The morning after forming a deep, magical pact with an eldritch being that predates all of man’s written history by countless eons, Alan can’t say that he feels any different. Blinking his eyes, he stares up at the unmistakable pair of white circles on the ceiling that must be Prim. He frowns. “Do you spend all night watching me sleep?”
“I did not,” the ancient demon replies before pausing. “I did not”, she repeats, her voice lacking the deep, multilayered tone that she initially presented herself with. “I observed you for a number of hours for the explicit purpose of my own studies, then meditated to myself for the remainder of my night.” As she speaks, the preternatural shadows clinging to the walls, window, ceiling, everything really, begin to recede. “Once you began to stir, I gathered myself so I might greet you good morn.”
‘That’s not creepy or anything.’ Alan rolls his eyes and throws the pitch black coverings off of himself. “Do you even need to sleep?”
“Tis a luxury, not a requirement,” Prim supplies, her ink-stain form slithering down the wall and gathering at the foot of the bed. She watches as Alan rises with a grunt and stretches. “Without fragile meat betwixt my ears, I shan’t need more than a moment of inactivity even with a grievous disruption to mine form.”
“That’s neat,” Alan mumbles halfheartedly, stepping over to his dresser and pulling out a set of weekend clothes. Black shirt and beat-up jeans? Good enough for a Saturday.
After changing out of his sleeping clothes and into some daywear, Alan, with Prim following at his heels, makes his way to the kitchen to scrounge up breakfast. There, he finds a note pinned to the refrigerator with a magnet, one from Chip. Taking the note, Alan scans Chip’s diplomatic cursive with a smirk.
Alan.
Visiting my kids. I’ll be back Sunday evening. Don’t invite Satan in unless he can pay rent.
Chip.
“May I ask what you find humorous?” Prim asks, slithering up the kitchen table and swiftly transforming into a seated black cat.
“Chip says no more demons unless they want to pay rent,” Alan turns the note and shows her.
Prim’s feline eyebrows rise as she reads the slip of paper. “’He’?”
“What, is Satan a woman or something?” Alan asks, turning and taking a box of corn flakes from the top of the refrigerator. When he opens the refrigerator and retrieves the carton of milk inside, he mentally notes that it’s half empty. ‘Eh. I might need to run to the store. We’re starting to run low on everything.’
“Not all of them, no.” Prim says, watching Alan prepare himself a simple breakfast of milk and cereal. “Satan is not a singular entity, but rather the extended will of the Morning Star, each acting as agents of sin. It is more accurate to refer to ‘Satan’ as a group designation rather than an individual.”
Sitting down with his food, Alan eats a few bites as he thinks over Prim’s words. “Huh. That really makes me wonder how much of the Bible is accurate. I haven’t read it in a hot minute, but I could’ve swore that Satan and Lucifer were the same guy.”
“Tis a text penned by human hands, and such recounts are naturally subject to embellishment, temporal distortion, and purposeful changes,” Prim’s feline nose wiggles as she sniffs the air, looking at Allen’s bowl of cereal. “If you so wish, I may impart mine knowledge of God and His relationship to man throughout the ages, though I cannot guarantee that such lessons will be entirely without bias.” She sniffs the air again and frowns. “What is it that you are eating?”
“Off brand frosted flakes,” Alan grunts through a bite. “They’re stale, though, but not much choice when we’re out of everything that isn’t frozen venison. I was thinking of heading to the store when I’m done eating if you want to go with me.” He sends a sidelong glance to the cat-shaped shadow on the table and twiddles his spoon in his fingers. “Do you need to eat?”
Prim shakes her head. “No. As with sleep, physical sustenance is a luxury. I would be pleased to join you at the market.” Then as an afterthought, she adds: “I also would not object to sampling new cuisines, as much can be inferred about a people from what they consume. Food is still a significant cultural connection point between humans, yes?”
“Yep,” Alan looks down at his bowl of cereal, which is slowly growing soggy. “I don’t know how much you’d like cornflakes of all things, but help yourself.”
Without a verbal reply, the black cat sitting on the table reaches a paw into Alan’s bowl and hooks a single cornflake on one of her claws. She inspects the morsel with narrow eyes and brings it to her mouth, popping it into her mouth and chewing with a muted crunch. After a few chews, she stiffens, and Alan can practically see the shiver run down her spine. “That…” She smacks her lips and runs her tongue across the roof of her mouth, a slight grimace on her muzzle. “That is indeed stale, and overbearingly sweet, as well.”
