June 1st, 2025
Hugo Hollands, Age 24
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The money lay between us like something alive. Poppy kept counting, her voice small but steady—each number its own kind of wound. The notes clicked under her nails, paper whispering against paper. I watched her lips move, the cigarette clinging to one side of her mouth, the soft trace of lipstick on the filter.
"Twenty-eight thousand, one hundred and fifty pounds." She said it as if the sound of it could make it mean something good.
I pressed my palms over my face, dragged them down, feeling the grit of old stubble under my skin. My hands trembled by the time I ran them through my hair. I wasn't sure if it was exhaustion or disgust. Maybe both.
"I can't," I said quietly. "I can't keep doing that."
Poppy didn't look at me. She just exhaled a thin line of smoke and started straightening the notes again, her bracelets clicking softly.
She'd heard this before. I'd said it before. But the way it sat in my mouth now—it felt heavier, truer. It wasn't guilt anymore. It was erosion.
I stared at the wall, at the thin cracks running along the paint, and let my thoughts crawl where they wanted.
Not all of them were like Garrison.
He was patient, almost tender, like someone who knew he'd already won. He didn't shout. He didn't hurt. He didn't have to. The kind of control he carried made you want to hand yourself over, just to stop feeling the pressure of your own skin.
But others—God, others. There were nights when I'd lose time, lose the shape of myself. When everything blurred into a series of motions: the sound of a belt, the weight of hands, the smell of sweat and aftershave that stayed on me long after they left. I'd go to the shelter and sit in the shower until the water went cold, trying to rinse out something that wasn't even physical.
And still, I'd find myself wishing Garrison would call again. Wishing he'd ask for me by name.
That was the part I couldn't say aloud, not even to Poppy. The part that made me sick to think about. That he was the only one who made it bearable—because he never made it hurt. Because he looked at me like he saw what I'd become and didn't flinch. Because for an hour, I could pretend I wasn't a thing being used, but a choice being made.
If he asked for me again, I'd take whatever he offered. No matter how little. I'd convince myself it was worth it. That I was worth it.
The mind is a cruel thing. It teaches you to crave what broke you, if it came wrapped in gentleness.
Men are awful. Enough men are awful.
Not all, maybe, but enough. I've seen what happens when they realize they have the upper hand. When you look away, when you stop resisting, when they know you need them more than they need you—there's no limit to what they'll take. They start small, then they strip you of what you didn't even know you were giving. Time. Warmth. The small dignity of being seen as human.
They say men are simple, but that's a lie. They are layered in cruelty, in ego, in hunger disguised as affection. You only learn that when you've been close enough to smell it. To feel it on your skin.
Poppy counted the last few notes and pushed one stack into the drawer of her desk. She looked over her shoulder at me. "You should rest, Hugo," she said softly. "You look pale."
I almost laughed. Rest. As if it were something you could just do—as if sleep came to people who had to make themselves forget to survive.
I leaned forward, elbows on my knees, pressing my palms together like I was praying. Maybe I was. Not for forgiveness. Just for stillness. For silence.
"Poppy," I murmured. "What do I do when I feel like something's tearing inside and I'm not sure if it's soul or skin?"
She looked over, her eyes tired but clear. She didn't answer right away. Instead, she pushed the plate with the cigarette toward me, the ash curled like the end of a question.
"Smoke," she said. "Then sleep."
I nodded. Not because I agreed, but because I had nothing else.
The stack of money sat between us, neatly counted. A quiet shrine to everything I'd given away.
And still not enough.
The room was dim, soft light coming from the lamp with the crooked shade. The girls' laughter echoed faintly down the hall—distant, muffled—like the sound belonged to another life.
She resumed counting, this time slower, smoothing each note between her fingers before stacking it neatly on the edge of the table. Her rings clicked against the surface, tiny bells marking the measure of my silence.
"I'll give you the rest," she said suddenly, her voice cutting through the air, calm and unbending.
My head snapped up. "No, no, it's alright. I'll keep going."
She tilted her head at me, the faintest trace of amusement tugging at her mouth. "You'll pay me back with interest when you become famous," she said. "If it doesn't work out, you'll pay double the interest."
"Poppy—"
"Shhh." She lifted a finger to her lips. "End of discussion. You've already been through enough."
I stared at her, and something inside me loosened—the knot in my chest that had been tightening since morning. Her words didn't erase the heaviness, but they gave it shape. It's easier to carry a burden when someone names it.
I smiled despite myself. "I'll take you out of here once I'm capable," I said, and the words came out almost like a promise. "I mean it."
She gave a small laugh, that warm, broken kind that carried both belief and disbelief in the same breath. "I know," she said. "That's why I'm investing in you."
