Gezza killed the engine outside Marie's building. The Benz ticked hot in the dusk, metal cooling like a spent shell.

The Playbook burned against his thigh inside the bag.

Third taste. Third toll.

He stepped out. The porch light snapped on too fast, like it recognized his shadow.

Elevator doors slid shut behind him. He tapped his foot, rapid-fire, the cage zipping upward. What the hell was that? His hand raked through greasy hair, down his face, sweat crusted under his nails. The LED climbed: 2… 3… 4. Ding.

He spilled out before the doors finished opening. Door 3B loomed. He pounded—three hard knocks echoing down the empty hall.

"Come on," he muttered, fist raised again.

"I'm coming!" Marie's voice, muffled, irritated.

He froze, palm flat against the wood, forehead pressed to the cool surface. Eyes dropped to the scuffed floor, then to the bag slung heavy on his shoulder. The Playbook pulsed once warm, alive, hungry..

The lock clicked. The door cracked open just enough for Marie's face to appear. She tilted her head, one brow arched. "Oh. Gezza."

Baggy sweater swallowing her frame, skin still dewy from the shower, hair twisted into a messy bun. She smelled like soap and old paper. "I don't know what's happening, but you can't just walk in uninvited—"

He shouldered past anyway. The door creaked wider.

The living room hadn't changed: towers of books, dust, vanilla candle flickering low. He dropped his bag on the couch with a thud. Marie's eyes tracked him, sharp behind smudged glasses. She pushed them up the bridge of her nose. "What."

Gezza unzipped the bag, fingers trembling. The Playbook slid out like it had weight beyond paper. He flipped it open—pages rustling too loud in the quiet. The glow was there, faint but pulsing. His hands stuttered, thumb catching on a fresh line of ink that hadn't been there before.

Marie stepped closer, one bare foot forward. "Are you okay?"

He didn't answer. Couldn't. The words on the page burned into his retinas:

Third taste, third toll

He froze on the page, breath catching sharp.

"Yes," he rasped, then spun the book around, holding it open like an accusation. "You know what this means?"

Marie stepped in, close enough that her sweater brushed his knuckles. She read the glowing line Third taste. Third toll. and hummed, low, thoughtful.

"Do you know what it means?" she asked, eyes flicking up to his.

Marie's gaze didn't leave the page.

"Third taste," she said, voice soft, almost clinical. "Means the book's done sampling you."

Gezza's throat clicked. "Sampling?"

She tapped the line with one finger. The ink pulsed under her touch, brighter.

"First taste: "lllusion. You got the fantasy, she got the obsession."

"Second taste: "Amplification. You got stamina, she got devotion."

"Third taste…" She looked up, glasses catching the candlelight. "Extraction. The book takes something real from you to keep the spell running. A memory. A piece of your body. A year off your life. It's not written yet because it hasn't chosen."

She stepped back, arms folding under the sweater.

"You're the battery now, Gezza. Every girl after this? Costs you more than cum."

Gezza's jaw hung slack, the shock still rippling through him. "I've had the buzz before, the shocks—like static in my bones—and I walked it off. I was fine."

"Next time you won't be," Marie said, calm as winter glass. She rose from the couch, springs groaning, and crossed to the bookshelf. Her fingers brushed the spine of the book she'd been pretending to read, then she sat again, legs tucked beneath her.

Gezza stared at the tome in his lap. Stupid shit.. fucking cursed. It felt heavier than lead, hotter than sin. Burning it would only speed the end; he could feel the pull in his teeth. His hands slid, useless, and the book hit the floor with a dull thud that swallowed the room.

Marie lifted her head. "Have you spoken to it?"

He met her eyes. "Yeah."

"What did it sound like?"

He stood frozen, memory dragging him back to the void—black, airless, the voice rolling out like gravel dragged over iron. "Guttural," he said. "Commanding."

"Hm. You can't fully control it. None of the wielders could. Not after Lucius."

Gezza's brow knotted. "What do you mean?"

Marie leaned forward. "There's a record. Lucius visited a king who tried to poison him. He escaped. The maid later confessed—she'd warned him. Couldn't stop herself. Didn't know why."

Gezza exhaled through his nose. "He used the book. I get it. How does that help me?"

"I'm getting there." She stood, slow, deliberate, and walked to him. "That day, Lucius wrote in his diary he went with two of his wives. But every account says only Miral was with him."

Gezza's eyes flared.

Marie's voice dropped. "She has a name. The book's like a genie—female, bound, not just to a lamp but to pages. Ink and will."

