Intelude Four

The latest soul to cross the threshold of the defunct "Halsted Meats Processing Company," deep in the shadow of the old Union Stock Yards, was a young man whose dreams were as vast as the now silent halls that swallowed him.

Four could almost taste the ambition that simmered within him, a cocktail of desire and naiveté that seemed to spread from the young wrestler like a cheap perfume, as tangible to her as the ghostly remnants of an industry that clung to the place.

"John Cappas," Four pronounced into the hush, her voice mingling with the quiet as though she were savouring the name upon her tongue. "I think this one has potential, Midnight."

The black cat, Midnight Matriarch, met her gaze with a stare that was too knowing, too piercing, before dismissing the significance of human endeavours and returning her attention to the lifeless rodent at her paws.

When Rin had given her the kitten, it was understood that Midnight was no ordinary pet. Four had chosen her name, a homage to sovereignty shrouded in darkness, but the gift came with strings attached—Rin's watchful eyes, a silent sentinel through the animal's own. Four, however, had long grown accustomed to the weight of observation; it was a cloak she wore as comfortably as her own shadow.

The building Four had claimed in pursuit of Rin's directive was not small.

The vast chambers where carcasses once hung now loomed empty, save for the chains that dangled from the ceiling like morbid metal vines. Massive hooks, once utilitarian in their grim purpose, now swung gently in the drafts that crept through the broken panes and the gaps in the walls. The air was heavy with the memory of meat, the iron tang of blood long since turned to rust on the ageing equipment.

The walk-in coolers, where rows of beef once chilled, stood agape, their doors removed or hanging ajar, the cold that once seeped from their thresholds now replaced with the mustiness of decay. The old employee lockers, flanked by dirt-smudged ceramic tiles, gaped open, the names of workers still faintly legible on rusted tags.

But Four was not worried her guest would get lost.

When she took the building, it was not empty. There were those who had fallen through the cracks, destitute and lost, their lives hanging as precariously as the hooks in the slaughterhouse. They had laid claim to the forgotten corners, marking territories in the shadows of the industrial carcass.

Ordinarily, the ruthless sorts who commandeered such forsaken domains would cast out the lost souls squatting within, forcing them to scour the city's unforgiving landscape for another haven.

Four had chosen differently.

It was not pity that stayed her hand; such sentiments were a currency she could ill afford, her reserves spent long before she ever set foot in the decaying vestiges of the meatpacking facility. No, what moved her was the cold calculus of utility.

She recognized an opportunity in the ragged congregation that had made a home amid the ruins. They were the unseen, the forgotten, and in that invisibility lay potential. To the outside observer, their presence was a natural part of the urban decay, not a facade to be questioned. To Four, they were assets to be positioned in her intricate game of survival and dominance.

Her offer to them was simple and transactional: sanctuary in exchange for fealty. The cost to her was negligible—a few crates of food, the occasional nod of acknowledgement, the façade of a benefactor. But to those who had nothing, who had felt the chill of Chicago's streets seeping into their bones, who had known the pangs of hunger all too intimately, her offer was a lifeline.

One of their own would lead John Cappas through the labyrinth, a guide through the forgotten relics of industry, to the altar where she would be waiting.

Four closed her eyes, her breaths coming slow and even, her consciousness reaching out along the unseen thread that connected her to the sanctum of Santa Muerte. In the embrace of darkness, her mind's eye painted the shrine in vivid strokes—a sacred space steeped in silent power.

They called her the Red Widow, cloaked in the crimson of her dress, shrouded in veils fit for a mourner. Whispers slithered through the underworld, each more sinister than the last: her gown was dyed in the lifeblood of her husband, or perhaps that of the men who had slain him.

Rumors, like shadows, grew long in the dim light. They said she was a bruja, a witch with powers untold, a priestess serving at the altar of Santa Muerte. And in the darkest corners, where fear and reverence intertwine, they murmured that she might be the embodiment of the Holy Death herself, a deity draped in mortal guise, walking among men.

Four was acutely aware of the truths that lay hidden beneath the layers of myth that enshrouded her.

The moniker of the Red Widow was but a carefully crafted façade, an elaborate mask that Four donned with calculated precision. The tales of her omnipotence were the currency of awe in the streets, yet her true dominion was not of raw power—it was control.

And while such control was potent, it did not lend itself to the manipulation of a puppet, a spectral figure positioned half a plant away, nor to the viewing of the world through its lifeless gaze. That was the work of another, a testament to Rin's craft.

The puppet was a marvel of dark artistry, gifted to her by Rin—a human skeleton, its bone structure infused with numerous carved gemstones. It resonated with Four's psychic energy, a conduit for her will, allowing her to animate it as if slipping into a suit.

A bare, walking skeleton would have been far from subtle, and subtlety was necessary. Thus, Four had the figure dressed, veiled in mourning, and adorned with long gloves to conceal its skeletal hands.

But Four was not infallible. Sometimes, the puppet moved in ways no human could, its movements a hair too smooth, too jarring. And if the veil slipped, revealing the cold contour of a skull—well, such glimpses only nourished the whispers and the legend.

Each unintended revelation, every slip of the mask, wove itself into the fabric of the lore that surrounded her. In the eyes of the beholders, these were not mistakes but manifestations, eerie confirmations of the tales that made the Red Widow an entity to be both revered and feared.

"John Cappas," she called out as he stepped through the threshold. It was the first time she laid eyes on him directly, her psychic premonitions now giving way to the vividness of reality. And indeed, he did not disappoint.

