Abyssal Curse

A fist studded with rings slammed against Mischa’s face, snapping his head sideways. His jaw cracked, shooting a tooth out of his mouth. Pain exploded and blood streamed down his chin.

The DJ cut the jazzy house music. Screams from the club's patrons replaced the bass while the dance lights continued to flash. One chorus ago, everyone had been having the time of their lives. Now they scattered in panic, finally realizing the place was being robbed.

Not worth the pay to get beat up. Of course it’s me who has to fight the giant, Mischa somehow registered through his panic.

Raising scarred, spindly arms to block, Mischa braced for another hit. No luck–the large thief in the black suit delivered a brutal punch to his temple. His vision blurred, and right after a heavy knee connected with his gut. Doubled over from the pain, he gasped for air.

“Should’ve let us take the money. It’s not even yours. You’re just the barback,” the thug sneered.

Behind a nearby door, Mischa heard his boss yell and plead with another thief for his life.

Where the fuck is Security?

A deafening gunshot sounded next to their fight from behind the door. Glass bottles shattered, followed by a heavy thump. His boss's begging stopped.

They’re going to fucking kill me!

The crowd down the hall pressed each other desperately through the front door into the icy night. If Mischa could just get past the giant man kicking his ass, he could make it.

Primal fear for his life made him think of something, anything, to fight back with.

“Oh, fuck.” the brute said, glancing at the door. The closed office door remained silent as Mischa shakily reached into his pocket for the corkscrew he always carried while working.

No one ever ordered wine at the club. They came for the vodka bottles frozen in blocks of ice, plush red couches hidden in dark corners, and the burlesque show that ran until the early morning hours. Still, his boss had insisted he keep a corkscrew on hand, just in case.

Mischa fumbled with the cutter on the corkscrew. Too slow.

“What do you think you’re doing?” The man said in an annoyed tone.

Mischa’s head was ripped upwards as the man yanked his long, messy black hair.

Another crunch, this time his nose. Pain erupted and his eyes watered as he was shoved hard. He stumbled backwards, crashed into the bathroom door and landed hard onto the wet, cold ground.

Piss. I’m going to die covered in piss.

“What did you do?!” the brute yelled at his accomplice, who had just come out of the office with a giant bag stuffed with cash.

“He pulled a gun! It’s fine. Got the money. Security still out front?” Mischa recognized the voice that answered back at the giant from the hallway. The small man had trained Mischa on his first day two months ago.

Ron. I hate that prick.

“You idiot, look,” the brute said, throwing the swinging bathroom door open. Ron’s mousy face paled at seeing Mischa, bloodied and beaten on the floor.

Mischa crab-walked backward until he hit the stall. The club’s lights still flashed, casting their faces in darkness every other second in the hallway.

“Mischa? Shit! SHIT! He knows me. Knows your face, too!” Ron yelled, voice cracking as he glanced frantically towards the back door that led to the alley.

“Deal with it. We have to go. Now.” The large man said with finality.

Ron hesitated for a moment, then walked into the bathroom.

“Ron, no. Please, don’t do this,” Mischa begged, tears streaking his bloodied face as he pressed himself further back. Nowhere left to go.

“Sorry, Mischa, it’s business.” Ron said flatly as he aimed the gun at Mischa’s head.

Mischa threw his hands in front of his body, desperate to shield himself.

“Don’t! Please! I’ll do anythi-”

A flash of light, followed by another deafening pop of the gun. Mischa felt sudden pain between his eyes, and then, nothing.

Like many before him, he died powerless.

Endless, comfortable darkness swallowed Mischa. He felt the Abyss take him as it swallowed everything. His pain, his fear, even his thoughts. Yet, something lingered.

A weight. A burden.

Anything? An ancient voice whispered from the void. Mischa faded away.

---

“Mitch! Mitch! Wake up! Three hours till open! Limes, don’t forget the limes this time! And the espresso sludge! Four bottles!” A fist banged on the thin door, rattling the frame, and a gruff voice shouted for someone named Mitch.

Micha’s back ached from the thin mattress beneath him, but at least it was warm.

