The Tale of Toole, A Servant Part 1

Malcolm Vine despised waiting.

Not just any waiting, but this kind. The kind that clawed at the edges of his sanity, wrapping around his nerves like barbed wire. The kind of waiting that forced him to pace like a caged animal through the dim, sterile shadows of his office, where the only sounds were the maddening tick of the wall clock and the distant hum of the city beyond his soundproofed window.

This was the waiting that left him helpless.

That left him powerless.

The phone in his hand felt heavier with every passing second. Its cold screen, still and unlit, mocked him with silence. He should have made different choices. Smarter ones. Safer ones. But somewhere along the path, he had crossed a line, and now, there was no way back.

Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.

The words haunted him. Dante had a guide. Dante had Virgil.

Malcolm had no one.

Only a devil on one shoulder, whispering compromise, calling it "necessity." And somewhere, far quieter, far fainter, the whisper of an angel… distant, diminishing… dying. A voice of hope drowned beneath the weight of decisions that could never be undone.

He had made bargains. Sacrifices. Told himself they were for the greater good. For them.

He glanced at the framed photo on his desk. His wife Catherine smiling with the warmth of summers past. His daughter Cecelia, beaming, arms around her big brother Yukimaru, holding her. That photo had once brought him peace.

Now, all it brought guilt.

Everything he'd done to protect them had only pulled them closer to the abyss. Pulled him closer to making a choice that would damn them all.

Each compromise chipped away at the man he used to be. Each lie, each experiment, each classified project, was another fracture.

He had become something else, less than a man, more than a puppet. And now the strings were tightening again. Reminding him he wasn't in control.

Outside, the skyscrapers loomed tall and indifferent. The city pulsed with uncaring life, unaware of the war raging inside a man who had once dreamed of making the world better.

Instead, he'd made monsters.

And helped them thrive.

The phone vibrated in his palm, and his breath caught.

This was it. Time to face his sins.

He answered, voice even. But barely concealing his rage.

"Vine here."

A pause. Then a voice, sharp as a scalpel, smooth as poison.

"We warned you."

Malcolm felt the chill crawl up his spine. He knew that voice. Polished, cold, untouchable. One of his "Benefactors." The architects of power behind the curtain.

He hated them. Hated what they stood for.

Hated that he had helped them become what they were.

"You've made that abundantly clear," Malcolm said, forcing a dry calm into his voice. "Though I must say, resorting to veiled threats over a secured line is… beneath you. Embarrassing, really."

The voice didn't flinch.

"You think it's petty because you still believe you have a choice. This isn't punishment. It's a correction."

"She's a child," Malcolm snapped. "I've done everything you asked. I destroyed who I was. I built your systems. I bled for your agenda, and this is how you reward loyalty?"

"You made your choice when you brought her into your operations."

"She's innocent!"

"Then perhaps you should have thought of that before making her collateral."

His mouth went dry.

"Would you rather we took someone… closer?"

The silence that followed was unbearable.

His throat locked up. They were testing him. Pressing on pressure points until they found where he'd finally snap. He couldn't give them that. Couldn't let them know that there was no one closer. That the people he loved were the very people he'd die—and kill—to protect.

His voice, when it came, was a whisper of rage.

"Go fuck yourself."

The voice chuckled, almost pleased.

"Is that consent, Malcolm? Your approval?"

He nearly threw the phone.

He couldn't do this.

He couldn't sacrifice her.

But if he didn't… someone else would pay. Someone closer.

He clenched his jaw, staring into the abyss beyond the glass window, and for a moment, he thought he saw his reflection looking back at him, not as he was, but as the monster they were shaping him into.

"I'll burn you to the ground," Malcolm promised, voice barely audible. "Every last one of you."

"Many have tried," the voice replied, unmoved. "All have failed. Enjoy the carnage you've invited into your home."

The line went dead. Nothing but a buzzing tone to mock him and his every waking world.

Malcolm stood there, unmoving.

Then, with shaking hands, he typed a command into his phone.

"Wake her. No time to let it finish."

He didn't want to be a monster.

But to stop them?

He had no choice.