Chapter Text
Genesis 3:4-5 “You will not certainly die,” the serpent said to the woman. “For God knows that when you eat from it, your eyes will be opened, and you will be like God, knowing good and evil.”
The nightmare starts the same way the others always do, with the hope that this time, somehow, things might be different.
Jayce finds himself back within the old house’s enclosure, its abandoned walls disguised as ordinary brick. Dark clouds cover the moon, leaving only a faint trace of light to witness the crime scene.
Everything is exactly as it was in the image burned into his memory—same branches swaying in the wind, barely scraping against his car window, same anemic moonlight, same unmarked vehicles lurking in the background. All but one detail.
He peers at the scene and immediately identifies the flaw.
The stone that forms the house is not smooth. It bulges with uneven lumps, a canvas for thousands of closed eyes barely distinguishable in the shadows, thick veins pulsing beneath their lids. It sleeps now, he accepts the thought without examining it.
“Okay, wrap it up!” an agent calls from across the yard.
As the midnight air bites at his neck, he feels youth settle back into his twenty-nine-year-old body, back when the only signs of age were the smile lines at his mouth and the world seemed yet unprepared for his skills.
Tonight, that belief has teeth. He neutralized the anomaly, and the case is closing. His shoulders, for once, feel light. It’s time to go home.
“Come on, Jayce. This is probably going to be my only chance to get him alone.” Amaranthine’s voice rings out, and he turns to look at her; the sight feels like a stab in his chest.
He fears he may be starting to forget her face, but the night terrors manage to preserve every detail, from the baby fat that hung in her cheeks to the mischievous smirk she always wore—his ingenuous protégée.
Even if it’s only a dream, he feels his own mind regressing. He can’t remember what made him agree to let her go; perhaps the reassurance that Professor Heimerdinger would be inside to receive her, or maybe the excitement that lit her eyes at what might have been her only chance to impress him with her investigation.
Either way, he wants to claw at his own throat when he hears his response. He hears it as if from outside himself, wants to grab that earlier version of his body and shake it, to scream at him to take it back, to say anything else. “Just be quick.”
She smiles at him, and he releases the warmth of her arm. “I’ll be right back.” He watches her slip away, her blonde head bobbing as she runs toward the house, right before the interior consumes her frame.
Jayce waits twenty, maybe twenty-five minutes, his mind so far away he doesn’t notice the cold creeping deeper into the air, not until the car radio suddenly clicks on. Or maybe it was always like that. Maybe the signs were there, and he failed to recognize them. The thought that haunts him echoes in the reverie.
The device emits a strange sound, broadcasting at an unknown frequency, too low to decipher, even for a man once trained to read signals as if they were a second language. He waits for another five minutes. The combination of sudden cold and static noise holds him there, motionless. It isn’t until he sees his own breath clouding in the frozen air that reality settles in.
When he steps out of the car, he is met with black, empty pupils boring into his body. The walls have snapped their eyes open and fix him with an accusatory stare; for the first time, Jayce is actually seen. He cannot fathom how small he stands before the vast, lurking evil.
What happens next comes only in fragments, memories his body recalls as spasms.
When he tries to run inside the house, the door is sealed shut. He sees himself slamming against it until it gives, forcing his way in, shouting for help—the static rings against his ears, keeping him from realizing that everything else around him has gone silent, that every investigator who made up the backup is not coming back.
In the room, the odor drowns every sense of direction he has, so he guides himself by the blackened blood streaking the halls. The metallic scent mingles with something putrid, a stench that feels as though the zone had somehow slipped beyond God’s reach.
He finds the first piece of Amaranthine just two steps inside the living room—her foot. It is small, ghostly pale from drained circulation. His next moves feel deliberately automatic when he follows the trail deeper into the house. A hand. An arm.
It all finally stops in a darkened room when he finds her head. Blonde hair clings to the nape where the cut is clean. Her flesh is still tender when he gathers what remains of her into his arms, but the warmth is gone. The dead eyes stare past him, blood and froth mingling from her mouth. Even now, he can read the terror that must have filled her final moments.
What remains of her forms a deliberate path, leading him to Heimerdinger’s decimated corpse.
Jayce’s hands are shaking as he pulls her close, trying to give her some of the life he no longer wants. When the car radio blares to life—ten times louder than before—he finally understands the message it’s trying to send: frantic laughter.
His eyes snap open just as the scream is about to tear from his throat.
February 21, 1976
18 Lives Lost in Buffalo: The Gas Leak That Raised Questions
A week has passed since the incident that shook the entire country: the sudden death of 18 citizens inside a warehouse located directly across from 2147 Glenmoor Avenue in Buffalo, New York.
