Lena didn’t scare easy.

  She had broken pacts that should have been unbreakable, the kind bound in blood, bone, and the whispered promises of things that didn’t breathe. She had walked into the lion’s den of debt collectors, looked eldritch enforcers in the eye, and walked back out with her soul still her own. She had laughed in the face of damnation, flipped off the abyss, and lived to tell the tale.

  But tonight—when she looked at the thing hiding in Dante’s contract—she paled. The color drained from her face, her fingers tightening ever so slightly on the edge of the parchment. And that? That was a problem.

  The ritual was simple. Blood and intent. That was all magic ever really was, when you boiled it down. But the simplicity of it didn’t make it safe. If anything, it made it worse.

  Lena had cleared the backroom, making sure they were alone. The table between them was now marked with a sigil, drawn in ink that smelled like burnt paper and broken promises, its jagged lines humming with something half-asleep. Dante sat across from her, uneasy, watching as she pulled a thin, wickedly sharp knife from her belt.

  “You sure about this?” he asked, already knowing the answer.

  Lena gave him a flat look, one eyebrow arched. “Nope. But we’re doing it anyway.”

  She didn’t hesitate. The blade slid across her palm in a clean, practiced motion, the kind of cut that came from experience rather than recklessness. A single drop of blood welled up, bright against her skin, before falling onto the contract.

  The ink rippled.

  Not like wet parchment. Not like ordinary paper reacting to liquid. No, this was something else. Something alive. The contract shuddered, and Dante felt it—a pull, deep in his chest, like an invisible thread inside him had just been yanked.

  Lena’s lips moved in a whisper, shaping words he didn’t recognize. Old words. Dangerous ones. The sigil on the table flared to life, glowing a deep, bruised red as the blood sank into the parchment like it had been waiting for it. Like it had been hungry for it.

  And then—

  The room got colder.

  Not the usual kind of cold. Not a draft or a chill or the creeping bite of winter air. This was deeper. Older. The kind of cold that settled into your bones and made your soul feel like it was shrinking away from something unseen. The kind of cold that meant something was watching.

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  The contract twisted. The ink surged upward, rising off the page, writhing into broken, shifting symbols that pulsed with a sickly, unnatural glow. Dante’s breath caught in his throat.

  Lena’s breath hitched.

  And then—she whispered, almost too softly to hear:

  “No.”

  Lena didn’t blink. Didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Her eyes were locked on the contract like it had just whispered something in her ear—something vile, something impossible. The flickering lamplight cast long shadows across her face, but Dante didn’t need good lighting to see the tension in her jaw, the way her fingers curled slightly, like they were itching to reach for a weapon.

  The ink on the contract wasn’t settling. It kept shifting, symbols breaking apart and reforming, as if they couldn’t decide what they were supposed to be. But in the brief moments between movements, Dante saw glimpses—not words, not even magic, but something deeper. A presence. A signature that didn’t belong in this world. The longer he stared, the more he felt it press against his mind, a foreign weight, heavy and ancient, like something buried clawing its way back up.

  Lena swallowed, then, finally, finally, let out a slow breath. When she spoke, her voice was too steady, like she was keeping it that way on purpose. “No,” she repeated, quieter this time. Then, at last, she looked up at him, and Dante saw something in her expression that made his stomach drop—she wasn’t just alarmed. She was angry.

  Dante’s pulse hammered. “No, what?”

  Lena didn’t answer immediately. She just stared. Not at him, not even at the contract—but at whatever name, whatever mark had been buried in its depths, waiting to be unearthed. Her fingers trembled, just slightly, and for the first time since he’d met her, she looked like someone who wished they hadn’t found what they were looking for.

  Then, slowly, carefully, she looked up at him.

  For a moment, she didn’t say anything. Just looked at him like she was trying to figure out if he was real. Like maybe, just maybe, if she stared hard enough, she’d see something else—something wearing his face. The flickering lamplight made her expression unreadable, but the tension in her shoulders spoke volumes.

  She exhaled sharply, running a hand through her hair. “Shit,” she muttered, more to herself than to him. Then, just as quickly, she snapped back into motion—grabbing the contract, flipping it over, rubbing at the ink with her sleeve as if she could scrub away whatever truth had just surfaced. But the writing didn’t smudge. It didn’t fade. It only shifted faster, pulsing in time with the pounding in Dante’s chest.

  Lena’s fingers tightened on the parchment. When she spoke again, her voice was quieter. Flatter. Like she was bracing for impact.

  “…Dante. This contract wasn’t just altered.”

  “It was stolen.”

  His mouth went dry. Stolen? That wasn’t possible. Was it? Contracts were tied to intent, sealed with consent and consequence. Who the hell would steal a contract? More importantly—who the hell would steal one and let someone else sign it?

  He swallowed hard. “Stolen from who?”

  Lena exhaled sharply through her nose. Not quite a sigh, not quite a curse, but something in between. When she spoke, her voice was quieter than before.

  “…From someone who should be dead.”

  Before he could respond, the blood sigil on the table cracked, a jagged fracture splitting through its center. The ink burned away in an instant, curling into nothing, leaving behind only the ghost of something foul in the air.

  And in the silence that followed, Dante felt it—

  Something out there had just noticed him.