The growl of my Shelby Cobra echoed down the Chicago streets as we tore through the night toward Lake Street and Dearborn. The engine’s roar was the only sound cutting through the oppressive silence between Zefpyre and me. The police barricades came into view, lines of flashing blue and red lights casting eerie shadows on the buildings. The mortal cops were clueless, standing in tight clusters, their faces pale and uncertain. They knew trouble was brewing, but they couldn’t even begin to understand the storm they were standing in the middle of.

  I parked a block away from the Goodman Theater, the glowing white canvas of the Order’s command tent visible ahead. Zefpyre had spent the entire ride shooting me pointed looks, his feline face a masterpiece of silent judgment. It was maddening.

  I finally snapped, “Where the hell is everyone? This is barely a skeleton crew.”

  Zefpyre winced. “Let’s not talk about skeletons when we’re up against the animated dead, shall we?”

  I growled, my knuckles whitening around the wheel. “Answer the damn question, Zef!”

  He sighed, his tail flicking in annoyance. “We’re following protocol. We meet force with like force.”

  “Like force?” I snarled. “He’s got who-knows-how-many soul gems in there! That could be an army of the damned! You think this—” I gestured at the scattered Order personnel milling around the tent, “—is enough for that?”

  Zefpyre’s calm demeanor didn’t waver. “None of our recon suggests he has that kind of power, Julius. Besides, the last time we cashed in favors for a ritualist, we didn’t even need half the force we brought. We’re running low on resources. This is what we’ve got.”

  I cursed under my breath and stepped out of the car, shrinking it back into my pocket with a flick of my fingers. My eyes darted around, instinctively searching for Mattie, but then I remembered she was still stuck in the hospital.

  Zefpyre padded up beside me. “I told you we should’ve—”

  “Don’t. Fucking. Say it,” I cut him off.

  I marched toward the command tent, brushing past the Order members stationed nearby. “Where’s Gabriel?” I barked.

  A figure emerged from the commander’s quarters, her sharp presence cutting through the tension like a blade. Her skin was a soft pink, her hair a cascade of brilliant red like living fire, and her emerald-green eyes sparkled with intensity. She wore a crisp three-piece suit in the Order’s deep colors, every inch of her screaming authority.

  “I’m Deputy Chief Arisa Jordan,” she said, extending a hand. “London office.”

  I ignored her outstretched hand, and to her credit, she didn’t flinch. Instead, she nodded once. “I worked with your cousin Sherlock a few decades back.”

  “I’m nothing like him,” I snapped. “Where’s Gabriel?”

  “The situation doesn’t warrant the Grand Chancellor’s presence,” she replied smoothly, her tone maddeningly even.

  I rolled my eyes. Bureaucratic nonsense.

  Arisa turned to one of her subordinates. “Now that the Master Wizard is here, activate the containment field.”

  The air buzzed with power as the magical shield snapped into place, sending a faint ripple through the night. I felt its hum settle into my bones like an unwelcome guest.

  Arisa turned back to me, her tone cool and commanding. “Will you join me to address the troops?”

  I grumbled under my breath but followed her. The night was far from over, and the storm I felt brewing wasn’t just in the air—it was in me.

  The Goodman Theater loomed ahead, its elegant fa?ade now a grotesque stage for the macabre. The air thickened, and the flickering remnants of its marquee cast eerie shadows on the ground. As I stepped forward, my boots echoed against the empty street, the sound swallowed by a suffocating silence. Then, like a curtain rising on a twisted play, the doors burst open, and they came.

  An army of the damned spilled forth.

  They were dressed as thespians—tattered costumes hanging from skeletal frames, flesh in various states of decay. Some wore powdered wigs, their faces painted in garish masks of tragedy and comedy. Others clutched wooden props, swords, and staffs now warped into deadly weapons. They shuffled, staggered, and crawled, their movements both chaotic and eerily theatrical. A few stumbled into dramatic poses, heads tilted back as if lamenting their cursed existence.

