Burnt Loaf

A long, obsidian stone conference table gleams under recessed LED lighting. The wall-to-wall glass reveals a glittering Manhattan skyline beyond. The room is clean, precise—like Alec himself.

The entire coterie is present: Maia, Rustin, Sylvie, Talbot, Father Callahan, and Bastanji, who had just returned from his trip to Brooklyn.

Bastanji looks at Alec, speaking with a flat affect, “The situation is contained.”

Maia eyes the Banu Haqim for just a second before asking, “Did you… use the money I gave you?”

Without answering, Bastanji reaches into his coat and lays down three crisp $100 bills on the table. He doesn’t look at Maia.

“¿De verdad preguntó por unos cuantos cientos de dólares?” Ysa asked with a hint of indignation in her tone and expression. (Did she really ask about a few hundred dollars?)

“It’s ok. I don’t want Father Callahan’s money.” Maia said, looking at the cash on the table.

“That’s twice in as many minutes you have insulted me. I thought we had a better understanding.”

“No… I didn’t mean…” The Nosferatu tripped on her words.

Father Callahan raised an eyebrow and cut in. “May I ask Bastanji, how… precisely, was it handled?”

Bastanji’s demeanor shows reluctance, but he answers honestly. “I injected him. Morphine. Took him to a private clinic in Brooklyn. Bribed them to say he’s been detoxing there for days. Left pills in his pocket for narrative consistency.”

Father Callahan leans back in his chair, steepling his fingers. “Surgical. Cruel. But effective.”

Rustin for the briefest of moments, flashes a grim expression on his face. Alec notices. He knows the detective wants to say something but doesn’t press.

“Well done Bastanji. Um… you’re certain it’s taken care of?”

“As I have already said.”

“Did you wipe his memories?” Rustin asked.

“I don’t have that power. If you are concerned with the way it was handled here is where I left him.” Bastanji responded coldly, laying a business card on the table. “Perhaps if you are unhappy with my resolution you could pay him a visit, detective.”

“That’s not what I meant.” Rustin replied. “It’s just… You understand this isn’t over, right? He’s bonded. He’ll come looking for her the second he can walk straight.”

A heavy silence settles.

“It would be a mistake if he did.” Bastanji said, breaking the quiet.

“Now, now. I trust my man Bastanji. If he says it has been taken care of, it’s good enough for me. I suggest we plan our next move. Natalie? I haven’t heard from the boyfriend since the memorial.”

“I’ll run her address.” Rustin offered.

“Splendid. We’ll start fresh tomorrow night. Let’s say 7pm. We’ll reconvene here. Until then Blessings upon you all.” The good father smiled brightly as he stood to leave.

……………………………………………………………………………………….

St. Jude’s Recovery Clinic, Brooklyn – Front Desk, 2:41 a.m

The fluorescents buzz like old wasps overhead. The linoleum floor curls at the edges near the front counter. A soda-stained copy of The Post sits beside an unplugged card reader. A wall-mounted TV plays a muted Spanish soap opera in the corner. Detective Rustin Cole steps in from the rain, trench coat soaked, his eyes hidden beneath a drape of wet hair. He approaches flashing his badge, his presence is all authority—the kind that unsettles even hardened men. The night clerk, a wiry man with a ponytail and nicotine-stained fingers, sits bolt upright.

“Evening. You had any John Does admitted in the last few days? About mid-20s. Brown hair. Heavyset. Kind of guy you’d describe as… a young Meatloaf.”

The clerk laughs nervously at the specificity. Rustin does not smile.

The clerk shifts in his seat. “Today? Uh… no. No John Does. Nothing matching that.”

Rustin steps forward slowly.

“Okay. Let’s call it… three days then.”

A long pause. The clerk’s eyes darted to the intake log, then back to Rustin.

“Nah. Nothin’ like that.”

Rustin calls on the blush of life and exhales slowly through his nose. He reaches into his coat and removes something—a small, white business card. Plain. One side bears the clinic’s name “St. Jude’s Recovery Clinic, 175 Remsen Street. Brooklyn NY.” The other side has a handwritten note in block letters: “Room 124.”

Rustin sighs in disappointment. “See, that’s the part where I start feeling like you’re wasting my time. And if I waste time, I start walking door to door. And if I do that, I start getting upset. You’re not in trouble yet, kid… but yet is coming awfully quick.”

The clerk starts to sweat. Glances around. Tries to gauge if anyone is watching. He swallows hard.

