CH.15 Different People's Same Day

Inside the Police Station

"Ryan, we've got a complainant here." An officer approached Officer Ryan, who was hunched over his report, scribbling away.

"Please, I just got back from patrol." Ryan let out a weary sigh, massaging his temples. "What's so urgent that they specifically asked for me?"

"Er... It's complicated." The officer leaned in, voice hushed. "Someone's reporting cult activities downtown—involving illegal fundraising and scams."

"Really? What's the complainant's tie to this cult? A local or a reporter?"

"That's precisely why I flagged you—his background's unique. He claims he's the former head of the sect, deposed from his role, and he's offering leads and evidence in exchange."

"Ha? Now that's something." Ryan arched an eyebrow. "Though it reeks of trouble, too."

"The kicker? It's an Asian-dominated group."

"Fair enough—we've got our man." Ryan nodded decisively and called out, "Chen! Get over here—I need your input!"

"Hey, pal, what's the deal?" An Asian officer sauntered up, his tone light. "This isn't gonna be a pain, is it?"

"Sorry to say, it is." Ryan flashed a wry grin as the other officer briefed Officer Chen on the details.

"Sounds like a mess." Chen nodded, a resigned look crossing his face.

"Exactly why we need you." Ryan gave his shoulder a friendly pat.

"Alright." Chen understood all too well—with an Asian cult at the center, the case would inevitably land in his lap. He added with a touch of exasperation, "You know, every holiday—Christmas, even the Asian festivals—I bring you all gifts. But the moment something sticky comes up, it's pushed my way? A little appreciation wouldn't hurt."

"Don't get maudlin, brother." Ryan chuckled. "Next joint day off, first round's on me at the tavern."

"Fine, but I'm not settling for the house swill." Chen shrugged and made his way to the complainant, ready to probe deeper.

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Elsewhere

Jane stood in the kitchen, meticulously preparing a drink. She gently swirled a slender spoon in the glass, scooping out a deep purple beverage mixed with berries and honey, shimmering with subtle iridescence under the light.

"More passion fruit pulp? Or a twist of lemon?" she murmured to herself, brow furrowed as she sampled a taste.

The previous day, the mere inception of the "Holy Blood Church" had netted her close to a thousand points. Follower growth promised even more. Tammy's escalating "ghost-crafting" endeavors demanded her attention too— she intended to empower him further, yet with utmost caution to prevent chaos. Thus, deploying Calvin to thwart Tammy's imminent scheme in two days seemed prudent,

Concurrently, Jane refreshed an array of new personas—no points expended. She incorporated novel abilities: subtle mutations, restorative healing, and select parapsychic talents. The crown jewel was a monstrous fabrication, though she imposed stringent limits upfront.

What followed? Amplifying the Holy Blood Church's reach—she'd lend it another impetus.

"Perfected." Jane appraised the violet draught, sipping once more, only to contort her features.

"Overly tart! And cloyingly saccharine!" Her eyes narrowed in dismay. "This batch is ruined."

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On the Streets

Sofia meandered along the sidewalk, her mind adrift. The previous night's patrol in her makeshift attire had yielded zilch. Logical, really—this wasn't Gotham or Hell's Kitchen; petty crime didn't prowl the shadows here en masse.

Still, a minor reinvention of her aesthetic might suffice. An earring? The pinch of pain daunted her, but for such a minuscule piercing, it should be tolerable. Minuscule notwithstanding, it remained an intrusion.

She halted before a storefront display, captivated by earrings emblazoned with lightning motifs. Lightning had never particularly enthralled her before, but now Sofia envisioned it as an ideal complement—especially azure arcs, evoking a raw, electrifying allure.

"Commission a full hero ensemble? The works?" The whim surfaced, swiftly dismissed. Impractical; she knew no tailor for such esoterica. Moreover, broadcasting this peculiar fixation felt unseemly.

For that matter, did she even qualify as a hero? By any measure, her fledgling exploits fell short.

