Consciousness came back in pieces.

  First, the warmth of the blanket pulled over me—too soft, too clean. Not the rough wool I was used to. Then the sterile scent in the air—like antiseptic and those lemon-scented cleaning sprays the priests used during deep cleans, but stronger. Artificial. The kind of smell that clung to your nose and refused to let go.

  And then, sound. A steady, rhythmic beeping. Not loud, but persistent. Steady. I focused on it, let it anchor me as I peeled my eyes open.

  White ceiling tiles. Harsh fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. No chapel ceilings, no stone walls.

  Not the monastery.

  Panic flickered—sharp and immediate—but I forced a slow breath in. Breathe. Just breathe. I sat up carefully, ribs aching with dull soreness instead of the sharp pain from before. My arms... I glanced down. The gashes and bruises that had marred my skin less than a day ago were now faint lines, barely scars. My stomach twisted. That’s not normal.

  I swung my legs over the edge of the bed, toes brushing cool linoleum. The hospital gown felt flimsy and unfamiliar against my skin. On the chair beside me lay my old clothes—what was left of them. Soot-stained, torn, and stiff with dried blood. They didn’t look like mine anymore. Like they belonged to someone else.

  The door creaked open, pulling me from my thoughts.

  Dr. Volkova stepped in, holding a small bundle in her arms—fresh clothes. Her white coat swished as she closed the door behind her, gaze soft but alert. There was a gentleness in her eyes, tempered with something else—weariness, maybe. Or caution.

  "Good afternoon, Erika," she said. Her voice was calm, smooth like before—like she was carefully threading her words to keep from startling me. "You’ve been resting for a while. How are you feeling?"

  Tired. Lost. Scared.

  I shrugged instead, not trusting my voice. Words felt heavy, stuck somewhere between my throat and chest.

  Dr. Volkova didn’t press. She set the clothes down on the edge of the bed—a pair of jeans, a soft gray hoodie, and a plain white T-shirt. "Figured you’d be more comfortable in these. They’re donated, but clean." Her lips tugged into a faint smile. "The sweatshirt might be a bit big, but it’s cozy."

  I nodded, managing a quiet, "Thank you."

  She glanced toward the door. "I’ll give you some privacy."

  As she turned, something in me—maybe the loneliness clawing at my ribs—made me speak. "Wait."

  Dr. Volkova paused, hand resting on the door handle, eyebrows lifting slightly.

  I swallowed, looking down at the clothes. The words felt small, but I forced them out. "I... appreciate it."

  Her smile softened, something warm threading through the clinical professionalism. "Of course." With that, she stepped out, the door clicking shut behind her.

  I exhaled, shoulders slumping. Alone again.

  The clothes felt foreign in my hands—soft cotton instead of rough linen. The jeans were heavier than I expected, the fabric stiff under my fingers. Changing was awkward; I fumbled with the unfamiliar fastenings but managed. The hoodie was oversized, the sleeves swallowing my hands, but it was warm. Comforting. Like armor, in its own strange way.

  Sitting back on the bed, I hugged my knees to my chest. The hospital room stretched around me—clean walls, quiet machines, an untouched tray of food on the rolling table beside me. Appetite wasn’t something I had right now. Not when my stomach twisted with dread and questions.

  What happens now? Where do I go?

  Memories flashed—fire consuming stone walls, Father Reynaud’s voice yelling for me to run, the weight of his blood on my hands. My throat tightened. Don’t cry. Not here.

  I closed my eyes and folded my hands, pressing my forehead to them. The words slipped out in a whisper, old and familiar: "Blessed Father, guide me through the shadows... give me strength where mine falters. Let me walk the path You set, even when I am lost."

  Silence answered. Not that I expected anything else.

  Minutes stretched—or maybe longer. I didn’t know. Time felt... slippery. Like everything was moving too fast while I was stuck in place.

  The door opened again. I startled, lifting my head. Dr. Volkova stood there, expression neutral but careful. "The sheriff’s here," she said quietly. "He has some questions for you."

  Of course he does.

  I nodded, slow and reluctant, and slid off the bed. My legs ached from disuse, but I pushed past it. One step at a time.

  Even if I wasn’t sure where those steps would lead.

  The hallway outside my hospital room was colder than the room itself, the kind of cold that sank into your skin and settled there. I lingered just inside the doorway, fingers clutching the strap of my bag, unsure whether to step out fully or wait. My breath fogged faintly in the cool air-conditioned corridor as voices carried from just around the corner.

