Lunch always began in fragments—chairs scraping, plastic lids snapping, someone laughing too loud at a joke no one caught. The air hung thick with the smell of machine oil, stale bread, and salt from the workers' skin. A fan turned lazily overhead, its blades worrying the dust into thin smoke. The light was flat and pale, the kind that made time blur; it could have been noon or late afternoon, no one would have known.
I took my container from the counter—two tuna sandwiches, a handful of chips, and the same bottle of iced tea beading cold against my palm. My hands still stung faintly from lifting boxes earlier, skin rubbed raw at the knuckles. The cafeteria floor was slick in places where spills had dried to a thin, sticky sheen.
At our usual table, Marco and the others were already gathered, voices blending into the steady rhythm of chewing and chatter. I slid into my spot, nodding once in greeting. A new guy sat among them, his presence unfamiliar but confident, elbows on the table, a grin that came easy.
I sat down without asking questions. The bench was cold through my pants, the kind of chill that seeps upward. Forks clinked against plastic, conversations rose and fell like waves brushing the same shore over and over.
Halfway through my sandwich, I felt his gaze before he spoke.
"I heard you do magic tricks."
I looked up. The new guy leaned forward on his elbows, grinning like he'd already decided something about me. His hair was the kind that looked good messy, and his hands were clean—too clean for this place.
I glanced at Marco, at Gareth, at the others. They were still eating, their laughter easy and unbothered. "I only use cards and shit," I said finally, reaching for my tea.
"Show me," he said.
"We're still eating, man." I chewed, swallowed, then asked, "What's your name?"
"Deus."
"Interesting name," I said. He smiled like it was meant to be.
"The men around here swear you're unlike anything they've ever seen before."
"They're just exaggerating," I muttered, finishing the last bite of my sandwich. My fingers were slick with crumbs and tuna oil; I wiped them on a napkin before pulling the deck from my jacket pocket—a battered red-backed pack that had lived too long in my hands. "Watch."
The sound of shuffling was crisp—paper whispering against paper, the rhythm I'd learned to breathe by. I fanned the cards between my palms, their edges soft and familiar. The men nearby began to quiet, curiosity thickening the air. Even the clatter from the far tables faded, as if the warehouse itself leaned closer.
"This one's harder to catch," I said. "It's all in the hands."
I let the cards bridge in a smooth cascade, the sound sharp and clean. I asked Deus to pick one—he drew the queen of spades, almost lazily, like he'd done this before. I told him to remember it, slide it anywhere back in. The moment he did, I shuffled again, slow at first, then faster, cutting, riffling, bending, my fingers moving in small, deliberate flicks. The trick wasn't about hiding the card—it was about guiding the eye to where it thought it saw truth.
Then, a pause. I spread the cards face-down across the table, their edges forming a near-perfect line. "Your card's gone," I said.
He frowned, skeptical. "It's not."
"Check your pocket."
He blinked, half-amused, and patted his chest pocket. Nothing. The others laughed under their breath. Marco leaned closer, eyes glinting. "Maybe check deeper," I said.
Deus reached into his jacket again, slower this time—and when he drew his hand out, there it was, the queen of spades folded neatly once, twice, corners slightly damp from sweat. For a second, no one spoke. Then the laughter came, low and disbelieving.
"Bullshit," Marco said, but his grin was wide.
Deus turned the card over in his hand, studying it like it might reveal a secret. "How'd you do that?"
I shrugged. "Trade secret."
The art wasn't in hiding—it was in making people want to be fooled.
Deus slid the card back toward me. "You're good."
"I know," I said, but there was no pride in it—just habit. The applause of calloused hands, the echo of surprise—it used to mean something when I was a kid. Now it was just noise filling the hours between waking and sleep.
Lunch ended the way it always did. Containers stacked, chairs dragged, men returning to the conveyor's rhythm. Deus stayed seated for a moment longer, his gaze still fixed on me. "You ever think about doing this for real? Onstage or something?"
I shook my head. "Crowds don't pay rent."
He smiled faintly. "They might pay attention."
"Attention's more expensive than rent," I said. "And harder to keep."
We stood. The room smelled of reheated air and metal when the door opened to the loading bay. The light outside was harsh, white as salt. I tucked the cards back into my jacket, the edges pressing lightly against my ribs like a heartbeat I'd trained to obey.
As we walked toward the lines of boxes waiting for shipment, Deus fell into step beside me. "You ever think what it'd be like if the trick was real?"
I glanced at him. "If magic was real?"
He nodded.
I thought of the mountains, the stories, the blood-marked night I never spoke of. I thought of what I'd traded, and what had followed since. "No," I said. "I already learned what happens when it is."
