"Here ya go," rumbled the pawnshop owner, his voice rough like gravel ground beneath old boots. He shoved a thick wad of cash into John's hand, the bills smelling faintly of dust and metal. John thumbed through them quickly, the edges crisp against his fingers, before giving a tight nod.

  "Everything's here," he said, sliding the cash deep into his pocket. He stood up, feeling oddly exposed. Without his usual arsenal strapped to his legs — no pistols — he felt like a rabbit loose in a field full of hawks. No Glamour, no weapons. Just skin and nerves.

  The owner waved a greasy hand, already pocketing the gleaming jewelry John had bartered away. "Pleasure doin' business!"

  John didn’t bother with a reply. He exhaled a slow, controlled breath as he stepped back into the Ship, the metallic door sealing the outside world away with a soft hiss. Instantly, he felt the artificial warmth creep into his mind — the Ship’s quiet, enforced cheerfulness.

  "Right... that's— a lot," John muttered, staring down at the duffel bag brimming with bundled cash. Thick rolls snapped together by rubber bands like a gangster’s payday. He chuckled under his breath, a little hollow. "Feels like I'm about to start my own cartel."

  He fished out his phone, tapping notes he had kept with grim diligence. "$110,000. And only spent twenty-five thousand Credits to get it all..." His fingers brushed over the bag of glittering Credit Gems on the floor.

  Grinning, he pulled a fresh cigar from a sleek new box he'd bought to celebrate. The smoke curled in the air, sweet and sharp, a rare indulgence he let coat his tongue.

  “Already midday?” His eyes flicked to his phone. With a muttered curse, he snubbed the cigar and tucked it away for later. He keyed the Ship’s panel, punching in the address. A soft ding answered, the Ship silently conjuring itself near the driveway of a neat suburban home.

  John stepped out, squinting against the cloudless sky. A warm breeze tousled his hair.

  "Hey!" barked a voice, pulling him from his thoughts. An older man, round-bellied and sunburned, stood waving from the open garage. "You John?"

  "That's me," John replied, shaking the man's calloused hand and slipping him a wad of cash in one smooth motion.

  "Name’s Max. Machines are in the back," he said, gesturing toward a cluttered garage where old metal gleamed like buried treasure.

  John’s stomach tightened at the sight. "You took them apart? That's a big help," he said, masking his nervous energy as he stooped to lift the first machine part. The metal bit into his palms, heavy and unyielding.

  "Where you parked?" Max asked, eyebrows raising as John grunted under the weight.

  "Just around the corner," John lied easily, hauling the piece toward the hidden Ship. Each trip was a small marathon, his muscles screaming and his head on a constant swivel. Every passing car, every barking dog sent adrenaline spiking through his veins. His hands kept twitching toward his hips, only to find empty air where his holsters used to be.

  Half an hour later, sweat plastered his shirt to his back as Max clapped him on the shoulder and handed him a cold bottle of water. John gulped it down gratefully.

  "So," Max said, leaning against the doorframe. "What’s a young fella like you want with all this tech?"

  John wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Always had a thing for machines. Don’t have much space, so your small CNC was perfect — especially with the fourth axis already installed. Plus the lathe, the tool pile... couldn't pass it up."

  Max grinned, crinkling sun-leathered cheeks. "Glad to hear it. My son recently got me a fancy 3D printer, but computers ain't my thing. Figured it was time to let it all go."

  They shook hands one last time. John gave a brisk nod and turned on his heel, walking fast, scanning every movement, every shadow. His heart only eased when the Ship’s door slid shut behind him.

  "Finally," he breathed, slumping against the wall. The false happiness flooded him again, and for once, he welcomed it.

  He turned — and froze.

  His jaw dropped as he stared at the far wall of the Ship.

  The chaotic piles of parts and dusty toolboxes were gone. In their place stood a gleaming steel workbench, seamlessly fused to the Ship's structure, as if it had always been there. The CNC machine and lathe were already reassembled, spotless, anchored firmly atop the worktable.

  John staggered forward, pulling open a drawer — and found every single tool he’d bought, cleaned, sorted, and organized better than he could have managed in a month. The electrical wiring snaked into the walls themselves, vanishing without a single exposed cable.