  Dr. Volkova’s voice came first—gentle but edged with something sharper than I’d heard from her before. "Sheriff, with all due respect, she’s still recovering. Rushing her through legal proceedings isn’t going to help."

  A pause. The other voice—gravelly, firm—must have been Sheriff Whitaker. "Doctor, I understand you’ve taken a liking to the girl, but procedures are procedures. She’s a minor. Homeless, effectively. CPS needs to be involved."

  I shrank back, heart quickening. CPS? The words rang hollow in my head. I’d heard of them—Child Protective Services—from whispered conversations among visitors at the monastery, but I’d never imagined it would be me they’d talk about.

  "But I can provide her a place to stay, at least temporarily," Dr. Volkova insisted. Her voice dropped to a softer pitch, like she was trying to coax reason out of a stone. "She’s been through enough trauma for three lifetimes. Dragging her through bureaucratic red tape—Sheriff, you know that’s not what she needs."

  There was a beat of silence, tension stretching so tight it felt like the walls were holding their breath.

  Then Whitaker sighed. "Look, Doctor, I get it. I do. But you’re here on a temporary assignment. Maybe a month—what then? This girl needs stability, not a couch-surfing arrangement."

  "I’m not just offering a couch," Volkova snapped, frustration seeping through her carefully controlled tone. "I have resources. Connections. I can—"

  "—And when you leave, what happens?" Whitaker cut in, his voice rising just enough to make me flinch. "I’m sorry, but around here, my word is law. I can’t bend the rules for one kid, no matter how sorry I might feel."

  I peered around the corner just in time to see Dr. Volkova’s jaw tighten. Her lips pressed into a thin line, a thousand arguments flashing behind her eyes. But she said nothing more. Just... nodded stiffly. "Fine," she bit out, voice cool and clipped. Without another word, she turned on her heel and strode away, the heels of her shoes clicking sharply against the tile.

  Whitaker watched her go, his shoulders sinking a fraction once she disappeared down the corridor. He muttered something under his breath—too low for me to catch—then rubbed the back of his neck, glancing toward me. His gaze softened when our eyes met, but the weight of responsibility never left his face.

  "Come on, Ms. Raine," he said, not unkindly. "We’ve got some things to sort out."

  I nodded, swallowing hard as I stepped forward. My legs felt like they were made of lead, each step heavier than the last. Part of me wanted to run after Dr. Volkova—to ask her not to leave, to tell her that CPS sounded worse than any monster hiding in the dark—but my feet kept moving forward instead of back.

  There wasn’t really a choice, was there? Not anymore.

  The cold hit me the second the hospital doors slid shut behind us. Sharp, biting. It cut through the borrowed sweatshirt like it wasn’t even there, seeping into my skin and settling deep in my bones. I pulled the sleeves down over my hands, fingers curling into the fabric. The sky above was a brilliant blue, the kind of clear that would’ve been beautiful on any other day. But today... it just felt wrong.

  People milled about the parking lot—nurses on break, visitors chatting like the world hadn’t shattered. Their laughter echoed across the pavement, light and easy. Normal. How? How could everything look so ordinary when mine had crumbled to ash less than twenty-four hours ago?

  Sheriff Whitaker led the way toward his cruiser, boots crunching against gravel. I trailed after him, head down, eyes fixed on the shifting cracks in the pavement. One step after another. Keep moving. Don’t think.

  He stopped beside the black-and-white car, keys jingling as he unlocked it. "You ever been in a squad car before?" he asked, glancing back at me.

  I shook my head, swallowing against the dryness in my throat. "No, sir."

  "Figured," he muttered, opening the rear door for me.

  I hesitated for a heartbeat, then slid inside. The seat was cold leather, stiff and cracked at the edges. The interior smelled like coffee grounds and some kind of faint cleaner that tried—and failed—to cover up the underlying scent of sweat and something metallic. Not blood, but... close enough to make my stomach tighten.

  The door shut behind me with a solid thunk, sealing me in.

  Sheriff Whitaker circled to the back, opening the trunk to stow my bag. I watched through the window as he hefted it up, eyebrows raising. "What’ve you got in here, bricks?"

  My fingers tightened around the seatbelt strap. "Books, sir," I said quietly. "Father Reynaud... gave them to me."

