THE AKULA BUILDING - TRAINING ROOM - 6:47 AM
The barbell held twenty-five hundred kilograms.
Custom steel. Reinforced frame. The kind of weight that would crush a normal man's skeleton before his brain registered the attempt.
Zale lifted it anyway.
Sweat poured down his face. Ran down his neck. Soaked through his tank top. His muscles screamed—not pain exactly, but the deep burn of tissue being pushed past natural limits. Enhanced biology compensating. Adapting. Breaking down and rebuilding stronger.
Ten reps. Controlled. Breathing steady despite the load.
He set the bar down. The impact shook the floor.
The room around him was silent except for metal and breath. Racks of equipment lined the walls—dense, brutal shapes built for excess. Nothing decorative. Nothing wasted. This wasn't a gym.
This was maintenance. Keeping the edge sharp. Because the moment you stopped pushing was the moment something faster caught up.
Zale grabbed his water bottle. Drank. Checked the time.
Almost seven. Good session. He'd—
A knock at the door.
"Zale?"
Sable's voice. Hesitant.
"Yeah."
She opened the door halfway. Stayed in the threshold. "Sorry. There's a delivery for you. Watchman's asking if he should send it up."
Zale frowned. "Delivery?"
"That's what he said."
"I'm not expecting anything." He grabbed a towel. Wiped his face. "Tell him to send it up. I'll check it after I shower."
"Okay." She started to close the door. Paused. "That looks insane, by the way."
Zale wiped his face with a towel, his voice steady."Necessary."
She nodded. Disappeared.
Zale looked at the barbell. At the weight that would kill most enhanced humans.
A delivery he wasn't expecting.
In his line of work, that was never good.
He headed for the shower.
***
FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER
The package sat on his desk.
Black wrapping paper. Gold ribbon. No return address. Just his name in elegant calligraphy.
Zale opened it carefully.
Inside: a bottle of wine and a letter.
The wine was absurdly old. Château Margaux, 1787. Museum-piece vintage. Worth more than most people's houses.
The letter was handwritten on thick parchment.
***
Zale,
The Stilson matter resolved itself beautifully, didn't it? Timeline intact. Prophecy averted—or fulfilled, depending on one's philosophical stance on fate and inevitability. I do enjoy a good paradox.
How is she, by the way? Arrogance. I trust you're treating her with appropriate respect. She's always been particular about her companions. So few meet her standards. You should feel flattered.
I find myself in the area this evening. Business, mostly. Though I confess, curiosity about your recent exploits factors in as well.
Nine o'clock. Same establishment as before. I have questions only you can answer. And perhaps—if you're fortunate—answers to questions you haven't thought to ask yet.
The wine is a gift. No obligations. No strings. Just one professional appreciating another's craftsmanship.
Until tonight,
Samael
P.S. - Do bring Arrogance. She gets sulky when left behind.
***
Zale read it twice.
Casual. Charming. Wrapped in velvet menace.
But everything about it felt wrong.
The Codex floated beside him. Pulsed once.
Words appeared on the cover.
TRAP. TEMPTATION. TRUTH.
"Yeah," Zale muttered. "Probably all three."
He looked at the letter again.
Samael wouldn't invite him just to chat. There was always purpose. Always an angle being played.
But the demon had given him Arrogance. Had provided intel on Stilson that—three years would tell if it was accurate—but the weapon had proven itself already.
And if Samael had information worth hearing...
Zale made his decision.
He'd go.
***
10:34 AM
Sable was at her desk when he found her.
Tablet open. Case files scattered. Taking notes in surprisingly neat handwriting despite the aesthetic chaos of her appearance—platinum hair with pink tips catching the light, corset over mesh sleeves, the kind of look that said fuck your dress code in twelve different ways.
She was studying. Actually working.
Good.
"Change of plans," Zale said.
She looked up. "What kind of change?"
"I have a meeting tonight. Won't be back until tomorrow."
"Tomorrow." She set down her pen. "What kind of meeting?"
"The kind I handle alone." He pulled a chair over. Sat. "Which means you're running things here until I get back."
Sable blinked. "Me?"
"Yes."
"I've been here less than a week—"
"And you kept your head through seven days of a death curse. Made smart choices under pressure. Didn't break." Zale leaned forward. "You can handle this."
She looked uncertain. "What if something happens?"
"Then you follow protocol. Client shows up, you take their information. Standard intake questions—when did it start, what have they experienced, any witnesses. Record everything. If it sounds major, call me. If it's after nine PM, we're closed." He pulled up the intake form on her tablet. "That's closing time. We don't work nights."