‘Other than being stale, it tastes fine to me…’ Alan hums and finishes off the last few bites before everything in the bowl can turn to mush. Standing, he drops the bowl and the spoon in the kitchen sink to be cleaned later. “’Ight, let’s get the store knocked out next. It’s still pretty early so we should be able to get there before it gets crowded,” he says, looking out the kitchen window and at the slowly rising sun. He turns back to Prim. “You gonna hang out in my jacket again or come along?”
The shadowy demon hops down from the table, transforming once more into a pitch-black, but regular-sized wolf. She closes her eyes, seemingly focusing, and Alan blinks at the subtle transformation.
Prim’s flat black form, indistinguishable from a shadow on the wall, suddenly gains volume and depth, seamlessly morphing into a black coat of fur with a slight shine. She reopens her eyes, and her pupil-less orbs of stark white are gone, replaced with a very normal set of gray, almost white eyes. If he didn’t know any better, Alan would swear Prim is a normal wolf.
‘Normal, if unnaturally colored, but we can probably pass that off as some kinda wolf-dog hybrid thing.’
The demon stands and inspects her new form, turning in a circle as she does so. With a satisfied nod, she turns to Alan. “I am prepared to depart when you are ready, Alan.”
“Huh…” Alan scratches his chin and raises an eyebrow. “You know, I was expecting a human transformation. You know that if you go as an animal or something, you can’t talk to anyone, right?” Inwardly, he wonders: ‘Does Barrmart even allow dogs inside? If they are, pretty sure they have to have a leash or something… Not like anyone there is paid enough to give a fuck, it’s the self-righteous ‘concerned citizens’ who would raise a stink.’
Prim nods once more, seemingly amused with how her lips quirk. “Tis a fact I am well aware of. Even if I could walk as a human without arousing suspicion, I would be forced to leave a bulk of conversational exchanges to your expertise anyway.”
“You can just say you’re awkward and don’t want to talk. That kind of thing hits a lot of people nowadays,” Alan shrugs. “So long as you look normal, no one’s going to question anything. It’s probably best to get used to a human disguise in the long run, anyway.”
A sound of skepticism leaves Prim’s mouth. “I assure you, donning a convincing guise in the shape of man is a skill near impossible to attain. Allow me to demonstrate and do not be alarmed.” She gives him a sidelong glance. “Heed my words: this is truly my best effort.”
Prim’s form melts into a ball of squirming shadow. From the ball, a set of legs, a pair of arms, and a head of modestly cut hair emerge. When the details solidify, and the blackness bleeds away into color, a cold shock runs up Alan’s spine.
In the place the wolf once occupied is… an entirely normal woman.
But something is wrong.
Prim’s face is gentle and feminine, bearing the traits of a vague European ancestry. Her shiny, neck-length hair is such a dark shade of brown that it may as well be black in the morning light. Not outstandingly beautiful but certainly far from homely, hers is a natural allure that needs no cosmetics to stand out. Try as he might, Alan’s stare refuses to move from her light gray eyes. He has to struggle to move his gaze downward.
Her pale body is nude and shamelessly bared, for she certainly has nothing to be ashamed of. Her figure is something most women would be delighted to have, one of balanced proportions, soft curves, and creamy skin free of even a single mark. She stands as a perfect snapshot of someone on the thin line between youth and womanhood, for her body possesses all the hallmarks of maturity without the wear of age.
All in all, the woman standing before Alan is worthy of being captured on canvas, which would doubtlessly be treasured as an artist’s magnum opus.
…But God damn it there is just something completely fucking uncanny about her! A constant, incessant itching in the back of Alan’s head bothers him just looking at her, but the itch insists that he does not look away for some unfathomable reason. She’s stunning to look at, anyone with eyes would agree, yet Alan finds himself paradoxically revolted and threatened. He scans her again and again, finding nothing that jumps out at him as unnatural or out of place. He counts her fingers and toes, looks up and down her arms and legs, reviews her facial features, and even pushes away instinctual bashfulness to look at her hips and breasts. As far as he can tell, nothing is wrong.
Something is wrong, though. A tiny, nameless voice urges him. Something is wrong.
One of Prim’s delicate hands rises to her mouth, and she clears her throat.
