The next day's shoot only required Morthisal for a few hours. When Marty sent him home for the day, he once again reiterated how much he liked having Yvette on set and what an asset she would be for the movie.

  Morthisal was relieved that he would have time to go shopping with Travious. He changed back into his street clothes and messaged his minion. Travious wrote back a few minutes later and told him he would be available in about half an hour and to message him the address where he wished to be picked up.

  While he waited, Morthisal found a pen on a table and signed the back of his check, in Vince's name, with a flourish. His signature looked nothing like Vincent Logan's, but he doubted anyone would notice or care.

  He took out his phone and searched for a nearby ATM that matched his bank. The map showed one just a few blocks away. Perfect.

  He set out on foot, following the blue line on his phone screen. The waterfront area of downtown Seattle bustled with Sunday morning activity. Tourists strolled along the sidewalks. Cars crawled through the narrow streets while bicyclists weaved between them. The smell of salt water mixed with coffee from nearby espresso stands and coffee shops.

  Morthisal located his bank's ATM tucked into the side of a brick building. A small encampment had formed beneath it—a tattered blue tarp stretched over shopping carts filled with possessions.

  Two men lounged on flattened cardboard boxes directly in front of the machine. Morthisal approached without hesitation.

  "Good morning, gentlemen," he said. "Would you kindly move aside so I might deposit this check?"

  The men exchanged glances. The taller one stood up. His lanky frame towered over Morthisal. Dirty blonde hair hung in greasy strands around his gaunt face. His hands trembled visibly. His skin bore marks, scratches, and sores and was lined with wrinkles, belying a much older look to the youthful man.

  "You can use it if you pay a fee. How's fifty bucks sound?" The tall man squinted and leaned forward.

  The second man rose, too. Shorter but stockier, he still looked like he had been dragged through the streets. The man reached into his pocket and pulled out a knife before quickly slipping it back. "See that? I got a knife, man. Mess you the fuck up."

  Morthisal cracked out a pair of threads and ripped them over the men, pulling tight. Both went rigid. Their faces slackened, and their heads tilted back as Morthisal poured more power into the threads.

  "What are your names?" Morthisal asked.

  "Greg," the tall one mumbled.

  "Cody," said the shorter one.

  Morthisal studied them. Their clothes hung in tatters, stained and torn. The stench of unwashed bodies and sour alcohol wafted from them.

  "How did you arrive at this condition?" Morthisal demanded.

  Greg's mouth worked mechanically. "Got hooked on painkillers after a construction accident. Now, I need fentanyl, but it's harder to find. Last time I scored, I OD'd, and some asshole shoved Narcan up my nose. I got up and kicked him in the nuts."

  Cody spoke next, his voice flat under Morthisal's control. "My stepdad kicked me out when I was sixteen. Got on meth to stay awake and stay safe on the streets. We were only gonna shake you down for twenty, but Greg raised it to fifty." His vacant expression twitched. "I'm sorry."

  Morthisal poured more power into the threads and studied the men. The addiction lurked in their brains like parasites. Strong. Persistent. He sensed the chemical hooks dug deep into their minds and almost tasted the bitter craving on his own tongue.

  Over the centuries, Morthisal had tested every illicit drug he could find on Mythralon. Many times, he had become addicted to substances. However, being in a befuddled stupor did not assist in ruling armies. Therefore, he had not partaken in dozens of years. He recognized the signs and felt…pity….nay, a kinship?

  "You two listen to me well. I am relieving you of your addictions. However, your bodies may not appreciate this. You are to find help in the form of…what is it called here?"

  "You mean, like, social services?"

  "Yes. Social services. You are to report to them and ask for help. You are to tell them what substances you tried and to which you are addicted. Is that understood?"

  The pair of men nodded dumbly.

  "When you have recovered, you will seek gainful employment. Is that also understood?" Mothisal squeezed the threads tighter.

  The men groaned. Greg reached for his head with both hands and pressed on his temples.

  "Go now. If I need you again, I shall call upon you."

  Greg and Cody nodded. They collected their pile of stuff, jammed it into bags, and got out of Morthisal's way so he could deposit his check.

  He deposited the check and withdrew three hundred dollars.

  After Travious picked up Morthisal, they headed to the market. Morthisal had never visited but had heard good things about it. The drive only took a few minutes, and Travious commented that walking might have been faster, considering how long it took to find a parking spot.

