The rattling of the office van’s dying engine echoed louder than it should have as I pulled up to the cracked asphalt of the abandoned fermentation plant. The road here was less of a street and more of a suggestion—crumbling concrete that disappeared into patches of moss and swamp grass. The air reeked of mildew, rust, and something sharp that stung the back of my throat. Etherium waste, maybe, or just the stench of a place that had been forgotten too long.

I stepped out and stretched, feeling the stiffness from a day spent bouncing over potholes in that metal coffin on wheels. The factory loomed in the distance, its silhouette cutting jagged edges into the evening fog. Rusted pipes and warped vats jutted out like broken bones, and what should’ve been silence was filled with faint, unsettling sounds: dripping water, the groan of old metal, the occasional scurry of something that wasn’t a rat but moved like one.

I leaned against the van and dialed the old woman. The payphone at the corner of the block was a deathtrap, judging by the sparks it spat when I walked past, And my cellphone was on the fritz. Probably needed a fresh battery, or maybe it just hated me. Again.

The payphone sputtered and spat sparks as I tapped the receiver. Typical Crescenta tech. Etherium’s great when it works—clean, efficient, better than anything else in the world. But throw in a few decades of swamp air and lousy maintenance, and even magic gets temperamental.

The line clicked, then her voice hit me like a frying pan.

“Eric! Do you have any idea what kind of trouble you’ve stirred up? Half the precinct’s probably got your description pinned on a bulletin board by now. And mine! A sweet old lady! Do you know how humiliating that is?”

“I’m thirty-two, Maevra, you’re not fooling me or the cops with that act,” I muttered, scanning the shadows of the factory. “And yes, I’m aware. Believe it or not, I didn’t plan to get accused of kidnapping today. That was more of an... improvisational detour. Turns out some people think 'private investigator' translates to 'personal henchman.' But telling a pair of overbearing millionaires where to stick their money? Probably not my smartest move this week."”

“Oh, well, forgive me for thinking you wouldn’t lead an innocent girl’s parents to hire the entire force to chase you down. Do you even know how this makes me look? What were you thinking?”

I sighed, pinching the bridge of my nose. “Look, I didn’t call to get chewed out. I’m calling because I think I’ve found her.”

That earned a pause, and then a softer, more skeptical tone.

“You’re sure?”

I glanced at the factory again. The way the fog clung to its walls, the oppressive stillness in the air—it all screamed something was wrong. More than just the usual shady business this place was known for.

“Sure enough to get the heebie-jeebies,” I said. “The place smells wrong. Feels wrong. Like bad magic. This isn’t just an illegal swap meet for spell smugglers—someone’s been working something heavy here.”

Her sigh carried the weight of years. “You’re too stubborn for your own good, you know that?”

“It’s been mentioned,” I replied dryly, straightening up. “But I have to go in. If she’s in there, and after what I’ve seen today... she’s in real danger.”

A faint crackle on the line hinted at her tapping her phone in frustration. “You’re going to get yourself killed.”

“Only if I’m unlucky,” I quipped, though my voice betrayed the nerves creeping up my spine. “And if I die, you can have my apartment. I’m sure you’ll keep it cleaner than I do.”

Her snort was unmistakable. “I wouldn’t set foot in that pigsty. Get her out safely, Eric. And for once in your life, don’t be an idiot about it.”

“Love you too,” I said, ending the call before she could retort.

I turned back to the factory, took a steadying breath, and stepped into the shadows. The place practically hummed with unease, like it was waiting for something—or someone—to stir the pot. And lucky me, I was just the guy to oblige.

It had taken half a tank of Etherium, two wrong turns, and a migraine to get here. Tracking spells aren’t exactly GPS—especially in Crescenta, where swamp water messes with magic like a bad hangover, so I'm already quite spent.

The air around the old fermentation plant was thick—humid and stifling, like someone had bottled the swamp itself and cracked it open right in front of me. The building loomed ahead, a crumbling behemoth of moss-streaked cement and rusted metal pipes. Nature had started reclaiming the place, with vines snaking up the walls and swamp grass breaking through what was left of the parking lot.

Empty plastic and metal barrels were scattered like forgotten toys, some half-submerged in stagnant puddles of rainwater. The reflections shimmered in the weak moonlight, giving the illusion of movement, though the occasional ripple suggested it wasn’t just an illusion. I caught sight of something sleek and scaly disappearing into the water with a soft splash. Alligator, probably. Or something worse.

