Chapter 40: Three Answers to the Same Question
**(2 DAYS UNTIL RAGNAK'S DECISION)**
The private room at Museu do Fado smelled of cigar smoke and spilled port wine, the velvet curtains drawn tight against the last streaks of sunset bleeding through Alfama’s skyline. A single fado guitar leaned against the wall, its polished wood catching the dim glow of the brass sconces. The air hummed with the ghost of past performances—mournful, hungry.
Ragnak stood by the unlit fireplace, gloved fingers tracing the edge of a porcelain ashtray. His stillness was surgical. Camila shifted in her chair, the leather creaking under her thighs. Beatriz crossed her legs at the ankle, her stiletto dangling with deceptive casualness. Julieta sat rigid, her knuckles white around her untouched glass of vinho verde.
"You’re familiar with tests," Ragnak said. Not a question. A scalpel sliding between ribs.
Camila exhaled through her nose. "You mean traps."
A faint tilt of Ragnak’s head—acknowledgement without agreement. He reached into his suit jacket and withdrew three envelopes, laying them on the low table like a tarot spread. "Your scenarios."
Beatriz picked up the nearest one, her manicured nail slicing through the wax seal. The paper crackled as she unfolded it. "A pediatric ward with only one ventilator. Three children coding at once." She didn’t flinch. Just raised her eyes to Ragnak’s. "You want me to choose which one lives?"
Ragnak’s glove whispered against the ashtray. "You already have."
Julieta’s envelope contained a single photograph—a bombed-out apartment building in a city she hadn’t seen in seven years. Her breath hitched. "This isn’t hypothetical."
"No." Ragnak watched her throat move as she swallowed. "Your mother’s old balcony. The neighbors you played with as a child."
Camila’s hands trembled as she read hers. "A stranded hiking group in Serra da Estrela. An avalanche coming. Only one rope." She looked up, eyes burning. "You sick fuck."
The guitar’s shadow stretched long across the carpet.
Ragnak stepped into the space between them. "Now the real question." His voice was velvet-wrapped steel. "Which one of you wants more to be my little bitch?"
Silence.
Then Beatriz laughed—low, throaty, the sound of a woman who’d signed too many death certificates to pretend. "You think we’ll fight for the privilege?"
Ragnak didn’t blink. "I think you already are."
Julieta stood abruptly, her chair scraping. "I don’t play these games."
"You do," Ragnak corrected. He reached out, his gloved hand hovering just above her collarbone. "Every time you translate a lie to save a refugee. Every time you bite your tongue when they call your homeland a warzone." His thumb brushed the frantic pulse at her throat. "You crave direction. A hand around your neck telling you *yes* or *no* or *beg*."
Julieta’s lips parted. No sound came out.
Camila shoved back from the table. "This is bullshit psychological warfare."
"Is it?" Ragnak turned that dissecting gaze on her. "You lead people through wilderness, but who leads *you*, Camila? Who pins you down and makes you *feel* something besides responsibility?"
Her breath came faster.
Beatriz rose, slow as a stalking panther. She unbuttoned her blazer, letting it slide off her shoulders. "You want us to say it?" She stepped into Ragnak’s space, her perfume—bergamot and something darker—mixing with his antiseptic scent. "Fine. I’ll go first."
Her palm landed on his chest, right over where a heartbeat should be. "I’ve spent a decade making life-or-death calls in sterile rooms where no one fucking thanks you." She leaned in, her lips grazing his ear. "So yes, *doutor*. I want you to take the choice away for once."
Ragnak’s hand tangled in her chignon, yanking her head back. "Good girl."
The kiss was brutal. Beatriz moaned into it, her nails scoring his tailored shirt. When he bit her lip hard enough to draw blood, she laughed against his mouth.
Camila watched, her pulse hammering in her wrists. Julieta hadn’t moved, her thighs pressed tight together.
Ragnak broke the kiss, his grip still tight in Beatriz’s hair. "Still think you don’t want this?" He dragged his free hand down her body, cupping her through her pencil skirt. She was *soaked*. "Your body’s more honest than your mouth."
Beatriz smirked, rolling her hips into his touch. "Then shut me up."
Ragnak spun her around, bending her over the table. Envelopes scattered. Her cheek pressed against the polished wood as he hiked her skirt up, revealing bare skin and a lace thong already pushed aside.
