The storm was late.
Boston weather usually had the decency to match its mood, but tonight the skies were clear while the city simmered in something worse—quiet.
Noctis Shadowmere, known to the few who dared know him as Knox, stood behind the bar of The Crossroad, polishing a glass that didn't need polishing. The bar was empty, save for the faint hum of magical wards pulsing in the walls like a heartbeat. It was always like this after closing: peaceful, eerie, and...watchful.
Above the bar, his three-story home loomed like a pocket dimension built on forgotten spells and late-night whiskey-fueled research. Shelves buckled under arcane tomes, relics hummed from behind protective cases, and unfinished runic scripts littered parchment on every flat surface. But down here, behind the oak-wood bar and under dim violet lights, Knox could almost pretend he was something close to normal.
Almost.
"Stop cleaning that," came a dry voice from behind the bar. "You're just punishing the glass."
Knox didn't turn. "Alfred, if I wanted backhanded wisdom wrapped in sass, I'd speak to my mirror."
Alfred Pennyworth, early 50s, half-wizard, full cynic, strolled in with the kind of calm only earned by living through magical wars and surviving three vampire cults. His wand was holstered discreetly beneath his bartender's apron, and his tie had a faint moving pattern of shifting constellations.
He poured himself a neat scotch and raised the glass. "You just graduated Harvard, my boy. You should be out wasting your youth and money. Not brooding behind your own bar."
Knox gave a half-smile. "I graduated two days ago. Give me a few more before the existential dread catches up. I'm brooding on a delay."
Alfred raised a brow. "The runes are active again, aren't they?"
The smile faded.
Knox didn't answer, but the sharp twitch in his jaw was confirmation enough.
Underneath his shirt, stretched across his forearms, chest, and back, a living network of tattoos rested—or had been. Some were Hogwarts-standard: Ancient Runes or Elder Futhark sigils he copied obsessively in sixth year. Others came from darker places: blood-soaked stones beneath Salem, bone-etched walls in demon-haunted ruins, spells only whispered in forbidden corners of the magical world.
He didn't fully understand them. No one did. But they were his. Or maybe... he was theirs.
His wand pulsed faintly in the custom leather holster stitched into his coat sleeve. He hadn't cast a spell in three days. But the runes had started pulling at him again—not with words, but with need.
He poured himself something stronger, just as his phone buzzed across the counter.
Dean Winchester.
Knox sighed. "Now there's a name I haven't seen since the Bush administration."
Alfred frowned. "That can't be good. I'll check the wards. Just in case."
Knox flipped open the phone and pressed it to his ear. "Dean."
"Knox. You busy?"
He smirked. "Graduated two days ago. Got a quiet bar, a storm that's three hours late, and whiskey that bites. So, no. I'm bored enough to take a call from you."
"It's Dad. He's missing."
The smirk died.
"I've got no trail. No signs. Just...weird vibes. You're the best I know when it comes to weird."
Knox's gaze flicked to the door. The wards shimmered—then pulsed once, briefly, like a heartbeat skipping a beat.
The glass in his hand cracked sharply in his grip.
He set it down slowly.
Beneath his sleeve, something shifted.
No—uncoiled.
Knox yanked his cuff back to reveal one of the oldest tattoos burned into his wrist: a jagged sigil that once marked the chest of a demon-possessed priest he'd exorcised in New Orleans. That one had screamed ancient Latin until black smoke burst from his lungs.
The same symbol now glowed on his own flesh.
Gluttony.
It pulsed—red, then violet, then molten gold. The lines rippled outward, forming a seven-pointed crown… then a mouth. Hungry. Open.
"Knox?" Dean's voice cut through the noise. "You still there?"
Knox's voice came out gravelly. "I'm here."
The bar mirror behind him spiderwebbed with cracks.
The air distorted—heat shimmered, light twisted, and sound sharpened. He could hear every creak of wood, every car two blocks away. The heartbeat of a rat in the cellar.
The hunger clawed at him—not for food, but for knowledge, power, something more. His eyes flashed gold. Just for a second.
Alfred appeared with wand in hand, ready, but Knox waved him off.
"I'm fine."
"You're lying," Alfred said.
"I know."
He put the phone back to his ear. "Dean. You want me?"
"Yeah."
"You've got me."
He hung up.
[System Synchronizing…][1%][77%][100%]
⬛ [SYSTEM INTERFACE BOOTED] ⬛
Name: Noctis ShadowmereAlias: KnoxStatus: Active
Core Stats:Magic: 92/100Unsealing Progress: 2%Favor Debts: 43 Owed / 3 CollectedActive Tattoo Sigil:
+ Gluttony[
→ Perk: Enhanced hearing, sight, perception, comprehension.
→ Risk: Mild corruption if used too long]
Quest Added:Investigate the Disappearance of John WinchesterReward: ???Risk Level: Unknown
"System?" Knox muttered. "Perfect bloody timing. First the tattoos, now a disembodied voice in my head? What's next, prophetic dreams and cryptic riddles?"
Alfred, unfazed, slid a small duffel across the counter. "Wand holster, consecrated rounds, emergency Portkey keyed to the pub, flask of holy water, and—" he tapped the bottle, "—the good whiskey."
"You're a saint."
"I'm a bartender. And a wizard who owes you a life debt. And I hate funerals."
Knox flexed his fingers. The sigil on his wrist faded into dormancy, but its mark remained warm. "Someone out there knows what these tattoos mean. They're trying to unlock something I'm not sure should be unlocked."
Alfred leaned against the counter. "Then maybe it's time you stop pretending you're just a wizard with nice ink."
Knox paused in the doorway.
He didn't look back.
"I'm not pretending," he said quietly. "I'm just scared of what's behind the lock."
Rain finally began to fall as he stepped outside. His coat caught the wind like wings as he made his way to the curb, where a gleaming black 1954 Mercedes 300SL waited beneath the streetlamp like a summoned steed.
He slid inside, the leather groaning beneath him.
"I'll check the system... on the drive."
The engine purred to life, and Knox drove off into the night—toward a storm that had nothing to do with the weather.