I needed information. Badly.
Wandering aimlessly through this bootleg version of Japan was only going to get me so far. I knew how this kind of setup went. If I kept playing passive, I'd end up playing catch-up until the real protagonist showed up and stole the spotlight. And I wasn't in the mood to be anyone's plot device.
Still, it's not like I had a mission prompt or a tutorial voice whispering in my ear. No minimap. No compass. Just me, my new headache-inducing eye powers, and a gnawing feeling in my gut that I'd been thrown into someone else's story.
So I did the only thing that made sense: I loitered.
Not in a creepy way. More like a strategic drift. I stuck to the edges of the main streets, watched people move, listened in. Japan was still Japan—clean, quiet, efficient—but every so often I caught details that didn't match. Storefronts with brands that didn't exist. Songs playing from speakers that I swore were from anime OSTs. A group of high schoolers laughing too perfectly, like their dialogue had been written.
It was subtle. The kind of thing you'd only notice if you were looking too closely.
Lucky for me, that's how I operate.
I eventually settled on a convenience store bench—not because I was tired, but because it had a good view of the street and a vending machine that hadn't started charging me rent yet. I cracked open a canned coffee and let my eyes scan the passersby like a predator waiting for prey that looked out of place.
And then I saw him.
Black school uniform. Unkempt hair. Eyes like he'd gone three nights without sleep. Not dragging his feet, but not exactly walking with purpose either.
Something about him stuck out. Something familiar.
At first, I couldn't place it. Just another high schooler with too much on his mind and not enough calories in his system. But then he walked past a group of girls, and one of them called out in mock annoyance:
"Koyomi! You forgot your notebook again!"
And just like that, the air changed.
My hand froze halfway to my mouth.
Koyomi.
As in Koyomi Araragi.
Suddenly, I wasn't sitting on a bench anymore.
I was sitting on a time bomb.
Because if that was who I thought it was—and given the voice, the look, and the absolute textbook "main character energy" he gave off, I'd bet money on it—then I wasn't just in some weird alt-Japan.
I was in Monogatari.
I let that sink in for a second, staring down at my half-finished can of Boss Coffee like it might bite me.
This wasn't good.
Well, no—that's a lie.
It was very good.
But also deeply inconvenient.
Because I knew how messy things got in this world. Vampires. Gods. Snakes with parental issues. And trauma being passed around like a group project no one wanted to finish.
The real problem? I didn't know when I'd landed.
Was this early-series Araragi? Midway through his oddity addiction? Already a half-vampire trying to keep secrets from girls who definitely knew better?
Hell if I knew.
I crushed the empty can in my hand and tossed it into the recycling bin, eyes still fixed on him as he turned a corner. He hadn't seen me. Not yet. He wasn't even aware I existed, which was perfect.
For now.
I followed him.
Not in the obvious trench-coat-and-sunglasses kind of way. More like a bored guy drifting in the same general direction. I kept a loose distance—just enough to watch him without tripping any alarm bells.
Araragi didn't seem like the paranoid type. Not yet, anyway. He had that early high school stiffness in his walk, the kind of posture that says I don't know who I am but I'm pretending like I do. His shoulders were a little too tight. His eyes were a little too tired. He had the look of someone just starting to realize the world might be out to get him.
But not quite broken enough to know why.
Which meant I was probably early in the timeline. Maybe before any oddities showed up. Maybe before he even knew what an oddity was. Maybe this world didn't even follow canon at all.
That thought kept gnawing at me as I moved past the bus stop and watched him disappear into the bookstore. It was easy to get caught up in what I remembered, but memory is a poor compass when you're stuck in someone else's script.
What if I'd landed in a splinter timeline? Or a version where the events were shuffled? It's not like the Grimoire came with a glossary. And Araragi sure as hell wasn't handing out exposition.
So I waited.
I leaned against the wall near the entrance, arms folded, pretending to scroll through a phone that no longer worked, watching him through the bookstore window. He moved like someone who spent too much time here. No hesitation. He went straight for the fiction shelves.
If this was his "normal," I needed to find out how close we were to the abnormal.
A few minutes passed. He skimmed a couple of spines. Picked up one of those light novels with way too much punctuation in the title. Cracked it open. Smiled at something. His face softened for a moment—genuine, relaxed.
Then he froze.
Not in fear.
More like… discomfort.
I narrowed my eyes.