"No foreplay?" Beatriz taunted, though her voice wavered as his fingers slid through her slick folds.
"You’ve been ready for hours." Ragnak unzipped himself with his free hand, his cock springing out—thick, flushed, merciless. "Holding court in your office, legs crossed just *so*, wondering what it’d feel like to have someone *decide* for you."
He shoved into her with one brutal thrust. Beatriz screamed, her nails gouging the table.
Camila’s mouth went dry. Julieta made a tiny, wounded noise.
Ragnak fucked Beatriz with clinical precision, each snap of his hips calculated to drag over that sweet spot inside her. "Look at them," he growled, forcing her head up. Camila’s lips were parted, her nipples hard under her cotton shirt. Julieta’s pupils were blown black with want. "They’re *jealous*."
Beatriz sobbed as he angled deeper. "Fuck—*fuck*—"
"You’re dripping on the table," Ragnak observed, his voice cool even as his rhythm stuttered. "Disgraceful."
Julieta moved first. She dropped to her knees beside them, her fingers trembling as she touched Beatriz’s flushed face. "Can I—"
"*Yes*," Beatriz gasped, and then Julieta was kissing her, messy and desperate, her hand sliding between their bodies to rub frantic circles over Beatriz’s clit.
Camila finally broke. She stumbled forward, her hiking boots loud on the hardwood. Ragnak caught her wrist, pulling her against his side. "You too, *guia*?"
She didn’t answer. Just reached down to wrap her calloused fingers around his balls, squeezing just shy of pain.
Ragnak’s breath hitched—the first crack in his control. He pistoned into Beatriz harder, the table screeching across the floor with each thrust.
Julieta’s fingers worked faster, her other hand sliding into Beatriz’s blouse to twist a nipple. "Come for us," she whispered. "Let us watch."
Beatriz shattered with a broken cry, her cunt clamping down on Ragnak’s cock. He followed her over, spilling into her with a harsh grunt, his grip on Camila’s wrist tight enough to bruise.
Silence. Just their ragged breathing and the distant wail of a fado singer from the bar downstairs.
Ragnak withdrew, tucking himself away with the same efficiency as a surgeon sheathing a scalpel. Beatriz slumped against the table, her makeup smeared, skirt still rucked up.
Julieta licked her fingers clean, watching Ragnak with something like hunger. Like grief.
Camila flexed her wrist, the imprint of his gloves already darkening her skin. "That wasn’t the test."
Ragnak adjusted his cufflinks. "No. The test starts now."
Two days remained.
The guitar’s shadow stretched longer.
Somewhere, a clock ticked.
And in the dim light, three women looked at each other—and understood nothing would ever be the same.
Beatriz was the first to move—always was, even in the oncology ward at 3 AM when the monitors screamed and families clutched at her sleeves. She straightened her skirt with hands that didn’t shake, smeared lipstick be damned. The table groaned as she pushed off it, thighs still glistening where Ragnak had split her open.
"Fuck." She pressed two fingers between her legs, then held them up to the lamplight. Thick, pearlescent. "I’d say that settles who your favorite is."
Julieta wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. Her knees ached from the hardwood, the ghost of Beatriz’s taste still on her tongue—expensive perfume and salt. "You always need to win, don’t you?"
"*Sim.*" Beatriz smirked, hooking a finger under the torn strap of Julieta’s camisole. "But you liked watching me lose control."
The guitar against the wall vibrated with the bassline from downstairs, the fado singer’s voice threading through the floor like smoke. Camila stayed where she was, fingers curled around the edge of a chair. Her pulse thundered in her throat, raw and insistent.
Ragnak watched them from the shadows, adjusting his gloves with precise tugs at each fingertip. His gaze scraped over Camila’s heaving chest, the damp patch between her thighs, the clench of her jaw. "Still resisting?"
Camila’s nails bit into the leather upholstery. "I don’t do cages."
"*Deus me livre.*" Beatriz laughed, pouring herself a glass of gin from the sideboard. Ice clinked like shattered bone. "You take tourists into bear country with a compass and a prayer, but *this* scares you?"
Julieta touched the photograph still lying on the table—her mother’s balcony, the cracks in the stucco she used to trace with her small fingers. "It’s not about fear." Her voice frayed at the edges. "It’s about who holds the leash."
