Paisley and Terror

The front gate stood open, gleaming where rain had dried along the metal, while the hired sedan idled at the curve of the drive—black lacquer catching faint sunlight. The driver was already loading a suitcase and a worn backpack—the same ones Nathan had arrived with from Los Angeles. Mason watched without comment, the gesture perfunctory, part of the role he was still wearing.

Nathan's grandfather waited beneath the entry canopy, posture still military in age, his discipline worn like a well-pressed suit. His grandmother stood beside him in a pale silk blouse, her pearls faintly luminous under the canopy’s shadow.

They’d already seen him off properly—tea while the car was called, a few soft questions, the envelope discreetly pressed into his hand. Now only the farewell remained.

Mason bowed first—polite, deliberate, not too low. Nathan's grandmother inclined her head in return, her hand brushing her heart. The exchange was balanced, correct.

“Travel safely,” she said.
He smiled. “Always.”

The driver stepped forward, gloved and silent, to open the door. Every motion performed exactly as it should be.

He slid into the back seat. The door closed with a soft seal, shutting out the polite world of ritual and good manners.

Mason didn’t look back.

The story he’d given them was simple enough: a return to Los Angeles, work that couldn’t wait. An easy lie, plausible and flattering. The truth was simpler—he needed distance, control, a place that was entirely his.

The book rode in the satchel at his side, hidden inside a case of black leather. Sleek enough to pass for business, heavy enough to remind him what it carried.

For a fleeting moment, he’d considered using the blood of those kindly elders—the power would have been potent, familial, clean. He smiled to himself. Too loud. Too much trouble.

Still, his time in the Kim household hadn’t been wasted. He’d learned the language of this world—the rhythm of commerce, the subtle hierarchies, the way respect was performed as ritual. More importantly, he had learned that what he’d been feeding the book—wires, batteries, fragments of current—was child’s play compared to what this mana-less world could truly offer. This world ran on energy far more abundant: electricity, will, belief, money.

He patted the satchel. Enough experiments. Time to scale up.

From his inner pocket, he drew a slim wallet and slid out a card—matte black, gleaming softly at the edges. KIM MIN-JUN embossed in silver. He preferred this body's Korean name.

The bank had mailed it overnight, expedited at his request—linked to a bank account he’d written into being with a few careful words.

He remembered the visit: the branch’s marble floor, the private-banking representative’s polite smile faltering as he spoke—not commands, just… corrections.
A nudge to memory here.
A suggestion of priority there.
Reality rearranging itself by habit, the way obedient systems did.

Even so, the correction had left him faintly hollow.
Back home, his power had been self-sustaining; the well refilled with rest, food, and time.
Here, it did not. Every spell drew from a reserve that no longer replenished.
He could still bend a man’s will, reshape what others saw, move unseen—but each act came with a slow burn under the ribs.

The book helped, in its way. It carried a spark of true mana—ancient, feral, hungry.
When he touched it, some of what he lost trickled back, but never freely.

They shared the same hunger now. Each taking what the other could spare. It demanded payment. Blood. Current. Life.
He hadn’t yet found a source that satisfied it for long.

The account—and the card tied to it—had cost him hours of strength. Too much for something so trivial, but a required expense for what came next.

He would need to feed the book soon, or risk feeling that emptiness again.

The phone in his pocket vibrated. A message from a realtor confirming his afternoon appointment. He glanced at the driver’s reflection in the rearview mirror.

“Change of plans,” Mason said smoothly. “We’ll make one stop first.”
“Yes, sir. Where to?”

He looked up again. “Apgujeong. I'm going shopping.”

The driver nodded and turned onto the expressway.

Designer row. I’ll need to look the part.

Mason’s gaze drifted to the window, the skyline unfolding in layers of glass and motion. He touched one of the small black studs already in his ears—Nathan's—and thought idly of replacing them. Something larger. Brighter.

“Diamonds,” he said softly, testing the word. It suited him.

