The knock wasn't polite. It didn't ask for permission. It was a heavy, wet thud against the oak, like a side of beef being thrown at a wall.
Thud~~~
Victor stopped chewing. The ham sandwich - store-bought, dry, tasting faintly of preservatives and despair—turned to paste in his mouth.
"Do we..." Victor swallowed, the lump of bread scraping his throat. "Do we have a doorbell?"
Yggdrasil didn't answer. The butler was busy inspecting a smudge on the silverware with a jeweler's loupe, his wooden fingers trembling with suppressed rage. To Yggdrasil, the apocalypse was a distant rumor, but a fingerprint on a spoon was a declaration of war.
Thud~~~
The door groaned. Dust drifted down from the ceiling, settling into Victor's coffee.
"That is not a delivery," Yggdrasil said, not looking up. "Deliveries ring. Creditors knock. Predators breach."
Victor felt the familiar cold prickle in his stomach. Not fear—he was too tired for fear. It was the specific, acidic nausea of financial liability. He looked at the digital clock on the microwave.
02:46 AM.
"If it's the bank, tell them I'm dead," Victor said. He grabbed his coat - a tweed thing that smelled of mothballs and wet dog - and pulled it over his pajamas. "If it's the police, tell them I'm contagious. If it's... something else..."
He looked toward the dining hall. Fenrir was hiding under the table. Wearing a Smiling Pig bag.
"I shall prepare the guest list," Yggdrasil said, and promptly sank into the floorboards, leaving only a small pile of sawdust and a sense of betrayal.
"Coward," Victor whispered.
He walked to the foyer. The hallway stretched out, long and shadowed, the portraits of dead Corvinus ancestors watching him with judgment. The air grew colder as he approached the entrance. The smell of rain was strong, metallic and sharp, cutting through the musty scent of the house.
Victor reached for the handle. His hand shook. He told himself it was low blood sugar. He told himself it was the draft.
He opened the door.
The storm outside had died down to a sullen drizzle. Standing on the porch, framed by the weeping night, was a figure.
It was small. Maybe five feet tall. It wore a yellow raincoat that was too bright, too clean for this weather. And on its face was a mask.
Porcelain. White. Cracks running down the cheeks like dried tears. And a smile—painted red, wide, and fixed forever in a rictus of joy.
"Greetings," the mask said. The voice was muffled, sounding like it was coming from inside a well. "Is the Master of the House in residence?"
Victor tightened his grip on the doorframe. "He's... indisposed. I'm the intern."
The mask tilted. "An intern. How... bureaucratic."
The figure stepped forward. Victor instinctively stepped back. The movement was fluid, unnatural. The visitor didn't walk; he glided, as if his feet weren't touching the rotting wood of the porch.
"I am looking for the Beast," the visitor said. "The Shadow of the Void. The Eater of Moons. I was told he resides here."
Victor's heart hammered against his ribs. Fenrir.
"Wrong address," Victor said, his voice cracking. "We have a golden retriever. His name is Fluffy. He eats kibble and is afraid of vacuum cleaners."
The mask didn't move. But the air pressure dropped. Victor felt it in his ears - a pop, then a high-pitched whine. His nose started to bleed. A warm, wet line tracked down his lip.
[System Warning: Threat Level B+. Lethal. Cortisol levels critical.]
The warning hit him like a sudden drop in cabin pressure, his ears popping painfully.
"Do not lie to the Doll," the visitor said. He reached into his pocket. Victor flinched, expecting a gun.
The Doll pulled out a sketch. It was crude, drawn in charcoal, but the likeness was unmistakable. A giant wolf. Burning purple eyes. And... was that a stick figure Victor throwing a ball?
"The bounty is significant," the Doll said. "The Church pays well for heresy."
Victor stared at the paper. It wasn't a debt collector. It was worse.
"Look," Victor said, wiping the blood from his nose with his sleeve. "I don't know who you are, but we don't have any money. If you're selling cookies, I'm allergic. If you're selling salvation, I'm an atheist. If you're looking for a monster..."
He paused. He heard a sound behind him.
Scritch~~~ Scritch~~~ Thump~~~
It was the sound of claws on hardwood. Heavy claws.
Victor closed his eyes. Please stay downstairs. Please stay downstairs.
"Master?"
The voice was deep, gravelly, and vibrated the floorboards.
Victor turned.
Fenrir stood in the hallway. He was massive, his shoulders brushing the chandelier. Shadows coiled around his legs like smoke. His fur was matted with darkness.
And on his head, he wore the paper bag. Or rather, it was jammed onto his snout, a tight, crinkling mask that barely covered his eyes and ended abruptly at his forehead, leaving his massive ears twitching in the open air.
