John groaned as consciousness dragged him back, his skull feeling like someone was taking a hammer to it. He cracked one bleary eye open, only to immediately regret it as the dim bar lights stabbed into his retinas like tiny daggers.

  “Huh?” His voice came out as a dry croak. He tried to lift his head, but it felt like it weighed a ton. “W-What?”

  The acrid burn of something sharp hit his nostrils, and he gagged, jerking back in his seat. The bartender, standing over him with a small vial of smelling salts, gave him a look that was equal parts amusement and exasperation.

  “You two idiots blacked out,” she said, shaking her head. “Had to make sure you were still breathing.”

  John blinked sluggishly, then turned his head toward Chase, who was groaning into his hands as he rubbed his temples.

  “Who won?” Chase rasped, squinting at the half-full drinks in front of them like they were cursed artifacts. “Fuck me, my head is killing me.”

  The bartender sighed. “Your friend did. Now pay up and get out before you drop dead.” She extended a hand expectantly.

  Chase groaned louder as he fished out his Credit Gem and slapped it onto the counter. “At least I’m not covered in puke,” he muttered.

  “If you let me finish that drink, I can arrange that,” John said with a lazy chuckle.

  “Fuck off.” Chase let out a weak laugh and hauled himself off the stool, wobbling slightly. John followed, not much steadier.

  The two of them stepped out of the bar, the air outside thick with the scent of fried street food and mana-infused fumes.

  “Thanks, John,” Chase said, stretching his arms with a groan. “I needed that.”

  “And—wait, are you smoking again?” He wrinkled his nose in disgust as the familiar scent of tobacco hit him.

  John exhaled a long, slow stream of smoke, blowing it directly at Chase’s overly sensitive nose. “You wanna pretend to be a dragon to impress your new girlfriend?”

  “Fuck off, Chase,” John muttered, rolling his eyes.

  “I hate that smell.” Chase grimaced, stepping away. “By the way, should I help you look for a terrarium for your future kids?”

  John raised his middle finger without missing a beat. “I swear, I’m going to shoot you.”

  “Aw, don’t be like that,” Chase snickered, swaying slightly on his feet. “You’ll need a heat lamp, too. Can’t have her getting cold.”

  John was about to retort when, suddenly, his vision snapped into clarity, like someone had thrown a bucket of ice water over his mind. The warmth of the alcohol, the fuzziness in his limbs—gone in an instant. He stumbled, blinking at his hands. “Oh, come on,” he muttered. “Really? I can’t even stay drunk for more than a couple of minutes?” He flexed his fingers, shaking his head in frustration.

  Meanwhile, Chase still looked like he was one wrong step away from kissing the pavement.

  John sighed and grabbed his friend by the arm. “Alright, come on, you bastard. Let’s get you out of here before you pass out again.”

  Chase mumbled something incoherent but let himself be guided out of the Bazaar’s neon-lit maze and toward the exit portal. John let out a deep breath as they finally stepped out into the underground tunnels. The air outside was cooler, fresher, a stark contrast to the oppressive heat and constant hum of the Bazaar.

  “Finally,” John muttered. “I swear, I should’ve left you in there.”

  Chase wobbled slightly. “C’mon, it’s not—whoa.” He nearly tripped over his own feet. “Okay, maybe I’m a little drunk. Just a tiny bit.”

  John arched an eyebrow. “Right.”

  The two of them stepped out of the Hot Spot, and Chase inhaled deeply, blinking up at the night sky. Without warning, he snapped a glass bead between his fingers. John barely had time to react before Chase rocketed into the sky, propelled by a burst of wind magic.

  John snorted, shaking his head. “Idiot.”

  With that, he turned and stepped back into the Ship. The moment he crossed the threshold, the artificial atmosphere hit him hard—a wave of synthetic warmth, programmed tranquility, and a subtle but persistent buzz of artificial happiness clawing at the edges of his mind. John grimaced, rubbing his temples. “That was nice,” he muttered, flopping onto his chair. “Good way to let off some steam.” His fingers clenched and unclenched as he stared at them. “Wish it would’ve lasted longer.” He sighed, eyes flickering toward the Ship’s glowing interface. “Something tells me you’re to blame for that.”