His expression flickered, curious, but he didn't push. The machine belts roared to life again, swallowing our words. And for a moment, as I slipped my gloves back on and bent to lift another box, I could still feel the faint tremor of the card in his hand—like something living, something that didn't want to disappear.
He lingered beside me after we clocked out, both of us standing near the loading bay where the air carried that mix of dust, diesel, and salt from the sea beyond Ebonreach's docks. The others had gone back to work, the clatter of crates echoing faintly through the open space. Deus leaned against a steel beam, arms crossed, his shadow bending long across the floor.
"You ever seen Igor Ivanov perform?" he asked suddenly.
"Yeah, for sure," I said, brushing my palms on my pants. "I grew up watching him. The floating cards, the fire thing—he was the reason I picked up a deck in the first place."
Deus nodded, a slow grin cutting across his face. "He's still going strong, you know. Sold-out shows. Private gigs with the elites. Some say he even did one for the royal estate last winter."
"Yeah, I know," I said quietly. The thought made something twist inside me—an ache, almost. The kind that comes when you realize a dream you once chased now belongs to someone else entirely.
Deus tilted his head. "You ever wonder how that's done?"
I shrugged. "Years of practice, I guess."
He laughed—soft, almost like he was laughing to himself. "No. Not practice at all."
I looked at him, half-amused, half-weary. "Then what, divine intervention?"
His grin deepened, but there was something off about it, something too certain. "Just a little help from the other world."
I lifted both eyebrows, thinking I'd misheard him. "What?"
He leaned forward until his breath brushed against the side of my face, the faint scent of mint and tobacco mixing with the warehouse's metallic air. His voice dropped, low and deliberate, a whisper that slid straight through my skin.
"Black magic."
The words crawled through me. The tiniest hairs on my arms lifted, and for a second I could've sworn the air temperature dipped. The buzz of the fluorescent lights faltered, or maybe I only imagined it. I swallowed, my tongue dry against my teeth.
"What are you saying?"
He stepped back, smiling like it was a secret joke between us. "You know how it's done. Black magic. The reasonable way to get power"
I blinked at him. "Superpowers," I repeated. "You're telling me Igor's out there with some black magic in his back pocket?"
"Yeah," he said, simple as that. His tone carried no mockery, no disbelief. Just certainty, like a man repeating something he'd already seen proven.
I looked around, making sure no one was listening, then grabbed his arm and pulled him aside, between two crates stacked high with boxed goods. "Alright," I said, lowering my voice. "Let's say I believe you. How did Igor get it? How do you just—gain that kind of power?"
Deus's smile didn't falter. His eyes, though, were darker now, reflective like oil catching light. "I know someone."
The words hung there, steady and unflinching.
"Someone who what?" I asked.
"Someone who can make it happen."
I licked the inside of my cheek, trying to read him. His expression was calm, too calm. "Okay, and what's the deal? Is it guaranteed or what—you're saying I can just go, get blessed by the underworld, and come back throwing fire and making shit levitate?"
Deus's voice was smooth, almost indulgent. "Exactly. There's a man in the mountains. Maybe you've heard of the stories—the ones about what happens up there. The rituals, the exchanges."
I hesitated. The mountains had always been a background myth. An old woman at the shelter used to mark the calendar on nights the mountains 'turned their faces'. Men who went up and didn't come back. Wishes granted, lives cut short.
"If you've got the courage to go," Deus said, "I can link you."
I frowned. "Why don't you do it yourself, then?"
He laughed again, quieter this time. "I'm not interested in that kind of power. I'm just suggesting something." His tone turned almost persuasive. "If you want to rise up—really rise—get noticed, touch that world Igor touched… this is your way out. Otherwise, you'll keep doing your little miracles for men who'll forget your name by next week."
I looked down at my hands, the faint ink smudges at the edges of my nails, the callouses from boxes and cold mornings. "You're saying it like it's easy."
"It is," he said. "For those who want it badly enough."
He turned and started walking back toward the warehouse doors, light spilling over his shoulders in a thin, gold haze from outside. The echo of his boots followed him.
I stood there for a long while, the sound of the conveyor belts returning, the smell of tuna and smoke still clinging to my clothes. The words replayed, quiet but insistent—black magic.
Something about the way he'd said it made the world feel smaller, like all the noise and metal around me had folded inward. I rubbed at my arms, trying to shake the cold that had seeped under my skin.
The deck of cards in my pocket pressed against me again, heavy, almost alive.
And for the first time in years, the thought came unbidden— what if the trick could finally be real?
