Devil’s in the Details

“Silence falls when the softest truth is spoken.”

— Selryn Vordahl,

Eleventh Prophet of the First Order

The Scroll of Quiet Secrets

***

It took a couple of days to pull everything together—lining up the pieces, greasing a few palms, and twisting arms with just the right mix of bribes and blackmail to get the intel and access we needed. Well, almost everything we needed. The rest? A dash of explosives and a little blind luck would have to make up the difference.

The air in the city was thick that day—stifling, oppressive, the kind of heat that felt like a grimy hand on your throat. The rift soot hung heavy, dulling everything, a smog so dense it turned the skyline into a smudged canvas. Nothing broke through that sickly haze, not even a glimmer of color. The first dry day in weeks, but it smelled like a battlefield—brimstone and decay.

Al headed to the shop to pick up a few things, while I made a quick stop at Beautiful Chaos—a hole-in-the-wall shop filled with the kind of occult junk you’d expect from people who still thought Aether Channel maps meant something. Mostly a novelty now, something the crazies clung to like gospel. Still, I figured it was worth checking out.

But when I arrived, the place was gone. Burned to the ground.

The wreckage was still smoldering, blackened beams jutting out like jagged bones from a charred corpse. The air stank of smoke and melted plastic, the acrid smell stinging my eyes and throat. The windows had blown out, their frames twisted and warped, and the sign—Beautiful Chaos—lay in the rubble, half-buried under ash. Flames had licked the walls clean, leaving behind a skeleton of what had once been a vibrant, albeit cluttered, store.

The passersby just kept moving, their steps quick, their faces blank, as if the wreckage was just another part of the city’s decay—unremarkable, unworthy of a second thought. The ruin of Beautiful Chaos blended into the grimy streets, swallowed by the endless hum of life that didn’t have time to care.

For some reason, a pang of guilt twisted in my chest. I couldn’t explain it. I didn’t like the guy who ran the place—he was smug, abrasive, would give you the creeps—but I didn’t want him dead, either. No one deserved to go out like this.

I turned away from the wreckage, my thoughts heavy, and made my way down the street toward the crossing where Al and I had agreed to meet. The city churned around me in the late afternoon light, oblivious to the destruction, its chaos indifferent. But the smell of smoke followed me, clinging to my clothes, refusing to let me forget.

I was waiting for Al. He was supposed to meet me here, said he’d bring the gear. Guns, mostly. I had a few errands to run beforehand, and had passed him my list—no point wasting time. But he was late, so I started wandering, weaving my way through the pedestrians. I let my feet carry me a few blocks, keeping an eye on the corner, waiting for Al’s familiar bulk to show up.

I passed a shop, its window filled with a dozen stacked SpectraVisions—modern screens glowing bright despite the gloom, flashing headlines. Couldn’t escape the noise. Whatever happened to books, huh?

The screens showed a newscaster’s perfect plastic smile, announcing the Governor’s press conference. The Governor stood, ribbon in hand, smiling against the backdrop of the Northern Goodrich skyline—NoGo, they called it. Gleaming buildings, all chrome and glass. The wealthier part of New Amsterdam, where everything glittered, and even the crime was polished up nice. It was busy, sure, but not like the south—there, corruption wore a suit, signed contracts in boardrooms instead of bloodying knuckles in alleys.

I stood on the corner, waiting, feeling the city pulse around me like a giant, wounded animal. The scent was putrid: unwashed bodies, rot mixed with fast food grease, exhaust fumes and something acrid that clawed at the back of my throat.

Across the street, a homeless man stood, rocking back and forth like a metronome set to a rhythm only he could hear. His hair was a wild, tangled mane of white and gray, streaked with grime and sticking out in tufts as if he’d been struck by lightning. His skin was sallow and weathered, his face a map of creases and scars that spoke of years spent battling the elements—and losing. He wore layers of mismatched clothes: a tattered overcoat, sleeves frayed to strings, over a shirt that might have once been white but was now a patchwork of stains. His pants were cinched at the waist with a length of old rope, the hems dragging in the dirt. One shoe was missing, revealing a foot wrapped in filthy rags.

