The elevator doors hissed open with a mechanical sigh, releasing a wave of recycled, magically-filtered air. It couldn’t quite mask the scent of incense and aged paperwork that clung to the Ninth Precinct’s upper floors.

  Dario stepped out, boots clicking against polished stone. He was an elegant contradiction—tailored blue blazer over relaxed off-white linen pants, the collar of his pale blue shirt just high enough to conceal faint ritual scars along his throat. A narrow golden collar glinted at his neck, etched with containment runes. Tortoiseshell sunglasses perched lightly on his face—half accessory, half shield. His pale, spectral eyes scanned the room behind the lenses, precise and unhurried. Predatory.

  A lean, athletic man approached—short-cropped hair streaked with early silver, dark brown jacket bearing stitched precinct runes along the cuffs. His stride was efficient, his expression measured.

  “Agent Dario Moretti,” he said crisply, extending a hand. “Welcome to the Ninth Precinct. Inspector Alex Lim. Magical Crimes Liaison.”

  Dario took the offered hand. Cool. Firm. Brief. “Pleasure.”

  “First time in Singapore?”

  Dario nodded once. “Yes. Though I… used to know someone from here.”

  “Oh?” Alex asked, politely curious.

  “Ex-boyfriend,” Dario replied with a shrug, casual and unapologetic.

  There was the slightest shift in Alex’s face—surprise, quickly masked by professionalism.

  “Well,” he said smoothly, “let’s get you settled. This way.”

  They moved down the corridor, past humming spell wards and the quiet murmur of conversations filtered through enchanted privacy screens. Rows of desks filled the open floor, agents poring over files and mana-infused terminals. A few conducted interviews with witches wearing visible collars—seals glowing faintly at their throats.

  Dario’s gaze flicked across the floor. “No dedicated interrogation rooms?”

  “We have two. Down the hall, for standard subjects,” Alex said. “For Talent Ratings of two or above? Basement level. Requires clearance.”

  As they walked, uniformed officers passed them in waves—sky-blue shirts tucked into khaki shorts, black berets clipped neatly to shoulder straps. They conferred briefly with agents, passing on reports or messages.

  Dario tilted his head. “That’s your enforcement division?”

  Alex nodded. “Yup. The field officers. The rest of us—investigators, analysts—plain clothes. Saves time.”

  “In shorts?”

  Alex gave a wry smile. “It’s Singapore. You try chasing a rogue specter through a hawker center in wool slacks.”

  Dario huffed a quiet laugh.

  Then, as if noting something missing, his gaze sharpened. “None of the officers wear collars. No witches in the Ninth?”

  Alex’s reply came a beat too fast. “No. We don’t recruit witches. Too unpredictable. Too much risk managing their allegiances.”

  He glanced at Dario’s neck—at the collar. A flicker of awareness passed through his expression.

  “No offense.”

  “None taken,” Dario said, smiling faintly.

  They stopped at a door near the end of the hallway. Alex pressed his hand to a glowing glyph-panel. The lock chimed and the door slid open with a sigh of pressure wards.

  The room inside was clean and austere. Two desks. Stacked case files. No windows. Neutral lighting. The only personal touch was a photo on the wall: a boy in a martial arts gi, beaming as he held up a black belt certificate.

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

  “Cozy,” Dario murmured, stepping inside. He nodded toward the photo. “That you?”

  Alex’s lips curved into a small smile. “Yeah. A long time ago.”

  Dario glanced at him sidelong, expression unreadable behind the sunglasses.

  “A lot changes,” he said. “Sometimes too much. Sometimes not enough.”

  Alex didn’t answer. But something in the room quieted.

  “Should you settle in or…?” Alex asked, half-rising.

  Dario waved him off with a small shake of his head. “No need. Let’s begin. You called in Division Zero—why?”

  Division Zero: independent, elite, extrajudicial. A private magical agency that answered to no government but often collaborated with them—for the right reason or the right price. They specialized in what others couldn’t touch. Or wouldn’t.

  Dario sat across from Alex at a glass-topped desk, a neat stack of files between them. A projection orb hovered over the center, cycling through crime scene images—each one clearer, more gruesome than the last.

  “You reviewed the file on the Scarlet Frangipani before arrival?” Alex asked.

  Dario nodded. “Vampire loansharks. Small-time. Mostly blood debts, financial leverage. Low threat, but dangerous if left unchecked.”

  “They were small-time,” Alex corrected. He tapped the desk, and the orb shifted—now displaying the pale, sunken corpse of a man, eyes hollow, limbs emaciated. “Until three months ago.”

