'Miguel' glanced out the panoramic glass wall of his office, the sprawling, glittering cityscape a wave of electric light against the beautiful darkness. He had completely transformed the interior of the office in just three days after taking possession of this body, this vessel. The result was a space of cool, futuristic elegance, clean lines, minimalist furniture in shades of chrome and charcoal, and subtle, ambient lighting that cast long, dramatic shadows. This new vibe suited him perfectly.
He was dressed elegantly in tailored grey trousers, a crisp white shirt open at the collar, and a matching grey silk vest. His long, silver hair was neatly combed back, catching the low light like polished mercury. The edges of his tattoos peeked from beneath his collar and cuffs, cryptic patterns that seemed to shift if one stared too long. Despite the late hour, he was at his desk holding a heavy crystal mug filled with a viscous red liquid that glinted under the light. Behind him, slumped against the wall where she had been casually discarded, was the prostitute he had called for. Her body was lifeless, a single, ghastly wound at the nape of her neck the only visible mark of what was done to her. He sipped his 'drink' slowly, his golden eyes pulsing with a faint, otherworldly light as he savored the essence.
A millennium. For one thousand years he had been drifting in this world, a traveler with no true purpose other than his obsessive search. The Purple Pearl, the only key, the sole object restricting him from returning to his own realm. For centuries, he had chased its whispers, its fleeting traces. Each time he drew near, it was like a cruel joke; the artifact would be passed to an entirely new holder, vanishing into another life, another story. And each time, the pursuit left a trail of corpses in its wake. He was profoundly bored. It was always the same tiresome circle: power, fear, desperation, death. Nothing surprised him anymore. There was no excitement, only the grim mechanics of the hunt.
And this latest development? He harbored barely a flicker of expectation for Vittoria Roosevelt. He had meticulously gone through every record, every rumor about her. She was, in the end, just like all the others: mythologized as something fearsome, only to be, in reality, as fragile and insignificant as an insect. The letter he had sent was not just a message; it was a fishing line, baited with insult. She would come now, driven by fury and pride. He couldn't wait to squash her and taste her life's blood.
He downed the last of the blood in a final gulp, the golden light in his eyes flaring briefly. With a casual, almost negligent flick of his finger towards the corpse behind him, the body disintegrated into a fine, grey dust that scattered into the air. Slipping his hands into his pockets, not bothering to collect a coat or briefcase, he walked out of the office.
He emerged into a vast, open working area that hummed with activity despite the deep night. This was his command. The original Miguel Writhwood had been intelligent but lenient, allowing laziness and taking it into consideration. Under his reign, the corporate culture had grown soft, employees took extended paid leaves for vague ailments, deadlines were hardly met, and a culture of comfortable mediocrity had taken root. Though the company was nominally among the country's top twenty, it was drowning.
This Miguel, though always wearing soft, kind smiles, was ruthlessly efficient. In three days, he had conducted a surgical purge. Those deemed useless or lacking drive were heartlessly fired. The company underwent a brutal, top-to-bottom reform. New employees with brilliant skills were brought in. Workloads increased, but so did the pay. The stock, responding to the shock treatment, was climbing the market charts at a staggering pace.
The staff greeted him with murmured respect as he passed. He ignored them utterly, his serene smile in place but his gaze seeing through them as if they were ghosts. His personal assistant, a lanky, caramel-skinned man with a map of vitiligo across his hands and neck, watched him pass with anxious eyes. The man had expected joy and celebration at the soaring stock price. Instead, Miguel had assigned the entire department an overnight project for hosting a small, self-congratulatory gathering earlier. "Celebrating mediocrity," he had said, his smile never slipping from his lips. It left everyone deeply conflicted, unsure if he was a visionary or a monster, and unsure how to behave around him.
Miguel couldn't be bothered by this; he exited the building and slid into his Mercedes. He drove off, disappearing into the labyrinth of night, heading nowhere in particular.
---
Elsewhere, in a quiet, secluded residential area, an old chapel stood surrounded by trees and shadows. An elderly dwarf man, his back bent with age, shuffled towards the wide-open door of the chapel. He was dressed in a simple blue robe, the fabric already pale with time. He stopped by the threshold, his wrinkled face furrowing with deep concern as he scanned the surroundings. Something was amiss in the stillness.
Slowly, he extended a gnarled hand into the cool night air, palm up, and almost immediately, grey dust began to settle upon his skin, materializing as if from nowhere. He brought his hand close, scanning the substance with suspicion. Then, with a practiced caution, he sniffed it.
His entire body went rigid. The color drained from his face, replaced by a look of sheer, unadulterated horror. "No…" he whispered, the word trembling on his lips. "It can't be. It simply cannot be."
He hurried into the chapel, his movements suddenly frantic with fear. He rushed to the stone basin of holy water and scrubbed his hand violently, as if trying to erase a contagion. His whole frame quivered uncontrollably. Then, dropping to his knees before the simple altar, he began to chant an old scripture, his voice a ragged, trembling whisper that echoed in the empty hall.
"The legend is real… history is real… The devil still lives…" He ended the ancient verses with these desperate, horrified confirmations, as if trying to make his own mind believe the unbelievable.
The following morning, the regular middle-aged cleaner who cleaned the chapel arrived for her routine work. She found him just outside the chapel doors, lying on the dew-damp grass. He was dead. A common dining fork, driven with tremendous force deep into his own chest. Yet, nothing was disturbed. There were no signs of a struggle, no evidence of another's presence, and no final phone call logged. His neighbors confirmed he had been perfectly normal, even peaceful, throughout the previous day. The police investigation found nobody's fingerprints but his own on the fork and no motive in his tidy home. In the end, the file was closed with no conclusion, a tragic, inexplicable suicide. Only the fine, long-vanished dust that had once coated his hand knew the terrible truth that had driven him to such a final, desperate act.