A week passed after my night with Malachai at the warehouse. A week of restless sleep, of dreams filled with writhing shadows and glowing red eyes. A week of the hunger growing steadily stronger, a constant ache inside me that no amount of normal food could satisfy.
I tried to ignore it. I went to work, paid my bills, called Emma to assure her I was fine. I pretended nothing had changed. But every time I passed a stranger on the street, I found myself automatically assessing their aura, noting the patterns of light and darkness that surrounded them.
Most were unremarkable ordinary people with ordinary sins. But occasionally, I'd spot someone whose darkness called to me, whose corruption sang to the hunger inside. Each time, I'd hurry past, fighting the urge to reach out and touch their mind, to taste the darkness they harbored.
By the eighth day, I couldn't take it anymore. I called Malachai and told him I was ready...
"I know," he replied, his voice calm as always. "Meet me at the café on Broughton Street in one hour."
The café was upscale, all polished wood and soft lighting. Malachai sat at a corner table, a folder placed neatly before him. He wore a charcoal suit today, impeccably tailored, looking for all the world like a successful businessman having a casual coffee.
I slid into the seat across from him, my hands trembling slightly. "How did you know I'd call today?"
"The hunger follows a predictable pattern," he said, pushing a cup of tea toward me. "You lasted longer than most. You have surprising self-control."
"It doesn't feel like control," I muttered, wrapping my fingers around the warm cup. "It feels like I'm barely hanging on."
"Which is why we're here." Malachai opened the folder, turning it so I could see its contents. "Gregory Harmon. Fifty-three years old. Chief executive of Harmon Financial Group."
I looked down at the photograph of a distinguished-looking man with silver-streaked dark hair and confident eyes. His expression was pleasant, professional, the kind of face that inspired trust.
"What did he do?" I asked, studying the photo.
"His specialty is targeting the vulnerable," Malachai explained, in a dispassionate voice. "Elderly retirees, struggling single parents, working-class families. His company offers high-interest loans with deliberately confusing terms. When clients inevitably fall behind, he takes everything. their homes, savings, collateral."
I looked up from the photo. "That's predatory, but it's not exactly murder."
"Seven of his clients have committed suicide in the past two years alone," Malachai countered. "Three families with young children are currently homeless due to his company's practices. A retired couple in their eighties were forced to live in their car after losing the home they'd owned for forty years." His expression remained neutral, but I sensed anger beneath the calm surface. "And he knows exactly what happens to these people, but he simply doesn't care."
I thought of the man in the gray suit from the bar, how his darkness had called to me. "Have you verified his aura?" I asked.
Malachai nodded. "His corruption runs deep. Not violent like our friend from the warehouse, but insidious in its own way. Decades of calculated cruelty, of valuing money over human suffering." He closed the folder. "He's a suitable subject for your first collection."
My first collection. The phrase sent a shiver through me... equal parts fear and anticipation.
"What do I need to do?" I asked, my voice low.
"First, observe him. Learn his patterns, his habits. Understand the darkness you'll be extracting." Malachai slipped a key across the table. "This belongs to an apartment across from his building. You'll have a clear view of his penthouse."
I took the key, wondering how many properties Malachai owned throughout the city, how many lives he monitored. "And then?"
"When you're ready, you'll approach him. Create a pretext. Like a business proposal, perhaps. Something to gain a private audience." Malachai's dark eyes held mine. "The collection itself... you'll know what to do when the time comes. The knowledge is already inside you, awakening with your transformation."
I left the café with the folder, the key, and a gnawing combination of dread and hunger.
* * *
For three days, I watched Gregory Harmon.
The apartment Malachai provided was small but well-appointed, with a perfect view of Harmon's penthouse across the street. I called in sick to work and set up a makeshift surveillance post by the window, using a pair of high-powered binoculars Malachai had left for me.
Harmon's routine was predictable. He left his building at precisely 7:45 each morning, driven to his office in a black town car. He returned home between 7:00 and 8:00 each evening, sometimes alone, sometimes with colleagues. Twice, he brought women back to his penthouse. They were both young, and both departing before midnight.
On the third evening, I followed him to a restaurant, taking a table where I could observe him dining with what appeared to be business associates. With my enhanced vision, I could see his aura clearly. Darkness coiled through it like oil in water, especially thick when he laughed at his companions' jokes or raised his glass in a toast.
When I lightly touched his mind, I caught fragments of his thoughts.
*Simmons is getting suspicious about the Westfield account... need to move those assets offshore before the quarterly report... might need to let Phillips take the fall if questions arise...*
The casual calculation with which he contemplated ruining a colleague's career disgusted me. But I needed to know more, to understand the full extent of his corruption before I could justify what I planned to do.
On the fourth day, I dressed in a tailored suit I'd bought for the occasion, styled my hair in a conservative twist, and made my way to the headquarters of Harmon Financial Group. With a manufactured appointment and a fabricated identity as a wealth management consultant, I managed to secure fifteen minutes of Gregory Harmon's time.
His office occupied the top floor of a gleaming skyscraper, with floor-to-ceiling windows offering a panoramic view of the city. Harmon himself rose from behind an enormous desk when his assistant showed me in, his smile practiced and insincere.