  He slid a manila folder across the desk.

  Dario flipped it open. The autopsy report was blunt.

  Cause of Death: Acute Exsanguination.

  External Trauma: None.

  Puncture Wounds: None.

  Dario looked up. “No bite marks? No wounds at all?”

  Alex shook his head. “That’s why we called Division Zero. You’re our specialist on vampire strain behaviors.”

  “Standard vampires need an opening,” Dario said. “Even hemeomancers can’t extract blood without rupturing flesh. Unless—”

  “Unless it’s not hemeomancy,” Alex finished. He handed over another sheet of glossy prints.

  Photos of ritual circles. Symbols painted in blood. Glyphs designed not for channeling—but for extraction.

  Dario’s jaw tightened. He leaned in, eyes narrowing.

  “These are layered,” he muttered. “Precision blood rites. Designed to siphon—not consume. This is deliberate.”

  “Blood magic,” Alex confirmed. “Our specialist, Dr. Eunice, verified it. She says the technique’s old. Arcane.”

  Dario’s fingers stilled against the photo. His voice dropped. “Was the Hollow Fang working alone?”

  Alex hesitated. “There’s no sign of a second operative. Why?”

  Dario didn’t answer right away. He was staring at a corner of the sigil—an angular twist in the design. Unnecessary. Decorative.

  Almost familiar.

  Not Kai’s style. Not directly. Kai never indulged in excess. His spells were clean. Brutal. Functional. But something about the energy in the design—it echoed him.

  Not Kai’s hand.

  But maybe his influence.

  And Kai was in Singapore.

  Dario forced the tension out of his shoulders. “This magic... it’s not typical Frangipani work. They enforce debts with blood contracts, sure. Subjugation, coercion. Not this level of structure.”

  Alex crossed his arms. “So what does it mean?”

  Dario laid the photos flat, arranging them like puzzle pieces across the glowing desk.

  “It means someone’s escalating. This isn’t just about blood. It’s about control. Someone’s testing rituals that weren’t meant to be tested.”

  “And if they work?”

  Dario looked up, pale eyes flint-hard behind his sunglasses.

  “Then the Frangipani aren’t just collecting. They’re harvesting.”

  Alex’s expression darkened. “And that’s bad.”

  “It means they’re either desperate,” Dario said, voice cooling to a blade, “or they believe no one can stop them.”

  He tapped the edge of the sigil again.

  There was a shape buried inside it—a mirrored glyph, old and aggressive. A soul-binding technique, modified for speed.

  It was too sophisticated for street magic.

  And too familiar to be random.

  Dario looked up again, but this time his voice was softer. Careful.

  “If someone’s using this... then the person I’m thinking of may already be involved.”

  Alex’s brows drew together. “You think it’s someone from your past?”

  Dario didn’t answer directly. He gathered the files into a stack, fingers lingering on the photograph like a prayer in reverse.

  Dario frowned. “What changed?”

  “They started working with a necromancer,” Alex said grimly. “A big one. Calls himself the Hollow Fang.”

  Dario’s posture stiffened. “The one from Hong Kong?”

  Alex gave a slow nod. “Yeah. We pulled records from a joint op with the Witch Hunter division there. You’re not going to like this.”

  He handed over another folder, its label stamped in red:

  THE SORROW ROOM

  Location: Sai Ying Pun, Hong Kong | Case ID: WX-99-Ghost Protocol.

  Dario opened it, flipping past the cover sheet to the incident report. A corrupted still photo showed the entrance to a crumbling tenement. The next page was worse—photos of what had been a magical psych ward, repurposed to treat spirit-touched trauma cases. The place looked hollowed out. Wrong.

  Alex tapped the orb above the desk, and it flickered to life with grainy bodycam footage. The audio was already warped by ambient magic—distorted, ghostly. The camera jittered as the officer entered a darkened hallway lit only by sparking charms.

  Then came the storm.

  A cloud of malignant shadow burst from a patient room. Voices poured from the dark—layers upon layers. A faceless nurse sobbing without end. A man’s voice singing in dissonant harmony through dozens of mouths. Shapes emerged—spectral claws tearing through the veil, reaching. Screaming.

  Dario leaned forward, jaw set. “An allipstorm.”

  Alex nodded. “Yeah. He wove their souls into a lattice. Patients, caregivers—anyone inside. He didn’t just kill them. He unmade them. Rebound their trauma into a singular, sentient haunting.”

