Somewhere in the backwoods of Florida, nestled between pine trees scented with resin and lush green fields, stretched a prestigious golf club—well-kept, expensive, but without ostentatious luxury. Snow-white golf carts glided silently along pale stone paths. Artificial ponds sparkled in the sunlight, and the lawns were so smooth and thick they looked like they were trimmed with manicure scissors. On the clubhouse terrace, staff in light beige uniforms served iced tea and light lunches.
In the distance, an elderly couple with sun-kissed skin and silver hair was slowly swinging at a golf ball. They no longer had the strength to drive it even a hundred yards, but it was clear they enjoyed the process itself.
A ball flew overhead, briefly blocking out the sun. The old couple turned slowly.
"Sorry for the interruption," said John, wearing a polo shirt and white shorts, raising a hand. "I'm teaching my daughter how to hit. Right now, she's more into baseball than golf."
"Dad," Mary, dressed similarly, rolled her eyes. "Don't embarrass me in front of everyone!"
The old couple exchanged a glance—not scared, but mildly annoyed, as if someone had taken their photo without asking.
"And who exactly are you?" the man asked evenly. "This is a private course."
"The security guys said something like that—until I knocked them out," John replied with a grin. "By the way, I've got good ears. I can hear you pressing the panic button."
The old woman flinched and slowly pulled her hand out of the pocket of her white shorts.
"I took care of your people in the van outside, too," John continued casually. "No help is coming. You could try to fight, of course, but it won't be much of a show."
He eyed their aging bodies with a smirk.
"Is this a kidnapping?" the man asked calmly.
"Business proposal," John pointed to three folding chairs under the shade of a large umbrella. "Let's talk like adults while the kid plays."
The old couple had no choice. Nearby, Mary was hitting balls—either missing or sending them way too far. John opened a bottle of water.
"I'll skip the drama," he said, taking a sip. "I know everything about you. You're Arthur and Helen Strongman. Officially, millionaire real estate moguls. That's a front. You've got more money in offshore accounts than all the world's superpowers combined. Oil, gas, coal—you profit from it all."
"How do you know that?" Arthur asked, dabbing his forehead with a handkerchief.
"You're honorary members of the Hellfire Club," John said with a note of regret. "Your thoughts were read long before you bought Stark's anti-telepathy disks."
The Strongmans' faces flushed—not with shame, but with a cold, simmering anger, the kind kept far from the public and cameras.
"Oh, come on!" Mary tossed her club along with the ball. "I'm done with this!"
"Finally getting into it?" John asked indulgently.
"Don't mock me!" Mary stomped her foot. "I'll get mad, fly away—and you'll be stuck here alone with these stinky old people!"
"Kids," John said apologetically, looking at the now even redder old couple.
He touched two fingers to his temple and instantly transferred professional golf skills to Mary. She now hit each ball with cheerful precision, always sinking it into the hole.
[I offered to do that earlier, but no—she wanted the full experience, from loser to champ.]
The stunt didn't go unnoticed.
"Who are you?" Helen asked John with suspicion. "Another mutant?"
"You're really out of touch," John said, pressing a palm to his face. "My face is easily recognizable in S.H.I.E.L.D. databases. I refuse to believe people who can start World War III with one call don't have access."
"We're not interested in wading into that filth," Arthur said. "We'll walk away and let them do whatever they want."
Helen gave her husband a sharp look, as if he'd said too much.
"So, basically, you don't care anymore—you're getting ready for the grave," John concluded. "I get it, and I'm not judging. You're over seventy, death could come any moment. You literally don't have time to keep up with trends."
"You came here to mock us?" Helen rasped.
"Actually, to help. I'm getting to the point. My daughter can reverse aging," John called out, "Mary! Come here for a sec! Take fifteen years off this old mold!"
The Strongmans didn't even have time to protest. The Phoenix Princess soared in on flaming wings and showered them with golden feathers. In a flash, their liver spots vanished and their wrinkles smoothed out. They looked sixty again.
Mary gave a little nod, as if nothing special had happened, and grabbed her club again—now effortlessly hitting the ball while humming some tune to herself.
"Incredible," Arthur said, examining his hands. "Mutants can do this now?"
"It's a different kind of power," John waved it off. "Pull the S.H.I.E.L.D. files on us and you'll understand."
