My stomach didn't just growl. It performed a full-on interpretive dance of despair, complete with dramatic rumbling and what felt like internal biting. It had been twelve hours since my last actual meal, which was a half-eaten bagel I'd found buried in my purse. Being broke wasn't new, but being this broke, this hungry, on this particular street corner, waiting for a bus that was apparently a myth, felt like a new low.
I slumped against a graffiti-covered wall, adjusting the strap of my ridiculously oversized messenger bag. Inside were exactly three things: a crumpled résumé, a single, hopeful tube of red lipstick, and a bus pass with only two rides left. The glamour of freelance modeling, let me tell you, was overwhelming. Mostly overwhelming debt and the constant threat of eviction.
A sudden, sharp static zipped through the air. Not the sound kind of static, more like the world hiccuped. It made the hairs on my arms stand up. Probably just a migraine coming on. My brain liked to do that when I was stressed. And hungry.
Just as I considered selling one of my combat boots for bus fare, a figure peeled itself from the flow of pedestrian traffic. He was too… polished. Like he'd stepped out of a magazine cover and gotten lost on the way to a photoshoot. Blonde hair slicked back perfectly, suit sharp enough to cut glass, and eyes the color of melted silver. He moved with an unnerving grace, like a predator who knew you wouldn't run.
He stopped directly in front of me, a smile spreading across his face that didn't quite reach those unsettling eyes. "Sera Quinn?" His voice was smooth, like expensive whiskey, but there was an edge to it. Like that whiskey had poison in it.
My immediate, hangry thought was, How the hell does he know my name? My second thought was, Is this a scam? Because I don't even have scam money. I pushed myself off the wall, trying to look less like a defeated urban goblin and more like… well, someone who wasn't about to cry over a missed bus.
"Depends who's asking," I said, channeling my inner sarcastic shieldmaiden. It usually worked. Or at least, it made me feel slightly less pathetic.
He chuckled, a low, pleasant sound that still felt manufactured. "My apologies. Lucien. I represent... a rather exclusive agency." He extended a hand, perfectly manicured. I hesitated for a fraction of a second before shaking it. His grip was firm, and oddly cold.
"Exclusive, huh?" I quirked an eyebrow. "Last agency I signed with said my 'look' was 'challenging.' Pretty sure that meant 'not generic enough for fast fashion, too broke for haute couture.'"
Lucien's smile widened. "Your look, Ms. Quinn, is precisely what we're seeking. It's… uniquely resonant. We specialize in capturing the essence, the very imprint of a subject. Our campaigns offer unparalleled exposure."
Exposure. Right. That's what everyone promised. Exposure didn't pay rent. Or buy food. My stomach staged another protest. It was now doing the Cha-Cha of Calamity.
"Unparalleled exposure sounds great," I said dryly. "Does this unparalleled exposure come with, say, actual money? Or perhaps a voucher for a decent meal?"
Lucien tilted his head, those silver eyes studying me with an intensity that was both unnerving and… appraising. Like he was reading my soul, not just my resume. "Our compensation packages are highly competitive. And yes," he paused, a glint of something that might have been amusement in his eyes, "we can certainly arrange immediate sustenance. You look… famished."
Okay, he wasn't wrong. Famished was an understatement. I was entering the 'consideration for cannibalism' phase. But still, this was too weird. Guys this perfect didn't just appear out of nowhere offering modeling contracts on the street. My static-sensing thing was practically vibrating.
"Alright, Lucien," I said, my voice wary. "Let's hear it. What's the catch? Because my life isn't exactly known for random acts of financial betterment."
He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice conspiratorially, even though there was no one else nearby who seemed to be paying attention. The world felt... muted around us. "No catch, Ms. Quinn. Simply an opportunity for… immortal branding. For your image to be etched into the fabric of existence."
Immortal branding? Fabric of existence? This guy was either a performance artist, a total creep, or speaking in some kind of bizarre industry jargon I'd never heard before. Given the silver eyes and the lack of a shadow under the bright afternoon sun, I was leaning towards 'total creep' with a side of 'possibly not entirely human.'