“Sorry, sir?” the driver asked.
“Just musing to myself. Can you put on some music?”

The driver chose something bright and forgettable. Mason let it play.

Outside, the morning traffic thickened. Seoul was waking.

The sedan slipped off the expressway and into Gangnam proper, traffic tightening into elegant order. Glass towers rose on either side—flagship stores, beauty clinics, the kind of architecture built to be photographed.

They turned beneath a sculpted awning marked with a discreet gold logo. A valet in white gloves bowed, gesturing them toward the ramp. The car descended into the underground garage—smooth concrete, soft jazz from hidden speakers, the hum of money made tangible.

“Wait here,” Mason said.

The driver nodded, already pulling into a private slot marked for clients. The air down here was cool and filtered, scented slightly with leather and ozone. Mason stepped out, buttoning his coat.

He crossed the polished floor to the elevator, past mirrored columns and the hush of automatic doors that opened like silk. The elevator rose soundlessly, depositing him into a temple of light and reflection—walls of glass, minimalist displays, mannequins dressed like minor gods.

He paused at the first window, studying his reflection beside the suits within. His borrowed face looked back—handsome in a way that apologized for itself. He adjusted the angle of his jaw until it didn’t. A small correction, but necessary.

A clerk approached, bowing. “May I help you, sir?”

Mason smirked. “You may.”

The book stirred inside its case—or perhaps that was only his imagination.

***

The sales floor glittered like a stage set—lacquer, mirrors, and discreet spotlights that made every bolt of fabric glow richer than life.

Mason moved through it at an unhurried pace, fingers grazing textures as if taking inventory of an empire: silk, cashmere, linen light as breath.

He ignored the muted palette that lined the front mannequins—navy, ash, cream—and walked deeper, toward color. Patterns waited on the inner racks like secrets too bold for daylight—florals, gold-threaded geometrics, and designs that threaded the gap between them.

He stopped before a jacket that drew the light across it, the design curling and alive—everything Nathan's wardrobe hadn’t been.

The man had owned good clothes, certainly: clean lines, tailored fits, neutral tones that spoke of quiet confidence. But there’d been no pulse in them. No risk. Hoodies folded with care, soft tees and sweats that clung to comfort more than presence. Mason had stood in front of that closet earlier and felt like he was looking into a museum of restraint.

This, though—this had personality.

He lifted the jacket from its hanger, feeling the weight—real wool, intricate weave, craftsmanship measured in precision stitches. Expensive, even here.

The clerk followed carefully. “That line was produced in limited numbers, sir. It tends to attract… bolder patrons.”

“Good. I prefer distinction.” A faint smile curved at the edge of his mouth, the kind that suggested agreement without permission.

Mason’s gaze lingered on the weave, the way the pattern seemed to move under the lights. “This pattern, what’s it called?”

“Paisley, sir.”

He repeated it, tasting the word. “Paisley,” he said. “I like it.”

The clerk relaxed slightly, taking that as permission to continue. “If you’d like coordinating pieces, sir—shirts, accessories—we have several that match the tone.”

Mason set the jacket over his arm. “Show me.”

What followed blurred into efficiency. A quiet word from the clerk brought over two attendants—measured, discreet, all deference and precision. Tape lines brushed across his shoulders, his wrists, the base of his neck. Fabrics shifted through his hands—silk that sighed when folded, linen cool against skin, leather supple as promise. He tried on shirts, jackets, shoes—each combination more assertive than the last.

Gold caught his attention next. Watches displayed beneath glass like restrained power. He chose two—one sleek and black for everyday use, another heavy and gilded, made to be noticed. Rings, too. A chain that disappeared beneath the collar of his new shirt. A glint at the ear: diamonds this time, unapologetic.

When the attendants finally stepped back, Mason stood before the mirror in full assembly. The paisley jacket fit perfectly over a pale shirt unbuttoned just enough to suggest confidence without invitation. Charcoal trousers, the fabric faintly lustrous under the lights. Shoes of polished black leather, their design subtle but expensive. A gold watch caught the light as he adjusted his cuff. Nathan’s frame, yes—but animated now by something sharper, magnetic.

