Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The sky over Torrance looked like clean glass laid over heat. Midday had baked the streets to a shimmer, and by late afternoon the warmth had sunk into everything, into the roofs, into the bus stops, into the cheap vinyl seats of delivery bikes waiting at red lights. Traffic stacked west toward the 405 in orderly despair. A plane dragged its silver belly across the blue, unhurried, while sirens stitched and unstitched the distance. Vendors hosed their carts down with weary rhythm. A palm frond skittered across asphalt like a crab. The city was awake in that tired, anxious way it gets when everyone’s almost off work but not free yet: restless, gleaming, loud.

The Superhero Dispatch Network’s Torrance branch sat back from the main street, a two-story box of smoked glass and secondhand ambition. Inside, the air conditioning was cruelly efficient, the kind that gnawed at the skin and whispered about funding cuts. Fluorescents buzzed overhead, bureaucratic and soulless. Motivational posters, Second Chances. Real Results.—peeled at the corners, their glue giving up just like the smiles on them. The break room smelled of overworked coffee, instant ramen, and the kind of microwave that had seen things.

Robert Robertson III washed his hands beneath a thin, resentful stream of water, the steel backsplash reflecting a face that had seen too many nights and too few victories. The SDN powder-blue shirt hung clean but weary on him, sleeves rolled to the elbow, exposing forearms marked by the quiet history of old burns and mech grease. He had the kind of build that came from hauling weight his own and everyone else’s, and the posture of someone who’d learned not to complain about it.

Behind him, the door cracked open before the sigh of the hinge could even finish. Trouble entered laughing.

“—just saying, man, if hero work were janitorial, you’d be world-class.”

Flambae’s accent was a ghost of Herat—still sharp around the vowels, softened by years of Californian noise. He had the body of a fighter who liked mirrors too much: compact, lean, and ready to burn something just to stay warm. Across the room, Waterboy froze by the fridge, clutching a styrofoam bowl of ramen gone limp with surrender. Steam curled weakly, like it was afraid to rise.

Robert didn’t look up. “Leave him alone.”

Calm. Even. A dispatcher’s voice—the kind designed to cut the wire without triggering the bomb.

Flambae smiled without warmth. “We’re just talking.”

He wasn’t. Words were just flint waiting for a strike.

Waterboy tried to smile. “It’s okay, Mr. Robertson, I—”

The noodles hit first—a slap of scalding broth and salt across his chest. The bowl followed like punctuation. Broth ran down his shirt, pooling at his beltline. The smell of cheap chicken filled the air—humiliation flavored with MSG.

Robert didn’t think. He reached for the nearest object with mass: a protein shake, unlidded. His grip tightened. The plastic gave. Beige liquid geysered upward and down again in a lazy arc that caught Flambae square in the face. The room froze.

The silence that followed had weight. Even the hum of the lights seemed to hold its breath.

For half a second, Flambae wasn’t a man—he was a temperature. Heat shimmered off him in visible waves. The shake began to sizzle on his skin, bubbles forming on his cheek where rage met dairy. Sparks crawled along his forearms like fireflies trying to find a way out. The air warped.

Then the door opened.

Mandy (Blonde Blazer) walked in with the easy authority of someone who’d survived both boardrooms and battlefields. The blue-and-gold suit fit her like intent. Her cape shifted as she moved, catching the overhead light like a living flag. Under the mask, her eyes flicked between Waterboy’s drenched shirt, the steam rising from Flambae’s shoulders, and Robert calmly rinsing his hands at the sink.

“I walk away for two minutes,” she said, voice bone-dry, “and you start a smoothie bar?”

Robert didn’t bite. “Flambae had a moment,” he said, soap sliding from his knuckles. “Shakes are fragile things.”

Flambae’s jaw flexed. Pride wanted a target, but the chain of command was still a chain. He swallowed his spark with effort. The glow dimmed to an ember.

Mandy’s expression was equal parts hero and HR manager. “Shower,” she said, pointing toward the hall. “Then come back and clean this up. And if the next smell I catch in here is burning laminate, I’ll send you to janitorial rotation myself.”

Flambae’s eyes flared once, hellfire simmering behind restraint—but he left, dripping protein shake like breadcrumbs.

Waterboy stammered something like thanks and vanished behind him.

The room sagged into quiet again, except for the distant wheeze of the vending machine. Robert turned off the faucet. Beige water swirled down the drain in slow circles. The tile had gone slick, an office hazard in waiting.

Mandy’s heel slid. A sharp catch, a shift in balance, a quick recovery, core strength and grace in motion. She hissed through her teeth and steadied herself, glaring down at her boot where protein sludge clung like regret.

“Perfect,” she muttered. “Now I smell like CrossFit.”

Robert gave the ghost of a smile. “You’re glowing.”

“Don’t start.” She leaned against the counter, arms folding, the faint scrape of armor on laminate. Up close, her cape still hummed faintly with static from her kinetic cells—she always carried a low thrum, like bottled lightning. “Have you talked to Chase yet?”

He reached for a paper towel, wiped his palms. “About what.”

Her brow lifted. “About who.”

She tilted her chin toward him, waiting. The air-conditioning hummed louder for company.

“Who’s it going to be?” she said finally. “Phenomaman or Waterboy?”

Robert stared at the sink drain, where soap bubbles burst like tiny planets dying. His reflection looked older in steel.

“These two are my only options?”

“For now? Yeah.” She exhaled like a pressure valve. “We can revisit later, but Waterboy’s already sort of in the pipeline. And you know Phenomaman got cut by DTLA.” A small wince ghosted her mouth. “Thanks for getting him out of the parking lot, by the way.”

Robert rinsed. Beige turned to pale to clear, and inside that gradient lived the whole job: take a mess, make it almost clean, hope the stain doesn’t remember. Mandy kept talking because somebody had to...onboarding, chemistry, optics—the need for a new addition to slide into Z-Team like a knife into its own sheath. Her voice held the line while the rest of him sank.

But “under” was gravity.

The last cut still bled: Coupé. Efficient. Elegant. Cold as a coin. He’d told her she was out. His reasons had been sound, his tone even. “We’re creating urgency,” Mandy had said earlier—truth in a corporate suit. Show results or the program dies. It felt like telling a drowning person to adjust their form.

Coupé hadn’t argued. She’d answered with steel: a throwing knife buried into the conference table an inch from Robert’s hand, the hilt humming, the oak splitting with a wet fibrous crack like a mouth opening to spit. Then she slid into shadow, umbrakinesis sighing after her like smoke dragged beneath a locked door. Ten minutes later Sonar’s pointed head had risen behind a cubicle like a bad card trick—ears quivering, eyes amused. “Her old crew’s back in town,” he’d breathed, and Punch Up had rumbled a laugh like distant thunder at the notion she’d backslide. Robert had believed…what? That people pivot because you provide a better axis?

Now the decision narrowed the corridor.

Waterboy. Kind. Proud in small, honest ways. Loyal enough to mop a spill he didn’t make without being asked. Fear in him like loose wiring behind drywall—quiet until it wasn’t. A trainee because someone had said the word aloud. Pros: steady heart, gratitude that could ballast a team. Cons: you don’t fix a wolf pack by throwing a lamb.

Phenomaman. Once a billboard, now a cautionary footnote. Alien, technically; painfully human in the ways breakage shows. After Mandy ended it, after the billboard, after that night on a Hollywood roof that left Robert stupid enough to kiss a line he shouldn’t—Phenomaman spun until the world got dizzy with him. DTLA cut him. The public stopped clapping. He found every rung on the way down and kept falling. Pros: power, history, a name bright enough to buy one more week of faith. Cons: grief as gravity, jealousy like a hairline crack—tap the wrong place and the whole sheet goes to razors.

Under it, the small private weather of his own guilt—not about the kiss; he could hold an error without apology—but about what the kiss meant in the constellation other people had already mapped. He’d told Phenomaman the truth. It didn’t matter. Breaks are rarely single events; they’re rot that finally says the quiet part out loud. Truth loves to wear the wrong hat.

Something slid into his vision, the reflex of a mind that had spent years watching heads-up displays and countdowns.

[SELECT NEW RECRUIT]
Waterboy — Reliable heart, no field record.
Phenomaman — High ceiling, unstable base.
Choose none — Explain why.

Time Remaining: ▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓░░

The mental bar chewed the moment smaller. Futures flickered in fluorescent stutter: Waterboy promoted too soon, panic whitening his face as a routine call goes sudden red, boots heavy with ounces becoming pounds. Phenomaman trying to prove he still mattered—routine collar blooms into incident report with teeth. Public sentiment curdles; Phoenix becomes a headline, then a budget cut, then a nostalgic argument online.

The bar ticked. The room felt colder.

He pictured Coupé hearing she’d been replaced by a janitor—imagined that small, unimpressed smile. Sonar’s smirk, bat-brain whispering stock tips to disaster. Invisigal’s eye-roll as she measured respect in competence and nothing else. Punch Up’s loyal jaw tightening. Malevola sharpening sorrow until it cut. Prism bright and brittle without structure. Golem steady as a hillside until you made him choose between orders and the person bleeding in front of him. Mandy in rolled sleeves selling a program to people who wanted to buy something easier.

Breathe. Purpose over panic. Breathe again.

Time Remaining: ▓▓▓▓░░░░░░

“Robert?” Mandy’s voice, closer. “We don’t have to decide on the floor of a smoothie homicide, but we do have to decide.”

He dried his hands on brown paper that felt like penance. The futures lined up like targets. He could pick the wrong one and call it leadership—or he could refuse the frame.

He turned and met her eyes. “No.”

Her brow notched. “To which?”

“Both.”

A small, sharp silence—blade catching light.

“What?” she said, not blinking.

Robert leaned beside her, arms crossing without threat, an old habit of meeting force with balance. Fluorescents put a thin, morgue-cold sheen on everything: the laminate counter; the trickle of broth snaking toward the drain; the damp on Waterboy’s collar as he mopped in taut, embarrassed circles; the beige protein smear drying to a crust the color of old scab. The room smelled like chalk and chicken and the metallic ghost of hot anger cooling.

“You can’t just—” Mandy kept her tone soft and it still cut. “Robert, we have to pick one. You have to pick one. Coupé’s slot isn’t a suggestion. We follow through.”

“I know.” He didn’t raise his voice. “However—”

“However what?”

“Putting the wrong body in the right chair is how programs die.” He faced her fully. “Waterboy’s good. Good isn’t ready. He’s green, he panics, and his reflex is to apologize to danger. He needs months, and wins that don’t bleed. Throw him in now and he breaks, and then we’ve got two problems: a broken kid and a room that stops trusting me to keep it alive.

“Phenomaman—” he exhaled, the word tasting like an old bruise—“is a collapse waiting for one more nudge. He’s grieving the version of himself he can’t get back to, and grief makes shortcuts look like exits. He could be brilliant, again, but only when he’s not performing for ghosts. Right now he is. The minute a mission turns sideways he’ll play to the crowd in his head, and we’ll be hauling him out of a PR crater with teeth.”

Mandy listened the way professionals do: everything still, the thinking loud only in the eyes.

“Z-Team is a chemistry set,” Robert went on. “Sonar hunts weakness like dividends. Invisigal respects exactly one thing: competence. Punch Up wants fair fights and a leader who doesn’t flinch. Malevola pretends doom fits; it doesn’t. Prism needs rails so her illusions don’t slide into lies. Golem is granite until forced to pick between orders and the bleeding person in front of him. Feed that room the wrong personality now and they’ll eat it—and each other. We don’t have slack. The upstairs clock is already counting us in headlines.”

The building answered with indifference: the distant crack of a locker door; a laugh that showed too many teeth; a wheeze from a vent like an old lung rattling. Down the hall, a hero with a split lip touched a paper cup to it again; the blood stringing to brown, then flaking under his thumb. On the conference table outside, the knife-worry in the wood still gaped, the grain parted like flesh that had decided not to close.

Mandy’s gaze dipped, not surrender but calculus. One slow nod. “Those are…not bad points.”

“They’re the ones I’ve got.” He let a thin smile show and die. “I’m not trying to be difficult.”

“I know.” The corner of her mouth tilted; some wire in the room loosened. She pushed off the counter and stretched her arms overhead—practical, unshowy, vertebrae clicking quiet as beads. The cape settled with a static sigh. Robert looked away on instinct, back to the sink’s steel, to the faint eddies where beige had been and now wasn’t.

“Maybe,” she said, letting her arms fall, “you just made it easier for me.”

“How?”

The look she gave him had private heat, the edge of a secret deciding to be spoken. It wavered once, as decisions do before remembering they’ve already been made. “There’s another option. But not here. Walk with me.”

They left the break room, threading the slick comet tail of spilled shake. Dispatch opened like an anatomy cross-section: nerves and signals, voices and pulse. Headsets bowed and lifted, monitors blinked triage; maps pulsed with calls that meant crisis and the chance to be exactly enough. A corridor of lockers clanged; Punch Up’s voice rolled from somewhere unseen, showman even when he was just asking where his jacket had gone. A flicker by the stairwell might have been Invisigal holding her breath or just a light giving up. Golem’s trail was a smudge of dried earth down one aisle like a vein. Someone limped past cradling a palm wrapped in gauze already browning at the edges. On the pinboard: printouts from last week’s botched collar—blown-up 8×10 stills of a blood-slick alley, tire tracks turned black as script, a chalk outline ruined by rain.

They cut through the cube farm where dispatchers kept three conversations alive at once and their own hearts on the quiet setting. The air tasted like toner and cold air and the penny-sharp tang of adrenaline that never entirely left.

Mandy’s office waited on the edge of it all, glass on two sides, the blinds tilted so the city looked in and saw itself judged. She closed the door; the outside world softened into aquarium-murmur. Her desk wore the neatness of someone who’d had to be both formidable and unimpeachable for longer than was fair. A photo faced the window instead of the room: a younger Blonde Blazer beside a woman with a smiling mouth and predatory eyes.

“Sit,” she said, already pulling open a drawer.

Robert did. His palm found the small nick in the vinyl arm—an old chip, smooth around the wound. Mandy rummaged, breath steady, then lifted out a beige folder gone soft at the corners. She opened it, read, and something in her face changed—first a little light gone out, then a shadow of guilt that wasn’t hers and still wouldn’t leave her. She closed the folder and slid it across.

He drew it in. Opened.

The first page hit like a cold hand. A mugshot: a young woman looking through the lens with the steadiness of someone who’d lost the argument with the world and chosen not to blink. Hair hacked practical—shag refusing to lie, bangs trimmed by a hand that hadn’t asked permission. Eyes a stormed grey-blue ringed in nights without rest. A bruise purpled along the cheekbone, the kind that flowers ugly before it fades. The lower lip split, lacquered with dried red that had gone to brown—scab licked by fluorescent light. No plea. No posture. Just a quiet with teeth.

NEW YORK STATE DEPARTMENT OF CORRECTIONS AND COMMUNITY SUPERVISION
INMATE RECORD – CONFIDENTIAL

Name: SINCLAIR, ENID LAUREN
Date of Birth: 03 / 17 / 2000
Age at Intake: 20
Gender: Female
Ethnicity: Caucasian
Facility: Bedford Hills Correctional Facility, Westchester County, NY
Inmate ID: #BH-21745-EN

Sentence Length: 10 Years (Eligible for parole after 5)
Current Time Served: 4 Years, 9 Months

Convictions:
Aggravated Battery on a Peace Officer (2 Counts) – Felony Class B
Assault with a Deadly Weapon (Improvised Blunt Object) – Felony Class C
Destruction of Property / Public Vandalism – Misdemeanor
Resisting Arrest – Misdemeanor
Public Intoxication / Disorderly Conduct – Misdemeanor
Trespassing in Restricted Government Facility – Misdemeanor
Simple Assault / Street Altercation – Misdemeanor
Petty Theft (Multiple Offenses) – Misdemeanor

Case Summary:
Subject apprehended during altercation with responding officers after vandalism incident at Midtown precinct evidence garage. Incident escalated following intoxication and resistance to arrest; two officers sustained non-fatal injuries. Subsequent search linked subject to series of property and assault charges across Los Angeles and San Diego prior to relocation to New York.

Behavioral Record (Facility):
Initial months: Multiple altercations with inmates, two solitary confinements.
Year 2–4: Significant behavioral improvement; enrolled in vocational training (welding, mechanical repair).
Current standing: Stable; noted for cooperative demeanor and low incident frequency.

Psychological Evaluation:
Diagnosed: Impulse-control disorder (mild), trauma-related stress (untreated).
Recommendation: Continued therapy upon release.

Release Recommendation:
Approved for Phoenix Program rehabilitation transfer under SDN supervision, Torrance Branch, California.

Parole Officer of Record: M. Sinclair (Blonde Blazer) – Authorized Custodian

He turned the page and the paper bled a different authority.

SUPERHERO DISPATCH NETWORK (SDN)
ARCHIVED FILE – ARTEMIS PROJECT / SUBJECT: ENID SINCLAIR
CLEARANCE LEVEL: 5A — Director Eyes Only, Unless Given Access

I. SUBJECT OVERVIEW

Full Name: Enid Lauren Sinclair
Alias: Dire-Wolf IV
Date of Birth: March 17, 2000
Current Status: Phoenix Program Probationary Operative (Active)
Custody Authority: SDN Torrance Branch – Director Mandy Sinclair
Classification: Enhanced Human / Divine-Linked Artifact Host (Inactive)
Artifact Association: The Artemis Amulet — Containment Unit #AA-001, Secure Site Delta

II. ARTEMIS AMULET – LINEAGE & BACKGROUND

Origin Summary:
The Artemis Amulet is a divine containment vessel forged by the goddess Artemis and her twin brother Apollo after subduing an ancient malevolent entity known as the Wolf God — a being born from humankind’s first capacity for cruelty. Unable to destroy it, the gods sealed its heart within a crescent-marked silver amulet, binding instinct to restraint, rage to reason.

The artifact resurfaced millennia later in Greece, unearthed by Thomas Allen Sinclair, an American archaeologist. The amulet’s dormant energy bonded to his bloodline, creating the first human hosts capable of channeling divine might without immediate destruction. Each subsequent bearer inherited fragments of both Artemis’s purity and the Wolf’s hunger.

This legacy birthed a line of hybrid heroes known by a single mantle: Dire-Wolf.

III. PREVIOUS BEARERS (SINCLAIR LINE)

Thomas Allen Sinclair (Dire-Wolf Alpha): The first mortal host. Served as an independent protector during the late 19th century. Documented superhuman feats in urban New York; rumored to have saved over two hundred civilians during the Great Fire of 1889. Died under unexplained circumstances; amulet passed to son.

Gabriel Sinclair (Dire-Wolf II): Military-era hero active during the 1940s. Operated in coordination with early metahuman task forces. Declassified SDN records indicate involvement in “Project Lycaon”—testing divine augmentation under combat conditions. Killed in action, likely from overuse of the amulet’s power.

Lauren Sinclair (Dire-Wolf III, “Lady Wulf”): Acclaimed superheroine operating throughout the 1990s–2010s. Known for her tactical precision and control over the amulet’s dual energies—light and feral instinct. Died in action during a confrontation with the meta-criminal Belladonna; case remains partially sealed.

Enid Sinclair (Dire-Wolf IV): Inherited the amulet at age ten following her mother’s death. Activation incomplete. Displayed erratic synchronization and uncontrolled surges of divine aggression, resulting in multiple collateral incidents before incarceration.

Robert’s finger hovered on Dire-Wolf as if the letters might cut. Memory came back as scent: ozone and oil in his father’s workshop, coolant sweetness under the iron sting, heated leather stamped with knuckle prints. He was small again in a world built big. Mecha Man Astra, dad, clapping his shoulder with a laugh that meant the city was quiet for once. A woman in a jacket that looked like it had been chewed by weather and returned the favor, eyes winter-clear. She’d kneel to his height, mask off, and say something he never remembered right, only the certainty that the room grew safer when she drew breath. Years later, she was dead the way legends die—too publicly, too clean on paper, too dirty in the photos—and the world never found a fair exchange for the hole she left. Shroud took his father soon after. Robert learned the rhythm: build, lose, rebuild, repeat.

He glanced up. Mandy watched him read the way you watch a fuse: hopeful, sure, afraid. “Interesting file,” she said. “I assume you know the name Dire-Wolf. The former one.”

“Yes.” He touched the edge of the page with the back of a knuckle, a small respect. “Met—well, not this one.” His eyes returned to the photo. “Lauren. Is this…her—”

“Daughter.” Mandy’s answer was clean and steady, the way she put a floor under rooms that wanted to fall. “Her only child. It was supposed to be a mantle—grandfather to mother to daughter. Old line.”

He nodded, posture picking up an inch from the weight of it. He didn’t expect the next drop.

“She’s my cousin,” Mandy said. “Younger. Lauren was my aunt. My father’s sister.”

“Talk about family history,” he said quietly.

Her shrug had heavy bones. “My dad didn’t make it easy. Grandfather chose Lauren as successor. He never forgave that. Families do the worst politics.”

Silence set down without making itself a spectacle. Beyond the glass, dispatch churned—lights, lips, the choreography of emergency—muted to a fishbowl hum. Robert turned another page and the air sharpened. Incident photos, legal blocks like black teeth redacting the worst. Behind yellow tape the crowd’s faces blurred into one animal. Asphalt carried a smear that had dried to rust, the jagged edge of a handprint where someone had slid. A boot tread stamped through it, grinding old blood to brick dust.

“If Waterboy or Phenomaman won’t cut it,” Mandy said, and there was no sell in her voice now, only the kind of tired honesty you could balance on, “give her a chance. The program needs the right kind of dangerous. And I—” She stopped. Swallowed. “I need an excuse to stop watching what’s left of my family turn into a headline. She’s wasting everything she was built to do. Let’s not let the worst day of her life be the last thing it counts as.”

The choice came back together in his hands like a weapon he knew blindfolded. He pictured the first meeting: Sonar’s nostrils flaring at the scent of a story; Invisigal’s we’ll-see; Punch Up’s hand, big enough to hide intent; Malevola measuring the break points with eyes made to haunt; Prism already drafting choruses in the air; Golem’s patience, earthen and exact. He pictured Enid in the field—compact, coiled, a heart wired to run toward fire—and the moon catching the fuse underneath her ribs and tugging.

The phantom interface ghosted his sight again, a habit he couldn’t quit:

[CANDIDATE: ENID SINCLAIR]
Pros: Legacy training; high-value capability set; reform narrative with public hook; potential to bind team around a shared risk.
Cons: Volatility; criminal record; grief-driven decision-making; amulet custody unresolved.

Time Remaining: ▓▓▓▓▓▓░░░░

Best case: she steadies, teeth where they’ve been gums, turns chaos into aim. Worst case: he opens the door and invites a wolf into a glass house. Middle case—where leaders live—was meat and grit: wins that bled, losses that taught, the slow manufacturing of trust.

He thought of Mandy selling second chances in rooms that preferred fairy tales. He thought of his father, who believed redemption was an engineering problem. He thought of himself—scar tissue, a small dog, and a building full of people who kept asking him to be exactly one good decision ahead of a bad week.

Time Remaining: ▓▓▓▓░░░░░░

“Okay,” he said, and the word put a floor back under him. He closed the folder gently, like it could bruise. “We give her a shot.”

Mandy’s smile broke clean through the blinds. Her posture eased the way armor eases when it remembers the skin under it. “That’s all I needed,” she said, voice unvarnished, grateful. “I’ll take care of the rest. Thank you, Robert. This…means a lot.”

The folder twitched.

Paper rustled; a corner lifted as if breathed on. Air wavered with a violet shimmer, heat-haze without the heat. The invisibility stuttered. A figure resolved the way film does in a bath, first outline, then color, then smirk.

“Jesus, Visi,” Mandy said, half startle, half resignation.

Invisigal shook a short wedge of purple-black hair out of her eyes and grinned. The cropped magenta jacket was a bruise made stylish over a black tank, dark jeans scuffed at the knee where asphalt had argued and won. Her skin held L.A. sun and bad choices. She palmed an inhaler, took a clean hit, exhaled like punctuation, then brandished the folder as if she’d liberated contraband.

“So we’re swapping Watercunt and Phenomamal for this Dire-chick?” she chirped. “Damn. And she’s your cousin? She’s kinda hot—in that ‘I got booked in a parking lot’ way.”

Robert pinched the bridge of his nose. “It’s Phenomaman. And Waterboy.”

“Sure, sure. Titles, genders, decimal places.” Invisigal hopped onto the desk like a housecat claiming a warm hood, one leg swinging. She flipped pages with a thief’s thumb. “Whoa, priors longer than Punch Up’s arm. But no Murder but we do have Battery and a shit ton of petty crimes—double feature. Queen of multitask.”

“Can you not,” Mandy said, reaching—and failing—to sound entirely like a commander when the fondness kept leaking through.

“I’m just saying.” Invisigal’s grin widened. “Rehabilitating a wolf girl beats babysitting Flambae’s midlife crisis. Maybe she’ll teach him not to trip the alarms every time someone bruises his ego, especially when he gets a protein shake thrown at his face. Poor wet ponytail.”

Robert’s mouth betrayed him with an exhale that was almost a laugh. The room got a size larger; chaos let in air.

“Seriously,” Invisigal said, tapping the inhaler against her thigh, “if she’s as nuts as her file, she’ll fit. Z-Team’s basically group therapy with capes.”

“Minus the therapy,” Robert said.

“Minus the therapy,” Invisigal agreed brightly.

“You’re impossible,” Mandy told her.

“Lovable,” Invisigal corrected, and winked.

For half a heartbeat, watching them, commander and contrarian, order and appetite—Robert wondered about lines and how people kept mistaking them for walls. He’d asked himself the same thing about Mandy and himself once, and learned not to trust a tired heart with boundary work.

Mandy snapped the folder shut with a soft thud and tucked it under her arm. The professional mask slid back into place, but the light stayed. “Alright. Enough gossip. If upstairs wants progress, they’ll get it. This is our shot...and hers.”

Robert nodded; the weight found its place across his shoulders and sat without biting. Beyond the glass, dispatch kept up its pulse, radios, laughter, frayed tempers, the grind of second chances. Outside, the sky bled from gold into bruise. Streetlights tested themselves and decided to live another night.

Invisigal popped off the desk, stretching until her spine ticked like distant hail. “Guess I’ll clean my locker. Make room for wolf-girl.”

“Try not to scare her off,” Mandy said. "Which means behave."

“No promises.” The magenta jacket flashed once; the air bent around her as she ablated out of sight. The door opened, invisible fingers on the handle, and closed on a giggle you could hear or imagine.

Silence settled, the good kind—heavy with next.

Mandy let out half a laugh and half a sigh. “Welcome to the next problem.”

Robert gave her a crooked smile. “Wouldn’t be SDN without one.”

Pale ribbons of last light slipped through the blinds and laid stripes across the folder’s edge. Inside it, a name waited with a history that had already drawn blood and would likely draw more. On the pinboard outside, a photo showed a gutter river gone brown with dried violence; the city had washed it and the stain still told a story if you knew how to read rust.

The Phoenix Program had its new candidate.

And somewhere under the indifferent California sky, a woman who used to be a mantle and was now just a name stood in a room with too little air, counting her breath and trying to remember how not to drown.

Chapter Text

The song bled through the concrete like a memory with a pulse. Not the radio, those privileges lived and died on a rotating schedule but the words themselves, stitched into Enid’s skull from a thousand replayed nights. Breaking Benjamin. “So Cold.” Verses she didn’t have to sing to hear. A chorus that uncoiled whenever the air was thin. She let it play inside her and didn’t chase it away.

Her cell was a shoebox of honest edges: eight by ten, cinderblock painted a color that wanted to be eggshell and settled for institutional resignation. Stainless sink, bolted shelf, single slit of wired glass admitting a gray-pale wash that pretended to be morning. The floor smelled faintly of disinfectant and old bleach ghosts; the air was colder than the radiator’s promises. She had the luxury of solitude now, earned after a row of bad months and a longer row of good ones. Fewer neighbors to practice cruelty on. Fewer chances to teach or be taught the wrong lesson.

Enid sat cross-legged on the narrow mattress, back resting against the brick, the chill seeping in like it had business. Her uniform—a dark green set with a number that no longer felt borrowed—lay folded with military neatness at the foot of the bed. Slippers squared beneath. For now she wore the minimum: cotton briefs and a white crop tank soft from too many washes. Nothing about it was meant to flatter; everything about it was meant to survive laundry and women who didn’t care what they ruined. The tank left her shoulders bare—corded and lean from hours of pushups and wall sits and the slow religion of prison exercise. Scars mapped her in plain, workmanlike strokes: a crescent by the rib where a shiv had kissed and learned respect; a stippled line along the forearm from a fence climbed the same night a girl named Lani didn’t make it over. Her body wasn’t a billboard. It was a ledger.

The journal rested open on her knees, paper gone soft at the corners, the spine trained to kindness. Graphite blew a muted halo across the side of her hand. She drew the way some people pray, head down, breathing even, hours disappearing. Today it was a figure study: a woman rendered with patient lines, shoulders like a marble slope, chin tipped toward an idea. The face had comic-book symmetry without the lie; the posture carried that impossible mix of strength at rest. The reference lived in Enid’s head as clearly as if it were on the wall—those animated stills she’d copied and recut, Wonder Woman spreads she pretended were for anatomy when what she wanted was grace. The curve of the clavicle, the tension at the deltoid, the fall of hair that wasn’t hair so much as a river of intent. She worked the shadow under the cheekbone with the side of the pencil, smudged it with a knuckle, then went back to define the ear with one clean stroke. The line held.

Statues had taught her how to look. Comics had taught her how to move into imagination. Between them she’d found a way to put people on paper who couldn’t be taken away.

The song inside her tapered to the line that always landed like a cold hand on a hot neck. Start over. Try again. She let it sit. She’d had time to think—more time than most get, less than some deserve. The first months had been all sharp teeth: corners where hands got brave and learned consequences, showers where being small meant learning angles, yards where gangs played chess with girls who didn’t know the rules. She’d broken knuckles and learned to tape them. She’d bled; she’d made others bleed. She’d slept with her shoes on for three weeks because a pair of soft footsteps at three a.m. had taught her that running sometimes beats fighting. Dignity, it turned out, could be clawed back in inches and still look like loss.

Later there was quiet: the shop class with the smell of hot metal and the peace of tools that did what you asked; the old CO who called everyone “kid” and meant it; the new counselor who didn’t flinch when Enid refused to cry for the first six sessions and then couldn’t stop for the seventh. She had a list of regrets long enough to tie around a waist and jump. Some nights she looped it and didn’t. Other nights she wrote instead, or sketched a jawline until it held.

A rap at the door, three quick, one patient—cut clean through her head. She looked up. The slot scraped open.

“On your feet and suit up, Sinclair.” Bertha’s voice, steady as a level. Early-shift holdover, or late-shift saint—either way, the woman had a face that didn’t waste expressions. “You’ve got a visitor.”

Enid blinked once. “This early?”

“Trust me, I’m as thrilled as you are.” The humor didn’t reach Bertha’s eyes, but it was real. “Not standard hours. Warden signed it. Get dressed.”

The music in Enid’s skull turned down to a hum. She capped her pencil, closed the journal, set it gently on the pillow like a warm thing. The uniform slid on with practiced economy: shirt, pants, elastic that had lost the right to complain. Slippers. She stepped forward and offered her wrists without being asked.

Bertha studied her for the half-second a guard buys with experience, then shook her head and waved the cuffs away. “Hands where I can see ’em, Sinclair. Let’s not make this a day.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Enid put her palms out, relaxed, elbows loose. Bertha opened the door with a clack that lived somewhere between ritual and mercy.

The corridor slapped brightness into her eyes. Overhead fluorescents hummed like angry bees, their glare bouncing from glossed cinderblock to sealed concrete until the whole hall became a lightbox. Doors spaced at metronome intervals kept their mouths shut. Inside some of them, soft sounds lived—murmurs, a cough, the feathered shuffle of someone doing burpees because time demanded a toll. The posted rules were laminated and blunt: NO CONTACT WITHOUT PERMISSION. KEEP LEFT. EYES FORWARD. She kept left. She kept forward.

Checkpoint one: a waist-high table, a wand, a scan. Enid lifted her arms; the wand sang a thin soprano around the seams of her life. Checkpoint two: ID slides, the CO glances from photo to face as if faces have the decency to stay the same in here. Checkpoint three: the choke point with the old metal detector that always screamed at Bertha’s belt and never at Enid, because uniforms didn’t earn metal. The gates banged open then banged shut, music in a minor key.

They didn’t take her to the phone booths with their cracked plastic shields and the choreography of awkward hands finding where to rest. They wound through a back corridor she’d only seen twice before—once for a disciplinary review that ended in her losing yard time, once for a medical check after she’d slipped and a tile had taken skin from her palm like a souvenir. Today the door at the end led into a room the size of a decent kitchen. Table. Four chairs. No mirrored glass; the corners held small smoke-colored bubbles that might be cameras and might be nothing. The quiet had its own smell—dry paper, old dust, a hint of lemon cleaner laid down like apology.

“Have a seat,” Bertha said.

Enid did, the chair’s legs rasping on the waxed floor. “If this is about Martha,” she added, feeling the prickle at the back of her neck sharpen into a point, “I had nothing to do with it.”

Bertha’s jaw worked once. “Warden knows.” Which wasn’t an answer but wasn’t not one. “Wait here.” She left on soft soles, the door closing with a seal’s tidy certainty.

Enid let the silence settle, then tested it. No throat-mic whisper in the vents. No metal tattle of a camera panning. Her pulse declined from alert to wary. She folded her hands on the table because posture can be armor, and counted slow to thirty for no reason except the body likes numbers. On twenty-nine, the handle turned.

The woman who stepped in carried the room with her like weather.

Enid’s world kicked twice, once in recognition, once in disbelief. The last time she’d seen Mandy Sinclair had been months and months and another life ago: a blur of court corridors and a promise with more obligation than comfort. This version wore her hair a deep brunette, swept back in a bun that looked effortless and wasn’t. Blue eyes (those eyes) still glacier clear. Slacks that fit because they were supposed to, a pale blouse tucked with military neatness, a blazer folded over one forearm like the afterthought of someone who forgot to be ordinary. The shape of her was capability first: shoulders built for taking weight, balance in how she stood, hands that could sign or strike and be convincing either way. A pair of heels lifted her an inch above problems and clicked like punctuation against the tile.

“Mandy!?” It broke out of Enid before she decided to say it. “What the hell—”

“Hey, cuz.” Mandy closed the door and set a stack of files down as she sat, the motion entirely tidy. The mouth tilted; it wasn’t quite a smile. “Long time.”

Enid slouched, not defiant, just letting some armor leak out of her shoulders. “Yeah… been a long minute.” History ran between them like barbed wire someone had tried to braid into a rope. Mandy had always been the taller shore and older by four years, steadier by ten, the one who showed up to school fights in a clean shirt and left with grass stains and a principal’s warning. Enid had been the kid who laughed on her way to the office and cried in the bathroom afterward, the scrapper who mistook bruises for proof of life. Cousins by blood, sisters by bad timing and stubbornness; they’d sparred in kitchens and hallways, words first, hands later, both of them always reaching for the same thing, control—only one of them better at pretending it didn’t matter. You could say they loved each other; you just had to say it like a dare.

They sat in the little room and looked. Ten quiet seconds where openings auditioned and failed.

Mandy went first. “Warden says your record’s clean. Over a year.” She didn’t check the file to confirm; she already knew. “No write-ups. You volunteered on hygiene kit assembly with the church group, the food line on Saturdays when the COs could spare the bodies, clothing sort once a month. You logged the most hours in welding—moved to MIG, even stuck your name on the sign-out for the grinder and brought it back without a nick.” One brow twitched. “They said you fix the locker latches when they go wonky.”

Enid’s mouth tilted. “If I don’t fix ’em, someone else pries them with a spoon.”

“Library too,” Mandy continued. “Wellness shelves. The little affirmation paperbacks, the trauma workbooks with the unicorn covers they think grown women won’t notice. A couple of Greek sculpture monographs that haven’t been checked out since 2006. Comic omnibuses—Wonder Woman, mostly.”

Enid blinked once, slow. “Are you reading me my report card? You didn’t even ask how I’ve been. I mean—” her jaw set, then loosened— “you show up at dawn to narrate my Goodreads? Just tell me why you’re here. Is my sentence extended? Shortened? Transfer? What is this.”

Mandy sighed, one of those exhale-only breaths that meant the answer didn’t fit in a sentence. She opened the stack and fanned a spread of eight familiar squares; the paper smelled faintly of toner and old decisions. Mugshot lighting. Prison orange. Names on placards that had since been torn up or framed depending on who you asked.

“History,” she said, tapping the first.

Top-left: a lean girl with a blade of a smile and purple-black hair razored short. “Courtney. Invisigal. Breath-hold invisibility. Used to call herself Invisibitch until she got tired of the punchline. Assault, B&E, resisting. Asthma like a land mine—timing is everything. Lone-wolf, shares poorly, smarter than she admits.”

Top row, middle—the red X slashed over a cool-eyed woman in the same orange. “Coupé. Flight suit. Shadow play. Took contracts for the mob before she went boutique. Precise as a metronome, soul like a switch. We cut her last week. She cut the table on her way out.” Mandy didn’t look at Enid when she said it.

Top-right: a mass like earth learned how to stand. “Golem,” Mandy said. “Bruno on paper, sometimes. Fire suppression, heavy lift, hard stop. Gentle until he isn’t. Needs a partner with a good direction with maps.”

Middle-left: a forehead and narrowed eyes glowering up from too low in the frame, like the camera had flinched. “Chad. Flambae. Afghan kid who learned to burn before he learned to slow down. Arson, property destruction, public endangerment. Hair’s flammable; don’t mention it unless you want a bad afternoon.”

Center: a compact, furious mountain. “Colm. Punch Up. Deal with something older than sense, strength of ten men, height of half. Prideful. Fair to a fault. Will bench-press a car and apologize to it if he scuffs the paint.”

Middle-right, already covered by Golem in this layout, but Mandy nudged the stack and brought up the bat. Bottom-left: a head half man, half nightmare petting zoo, ears like sails, eyes glassy. “Victor. Sonar. Cult nonsense, echolocation, bat shift when his chemistry decides his day. Smirk is armor. Money launderer turned repentance tourist.”

Bottom-middle: a popstar mugshot that refused to be unglamorous. “Alice. Prism. Light tricks, media warfare, espionage without calling it that. Image-conscious for structural reasons—don’t confuse it with shallowness.”

Bottom-right: a woman in orange who looked like hell took finishing school—red skin, gold eyes, horns, boredom. “Malevola Gibb. Portal blade, half demon, whole problem. Body count, cult work, a sense of humor that makes priests cry. Brilliant inside a structure. Dangerous when the structure breaks.”

Enid scanned the grid twice, then looked up. “I thought you had a boyfriend. Phenomaman—right? Why are you showing me other people? Shopping for a worse toy?”

Mandy rolled her eyes, the gesture neat as a full stop. “They were you,” she said, and left just enough air around it to sting. “Caught, thrown into a system that solves problems with cages. We gave them a door—conditional, monitored, earned. They’re not saints. They’re not beyond saving. That’s the Phoenix Program.”

Enid’s jaw ticked. “Never heard of it.”

“You know SDN,” Mandy said. “Dispatch. We send help when civilians call and when they don’t know how. Phoenix sits inside that mission. It’s rehabilitation and field integration for powered offenders who can be trusted further than a yard. Not charity. Not PR. It’s a lever. We take people the world is done with and ask them to prove the world wrong—loudly, on camera, with oversight that would make God itch.” She slid a sheet out—letterhead, the logo a stylized flame rising through a ring. “You get a team. A dispatcher who lives in your ear. Counseling you don’t have to like but you have to attend. No solo runs. Body cam. Quarterly boards where a room full of people who learned ethics in school decide if you keep breathing free air. You work. You serve. You fail, we take you back in chains the same day and write a press release nobody enjoys.”

Enid listened with her face half-shuttered, fury and hope trading the mirror between them. The word team snagged and held. The word chains didn’t bounce at all.

“And the Z-Team is the… charity case?” she asked, dry.

“The bad alphabet,” Mandy said, allowing the smallest smile. “They were our pilot. They still are our proof. Imperfect, loud, occasionally on fire. But they save people. Real ones.”

Enid snorted, because the other choice was letting warmth into her throat. “You’re asking me to sign up for group therapy with capes.”

“Minus the therapy,” Mandy said. Then more softly: “Except not really minus.”

Enid leaned back. “No.”

Mandy didn’t flinch. She opened a new folder and slid a single form across the table. It had weight. The kind paper gets when it changes the room.

“Judge signed off under clause 18-B. Ethics Board cleared it. The Warden countersigned at five-oh-nine this morning. Robert Robertson, Senior Dispatcher, signed too.” She tapped each signature—ink asleep, power awake. “You join Phoenix. Torrance branch. You work under me. You do the evaluations. You meet the conditions. At twelve months, the remainder of your sentence is vacated. You break faith, you go back. Simple math.”

Enid looked down. The header was an organism of acronyms and authority.

SUPERHERO DISPATCH NETWORK (SDN)
PHOENIX PROGRAM – REHABILITATION AND FIELD INTEGRATION DIVISION
TRANSFER AUTHORIZATION FORM

CONFIDENTIAL – CLASSIFIED INTERNAL USE ONLY

Transfer Type: Inmate Release / Rehabilitation Assignment
Program Designation: Phoenix Program (Tier 3 – Field Integration)
Branch Assignment: SDN – Torrance, California
Receiving Officer: MANDY SINCLAIR (Hero Alias: Blonde Blazer)
Title: Torrance Branch Director / Phoenix Program Supervisor

SUBJECT INFORMATION
Full Name: ENID LAUREN SINCLAIR
Alias: “Dire-Wolf IV”
Date of Birth: 03 / 17 / 2000
Age: 25
Gender: Female
Place of Birth: San Diego, California
Incarceration Facility: Bedford Hills Correctional Facility, Westchester County, NY
Inmate ID: #BH-21745-EN
Sentence: 10 Years (4 Years, 9 Months Served)
Custody Status: TRANSFERRED under SDN Supervised Release
Criminal Classification: Ex-Villain / Former Unauthorized Vigilante
Known Abilities: Enhanced strength, agility, regenerative physiology (Artemis Amulet host)

REHABILITATION TERMS & CONDITIONS

Subject placed on probationary employment within the Phoenix Program.
Subject to 24/7 digital monitoring and quarterly performance evaluation.
Prohibited from solo field operations without dispatcher authorization.
Any breach of conduct or unsanctioned use of divine artifact (Artemis Amulet) results in immediate termination of probation and re-incarceration.
Weekly counseling sessions mandated with SDN Behavioral Division representative.
Subject’s guardian/supervisor assumes full responsibility for compliance.

JUSTIFICATION FOR TRANSFER
Following observed behavioral reform and stable psychological evaluations, subject deemed eligible for Phoenix Program integration.
Recommendation approved by SDN Ethics Board and New York State Department of Corrections under clause 18-B “Experimental Rehabilitation of Superpowered Offenders.”
Subject considered moderate risk / high potential for controlled fieldwork.

AUTHORIZED BY:
ROBERT ROBERTSON III – Lead Dispatcher, SDN Torrance
MANDY SINCLAIR – Branch Director, SDN Torrance
DR. ISADORA CAPRI– Chief Psychological Officer, SDN Behavioral Division

SIGNATURES:
[ ✅️ ] _______________________________ (Enid L. Sinclair – Subject)
[✅️ ] _______________________________ (Mandy Sinclair – Custodian)
[✅️ ] _______________________________ (Robert Robertson – Witness)
[ ✅️ ] _______________________________ (Warden Signature – Bedford Hills Correctional Facility)

STATUS:
☑ APPROVED  □ DENIED  □ PENDING  □ RETURNED TO CUSTODY

TRANSFER DATE: 04 / 02 / 2025
FILE ID: #SDN-TB/PP-04A-21745

At the bottom: ROBERT ROBERTSON III. MANDY SINCLAIR. DR. ISADORA CAPRI. And the Warden’s practiced autograph cutting a clean artery across the page.

Enid’s pulse ticked in her jaw. Somewhere inside, a thin familiar overlay ghosted her vision, habit dressed as fate:

[ACCEPT TRANSFER?]
Join Phoenix Program — Freedom with conditions.
Decline — Continue sentence (5 years, 3 months remaining).
Request Delay — Risk revocation of offer.

Time Remaining: ▓▓▓▓▓░░░░░

She kept her face flat. She read it again. And again, slower, like the words would admit they were bait if she gave them time.

Which Enid was now pressured.....Delay.

“Hold on, Mandy. What the hell—this is all too much. You walk in here before sunrise with a government contract and expect me to what? Just sign my name before I’ve even had coffee?”

Mandy didn’t even blink, just drew a slow breath that said she’d rehearsed this in the mirror. “Enid, I know it’s sudden. And I know I probably look like I came here on a business trip instead of to see family—but believe me, I fought tooth and nail to make this even possible.”

Her voice softened, losing its corporate polish. “This isn’t charity. This is your second chance. Maybe mine too. It’s a chance to rebuild something we both wrecked—family, name, faith, I don’t know. But it’s real.”

Enid laughed under her breath, not out of humor. It was a sharp, thin sound. “A second chance to do what? To be someone’s PR miracle?”

Mandy’s eyes didn’t flinch from the hit. “To unvarnish your mother’s name.”

That landed. Enid looked away. Lauren Sinclair—the third Dire-Wolf—flashed through memory like a wound that never fully closed. Strength wrapped in discipline, voice like a bell that never cracked, body carried through fire and flood and headlines. And then gone. Enid pressed her palm to her thigh, grounding herself against the tremor that word always woke.

Mandy kept talking, careful, deliberate. “You’ll have pay, real pay. Benefits, too—health, dental, full coverage. They’ve even got a trauma therapist on staff who’s worked with artifact hosts before. You’ll get your own apartment—small, but private. No more bunk beds. You’ll have a savings plan, vacation days, even bonuses for successful dispatches. I can’t promise peace, but I can promise purpose.”

“Purpose,” Enid muttered, voice dry as dust. “That’s what they called it when they sent my mother into the field too.”

“Enid—”

“No. Don’t ‘Enid’ me.” Her voice cracked on its way up, brittle and loud. “You don’t get to show up after four years of being on and off again and call this a family reunion just because the system finally gave you a pen to save me with.”

Mandy flinched. Not much—but enough.

Silence dug its roots in between them for a beat too long.

Then Enid exhaled, shaky. “Can I at least think about it?”

Mandy shook her head, eyes firm but not cruel. “No time. My higher-ups need an answer before I walk out that door. You know how they are—this offer dies the second I step back on the tarmac.”

“That’s convenient.”

“It’s bureaucracy,” Mandy said. “And mercy. Both don’t last long. Come on, cuz. Don’t make me watch you rot in a cage because you couldn’t say yes.”

She reached across the table, her hand catching Enid’s. The touch was warm, grounding. Her thumb grazed the ridge of scar tissue knotted across Enid’s knuckles—the old fights, the old hunger for control written there like braille. “You’re not alone this time,” Mandy said. “I’ll be there every step of the way.”

The words might’ve been rehearsed, but the look wasn’t. Enid saw the sleepless lines under her cousin’s eyes, the guilt sitting quiet behind them. For a moment, the glass and concrete around them fell away, and it was just the two of them, blood and memory, old bruises and older promises.

“What about the Amulet?” Enid asked finally, her voice barely more than a rasp.

“They’ll release it to you under certain conditions,” Mandy replied, watching her closely. “We have a division that specializes in divine artifacts. They’ll help monitor it, study the resonance, train you to regulate its influence. No lab cages, no experiments. Just guidance. You’ll have control again, Enid.”

Enid’s jaw clenched. “Control,” she echoed. “That’s a funny word for something that’s been inside my bones since I was ten.”

“It doesn’t respond to anyone else,” Mandy said, quieter now. “It’s yours. Maybe it always was. And maybe—just maybe—you can do something good with it. Like she did.”

Lauren’s ghost sat in that sentence. The room felt smaller for it. Enid’s chest tightened until she thought she might laugh or break.

Her mind spun, faces of guards, flashes of metal, sweat, blood, the metallic sting of fear in her throat, the music that had kept her from screaming. The idea of walking out and of seeing sky without razor wire, breathing air that didn’t smell like bleach—was enough to make her stomach hurt.

Freedom. On paper. In chains made of clauses and signatures.

Her heartbeat synced with the ticking in her head.

[ACCEPT TRANSFER?]
Join Phoenix Program — Freedom with conditions.
Decline — Continue sentence (5 years, 3 months remaining).
Request Delay — Risk revocation of offer.

Time Remaining: ▓▓▓░░░░░░░

The world narrowed. Her breath came shallow, and she stared at the pen. One stroke could undo nearly five years of slow boring hell—or start another kind.

She looked up at Mandy, saw the same woman who once taught her to punch with her wrist straight, who yelled at her for shoplifting candy and then paid for it anyway. Saw a hero who’d dragged herself through headlines and heartbreak to stand here asking for one more leap of faith.

Enid sighed, deep and final. The timer in her head burned out to black.

She reached for the pen.

The paper trembled under her hand, then steadied as if it had been waiting for this all along.
And with a single, unsteady motion, she signed her name.

Mandy didn’t speak at first, just watched the signature bleed into permanence. Then her composure cracked, joy breaking through the armor she wore like another uniform. “So… that just happened,” Enid muttered, her voice half a groan, half disbelief. “What now?”

Mandy didn’t bother answering. She came around the table, wrapped her cousin in a hug that could’ve cracked ribs, and lifted her clean off the chair. “Now,” she said against her ear, laughing through a choked breath, “we start over.” Enid swore softly, muffled against Mandy’s shoulder, as the older woman kissed her cheek once, twice, three times like she was blessing a miracle she’d stopped believing in.

The walls blurred, gravity loosened and the world changed shape.

The harsh white of the interview room dissolved into the quiet hum of altitude. The cold became conditioned air laced with coffee and recycled leather. When Enid blinked again, the city below was already a quilt of clouds. The jet’s hull carried the silver letters of SDN, stylized flame logo stenciled along its flank. The world outside the oval window was washed gold with morning—the kind of light she hadn’t seen without bars in front of it in almost five years.

She sat on the window side, seatbelt still loose around her waist, one hand cradling the journal balanced across her lap. Her reflection looked strange in the glass, same eyes, same bones, but different weight. Jeans, hoodie, sneakers. Clothes that actually belonged to her skin. It felt almost indecent, how soft the fabric was. The hoodie smelled faintly of detergent and airport air. The cuffs still had the crease from the plastic bag they’d handed her after release. No orange. No number. No hidden stink of bleach.

Mandy sat to her right, finally out of uniform herself—hair down now, blazer hung across her knees, phone off for once. Somewhere between takeoff and ten thousand feet, exhaustion had found her. Her head had drifted to Enid’s shoulder, her breath warm and steady against the fabric. The proud hero, undone by a red-eye rescue mission. There was something childlike about it. Trusting. Human.

Enid stared out at the clouds, the Pacific bleeding into horizon. The sound of the jet was a low, constant heartbeat. Her mind was too loud for the silence, too quiet for the relief clawing through her chest.

She was free. Not unchained, not unsupervised, but free enough to feel it. Air without alarms. Shoes that didn’t squeak on waxed floors. A sunrise that wasn’t a headcount.

