Another coughing fit—this one worse than the last. He's been sick for some time, and it's only getting worse. Doctors gave him months. That was a year ago.

Edward's street magic performance ended as it always had: A few scattered claps. Polite, pitying. Then silence. As the crowd dispersed, Edward Finch was left with his tattered, dusty top hat—mostly empty, save for a few coins.

He earned enough for a drink or a meal, but not both. For Edward, the choice was simple. Food would only sustain his suffering—while the bottle might bring it to a quicker end.

Clutching a bottle that promised escape, Edward staggered through the dimly lit streets, his boots clumsily scuffing against the cobblestones. The night air was damp, thick with the scent of rain and rot, clinging to his skin like a second layer of misery.

He made his way toward the river—the same place he always went when the weight of his existence became unbearable. A bench, long forgotten, perched at the water's edge. Its wood splintered, its iron frame rusting—as neglected as the man slumped over it.

If Edward could be thankful for anything, it was that his suffering would be quick. At thirty, he'd seen and achieved more than most ever would. He tried to take solace in that thought as he took another pull from the bottle, letting the whiskey burn its way down.

Below, the river crashed—relentless, furious, alive. He closed his eyes and, just for a moment, it almost sounded like… applause.

The kind that used to shake the rafters.

He lets himself remember—if only for one last time. The applause rises like a tide, rolling over him in waves. The bench disappears beneath him. The river fades. The whiskey turns to silk in his hand.

A packed theater. His biggest night yet. The final act. His last illusion. The revolver, heavy in his grip…

This was the trick. The one that built his career. The one that made him a name. It hadn't happened overnight. This was something crafted—perfected—through years of obsession in the dim glow of his workshop. A creation of precision, mechanics, and control.

But over the years, it grew. The stages got bigger. The audience, grander. The stakes, higher.

And always by his side—Rosaline.

She had been his greatest illusion. His beautiful assistant, his partner, his love. The one thing he never deserved. Sometimes he still wonders if she was real...

Tonight, Edward was more nervous than ever. Not because of the audience, nor because of the trick itself—he had rehearsed it a thousand times.

No, tonight, there was one final illusion. One that even Rosaline couldn’t predict.

For years, Edward’s signature act had been the bullet catch—a trick so dangerous, so infamous, that few dared to attempt it. In his variation, the audience would watch, breathless, as a bullet was fired at Rosaline—seemingly passing, impossibly, through her body.

Jarred loose by the impact, the balloon would rise, drifting slowly into the glow of the stage lights. The heat would weaken the rubber until, at its peak, it would rupture—shattering into a shimmering cascade of glitter and confetti.

And as the last flecks of gold dust settled, the bullet would tumble to the stage.

Tonight, it would not be a bullet that fell.

Instead, Edward had planted a ring in its place.

Rosaline would be as shocked as the audience.

And when she turned to him, astonished, Edward would kneel before her—on stage, under the glow of the footlights—and ask her to be his forever.

Edward worked the room before the show, weaving through the gilded aisles of the packed theater. He always watched the audience before they watched him—it was part of his process, part of the act.

A performer didn't just command a stage; he controlled the room.

He shook hands, flashed a quick sleight-of-hand trick for a delighted patron, exchanged knowing glances with those who had followed his meteoric rise from the streets to the grand stage.

The energy was electric, a palpable hum beneath the chandeliers.

but something felt off.

A presence.

At first, he couldn't pinpoint it—just a prickle at the base of his neck. It felt wrong, like a glove on its opposite hand, a slight tilt in the balance of the room. His eyes scanned the velvet-lined seats, the eager faces, the candlelit glow of anticipation.

Then, he saw him.

A man sat near the center, just within Edward's periphery. He wasn't particularly remarkable—handsome, but unassuming. His suit was finely tailored, but not extravagant.

And yet, something about him was unsettling.

It wasn't just the way the man sat—too still, too poised, like he was waiting for something he already knew would happen. It was the cane resting against his knee, its polished black wood reflecting the low glow of the chandeliers. At its top, a deep blood-red gemstone caught the light, flickering like a dying ember.

For a moment, Edward thought he saw something shift within the gem's depths—a ripple, a swirl, something alive. He let himself get distracted, just for a second. But when he blinked, it was just a stone. Just a trick of the light.

The man smiled, and Edward's soul shivered.

It wasn't the grin itself—it was the timing. The man's lips curled a fraction of a second before Edward even noticed him, as if he already knew exactly where Edward's gaze would land.

Edward turned away, trying to shake off the feeling, but the moment lingered—a nudge, a shroud of unease.

And then, the thought arrived.

It wasn't a decision. It wasn't even a conscious thought. It simply… was.

He had checked the props an hour ago. He always did. He was meticulous, obsessive in his precision. And yet, something told him to check again.

Edward felt himself moving before he'd even decided to. His feet carried him backstage, past stagehands and flickering gas lamps, past Rosaline's warm touch as she whispered good luck into his ear.

His hands found the case, fingers prying it open as his eyes swept over the gleaming brass cylinders.

Six chambers.

Five bullets—bringers of death.

One wax round, as harmless as air.

Right where they should be.

