The hum from the walls of The Rusty Anchor faded into a tense silence, leaving Riley Quinn's pulse pounding in their ears. The whispered words, "The mask is yours, Doctor," lingered like a ghost, but when Flick's flashlight swept the storage room again, it was empty. The bar felt like a cage now. The flickering neon sign outside cast jagged shadows across the peeling wallpaper. Riley twirled their knife, the blade glinting in the light, a nervous habit that hid the adrenaline surging within. This wasn't just some random creep; it was personal, tied to the masquerade.
"Great," Riley muttered, forcing a grin at the group. "First a shadow with a vendetta, now a talking wall. Saltgrave's really raising the bar." Their tone was light, but their mind raced. The Syndicate had warned them about trouble brewing at Cliffside Manor, and this felt like a preview. They needed to be careful—or risk losing everything.
Flick lowered the bottle he'd been gripping, his face a mix of tiredness and defiance. "Funny, Riley. Real funny. You wanna check the back again, or should I send Crabb to wrestle the ghosts?" Old Man Crabb, still half-asleep, let out a wet snore, unaware of the tension.
Evelyn pocketed the photograph of Lila. Her expression was unreadable, but her eyes were sharp. "Enough jokes. That voice wasn't human. The Order of the Shroud is involved and they're closer than we think." She glanced at Marina, who held Lila's journal tightly, her knuckles turning white. "We need to prepare for tomorrow. Riley, you said you work the masquerade. What do you know?"
Riley hesitated, their grin slipping. The truth was a tightrope, and one wrong step could send them down. They were a double agent for the Syndicate, feeding them information from the manor while skimming profits for themselves. The masquerade was their goldmine—pockets to pick, secrets to sell—but it was also a powder keg, and tonight's events suggested it was about to explode. "Not much," they lied, shrugging. "Fancy masks, bad wine, rich folks pretending they're not creeps. But I hear whispers. The Order runs the show, and they don't like guests poking around."
Marina snapped her head up, her voice sharp. "Whispers? My husband died because of their whispers. Tell us everything, Riley, or I swear I'll—" She stopped, her breath hitching, and Riley saw the raw pain beneath her anger. It stung more than they'd anticipated.
"Easy, tiger," Riley said, raising their hands. "I'll share what I can. The Order's got rituals, secret rooms, weird chants. Last year, I saw them drag someone out back during the dance. Didn't think much of it until Tom's 'accident.' Could be connected." They left out the Syndicate's involvement, the deal they'd struck to stay quiet. Not yet.
Flick snorted, his grin returning like armor. "Rituals? Great, we're in a horror movie now. Should I bring holy water, or will my stand-up routine scare them off?" His humor was fragile, but it lightened the mood, and Riley gave him a grateful glance.
Evelyn ignored the banter, her mind focused. "The photograph changes everything. Lila was marked by the Order before she died. If they're targeting us, we need leverage. Riley, can you get us into the manor early?"
Riley's stomach twisted. Getting in early meant dodging Syndicate enforcers who'd be furious if they found out. But it also meant a chance to dig deeper and maybe find a way out of their double life. "Yeah, I can arrange it. Got a contact who owes me. But it's risky—security's tight, and the Order's got eyes everywhere."
"Do it," Evelyn said. Her tone left no room for disagreement. "We meet at dusk tomorrow. Bring whatever you can find." She turned to leave, but Marina grabbed her arm.
"What about the voice? The hum?" Marina's eyes were frantic, searching. "That wasn't human. What if it's… something else?"
Evelyn shook off Marina's grip, her expression softening for a brief moment. "We'll figure it out. But we can't panic yet." She stepped into the fog, disappearing into the night, leaving the others in stunned silence.
Riley watched her walk away, then turned to Flick and Marina. "Well, folks, looks like we're part of a messed-up club now. Drinks on the house?" They poured three shots of whiskey and slid them across the bar. Flick took his with a wry chuckle, while Marina took hers with a shaky hand. The alcohol burned, a brief escape from the madness.
