Published as part of NPCW UNIVERSE STORIES 002 – September 21, 2026
North Pole – Jack and Edie Mason’s Apartment – Evening
The apartment is warm.
Not crowded.
Not loud.
Just warm.
A handwritten WELCOME HOME, EDIE banner hangs slightly crooked across one wall.
There are fresh flowers on the kitchen counter.
A small pile of gifts sits unopened near the couch.
Someone has filled the refrigerator.
Someone else has stocked the cabinets.
And sitting proudly in the middle of the coffee table is an absurdly large bowl of fish.
That one is obvious.
FLIPPERS THE PENGUIN sits beside it like a tiny security guard.
The front door opens.
EDIE HARTWELL MASON steps inside.
She looks better.
Much better.
The color has returned to her face.
The exhaustion is fading.
Her hair has been cut back to its original shorter style, framing her face the way it did before Castle Dracula.
She is dressed in soft sweatpants, a comfortable sweatshirt and warm socks.
No gowns.
No medical clothing.
No Sanctuary.
Home.
Behind her, JACK MASON carries the last of the bags.
Edie stops just inside the doorway.
She looks around.
At the decorations.
At the flowers.
At Flippers.
At Jack.
Her eyes begin to water.
Jack notices immediately.
MR. MASON: Oh, no.
Edie looks at him.
MR. MASON: We are not crying on the carpet, dear. Negropolis had it professionally cleaned.
Edie laughs.
A real laugh.
The sound seems to change the entire apartment.
EDIE HARTWELL MASON: I'm home.
Jack sets the bags down.
MR. MASON: You are.
Flippers suddenly launches himself off the couch.
Waddles across the room at remarkable speed.
And collides directly with Edie's leg.
EDIE HARTWELL MASON: Flippers!
She bends carefully and scoops him up.
Flippers immediately presses himself against her chest.
He chirps.
Then refuses to move.
Edie kisses the top of his head.
EDIE HARTWELL MASON: I missed you too.
Jack watches them.
MR. MASON: He's been practicing that dramatic entrance for three days.
Flippers squawks at him.
MR. MASON: Don't deny it, neighbour.
Edie smiles and carries Flippers toward the couch.
She sits.
Flippers settles immediately beside her.
Then climbs partly into her lap.
Jack joins her.
For a few moments—
nothing is said.
Edie looks around again.
Her apartment.
Her furniture.
Their photographs.
Their life.
EDIE HARTWELL MASON: I forgot how quiet it is here.
MR. MASON: That won't last.
Edie looks at him.
Jack gestures toward one wall.
MR. MASON: Polly and Leiton rented the place next door.
Edie blinks.
EDIE HARTWELL MASON: Together?
Jack's expression becomes carefully neutral.
MR. MASON: That appears to be the arrangement.
Edie's smile grows.
EDIE HARTWELL MASON: Interesting.
MR. MASON: I have made no observations.
EDIE HARTWELL MASON: Of course not.
Jack points toward the opposite wall.
MR. MASON: Tobias and Niven rented the apartment on the other side.
Edie's eyebrows rise.
EDIE HARTWELL MASON: Jack.
MR. MASON: I didn't do it.
A beat.
MR. MASON: Mostly.
Edie laughs again.
MR. MASON: Between the four of them, one will always be nearby.
EDIE HARTWELL MASON: I'm surrounded by Snakes.
MR. MASON: Protective Snakes.
EDIE HARTWELL MASON: That sounds much better.
Jack nods toward a small security panel near the doorway.
MR. MASON: Negropolis installed that.
Edie looks at it.
Several small indicators glow quietly.
MR. MASON: Motion sensors. Reinforced locks. Window alarms. Interior cameras in the common areas. Exterior cameras covering every approach.
Edie looks impressed.
EDIE HARTWELL MASON: Negropolis did all that?
MR. MASON: He said the old system was insulting.
EDIE HARTWELL MASON: To who?
MR. MASON: Security.
Edie shakes her head.
Flippers chirps from her lap.
Jack points at him.
MR. MASON: And apparently he's retired.
Edie looks down.
EDIE HARTWELL MASON: Retired?
MR. MASON: Won't leave your side.
Flippers immediately presses closer against her.
MR. MASON: Refuses training. Refuses appearances. Refuses meetings.
Flippers squawks.
MR. MASON: Yes, neighbour. You refused the meeting.
Edie scratches gently beneath Flippers' chin.
EDIE HARTWELL MASON: Maybe he's earned retirement.
Jack looks at the penguin.
MR. MASON: At his age?
Flippers gives him an offended chirp.
Edie laughs.
Then her expression softens.
She rests her head against Jack's shoulder.
Jack immediately wraps an arm around her.
EDIE HARTWELL MASON: What's next?
Jack looks toward her.
MR. MASON: You rest.
EDIE HARTWELL MASON: Jack.
MR. MASON: You asked.
EDIE HARTWELL MASON: For me.
A beat.
EDIE HARTWELL MASON: What's next for us?
Jack thinks.
MR. MASON: We get our life back.
Edie looks at him.
MR. MASON: You get stronger.
MR. MASON: Flippers continues his distinguished retirement.
Flippers chirps.
MR. MASON: I continue teaching.
Edie's expression changes slightly at that.
She knows exactly what Jack means by teaching.
EDIE HARTWELL MASON: And Dracula?
Silence.
Jack's face remains calm.
But something colder appears behind his eyes.
MR. MASON: Dracula is elsewhere.
EDIE HARTWELL MASON: For now.
Jack looks at her.
MR. MASON: For now.
Edie sits upright.
Flippers shifts beside her.
Her expression becomes serious.
The warmth remains—
but something firmer has entered it.
EDIE HARTWELL MASON: Jack.
He turns fully toward her.
EDIE HARTWELL MASON: Promise me something.
Jack's expression softens.
MR. MASON: Anything, dear.
Edie takes his hand.
Her voice is quiet.
Certain.
EDIE HARTWELL MASON: When the time comes—
A beat.
EDIE HARTWELL MASON: —I want you to teach Dracula a lesson.
Jack becomes very still.
Edie does not look away.
EDIE HARTWELL MASON: I want him to understand exactly what it means to mess with a Mason.
Another beat.
EDIE HARTWELL MASON: And I want you to make him pay.
Silence.
Then—
slowly—
Jack smiles.
Not warmly.
Not kindly.
That familiar, dangerous Mr. Mason smile.
MR. MASON: Oh, dear.
