The studio lights still shimmered with that false glow—the kind of glow that pretended to be warmth but was only the heat of artifice. The news anchor stood beneath it, her poise perfected, her every gesture rehearsed, yet still breathing with that little spark of naivety the cameras could never disguise.
Elijah stood some distance away, leaning against the sidewall where shadow and brightness split across his frame like a veil. His eyes were fixed on her, unblinking.
Naive. All of them. Naive.The words stretched inside his head, not so much thought as a rhythm, a mantra, a pulsing recognition of truth. He let his lips curve into a ghost of a smile.
This world… this entire world of theirs is nothing more than a stage.
They play their parts, repeating the lines given to them, believing in the sanctity of telecommunication, the holiness of live broadcasting. They think it is truth—but it is only the truth I allow to pass through these wires, these lenses, these voices.
Even now… my lies become truths, my victimhood becomes heroism, my vengeance becomes justice. How gullible the masses are. How gullible—and how deliciously useful.
He breathed out softly, his gaze never leaving the anchor. The cut of her blouse, the way it embraced her neckline and waist, how the studio lights traced every line of fabric over her body—it was like the clothing itself betrayed her form to his eyes, whispering what she did not intend to whisper.
I've tasted power now. And I want more. With each broadcast, with each word, I see how easily a narrative bends—how quickly a world can be reshaped. And Azaqor—ah, Azaqor—was it not you who pulled me from the abyss of despair? You who gave me vengeance for my mother, Serena? You who whispered promises while I clawed through the dark? If the masses can be bent through lenses and cables, then perhaps they can be made to kneel before you. Before me. A new world—an incarnation of Azaqor stitched into this reality.
Yes… but first, I indulge. First, I quench my thirst for beautiful things.
His focus sharpened. The anchor turned briefly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, smiling in polite conversation with a cameraman. Elijah stepped forward. His stride was deliberate, confident—every motion balanced on that thin line between predator and gentleman. The staff around him were still busy, fiddling with equipment, the end of the broadcast always bringing a little chaos.
The big-bellied technician crouched near the cable junction, grunting as he unplugged thick cords. A shorter man beside him handed connectors, untangling wires like serpents. Their attention was mechanical, routine.
Elijah approached the anchor with the kind of calm that made noise seem to part for him. She noticed him when he was just close enough, her lips parting slightly in recognition.
"Mr. Marcus," she said, her voice still carrying that broadcast brightness. "I didn't expect—"
He tilted his head, smiling—not wide, not forced, but that subtle smile that pressed confidence into the air around him. His eyes dipped only briefly, acknowledging the curve of her neckline before returning to her gaze with effortless poise.
"You shouldn't be surprised," he said smoothly, his tone lowered so only she could hear. "When something—or someone—catches my attention, I don't hesitate."
Her laugh came lightly, unsteady, though she tried to mask it. "You're quite direct."
"Direct," he echoed, taking another step closer, close enough for her perfume to reach him. "Life is too fragile for hesitation. Wouldn't you agree?"
There was silence. She blinked, caught in the weight of his voice. He tilted slightly, his gaze never breaking hers, his presence radiating an aura both commanding and oddly intimate. He drew a card from his pocket, but instead of handing it over, he pressed it gently into her hand, his fingers lingering just enough.
"Call me," he said. Then, as if reconsidering, his lips curved higher. "No. Give me your number. That way I know I won't miss it."
The confidence, the certainty, the way he framed the choice as inevitable—she hesitated only a moment before sliding her phone from the counter beside her. Her hands trembled just faintly as she tapped digits, then placed it into his palm for confirmation. He saved it, returned the device with deliberate care, and leaned in just close enough to murmur:
"Perfect. I knew you'd understand."
Behind them, the big-bellied technician straightened, wiping sweat from his brow. He had seen it, that casual conquering, that effortless exchange. He exhaled through his nose, shaking his head.
"Man," he muttered, nudging his companion. "Some guys… it's like the whole world bends for them. From escaping a murder attempt, to being praised as a hero on the news, to charming beautiful women—some guys are just… lucky, y'know?"
The short man adjusted his glasses, still crouched with wires in hand. He didn't look up when he replied, his voice calm, deliberate, almost meditative.
"Luck," he said, "is only the story we tell ourselves when we see something from outside. We think someone has more, that they've been given what we haven't. But all we're really seeing is ourselves—our hopes, our dreams, even our fears—projected onto another person. Strip that away, and what remains is just us. Our inner selves."
The big-bellied man frowned, uncertain. The short one continued, setting the cables neatly aside.
"This Marcus fellow might look perfect. But that perfection is only our perception—our projection. If you stop perceiving others, and start perceiving yourself, you'll realize: you are not a man experiencing the world. You are the world… experiencing itself through you."
The bigger man paused, his expression softening as if something invisible had lifted from his chest. A sigh escaped him, lighter than the grunt he carried before.
"…That's… that's something," he said slowly. "Feels like… a weight off my shoulders. Where'd you even learn to talk like that?"
The short man allowed a small smile. "From a book. A scientist named Gilgamesh. He claimed his teachings came from ancient manuscripts—manuscripts found in…"
The big-bellied man's eyes widened. "Wait. Don't tell me—from that creepy site? Where those Azaqor manuscripts were uncovered?"
The short man only nodded.
Elijah, pocketing his phone with the anchor's number inside, turned slightly as if to leave. For a fraction of a second his eyes gleamed, bright as if lit by a hidden fire. Then, as the anchor faced him again, they dimmed back to normal, human, charming.
"Well," he murmured in a low, velvet tone, "shall we?"
She glanced toward the hallway, then back at him. Her lips curved. "I'm ready."
He inclined his head. "So am I."
They walked, her heels striking against the polished floor. The chatter of crew and the hum of unplugged machines dulled behind them. Yet, at the corner of the studio, the big-bellied man froze. Goosebumps rippled over his arms, sudden and sharp, as if unseen eyes had crawled across his skin.
He shivered.
The short man noticed. "What's wrong?"
The big one turned, scanning. Around them, other staff moved about: a woman stacking cue cards, a man rolling a camera stand to storage, two interns sweeping confetti left from a celebratory broadcast segment. Each of them was busy, absorbed in their work, faces bent with fatigue and normalcy. Nothing strange, nothing menacing.
"I… it's nothing," the big man muttered finally, shaking his head. "Maybe I'm just imagining things."
But Elijah had not left. Not yet.
From the corridor's edge, just far enough that the technicians could not see him, he lingered—his head tilted, his gaze cast sidelong, not at the big-bellied man but at the short one. His lips twisted into something that was not quite a smile, not quite a sneer—more an amused curiosity.
The kind of look a predator might give to a smaller predator it hadn't yet decided whether to respect or consume.
The anchor's voice pulled him back. "Elijah? Are you coming?"
His eyes shifted, softened, turned once more to the role he wore. He straightened, the amused shadow fading into charm, and stepped forward with slow, measured grace.
"Yes," he said, his voice smooth as glass. "I'm coming."
And as he walked away, the weight of unseen eyes lingered, long after the corridor had emptied.