30 Minutes After Marcus Left
Laughter echoed through the meeting room, sharp and unrestrained, cutting through the tension like a blade.
"Seriously? One guy did all this to you and your crew?" The voice came from a lanky teenager slouched in one of the high-backed chairs, his green eyes bright with amusement. "That's just sad, man."
Everyone who was supposed to be at the meeting had arrived by now, and they'd all asked the same thing Victor had—what the hell happened here? Felix, still nursing a fractured ego, had explained what little he could between clenched teeth. That explanation had prompted the burst of laughter.
"Man, that's hilarious," the teenager said, wiping away a tear from the corner of his eye. His name was Max—eighteen, maybe nineteen at most, dressed in a pressed high school uniform that looked oddly pristine in this room full of criminals and killers. His short brown hair was slightly tousled, and though his build was slim, there was something wiry and quick about him, like a runner or a fighter trained for speed rather than brute force. His face straddled the line between attractive and forgettable—not a model, but someone who could draw stares if he wanted to.
"It's not that funny," Felix muttered, glaring at him.
Max grinned and pointed. "But you admit it's at least a little funny."
He jabbed a thumb over his shoulder. "And I'm sure my girlfriend agrees."
The woman behind him didn't move, didn't speak. She just stood—like a figure carved from ivory and shadow. She was average height, but there was nothing average about her. Her stillness alone was uncanny, inhuman. Porcelain-pale skin stretched smooth and unblemished over fine features. Her long crimson hair framed a face locked in a permanent smile. Her eyes, though—those were what made most people instinctively look away. Black, void-like, pupil-less. Eyes that did not blink.
She wore a tight-fitting black lace dress, delicate and haunting, like something pulled from a Victorian funeral. In her hand, she held a small ivory card. With the grace of a magician, she turned it over to reveal two handwritten words:
It is.
Felix rolled his eyes. "Of course she agrees. She's your girlfriend."
"That may be," came a gruff voice from the far side of the table, "but I gotta admit, I'd've paid good money to see you get your ass handed to you, leach."
The speaker leaned forward, arms resting on the table with casual menace. He looked to be in his mid-fifties, face weathered like old leather, a wild-man aura clinging to him like smoke. His coat—long, fur-lined, and beaten by years of use—hung loosely over broad shoulders. Dog tags clinked faintly as he shifted, catching the room's low light. His hair, mostly black but streaked with gray, hung to his chin. His canines were unnaturally pointed, though not quite vampiric—more beast than bloodsucker.
Max smirked. "Glad you agree, Wade."
Then he looked to the figure seated beside him. "What do you think, Jackson?"
Jackson didn't answer. He was too focused on lifting a delicate porcelain teacup to his lips—an effort made all the more complicated by the fact that he was very clearly a zombie.
He growled, low and guttural, the sound rattling in his ruined throat. He ran a hand through his short, dirt-blond hair—clean, but tousled, swept haphazardly across his forehead. His corpse-gray eyes locked onto Max, the blown pupils rimmed with faint red lines, disturbingly wide, but still focused.
He looked annoyed—maybe at the interruption, maybe just at the effort it took to move. His grip tightened around the porcelain teacup, fingers flexing with stiff control as he brought it to his lips. The left side met them. The right side… didn't.
The tea spilled through the gaping hole torn into his cheek—flesh missing from cheekbone to jaw, exposing the clean white of teeth and gums in a permanent skeletal grin. He snarled, irritated, cracked black lips pulling back farther, the skin around them stretched tight and pale.
His complexion was bloodless, smooth and pristine where it remained intact, shot through with faint, darkened veins that branched beneath the surface. His frame was solid—broad-shouldered and lean, encased in a crisp, dark green ranger's jacket with the National Park insignia clean and bright on the sleeve. His cargo pants were neatly tucked into spotless black boots. The holster at his hip was secure, pistol resting inside without a scuff. The shotgun slung across his back was pristine—well-oiled and spotless.
"Alright, calm down, it's just tea," Max said, grinning as he gave Jackson a light pat on the back.
Jackson grumbled in reply, deep and raspy, as tea trickled down his chin and pattered onto the clean floor below.
"Can he even drink tea?" Wade asked, nodding toward Jackson with a raised brow.