The clerk approached again, tablet in hand. “Will that be everything for you today, sir?”

Mason drew out his wallet and slid free the black card, its edges gleaming faintly between his fingers. “Yes.”

The clerk bowed deeply, hands folded. “Of course, Mr. Kim. We’ll have everything prepared immediately.” She paused delicately. “And for the pieces requiring additional adjustment—where shall we have them delivered?”

He slipped a business card from his pocket, the ink still crisp. A minor detail, but one he’d designed to look the part.
“Call me when they’re ready,” he said. “I’ll give you the address then.”

The clerk accepted the card with both hands and bowed again. “Yes, sir.”

She turned with practiced grace, signaling the attendants before retreating toward the counter.

Mason looked past her to his reflection once more—now familiar features, recast in ambition.

“This will do,” he murmured. Time to go secure my lodgings.

When the clerk returned with his card, she asked politely, “Shall we arrange carry-out service, sir?”

He tilted his head, a small indulgent smile forming. “Why not.”

Minutes later, back in the garage, his driver stepped out to open the car door. Mason paused with one hand on the frame, voice calm as ever. “Dispose of the luggage in the trunk.”

The driver hesitated. “Sir?”

Mason’s smile didn’t change. “You heard me.”

A beat. Then—“Yes, sir.”

By the time the new purchases were loaded, Nathan’s suitcase and backpack waited in the building’s service bay, out of sight and destined for disposal. Mason adjusted his cuff, watching without sentiment as the door closed.

He gave the driver the address to the realty office.

The sedan eased back into the stream of traffic. Mason leaned back, one hand resting on the black satchel beside him, the faint hum beneath the leather familiar. He glanced at his reflection in the window—already rehearsing the face he’d wear for the next transaction.

***

The receptionist had already buzzed him in. The office was glass-bright, its walls lined with back-lit photos of skyline towers and penthouse balconies. A man in a fitted gray suit rose from behind a desk, bowing with the practiced warmth of someone used to clients far richer than himself.

They exchanged cards first—two hands, slight bow, eyes meeting for the briefest moment.

The realtor’s brows lifted as he read the lettering.
“Ah… Kim Min-jun-ssi. Investor?”

“Yes.”

Nothing more.

The realtor’s smile flickered, uncertain. “Of course.” He chuckled softly, gesturing toward a low table surrounded by leather chairs. “Please, have a seat. I’ve prepared some listings.”

Mason sat, resting the satchel across his lap.

The realtor returned with a folder of glossy one-sheets—clean architectural lines, panoramic views, numbers printed like invitations. Mason flipped through them without hurry.

Glass towers. Private elevators. River-view penthouses. All the same—sterile beauty meant to impress, not to feed.

Then one caught his eye. Not the view, but the notation buried in the fine print: independent energy systems. Dedicated substation.

He paused, fingertip resting on the image. “This one.”

The realtor leaned forward. “Ah, yes—Sorelle Residences. Very secure. High-profile tenants. Each unit fully self-contained with redundant power. Excellent investment.”

Mason’s eyes lingered on the page. “It will do.”

The realtor beamed. “Shall we view it?”

He gave a small nod.

They met again twenty minutes later in front of the Sorelle tower—a mirrored spire rising clean from its own reflection pool. The manager joined them in the lobby, courteous but cautious.

Mason listened through the introductions, the weight of the satchel steady against his leg. “I’d like to see the independent energy system first,” he said.

The manager hesitated. “I’m afraid that’s restricted, sir. Tenants aren’t permitted—”

“It’s part of what I’m purchasing,” Mason interrupted, voice calm, unhurried. The air between them shifted, invisible but certain. The manager’s sentence unraveled mid-word; he blinked twice, nodded, and gestured toward the elevator instead.