  "I have so many questions," he muttered, voice barely above a whisper, running a hand along the cool, perfect surface.

  The Ship merely hummed around him, serene and silent, offering no answers at all.

  "I guess that saves me the trouble," John muttered, slumping into the Ship’s pilot chair. His legs sprawled out, shoulders sinking deep into the cushions. His eyes drifted over to the pile of cash stacked carelessly in the corner — a glittering temptation that whispered promises of stupid decisions.

  He knew better. “I should save it.”

  Instead, he chuckled under his breath, snatching up his phone. "What the hell," he grinned, already thumbing through listings. "Not like I’m pressed for time."

  Three hours later, John stood in the middle of a cracked parking lot under a blazing afternoon sun, his new prize gleaming before him.

  He couldn’t stop grinning.

  "I really shouldn’t have," he said to no one in particular, voice high with barely-suppressed excitement. His hand trembled a little as he swung a leg over the saddle, the black leather still warm from the sun. His fingers wrapped around the throttle and he gave it a quick twist.

  The V-twin engine snarled awake beneath him, a deep, primal roar that settled into a low, eager rumble. The vibrations crawled up through the seat, buzzing in his bones in a way that felt dangerous and alive.

  John leaned forward, patting the gas tank affectionately. "An Indian Scout," he said with a boyish laugh. "One of the brand-new ones. Can’t believe they're already hitting the used market."

  He shifted his weight, savoring the bike's solid, muscular frame. Sixteen grand lighter — and he didn’t regret a single cent.

  The grin stretched wider across his face as he cranked the throttle again, the motorcycle barking louder in reply. Without another thought, John peeled out of the lot, tires squealing for a brief moment before he surged into the open road.

  The world blurred at the edges.

  The engine roared like a wild animal under him, and John let it pull him forward, faster, free. The warm air ripped at his hair, tugged at his clothes, and for once, he didn’t fight it — he leaned into the chaos, weaving through traffic like a phantom. Glamour cloaked him, smoothing his passage, making other drivers blink and look away without really seeing him.

  John laughed — a full, wild, carefree sound — as the streets flashed by.

  Ahead, the hulking silhouette of the Ship loomed into view. He let up on the throttle just enough to steady himself, bracing for the rush of fake happiness that washed over him as the Ship’s doors slid open.

  He pulled inside without slowing much, the deafening growl of the engine echoing through the sterile interior. In one clean move, John swung the bike into a lazy arc and rolled it to a stop near the entrance, parking it like a trophy beside the door.

  "Oh man," he chuckled, dismounting and giving the chrome another admiring glance. The metal gleamed, still catching every ray of daylight like it was hungry for attention. He reached out and brushed the handlebars with a reverent touch before dragging himself reluctantly back toward the command console.

  "Right. Enough messing around," he said, although the wide grin still tugged at the corners of his mouth.

  The massive screen flickered to life, casting cold light over the Ship's control bay. John leaned in, scanning the map with sharp, eager eyes.

  "No Bazaar portal nearby?" he muttered, tapping a finger against the console. "That’s a shame..." His gaze drifted back toward the cooling motorcycle, where the engine clicked and popped like a sleeping beast.

  "A twenty-minute drive," he mused aloud. "Would save me the Improbability Factor..." He smirked. "But I doubt I can strap a whole enchanting setup onto the back of that."

  With a resigned sigh, he keyed in a new destination. The Ship rumbled faintly beneath his boots, shifting reality around them with a familiar, gut-deep tremor. A soft ding announced their arrival at the Hot Spot.

  John moved to arm himself, strapping his guns back into place with practiced motions. The cold, familiar weight settled against his sides, and with it, a different kind of freedom — the kind that didn’t come with engines or speed, but with knowing he was no longer defenseless.

  He exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders as the Ship’s door slid open again.

  John’s Terminal buzzed. He groaned, already halfway to the exit, but paused to check the message.

  Chase: Hey man, sorry to bother you. I've been tasked with dealing with something back at the college. I'm stuck on the other side of the state. Could you check it out? It’d be a huge help.

  John squinted at the screen, suspicion prickling the back of his neck.

  "Is this a trap?" he muttered under his breath.

  He stood there, frowning. “If Chase wanted me dead, he wouldn’t bother with something this obvious.”