“Y-you’d need a warrant for that.”

Rustin’s voice drops a notch. His eyes meet the clerk’s and hold. His voice is equal parts soft and cold. “Would I?”

That look breaks the man. The way a twig snaps under pressure. His hands go up slightly, almost a nervous apology.

“Oh! That guy. Yeah. Sorry, I—I didn’t know he had someone checking on him. Room 124. End of the left corridor; take a right past the vending machines. Sorry, Detective…”

Rustin doesn’t respond. He turns and walks. Calm, deliberate. His footsteps barely echo on the cracked linoleum. The weight of the Masquerade follows him like a phantom wind.

He looks at the yellowed placard on the wall. ‘Room 124’ It’s a dimly lit room. Bleached-white walls. No window. A worn gurney-like hospital bed bolted to the floor. Straps secured at wrist and ankle.

Chad, or “Loaf,” is half-conscious. Sweat pools at his temples. His chest rises and falls in shallow gasps. His fingers twitch involuntarily. Withdrawals. From the drugs. From Maia.

He jerks slightly as the door opens.

His voice is raspy, probably from vomiting, “Creepy chick?”

Not Maia. Rustin enters like a judge, dragging midnight behind him. “No, I’m afraid not. I wish it could be that simple, but you made a few too many mistakes.”

“Mistakes, what do you mean? You know me.” He says through a shiver. “I didn’t do anything.”

Rustin closes the door with a soft click. Steps to the bed. Chad looks up, confused, scared—but has nowhere to run.

“You… you’re the guy. From the office. I’ve seen you. You’re one of Maia’s friends—one of them, right?”

Rustin says nothing. He slides a chair over to the bed and sits. Then, without ceremony, he leans close, his voice shifting—firm, focused, commanding. Rustin locks eyes with him.

“Listen carefully. Your memories are confused. The last thing you remember is the music. The crowd. The concert. You met a girl there—dark hair, piercings. Her name doesn’t matter. She and her friends had an apartment in the Bowery. Tiny place, loud music. Smelled like weed and incense. You drank. Took something stupid. You don’t remember exactly where you were.”

Chad twitches once, a low sound escaping his throat as the command slides over his consciousness like silk-wrapped steel. He breathes faster, eyes dilating. The tension eases. His muscles relax. The false memory blooms behind his eyes.

Loaf repeats back the memory, somewhat sleepy. ““Bowery… yeah… Girl at the concert… rooftop party… I… I took too much…”

Rustin stands beside the bed, voice low, like a bedtime story that doubles as a threat. His gaze is still fixated on Chad. The Tremere’s voice is calm, steady, “Let’s add one more piece. Picture it now.” His voice smooths, drawing the memory like a painting in Chad’s mind.

“You did a lot of drugs there. Molly. Percs. They passed around something in a silver vape pen. You remember laughing. Music. Blackout flashes. You left to get pizza from that 24-hour spot across from the bodega.”

Chad nods faintly, eyes glazed, lips parted in a whisper. He twitches at the “memory.”

“You collapsed in the street. Don’t remember how long you were out. But someone found you. A stranger. Big coat, spoke Spanish. He called an ambulance. Told them you were seizing. Probably saved your life.”

Chad’s eyes flicker, like the memory has been living there all along.

“That’s your truth now. Hold onto it. Tell it to whoever asks.”

Loaf replies weakly, “He… he helped me…”

Rustin nods, “Yeah. And now you’re here. And the people you partied with? They’re dangerous. Real bad scene. Under investigation. Drugs, weapons, maybe worse.”

He pulls a business card from his coat: matte black, with his name embossed in pale silver.

RUSTIN COLE

Detective — NYPD 13th Precinct

Phone: (212) 867-5309

Rustin’s demeanor glides effortlessly into police interview mode. “Mr. Martell, if they ever call you, if they try to contact you—you call me first. Understand?”

Loaf blinks, as he eases back into reality.

“Y-yeah… yeah. Of course…”

Rustin’s tone is firm. “I know this has been hard on you sir. Good luck.”

He starts toward the door, then stops and looks back—a master of the parting shot.

“If you remember anything else, even a detail… call me. Doesn’t matter how small.”

“Okay… yeah. Thanks, detective dude…” He murmurs.

Rustin leaves, the click of the door soft, deliberate. Chad lies back, unsure whether he’s just been rescued… or warned. But what he is sure of is something is calling out to him, drawing him back and he must answer.