My stomach wasn't just rumbling. It was full-on performing an opera of despair, complete with dramatic rumbling and what felt like internal biting. Twelve hours. That's how long it had been since my last "meal"—a half-eaten bagel I'd found fossilized in my purse.
Being broke? Old news. But this broke, this hungry, on this particular street corner, waiting for a bus that was clearly a myth? Felt like a new, deeply humbling low.
I slumped against a wall that probably qualified as modern art. My oversized messenger bag slumped with me. Inside? Three things: a crumpled résumé, a single tube of aggressively hopeful red lipstick, and a bus pass on its last two rides. The glamour of freelance modeling, folks. Mostly overwhelming debt and the constant threat of eviction. Living the dream, truly.
Then, a weird static zipped through the air. Not sound static, more like the world itself hiccupped. The hairs on my arms stood at attention. Probably just a migraine making a dramatic entrance. My brain loved to do that when stress and starvation teamed up for a party.
I was mentally listing my combat boots on eBay for emergency bus fare. That's when a figure peeled himself from the flow of pedestrians. He was too… perfect. Like he'd walked off a magazine cover and accidentally ended up in my reality.
Blonde hair slicked back. Suit sharp enough to perform impromptu surgery. Eyes the color of melted silver. He moved with an unnerving, predatory grace. Like he knew you wouldn't run. What was the point?
He stopped right in front of me. A smile bloomed on his face, but it didn't quite reach those unsettling eyes. "Sera Quinn?" His voice was smooth, like expensive whiskey. But with an edge. Like that whiskey came with a free poison chaser.
My first thought, fueled by pure hangriness: How does he know my name? Does my aura just scream 'easily exploitable'? My second: Is this a scam? Because I don't even have scam money. I pushed off the wall. I tried to look less like a defeated urban goblin and more like... well, someone not about to cry over a missed bus.
"Depends who's asking," I replied, channeling my inner sarcastic shieldmaiden. It usually worked. Or, at the very least, it made me feel marginally less pathetic.
He chuckled, a low, pleasant sound that still felt manufactured. "My apologies. Lucien. I represent... a rather exclusive agency." He extended a perfectly manicured hand. I hesitated. Mostly because I suspected shaking it might involve glitter or sudden commitment to a pyramid scheme. His grip was firm. And strangely cold.
"Exclusive, huh?" I quirked an eyebrow. "Last agency said my 'look' was 'challenging.' Pretty sure that translates to 'not generic enough for fast fashion, too broke for haute couture.'"
Lucien's smile widened. "Your look, Ms. Quinn, is precisely what we're seeking. It's… uniquely resonant. We specialize in capturing the essence, the very imprint of a subject. Our campaigns offer unparalleled exposure."
Exposure. Right. The industry's favorite four-letter word for "you're not getting paid." Exposure didn't pay rent. Or buy food. My stomach staged another, more dramatic protest. It was now doing the Cha-Cha of Calamity.
"Unparalleled exposure sounds amazing," I said dryly. A performance worthy of an Oscar. "Does this unparalleled exposure come with, say, actual money? Or perhaps a voucher for a decent meal? Because my insides are currently auditioning for a horror movie."
Lucien tilted his head. Those silver eyes studied me with an unnerving, almost x-ray intensity. Like he was reading my soul, not just my crumpled résumé. "Our compensation packages are highly competitive. And yes," he paused, a glimmer of amusement in his peculiar eyes, "we can certainly arrange immediate sustenance. You look… famished."
Famished? Understatement of the century. I was entering the 'consideration for cannibalism' phase. But still, this was too weird. Guys this polished didn't just materialize out of thin air, offering modeling contracts on sketchy street corners. My static-sensing thing was practically screaming.
"Alright, Lucien," I said, my voice laced with enough suspicion to curdle milk. "Let's hear it. What's the catch? Because my life isn't exactly known for random acts of financial betterment. More like random acts of my landlord showing up unexpectedly."
He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice conspiratorially. Not another soul nearby paid us any mind. The world felt… muted around us. A subtle scent of ozone, like after a lightning strike, just barely touched the air.
"No catch, Ms. Quinn. Simply an opportunity for… immortal branding. For your image to be etched into the fabric of existence."
Immortal branding? Fabric of existence?This guy was either a performance artist, a cult recruiter, or speaking some bizarre industry jargon. Given the silver eyes and the distinct lack of a shadow under the bright afternoon sun, I leaned hard towards "total creep" with a side of "possibly not entirely human." And honestly, a little bit of "I need coffee."