Ragnak stepped into the light. His belt buckle gleamed, still undone. "Leashes imply choice." He caught Camila’s chin, forcing her to meet his eyes. "You’ve been starving for this since the mountains. Since the avalanche last winter when you had to choose which client to rope to you."
Her breath hitched. "*How the fuck—*"
"I read your case files." His thumb pressed into the hinge of her jaw. "You tied the rich banker to you. Let the schoolteacher slide into the ravine."
The truth landed like an axe between her ribs.
Julieta made a wounded noise. Beatriz sipped her gin, eyes dark over the rim.
Camila wrenched free. "You don’t know shit."
Ragnak let her go. "You dream about her face. The way she screamed your name while you *let go*." He reached into his pocket and tossed a crumpled Polaroid onto the table—Camila, half-frozen in a snowdrift, her pupils blown wide with adrenaline and grief.
Julieta snatched it up. "*Filho da puta*, you had her followed?"
Ragnak didn’t blink. "I had her *understood*."
Beatriz set down her glass. The ice had bled into water. "So what’s the real test? Seeing which of us cracks first?"
Ragnak walked to the guitar, plucking a single string. The note shivered through the room. "The test is whether you can look at yourselves after this." His gaze cut to Camila. "Whether you can live with what you *want*."
Silence.
Then Camila crossed the room in three strides and slapped him.
The crack echoed off the walls. Ragnak’s head snapped to the side, a slow trickle of blood welling at the corner of his mouth. He touched it, examining the red on his glove with detached interest.
Camila trembled. "I don’t need your fucking absolution."
Ragnak grabbed her by the throat and kissed her.
It wasn’t like with Beatriz—no, this was teeth and fury, Camila biting his lip until copper flooded their mouths. She clawed at his shirt, buttons scattering like gunfire. Ragnak spun her around, slamming her back against the wall. The fado singer hit a high note downstairs, trembling as it broke.
Julieta’s pulse pounded in her ears. Beatriz licked her lips.
Ragnak ripped Camila’s cargo pants open, the fabric tearing at the seams. She didn’t wear underwear—of course she didn’t—just bare skin and coarse curls and the slick heat he found with two fingers, thrusting deep.
"Fuck—!" Camila arched, her head thudding against the wallpaper.
"You’re wetter than Beatriz," Ragnak mused, crooking his fingers. "*Tsk*. All that righteous anger, and your cunt’s *begging*."
Julieta couldn’t look away. The way Camila’s thighs shook, the raw sound she made when Ragnak added a third finger. Beatriz moved behind them, pressing her tits against Ragnak’s back, her hands sliding down to undo his belt again.
"Let me," she murmured, nipping his earlobe.
Ragnak withdrew his fingers, glistening. Camila whimpered at the loss.
Julieta found herself standing, drawn like a moth to the flame. She touched Camila’s hip, the sweat-damp fabric of her tank top. "Can I—?"
Camila grabbed her wrist, yanking her closer. "*Sim.* Fucking *yes*."
Beatriz stroked Ragnak’s cock, her red nails stark against his flushed skin. "She’s tight," she whispered, guiding him toward Camila’s entrance. "*Break her*."
Ragnak pushed in with one brutal thrust.
Camila screamed, her nails raking down Julieta’s arms. Julieta kissed her to swallow the sound, her own hips rutting against nothing, desperate for friction. Beatriz watched, her fingers working between her thighs, her breath coming faster.
"You feel that?" Ragnak panted, his rhythm relentless. "How deep I am? You’ll feel it *tomorrow*."
Camila sobbed into Julieta’s mouth. "I *hate* you—"
"No." Ragnak snapped his hips harder. "You hate how much you *need* this."
Beatriz moaned, her clit swollen under her own fingers. "God, look at her. She’s *coming*."
Camila shattered, her cunt clamping around Ragnak like a vise. He fucked her through it, his own release building, until Julieta dropped to her knees and took him into her mouth.
The taste of Camila and salt and *power* flooded her tongue. Ragnak cursed, his hand fisting in her hair as he came down her throat.
Silence.
Then the creak of floorboards, the distant clink of glasses downstairs.
Camila slid down the wall, her legs splayed, her chest heaving. Julieta wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, her lips swollen. Beatriz adjusted her skirt, her smirk a little less steady now.
Ragnak buttoned his shirt with precise, measured movements. His gloves were ruined.
"The test," he said quietly, "isn’t over."
Two days remained.
