Chapter 3

The next morning, the city felt different. The sunlight didn't seem mocking, the noise of the traffic wasn't an assault. It was just a city, a place of possibilities, a landscape for my revenge. I didn't go to my art studio, a place that would soon become a source of failure and frustration. Instead, I took a cab to a quiet, unassuming brownstone in a leafy neighborhood, a place I had only found in my first life when it was far too late.

The brass plaque on the door read: "Dr. Anya Sharma. Spiritual Wellness & Energetic Balancing."

In my previous timeline, I' d come to her as a broken man, desperate and rambling about curses and stolen luck. She had been the only one who didn't look at me like I was insane. She had explained the dark, parasitic nature of what had been done to me. This time, I was coming for a consultation, not a last-ditch rescue.

Dr. Sharma herself answered the door. She was a woman of indeterminate age, with sharp, intelligent eyes that seemed to see more than just the person standing in front of her. She exuded an aura of profound calm.

"Good morning," she said, her voice gentle. "How may I help you?"

"I believe I'm the target of a spiritual attack," I said, without preamble. "A specific kind. A ritual designed to siphon luck and fortune."

Her eyebrows raised slightly, a flicker of surprise in her otherwise serene expression. She studied my face for a long moment.

"That is a very specific and serious claim," she said, stepping aside. "Please, come in."

Her office was filled with books, plants, and strange, beautiful objects. It smelled of sandalwood and tea. We sat in comfortable armchairs, and I told her everything. Not about my rebirth-she would have thought me crazy-but about the sudden, drastic turn of events, the engagement, the Peterson family's meteoric rise coinciding with my catastrophic fall. I described the charm, the symbol on the cufflink, the predatory contract. I laid out the facts as a logical sequence of events, not a madman's paranoia.

She listened without interruption, her fingers steepled before her. When I finished, she was silent for a full minute.

"Energy is a current," she finally said. "It flows. It can be given, and it can be taken. What you describe is an old and very dark form of sympathetic magic. A parasitic tether. They have linked their destiny to yours, but in a predatory way. The engagement, the charm, the contract-these are not just social or legal constructs. They are the ritual components, the anchors that bind you to them and create the channel for the siphon."

This confirmed everything I already knew, but hearing it said so clearly, so clinically, solidified my resolve.

"Can you prove it?" I asked.

"I can show you the effect," she replied. She led me to a back room. In the center was a strange device that looked like a modified Kirlian photography setup, with two crystalline plates. "Place your hand on this plate."

I did as she asked. She flipped a switch, and a low hum filled the room. On a monitor nearby, a vibrant, colorful aura bloomed around the image of my hand. It was mostly a bright, strong blue and gold, but a dozen tiny, dark, thread-like tendrils leeched away from it, all converging toward a single point off-screen.

"This is your energetic signature," she explained. "Strong. Full of potential. Creative and financial vitality. But look here." She pointed to the dark threads. "These are the drains. Each one represents a connection to the parasitic entity. Or in your case, entities."

It was horrifying. It was the proof. A visual representation of my life being bled away. The rage inside me was a cold, hard stone.

"And now," she said, her voice grim, "we have our evidence." She printed out the image, a stark, damning report of a crime no court would recognize. "The good news is that a channel works both ways. They have opened a door to you. That means you have a door back to them."

We returned to her office, and a new feeling washed over me: power.

"I don't just want to sever the connection," I said, my voice low and hard. "I want to reverse the flow. I want to take back what's mine, with interest. I want everything they built on my ruin to crumble to dust."

Dr. Sharma looked at me, and for the first time, a small, thin smile touched her lips. "An eye for an eye makes the whole world blind. But sometimes, it is the only way to make sure the thief learns not to steal again. It is a dangerous path. Reversing the flow can be unpredictable. You may take on some of their negative attributes, their bad karma."

"I'll take that risk," I said. "What do I have to do?"

"They are using items of personal significance and emotional weight to anchor the ritual," she explained. "We must do the same to counter it. We will create a 'feedback loop.' We will feed their channel not with your good fortune, but with targeted misfortune, disguised as good luck for you."

Her plan was brilliant in its simplicity. She gave me a small, smooth obsidian stone, cool to the touch. "Keep this with you at all times. It will not block them, but it will 'taint' the energy they draw. It will act as a buffer and a mirror. Now, go and do something that seems like a gamble, an act of seeking good fortune for yourself."

I left her office with the obsidian stone in my pocket and the printed aura analysis in a folder. My first stop was a corner store. I walked up to the lottery counter. I remembered Derek once ranting about how he'd missed a small jackpot by one number because he' d played a 13, his unlucky number.

I bought a single scratch-off ticket. I chose the gaudiest one, a game called "Millionaire's Jackpot." Then I went to a coffee shop, sat down, and pulled out a coin. With the obsidian stone resting on the table next to my ticket, I began to scratch.

The first number I revealed was 13. Then another. And another. Soon, I had a row of them. Underneath, the prize box revealed the amount: $5,000.

It wasn't a million dollars, but it was a start. A small, tangible victory. A taste of my own luck, reclaimed.

As I sat there, staring at the winning ticket, my phone buzzed. It was a news alert from a financial app.

Tech Innovator Derek Stone Suffers Freak Accident. Falls Down Stairs at Product Launch, Sustaining Multiple Fractures. Company Stock Dips 5%.

I looked from the news alert on my phone to the winning lottery ticket in my hand. A slow, cold smile spread across my face.

The bill was coming due. And I was now the one sending the invoices.