Following an intense wave of media coverage, the local police department has retreated from its initial claim that the deaths were somehow connected to the recent disappearances near Lake Erie. What first appeared to be a widening investigation has now concluded with the constabulary washing their hands of earlier implications.
Public statements regarding the incident have become more restrained, and responsibility for further explanations appears to have shifted to a higher authority. After a controversial press conference, surprisingly led by the Federal Bureau of Investigation (FBI), the deaths were attributed to a gas leak originating from the abandoned place.
In an attempt to dispel secrecy surrounding the event, officials described the incident as a failure of proper safety protocols, allegedly resulting in a “mass poisoning” that left many victims disoriented and ultimately led to their drowning in the lake.
Meanwhile, what occurred inside the property remains unclear, as the structure was later set on fire, killing an older man—later identified as a private detective—and a young woman, a criminologist, who were reportedly searching for the source of the odor.
Today, we had the opportunity to meet with FBI Director Cassandra Kiramman, who, for the first time, answered any remaining questions regarding the tragedy.
Q: So, it seems to have been a difficult week for the agency.
Kiramman: It certainly has.
Q: Let me start with this question: Were there any prior warnings about the warehouse conditions?
Kiramman: There were a few complaints from residents, yes. We are currently reviewing maintenance records to determine whether all those concerns were formally documented.
Q: So, the claims that those involved were cover-up agents attempting to investigate the site are true?
Kiramman: No. [Pauses] At least not in the way people are picturing it. Federal involvement was procedural.
Q: Do you deny that the FBI had an overall mandate at the scene?
Kiramman: As I said, federal agents were present. Their involvement was based on jurisdictional protocol, not in secrecy.
Q: Why send so many agents to investigate what was described as a barely documented gas leak?
Kiramman: The characterization of “so many agents” is misleading.
Q: So if—let’s say—an average citizen reports an open stove at my house, is that enough to require the intervention of a few FBI agents?
Kiramman: That analogy oversimplifies the circumstances. [She resettles in the chair.] Federal involvement was triggered by jurisdictional safety protocols specific to this case. Any attempts to suggest that the presence of individuals with prior federal experience indicates a coordinated operation are nothing but unfounded rumours, deeply harmful to the memory of everyone involved.
Q: What made this particular case require such delicacy?
Kiramman: Previous reports indicated the possible presence of hazardous industrial compounds inside the property, which is why federal protocols were activated. [She interrupts before the next question is fully formed.] And because the area is classified as a vacant zone, there was no need to issue a public evacuation.
Q: So this was no mere gas leak, correct? Any indication as to how this may have originated?
Kiramman: We suspect the issue may be linked to the previous owner's mismanagement of chemicals stored in the warehouse. We have compared the findings with earlier inspection reports, which suggest improper storage practices.
Q: Wouldn’t that classify this as a coordinated operation, then?
Kiramman: [Sighs] That interpretation stems from ongoing rumors about the supposed “true nature” of this case. Several fabricated reports have circulated in the community; none have a factual basis.
Q: Can you clarify what kind of materials were found inside the house?
Kiramman: Due to the ongoing review and safety considerations, we cannot disclose any specific information at this time.
Q: You have a very confident view of the event.
Kiramman: It’s my responsibility to provide the public with an unbiased account of what is a tragic accident. We mourn the loss of everyone involved, and with all due respect, we ask that this painful chapter not be subjected to further speculation. We remain committed to the protection of our personnel and the public.
Q: Before we go, I’d like to ask about the sole registered survivor. Will he be making any public statements regarding what he saw inside?
Kiramman: The engineering consultant has been placed in a confidential medical facility. You have to understand that this would be an extraordinarily traumatic position for anyone. We are keeping him in our prayers and wishing him strength during this time.
-
He comes across the newspaper while searching the nightstand’s cabinet for one of his shotgun cartridges to blow his brains out. His hand is still, and his eyes linger for several minutes over the title, tracing the headline and the date. Even if fifteen years have passed and the ink has faded against the yellowed paper, it still achieves its purpose of grounding him in reality.
There’s no need to pretend it’s shocking; it’s all premeditated. Deep down, he had expected to see it the moment he woke up. It had been suggested by the department psychologist. Keep close to something tangible. Measure what once was against what is now. It will help you remember where you are.
And he does, he remembers. The knowledge is enough to make him want to blow his brains out again, but he takes a deep breath and stands from the bed, making sure to drag the shotgun right alongside him.
What follows is so embedded in his life that calling it a routine doesn’t do it justice. Once he steps out of the room, he counts each stride that carries him to the living room. The framed images haunt the hallway: a brittle wedding photo, his mother’s docile expression, the printed face of Jesus. Every emotion they might stir remains sealed, long thrown away.
Six, seven, eight, nine… He continues taking cautious, elongated steps until he makes sure the tenth aligns with the familiar line where the sofa meets the table with the vase. He lets out a sigh when he realizes the space still obeys, that the room hasn’t stretched into something unnatural overnight.
