A Strange Man!

Owens listened to the "Brahmin" with a quiet, almost reverent expression, but inside, his thoughts spun with ambition. A small, satisfied smile crept onto his face as he nodded along.

Just a little longer, he thought. If he played his cards right and kept his plans hidden, he could ascend to C-level without anyone suspecting. And once he reached that level of power… Owens stole a respectful glance at the "Brahmin," his future target. By then, the gang would be his.

The "Brahmin" finished with a dismissive wave of his hand. "Alright, get back to it. I've got places to be."

Owens nodded, bowing his head slightly as he exited. He stepped out of the office, ready to disappear into the shadows of his own schemes, but stopped dead in his tracks at the sight before him.

Standing just outside the door was a man he'd never seen before. Middle-aged, with eyes that held a strange, unsettling depth, his face lined with age, and hair touched with streaks of gray. The stranger wore a worn black trench coat that seemed to absorb the light, casting a dark aura around him. Everything about him radiated an eerie calm.

Owens felt an unease crawl over his skin. Who was this man? There shouldn't be anyone outside the "Brahmin's" office unless they were trusted gang members.

"You are…?" Owens began, trying to mask his surprise.

The stranger's lips curled into a faint smile. "You're a wizard, aren't you? Not bad, either. Tell me, which type are you? Beast, professional, or delusional?"

Owens hesitated, a bead of sweat forming at his temple under the man's piercing gaze. He felt a strange pressure weighing down on him, as though an invisible hand was squeezing his chest. "P-professional," he stammered, unable to keep the tremor from his voice.

"Ah, I see." The stranger gave a casual, almost friendly pat on Owens's shoulder, his hand lingering for a moment too long. "Very well, then. Carry on."

Carry on? Owens thought, perplexed. He glanced back toward the "Brahmin's" office door. Whoever this man was, the "Brahmin" hadn't mentioned any visitor, and from his expression, he hadn't known the man was coming, either.

This was dangerous territory. Owens knew when to back away, and his instincts were screaming at him to leave. He nodded quickly, taking the hint and walking away, trying to keep his movements calm and steady. But his legs felt stiff, heavier than usual, and he found himself struggling to put one foot in front of the other.

As he made his way down the hallway, he spotted another gang member approaching, someone he recognized. He raised a hand, about to signal him, to quietly warn him about the strange visitor in the office.

But before he could say a word, the man's eyes went wide with horror, his face twisting in shock. Owens looked at man as if he'd seen something out of a nightmare.

What's wrong with him? Owens thought, confusion turning to dread. He glanced down at his legs, noticing for the first time the strange sensation that had been creeping through his body.

Cracks were spreading across his skin, fine lines splintering outward, and his limbs had turned unnaturally rigid and pale, as if his flesh had hardened. He lifted a trembling hand, watching in horror as it appeared brittle, like a piece of cheap pottery ready to shatter.

Panic seized him. No, this couldn't be happening. He was on the brink of greatness, so close to becoming a C-level, to rising above the "Brahmin" and taking control of the gang. He couldn't die here, not now, not when everything he'd worked for was within reach.

"Help!" Owens tried to shout, raising his arm, but his balance wavered. He stumbled, feeling his hardened body tilt forward uncontrollably.

With a sickening, brittle crack, he hit the ground, shattering upon impact. His body broke apart, chunks of his hardened flesh scattering across the floor as his internal organs and blood spilled out, pooling like liquid from a broken jar.

The gang member who had seen it all gasped, frozen in shock, as the strange man in the black trench coat stepped forward, his face calm and unreadable.

Without a glance at the grisly remains on the floor, the man continued toward the "Brahmin's" office, leaving behind the lifeless pieces of what had once been Owens.

The sound of muffled screams and frantic footsteps filled the night air outside the breeding farm's dimly lit office, creating an ominous undertone that seeped into the quiet room within.

Inside, the office was tense, unnervingly still, as though the very air had thickened in fear. Moments earlier, the "Brahmin," a sharp-eyed man with the air of someone who'd survived more than his share of dangerous encounters, had felt a wave of intense pressure wash over him the second the stranger entered the room. It was an oppressive, suffocating feeling, one he hadn't felt since his early days as a wizard when he first came face-to-face with the former gang leader, a memory he'd tried hard to bury.

Now, he could feel it again, only stronger.

Across the room, his "bodyguard" and a young gang member who had rushed in with the initial warning had their guns drawn, pointing them with a mix of fear and anger at the intruder. The stranger stood calmly in the doorway, his dark figure casting long shadows across the office floor. He showed no signs of fear, no hint of intimidation. Unlike the Brahmin, the two armed men could not sense the true nature of the threat standing before them. To them, he was just another trespasser. But the Brahmin saw it differently. He understood that this stranger was as far beyond them as a predator towering over ants. Guns meant nothing to him.

Sensing the futility, the Brahmin raised a hand, his voice carefully calm yet firm. "Stand down. Lower your weapons and step back."

