In Nero’s corpse-choked Rome, Campanula Necatrix seals its doors against the Lupercal’s black heart. No one stirs. Childish giggles fracture into throat-shredding shrieks. Mothers’ wails erupt as phantom blades vivisect unborn spawn, throats vomiting clotted gore. Then the bells awaken: cymbala anklets—bronze death-rattles forged from flayed courtesan skin—jackhammer cobblestones into crimson craters, ghost stomps pulverizing ancient bones to marrow-slurry in seismic rape-orgasms that hijack your pulse.

Millie knew what was coming. She didn't know just how much it would cost her.

One call is all it takes for manifesting to become real...even if it's terror.