  John’s gaze flicked to the small counter at the corner of his vision — an promise of survival and retribution— before he sighed and started typing.

  Thomas: You lazy bastard. What do you want now? You think I’m just sitting on my ass?

  Chase: I’m sure you’re very busy with your scaly girlfriend, but this is easy. Just a routine sweep. Remember the fuss they made about opening that quantum computing lab?

  Thomas: Fuck off.

  Chase: Anyway. There was a fire a few days ago. Their new experimental chip went haywire. Way more calculations than it should’ve handled — hundreds of times over — then boom, up in flames.

  John leaned back against the wall, rubbing his face with a tired hand. A weird fire at a quantum lab didn’t exactly scream magic.

  Thomas: The Wolfheart do computer repairs now?

  Chase: Hilarious. Our sensors picked up some strange radiation. Probably just old equipment giving false alarms, but we have to be sure. Walk through under Glamour. See if you feel anything weird.

  John stared at the message for a long moment, his thumb hovering over the screen. "Can I even feel mana?" he whispered, glancing down at his gloved hand. The metal flexed over his knuckles as he clenched his fist. He shook his head, forcing a shrug. "I'll know if something's wrong."

  He tapped out his reply.

  Thomas: On it.

  Chase: You're a lifesaver.

  John stuffed the Terminal into his jacket pocket and stepped outside. The afternoon air hit him like a gentle slap, cool and salty from the nearby coast. The Hot Spot wasn't busy — just a few supernaturals wandering toward the Bazaar, their features behind Glamours of their own.

  The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

  A scrawny fishman brushed past him, and John’s gut twisted. For a split second, he wasn’t standing on cracked pavement — he was cut in half again, chest burning, blood spilling—

  "Fuck me," he muttered, jamming a cigarette between his lips. The first pull of nicotine steadied his hands as he set off toward the college.

  He wasn’t sure what unsettled him more: the mission itself, or the memories clawing their way up from the pit of his stomach. "I never thought I'd be back here," he said aloud as he crossed into the campus grounds.

  It was eerily empty. Graduation had come and gone, leaving only the ghosts of conversations and footsteps in the long, sun-bleached walkways.

  John stuffed his free hand into his pocket and wandered toward the far end, where the new building rose in stark, gleaming contrast to the old brick dorms.

  “Maybe I should pick up my diploma while I’m here,” he thought, smirking wryly. “All that cramming, all those sleepless nights... feels almost stupid now.”

  He stopped in front of the lab.

  Yellow warning tape flapped lazily across the entrance. Behind the locked glass doors, he could make out blackened scorch marks smeared across the white floors.

  "Chase wasn't kidding," he muttered, pressing his gloved hand against the door. Locked, of course.

  John glanced up and down the street. Empty.

  He closed his eyes, gathered himself—and punched clean through the glass.

  The shield woven into his armor shimmered faintly as shards rained down, and he stepped through the hole without missing a beat.

  "I never understood why people trust glass doors," he said, brushing glass dust from his sleeves. "Anyone determined enough could punch their way in."

  Inside, the air was thick and sharp with the stink of burnt plastic and chemicals. His boots crunched softly against debris as he made his way deeper, heart hammering harder than it should, even under Glamour.

  The deeper he went, the stronger the feeling grew — like the building was holding its breath.

  At the end of a darkened hallway, he found the wreckage.

  Two blackened double doors had been forced open with broken furniture jammed between them. Beyond, a gutted lab.

  The remnants of the quantum computer sat in the center of the room — or what was left of it.

  Copper plates twisted like melted taffy. Hundreds of delicate white tubes dangled limply, scorched and broken. And at the center, cutting through the machine like a wound in reality itself, was a perfect sphere of absence.

  John stepped closer, boots crunching over scorched tile.

  He crouched by the hole, staring. The edges were glass-smooth, the surrounding metal fused and bubbled as if reality itself had simply been scooped out.

  "I had no idea this could even happen," he muttered, reaching out to tap the melted frame. The metal was cold now, but something in the air still hummed.

  Quantum computers were supposed to be freezing cold, operating near absolute zero — not erupting into infernos.

  "I guess I shouldn’t be surprised," John said softly. "Nothing normal ever lasts around here."