The faint rustle of tiny claws across metal drew my attention upward. Critters—raccoons, maybe, or some other swamp vermin—watched from the exposed beams of the factory, their eyes glinting before they scurried off into the shadows. Every sound seemed amplified here: the creak of a rusted pipe in the breeze, the distant croak of frogs, and the occasional drip of water from some unseen leak.

I crouched low as I moved closer, sticking to the overgrown grass near the building's perimeter. The place had always been known for the occasional illegal deal—spell smugglers trading bootleg glamour potions, Etherium scrap dealers offloading stolen goods, even the occasional necromancer too bold or stupid to avoid the city’s swamps. But something about this particular night felt different.

My mind wandered as I kept my footsteps light. Crescenta wasn’t exactly kind to people like me—working-class nobodies trying to scrape by. The city thrived on chaos, its skyline glittering with wealth while the swamps and slums festered in its shadows. My license to operate as a proper private investigator had been just within reach before this case blew up in my face. Now, with Lisa’s parents pulling strings, it felt further away than ever.

The factory had a reputation, sure, but even then, dark magic didn’t usually make appearances here. At least, not the kind you could feel crawling under your skin from fifty feet out. Coincidences like that were rare—about as common as a unicorn in a pub. And this place had all the wrong ingredients: isolation, decay, and an air that made my teeth itch.

Stolen novel; please report.

As I crept around the side of the building, my attention snapped to movement ahead. Someone else was here.

The figure stepped through a gap in the chain-link fence with an air of authority, like they belonged there and didn’t care who noticed. Even from a distance, there was something unsettling about them. Their movements were purposeful, confident—not the hesitant sneaking you’d expect. The dim light caught the faint gleam of something metallic strapped across their chest. A weapon? I stayed low, narrowing my eyes to make out more details.

Then they stopped, looking around slowly, almost deliberately. The figure’s hand rose to their face, and with a reluctant motion, they removed what looked like an eye patch.

The eerie glow that followed stopped me cold.

Their eye—or whatever that was—shone faintly in the dark, casting a sickly glow across the swampy ground. It wasn’t just the light that unnerved me—it was the way they moved, slow and deliberate, like they were measuring every shadow, every corner. My breath caught. Was this the kidnapper? Someone performing dark rituals on Lisa?

my heartbeat quickened. I wasn’t sure who or what they were, but one thing was clear: they weren’t here for a casual stroll.

I crept closer, keeping to the edges of the overgrown grass. The figure moved with the kind of precision you don’t learn—you’re born with it. Every step was calculated, their head tilting slightly as if listening for something only they could hear. If they had Lisa, they weren’t wasting time. The faint glow of their eye wasn’t just for effect—it illuminated the darkness with an intensity that felt surgical, like it could dissect the night itself.

My fingers brushed against my weapon, but I hesitated. The last thing I wanted to do was kill the suspect. That wouldn’t get me answers, and it’d be hard to interrogate a corpse—though I supposed necromancers might disagree on that point. And besides - using "that" thing right now would’ve been effective, sure, but it’d cost me a month’s worth of ramen. I wasn’t about to burn through my savings on someone I can probably take out using other means.

Instead, I grabbed my taser and knife, the plan forming in my head. Get close, zap them, and use the blade to make sure they stayed still and cooperative. Simple. Efficient. Foolproof.

At least, that’s what I thought until they froze mid-step.

The figure’s head turned, that eerie eye locking onto me like a predator catching movement in the dark.

“Oh, crap,” I whispered, right before they blurred into motion.

They closed the distance so fast it felt like they'd teleported. I scrambled to react, raising the taser, but it didn’t matter. their hand shot out, knocking it from my grip, and it landed in a puddle with a pathetic splash.

I shouted in surprise. And, no, it wasn’t a scared yelp. Definitely not.

They moved like something out of a horror movie—fast, fluid, and relentless. I tried slashing with the knife, but they caught my wrist with a brutal twist, forcing me to drop it. My arm throbbed as they kicked my hand away before I could even think about reaching for my weapon.

I swung a punch in desperation, but they ducked it effortlessly, their foot hooked into the hem of my poncho, yanking me sideways and sending me sprawling into the mud.

I hit the mud hard. Real hard. My hat tumbled off and landed somewhere in the murky puddle beside me. Great. Not only was I getting my ass handed to me, but I was also losing my dignity—and my hat—in the process.

“Damn thing,” I muttered, fumbling to get free of the wet fabric.

“Stay down,”  a stern but feminine voice snapped at me, pinning me with her knee.

Yeah, right. I bit down on her forearm in defiance, the taste of leather and mud filling my mouth.

