Prologue
In the heart of New York City, where the urban pulse reverberates through the veins of towering skyscrapers, there stands a building adorned with the mystical aura of owls. As the clock strikes midnight, this enigmatic structure becomes a beacon in the city that never sleeps. Gold owl gargoyles perch on the corners, their watchful eyes glinting in the dim glow of the streetlights. Owl statues, their wings outstretched in silent flight, flank the entrance, and even the guards and doorkeepers wear pins depicting the majestic birds of the night.
It’s early November, and a subtle chill hangs in the air, a prelude to the biting winter that lurks around the corner. The New York sky is a canvas of muted hues, a blend of indigo and charcoal, with the occasional wisp of clouds drifting lazily across the moon. The city’s lights, like a multitude of fireflies, twinkle, and dance, casting a warm glow that clashes with the briskness of the evening.
Amidst the backdrop of this urban symphony, the streets below are alive with a diverse cast of characters. Businessmen and women, wrapped in tailored coats and scarves, stride with purpose, their briefcases clutched tightly as if containing the secrets of the universe. The heels of their shoes echo against the pavement, a staccato rhythm punctuating the city’s heartbeat.
Beneath the sheen of corporate professionalism, the city reveals its raw edges. Bums huddle in the shadows, their makeshift homes composed of cardboard and tattered blankets. Their eyes, weathered by the harshness of life, reflect the city’s unforgiving nature. A drunk stumbles down the sidewalk, his laughter a dissonant melody against the backdrop of honking horns and distant sirens.
A street performer, clad in ragtag attire, plays a melancholic tune on a battered violin, the music blending with the distant hum of the subway below. Pedestrians, lost in the rhythm of their own lives, drop spare change into the performer’s weathered hat without breaking their stride.
In the corners of the city, rats scurry, their sleek bodies weaving through the labyrinth of alleyways. Their mundane and surreal presence adds an element of untamed wilderness to the concrete jungle.
As the cold wind whispers through the city’s canyons, steam rises from grates, creating ephemeral specters in the night. The aroma of street food wafts through the air, a sensory kaleidoscope blending with the distant scent of car exhaust.
The gold owl gargoyles atop the mysterious building seem to come alive in the nocturnal symphony, their metallic feathers gleaming in the artificial glow. The doorkeepers, wearing owl pins like badges of honor, exchange nods with the passersby, guardians of the nocturnal secrets concealed within.
The atmosphere shifts as a sleek black limousine glides down the street, its arrival subtle punctuation in the city’s narrative. Tinted windows prevent prying eyes from glimpsing its luxurious interior, adding an air of mystery. The limousine comes to a sleek stop, and the door swings open.
From within emerges a woman of captivating allure and commanding presence. Her long, thick red hair cascades down her back, a river of crimson silk. Dressed in a tight-fitting business suit that accentuates her well-proportioned figure, she moves with measured grace. Her lips are adorned with thick black lipstick, and her eyes are framed by a smoky veil of eyeshadow, the intensity of her gaze unwavering. Despite the cold November night, her face remains flawless, a canvas of perfection.
As she steps out, the limousine door shuts behind her with a muffled thud, and the night seems to hold its breath. The woman walks with authority towards the entrance of Building H. F., her heels clicking against the pavement like a metronome dictating the rhythm of the city. The limousine, now an elegant silhouette against the city lights, disappears into the tapestry of the night.
The two male guards stationed at the entrance immediately bow their heads in respect as she approaches. “Good evening, Mistress,” they intone simultaneously. The woman acknowledges them with a silent nod, her gaze fixed ahead and continues toward the entrance without a word.
Passing another guard whose head is bowed in deference, he speaks with a tone of reverence, “Mistress.” She acknowledges his greeting with a slight incline of her head, a regal gesture that radiates authority. The entrance seems to open for her, a portal to the mysteries concealed within.
Inside the building, she enters an opulent lobby adorned with gold accents and exquisite artwork. The hushed murmurs of the night outside are replaced by the soft hum of ambient lighting. The woman proceeds to the elevator, a sentinel of ascension and descent, with a panel indicating a staggering 99 floors.
Without hesitation, she presses the buttons for floors ninety-nine and one simultaneously. The elevator beeps in response, and she deftly adds six, three, and nine to her chosen destinations. The elevator begins its descent, gliding smoothly into the subterranean depths of the building.