He squeezes her hand.
MR. MASON: It's gonna be a wonderful day in the neighbourhood.
Flippers throws his wings outward.
FLIPPERS: SQUAAAWK!
Edie looks down at him.
Then back at Jack.
She smiles.
Home.
Safe.
Together.
For now.
FADE OUT.
Published as part of NPCW UNIVERSE STORIES 002 – September 21, 2026
Castle Dracula — Three Weeks After Malrec Voss’s Arrival
Three weeks had changed Castle Dracula.
Not the castle itself.
The black stone remained cold. The corridors remained impossibly long. Shadows still seemed to move when no one was watching.
But Malrec Voss had changed.
The fear that had followed him through the castle gates had begun to loosen its grip.
He slept now.
He ate well.
He no longer looked over his shoulder every time footsteps approached from behind.
Dracula had honored the sanctuary granted by Mistress Tynell. No one had threatened him. No assassin had appeared in the night. No message from the Circle had reached him.
For the first time since his expulsion, Malrec had begun to believe he might actually survive.
That did not mean Castle Dracula had become welcoming.
His sister, Dr. Violetta Voss, avoided him whenever possible.
Mistress Tynell had grown increasingly preoccupied with matters involving Dracula and the affairs of the House.
Most of the castle’s other inhabitants regarded Malrec with either indifference or quiet contempt.
There had been one exception.
Dr. Adrian Igor Moreau.
Moreau had been surprisingly cordial.
Interested, even.
The two men had begun taking dinner together several evenings each week.
They spoke of politics.
Science.
The Circle.
Power.
Moreau listened far more than he spoke.
Malrec had come to appreciate that.
Tonight, he was already late.
Malrec hurried through one of the castle’s lower corridors toward the smaller dining chamber reserved for residents and lesser guests.
The grand dining hall belonged to Dracula.
Only those personally invited by the Count ate there.
Malrec had not yet received such an invitation.
He opened the smaller chamber door.
Dr. Moreau was already seated.
A modest table had been prepared beneath a wrought-iron chandelier.
Two places.
Two bowls of steaming soup.
A silver tea service.
Moreau looked up as Malrec entered.
MALREC VOSS: Adrian. My apologies.
Moreau glanced toward the antique clock mounted along the wall.
DR. MOREAU: Seven minutes.
Malrec smiled awkwardly as he took his seat.
MALREC VOSS: I lost track of time.
DR. MOREAU: Castle Dracula has that effect on people.
Malrec unfolded his napkin.
MALREC VOSS: Mistress Tynell stopped me in the eastern corridor. Briefly.
Moreau lifted his spoon.
DR. MOREAU: Ah.
A faint smile.
DR. MOREAU: Our increasingly busy Mistress Tynell.
Malrec chuckled.
They began eating.
For several minutes, the conversation remained pleasantly ordinary.
Moreau asked whether Malrec had finally become accustomed to his chambers.
Malrec complained about the drafts.
They discussed one of Violetta’s recent experiments.
Malrec made an unflattering remark about his sister’s bedside manner.
Moreau actually laughed.
Yet throughout the meal, Malrec occasionally noticed something strange.
Moreau kept watching him.
Not staring.
Observing.
The way a physician might monitor a patient after administering medication.
Malrec eventually set his spoon down.
The bowl was empty.
He reached for his wine.
Moreau did not touch his own soup.
Instead, he lifted his teacup.
Took a slow sip.
Then smiled.
Not warmly.
Malrec noticed immediately.
MALREC VOSS: What?
Moreau placed the cup gently back onto its saucer.
DR. MOREAU: Do you know who financed your little attempt to place the Whisperer in the Grand Manipulator’s chair?
Malrec froze.
His fingers remained wrapped around the stem of his glass.
MALREC VOSS: What?
DR. MOREAU: Erasmus Voinești.
Malrec’s expression tightened.
DR. MOREAU: Your preferred candidate.
MALREC VOSS: I know who Erasmus is.
Moreau smiled.
DR. MOREAU: Of course.
A beat.
DR. MOREAU: But do you know who paid for the effort?
Malrec stared at him.
MALREC VOSS: Jacques handled those arrangements.
DR. MOREAU: Jacques handled many arrangements.
The smile remained.
DR. MOREAU: Poorly, as it turned out.
Malrec shifted uneasily.
MALREC VOSS: What exactly are you suggesting?
Moreau leaned back.
DR. MOREAU: That Jacques Renaud was not spending his own money.
Malrec said nothing.
The room suddenly felt colder.
DR. MOREAU: Someone funded your campaign.
MALREC VOSS: Who?
Moreau studied him for several seconds.
Then—
DR. MOREAU: Someone who does not tolerate failure.
Malrec swallowed.
Moreau’s smile widened slightly.
DR. MOREAU: And someone who particularly dislikes thieves.
Malrec’s face changed.
MALREC VOSS: I stole nothing.
DR. MOREAU: You failed to deliver the Circle.
He tapped one finger lightly against the table.
DR. MOREAU: Then you kept what remained of the money.
MALREC VOSS: That isn't what happened.
DR. MOREAU: Isn't it?
MALREC VOSS: The funds were mine by then.
DR. MOREAU: That distinction apparently matters more to you than it did to the person who provided them.
Malrec pushed his chair back slightly.
MALREC VOSS: I don't even have the money anymore.
Moreau lifted his tea.
Malrec continued quickly.
MALREC VOSS: Tynell took it.
Moreau paused.
MALREC VOSS: All of it. The reserves. The hidden accounts. Everything Cassian hadn't frozen.
His voice rose.
MALREC VOSS: It was the price of sanctuary.
Moreau took another sip.
DR. MOREAU: Yes.
Malrec stopped.
Something in Moreau's answer frightened him.
MALREC VOSS: You knew?
Moreau said nothing.
Malrec suddenly coughed.
Once.
Then again.
His hand rose toward his throat.
His eyes widened.
MALREC VOSS: What—
He tried to inhale.
Nothing came.
Malrec stood abruptly, knocking his chair backward.
His hands clawed at his collar.
His face flushed dark red.
Moreau remained seated.
Watching.
Malrec stumbled against the table.
The wineglass shattered on the floor.
MALREC VOSS: Moreau—
His knees buckled.
Moreau calmly placed his teacup on the saucer.
DR. MOREAU: You failed them.
Malrec gasped desperately.
DR. MOREAU: You kept their money.
Malrec collapsed against the edge of the table, dragging the cloth partially with him.