"This necklace is stunning!" Sofia's attention snagged on a chain with a spiked pendant, eliciting an involuntary gasp of admiration.

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Calvin's Room

Calvin sat ensconced in his gaming chair, eyes shut, palms cradling the black-and-white striped mask. Abruptly, he affixed it to his face and snapped his eyes open.

Utterly inert.

Over the past two days, he'd experimented relentlessly—the mask remained inert. Be it donning it to invoke white flame or scorching it with the same, no effect. It might as well have been mundane carnival ware.

"What's its damn purpose?" Calvin muttered in vexation: no fresh directives, no anomalous occurrences, no word from the cloaked enigmatic. Headphone deliberations languished unresolved. Existence had reverted to that stagnant, irksome normalcy.

"Very well, then—await that... whatever it was? The pint-sized sorceress's birthday soiree." Calvin had misplaced the girl's moniker. She abhorred the epithet, true, but in solitary musing, no transgression.

"Dinner's on—downstairs!" His sister's summons wafted from below.

"Coming!" Calvin echoed, casting a final glance at the mask before consigning it to the drawer.

"Truly wondrous," he reflected. Straddling arcane realms while tethered to prosaic high school rituals—like familial dinners—imbued life with a surreal dichotomy.

Will these enigmas encroach upon them eventually? An insidious query intruded. Should occult incidents proliferate, what fate awaited his uninitiated kin?

The prospect stirred unease in Calvin. He banished it with a shake of the head—premature speculation; futures were mercurial. Inhaling deeply, he descended for the meal.

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A Shadowy Alley

A tousle-haired youth slumped against the grimy wall, uncapped a soda, swigged, then hurled it aside with disdain.

"Blast—not a hint of chill!"

Tommy, that was. Home repelled him utterly; his vagrant father, perpetual loafer, had returned. Dislike for his parents simmered, short of outright loathing—they largely ignored him. Yet the pervasive reek of tobacco and liquor curdled his gut.

He yearned to amass funds swiftly, secure independent lodgings, and embrace autonomy. Stardom would eclipse that—like a luminary idol or viral streamer, or à la MrBeast, who orchestrates spectacles and captures adrenaline-fueled footage...

Videos, however, now sour in his estimation.

Post-ambush by that pack days prior, school eluded him entirely.

"Damn! Damn! Damn!" Tommy devolved into a torrent of invectives, unhinged. "Bastards! Scum! Perish! Perish! Perish..."

Throat raw from the tirade, he subsided into heaving breaths, then dissolved into laughter.

Within this dim conduit, Tommy sensed his sanity fraying. And presently, he plotted an act exponentially more exhilarating than any contrived clip—a hundredfold, a thousandfold.

The erstwhile routine he'd craved to shatter, impotent as he was. No longer.

Armed with his novel endowment—that vexing, dread power—he'd unleash a "delightful" upheaval upon this wretched world and its denizens.

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Stella's Bedroom

In her room, filled with the faint scent of flowers, Stella moved between outfits, checking each one in the mirror.

She had to prepare carefully for her birthday party—it was important. Tyler's nonstop messages on her phone? She could reply later.

Tyler was perfect on paper: tall, handsome, and rich—the classic dream guy. But honestly, Stalle admitted to herself, she didn't feel much real affection for him. Their relationship started for two reasons: first, he'd chased her for two months, and turning him down flat felt rude. Second, dating someone popular made her look better, feeding her bit of vanity.

"May this party bring some change," she thought, looking at her pretty reflection with a sarcastic smile. "If I were Snow White's stepmother, I'd skip asking the mirror who's the fairest. Other people's opinions matter more than mine anyway."

A pause, then she murmured: "Of course, I could never be the stepmother—I'm no witch!"

She was eager for that wish already.

The desire? To silence everyone who called her a "witch"—whether they whispered it or said it out loud.

She picked her best dress and smirked to herself:

This party will be unforgettable.