Adrenaline replaced grogginess and he leapt out of bed. His head smacked the low, slanted ceiling. Pain flared.

Shit!

Heart racing, Mischa looked around the small room like a trapped animal. It was barely the size of a broom closet.

A bed was wedged in the corner, taking up most of the space. The small side table held an earpiece. A greasy window let in a trickle of light. One wall slanted sharply, connecting with the corner of the other. A pile of clothes sat on the floor.

What is going on? I was just shot in the head. Why am I in an attic?

“Mitch? You good? You were making some right weird noises last night. Lot of…thumping about. Were you cryin’? I know yer alone in there, what’re ye doin’?” the same voice asked again, this time concerned.

Mischa’s head snapped to the short wooden door, nerves still flared. Gulping, he spoke.

“Yeah, all good. Smacked my head is all. Stupid damned wall, gets in the way all the time,” he answered, startling himself. A deep bass trembled out of his throat; a voice much lower than he was used to. Looking down at his hands, his eyes widened.

Rather than the sleek, feminine hands he was ashamed of, they were massive. Thick, calloused things. Turning them over, he stared at the knuckles, bulging and laced with fresh scars. When he clenched them, he felt strength surge through his arms.

What the…?

The voice outside laughed. A booming, warm laugh. “Again? You gotta stop doing that, big guy. Let’s go, we’ve got to set up. And Robin’s in one of his moods again!” Short, heavy footsteps tramped down the hallway, creaking the stairs as they descended.

Hathgar. The name popped into Mischa’s head, along with an image: a stocky dwarf with a wild grin and a fiery red beard that overwhelmed a round face. He was a fellow barback at Club Mythos, working while traveling the world. Very loud. They were friends. Hathgar owed him several rounds of drinks.

As his mind raced, vague memories floated to the surface, like opening small drawers in his brain. It felt like rifling through someone else’s things, familiar, yet alien.

Shaking off confusion, Mischa glanced down at his body, noticing for the first time he was completely naked. The chest he was staring down at was huge. Freakishly muscular and covered in countless scars.

Jesus, I’m massive. What are those scars from?

During his childhood, he had been underfed by his drunk of a father. His previous small frame had been the result of years of malnutrition, and had left him with spindly limbs and short stature. Now, he felt like he was an oversized, amateur bodybuilder.

Carefully, so as not to smack his head, he rummaged through clothes that felt too large in his hands. Black t-shirts and black pants. Ripe from dried sweat.

Holy shit! I’ve been reborn into another barback!

Mischa felt great. He could feel the strong muscles coiled under his skin. His breath came clearer than ever before as he took deep breaths from clean lungs. Slipping on the least smelly set of clothes, he took stock of his situation.

Ok…not sitting in piss, covered in blood, definitely not dead. Ok, breathe. Roll with it.

The pants were snug but comfortable against his trim waist. He didn’t want to tug the t-shirt, which sat flush against his body. Usually, he would pull at it, slowly stretching it out through the day, hoping to hide his small frame that still held a paunch.

Am I tall now? Is this Mitch guy a giant?

He couldn’t help himself, and flexed his arm muscles as he laced up the leather boots he found stashed under his mattress. Forearm muscles bulged, thick veins running across them like loose cables.

Just how strong am I?

As he finished his mental question, a window of text popped up in his mind.

Mitchell Quarlette Age: 25 years♾️ Race: ½ Unknown, ½ Human Quests (Burdens)💀 Credits Skills (Afflictions) Titles

Afflictions? Burdens? Oh, that’s fantastic. 25 years infinity? One half unknown? What am I?

Mitch could feel that with a thought, he could easily dive deeper into any part of his Status Screen.

Let’s see what we’re dealing with here. What’s familiar? Money. Money is familiar. Titles? What are Titles? Your name is Mitch. One step at a time. Breathe. Don’t even think about that flashing Quest screen that’s called Burdens and has a skull next to it. Nope. Afflictions? No thank you.

Mitch selected Titles first.

Empty. Hmmm.

He tentatively selected the Credits option with his mind.