"Look," I said, running a hand through my already messy bun. "I appreciate the… unique pitch. But I'm not sure what kind of 'exposure' you're talking about. And 'immortal branding' sounds less like modeling and more like... getting a really permanent tattoo in a really awkward place. Like, a tramp stamp of destiny."
He smiled again, that same unsettling, perfectly carved smile. "Think of it less as a tattoo, and more as… soul alignment. Ensuring your presence resonates across various planes. It's cutting-edge. Revolutionary. Requires minimal effort on your part, only… your full agreement."
Soul alignment? Planes? What in the actual hell was this guy talking about? Was this an incredibly elaborate prank? Or had my hunger finally driven me to hallucinate a handsome, possibly vampiric, marketing executive? I pinched my arm. Yep. Awake. And definitely starving.
Every instinct screamed, "RUN, YOU FOOL!" But the image of a hot meal flickered in my mind. A real one. Maybe with fries. Crispy, salty, life-giving fries. Desperation, they say, is a powerful motivator. And my desperation was currently loud enough to drown out the blaring sirens in my brain.
"Okay, slow down," I said, holding up a hand. "Let's back up. You're offering me a modeling contract. For… immortal branding and soul alignment. Right?"
"Precisely," Lucien confirmed, looking far too pleased with himself.
"And this requires 'minimal effort' and my 'full agreement'?"
"Correct."
"And it pays... competitively?" I emphasized the word, just in case he thought "eternal soul glory" was enough.
"Generously," he corrected smoothly. "Think of it as compensation for the... eternal exposure your image will receive."
Eternal exposure. Okay, new one. Usually, they just promised you'd be "seen." This guy was promising I'd be seen forever. Which, for someone perpetually terrified of being invisible, was perversely appealing. Even if it sounded like something a deranged sorcerer would offer.
"And where," I asked, narrowing my eyes, "is this agency located? Do you have a card? A website? An actual office that doesn't look like it's located in the Twilight Zone, or, you know, a very chic cave?"
Lucien reached into his impossibly perfect jacket. He didn't pull out a card. He pulled out a roll of parchment that looked like it belonged in a museum exhibit labeled "Ancient Spooky Stuff." It was tied with a thin black ribbon and unfurled slightly. The edges were singed. The paper itself seemed to absorb the light around it.
"Our operations are… mobile," he said, presenting the parchment. "Think of this as a… preliminary agreement. A statement of intent."
A preliminary agreement on ancient, spooky parchment? This was crazier than my last ex's dating profile. My common sense was staging a full-blown walk-out. My stomach, however, was chanting, "Fries! Fries! Fries!"
I stared at the parchment. Strange symbols swirled across the surface like tiny, agitated galaxies. It felt cool to the touch, almost vibrating with faint energy. Definitely not standard modeling agency fare. Unless standard modeling agencies had pivoted to arcane arts.
"This isn't... a standard contract," I stated. Sometimes stating the obvious helps you feel less like you're losing your mind.
"It's a bespoke agreement," Lucien corrected, his tone still maddeningly polite. "Tailored to your unique… attributes."
My unique attributes apparently required a contract written in blood and signed with a raven's feather. Fantastic. Just fantastic.
"And if I... hypothetically... signed this... bespoke agreement," I continued, voice dripping with skepticism, "what exactly would I be agreeing to? Besides eternal exposure and soul alignment? Because frankly, it sounds like I'm signing up for a very niche spiritual pyramid scheme."
"To the terms outlined within," Lucien said, his silver eyes locking onto mine. "To a partnership that transcends… conventional boundaries. To a future where your presence is… undeniable."
Undeniable presence. Okay, he was really leaning into my "invisible Sera" insecurity. It was almost impressive how precisely he was targeting my deepest fears and desires. All wrapped up in this utterly absurd package.
"Can I... read it?" I asked, gesturing to the parchment. Seemed like a reasonable request, even if it looked like a prop from a horror movie. Or a very exclusive LARP event.
"Of course," he said, handing it to me. The parchment felt surprisingly light. But the energy humming within it was stronger now. It tickled my fingertips. I squinted at the swirling symbols. They didn't form words I knew, but there was a sense of meaning. A pulse beneath the surface. Like looking at a language that existed just outside my understanding. A language of eternal glamour, probably.