Victor exhaled through his nose, already annoyed. "Probably not," he muttered, rubbing his temple, "but who the fuck cares right now?"
He turned to Felix. "Alright, lick. You got the stuff we asked for?"
Felix gave a silent nod. With a snap of his fingers, one of the women who had been lounging on his lap stepped forward and glided out of the darkness. She carried a sleek black briefcase and placed it gently on the low table in the center of the room, then stepped back into the gloom without a word.
Victor crouched slightly as he popped the locks and opened the case. Inside: rows of small glass vials, each cradled in soft velvet, each humming faintly with the telltale shimmer of enchantment. He grinned.
"Looks good," he said, shutting the case again with a satisfying click before glancing back up at Felix. "But does it work good?"
Felix rested his chin on his knuckles, half-lidded eyes glinting in the low light. "Trust me. It's the best batch we've cooked up. No knockoffs. No dilution."
Victor gave a single chuckle and waved to one of his men, who stepped forward without a word, grabbed the case, and disappeared into the back of the room with it.
Another snap from Felix.
A second woman emerged from the shadows, just as silent as the first. This time she carried something different—an aged wooden totem, carved with faint runes and no bigger than an hourglass. She walked it over to Wade and set it on the table in front of him.
Wade picked it up with one hand and turned it over in the other, inspecting the markings like he could read them. A low smirk tugged at his mouth. "Even though you got your ass kicked, you kept your promises, leech," he muttered, not even looking at Felix.
Max leaned back in his seat, hands behind his head. "What about us?" he asked, gesturing between himself and Jackson. The zombie let out a growl, more like a low thunder rumble than a sound a throat should make.
Felix sighed, brushing a hand back through his hair. "Your requests aren't exactly simple. Especially yours, Max. It's not something I—or anyone—can just do."
Max pouted slightly but nodded. "Fine. I get it." He glanced at Yume beside him. "Looks like we'll have to wait a bit longer."
Yume responded with a slow shake of her head, her ever-constant smile still painted on as she rested her hands behind her back. The gesture was as reassuring as it was eerie.
But Jackson wasn't feeling patient.
The undead ranger suddenly stood, his chair scraping sharply against the floor. His milky gray eyes locked onto Felix with a hollow, murderous intensity. The growl in his throat rose to a low snarl as he took a step forward.
Victor's hand flew to the handle of his hatchet.
"Whoa, whoa—calm down, ranger," he warned, eyes narrowing.
Around the room, Victor's men started pulling their guns. Wade rose with a grunt, already ready for a fight. Felix tensed, fangs showing.
"I told you, it's going to take time!" he snapped.
"You don't wanna do this, Jackson," Wade added, a warning edge in his voice.
But Jackson didn't flinch. If anything, he looked more ready to tear someone apart.
Until—
"Yume," Max said, calm and soft. "Tell him to calm down."
Yume stepped forward from behind Max with fluid grace, her expression unchanged—still smiling, always smiling. She reached into the folds of her dress and drew a card.
Please calm down.
She held it up without a word.
Jackson's empty eyes locked on the message. He didn't blink, didn't move for a few seconds—but then, slowly, with a guttural grunt, he sat back down in his chair.
A collective breath filled the room as weapons lowered and tension melted just slightly.
Yume returned to Max's side like nothing had happened, folding the card away without a word.
"I'll get the stuff," Felix muttered toward Jackson. "It's just… not something you find lying around, alright?"
The rest of the room settled again. Victor exhaled and dropped back into his chair with a heavy thump. "Fuck, it's like talking to a damn nuke."
Wade let out a chuckle. "Glad we didn't have to fight."
Jackson grunted. That was about as close to a 'me too' as he got.
Max, feeling the weight still clinging to the room, grabbed his soda glass and held it up. "Alright! How about a toast, huh? Just to remind ourselves we're all friends here."
Victor rolled his eyes but lifted his glass of whisky anyway. "Alright, kid."
"Wouldn't mind toasting with you all!" Wade chimed, lifting his scotch.
Felix sighed and picked up his crystal glass, deep red liquid swirling. "If it'll calm down the nuke…"
Jackson glanced at them all. Then he picked up his cup of tea, still steaming despite the earlier mess.
Their glasses met at the center.
"To our dreams."