Hello, it's Vicky. And no, I'm not a girl, despite what every slasher cult with bad intel seems to think when they see the name on a hotel registry. Nicky and I picked these names for this era of the job, and somehow people always assume she's the dude and I'm the damsel. It's wild.
Reminds me of that one slasher group, cartoonishly sexist, even for a bunch of bloodthirsty monsters, who kidnapped folks purely based on names. Real genius level ops. Their boss took one look at me, duct-taped to a chair, and said, "Why the hell did you grab this guy? We wanted Vicky!"
I deadpanned, "I am Vicky."
Nicky loves to remind me she's technically not allowed to strike first, but she was already halfway through getting her nails done after a stressful mission. Me? I was just finishing the job. Can't leave everything to her, she's my princess. I'd say goddess, but that word makes her gag, and honestly, she gets princess treatment on the regular anyway.
I deployed my usual biochemical defense protocol, triggered an internal hexflux to rapidly amplify eccrine gland output. The resulting air saturation formed a dense, cursed vapor, rich in targeted hex compounds designed to bypass normal respiratory filters. Within seconds of inhalation, their alveoli experienced accelerated inflation followed by micro rupture, a phenomenon we call 'kettle pop collapse.' Biofeedback shutdown, suffocation via internal bloom. Turns out, sexist cultists make excellent test subjects for supernatural aerosol warfare.
I should really start carrying a sticker that says "Not your Final Girl."
Anyway, Nicky was still handling cleanup duty after that little snack, and I say "snack" with affection, because that fake banshee blew apart in her jaw like a cursed fruit smoothie. The sight of it had me damn near gasping star charts into the ceiling.
Before we even left the room, she licked one of her nails and plunged it into the girl's neck, like she was trying to make the corpse look fresher just so she could finish what she started. It was almost cute, the way the supposed fresh blood smeared all over her like war paint applied with affection.
The space still throbbed with the residue of dark pleasure and arcane gore, a cocktail of scorched ozone, charm burn, and pheromone haze wafting like ceremonial incense.
The air glimmered with whisper spells, bleaching every trace of blood, essence, and whatever mix of fluid and feeling we had just carved out of each other. Think of it as high-end magical sanitation, the kind that doesn't just clean up gore but scrubs climax off the walls with alchemical elegance. A single incantation, and the room smelled like nothing had ever happened.
That kill didn't just affect me. It ruptured something sacred. A visceral, almost cellular response that your body memorizes, the kind that rewires your nerve endings and leaves you trembling in devotion. My partner, bathed in violence and glory, looked like a deity mid miracle, and I felt myself unravel in worship.
And the best part? She let me lead. She let me command the moment, guide the rhythm, carve the shape of the scene. I'd still love her even if she couldn't take the pain I give. Love isn't conditional on tolerance. But the way she meets it? That's something else entirely.
There's a grace in how she absorbs it, like the ache is a language we both speak fluently. Not as punishment. Not as spectacle. As communion. When she pulls me deeper into that shared current, it transforms what should be brutal into something sacred.
It's not about pain. It's about trust. About surrender, sharpened to a ritual edge. And when she invites it, deliberate, open, with that fierce look in her eye, it becomes transcendent. That's the power. That's the bond. That's ours.
Hasher life comes with many rituals. Some sacred. Some secret. This one was both.
She licked the last bit of blood off her collarbone, slow and smug, like she'd just taken a bite out of a love song only she could hear. And I watched her. Really watched her. You ever see someone glow like violence is an aphrodisiac and a victory dance rolled into one? That was her. That's always her.
She looked unreal. Like a painting that crawled off the wall to commit a crime and kiss you afterward. Blood on her skin. Glitter in her stare. My girl.
The thing we just dropped? Absolutely synthetic. Fake banshee. All polish, no pulse. Whoever made it didn't know grief if it hit them in the soul. No resonance. No echo. Just a bad facsimile with store-brand death vibes. Think Bluetooth speaker trying to do cathedral acoustics. Doesn't hit.
But back to Nicky. My partner. My problem. My prize. She stood there dripping in aftermath like she was born in the ruins of a cathedral fight. She looked at me like she knew I'd been staring too long, and maybe I had. I don't get embarrassed easy, but damn if she doesn't make survival look seductive.
I wanted to touch her. I wanted to taste the residue of what she just did. But we had work to do. So I stood still. Took mental notes. Pretended this wasn't worship.