Unbidden, Alan takes a single step backwards. “Prim?”
Prim smiles, tilting her head slightly. “It seems that you finally understand,” she begins, her voice possessing a tender lit that makes Alan sick to his stomach for some reason. “To emulate the shape of man is not a feat easily done. Your ilk are quite superb at rooting out imposters. Were we to venture out with myself in such a state, we would no doubt be the subjects of an unfortunate amount of attention.”
‘No shit. You’re naked and look like you belong in a Da Vinci painting,’ Alan can’t help but snark to himself.
Her piece said, the demon melts into a puddle of shadows, and from the puddle emerges the black-furred wolf that Prim originally intended to go outside as.
Instantly, the aggravating itch in the back of Alan’s head abates, and he shakes his head, finding his thoughts clear once more. “H’okay…” He blows a harsh breath out of his mouth. “Didn’t expect that if I’m being honest,” he says, making his way to the front door and pulling his shoes on.
“It is good that your reaction was so visceral,” Prim pads up next to him, sitting down as Alan bends over to tie his shoes. “One should not lose such valuable ancestral skills.”
“Ancestral skills?” Alan mulls the implication over and doesn’t like the conclusion. He growls when his shaking hands force him to take his time with his shoes, lest he foul the knot up. “So you’re telling me that there are spooky-dooks out there that are shaped like people? And that they fucked with humans so much that we got good at picking them out?”
Prim shakes her head. “Partially correct. There are other factors, but such an explanation would take time that we do not have if you insist on visiting the market early this morn. I understand such knowledge may be distressing, but if you remain wary, no harm shall befall you. It will take time for such predators to gain their bearings in this new era, either way.”
“I feel like part of me should be a bit more freaked out, but whatever…” Alan stands, then pauses. “Hold on one sec.”
Stepping away from Prim, Alan heads down the hallway to his bedroom, aware of Prim’s curious eyes on his back. Inside, he steps over to his computer desk and opens one of the side drawers. Reaching inside, he takes something from within and sets it on the desk, staring at it ponderously.
[https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/1105276759013867641/1114662658252230776/image.png]
Staring back is a shiny, snub nose revolver.
He’s had the thing for years, as it was a moving-out gift from his father when he left for college. Alan jumped through some government hoops to acquire a concealed weapon permit and carried the thing around for some time, only for the days where he took it with him to taper off. Outside of the larger cities, the Commonwealth isn’t exactly dangerous, and the .357 Magnum revolver is deceptively heavy for its size, making it inconvenient to lug around. There were times he thought about getting something lighter to carry, but the money always seemed to be better spent elsewhere, meaning the revolver kept its place as his sole firearm.
Stolen novel; please report.
‘There is some spooky shit out there now,’ Alan clicks his tongue and lifts the gun. Popping open the cylinder, he finds six magnum cartridges already loaded. ‘Things just started getting interesting for me, so I am not trying to die anytime soon.’ He thinks, thoughts turning to Prim and the new world that suddenly revealed itself to him overnight. ‘…Will demons and shit even be bothered by a gun, though?’
A sudden idea hits the man, and although he initially dismisses it as stupid, he stops. ‘Hey, demons and magic rituals weren’t real a week ago, so this isn’t the dumbest precaution to take.’ Alan dumps the cartridges out of the revolver cylinder and looks at the tips.
The rounds are semi-jacketed soft points, meaning the tips are flat, bare lead. Reaching back into his drawer, Alan withdraws a beat up knife and unfolds the blade. Holding one of the rounds in his hand and the knife in the other, he carefully scratches a crucifix into the soft lead tip of the bullet with the point of his knife. He repeats the process for each round, then drops them back in the cylinder and clicks the revolver shut.
“I swear I saw a movie where a guy did this,” Alan muses to himself, stowing away his knife. “Or maybe it was Chase who told me about this. Oh well.”
It takes a bit of digging in the drawer to find the revolver’s holster, one intended to be worn on the inside of the waistband, but once the gun is safely hidden under his shirt, Alan makes his way back to the living room.
“Ready?” He asks, looking down at Prim.
The demon nods, her tail wagging once.
----------------------------------------
The drive to Barrmart is a short one owing to the fact that there are three of the fucking things in town. The nearest one to Alan’s apartment is a mere five minutes away, in a nearby strip mall. Since the place is a full supermarket, they should have everything on Alan’s shopping list.