Credits Debts: -1,000,666* Assets: 27 Credits, 0 Souls*, 0 Flesh* Interest: -666/day Cashflow: 100/day (Barback Salary)

Oh no! Crapload of debt! What is this place? Souls…? This is bad. This is very bad. It’s got to be that Quest notification.

His heart dropped as the earpiece on the table buzzed. A high-pitched voice screeched through, filling the small room with potent energy.

“Mitch! Bloody hell man, get your ass downstairs. Limes! Espresso, make it six bottles. Prep all the beluga vodka. All reso's are canceled. We’ve got a buyout tonight. Crae's Agency. Bigguns. Oh yes, you and Hathgar circle the couches like last time.” Robin’s nasally voice departed just as quickly as it spoke.

Robin.

Again, a name filled his mind. Robin was the eccentric owner of Club Mythos. A ghost with unusual Skills that made all parties he attended legendary. He rarely showed up before the guests arrived but always ensured everyone had the best time once he did. A good enough boss, though a bit unhinged.

He does let me stay here for free. Decent guy.

Another buzz.

“Oh, and I need you to grab a package. Mathilda’s, one hour. Bring it to my office when you’re back. Chop, chop!”

Mathilda. She’s nice. She’s also a vampire. Dread Alley, first red door.

The knowledge came immediately to him at mention of her name. Mitch sighed and walked to his small door.

Feeling in his pockets, he pulled out a worn corkscrew and a slip of folded paper. He stared at the corkscrew, and then unfolded the handwritten note.

I’m sorry. The last guy left me a note as well. This body is now yours. So is the debt. The Abyss gives you power, but they will come for payment. He always collects what’s owed. If you want to give up, you can. Or you can try to last longer than I did. Twelve years.

His stomach clenched. He could feel it. A pull from the depths, like invisible hands tightening their grip.

Twelve years? And you still failed? Why were you still a barback? What happened to you?

Trembling, he opened the quest.

Burden: Pay the Abyssal Debt The Abyss accepts all forms of payment. Status: Incomplete Active Debt: -1,000,666 Interest: 666/day Currency: Souls, Flesh, Credits Do you give up?

He felt that he could say yes to the final question of the burden. One moment of weakness, and he would die.

Oh. This is bad. This is really bad.

But Mitch wasn’t ready to just give in. Not that easily. He had already overcome so much in his life. Forged his persistence.

Mathilda’s.

She must know something. Vampires always did, especially in this city. She’d been here in Shadowreach for centuries. Maybe longer. The weird memories that filled his head said so.

Mitch opened the small door. He had limes to cut, couches to move, and an appointment with a vampire.

“So Pa’ stares at me uncle’s jarred eye, dead serious, and says, ‘And that’s why you ain’t never trust an orc with a red ring!’” Hathgar’s booming laugh erupted, shaking the cob-web infested lamps that floated freely above. The dwarf shoved the last blood red couch into place.

“That bastard’s antics do make me miss Stonehollow, still haven’t done nothing with them weapons though,” Hathgar added in his gruff accent, wiping a tear of laughter from his eye.

Mitch silently polished glasses with a rag behind the bar, hands burning from cutting through hundreds of limes. He tried to focus on the simple task, but the weight of his one Affliction Skill cast a constant shadow over his mind. Curiosity had gotten the better of him earlier, and now he could feel the singular ‘currency’ sitting in his core.

It was attached to the single Skill he discovered that he had.

Abyssal Vault Level 1 Collect and store Souls, Flesh, and Credits within. A living account for your Abyssal Debt. Meet a Collector to transfer the sum. Settlement Amount: 1 Soul, 0 Credits, 0 Flesh

1 Soul? Whose? I have someone else's soul inside of me?

With the knowledge of his Skill came more unfurling memories about Skills in general. People were lucky to have one. Monstrously strong individuals had three or four, but they were exceedingly rare. All Skills had some sort of cost, but mana didn’t exist in this world. Some people exhausted quickly with use, others depended on their life force, slowly withering away with each subsequent use. Many Skills simply recharged gradually, or had allotted uses that replenished and could grow with Skill levels.

