Rain poured in steady sheets, turning the old country road into a winding ribbon of mud and standing water. What had once been dust and gravel now clung to the tires like glue. The vintage black sports car—low-slung, sleek, and purring like a beast in hibernation—cut through the storm with quiet menace. Its engine growled beneath the noise of the rain, and its headlights cast long twin beams through the dark, illuminating nothing but waterlogged woods and empty trail.
Inside, the leather seats creaked slightly with each shift of weight. Jackson sat in the passenger seat, one hand braced against the dash as they slid through another turn. He wasn't sure where they were heading, and Alexander wasn't in a sharing mood.
"I don't get why we had to come out in this," Jackson muttered, watching trees blur past. "Or where the hell 'this' even is."
Alexander didn't answer. His hands gripped the wheel with calm precision, eyes locked on the slick road ahead. Deep lines framed his face, rain glistening on his temples where his soaked hair clung to his skin. He leaned slightly toward the driver's side window, now cracked open just enough to let in the smell of wet leaves and rusted bark. His hand, old and lined, rested on the doorframe, fingers tapping a steady rhythm on the metal. Tap… tap… tap. Each knock echoed faintly in the cabin, muffled by the hum of the engine and the drone of rain.
Jackson glanced sideways. "You do that every time you're nervous?"
Alexander ignored him.
The night was pitch black, no streetlights, no moon. Just the occasional break in the cloud cover, revealing stars that shimmered briefly above them like a reminder of how alone they were out here. The car's headlights were the only manmade light for miles, their beams slicing through fog and rain with surgical focus. Behind them: nothing. Ahead: more winding road and soaked wilderness.
Jackson shifted in his seat again, running a hand through damp hair. "You said this was just a short drive. You also said it wasn't dangerous. And now we're god knows where, with a trunk full of gear and not a damn clue what we're walking into."
"You're here for backup," Alexander said finally. "That's it."
"Backup for what, man?"
A pause. Then, softly: "Something I should've dealt with years ago."
The car took a curve, tires slipping slightly before the rear corrected. Jackson's stomach tightened as they straightened out. He reached to adjust the heater—it was working, but barely. The vents blew just enough warm air to keep the windows from fogging, but the cold was still seeping in.
Something outside caught his attention. Birds? In this weather?
He leaned toward the window, squinting through the downpour. There—off to the right—an oak tree, tall and alone in the landscape, gnarled limbs twisting upward. Perched along its branches, unmoving in the storm, was a flock of blue jays. Even in the low light, their feathers glinted with color—striking flashes of cobalt and ivory against the black bark.
"That's not normal," Jackson muttered.
Alexander gave a single nod. "They've been following me. Every day this week."
"Blue jays?"
"Yeah. Always three. Always just sitting. Watching."
Jackson's eyes narrowed. "You're saying the same birds are following you? Like, the same birds?"
Alexander didn't respond. He didn't need to. The implication hung in the air like fog inside the cabin.
The car crested a ridge, the rain momentarily slowing as they reached a rise in the land. Down below, shrouded in mist and shadow, was their destination—a narrow stretch of land framed by ancient trees, and at its center, a decaying structure. It wasn't much to look at. Maybe a cabin, or what was left of one. Half-collapsed roof, rotted wood, barely visible from the road.
Alexander eased off the gas. The engine dropped to a low hum as they coasted downhill. The sports car looked out of place on the mud-covered trail, its polished black body now streaked with grime, its tires fighting for grip.
"This is it?" Jackson asked, almost scoffing. "You dragged me through a thunderstorm for some abandoned shed?"
Alexander killed the lights. Rain hammered the car roof like a warning.
"I dragged you here," he said, "because I'm not walking into that place alone."
Something in his tone froze the protest on Jackson's lips. It wasn't fear exactly—it was resignation. Like Alexander had accepted some weight long ago and had only now decided to face it.
He reached beneath his seat and retrieved an old revolver. It was worn, the barrel scuffed, the grip smooth with age. He handed it to Jackson, along with a flashlight.
Jackson took both. "You expecting trouble?"
"I'm expecting answers," Alexander said. "Trouble's just the price."
They stepped out into the storm. Cold wind slapped their faces as mud sucked at their boots. The rain, somehow louder now, filled their ears and drowned out the sounds of the forest. Except for the birds. The blue jays still called softly from their perch on the oak, their song sharp and strangely steady. Jackson looked up again—three of them, unmoving, staring down with eyes too dark for comfort.
"You think they're… watching us?" he asked.
"I know they are."
The two men walked side by side through the dark, flashlight beam bobbing ahead as they crossed the short field toward the decaying structure. Every step was slower than the last. The air grew heavier as they approached, thick with moss, rot, and something else—something harder to name.
Alexander stopped a few yards from the structure.
The two men stood at the edge of what had once been a bar. At least, that was what the world used to call it. Now, it looked more like the skeletal remains of something that had refused to die. Half of the building had collapsed decades ago—charred beams jutted out like broken ribs, while the roof sagged with the weight of time and moss. And yet, despite the ruin, there was something eerily complete about it. As if it had never intended to be whole.
Above the splintered doorframe, a crooked wooden sign hung by a single rusted nail. The lettering had long since bled away under years of sun, wind, and rain, leaving behind nothing but ghostly outlines. It didn't matter. Alexander didn't need to read it to know he'd come to the right place.
He took a step forward, boots sinking into the mud with a wet squelch. The air here was heavy—thick with moisture, decay, and magic. He could feel it swirling faintly around him, like the static before a storm. Behind him, Jackson didn't move. His eyes were fixed on the building, jaw slightly slack.