Most of the smaller self-owned stores in the local strip mall were getting by relatively well, then Barrmart swooped in, purchased the largest lot, and built a full supermarket in the span of just a few months a number of years back. The only ones still getting good business nowadays is the combo liquor-slash-smoke store and a laundromat that hadn’t raised their prices since the 90s. The Barrmart effortlessly strangled every other business and became the crown jewel of the strip mall.
‘A crown jewel made out of scuffed acrylic,’ Alan scoffs, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel.
Prim’s eyes are glued to the window as they drive down the road, taking in everything they pass from her place in the passenger seat. They are few and far between, but Alan catches split seconds where Prim seems hopelessly lost by what she is staring at.
‘Jeez, she really does seem like she’s out of her depth,’ Alan’s resting scowl eases. ‘Have things really changed that much?’
A minute passes, and Prim finally tears her eyes away from the passing scenery to look at Alan. “Does this ‘supermarket’ truly have everything that a household may require in one place?” She asks, blinking. “I have seen human general stores attempt such an ambitious feat in the past, but many fall flat under the weight of the nonsensical sphere of economics.”
“They do,” Alan nods, turning right down to the plaza containing the mall. “Barrmart as an overarching corporation is so ridiculously huge that they have tens of thousands of stores all across the world. A lot of big corps are like that, having a handful, or hundreds, or thousands of locations depending on what they provide.”
Prim shakes her head. “That doesn’t seem possible to me. The reach of an organization providing goods on such a scale would be hopelessly drowned by logistical backlog and errors that arise from the human element. How would they source, inventory, and place goods for purchase in a timely manner if there are many thousands of installations? One would assume that an entire private Postal Service would be required for every ‘corporation’ to function at even a mediocre capacity.”
Alan shrugs. “Computers.”
“Computers?” Prim tilts her head, her eyes narrowing. “I must ask you to elaborate.”
“Computers, the networked thinking machines I told you about back in the office, are the answer.” Alan begins looking for a parking spot as the looming monolith of Barrmart comes into view. “They don’t need human input to perform tasks. Every single product that comes in and out of a supermarket is tracked with a barcode, which is like a unique identifier, which is stored on a big central database. The barcode is scanned by a machine that can instantly update that database so all the other computers in the network know when things come and go. Other computers analyze the data of what is coming in and what is going out and use it to make predictions about when and where more products will be needed.”
Alan pauses to pull into a parking spot, then turns back to Prim’s whose jaw is dropped open a hair. “The computers can forecast what will sell in certain locations, and how much of it will be needed, and they do it with damn good accuracy.” He raises a hand and counts down on his fingers. “The computers order the perfect amount of supplies-”
A finger falls.
“-Arrange and schedule the transportation-”
Another finger falls.
“-Track the delivery-”
A third.
“-Schedule and assign human workers to physically stock the shelves-“
Just his thumb is left.
“-Then take all the data when things are sold to repeat the process. Hell, I don’t think most of these interactions have any kind of human element involved anymore.” Alan’s hand falls back to the steering wheel, and he’s a little frustrated when he sees Prim’s thousand yard stare. “It’s complicated. I’ll get you a better answer when I can.”
The wolf demon nods slowly, working her jaw. “Yes… I don’t believe I understand correctly,” she says, looking away. It’s difficult to tell with her canine face, but Alan swears the demon looks unsettled.
Shutting off the car and stepping out, Alan walks around and lets Prim out, earning him a murmured “Thank you.”
“Can you make a collar and leash around your neck?” Alan quietly asks his contracted demon, watching another car pull in a few spots away. The parking lot is only half full, thank goodness, but he keeps his voice down just to be safe. “Most of these places only let leashed dogs in. The employees here won’t care, but some bored housewife might, and I’m really not in the mood to get into a shouting match with someone spoiling for drama.”
Prim frowns, but as Alan requested, a collar made of black leather seemingly oozes out from between the strands of fur on her neck. A tendril of shadow then jumps from the collar into Alan’s hand, forming a gray, woven lead with generous slack.
“Thanks,” Alan murmurs, grasping the end of the leash. “It ain’t dignified for a bigshot demon, I know.”
The frown on the wolf’s face eases.
