I'm driven to a penthouse by a taxi. His memories flood back into my head, not with a jolt, but with a soft, persistent hit, like a slow leak filling up a basin. He got this place after his retirement from professional football. Aaron Maddox, the sports star turned author, with a book set to be published in three months.
The scandal with Darcy Grey back pedaled all that progress, throwing him further back than he'd ever been. His publisher ghosted him, pre-order numbers dropped off a cliff, and the book launch party was postponed indefinitely.
I let out a sigh as the security guard, recognizing the face if not the man behind it, lets me in without a word. The luxury of the place isn't hard to miss. It's cold, all sharp angles and minimalist furniture that probably costs triple my entire life's savings. A sterile showpiece, not a home.
This was the kind of life I'd always wanted, the life I'd dreamt of giving to Constance. The thought brings the rage bubbling back up, a familiar heat in my chest, but I push it down. I let it simmer as I run a bath in the massive hot tub overlooking the city. The water is scalding, almost painful, but it feels right. My appetite is gone, so I bypass the kitchen and head straight for the bar. I find an expensive-looking bottle of red wine, pop the cork, and pour a heavy measure into a clean crystal glass. I don't sip it; I drink it.
Another memory surfaces: his maid, Betty. I remember her through his eyes—her innocent gaze, the way she'd stare at him while he worked at his desk. He noticed her quiet affection but never paid it any mind. There's no memory of a lover, no real intimacy. Just the portrait of a middle-aged, successful man actively maintaining his spot at the very top of the social ladder, right before a woman decided to drag him down and watch him fall.
[Do you need a lead through Darcy Grey's profile?] The system asks, its voice that same impersonal buzz in my skull. I hate the sound of it, like a digital parasite nesting behind my eyes.
"No," I say aloud to the empty penthouse. "I've got what I need."
[You have until tomorrow to complete this task, Aaron.]
"I know. You said I just need to expose and disgrace her, right?"
[And collect her soul for the Corrupter.]
"And how do I do that?" I ask, finishing the wine. The alcohol does nothing. This new body has a higher tolerance.
[I thought you said you already had what you need.]
"Just answer me," I snap, the frustration raw in my voice.
[Fine.] The system sounds almost petulant. [Darcy Grey is already a corrupted soul. You should expect a spirit manifest in the form of a beast. This manifestation will appear upon her physical death. You must kill the beast to claim her soul.]
"Killing her? In a place as public as a university?" The logistics seem impossible.
[Certainly. You're smart, Aaron. You should know how to cover that up.]
I know all about the strategic vagueness that comes with guides, not just systems. They give you the objective, never the blueprint. I'll have to figure out the messy details on my own.
The next morning, I move through the penthouse with a purpose. I slip into a pair of crisp black Valentino trousers, a deep red turtleneck, and a tailored black wool coat.
Normally, as Kairos, wearing an outfit like this would have felt like a child playing dress-up in a parent's closet. But Aaron's body fills it out perfectly. He's bulkier, a solid 6'4" of athletic muscle with a jawline straight out of a comic book. His black hair is thick and soft, the kind of hair I would have killed to work on back in my days as a hairdresser. I style it quickly, the motions feeling strangely natural.
I pack a change of clothing into a sleek duffel—simple, dark, nondescript—just in case things get messy. I don't know where this murderous determination comes from, this cold focus. Maybe it's just the simple, brutal realization that being noble was a colossal waste of time. My brother was right about that much.
With everything ready, I check Aaron's desk drawers. My fingers close around a heavy keyring holding the fobs for his collection of cars. I choose the least flashy sports car, something fast but not screaming for attention.
[Darcy Grey has arrived at her office,] the system informs me, right on cue. [Her first class is at 12 PM. You have sufficient time.]
"Sure," I say, my voice flat in the silent garage. I slide into the driver's seat, the leather sighing under my weight. The engine roars to life, a powerful, contained growl. "Let's go kill Darcy."