Running a weapons shop in Portland might not sound like a subtle way to stay off the radar, but you'd be surprised what people let slip under a mild truth ward. Hunters, veterans, doomsday preppers, each one convinced they've cracked the world's last mystery. They talk. I listen. It's a quiet kind of surveillance.
Black Armory doesn't look like much on the outside—gray walls, barred windows, and a cracked neon sign that flickers more than it glows. Inside, though, it's the kind of place that whispers to the right kind of buyer. Rifles with just a bit more bite. Blades that never dull. Tactical jackets that somehow always stay warm and dry. Subtle enchantments woven into every thread and edge. Muggles never notice the magic. Just craftsmanship, they think. Better than the rest. That's all they care about.
I go by Harry Black now. The other name is buried somewhere in the ash and blood of another life. I left it behind along with the war, the politics, the masks. What I didn't leave behind was the fight. It just got quieter. Cleaner. More selective.
My wand, what's left of it, is a silver ring now. Transfigured by a drunk hermit wizard I met in a Russian border town during a long winter I don't talk about. It channels magic just fine. Never splinters. Never gets left behind.
I was closing a sale with a local shooter—a regular who liked rifles he couldn't buy off the rack, when he said something that made my blood run cold.
"Six bodies now. Started down in Salem, moved up the highway. Woodburn. Wilsonville. One in Tigard this morning. Head missing. Clean off. Looked like someone used a guillotine in the woods."
The rest of what he said barely registered. Six was a lot. And the details… they sounded like Grimm work. Messy Grimm work—young, untrained, angry.
I kept my face neutral, handed over the rifle, and locked the door behind him.
It wasn't conclusive. Not yet. But my gut hadn't steered me wrong in years.
I reached under the counter and pulled out the orb, smooth quartz etched with runes, shimmering the moment it touched my hand. Scrying came easily now. Especially for other Grimms. There were usually only two in Portland: me and the other one.
Today, there were three.
The pulse was sharp and unstable, young, raw power thrumming like a beacon. The image shifted until it zeroed in on a park west of the river. I saw her. Black hair. Tight fists. Dirty clothes. She was fighting a Scalengeck—fast little bastard, good at hiding in plain sight.
She fought like a cornered animal. No training. Just pure instinct. She was losing.
I exhaled, slipped the ring off my finger, and murmured a word.
The park was cold and quiet when I reappeared behind a stand of trees. The only sound was the scuffle of claws on pavement and her ragged breathing. She stumbled. The Scalengeck moved in.
I raised my hand. The ring flared.
A hex, fast and silent, burst from my fingers. It drilled through the creature's eye and out the back of its skull. The body crumpled.
The girl turned, wild-eyed. She didn't even get a word out before I froze her mid-step with a paralysis spell I picked up in Tunisia, one that held the mind awake while the body locked down.
She didn't fall. Just stood there, trapped in her skin.
I stepped in close, held her gaze.
Then we were gone.
The basement beneath Black Armory wasn't on any blueprint. Reinforced steel and thick stone, lit by warm lanterns and old magic. It smelled like dust, leather, and old books. Grimm records filled one wall, magical texts the other. Maps, notes, sketches, weapons from across centuries lined the shelves.
I set her gently on the cot, then pulled up a chair across from her. Her eyes tracked me, sharp and furious.
"Alright," I said, voice even. "I know you can hear me. Probably terrified. Maybe pissed. That's fine. But don't try to punch me when I release you. Won't end well. Let's keep this civilized."
I pulled her backpack close and started going through it. Her notes were a mess—half-drawn Wesen, names she probably didn't understand, guesses scribbled in margins. Raw but observant.
"You've seen some shit. That much is obvious," I said without looking up. "The thing you just fought—Scalengeck. They're vermin. You've probably run into worse already."
I took off my sunglasses and met her eyes directly. Let her see mine.
"You're a Grimm. Like me. We can see what others can't. When Wesen woge—that's when they change into the animal-like things you see—we're the ones who notice. Always have."
I leaned back and swept a hand toward the books and weapons.
"This is what I've been doing for years now. Collecting, studying, staying quiet. I got tired of the fighting. The death. But I couldn't let you die. You reminded me too much of myself. Stumbling into something huge, violent, and dangerous without a clue."
I watched her a moment longer, then stood and stretched the tension from my back.
"You've wandered into another Grimm's territory. Not mine. One who doesn't do things the old-fashioned way. Doesn't kill everything he sees. He's... different."
I walked over and undid the spell with a flick of my fingers.
Her body shuddered as control returned. She gasped and sat up, eyes darting around the room.
I raised a hand.
"Don't hit me. Just listen. You're not crazy. You're not broken. You're something older than most people know. Take a breath. Look around. You're not the only one in this mess anymore."
I gave her a moment, then said:
"Welcome to Portland, kid. You're not alone. Not anymore."