He looked toward the front of the store. I followed his line of sight, but didn't see anything immediately strange. Just the usual crowd. A cashier chatting with some bored university student. A kid flipping through a manga he probably wasn't gonna buy.
But Araragi's eyes lingered. Long enough that it wasn't casual. His hand tightened on the book's spine.
Then he blinked, set the book down, and left without buying anything.
Weird.
He brushed past a man on the way out—a tall guy in a tan coat with messy hair and a scarf that looked like it had seen better winters. Something about that guy felt… deliberate. Like the universe had rendered him in slightly higher resolution.
I didn't know who he was. Not yet.
But I flagged him mentally.
Araragi didn't look back as he turned down another alley—smaller, quieter. A shortcut maybe. Or just a habit.
I followed.
This time a little closer.
It felt like the world was starting to tilt.
You ever get that sense that something's about to happen? Not because there are signs, but because your brain goes quiet? Like every noise fades, and all you can hear is your own breathing?
Yeah.
That.
Araragi stopped at the mouth of the alley and looked up at a flickering streetlamp.
Paused.
Then turned his head slightly—just enough that I knew he felt it too.
Not me.
Something else.
I slowed my pace. Stayed just behind the corner of the building.
Then I heard it.
Metal scraping.
A low, rhythmic drag.
Not close. But not far either.
And Araragi?
He didn't run.
He just stood there. Like he didn't know what the hell he was hearing but wasn't ready to admit he was scared.
I wasn't sure if I admired it… or judged it.
Either way, it gave me a little more context.
Because that sound?
It wasn't wind.
It wasn't a person.
It was something wrong trying very hard to sound normal.
And that narrowed the options.
Oddity? Spirit? One of those halfway-there phenomena this world was famous for?
If Araragi was hearing it—and he wasn't part vampire yet—then that meant the supernatural had started to bleed into the open.
Timeline-wise, I was probably right on the cusp of Kizumonogatari. Not in it. Not deep enough for the blood and drama. But close.
Close enough that things were starting to wake up.
I considered stepping in. Just to test the waters. Maybe say something, pretend I was just another guy passing through.
But I stopped myself.
Because the Grimoire didn't give me invincibility. Just some very specific eyeball-based social manipulation.
And while I could charm a salarywoman into zoning out for five seconds, I had no idea if it would work on Araragi.
He wasn't dumb.
And more importantly, he was important.
People like him tend to break rules just by existing.
So I stayed in the shadow.
Watched.
Waited.
And then the sound stopped.
Like it had never been there at all.
Araragi stood still for a few seconds longer, then exhaled—like he hadn't even realized he'd been holding his breath.
I almost smiled.
Because now?
Now I had a window.
He didn't notice me at first.
Araragi turned back toward the main street, muttering something under his breath as he rubbed his temple. Probably trying to make sense of whatever that sound had been. He looked shaken, but not afraid. Still playing it cool. Still pretending to be in control of the narrative.
Cute.
I stepped out casually, matching his pace without hurrying. Let the sound of my footsteps announce me. Didn't want to startle him—not because I cared, but because startled people ask more questions. And I wasn't ready to start answering any.
He glanced over his shoulder.
I kept my hands in my pockets. Relaxed. Friendly.
"Yo," I said, like we were old classmates running into each other on the way to a train station.
He blinked. "...Hey."
Hesitant. Guarded. But not defensive.
Good.
"You alright?" I asked, giving a subtle nod toward the alley. "You were just standing there for a minute. Looked like you saw a ghost."
He laughed. Short, nervous. "Yeah, maybe I did."
That voice.
Yep. Definitely Araragi.
He looked exactly how I remembered from the early arcs. Pale, a little underfed, tired in that sleep-deprived, trauma-dodging sort of way. The kind of guy who always looks like he's five hours into thinking about something he'll never say out loud.
"So," I said, keeping the tone light, "you just hang out in dark alleys for fun, or…?"
He gave me a sideways glance. "Not usually. You?"
"Nah," I said. "I'm more of a 'loiter near vending machines and judge people's drink choices' type."
That actually got a smile out of him. Small. Quick. But real.
And that was my cue.
I held eye contact for just a bit too long. Not intense. Just deliberate.
Activate.
The Mystic Eyes of Charm weren't flashy. There was no glow. No shoujo sparkle. Just a shift—subtle. Like flipping a social switch only I could feel. A small injection of influence into a normal interaction.