That night, the shelter was quieter than usual. Only the soft creak of old frames, the distant plumbing groaning like a restless animal, and the snoring of men who'd long forgotten how to dream. The air carried that blend of detergent, sweat, and cold metal—thin, recycled air that never quite felt clean.
I lay on my back on the lower bunk, one hand under my head, the other holding my phone just close enough that its light washed my face in a dim blue glow. The sheets were rough and smelled faintly of bleach. The bed above me sagged in the middle, pressing down like a second ceiling.
The video played on loop. Igor Ivanov—black suit, white cuffs rolled to the elbows—standing in the atrium of a mall in Dubai, a halo of shoppers gathering around him. His voice came through the tinny speakers of my phone, calm, rehearsed, the kind of voice that made disbelief sound naïve.
He stopped a woman near the fountain. She looked European, maybe mid-thirties, wearing sunglasses indoors like she belonged to a different world entirely. He asked her to stand still, to lift her right arm slowly. She did. Her shadow behind her followed—then froze, arm midair.
The crowd gasped. I felt my own throat tighten as I watched him move closer, smile faintly, and gesture once with his hand. The shadow's arm dropped while the woman's stayed raised. The shadow stepped to the side. She didn't.
The woman's scream pierced even through my low volume. She stumbled back, laughing in disbelief, then covering her mouth. "No, no—this is impossible. Stop it!"
The camera shook. Someone said, "What the hell," their voice trembling.
I paused the video, staring at the frozen frame—the woman's shadow still mid-step, her face caught between laughter and terror.
This had to be edited. Staged. A trick with lighting, maybe. Some setup with mirrors, CGI, or paid actors. I told myself that twice, three times, but the unease stayed, sitting heavy in my stomach.
I exited the video and opened the search bar. The letters glowed as I typed: black magic real or fake.
The results came up fast—half articles, half warnings. I scrolled past the obvious clickbait until I found one written in old text format, pale letters on a dark background:
Black magic, or sihr, is the act of invoking spirits or unseen entities to alter the natural order of things. It demands a pact—an offering of faith, blood, or memory in exchange for borrowed power.
Another article began with a verse from an old scripture:
"They learned from the devils that which brings division between a man and his soul, though none can harm except by the will of the Almighty."
Then below it, a modern preacher's warning:
Every pact has a cost. You think you are commanding, but you are the commanded. Those who seek power through darkness invite the ruin of their own peace. The devil does not lend—he trades.
I read the words twice, my eyes burning from the glow. The bed creaked above me as someone turned in their sleep. The radiator hissed faintly near the corner.
But still, the thought clawed its way back in: what if it was true?
If Igor could move a shadow, what stopped him from more? What if Deus hadn't been talking nonsense at all?
I locked my phone, the screen snapping to black. My reflection in it looked ghostly in the faint light seeping through the window—eyes pale, unfocused.
Outside, rain started tapping against the glass, soft at first, then harder, like impatient fingers. The sound filled the room, steady, hypnotic. I turned on my side, curling slightly toward the wall, and stared at the cracks spreading across the plaster.
Even with my eyes closed, I could still see the shadow move on its own.
And beneath all the noise of the shelter, there was that whisper of a thought—quiet, persistent, almost seductive.
What if the devil really does listen when you ask?
The rest of the night stretched long and brittle, like a thread pulled too thin. I didn't move from the bed. The glow from my phone lit the underside of the top bunk, turning the chipped metal slats above me into bars. Everyone else had sunk into sleep—the slow rhythm of breathing filling the room, broken by the occasional cough or the sound of someone grinding their teeth.
I scrolled again, watching another clip of Igor. He stood in a narrow corridor of light, surrounded by mirrors, the reflection of himself multiplying with each angle. He raised a hand, and one reflection moved before the others. It blinked independently. The comments were a storm of disbelief and worship. "The master of real magic.""Proof the world isn't what it seems."
I switched videos. Another thumbnail—someone named Drake Moren—same dark suit, same calm smile. His videos had millions of views. In one, he stood before a hotel lobby, surrounded by marble and glass, and told the guests to keep their distance. He spread his fingers slowly, and a door down the corridor slammed shut on its own. Gasps erupted. He laughed softly, then focused on a woman standing closest to him. Her hair—a loose golden wave—shifted as though caught by a breeze, but there was no movement in the air. A single lock lifted, twisted midair, and fell back into place.
The crowd screamed. The camera shook. Drake bowed with a serenity that made the chaos look rehearsed.
I watched that part again and again, trying to catch the illusion. His hands were steady. No wires, no magnets, no distractions. It didn't feel like performance—it felt like something had obeyed him.
The more I watched, the less real the world around me felt. The shelter faded into a blur—the sour smell of unwashed sheets, the low thrum of pipes, the radiator's thin wheeze. I could feel my pulse in my throat, restless and alive.
