Chapter 39

     August had settled over the city like a thick, suffocating blanket, weighing everything down. The streets, once alive with movement and noise, now felt sluggish, as if the heat had drained the energy from every corner, leaving behind only shadows and stillness. The air itself seemed to move slowly, each breath heavy and labored, like I was wading through molasses.

     I was used to the heat. The city always got like this in August. But this time, it was different. It wasn’t just the weather—it was everything. The whole city felt like it was on the verge of something, teetering on the edge, but too damn tired to make the final leap.

     And me? I was no different.

     I’d been following the threads, chasing the answers, but every time I got close, the heat of August would slow me down, pull me back into its sticky grip. Achilles, Limbo, the voices in the crowd—it was all there, waiting to be untangled, but the heat made it hard to think, hard to act. I could feel the answers just out of reach, like dots waiting to be connected, but the sloth of the city kept me from making the final push.

     I sat in the small room I’d been calling home, staring out the window at the empty street below. The buildings shimmered in the heat, the asphalt radiating waves of heat that distorted everything in front of me. It felt like a dream. Or maybe it *was* a dream. I wasn’t sure anymore. The days had begun to blend together, each one a mirror of the last, the heat making it hard to keep track of time, of reality.

     I could feel the pressure building, the sense that something was about to break. But I was too tired, too worn down by the heat, by the endless string of unanswered questions, to do anything about it.

     The excruciating sloth of thinkers.

     That’s what it was—an intellectual paralysis. I could see the pieces of the puzzle, scattered in front of me, but the heat had dulled my mind, made it hard to think clearly. Achilles, Limbo, Tony, Madeleine—it was all there, all connected, but I couldn’t bring myself to put it together. Not yet.

     Impugn platitudes due at pink intaglio.

     The words came to me, unbidden, like a whisper in the back of my mind. I wasn’t sure where they came from, but they made sense in a way I couldn’t quite explain. The platitudes—the easy answers—were worthless now, empty in the face of what I was up against. And the intaglio? That was the truth, the hidden design carved into the surface of everything, waiting to be revealed. But I couldn’t see it yet. The heat, the sloth of August, kept me from looking too closely.

     I leaned back in my chair, closing my eyes, letting the stillness of the room wash over me. The air was thick, almost unbearable, and I could feel the sweat trickling down my back, but I didn’t move. I couldn’t. Not yet.

     That’s when I saw her.

     Madeleine.

     She came to me in a dream, as she often did. The heat had finally pulled me under, dragging me into the depths of sleep, and there she was, standing in front of me, her dark hair shining in the dim light, her eyes locked on mine. She didn’t say anything at first, just watched me, her expression unreadable.

     But I knew what she was here for. She was my reminder. My push.

     “You can’t stay here,” she finally said, her voice soft, but firm. “You have to keep moving.”

     I wanted to argue, to tell her that I couldn’t, that the heat had made it impossible to think, to act. But I couldn’t find the words. Instead, I just nodded, knowing that she was right. I couldn’t stay here. I couldn’t let the heat, the sloth, keep me from what I needed to do.

     Madeleine smiled, just a small, fleeting smile, and then she was gone. The dream faded, and I woke with a start, the room still heavy with the oppressive heat of August, but something had changed.

     I could feel it—the push I needed, the reminder that there was more at stake than my own exhaustion. Achilles was still out there, still pulling the strings, and Limbo—whether real or imagined—was part of this too. I couldn’t let the sloth of the city stop me. Not anymore.

     I stood up, my legs heavy, my mind still foggy, but there was a new energy in me now, a new sense of purpose. The dots were there, waiting to be connected, and now it was time to start drawing the lines.

     At body uniting manifold dots.

     That’s what this was about, wasn’t it? The connections. The hidden design that linked all of this together. Achilles, Limbo, Tony, Madeleine—they were all part of it, all part of a larger pattern I hadn’t seen until now. The intaglio. The truth, hidden in plain sight, waiting for me to carve it out.

     I grabbed my coat, even though the heat was unbearable, and stepped out into the street. The sun was still high in the sky, the asphalt shimmering under its relentless glare, but I didn’t care. The sloth of August was still there, still trying to pull me back, but I wasn’t going to let it win.

     Not today.

     I had a job to do.