Like changing the gravity in a room by half a percent.
His posture softened. His expression unfurled slightly. The tension in his shoulders eased—not all the way, but enough.
Bingo.
It was working. Not like hypnosis. Not like a command. Just… lubrication. Making the social gears spin a little smoother.
I filed that away.
Weak-willed individuals? Easy prey. But someone like Araragi?
It was more like sandpaper than silk. I could nudge, but I couldn't push.
He still had control.
But that's all I needed. Leverage.
"So," I said, feigning casual interest, "you go to Naoetsu High?"
He nodded. "Yeah."
Bingo again.
I kept my smile polite. Neutral. Just another guy making small talk.
"I used to live around here," I lied smoothly. "Transferred out a while back. Came back recently and everything feels… off. You ever get that?"
Araragi gave me a weird look, but not a suspicious one. Just thoughtful.
"Yeah," he said after a beat. "Actually. Lately… things have felt a little strange."
He scratched the back of his neck. "Can't explain it. Like the air's thicker."
Now we were getting somewhere.
"You hear weird stuff sometimes?" I asked. "See people acting off? Like you're the only one who noticed?"
He hesitated.
That pause told me everything.
"Maybe," he said. "I don't know. Could be stress."
Could be.
But it wasn't.
And we both knew it.
I was walking a line here. If I pushed too hard, he'd get spooked. If I didn't push at all, I'd get nothing.
So I shifted gears.
"Name's Lucien, by the way."
I offered a hand. Casual. Confident.
He shook it. "Koyomi."
Didn't give the last name. Maybe cautious. Maybe polite. Either way, it confirmed everything.
I filed the handshake away in the memory banks. A little sweaty. Tense grip. The kind of shake that tells you someone's more used to carrying stress than sharing it.
We parted naturally after that. A "Nice meeting you" and a "Maybe I'll see you around."
No alarms. No awkward questions. Just two guys having a weirdly normal interaction in a world that was starting to feel anything but.
And as I watched him disappear down the next block, I leaned against a lamppost and exhaled.
Test successful.
The Mystic Eyes worked—barely. Enough to lower his defenses, not enough to plant anything deep.
But that was fine.
I didn't need to control Araragi.
I just needed to stay ahead of him.
Because if I was near the start of Kizumonogatari…
Then he'd be finding her soon.
And I wasn't about to let him take the deal I could make better use of.
The moment I lost sight of Araragi, I doubled back.
It wasn't personal. Just strategic. He'd served his purpose for the day: confirmed the world, the timeline (roughly), and the tone of the story I'd been dropped into. He was the litmus test, and he tested positive for supernatural nonsense.
Now I had a window. A tiny one.
He didn't know what was coming. Hell, I barely knew what was coming. But that didn't matter. What mattered was that I knew the shape of it. Somewhere out there, a golden-haired corpse with too many names was bleeding out under this city. She was the turning point in Araragi's story.
But I was here now.
And I don't do second place.
I turned off the main road and started down a quieter stretch of sidewalk, letting the buzz of the city fade behind me. My brain was already grinding through options.
Find her first. Intercept the event. Maybe make a deal.
But I had no clue where to start. No vampire-sensing radar. No sparkly footprints to follow. Just vibes and anxiety.
And then it hit me again.
That feeling.
Like a key turning in a lock inside my bones.
I froze mid-step, one hand bracing against a power pole, the other twitching toward my side like I expected something to physically emerge.
But it didn't hurt.
It was addictive.
Like electricity crawling under my skin—but clean, precise. Efficient.
And then, just like before, the knowledge bloomed behind my eyes.
Not words.
Not whispers.
Just sudden, absolute understanding.
New Ability Acquired: Structural Analysis / Reinforcement – Basic
Origin: Nasuverse (Fate Series)
Description: The user can reinforce the structure of physical objects and their own body through magical perception and temporary energy enhancement. Instinctive understanding of weaknesses and durability. Limited use due to lack of formal training. Mana cost: moderate.
I blinked.
Then laughed. Just once. Dry and sharp.
"Well," I muttered. "That's incredibly on-brand."
Reinforcement magic. A Fate staple. Not flashy. Not overpowered. But practical. Customizable. The kind of power that rewards planning and control over brute force.
My kind of skill.
I looked around, half-expecting something to test it on. A rock. A vending machine. A guy looking at me funny.
