# Chapter 8: A Second Visit
The alley behind Gramps's shop was a canyon of shadows and decayed brick, smelling of damp garbage and the faint, metallic tang of the subway tunnels below. Relly stood motionless, the First Codex a cold, heavy anchor in his arms. The finality of the locks clicking into place echoed in his mind, a sound more final than a slammed door. It was the sound of a gate closing, of a path being sealed. He was alone. Truly, terrifyingly alone. The goblin's words, "a target painted on your soul," replayed in a relentless loop, each repetition chipping away at the fragile resolve he'd built on the walk over.
He started walking, his feet carrying him on autopilot through the labyrinthine Lower East Side streets. The early morning light was a pale, anemic gray, doing little to warm the chill that had settled deep in his bones. Every face in the sparse crowd seemed to turn toward him, every pair of eyes felt like a potential scout for the Concordat, or one of the "old things" Gramps had mentioned with such primal terror. The book in his arms felt like a radioactive isotope, pulsing with a silent, deadly energy that only he could sense. He clutched it tighter, a foolish, protective gesture. It wasn't a book; it was a cage, and he was the canary.
The journey back to his apartment above The Gilded Flask was a blur of paranoid glances and heightened senses. The rumble of a passing truck was the approach of a hunter. The flicker of a faulty streetlight was a magical probe. He took the stairs two at a time, not waiting for the groaning elevator, and fumbled with his keys, his hands shaking so badly it took three tries to get the lock to turn. He stumbled inside, slamming and bolting the door behind him, leaning against it as he tried to catch a breath that felt perpetually stuck in his chest.
His apartment was a mess of stacked books, empty whiskey bottles, and the faint, lingering scent of failure. It was his sanctuary, but now it felt like a cage, just one room larger than the alley. He placed the Codex on his scarred wooden dining table, the thud of it against the wood unnaturally loud in the silence. He stared at it, the intricate silver inlay on its cover seeming to writhe in the dim light. A beacon. A target. He ran a hand through his hair, his mind a frantic scramble. What now? Gramps had made it clear: no help was coming. The only thing to do was hide, but how could you hide when you were carrying a lighthouse?
He sank into a chair, the weight of his exhaustion finally crashing down on him. He closed his eyes, but all he could see was the goblin's terrified face, the memory of "the Wound" flashing behind his eyelids—a chaotic storm of fire and screaming, a feeling of being torn apart and put back together wrong. He shuddered, forcing his eyes open. He couldn't go back there. He had to stay present. He had to think.
But his thoughts were a tangled mess, a knot of fear and desperation. He needed a drink. He needed to not feel. He pushed himself up and headed for the bar downstairs, a familiar pilgrimage to numb the edges of his reality. He didn't bother locking the apartment door behind him. What was the point?
The Gilded Flask was empty, as it always was during the day. The morning light struggled through the grimy front windows, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air and the sticky residue of last night's meager business on the bar top. The place smelled of stale beer, wood polish, and the faint, ghostly aroma of a thousand spilled cocktails. It was the smell of his dream dying.
He moved behind the bar, his movements practiced and automatic. He reached for a clean glass, his fingers brushing against the familiar coolness of the heavy tumbler. As he did, a faint, almost imperceptible hum vibrated through the soles of his shoes. He froze, his hand hovering over the glass. It wasn't the rumble of the subway. It was higher, more… technical. A steady, electronic pulse.
His head snapped up, his eyes scanning the dimly lit bar. And then he saw her.
Pres Sanchez stood near the entrance, half-shrouded in the gloom. She wasn't wearing the severe, power-suited armor of their first meeting. Today, she was dressed in a tailored charcoal pantsuit and a simple silk blouse, an outfit that screamed effortless wealth and authority. In her hand, she held a device that looked like a sleek, metallic wand, its tip glowing with a soft, blue light. She was sweeping it slowly through the air, her movements precise and methodical. The hum intensified as she passed it over a table.
Relly's blood ran cold. She had found him. Again. The fear was immediate and suffocating, but it was quickly followed by a surge of white-hot anger. This was *his* space. His failure. His sanctuary. She had no right to be here.
"Get out," he said, his voice low and rough, cutting through the quiet hum of her device.
She didn't startle. She simply stopped her sweep and turned her head, her cool, intelligent eyes finding his in the gloom. A small, almost imperceptible smile touched her lips. "Mr. Moe. I was hoping we'd run into each other."
"I said get out," he repeated, stepping out from behind the bar, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. "You don't belong here."
"On the contrary," she said, her voice smooth as polished marble. She deactivated the device with a soft click, and the humming ceased. The sudden silence was deafening. "I believe this is exactly where I belong. You left a rather… energetic signature here the other night. It's quite remarkable. Like a new star being born in a dead corner of the galaxy."
He stalked toward her, his anger overriding his caution. "Who the hell are you? Don't give me that 'corporate interest' crap again. You hunted me. You threatened me. Now you're breaking into my bar. I want to know who you are and what you want."
