The borage changed everything.

  I’d been close before—close enough to feel the brew start to settle, to sense the weight of it forming—but it hadn’t locked. Hadn’t become what it needed to be.

  The borage was the key.

  I worked through the night, following Dimitri’s instructions with a precision that bordered on religious. Hibiscus steeped low and slow until the water turned that deep red-black. Shungiku added at the end, bitter and sharp. And then the borage—bruised, not crushed, exactly like the notes said—dropped in while the mixture was still warm.

  The smell hit me immediately.

  Not floral like the hibiscus. Not bitter like the shungiku.

  Something else. Something that made the air in the workshop feel thicker, like the brew was already starting to work before it was even finished.

  I strained it through cloth, poured it into a clean bottle, and held it up to the light.

  The color was perfect. Deep red, almost black in the shadows, but when the light caught it right, it glowed like something alive.

  But color didn’t mean it worked.

  Intent did.

  I sat down at the workbench, the bottle in both hands, and focused.

  Not on truth as an idea.

  On truth as a fact.

  Unavoidable. Undeniable. The kind of truth that came out whether you wanted it to or not.

  I thought about the interrogation room again. The man in the chair. The questions that needed answers. The moment when the brew took hold and resistance became impossible.

  I held that image until my hands stopped shaking.

  Until the brew stopped being liquid in a bottle and became something with purpose.

  When I opened my eyes, I knew.

  It had worked.

  Saint’s Swallow was real.

  Now I just needed to prove it.

  Testing it on myself was the only option that made sense.

  I couldn’t go to Oscar with theory. Couldn’t tell him “I think this works” and expect him to take my word for it.

  I needed certainty.

  And the only way to get certainty was to drink it myself.

  I poured a small measure into a cup—just enough to test, not enough to waste if it failed—and stared at it for longer than I should have.

  This wasn’t Chameleon.

  Chameleon made things stop mattering.

  This made me stop being able to lie.

  For thirty minutes, every word out of my mouth would be truth.

  No evasion. No clever half-answers.

  Just facts.

  I picked up the cup.

  My hand was steady.

  I drank it.

  The taste hit me first—bitter, floral, with something underneath that made my tongue feel heavy. Not unpleasant, exactly. Just wrong. Like my mouth knew it wasn’t supposed to be drinking this.

  I set the cup down and waited.

  Nothing happened.

  Ten seconds. Twenty.

  I started to think I’d failed again.

  Then I felt it.

  Not a physical sensation. Not pain or pressure or anything I could point to.

  Just a certainty.

  A knowledge, deep in my chest, that lying had become impossible.

  I tested it immediately.

  “My name is John,” I said out loud.

  The words stuck in my throat. Not choking me. Just… refusing to come out wrong.

  I tried again.

  “My name is Garrett.”

  The words came easy. Smooth. True.

  I laughed once, sharp and surprised.

  It worked.

  Holy shit, it actually worked.

  I spent the next ten minutes testing it, asking myself questions, trying to find the edges of what the brew allowed.

  Could I stay silent? Yes.

  Could I refuse to answer? Yes.

  Could I give half-truths, technically true but misleading? No. The brew pushed me toward complete answers, full truths, nothing held back.

  And when I tried to lie outright—tried to say the workshop was cold when it wasn’t, tried to say I was tired when I felt wide awake—the words died before they reached my tongue.

  I sat there, watching the clock, feeling the effect hold steady.

  Twenty minutes in, it was still strong.

  Twenty-five minutes, I could feel it starting to fade.

  At thirty minutes exactly, it released.

  I could lie again.

  I tested it immediately. “My name is John.”

  The words came out easy.

  The brew had worn off, right on schedule.

  I sat back in my chair, staring at the bottle on the workbench, and felt something dangerous bloom in my chest.

  Pride.

  Not the small kind. Not the quiet satisfaction of a job done well.

  The big kind. The kind that makes you think you’re untouchable.

  Because I hadn’t just followed a recipe.

  I’d made something impossible.

  I’d brewed truth.

  And it worked perfectly.

  I needed a second test.

  Testing it on myself proved the mechanics worked—proved the brew did what it was supposed to do.

  But Oscar wouldn’t care about that.

  Oscar needed to know it worked on other people.

  People who didn’t want to tell the truth.

  I thought about who I could ask. Who I could trust not to run to the cops the second they realized what I’d given them.

  The list was short.

  Milo was out—he’d tell Oscar before I was ready, and I wanted to present this as finished work, not a maybe.

  Random people off the street were too risky.

  That left one option.

  I’d have to pay someone.

  I found him two blocks over, leaning against a lamppost like he’d been waiting for something better to come along and had given up hours ago.

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  Young kid. Maybe nineteen. The kind of hungry that made him stupid but not dangerous.

  I walked up, hands in my pockets, casual.

  “You want to make two dollars?”

