The gas station lights flickered above like nervous eyes.
Evan's breath caught in his throat as the world snapped back into motion.
His attackers—those two men—staggered backward, like they'd been struck by something invisible. Their eyes darting around wildly, and then their hands clawing at the air like men dropped into pitch black.
"What the hell—?!" the taller one shouted, flailing. "I can't see! I can't see anything!"
The second man cursed, backing away in jagged, uneven steps, nearly tripping over the curb. "Who's there?! What did you do?!"
But Evan hadn't moved. Not a step. His back was still pressed to the hood of his car, ribs aching, lip split, hands shaking. He wasn't sure he wanted to move even if he could.
Because standing just to his right—unmistakably real—was the thing from the card.
Tall, almost regal in the way it stood, the figure looked like it belonged in some twisted masquerade. Red skin, sharp grin, eyes glowing like emerald fire. A night-black tuxedo hugged his thin frame, and a matching top hat tilted ever so slightly on its head. It's lips curled into a sharp, amused smile.
It wasn't solid, not exactly. Shadows clung to it like smoke, swirling around its outline like an aura that refused to settle.
The man—or whatever it was—turned his head to Evan.
One gloved hand lifted, and with a subtle snap of his fingers, the shadows in the lot deepened—pooling, crawling—devouring the edges of the light. The air felt heavy. Thick with something unseen.
The two men screamed louder.
Evan backed away slowly, pulse hammering in his ears.
"I ask you now, Summoner…" The voice was velvet and smoke, smooth and theatrical, every syllable placed like a stage cue. "Shall I take their lives?"
Evan blinked, heart lurching in his chest.
"What…?" he choked out.
"The thieves," Witty Phantom gestured lazily with a gloved hand, "who demanded and attempted to claim what was yours. Say the word, and their final breath shall follow."
Evan could barely breathe.
"No!" he gasped. "No, I… I just—" He clutched his side. "I just want to go home…"
Witty Phantom paused.
Then his smile grew.
"Very well."
He turned back to the two flailing men. Another snap of his fingers—and suddenly they stopped.
The darkness vanished from their eyes.
They froze mid-breath, blinking rapidly. Then their expressions twisted into fresh horror. Eyes bulging. Mouths opening in wordless screams.
The shorter man fell to his knees, howling.
"No—nononono—!"
He scrambled away, slamming into the side of the black sedan like a wild animal.
The other dropped his phone, hands trembling violently.
"Make it stop! Please make it—!"
They weren't looking at Evan.
They weren't looking at Witty Phantom.
They were staring at… something only they could see.
And whatever it was, it broke them.
They bolted. One into the sedan, slamming it into reverse with tires squealing. The other dove into the pickup, nearly ripping the door off its hinges. Both vehicles screeched away into the night, rear lights disappearing down the road like hellhounds on their heels.
Evan stood in the silence that followed.
He was shaking.
The lot was empty.
Except for him.
And—
No.
Witty Phantom was gone.
Like smoke dissipating in the dark.
Evan looked around, panting, waiting for reality to come crashing back.
It didn't.
No cops.
No alarms.
No explanations.
The pain returned to Evan's body all at once. His ribs throbbed, lip stung, hands scraped raw from the ground. His knees buckled, and he staggered into the driver's seat, slamming the door shut behind him like it might keep reality out.
He sat there, engine idling, hands clenched on the wheel.
"What the hell was that…?"
His whisper filled the car's small cabin. The stereo had stopped playing at some point. His energy drink had tipped over in the cup holder.
Everything looked normal.
Except nothing was.
The drive back to Hell's Kitchen blurred past in a loop of shaky breathing and half-formed denial. Evan clutched the steering wheel too hard, eyes jumping to every headlight in his mirrors. The music in the background kept playing like nothing had happened, but it felt wrong now. Too calm. Too normal.
This can't be real, he kept thinking. I hit my head. I'm concussed. I imagined it.
Maybe the fear and the pain and the anger triggered a stress response. Maybe he hallucinated. That made more sense than what he'd seen. Cards glowing in his mind, monsters out of thin air—what the hell kind of logic was that?
But that didn't explain the fear in those men's voices. Didn't explain the way time froze, like the whole world held its breath.
Didn't explain why his body still felt like something inside had shifted, like a door had been cracked open somewhere in his chest and now the cold air was leaking through.
His knuckles were white around the steering wheel. The road unfurled ahead, dull and dark, but now the quiet wasn't peaceful. It was suffocating.
He kept trying to come up with explanations.
But even he didn't believe any of them.
It was too clear. Too vivid. Too real.
That voice. Those glowing eyes.
The way the world had stopped.
The card.
The… demon?
No. No, not a demon. He didn't feel evil. That was the worst part. The thing had asked him. It had waited.
