The elevator doors hissed open with a mechanical sigh, releasing a gust of recycled, magically-filtered air that still couldn’t mask the scent of incense and old paperwork.

  Dario stepped out, his brown boots clicking against the polished stone floor. He wore a tailored blue blazer over off-white linen pants, the collar of his sky-blue shirt concealing a line of pale ritual scars along his neck. Tortoiseshell sunglasses perched on his face, casual and calculated. His pale eyes—sharp and spectral—swept the room like a predator assessing territory.

  “Agent Dario Moretti,” came a crisp, clipped voice. “Welcome to the Ninth Precinct.”

  Dario turned. A lean, athletic man approached, short-cropped hair streaked with premature silver. His dark brown jacket bore precinct runes stitched into the sleeves. He extended a hand.

  “Inspector Alex Lim. Magical Crimes Liaison. I’ve read your file. Some of it, anyway. The rest was redacted.” He raised a brow.

  Dario shook his hand briefly—cool, firm. “That’s because most of it would offend the board of ethics.”

  Alex smirked. “I like you already. Follow me.”

  They moved down the corridor, past the buzz of magical law enforcement. Scrying mirrors flickered on the walls. Enchanted evidence bins glowed faintly. Agents moved with clipped efficiency.

  “So,” Alex said, glancing back, “you came all the way from London to chase a ghost?”

  “He’s not a ghost,” Dario replied. “His codename’s Hollow Fang. Real name unknown. A talented ritualist specialising in necromancy . He disappeared after the Bethnal Green Ghoul incident three years ago. He shouldn't be walking free.”

  “But he is,” Alex finished.

  Dario nodded once. “Recent intel says he’s here. In Singapore.”

  Alex raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t think Department-7 types made personal house calls.”

  Department-7 was a private magical agency—independent, elite, and largely extrajudicial. They recruited rare talents, people who straddled the line between mundane and magical enforcement. They cooperated with witch hunters, but rarely showed up in person.

  “We don’t,” Dario said flatly. “Not unless the threat warrants it. The Hollow Fang’s last known ritual killed two civilians and unleashed a wraith from the Pale Curtain into East London.”

  They reached a secure chamber. Alex scanned his hand across a glowing panel. The heavy door slid open with a hiss.

  Inside: a windowless room, spartan and practical. Files stacked in precise piles. A single photo hung on the wall—an adolescent boy in a martial arts gi, proudly holding a black belt certificate.

  “You’d be sharing this office with me,” Alex said.

  “Cozy,” Dario muttered. He nodded at the photo. “That you?”

  Alex offered a small smile. “Yeah. A long time ago.”

  He handed Dario a manila folder. “You’ll want to see this. We’ve been monitoring the Scarlet Frangipani for months. These are from a spa in Geylang—security footage caught Michelle Teo meeting regularly with a mystery contact.”

  Dario flipped through the stills, pausing. “That’s him.”

  The image showed Michelle in a sleek black pantsuit, seated across from a man in a black mandarin-collared shirt. Dario recognized the blood-red pendant that hung from the man’s neck

  Alex tapped the photo. “Ever since those meetings started, four debt-linked bodies turned up—magically drained. Look at the sigils.”

  Dario leaned in. The ritual markings glowed faintly red in the photo—layered, deliberate, exact.

  “Blood magic?” he asked.

  “Confirmed,” Alex said. “Dr. Eunice, our magical specialist, verified it. But we don’t have a dedicated blood magic specialist on staff. Word is, you’ve got... experience.”

  Dario’s fingers froze on the edge of the page.

  “Was Hollow Fang working alone?” he asked quietly.

  He didn’t say what gnawed at him: the sigils were wrong. They reminded him of Kai when he utilised bblood mgic. But they weren’t Kai’s style—Kai never bothered with ornate rituals. He preferred efficiency. Violence. Direct force. But something about the magic felt familiar. Too familiar. Did Kai knew him?

  And Kai was in Singapore.

  Alex shook his head. “No sign of a second party. Why?”

  Dario didn’t answer directly. “Do the Frangipani usually collect debts like this?”

  “Not like this,” Alex said. “They use blood contracts, enforced servitude, coercion. But this? This is surgical. Ritualistic. It’s something else.”

  Dario’s voice cooled. “You think they’re accelerating something?”

  Alex hesitated. “Is that bad?”

  “It means they’re either desperate... or they think no one can stop them.”

  Dario spread the folder’s contents across the rune-lit desk—surveillance stills, sigils, crime scene photos. He hovered over a particular symbol, reading it the way someone might study a prayer etched in reverse.

  Was it really Kai?

  “Let me take a closer look,” he murmured.

  Alex watched him, then nodded. “Let’s hope you’re right.”

  The office phone rang.

  Alex picked it up, then looked to Dario.

  “We’ve got another victim,” he said. “Want to check it out?”

  When Dario and Alex arrived at Ann Siang Hill, the morning sun was already blazing overhead. Dario grimaced, slipping on his sunglasses to shield his pale eyes. The tropical brightness always irritated him.