Soup spilled.
Silverware clattered.
Moreau leaned forward slightly.
That devilish smile returned.
DR. MOREAU: The debt is now paid.
Malrec fell to the floor.
His body convulsed once.
Then stopped.
Silence returned to the dining chamber.
Moreau watched him for several seconds.
No concern.
No urgency.
Only confirmation.
He lifted his tea.
Finished it.
Then carefully wiped the corners of his mouth with his napkin.
He stood.
Straightened his jacket.
Stepped around Malrec Voss’s body.
And opened the door.
A castle guard stood outside.
Moreau sighed with the weary irritation of a physician inconvenienced during dinner.
DR. MOREAU: Fetch someone.
The guard glanced past him into the room.
His eyes widened.
GUARD: What happened?
Moreau looked back toward Malrec.
Then adjusted one cuff.
DR. MOREAU: Brother Voss appears to have suffered a heart attack.
The guard hurried away.
Moreau watched him disappear down the corridor.
Then turned in the opposite direction.
His footsteps faded slowly into Castle Dracula.
Behind him, Malrec Voss remained sprawled beside the dinner table.
Three weeks after purchasing his sanctuary—
his account had finally been settled.
Published as part of NPCW UNIVERSE STORIES 002 – September 21, 2026
Castle Dracula — Simultaneous with Interlude 001: “Debt Paid”
There were rooms within Castle Dracula that even its residents rarely entered.
This was one of them.
It lay deep within the oldest portion of the castle, beyond a narrow stairway of black stone and behind a pair of iron doors engraved with symbols worn smooth by centuries.
No portraits decorated the walls.
No banners.
No trophies.
The chamber existed for one purpose.
Transformation.
A circular stone dais occupied its center. Around it burned twelve tall candles, their flames unnaturally still.
At the far end stood a narrow altar of polished black marble.
Above it, carved directly into the wall, was a single ancient phrase:
THE BLOOD REMEMBERS.
Mistress Tynell stood at the center of the chamber.
She wore simple black.
No insignia of the Circle.
No ornament.
Nothing from the life she was preparing to leave behind.
The grey at her temples was more visible now.
The lines around her eyes slightly deeper than three weeks before.
She did not touch them.
Not tonight.
Dracula stood opposite her.
For once, he wore no expression of amusement.
No theatrical smile.
No mocking grandeur.
Only solemnity.
DRACULA: Three weeks.
MISTRESS TYNELL: As promised.
DRACULA: And your answer?
Tynell held his gaze.
MISTRESS TYNELL: Has not changed.
Dracula studied her for several moments.
Then nodded.
DRACULA: Very well.
He stepped closer.
DRACULA: Then you should understand exactly what will happen.
Tynell straightened.
Dracula moved slowly around her.
DRACULA: I will drink from you until your mortal body can sustain no more.
Tynell listened without flinching.
DRACULA: Your heart will weaken.
DRACULA: Your breath will stop.
DRACULA: For a time, Mistress Tynell—
He stopped directly in front of her.
DRACULA: You will die.
A faint smile touched her lips.
MISTRESS TYNELL: Temporarily.
Dracula raised an eyebrow.
DRACULA: Optimism from you.
MISTRESS TYNELL: Confidence.
DRACULA: There is frequently little distinction until afterward.
He continued.
DRACULA: My blood will call you back.
DRACULA: But what awakens will not be the woman standing before me now.
Tynell's expression remained firm.
DRACULA: Your senses will sharpen.
DRACULA: Your strength will increase.
DRACULA: Your heart will no longer rule your existence.
He leaned closer.
DRACULA: Hunger will.
That word lingered.
DRACULA: When you wake, it will consume every thought.
DRACULA: You will hear blood moving through living bodies.
DRACULA: Smell it beneath skin.
DRACULA: Feel it calling to you.
Tynell swallowed.
Dracula noticed.
DRACULA: And until you feed, the transformation remains unfinished.
MISTRESS TYNELL: My first blood.
DRACULA: Yes.
A pause.
Then Tynell asked something that clearly interested him.
MISTRESS TYNELL: Do I choose?
Dracula's eyebrow lifted.
DRACULA: Choose?
MISTRESS TYNELL: Who I feed from first.
For the first time that night, genuine curiosity entered his face.
DRACULA: You already have someone in mind.
Tynell stepped close enough that even the candlelight seemed to withdraw from them.
She whispered a name into Dracula's ear.
His expression changed.
Only slightly.
But enough.
He looked at her.
DRACULA: Are you certain?
MISTRESS TYNELL: Completely.
Dracula searched her face.
Whatever he found there satisfied him.
A faint smile appeared.
DRACULA: Then let us begin.
Tynell stepped onto the stone dais.
Dracula followed.
For a moment, neither moved.
Then Dracula placed one hand gently against the side of her face.
Almost tenderly.
DRACULA: There will be pain.
MISTRESS TYNELL: I expected nothing less.
DRACULA: And fear.
MISTRESS TYNELL: We discussed fear three weeks ago.
DRACULA: Indeed.
His thumb brushed once across her cheek.
DRACULA: You remain stubborn.
MISTRESS TYNELL: You promised to reward that.
Dracula smiled.
Then his expression changed.
The warmth vanished.
His eyes darkened.
His fangs descended.
Tynell drew one slow breath.
She tilted her head.
Offering him her throat.
Dracula struck.
Tynell gasped as his fangs pierced her neck.
Her hands seized his shoulders.
For several seconds she remained rigid.
Then the strength began to leave her.
Dracula drank slowly at first.
Deliberately.
Not feeding.
Measuring.
Her heartbeat thundered through the chamber.
Fast.
Then faster.
Then uneven.
Tynell's fingers tightened against Dracula's coat.
Her knees weakened.
He caught her easily.
The candles seemed to dim as more of her life disappeared.
Tynell's breathing became shallow.
Her eyes lost focus.
Memories flickered through her mind without invitation.
The monastery.
The Circle.
Centuries of secrets.
Ardan Vantrell.
Lucien.
Cassandra.
Dracula awakening.
All the lives she had manipulated.
All the rooms in which she had whispered into the ear of power.
Then—
Cold.
Terrible cold.
Her hands slipped from Dracula's shoulders.
Her heartbeat slowed.
Once.
Again.
A long pause.
One final beat.
Then nothing.
Dracula lowered her carefully onto the black marble altar.
Tynell lay motionless.
Pale.
Silent.
