The Next Day
I woke up a little late. Everyone had already gone to their respective workspaces by the time I dragged myself out of bed.
After getting ready, I headed downstairs and found Rex cheerfully chewing on my sandal.
"Dude, do we not feed you enough?"
He just barked at me and wagged his tail like he was waiting for a round of applause. I shook my head, patted him anyway, clipped on his leash, and took him with me to the hideout.
At the hideout, I was already in my workout clothes when I summoned Drake.
"So, ready to continue?"
I was just about to say yes when my phone buzzed. I glanced at the screen. Shane.
"Hey, what's up?"
"What's up genius is you forgot something."
I paused. "I forgot... oh, shit. School."
My heart dropped — and not because being late would get me in trouble. I wasn't scared of school. I had a pretty quiet school life compared to most people my age, apart from the occasional hallway scuffle, but those don't really count.
No. What I was scared of was my homeroom teacher.
Miss Charlotte.
"Hey, any chance you can come with me? You know, if you're free?"
Dead silence for a second.
"Oh, absolutely not. After my last encounter with that woman, I want nothing to do with her.God knows how she got my number(i gave her for emergencies ). You're on your own, buddy. Good luck."
He hung up.
I looked over at Drake, who was watching me with a raised brow.
"I have never seen you this unsettled before," he said slowly. "Who is this Charlotte? A general? A warlord?"
"More like an executioner. And I have to go see her voluntarily."
He looked genuinely horrified. I desummoned him before he could say anything else, and he dissolved back into the mindspace.
I took Rex home, left him with food and water, and headed out to Redcrest High.
I slipped through the school gate with the energy of someone walking into a courtroom. Found the teachers' block, found her cabin, and stood in front of the door.
Tok. Tok. Tok.
"Come in," came the reply — soft, almost musical. The kind of voice a stranger might compare to an angel.
I knew better.
I stepped inside. Miss Charlotte was seated behind her desk in a fitted formal blazer and pencil skirt, square-framed glasses perched on her nose, posture perfectly straight. Her black hair had streaks of purple running through it, and her dark eyes didn't even flick up from the papers in front of her when I walked in.
Honestly, if you didn't know her, you'd think she walked out of a fashion magazine.
I know her.
I quietly made my way to the chair across from her desk.
"Sit."
I sat.
She set her pen down and finally looked at me with a calm, pleasant smile that did not reach her eyes.
"So. You finally graced me with your presence." She folded her hands. "Must have been a very busy month."
"Yeah, I — I was caught up with some stuff at home, helping my parents out, and I just... lost track of time."
"Helping your parents. How lovely." She tilted her head slightly. "And your phone? That also got busy? Because every time I tried calling, it seemed like someone had blocked my number."
I broke into a cold sweat.
"Ha... yeah, my sister probably messed with my phone settings." I threw my sister under the bus without hesitation.
Miss Charlotte held my gaze for a moment longer than was comfortable, then smoothly slid a stack of paperwork across the desk.
"Finish these. And then you're coming with me."
My shoulders sank. I accepted my fate and got to work.
An hour later, I was in the passenger seat of Miss Charlotte's car, watching the city scroll past the window and quietly preparing myself.
Now, I know how this sounds. So far she probably doesn't seem that bad — a little intimidating, sure, a little eccentric, but not outright dangerous. And on the surface, I'd agree with you.
But it's never that simple.
We pulled up outside the Golden Rook, one of those mid-tier casinos that doesn't ask too many questions and minds its own business. Mirrored glass exterior, a doorman who'd seen everything twice, the faint sound of slot machines leaking out every time the doors opened.
Here's how this started.
A while back, I was tracking down a pair of school bullies who I'd heard liked to hang around places they had no business being. I ended up at this exact casino and ran into Miss Charlotte at one of the blackjack tables, down bad and stress-drinking a glass of water with the energy of someone considering a life change.
I watched for a bit. Her problem wasn't luck — she was just playing sloppy, not paying attention to the table.
