The Omission Index, Ch 11: The Charisma Drain Pt. 2

Each interview left Kwan with a deeper, more disturbing understanding of the Leech's cruelty. The Leech's envy had hollowed out its victims, leaving behind a husk. Their talent, their presence, the very core of what made them unique, had been scraped clean, leaving an inexplicable void.

Anton Petrov, the comedian whose sharp wit had once filled smoky clubs with laughter, now sat hunched in his small Village apartment. His gaze drifted, unfocused, reflecting the gray light of the apartment window without seeming to register it. He struggled to put together clear sentences. The once-easy flow of humor was blocked by something unseen. Li Chen, the cellist whose music had been called "achingly beautiful," could barely look at her instrument. Her delicate fingers, once so quick, now fumbled with the latches of her cello case as if it held something strange and terrifying.

Back in the plain, anonymous safe house apartment SHEPARD provided, overlooking a dirty stretch of Ninth Avenue, the city's constant roar was a muted backdrop. Kwan replayed the meetings in his mind. The details were different, the specific talents stolen were different, but the results were chillingly the same: a deep emptiness, a confused sense of loss that was much more than just professional disappointment. It was as if a key part of them had been surgically removed.

He held a cup of lukewarm coffee, watching Hale pace the small living area. Hale had been quiet since their visit to Li Chen. A thin muscle twitched beside Hale's eye. It meant his special senses were sorting through a flood of unsettling feelings.

"They all describe it the same way, Tom," Kwan said, breaking the silence. "A part of them was just… turned off. Juliana said she felt like a stranger in her own skin. Petrov kept saying his 'funny bone' was gone. Chen couldn't even explain it, just that the music had 'left her'." He tapped a pen against the notepad where he'd written down key phrases. "And the timing… each one was about to have something big happen. Legrand's opening night. Petrov's network special. Chen's debut with the Philharmonic."

Hale stopped pacing, his gaze distant. "The mental signature is the same," he said, his voice low. "It's too clean. It feels like a surgeon's work. With Legrand, the cut was around her charisma. With Petrov, it was the part of his mind that sparked with humor. Chen, her natural musical talent, her connection to the instrument." He rubbed his temples. "And the emotional feeling left by the attacker… it's strong. Overwhelming envy, yes, but also a deep bitterness. A sense of unfulfilled ambition, of always being overlooked, watching others get what they believe should have been theirs."

Kwan nodded slowly. "So, we're looking for someone who wanted what they had. Someone who could get close. Someone who could get near these people, in those important moments before their big breaks, to… to take it."

"Exactly," Hale confirmed. "Juliana Legrand mentioned an admirer backstage, someone who seemed too intense, who spoke of her 'light.' Petrov, when you pressed him, vaguely remembered a new intern at the TV studio, someone always hanging around, watching, just before his disastrous taping. Chen couldn't remember anyone specific, but she did say she'd felt… watched, in the days leading up to her concert. An uncomfortable, almost predatory focus from someone on the sidelines during rehearsals."

The next few days were a blur of stale coffee, empty audition halls, cramped backstage hallways, and the endless, uncaring roar of New York City. Kwan felt like he was walking through a maze of hurt feelings, desperate dreams, and fake smiles. The creative world, he was quickly learning, was full of professional jealousy and whispered criticisms - a perfect place for the kind of deep envy their suspect likely felt.

He took the lead. His easygoing manner and real empathy worked better than Hale's more direct, almost distant approach would have in these sensitive, image-focused groups. Hale, however, was a priceless shadow. His occasional, quietly spoken mental observations cut through the bragging and fakeness like a sharp knife.

Their first stop was Juliana Legrand's agent, a slick, fast-talking man named Marty Roth. His initial concern for his client had clearly turned into frustrated confusion at her unexplainable collapse. "A goldmine, that girl," Roth complained, pacing his fancy Midtown office. "And then, boom. Nothing. Like someone pulled her plug."

"Any idea who might have been… overly interested in her success, Mr. Roth?" Kwan asked, his voice carefully neutral. "Perhaps someone whose own career hadn't worked out?"

Roth's eyes lit up with calculated enthusiasm. "Actually, yeah. There was this drama coach, Victor Brennan. Used to work with Juliana years ago. Real intense guy, always talking about 'unlocking potential' and 'channeling energy.' He'd been pushing hard to get back into her circle recently. Said he had new techniques that could make her even more powerful on stage."

Hale shifted slightly, his expression darkening. "This Victor Brennan - he feels like a dead end. The emotional residue around his name is... clean. Desperate, but not malicious."