“Really?” she growled, yanking her arm free and shaking it with irritation. She rewarded my genius move with a punch to the side of my head, and the world spun.

When the stars cleared, she leaned in close, her glowing eye burning into me like a spotlight. “I was going to keep you alive long enough to interrogate you about your necromancer friends. But now?” She shook her bitten arm. “Looks like you’re just one of the wildlife here. Too bad for you.”

She reached for something—a blade, I guessed—and positioned herself for the kill.

“Wait! I’m a Guild member!” I shouted, and it wasn’t a high-pitched whine, no matter what it sounded like.

That gave her pause, though her expression didn’t soften. “Guild member?”

“Yeah, believe it or not,” I grumbled, struggling to prop myself up. Her eerie eye still pinned me in place, so I stayed mostly horizontal. Bloodhunters, I thought bitterly, trying to keep my breathing steady.

She stepped back, and for the first time, I got a proper look at her. The glow from her eye illuminated sharp, calculating features—high cheekbones, a braid whipping behind her, and an athletic build that screamed efficiency. Her clothes were practical, dark leather and armor with faint etchings, designed for both combat and stealth. The eye patch she’d removed dangled from her belt, next to a dagger that looked like it had seen more fights than I had.

As soon as she let me up, I scrambled for my hat. It was soaked, the brim sagging like a sad pancake.

“Really?” she said, crossing her arms as she watched me. “That’s what you’re worried about?”

I jammed it back onto my head with as much dignity as I could muster. “Mind your own business,” I muttered, brushing mud off the poncho.

She raised an eyebrow. “It’s nighttime. You don’t need a hat. Or are you afraid the moon’s going to give you a tan?”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” I shot back. “Didn’t realize I was taking fashion advice from someone who needs glowing eyes to accessorize.”

Her lip twitched in annoyance, but I thought I saw a glint of amusement in her eye, the normal one, the other one was just creepy.

I adjusted the hat, mumbling under my breath. Yeah, laugh it up. You don’t know the story behind this thing.

The hat had belonged to my dad—a black cowboy hat with a curved brim that always looked better in my memory than it did on my head.

Then there was the poncho. Not exactly stylish, but it was functional—loose enough to hide my gear, thick enough to take a hit, and just mysterious enough to make me feel like I belonged in one of those old movies Dad loved. Sure, it meant I got the occasional joke from people who thought they were clever, but I liked it. It gave me an edge—or so I told myself.

Maevra said it made me look like I’d raided Flint Westwood’s wardrobe and stolen half a tarp from the recycling plant.

Dark hair, dark eyes, and Sanatar skin that the Crescenta sun hadn’t been kind to—I was a mix of my parents’ best traits, or so my mom used to say. What the hat and poncho added to the look, I couldn’t tell you. Probably made me look like a wannabe cowboy with delusions of grandeur. But they were mine. And I wasn’t about to let some glowing-eyed stranger tell me otherwise.

“Bloodhunters,” I muttered under my breath. The Guild’s dogs of war, experts in sniffing out dark magic and taking it down with extreme prejudice. Not exactly known for their diplomacy.

“You’re in over your head,” she said coldly. “What are you doing here?”

“Looking for a missing girl,” I said, wiping a bit of blood from my lip. “Lisa. She vanished from the Etherium recycling plant ten days ago. I tracked her here.”

Her glowing eye narrowed. “I was sent to investigate the black magic residue coming from this place. Someone’s casting a spell or ritual inside, and I can’t pinpoint it. The water and residual magic in this place make it difficult to trace.”

She wasn’t wrong about that. The place was massive—sprawling vats, endless corridors, and broken machinery everywhere. Trying to find one necromancer here was like... like finding an honest politician in Crescenta. Damn near impossible.

“Look,” she said, her tone softening just a fraction. “This place is dangerous. I’ll take care of things. You need to get out before you get yourself killed.”

I snorted, wiping the mud from my face. “Yeah, I know how bloodhunters ‘take care of things.’” I rubbed my bruised jaw. “No thanks. I’ve got a job to do.”

Her eye flashed with irritation, but she didn’t argue. Without another word, she turned and prowled along the perimeter, her glowing eye lighting the way.

I muttered to myself as I searched the puddle for my taser. When I finally found it, it was caked in mud and completely useless. Fantastic.

“This is going great,” I grumbled.

As I turned back toward the van, my mind raced. I needed to take care of things—and fast—before the crazy bloodhunter killed Lisa and every witness who could clear my and Maevra’s names.

With that thought, I jogged to the van to grab my gear. It wasn’t just a necromancer I had to deal with now—it was the crazy killer, too.