"Kibi, do you have a pen?"

  The fox mascot looked up from where he was trying to chew the plastic cap off a bottle of gun oil. He blinked his large, golden eyes, a drop of oil clinging to his whiskers. "A pen? Like... for writing? I don't have fingers, Misaki. Why would I have a pen?"

  "Not a writing pen," I said, checking the action on Yōko. The slide clicked back with a satisfying, metallic snap. "A transformation pen. You know, the kind where I can draw a disguise in the air and turn into a nurse or a police officer or a generic salaryman."

  Kibi stared at me for a long, silent moment. Then he tilted his head so far to the side I thought his neck might snap. "What in the name of the Great Spirit are you talking about? Why would a weapon of the Abyss-slayers have a 'disguise pen'? You’re a Magical Girl, not a stage magician."

  "It’s a trope, Kibi. A classic. I thought maybe it came with the outfit."

  "The outfit is a manifestation of your internal combat resonance," Kibi said, sounding genuinely offended. "It’s designed for kinetic efficiency and mana conductivity. It is not a wardrobe-on-demand service. If you want to look like someone else, try a wig. Or maybe just stop being so recognizable."

  With a sigh, a battered, grey oversized hoodie went over my tactical vest. "Fine. No magic shortcuts. Just old-fashioned urban camouflage."

  An industrial-grade gas mask came out of my gear bag next—the kind used by riot police. Suzune’s warning about the incense hadn't sounded like a joke. If the Acolytes were burning ground-up Fiend teeth, I didn't want that junk anywhere near my lungs.

  "You look like a very suspicious teenager," Kibi noted, hopping onto my shoulder.

  "Good. That’s the demographic."

  The old textile factory on the east side was a skeletal remains of the city’s industrial past. It sat in a district that had been 'red-zoned' after the first major breach-a place where the streetlights were all smashed and the only thing growing was the black, oily moss that thrived on residual mana.

  As I approached, I saw them. Figures in heavy, charcoal-grey robes slipping through a side entrance like ghosts. There was no security, no guards. Just a sense of heavy, oppressive silence that felt like a physical weight.

  The hood came down low as I adjusted the mask around my neck, ready to pull it up the moment I smelled anything sweet.

  The interior of the factory was a cavernous void, lit only by the flickering glow of dozens of thick, black candles. The air was already hazy with a cloying, purple smoke that smelled like rotting lilies and ozone. It was the smell of the Abyss, but concentrated, refined into something that made my skin crawl.

  Keeping to the shadows of a rusted loom, I watched as the robed figures gathered in the center of the floor. There were maybe fifty of them. Most were young-kids with hollow eyes and trembling hands, looking for a god to save them from a world that had forgotten they existed.

  If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it's taken without permission from the author. Report it.

  In the center of the circle stood a man. He wasn't wearing a robe. He was wearing a sharp, white suit that looked blindingly bright in the gloom. He had silver hair slicked back and a smile that didn't reach his eyes-the kind of smile that belonged on a used car salesman or a cult leader.

  "Brothers and sisters," he said, his voice a smooth, practiced baritone that echoed off the corrugated metal walls. "The world is a cage. The 'heroes' tell you that the Abyss is the enemy. They tell you it is a monster to be feared. But look at them! Look at the 'Magical Girls' who prance in the light while you suffer in the dark!"

  A wave of sound washed over the room. Some people clapped with a frantic, desperate energy. Others whispered to their neighbors, their voices a low, anxious hum. I saw a few older men in the back shifting uncomfortably, their eyes darting toward the exits, while the younger ones leaned in, their faces illuminated by the sickly candlelight. It was a cocktail of fanaticism and raw, unadulterated fear.

  "The Abyss is not the end," the man continued, reaching into a velvet-lined box on a pedestal. He pulled out a shard of Black Glass the size of a fist. It pulsed with a violent, rhythmic light, like a dying heart. "It is the beginning. It is the pure state of existence. And tonight, one of you will be chosen to transcend this flesh. One of you will become a vessel for the Void."

  He held the shard high. The purple smoke seemed to coil around it, drawn to the entropy like iron filings to a magnet. The clapping died down, replaced by a heavy, expectant silence that was broken only by the sound of someone sobbing softly in the back.

  The mana in the room began to spike. This wasn't just a speech. It was a ritual. And that shard... it was far more powerful than anything I’d seen in Suzune’s shop.

  "He’s going to trigger a localized breach," Kibi whispered in my ear, his fur standing on end. "Misaki, if he breaks that shard, everyone in this room is dead. Or worse."

  "I know," I muttered, my hand drifting toward the concealed holster under my hoodie. "But if I move now, I’m the villain attacking a 'peaceful' gathering. I need to see who’s pulling his strings."

  The man in the white suit turned his gaze toward the shadows where I was hiding. For a split second, I thought he saw me. But his eyes moved past, settling on a young girl in the front row. She couldn't have been more than eighteen, her face deathly pale and streaked with tears. Her breath was coming in short, ragged gasps, and she was trembling so violently that the hem of her grey robe was fluttering.

  "Come forward, child," the leader said, his voice dripping with a false, oily compassion. "Are you ready to see the truth?"

  The girl didn't move. She looked like she wanted to bolt, her eyes wide and darting around the room like a trapped animal. A few people near her began to chant-a low, rhythmic drone that sounded like a funeral dirge. Someone gave her a small, firm shove from behind.

  She stumbled forward, her knees buckling. She looked less like a willing participant and more like a lamb being led to a slaughterhouse. Her hands were clenched so tightly that her knuckles were white, and she was shaking her head in a tiny, frantic motion.

  "I... I don't..." she whispered, her voice cracking.

  "Do not be afraid," the leader said, his smile widening as he held the pulsing shard toward her. "The Void is a mother’s embrace. It only hurts until you let go."

  The girl reached out, her fingers twitching as they hovered inches away from the glowing obsidian. The air around the shard began to distort, the violet murk turning into jagged, needle-like streaks of black light.

  My grip tightened on Yōko. Field assessment: fifty civilians, one high-yield entropy source, one hostile leader. Odds of a clean extraction: zero.

  But then again, I’d never been much for clean extractions.