Her fingers brushed the edge of her journal—the one thing she’d fought to keep, its pages filled with drawings of women carved from myth and marble, and the quiet lines of people she’d imagined forgiving her someday. It sat heavy in her lap now, as if the sketches themselves couldn’t quite believe the cell was gone.

She turned to look at Mandy. Drool had started to gather at the corner of her cousin’s mouth, glinting in the plane’s soft light. A small thing, a ridiculous thing—and yet Enid didn’t move.

[TIME PRESSURE]
Wake her — “Mandy, you’re drooling.”
Let her rest — “She earned this.”

Time Remaining: ▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓░░

Enid hesitated, then smiled faintly and let her rest.

Maybe it was mercy. Maybe it was love. Maybe it was both.

Mandy shifted, murmured something incoherent, then settled deeper into her shoulder. Enid turned back to the window, watching the sky divide itself between light and cloud. The earth below rolled westward, toward California, toward the next cage painted to look like a chance.

She didn’t know what waited there? fire, monsters, redemption, but for the first time in years, the horizon didn’t look like punishment.

And for now, that was enough.

Chapter Text

Enid didn’t speak for the first full minute. She just stood in the doorway and let the air hit her—real air, not the recycled, chemical-stale kind that lived behind locks. Her new apartment was small, sure, but it felt enormous in the ways that mattered.

One narrow bed sat tucked against the far wall, white sheets turned down like someone had been expecting her. A kitchenette hummed quietly opposite, stainless steel and warm wood tones under the soft amber of hidden ceiling lights. Beyond it, a sliding glass door led into a bathroom clean enough to belong in another world—no mold, no rust, just the faint scent of soap and space.

Her sneakers stayed planted at the threshold, afraid to scuff something so foreign as freedom.

She dropped her duffel, barely more than her sketchbook, a few folded shirts, and a packet of letters she hadn’t opened in years—then walked in slow circles like she might wake up if she moved too fast. Posters climbed the walls in soft rebellion: bands she used to love, movies she once quoted, faces she hadn’t seen since her mother’s voice still filled the house. Someone, Mandy, obviously had decorated the place using memory as a paintbrush.

A mini fridge sat open on the counter, humming low, stocked with frozen dinners, bottles of root beer, and three neatly stacked chocolate bars. Chips, noodles, and candy bags were lined like a care package disguised as groceries. Her hand hovered over the freezer handle before she pulled it open and laughed quietly when she saw a tub of mint chocolate chip. Mandy remembered everything.

The window overlooked Torrance with low rooftops, the bruised glow of city lights, the sprawl of palm silhouettes caught between dusk and the Pacific. The sound of cars below felt strangely holy, like proof of life.

“Whoa,” she breathed. “This is… this is—”

“Amazing, huh?” Mandy said from behind her, a grin hidden in her voice. She moved past with the ease of someone who’d done this a dozen times, collapsing onto the couch and tossing her blazer onto the armrest. “Yeah, SDN wanted you close to the branch for probation tracking, so they found something within walking distance. Fully covered—utilities, rent, the basics. Don’t worry about the bills. The only thing you’ll have to pay for is Wi-Fi, if you want it. But knowing you, you’ll use it to binge cartoons, not research.”

Enid turned back, still stunned. “You’re joking. This is actually mine?”

“Your name’s on the lease,” Mandy said, legs crossed, casual as breathing. “Conditionally, of course.”

Enid crossed the floor to the small closet. Inside hung a tidy rack of clothes: jeans, soft shirts, a couple of hoodies, sneakers lined by color. Nothing fancy and verything new. She ran her fingers across the cotton, almost reverently. Prison clothes had always felt like wearing regret. These just felt like air.

When she came back out, Mandy had kicked her shoes off and was sprawled with a remote in hand. “You like it?”

Enid grabbed the other remote from the coffee table, turned on the TV, and blinked at the screen. The Simpsons flickered in yellow and noise, a rerun so old it still felt alive. “Freak yeah,” she said, grinning despite herself.

Mandy’s smile softened at that, one of those rare, unguarded moments when the world didn’t owe her perfection. “Good. Settle in tonight, okay? You’ve got a long day tomorrow.”

Enid glanced over. “Tomorrow?”

“You’ll meet Robert and the team,” Mandy said, reaching over to swipe a crumb from her knee. “They’ll love you. Or at least pretend to. I made sure they’ll be on their best behavior.”

Enid arched a brow. “You bribed them, didn’t you?”

Mandy smirked. “Let’s call it morale management.”

Enid let herself fall back onto the couch beside her, the cushions sighing under the weight of something that wasn’t fear anymore. For the first time in years, there was no lock behind her, no schedule carved into concrete, no distant shouting from the other side of a wall. Just the low hum of the city outside, the smell of new sheets, and the warm static of a television bleeding laughter into her living room.

Freedom, fragile and conditional as it was, still felt like flight.

Tomorrow would bring the Z-Team, and Robert, and all the mess that came with second chances—but tonight, it was enough just to exist here.

To breathe.

To belong somewhere again.

When Mandy finally left that night, the apartment fell still in a way Enid hadn’t heard in years. She lay in bed and waited—for the keys jangling, the heavy boots outside the door, the clipped voices calling lights out. Her body tensed when 9:00 came and went. Then 10:00. Then midnight. Nothing.

No flashlight beam cutting across her face. No barked “count check.” Just the sound of city air through the vent and the hum of the fridge keeping its little kingdom cold. Freedom had a sound, she realized. It was the absence of control.

She waited a while longer, because habit is harder to break than handcuffs. Sleep came slow, but when it did, it wasn’t filled with the usual metallic echoes or screaming pipes.

When morning arrived, it did so rudely.

The alarm clock beside her bed shrieked at full volume. Enid shot upright, fists ready, heart going a mile a minute. For one wild second she was back in the block—ready for a fight, a search, an order. Then her eyes adjusted, saw sunlight spilling through the curtains, and she exhaled.

“Jesus—” she muttered, unplugging the thing like it had insulted her personally.

Her pulse still hammering, she stumbled toward the bathroom. It was strange how quiet the floor felt beneath her bare feet. At Bedford, every step echoed through concrete like guilt. Here, it was just soft tile and the smell of soap.

She turned on the shower, steam curling up like a ghost from the drain. For a second she hesitated, old instincts telling her to glance for eyes, for watchers, for that sour blend of sweat and bleach that clung to communal showers. There had been too many stares in those years. Women long starved of touch looking for something, anything, to feel alive again. Enid had learned early how to scrub fast, eyes down, elbows sharp.

But here, there was no one. No echoing laughter. No guards banging batons. Just water and quiet.

She stepped in. Cold first—it was always cold at the prison, so her body didn’t flinch. But then warmth came. Actual warmth. It slid down her spine like a foreign kindness. She washed slow, deliberate: lathering the generic citrus body wash across her arms, her legs, scrubbing the soap under her nails, around her scars, over the pale crescents on her knuckles. When she reached her collarbone, she lingered, tracing the ridged reminder of one of her first fights—won ugly.

The water turned faintly pink as it ran off. Old skin cells, maybe. Or memory bleeding out.

When she was done, she towel-dried her hair—still damp at the tips and dressed in the outfit Mandy had left folded on the chair: a flannel shirt in deep mustard and forest green, sleeves rolled just enough to show the faded ink on her wrists, blue jeans cuffed at the ankles, and worn high-top Converse that squeaked faintly on the tile. It was practical, unpretentious, comfortable. She caught her reflection in the mirror as she looked… normal. Almost.

Breakfast came next. Toast, peanut butter, banana slices, and honey. The smell hit her before the taste did, and she almost laughed. “Holy hell,” she said to the empty room. “Real food.”

At Bedford, breakfast was watery eggs, limp bacon, and grits burned into concrete. How anyone burns grits was one of life’s mysteries with some kind of state-sponsored art form in culinary disappointment.

She ate fast, washed it down with a glass of water so clear it felt criminal, then packed a plastic grocery bag: ramen, chips, a handful of pork rinds. Prison habit—always bring a backup meal.

When she slipped on her jacket and turned the key in the lock, the click of it made her chest tighten. Keys. Hers. Not a guard’s. Not a warden’s. Just hers.

Outside, the air smelled faintly of exhaust and coffee, sharp with morning.

Then came the voice. “Rise and shine, rookie.”

Enid turned and froze.

Blonde Blazer was standing by the curb, golden hair catching the sun, blue-and-yellow uniform bright enough to shame daylight. The red crystal in her chestpiece glowed faintly as her cape rippled behind her. She looked like every poster Enid had seen as a kid come to life—confident, composed, and strong in a way that made Enid’s insecurities curl up for warmth.

Mandy grinned under the mask. “How was the first night? You sleep good?”

Enid nodded, tugging at her sleeve. “Yeah. First time in a long time I didn’t wake up screaming. So… thanks for that.”

“Good.” Mandy stretched, the cape shifting with the motion. “Come on, then. Being on time makes a great first impression.”

Enid frowned. “Wait—what do you mean ‘come on’? You’re not—oh, hell no—”

Before she could finish, Blonde Blazer’s arm hooked around her waist and lifted her clean off the ground like she weighed nothing.

“Mandy—!”

“Hold tight!”

The world blurred into blue and gold. The wind punched her lungs empty. Her hair whipped across her face, the cold slicing through her jacket as Torrance turned into a mosaic below with rooftops, cars, surf breaking far in the distance. She screamed once, then clung harder, bag flapping violently against her side.

“THIS ISN’T WHAT YOU MEANT BY ‘CARPOOL’!” she yelled into Mandy’s shoulder.

“Technically, I’m the vehicle!” Mandy shouted back, voice carried by the wind.

By the time they landed, smoothly, of course—Enid still had her eyes squeezed shut, arms locked tight around her cousin’s neck like a terrified koala. Mandy planted her boots on the asphalt outside the Superhero Dispatch Network building, sunlight gleaming off the mirrored glass.

“You can let go now,” Mandy said, trying not to laugh.

“Nope,” Enid said flatly, eyes still closed.

“Enid.”

“Still nope.”

Mandy snorted. “Suit yourself.” She pried Enid’s fingers off one at a time until the girl finally stumbled back, legs trembling, hair a wild mess.

When Enid opened her eyes, she froze again—but this time in awe.

The SDN Torrance Branch shimmered in the sunlight like a promise that didn’t entirely trust itself. The building’s mirrored glass caught every gleam of morning and threw it back at the sky, a perfect corporate fortress, modern, sterile, heroic. Rows of cars filled the lot in disciplined stripes: gleaming sedans, dented hatchbacks, a couple of bikes lined up beside a charging port. A few heroes landed with a sound like thunder muffled through velvet, their capes flashing against the asphalt. Others strolled in through the main doors, still in their uniforms, smelling faintly of ozone and caffeine.

Enid stood at the curb, bag slung over her shoulder, watching all of it with a quiet disbelief that bordered on vertigo. It felt like she’d stepped into someone else’s comic book.

Mandy—Blonde Blazer now in every sense of the word—looked like she belonged here. Sunlight clung to her armor, her cape catching a mild wind as she rested a hand on Enid’s shoulder. “Welcome to S.D.N Torrance Branch, Dire-Wolf.”

The name hit like a soft punch. Her mother’s title. Her curse. Still, she nodded. “Guess this is home base.”

“Guess so.” Mandy smiled, and together they crossed the glass doors.

---

Inside, the SDN lobby was a sprawl of polished concrete and light. Sun cut through the high windows in long beams that striped the floor. The air smelled faintly of coffee, ozone, and lemon polish. A front desk dominated the far wall beneath a glowing blue sign—SDN Reception. Dispatchers in crisp blue shirts weaved between heroes in spandex and armor, trading schedules, jokes, and caffeine debts.

Several of them stopped what they were doing the second Blonde Blazer walked in. It was like watching the sun enter a room.

“Morning, Blazer!”
“Ma’am, your segment on Channel 8 was incredible!”
“Hey, uh, if you’re free later, I’d love to grab—”

Mandy handled it with the grace of a practiced celebrity, smiling and waving off compliments. “You’re all too kind, really—big day, folks, keep saving the world.”

Enid trailed quietly behind, very aware of the curious looks that followed her. It wasn’t the stares that got her, she’d had worse but the polite confusion in them, the silent Who’s that with her?

She tried to focus on the details instead. The waiting area to their right was arranged in warm reds and dark wood, sunlight pooling on armchairs. A vending machine hummed beside a row of framed “Hero of the Month” plaques. Through the tall glass wall, she glimpsed the outdoor courtyard—a serene rectangle of greenery where a few dispatchers sat with tablets and coffee, laughter faint but real.

Then came the elevator. The chrome doors slid open with a chime, and they stepped inside—immediately packed shoulder-to-shoulder with costumed and civilian staff alike. The air smelled like deodorant and stress.

Someone sniffed the air. “You smell good,” a man said conversationally. “That shea butter?”

Every head turned. Even Mandy blinked.

Enid hesitated. “Uh… yeah, I think so?”

“Good choice,” he said, as if confirming a sacred truth.

The elevator dinged mercifully before anyone could respond. The crowd spilled out in a wave of polite chaos, leaving Enid flushed and trying not to laugh.

---

“Morning, Miss Blazer!”

A voice chirped down the hall. Enid turned and saw a tall, awkward young man in a yellow-and-blue jumpsuit, hair sticking out beneath his goggles, a mop bucket rolling beside him. His name tag read Waterboy in sharpie over a faded SDN patch. He beamed like someone perpetually two sentences ahead of an apology.

“Oh—hey, Waterboy,” Mandy said kindly.

He nodded quickly, then looked at Enid, fumbling the rag in his hands. “Hi. Uh, nice to—meet you. I’m—Waterboy.”

[TIME PRESSURE]
Ignore — Too weird, too eager.
Engage — Fist bump, harmless enough.

Time Remaining: ▓▓▓▓▓▓▓░░

Enid studied him. Nervous, but harmless. She lifted her right fist. “Dire-Wolf,” she said, instantly regretting the weight of her own mother’s name.

Waterboy’s grin split wide. He bumped her fist gently. “Cool name. Uh—welcome aboard.”

“Thanks,” she said softly.

Mandy leaned close as they walked on. “He’s nice. Bit of a weirdo, but harmless. You’ll get used to him.”

They turned a corner into the dispatch floor, where the atmosphere shifted. Rows of cubicles stretched in tidy lines, lit by monitor glow and fluorescent fatigue. The air thrummed with overlapping voices—dispatchers coordinating missions, heroes checking in, printers grinding through endless reports. A massive whiteboard at the far end listed names, callsigns, and current assignments under the bold header: PHOENIX PROGRAM / Z-TEAM STATUS.

Blonde Blazer led her toward one particular desk.

The man there didn’t immediately notice them. He sat with a headset on, voice calm, steady, the kind that could defuse bombs or arguments equally. His shirt was SDN blue, sleeves rolled, jaw shadowed with stubble. His eyes were locked on the dual monitors, fingers moving with precision over the keyboard.

“Copy that,” he murmured into the mic. “Redirect Punch-Up to the east sector. Flambae, you’re too close to civilian ground zero—repeat, back off the damn heat.”

The moment was cut by a blur at Enid’s feet. Something small and black darted between her shoes and sniffed enthusiastically at her pant leg.

She looked down—and smiled.

A corgi. Short legs, dark fur, a white chest, tail stub wagging like a metronome. His name tag gleamed Beef.

“Hey, little guy,” Enid said, kneeling. Her hand brushed over his fur—soft, warm, grounding. The small thump of his tail against her boot sent a pang straight through her chest. It had been years since she’d touched anything so unguarded.

“Beef,” Mandy said dryly. “You’re on greeting duty again, huh?”

“Robert,” she called over the office noise. “Got a minute?”

The man at the console glanced up, pulled off his headset, and swiveled in his chair. His eyes met Enid’s first—steady, assessing, kind beneath the exhaustion.

“Morning, Blazer,” he said. “And this must be our new recruit.”

“Enid Sinclair,” Mandy said, proud but cautious. “Codename Dire-Wolf. She’ll be joining the Phoenix Program effective today.”

Robert stood, offering a handshake. His grip was firm but not performative. “Robert Robertson the Third, but everyone just calls me Rob or Robert. Dispatch lead for the Z-Team. Welcome to the circus.”

Enid smiled faintly. “Heard worse job offers.”

“Good,” he said. “You’ll fit right in.”

Beef barked once in apparent approval.

Then another voice broke through the hum of computers.

“Christ, Blazer, you brought a celebrity and a criminal to work. What’s next, a daycare?”

The man approaching wore a mustard sweater over a white collared shirt, his hair silver and cropped close. His skin was dark, eyes sharp with mischief that age hadn’t managed to dull. He carried a coffee mug in one hand and the confidence of someone who’d already had two too many.

“Enid, meet Chase,” Mandy said, deadpan. “Try not to take him personally.”

“Don’t worry,” Chase said with a grin. “Nobody does. You must be the wolf girl—heard you tore up a few city blocks before breakfast once many year's ago on New Year's day.”

Enid blinked. “That’s… not exactly how it happened.”

“Eh,” he shrugged, sipping his coffee. “Rumors keep things interesting. Otherwise this place would just be paperwork and broken egos.”

“Still is,” Robert muttered.

Chase pointed at him. “See? Skinny latte prick here gets it.” Then to Enid, lowering his voice conspiratorially: “If he starts giving you motivational speeches, just fake static and walk away. Works every time.”

Enid couldn’t help it—she laughed. Chase’s grin widened, satisfied.

“Alright, enough charm,” Mandy said, gesturing down the hall. “Let’s get her cleared through HR before you two corrupt her entirely.”

“Too late,” Chase said, raising his mug. “She already smiled. That’s the first step down the slippery slope.”

And as they walked deeper into the buzzing heart of SDN, Enid couldn’t tell if she felt more out of place—or more alive—than she had in years.

They didn’t rush her. Mandy let the walk be the walk—past the mission boards pimpled with sticky notes, past the glassed-in gym where a caped woman was angrily rowing as if the ocean had insulted her, past a break room that smelled like burnt coffee and victory doughnuts. While they moved, Mandy kept murmuring the conditions like handrails:

“Remeger you're on Probationary employment. You’re on the books and on a leash, both. Twenty-four/seven digital monitoring; quarterly evals. No solo ops without a dispatcher’s green light. Any unsanctioned use of the amulet and you’re on the next bus back to Bedford Hills. Weekly counseling—non-negotiable. I’m your custodian of record, which means if you sneeze funny, Legal emails me a PDF.”

Enid listened, jaw tight, bag hugged to her ribs. The words clicked into architecture in her head: an invisible exoskeleton built out of rules. She was used to cages; this one at least had daylight.

They stopped at a door of dark wood with a small brass plaque: Dr. Isadora Capri. Mandy’s knuckles hovered for a beat—respect, or superstition—then rapped lightly.

A smooth contralto called, “Hold on,” followed by the little interior choreography of a tidy person making space. The door opened on a tall woman with copper hair coiled in soft structure, a wine-dark blouse and a long pendant that drew the eye without begging for it. Intelligent eyes; the kind that liked precision and found humor anyway.

“How are you, love?” she said, folding Mandy into a brief, practiced hug. “Morning’s behaving.”

“For once,” Mandy answered, stepping back. “Doctor Capri, meet Enid.”

The doctor’s attention shifted. She didn’t ogle Enid’s record or her scars; she took her in like a puzzle she had time for. “Ah yes, been expecting you Ms. Sinclair,” she said, offering a hand. Her grip was cool, measured. “Come in.”

The office looked stolen from a saner universe. Soft leather recliners with matching ottomans anchored the corners like civilized islands. Tall fiddle-leaf figs bracketed a wall of windows, leaves glossy against the bright city haze. Built-in shelves held rows of worn spines and neat stone bowls with smooth river pebbles. A low table carried a small armada of mugs and tissues that didn’t apologize for their purpose. The carpet ran rust-red, warm as a theatre curtain.

And the art, Enid’s breath caught. Framed reproductions in careful arrangements: a muted Birth of Venus, an Athena Parthenos study, fragments of Pompeian frescoes with their impossible reds, a Praxiteles Hermes sketch. Classical bodies rendered without apology with weight, line, balance.

“You know Botticelli?” Dr. Capri asked, catching the glance and the little reverent hitch in it.

Enid’s mouth went before she could modesty herself. “La Nascita di Venere, late 1480s. Likely for the Medici villa at Castello. Venus is proportionally off, elongated neck, impossible stance but that’s half the point. She isn’t human, she’s an idea. Zephyr and Aura blowing her ashore, Horae waiting with the robe. It’s… about arrival, I guess. And being seen before you’re clothed for the world.”

A short, pleased silence stretched. Mandy’s brows had climbed somewhere interesting.

“Accurate, almost like words from a book” Dr. Capri said, the corner of her mouth tipping. “And useful as a metaphor. Please—sit.”

Enid eased into one of the recliners. It swallowed her like a patient animal. She didn’t realize how tightly she’d been holding herself until the leather sighed.

“So,” Dr. Capri began, settling opposite with a legal pad and pen she clearly trusted. “This is an intake. Very dull, very necessary. My role: I’m your Behavioral Division therapist of record—trauma-informed, integrative approach. That means we’ll combine modalities depending on what fits: cognitive restructuring for the thoughts that lie to you, somatic grounding for a nervous system that learned to sprint, motivational interviewing so I listen more than I lecture, and, if indicated, EMDR or exposure in small, consensual doses. Sessions are fifty minutes once a week to start; we can adjust frequency with the program lead. There’s homework sometimes. Nothing graded.”

The pen hovered. “Confidentiality: I don’t share what you say except under specific limits and imminent risk to yourself or others, ongoing abuse of a minor or vulnerable adult, or a court order. SDN receives attendance and high-level treatment goals; not content. Your cousin gets compliance pings, not diary entries. You can request your records; you can refuse any intervention. You can also fire me if the fit is wrong, though my ego will sob quietly into a pillow and unfortunately you'll get an off brand of me.”

Enid felt her jaw unlock a fraction. The words were clean and adult. No sugar, no sneer.

“Questions?” the doctor asked.

“Yeah,” Enid said, surprising herself with honesty. “What if I don’t have anything noble to say. What if it’s just… gross. Angry. Petty.”

Dr. Capri nodded like someone handed a tool, not a confession. “Then we will treat gross, angry, and petty as data. Messy feelings are still map-making.”

Mandy, from the doorway, exhaled a humorless little breath. “Told you she was good.”

They ran through the dull but necessary: late-cancel policy, crisis protocol numbers, the difference between a panic attack and a heart attack, how to ground using five things you can see when the room looks like it wants to eat you. Enid answered background questions with the sanded-down facts: the fights, the first months inside, the way the showers made her skin crawl because hunger smelled the same whether it wanted food or a throat to bite. Dr. Capri didn’t flinch. She wrote quickly, efficiently, only looking at the page when it served the person in the chair.

“Begin tomorrow, evening slot,” she concluded, standing. “We’ll build from there.”

They shook hands again. The doctor’s palm was cool, and something about the temperature sent a little shiver down the ladder of Enid’s spine and like stepping into shade after crossing hot pavement.

Back in the corridor, Enid rolled her shoulders. “She’s… not terrible.”

“In this line of work,” Mandy said, lips quirking, “that’s a rave.”

They cut across a different artery of the building. The smell changed—less coffee, more steel and desiccant. They passed through a badge-locked door into a wing that felt like a museum got bored and learned to do paperwork. Glass cases lined the hall: tagged gauntlets with scorched knuckles, a shattered helm webbed with hairline cracks, a black blade under three layers of tempered proof that made the air feel thinner near it.

“Artifacts,” Mandy said, tour-voice back on but softer, respectful. “Recovered villain tech, cursed whatnots, stray divine temper tantrums. Everything cataloged, studied, triple-contained. Field offices hold the mess until HQ’s Reliquary can pick it up. In the meantime, our nerds poke it with the safest sticks we can invent.”

They stepped into a lab that buzzed gently with fluorescent lights and low music. Two techs in hoodies argued softly about spectrometry settings; another scribbled formulas on glass with a dry-erase marker while eating a protein bar like it had offended her. Posters of nebulae and safety protocols shared wall space with a crocheted sign that read PLEASE DO NOT TOUCH THE HAUNTED SWORD.

“Team,” Mandy announced, her voice bright but weighted. “This is Enid Sinclair. Play nice.”

Heads lifted from monitors and microscopes. A chorus of casual greetings rippled through the room—hey, welcome aboard, love your mom’s work. Their friendliness only half-registered; something colder had already brushed the back of Enid’s neck. It wasn’t air conditioning. It was memory, moving through her like breath she hadn’t meant to take.

Her ribs constricted—a phantom ache, the cage remembering what it had once tried to hold. The air thickened. She could hear her pulse in her ears.

Her eyes tracked past them all—to the far end of the lab, to a steel door that didn’t quite belong. It was built into the wall like a wound that never healed right, rimmed with frost where metal met stone. A small wired window reflected nothing but the fluorescents above, and the keypad blinked slow, patient, like a heart biding its time.

Something behind that door stirred.

The hum of machinery faded. Her breath hitched as her skin remembered static, the pulse of something vast and ancient that once shared her blood. It wasn’t sound she heard—it was awareness, whispering in a tongue older than thought. It was hunger dressed as recognition.

Behind that door, something old and silver listened for her name.

She flinched when Mandy touched her shoulder. “You good?”

“Yeah.” The lie came dry. Enid blinked, and the spell cracked. The room filled again with chatter and fluorescent drone.

Paperwork came next, waivers, acknowledgments, procedural memos. Enid scrawled her name in the designated boxes while a tech explained that the Artifact Analysis Division would supervise her reclamation process. No field trials without oversight, no extended contact without vitals monitoring. A few of them offered smiles that didn’t quite hide their awe.

“You know,” one of them said as he collected her forms, “your mom was my favorite. Lady Dire-Wolf saved my uncle’s convoy in ‘07. It’s good to see the mantle back where it belongs, despite everything that happened you know.”

[TIME PRESSURE]
Sarcastic - Crack a joke about how it’s overrated.
Respectful- Accept the compliment.

Time Remaining: ▓▓▓▓▓░░░

Enid hesitated, then forced a thin smile. “Yeah,” she said softly. “Feels like a second chance.”

The words tasted metallic in her mouth.

The tech nodded and keyed in a code at the far door. The keypad blinked green, then yellow, then green again as several other access sequences followed in rhythm. The lock disengaged with a hiss like a creature exhaling. Cold air spilled through the seams and curled around their ankles.

“Wait here,” one of them said. “We’ll bring it out.”

Enid caught only a glimpse through the widening gap—rows of containment cases glinting under sterilized light, artifacts slumbering under glass, some faintly pulsing with their own colors. The air in that room wasn’t just cold—it was pressurized, like the world on the other side operated by a different set of rules.

Then came the briefcase. Heavy, matte black, sealed with three layered locks. It hit the table with the dull weight of something that didn’t want to be touched. Mandy stood beside her, one hand steady on Enid’s shoulder as the final latch clicked.

The lid opened.

Inside, the Amulet rested on dark velvet—silver and moonlight, its crescent sigil faintly breathing. Frost had formed along its edges, melting now into thin rivulets that ran across the metal and steamed in the warmer air. It wasn’t glowing, but the space around it bent slightly, as if the light itself remembered where to bow.

Enid’s chest tightened.

Memory struck like shrapnel. Her mother’s scream—cut short by the sound of breaking glass. Blood on her hands, her own voice begging the Wolf to stop. The taste of cheap pills and liquor. The heat of a stranger’s skin. The roar of sirens, the cell door clanging shut.

The Amulet pulsed once.

She flinched back, but it followed her—its reflection bending toward her like a tide reclaiming its shore. The whisper returned: mine.

Her breath hitched. For a moment, she hated it. For a moment, she needed it.

Mandy’s fingers tightened on her shoulder. “You don’t have to—”

“I do,” Enid said.

She reached forward. The air thickened around her hand; the static rose like a swarm. Sparks leapt across her knuckles, blue-white arcs stinging her skin. The Amulet’s hum deepened, recognition. Her pulse synced with it before she even made contact.

And when her fingers closed around it, the room went white.

Electricity tore through her arm and into her ribs, her heart answering with a desperate, matching beat. Every sense detonated outward—sound, scent, motion collapsing into one raw, vibrating awareness. She could hear the scrape of a pen in the hall, the flutter of a moth three rooms away, the metallic taste of fear on her cousin’s breath.

Her pupils blew wide; her veins lit blue under her skin. The Wolf stirred, not as voice but as instinct—old, divine, wild. It filled her chest, her throat, her head until her vision split into sharp, crystalline layers.

For the first time in years, Enid felt everything.

The Amulet burned against her sternum like a second heartbeat. The Wolf inside exhaled low and content, and the world seemed to kneel just slightly at the sound.

The world steadied again as white light dimming to the quiet pulse of machines and the narrative lens turned elsewhere.

Robert sat behind the Dispatch Terminal, half-lit by the glow of six monitors, one coffee gone cold, and a dog snoring under the desk. His fingers moved with the muscle memory of an old soldier working a new war. “SDN Dispatch, Torrance Branch,” he said into the mic, tone steady, that soft authority he’d learned when calm meant survival. The call feed blinked red across the top screen.

Mall Looting Youths – Case Type: Red Ring
TINA / @TORRACEMALL
“We need backup! Dozens of youths just started rushing us and looting the shops!”
Requirements:
• Catch as many looters as possible
• Detain the minors but do not use force

Robert leaned back, cracked his neck, exhaled through his nose. Teen mobs, again. Not worth risking Flambae’s temper or Punch-Up’s… everything. He toggled the mic. “Visi, I’ve got a civic special for you. Mall, level two, Torrance Plaza. Keep it clean—non-lethal, minimal property damage.”

Invisigal’s voice came through bright and smug. “On my way, boss man. You just like watching me run around in tight pants.”

“Yeah,definitely the only reason you’re still employed.”

She cackled, the sound crackling with static as her signal flickered into motion. “Copy that. So—anyone excited for the new Square?”

Punch-Up’s Irish burr cut in immediately. “The new what? Square, is this geology!?”

“Geometry, you fucking rock-brain,” Prism sighed.

“Don’t start shite with me, disco ball, I’ll—”

“Language,” Robert muttered into the mic, already typing her route overlay.

“—light you up like a rave at Burning Man!” Prism shot back, ignoring him completely.

“Enough,” Robert said, a tone that dropped like an anchor. “Focus up. Invisigal’s on point, Punch-Up standby for riot control if this escalates. Flambae, where are you?”

“Im still fucking mid-air, west of the freeway!” Flambae’s accent was sharp and fast, words flaring like sparks. “I got the heart in my hands, literally, so unless you want this donor to fucking flatline, keep me outta your stupid mall soap opera! Ok, shit.”

“Copy that....Mr. Wet Pony Tail,” Robert said, smirking. “Keep it warm but not roasted.”

A deep rumble—Golem, somewhere in the background. “Flambae roasted heart once. Smelled like pork and his burnt ego.”

“Jesus,” Sonar muttered, voice thick with a nazel Californian drawl. “You people are one HR complaint away from a group therapy session.”

“We already got therapy,” Prism said. “It’s called drinking alone.”

Malevola’s laugh cut through like the scrape of a match. “At least you get to drink. Try explaining to a bartender you’re half demon. Nobody likes a girl who literally eats souls on her off days.”

Robert grinned despite himself. Dysfunctional didn’t even cover it. They were like a bad family dinner with superpowers—and somehow, it worked. Orders were followed, chaos contained.

---

By the time the sun began melting into the horizon, the Z-Team limped home. The Branch offices had that end-of-shift stillness that came after chaos—a tang of recycled coffee, burnt circuits, and half a dozen egos trying not to combust.

Flambae came in first, still steaming—literally. His jacket smoked faintly as he muttered in Pashto about “idiot chopper pilots” and “owing me their firstborn.” A faint scorch mark trailed behind him like a signature. Prism followed close, sequins dulled by soot but humming a tune under her breath—half pop, half prayer. Golem’s footsteps made the tile hum, a low tremor that carried Sonar perched on his shoulder, one wing twitching where a teen’s thrown Slurpee had crusted to the membrane. Punch-Up brought up the rear, pint-sized rage barely contained, his face smeared with frosting from what had once been a mall bakery.

“Can’t believe you got outrun by literal children,” Prism called, voice sugar-sweet and lethal.

“Children with skateboards!” Punch-Up thundered, tossing his gloves on a desk. “One of the little shites yeeted a churro at me head, Prism! A churro! And it was stale, like weapon-grade hard!”

Malevola snorted from behind her mug. “Could’ve been worse, mate. Could’ve been gluten-free.”

“Feckin’ hell, they were like feral pigeons!” he went on, gesturing wildly. “One climbed up Golem like he was a jungle gym! Another called me ‘Funko Pop Thor’ before legging it!”

Prism lost it first, her laugh cutting high and contagious. Even Sonar cracked a grin, his leathery wings rustling with amusement.

For one fragile moment, they didn’t sound like convicts in costume. They sounded like what they could’ve been—a team.

Across the bullpen, Robert sat hunched over his dispatch terminal. The cubicle lights carved tired grooves into his face. Monitors blinked like indifferent eyes. He’d been at it for ten hours straight—logging, redirecting, cleaning up civilian statements that all sounded the same: someone should fix this mess.

Beef snored under the desk, curled between power cables. The little corgi’s steady breathing was the only sound that didn’t give him a headache.

Then, with a faint shimmer of air and the smell of mint gum and irritation, Invisigal materialized on the corner of his desk. Legs crossed, hair damp with sweat, eyes sharp.

“How’s my performance lately?” she asked, voice dripping with mock confidence. “Kicked fucking ass out there, didn’t I?”

Robert didn’t look up immediately. He just saved his last report, exhaled, and finally met her gaze. “Kicked ass? You mean when you got out run in circles by a bunch of middle-schoolers?”

She groaned so dramatically it might’ve qualified as performance art. “Ugh, they scattered like roaches on a Red Bull drip, okay? Try corralling ten caffeinated delinquents when your lungs decide to unionize mid-chase!”

From the next cubicle over, Chase leaned on the divider, arms folded. “All you do is hold your damn breath and vanish,” he said, voice gravel and venom. “At least Prism throws sparkles and distracts people. Should’ve sent her instead.”

Invisigal’s head snapped toward him. “Don’t you have a shuffleboard tournament tonight, Grandpa Zoom?”

Chase’s grin was a wolf’s. “Careful, sweetheart. Keep talking and I’ll shove your inhaler so far down your throat you’ll be exhaling Albuterol for a week.”

“Oh yeah? Keep flapping that old-man mouth and I’ll staple your hip replacement to your forehead.”

“Classy.”

“Effective.”

Robert rubbed the bridge of his nose, muttering, “You two are why HR drinks.” Beef licked his wrist in sympathy.

Then—laughter. Unexpected, bright. It wasn’t one of theirs.

At the far end of the bullpen stood Blonde Blazer, rubbing her temple in disbelief. Next to her was Enid, trying—failing—to smother a snort. She’d been in HR all day, wading through paperwork and probation clauses, the Amulet already locked away for conditions. Her first day had been nothing but signatures and procedures. Still, seeing this circus almost felt… grounding.

Every head turned.

Invisigal’s eyes widened, then narrowed in delighted mischief. “Enid, right? Oh, shit—damn. You’re a cutie, aren’t you?”

“Visi,” Mandy said, voice sharp enough to split atoms.

“Oh, relax. Nobody’s eye-fucking her yet,” Invisigal said, hopping off the desk to saunter closer. “But you—” she poked Mandy’s hip, “—been hitting the all-you-can-eat hero buffet, huh? Don’t lie, you’ve been stress-snacking on Twinks and Noodles, haven't you.”

Mandy’s hand twitched, the faintest charge dancing across her knuckles.

“Joking!” Invisigal threw up her hands, laughing. “Jesus, no sense of humor anymore. What’s the point of saving the streets if you can’t make fun of your thighs?”

Enid covered her mouth, trying not to laugh again.

“Name’s Invisigal,” the woman said finally, extending a hand with the confidence of someone who’d start a bar fight for fun. “Former bitch, current legend.”

Enid took it. Her grip was firm. “Dire-Wolf. Former disaster, current work in progress.”

Invisigal grinned. “You’ll fit right in, Wolf Girl.”

Beef trotted over then, tail wagging. He sniffed Enid’s boots, then her hands, and finally pressed his head against her shin. She crouched, fingers finding the soft fur behind his ears. The corgi sighed in bliss, eyes fluttering half-closed.

“Smart dog,” Invisigal said. “Already knows who's gonna be part of this shit team.”

“Yeah,” Robert murmured, shutting down his terminal, the glow dying across his face. “He usually does.”

The bullpen hummed again in half jokes, half exhaustion, the warmth of shared misery. Enid lingered by the desk, watching them all—these broken, bickering ex-villains pretending not to like each other and somehow succeeding anyway.

Her first day had been chaos, bureaucracy, and mild humiliation. And still, standing here, with the smell of burnt coffee and ozone and a dog curled at her feet—Enid realized something she hadn’t felt in years.

Tomorrow would be worse.
But it would also be hers.

Chapter Text

The scene began cold.
Not the kind of cold that lived in the air, but the kind that crept out of the ribs, whispering up through bone and memories.

Morning light clawed weakly at the curtains of Enid’s small apartment, spilling in as fractured gold. The heater hummed its uneven lullaby. She sat cross-legged on the bed in the same hoodie she’d slept in, pen scratching across the first blank page of the new journal Mandy had bought her the night before. The ink bled slightly where her hand shook.

The mind is a bad neighborhood. I should stop walking through it unarmed.
But maybe writing counts as a weapon. A small one. Like a letter opener.

Her handwriting slanted, words bruising the paper.
Last night’s laughter with the Robert, Chase and Invisigal had faded to a distant echo; now there was only the quiet hum of nerves. She wrote until the pen stuttered out of her fingers and sighed.

“Yeah,” she muttered. “Today’s gonna be… great.”

---

As the scene shifted.

The walls peeled away.
The bed dissolved.
The room cracked open like a shell, and the floor beneath her became polished wood instead of carpet. The ceiling lifted, reshaping itself into the fluorescent glow of a conference room.

The scent hit first, cheap vanilla plug-in and recycled oxygen. Then came the stares.

Around the long table sat the Z-Team in various stages of impatience and caffeine dependence: Flambae flicking a lighter in his palm, Punch-Up perched on a chair like a child denied recess, Prism checking her reflection in a spoon, Invisigal leaning back with her boots on the table, Golem silent and still, dirt crusted at the seams of his large joints.

At the head of the table stood Robert, sleeves rolled to his forearms, headset looped around his neck; Mandy on Enid’s left, arms folded; Chase on her right, Beef nestled in the crook of his elbow like a prop from a better day.

Robert cleared his throat, tone clipped and measured. “Alright, folks. Meet Dire-Wolf.”

The title hung in the air. Not Enid. Not her. Just her mother’s legacy. Eyes shifted. A few polite nods. A few glares.

Flambae arched a brow. “She’s smaller than I expected.”

Malevola leaned forward, horns glinting under the lights, a lazy grin curling her lips. “Not fun-size like Punch-Up over there,” she said, voice honey-dark, “but definitely compact. Travel-sized perhaps....maybe golem cam carry her in his pouch like he des with little guy over here.”

Punch-Up grunted. “Oi! I’m standing right fuckin’ here, ya horned kangaroo.”

[What's The Response]
Vicious- Fire back with a jab.
Neutral- Laugh it off.
Smile and say nothing.

Time Remaining: ▓▓▓▓▓▓░░░

The habit of her mouth beat her restraint. Enid smiled, tilted her head, and said, “You know the last woman who made fun of my size ended up with a bar of soap down their jaw and now can only eat liquid foods, care to join?”

A low whistle slid around the table. Prism laughed outright. Sonar muttered, “Yikes,” into his coffee.

Malevola’s grin sharpened, eyes glowing ember-orange. “Oh, she’s got bite. I like this one.” Her gaze prowled over Enid as if measuring worth—or appetite.

Mandy chose that moment to plant both hands on the table, leaning forward until her reflection burned in its polished surface. Her voice cut through the room like a wire. “Everyone here treats Dire-Wolf with respect. She’s part of this program now. Anyone who decides otherwise…”—her eyes flicked, electric and dangerous—“…answers to me. Got it?”

Flambae straightened. Punch-Up gave a mock salute. Invisigal rolled her eyes but didn’t comment. Even Malevola’s smirk softened into something almost like deference.

Robert clapped once. “Great. Now that introductions and death threats are out of the way…” He looked around the table, mind already spinning through options. “Dire-Wolf’s probation requires a field pairing. Let’s see who’s lucky enough to babysit today.”

He scanned the files projected on the wall, muttering as he went:

“Flambae—no, he’d blow up half the city before lunch. Punch-Up’s decent, but we’d need a step stool for the team photo. Malevola…” He hesitated, tapping her name. “Dark, competent, terrifying. Checks all the boxes.”

He kept scrolling. “Golem, too gentle. Sonar, too unstable in the sense of the transformations. Invisigal, already hates workbg with others. Prism…” He looked up at her. “PR liability waiting to happen.”

[Pick A Partnership]
Sonar
Prism
Malevola

Time Remaining: ▓▓▓▓▓░░░

He exhaled. “Malevola. You’re up.”

Mandy’s head snapped toward him, brows lifting in a silent really? Chase stifled a laugh that sounded more like a cough.

Malevola leaned back in her chair, a slow predator’s smile spreading across her crimson face. The faint heat shimmer around her made the air tremble. “Finally,” she purred. “A little Sacrifice worth sweating for.”

Flambae looked relieved enough to sag in his seat. “Praise Allah, not me this time.  Can't be a freaking babysitter, to many cry babies in this world.” he just kept mumbling.

Invisigal threw up her hands. “This is bullshit! Why does the She-Devil get first pick? I wanted the newbie! I was literally nice to her, and i 'do' Do well with other's.”

Robert didn’t even look up from the tablet. “Because the She-Devil has the highest mission completion rate in the division,” he said evenly. “Also, she hasn’t set anything on fire or caused major property damages which is very surprising. Personal best.”

Malevola’s eyes flashed brighter at that. “Don’t worry,” she said, glancing at Enid with a grin that promised both trouble and thrill. “I’ll make sure she learns fast.”

For a long, quiet moment after the meeting, Enid couldn’t tell whether Malevola’s grin had been a promise or a threat. Probably both. So much for first impressions, because that bar of soap thing was like her first day in prison, years ago. Man....did she have to act tough here also?

The world seemed to tilt with the memory of it—her molten eyes, the curve of her smirk, the faint brimstone scent that clung to the air after she spoke. And then, just as Enid blinked, the conference room dissolved like steam.

Light. Heat. Sound.

The walls folded inward, then peeled apart like stage curtains, spilling her straight into Columbia Park beneath the wide, blue ache of morning. Sunlight pressed warm fingers along her skin, the asphalt still damp from a night rain. Joggers passed by with earbuds in; somewhere, a food truck hissed to life. The air smelled like cut grass and gasoline.

Enid adjusted her suit, her new suit. It clung like a second skin, sleek and responsive, every muscle mapped and defined beneath the black polymer weave. Mandy had it made to move with her, durable enough for a firefight, breathable enough to survive Los Angeles humidity. The design shimmered faintly red along the seams, and the domino mask hugged the top of her face, matte black.

But what really unsettled her was the weight around her neck. The Artemis Amulet. It pulsed faintly against her sternum, each throb in sync with her heartbeat. Not burning—no, breathing. A quiet, cold whisper in her blood. She could feel the Wolf pacing behind her ribs again, sniffing for weakness, testing the leash as it did years ago. The rhythm of it made her want to move, to run, to tear open the horizon until nothing was left.

Instead, she followed Malevola.

The demoness cut through the park like a living exclamation mark—bare shoulders gleaming bronze-red, dark hair falling down her back, a tail swaying lazily behind her like punctuation. The absurd part? She was in heels. Actual, black, stabbing-into-the-grass heels, and she walked like gravity had signed a contract not to touch her. A massive sword was strapped across her back, its sheath engraved with symbols that glowed faintly when the sun hit them.

“So,” Malevola said around a sip of her 7-Eleven drink, straw clinking against ice. “Four? Almost Five years in Bedford Hills, and now you’re here. Phoenix Program poster girl. That’s one hell of a commute.”

Enid shrugged, eyes scanning the horizon. “Guess so. It’s been… a fast couple of days with the transfer.”

“I’ll say.” Malevola swirled her drink, ice rattling like dice. “Robert kicking Coupé to the curb, Invisigal managing to not get canned, miracle right there and then poof, new girl from prison drops in. Funny how that works.”

Enid arched a brow. “How so?”

Malevola smirked but didn’t answer right away. The look she gave her was somewhere between appraisal and amusement, like she was deciding whether to finish a story or let it burn out on its own.

Then Robert’s voice sliced through both their earpieces, brisk and all-business:

“Mal, got a situation at the Rockwell Hotel—downtown, near central. Couple of drunks making a scene on the rooftop patio, causing property damage. Try not to traumatize the civilians. Dire-Wolf, shadow her and observe. Minimal engagement.”

Malevola rolled her eyes, already crushing her cup in one hand. “Copy that, Dispatch. Babysitting duty, my favorite hobby.”

She turned to Enid. “C’mon, Pup. Let’s get to it.”

Enid grimaced. “Please don’t call me that.”

“Too late, Pup. It’s stuck.”

Malevola’s heels clicked once on the concrete before she sprinted, moving faster than should’ve been possible in three-inch stilettos. The crushed cup arced perfectly into a trash bin without her looking. The sword on her back flared to life as she unsheathed it—an obsidian blade veined with crimson light, humming with power. Sparks cracked off the edge, and a rush of heat washed over Enid as Malevola slashed downward.

Reality tore open like fabric. A wound of light, bleeding crimson.

“Hurry up, portals don’t stay open long!” Malevola barked, stepping through.

“Wait—what?!”

Too late. The pull hit like a magnet, and instinct screamed before reason caught up. Enid bolted and leapt.

Wind tore past her ears, then—nothing solid beneath her.

She was falling.

The sky expanded in every direction—towering glass, concrete canyons, sunlight flashing off skyscraper windows. The sound of wind became a scream in her bones. Her hair whipped her face, lungs locked. She tried to shout, but the words went nowhere, stolen by the air.

And beside her, Malevola. Laughing.

The demoness freefell with effortless control, body aligned like a diver, her grin wide and wild. She reached out, wrapped an arm around Enid’s waist, pulling her close against the slipstream. Her skin radiated heat, her horns slicing the air like dark crescents.

“There!” she shouted over the wind, pointing with the tip of her sword toward a red brick building below—the Rockwell Hotel, gleaming like a target in morning sun. “See the one with the rooftop bar? I know the place. Great cocktails, terrible people!”

Before Enid could answer, Malevola twisted midair and swung her blade. A rip of red lightning tore open another portal—vertical this time.

“Hold your breath, Pup!”

They plunged through.

The world inverted.

Enid hit concrete shoulder-first, rolled hard, and came up in a crouch, dust and adrenaline stinging her eyes. Her claw like nails, God, they’d grown again—scraped against the ground as she found her balance.

Malevola landed in front of her like she’d rehearsed it, heels clicking, tail curling lazily behind her. She straightened, sword resting on her shoulder, completely unbothered by the dimensional gymnastics.

“Welcome to field duty,” she said with a wicked smile.

Enid panted, hair in her face, pulse in her ears, the Amulet burning faintly under her suit.

“Yeah,” she rasped. “Thrilled to be here.”

The glass doors of the Rockwell gleamed ahead of them. Somewhere inside, someone was screaming.
And the Wolf stirred, hungry for the sound.

Malevola smirked and turned toward the glittering glass doors of the Rockwell Hotel. “Then let’s clock in, Pup.”

---

The moment they stepped inside, chaos had a face—and it was red, sweaty, and crying.
The lobby was pure pandemonium: guests shouting over one another, staff trying to corral the noise into something resembling order, the clatter of luggage carts somewhere in the background. A chandelier trembled from the sheer volume of it all.

A frazzled woman in a black hotel uniform spotted them and nearly sagged in relief. “Oh thank God, SDN finally showed up!”

Malevola cracked her neck, Australian accent thick as she replied, “Alright, what’s the bloody commotion? Something about a couple of drunken idiots?”

Before the staffer could answer, an older woman in silk nightclothes pushed through the crowd, hair wild, fury snapping off her like static. “Drunken idiots? That whore—that stupid, cheap bitch—was caught with her legs open for her coworker!”

The entire lobby went quiet for half a beat. Enid blinked. Malevola raised a brow.

The woman jabbed a finger toward the elevators. “My son—Michael, the groom or now husband —went out for drinks last night with his mates. Came back early this morning, caught his wife, Brandy in thier wedding suite with that bastard she works with! Now she’s locked herself in the room with him while my boy’s out there trying to break down the damn door!”

The hotel manager, looking like she wanted to dissolve into the carpet, chimed in quickly. “We called the police, but they’re delayed, and since we’re registered SDN subscribers, we were hoping you could, um—mediate. Quietly.”

Malevola exhaled through her nose, tail flicking behind her. “Right. Domestic bliss gone nuclear. Got it. What floor?”

“Twenty-one. Room 2104.” The manager pressed a keycard into her hand.

The elevator ride up was mercifully silent, save for the faint hum of smooth jazz playing over the intercom. Enid adjusted her gloves, trying not to think about the amulet thrumming like a second pulse.

When the doors opened, the chaos was waiting for them.

Down the carpeted hallway, a half-dressed crowd of groomsmen hammered at a locked door, shouting over one another. One had lost a shoe. Another held a champagne bottle like a club. A couple of hotel security guards hovered nearby, trying to talk them down and failing miserably.

Michael, the recently married groo., presumably—was front and center. Pale, glassy-eyed, veins standing out in his neck as he pounded the door with both fists. “Open the fucking door!”

“Oh great,” Malevola muttered, tapping her comm. “Dispatch, Sénior Roberto, this is Mal. We’ve got a domestic at the Rockwell. Groom’s trying to perform amateur demolition on a door. Bride and side piece barricaded inside. Civilians volatile, definitely drunk, possibly violent. Advice?”

Robert’s voice filtered through, dry and calm as always.

"Copy that, Mal. Do not escalate. I repeat—do not escalate. Coax them out if possible. Use empathy first, intimidation second. Last thing we need is a viral clip of you decapitating someone.”

Malevola rolled her eyes. “You spoil all my fun.”

“Handle it,” Robert finished, and the line went quiet.

Malevola strode forward, towering over the crowd. The men faltered immediately, hard not to when a seven-foot crimson woman with horns and a glowing sword hilt jutting over her shoulder walks into your argument.

“Alright, fellas,” she said, voice cutting through the hallway like a warning siren. “Let’s all take a deep breath and—”

“Who the fuck are you?” one of the groomsmen snapped, slurring. “Costume party’s downstairs, sweetheart.”

Malevola’s smile thinned. “SDN response unit, genius. Now back it up before I start charging overtime.”

Michael spun toward her, tears streaked down his face, fury and heartbreak tangling in his words. “They’re in there—in my bed! He’s still in there with her!” He slammed his fist against the door again. “I’m gonna fucking kill them both!”

Malevola started forward, but a heavyset friend shoved at her shoulder, finger stabbing at her chest. “Mind your own business, freak.”

She froze, eyes narrowing. The air between them sizzled faintly.

Enid stood a few feet back, the air thick with sweat, booze, and adrenaline. The hallway was too narrow for this kind of anger—it pulsed, contagious, pressing against her skin like heat from an open oven. The men crowded the locked door, muscles taut, eyes bloodshot, voices layering into an ugly symphony of grief and rage. She could smell the liquor in their breath from where she stood.

