Gezza snatched his bag, the strap biting into his shoulder like a leash he was done wearing. He swung it up, turned for the door. The floor didn't creak this time; it sighed, like the house itself was tired of him.

Marie's eyes widened, candlelight catching the surprise in them. "So you're preparing to die."

"I'll find a way myself." He cut her off, voice low, edged with steel. Not stomping; just cold, deliberate steps. His heart jackhammered against his ribs, a trapped bird, but his face stayed blank. Unreadable.

Hand on the knob. Metal cool under his palm. He twisted. Click. A sliver of hallway air slipped in; old dust, faint rain, the promise of escape. Maybe the breeze would scrub the antique stink of Marie's library from his skin, wash the Playbook's heat from his thoughts.

"Wait."

The single word cracked the silence. His hand froze mid-turn. A spark of hope flared, stupid and warm, in his chest.

Marie shifted on the couch, thighs sliding together with a soft shush of skin on fabric. She met his eyes, direct, unflinching. "For a year."

Gezza blinked. "A year?" He squeezed his face like he'd misheard, like the word was a foreign coin. "You want me to be your slave for a year."

Marie's smile returned, small and sharp. "Call it what you want. One year. You wield the book for me. No resistance. Then you're free." She leaned forward, elbows on knees, skirt riding just enough to make his throat dry. "Or walk out. Let the third toll pick its price. Your memory. Your voice. Your dick, maybe." Her gaze flicked down, then back up. "Your choice."

The Playbook pulsed in his bag, a low, hungry throb against his spine. The candle hissed. Wax bled.

Gezza's fingers tightened on the knob until his knuckles went white. The hallway beyond looked darker now. Colder.

He didn't move.

Gezza let the knob go with a soft clack, the sound swallowed by the room. He took one step back in, boots heavy on the rug. "I don't think you know how long a year is." He jabbed a finger at her like he was the one holding the leash.

Marie's smile widened, lazy. "Three-hundred-sixty-five days. Three-sixty-six on leap years. Yeah, I know."

Gezza's face stayed twisted, confusion and fury braided tight. The bitch is crazy.

But she was the only thread he had.

He crossed his arms, sucked in a breath that tasted of candle smoke and old paper. I could take her help, then ghost the deal. The thought flickered, bright and treacherous. He hitched the bag higher on his shoulder, the Playbook shifting like a cat inside. "Fine. But what do you want with the book?"

"Just a con job," she said, voice light, almost singsong. She leaned back, thighs parting just enough to let the lamplight lick the inside of one knee. "One mark. One night. One fat payout. Then the year starts ticking." Her tongue touched the corner of her mouth. "You'll be my loaded gun, Gezza. Point, shoot, collect."

The candle popped. Wax hissed. The Playbook purred against his spine, low and hungry.

"I get my share if it works out," Gezza said, spine snapping straight. He folded his arms again, tighter this time, knuckles whitening. The bag strap cut into his shoulder like a dare.

Silence pooled, thick and candle-warm. Marie tilted her head, studying his eyes, the set of his jaw, the way his boots planted wide, no tremble. A slow grin split her face, sharp as broken glass.

Gezza didn't smile back. He stared her down, no basement deweller, no begging boy, just a man holding a loaded curse and waiting for the price.

Marie broke the silence with a scoff, sharp as a whip-crack. She let the book fall to the couch with a thud, pages fanning open like a dying bird. Then she rose, slow and deliberate, stretching both arms high overhead. The baggy sweater lifted, exposing a strip of smooth skin, the soft dip of her belly button catching the lamplight. She held the stretch a beat longer than necessary, then dropped her arms and turned to him.

"Deal."

Gezza didn't flinch. Arms still crossed, boots rooted, face carved from stone.

"How many percent?" His voice came out low, steady, no tremor.

"Thirty—"

"Fifty." He cut her off clean. "Fifty percent." He repeated it, slow, like hammering nails.

Marie spun fully, eyes wide. Who the hell is this guy? Shock flickered across her face; he wasn't the same trembling mess who'd begged on his knees. She planted a hand on her hip, fingers splayed. "Thirty-five."

"Fifty." Again. Unmoved.

"Tsk." She clicked her tongue, teasing. "Playing hard to get, Gezza?"

His face only hardened, jaw locked, eyes cold steel.

"Fine. Forty."