  He paused for a second, like he wanted to say something else, but just shook his head and loaded it in.

  Up front, the driver’s side door creaked open. The sheriff climbed in, adjusted the seat with a grunt, and started the engine. The car rumbled to life, dashboard lights flickering as the heater kicked on. Warm air blasted through the vents, but it didn’t reach the chill knotted in my chest.

  As he pulled out of the parking lot, the police radio crackled to life—a jumble of codes and distant voices that blurred together. I stared at the dashboard, eyes drawn to the open laptop mounted on the center console. Its screen glowed with rows of text and blinking notifications, none of which made any sense.

  Curiosity nudged through the fog of exhaustion. "Is that... a type of book?" I asked, voice barely above a whisper.

  The sheriff let out a soft chuckle. "More like a digital notepad. Used for reports, dispatch info, that kind of thing. You’ll catch on."

  Will I?

  Outside the window, the town passed by in fragments—brick buildings, lampposts strung with early holiday decorations, people sipping coffee as if this was just another ordinary day. To them, it was. To me, it felt like I’d stepped into someone else’s life. Like I was watching from behind glass.

  I pressed my forehead against the window, cool against my skin, and closed my eyes. Don’t think. Just breathe.

  But breathing didn’t make the dread go away.

  The sheriff’s department smelled like old coffee, paper, and something faintly metallic that clung to the air. Every step echoed off the tiled floors, too loud in the quiet that seemed to stretch down every hallway.

  People moved around us—officers in dark uniforms, some with cups of steaming coffee, others with folders tucked under their arms. Their gazes slid toward me as I passed. Not hostile... just curious. Appraising. Like I was something to be figured out.

  I ducked my head, heat creeping up the back of my neck. Their eyes felt heavy, sticking to me like a too-warm blanket I couldn’t shake off. Don’t look. Just keep moving. I tightened my grip on the strap of my bag until my fingers ached.

  Sheriff Whitaker said nothing, his boots thudding steadily against the floor. His pace was neither hurried nor slow—just... steady. Like he’d walked this path a thousand times and knew every scuff on the walls.

  We turned down a narrower hallway. The chatter of the main office faded, replaced by the soft buzz of overhead lights. The air felt colder here, heavier. Like the walls themselves were pressing in.

  He stopped in front of a plain door—no window, just chipped paint and a dent near the bottom like someone had kicked it. Pulling a key from his belt, he unlocked it with a dull click and pushed it open.

  Inside was a small room with bare walls the color of watered-down oatmeal. A metal table sat in the center, bolted to the floor, flanked by two chairs. The overhead light flickered once before settling into a harsh, steady glow.

  I hesitated at the threshold, fingers tightening on my bag. "Is this... where I’m supposed to wait?" My voice felt small in the stale air.

  "Yeah," Whitaker said, stepping aside. "Just sit tight. Got some paperwork to handle. Won’t be long."

  Easy for you to say.

  I nodded mutely and stepped in. The door creaked shut behind me with a finality that sent a chill down my spine. I stood there for a moment, bag dangling from my shoulder, eyes flicking around the empty space. No windows. No clock. Just walls and that buzzing light above.

  Pulling out the chair farthest from the door, I sat down. The metal groaned under my weight, cold seeping through the fabric of my jeans. I set my bag on the floor beside me, resisting the urge to pull it into my lap like a shield.

  My hands found the table, fingers lacing together. The metal was cold, biting against my skin. I squeezed until my knuckles whitened, trying to focus on the pressure instead of the weight settling in my chest.

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  It’s just waiting. Waiting wasn’t new. Waiting for morning prayers, waiting for lessons, waiting for Father Reynaud’s quiet nod to signal it was safe to speak. I should’ve been good at waiting.

  But this wasn’t the quiet patience of the monastery. This was... different. Stifling.

  The hum of the overhead light buzzed against my skull, rhythmic and grating. I shifted in my chair, the scrape of metal against tile echoing louder than it should’ve. My gaze drifted upward—and caught on something small in the corner of the ceiling.

  A little black device with a blinking red light.

  I stared at it, a knot tightening in my stomach. What... is that? It wasn’t a candle. Not any light fixture I recognized. The red dot pulsed steadily, rhythmic as a heartbeat—watching.

  Why did I feel like I was being watched?

  My chest constricted. Had I done something wrong? Was this some kind of punishment? My thoughts spiraled, twisting tighter with each breath.

  Breathe.