The sublevel corridors were cool, humming. Behind glass, the private transformer chamber glowed—a quiet storm of blue arcs and current lines stitched through steel. The hum brushed his ribs. The book stirred faintly in the satchel, answering the pulse.

“Exactly what I was looking for,” Mason murmured.

Back in the lobby, the realtor produced his tablet. “We can arrange the deposit now, Mr. Kim.”

“Full amount,” Mason said, unlocking Nathan’s cracked phone. The fractured glass scattered light like veins of silver. He scrolled, amused at how flawlessly the falsified balances performed—lies behaving like truth, as any well-trained system should.

The realtor watched, unsure whether to be impressed or concerned. “You might consider getting that screen replaced, sir.”

“You’re right,” Mason said. “Sentimental, though.”

The transfer chimed through—one small, bright sound in the hush of marble and glass.

“It’s cleared!” the realtor laughed, too loud, too greedy.

Mason laughed too, quieter. Peasant.

He turned to his driver, who had been waiting near the doors. The man’s eyes flicked between the suits, the marble, and the chandelier—well past the limits of a simple airport drop. Mason withdrew the envelope Nathan’s grandmother had pressed into his hand that morning and passed it across.

“Your service ran longer than expected,” he said. “Keep the change.”

It was nothing—just the kind of gesture people like this expected from someone with money to burn.

The driver bowed, startled. “Thank you, sir.” He hesitated, then straightened slightly. “Ah—your bags from earlier, sir. Should I bring them in?”

The building manager overheard and stepped forward smoothly. “No need. Have our staff take care of it,” he said with a deferential nod. “We’ll have everything delivered to your unit shortly.” He handed Mason a printed slip. “Temporary access code until registration completes.”

Mason inclined his head and took the slip. “Efficient.”

The others bowed, their smiles all deference and relief. He crossed the marble floor to the private elevator, the satchel’s hum rising with each step.

By the time the doors closed, the illusion had already rooted itself in every system that mattered.

He exhaled, almost amused. For now, they all believe.

It would hold long enough. Soon, he’d need real currency in that account—cash that existed beyond the polite lies of a computer. Someone would notice the discrepancy eventually. Better to have something tangible before then.
And he still needed a stronger current source for the book.

The elevator opened into a private vestibule that led directly into the penthouse. He keyed in the temporary code and stepped through.

The unit was fully furnished—modern, immaculate. A wall of glass framed the river below, sunlight reflecting across the pale marble floors. The afternoon haze softened the skyline; the city pulsed quietly beyond the glass. Low furniture in gray and cream gave the space its curated calm. Every surface whispered wealth designed to look effortless.

Mason crossed to the control panel beside the wall and pressed a button. The curtains slid back, revealing more of the skyline. He found the remote and turned on the television.

He removed his jacket and folded it neatly over the back of the couch, sinking into the seat as a movie flickered to life. A man with a gun was shouting in English—“Say hello to my little friend!”—followed by explosions of sound and light, subtitles in flashing in neat Hangul.

Mason let his mouth curve.

The scene reminded him of the first time he’d heard the word gangster on a show—the sound of it pleased him: sharp, confident, human. Television. The device had fascinated him. A machine that condensed human desire, violence, and language into colored light. An excellent teacher.

After inhabiting Nathan, he’d found himself fluent in both English and Korean, with a scattering of Spanish words. He still preferred the Korean. It suited him better.

A knock came at the door.

He opened the door to find a young attendant balancing his new purchases. The man bowed, asking politely if he could set them inside. Mason stepped aside.

“Does the building offer dry cleaning?”

“Yes, sir. Our concierge can have it collected and returned this evening if you wish.”

“Expedite it.”

“Of course.”

Mason opened one of the bags and drew out a few items he intended to wear later. The underworld, he’d already noticed, preferred the night.

The attendant accepted the clothes with another bow and left quietly.