I looked at her for a long moment. She didn't move, didn't break eye contact. There was no pity in her expression, no condescension—just this steady, almost maternal focus that anchored me.
For once, I felt something close to relief.
I hated borrowing money. The act itself always felt like lowering your guard, like offering someone the map to your shame. But tonight, I could let it slide. The situation had gone too far beyond pride or comfort. Survival demanded small humiliations, and I'd grown accustomed to handing them out piece by piece.
The sound of her stacking the rest of the bills filled the silence again. I watched her hands—the chipped nail polish, the small scar across her knuckle, the threadbare shimmer of her rings catching the lamp's glow. She looked tired but composed, like someone who'd accepted that life only offers two things: the pain you choose, and the pain you get for free.
"Do you ever think about leaving?" I asked quietly.
Poppy didn't look up. "All the time," she said. "But leaving means starting over, and I'm too tired for that." She pushed the last stack of money into the drawer, shut it gently, then turned to me with a smirk. "You, though… you still have that thing in your eyes. The look of someone who hasn't been broken all the way through yet."
"I feel like I am."
"Feeling and being aren't the same," she said, and leaned back against the wall. "One day, you'll see the difference."
I rubbed the back of my neck, the skin still tender from the tension. "You always talk like an old woman."
"That's what happens when you raise idiots," she said. Her grin softened the words.
I chuckled, the sound brittle but real. It had been a while since I heard my own laughter without the aftertaste of irony.
The fan overhead clicked in slow rhythm, stirring the cigarette smoke into ghostly shapes that vanished just before touching the ceiling. The smell of tobacco, perfume, and faint sweat made the room feel warmer than it was.
I leaned back on my hands and let my head tilt slightly toward the window, where a sliver of evening light still clung to the glass. The city outside murmured softly, a mix of engines and voices and the occasional shout—a reminder that life kept going, indifferent and loud.
Poppy stretched her legs and sighed. "Get some rest, Hugo."
"I will," I said.
But I didn't move.
I stayed seated, watching her profile against the glow of the lamp, thinking of the words I'll take you out of here repeating like a vow I didn't know how to fulfill yet.
Maybe she didn't believe me. Maybe I didn't either.
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June 3rd, 2025
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The road hadn't changed. The weeds still climbed over the rails like they were trying to smother something forgotten, and the gravel cracked the same under my boots. Rook dropped me off with the same grunt, the same lack of concern. Seventy pounds, and the price of silence. He didn't ask what I was doing, and I didn't offer.
But I brought water this time. A small thing, but it meant I knew the shape of what lay ahead.
The first time I walked this path, it felt like I was chasing a rumor whispered too long in the wrong direction. I didn't know if the Highlands even existed in the way I needed them to. I didn't know if the coin Deus handed me was real, or if I was just the latest idiot to believe in stories told by desperate men. Every step I took then felt borrowed—from some version of myself braver, or more foolish, or already halfway gone.
I hadn't known how far the path would stretch, or whether it would end at all. Whether it would be a clearing or a grave.
I remember the ache in my legs, the dry sting behind my eyes, the tremble in my hand when I first saw movement in the shadow of the mountain. I thought maybe I was hallucinating. Maybe I'd gone too long without sleep. Maybe that whole place—the firelight, the carvings, Thea's voice like velvet pulled over bone—was just my mind fraying at the edges.
But it wasn't. And now, I knew it wasn't.
This time, I walked with purpose. Not ease. Not calm. But with direction. I knew the way the ground would slope. I knew which bend in the trail would bring the silhouette of the mountain back into view. I knew that the silence wasn't emptiness—it was listening.
I wasn't lighter.
If anything, I carried more now. The money. The blood. The weight of the mark I carved into someone who trusted me. But I understood the terms.
Last time, I arrived like a man asking for mercy. This time, I came with something to trade.
That changes you.
The fear was still there, coiled low in my belly, but it had shape now. It no longer thrashed in the dark. It walked beside me like a quiet companion, breathing steady in rhythm with mine.
I knew who to call. I knew where to stand when Rook's bike skidded to a halt. I knew not to speak too much, not to ask for more than I came for.
The Highlands didn't feel smaller. They weren't any less strange. But I no longer felt like a trespasser waiting to be turned away. I was returning to a place that had already started carving space for me.
And that terrified me more than anything else.
Because part of me didn't want to be rejected this time. Part of me wanted to be welcomed back.
As if I belonged here.
As if this, somehow, had always been the road meant for me.
No one met me this time. That felt like permission, not neglect.
I kept glancing over my shoulder. Waiting. Listening. A knot coiled in the back of my neck. Was it a one-time thing? Some illusion? A game?
