My reservation is in an hour. My phone is buzzing relentlessly on the passenger seat, a frantic, insect-like vibration against the leather. I don't check it.
Darcy Grey is probably dead, or at least discovered by now. The tabloids will already have the news. Those colleagues and so-called friends who had forsaken Aaron are likely scrambling to apologize with the classic, cowardly line: 'I knew you didn't do it all along.'
[The dungeon is almost ready, Aaron. I've located it underground at the previous headquarters of Jezebel's Den. It's close to the realm of the unliving.]
"Input the coordinates into the car's GPS," I say aloud, my voice flat.
[Done!]
"Great." I let out a short sigh as I make a sharp turn off the main street, the tires gripping the asphalt. It'll take me thirty minutes to get there. "I need an array of weapons while you're at it. Or maybe just a blade would do." I keep my eyes fixed on the road, my hands steady on the wheel as I increase my speed, weaving through the thinning evening traffic.
I drive past Jezebel's Den, its neon sign now just a blur of crimson in my periphery. I keep moving until I come to a stop in front of a dilapidated, three-story building with a faded, peeling sign that reads Delilah's Inn. The architecture is older, more tired than the sleek club next door. "Jezebel's Den used to be an Inn?" I ask, killing the engine.
[Delilah's Inn. It was captured by the Grim Reaper in a territorial dispute. The former owner, Veronica Gordon, has been... set free from running it.]
"Well, that explains the vibe." I step out of the car, the cold air biting deeper here. The place feels abandoned, but not empty. "Darcy's beast would come here to look for me if I'm correct."
[Each containment cell possesses an absorbent energy signature, host. If you can lure the manifested spirit close to an active cell, the energy will capture it.]
I let the transformation wash over me—the subtle pop of joints, the weight of the horns, the coiling awareness of the tail. My senses sharpen as I step into the rundown building. The floorboards groan and complain loudly under my weight, a chorus of protests in the dusty silence. I don't hesitate, moving through the derelict lobby and down a narrow hallway toward the back of the building.
That's when I hear it. A low, wet, slithering growl from the shadows behind me. The sound is followed by the distinct scrape of scales on wood. She's here.
I don't flinch. I keep walking, calm and deliberate, letting her follow me. I turn a corner into what was once a storage room, and the space changes. The worn linoleum gives way to polished black stone. The walls smooth out, lit by strips of cool, fluorescent light embedded in the seams. I'm standing at the head of a pathway that leads into a high-end, modern prison block.
Clean, transparent cells line the walls, beyond which I can see an array of sophisticated, menacing torture devices and a large, empty central yard. It seems the system wasn't entirely useless after all.
"You... you deceived me!" Darcy's voice erupts from the doorway, but it's no longer human. It's layered with a heavy, demonic influence, a guttural rasp that echoes in the sterile space.
A smirk curls on my lips as I glance at my watch. I've got forty minutes left. I'll give her ten. The other thirty are for the drive back to the restaurant.
Slowly, a blade materializes in my hand—a long, wicked shard of obsidian that feels like an extension of my arm. I turn to face the creature. It's a grotesque perversion of Darcy, standing much taller, its body a mess of iridescent scales. A forked, red snake's tongue flicks from its lipless mouth. Its face is a mask of reptilian fury, but the eyes… the eyes burn with a pure, undiluted regret.
"So, which do you regret more, Darcy?" I ask, taking a slow, deliberate step closer. My voice is calm, almost conversational. "Not having Aaron Maddox, or dying like a cornered rat?"
She screams, "Shut up! Shut up! Shut up! You deceived me! You lied to me!" As she shrieks, her form seems to swell, the aura of regret around her thickening into something almost tangible, fueling her transformation.
"You lied about me first," I shrug. "It's not much of a deal in the grand scheme."
"I'll make sure you pay!"
"Let's see what currency you're using, then."
[Do not trigger a full combat engagement, Aaron. Your current attributes are not optimized for it.]
"I'm fully aware of that, system. I don't intend on fighting her."
[Then what is your operational plan?]
"Leave that to me."
She's approaching now with an impeccable, terrifying speed, her lower body a powerful coil that propels her forward, claws extended, ready to gouge or strangle.
"You should stop this, Darcy," I say, my voice still eerily calm. I don't move from my spot. Five minutes left on my internal clock. There's something I learned back when I was briefly a baker's assistant, a lifetime ago. A simple theory: you add a potent ingredient, even just a spoonful, and mix it thoroughly. It changes the entire composition of what it touches.
The absorbent energy of the prison cells is visible to me now—a network of pulsing, blue streamlines around the nearest cell doors. Focusing, I reach out with my free hand, my black claws elongating. I don't grab for Darcy; I pull at that blue energy. It resists, then flows, drawn to the obsidian of my blade like iron to a magnet. The sword begins to glow with an intense, cold blue light just as Darcy lunges.
My body moves on its own, a reflex of this new form. I sidestep her first swipe with a speed that surprises even me, the air whistling where her claws pass. Her momentum carries her forward, off-balance for a split second.
It's all the opening I need. I don't aim to pierce or dismember. In one brutal, horizontal swipe, I bring the glowing blade across her midsection. The impact doesn't feel like cutting flesh. It feels like slicing through a dense static charge. There's no blood, no visceral tear.
Just like my prop gun had failed with Mark.
But that story's changing, instead, her form shudders violently. Her body's properties begin to break apart, pixelating like a corrupted holographic image, glitching and dissolving.
Then, she's gone from in front of me. A soft click-hiss sounds from the cell to my left. Inside, the blue energy swirls violently before condensing into a small, dark orb that floats gently in the center of the sterile space. Darcy Grey, contained.
[Status update!]
[Target: Darcy Grey. Arts professor at Stanbury University. (Exposed, Disgraced, Collected!) +6000 Wreckage Points (CREDITED).]
[> Current Mission: Hunt and kill a soul to fulfill Tier-1 Seduction Quota (5 successful temptations). Progress: 1/5]
[New target: Loading...]
[Enrolling Dungeon Protocol...]
Perfect.
I let the obsidian blade dissipate from my hand. The fluorescent lights hum softly. I smooth down my shirt, check my watch, and turn my back on the cell.
I've got a reservation to keep.