  The air was thick with the stench of rot and sulfur, mingling with the lingering scent of greasepaint. Their hollow eyes glowed faintly, and their mouths twisted into ghoulish smiles as they began to hiss and moan in a nightmarish cacophony.

  I clenched my fists, instinctively reaching for my mana. My aura flared, and the weight of the ring around my neck pressed harder, a reminder of the burden I carried.

  One of the creatures stepped forward, a towering figure draped in a regal robe that might have once been worn by Macbeth himself. His bony fingers clutched a gilded scepter, now blackened and corroded. He raised it high, his hollow voice booming like a warped stage director calling for an encore.

  “Act One, Scene One: The Fall of the Order!”

  The damned let out a collective wail, a sound that resonated deep within my chest, and then they charged. They didn’t shuffle anymore. They sprinted, their movements a grotesque ballet of broken limbs and jerking motions.

  Behind me, I heard the shouting of the Order’s forces scrambling to react. I didn’t wait for orders. I flicked my wrist, summoning a wall of fire between us and the advancing horde.

  “Zefpyre!” I barked, feeling the elemental cat at my side. “Get ready. This is going to get messy.”

  From the corner of my eye, I saw Zefpyre shift into his flame elemental form, his body a living inferno of fury and fire.

  The damned thespian army screamed as they reached the flames, the first wave collapsing in heaps of ash and embers. But they kept coming, their numbers unending, their grotesque performance just beginning.

  And I was the reluctant star of the show.

  Their numbers seemed endless, a tide of death washing over the street, and I knew my place wasn’t on the front lines. My job was clear: protect the weaker practitioners. If I threw myself into the thick of it, we’d end up with a bloodbath. The chaos demanded strategy, not heroics.

  I yelled over to Zefpyre, who was weaving through the chaos like a shadow. “Good thing he doesn’t have a massive reserve of soul gems to fuel his necromancy… Oh, wait—he does!”

  Zefpyre didn’t even bother with a reply, though his ears flicked in irritation. Above us, Deputy Chief Arisa flew through the air like a vengeful goddess, emerald beams of destruction erupting from her hands with pinpoint precision. Her deadly grace was something to behold—if it didn’t feel like the gates of Hell had just swung wide open. The stench of necromancy clung to everything: rot, decay, and that unmistakable tang of magic gone wrong.

  For every skeleton, zombie, spirit, or draugr the Order cut down, a hundred more seemed to rise in their place. The air was alive with the clash of spells, steel, and the guttural cries of the damned. My head pounded, the oppressive weight of the necromantic energy gnawing at my focus.

  Then I saw him—Chiron. His skeletal frame loomed at the edge of the fray, spectral flames licking around his hooves as he pointed one bony finger. He wasn’t pointing at the battle, though. No, his target was the old Italian restaurant next to the Goodman Theater.

  I followed his gaze and realized something: none of the damned were paying any attention to the restaurant. That meant one thing—it was important.

  “Damn it,” I muttered, breaking into a run.

  With a flick of my wrist, the restaurant's front doors melted like wax, falling away in a sizzle of mana. Inside, the place was eerily silent, frozen in time. Tables were set, chairs were pushed neatly in, but the air buzzed with an unnatural stillness. My boots echoed on the tiled floor as I waded through the dining room, dodging overturned tables and shattered glass.

  At the back, a service door loomed. It wasn’t just any door—it had a faint magical glow, a barrier of sorts, but not enough to keep me out. The hallway beyond felt like a trap waiting to be sprung. I pressed on, my senses sharp, my steps careful.

  Another door greeted me, its fading white letters spelling out Goodman. It was locked tight, and no mundane key was going to open it. I pressed my palm to the cold surface and began channeling a spell, mana pooling in my hand as I wove it with surgical precision. Too much force, and I’d risk tearing a hole in reality; too little, and I’d get nowhere. The weight of the energy I gathered was like holding a storm in my hands, each crackle of power threatening to escape.

  Finally, with a resounding bang, the door gave way, crunching inward like brittle paper. The pressure in the air shifted, heavier now, laced with the unmistakable taste of dark magic. Whatever lay on the other side was the heart of this nightmare.

