The dimly lit theater is half-empty, the air thick with the scent of buttered popcorn and cigarette smoke. The scattered patrons grip their armrests like lifelines, their faces pale in the flickering light of ‘The Vault of Horror’ as the screen bathes them in eerie, shifting shadows. Gasps ripple through the room, punctuated by the occasional muffled scream.

  At the very back, in the darkest corner amidst all this chaos, Alex sits hunched over in the dim light, scribbling furiously in a notebook. Completely unfazed by the cinematic terror around her, she remains lost in her own world, brow furrowed in concentration.

  A man, worn by time and dressed in a coat and fedora, steps into the theater. He’s old—late sixties, at least—and carries the air of someone who has seen far too much in his lifetime. He scans the room before purposefully making his way to Alex, sliding into the seat beside her.

  "You know you could ruin your eyes that way," he says.

  Alex doesn’t even glance up. “Listen, I don’t mean to be rude—actually, scratch that, I do—but there are plenty of empty seats elsewhere.” She gestures vaguely with her pen. “And I have a deadline.”

  The man doesn’t move. Instead, he smirks. “You look good, Alex.”

  Her hand stills mid-sentence. She finally glances at him, eyes narrowing. There’s a flicker of recognition—followed immediately by irritation.

  He tilts his head, appraising. “Same as you did in ’45. Me, though? I aged terribly.”

  Alex exhales slowly, closing her notebook. “What are you doing here?” she asks, voice low. “We had a deal.”

  “Something’s come up,” he says, all too casually. “We need you.”

  Her fingers tap against the cover of her notebook. Once. Twice. Then she shakes her head. “You’re not listening. We. Had. A. Deal.”

  “Of course we did.” He leans back, stretching his legs like he’s settling in. “How’s retirement working out for you?”

  Alex folds her arms. “I’m not complaining.”

  His eyes flick to the notebook in her lap. “I see you’re writing.”

  “Yes, I’m getting doctorate number fifty-two out of the way.”

  His eyebrows lift. “Fifty-two, huh?”

  “Rest assured, nothing to do with needles.”

  He chuckles. “Congratulations.” Then he glances at the screen, where some poor bastard is about to meet his grisly end. “But… you’re studying in a horror movie showing?”

  Alex shrugs. “The screams of terror help me focus.”

  He smacks his lips. “You’ve been keeping real busy. Had to clean up something vaguely interesting in ’53.”

  Alex groans. “That was not my fault. I just wanted pie! They went and complicated a damn dessert.”

  “It was a ‘Whites Only’ establishment.”

  “And I integrated it for them,” she deadpans.

  He sighs, then nods toward her lap. “What’s this one on?”

  Alex rubs her temples. “Look, I appreciate you handling the diner situation, but I’m not interested. I have too much to do.”

  The man smiles knowingly. “How about I make you a deal?”

  Alex narrows her eyes. “Another one? Does it also involve you showing up twenty-eight years later to renege on it?”

  He laughs. “Who are we kidding? Twenty-eight years from now, I’ll be rotting in a veteran cemetery somewhere.” He leans in slightly. “I just need two minutes. If you don’t like what you hear, I walk.”

  Alex studies him for a long moment. Then, with a sigh, she flicks a hand. “Fine. Two minutes.”

  The man adjusts his fedora, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Although… I reckon I can hook you with just two words.”

  Alex arches a brow. “Oh? Let’s hear it.”

  His voice dips low. “Redcaps.”

  Alex stills.

  Her book snaps shut.

  “No,” she says. “I fixed that in ’45.”

  “Someone still found a way to make it happen. And it works just fine.” Fedora replies.

  Alex’s jaw tightens. “Please tell me you’re joking.”

  “I wish,” he sighs. “We apprehended a kid—bag full of bottles with the stuff. We analyzed it. It’s not permanent, though. More like a one-hour high. Two, tops.”

  Alex’s fingers tap against her notebook. “Where did he get it?”

  “We don’t know.”

  She gives him a sharp look. “You questioned the kid, didn’t you?”

  A pause. Then—

  “Cyanide pill.” Fedora’s voice is grim. “Didn’t expect it. He was just a kid, Alex. No more than eighteen.”

  Alex swallows down the unease twisting in her gut. “And the base?”