Couches ringed the dance floor. The painted black walls lined with empty, non-reflective frames seemed to observe the club in silence. Hathgar, ever the chatterbox, waved his muscular arms as he yapped about Crae’s Agency’s ridiculous booking requests.

Mitch barely listened as he processed the news of his ability.

“Aye, I reckon if you’ve got pockets deep as theirs, you can pay for any damned thing ye’ want,” Halthgar grumbled, though his grin never left as he wiped down the bar. He eyed Mitch suspiciously, “You alright, lad? I know yer the muscle and I'm the looks of the operation, but yer awful somber today, even with our buyout bonus.”

Mitch flinched at Hathgar’s question and forced a smile that felt more like a mask.

I’m already wearing someone else’s skin. It is a mask.

“Yeah, I’m good,” he lied, pushing the words out of his mouth. “Just tired, didn’t sleep well at all. Kept…uh…tossing and turning,” The corners of his mouth curved, but his eyes remained hollow as his anxiety began to get the better of him.

Hathgar eyed him seriously, bearded grin disappearing, before he let out a deep chuckle. “Aye, don’t we all know that feeling, lad. Crae’s lot might be particular, but we’ll rake in a fortune tonight. Maybe I’ll have enough for a decent keg of ale for us, none of that swill Robin serves!”

He patted Mitch’s arm roughly with a heavy hand, the warmth of his jovial friendship cutting through the fog.

Maybe I am being a bit of a lug. It could have been worse, I could have been reborn into a worm.

Yet Mitch’s hands trembled on the dirty glass he cleaned with a dirtier cloth. The Abyssal Debt. The soul he carried in his core. He wasn’t imagining it. It was there, locked away, sitting solemnly in a corner like a cowed animal. The cold reality settled in: he’d been so sure that he could handle whatever came his way. Now, knowing the Soul was inside him, he wavered.

What happens when the Collector comes to collect?

His grip tightened on the glass, and with a sharp crack, it shattered in his hands.

Pain surged through his palms as jagged shards dug into his skin. Blood welled, dripping and pooling on the surface of the bar. Mitch winced, but a strange sensation followed.

The pain felt different. Fitting.

Affliction Skill Gained Agony’s Embrace Level 1 Pain is power. Harness every drop of suffering, turning agony into unrelenting strength. Your torment permanently fortifies your body and amplifies your strength.

Hathgar rushed over on short legs, thick body almost knocking Mitch over. “Damn it, lad! What’re ye doing? Look at yer hands!” He wrapped Mitch’s dripping hands tightly with dusty cloth. “They be strong as hammers, take it easy.”

Mitch stared at his wrapped palms, twisted thoughts making him grin wildly. A faint surge of power flickered through his veins, the wounds granting him permanent power. The thought turned his stomach, yet he couldn’t shake it.

I can use this. They have no idea how much I can take. Already died once, haven’t I?

Memories from his past life brushed his mind. The torment he had endured. How far he had already come.

He laughed darkly, smiling genuinely at Hathgar for the first time. Hathgar paused, frowning slightly, before smiling again. “Thanks, I’ll manage. I need to head to Mathilda’s anyway. Package for Robin. You know how he is,”

“Mmm,” Hathgar groaned, squinting at Mitch. “Watch yer neck. Never liked vampires. Sneaky blokes, cordin’ to me father.” Hathgar clapped him on the shoulder, his warmth helping pull Mitch back from the unsettling thoughts. “Just be careful, lad. And Crae’s crowd isn’t easy, you’ll need both hands tonight if we’re going to keep up.”

He grinned, squeezing Mitch’s arm before stepping back. “Ye’ve heard how they can be.”

Mitch nodded, feeling the pulse of his throbbing hand, pain humming through his body. Settling in. “We’ll be fine, what’s the big deal, anyways? How bad can they really be?” He answered, but his mind was elsewhere. He had a package to pick up.

Mathilda’s package. Need to learn all that I can. I need more than these half memories.

Slipping away from the bar, he snatched up a small backpack, and walked towards the back alley exit. Robin’s office stayed shut, as it always did. Somehow, he knew he had never been inside.