  I stepped through, into the belly of the beast.

  The door creaked open, the groan reverberating through the oppressive silence like a death knell. The air inside hit me like a sledgehammer—cold, heavy, and soaked in death mana so thick it clung to my skin like an oily film. The ghostly fog hung low, swirling around my boots as I stepped inside, each movement stirring the mist like wraiths awakening from a restless slumber.

  I glanced back for a split second, knowing that outside was a chaotic bloodbath. The Order was holding the line, but barely. Their screams, spells, and the clash of steel echoed faintly, muffled by the theater’s enchanted walls. My job wasn’t to join that fray—it was to end this madness at its source.

  I could feel it—death’s fingerprints, everywhere. The mana wasn’t just present; it was alive, breathing, pulsing. It pressed against my chest, seeped into my bones, and gnawed at the edges of my mind. The kind of magic that didn’t just kill—it unmade.

  The hallway stretched ahead, its walls a faded, peeling crimson, lined with the ghosts of past performances. Old posters adorned the walls, their subjects blurred and faded as though the fog had leeched the life out of them. A faint hum vibrated through the floor, a low, ominous note that resonated in my chest like a distant war drum.

  Each step I took echoed too loudly, the sound swallowed quickly by the unnatural quiet. My breath fogged in the icy air, and I could see it hanging there, suspended as if time itself had slowed. My wizard’s vision strained against the darkness, but even enhanced sight had its limits. This wasn’t mere shadow—it was a deliberate, suffocating absence of light. A blackness that felt alive, waiting, watching.

  The fog thickened as I moved deeper into the theater’s underbelly, swirling with unnatural patterns, streaked with sickly greens and greys. I knew what it was—necromantic residue, death mana left unchecked and festering. The stuff of nightmares.

  I reached out with my aura, probing cautiously, and immediately regretted it. The feedback was overwhelming, a cacophony of whispers and cries. Souls, trapped and twisted, their agony woven into the fabric of this place. It felt like a thousand icy hands clawing at my very essence, and I had to pull back before it overwhelmed me.

  Ahead, the hallway widened into what must have once been a dressing room. Mirrors lined the walls, their surfaces warped and cracked, reflecting distorted versions of myself. My trench coat seemed longer, darker; my eyes glowed faintly, a side effect of the protective wards I’d activated. But it wasn’t just me in those mirrors. Shadows moved behind me, just out of reach. Too fluid, too quick to be natural.

  I stopped and turned, my heart pounding like a war drum in my chest. Nothing. Just the fog and the cold. But the shadows in the mirrors lingered, watching, waiting.

  “Alright, let’s play,” I muttered, my voice breaking the silence like a gunshot.

  The fog stirred, as if responding to my words. A cold wind swept through the room, carrying with it the faintest sound of laughter—high-pitched and childlike, but wrong. The kind of sound that doesn’t belong in the world of the living.

  I clenched my fists, feeling the mana simmer in my veins, ready to be unleashed. This wasn’t a fight yet, but the theater wasn’t going to let me leave without one. Whatever waited in the heart of this darkness knew I was here. And it was ready.

  The hallway stretched forward, ending in a grand staircase leading down, the air growing colder with each step. I took a deep breath, the mana I had gathered still crackling at my fingertips. It was dangerous to hold this much power, but I didn’t dare release it yet. Not until I found him.

  The deeper I descended, the quieter the world above became. The sounds of the battle faded entirely, replaced by an eerie silence. I passed another set of doors, the brass plaques etched with the names of famous playwrights now tarnished and unreadable. Shadows danced along the walls, shapes that weren’t my own.

  I waded through the bones of the theater, the crunch of shattered skulls echoing beneath my boots. Each step felt heavier, as if the very ground resisted my presence. Finally, I reached the main stage. There, seated on a throne of skulls and jagged bones, sat the center of this nightmare.