He reaches out for the vase, pressing his fingers to the cold porcelain and dragging them slowly, testing its weight. Real. Still real. Only after this confirmation does he move to the next step: he opens the front door and points his shotgun at the sky.
Outside, the birds are chirping as they welcome the blue and slightly purple hues of the morning scenery. Jayce listens, clears his mind, allowing the sound of the birds to guide his gaze; he stops when he finds what he’s looking for. High in a tree, just a couple of meters away, a small bird rests in its newly built nest. He makes sure to run his fingers along the weapon’s forend right before setting them on the trigger.
A breath. The bird chirps. His index finger tentatively teases the pull—another breath—and the bird remains unaware, never losing the tune of its song. Jayce waits and waits.
A few seconds pass before he puts the weapon down and runs his fingers through his gray-streaked hairline. Still in control, still me. He guides himself back to the house, following everything as usual, letting his eyes roam over every room to make sure everything stands asymmetrically. He opens the windows that overlook the secluded enclave, checking that it remains remote.
He officially lets go of the firearm after pacing the house twice. Before letting go, he lifts it to his mouth and presses a small kiss to the cold metal, as if it might resent being abandoned. “I’ll be right back,” he murmurs.
When he steps into the bathroom, the expression in the mirror fills him with a profound sense of indifference. Lines across the forehead frame the bitterness there, betraying the weight he carries. The eye bags worsen it; he spits out the toothpaste and rinses, watching the foam spiral down the drain.
Then the red flannel and worn jeans. No one at the agency gives him shit for ignoring the dress code. Nobody really says much about anything anymore, not to him, at least. The hair on his chest feels coarser than he remembers when he slips into the fabric, getting ready always comes with the same phrase—you are getting old, you are getting old—repeating in his ears.
The sun shines brightly against the sky when he steps out once again. On his way, he traces his hand over the wall a couple of times. Just wooden panels, he decides, pressing his palm harder than necessary.
-
The office clock reads 7:34 when Jayce steps in, not sparing a glance around. In the bullpen, everyone is busy with their own work; no one lifts their head to look at him. The only sound is the mechanical tapping of endless paperwork, recorded beneath the fingers of an equally traumatized hivemind.
Stepping inside, he almost expects the same mundanity to accompany him on his next suicide quest; instead, he finds Caitlyn Kiramman.
“Jayce,” her expression is unreadable when she moves to greet him. “How have you been?”
He peers at her in mistrust. “What are you doing here?”
“And hello to you too.”
He squints. Her eyepatch is just a few centimeters below Jayce’s line of sight; he gets the impression that she’s somehow way taller. Her hair is untied, long strands falling past her waist, the only sign of rebellion she has, directly contradicting the severity of her high-collared top. It feels like every time he sees her, she has transformed into something else.
“Cait, what are you doing here?”
She sighs, dropping her hands and stepping back into something more professional. “You can’t even pretend formality, can you?”
He stays quiet, so she continues. “I tried to call.”
“My line’s dead,” he cuts her short.
“I know. That’s why I decided to show up myself.”
“You always send someone else out for you.”
“This requires a more personal approach.”
“This?” He inquires,
“This conversation, yes.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“I want to talk,” she says, steadier now. “Before we get into the rest.”
“So that I can do what?”
“I want you to listen. Drop the urgency. Give me five minutes.”
“Just five minutes?”
“You owe me more than that,” she says evenly, “but it will do.”
A beat passes between them. Even across the distance, he can see the weight crushing the department reflected in her.
His memory is the only proof she was once a child. He remembers watching her grow up, hovering around the office, pretending to be older than she was. She doesn’t seem to need to pull the façade anymore.
“The last time we spoke, I told you I wasn’t going back to the city,”
“I’m not here to try and dissuade you,” she interrupts. “I gave up on that business about a decade ago.”
“Then what? Something happened?”
He notices it then—the almost imperceptible shift behind her only functional eye. He reads behind the hesitation; her brain is pacing quickly.
“Yes,” she says at last. “Something happened.”
The expression stirs something in him, an unfamiliar feeling of worry. Is she not here as his superior? Just as Cait?
“Is it your father?”
She lets out a humorless laugh. “My dad is living the best life a retired man can manage. It has nothing to do with family.”
“So you’re here as Director Kiramman, then.” His voice hardens. “Couldn’t you just send the order so I can execute it?”
She sighs again, too tired to give in to the argument. Her gaze sets on him, studying the face she no longer recognizes, tracing the new lines that carved themselves in after she was gone. Sadness flits between them.
For a moment, he considers taking it back, saying sorry, starting over by greeting her again like a friend.