  He straightened up, about to turn away — but his gaze was drawn back to the hole.

  The longer he looked, the stronger the feeling grew. Not just curiosity.

  Recognition.

  Like standing at the edge of something ancient, something waiting.

  His heart thudded once, heavy and slow, and for a moment the air around him seemed to ripple. John tore his gaze away with effort, shaking his head hard. "I'm just tired," he said aloud, voice harsh against the silence. "That’s all."

  Stuffing his hands into his jacket pockets, he made his way out of the ruined building, Terminal already in his hand.

  Thomas: You were right. Nothing in there aside from burned-out office supplies.

  Chase: Thanks, man. That’s one less thing on my hell-list. Mom’s still making me clean up everyone’s messes after... you know. Our little incident.

  John chuckled under his breath, the memory flashing sharp and vivid: a bunch of idiots, a warehouse, and a hundred-ton steel frame soaring into the stratosphere like a drunken firework.

  "Little incident," he muttered. "Sure."

  Thomas: Sounds rough.

  Chase didn’t miss a beat.

  Chase: Not as rough as your scaly girlfriend’s hands. Doesn’t it hurt when she—

  John rolled his eyes so hard he almost pulled something.

  He flicked his spent cigarette into the gutter and didn’t dignify Chase's idiocy with a response. "Back to work," he muttered to himself.

  He pushed through the heavy doors of the Hot Spot, the fast-food place's fry-grease smell sticking to his clothes as he slipped into the hidden side hallway. The door to the tunnels groaned open with a damp sigh.

  John descended alone into the cool, dripping dark — a quiet moment of peace he rarely found topside. He closed his eyes, listening to the soft trickle of water, the distant groan of old pipes.

  For a moment, he thought about just staying there.

  "Enough stalling," John muttered, and stepped through the portal.

  The Bazaar hit him like a freight train. Noise, smell, and color crashed over him — the shouts of merchants hawking their wares, the rich spice of cooking meat mixing with the metallic tang of mana in the air. Lanterns bobbed overhead, throwing rainbow reflections off the puddles between the worn cobbles.

  John exhaled and merged with the crowd.

  "Enchanting shops..." he muttered, threading his way past a shop selling solid flame cloaks and another flogging strange crystals. His eye caught a weapon dealer's shop, its gleaming wares stacked like firewood. One particular wand — molten and flowing, like a river of magma frozen mid-surge — almost pulled him off his feet.

  He stepped closer, hypnotized by its shifting glow.

  "Don't even think about it," John said aloud, shaking himself free. He smirked bitterly. "I'd probably blow my own damn hand off."

  Pushing through the crowd, it took another half hour before he stumbled on a smaller shop squeezed between two towering booths. The storefront was modest — but the array of enchanting stations on display was anything but.

  Massive slabs of stone, delicate metal contraptions, and rough-looking benches crammed every corner, each one humming softly with stored magic.

  "Alright," John muttered, eyeing a purple granite station that looked marginally less likely to bankrupt him. "Maybe something in my weight class."

  He pushed the door open — and immediately regretted it.

  The floor under his boots squelched like wet clay, the red carpet rippling as he walked. John grimaced, lifting one foot experimentally.

  "A shop that fights back. Great," he muttered, wobbling toward a display stand. He leaned in to study a placard covered in ornate, looping script — the letters swimming before his eyes like drunk fish.

  "I have no idea what any of this crap means," John sighed, running a hand through his hair.

  "May I assist you, esteemed customer?"

  The voice materialized behind him like a spring-loaded trap.

  John spun, hand already halfway to his pistol, heart hammering in his chest.

  A fae stood there, grinning like a child with a lit firecracker.

  He wore a ludicrous red top hat cocked at a jaunty angle, a crocodile-leather cardigan festooned with blue feathers, and polished boots so red they hurt to look at. His pants, a sharp jet-black, somehow managed to emphasize his absurdly long legs.

  "Jesus," John hissed, forcing his hand away from his weapon.

  "Oh my!" the fae sang, clutching his chest in mock surprise. "Forgive my terrible manners, honored guest! What may this humble merchant provide on this most auspicious of days?"

  John blinked, struggling to find his footing both literally and conversationally.