  He turned to the next page—images of the aftermath.

  “They called it the Sorrow Room. The first response team didn’t make it out. Took eight licensed exorcists to contain it. They never caught Hollow Fang, but—” He flipped to the final image: a fanged spiral, carved into the ceiling in what looked like bone ash.

  Dario didn’t need confirmation.

  “Same mark?” he asked.

  “Same one we found in the Frangipani safehouse,” Alex confirmed. “Same composition. Same radius.”

  Dario leaned back, rubbing his jaw. “So the Frangipani brought him in. What for—ritual design? Spirit-binding? Both?”

  Alex’s mouth tightened. “He doesn’t show up in person. He sends instructions. Leaves his marks. But half their new rituals? They didn’t have that shit three months ago. Soul-forged contracts, necrotic dagger enchantments, even blood-binding over distance. Hollow Fang’s behind all of it.”

  Dario’s gaze flicked back to the sigil. “And the Frangipani treat him like what—some kind of shadow priest?”

  “Exactly. They don’t control him. They revere him.”

  Dario closed the file slowly. “Which means if we remove Hollow Fang—”

  “We might collapse the entire ritual pipeline,” Alex said. “Their current expansion depends on him. And they’re expanding fast.”

  He pulled up another projection—this one a map. Colored zones and magical ley overlays marked the growing presence of the Frangipani. Territories once held by smaller vampire syndicates were bleeding red.

  “The biggest tension’s with the Ghost Lanterns,” Alex said. “Spiritual crime syndicate, rooted in ancient Southeast Asian mysticism. They draw from city spirits, ancestral pacts, old geomantic foundations.”

  “They won’t take this expansion lightly,” Dario murmured.

  “They haven’t. We’ve already had three flare-ups. But if the Frangipani keep upgrading their rituals, it won’t be a war—it’ll be a massacre.”

  Dario’s eyes narrowed. “Then Hollow Fang’s the keystone.”

  Alex nodded. “Take him out, and we hit the blood magic where it hurts.”

  Then the office phone rang—an old-fashioned landline, enchanted with a faint humming ward.

  Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there.

  Alex picked it up, listened, then hung up just as fast.

  He looked at Dario. “We’ve got another body.”

  Dario was already rising. “Where?”

  Alex grabbed his coat. “Bukit Merah. Fifth one this month. Drained. Same sigils.”

  Dario’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Then let’s move.”

  They left the office, the projection orb still hovering above the desk—casting flickering shadows of the Sorrow Room across the wall behind them.

  _______________________________________________________________________________

  The sun blazed overhead by the time Dario and Alex arrived at Bukit Merah. The alley behind the apartment block shimmered with heat, shadows pooling where the buildings leaned too close. Dario grimaced and slipped on his tortoiseshell sunglasses—tropical brightness always grated against his eyes.

  Alex led the way into the alley. It was narrow, cluttered with discarded crates and rusting bicycles. In the center, a corpse lay sprawled across the concrete—arms out, face frozen mid-scream.

  Dario crouched beside the body, the tang of scorched ozone and copper clinging faintly to the air. Ritual burns covered the chest—precise sigils, symmetrical and cruel. Blood magic, etched with surgical precision. Power still lingered faintly, humming just beneath the skin.

  He glanced up, scanning the alley walls. No active glyphs. No residual enchantments. Whoever had done this had been clean. Controlled.

  The man was in his late forties, dressed in what remained of a fine business ensemble—tailored slacks, pressed shirt, luxury watch glinting faintly in the light. Wealthy, once. Now, just another offering.

  “Third victim this month.”

  The voice came from the alley mouth—dry and worn, but steady.

  A sergeant in the Ninth Precinct’s field uniform—sky-blue shirt tucked into brown khaki shorts—stepped into view. He looked seasoned, with a sharp face and a tired expression.

  He glanced at Dario, then back to Alex. “Same pattern. No witnesses. No struggle.”

  Then he frowned. “Who’s the angmoh?”

  Alex straightened. “Sergeant Ho, this is Agent Dario Moretti. Division Zero. He’s consulting on the Frangipani case.”

  Ho gave Dario a wary nod. “They’re letting private agents in now?”

  “Just this one,” Alex said evenly.

  Ho didn’t push it. Instead, he knelt beside the body. “Name’s Brad Wong. Businessman. Was looking at bankruptcy three months ago. Then, out of nowhere—debts gone, assets doubled, investments like clockwork. Too good to be true.”

  “Classic blood pact,” Alex muttered.