Together, the pair walk towards the entrance of the Barrmart, and as they approach, Prim seems to realize just how large the building is, craning her neck backward with wide eyes. The demon is equally startled when the sliding glass doors at the very front of the building automatically part for them. As they step into the store, the air-conditioned atmosphere aggressively overtakes them. The air becomes dry, scentless, and cool, prompting a shiver to run down Prim’s back.
Grabbing a cart, Alan leads Prim into the store proper, and the demon stumbles a bit as they pass the second set of doors. Rather than try and pull her along immediately, Alan pauses and allows her to get her bearings. At the same time, Prim’s head pans around, taking in everything around her before she looks up at the harsh lighting above.
“C’mon, Prim. We got stuff to do,” Alan gives the leash a gentle tug, which seems to snap the eldritch being out of her reverie.
She looks up at him, not bothering to disguise just how uncomfortable she is, and when Alan begins to walk, she follows closely, keeping her head on a swivel as they enter the store's food section.
As they walk, a few people eyeball Prim with raised eyebrows, but no one seems apprehensive. The most inquisitive attention leveled at them is from a Barrmart employee, one wearing a manager tag and a grouchy sneer. The manager initially steps towards them, then stops, apparently losing the drive to make a fuss.
Up and down the aisles they go, with Alan picking out things from the shelves and tossing them carelessly into the cart. Then Alan nudges Prim with his knee as they turn down the deserted dairy aisle. “You alright?” He asks quietly. “You seem spooked.”
Prim takes a moment to gather her thoughts. “I… Suppose I am simply having trouble wrapping my mind around this ‘supermarket’. You said three of these locations are in this one town alone?”
Alan nods, opening one of the aisle refrigerators to grab a gallon of milk from within. “Yep.”
Prim recoils slightly from the blast of cold air that hits her in her face, her ears twitching when the refrigerator door pulls itself back shut with a muted slam. “In what sort of timeframe was this location erected? Several years? A decade?”
Chewing on his lip, Alan thinks it over. “Nah, it wasn’t that long. Barrmart built this place in like three or four months.”
Prim is silent for the remainder of their time in the food section.
Once the cart contains roughly a week and a half worth of groceries, Alan leads the way to the rear of the store, bypassing the clothes and furniture to head into the automotive section. ‘When were my brakes due for a change again? Soonish, I think. Whatever, I’ll just do them when I change my oil.’
It takes no time to find a large bottle of motor oil and a set of brake pads to toss in the cart. As they turn and begin the walk back to check out, they pass by the sports and outdoors section of the store. Cutting through an aisle, Alan scowls when he finds someone already there with their cart haphazardly in the middle, cutting them off. The other person faces away, rubbing their chin as they stare at a cast-iron pan hanging from the wall.
“Hey pal, you’re blocking the whole aisle. Do you mind?” Alan bites out as rudely as possible, making the other man stiffen and whirl around. As Alan takes in the other man’s face, his annoyance is swiftly replaced with surprise. “Chase? What are you doing on this side of town?”
“Oh shit, look who’s up and out of his cave!” The other man ignores the question to smile and point a finger at Alan. “I haven’t seen you in like three weeks, brochacho. What have you been up to?” He then notices Prim, and kneels down to her level, prompting her to blink at him in confusion. “And when did you get a dog?”
Malcolm “Chase” Kenns, Alan’s closest friend since grade school, is certainly a case study on how luck, determination, and a touch of wit is just as valid as skill and intelligence in the real world, at least in Alan’s opinion. With his shaved head hidden by a NASCAR cap, bare arms covered in tattoos, and a perfectly trimmed goatee Alan always thought was kind of douchey, Chase looks the trailer trash part to a T. Silently, Alan has to wonder if his friend plays up his stupid appearance and seemingly nonsensical pursuits in cryptozoology to hide just how sly he is.
“I got her just a few days ago,” Alan deadpans, watching his oldest friend make kissy-faces and reach a hand towards the disturbed-looking eldritch goddess. “Don’t touch, she bites.”
Prim snaps her jaws for effect, and Chase quickly pulls his hand back.
“A sourpuss just like her owner, then,” Chase jokes, standing back up. “What’s her name?”
“Prim,” Alan supplies, not elaborating on the origin.
Chase hums, scratching his chin. “Well, for your info, I’m here gettin’ some fixings for a stakeout I’m gonna be performing. The Barrmart near me didn’t have everything I wanted, and I need to be prepared for this one!”
