Victor Corvinus sat at the kitchen table. He stared at the sandwich.
It was ham. Cheap, processed ham that smelled like salt and preservation. The bread was white, fluffy, and completely devoid of nutritional value. To Victor, it looked like the Holy Grail. It sat on a chipped ceramic plate that had probably been used by a Victorian duke, now hosting a dollar-store meal.
His hands shook as he lifted it. The tremor started in his wrists and rattled all the way to his fingertips, making the sandwich dance.
Hypoglycemia, the headache informed him. It wasn't a voice. It was a dull pressure behind his left eye, a biological notification bar pulsing in time with his heartbeat. Calorie deficit critical. Muscle degradation imminent. Eat the pig.
Victor took a bite.
The flavor exploded. Salt. Fat. Sugar from the bread. It was disgusting. It was perfect. He chewed slowly, feeling the glucose hit his bloodstream like a warm drug. For a moment, the world stopped spinning. The smell of ozone and sulfur from the Night Market faded, replaced by the honest, artificial scent of supermarket ham. He could feel his stomach unclench, weeping with gratitude.
He swallowed. He took another bite.
"Safe," he whispered. The word felt foreign in his mouth.
Then the headache shifted.
It moved from his eye to the base of his skull. A sharp, rhythmic throb. The System was updating. It wasn't polite about it. It felt like someone was hammering a nail into his vertebrae.
Interest Payment Processed, the pain said. It tasted like copper coins. Duration: 2 Hours. Amount: 50,000 Gold.
Victor froze. The sandwich turned to ash in his mouth.
He swallowed hard, forcing the lump down. He closed his eyes, trying to summon the ledger. He didn't see a screen. He felt the emptiness in his pocket, a phantom limb sensation where the money used to be. The weight was gone, replaced by a vacuum that sucked the air out of the room.
Fifty thousand. Gone.
He had risked his life, walked through a market of demons, and threatened a goblin with a world-ending wolf. All for two hours of interest. Two hours of existence.
The principal - fifty million gold - sat on his chest like a concrete slab.
"Two hours," Victor murmured. He looked at the half-eaten sandwich. "I bought myself two hours."
He laughed. It was a dry, cracking sound.
He looked around the kitchen. It was a cavernous space, designed for a staff of twenty. Now, it held one tired psychologist and a layer of dust so thick it muffled his footsteps. The copper pots hanging from the ceiling were tarnished black, looking less like cookware and more like severed robot heads. The stove looked like a locomotive engine that had died of old age, its iron grates cold and judgmental.
He was broke. Again.
He needed a solution for Fenrir. The wolf was currently hiding under the dining table in the main hall, refusing to come out because the "photons were loud." The purple curtain was a temporary fix. It was heavy, dusty, and smelled like a dead grandmother. Fenrir needed something better. Something... medical. Something that didn't cost a kidney.
Victor checked the System store.
Clinic Upgrade: Basic Supply Shop, the thought intruded. Available items: Bandages (Used), Aspirin (Expired), Paper Bags (Greasy).
He blinked.
Paper bags.
He looked at the table. The sandwich had come in a brown paper bag. It was stained with grease. It was crinkled. It had a logo of a smiling pig on it. The pig looked disturbingly happy about being eaten.
Victor reached out. He picked up the bag.
It rustled. A cheap, hollow sound.
"Cognitive Behavioral Therapy," Victor said to the empty room. "Exposure limitation. Sensory deprivation. It's a valid medical technique."
He stood up. He walked to the drawer where he kept the cutlery. He found a pair of rusty scissors. They shrieked as he opened them.
Snip~~~ Snip~~~
Two uneven holes appeared in the bag. Eye holes. They were jagged, asymmetrical, and perfect.
He held it up. Through the holes, he saw the dusty kitchen. It framed the decay perfectly, cutting out the peripheral darkness. The world became a small, manageable rectangle.
"It's not trash," Victor whispered, convincing himself. "It's a Helm of Focus. It's a Visor of the Void."
He grabbed the bag. He grabbed the rest of the sandwich. He marched into the hall.
The Main Hall was a cathedral of shadows. Moonlight filtered through the boarded-up windows, slicing the darkness into ribbons.
Under the massive oak table, a mountain of purple velvet shivered.
"Fenrir?" Victor called softly.
The mountain stopped shivering. A massive head poked out. One yellow eye, the size of a dinner plate, stared at him.
"Necrolord," the wolf whispered. The floorboards vibrated. "Is it safe? Are the eyes gone?"
"The eyes are everywhere," Victor said. He sat down on the floor, leaning against a table leg. The wood was cold against his back. "But I have forged a solution."
Fenrir gasped. The sound was like a vacuum seal breaking.
"A solution? A spell? A barrier of eternal night?"
"Better," Victor said. He held up the greasy paper bag. It caught the moonlight, the grease stains glowing like constellations of cholesterol.
Fenrir stared at it. He sniffed. The action made the curtains tremble.
"It smells like... ham," the wolf said. "And processed carbohydrates."
"It is the Scent of the Earth," Victor lied smoothly. His heart rate didn't even spike. He was getting too good at this. "To ground you. To keep you from floating into the abyss."
He spun the bag on his finger.
"This," Victor said, his voice dropping an octave, "is the Helm of Linear Perception. When you wear it, the world narrows. You will not see the eyes watching you from the corners. You will only see what is in front of you. The Prey. The Path. The Ball."
