Shadow‘s Reach (Halloween Noir) - 19. Obedience

The tires screeched in the drive as the limo lurched to a stop.

Jacques was already moving to the front passenger door before the sound had fully settled. He ripped it open, his breath coming fast. He didn’t know what he expected—he had felt it in his gut, the creeping dread that had been growing all evening, but the moment his eyes landed on Marcus in the driver’s seat, white-knuckled, shaking, his face streaked with tears—he knew.

And then he saw the backseat.

His whole world narrowed.

No Alex.

Solomon slumped against the leather, his skin ashen and covered in blood, just like his expensive coat. His normally pristine silver hair stuck to his forehead, damp with sweat. He wasn’t moving.

“Fuck—” The word came strangled from Jacques’ throat as he threw himself at the back door, yanking it open with enough force that it nearly ripped from the hinges.

Solomon was breathing. Barely.

Marcus choked on a sob. He was already scrambling to move, his hands shaking violently as he tried to help Solomon, his fingers fumbling, useless.

“Jacques—” His voice cracked on the name.

Jacques shoved him aside.

Marcus stumbled but didn’t protest. He just nodded rapidly, tears spilling down his face.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. Over and over. His voice was raw, breaking apart with each word. “I had no choice—I brought him back, I—my family—the debt is paid.”

Jacques hit him.

Hard.

His fist collided with Marcus’ face with the full weight of his fury behind it.

Bone cracked against bone. Marcus reeled backward, collapsing against the car, sliding down like his body had given out completely.

Jacques didn’t care. He turned back to Solomon, grabbing him roughly under the arms, ignoring the sharp stabs of pain in his hand, ignoring everything except getting Solomon inside.

Marcus’ body jerked in the dirt, gasping, sucking in short, ragged breaths, but still—still, the words kept tumbling from his lips.

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry—”

“Please—”

“Please, let me help—let me do something—”

Jacques didn’t even look at him.

“Stop! Pick him up, follow me,” Madame Marie’s voice cut through the chaos like a knife.

Jacques clenched his teeth so hard he felt them grind.

Then, without another word, he obeyed.

They staggered into the house, dragging Solomon up the stairs.

The scent of incense hung thick in the air—warm, heavy, suffocating. It didn’t belong in this moment.

Madame Marie turned, waiting at the top of the stairs.

She didn’t move. She didn’t even blink.

Her gaze swept over Solomon’s broken, bloodied body, and for the first time—just for a second—her composure cracked.

She knew.

Of course she knew.

She stepped aside without a word, pointing to a door.

Jacques and Marcus carried Solomon into his bedroom, laying him carefully on the mattress. His breathing was too slow, too uneven. Too fragile.

Marcus stumbled backward, his whole body trembling, his mouth still moving, still whispering those same two words.

“Bringing him back was the least I could do,” he muttered.

Jacques turned toward him so fast Marcus flinched.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. Jacques’ fist was clenched, trembling with the rage he hadn’t burned through yet.

He could kill him.

He wanted to kill him.

Solomon was unconscious, broken, bleeding—and Alex—

Alex was gone.

He let out a sharp, shaking breath, forcing himself to turn away. “Get out,” he rasped.

Marcus barely reacted. He just stood there, broken, lost, his face bloodied and swollen from the punch.

He didn’t argue. What could he say?

He just nodded, barely, and turned. The door clicked shut softly behind him.

Jacques stood there, staring down at Solomon’s still form, his own heartbeat thundering in his ears.

Madame Marie’s voice drifted from the doorway.

“Some paths must be taken.”

Jacques went cold.

Because she had known.

She had known.

And she had let it happen, anyway.

His fist curled so tightly his nails bit into his palm.

Alex was gone.

And he was going to bring him back.

Whatever it took.

Even if he had to burn the world down to do it.

 

***

 

The house was quieter than it should have been. Not the soft, contemplative silence that sometimes settled over Maison Noir, but something heavier—something raw and hollow, seeping through the halls like an open wound. It was suffocating.

Jacques sat at the foot of Solomon’s bed, his leg bouncing, his fingers twitching against the worn denim of his jeans. The room smelled of antiseptic and fresh linens. The metallic tang of blood had long been scrubbed away by expert hands, but Solomon still lay motionless. His breath came slow but steady, his usually sharp features slack with exhaustion. The doctors had stabilized him, given him infusions, ensured he would recover—but he still looked diminished and defeated, like something unseen had siphoned away more than just his strength.

