Page 121 of Violent Possession

“I found out why Seraphim is with your brother,” he says, bitterly.

I wait.

“It’s for money.”

Of all the things I imagined possible—blackmail, death threats, a crisis of faith, brainwashing—this was the most banal.Vasily understood this, and he paid the right amount. It was that simple.

I feel an unexpected relief. Money problems are solvable. They are spreadsheets, tables, numerical promises. Nothing that cannot be reversed, compensated, recalibrated. A problem of ideology is a terminal illness. But money is basic chemistry.

“That makes it easier,” I say, perhaps with more sincerity than I intended.

The only problem is not knowing the current state of their relationship. Towhatextent was Seraphim’s loyalty bought?

Griffin reacts as if I had broken his nose. He gets up from the chair in an impulse, stiff with indignation.

“It makes it easierfor you.For a fucking bourgeois, everything isalwayssolved with fucking money, isn’t it?”

I stare at him, genuinely confused by the violence of his reaction.

Whyis he angry? This was the best possible news. His god has a price. That is a weakness I can exploit. He should be relieved.

Emotion is a confusing variable that I prefer to avoid. But not with him.

“You’re projecting,” I say.

“Fuck you,” he exclaims, with a grimace. “I had a flash of idiocy and thought you’d understand. Forget it.”

The scene strangely bothers me. I am used to dealing with people broken into smaller pieces than this, but I don’t have immediate control of the outcome. Griffin should be relieved that the myth was just a myth. But he reacts as if he has lost the only thing that kept him whole.

The silence stretches for a minute. I try to think of something to pull him back, but everything I mentally cross off sounds false, therapeutic, or too paternalistic.

“Then explain it to me,” I say then.

He collapses onto the sofa. His metal hand is lying on the armrest: elegant and grotesque at the same time, and I remember when I first saw him. It was also like this—beautiful and grotesque.

He laughs, without joy, just to fill the air.

“Seriously, you can be so cold you don’t even notice?”

I don’t react. I don’t want to contaminate his combustion with skepticism. He is burning, and I want to see how far the fire goes—he isfascinatinglike this, in flames.

“For you, ‘it’s for money’ is an answer that simplifies everything. ‘Oh, great, he has a price.’ Broke a leg? Buy a better one. Betrayed a friend? Pay him double. Yourfucking soulis rotten? Cover it with a hundred-thousand-dollar suit. It’s the only language you speak. But you haveno idea.You have no idea what people are forced to do for that shit. You’ve never had to choose between eating and keeping your fucking dignity.”

His anger spins in circles, hitting the walls like a trapped bird. The explosion ends as it began: with a premature exhaustion, a devouring silence.

He sinks into the sofa, staring at his own hands. He sees both and seems not to know which of them is more alien to his own body.

“Sorry,” he whispers, the word so low that I almost miss it. He doesn’t look at me. He just shakes his head slowly. “I just...”

He doesn’t finish the sentence. He doesn’t need to.

I approach slowly. I sit in the armchair across from him.

“The information you obtained,” I say. “It wasn’t just about money, was it?”

He gives me a look that is half fury, half a plea not to continue. I realize I’ve hit bone. The equation has an unknown term, and he’s biting it between his teeth.

I wait, making space for the silence to force him to confess. I think he will give in. His face wavers, his mouth open, the wordalmost coming out. But then a shadow passes through his eyes—an iron curtain that falls and seals everything up again. The fragility retreats, giving way to an ancient weariness.