The dealer hall buzzed with excitement, a kaleidoscope of costumed fans navigating the narrow aisles between booths full of colorful merchandise. Marcus Heller moved through the crowd with practiced ease, his eyes constantly scanning. Not for rare comics or collectible figurines, but for something else entirely.
He spotted her near the indie comics section—petite frame, choppy auburn hair that looked like she'd cut it herself, and a constellation of freckles across her nose and cheeks. She wore an oversized t-shirt featuring some obscure anime character, faded jeans, well-used sneakers, and a messenger bag covered in enamel pins. What caught his attention wasn't her appearance so much as her solitude. Convention-goers typically traveled in packs, but she flitted from booth to booth alone, examining artwork with an infectious enthusiasm that made several vendors smile despite themselves.
Marcus adjusted his vintage Batman t-shirt and casually drifted in her direction. He'd perfected this routine across a dozen conventions in three different states. Comic cons were perfect hunting grounds—loud, crowded, full of socially awkward people seeking connection. Nobody questioned when strangers struck up conversations about shared interests, and many attendees came from out of town, staying in the convention hotel, away from friends or family who might notice their absence... until well after he was finished with his tasks and long gone.
He positioned himself at a neighboring booth, pretending to browse through back issues while watching her from the corner of his eye. She purchased a small original drawing, carefully placing it in a protective sleeve before tucking it into her bag. Her smile was radiant as she thanked the artist. For a moment, Marcus felt a twinge of something—not quite conscience, but perhaps the faintest recognition that he was about to extinguish something bright. The feeling passed quickly, replaced by the familiar thrill of anticipation.
He didn't approach her then. Patience was key. Instead, he followed at a distance, observing her patterns, noting which panels she attended, which merchandise caught her eye. He learned that she laughed openly, without restraint, during the animation showcase. That she took meticulous notes during a discussion on comic book coloring techniques. That she seemed to know an impressive amount about Golden Age comics, based on a question she asked during a creator panel.
By evening, when the dealer hall closed and activities shifted to the hotel bars and conference rooms, Marcus had compiled a mental dossier. He watched her enter the hotel bar alone but soon join a table of animated convention-goers discussing the merits of different comic book universes. Perfect.
The hotel bar had transformed into an extension of the convention floor, packed with attendees unwinding after a day of sensory overload. Cosplayers posed for photos, industry professionals nursed drinks in corners, and heated debates about fictional characters' abilities echoed from every table. Marcus ordered a beer and made his approach.
"Sorry to interrupt," he said, affecting a slightly nervous demeanor, "but I couldn't help overhearing your discussion about Kirby's influence on modern cosmic comics. Mind if I join?"
The table welcomed him with the easy camaraderie of fellow enthusiasts. The freckled woman—who introduced herself as Brigid—scooted over to make room. Up close, her eyes were an unusual amber color that seemed to catch the light in strange ways. Marcus contributed enough to the conversation to establish his credibility as a genuine fan while focusing his attention on Brigid without being obvious about it.
"You really know your stuff," he told her during a lull, as others at the table broke into smaller conversations.
"Been collecting for a long time," she replied with a shrug and a smile that dimpled her right cheek. "I inherited a large collection of weird and obscure titles going all the way back to Centaur's Amazing Man.. and I've been growing it myself ever since."
The conversation flowed easily after that. Marcus excused himself to get another round for the table, a gesture that earned him appreciative nods. When he returned with the drinks, he made sure to hand Ellie hers directly—a fruity cocktail she'd requested—after adding a colorless, odorless substance from a small vial he kept in his pocket. The movement was smooth, practiced, invisible in the crowded bar.
Brigid finished her doctored drink while explaining why Alan Moore was overrated—a deliberately provocative stance that had the table erupting in friendly argument. Marcus glanced at the clock on his phone. Twenty minutes. That's all he needed.
Fifteen minutes later, he noticed the first signs—her blinks becoming longer, her words occasionally slurring. She pressed her palm against her forehead.
"You okay?" he asked, concern etching his features.
"Just... really dizzy all of a sudden," she murmured, her words slightly slurred. "Maybe I should go to my room."