  Shaking his head, he picked up his Terminal and scrolled through his contact list.

  "Ziraya." John whispered the name like a forbidden secret, his expression caught between fascination and frustration. He stared at his Terminal, thumb hovering over the screen. “Should I message her?” He let out a sharp breath and shook his head. "What would I even say? Hey, I live in a teleporting metal box that brings me back to life. Also, it probably hacked your phone. Wanna chat?"

  He exhaled through his nose, flicking open his lighter and bringing a fresh cigarette to his lips. The ember flared as he took a deep drag, the burn grounding him. His thoughts still tangled around her—an itch beneath his skin he couldn't scratch. His fingers tightened around the cigarette. He wasn’t the kind of guy to get fixated on anyone—especially not some dragon-blooded woman with a superiority complex.

  But the way her amber eyes had locked onto his, like they were searching for something—

  The Terminal buzzed.

  Ziraya: Who are you?

  John groaned, rubbing his face. “Great, here we go again.”

  Another message flashed before he even had time to think.

  Ziraya: I demand answers.

  John smirked. “Of course she does.”

  John: Great introduction!

  He hit send—and then his blood ran cold. His real name was next to the message.

  "What the—" He scrambled into his settings, fingers flying over the controls. "No, no, no—I should still be registered as Thomas Greenheart."

  He checked the logs. Every other conversation still listed the alias. "Did the Ship mess with my Terminal?"

  Before he could process that unsettling thought, another message came in.

  Ziraya: Why can’t I get you out of my head? How did you get into my Terminal?

  John frowned. That same pull—unnatural, inescapable—he wasn't the only one feeling it.

  John: Listen, I have no idea how this happened either. You’re the suspicious one, not me.

  Ziraya: Do you have any idea who I am? I’m the sole daughter of the Scalebound Patriarch!

  John: Threats like that don’t really work over text.

  Ziraya: You dare?

  John: Look, we’re both annoyed by this, right? So drop the arrogant princess act for a second and work with me.

  Silence. Then, finally—

  Ziraya: Nobody has ever spoken to me like this.

  John: And no one’s hacked into my Terminal before. Things happen.

  Ziraya: I didn’t do anything!

  John: Right. Because I’m so sure the Scalebound princess is completely innocent.

  Ziraya: Actions have consequences.

  John: How ominous. What’s next, dark prophecies?

  A pause. Then—

  Ziraya: Meet me at the Hot Spot in ten minutes. Without your Wolfheart lapdog.

  John: Right.

  John exhaled sharply and set down the Terminal, dragging a hand through his hair. “What the hell did I just get myself into?” With a sigh, he flicked away his cigarette and stepped outside the Ship. John leaned against a lamppost, lighting another cigarette as he scanned the crowd.

  Then, he felt it. A presence—burning bright against the background noise of reality. His gaze snapped toward a hooded figure moving through the crowd, so drenched in Glamour that to his eyes, she looked like a miniature sun. "There she is." His instincts screamed at him—his fingers itched toward his P50, but his heart gave an odd, disjointed thump as she approached. The moment she pulled back her hood, revealing that perfectly sculpted, irritated face, something inside him lurched.

  Their eyes met. And suddenly, time folded in on itself. John forgot the cigarette burning between his fingers. The noise of the Hot Spot faded to nothing. The entire world condensed into the golden embers of her gaze. His pulse slammed in his ears.

  Ziraya's breath hitched, her pupils narrowing to slits before dilating again. Heat rolled off her skin, and she gritted her teeth as if physically restraining herself. It felt like something had latched between them—an invisible tether that tightened with every second their eyes stayed locked.

  Her throat bobbed. “R-Right.”

  The spell shattered.

  Ziraya looked away sharply, rubbing her temple as if to shake something loose. “This is—worse than I expected.” Her voice was tense, clipped, like she was struggling to keep control. She stepped back, flexing her fingers. Heat shimmered around her, a barely restrained aura of mana. "What have you done to me?" she growled.

