Elle descended the stairs, her footsteps light and careful. The house was silent—a heavy, suffocating quiet that pressed against her skull. The others were scattered throughout the living room, sitting in separate corners as if looking at one another might trigger something unspeakable. Mal sat hunched over, rolling his broken rosary between his fingers. His lips moved in a silent prayer, but his expression had no conviction—just exhaustion.

  Ronan sat with his camera cradled in his lap like a lifeline to reality, his grip tight. But he wasn’t watching the footage. He hadn’t reviewed a single second. He was afraid of what he might see. Marigold rocked back and forth, arms wrapped tightly around herself, her eyes glassy and unfocused. She looked less like a person and more like a fragile, hollowed-out shell, barely clinging to what remained of her mind.

  Elle lowered herself into the armchair closest to the staircase, moving slowly, deliberately, as if careful not to disturb whatever fragile threads kept the room from shattering completely. The silence stretched, unbearable, until Mal finally spoke.

  “We were arrogant,” he muttered, the words barely above a whisper. “We severely underestimated this thing. Now, no one is coming for us, we can’t leave, and we are no closer to solving this case.”

  He squeezed his rosary so tight his fingers lost colour. A slight tremor ran through him. “God… can defeat this thing,” he continued, but his voice wavered. “The question is—do we have the strength to hold our faith so that he may, through us, do His bidding?”

  A choked, broken whisper cut through the room.

  “It’s still there…”

  Elle turned her head slightly. Marigold’s face was streaked with silent tears, her lips trembling.

  “Mari?” Ronan said softly, but she wasn’t listening. Her rocking became more frantic, her breathing erratic.

  “It’s still there,” she repeated, her voice rising, panic threading through her words. “I can feel it.”

  The tension in the room twisted like a knife.

  “I can still feel it. I can still feel it! I CAN STILL FUCKING FEEL IT!”

  Marigold screamed, her hands clawing at her feet, nails raking against her skin. The raw, primal anguish in her voice made the room feel smaller and suffocating.

  Mal and Ronan sprang toward her, but she thrashed wildly, her strength fueled by blind panic.

  “GET OFF ME!” she shrieked, and her fist lashed out, cracking against Ronan’s nose. Blood splattered across the floor.

  Mal reached out to press his palm against her forehead in an attempt to soothe her, but she bit down—hard—on his finger. He yanked back with a curse, clutching his hand as fresh blood welled from the wound.

  “GET IT OFF! GET IT OFF!” Marigold wailed.

  Before anyone could stop her, she grabbed the spirit box and slammed it against her foot. The device shattered instantly, as did something in her bones. The sickening crack of breaking flesh filled the air.

  Her screams were no longer just pain. They were raw, guttural despair.

  Ronan and Mal hesitated. This… wasn’t the Marigold they knew.

  “Is she possessed?” Ronan’s voice was tight, desperate, like he needed an explanation that made sense.

  Mal’s eyes flickered with something unreadable. “I’ve seen a hundred possessions in my day,” he said, shaking his head. “This isn’t that. She’s breaking. And we need to help her.”

  Elle stood from her chair, arms folded, her gaze fixed on Marigold with something that wasn’t quite concern. Something closer to curiosity.

  Ronan and Mal finally pinned Marigold down, restraining her before she could do any more damage. She thrashed against them, her screams turning hoarse, her sobs ragged and endless.

  “GET OFF ME! PLEASE, GET OFF ME!” she wailed, her body still fighting even as her strength drained.

  “Mari,” Ronan said, his voice low and strained. “We would never hurt you. We love you. We would never do anything to hurt you.”

  Marigold blinked up at him, her gaze blurry and unfocused. For a moment—a fleeting second—her humanity returned. But her body didn’t believe him. It still struggled, still recoiled.

  Elle blurted. “Knock her out.”

  Ronan’s head snapped toward her. His voice, sharp and filled with venom, cut through the room.

  “Shut the fuck up.”

  Elle arched a brow, feigning offense. “Hey, cool it, junkie…”

  Ronan froze.

  The words hit him like ice water down his spine.

  He turned slowly, his expression caught between shock and rage.

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  Elle stared back, calm, indifferent. And then, with a small, knowing smirk, she added, “I just don’t want her getting worked up while we have an active case open.”

  Ronan didn’t blink. He didn’t breathe. Because deep inside, he knew—Elle shouldn’t know that.

  At this point, Marigold was running out of strength. Her struggle became muted, and her lurching slowed. Eventually, she stared blankly at the ceiling, choking on her tears. Ronan rose to his feet while Mal placed a gentle hand on Marigold’s forehead and began reciting prayers.

  Ronan walked over to Elle, his movements slow and deliberate. When he spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper, but it carried the weight of something dark and final.

  "I don’t know… how you know, but if you ever tell anyone," he paused, and for the first time, Elle felt something close to fear. His eyes, bloodshot and hollow, locked onto hers. "I’ll send you to hell myself."

  Elle leaned in closer, her lips just shy of his ear, her breath warm against his neck. "Then I’ll wait for you… Killer."

  Ronan stiffened, his entire body going rigid. His pupils shrank, and a flicker of something unspoken passed through his gaze. Elle simply smiled, slow and knowing, and mouthed the words: I know.

  He stumbled back a step, his breathing uneven. His hands curled into fists before releasing again. Then, without another word, he turned away, walking stiffly back to his spot. He sat down heavily, burying his face in his hands, shoulders shaking with quiet, suppressed sobs.

