Chapter 1: An Offer Too Good to Refuse

Chapter 1: An Offer Too Good to Refuse

The fluorescent lights of the 24-hour diner hummed a monotonous, sickly tune that vibrated in Elara Vance’s teeth. Outside, a late autumn rain slicked the streets, turning the city into a smear of neon and shadow. Inside, the dregs of lukewarm coffee sat at the bottom of her mug, a bitter mirror to the dregs of her bank account, which she stared at on her phone screen: $17.34.

Seventeen dollars and thirty-four cents. Not enough to develop the film from her last shoot, let alone fund the thesis project that was supposed to launch her career out of this debt-drowned limbo. Her camera, a heavy, familiar weight in the bag at her feet, felt less like a tool of creation and more like a beautifully engineered millstone.

“It’s not a problem, it’s an artistic challenge,” Kian Thorne announced from across the sticky vinyl booth, his voice resonating with the unearned confidence of a man who had never had to choose between ramen and rent. He gestured grandly with a half-eaten French fry, nearly taking out his girlfriend’s eye. “Think of it, Ela. We are artists on the brink, fueled by passion and instant coffee! The struggle is part of the narrative.”

Chloe Coleman, Kian’s perpetually devoted muse and younger sister of Elara's friend Liam, flinched but offered a weak smile. “He’s right, Ela. We just need a little miracle.” She huddled deeper into her oversized sweater, her wide, blue eyes filled with a hope Elara found both endearing and profoundly naive.

The "narrative" Kian was so enamored with was his play, Nodens: A Comedy. It was, in his words, a groundbreaking exploration of cosmic absurdity. To everyone else, it was a wildly ambitious, bafflingly expensive production requiring a rotating stage, complex lighting, and at least one life-sized puppet of a cephalopod. It was also their only potential ticket out of their shared financial misery. Chloe was his leading lady, and Elara was meant to film a high-quality "making of" documentary to use as a promotional tool. It was a beautiful, impossible dream.

“A miracle won’t cover the deposit on the theater, Kian,” Ela muttered, pinching the bridge of her nose. “We need five thousand dollars. That’s not a miracle, that’s a bank robbery.”

As if summoned by the mention of money, Kian’s phone chimed. He glanced at it, a flicker of annoyance crossing his sharp features, then his eyes widened. The performative nonchalance dropped away, replaced by a focused, predatory intensity.

“Speak of the devil,” he breathed, his fingers flying across the screen. “Or, perhaps, an angel.”

“What is it?” Chloe asked, leaning forward.

Kian didn't answer. He read the email, his lips moving silently. Then he read it again. He looked up, his face a mask of manic glee. “I have just been contacted by a Patron.” He said the word ‘Patron’ as if it were a holy title. “She saw my prospectus for Nodens online. She… she wants to meet. Tonight.”

An hour later, they were sitting in the oppressively quiet, minimalist lobby of a boutique hotel that smelled of money and sterile white orchids. It was a world away from their diner. Elara felt grubby and out of place in her worn flannel shirt, clutching her camera bag like a life raft. Kian, however, looked perfectly at home, his theatrical scarf draped just so, as if he’d been born to sit in beige armchairs and accept patronage.

A woman emerged from a silent elevator, her heels making no sound on the marble floor. She was ageless, her dark hair cut in a severe, fashionable bob, her features sharp and unnervingly symmetrical. She wore an impeccably tailored black suit that seemed to absorb the light around it. Her smile was a perfect, polite curve that did not, for a second, reach the cold amusement glittering in her dark eyes.

“Mr. Thorne?” she said, her voice smooth as polished glass. “I am so glad you could make it. You may call me Madam Evanesca.”

She was The Patron.

“It is an honor,” Kian gushed, standing a little too quickly.

