“Another day, wasted,” Uriel says, clapping his hands together. It's most definitely not the last time he's said it that day, and most definitely not the first time in an hour, but he is now confirming it.

“You had a good time and a free dinner,” Magnus says. On it's last vestiges of power, his phone reads the time. It's past nightfall. But it's winter, so it's still early. Still going to be dark. “Next time, you can pay.”

“Free dinner's good, but I'm starting to think I'll never get this sand out of my clothes.”

“Wash them, for once.”

They survey the crowd leaving. The proud contestants are babbling happily or busily nursing busted limbs and muscles and faces. The spectators are somewhat more humble and from woefully close up, Magnus can see a few of his own employees, ducking past him, turning away, lacking subtlety. Like their noses contained industrial magnets and Magnus was a repellant. He can smell sweat and spit.

“I can't stand this place,” Uriel says, also not his first time saying so.

“I can see that. But it's really starting to grow on me, to be honest.”

“You lying fuck.”

"Gives me some ideas, for when I get my hands on Val again."

Uriel stares. "Prison not good enough?"

"Was it ever? God, I sound like one of those death pit organisers now. He's giving me too long to think about it." Magnus inspects some fading wallpaper. "What do you think, should I reinstate the third Ring? Toss up some walls and a roof that isn't made of potato sacks. Maybe Tiamat will buy it back.”

“Oh sure, and maybe Val and his pal will see that shithole up again in their memorium, and tack on another few weeks to their honeymoon.”

“Just a joke. It was just a joke."

Uriel sniffs. "Same here. You know what? I bet they're both already dead. Patch flips out again, or Val kills him in his sleep. Then the other kills himself, crushes his own skull, strangles himself. Self immolation - that would be Patch, he's got a death wish the size of the sun. If it's Val, he disappears for good this time. Or maybe they both beat each other until they can't move, this time nobody's there to cart them home. Wouldn't put it past them. How's that for a joke?"

"That would be disappointing."

"That's all you can say?"

"You want me to care any more than that? I take it that means you haven't given up hope either."

Uriel scowls. "So sue me. Put that on my records, or some shit."

"Yours are boring enough without that." Magnus sighs. "It's too late for jokes, man. So, same time and place tomorrow?”

---

Up above them, at the top of the staircase exiting the Rings, Ritz circles the entrance and peers into the chapel. A few members of the leaving crowd glance at him, but do not follow. In his dark winter coat, he does somewhat resemble a priest, and the sand smears suggest he's not simply a priest who simply attends to the chapel. They are out of the Ring now; priests are not to be approached.

So he enters the chapel alone.

“Hello?”

The confessional sits in its dark corner. The moon shines bright through the long upper windows, long stripes of white on the ground, but none of it touches the booth. It looks, is unseen, as always.

Ritz comments on this aloud: “I know you don't want to be seen.”

There's a faint smell of burning, but no candles are lit. Ritz drums his fingers on the raised ornaments of the wood, down to the doorknob of the left booth and pushes it open.

No bodies, but the smell is rising from the floor inside.

He bends, shifts so the moon can make a thin attempt at lighting. It takes a while for his eyes to adjust, his fingers touch the source first.

There are matches on the ground of the booth, still warm. He turns and raises them. In the moonlight, steam rises from the blackened tip of the shortest one. He collects them in his palm, returns to the lobby and throws them away. Footsteps patter from the hall, but it is only a few loud guests.

"Did you see all that blood?"

They laugh, they've had a swell evening. Ritz takes one more look at the booth and departs. He does so without touching the righthand compartment door. He cannot know for sure what is behind it, but if someone were inside, he hopes they feel that they have time. Time to talk, and wait, and eat, and of course, rest. Sleep and dream. Connecting, reconnecting, is as hard as losing. Ritz is no wizard with words, he isn't sure how to say it, but he knows time is needed. So he says nothing.

And nothing - as it stands - is just fine.