Fenrir's tail gave a tentative thump. Thud. Dust rose from the carpet in a mushroom cloud.
"Linear Perception," Fenrir repeated. He rolled the words around his mouth like a fine wine. "So... tunnel vision?"
"Tactical Tunnel Vision," Victor corrected. "Military grade. It filters out 90% of visual noise. The photons will simply bounce off."
He offered the bag. It hung in the air between them, a flimsy shield against madness.
Fenrir crawled out. He was massive. His shoulders brushed the underside of the table, leaving scratches in the ancient wood. He lowered his head, submissive and terrified.
Victor slid the bag over the wolf's snout.
It was a tight fit. It barely stretched over his muzzle and eyes, leaving his massive ears twitching in the open air like confused radar dishes. The bag ended right at his forehead. The eye holes aligned—mostly. The smiling pig logo sat right on the bridge of his nose, a ridiculous third eye.
Fenrir froze.
He blinked. Victor saw the yellow eyes shift behind the paper.
"I..." Fenrir whispered.
"What do you see?" Victor asked. He held his breath. If this failed, he was out of ideas. And money. And probably blood.
"I see... you," Fenrir said. "Only you. The darkness on the sides... it is gone. The peripheral threats... deleted."
The tail started to wag. Thud~~~ Thud~~~ Thud~~~. The floor shook with the rhythm of a happy earthquake.
"It works," Fenrir said, his voice rising. "The photons! They cannot flank me! I am shielded!"
He stood up. The paper bag crinkled with every breath. He looked ridiculous. He looked like a budget cosplay of a werewolf gone wrong. He looked like the punchline to a cosmic joke.
But he wasn't shaking.
"I am the Void," Fenrir declared, his voice muffled by the paper. "And I am stylish."
Victor let out a breath he didn't know he was holding. He leaned his head back against the table leg.
"Yes," Victor said. "Very stylish."
CRUNCH...
A sound from the hallway. Like dry leaves being crushed by a boot.
Victor opened his eyes.
Yggdrasil stood there. The butler looked like a dried twig wrapped in a tuxedo. His skin was bark, his eyes were knots of wood. He held a broom made of what looked like human hair. He was vibrating with indignation.
He was staring at Fenrir. Specifically, at the bag.
"Trash," Yggdrasil rasped. His voice was the sound of a coffin lid sliding shut.
"It is not trash," Victor said quickly. "It is medical equipment."
"It is grease," Yggdrasil said. He raised the broom like a executioner's axe. "Contamination. The Manor must be pure. Dirt is the enemy. Grease is the sin."
He moved. For a tree, he was fast. He lunged at Fenrir, the broom sweeping toward the paper bag.
"No!" Victor scrambled up. "Don't touch the Helm!"
"I will cleanse it!" Yggdrasil shrieked. "I will banish the cholesterol to the Nether!"
Fenrir yelped. He couldn't see the broom - it was in his blind spot. The "Helm" was working too well. He spun in a circle, snapping at invisible flies.
"Enemy!" Fenrir barked. "Flanking maneuver! Help, Necrolord! My sensors are jammed!"
Victor dove.
He tackled the butler. It was like tackling a lamppost. Yggdrasil didn't budge, but the impact knocked the broom off course. It swatted the air inches from Fenrir's nose. Victor clung to the butler's leg, his suit ruining itself on the rough bark.
"Stop!" Victor yelled. He held onto Yggdrasil's leg - which was essentially a root. "It costs five thousand gold! It's an artifact!"
Yggdrasil paused. The word 'gold' seemed to penetrate the bark.
"Value?" the butler asked. He tilted his head. "This... refuse... has value?"
"Yes," Victor lied. "It absorbs... anxiety. It is a Soul Filter. Very expensive. Imported from the Dimension of Grease."
Yggdrasil lowered the broom. He looked at the bag, then at Victor.
"You have terrible taste in artifacts, Master," Yggdrasil said. "But if it is an asset, I will catalogue it."
He pulled a notebook from thin air. Scratch~ scratch~
"One (1) Soul Filter. Condition: Oily. Value: Speculative."
Victor slumped against the wall. His adrenaline was gone, leaving him hollow. He felt like he had just wrestled a tree and lost.
Fenrir adjusted his bag. "Did we win?"
"Yes," Victor said. "We won."
KNOCK~ KNOCK~ KNOCK~
The sound echoed through the hall. Heavy. Authoritative. Metal on wood.
Silence fell.
The three of them looked at the massive front door.
"Do we have guests?" Fenrir asked. "I hope they brought ham."
Victor stood up. He smoothed his suit. He checked his watch. 2:45 AM.
"No guests," Victor said. The headache returned, sharper this time. A warning.
He walked to the door. He didn't open it. He looked through the peephole.
Outside, on the porch, stood a figure.
He wore a long coat that seemed to absorb the moonlight. His face was covered by a white porcelain mask. A smiling doll's face.
In his hand, he held a piece of paper. A sketch.
And in the other hand, a shotgun. The barrel was sawed-off, etched with glowing runes.
Victor stepped back.
"Who is it?" Fenrir asked, wagging his tail.
Victor turned to them. His face was pale.
"A debt collector," Victor whispered. "Or worse."
The handle of the door began to turn. Slowly.
Click...
It was locked. For now.
"Open up," a voice came from the other side. It was calm. Mechanical. "I know you're in there, Doctor. I can smell the ham."
Victor looked at the sandwich on the table.
"Damn it," he whispered.