  Though this district nestled in the shadow of Singapore’s gleaming financial towers, its clientele was of a very different kind—witches, smugglers, and people who paid for favors no one else would grant. Still, the rows of old, brightly painted shophouses lent the area a strange charm, as if pretending nothing illegal ever happened here.

  The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  Alex led Dario into a narrow alley behind one of the buildings.

  He crouched beside the body, his dark eyes tracing the faint scorch marks carved into the victim’s chest. Blood magic. Ritual burns. Each sigil was deliberate, cruel, and surgical. Power still clung faintly to the body like a whisper—whatever had been done here had left an echo.

  Dario scanned the surrounding walls but found no residual enchantments—no signs of glyphs or arcane residue.

  The victim was middle-aged, dressed in business attire—tailored slacks, a crisp shirt, and a luxury watch that glinted in the alley’s dim light. A man who once had wealth and status. His mouth was frozen mid-scream, his features locked in a grotesque mask of terror.

  But no one had heard. No one ever did.

  “Third victim this month.”

  The voice came from the far end of the alley—tired, but steady.

  A man in his forties, wearing the Ninth Precinct uniform—sky-blue shirt, khaki shorts—stepped into view. He looked grim.

  “Same pattern. No witnesses. No struggle.”

  He paused, then frowned. “Alex, who’s the angmoh?”

  Alex stood. “Sergeant Ho, meet Dario Moretti. He’s assisting us on the Scarlet Frangipani case. Department-7.”

  Ho gave Dario a nod but stayed focused. “The locals hand all magical cases to our uniforms. This one’s ours.”

  Alex gestured to the body. “Who was he?”

  “Brad Wong. Businessman. Faced bankruptcy a few months back. Then, out of nowhere, he was flush with cash. Debts vanished, investments soared. Like someone rewrote his luck.” Ho exhaled. “Turns out, it was too good to be true.”

  Dario crouched beside the corpse, studying the sigils again. Too familiar. Too clean. The same as those in the folder Alex had shown earlier.

  “Scarlet Frangipani?” Alex asked.

  Ho nodded grimly. “We’ve seen their contracts before. This… this is different.”

  He looked to Dario. “Can you tell what they did to him?”

  Alex added, “You’ve got minor abilities, right? Anything you can pick up would help.”

  Dario gave a tight nod. He closed his eyes and reached out.

  Heat flared in his fingers—then pain.

  A sharp, immediate stab.

  His breath caught as the vision surged forward.

  Candlelight flickered in a dark, enclosed space. Black lacquered walls reflected distorted shadows. The air was thick—sweet and foul—with the scent of jasmine and copper. Blood and flowers.

  A figure moved through the haze, cloaked in crimson. Their face was hidden, silver rings glinting on their fingers as they carved desperate sigils into the air. Their motions were frantic. Unstable. Something was wrong with the ritual—like they were forcing power from a place it no longer flowed.

  The image blurred. The vision crumbled like wet ink.

  Dario yanked his hand back, gasping.

  The pain faded quickly, but the message remained.

  “It was blood magic,” he confirmed.

  Ho and Alex waited.

  Dario pointed to the sigils. “It’s a unique drain spell. Instant. The life force is stripped all at once. The victim doesn’t stand a chance.”

  Ho swore softly. “That’s not how they work. The Frangipani mark their victims, yeah—but for surveillance or coercion. Not this. This is execution.”

  “Life force has value,” Dario said. “The more powerful the ritual, the more energy it needs.”

  Alex muttered, “Then they’re planning something.”

  Dario nodded, eyes narrowing at the precision of the markings. “It’s getting more refined. These are modified—meant to drain more slowly, more efficiently.”

  Ho ran a hand down his face. “Then we hit back. We arrest every enforcer we can find. There’s a low-level one I can bring in now.”

  Alex shook his head. “You could haul in every street-level thug and still miss the point. You and I both know who’s really behind this.”

  He paused.

  “Michelle Teo. Red Ink. This has her fingerprints all over it.”

  Ho’s jaw clenched. “And she’s wrapped in more protections than a minister’s son. Every time we get close, we get buried in red tape.”

  Dario frowned. “Who is she?”

  “Michelle ‘Red Ink’ Teo,” Alex said, “a tactician. The face of the Frangipani’s legal front. She works through shell corps, magical proxies, and law firms. We’ve tried to nail her before. Failed. Every time.”

  Ho added bitterly, “And now Commander Zhan’s suddenly pushing us to crack this case.”

  Alex blinked. “Zhan? Since when does he care?”

  “Exactly,” Ho muttered. “Zhan only moves when it benefits him. This case wasn’t high profile.”

  Alex glanced around. “Careful. You know how it works. Zhan decides what gets buried and who takes the fall.”

  Dario watched the exchange in silence.

  Then he said, “Maybe it’s time we talk to one of the enforcers directly.”

  Alex looked at Ho, who nodded.

  “I’ll bring one in.”

  Alex sighed. “Let’s hope it leads somewhere.”