"You didn't fully de-age us," Helen narrowed her eyes like a cat sensing a trap. "You kept us old enough to keep bargaining. How much do you want? Two billion? Ten?"
"You don't understand the kind of power I'm holding," John shook his head with disappointment. "I can get money anytime. But you have something more valuable—connections."
He saw the flicker of understanding in their eyes and continued:
"In exchange for a second life, you owe me three favors. First—you'll make the Midnight Suns the greatest heroes on Earth. To hell with the Avengers."
"I don't follow superhero news," Arthur admitted. "Who are the Midnight Suns?"
"My team," John smirked. "I know how this works—buy out the media: TV, newspapers, radio, internet. Make sure everyone's talking about us. Monuments in every city. Turn us into legends."
"That's doable," Arthur nodded slowly. "We've backed quite a few presidential campaigns. It takes presence—"
"Not happening," John cut him off. "We don't have time for talk shows or gala dinners. You'll hire doubles."
"Fine. The Midnight Suns will be bigger than rock stars," Helen promised. "What's the second favor?"
"Given how many wars you've stirred up over oil, I assume you've got some generals in your pocket," John winked. "You'll arrange a permanent mission for Captain America—escort and protection duty for Emma Frost."
[A little help for a friend. Emma's looking for a good, honest guy. I can't think of a better match.]
"I don't understand the game you're playing," Arthur said, "but so far, your demands aren't impossible. What's the third favor?"
"You'll make Ms. Marvel go on a date with my friend," John grinned. "And she better show up in that black swimsuit."
[Elvira wanted a date with a stunning blonde? Voilà.]
"That one's trickier," said Helen, but she didn't say no. "Is that it? Will you de-age us now or after we hold up our end?"
"I trust you completely," John smiled. "Because if you try to screw me over, I'll drag you back from the grave."
Mary de-aged them to sixteen—the Strongmans themselves had asked to be teenagers, to have more time to enjoy life.
"Oh my God," Helen breathed, looking at her slender arms, "I feel like my whole life is ahead of me..."
"I don't even know how to make calls now," Arthur said, touching his face in confusion. "I sound like a kid."
"Enjoy your second chance," said John with a devilish grin. "But remember where it came from."
"Wait a second!" Arthur stepped forward. "What if… no—when we do everything, will you offer us another deal?"
"Oh-ho-ho, Arthur! You sly fox. Now I see how you became the richest man alive," John said with a sly squint, wagging a finger. "First, finish this task. If I'm impressed... I'll think about it."
The deal was sealed with a handshake.
John and Mary were slowly walking toward the exit, enjoying the cool breeze and the green grass around them.
"You did it!" Mary squealed, clutching her smartphone. "I can finally create an Instagram account for our team!"
"Anything for the kids," John said, enjoying her excitement. "Just don't rush it. Let the Strongmans launch the PR machine first."
"Fine," she sighed, slipping the phone back into her pocket. "But will you explain what that was back there? You could've burned their anti-telepathy disks, like you did with the guards, and made the Strongmans do everything for free. But instead, you de-aged them and gave them a second chance. That's… too merciful. That's something Jane would've done. But you're not her."
"No, I'm definitely not Jane," he chuckled. "I'm the bad guy, and I don't hide it."
"Then what's the catch?" Mary leaned on his shoulder, clearly not letting it go.
"Call it nostalgia," John said, staring at the blue sky. "I saw in the Strongmans… what we used to be. Just as powerful, but with one foot in the grave. The whole world just waiting for them to die. So I thought—" he smirked, "let them live. Out of spite."
///
Only a week had passed, and the Strongmans' PR machine was already racking up followers. The Midnight Suns were hailed as messiahs—rightfully so.
Day and night, Jane summoned rain to drought-stricken regions, shared free electricity with impoverished countries, and prevented natural disasters. All the honors Thor once stripped from her were returned.
Cain cleaned up all the space debris, defeated several monsters in public, and even prevented a volcanic eruption. His supervillain status was officially revoked—the world was told it had been a Skrull impersonator who attacked the X-School. People bought the story easily.
Mary restored nature wherever the Roxxon Corporation had left its mark. Her golden feathers became the symbol of a new environmental movement.
John used his powers to give the planet a modest gift—he created a few new icebergs. Modest in the grand scheme, but enough to count.
So why was official recognition even needed?