  John inhaled sharply, forcing himself to regain composure. His grip on his pistol tightened. "I should be asking you the same thing," he shot back. "What kind of weird Coercion did you use? And why me?"

  Ziraya’s expression twisted in offense. "Coercion? Who do you take me for?" She snorted, flipping her dark braided hair over her shoulder with practiced elegance. "I’m not some fae, you imbecile." She gestured to herself with a dramatic sweep of her hand. "I’m dragon-blooded."

  John’s gaze flickered over her, lingering a second too long on the curve of her heavy chest before he caught himself. “I—I can see that.”

  Ziraya's nostrils flared slightly. “A-Anyways.” Her voice wavered for the first time. A hint of pink colored her pale skin before she schooled her features into something colder. “I don’t know what you’ve done, but you better undo it. I’m willing to let this slide—just this once—if you cancel this spell right now.”

  John’s brow twitched. "If I knew—"

  Their eyes met again. Another jolt. The light shimmered off the edges of her smooth scales. The subtle curl of her tail twitched, betraying agitation. Her dress—perfectly tailored, exuding wealth—hugged her in a way that sent another traitorous thump through John's chest.

  His breath caught. He forced himself to look away, inhaling sharply.

  Ziraya did the same. The air between them was charged—almost static.

  John exhaled, flicking his cigarette to the ground and grinding it beneath his heel. He shoved his hands into his pockets, scanning the bustling Hot Spot.

  This was bad. And somehow, he had the gut feeling it was only going to get worse.

  “So, princess, fancy a burger?” John gestured toward the neon-lit diner, its sign flickering in protest against the warm night air.

  Ziraya barely spared it a glance before clicking her tongue. “Preposterous,” she muttered, her golden eyes narrowing in disdain. “Do you have any idea who I am?”

  John exhaled through his nose. “Alright, alright,” he said, hands raised. “Just trying to be nice. So what now? We keep throwing insults at each other, or do we actually try to fix this mess?”

  Ziraya turned with a dramatic swish of her cloak. “Follow me.” Her voice carried the weight of someone used to being obeyed. She strode into the Hot Spot without checking if he was behind her, heading straight for the tunnel leading to the Bazaar. “At least you don’t reek of those Wolfheart dogs,” she said as they stepped into the portal. “Why would a mage even lower himself to follow them? Coin, I suppose?”

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  “They don’t pay that much,” John admitted, lips twitching at the bitter truth. His finances were a mess.

  Ziraya let out a dry chuckle, tossing her black hair over one shoulder. “I assumed as much. The Wolfheart pack only values their own. I am not saying my family is perfect, but we at least know how to reward those who serve us.”

  “Like the Ninth Street?” John asked, watching her reaction carefully.

  “The street gang?” Ziraya scoffed. “Please. The Scalebound don’t stoop to dealing with gutter filth. What could they possibly offer us?”

  John hesitated. “Right. Just so happens they had entire crates of your magma beams inside—” He caught himself, jaw clenching, but it was too late.

  Ziraya froze mid-step. “What.” The single word was sharp as a blade.

  John swallowed. “I— We raided the Ninth Street. The crates spilled open. Your weapons were inside.” His pulse pounded in his ears. It was like something yanked the words out of him before he could think.

  “That—” Ziraya’s forked tongue flicked over her lips as she processed his words. “That’s impossible. We keep those under strict security and—” She sucked in a sharp breath. “Why am I telling you this?” Her hands clenched into fists. “We need to break whatever this is.”

  “No arguments there.” John exhaled. His mind was spinning. This wasn't normal. A single glance from her, a careless brush of her voice against his ears, and he was slipping. Talking. Revealing things he shouldn’t. And she was doing the same. But that wasn’t all that unsettled him.

  “You didn’t know those weapons were out in the wild?” he pressed, watching her reaction.

  Ziraya’s gaze hardened. “There is no way we authorized that. As far as I’m aware—” Her voice caught. Then, she shut her mouth. “Forget I ever said anything. This has to be a Wolfheart ploy,” she hissed. Suspicion burned in her voice, but she kept her gaze deliberately averted.