“Okay, Detective Talis.” The words sound like poison slipping off her tongue. “Follow me.”
She doesn’t wait for him to respond, calls it over her shoulder before either of them can attempt to pretend.
They walk up a set of stairs, both falling back into the old disguise of functionality.
“I don’t know how closely you follow world affairs,” she begins, her voice returning to her standard, measured tone, “but two years ago, Czechoslovakia opened its doors for the first time.”
A glance at him to make sure he’s listening.
“After that, it was a straightforward operation. We landed, assessed what had been kept private for the last forty years. Just a quiet acquisition,” she increases the pace of her steps. “The only rule was that we were to avoid headlines at any cost, spare the country from stumbling into another pointless war.”
She clasps her hands behind her back.
“Every major division collaborated. Everyone came together to evaluate their share of whatever had been sealed away.”
“How does that concern us?” Jayce asks abruptly.
“We’ve been monitoring any signs of European diabolical presence for the last fifty years, Detective.” She opens the door to an upper room he’s never seen before—never cared enough to look for. The lights are dimmer, and the temperature drops a few degrees with them.
“The Vatican no longer answers to our demands,” she explains flatly, too aware that his very presence is proof enough that they are outnumbered against whatever lurks beyond their reach. “So we’ve resorted to taking whatever can aid us.”
He steps inside after her. “And?”
“We’ve stumbled onto something,” she says, a suppressed emotion betrays her voice, “something that we’ve never seen before.”
Then Caitlyn flips a switch, and the lights are on. Jayce’s eyes flinch at the sudden brightness, disorienting him for a split second before it registers that the dark wall he’s standing in front of is a two-way mirror. Figures perform from the other end.
He watches as two men in the division’s standard dress code bear down on a young man seated between them. Even through the glass, their posture tells the story— they are mid-interrogation.
The investigators keep almost no distance from their target. They share a controlling demeanor that Jayce is more than familiar with, whispering things that seem to evoke not fear, but exhaustion. The detainee keeps his jaw tight, eyes heavy, a worn expression signaling the same answers being given over and over.
Jayce shifts from one foot to another. He’s about to turn to Caitlyn to ask when the strangest thing happens. Despite still being protected by the extra layer of permeable glass, amber eyes look up and meet Jayce’s curious stare directly at its center.
The feeling is indescribable. A chill runs down his spine, something tightening in his throat. The pair of eyes lock onto his through the glass. It’s only because of that intensity that he truly sees him: thin, worryingly so, his complexion excessively fair. A pale figure framed by dark shelves and walls, the contrast only deepening the sickliness of his skin.
“Who’s that?” is all he manages to whisper.
Time stretches inside the stare until the other finally looks away. The spell breaks as quickly as it forms.
“To me, it matters little who he is,” she says quietly. “What matters is what he’s able to do.”
He frowns. “That’s the thing you stole from Europe? A person?”
She doesn’t look back at him; instead, she keeps her gaze glued to the glass.
Something bitter builds in his chest, the shape of his role unfolding with clarity. “Why am I here, Caitlyn?”
She keeps staring at the subject for a few seconds longer before shifting her attention back to Jayce.
“I want him to be your new partner,” she says, her tone decisive.
It's like cold water being poured all over him.
“Absolutely not,” he responds, contempt burning against the roof of his mouth.
“Hear me out—”
“No, not now, not ever,” he shakes his head. “I told you— I told you I would never do it again.”
“Jayce, you need to understand—”
He keeps shaking his head, the pulse in his temples rising.
“This is something bigger than both of us.”
“Then give it to someone who knows what they’re doing!” he snaps, the words cruel enough to make her jaw clench. “I don’t know what kind of twisted experiment you’re running, but you have soldiers who’d be more than willing to do this for you.”
“You are the best soldier I have!” She emphasizes every word, desperation bleeding through the insistence. “I know because I’ve spent my entire time in New York trying to find someone who shares at least half of your brain. My mother died still searching for someone like that, too.”
He scoffs. The mention of Cassandra stirs a deeply buried anger.
His silence makes Caitlyn seethe, and she steals the moment to continue her reproach.
“You ran away to—this hellhole,” she says, the word catching before she forces it out, “knowing damn well everything here is more dangerous, that you could die any day. The second you were discharged from the asylum, in fact. And, and you left us, me. You left your tech. Our biggest chance at getting something good.”
Her voice tightens. “And she allowed you to.”
Jayce fixes his attention on the ceiling instead, swallowing hard as he searches for the right words. What could he say—that he’s sorry? Anything that could come out of his mouth would sound like a wrong answer.
There’s a faint memory of the letter announcing her death arriving at his door. He remembers sliding the ribbon loose to reach the news, keeping a blank expression all the way through it.
“Cait—” he tries, but she doesn’t budge.