"Look," I said, running a hand through my messy bun. "I appreciate the… unique pitch. But I'm not sure I understand what kind of 'exposure' you're talking about. And 'immortal branding' sounds less like modeling and more like... getting a really permanent tattoo in a really awkward place."
He smiled again, that same unnerving smile. "Think of it less as a tattoo, and more as… soul alignment. Ensuring your presence resonates across various planes. It's cutting-edge. Revolutionary. Requires minimal effort on your part, only… your full agreement."
Soul alignment? Planes? What in the actual hell was this guy talking about? Was this some kind of incredibly elaborate prank? Or had my hunger finally driven me insane? I pinched my arm, just to check. Nope, definitely awake. And definitely starving.
Despite every fiber of my being screaming "RUN," the image of a hot meal flickered in my mind. A real one. Maybe with fries. Crispy, salty, life-giving fries. Desperation, as they say, was a powerful motivator. And my desperation was currently loud enough to drown out the alarms in my brain.
"Okay, slow down," I said, holding up a hand. "Let's back up. You're offering me a modeling contract. For… immortal branding and soul alignment. Right?"
"Precisely," Lucien confirmed, looking far too pleased with himself.
"And this requires 'minimal effort' and my 'full agreement'?"
"Correct."
"And it pays... competitively?" I emphasized the word, just in case he thought 'immortal branding' was payment enough.
"Generously," he corrected smoothly. "Think of it as compensation for the... eternal exposure your image will receive."
Eternal exposure. Okay, that was a new one. Usually, they just promised you'd be "seen." This guy was promising I'd be seen forever. Which, for someone terrified of being invisible, was perversely appealing in the abstract, even if it sounded completely insane.
"And where," I asked, narrowing my eyes, "is this agency located? Do you have a card? A website? An actual office that doesn't look like it's located in the Twilight Zone?"
Lucien reached into the inner pocket of his impossibly perfect jacket. He didn't pull out a card. He pulled out a roll of parchment that looked like it belonged in a museum, tied with a thin black ribbon. It unfurled slightly in his hand. The edges were singed, and the paper itself seemed to absorb the light around it.
"Our operations are… mobile," he said, presenting the parchment. "Think of this as a… preliminary agreement. A statement of intent."
A preliminary agreement on ancient, spooky parchment? This was getting crazier by the second. My common sense was staging a walk-out. My stomach, however, was chanting "Fries! Fries! Fries!"
I stared at the parchment. Strange symbols I didn't recognize were etched onto the surface, swirling like tiny galaxies. It felt cool to the touch, almost vibrating with a faint energy. It definitely wasn't standard modeling agency fare.
"This isn't... a standard contract," I said, stating the obvious.
"It's a bespoke agreement," Lucien corrected, his tone still maddeningly polite. "Tailored to your unique… attributes."
My unique attributes apparently required a contract that looked like it was written in blood and signed with a raven's feather. Fantastic.
"And if I... hypothetically... signed this... bespoke agreement," I continued, my voice laced with skepticism, "what exactly would I be agreeing to? Besides eternal exposure and soul alignment?"
"To the terms outlined within," Lucien said, his silver eyes fixing on mine. "To a partnership that transcends… conventional boundaries. To a future where your presence is… undeniable."
Undeniable presence. Okay, he was really leaning into the 'invisible Sera' insecurity angle. It was almost impressive how precisely he was targeting my deepest fears and desires, wrapped up in this package of utter absurdity.
"Can I... read it?" I asked, gesturing to the parchment. It seemed like a reasonable request, even if it looked like a prop from a horror movie.
"Of course," he said, handing it to me. The parchment felt surprisingly light, but the energy humming within it was stronger now. It tickled my fingertips. I squinted at the swirling symbols. They didn't form words I knew, but there was a sense of meaning, a pulse beneath the surface. It was like looking at a language that existed just outside my understanding.