Nothing.
Just me and the Tokyo suburbs, humming quietly to themselves like none of this was happening.
I crouched down and picked up a piece of rusted pipe someone had ditched near a fence. About a foot long. Light. Hollow. Useless.
I focused.
No chant. No spell circle. Just intent.
And click.
The pipe hummed in my grip. Not audibly—but I felt it. Like it had gone from aluminum to iron in half a second. It didn't glow, but something changed.
Weight distribution. Density. Resilience.
It felt more like a weapon now.
The buzz in my head intensified as I held it. I knew I couldn't keep it up for long. Not without burning out whatever this world used as mana. But for a few seconds?
I had force.
And that opened a thousand doors.
I let the energy fade and dropped the pipe. It clanged louder than it should've.
Another confirmation.
Reinforcement magic: acquired.
Combat viable: confirmed.
Morally bankrupt grin: deployed.
So now I had charm eyes and anime physics hand-buffs.
Cool.
Still not enough to take on a full vampire, but better than showing up empty-handed.
And yeah, I wasn't stupid—I knew this didn't make me untouchable. The Grimoire clearly didn't care about balance or fairness. These gifts came when they came. I couldn't rely on them.
But I could use them.
And if there was one thing I was good at, it was using things.
People. Systems. Powers.
Didn't matter.
Everything's a tool if you stop caring enough.
———————————————
There was a moment, as I walked the length of another dead-end alley that smelled like piss and old miso, where I seriously asked myself if this was worth it.
I mean, yeah, meta-knowledge was great—until you realized how vague memory actually was. I didn't have a GPS coordinate for where Kiss-shot collapsed. Just a cinematic impression: underground, wide platforms, old tile. Flickering lights. Blood.
So I pulled what I could from the back of my brain.
She was in a train station. Definitely underground. Not modern, not pristine. The kind of place you could bleed to death and no one would notice for a couple days. It wasn't crowded. It wasn't clean. The air felt dead.
In movie terms? Abandoned or borderline condemned.
So what did that tell me?
Tokyo had dozens of train stations. Hundreds, technically. But if I filtered for the ones that matched the vibe—below ground, low traffic, old infrastructure—that list shrank fast.
I spent an hour hopping between them.
Sometimes on foot. Sometimes on pure instinct.
If this world was canon-accurate, then there were only so many places she could be. She wouldn't be bleeding out in the middle of Shibuya Station. That would attract headlines. And she didn't strike me as the kind of vampire who liked being humiliated in public.
Eventually, I found one that gave me pause.
Kōshōji Station.
I remembered the tiles.
They were the wrong color—but the layout, the platforms, the rust patterns along the support beams—they all pinged something in my memory. Something from that second movie where Araragi wandered into the abyss and found her dying.
I stood at the top of the steps leading down and stared.
The lights were on.
But dim. Some flickering. It was late enough in the day that foot traffic had thinned to a trickle.
I could check it.
Go down. See if she was already there. Bleeding. Waiting.
But I hesitated.
Because if I was right?
I wouldn't be the only one looking for her.
And I wasn't ready to fight gods yet.
So instead, I did what I'm best at.
I watched.
I grabbed a corner seat at a café with a clear view of the station entrance. Drank something cold. Ate something forgettable. And waited for anything unusual.
That's when he appeared.
At first, I didn't think anything of him.
Middle-aged guy. White clerical collar. Black coat with way too many buttons. Kind of hunched, like he was trying to fold himself smaller. Balding, but not enough to look like a monk.
Just… off.
He walked past the café slowly, one hand on his chest like he was feeling for a heartbeat. His eyes scanned the station like he was cataloging it.
Not in a tourist way.
In a surveyor's way.
I watched him the way a snake watches a boot.
He didn't look like a fighter. No weapons. No confident stride. But his presence was like wet paper wrapped around a box cutter.
Quiet.
Unsettling.
Sharp beneath the softness.
And then he stopped.
Right outside the station entrance.
He bowed his head.
Crossed himself.
And whispered something.
I couldn't hear the words—but I didn't need to.
He wasn't praying.
He was marking something.
I stood.
Left my tray. Walked to the curb, hands in my pockets. I didn't make a move—just shifted angle to get a clearer look.
He didn't go in.
Didn't descend the stairs.
He just… stood there. Like he was waiting for something to come out.
