Once inside:

  I nonchalantly ask Lex how his night went, and he bombards me with holy blah blah blah. I just zone out. Don’t get me wrong—I respect religion in my own way, but I’m not the type to get passionate about it.

  Anyway, I explain to him that he needs to be careful. There’s a suspicious man lurking about—and I think he’s targeting me. Lex just raises a brow and asks,

  "Is that so? What does he look like?"

  I answer,

  "That’s the thing… I don’t know. I can’t remember his face."

  Then, with a pitying tone, he says,

  "You should get more fish oil in you. Helps with memory."

  I shoot back sarcastically,

  "I literally couldn’t form a memory of his face."

  Lex, still with that pitiful demeanor, responds,

  "Yeah… I’ve seen old war vets with that condition."

  I pause. That phrase—“that condition”—it clicks in my head.

  "Wait… You’ve seen someone like that before?" I ask.

  He tilts his head and blinks like he just woke up from a daydream.

  "Did I say something?"

  "Yes!" I shoot back, impatient.

  Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.

  "Pfff, sorry Jason," he chuckles nervously.

  "I just thought of an old war story, that’s all."

  I stay silent, waiting. He coughs a little and finally continues:

  "Back on the eastern front, one of my old buddies had a friend who died under mysterious circumstances. He was a cheerful guy, almost done with his tour. Got hit by an artillery shell. Minimal damage, all things considered—he even got patched up by the expeditionary nuns. But later… they found him faceless. Just standing there in front of a trench, staring at the rising sun."

  I shiver.

  "Creepy," I mutter.

  Lex nods.

  "Quite right. But the most disturbing part? After they transported the body back to base, prepping it for return home—the coroner said it vanished right before the autopsy. Just… gone."

  "Did they ever find him?" I ask.

  He smiles grimly.

  "Nope. Total mystery."

  I ask again,

  "That’s all you heard?"

  "Not exactly," he replies.

  "It’s not the only story with that kind of ending. Some were even more bizarre. I always figured they were just tall tales to distract from the dangers of Operators."

  I nod, remembering some wartime stories of my own—just as strange, just as unexplainable.

  "Let’s just hope that the Dream Eater isn’t prowling around Zefas…"

  Changing the subject,

  I asked him if he’d managed to speak to John D. about my recruitment. Lex said he hadn’t—it was a busy week, things slipped past—but he’d asked around. The nuns said a special invite was needed to work with the wagons.

  I didn’t say a word. Just pulled it out like a conjurer pulling a rabbit from a hat.

  Lex’s eyes widened. He gasped, theatrical like a priest seeing stigmata.

  “That’s it. That’s the one. How the hell did you—?”

  I cut him off with a half-smile. “Lady luck smiled on me in the alley.”

  (Not a lie. Just another sin of omission.)

  He lit up. “Perfect. I’ll get your uniform.”

  That stopped me cold.

  “You already have the uniform?”

  He tilted his head. “You ever hear of a place called Clothes for the Damned?”

  I had.

  He smiled like a man recalling a fond nightmare.

  “I like the shopkeeper. Real gentleman.”

  As he busied himself with tomorrow’s outfit, I sat still, too still. Something in what he said—no, how he said it—clung to me. That shop. That list. That smile. I tried to shake it off, but it curled in my gut like spoiled milk. Then the thought came, uninvited and cold:

  I can’t lie to him.

  Not because I shouldn’t.

  Because I physically can’t.

  That smile?

  It doesn’t warm—it binds.

  Mr. Brim... what did you truly unleash with this golden hound?