Lia didn't talk to a single soul all day. She dodged eye contact like it was a damn sport, slipping past every unsaid "hey" like it might burn. So far, she was winning.

  Maliel's words from the training grounds were still bouncing around her skull like rusty blades. She laughed at a lot of things—rules, danger, herself—but that tone in his voice? That pity? She couldn't shake it. Not because she was soft. Because he wasn't wrong.

  She was a ticking time bomb. Sometimes she even wanted to blow up.

  Late afternoon, she slipped out. No clue if she was technically allowed to, but hey—rules were always kinda subjective. The sky was wide and warm—the first real spring day where the wind didn't slice like a damn knife but felt more like a soft touch, something you almost wanted to lean into. Between the gnarled trees on the hill, sunlight flickered like it was hiding secrets. And Lia? Lia still felt like a cinderblock in the chest.

  Hands shoved into the sleeves of her black hoodie, she wandered through the woods, stepping on brittle branches that cracked under her boots like porcelain. She liked that feeling. Like something gave way beneath her. Like she left a mark—even if it was just broken silence.

  The wind rushed through the trees. For a second, she wondered what it'd be like to just... not go back. No convent. No visions. No constant scalpel-scraping feeling in her guts.

  She stopped, and leaned against some old-ass beech tree, head tilting back. A light hit her face—golden, soft. And still, she didn't feel any lighter. Just more tired.

  ———————————————————

  It wasn't until later, buried half under that stupid-thick blanket, that she broke her own damn rule.

  She pulled out her beat-up phone—Ezra once called it "emotional trauma with a charging port"—and started scrolling. Old classmates. Names that felt wrong. Faces that were never real friends but still familiar. Group selfies. College grads. Even the cliche sweetheart Wedding announcement. Two kids in pastel matching outfits.

  And her?

  A black hoodie. A cursed-ass prophecy. And the constant vibe that her life was built with the wrong damn pieces.

  She was just about to swipe away the fifth engagement pic when the door slammed open.

  "You look like a goth mole in hibernation."

  Lia yanked her headphones out and glared at Ezra, who—as always—looked like he stole that smirk from someone who deserved it. He leaned in the doorway.

  "What?" she growled.

  "Get dressed. We're heading out."

  "Wait, what? Why? Where?"

  "You're helping me earn my bread, sweetheart. You can mope when you're dead."

  He strutted in, yanked her closet open like it was his, and started rifling through her clothes. Lia sat up, completely thrown off.

  "What the hell are you doing?"

  "Outfit check. You're the hot bait to reel in the bad guys. So we need something that screams 'danger but make it sexy.'"

  He held up a black one-piece—one sleeve long, the other barely there, cut-outs at the waist. And ripped black skinny jeans to go with it. Lia stared at it like he was holding a glittery unicorn.

  "You've lost your damn mind."

  "Perfect," he muttered and tossed the fit onto her bed.

  "And what makes you such an expert on what the bad boys like?"

  Ezra smirked without showing teeth. "Remember, I am the bad boy. Now come on. Pretty yourself up."

  Lia rolled her eyes but stood up anyway. Reluctantly. But for the first time in days, her chest didn't feel like a concrete wall. Maybe she wasn't ready for fun. But a little chaos? That sounded doable.

  ———————————————————

  Outside, the sun was pretty much gone, but the air was still warm. That kind of night that made you feel like winter finally shut the hell up. Ezra had on his usual black tee and that beat-up leather jacket he wore like it was fused to his skin. He moved like someone who'd rather get punched than sit still.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  They walked through back alleys, toward some abandoned buildings. He kept rambling about something but she wasn't really listening. Lia hung back, but her senses were on edge. Something felt off.

  A flicker in the shadows.

  A rip in the silence.

  "You feel that too?" Ezra said quietly, all joking gone.

  Lia nodded and right then, the dark split.

  A shape lunged from the void. No real face. No real skin. Just a shifting, fog-thick mass barreling at them with the weight of steel.

  Ezra yanked her out of the way just in time. Clawed limbs slammed into the wall behind her—bricks shattered, and the ground shook. Lia hit the ground, rolled, and got back up. The shadow stood there.

  Humanoid, but wrong. The limbs are too long. A face that cracked and re-formed. And black eyes or maybe even no eyes at all.

  Ezra was already moving. In one swift twist, he pulled two slim silver blades from behind his back. An atame, with a red shimmer under the streetlight.

  "Stay behind me," he growled.

  "Screw that," Lia snapped and rushed forward.

  She dodged a swipe, kicked the thing in the knee—nothing. No reaction. No weak spot. She punched, kicked, and sliced with the tiny knife in her coat, but still nada.

  "Shit!" she shouted.

  The thing grabbed her. Ice-cold fingers clamped on her arm. She tried to wrench free, but it was strong. Too strong. Panic flared up her spine. She pounded its chest with both fists with no effect.

  Then a sudden impact. Something slammed into her side, hard, but on purpose and she went flying, skidding across the pavement.

  Ezra charged in, with zero hesitation. Twisted mid-move and drove both atame under the creature's jaw clean through the neck.