  I lowered my head, pressing my forehead against clasped hands. The coolness of the table was grounding, but the walls still felt like they were closing in. Words slipped out in a whisper, the only ones I had left: "Please... let this end soon."

  Silence answered.

  The red light kept blinking.

  Time stretched in that tiny room. Minutes bled into something longer—something heavier. The overhead light buzzed a steady, grating hum, a rhythm that gnawed at the edges of my nerves. I’d shifted positions more times than I could count—sat, stood, paced a few steps before the claustrophobic walls pushed me back into the chair.

  My stomach churned with hunger I refused to acknowledge. The air was stale, thick with a faint chemical tang that stuck to the back of my throat. I’d lost track of how long I’d been alone—long enough for the weight of uncertainty to sink into my bones.

  Then the door creaked open.

  I flinched, heart leaping into my throat as Sheriff Whitaker stepped in. He didn’t speak. Just shut the door behind him with a heavy click that echoed in the small room. In his hand was a thick manila folder, edges creased and papers bulging inside.

  Without a word, he crossed to the table and dropped it down with a weighty thud.

  I jumped, breath catching. Calm down. Breathe.

  Sheriff Witaker pulled out a chair, metal legs screeching against the tile, and sat across from me. His face was carved from stone—eyes sharp, mouth a tight line. He opened the folder, flipping through the contents before spreading several photographs across the table between us.

  "Take a look," he said.

  I didn’t want to. Every instinct screamed at me to look away, to shut my eyes and pretend this wasn’t happening. But my gaze was drawn to them—pulled in like a moth to flame.

  The first photo was of the monastery—or what was left of it. Blackened beams jutted from ash-covered ground like skeletal fingers clawing at the sky. Stones that once formed walls lay in crumbling heaps, smoke still curling in the background.

  My chest tightened. That was home.

  Another photo—charred liquor bottles, some shattered, others melted into twisted shapes. I blinked, confusion swirling. We didn’t have that... did we?

  Then a shot of half-melted medicine bottles, labels burned beyond recognition. Another of steel canisters, unmarked and ominous, their surfaces blackened with soot.

  And the last one... I recoiled.

  Grainy images of naked figures—distorted by fire damage but unmistakably human forms—arranged in what looked like some kind of ritual circle. Or... that’s what it looked like. My mind scrambled to reconcile it, to understand.

  “That’s not—” My voice cracked, the words sticking in my throat. I shook my head, panic rising like a tide I couldn’t hold back. “No. Father Reynaud wouldn’t—he wouldn’t.”

  The sheriff let the silence sit heavy between us for a beat before speaking. "Look, Ms. Raine," he said, voice low but edged with something hard. "I’m trying to piece this together, but you and I both know something shady was going on at that place."

  I shook my head again, more forcefully this time. No. No, no, no. "It wasn’t like that!" The words tumbled out, rough and desperate. "We... we were attacked. There were these things—monsters—"

  His brow lifted, skepticism written plain across his face. "Monsters?" The word was drenched in disbelief. "That’s the best you’ve got?"

  I clenched my fists so tight my nails bit into my palms. Heat rushed to my face, a mix of frustration, fear, and anger simmering under my skin. Tears threatened to spill, blurring the damning photos on the table. I swallowed hard, forcing the words through the lump in my throat. "I know what I saw."

  The sheriff sighed, leaning back in his chair with a creak. His gaze didn’t soften. "I’ve been in law enforcement a long time, kid," he said, voice tired but unwavering. "Seen a lot of things. But ‘monsters’?" He shook his head. "Stories like that don’t hold up in court. Evidence does."

  He reached into the folder again, pulling out a fresh document and sliding it across to me. "Outside experts are coming in," he said. "Real professionals."

  My gaze dropped to the paper. Black ink on white, neat lines of text that blurred as I tried to make sense of them. And at the top, a logo with bold letters that caught my eye:

  The Black Ledger

  I frowned at the name. It meant nothing to me. Just another title in a world I didn’t understand.

  "Believe what you want, Ms. Raine," The sheriff said, gathering the photos back into the folder. "But evidence talks. Everything else..." He shrugged. "Just stories."

  Stories.

  My throat burned with unspoken words, but none of them mattered—not to him. Not to the photos. Not to the blinking red light in the corner that still pulsed its steady beat.

  No one believed me.

  And right now, that was scarier than any monster.