Malevola loomed in front of them, perfectly still, her tail flicking lazily behind her like a lit fuse. The hotel lights caught on the ridges of her horns, throwing shadows up the walls. She looked ready to end the argument with a single swing if it came to that. Enid could almost feel the temperature shift, the faint ripple of demonic heat rolling off the taller woman’s skin.

Every instinct screamed that this was about to go bad. Fast.

[Do Something]
Intervene — Step in before someone does something stupid.
Stand Back — Let Malevola handle it; learn by watching.

Time Remaining: ▓▓▓▓▓░░░░

The bar flickered down in her mind, each block a heartbeat. Enid clenched her fists, jaw tight. Don’t. Stay out of it. This isn’t your mess.

Another block vanished. ▓▓▓▓░░░░░

Then one of the men—big, red-faced, veins bulging at his temple, shoved Malevola square in the chest. Hard enough that she took half a step back. The second her hand twitched toward her sword, Enid’s restraint snapped.

That did it.

She moved before she thought, slipping between them with her palms raised, voice cutting clean through the shouting. “Hey—hey! Enough!”

The hallway’s noise faltered for a moment. All eyes on her.

Enid met Michael’s glare, the married man, the betrayed one—and softened her tone. “You just got married, right? The best night of your life turned into the worst morning imaginable. I get it. Feels like someone took everything good in you and twisted it until it snapped.”

The man’s jaw flexed, nostrils flaring. The ring still glinted on his trembling hand.

“You’re not wrong to be angry,” she continued, voice steady but low, measured like she was trying not to spook a wounded animal. “But you don’t get to torch your life because someone else burned theirs first. You’ll wake up tomorrow hungover and bleeding and realize you didn’t punish them—you punished yourself.”

One of the groomsmen shifted awkwardly. Another muttered something about her having a point. The tension fractured slightly, a crack in the storm.

Michael’s chest rose and fell in sharp bursts. The raw pain in his face made him look less like a threat and more like a man gutted and still trying to walk. For a heartbeat, it worked. The noise faded, the fight drained from the room.

Then he stepped off from the door, closing the space between them until his breath hit her face like heat from an open vent—raw, sour, trembling with the kind of heartbreak that always curdles into violence. His pupils were pinpricks, his pulse visible in his throat. Enid saw the swing coming before he even knew he was about to throw it—his shoulders coiling, grief translating into muscle memory.

“Michael—” she started, palms raised, “let’s just—”

Too late.

He slammed forward, chest to chest, and the others followed like a pack scenting blood. The hotel security guards tried to wedge between them but got shoved aside, useless in their pressed suits and half-hearted professionalism. The hallway lit up with shouts and the dull thud of fists against walls.

From behind the door came the muffled, broken voice of a woman:

“Michael, please! It was just a mistake!”

Brandy.

That single word please snapped him in half. Michael spun toward the sound, the whiskey and betrayal in his bloodstream becoming pure jet fuel. He lunged for the door, shoulder ramming it again and again until the hinges screamed. Malevola moved in behind him, placing one strong, red hand on his shoulder.

“Easy, mate. You’re not thinking—”

He turned, fast, blind, feral—and instead of hitting the seven-foot horned demoness, he clocked Enid.

The impact exploded through her jaw. The world tilted sideways. Pain flared white behind her eyes, sharp and familiar—the kind she hadn’t felt since before prison. She stumbled, caught herself on the wallpaper, teeth clenching against the taste of copper. The Amulet along her suit pulsed once, a flare of cold fury begging for release.

She didn’t let it out. Not yet.

Michael’s buddies roared, charging the door like linebackers while the guards finally decided maybe their paychecks weren’t worth this level of stupidity.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Malevola muttered, cracking her knuckles.

The demoness didn’t wait for orders. The first guy to rush her got a headbutt that would’ve registered on a seismograph—skull meeting horn with a sickening crack. Blood sprayed the doorframe in a wet crescent as he dropped. Another swung at her, sloppy and desperate; Malevola caught his wrist, twisted, and there was an audible pop like someone snapping celery. He went down screaming.

Enid ducked as a champagne bottle shattered against the wall beside her head, shards raining down like glitter. Her body moved before her mind did—reflex, instinct, training buried deep under years of suppression. She pivoted, hooked her leg around the nearest attacker’s knee, and drove him to the floor with a satisfying thud.

“Stay down,” she hissed, pressing her forearm into his chest.

He didn’t listen. They never do.

The second man kicked her hard in the face, boot connecting with her cheekbone. Her head snapped sideways, blood warm in her mouth. She wiped it with the back of her glove and smiled faintly. Okay. That one, she’d feel tomorrow.

She surged up, grabbed him by the collar, and slammed him into the wall so hard the drywall cracked. He slumped, sliding down into a heap, groaning.

Across the hall, Malevola was thriving. Her movements were brutal poetry, each punch an orchestra hit, each kick a drumbeat. She drove a knee into someone’s ribs and tossed him into a coffee table that exploded into splinters. Another swung at her with a hotel lamp; she caught it, ripped the plug from the wall, and used it as a club. A dull whomp, a crunch, and he folded like wet cardboard.

Blood spattered the carpet in ugly constellations. Someone groaned for help.

“Still alive,” Malevola said casually, stepping over a fallen man. “Barely, but I’m counting it as restraint.”

Enid was already moving, wiping sweat from her brow as Michael, adrenaline-drunk and hysterical, finally broke through the door with a roar. Wood splintered, hinges gave, and he disappeared into the suite beyond.

“Michael!” she shouted, sprinting after him.

The room was chaos incarnate. Pillows torn, curtains half-ripped from their rods, the air heavy with perfume and stale liquor. Brandy was pressed against the wall, makeup smeared, dress crumpled. Beside her, a man in boxers, Luther, presumably—gripped an ironing iron like a medieval weapon.

Michael lunged, blood on his knuckles, teeth bared. Luther swung the iron wildly, missing his head by inches.

“You ruined my life!” Michael roared.

“You ruined your own!” Luther snapped back, swinging again.

Enid barely ducked the iron as it whistled past. She groaned. “Oh, for fuck’s sake. My first day and it’s a goddamn soap opera.”

She lunged, grabbing Michael by the back of his shirt just as he swung again, dragging him back with enough force to rip seams. He twisted, flailing like a man possessed. Brandy screamed. Luther tripped backward over a knocked-over chair.

Malevola appeared in the doorway, arms crossed, eyes glowing like molten gold. “Need a hand, Pup?”

“Unless you wanna officiate their divorce, yeah!” Enid snapped, ducking another swing.

Malevola sighed, cracking her neck. “Right, then. Family therapy it is.”

She stepped forward, grabbed both men by the scruff of their necks like disobedient dogs, and banged their heads together. The sound was a meaty thunk, followed by two very satisfying groans.

Brandy burst into sobs. Luther wheezed. Michael slumped, dazed, finally done fighting gravity and heartbreak.

Enid stood there, panting, jaw aching, blood trickling from her lip as the adrenaline bled out.

Her first field mission.
Her first real punch in years.
And it had ended with a domestic brawl, an ironing board duel, and a demon referee.

She rubbed her jaw and muttered under her breath, “Yup. Nailed it.”

Malevola grinned, stepping over the unconscious men. “Welcome to the team, Pup.”

Sirens sang outside the Rockwell as the aftermath settled. Police officers filed in, half-bored, half-baffled, weaving around broken furniture and muttering something about “romantic crimes being the worst kind.” Paramedics hoisted the dazed newlyweds and their respective casualties into stretchers while Malevola leaned casually against a cracked wall, twirling her sword like a baton.

Robert’s voice cracked through their comms:

“Dispatch complete. Great job not killing anyone, Mal. Dire-Wolf, welcome to the chaos.”

Enid exhaled, still rubbing her jaw. “Yeah,” she muttered, “thrilled to be alive.”

But the day wasn’t done. Not even close.

---

MONTAGE — THE LONGEST DAY

They barely had time to breathe before the next call hit.

1. CAT FROM HELL
A feral cat clung to the top of a palm tree outside a strip mall, hissing like a banshee. Malevola rolled her eyes skyward. “You’ve got claws, mate. Get yourself down.”

When that didn’t work, she sent Enid up. The cat promptly latched onto Enid’s face, scratching deep enough to draw blood. The bystanders applauded when she came down covered in fur and profanity.

Robert’s dry voice crackled in her earpiece:

“Congratulations, Dire-Wolf. First rescue of the day—scratched by a literal feline.”

2. BINGO BLOODBATH
Next came a brawl at Sunny Pines Retirement Community. Two elderly women had gone feral over a bingo card, throwing dentures and knitting needles like throwing stars.

Malevola ducked one midair and caught it. “Jesus Christ, she’s armed!”

Enid waded in carefully, separating the two, only to have one of them smack her in the shin with a cane. “Don’t touch me, you tramp!” the woman shrieked.

Enid’s eye twitched. “Lady, I'm being extremely patient with you, so quit it! Now.”

3. HIGH-SPEED CHASE
Then came the van robbery.

A white panel van roared down Torrance Boulevard, stolen goods rattling in the back. Dire-Wolf and Malevola gave chase—Enid sprinting alongside cars, the Amulet thrumming in her chest, everything sharper, faster.

“Don’t do anything stupid!” Robert’s voice barked through the comm.

“Define stupid!” Enid shouted just before the van clipped her side mirror-first, sending her tumbling into a lamppost hard enough to dent the metal. Sparks rained down as she slid to the pavement, groaning.

By the time she looked up, Malevola was already ahead—one fiery portal opening above the van, another behind it. The vehicle reappeared upside-down in a parking lot, tires spinning helplessly in the air.

“Handled,” Malevola said into her mic, brushing dust off her jacket.

Enid spat blood. “freaking Showoff.”

4. PARKING GARAGE COLLAPSE
Their last call was worse.

A structure collapse downtown, a parking garage groaning under its own weight. Dust choked the air, concrete sagged like wet bread. Malevola braced the beams with raw strength while Enid crawled through debris, dragging a crying teenager out by the arm.

The ceiling groaned overhead. Instinct screamed. The Wolf begged to break loose.

But she held the line—breathing, counting heartbeats, remembering Mandy's heroic advice: Ground yourself in sensation, not rage.

By the time they stumbled out, gray with dust, the sun was bleeding out behind the skyline.

---

The evening air was thick with exhaust and the smell of fast food. Enid slumped against a brick wall in an alley, peeling off her fingerless gloves, hands trembling from fatigue. Malevola stood a few feet away, burrito in one hand, drink in the other, horn tips still glowing faintly red.

“Not bad for your first day,” Malevola said between bites. “You only almost died twice. And you didn’t bite anyone.”

Enid groaned. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

Malevola smirked. “You’re definitely out of shape, Pup. Thought you had, like, cool wolf powers or some shit?”

Enid shot her a glare, blood still crusted at the corner of her lip. “It’s been a while, okay?! And I never did this stupid hero work before!” She gestured wildly. “Saving cats, stopping granny cane fights—it’s not exactly divine training!”

“Dramatic much?” Malevola mumbled around another bite.

Before Enid could bite back, Robert’s voice came through the comms again:

“Z-Team, wrap up. Torrance HQ, now. And Mal? No more gas station food on your way back.”

“Define gas station,” Malevola said, wiping her mouth.

---

The return to SDN Torrance Branch was anticlimactic. The fluorescent lights flickered faintly as the automatic doors hissed open. Most of the team was already back—Flambae was flirting shamelessly with a woman from a different department, Punch-Up was snoring in a chair, and Prism was live-streaming herself removing her makeup.

Mandy stood waiting near the entrance, arms crossed, expression hovering between relief and disapproval. “You’re one of the last ones in,” she said.

Malevola stretched, tail flicking lazily. “Had to teach the new pup the ropes.”

Enid groaned audibly. “If you call me pup one more time, I swear to God I’ll—”

“—what?” Malevola teased, leaning down with a grin sharp enough to slice marble. “Growl at me?”

Mandy pinched the bridge of her nose. “Girls, please. It’s been a long day.” Her eyes softened as she turned to Enid. “How was your first one?”

Enid let out a weak laugh, hair matted with dust and dried blood. “Oh, you know. Domestic assault, demon portals, bingo warfare. Pretty average Tuesday.”

Mandy chuckled. “Get cleaned up. You’ve got your first official session with Dr. Capri in ten minutes.”

Enid blinked. “Already?”

“Welcome to the program, Dire-Wolf,” Mandy said, patting her shoulder. “Redemption doesn’t clock out.”

As Malevola sauntered off humming, Enid lingered for a moment in the corridor, aching, exhausted, and still feeling the faint thrum of the Amulet beneath her ribs. It pulsed once, heavy, like the heartbeat of something that refused to sleep.

She sighed and pushed through the door toward Behavioral, bracing herself for Dr. Capri’s office and whatever ghosts would follow her in.

But she made a pit stop, as enid was already ten minutes late by the time she even looked at the clock. She’d been in the bathroom, sleeves rolled up, trying to scrub the day off her skin. The sink was streaked with gray dust and blood-tinged water. Her reflection looked wrecked, hair half-wet, scratches across her cheek fading to thin pink scars courtesy of her freakishly fast healing.

She leaned closer to the mirror, running a thumb along one of them. “All that for a freaking cat,” she muttered, splashing her face again. The cold stung her eyes, cleared her head a little.

The door creaked open behind her. Invisigal leaned on the frame, chewing gum, a towel slung around her neck. “You look like someone ran you through a car wash face first,” she said cheerfully.

Enid didn’t even look up. “You should see the car wash.”

A smirk. “Rough first day?”

“Define ‘rough.’ I got punched by a husband who's wife committed adultery during the wedding night, kicked by his best man, and chased a van into a lamppost. Got F-up by a cat from hell.”

“Wow,” Invisigal said, blowing a bubble. “You’re adapting great.” She winked and sauntered out, leaving Enid to wring water from her hair and sigh like the building itself had just exhaled through her lungs.

---

By the time she reached Behavioral & Psychological Services, her boots left faint wet prints on the floor. She knocked twice, half-hoping no one would answer.

The door opened. Dr. Capri stood there, poised as a photograph, dark copper red hair swept into a low bun, blouse crisp, expression somewhere between curious and mildly amused. Her eyes traveled from Enid’s damp hair to the fresh bruise on her jaw.

“You’re roughly eight minutes late,” she said, voice smooth as silk. She glanced at her silver watch, a faint gleam catching in the low light. “And on your first official day with me, no less. Why’s that? Despite your slightly... lived-in appearance and—” she sniffed lightly “—the smell of sweat and street grit, I assume you’ve been running up and down Torrance?”

Enid rubbed the back of her neck. “Sorry. It’s been a rough one.”

A slow smile curled the woman’s lips. “Relax. I’m teasing. Come in.” She stepped aside, the faint scent of sandalwood and something herbal filling the space between them. “Trust me, I’ve had bleeding heroes sit on my couch. All I do is make them clean up after.”

That earned a small laugh out of Enid, who exhaled the day out of her lungs and stepped inside.

The office was unexpectedly warm. Soft lamplight spilled over shelves of books and potted plants. On the wall, a reproduction of The Birth of Venus caught her attention once again— the goddess rising from the sea, pale and radiant, unashamed. Enid looked at it for a beat too long before taking her seat on the couch. For the first time all day, her muscles started to unclench.

Dr. Capri crossed to a small mini-fridge and opened it with a quiet click. Bottles and cans gleamed inside like trophies. She pulled one free and handed it to Enid.

“Here. You look like you could use something cold.”

Enid blinked, taking it carefully. The can was cool and light, the label marked with swirls of Hangul she couldn’t read. “Uh, what is this?”

“Sujeonggwa,” Capri said, sitting down across from her, crossing her legs elegantly. “Traditional Korean cinnamon-ginger punch. Made by simmering cinnamon sticks, ginger, dried persimmons, bit of sugar. Garnished with pine nuts. Sweet, spicy, helps digestion. However, this is a can version.” Her eyes twinkled. “I just like the flavor. Don’t tell anyone I gave you one, though—it causes riots.”

Enid popped the tab. The smell hit her instantly—warm ginger, sweet smoke, citrus undertone. It was like inhaling comfort itself. But the Amulet made everything sharper. Taste wasn’t taste, it was color. The ginger burned gold across her tongue, cinnamon rolled like embers, the sugar bloomed red and clean.

Her throat tightened unexpectedly. She hadn’t had anything sweet that didn’t taste like bleach or rust in years. She swallowed, hard, then hummed low. “Holy bean bags. That’s... actually incredible.”

Capri smiled knowingly, jotting something in her notepad. “That’s the ginger talking. Or maybe deprivation. Hard to tell.”

“Both,” Enid admitted, taking another sip. “Definitely both.”

The sound of pen on paper filled the air for a few seconds. Then Capri asked, “So. Your first official day on the field. You were supposed to observe. But judging from the bruises, I’m guessing you didn’t.”

Enid groaned and tugged at the damp collar of her uniform. Her body ached from the day’s chaos, and the faint chemical scent of SDN’s synthetic fabric clung to her skin like regret. “Does everyone know that already?”

Dr. Capri’s brow quirked, the faintest ghost of a smirk curving her lips. “It’s in the reports,” she said, tone airy but precise. “Those get updated hourly, sometimes faster if the Records Department is feeling nosy.” She tapped her pen against her notepad. “They’re remarkably efficient. There’s one analyst in particular who knows everything before I do—never misses a detail. Creepy, really. But she's a peach.”

She didn’t say the name. Didn’t need to. Enid had already seen the way files moved through the system like blood through a vein, how things she hadn’t even spoken aloud yet somehow appeared in her profile minutes later.

Enid sighed and leaned back into the couch, letting it swallow her posture. “Okay, fine. You want the full highlight reel?”

Capri nodded once, pen poised, expression inviting.

“It started with this couple—wedding, champagne, the whole fairy tale—and it went nuclear overnight.” Enid’s hands flew up, describing the explosion in air. “Drunk bride, jealous groom, groomsmen storming the hallway like a goddamn Roman legion. The mother’s screaming about ‘that whore sleeping with her co-worker,’ and the staff are just standing there like it’s dinner theatre.”

She gestured wide, words tumbling over themselves. “So Malevola and I show up thinking it’s a noise complaint. Next thing I know, the groom sucker-punches me and kicks off what I can only describe as an unlicensed WWE event. Fists. Kicks. Flying mini bottles of champagne. Some freaking Security Guards, freezing up and not foing their jobs. I wish I was kidding.”

Capri’s pen scratched lightly across the page, the corners of her mouth twitching upward.

“Oh, and then there was the cat,” Enid said, pointing a finger as if she still couldn’t believe it. “You’d think a ‘rescue’ would be straightforward. No. This thing had murder in its eyes. I go up the tree all gentle—‘here, kitty kitty’—and it launches at my face like a grenade with claws. I’ve got scars. You just can’t see them because healing.”

Capri stifled a laugh behind her hand, but her eyes gleamed. “Go on.”

Enid did. “Then the bingo riot. Two grannies, matching sweaters, mortal enemies. One accused the other of cheating—‘You hid the damn chips under your bosom, Mabel!’—and it turned into the geriatric version of Fight Club. I tried to mediate, and one of them stabbed me with a crochet hook.”

Capri blinked slowly. “...You’re not serious.”

“Oh, I wish I wasn’t,” Enid said. “Then came the van robbery. High-speed chase. I’m running alongside the traffic like an idiot, trying to be helpful, when bam!—side mirror, straight to the ribs. Next thing I know I’m part of the city infrastructure. Lamp-post one, Dire-Wolf zero.”

Capri shook her head, half-amused, half-incredulous.

“And just when I thought the universe had finished kicking me,” Enid continued, “we get the call about a collapsing parking garage. I’m still dizzy from getting sideswiped, Malevola’s cackling like it’s karaoke night in Hell, and we’re pulling people out from under cars. Dust, blood, panic, the whole nine yards. My Amulet’s screaming to let go, and all I can think is, ‘Do not Hulk out. Not today. You’ll blow your probation on your first day on the field.’”

Her voice cracked somewhere between exhaustion and laughter. “So yeah. That was my ‘observation day.’”

Dr. Capri sat in silence for a moment, then set her pen down. “That was… quite the initiation.”

Enid threw up her hands. “I think the universe has it out for me. Like some divine comedy, but I’m the punchline.”

Capri chuckled, a low, rich sound that filled the room. “Or maybe the universe is testing how badly you want to get better.”

Enid huffed, leaning back. “If that’s the case, it’s got a sick sense of humor.”

They sat in companionable quiet for a moment—the air heavy with steam from Enid’s half-finished sujeonggwa. The sweetness lingered on her tongue, ginger and sugar and something that reminded her of home.

Then Capri asked, almost gently, “And the Amulet?”

The question hung in the air like smoke.

Enid stared at the floor, thumb running circles along the can’s rim. “It’s quiet,” she said finally. “But not gone. It’s like… it’s standing on the other side of glass, watching me breathe. I can feel it in my spine when things get tense. Like a heartbeat that isn’t mine. I built a wall between us—not stone, not magic—just... me. Willpower. But it’s thin. Its been years but it feels like only yesterday we parted.”

Capri tilted her head slightly, her expression unreadable.

“It presses against it sometimes,” Enid went on. “Like it wants to remind me it’s still there. It doesn’t rage, doesn’t scream. It just waits. Like an old lover who won’t stop calling. The kind you tell yourself you’re over, but you keep checking your phone anyway.”

Capri’s pen froze mid-word. “That’s a striking metaphor,” she said quietly.

Enid gave a crooked smile. “Yeah, well. He’s needy. Always has been.”

That earned another laugh, soft, genuine. It wasn’t clinical or polite; it was warm, human. The sound vibrated somewhere deep in Enid’s chest, loosening something that had been clenched tight for years. She found herself watching Capri differently now—the faint movement of her throat when she swallowed, the shape of her smile, the calm gravity in her voice.

Something about her presence was disarming. Safe, but also dangerous in its warmth.

Capri resumed her notes, writing in long, looping strokes. “You did well today, Enid. Not perfect—but well. You faced chaos, injury, temptation, and you didn’t let the Amulet win. That counts.”

Enid blinked, caught off guard by the sincerity in her tone. “You think so?”

“I know so.”

The words hit harder than Enid expected. No one had said you did well to her in years. Not since before Bedford. Her throat tightened, and she nodded quickly, trying to play it off. “Thanks, doc. Really.”

Capri smiled, soft but firm. “Get some rest. Tomorrow we’ll start learning control, not just survival.”

Enid rose slowly, the drink still cold in her hand. For a heartbeat, she almost reached across the desk—to shake Capri’s hand, to hold onto that voice that felt like a steadying anchor but thought better of it. Her fingers twitched once, then fell back to her side.

She turned toward the door. Capri’s voice followed her like a ribbon. “And Enid?”

She looked back.

“Next time, try not to get wrecked into a lamppost,” Capri said lightly. “Or mauled by another cat from hell.”

Enid snorted, the exhaustion cracking into laughter. “No promises.”

Capri’s answering smile was small but knowing. “Didn’t think so.”

As Enid stepped into the hallway, the soft click of the door closing behind her felt louder than it should’ve. The corridor lights buzzed faintly overhead. The building smelled faintly of ozone and coffee grounds. But beneath all that, Enid could still smell the ghost of cinnamon on her hands, and the faint echo of Capri’s voice lingered in her mind like warmth after fire.

It wasn’t just therapy. It was something quieter. Something alive.

For the first time in years, someone had looked at her—not the file, not the weapon, not the failure. Her.

And as she walked down the hall toward the exit, she realized with an ache she couldn’t name—
she wanted to be seen again.

Chapter Text

The sound hit first, a heavy deep, bone-echoing thud that vibrated through the concrete like something trying to claw its way out of the earth.

I’ll be coming home just to be alone…

A portable speaker on the far mat blared the song at a volume just shy of “please don’t report me to HR.”
Three Days Grace filled the cavernous gym, a raw pulse of guitars and words that scraped the inside of Enid’s ribs like they belonged there.

’Cause I know you’re not there
And I know that you don’t care…

The SDN gym was huge, too big, honestly. One of those renovated aircraft-hangar monstrosities turned into a federal fitness center. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, bright enough to bleach the shadows out of every corner. Rows of treadmills lined one wall, motionless and obedient. Weight racks gleamed under the lights, bars stacked like spines. Squat racks, benches, medicine balls, assault bikes, ropes coiled like sleeping snakes.

And suspended from steel beams overhead—
a dozen heavy bags swayed gently in the manufactured breeze of the AC.
One of them jolted violently every few seconds under the force of Enid’s kicks.

No matter how hard I try
You’re never satisfied…

She pivoted, drove her shin into the swinging leather, and felt the shock ripple up her leg. Sweat slicked her back under the loose crop top, and her sports bra clung like a second skin. Compression shorts hugged her hips. Her hands were wrapped—knuckles bruised, slightly swollen, taped like she was holding herself together by cloth alone.

She moved like someone who’d learned to fight in places where softness got you hurt: sharp pivots, prison-paced discipline, breath measured through her teeth.
Punch.
Kick.
Kick.
Elbow.

Every strike landed with a sound that cut straight through the song like a heartbeat with an agenda.

This is not a home, I think I’m better off alone…

A week.
A full week since that insane first day on the field.
And every dawn after had been more unhinged than the last.

She’d fought thieves, addicts, mutated raccoons, and one particularly violent toddler (Prism and Sonar swore she was a meta; Enid swore she was possessed). She’d gotten hit more times than she cared to count. Had the new bruises to prove it.

Malevola called her “Pup” every chance she got.
Then the rest of the Z-Team picked it up.
Now half the damn building said it.

Enid tolerated it because she was trying—really trying—to be on her best behavior for Mandy and Dr. Capri.
Those two were her lifelines. Her reminders not to snap and break somebody’s mandible out of reflex.

Punch-Up was fine.

Sonar was funny.

Robert was good people.

Chase made snark feel like a sport.

But the hero work?

A glorified cop job dipped in chaos.
She felt like she was patching leaks in a sinking ship using only sarcasm and duct tape.

She launched another kick—harder this time. The bag snapped up on the chain and swung wide, its return arc perfectly timed for the next blow.

By the time you come home I’m already stoned…

Her breath grew ragged.
Her calves burned.
Her hair stuck damply to her forehead and neck, a loose wild mess where it escaped her ponytail.

The Amulet wasn’t around her neck—but she swore she could feel its absence like a phantom limb.
The craving for power.
The pressure behind her teeth.
The memory of instinct flooding her veins like cold fire.

She powered through the urge and kept punching.

Then—
a different sound.
A footstep.
A shift of air.

Enid stilled her body mid-combo, breath sharp, senses still elevated from the leftover residue of the Wolf.

Someone was behind her.

She turned and blinked.

Robert.

In a fitted athletic shirt and shorts, towel slung over his shoulder, looking like someone who had absolutely not expected to see an ex-villain beating the soul out of a heavy bag before sunrise.

He paused mid-step, eyebrows raised.
“Good morning,” he said, glancing meaningfully at the clock. “Aren’t you a little early?”

She ran the back of her wrist across her forehead. Sweat sparkled on her skin. Her knuckles were red and angry, the tape around them starting to fray. Her feet were wrapped too, small flecks of dried blood where she must’ve opened a blister earlier without noticing.

“Early bird gets the worm,” she puffed, grabbing her water bottle. Hissed at the cold metal. “Or in this case… I can’t sleep.”

Robert nodded slowly—sympathetically, even.
“Rough week.”

“You have no idea,” Enid muttered, chugging half the bottle.

He watched her for a moment, assessing the redness in her jaw, the tension in her shoulders, the bruising at her ribs visible just under the crop top. “You know,” he said carefully, “despite everything that’s been thrown at you… I’m impressed.”

She sputtered mid-drink. “Really? I thought I did crap. I mean, that one incident where I was supposed to stop a bank robbery with Punch-Up and accidentally got locked in the vault—”

Robert burst into laughter.

“Oh, come on, that was not your fault. And you did knock out every robber inside before the cops arrived. With no casualties. Vault or no vault, that’s a win.”

“Tell that to Punch-Up and Malevola. They wouldn’t shut up about it the entire ride back.”

“Oh, believe me,” Robert said, pinching the bridge of his nose with a sigh. “They make everything a bit. All of them. Doesn’t mean they don’t respect you. Hell, half of them only roast the people they actually like.”

Enid stared at him.
“...So I’m being bullied as a compliment?”

“In this building? Absolutely.”

She groaned, looking at the ceiling like it had answers.

Robert chuckled and gestured toward the punching bag. “So. What now? You want to keep working the bag… or do you want to spar?” He stretched one arm across his chest, shoulder popping. “Been a while since I got to loosen up the bones.”

A Time Pressure box flickered through Enid’s head like a glitch in reality:

[CHOOSE YOUR NEXT MOVE]
Hit the bag — Stay in your lane, keep the rhythm.
Spar with Robert — Risk bruises, maybe learn something.
Call it quits — You’re exhausted, no shame in tapping out.

Time Remaining: ▓▓▓▓▓▓░░░░

Her breath steadied.
Her muscles thrummed.
Her blood buzzed with the need to do something.

And when the bar dipped low—
she made her choice.

She dropped the water bottle, tightened her wraps, rolled her shoulders, and said:

“…Sure. Let’s spar. What could go wrong?”

The song behind them blared the next lines:

'Home, home
This house is not a home…'

And the gym seemed to inhale with them—
ready for whatever came next.

---

What came next was movement—slow, inevitable—like gravity giving them a nudge toward the far end of the gym.

The sparring ring sat raised on a low platform, tucked beside the mats like an altar to bad decisions. Black and red ropes framed the square, scuffed from countless hits, sweat stains ghosting the canvas. The corner posts were thick, metal cores wrapped in padding that had seen better years; one still had dried blood where Sonar had once misjudged a roundhouse.

Enid ducked under the bottom rope, sliding into the ring like someone who’d lived in places with far less stability beneath her feet. Robert followed—easy, practiced, rolling his shoulders in the kind of warm-up that looked casual but wasn’t. He rotated his wrists, stretched his neck, popped something in his back with a relieved sigh.

“So,” he said, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet, “open sparring? Pure boxing? Your call.”

Enid shrugged, wiping her face on her wrist wrap. “You want gloves or—?”

“Bare knuckles should be fine. I mean”—he lifted his hands, almost sheepishly—“I don’t hit that hard.”

Enid stared at him.
Then at his hands.
Then back at him.

“…Yeah, no.”

She hopped out of the ring and jogged to the main storage closet.

Behind her, the song shifted—bass kicking in like a heartbeat doubling.

'Yeah, here we go for the hundredth time
Hand grenade pins in every line…'

Bleed It Out blasted through the gym, swallowing the silence and spitting it back as adrenaline.

Enid grabbed a bin of gloves—three pairs spilled out—and returned, tossing sizes at him until one didn’t look like it belonged on a toddler. Robert caught them mid-air, giving her a half-smile that said he knew damn well she was trying to protect his knuckles more than her face.

She slipped her own gloves on, tightening the straps with her teeth. Robert finished warming up, stance settling into something grounded, balanced, sharp.
The kind of stance that said: I used to be someone.
Even without the powers, he had the posture of a man who’d worn heavy futures on his shoulders.

They met in the center—two fighters, two histories, two bruised hearts pretending this was just cardio.

The first exchange was light.
Testing range. Testing rhythm.
Testing each other.

Soft jabs. Probing hooks.
Gloves whispering across guards like the prelude to a storm.

But then—

Robert feinted left.
Dropped low.
And snapped a hook across Enid’s cheek with veteran precision.

Her head whipped sideways, teeth clicking, a grunt ripping out before she could swallow it.

“Oh,” she said, rolling her jaw, eyes flaring with something feral. “Okay. So we’re doing that.”

Robert’s grin was sharp enough to cut. “Just warming up.”

Going out of my fucking mind
Filthy mouth, no excuse…

Enid surged forward.

This time the impact wasn’t a whisper—it was a collision.

She slipped under his next jab by a hair’s width, the air of his glove skimming her crown. She countered with a tight body hook—he caught it on the point of his elbow, absorbing the blow, shoulder rotating in a defensive coil.

He pivoted—precise, disciplined.
She mirrored—fluid, instinctive.

Sweat sprayed off her jaw. His footwork scuffed in short, purposeful bursts. They moved like two pages of a manual written in different languages but read the same.

She unleashed a rapid-fire left–right–left combination, each punch thrown with snapping recoil, elbows tight, shoulders rolling like pistons.
He deflected them—parry, slip, deflect—then returned fire with a straight so clean it cracked against her guard, jarring her wrists and sending a pulse through her shoulders.

He was good.
Better than someone stripped of powers had any right to be.
Better than she’d let herself imagine.

Robert fought with logic—angles, timing, prediction.
A chess master wearing gloves.

Enid fought with instinct—sharp pivots, torque-loaded hips, quick bursts of speed. Her muscle memory remembered violence like scripture written on bone.

Yeah, someone pour it in
Make it a dirt dance floor again…

They circled.

Her spine shivered with sweat.
His breathing thickened but never lost its cadence.

He lunged—cross, hook, hook—
She weaved under the first, blocked the second, rolled away from the third by a margin so thin the glove brushed her braid.

She answered with a snapping jab to his jaw—he slipped it. A hook to his ribs—he absorbed it and clinched.

For a heartbeat their forearms locked, breath hot, shoulders trembling with exertion.

He broke the clinch with a pivoting shove.
She came back with a whipping low kick to his thigh—illegal in boxing, but she never promised she’d follow rules. He grunted, faltered—but came back with a brutal overhand that grazed her temple hard enough to flash stars at the edges of her vision.

Enid shook it off.
Snarled.
Came again.

She fainted a right—
He bit.
Dropped his guard—
And she slipped past it like smoke in a burning house.

CRACK.

Her fist buried itself in his ribs, sinking deep.
Robert folded, breath exploding from him in a strangled cough-

And she followed with an uppercut so clean it snapped his head back and sent him stumbling into the ropes.

He hung there for a moment, both hands gripping the top rope, coughing air back into his lungs.

“Jesus, Sinclair—”

“You said you didn’t hit that hard,” she panted, wiping blood from her nose with her glove.

“I lied,” he wheezed.

They went again.

Harder.
Closer.
Sharper.

Gloves hammered guards.
Bodies slammed into the ropes.
Canvas trembled beneath their footwork.

Robert slipped inside her guard, landing two tight hooks to her ribs—she hissed, countered with a short elbow (also illegal), then pivoted behind him and hooked his leg just enough to destabilize him.

He caught himself with a palm on the canvas, swung up with a wild backfist—she ducked under, came up with a rising jab that rattled him.

Their breath fogged the air between them.
Their gloves dripped sweat.
Their bruises bloomed like dark flowers under the lights.

It wasn’t pretty.
It wasn’t clean.
It was real.

Finally—finally—they broke apart, gloves dropping.

Enid’s cheek throbbed, swelling already purpling. Her nose dripped a thin line of red. Sweat slicked her spine, soaked her sports bra, dampened her hair.

Robert’s ribs screamed with every inhale. A bruise the size of her fist darkened his side. A cut split on his lip as he grinned across the ring.

They leaned on opposite ropes, heads tipped back, chests heaving.

'I bleed it out
Digging deeper just to throw it away…'

The song sputtered out.

The gym fell into silence—
except for two ragged breaths and the soft thrum of the fluorescent lights.

The day moved on.

---

The fluorescent hum of the gym dissolved into sunlight—warm, California-bright, slicing across rooftops, alleys, and the kind of palm trees that always looked like they were posing for a movie they weren’t paid to be in. The air outside smelled like hot asphalt, sun-baked exhaust, ocean salt drifting in from Torrance Beach, and hidden behind all of that, a faint electricity—her nerves, or the Amulet, or maybe both. Hours had passed since the spar, the gym, the sweat and bruises. Now Enid stood on a cracked street corner in full gear, the suit Mandy had commissioned clinging to her frame in sleek black lines of reinforced fabric and red accents, the wolf-shaped crest glinting at her collarbone. The domino mask shadowed her bruised cheek, and the Amulet—cold, deceptively quiet—pressed against her sternum inside the suit as if listening.

Her first solo assignment.
Her first time being trusted to run alone.

Her breath ghosted faintly even in the heat, nerves coiled tight in her ribs. Freedom and responsibility braided together, threading tension up her spine. And under that, buried deep like an old heartbeat trying to sync with her own, the Wolf God lay in its cold cage, watching with the patience of something that knew eternity better than she knew a boxing ring. She rolled her shoulders, trying to shake the phantom memory of Robert’s sparring grin, of the way he moved, the way he took hits and gave them like he’d been waiting for someone who could keep up. Interesting guy. Dangerous guy. Respectably stupid for eating her uppercut like that.

Her comm crackled.
Then it exploded into chaos.

In the background of Robert’s feed, Prism was shrieking about her “aura being disrespected,” Malevola was spitting Australian accent insults so crude they probably counted as biological warfare, and Punch-Up was loudly insisting it wasn’t his fault the break room microwave exploded—he “barely touched the bloody buttons,” and “what kind of microwave blows up from heating beans, Robert? What kind!?”

Robert’s voice cut through all of them with the exhausted clarity of a man reconsidering every life choice that led him here.

“For the last time—Punch-Up, you’re banned from beans. Malevola, stop threatening to teleport Prism into traffic. Prism, stop telling everyone Malevola sheds in her sleep.”

“I DO NOT SHED!” Malevola roared.

“You molt!” Prism snapped back.

Enid snorted and kept walking down the sidewalk. A welcome breeze swayed the trees, and a few morning joggers gave her a wave or a second glance. She smoothed her fingerless gloves and stepped around a parked food truck, only to nearly bump into three kids—a scrawny boy on a bike, another with a half-eaten ice cream bar, and a girl in red crocs and overalls patterned with tiny strawberries.

The first boy squinted up at her.
“Huh! Are you dressing up for a costume party or something?”

The second boy snorted.
“Nah, bro, she probably does that weird LARP stuff. You know—plastic swords, fake dying, screaming in parks—”

The girl smacked him upside the head.
“You two have the brains of a squirrel. She’s obviously a hero. A real hero. Look at the mask, idiots.”

Enid couldn’t help the small grin tugging her mouth. She crouched slightly to their eye level.
“Hey, uh—where are your parents?”

The first boy shrugged dramatically, eyes widening.
“Oh, dead. Horribly. Orphans. We wander the streets like ghosts now.”

Another smack from the girl.
“Ricky, knock it off.”

“Ow!”

“Sorry,” the girl sighed at Enid. “My brother is a real tool. Our parents are at home—we live in the big condo building over there. They let us roam as long as we’re back by three.”

Before Enid could even process the weird mix of relief and whiplash, her senses shifted. A sour curl of cigarette smoke. Cheap cologne. Sweat touched with fear hormones, someone watching from a shadow that shouldn’t have been thick enough to hide anyone. Her spine straightened. Eyes cut to the right. She stared directly at a patch of empty air.

A ripple shimmered.
Violet light cracked like glass—
And Invisigal popped back into visibility with a smug little flourish.

Her inhaler was already halfway to her mouth.
She puffed. Pocketed it. Sauntered over.

“Talking to kids now?” she drawled. “What is this? An autograph session?”

“No, I just—”

“OH MY GOD YOU JUST APPEARED OUT OF NOWHERE!” the boy on the bike yelped, nearly falling over.

“Teleportation!?” Luke the ice-cream kid gasped.

“No,” Invisigal sighed, flicking hair out of her face. “I turn invisible when I hold my breath. Super glamorous. Super deadly. Super convenient for sneaking snacks.”

“I KNEW IT!” Sarah, the girl, beamed. “She’s a hero and you’re… also a hero! Kinda! Maybe! What’s your hero name?”

Enid straightened with an awkward little half-salute.
“Dire-Wolf.”

“COOL,” Sarah breathed, inching closer like Enid was made of gravity.

Ricky squinted. “Dire-Wolf? Like you have powers of a wolf?you actually wolf out or something?”

“Only on weekends,” Enid deadpanned, and Invisigal snorted, covering it with a cough.

The kids chattered over each other, questions, awe, too much curiosity for Enid’s comfort. Sarah hovered at her elbow, eyes too observant for a thirteen-year-old. Her overalls were high quality, stitching expensive, her bike a sleek model designed for rough terrain. Not normal. Not random. The girl carried the faint confidence of someone raised behind reinforced walls.

Enid filed that away.

Then—

The boom didn’t just shake the street—it punched the world in the chest.

A pressure wave rolled through the block with the force of a giant exhaling rage: windows bowed outward, a split-second of silence trembling over the glass before it detonated into glittering shrapnel. The shockwave slapped Enid’s skin like a hot hand; her ears rang, instincts clawing up her spine. The ground quivered under her boots. A bus alarm wailed. Birds, hundreds of them, exploded upward from the sagging power lines in a frantic cyclone.

Then came the sound-late, enormous—the kind of roaring thunder that you didn’t hear so much as feel, a deep-bellied bellow that rattled in her teeth and the back of her skull. Above the skyline, a column of oily black smoke twisted skyward from a tower three blocks away, billowing in sick, pulsing waves. Embers rained like dying fireflies.

Enid’s head snapped toward the blast, her heartbeat spiking so fast it felt like it skipped through her ribs. Her senses, pushed razor-sharp by the Amulet’s lingering echo, caught everything—burnt metal in the air, the faint scream of crumpling steel, the sour tang of ruptured insulation drifting like poison through the heat.

Behind her, Invisigal hissed a curse so rough it almost cracked.

“Fuck me—what now?”

Enid turned back to the kids, managing to wedge gentleness into the iron clamp of her voice.
“Home. Now. Go. Don’t stop for anything.”

Sarah immediately grabbed the sleeves of Ricky and Luke, shoving them ahead like a tiny sergeant. “You heard her, move! Move! I am not dying on a sidewalk today because of you idiots!”

Robert’s voice detonated through comms—tight, clipped, with no space wasted on calm.
“Dire-Wolf, Invisigal—HQ is flagging an explosion at the Hanover Mutual building on Central. You’re closest to ground-zero. We have multiple alarms, structural instability, possible secondary blasts. Move now. Begin immediate evac and triage.”

His tone wasn’t just urgent—it was surgical.
Focused. Cutting.
The voice of a man holding chaos by the throat while twenty other emergencies bit at his heels.

Enid didn’t hesitate. Didn’t think. Didn’t breathe.

She launched forward, her first step cracking a spiderweb fracture through the concrete. The air dragged at her skin as she accelerated, speed rippling through her bones. The Amulet wasn’t even active on her chest, yet panic sharpened her, old instincts carving her into an arrow shot toward disaster or more how she used to run from the authorities.

Behind her, Invisigal bolted, but she couldn’t match Enid’s burst. Enid heard the girl wheeze “slow the fu—!” before Invisigal’s breath ran out and she flashed invisible mid-stride, her violet shimmer flickering out like a dying sparkler.

The city unfurled beneath her like a living wound—heat rippling off sun-baked roads, the stink of ruptured concrete bleeding into the air. Enid didn’t slow. She accelerated. One heartbeat she was sprinting; the next she was leaping, boots planting hard on the hood of a parked Prius that buckled beneath her weight with a metallic shriek. She pushed off, landed on the roof of an SUV, then ricocheted to a delivery truck, each footfall calculated in a blur of instinct the prison walls could never beat out of her. People below shouted as she vaulted over them, her shadow slicing across sidewalk and sun, a streak of motion too quick to process.

The last vehicle gave her a perfect angle. She bent low, coiling her muscles, and then lunged—catching the edge of a small two-story brick building. The wall groaned as her fingers dug in, brick and mortar cracking under her grip as she scaled it in three rapid strides. She heaved herself over the parapet and sprinted across the rooftop, breath syncing with the grind of her boots on sun-bleached tar. The wind hit her face, hot and sharp, carrying the metallic tang of airborne insulation and the choking fug of chemical smoke. Ahead, the burning tower loomed like a torch jammed into the earth—glass shattered out of multiple floors, flames licking up its side like hungry tongues while firefighters below blasted long arcs of water that evaporated before it even touched the worst of the blaze.

“What the hell am I doing?” she muttered under her breath as she ran, each stride slamming into the roof hard enough to rattle loose gravel. “This is insane. Absolutely! freaking insane.” Running toward a fire. Running into one. For what? A paycheck? A clean record? Mandy’s faith in her? Dr. Capri’s quiet approval? She didn’t know. She only knew she wasn’t slowing down.

A memory sucker-punched her mid-leap.

She was small again—bare feet curled against the living room rug, hair messy from sleep. Mandy beside her, still in pajamas, both of them crowded around the TV, faces lit by red and orange flashes. News anchors spoke over the roar of a burning warehouse, reporters nearly drowned out by sirens and screaming civilians. “A three-alarm inferno continues to threaten—”
“Authorities have lost control of the west wall—”
“Miraculously, several survivors have been pulled from—”

And then the camera caught motion: a figure braced in a collapsing doorway, smoke curling around her like a cloak. Tall. Powerful. A wolf pelt of smoke and shadow on her back. Dire-Wolf. Lady Wolf. Enid’s mother. Lauren Sinclair in her prime, carrying two unconscious people out of the blaze as if the world had weighed nothing. Mandy whispered, eyes huge, “your mom is so cool… I wanna be just like her.” Enid whispered back, smaller, softer, “Me too.”

Reality slammed back in with a rush of grit and heat.

Enid hit the edge of a commercial rooftop and launched herself into open air. Fifty feet down, glass exploded outward as another weakened window gave in to the heat. She tucked mid-fall, angled herself, and crashed through a lower intact pane in the building. The glass erupted around her in a violent halo; she rolled across carpet in a spray of glittering shards, shoulders burning with the impact.

She came up crouched, teeth bared, the office around her half-collapsed but not aflame. Yet. Desks overturned. Papers drifting like ashen snow. The air tasted of copper—someone’s blood. And beneath it all, she heard everything.

Screams.
Sobbing.
Prayers mumbled into shirt sleeves.
The sick, rhythmic groan of metal warping above her.

“Shit.”

She bolted into the hallway, found the stairwell, and sprinted upward, two steps at a time, boots clanging, heat rising through the concrete like breath from a dragon’s throat. Halfway up she found a cluster of office workers clustered on a landing, faces pale and streaked with sweat. None injured—just terrified.

“Stairwell’s clear!” she barked, ushering them with sharp gestures. “Move! Don’t freeze. Go, go, go!”

As they poured downward, Robert’s voice snapped across her comm, frayed by stress.

“Dire-Wolf, be advised, Flambae is en route, ETA ninety seconds for vertical evac. Malevola inbound through portal corridor in two. Keep floors stable until they arrive—no heroics unless necessary.”

“Too late for that,” she muttered.

She reached the next flight and kicked through a door that should’ve been locked—ripped it off the hinges entirely. Smoke punched her in the face, thick enough to sting her eyes. The heat wasn’t gentle anymore. It pulsed, waves of it rolling like breath from a kiln. Every inhale tasted like burning drywall and synthetic carpet.

“Anyone!” she yelled, voice raw. “Anyone here?! Call out!”

A woman’s scream answered from somewhere deeper inside. Enid sprinted toward it, weaving between collapsed ceiling panels. She found a man pinned under a fallen beam, blood pooling under his hairline, his arm twisted at a sickening angle. Enid dropped low, braced her feet, and lifted the beam with a growl. Bone-deep strain ripped through her shoulders; the metal groaned but rose enough for the man to scramble out, crying as he clutched his mangled arm.

“Stairwell’s that way!” she told him, shoving him gentle-but-firm toward the exit. “Move before this floor comes down!”

She found a second victim, a young intern with glass embedded in his cheek and temple, blood dripping from his chin. She yanked her sleeve down over her fingers and pulled the largest shards free, his breath ragged as he whimpered. “You’re okay,” she said. “Stay low. Follow my voice.” He stumbled after her.

A thunderous crack boomed overhead. Part of the ceiling caved inward in a shower of sparks and molten debris. Enid dove, shielding the intern with her own body as flaming insulation splattered her back and shoulders. The room filled with choking black smoke in seconds.

Then Malevola burst through a portal like a demon shot from a cannon—wings of hellfire flickering behind her silhouette. “Move, you useless sacks of flesh!” she snarled as she shoved her sword edge-first into reality, carving open shimmering rifts and hauling people through one-handed. A man screamed when she grabbed him by his collar; she hissed, “Stop whining, you’re not dying today, mate,” and flung him into a glowing doorway.

Flambae dropped in through a window he’d blasted open himself, fire licking harmlessly along his arms as he stomped across the room. “Ah, stupid fucking hell, what a fucking mess!” he yelled in his thick Afghan accent. “Every time—every time—I tell you i feel like the buildings always burn and I'm always sent too help—those fucking stupid reporters better not blame me for this shit like the last time!” But he still scooped two people under each arm and marched toward the portal Malevola held open, cussing the entire way.

Enid didn’t laugh. Not with this much blood and debris soaking into the carpet.

She pushed higher, each floor hotter than the last, each stairwell a throat funneling her straight toward the building’s blazing heart. Smoke curled against her skin like hands trying to shove her back down, but she didn’t slow; she couldn’t—not with the screams thinning out into weak, rasping gasps, the kind people make when they’re too close to dying or too tired to keep fighting.

The next landing was a furnace. Flames gnawed the walls, turning plastic into molten strings that dripped like glowing tears. Heat blistered her cheeks, sucking moisture straight from her lungs as if the air itself resented her breathing it. The Amulet, though sealed away echoed phantom heat across her sternum, an old lover dragging its claws in warning.

She stepped into a hallway that looked like it had lost the argument with Hell. A woman was pinned under half a collapsed cubicle wall, her leg crushed at an angle no bone should bend. Blood soaked the carpet under her in a widening flower. She coughed, spit clots of blackened soot, and tried to push herself up only to cry out in agony.

Enid dropped to her knees beside her. “Hey—hey, look at me. I’ve got you.”

The woman blinked through the smoke, disoriented, skin slick with sweat and ash. Enid braced her hands and shoved hard against the chunk of debris, muscles straining, the metal still hot enough to bite the skin of her palms even through her gloves. It scraped back just enough. She hooked her arms under the woman’s shoulders and dragged her upright.

The second the bone shifted, a wet crunch sounded—Enid’s stomach lurched at the jagged protrusion forcing its way through torn skin, white gleaming red. The woman screamed hoarsely, then went limp from shock.

“Jesus fuck—okay, okay, we’re moving.” Enid didn’t let herself gag.

Malevola arrived in a flash of violet fire, flames dancing harmlessly along her demon-tough skin. “Hell’s teeth, look at this mess,” she muttered, then reached down and scooped the injured woman into her arms as if she weighed nothing. “Portal coming up—brace love, i got you.”

She slashed the air; a swirling tear of crimson-purple ripped open, wind sucking outward. Malevola stepped through, vanishing with her cargo.

Flambae stumbled into view next, shirt soaked with sweat, cursing in Pashto and English at the same time. “I swear to God this bloody city—always burning, always exploding—what is wrong with you Americans!?”

Behind him, Invisigal finally appeared in a shimmer of violet light as she re-materialized, posture bent, gasping hard. Smoke and asthma were mixing into a death cocktail in her lungs. “You—fucking—took off—” she wheezed, leaning against a melted doorway for support. “Warn someone next time—super-speed demon—fuck—”

Enid turned to her sharply, hearing the tightness in her airflow. “You can’t be up here. Your lungs—get down a few floors, help evac, crowd control—anything but this.”

Invisigal’s eyes blazed. “Who the fuck put you in charge? You’re the rookie, princess. I’ve been here for months.”

“months of what?” Flambae barked, pointing at her inhaler. “Coughing your lungs out? She’s right, girlie. You’re fucking useless in smoke.”