Kwan smoothly interjected, "That's an interesting angle, Mr. Roth. We'll definitely look into Mr. Brennan's methods." He noticed Hale's slight frown when a different name came up in Roth's rapid-fire monologue - Leo Maxwell, the critic. "Tell me more about this reviewer you mentioned."

At the cable TV studio where Anton Petrov had broken down, Kwan charmed his way past a stressed floor manager and into the green room. He spoke with a tired makeup artist who'd known Petrov for years. "Anton? Sweetest guy. But yeah, there were always… people hanging around," she said, expertly applying eyeliner to a nervous-looking young actress. "Interns, wannabes, people hoping some of his success would rub off. There was one… quiet type. Always watching. Can't recall the name. Just… intense."

"The watcher absorbed everything," Hale murmured quietly. "Like a sponge soaking up-"

"What my partner means," Kwan quickly interjected with a warm smile, "is that observers in creative spaces often have a unique perspective on the dynamics at play."

Hale, who had been casually looking at a discarded call sheet nearby, caught Kwan's eye and gave a slight nod. The 'watcher' again.

They visited the rehearsal spaces Li Chen had used, the quiet, almost sacred halls of the music school where she'd once been a star student. Instead of the maestro, they found themselves speaking with the school's ambitious assistant director, Patricia Florentine. Unlike the others, she seemed almost eager to discuss the competitive atmosphere.

"Li was talented, certainly," Florentine said, her tone carefully measured as she led them through practice rooms. "But talent alone doesn't explain her sudden... decline. The pressure here is intense. Students crack all the time." She paused by a window overlooking the courtyard. "There was one incident, actually. A former student - brilliant violinist - had a complete breakdown right before the same competition Li was preparing for. Sarah Chen, no relation to Li. She'd been mentoring some of the younger students, including Li, right up until..." She shrugged. "These things happen in our world."

With each interview, each place visited, Hale would give Kwan his quiet assessments. After they left Marty Roth's office, Hale had murmured, "The critic, Leo Maxwell. Strong feeling of bitterness around his name. Professional jealousy, almost like a sickness." Backstage at the TV studio, after the makeup artist's comment, Hale had touched a coffee-stained armchair in the green room. "The 'watcher' sat here. Often. Felt a cold, focused attention. An observer, not a participant. Deeply envious of Petrov's easy connection with the audience."

The list of possible "persons of interest" grew, then slowly began to get smaller as they checked names, alibis, and opportunities. The Leech, whoever they were, was careful, subtle, moving through these worlds like a ghost. But patterns were starting to show. Several names kept coming up, people who had, in various roles - intern, assistant, freelance critic, minor actor - managed to get close to the edges of multiple victims' lives shortly before their collapses.

Kwan found himself in dimly lit theatre bars, talking to cynical stagehands who'd seen it all. He was in bustling casting offices, dealing with the barely hidden desperation of aspiring actors. He was in hushed art galleries, speaking with curators and critics. He listened to stories of backstage betrayals, of careers built on stolen ideas, of dreams shattered by a single bad review or a whispered rumor. It was a world fueled by both passion and poison.

Hale, meanwhile, would often walk around the edges of these locations. His eyes were distant, his senses tuned to the lingering mental stains. He'd point out a specific dressing room, a particular hallway, a quiet corner where the emotional feeling of their suspect's envy felt particularly strong, like a cold spot in an otherwise warm room. "They lingered here," he'd say. "Observed from this angle. The desire to possess, to be the other, was overwhelming."

Slowly, carefully, they narrowed down the possibilities. The critic, Leo Maxwell, had indeed reviewed both Juliana and Petrov. His reviews were filled with a particular kind of intellectual scorn that bordered on personal dislike. An intern named Sarah Yang had worked briefly at both the TV studio and, through a temp agency, backstage during "City of Whispers." A struggling actor, Ethan Reese, had auditioned for, and been rejected by, projects involving all three victims.

Each name was a possible lead. Each lead, Kwan knew, had to be followed carefully. Their suspect was a mental predator, but also likely a deeply wounded, fragile person. One wrong move, and they could run, or worse, strike again before Hale and Kwan could catch them. The city's glitter was beginning to feel like a thin covering over a dark, hungry emptiness.

***

The city lights smeared against the taxi window. A million glittering successes, none of them theirs. Juliana's borrowed glow-that stage-filling warmth-had been a drug. The high was gone. The ache that remained was worse than before.

They slipped through the theatre lobby, a ghost in the buzzing crowd. The forced laughter, the sharp glances of agents and critics. Hateful. All of them blooming so easily, so carelessly.

On stage, another hopeful. Forgettable. The hunger was a familiar cramp, a sour heat in their throat. The world was gray without the borrowed color. Their own life, a desert of rejections. They'd tried. God, they'd tried. Always watching from the edge.