  Sheriff Whitaker closed the folder, his expression unreadable as he stood from the table. The scrape of his chair echoed through the room like a final judgment.

  He paused at the door, glancing back at me. "Child Protective Services will be by soon to collect you."

  The words settled like a stone in my chest, heavy and cold. Collect me. Like I was some object to be passed around, not a person. Not that I knew what to expect from CPS—just that every mention of it I’d ever overheard was laced with pity and caution.

  I let out a soft sigh and lowered my gaze to the table. My reflection flickered in the scratched surface—pale face, messy hair, eyes ringed with exhaustion. Who is that? Not the girl who had morning prayers and chores to keep her grounded. Not anymore.

  Sheriff Whitaker left with a click of the door, leaving me alone again. The room seemed smaller now. Or maybe I was just noticing how the walls pressed in tighter with every minute that passed.

  Time crawled.

  Then, the door creaked open again. I straightened, pulse quickening—part hope, part dread.

  A deputy entered, holding a wrapped sandwich in one hand and a water bottle in the other. His gaze softened when he saw me—less guarded than Whitaker’s, more human. "Brought you some lunch," he said, setting the items on the table. "Sub from Joe’s down the street. Town’s favorite."

  I nodded, offering a faint, polite smile. "Thank you."

  He hesitated, like he wanted to say more, but eventually just gave a small nod and stepped out, pulling the door shut behind him.

  The sandwich sat there, smelling faintly of bread, meat, and something tangy. My stomach twisted, hunger and nausea warring beneath my ribs. I unwrapped it slowly, took a bite more out of obligation than appetite. The flavors were stronger than I was used to, the mustard sharp enough to sting my nose. I forced down a few more bites, washing it down with the water, then gave up. The rest sat there, growing colder by the minute.

  Another hour passed. Or longer. The fluorescent light buzzed overhead, a relentless hum that gnawed at my nerves. I folded my arms on the table again, resting my head against them. Every second stretched thinner until it felt like time might snap in half.

  Then—footsteps. Slow, measured. The door opened.

  Sheriff Whitaker stepped in first, holding the door open for someone else.

  An older woman entered.

  She was... put together. That was the first thought that hit me. Hair perfectly styled, not a single strand out of place. Her dark skirt suit was crisp, heels clicking against the tile with practiced precision. Pearls at her neck, a leather handbag tucked under one arm. And her smile—wide, bright—didn’t reach her eyes.

  Something in me recoiled. Goosebumps prickled along my arms, and the fine hairs on the back of my neck stood up. Wrong. Everything about her was wrong. I glanced away, gaze dropping to the floor as unease twisted in my gut.

  "Ms. Raine," the sheriff said, gesturing between us, "this is Ms. Holloway from Child Protective Services."

  "Well hello there, dear," Holloway cooed, voice honeyed and smooth like syrup over spoiled fruit. "I’ve been so eager to meet you."

  Her words slid into the room, cloying and too-sweet. I managed a nod, throat tight.

  Sheriff Whitaker glanced at his watch. "Paperwork’ll take some time," he said, directing his words to Holloway. "I’ll leave you two to it."

  No— My heart skipped. I wanted to protest, to ask him not to go. To not leave me alone with her. But my voice stayed trapped behind clenched teeth.

  The Sheriff gave me a nod—reassuring, maybe—and walked out, the door clicking shut behind him.

  Silence stretched for a beat.

  Then Holloway moved, setting her handbag on the table with deliberate care. Her nails were painted a soft pink, polished to a shine as she pulled out a thick stack of documents. Papers clipped together, lines of dense text I couldn’t begin to process at a glance.

  "These," she said, smoothing out the pages, "are standard forms. Nothing complicated. Just signatures, sweetie. No need to read everything—it’s all boring legal talk."

  I swallowed hard, pulse quickening. My gaze flicked between her and the papers. Legal talk or not, this was about me. Shouldn’t I... know what I was signing?

  "I..." My voice faltered. Holloway’s smile stretched a fraction wider. Too wide. I bit my lip, hesitating. "I’d like to read them first, ma’am."

  Her expression didn’t crack—but something shifted. A flicker in her eyes, just for a second. "Time is precious, dear," she said, the sweetness in her tone thinning. "No need to be difficult."

  Pressure. That’s what this was. Pressure disguised as kindness. My stomach knotted tighter. Why does this feel like a trap?

