Trevor and Spion had intended to corner Style over breakfast the following morning, but the man had vanished before dawn. Instead, they found themselves in a private dining suite with Camila and Hector. Despite the spread of golden-fried eggs, thick-cut ham, tuna patties, and fresh fruits, the atmosphere was far from festive. The radiant glow of the reunited couple only made Trevor feel more protective and more tense.
As the plates were almost cleared, Trevor set his utensils down with a sharp clack. “Spion and I are heading to the Wounded Warrior Project today,” he said, his voice steady but urgent. “We need to figure out whether Will’s the imposter or not.”
“I’ll come with you,” Hector said firmly. “I need to look him in the eye.”
“No.” Trevor’s gaze was sharp, and his tone brooked no argument. “It’s better if you don’t expose yourself yet. Whether they’re still hunting you or not, you need to stay off their radar. And honestly, it’s going to be hard to explain how you came back from the dead.”
“He’s right,” Camila added, clutching a half-peeled banana. “But what about last night? My phone hasn’t stopped buzzing since last night. Everyone wants to know if he’s really back. I haven’t replied yet.”
“Tell them it was a prank,” Trevor suggested, taking a bite of a tuna patty. “One of your fans, probably trying to stir up drama.”
“Good idea.” Hector sipped his coffee, leaning back in his chair. “We actually discussed it last night. We’ll figure things out after Camila finishes filming.”
Camila’s eyes softened. “Just… be careful.”
“We’ve got this.” Spion cut a banana into pieces and popped one into his mouth, grinning. “We have a very particular set of skills.”
The group lingered for a moment longer, but the conversation began to wind down. Soon after, Trevor and Spion made their way to the basement, where Ryan was monitoring the security footage in the monitoring room. The room was bathed in the glow of multiple screens, each showing a different angle and area.
Ryan didn’t waste time. He led them to a computer at the far end. “We’ve got something. From the surveillance footage, we can confirm that the werewolf was an employee at JackToy. At least, he entered wearing their uniform.” He clicked play on a video clip. A man in a JackToy badge followed a waiter into the restroom, and minutes later, emerged wearing the waiter’s uniform.
“That’s solid.” Trevor leaned forward, studying the screen. “Are you going to hand this over to the police?”
“Of course.” Ryan nodded. “They’ll be here soon.”
“Before they get here, I have a request,” Spion said with a sly grin. “Mind if I borrow a gun? And maybe a few silver bullets?”
Ryan raised an eyebrow. “You’re going after the werewolf?”
“Nope,” both Trevor and Spion replied in unison.
“Just in case,” Spion added, flashing a pleading look. “We’re investigating a suspect later. Better to be safe.”
Ryan blinked, taken aback by their nonchalant demeanor. But after a pause, he shrugged. “Alright. But don’t let the cops see it. They might shoot first, ask questions later.”
Spion gave an exaggerated salute. “Understood, sir.”
Ryan sighed, heading off to his office. “Wait here. I’ll grab the magazines and the gun.”
Twenty minutes later, Trevor and Spion were leaving the Dressrious Salon, Spion wearing a grin that could’ve lit up the whole building, and a pistol casually hanging from his belt. They called a car and made their way to Trevor’s apartment to drop off their game prizes, change into something more appropriate for the freezing weather—chinos, running boots, sweaters, and, for Trevor, a long walnut-brown down jacket suggested by the Dressrious app. Spion, however, insisted on a heavy wool charcoal overcoat. “In Frank, wearing a down jacket is an unforgivable fashion crime,” he said, his voice dead serious.
By the time they reached the Wounded Warrior Project, it was around 10 a.m. Unfortunately, Will wasn’t there.
“He’s on sick leave,” Randy complained, leaning over his desk. “Caught a cold from this damn weather. Bran’s the same. And there’s a blizzard coming next week, too.”
“Where does he live?” Trevor asked, trying to hide the edge of frustration creeping into his voice. “Maybe we can visit him.”
Randy scratched his head. “Not far from here. I can give you the address. You probably have more questions about Hector, right?” He leaned in, lowering his voice. “Is it true Hector showed up at that chocolate gala last night?”
Trevor met Randy’s gaze, his expression carefully neutral. “No. It was a prank. A fan of Camila’s, just stirring the pot.”
Randy sighed, clearly disappointed. “Fans. They’ll do anything for more traffic. No boundaries anymore.”
With no real leads from the Wounded Warrior Project, the two men set off for Will’s apartment. The building, an old 80s-style structure in the Village of Downtown, had no doorman or cameras—an advantage. What wasn’t so great was the ancient, sluggish elevator that seemed to take forever to crawl up to the fourth floor.
When they reached Will’s apartment, Trevor knocked twice. No response. Spion pressed his ear to the door, then shook his head. The place was silent.
“Break in?” Spion grinned, a mischievous glint in his eye.
Before Trevor could protest, Spion had already slid a thin bank card through the door’s strike plate. The lock was cheap, and the door yielded with a pathetic creak. “C’mon,” Spion hissed, slipping inside.
Though hesitant, Trevor followed, glancing nervously around before closing the door behind them.
The apartment was a mess. The floor was sticky, as if it hadn’t been cleaned in weeks. Empty pizza boxes and beer cans littered the coffee table, while clothes were strewn haphazardly across the sofa. Among them, a black hoodie caught Trevor’s eye—it was identical to the one worn by the intruder in Camila’s apartment.
“Obviously, Will isn’t the ‘girlfriend’ type, but he definitely has a roommate,” Spion noted, kicking open the doors to the two bedrooms. Both were empty, the air inside heavy and stale.
“Look at this,” Trevor called out from the living room. He held up a magazine with a black-haired, regal-looking woman on the cover.
“What, you think Will’s got a thing for her?”Spion walked over, inspecting it. A large, violent red cross had been drawn over her face in marker.
Trevor’s voice lowered, cautious. “Read the article. She’s the daughter of the exiled Crown Prince of Persia, and she’s going to the Cheval Blanc Soirée.”
Spion blinked, flipping through the magazine. “You think she’s their target?”
“I don’t know,” Trevor muttered, turning the magazine over in his hands. “But I’ll keep looking.”
Trevor wandered into the two bedrooms. Both had military bags and green shirts typical of the Wounded Warrior Project staff. So, it seemed that Will and Bran were living here. In the second bedroom, a phone sat on the nightstand, its screen glowing faintly as it pulled power from a charging cable. If Will and Bran weren’t here, whose phone was this?
But when he opened one of the nightstand drawers, his eyes narrowed. A wallet. Hector’s wallet. He quickly snapped photos of the evidence.
As he moved through the apartment, he noticed the kitchen appeared untouched, and there was another door at the far end. He opened it to find a small storage room. It was strangely empty—except for a red-patterned rug on the floor and a large, ominous painting on the wall. The image depicted a dark-skinned demon with red eyes, horns, and four wings.
Trevor’s hand instinctively reached for his phone. Opening the Spiritpedia app, he quickly identified the figure: Ahriman, the Destructive Spirit, the embodiment of darkness, death, and chaos.
“What is this?” Spion muttered, stepping closer. “Looks like something from a video game.”
Trevor stepped cautiously into the room, Spion trailing just a step behind. The moment their weight hit the rug, the air seemed to snap. The golden constellations woven into the fabric ignited with a searing, celestial light—a flash so violent they were forced to shield their eyes. When the radiance finally bled away, the warmth of the apartment was gone. They opened their eyes to find the walls of the storage room had vanished, replaced by the damp, oppressive silence of a subterranean stone chamber.