The guy hit the floor like a sack of bad decisions wrapped in regret, landing with a thud that echoed off the nicotine-stained walls. For a long second, the bar seemed to hold its breath, as if even the dust in the air was waiting to see whether this was going to be Dante’s problem or someone else’s. Dante crouched beside him, lingering in that narrow space between self-preservation and morbid curiosity, long enough to wonder just how deep into someone else’s mess he was about to step. Too late. The guy’s fingers twitched, then curled weakly, fumbling at his coat like he was trying to hold onto something vital. A second later, a crumpled, wet scrap of paper slipped free from his grasp and landed against Dante’s knee with a sickening, damp weight.
Dante didn’t need to be a genius to know this was bad. The paper was thick, old—not some napkin scrawled with an IOU, but something heavier, more deliberate. It was creased and curling at the edges, like it had been folded and unfolded a hundred times, like it had spent years in someone’s pocket, waiting for the exact wrong moment to make itself known. And then there was the blood—so much blood, soaked deep into the fibers, turning whatever words were written on it into ghostly smears of ink and crimson. It wasn’t the kind of thing you picked up lightly. It wasn’t the kind of thing you picked up at all. But Dante’s fingers had already closed around it before his brain caught up, his body acting on some instinct even dumber than the usual ones that got him into trouble. The paper clung to his skin, sticky and warm, like it wanted to be held.
The man on the floor spasmed, a full-body shudder that sent another wave of blood spilling from his lips. Then, impossibly, he moved—one shaking hand lashing out, clamping around Dante’s wrist with a strength that shouldn’t have been there. His eyes—wide, dark, burning with something more than just pain—locked onto Dante’s, desperate, frantic. His breath came in short, wheezing gasps, and when he spoke, his voice was nothing but shredded air and dying hope.
“Don’t… let it find you.”
Dante swallowed, the back of his throat suddenly dry. “Yeah?” he muttered, staring down at the man. “What’s ‘it,’ exactly?”
The silence that followed was the kind that pressed in, thick and unnatural, like the room itself was waiting for something else to happen. The air had changed—Dante could feel it, a slow, creeping sensation that ran along his spine like the whisper of a cold blade. The bar had never been what you’d call welcoming, but now it felt wrong in a way that had nothing to do with the peeling wallpaper or the bad lighting. Like the walls were listening. Like the neon sign outside wasn’t just flickering, but watching. He forced himself to breathe, to ignore the way the hairs on his arms stood on end, to pretend the weight in his gut was just the usual variety of bad feeling and not something worse.
The dead man’s grip loosened, but not fast enough. His fingers dragged against Dante’s wrist as they fell away, leaving behind smears of blood that felt too warm, too fresh, like they hadn’t gotten the memo that their owner had just checked out. Dante grimaced, resisting the childish urge to shake his arm like that might undo what had just happened. His eyes flicked to the contract still stuck to his fingers, the paper’s edges curling inward like it was alive, breathing. It itched against his skin—not in a physical way, not like the wet tackiness of blood, but something deeper, like a thought trying to claw its way into his head. He had the overwhelming urge to drop it, to fling it across the room and pretend he’d never seen it. But he knew, with the same grim certainty that told him this was about to get worse, that it wouldn’t let go so easily.
Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.
Dante exhaled through his nose, slow and deliberate, like a man realizing he’d just lost a bet he didn’t remember making. His gaze drifted back to the dead man, to the open eyes that no longer saw anything, to the slack jaw frozen mid-word. The city was full of bad luck and worse endings, but this—this felt like something else. Something bigger. Something old. And whatever it was, it had just landed squarely in his lap.
The guy’s body gave one last, violent shudder, and for a second, it almost looked like he was about to answer. His lips moved, shaping syllables Dante couldn’t hear, couldn’t make sense of. Then, with a final, hollow exhale, his grip slackened. His eyes—still open, still fixed on something far beyond the bar, beyond Dante—went flat and empty.
For a long moment, Dante didn’t move. Just sat back on his heels, exhaling slowly, like that might somehow push back the weight settling in his chest. He glanced down at the contract, now firmly stuck to his fingers, then back at the dead man sprawled out on his barroom floor.
He closed his eyes, just for a second. Then, with all the energy of a man realizing he was about to have a very long night, he muttered,
Dante scrubbed a hand down his face, smearing sweat and something he really hoped wasn’t blood across his cheek. His brain was already working overtime, trying to piece together the shape of this particular disaster. Dead guy, mystery contract, ominous last words—yeah, that was about three red flags past walk away now. But he knew himself well enough to admit that wasn’t happening. He should call the cops. That was the normal, reasonable thing to do. Let them haul the body off, let them ask their questions, let them file this away as just another poor bastard who ran out of luck in a city that ran on bad luck. Except Dante had a feeling this wasn’t going to fit neatly into a police report. And even if it did, the moment they started asking why the dead man had crawled into his bar with his name on his last breath, he’d have bigger problems than unpaid rent.
He looked down at the contract again. It hadn’t dried, hadn’t stiffened the way paper should when soaked through. It was still wet, still warm, like the blood was fresh even though the man wasn’t. And worse, it was still sticking to his fingers. Not in the way that damp paper clings, but like it had decided it belonged there now. Dante flexed his hand, trying to shake the sensation, but the feeling burrowed deeper, curling into his skin like ink seeping into parchment. He didn’t know much, but he knew this: some things weren’t meant to be touched, and he had just touched one of them.
With a sharp exhale, he pushed himself to his feet, suddenly aware of how quiet the bar had become. No traffic outside. No hum of the refrigerator in the back. Just silence, thick and waiting. Dante had been around long enough to know when something had shifted—when a room stopped being just a room, when the air got heavier, like it was pressing in, waiting to see what you’d do next. He wasn’t the type to scare easy, but that didn’t mean he was stupid. He needed to move. Needed to do something before whatever unseen weight pressing down on his chest decided to do more than just linger.
“Goddamn it.”