Alexander glanced back. "You alright?"
Jackson said nothing. His fingers twitched at his sides. The younger man looked as though he was staring into a nightmare made real.
Alexander sighed. Of course. He should've expected this. Magic on this scale wasn't something you simply walked into unshaken—unless you were used to it. Like venom, it lost its sting with enough exposure. Alexander had been bathing in magical currents since childhood. To him, this place felt like coming home. But to Jackson? It was like staring into a black sun.
What Jackson saw—what Alexander barely noticed anymore—was a writhing cloud of energy wrapped tight around the building. It pulsed, alive and angry, like a thousand whispers clawing at the edge of his sanity.
"Jackson," Alexander called, voice calm but firm. "It's alright. Just breathe. Follow me."
Reluctantly, Jackson moved, his steps slow and stiff, like a man pushing through invisible chains.
Alexander reached the door and gripped the rusted metal knob. It groaned in protest as he twisted it. The door creaked open on brittle hinges, and a wave of stench rolled out to greet them—mold, rot, and something far worse, something feral and long dead.
Jackson gagged immediately, pinching his nose. "Jesus. Smells like something died in there."
Alexander smiled faintly, stepping inside. "Probably several things."
The interior was a mausoleum of forgotten memories. Dust coated every surface like ash. A once-grand bar counter stretched across the room, its shelves still lined with long-expired bottles, their labels faded and peeling. Cobwebs laced between them like silver veins. Red leather stools—cracked and faded—stood like sentinels around the counter. Scattered tables and chairs were strewn randomly about the floor, as if abandoned mid-conversation decades ago.
In the far left corner, something large loomed beneath a stained cream-colored tarp. The fabric shifted slightly as if stirred by breath—or memory.
Alexander walked toward it. The floorboards creaked under his weight, echoing like footsteps in a cathedral. He stopped in front of the tarp, grabbed its edge, and yanked.
A plume of dust exploded into the air. Jackson coughed violently, but Alexander didn't flinch.
Beneath the tarp stood a vintage arcade cabinet, yellowed with age but still intact. He knew what it was before even seeing the screen: a limited edition The Punisher machine from 1998. Only a handful had ever been made. This one had belonged to him—or at least, it used to.
He brushed off the cobwebs, eyes scanning the familiar outlines of the joystick and oversized red start button. Without hesitation, he pressed it.
To his surprise, the machine lit up with a soft hum. The screen flickered, then came alive with the game's boot-up animation—pixels dancing in neon reds and blues.
Jackson stared. "That thing still works?"
Alexander didn't answer. He navigated quickly to the Top Scores menu.
Hundreds of names. But the top two stood out.
Second place: "ALEX"—his own tag.First place: one point higher. The name: "SEYMOUR."
He narrowed his eyes, lips pressing into a thin line.
A sound broke the silence. Faint. Like a breath, or a whisper of cloth over wood. Most people wouldn't have heard it. But Jackson did. His hand instinctively dropped to his belt. In one smooth motion, he drew a sleek black revolver and spun around.
Too late.
A man was already sitting on the dusty table beside him, legs crossed like he'd been there all along. Black hair slicked back. Sharp suit. Unreadable grin.
"Still chasing my high score after all these years?" Seymour said, voice smooth as ever.
Alexander didn't look away from the screen. "Never could beat you."
The two brothers didn't move. The silence stretched out like wire, tense and waiting.
Three minutes passed like a breath.
Finally, they both spoke at once.
"So… it was a trap, wasn't it?"
Both men paused, the weight of their shared realization hanging in the air.
"So," Alexander said, his voice low and careful, "why did you come, then?"
Seymour locked eyes with him, unblinking. For a beat, he said nothing. Then, with a cold, deliberate smile, he replied,"I didn't come here by choice."
He shifted his stance slightly, casting a glance toward the broken doorway.
"But someone came to me with a request. And as his uncle…" Seymour's smile sharpened into something cruel, "…how could I refuse?"
As if on cue, a figure stepped into the doorway—leaning casually on the cracked frame. Dressed in a dark brown suit that looked freshly pressed, untouched by the ruin around him, stood Johnathan.
Alexander's eyes widened. "Johnathan? What are you—"
His words stopped short. At first, the question was genuine. But then his mind caught up. He saw the angle of Johnathan's shoulders, the steel in his expression. He wasn't just with Seymour—he was standing beside him.
Alexander's voice turned cold. "Let me rephrase. What are you doing here… with him?"
Johnathan stepped inside. His gaze was steady—eerily calm.
"I came to ask something of you," he said.
Alexander didn't move. "Ask what?"
Johnathan approached, slow and steady, until he stood just feet away. Then, with a grin that didn't touch his eyes, he looked up at his grandfather and spoke clearly:
"My dead grandfather… make me king."
Alexander recoiled, not physically, but in something deeper. For a second, he couldn't speak. He searched Johnathan's face, desperate to find a trace of the boy he once knew.
"What… what's gotten into you?" he asked, barely above a whisper.
"What's gotten into me," Johnathan snapped, "is that you've waited too long. You keep pretending you don't have to choose, but you do. And it should be me."
"I can't choose between you and Layla," Alexander said, voice cracking with frustration. "And I won't let you fight her."
"Then step aside," Johnathan said. "Because if you won't make the choice—"
He leaned in closer, his voice lowering to a bitter hiss.
"—then I will."
Alexander stared, heart pounding. "You'd raise a hand against her? Against your own blood?"
Johnathan's jaw tensed. His eyes burned.
"It shouldn't even be a contest," he said quietly.
Then, without hesitation, he finished:
"She's not even your real granddaughter anyways"