  “Except this isn’t classic.” Ho stood again. “We’ve seen Frangipani contracts—blood or money. Preferably both. Enforced repayment, long-term coercion. This? This is execution.”

  Dario crouched beside the corpse, eyes narrowing as he examined the sigils again. They were almost identical to the ones from the previous case file—but something about them was cleaner. Streamlined. More refined.

  “Scarlet Frangipani?” Alex asked.

  Ho nodded. “But... this is different. New pattern.”

  Alex turned to Dario. “You sense anything? You’ve got... minor abilities, right?”

  Dario said nothing for a moment. Then he nodded. “Let me try.”

  He closed his eyes and reached out with his senses—Shamanic Sight layered over necromantic empathy.

  Pain hit instantly.

  Sharp. Deep.

  His breath hitched as the vision took hold.

  Candlelight flickered. The walls were lacquered black, gleaming with distorted reflections. The scent of jasmine, incense... and blood. A figure knelt at the center of a ritual circle, cloaked in crimson robes, face hidden beneath a veil. Their fingers moved rapidly, desperate, slashing sigils into the air.

  It was unstable. Too rushed. The ritual was wrong—like they were forcing power from something that no longer wanted to give. The lines twisted. Blood pulsed unnaturally.

  The image warped. Collapsed.

  Dario gasped and yanked his hand back, sweat beading on his brow.

  “It was blood magic,” he said, voice rough. “Powerful. Experimental.”

  Ho and Alex watched him carefully.

  Dario pointed to the sigils. “It’s a hybrid extraction—draws life force all at once. No physical trauma. No struggle. Just... silence.”

  Ho swore under his breath. “That’s not how they work. This isn’t a debt collection. This is a goddamn harvest.”

  Dario stood slowly, dusting his hands. “Life force has value. If the Frangipani are using these rituals, they’re converting it. Feeding something.”

  Alex’s voice dropped. “Then they’re building toward something. Maybe something to aid them during the gang war?”

  Dario nodded. “And they’re getting better. These sigils are evolving. More refined. More efficient.”

  Ho rubbed his temples. “Then we need to hit them. Hard. We’ve got a low-level enforcer under surveillance—saw him near a ritual site last week. I can bring him in.”

  “Do it,” Alex said.

  Dario looked down at the body one last time. “And make sure he talks.”

  Alex shook his head, frustration bleeding into his voice. “You could haul in every street-level thug that you know of, make them sweat—but you and I both know who’s really behind this.”

  He paused, gaze darkening.

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

  Ho’s jaw tensed. “And she’s more insulated than a minister’s son. Every time we get close, she’s already moved the pieces. Layers of magical proxies. Diplomatic immunity through some front company. We push—she vanishes.”

  Dario frowned. “Who is she?”

  Alex exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Michelle ‘Red Ink’ Teo. On paper? A corporate lawyer. In reality? She’s the tactician behind the Frangipani’s expansion. Every time we try to move on her, the case collapses under a dozen layers of plausible deniability. That is her previous edge over the Ghost Lanterns ”

  Ho muttered bitterly, “She’s turned the law into a weapon. ”

  “And now,” he added, eyes narrowing, “Commander Zhan’s suddenly pushing us to crack the case.”

  Alex blinked. “Zhan? That doesn’t make sense. He’s been sitting on magical crime files for months.”

  “Exactly,” Ho said. “He only moves when it benefits him. And this case? Wasn’t even high profile until last week.”

  A cold silence passed between them.

  Alex glanced toward the alley mouth, where the press of normalcy waited just beyond the tape. “Careful what you say. You know how it works. Zhan decides what gets buried—and who takes the fall when it surfaces.”

  Dario listened, still and quiet.

  Then he said, almost absently, “Maybe it’s time we stop working around the enforcers—and talk to one directly.”

  Alex looked to Ho. Ho met his gaze and gave a short, grim nod.

  “I know someone low-level. Young, arrogant. He was seen near a safehouse two nights ago. If anyone’s stupid enough to talk, it’s him.”

  Alex let out a breath. “Let’s bring him in.”

  Dario’s voice was low as he turned away from the body. “Let’s hope he’s more afraid of us than he is of her.”

  Because if Michelle Teo was involved… this wasn’t just a gang investigation anymore.

  _____________________________________________________________________________

  The interrogation room was deliberately cold—not for comfort, but to dull instincts, make skin tighten, and slow the mind. Overhead, a single light buzzed, flickering against silver-threaded wards etched into the walls like veins of containment.