Dead.
Dracula looked down at her.
DRACULA: And now—
He drew one sharp nail across his own wrist.
Dark blood welled immediately.
He held it above Tynell's lips.
Several drops fell.
Nothing happened.
Another.
Then another.
Tynell's lips moved.
Barely.
Dracula lowered his wrist.
Instinct took over before consciousness.
Tynell's mouth closed against the wound.
She drank.
Once.
Then violently.
Her hands snapped upward and locked around Dracula's arm.
The candles flared.
Every flame turned crimson for a heartbeat.
Her body arched against the altar.
Bones shifted.
Muscles tightened.
The grey at her temples darkened away.
The fine lines around her eyes smoothed.
Her skin became pale as moonlit ivory.
Dracula pulled his arm free.
Tynell collapsed back onto the stone.
Still.
But no longer dead.
Something moved beneath her skin.
Something new.
Dracula watched.
Waiting.
Then—
A knock sounded at the chamber doors.
Three measured strikes.
Dracula smiled.
Right on time.
He walked toward the doors and opened them.
A woman stood outside.
Confident.
Alert.
Dressed for travel.
The woman who had once moved through the Dragomir estate under another name.
Dracula stepped aside.
DRACULA: Mindy.
Her expression tightened immediately.
MINERVA: Minerva.
Dracula's smile deepened.
MINERVA: Mindy was an alias.
She entered the chamber.
MINERVA: I used it to infiltrate Dragomir's estate.
Dracula closed the doors behind her.
DRACULA: How terribly important.
Minerva frowned.
MINERVA: You summoned me.
DRACULA: I did.
She looked around.
The candles.
The altar.
The pale figure lying upon it.
Recognition slowly entered her eyes.
MINERVA: Tynell?
Dracula said nothing.
Minerva stepped closer.
MINERVA: What happened to—
Tynell's eyes opened.
Black.
Then crimson.
Minerva froze.
Tynell inhaled.
For the first time, she heard it.
A heartbeat.
Strong.
Living.
Close.
Her head turned toward Minerva.
Every other sound disappeared.
The candles.
Dracula's breathing.
The castle.
Nothing existed except—
Thump.
Thump.
Thump.
Minerva took one uncertain step backward.
MINERVA: Mistress Tynell?
Tynell moved.
Too fast for mortal eyes.
One instant she was on the altar.
The next—
Behind Minerva.
An arm snapped around her waist.
The other locked beneath her chin.
Minerva screamed.
MINERVA: What the—
Tynell buried her face against Minerva's neck.
Her new fangs sank deep.
Minerva's scream became a strangled gasp.
Her hands clawed at Tynell's arms.
Tynell drank.
Not delicately.
Not ceremonially.
Hungrily.
The sound of Minerva's heartbeat filled her mind.
Each pulse delivered warmth.
Strength.
Life.
The cold vanished.
The agony vanished.
The hunger did not disappear.
It transformed.
From madness—
into pleasure.
Into power.
Dracula watched from several feet away.
Silent.
Satisfied.
Minerva weakened in Tynell's grasp.
Tynell drank again.
Then Dracula spoke.
DRACULA: Enough.
Tynell did not stop.
DRACULA: Tynell.
Her eyes opened.
Still crimson.
For one dangerous second, instinct argued with command.
Then—
She released Minerva.
Minerva collapsed to her knees, one hand pressed against her bleeding neck.
Tynell stood behind her.
Breathing though she no longer needed to.
Blood touched the corner of her mouth.
She wiped it away slowly.
Looked at it upon her fingertip.
Then looked at Dracula.
He studied her carefully.
DRACULA: How do you feel?
Tynell considered the question.
Her hearing stretched beyond the chamber.
She could hear footsteps three corridors away.
Wind against stone hundreds of feet above them.
The fluttering wings of something nesting inside the castle walls.
And beneath it all—
Minerva's frightened heartbeat.
Tynell smiled.
The expression was familiar.
But different.
Sharper.
Predatory.
Alive in an entirely new way.
MISTRESS TYNELL: Young.
Dracula chuckled.
Minerva stared up at them in horror.
Tynell looked down at her.
MINERVA: Why me?
Tynell's smile remained.
MISTRESS TYNELL: Because I remember Dragomir's estate.
Minerva went still.
Tynell stepped closer.
MISTRESS TYNELL: I remember who watched.
Another step.
MISTRESS TYNELL: Who listened.
She glanced toward Dracula.
Then back to Minerva.
MISTRESS TYNELL: And I remember who lied.
Dracula's amusement deepened.
Tynell lifted her chin.
No grey.
No age.
No fear of time.
Three weeks earlier, Mistress Tynell had entered Castle Dracula asking for immortality.
Tonight—
the Blood Harvest had answered.
FADE.
Published as part of NPCW UNIVERSE STORIES 002 – September 21, 2026
The Circle’s Monastery Headquarters — Carpathian Mountains
The Special Chambers of the Grand Manipulator
The monastery had learned a new rhythm.
Not a different one.
Not entirely.
The bells still sounded before dawn. The lower halls still filled with the muted procession of robed figures moving between study, ritual, administration, and instruction. Messages still crossed continents without ever touching ordinary networks. Assets changed hands behind corporations whose owners did not know the Circle existed.
But something had changed at the center.
Weeks had passed since Lucien Vantrell had taken the seat of the Grand Manipulator.
Weeks since the Circle had watched the son succeed the father.
Weeks since almost everyone within its walls had accepted the simplest explanation.
Ardan Vantrell was gone.
Lucien Vantrell remained.
Only a handful knew how inaccurate those words truly were.
Within the private chambers reserved exclusively for the Grand Manipulator, the man wearing Lucien Vantrell’s face sat behind an immense blackwood desk.
Papers surrounded him.
Not ancient manuscripts.
Not occult diagrams.
Balance sheets.
Acquisition reports.
Asset projections.
The Circle had survived its succession.
More importantly, it had prospered.
Lucien turned another page.
DIGITAL ASSET DIVISION — QUARTERLY PROJECTION
The numbers were considerably higher than anticipated.
Cryptocurrency holdings had expanded aggressively over the previous weeks, assisted by a network of shell organizations that could shift capital across jurisdictions before regulators understood where it had originated.
Another file concerned artificial intelligence.
The Circle had invested quietly years earlier.
Now those investments were multiplying.
Data-processing firms.
Predictive analytics.
Private language-model development.