And Evan had chosen.
His apartment soon came into view, the brick building weathered and worn down, but familiar.
The busted streetlight in front of his building still blinked like a dying eye. His usual parking spot was empty. He slid into it and killed the engine.
He sat there, forehead resting against the wheel, breathing deep, trying to steady himself.
It had to be in his head.
It had to be.
He moved on autopilot—grabbed his bag from the backseat, locked the car, limped his way toward the front steps.
Just the usual route, through the lobby and up the stairs. There was an elevator for the building, but it was busted—again. One flight, then another. His body ached more with each step. Each step up was a quiet wince from his ribs. His shirt stuck to his side where the sweat hadn't dried.
His apartment door stuck like always. He had to jiggle the key and put his shoulder into it before it gave way with a groan of old hinges.
He stepped inside.
And stopped.
There he was.
Standing in the middle of Evan's living room, under the dim light of a flickering overhead bulb, the figure waited.
Witty Phantom.
Evan backed into the door, letting it shut behind him. His breath caught.
"What are you…? What is this?"
The figure didn't move.
"You summoned me. You are my summoner. My form is your will."
"I didn't will anything!"
"You drew me. You chose me."
Evan's head throbbed. He wanted to lie down. He wanted to pretend this wasn't happening.
"Drew? I didn't draw anything—there was just—there was a pack, and—"
The image flashed in his mind again: nine cards floating, each glowing with quiet, patient power. His eyes had locked onto one. Just one.
"I—I didn't know what it was…"
Witty Phantom tilted his head. "But you chose nonetheless. And so I am here."
Evan leaned against the door, slowly sliding down until he sat on the floor.
He wasn't sure if he was shaking because of the pain or the fear or just how tired he was.
None of this made sense.
But it was real.
He could still remember the events from the gas station like it was still happening in front of him. Still see the panic in those men's eyes. Still hear that strange, velvet voice asking him:
Shall I take their lives?
"No," Evan said softly, more to himself than to the figure. "I didn't want that."
"And so you were merciful," the figure said.
"Was I?"
The silence settled between them.
Then, Evan asked the only question that made sense to him now.
"…Are you gonna kill me?"
Witty Phantom's grin widened, and for a second, Evan's stomach twisted.
But then the figure said, "No, Evan West. That would defeat the purpose."
"What purpose?"
The Phantom turned, stepping lightly toward the window, hands still clasped. He looked out over the street below, the city humming with distant life.
"There is more to come. Tonight was only the beginning."
Evan swallowed hard.
"…More of you?"
He didn't answer. But the shadows around him seemed to twitch in anticipation.
Evan stared at him, then closed his eyes.
He didn't know if he was passing out or just trying to wake up from something he couldn't.
Either way, nothing would ever be normal again.
⸻
Evan woke up to sunlight on his face.
For a moment, the warmth and light tricked him into thinking everything was normal—just another sunday morning. He blinked a few times and sat up, he was in bed.
His bed.
The blankets were pulled up haphazardly, his boots were off, and his bag was draped over the back of a chair across the room.
He hadn't made it to bed last night.
He remembered sitting by the door. Sitting and staring at the shadow until sleep finally took him. Or maybe he blacked out. Either way, he hadn't gotten up and walked himself to bed.
Someone—or something—had moved him.
He stayed still for a moment, his heart skipping just a little faster.
But the apartment was silent.
He got up slowly, joints stiff, ribs sore, and went through the motions. Shower. Clothes. He checked his phone while brushing his teeth and saw a missed text from his sister asking if he'd made it home fine.
Still toweling off his hair, Evan opened his messages and sent one to his sister:
Yah, I got home fine. I'll call you later. Just take care of yourself, ok?
He stared at the message for a second before hitting send. Then he tucked the phone into his pocket, pulled on his shoes, and grabbed his jacket off the wall hook.
He didn't feel like cooking. The idea of cracking eggs or flipping toast felt absurd after everything that had happened. So he locked the door behind him and took the stairs down, stepping out into the early morning chill of Hell's Kitchen. The sun was out, but the streets still wore that gray haze of waking up. Delivery trucks, trash bins, and the sharp smell of coffee from a cart on the corner.
Evan grabbed a bacon-egg-and-cheese and a black coffee from a vendor he knew, then started walking.
He kept his head low. Eyes forward. One bite at a time.
Trying not to think.
But as he rounded the corner onto another street, he felt it again—like something brushing against the edge of his thoughts. Like being watched.
⸻
There was no point running from it anymore.
No more convincing himself it hadn't happened. No more pretending last night was just a trauma-fueled hallucination.
He could still feel Witty Phantom.
Even now, with the city alive and busy around him, the sensation clung to him like a chill that wouldn't leave his bones. Not fear. Not exactly. More like the weight of something invisible standing just behind him.