  “Of course you’d think that.” John sighed. “But I doubt it. If they were doing something to me, I’d know.”

  Ziraya’s eyes flashed. “Would you?” Her voice dripped with mockery. “Or are you just another pawn they’ve thrown away? Wouldn’t be the first time.”

  John frowned. There was something in the way she said it, something more than just casual insults. “What do you mean?” he asked, but the moment he spoke, a cold weight settled against his ribs.

  The gem. The identity gem—the one that had belonged to the real Thomas Greenheart—felt heavier than it had a moment ago.

  “You don’t know?” Ziraya smirked, but there was no humor in it. “Figures. The Wolfheart pack is good at cleaning up their messes.”

  John stared at her. What messes? His gut churned.

  “Anyway, we’re here.” Ziraya suddenly stopped in front of a nondescript white building. No windows, no signs. Its surface rippled under a thin sheen of Glamour, a magic so subtle and insidious it nearly threw John off balance.

  He bumped into her. And the world—stopped. Darkness swallowed his vision. Everything beyond Ziraya faded into a void so deep it felt like falling into nothingness.

  Her breath hitched. Something inside her reacted—something ancient, something primal. A force curled and twisted around them, tighter, closer, like unseen hands binding their very souls together. For a fraction of a second, John wasn’t alone in his body. Something else loomed at the edge of his consciousness. Watching. Waiting. It let out a slow whine. Just like the Ship. The weight of it pressed against his ribs like a wolf’s breath against the back of his neck.

  Ziraya shuddered. The presence turned its gaze toward her, and she felt small. It was looking at her the way a predator looks at prey.

  John jerked away, severing the connection.

  The moment was gone.

  Ziraya whirled on him, cheeks flushed, eyes wild. “Watch where you’re going, you idiot!” she snapped, but her voice trembled, heat rising beneath her skin. “Truly a despicable ploy by the Wolfheart pack,” she muttered, but the words sounded hollow.

  John didn’t argue. He was too busy remembering that thing in the dark. As if nothing had happened, Ziraya stepped into the sterile white building. Inside, the scent of citrus clung to the air. The walls were pristine, the floor polished to a gleam. A woman clad in white robes sat behind the reception desk, her face obscured by a featureless bronze mask. The receptionist inclined her head slightly in recognition. Her voice was smooth, almost unnaturally even. "Miss. How can we help?"

  Ziraya lifted her chin and pointed at John with barely restrained irritation. "Something happened between us. Fix it."

  The woman remained unfazed. She retrieved a small sterile cup and held it out. "We’ll need a fluid sample to confirm that you’re truly with child. Then—"

  "—This is NOT like that! Not at all!" Ziraya's scaly spots darkened to a furious shade of crimson, and she slammed her palm against the enamel counter. The impact sent a sharp crack through the pristine, white space, causing a nearby assistant to flinch.

  John winced, trying not to smirk. "I suspect Coercion." He lifted his hands in a placating gesture. "She doesn’t believe me, but I don’t—"

  The woman immediately bowed her head. "I see. My apologies for the assumption, esteemed client." A flicker of something crossed her masked face before she turned toward a door. "If you and your… companion," she hesitated just slightly, "would follow me, a specialist will see you shortly."

  John sighed, falling into step beside Ziraya as they walked deeper into the sterile corridor. The lighting was unnervingly perfect, casting no shadows, while the air held a faint, artificial citrus scent—pleasant, yet somehow clinical. He found himself standing closer to Ziraya than he realized. When their shoulders brushed, she scoffed and looked away, her earlier irritation still simmering. "What is this place?" he whispered, scanning the smooth, white walls.

  Ziraya exhaled through her nose. "Something you can’t afford."

  The room they entered was minimalist yet luxurious—a white marble table in the center, carved with elegant precision, its edges inlaid with thin gold filigree. The leather cushions atop the table gleamed with a subtle enchantment, shimmering faintly in the artificial light.