The Smiling Pig logo was upside down on the bridge of his nose. The grease stain from the bacon sandwich was prominent, spreading across the "Pig" like a Rorschach test of cholesterol. Two jagged holes had been torn for eyes.
"Master," Fenrir rumbled, his tail thumping against the wall, knocking a priceless vase to the floor. Crash~ "I heard a noise. Is it the Vacuum?"
Victor wanted to die. He wanted to dissolve into the floor like Yggdrasil.
The Doll stared. He looked at Victor. He looked at Fenrir. He looked at the paper bag.
"What..." The Doll's voice trembled. "What is that?"
Victor's brain stalled. He looked at the grease stain. He looked at the mask. He needed a lie. A big one.
"That," Victor said, his voice steadying with the absolute confidence of a man who has no other choice, "is the Helm of Linear Perception."
The Doll took a step back. "The... what?"
"It is an ancient artifact," Victor improvised, stepping between the hunter and the wolf. He gestured to the grease stain. "Do you see the rune? The Mark of the Grease Lord? It binds the beast's vision. It constrains his terrible power. Without it..." Victor lowered his voice to a whisper. "He would see everything. And if he sees you... you cease to be."
Fenrir tilted his head. The paper bag crinkled loudly. "I can't see the periphery," he said helpfully. "It makes me feel safe."
The Doll froze. He stared at the grease stain. To Victor, it looked like bacon fat. To the Doll, whose eyes were widened behind the porcelain, it pulsated with chaotic, eldritch energy.
"That rune..." the Doll whispered. He leaned in, sniffing. "And that smell... I detected it outside. Cured meat? Ham?"
Victor didn't flinch. He doubled down.
"Not just ham," Victor said, his voice dropping an octave. "The Infernal Swine. A sacrificial offering to bind the Beast's hunger. The grease you see is the residue of a high-calorie ritual."
"It's very advanced," Victor added. "Forbidden magic. Cholesterol-based."
"Cholesterol..." The Doll tested the word, as if it were a curse in a dead tongue. "The Binding of the Arteries?"
"Exactly."
The Doll looked at Fenrir again. The wolf took a step forward, sniffing the air. The bag crinkled again. To the Doll, it sounded like the fabric of reality tearing.
"He... he wears it so casually," the Doll murmured. "To wear a Void Seal as a hat... the arrogance. The power."
The Doll looked at Victor. The painted smile seemed to falter.
"You control him?" the Doll asked.
"I feed him," Victor said. "And I throw the ball. It is a delicate balance."
Fenrir wagged his tail. The wind from the motion blew the Doll's raincoat open, revealing a row of silver knives.
"I... I see," the Doll said. He backed away, his boots scraping on the wet wood. "I was not informed. The briefing said 'feral beast'. It did not mention a Warlock of the Grease Covenant."
"We prefer 'Lipidmancers'," Victor said.
The Doll nodded, terrified respect in his posture. "I apologize for the intrusion, Great One. I will... re-evaluate the contract."
He reached into his pocket again. Victor flinched again.
The Doll pulled out a coin. It was heavy, black iron, with a skull stamped on one side. He placed it gently on the porch railing.
"A token," the Doll said. "Of professional courtesy. The Church does not hunt... this level of madness. Not without backup."
He bowed. Low. Stiff.
Then he turned and walked into the rain. He didn't run. But he walked very, very fast.
Victor stood in the doorway, the cold wind hitting his face. He watched the yellow raincoat disappear into the dark.
He looked at the coin.
He looked at Fenrir.
"Did I do good?" Fenrir asked, his voice muffled by the bag. "I didn't eat him."
"You did good, buddy," Victor said. He leaned against the doorframe, his legs suddenly turning to jelly. "You did real good."
He picked up the coin. It was cold. It hurt to touch.
[System Alert: New Weight Detected.]
[The Hunter's Mark.]
[Effect: You are now being watched by the Smiling Doll. Intimidation +10. Life Expectancy -50%.]
The information arrived as a sudden, sharp taste of copper on his tongue, accompanied by the phantom sensation of a cold coin pressing against the back of his neck.
Victor sighed. He put the coin in his pocket. It weighed a ton, dragging his pajama pants down on the left side. It felt like carrying a frozen dead star.
"Come on," Victor said, closing the door against the night. The smell of ozone and wet pavement lingered for a moment, then was replaced by the comforting, greasy scent of the house. "Let's go see if there's any ham left."
"I like ham," Fenrir said.
"I know," Victor said. "I know."
Inside the walls, Yggdrasil noted the transaction in a ledger made of rot.
Asset Secured: The Smiling Doll (Neutralized).
Cost: One (1) Ham Sandwich (Grease Only).
Profit: Survival.
The house settled. The rain continued. And in the kitchen, a man and a monster shared a fridge light, safe for one more night in the absurdity of the dark.