Cybersecurity companies whose executive boards would have been disturbed to discover how many of their anonymous investors ultimately answered to a monastery in the Carpathian Mountains.
Lucien made a small notation in the margin.
Not satisfied.
Never satisfied.
But pleased.
The transition had been remarkably smooth.
Operations had stabilized.
The Lower Council had stopped testing the boundaries of the new administration.
Departments that had hesitated during the succession had returned to productivity.
The Circle’s commercial holdings were growing.
Its political channels remained intact.
Its influence within professional wrestling—once regarded by much of the old order as one of Ardan Vantrell’s more eccentric fascinations—had become something substantially more useful.
The False Light Forge was expanding.
Its recruits were developing.
Its infrastructure at the Nutcracker Legion Compound continued to strengthen.
And inside NPCW itself, there were now individuals in increasingly important positions whose loyalty, friendship, ambition, indebtedness—or simple self-interest—connected them to the Circle.
Influence did not require ownership.
Ardan had always understood that.
A signature was rarely as valuable as the person holding the pen.
Lucien placed the report aside.
One final folder rested before him.
Its cover bore no title.
He opened it.
A single page.
The terms of the truce.
Even Dracula had accepted the necessity of temporary restraint.
Not friendship.
Never friendship.
A truce.
Boundaries established.
Certain provocations suspended.
Certain interests acknowledged.
Neither side foolish enough to believe peace and trust were synonymous.
Lucien read the document once more.
Then closed it.
The Circle was stable.
Its coffers were expanding.
Its external influence was growing.
Its enemies were contained, distracted, negotiated with, or watched.
For the first time since Ardan Vantrell’s death, there was room to think beyond survival.
Beyond the next council meeting.
Beyond the next threat.
Beyond the next generation.
Lucien leaned back.
His fingers rested against the arms of the chair once occupied by his father.
The chair recognized him now.
That amused him.
Or perhaps it recognized something else.
A knock sounded against the chamber door.
Lucien looked toward it.
“Enter.”
The doors opened.
Elyra Moane stepped inside.
She wore black velvet embroidered with silver thread, less ceremonial than the robes she used during Circle functions but unmistakably hers. Her white-blonde hair fell freely over her shoulders. There was no Mirror Saints entourage.
No Ashen Vicar.
No Sorin.
No Vael.
Only Elyra.
She closed the doors behind herself.
“Grand Manipulator.”
Lucien looked up from the papers.
“Elyra.”
She approached the desk.
“You asked to see me.”
“I did.”
Her eyes moved briefly across the documents.
“Should I be concerned?”
Lucien glanced down at them.
“About quarterly returns?”
A faint smile touched her lips.
“Knowing this organization, possibly.”
He almost smiled in return.
“Sit.”
Elyra took the chair opposite him.
For several moments, Lucien said nothing.
Elyra had learned not to fill those silences.
That was one of the things he appreciated about her.
Finally she asked, “How bad is it?”
“Quite the opposite.”
That caught her attention.
Lucien opened the cryptocurrency report and slid it across the desk.
Elyra glanced down.
Her eyebrows rose.
“That is…”
“Excessive?”
“I was going to say impressive.”
“You were going to say excessive.”
“Both may be true.”
Lucien nodded.
“Artificial intelligence holdings are performing even better.”
Elyra looked back at him.
“Then perhaps the old men who complained that the Circle had become too modern will finally stop complaining.”
“No.”
Her smile widened slightly.
“No?”
“Old men who enjoy complaining do not require a reason.”
Elyra laughed softly.
The sound seemed strangely alive in the chamber.
Lucien watched her for a moment.
She noticed.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“That was not nothing.”
Lucien folded his hands.
“The Circle is doing well.”
Elyra's expression became more serious.
“I know.”
“The Forge is expanding.”
“Yes.”
“Our position in NPCW continues to improve.”
“Yes.”
“Our financial interests are outperforming projections.”
“I have seen some of the reports.”
“Even our more difficult external relationships have stabilized.”
Elyra understood the reference.
“Dracula.”
“The truce holds.”
“For now.”
“For now is the only form in which most truces exist.”
She nodded.
Lucien rose.
He moved away from the desk toward the immense arched window overlooking the mountain.
The monastery fell away beneath them, towers and courtyards descending into mist.
Elyra remained seated.
Lucien spoke without turning.
“My father spent much of his life ensuring the Circle could survive him.”
Elyra’s expression softened at the mention of Ardan.
“He succeeded.”
Lucien's reflection stared back at him from the glass.
“Yes.”
The word carried more meaning than Elyra could possibly understand.
He continued.
“But survival is insufficient.”
Elyra rose now.
Slowly.
“What are you thinking?”
“The future.”
She came closer.
“The Circle has one.”
“Organizations have futures. Dynasties require more deliberate planning.”
Something in his tone changed.
Elyra heard it.
She stopped several feet behind him.
“Lucien?”
He turned.
Not Grand Manipulator.
Not Lord Vantrell.
Lucien.
She rarely used the name privately.
And he had noticed that too.
“I have always been fond of you, Elyra.”
She stared at him.
Whatever answer she had expected, it was not that.
Lucien continued before she could retreat behind ceremony.
“You are intelligent. Disciplined. Patient when patience is required and ambitious when ambition is useful.”
Elyra folded her hands before herself.
“That sounds suspiciously like an evaluation for council promotion.”
“You already have the promotion.”
“Then what is this?”
Lucien studied her.
“A proposal.”
Her eyes narrowed slightly.
“A business proposal?”
“No.”
That single word changed the room.
Elyra went very still.
Lucien stepped closer.
“There are people within the Circle who believe power is secured through fear.”
“They are not entirely wrong.”
“No. But fear secures obedience. It does not secure continuity.”
He paused.
“You and I represent something this Circle has rarely possessed simultaneously.”
Elyra waited.
“Strength at the center without rivalry.”
Her expression softened.
Lucien continued.
“You have never attempted to diminish me.”
“I would hope not.”
“You misunderstand. Most people close to power eventually begin measuring themselves against it.”
“And I do not?”
“You measure yourself against yourself.”
That struck her more deeply than she expected.
For a moment she looked away.
Lucien's voice lowered.
“I trust you.”
Elyra looked back at him.
Those words mattered more than the compliments.
Especially from him.
“Lucien…”
“I would not ask this if I believed you incapable of saying no.”
She almost laughed from nervousness.
“That is not making whatever comes next less intimidating.”
“No.”
A beat.
Then Lucien said it.