  Mal lifted Marigold, carefully guiding her trembling form toward the couch. She sagged against the backrest, not in comfort, but in necessity—her body too weak to support itself. Mal straightened, turned to Elle, and fixed her with a hard, measured look before walking over to her.

  "What happened upstairs?" he asked, his voice level but firm.

  Elle tilted her head. "Why does it matter? You weren’t there."

  "What happened?" he pressed, his patience thinning.

  Elle exhaled sharply, irritation flickering across her features. "If you wanted to know so badly, you should’ve been there."

  Mal inhaled deeply, steadying himself. "Listen," he began, his tone softer now. "You and I have been at this a long time. I remember when you came to me, just a young woman, looking for a new start, oddly fixated on demonology, asking this poor retired exorcist for help. I couldn’t let you drown in this world alone, so I stuck around and helped you navigate it. And yeah, you’re not the easiest person to deal with, but I’ve always considered you a friend. But what happened to Mari was heinous and cruel, and you did nothing to help the situation when she needed you. So, please… tell me what happened."

  A breath—hot, damp and inhuman—ghosted against Elle’s ear. A voice, slithering and layered.

  "You can’t trust him”

  She shuddered, barely perceptible, but enough.

  "You want to know what I found?" Elle finally spoke, her voice low, almost amused.

  Mal nodded, his gaze unwavering.

  "I found out the truth. And I know you’re not the saint you want us to believe you are. Neither is ‘Boy Band’ or ‘Goldilocks’ over there." She tilted her head toward Ronan and Marigold, her smirk cold. "So, ‘friend’… keep up the act. Just know that I know who you are now, thanks to—" She caught herself, cutting off abruptly. Her stomach twisted. She let it slip.

  Mal’s eyes darkened with realization. He flicked a glance toward Ronan before turning his full attention back to Elle, his expression unreadable.

  "You’re consorting with the demon?" His voice was thick with disbelief, anger laced beneath the surface.

  Elle held his gaze, not knowing what to do. Her thoughts were a storm, violent and chaotic. Then another whisper, insidious and tempting. “Kill him. He’s going to be a problem. Give him to us.”

  Mal’s stare bore into her, unwavering. "You can’t let it," he said softly, almost pleading.

  Elle’s breath hitched. The gentleness in his voice—the sheer sincerity—cut through her like a knife. Her stress almost melted away in an instant. Almost.

  “I must speak with you… alone.” The whisper slithered into her skull, curling around her thoughts.

  "I’m scared," she admitted, her voice cracking. "I can’t fight it. I can’t."

  "Yes, you can." Mal gripped her shoulders, giving her a slight shake. "You have to."

  "No, Mal, you don’t understand…" A single tear slid down her cheek. "It knows me. It knows what I am. It knows my weaknesses. And it’s using them against me."

  Mal’s fingers tightened, his grip firm but not unkind. "Then don’t let it win."

  "SHUT UP!" The whisper—now just a voice in her head, devoid of its previous seduction—snapped through her skull like a whip.

  "Please, help me." Elle’s voice was desperate, barely more than a breath.

  Mal looked at her with gentle but unwavering eyes. "Eleanor Black. You listen to me. You are not lost. You have not been forsaken—"

  "You’ll fucking pay for this."

  "You have to fight this, I know you can."

  "You’ll croak for what you’ve done!"

  "Do not waver, and do not lose faith."

  "We’ll have you for all eternity!"

  "—And know that with God's guiding hand—"

  "We’ll break you for all eternity!"

  "—Any adversity—"

  "And you will suffer a fate worse than your dear, dead husband!"

  "—can be persevered."

  "Fuck you, Eleanor. You will be punished for this."

  Elle’s body trembled violently now, tears welling in her eyes, suspended just at the edge of falling. Her breath hitched, and for a moment, she was drowning in the war raging inside her head. She exhaled shakily. "Thank you," she whispered. It was all she could manage.

  Mal studied her carefully. Something wasn’t right.

  "Eleanor, are you okay?" he asked, concern lining his face.

  Elle hesitated, her voice quiet and brittle. "I think I need to be alone for a while. I’m so sorry, Malcolm. For what I’ve done… and for what I will fail to do."

  Mal opened his mouth to protest, but before he could speak, she turned and walked somberly toward the kitchen. "Please, just give me some time alone. I need to think."

  Mal watched her, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. "I can’t let you—"

  Elle turned back, forcing a small, disarming smile—false, but convincing. "Don’t worry, Mal," she said gently. "I’ll be right in the kitchen if I need you. I’ll be okay."

  Something in her tone reassured him, or maybe he simply wanted to believe her.

  With a reluctant nod, Mal turned back to Marigold, kneeling beside her ruined feet, marred with deep lacerations and broken bones. His hands hovered over them for a moment before he started tending to her wounds as best as he could.

  Meanwhile, Elle sat at the kitchen table, her head sinking into her hands. The weight of everything bore down on her, pressing into her bones, into her soul. A choked sob ripped from her throat.

  "I’m so sorry, Aaron," she muttered into her palms. "I’m so sorry..."

  The air in the kitchen shifted.

  "You’re gonna be."

  Elle’s head snapped up, and her breath stuttered.

  The pale woman stood in the corner of the kitchen.

  Still beautiful. Still eerily perfect. But gone was the coy, seductive gaze. Gone was the sense of servitude.

  Now, her golden eyes burned with dominance. With fury.