  Fedora meets her eyes.

  “It’s blood,” he says. “Yours.”

  She sits up straight. “Again. I destroyed every sample.”

  “Apparently, you missed something.”

  Her expression darkens. “I never miss anything.” She spits.

  “Whatever it is, it’s out there. And it’s spreading fast. We don’t know who’s selling it, but people are buying.” He leans forward, voice low. “Now, God forbid it falls into the wrong hands—”

  “I’ll look into it.” Alex’s tone is clipped.

  Fedora nods. “You can come by for a debriefing—”

  “No. None of that.” She holds out a hand. “Just give me the damn dossier.”

  A slow grin spreads across his face. He reaches into his coat and pulls out a thick folder, placing it in her palm. “Haven’t lost your touch.”

  Alex takes it, tucking it under her arm. “Couldn’t if I tried.”

  Fedora studies her. “We should have Akio transferred to a safe location, per usual?”

  “No,” Alex says. “I’ll handle it.”

  A rare flicker of appreciation crosses Fedora’s face. “Thank you, Alex.”

  “You’re not welcome,” she mutters.

  He chuckles, shaking his head. “Still as grouchy as ever.”

  Alex gestures to herself. “I’m old. What’s your excuse?”

  With a smirk, he stands, adjusting his coat. “The money goes into the same account?”

  “Same account.”

  Fedora nods. “Take care, Alex. And good luck with your doctorate.”

  Alex glances down at the dossier, crosses her fingers over her head. “Hopefully I get it.”

  “You’ve already done it fifty-one times,” he says over his shoulder. “I have complete faith in your ability for fifty-two.” He winks.

  With that, he walks away. Alex watches him go for a moment, then slowly sinks back into her seat. She hesitates—just for a second—before opening the folder.

  As her eyes scan the first page, her expression hardens.

  The military Jeep roars down the desolate highway, its tires biting into the asphalt as Chris grips the wheel with white-knuckled hands. His heart pounds, the night air whips through the open window, biting at his skin.

  In the past three days, he had stolen a high-security vehicle, knocked out a guard, and smuggled an alien artifact out of a classified facility.

  He had every right to be a little tense.

  A pair of headlights glows in the rearview mirror. Getting closer.

  Chris flicks a glance behind him. Nothing but darkness and open road. He frowns. He could have sworn he saw—

  BAM!

  The Jeep lurches forward, the seatbelt digging into his chest as an unseen force slams into the back of the vehicle. His hands jerk on the wheel, the entire Jeep shuddering violently.

  “What the hell?!” he gasps, fighting to steady the car.

  Then—another hit. Harder.

  Chris barely manages to wrestle the Jeep from skidding off the road. The Jeep is swaying, one more impact, and he’s done for.

  Somewhere behind him, an engine revs.

  Then, the final strike.

  The Jeep spins. The world blurs. Gravel and asphalt screech against metal. The seat belt cuts into his shoulder as the vehicle tilts, lifts, then flips. Chris barely has time to curse before the ground rushes up to meet him.

  The Jeep tumbles, rolling once, then twice, before crashing hard onto its side. The windshield shatters, shards of glass spraying across the road. Steam hisses from the crumpled hood, mixing with the scent of burning rubber and gasoline.

  For a moment, all is silent.

  Then—movement.

  Chris groans, pain lighting up every nerve as he struggles to move. His head is pounding and something warm is trickling down his temple. He coughs, lungs burning from the impact.

  A shadow looms over the wreckage.

  Through the fractured glass, boots crunch against gravel. A figure steps into view—dark coat, military stance.

  Chris’s sluggish brain barely has time to register it before the man reaches into his coat. He brings out a gun.

  Panic surges through him. He fumbles for the seatbelt, his fingers slipping, desperate. He was not about to get executed on a goddamn highway.

  Thankfully before his attacker can finish the job, shouts ring out.

  "Jesus Christ, someone call an ambulance!"

  Chris blinks through the haze of pain. A small crowd has gathered under the flickering glow of a streetlamp, drawn by the crash. Their silhouettes waver like ghosts.

  The soldier hesitates. His stance stiffens. A beat later, he steps back—then another.

  Without a word, he fades into the night.

  A wave of dizziness washes over Chris.