  Travious wore a black hoodie with the Seattle Seahawks logo emblazoned across the chest and dark jeans and a pair of pristine white Nike shoes without a single scuff mark. A small gold chain peeked from beneath his collar.

  After they found a parking spot, Travious turned off the engine and slid his keys into a pants pocket. The parking lot sat behind a building called The Moore Theater, which apparently hosted concerts and other live shows, and was half-filled with vehicles of various makes and models.

  Graffiti adorned some of the nearby walls, which possessed their own crude artistry. The concrete was cracked and weathered, dotted with discarded cigarette butts and faded gum stains. They were surrounded by the sound of car horns, distant conversations, and the persistent hum of this strange world's mechanical energy. The air carried the scent of fried food.

  As Travious reached for the car door handle, Morthisal raised his hand.

  "Wait a moment," Morthisal said. He dug into his pocket and pulled out the three hundred dollars he'd withdrawn from the ATM. The bills were crisp, new twenties. He extended them toward Travious.

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  Travious's eyebrow shot up. He let out a low whistle as he accepted the cash and quickly flipped through the bills, counting.

  "Damn, dude. I didn't expect this much, but thank you," Travious said. "This makes up for a lot." Travious folded the bills, shoved them deep into his front jeans pocket, and patted it twice to ensure they were secure.

  "As promised. I will provide more money as it comes to me."

  "I'm holding you to that, bruh."

  They set out and walked the few blocks to Pike Place Market. The streets bustled with Sunday shoppers and tourists. Morthisal's head swiveled as he took in the sights. As they rounded a corner, a number of small restaurants dotted one side of the street. There were long lines in front of each.

  They crossed the street, looking both ways, but the only traffic was more pedestrians rushing here and there.

  Morthisal paused at the market entrance. The interior was packed with vendors selling everything from fresh fish to handcrafted jewelry. The narrow walkways teemed with people. Colorful produce stands lined one side while artisans displayed their wares on the other. The scent of fresh bread, flowers, and seafood mingled in the air.

  "This reminds me of the bazaars in my homeland," Morthisal muttered.

  They wandered past an outdoor fish vendor where workers tossed large salmon to each other, much to the delight of gathered onlookers. Nearby, a woman arranged bouquets of vibrant flowers. Further down, a man played a guitar while selling handmade leather journals.

  At a small jewelry booth, an elderly woman displayed necklaces with polished stones. Morthisal paused to examine a pendant with a deep purple stone. He considered how it would look on Yvette.

  "No. That's not the play, man. You have to find something fun that will make her laugh. Like a funny coffee cup, or something like that. Let's keep looking."

  Morthisal nodded and moved on with Travious.

  "So tell me more about this movie you're in," Travious said as they continued walking. "And more importantly, about Yvette Sterling."

  Morthisal described the film set and his role as the dark lord.

  Travious stopped abruptly. He pulled out his phone and typed something. After a moment, he turned the screen toward Morthisal. The image showed Yvette Sterling in a business suit at some corporate event.

  "Are you sure this is the woman you've been talking to?" Travious asked. "I'm worried you're getting played, dude."

  Morthisal studied the image and nodded. "Yes. That is her," Morthisal said. "She was at the studio earlier and may have made a sizable investment in the film."

  Travious shook his head and turned away. They continued walking through the market, but Travious persisted with questions. "So you took control of her, huh? Kinda shady, and some might not appreciate it."

  "I have no control over her. The poor woman was involved in an accident at some point and has a metal plate in her skull. I am not able to penetrate it."

  "No shit… How did you meet her? Why would someone like Yvette Sterling be interested in a cheap movie?" Travious asked.

  Morthisal told him that he and Yvette had met and had coffee at work, and he had mentioned he was shooting a movie the next morning. She had surprised him by showing up.

  "Damn, man. You're telling me Yvette Sterling—the tech billionaire who bought out your company—is hanging around some B-movie set watching you play dress-up? That's like finding out one of those rich assholes who want to run the world wants to be in your garage band."

  Morthisal waved the comment off. "Your disbelief changes nothing about what occurred."

  "I believe you. You must be slicker than I thought. Can't even control her? That's wild."

  A stall caught his attention. It displayed necklaces and bracelets crafted from bone. Delicate figures had been carved into the pale material. Morthisal was immediately drawn to their primitive elegance.