I mean, I already cashed in our one random-mission-makeout voucher for the quarter. Yeah, we've got those. Company rules don't cover libido control, but self-discipline's still a Hasher virtue — allegedly.
Hot, honestly. All teeth and violence and that glint in her eye like she was daring the universe to object. She looked like a blood-drenched pin-up for post-apocalyptic chaos. I would've joined her — hell, I wanted to — but someone had to make sure we collected the info first. Priorities, you know. Then I could snag a bite myself.
Fake banshee, by the way. Let Uncle Vicky break it down for you, since apparently we still need field school on the obvious. The thing was some bootlegged AI construct — cheapest hologram programming this side of the Bleed. Like someone asked ChatDeathGPT to cosplay a banshee after bingeing bad fanfiction and drinking expired ectoplasm.
And every time Nicky sees one of these knockoff soul-screamers, she mutters that it feels racist as hell. She's not wrong. It's all uncanny valley, no real pressure — stiff, too clean, like grief designed by an intern who's never cried. No rot. No residue. No emotional teeth. Just a flickering projection in a dollar-store wig trying to simulate anguish.
How do you know it's fake? Easy. Real grief doesn't just sit there. It lingers. It stains. It claws up your bones like it's paying rent. This? This was grief on mute — low-res and pretending. And if you ever need to test it again, just remember: if it doesn't feel like your soul's being wrung out and rewritten, you're probably watching bad theater, not a banshee.
If it had been a real bannesh — like Nicky says — I'd have felt it crawl under my skin like frostbite with a grudge. The air would've thickened into something that clawed down your throat. The hotel plants would've curled, screamed, maybe combusted. You don't miss that kind of soul pressure. You survive it, or you don't.
And not all banneshes are the same. There are types. Shades. Echoes. Some are memory leeches that hide in forgotten songs. Others rupture the veil with a single shriek and burn out like dying stars. The oldest ones don't even scream — they just hum. A lullaby without words that folds your spirit inside out.
But a real powerhouse? You'd know. They take care of their claws. Their throat. Their grief. There's pride in the prep work before the scream. Craft, not chaos. Intention, not noise.
Closest thing I've ever seen to a real one on film was that indie horror flick — Whisper Mother, I think. The one where the ghost haunts a voicemail system and sings lullabies in reverse. That's the closest people ever get.
Real banneshes? They don't look like what B-reddit fan art thinks. No sad girls in corsets with reverb filters. Most real ones are beautiful. Too beautiful. Like a memory dressed for a funeral. Until they open their mouth. Then it all peels — the skin, the charm, the sense of safety. What's left behind isn't a monster. It's something personal gone wrong.
Nicky's not one of those. Not exactly. She was only half-bannesh before her ex turned her into… whatever she is now. She doesn't talk about it much. But every time she sees a fake one, it hits different. Because she knows what it's supposed to feel like. She was close. And now she's something else entirely.
Not better. Not worse. Just meaner. And realer than anything you can bootleg. And no — before you ask — Nicky doesn't count as a 'dead chick.' I don't fuck ghosts. I barely flirt with the other side. Nicky's different. She's alive enough to bruise you and tender enough to make you feel it. That still counts.
People ask why Nicky keeps me on missions, like she couldn't just scream her way through everything alone. And yeah, she probably could. But not everything screams back. Some things you have to feel — the kind of creepy ambient stuff that clings to air vents and baseboards and bad dreams.
She says she needs me because I can sense what she can't. And I believe her. Especially since she stopped being fully... her.
See, Nicky can feel emotions — don't get me wrong. But more often than not, she's mimicking them. I've been around her long enough to catch the rhythm of it, the tells. The way she mirrors grief with that eerie elegance or smiles like she's trying on the shape of joy to see if it fits. It's not hollow. It's crafted.
Part of it's the way she loves. Or tries to. And yeah — fine — I guess some of y'all are right. Her soul can't really sense other souls the way most of us do. She can detect them, sure, but it's like reading heat through fogged glass. There's a delay. A blur. She doesn't engage with souls like we do.
It's like the difference between baking with sugar and baking with honey. Both sweet, but not the same structure. Sugar is predictable, crystalline. Honey is complex — dense, floral, hard to measure unless you've worked with it for years. That's what it's like watching Nicky try to feel someone. It works, but differently.
I think that's part of why I've never really asked her to date me. Not in that clear, on-paper way. And I mean, yeah — we both want to. I know we do. But I hate the idea of forcing Nicky into something just because it feels right to me. I could never do that. Wouldn't.