  John leaned against the wall, crossing his arms. "So… do you actually think they can fix whatever this is?" He gestured vaguely between them.

  "They have to." Ziraya sniffed, her pride barely masking her concern. "They’re expensive, so they better be worth it."

  John let out a dry chuckle, shaking his head. "Never even knew a place like this existed." He paused, then met her gaze. "Now that we have some time… mind explaining what you meant earlier? About mages not working for the Wolfheart family?"

  Ziraya’s lips curled into an amused smirk. "Second-guessing your employers, are we?" She perched herself on the edge of the table, crossing her legs elegantly, like a noblewoman sitting on her throne.

  John rolled his shoulders. "Listen, I don’t know what’s going on between your family and Chase’s. But from what I’ve seen, the Scalebound are itching for war. He said as much, and after what happened with the Ninth Street, I believe him."

  A humorless laugh escaped Ziraya’s throat. "It’s always our fault, isn’t it?" Her amber eyes glinted with a golden sheen. "I don’t know what those dogs told you, but can you really trust their words?"

  John hesitated. His instinct told him she was dodging the truth—but admitting how he really knew about the Ninth Street’s weapon stockpile was impossible. Already, he felt a suffocating pressure wrap around his heart—the Authority of Permanence, as if daring him to speak what should remain buried. He exhaled slowly, letting the oppressive force subside. "I have my sources."

  Ziraya folded her arms. "Then your sources are lying. We don’t work with gangs. We have honor, unlike the Wolfheart scum you serve."

  John scoffed. "Really? Because arming a gang in enemy territory makes sense—it keeps them occupied, spreads chaos, forces them to divert resources. Sounds like something a smart faction would do."

  Ziraya’s expression flickered for a fraction of a second. A moment of uncertainty. Her mouth opened, but no sound came out. "No, it can’t be." Her voice was quieter this time, more like someone trying to convince themselves. "I would know if we did something like that."

  John met her gaze. "I saw the weapons myself. Magma beams. Crew-served. Looked like a glass tube on a tripod, needed two operators. Could fire a dozen shots before melting down."

  Ziraya turned away sharply, clicking her tongue in frustration. "This… isn’t possible." Her voice hardened. "Those are lies!"

  "I saw it with my own eyes."

  She clenched her fists but said nothing. Silence stretched between them, tense and heavy. Then, she exhaled sharply. "Fine." Her amber eyes burned with a new resolve. "If there's a traitor among us, I’ll find them and eliminate them."

  John tilted his head. "Fair enough. So, what’s this thing about mages not working for the Wolfhearts?"

  Ziraya’s jaw tightened. Then, finally, she answered. "The Fallwater Massacre."

  John frowned. "What?"

  "It was called the Fallwater Massacre." She glanced at him from the corner of her eye. "You won’t find it on the HiddenNet—the Wolfhearts scrubbed it clean. But if you want the truth, ask your friend." Her smirk returned, sharp and knowing. "You did know that Chase is the firstborn of Alice Wolfheart, right? Their alpha? He definitely knows all about it."

  A cold weight settled in John’s chest. "...And you can’t just tell me?"

  "I could." She flashed her fangs in a grin. "But where’s the fun in that?"

  Before he could press further, the door hissed open. A tall, impossibly thin figure stepped inside. His alabaster-white skin stretched over his elongated frame, and his limbs—almost too long for his body—moved with eerie precision. His lab coat hung loosely from his skeletal frame, and as he reached up to adjust it, his fingers flexed unnaturally, bending in ways that made John’s stomach twist. His dull brown hair was cut short, but it was his eyes that unsettled John the most—dark pupils with no visible sclera, like two black pits swallowing the light. He glanced down at a sleek, Terminal-like device in his palm before flashing a thin, professional smile. "Miss Scalebound, it is an honor to have you in our establishment." His voice was soft, yet had a strangely melodic quality, like a whisper carrying through a silent hall. "I will be your fae doctor for the evening." He bowed his head slightly, then folded his unnaturally long fingers together. "Now… what seems to be the problem?"