My head started to throb. The static feeling intensified. It made it hard to focus. Maybe this was just a really bad migraine interacting with my hunger. Yeah, that was probably it. Nothing supernatural about a hot guy with weird eyes offering you a creepy contract on the street. Totally normal Tuesday. Nothing to see here.
I looked back at Lucien. He watched me, that unnerving smile still in place. He didn't seem to sweat. Or blink much. Or cast a shadow. Okay, maybe not totally normal. A faint, almost imperceptible shimmer seemed to follow his movements.
"Look," I said, pushing the parchment back slightly. "This is... a lot. And frankly, it sounds a little crazy. Can you just... give me your number? Or a normal business card? Something I can take away and think about without feeling like I'm about to be initiated into a cult, or worse, a multi-level marketing scheme for souls?"
Lucien paused. His smile didn't falter, but something shifted in his eyes. A flicker of... calculation? Impatience? "Ah, yes. A point of contact. Of course." He reached into his jacket again. This time he pulled out a simple, elegant black card. No logo, just a name and a number in stark white text.
Lucien
[A String of Numbers]
He handed it to me. The card felt cool, like the parchment, but inert. Just a number. Something tangible. Something I could call if I decided this wasn't just a fever dream brought on by starvation and a desperate need for fries.
I took the card, tucking it into my bag next to the crumpled résumé. "Okay. I'll... think about it. It's just... 'soul alignment' is a pretty big leap from 'posing for a catalog.'"
"Indeed," Lucien said, his voice soft, almost a purr. "But the greatest rewards often require the largest leaps of faith. Or… signature." He gestured back to the parchment, which seemed to glow faintly.
My eyes drifted back to the ancient-looking paper. The strange symbols pulsed faintly. A wave of dizziness washed over me. Hunger, definitely hunger. And maybe a little existential dread brought on by a conversation about immortal branding.
Lucien held out a pen. It was sleek, black, and looked like polished obsidian. It felt unnervingly heavy.
"The agreement is rather time-sensitive," he added, his tone gentle but insistent. "Opportunities for this level of… integration do not arise frequently. Think of it as a flash sale, but for your eternal essence."
Time-sensitive. Of course it was. Nothing like pressure to make a terrible decision. My hand hovered over the parchment. My brain screamed no way. My stomach screamed just sign the damn thing and ask about the food later, you idiot! Crispy fries await!
The image of crispy, salty fries flashed behind my eyes. And the thought of finally, finally having enough money to not worry about the next meal, the next bill. The "eternal exposure" part, the "soul alignment" part… maybe that was just marketing speak? Really, really weird marketing speak? Or perhaps it was some new, incredibly meta performance art piece that paid really well. A girl could dream.
My fingers trembled slightly as I took the obsidian pen. It felt warm now, buzzing faintly, like a tiny, hungry bee. Lucien's silver eyes seemed to glow brighter as I took it. He looked expectant. Patient, in a way that suggested he knew exactly what I was going to do.
Against every instinct honed by years of navigating sketchy situations, driven by the primal urge to quell the rebellion in my gut, I lowered the pen to the parchment.
The tip of the pen touched the paper. It didn't leave ink.
It bled black.
A thin line of inky black spread from where the pen touched, following the path of the strange symbols. The humming intensified, vibrating up my arm. The black line solidified into a shimmering, raised pattern.
My phone, still in my bag, emitted a high-pitched shriek and went dead. The air around me grew cold. A faint, almost imperceptible chill that wasn't just the wind. And on the back of my left hand, just below the knuckle, a small, crescent-shaped mark burned into existence. It glowed with the same inky black light as the writing on the parchment. It felt like my skin was being branded. Ouch. On the bright side, at least it wasn't a tramp stamp.
Pain shot up my arm, cold and sharp. The world warped around the edges. Colors deepened into impossible shades of purple and black. The static feeling wasn't a migraine anymore. It was the sound of reality tearing. Or maybe my brain finally snapped.
I gasped, dropping the pen. It clattered on the sidewalk with a sound like bone. My hand felt like it was on fire, the crescent mark pulsing with a sinister light.
Lucien smiled, a smile that was now all teeth and no warmth. "Congratulations, Ms. Quinn," he said, his voice a low hum that resonated in my bones, like a really expensive cello. "The contract is signed. You are now… bound."
My knees gave out. The street swam before my eyes. Bound? What the hell had I just signed? Was this a contract with a modeling agency or the devil? Probably both.
And then, the world went black. Seriously, fries better be involved in this deal. After all this, I deserve them.