Not for John, though he was pleased to be named Man of the Year.
Not for Mary, even if she was thrilled beyond belief by her billion followers.
Not for Cain, though he loved the super-heroic status.
It was for Jane—who radiated from within when helping others. Hell had weighed her down. She wanted to do real good. And now she finally could, out in the open.
[She started smiling more often. That alone was enough for me to believe we were doing the right thing.]
Tony Stark was furious. He'd dropped to fifth place in the global popularity rankings. He was hiring new PR managers daily, but it was all useless—his money and connections weren't enough to compete with the Strongmans. Rumor had it Iron Man was planning to leave the Avengers, since they were no longer Earth's mightiest heroes. He was going back to what he did best—selling shawarma.
The Strongmans carried out the rest of the favors, too. They hosted a charity gala with the grand prize being "dinner with Ms. Marvel," and personally donated a million dollars to a children's fund on Elvira's behalf. She was in for an unforgettable date with a superheroine. John did have to explain himself to Jane, though, after Elvira kissed him in excitement.
Even in the middle of all the fun, John never forgot about security.
He and Mary teleported to a café in Paris with a view of the Eiffel Tower. They were leisurely enjoying dessert and lazily signing autographs for waiters who recognized them.
A tall girl with chestnut hair approached. A textbook poking out of her bag hinted that she was a student.
"Sorry to interrupt," the student said, practically bouncing from nervous energy. "Are you really the Ghost Rider? Can I get your autograph?"
"Of course. What's your name?"
"Marcy."
John signed the notebook paper. Marcy squealed with joy and ran off to brag to her dorm mates.
"She was looking at me… but not the same way," Mary said, her voice tinged with unease. "That really was Aunt Anna?"
"Yes."
With their faces revealed and fame descending like a tidal wave, problems followed. Now the whole world knew who could perform miracles—and wanted a piece of it. In just one week, the Midnight Suns were approached by: a Roxxon representative asking them not to ruin their business; a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent requesting they serve their country; supervillains pitching plans to take over the world; and underpowered superheroes handing over their résumés, hoping to learn from the best.
All of them were told to get lost.
Knowing human nature, John had no doubt that some bastard would eventually try to put pressure on the Midnight Suns… but there was nothing to use. They had no property on Earth. They didn't even live in this dimension. No friends. No family—except for Mary's Aunt Anna, who, according to official documents, had died in a hospital a week ago. In truth, John had wiped her memory, de-aged her, and given her a super-soldier serum. He'd given her a new, better life.
Jane might've argued that creating a new identity is the same as killing someone. Maybe she'd be right. But Jane wasn't here—and this was the best way to make sure telepaths never found her.
///
Eight months had passed since the deal with the Strongmans.
The Hellfire Club had expanded. In the old wing, oligarchs and politicians still lazily discussed economics while sipping cognac.
In the new wing, hidden behind a tapestry depicting the Midnight Suns, witches and warlocks appeared regularly in flashes of hellfire portals, leaving their enchanted staffs by the stairs like umbrellas in a coatroom. They were immediately greeted and offered a magical drink by a horned devil in a tuxedo—actually, a red-skinned Fenrir. The Club's staff consisted of magical beings who were outcasts in their own worlds. Jane couldn't ignore their pain and personally arranged their employment through Emma.
Guests could always come here to trade the latest arcane gossip, strike deals with an independent Club guarantor, or browse new magical merchandise. Daimon and his assistants were always nearby to show off the catalog, explain exchange terms, and negotiate discounts.
Despite the name, the Club's interior resembled less of Hell and more of a seasoned adventurers' tavern. The walls were decorated with the heads of various beasts: a dragon, a manticore, a wendigo. Above the fireplace hung Dracula's cloak, folded to resemble a bat. These and hundreds of other trophies had been collected and brought in by the Midnight Suns.
By the fireplace, where blue flames danced, John lounged in a leather chair. He was snapping his fingers, laying out ebonite cards on the table. They were cold as frozen steel and drank in the light. To others, they showed only a smooth black void—but he alone could read the prophecies pulsing in their depths.
The sound of heels drew his attention. Emma Frost descended the stairs in her usual white outfit—teetering on the edge of decency. Behind her, like a shadow, followed Steve Rogers, who had swapped his striped tights for a green officer's coat adorned with medals.