Mitch needed to walk. Perhaps the cool night air would help clear his head.

“Hey! Ye didn’t do the damned espresso! Yer leaving it to me again, eh?” Hathgar’s warm timber echoed down the hallway. It was made by Robin to always feel overwhelmingly long. With each step, the idea that he could embrace the pain to grow stronger lingered.

“I’ll buy you a beer after! You still owe me a bunch, by the way. Think of the espresso as the start of your payment plan!” Mitch shouted over his shoulder. It was the oddest feeling, to meet someone entirely new, yet feel like they had been friends forever.

It’s my body. My body has these memories. Not me. But I do really like him…

Pushing open the rusted metal door, Mitch hunched his large frame as he stepped into the cold, endless night of Shadowreach.

The scent of garbage hit Mitch, forcing a grimace on his face as he stepped into the alley. Trash left to fester, weeks of rot piled up; Shadowreach had no sanitation crews, just the small crime lords who traded only in Credits or favors. Their rule was the only order the city knew. A fattened rat scurried over his boot, vanishing into the pile of filth it called home.

As he stepped onto the main street, the city of endless night buzzed with life. Humans of all sizes alongside elves, orcs, and dwarves jostled for space along the narrow streets. Floating candles drifted lazily on their own currents, casting light and shadows across the looming, gothic architecture.

Creepy. But cool.

Mitch wished he had a collar to pull tighter, the cold nipping at his neck. Even with the bustling energy of the city around him, Shadowreach was forever frigid. The city was surrounded by the Depths on all sides, where earth cracked, leading to the underground cities, and further, the Abyss.

Ok, these half memories are useful. I'm not totally clueless. But what goes on in the Abyss?

Knowledge scratched at his mind, but wouldn’t surface. His hand found the glass in his pocket, still warm. Out of the corner of his eye, he felt the stony glares of the enchanted, watching gargoyles that stood guard on their roof perches.

Food stalls lined the cobblestone streets, run by all forms of life. The scent of roasting meat mingled with something that set Mitch’s stomach on edge. A Ground Troll waved a skewer in his direction, but Mitch ignored it.

My body knows that smell…grilled human flesh.

He pushed his finger into the shard in his pocket, stabbing himself and sending a tiny, sharp pulse of power through him. It absorbed into his muscles, dark and alive, feeding on his self-inflicted wound. For years prior to his death, Mitch had worked through his self-harm tendencies. He had stopped, mostly, and made strides on working through his trauma.

And now it’s making me stronger in this new body. Morbid, man. Seriously morbid.

It was how he dealt with the years of neglect and bullying. Mitch was accustomed to pain, and dark humor filled his mind at the process. Instead of hurting himself for a semblance of relief, the pain now permanently strengthened him.

Down the street a Goblin peddled cursed relics, crooked fingers wrapped around a tarnished pendant that pulsed with dark energy. The crowd unconsciously steered clear, and Mitch could feel the circle of despair around the stall.

“Ho’ there!” The vendor hissed, its hand fetid and black. “Memory stone on a real Abyssal chain? Only used once, perfect for hiding things you’d rather forget.”

As Mitch moved on from the bustling stalls, the true rot of Shadowreach revealed itself.

Grimlace addicts, bodies twisted and deformed in unnatural ways, huddled in corners or hobbled on ulcerated legs. Each Grimmer was easily identified by their permanent grimace and black eyes, no matter their race.

Some stood frozen, mouths peeled back to show blackened teeth ruined by the smokable sludge of a drug. Others hunched with clenched, tight jaws; hollow eyes vacant. One twitching Grimmer clawed itself as Mitch passed, picking at her smiling lips, seeping blood onto her bare, thin chest. Mitch smellee the sweet rot of the drug that wafted off her ashen skin.

This one’s close. Too far gone. Any day now, pretty sure she’ll lose what’s left of herself.

As Mitch approached Dread Alley, the floating candles thinned. A group of Grimmers huddled together near the final corner. Unlike many of the others, their grimaces were erratic. Black colored eyes darted around as they sensed something different about Mitch. These weren’t new addicts. They were on the brink of losing all control of themselves.

