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The Architect
Chapter 19 : The Trade and the Mark

Chapter 19 : The Trade and the Mark

The week passed in a blur for Elias. Every day felt like an eternity, each second ticking by with agonizing slowness as he carried the weight of the briefcase—both literal and figurative. He barely left his apartment, venturing out only for essentials and clutching the case like his life depended on it. In a way, it did.

The paranoia grew worse with each passing hour. Every noise from the hallway made his pulse quicken, every glance from a stranger on the street sent his mind spiraling. Even the comfort of sleep eluded him, the faint glow of the briefcase casting long shadows over his restless nights.

Finally, the day came.

Elias arrived at the location specified in the latest email: a high-end office building downtown, its mirrored facade reflecting the city in shimmering fragments. The lobby was pristine, its marble floors gleaming under the soft glow of recessed lighting. He clutched the briefcase tightly as he stepped inside, the air cold and sterile.

A receptionist greeted him with a practiced smile, their eyes scanning him briefly before they gestured toward the elevators. "Floor 42. They’re waiting for you."

Elias nodded, his throat dry as he stepped into the elevator. The ride up was quiet, the only sound the faint hum of machinery as the numbers climbed higher and higher. When the doors finally opened, he was greeted by a stark, white hallway that seemed to stretch endlessly in both directions. A single figure stood at the far end, waiting.

He approached slowly, his footsteps echoing unnervingly in the empty space. The figure—a man in a sleek black suit, his face partially obscured by a metallic mask—extended a hand.

"The briefcase," the man said, his tone flat and emotionless.

Elias hesitated for a moment before handing it over, his fingers reluctant to release the handle. The man took it without a word, turning away and disappearing through a door that seemed to materialize from the seamless wall.

Elias stood there, unsure of what to do, until another figure emerged—a woman this time, her sharp features softened only by the faint smile on her lips. She carried a small black duffel bag, which she handed to him without ceremony.

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"Fifty thousand," she said. "Your compensation. You’ve done well."

Elias stared at the bag, his mind reeling. Fifty thousand dollars. More money than he’d ever held in his life, all for carrying a briefcase for a week. It didn’t feel real. Nothing about this did.

"That’s it?" he asked, his voice trembling. "I’m free to go?"

"For now," the woman said, her smile widening slightly. "You’ve fulfilled your task. Enjoy the rest of your day, Mr. Veran."

He nodded numbly, gripping the duffel bag as he turned and made his way back to the elevator. The ride down felt longer than the ride up, the weight of the money in his hand doing little to ease the unease in his chest.

Elias took the long way home, cutting through the quieter parts of the city in an attempt to clear his head. The duffel bag swung at his side, its contents feeling heavier with each step. The streets were mostly empty, the occasional hum of a passing car the only sound to break the silence.

As he turned into an alleyway, a sharp, stinging pain shot through his hand. He yelped, dropping the bag and clutching his wrist as the pain spread like wildfire. His vision blurred, the edges twisting and bending as colors began to seep into his peripheral view—vivid, impossible hues that pulsed and swirled like a kaleidoscope.

The pain intensified, sharp and relentless, as the world around him dissolved into chaos. The alley twisted into a maze of abstract forms, the brick walls stretching and contorting into jagged peaks that glowed with electric colors. The ground beneath him shimmered like liquid glass, shifting with every step as he stumbled forward.

"Stop!" he gasped, his voice cracking as the pain in his hand flared again. It was like molten metal coursing through his veins, burning him from the inside out. He fell to his knees, clutching his head as the visions overwhelmed him.

Shapes and figures danced in the swirling colors—some familiar, others alien and incomprehensible. Faces flashed before him, too fast to recognize, their expressions frozen in a mix of joy and terror. The air buzzed with sound, a low hum that grew into a deafening roar, as if the universe itself was unraveling around him.

Elias screamed, the sound swallowed by the cacophony of the visions. The colors grew brighter, more intense, until they were all he could see. His body convulsed, his breaths coming in short, panicked gasps as the pain reached its peak.

And then, as suddenly as it had begun, it stopped.

The colors vanished, the roaring hum fading into silence. Elias found himself kneeling on the cold, damp pavement of the alleyway, his body trembling and slick with sweat. The world around him was normal again—still, quiet, and dimly lit by the overhead streetlights.

But something was different.

He glanced down at his hand, the one that had started it all. A mark now adorned his palm, etched into his skin like a brand. It glowed faintly, its intricate, angular lines shifting subtly as if alive.

Elias stared at it, his chest tightening as the implications began to sink in. Whatever had happened to him, whatever this mark was, it wasn’t natural.

And it wasn’t going away.