Emma elegantly sat down across from John, crossing one leg over the other. With a snap of her fingers, she released a burst of blue sparks; the bottle on the table rose and poured itself into her glass. Emma had picked up a few tricks while socializing with mages.
"I won't intrude," Steve said. "But I'll be nearby, ma'am."
Captain America stepped away from the fireplace but stayed alert, his strong-willed face scanning the room to protect his mistress.
"Did you hear what he called me?" she said softly, a spark of amusement in her voice. "A real soldier. Like he walked right off a recruitment poster—honest, disciplined, painfully boring. I'm in love."
"I'm glad you liked my gift," John smiled beneath his mask. "I bet you've already tried seducing the guy?"
"I admit, I did," Emma bit her lip. "But Steve takes his duty far too seriously. His thoughts... Mmm. Always so focused, responsible, decisive. Every second, he's thinking about how to keep me safe. He forces himself not to look at my cleavage so he doesn't offend me. His mind is sweeter than an orgasm."
John said nothing, just gave a crooked smirk. As a telepath, he understood Emma perfectly. Touching Jane's radiant mind had always felt just as good as kissing her lips.
And now he was beginning to understand Charles Xavier's policy of non-interference in others' thoughts. Ethics aside, it was unpleasant. Most minds were like cluttered basements—dusty insecurities, fragments of unfulfilled desires, festering fears. Digging through that was a last resort.
"Steve's holding out for now," Emma glanced over at him, "but he'll be mine. I've decided."
"That's why I sent Captain America here," John shrugged. "He's more useful here than taking orders from some brainless general."
"You're not around much. I still haven't thanked you properly," the White Queen smiled genuinely for the first time in ages. "This is the best gift I've ever received."
"Don't forget to send me an invitation to the wedding," he winked. "And if it's a boy, 'John' is a great name."
Emma and Steve left to check on the other guests.
John continued laying out the cards until the magical mosaic finally came together. About time.
Through the secret passage behind the tapestry, into the magical side of the Club, came Stephen Strange, grumbling as he demanded to be let in. Two minotaurs with broken horns blocked his path.
"You don't have a membership card," said the first bouncer.
"Get lost," said the second.
Strange raised an eyebrow elegantly.
"Since when is a witches' sabbath closed to the Sorcerer Supreme?" The Eye of Agamotto on his chest flashed green for emphasis. "This pass works everywhere."
"We don't give a damn about your trinket," said the first bouncer.
"Get out before we cut off your legs," said the second.
The minotaurs summoned magical axes into their hands and stepped toward him menacingly.
Stephen's jaw twitched. He raised his chin like he was about to curse them into next week. It had been a while—if ever—since someone tried to throw him down the stairs.
The guests paused, cups of smoking ale halfway to their lips, going still like animals before a storm.
"Let him in, guys," John waved lazily. "Show some respect to a veteran. He's doing his best for us, even if he sucks at it."
The witches and warlocks who heard that giggled.
"We didn't know he was your guest, Mr. Blaze," the first bouncer stepped aside.
"We thought he was just another cocky stage magician," the second bouncer made way.
Stephen hung his red cloak on the coat rack with dignity. Under the sharp-eyed stares of the crowd—half mocking, half curious—he passed like a lion walking through a pack of jackals. Strange dropped into a chair still warm from Emma. The fire flared slightly brighter at his aura, then hissed as if annoyed.
"Brings back memories," John leaned back and studied the flames. "Remember a year ago when I showed up at your place? They treated me exactly like you just got treated. What do you think that is? Karma?"
"Or a well-staged performance," Stephen shot back. "I have to comment on your headgear. Paired with that skull mask, you look like a lich."
"You see, my friend, strength alone isn't enough. You've got to look like a million bucks," John adjusted the crown on his head, each fang shaped like a serpent's maw. "Imagine—half the idiots around here don't even realize I'm wearing the strongest psychic artifact in existence."
When John adjusted his crown, a few guests flinched involuntarily, as if an icy shadow had brushed against their minds for a split second. Only John, calm behind the mask, could feel the crown whispering, digesting the emotions of others the way snakes devour living flesh.
"I thought the Serpent Crown was lost forever, but you found it," Stephen's voice held a mix of awe and respect. "Where?"
"Long story. You know, there's this forgotten field near Liverpool with hundreds of stones sticking out—and among them, the legendary sword. Only a true hero can lift it, a soul of light, a knight with unshakable will. Anyway, Jane pulled Excalibur."