When the door clicked shut, Mason stood for a moment in the hush that followed. Then he began to unbutton his shirt and wandered through the quiet apartment, looking for the bathroom and a shower.

***

Steam ghosted against the mirror as he adjusted the water temperature. The marble echoed faintly—an emptiness that didn’t bother him. He’d grown used to silence. He’d enacted silence back at the manor. Still, he found himself missing what he’d come to think of as minions—another Earth word he’d come to enjoy.

When he stepped out, he walked naked through the penthouse. The city beyond the windows was no longer dimming; it was coming alive. The glass towers shimmered with reflected light, the streets below pulsing with the noise of nightlife warming awake.

A garment bag rested outside his door—the expedited dry cleaning. Seoul efficiency.

Mason dressed with intent.

Not the paisley tonight. A black silk shirt, open at the collar, its floral pattern traced in lilac and gold; sleeves rolled once at the wrist. Slim dark slacks with a faint sheen under the light. The gold watch and glinting studs completed the effect—a man who looked effortless, expensive, and entirely at ease.

He studied the reflection a moment longer. Twenty-five, with defined features and flawless skin, he read as what they called a trust-fund baby. Nathan’s hair—usually neat, parted, forgettable—he brushed back with his fingers, coaxing a sharper line and deliberate disarray. Not careless, but intentional. It added texture, confidence, a little danger.

Better, he thought. Trust-fund chaos with a pulse.

The sort men mistook for prey. He smiled softly. Let them.

On the coffee table, the black leather case waited. He drew out the book, setting it on the glass. Its cover breathed faintly, almost imperceptible—then a soft vibration rolled through it, like a creature purring low in its throat.

Mason brushed his fingers along the spine, voice dropping. “Yes, yes. You’ve been very patient all day.”
The hum deepened, the edges of the pages shivering once before stilling again. He smiled, almost fond. “We’ll find you something worth the wait.”

He glanced toward the window, the city’s light pulsing faintly through the glass.
“Just a little current from downstairs to tide you over.”

He reached for the long black coat draped across the chair—lightweight, tailored, a perfect concealment piece. The satchel was too obvious for where he was going, so he slid the book into the inner pocket instead. The weight settled against his ribs, familiar, alive.

***

He fed the book downstairs—current, not blood.

The elevator doors shimmered with the building’s mirrored light. Mason glanced up at his reflection — for a second his irises burned with a thin blue flame, quick as a struck match. Then it was gone.

The doors opened. Cool air and lobby light spilled in. He crossed the marble without pause; the echo of his shoes was the only sound that followed him out.

A car waited at the curb. He slid inside. The city unfurled beyond the glass — towers bleeding color into dusk, the world moving in lines of light.

He did not speak. He rehearsed the face he would wear tonight: easy, expensive, the kind of boy taught everything belonged to him. The book thudded low in his inner pocket — companion and engine both.

He’d picked his mark a week ago, and the groundwork was done.

A small gang: one low-level boss with three lieutenants, a dozen enforcers who doubled as club boys, and a loose tail of runners and debtors. He’d eavesdropped on late-night talk of loan terms, protection routes, and a sloppy smuggling line that funneled electronics and pleasure goods through a back warehouse — not the corporate networks he wanted, not yet, but enough of a foothold.

He knew who collected and when money changed hands, which rooms hosted deals and which were for customers. This would get his foot in the door. He planned to make these little men look worth far more than the pitiful way they ran things: cleaner cuts, faster collections, more cash skimmed into the right pockets.

A week of casual appearances, slow smiles, deliberate exits — enough to make the boss think he’d found a favorite boy toy. Mason had played coy: a flicker of interest, then retreat. Old bait.

Now he was going back to finish the catch. Tonight he would give the book its first sacrifice. He smirked. Tonight, he would take the gang.

The car turned south, sliding through Itaewon where neon bled into rain. He pressed his head to the glass and watched the lights drag across his face. The city had a rhythm now — pulse, hunger, transaction. All he had to do was play along.

