1518214133

When Lia Chen-Rodriguez, a biracial anthropologist cursed with absorbing cultural traumas through touch, gets recruited by the clandestine Iris Council, she discovers her "curse" is actually the rarest form of magic - the power to transmute heritage into tangible energy. Now she must partner with Qasim al-Farouk, a brooding Syrian-British architect wielding geometric magic from a dying lineage, to prevent the collapse of civilization's hidden magical infrastructure.

The Veil of Echoes: A Fractured Inheritance

The joss paper ignited midair, its burning edge tracing the exact latitude where New York's Chinatown collided with magical ley lines. Lia Chen-Rodriguez watched the ash spiral into the shape of a crying phoenix - third omen this week. Her grandmother's bronze Bagua mirror in hand vibrated like a live thing.

"Not my problem," she muttered, shoving the artifact into her Columbia University tote bag already bulging with Aztec death whistles and Celtic knot bracelets. The stench of rotting ginger root intensified as she passed Xiāngsī Dumpling House.

A deliveryman's cart overturned. Cans of lychee jelly rolled into the gutter, their simplified Chinese labels bleeding into traditional characters. Lia's fingertips brushed a fallen can -

A Guangzhou factory worker sobbing over censored WeChat messages

His daughter's name disappearing from screen pixel by pixel

She jerked back, the cultural residue crystallizing into amber dust under her nails. Her migraine spiked.

"Stealing memories again, Miss Chen-Rodriguez?"

The British-accented voice sliced through the market's chaos. A man blocked her path, his leather satchel emitting faint geometric hums. His calloused fingers held a Damascus-steel ruler glowing with cuneiform inscriptions.

"Qasim al-Farouk. You'll want this." He tossed her a jade pi disc cracked with Fibonacci sequences. "Before your souvenir collection gets someone killed."

The disc seared her palm. Brooklyn's skyline rippled, revealing ghostly Moorish arches superimposed over tenement buildings.

"Three blocks north," Qasim's ruler sparked blue, "something's turning Fujianese mourning songs into sonic weapons."

"Because only cultural mutts like us can smell this particular brand of disaster." His smile cut like shattered porcelain.

They found the source in a bankrupt bubble tea shop. Tibetan prayer flags fused with neon OPEN sign spat sparks. Qasim's ruler drew glowing octagons in the air.

"Don't touch anything!" he warned.

Too late. Lia's palm met the counter -

Japanese internment camp letters burning in a California field

Korean "comfort women" statues weeping mercury

The trauma overload shattered the windows. Qasim's geometric wards barely contained the explosion.

"What are you?" he gripped her shaking shoulders.

"A PhD candidate with really bad fieldwork luck."

Police sirens wailed. Qasim vanished, leaving his ruler embedded in concrete. Its carvings now displayed a countdown: 23:59:59.

Back in her apartment, Lia's stolen traumas swirled in a mason jar. The amber crystals rearranged into a map - Antarctica's coordinates pulsing. Her phone buzzed with a new message from unknown number:

YOUR MOTHER DIDN'T DIE IN THAT CAR CRASH. BRING THE ARTIFACTS TO PIER 11 AT DAWN.

Outside, the Williamsburg Bridge morphed into a Mayan pyramid mid-span.

The Curse Collector