"Not bad," Stephen accepted a shot of liquid magic from a passing waiter.
John waved for the waiter to leave the bottle on the table.
"Merlyn had been using Excalibur's magic as a power amplifier for all sorcery on English soil—so he was not thrilled. He came to us demanding the return of royal property. Jane told him to shove it."
Stephen nearly spilled his drink.
"Seriously?" he asked.
"She's got a temper," John shrugged. "Jane declared she'd lifted Excalibur fair and square and was ready to prove her right to keep it. Merlyn barked like a furious dog but didn't bite—rules are rules. Her trial was to retrieve the Ebonite Blade guarded by a dragon. Its head's hanging by the bar now. Jane earned the title of knight and Merlyn's blessing—Pendragon blood runs in her veins now. By the way, Merlyn joined the London branch of the Club and occasionally shares Round Table tales with Jane over mugs of dwarven ale."
"That part sounds even less believable than Jane's feat," Stephen looked at him skeptically. "I don't know anyone more cold-hearted than old Merlyn. I got spit on my boots every time I asked him for help."
"Maybe it's Jane," John remarked. "The old man always had a soft spot for classic knights. Maybe if you, like Jane, had slain every monster in his beloved England for free, Merlyn would treat you better too."
Stephen held his gaze but clearly wavered with guilt. Hunting down magical monsters was part of the Sorcerer Supreme's job.
"By the way, after that trial, the Ebonite Blade ended up with me. I had it reforged into a divination artifact."
John revealed a deck of ebony cards.
"How did you manage that?" Stephen raised an eyebrow. "The Ebonite Blade is a cursed artifact—indestructible."
"You know the Hood? That supervillain who got three of Dormammu's relics for loyal service?" John got a slight nod. "I sent his wicked soul back to Daddy. Took the relics off his corpse and brought them to Agatha Harkness. She used Darkhold magic to reforge the Ebonite Blade."
"Impressive," Stephen noted. "In eight months, the Midnight Suns have done solid work on Earth."
"Eight months? Pfft, that was just the first week," John said proudly. "We don't sleep—we're in deep 24/7. Heard about Neptune's Trident? It lies at the bottom of Atlantis, and only the worthy can lift it. Jane lifted it. Completed every task Namor gave her. Drove me nuts when that speedo-wearing creep started flirting with my girl... Had to introduce Namor to a light version of the Penance Stare."
John spent over an hour recounting his team's Earth-bound adventures.
"Some swamp spirit crawled out and tried to reforest the entire planet by turning people into plant hybrids. Cain beat the guy so hard, trees were cracking. Then Doctor Voodoo used his roots to craft an artifact that boosts earth control…"
Stephen listened politely, only occasionally asking clarifying questions. The bottle of liquid magic was nearly empty.
"The Mandarin—a nasty sorcerer from China—attacked Iron Man. You want my opinion? That fight was unfair. Magic beats flying armor every time… We had to step in and rescue the playboy. After the fight, Mary took the ten magic rings—they match her golden gloves perfectly."
They were into the third hour now. John's story was drawing to a close.
"I solved the sphinx's riddle, drove the lizard-people back to Set, and got the Serpent Crown for it," he finished. "Busy times. Now the whole team's lounging on the couch binge-watching shows to recover emotionally."
"Except for you," Stephen noted.
"Because of you, actually," John gave him a reproachful look. "The ebony cards showed you were looking for me. So go ahead—say what you came to say."
"You probably noticed I've been absent from Earth all this time..."
"Nope," John answered honestly. "Doc, you're always vanishing somewhere. Everyone just assumed you went on another bender."
"I was protecting our planet," Stephen snapped. "I spent eight months trapped in the dimension of Shuma-Gorath, keeping his tentacles from devouring us! I lost Wong!"
"Doc, chill. Unlike them—" John pointed toward a group of giggling witches by the bar. "I actually believe you. You're hilariously inefficient, but you do get the job done."
"I'll take that as a compliment," Stephen shrugged, though the corner of his mouth twitched. "What I meant to say is—I've noticed how the Midnight Suns have protected humanity in my absence. If you still want access to the Sorcerer Supreme's library—"
"Keep it," John cut him off. "No offense, but that's beneath me now. I've got Belasco's library—he spent millennia building it. I've been adding to it myself, ripping secrets from the damned souls of archmages across the universe. I've got a million spells, rituals, contracts, and maps to power sources."