“I don’t want you back in the city,” she clarifies. “All I’m asking is for you to return the favor.”
He shifts under the glacial calm of her voice. “You want that boy to die on me? I can’t participate. I won’t.”
“Jayce,” Caitlyn moves to face him; he can feel her gaze settle, even without looking. “You’re the only one I can trust. It’s temporary. Just until you get him used to the field, and I find some hole in this earth where he can’t be found. If someone else discovers I have him, I—”
“And what is him?” he cuts in, finally giving in to the curiosity that’s been prickling at the back of his neck. He knows her well enough to sense the gleam of satisfaction she tries to suppress. Likewise, she’s always known how relentless his curiosity could be.
“He’s an anchor,” the words hesitate in her mouth before landing, bright with unrestrained excitement.
He raises both thick brows. “He’s a what?”
“An anchor,” she repeats. “Our new anchor. Jayce, he can sense them—”
“Anyone trained can sense anomalies.”
“He doesn’t just sense them,” she counters. “He understands them. He communicates. God, they even reach out to him.”
Jayce feels his heart skip.
“An afflicted?”
“No. No,” she says quickly. “He’s conscious through it.” She hesitates. “Sort of.”
“Sort of?”
“I mean he’s in control. Mostly.” Before he can press further, she pushes on. “Jayce, you’re not understanding, he can tell the cause of their torments, that’s what he did for the soviets.”
Jayce stays silent, reflective. So she fills in the hypothesis for him. “We can use him to cast them out.”
Deep in his mind, he thinks he hears the echo of Amaranthine’s agonizing scream dissolving into radio static.
A beat.
“I need to see if that’s true.”
Caitlyn smiles.
“Then come inside and meet him.”
-
It’s not a yes, but it isn’t a no either. He thinks he may have signed his soul away to the devil simply by letting Caitlyn lead him into the room. Still, it would be a lie to deny how his heart hammers at the possibility that there’s truth in her words. A world without entities roaming the earth, such an unrealistic utopia, and yet it doesn’t stop him from thinking of it.
Twenty years ago, news like this would have driven him to his knees for the chance to examine the subject himself. Hell, he once begged Heimerdinger to let him observe an anomalous newborn because someone claimed it had mumbled something that resembled English.
Time may have sobered him, but the adrenaline surging through his veins as the door swings open is still there.
Caitlyn dismisses both agents with a single look, and they scatter like ants under the sun when the pair steps closer. If he’s bothered by their sudden presence, the jailbird doesn’t let it show.
“Have I earned my right to leave?” He greets Caitlyn with a thick accent.
From up close, Jayce can make out the features that hadn’t fallen within his line of vision before. The man’s face is all sharp angles, prominent cheekbones, and a defined chin that only heightens his gaunt appearance. Beneath that same pair of eyes, dark moles are scattered across pale skin, the most prominent one below his right cheek, just above the upper lip. Jayce lets his eyes trace the pattern, unconsciously connecting the dots.
On the broader picture, he finally notices the brace that encases his leg and the crutch propped within easy reach.
“Not quite. Viktor, this is Detective Talis. Detective Talis—Viktor.”
Whatever intensity had first marked his expression when they’d “looked” at each other through the glass is gone, replaced now with utter indifference. “Hello, Detective Talis.”
Then his attention shifts back to Caitlyn. “Another evaluation? I thought we were done with these for the week.”
She shakes her head. “It’s important that you complete this one.”
Only then does Jayce realize she’s turning to leave. “Try to explain things from the beginning. Good luck to you both.”
Jayce stares at her, confused, watching her shadow walk away, no doubt taking a seat behind the protective window, leaving the two of them alone.
The setting becomes awkward quickly. Jayce’s thoughts are a mess, a combination of half-formed questions pressing against the back of his skull. He doesn’t even know where to begin; he gave up on being a good interrogator a long time ago—on being a good conversationalist at all— and now he can’t remember how the protocol is supposed to start, something-about-relating-to-their-background-first.
“So… Czechoslovakia.”
Viktor looks up.
“The faster you get all your questions answered, the quicker this ends for both of us.”
Jayce gives a short nod. “It’s difficult to know which questions to ask when I only became aware of your existence about ten minutes ago.”
“But she trusted you enough just to introduce us.” Viktor studies him carefully.
She sure did.
“She was also pretty insistent on bringing me here,” he adds, shifting in his chair. “Are you important?”
Jayce exhales. I’m not sure goes unspoken.
“Why don’t you start by telling me what you do to interact with the anomalies?”
“Anomalies,” Viktor repeats. “You call a cursed land contamination. You call possessed people afflicted.” His mouth tilts faintly. “You Americans are always reluctant to call things by their names.”