"Let me help you," Marcus offered, already standing. "These convention centers are like mazes when you're feeling well."
The others at the table, still deep in their argument about Alan Moore--that had somehow expanded to include Garth Innis and Frank Miller--barely noticed as Marcus helped Ellie to her feet. She swayed slightly.
"Thanks," she whispered. "Room 742. I think I just need to lie down."
"Of course," Marcus said soothingly, guiding her toward the elevators. "Let's get you somewhere quiet."
In the elevator, Brigid's head lolled against his chest. Her breathing had become shallow, her eyes unfocused. Marcus pressed the button for the fifth floor, not the seventh.
"This isn't... my floor," she mumbled as the elevator doors opened.
"Just need to make a quick stop at my room first," Marcus explained smoothly. "Get you some water, maybe some Aspirin. Then I'll take you up to yours. Okay?"
She made a noncommittal sound that he took as agreement. The hallway was deserted as he half-carried her to room 523, fumbling slightly with the keycard while supporting her weight. Once inside, he guided her to the bed where she collapsed, eyes fluttering.
"So dizzy," she whispered. "What's happening?"
"You're fine," Marcus assured her, already removing his belt. "Just relax."
The room was standard convention hotel fare—bland artwork, heavy curtains, a desk with a lamp that cast everything in a sickly yellow glow. Marcus moved methodically, setting his phone on the nightstand, checking that the curtains were fully closed. He'd done this before. Many times.
He returned to the bed, where Brigid lay, rapidly fading into unconsciousness. With practiced efficiency, he removed her shoes, then reached for the buttons of her jeans. Her shirt had ridden up, revealing a pale strip of freckled skin at her waist. He traced it with his finger, a possessive gesture that made him smile.
"You won't remember any of this tomorrow," he murmured, leaning down to pull her shirt higher.
That's when her hand caught his wrist with surprising strength.
"I wouldn't be so sure about that," Brigid said, her voice suddenly clear and resonant, with no trace of the drugged slurring from moments before.
Marcus froze. The dosage he'd given her should have left her barely conscious, certainly not capable of this iron grip or lucid speech. Something was wrong.
"I think you're confused," he said, trying to pull away and regain control of the situation. "You're not feeling well. Let me help—"
"I'm not confused, Marcus Heller," she interrupted, and the use of his full name sent a chill through him. He hadn't introduced himself with his last name, or even Marcus; he had just called himself Mark.. "I know exactly what you are and what you've done. Phoenix. Albuquerque. Seattle. Portland. Chicago. Now Phoenix again."
As she spoke, listing cities where he'd attended conventions over the past two years, her skin seemed to shimmer slightly, as if the freckles were rearranging themselves across her face. She sat up effortlessly, still gripping his wrist, her amber eyes now burning with an unnatural clarity.
"I don't know what you're talking about," Marcus said, finally wrenching free and backing toward the door. Something was very wrong. He needed to leave, to abandon this attempt and move on. "I think there's been a misunderstanding."
"No misunderstanding," Brigid said. "You dropped something in my drink. You brought me here to rape me while I was unconscious. There's no misunderstanding at all."
She stood up from the bed, and somehow seemed taller than before. The room's temperature rose noticeably, the air becoming thick and difficult to breathe.
"You prey on the vulnerable," she continued, taking a step toward him. "You corrupt spaces meant for joy and community. You're a threat in places should be safe." With each accusation, her voice deepened, acquiring harmonics that shouldn't have been possible from a human throat.
Marcus lunged for the door, but his legs wouldn't cooperate properly. The room swam around him, and he realized with dawning horror that he felt exactly how his victims were supposed to feel—disoriented, weak, trapped.
"What did you do to me?" he gasped, stumbling against the wall, sliding toward the door and the safety beyond it.
Brigid smiled, but it wasn't the bright expression from earlier. This smile stretched too wide, revealing teeth that seemed too numerous, too sharp.
"Nothing you didn't plan to do to me," she replied. "Though I didn't drug you. That's just fear you're feeling. Primal recognition of a predator far above you in the food chain."