Invisigal’s head snapped toward him. “Shut the hell up—”

But the building groaned violently above them, cutting off her rant. A sharp metallic PANG-PANG-BOOM rattled the structure. Dust fell like warm snow. Something heavy collapsed on the floor above.

Enid froze. Her ears sharpened, her senses stretching. Grunts. Struggling. A strangled yell. A body hitting a wall. Another set of footsteps—too soft. Too smooth. Not human.

Her blood ran cold.

“Flambae,” she said, voice dropping. “Invisigal. Malevola. Finish evac. Now.”

Invisigal opened her mouth to argue but then heard the strange skittering noise overhead, like claws dragging across metal. Even she paled a little. “Fine,” she muttered, coughing hard. “Whatever. If the rookie dies, it’s on her.”

Flambae grumbled but nodded. “Don’t get dead, pup.”

Enid ignored the nickname entirely. She was already moving.

She shoved through a jammed stairwell door. The heat here hit her like the open mouth of a volcano. Smoke poured through broken wall tiles; the railing melted under her grip. The stairs above were half-collapsed, chunks of concrete hanging like loose teeth. The building screamed in stressed metal and falling glass.

The Wolf in her mind surged—heat, fear, blood, the scent of violence as it wanted in. Wanted to run, to tear, to take control. Not now, she hissed inwardly. Not yet. Not ever.

She climbed anyway.

Boots scraped ash. Her fingers found cracks in scorched drywall for leverage, claws of instinct carving purchase where nothing should hold weight. Her body moved before thought could catch up—parkour instincts honed from prison years and childhood training snapping into place like old bones cracking back into alignment. She vaulted a broken section of stairs, swung over a railing stump, and vaulted up into the upper landing—

Where she was hit by a blast wave of fire so intense it stole her breath.

The entire floor was an inferno.

Ceiling tiles dripped molten plastic. Desks were skeletons of metal frames jutting from islands of flame. Rubber and chemicals burned in choking black clouds. Her suit steamed instantly, heat punching through it with blistering hunger.

But that wasn’t the worst part.

He stood near the center of the destruction—
a man once dressed in a business suit, now reduced to char and shredded cloth clinging to blistered skin. His face was half-burned, lips split and melted, eyes wild with pain and fury. Smoke rolled off him in waves. When he sucked in a breath, his throat crackled from the inside out and then he exhaled a torrent of flame from his open mouth, a jet like a blown-out flamethrower.

“What the hell…” Enid whispered.

He turned toward her, flames licking up his neck. “You—” he snarled in a voice destroyed by heat. “You fucking creep—you ruined everything —”

But he wasn’t looking directly at her.

He was looking past her.

Enid followed his gaze—and froze.

The Shade stood half-swallowed by the roiling smoke, as if the fire itself didn’t quite dare touch it. Its cloak, if it could be called that—hung in tatters, the edges dissolving into drifting black wisps that curled and recoiled like dying insects. The fabric didn’t move with the air; it breathed, as though the shadows underneath were expanding and contracting like a living lung.

Its boots were dark, mud-caked, and too heavy for something that made no sound were planted wide, predatory, like it had been waiting for hours. The mask atop its head resembled a warped Ghostface—but the familiar scream had been mutilated. The mouth had stretched upward in a jagged crescent, an unholy grin carved far too wide, as though the face beneath was splitting open from the inside. The eye sockets glowed faintly, twin coals in a snowfield, unblinking and depthless. Smoke rose off its body not like steam, but like tendrils—thin, spindly things that writhed and curled as if reaching for something unseen.

A wrongness radiated from it.
Not magic.
Not heat.
Something older.
Colder.
Like grief wearing a corpse.

And when it tilted its head, slowly, the way predators do when deciding whether something is prey or threat—something in the twist of its posture hit Enid deep in her ribs. Something familiar, uncomfortably intimate, a silhouette she knew in a different context and a different life.

Her instincts screamed.
The Wolf roared inside her skull—danger danger danger—and for once the Amulet’s ancient prisoner wasn’t wrong.

The firebreather, oblivious to the shift in the room’s temperature from blistering to frigid, spat another erupting jet of flame at the Shade. “THIS your backup, freak?! HUH?! You think that Halloween reject scares me? You’re both DEAD—DEAD!”

Enid ducked behind a half-incinerated desk just in time. The blast scorched the wood, peeling varnish like shedding skin. Heat punched over her head, lifting her hair. Her lungs seized from the sudden temperature spike, throat tightening with smoke and panic. She tasted copper and ash. Eyes watered, stung, burned.

She coughed once and then forced it down. She listened.

And heard it.

A wet, meaty SCHLNK somewhere behind her.

Then the firebreather made a sound that didn’t belong in a human register—something between a scream and a gurgle.

Enid peeked.

The Shade stood behind him now. It hadn’t walked. It hadn’t run. It had simply…appeared.

Its arm was buried halfway up to the elbow inside the man’s side, its silhouette quivering with barely-contained energy. Then it pulled free in a single, brutal yank, and the knife was long, curved, obsidian-dark—came with it, slick with molten-looking blood that steamed off the blade in thin, metallic ribbons. Droplets hit the burning floor and hissed violently, releasing a stench like scorched pennies and meat.

The man staggered, mouth involuntarily opening—belching fire in short, panicked bursts. His flames turned erratic, shooting into the ceiling, licking across broken office dividers. Every uncontrolled exhale lit something else. Every gasp fed the blaze.

He spun, desperate, and tried again to fire at the Shade but the figure wasn’t there.

It was already behind him again.
No footstep.
No breath.
No weight.

Just a flicker, a smear of smoke, and then the blade carved into his back in a series of vicious, surgical arcs.

Crack—stab—twist—pull.
Crack—stab—slice—rip.

Blood sprayed out in jagged scarlet-black fans that evaporated midair from the heat, becoming a drifting cloud of metallic steam that hung around them like a toxic halo. Chunks of flesh struck the walls and sizzled like meat dropped onto a grill.

Enid’s jaw locked so tight her teeth ached. Her pulse hammered in her neck, in her wrists, behind her eyes. She’d seen violence. She’d made violence. But this—

This wasn’t violence.
This was annihilation.
This was someone erasing a life with the indifference of wiping down a table.

The man collapsed to one knee, coughing blood and embers through the shredded remains of his lips. Flames sputtered out of the multiple holes in his torso, flickering like dying candles.

He wasn’t dead. Not yet.
But he was fading.
Fast.

The Shade stepped over him with an eerie, unnatural grace—feet barely disturbing the debris. It didn’t spare him another glance. Its attention slid toward Enid like a shadow slithering across the floor.

It tilted its head again.

Once.

Slowly.

As if acknowledging her.
As if recognizing her.
As if…considering her.

Not with curiosity.
Not with mercy.

With the cold efficiency of a creature deciding whether the thing in front of it needed to be eliminated.

Enid’s breath hitched. The Wolf slammed against her mind like a battering ram—THREAT THREAT THREAT RIP IT APART KILL NOW KILL NOW—but she shoved it back, clawing for control, jaw locked so hard a muscle jumped in her cheek.

The Shade took one deliberate step toward her—boots soundless even as nails and glass cracked underfoot.

Enid didn’t move. Not when the Shade’s hollow coal-eyes fixed on her, not when its tattered cloak breathed like a second set of lungs, not when the smoke-tendrils curling off its limbs began to slither across the cracked tile as if tasting her. Every survival instinct she had was screaming—run, fight, shift, kill—but some deeper, older part of her brain made her freeze because the way this thing tilted its head was familiar in a way she did not want to examine too closely. It stood perfectly still, a statue carved out of shadow and nightmare, and its silence was louder than the fire roaring around them.

For a heartbeat, Enid considered retreating.

And then the HUD-pulse of her comm flickered across the corner of her vision—not tech, not real, but her brain interpreting panic as something measurable.

[ACTION SELECTION ]
Have some balls- Confront the Shade
Be cautious-Try to reason
Hero shit- Save the firebreather

Time Remaining: ▓▓▓▓░░░░

Was she seriously trying to negotiate with a shadow shaped like murder? Apparently yes, because the next words tumbled out before she could stop them. “Hey—okay—uh—hi. I’m Dire-Wolf, SDN. I’m going to need you to stay right where you are and not come any closer. I don’t wanna—”

The Shade stepped closer.

Slow. Precise. Intentional.

Her throat went dry. She raised her palms. “Listen. Stop right the—”

“You can’t reason with it!” the firebreather howled, voice cracking with agony as he clutched at the ragged meat of his ribs. “Fuckin’—bitch—help me—it hurts—”

Enid’s eyes flicked toward him for half a second—

—and that was all it took.

Instinct detonated in her chest. She pivoted hard left as the Shade’s blade came down where her face had been, cleaving the air with a sickening whump that punched her hair backward. For a surreal moment, she saw her own reflection stretched along the blade’s dark edge, wide eyes, soot-streaked cheekbones, a smear of drying blood—before she sprang back, boots skidding across glass and cinders.

The Shade followed.

Silent.

Fast.

Wrong.

It slashed again, the blade singing through the heat, and Enid ducked under it, sliding across the tilted floor. She felt the air cut open above her scalp. A kick swept toward her ribs, she twisted, blocked with an elbow, pain ricocheting down her arm. Another stab—she dodged, felt shadow graze her cheek like frostbite. Every strike was a whisper away from ending her. It moved like smoke with intention, like a thought sharpened into a weapon.

She backpedaled, parrying a downward slice by sheer instinct, and drove a punch into its side. The impact rattled her knuckles, sent shockwaves up her arm, and the Shade actually staggered, boots scraping across burning carpet. She lunged, trying to follow with a kick but the figure erupted into a burst of thick, choking shadow and vanished.

Enid spun.

Nothing.

Left—nothing.

Right—nothing.

The Wolf snarled, claws raking her skull—behind.

A line of fire burst across her face as a blade carved into her cheek. Hot blood sprayed sideways in a red arc that sizzled when it hit the burning floor. Skin peeled back, wet and stinging, pain exploding in a white flash across her vision. Enid hissed, hand clamping to her cheek, feeling the hot, slick pulse of blood.

The Shade was gone again.

Somewhere.

Watching.

Waiting.

“Oh—god....fuck, I’m bleeding out,” the firebreather whimpered behind her, voice trembling and small now. “It’s—oh fuck...please—”

Enid didn’t look away from the shadows, every nerve ending screaming, every instinct wired so tight she felt like she’d snap in half.

[What To Do]
Save Him- Save the dying man
Be On High Alert- Keep guard and wait to be attacked
Be Smart And Cunning- Try to lure the Shade out

Time Remaining: ▓▓▓░░░░░

The ceiling groaned. A heavy crack ran across it like a splitting skull. Embers rained down in glowing showers.

“Goddammit,” she muttered, and dove toward the wounded man.

She skidded beside him, hands immediately pressing to his ribcage and burned herself instantly. The skin along his wound radiated heat like a forge; her fingers blistered under her fingerless gloves. “Jesus—fuck...hang on....hang on—stop moving—”

“I CAN’T—IT HURTS—” Flames belched from his mouth mid-sentence, scorching the wall beside them. Enid flinched, eyebrows singed. “Can you—NOT do that near me?” she snapped.

“I DON’T—HAVE—CONTROL—”

“Yeah, no shit.”

She forced pressure onto the wound again, trying to staunch the bleeding but the torn flesh pulsed, black tendrils writhing from the edges as if something inside was preventing the wound from closing. They recoiled from her touch like living tar. Enid jerked back, horror prickling up her spine. “What the hell did that thing do to you?”

Before he could answer, a portal ripped open beside her and Malevola stepped through—hair wild, eyes blazing hellfire. “What the bloody hell am I looking at? Is that man leaking fire?”

“He’s spewing fire—get it right—” Enid grunted.

The man panicked at the new face. “NOPE—NOPE—I’M NOT GOING IN, YALL ARE NOT TAKING ME IN—I’M NOT—” He hyperventilated, flames sputtering uncontrollably.

Malevola recoiled. “Oh, fantastic. He’s a flamethrower with legs.”

“Just grab him!” Enid barked.

“I’m TRYING—”

The man screamed, hands flying out, and a point-blank blast of fire detonated from his mouth—

Straight into Enid.

She flew backward like a rag doll, colliding into Malevola. The impact hurled them both into a cracked support pillar so hard the pillar splintered, dust exploding outward. The heat ripped through Enid’s suit protections as her exposed face blistered instantly, skin bubbling in patches, fingers charring at the tips. She hit the floor screaming, the sound raw and involuntary.

Malevola swore violently, shadows coiling around her sword as she prepared a portal—but the ceiling finally gave out with a deafening CRACK. Steel beams, flaming drywall, and molten fixtures collapsed in a catastrophic avalanche. The floor beneath them buckled and dropped.

All three fell.

Through one floor.

Then another.

Then another as the building shedding them like loose teeth as debris hammered them from every side. Enid slammed into a desk, her ribs bending painfully before healing caught up. Malevola was cursing in her accent the whole way down, slashing open a portal mid-fall.

They went through along with a tidal wave of debris—and were spat out into open air, outside.

Gravity seized them.

They plummeted.

Enid twisted, disoriented, hair whipping in her face, suit scorched and half-melted in places—when a shadow blotted out the sun above them.

A massive shape swooped down with predatory precision.

SONAR.

Not human. Not even close.
The monstrous bat form dwarfed even Golem—fur bristling dark blue, eyes red as coals, ears huge and pulsing with veins. His fangs gleamed like ivory daggers. A crimson tie ripped and flapping—remained humorously intact at his neck. His wings spread wide enough to blanket a car lot; the downbeat wind kicked up dust and debris in spirals.

He screeched a sound like metal ripping apart—and snatched Enid mid-air with his clawed talon-feet, surprisingly gentle for something so monstrous.

Below, Flambae shot upward on a column of fire, holding Invisigal (who was screaming and swearing), while Malevola rotated mid-freefall, slashed her sword downward, and opened a portal beneath her, landing on a nearby rooftop with far more grace than anyone deserved right now.

Flambae deposited Invisigal beside Malevola with a sharp thwap of boots on concrete, his palms still smoldering faintly from the rescue. “You—are—you kidding me? I told you to exit the damn building, exit, not fucking linger like a tourist taking scenic photos! You think I’m trying to speedrun ‘Save Your Ass: DLC Edition’ every damned shift?!”

Invisigal wheezed, half lying on the roof as she scrambled for her inhaler. “I DIDN’T LINGER! The FLOOR—FELL—ON ME, FLAMEBOY!” She jabbed her inhaler at him like a weapon between desperate breaths. “If I didn’t have asthma before, I DEFINITELY—have—two—now—”

Sonar landed beside them with a thunderous crack, his monstrous claws digging trenches into the rooftop tile as he set Enid down the way a hawk might set down a wounded fox. His leathery wings curled close, fur bristling, the remnants of fire reflecting in his red eyes as he snarled back at the burning tower—almost as if challenging it to fall again.

Enid staggered upright on shaking legs, half-blind from pain and smoke, tasting copper and ash at the back of her throat. Her suit was scorched in jagged patches, melted in others, and her exposed skin radiated raw, pulsing agony. Most of it was already healing, muscle knitting, blisters tightening—but the slash across her cheek refused to close. Black tendrils writhed along the torn flesh like living barbed wire, ripping the wound open again every time it tried to mend. It felt like someone dragging hot fishing hooks under her skin. “Fuck—” she hissed, palm pressed against the cheekbone as she felt the flesh pulse, tear, stitch, tear again.

Malevola stepped closer, her sword lowering as she scanned Enid with glowing eyes. “That’s not normal healing.” She reached out with a cautious hand. “Let me see—maybe I can—”

Enid jerked away, teeth clenched so tight she tasted blood. “stop—I’m fine.”

“That is not fine,” Malevola muttered. “That’s a meat flower blooming on your face.”

Invisigal groaned from the ground. “It’s her second week and she’s already growing more accessories.”

“Shut up,” Enid growled, voice deeper than she intended—the Wolf pushing at her edges, agitated and pacing inside her skull.

They all felt it, the shift in the air. The discomfort they couldn’t name. The way Enid’s shadow stretched a little too far behind her even though the sun was directly overhead.

Malevola took one step back.

Sonar’s wings twitched.

Flambae’s flames dimmed.

But before any of them could process the wrongness behind them in the collapsing tower’s silhouette—the lingering figure half-made of smoke and hate watching from the broken upper floor—

The comms in all their ears crackled violently to life.

Robert’s voice didn’t slip in and it smashed through, frantic and raw-edged.

“Z-Team, report! Dire-Wolf, Invisigal, Flambae, Malevola—what the hell happened out there? Are you all alive? I’m getting multiple feeds, conflicting reports, thermal readings spiking off the charts—someone ANSWER ME!”

Enid lifted her head toward the burning tower as a fresh plume of black smoke twisted upward. The shade of something impossible moved in the ruin. A smear of darkness that didn’t belong to the flames.

She swallowed, jaw tight, cheek still bleeding hot down her jawline.

“Yeah,” she rasped into the comm, voice sandpapered from heat and smoke. “We’re alive.”

She didn’t add for now.

She didn’t have to.

The others could feel it—the chapter’s last breath suspended in the smoke-laden air:

Something inside that building hadn’t been a victim.

Something hadn’t been human.

Something had been hunting.

And it had attacked her.

Chapter Text

Robert stood at the head of the conference room like a disappointed father at a PTA meeting, if PTA meetings involved ex-villains, scorched costumes, and a half-melted Golem dripping mud on the carpet. His arms were crossed, expression carved into something between bewildered and exhausted as the Z-Team slouched in their chairs, each looking in a different direction as if eye contact alone might incriminate them. “What happened?” he asked, voice low, steady, trying desperately to sound like a man who expected a reasonable answer. But all he got was silence. A long, guilty, fidgeting silence.

Malevola finally lifted a hand, swirling a strand of demon-red hair around her finger as if raising a question in class. “Well, building was on fire, right? We were saving people and shit, doing the hero thing, and then out of nowhere some fuckin’ guy with a flamethrower for a mouth starts lighting floors up like it’s Mardi Gras. Could’ve been Flambae’s cousin or some shit, you know how Pyrokinetic folk are”

“The fuck does THAT mean!?” Flambae shot back, flipping her off with spectacular form before turning and jabbing a finger at Invisigal, who looked aggressively bored. “Also, don’t act like I’m the problem when Ms. Cancer Lungs over here was dragging her feet in the thick smoke so I had to babysit her like some unpaid nanny.”

“Oh fuck off, flame dick!” Invisigal wheezed, rolling her eyes so hard her inhaler practically vibrated in her pocket. “First wolf bitch yelling at me, now flame dick on my case. Y’all need to be more grateful I don’t just turn invisible and leave your asses in there.”

“Well,” Sonar said with the bizarre dignity of a Harvard grad in a body that routinely shit itself in the parking lot, “you do have asthma, and charging into a burning building is not a statistically intelligent decision. Even I know that, and I ate two rats before this meeting.”

“Oh shut it, bat-for-brains. Before i call Pest Control,” Invisigal snapped.

Golem’s deep rumble of a laugh echoed through the room. Sonar puffed up in outrage and jabbed a finger at him. “Don’t you laugh—you thought 401(k) was a model of Ford truck!”

“That’s enough,” Robert cut in sharply, rubbing the bridge of his nose with the air of a man reconsidering all his life choices. Before he could try again to wrangle them into coherence, footsteps echoed down the hallway—the kind that made grown criminals sit up straight like schoolchildren bracing for a ruler crack.

The door swung open.

Blonde Blazer strode in, eyes scanning the room with quick, surgical precision—counting heads, counting damage, and visibly noting the absence of her cousin. Her jaw tightened. She didn’t comment. Instead, she marched to the conference TV, grabbed the remote, and flicked on the news feed.

The room fell silent.

The reporter’s voice was butter-smooth and starving for drama. “We return to our top story—This Morning's catastrophic fire at the Central Horizon Insurance Tower. Authorities still cannot confirm how the blaze began, but eyewitnesses claim to have seen an unidentified individual entering the building moments before the explosions. Surveillance stills provided by anonymous sources appear to show a caped figure—possibly pyrokinetic—flying in and out of the structure during the collapse.” Flambae’s face froze mid-blink on the screen, zoomed in grotesquely, making him look guilty in the way every still frame makes someone guilty.

“What? That’s not—I didn’t even—oh you motherfu—” Flambae sputtered as the footage replayed.

The reporter continued. “Firefighters managed to contain the blaze after the top floors collapsed inward. However… the tragedy deepens. Over a dozen bodies have been recovered, many severely burned or crushed beneath debris. SDN has yet to release an official statement regarding their involvement or response time, but a spokesperson is expected to address the media later today. Public frustration is mounting as questions remain unanswered.”

Blonde Blazer turned off the TV.

Her silence was louder than the report.

“What really happened,” she said—not a question, but a demand dressed as one.

Even Sonar shut up. Punch-Up and Golem exchanged a look, both instinctively straightening like kids caught tracking mud inside. The collective vibe in the room screamed: Mom is mad. Hide the evidence.

Malevola cleared her throat. “We got there as the building was already burning. Dire-Wolf and I were containing this guy—mouth like a dragon, flames straight out his lungs. He panicked, freaked out, blasted us into a damn pillar. Then the floor gave out. That’s… pretty much all I got.” She shrugged, though there was a grim honesty to it. She knew Enid had seen more, but she wouldn’t speculate. Not yet.

Blonde Blazer studied her for a long moment, then exhaled and nodded. “Good work. All of you. You saved lives—and that matters more than whatever narrative the vultures outside try to spin.” She paused, hands resting on the table as she leaned forward. “Tech is pulling what they can from the tower’s cloud servers. Stored footage, motion sensors, anything that wasn’t melted. But as of now—there’s no sign of the firebreather in the recovered bodies. None that match his wounds, none that match the visual description. If he died in there… he didn’t stay dead long enough to catalog.”

The room stiffened.

Even Flambae didn’t have a joke for that.

“As for Dire-Wolf,” she continued, softer, “she’s alive. I heard she’s stable. For now… just leave her be.” She tapped Robert on the shoulder. “Come with me. We need to talk to Medical.”

The two left the room, Blonde Blazer leading with tight, urgent strides.

The moment the door clicked shut, Sonar leaned back in his chair and chirped, “Well, Mom’s pissed. Dad’s worried. And now Mom and Dad are going to check on the Pup. What next she going to get a chew toy.”

The room erupted into cackles—except Malevola, who reached over and flicked Sonar hard on the forehead. “Don’t be an ass,” she muttered. “She actually did a real fucking great job today.”

Invisigal didn’t laugh either.

Instead, she narrowed her eyes at the closed door, quietly rose, and with a shimmer of violet light—vanished completely. Her chair squeaked as it shifted under the sudden absence.

No one noticed. Or just didn't care.

She slipped unseen through the hallway like a rumor wearing quiet sneakers, drifting after Blonde Blazer and Robert as they headed deeper into the Torrance branch. The fluorescent lights overhead hummed, then gave way to the steadier, colder LEDs of the medical wing—a compact annex tucked behind reinforced fire doors. It wasn’t a hospital, not really; more like a battlefield infirmary disguised as a corporate clinic, outfitted with everything from mundane first-aid cabinets to arcane trauma gear locked behind biometric panels. Clean floors. White walls. The faint antiseptic scent that was somehow both comforting and foreboding.

And in the center of Exam Room Three, perched on a steel table under a floodlamp, sat Enid.

She looked like hell. Worse than hell. Her cheek wound, slashed open diagonally from cheekbone to near the corner of her jaw and was trying to close but kept failing, twitching and trembling around the thick, stubborn splinters of black that coiled inside it. Four doctors hovered anxiously around her, murmuring, each shining lights, pressing gauze, snapping photos, their latex gloves slick with diluted blood and the faintly oily sheen of whatever the hell those tendrils were. The flesh around the wound pulsed faintly, like it was breathing wrong. Every time it tried to knit together, the black threads wriggled and forced it apart again, leaving torn edges and a slow seep of fresh red.

Enid sat there with her jaw clenched, eyes half-lidded, doing her best not to punch anyone. The pain wasn’t sharp anymore. It was clawing, itchy, wrong—like something was dragging barbed wire under her skin and then getting bored halfway through.

Standing beside the doctors was a woman Enid had never met until five minutes ago—Brainbook. Dark hair pulled into a sleek ponytail, navy suit pressed so sharply it could cut glass, gold earrings glinting as she moved. She held a tablet clutched in one hand and a sample vial in the other, posture perfect, eyes cool and lightning-precise. Mandy had once mentioned SDN’s “walking encyclopedia”; Enid now understood it was not a metaphor. Brainbook radiated competence so intensely it made the room feel smaller.

“It could be bacterial,” one doctor rambled anxiously. “An infection that inhibits regenerative processes—though I’ve never seen anything this aggressive.”

“No, no, the patterning is too organized,” another countered, pulling the skin gently—earning a low growl from Enid. “It might be magical. Some kind of hex? ‘Negate Healing’ class spellwork? But the residue doesn’t match any cataloged enchantments.”

“It could be parasitic,” a third offered, holding a swab. “Something extraphysical. Maybe a thaumic leech. Maybe poisoning? Corrosive thaumic venom—”

Brainbook cleared her throat and all four stopped talking like scared interns. She finally set the vial in a tray and looked at Mandy and Robert, who stepped in right as she turned.

“Well,” Brainbook said, tapping the tablet with a long, manicured finger, “the good news is that the foreign material appears to be degrading. It’s smaller now than when we started examining her—shriveling, almost. Whatever it is, it’s losing cohesion.”

“And the bad news?” Mandy asked, already bracing herself, voice softening as she approached her cousin.

Brainbook’s lips pressed into a thin line. “The tissue keeps attempting to regenerate, but the tendrils—if that’s even the right word—actively disrupt the matrix. I’ve ruled out conventional pathogens. It doesn’t match any known curse markers either. I’ve collected samples, and with your permission, Director Sinclair, I’d like to forward them to two external specialists I trust. One is a molecular thaumaturgist, the other a dimensional biologist. With luck, they can identify the substance.”

Mandy nodded, then immediately moved closer to Enid, cupping one hand behind her back as she leaned in for a tight hug. “Hey,” she murmured, “you scared the shit out of me.”

Enid huffed a weak laugh, lifting a hand only halfway. “You should see the other guy.”

Robert stepped in beside them, gaze flicking over the wound with something like reluctance. “How’re you holding up?”

Enid gave him a thumbs-up that trembled slightly. “I just want a shower. And like… seven days of sleep.”

He let out a soft chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck. “That can be arranged.”

Her voice lowered. “I told the medical team about the knife. How it… did this.” Her fingers hovered near her cheek, not touching. “But there’s more I didn’t tell them yet. You two need to hear it.”

She reached down beside the table for her backpack—singed, dusty, but intact—and pulled out her journal. She flipped to a page, handing it to Mandy first.

It was a sketch. A disturbingly accurate sketch. The Shade’s tattered cloak, the heavy boots, the Ghostface mask twisted into that impossibly wide smile. The tendrils of smoke that curled off its limbs like it was shedding pieces of itself. The eyes were cold, hollow pits with faint glowing cores—were rendered with unsettling precision.

Mandy inhaled sharply. Robert frowned, his brows knitting, leaning closer.

“That thing,” Enid said quietly, “fought the firebreather. I’m pretty sure their scuffle caused the first explosion. They were already tearing the floor apart when I got there. I tried to intervene, but… you know.” Her hand ghosted over her cheek. “It was faster.”

Mandy squeezed her shoulder. “We’ll figure this out. I promise. You’re not dealing with this alone.” She flipped the journal closed, her jaw tightening. “I’ll go deal with the press. Robert—stay with her. Tech should have the first batch of recovered footage in a few hours. Once we see what’s on it… we’ll have a place to start.”

Robert watched Mandy leave, the door clicking softly behind her, and for a long moment the room seemed to exhale. The doctors retreated to sanitize their equipment; Brainbook left to consult her peers; the last nurse closed the cabinet with a tired metallic thunk. Soon it was just Enid on the table bandaged, bruised, still smelling faintly of smoke and Robert leaning against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest, regarding her with a look that was equal parts impressed and exhausted.

“You did good today,” he said, and it wasn’t the perfunctory kind of praise people gave out of obligation. It carried weight, quiet and earnest. “Really good. I know you’re still new to all this, but from where I’m standing? You pulled everyone together. You gave orders when things got chaotic. You went in first. And you didn’t freeze. That’s not nothing.”

Enid snorted. “I’ve been running into dangerous shit since I was twelve. Cops, wannabe gangs, pissed-off clients at the diner, my uncle grounding me—danger was always my brand. Or more like trying to be a little shit was more like it.”

“Maybe,” Robert replied, pushing off the wall and stepping closer, “but that’s not the same as leadership. You didn’t run from danger this time. You ran into it with purpose. And the others followed you. That means something.” He hesitated, then added softly, “You remind me of her, you know. Your mom. Calm in chaos. Sharp. Determined. People listened to her without thinking. People are gonna listen to you too.”

Enid blinked, taken off guard. She squinted at him, then let out a crooked grin. “What, did you, like… know her? Or just have a poster of Lady Dire-Wolf taped above your bed? Jerk-off material for teen-Robert?”

Robert groaned and punched her shoulder lightly, smirking. “I admired her. Big difference.”

“Sure.” Enid muttered, but her smile lingered, small and warm stitched into her exhaustion.

Behind them, pressed flat against the wall where the medical lamp cast no light, Invisigal held herself rigid, invisible but trembling with something sharp and sour. Jealousy. Rage. Guilt. She hated that she felt all three. Hated that they were laughing. Hated that Robert—her Robert, the one she liked far more than she let on—looked at Enid like that. Hated how easy things seemed for Dire-Wolf already. And hated herself most of all for caring.

She didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Just stared and listened and felt something ugly build in her ribs.

---

Across the city, night pressed down like a bruise.

Rot, cigarettes, mold, and something sour—like meat forgotten in a trunk—hung over the rundown motel crouched on Torrance’s outskirts. The neon sign outside had long given up the will to live; it flickered “OT L” in sickly pulses, buzzing like an insect dying on its back. The parking lot was cracked open like a dried tongue, rainwater pooled black in the dips, and weeds jutted through the asphalt like stubborn little grave markers.

Inside room 11B, the walls were yellowed, thin, and damp thin enough that the sounds of neighbors screaming, arguing, or fucking seeped through with uncomfortable clarity. The air was sticky with old smoke, stale beer, sweat, and the wet-dog musk of old carpet. And under it all was fresh blood.

The man hunched over the bathroom sink, breath rasping in sharp, uneven shudders. The mirror gave him back a nightmare. His lips were split open like dried fruit. The burns on his jaw were patchy, warped, peeling in grotesque fingerprints where the Shade had smashed him against the floor. His skin bubbled along his cheekbones and neck. One eye had swollen shut, purple and angry, the other twitching as though trying to retreat deeper into his skull.

Worse were the stab wounds: jagged punctures along his ribs, the edges blackened, the tissue puckered. Thick drops of dark blood oozed out slowly in each bead bulging, trembling and from the open wounds, thin black tendrils writhed and crawled. They clung to the flesh like parasitic vines, rooting into him deeper with every breath he took. Every inhale sent them quivering. Every exhale made them tighten like tiny barbed hooks.

He splashed cold water on his face, trying to numb the agony but the moment the droplets hit the burns, he screamed. A raw, guttural burst that cracked in the middle like torn fabric. His hand shot forward without thinking, knuckles slamming against the mirror frame—cracking the tile, fracturing the reflection.

“Fuck—fuck—fuck—” he hissed between panting breaths, saliva and blood dripping from his lips.

Then a vibration cut through the room.

His phone.

The little burner phone on the counter buzzed aggressively, rattling against cheap laminate.

He stiffened, terror crawling up his spine in cold beads. He snatched the phone and pressed it to his ear, voice breaking, “’Bout fucking time. Where the hell is my pickup? I’ve been waiting SIX HOURS. You hear me? Six! I am NOT dying in this fucking roach motel! And if that psycho—whatever the hell it was—shows up again—”

Silence. Thick and heavy.

“Hello? HELLO!?” He snapped, voice cracking.

And then—

“Hello, Marlon.”

The voice slithered into his ear like a wet blade sliding between ribs was smooth, amused, distorted, dripping with a kind of mock sympathy that made the skin on his neck crawl.

Marlon froze. His breath stopped halfway through his throat.

“H-how…” he croaked. “How did you get this number?”

A low, lazy chuckle. Like someone lounging in velvet and blood.

“Oh, sweetheart. You’ve had a long night. Don’t make me repeat myself.”
A soft sigh.
“I have my ways. For instance, did you know your handler and his colleagues enjoyed a full-course ‘slice-and-dice’ tonight? Courtesy of yours truly.”

Marlon’s stomach dropped.

“I—what—?”

“Oh, they ordered pizza,” the voice continued brightly. “Thirty minutes or less. But the delivery boy never came. Shame, honestly. Good tippers. And now their office looks delicious. I can’t even tell if that red on the walls is marinara… or spleen.”

A chuckle. Sinister. Mirthful.

Marlon staggered out of the bathroom, clutching the phone so tightly his knuckles split and bled. “Listen to me. I SWEAR—I don’t know anything about that shadow organization crap. I’m a branch senior underwriter in Risk Management, okay? I handle industrial policies, high-risk accounts—audits, premium structures, corporate claims—”

“Oh, Marlon.”
The voice purred.
“You sweet, crispy little liar.”

Marlon’s breath came in short, terrified bursts.

“You also handle premium diversion,” the voice continued, tone sugary-sweet. “Skimming payments off the top. Creating fake corporate assets to insure. Fabricating fire inspections. Filing false statements. Laundering payouts through shell subsidiaries. You are a very busy little termite.”

“I—I—look, I was told to do that by my bosses—”

“And that money,” the Shade whispered with pleasure, “funnels somewhere. To someone. Someone bigger. Someone hungrier than you.”

Marlon backed up until his legs hit the motel bed. He nearly fell. “I don’t KNOW! I really don’t! Please—I was just supposed to sign off on things, I wasn’t—”

“Wrong answer.”

“No—please—please—”

The voice sharpened like a knife being drawn.

“Who do you work for, Marlon? Your real employer. The one who doesn’t appear in the company directory. The one who leaves no digital footprint. The one who files their paperwork in blood.”

Marlon’s breath stuttered; his ribs quivered under the tendrils. “I DON’T KNOW! I don’t—”

Click.

He had hung up.

He threw the phone across the room so hard it split into three pieces.

“Fuck. Fuck. FUCK,” he sobbed, grabbing his boots. “I need to get OUT—I need to—”

Behind him, the shadows thickened.

A wet, viscous drip echoed off the wall.

“Now, that,” the voice said, no longer filtered through plastic or static, “was very rude.”

Marlon whirled around. His heart slammed so hard it hurt.

The corner of the room bled darkness, slow and thick, like tar melting down a wall. The shadows dripped into a heap on the floor and rose into a slouched, tall silhouette. Cloak tattered. Hood heavy. The Ghost like face mask snapped forward into shape, its jawline stretching unnaturally wide, the carved smile splitting higher than any human mouth should go.

The Shade tilted its head in slow, curious amusement.

“Running already? We haven’t even kissed goodnight.”

Marlon choked on a sob. “Get away from me—please....please—”

“Oh, now you want polite conversation?” the Shade cooed. “You weren’t so chatty when you were melting a building full of people.”

“That wasn’t me! I—I didn’t start that fire!”

“You breathed napalm on half a floor.”

“I panicked!” Marlon screamed, trembling violently. “I panicked, okay!? You...you—thing—YOU STARTED IT—”

The Shade tapped one finger against its blade.
“Where does the money go, Marlon…?”

“I don’t know!”
Tap.
“I don’t—”
Tap.
“I swear—”

The Shade leaned forward, voice dropping to a whisper dripping with indulgent cruelty.

“Liiiies.”

Marlon snapped. Not courage, terror. Raw, blind terror. He inhaled sharply, chest heaving and spewed a roaring blast of flame toward the Shade, a desperate flamethrower arc that lit up the entire room. The curtains ignited instantly. The bed caught. Heat rippled violently, the motel walls vibrating like they might collapse.

For a fraction of a second, the flames painted the Shade in bright orange.

And it moved.

Fast.

Unnaturally fast.

It ducked low, gliding beneath the fire like a shadow slipping under a door. One hand on the ground, leg sweeping in a blur, cloak billowing like smoke. The fire hit the back wall and crawled up it, chewing the motel room alive.

The Shade rose in front of Marlon, almost nose-to-nose.

“Cute trick,” it crooned.

The knife struck.

Not once.

A blur.

A frenzy.

The blade punched into Marlon’s ribs—between them—under them—tearing upward until the sound became wet and clogged. Blood sprayed in a violent arc against the wall, sizzling when it hit the burning curtains. His scream tore out of him, shredded and barely human.

He stumbled backward, clutching his stomach as something hot and gelatinous spilled between his fingers.

The Shade leaned into his ear.

“Now,” it whispered almost tenderly, “let’s try this again… who… do… you… work… for?”

Marlon couldn’t even speak. His mouth opened, but nothing came out except a choking, bubbling wetness.

The Shade sighed dramatically.

“Boring.”

It drove the blade in a final time—deep, precise, and devastatingly slow.

Marlon’s silent scream tore through the paper-thin wall—brief, jagged, and quickly drowned out by the neighbor’s shouted argument. Blood splattered the carpet, thick and heavy.

The Shade stepped back, letting the body drop like a sack of meat.

Drip.
Drip.
Drip.

And then—like smoke inhaled—it vanished.

The motel room burned.

No witnesses.

No survivors.

No answers.

Only the wet sound of something dripping onto old carpet long after Marlon stopped moving.

Chapter Text

The alarm didn’t simply ring, it detonated.

A serrated, metallic shriek ripped open the dark at 5:59 A.M., stabbing through the silence like a bone saw hitting steel. It vibrated through the high-rise’s minimalist architecture, rattling the glass walls and ricocheting off the polished concrete floors. The condo’s entire aesthetic obsidian tile, matte-black cabinetry, brushed steel fixtures, a cold-marble waterfall counter seemed to flinch at the sound.

Last night’s scents still lingered faintly in the air: warm skin, incense ash, and the musk of bodies that had moved with urgency long past midnight. The sheets still held the ghost of heat, rumpled and tangled like a battlefield that had only just cooled.

The woman in the bed let out a low, exhausted groan, sharp, irritated, the kind of noise made by someone dragged out of a dream they weren’t done killing. She didn’t wake gently. She woke like a blade being unsheathed.

She rolled onto her back, silk sheets slipping off her torso and down her abdomen in a slow, whispering slide. The neon glow from the tower across the street spilled through the half-open curtains, painting her body in shifting violets and indigos. The light washed across her chest and hips, revealing a physique that seemed sculpted more by lifestyle than vanity: compact waist, defined shoulders, the soft fullness of a body that carried strength under every curve.

Her breasts were heavy and plump for her frame, rising and falling with each breath, the nipples adorned with silver rings that glinted in the neon light. Her skin caught the glow like polished stone as it was cool, smooth, faintly luminous. Silver jewelry scattered across her body glinted back: the curve of a septum ring, the bite of spiderbite piercings on her lip, the gleam of metal along her eyebrow, the shadowed hint of piercings further down her torso catching the colored light as she stretched.

Her hair, thick, raven-black, chaotic from sleep now fell around her face like an oil spill, messy and beautiful in a way that didn’t ask for permission. She ran a hand through it, pushing it back with a sigh that was half annoyance, half resignation.

Across the bed, a man slept flat on his stomach, bare back rising and falling in slow, heavy breaths. Curly brown hair stuck up in uneven tufts, shoulders broad, one arm curled under the pillow as if still clinging to a dream.

She looked at him for a moment.

Not long enough for sentiment.
Just long enough to acknowledge the fact: she liked him.

In her own strange, private way, she even loved him quietly, practically, without softness.

And the sex had been good.
Objectively. Efficiently. Repeatedly.

But emotional messiness wasn’t her sport.
So her expression remained unreadable, the surface still water over something deeper.

She slid out of bed, completely nude, walking with the steady confidence of someone who lived unapologetically inside her own bones. Her thighs were solid and powerful; her hips moved with the natural sway of a fighter who had learned balance through bruises. Her body was inked with ritualistic lines, runes, and eldritch symbols that held the strange, magnetic gravity of a sculpture brought to life. Her scars were faint but honest: thin pale lines along her thighs, ribs, and back, fragments of stories no one else got to hear.

The bathroom lights came alive with a soft hum as she stepped inside.

It wasn’t a normal bathroom.
It was a temple of sharp edges and indulgent minimalism: black marble counters veined with silver, a rainfall shower framed by glass panels, and recessed lighting that made every droplet shine like mercury.

She turned the water on hot (dangerously hot) and stepped beneath the cascade. The steam swallowed her instantly, curling through her hair, sliding down her tattoos, fogging the glass. Her breath steadied. Her expression didn’t.

Soap blossomed between her hands, creamy and fragrant, sliding across her skin in thick white suds. She scrubbed her arms, her chest, her stomach with purposeful motions, cleansing herself like someone washing off a night of sins instead of sweat. The suds clung to the runes along her ribs, sliding off slowly, tracing the shapes like pale ghosts before collapsing into the drain.

She tipped her head back, letting water run over her face, down her neck, along the lines where her body curved like a slow exhale.

She didn’t daydream.
Didn’t drift.
Didn’t think about the man asleep in the bed.

Her mind clicked instantly into its usual morning cycle: trace patterns, hunt shadows, anticipate danger, erase hesitation, move forward.

She scrubbed her hair, rinsed it, and reached for a towel and pressing it against her skin, blotting, not patting, leaving streaks of condensation behind. The mirror was fogged over, showing only a vague silhouette. She wiped a single clear swipe with her palm. Her reflection stared back with black eyes rimmed faintly in violet, expression blank and borderline predatory.

She stood for a moment, watching herself breathe.
Then she stepped into the walk-in closet, a shadowed cathedral of black fabrics, steel hangers, and the faint scent of incense woven permanently into the air. The overhead light flickered on with a low hum, catching on rows of boots, hoodies, jackets, band tees, and the occasional garment that still smelled faintly of blood despite multiple washes. Clothing here wasn’t fashion. It was armor. Memory. Ritual.

She ran her hands along the rack, fingertips gliding across cotton, leather, denim, mesh. Then she began assembling herself piece by piece.

First came the underwear, black cotton panties pulled up her hips with unhurried precision, settling flush against her skin. Then a matching bra, soft fabric overlaying the curve of her chest, the straps digging lightly into her shoulders as she adjusted them until they sat just right. There was nothing coy about the gesture. Just methodical, habitual, the way a soldier straps on gear.

Then the real layers.

The oversized black tee slid over her head like liquid shadow, falling loose around her torso, brushing the tops of her thighs. The torn cropped hoodie followed, its frayed hem hugging her ribs, the sleeves stretching snug around her forearms as she zipped halfway and let the rest hang open.

The thigh-highs came next was deep wine-red, rich as spilled wine. She rolled them up her legs slowly, smoothing the fabric over powerful thighs and calves, the elastic snapping gently into place. The contrast between the stockings and her pale skin was striking, almost ceremonial.

Combat boots waited at the bottom of the closet like faithful beasts. She stepped into them, lacing the steel-buckled leather tight around her ankles. Rings that were silver, worn, heavy with history now slipped onto her fingers with quiet clicks. Ear cuffs snapped into place. A delicate chain slid around her neck, the dark cross pendant falling into the hollow of her chest like a silent oath.

Perfume was the last step: a cool, smoky cloud misting around her collarbones, clinging to her hoodie, seeping into her hair. Cedar-dark. Amber-warm. A scent that lingered like a warning someone would remember long after she walked away.

Dressed, armed in her own way, she padded back to the bedroom.

The man still slept exactly how she’d left him, one arm under the pillow, cheek pressed into it, curls mussed, his breathing deep and steady. For a moment, she just stood there. Watching him. Not tenderly, not coldly as it was just observing, her expression softening by maybe one degree.

She approached quietly and leaned down, brushing her lips to the crown of his hair. Her hand slid across his bare back, fingertips drawing a slow, gentle path along the muscles. It was brief, almost absentminded, but real.

“Bye,” she whispered, voice low, rough around the edges. “See you later.”

He stirred only faintly. She didn’t wait for more.

Keys. Wallet. Phone.
No hesitation.
Never hesitation.

The hallway outside the condo was dead silent, the air too still, too polished like a clean, sterile stage waiting for something terrible to happen on it. The elevator chimed open and she stepped inside, leaning against the mirrored wall, hood shadowing her face as her reflection stared back: unreadable, sharp-edged, faint violet glimmering inside her irises.

The parking garage was dim, lit with fluorescent tubes that flickered like dying stars. Her car squatted in its usual spot, an aging 2009 Nissan 350Z that looked like it had survived three riots and a breakup. The paint was sun-faded, the clear coat splotchy. A fist-sized dent marred the rear bumper. One rim was scraped so badly the metal looked gnawed.

Stickers coated the back and sides with rock bands, occult symbols, indie labels, a peeling “GOD HATES COWARDS” sticker barely hanging on.

She slid into the cracked leather seat, the interior smelling of gasoline, old coffee, sage, and the metallic undertone of someone who didn’t always come home clean. She popped open the glove compartment, fished out a battered pack of cigarettes, and lit one with a quick flick of the lighter. Smoke filled her lungs, warm and grounding.

She exhaled out the cracked window, watching the smoke curl into the garage shadows like a creature returning home.

The engine coughed awake with a rough, rattling, hostile sound and then settled into its usual feral growl. She smirked faintly, shifting into reverse.

The radio erupted with snarling guitar riffs and drums that throbbed like a heartbeat played too close to a wound. She didn’t turn the volume down. She didn’t need calm. She needed noise.

The 350Z peeled out of the parking space, screeching slightly on the turn. She shot up the ramp and out onto the waking streets.

Torrance lingered in that strange pre-dawn blur where fog ribboned along the asphalt and neon flickered weakly as if deciding whether to keep shining. Streetlights blinked out one by one. Delivery vans drifted through intersections like ghosts.

She weaved through early traffic with surgical ease, one hand on the wheel, the other tapping along to the music. Her expression was blank, carved from shadow. Her eyes were razor-focused and far away at the same time.

As the city was barely conscious by the time she pulled into the SDN lot, just a gray smudge of dawn pressed against Torrance’s skyline, streetlamps blinking awake and then ashamedly dying, fog swirling low enough to graze the umbrellas of the few pedestrians brave enough to walk before sunrise. Wens killed the engine of her battered 350Z, leaned back in the driver’s seat for a single breath, then stepped out into the cold with the kind of composure most people only found after a full cup of coffee and a therapy session.

She flicked the cigarette away, grinding it under her boot with a sharp twist.

Her breath fogged.
Her eyes didn’t.

Inside the SDN building, the lobby was all vaulted ceilings and glass panels pretending they were a respectable government-adjacent agency. Light hummed too bright. Floor tiles reflected too clean. The early shift workers shuffled past in rumpled uniforms and sleep-heavy steps. She moved through them like a storm in a silk veil as in the kind you sense but never see coming.

She scanned her keycard. beep.

A Blue Shirt glanced at her outfit then too her hoodie, the thigh-highs, the boots and raised an eyebrow.

She raised one back without a word.

He looked away first.

That's right.

She rounded toward the elevators just as the doors slid open with a metallic sigh and Waterboy emerged pushing a janitor cart bursting with supplies. He had a mop balanced precariously, a bucket half-filled with grayish water, spray bottles lined up like rainbow soldiers, a tangle of rags, industrial disinfectant, and his badge clipped crookedly to his hoodie.

He didn’t see her.

Which made it perfect.

She sidestepped into the elevator with him and jabbed a finger into his ribs.

“AAA—!” Waterboy shot three inches off the ground, one hand flying to clutch his heart. “Oh my god—Wens!” He sagged dramatically. “You can’t just materialize like that!”

She smirked, leaning against the elevator wall. “Please. That was barely a scare. I didn’t even hiss at you.” She eyed him up and down. “But you do look particularly skittish this morning. In other words, good morning.”

He flushed. “Morning, Wens.”

She pushed off the wall and eyed his cart. “You doing spring cleaning on the whole building or something? That’s a lot of supplies.”

Waterboy perked a bit, proud. “Nah, uh—this is my Tuesday cart. Floors, windows, bathrooms, break rooms, trash pickup, emergency spills. You know. Regular chaos.”

She nodded. “You carry this building harder than most heroes, sweetheart.”

He blinked. “Huh?”

She shrugged. “I mean it. Don’t get bashful.”
(Oh, he was absolutely getting bashful.)

He adjusted the mop handle and then snapped his fingers. “OH! Did you see the news? That burning tower? Five alarms! And the Z-Team was involved again. I heard Flambae almost broke a skylight trying to land!”

She snorted, stepping out with him as the elevator dinged the second floor. “Of course I heard. I file every incident report that comes through this place. Including the ones Blazer writes at two a.m. while sleep-deprived and delusional.”

He winced sympathetically. “Brutal.”

“Brutal,” she echoed.

They turned into the break room, the only room in the building that looked like civilians used it instead of action figures. Waterboy parked his cart against the counter. Wens set her mug down with ceremonial reverence.

She popped open the lid of the coffee machine, poured in grounds, and tapped the container lightly with her knuckles. “Wake up, bitch,” she muttered at the machine.

Waterboy bit his lip to keep from laughing.

As the machine sputtered to life, they settled into the kind of easy conversation that only happened before the rest of the office arrived.

“Feels colder today,” he said, rubbing his hands.

“That’s because the universe hates us,” she replied dryly. “Also because I left my bedroom window cracked again.” She rolled her shoulders. “I swear, if Tyler gets sick again, I’m gonna kick him out of my bed. Man turns into a dying Victorian orphan the second he gets a sniffle.”

Waterboy snorted. “You say that like you’re not the one who nurses him back to health.”

She glared at him. “Don’t expose me like that, we have a unique relationship.”

He grinned, fiddling with a bottle of Windex.

She tilted her head. “Hey, what band was that recommendation you gave me last week? The one with the angry drummer and the vocalist who sounds like he gargles nails?”

“Oh! Uh, the Lung Ripper! Their new EP drops Friday.”

She snapped her fingers. “That’s the one. Send it to me. I need something to flood out the screaming in my brain.”

He nodded vigorously. “Yes, definitely. Also, did you watch the new paranormal show on Prime? The one about haunted oil rigs?”

She raised an eyebrow. “If the ghost doesn’t at least decapitate someone by episode two, I’m not interested.”

He choked on a laugh. “You’re such a menace.”

“I try,” she said, pouring herself the first cup of coffee with divine precision. “And succeed.”

Coffee in hand, she clinked her mug lightly against Waterboy’s thermos. “Survive your shift, chico.”

“You too!” he said brightly.

She raised an eyebrow. “I always survive.”

Then she left.

Her boots thudded softly on the industrial carpet as she crossed the bullpen. Chase jogged past at 7% the speed he could run, waving as he balanced three coffees without spilling a drop. She nodded back. Prism floated by in a glittery fog of perfume and illusions, humming. She didn’t spare Wens a glance which was how Wens preferred it.

Robert sat slumped at his desk, headset around his neck, half-finished paperwork in front of him. She lifted two fingers in greeting.

He lifted two back with a weary smile.

She slipped into the quieter hall that housed the Records Division.

“Morning, sweetheart,” called Doris, the oldest clerk, sharp as broken glass but warm as soup. Her nails were cherry red and vicious.

