CHAPTER 39: CHAPTER 39

Frank woke up with a dull ache pulsing behind his left eye.

Stone beneath his back. Dust in his mouth. Rope around his wrists.

And a circle of cloaked silhouettes standing just outside the ring of flickering torchlight.

"Always with the dramatic lighting," he muttered, voice hoarse.

A boot nudged his side—not rough, but just enough to remind him he wasn’t alone.

"You’re awake."

He rolled onto his side and caught sight of Juliet—chained, not tied, back to a rusted pillar. Her lip was split. Her glare could’ve melted iron.

"You okay?" he asked.

"Peachy," she said. "You?"

"Oh, you know. Great ambiance. Five-star service."

She huffed. "Still doing the sarcasm thing?"

"It’s how I process being kidnapped for a second time this month."

One of the cultists stepped forward, lowering his hood. Pale skin. Scar along his chin. He didn’t look mystical—just tired, like someone who believed hard enough that he didn’t need answers anymore.

"You walked into our space," he said. "You placed yourself in the circle. The entity accepted that as consent."

Frank squinted. "I didn’t consent to anything but breaking up your chalk art."

"You were seen," the man said evenly. "Marked. Your silence vibrated."

Juliet muttered, "What does that even mean?"

The cultist ignored her.

Another figure approached from the side—a woman, older, eyes closed, lips moving silently. She carried a bowl of black water, which she gently placed beside Frank’s head.

"He’s a vessel," she whispered.

Frank looked up. "I’m a what now?"

"A carrier. Of weight. Of noise. The entity will pass through him cleanly."

"That sounds... terminal."

The woman dipped her fingers into the bowl and began painting something across Frank’s forehead—lines, circles, a symbol he couldn’t see but felt pulling something out of him. Memory? Thought? Breath?

Juliet struggled against her chains.

"You don’t know what you’re doing!" she barked. "You’re working with half a book and dead language symbols!"

"We don’t need to understand it," the first cultist said. "We only need it to work."

He turned to the others.

"Begin the hour."

Torches dimmed.

The stone under Frank’s back vibrated slightly.

Far above them, the city went still.

Frank’s eyelids grew heavy.

The chanting faded in and out like someone was tuning a broken radio. The light around him shifted—dim, then blinding, then something colder than darkness.

His arms wouldn’t move right.

His chest tightened like the air was turning thick, syrupy.

Is this what it feels like?

To be emptied?

Voices swam around him—chanting, whispering, hissing. But they weren’t just around him anymore. They were inside, echoing off thoughts he didn’t remember having.

"Frank."

He blinked.

It wasn’t Juliet. It wasn’t the cultists.

It was himself.

His voice, but wrong—tilted, hollow, distant.

"Frank."

He shook his head.

No. Not going there.

He forced a breath. Slow. Shaky.

Anchor yourself.

Juliet.

He looked toward her—still chained, eyes on him, jaw tight.

She mouthed: Don’t you dare fall asleep.

He exhaled again.

Then shifted his wrists—testing the rope. Not ordinary. Waxed. Reinforced.

But not unbreakable.

He blinked twice, forcing his system awake. The interface flickered sluggishly—lagging, hazy.

[SYSTEM: STRAINED MODE – ACCESS LIMITED]

Fine. He didn’t need full access. Just one trick.

He rolled his fingers, inch by inch, until they brushed the edge of something in his sleeve—

The flare bead.

Small. Glass. One-use.

His backup backup.

He curled his fingers tighter, drawing it against the edge of his palm.

The cultists hadn’t noticed.

They were too busy humming. Rocking slightly. Repeating the same phrase.

"The silence carries him. The weight marks him. The hollow receives."

Frank’s chest burned.

The symbols across his skin itched, like they were burrowing.

His vision blurred.

He gritted his teeth.

Now or never.

He crushed the bead.

FLASH.

A burst of white-blue light exploded across the ritual chamber. The older cultist screamed, stumbling backward. The water bowl shattered beside Frank’s head, flooding the floor with black ripples.

Juliet kicked the stunned figure in front of her, grabbing his wrist with her chained hands.

Frank rolled—free hand still bound, but now loose—and slammed his shoulder against the stone floor, twisting the rope against a sharp edge of the ritual plate.

Snap. Burn. Freedom.

Juliet grunted. "You good?"

"Define good," Frank gasped, staggering upright. "Still got two arms. Half a soul. Let’s go."

They turned—

But the tunnel exit was blocked.

Three more figures stood there now.

And the first cultist—the one who marked him—was already recovering.

He looked up at Frank, not afraid.

Just... smiling.

"The entity’s awake now," he said softly.

"You can’t outrun it."

Frank grabbed Juliet’s hand and muttered, "Watch me try."

Smoke lingered in the air—thick, heavy, almost oily.

