Darian didn’t sleep after the warehouse.

  He didn’t even sit down. Just paced—four steps forward, four steps back—in the narrow space between his bed and the wall. His body was tired, but the mark on his chest thrummed, keeping him on edge. Like something inside him was waiting for permission to move.

  At 4:17 A.M., Velia appeared.

  Not in a dream.

  Not in the mirror.

  She just stepped out of the hallway like she belonged there.

  Her dress was midnight blue this time, soft and clinging, and her bare feet didn’t make a sound. She watched him without blinking.

  “You saw what happens when you let guilt grow teeth,” she said.

  He stopped pacing. “You made him kill himself.”

  “I didn’t have to,” she replied. “He was already eroding. He just needed someone to tell him it was okay.”

  “Is that what you’re doing for me?”

  She tilted her head. “Do you want me to?”

  He didn’t answer.

  Velia moved closer. Not touching. Just closing space. “You’re not him. He thought he was the one in control. You know better.”

  “I’m not your puppet.”

  “No,” she said softly. “You’re my knife.”

  Darian exhaled. “So what’s next? You give me another name?”

  “You still have your own,” she said. “Six, wasn’t it?”

  He nodded once.

  “Then choose one,” she said, turning. “And I’ll show you how to mark him.”

  She took him to a pce that didn’t exist.

  It wasn’t a dream.

  It wasn’t real, either.

  The space looked like an empty cathedral—pilrs stretching into bckness, floor made of gss, sky above painted with stars that pulsed like arteries.

  Darian stood in the center.

  Velia circled him, barefoot on nothing.

  “This is the space between,” she said. “Where the pact breathes.”

  He turned slowly. “What do I do?”

  “Think of them. One name. One face.”

  He closed his eyes.

  It didn’t take effort.

  Tomas Garrick.

  The one who ordered the hit. Who sat in the back of the car while it happened. Who made the call. Who ughed when it was done.

  Darian’s hand curled into a fist.

  The gss floor beneath him rippled like water.

  Velia smiled.

  “There it is.”

  A figure began to form in the gss—a silhouette, faceless but unmistakable. Garrick’s height. His build. The way he held his arms.

  “Touch him,” she said.

  Darian stepped forward and pressed his palm to the image.

  The mark on his chest burned bright.

  The silhouette turned red.

  Velia’s voice purred behind him. “He’s yours now.”

  The red glow spread outward from the silhouette, lines branching across the gss like veins. The heat from the mark on Darian’s chest synced with the pattern, pulsing with each beat of his heart.

  Velia circled slowly, watching the transformation with pleased detachment.

  “He’s marked,” she said. “Now all that’s left is proximity.”

  Darian opened his eyes. “What happens then?”

  “You get close. The pact does the rest.”

  “That simple?”

  “No,” she said with a smirk. “But effective.”

  The gss under his feet trembled. Cracks spidered beneath his boots, each step ced with resonance. The silhouette remained locked in pce—silent, inert, unaware. Yet Darian could feel it. The connection. The tension pulling like a thread through his ribs.

  “This link,” he said. “It goes both ways?”

  Velia’s expression shifted—just slightly.

  “Eventually.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means,” she said, stepping closer, “if you linger near him too long without acting, he’ll feel you. The guilt. The weight. Some call it karma. Some call it paranoia. Doesn’t matter. Your job is to finish it before his instincts catch up.”

  Darian nodded.

  His breath came slower now, deeper. Something ancient moved beneath his skin. Not adrenaline. Not fear.

  Focus.

  He was ready.

  Velia reached for his hand—not to hold it, but to turn it palm-up. A faint sigil glowed just below the surface. Not a tattoo. Not a wound.

  An imprint.

  “Press this to his skin,” she said. “Or let him bleed near you. That’s enough to trigger the pact. And once it begins...”

  She trailed off.

  Darian finished for her. “There’s no going back.”

  She smiled.

  Back in the apartment, the space between seconds seemed to stretch. Every tick of the clock echoed louder. Every breath felt heavier. The mark on Darian’s chest didn’t cool down, not even in the shower.

  He didn’t try to sleep.

  Didn’t dream.

  He didn’t want to risk seeing her again—not tonight.

  By noon, he had what he needed.

  Tomas Garrick was a predictable bastard. Friday afternoons meant two things: poker in the back room of The Spiral Lounge, and cheap bourbon. He ran security detail for one of the city’s quiet cartels—small-time muscle with a big mouth and a dirtier reputation.

  Darian scoped the location from across the street. Three guards out front. One camera above the entrance. Basement level, limited exits. He didn’t need an in.

  He just needed close.

  At 3:41 PM, Garrick stepped out for a smoke.

  Alone.

  Perfect.

  Darian crossed the street calmly. Hoodie up. No panic. No rush.

  He brushed past Garrick like a stranger.

  One second.

  One touch.

  Their arms grazed.

  And Darian whispered the word—quiet, breathless.

  “Marked.”

  Garrick blinked. Looked over his shoulder.

  Darian kept walking.

  Didn’t look back.

  By nightfall, the reports came in.

  Garrick colpsed during his poker game. Cold sweat. Vomiting. Eyes bloodshot. Paranoia spiking. Cimed he was being watched. Screamed about a shadow following him.

  His men called it a bad trip.

  They were wrong.

  Darian sat on his bed, staring at his hands.

  He hadn’t killed Garrick.

  Not yet.

  But the pact had started its work.

  The guilt. The fear. The madness.

  It would eat him from the inside out.

  Unless Darian ended it first.

  Velia’s voice echoed faintly in his skull.

  “Hesitation breeds suffering. Mercy feeds nothing.”

  He clenched his fists.

  Tomorrow.