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“I’m mad because Lucien has a knife in his pants and is making goo-goo eyes at Luna, andyoulook like you’re auditioning to sell cursed encyclopedias door to door.”

Silas hops off the counter with an actual flourish, dusts imaginary lint off his shirt like he’s about to attend a gala of chaos, and walks past me. “Come on, Elias. The mustache stays. It gives me gravitas.”

“You can’t even spell gravitas.”

He turns, walking backward now, and grins like the devil himself handed him a punchline. “G-R-A-V-I... never mind. Let’s go stalk Lucien and his emotionally constipated love confession. I’m invested.”

“I hate that I am too,” I mutter, grabbing a hoodie off the back of a chair. “But we’re not bringing the mustache.”

“Then I’m bringing the monocle instead.”

“You donothave a monocle—”

“Ido, actually.” He pulls it out of his pocket. Polished. Ready. What kind of warlock bullshit is this?

I sigh like a man who’s seen too much. Because I have. Because I’m bonded to Luna, and best friends with Silas, which means my life is one long scream into the void wrapped in sparkles and crimes against dignity. But I follow him anyway. Because if Lucien has a knife and Luna hasthat smile, then yeah. Something’s about to happen. And someone should be there to witness it—preferably wearing a fake mustache.

Silas hands me the wig like it’s a sacred artifact, like I should be falling to my knees and thanking the gods of chaos for this polyester monstrosity. It’s blonde. Curly. Shiny in the way onlysomething deeply unnatural could be. The kind of thing you’d find on a cursed mannequin or at the center of a murder mystery party gone horribly wrong.

I stare at it. Then at him. Then back at the wig.

“Silas,” I say slowly, dragging the name out like an exorcism, “why the fuck do you have a wig in your back pocket?”

He tilts his head, as if the answer should be obvious, then shrugs and grins. “Whydon’tyou have a wig in your back pocket?”

“That’s not—” I stop myself. “That’s not an answer. That’s a goddamn philosophical crisis.”

He’s already digging into another pocket, like Mary Poppins if she snorted chaos instead of sugar. “You think this is good?” he asks, pulling out a velvet choker with a fake ruby the size of my self-loathing. “Wait till you see what I have in my sock.”

I don’t want to know what’s in his sock. Ineverwant to know what’s in Silas’s sock. There are layers to his insanity, and I’ve seen enough to know some doors are best left unopened.

“I’m not wearing this,” I mutter, holding the wig at arm’s length like it might bite me.

“Oh, come on.” He slaps it on my head before I can dodge, tugging it into place with the precision of a man who’s done this too many times to admit publicly. “You lookravishing, Elias. Like a fallen duchess turned assassin.”

“Iwillend you.”

“But not before we spy on Lucien.”

I exhale, long and low, then reach up to adjust the wig. It's itchy. I feel like a soap opera villain. Or a very confused drag queen. “Fine. But if I get tackled by the academy guards again, I’m blaming you.”

Silas is already donning a pair of oversized sunglasses and what I think is a child’s trench coat. “Blame me? Darling, Ilivefor your blame.”

“Silas,” I say with the kind of calm that means I’m ten seconds from throwing it out the window. “Is there a reason you’re carrying around women’s hair like a deranged collector?”

He shrugs, leaning back on the kitchen counter like this is completely normal. “It’s called being prepared, Elias. Ever heard of it? You’re just jealous because you don’t have the pockets for it.”

“I have pockets,” I mutter. “They just happen to be used for things likekeysandweapons, not—” I pause, twisting the wig curls in my hand, “—synthetic Barbie scalps.”

Silas grins like I’ve just validated his entire existence. “That’s where you’re wrong. This is our new disguise. Mission: Lucien Moon Eyes.”

My jaw tightens. “We’re not calling it that.”

“Too late. I already branded it. Elias and Silas Investigations—Tagline: We Wig for Justice.”

“I hate everything you are.”

“No, you don’t. Youadoreme,” he says, popping a lollipop into his mouth from the other pocket—again, where the hell is he keeping all this crap?