It had to be staged. It had to be.
But the logic unraveled fast. If all of this was fake, how had they fooled millions? How did every angle look clean? My mind kept circling back to Deus, to that whisper against my ear, the way the air turned cold when he said black magic.
I opened another tab. Typed Drake Moren real magic or black magic. More forums, more theories. Some claimed both Igor and Drake belonged to a secret order from the East—men who sold pieces of their souls to entities older than God. Others said they were illusionists protected by military contracts, hidden science. And then there were the religious corners, where the tone changed entirely.
"Those who deal in the unseen bind themselves to what they cannot unbind."
"A man cannot serve both God and his desire."
"Black magic is the calling of jinn—each act a trade of light for darkness."
"Do not seek their company, for their power is borrowed from despair."
I read until my eyes blurred. The phone grew hot in my hand. My chest ached with something I couldn't name—part awe, part hunger.
When I finally looked at the time, it was 4:30 AM. The sky outside the window was the color of tin, dawn was still a rumor. I blinked hard, realizing I hadn't slept. My body ached from stillness.
I swung my legs off the bed, landing barefoot on the cold floor. The chill jolted through me, steadying my breath. I shoved my phone into my pocket and moved toward the showers. The tiles were wet and freezing underfoot. The water hit me in violent bursts—first ice, then warmth, then ice again. I didn't care. The shock felt good, real.
I brushed my teeth quickly, water running rust-colored from the old pipes. My reflection in the cracked mirror looked feverish—eyes wide, hair sticking up in wild strands.
The world outside was still asleep, but I couldn't wait. I threw on my clothes and left, the metal door groaning behind me. The streets of Ebonreach were slick from last night's rain, streetlights humming softly against the mist. I half-ran toward the bus stop, breath clouding in the air.
All I could think about was Deus—his grin, his whisper, the certainty in his tone.
I needed to see him. I needed to know how.
The warehouse gates opened before sunrise, the yard still veiled in that thin blue light that makes everything look half-real. My breath came out white as I crossed the lot, the gravel crunching under my boots. The metal siding of the building caught the first hint of morning—pale, sharp, and cold to the touch when I brushed against it.
Inside, the air smelled of cardboard, cleaning solution, and coffee left too long on the warmer. The place was silent except for the lights' thin buzz and a distant machine rousing. My locker creaked when I opened it. I changed quickly, the uniform stiff and smelling faintly of detergent and sweat. The fabric clung to my damp skin from the hurried walk.
I clocked in—5:11 AM. The scanner beeped once, hollow and small in the stillness. The break room monitor glowed faintly with the daily schedule. I scanned down the list of names, the columns of tasks: sorting, lifting, loading, dispatch. My name was beside Dock 3. I scrolled further, slower, searching for his. Nothing. No Deus. No half-written initials. Not even a blank space that could've been him.
The knot in my chest tightened.
I stepped into the main hall, the warehouse stretching long and dim before me. Rows of shelves rose like narrow cliffs on both sides, boxes stacked high with numbers scrawled in chalk. The air carried that familiar scent of dust and warm tape. I moved down the corridor, eyes flicking to every corner, every movement of light.
No trace of him.
The belts started turning a few minutes later, a low roll of machinery filling the space. I was standing by my station when Marco appeared, coffee cup in hand, his hair still damp from a quick shower.
"You're really early today," he said, his voice thick from sleep. "Overtime open or what?"
I shook my head. "No. Just didn't sleep last night. Figured I'd come in."
He gave a half-shrug, setting his cup down on a crate. "Could've stayed home and tried harder."
"Yeah." I forced a small smile, though my eyes kept darting toward the entryway. "Hey, have you seen that guy who sat with us yesterday? The one with the strange name?"
"Deus?" Marco rubbed at the back of his neck. "Nah. Never seen him before yesterday, actually. Thought he was with your group."
"I don't think so," I said. "He wasn't on the board today either."
Marco frowned. "Then he must be from the late shift. They rotate people around sometimes."
"Maybe." My voice came out flatter than I meant.
He wandered off toward his line, leaving the smell of coffee and detergent behind. I stayed where I was for a moment longer, watching the door.
The hum of the machines thickened into rhythm, the air growing warmer with motion. I picked up the first box on my list and set it onto the belt. My hands worked automatically, muscle memory doing what my mind couldn't focus on.
Still, I kept glancing at the corners, the aisles, the door to the staff lounge. Nothing.
It was like he'd never been here at all.
The thought lingered, strange and heavy, until even the sound of the conveyor felt distant—just another kind of whisper in the dark.