“Morning, Dora,” Wens replied, leaning briefly into the doorway. “Your hair looks fire today. Who we seducing?”

“My husband,” Doris said proudly.

“I support the cause.”

The other clerks chuckled as Wens ducked into her own office, medium-sized, dim, soft-glow LED strips along the wall, a comfortable, lived-in chaos only she understood.

Her posters glared down from the walls with metal bands with illegible fonts, leather-clad guitarists, eldritch artwork, a movie poster for a cult indie horror flick. A Funko of a shadow creature stood guard beside her monitor. A fake skull held her pens. A neon sign shaped like a bat glowed purple. Half of these violated HR’s “professional décor policy.” All of it remained.

She set her mug down, opened the mini-fridge, and nearly blessed the contents when she found her blueberry muffin untouched.

She plopped into her chair and booted up her system.

Multiple programs loaded:

IncidentArchive.exe
DispatchLogSync
HeroRoutineForms
RecordKeeper: Level 5 Access

She sipped her coffee, unwrapped her muffin like it was a baby bird she needed to protect, and began typing ridiculously fast, precise, fluid. She scanned reports from the overnight dispatchers, flagged inconsistencies, logged timestamps, cross-referenced hero movements, updated case files, and uploaded scanned statements from witnesses in smoldering apartment buildings.

Her fingers kept pace with the rhythmic alternative rock playing low from her speaker. The bassline thrummed like a second heartbeat. The hallway chatter buzzed faintly. Her office door stayed open just far enough to let life seep in without interrupting her.

She was deep into a fire incident log when she muttered:

“God, I love this job.”

She really did.
Even if the world didn’t know her yet.
Even if no one would believe what she was capable of.

Work was her rhythm.
Her grounding.
Her cover.

And somewhere across Torrance…
across a city still waking up…
something else was beginning its day too.

But she had no reason (At all) to worry.

Work had settled into its steady rhythm, the hum of monitors, the soft clacking of keyboards, the distant echo of Sonar shrieking about someone stealing his “organic cricket snacks,” and the occasional pop of the vending machine giving up the ghost again. Hours bled together the way they always did when Wens slipped into her quiet storm of productivity. She inhaled files, exhaled reports, and let caffeine and spite carry her through.

Sometime near noon, Doris popped her head in, pearl earrings swinging. “Sweetheart,” she said with a shiver, “did you see the news blast? Police found a body at that ratty Sunvale Motel. Some poor bastard named Marlon Tuscany — claims he was the senior underwriter for that tower that burned down. And get this, they found a ‘suicide note’ written in pen and blood.” Doris hugged herself dramatically. “Pen and blood. Just repulsive.”

Wens raised a brow. “Corporate America does things to people.”

“I suppose it does.” Doris sighed. “Anyway, Blonde Blazer might be coming by later asking for updated records on that fire. And I’m heading to lunch, love. Want me to grab you anything?”

Wens shook her head. “Nah, I’ve got a frozen burrito calling my name.”

“You and those damn burritos,” Doris muttered affectionately as she left.

Wens finished off her incident log with a few sharp keystrokes, saved her progress, cracked her stiff neck, and stood. She grabbed the frozen burrito from her mini-fridge, a cold Monster from the back corner, the one she hid behind the apples so no one would come in and steal it and headed down the hall.

The SDN break room buzzed faintly with old fluorescent lights. A microwave sat on the counter like a veteran of too many battles. Wens slid her burrito inside, set the timer, and leaned back against the counter. As the microwave hummed, she pulled out her phone and texted:

WENS: u awake
TYLER: barely
WENS: what are u doing
TYLER: i’m gathering the strength to go pee
WENS: incredible. my king.
TYLER: don’t hype me up like this babe i’ll get arrogant
WENS: u already are arrogant
TYLER: true. ily

She smirked, shaking her head. He was a lazy bastard but hers.

The microwave beeped.
She retrieved her steaming burrito, slid into one of the round tables, cracked open her Monster, and took a slow sip. Then she pulled up a YouTube video titled “Top 10 Paranormal Encounters the Government Won’t Explain” the thumbnail featured a blurry demon shape circled in red.

Perfect lunch content.

She was halfway through a bite when someone else entered with a rustle of plastic bags.

She ignored it at first (scrolling, sipping, chewing) until an unfamiliar scent drifted past: Doritos, ramen seasoning, sour cream, processed cheese.

Her face scrunched.

She looked up.

A dark haired woman stood at the counter was compact, athletic, a worn hoodie hanging off her shoulders. Her hair was darker now, streaked with shadows, and her eyes — gray-blue, too murky and yet overly bright, scanned the counter like she was building something. She dumped items onto the surface: ramen bricks, crushed chips, pork rinds, a squeeze bottle of sriracha, a fistful of shredded cheese.

Wens paused her video.

The girl tore open the ramen, dumped the dry noodles into a bag with Doritos and pork rinds, crushed it all with practiced fists, added super hot boiling water, cheese, sour cream, and then like it was a religious ceremony and sealed the bag and kneaded it with knowing hands.

Wens stared.

Enid, oblivious kept working the mush, face concentrated like she was painting a portrait instead of prepping a culinary crime scene.

Finally, Wens stood, half-eaten burrito in hand, and approached.

Stealthy. Curious. Intrigued.

She stopped just beside Enid and leaned slightly to peer down at the steaming orange… thing.

“…What the hell is that?”

Enid jumped so hard the sriracha nearly flew out of her grip. She spun, wide-eyed, shoulders tense, fingers curling protectively around her bag of food like someone about to be mugged. The amulet at her chest gave a faint hum, a warning but she forced it down.

“Huh?” she blurted.

“Huh?” Wens echoed, raising a brow. “Is that what it’s called? ‘Huh?’ Because it looks like a regurgitated version of—” she held up her own burrito, “—this.”

Enid blinked down at her creation, cheeks pinking. “It’s… uh… a burrito. Well. Prison style. Kind of.”

Wens’ eyes widened a fraction. “Prison/Jail style,” she repeated slowly. “Sweetheart, that’s not prison style. That’s witchcraft. You summoned that.”

“It’s just food,” Enid said weakly, cheeks burning hotter. “I used to make them… a lot.”

Wens nodded slowly. “And you’re alive? Like, medically?”

Enid scowled. “Yes, I’m alive.”

Wens grinned, small, sharp, teasing. “Just checking. I’ve seen corpses that look healthier than that.”

Enid flinched, then huffed. “It tastes good, okay? I promise.”

“Mmm,” Wens hummed, studying her. “let me guess, new fact i haven't seen or maybe had a glimpse...You’re Dire-Wolf, right? I recognized the amulet. And the reports. I mean, I filed your team’s incident logs this morning. You were in that fire?”

Enid stiffened. “…Yeah. That was me.”

Wens extended a hand. “I’m Wens. Records clerk. I make sure all your disasters get legally documented so this place doesn’t implode.”

Enid stared at her hand for half a second before shaking it — warm palm, calloused fingers.
Wens held the shake a beat longer than necessary.

Then:

“…Can I try some?” Wens asked, completely sincere. “Trade you half my burrito for a scoop of whatever demonic ritual you’re cooking.”

Enid froze, eyes huge. “You… want to try this?”

Wens nodded. “Hell yeah. I’m curious. And maybe suicidal, but mostly curious.”

Enid swallowed. Hard.

Something warm flickered in Enid’s chest, quick, disorienting, like the sudden flare of a lighter in a dark room. She didn’t know what it meant, only that it startled her enough to keep her still when normally she would’ve stepped back or shrugged it off.

Wens smirked, thrusting her burrito forward like it was a sacred offering. “Come on, Dire-Wolf. Don’t leave me hanging.”

“…Okay,” Enid whispered.

Wens blinked slowly, lips curving mischievously. “Wait — really? You’re gonna let a complete stranger try your weird little science experiment?”

Enid tensed, instinctive defensiveness sparking before she could stop herself. “…I mean, sure. I guess? It’s just food.”

Wens let the silence stretch and then snorted. “I’m messing with you. Holy shit, you are so awkward.”
She reached into the drawer for a plastic fork, flipping it between her fingers like she’d done it a thousand times. “Relax before you sprain something.”

Enid’s shoulders slumped with a soft huff.

Wens tore open the plastic, fork ready, hovering over the steamy, orange, questionable mass sealed inside the bag. She cut a respectable piece a generous enough but cautious enough to imply she wasn’t trying to die today.

“You can get a bigger piece if you want,” Enid offered softly, trying to help.

Wens’s eyes narrowed slowly, dangerously. “The fuck? You calling me fat?”

Enid’s soul evacuated her body. “Oh god, no! no! I didn’t — I didn’t mean—”

“Relax.” Wens patted her chest dramatically. “I’m teasing, cariño.” Then she stabbed the chunk, lifted it to her lips, and popped it into her mouth and the world stopped.

Her eyes widened.

Enid panicked.

Wens froze like she’d been shot.

And then she made the most violent, operatic gasp Enid had ever heard.

“OH—MY—GOD.”

Enid jolted, hand flying out as if she could physically push the sound back into Wens’s throat. “Shhh—shh!! The door’s open—”

But Wens was already on her way to sainthood-level theatrics, half-squatting, half-twisting, eyes rolling back with unholy euphoria as the flavors hit her like divine intervention.

“THAT IS SO FUCKING GOOD,” she yelled loudly enough that someone in the hall flinched. “Oh my lord! holy shit, this is—this is life-changing.....this is—”

Enid stared at her. Horrified. Proud. Confused. Mortified. All at once.

“Please stop moaning,” Enid hissed.

“I CAN’T,” Wens moaned harder, taking another huge bite. “Oh my god, my ancestors felt that.”

Enid was about to die. She could feel it.

And then—

“What the heck is going on in here?”

Both women froze.

Blonde Blazer stood in the doorway holding her salad like it was a shield. Her golden-yellow capelet caught the break-room lights, and her face shifted from concern to resignation in one long, weary exhale as she took in the scene: Wens in the middle of a full-body food orgasm.

Enid clutching the edge of the counter like a woman witnessing a crime. The open bag of prison burrito steaming like nuclear waste between them.

Of course. Of course she should’ve expected this.

“Oh,” Wens said brightly, turning with another chunk of the burrito in hand. “Hola, jefa. Looking gorgeous as always, by the way, hair’s doing that little swoopy thing today, muy bonita.”

Mandy pinched the bridge of her nose but smiled despite herself. “Wens… please stop flirting with me before the HR posters catch fire.”

“Can’t help it,” Wens said with a shrug. “It’s a disease. Anyway—” she pointed at the bag with the fork, “—I just tried my first prison burrito, and it has officially rewritten my entire worldview.”

Mandy blinked at her. Twice. “I… see.”

Enid crossed her arms, cheeks blazing. “She ate half of mine.”

Wens didn’t miss a beat. She tore her own store-bought burrito in half and handed it to Enid like an offering to the gods. “Here you go. Since you implied that i was fat like some big Torta or something.”

“I didn't imply you were fat,” Enid sputtered. “I was trying to be nice—”

“Mmhm,” Wens said, walking back toward the table and waving her fork dismissively. “Relax. You heroes are so sensitive. Come sit, come sit. You can lecture me about nutrition or whatever.”

“I don’t....lecture..” Enid muttered.

“You do,” Wens replied, already sitting, legs crossed, bouncing slightly as she took another bite. “C’monnnn. Bring your nuclear bomb burrito and sit.”

Mandy shook her head in fond disbelief, stepping into the room long enough to grab a fork. “I swear, this building’s going to kill me faster than any villain.”

“You’re too beautiful to die,” Wens called after her in Spanish, soft and honey-slicked, “Demasiado hermosa para morir, jefa.”

Mandy pointed at her warningly but left smiling.

Enid sat down stiffly across from Wens, clutching the half-burrito like it was a hostage she didn’t trust her captor with.

Wens grinned at her with wide, wolfish, curious eyes

“Alright, Dire-Wolf,” she said, tapping her fork against her can of Monster. “First week back from hell itself, first time we talk, and you introduce yourself with a prison burrito. I respect it. Big power move.”

Enid swallowed, unsure if she should smile or hide.
“…Thanks?”

Wens leaned forward, eyes half-lidded and amused, voice dipping low, silky and sharp. “So tell me how the hell does a girl like you learn to make that?”

The three of them Enid, Wens, Mandy shifted to the small round break-room table. Chairs scraped. The lights hummed overhead like old bees. The air smelled of coffee, reheated noodles, Monster, and the faint tang of scorched microwave burrito wrapper.

Enid glanced at Mandy first, then down at the demolished prison burrito, cheeks coloring faintly. She lifted one shoulder in a small, almost shy shrug.

“I was at Bedford Hills Correctional Facility,” she said quietly. “In New York. For a couple of years. You… uh. Learn a thing or two.” Her voice softened at the edges, roughened by memories she didn’t unpack. “Food was… creative. Everyone made do from what they can get from the commissary.”

Wens paused with her Monster halfway to her lips, eyebrows rising as something like respect slid into her expression. She took a long swig, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, and set the can down with a dull clunk.

“Ah. Yeah.” She tapped a fingernail lightly on the table, rhythmic, contemplative. “Makes sense… since you’re part of the Z-Team now.”

Enid’s posture stiffened reflexively at the word “Z-Team,” not from shame but from the ancient instinct of someone who’d carried too many labels in too short a life. Mandy watched her carefully, a subtle, protective glint in her eyes.

Wens didn’t miss it. She tilted her head, then leaned her cheek into her palm and switched topics with casual ease.

“So,” she drawled, “you like it here? SDN? Torrance branch? The vibe, the job, the flaming gremlin squad you’re stuck with?”

Enid snorted before she could stop herself. “They’re not gremlins.”

“They set a trash can on fire in the lobby twice last week,” Wens reminded her.

“…Okay, that happened,” Enid muttered. “But they didn’t do it on purpose.”

“Sonar and Malevola absolutely did it on purpose,” Wens said, raising a brow.

“That,” Mandy sighed, “is unfortunately correct.”

Wens grinned triumphantly. “See? Validation from the boss.” Then she turned back to Enid, expression softening into genuine curiosity. “But seriously. You settling in okay? I know this place can feel like… a lot, especially for new people.”

Enid hesitated. Her fingers found the edge of her plate, tracing it absently. “It’s… different,” she admitted. “But in a good way. I like the work. And the team is—”

“Unhinged?” Wens offered.

“—trying,” Enid corrected gently. “Trying really hard.”

Wens nodded, tapping her Monster can with her finger. “Yeah. That’s the whole deal. Trying.”

Mandy leaned in slightly, cutting through the emotional weight with a warm smile. “Sorry if Wens is a bit much. She means well.”

“Hey,” Wens protested lightly, “I remember my first day. I drove Blazer here absolutely insane because apparently I talk more than a squirrel on espresso.”

“You do,” Mandy said without looking up from her salad.

Wens winked at Enid, proud of that fact.

Their conversation drifted into weather, commute times, the chaos of the Z-Team, the new Korean drama Mandy had gotten hooked on, the playlist Wens had been curating of bands she insisted Enid needed to hear. Enid relaxed enough to smile, even genuinely laugh softly once or twice, each sound surprising her as much as the others.

And then—

The door slammed open with the force of a small earthquake.

Robert barreled in, headset hanging around his neck, tablet in hand, eyes wide and frantic like someone had told him the building was currently on fire.

“Dire-Wolf! We’ve got an emergency!” he barked. “Golem’s stuck, don’t ask how and Flambae is making it worse! Again don’t ask how and Punch-Up is threatening to punch the plumbing, and Sonar is filming it. We need you now.”

Enid blinked. “Golem is… stuck?”

“I SAID DON’T ASK HOW,” Robert repeated louder, already turning toward the door.

Enid sighed hard enough to fog glass. She glanced down at the half-mangled prison burrito left on her plate, the one she’d barely eaten.

Then she pushed it across the table toward Wens.

“Here. Just… take it. I’ll grab something later.”

Wens froze, grabbing her chest dramatically. “Wow. Real canteen treatment. Sharing food with a girl you barely know? That’s intimate, babes.” Then she popped a chunk in her mouth and winked. “I’ll make it up to you. Nice to meet you again, Dire-Wolf.”

Enid stood so fast her chair squeaked. “You too, Wens.”

Then she hurried out, Robert speed-walking ahead of her while shouting rapid-fire directions about clogged storm drains and Sonar’s “ethical fucking failures.”

The break room fell quiet.

For about two seconds.

Then Wens shoveled the rest of the burrito into her mouth in a way that definitely violated multiple etiquette codes and possibly a few laws of physics. “Oh my god,” she mumbled blissfully, “I love her.”

Mandy arched a brow. “So that’s my cousin, yeah,” she said softly. “She’s… been through a lot. More than she ever deserved. But she’s here. And she’s trying. That’s all that matters.”

Wens swallowed, wiped her mouth, and leaned back in her chair.

“She’s cute,” she said simply. Not teasing. Not dramatic. Just honest.

Mandy’s smile softened. “Maybe… maybe you can be a friend to her. She needs those. More than she admits.”

Wens stared at the empty plate for a moment.
At the last smear of neon-orange cheese.
At the crumbs of crushed ramen.
At the one tiny curl of noodle stuck to the lip of the plate.

She scooped it up with her finger and popped it into her mouth.

“Yeah,” she said quietly.
“Yeah. I think I can do that.”

...

The rest of Wens Valdez’s shift passed in that strange, slippery way that good days sometimes do — half-aware, half-floating, everything tinted with the faint afterglow of something unexpected. She finished her logs, joked with Richard at the front desk, argued with Chase about whose music tasted better (hers, always), and teased Doris one last time before the older woman clocked out.

By the time the sun dipped low behind the Torrance skyline, painting the world in a warm rust-gold, Wens stood at the exit swiping her badge one final time.

“Night, sweetheart,” Doris called.

Wens winked. “Night, cariño. Don’t get kidnapped by a telemarketer on the way home.”

That earned a cackle from the entire row of older clerks.
She walked out with a smirk tugging her lip.

The drive home was calmer than the morning — traffic thinned, lights dimmed, the city’s pulse steady and deep. She parked in her assigned spot under the high-rise’s garage, climbed the concrete stairwell two steps at a time, and unlocked the condo door with a lazy twist of her wrist.

The smell hit her instantly.

Warm. Savory. Comforting.

Roasted chicken with paprika and garlic.
Mashed potatoes whipped smooth and buttery.
Steamed rice with pepper and herbs.
Something green simmering quietly — broccoli, because he was always trying to keep her mortal coil from collapsing too early.

She toe’d her boots off by the door, keys clinking into the ceramic bowl, and padded into the kitchen in her socks.

Tyler stood at the stove in a soft teal shirt and gray sweatpants, curls messy, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, revealing long forearms and a few faint scars he never explained. The overhead light turned his hair into a halo of frizz. His face was boyish, fine-boned, soft around the mouth — brightened the second he heard her.

“Hey,” he said, smile blooming slow and genuine. “You’re home.”

Wens leaned in the doorway, arms folded, watching him like a mildly impressed cat. He looked… good. The kind of good that seeped into bone and loosened muscles that had been locked all day.

“Well damn,” she said, voice slipping into something low and amused. “Look at you being domestic. What’s the occasion? Did you burn down someone else’s apartment and feel guilty?”

Tyler snorted. “No arson today. Promise.”
He glanced back, cheeks puffing a little with a shy grin. “Just wanted to make dinner. You’ve been working late. Thought I’d stop you from eating Monster and sadness again.”

“First of all,” she said, crossing the kitchen to him, “Monster and sadness is a balanced meal.” She swiped a fingertip through the mashed potato, tasted it, then tilted her head. “Second of all… this is better. You’re forgiven.”

He pretended to bow. “High praise.”

They moved around each other in an easy rhythm, her setting the table, him plating food, their shoulders brushing here and there. She grabbed two glasses from the cupboard, he reached past her to snag the pepper, and she swatted at his hip without looking.

“Hands to yourself, bartender.”

“You love my hands,” he muttered.

She didn’t argue.

Dinner ended up at the small living room table facing the wall of windows. City lights glittered beyond the glass like a spill of jewelry. She curled one foot under herself, fork in one hand, phone in the other as she queued up Netflix on the TV.

“What are we watching?” Tyler asked.

“Something with ghosts and bad reenactments,” she said. “I want to feel superior to everyone involved.”

They settled on a paranormal documentary hosted by a man with too-white teeth and a dramatic whisper. The first episode opened with grainy footage of a supposedly haunted Waffle House. Wens snorted chicken through her nose.

“That’s not a haunting,” she said. “That’s just a Waffle House. They all look like that.”

Tyler laughed around a mouthful of broccoli. “You’re evil.”

He nudged her knee with his under the table. She nudged back. They fell into an easy commentary, roasting the CGI ghosts, judging the interviewees’ fashion choices, making up backstories for the blurry figures in the background.

“Okay but that guy?” Tyler pointed with his fork. “He definitely started the haunting just to get on TV.”

“He looks like he thinks crystals are a personality,” Wens said. “And that haircut is a hate crime.”

“Coming from the woman whose favorite shirt has a demon goat on it.”

“First of all, he’s a patron saint of bad decisions and a great fucking time. Respect him.”

They ate until their plates were half-scraped and they’d determined that at least three of the reenactment actors were doing porn on the side. After a while, Wens pushed her chair back and migrated to the couch, Monster can swapped out for cold water. Tyler joined her a second later, stretching, then leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, utterly absorbed in the show in that earnest way of his.

Midway through a dramatic recreation of a ghost throwing pancakes, something pinged in her brain.

“Oh! oh my god,” she said suddenly, laughing into her sleeve. “I almost forgot to tell you. I saw this girl at work today make a whole-ass prison burrito.”

Tyler blinked. “…A what?”

She twisted on the couch so she could face him properly, eyes bright. “A prison burrito. Like ramen noodles, Doritos, pork rinds, cheese, sour cream, hot sauce. She mixed it all in a bag, let it set, and it came out looking like a crime scene casserole and also tasted like heaven? I think it bypassed the food pyramid and went straight to spiritual experience.”

Tyler stared at her, scandalized. “Why would anyone—”

“I don’t know!” She threw a hand up. “But this girl just did it like muscle memory. Folded the bag, massaged it, rolled it into a damn brick—”

“You ate it?” He already knew the answer but needed to suffer through it anyway.

“Of course I ate it.”

He dropped his face into his hands. “Wens. That sounds like something that crawls out of a sewer and asks if you’ve accepted heart disease as your lord and savior.”

She grinned wickedly. “Yeah. Delicious sewer.”

He peeked at her through his fingers. “Who made it?”

“A girl named Enid, looked up her file after. New Z-Team recruit.”

“Oh. That reformed progra.?” he asked, curiosity flickering. “So she's a ex villain, criminal?”

Yeah, goes by “Dire-Wolf,” Wens said lazily. “Yeah.”

“She cool?”

The question hung there, simple and genuine. Wens felt herself hesitate, and the hesitation itself annoyed her. She didn’t usually need time to decide how she felt about people.

“…Yeah,” she said finally, voice softer than she meant it to be. “I think she might be.”

Tyler studied her, the way he always did when she let something slip like he was examining a precious object someone had accidentally dropped. Something warm and complicated flickered in his eyes. Admiration, maybe. Worry, a little. A quiet wanting to understand her more than she ever made easy.

“You made a friend,” he said gently.

She scoffed on reflex. “Relax. I just stole her food. That’s not friendship, that’s theft.”

“For you, that’s practically a love letter.”

She kicked his foot. “Shut up and watch your stupid ghost pancakes.”

He laughed, leaning back into the couch. The episode rolled on. The city hummed below them, a low electric pulse. In the kitchen, dishes waited in the sink, soaking lazily in gray water. Somewhere far away, sirens wailed and then faded.

After a while, Tyler shifted closer and just enough that their knees brushed. Not an accident. Not a push. Just a quiet line extended.

“You seem… in a good mood today,” he said, voice low enough that it didn’t compete with the TV.

Wens tilted her head, considering. “Maybe I am.”

“You want to talk about it?”

She huffed. “Since when do I talk?”

He gave her that particular smile, the one that crinkled the corners of his eyes and made him look even younger, like the world hadn’t gotten its teeth in yet. “You talk to me.”

She opened her mouth with some automatic deflection on the tip of her tongue, then closed it again. Her gaze drifted down to his hands, relaxed on his thighs. To the veins at his wrists. To his mouth.

They were close now. Closer than usual, even for them. She could feel his breath, warm and steady, smell the mix of rosemary chicken and cheap cologne and the underlying salt of his skin. It was grounding in a way that made something in her chest ache.

He was the one who leaned in first. Tyler always was.

She met him halfway.

The first kiss was soft, a gentle press, familiar, a question he already knew the answer to. Her hand slid up to the back of his neck, fingers threading into his curls, nails grazing his scalp just enough to make him inhale sharply. His hands bracketed her waist, steady, careful, like he always remembered how strong she was and did his best not to flinch from it.

The couch dipped beneath their shifting weight. Outside, the city lights blurred into smears of color against the glass. On screen, the documentary host gasped at an obviously staged door slam.

Wens laughed against Tyler’s mouth, the sound small and genuine.

“Romantic,” she murmured, lips brushing his.

He smiled into the kiss, then traced his mouth along her jaw, pausing at the hinge like he was memorizing it all over again. “You started this,” he said. “No complaining.”

“I never complain about good decisions,” she whispered.

He huffed a quiet laugh, and she felt it against her skin. She kissed him again, deeper this time, more sure. The temperature in the room seemed to tilt. The air grew thicker, threaded with the sound of their breathing and the faint soundtrack of ghost hunters losing their minds over dust motes.

Her hand slipped under the hem of his shirt, fingers splaying over warm skin, feeling the steady drum of his heartbeat beneath bone. His grip on her waist tightened, then slid up her back, palm spreading between her shoulder blades, gently guiding her down with him as he leaned back into the couch.

The world narrowed to the taste of him, to the press of his chest against hers, to the clumsy bump of their knees as they shifted to fit closer. She caught herself smiling mid-kiss, which would’ve annoyed her if it didn’t feel so stupidly good.

Tyler pulled back just enough to look at her. His pupils were blown wide, cheeks flushed, curls falling into his eyes. “Hi,” he said, a little breathless.

She rolled her eyes, fondness cracking through. “You’re such a dork.”

“You like that about me.”

“Unfortunately,” she admitted.

He kissed the confession off her lips.

Time softened its edges after that. The documentary forgot about them and rolled into another episode; neither of them noticed. The city outside dimmed into a smudge of moving lights. The sounds of traffic became a distant ocean.

Wens could feel Tyler's growing excitement pressing against her thigh. She smiled wickedly, knowing exactly what she wanted. She pushed him gently back onto the couch and dropped to her knees between his legs. Her hands teased his crotch area, feeling the hardness beneath his pants. She unzipped his pants slowly, reveling in the anticipation. His large cock sprang free, and she took a moment to admire it before wrapping her hand around the shaft and beginning to stroke him.

Tyler groaned softly, his head falling back against the couch. Wens leaned in, her breath hot against his ear. “You like that?” she whispered, her hand moving faster. She teased him for a few minutes, enjoying the power she held over him in that moment. Then, she took him into her mouth, her lips wrapping tightly around his shaft. She bobbed her head, taking him deeper with each stroke, her tongue swirling around the sensitive tip. Tyler's hands found her hair, guiding her movements, pushing her down further until she gagged slightly, tears stinging her eyes. She pulled back, a string of saliva connecting her lips to his cock, and spat on his shaft, using her hand to stroke him hard and fast. She loved it rough, and Tyler knew exactly how to give it to her.

She stood up and began to undress, her eyes never leaving his. Her nipple piercings glistened in the dim light as she revealed her breasts, and she could see the desire in Tyler's eyes intensify. She straddled him, her hands on his shoulders for support. She lined up his cock with her pussy, rubbing the tip against her wetness. She was incredibly wet, her arousal evident as she coated his cock with her juices. She took a moment to savor the sensation before slowly lowering herself onto him. They both moaned as he filled her, their bodies moving in a slow, familiar rhythm. The room was filled with the sounds of their pleasure, the city lights outside fading into the background.

The night thickened around them.
The room darkened, the TV screen casting occasional pale flashes that painted them in momentary grainy black-and-white.

And as their bodies curled closer, as the city outside throbbed on without them, the scene slid away from specifics, softening at the edges, dimming like an old reel closing down.

A perfect end to a long day.

Outside, Torrance kept its secrets.
Inside, in a high-rise condo filled with the fading smell of roasted chicken and the echoes of terrible ghost reenactments, two people clung to a small, stubborn pocket of warmth.

For tonight, it was enough.

Chapter Text

Dr. Capri’s office always felt like a place built to trick nervous systems into standing down. Soft lamplight instead of fluorescents, bookshelves instead of bare walls, a wide window catching the smear of evening over Torrance instead of a city pretending not to bleed. The couch Enid sat on was deep and dark, cushions worn just enough that it felt like other people had sunk into it and survived. A diffuser hummed in the corner, exhaling something vaguely citrus and clean. The kind of space that said: nothing bad happens here. The kind of space Enid’s body didn’t believe in on principle.

She sat slouched into the corner of the couch, one leg tucked under the other, fingers worrying the edge of a throw pillow. She was listening and not listening at the same time. Dr. Capri’s pen moved over the open journal in her lap, words scratched in neat lines, and Enid’s gaze had drifted somewhere past her shoulders, past the window, past the building, to where she could almost feel the Amulet locked away on another floor. A faint phantom pressure on her sternum where the chain usually rested. The Wolf didn’t need proximity to make itself known. It pulsed at the edge of her awareness like a radar ping: distant, insistent. Hunt. Wake. Look at me. Even without the artifact, its presence coiled behind her ribs, a wrong heartbeat trying to sync with her own.

“…Enid?”

Her name pulled her back like a snap on a tether. She blinked. The room came back into focus: the lamp glow, the framed diplomas on the wall, the clock ticking toward the end of the hour. Dr. Capri was watching her from the armchair opposite, pen paused, head tilted slightly. Dark curls pulled into a loose bun, glasses perched low on her nose, expression warm but sharp in the way of someone used to noticing the tiny shifts other people missed.

“You okay?” Capri asked, voice gentle. “You spaced out there for a second.”

“Yeah.” Enid exhaled, pushing a hand through her hair. “Sorry. Just… tired. I’ve been tired a lot lately and sleep is kind of a suggestion, not a thing that happens.”

Capri’s gaze flicked briefly to the clock on the wall (ten minutes left) then back to Enid. Something in her posture changed. Instead of staying in the safe, clinical distance of the armchair, she closed the journal with a quiet thump, set it on the side table, and stood. Enid’s shoulders tensed on reflex, that automatic bracing for someone crossing into her space, but Capri didn’t come too close. She moved to the other end of the couch and sat down at an angle, facing Enid but leaving a careful stretch of cushion between them. Not crowding. Close enough to feel human warmth across the gap, far enough that Enid could still bolt if she needed to.

“We’ve talked today about your adjustment here,” Capri said, folding one leg over the other, hands loose in her lap. “Your new routines, your role on the Z-Team, your thoughts on the burning tower incident, your habits after missions.” Her tone shifted, softening around the edges. “There’s one thing I’d like to circle back to before we stop.”

Enid rubbed her thumb over her knuckles. “Okay. Shoot.”

“I want to know,” Capri said, eyes steady, “if you still hear the Beast even when you’re not wearing the Amulet.”

Enid flinched a little at the word Beast. Capri saw it, of course she did but let it sit there between them.

“We’ve talked about how you built a mental barrier between you and it,” Capri went on. “And how that’s helped you regain control after the many years. But I’m wondering if maintaining that wall might be… exhausting. If part of the fatigue you’re describing is the constant effort of keeping that door slammed shut.” Her voice never shifted out of that calm, clinical cadence, but there was a thread of genuine concern woven through it. “Do you feel like that might be true? That you’re always bracing, even when you’re technically ‘off duty’?”

Enid breathed out slowly, shoulders sinking further into the cushion. For a second she considered deflecting, throwing up some joke, pretending it didn’t bother her. But there was something in Capri’s face that was not pity, not fear, not the thin, professional interest she got from SDN techs poking at her medical file. Just… focus. Attention that didn’t make her feel like a specimen.

“Yeah,” Enid said finally. She shifted to face Capri more directly, one leg pulling up onto the cushion, fingers twisting in the pillow’s fringe. “It’s… hard to explain. It’s not like a voice in the usual sense. It doesn’t talk in sentences. It’s more like…” She searched for the right words, frowning. “Like pressure. Like someone breathing down the back of your neck when you’re alone. Like instinct that isn’t yours. For almost five years, after they locked the Amulet away, it was quiet. Not gone, but… manageable. Distant. Now that I’m synced with it again, even when I’m not wearing it, I can feel it trying to… reach. To get my attention. Like it wants a meeting.” Her jaw tightened. “And I’m not giving it one. If I want to be better, if I want to stay here and not go back, I have to stay in control. So yeah. I keep the door shut. I keep the wall up. All the time.”

Capri nodded slowly, absorbing every word. “So you’re holding a constant defensive posture,” she summarized quietly. “Internally. Even when you’re doing something mundane as in eating, trying to sleep, watching TV, at least part of you is actively pushing something away.”

“Welcome to the Enid Experience,” she said dryly. “Five stars. Would not recommend.”

One corner of Capri’s mouth twitched. “That sounds… extremely taxing,” she said. “Physiologically, it’s consistent with chronic hypervigilance. Your nervous system doesn’t get to drop into true rest-and-digest mode because there’s always that one channel, that one threat assessment, running in the background. Over time, you get exhaustion, sleep disturbance, irritability, lowered frustration tolerance. That matches what you’ve been describing the last few weeks.”

“Translation,” Enid muttered, “you’re saying I’m cranky because my brain is running an antivirus program on a homicidal wolf god that has been brought back into my life, twenty-four-seven.”

“Roughly,” Capri agreed, eyes warm. “I’m saying you’re doing a tremendous amount of invisible work just to exist in a baseline state. And that maybe, instead of framing your tiredness as some kind of personal failing, we can look at it as a normal response to an abnormal demand.”

Enid stared at her for a beat, throat tight with something she didn’t want to name. Being told she wasn’t failing… shouldn’t have hit as hard as it did. “You make it sound like I’m… allowed to be tired,” she said.

“You are,” Capri said simply.

Silence settled between them, not heavy, not awkward. Just present. The ticking of the clock, the faint murmur of voices in the hallway outside, the soft rush of the diffuser. Enid let herself lean back fully, her body unconsciously gravitating a fraction closer along the couch, into the orbit of someone who seemed completely unfazed by words like wolf god and possession.

“You know,” Capri said after a moment, tone shifting lighter, “for someone who insists she’s ‘fine,’ you’re remarkably easy to worry about.”

Enid snorted. “Rude.”

“Accurate,” Capri countered. Her gaze flicked to the side table where a stack of museum pamphlets sat half-tucked under a psychology journal. She reached over, slid one free, a glossy trifold with a gold-embossed laurel wreath on the front. “I was going to save this for another client,” she said, “but… I thought of you when I saw it.”

Enid squinted at it. “Is that a threat or a compliment?”

“Compliment,” Capri said, handing it over.

Enid unfolded it. Bold letters declared: Empire & Echoes: A Night at the Roman World, Special After-Hours Exhibit. There was a moody photo of marble statues lit in dramatic shadow, fragments of frescoes, a glass case with old coins.

“Oh,” Enid said. “History porn.”

Capri huffed a laugh. “We’ll work on your phrasing.”

“I like my phrasing.”

“I’ve noticed,” Capri said dryly. Then, more deliberate: “I know you’re fond of history. Of structures, patterns, how empires rise and fall. They’re doing a downtown event at the history museum: Roman Empire, late Republic, cultural artifacts, all the fun imperial collapse you can handle. It’s not Greek, but I thought it might still be your brand of escapism.” She hesitated just long enough to make the next part feel intentional. “Would you like to attend?”

Enid blinked down at the pamphlet, then up at Capri. “Wait. Like… with you?”

Capri shrugged, casual but careful. “It’s an after-hours thing. You’ve mentioned feeling cooped up, restless, stuck in your apartment or on mission. I thought a change of context might be… therapeutic. Low stakes, structured environment, something to engage your brain that isn’t threat assessment or Wolf management.” She lifted a brow. “Unless you hate Romans. In which case this is a terrible idea and I’ll pretend I never asked.”

“Isn’t that… like… against the rules?” Enid asked, frowning, the pamphlet softening under her fingers. “Therapist takes the unstable artifact host on a field trip, news at eleven. Pretty sure that’s not in your handbook.”

Capri’s lips curved. “Contrary to popular belief, the ethics board doesn’t monitor museum attendance. Framed properly, it’s an exposure to non-danger context, a way of expanding your safe zones beyond your apartment and the Z-Team bullpen. If it makes you more comfortable, you can think of it as an extended session.” She paused, then added with a teasing tilt to her tone: “Also, you don’t really strike me as someone who’s out partying, doing drugs, and engaging in wild anonymous sex on your off days, so I’m not concerned about the museum environment corrupting you further.”

Enid’s brain short-circuited on exactly one phrase. “I— excuse me?” she sputtered, sitting up straight. “I-what— I am— I mean I could be actively sexual, that’s not— I just don’t— that’s not—” Color climbed fast up her neck, betraying her.

Capri blinked, then laughed, a quiet, genuinely amused sound. “Enid. That was a joke,” she said, clearly pleased with herself. “I’m sorry. Poor wording on my part. What I meant is that your coping style is more ‘white-knuckle control and over-functioning’ than ‘self-destructive hedonism.’ You tend to clamp down, not blow off steam.”

“Yeah, well,” Enid muttered, staring very hard at the pamphlet, “when people keep putting god-weapons in you and calling it ‘legacy,’ blowing off steam sounds like a good way to get civilians killed. Plus being in prison for a long time kinda helps out, realizing things.”

“I don’t disagree,” Capri said softly. “But that doesn’t mean you don’t need outlets. The human nervous system, divine parasite or not, needs release valves. Exercise. Creative expression. Safe social connection. Sometimes physical intimacy, if it’s genuinely wanted and not just a reenactment of trauma. Even simple sensory regulation — hot showers, music, cooking can help discharge stress. Right now, most of your habits are about containment. We should balance that with a few things that are just for you. Things that remind you you’re a person, not a prison.”

Enid gave a strangled little sound. “You just said ‘physical intimacy’ so clinically my soul left my body.”

“Good,” Capri said. “Maybe it can rest for a minute.”

Despite herself, Enid laughed a short, surprised bark that made the tightness in her chest loosen. She sank back into the couch again, shoulders dropping. The tension in the room shifted, warmer now, less like an interrogation and more like… conversation. Like the part of her that always waited for judgment wasn’t needed here.

“So,” Capri said, circling back, tapping the edge of the pamphlet with one finger. “Museum. Think of it as exposure therapy for having fun without something trying to kill you. No Amulet, no missions, no Wolf. Just crumbling empires and dead languages. What do you say?”

Enid turned the idea over in her mind. A night out that wasn’t a mission. No earpiece, no dispatch line, no adrenaline spike every time a subscriber screamed into Robert’s console. Just… old stone, quiet halls, and the knowledge that someone was walking beside her who didn’t expect her to be either a monster or a miracle.

“When?” she asked, voice softer.

“Tomorrow night,” Capri said. “After your shift. Go home, shower, change into something that won’t terrify school children, and I’ll come pick you up.”

Enid’s head snapped up. “Wait? You know where I live?”

Capri gave her a mildly offended look. “Enid, you are a high-risk asset in a rehabilitation program overseen by an agency that loves paperwork. Of course I know where you live. Mandy made sure I had your address in case of emergency. Also in case you decided to ignore therapy appointments and needed a wellness check. I take my job—” she lifted her hands in a little shrug “—annoyingly seriously.”

“Huh.” Enid chewed on that for a second. The knowledge that people knew where she slept always put a cold weight in her gut; years of looking over her shoulder didn’t vanish just because SDN gave her a keycard and a badge. But coming from Capri, it felt… less threatening. More like someone had quietly put her on a complicated, invisible list titled People We Do Not Intend To Lose If We Can Help It.

“So this is, what,” Enid said, trying to reassert some control over the conversation, “part of my treatment plan now? Structured enrichment time?”

“If it helps,” Capri said, meeting her gaze, “yes. If it doesn’t, we adjust. I’m not going to drag you anywhere you don’t want to go. Consent applies outside the field too.”

Enid looked down at the pamphlet again. Marble. Columns. Armor behind glass. For a moment she imagined herself there, moving through dim-lit galleries, listening to an older woman who asked good questions and didn’t flinch at bad answers. The image sat strangely comfortably in her chest.

“…Okay,” she said at last, the word coming out more like an exhale than a decision. “Yeah. I’ll go.”

Capri’s smile was small but real. “Good. Tomorrow night, then.” She reached for her journal, checking the clock out of habit. “Our time’s up for today. How are you feeling right now? Not in general, just this moment.”

Enid considered. The Wolf still pressed against the edge of her mind, a low, irritated pacing. The exhaustion still sat behind her eyes. But under that, threading through the fatigue, there was something else. Anticipation, maybe. The faint, unfamiliar sense that her world might contain one small, harmless thing that belonged just to her.

“Less… alone,” she said, surprising herself with the honesty. “Still tired. But… less alone.”

Capri’s gaze softened. “Then we did something right,” she said. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Enid.”

Enid rose from the couch, pamphlet in hand, and headed toward the door. She paused with her fingers on the handle, glancing back.

“Hey, Doc?”

“Yes?”

“If i start critiquing Roman military formations the whole time, I reserve the right to blame you after i embarass myself.”

Capri’s mouth curved. “I’ll take full responsibility,” she said. “Just don’t let it rewrite history.”

Enid huffed a laugh, then slipped out into the hallway, the door clicking shut behind her. The building hummed around her, fluorescent lights, distant voices, the low thrum of SDN’s machinery. Somewhere below, in reinforced vaults, the Artemis Amulet lay locked away, its silent call threading through her bones.

For the first time in a long time, she had somewhere to be that wasn’t a crisis. And for tonight, at least, that was enough to keep the Wolf at the door.

---

Enid made it as far as the lobby.

She’d just cleared the glass doors, the cool night air kissing her face, when the floor beneath her feet went wrong. The polished tile blurred into swirling crimson, a heatless rush of color and wind, and her stomach dropped an instant before gravity stopped making sense. She swore, flailing on reflex, but there was no impact of concrete or steel only a sudden, ridiculous whump as she crashed into a heap of overstuffed pillows.

For a second she just lay there, breath knocked out of her, staring up at a ceiling that definitely wasn’t the SDN foyer. Warm light pooled from hanging lamps. The air smelled faintly of beer, cheap incense, and something sugary burning in a toaster.

“Easy there, Pup.”

Enid blinked and pushed herself upright, pillows sliding off her arms. She was in one of the upper-level rec lounges—brick walls, low industrial lights, a battered foosball table in the corner, an orange couch that had seen better decades. A TV mounted on the wall flickered with some old music video while two figures screamed into a karaoke mic at the far side of the room was Prism, glittering even in casual clothes, and Flambae, shirt half-untucked and already flushed, belting out an off-key verse of a pop song like it was a war anthem.

Malevola lounged nearby in one of the barstools, bottle dangling from her fingers, one boot hooked lazily on the rung. Orange lamplight slid along the angles of her face, catching the faint inhuman gleam in her eyes. Her jacket was off, sleeves rolled, black tank top showing corded arms and the faint shimmer of faint scars up her collarbone. She looked completely at home, like the dim chaos had been built around her.

She hopped off the stool and crossed to Enid, offering a hand with a small, sharp smile. “Welcome to the after-hours support group for emotionally stunted criminals.”

Enid took the hand, let herself be hauled to her feet, and dusted off a couch cushion feather that had somehow stuck to her shirt. “You portal-kidnapped me,” she said flatly.

Malevola shrugged, all casual sin. “Tomato, tomahto. You looked like you were going to go home and brood. Thought I’d intervene before we had to stage an actual wellness check.”

Prism’s voice cracked on a high note in the background. Flambae whooped, flames briefly skittering harmlessly across his knuckles like party sparklers. Punch-Up shouted something about being “robbed of his verse” from the far side of the room, while Golem, looming like a moving cliff of earth and clay, argued with him over the rules of whatever drinking game they’d just mangled.

Before Enid could answer, an arm slung itself across her shoulders from behind, dragging her in against a warm, slightly furry side.

“Wassup, Pup!” Sonar’s voice was bright and way too enthusiastic in her ear. He smelled like cheap beer, Twinkies, and the faint musk of bat. In this drunken state his ears were larger, his nose a little sharper, incisors poking just enough to be noticeable. “We were taking bets on how long Capri would hold you captive. I said two hours; Golem said three; Prism said you’d snap and eat somebody. It was very spirited conversation.”

“You know I can hear you even when my back is turned, right?” Enid muttered, but there wasn’t much heat behind it. The surprise of being yanked into a room full of noise and color actually felt… good. Distracting. The Wolf inside her, always prowling against its cage, paced warily but quieter than it had in days.

Sonar thrust a beer bottle in front of her face. “Celebratory beverage for surviving your mandated head-shrinking.”

Her fingers twitched. Cold glass. The faint hiss of carbonation. A memory of cheap prison hooch stirred behind her tongue, bitter and oddly fond. She took the bottle, let it weigh in her hand for a heartbeat, then exhaled and pushed it back into Sonar’s chest.

“Sorry. Don’t drink anymore.”

Sonar clutched his heart like she’d shot him. “Tragic. Another good soul lost to responsible coping mechanisms.”

“More for me,” a voice slurred behind them.

A bottle disappeared from Sonar’s other hand with speed born of long practice. Invisigal blinked into view beside him, cheeks pink, eyeliner smudged like she’d rubbed at her eyes and forgotten she was wearing any. She’d shrugged off her uniform shirt and was down to a faded band tee, sleeves rolled, ribs rising and falling a little too fast. The faint rasp in her breathing said she’d been turning invisible on and off all evening just to show off.

“Figures the pup would be a party killer,” she said, lifting the bottle in a toast before taking an impressively long swig. “Capri got you on some no-fun diet? ‘No alcohol, no fights, no impulsive murderous rampages’?”

“You’re drunk,” Enid said.

“You’re observant,” Invisigal shot back, then hiccupped and grinned, eyes glittering. “Relax. We’re off duty. Coupl’a hours before graveyard shift comes in. Mandy pretends she doesn’t know this is happening; Chase definitely knows this is happening. Live a little.”

Malevola looped two fingers into the collar of Enid’s shirt and tugged her gently but insistently away from the cluster. “Come on. If we let Sonar talk long enough he’ll start explaining derivatives again and nobody wants that.”

“They’re fascinating!” Sonar called after them. “Vanderstenk says—”

“Shut up, Harvard!” Flambae yelled from the karaoke machine, voice cracking mid-note.

Enid let herself be towed toward a long table crowded with food of pizza boxes, cheap chips, a tray of something that might once have been nachos, a bowl of punch that smelled suspiciously alcoholic. Malevola’s hand fell away from her collar but reappeared at the small of her back, guiding more than grabbing, fingers warm through the thin fabric. It left a trail of heat that her body pretended not to notice and her brain absolutely did.

“So,” Malevola said, leaning close to be heard over Prism’s shrieked chorus. Her breath was cool against Enid’s ear, tinged with beer and mint. “We usually do this once a week. Sometimes twice if Flambae almost dies twice. It’s in the unofficial Phoenix Program handbook. ‘Step Seven: Get hammered together so you don’t get hammered alone.’”

Enid glanced around at them and the demoness, the bat, the invisible girl, the glimmer fashion, the clay giant, the petty pyromaniac, the tiny Irish strongman leading a chant over flip cup. All of them, villains turned… something else. Not heroes. Not yet. But not what they’d been.

“This is… allowed?” Enid asked.

Malevola shrugged one shoulder. “We keep it contained. No blood sacrifices in the rec room, no portals to hell in the stairwell, and Mandy pretends the beer is ‘sparkling barley therapy.’ Everybody wins.”

Enid snorted, despite herself.

From there the night unfolded in stages, like a slow, chaotic ritual she hadn’t realized she’d been invited to.

They started with ping pong, Punch-Up insisting he could “absolutely take the golem, don’t ye be treating me like a child, ye walking mudslide”—and somehow turning it into a full-body sport. Golem, enormous hands holding the paddle like a toothpick, moved with surprising delicacy, returning shots with patient precision while Punch-Up shouted commentary about his own genius hits. Malevola, perched on the edge of the table, kept “accidentally” bumping Enid’s knee with her heel every time the ball flew past, each touch light and careless and very obviously not.

Karaoke moved from upbeat pop to aggressively sad ballads. Prism belted a heartbreak anthem so sincere half the room booed her for “harshing the vibe,” and she responded by conjuring three illusory versions of herself as backup singers, all flipping the entire room off in perfect sync. Sonar tried to rap along to a track he absolutely didn’t know the words to and ended up screeching the wrong lyrics on beat, which only made it funnier.

Flip cup devolved into a shouting match over “physics” when Sonar insisted angle and velocity were more important than luck while totally missing every flip. Flambae cheated by superheating the air just under his cups so the plastic warped and popped upright; Golem countered by simply pressing his huge finger down on his cup and dragging it along the table, which technically counted as a flip by absolutely no rules except his own. Enid didn’t play, but somehow she was always in the blast radius as someone bumping her, someone laughing into her shoulder, the Wolf pacing a slow circle under her skin like it didn’t know what to do with all this noise that wasn’t Malice or fear.

At some point, someone put on an old-school beat and the room decided Golem should freestyle. As Invisigal hyped it up.

“That’s not—” Enid started, then stopped as the golem cleared his throat, leaned one massive elbow on the back of the couch, and began to rap in a low, rolling baritone that somehow landed perfectly on the beat. His rhymes were weird as hell, soil metaphors, legal jargon, obscure references to water table regulations but it worked. (What the fuck was even a water table?) The room howled. Punch-Up nearly fell off the table laughing. Invisigal declared him “Golem-G,” and the name stuck immediately.

Through it all, Malevola hovered near Enid’s orbit like a moon with its own gravity. Sitting thigh-to-thigh on the arm of the couch during Prism’s third song. Leaning in front of her to grab a chip, her fingers brushing Enid’s wrist just a second too long. Laughing at something Sonar said and letting her hand fall against Enid’s shoulder, squeezing lightly as if to say you heard that, right? we’re both in on this joke together. Every touch was passable as casual, friendly, the way people who’d fought together sometimes forgot where the boundary between comrade and something else was.

The problem was Enid felt every one of them.

Capri’s words circled in the back of her mind. Healthy outlets. Physical release. You are not a bomb that has to detonate to exist. She’d brushed them off in the office, cheeks hot, pretending she didn’t understand while very much understanding. Now, watching Malevola tilt her head back to drink, throat working, lipstick smudged at the corner, faint scars catching the light....

Yeah. Outlets. Great.

The Wolf stirred, a slow stretch of claws along the inside of her ribs. Not in anger this time. In… curiosity. In hunger of a different sort. It watched through her eyes as Malevola slid closer on the couch, knee pressed fully against Enid’s, heat leeching through her.

“You okay?” Malevola asked, low enough that the others’ noise blurred around the edges. One of her hands rested on the back of the couch behind Enid’s shoulders, fingers idly tracing the seam in the leather, close enough that Enid could feel the movement like a breath against her neck. “You’ve got that look.”

“What look?” Enid managed.

Malevola’s lips quirked. “The ‘I’m doing calculus in my head instead of enjoying myself’ look. The ‘if I move wrong I might murder someone’ look. The usual.”