Passing, Mitch felt their eyes lock onto him. Wild, contorted expressions tracked his heavy steps. The soul in his core pulsed faintly.

They smell it. They know my core is holding something valuable.

The largest addict’s remaining eyeball flickered with recognition, like he could sense what Mitch carried. He lunged forward towards Mitch, and his legs froze at the sudden confrontation.

“We know what you’ve got, boy,” the skeletal man rasped, his voice broken from the harsh drug. “It’s inside, right there,” a too-long finger stabbed into his chest. “They’ll come soon ‘nuff. No hiding from it.” The other Grimmers cackled, their laughter sharp and hollow as they returned back to their huddled state. To smoke more Grimlace.

Mitch’s heart raced as he scurried off, half expecting the Grimmers to follow. Hungry eyes burned into his back, but they stayed together, mingling in their filth. Laughing, they whispered to each other in nonsensical sentences only they understood.

Finally arriving at his destination, his pace faltered as his reflection caught his eye on Mathilda’s polished red door. The first time he was able to see his new body.

A tall, muscular figure stared back at him. Broad-shouldered and towering. For a moment, he forgot to breathe. Long, wavy hair the color of white frost parted across his forehead, framing his face. Dark, endless red irises stared back. He waved, and the stranger reflected in the door copied him. This body didn’t belong to him, yet here it was, mimicking his every move.

That’s me?

He wasn’t sure if the reflection staring back at him was a dream or a nightmare. It was like looking into a distorted mirror. He saw a body that could break bone and crush souls. It wasn’t his body. Not really.

This new body might be his now, but it didn’t feel like it. Not yet.

I am fricken jacked, though. Holy shit.

Unable to help himself, Mitch flexed and posed. There was something like pride that bubbled within him. His whole life, he had been picked on, but now, he had the body he wished he had. The body he always wanted.

His fists clenched at his sides, the ache from the broken glass wounds throbbed, helping to ground him back to his new reality. The pain felt real, at least. Not like the skin he now wore.

Shivering, he raised a giant fist and knocked three times, just like Mathilda asked of old friends.