  A scream ripped through the night.

  The thing thrashed, limbs twisting unnaturally. Then a huge fire. Black flames ate it from the inside out like Ezra had triggered some irreversible meltdown.

  Its skin tore like paper in a storm. The roar sounded like a thousand windows shattering.

  And then there was nothing left. Nobody. No blood. Just ash trickling through the alley.

  Ezra stood there, chest heaving, blades still in hand. The fire vanished into the air like it was never real.

  Lia got up, spat out grit, looked at him.

  "What the fuck was that?"

  He turned, the streetlight painting his face red. He smirked, still catching his breath.

  "Demonic piece of shit that snuck in. Wasn't looking for that though."

  She looked down at the ash, then back at him. "That knife. What even was that?"

  "This?" He held it out. Plain silver. Tiny red marks on the blade, like blood veins.

  "Blessed. Old school. Usually works. Especially if you know where to stick it."

  They were both breathing heavily, still tense. Lia stood slowly. Ezra was right behind her.

  "Not bad," he muttered.

  She turned, hair falling in her face. He sheathed the blade, held out his hand, and pulled her up.

  Her whole body buzzed.

  "I almost got my ass kicked."

  "Almost is better than dead."

  "You shoved me."

  "I saved you."

  "Dick."

  Ezra smirked and teased, "Nitpicker."

  The door shut behind them. No words. Just the soft ticking of old pipes somewhere in the walls. Lia wasn't sure if it was the silence or her still-pounding heart, but her whole body buzzed like a lit fuse.

  Ezra walked ahead without a word. Just a glance over his shoulder. He ducked into the kitchen, came back with two bottles, and headed upstairs. Lia followed like a ghost. Quiet steps. She'd had a lot of practice sneaking in late, back when her dad was drinking.

  They hit the door to the rooftop just as the wind shoved through it. "It's cold," she muttered, eyeing the rickety ladder.

  Ezra looked at her for a second and then tossed her his leather jacket.

  She caught it. It smelled like smoke, leather, and a hint of aftershave or perfume. It was way too big but she still shoved her arms into it.

  They climbed in silence. The night sky stretched above them like a dark sheet—no stars, just a dull glow from the loft apartments beneath their feet, like some distant promise. Or threat.

  Ezra dropped onto the concrete, legs out, set one bottle down, popped the other, and handed it to her.

  "You're not getting my good stuff again," he muttered.

  "Wow, what a gentleman," she said, taking the bottle.

  They drank in silence. The heavy silence, like a question nobody dared ask. Until Lia couldn't help it.

  "What was that thing earlier?" Her voice was rough but steady. "That shadow thing?"

  Ezra took a sip, set the bottle down. "A Cavata. Not demon, not human. Something in-between. Created by a fallen angel. They slip into dreams, whisper temptation, twist you up. Depends what they're built for."

  "So like... demonic escort service?"

  Ezra chuckled. "Close enough."

  "How many of those freaks are around?"

  "More than you wanna know." He looked out at the woods. "Most people can't see them But they feel it. Wake up wanting to wreck their marriage or rob a damn bank. But yeah—you can smell and hear them, too."

  Lia remembered the ashy smell. That weird buzzing.

  "How long have you been here? Like... in the convent?"

  "Since day one."

  "What does that even mean?"

  "I came when they built this city. Aka 1811. Back then it was two houses, a church, a graveyard. And a whole lotta scared believers."

  "Every fallen angel got their own little pet monster?"

  He shook his head. "Only the big ones. Cherubim. Or Seraphim like Mal."

  "You like him? Were you on that level?"

  "Nah. I was an Ophanim."

  "What's that?"

  "Third row. No flames. No swords. No choir music. We were the ones with the wheels. Motion, structure, order. No drama."

  "But you still fell."

  He shrugged. "Didn't play by the rules."

  "How old are you really?"

  He glanced at her, half-grinning. "You don't ask a hot guy his age, babe."

  Ezra leaned back and shook his head dramatically.

  "And Maliel? He had one of those too?"

  "Yeah. Back in the day. When we first met."

  "When was that?"

  "You ask too many questions, little one."

  She scoffed. "You dodge too much."

  A gust of wind. Lia pulled her knees up, chin resting on them. The space between them felt electric. Quiet. Close. Like the few inches were a mile.

  She turned slightly. Just a bit. Enough to see his profile. The way his fingers twitched. The shadows on his jaw. His features were too perfect. Not human-perfect. But if she had to guess, maybe early thirties?

  "You staring at my face for a reason?" he suddenly asked, catching her eyes dead-on.

  Her fingers were close to his. Not touching. But they could have. For a second, she thought he might...

  But he didn't.

  Instead, he stood up, set the bottle down, and didn't look at her.

  "You should get some sleep. Tomorrow's gonna be a lot."

  She stood too, handed back his jacket. Their fingers brushed. Warm. A flicker—real or imagined.

  "Good night, Ezrael," she whispered.

  "Don't make me feel old," he laughed, almost shy. "Sweet dreams."

  And as she climbed back down the ladder, she could feel his eyes on her the whole way down.