  Dario stood against the far wall, arms folded, his pale eyes fixed on the man shackled to the chair.

  Sergeant Ho had dragged in one of the Frangipani enforcers. Alex had placed him here.

  The underling looked human—mid-to-late twenties, maybe. Gaunt and jittery, the kind of lean that came from too many years living on blood debt and fear. But something didn’t sit right. His pupils were too sharp. His breathing, too controlled. His body, too still.

  Alex remained near the mirrored window, silent, letting Dario take the lead.

  “So,” Dario began calmly, “you were seen leaving the Geylang spa two hours before the third victim turned up dead. Coincidence?”

  The man grinned, lips peeling wide—too wide. “Everything’s a coincidence when you owe the right people.”

  “Funny,” Dario said. “That’s what the last guy said. He’s dead now.”

  A flicker. The grin faltered. The enforcer shifted in his seat, the metal chair creaking—heavier than it should have been. Dario’s eyes narrowed.

  He stepped closer.

  “No sweat,” he murmured. “Heartbeat’s steady. Too steady. You didn’t flinch when we cuffed you with wards. And now you’re smiling like you don’t feel the cold.”

  He met the man’s eyes.

  “Look at me,” Dario said softly.

  The enforcer smirked. “Of course, bro.”

  As their eyes locked, the smirk faded. Too easy. The man had no defenses. Dario slipped past the surface of his mind like a shadow slipping through mist—finding only hunger. Thirst. A gnawing ache that pulsed just under the skin.

  Dario smiled faintly.

  He reached into his pocket, drew a thin needle, and pricked his finger. A single drop of blood welled up, glistening in the light.

  The enforcer’s nostrils flared. He twitched.

  Alex stepped forward, brow furrowing. “What are you doing—?”

  The man’s eyes turned red.

  He lunged.

  The cuffs snapped taut as the man jerked violently, snarling. The chair skidded, groaned under the strain. On the third lunge, one of the enchanted cuffs cracked with a sharp ping.

  With a growl, he launched himself at Dario.

  But Dario didn’t flinch. He caught the enforcer’s wrist midair and twisted, slamming him back into the chair with bone-snapping force.

  “Stay,” Dario said coldly.

  The man snarled but didn’t rise again.

  Alex pulled his revolver. “What the hell was that?”

  “Familiar,” Dario said, his voice flat. “They’ve been feeding him vampire blood. Long enough to form a bond. But this isn’t just addiction—it’s mutation.”

  Alex looked shaken. “You took him down like he was nothing. He was feral.”

  Dario didn’t look away from the man. “He is feral. And starving. Familiars don’t think straight when they haven’t fed.”

  He crouched beside the prisoner, tone cool, clinical.

  “You thirsty?” he asked.

  The man’s sneer cracked into desperation. “Just a taste,” he whispered. “Give me a taste and I’ll talk.”

  Dario extended his bleeding thumb. The enforcer latched on, moaning softly as he drank.

  Alex grimaced. “I thought familiars only fed on full vampires.”

  Dario didn’t blink. “That part’s probably redacted. I’m a dhampir. My blood is stronger than most. Addictive.”

  The truth hung in the air like smoke. Dario was a dhampir—half-dead, half-living. Born of vampire and mortal. Dangerous.

  He yanked his hand back. The man whimpered.

  “Now talk.”

  The enforcer’s voice dropped to a raw whisper.

  “You don’t get it. Boss is losing it. Says the Frangipani has a new enemy. Someone worse than the Ninth. She’s got Darren carving new sigils for protection. Says something’s coming. Says… she hears things when she feeds.”

  Dario and Alex exchanged a look.

  “Michelle Teo’s scared?” Dario asked. “That’s new.”

  “She doesn’t even trust the purebloods anymore,” the ghoul murmured. “Everyone’s twitchy. The gang’s splintering. She says the Veil is… stirring.”

  Alex shook his head. “Michelle’s a vampire? That’s impossible. She walks in sunlight.”

  “There are ways,” Dario said as he rose. “Daylight wards. Dampening rings. Expensive tricks. But they exist. And it explains why her people are stronger than they should be. She’s boosting them.”

  He turned toward the door.

  “Where are you going?” Alex asked.

  Dario pulled out a burner phone. “To talk to someone who understands vampire paranoia better than most. His name’s Qin. Runs a jazz bar on Arab Street. Smuggles vitae. Deals in rumors.”

  Alex raised a brow. “He talk to you?”

  Dario gave a grim smile. “I owe him.”