But the path still held. It stretched and twisted, leading me deeper toward the mountainside where the peaks cradled the sky like blackened fingers. I passed the first bend and paused. Listened.
There it was.
A hollow clang— sharp, distant. As if metal struck against metal, but not cleanly. Like the echo of a dented pot dropped against stone. It came in intervals. Measured. As though someone knew I was coming and chose that sound as their voice.
I moved forward. The closer I came to the first throat of the mountain, the more the sound took shape— less distant, less accidental. I gripped the strap of my bag. My fingers had gone clammy.
I called out. "Hello?"
No answer. Just another clang. Closer.
"Is anyone here?"
Another clang.
Then silence.
And then he leapt down from above— from a ledge I hadn't seen, a shadow breaking into shape. I staggered back, nearly twisting my ankle on the uneven path. My heart slammed against my ribs, but I didn't scream. Didn't let him hear it. Only my breath caught, sharp, like glass between my teeth.
He grinned, brushing something off his shoulder. "Did I scare you?"
I narrowed my eyes. "What do you think?"
He laughed. Low, dry, easy. Like he had nothing else to offer but that.
"You knew the way just fine," he said. "I've been watching you since you set foot on the path."
My voice cut sharper than I meant it to. "Then why didn't you say anything? Why didn't I see you? I looked around."
He smirked, turning half from me as he adjusted the collar of his cloak. "I was getting dressed."
"What?"
"It's none of your concern," he said, voice colder now, clipped. "Are you done with your gatherings?"
"Yes, and I'm here to see Thea."
I said the name—Thea—but Opheles clicked his tongue.
"Sir Thea," he corrected, like it was obvious. Like the prefix alone carried enough weight to splinter bone.
His steps echoed, even though the stone beneath us was dulled and layered with ash or dust or time. He moved ahead with a sort of casual stiffness, arms swinging like he was walking through an orchard and not through this dark, winding hollow gouged deep into the heart of a mountain.
"What's your name?" I asked, more to fill the silence than out of true interest.
He looked over his shoulder, eyes gleaming like oil just before flame. "Opheles."
"Is there… a theme or something?" I said. "Your names. They're all strange. In a mythological kind of way."
He stopped mid-step and grinned, head tilted. "Yours isn't magical. It's bland. Mine's better."
"Okay… that's not what I meant. Just—can I please meet Sir Thea now?"
He rolled his eyes. "Follow me."
We walked. Same as last time, but it didn't feel like repetition. The path still opened its jaw the same way. The passage still trembled with some low rhythm, like the walls themselves had blood and breath. Yet nothing about it felt familiar. That was the trick of this place, maybe—it rearranged the feeling even if the shape didn't change.
He led me through the arch, into the great room I remembered only in fragments. Like remembering a fever from a winter night: heat and hallucination, nothing more.
The chamber was just as still as before, as if sound couldn't root itself here. A single chandelier hung from the dome like a noose for the stars, its ring of candles flickering without wind. Cold flames. Gold that didn't warm.
"Wait here," Opheles said. "They're doing something. We'll be right with you."
Then he disappeared behind one of the curving pillars. And I was left alone. Not alone in the way of being unseen, but in the way of being watched with care. The feeling had teeth.
I didn't know where to stand. The circle in the middle of the room felt like a stage, or worse, a ritual. I didn't want to be caught dead in the center. So I walked to the edge of the room, letting my eyes trace the carvings on the columns. Some of them looked almost human. Others not at all.
A soundless tension hung in the air, so present I could almost hear it ringing in my ears.
I tilted my head up to the chandelier again, just to pass the time. But for a flicker—only a flicker—it wasn't a chandelier at all. I couldn't name what I saw.
They were… figures. People. Limbs suspended like marionettes, or corpses strung by roots. All of them hovering in a canopy of green, like a memory that belonged to someone else. It was impossible and dizzying, and gone before I could even blink properly.
I took one step back. My skin crawled. My mouth was dry.
And then a throat was cleared behind me.
I turned sharply.
Thea stood in the archway, robe darker than coal, their eyes catching the candlelight like they owned it.
"Sir Thea," I breathed.
They didn't speak yet. Only smiled, as if they already knew every thought I'd had since I crossed the threshold.
Thea stepped forward, slow and certain, each stride whispering against the stone. Their shadow slid long across the floor, brushing over my shoes before I could think to move.
"Well, well," they said, voice rich with something that almost resembled delight. "Look who's back."
My throat felt dry. I nodded once, then reached into my coat pocket. "I got your things."