Or die inside.
My gut twisted.
I knew this type. Not from real life—but from the narrative structures I'd seen again and again.
He was an executioner.
Not in strength.
In intent.
And as he turned slightly—just enough that his eyes flicked toward me—I felt it.
The tiniest twinge of pressure.
Just enough for my skin to register him as a threat.
Then he nodded.
Once.
And walked away.
I didn't follow.
I wasn't suicidal.
Not yet.
But I filed his face away. Along with the clothes. The gait. The way his footsteps didn't echo the way they should have.
I didn't know his name.
Not officially.
But in my head, the label stuck immediately.
Guillotine Cutter.
The human vampire hunter.
Religious zealot with a martyr complex.
The one who collected blood for the sake of god and probably thought vampires were metaphors for porn addiction.
He didn't see me as a target yet.
I could work with that.
But it meant one very important thing:
The others were already here.
And that window I thought I had?
Was closing.
Fast.
————————————————
I didn't go into the station that night.
That would've been stupid.
I didn't know what condition she was in. Didn't know if she was conscious. Hungry. Feral. Or if Guillotine Cutter was going to double back and lobotomize anyone dumb enough to go poking around underground.
So instead, I stepped back.
Literally. Crossed the street. Bought a bag of convenience store chips I didn't need just to loiter without suspicion.
If you're going to survive in someone else's story, you have to be careful about which role you take.
Hero? Too risky.
Sidekick? Too limited.
Antagonist?
Tempting.
But I'd settle for wildcard.
And wildcards don't throw themselves at apex predators without a plan.
So I thought about the problem from a different angle.
Kiss-shot was weak. She'd lost her limbs, her power, and probably her will to do anything besides survive. She was alone. Desperate.
But still dangerous.
Araragi would normally be the one to stumble in and offer up his blood. Earn her gratitude. Become her servant. Set everything in motion.
But Araragi wasn't down there yet.
I was.
And the only thing separating me from that opportunity was risk.
So the question became: how do I lower the risk without walking into her lair like a vending machine full of blood?
Simple.
I make her need me more than I need her.
And that meant information.
I needed to know what she'd lost. Not just conceptually—specifically. Where her limbs were. Who had them. What the hell Guillotine Cutter was doing here now instead of later.
I needed leverage.
I needed a hand to play before I sat down at the table.
Which meant one thing:
I had to get someone else to talk.
I knew I wasn't going to squeeze blood from Araragi. Not yet. He was still in the clueless phase, where every weird encounter gets rationalized away with logic and teenage apathy.
But I'd seen someone else.
That man in the bookstore.
Tan coat. Ratty scarf. Higher resolution than the rest of the extras in this simulation.
He wasn't just a character. He was relevant.
And if I remembered right…
That had to be Meme Oshino.
Exorcist. Mediator. Professional oddity-babysitter with a fashion sense stolen from a 2003 garage band manager.
He was the kind of guy who knew things.
So I tracked him.
Didn't take long. He wasn't subtle. Just slow.
He moved like someone who had all the time in the world—and no actual intention of using it.
I followed him past the shopping district and into the older part of town. Cracked sidewalks. Fewer streetlights. More vending machines for some reason.
Eventually, he ducked into a rundown building with a barely-working neon sign above it. A cheap love hotel that probably hadn't been renovated since the early 90s.
I waited.
Watched.
Timed his patterns.
Then, just before midnight, I slipped inside.
Not through the front. That would've been theatrical.
I went around back. Picked a lock on a ground-floor utility door. Stuck to the shadows. Didn't make a sound.
I didn't need to confront him.
Didn't want to.
I just needed to look.
If this was Oshino, and this was his base of operations, then something in that room would tell me what he knew.
Maps. Notes. Drawings. Something.
And if I was lucky?
Maybe something I could steal.
I found his room on the third floor. Door cracked slightly, a faint orange light leaking out. I crouched low and listened.
He was humming.
Some lazy off-key tune I didn't recognize. The sound of water dripping from a faucet. A kettle whistling faintly in the background.
No chanting. No incantations.
Just… humming.
I pushed the door open another inch.
Saw a wall covered in paper.
Not newspaper. Not art.
Diagrams.
Circles. Symbols. Strings connecting dots across a blown-up map of the city. Red pen notes scribbled in a language I didn't recognize.
One word stood out:
HEART
Underlined. Circled twice.