In his hands, he clutched a battered cardboard sign that he wasn’t showing anyone, just holding close to his chest like it held some sacred truth. His lips moved constantly, whispering or muttering in a voice too low to make out.

Then, his voice cut through the din, a desperate keening, like a warning no one cared to hear. His eyes were sharp though, almost painfully so, glinting with the kind of insight that comes from madness.

“The end is coming!” he howled, his voice almost lost under the roar of the traffic. “You fools think you are safe! But it’s all rotting from the inside. They’ll tear it apart, piece by piece, and then you’ll see! All of you will see!”

People passed him by, some casting glances filled with disdain, others not even sparing him a look. Just another madman in a city full of them.

“You hear me?” he shouted, waving one arm in an arc as if addressing a crowd that wasn’t there. “The sky will burn! The earth will split! You think you’re safe? You think you can hide?”

Between his outbursts, he hunched over again, scratching at the ground with a stick, dragging jagged lines into the muck. It looked like nonsense at first, but the longer I watched, the more deliberate the patterns seemed—like sigils or runes drawn by an unsteady hand.

A giant of a man relaxed a few feet away, casually leaning against a massive black motorcycle that gleamed like polished obsidian, its chrome edges catching what little light managed to cut through the soot-filled air. He was huge—easily over six feet, with the kind of build that looked carved from stone, muscles rippling beneath a worn leather vest patched with faded insignias. His presence was unsettling, a quiet intensity radiating off him, like a coiled predator waiting for the right moment to strike.

He ate a sandwich, each bite slow and deliberate, as if savoring it. There was no rush, no tension in his movements, just unshakable patience that made him feel more dangerous. His eyes, shadowed beneath a dark brow, flicked between me and the homeless man, observing, calculating, but revealing nothing. He chewed methodically, his jaw tight, and for a moment, it felt like he was the only thing in the city truly still—immovable and unyielding amidst the chaos of the bustling street.

The homeless man’s shouting grew louder, breaking through my thoughts. He was pacing the street. His words twisted and tumbled from him, an endless stream of incoherent thoughts—

It was terrible to see those that cracked under the weight of the world.

“Open your eyes!” he shrieked, his voice cracking with desperation. “They’re pulling the strings! You little puppets, all of you! It’s all coming, you’ll see!”

I turned back to the SpectraVisions, half-heartedly trying to follow the news when the man drew closer, his shouts directed at me now.

“You!” He jabbed a finger, his whole arm trembling with the effort. “You think you’re safe? You think you can hide?”

I sighed, reaching into my pocket. All I had was bills, so I pulled out a dollar. I knew it wouldn’t help, but at least he could eat a warm meal. “Hey, buddy. Not today, alright? Here.” I held it out to him.

He shuffled closer, one hand outstretched as he accepted the bill with a faint, almost reverent nod. “Thank you, kind soul,” he murmured, his voice soft and brittle, like the crackle of dry leaves.

His hand found my shoulder, the touch light at first, almost disarmingly friendly. But then his smile shifted, twisting into something darker. The laughter came next—long, loud, and full-bodied, reverberating with an edge that sent a chill skittering down my spine.

I tried to move back, but his grip was a steel vice.

The man on the motorcycle watched, an amused glint in his eyes.

The homeless man’s face twisted unnaturally, stretching too wide, his lips curling back to reveal teeth that looked sharper than they should. A tremor ran through his body, a jerking shiver that rippled under his layers of filthy clothes. I froze, every instinct screaming to move, but I couldn’t look away.

His head snapped violently to one side, then the other, a jarring, mechanical motion, as if his neck had come unhinged. The sound it made—a wet, grinding pop—set my teeth on edge. Then his eyes shifted, the whites disappearing in an instant, replaced by a void of endless black. No iris. No pupil. Just a hollow abyss staring back at me.

The grotesque smile stretched further, the skin at the corners of his mouth cracking, beads of blood welling up and mixing with the grime on his face. He leaned in, stepping closer with a slow, deliberate motion. His voice, when it came, was a whisper, soft but razor-sharp, slicing through the ambient noise of the city like it was meant only for me.

“Jaaaack… Oh dear, Jackie boy…” He licked his lips, savoring every syllable, and I could feel my hand moving toward my gun, an instinct more than a choice. But I didn’t draw it. Something told me that wouldn’t be the right move. Not yet.

