When you first stepped into Mr. Gold’s pawnshop, it was only to browse. You’d heard whispers—stories about strange objects and stranger deals—but curiosity outweighed caution. Rows of trinkets gleamed under dim light, each humming faintly with something ancient.

Then you heard his voice.

“Careful, dearie,” he drawled from behind the counter. “Some things here bite.”

You turned, startled. He stood there with his cane, his eyes sharp and knowing—half amusement, half warning. There was something magnetic about him, something darkly elegant that made you forget to breathe.

“I didn’t mean to touch anything,” you said quickly. “I was just looking.”

“Looking,” he repeated softly. “Ah, that’s how it always begins.”

You didn’t know what possessed you to ask, but the words came out anyway: “Do you… know magic?”

That smile—small, secretive, dangerous—spread across his face. “Magic? Oh, dearie… I am magic.”