His men exchanged confused looks, but they obeyed, reluctantly dropping their aim. The Brahmin tried his best to maintain his composure, keeping his face blank and unreadable as he addressed the stranger.

"My apologies," he began smoothly, a polite but wary smile curving his lips. "They were only doing their job. It's their duty to protect our… interests."

The Brahmin stepped forward, offering a hand and inclining his head slightly. "I am the one in charge here. You may refer to me by my code 'Brahmin.'"

The stranger gave a low chuckle, scanning the room before casually seating himself on a worn leather sofa, his movements deliberate, as if he owned the place. He leaned back and crossed one leg over the other, his eyes twinkling with amusement.

"Very polite, indeed," he said, his tone mocking but strangely charismatic. "You may call me the 'Potter.' A pleasure to make your acquaintance."

The Brahmin's pulse quickened. This was no ordinary visitor. His unease only deepened as the Potter continued, his voice dropping to a sinister murmur.

"I must say, I expected more… competence," the Potter mused, almost to himself. "In a city this size; 180,000 people, I thought I might find at least one B-level wizard. Newcastle Arizona hasn't had a new B-level in ages, has it?" He looked pointedly at the Brahmin, his words dripping with disdain. "Imagine my disappointment to find the strongest among you is only a C-level."

The Brahmin's stomach twisted. The Potter's arrogance was no mere bravado; his words carried the weight of someone accustomed to wielding power far beyond what was common. There was no need for him to make empty threats.

So he was a B-level, the Brahmin thought, the realization bringing a flicker of relief. If the Potter was truly B-level, it meant he wouldn't gain anything by harming a wizard of lower rank. The rules of their world were clear on that; it was only beneficial to target those on or above one's level. The Potter wouldn't view him as prey.

But if not prey, then why was he here?

Clearing his throat, the Brahmin forced a polite, deferential tone. "So… what can I assist you with, Mr. Potter?" he ventured, keeping his voice carefully respectful.

The Potter grinned, his smile sharp, almost predatory. "Oh, it's simple. A fellow I ran into yesterday told me you and your associates are the biggest players in town. I thought I'd drop by to… verify the claim." He let the words hang in the air, an unsettling glint in his eye. "And as it happens, I need a little… assistance."

The Brahmin's mind raced. Assistance? What could a B-level wizard want from them? It seemed absurd to imagine a man like the Potter needing anything from a C-level wizard, especially something as mundane as money. Still, he couldn't help but ask, if only to rule out the simplest explanation.

"Money?" the Brahmin ventured, although he knew in his gut that wasn't it. "Do you need… funding?"

The Potter laughed, a sound both genuine and mocking, as if the very notion amused him. "No," he said, crossing his legs and fixing the Brahmin with a penetrating stare that seemed to peel away layers of his composure. "I'm looking for something… different."

His gaze was intense, unyielding, making the Brahmin feel like a specimen under a magnifying glass. A shiver of unease slithered down his spine. "Tell me," the Potter continued, his voice low and deliberate. "Do you have any wizards with delusional traits in your ranks?"

The Brahmin's brows furrowed. Delusional traits were rare, bordering on mythical. Wizards with traits based on dreams, legends, impossible ideals. Unlike the more common types; Beast-based or Occupation-based, delusional wizards were few and far between. And fewer still managed to awaken their abilities.

"One," the Brahmin answered, choosing his words carefully. "We have one, but he's only rated 1D."

The Potter's expression didn't change, but there was a glint of interest in his eyes. "Close enough," he said with a dismissive shrug. "Bring him here."

The Brahmin's heart sank. Something about the way the Potter said "bring him here" sounded ominous, like a spider inviting a fly. He wanted to refuse, but the quiet menace in the Potter's eyes made it clear that defiance would not end well.

Swallowing his hesitation, he gave a silent nod to one of his men. "Fetch Dorian. Tell him I need to see him. Now."

The gang member's face drained of color, but he nodded quickly and slipped out, leaving the office heavy with tension. The door clicked shut, sealing them once again in uncomfortable silence. The Brahmin tried to ease his nerves, reaching for a semblance of hospitality.

"Would you care for some brandy, Mr. Potter?" he offered, forcing a slight smile.

The Potter tilted his head, his gaze softening only marginally. "I wouldn't say no."

The Brahmin gestured to his bodyguard, who immediately retrieved a bottle of XO from the cabinet and poured two small glasses. The Brahmin handed one to the Potter, who accepted it with a polite nod.

As the Brahmin sipped his own drink, he decided to take another shot at understanding the Potter's intentions. "Mr. Potter," he began cautiously, "Dorian is… well, his abilities are modest. He's not equipped for anything strenuous."

The Potter swirled the brandy in his glass, taking a slow sip before setting it down. His smile was enigmatic, his tone almost dismissive. "That's quite all right," he said, his eyes narrowing slightly. "For what I have in mind, his limitations don't matter."

The Brahmin felt a chill run through him as he processed the implication. Whatever the Potter wanted, it didn't require skill, strength, or even willingness.

The silence stretched on, heavy and suffocating, as they waited for Dorian's arrival.