Red candles glowed on tightly packed shelves. Smoke curled out and wrapped around Mitch’s body as he entered the small shop. With a faint thud, the door closed itself behind him, cutting off the outside world. His body immediately recognized the scents, spreading blossoming warmth through his chest. Musk, paper glue, and the faint smell of flowers knocked him slightly off kilter. It’s as if my body knows this place. An ornate desk and purple high-backed chair sat empty directly in front of him. The shop looked unattended, which sent a surprising pang of disappointment through Mitch. What is going on? Why is my body reacting like this? Who is…no, who was she to me? Looking around, he inspected the cramped space. Jars of all sizes sat pressed together on one shelf. Their contents were unknowable to him, and they were thankfully sealed shut. Relics, large and small, lay haphazardly on shelves, organized in some pattern only understood by their current owner. Bones studded with gems, softly vibrating bracelets, and fanciful weapons were easily identifiable. Others…well, Mitch could only wonder what they were supposed to be. Twisted amalgamations of flesh and potent dark energy. At least I think that’s flesh… “Mitchell, you’re late, as usual,” a husky, teasing feminine voice whispered in his ear, turning him towards the door. The air shifted, dimming the available light, and when Mitch turned back, Mathilda was seated in the purple chair behind the desk. Long, jet-black hair framed her milk-white face. She appeared to be a gorgeous woman in her late twenties. Perfect, save for the fine silver lines tracing her pale skin. It was cracked like marble, barely visible, but unmistakable upon closer inspection. The marks of an ancient, pure-blooded vampire. Damn. Crazy hot. Sheesh. He couldn’t help the thought as he felt himself check out the vampire. “Hello, newcomer.” She smiled at him, revealing her surgically sharp fangs. Shock and fear pulsed within him. She knows. How does she know? Before he could respond, she leaned forward and spoke softly. “Careful now, your thoughts betray you. Many creatures bound to the Abyss have such Skills, mine is just particularly potent.” Her lavender perfume drifted towards him. Heat stirred low in his stomach, unwelcome and undeniable, his body reacting in ways he couldn’t control. It called out to her. My body is reacting far too quickly for this to be normal. This must be a Skill. “How…Who are you to me? My body knows you,” he said, fear gripping firmly to his spine, mixing with physical longing. Raising a manicured finger, she wagged it at him as if he were a mere boy. “Not quite the man you once were, isn’t that right?” Her voice dripped with faux sincerity. A strange force pulsed between them, freezing him and thickening the air as she carried on. “A bullied boy, a family disavowed. Taking it for years, never standing up for yourself once. I’ll bet a part of you even misses it. The beatings from your father with that dog leash. The taste of dirt and laughing schoolmates. At least they noticed you, then.” The words stabbed at him, more painful than they should be from a stranger. Mitch’s throat constricted. A sharp ache built behind his ribs. Rage surged beneath the surface, each breath rough. Clenching his fists, he felt the glass wounds tear anew, mixing with the raw ache of old hurts barely healed. How does she know about my past? “Get the hell out of my head,” he growled. But his body remained locked in fear by the door. All his life, he would fight, but only if backed into a corner. A result of never being as big as anyone else. “You think you can handle what’s coming? After soiling your pajamas in anticipation of a drunk fathers’ beatings? I can’t believe you made it this far without ending it all already, even before you were brought here,” she mocked him as the air pressed harder. Humiliation, shame, anger, and fear shoved any rational thought aside. Gentler, she spoke. “Cast it aside, Mitchell. You need to. Lock it away.” Why is she saying this, if my body recognizes her as friendly? Confusion mixed in, and he tried to calm his hammering heart and whirling head of dark emotions. Breathe. In…out. Don’t let it consume you. Affliction Skill Gained Devoid Level 1 Lock away undesired emotions and thoughts. Feel only what you wish. All emotions and thoughts must be addressed eventually. The new Affliction Skill rushed into him, settling inside like a false drawer. Mitch took as much of the shame, anger, and fear of his past and pressed it into his Devoid Skill. A torrent of relief washed over him as much, but not all, of the emotions squeezed into the small box within him. With a final shove, he slammed the door shut. Rationality returned. Her dark laugh garnered his attention, “You’re welcome. With thoughts as loud as yours, I had to be a bit more…forceful. I’m sorry, but it was necessary. I can still hear them, but I am…special.” Special? “Did you do that for the others? How many of us?” The question came out like mud from Mitch, the stark reality of his circumstance bubbling forth from the absence of emotions. “Some, but not all. Each had different Skills, but there are some…similarities. The Abyss marks each of you differently. All have shattered under its weight.” She stated, her voice steady but filled with sorrow. “What am I supposed to do? If you know of the Abyssal debt, you must know something. Anything.” His voice came out strained. “Answers I cannot give you,” Mathilda’s lips twitched, a flash of something. Pain, perhaps, or regret. She lowered her gaze from meeting his own, tracing the fine silver lines along her palm. “I’m…bound. Just like you, Mitchell. Bound by a pact older than this ancient city. There are certain things a vampire