Chapter 11: Interrogation at the Muzzle Oliver Warner knelt in a pooling slurry of rain and grit, his breath hitching like an old engine on the verge of detonation. Fresh blood trekked down his temple, mingling with the downpour that plastered his expensive shirt to his skin. It wasn't the biting chill of the rain that made Oliver’s teeth chatter. It was the muzzle of the silver Desert Eagle pressed firmly against the center of his forehead. The metal was cold, steady, and utterly merciless. The woman before him, Claire, stood as rigid as a monument to the grim reaper. Her black trench coat was sodden, her short hair slicked against her cheeks, but her gaze remained razor sharp. She had just saved his life from a feral vampire at the train station, but the way she brandished her weapon now suggested anything but a friendly greeting. "Three seconds." Claire’s voice was flat, nearly devoid of emotion, yet it pierced his ears more sharply than the distant thunder. "Gi

Sector 7 Pier was not a place you visited if you still had hope for a future. The water of Lake Mead was no longer blue. It was oily black, choked with industrial waste and the carcasses of fish mutated by alchemical runoff from factories owned by the Council. The stench was so overpowering that an ordinary person would vomit within seconds. Oliver Warner stood at the edge of the pier, its wooden planks already beginning to rot. Beneath a flickering streetlamp that blinked like a dying Morse code signal, he looked painfully out of place. He still wore a white silk shirt, sleeves rolled up now, and expensive tailored slacks. “Six minutes,” Oliver muttered. His left eye blinked, projecting an increasingly aggressive digital interface. [DAILY QUEST TIME LIMIT: 00 HOURS 06 MINUTES] [HOST STATUS: ENERGY MALNUTRITION] [WARNING: PERMANENT HP EXTRACTION WILL BEGIN IN 360 SECONDS] “Claire, you hear me?” Oliver whispered into the small earpiece in his ear. “I’m stand

The Purgatory was not a place for the poor. Especially not for those poor in lifespan. If Vegas was a playground for humans who wanted to feel sinful, Purgatory was where sin itself was manufactured, packaged neatly, and sold at premium prices. Oliver stepped out of the dimensional portal, which was cleverly disguised as a public restroom door behind The Rusty Spade casino, and was immediately assaulted by blinding opulence. Black marble floors polished with dragon’s blood. Twenty-meter golden pillars carved with faces frozen in agony. A massive crystal chandelier whose light did not come from electricity, but from enslaved will-o’-the-wisps burning in silent torment. “I hate this place,” Claire muttered beside him. “I feel like a cheap hooker.” Oliver glanced over. Claire no longer wore her worn trench coat or Kevlar vest. Thanks to the glamour illusion Oliver had purchased with the last of his spare coins at the entrance, she now appeared as a succubus. S

“Ah, damn it…” Oliver groaned. It felt like he had just fallen from the third floor of a concrete building, because that was exactly what had happened. He had landed on a pile of stage props, velvet fabric, fake wooden beams, and Styrofoam statues that were now completely shattered. Thick dust filled the air, blurring his vision. Above, through the gaping hole in the VIP balcony, Count Valdos’s roar grew more unhinged by the second. “FIND THEM. TEAR OFF THEIR SKIN. BRING ME THEIR HEADS.” Claire was already on her feet. She hauled Oliver up roughly, not caring if his ribs had shifted out of place. “Run, idiot. Don’t just lie there,” she shouted, firing her Remington toward the ceiling, shattering the remaining glass that threatened to fall on them. Oliver staggered upright. His hand reflexively checked the inside pocket of his suit jacket. Two solid objects. One, the Soul Coin, fifty years. Gold, heavy, warm. Two, the Memory Vial. A small glass b

The dice clattered against the rotting wooden table in a steady rhythm, like the ticking of a doomsday clock. Clack. Clack. Clack. Oliver sat cross-legged on the sagging motel mattress, its springs long dead. His eyes, especially his left eye whose pupil had shifted into a diamond shape, glowed an eerie blue. In his hand was a pair of transparent red dice he had just bought at a 24-hour convenience store. “Six and six,” Oliver murmured. He threw them. The dice spun wildly, struck a plastic coffee cup, bounced off an ashtray, then came to a stop. [6] and [6]. “Again,” Oliver said. He rolled them once more. [6] and [6]. “Again.” [6] and [6]. Claire, seated in the corner chair wh