“I believe we should marry.”
Silence.
Absolute silence.
Even the mountain wind seemed to disappear beyond the glass.
Elyra stared at him.
Lucien allowed her the moment.
Finally:
“You are serious.”
“Yes.”
Elyra looked toward the desk.
Toward the reports.
Toward the vast architecture of the organization surrounding them.
Then back toward him.
“A marriage between the Grand Manipulator and an Inner Councilor.”
“Yes.”
“The Lower Council will spend six months arguing about what it means.”
“Then they will have something productive to occupy them.”
Despite herself, Elyra smiled.
But the smile vanished quickly.
“Is this about the Circle?”
“In part.”
She caught it.
“In part.”
Lucien stepped nearer.
“I said I have always been fond of you.”
Elyra searched his face.
For manipulation.
For strategy.
For some hidden calculation behind the calculation.
She found Lucien Vantrell staring back at her.
Or believed she did.
“You never said anything.”
“There was never an appropriate time.”
“And now?”
“Now I determine what is appropriate.”
That earned a quiet laugh.
“There is the Grand Manipulator.”
“There was never much distance between him and me.”
That statement carried another truth entirely.
Elyra could not know it.
Lucien continued.
“You stood beside the Circle when doing so was dangerous. You served my father without becoming dependent upon his favor. You accepted responsibility without begging for recognition.”
His voice softened.
“And when everything changed, you remained.”
Elyra's eyes glistened slightly.
She did not look away.
“I remained because I believed in what we were building.”
“We?”
“Yes.”
The word surprised even her.
She took another step toward him.
“I have feelings for you too.”
Lucien's expression shifted.
Barely.
But enough.
Elyra continued.
“I have had them longer than I care to admit.”
“Why did you say nothing?”
She gave him a pointed look.
“You were Lucien Vantrell.”
“A compelling argument.”
“You were cold, impossible to read, politically dangerous, and involved with another woman.”
There it was.
Victoria.
Lucien's expression did not change.
Elyra immediately added, “I am not asking about her.”
“There is nothing to ask.”
“I know.”
A quieter moment followed.
Elyra looked toward the mountains.
“When you became Grand Manipulator, I assumed whatever feelings I had would simply become irrelevant.”
“Why?”
“Because you changed.”
Lucien said nothing.
The words lingered.
Elyra turned back toward him.
“Not entirely.”
She studied his face.
“But something changed.”
Deep behind Lucien Vantrell’s eyes, something ancient remained perfectly still.
Elyra continued.
“You became more distant. More certain. Sometimes you look at this monastery as if you remember things that happened before either of us were born.”
For the first time, the silence became dangerous.
Then Lucien answered calmly.
“Perhaps the chair encourages melodrama.”
Elyra smiled.
The moment passed.
Almost.
She stepped close enough that only a few inches separated them.
“If we did this…”
“When.”
Her eyebrows rose.
“Confidence is an unattractive quality when overused.”
“I will ration it.”
“If we marry, I will not be decoration beside your throne.”
“I would not tolerate you becoming decoration.”
“I will retain my responsibilities.”
“Of course.”
“My place on the Inner Council remains mine.”
“Yes.”
“The Mirror Saints remain under my authority.”
“Yes.”
“And you will not expect me to agree with you merely because I am your wife.”
Lucien looked almost offended.
“What possible use would that be?”
Elyra smiled.
“Then you have thought about this.”
“For some time.”
She studied him another few seconds.
Then breathed out slowly.
“Yes.”
Lucien did not move.
Elyra smiled more fully.
“I said yes.”
“I heard you.”
“And?”
“And what?”
She stared at him incredulously.
“Lucien Vantrell, I have just agreed to marry you.”
“Yes.”
“You could at least appear pleased.”
A small smile finally broke through his composure.
Rare.
Genuine enough to satisfy her.
“I am pleased.”
Elyra laughed.
Then, more softly:
“So am I.”
She reached for his hand.
Lucien allowed her to take it.
For several seconds they simply stood together in the chambers of the Grand Manipulator.
No council.
No schemes.
No enemies.
No succession.
Just two people contemplating a future neither had expected.
At least that was what Elyra believed.
Finally Lucien said, “You should begin preparations.”
She blinked.
“Already?”
“I see no advantage in waiting.”
“Of course you don't.”
“You will require assistance.”
“I can manage.”
“I never doubted it.”
She began toward the door, then stopped.
“Lucien?”
“Yes?”
She looked back.
There was warmth in her expression now.
Something almost vulnerable.
“Thank you.”
“For proposing marriage?”
“For asking rather than arranging it.”
Lucien regarded her for a long moment.
“You were always going to have a choice.”
Elyra nodded.
“Good.”
She opened the doors.
Then turned one final time.
“I suppose I should start planning a wedding worthy of the Circle of the False Light.”
Lucien sat behind his desk again.
“Nothing excessive.”
Elyra stared at him.
He glanced toward the financial reports.
She followed his gaze.
Then shook her head.
“Cryptocurrency makes you unbearable.”
The doors closed behind her.
Silence returned.
Lucien remained motionless.
One minute passed.
Then another.
The smile disappeared.
He looked toward the desk.
There was one item he had not opened.
A black envelope.
No courier had delivered it.
No servant had entered.
It had simply appeared among his papers earlier that evening.
The seal was unmistakable.
Dragomir.
Lucien broke the wax.
Inside was no letter.
Only a small piece of cream-colored paper.
One sentence.
He read it once.
Then again.
Tynell has been turned by Dracula.
Nothing more.
Except the signature beneath it.
Vlad
Lucien's fingers stopped against the page.
The chamber seemed colder.
The man wearing Lucien Vantrell’s face slowly leaned back in the Grand Manipulator’s chair.
For several seconds, he stared at the words.
Then his eyes lifted toward the closed doors through which Elyra had departed.
A marriage.
A future.
Continuity.
And somewhere beyond the monastery walls, an old threat had just acquired a very familiar weapon.
Lucien folded the message carefully.
Once.
Twice.
Then held it above the flame of the nearest candle.
The paper caught.
The Dragomir seal blackened.
The warning curled into ash.
Lucien watched until nothing remained.
Then he whispered:
“Tynell.”
Not with surprise.
Not with grief.
With calculation.
The ash fell across the desk.
Outside, the monastery bells began to ring.
And the future of the Circle had just become considerably more complicated.
