“Hands where I can see them,” I snapped, the gun tracking his every move. He rose slowly, every twitch under scrutiny, and poured himself a drink with unsteady hands. The glass clinked against the bottle, the sound loud in the silence. He sank into the corner chair, the barrel never leaving him, my grip firm and unyielding. He took a sip, grimacing as I knew he would—cheap whiskey, the kind that scalds on the way down and leaves a bitter aftertaste, just like the secrets he’d been drowning in.

“Now,” I began, my voice level, a stark contrast to the storm churning beneath my skin, “who exactly is pulling the strings?”

He hesitated, his lips twitching but no words coming out.

And then, finally, almost as a plea, he whispered, “I can’t…”

I crouched down, leaning in, letting the room’s shadows do their part.

“See, Bart,” I said, low and almost kind. “You’re scared of them. But you should be scared of me.”

I let the hunger out then, just a little. My face shifted, the sharp angles of my cheekbones cutting like glass, my eyes darkening into something endless. The fangs came last, gleaming white under the dim light.

Bart whimpered, the sound raw and broken, recoiling like he’d seen death incarnate.

“One last time—because we are old friends. Who. Are. You. Protecting?”

I moved closer to him, fangs inches away from his face.

His eyes flicked to the living room floor, just a twitch, but it was all I needed. I stepped over to the warped floorboard, pressing down until it creaked. I crouched, prying it up with a slow, deliberate motion, revealing a lockbox hidden beneath.

“You really should be more creative,” I muttered, dragging the box out. I let my face return to normal as the fangs settled back in.

Bart didn’t resist when I grabbed him by the collar and hauled him up like he was nothing. The man who’d been deflecting and dodging seconds ago was gone, replaced by something small, broken.

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I hated seeing Bart like this, but it wasn’t a change—it was simply the mask slipping off. He’d been living with fear for years, wearing it like a second skin. Now, it was time for him to face the shadows he’d been running from.

“Open it,” I said, slamming it onto the counter, sweeping the clutter to the floor with one sharp motion.

His hands shook so badly it took him three tries to work the latch.

The lockbox was a Pandora’s treasure trove of deceit. Inside, the city unraveled before me—not as it seemed, but as it truly was. Photographs of deeds with names blacked out. City plans sprawled across yellowed parchment and crisp blueprints, their lines intersecting in patterns that felt both familiar and wrong. Buildings marked for purchase. And running through it all, like veins in a body, were the old aether channels—the ones only druids and hocus-pocus healers pretended to care about. By fifth grade, everyone knew those channels didn’t mean a damn thing.

But don’t tell that to the druids or their tree-hugging, leaf-loving, hocus-pocus followers preaching about sacred channels and nature’s balance. They’d pushed their woo-woo agenda through Congress if they had the money. But this city? This city doesn’t give a damn about druids or their so-called channels. It’s the all versus the individual, the everything against the no one.

I studied the faded map of lines, the kind I hadn’t laid eyes on in years. Certain intersections leapt out, familiar places I’d strolled past a thousand times without a second glance—until now.

“Are you telling me the crazies were right about those aether channels?”

“Hell if I know, Jack. But someone very powerful seems to think so,” Bart stammered, his hands twitching as he dug frantically through the papers. He pulled out a blueprint of a sleek, modern building paired with an official document, the Governor’s seal stamped in bold at the top. “This. This is what started it.”

He handed me a piece of black cloth, its texture strange—smooth but rough, almost like leather.

I don’t like this, Frank said. I don’t know why, but… I really don’t like this, Jack.

My stomach tightened, threatening to claw its way up my throat as I unfolded it. It looked like an odd sort of map. Etched onto the cloth were silver lines, gleaming faintly, their patterns flowing and swirling with an organic elegance—until they didn’t. Jagged notches disrupted the natural currents, breaking the graceful flow and forcing it into sharp, unnatural bends. The aether’s course was twisted here, bottlenecked into something distorted, something fundamentally wrong.

I traced the lines, trying to make sense of the map, but the streets didn’t look familiar. The layout was... off. It wasn’t like any city I’d ever seen before. It felt alien, like a place that shouldn’t exist but somehow did.

“Where is this?” I asked, my voice low, steady.

“No clue,” Bart admitted, shaking his head. “I’ve tried to figure it out, believe me. But I’m no cartographer. It doesn’t match any map I’ve been able to borrow or buy.”