Al’s eyes lingered on the penthouse door, a heavy slab of dark mahogany, its surface smooth but scarred with age. Ornate carvings framed its edges, their once-crisp details softened by time. The brass handle caught the dim light with a garish gleam.
In the center, bold, jagged letters disrupted the door’s polished surface, gouged deep as though by a desperate or furious hand. The grooves were uneven, filled with dark red that bled slightly into the wood.
DO NOT INTERRUPT UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES OR I WILL PERSONALLY KILL AND EAT YOU.
“Charming,” Al muttered, his newly acquired shotgun aimed ahead. He let out a humorless laugh. “You think that applies to us?”
“Only one way to find out,” I said.
The penthouse doors creaked open, revealing a vast, dimly lit room that oozed both menace and luxury. Silence hung thick, a claustrophobic hush that pressed down like a hand around your throat.
“Where the hell is he?” Al muttered, his shotgun raised and ready, knuckles white. His voice sounded too loud, even though he whispered.
The penthouse sprawled out like a beast lounging in its den—powerful, unapologetic, and cruel. Rich mahogany lined the walls, carved with intricate patterns that twisted under the muted amber glow. There were stories in those carvings, tales of predators and prey, and I had a gut feeling we weren’t walking in on the right end of the story. Thick rugs, red as arterial blood with veins of gold, muffled our steps across the black marble, inviting us into a place where secrets were made, bartered, or buried.
The leather armchairs, massive and heavy, crouched around a low obsidian coffee table. The table bore a single crack—thin, deliberate, like a scar you show off in a bar fight. It somehow made the space more dangerous, as if the crack had witnessed something awful and survived.
The air carried the scent of cigars, rich and stale, clinging to the past, mingling with the underlying tang of old violence. From across the room, a light pitter-patter rain slid down a massive wall of glass, floor-to-ceiling, the city laid out below like a gleaming carcass under a storm-streaked sky. Lightning threw everything into stark relief.
What’s it been—a day, maybe two, since the rain last fell? Frank asked.
The city’s thirsty for it, I replied. How else is it supposed to wash the blood off its hands?
In front of the window stood a grand piano, its glossy surface catching the flickering light from the fireplace to the right. The flames cast long, skeletal fingers across the piano, almost reaching the ivory tusks mounted above the mantel. They arced inwards like two pale sickles, too large, too perfect to have come from anything ordinary—trophies.
The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.
I glanced towards the sliding doors, leading out to the rooftop. The wind pressed against the door, rattling it faintly, carrying the sound of something low and guttural—a chant, muffled yet insistent, like the city’s heartbeat slowed to an unnatural rhythm. A faint crackle accompanied it, something that sounded like fire but carried no warmth.
“You hear that?” Al jerked his chin towards the doors. The sliding glass panes framed the terrace, their brass handles tarnished from too many hands and too much history. Beyond, the sky was a swirling mass of darkness, thunder rumbling in the distance.
Cracking the door open, the air hit me like a sharp slap, carrying the tang of magic—ozone, biting and electric, mixed with the acrid scent of burning sulfur. The chanting grew louder, rising and falling as we stepped onto the expansive rooftop patio.
And then I saw it. My breath hitched, caught in my chest like a snare, and I froze.
Al swore under his breath but followed. We were in the beast's belly now, and the beast was very much awake.
The night sky loomed above, a murky indigo canvas where stars flickered faintly, dimmed as though they dared not shine too brightly in this place. The ground beneath us glistened, slick with the remnants of soft rain that clung like a sheen of unease. The storm had paused just long enough to reveal the moon—bright, stark, and watchful, casting its pale glow across the rooftop like a spotlight on a dark stage.
Seven casters in dark crimson robes formed a wide circle, chanting in a guttural, ancient tongue that twisted around my mind like a thorned vine, sending a shiver down my spine.
I’ve heard those words before… somewhere, Frank said, his tone laced with a quiet unease that seeped into me, filling me with a gnawing sense of dread. They don't belong here, Jack. They don't belong in this world. But… but I can’t seem to remember where, or what… it’s like a dream, Jack—just out of reach.
In the center, Catigan stood—hulking, a mass of muscle and malice, his tailored suit hanging in tatters, an acrid smell of burnt fabric and sweat emanating from him. The moonlight caught his features, making his eyes glimmer with an unnatural light.
Suspended above him, bound to a makeshift pulley, was Aylin. Ropes bit deep into her wrists and ankles, leaving angry red marks that bled with her every struggle. She thrashed, her scream muffled by a dirty gag, her eyes wild and wide. Her panicked gaze locked on mine. The chanting continued, the robed figures lost in their own ritualistic fervor, oblivious to anything else.
Catigan held two blood-red gems, each pulsing like a heartbeat, their rhythm matching the tempo of the chanting. The air around him shimmered with an otherworldly energy, and the ground beneath him ran dark with pooled blood. Whatever ritual they had begun, no one seemed to notice or care about the new guests arriving to the party.
So this is where the casters were hiding. I knew Cat had a few—anyone like him would. But seven? That was extravagant, even for Cat, considering what they cost.
Good casters were rare, and they weren’t the type to fall in line unless the money or the fear made it worth their while. They were tough to find, tougher to kill... when they were paying attention. Lucky for me, they weren't. Whatever this ritual was, it was taking everything they had to not break concentration.
“What do you say?” Al murmured, his voice barely audible over the wind and the chanting. “Shall we thin the herd?”
I glanced at Aylin, her eyes frantic. Then back to the casters.
“Thought you’d never ask,” I said, voice cold.