And next to it:
Sealed. Stolen. Hidden.
My pulse jumped.
He knew.
He knew what happened to her.
And if I could just memorize enough of those notes before he noticed—
"Yo," said a voice behind me, calm as a whisper.
I froze.
Then turned.
Meme Oshino stood at the end of the hallway, sipping something from a chipped mug, looking at me like I'd just broken into his fridge.
"You're not exactly subtle, are you?"
I didn't move.
Didn't blink.
Just measured his expression.
Relaxed.
Amused.
Not angry.
Yet.
"I was hoping you'd be out longer," I said honestly.
He raised an eyebrow. "Most people knock."
"Most people aren't trying to get ahead of the story," I said.
Oshino chuckled like I'd just mispronounced a joke. He stepped past me without another word, into the cluttered motel room that smelled like tea, old incense, and maybe a little mold. He didn't seem rattled. Didn't even look surprised to see me standing there with his notes halfway memorized.
He just dropped onto a tatami mat and waved lazily toward the opposite end of the room. "Well, if you're going to be nosy, at least take your shoes off. Manners, my man."
I complied.
Mostly because he wasn't asking.
And because guys like him don't need to raise their voices. They already know they're the weirdest one in the room.
I settled across from him, hands still in my jacket pockets. I kept my posture relaxed. Attentive, but casual. Like a student who knew the material and just showed up for the attendance points.
"You're not police," he said. "And you're too clean to be a runaway."
I didn't answer.
He sipped from his chipped mug. "No reaction, huh? I like that. Most kids your age get twitchy when they get profiled."
"Most kids don't break into exorcists' hotel rooms either," I said.
Oshino's grin widened. "Touché."
He didn't ask my name. Which told me he probably already knew it—or didn't care. Either way, it worked for me.
"I'm not here to cause trouble," I said.
"Everyone says that."
"I'm not everyone."
"Everyone says that, too."
God, he was so canon.
The way he talked—like he was always slightly amused by a joke he wasn't going to explain—was exactly how I remembered him. The kind of guy who'll hand you a cursed sword and then shrug when you stab yourself with it. He didn't like interference, but he also didn't stop it.
And he definitely didn't volunteer information unless it was on purpose.
I leaned back slightly, scanning the notes on the wall again. Most of it was esoteric garbage. Spiritual coordinates, ritual geometry, prayer patterns. Stuff designed to mean something only to people like him.
But that one word—HEART—was still burned into the paper near the map.
I decided to poke.
"You into anatomy, or is that metaphor?"
He followed my gaze, then smiled behind his mug. "Just a little collection work. You know how it is."
"Not really," I said. "Enlighten me."
He didn't.
Of course he didn't.
Instead, he changed the subject with all the subtlety of a magician palming a coin.
"You seem unusually well-informed for someone your age," he said. "Most folks who wander into this sort of territory don't know what they're looking for until it bites them."
"I'm observant," I said. "And I've got a decent memory for patterns."
"Patterns, huh?"
"Stories."
That made something flicker in his expression.
It wasn't alarm.
It wasn't fear.
Just curiosity.
He set his mug down. "You looking for someone, kid?"
I paused just long enough to seem reluctant. "Maybe."
"Let me guess—girl trouble."
"Isn't it always?"
He laughed. A short, dry sound.
But there was weight behind it.
I wasn't giving him much, and that was exactly the point. I needed him to think I was fishing blind. That I'd stumbled onto something bigger than me and was now trying to paddle back to shore with a spoon.
Not that I already knew about the vampire bleeding out below this city.
Not that I was trying to confirm if the key to her resurrection was already sitting in a corner of this dump, maybe inside a lockbox, maybe sealed under a charm.
Not that I was trying to steal time from Araragi's future and make it mine.
So I kept the banter light.
I didn't ask about Kiss-shot.
I didn't mention her name.
I didn't need to.
Because now I knew two things.
First, Oshino had the heart—or knew where it was.
And second?
He had no idea who I really was.
To him, I was just some clever punk with a talent for trespassing and a vague sense of the supernatural.
And that was the best position I could be in.
"Thanks for the tea," I said, standing.
"I didn't offer any."
"Exactly."
He watched me go.
Didn't stop me.
Didn't warn me.
Just smiled.
Like he knew something I didn't.
Which, is fair.
But he'd underestimated me.
And that?
That was leverage.