Gezza bent, scooped the book from the floor. Dust motes danced in the light. "So her power can be turned against her."

"Like asking a genie for a thousand wishes," Marie said.

Gezza smiled—small, sharp, the first real breath he'd taken in hours. Relief tasted like iron and smoke.

"But we don't know her name," Gezza said, voice flat, the book still warm against his palm. "And it's been ages since she summoned me last."

Marie didn't look up. "How was the summoning?"

"Void. Pitch black. Weightless. Like floating in nothing, then yanked by the spine."

She turned a page, eyes skimming ink she clearly wasn't reading. "Mm."

Gezza stood there, book heavy in his grip, the silence pressing in again. "Thanks," he muttered.

Marie flicked her gaze up just long enough to meet his. "Don't get your hopes high tho."

She sank back into the couch, the springs creaking once more, and flipped another page. The room settled into quiet—only the soft rustle of paper and the low thrum of the book in his hands, waiting.

"How we going do it?" Gezza asked.

Marie paused. The book shut with a soft thud. A slow smile curled her mouth.

"What?" Gezza glanced around, brow creased.

She gave a short, dry laugh. "There's no we." She flicked her fingers between them, sharp as a blade. "You. Me. Separate."

"What?!" He stepped closer, dropped onto the couch beside her. The couch groaned, Her scent hit him—clean soap, faint citrus, skin still warm from the shower. He grabbed her arm. "You can't do this to me. I need your help."

She peeled his fingers off, one by one, and shifted away. "You smell like sex," she said, nose wrinkling. "And I just showered."

Gezza dropped to his knees, palms pressed together like a prayer. "Pls, I abeg of you." The words cracked out, raw and desperate, tasting of copper and sweat.

Marie turned her face away, dismissive. Her hands rested on the couch head, fingers drumming once—tap-tap—before she opened her book again. The spine creaked. She turned another page, the paper whispering like dry leaves. Her glasses slid a fraction down her nose as she read, candlelight catching the lenses in twin gold flashes.

She wants something. Gezza knew it in his marrow.

He watched her, frustration boiling into a groan that scraped his throat. She was his only rope out of this pit. He scratched the back of his neck, nails digging in. "Okay, fine. What's your catch if you're helping?"

Marie's lips curved—slow, mischievous, a cat with cream. She closed the book with a soft thud and leaned forward. One finger traced down the front of his hoodie, nail scraping the fabric.

"How about this: I help you." Her tongue flicked across her lower lip, quick and deliberate. "And when you master it—fully control it—you work for me."

Gezza's breath hitched. "Like what? You mean… using the Playbook for you? Or me?"

Her expression dropped, annoyance flashing like a struck match. "The book, of course." She flicked his chest with the same finger, sharp. "Don't flatter yourself."

"For how long?" Gezza asked, rising from his knees. The floorboards groaned under him like they shared his suspicion. He already knew the scales were tipped—one side gold, the other his blood.

"Don't know." Marie waved a lazy hand, the motion slicing through the candle-smoke. "Till my operation's complete." She shifted on the couch; the mini-skirt rode higher, pale thighs flashing in the lamplight, soft and warm-looking. The hem hung just low enough to tease, high enough to promise.

Gezza's gaze snagged there—fuck—heat flaring low in his gut. He shook his head hard, shoved a palm down against the sudden throb in his jeans. Not now.

The Playbook sat between them on the coffee table, leather gleaming like wet skin. He could open it. Could try her name again—Marie—see if the immunity was a lie.

One stroke of ink and maybe she'd be on her knees instead. But Linda's face flashed behind his eyes: the way her pupils had blown wide, the way she'd begged until her voice shredded, the way the book had drunk something from him after. One taste, one toll. What if Marie wasn't lying? What if the book took more this time—his tongue, his sight, a chunk of his soul?

The deal sat between them like a loaded gun: her help, his indefinite servitude. Too lopsided. Too weird.

He dragged a hand through his hair, greasy strands sticking to his fingers. "Your 'operation,'" he muttered. "Define complete. A month? A year? Till you're bored?"

Marie's smile didn't reach her eyes. She leaned back, thighs parting just enough to make the air thicker. "Till I say stop." Her voice dropped, velvet and venom. "Or you can walk out that door and let the third toll choose what it wants. Your call, Gezza."

The candle hissed. Wax pooled, red as a fresh wound. The Playbook's cover thumped once—soft, impatient—like a heartbeat under the table.

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