Her gaze was unwavering, a predator assessing its prey. She didn't flinch as he closed the distance between them, stopping only a few feet away. He could smell her perfume now, a subtle, expensive scent of sandalwood and something else, something cool and metallic, like winter air.
"My name is Pres Sanchez," she said, her tone shifting slightly, losing its corporate edge and taking on a more academic, almost reverent quality. "And I am not your enemy, Relly. I'm an archivist. A historian, of a sort."
He scoffed, a harsh, disbelieving sound. "An archivist? You break into places with a sci-fi wand?"
"This," she said, holding up the device, "is a resonant spectrometer. It measures and records trace magical energy. And what you did here… it wasn't just a parlor trick. It was history. A lost art, reborn." She took a step closer, her eyes alight with a genuine, captivating curiosity that was more disarming than any threat. "Your family. The Moe line. I've been studying them for years. A dead-end branch of a lineage that stretches back to the very dawn of civilization. The art of liquid transmutation. The lost art of distillation."
Relly stared at her, his anger momentarily blunted by sheer confusion. "Distillation? I was just trying to save my bar."
"Were you?" she asked, her voice a soft, persuasive murmur. "Or was it instinct? The blood in your veins remembering what it was meant to do? You didn't just turn water into whiskey, Relly. You restructured matter on a fundamental level, guided by an emotional blueprint. That's not a trick. That's heritage. A heritage that people like me have been searching for, for centuries."
The lie was a masterpiece, woven with just enough truth to be tantalizing. He had felt it, hadn't he? That strange, instinctual pull, the feeling that he was channeling something far older and bigger than himself. Gramps had called it a beacon, a target. Pres was calling it a legacy. The two ideas warred in his mind.
"Why?" he asked, his voice quieter now, the anger receding but the suspicion remaining. "Why would you care about some old family recipe?"
"Because it's beautiful," she said, and for a moment, he saw a flicker of something raw and genuine in her eyes, a deep-seated passion that transcended her polished facade. "And because it's being lost. The world is becoming… standardized. Homogenized. Magic is being regulated, corporatized. But what you have… it's wild. It's pure. It's art. And art deserves to be preserved, not erased."
She gestured toward the bar. "This place. It's failing, isn't it?" The question was gentle, not an accusation. "I did my research. You're drowning in debt. You're a month away from losing everything your father built. And you have the key to saving it right here." She tapped a single, perfectly manicured finger against her temple. "Not just saving it. Making it legendary."
He remained silent, his mind racing. This was a trap. It had to be. Every instinct he had, sharpened by years of disappointment and the recent terror of the Concordat, screamed at him to run. But the alternative was so much worse. The image of Gramps's terrified face, the memory of being cast out into the cold with nothing but a death warrant in his arms, was still fresh. He was out of options. Out of time. Out of hope.
"What are you proposing?" he asked, the words feeling like a betrayal of his own survival instinct.
A triumphant smile graced her lips, so fleeting he almost thought he imagined it. "A partnership," she said. "My resources, your recipe. We form a new brand. A luxury spirit, unlike anything the world has ever seen. We'll call it… 'First Light.' A nod to its origins. I have the distribution networks, the marketing teams, the capital to make it a global phenomenon. You have the one thing no amount of money can buy: the secret."
She let the offer hang in the air between them, a glittering, irresistible lure. "Exclusive rights, of course. To you. A fifty-fifty split of all profits. You pay off your debts in a month. You buy this building. You never have to worry about money again. All you have to do is share your art with me."
It was a lifeline. A golden parachute woven from the very threads of his destruction. He could save the bar. He could honor his father's memory. He could escape the crushing weight of his failure. All he had to do was trust the woman who had hunted him, who worked for the very organization that wanted him dead. The irony was so thick he could taste it, bitter and metallic.
He looked from her earnest, captivating face to the dusty, empty bar around him. He saw his father's ghost polishing a glass, heard his faint, disappointed sigh. He saw the eviction notice he knew was coming. And then he saw the First Codex, sitting on his table upstairs, a beacon screaming for the monsters.
This wasn't just a deal. It was a choice. Hide in a hole and wait for the end, or step into the light with the devil and hope to learn her game.
"Show me the spectrometer again," he said, his voice barely a whisper.
Pres's smile widened, this time with genuine warmth. She held out the device. As his fingers brushed against hers to take it, a jolt, not of electricity, but of pure, cold energy, shot up his arm. It was the same feeling he'd gotten when she'd first cornered him in the alley. A predator's energy. Ancient and powerful. He knew, with a certainty that chilled him to the bone, that she was lying. Not about everything, but about the most important things. She wasn't just an archivist. She was something far more dangerous.
But he took the device anyway. He looked at the glowing blue tip, then back at her. "Alright," he said, the word tasting like ash in his mouth. "Let's talk about First Light."