Renowned screenwriter Kohl Reynolds is sitting at the bar of The Whistling Pig, a grimy hole-in-the-wall dive hidden at the end of graffitied alleyway. The only signage for the establishment is a cartoon pig sticker on the top right of battered green wooden door.

Kohl has always treasured this place. The last of an era. A holdout from the days when downtown Los Angeles still had grit. The low lighting and smoky air. The broken jukebox. The handful of bikers playing on the shredded pool table in the back. The sticky floors with their formidable stench of desperation and failed dreams.

Most of all, Kohl loved its history. That beneath the underbelly of the timeworn bar top, his initials are carved alongside one of the most recognizable actors in Hollywood.… Decades ago, he and up-and-coming actor Jacob Perry sat in this very spot, jotting down ideas for the next big screenplay. Dreaming of pitch meetings, good cocaine, and inevitable stardom. But a lot had changed since then.

Kohl hadn’t aged gracefully. The creases around his eyes have deepened. His body is covered in tattoos. His skin is dark and weathered, almost leathery. He has earned and lost millions. And Jacob… well, The Hollywood Reporter claims he’s only gotten better with age. His blue eyes and chiseled face are plastered on every magazine and billboard in Los Angeles. He is the highest paid actor in Hollywood with an Oscar on the shelf to match.

“Can you turn it up?” Kohl yells at the bartender cleaning glasses in the back.

Kohl lights a cigarette, watching the Breaking News ticker on the outdated television screen. The image pans to an aerial view of the Hollywood mansion belonging to deceased pop star Kelly Trozzo, where the novelist Kaleb Reed is being dragged out in handcuffs.

Kohl takes a long drag, processing the events. Months ago, he had met the author at a pool party at Kelly’s mansion. There was something in Kaleb’s eyes that Kohl was drawn to; a recognition of his own shadows. Pure madness. He had seen the lustful way he stared at Kelly. A deadly sin that Kohl was very familiar with. It had cost him everything.

Kohl wasn’t sure why he agreed to adapt Kaleb’s novel, Pay Me, Alice, into a screenplay. He hadn’t written anything good in years. But just when he was about to decline the project, he flipped to the back of Kelly’s tattered copy of the book and discovered a familiar symbol stamped there —  XIIX

Downing the last of his scotch, Kohl looks up at the television. LA’s chief of police is standing at the podium. “Kaleb Reed is being formally charged for the murder of Brian O’Conner, a New Mexico native and husband to Sara O’Conner, who reported him missing back in 2015. Kelly Trozzo’s death is still being ruled a suicide.”

Reporters roar with questions.

Lights flash.

Kohl smashes out his cigarette, glancing down at the symbol tattooed on his arm. Kohl had never figured out what it meant, though he and Jacob had been obsessed with the symbol in their youth. They saw it as a badge of their ambition. A reminder to make real art no matter what the cost. These days, Kohl was convinced that the symbol was tied to something much darker, a mysterious force that had somehow infiltrated Hollywood. A shadowy entity pulling the strings of every hapless puppet in this godforsaken town. Studio heads. Actors. Writers. Pop stars.

The symbol left behind a trail of death and destruction.

The symbol had come to Kohl when he was thirteen years old. He remembers the well-dressed man strolling through the fog, cane and briefcase in hand. The chime of the bell on the door of the bookstore. The man holding out a book called The Jeweler. Kohl flipping through the pages, straight to the back. As soon as he laid eyes on the symbol, a wave of evil ran down his spine, as if he had been marked by the devil himself.

Twenty-seven years later, Kohl is tired of running from the truth.

He steps out of the bar, shielding his eyes from the blinding California rays. A fresh cigarette dangles from his lips as he scrolls to his former friend’s name on the phone. When Kohl watched Jacob accept the Oscar a few years back, he had spotted something that most bloodsuckers in this town couldn’t. The actor’s cocky, arrogant blue eyes had been overrun by darkness. Kohl was certain that Jacob had pursued the symbol in his endless quest for fame and power.

A sharp pain stabs Kohl’s stomach as he rests his thumb over the call button. He had vowed never to call him again. Not after what he did. But there was no turning back now. Whatever it takes, he must follow the clues. Down the rabbit hole. He must know what it all means. How it’s all connected. There was nothing left to lose. It was time to face the shadows.

Death was coming for them all.