"Ms. Blake," he said, extending his hand. "How can Harmon Financial be of service today?"
I shook his hand, fighting the urge to recoil from the darkness I could sense surrounding him. Up close, his aura was even more corrupt than I'd anticipated—shadows writhing and pulsing with decades of greed and calculated cruelty.
"I represent a group of private investors looking for new opportunities," I told him, the lies coming easily. "Your company's reputation for... aggressive growth has caught their attention."
Harmon's smile widened, showing perfectly capped teeth. "We pride ourselves on delivering exceptional returns. Please, sit down."
Over the next twenty minutes, stretching well beyond my allotted time. I led him through a discussion of his company's strategies, careful to express admiration for what others might consider ruthless or unethical practices. As he spoke, I delicately probed his mind, going deeper than I had at the restaurant.
What I found horrified me. Not just professional predation, but personal as well. A lifetime of using others, of calculating human value in dollars and cents. Failed marriages, abandoned children, betrayed partners. Business rivals systematically destroyed. Employees worked to breakdown and then discarded.
And beneath it all, a profound emptiness. Harmon derived no real pleasure from his wealth or power, only a momentary relief from the gnawing dissatisfaction that drove him to acquire more, destroy and control more.
By the time I left his office with a promise to be in touch about my "investors," I felt contaminated just from proximity to his corruption. But I also felt certain. This was a suitable subject for collection. The darkness in him had consumed whatever human decency might once have existed.
That night, I called Harmon's private line, a number I'd learned from skimming his assistant's mind.
"I'd like to continue our discussion," I told him when he answered. "My investors are quite interested, but I need additional details before proceeding."
"Of course," he replied smoothly. "My calendar is rather full tomorrow—"
"Tonight," I interrupted. "I'm afraid it needs to be tonight. My clients operate on a tight schedule, and they're eager to move forward quickly."
There was a pause... then,"I suppose I could spare some time this evening. Shall we say my office in an hour?"
"Actually," I countered, "I'd prefer somewhere more private. Your home, perhaps?"
Another pause, longer this time. I could almost hear him weighing the impropriety against the potential profit.
"My penthouse at nine o'clock," he finally agreed. "I'll instruct security to expect you."
* * *
Harmon's penthouse was a study in expensive minimalism. It has all clean lines, neutral colors, and strategic lighting designed to highlight his collection of modern art. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered the same panoramic views as his office, the city spread out below like a carpet of lights.
"Impressive," I commented as he led me into a spacious living room. "You have excellent taste."
"I collect experiences," he replied, moving to a bar cart in the corner. "Art, travel, wine... appreciating quality is an art form in itself." He held up a crystal decanter. "Speaking of which... scotch?"
"Please," I said, though I had no intention of drinking. My nerves were already electric with anticipation and fear. The hunger inside me was fully awake now, sensing the imminent feeding.
As Harmon poured the drinks, I took the opportunity to scan the penthouse with my enhanced vision. No one else was present nor even pets. Just the two of us, sixty floors above the city.
"So," Harmon said, handing me a heavy crystal tumbler filled with amber liquid, "tell me more about these investors of yours. You've been rather vague about who they represent."
I accepted the glass but didn't drink. "Before we discuss that, I'm curious about something." I moved to stand near the window, looking out at the city. "Do you ever think about the people whose lives have been affected by your business practices?"
Harmon's expression flickered. seeming surprise, then calculating. "All business involves risk," he said carefully. "My clients understand that when they sign our agreements."
"Do they?" I turned to face him fully. "The elderly couple who lost their home after forty years... did they understand they were signing away their retirement for a fifteen-thousand-dollar home equity loan?"
His eyes narrowed. "I'm not sure what you're implying, Ms. Blake, but if you're not here to discuss a legitimate business opportunity—"
"What about Martin Reeves?" I interrupted, pulling a name from the memories I'd gathered from Harmon's mind. "The man who shot himself in his garage after your company foreclosed on his house. His children found the body."
Harmon's face hardened. "Who... are you really?"
"Someone who can see what you are," I said quietly. "Someone who knows what you've done."
He set down his glass with deliberate control. "I think you should leave."
"Not yet." I took a step toward him, then another. "Not until I've taken what I came for."
Fear flickered across his face. Not the reaction of an innocent man, but of a predator recognizing a more dangerous predator. He reached for his phone on the side table.
"I wouldn't," I warned. "No one can help you now."
Then I did what Malachai had taught me—I reached out with my mind and touched Harmon's thoughts, not gently this time but with deliberate force. He gasped, staggering backward as if physically struck.
"What—what are you doing?" he choked out, one hand clutching his temple.
Images from his mind flooded into mine, not just the calculated business decisions, but their consequences. The faces of those he'd ruined. The families displaced. The lives shattered. All reduced to entries in a ledger, acceptable losses in his pursuit of wealth.
I could see his corruption now, not just as an aura but as a tangible substance, black tendrils wrapped around his essence. The hunger in me surged in response, reaching for that darkness, wanting to consume it.
