Devon Fiore | Brooklyn, NY
The black wax had moved.
Devon stood frozen in the center of his apartment, the morning light slicing through dust motes like shards of broken glass. His eyes traced the map pinned to the wall—the same map Salvatore had marked decades ago with red pushpins and paranoid scribbles. But overnight, the dried smear of wax that had spelled “THE RULES CHANGE AT DAWN” had slithered downward, leaving a trail of pinprick-sized footprints toward Pier 42. Insectoid. Deliberate.
This isn't possible. He pressed a finger to the residue. Cold. Oily. Like the grease his grandfather used to clean from his revolver.
You taught me to spot traps, old man. To read streets, not… whatever this voodoo bullshit is. But here I am, chasing your ghosts through a haunted apartment. What did you drag me into?
His phone buzzed. A Brooklyn area code he didn’t recognize:
Unknown: Stop digging where you don’t belong, Fiore. Some secrets burn.
Devon snorted. Reply: Tell Greco to hire better scriptwriters.
The reply came instantly:
Unknown: Greco’s a gnat. The real debt collectors are coming.
Before he could type a retort, glass shattered behind him. Devon spun, Glock drawn, but found only a dead crow impaled on his windowsill. A rusted kitchen knife—the same one missing from Salvatore’s block—pierced its chest. Tied to its leg: a scroll with a single Cyrillic word.
“Беги” (Run).
Who the hell plays this? Greco? No, he prefers bullets and beatings, not wax puppets. This is... different. Older. As if Brooklyn itself breathes secrets even the mobsters don’t know. And that symbol? That damn mark that keeps appearing everywhere... Why do I feel like it's watching me?
Salvatore, this reeks of you. Of your sleepless nights, of your safes full of photos of strangers. What did you bargain for that they're coming after me now? Was I part of the deal?
The crow’s head twitched. Its beak split open, and a voice like grinding gears rasped:“The Hollows hunger, Fiore. Your blood is overdue.”
Devon emptied the Glock into the bird. Feathers and wax exploded, splattering the walls.
Hallucination. Gas leak. Crow trick.
But the wax on his fingers burned.
And without Devon realizing it, Angelo's watch was vibrating in his pocket.
---
Jessica Park | Columbia University, NY
The cancer cells weren’t behaving.
Jessica adjusted her glasses, squinting at the microscope. The HeLa cells she’d cultured—normally predictable in their ruthless mitosis—had twisted into fractal patterns: triangles within circles, pulsing like living kaleidoscopes.
Contamination? No—sterile procedure. Equipment malfunction? Unlikely. Then why…?
Her hand trembled as she reached for her coffee. Cold. Forgotten. The symbol from last night’s manuscript haunted her peripheral vision—a three-lobed eye etched into the library’s forbidden section. She’d copied it onto her notebook, and now it throbbed in time with her migraine.
Sleep deprivation. Stress. Dad always said I’d crack under pressure.
“Jess?” Her lab partner, Mark, frowned at her shaking notes. “You okay?”
“Migraine. Forgot my meds.”
Lie. Her father’s voice hissed in her mind: Weakness is a choice, Jessica. Solve the problem or fail.
Variables: 1. Symbol appears in 16th-century text. 2. Cells mutate post-exposure. 3. Correlation ≠ causation. But if it’s not a hallucination…
She snapped a photo of the cells. The image blurred, the fractals rearranging into the symbol.
No. Delete. Breathe. 1. Identify variables. 2. Eliminate impossibles. 3. Whatever’s left—
A hand gripped her shoulder.
“Miss Park.” Professor Raymond’s breath reeked of antacids. “My office. Now.”
---
Lana Chen | Pier 17, NY
The docks stank of rotting fish and diesel, but Lana Chen breathed it like perfume. Power had a scent: gun oil, counterfeit bills, and the sweet tang of fear.
She flicked her cigarette into the harbor, watching two Crows thugs unload crates of smuggled Rolexes. Amateurs. Vinnie Greco’s crew had gone soft since Salvatore’s era.
Pathetic. In Macau, we moved heroin in diplomatic pouches. These clowns think they’re kingpins for peddling knockoffs.
“Chen.” Donnie Marconi’s voice slithered from the shadows. Acne scars cratered his face like bullet wounds. “The Shark wants to know why you’re sniffing through old files.”
“Tell Vinnie curiosity keeps women young.”