Stephen's cheek twitched—whether in shock or jealousy, it was hard to say.
"And I'm drowning in artifacts too," John continued in a bored tone. "Daimon and I host monthly junk giveaways at the Club. The line goes all the way to the moon. And to me, it's all garbage. If it's not divine-level, I don't even count it as an artifact."
"You've changed, John," Stephen studied him thoughtfully. "This whole conversation, not once did you say I owe you."
"Oh, you definitely do. But," John paused, gathering his thoughts. "No offense, I just don't have anything left to take from you. We're on completely different levels. While you're still clinging to the legacy of Kamar-Taj, I'm raiding dragon hoards every week. You've got three little houses—I've got a global Club network. Even your connections are worthless now. Kamar-Taj has fallen. Witches and warlocks eat out of my hand. You don't even have Wong anymore. When you die in a demon's jaws, no one's going to notice."
Stephen flinched as if slapped. His eyes filled with blood—just for a moment.
"Bravo," he said, clapping softly before leaning back in a relaxed pose. "Now there's the John I remember. You shove me into the abyss, then wait to offer a hand—for a price. I almost fell for it." His gaze hardened. "What do you want?"
"Alright, I might've been a little dramatic when I said you had nothing of value left," John spread his hands with serene calm. "There's still one last thing. A treasure. You must've noticed—I've been assembling a set of artifacts for myself and the team..."
"Everyone's got three. But you've only got two. The Crown, the cards, and..." Stephen's hand flew to the Eye of Agamotto. "No. Absolutely not."
"Oh, come on. Let me complete the trio and get the combo bonus."
"John, this isn't just an object you're asking for—you're asking me to rip out my principles. The Eye of Agamotto has been passed down from one Sorcerer Supreme to the next for centuries. It's tradition."
"Doc, look around! You're the last one! No students, no followers! Who are you keeping the tradition for? The dead won't appreciate your sacrifice!"
"You're asking me to give it all up and retire," Stephen gave a dry chuckle. "That's not happening."
"A hero to the bitter end, huh? Makes for a pretty epitaph," John smirked, not bothering to hide the sarcasm. "I don't know how your predecessors did the job, but you're clearly not cutting it. I've wiped out more magical threats in six months than you did in ten years. Know the secret? I'm not alone."
"Oh, spare me the wisdom," Stephen snapped. "Like I don't know power lies in numbers! But no one wants to risk their life fighting demons. And I'm not dragging in students under false promises like my predecessors did."
"Here's the deal," John said, twirling a finger. "The Eye of Agamotto in exchange for this: all Club members become yours. I'll make you an administrator with access to my vault. There are thousands of witches and wizards on this planet who won't lift a finger to protect it—unless you dangle an artifact or spell. Then they'll go toe-to-toe with the devil himself."
Stephen considered it.
"Magical threats never stop appearing," he said at last. "If it were that simple, I'd have granted open access to the Sorcerer Supreme's library long ago. But I don't even have enough scrolls to offer in return."
"Don't compare your pantry to my Fort Knox," John waved it off. "I get new spells every day. Daimon transcribes them and trades copies through all circles of Hell for artifacts. My collection's big enough to hire heavyweights like Doctor Doom, Scarlet Witch, or Namor for every battle against evil."
Stephen's hand tightened one last time around the chain of the Eye. The artifact pulsed with gentle heat—almost like it knew it was being passed on. Stephen wanted to say something, to object... but the grief of losing Wong clenched his throat.
The Sorcerer Supreme would no longer fight alone. Every witch and warlock on Earth had just become an unofficial part of Kamar-Taj.
John weighed the Eye of Agamotto in his palm like a glass of wine. The central lens quivered, reshaping itself under the will of its new master. Its green glow faded into a deep blue, like ice. The gold turned to ebony.
This wasn't an Infinity Stone. They didn't exist in this universe.
John hung the most powerful divination artifact around his neck. With the other two in place, he pushed his mental powers to a new level.
/////
4900 words.
Support the author — leave a power stone and a five stars!
And if you'd like to go the extra mile, check out my Patreon — you'll get access to extra chapters and other goodies!
patreon.com/Vetrax