  "I..." he cleared his throat. "I need an enchanting station. Good quality. Not something that’ll crush me if I have to move it."

  The fae gasped, spinning in a dizzying pirouette that kicked up a swirl of mana-soaked dust.

  "A noble quest!" he cried. "A grand pursuit!"

  With a theatrical sweep of his arm, he gestured toward a display tucked into the back corner.

  John squinted — and felt his breath catch.

  A station crafted from deep blue stone — lapis lazuli threaded with veins of gold and silver that shimmered like trapped lightning. The surface was bisected by an ornate hinge, suggesting it could fold neatly in half. A stylus of pale silver, impossibly delicate, rested in its cradle alongside a braided copper cable.

  "This, sir, is the crown jewel of my collection!" the fae declared, voice swelling like a herald’s trumpet. "Velazurite, mined from the Royal Mines of Faerie itself! The finest conductivity, light as a songbird's feather, portable as a bard’s lute!"

  John folded his arms, arching a skeptical brow.

  "How much?" he asked, already bracing for impact.

  The fae spread his arms wide, as if revealing a grand cosmic secret.

  "For you, dear sir — a mere trifle! A pauper’s ransom! Only seven hundred thousand Credits!"

  John sputtered, practically choking on air.

  "That's—!" he managed.

  "The price of true craftsmanship is steep, but oh, the wonders you shall weave!" the fae crooned, stroking the station with reverent fingertips. "An elven master himself coaxed this beauty into being — and smuggling it out of Aetheris was a saga worthy of song!"

  "Right," John said, backing a half-step toward the door, which now felt disconcertingly far away.

  "Maybe... something a little less grand? A little less... financially ruinous?"

  The fae's eyes gleamed — sharp and amused, like a cat toying with a cornered mouse.

  "But would you, honored sir, settle for mediocrity?" he purred. "A craftsman such as yourself deserves only the finest instruments!"

  John narrowed his eyes.

  Something about the fae's knowing smile made the hair on his arms stand on end.

  "And what makes you think that?" John asked, his voice a low growl, thick with suspicion.

  The fae didn't flinch. Instead, he puffed up proudly, as if John had just complimented him.

  "My instincts as a salesman are sharper than any blade in this world!" he declared, sweeping his ridiculous hat off in a grandiose bow. "Working on delicate, intricate designs—" he tapped the side of his aquiline nose— "requires more than just a steady hand. You need the right tool... something that feels like an extension of your very soul."

  John's eyes narrowed. His fingers twitched at his sides. “I never said anything about fine work. Or about what I needed it for.” He whispered to himself.

  "Huh," he grunted, masking his unease. "Let's say I do need precision. For the price you're asking, I expect something—"

  "Fear not, esteemed customer!" the fae cried, cutting John off with a gleeful spin.

  In a flash of glittering light, he produced a massive black leather backpack out of thin air and thumped it down between them.

  "In this humble container, you will find a welcome package! Ample materials of various persuasions to begin your most noble journey in the art of enchanting!"

  "A welcome package?" John echoed, squinting warily at the bag.

  "But of course!" The fae’s grin was wide enough to split his face. He began pulling out bundles of metals and coils of shimmering wire.

  John crossed his arms. "Who said I was a beginner?"

  The fae clicked his tongue, wagging a gloved finger at him. "Ah, but did I not already say? My instincts as a salesman are sharper than the mightiest sword forged under three moons! And you, good sir, have the scent of someone just beginning a grand project, burdened by ambition, yet not by the scars of failure. Yet."

  John's mouth opened, then closed again. His gaze drifted to the backpack, then to the engraving station packed neatly into a polished wooden box. Odd golden patterns shimmered across its surface, shifting if he looked too long.

  "I never said I would buy it," John muttered, trying to push back against the weird current pulling him in.

  The fae leaned forward conspiratorially, voice dropping to a whisper.

  "A good engraving station," he said, "chooses its wielder."

  John blinked—and somehow found the backpack’s straps already slung over one shoulder. His hand, treacherous and eager, fished out the heavy sack of Credit Gems from his pocket almost without thought.

  "I—You know what, sure," John said, surrendering to the inevitable as he dropped the Gems into the fae’s waiting hands.

  The fae's smile became impossibly wide, eyes gleaming with something more than just glee.