  The last thing he sees is a man crouching beside him, phone in hand.

  “Help’s on the way, buddy. Just hold on.”

  Then, the world slips away.

  (Continuation)

  The tension in the air is suffocating. Two groups of men stand facing each other, their voices low but laced with threats. A briefcase sits between them like a bomb waiting to go off.

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  Then—

  The door bursts open.

  Alex strides in like she owns the place, all confidence and sharp edges. Eight guns snap to attention, barrels trained on her. She halts, hands raised in mock surrender, eyes flicking over the room.

  "I am so sorry," she says casually. "I thought this was the bathroom."

  One of the men, taller than the rest, sneers. "You're in a fucking warehouse in the middle of nowhere, kid. Try again."

  She clicks her tongue. "Fine," she says, lowering her hands. "I’m supposed to kill you all. And take whatever’s in that briefcase."

  A beat of silence. Then—

  "You realize there are eight of us, right?" The man scoffs.

  Alex tsks. "I don’t mind improvising."

  Three heartbeats pass.

  Then chaos erupts.

  Gunfire shreds the air. Alex dives behind a rusted table, splinters of wood and metal flying around her. She moves fast, scanning her surroundings. A stack of metal rods leans precariously against a shelf.

  Perfect.

  With a flick of her fingers, the rods tremble—then shoot forward like spears. One by one, they impale the men, dropping them like marionettes with their strings cut.

  Except for one.

  The tall man staggers, a rod buried deep in his abdomen. Then, slowly, impossibly, he yanks it out. The wound in his flesh seals before Alex’s eyes.

  "That’s new," she mutters.

  "You’re gonna wish you never did that," he growls.

  He’s fast. Too fast.

  In the blink of an eye, he slams into her, an iron forearm shoved against her, pinning her to the wall. A cattle prod sparks in his other hand, inches from her skin. Alex struggles, fingers clawing at his arm. He’s strong. Stronger than any normal human should be.

  She shifts her grip, pressing one hand against the cattle prod, the other flat against his chest. Then, she lets the electricity surge through her—channeling it, amplifying it.

  A shockwave of energy explodes from her palm, tearing a hole straight through his chest.

  The man collapses to his knees, eyes wide. But Alex watches, grim, as the wound begins to close.

  "How the hell do you keep doing that?" she asks, incredulous.

  She sidesteps as he spits blood at her. "That’s unsanitary."

  The hole in his chest is nearly gone.

  She sighs, gripping the cattle prod directly. This time, she feeds it into her own power, ramping it up until the charge crackles in her bones.

  When she strikes, the blast is enough to incinerate his heart.

  He doesn’t get back up.

  "Bloody knock-offs," she mutters, tossing the prod and kicking his body aside.

  She strides over to the briefcase, flicks it open. Inside, small glass bottles filled with a glowing yellow liquid sit in neat rows. Her stomach tightens.

  Akio is in the living room, eating a bowl of cereal, when the front door explodes inward.

  He doesn’t flinch. Just chews, swallows, and sighs as a mountain of a man steps inside, broad shoulders nearly scraping the doorframe.

  The man glares. "Are you Akio?"

  Akio squints at him. "You didn’t know that before you kicked the door down?"

  A flicker of confusion crosses the intruder’s face before he regains his composure. "Your sister’s been causing us a lot of trouble."

  "Us?"

  "Very powerful people."

  Akio sighs, setting his bowl down. "What does that have to do with me?"

  "You’re leverage."

  Akio raises a brow. "Yet... you came alone?"

  The man smirks. Then lunges.

  Akio barely moves. A pulse of violet energy erupts from his palm, sending the behemoth crashing into the far wall.

  The man grunts. Then—too fast—he shakes it off.

  Akio cocks his head. Interesting.

  The man charges again. Akio readies another blast, stronger this time. His eyes flicker violet as he releases it, sending the intruder flying—this time, impaling him on the coat rack by the door.

  The glow in Akio’s hands fades as he steps over the broken wood, inspecting the unconscious man skewered on the wall.

  A massive hand clamps around his throat.

  With a sickening crack, the man dislodges himself from the coat rack and slams Akio to the ground. The hole in his chest seals shut.

  Akio struggles as the man pulls a syringe from his coat pocket, its contents a pale, swirling mixture.