Jacques should have felt relief that Solomon was alive. Instead, his body thrummed with restless, unsatisfied fury. His jaw ached from clenching, his temples pulsed with the steady beat of his heart, and his mind replayed Marcus' whispered apologies over and over.

I’m sorry. I had no choice. My family. The debt is paid.

Jacques' fist tightened. He had heard that plea so many times in the last forty-eight hours that the words had lost all meaning.

Marcus had no choice? Bullshit.

A wooden groan from the doorway pulled Jacques out of his thoughts. Madame Marie stood there, watching him with that familiar, knowing look—the one that said she saw far more than she let on.

"You should sleep, mon chou," she murmured, stepping inside, the soft rustle of her robes the only sound in the room. "Or at least pretend to. Staring at him will not wake him faster."

Jacques exhaled sharply through his nose. "And if he doesn’t wake up?"

Marie said nothing for a moment. Then, she sat on the chair beside the bed, folding her hands in her lap. "Then you will still have work to do."

Jacques swallowed back the bitter retort on his tongue. "I should be out there. Looking for Alex."

"And where would you look?" Marie arched a delicate brow. "Marcus said it’s Les Enfants, but New Orleans is not that small, Jacques. They might not even be in the city. You have no leads, no plan, and—" she paused, eyes flicking to his hand and stump, his still-bouncing leg, "—no control."

A muscle in Jacques' jaw ticked. He wanted to argue, wanted to tell her that he didn’t need control—he needed action. But something stopped him. Maybe it was the weight in her voice, or the way she was watching him so carefully, like she already knew something he didn’t.

"What’s happening to me?" he asked instead.

Marie sighed, leaning back. "Tell me. Have you felt any… impulses?"

Jacques frowned. "What kind of impulses?"

"To move. To go somewhere without knowing why. To listen to a voice that isn’t quite there." Her eyes darkened slightly. "To obey."

A cold sliver of unease slid down Jacques' spine. He hadn’t thought about it much—he had been too angry, too restless. But now that she said it, he had felt it. The small tugs, the subtle shifts in his awareness, the way his feet had nearly carried him out of Maison Noir without thinking.

"Shit," he muttered, rubbing at his temple.

Marie gave him a slow nod. "Be careful. They have a hold on you. Through Solomon’s blood."

Jacques' stomach twisted. "Can they control me? Like—actually make me do things?"

"Not yet… maybe…" she said. „They would need direct access to you. Right now, it is whispers, suggestions. But the more you resist, the stronger they will pull. And if they find the right moment—when you are weak, distracted, desperate…" She let the words hang between them.

Jacques flexed his fingers, forcing his breath to steady. He couldn’t afford this. He couldn’t afford to be useless.

"Can you break it?"

Marie tilted her head. "Given time, perhaps. But time is not on our side."

Jacques ran his hand over his face. He wanted to punch something. He wanted to tear Bourbon Street and the whole city apart with his bare hands until he found Alex. Instead, he sat there, stuck, trapped in a body that wasn’t entirely his own to command.

Marie watched him a moment longer, then stood, smoothing down the front of her robe. "Some paths must be taken," she said softly. "Even when they lead through hell."

Jacques exhaled shakily, closing his eyes for a brief second. He knew what she meant.

They weren’t going to get Alex back before the worst happened.

They were going to have to walk through hell to get him out.

 

***

 

The mansion stood tall and immaculate, a true jewel of the Garden District. It was framed by towering Southern live oaks, their sprawling canopies shading the pristine lawn. Gnarled branches stretched outward like ancient sentinels, draped with sparse scatterings of Spanish moss swaying gently in the autumn breeze. Beyond the iron gates, a meticulously maintained garden unfolded—boxwood hedges trimmed to geometric perfection, camellia bushes showing the first hints of their winter blooms. Palmetto trees stood in careful symmetry, while jasmine vines clung obediently to wrought-iron trellises, their scent faint but ever-present in the cooling air. Gas lanterns lined the stone pathway leading up to the grand entrance with its pristine marble steps. The house itself was a vision of old-world elegance—white columns, intricate wrought-iron balconies, and high, arched windows. It was beautiful. Refined. A place of wealth and power, untouched by time.

And yet, beneath its elegance, something felt profoundly wrong.