  “There’s—something,” Ziraya said, her voice taut with frustration. “I don’t know what. But it links us together.” Her fingers curled into fists, red scales tightening over her knuckles. “I want it gone.”

  “Likewise,” John muttered.

  The fae doctor tilted his head, his alabaster skin stretched too thin over sharp cheekbones. His browless face scrunched in a way that made his expression unreadable. “I see.” His voice was eerily calm, the kind that doctors used when they weren’t sure whether to be fascinated or concerned. He reached into his coat and retrieved a stethoscope, its tubing a shimmering silver rather than rubber. Without asking, he pressed the cold metal disk against John's chest, his long, bone-thin fingers hovering like a spider’s legs.

  John stiffened but said nothing.

  The doctor hummed under his breath, a faint clicking sound escaping his throat. He turned abruptly and did the same to Ziraya, pressing the stethoscope against her collarbone just below the ridge of her scales.

  A pause. Another hum. Then he moved back to John.

  Back to Ziraya.

  Back. And forth.

  The pattern continued for a painfully long ten minutes, an almost ritualistic exchange. His thin lips pursed tighter each time, his claw-like fingers tapping at the air as if deciphering an unseen puzzle.

  John exhaled sharply, his patience thinning. “Well?”

  The doctor stepped back and stroked his chin, his sharp nails rasping against his skin like dry parchment.

  “What are you waiting for?” Ziraya snapped. Her tail twitched against the marble floor. “I can still feel it. Why haven’t you removed it?”

  The doctor exhaled slowly, his long throat shifting as he swallowed. “Believe me, Miss Scalebound, I am as surprised as you are.” His voice was measured, but a flicker of unease passed through his dark, pupil-less eyes. “I was convinced at first that this was a novel form of Coercion—some subtle, insidious magic woven into your souls.” He hesitated. “But there’s nothing. Not a single thread of mana. Not a whisper of fae magic or enchantment. It’s as if the bond exists outside the very laws of sorcery.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense!” John erupted. “I can feel it! Right now!” He turned to Ziraya, frustrated, only for his breath to catch in his throat.

  Her amber eyes locked onto his. And the world stopped. John felt a pull, an invisible force threading between them like a taut wire. He could hear her heartbeat. See the slight quiver of her lips, the way her breath hitched, how her hands clenched at her sides as if she, too, sensed the unnatural weight between them. His mind sharpened on details he shouldn’t notice—the way her slitted pupils dilated, the warmth of her body even across the distance, the way her scales shimmered like bloodstone under the sterile light. He knew, somehow, that she felt it too. His throat tightened. He forced himself to look away, snapping the connection like breaking a thread.

  “You saw that, didn’t you?” His voice came out hoarse as he turned to the doctor.

  The fae blinked. “Excuse me, sir, but to me, it appeared as if you looked at each other with—” His voice trailed off into an amused hum, and he gave a knowing grin, his sharp needle-like teeth on full display.

  Ziraya slammed her fist on the examination table. The impact echoed like a gunshot in the quiet room. “I pay for results, not speculation.” Her voice was sharp, but there was a flicker of unease beneath the anger. “Fix it. Now.”

  The doctor took a step back. “M-Miss Scalebound, I—I’ll check again.”

  He fumbled with his stethoscope, moving through another round of meticulous tests—none of which seemed to satisfy him. Finally, he crossed his spindly arms, tapping his nails against his elbows. “Describe the condition to me,” he said at last.

  Ziraya exhaled through her nose. “It’s like a—pull. A tether.” She ran a hand over her arm, as if trying to shake something off. “I know where he is even when I’m not looking. And if I look him in the eyes, it’s like we’re—stuck. Frozen. It takes conscious effort to break away.”

  John nodded. “Yeah, and it’s weird as hell. We only met a few hours ago, yet somehow, we’ve talked like we’ve known each other for years. It’s like—” He stopped, rubbing his temples. “Like something’s pushing us to be more familiar.”

  The doctor tapped his chin again. “I agree that this does not resemble Coercion in any traditional sense. The art of Coercion requires preparation—intent, structure. It is not something that manifests by accident, nor does it work the way you describe.”