END INTERLUDE 003 — “PROPOSAL”
Published as part of NPCW UNIVERSE STORIES 002 – September 21, 2026
North Pole – Outer Limits – Bigfoot’s Cavern – Night
The cavern is quiet.
Not empty.
Lived in.
A low fire burns near the center, casting warm orange light across rough stone walls, stacked supplies, old pelts and the remnants of a simple meal.
BIGFOOT sits near the fire.
Relaxed for once.
No arena.
No challenge.
No Alpha Beast standing across from him.
Then—
a sound.
Stone scraping against stone.
Bigfoot's head snaps toward the entrance.
His entire posture changes.
He rises immediately.
Ready.
A massive silhouette steps out of the darkness.
White-and-rust fur.
Broad shoulders.
Familiar eyes.
YETI.
Bigfoot clenches his fists.
BIGFOOT: You picked the wrong night.
Yeti stops several feet away.
YETI: I'm not here to fight.
Bigfoot stares at him.
BIGFOOT: That's new.
YETI: Don't get used to it.
Bigfoot does not relax.
BIGFOOT: Then talk.
Yeti glances toward the fire.
Then back at him.
YETI: I went to see Yolgrimm.
That gets Bigfoot's attention.
BIGFOOT: Why?
YETI: Because something changed.
A beat.
YETI: Grimva closed the portals.
Bigfoot's expression shifts immediately.
The hostility is still there—
but concern pushes through it.
BIGFOOT: Closed them?
YETI: All of them.
Bigfoot looks toward the cavern wall as if he can somehow see beyond it.
Toward a realm that is no longer reachable.
BIGFOOT: Why?
Yeti watches him carefully.
YETI: That's what you're going to tell me.
Bigfoot looks back.
The concern hardens.
BIGFOOT: Excuse me?
YETI: You went there.
YETI: You spoke to Grimva.
YETI: You came back knowing more than you left with.
Yeti steps closer.
YETI: So tell me what she said.
Bigfoot gives a short scoff.
BIGFOOT: No.
Yeti's eyes narrow.
YETI: No?
BIGFOOT: What Grimva said to me was personal.
YETI: Personal?
A growl enters Yeti's voice.
YETI: The Primal Expanse has been sealed off from the Core Realm and you want to talk to me about personal?
BIGFOOT: Yes.
Yeti takes another step forward.
YETI: I am the Alpha Beast.
Bigfoot gives him a tired look.
BIGFOOT: Here we go.
YETI: Whatever Grimva told you about the beast blood—
BIGFOOT: She told me.
That stops Yeti.
Bigfoot steps closer now.
Not backing down.
BIGFOOT: Not you.
BIGFOOT: Me.
A tense silence.
For a moment, the old rivalry threatens to swallow the conversation.
Then Yeti exhales sharply through his nose.
Control.
Barely.
YETI: Fine.
Bigfoot raises an eyebrow.
YETI: Keep your precious conversation.
A beat.
YETI: Tell me what you saw.
Bigfoot's expression changes.
Only slightly.
But Yeti notices.
BIGFOOT: I can't.
Yeti gives a low, humorless laugh.
YETI: Can't?
He steps closer.
YETI: Or won't?
Bigfoot's answer comes immediately.
No sarcasm.
No defiance.
BIGFOOT: Can't.
That catches Yeti.
Bigfoot looks toward the fire.
His voice is quieter now.
BIGFOOT: I remember going there.
A beat.
BIGFOOT: I remember Grimva.
BIGFOOT: I remember the stone.
BIGFOOT: The clans.
BIGFOOT: The cold.
He frowns.
Struggling.
BIGFOOT: And I remember seeing...
He stops.
Silence.
Bigfoot closes his eyes.
Tries again.
BIGFOOT: Something.
Yeti watches him.
YETI: Something what?
Bigfoot shakes his head.
BIGFOOT: That's the problem.
He taps the side of his head.
BIGFOOT: When I try to think about it—
A pause.
BIGFOOT: —there's nothing there.
Yeti's expression loses some of its aggression.
BIGFOOT: Not darkness.
BIGFOOT: Not confusion.
He looks directly at Yeti.
BIGFOOT: Missing.
The fire cracks between them.
Yeti says nothing for several seconds.
YETI: You forgot.
BIGFOOT: No.
Yeti's brow tightens.
BIGFOOT: Forgetting feels different.
Bigfoot struggles to explain it.
BIGFOOT: You know when you forget a face?
BIGFOOT: A name?
BIGFOOT: You can feel the empty space where it should be.
A beat.
BIGFOOT: This isn't that.
His voice lowers.
BIGFOOT: It's like the space itself was taken.
Yeti becomes very still.
That bothers him.
More than Bigfoot's refusal ever could.
YETI: Yolgrimm said names were disappearing from the Ancestral Stone.
Bigfoot looks at him sharply.
BIGFOOT: Disappearing?
Yeti nods.
YETI: Not broken.
YETI: Gone.
Bigfoot looks away.
Toward the fire.
The pieces do not fit.
That is the problem.
BIGFOOT: Grimva knew something was wrong.
YETI: Then why didn't she tell you?
BIGFOOT: Maybe she did.
Silence.
That lands.
Yeti's eyes narrow.
YETI: You need to talk to someone.
Bigfoot looks back at him.
BIGFOOT: Who?
YETI: Someone who understands this sort of thing.
BIGFOOT: You suggesting therapy now?
Yeti growls.
YETI: Don't ruin the moment.
Bigfoot almost smiles.
Almost.
Then Yeti becomes serious again.
YETI: I'm not joking.
Bigfoot studies him.
YETI: If something removed part of what you saw—
A beat.
YETI: —then I want to know how.
Bigfoot's expression hardens.
BIGFOOT: Because you're worried about me?
Yeti looks offended by the suggestion.
YETI: Don't be ridiculous.
A beat.
YETI: I'm worried about what can do that to a beast and whether it can do it again.
Bigfoot nods slowly.
That answer he believes.
Yeti looks toward the cavern entrance.
YETI: The Expanse is closed.
YETI: We can't ask Grimva.
YETI: We can't send anyone back.
YETI: And until those portals reopen, what we know here is all we have.
Bigfoot folds his arms.
BIGFOOT: So what are you saying?
Yeti looks at him.
This part costs him something.
YETI: If you remember anything—
A beat.
YETI: Anything at all—
YETI: You tell me.
Bigfoot's eyes narrow.
BIGFOOT: And if you hear anything from Yolgrimm?
Yeti hesitates.
Then nods.