Inside, the air was thick with the scent of burning incense, a cloying mixture of myrrh and something sharper—cinnamon, or maybe blood. The walls, adorned with oil paintings and antique mirrors, reflected candlelight in wavering patterns, their gilded frames giving the illusion of movement. The house whispered of secrets, of indulgences long hidden behind its perfect facade.

Alex’s mind swam in a thick, inescapable fog, his thoughts fragmented and dissolving before they could form. The world around him was distant, voices echoing like whispers through water.

His body floated in a haze, disconnected, as though he were slipping in and out of a fever dream. His skin prickled, hypersensitive, every breath making him aware of the silk against his bare arms, the cool press of fabric draped over him. Something was wrong. He tried to move—his wrists tensed, his legs shifted—but an unseen force held him firm. No rope. No chains. Just resistance, like his body had been woven into the very air around him.

His pulse spiked. He willed himself to sit up, to break free, but the non-existent restraints tightened. A warning. Panic bloomed in his chest. But maybe he had just imagined it. It didn‘t matter.

The bedroom was grand—too grand. High ceilings, a chandelier casting fractured light against rich burgundy walls, a four-poster bed draped in gauzy fabric. An antique vanity sat against the far wall, bottles of perfume and creams arranged meticulously on its surface. A gilded mirror stood beside it, angled perfectly to reflect the bed.

His bed.

Someone had dressed him in something delicate, a silk robe so fine it barely registered against his skin. But the sensation was there. Distant, unreal, slipping through his numbed awareness like everything else. There was no panic, no fear—just the vague notion that something was wrong, though even that understanding faded before it could take root. He drifted, weightless, untouched by the reality pressing in around him, caught in a limbo where nothing fully belonged to him—not his body, not his thoughts, not even his name.

“Bonjour, Alex.”

The voice drifted through the haze, soft at first, like a whisper curling at the edges of his unraveling mind. It was the first thing that felt real since—since what? He couldn’t remember. Thoughts slipped through his grasp like water. Had someone spoken? Or was it just another fragment of his breaking consciousness?

“Bonjour, Alex.”

This time, it struck deeper. Clear, distinct. A man’s voice—low, measured, touched with a rich accent. Too real.

A slow, creeping awareness returned to him. Not fully, not yet—but enough. Something was wrong.

“We don’t have time, so listen carefully.”

Time? His thoughts struggled to take shape. His body felt weightless. Disconnected. Distantly, he became aware of a sound—soft at first, then sharper. Footsteps. Approaching.

The voice pressed on, urgent but steady.

“Your mind is fracturing.”

A shudder rolled through him. The words should have frightened him, but they didn’t. They just were.

“There’s only so much a man can take before he breaks. And after everything you’ve been through, you are very close.”

Another sound. A door creaking. Voices beyond it.

His stomach twisted.

“Mind and soul are the most precious things, Alex.” The voice softened, almost wistful. “They can be broken. They can be taken. They can be hollowed out until there’s nothing left of you at all. A zombie. And if you stay here, after all that’s happened, you will break.”

A shadow flickered beneath the door.

“They don’t need your mind, Alex. Or your soul. Those things are inconvenient. They only need your body, your power.”

His breath caught. The weight in his chest thickened.

“But here’s a secret,” the voice continued, warmer now, coaxing, almost amused. “You don’t have to stay.”

Stay where? Here? His body?

The door shuddered. Someone was there.

“You can‘t leave, but you can check out any time you like.”

This felt true, like he had heard it before.

Something inside him shifted. A presence, something buried deep inside him that had never truly left.

“You still carry what is left of me.”

A flicker of recognition. The words—they meant something.

The voices outside the door grew clearer, sharper. Closer.

“I can help. It’s like Jacques’ borrowing, but different. You can step outside yourself. A part of you will remain, but the rest—the part that breaks—can leave.”

His breath stuttered. His fingers twitched. A prickle of wrongness ran along his skin.

“I don’t…” The words barely formed. His tongue felt numb.

A sigh—not impatient, just knowing.

“Think of it like Schrödinger’s cat. Those waveforms. You will be both here and not. You will still feel, still see, but none of it will touch you. It will not break you because you’re also not here.”

The doorknob turned.

Something inside Alex cracked.

Not metaphorically. Not an idea. Something in him physically gave way—splintered—like a fault line in his very being.

A low tearing sensation rippled through him, like something peeling out of him, separating piece by piece.