"Fifty percent." He stepped forward, one boot thud on the rug, arms still crossed like iron bars. "I'm the one with the book."

She stared. The candle hissed. Wax bled.

He didn't blink.

"Fine," she snapped, spinning on her heel. "Fifty." She stalked toward the hallway, skirt swishing, voice tossed over her shoulder. "hope you'll be worth it."

The second she vanished behind the curtain, Gezza's mask cracked. A slow, triumphant grin spread across his face, all teeth and fire.

That actually worked.

He whispered it to the empty room, voice low and smug. Standing your ground actually works.

The Playbook pulsed once against his spine like a proud mother.

---

"Gezza!"

Her voice cracked down the hallway like a whip, echoing off the walls. "Get your ass in here."

He swallowed, the grin gone. Mask back on, Sneakers scuffing the runner rug, he followed the sound. The hallway light blazed overhead, too white, too clean, like a dentist's office.

Then the glow cut off sharp at an open doorway. Black inside. No light. No sound except scrape, shuffle, clink something moving.

Straight out a horror flick.

He crept closer. The air thickened, heavy with dust and something metallic. A faint draft kissed his neck. He leaned in, just enough to peek.

Floorboards gleamed wet in the dark. A triangle chalked in the center, three candles at the points black wax, already bleeding. A circle ringed the whole thing, tight and perfect, trapping the flames. Shadows jittered across the walls like claws.

What the fuck—

His heel caught the threshold. He stumbled back thump spine slamming the hallway wall. Breath punched out of him.

She's a witch. She's with the cult. Oh shit.

The Playbook in his bag burned, sudden and vicious, like it knew.

"Are you going to come in or what?" Marie's voice cut through the dark, edged with irritation. "Are you scared?"

Gezza sucked in a breath that tasted of iron and candle smoke. His fingers tightened on the bag strap until the leather creaked. Be brave. He stepped over the threshold.

The doorframe passed his face like a guillotine. Inside, the air was colder, thick, like breathing through wet wool. His sneakers crunched on something chalk dust, maybe bone. The triangle glowed faintly, the black candles spitting blue at their wicks.

Marie knelt at the apex, knees on the chalk line. A small, leather-bound book lay open in her left hand, pages yellowed and curling. In her right, she clutched a crude iron cross. rusted, twisted, the kind of thing you'd find buried in a graveyard.

Her lips moved, muttering low and fast, words in a language that scraped the inside of his skull.

Her eyes didn't lift. Not once.

"What the fuck is going on?" Gezza's voice cracked, eyes darting. Bookshelves loomed like tombstones, spines cracked and bleeding dust. A painting on the far wall some skeletal saint with eyes gouged out stared back. "Are you a witch? You with the cult?"

"That's a long story." Marie didn't look up, still muttering over the yellowed pages. She let the iron cross clank to the floorboards. "Lie at the center."

Gezza's heart hammered so loud he swore the candles flickered to it. "You want me to what? What are you gonna do with me?" The tough mask slipped; his voice pitched high, thin.

Marie rolled her eyes, bored. "I'm sending you inside the book. Not the void you know. Her true form. You'll see her. Get the name." She finally met his gaze, candlelight carving hollows under her cheekbones. "Then we're square."

Gezza swallowed dry, bitter, like swallowing rust. Fresh sweat bloomed under his arms, down his spine. The Playbook purred against his hip, eager.

Marie tilted her head, mocking. "Where's all that big-boy energy now?"

Gezza rolled his shoulders, bag sliding off with a dull thump.

Stay calm. If she wanted you dead, you'd be dead already.

He flexed his neck, cracked it once, and stepped forward. The chalk triangle felt warm under his sneakers too warm. His pulse thundered in his ears, but he kept his face locked: no fear, no begging.

He knelt. Bag hit the floorboards.

He sat.

He lowered himself slow, vertebrae by vertebrae, until his back met cold wood. The chill soaked through his hoodie like ice water.

What the hell am I doing?

Eyes squeezed shut. Breath in. Breath out.

He turned his head just enough to see Marie's thighsbare, candlelight licking the soft curve where skirt met skin.

She leaned over him, book in one hand, the other already tracing the chalk circle.

"Eyes forward, big boy," she murmured. "Last chance to back out."

The candles hissed. The iron cross on the floor twitched once, like it was alive.

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