Tonight he would be softer around the edges. A little drunker.

Let the boss believe he’d won.

The car eased to the curb outside the club — a narrow front wedged between a shuttered bakery and a pawnshop that never closed. A blue sign buzzed overhead, half the letters dead. The doorman knew his face by now. No words were exchanged, just a glance — the kind men reserve for beautiful problems.

Inside, sound hit like pressure — bass through marble, smoke through silk. Light fractured off glass walls and sequined dresses. Bodies moved in rhythmless luxury, laughter trimmed with teeth. The air smelled of citrus gin and electricity.

Mason threaded through the crowd, past mirrored columns and a bar lined with liquor in colors too precise to be natural. A new girl brushed his arm; he didn’t slow.

He hadn’t even made it all the way to his usual booth before the shift in the room found him — a pause at the bar, a flicker of movement in the mirrored wall. The boss had already spotted him.

Their eyes met across the crowd — recognition, interest, possession, all in a single glance. By the time Mason reached his table, the man was already crossing the floor.

The boss stopped beside him, smile slick as the floor after last call.
“Well, aren’t you looking especially handsome tonight?”

Mason tilted his head, lashes low, voice quiet enough that the bass almost swallowed it.
“Am I?”

The boss laughed — too loud, too sure of himself. He slid into the opposite seat without asking, one arm hooking along the back of the booth like they were old friends.

“I was starting to think you’d forgotten about us,” he said.

“I forget nothing worth remembering.”

The boss filled both glasses himself — a small breach of etiquette, one he liked people to notice.
Mason lifted his drink, turning slightly away in the polite Korean fashion — the gesture almost demure.
The whiskey brushed his lips, not his tongue. He set the glass down untouched.

The boss watched him, smirking — pleased by what he thought was deference.

Mason smiled back, and let him believe it.

The boss ordered another round, and Mason smiled as if flattered. He took the bottle, poured for both of them — generous, a little uneven — and raised his glass in a lazy toast.

“Cheers,” he murmured.

They clinked. The boss drank deep. Mason only seemed to.

When the rim touched his lips, the whiskey vanished. Not swallowed — gone. A shimmer caught in the glass, faint as heat off asphalt, and the liquid inside dulled to a thin stain along the edge. The illusion was simple, automatic; the book pulsed once against his ribs in acknowledgment.

By the third pour, the act looked flawless. Mason’s eyes unfocused just enough, his smile a fraction too soft. He leaned back with practiced heaviness, letting the light crawl over his jaw and collar. The boss took it as permission.

“See? You’re loosening up,” the man said. “I like you better this way.”

Mason’s gaze slid toward him, pupils slow to follow. “Do you.”

The boss grinned, emboldened, and slipped from his side of the booth into Mason’s. His hand landed on the seat behind Mason’s shoulder, casual, possessive. “Too many eyes here,” he murmured. “Let’s go somewhere quieter.”

Mason’s laugh came low, a drowsy hum that might’ve been agreement. “Sure,” he said — the word blurred, perfectly slurred.

The boss rose, threw a few bills on the table, and offered his hand. Mason took it, skin warm, eyes soft with the kind of trust that only existed in performance.

Outside, rain sheeted the street in streaks of color. A black Genesis waited at the curb, engine idling. Cho Do-jin, the quiet lieutenant Mason had tagged as the driver during recon, sat behind the wheel — posture rigid, eyes forward, never meeting the mirror for more than a second. Mason noted it, filed it away.

The boss opened Mason’s door himself. “After you.”

Mason slid inside, the image of indulgent surrender. The illusion held even as the door clicked shut — and the book’s pulse thrummed against his chest, pleased and hungry.

The Genesis sliced through the rain, neon stretching across the windows in long, liquid streaks.
The boss talked the whole drive — money, himself — his voice too loud for the small cabin. Every few minutes his hand wandered, settling on Mason’s knee, creeping higher whenever the car slowed.