I'm observant by nature. Overly cautious, maybe. But that means I notice things. And what I noticed was that the shoe — the deck dispenser on the table — was running lean on high cards. I started tracking mentally. Running count, true count adjusted for decks remaining, the whole thing. Basic Hi-Lo system. You assign a value to each card as it's dealt: low cards like 2 through 6 count as +1, 7 through 9 are neutral, and 10s, face cards, and aces are -1. The higher the running count, the more high cards left in the shoe, which means better odds for the player. You adjust by dividing by the estimated number of decks remaining to get the true count, and that tells you when to raise your bet and when to stay quiet.
I leaned in and started feeding her quiet cues. Small adjustments. When to stay, when to double down, when to increase her bet. She caught on fast — I'll give her that — and by the end of the night she'd turned her session completely around.
She was grateful. Suspiciously so.
She took me to her apartment saying she wanted to thank me for my help with a treat.
And then I made the mistake of feeling sorry for the state of her apartment and offering to cook something before I left.
That was the end of my freedom.
Since that night, every time we meet, I'm on cooking duty. And apparently, I'm also her personal lucky charm for casino runs.
Today was no different. We took our seats at a blackjack table, and I settled into the quiet rhythm of tracking. Running count in my head, watching the cards flip, giving her the smallest signals — a shift in posture, where I rested my hand on the table. She'd raise her bet when I tapped once, pull back when I didn't. The dealer burned through two shoes and we came out clean, steadily up.
Then the pit boss started paying too much attention. A suited guy with a radio clipped to his belt drifted closer to our table. The classic tell.
"Time to go," I murmured.
Miss Charlotte looked like she wanted to argue, but she'd learned to trust the read. She cashed out smoothly, didn't rush, smiled at the dealer, and we walked out at a casual pace before anyone could make it official.
Outside, she exhaled sharply.
"Limp dicks," she muttered. "I was on a streak. That's literally how gambling works — sometimes people win. How dare they."
I smiled helplessly and followed her back to the car.
We reached her apartment building and pulled into the underground parking garage. The moment the engine cut off, something shifted.
The air got still.
Too still.
I knew this feeling.
Spectres.
I was about to say something when my eyes met Miss Charlotte's — and the world tilted. A sudden wave of dizziness hit me like a wall and my legs gave out.
(Charlotte's P.O.V.)
Kray dropped without warning. I caught him before he hit the concrete, grabbed him under the arms, hauled him back into the car, and shut the door.
I straightened up.
At the far end of the parking garage, something large was already moving fast — a berserker-class spectre, dense with corrupted energy, the kind that didn't stalk, it just charged. It had probably been waiting.
One moment I was standing beside the car. The next, I was in front of it.
My hand drove into the creature's chest before it could close the distance. My fingers didn't stop at the surface — they went through, past bone and something that wasn't quite flesh, and found whatever passed for a core in something like this.
"You interrupted my time with my beloved," I said quietly. "You deserve every second of what's coming. But I'm in a hurry, so just die for me."
I pulled my hand back.
It wasn't a hand anymore. The fingers had lengthened and curved into something closer to a claw, dark at the tips. Flame caught along my knuckles — low and controlled — and I let it drop onto the collapsing body.
The fire didn't spread. It was precise. It burned the corpse down, scorched the blood off the concrete, cleaned the stains off my skin, and went out.
My hand returned to normal. I smoothed my blazer, walked back to the car, and slid into the driver's seat.
Kray was still slumped against the window. I reached over and shook his shoulder.
He stirred slowly, blinking like someone surfacing from deep water.
"What..."
"You find my presence so soothing that you just dozed off," I said cheerfully. "Sweet, really. But that's not getting you out of cooking. Let's go."
He blinked at me a few more times, then just shook his head and got out of the car.
Kray's P.O.V.
Well. That was something.
Miss Charlotte didn't know this, but I hadn't actually passed out. The dizziness hit hard and real, but I caught myself on the edge of it — enough to stay still, keep my breathing shallow, and watch through the gap in my lashes.
What I saw made my mind go very quiet.
I followed her into the elevator and stared at the floor numbers ticking upward, running the thought over and over in my head like I was trying to find a different conclusion.
How many people around me are connected to the supernatural?
I didn't have an answer.
Something told me I was going to find out.