———
By the time he returned to the apartment, the coffee was cold in his hand.
He closed the door behind him and dropped his keys on the counter. For a second, he just stood in the middle of the room. Listening.
It was quiet.
"I know you're here," he said aloud, voice low. "You never left, did you?"
There was no reply.
Not right away.
But the air in the room shifted—he could feel it. Like a sudden change in pressure. His skin prickled.
"You're going to keep hiding?" Evan said. "After all that?"
From the corner of the room, by the window, the shadows stretched.
And from them, he stepped out.
Witty Phantom. With a grin that curled a little too wide. His glowing green eyes flickered like candlelight.
"I wasn't hiding," he said, voice smooth as glass. "I was waiting."
"For what?"
"For you to stop refusing the reality of what happened."
Evan rubbed a hand across his face and sat down, leaning against the back of the couch.
"So what the hell is this? What did you do to me?"
"I didn't do much except answer your call," Witty Phantom said, folding his gloved hands behind his back. "You were in danger. You called out. And I came."
"I didn't call anything," Evan snapped. "I didn't do anything. I was just trying to survive."
"And you did," Phantom said. "Which is whats important."
Evan stood and paced across the living room, half-full coffee cup still in one hand. "No. No, this isn't normal. I saw you. You made those guys see things. You got into their heads."
He stopped. Looked at the Phantom directly.
"What are you?"
The Phantom tilted his head slightly, amused.
"I am what you made possible. What you allowed in."
"That's not an answer."
"It is the only one that matters—for now."
Evan narrowed his eyes. "So this isn't over?"
Witty Phantom's smile sharpened. "You've opened a door, Evan West. And doors don't close just because you wish they would."
Evan folded his arms, leaning back against the living room wall."So… what is this? Magic? A curse? Or something else?"
Witty Phantom didn't answer immediately. His emerald eyes studied Evan with faint amusement.
"You expect tidy categories for something this messy?" he said at last.
"I expect some kind of answer. Or a hint. Anything."
The Phantom's smile dimmed slightly. Not gone—but thoughtful, now.
"You're not cursed," he said. "And you're not mage. At least, not in the common sense."
"Okay. That doesn't help at all. So what am I, then?"
"You're a conduit," Phantom said. "A tether between this world and… something older. A realm of symbols. Of archetypes. Of concepts made flesh. Of will, given form."
Evan frowned. "That sounds like magic."
"It is magic. But not the kind spellcasters use. This is older. Wilder. You touched something raw. Something… incomplete."
Evan looked down at his hand. He clenched and unclenched his fist, half expecting something to shimmer or spark.
"So, what, I summon strange beings now?"
"Not exactly," Witty Phantom said. "You don't summon us. You draw us."
Evan blinked. "Draw?"
The Phantom tilted his head. "You touched something in your moment of desperation. A tapestry—woven from chaos, story, and will. But what you grabbed was not whole. But fragments"
"Fragments?" Evan asked.
Witty Phantom walked past Evan, trailing wisps of shadow in his wake. "Your power is not summoning, not really. You don't pull creatures from other worlds. What you did was… recreate. You took hold of the fragments to build anew. Echoes of what once was. Pieces of something ancient—shattered across time, memory, and meaning. Your will shapes them, breathes into them. And they answer."
"So you're saying I… rebuilt you? From memory?"
"From something deeper than memory. I might have been real once. I might still be. But what you see before you? This version of me? It's filtered through you. Through your intent, your instinct, your will."
Evan's stomach turned slightly. "So none of this is real?"
Phantom turned, smiling faintly. "It's real enough to bleed for. Real enough to burn. But no… it's not- original. Not the full truth of what I once was."
Evan sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "This isn't some one-time freak event?"
"No."
"More are coming, aren't they?"
Witty Phantom's grin widened. "You will draw again. You contain an infinity of possibilities. It isn't just monsters. Sometimes it's tools, spells, relics. All fragments. All drawn through you. And each time you draw… the more your power settles. And you become much more."
Evan ran a hand down his face, exhaustion catching up to him. "That sounds like a lot of power to throw on someone who just wanted to survive a mugging. And what if I don't want to become anything more than just a regular guy?"
"You already have," Witty Phantom said simply.
Evan exhaled slowly, chest tightening under the pressure of implications he wasn't ready for.
"…What happens now?" he asked.
The Phantom didn't blink. "You already know."
Evan felt it then—quiet, subtle, but present. Like something brushing against the back of his mind. A low, pulsing draw, faint but insistent. Not a voice. Not a sound. Just… pull.
"It's calling me again," Evan said, almost whispering.
Witty Phantom nodded. "It never truly stopped. But you were in no shape to notice it. You power has awoken. And it beckons you to draw again."