  As John hefted the heavy box under one arm and buckled the backpack tight against his spine—it was almost heavy enough to fold him in half—he grunted, "It better be worth it."

  "A treasure for a treasure seeker!" the fae sang, bowing so low his hat brushed the malleable, slime-like carpet.

  John turned toward the exit, shouldering the impossible weight. A few paces outside the door, a thought occurred to him.

  "Now that I think of it... what was the name of that—?"

  He spun around.

  The shop was gone.

  Not just closed—gone.

  The narrow alley behind him stretched empty, hemmed in by grimy stalls and the neon glow of the Bazaar's ceaseless chaos. No trace of the bizarre little store, not even a footprint in the warped, soft ground.

  "I got scammed," John sighed, rubbing his forehead. He leaned against a nearby wall and pulled out his battered Terminal, tapping quickly.

  Lines of results flooded the screen.

  One caught his eye, bold and half-crazed in tone:

  "To those rare few he deemed worthy, he would appear without warning between stalls or in the flicker of a passing crowd, offering equipment so finely crafted that even Archmages would weep to own a piece. His wares shimmered with impossible precision, imbued with magics lost to all but the deepest folds of Faerie. Yet for most, the Redcap Merchant remained a myth, a mirage spun by wishful fools; after all, who could trust the promises of a fae who came and went like smoke, leaving only empty air and aching longing behind."

  John snorted.

  "I bet he wrote that himself," he muttered. "Magical equivalent of leaving yourself a five-star review."

  Still, the more he scrolled, the more the stories aligned—different cities, different people, the same impossible details.

  His heart thudded uncomfortably fast.

  “Maybe it's not a total hoax. Maybe.”

  He grunted under the absurd weight of his cargo, muscles straining as he staggered through the Bazaar. Minutes bled into aching, sweat-soaked eternities before he finally clambered back aboard the Ship, all but collapsing inside.

  John dropped to his knees, panting.

  "Fuck me, that was—"

  He froze mid-sentence, blinking dumbly at the sight in front of him.

  The Ship’s new workbench had changed yet again. In the new left section sat the engraving station, humming quietly like a heart ready to beat. Around it, neat drawers slid open one by one, each packed with the supplies from the fae’s backpack.

  John stretched a trembling hand forward and touched the surface. It felt cool, alive.

  "...Thanks," he whispered, half to himself, half to the Ship.

  He sat back on his heels, utterly lost for words.

  “Was I scammed? Or is this… something else?”

  The only answer was the faint, rhythmic hum of the station—the sound of something waiting to be awakened.

  "Anyways," John grumbled, sinking into the brand-new seat that had somehow materialized in front of the expanded workbench. The leather creaked under his weight, the entire setup gleaming under the soft, golden overhead light the Ship had kindly provided.

  His fingers drummed against the smooth surface.

  "How does this even work?" he muttered. He grabbed a thin square of metal from a neatly sorted drawer—polished bronze, if he had to guess, though the faint orange accents threading through it were new to him.

  A stylus, slim and elegant, practically leapt into his other hand the moment he reached for it. It was feather-light, buzzing faintly with energy that prickled up his arm like static.

  John eyed it warily. "Okay, so... do I just—?"

  He pressed the stylus against the surface of the bronze plate.

  He expected resistance. Maybe a scrape, maybe a little scoring if he pressed hard enough.

  Instead, the tip of the stylus sank through the metal like butter, parting the polished sheet with shocking ease. A single, trembling motion cleaved the entire plate clean in two, the halves sliding apart with a whisper.

  John blinked down at the ruined slab, still holding the stylus frozen in mid-air. "...Oh."

  He grimaced, turning the pieces over in his hands. The edges weren't even clean—they were jagged, melted, almost weeping raw, liquid metal that cooled the moment he touched it.

  "I guess that's why I have you, huh?" John muttered, glancing sidelong at the dormant miniature milling machine perched further down the workbench.

  He set the ruined metal down carefully, wary of cutting himself, and adjusted the chair so he could face the milling machine directly.

  The stylus pulsed gently in his hand, almost as if it were eager. John exhaled slowly, trying to steady his nerves.

  "Something tells me," he said aloud, half to the Ship, half to himself, "that we're going to have a lot of work ahead of us."