Vincent Morris sat in a massive mahogany chair with thick crimson padding, stroking his chin as he stared out over the entertainment hall of his cabaret club and home,<span style="font-style: italic">The Shadow in The Stone</span>. He had caught himself musing about the choices which brought him to his current position, something which had become increasingly common over the last few days, and saw fit to at least do his thinking in a place where he possessed a clear view of his own accomplishments. The behavior itself was nothing unexpected; Vincent was a careful man with a fine eye for detail, and on such a momentous occasion, his actions in the past merited just as much inspection as his plans for the future. Even a single overlooked mistake could threaten to unravel everything he had worked so hard to achieve.<br/><br/>In a few hours, he would either own half of the city or a new pair of concrete shoes. It was the biggest gamble he had ever taken, and as usual, the odds were fixed incontestably in his favor.<br/><br/>"Vance," Vincent calmly called out. The shuffling behind him indicated that his partner was paying attention.<br/><br/>He stood up and walked towards the large glass window that separated his living room from the venue below. His personal quarters were built into the ceiling of the club for the specific purpose of accommodating him as the building's owner, and among the numerous other luxuries that came with the position, he was afforded a view of every performance which took place on stage from the best seat in the house.<br/><br/>"The evening show is about to begin," he said, looking over his shoulder at his partner. "How would you like to help me make an appearance?"<br/><br/><div style="text-align: center;"><a class="postlink" href="http://www.seventh-house.org/wp-content/themes/naota/images/NavDivider3.png">[ img ]</a></div><br/><span style="font-style: italic">The Shadow in The Stone</span>, or by its considerably more popular nickname, "<span style="font-style: italic">The 108</span>", was a club of nearly unmatched prestige in Black City. Designed from its inception to be a place of entertainment, it stood large and proud on the 108th lot of Westminster Street, dominating the corner of a wide intersection despite the fact that many of the surrounding downtown buildings loomed over it in terms of sheer vertical height. Having fallen into disuse nearly two decades ago after a string of unfortunate deaths and a brutal police raid, its fitting lot number and grim reputation eventually attracted a fairly unknown actor-turned-entrepreneur who chose to remodel it after a ghost story he had heard overseas. The place quickly became a popular gathering spot for many of the city's residents on account of its good service, affordable entertainment, and accessible location, though it had ceased to be quite so "affordable" after Vincent purchased the club and hired back its original owner as a full-time performer.<br/><br/>No expenses would be spared where the heir to the Morris family chose to involve himself, particularly when it came to the main attraction.<br/><br/>The dimming of the entertainment hall's lights signaled the beginning of the night's performance, and after a few seconds the only visible part of the room was a pair of dark purple curtains hanging over the stage. The roar of conversation in the hall quickly died down to a quiet whisper as six green spotlights advanced down the floor in single-file, stopping to form a circular pattern above the platform, where they began to slowly spin. When the drapes were expected to part and reveal the master of ceremonies, however, nothing happened.<br/><br/>After a few seconds of no activity whatsoever, a concerned murmur began to rise from the audience. Heads turned from one person to the next, each one searching for signs of something that may have gone wrong, and the crowd's attention soon drifted away from the stage altogether until a couple seated at one of the closest tables cried out in surprise and pointed towards the base of the curtains. A small mote of eerie green flame had sprung up there, and before anything could be done about it, it had eaten through the fabric to form a perfect archway from which Vincent himself walked onto the platform. Leaving neither smoke nor ash behind, the fire continued to spread until nothing remained of the drapery, then dutifully snuffed itself out.<br/><br/>"I apologize if my little prank frightened some of you," Vincent began, stepping up to the microphone tower as the spotlights lowered to focus upon him, "but I found that it fit the<span style="font-style: italic">spirit</span>of the establishment too well to be dismissed. Good evening and welcome to the Shadow in The Stone. You may recognize me as Vincent Morris, the owner of this club."<br/><br/>"...And to those of you who don't," he added with a charming smile, "welcome to Black City."<br/><br/>"The story upon which this place was founded is one that I can never get tired of listening to, no matter how many times I hear it. Even after dozens of unique retellings, it somehow always manages to come to me from a new perspective. One person," he said while gesturing to his left, where a man bearing a striking resemblance to himself had walked into view, "will tell me that it's a tale of<span style="font-style: italic">horror</span>, meant to thrill and stimulate the imagination. Another," he continued, this time drawing attention towards another seemingly identical man on his right, "will say that it's a lesson, meant to teach us that all mischief eventually leads to a suitable and just punishment. I'm afraid that my own ability to tell the tale is nowhere near as engaging as mister Holloway, who would normally be introducing you to this night's proceedings, but I would still like to share my own interpretation of it - one which I have, of course, never heard repeated from anyone I have not personally shared the idea with."<br/><br/>Vincent took a moment to straighten his tie as the two men on either side of him walked closer to the center of the platform. A collective gasp swept through the audience as they entered the light, revealing that both not only shared his clothing, but his exact facial features and haircut as well. He continued to speak as though it were a completely unremarkable coincidence.<br/><br/>"To me, the story of the 'shadow' for which this club is named is about something different. One hundred and eight spirits were sealed inside a stone - this much is certain - but I've heard so many different reasons for<span style="font-style: italic">why</span>they were locked away that I can no longer be so sure it was the just punishment they deserved," he said, clapping a hand onto the shoulder of the man to his right. The man was sucked into his palm like a piece of cloth in a vaccuum, leaving behind no traces of his existence. Another gasp ensued.<br/><br/>"Who can really say what they were imprisoned for? Was it arson?"<br/><br/>Another Vincent appeared from backstage.<br/><br/>"Murder?"<br/><br/>A fourth made itself known by walking in from behind the guest's tables.<br/><br/>"Fraud? Larceny? Trespassing? Assault?"<br/><br/>The Vincent speaking at the microphone tower continued to rattle off crimes of varying severity until the stage behind him was utterly crowded with identical versions of himself. Although none seemed inclined to act, they were all convincingly real; blinking, breathing, and seeming to make contact with each other in the limited space as if they were truly there.<br/><br/>"...Or perhaps it was for no sane reason at all!" he concluded. "There are only two constants to this story. The spirits were imprisoned, and five centuries later, they were free... as a<span style="font-style: italic">singular, malevolent entity</span>. Terrible, yes. Frightening, certainly... but it was something that could only have been achieved through<span style="font-style: italic">cooperation</span>. When their prison cracked in two, not a single one went on its separate way, for while selfish acts had delivered them to their fate, it was only by becoming something greater than themselves that they were able to escape it."<br/><br/>Vincent turned sideways and pointed one hand behind him, allowing his doppelgangers to walk into it and promptly disappear. With each one that was absorbed by his palm, the shadow he cast on the floor lengthened, until it was so great that it had reached the ceiling. Paradoxically, the stage lights responsible for creating it were devoured soon after, and the entire entertainment hall fell into darkness.<br/><br/>A small green flame flared up from the tip of Vincent's finger, bathing no more than his hand, face, and the microphone in its unnatural glow.<br/><br/>"We hope that you will enjoy the show," he said, and blew the flame out. A second later, the lights returned and he was gone.