My head started to throb. The static feeling intensified, making it hard to focus. Maybe this was just a really bad migraine interacting with my hunger. Yeah, that was probably it. Nothing supernatural about a hot guy with weird eyes offering you a creepy contract on the street. Totally normal Tuesday.
I looked back at Lucien. He was watching me, that unnerving smile still in place. He didn't seem to sweat, or blink much. Or cast a shadow. Okay, maybe not totally normal.
"Look," I said, pushing the parchment back towards him slightly. "This is... a lot. And frankly, it sounds a little crazy. Can you just... give me your number? Or a normal business card? Something I can take away and think about without feeling like I'm about to be initiated into a cult?"
Lucien paused, his smile not faltering, but something shifted in his eyes. A flicker of... calculation? Impatience? "Ah, yes. A point of contact. Of course." He reached into his jacket again, and this time pulled out a simple, elegant black card. No logo, just a name and a number in stark white text.
Lucien
[A String of Numbers]
He handed it to me. The card felt cool, like the parchment, but inert. Just a number. Something tangible. Something I could call if I decided this wasn't just a fever dream brought on by starvation.
I took the card, tucking it into my bag next to the crumpled resume. "Okay. I'll... think about it. It's just... 'soul alignment' is a pretty big leap from 'posing for a catalog.'"
"Indeed," Lucien said, his voice soft. "But the greatest rewards often require the largest leaps of faith. Or… signature." He gestured back to the parchment.
My eyes drifted back to the ancient-looking paper. The strange symbols seemed to pulse faintly. A wave of dizziness washed over me. Hunger, definitely hunger. And maybe a little bit of existential dread brought on by a conversation about immortal branding.
Lucien held out a pen. It was sleek, black, and looked like it was made of polished obsidian. It felt unnervingly heavy.
"The agreement is rather time-sensitive," he added, his tone gentle but insistent. "Opportunities for this level of… integration do not arise frequently."
Time-sensitive. Of course it was. Nothing like pressure to make a terrible decision. My hand hovered over the parchment. My brain screamed 'no way.' My stomach screamed 'just sign the damn thing and ask about the food later!'
The image of crispy, salty fries flashed behind my eyes. And the thought of finally, finally having enough money to not worry about the next meal, the next bill. The 'eternal exposure' part, the 'soul alignment' part… maybe that was just marketing speak? Really, really weird marketing speak?
My fingers trembled slightly as I took the obsidian pen. It felt warm now, buzzing faintly. Lucien's silver eyes seemed to glow brighter as I took it. He looked expectant. Patient, in a way that suggested he knew exactly what I was going to do.
Against every instinct honed by years of navigating sketchy situations, driven by the primal urge to quell the rebellion in my gut, I lowered the pen to the parchment.
The tip of the pen touched the paper. It didn't leave ink.
It bled black.
A thin line of inky black spread from where the pen touched, following the path of the strange symbols. The humming intensified, vibrating up my arm. The black line solidified into a shimmering, raised pattern.
My phone, still in my bag, emitted a high-pitched shriek and went dead. The air around me grew cold. And on the back of my left hand, just below the knuckle, a small, crescent-shaped mark burned into existence, glowing with the same inky black light as the writing on the parchment. It felt like my skin was being branded.
Pain shot up my arm, cold and sharp. The world warped around the edges, the colors deepening into impossible shades of purple and black. The static feeling wasn't a migraine anymore. It was the sound of reality tearing.
I gasped, dropping the pen. It clattered on the sidewalk with a sound like bone. My hand felt like it was on fire, the crescent mark pulsing with a sinister light.
Lucien smiled, a smile that was now all teeth and no warmth. "Congratulations, Ms. Quinn," he said, his voice a low hum that resonated in my bones. "The contract is signed. You are now… bound."
My knees gave out. The street swam before my eyes. Bound? What the hell had I just signed?
And then, the world went black.