  Still, I reached for the papers, fingertips trembling as I began to scan the words. Most of it blurred together—terms and sections and references I didn’t understand. But then...

  Black Ledger.

  The words stood out like a blot of ink on white linen.

  My pulse jumped. I reread the line, throat tightening as the letters swam in front of me:

  "The Black Ledger will assume full sponsorship and guardianship..."

  Guardianship. Of me.

  "What..." My voice came out a whisper. I looked up at her, confusion swirling with dread. "What does this mean?"

  Holloway leaned in, perfume wafting over—a scent too sharp, too sweet. Her smile didn’t waver. "Just a formality, darling. Sign, and we can get you somewhere safe."

  Safe. The word tasted like ash.

  Everything in me screamed no.

  But what terrified me more... was the part that wondered if I even had a choice.

  The papers blurred before me, the weight of everything pressing down like a blanket too heavy to breathe under. Black Ledger... guardianship... None of it made sense, but the twisting knot in my stomach told me I didn’t want to find out what signing them would mean.

  Ms. Holloway tapped a perfectly manicured nail against the table, the rhythmic click-click echoing in the suffocating room. Her sugary smile was back, but her eyes said hurry up. "Let’s not drag this out, dear. Sign the papers, and we can be on our way."

  Before I could answer—before I could figure out how to not panic—raised voices cut through the building’s hum. Firm. Commanding.

  Footsteps followed—quick, deliberate, echoing down the hall like a countdown I didn’t know I was waiting for.

  The door opened with a sharp click.

  Sheriff Whitaker entered, a tension in his shoulders I hadn’t noticed before. "Ms. Raine..." He glanced between me and Holloway, then back to me. "Your legal guardian and lawyer just arrived."

  Guardian? The word hit like a stone dropped into still water, sending ripples of confusion through me. My pulse spiked. "Guardian?" I repeated, voice thin. "I... I don’t—"

  Then they walked in.

  The first man was tall—over six feet—with broad shoulders and a confidence that filled the room. His charcoal suit was sharp and perfectly tailored, black tie neatly knotted, shoes polished to a mirror sheen. There wasn’t an ounce of hesitation in his stride. A thin scar cut through his right eyebrow and down to his upper cheek—old, worn like a badge rather than something to be hidden. His hazel eyes swept the room, quick and assessing, locking onto every detail like he was cataloging threats.

  He set a sleek black briefcase on the table with practiced ease, gaze unwavering.

  "I am Stephan Staroko," he announced, voice deep and precise, words landing like carefully aimed darts. "Legal counsel for Dr. H.M. Zaraki and a representative of SkyTeam Aerospace Foundation. CPS will no longer need to be involved."

  Dr. Zaraki?

  Shock shot through me, sharp and disorienting. My gaze shifted past Staroko to the man standing just behind him—and the air itself seemed to change.

  He didn’t move. He didn’t need to.

  The weight of his presence pressed down on the room like a gathering storm, thick and suffocating, making it hard to breathe. The world seemed to quiet around him—no, bend around him—as if the air itself knew better than to challenge him.

  His tailored dark grey suit fit perfectly, every line precise, yet nothing about him felt ordinary. Not the way he stood—casual, but with the unmistakable poise of someone who chose stillness over action because action wasn’t necessary. Not the way the room’s temperature seemed to drop, a chill seeping under my skin despite the warmth of the sweatshirt I wore.

  And those eyes—

  Hazel, shifting with the light like molten amber laced with something deeper, older. Something that didn’t belong to this world. Looking into them was like standing at the edge of an endless abyss—dark, vast, and impossibly ancient. His gaze didn’t just see me—it weighed me, measured me, as if peeling back every thought, every secret, until there was nowhere left to hide.

  Something deep in my bones—the oldest, most instinctual part of me—recognized that gaze. Predator. Not the kind that lunged with teeth bared, but the kind that watched. Waited. Chose when to strike because it never needed to rush.

  My stomach twisted, breath catching in my throat. This is the man Father Reynaud wanted me to find? I’d expected someone hard to locate—a distant name, a shadow in the background. Not... this. Not someone who walked into a room and owned it with nothing but silence and a glance.

  Questions tumbled through my head, clashing and tripping over each other. How did he find me so fast? Why is he here? What—

  "Effective immediately," he said, voice smooth as glass, "CPS involvement is terminated."