YETI: You hear it too.
Bigfoot studies him.
No trick.
No Alpha demand.
Not this time.
He extends one hand.
Yeti looks at it.
BIGFOOT: Until we know what's happening.
Yeti looks from the hand to Bigfoot.
YETI: This doesn't change anything between us.
BIGFOOT: Didn't ask it to.
A beat.
Yeti grips his forearm.
Bigfoot grips his.
Not friendship.
Not peace.
An agreement.
YETI: Until we know.
BIGFOOT: Until we know.
They release.
Yeti turns toward the exit.
Before he reaches the shadows—
Bigfoot speaks.
BIGFOOT: Yeti.
Yeti stops.
BIGFOOT: Whatever I saw...
A pause.
Bigfoot's confidence finally cracks.
Just slightly.
BIGFOOT: I think I was afraid of it.
Yeti slowly looks back.
Bigfoot stares into the fire.
BIGFOOT: I just don't remember why.
Silence.
Yeti's face hardens.
Not dismissive.
Concerned.
YETI: Find someone who can help you remember.
He disappears into the darkness.
Bigfoot remains beside the fire.
Alone.
He closes his eyes.
Tries once more.
Forest.
Snow.
Stone.
Grimva.
And then—
nothing.
His eyes open.
The fire continues to burn.
FADE OUT.
Published as part of NPCW UNIVERSE STORIES 002 – September 21, 2026
Location: Wonderland
Late afternoon.
Or at least what passes for late afternoon here.
The sky above the realm is painted in impossible bands of violet, blue, and pale gold. Clouds drift in opposite directions. A distant clock tower has twelve hands, none of them agreeing.
Yet for once—
Wonderland appears peaceful.
No tears in the sky.
No unfamiliar doors.
No blackened pathways appearing where roads should be.
At the edge of the Queen’s old garden stands King Richard the Lionheart.
Beside him—
Glinda.
Across from them is the Card Guard Captain, flanked by two soldiers carrying long spears decorated with heart-shaped blades.
Richard studies the surrounding grounds.
KING RICHARD: Nothing?
The Captain shakes his head.
CARD GUARD CAPTAIN: Nothing since the last incident.
Glinda looks toward the tree line.
GLINDA: No unusual passages?
CARD GUARD CAPTAIN: None.
GLINDA: No unfamiliar travelers?
CARD GUARD CAPTAIN: Not unless you count the usual unfamiliar travelers.
Richard looks at him.
The Captain clears his throat.
CARD GUARD CAPTAIN: Wonderland, Your Majesty.
Richard nods.
Fair enough.
Glinda steps closer.
GLINDA: And the place where the intrusion occurred?
The Captain’s expression becomes more serious.
CARD GUARD CAPTAIN: Watched continuously.
A beat.
CARD GUARD CAPTAIN: Nothing has returned.
Richard exhales.
Not relief exactly.
But close.
KING RICHARD: Good.
He looks toward Glinda.
KING RICHARD: Perhaps one realm has finally decided to behave itself.
A voice comes from behind them.
YOUNG WOMAN: Wonderland?
A light laugh.
YOUNG WOMAN: I wouldn’t count on that.
Richard turns.
Glinda turns with him.
A young woman is approaching along the garden path.
She carries herself with effortless familiarity.
Comfortable here.
At home here.
But she is not the Alice of the Blonde Bombshells.
Her face is different.
Her manner is different.
Her presence is different.
Not dramatically.
Not grotesquely.
Simply—
wrong enough to notice.
The Card Guard Captain immediately straightens.
Not alarmed.
Respectful.
The young woman smiles.
YOUNG WOMAN: Things have actually been rather wonderful since I returned.
Richard looks at her.
And smiles.
Not uncertainly.
Not cautiously.
With recognition.
KING RICHARD: That's good to hear, Alice.
Glinda smiles as well.
GLINDA: Very good.
The young woman stops beside them.
ALICE: I was beginning to think Wonderland had forgotten how to be quiet.
Richard chuckles.
KING RICHARD: I wasn't aware it knew how.
Alice gives him an amused look.
ALICE: It doesn't.
Glinda looks around the garden.
GLINDA: You've noticed nothing unusual?
Alice thinks.
ALICE: Unusual by Wonderland standards?
Glinda smiles.
GLINDA: Fair distinction.
Alice shakes her head.
ALICE: Nothing dangerous.
A beat.
ALICE: Nothing new.
Richard nods.
KING RICHARD: Then perhaps we've come at a fortunate time.
Alice steps toward the garden path.
ALICE: Come.
She gestures for them to follow.
ALICE: If you've traveled all this way, at least let me show you that Wonderland hasn't completely fallen apart.
Richard follows.
Glinda beside him.
The Card Guard Captain turns to accompany them.
They walk away through the garden.
Their conversation fades.
The camera remains behind.
On an archway overlooking the path—
someone stands completely still.
The White Rabbit.
He watches Alice.
Not Richard.
Not Glinda.
Alice.
His nose twitches.
One ear lowers slightly.
His expression is not fear.
It is confusion.
Deep confusion.
He whispers—
WHITE RABBIT: Alice...
A pause.
Alice laughs somewhere farther down the path.
White Rabbit's eyes narrow.
WHITE RABBIT: But not Alice...
He presses both paws against the sides of his head.
Trying to remember something.
Anything.
WHITE RABBIT: Forgetting...
His breathing quickens.
WHITE RABBIT: Absence...
He looks toward the path again.
Alice is still visible in the distance.
Walking beside Richard and Glinda.
Completely ordinary.
Completely accepted.
The Rabbit whispers again.
Softer this time.
WHITE RABBIT: Alice...
He closes his eyes.
For several seconds.
Then opens them.
His expression changes.
For a moment—
he looks terrified.
WHITE RABBIT: Which Alice?
Silence.
A nearby clock begins chiming.
One.
Seven.
Three.
Eleven.
The White Rabbit turns sharply toward it.
Distracted.
Just for a second.
When he looks back—
Alice, Richard, and Glinda have disappeared around the bend.
The Rabbit stares at the empty path.
He reaches into his coat.
Pulls out his pocket watch.
The hands spin wildly.
Then stop.
Both pointing in opposite directions.
White Rabbit looks down at it.
Then toward the path.
WHITE RABBIT: Oh dear.
A beat.
WHITE RABBIT: Oh, very dear.
CUT TO BLACK.
END INTERLUDE 003 — “ALICE OF WONDERLAND”
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