Mason laughed when prompted, leaned just close enough for the man to smell his cologne, then shifted — a small, deliberate move that turned each reach into empty air.

Cho Do-jin drove in silence, eyes fixed on the road, glancing at the rearview only once or twice.

When the next light turned red, Mason smirked at his reflection in the window and let the book stir.
He lifted one hand and traced a shape in the air, a sigil made of nothing but heat.

“Obey,” he said.

A ripple of pressure moved through the car — so soft it could have been the wind. The boss’s words died mid-sentence; Do-jin’s grip slackened on the wheel. Their pupils glazed, focus melting until their breathing fell into step with Mason’s own.

The word hadn’t been loud, yet it filled the cabin like a second heartbeat. The leather seats creaked, the air thickened, and for a moment every drop of rain outside seemed to hang suspended.

“Good,” he murmured.

The light changed, but neither man moved until he spoke again.
“Left here.”

Do-jin turned the wheel without a word. The car slipped off the main road and into narrower streets where the neon thinned and the rain sounded louder. Storefronts gave way to shuttered garages, then to low warehouses with rusted siding and broken lights.

Mason watched the city peel away, one layer of noise at a time. The air smelled of wet concrete and oil.

“Straight,” he said.

Do-jin obeyed. The boss sat slack against the seat, a faint smile frozen on his face, eyes half-lidded in the soft trance of command.

They passed a row of trucks long stripped for parts. The next turn opened into an empty lot ringed with fencing and a single building crouched at its center — concrete, windowless, its corrugated roof bowing under years of rain.

“Stop here.”

The tires hissed against puddles as the car eased to a halt. Mason opened his door and stepped out into the downpour. Water beaded on his skin, slicking his hair back, cold enough to bite but not enough to break his calm.

He looked up at the warehouse — the one he’d scouted days ago — and laughed quietly.

“Inside,” he said.

Do-jin killed the engine, left the lights running, and followed him out into the rain.

The warehouse smelled of rust.

Mason walked ahead, the book in one hand. The two men followed without question, steps echoing in perfect unison on the concrete floor.

He turned to them. “Oh, Do-jin,” he said lightly, “you have a gun, don’t you?”

“Yes,” the lieutenant answered, voice flat.

“Good. Hand it to me. I’ve wanted to try one.”

Do-jin obeyed. The pistol sat heavy and real in Mason’s palm, metal cool beneath his fingers. He crossed the short distance to the boss, who swayed with empty eyes.

Mason lifted the weapon until the muzzle touched the man’s forehead. The boss didn’t flinch; he didn’t even blink.

“What a pity,” Mason murmured. “I do like it when they scream.”

Silence stretched. Long enough for the sound of the rain to return.

The crack of the shot split the empty room—clean, final. Mason blinked against the fine mist that spattered his cheek, and then he smiled.

He looked down at the book; a few drops freckled its surface. The glyphs glowed brighter, drinking them in. When he tucked the book beneath the body’s head, the light flared so suddenly that he shielded his eyes. The air around it shimmered.

A small tear opened in the space above the body. Through it he could see—brief and sharp—the other side: an almost impossible amount of light… stars?

No.

“Motes,” he whispered. “So many.”

The space they filled looked empty, impossibly vast—not like a dungeon at all.

“How strange,” he murmured. “Perhaps this is a pocket dimension.”

The portal began to shrink.

Light faltered; the tear sealed with a hushed finality. The warehouse fell back to rain and metal.

Mason exhaled, still smiling, the echo of that impossible glow burning behind his eyes. “Need more power. More blood.”

He tucked the gun into his waistband, then retrieved his book. It shuddered in his hands.

“I know that meal wasn’t close to a full one, was it?”

Do-jin stood motionless in the puddled light.

“Hide the body somewhere for now. Meet me back at the car.”

“Yes,” Do-jin said.

“I have work to do.”

He hummed as he stepped into the rain, blood washing from his face, the book warm in his hand—ready to bring terror.