“Listen, kid, you asked me not to waste your time, so don’t waste mine.” Jayce’s voice rises. “By now you should know you’re never going back, so you might as well start adapting to your new circumstances.”
The harshness presses in between them. He notices the tension stiffen Viktor’s spine.
“Excuse me, I don’t mean to make this any more difficult.” Jayce’s apology, short as it is, seems only to tighten him further. “You can start by telling me how you ended up here in the first place.”
Viktor takes a breath before answering. “I was—I guess stolen from my facility. Your team tore it apart,” he sighs. “The next thing I knew, I was in America.”
“What were you doing there?”
“I was the subject of study,” he replies evenly. “Not much has changed from now.” He tilts his head slightly. “And before you ask why they were studying me—which I assume you already know—it doesn’t work like a magic trick. If you’re looking for proof, you’ll have to consult the reports your team also stole.”
Jayce squints. “This facility—does it have a name?”
“Institut svatého Prokopa. Named after a saint.”
Jayce nods and paces slightly toward a chair set off to the side. He drags it across the floor until it stands directly in front of his counterpart across the table, then lowers himself into it.
“Did they make you,” Jayce asks carefully, “or did they find you?”
Viktor inclines his head toward the floor. “I thought you people didn’t ask good questions,” he murmurs, barely audible.
“So?”
He runs his tongue along the back of his teeth.
“It first happened when I was fifteen, discovering me I mean,” he recalls. “I volunteered at a biomedical center when the first signs of what you call ‘affliction’ appeared in the building. A corpse—someone burned with acid during a protest—was brought in for analysis.”
He closes his eyes for a brief moment. “Then it called for me.”
Jayce forces himself to keep his expression neutral. Asking what it might have said seems like the obvious path, but he’s more interested in effectiveness, finding out whether this whole conversation is worth his time.
“Did you separate the host from the afflicted?”
“I tried to ask about it,” Viktor replies quietly, “but he started mumbling about other things.”
Jayce keeps quiet, allowing him to continue.
“It was in pain,” Viktor says. “Not the afflicted. The host, the thing—the actual thing—was in so much pain.”
Jayce leans in closer without realizing it. “Did you separate them?”
“It wanted quiet,” Viktor says. “I know you might find that ridiculous, but—”
“I don’t,” Jayce cuts in. “Did you give in to its request?”
“No. I asked my scared-shitless supervisor to patch me through the intercom,” he recalls. “Had them crank the volume all the way up, even started yelling at it too.”
Jayce laughs softly before he can stop himself. The sound startles the detainee.
The realization that it’s the first time he’s laughed in a while hits, and he looks back at Viktor’s startled expression. “I did something similar in my first case against a sound-sensitive entity,” he explains, letting the memory drift for a moment.
“I see...”
Jayce coughs. “Well, did it work?”
“It did,” he says. "Beginner's luck. If there had been more of them, or if it had possessed someone alive… I wouldn’t be here.”
Jayce nods. “Did they tell you that when they found you?”
“Yes. They came for me that same night—right to my doorstep.”
“You have parents?”
“No,” he says, almost casually. “Made taking me easier.”
Jayce nods again. “How long ago was this?”
“Six years,” he replies, his voice returning to that same mechanical tone from the beginning.
When Jayce had been twenty-one, he had been too young to understand that this quest was endless; he had actually believed, deep in his soul, that there would be a day when the devil would no longer roam the earth. It was such a naive belief, one he allowed to shape his demeanor for years, his mother’s evangelical faith reinforcing it in every prayer she pressed into his hands as a child.
He looks at Viktor now and sees none of that; Jayce wonders what sort of things he dreams about.
“How many times did you do something like that?”
“I lost count.”
“Is there a figure?” he inquires, back on the effectiveness diagnosis. “An estimate of how many cases you helped cast out?”
“They told me I successfully cleared the Brno-město district of every registered manifestation.”
Cait, what the fuck? The older man swallows slowly.
“How did you do that?”
“It wasn’t just me, obviously,” Viktor shrugs, skinny shoulders raising and lowering. “They assigned me a different team for every encounter; they also had people all across the zone who reported back any witnessed phenomena.”
Jayce sighs, resources, the thing they lack the most. “How often?”
Viktor blinks, “I did it every day for six years.”
The detective pretends to be interested in the pen lying on the desk. Looking at Viktor with pity would throw the whole interrogation off, so he focuses on keeping the conversation going.
He’s barely opened his mouth when Viktor interrupts him. “You don’t have to feel sorry for me.”
“I don’t.”
Viktor stares, but lets him lie.
Jayce coughs. “Why biology?”
A faint furrow creases Viktor’s brow.
“Why were you at a biomedical center in the first place? I mean, at fifteen I would’ve been—” He catches himself too late; he wouldn’t have been doing anything conventional either. “Well. Most people at fifteen would be doing anything other than hanging around a medical facility.”