When Alan just raises an eyebrow, Chase reaches into his pocket and withdraws his cracked phone. “You ain’t gonna believe this, man,” he unlocks the device and opens his photos, quickly scrolling through the newer ones. “You know how there’s been that big uptick in spooky-dook sightings, yeah?”
‘If it’s about supernatural shenanigans, I think I can believe whatever at this point,’ He shares a quick glance with Prim. ‘You were surprised when I didn’t give a shit, now get ready for the other end of the spectrum.’ Alan returns his attention to Chase. “Yeah, I heard about it. So what?”
“So what?” Chase seems aghast. “So what?! I’m about to prove to everyone that I was right about everything, that’s what! Take a look here and keep this to yourself…” The other man steps close and throws an arm around Alan’s shoulder, holding up his phone and looking around conspiratorially.
Alan rolls his eyes and humors his friend, only to go stiff in surprise when he looks at the image presented to him.
On the cracked phone screen is a black and white photo taken from a low hanging trail cam, doubtlessly one of the ones that Chase uses to scope out hunting spots. In the center of the photo is something so strange, that Alan has to rub his eyes to ensure he’s not seeing things.
In the photo is a set of people. That in itself isn’t strange, but the collective stature of the group is. They’re short. Really short, as in they can’t be any taller than two feet flat.
Each one is squat in form, with round bellies, blushing faces, and beards that reach down to their stomachs. Each one wears similar attire with only minor variations in patterns and color. Simple tunic shirts, equally simple pants, pointed shoes, and strangely pointy hats all paint a running theme between them. On the back of each one of the little people is a rustic, canvas backpack, each one filled to bursting. The backpacks must be quite heavy, for each of the little people grasp the straps of their backpacks with clenched hands and faces schooled into concentration. In the photo, one of them looks at the trail camera. Even in the low light, the trail camera captures his worry with startling detail.
“Holy shit…” Alan breathes, leaning in closer. “Are those…?”
“Real gnomes!” Chase almost squeals, a grin splitting his face. “Not the Sasquatch I wanted, but I’ll take what I can get!” He practically dances away back over to his own cart, stowing away his phone as he does so. “It’s like Christmas came early! Hell, this is almost better than Christmas!”
‘Okay, demons I understand and can even get behind, but fucking gnomes?’ Alan shakes his head and looks down to Prim, who meets his gaze with a mystified sort of confusion. ‘Yeah, that’s about what I expected. Chase does that to people.’
“So, you know they’re real, and you know roughly where they are,” Alan begins, leaning against his shopping cart and idly twisting Prim’s leash between his fingers. “What are you gonna do with that knowledge?”
“It’s not obvious?” Chase smirks, not at all questioning Alan’s lack of skepticism. “I’m going to shake them down for their gold, that’s what!”
‘Gold? Gnome legends don’t involve gold, do they? I think you’re getting your magical midgets mixed up, man…’
“Do you want to come with?”
“Huh?” Alan looks up, finding Chase smiling at him.
“I said,” Chase repeats himself with exaggerated slowness. “Do. You. Want. To. Come. With? I ain’t an asshole, so if you help out, I promise to split the booty with you.” He turns and looks back to the shelves, a hand reaching up to hover over the cast-iron pan he was looking at. “We never seem to do anything fun anymore, so what do you say?”
Alan looks towards Prim once more, silently mouthing Are gnomes dangerous?
She shakes her head in a negative.
Frowning, Alan then mouths Is it worth hunting them? Are there any repercussions?
This time, the demon shrugs, leaving Alan at a crossroads.
He could just let Chase run off and have his fun… but there is no guarantee that his boneheaded best friend won’t land himself in trouble somehow. If demons, monsters, and legends all the way up to the biblical sort are suddenly coming back, then Alan would feel way better knowing that Chase isn’t alone against anything that might try to mess with him.
“Can I bring Prim? I don’t have anyone who can handle her right now,” Alan eventually asks. ‘And I want her there if anything that can eat a bullet and keep moving shows its mug.’
Chase turns, his eyes shining. “The more, the merrier! So, you’re in?”
Alan nods, his friend’s excitement putting a small smile on his face. “I’m in.”
A hand bearing a snake tattoo clasps Alan’s shoulder, and Chase’s grin lights up the entire aisle.