Forget I said anything.
Then people like to flip the question. Ask me why I stick around.
But that answer? I'll let her tell you, if she ever feels like it.
And this place? Charges premium prices with a bad security system and glitchy glamours. Like, come on folks. Get it together. Lucky the company's footing the bill — only thing coming out of my per diem is clothes and gear, and even then they pay us well enough to pick our own poison.
Anyway — let's get off the heavy stuff. Because guess what? We're bringing back our favorite lore-finder. That's right. Charlie.
Back in the day, I used Charlie for basic Hasher duties — locate the ghost, sniff the lore, file a spectral report and vanish before someone starts asking questions. But Nicky? She had to make him fold. Charm him into being more than just a whisper-fed catalog system. And that's why we've been able to use him with some of the high-tier slasher-bound soul equipment usually reserved for specialty jobs. The real dangerous stuff. The kind we don't even sign for — they just hand it over like we're already pre-doomed.
Like Class G jobs. Class Gytta. And don't ask me what a Class G does. You don't want to know. I'm saying that, and I just slept with Nicky right after she murdered a mid-tier banshee who might've just needed a nap and a hug. Perspective.
*So I asked her to take one off and summon good ol' Charlie. Spirit-bound, nosy, dramatic as hell — but loyal. And way better at sniffing out occult residue than most of the tech we've got. Nicky rolled her eyes, but she did it. Said, "Fine, but if he starts flirting with the furniture again, he's your problem."
There was a little shimmer of air and then—pop—Charlie manifested mid-hover, already glowing with ghostly delight. "Victor! My darling, you look rugged as ever," he sang, spinning in place like he was doing a phantom ballroom twirl. "Missed you like necromantic taxes."
"Missed you too, buddy," I said, and held out my hand.
He swooped close and did this old-timey dramatic bow right into my palm like I was royalty and he was my tragic butler. It would've been ridiculous if it wasn't so... Charlie.
Then he glanced at Nicky. His glow dimmed just a touch. "Ma'am," he said with a stiff, wary little nod.
She narrowed her eyes. "You better behave. I've got four bindings and no patience."
Charlie flinched, all stage-act dropped. "Understood. Fully calibrated. Nothing but work from me."
Charlie zipped over to the nearest smart-surface and started tapping away like a Victorian ghost accountant with deadlines. You could practically see him sweating ectoplasm — which, for the record, is probably how he put in an order before we could even blink.
Before I could say a word, a shimmer popped near the hallway door and a delivery rune dropped a fresh reinforced anti-leak duffel at our feet. Charlie turned over his shoulder, smug as hell. "You're welcome. Blood-grade bag, butcher-grade tools. And yes, Vicky, I included the good one."
Ah yes. The good one.
Let's talk about our field sponsor today: the Bloody Butcher Knife™ — trademark pending. Made from triple-blessed iron and cursed bone polymer, this beauty doesn't just cut. It feeds. The blade absorbs fresh blood right into its reservoir chamber. You just tap the base and pour that lovely crimson into your flask of choice. Where does it store the blood?
It's stored in the local vampire blood bank — yeah, you heard me right. And if you ever feel like you're missing a pint or two, just be happy knowing the blood feeder you're fueling is getting a gourmet meal out of it and not chewing straight through your neck. Community service, Hasher style.
Anyway, shoutout to Charlie for always knowing the vibe and keeping our trauma kit stylish.
Most lore-finders for us Hashers do one thing: collect, decrypt, disappear. They're glorified whisper-servers with no flair and zero improvisation. That's the standard. But Charlie? Charlie's something else entirely.
See, Charlie used to be your average bound spirit — haunt a few scrolls, whisper some dead languages, act useful for a paycheck no one could actually cash. Then Nicky got involved. And when Nicky gets involved, things change. Fast.
She didn't just upgrade him. She broke him open. Folded his spiritual matrix like a cursed poker hand and rewrote the terms of his binding contract until he had autonomy, sass, and a minor addiction to chaos. Now he runs diagnostics on haunted objects, flirts with cursed architecture, and updates his own mythos logs. He doesn't just find lore. He lives in it.
Charlie handles field synthesis — which means when we're on-site with a slasher, he can cross-reference ancient bindings, cursed bloodlines, localized rituals, and still have time to pre-order our trauma duffels before I finish lighting my cigarette. He's the kind of ghost that knows what spell was used, who botched it, and what year they dropped out of cult college.
