While the warmth of the restaurant glowed in the heart of the city, the North District remained a skeletal remains of old ambitions. Here, the neon lights didn't welcome; they buzzed with a dying, erratic energy, casting long, distorted shadows over the cracked pavement.
Deep within this concrete graveyard stood the Grand Majestic Theater. Once a palace of velvet and gold, it was now a hollow shell. Dust motes danced in the beams of moonlight that pierced the rotted roof, settling on rows of torn seats and the headless, limbless mannequins that cluttered the wings like a silent, frozen audience.
Mr. Puppet Jr. stood center stage. He wasn't practicing lines; he was simply standing still, his eyes closed, soaking in the "poetry" of the decay.
"So many empty shells," he whispered, his voice echoing through the rafters. He reached out a pale hand, and a thread of translucent purple energy snaked out, wrapping around the neck of a wooden puppet hanging from the fly-loft. With a flick of his wrist, the puppet danced—a jerky, mocking imitation of life. "They’re much more honest when they don't have a voice."
He tired of the silence quickly. Even a king needs a court.
Leaving his "palace," he drifted toward the city’s underground—a place where the law was a suggestion and the drinks were expensive. He stepped into The Obsidian Lounge, a high-end bar where the walls were made of black glass and the patrons were as cold as the ice in their glasses.
The music skipped a beat as he approached the bar. There was something "off" about his gait—too smooth, like he was being pulled by strings only he could see.
"The finest whiskey," Puppet Jr. said, leaning against the polished marble. "The 30-year 'Shadow-Cask.' And don't bother with the tab. Consider it a tribute."
The bartender, a burly man with a scar across his nose, opened his mouth to growl a refusal. But as his eyes met Puppet Jr.’s, the purple flash within those dark pupils swallowed his will. The bartender’s face went slack, his jaw hanging open in a vacant, pleasant smile.
"Of course, sir," the man droned, his movements robotic as he poured the golden liquid. "A tribute for the master."
Puppet Jr. took the glass, the ice clinking softly. He didn't hide. He didn't cower. He sat in the middle of the lounge, sipping his stolen luxury while the "puppets" around him continued their conversations, blissfully unaware that their strings had just been tested.
Across the street, perched atop a gargoyle of a Gothic-style skyscraper.
A small, metallic orb hovered silently, its red eye fixed on the lounge’s window. Thousands of miles away, in the sterile silence of his lab, Doctor Science watched the feed, his gloved fist clenching until the leather groaned.
"Arrogant child," the Doctor hissed.
The data scrolls on his side-monitors were a mess of red alerts. Mr. Puppet Jr. wasn't following the map. He wasn't staying in the shadows. He was a wildfire—erratic, visible, and dangerously reckless.
"He’s going to draw them out too early," Science muttered, his eyes narrowing as he analyzed Puppet Jr.’s energy signatures. "He isn't a surgeon; he’s a butcher. If he snaps the Rose girl before the frequency is calibrated, Dementra’s vessel will shatter."
The Doctor tapped a command into his console. The drone’s red eye pulsed. He couldn't control Puppet Jr. yet, but he could watch. He would wait for the moment the wildfire burned itself out, and then he would step into the ashes to claim the prize.
But for now, the predator was out of his cage, and he was thirsty for more than just whiskey. He was looking for a very specific kind of toy—one that wore an apron and smelled like woodsmoke.24Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡuQNjF0XgDH
and then Add to home screen.