But then I saw something else. A memory from decades earlier. A young Gregory Harmon standing in a shabby apartment, watching his mother count pennies at a kitchen table, her hands shaking. Another memory of the same woman being evicted, a teenage Gregory watching helplessly as their belongings were piled on the street.
"You were poor," I whispered, momentarily distracted from my purpose. "You knew what it was like to have nothing."
"Get out of my head," he snarled, backing away until he hit the wall. "Whatever this is—whatever you're doing—stop it!"
"You became the very thing that destroyed your family," I continued, following him step for step. "Why? How could you do to others what was done to you?"
For just a moment, something human flickered in his eyes... pain, perhaps, or shame quickly buried. "You have no idea what it's like," he said, his voice suddenly hoarse. "To be powerless and watch everything taken from you. I swore I'd never be on that side again."
I hesitated, unexpectedly moved by the glimpse of the wounded child beneath the corrupt man. Was there still something worth saving in him? Could redemption be possible without the intervention I planned?
But even as I considered this, the hunger twisted inside me, painful in its intensity. The darkness surrounding Harmon called to it, promising relief if only I would feed.
"I'm sorry," I said softly, and I was—sorry for the child he'd been, sorry for the man he'd become, sorry for what I was about to do. "But this ends tonight."
I stepped forward and placed my hands on either side of his head, not quite touching, just as I'd seen Malachai do. Harmon froze, whether from fear or some power I exerted, I couldn't tell.
For a moment, nothing happened. Then, as if responding to an unspoken command, my awareness shifted. I could see the corruption in him like a living entity, separate yet intertwined with his essence. The knowledge of what to do came instinctively, as Malachai had promised it would.
I began to draw the darkness out of him—not with physical motion but with concentrated will. Black tendrils emerged from his temples, writhing between my hands. The process was slower than when Malachai had demonstrated it, my technique unrefined, but the darkness responded to my call.
Harmon's eyes were wide, his breathing were shallow, but he didn't struggle or cry out. Perhaps he couldn't. Or some part of him recognized the inevitability of this moment, this reckoning.
As the last of the corruption pulled free, hovering between my hands in a swirling mass of shadow, I felt a moment of sublime connection to something ancient and powerful. Then I closed my hands around the darkness, and it flowed into me like ink into water.
The sensation was indescribable. It's a rush of energy, of knowledge... of power. The hunger receded instantly, replaced by a satiation so complete that it was almost euphoric. Every sense heightened further, every thought crystalline in its clarity.
Harmon slumped to the floor, conscious but dazed. When he looked up at me, his eyes were different—clearer somehow, the hardness gone from them.
"What did you do to me?" he asked, his voice trembling.
I struggled to find words to explain. "I took the darkness that was consuming you," I finally said. "The corruption that's been growing in you for decades."
He stared at his hands as if seeing them for the first time. "I feel... empty. But also... lighter?" His expression was bewildered, vulnerable in a way that seemed impossible for the man I'd observed these past days.
"Use this chance," I told him, moving toward the door. "Be better than you were."
I left him there, still on the floor of his pristine penthouse, surrounded by the trappings of wealth that suddenly seemed meaningless to both of us.
* * *
The euphoria lasted through the night. I walked for hours, reveling in the new power coursing through me, the sharpness of my senses, the cessation of the hunger that had tormented me for weeks. I felt invincible, enlightened, and transformed.
But by morning, as I returned to the apartment Malachai had provided, my phone was buzzing with notifications. Breaking news alerts, texts from unknown numbers, messages from Malachai.
With growing dread, I opened the first news link.
FINANCIAL EXECUTIVE FOUND DEAD IN LUXURY PENTHOUSE, the headline screamed. Gregory Harmon, CEO of Harmon Financial Group, was discovered by his housekeeper early this morning. Preliminary reports suggest a cardiac event, though authorities are still investigating.
My hands shook as I scrolled through the article. Harmon had been found on the floor of his living room, exactly where I'd left him. No signs of struggle, no visible injuries. Just a man whose heart had apparently stopped in the middle of the night.
Hours after I'd collected his soul.
I called Malachai immediately.
"You lied to me," I accused when he answered, my voice breaking. "You said they'd live. You said Richard would start a new life. But Harmon is dead, and it's because of what I did to him."
"Calm yourself," Malachai replied, his voice maddeningly steady. "Come to my residence. This isn't a conversation for the telephone."
"Tell me now!" I demanded. "Did you know this would happen? Is Richard dead too? Have you been lying about everything?"
"Ariel." His voice took on a compelling quality that made my protests die in my throat. "I'll explain everything."
The line went dead. I stood frozen, staring at the phone in my hand, then at my reflection in the window. My eyes glowed red, just for a moment, before fading back to their normal color.
What had I done? What was I becoming?
And most terrifying of all—what if Malachai wasn't the mentor he claimed to be, but something far more sinister?
With the taste of Harmon's darkness still lingering inside me, I made my decision. I would go to Malachai and demand the truth. But this time, I would be prepared for whatever answer he gave me, even if it meant confronting the possibility that I had been manipulated from the beginning.
Or even if it meant that I had just committed my first murder.
* * *