  Two figures stood beside the throne, and behind them, a Lesser Demon—hulking, armored in crimson chitin, its burning coal eyes fixed on me like a predator ready to strike. I took a slow breath, my senses screaming.

  From the shadows, a figure emerged, his gaunt frame cloaked in the faded shroud of the Grim Reaper. His skin, stretched thin over hollow bones, glowed a sickly, pale yellow—necromantic decay clinging to him like death itself. His eyes, dark as coal, stared out, hollow and dead. If his mother had been here, she wouldn’t recognize him.

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  He clapped slowly, the sound echoing through the death-choked air. "Well, well," he rasped, his voice a hollow mockery of life. "The Last Disciple, I presume?"

  A dark chuckle escaped his cracked lips. "Oh, no. I wish I was him," he hissed, a sinister grin spreading across his face. "My name’s Jake. And, well..." He let out a ghastly laugh, sick and hollow. "I don’t wear khakis anymore."

  Jake’s laughter reverberated, dark and distorted, leaving a sour taste in my mouth. He continued, his voice dripping with contempt, "No, my master—" he gestured toward the shadowy figure seated on the throne—"he is the Last Disciple. I’m just his humble servant, groveling at his feet."

  I couldn’t look away. The sight around me was enough to make my stomach churn. Every chair in the theater was filled with pulsating Soul Gems, glowing with an unnatural light, feeding into whatever dark ritual was underway. The screams of tormented souls echoed in my mind, the cries of pain sharp and hollow. It was all too much. I fought to keep my composure, but the revulsion threatened to drown me.

  Through clenched teeth, I managed, "I have to stop you all."

  That’s when the third figure stepped forward, the most forgettable man I’d ever seen. His dull brown hair was cut in the kind of forgettable, ordinary style that blended into the crowd. His eyes were a flat, lifeless brown, dull as the fog that hung thick in the air. His face? Plain—too ordinary to remember.

  Even now, my mind seemed to resist focusing on him, as if my gaze slid off his presence.

  He spoke, his voice bland, lacking any inflection, like the drone of a clock ticking into the void. "Welcome, Julius. I’ve been expecting you." His tone, flat and monotone, grated on my nerves. "Welcome to my play. Thank you for handling the matinee. The Ritualist went rogue on me."

  I barked at him, my patience fraying. "You sent that crazy bastard!"

  "Oh yes," he replied, without a hint of emotion. "He was supposed to aid me, but... alas." His lips curled slightly into a smirk that wasn’t quite a smirk. "He grew... hungry for power. It’s hard to find good help these days."

  The Last Disciple sauntered over to Jake, his movements slow, deliberate. He draped an arm around the man's frail, skeletal frame, patting his head with an eerie familiarity. "But luckily," he murmured, his voice dripping with disdain, "I found this delightful man."

  I clenched my teeth, the anger burning hotter now. "That Lesser Demon behind you—he’s using you."

  The Last Disciple laughed again, low and dark. "Oh, on the contrary. We’re working together. And soon, you’ll see something the world hasn’t seen since Merlin walked the Earth."

  Jake chuckled, dark and hollow, his grin more of a sneer. "Don’t worry," he said, his tone dripping with menace. "We’re not stupid enough to drag out that old dusty bag of bones." His hollow laughter echoed, the sound grating on my nerves.

  The Last Disciple’s smile widened, his teeth yellow and cracked. "Well, at least not yet."

  The air around me quivered, as if the very fabric of reality was on the verge of tearing apart. I could feel it, the invocation of the Grand Sorcerer’s name, whispered in hushed reverence. The three figures laughed in unison, a cold, mirthless sound.

  I clenched my fists, the power in my hand thrumming. "This is madness," I growled, stepping forward, each movement slow and deliberate. My voice cracked, betraying my anger.

  The Last Disciple laughed, deep and hollow. "Oh yes, madness. But you see, the world needs madness." His tone darkened, the weight of his words bearing down on me. "You know what I’ve noticed? No one panics when things go ‘according to plan.’ Even when that plan is horrifying."

