"So your full name's Charlize? Charlize Theron?"
Christian stared at the debt statement, as if it might morph into something less ridiculous.
"Yes," she replied, unfazed.
"It's written right there, isn't it? Is that a problem?"
He arched a brow. "Then Sally is…?"
"A nickname."
Christian sighed. Of course it was.
She didn't look anything like he expected—not that he'd ever seen any of her movies.
For all he knew, she was an actress. But frankly, he didn't care.
"Right," he muttered.
"Let's get to it."
Even if he had a future celebrity's autograph tucked in his pocket, Christian didn't crack a smile.
Dressed in a long, weathered coat, a cigarette barely hanging on his lip, he looked like someone who'd crawled out of a bar fight with a demon and won.
He lacked the beard and the constant scowl, but the Constantine comparison was easy to make.
He wasn't here to collect on the debt. Not really. This was about trust.
People were weird like that—paranoid when they didn't know you, suspicious when they thought they did.
Ask for money, and you're a grifter. Don't ask, and suddenly you're playing a long con for something worse.
Christian understood the twisted math of human paranoia.
Back in the day, when the old bastard who taught him magic still had breath and bitterness in his lungs, Christian had set up a stall outside a hospital.
Not to sell snake oil—well, not exactly. It was about reading people. Finding the cracks.
His first instinct had been to put up signs. Real spells, real help.
The old man had laughed in his face.
"You slap a sign up saying it works, and everyone calls you a liar. Let them wonder what you're about. That's how you get them talking."
Christian had frowned. "But it is real, right?"
The old man's reply was quick, cold. "Can you even use it?"
That shut him up. Magic wasn't about flashy rituals.
It was subtle. Slippery. Half the battle was getting people to believe it existed in the first place.
Charlize—Sally—tilted her head. "So you learned how to scam people. That's what this is?"
"No," he said.
"I learned how to understand them. You can't fight what haunts people if you don't know what keeps them up at night. You want to cast spells? Learn how to sell a lie first. Then you can sell the truth."
Christian leaned back, watching her reaction.
"People are funny," he said.
"When they don't trust you, they think you want to rob them. When they do trust you, they think you want something worse. That's the game."
He remembered his early days—nights spent shivering outside hospitals, reading body language like scripture, offering nothing, and somehow giving people what they needed.
"Doesn't magic come faster to humans than spirits or demons?" he'd once asked the old man, naively.
The man had snorted like he'd heard the dumbest thing alive.
"You think you're faster than something born from a nightmare? Stronger than beasts? Smarter than ghosts? No, kid. All you've got is this."
He'd jabbed a finger at Christian's skull.
"Brains. That's your weapon."
And that was how it started. Deception, persuasion, manipulation.
Not because Christian wanted to con people, but because it was the only way to survive in a world that didn't believe in shadows until they dragged you under.
He could barely pull off a real spell back then, but that didn't matter.
Reputation did. Whispers did.
People started calling him "Master" long before he deserved it.
"I was still too young," Christian muttered under his breath now, barely aware he'd said it aloud.
But the truth was, he'd grown into something darker.
Not quite a hero.
Not quite a villain.
Just a man who knew the rules and how to bend them until they snapped.
And still, despite everything, he wanted the real thing—real magic. Not for fame. Not for money.
He just wanted to know.
"I noticed something was off after your last... attempt," he said, voice low, almost conversational, like he was telling her the weather forecast.
"Didn't have proof, just a feeling. I was going to reach out, but then—well."
He tapped the bandage on his head with a smirk.
"Life got interesting."
Charlize gave a small, awkward smile. She wasn't used to this kind of talk.
That was fine. He was.
"Anyway, the bump on the head helped. Knocked a few things loose. When the memories came back, so did the truth—you were haunted."
He made it sound effortless, casual. However, the truth was that it was all a lie. He hadn't been around when any of that happened.
This body he wore, this face—none of it had been his at the time.
But lies, when told right, build bridges. And right now, he needed her to walk across his.
"Once I confirmed it, I knew you wouldn't believe me outright. So I had to get creative. Slipped you a potion, stirred things up a bit, and got her to show herself. That's what led to the videotape."
Charlize pressed her fingers to her temple.
"That's... insane."
Christian shrugged like he'd heard it before.
"Welcome to my world."
"But why me? Why is this ghost—this thing—attached to me?"
He chuckled darkly. "'Romeo, why are you Romeo?'"
She gave him a glare sharp enough to cut glass.
"Right. The point is, sometimes there's no clear reason. But in your case... maybe there is."
He leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice just enough to make her lean in too. Words had power when delivered right.
"Some ghosts latch onto people at random. Others—vengeful ones—they look for a pattern. Something familiar. Something personal."
He paused, thinking of how best to explain it. She wasn't a believer—yet.
"Have you ever heard of water ghosts?"
She frowned. "Like, the kind that grabs people from under the water? Drown them?"
"Exactly. Old stories, told across different cultures. People think it's just seaweed or a panic attack. But sometimes it's more than that. Sometimes... the dead just want to share."
Charlize stared, still skeptical.
"Think of it this way," Christian continued.
"The original ghost drowns, panicking, clawing at weeds. That terror, that death, it doesn't go away. It festers. And then it plays on repeat, through someone else. Again and again."
"But that's just folklore," she murmured, half to herself.
"It's always just... weeds. People say it's weeds."
"And if the ghost's smart?" Christian said, tone hardening.
"She makes you believe it was just weeds. Makes you doubt. Makes you look the other way until it's too late."
Charlize sat still, trying to connect the pieces.
"So... you're saying I tried to kill myself because this ghost wanted me to experience her death?"
"Probably," Christian said.
"Her name's Alexis. From what I can tell, she didn't just die—she died drunk, maybe jumped from a bridge. That sound familiar?"
Charlize didn't answer right away. She didn't have to. He could see it in her eyes.
The memory she didn't want to touch.
Christian let the silence settle. He knew when to stop talking.
Let the idea burrow into her mind, take root.
He wasn't proud of the deception, but he'd learned long ago that truth and lies were two sides of the same coin.
What mattered was which one people were willing to spend.
And in the end, trust wasn't given. It was earned—painfully, cleverly, and often at the edge of belief.