October 3rd dawned, the kind of morning that made Ashwick town feel even smaller. Seed rolled out of bed at 8 a.m., his head pounding from last night's beer and the emotional whiplash of Rebecca's ink-ant freak show.
He groaned, rubbing his eyes, the skull tattoo on his hand catching his glance. The Book of Death had not whispered anything new overnight. He splashed water on his face, stared at the mirror, and saw the bags under his eyes deeper than ever. Bound Adept or not, he looked like hell. Perception: 31p didn't fix hangovers.
In the kitchen, he ate a stale bagel and chugged black coffee, the bitter taste stinging his tongue. Lila's photo on the coffee table caught his eye, "Wish me luck, kid," he muttered, tracing the frame. Luck for what? Walking into the MMA's den? Cassie's "welcome" still rang in his ears, that forced grin of hers hiding who-knows-what. Agents hunting monsters like it was some civil servant duty? Sounded like a trap, or worse, a cult with benefits. But skipping it? That'd make him a "threat to society," her words. No thanks.
Stepping out of his apartment, Seed locked the door and glanced at Rebecca's door across the hall. No lights on, door shut tight like a clam. She'd woken up around dawn, mumbling apologies before bolting to her place, her sketchbook clutched in her hands. Embarrassed about passing out mid-reveal? Or scared he'd blab about her weird powers to the wrong people? Either way, she'd barricaded herself in, no note, no knock. Made it easier for Seed to decide not to drag her along. She didn't need his mess, the Book of Death eating at his soul or the cassie's memory wipes. "Stay safe, Becks," he whispered, pocketing Cassie's card. The address stared back: 47 Elm Street, Suite 12B. Sounded like an accountant's office, not a monster squad HQ.
The taxi ride downtown took twenty minutes, the driver humming some old rock tune while rain streaked the windows. Seed slouched in the back, fiddling with the card, his mind racing. He half-expected a haunted warehouse or glowing runes on a warehouse door, not... this. The cab pulled up to a plain brick building squeezed between a coffee shop and a dry cleaner.
No gargoyles on the ledges, no fog-shrouded spires. Just glass doors, a faded sign reading "Elm Plaza Offices," and a potted plant wilting by the entrance. No Halloween pumpkins, no cobwebs—nothing to scream "supernatural Monsters killing enforcers inside". Seed paid the driver and stepped out, rain dripping off his trench coat.
"Figures," he grumbled. "Monsters gotta file taxes too."
Pushing through the doors, a bell jingled like any dentist's office. The lobby smelled of cheap air freshener and stale donuts, light buzzed overhead. A receptionist in her forties sat behind the counter, typing away on a computer, her hair pulled into a tight bun. She looked up as Seed approached, her eyes sharp behind wire-rimmed glasses. "Can I help you?" she asked, voice flat as the rain-slicked street outside.
"Uh, yeah. Cassie?, She told me to come here. 10 a.m. sharp. Name's Wallace, Seed Wallace." He flashed the card like it was a badge, like muscle memory from his old days as a detective, trying to sound authorisative, but his voice came out rough.
The receptionist eyed him up and down; rumpled coat, long hair tied back messy, the faint shadow of stubble beards. Her gaze then lingered on his hand a second too long. No smile, just a nod. "Take a seat in the waiting room," she said, pointing to a cluster of plastic chairs by a fake plant, with magazines fanned on a side table.
"Someone will be with you shortly." No questions, no buzz-in. Just that cool stare, like she'd seen a hundred weirdos like him.
Seed sank into a chair, it creaking under him. The waiting room was empty, save for a fish tank bubbling in the corner. He drummed his fingers on his knee, glancing at the clock: 9:58. What now? Interrogation? Power test? Or just paperwork for joining the monster club? His Ghost Hair prickled again, and he swore the receptionist shot him a look. The elevator dinged down the hall, footsteps approaching. Cassie's laugh echoed faintly; sharp, familiar. Seed straightened, heart kicking up. Showtime.