Evan's jaw clenched. His thoughts spiraled—back to the gas station, to the mugging, to the instant that card had answered. To the power he didn't understand. "What if something worse comes out?" he asked.
"You don't need to fear for that this time," the Phantom said. "Not in the same way. You're not desperate now. You're not clinging to survival like a man drowning. Which means you can hold onto it—keep the fragment within you without calling it into the world just yet."
Evan raised an eyebrow. "You're saying I can… draw it without summoning it?"
"Correct. You choose if and when it manifests. But don't assume the power will wait forever. It's growing louder for a reason. This power—it wants to be used."
Evan looked toward the far wall, empty and silent. "So it's alive?"
"Alive? Not quite. But it has rhythm. Purpose. Internal logic. You'll feel it more clearly with each draw. After all, it is yourpower—shaped by your will, your instincts. You're not just wielding it. You're slowly coming in tune with it. Even if you don't fully understand it yet."
Evan nodded slowly. "Is there anything else I should know? Before I do this again?"
Witty Phantom's grin curled like a knife. "A few things."
He took a step closer, shadows rippling behind him like dark silk. "First, the creatures—or spells, or relics—you bring forth won't harm you directly. You're the source. The reason they exist. They're bound to you, and in most cases… they'll obey."
Evan caught the hesitation. "Most cases?"
"Personalities vary," the Phantom said. "Instincts, tempers. What you summon isn't just a tool. Like I said before, it's a fragment of something vast and ancient, filtered through you. Last night, you drew me—sharp and clever and, mercifully theatrical. But had it been a dragon instead…"
Evan swallowed, if it was anything like the myths-.
"Your instinctual request was to be safe. A dragon might have interpreted that safety as complete annihilation of all threats. A scorched landscape around you. Two dead men. And if your next wish was simply to return home… it might've grasped you in its maw, and flown you here. Through every wall and building in between."
Evan looked down, tension rippling through his shoulders.
"So I need to be careful," he muttered.
"You need to command what you summon with clarity, according to what it is. And also, choose wisely," Witty Phantom corrected. "You will feel something when the draw begins. A flash. A glimpse. The power speaks in symbols and sensations—faint clues. Learn to listen. Learn to read."
Evan nodded again.
"And this time," Phantom added, voice low and rich, "don't just snatch the first thing you see. Look at them. Consider. Then choose."
He paused, gaze narrowing slightly.
"If worse comes to worst," he said, "you can dismiss what you've called forth."
Evan's brow furrowed.
"You should feel it now," Phantom went on. "The bond between us—it isn't just summoning. It's control. You've stabilized enough to sense it… a tether. If you focused, truly focused, you could dismiss me even now."
Evan didn't respond right away, but he closed his eyes.
And there it was—faint. A link, waiting for him to grasp it.
Witty Phantom smiled. "Good. That means next time, you'll have more than panic and instinct to rely on. Power means little without control."
He began to fade again, his form dispersing into shadows that curled and drifted toward the corners of the room.
"This is the quiet, Evan. Use it well. So that you will have control over what comes next."
And then he was gone from sight.
Evan stood there for a long moment, hesitating.
Fingers twitching at his sides. The memory of that first pull flickered in his mind—chaotic, panicked, blind. He didn't want to feel that again. But the call… it was louder now- an urge. A gravity, pulling inward.
He set his jaw. Breathed in.
Then reached.
The world around him didn't shift so much as it felt like it peeled—like reality folded outward just slightly at the edges. And behind it, nestled in the space between thoughts and stories, it appeared.
The image, a great dragon surrounded by a rings of golden symbols. And then out came the nine fragments.
Each one pulsed faintly, images flickering like heat mirages. Echoes of beings and ideas—not quite real, but not an illusion either. Waiting.
This time, Evan didn't snatch the first one he saw. He looked.
Nine fragments hovered in the haze of whatever space this was. They pulsed in slow rhythm, glowing faintly with meaning. Shapes flickered—dinosaurs, weird birds, a grimacing sheep, warriors, even tools like a whip.
Then his eyes caught on one: Follow Wind.
The fragment shimmered, its name drifting into his mind like breath. A spell. Not a creature or a weapon, but something meant to support. The instinct came with it—this was designed to link with a winged beast, to lift it higher, to push it faster.
But Evan remembered the gist of what the Phantom said: The fragments are the base. Your will decides their shape. He felt it now—that truth. These were echoes, blueprints, but not finalized. They carried memory, but he brought intent.
The card's image burned before him—a single great wing, emerald green and vast, caught in a stream of rushing wind. The feathers shimmered with motion, speed, direction. Filled with concepts.
Wings. Wind. Movement.
As long as he stayed true to them, he could twist what the fragment resulted in when it was brought forth.
He chose it.