The nudge returned—a suggestion curling from the back of his mind, like a thought that wasn't his own.

His fingers hovered over it. Why? It looked fine. And yet, thefeeling wouldn't let go.

It clawed at him—a gnawing certainty he couldn't ignore.

Just to be safe, he plucked it from the case and tossed it into the waste bin.

He turned toward the dressing room. His hands moved on their own, retrieving a replacement round.

And then, suddenly—he forgot why he was there.

The thought was gone. Erased. Rewritten.

Yes.

Yes, that was it. He needed a live round to replace the missing one.

He slid the live round into place. Edward Finch walked onto the stage, unaware that the trick had already begun.

The show started off a huge success. Every illusion executed with precision, every sleight of hand met with gasps of delight. Edward had the audience in his grip, wound tight with anticipation. Now, the prestige—the final act.

Edward faces the crowd. The revolver in his hands, he spins the barrel slowly, letting the click of the chamber echo through the theater.

he announced, letting the words hang heavy in the air.

Rosaline moved with practiced grace, the way any great assistant would. She positioned herself center stage, the crimson silk of her dress flowing as she lifted her arms. A single balloon was pinned to her back. The stagehands worked quickly, setting the final moment of the act into place.

Edward took his position, the revolver steady in his grip. The audience hushed.

This was the part they had come for—the bullet catch, the grand illusion that had made him famous. A bullet shot through his assistant, only to be revealed caught inside the balloon behind her back.

Edward faces the audience, giving the revolver a theatrical flourish. He opens the revolver, showing all 6 chambers loaded and ready. He rolls the gun across his opposite arm, letting the revolver spin.

The revolver purred as the cylinder spun, the metallic hum filling the theater. With a sharp flick of his wrist, he snapped it shut—quick, seamless, effortless.

To the audience, it appeared as if the bullets had settled in random order, dictated by chance alone.

That was the beauty of it.

In reality, the gun had a simple but ingenious gimmick. No matter how wildly he spun the chamber, it would always close with the wax round in the final position.

It was, in his mind, the perfect illusion.

One by one, the preliminary shots rang out, bursting a row of balloons positioned behind Rosaline. Each shot proved the revolver was real, that the stakes were as high as they appeared.

Each pop sent a thrill through the crowd, the theater trembling with anticipation.

But the live rounds weren't just for spectacle—they gave Edward peace of mind. Each shot that tore through the air was proof that the revolver worked exactly as intended, ensuring the final chamber held the wax round.

It was a ritual as much as a performance, a final reassurance before the trick reached its climax.

And then—the finale.

Rosaline stood still, unflinching, fearless.

The trick was simple—an illusion, not a gamble.

The wax round would fire. The balloon, pinned on her back, would be struck by a small, blunt, invisible hammer in the fabric of her dress, timed to "catch" the bullet on the other side.

The illusion was seamless. The danger, nonexistent.

Edward raised the revolver, The balloon shouldsteading his breath, exhaling slow.

He fired.

A single, deafening shot.

The balloon should have broken free from behind Rosaline's back, floating to the rafters, just as it had done hundreds of shows before.

Instead—nothing. The balloon remained. Still. Suspended. Waiting.

A dark, wet stain spread—the only clue that something was wrong. Against the deep crimson of her dress, the blood revealed itself not in color, but in texture.—the slow, creeping shine of something sinister.

At first, the audience cheered. They had been trained to. They had seen his tricks before. They knew the beats.

But something was wrong.

Rosaline swayed. Her lips parted—but no words came.

The cheers faltered. Murmurs rippled through the crowd.

Edward's breath hitched, the revolver slipping from his fingers as she collapsed.

The silence after the shot lasted longer than the applause ever had.

Edward rushed to her side, catching her as she fell. There would be no final words. She was already gone. His breath turned ragged, his hands shaking as he cradled her lifeless body.

The weight of it—of her, of what he had done—pressed into his chest like a crushing vice.

He lifted the revolver to his temple. The steel burned hot against his fevered skin.

His scream tore through the applause, through the gasps, through the walls of the theater itself.

CLICK. The revolver was empty.

No matter. There were more bullets backstage. He would finish this. But then—an interruption. A thought that was not his own.

His fingers slackened.

The empty revolver slipped from his grip, hitting the stage with a hollow thunk against the old oak floor.

Why he listened, he still didn't know.

It didn't matter. Not really. Not for much longer.

The nightmare faded, unraveling at the edges.

Pulling him into something darker than sleep.

And then—

Edward snapped out of his nightmare.

The words shouldn't have reached him. Not through the haze of inebriation, not through the prison of his own memories.

And yet, they cut through like a knife. As if spoken from behind him… and inside him. A voice both his own and utterly foreign, threading through his thoughts like a memory he'd never lived.

He stirred, his head still thick with whiskey. As his vision drifted out of slumber, a figure took shape. He was too drunk—too dazed—to make out a face.

But no amount of whiskey could mask his memory of that blood-red gem perched on a black cane.

Edward had long since lost the taste of fear.

But this presence… this voice… it knew exactly where to find it.

Edward Finch should have died that night. Instead, he woke up to something else.

A voice that isn't his, but speaks from within. A presence he can't escape.