The question comes as unexpected again. There’s a hesitancy when Viktor responds. “I wanted to do anything that could set me on the path of neuropathology.”
“Very specific,” Jayce observes. “Why?”
Viktor looks away. “I just found it fascinating, that’s all.”
“Do you think you would’ve been good at it?”
“I was,” Viktor answers way too quickly. “I was very good at it.”
Jayce reins in his smile, careful not to unsettle him further. “I used to have a superior who said electricity is the bridge between engineering and biology.”
Viktor says nothing, but curiosity edges into his previously nonchalant expression.
“I was never very good at biology,” Jayce admits. “I liked the ideas, adaptation and evolution, but that was about it. I tried to understand his point, though. From an electrical engineer’s perspective.”
It feels strange to hear himself talk this much. He can’t remember the last time he let his voice run on like this. Just last week, when he’d tried to speak, the sound had come out as little more than a groan.
“You’re an engineer?” Both of Viktor’s brows lift now.
“Yes. I started young, too. Physics minor.”
He doesn’t add that he double-majored at twenty-one. It would feel unnecessary. No need to speak of time to a man in restraints.
“There are many analogies,” Viktor reflects. Jayce wonders if it’s shyness that makes him drop his gaze, fingers turning to the pen as though it requires sudden inspection. “Between biological systems and electrical ones.”
“Can you recall one?”
Viktor doesn’t hesitate. “Both rely on feedback loops to maintain stability.” His eyes lift again, steady now. “In engineering, you call it regulation. In biology, we call it homeostasis. It's the same principle, it keeps the system from collapsing.”
This time, Jayce smiles.
“Did you make any progress in your short time as a volunteer?”
“I was assisting in neural tissue analysis,” Viktor explains, a faint glint surfacing behind his tired eyes. “I had so many ideas. I would’ve been a valuable addition to the Ministry—had my condition not progressed so quickly.”
“So you were already aware of your condition before the incident?”Jayce asks, except it’s not really a question, this time, he catches the flash of fear beneath Viktor’s surprise.
The detainee opens his mouth, thinks better of it, and closes it again. There’s another moment of fleeting silence; the tension between them carries the weight of the accusation.
“Is it too late to ask for a lawyer?”
Jayce leans forward, shortening the distance between them. “You’re a clever young man, so I’ll be direct.” His composure remains intact, but the gentleness is gone. “The more information you withhold about your condition, the less credible you will appear.”
“I don’t—”
“So my recommendation for you is to share everything you know,” Jayce finishes. “If you can’t do that, then no one can protect you from the consequences.”
He rises back from the chair.
“I’ll let you tell Kiramman everything, whatever isn’t already in those documents,” he adds. “After that, I want to evaluate what you’re capable of outside this room.”
Viktor retreats into himself, emotion dissolving from his face as he shrinks in his chair. And yet, something else hides behind the blanket of his countenance.
“Do you want to ask something?”
“You heard them once too, didn’t you?” The question comes out quietly.
Jayce locks eyes with him once again. “What did you say?”
“Are you not Jayce Talis?” The soft voice he once felt sad for quickly transforms into something twisted and uncanny. “Back in the institute, they kept tabs on American cases too. I read your original report from the New York massacre, what you heard on the—”
“If I were you, I’d play nice.” The snarl isn’t even disguised. “Outside this room, I decide whether you live or die. Don’t test me.”
So he keeps quiet, much like a doll, coming back to his default composure. Jayce steps out of the room, still listening to his own heartbeat hammer in his ears.
-
Caitlyn welcomes him back with a smile. “You’ve still got it, Talis.”
He doesn’t share her pride. He drops into the chair beside her, eyes drifting to Viktor’s motionless figure on the other side of the glass. “Are you going to get that information out of him?”
“Of course. His day, and mine, is just getting started,” she leans back. “I’ve been interrogating him for over half a year. It’s the first time I’ve seen him crack like that.”
Jayce scoffs without humor. “You just have to push the right buttons.”
She nods slowly. “I knew I made the right choice coming here.” A pause. “Is it true what you told him?”
“What?”
“About getting him out and observing him yourself.”
Jayce exhales. “Yes, I want to do that.”
Caitlyn’s smile widens. “All right. We’ll get him ready for you.”
“Okay.”
They remain watching for a while, the silence fills the space between them.
“Cait, I really wanted to be at the funeral.”
“I brought your flowers, Jayce,” she replies quickly. “I know it would’ve been difficult for you.”
He nods.
“But it was difficult for me, too,” she adds.
“Cait—”
“It’s okay,” her voice comes out softly. “What’s done is done.”
“Yes.” He swallows. “What’s done is done.”
It’s quiet once again, so she stands up.
