The black robed figure sat in silence and thought for a few minutes, everything else was working perfectly: Leslie, on the verge of bankruptcy, was being audited by the tax department after his business partners discovered his treachery - his dishonourable character revealed for all to see; Michael had been advised by his doctor to leave the company after his medication had failed to control his condition - his character was weak from the start, a born loser.
Why had James escaped?
Leslie's life had been disrupted by a simple sigil, delivered like a psychic virus, and perhaps amplified by the chosen carrier.
Michael had been even easier to deal with, a simple concentrated thought had produced the desired malevolent result.
The figure had hoped James' heavy smoking and previous heart attack several years ago, combined with his age, would have allowed his sigil to bring about a timely demise. This had not happened.
Now, with recent events, it was even more desirable that the death of James occur. The figure knew it was worth another attempt at imposing his will on the forces of the universe. There was something happening here that seemed in essence paradoxical...

James awoke with a start. The disturbing imagery from his last dream lingered in his memory, a seemingly familiar figure dressed in an unfamiliar way. Yes, the person is someone he knows, but he can't put a name to the face. The person was in black robes - a priest perhaps - but the figure was laughing at him. The figure had held forth a small white card emblazoned upon which was a red symbol. The symbol, for some reason, reminded James of a man with a spear stuck deep in his chest.
The dream stayed with him as he got ready for work. It didn't particularly bother him, but it annoyed him that he did not remember the name of the robed figure.
The sun was rising over the hills as he got into his car. As he drove along, his thoughts drifted from the dream to the day ahead of him, and off on other tangents, his own debts and his separation from his wife.
As he neared the top of the hill leading down to the city below, time seemed to race. His mind became a kaleidoscope of images. The early morning sun light refracted through the windscreen in a blinding white glare, and instantly it dawned on him who the laughing figure in the dream was. His hands involuntarily left the steering wheel to clutch at his chest, his face contorting in agony. The car swerved across the road, narrowly missing oncoming traffic, mounted the footpath and impacted with a street light...

An ambulance sped through the early morning traffic, its crew doing their best to resuscitate the man they had cut from the wreckage of his automobile. It screeched to a halt at the entrance to the accident and emergency ward of the public hospital. The man was pronounced dead on arrival.

The Nameless One, 1995