as he had before. There was little range to his face, it was hard to tell if he’d ever managed to form hopes in the first place. It was hardly motivating.

At least he wasn’t too upset. And early in the morning, after a particularly biting conference call, Magnus could appreciate a personality a mite flatter than Tiamat or Verd's.

“Do you believe in God, Patch?”

“No.”

“That was fast. And you work for a church.”

“I don’t do the services. It’s not an obligation.”

“The way Tiamat talks, I would have thought you’d at least pretend to have some reverence. I suppose it might be better not to pretend, though.” Magnus sighed. “I hate to ask a favor of you after being so unhelpful, but I’m on a search of my own.”

“Oh.”

"How about coincidences? Believe in those?"

Patches didn't say anything.

“Coincidences happen whether we believe they're intentional or not. Anyhow, it's a coincidence that you're here, a member of the church, because I’m really stumped. Hear me out?”

Patches looked like he was ready to leave. Or just fall to the floor, crumble to colorless bits of clay out of apathy. Magnus continued.

“It’s a little silly, but it’s related to that night too. Not nearly as big as any event, but it was actually the important part of my night. Can you tell me, does the Ring of Love exist?”

Patches blinked. “Sorry?”

“Ring of Love. Humor me.”

“Why are you interested in that?”

“I told you, it’s a little silly, but by some accident, I became the property owner. In name, only. Unless I learn where it is.”

“I didn’t know it had an owner. Did you always own it?”

“No, it was a recent acquisition.”

“But you don’t know if it exists.”

“It’s a problem, I know. I paid for it too without thinking, not the best decision I’ve ever made, but at the time I couldn’t turn it down. I read that contract a couple times, but it wasn't until I left that I realized there was no map, no address. You can laugh.”

Patches not laughing, but the sides of his mouth twitched and tightened with confusion.

“C’mon, Patch. Just a word or two. Help me get this off my mind. It’s not some kind of metaphor - the Ring exists in your heart, or something, right? It’s real, right?”

“The Ring is real.”

“A real place, physical location, that you could stand in.”

“Yes, of course.”

“Thank you!” Magnus slung over the chair in exhaustion. “Well. Glad to know my money wasn’t wasted. So, you wouldn’t be able to tell me where it is, would you?”

“No… no, I couldn't tell you.”

"Not even the general area?"

"It's..." Patches frowned. "I don't know the address. I know where it is, though, I still can't tell you."

“Any particular reason?”

Patches remained silent.

“Ah, well. Worth a shot. I guess I deserve that, after all, I couldn’t help you. I’ll have to ask Tiamat.”

Patches got up from the chair slowly, sending it grating across the floor. “She won’t tell you, either.”

“Serious? That makes the whole deal sound a little suspicious. No offense.” Magnus lolled his head about his chair. “I really don’t want to have to request a refund. I mean, I can live without the cash, but the principle...”

A refund. Tiamat would be very upset. Why had she sold the Ring? Patches gazed steadily at his knuckle bones, Magnus just a fuzzy gray light behind them. Why? It had to be the same reason that Magnus wanted his refund. She didn’t know if it existed either. Nobody had told her where it was, because nobody else knew. It had meant nothing for these two to just say they owned it or were giving it up, they just had a piece of paper and some words.

Magnus was still lamenting his bad luck. Patches wondered, what would it be worthwhile to just tell him. Giving up that last ridiculous childhood dream, the one that had stuck around, somehow. Dragging the Ring of Love into their shared existence would allow his to jettison some old plans that may never have the chance to come true. Dreams of fights, though he didn’t fight for himself anymore. Tiamat might feel she had been scammed. Or maybe Magnus would. He had never considered the monetary value of the thing, but it it was worth anything as Magnus and Tiamat’s deal suggested, Patches himself would lose something too. It was too much trouble. The alternative was to do nothing. Things remained as they were. Balance in the universe, a null result.

Nothingness was, as always, preferable.

So he simply got up to leave. His hand fell on the doorknob. Its carvings were dense and deep, like the pattern on his ceiling.

“Wait, wait, wait. You headed out?”

“Yes.”

“Hold up.” Magnus picked up his phone again and help up a finger. “You shouldn’t go wandering the streets like that. I’ll call you a cab. Come on, sit back down, it’ll take a moment.”

Patches considered the handle, then returned to the table. Magnus did not speak into his phone, but typed instead. He was very dextrous too, and it looked far more difficult than typing on the receptionists’ keyboards.

“Shit,” Magnus said.

Patches raised his head slowly.

“Guess I gotta call Tiamat and tell her I can’t do this lunch after all. Gotta push it… later. Well. You seem honest enough when you say she doesn’t know where the Ring is. And a refund would be so much trouble. Christ.” Magnus took a deep breath and released it in a long, disquieting groan. “Alright. So not a ton of progress made today.”

Echoing Magnus’s condolences, Patches said, ”Maybe the Ring of Love will just turn up eventually. On its own.”

Turning up. Like Val. Eventually.

Evidently Magnus had bigger things to worry about because he just nodded absently and hammered messages into his phone. Patches resumed the examination of his knuckles until the cab arrived. It was a private car, oily black with a velvety red interior shining like the cavern of wet gums. Fittingly, as he entered he had already been thinking of fire and teeth, but wasn’t entirely sure how he’d arrived there.