A new performer. Marcus Bell. He started, awkward. Then the words came. Sharp. Alive. A rhythm and intelligence that seized the air in the room.

They leaned forward, breath held.

There.

That specific, brilliant shine. A different flavor from the others, but just as potent. They could already hear the whispers-genius. Agents circling.

A slow, tight smile formed in the dimness. Marcus Bell. Such a bright future. The hunger coiled, expectant. Soon. Soon, they would taste that brilliance. And Marcus Bell would know the dark.

***

The name "Marcus Bell" echoed in Hale's mind. It was a faint but clear mental chime in the middle of the usual city noise. Kwan had heard the name from a theater contact. A stage manager had been very excited about a brilliant young playwright and performer. His showcase speech the night before had made the Off-Broadway scene buzz. "Kid's a genius, they're saying. Sharp as a tack, got that… intellectual fire." The description, along with Bell's sudden rise to fame, matched their suspect's victim type with chilling accuracy.

Hale had focused his senses, reaching out, sifting through the city's mental energy for Bell's signature. It was there - a bright, complex pattern of smart energy, creative passion, and the nervous excitement of growing success. But another signature was moving near it. A cold weight, turning toward Bell's bright energy. Hunting.

"He's the one," Hale had told Kwan. Hale's voice was flat, final. "Bell is next on their list. And they're already circling."

Now, they were parked in a plain car across the street from a small, independent bookstore in Greenwich Village. Marcus Bell was scheduled to give a reading there from his work-in-progress. The late afternoon sun cast long shadows. The air was thick with the smell of old paper, coffee, and exhaust fumes. It was a small place, less secure than a Broadway theatre or a TV studio. It offered more chances for their suspect to get close.

Hale sat in the passenger seat. He seemed to be looking at a day-old newspaper, but his real focus was turned inwards. His senses were extended, like a mental net cast around Marcus Bell. He could feel Bell's nervous energy from here - the pre-performance jitters, the underlying hum of his brilliant mind. He was also alert for the Leech's signature, that cold, greedy presence. It was out there, somewhere in the surrounding mental landscape, a faint, almost unnoticeable whisper, but Hale was sure it was getting nearer.

Kwan was in the driver's seat, appearing to read a paperback. But his gaze kept flicking towards the bookstore entrance. His posture was relaxed but ready. They'd already checked the bookstore's interior. Hale subtly read the mental leftovers, while Kwan noted the layout, possible ways in, and the faces of the early arrivals. There was no immediate sign of their known suspects - Leo Maxwell, Sarah Yang, or Ethan Reese - but the Leech could be anyone. Their true identity was still a frustrating mystery.

"Anything?" Kwan murmured, his voice low.

"Bell's inside," Hale replied, his own voice quiet. "His… energy is strong. Anxious, but powerful." He paused. "The other one… the Leech… they're close. I can feel the… intent. Like a tightening in the air around Bell's signature."

The minutes ticked by with agonizing slowness. People drifted into the bookstore - students, literary types, a few curious locals. Each new arrival sent a fresh wave of mental impressions washing over Hale. It was a confusing jumble of everyday thoughts and emotions he had to filter through. He sifted through the psychic static, trying to isolate the thin, cold hum of the predator.

Marcus Bell appeared briefly at the window. He was a young man with intense eyes and a shock of dark hair, looking out at the street with a mix of excitement and worry. Hale felt a surge of protective urgency. The boy - he was little more than a boy - had no idea he was a target, a potential victim in a mental drama he couldn't even see.

"They're getting bolder," Hale said, almost to himself. "The theatre, the TV studio… those were more controlled places. This is public, less predictable."

"Means they're getting more desperate," Kwan observed. "The high wears off faster, maybe. Or the risk is part of the thrill now."

Hale didn't respond. His focus was entirely on the subtle shifts in the mental atmosphere. He could feel the Leech's presence gathering, drawing nearer to Bell's bright, nervous energy. It was like watching two stars on an unavoidable collision course - one vibrant and unaware, the other dark and hungry. He pictured the siphoning process, the cold, deliberate theft of Bell's unique intellectual fire, the emptiness, confusion, and despair that would follow. The echoes of Juliana Legrand's pain, of Petrov's and Chen's, resonated within him.

A figure separated from the stream of people walking by and moved towards the bookstore entrance. Plain. Easy to overlook. Hale stiffened, his breath catching in his throat. The mental signature, which had been a scattered whisper, now sharpened, focused, locking onto Bell with an almost touchable intensity.

"That's them," Hale said, his voice tight, urgent. "They're going in. East entrance."

Kwan's hand was already on the door handle. "Let's move."

***