  He swept his gaze across the theater, his hollow eyes gleaming in the dim light. "The world is tricked by Order. It makes them feel safe, secure. Look at the fools outside, confronting my Children. No one’s panicking because it’s all part of the plan."

  He turned back to me, his smile twisted. "But I need the Order—for now. It hides the chaos waiting behind the curtain."

  His voice dropped to a whisper, filled with dark satisfaction. "And my plan? To introduce a little anarchy. Upset the established order, and everything turns to chaos. I’m an agent of chaos, Julius. And you know the thing about chaos? The Last Disciple mused, his smile growing. "But you see, chaos is fair. The weak, the strong—none are spared. No one is in control when the world falls apart.."

  The room seemed to lurch around me as I took another step forward, my heart pounding in my ears. I could feel the raw energy crackling in the air, thick and oppressive.

  In the blink of an eye, the Last Disciple raised his hand, his necromantic magic surging with unnatural power. With a guttural roar, he plunged his hand into Jake’s chest, ripping out his soul.

  Jake’s body shuddered but remained standing, his hollow eyes staring ahead, oblivious to his demise.

  The Lesser Demon, clad in red chitin armor, spikes protruding from every inch of his grotesque form, let out a low, guttural laugh. His coal-black eyes gleamed as he stepped forward.

  Before I could react, the Last Disciple and the Lesser Demon, fueled by Jake’s lifeless soul, merged into one grotesque monstrosity. The wave of their combined power surged out, a torrent of necromantic energy that blasted through the theater.

  Everything went black—absolute, oppressive darkness. I could hear nothing but my own ragged breath.

  Then, from the void, a cold, sickening voice whispered in my ear, so close it sent shivers down my spine.

  "We shall see you again."

  Seconds passed, or maybe longer, before a faint trickle of light returned. I was alone, the Soul Gems no longer glowing, their energy spent. The theater lay in silence, save for the distant sounds of the Order crashing into the ruins.

  Deputy Chief Arisa stormed in, Zefpyre trailing behind in his cat form, a shadowy presence gliding close to her. Tens of Order members filed in after them, their uniforms caked in grime and stains—evidence of the battle they had fought. The weight of exhaustion hung heavily in the air as they approached.

  Arisa’s sharp eyes locked onto Jake’s motionless, twisted body, still standing there, a ghastly semblance of life. Her voice cut through the tension like a blade. "Is that the Necromancer?"

  I didn’t answer right away, my gaze fixed on the lifeless figure. "It was."

  Zefpyre approached, his golden feline eyes narrowing as he examined the corpse. "Did his own spell backfire, destroying his soul and ending the animation of the Army of the Damned?"

  My voice was harsh, brittle. "No. He was just a pawn—used by the Last Disciple and a Lesser Demon. They merged, forming an Avatar of Death."

  Arisa’s eyes flared with anger, disbelief darkening her face. "You must be mistaken. There’s no way that’s possible. We would have felt the energy of an Avatar. The Order would have detected it."

  Zefpyre, ever the cautious one, nodded in agreement. "Julius, perhaps with the chaos and the intensity of the magic, you didn’t see things clearly. Maybe you hallucinated."

  I growled, my patience stretched thin. "I know what I saw. I spoke to the Last Disciple."

  Arisa’s lips pressed into a thin line. "We know he’s dead," she said, her tone measured. "You did well."

  "No, you’re not listening!" I roared, my voice echoing off the crumbling walls of the theater.

  Zefpyre approached, his form shifting slightly, his feline features sharpening. "Julius, you’re making a scene. The bad guy is dead, the case is closed. The soul gems have been retrieved—along with more. You’ve done well."

  Magic surged through me in a wave, uncontrollable and wild. The roof of the theater groaned and splintered, stone and debris collapsing around us, leaving the sky open and black above.

  Zefpyre, now fully in his flame elemental form, hissed, "Enough, Julius." His voice boomed through the chaos. "I hereby suspend you until further notice. A disciplinary committee will convene and review your actions. Leave. Immediately. Go home."

