It was morning.
The woman who wanted to talk to John had mentioned something about his grimoire. John didn't understand. Grimoires were supposed to be magical books or spell tomes, and what she said made no sense.
But then again, nothing had made sense since yesterday.
Still, her words stuck in his mind. About your grimoire.
Could it be the tiny book that appeared under his pillow? That strange, miniature thing? It was so small it could barely pass as a keychain, let alone a spellbook. And yet… when he first touched it, the sensation was unforgettable. It was like he had grown an invisible limb, something extra attached to him, yet completely foreign.
The stitches across its leather cover reminded him of ancient carvings—primitive yet precise, like something out of Inca or Egyptian ruins.
Maybe… maybe it was worth carrying with him when he saw her.
John rummaged around his room. Under the bed. In yesterday's clothes. Inside his drawers. Next to the wooden sculpture Skinn had given him. Even his bag.
Nothing.
He froze. Had he lost it already?
Sighing, he forced himself to calm down. Maybe it wasn't important. Maybe it was just a strange coincidence. He headed to the bathroom to shower, only for a strange thought to creep into his mind: What if it's lying next to the drain?
He slid open the door.
And there it was.
The book rested on the tiles exactly where he imagined it—right beside the drain.
"…Creepy," John muttered.
He scooped it up, stuffed it carefully into his bag, and finally got on with his morning. Cereal bar, coffee, shower, and then off to work.
The whole time, he kept patting his bag, just to be sure the book was still there.
---
Work went on as usual. The same dull tasks, the same routine. But layered over everything were those auras—the strange presences he could now feel, weighing heavy in the air like invisible currents. Some weak, some strong.
He even checked his co-workers, curious if any of them gave off the same vibes. Nothing. Just normal people.
By the time his shift ended and night classes began, John was exhausted but determined. He ignored the presences as best he could, keeping his head down in lectures. I'll get my answers tonight, he told himself. That woman… she has to explain this.
Skinn, however, was watching him with concern. John must have looked distracted, but not enough to raise suspicion.
After class, John headed for the door—only to jump when Skinn suddenly popped out from behind him.
"What's the matter, yo?" Skinn grinned, but his eyes were sharp.
John lowered his voice. "Where am I supposed to meet that lady?"
Skinn blinked. "Huh? She never told me. Said you'd just… know where to find her."
I'll know?
John thought back. The woman wasn't alone—there had been a child with her. That child also radiated one of those strange auras.
Closing his eyes, he stretched out that strange new sense. And there it was—three auras pulsing faintly in the distance. Two near the cafe… one farther away.
He frowned.
The third aura was moving. No—racing. Straight toward the cafe.
"Do I even go?" John muttered.
He didn't trust the woman or the child. And now another presence was rushing into the mix? Everything screamed danger.
Four possibilities ran through his head:
A friend.
An enemy.
A stranger with the same curse.
Or just someone passing by.
Too many questions. Not enough answers.
He clenched his fists. They're the only leads I've got. If I back off now, I'll stay in the dark forever.
So he kept walking.
---
The cafe came into view—but the two familiar auras weren't inside. Instead, they pulsed from a narrow alley right beside it, hidden behind a stack of boxes.
The street was eerily quiet. Too quiet. Even the customers inside the cafe stood frozen, motionless like mannequins.
A chill crept down John's spine.
Then, movement—two figures walking in the distance. Relief flickered for a moment, but he quickly dismissed it. His attention locked onto the alley.
The auras were definitely there.
He edged closer, peeking past the boxes. Nothing. Empty shadows. Yet the pressure from those presences only grew stronger.
Something was very wrong.
John stepped forward—only for a streak of light to flash across the alley wall. A flicker of a figure, there for barely a split second.
The child.
"Hey?! Anyone there?!" John called.
The child stepped forward, clutching a knife. But when the voice came, it wasn't his.
"Hello, sir?" A woman's voice. Young, mocking.
John's blood ran cold.
He backed up. "Who are you? Where is she?"
The child smiled—or maybe the thing wearing his face did.
"I'm your killer," the woman's voice sneered. "And she's bleeding."
John's chest tightened. He hated killers. Couldn't stand them. Rage and fear twisted in his gut.
His eyes darted. There—against the wall, slumped in the corner. A woman in a flower-print T-shirt, blood staining the fabric.
Knife gleamed. The child lunged.
John dodged, heart racing, and spun to flee. But the figure stuck to his vision, like a cursed afterimage burned into his eyes.
Pain flared. Steel sank into his shoulder. He staggered forward, clutching the wound, and bolted for the cafe.
"Help! Somebody—call the police!" he shouted, banging on the glass.
But no one moved.
The customers inside were frozen solid, lifeless puppets.
And behind him, the child crept closer, steps slow, deliberate.
"Hey! Look here!"
The voice snapped him around. A woman's voice—familiar.
Light exploded.
A blinding flash swallowed the alley. John's ears rang, his sight seared white, his body trembling like he'd been hit with a flashbang.
"…worthless!" a distorted voice screamed. "Aren't you saving her?! I'm giving you a chance!"
"You don't trick me!" the familiar woman shouted back.
Heat surged, blistering against John's skin. Then it vanished just as quickly.
The glare faded, shadows reforming.
And there she was—the same woman from before. Plain white shirt. Small leather bag. Face sharp with anger.
Bars of fire circled the bleeding woman, trapping her inside. Flames twisted like living chains.
John's breath caught.
The truth hit him in an instant.
The child had been replaced. An imposter. The real woman had sensed it and rushed here—the third aura. She had arrived just in time.
"Where's the real child, then?" John whispered.
Screams echoed through the alley.
John turned. The bleeding figure in the corner—the one he thought was the woman—now glowed with an immense aura. It wasn't her.
It was the child.
The real child.
The intimidating pressure rolling off him sent shivers across John's body.
"Here are my runes!" the trapped woman shouted, clutching short black rods etched with glowing violet marks. They looked like stubs of sharpened pencils, pulsing with dangerous power.
"Two, huh?" the familiar woman barked back. "That's not so bad!"
"Take this!"
The imposter hurled one straight at her head.
It struck hard.
The woman froze. Completely motionless, like a puppet cut from its strings. The rune clattered to the ground.
John's heart jumped. Did it kill her?
But then, just as suddenly, she moved again. Confused. Breathing. Very much alive.
She glanced toward the child, then to the rune on the floor.
Her eyes narrowed.