“The honor is mine. I admire… ambition.” She looked from Kian’s eager face to Chloe’s nervous one, and finally to Elara’s guarded expression. Her gaze lingered for a moment, and Ela had the distinct feeling of being appraised, catalogued, and dismissed all at once. “You are the documentarian? Excellent. Rawness is so important.”

She led them to a private lounge. There were no negotiations. The Patron spoke, and they listened. She wasn’t interested in Nodens: A Comedy. Not directly. She called it a “preliminary project.” She had something else in mind, a small commission to gauge their suitability for her… investments.

“The task is simple,” Madam Evanesca said, placing a slim, black box and a thick manila envelope on the table. “I require a performance. A piece of found-footage art, if you will.”

Inside the box was a deck of fifty-two oversized cards, like tarot cards, but blank on the back. The faces were printed with text.

“These are jests,” she explained, though her tone held no hint of humor. “I want you to travel to a specific location—the map is in the envelope—and film yourselves. Each of you must take a turn reading a card aloud to the camera. That is all.”

Elara’s cynical mind immediately screamed scam. Or cult. Or some bizarre prank for a YouTube channel. “That’s it? You want us to film ourselves… telling jokes in the woods?”

The Patron’s smile tightened. “Precisely. For your trouble…” She slid the manila envelope across the table.

Kian opened it. His breath hitched. Elara leaned over and saw stacks of crisp one-hundred-dollar bills, neatly bound. It was an obscene amount of money. Far more than five thousand. It was closer to twenty.

“This is… this is incredibly generous,” Chloe stammered, her eyes wide as dinner plates.

“I am a great believer in paying for quality,” the Patron said, her gaze fixed on Kian. “And I believe you, Mr. Thorne, are capable of a truly authentic performance. One full of genuine, raw emotion.”

The offer was ludicrous. The woman was unnerving. The entire situation felt like a dream drifting into a nightmare. But the money was real. It was tangible. It was the solution to every single one of their problems.

“We’ll do it,” Kian said, his voice trembling with excitement. He saw art. He saw fame.

Ela saw the down payment on her thesis film. She saw an escape. She swallowed her misgivings, the metallic taste of fear and compromise. “Okay. We’re in.”

Two hours later, they were in Liam’s borrowed, beat-up pickup truck, rattling their way out of the city. Liam, Chloe’s older brother and the sole voice of reason in their lives, had been furious when Chloe had called to ask for the truck. Elara had overheard his side of the conversation.

“A strange woman gave you twenty grand in cash to go read jokes in the middle of nowhere? Chloe, are you insane? Did you get a contract? A last name? A license plate?”

But Kian’s enthusiasm and Chloe’s pleading had won out, as they always did. Now, the city lights had vanished behind them, replaced by the suffocating darkness of the rural highways. The map the Patron had provided was old, a strange, hand-drawn thing on thick parchment that didn't quite line up with their GPS. It led them off the main road, onto a state highway, then onto a crumbling asphalt lane that became a dirt track.

The trees pressed in on either side, their branches like skeletal fingers clawing at the truck. The GPS had given up ten miles back, its screen displaying a blank, gray void with a single, lost arrow. All they had was the map, which now showed a final turn onto a road that, according to any official record, did not exist.

“This is it,” Kian said, pointing at a break in the trees.

Liam’s truck bumped off the track onto an even more primitive path, nearly swallowed by overgrown forest. The headlights cut a weak tunnel through the oppressive blackness. A few yards in, a rusted metal sign hung lopsidedly from a single chain on a wooden post. Most of the letters had flaked away, but under the grime and rust, Elara could just make out the words painted in a cheerful, looping script from another era.

Welcome to Beasts O' Field Court

The engine idled, the sound unnaturally loud in the dead silence of the woods. This wasn't just a remote location. It was a non-place, a forgotten address at the edge of the world. The air grew cold, and Elara shivered, a prickle of genuine fear crawling up her spine. This was no ordinary film shoot. They had taken the money, crossed a line, and just driven straight into the punchline of a joke they didn't understand.