The golden light around Dimas’s fists flickered like a dying candle against the suffocating weight of the black static. He was poised to spring, every muscle coiled for a leap into the heart of the vortex, but Irina’s hand clamped onto the back of his tunic with surprising strength."Dimas, stop! If you run in there now, you’re not a detective, you’re just a delivery service bringing them a second course!"Dimas skidded his heels against the frost-slicked floor, his breath coming in white, ragged plumes. "The guy is literally being erased, Irina! You saw the face. You heard the screaming. I can’t just sit here and watch him turn into a charcoal sketch!""You think your speed works there?" Irina shouted, her eyes darting to the canvas where the massive, skinless hand was still groping for purchase on the studio wall. "That’s not distance, Dimas. It’s a psychological depth. You could run for a thousand years and never move an inch closer to him because you’re running in the wrong dimens

The roar of the static didn’t just fill the room; it swallowed the world. As the golden light from Dimas’s hands collided with the violet hunger of the canvas, the reality of the Seraphina Gallery buckled. One moment, Dimas was standing on frost-slicked floorboards; the next, the sensation of gravity vanished, replaced by a violent, horizontal pull that felt like being dragged through a keyhole."Dimas! Don't you dare let go of that tether!" Irina’s voice screamed, sounding like it was coming from the bottom of a deep well."I’m trying! It’s like... it's like the air is made of lead!" Dimas shouted back, his voice vibrating with the kinetic strain."The resonance is peaking! If you lose your focus now, you’re just part of the pigment!""Thanks for the pep talk, Irina! Really helps the nerves!"Dimas gritted his teeth, his fingers sinking into the frame of the canvas—except it wasn't wood anymore. It felt like cold, wet clay. With a final, agonizing lurch, the golden aura surrounding h

The chill of the studio was finally fading, replaced by the mundane warmth of the gallery’s heating system, but the weight in Dimas’s chest remained. He leaned against the hallway wall, watching the paramedics lead a dazed Elias Thorne toward the exit. Every movement Dimas made felt thick, as if the air itself had turned into syrup."You’re staring again," Irina said, stepping into his line of sight. She looked exhausted, her hair spilling out of its bun, but her eyes were sharp with concern."I’m just... getting used to the frame rate," Dimas replied, his voice a bit raspy. He tried to push off the wall with his usual effortless snap, but he stumbled, his center of gravity lagging behind.Irina caught his elbow, steadying him. "Slow down, Dimas. You literally just traded a piece of your soul. You can't expect to be running marathons by midnight.""It’s not just the running, Irina. It’s the everything. I can hear people talking at the front desk, and my brain wants to process the word

"We have to get out of here," Irina said, her fingers digging into his arm, her grip surprisingly tight as she pulled him back toward the door. "Dimas, now. They know who you are. They know what you can do.""And they know I'm slow now," Dimas replied, his eyes still locked on the empty, silver cage. "Which makes me a much easier target.""I am not letting them put you in that thing," she said, her voice shaking but fierce. "Grab the file. Let’s go."Dimas snatched the thick manila folder off the metal podium. "Got it. Let’s move."They scrambled back through the soundproofed steel door, their boots clicking sharply against the concrete of the narrow corridor. Dimas felt a cold sweat breaking out on the back of his neck, his muscles protesting the sudden exertion."How are your legs holding up?" Irina asked as they reached the sliding wooden panel behind the stage."Like they’re made of wet cardboard," Dimas muttered, leaning against the stone pedestal to catch his breath. "But I can

The hum of the city through the cracked window of the apartment felt different now—not a rhythmic blur of background noise, but a collection of distinct, jagged sounds. Dimas sat hunched over a laptop, the blue light reflecting in his weary eyes. Beside him, Irina was buried under a fortress of open tomes and printed transcripts, her brow perpetually furrowed."Are you still looking at that forum, Dimas?" Irina asked, her voice tight with exhaustion. "You’ve been scrolling through the same 'Occult Traders' thread for an hour."Dimas didn't look up, his fingers clicking rhythmically against the desk. "I’m looking for the syntax, Irina. People who deal in real power—the kind the Collectors are hunting—they don't use 'spooky' language. They talk like brokers. They talk like accountants.""And? You’ve found nothing but scammers selling vials of fake fairy dust," she countered, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose."I found a pattern in the punctuation," Dimas said, pointing to a