His breathing hitched. His thoughts flickered—holes in his own mind appearing faster than he could register.

“It’s not escape. It’s survival.”

The weight pressing against the door grew heavier. Les Enfants were here.

Alex’s mind trembled. His heartbeat slammed in his ears.

A distant part of him whispered: Peace. Quiet. Love.

What if I don’t come back the same? What if I lose something forever?

“Do you want that, Alex?”

The doorknob rattled.

Panic surged through him—but something else did too.

The door opened.

“Who?”

It bloomed inside him, wrapping around his frayed mind like a steadying hand, like whispered comfort in the dark.

“Lucien?”

Warmth flooded Alex consciousness, pressing gently into him, solid and real in a way nothing else was.

It felt better than any friendly smile he had ever received.

It was all he needed to let go.

 

***

 

Cecile stepped inside first, her presence as effortless as it was commanding. She looked perfectly at home, draped in an emerald-green dress, the fabric shimmering with each step. Her dark eyes gleamed with satisfaction. Behind her, Papa Yared entered, adjusting the thick, golden amulet that hung from his neck.

They looked at Alex. He seemed to remain adrift, unmoored, the moment passing through him without reaction or recognition.

In Cecile’s hands was a doll. Small. Delicate. Wrapped in embroidered silk.

A voodoo doll.

“Ah, what a shame,” Cecile murmured, running a manicured nail along the doll’s fabric. “I’m beginning to worry you’ll miss your own celebration.” Her smile was indulgent, almost fond. “You might never truly understand what’s being done to you. Not really.”

Alex didn’t respond, his awareness gone. Just a soft groan escaped him as the bulge in his silken pants grew where Celine gently rubbed the doll. A soft, pleased hum came Cecile’s lips. “Yes, you feel it, don’t you? That pull, that binding. A little gift we prepared.”

Papa Yared chuckled, his voice a rolling thunder of amusement. “The spirits are pleased.” His fingers traced the edge of the amulet. “They have been waiting for this.”

Cecile leaned down, close enough that he could have smelled her perfume—jasmine and something sharper beneath it. “You must be wondering why we’ve gone through so much trouble.” Her fingers danced over the doll’s chest, and instantly, more warmth bloomed inside Alex’s body, unbidden.

Cecile’s smile widened as she tilted her head. “You see, chéri… this isn’t just about breaking you.” Her voice was honeyed, cruel. “It’s about sharing you.”

Cecile laughed, tapping a single finger against the doll’s chest. The warmth surged, spreading through his limbs, through his skin, like something inside him had been unlocked.

“I wonder,” she murmured, eyes gleaming with something close to pity as she gripped his now rock-hard dick through the silken pants. “If you were aware, would you beg? Or would you be too broken to even try?”

“Alright,” she said, turning to Papa Yared. “Let’s get him downstairs and do a full test run. And it’s time to call in the lover boy.”

Somewhere far away, Alex heard her and watched with detached interest. He saw himself breathing, struggling against the bindings, slipping away again.

 

***

 

The walls of Maison Noir seemed to close in around Jacques. The house, usually so rich with warmth, with noise, with life, felt stifling. Every second that passed without Alex felt like a step toward something irreversible. He sat in the dim glow of the parlor, his fists clenched so tightly his knuckles had gone white. The weight of stillness pressed against his ribs, winding tighter with every breath.

Something was wrong.

Not in the way it had been for the last two days—this wasn’t just absence, wasn’t just knowing Alex had been taken. This was something deeper, more immediate. It coiled in Jacques’ gut like a snake preparing to strike, a foreign weight settling against his chest, squeezing, pulsing.

He had to see.

Closing his eyes, he inhaled deeply, forcing himself to push past the noise in his own head. Marie had told him he had Lucien’s knowledge, that magic was an act of willfully observing. If that was true, then he would see. He had to.

The parlor blurred, edges warping like heat rising from asphalt. Then the ground tilted. No, not the ground—him. He was being pulled, yanked through something thick and formless, a suffocating pressure building in his skull, in his throat. The world didn’t simply bleed away. It swallowed him whole.

The vision took him.

At first, it was nothing but shadows, rippling and shifting like liquid silk. The same deep, inky tendrils he had seen in his first vision—curling around Alex in the mall, lingering like a threat—now returned, stronger, more insidious. But this time, they did not merely writhe—they invaded.