The chalk circle had shattered under the flash. The black water had spilled and pooled uselessly into the cracks of the floor. And the torches that once flickered with eerie confidence were now stuttering. Dying.

Frank stood with one arm braced around Juliet, breathing hard, waiting for—

Something.

A howl.

A shimmer.

A shift in the world.

But...

Nothing.

No entity emerged from the circle.

No great voice filled the chamber.

No vessel was claimed.

Just silence.

Real silence.

The kind that doesn’t wait to be filled.

Juliet coughed, wiping blood from her lip. "Is this it?"

Frank looked around.

The cultists weren’t charging them.

They weren’t even speaking.

The man with the scar—the one who marked him—stared at the ruined floor like a broken child.

"She said it would come," he murmured.

The older woman with the bowl had dropped to her knees, rocking slightly, whispering a phrase over and over:

"It was supposed to open... it was supposed to open..."

One of the robed figures backed into a wall and slid down, arms clutched around his knees.

Another looked to the ceiling like it would crack open and prove them right.

Nothing did.

Frank took a slow step toward the circle. His voice cut through the chamber like a knife.

"You did all that..."

"...and whatever you were calling decided to ghost you?"

No one responded.

Juliet spat to the side. "Some god. Too busy to show up."

The scarred man looked at Frank, desperate now. "It saw you. It marked you. It wanted—"

"It didn’t want me," Frank said. "It ignored you."

That sentence hit harder than the flash.

Frank turned to Juliet. "Let’s get out of here before they decide to take it personally."

She didn’t argue.

They moved fast—through the crumbling tunnel, past the burnt-out tags and bloodless threats.

No one stopped them.

No one even followed.

When they reached the street, the wind was cold.

Frank looked up at the stars.

Still there.

Still silent.

He let out a breath.

Juliet spoke beside him. "They didn’t summon anything."

"No," Frank said. "But they believed they did."

She glanced sideways. "And that’s almost worse."

Frank nodded.

Then, after a pause:

"...I’m starving."

Juliet gave a tired laugh. "Want tea?"

"Only if I get to sit down and not be chanted at."

"Deal."

The tunnel stank of burnt wax, wet blood, and failure.

The surviving cultists lingered in silence, standing around the ruined circle—some shaking, others kneeling, too stunned to speak.

"We did everything right," one of them muttered, voice cracking. "The markings were perfect. We followed the rhythm. It should have come..."

"The silence answered before," the scarred man rasped. "He shimmered. I saw it. The ritual was working—"

"—until it wasn’t," a younger woman snapped. "Until he broke it."

"It’s not supposed to break," the oldest among them whispered. "Nothing is supposed to break it."

Then—footsteps.

Calm. Sharp. Drawing closer through the dark like judgment.

All heads turned toward the tunnel’s entrance.

A figure emerged from the shadow—tall, cloaked in deep black, face hidden by a low hood stitched with red thread. The hem of his robe dragged across the blood-stained floor like a final line being drawn.

The cultists stepped back.

One tried to speak. "We thought—we thought it was time. He fit the profile. The entity—"

The voice under the hood cut him off.

Low. Cold. Controlled.

"You thought?"

The group stiffened.

"No order was given," the leader said, stepping into the ruined circle. "No permission. No alignment. You acted on your own."

"We—we saw signs!" the scarred man said quickly. "The symbols—he matched! The entity—it lingered around him—"

"And yet," the leader said, turning his head slightly, "you summoned nothing."

The oldest cultist stepped forward shakily. "We just wanted to prove it was real."

"You proved you are impatient," the leader said. "And careless."

A beat of silence.

Then the voice sharpened.

"You risked exposure. You wasted a sealed site. And you failed to contain a witness."

"We can find him again," the younger cultist blurted. "We—we know his name. He escaped, but he’s not far."

The hooded figure turned to him.

The room felt like it dropped in temperature.

"You spoke to him?"

"We saw him. We tried to stop him. But he fought back."

"His name?" the leader asked.

The cultist hesitated, glancing at the blood pooled near the edge of the circle.

Then he said, quietly:

"Frank Hagan."

Stillness.

The other cultists flinched as if the name itself burned.

The leader stood silent.

Then, softly:

"Say it again."

"...Frank. Hagan."

The name echoed through the stone like a promise.

The leader turned slowly.

And moved.

A flick of the wrist—steel flashed.

The speaker dropped with a choked gasp, blood pooling beneath him.

Screams rose—but only for a moment.

The others tried to run. One made it three steps.

The leader killed each without pause. No rage. No fury.

Just... cleansing.

Until the chamber was silent again—truly silent.

He stood over the last body, then crouched beside it.

Whispered:

"You were right. He shimmered."

He stood.

And as he walked away, voice soft beneath his breath:

"Frank Hagan... we see you now."