As the red numbers on the panel tick down, the woman’s demeanor remains unchanged—composed and unreadable. The elevator journeys through several floors before the digital display finally settles on floor 100. The doors open with a soft chime, revealing a space that seems to exist beyond the known boundaries of the building.
The woman steps out, her heels clicking on the immaculate floor. The air within carries a subtle energy, an aura of secrecy that clings to her every step. The guards at the entrance of this mysterious floor are already in a posture of respect, acknowledging her presence without uttering a word.
In the modern and underground expanse, still under construction and devoid of windows, the red-haired woman’s heels clicked rhythmically against the immaculate floor. The space resembled an underground warehouse, illuminated by artificial lights that cast shadows against the yet-to-be-finished walls.
As the woman approached the center of the room, she found a stone coffin, an ancient relic in stark contrast to the contemporary surroundings. The coffin rested prominently as if holding a secret from the depths of time. Nearby, an empty pool, deep and wide, added to the surreal atmosphere of the subterranean chamber.
Standing over the stone coffin, the red-haired woman looked down into it with an air of deference. “Good evening, my Lady. I have brought you an update,” she spoke with a mix of respect and authority. From the coffin, darkness seemed to rise, swirling from the dirt, coalescing into a corpse-like figure. Sunken eyes and a decayed mouth formed on the husk, its appearance mirroring the passage of time.
“I trust you have found my numbered ones, Mistress Leona,” the decayed corpse uttered in a weak tone, addressing the red-haired woman with a title that resonated with authority.
Mistress Leona, undeterred by the macabre sight, assisted her Lady as she rose from the stone coffin. “We have identified twenty of the original two hundred experiments, my Lady. And we have returned seven to you, with two selecting for the final dream, then return. Numbers seventeen, fifty, ninety-one, eighteen, and seventy-seven have been returned. Numbers six, fifteen, two, four, fifty-five, sixty-eight, seventy, eighty-eight, twenty-one, twenty-five, sixty-two, and sixty-three, we are still awaiting verification on,” Leona reported methodically, her voice echoing in the vast underground chamber.
A chilling silence enveloped the chamber as the Lady absorbed the information. Her decayed features contorted with a mixture of anger and resignation. The air thickened, suffocating Leona, as the Lady spoke in a voice that seemed to echo from the depths of the underworld.
Approaching the final number on the list, Leona hesitated before continuing, sensing the weight of her words. “And...” she began cautiously.
“And number thirteen has escaped us once more,” Leona confessed, her tone betraying a sense of concern and reluctance. The news cast a palpable shadow over the underground space, and the corpse-like figure’s reaction was immediate. Anger, like a storm, twisted the features of her decayed face.
As the echoes of Leona’s confession lingered in the underground chamber, the Lady’s anger erupted with an otherworldly force. It was as if the atmosphere recoiled under the weight of her wrath, the shadows dancing in ominous cadence with the intensity of her emotions. The air thickened, carrying the acrid scent of decay, as the Lady’s fury manifested in a spectral aura that seemed to pulse with malevolent energy.
Leona, who had felt the tempest of her Lady’s anger before, braced herself for the onslaught. The Lady’s eyes, deep pools of darkness, glowed with an eerie crimson hue, and the dim light reflected off her elongated fangs, giving her an almost demonic countenance. It was an ancient power, a force that transcended the natural order, and Leona, despite her loyalty, could not help but feel a shiver crawl down her spine.
In the underground chamber, the Lady’s anger was not merely an emotion; it was a palpable force, an unseen current that reverberated through the very fabric of the space. It twisted the features of her decayed face into a grotesque mask of rage, an unsettling display of supernatural power. The unfinished walls, witness to the Lady’s centuries-long existence, seemed to groan under the weight of her fury.
Without uttering a word, the Lady extended her decaying hand, and the spectral aura surrounding her intensified. It was a force beyond mortal comprehension, a manifestation of her dominion over life and death. The shadows, once dancing in erratic patterns, now seemed to bow to the Lady’s command, converging in a sinister amalgamation around her.
Leona, trained to withstand the unseen forces that accompanied her Lady’s anger, stood resolute. Yet, even for her, the oppressive energy in the chamber felt like an insurmountable wave crashing against her senses. The Lady’s gaze bore into Leona, the crimson intensity of her eyes seemingly piercing through the very fabric of reality.
In the supernatural tempest, the Lady’s voice, a raspy yet commanding whisper, cut through the heavy air. “Capture Number Thirteen, or take his place,” she commanded, her words resonating with a power that transcended mere vocalization. It was an edict that carried the weight of finality, an order that demanded absolute obedience.
