The Fake Warlock

The First move

Chapter Two – The First Move

The room seemed normal enough, filled with the polite murmur of conversation and the faint scent of roasted chicken, wine, and candle wax. But to me, every laugh, every gesture, every tilt of a head was a signal. I didn’t belong here—not truly. And yet, I needed to see everything, learn everything, before the first move of my plan could be executed.

Joan, my so-called wife, moved gracefully among the guests. She carried herself like a queen among pawns, her laughter light, controlled, practiced. She smiled at people, touched a shoulder here, a wrist there, nodded at old acquaintances, her eyes always sharp, always calculating. She thought she had won—she had buried me and, in doing so, erased the threat I posed. But she underestimated me. They always do.

I scanned the room carefully, taking note of everyone: their positions, their interactions, the way they whispered, the way they avoided certain glances. Jake, her first friend, lingered near the kitchen door, offering casual comments that drew chuckles from Barb, the coworker. He leaned on the counter as if he owned it, but his eyes betrayed a restlessness I recognized all too well. Barb, on the other hand, clung to her wineglass like it was armor. Even these minor alliances mattered. People always reveal themselves in tiny, subtle ways.

The clinking of glasses filled the air as someone made a toast. I let the sound wash over me but kept my attention sharp. I finally reached a chair near the fireplace, deliberately placing myself in a spot where I could observe all angles. I did not sit immediately. I let the moment stretch, letting Joan’s eyes find me, letting the tension build.

She noticed, of course. Her smile faltered for a fraction of a second—barely noticeable to anyone else, but to me, it was a crack in the mask. I filed it away like a prized discovery.

“You’re quiet,” Joan said finally, gliding toward me and sliding into the seat opposite. Her voice was calm, but beneath the softness I heard a faint edge, like a blade half-hidden in silk.

“I’m just taking in the view,” I replied evenly. My eyes locked with hers, and I allowed the slightest hint of a smirk. “So much to see.”

Her fingers drummed lightly on the table, a rhythm betraying her nerves. “The funeral… it was hard, wasn’t it?” she asked, her gaze darting briefly toward the others before returning to me.

“Some people mourn,” I said softly. “Others… they celebrate. Sometimes the difference is only in perspective.”

Joan blinked, caught off guard by the tone. She recovered quickly, though, tilting her head with a look of forced sympathy. I leaned slightly forward, just enough to make her uneasy. “You seem very composed,” I continued. “I wonder what goes on behind that smile.”

For a moment, she said nothing. Then she laughed lightly, though it didn’t reach her eyes. She was already calculating, already searching for the truth hidden in my words. Perfect. Let the game begin.

Over the next hour, I moved subtly through the crowd. I listened, observed, memorized. Every small act became information: who supported whom, who feared whom, and most importantly, who could be used as a piece in the coming game.

Jake spoke too much, his attempts at humor a cover for insecurity. Barb tried too hard to look disinterested, but her body leaned toward him each time he spoke. Joan kept one eye on me, even as she laughed with others, like a general wary of an enemy soldier.

By the time the night had settled into a quiet lull, I had a map of alliances and weaknesses in my mind. It was like playing chess in reverse—seeing the board before making the first move.

When I excused myself to the terrace, the cool night air hit me like a jolt. I inhaled deeply, letting the chill settle my racing thoughts. The stars above seemed indifferent to the chaos I intended to unleash, but that was no matter. They would witness nothing, understand nothing, and it suited me perfectly.

As I leaned against the railing, a faint dizziness washed over me. My vision swam, the edges of the world bending like glass under heat. I gripped the stone ledge to steady myself. For a terrifying second, I thought my body would collapse beneath me.

A whisper echoed in my mind—soft, resonant, alien yet intimate: “This body is not yours. Not yet. Fulfill what was left undone, or you will not endure.”

The words burned through me like fire, searing their truth into my bones. My soul had not yet aligned with this vessel. If I ignored its unfinished business, the body would reject me. Death would claim me a second time.

I straightened, forcing steady breaths, masking the sickness with a calm face as Joan’s footsteps approached. She slipped onto the terrace with me, draping a shawl across her shoulders. Her perfume reached me first—sweet, calculated, the kind that lingered long after its wearer left the room.

“You don’t look well,” she said, her voice dipping into a tone that pretended concern but dripped with something else. She stepped closer, brushing her arm against mine. “Maybe you need… someone to help you recover.”

Her blouse gaped slightly as she leaned in, her chest pressing near my face, her eyes narrowing in that sly, predatory way. The move was deliberate, calculated to seduce or disarm.

For a brief moment, I almost laughed. She thought her tricks—her body, her charms—were enough to sway me. But I was no longer the Steven she thought she buried. I was something far colder, far sharper.

I pulled back, my voice cutting through the night air. “I’ll be fine.”

Her lips parted slightly, perhaps surprised at the rejection. She masked it quickly, however, tilting her head with feigned curiosity. “Then at least tell me—what’s your name?”

The question hit me unexpectedly. Of course—she didn’t know this body’s name. She hadn’t connected me yet.

“Stephen Mark,” I answered smoothly, letting the syllables roll from my tongue as though they had always belonged to me.

“Stephen…” she repeated softly, tasting the name. “I’m Joan.”

“I know,” I replied with a faint smile. “Everyone here seems to know you.”

Her eyes glimmered, intrigued now. “Perhaps we should exchange numbers. We might… help each other.”

I forced a polite smile, shaking my head lightly. “Another time. I should go.”

Without waiting for her protest, I left the terrace, moving through the house with measured strides. Every nerve screamed at me to rest, to recover, but the whisper from earlier echoed louder in my head: Fulfill what was left undone.

The company. Stephen Mark’s father had entrusted it to his son—the prodigal heir who squandered his chances, who never lived up to expectations. That was the unfinished mission. If I wanted to survive, I had to make his father proud.

I left the party that night without looking back, ignoring Joan’s watchful gaze.

The next morning, I walked into the company offices. The workers froze, whispering to one another. Their surprise was palpable. The prodigal son had returned.

Only it wasn’t the same son anymore.

This was my former company—my knowledge, my strategies, my instincts were sharper than ever. With every decision, every directive I gave, I saw the astonishment in their eyes. For the first time, Stephen Mark had taken responsibility. For the first time, the company felt order under his hand.

And as I stood there, directing everything perfectly, I realized: this was only the beginning. My revenge would come, but first, I would bind myself to this body fully. One mission at a time, until soul and flesh became one.

The villain in me stirred once more, savoring the balance between patience and wrath.

And in the quiet of my mind, I whispered a promise to myself: Joan, your game ends when mine begins.