And yeah, I give Nicky crap about it, but I'm grateful. Every damn time.
The bag arrived fast — one of those reinforced anti-leak duffels with minor glamours to keep blood from staining the outside. To everyone else, it would've looked like a high-end designer bag.
But Nicky? She went full glam on it. Customized the thing through Jill Zombie Kills — the only brand stylish enough to slap blood glyphs and slayer-grade leather into the same sentence. Best zombie-slaying gear this side of the afterlife. I forgot what that zombie-hunting group is called, but if you know, you know. Pretty sure it was something like 'Resdent Tevieal' — spelled exactly like that. Their branding looks like it was cursed by a copyright lawyer, but their gear slaps. Real crime-scene chic with a couture twist.
We packed up what was left of Nicky's snack like we were cleaning up after a supernatural mafia hit. All ritual precision and mutual silence. Charlie, meanwhile, kept darting glances at the corridor like he expected a judge, a priest, and a handler to all walk in together.
I zipped the bag shut like it was a body — which, technically, it was — and slung it over my shoulder with all the casual dignity of a man who's done this way too many times to flinch.
Pro tip — if you've got time, clean up after a scene. Trust me. Saves you from having to explain to the local cops why there's hex-burn marks and spinal glitter all over the carpet. It's not just professional — it's preventative grief. A little hospitality in the horror business.
"No one saw nothing," Charlie whispered, in full noir mode, like he'd just lit a ghost cigarette and was waiting for jazz to play. "We were never here."
"Exactly," I said. Then we locked eyes — yeah, we had a bro moment. No shame in it. He gave me a little half-salute like, 'I got this, brother,' and I nodded like, 'I know you do.'
Nicky rolled her eyes, muttering something about "men and their weird ghost fist-bump energy," but I caught her smirking anyway.
Then she gave Charlie a wink, and he lit up like someone about to commit a stylish felony. That was the energy we needed — unspoken trust, shared mess, and just the right amount of smug magic for dramatic cleanup.
He popped his knuckles, cracked his neck, and muttered something about "ghost protocol cleanup mode engaged," already halfway back into the system to wipe our tracks.
You know, sometimes people get so swept up in magic — soulflame this, glamour that — they forget tech even exists. I mean really forget. Like, "what's a capacitor?" forget.
And yeah, the majority of slashers we deal with are supernatural. Hexed up, cursed out, made of screaming shadows and bad decisions. But the ones that don't use magic? The ones built on static and steel? Those are worse. Way worse.
Static tech doesn't scream. It hums. It waits. It loops your vitals through a feedback algorithm while your sigils are still trying to figure out what language it's speaking.
Here's the thing: it's easier to stop a curse than a circuit. Magic's got rules. Tech just has instructions. And when something's built wrong on purpose? Yeah, good luck banishing a bootloader. Proven fact. I've seen enchantments fizzle while a slasher with modified bone servos walked through five layers of divine shielding like it was smoke.
So yeah. Don't sleep on tech slashers. That's the kind of arrogance that gets a Hasher turned into a footnote.
I wrapped my arm around Nicky's shoulder as we turned to leave. She leaned into me like she always does after a brawl — loose, calm, still faintly glowing.
We could've done the cleanup ourselves, sure. But too much snooping in one spot draws heat, especially in a place this empty. If it were crowded, we could vanish in plain sight — just two more blips in the noise. But here? Fewer people means more eyes on you.
So Nicky did what Nicky does — she made us look like we'd just had wild, steamy,questionable-in-some-states sex by the waterfall. Hair tousled, shirts untucked, lipstick smudged (mine, not hers — don't ask). She was grinning like the devil on holiday, tugging at my collar and murmuring about making it believable. Even though, we just had sex.
I didn't argue. Let her dishevel me like we were two teens sneaking back to prom.
By the time we hit the hallway, we looked like walking scandal — the kind that buys you privacy. Because people don't stare at what embarrasses them. They glance, they blush, they walk faster.
Charlie had it handled from here. Let the glamour cover the rest. We were just a couple making memories… not cleaners walking away from supernatural carnage.
And we walked out like we'd just left a spa instead of a crime scene.
We should have checked the time. It was 3:33 a.m. on the dot, and the hotel was empty — unsettlingly so. No staff. No guests. Just long, echoey hallways and that faint humming you only hear when something's off. And the hallway we were in? Yeah, it was that hallway — the one from the rule list. The one that warned us not to look at anyone standing still at that exact time.