They weren’t just surrounding Alex; they were becoming something else, seeping into his skin first, twisting, reshaping, restructuring him from the inside out before solidifying into an intricate lattice of black leather and polished steel. As though the darkness itself had been reforged into something far crueler.

A harness. Tight. Ornate. Binding.

Jacques’ breath hitched. The restraints gleamed under flickering candlelight, each buckle and strap drawn so taut against Alex’s body that it pressed into his skin, shaping him into something… posed.

The shadows had become metal cuffs, fixing his wrists high above his head, his ankles forced apart by a spreader bar, leaving him utterly exposed. A collar encircled his throat—thick, adorned with rings meant for a leash. The gag had changed too. No longer amorphous shadow, but supple black leather strapped around his head, a smooth ball between his lips.

Alex wasn’t fighting it.

His breathing was slow, deep—wrong. It wasn’t the breathing of someone terrified or in pain. It wasn’t even forced submission. It was acceptance, like his body had adjusted to this, as if whatever was being done to him had rewritten something fundamental.

Jacques reached—or tried to. His body wasn’t his own. He could feel the urge in his muscles, the instinct to lunge, to rip the bindings apart, but he was nothing more than air, a ghost trapped in a nightmare someone else was writing.

The light shifted. A soft glow from above, a chandelier casting long, deep shadows. The room was grand, gilded, a place of decadence and indulgence.

The shadows pulsed again. Blue. Deep. Rhythmic.

And then, Alex shuddered.

Not in pain. Not in fear. But in response to something unseen.

A fresh wave of nausea rolled through Jacques. This wasn’t just captivity. This wasn’t just restraint. This was something far worse.

The shadows flickered. For a moment, the entire vision lurched, warping as though it were coming apart, and then—a voice.

“Come.”

The voice was not just sound. It pressed into him, slithered into his ears and curled into his thoughts like wet, living fingers. Then—pain. Like something had reached through him, pressing against his ribs from the inside, shoving him back, tearing him free. He hit the chair hard, his vision splitting, his breath ragged. But the sensation lingered, like a stain under his skin.

"Fuck," he choked out, dragging a trembling hand through his hair.

The room spun. His limbs felt like lead, but his mind—his mind was screaming. It was real. It was happening now.

"What did you see?" Marie’s voice was calm, but when Jacques looked up, he saw the tension in her hands, the way her nails pressed into her palms.

"Alex," Jacques rasped. "They—they’ve got him strapped down, bound." He swallowed hard, bile rising in his throat. "It’s like—fuck, it’s like they’re using him. And he’s just… gone."

Marie exhaled through her nose, her gaze flicking away for half a second before settling on him again. "Then we are running out of time."

"No shit," Jacques snapped, pushing himself up. His legs nearly gave out beneath him, but he caught himself on the armrest. "We have to go. Now."

Marie did not move.

"Jacques," she said evenly. "You cannot."

His head snapped toward her, fury and desperation crashing into each other in his chest. "The fuck do you mean, I cannot? You just said—"

"I said we are running out of time. Not that you should throw yourself into the fire without a plan." Her voice was steel, unwavering. "You felt it, didn’t you? The way the vision broke apart at the end?"

Jacques hesitated, breath still ragged. "…Yeah."

Marie’s dark eyes bore into his. "They sensed you watching."

A cold chill slithered down his spine.

"If you go now," she continued, her voice quieter, "they will not just take you. They will use you."

Jacques swallowed, his throat tight. His hand curled into a fist. Every instinct screamed at him to ignore her, to run out the door, to do something.

But he couldn’t shake the truth of her words.

A bitter, metallic taste coated Jacques’ tongue, like he’d bitten through his own lip. His pulse was still hammering. His body felt wrong. Too heavy. Too aware.

He squeezed his eyes shut, pressing his fingers into his forehead. He had to do something. Had to act. But his chest still vibrated with the last echo of that voice, curling inside him like a command waiting to be obeyed.

Slowly, he sank back into the chair.

Marie stood, her gaze distant, unreadable. "Paths intertwine, mon chou," she murmured, her voice softer now, but holding something deeper beneath it. "We will get him back. But not every step forward must be taken in haste."

Jacques squeezed his eyes shut. Every second wasted felt like another nail in Alex’s coffin.

But for now, he had no choice but to wait.

And that—that was the worst agony of all.

“I’m going to my room, get some rest”, he said, leaving Marie to her own thoughts and plans.