"Why not?"
"Because I don't want to."
Fair enough.
He wrote a number on a sticky note. Handed it to her. "Emergency line. Reaches me anywhere. Only use it if the building's on fire or something's actively trying to kill you."
Sable took the note.
He hesitated, then added quietly, "Trust your instincts. They kept you alive."
He headed for the door.
"Zale?"
He stopped. Looked back.
"Be careful."
"Always am."
He left.
***
The elevator doors closed.
Silence.
Sable sat at the desk. Stared at the emergency number on the sticky note.
Alone. In charge. For the first time since signing that contract.
The penthouse felt massive suddenly. Empty. Just her and the responsibility she'd just been handed.
Don't fuck this up.
She opened the first case file.
Got to work.
***
8:47 PM
Hours had passed.
Sable had studied six case files. Made notes. Cross-referenced patterns. Learned the difference between genuine supernatural activity and mundane explanations wearing spooky masks.
Poltergeist activity versus settling foundations. Possession versus epilepsy. Curses versus really spectacularly bad luck.
The work was detailed. Required focus. Pattern recognition.
She kind of loved it.
This is what I'm doing now. Reading about hauntings and demons like it's a fucking college course. Except the final exam involves things that can actually kill me.
The office was quiet. Just computer hum. City lights below. Haddonfield settling into night.
She stood. Stretched. Decided to make hot chocolate.
The intercom crackled.
"Miss Ward?"
The night watchman.
Sable pressed the button. "Yeah?"
"Two FBI agents here to see Mr. Akula. Should I send them up?"
FBI?
Her pulse jumped. "What are their names?"
"Special Agent Rodriguez and Special Agent Chen."
Recognized those names. From the file on the senator's daughter case. Zale had worked with them before.
But he wasn't here.
She grabbed her phone. Dialed the emergency number.
Two rings. Zale answered.
Background noise. Engine. He was driving.
"Problem?"
"FBI. Rodriguez and Chen. They're here."
Brief pause. "Worked with them before. They're fine. Ask what they need. Take notes. I'll handle it when I'm back."
"When's that?"
"Tomorrow possibly noon." Another pause. "You can handle this, Sable."
The line went dead.
Right. No pressure.
Sable took a breath. Straightened her posture.
Pressed the intercom. "Send them up."
***
The elevator opened two minutes later.
Special Agent Rodriguez stepped out first. Late thirties. Clean-cut. Suit pressed sharp enough to cut. The kind of guy who probably color-coded his sock drawer. Special Agent Chen followed.
Younger. Observant. Taking in everything.
Both stopped when they saw Sable. Rodriguez's eyes tracked from her platinum-pink hair down to her platform boots. A brief recalibration happened behind his professional mask. Chen just blinked once, then pulled out his notebook like nothing was unusual.
They'd expected Zale—intimidating, efficient, the man who'd pulled off the impossible. They got her.
Yeah. I'm the receptionist. Deal with it.
"We're looking for Zale Akula," Rodriguez said.
"He's unavailable. I'm Sable Ward. I work with him." She gestured to the chairs. "Sit. Please."
They exchanged a glance. Sat. Sable pulled up the intake form on her tablet.
Hit record.
"When did the incidents start?" she asked.
Rodriguez leaned forward. "First documented case was 1988. Chicago. Multiple homicides connected to a Good Guy doll. The department officially blamed it on a 'home invasion' by the Lakeshore Strangler, a fugitive named Charles Lee Ray. They claimed he died in a toy store shootout before the killings began, but the bodies kept piling up even after he was in the morgue."
"Give me the dates," Sable prompted.
"1990. 1998. 2004," Rodriguez listed. "And the most recent—last year, 2022. A massacre at the Pierce estate in Ohio. Every case involves this specific brand of doll. And every survivor—from Andy Barclay to the latest, Nica Pierce—claims the same thing."
"Which is?"
"That the doll did it."
Sable kept her expression neutral. "The Pierce case? I thought she was convicted."
"She was," Chen added, sliding a folder across the desk. "She's currently in Lochmoor Maximum Security Asylum. But since her incarceration, two staff members have been found dead. And witnesses at her trial claimed a woman matching the description of actress Jennifer Tilly delivered a package to the scene just before the murders."
Sable opened the folder. Her stomach turned.
Slash wounds. Blunt force trauma. Multiple victims across decades. And there—in photo after photo, sometimes in the background, sometimes cropped at the edge—the same doll. Red hair. Overalls. Freckles. Good Guy branding.