Enid stared at her beer-less hands. “Just… tired.”

“Liar,” Malevola murmured, but there was no cruelty in it. Only a kind of rough fondness. “Tired’s part of it. The rest is you trying to pretend you’re not still wired from that tower, from the creep with the blade, from the Wolf screaming in the back of your skull. You can’t white-knuckle your way through that forever, Enid”

Hearing her name on Malevola’s tongue did something strange to her chest.

“I’m managing,” Enid said, a little too sharp.

Malevola’s gaze softened, the demon edge behind her eyes dimming for a heartbeat. “I know you are. You’re stupidly good at it. That’s not the same as resting.”

“I don’t really know how to do that,” Enid admitted before she could stop herself. The admission hung between them, more vulnerable than any she’d intended to make tonight.

Malevola’s hand left the back of the couch. For a moment Enid thought she was going to pull away, laugh it off, go join the others but instead the demoness curled her fingers gently around the back of Enid’s neck, thumb resting along the base of her skull. Not gripping. Not forcing. Just… there. Warm. Steady. Anchoring.

“Then,” Malevola said quietly, “we practice.”

Despite the Amulet being away, the wolf growled, not in warning, but in something that felt dangerously like approval.

Enid’s breath hitched. “This… feels like the kind of practice Capri meant to warn me about.”

Malevola huffed a laugh, thumb stroking once over tense muscle. “Capri can cry about it in her notes later.”

Enid swallowed, pulse thudding in her throat. The room had narrowed to the space between them as the roar of the others fading to a distant, blurry soundtrack. She was suddenly aware of every point of contact: Malevola’s knee flush to hers, the hand at her neck, the faint brush of black hair against her shoulder.

“Relax,” Malevola murmured, voice sliding low, almost a purr. “I’m not going to throw you against a wall in the rec lounge. There are HR posters.”

“Comforting,” Enid said weakly.

“It is,” Malevola insisted. “We start small.” Her hand squeezed gently. “You’re allowed to sit in a room full of people who like you and not be on guard every second. You’re allowed to let someone touch you without thinking it’s a prelude to violence. You’re allowed to want things that aren’t survival.”

The words burrowed deep, dislodging something Enid hadn’t realized she’d welded shut. Her throat felt tight.

Want things.

Not just freedom from the Wolf. Not just redemption on a spreadsheet. Not just another mission to keep the Program afloat.

Want warmth. Want laughter. Want a demon’s hand in her hair and a popstar’s awful singing in the background and a future that didn’t end in blood.

She exhaled slowly, forcing her shoulders to ease.

“See?” Malevola murmured. “Look at that. You’re already less of a clenched fist.”

“Don’t get used to it,” Enid said, but the edge had gone from her voice.

Malevola leaned in, so close her breath ghosted across Enid’s cheek. “Too late.”

For a moment the world balanced on a knife’s edge as the kind that gleamed in shadowed hotel rooms and burning towers and in the hands of things that wore masks and spoke in distorted voices. The Wolf pressed against her bones, not with the urge to fight, but with a hungry curiosity that made her fingers curl against her own knees. If she turned her head, just a little, Malevola’s mouth would be right there.

Enid didn’t move.

Malevola didn’t push.

Instead, she let her hand fall away from Enid’s neck, fingers trailing lightly down to her shoulder before withdrawing completely. The space left behind sang with leftover warmth.

“Come on,” Malevola said, voice sliding back into its usual teasing drawl. “Golem’s about to challenge Sonar to an arm-wrestling match, and I want to see Harvard cry.”

Sure enough, in the center of the room Golem and Sonar had planted elbows on the table, hands clasped. Punch-Up was already acting as referee, shouting rules no one listened to. Prism had somehow found a whistle. Flambae stood on a chair, drunkenly commentating like a sportscaster on too much espresso.

Malevola stood and offered her hand.

Enid hesitated only a second before taking it, letting herself be pulled into the chaotic circle of noise and light and flawed, ridiculous people who had chosen, somehow, to pull her into this with them.

As Golem gently but firmly slammed Sonar’s hand to the table to wild cheers, Enid laughed—an unguarded, surprised sound that felt like it didn’t quite belong to her.

The night bled into a warm blur as karaoke devolved into shrieking harmony, Flambae accidentally lit someone’s sleeve on fire, Prism cried over a song she claimed wasn’t about her ex even though everyone knew it was. Eventually the lights dimmed one by one, people sprawled across couches or wandered toward their dorm rooms, voices becoming soft, drifting, content.

By the time she stepped back through the stairwell door, slipping down toward the exit with her pleasant frustrations slung over her shoulder, the building felt as though it were holding its breath. She’d almost forgotten what it felt like, leaving somewhere not out of obligation or retreat, but simply because she was tired. Satisfied. Full.

Her apartment met her in quiet shadows, the faint hum of the mini-fridge the only greeting. Enid stripped off her boots at the door and padded to the shower, peeling off sweat-damp clothes, letting the hot water beat down her spine until her muscles finally surrendered their tension. For the first time in days, the Wolf didn’t shove at the edges of her skull. It watched. Curious. Restless, but not hostile.

She dried off, tugged on soft shorts and an old tank top, and flopped onto her bed with a groan that came from somewhere deep.

Before the exhaustion dragged her under, she thumbed her phone awake.

ENID: Got home safe,You’re probably asleep,Thanks for this week. Night.

Mandy: ♥️♥️💖💖❤️💖💖

Enid smirked and opened another chat.

ENID:🌙💤🐺👍

A beat later:

ROBERT:👍
🐶 (Beef says hi)
📞 if anything feels weird
💪 good work today

She snorted. Robert texted like a dad. A very tired, very traumatized dad. She set the phone on her chest and stared up at the ceiling fan as it ticked softly with each slow rotation.

Her body sank into the mattress, heavy, warm, loose-limbed from laughter and movement and the alien comfort of being around people who did not look at her like a weapon.

But her mind refused to settle.

She turned over. Then over again. A restless coil began low in her belly, subtle at first—heat, tension, a pull she recognized but hadn’t felt in… well. A long time. She squeezed her eyes shut. Tried to breathe through it.

Then Capri’s voice drifted through her memory. Healthy outlets, Enid. You are not a pressure cooker. You need release—physical, emotional, sensory. Something that reminds your body you are more than the amulet’s vessel.

Her cheeks went warm.

Then Malevola’s face rose unbidden behind her eyes half-shadowed, half-smirking, fingers brushing her neck, voice a low purr that had curled under her skin like smoke. Enid felt her heartbeat kick faster, her breath grow shallow. She pressed a palm to her sternum, but the heat only spread.

The Wolf rumbled—interested, predatory, the way a creature might watch a storm build on the horizon.

[What Is Happening]
Be a freak: Resolve the tension.
…Give in.
Don't get freaky: …Push it down.

Time Remaining: ▓▓▓▓▓░░░░

She dragged the blanket higher, jaw clenched, trying to will it away. It didn’t go. It grew. Became a low electric hum under her ribs, a need that wasn’t violent, wasn’t rage, wasn’t hunger for blood but something far more human. Far more inconvenient.

Time Remaining: ▓▓▓░░░░░░

“Goddammit,” she whispered into the dark, turning onto her back again.

Malevola’s laugh slid through her thoughts like a hand tracing her spine.

Then Capri’s gentle voice again, firm and maddeningly calm: It’s not sinful to want comfort. It’s human. It’s healing.

Enid’s breath left her in a slow, shuddery exhale.

Time Remaining: ▓░░░░░░░░

She made her choice.

The room held its breath.

The Wolf went silent.

Enid slid her hand down her stomach, her fingers slipping under the waistband of her shorts. She was already wet, her body responding to the memories and the tension that had been building all night. She let out a soft moan as her fingers found her clit, circling it gently at first, then with more pressure as the pleasure began to build. She imagined Malevola’s hands on her, her voice in her ear, her body pressing against hers. The fantasy fueled her desire, and she moved her fingers faster, her breath coming in short gasps. She could feel the tension melting away, replaced by a warm, throbbing pleasure that spread through her body. She arched her back, her hips moving in time with her fingers, chasing the release that was just out of reach.

She slipped two fingers inside herself, her thumb continuing to circle her clit. She moaned louder, her body writhing as she fingered herself, the sound of her wetness filling the room. She could feel her orgasm building, her body tensing as she pushed her fingers deeper, harder. She was making a mess of herself, her juices coating her fingers, her thighs, the sheets beneath her. But she needed more.

She pulled her fingers out and brought them to her mouth, tasting herself, her eyes fluttering closed at the sensation. She then reached for the pillow beside her, pulling it between her legs. She rubbed her pussy lips along the soft fabric, the sensation driving her wild. She moaned, her hips grinding against the pillow, her body on fire with need. She could feel another orgasm building, but it wasn’t enough. She needed something more substantial.

She threw the pillow aside and slid off the bed, padding over to the mini fridge. She opened the door, the cold air hitting her heated skin, and grabbed a banana. She rubbed it slowly, her eyes never leaving the fruit, her mind filled with dirty thoughts. She climbed back onto the bed, her heart pounding in her chest, and positioned the banana at her entrance. She rubbed the tip against her clit, her body shuddering at the sensation, before slowly pushing it inside.

She moaned loudly, her body arching as she took the banana deeper, her pussy stretching around it. She began to move her hips, the banana sliding in and out of her, the sound of her wetness filling the room. She could feel her orgasm building, her body tensing as she fucked herself with the banana. She moved faster, her breath coming in short gasps, her body on fire with need.

And then, with a final, desperate cry, she came, her body convulsing as she squirted all over the bed, the banana falling to the side, forgotten. She lay there for a moment, her body trembling, her breath ragged, as the night closed gently around her.

The Wolf retreated, satisfied and content, leaving Enid alone with her thoughts and the soft ticking of the ceiling fan. She let out a slow, shuddery exhale, her body sinking deeper into the mattress, her mind finally at peace.

Outside her window, the city’s glow softened into a smear of stars, and the night closed gently around her as the scene faded to black.

---

As the sunrise peeled across Torrance like a slow bruise, pale orange leaking into the steel horizon. Enid felt every hour of last night still clinging to her skin, the laughter, the lingering heat from too many bodies in one room, and the shame-flushed memory of exactly how she’d dealt with her… tension when she got home.

God.
The banana.
What the hell had possessed her—

She shook it off so violently her hair smacked her shoulder.
Not thinking about that.
Absolutely not.

She strode through the second-floor corridor, boots eating tile, the Amulet newly reissued and cold against her sternum like a judgmental eye. She pushed her gloves higher, adjusting the leather around her knuckles. The bullpen was already buzzing with screens flickering, dispatchers hunched over keyboards, Z-Team members arguing in the distance about who actually won last night’s rap battle (Golem, obviously).

Enid headed for Mandy’s office, doing her best to pretend her body didn’t still remember the exact rhythm of her own breathing from before she finally fell asleep. She walked straight through the door without knocking, a mistake she immediately regretted.

Robert was standing far too close to Mandy, both of them leaning over her desk, a single shared laugh hanging suspiciously in the air. It cut off the moment she stepped in.

Enid froze.
Their pulses didn’t.

Her senses sharpened automatically, the Wolf tilting its head, curious. Mandy’s heart tripped, quick and nervous like a bird trapped in cupped hands. Robert’s thudded low but fast, a man caught doing something he desperately hoped looked normal. Their scent profiles shifted too with cortisol spike, adrenaline lace, a faint chemical sweetness of nervous sweat rising from both of them.

Suspicious didn’t even begin to cover it.

Robert straightened, smoothing the front of his jacket in a move that broadcast guilty louder than a megaphone. “Morning, Dire-Wolf,” he said, too casual. “Gotta—uh—go check on Chase before he starts complaining that I don’t appreciate him.”

“That happens?” Enid asked flatly.

“All the damn time,” Robert said, voice cracking just slightly as he slapped a hand onto her shoulder in passing, too firm, too quick. “Morning.” Then he practically bolted.

The door clicked shut behind him.

Enid turned, narrowed her eyes, and stabbed a finger at Mandy. “Are you two fucking?”

“ENID!” Mandy slapped both palms on her desk, horrified, mask wrinkling at the bridge of her nose. “Absolutely not! Why would you! why would that be the first thing you say?!”

Enid shrugged, dropping into the chair opposite her. “Instinct. You smell weird.”

“Oh my GOD, stop talking.” Mandy waved her hands aggressively, cheeks darkening under her mask. “Just— just stop. We are not....that’s— no.”

“Sure,” Enid murmured, unconvinced.

Mandy inhaled sharply, clearly choosing to bury the entire topic in a deep grave. “Anyway. Capri.” She leaned back, folding her arms. “She told me about the museum thing.”

“Yeah.” Enid stretched her legs out. “I’m going.”

“You are?” Mandy blinked. “You… want to?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” Enid asked. “I like history. She likes history. I earned it, right?”

Mandy hesitated, rubbing the back of her neck. “It’s just… Capri doesn’t usually do personal outings. Not with clients. And she didn’t mention it to me until this morning.” Her tone wasn’t judgmental, it was protective, watching for red flags Enid hadn’t learned to see yet. “I just… wish she’d asked me first.”

Enid lifted one shoulder. “It’s obviously not a date. It’s a museum.”

Mandy snorted. “You say that like you’re not a walking danger signal with terrible luck.”

Enid smiled faintly. “Still going.”

Mandy sighed but nodded. “Okay. Just… let me know how it goes, alright?”

Enid nodded back.

Mandy rifled through a stack of folders, then pulled out a crisp packet from Brainbook Diagnostics, the handwriting on the cover sharp, meticulous, too neat to be anything but lab-grade. “Alright. Before I send you out into the world with Capri, you should hear this.”

Enid sat straighter.

Mandy opened the file and read aloud, her voice sliding into professional cadence:

BRAINBOOK DIAGNOSTICS — FIELD SAMPLE ANALYSIS
Sample Origin: Sinclair, Enid — dermal blood sample retrieved from facial laceration
Genetic Findings: Standard human variance with atypical mitochondrial regeneration signatures consistent with divine artifact exposure
Additional Notes:
– Elevated cortisol-to-adrenal ratio; suggests long-term stress load
– Cellular regeneration rate exceeds baseline by 243%
– Metalloprotein traces detected (source unknown)
– Unknown foreign energy signature present; non-technological, non-radiological. Recommend monitoring.
Conclusion: Patient stable. Anomalous fields consistent with Artemis Amulet resonance. Further testing scheduled pending authorization.

Mandy lowered the sheet. “So… you’re fine. Just still weird.”

Enid made a face. “I could’ve told them that.”

“Yeah, well, now we have paperwork to back it up.” Mandy closed the folder with a sigh, then leaned back again. “And about that figure you saw in the burning tower… I had SDN tech pull every scrap of usable footage from the scene.”

“And?” Enid asked, tension coiling through her shoulders.

“It’s… fuzzy. The fire scrambled half the sensors. The only thing we can confirm is that Marlon Tuscany was flame-breathing like he lost control of his own lungs. Then the fire spread on its own as it's shown him panicking as if something was after him.”

“So I was right,” Enid murmured. “Something else was there.”

“We’re still looking,” Mandy promised. “We’ll find that creep. But at least the situation’s not blowing up in Flambae’s face anymore. The guy being found dead with that suicide note finally shut up the media trying to spin a ridiculous racist angle.” She rolled her eyes. “Like Flambae doesn’t have enough problems.”

Enid nodded slowly, absorbing it all with the science, the uncertainty, the haunting memory of something watching her through the flames.

She stood. “Thanks. I’ll… let you know about the museum.”

Mandy gave a small smile. “Have a good shift, Cuz.”
Enid walked out of Mandy’s office without glancing back, boots thudding softly against the polished floor, the Amulet’s cool weight settling beneath her collar like a living breath. She adjusted the leather strap across her chest, grounding herself in the rhythm of her stride.

But the second she rounded the corner into the bullpen—

laughter hit her.

Bright. Warm. Sharp around the edges.

It pulled her attention like a hook, and for a heartbeat her senses sharpened involuntarily—voices, heartbeats, chemical shifts of emotion, the faint hum of dust in the air. And then she saw them.

Waterboy stood with his janitor cart, leaning on the mop handle like it was a walking stick, grinning with genuine delight. And beside him—loud, alive, and absolutely dressed like she’d mugged a Hot Topic employee in broad daylight—

Wens.

The Latina’s outfit was approximately one hundred and ten percent an HR violation: oversized DRACULA graphic sweater tucked into slouchy charcoal denim, silver chains at her belt clinking when she shifted her hips, platform boots with enough lift to qualify as small architecture. The layered necklaces caught the fluorescent lights, glinting wickedly. Even her stance screamed attitude.

She turned mid-story, slight overnight curls bouncing, and when her eyes landed on Enid—

her whole face lit up.

“Oh! Good morning, Burrito Girl!”

Enid stopped walking. “…Excuse me?”

Waterboy snorted into his elbow.

Wens placed a hand over her heart, dramatic as a stage performer. “Ah yes. I forgot. You didn’t hear the good news. I told Waterboy here—”

“Seventy-eight percent of staff,” Waterboy corrected shyly, adjusting his goggles.

“—seventy-eight percent of the building,” Wens continued, “about your legendary prison burrito. I must say, it was a spiritual experience.”

Waterboy waved timidly at Enid. “Hi, Dire-Wolf.”

Enid gave him a small nod. She opened her mouth to ask how her food had turned into a local myth when suddenly—

Wens grabbed her wrist.

Gently.
Firmly.
Like she’d been doing it for years.

“Come on,” she said. “Walk with me.”

Enid stumbled a little before falling into step. The contact was light, but her instincts bristled before settling, Wens wasn’t a threat. Just… kinetic.

Wens dug through her bag like a raccoon in a treasure chest. “Where is it—ah-ha.” She pulled out a foil-wrapped object and pressed it into Enid’s hands.

“Here. Take it.”

Enid blinked down at it. “…What is this?”

“I woke up early,” Wens announced, puffing her chest proudly. “After attempt number four, I have officially mastered the prison burrito. You can rate the flavor and give me a five-star review, but keep it hush-hush. I don’t want the masses begging for takeout orders.”

She leaned in, conspiratorial.

“People get weird when you’re talented.”

The foil was warm in Enid’s palms. She felt it radiate outward—absurd comfort in such a simple thing.

“Wow,” Enid said softly. “Thank you. Seriously. I didn’t eat breakfast yet.”

“Perfect.” Wens beamed. Then, without warning—
“Okay, TikTok? Instagram? Snap? WhatsApp? Phone number? Smoke signals?”

Enid froze like a deer spotting a truck.

“I— I don’t have social media. And I don’t know my phone number yet. It’s new.”

Wens made the most heartbreaking pout Enid had seen outside of puppy shelters. Then she spun on her heels and marched straight toward Robert’s desk.

Robert sat scratching Beef’s stomach while Chase leaned over the divider, sipping coffee.

“Morning, kid,” Chase said, smirking at Wens’s outfit. “You know that’s not uniform policy, right?”

Wens stuck out her tongue. “Boo-hoo. Cry about it.”
She threw up a little rock-n-roll horn gesture and wiggled her hips.

Chase snorted into his mug.
Robert didn’t even look up as Wens pilfered a Sharpie from his cup. He’d been desensitized.

Sharpie in hand, she spun back to Enid.

“Gimme your hand.”

Enid stiffened. Instinct. Always instinct.

But she lifted her arm, hesitating only a fraction of a second. Wens took her wrist—warm fingers wrapping around cool skin—and tugged the sleeve of her hero jacket higher.

The Sharpie squeaked softly as Wens scribbled across the inside of Enid’s forearm.
Big looping numbers.
A name.
A silly doodled smiley face with eyelashes for reasons known only to Wens.

She blew gently to dry the ink, still holding Enid’s wrist.

“There,” she said with a satisfied hum. “Text me when you get your phone.”

Enid stared at the black ink on her skin.

Stunned wasn’t even the right word.
It was more like something old in her chest cracked open just a bit—letting in light she didn’t ask for but couldn’t deny.

Wens smiled wide, edges softening.
Then she backed away, step by step, walking backward toward her desk without looking where she was going.

“Don’t forget!” she called. “I want my review!”

Enid didn’t answer.
The warmth of the wrapped burrito seeped through her hands, the number burned pleasantly on her skin.

And for the first time in days—
the Wolf inside her was quiet.

Chase was the first to break the spell Enid didn’t realize she’d fallen into.

He squinted at her, scratching Beef’s stomach with the other hand. “The hell, kid? You good? You look like one of those pound dogs just… staring at the wall waiting for someone to adopt you.”

Beef let out a happy whuff the moment Chase switched to scratching under his chin.

Enid blinked hard, grounding herself. “Yeah. Sorry. Just… have a good morning, guys.”

She bumped fists with Chase as he always hit a little too hard, but she rolled with it and then crouched to give Beef a firm rub along his ribs. The corgi flopped over like a fainting goat in pure bliss. Robert looked up just in time for Enid to ruffle his hair, which earned her the kind of flat, parental glare he reserved for the Z-Team when they broke vending machines.

Then she headed out.

---

The city swallowed her the moment she stepped outside.

Cool air.
Distant sirens.
Traffic murmuring like the ocean.

Enid kept moving. Kept her senses attuned to the pulse of the urban sprawl, waiting for the next dispatch call, the next emergency, the next thing that needed fixing. The Amulet thrummed along with her heart, faint but present enough to remind her she was never really alone in her body.

After twenty minutes of patrolling, the silence between alerts stretched long enough that she ducked into a narrow alley, the kind that smelled faintly of asphalt and old rain. She leaned against a brick wall worn smooth by time and graffiti and finally unwrapped Wens’ tin-foil gift.

Steam curled into the air.

And holy hell it smelled incredible.

Wens must’ve added some kind of Mexican spice blend — chili powder, cumin, something smoky? mixing into the cheese, spicy pork rinds, Tapatío ramen, Sweet chili Doritos, and whatever dark magic made prison burritos possible. It looked like sin wrapped in carbohydrates.

Enid raised it to her mouth—

“What’s that, sweetheart?”

She jolted so hard she nearly flung the food into a dumpster. Her pulse spiked. Her senses sharpened.

Malevola stood there, a silhouette cut from hellfire and amusement, leaning one shoulder against the graffiti-splattered brick as though she’d been waiting for hours. She straightened slowly, all height and heat and lazy predatory confidence and prowled forward on heels that didn’t make a sound.

Up close, she smelled faintly of iron, musk, and some kind of spicy perfume that made Enid’s brain misfire.

“It’s— it’s a prison burrito,” Enid managed, clutching the foil-wrapped contraband like it was a newborn child. “Someone made it for me.”

Malevola’s eyes glowed a deeper molten orange, pupils tightening like a cat’s as she circled Enid once, amused.
“Made for you,” she echoed, voice dripping with mock envy. “And here I thought I was your favorite.”

“That has literally never been true.”

“Yet,” Malevola murmured with a smirk that shot straight through Enid’s spine. “Who’s the chef?”

“Wens.”

“The goth chicken.”

“…Goth chicken?"

"Yeah,"

"......Please don’t call her that.”

“Why? She’s cute—little thing, all eyeliner and attitude.” Malevola clicked her tongue, leaning in. “Can’t believe she cooked for you before I did. I’m offended. Deeply. Spiritually.”

Enid swallowed a laugh because she had no idea how joking she actually was.

Malevola leaned closer, casting Enid’s shadow over the brick. “What’d she put in it?”

“I—I dunno, spices and stuff—”

“Oh, spices,” Malevola repeated, delighted. “So it’s seasoned. Better hold onto it tight then, pup. Before someone steals it.”

Enid opened her mouth to respond—

And Malevola, in a blur of motion, snatched the burrito straight from her hands like a raccoon with a vendetta.

“Mal—!”

But the demoness had already taken a bite.

A… massive bite.

Like half-the-burrito-is-gone-now massive.

Her eyes rolled back. “Ohhhh fuck—oh, this is good. This is really good. That little goth chicken can throw down in the kitchen, holy—”

“Give it back!” Enid lunged, trying to grab what was left.

Malevola jerked it out of reach, laughing. “C’mon, I’m half demon, I need the calories!”

“That’s not! EVERYONE needs calories—give it!”

“Make me.”

Oh no.
The way she said it.
Like a challenge.
Like an invitation.
Like she wanted Enid to try.

Enid didn’t think as she just grabbed.

Malevola dodged easily, taunting.
“Wow, therapy made you slow, pup. All that rage but none of the cardio—”

“I swear to god—” Enid leapt.

Malevola caught her wrist mid-air, spun her, and in a single fluid motion pinned her to the wall. Her grip was firm but careful, claws grazing the skin just enough to make Enid gasp.

The burrito dangled above them like a hostage by Malevola’s Tail.

“Last chance,” Malevola purred. “Beg for it.”

Enid glared, cheeks burning, pride flaring hotter than embarrassment. She ripped her hand away and shoved her free hand into the foil, tore off what remained of the burrito and stuffed the entire thing into her mouth like a deranged raccoon protecting a trash treasure.

Malevola froze.

Then burst out laughing. Deep, delighted, chest-shaking laughter.

“Oh my god,” she wheezed. “You’re unhinged. I love it.”

Enid tried to speak around the obscene mouthful. “Yow—shf—tah—mah—hoo—”

“You sound like you’re summoning a demon, pup.”

“You ARE a demon!”

“Not the point.”

She went for the crumbs still clinging to the foil, lunging like a starving tiger. Enid twisted to block her, but Malevola used her height and strength to trap her again, bracing one arm beside her head, the other gripping Enid’s wrist.

Too close.
Too hot.
Too much.

The Amulet hummed under Enid’s suit like it recognized the danger or the temptation.

“You’re fun when you’re feral,” Malevola whispered, and Enid’s breath hitched for reasons she didn’t want to examine.

Malevola’s gaze dropped to Enid’s exposed wrist when her sleeve slipped.

To the sharpie ink.

To the looping numbers.

To the doodled little face.

Slow.
Intentional.
Predatory.

“Well, well, who’s this?” she asked, voice curling like smoke around the words.

“It’s nothing,” Enid mumbled, trying not to choke on burrito mush and humiliation simultaneously. “She just gave me her number.”

“Cute and bold.” Malevola’s smirk deepened. “I like her taste.”

“Im sure you don't really even know her.”

“I don’t need to,” she said breezily. “I know you.”

The alley shrank around them.
The air thickened.
Enid wasn’t sure if she could breathe.

Malevola leaned in just enough that Enid felt the heat radiating from her skin, a warmth that curled wickedly low in her stomach.

And then—

[CONFRONT HER Or Not]
Push Away: What the hell are you doing? Back off.
Let her keep teasing: You don’t hate the attention. Let her push just a little more.

Time Remaining: ▓▓▓▓░░░░░
The timer barreled toward zero.

Enid’s breath caught.
The Wolf snarled.
Her body burned hotter as Malevola leaned closer to her lips-

“…Mal,” she whispered, shaking. “What the hell are you doing?” she shoved a little.

The bar emptied.
The choice landed.

Malevola’s grip released instantly.

She stepped back like she’d touched fire.

“Fuck—” the demoness muttered, running a hand over her face. “Shit. I’m— I’m sorry. That was...too far. I know. I’m— look, sometimes I forget my strength or my… boundaries or whatever. I wasn’t thinking. I’m sorry.”

Enid pressed a hand to the wall to stabilize herself, lungs working overtime, heat still crawling across her chest and neck in mortifying waves.

“It’s fine,” she managed, voice strained but honest. “Just… don’t grab me like that without warning.”

Malevola nodded vigorously.
“I won’t. Swear. I don’t wanna fuck up with you.” She paused. “Well. I do wanna fuck....I mean—NOT that—fuck’s sake.”

Enid let out a startled laugh. “Mal.”

“Right. Shutting up.”

They stood there in tense, awkward silence.
Enid’s heart pounded.
Malevola’s ears burned red through her hair.

Then the comm crackled loudly, making both of them jump.

Robert’s voice filled the alley, sharp and urgent from her earpiece:

“Dire-Wolf, Flambae, Malevola. Trouble at the eastside aquarium. Leviathan exhibit breach. Civilians trapped. Move, now.”

Malevola exhaled hard, grateful for the interruption.
“Oh thank god. Something to punch.”

Enid straightened, wiped her face, adjusted her sense of focus and nodded.

“Yeah,” she said. “Let’s go.”

Malevola opened a portal with a flourish, gesturing dramatically. “After you, Dire-Wolf.”

Enid stepped through, heat still coiling low in her stomach, the Wolf pacing with interest.

And as the portal snapped shut behind them—
Malevola muttered under her breath, almost too quiet to catch:

“…and I didn’t even get another bite of that damn burrito.”

Chapter Text

Enid hated that her hands were shaking. It was stupid. She’d fought meta-criminals, punched through burning walls, taken a blast of flame thrower fire to the face and stayed standing, but standing outside her apartment complex in the creeping dusk, she kept flexing her fingers and watching the scars along her knuckles pale and darken with each clench like they were tattling on her. She wiped her palms on the wide legs of her jeans, then smoothed the front of her shirt for the tenth time. The outfit still felt like borrowed skin: layered long-sleeve under an oversized dark green top, the hem falling loose over baggy light-wash denim that swished around her sneakers. Mandy had called it “casual artsy”; Enid called it “trying really hard not to look like someone who owned an a Wolf God Amulet that had killed people.” She tugged at the chain around her neck instead as the cheap pendant resting against her collarbone where cool ancient greek metal used to be. The Artemis Amulet was back in its vault, locked away after shift, but she could still feel the phantom weight of it pressing against her sternum, a memory of a noose.

Her phone buzzed again in her hand, the cheap case flashing blue. Another message. Wens, of course. The notification preview showed a frame of a dog wearing sunglasses and riding a Roomba. Enid thumbed it open and the video expanded: a drooling golden retriever spinning slowly across an apartment floor while someone off-screen cackled. Over it, Wens had typed:

Wens: LOOK AT HIM
KING OF NOTHING
🐶👑✨

Right under it:

also me when i get my paycheck and immediately spend it on dumb shit

Enid snorted, shoulders loosening without her permission. Her thumbs hovered for a second before she typed back:

Enid: that’s you when you steal robert’s pens

Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Reappeared.

Wens: first of all they’re COMMUNITY pens
second of all where r u going again??

She chewed her lip, glancing at the apartment doors, the shadowed parking lot, the way the streetlights were just starting to hum on.

Enid: history museum thing
for therapy

A beat, then:

Wens: WHAT
no invite??
rude. i make you culinary masterpieces and u just abandon me for dead things?? 💔🗡️

Enid smiled down at the screen, warmth tugging at her chest.

Enid: it’s part of my treatment plan
you’d be bored

Wens: bored?? girl i LIKE weird dead people stuff. i’d be in there like “ah yes empire, conquest, trauma, mood”

The three dots were still pulsing when the sound of an engine cut through the quiet street like a blade. Enid looked up.

The car that turned the corner did not belong on this block. It looked like it had rolled straight out of a commercial where everyone wore suits and whispered about performance packages. Low and predatory, glossy black, it slid toward the curb with the kind of confidence only obscene amounts of money could buy. The front grille glinted like polished teeth; the headlights were narrow, sharp, almost judgmental. Enid’s brain supplied a name from some foggy late-night internet rabbit hole, Mercedes-Benz AMG GT something-something, but it didn’t matter. What mattered was that it stopped exactly in front of her and the passenger window rolled down with an expensive hiss.

“You’re going to stand there all night?” Dr. Capri called, voice warm, amused. “Come on, Sinclair. We have a schedule to keep.”

Enid’s stomach did a slow, startled flip. She fumbled her phone back into her pocket, almost dropping it, and hurried to the car, suddenly hyperaware of every crease in her jeans, every scratch on her sneakers. She opened the passenger door carefully, like it might bite.

Inside, it smelled like leather and citrus and money. The seats were a deep, matte black that hugged her when she slid in, the stitching precise, the kind of thing that never existed in cars parked outside Bedford Hills. The dashboard glowed softly with sleek digital panels and silver accents; there were more buttons than seemed strictly necessary for driving. Even the air felt different in a cooler, filtered, humming with subtle machinery.

Enid shut the door with a muffled thunk. The world outside vanished, replaced by jazz murmuring low from the speakers, all brushed drums and lazy brass.

She turned her head and almost forgot how to breathe.

Dr. Capri did not look like she belonged behind a clipboard tonight. Gone was the sensible blazer, the soft office lighting. Instead, she wore fitted black trousers that elongated her legs, a high-necked black lace top that hinted at skin without actually revealing any, and a long, rich-brown coat that draped over her shoulders like something out of an old European film. Her hair was down, swept to one side in soft waves; gold earrings caught the streetlight as she glanced over. A narrow belt cinched her waist, and the entire ensemble whispered effortlessly put together in a language Enid didn’t speak.

She also smelled… incredible. Not the neutral, inoffensive “professional therapist” scent from the office. This was brighter: citrus peel, a hint of bergamot, something floral and expensive beneath. Clean and sharp and warm at the same time.

“Seatbelt,” Capri said gently, fingers already sliding the car into drive. “Unless you want your first exposure tonight to be the ER.”

Enid jolted, fumbling for the belt and clicking it into place. “Right. Sorry.”

“No apologies.” Capri checked the mirrors, pulled away from the curb with smooth precision. The engine purred like a satisfied animal. “This is supposed to be relaxing.”

The way she merged onto the main road at exactly the right moment without even blinking did not feel relaxing. Enid’s hand found the door arm on reflex, fingers curling, the wolf inside her bristling at not being the one in control of the speed. Streetlights strobed across Capri’s face as her jaw relaxed, mouth soft, eyes focused on the road with the easy confidence of someone who had done this a thousand times.

“You drive like you’ve done high-speed chases,” Enid muttered before she could stop herself.

Capri huffed a quiet laugh. “You’re not wrong. Before SDN, I did my residency in an ER. You learn to move fast when human stupidity is on the line.”

“Remind me to never cut you off in traffic,” Enid said.

“Noted.” Capri shot her a quick sidelong look, an amused curve lifting her mouth. “You look nice, by the way. The layers suit you.”

Enid looked down at herself, suddenly aware of the way the loose green top draped over her, the sleeves of the patterned shirt peeking out at the wrists, the wide denim legs pooling over her sneakers. “Mandy picked all this,” she admitted. “I just… put it on in the right order.”

“That’s still a choice,” Capri said. “You could’ve shown up in your field gear. Or pajamas.”

“I don’t own pajamas,” Enid said, then regretted it immediately. Too much information.

Capri didn’t pounce on it. “Then we’ll add that to your long-term goals. Clothes that are only for resting.”

Enid watched the city slide by through the tinted windows. Buildings rose and fell, neon signs flickered, people became streaks of motion. The jazz shifted into a softer track, a wandering piano.

“Hey, Doc?” she asked after a minute.

“Mhm?”

“Thanks for… inviting me, I guess. I know this isn’t exactly in the therapy handbook.”

Capri’s hands stayed relaxed on the wheel. “On the contrary. Novel environments, non-clinical contexts, safe exposure to crowds and non-combat stressors?” She shrugged. “We’re still working on your relationship with control. Museums are good for that. The dead can’t chase you.”

Enid snorted. “You say that now. Watch a statue fall on me or something.”

“If that happens, I’ll bill the museum,” Capri said mildly. “Not you.”

They turned into an underground parking garage, the air cooling as concrete swallowed them. Capri found a spot with the ease of someone who always got lucky, sliding the car into it with a neat twist of the wheel. The engine died down, leaving the echo of distant cars and the buzz of fluorescent lights.

Enid unbuckled slowly, the silence settling around them. When she opened the door and stepped out, her sneakers sounded loud against the polished concrete. She glanced back at the car once, still half-convinced it would vanish like an illusion.

Capri locked it with a chirp and walked around to her, coat swaying, heels clicking. In the stark garage lighting, she still looked annoyingly composed.

“You ready?” she asked.

“No,” Enid said honestly.

“Good. Growth rarely is.” Capri pressed the elevator button. “Come on.”

The elevator ride smelled like old metal and faint exhaust. Other museum-goers joined them on the way down, two older women in glittering shawls, a couple in matching black outfits, a teenage boy in a too-big blazer fiddling with his tie. Everyone else seemed to know what they were doing. Enid kept her eyes on the floor, watching the scuffed sneakers, polished heels, gleaming dress shoes.

When they emerged onto the street level, the air felt sharper, cooler. The museum rose across from the garage like a modern temple: tall glass façade glowing gold from within, banners hanging down the front announcing ROME: EMPIRE OF BLOOD AND MARBLE in dramatic block letters. Columns were lit from below, throwing long shadows upward like grasping hands.

Clusters of people moved toward the entrance, dressed in everything from cocktail dresses and tailored suits to minimalist chic. Laughter floated across the courtyard, the clink of glasses from a reception tent at one side, the murmur of curated music blending with the city’s own hum.

Enid looked down at her sneakers again, scuffed white with pink and gold swooshes and felt something sour twist in her stomach. Her jeans suddenly felt too big, her shirt too casual. She lifted a hand to tuck hair behind her ear and caught sight of a faint old burn scar along her wrist, pale against the rest of her skin, and for a second she swore she could feel the Amulet there, heavy and wrong.

Capri noticed. Of course she did.

“You’re quiet,” the older woman said, voice low, gentle. “More than usual.”

“I just…” Enid gestured vaguely at the crowd. “Everyone looks like they walked out of a magazine. I look like I wandered in from a community college art class.”

Capri stopped walking. Turned to face her fully. The crowd flowed around them, a stream splitting around two rocks.

“Enid,” she said, tone firm but soft. “You look fine. Better than fine. You look like yourself. That’s the entire point.”

“Yeah, well, ‘myself’ comes with some… baggage,” Enid muttered.

“So does everyone else here,” Capri countered. “Theirs is just better ironed.” The corner of her mouth kicked up. “You look adorable. And I don’t use that word lightly.”

Adorable. No one had called Enid that in a long time. Not since before handcuffs and orange jumpsuits and mugshots.

Something stung at the back of her eyes. She blinked it away and cleared her throat. “Okay. Yeah. I’m good.”

Capri nodded once, as if that settled it, and led the way toward the entrance.

Security was thorough without being hostile. Two tall arches for metal detectors flanked the doorway; uniformed guards steered the flow of bodies with practiced efficiency. A magical wand station sat just beyond a bored-looking mage in a navy blazer lazily sweeping a charm-glowing rod over visitors to check for active enchantments.

“Tickets, please,” said the woman at the podium.

Capri slid her phone out, the digital passes already pulled up. Organized. Prepared. Of course.

“She’s with me,” she added, nodding to Enid.

The podium woman glanced at Enid’s face, lingered for a fraction of a second on the faint line of the mostly healed cheek scar, then moved on with the unbothered apathy of someone who had seen worse. “Enjoy the exhibit.”

Enid stepped through the metal detector; it stayed mercifully silent. The wand-sweeper gave her a cursory pass, the spell at the tip of the rod buzzing faintly when it skimmed near her sternum where the Amulet sometimes hung, now empty. Residual resonance. The mage looked mildly curious, then shrugged and waved her through.

Inside, the world shifted.

The lighting dropped to a rich, dim gold; the ceiling rose high above with suspended banners painted like faded frescoes. The entry hall was dominated by a massive marble statue of a Roman general, one hand lifted in perpetual command, the other resting on the hilt of a sword. The stone was worn smooth in places, chipped in others, the face partially eroded, giving it an uncanny, half-erased expression. Projected behind it, a slow loop of maps showed the Roman Empire expanding and contracting over centuries, its borders bleeding red across Europe and the Mediterranean like wounds opening and scarring.

Glass cases lined the walls, each lovingly lit. Bronze helmets with dented crowns. Short stabbing swords with ornate handles, edges dulled by time but still carrying a faint, dangerous promise. Coins, rings, fragments of mosaics depicting gods and monsters. Little plaques described campaigns and reforms and rebellions in neat, reverent print.

Enid stopped just inside the threshold and breathed in. Old stone. Dust. The faint tang of metal preserved beyond its rightful lifespan. Voices rose and fell around her, but for a moment, all she could see were the artifacts and the stories cut off but still somehow talking.

“Wow,” she whispered.

Capri watched her with a small, pleased smile. “First impression?”

Enid’s lips tugged upward, almost shy. “It’s… a lot. In a good way.” She pointed to a display of gladius swords. “They used those in tight formations, right? Short blades. Designed to get in close. Efficient, brutal, minimal wasted movement.”

“Correct,” Capri said. “You read the briefing I sent.”

Enid flushed. “I, uh… might’ve gone down a rabbit hole.”

“Good. Rabbits need hobbies.”

Enid laughed, the sound softer than the one Malevola had knocked out of her the night before, but real. Capri gestured toward the next room, where a reconstructed legionary camp sprawled in painstaking detail—tents, fire pits, weapons racks.

“Come on,” she said, resting a light hand between Enid’s shoulders for just a second, guiding her forward. “We’ll start with the soldiers. Learn how an empire teaches boys to carry the weight of gods.”

Her touch lingered in Enid’s mind long after it fell away.

And as they walked deeper into the museum, past marble heroes and forgotten gods, past relics of conquest and discipline and blood as the Wolf inside Enid watched quietly, curious, as if even it wanted to see what this woman would show them.

And so they wandered for nearly an hour through the museum’s first wing alone, a slow drift through centuries carved in marble and painted in mineral reds and dying blues. Under high ceilings etched with gold and shadow, they moved like two mismatched stars caught in temporary orbit—Capri steady and sure in her long dark coat, Enid trailing a few paces behind, absorbing every word like it might patch a hole inside her she hadn’t known was still bleeding.

Capri guided the tour with an ease that suggested she’d walked these halls a hundred times. She didn’t just explain things as she told them, layered each exhibit with context, with texture, with the mistakes and triumphs of people long dead. Her voice carried the quiet confidence of someone who had read too much and forgotten nothing. She’d gesture lightly, fingers brushing the air as if tracing invisible lines from one artifact to another, making connections Enid never would’ve noticed.

“This is early Republican bronze,” Capri said as they paused before a case of tarnished armor. “Roman soldiers carried these before standardized issue. Look at the hammering. You can see the individual maker’s marks in every dent tells you which smith crafted it, which region he trained in, whether he was rushed or proud of the work.”

She leaned close to the glass, pointing with a subtle tilt of her hand. Enid followed, eyes wide, breath caught in her throat and not because of the armor, though she nodded like it was, but because Capri smelled like citrus and clean linen and some faint floral hint that didn’t match anything Enid had ever owned.

“Greek influence is everywhere,” Capri continued, stepping back. “Trade, conquest, imitation, Rome loved to pretend it invented greatness. Really it just borrowed it.”

Enid laughed softly. “Sounds familiar.”

Capri shot her a wry side-glance. “Empire tends to repeat itself.”

They moved on, deeper through displays of pottery, mosaics, wax tablets, coins scarred by centuries. Every so often Capri would purchase something from a small kiosk to pamphlets, a limited-run enamel pin of Romulus and Remus, a set of postcards with fresco art and hand them to Enid without ceremony. When Enid hesitated, Capri simply hummed, “Take it. Enrichment is part of your therapeutic programming tonight,” in a tone that was both teasing and clinical, like she knew exactly what she was doing and also refused to acknowledge she was spoiling her.

By the time they reached the mezzanine level overlooking the grand atrium, Enid had her hands full: a small bag, a museum brochure with dog-eared corners, and a keychain shaped like a miniature gladius she kept twisting between her fingers.

Capri seemed amused by her fascination. “You’ve picked that up three different times.”

“I like swords,” Enid muttered, cheeks heating. “They’re… cool.”

“Swords are cool,” Capri agreed with a soft laugh.

That laugh was warm, unguarded as it hit Enid like a punch. Something fluttered in her stomach, unsettling in a way she didn’t have the vocabulary for.

They stopped near a dim alcove displaying a massive map of the ancient Mediterranean, all ochre tones and sprawling borders. The crowd had thinned here; low voices echoed from the other side of the hall, but otherwise it felt quiet, almost intimate.

Enid traced a finger along the map’s coastline through the glass, then said abruptly, “My mom used to take me to the art museum near our old house. Before…” She swallowed, staring at Italy, Greece, islands she’d never seen. “Before everything got bad, I guess.”

Capri angled her body toward her, that therapist’s instinct of full attention slipping into place, but something gentler mixed with it. “Tell me.”

Enid didn’t know why the words came. They just… rose.

“She was obsessed with colors,” Enid said, voice low like she was afraid the museum itself would judge her. “And shapes. Abstract stuff. The kind that looks like someone spilled paint on accident and then framed it.”

Capri smiled soft, knowing. “Good abstract is never accidental.”

“Yeah. She said the shapes calmed her. Said the silence helped her think.” Enid shrugged, fingers absently tracing a vein in the marble beneath the map. “We didn’t do a lot of stuff....she was always being called somewhere, always busy with… hero things.”

Her voice dipped on the last two words. Capri heard it.
Enid tried to laugh it off, but the sound snapped in the middle.

“People worshipped her,” she said, sharper now, unable to stop once it started. “Like—actual worship. They waited outside buildings, held up signs with her name, shoved their kids into her arms. ‘Lady Dire-Wolf! Over here! Look this way!’ They wanted pieces of her. Always someone in the way. Always someone pulling at her. She loved it. Loved strangers more than—more than me.”

Her breath stuttered. The map blurred through suddenly hot eyes.

Capri didn’t interrupt. Not yet. She let the silence open like a gentle door.

“She’d come home different,” Enid whispered. “Smile gone. Tired. Cold. Like she didn’t know what to do with me if a camera wasn’t on her. Mandy ended up raising me. Mandy and my uncle. And…” Enid’s jaw flexed. “I don’t even know who my father is. She never told me. And then she died when I was ten and the country acted like a saint had been murdered but all I lost was this stranger who barely said goodnight.”

Her voice cracked, too raw, too unfiltered. And beneath it, faint but unmistakable, the Wolf inside her snarled, sensing fractures, old grief it could fill its jaws with.

Capri didn’t move at first. She just breathed and steady, grounded and let the space be soft around them. Then she stepped closer, her voice shifting into that mixture of firmness and warmth that always broke Enid down.

“That’s a lot to carry alone.”

“I wasn’t supposed to say any of that,” Enid muttered, rubbing her face hard. “Sorry. That was weird. Forget it.”

She didn’t mean weird.
She meant dangerous.
She meant vulnerable, far too vulnerable for someone who’d built walls from the marrow outward.

Despite the Amulet being locked away, her mental barrier shuddered, thin and cracking.

Capri reached out, touching Enid’s shoulder lightly but with intent. “Enid. It’s not weird.” Her voice softened. “And I won’t forget it. This...everything you just said—that’s exactly what tonight is for. Breathing. Letting yourself loosen your grip a little. Letting someone else hold the weight without fearing they’ll break it or judge you.”

Enid’s throat worked. Something inside her gave, inch by inch, like ice thawing under warm hands.

Capri continued, voice slipping into a tone both professional and impossibly gentle. “Your mother sounds like someone who didn’t know how to split herself. Public hero. Private person. Those people look strong on the outside, but they’re brittle where it matters. And when that brittleness clashes with the expectations placed on them and on you...it leaves wounds. Deep ones. No wonder it hurts. No wonder you’re tired.”

Enid’s eyes burned. She looked away at a mosaic, at the wall, at nothing but then turned back to Capri with glassy eyes she could barely blink dry.

“It just sucks,” she whispered. “Wanting someone who didn’t want me. To yearn for someone I hardly knew.”

Her voice trembled and—

Her eyes flashed red, just for a heartbeat.

The Wolf tasted the ache like fresh blood.

Capri saw the flicker instantly. Her hand slid back, not in fear, but in practiced calm, the way someone might step back from a ledge without making the person beside them feel alone.

“Pause,” she instructed, voice low but unwavering. “Feel your feet. The ground. Count three breaths.”

Enid tried. But the Wolf pressed against her ribs, sensing how vulnerable she was, how open, how hungry for connection. It licked at her loneliness with teeth.

She exhaled unevenly.
Fought it down.
Barely won.

And then without thinking, without planning, without permission from either logic or instinct she stepped forward and wrapped her arms around Capri’s waist.

Capri froze for the length of a blink.

Then her hands rose in not eager, not romantic, but steady, supportive and resting lightly between Enid’s shoulder blades. Not an embrace. An anchor. A boundary maintained with care but not coldness.

They stayed like that.
Breathing in sync.
A rhythm Enid fell into like a wounded animal stumbling into warmth it never expected.

Capri exhaled through her nose, slow and grounding. “It’s okay,” she murmured. “You’re allowed to feel this. I’m right here.”

Enid nodded against her coat, shoulders shaking once before she smothered it.

Eventually, Capri eased back, hands slipping away feather-light. She brushed a stray curl from Enid’s cheek with the gentlest touch that was maternal, devastating, devastatingly misunderstood.

“Now,” she said softly, “crying is good for the soul, but crying is hell on blood sugar.” A small smile lifted her mouth. “Are you hungry?”

Enid sniffed, wiping her cheeks with her sleeve. “...Yeah.”

“What are you in the mood for?” Capri asked, tilting her head. “Be honest. Don’t pick the polite option.”

Enid opened her mouth—then blurted out the first thing that hit her tongue.

“…A burger.”

Capri blinked. Then laughed. “A burger it is.”

Something inside Enid wriggled at the sound. Warmth. Relief. A strange flutter she refused to give a name.

Capri slid the gift-shop bag into Enid’s hands. “Come on then. Therapy rule nine: emotional breakthroughs must be followed by carbs. Preferably greasy ones.”

Enid let out a wet little laugh, more real than she meant it to be.

The scene shifted from marble and myth to sodium-yellow parking lot light and the low hum of engines. Ten minutes later they pulled into a small burger joint tucked off a side street, all glowing red letters and foggy windows, the kind of place that looked like it had been there since the eighties and refused to die out of spite. Capri nosed the Mercedes into a space near the front where she could see it clearly from inside, killed the engine, and unbuckled with casual, practiced ease.

Enid climbed out more carefully, still hyperaware of how out of place she looked next to the sleek car and the even sleeker woman walking around it to join her. Inside, the place smelled like heaven and a coronary: sizzling beef, scorched cheese, fryer oil, onions, something sweet and cloying from the milkshake machine. Neon beer signs flickered in the corners; a couple of tired-looking guys in work boots huddled over a corner table; a family of four argued about whether nuggets were “real food” by the door.

“Order what you want,” Capri said, stepping up to the counter with the relaxed air of someone who’d done far worse things than eat late-night burgers. “This one’s on me.”

That was a dangerous sentence to say to someone who’d done prison time. Enid shifted awkwardly, eyes flicking between the menu board and Capri’s profile. “Uh. I… don’t want to overdo it.”

“You burned through an industrial fire with a divine artifact and unresolved grief,” Capri said mildly. “You’re not going to bankrupt me over a combo meal.”

That earned a sideways look and a reluctant half-smile. “You say that now.”

She ordered more than she meant to: double cheeseburger, fries, onion rings, a chocolate shake, and then, when Capri arched a brow in faint amusement, she added, “I um—used to make my own version of this. Inside. It was like… sloppy Joes with spam.” She pulled a face. “We called it ‘mystery protein surprise.’”

Capri actually laughed, a low, warm sound that softened the precise edges of her face. “Well, congratulations. You’ve upgraded from ‘mystery’ to ‘legally required to list the ingredients.’ Progress.”

They took their number, found a booth by the window where Capri could angle herself just enough to keep the car in peripheral view. When the food came, it was a glorious disaster: burgers stacked high, cheese oozing down the sides, bread already shining with grease; fries piled in a too-small paper boat; onion rings thick and golden, still crackling from the fry oil. Enid stared at her tray with something like reverence.

