The speakeasy under the old train station reeks
of bourbon and secrecy. A woman in a crimson
dress steps through the back door, her eyes
glowing faintly gold. She is not welcome.
The bootlegger’s men corner her in the cellar.
They do not know she is a witch, only that she
has been seen with the rival gang. She tries to
vanish, but the walls pulse with static—her
magic is bound by the same steel beams that hold
the city’s power grid.
She is dragged to the boss’s office. He slams a
bottle of whiskey on his desk. “You’re either
crazy or useful,” he says. She says nothing. He
pours another drink and watches her.
That night, she dreams of the old coven. They
warned her about the war—how the world would
change, how the rules would shift. But she never
imagined the change would be this.
The boss finds her in the basement, trying to
break the spell. He offers her a deal: help him
take down the rival gang, and she walks free.
She agrees.
The next week, she uses her magic to sabotage
the rival’s shipment. The truck crashes into a
river, burning. The boss smiles. “You’re useful.
”
But the magic costs her. Each spell leaves her
weaker, her hands trembling. She begins to
forget her own name.
On the night of the raid, she is ordered to
create a diversion. She opens a portal in the
middle of the street, drawing police fire. The
boss escapes, but she is caught.
They tie her to a chair in the basement. The
boss leans in. “You think you’re special?” He
pours a glass of whiskey and drinks it. “You’re
just another problem to solve.”
She does not speak. She does not move. But the
air grows thick, and the walls begin to crack.
The magic returns, but it is not hers anymore.
It is the city’s.
The basement collapses. The boss dies. She walks
out into the rain, her hands still glowing. The
city is silent. The war is over.
She is no longer a witch. She is something else
now.
