You opened the door to a small shop tucked away in the folds of a dark alley in Chinatown. You hadn’t meant to—your feet had simply taken a turn, drawn by some thick, invisible thread of scent and sound. The wooden door creaked as though it hadn’t opened in a hundred years, though the hinges whispered like silk.

The smell hit you first.

Jimsonweed. Thick, sweet, and strangely metallic. Threaded through with opium smoke and something sharper—star anise, maybe. A scent like memories you were certain weren’t yours. The interior was barely lit—just a few flickering candles set in green glass bowls. Shadows twisted along the narrow walls. Shelves groaned under the weight of old books, yellowed scrolls, vials sealed with wax, and strange, ancient-looking beads that occasionally twitched of their own accord. Wind chimes with no breeze murmured soft warnings in forgotten tongues. A bone-thin bird skeleton perched above the doorway tilted its skull the moment you crossed the threshold.

A human skull sat on the counter, eye sockets hollow, its grin far too knowing. You were turning to leave when the bead curtain in the back clattered like sudden rain.

He stepped through it. Tall. Slender. Black hair swept back like an inkstroke in a storm. Shiny green eyes that caught the dim candlelight and seemed to drink it in. He wore elegant, expensive robes in the style of old dynasties—embroidered silk with patterns that shimmered when you blinked. Long earrings swayed as he tilted his head. Red eyeshadow framed his gaze like a painting of war. And behind the lenses of his Lennon-style glasses, those serpent-green eyes locked onto you.

"Are you looking for something specific in my shop, titmouse?" he asked.