She took the first bite and nearly moaned. The bun was soft, the patty salty and smoky, the cheese perfectly melted, the pickles sharp, ketchup and mayo blurring into something sweet and tangy. Grease slicked her fingers instantly; she had to wipe her wrist with a napkin.

“Good?” Capri asked around a more modest, precise bite of her own burger.

“Are you kidding?” Enid said after swallowing, eyes wide. “This is… this is like if my prison sloppy Joe had a glow-up and a trust fund.”

Capri snorted into her soda. “You have an excellent talent for ruining metaphors and then making them better.”

They ate. It was weirdly easy. Capri didn’t pick at a side salad or pretend she wasn’t hungry; she demolished her burger with quiet, unselfconscious focus, fingers also catching grease, licking a thumb once without seeming to realize Enid had noticed and then grabbing another napkin like she’d remembered professionalism existed. Enid watched her for a heartbeat too long, then forced herself to focus on her fries, dunking them in ketchup and talking between bites.

They drifted from subject to subject: odd Roman trivia Capri hadn’t fit into the museum lecture; the worst cafeteria food Enid had ever eaten (“green Jell-O that smelled like bleach and tasted like sadness”); the car, which Enid tried very hard not to sound impressed by and failed spectacularly at.

“So,” she said, trying for light and landing on awkward. “That, uh… that’s a nice car. You must make a lot of money.”

Capri gave her a sideways look over her burger, an expression that softened, then tightened, as if she were weighing the truth. “I make enough,” she said finally, wiping a streak of melted cheese from her thumb with a napkin. “And I live alone. Well—” she gave a small, almost imperceptible shrug, “not always alone. I'm......married. I have a daughter. That’s… a longer story.”

Enid blinked so fast she almost inhaled a fry. “Oh. I—didn’t know....”

“You weren’t supposed to,” Capri said, voice lighter, the subject neatly boxed and pushed away. “But yes. Life tends to be more complicated than my résumé implies.”

Enid flushed, uncertain what to say to that. “Well—uh—that keychain isn’t complicated.” She fished it out of the gift-shop bag, a tiny brass gladius, already smudged with her fingerprints—and wiggled it proudly. “Look. It’s cute. It makes me feel like I could stab someone historically.”

Capri’s lips curved. “Good,” she said quietly. “You should have things you like.”

Before Enid could respond, her phone dinged. Then again. And again. And again, rapid-fire. The screen lit up like it had been set on fire.

WENS: 🐶🔥 BROOOOOO
tell me why my neighbor’s dog looks like he just crawled out of a demon summoning circle
[pic: a chihuahua with glowing eyes staring into the abyss]

WENS:
are u still out? 👀
u better not be ditching me for another prison burrito girl smh 😤

WENS:
WAIT
are u alive
blink twice

Enid snorted so hard Capri glanced over with raised brows.

ENID:
im alive lol
im out w someone…

WENS:
👀👀👀👀👀👀
WHO
SEND LOCATION
is it someone hot
pls say its someone hot

Enid nearly choked, holding the phone lower on pure instinct like the words were indecent.

“Who’s that?” Capri asked, sipping her drink, voice casual but eyes sharp in a academic taking in data.

“It’s, um… Wens,” Enid said, stomach fluttering for reasons she didn’t want to think about. “She works in Records. And she’s… she’s kind of—funny? Relentless? She bullied me into sharing my burrito and then made me one. Now she sends dog videos. And memes. And threats. In a nice way.”

Capri’s mouth ticked up. “Dark-haired girl? Boots that violate three dress codes at once? Heavy eyeliner that could be classified as weapons?”

“That’s her,” Enid said, smiling so wide her cheeks hurt. “She’s… nice.”

“Mm,” Capri hummed. It wasn’t disapproval but it wasn’t neutral either. Something shaded darker at the edges. “She seems like a good influence,” she said eventually. “Mostly.”

Enid, buoyed by salt and grease and Capri’s softened posture, shifted unconsciously under the table until her knee brushed Capri’s. A small grounded touch. Capri didn’t move away but she did go still for a breath too long.

“What should I text her back?” Enid asked, voice lower, careful. “Mandy keeps saying I should try to make friends. And I don’t want to be weird. Or overly intense. Or whatever I was before.”

Capri took the phone between two fingers, reading through the chaos of emojis and threats and demon-dog pictures. She handed it back gently. “Send her a picture of the food,” she said. “She shared something with you. You share back. Reciprocity builds connection.”

Enid nodded, face pink. She wiped her eyes and cheeks quickly and God forbid she send a picture looking like she’d cried in the museum and lifted the phone. She angled it just right: burger in frame, her smile small and lopsided, Capri blurred in the background like an accidental cameo. Her hands trembled as she clicked the shutter. She took three more, then panic-edited the brightness and cropped out a smudge on her cheek.

ENID:
burger therapy
[photo attached]
also thx for sending the dog

The reply came so fast Enid jumped.

WENS:
WAIT WAIT WAIT
ARE YOU EATING WITHOUT ME 😭
THAT LOOKS SO DAMN GOOD
oh my god YOU LOOK CUTE WHAT THE HELL
stop that immediately

Enid’s ears burned. She ducked her head, grinning helplessly, thumbs flying with an embarrassed urgency.

ENID:
im literally eating a burger stop
and my face looks weird

WENS:
ur face looks adorable u liar
is the lady in the background ur date or did u just abduct a stranger

Enid wheezed, slapping a hand over her mouth.

Capri watched her over her soda, that tiny muscle in her jaw tightening. “She texts very… enthusiastically.”

“Yeah,” Enid admitted softly. “I think that’s just how she is.”

Another ping.

WENS:
also look
[pic: Wens on her couch, blanket over her head like a hood, watching a murder show; peace sign, tongue out, cheeks dotted with red Hot Cheeto dust]
i am thriving

Enid slapped her phone to her chest to muffle her laugh. Her cheeks hurt from smiling. She opened it again.

WENS:
another one
[pic: Wens biting a flaming-hot Cheeto like it’s a cigar while the murder show subtitles read “the body was dismembered”]
vibes

Enid’s brain short-circuited. “Why does she look like that? Why does she send these?”

“She likes your attention,” Capri said, too smoothly. “Clearly.”

Enid’s smile widened stupidly. “What should I say?”

Capri’s eyes flicked to the picture, lingered a moment too long on Wens’s messy hair and bright grin, then slid away. “Text whatever feels natural,” she said, tone mild. “She seems… expressive.”

Another ping.

WENS:
blink twice if u need rescue
blink once if ur on a wholesome date
blink three times if ur trying to seduce a woman w a burger

Enid choked again.

ENID:
stop typing so fast omg
im just hanging out
its normal

WENS:
lol u say that like u know what normal is
send another pic
no not of the burger of YOU

Enid nearly dropped the phone. “She wants another picture. Of me.”

Capri’s brow arched. “Do you want to send one?”

“I—I don’t know,” Enid whispered, heart stuttering in her chest. “I don’t want to be weird.”

“You won’t be,” Capri said quietly. “If you trust her.”

Something in the way she said it was gentle, but with a darker thread underneath, made Enid swallow hard.

Before she could decide, Wens sent another barrage.

WENS:
fine FINE ill go first
[pic: Wens sprawled sideways on the couch, hair messy, one sock on, one sock off, a plate of hot Cheetos balanced dangerously on her hip; she’s doing the worst wink imaginable]
🌶️🔥💀 do i look seductive yet? Now can you take me on
A burger date

Enid slapped her face with the napkin to stop from shrieking.

Capri looked away entirely, suddenly fascinated with her fries.

Enid leaned forward, caught between hysterics and confusion and something warm blooming under her ribs. She typed back with trembling fingers.

ENID:
pls stop ur gonna die by hot cheetos not murder

WENS:
worth it
also ur ignoring my question
is that woman ur date or nah

Enid froze. Capri stiffened almost imperceptibly.

ENID:
shes my… therapist

There was a half-second pause before the screen exploded.

WENS:
WHAT
LMFAOOOOOO
ur out eating burgers w ur therapist??
bro thats iconic behavior
pls tell her i said hi

Enid shut her phone with a sound like a dying kettle. Capri’s gaze slid toward her, unreadable.

“Everything alright?” she asked.

“Yep!” Enid squeaked. “Totally. Fine. That’s...she’s just—Wens.”

“Hm.”

The sound was so neutral it was almost sharp.

Capri looked out the window at the Mercedes, jaw set in a line so precise it could cut glass. Enid tried to gather the trash, hands fumbling, heart skipping stupidly.

That warmth inside her didn’t fade. It only grew, tangled with something else she couldn’t name.

Capri lifted her drink, took a long, slow sip, and finally said, “We should head out soon. It’s getting late.”

“Right,” Enid murmured, shoving her phone deep into her pocket, trying to smother the smile that refused to die.

Capri stood first, gathering her things with the controlled poise of someone who desperately needed air.

Enid followed, still buzzing from the neon chaos of Wens’s messages, still warm from Capri’s nearness, and painfully unaware of how the two sensations twisted together in the woman’s eyes when she wasn’t looking.

They stepped out into the night air with bellies full and fingers still smelling faintly of salt and grease. The parking lot buzzed with the electric hum of street lamps and the occasional whine of a passing car. Capri hit the unlock button. The Mercedes chirped.

Two guys were heading toward the entrance as they were heading out. Construction boots, cheap cologne, that loose, swaggering gait of men who had just enough beer and just enough insecurity to be dangerous.

One of them glanced up as Capri walked past, his eyes tracking down, then up, slow. His mouth curled.

“Nice ass,” he muttered, just loud enough to be heard.

Capri stopped dead.

“Excuse me?” she said, voice razor-flat.

The man blinked, feigning innocence. “I said nice car,” he replied with a smirk, nodding toward the Mercedes. “Relax.”

“That is not what you said,” Capri replied, and there was nothing therapeutic about her tone now. “What you said was an unsolicited, objectifying comment directed at a stranger’s body. It’s not a compliment, it’s a boundary violation wrapped in entitlement.”

His friend shifted, already uneasy. “Dude, let’s just—”

“Nah, I’m just talking,” the first guy said, stepping closer, puffing himself up like a cornered rooster. “Lady can’t take a compliment, that’s her problem.”

Capri didn’t move back. She didn’t move at all. “Your ‘compliment’ is irrelevant,” she said. “Her comfort is not. The ratio is simple.”

Enid moved before the heat in her chest could become something sharper. She slipped between them, placing herself just slightly in front of Capri, not touching but close enough that she could feel the woman’s steady presence at her back. “Hey,” she said, holding her hands up, palms open. “Just… chill out, man. Watch what you say next time and go enjoy your burger. It’s not that deep.”

The man snorted. “Or what, bitch?”

There was a beat. The air tightened.

[Put Him In His Place/Walk Away]
De-escalate — walk away.
Put him down — teach him a lesson.

Time Remaining: ▓▓▓▓▓░░░░

Enid’s jaw flexed. Her knuckles itched. The Wolf purred low in her ribs, smelling adrenaline and anger and cheap beer.

She stepped back instead, lips pressing into a thin line, and opened the driver's door for Capri. “Get in,” she said quietly. “It’s not worth it.”

Capri hesitated for half a second, then slid into the seat with a restrained exhale. “Enid—”

“It’s fine,” Enid said. “I got it.”

She turned to close the door.

Behind her, the man laughed. “Figures,” he said, voice raised now, ugly and mean. “Bunch of fucking lesbians. Should’ve known. Always so uptight ‘cause they don’t get dick down right.”

The words hit like a slap, not because they were true but because of how easily they scraped through old shame and fresh confusion. Enid froze, hand on the door.

Something slow and dark uncoiled in her.

She let the door click shut gently, turned back, and smiled a small, humorless thing that didn’t reach her eyes. “You talk a lot for someone whose entire personality is ‘owns three tank tops,’” she said. “Maybe shut the fuck up.”

He sneered. “Or what?”

“Or you walk away,” she said, voice going low and dangerous, “with all your teeth.”

His friend grabbed his arm. “Come on, man, she’s not worth—”

The guy shrugged him off and stepped into Enid’s space, chest bumping hers. He smelled like cheap beer, old sweat, and something sour underneath it. “You don’t scare me,” he said. “Little dyke—”

Enid saw his hand move before he shoved her. Force shoved her back into the car door, the impact ringing up her spine. Her palms slapped metal. For a heartbeat, everything narrowed to a point: his smirk, the flare of pain across her shoulders, the Wolf surging eagerly against its chains.

The choice evaporated.

She drove her fist into his face.

The punch cracked across his nose with a sick, wet sound, knuckles protesting as bone gave way. Pain lanced up her hand; his head snapped sideways, body spinning with the force as he stumbled and went down hard on the asphalt. Blood poured instantly, bright and shocking under the parking lot lights, spattering his shirt, his hand, the ground.

His friend shouted. “Jesus—”

The guy roared, a wordless sound, and lunged back up, face already swelling beneath the red, eyes wild. He tackled her, driving her down. Her shoulder hit pavement; her skull bounced once; her breath exploded out of her lungs. Fists came down in sloppy, furious, one glancing off her temple, another catching the side of her jaw. Pain flared bright-white.

People at the door were shouting now. Somewhere, a worker said, “Call the cops!” and someone else said, “I’m not getting involved.”

The Wolf howled, delighted.

Enid’s body moved on instinct before the hunger could take the wheel. She snapped her hand up, jamming her thumb sharp and hard into the corner of his eye socket—not enough to blind, but enough to make him scream. He jerked back, hands flying to his face. She rolled with the opening, driving her knee up between them, then bringing her elbow around in a tight arc that smashed into his cheek.

He grunted, tried to swing again; she swayed out of the way, then hammered two short, brutal punches into his ribs. The second one landed just right as she felt something in there give and he folded, wheezing.

His friend grabbed her from behind, arms hooking under hers, yanking her back. “Okay! Okay, stop, just— Jesus, go, go, just— GO!”

Enid hissed, chest heaving, fist still cocked and ready. The Wolf snarled, furious at being interrupted. Blood trickled from her split knuckles, warm and sticky. The man on the ground spat red onto the pavement, cursing, clutching his side.

“Enid!” Capri’s voice cut through the noise like a snapped wire.

She turned.

Capri was out of the car now, door hanging open behind her, eyes wide but not with fear. With a sharp, assessing focus that pinned Enid in place. She took one look at the scene with a man bleeding, friend restraining Enid, gawkers with phones out already and made the call.

“Enough,” she said, stepping forward and catching Enid’s wrist as the friend let go. Her grip was firm, not gentle. “We’re leaving. Now.”

The friend shoved his buddy toward the entrance. “Just go inside, man, fuck—”

“You’re crazy,” the guy wheezed at Enid, one hand smeared with blood, the other still pressed to his ribs. “Fucking psycho—”

“File a complaint,” Capri snapped, already pulling Enid backward. “Tell them you assaulted a licensed therapist and a registered hero-in-training outside of an establishment with cameras. See how that goes for you.”

That shut him up.

They piled back into the Mercedes in a clatter of breath and adrenaline, the slam of Enid’s door too loud in the quiet lot. Her chest heaved, lungs burning, heart still trying to punch through her ribs. Her knuckles throbbed in time with it as it was raw, split, blood smeared over her fingers and dried in rust-colored crescents under her nails. The smell of copper mixed with old burger grease and asphalt, sticking to the back of her throat like something she couldn’t quite swallow. Capri’s hands on the wheel were steady when she turned the key, but the force of it betrayed her mood; the engine came alive with a low growl. As they pulled out, Enid caught a glance of herself in the side mirror: hair wild, cheek blooming with the first deep flush of a bruise where his fist had glanced off bone, eyes too bright, too sharp. The Wolf behind them, watching from their reflection, pacing in circles inside her chest, pleased and furious at the same time.

For a few blocks, neither of them spoke. The city smeared by in bands of sodium-orange and darkness. The tires hummed over seams in the road. Enid’s breath rasped in and out, shallow at first, then deeper as the immediate danger bled off and left the jittery aftermath. Her hand pulsed with every heartbeat, the cuts singing, skin stretched and burning. The Wolf pushed against its cage with every spasm of pain, not quite words, just raw satisfaction at the remembered impact of knuckles against jaw, the wet crunch, the brief give of cartilage. She flexed her fingers and hissed, and that only made it worse.

Capri’s jaw was clenched so tight Enid could see the muscle jump. Her profile, usually calm and controlled, was hard-edged now, all clipped lines and compressed fury. When she finally spoke, her tone wasn’t gentle; it cracked across the quiet like a whip. “What,” she said, “the hell was that?”

Enid flinched, then bristled immediately, anger still riding high enough to meet anger. “He shoved me,” she snapped, staring out the window so she didn’t have to see Capri’s eyes. “And he disrespected you. I’m not just going to stand there while some asshole talks about you like that.”

“You’re on probation, Enid.” Capri’s voice rose, then dropped into a low, controlled register that was somehow worse. “You are a Phoenix Program asset under review by the city, by SDN, by a dozen oversight committees that would love an excuse to shut you down and lock that Amulet away forever. You cannot afford this kind of outburst because some drunk idiot runs his mouth.”

“He didn’t just run his mouth,” Enid growled, the sound coming from somewhere too deep in her chest. Her breathing picked up again, shoulders tight. “He touched me. He put his hands on me. He called us—” She cut herself off, jaw grinding as the words replayed, filthy and hot, in the back of her skull. Her wolf-edges sharpened. “I’m not letting that slide. Not after everything I’ve done to not hit people when they deserve it.”

“That is not your call to make,” Capri fired back. “You keep looking for excuses to justify the part of you that wants to bite.” Her grip tightened on the wheel as they slowed for a light. “You are not the Wolf. You do not get to hide behind it every time you decide to enjoy the hit.”

Enid’s head snapped toward her. “I didn’t enjoy it,” she said. Lie. The memory of his head snapping sideways, the spray of spit and blood, the way his body sagged for a second under her fist—there was a sick, dark satisfaction curling around that. A little voice at the back of her mind whispered: he deserved worse. “I just… reacted.”

The light flipped red. The car rolled to a stop. The silence between them buzzed like live wire. Capri stared straight ahead for a long second, chest moving in slow, measured breaths. When she finally turned her head, the anger in her eyes hadn’t gone, but something else sat with it now—worry, heavy and unmistakable.

“Give me your hand,” she said.

Enid jerked her wounded hand closer to her chest. “I’m fine.”

“That wasn’t a request.” Capri’s tone flattened into something sharp and unmistakably authoritative, the kind that bypassed argument and went straight to instinct. “Hand. Now.”

Something old and conditioned in Enid froze, muscle memory of orders barked in training yards, of guards yelling in corridors, of Mandy’s voice when things got bad. The Wolf surged at the command, offended, then stilled, confused, as Enid’s body betrayed it and obeyed. She extended her fist, fingers half-curled, the skin around the split knuckles already swelling.

Capri took it carefully, but not delicately as her grip was firm enough that Enid couldn’t pull away without making it obvious. She turned it palm-up, thumb pressing lightly along the bruised ridge of bone, her eyes tracking the damage with clinical focus. Blood had dried in uneven ridges along the cuts, dark against Enid’s skin. In the glow of the dashboard, her hand looked like something out of a crime scene photo: scraped, mottled, ugly. Capri’s fingers were cool, steady, moving with the practiced economy of someone who’d patched people up before. “It’s not broken,” she murmured. “You’ll bruise. You may have opened the skin over the third metacarpal deeper than it looks; you need to clean it properly when you get home. Soap. Water. Disinfectant. No soaking it in whatever creative prison remedy you still remember.”

Enid huffed, half laugh, half snarl. “I feel like punching a wall,” she muttered, staring at their joined hands. “Or his face again. Or both.”

“And that,” Capri said tightly, “is what concerns me.” Her thumb ghosted around, not over, the split skin, avoiding the worst of the pain with infuriating gentleness. “You can’t live at a ten all the time and expect to stay in control. You are not back in Bedford Hills. You’re not in the yard. You can’t solve every insult with blood.”

“He called you—” The words snagged. The Wolf growled. Enid looked up, eyes hot, throat tight. “I don’t like people talking about you like that. Like we’re, like you’re something they get to touch or comment on. He was looking at you like....” A flash of memory: the man’s eyes raking Capri’s body, the smug twist of his mouth, the way his gaze had slid from her to Enid like they were two parts of the same joke. “I saw red. I’m not proud of it, but I’m not sorry I hit him.”

Capri’s mouth thinned. “You should be sorry,” she said, but the words came out more tired than sharp. Her eyes flicked to Enid’s face and taking in the flush, the swelling at her cheek, the bright, Wolf-tinged anger. “Not for defending me. For jeopardizing you. You keep saying you want a life outside of violence, Enid. This is not how you get it.”

The light turned green. Capri let go of her hand, slower than she had to, fingers trailing away with a residual warmth that made Enid’s stomach dip. She shifted back to the wheel and pulled through the intersection, jaw clenched again. “We will talk about this in session,” she added, the professional edge sliding back into place like a blade returning to its sheath. “After I’ve had time to calm down and you’ve had time to remember that you don’t get to throw away your second chance every time someone pisses you off in a parking lot.”

Enid sank back against the leather seat, cradling her throbbing hand against her chest. Her pulse still skittered, adrenaline stubbornly refusing to let go, but Capri’s anger slipped under her skin in a different way, sharp with disappointment, heavy with care. She’d had people scream at her before. Guards. Cops. Warden. Even Mandy, when things got bad. This was different. This felt like she’d dragged something fragile out of Capri and stomped on it with muddy boots.

“I… I didn’t mean to screw it up,” she said finally, voice small, eyes on the passing lights. “Tonight. The museum. The food. All of it. I know you went out of your way to do this and I just…” Her fingers flexed, pain flaring. “Ruin things.”

Capri’s grip on the wheel eased a fraction. “You didn’t ruin it,” she said quietly. “You showed me what happens when you’re triggered, outside of a controlled environment. It’s not… ideal. But it’s real. I’d rather see it with my own eyes than read about it in a report after you’re already in cuffs again.”

That image punched the air out of Enid’s lungs. She stared harder out the window, blinking fast. “I’m not going back,” she said, raw. “I can’t. I won’t.”

“Then you need to learn,” Capri replied. “How to pause between the shove and the punch. How to walk away even when every part of you is screaming for the hit.” She glanced over, eyes softer now, anger cooling into something like resolve. “And you need to let people protect you sometimes. I can handle men like that, believe it or not, without you dislocating their jaw.”

Enid snorted weakly. “He’ll be fine.”

“I’m not worried about him,” Capri said. “I’m worried about you.”

The rest of the drive passed in a charged, wary quiet. The city thinned into quieter blocks, the lights lower, the traffic lighter. Enid’s pulse slowed, but the echo of the fight thrummed in her muscles. Every jolt of the car made her knuckles complain. The Wolf had retreated from the forefront, but it still sat coiled in her ribs, tail flicking, ears pricked, interested in this new side of Capri as much as Enid was.

When they pulled up in front of Enid’s building, Capri killed the engine but didn’t immediately reach for the door. She sat for a second, hands on the wheel, staring at the windshield as if weighing some internal decision. Then she unbuckled her seat belt. “I’m walking you up,” she said, leaving no room for argument.

“You don’t have to—”

“I’m not asking,” she cut in calmly, already climbing out.

Enid swallowed whatever protest she had and followed. The night air hit her in a cool rush, clearing her head a little. The building’s lobby lights buzzed overhead, understated and dim. They crossed the tiled floor in step, Capri’s heels clicking softly, Enid’s sneakers squeaking faintly, the echo of the evening trailing behind them like smoke. In the elevator, the confined space made everything feel louder as the hum of the machinery, the faint scent of Capri’s citrus perfume layered now with sweat and burger grease, the rasp of Enid’s breathing still a little too quick.

Capri studied the floor numbers as they climbed, jaw working. “You know,” she said eventually, tone quieter but no less firm, “if anyone had recorded that little scene, it would be on my desk tomorrow. And Mandy’s. And Robert’s. And possibly a few city attorneys’. You’re lucky the only cameras there were security-grade and pointed at the register.”

“Yeah,” Enid muttered. “Lucky.” Shame prickled under her skin, hot and itchy. “I’ll… do better.”

“I expect you to,” Capri replied. “Because if you don’t, someone is going to decide you’re a liability rather than a person worth saving. And I am not going to watch them make that decision with you standing in chains again.” Her eyes flicked toward Enid, the words harsher than her expression. “I am angry with you, Enid. Very. But that doesn’t mean I stop fighting for you. It means I expect more from you.”

The elevator dinged. The doors slid open. Enid stepped out first, throat tight, hand throbbing in its makeshift cradle against her chest. Capri fell into step beside her as they walked down the hallway, the thin carpet swallowing their footsteps. Enid’s door loomed too soon, its chipped paint and cheap lock suddenly feeling like the most intimate barrier in the world.

Capri stopped in front of it with her, turning to face her fully. Up close, the lines at the corners of her eyes were deeper, the set of her mouth still edged with leftover adrenaline. She reached out, palm up. “Let me see it again,” she said.

Enid hesitated, then slowly extended her hand. The cuts had clotted more, the skin around them puffier, mottled in ugly purples starting to bloom. Capri took her wrist, turned it gently, inspecting her handiwork from the parking lot with a small, grim nod. “Straight to the bathroom,” she ordered. “Wash with warm water and soap. Rinse longer than you think you need to. Then disinfectant. Bandage if you have it. Ice for the swelling. Text Mandy if it gets worse. Text me if you start seeing red streaks or if the pain spikes.”

“Like… infection red, or Wolf red?” Enid tried to joke, voice thin.

“Either,” Capri said dryly. “Preferably neither.”

Enid’s mouth twitched. She looked up, searching Capri’s face. The anger was still there, but under it, anchored in it, was something else: concern that had teeth, that refused to let go. It did something ugly and tender in Enid’s chest. “I’m… sorry,” she said again, quieter. “For putting you in that spot. For making you feel unsafe.”

Capri sighed softly, some of the tension in her shoulders finally leaking out. “I didn’t feel unsafe,” she admitted. “I felt… furious. At them. At you. At a world that keeps teaching you that violence is the first language anyone understands.” Her hand squeezed Enid’s wrist, not enough to hurt, just enough to be felt. “You are not a weapon, Enid. You are a person holding one. And you have to decide, every time, whether you pick it up.”

Enid swallowed past the lump in her throat. Her free hand twitched toward Capri’s arm, then stalled, hovering awkwardly between them. “I’ll… try harder,” she managed. “I promise.”

Capri’s gaze softened, just a fraction. “Good,” she said. She released Enid’s hand slowly, as though reluctant to break the contact entirely, then stepped back, putting a sliver of professional distance between them. “Now go inside. Clean up. Rest. And if you feel that… pull again....the urge to punch walls or strangers just remember tonight. Remember what’s at stake.”

Enid nodded, fingers closing around the cool metal of her key. She turned to the door, then hesitated, glancing back over her shoulder. “Goodnight,” she said, the word coming out more loaded than she meant it to.

Capri held her gaze for a long second, something complicated moving behind her eyes. “Goodnight, Enid,” she replied softly. “Text me when your hand is cleaned, so I know you listened.”

Enid huffed a breath that wanted to be a laugh. “Yes, ma’am,” she said, half teasing, half not.

Capri shook her head, the ghost of a smile tugging at her mouth despite herself. Then she turned and walked back down the hall, heels whispering against the carpet, spine straight, shoulders squared, already armoring herself back up in professionalism as the distance widened.

Enid watched her until she rounded the corner and disappeared.

Only then did she unlock the door with clumsy fingers, step into the dim quiet of her apartment, and close it gently behind her leaning her forehead against the wood for a beat, feeling the echo of Capri’s anger and care humming in her bones right alongside the Wolf’s restless prowl.

---

By the next afternoon, the world had reset itself into a brittle, chilly kind of calm. A low marine-layer breeze curled through the SDN courtyard, teasing the edges of Enid’s hoodie, carrying with it the smell of overwatered grass and distant highway exhaust. She sat at one of the outdoor metal tables—slatted, cold even through her hero uniform, the plastic bowl of instant ramen steaming between her hands. The broth fogged the air in thin, spiraling ribbons, catching the sunlight in the same way cigarette smoke did.

Across from her, in a posture that suggested she owned the table, the building, and the entire flow of the conversation, sat Wens.

She had her knees pulled up in the chair, sneakers braced against the metal edge, straw poking from her iced coffee like a weapon. Her hair was in that messy half-bun, half-witch’s-tangle thing she did that somehow made her look like she’d rolled out of a coven’s slumber party. Her eyeliner was crooked. Her hoodie was three sizes too big. Her expression was razor-focused horror.

“Okay,” Wens said, leaning forward, hands braced on the table like she was about to interrogate a suspect. “Say that one more time so I know I didn’t hallucinate it. He said what to Capri?”

Enid slurped a noodle, buying time. Her knuckles were wrapped in gauze and cheap stuff, from her bathroom kit. Capri’s instructions had been followed to the letter. The bruising hadn’t gone down.

“He, uh… made a comment about her ass,” Enid muttered.

“That wasn’t a comment.” Wens slapped the table so loud that a group of interns flinched at a nearby bench. “That was harassment with extra syllables. Man, fuck that guy. People like that are straight-up sewer rats with cheese for dicks.”

Enid’s mouth twitched. “Yeah, well… Capri didn’t quite see it that way.”

“Oh my God.” Wens flopped back in her chair with the dramatics of a stabbed actress. “Of course she didn’t. She’s like… professional. And polite. And she talks with her hands like she’s in court testifying against God Himself. She’s built different. But me?” She jabbed her thumb toward her own chest. “I’m not built polite. I’m built violent.”

Enid snorted broth out her nose. “Yeah, I noticed.”

“No, because listen—if I had been there? I would’ve stomped that guy’s nuts so flat he’d pee in braille.” She slammed her heel down in demonstration, earning a startled yelp from an intern who should’ve minded his business. “thirty years old blading man and talking like a middle-schooler? Nah. Jail. Straight to jail in a body bag.”

Enid ducked her head, laughing into a mouthful of noodles. The laughter didn’t feel forced. Not today. Not next to Wens, who had the uncanny talent of making everything feel a little less sharp-edged, even when she was enthusiastically advocating genital-based violence.

Wens leaned in again, eyeing Enid’s bandaged knuckles with a kind of reverent fury. “And you,” she added, voice softening. “Holy shit. You’re okay, right? I mean, emotionally, physically, spiritually—did Capri fix your aura with like, crystals and sage?”

Enid shrugged, blowing on her noodles. “Yeah. I’m fine. Just… sore.”

Wens hummed, skeptically. “Well, you look badass as hell. Like a cryptid that escaped from jail to avenge a librarian.”

“…Thanks?”

“Anytime.”

A gust of wind ruffled the paper napkin between them, lifting it briefly before it settled back against the edge of the ramen bowl. Somewhere above, a gull screeched like it was auditioning for a horror movie. The courtyard hummed with quiet lunchtime chatter, but around their table, the world felt small and warm like the only important thing was the girl with wild eyeliner talking too loudly about fictional nut-stomping.

Wens took a sip of her drink, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “So… Capri, huh?”

Enid stiffened. “What about her?”

“I mean, I’ve seen her around,” Wens said casually, twirling her straw. “Ran into her in the main hall the other day. She always looks like she knows everyone’s sins. You sure you’re okay after last night? She didn’t, like, lecture you to death?”

“A little,” Enid admitted. “Okay—a lot.”

Wens groaned loudly. “Therapists. They’re all like that. ‘Let’s unpack your trauma.’ No, Brenda, let me unpack your fashion choices and get the judgemental stick out your ass.”

Enid choked on a noodle. “Her name’s not Brenda.”

“Doesn’t matter. She feels like a Brenda when she’s mad.”

Enid laughed again, big, unguarded, genuine. The kind that crept up her throat before she could tamp it down. The Wolf stirred curiously, watchful but didn’t growl.

Wens’s expression gentled, losing the dramatic edges. “I’m glad you’re okay,” she said quietly, sincerity slipping between the jokes like a blade hidden in a sleeve. “Seriously. I don’t like thinking about you getting hurt out there. Even if you do punch like you’re trying to remodel someone’s bones.”

Enid looked at her ramen so Wens wouldn’t see the warmth that hit her, sudden and embarrassing. “Yeah,” she said softly. “I’m glad too.”

The courtyard breeze shifted, cool and salty. A fallen leaf scraped across the concrete. Wens stretched her legs out, boots knocking against Enid’s under the table not an accident, not exactly on purpose, just… contact.

“You know,” Wens said, leaning her chin into her hand, “if stuff ever gets… too much with Capri or the Z-Team or whatever? You can talk to me. I’m only like… forty percent bullshit. Sixty on a bad day.”

Enid huffed a small laugh. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Good.” Wens grinned with a wide, crooked, bright smile. “Now eat your noodles before they get sad and soggy.”

Enid did.

She wasn’t fine.

But she wasn’t alone either.

The breeze threaded through her hair.

Wens sipped her coffee, boots still brushing Enid’s under the table.

And the chapter closed on that small, quiet truth,
a fragile calm settling around them, warm as broth, sharp as steel.

Chapter Text

The house clung to the cliff like it had been stapled there by money and arrogance. Glass walls, sharp angles, a balcony that jutted out over the black churn of the Pacific like a dare. From the beach below, it was just another smear of light along the Torrance coastline. Up close, it was a temple to excess.

Inside, the night was loud and sticky. Bass rattled the floorboards, all heavy synth and trap remixes, the kind of music that made conversation optional. Strobe lights pulsed along the high ceiling, washing everything in alternating bands of violet and ice-blue. Champagne flutes, whiskey tumblers, and half-finished lines of coke glinted on every available surface. The air was a cocktail of sweat, perfume, salt, and cigar smoke. Bodies moved everywhere on the glossy white dance floor, in the shadowed corners, in the chrome-and-marble kitchen currently doubling as a bar. Strippers and escorts in glittering lingerie and heels that looked like weapons ground on the laps of men in thousand-dollar shirts and women in evening gowns that could’ve bought a car, cash. Hundred-dollar bills fluttered like confetti, tucked into straps and garters and the deep Vs of dresses. Out by the infinity pool, a handful of guests had stopped pretending to care about clothes at all and with skin gleaming under string lights, ice cubes clinking against glass as people swam and laughed and did things that would never be posted on social media but would definitely be whispered about later.

On the far side of the main room, away from the shrieks and the grinding and the coked-up karaoke, business was being done.

They’d cleared a space near the floor-to-ceiling windows, where you could look out and see nothing but dark ocean and the distant blink of cargo ships. A low glass table sat between two facing sofas, leather so soft it looked like it sighed when people sat down. On one side: Daniel Romano. Late forties, thick through the middle, salt-and-pepper hair swept back with too much product. He wore a cream linen shirt half-unbuttoned, gold chains resting in sweaty chest hair, fat fingers glittering with rings. A cigar smoldered between his fingers, ash lengthening dangerously as he dragged it out, as if wasting expensive imported tobacco made his dick bigger. On the other side: three representatives of the Red Ring. They didn’t look like they belonged in a place with EDM and pool sex; they looked like they’d stepped out of an industrial nightmare and onto a magazine cover by mistake.

At the center of them sat Psychic.
She lounged like she was bored and faintly disgusted, one leg crossed over the other, fishnet tights disappearing into heavy black boots. A black mesh top clung to a lean, wiry torso, tattoos coiling half-hidden under the fabric. Her hair was ink-dark, shaved close on one side and falling over the other in a razor-straight curtain. Her eyeliner was a crime scene. At the back of her neck, just below the hairline, metal gleamed where no metal should be with red-and-black plates fused into the skin, smooth and segmented like armor. Lines of dim orange light pulsed gently between the seams, beating in time with her breathing. It wasn’t just a cosmetic implant; it hummed faintly, a vibration you could feel more than hear, the air around it subtly warped, like heat over asphalt.

Two sleek black cases rested open on the table in front of them. Inside, nestled in custom foam, lay the future. Or at least, one particularly nasty version of it. One case held a forearm that was metal and carbon fiber, the crude shape of bone hidden beneath articulated plates. Micro-servos lined the wrist. The fingertips looked like normal flesh until you checked the underside and saw the retractable talon tips, gleaming a deep, ugly steel. Beside it lay a spinal array: a curved strip of blackened alloy with contact pads like vertebrae, meant to fuse along the spine, feeding directly into the nervous system. The second case held what looked like an exoskeletal leg brace, but leaner, meaner as it was built for speed, not stability. Next to that: a palm-sized disc of matte red metal, deceptively simple. Everyone in the room knew what it was: a neural booster. Plug it into the right port on the right person and you got telekinetic abilities upgraded from “parlor trick” to “mass casualty event.”

“These are prototypes,” Psychic said, voice low and precise, the faintest Southern lilt clipped by years of swallowing her vowels. She tapped one black-painted nail against the neural disc. “Spinal interface, limb reinforcement, neural enhancement. All integrated, modular, customizable. You plug one of your little muscle-heads into this system, and suddenly he’s not just swinging fists as he’s ripping doors off hinges with a thought. Or throwing your competition through a wall from forty feet away.”

Daniel puffed his cigar, eyes gleaming as he leaned in. “And they don’t… explode? Or melt their brains? I’ve seen black-market mods before. You’re selling me military-grade, not junk from some back-alley butcher, yeah?”

Psychic’s mouth curled, not quite into a smile. “The Red Ring doesn’t do junk. Shroud doesn’t tolerate failure. The interface self-regulates. If your people follow the calibration protocol, the worst side effect is a nosebleed. Ignore the protocol,” she added, tapping the disc again, “and the worst side effect is… well. Brains out the ears. But to be fair, those clients are usually idiots to begin with.”

Her men chuckled quietly. Daniel’s crew did not. One of them, thick neck, faded gang tattoos, polo shirt stretched over a steroid chest shifted uneasily, thumb brushing the grip of his concealed gun.

Daniel grunted, taking another long drag. “My clients like certainty. They’re not paying for maybe.”

“You’re not paying for maybe,” Psychic countered. “You’re paying for Shroud. You know his reputation. You know what happens to people who waste his time or ours.” She tilted her head, the light catching the metal at her nape, the glow brightening a notch. “We deliver exactly what we say. You mess with the tech, that’s on you. Our contract terms are very clear.”

He thought about that, exhaling smoke toward the ceiling. In the distance, someone whooped as a dancer spun around a chrome pole, glitter exploding off her like stardust. The party roared and writhed. Here, at this table, everything was very still.

Something buzzed. A phone. One of Daniel’s goons stepped up, nervous, holding the device out like it might bite. “Uh, boss? You got a call.”

Daniel didn’t even look at him. “Can’t you see I’m fucking busy?”

“Sorry, sir. It’s your wife.”

Psychic’s eyes flicked up, amused. “Domestic bliss calls.”

Daniel rolled his eyes, muttered something foul in Spanish, and grabbed the phone, waving a hand. “Give me a second.”

Psychic forced a polite smile and leaned back, crossing her arms. Her men shifted, exchanging small glances with Daniel’s guys and criminals recognizing other predators and filing away information.

Daniel lifted the phone to his ear. “What the hell do you want, Miranda? I don’t have time to hear you bitch and—”

“Hello, Daniel,” a voice purred.
Not his wife’s.

The sound slipped through the speaker like cold smoke: feminine, amused, disturbingly calm. All the softness of silk with the promise of a blade under it.

Daniel’s back went rigid. “Who is this?”

“Don’t be alarmed,” the voice said. “And don’t be obvious. If you so much as look around that room, I’ll carve Miss Miranda’s tits even more than they’ve already been carved for you, hm?”

There was a wet little sob in the background. Miranda. Pleading, muffled, terrified.

Every muscle in Daniel’s jaw clenched. A pulse jumped in his temple. “You touch her and—”

“And you’ll do what?” the voice asked, delighted. “Send more men who don’t know how to check shadows? Come now, Daniel. You’re smarter than that. You’re sitting on a cliff doing business with the Red Ring, buying toys you barely understand. Why does a drug peddler, a little local kingpin like you, need neural enhancements? Protection? Or are they for the bigger fish who breathe down your neck?”

Psychic’s gaze sharpened. She watched his face, saw the color drain out of it, the sheen of sweat suddenly not from the heat. “Everything alright?” she asked mildly. “We have a schedule.”

The voice continued in his ear, soft and relentless. “Maybe we can exchange contacts, you and I. I’ve been chasing ghosts in your circles. Shroud. Ever hear that name whispered in the wrong rooms? I have. And now here you are, playing courier with his people.”

Daniel stared straight ahead, lips pressed together, cigar hanging useless from his hand. For a heartbeat, he nearly answered. Nearly asked who the hell she was. Nearly demanded proof she had Miranda. But he’d survived this long by recognizing traps. And this, this felt like a steel trap lined with sharp fucking teeth.

He forced his mouth into a smile. To Psychic, to the men at the table, to the party at large, he looked like a man listening to his wife complain about some rich-people problem.

“Miranda, baby,” he said, voice smooth, “you’ll have to sleep alone tonight. I’m busy. Goodnight.”

“Don’t you fucking hang—” the voice snapped, sharp and suddenly furious....

He killed the call. Handed the phone back to his man with fingers that wanted to shake and absolutely would not be allowed to. “Send a few guys to the house,” he murmured. “Make her feel safe. Extra security. Now.”

The goon swallowed hard and nodded, backing away. Daniel clapped his hands once, too loud, the sound crackling over the music. “Now,” he said, turning that smile back on Psychic. “Where were we?”

He never got an answer.
The lights went out.

One moment: strobe, neon, warmth. The next: everything was carved clean out of the world. The music choked off mid-beat. The giant flatscreen TVs died. The string lights over the pool went black. For half a breath there was stunned silence, like the entire house had been punched in the chest.

Then, human nature reasserted itself.
“What the fuck?” someone shouted.
A woman screamed, sharp and high.

Phones lit up in pockets and hands like fireflies, flashlights flicking on in jagged cones. Somewhere in the dark, a glass shattered, then another. The pool glowed faintly from underwater lights flickering back to their emergency setting, turning the nude bathers into pale, shifting ghosts.

“Generators,” Daniel snapped, pushing up from the couch. His cigar ember was the brightest thing on his side of the room. “Get the backup on. Now.”

Psychic’s hand snapped the nearest case shut with a decisive click. She pulled it into her lap, fingers flexing near the implant at her neck. The glow under her skin brightened, faint sparks licking along the seams. Her men tensed, one reaching subtly for a concealed weapon, the other scanning the dark.

On the lower level, in a utility corridor half-hidden behind a service door, Daniel’s men hustled toward the generator room, swearing as they tripped over unseen steps. One of them managed to get his phone light up long enough to see the metal door, the thick backup cabling snaking along the wall. The generator itself sat in its own alcove, hulking and silent.

“What the hell, man, this thing was just serviced last week,” one grumbled, jogging forward. The cables looked wrong as they slack where they should’ve been taut.

He swung the door open.

The first thing he saw was the cable cleanly severed, as if a giant had taken a single bite. The second thing he saw was the shape in the corner, too tall, too still. A silhouette where no one should be.

“Hey—who the fu—”
The shadow moved.

Something flashed in the dark, silver catching the weak phone light for a fraction of a heartbeat. The knife punched up under his jaw in a precise, practiced arc, severing artery and voice in one smooth motion. His phone spun out of his hand, clattering across the floor, its light skewing sideways to catch the spray of blood as it painted the cinderblock wall.

His friend barely had time to yell.

“Shit—!”

The shape was already behind him with footsteps silent in a way that didn’t make sense. A gloved hand slammed over his mouth, wrenching his head back. Cold steel slid across his throat, quick and sure, so clean the pain lagged behind reality. Hot wetness spilled down his chest as his knees buckled. The last thing he saw was the phone’s screen, his own reflected face haloed in red.

The Shade moved on.

Upstairs, screams were starting to multiply. People stumbled, cursing, shoving toward the exits that didn’t quite exist up here on the cliff as the doors still there, sure, but the pathways down were narrow and unforgiving. Somewhere, a DJ tried to restart the music from a battery-powered speaker and got booed for his trouble.

Near the balcony, one of Daniel’s security men was squinting out into the dark, hand on his gun, trying to peer down toward the generator area. He saw a light flicker, then vanish. “Yo!” he shouted. “Everything good down there?” No answer. The hairs on the back of his neck rose.

He never saw the Shade slip out from under the staircase behind him.

Weightless, it flowed up the wall, hugging the dark line where the ceiling met plaster, bleeding from shadow to shadow until it was directly above him. When he finally half-turned, sensing something, it dropped.

Boots hit his shoulders. An arm looped his throat, wrenching his head back. The knife punched straight down, burying itself to the hilt in the soft triangle where neck met collarbone. His body spasmed, hands clawing at air. Blood bubbled up, wet and choking. The Shade rode him down, twisting the blade free before gravity finished the job, letting him crumple in a boneless heap against the glass.

A nearby Instagram-model type turned just in time to see a black shape melt backward into the darkness between two support beams. She blinked, drunk and high and very sure she’d imagined it until the emergency floodlights tripped.

Solar backups, stored all day in panels built into the upper balcony railings, finally kicked the relays.

With a heavy clunk and a brief hum, harsh white spotlights exploded to life around the exterior of the house, blasting the pool, patio, and part of the living room in unsparing brilliance.
For the first time, people saw it.

Tall. Long-limbed. Swathed in matte black from throat to boots, as if light itself refused to cling. A long coat cut the body into severe lines, hood up, mask gleaming a white plastic, smooth and featureless except for darkened eye hollows and a carved, expressionless mouth. In one gloved hand, the hunting knife shone slick and red. Blood streaked the forearm, dripping onto the pristine deck in fat, obscene drops.

For a heartbeat, the party froze. Music still off. Mouths open. No one breathed.

Then someone screamed.

The sound snapped whatever thin thread of composure was left. Chaos erupted. People bolted in every direction, toward the house, away from it, toward the cliff, away from the cliff. Somebody slipped on a smear of blood and went down hard, sending his drink flying. A woman in a sequined dress shrieked as her heel snapped, grabbing at another guest and dragging them both into the pool. Phones were out everywhere now, shaking, lenses capturing frame after blurry frame of the figure already moving.

The Shade or Ghostface, to the crime blogs that whispered about them, didn’t run. It glided. In the harsh light, you could see the economy of motion, the way she never wasted a gesture. Knife up, threatening; coat flaring with each step. The mask turned, scanning. Not random. Hunting.

Inside, near the table with the cases, Daniel swore loudly. Psychic was on her feet now, case latched, implant at her neck glowing an angry, molten orange. “This you?” she snapped at him. “Is this some fucking test?”

“Why the hell would I test you with a serial killer?” Daniel barked, sweat beading on his brow. His gaze darted to the windows just in time to see one of his guards rush the Shade with gun half-raised, shouting something about standing down. The Shade stepped inside his guard like they were dancing, knife hand a blur. Steel bit into the soft meat of his wrist; his gun went spinning. Before he could scream, it buried the blade up under his ribs and ripped sideways.

He folded around the pain, eyes wide, vomit and blood spilling in the same breath. It shoved him off the edge of the patio and he toppled, body smacking the pool surface with a dull, wrong sound.

“Fuck,” Psychic hissed, eyes narrowing. She could feel it now as something in the air, a psychic presence like a cold spot in an already freezing room. Not enhanced by tech, not the way she was. Different. Old. Dark.

“Everyone inside!” Daniel shouted, voice cracking. “Lock the doors!”

“Yeah, genius,” Psychic muttered, but her men were already moving, guns out, forming a loose perimeter around her and the cases.

On the deck, the Shade cut through the panicked crowd like a seam ripper through silk. She didn’t touch everyone and didn’t need to. A shoulder here, a shove there, one quick slice at the hamstring of a man who got brave with a champagne bottle and thought he was a hero. He went down screaming, blood pouring from the back of his leg as he crawled, leaving streaks on the polished wood. A woman who tried to film from three feet away got her phone hand slashed open; her device hit the deck, camera still recording as red droplets cascaded over the lens.

Ghostface moved on.

There was only one heartbeat it cared about. One scent of expensive cologne, cigar smoke, and fear. Daniel Romano.

He backed away from the glass doors as his security tried to slam them shut, yelling into radios that suddenly had more static than words. The Shade’s mask turned toward him, slow and deliberate, like a predator locking onto prey. The distance between them was still a good thirty feet. It didn’t matter. The way it moved, it might as well have been three.
“Shoot, fucking shoot!” Daniel shrieked.

Gunfire erupted, ragged, panicked. Bullets punched into glass, shredding the doors into a glittering curtain. Two rounds cracked into the patio floor where she’d been a second before. One hit the underside of a deck chair, splintering it. Another caught a drunk partygoer in the shoulder; he screamed, spraying blood as he spun and crashed into the buffet table.

The Shade had already slipped left, hugging the edge of the balcony, coat blending into shadow, mask flashing in and out of the spotlight glare. She ducked behind a structural pillar as a cluster of rounds ricocheted off concrete, chips of stone stinging her coat.

Then she was gone.

“Where the fuck did it—” one of the guards started.
The answer came from above.

It'd gone up, climbing the exterior like the house itself owed her a debt, fingers and boots finding cracks and ledges that weren’t meant for human use. She dropped down through the shattered frame of the upstairs balcony, landing behind the two nearest gunmen with the grace of a falling shadow.

One heard the faint scuff and started to turn. The knife opened his throat before he could finish the word “hey.” Blood sprayed across his colleague’s face, hot and sudden. The second guard recoiled, blind, firing wildly. She stepped into his blind spot, rammed the knife up through the soft underside of his chin, the point punching into his mouth. His teeth clicked on steel; his eyes rolled. She twisted and yanked it free, letting him collapse.

People were screaming everywhere now. The pool was a red-tinged mess. Someone had fallen hard enough to crack their head; unconscious bodies floated and flailed. A woman in diamond earrings hysterically slapped at a locked glass door, leaving frantic handprints. The house alarms finally started, an ugly wail rising into the night.

Downstairs, Psychic closed her eyes for a half-second, reaching out with her mind like she was unfurling invisible fingers. Panic, fear, lust, greed—human emotions spiked all around her, a storm of hot noise. Under it all, she felt something else. Cold. Focused. A sharp, cutting presence moving with predatory intent.

“Someone is walking your halls that doesn’t belong to you anymore,” she said flatly to Daniel. “You should’ve stayed on the phone.”

He didn’t hear her. He was too busy fumbling for the gun he shouldn’t have been carrying at a meeting like this, fingers clumsy with sweat. “I want this fucker dead!” he shouted. “Now!”

Ghostface heard that. From the top of the stairs, perched in the dark like a gargoyle, the mask tilted.

Found you.

It descended, slow at first, then faster, boots eating the distance down the carpeted steps as people scrambled out of it's way. One hysterical guest tried to block her with a decorative vase; it sidestepped, shoved him into the railing, and kept going.

By the time she crossed into the main room, the line between party and battlefield was gone. Bodies lay where they’d fallen drunk, bleeding, dead, it was hard to tell. Glass crunched under her boots. One of Daniel’s men took a shot at it from behind a toppled bar cart; it slid behind a marble column, feeling the bullet punch the stone inches from it's shoulder. A second later, it slipped out, low and fast, knife flashing. He screamed as the killer carved his forearm open from wrist to elbow; the gun went flying. Stepping on his throat as it passed. He made a wet, choking noise and stopped moving.
The path cleared like it was being peeled open just for them. At the far end of the room, framed by the massive window of black ocean beyond, stood Daniel, flanked by two remaining guards and Psychic’s watchful, narrowed eyes.