As Leona bowed once more, acknowledging her Lady’s command, the shadows recoiled, and the spectral aura began to subside. The underground chamber, once enveloped in the otherworldly display of anger, returned to a semblance of normalcy. The Lady, her features still twisted by the remnants of fury, returned to the stone coffin, her spectral presence fading into the darkness.
The Lady’s command lingered in the air like an indelible mark, and as Leona bowed her head, her senses tingled with the residual energy of the Lady’s anger. A dark trickle of blood escaped from her nose, staining the pallor of her skin. It was an involuntary response, a physical manifestation of the supernatural pressure she had just endured. “It will be done at once, my lady,” Leona uttered, her voice steady despite the crimson rivulet now streaming down her face.
With a final bow, Leona turned away from the stone coffin and retraced her steps through the underground chamber. As she ascended in the elevator, the oppressive weight of the Lady’s presence began to lift, allowing her to staunch the flow of blood and regain her composure.
Arriving on the upper floors, Leona found herself in a more familiar environment. The polished surfaces and artificial lights of Building H. F. offered a stark contrast to the subterranean chamber she had just left. Still, the echoes of the Lady’s command lingered, a reminder of the supernatural realm that coexisted with the mundane.
Determined to fulfill her Lady’s wishes, Leona headed to floor ninety, where she was greeted by a male guard with more revealing attire. “Mistress,” he intoned, falling in place behind her with a deferential bow.
Leona wasted no time, issuing her own commands to the guard. “Bring my meal to my office,” she instructed, her tone carrying an air of authority. “I require two fresh ones, preferably those living off their parents’ trust fund and have never dealt with consequences.” The guard nodded, a silent acknowledgment of his task.
“And prepare the numbers that were caught to be fed to Lady Sekhmet. She will need her strength,” Leona added, a note of urgency in her voice. The Lady Sekhmet’s displeasure with their inability to return all the numbered ones, especially Number Thirteen, loomed over the entire operation. Leona settled into the plush, high-backed chair behind her expansive desk, an embodiment of authority within the confines of her opulent office. The smooth leather of the chair embraced her form, allowing her to sit comfortably as she surveyed the build and frame of her servant, the half-dressed male guard resembling a living monument of strength and subservience.
Her gaze, keen and discerning, traced the contours of his muscular physique. Sinewy muscles played beneath the surface, a testament to his physical prowess, and the minimal clothing he wore only accentuated the raw power he exuded. The play of shadows from the ambient lighting in the room danced across his chiseled features, carving a stoic expression onto the sculpted canvas of his face.
Leona, with an air of detachment, observed him with a discerning eye. Every scar, every ripple of muscle, was cataloged in her meticulous scrutiny. She was a connoisseur of strength, and in the guard’s presence, she found an embodiment of the physical prowess she valued.
As she gazed upon him, a subtle shift in Leona’s demeanor revealed a sense of satisfaction, perhaps even a measure of pride in the imposing figure that stood before her. The ambient lighting in the room highlighted the contours of the guard’s physique, emphasizing the strength and discipline he embodied.
With a regal tilt of her head, Leona issued her commands with an air of authority. “Once I am fed, I will see you for your evening feeding also. Until then, get to work on providing me my meal. And bring me everything we have on Dominic Herrera.” Her words carried a weight of expectation, a silent directive that left no room for interpretation.
The guard, having received his instructions, acknowledged the orders with a respectful nod. He turned on his heels and left the room, leaving Leona alone with her thoughts and the cityscape beyond the shaded windows.
As she awaited the fulfillment of her commands, Leona settled back into the comfort of her chair. The anticipation of her evening feeding lingered in the air, but for now, she immersed herself in the corporate tasks that demanded her attention. The shadows danced in the corners of the room, casting a veil of secrecy over the supernatural world that coexisted with the mundane facade of her office.
The city beyond the window seemed to hold its breath, unaware of the intricate machinations transpiring within Building H. F. In the quiet of her office, Leona prepared for the dual existence she navigated—a mistress of the supernatural, and a high-ranking figure in the corporate hierarchy. The guard would return, as duty demanded, but for now, she focused on the intricate web of power and secrecy that bound her to a world where the boundaries between the living and the undead blurred.
"Avoid the strikes, that bird of evil omen. It is a mighty toil, in truth, to escape the strikes with unerring feet, for she is an uncanny thing. With a blood-cry and a bitter song she flies at men."
— Hesiod, “Works and Days”