“All right. I’ll get this processed.” A pause. “You are dismissed. Take the day off.”
“I don’t need it.”
“It’s an order, Detective. Tomorrow’s going to be a long day.”
“Tomorrow?”
The stress sits visibly across her shoulders once again. “There have been disappearances near a church in Mississippi.” She studies him. “You wanted to see it for yourself, so the sooner the better. His symptoms intensify near places of faith.”
Jayce remains seated, trying to absorb the information without letting his imagination spiral through the many theories and possibilities it feeds.
“I’ll be ready,” he promises.
She offers no hug, no handshake. Just a measured glance before she turns back into the room.
-
The ride home is quiet, the afternoon stretched hollow over a city already on the brink of collapse. Stained billboards gesture toward the rural sprawl of Alabama; uneven grass in shades of green and pale yellow ripples in the heat. A sigh slips past his lips. Trying to identify something extraordinary in this place feels like a lost battle; even if the end of the world began at this very spot, it wouldn’t change a thing. The mundanity of it is embedded in the very cursed ground it stands on.
Ever since moving back, he realized that nothing in the South bothered to hide. The devil and all his effects were manifesting openly across the land with no bright city lights nor loud streets to disguise them. His thoughts drift to last week’s string of possessions, the memory hammering at his brain; he can still hear the echo of the afflicted victims’ screams, how they crawled on all fours, begging God for aid.
God—even the mention of His name sends a row of unwanted feelings bubbling up, an acidic sensation writhing deep within him. He forces the doubt from his chest and fixes his attention on the road ahead.
A sense of calm washes over as the familiar red bar comes into view, open doors inviting against the monotonous set of houses. He wastes no time parking the truck.
Once inside, Jayce scans the room and picks out the familiar figures. He's greeted by the usual crowd of alcoholics who occupy the place regardless of the hour.
“The usual?” a pink-haired woman calls from across the bar.
He watches the whiskey slide along the edges of the ice. Jayce swiftly lifts the glass and lets the liquid burn away the repetition of his thoughts. His rituals are long forgotten in the wake of the bitter taste caressing his tongue.
Habit already has him on his way to order a third round when the bartender interrupts him.
“Seems someone here’s got their eye on you.”
In the small crowd, seated beside the vinyl player, an unfamiliar face smiles at him. A woman with red lipstick and a short brunette bob, half-hidden in the shadow of her friends, though they glance his way now and then. Late twenties, maybe thirty. She wears a blouse cut low enough to hint at the curve of her chest.
He drinks from the glass the second he sees it’s been refilled. That’s enough, he reprimands himself, fully intending to go home and check every door, every room, until his eyelids can’t bear their own weight.
And yet something inside him tells him to look back again. The people around the woman have shifted, and only then does he notice the beauty mark, below her right cheek and right above the upper lip.
He doesn’t want to dissect what makes the doubt disappear, what is the reason behind why her strange-looking face suddenly matters so little, nor why his rule about never messing around so early in the afternoon collapses without second-thought. All Jayce knows is that he feels slightly detached as he makes his way toward her.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hey,” she replies, a little shy.
-
He’s halfway inside her when he realizes that maybe they shouldn’t have made it this far. Her hair clings with sweat against his shoulder, passion overlapping with the loud sound of skin against skin. The entire room smells like lewdness; she’s so drunk on it that she fails to notice the shotgun lying just a couple of feet away from the bed.
“Look at me,” he calls for her, as if he needs a reminder of what possessed him to do this in the first place. When she fails to do so, he grabs her by the limp neck and forces their eyes to meet.
The beauty mark remains there; it almost feels ridiculous to expect otherwise. He doesn’t know what to do when his mouth waters at the sight of it, so he spits on hers, and she opens wide to receive it.
Each thrust increases its pace; she moans loudly against Jayce, mouth to mouth. It’s been a while since he had sex with this much passion; it’s both a relief as much as it is terrifying that age doesn’t kill the mundane desires that exist within him.
“God, you are so—” she’s interrupted by Jayce pressing himself deeper against a spot that has her curling her toes and throwing her head back.
We don’t have to talk about any of this. He reserves the thought for his own inner voice. I don’t wanna talk about anything else today.
He’s aware that any evil spirit thrives on lust, and yet that doesn’t stop him from keeping the rhythm of the impulsion, wrapping his weeping cock tightly against her walls. He keeps his mind blank when suddenly, an orgasm escapes from her; the muscle contraction has Jayce panting in a combination of pleasure and the sudden presence of nails clawing at his back.
He acts on another of his intrusive thoughts when he decides, against his better judgment, to bite the dark spot right above her lip. He comes just like this, feeling the mole under his tongue, eyes shut against whatever implication that brings.
He falls asleep soon after, not bothered to check whether there are eyes on the ceiling.
-