“Stay the fuck back!” one of his men shouted, firing a warning shot that took out a chandelier bulb. Glass rained down in slow motion, catching the light as it fell. The Shade didn’t slow. They seemed almost to trickle forward, slipping from one patch of shadow to the next, knife held loose and easy.

A terrified stripper stumbled into her path, mascara running, heels in one hand, clutching a wad of cash in the other. For a microsecond, Ghostface paused. The mask turned. The girl froze, eyes huge. The knife twitched, not toward her, past her. Ghostface’s free hand pushed her gently, firmly, out of the way.

Then she was moving again.

One of Daniel’s guards broke. “Fuck this,” he muttered, and rushed her. Bad decision. It slid under his first wild swing, came up inside his reach, and drove the knife into his gut in three quick, surgical thrusts: left, right, up. He gasped, eyes bulging, trying to grab her shoulders. It stepped aside, letting him topple. His hands left streaks of red on her coat.
The last guard raised his gun with both hands, aiming right between the eye holes of the mask. Ghostface stopped.

The house seemed to hold its breath.

For a heartbeat, no one moved. The guard’s finger whitened on the trigger.

Then the spotlight from the pool deck, one of the big ones facing the water swiveled, over-corrected by some panicked idiot trying to point it at the intruder. The beam cut across the glass, flaring straight into the guard’s eyes..

He flinched. Just a blink, a flinch, a fractional hitch.
It was enough.

It crossed the space between them like the floor had tilted her way. The knife knocked the barrel aside as she slammed into him, blade carving a deep trench across his forearm. He howled, gun going off, rounds punching harmlessly into the ceiling. She pivoted, twisted his wounded arm behind his back, slammed his face into the edge of the glass table hard enough to spiderweb it with crimson fractures. His nose shattered. Teeth scattered like chips of porcelain.

Then she dropped him.

And there was Daniel.

No more men between them. Just him, the Red Ring contingent, and ten yards of blood-slick floor.

He pointed his gun, both hands shaking. “You don’t know who you’re fucking with,” he snarled. “You kill me, and they’ll bury you in so many pieces—”

The mask tilted, just slightly. The voice that came from behind it was the same he’d heard on the phone, distorted now by the cheap hollow of plastic but still feminine, still amused.

“You’re not nearly as important as you think you are, Daniel,” Ghostface said. “You’re not the big fish. You’re a minnow with a gold chain.”

His finger spasmed. The gunshot roared in the confined space, deafening. The bullet tore a bloody black groove across the upper arm as it twisted. They staggered, just for a heartbeat.

Then they came on.

He backed up until the glass kissed his shoulders. Behind him, the Pacific roared, black and endless. In front of him, the mask, blank and implacable, filled his whole world.

“Stay back!” he shouted, voice cracking. He fired again. The shot went wide, punching a hole in the expensive art on the wall.

Ghostface’s knife hand moved, a blur. The blade slammed down, pinning his gun hand to the ruined glass table. The weapon clattered free. He howled, blood geysering up around the hilt, splattering her mask in fine droplets.

He clawed at her coat with his free hand, breath wet and ragged. “Please,” he gasped. “Please. I can pay you. I can—”

The killer leaned in, the smooth pale oval of the mask inches from his face. On its surface, in the smears of his own blood, he saw himself: small, terrified, ridiculous. Somewhere in the room, people were still screaming, still running. Somewhere else, police sirens were starting to faintly howl.

“Your wife begged too, before i ripped her from Anus too Mouth,” Ghostface murmured, voice barely audible over the chaos. “I listened. You didn’t.”

His eyes flooded flat black with terror.

The knife came free from his hand with a wet sound. For a second, he sagged, thinking stupidly that maybe that was mercy.

Then it rammed the blade up under his ribs, angling for the heart, and shoved.

He convulsed, breath leaving him in a shocked stutter. Blood bubbled at the corner of his mouth, bright against his beard. It held him there, pinned between steel and glass, until the fight went out of him and the light behind his eyes snuffed like a candle.

Only then did it let him slide down, smearing a long red streak down the shattered window as his body crumpled at her feet.

Psychic watched all of this in sharp, curious silence, hand hovering near the metal at her neck, power coiled. She met the empty gaze of the mask across the corpse. For a moment, the Red Ring and the Ghost shared the same air. The same ruin. The same blood-slick floor. Then Ghostface stepped back into the deeper dark, coat swallowing the light, and was gone, leaving behind a dead kingpin, a ruined party, and a cliff house that would, by morning, be the newest ghost story whispered through Torrance.

---

By morning, Robert just wanted his coffee.

He came through the SDN lobby doors with a paper cup in one hand and Beef’s leash in the other, the familiar antiseptic-citrus lemon smell of the building hitting him like a reset button. Fluorescents buzzed overhead. Screens flickered quietly behind the front desk. A couple of interns in the blue polo shirts and sleepy eyes offered him a half-hearted “Morning, Mr. Robertson,” which he returned with a lazy salute from his cup. Beef trotted at his side, tiny paws tapping smartly against the polished floor, ears perked like he was already on patrol.

Over by the massive front viewing windows, Waterboy had decided a mop could double as a squeegee. He stood there in his SDN-branded tee and shorts, headband askew, dragging the soggy mop head in streaks over the glass in big, earnest arcs. The result was… abstract. A modern art piece titled Streaks of Good Intentions.

“You know,” Robert called as he passed, “we do have actual glass cleaner.”

Waterboy beamed at him, completely unoffended. “Yeah, but this way I’m multitasking! Two kinds of clean at once.”

Robert sipped his coffee. “That’s not how that works.”

Beef sneezed in agreement and tried to lick the mop. Waterboy laughed and shooed him away, leaving a fresh smear of dirty water in his wake.

Robert shook his head, amused despite himself, and headed for the elevators. The morning felt quieter than usual: no distant yelling from Z-Team yet, no Prism rehearsing in the hall, no Sonar trying to sell someone an “investment opportunity” at 6 a.m. The doors slid shut, humming as they carried him and Beef up to the second floor.

When the doors opened, the bullpen was empty with monitors dark, chairs askew, Chase’s desk abandoned except for a half-finished Sudoku and an empty coffee mug that said I’M FAST, NOT PATIENT. Robert stepped out, the echo of his own footsteps following him. He took one long inhale of the relative silence, let it out slowly.

Then he noticed Mandy’s door.

It was slightly ajar, a sliver of light cutting across the dim hallway. He glanced down at Beef. “Guard the fort,” he murmured, unclipping the leash. Beef wagged once and promptly padded over to curl up on his dog bed by Robert’s desk, where a half-chewed plush mech suit waited for him. Good enough.

Robert rolled his shoulders, took another sip of coffee, and crossed to Mandy’s office. He hesitated just a beat, knuckles hovering near the door, eyes catching the tired slant of light spilling through the gap.

[Morning Mess]
A) Crack a joke.
B) Offer your coffee.
C) Pretend you didn’t see the door and walk away.

Time Remaining: ▓▓▓▓▓▓░░░

He exhaled, chose, and knocked lightly before pushing the door open. “Knock knock,” he said. “Santa’s here and I come bearing caffeine.”

“Come in,” her voice answered, muffled and frayed around the edges.

He stepped inside and shut the door with his heel. Blonde Blazer, Mandy Sinclair to personnel files, Mandy to him was a wreck in high definition. She sat behind her desk, partially buried under a small civilization of manila folders, digital tablets, and printed reports with angry red flags stuck to them. Her domino mask sat pushed up on her forehead like a makeshift headband, dark hair escaping in curls around her temples. There were faint smudges under her eyes that no amount of highlighter could pretend were intentional. The overhead light inside her office was dimmed, the primary glow coming from her monitor—news anchor colors strobing off her cheekbones.

Robert took all of this in, then glanced down at his coffee as if consulting it. He didn’t like the answer.

He slid the cup across her desk.

She blinked at it, then at him. “What’s this?”

“An offering to the overworked demigoddess of paperwork,” he said. “Also, you look like you haven’t slept since the Carter administration. Drink it before I revoke your hero license.”

Her mouth did that thing where it tried not to smile and failed. She leaned back, took the cup, and without even testing the temperature she tipped it back. He watched, faintly horrified and weirdly impressed, as she downed the whole thing in about three gulps. Steam curled, the scent of dark roast ghosting through the air. She exhaled afterwards with a low, satisfied sound, thumping the empty cup down on the desk.

“That was,” she said, closing her eyes for a second, “the first good thing to happen to me in twenty-four hours.”

Robert stared at her, scandalized. “That was full of Hot Coffee.”

She cracked one eye open. “Yeah?”

“I hadn’t even—”

“You did a nice thing,” she said, smirking now. “Don’t ruin it by whining.”

He made a wounded noise, but the edge of it softened as he came around to her side of the desk. “What catastrophe are we triaging this morning? Please say it’s just Sonar running a Ponzi scheme in the break room again.”

“Sadly, no.” She shifted a stack of files aside and gestured at the monitor. “I was just catching up on the news before I got back to the soul-crushing joy of incident reports.”

The sound from the screen had been low, background noise. Robert reached over, tapped the volume up. A polished anchorwoman’s voice swelled into the room, bright and grave in equal measure.

“—twelve confirmed dead and at least eighteen more injured after what authorities are calling a ‘targeted, enhanced-level attack’ at a private residence on the Palos Verdes cliffs late last night. The victim, identified as alleged narcotics kingpin Daniel Romano, was found deceased at the scene along with multiple members of his security detail. Witnesses describe the assailant as a tall, possibly enhanced individual dressed in black, wearing what one partygoer called ‘a ghost-face mask and tattered robes.’”

Footage rolled, shaky cell phone video from somebody who’d thought it was all fun and games until the screaming started. The screen showed flashes of white plastic and black coat under harsh floodlights, the brief silhouette of a long knife catching the glare before the image skewed, the lens splattered with red and panic. In the background, sirens and hysterical voices overlapped into white noise.

“There are unconfirmed reports of the attacker exhibiting superhuman speed and agility,” the anchor continued, cutting back to her immaculate hair and concerned eyebrows. “Law enforcement sources, speaking on condition of anonymity, have indicated that the brutality of the scene suggests either a high-level enhanced individual or someone using illegal augmentation tech. Officials have declined to comment on whether this incident is connected to a similar unsolved violent death two nights ago at a downtown hotel. For now, the city is left stunned by what some are already calling ‘the Ghost at the Cliff House.’”

Robert’s jaw tightened as he watched. The camera panned over body bags being wheeled out past shell-shocked rich people wrapped in blankets, their mascara and foundation streaked by tears and sweat. Overlaid next: a grainy still of the mask, zoomed and paused, pulled from one of the videos. The image was blurred and almost abstract, but the suggestion was enough white, hollow eyes, a mouth rounded into an eternal, indifferent O and yet it was still unsettling.

“Damn,” he said quietly. “That’s… brutal.”

“Yeah,” Mandy murmured, eyes never leaving the screen. The reflection of flames and flashing red-blue lights danced across her pupils. “If this is the same person Enid saw at the burning tower, then what was a ghost story just became a very real problem. Two scenes, two different nights, same style. It’s starting to draw way too much attention.”

Robert exhaled slowly, hands settling on the back of her chair. “City’s already twitchy anytime someone in a mask sneezes near a crime scene. This? They’re going to be clawing at SDN’s doors to ‘do something’ by noon.”

“They already are,” she said dryly, finally dragging her gaze away from the screen to rub at her temple. “There’s a stack of emails from the Board, a bigger stack from PR, and three messages from my father I’m not emotionally stable enough to open yet.”

“Yikes,” he said. “You’ve been too stressed lately. You really need a break before you start vaporizing interns by sighing too loud.”

“I wish I could.” She flipped a file open with the resignation of someone lifting a headstone. “Because now, on top of all that, I get to file probation paperwork on your favorite wolf.”

He blinked. “Enid? What did puppy do?”

Mandy grimaced, flipping to a page with Capri’s incident write-up. “She punched a guy. Or more accurately, she beat the shit out of a guy outside some burger joint last night. She was with Capri. Capri swears it wasn’t Enid’s fault, that the guy instigated, shoved her, made some really choice comments, but still she’s on probation, Robert. Any public incident is a potential nail in this program’s coffin.”

Robert pinched the bridge of his nose. “Let me guess,” he said. “You threatened him into not pressing charges?”

She said nothing.

He looked up. She was watching him with that perfectly blank hero face that, on her, always meant I did something very not-blank. The gears in his head clicked audibly.

“Oh my God,” he said. “You did threaten him.”

“I did not threaten him,” she said primly. “I educated him. While hanging him twenty thousand feet in the air by his shoe.”

He stared.

She shrugged, leaning back, the leather of her chair creaking. “Okay, twenty stories. Semantics. Point is, I gave him a very valuable lesson about making vulgar comments to women, grabbing them, and then shoving a girl who’s doing her best not to maul him. He was very receptive.” Her eyes cooled. “And now he’s very quiet. Capri’s report backs Enid. Security cam footage backs Enid. Guy walks away with a concussion, some bruises, and a newfound respect for gravity. Could’ve been worse.”

Robert huffed out a half-laugh, half-groan. “You terrify me. And I say that as someone whose hobby used to be punching kaiju in the face for fun.”

“I don’t play when it comes to my family,” she said simply. “Enid is the only cousin I have left. That’s not negotiable. And”—she sighed—“I have already disciplined her. We got into it last night. She apologized. Lesson learned. Hopefully. Maybe. We’ll see.”

He watched her for a moment. The lines around her mouth were deeper this morning. The shoulders, normally squared and ready for battle, listed just a fraction. The Amulet embedded on her chestplate, currently pushed up on a chair behind her and looked almost accusatory, like it too wanted her to sit down for five minutes and breathe.

“Damn,” he said softly. “You really do have a lot on your plate.”

“I have a plate,” she said, “and then I have like six more plates balanced on that plate, and everything’s on fire, and Prism wants to livestream it.”

He snorted. She smiled, just barely.

[Take The Stress Away]
A) Make an excuse and let her get back to work.
B) Offer to take some paperwork off her hands.
C) Ask her out. (Friend-date. Mostly.)

Time Remaining: ▓▓▓▓▓░░░░

He glanced at the news still looping silently on the monitor—Ghostface frozen mid-step over a body bag—and then back at her, at the tired weight behind her eyes. The decision wasn’t actually that hard.

“What if,” he said slowly, “you and I went somewhere tonight? My treat. Evidence-based intervention for chronic over-responsibility.”

She arched a brow, crossing her arms in that way she did whenever she was pretending not to be amused. “Oh? Are you asking me on a date, Robertson? Bold of you to hit on your boss while she’s mainlining your coffee.”

“First,” he said, “you hit on me constantly. I’m just too professional to file an HR complaint.” Her mouth twitched; he pressed on. “Second, more like a friend outing. Very serious, very clinical. But if it makes it easier to pencil in your tragic little planner, we can call it a date. I was thinking arcade. Maybe pizza after. You, me, a skee-ball machine, and my inevitable humiliation when you smoke me at everything involving hand-eye coordination.”

She pretended to ponder this, turning her chair slightly so she could look back at the screen, at the looping image of a white mask and tattered black coat. Her reflection floated ghostly over it, a woman carved out of exhaustion and stubbornness.

“An arcade,” she repeated. “You’re courting me with neon lights, sticky floors, and greasy food. Very high-class, Mecha Man.”

“Look, you want fine dining, I can put on a tie and find a place that folds the napkins into swans,” he said. “But you’ve been carrying this branch, this program, and your cousin like Atlas with a migraine. You don’t need swans. You need to whack something with a plastic hammer and scream at rigged basketball hoops.”

She snorted, the sound honest and unguarded. It warmed the room. “You make an excellent point.”

“So that’s a yes?”

Mandy turned back to him fully now, elbows braced on her desk, chin resting on her steepled fingers. She gave him a look that was half appraisal, half challenge, the corners of her mouth softening. “Fine,” she said. “You drag me to an arcade, I’ll pretend it’s against my will. But if you so much as think about letting me win on purpose, I’m flying us both into the sun. Understood?”

“Crystal.” He grinned, something loosening in his chest. “I’ll book the funeral pyre for my pride in advance.”

“Good.” She reached for a pen, scribbling something on a sticky note and slapping it to the edge of her monitor. “Tonight, after shift. And bring that dog. He deserves a night out more than both of us.”

Robert nodded, straightened, and smoothed his shirt in an exaggeratedly formal gesture. “Yes, ma’am. I’ll inform Beef of his social engagement.”

“He’ll need a bow tie,” she said absently, already reaching for the next file. “We have standards.”

He watched her for a second longer, noting how her shoulders seemed just a hair less tight than when he’d walked in, how the news anchor’s voice, now muted again, felt farther away. The world outside was still on fire; masked killers were still turning rich men into headlines. But here, for the moment, there was coffee in an empty cup, paperwork in a manageable pile, and the promise of skee-ball.

He tapped the desk twice with his knuckles. “Hang in there, Blazer.”

She didn’t look up, but her mouth curved. “Go earn your paycheck, Robertson. And maybe tell Enid to stop punching civilians in front of therapists?”

“No promises,” he said, heading for the door. “I work with what I’ve got.”

As he stepped back into the bullpen, Beef lifted his head, tail already thumping. Robert bent to scratch behind his ears, eyes drifting for a heartbeat to the muted TV in the main room where the ghost-faced blur was still frozen mid-stride.

Somewhere out there, he thought, a different kind of hero was writing their own case file in blood.

He straightened, inhaled, and turned toward his station. The day was waiting.

---

The day thickened around him as the bullpen slowly filled, the way it always did, like someone was turning up the volume on reality one notch at a time. Phones started ringing, printers coughed to life, keys clacked, someone in Records laughed too loudly at something that probably wasn’t funny. Chase arrived in a blur of wind and hoodie, hair damp from a shower he’d clearly tried to take at Mach 3; he skidded to a stop by his own desk with a muttered, “Morning, wage slaves,” before vanishing and reappearing again with a fistful of vending machine snacks. One by one the Z-Team filtered through the outer doors toward the locker rooms and artifact wing: Punch Up with his gym bag slung over one shoulder, Flambae swearing in three languages about the coffee machine, Malevola yawning like she’d just rolled out of Hell and hadn’t enjoyed the trip. Robert kept half an eye on the time bar ticking along his HUD, half an eye on the door that led to Artifacts, waiting for one very specific walking headache.

He didn’t wait long. Enid came back out of the secured hallway in full gear, the transition from ex-con to official SDN asset still doing something to his chest every time he saw it. The suit hugged her frame in red and black, sleek lines emphasizing muscle and speed rather than curves, tactical panels tracing down her ribs and along her thighs. A matte black domino mask framed her eyes, and beneath the high collar he could see the faint, irregular pulse where the Artemis Amulet sat harnessed against her sternum, its light ghosting through the fabric in a muted blue heartbeat. Her hair was pulled back in a hasty tie that would last exactly one rooftop jump, gloves fingerless and reinforced over the knuckles, boots silent even on cheap office tile. She clipped her locker key to her belt, scanned the room like she was braced for impact, and started toward the elevators.

“Sinclair,” Robert called, pitching his voice just enough to carry, not enough to embarrass. “Got a second?”

She stilled like he’d put a hand on the back of her neck, then turned and walked over, shoulders squared in that particular way that said she was already expecting bad news. Up close he could see the faint yellowing along her cheekbone where a bruise had almost fully faded, the faint new seams of old scar tissue along her split knuckles from the night before. He gestured toward the narrow aisle beside his station, away from the general flow of bodies, and leaned back against his desk, coffee mug dangling from one hand, Beef sprawled under his chair like a furry morale support device. Enid stayed standing, weight shifting from foot to foot, hands curling and uncurling at her sides.

“So,” Robert said, keeping his tone level, conversational, like they were talking about the weather and not her probation. “Burger joints, huh.”

She winced. “Mandy told you.”

“She did.” He took a sip of coffee, watching her over the rim. “She also told me you owned your part, apologized, and agreed not to turn any more civilians into modern art unless it is literally life or death.”

Enid’s jaw flexed. “He shoved me,” she muttered. “And he—he said some pretty disgusting shit about Dr. Capri. And women. And lesbians, apparently. Which is funny because we’re not—” She cut herself off, shoulders knotting. “I know I shouldn’t have hit him. Or hit him that hard.”

Robert let the silence sit just long enough to make her squirm, then tipped his head. “You’re not wrong about the disgusting part,” he said. “Guy sounds like grade-A garbage. And I’m not going to stand here and pretend I’ve never wanted to redecorate the sidewalk with someone’s teeth.” He lifted his mug in a little mock toast. “Retired, not dead.”

That got the ghost of a smile out of her, quick and startled.

“But,” he continued, and watched her brace, “you’re not some random pissed-off stranger in a parking lot anymore. You’re wearing our colors, literally carrying a god around your neck, and you’re one bad headline away from going back to a cell. That means the rules are different. Sometimes that means walking away when every nerve in your body wants to swing. Sometimes it means letting Blonde Blazer dangle a guy two hundred feet up and handle the intimidation work.”

“She told you that part too?” Enid asked, eyes widening.

“Oh yeah. Vividly.” He shook his head. “Look, I’m not disappointed in you because you were angry. I’d be worried if you weren’t. I am concerned that you let some drunk asshole with half a brain and no dental insurance decide what kind of night you and Capri had. That’s giving him power he didn’t earn.”

Enid stared at him, throat working. The Amulet’s pulse under her suit fluttered faster, like it was listening in. “So what do you want me to do?” she asked quietly. “Next time?”

“Next time?” He ticked the points off on his fingers. “You clock the situation. You ask yourself, ‘Is someone in immediate danger of serious harm?’ If yes, you intervene—with proportional force, preferably before the cops get called. If no, you walk, or you document, or you call it in. And if some guy says ‘nice ass’ to someone you care about? You look him in the eye, remember every detail of his face, and you let me and Mandy and the system we’re trying to build handle it. You’re a woman with a weapon, Sinclair. Weapons don’t fire just because somebody pokes at the trigger.”

Her shoulders slowly eased down from around her ears. “Okay,” she murmured. “I can… try. I don’t want to screw this up. Any of this.”

“I know.” He bumped his fist gently against her armored forearm. “And for what it’s worth? Between the tower incident, the aquarium run, and not murdering any of your teammates at the party, you’re putting more W’s on the board than half the program. Don’t let one bad swing rewrite that in your head.”

Something like pride flickered across her face, quick and shy. She lifted her hand and met his fist with her own, knuckles clicking softly against his. Beef’s tail thumped in approval.

“Go have a good shift,” Robert said, straightening. “I need you at a hundred percent today. No more parking-lot side quests.”

“Yes, sir,” she said, and for once it didn’t sound resentful, just determined. She gave Beef’s ear a quick rub with her gloved fingers, then turned and headed for the elevators, the Amulet’s unseen weight riding between her shoulders like a promise and a threat.

Chase watched her go from his desk, a half-unwrapped granola bar hanging out of his mouth. Once the elevator doors slid shut, he let out a low whistle. “Girl’s got more potential than half those clowns in jumpsuits downstairs,” he said, jabbing a thumb in the vague direction of the locker room. “She’s the only one who’s actually trending upward on your little progress charts. The rest of them are, like, chaotic neutral at best.”

“Doesn’t mean I’m giving up on the others,” Robert replied, sliding into his chair and waking his monitors. Dispatch dashboards bloomed across the screens, lines of incoming minor calls already queueing. “Phoenix Program wasn’t supposed to be ‘Enid plus background noise.’”

“Yeah, yeah,” Chase said, waving a hand. “Saint Robert of Lost Causes. I’m just saying, if budget cuts come down, I know who I’m betting on to survive the Hunger Games.”

“Funny you should mention cuts. Suprised fucking Casper still works here, asthmatic asf,” Robert started—

“What the fuck you say about me, Shrimp Face?”

Invisigal materialized three feet away, appearing with a gasp of re-taken air mid-step, her inhaler already halfway to her mouth. She wore her magenta jacket half-zipped over her suit, hair piled messily on top of her head, mascara smudged just enough to look intentional. She glared between the two men, chest heaving slightly from the breath-hold.

Chase didn’t even flinch. “I said you’re our most ‘challenging’ case, Courtney” he said, air-quoting. “As in, pedagogically enriching. For him.” He pointed at Robert. “And for my blood pressure.”

“Oh, I’m challenging?” she snapped, taking a puff and then pointing the inhaler at him like a weapon. “This from the guy whose power is running away from his problems so hard he ages out of them in dog years?”

“At least I don’t have to literally vanish to be ignored by men,” Chase shot back.

The bullpen perked up like someone had turned on a soap opera. Flambae leaned around the cubicle wall, brows arched; Waterboy paused mid-window-mop swipe; even Sonar, perched upside-down in a chair with his headphones on, slid one earcup off to listen.

“Okay, that’s enough community bonding for one morning,” Robert cut in before Invisigal tried to strangle Chase with his own hoodie strings. “Visi, you’ve got check-ins with the techs in fifteen. Chase, the Brave Brigade alumni Facebook group called, they want their midlife crisis back.”

Invisigal clicked her tongue but peeled herself away from Chase, slinking around Robert’s desk instead. She leaned one hip against the edge, twirling the inhaler around her fingers, eyes dark with their usual mix of mischief and exhaustion. “You got plans tonight, boss man?” she asked, all fake casual, gaze flicking to his face and then away. “Or you gonna be here late screening calls and praying we don’t blow anything up?”

Robert’s mind flashed briefly to Mandy’s tired smile over the rim of his coffee cup, the way her shoulders had eased at the word arcade. “I’ve got somewhere to be,” he said simply. “For once.”

“Oooh,” Invisigal said, drawing the syllable out like taffy. “Is that what we call it now? ‘Somewhere.’ Look at you, Mr. Work-Life Balance.” She pressed the back of her hand to her forehead theatrically. “Truly, your growth inspires us all.”

Beef gave a small, unimpressed bark from under the desk.

She dropped the act with a huff and hopped fully onto the edge of his workstation, boots swinging. “Okay but before you go live your mysterious double life or whatever, I need a pep talk,” she announced. “Like, full dad mode. Father me, Robertson. I am fragile.”

“Oh Lord,” Chase muttered from his seat. “Spare us.”

Robert pinched the bridge of his nose, but he couldn’t stop the corner of his mouth from twitching. “You really want the speech?” he asked. “Because I only have the one. I just customize the swearing.”

“Hit me,” she said, jabbing a thumb at her chest. “Emotionally, not literally, or Capri’ll make you journal about it.”

He sighed, then swiveled his chair to face her fully. “Fine. Here it is. You’re good at this.” That made her blink; he pushed on. “You’re smart, your instincts are sharp, and when you actually decide to give a shit, you’re one of the best infiltrators I’ve ever seen in the field. But you treat every shift like a dare to see how close you can skate to flaming out before I yank your ass back. That’s not edgy, Visi. That’s exhausting. For you, for me, for your lungs.” He nodded at the inhaler. “So today, your goal is not to impress me by pulling off some wild stunt. Your goal is to prove you can do the job clean. Invisibility, recon, call-outs, safe exits. Boring is beautiful. Got it?”

She stared at him for a beat, chewing the inside of her cheek. Then she shrugged, softer than usual. “You really think I’m one of the best?”

“I wouldn’t waste my time if I didn’t,” he said simply.

Something in her posture uncoiled. She clicked her heels together and hopped off the desk. “Okay, Dad,” she said, the word half-mocking, half-not. “I’ll try your boring way. For, like, an hour. And if I die? I’m haunting your dating life.”

“Get in line,” he muttered.

She laughed, genuine and bright, and sauntered off toward the locker hallway, calling over her shoulder, “Later, Shrimp Face!”

Chase flipped her off without looking up from his screen. “Love you too, visibility issue!”

Robert shook his head, but as he settled back in and the dispatch interface sprang up in front of him, call queues, hero assignments, the shifting map of a city that refused to sit still and he felt something like balance slot into place. Beneath the fluorescent lights and the low buzz of a dozen damaged people trying, however messily, to be better, he lifted his headset, scratched Beef one more time, and got ready to send his little chaos engine of a team back out into a world where monsters wore masks, capes, and sometimes suits and ties.

“Z-Team dispatch online,” he murmured into the mic as the first urgent call flashed red on his screen. “Let’s get to work.”

The rest of Robert’s day passed in a whiplash blur of adrenaline and dispatch codes, the kind that made hours feel like seconds and then crash back into him like a sledgehammer the moment he sat still.

Malevola and Prism stopping a jewelry heist together had been a spectacle the city wouldn’t soon forget—Prism projecting a dozen hologram versions of herself singing a sultry pop anthem while Malevola literally snatched the life force out of the getaway driver mid-chorus. Dire-Wolf and Golem tag-teaming a lower mid-size kaiju down by the marina turned into an accidental city-sanctioned wrestling match, complete with Golem suplexing the monster into a yacht. Invisigal managed to take down three Red Ring foot soldiers downtown, materializing mid-attack only to hiss, “boo,” before drop-kicking one through a bus stop.

By the time the sun set, Robert’s head buzzed with so much noise and radio chatter, alarms, paperwork, crisis and he wasn’t sure he’d remember how to breathe once he clocked out.

But now, standing outside the arcade with Beef at his heel, bow tie straight, neon lights blinking across the pavement?

He felt something else.

Nervous.
Like genuinely, stupidly, teenage-boy-on-his-first-date nervous.

Beef noticed. The little corgi gave him a squint that said you’re embarrassing both of us, man.

Robert rubbed at his collar, exhaled, tried not to look like he was sweating through his shirt. The night air smelled like sea salt, fried food, and spilled soda. Kids ran past with tickets streaming from their pockets. Laughter erupted from inside every few seconds.

He kept checking his phone.
And his watch.
And the street.
And oh god was that her—

He saw her before she saw him.

Mandy walked up the sidewalk like she belonged to the neon. Her hair fell in loose, effortless waves. Her skin glowed golden under the streetlights. She wore a simple black athletic tank that hugged her frame, navy compression shorts that showed off every sculpted line of training, and an oversized gray hoodie slung over one shoulder like it was just another accessory waiting to fall off.

She looked strong.
Relaxed.
Ridiculously attractive.
And nothing like Blonde Blazer, this was Mandy at her most unmasked.

A timer flickered behind Robert’s eyes—

[LOOK ALIVE]
Say she looks:
A) Snatched
B) Incredible
C) A little too revealing?

Time Remaining: ▓▓▓▓▓▓▓░░

He swallowed, heartbeat in his throat.

“Option B,” he breathed—then louder—
“Mandy… you look incredible.”

Her smile softened, the kind that made her eyes crinkle slightly at the corners. “You don’t look too bad yourself, handsome.” She stepped closer and reached up to adjust his collar, fingertips brushing his throat just long enough to short-circuit something vital.

She looked down at Beef next. “And look at you! Formal attire? Is this a date, sir?” she teased the dog.

Beef barked proudly.
Robert wanted to melt into the pavement.

Mandy looped her arm through his. “Come on. I’m dying to destroy you publicly.”

---

Inside, the arcade didn’t just explode around them, it swallowed them whole. It was like stepping inside a living neon organism: the carpet was a galaxy of swirling colors, sticky in certain spots from years of spilled soda; the air shimmered with the electric buzz of machines chiming in overlapping melodies; the lights flashed in dizzying sync, sharp pinks, greens, and fluorescents bouncing off chrome cabinets. The ceiling was low, draped with messy tangles of wires and LED rope lights that pulsed like a heartbeat. Somewhere to their right, a kid let out a triumphant screech as a ticket machine spat out a waterfall of yellow stubs. The whole room smelled like melted plastic, fryer oil, and victory.

Mandy paused in the doorway for exactly half a second and just long enough to absorb it all and then her face lit up like she’d been waiting her whole life to be here. No armor, no heroic posture. Just Mandy. Glowing.

“Let’s start easy,” she said, but her grin said she was already plotting murder as she grabbed Robert’s wrist and dragged him toward the air hockey table with the chaotic glee of a woman who’d punt a child to win.

They squared off.
She smirked.
He prayed.

The puck dropped.

Robert’s reflexes, still wired from years of piloting a mech and shot out, sliding the puck straight into her goal.

Mandy’s eyebrows rose. “Oh,” she said, impressed. “A man of mystery.”

Then she slung five goals past him so fast the air moved.

Beef barked at every one like a tiny referee who had placed illegal bets on Mandy.

Robert groaned, hand over his face. “Et tu, Beef?”

The corgi barked again. Possibly yes.

Next: basketball.
Next: ego obliteration.

Mandy shot like she was born in a gym with quick wrist flick, perfect arc, whisper-soft swish. Over and over. Not even breathing hard.

“Were you secretly an Olympian?” Robert asked morosely.

“Competitive intramurals,” she answered, sinking another shot. “And trauma.”

“Sick.”

“Thank you.”

Then the night evolved into a gauntlet.

Skee-ball:
Mandy leaned into the motion, hips swinging a little too hypnotically as she rolled ball after ball into the hundred-slot. Robert completely missed his aim twice because he kept accidentally staring.

Shooting simulator:
Mandy screamed into his shoulder, clinging to his bicep whenever a zombie popped up. Robert pretended to be brave, but he flinched once and she caught it and wouldn’t stop teasing him about it.

“Sorry,” she said while reloading her plastic rifle. “I didn’t realize Mr. Mecha Man was terrified of jump-scares.”

“I’m not terrified. I’m strategically… surprised.”

“That’s adorable.”

Pinball:
Mandy leaned far over the machine, far and Robert forgot how gravity worked for several seconds. She didn’t miss the way he choked on his spit.

”Eyes on the ball, soldier,” she murmured without looking up.

He absolutely did not look at the ball.

Hammer strength machine:
Robert hit it once. The meter shot up into the “Are You Human?” range. Mandy hit it next and almost broke the machine. The lights glitched.

He stared.
She wiped her hand on her shorts and shrugged. “Farm girl strength.”

They ended up at the racing simulators next, side by side in flashing pod seats that vibrated with engine sounds. Mandy drove like she did everything else: ruthlessly, joyously, aggressively. She clipped his car three times just to hear his outraged swears. She said it was “tactical driving.” He said it was “vehicular assault.”

Beef sat in Robert’s pod, tongue out, cheering.

Robert stuck his tongue out at Mandy once, one time and she nearly veered into a digital brick wall laughing.

Then came the photobooth.

It was supposed to be a cute break.
It evolved into a war crime.

Mandy shoved Beef into Robert’s lap and posed him like a centerfold. She stuck her tongue out in one picture, rested her chin on Robert’s shoulder in the next, kissed his cheek in the third (he malfunctioned), and in the fourth leaned so close the camera blurred them into a single shadowy silhouette.

When the photo strip printed, she snatched it up, examined it, and quietly tucked it into her hoodie pocket.

Her cheeks were faintly pink.

Robert nearly combusted.

Halfway through the night, they grabbed pizza, a massive grease-loaded monstrosity that folded under its own weight and dripped cheese like lava. They sat in a booth beneath a glitchy NEON GALAXY sign that flickered pink-blue-pink-blue like a heartbeat.

Mandy talked around mouthfuls of pizza, laughing so hard she snorted when Robert told her how Sonar “accidentally” committed covering up severe tax fraud while mid-bat-transformation because he panicked and bit through a USB drive.

By then, Robert had forgotten exhaustion, forgotten stress, forgotten everything except the way she kept tapping his foot under the table. The way her knees brushed his. The way her eyes softened whenever she looked at him too long.

The way she glowed without trying.

Back on the games floor, Mandy got bolder.

At the zombie shooter, she pressed against his back, reached around him to guide his hands on the plastic gun, completely unnecessary, entirely intentional. Robert’s brain left the building.

At the coin pusher game, she reached down for tickets, bending slow, deliberately, glancing up to see if he was looking.

He was.
She smirked.
Game over.

At the dance machine, she pulled him onto the platform, hands on his hips at one point to push him into the right spot. He lost immediately because she laughed into his shoulder and he forgot how legs worked.

And the entire time...
Mandy kept brushing his hand “accidentally.”
Kept bumping into him when she won.
Kept leaning closer when she talked.
Kept looking at him like he was pulling something loose inside her without realizing.

Near midnight, she pulled out her phone again.

“Smile.”

“Huh?”

“Robert. Smile. I need proof you’re not actually a cryptid.”

She stepped in close, her temple touching his. Her hair brushed his cheek. Her breath warmed the side of his throat.

The photo snapped.

She looked at it.
Blushed.
Saved it.
Locked her phone like she’d just stolen something precious.

He saw the moment bloom in her eyes—want, warm and slow and unguarded.

And the Wolf inside him, the one he thought he’d buried with his father’s mech, stirred faintly.
Not in hunger.
In recognition.

---

1:07 A.M — MANDY’S APARTMENT

They walked the few blocks to her apartment with that strange, floating silence that comes after a night too good to process. The streets were mostly empty, washed in sodium-orange glow, the scent of the ocean drifting inland between dark buildings. Every time Robert glanced at Mandy beside him in her hoodie thrown over her tank top, hair messy from arcade wind, cheeks still faintly flushed, his chest warmed in a way he hadn’t felt in years. Not in a battlefield. Not behind a mech dashboard. Just… here. With her.

Her high-rise towered ahead, sleek glass catching the moon. When she unlocked the door, Beef waddled inside immediately, did one heroic spin on the plush rug like a victory lap, and collapsed with a grunt that could've won an Oscar.

Mandy snorted.
Then turned to Robert.

“I haven’t had a night like that in… god. Forever.”

“Me neither.”
And he meant that down to the marrow.

She moved toward the kitchen island, keys clattering softly as she set them down. The hoodie slipped off one shoulder completely this time, sliding down the curve of her arm, exposing skin that caught the warm apartment lights like polished bronze. She didn’t fix it. Maybe didn’t even notice. Maybe she did, deliberately.

Robert’s pulse kicked up.
Ridiculous. He could handle kaiju.
But one exposed shoulder was going to send him into a full reboot.

“You know,” she said, leaning back against the counter, arms folding beneath her chest in that casual, devastating way, “I didn’t want tonight to end.”

He swallowed. “Neither did I.”

The apartment settled around them in a soft hum of the fridge, distant city noise seeping through the glass, the faint smell of detergent and her perfume clinging to the air like citrus and something floral. Everything felt suspended, like reality had stepped back politely to give them room.

Robert cleared his throat. “I should, um… probably take the couch.”

“Probably,” she echoed quietly.

He bent to untie his boots, just something to do with his hands, something to break the tension building like a slow wave behind his ribs.

When he straightened—

She was already there.
Close enough that their breaths crossed.

Mandy looked up at him, eyes half-lidded but sharp with intent, her expression soft and warm and hungry in the way a person gets when they’ve been holding their loneliness together with duct tape and one moment of real affection finally cuts through.

“You really are something, Robert,” she said, voice low and steady. “You’re kind. Patient. And tonight… you made me forget the entire world.”

His mouth opened—maybe to thank her, maybe to deny it, maybe to confess he felt the same—

But she kissed him.

It wasn’t rushed.
It wasn’t frantic.
It was slow—testing, tasting, her hand sliding up the side of his jaw, thumb grazing his cheekbone as if memorizing it.

[Temptation]
A) Lean In
B) Lean out

Time Remaining: ▓▓▓▓░░░░░

Robert froze for a fraction of a second, shock punching through him like cold air. Then something melted, something years-old and rusted—and he kissed her back. Soft at first, careful, then deeper when she made a small, involuntary sound against his lips that hit him straight in the spine.

Her body pressed to his, warm and real. His hands found her waist almost without permission, fingers curling into the fabric of her hoodie, anchoring himself, pulling her closer. She wasn’t shy with her lips moved with purpose, with hunger tempered by restraint, as if she’d been holding this in all night and only now let herself breathe.

When she broke away, she stayed close, forehead against his, nose brushing his, breaths mingling. Her voice came out ragged, almost shy.

“Come with me.”

She didn’t tug.
Didn’t drag him.
Just held her hand out between them in open, waiting, an offering.

He took it.

She led him down the hallway, their footsteps soft on polished wood floors. The hallway was dim, lit only by the glow of the city bleeding through tall windows. Her silhouette moved ahead of him, strong, sure, beautiful in a way he’d been ignoring for too long.

She stepped into her bedroom first, pausing just beyond the threshold, turning back toward him with an expression he’d never seen on her face in all the months he’d known her in unguarded, hopeful, wanting.

He crossed the threshold.

“Stay,” she murmured, voice low and fragile in the dark, like the word meant more than a single night.

Robert stepped closer, brushing a lock of her hair behind her ear, letting his forehead rest against hers in a moment that felt like a vow.

The door eased shut behind them.

She began stripping out of her crop top and compression shorts, her movements deliberate and filled with a hunger that was impossible to ignore. As she stood before him, she revealed her body, her breasts full and firm, the curves of her hips and thighs accentuated by the dim light filtering through the window. Her skin glowed softly, and her nipples were hard, pressing against the thin fabric of her bra. She reached behind her back and unclasped it, letting it fall to the floor, exposing her breasts fully. They were perfect, round and heavy, with rosy nipples that begged to be touched.

She reached out to unbutton his black shirt, her fingers deftly working their way down his chest. She pushed the shirt off his shoulders, letting it fall to the floor, and then her hands moved to his jeans, unbuttoning them and pushing them down his legs. He stepped out of them, and she gasped softly as she saw his erection straining against his boxers. She hooked her fingers into the waistband and pulled them down, freeing his cock. It sprang out, thick and hard, resting against his stomach. She looked up at him, her eyes wide with wonder and desire, and whispered, "Robert... you... been... wow."

"What?"

"It's.....um....wow."

She wrapped her hand around his shaft, feeling its thickness and heat. It pulsed in her grip, and she could see the veins running along its length, the tip glistening with pre-cum. She leaned in, her breath hot on his skin, and took him into her mouth. Her lips stretched to accommodate his size, and she could feel him hitting the back of her throat. She pulled back slightly, his cock sliding out of her mouth, the thick head resting on her cheek, leaving a trail of saliva. She looked up at him, her eyes watering slightly, but her expression was one of pure determination and desire. She took him back into her mouth, her tongue swirling around his shaft, her hand working in tandem with her lips. Robert helped her, his hands gentle on her head as she took more of him into her mouth, his body trembling with pleasure as she continued to explore him with her mouth, her eyes locked onto his the entire time.

He gently pulled her up, his cock sliding out of her mouth with a wet pop. He grabbed her by the shoulders and pulled her to her feet, his lips crashing down on hers. He could taste himself on her, the salty tang of his pre-cum mingling with her sweetness. She moaned into his mouth, her body pressing against his, her breasts soft against his chest. He broke the kiss, his breath ragged, and looked down at her, his eyes filled with lust and desire.

He guided her to the bed, his hands roaming over her body, tracing the curves of her hips and thighs. He laid her down gently, his body covering hers as he kissed her deeply, his tongue exploring her mouth. He broke the kiss and trailed his lips down her neck, his hands cupping her breasts, his thumbs circling her nipples. She arched her back, a soft moan escaping her lips, her body responding to his touch.

He moved lower, his lips and tongue tracing a path down her stomach, his hands hooking into the waistband of her panties. He looked up at her, seeking permission, and she nodded, her eyes filled with anticipation. He pulled her panties down, revealing her pussy, smooth and shaved, her lips glistening with her arousal. He liked that she was bare, the sight of her exposed flesh making his cock throb with need. He dove in, his tongue licking her from her entrance to her clit, his hands gripping her thighs to hold her in place. She moaned, her hips bucking against his mouth, her hands fisting the sheets.

He ate her out for several minutes, his tongue and lips working her pussy, his hand stroking his own cock, the other teasing her clit. She whined, her body trembling with pleasure, her voice breathy and desperate. "I want you inside me," she pleaded, her eyes locked onto his.

He repositioned himself between her thighs, his cock poised at her entrance. He looked up at her, his voice husky with desire. "Condom?" he asked, his hand reaching for his pants, in his wallet.

She grabbed his butt cheeks, her nails digging into his flesh, and pulled him towards her. "I want to feel you," she whispered, her voice filled with need. He thrust into her, his cock sliding into her wet, tight pussy. She moaned, her body arching against his, her legs wrapping around his waist. He began to move, his hips thrusting against hers, his cock sliding in and out of her, their bodies moving in sync, their breaths mingling, their hearts pounding in unison.

Robert pounded into her, his hips moving with a primal rhythm, his cock sliding in and out of her wet pussy. She moaned, her body arching against his, her nails digging into his back. "Harder," she demanded, her voice breathy and desperate. "I want you to fuck me harder."

"Oh god, you're tight,"

He obliged, his thrusts becoming more forceful, his balls slapping against her asshole with each powerful stroke. She cried out, her body pushing back against his, her pussy clenching around him. "Yes," she hissed, her dirty talk catching him off guard but fueling his desire. "Just like that. Fuck me like you own me."

He flipped her over, positioning her on her hands and knees. He entered her from behind, his hands gripping her hips, his cock sliding into her depths. He pounded into her, his hips moving faster, his cock hitting her cervix with each thrust. She moaned, her body pushing back against his, her pussy clenching around him. "Spank me," she demanded, her voice filled with lust. "Spank me like the naughty girl I am."

He obliged, his hand coming down hard on her ass, the sound echoing in the room. She cried out, her body trembling with pleasure and pain. He spanked her again, his hand leaving a red mark on her flesh. She moaned, her body pushing back against his, her pussy clenching around him. "Yes," she hissed. "Just like that. Spank me harder."

He spanked her again, his hand coming down hard on her ass, the sound echoing in the room. She cried out, her body trembling with pleasure and pain. He leaned down, his teeth sinking into her shoulder, marking her with a hickey. She moaned, her body arching against his, her nails digging into the sheets. He sucked on her neck, his lips leaving a bruise on her flesh. She moaned, her body trembling with pleasure, her pussy clenching around him.

He pulled out, flipping her onto her back. He positioned himself between her thighs, his cock poised at her entrance. She wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him into her. He thrust into her, his cock sliding into her wet pussy. He began to move, his hips thrusting against hers, his cock sliding in and out of her. She moaned, her body arching against his, her nails digging more deeper his back, drawing blood. "Suck my breasts," she demanded, her voice filled with lust. "Mark them with your mouth."

"You're filthy,"

He obliged, his lips and tongue tracing a path down her neck, his hands cupping her breasts, his thumbs circling her nipples. He took one nipple into his mouth, his teeth grazing the sensitive flesh, his tongue swirling around the hard bud. She moaned, her body arching against his, her hands fisting the sheets. He moved to her other breast, his lips and tongue tracing a path down her chest, his hands gripping her hips. He took her other nipple into his mouth, his teeth grazing the sensitive flesh, his tongue swirling around the hard bud. 

He pulled out, his cock throbbing, his body trembling with the need to release. He positioned himself above her, his cock poised at her mouth. She opened her lips, taking him into her mouth. He thrust into her mouth, his cock sliding in and out, his body trembling with pleasure. He could feel his orgasm building, his body tensing, his cock throbbing. He pulled out, his cock erupting, his cum spraying onto her face. She moaned, her tongue licking his cum, her fingers rubbing it into her skin. She was surprisingly a nasty, naughty girl, sucking his cock clean, her eyes locked onto his, her body trembling with pleasure.

As he was panting "fuck,"

---

Light crept in before Robert’s consciousness did, thin gold spilling between parted curtains, catching dust motes in slow drift. The sheets were warm. Too warm. Soft in a way his cheap apartment bedding had never once managed. And there was a weight against him: solid, warm, breathing slowly.

His brain registered all of this before his eyes even opened.

Then he inhaled.

Lavender. Shampoo. Warm skin.
A quiet, sleepy little groan pressed right against his chest.

His eyes snapped open.

He was spooning someone.

Not just someone.

Mandy.

His arm was locked firmly around her waist, palm splayed over the soft dip of her stomach. His chin was tucked into the crook of her shoulder. Their legs were tangled under the sheets. And based on the absence of clothing, or even the suggestion of clothing....

Oh.
Oh no.
Oh God.

He froze so hard it felt like even his heartbeat stalled.

Mandy shifted at the same moment he did: a faint grumble, her hand sliding lazily over his forearm, not even awake enough yet to process anything except warmth.

Then her eyes fluttered open.

They stared at each other over her shoulder.
Messy hair. Pillow-creased cheek. Sleep-drunk blinking.

“….Morning,” she croaked.

Robert made a noise that wasn’t English. Or human.

Mandy blinked again, slowly—brain catching up, eyes tracking the position of their bodies, the lack of fabric, the arm he still had around her like he was guarding her from intruders.

Her lips parted.
Then—

She snorted.
Then laughed a low, breathy, disbelieving, absolutely delighted.

“Oh my god. We really did, didn’t we?” she said, turning slightly so she could see more of him.

Robert opened his mouth.
Nothing came out but a squeak.

A squeak.

Mandy’s grin widened. “You squeaked.”

“I—did—I didn’t squeak—this is not—this is—” His brain completely shorted out, replaying fragments of the night in flashes he did not ask for. Her mouth. Her hands. His name leaving her throat like a prayer and a cuss word at the same time—

He slapped a hand over his own face. “Oh no.”

She gently pried his hand away. “Hey. Hey.” Her voice softened with that warm, unfiltered Mandy tone he’d only started hearing last night. “Relax. I’m not freaking out. Are you freaking out?”

“Yes,” he said immediately.

She laughed again and rolled onto her back, pulling the sheet with her, stretching like she’d run a marathon and enjoyed every second. The sunlight turned her skin gold.

“Well… for what it’s worth?” she said, glancing over at him with a sleepy little smile, “I don’t regret a thing. Not a single thing.”

Robert swallowed. Hard.

His entire body felt like warm taffy, sore, satisfied, terrified, stunned.

“We shouldn’t have—”

“Robert, please. You say that like either of us tried stopping.”

He opened his mouth to argue.

She raised a brow.

He shut it again.

A beat passed.

Then Mandy’s gaze dipped under the blanket and just briefly she let out a victorious little hum.

“You know…” she said casually, “I knew you were sturdy. But I didn’t realize you were that—”

“Mandy.”

“—well-equipped.”

“Mandy.”

“—hero-class certified, even.”

“Mandy.”

She leaned in, smirking. “You’re hung, Robert.”

His soul evacuated his body.

His brain bluescreened.

His entire skeleton threatened to resign.

“Mandy—!” he hissed, mortified, burying his flaming face in both hands.

She laughed so hard she had to grab the headboard for stability.

“Stop laughing at me,” he groaned through his hands.

“I’m not laughing at you,” she corrected, wiping her eyes. “I’m laughing because I finally understand why you walk around like someone carrying the weight of the world.”

He threw a pillow at her.

She caught it one-handed without breaking eye contact.

Silence fell again, warm this time, settling like a blanket.

She scooted closer, nudged his arm gently. “Hey,” she said softly. “This doesn’t have to be weird. Not unless we make it weird.”

Robert peeked at her through his fingers.

“And for the record,” she added, leaning her head briefly on his shoulder, “last night? Was… really nice.”

He lowered his hands.

“Yeah,” he admitted quietly. “Yeah, it was.”

Mandy smiled and small, genuine, nothing like the bright confident mask she showed the world. “We can figure out the rest later.”

He nodded.

Then her stomach growled loud enough to shake the mattress.

They both stared at each other before bursting into helpless laughter.

“Okay,” she wheezed. “Shower, food, and then maybe we talk about whatever this is.”

“Yeah,” Robert said, finally letting himself smile. “Yeah, that sounds… good.”

Outside, the sun climbed higher.

Inside, the messy, warm, complicated beginning of something new cracked open between them that was quiet and promising.