  Behind the counter stood a woman with copper skin and high cheekbones. Her long black hair hung in a thick braid over one shoulder. She wore a patterned vest with geometric designs in red and blue over a simple white shirt.

  "These are remarkable," Morthisal said, eyes narrowing as his eyes swept over the jewelry.

  "Yvette might not go for that, man," Travious warned.

  "This is not for her. I find these somewhat reminiscent of home. They are quite lovely."

  The woman nodded. "All carved from caribou and moose bone. Nothing wasted from our hunts back home." She had the measured cadence of someone who chose their words carefully. "Each piece tells a story from my village near Ketchikan."

  "May I examine that pendant?" Morthisal pointed to a piece shaped like a raven with intricate markings etched across its wings.

  "Of course," she replied.

  As Morthisal reached for it, a manicured hand darted in and snatched it first. A woman with lightly highlighted hair pulled into a tight ponytail surged past Morthisal. She wore a spotless purple jacket that perfectly matched her skin-tight pants, which were little more than leggings.

  "This is nice, but overpriced," she said, holding the pendant between two fingers. "Eighty dollars? That's ridiculous for some fake animal bones. You probably got these from Temu."

  The artisan's face remained composed, though her jaw tightened. "Each piece takes hours to create. Each is genuine."

  "I'll give you twenty," the woman snapped.

  "I was examining that piece," Morthisal said softly.

  The woman clutched the pendant to her chest. "Wait your turn. I'm negotiating here. You know, you can't just pull that entitled man stuff on me. Unless you'd like to go ahead and mansplain to me why you are more entitled to this piece than I am!" She turned back to the artisan. "This craftsmanship is amateur, at best."

  At the word 'mansplain,' Morthisal turned to Travious and gave a little shrug.

  Travious snickered.

  Morthisal assessed his energy reserves. Low, but sufficient. He cast a thread of power toward the woman and wrapped it around her mind. She stiffened, and her face twitched as she fought against his influence.

  "You will cease this behavior," Morthisal commanded quietly.

  She shook her head, clearly struggling. "I don't... I'm sorry..."

  Morthisal tightened his control. "Return the pendant and go to the fish market. Stand there and proclaim to everyone how much you love fish. Do this loudly. Then purchase the largest, most expensive fish they have and carry it around the market without a bag."

  The woman placed the pendant back on the counter. She nodded and marched away.

  The merchant didn't miss a beat as Morthisal picked up the pendant and studied it. "Do you accept cards?"

  "I do," she said, pushing a handheld machine with a digital display on the front. Morthisal withdrew his wallet, extracted his bank card, and paid for the pendant by tapping the device.

  "Thank you, dear woman. I take my leave."

  "You're some shaman, aren't you?"

  "Pity, no, woman. I am much more than that."

  Morthisal tucked the bone pendant into his pocket. The artisan nodded her thanks as he turned away. He walked off, and Travious joined him. Travious's face was flushed, and tears were streaming down his cheeks.

  "Are you saddened by my treatment of that rude woman?" Morthisal asked in curiosity.

  Travious laughed and wiped his face with his sleeve. "No. I was in tears, bro. That was some funny shit."

  Morthisal shrugged. The pair continued past more shops. The market buzzed with activity, and the scent of fresh bread and coffee filled the air.

  "Stop," Travious said suddenly. He pointed at a store with coffee cups adorned with pithy sayings and other novelties lining tables and shelves. "That's where you need to shop. Wait, do you see that?"

  Travious pointed at a table near the front covered in various humorous items. Morthisal studied them, but most of the humor made little sense to him.

  Travious practically dragged him into the store and gestured toward a single item. Morthisal narrowed his eyes to examine the inscription. It was a polished wooden nameplate designed to sit prominently on an office desk to display someone's name and their professional title within the organization.

  "I do not understand," Morthisal said.

  "Dude. This is your play right here. You get her this, and she is going to laugh her ass off."

  "My favorite position is CEO?" Morthisal read the white words engraved on a black background.

  "Her position, dude. Get it?" Travious grasped the air and thrust his hips forward.

  Morthisal slowly smiled. "Ah, that's very amusing. I believe you have helped me find the perfect gift."

  "Right? Now, let's watch that rude-ass white lady carry around a fish. I need to get pictures up on the Insta."