  The weight of his command pressed down on me, suffocating, as the dust settled around us. I turned, my steps unsteady, knowing that the battle was far from over—whether they chose to believe it or not.

  All eyes were on me as I left—heavy, judging stares that carried the weight of disgust, hate, and just a dash of pity. It wasn’t the kind of pity that makes you feel understood. No, this was the kind that makes you want to crawl under a rock.

  As I reached the edge of the containment field, I popped it like a soap bubble with a flick of my will. The shimmering barrier dissolved into nothing, releasing the cacophony of the city into my ears. Sirens, horns, and the distant hum of a city that never really sleeps—all of it hit me at once. I knew it would just add another line to the Order’s list of grievances against me, but I didn’t care.

  My Shelby Cobra waited at the curb, sleek and defiant, a machine that didn’t care about my problems. I slid into the driver’s seat and let the engine roar to life. The logical thing would’ve been to go home, lick my wounds, and start bracing for whatever disciplinary hell the Order had waiting. But logic had never been my strong suit.

  Instead, I drove to the hospital.

  The fluorescent lights of the ER entrance buzzed like flies as I walked in, head down but moving with purpose. I wasn’t about to let anyone stop me. The nurses and orderlies gave me a wide berth, sensing the tension rolling off me in waves. I reached out with my aura, casting a quiet net until I felt it—a familiar warmth, a flicker in the storm of death magic still clinging to my skin. Mattie. I’d recognize her aura anywhere.

  I slipped into her room as silently as a shadow. The door clicked shut behind me, but she was already awake, sitting up, her eyes steady and waiting, as if she’d known I was coming.

  “Julius,” she said, her voice soft but heavy, like the opening note of a funeral dirge. “What did you do?”

  I rushed to her side, the words tumbling out of me before I could stop them. “Mattie, they don’t believe me. We need to warn everyone!”

  Her eyes, filled with worry, stayed locked on mine. Gently, she cupped my cheek with a hand that felt steadier than it should’ve been. “Boss man,” she murmured, “Zefpyre called me.”

  The words hit like a sucker punch to the gut. I staggered back, recoiling like a wounded animal. “They got to you too,” I spat, my voice shaking with anger and something deeper—betrayal.

  Mattie didn’t flinch. She just spoke softer, like she was trying to calm a spooked horse. “Boss man, we’re all worried about you.”

  I glared at her, my eyes boring into hers, searching for the ally I thought I could trust. “I expected more from you,” I snarled.

  Her lips moved, fumbling for words, for excuses. “Maybe… maybe you’ve been under a lot of stress. The last two cases, they’ve been… taxing.”

  “Oh, Fuck you, kid,” I snapped. The words came out harder than I meant, but I didn’t care. “Don’t you remember the Lesser Demon?”

  Her face twisted in confusion. “Boss man, what are you talking about?”

  “The Ritualist,” I growled, pacing now like a caged beast. “He summoned a Lesser Demon to this world. We keep forgetting it—like something’s messing with our heads. The letter! The one I sent myself to remember!”

  Mattie shook her head, her expression a mix of pity and fear. “Boss man, you’re not making any sense.”

  “Don’t patronize me!” I barked, spinning to face her again. “You were there, Mattie. You saw what happened, you have been with me every step for the past five years… except for the Theater…”

  “To be honest,” she interrupted, her voice trembling, “I don’t even understand what you think happened at the theater.”

  Her words hung in the air, cold and sharp, cutting through the haze of my fury. For a moment, the room felt too quiet, like the world was holding its breath.

  I took a deep breath, steadying the storm raging inside me. “Kid, a literal ghost from the past rose up in that theater,” I said, my voice low and gravelly, the weight of the words dragging through the air. “Something the multiverse hasn’t seen in tens—hell, maybe even hundreds—of thousands of years. An Avatar was created.”

  Mattie tilted her head, her face a mask of confusion. “An Avatar? Like… a Pillar?”