And in the wreckage of the room, with the scent of sex and gin and old wood thick in the air, not one of them could meet the others’ eyes.
The guitar’s last note hung in the air like a verdict.
=====
The guitar’s last note hung in the air like a verdict.
Ragnak adjusted his cuffs, the torn glove leather whispering against his wrist. Blood still smeared his lower lip where Camila had bitten him, but his breathing was steady as a scalpel’s edge. Across the ruined conference table, João Pereira tapped a mechanical pencil against his notepad—*click click click*—the sound precise as a metronome.
Bruno Silva exhaled through his nose, rubbing the bridge where his glasses had left red marks. "So let me get this straight." His voice was rough, like he’d been chain-smoking in the archives all night. "You’re giving us a magic wand that could rewrite reality, and the only rule is *no one will ever know*?"
Ragnak slid the device across the table—sleek black metal, no buttons, just a single groove where a thumb might fit. It looked like something a cardiologist would use to restart a heart.
Ruben snatched it up before it stopped moving. "Fuck *yes*." His calloused fingers traced the edges, the same way they mapped stunt trajectories mid-air. "I could fix the Cascais bike lane clusterfuck overnight. Rip up the mayor’s bullshit permits, pour fresh asphalt straight to Guincho Beach—"
João’s pencil snapped. "And who decides what’s ‘fixed’? You?" His urban planner’s mind was already spiraling—zoning laws unraveling, centuries-old plazas bulldozed for Ruben’s adrenaline fantasies.
Bruno leaned forward, elbows on knees. "That’s the catch, isn’t it?" His journalist’s instincts prickled—the weight of stories he’d buried to protect sources, the lies that festered when no one was watching. "Power without witnesses is just tyranny with better PR."
The AC hummed. Somewhere in Culturgest’s bowels, a janitor’s mop slapped against tile.
Ragnak watched them like specimens under glass. "Use it. Don’t. The test is your reasoning."
Ruben grinned, all teeth. "Bet you twenty euros I can make the tram lines do loop-de-loops by sunrise." He thumbed the device’s groove—
—and João lunged. Their chairs toppled, Ruben’s elbow catching João’s ribs as they hit the carpet. The device skittered toward Bruno, who kicked it away like a live grenade.
"*Merda!*" Ruben wheezed, pinned under João’s knee. "Since when do you wrestle?"
João’s knuckles whitened around Ruben’s shirt collar. "Since you decided to play god with my city’s infrastructure."
Bruno scooped up the device. His fingers didn’t shake. "You really think Arkan would hand out omnipotence as a *personality test*?" He turned it over, the metal glinting under fluorescents. "This is a trap. It’s *always* a trap."
Ragnak remained still. A drop of Camila’s blood slid down his chin.
Outside, a tram screeched past, its reflection ghosting across the ceiling. Lisbon murmured beyond the glass—tourists laughing, old men arguing over chessboards, the river swallowing the last of the daylight.
João released Ruben, breathing hard. "Give it here."
Bruno hesitated, then tossed it.
The device landed in João’s palm with a weight that wasn’t entirely physical. He closed his eyes. Saw the blueprints of Alfama’s tangled streets, the housing projects rotting near the airport, the bureaucratic quagmire that kept his transit redesigns locked in drawers. His thumb hovered over the groove.
Ruben sat up, rubbing his throat. "Do it. Tear it all down."
Bruno’s voice was quiet. "At what cost?"
João’s thumb didn’t move. The device stayed inert.
Ragnak finally spoke. "Interesting." That was all.
The silence stretched, thick as the humidity before a storm. Somewhere in the building, a phone rang unanswered. A child shrieked in the courtyard below.
João set the device back on the table. "I’ll fix my city the hard way."
Ruben groaned. "Christ, you’re boring."
Bruno exhaled. "*Obrigado.*"
Ragnak retrieved the device, pocketing it like a spent syringe. His gaze lingered on each of them—João’s rigid posture, Ruben’s restless fingers, Bruno’s shadowed eyes. "Two days remain."
The door clicked shut behind him.
Bruno rubbed his temples. "We failed, didn’t we?"
João righted his chair, wincing at the bruise forming on his ribs. "Depends what he was testing for."
Ruben stretched, grinning at the ceiling. "I call dibs on the tram loops tomorrow."
Outside, Lisbon carried on—unbothered, unbroken, alive. The city had survived worse than their choices.
It would survive them too.