Morning came too early.

  I hadn't slept well after the church incident. My mind kept replaying the whispers, the glares, Pastor Eric's voice heavy with disappointment. By the time sunlight crept through my curtains, I felt exhausted and restless at the same time, like my thoughts had been running in circles all night.

  So instead of lying there any longer, I got dressed and went out.

  The grocery store down the street was already awake with the slow hum of morning shoppers when I stepped inside. Bright fluorescent lights washed over rows of shelves, making the polished floor shine and the colors of packaging seem almost too cheerful for how tired I felt.

  The smell of fresh bread drifted from somewhere near the bakery.

  My stomach twisted in response.

  I realized then just how hungry I was.

  To be honest, I'm hungry more often than I admit. Journalism isn't exactly a career that showers you with money, and being near the bottom of the ladder means the paycheck barely stretches far enough. Rent comes first. Bills come next. After that... food becomes something you manage carefully.

  I grabbed a small basket and walked slowly down the aisles, pretending to browse while mentally adding numbers.

  Pasta was cheap. That went in the basket.

  A jar of store-brand sauce.

  A loaf of bread on sale.

  Nothing exciting, nothing indulgent. Just things that could stretch across several meals if I made them last.

  Around me people pushed carts filled with far more than I had. A mother argued gently with her child about sugary cereal. An older couple debated which soup was better. Their quiet domestic conversations drifted through the store like soft background noise.

  Normal life.

  For a moment I almost envied how simple their morning seemed.

  I moved toward the produce section, picking up a banana and turning it over thoughtfully before dropping it into my basket. My stomach grumbled softly in protest at the slow pace of decisions.

  "I guess journalism isn't feeding you very well."

  The voice came from behind me.

  I froze.

  Then I turned.

  "Zane."

  He stood a few feet away, one hand resting on the handle of a small cart, his dark jacket half zipped against the cold outside. His expression carried that familiar mix of warmth and concern I had always associated with him.

  Zane had been part of my life for years. Not exactly family, not exactly just a friend either. Something in between that I had never quite defined.

  "What are you doing here?" I asked.

  "Shopping," he said lightly, nudging the cart forward a little. "People still eat in this city."

  Despite everything, a faint smile tugged at the corner of my mouth.

  But the moment passed quickly when I remembered the other night.

  My expression hardened.

  "You didn't defend me."

  Zane blinked slightly.

  "What?"

  "The other night," I clarified, keeping my voice low. "You were there."

  His gaze flicked briefly around the store before settling back on me.

  "I didn't think it was my place to interrupt," he said carefully.

  I let out a quiet, frustrated laugh.

  "Right. Because watching everyone glare at me was clearly the better option."

  Zane shifted his weight uncomfortably.

  "That situation was already tense," he said. "Jumping in might have made it worse."

  "Worse for who?" I asked sharply.

  A few people nearby glanced in our direction. I noticed it immediately.

  Actually... I noticed more than that.

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  A couple standing near the dairy aisle were staring openly.

  Two teenagers pushing a cart slowed down as they passed us, whispering to each other.

  And not all of them were human.

  One tall figure near the back of the aisle had the pale stillness that always marked a vampire. His gaze flicked briefly toward me before moving away again.

  The attention made my skin prickle.

  Zane noticed it too.

  His voice dropped slightly. "Maybe we shouldn't have this conversation here."

  I exhaled slowly, trying to push the frustration back down.

  "Maybe you should've said something the other night," I muttered.

  He watched me for a moment, studying my face.

  "You're upset."

  "No kidding."

  "I mean more than that."

  Of course I was.

  The article. The newsroom. The church.

  Everything felt like it had exploded in the last twenty-four hours.

  But standing in the middle of a grocery store with strangers watching wasn't exactly the place to unpack it.

  I shook my head slightly.

  "It doesn't matter," I said.

  Zane didn't look convinced.

  "People are reacting because they're scared," he said quietly. "Your article challenged something they're used to believing."

  "I wrote what he said," I replied.

  "I know."

  "And somehow that's my fault."

  Zane's eyes softened slightly.

  "You always did go straight for the biggest stories."

  I let out a tired breath.

  "Apparently that was a mistake."

  Before he could answer, someone pushed past us with a cart, the wheels squeaking loudly against the tile floor. The brief interruption broke the tension enough for me to step aside.

  "I should finish shopping," I said.

  Zane nodded slowly.

  "Yeah. Me too."

  For a moment neither of us moved.

  Then he added quietly, "For what it's worth... I didn't agree with how people treated you."

  I looked at him, trying to decide whether that helped or made things worse.

  Finally I just nodded.

  "Next time," I said, "maybe say that out loud."

  His mouth twitched slightly.