It made sneaking around almost too easy… and way too cursed.
What the rules didn't say — and what I really wish they had — was that the damn spirit wouldn't just be standing somewhere random. Oh no. This one decided to get creative.
It was shaped like a door handle. A creepy, twitchy, twitching brass thing stuck to our suite's entrance, blinking like it had nerve endings. Every few seconds, it would knock — not with a hand, but with itself. Three light taps. Then again. Then again. Sets of three-three-three. It was following the 3:33 a.m. rule like a clingy tax demon who moonlights in haunted Airbnb enforcement.
It looked like something a cursed locksmith would sculpt out of regret and night sweats — all warped brass and wet breathing geometry. And worse? It wasn't just waiting. It was peeking.
The handle bent at an unnatural angle, craning just enough to peer inside the suite like it was trying to take attendance. Like it was checking to see if we were sinning during sacred hours.
Of course. The knock of evil. So overplayed it circled back to terrifying.
I've never understood why haunted creatures love doing things in sets of 333. Like, okay, we get it — spooky symmetry, bad numerology, the devil's discount hour. But come on. At this point, it's less terrifying and more theatrical. Like horror's version of a pop song hook everyone overuses but still gets stuck in your head. It's the supernatural equivalent of a jump scare with jazz hands.
Though,I pulled myself to the corner of the hallway we were on and muttered, "Nope," backing up so fast I nearly tripped over Nicky's bag.
I glanced over at Nicky, who was still casually picking bits of fake AI banshee out of her teeth like it was popcorn and not curse-coding gone physical. It was weirdly dainty, considering she'd just ripped through an entity like a blender with opinions.
"Hey Nicky," I said, motioning with my chin toward the twitchy brass nightmare blinking at us, "go handle that Rirtier."
That's what we called them — Rirtiers. Rule-enforcer spirits. Annoying, smug, and way too into their job titles.
She gave me a quick kiss before moving. Light, fast — but it hit different. I felt the magic creep under my skin like a spark running across my collarbone. A bit of her energy, tucked into me.
I never liked using magic. Found it annoying ever since the roaring '20s, when everything was dipped in enchantment and ego. But it came in handy when I had to fight Rirtiers.
Nicky cracked her neck with the exasperation of a tired mom spotting another spill after mopping the whole damn kitchen. She put her hands on her hips, gave the twitchy doorknob-spirit a glare sharp enough to peel paint, and sighed loud enough to rattle the hallway lights.
"I just cleaned up," she said, dragging the word out like it owed her money. She stomped toward the spirit like a Karen who just found out her coupon didn't scan, finger already wagging with righteous fury. "Post-snack buzz completely ruined. Y'all can't give me five minutes of peace? I swear, if one more knock-happy hallway gremlin tries me tonight, I'm filing complaints with your manager and your maker."
I leaned out just enough from my corner to watch the whole thing go down — like peeking out from behind a curtain at a drama you're glad you're not starring in.
One hand yanking her hair into a battle-bun, the other pointing at the twitchy spirit like she was about to demand a manager in four dimensions. Her face twisted into the perfect 'I pay taxes and I will be heard' expression. Most Rirtiers know to flee when they see a Karen-mode banshee coming. But this one? I guess it thought it had something to prove.
You could practically feel its confidence shatter in real time — like it had just remembered all its Yelp reviews were one star and screamed in Latin.
The door-knob-spirit peeled itself off the wood with a horrible wet pop and unfolded into this skeletal rule-enforcer thing — paper-thin limbs, a giant eye, and what looked like legally binding spectral tape unraveling from its mouth like cursed caution tape.
"Violation," it hissed. "You have walked during the forbidden window of 3:33 a.m. Your penalty—"
Then it lunged. Not with grace, not with cunning — just raw, awkward bureaucracy in motion. It snatched Nicky by the hair like a librarian trying to silence a riot, yanking hard to slam her down like a rebellious file folder.
And that, my friend, was the exact second the Rirtier realized it had fucked up. Like—really fucked up. The kind of fuck-up where your afterlife flashes before your eyes and all you see is regret, bad decisions, and one banshee-shaped freight train of pain heading your way.
Nicky's body didn't budge at first — just her eyes, snapping open with this flash of banshee rage like someone had just insulted her casserole at a family reunion. Then she twisted mid-air, flipped like gravity was a rumor she'd outgrown, and slammed the spirit down so hard the floor creaked like it wanted to unionize.
