After parting ways with the demonologist, I drifted to a nearby phone booth, hesitating at the door. The stench of cigarettes and stale sweat lingered like ghosts, curling through the air, sharp and sour. It hit me like the taste of regret—familiar, unwelcome, impossible to ignore. I stepped inside. The walls were covered in graffiti, deep grooves and scratches etched into the metal like scars. I dug into my pocket, feeling for spare change as I approached the ancient payphone. The clink of rusted coins dropping into the slot echoed through the small space as I dialed a number burned into my memory.

On the other end, the phone barely finished its second ring before a gravelly voice picked up.

“Hello?”

“Bart, it’s Jack,” I said, though the words tasted rusty.

There was a beat of silence, then a low, crackling reply. “Jack? Hell’s Horny Harlots! Thought you’d gone under.”

“Not yet,” I cut in. “Well actually, long story. Listen, Bart, I need a favor.” My voice dropped, almost swallowed by the booth’s stale air.

“What kind of trouble this time?” Bart’s suspicion seeped through. I rolled my eyes and sighed deeply. I laid out the situation in brief, half-truths, keeping details sparse. The only specific I dropped was a name—McGuffey—and asked him to dig up anything he could find on it.

“And meet me at the diner on 5th. Dinner tonight, eight o’clock. Can you do that?”

A long, grudging silence filled the line before a resigned sigh slipped through.

“Fine,” Bart grumbled. “But listen, Jack... you don’t need an excuse to call, you know. It’s been…”

“Too long,” I finished, my voice softer than I meant.

There was another pause. “Yeah.”

“Thanks, Bart. I’ll see you tonight.”

“Yeah,” he muttered, and then the line clicked, leaving me with nothing but the low, empty hum of the payphone.

The phone clanged loudly as I hung up, the sound reverberating in the cramped booth. My fingers hovered over the buttons before I pressed them again, dialing another number. My grip tightened around the receiver as I steadied myself.

“Murphy’s,” came a weary voice on the other end.

“Murph, it’s Jack,” I said, pushing past the guilt and anxiety churning in my stomach.

There was a moment of silence, then an explosion of anger. “Jack! Do you have any idea what you’ve done to my place? It’s a goddamn war zone here!”

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

“I know, Murph. I’ll make it right,” I replied, my heart sinking at the thought of the damage I’d caused. “I need Aylin’s number. She left it with you.”

Murphy let out a string of curses, but finally relented. “Hold on.” A moment later, he read out the number, grudgingly.

“Thanks, Murph,” I said before ending the call with a heavy sigh.

With that done, I dialed Aylin’s number and waited anxiously as it rang. When she finally answered, her voice was soft, hesitant.

“Aylin, it’s Jack,” I said, forcing myself to remain calm despite the weight of my words. The line was silent for a moment before her voice flooded through the phone, brimming with gratitude and hope. “I’ll take the case,” I declared, steeling myself for the challenges ahead.

“Thank you, Jack,” Aylin responded, her tone filled with relief and trust.

I took a deep breath and continued, “Give the next installment directly to Murphy. Tell him this should help cover the costs.” I could almost hear her nodding on the other end as I hung up, knowing I’d just taken on a responsibility that would require every ounce of my strength and bravery.

“I will,” she promised, her voice soft and sincere. There was a sense of urgency lingering in her tone, something that only added to the heavy knot of worry in my chest. I nodded to myself, the weight of it all settling deeper as I hung up the phone and stepped out into the cool night air. The city pulsed around me, bright lights blazing, a chaotic symphony that echoed off the concrete and steel.

As I walked away from the phone booth, I couldn’t shake off the feeling of being caught in a tangled web of uncertainty. What was the next step in this complicated mess?

As my chaotic life spiraled out of control, I knew I needed grounding—something familiar to latch onto, a touchstone in this turbulent sea. I decided to head to the only place I knew I could get it.

Mildred.

Mildred was the kind of person you went to when you were out of options, when the ordinary solutions didn’t cut it, and you needed something a bit more… arcane. She’d been around longer than most cared to remember, and there wasn’t a soul who knew the rifts' mysteries better than her. If I was going to tackle this thing head-on, I’d need her expertise. And no one knew how to work with Nightstone better than her.

I didn’t relish the idea of asking for her help. Last time we spoke, she made it clear that I owed her, and favors with Mildred didn’t come cheap. But desperate times, and all that.

I stayed there a moment, letting the static fade, knowing I was about to wade back into a world I’d tried hard to bury.

As I made my way through the city streets, heading toward her old haunt, I couldn’t help but feel a tightening in my gut. The city grew darker as I left its bustling center behind; the buildings leaning closer together, the shadows lengthening. By the time I reached Mildred’s place, a rundown relic of an old brownstone that seemed to teeter on the edge of the rift itself, the streets were nearly deserted. I paused for a moment, staring up at the cracked windows and peeling paint. The air here was thick with the scent of ozone and something else, something older and far more dangerous.

Steeling myself, I stepped up to the door and gave it a firm knock. The sound echoed down the empty street, swallowed quickly by the oppressive silence.

No one answered.

“Mildred,” I murmured to the shadows, “I need your help.”

The door creaked open with a low, aching groan, revealing a dimly lit interior thick with shadows, like a place that hadn’t seen daylight in years. Stepping inside felt like slipping into another world, one where the walls seemed to breathe and watch.