  He looked at me like I’d just offered him a winning lottery ticket.

  “Doing what?”

  “Drinking something and answering questions.”

  His eyes narrowed. “What kind of something?”

  “Medicinal. Harmless. You’ll feel fine after.”

  He didn’t believe me, but two dollars was two dollars.

  “How many questions?”

  “Five. Maybe less.”

  He thought about it for exactly three seconds.

  “Deal.”

  We went back to the workshop.

  The kid looked around like he was expecting a trap, but relaxed slightly when he saw it was just a room with a workbench and some bottles.

  I poured a measure of Saint’s Swallow into a clean cup and handed it to him.

  “Drink this. Then I ask questions. You answer honestly. That’s it.”

  “What if I don’t want to answer?”

  “Then don’t. You can stay quiet. You just can’t lie.”

  He looked at the cup, then at me, then shrugged and drank it.

  Made a face. “Tastes like shit.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “It does.”

  I waited thirty seconds, watching his face.

  He didn’t look different. Didn’t act strange.

  But I could see it in his eyes—that same certainty I’d felt.

  I started simple.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Tommy.”

  “Where do you live?”

  “Boarding house on Seventh.”

  “You ever stolen anything?”

  Tommy’s mouth opened, then closed. He looked surprised.

  “Yeah,” he said. “Bread. Sometimes coin from pockets when people aren’t looking.”

  He blinked, like he hadn’t meant to say that last part.

  I leaned forward slightly.

  “You planning to steal from me today?”

  Tommy’s jaw worked. I could see him trying to lie, trying to say no.

  But the words that came out were different.

  “I thought about it. When I first came in. But you’re paying me, so no.”

  I smiled.

  Not a friendly smile.

  A satisfied one.

  “Last question,” I said. “If I asked you to keep quiet about this conversation, would you?”

  Tommy hesitated. Then: “For two dollars? Yeah. Nobody’d believe me anyway.”

  I handed him the money.

  “Get out.”

  He took the cash and left without looking back.

  I locked the door behind him and leaned against it, breathing hard.

  It worked.

  On someone else. Someone who didn’t want to tell the truth.

  Saint’s Swallow was real.

  And I’d made it.

  I didn’t go to Oscar right away.

  I spent the next two days refining the brew. Making it cleaner. Adjusting the proportions until the taste was still bitter but less aggressive. Testing the duration—always thirty minutes, no more, no less, as long as the ingredients were fresh and the intent was sharp.

  I made six bottles.

  Perfect batches. Consistent. Reliable.

  Then I sent word to Milo.

  “Tell Oscar it’s ready.”

  Oscar came to the workshop the next morning.

  No warning. No announcement.

  Just the door opening and Oscar stepping through like he owned the air itself.

  He looked at the workbench. At the six bottles lined up like soldiers.

  “That it?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How do I know it works?”

  I picked up one of the bottles and held it out.

  “Drink it. Ask me anything. I’ll answer.”

  Oscar’s eyes narrowed. “You testing me?”

  “No. I’m showing you it works.”

  He stared at me for a long moment.

  Then he took the bottle, uncorked it, and drank.

  He didn’t flinch at the taste. Didn’t hesitate.

  Just drank it like medicine and set the empty bottle down.

  We waited in silence.

  I watched his face, looking for the moment when the brew took hold.

  I saw it—the smallest shift in his expression. Not fear. Not surprise.

  Recognition.

  He felt it.

  Oscar looked at me, and for the first time since I’d met him, I saw something other than calculation in his eyes.

  Respect.

  “Ask your questions,” he said.

  I kept it simple. Safe.

  “Do you trust Milo?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you think I’m useful?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you plan to keep me alive?”

  Oscar smiled. Barely. “As long as you stay useful.”

  The honesty of that answer should have scared me.

  It didn’t.

  It thrilled me.

  Because Oscar wasn’t pretending anymore. Wasn’t hiding behind politeness or vague promises.

  He was telling me exactly where I stood.

  And I was fine with it.

  Because I was useful.

  And I was going to stay that way.

  Oscar picked up one of the remaining bottles, held it up to the light.

  “How many of these can you make?”

  “As many as you need. As long as I have ingredients.”

  Oscar nodded once.

  “Good,” he said. “Because I’m going to need a lot of them.”

  He turned to leave, then stopped at the door.

  “You did good work, Garrett,” he said. “Real good.”

  Then he left.

  And I stood there in the workshop, alone, staring at the remaining bottles.

  I’d done it.

  I’d made myself necessary.

  And the best part?

  I wasn’t done yet.

  There were other brews in Dimitri’s book. Harder ones. More dangerous ones.

  And I was going to master every single one.

  Because this—this feeling of being good at something, of being needed, of being powerful—

  This was better than anything else in my life.

  And I wasn’t giving it up.

  Not for anyone.