She tossed him Salvatore Fiore’s 1992 dossier—photos of the dead man meeting figures with tattoos of a three-lobed eye. Donnie’s hands shook.
Fear smells different on men. Sweeter. Almost… floral.
“This is some cult shit. The boss don’t play with—”
“The boss is drowning in debt to the Triads. Tell him I’ll erase it… for a taste of his new friends.”
She turned, heels clicking on wet concrete. Rats scurried past her ankles toward the water, squealing.
Rats flee sinking ships. But what’s sinking here?
---
Devon | Apartment
The apartment reeked of burnt plastic and wet dog.
Devon kicked the door shut, Glock trained on the shadows. Drawers hung open, Salvatore’s photos scattered like confetti. But it was the fridge that stopped him cold.
Inside, wedged between expired milk and a six-pack: his grandfather’s gold pocket watch. Frozen at 3:14 AM. Coated in black wax.
Three fourteen. The hour Angelo died. The hour Salvatore sewed this scar on me. Coincidence? In this family, there are no coincidences. Only debts.
Why did you keep this here, Grandpa? Did you know I would find it? That you'd force me to follow in your footsteps even from the grave?
Shit. This isn't paranoia. It's... a warning. And I'm the idiot deciphering the message. He said while looking at his hand, burned from touching the black wax.
A news clipping fluttered to the floor. 1998: MYSTERY SUICIDE WAVE IN BROOKLYN—VICTIMS LEAVE NOTES IN UNKNOWN LANGUAGE. The photo showed seven corpses arranged in a circle, their skin etched with the three-lobed eye. Among them, grinning: the bald man from Salvatore’s photo.
Grandpa knew him. Knew all of them. What did you trade, you bastard? Souls for time?
His scar itched. The one Salvatore had stitched with fishing line after Mom tried to carve the “rot” out of him.
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“Fiore men don’t cry, boy. They learn.”
Devon hurled the watch. It struck the wall, cracking plaster.
You taught me to fight, to lie, to survive. But this? This is your mess. Your debt. Why am I the one paying?
---
Jessica | Professor Raymond’s Office
The office smelled of mothballs and regret.
Professor Raymond paced behind his desk, a sallow man drowning in a too-tight tweed jacket. Jessica clutched her mutated cell photos, the symbol burning through her folder.
“Your midterm was… disappointing, Miss Park. A child could solve those integrals.”
He’s scared. Pulse in his neck—180 bpm. Pupils dilated. Why?
“Respectfully, sir, my work is flawless.”
“Flawless?” He slammed a hand on the desk. “You’re distracted. Careless. Just like your father.”
The air thickened. Jessica’s fingers dug into her palms.
Dad’s voice: “Mediocrity is a cancer, Jessica. Cut it out.” But I’m not him. I’m not—
“Consider this your warning. Another misstep, and I’ll recommend expulsion.”
She stood, knees trembling. “You’re right, Professor. I’ll do better.”
Lie.
In the hallway, she unfolded the photo from the gray-suited man. The hanged boy’s face mirrored hers—same jawline, same mole.
Coincidence? No. 1. Photo dated 1923. 2. Genetic mirroring impossible. 3. Conclusion: Hoax. But why target me?
Her phone buzzed. Unknown number: "THEY KNOW YOU SEE. FIND FIORE."
---
Lana | Chinatown, NY
The Golden Lotus Tea House hid behind a façade of red lanterns and peeling dragons. Lana slid into a back booth, the scent of jasmine and betrayal thick in the air.
“You play dangerous games, Miss Chen. The Triads don’t forget debts… or traitors.”
The old smuggler sipped his tea, eyes sharp as scalpels. Lana slid Salvatore’s dossier across the table.
“Mr.Wu, Vinnie Greco’s new friends interest me. Who are they?”
Wu’s smile revealed gold-capped teeth. “Not ‘who.’ What. They are… recruiters. For a game older than your city.”
He flipped to a photo: Salvatore shaking hands with a man whose skin shimmered like mercury.
“Your Fiore patriarch owed them a debt. Now they collect… with interest.”
Games. Always games. But the prize? Power? Immortality?
“How do I play?”
Wu traced the three-lobed eye. “Find the Hollows. Survive the pruning. Or die like the rest.”
---
Devon | Brooklyn Bridge
The wind screamed. Devon gripped the railing, Angelo’s watch burning his palm. Below, the East River churned with violet currents, its depths alive with serpentine shadows.