"Oh, did you just touch my motherfucking weave?" she barked, one eye twitching like she'd just smelled expired attitude. "You wanna-be ghost, rule-binding, chain-of-command-ass bitch. I was doing this banshee shit before you even dribbled out your ghost daddy's ectoplasm—don't ever lay spectral hands on a textured crown again, hoe."
The hallway held its breath — that frozen flicker right before the Rirtier opened its spectral mouth to screech "Violation!" like it was slinging bargain-bin damnation at a cursed flea market. Then it made the dumbest move of its afterlife: it reached for Nicky's hair again.
I backed up to the side wall and slid down until I was seated, already opening the bag like this was dinner theater. Pulled out a snack, popped one in my mouth, and muttered, "This motherfucker's about to be a RealmStar highlight reel."
You ever see that Looney Tunes gag? The one where someone gets yanked into a room, tossed around like laundry, crawls out wheezing, and then gets dragged back in again?
Yeah. That was the spirit.
It tried to quote more rules, lifting one shaking arm like it still had authority. Nicky cracked her neck, muttered "Not today, Rule-Bitch," and delivered a backflip piledriver so fierce it made the hallway lights flicker — and the spirit ducked, just barely. Nicky's heel smashed into the floor where its face had been a second earlier, cracking the tile with a thunderclap of rage. She snarled, "Oh, you wanna dodge now?" as the Rirtier scrambled back like it had just realized it picked a fight with the final boss in a horror game.
I leaned against the wall, popped open the side pouch of the bag, and dug around until my fingers brushed something glass. Charlie — good ol' dramatic, over-prepared Charlie — had packed a bottle of Tenney in there, sealed tight like a reward wrapped in foresight. I grinned, twisted it open with a satisfying pop, and took a slow sip that warmed all the way down. Then I reached back in, fishing around until I found a small pouch of Nicky's favorite bite-sized snacks — bless Charlie and his compulsive prepping. I popped one in my mouth, savoring the salt-sweet crunch, and lit a smoke just as the spirit crawled toward my corner, one trembling paper hand extended like it was hoping for a union rep. The timing? Immaculate.
Then Nicky jumped it from the top of the doorframe, landed like a gothic wrestling champ, gave me a thumbs up, and dragged it back inside.
"I SHOULD HAVE GONE TO WORK FOR MY DAD!" the spirit wailed as it vanished into the darkness.
Thank the slasher this floor was empty — and lucky for us, Charlie was still tucked away in the server room, wiping us off camera feeds, rerouting detection triggers, and probably muttering ghostly curses at bad UI while he did it. That spirit had no idea we even existed by the time he was done.
Nicky came back, brushing her hands like she just took out the trash and muttered, "Handled. Rule spirit's done." She looked a little smug, a little tired, and just enough magical to make the hallway sparkle like a damn Airbnb promo shoot.
We stepped inside the room, but not before doing a full sweep of the hallway. I double-checked the corners — sharp, shadowless, and no sign of lingering spook residue. Nicky took a step back and scanned the floor like a stage manager before curtain call, even bending to brush something invisible off the tile with a huff. No drag marks, no cracked tiles, no lingering scent of ghost trauma. The hallway gleamed like someone had just buffed it with haunted Pledge.
I narrowed my eyes. Either she cast one of her rush-job glamour spells to tidy up, or more likely, she was too wiped to summon Betty, her sass-mouthed cleanup familiar. Knowing her, it was a mix of both. She probably just wanted to get inside and pretend this night hadn't included cartoon-level hallway brawls. And honestly? Same.
We finally made it into the room, soaked, blood-smudged, snack-buzzed, and pretending this was a romantic getaway. That's when my phone buzzed.
Lore Broker update.
And you'll like this one.
It's Raven.
Yeah. The Raven. Goth lipstick, necromancer nails, voice like a haunted vinyl playing backwards. Apparently, she and Sexy Boulder Daddy are coming in person to deliver the next phase. Said something about it being safer to do this face-to-face.
Which makes sense, considering the text ended with:
"Confirmed serial slasher cult activity embedded in staff. Stay in the room. We're en route."
So.
Serial slasher cult hotel. Lore broker with flair. Boulder Daddy carrying who-knows-what in a magically reinforced duffel.
Guess that's why the company sent the big dogs.
And we're just getting started