  “No,” I said, shaking my head, trying to put the enormity of it into words she’d understand. “A Pillar is a representation, a symbol. An Avatar is the physical manifestation of a cardinal concept. It’s not just an idea, Mattie—it’s the concept come to life.”

  Her brow furrowed as she tried to piece it together. “Back when Earth was the only plane of existence, Avatars were more common,” I continued, my tone a little softer. “But their purpose… well, it’s not easy to explain.”

  “So what’s the point of them?” she asked, her voice hesitant.

  “Their purpose is to embody their concept fully. In this case, Death.”

  Her eyes widened slightly. “So… they’re just going to go around killing people?”

  “No, kid,” I growled, frustrated at the oversimplification. “Death isn’t just about taking lives. It’s about the mana cycle. Without death, there’s no mana. Mana creates life. Life uses mana. Life dies, and the process starts over. Death is balance. Without it, everything collapses.”

  Her face twisted with doubt. “So why would The Last Disciple want to be the Avatar of Death?”

  “I’m not sure yet,” I admitted, pacing the room like a caged panther. “It might have something to do with the Father of Death—the creator of necromancy. I haven’t figured it all out. Hell, I’m not even sure I witnessed a birth of an Avatar. All I know is they created something—something big.”

  Mattie leaned forward, her voice tinged with unease. “How?”

  “That’s the part I don’t understand,” I muttered, running a hand through my hair. “They ripped out Jake’s soul, and then the Lesser Demon and The Last Disciple… they merged. Became one. I think they used the soul to power the transformation.”

  Her skepticism deepened. “Boss man, demons take over souls all the time. That’s their thing—it’s what they do. What makes this different?”

  “The demon didn’t corrupt Jake’s soul,” I said, meeting her gaze. “They created a symbiotic relationship. They didn’t just possess him—they merged.”

  “And that creates an Avatar?” she asked, disbelief laced in her tone.

  “No, not normally,” I admitted, trying to untangle the threads in my own mind. “But the scene at the theater—it wasn’t just chaos. It was ritual magic. Something precise. Something planned.”

  Mattie leaned back in her chair, exhaling sharply. “Boss man, are you even listening to yourself? You’re all over the place.”

  “Mattie,” I said, my voice sharp, cutting through her doubt like a blade. “I don’t have all the answers, but I know this much: The Last Disciple has a plan, and he’s working with a Lesser Demon.”

  Her eyes narrowed slightly. “A Lesser Demon of what?”

  “I didn’t recognize him,” I admitted, the memory of the demon’s monstrous form seared into my mind. “He wore red spiked armor, like it was made from chiton. His eyes burned like lit coal, and his teeth… they weren’t human. They were the teeth of a beast.”

  Mattie’s expression shifted—pity creeping into her eyes. She didn’t believe me. She thought I’d lost it.

  Her silence stung more than her words ever could.

  "But what's the point?!" Mattie’s voice cut through the air, sharp and trembling with frustration. It wasn’t a question—it was an accusation, a challenge, a plea for sense in a senseless world.

  "I don’t know," I muttered, each word dragged out like a confession to a crime I didn’t commit. "Not yet."

  Her eyes burned as she leaned forward, her fists clenched tight. "Boss, you used to say life was simple—that when it gets complicated, it’s because someone’s either a fool or a conman. And you’re no fool!"

  For a moment, her words hung there, tearing at my composure. My fists curled at my sides, the heat of rage rising, but I swallowed it down. My voice came out low and cold, the edges sharp enough to cut.

  "Well then, Miss Charlemagne-Holmes," I said, the name a bitter knife as I drew it out. "I think this is where we part ways."

  I reached into my coat, pulling out a piece of parchment and a fountain pen. The scratch of ink on paper felt final, like the closing of a door. With a flick of magic, the signed note disappeared, sent directly to her.

  "Boss," she whispered, her voice soft now, pleading, but I didn’t stop to listen.

  I turned on my heel and walked out of the hospital, the sound of my boots echoing in the sterile, too-bright hallway. The door swung shut behind me with a heavy click, leaving her words—and her doubt—on the other side.