He wore his suit as if it were a second skin, the fabric straining slightly to contain the muscles earned from his wrestling exploits. His hair, an untamed mane, gave him a wild, leonine appearance. He was about her age, perhaps slightly older, exuding a raw, self-assured magnetism that she found appealing.

"I have been expecting you," she said, her voice tinged with an enigmatic certainty.

"The Red Widow in the flesh," he drawled, his voice a melody of confidence and sly charm. "Rumors painted you as untouchable, but I gotta say, touchin' base with the city's ghost has its appeal."

He paused, allowing his gaze to meander through the dimly lit expanse of the room, a predator taking in the scope of a new territory. The silence that followed was thick, palpable, as if even the dust motes in the air held their breath, awaiting her cue.

Four, however, was undisturbed by his flamboyance. Her psychic senses, tendrils of her awareness, curled around his presence, probing beneath the veneer of his self-assurance. She noted the faint twitch in his jaw, the almost imperceptible tightening of his fingers—small tells that betrayed a man used to risk and the high of the game, but not to the unusual solemnity of her sacred space.

"You flatter me, John, but let's not dress up this meeting with niceties," Four's voice sliced through the room's stillness. "You came here for business, not pleasantries."

"I'll show you mine, if you show me yours," John said, his smile taking on a boyish shade of mischief as he hoisted a briefcase—a sleek, black affair that hinted at the currency of his trade. The handcuff around his wrist, a theatrical touch of caution, glinted dully in the low light.

Four's gaze flicked to the briefcase, then back to John's eyes, steady and unyielding. "I suppose," she replied, her tone smooth as the slide of silk, "if you have brought the offering, you get to partake in the communion."

Under Four's subtle guidance, the skeletal puppet advanced, its movements orchestrated from afar, leading the drug dealer through the desolate expanse towards the altar. There, an array of votive offerings flickered—the candles creating a soft, undulating glow that breathed life into the still air of the abandoned facility.

The altar itself was an eclectic mosaic of reverence and survival. Daffodils, their yellow blooms a stark contrast against the austere backdrop, lay scattered about, an organic tribute from the destitute congregation. Four hadn't instructed this; it had emerged organically, a spontaneous gesture of respect or perhaps superstition from those who sought her protection.

Amidst the candles and flowers, an assortment of food sprawled across the surface. Bowls of soup, hearty pies, slabs of meat, and an array of fruits and vegetables made up a makeshift feast. This was the sustenance she provided for her flock, an offering replaced as swiftly as it was consumed, ensuring none would go hungry under her watchful eye.

John's gaze lingered on the spread before him, fixating on a selection of confections artfully placed apart from the rest. "Quite the spread," he commented, the timbre of his voice a blend of intrigue and faint amusement. "I take it those are the pièce de résistance?"

"They are... special," Four articulated through the puppet, her voice carrying an undertone of secret significance. "A unique blend of flavors for the discerning palate."

She could sense, even from her remote vantage, the quiet power emanating from the confections. Rin's agenda ran deeper than the ephemeral worth of currency; it wasn't about the money—it was about the effect, the transformation that came with consumption.

What Rin yearned for was the widespread distribution of a potent healing agent, one that found its most needy recipients through the networks of the drug trade. Chocolate was the chosen vessel, its rich, dark body an ideal medium for absorbing the miraculous substances they were working with.

"This selection here is what I call 'Third Eye,'" the puppet continued, gesturing towards a batch of truffles with an almost reverential care. "Powdered mushrooms interlaced with cocoa—set to provide quite the journey, though I suggest indulging at a more... opportune moment. For now, something to maintain clarity. This one," she pointed to another variety, "is mellowed with cannabis, and that fine dust," a nod towards a delicate powder, "is certainly not confectioner's sugar."

John arched an eyebrow. "I would've thought ingesting it would make you sick."

"And normally, you'd be right," Four replied, still through the avatar, "but I've developed a special process. A trade secret, you might say."

His curiosity was piqued. "And how's it different from snorting the stuff?"

"It's a slower onset," the puppet explained with Four's meticulous precision, "but the effects are more enduring, more... immersive. You see, it's not just about the high—it's about the experience, the journey."

John's eyes narrowed thoughtfully, his mind undoubtedly turning over the business implications of such a product. "A longer ride, huh? I can see the appeal," he mused, his voice a mix of grudging respect and the calculative tint of a man always looking for an edge.

Four felt a sense of satisfaction at his response. The dance was as much about persuasion as it was about the sale. She was selling not just a product, but a vision—a vision Rin had entrusted to her, now cloaked in the allure of the forbidden, and John Cappas, it seemed, was ready to buy into it.

"And while telling a cop it's just sugar might not fly," John chuckled, eyeing the powdered chocolates with a newfound appreciation, "no one's getting cuffed for carrying fancy chocolates."

Four, speaking through the puppet, allowed a measured pause before responding. "Precisely," she affirmed. "It's the art of concealment within the ordinary. Anonymity is the ally of the wise."

John's grin was a flash of white in the half-light, a street-smart predator recognizing the cleverness of a well-laid plan. "Smart," he said, nodding in acknowledgment. "So we're dressing up the devil as a gentleman and sending him out on the town."

The puppet's head tilted ever so slightly, as if Four were considering his analogy. "Something like that," she agreed. "But even the devil knows there's no such thing as a free lunch."

John's eyes flicked back to the array of chocolates, and he gave a low whistle. "Yeah," he murmured, "there's always a price."