I wrenched myself back the moment his grip slackened, slipping free with a sharp jolt that left my skin crawling where his hand had been

People walked by, heads tilted down, collars pulled tight against the soot-choked air. No one stopped, no one looked. A few glanced sideways, but their eyes skittered away like they were afraid to truly see.

“I know you?” I managed, my throat dry.

He giggled—a high, twisted sound that curdled blood. “I know you…” he echoed, drawing the words out, tasting them. “But do you know me? Hmm?” He leaned in, his breath rancid. “Look into my eyes.”

I didn’t want to, but something pulled me in, and the second I did, the world fell away. All I felt was despair—cold, gnawing hopelessness, and a sick pleasure underneath it. Pain, death, everything I tried to bury, laid bare.

“Now you’re getting it.” He twitched again, his grin widening.

“The Devil?”

“In the flesh.” He spread his arms and spun on his heel, his filthy coat twirling around him, rags flaring out like some twisted parody of elegance. “I do love the crazy ones. Best place to hide. No one looks too closely. No one wants to see. Makes it easier to feed… to twist them in their dreams. Delicious, really. Your kind—you have all the wrong answers to all the wrong questions. Utterly delicious.”

“What do you want?” I said, my voice barely holding steady.

He paused, his eyes wide, a mock expression of shock crossing his features. “Want? Me?” He pointed to himself, offended. “Oh no, no, no. I don’t want anything. But you do.” He grinned, and it was the kind of smile that you only see in nightmares.

“From you?” I scoffed, taking a half-step back. “I’d just as soon want you to get the hell away from me.”

He chuckled, a low, grating sound. “Fitting choice of words.” He leaned in, his voice dropping to a sly whisper. “Oh, I know. You’re not ready yet, my sweet... But you will be.” He spoke faster now, sharper. “Sooner than you think.”

“I solve my own problems.” I tried to sound firm, even as the darkness from his gaze clawed at the edge of my vision.

He sighed, shaking his head. “Yes… I’m afraid that’s true.” He spoke then in a singsong—“But that’s not the favor you’ll be asking.”

I narrowed my eyes. “You here to stop me? Interfere?”

His eyes widened dramatically, one hand flying to his chest as though I’d just delivered a mortal insult. With theatrical flair, he traced a cross over himself, murmuring, “Dios mío, que Dios me perdone.” Then his lips curled into a mocking grin. “Interfere? In the affairs of men and mortals? That would break all the rules!” His laughter rolled out, deep and resonant, sending an icy shiver down my spine. “I believe in rules, Jack. Breaking them would be so… uncivilized. Your little quest? Your petty squabbles? No, no, no. They don’t concern me.”

“Listen, pal, it’s been a long week, and I really don’t have time for this. So, if you wouldn’t mind, get the hell out of my sight before I lose what’s left of my patience.”

The man on the motorcycle leaned forward, his presence radiating quiet menace. The Devil’s head snapped toward him, his lips curling back in a sharp hiss, a sound like steam escaping a boiling kettle. But when he turned back to me, his expression shifted—a soft, hollow laugh escaped him, empty of humor but full of something far darker.

“Oh, Jackie boy.” He smiled wider, leaning closer. “Time is all any of us have.” He winked, and then, suddenly, the madness was gone. The homeless man blinked, his eyes normal again, his face slack, confused. He looked around, almost lost, before wandering back to his spot, shouting once more about the end of days.

I stood there, the city noise rushing back in, and my body felt numb again, cold—not because I was scared, but because I prayed, deep down, that he wasn’t right.

The man on the motorcycle across the street watched me, a wide sneer spreading across his face. He took one last bite of his sandwich, then tossed the rest at the feet of the confused homeless man. He climbed onto his bike, the engine roaring to life. As he drove off, I caught a glimpse of his license plate.

“HORSE2″

Figures.

Pain stabbed through my skull, sharp and unforgiving, as another System glitch warning flickered across my vision.

System Integrity: 36%

Hells.

A few seconds later, Al finally pulled up. “You look like a bag of shit that just ate another bag of shit.” He said through the open window.

“You’re late.”

“You’re ugly, and smell worse… but you don’t hear me complaining.” I got in the car.