But Riley's thoughts were already elsewhere. After the others left—Flick muttering about rats, Marina holding Lila's journal—Riley locked up and slipped into the alley behind the bar. The fog was thicker here, muffling the sea's growl. They pulled out a burner phone from their jacket and dialed a number they'd memorized but rarely used.
"Quinn," a gravelly voice answered. It was Dax, the Syndicate's enforcer, a man with a scar across his throat and a temper to match. "You're late with the tribute."
"Yeah, well, things got messy," Riley said, keeping their tone casual. "Some psycho crashed the bar, talking about masks and killers. The Order's up to something big at the masquerade."
Dax's laugh was rough. "Good. Chaos is our profit. You get me names, I'll cut you a bonus. But if you're holding out…" The threat was heavy, and Riley felt the weight of their double life pressing down.
"Working on it," they said, ending the call. They leaned against the wall, breathing hard. The Syndicate wanted intelligence, but the group—Flick, Evelyn, Marina—needed protection. Riley was stuck in the middle, and the tighter the noose got, the more they feared for their survival in this game.
The next evening, Riley met the others at the edge of Old Saltgrave, near the winding path to Cliffside Manor. The fog curled around the gothic spires of the manor like a shroud. Flick wore a rumpled suit, his grin nervous. Evelyn looked sharp in a black dress, her eyes scanning the shadows. Marina held Lila's journal tightly in a borrowed coat.
"Nice digs," Flick said, eyeing the manor. "Looks like a place where bad decisions go to die."
"Or where they're born," Riley quipped, leading them to a side entrance. Their contact, a jittery servant named Theo, let them in with a nervous nod. "Keep quiet," he whispered. "The Order's already here, getting ready for the ritual."
Inside, the manor was a maze of dark wood and flickering candelabras. The air was thick with incense. Riley guided them through a servants' passage, their heart racing. They'd slipped Dax a partial list of guests earlier, trying to buy time, but the risk was growing. If the Order caught them, or if the Syndicate found out about this detour…
They stopped at a heavy door, its frame carved with the spiral-eye symbol from Evelyn's photo. "This is it," Riley said, pushing it open. The room beyond was a shrine—walls lined with masks, a stone altar stained dark, and a pedestal holding a book bound in human skin. The air pulsed with a faint hum, echoing the earlier disturbance at the bar.
"Holy hell," Flick breathed, stepping closer. "This is next-level creepy."
Evelyn examined the book, her fingers tracing its cover. "This is old. Pre-17th century, maybe. The Order's been at this longer than we thought." She opened it, revealing pages filled with cryptic runes and sketches of the cliffs.
Marina's voice trembled as she read from Lila's journal, matching a passage. "'The Veil demands a price. The first mask falls, and the rest follow.' Tom's death… it was just the start." Her eyes filled with tears, but her jaw set with determination.
Before they could process what was happening, footsteps echoed down the hall. Riley cursed under their breath and ushered the others behind the altar. The door creaked open, and a figure in a hooded robe entered—High Keeper Varna, her presence commanding. Her voice was smooth but sharp. "The intruders are near. Find them, or the ritual fails."
Riley's heart sank. They'd been betrayed. Theo, or someone else, had sold them out. Varna's gaze swept the room, and for a moment, her eyes locked onto their hiding spot. Then she turned, leaving with her guards.
The group exhaled, but their relief was short-lived. A panel in the wall slid open, and a hand grabbed Riley's arm, yanking them into a narrow passage. The others shouted, but the panel slammed shut, trapping Riley with their captor—a Syndicate enforcer, not one of Varna's guards.
"Thought you could play both sides, Quinn?" the enforcer growled, his scarred face inches from theirs. He raised a knife, its blade glinting in the dim light. "Dax wants a message sent."
Riley's mind raced, their charm crumbling for the first time. The passage trembled, the hum returning, louder now. From the shadows, a figure emerged—tall, faceless, its form shifting like smoke. The enforcer froze, his knife dropping as the figure whispered, "The game is mine."
The last thing Riley saw before the darkness took them was the enforcer's scream, cut short by a wet, guttural sound.