  His fingers worked swiftly, opening the briefcase with a soft click. Documents emerged in quick succession—clean, professional, lined up like pieces on a chessboard.

  I risked another glance at Dr. Zaraki, expecting his gaze to have moved on—but it hadn’t. He was still watching me. Not cruel. Not warm, either. Just... present. Like a force of nature wearing a human face.

  And I couldn’t shake the feeling that the storm he carried wasn’t just waiting.

  It was listening.

  And deciding.

  "This," Staroko said, sliding the first paper forward, "is a notarized letter declaring Dr. H.M. Zaraki as Ms. Raine’s designated godfather, appointed by Father Alestor Reynaud."

  My breath hitched. My gaze hooting back towards Staroko. Godfather...?

  Staroko barely paused before presenting the next document. "Father Reynaud’s will," he continued, tone matter-of-fact. "Stating his express wish that, in the event of his death, Ms. Raine’s custody be transferred to Dr. Zaraki."

  What...?

  And then the third paper—thicker, stamped with official seals. "Adoption paperwork," Staroko said. "Legally confirming that Father Reynaud adopted Ms. Raine as his daughter."

  The room spun.

  He... adopted me?

  Everything tilted—my world slipping sideways as those words burrowed into my head. Father Reynaud had adopted me. Officially. Legally. How... why didn’t he tell me?

  My mouth opened, but the words got stuck somewhere between my chest and throat. "He..." My voice cracked. "He never told me..."

  Shock twisted into something sharper—a mix of betrayal and something I didn’t know how to name. Relief? Anger? Both?

  Staroko pressed on, unbothered by my unraveling. "And finally," he said, placing two last documents on the table, "court orders from Iowa and Colorado, both acknowledging Dr. Zaraki as Ms. Raine’s godfather and legal guardian."

  Ms. Holloway, who’d been silent up until now, lunged forward, snatching one of the papers. Her eyes darted over the text, disbelief bleeding into anger. "This... this can’t be right. There must be some mistake—"

  Sheriff Whitaker stepped forward, arms crossed, face like carved stone. "Documents are genuine," he said. "One of my deputies just got off the phone with the local judge. It’s done."

  Ms. Holloway’s face contorted—any trace of that earlier smile gone. Her gaze cut to me, dark and sharp, a final parting glare meant to wound. Her lips curled into a silent sneer, and she gathered her papers with quick, jerky movements, irritation radiating off her like heat.

  But when she turned to leave, she stopped short.

  Standing directly in her path was Dr. Zaraki.

  He hadn’t moved much before—calm, composed—but now... something shifted. His posture remained relaxed, yet the air around him seemed to grow heavier, thicker. Those hazel eyes of his—already unsettling—locked onto Holloway’s with a force that made me flinch, and I wasn’t even the one being stared at.

  Holloway faltered. Her breath hitched, knuckles whitening around the folder in her grasp.

  And then... his eyes changed.

  It was subtle—blink and you’d miss it—but the hazel melted into a deep, rich amethyst. The kind of color that didn’t belong to anything human. It glowed faintly beneath the harsh fluorescent lights, casting a dangerous glint that turned his gaze into something otherworldly. Predatory.

  Holloway’s confidence shattered. Her shoulders stiffened, a tremor rippling through her frame. She swallowed hard, lips pressing into a thin line as every ounce of her earlier bravado drained away.

  Zaraki didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.

  His stare said enough. Leave.

  And don’t push your luck.

  Holloway took a step back—heels scraping awkwardly against the tile—and quickly sidestepped him. Her head dipped in a rushed, nervous nod, and without another word, she hurried out the door. The slam that followed was less defiant and more desperate, echoing through the walls like a retreating heartbeat.

  Silence settled in her absence. Heavy. Palpable.

  I let out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding, gaze darting back to Zaraki. His eyes had already shifted back to hazel—normal. Human. But that glimpse... that moment...

  What are you?

  Staroko closed the briefcase with a soft click, unbothered by the tension still thick in the air. Zaraki, meanwhile, simply turned his gaze to me, calm once more—as if he hadn’t just silently terrified a government official into submission.

  My lips parted, but nothing came out. Too many questions. Too much everything.

  "It’s alright, child," Zaraki murmured. His voice wasn’t loud. Didn’t need to be. It settled into the room like a weight—steady. Solid. Safe.

  Safe.

  The word echoed in my head, hollow and foreign.

  Was I?

  I didn’t know.

  Not anymore.