I ran a quick search, the flickering text streaming across my vision.

The System always seemed one spark away from frying itself—a haphazard web of overloaded nodes and crumbling infrastructure. It wasn’t pretty, but it was enough to keep me ahead of the game. For now, at least. I let the slow drip of data wash over me, scanning for anything that might matter.

Robert McGuffey. The name rang a bell.

There it was. That’s why it sounded familiar. Headlines lit up my feed: “Robert McGuffey Found Dead.” I skimmed the article. Throat slit, no sign of forced entry, no suspects. No crime scene photos, just a holo of him—smug grin, designer suit, the whole “rich old man” package.

Suicide, they said. Simple as that. But locked doors? In my line of work, those were just polite suggestions for the supernatural.

“Collectors,” I muttered. “Always digging up things better left buried.”

Her eyes widened with hope, or maybe it was just the bar’s dim light playing tricks. “You believe me?”

“I believe the dead don’t always stay quiet. And collectors? They have a knack for pissing off the wrong kind of spirits.” I leaned in, lowering my voice. “Tell me everything you know about those men.”

Her voice steadied. “They wanted something my uncle found. Something... old and powerful. He wouldn’t give it to them. He was a collector of rare artifacts. And he had gotten his hands on an old jewelry box and key.” She handed me the key, an intricate filigree glinting in the dim light. “Gave me this the day before he died. Told me to hold on to it, to keep it secret. Was acting strange, paranoid even.”

I took the key, feeling its weight. “Collectors,” I said again, shaking my head. “Always think they can handle the dark stuff.”

Aylin’s voice trembled. “Do you think... it had something to do with his death?”

I met her gaze, seeing the desperation and fear. “If he was messing with something that powerful, it’s a good bet. But you’ll need more than just a hunch.”

Collectors. They blew their fortunes on trinkets, thinking they were buying power. Most of the time, they were just getting fleeced. Some “demonologist” would sell them a busted toaster dressed up with runes and a good story, and they’d fork over a small fortune, convinced they had the key to ancient power. The dirty demonologists got a kickback, and the collectors got conned. It was a joke—usually.

Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.

But sometimes, they stumbled onto something real. And when that happened, it wasn’t just their money at stake. They welcomed darkness into their homes, thinking they could control it. They were wrong. Darkness didn’t get controlled; it consumed. It turned their lives into nightmares and brought ruin to their loved ones. They wanted power, and instead, they got horror.

Guys like McGuffey—greedy, desperate for something they didn’t understand—they got what was coming to them.

Aylin’s voice cracked. “I just want his name cleared. The police won’t listen. The papers are smearing him left and right. It’s sickening. They see an open-and-shut case. But I know it’s not. I need a private investigator. Someone who understands...” She looked at me, pleading. “And when it comes to demons, your name’s the only one in the book.”

I shook my head. “I took my name out of that book, Aylin, for good reason.”

“I’ll pay five hundred thousand creds upfront just to check it out. Another five hundred thousand if you take the case, and a bonus five hundred thousand if you solve it.” She slid a cred-disc across to me. Black market—direct cash, untraceable, uncoded. This wasn’t the kind of currency you picked up at a corner kiosk.

“Please,” she said, her voice steady, but there was a crack just beneath the surface. “Just promise to look into it. That’s all I ask.”

I picked up the disc, the weight of it heavier than it should’ve been. A half-million large wasn’t exactly pocket change, but what really made me pause was the question running circles in my head—where does a dame like her get uncoded credits like this?

I leaned back, staring at the ceiling. Damn. There was something in her eyes—a blend of desperation and determination—that was hard to ignore. Plus, the money didn’t hurt. I might be undead, but I still had to pay rent. The advance alone would get me about six months—if I was frugal.

“Fine,” I said. “I’ll ask around. But no promises. I’ll cast the line, but if nothing bites, we are done.”

A flicker of hope lit up her face. “Thank you.” She left the key, the money, and a handwritten note with her number on it.

As she walked out, I picked up the key, studying it. Collectors. They always thought they could dance with the devil and come out unscathed. But in the end, it was the devil who led.

Task Log Updated

Assignment Accepted –

1. Ask around about the death of Robert McGuffey.

Reward: 500,000 untraceable credits.

1. Optional: Take up the case.

Reward: 500,000 untraceable credits.

1. Optional: Discover what really happened to Mr. McGuffey.

Reward: 500,000 untraceable credits.

The key glowed faintly silver, pushing the rift soot away like two magnets repelling each other. I sighed, rubbing my temples. “Dames and demons. Why is it always dames and demons?”