This is insane. Go home. Call the cops. But what’ll I say? “Hey, my dead grandpa’s cult is leaving me creepy bird notes”?
The scar under his jaw pulsed. Salvatore’s voice echoed: “Pain’s a teacher, boy. Listen.”
A gunshot cracked. Donnie Marconi stepped from the fog, Smith & Wesson gleaming.
“Greco sends his regards.”
Devon ducked. The bullet grazed his scar.
Too slow. Too loud. Greco’s thugs hit harder.
He returned fire. Donnie collapsed… then melted into a puddle of wax and clockwork gears.
Is this real? Or have I finally broken? The streets are no longer streets. They are veins of something bigger, and I am a red blood cell drifting towards a rotting heart. And that forest? It's just like in the vision...
Salvatore,—Devon began as he looked at his trembling hands.— if you're in some hell, listen to me: I’m not your soldier. I won’t pay your debt. Or will I? Because every bullet I fire, every lie I weave... I’m your damned copy, aren’t I?
Hallucination. Gas leak. Crow trick.
But the gears kept ticking.
---
Twitter Trends:
1. #User278 (2.1M tweets): “Saw it in Tokyo! Trees growing from skyscrapers!”
2. #Ricewchicken (1.8M tweets): *“They’re real! My sister vanished after drawing the symbol!”*
3. @DrAlejandro (Virologist): “The ‘mass hysteria’ theory is nonsense. This is coordinated. Biological? Psychological? Extraterrestrial?”
Encrypted Chat Log (Dark Web):
User [EaterOfWorlds]: The Hollows aren’t a place. They’re a process. A digestion. We’re the meal
User [Observer-7]: Specimen G-777 (Fiore) shows promise. Proceed with harvest.
---
Jessica | Dorm Room
The equations bled.
Jessica woke choking on ash. The symbols on her desk writhed, numbers rearranging into the three-lobed eye.
Schizophrenia? No—family history clean. External manipulation? How?
She reached for her phone. The screen flickered: “FIND FIORE. HE HAS ANSWERS.”
Outside, the gray-suited man watched from the park, Angelo’s watch ticking in his hand.
Logic says run. But the variables… they add up to him. To Fiore.
---
Lana | Safehouse
The safehouse stank of gunpowder and betrayal.
Lana cleaned her knife, the Triad’s warning ringing in her ears: “The Hollows prune the weak. Will you be a gardener… or fertilizer?”
Games within games. But the prize is always the same: survival.
She loaded her pistol. Outside, shadows moved.
“Come in, boys. Let’s discuss… gardening.”
---
4:00 AM - Devon's Apartment
Shadows danced on the walls, but Devon no longer knew if they were the product of the moon or his mind. The black wax on the map had stopped being a stain and had turned into an obsession, a hieroglyph that burned his eyes every time he tried to look away. The insect tracks were still there, drawing a path from his broken window to the heart of Brooklyn, as if something were guiding him to a trap he couldn’t even comprehend.
It’s always the same damn thing. Salvatore taught me to read the streets, to see the traps before they closed in on me. "Men like us don’t have the luxury of fear," he’d say while making me disassemble the Glock with my eyes blindfolded. But this... this isn’t a mafia ambush. This is...
He stopped, his knuckles white around Angelo's gold watch. The ticking of the dead mechanism echoed in his ears, a metronome of madness.
What did you do, grandfather? What deal did you make for them to come for me now?
The scar under his jaw pulsed, as if a worm was twisting under his skin. He approached the bathroom mirror, brushing away the sweaty hair. The crescent-shaped mark glowed under the fluorescent light, redder than usual.
You stitched this up for me. With fishing line and cheap whiskey. "The Fiores don't cry," you said as the needle went in and out. "They learn." What, old man? To lie? To kill? To carry burdens that aren’t even mine?
The watch weighed in his hand. He twisted it, searching for answers in the engraved initials: A.F. Angelo Fiore. The great-grandfather who died in 1945 but appeared identical in photos from the 1920s.
Immortal? Time travel? Or just another crazy in the family?
A rough laugh escaped his lips.
I’m arguing with myself about immortality. Greco was right: the Fiores are cursed.
The walls creaked. Devon turned, the Glock ready... but it was just the wind seeping through the broken window. The December cold bit into his bones, but he didn’t move.