"You have the doll in custody?" Sable asked.
"We have a model recovered from a warehouse fire," Rodriguez said, his jaw tightening. "We've examined it. Nothing unusual. Just plastic and fabric. But the doll from the Pierce crime scene? It vanished from the evidence locker. No forced entry."
Chen leaned in. "We have a lead on Andy Barclay. He's been off the grid since 1998, but our surveillance shows him hunting these dolls down. He's not just a victim anymore; he's an extremist."
Sable kept writing. "And you're bringing this to Mr. Akula because..."
"Because we've worked with him before. He understands things the Bureau can't officially acknowledge." Rodriguez met her eyes. "We need to know if this is a cult—someone using the 'Chucky' legend—or if the legend itself is real."
"When will he be available?"
"Tomorrow. I'll have him contact you within twenty-four hours." She pulled out a business card. Wrote the office number on the back. "Leave your information. We'll be in touch."
Rodriguez took the card. Studied it. Then her.
"You're new."
"Yes."
"But Akula trusts you with this."
"Apparently."
He nodded slowly. "Okay. We'll wait for his call."
"Thank you."
He nodded slowly. Chen handed her a USB drive. "Full files. Including surveillance from the Lochmoor ward. Watch the doll in the background of the Pierce interview."
"Why?"
"It's not just sitting there, Miss Ward," Chen said quietly. "It's listening."
She looked at the USB drive, then back at the photo of the doll.
Thirty-five years of blood. A missing actress. A survivor turned vigilante. And a girl in an asylum who might be innocent.
Sable closed the folder. "I'll pass this to him when he's back. I just do intake and research."
They headed for the elevator.
At the door, Rodriguez paused. "Miss Ward? People are dying. We need answers fast."
"I understand. You'll hear from us tomorrow."
The elevator doors closed.
Sable sat down hard.
Exhaled.
I just handled FBI agents. By myself. Asking about a possessed doll. And didn't completely embarrass myself.
She looked at the USB drive.
Plugged it in.
Started reading.
***
10:23 PM
Sable had been deep in the database for over an hour.
Good Guy dolls. Manufacturing history. Charles Lee Ray—serial killer, died 1988.
Multiple incidents over decades. Different dolls. Same soul. Pattern of violence following wherever the doll went.
She'd cross-referenced everything with Zale's restricted database.
The database had video attached.
Surveillance footage. FBI evidence room. Timestamp from three days ago.
The doll sat on a shelf between tagged evidence bags. Unmoving. Just plastic and fabric.
Sable watched.
Thirty seconds. Nothing.
Forty-five seconds.
Then—for exactly one frame—the head turned.
Sable's breath caught. She rewound. Slowed it down.
There. Definite movement. The head rotated maybe fifteen degrees. Toward the camera.
The next day's footage showed it facing a different direction.
Nobody had logged touching it.
She closed the video.
"Okay. So it moves when nobody's watching. Classic bullshit except this one has a knife and a personality disorder."
FBI has this thing in a box. With normal people who think it's evidence.
This is either really cool or I'm about to watch people die on the news.
Sable started taking notes. Not analysis—she wasn't qualified for that. Just observations. Questions. Things that didn't fit.
- Database says "soul transfer" - how does that even work? Voodoo? Can it be reversed?
- Nica Pierce insists it talks. Delusion or actual communication?
- Video shows movement. Documented. Multiple instances. Not imagined.
- Evidence room = unsecured. Staff don't know it's dangerous.
- Why now? What triggered the killing spree after years of dormancy?
- Where's the doll now? Still in evidence or did they move it?
She closed the laptop.
This was beyond her. Way beyond. She'd found the information. Done the research. Connected the dots.
But what to actually do about a serial killer's soul trapped in a children's toy?
That was Zale's department.
Tomorrow he'd be back. He'd read her notes. Tell her what it meant. Decide how to handle it.
Her job was gathering intel. His was execution.
For tonight, that was enough.
Sable stood. Stretched. Her back cracked.
The penthouse was quiet. Just her and the city lights and a USB drive full of evidence that magic was real and horror movies were documentaries.
I handled my first client meeting. Took intake. Started research.
Nobody died.
Not bad for day one.
She headed to her room.
Tomorrow they'd figure out the next move.
Sable closed her door.
And despite everything—the possessed doll, the FBI agents, the responsibility—she smiled.
This was her life now.
And she didn't regret it.
[END CHAPTER 17]