  "Fair point."

  I shifted the basket on my arm and turned toward the checkout lanes, the weight of curious stares still prickling at the back of my neck as I walked away.

  --------------------------------------

  I left the store with my small bag of groceries swinging lightly from my hand, the cold air outside hitting my face the second the automatic doors slid shut behind me. The warmth and bright lights of the store disappeared instantly, replaced by the gray chill of the late morning.

  My breath fogged faintly in front of me as I started down the sidewalk.

  The streets were busy enough for a weekday morning. Cars rolled past at a steady pace, and people moved in and out of shops with coffee cups and grocery bags, wrapped in coats against the crisp air.

  I kept walking, trying to clear my head.

  The conversation with Zane lingered longer than I wanted it to. His careful answers, the way he'd looked around before speaking, the fact that he had been there the other night and still said nothing.

  My grip tightened slightly on the grocery bag.

  Maybe I shouldn't have expected him to step in.

  Still... it would have been nice.

  I rounded the corner onto the next block, lost in my thoughts, when a familiar voice drifted through the air nearby.

  "...that situation will resolve itself. There's no reason to rush it."

  The voice was calm. Smooth.

  My steps slowed.

  A tall figure walked toward me from the opposite direction, deep in conversation with another man beside him. The second man was human, judging by the way he moved, slightly hunched against the cold and talking with quick, animated gestures.

  But the first man...

  Black hair.

  Sharp features.

  That faintly amused expression that always seemed to linger just behind his eyes.

  Xavian.

  Cazoro's brother.

  For a second I considered pretending I hadn't seen him and just continuing down the sidewalk.

  Too late.

  His gaze lifted.

  The moment his eyes landed on me, his expression brightened with clear recognition.

  He stopped walking mid-sentence.

  "...one moment," he said quietly to the man beside him.

  Then he turned and stepped directly into my path.

  "Well," Xavian said, a small smile forming. "If it isn't our journalist."

  I sighed softly.

  "Good morning."

  The human man standing beside him looked between us with obvious curiosity.

  Xavian gestured lightly in my direction.

  "This is the one I mentioned earlier," he said. "The writer."

  The man's eyebrows lifted slightly in interest, but he stayed silent.

  Xavian's attention returned fully to me.

  "I read your article," he said.

  Something about the way he said it made my stomach tighten.

  "Yeah," I replied. "Well... not everyone liked it."

  The corner of his mouth lifted faintly.

  "I noticed."

  I shifted my weight slightly, the grocery bag rustling in my hand.

  "It caused a bit of a mess," I admitted.

  Xavian studied my face for a moment, as if measuring something.

  Then he gave a small, almost dismissive shrug.

  "Public reaction is rarely important."

  "Easy for you to say," I muttered.

  His smile sharpened slightly at that.

  "True."

  The human man beside him finally spoke.

  "Some people are calling it dangerous," he said carefully.

  Xavian turned his head slightly toward him, but his eyes never left mine.

  "People often call things dangerous when they challenge their assumptions."

  I let out a small breath.

  "That's one way to put it."

  His expression shifted just enough that the warmth drained from it.

  "Those who speak against the Leader," Xavian said calmly, "are rarely acting from wisdom."

  The words landed heavier than the casual tone suggested.

  I blinked.

  "Some people just disagree," I said cautiously.

  Xavian tilted his head slightly, the faint smile returning.

  "Disagreement is acceptable."

  Then his voice dropped just slightly.

  "But traitors... are not."

  The word hung in the cold air between us.

  My mind flashed back instantly to the newsroom.

  To Cazoro standing beside my desk.

  To the exact same word spoken in that same calm tone.

  Traitors.

  For a moment none of us spoke.

  Then Xavian's expression softened again, like a curtain sliding back into place.

  "But your article," he continued lightly, "served its purpose."

  "What purpose was that?" I asked.

  "To remind people who leads this city."

  The human man beside him gave a small approving nod.

  Something about that unsettled me more than I wanted to admit.

  I tightened my grip on the grocery bag again.

  "Well," I said, forcing a small smile, "I'm glad it was helpful."

  Xavian studied me for another moment, his sharp eyes thoughtful.

  "You look tired," he observed.

  "Long week."

  "That tends to happen when one steps into politics."

  "I didn't mean to step into politics," I replied.

  His smile widened slightly.

  "No one ever does."

  A car passed nearby, the sound briefly filling the silence between us.

  Finally I shifted my weight again.

  "I should probably get home."

  "Of course."

  Xavian stepped aside, giving me space to pass.

  I continued down the sidewalk, the grocery bag swinging lightly in my hand.

  But the words stayed with me.

  And the way he said traitors sounded far too much like his brother.