How many nights did you spend like this, grandfather? Gun in hand, waiting for ghosts to knock on the door. Were they the ones who drove you paranoid? Or were you the one who invited them in?
He walked to the kitchen, where the map of Brooklyn was still a collage of red pins and scribbled notes. The locations of the 1998 suicides formed a pattern: a giant eye staring toward the Statue of Liberty.
A message? A warning? Or just the coincidence of a bunch of desperate souls?
But there was the photo: the bald man with the scar, smiling among corpses. The same one Salvatore had photographed decades ago.
You knew him. Worked with him. What did you sell? Souls? Time? Or something that doesn’t even have a name?
The sound of wings made him jump. On the shelf, another dead crow. This one didn’t have a knife, but its beak was sealed with black wax.
Who the hell are you? What do you want?
He smashed the bird with a towel, but the wax clung to his fingers, burning like dry ice.
Hallucinations. That’s the only logical explanation. Post-traumatic stress. Too many sleepless nights. Too many years carrying your crap, grandfather.
But then, why did Jessica Park have a photo of a dead boy with his own face? Why did Lana Chen smell fear in Greco? Why were the rats fleeing Brooklyn like hell was on their heels?
He collapsed into Salvatore’s armchair, the worn leather smelling of gunpowder and lies. Angelo’s watch was still in his hand, a dead weight.
You taught me how to survive, but never how to live. Every room in this apartment is full of you. Every weapon, every scar, every whisper in the dark... They’re yours. And me? I’m just the idiot who inherited the outstanding bill.
Tears burned in his eyes, but they didn’t fall. The Fiores don’t cry.
In the silence, the ticking of the watch turned into hammering. He opened it with trembling fingers. Instead of gears, there was a black, pulsating substance.
Wax? Blood? What are you?
He touched it.
And the world exploded.
Devon appeared in a forest
I’m in a forest, but it’s not a forest. The trees have veins instead of bark, and the sky... God, the sky is cracked like a painting that someone drove a knife through. Through the cracks filters an amber light, thick like poisoned honey.
Salvatore is there, but younger. He’s my age. His scar glows under the violet light, and in his hands, he holds the same gold watch. In front of him, a figure... No, it’s not a figure. It’s a void with a human shape, a hole in the world dressed in shadows and broken clocks.
"Your blood for his," says the void, and its voice is the static of a TV, blades in a mill. "The deal is still valid."
Salvatore steps back. "No. Not him."
The void laughs, and the sound makes my ears bleed. "The debt is hereditary. It always was."
Salvatore yells something, but the forest collapses. The roots drag me toward the cracks in the sky, and I see... I see things. Cities writhing like worms in the sun. Humans with skin made of clocks. And an eye. Always the same eye.
When I come to, I’m on the ground, the black wax burning my hands. Angelo’s watch reads 3:14 AM.
This is real.
The admission hit him like a bullet.
These aren’t hallucinations. It’s not stress. It’s... something else. Something Salvatore invoked, and now it’s claiming me.
He stood up, staggering. In the mirror, his reflection had bloodshot eyes, the scar pulsing like an exposed heart.
What did you bargain for, grandfather? Eternal life? Power? Or just a little more time to raise the grandson you never wanted?
The walls whispered. Voices in dead tongues, whispers of dry leaves and needles against glass.
The Hollows. That’s what the crow said. What are they? Where are they? Why me?
He opened Salvatore’s drawer, pulling out the old ammo box where he kept family photos. In one, Angelo Fiore posed next to a man in a gray suit... the same one from Jessica’s photo.
It’s no coincidence. Nothing is. This is a web, and I’m the thread someone’s pulling.
The watch vibrated. The hands spun wildly before stopping at 3:14 AM.
Three fourteen. Pi. The number of infinite madness. A cosmic joke? Or a warning?
On the street, a scream tore through the night. Devon ran to the window. Under the moonlight, a tall, thin figure walked down the middle of the street. It wore a gray suit and sunglasses.
The one from the photo? The one from Jessica’s?
The figure raised a hand. In its palm, the tripartite eye glowed.
Come.
Devon lowered the Glock. There were no bullets. It didn’t matter.
This isn’t survival. It’s... inevitability.
He stepped into the cold, Angelo’s watch beating in his pocket like a second heart.
I’m going to find you, grandfather. And when I do, you’re going to explain every damn letter of this debt.
But deep down, he knew the truth: some answers burn more than the questions.