cannot reveal, as the pacts bind us. They hold my tongue as they hold your fate.” “That’s it then? Figure it out, or die like the others? Kill myself?” His voice cracked. “I’m supposed to kill and collect souls? Thieve until I’m caught? For a debt I don’t even understand. Face the Collector? I need something!” “Collectors. That much I can say,” meeting his gaze again, she leaned back in her chair. “And this. Just a word of advice,” the candlelight reflected off her eyes as she continued. “Remember, one must always go forward. The way is never paved by going around. That I can say, as it’s general advice.” I’m supposed to embrace what’s happening to me? Is that what she means? Mitch’s eyes fell to the cuff pendant around her neck. His body stirred with recognition, but the knowledge danced just out of reach, behind a locked drawer. Straining, he could almost taste it. But no matter how hard he reached, the memory slipped through his fingers, fading like a forgotten song. “Thank you for helping me with the Skill,” he said quietly. “I don’t think I can repay you for that.” “Polite, too.” she said coyly. “The last one was much too sulky. One can only hope you don’t squander your time like him. As for payment…hmm,” she tapped her finger on her black lips, thinking. Is she toying with me? Mathila’s serious face peeled back in a viscous smile, eyes gleaming in the low candlelight. Without a word, she gracefully reached below her desk and withdrew a small black box, wrapped in silver chains that glimmered in the flickering candlelight. The chains were far too heavy for such a small object. She placed it on the desk before him, the weight of its presence unsettling. “This,” she said in a pleased tone, “is for Robin. He will know what to do with it, and Crae’s lot will be more than satisfied. It’s delivery is payment enough.” Mitch glanced at the black box, eyes narrowing. “What’s in it?” She smiled, sharp and secretive. Mitch’s pulse quickened, something magnetic drawing him toward her, a warmth spreading through his chest. “You don’t need to know, yet. Just that it’s enough to keep their curiosity sated.” It’s like my body has a mind of its own, separate from me. I know she’s attractive, but this is something different. He reached for the box, but before he could grasp it, Mathilda’s hand shot out, gripping his wrist lightly, yet with strength that startled him. His skin prickled under her touch. “Before you leave,” she said, “I have something for you. A token.” Mitch’s eyes met hers, wariness creeping in. After years of torment in his previous life, he had pushed people away. He liked her, and felt a semblance of trust for what she’d already done, but his hackles were still raised at the idea of another gift. Never trust those that are too giving. She let go of his wrist and opened a small drawer, producing a thin, silver key on a chain. Polished metal, shimmering like moonlight, and engraved with swirling patterns. She placed it in front of him. “This key,” Mathilda said, her voice serious now, “will open a door. One day, I hope you will find that door, and when you do, this will let you in.” Her eyes met his, unwavering. “But you must promise me something.” “What kind of promise?” He asked gruffly, uncertainty gnawing. “A favor,” she said, leaning back in her plush chair, her eyes shining with intensity. “When the time comes, I will call upon you, and you will answer. No questions asked.” Mitch stared at the key lying there, the weight of the deal pressing at him. He felt the pull of the unknown, same as the Abyss that ran through his veins. For some reason that he couldn’t explain, he wanted to accept. Maybe it was his body’s familiarity, maybe it was her Skills, maybe it was the clawing desperation he felt for some form of control over his circumstance. Nodding slowly, he picked up the key, turning it over in his bleeding fingertips. “Alright,” he answered gruffly. “I’ll work with you. But don’t mistake me for the last one, or anyone else. You might think you know me, but I’m nothing like them. Push me, and you’ll find out what happens when you corner someone with nothing to lose.” Mathilda’s lips curved into a wicked, knowing smile, her eyes glinting with something that may have been respect or amusement. “Come for me, will you?” she chuckled softly, a jolt to his core. “Perhaps… things will be different this time.” Her laughter was soft, but the weight of it lingered. Leaning forward, her marble-cracked fingers traced over the silver key before retracting, brushing his bloody, wrag-covered palm in some unspoken agreement.

Quest: Open the Sealed Door Use the Key on the Door. Answer Mathilda’s Call. Status: Incomplete Mitch’s grip tightened on the small key before slipping it over his head and tucking it under his black t-shirt. Many questions remained, but he’d be damned if he let the Abyss or anyone else fully dictate his fate. Even a seemingly concerned vampire. He picked up the black box, the weight of the chains heavier than expected. It took him another moment to place Crae’s party favor in his pack.

A final look at Mathilda, something deep within him took her in, melancholic for her touch. Turning to leave, he stopped at the door, a question stabbing at his mind. Without looking back, he asked in a rough voice, “Whose soul is in my core?” Thick silence pressed. He thought she might ignore the question, but then Mathilda’s measured and cool voice drifted through her shop.

“You’ll find out soon enough,” she replied sadly. “And when you do, Mitchell, I hope you’ll carry the same resolve you do now.” Without answering, he pushed open her red door and stepped out into the oppressive cold of Shadowreach.

Crae’s Agency would be arriving at Club Mythos shortly. He needed to get moving.