From the outer pocket, I took out the pendant—the same one that had kept me awake more nights than I could count. Its glass body glowed dimly in the low light, the blood inside as bright as when I'd sealed it. From the inner fold of my jacket, I drew out the stack of cash, wrapped tight, worn at the edges. My hands trembled slightly as I extended both toward Thea.
They smiled like someone admiring a painting. "What a marvelous sight, Hugo. I could almost say I'm proud of you. You did this in such a timely manner." Their tone softened, teasing. "What, you're in that rush to get what we promised you?"
"Yeah," I said, my voice quieter than I intended. "I'm in a hurry."
"I love how impatient you are," Thea murmured, stepping closer.
They didn't reach for the money first. Their hand went instead to the pendant, long fingers closing around it with reverence. They lifted it to their face, studying it as though it might whisper something to them. The glass caught the light, painting a thin red gleam across their cheek.
Thea tilted it, sniffed near the top, and then turned it so the pointed base faced them. "It still has blood on it," they said softly, almost pleased. "So I guess you did the marking as well."
"I used it for the marking," I said. My voice didn't sound like my own.
"Wonderful," they replied. "I honestly didn't think you'd make the choice you made, but you surprised me." The pendant rolled between their fingers. "You surpassed all of my expectations. Not to say that I had any, honestly. You already seemed like a peculiar person. And we often meet people like you, but you stand out in a very odd way."
I frowned. "What do you mean?"
Thea smiled. Not a kind smile, but something closer to curiosity given a face. They moved closer again, until the glow from the candles caught the pale shimmer in their eyes.
"Your eyes," they said, studying me as if I were a study in light. "They're big. Almost beautiful. You always look like you're about to cry." Their voice dipped, low and deliberate. "They're very expressive. I'm sure you've been told this before."
They reached out, almost touching my face but stopping just shy of it. "There's so much kindness in them. So much weakness too. But your actions…" They paused, head tilting. "Your actions don't match the way you look. Not at all."
I couldn't look away. The silence between us stretched thin, trembling. The pendant dangled from their hand, still shining like a small heart caught in glass.
Then, with a light sigh, Thea took the stack of money from my palm. The brush of their fingers against mine sent a chill straight up my arm.
They turned and walked toward the center of the chamber. The air seemed to thicken around them, as if the room itself acknowledged their presence. The circle on the floor waited like something ancient, the carvings almost shifting under the weight of their steps.
Standing in the middle, they turned slightly, their profile haloed by the low candlelight. "Hugo," they said, calm as always, "you may go now."
"Where do I—where should I go now?" I asked. "What happens next?"
Thea didn't turn to face me again. "Opheles will meet you by the chamber's entrance outside," they said. "I'll call you in a couple of minutes."
Their tone left no room for question.
So I stood there, the echo of their words hanging in the space between us, the pendant's image still bright in my mind—its blood untouched, its promise alive.
The air outside the chamber felt colder, though there was no wind. I started forward, still dizzy from Thea's gaze, the weight of their words pressing somewhere behind my eyes. My boots caught unevenly on the stone, and before I could steady myself, I stumbled.
A hand caught mine.
Warm. So warm it almost startled me.
The touch of it pulsed thinly, not like blood, but like heat through silk—steady, radiant, alive in a way skin shouldn't be. His palm was too smooth, too even, as though no print had ever marked it. No pulse. I wanted to turn it over, to see if he even had lines or any trace of human imperfection. But I didn't. The thought of touching him longer than necessary felt like pressing my hand to a flame.
"You trip every step you take," Opheles said, voice light with mockery. "What are you made of? Paper?"
I exhaled a quiet scoff, trying to pull my hand back. "What happens next?"
He tilted his head, and for a heartbeat, his eyes looked less like eyes, more like something catching the light wrong. "You aren't meant to see what happens next," he said. "But we'll—"
And then the rest broke apart.
The words melted midair, blurring into something shapeless. My ears filled with a low, smothering pressure, the kind that comes before a storm or fainting. I could see his lips moving, but sound no longer carried meaning. The world narrowed to the warmth still clinging to my wrist and the quiet buzz under my skin.
He placed both hands on my shoulders. The contact burned through the fabric of my coat, too soft, too steady. Then he turned me—slowly, gently—back toward the chamber.
I didn't resist. Or maybe I couldn't tell if I was resisting at all.
My feet began to move, uncertain whether they were mine to command. The world tilted; the edges of the hall bent inward, rippling. My pulse rose into my ears until even that sound fell away, leaving only a dull echo, like being underwater and too far down to rise.
The entrance ahead was open. Light bled out from inside, slow and golden.
I stepped forward. Light widened. Heat steadied. Language failed.
The sound never came back, but—