  Thankfully, the behemoth doesn’t get the chance to use it.

  A sharp thwipp—a bullet burrows clean through his skull, lodging in the wall behind him. His grip slackens.

  Akio shoves him off just as Alex steps into the doorway, palm open. The bullet dislodges itself from the wall, whizzing back into her hand. She closes her fist around it and tucks it into her pocket.

  "You alright?" she asks.

  Akio rubs his throat, grimacing. "I had it under control."

  "I know," Alex deadpans. "I was simply too pissed to care."

  She steps inside and drops a briefcase onto the table. In her other hand—

  Akio squints. "Please tell me that’s not a patch of someone’s skin."

  "It’s not a patch of someone’s skin," she says.

  Akio exhales sharply, his stomach turning at the intricate tattoo sheared from some poor soul.

  "Don’t worry," Alex adds. "He’s dead."

  "That’s not the part I’m worried about," Akio mutters.

  Alex gestures to his room. "Pack your stuff. We’re leaving."

  Akio groans. "Again? We just got here."

  "And now we’re leaving again."

  Behind them, the behemoth groans.

  Alex turns just in time to see the bullet hole in his head shrinking.

  Akio stiffens. “Why the hell does that keep happening?”

  "You see," Alex says grimly. "There’s this new habit of people not staying dead when you kill them."

  The behemoth’s eyes flutter open.

  Alex doesn’t hesitate. She strides over and, with one sharp motion, tears his head from his shoulders.

  Akio stares, horrified. "What the fuck?!"

  Alex tosses the head aside like a deflated ball, flicking blood from her hands. "We don’t use that kind of language in this house."

  Akio gestures wildly. "So you can casually behead a man, but I don’t get to swear?"

  "Akio. Bags. Now."

  Her tone leaves no room for argument. Muttering under his breath, he disappears into the house. A few minutes later, he reemerges with a duffel bag.

  "That was quick," Alex notes.

  Akio shrugs. "Didn’t even get to unpack the first time."

  Something about that hits Alex harder than she expected. She shakes it off.

  "I have to follow up on this ‘not a patch of skin.’ You wanna wait at the Campbells’?"

  Akio makes a face. "You know their house smells weird."

  "They’re brewing Warlocks. It’s supposed to smell weird. Besides, you could learn a thing or two from them."

  Akio folds his arms. "I already know how to use my powers, thank you very much."

  Alex softens. "Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t expect it to go like this."

  Akio exhales, looking away. "A couple of weeks in Germany turned into two years. And you still managed to owe the guy who sent you there a favor."

  Alex sighs. "It’s just a tiny mess. Two hours tops."

  Akio slings his bag over his shoulder. "Let’s hope ‘two hours’ means two hours this time. Not two months."

  He walks out.

  Alex watches him go, jaw tightening. Then she glances down at the patch of skin in her hand.

  Yeah… This was going to take a lot longer than two hours.

  The Jordan house is quiet, bathed in the soft glow of the evening light filtering through the curtains. The living room is still—until Alex bolts upright from the couch, sitting up in full Dracula-style resurrection.

  Her phone is ringing.

  She squints at the screen. UNKNOWN CALLER.

  Alex hesitates, thumb hovering over the answer button before she finally sighs and picks up.

  "Hello?" she mumbles, her voice still thick with sleep.

  A crisp, unfamiliar voice responds. "Alex Jordan?"

  She frowns. "Yeah?"

  "Meet me at the coffee shop. The one Chris likes."

  Her frown deepens. "Who is this?"

  Click. Dial tone.

  Alex blinks at her phone.

  "Rude prick."

  A beat of silence. Then—

  The phone rings again. Same caller.

  Alex grits her teeth and answers, sharper this time. "What?!"

  The voice on the other end is calm. "If you could please come right now?"

  Alex sits up straighter, irritation creeping into her voice. "Who the hell is this?"

  "I have something from Chris. He asked me to give it to you."

  Her pulse skips.

  "I saw Chris yesterday afternoon," she says, trying to keep her voice even. "He didn’t say anything about this."

  Click. Dial tone.

  Alex stares at the phone in disbelief.

  Then, tossing the blanket off, she grabs her keys and mutters under her breath—

  "Jesus."