 

***

 

Upstairs, as he closed the door behind him, the lock clicked into place with a quiet finality. His conversation with Madame Marie had left him restless, his patience stretched thin by riddles and delays. His fingers curled into the mattress, his jaw tightening. He had been patient. He had waited. But patience, it seemed, was just another chain. He wanted action, not cryptic assurances.

His room was dimly lit, the glow from a single bedside lamp stretching long streaks of gold across the deep blue walls. He rolled his shoulders, trying to shake off the tension that clung to him. Shrugging off his shirt, he let it fall to the floor and dropped onto the mattress with a quiet grunt.

The silence in Maison Noir wasn’t empty—it was listening. The wooden beams above him seemed to bow under an unseen force, the shadows at the edges of the room deepening with something that watched. The air, thick with the scent of old books and candle wax, carried a whisper too faint to catch, but just loud enough to unsettle. It pressed in around him, carrying an awareness that made it hard to fully let his guard down. He stared up at the ceiling, following the dark wooden beams with unfocused eyes, but his mind wouldn’t quiet.

Alex. His presence in the house had changed something—like a shift in air pressure before a storm. Jacques wasn’t sure if it was a warning or just an inevitability.

He exhaled slowly, closing his eyes. Just for a moment. Just long enough to take the edge off.

But as sleep crept in, it was not rest that took him—it was something else. His limbs turned to lead, his breath slowed. He wasn’t simply falling asleep—something was pulling him under, lulling him with unseen hands. Just before the darkness claimed him, he swore he heard it again. A whisper. Amused. Patient. Waiting. His breathing slowed. The hum in the silence grew louder.

Then—just before his mind slipped into unconsciousness—he swore he heard it. A whisper. Soft. Almost teasing. Threading through the dark like fingers grazing the edge of his thoughts.

“Come.”

Then, nothing.

Jacques did not wake so much as he moved. His body obeyed something else now, something ancient and unyielding. He tried to stop—tried to command his feet to remain still, his hands to grip the sheets—but his muscles betrayed him. Each motion was not his own, but dictated by an unseen force. His body, untethered from conscious thought, rose from the bed in a fluid, dreamlike motion. The air in the room had thickened, humming with a presence unseen yet felt, like a thousand unseen eyes pressing against his skin. Shadows in the corners seemed to stretch and shift, elongating as if watching him go.

Barefoot, shirtless, he drifted toward the door. The lock clicked open, the wood groaning softly as it swung outward, the sound too loud in the suffocating quiet. The air outside the room was colder than it should have been, thick with the scent of old wood and something faintly metallic. The house breathed with him, or perhaps against him, resisting for only a moment before releasing him to the night.

The streets of the French Quarter pulsed with distant life, laughter, and music bleeding through the humid air. But Jacques heard none of it. He moved like a shadow through the alleys and sidewalks, drawn forward by something deeper than intention—an irresistible compulsion woven into his very being, twisting through his veins like a metal chain wrapped tight around his soul, dragging him forward. And he felt it now—truly felt it. This was not instinct or impulse. This was control. He struggled, willed himself to stop, to turn, to do anything but walk forward. His body did not obey. His breath quickened, panic rising beneath the fog of compulsion. He had no chance. He knew where he needed to go. Bourbon Street.

The gentlemen’s club where he had ripped away Les Enfants’ magic stood waiting, its facade unchanged, yet humming with something unseen. The neon glow flickered against his skin as he neared the entrance, but he slowed to a halt. A bouncer stood at the door, eyeing him warily, his gaze shifting between suspicion and invitation. "Need a shirt, my friend?" the man asked, his voice smooth but guarded, as if uncertain what to make of Jacques' presence. It wasn’t a warm night.

In the darkness of the club’s entrance, figures stirred and a man stepped out, pausing just past the threshold. The bouncer straightened and started to move against Jacques, but the man lifted a hand, signaling that he would handle this. He was dressed to impress, his presence measured and assured. With an easy grace, he approached Jacques, eyes taking him in with a knowing glint. His gaze flickered over Jacques’ bare torso, lingering for a moment before returning to his face. Something passed through his expression—amusement, satisfaction. He knew. He knew Jacques had no choice but to be here.

"Mister Black, what a pleasure," he greeted, his voice respectful yet weighted with something unreadable. "You came after all,“ he said. „We were beginning to fear you wouldn’t answer our invitation."

„Please, follow me… I’m here to escort you to the party!"