As she spoke, her skin began to change, the freckles expanding and merging into patches of what looked like fine scales, crimson and gleaming in the dim light. Her pupils had become vertical slits, and her amber irises now glowing as if lit from within.
"What are you?" Marcus whispered, his back pressed against the door, fingers fumbling uselessly for the handle.
"I am justice," she said simply. "I am retribution. I am fire."
With that last word, flames erupted from her skin, racing across her arms and torso, consuming her clothing but leaving her unharmed. The transformation accelerated—her face elongating, shoulders broadening, fingers extending into talons. Where Ellie had stood moments before, a creature now towered, its form a nightmarish blend of human and reptilian features, wreathed in flames that gave off no smoke but intense heat.
Marcus screamed, but the sound was cut short as the creature—dragon, demon, avenging angel, his terrified mind couldn't decide—opened its jaws and exhaled. A torrent of white-hot flame engulfed him, so intense that his skin blistered and blackened before his nerves could even register the pain. His last conscious thought was that he smelled like cooking meat.
The gout of flame expanded, consuming everything in the room—the bed, the curtains, the generic artwork, even the creature that had been Brigid—but contained itself within the walls as if guided by an intelligent force. The windows blew outward in a shower of glass and flame, raining down on the parking lot five stories below, but the fire did not spread to the hallway or adjacent rooms.
When it was over, nothing remained of Marcus Heller but a pile of fine ash on the scorched carpet. The creature surveyed the destruction with glowing eyes, then began to contract, flames receding, scales smoothing back into freckled skin.
Within moments, Brigid's slight form was back, standing naked amid the devastation, Smoke swirled around her and swiftly coelesed into the clothing she was wearing before--except now there was a red dragon on the t-shirt.
She walked calmly to the door, which swung open at her touch despite the melted lock. In the hallway, alarms blared and sprinklers hissed, but she moved through the chaos untouched by the water, passing panicked hotel guests evacuating in various states of undress.
By the time firefighters arrived, the blaze had mysteriously extinguished itself. They found room 523 devastated—furniture reduced to cinders, walls scorched black, windows blown out—but with damage contained in a way that defied explanation. More puzzling was that part of the fire had lasted long enough and been intense enough to completely incinerate a human being. Forensic experts determined later that the ashes near the door contained human remains. The fire's intensity had made it impossible to apply any known methods to determine the victim's identity for sure, but it was assumed to be the room's occupant, Marcus Heller, 34, a marketing executive from Denver with no criminal record. Within a few weeks, that assumption would be taken as fact, because Heller would be found to have vanished without a trace.
The investigation would note several unusual aspects of the case: the extreme localization of the fire, the complete incineration of the victim, and the absence of any accelerants or ignition source. Witnesses and security footage showed Heller leaving the hotel bar with a slight, young woman and going to the elevators... but at that moment, every security camera in the hotel went offline due to a mysterious power surge that the hotel's electrician and engineer could not explain. The police traced the woman to her room and found her bleary-eyed and sleepy and completely unawares that anything had been going on. She claimed "Mark" had brought her to her room and then left, like a perfect gentleman.
In the end, the official report cited "inconclusive evidence suggesting electrical fire of unusual intensity" and the case was filed away among other unsolved mysteries.
But the morning after the bizarre fire, as convention attendees buzzed with rumors about the mysterious fire, about the evacuated attendees getting free meal vouchers and free passes for next year's convention, a petite woman with choppy auburn hair and freckles browsed the artist alley, purchasing prints, original art, and chatting enthusiastically with creators. Being awakened in the middle of the night by the police, had done nothing to diminish her seemingly boundless energy.
Brigid browsed a table of hand-bound journals, her freckled face lighting up when she found one with a dragon embossed on its leather cover. The vendor, a gray-haired woman with kind eyes, smiled as she purchased it.
"You seem very happy today," the vendor observed. "Enjoying the convention?"
"Very much," Brigid replied cheerfully as she placed the journal in her pin-covered messenger bag. She smiled to herself, humming a tune from a bygone age as she disappeared into the crowd—just another fan enjoying the celebration of stories about heroes, villains, and monsters hiding in plain sight.
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