  “So what is it then?” Ziraya demanded. “A spell with a delayed trigger?”

  The doctor hesitated, his mouth opening and closing as if warring with his own knowledge.

  “I—No. Highly unlikely.” He shook his head. “Miss Scalebound, I am an expert in magic-born afflictions. There is no one in this world—or any of the Five Worlds, for that matter—who could hide something like this from me. I assure you, there is no spell, no rune, no lingering trace of foreign magic.”

  Ziraya’s tail lashed against the ground, her claws digging into the table. “Then what the hell do we do? If we never see each other again, will that fix it?”

  “Or it could make it worse.” The doctor exhaled. “Your condition is unprecedented. I can only make educated guesses.”

  John folded his arms. “We’re listening.”

  The doctor steepled his fingers. “First, if this were a magical effect, I would have detected some residual trace of mana—no matter how well-concealed. Even the most advanced spellcasters cannot erase a spell’s footprint entirely.” He gave them both a slow, deliberate look. “And yet, there is nothing.”

  “So that rules out magic.” Ziraya’s tail flicked, betraying her unease.

  “Yes.” The doctor hesitated again. “Which leaves only one—unpleasant—possibility.” He exhaled, as if the words pained him. “Curses.”

  Ziraya scoffed. “Curses aren’t real.”

  The doctor’s lips pressed into a thin line. “I would normally agree with you, Miss Scalebound.” His voice was careful now. “But what you are describing defies logic. It should not exist. And yet—it does.”

  A heavy silence settled in the room. John leaned against the wall, rubbing his face. “So what? Are we supposed to stand in a circle and chant?” His voice was dry, but there was an edge of unease beneath the sarcasm.

  Ziraya looked at the doctor, her eyes burning. “Tell us how to fix this.”

  The doctor hesitated again. “I—I don’t know.”

  Ziraya’s tail lashed once against the floor as she turned to the fae doctor, her amber eyes narrowing. “So—can you recommend someone who specializes in curse removal? At this point, I’m willing to try anything.”

  The doctor stiffened, his alabaster skin taking on a faint ripple, like disturbed water. “Miss, with all due respect—” His voice carried a quiet indignation. “We are a reputable establishment. We don’t deal in… superstition.” He curled his fingers together as if the mere idea was something distasteful. “Harboring someone like that would ruin our credibility.”

  “Figured as much.” Ziraya clicked her tongue in irritation and turned to John, her clawed fingers twitching. “What about you?”

  John raised a brow and gestured toward himself. “Do I look like I know a guy who specializes in curses?” He spread his arms, exasperated. “I’m as lost as you are. But maybe we could find something on the HiddenNet?”

  Ziraya opened her mouth to snap at him—then stopped. Her expression tightened. As much as she hated to admit it, that actually made sense. “Tch.” She gritted her teeth before pulling out her Terminal.

  The doctor exhaled sharply, rubbing his smooth, spindly hands together. “Miss, the consultation is over, so if you would please vacate the—”

  Ziraya’s head snapped up, and her glare cut through him like a blade. The temperature in the room seemed to drop. “My family has paid millions into this clinic,” she hissed. Her voice was low, measured, but brimming with quiet fury. “I will use this room for as long as I see fit. Did I make myself clear?”

  A flicker of discomfort crossed the fae’s almost featureless face. His thin lips parted, but no words came. A beat later, he dipped his head, his spine curving slightly. “Perfectly.” Without another sound, he turned on his heel and left the room, the door clicking shut behind him.

  Ziraya turned on John, jabbing a finger at him. “Now you. We need to find someone—” she inhaled sharply, almost disgusted by her own words. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but we need to find someone who can dispel curses.”

  John lifted his hands in surrender. “I—okay.” He sighed, pulling out his own Terminal.

  Silence filled the sterile room, save for the rhythmic tapping of fingers against smooth screens.

  But even as they searched, Ziraya could still feel it—that damn link. No matter how much distance was between them, she could feel his presence as though he were a shadow stitched to her soul.