I return to the mansion just minutes before dawn.

  The engine shuts off, and silence rushes back in. Thick. Uncomfortable.

  The smell of incense clings to my clothes—I can’t get it out of my nose.

  I head straight to my office, removing my gear with automatic movements.

  Shoulder plates. Fire-resistant fabric. Ceramic guards.

  Everything ends up on the desk like the remains of a bad night.

  I open my computer.

  The Council’s form is still there.

  The cursor blinks, accusatory.

  I pour myself a glass of whiskey.

  Not to relax. To organize my thoughts.

  “Interference by the Faith.”

  The words weigh more than they should.

  I always assumed it would happen eventually—but I didn’t expect to run into the Left Hand of the Faith on what was supposed to be a near-routine mission. A subtle reminder that demons aren’t the only things out there. There are other pieces on the board. Some older than us.

  I take a sip.

  The door opens.

  “Hard not to hear you come back. That car is a monster.”

  Elena stands in the doorway, backlit. She steps into my office slowly.

  She’s barefoot, wearing the purple pajamas my mother lent her. A little too big—one sleeve slipping low enough to expose her left shoulder.

  Her hair is messy.

  I recognize the scent before I think about it: neutral soap. The same one used in the guest rooms.

  She showered before going back to sleep.

  I clearly woke her.

  I also notice the way she looks away suddenly, flushed.

  I look away too—seconds later—and refocus on the report.

  “I don’t think I’ll be able to ride you to college today,” I say, my voice rougher than usual. “At least not for a while. I’ll catch up later.”

  She takes a second to respond—processing not just the words, but the tone.

  I need to start being more careful around her.

  “So… taxi?” she asks.

  I pull the keys from my pocket and toss them to her. She catches them on reflex.

  “Take the car. Don’t worry about fuel—it has plenty.”

  Silence.

  “Lorcan,” she says, far too calmly. “I can barely drive a normal car and you’re handing me a ship.”

  I finally look away from the screen. She looks genuinely terrified. It’s almost funny.

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  “It’s automatic,” I say, trying to reassure her. “No gears.”

  “That’s not the problem.”

  “Push-button start.”

  “Still not the problem.”

  “It’s fully insured.”

  “Lorcan.”

  She watches me for a long moment now. That look of someone who’s felt things move in the shadows—and is learning how to read silence.

  “Did something happen last night?”

  The question hangs there.

  “No,” I answer—maybe too sharply. “But there was… interference.”

  I sigh. The weight of the report and the uncertainty are catching up to me.

  “I still have things to file,” I add. “And I should probably sleep.”

  I don’t say more. I can’t.

  She tightens her grip on the keys.

  “I still need to get ready for class,” she says, with a resignation that sits badly with me. “If you change your mind in the next few hours, let me know.”

  I nod.

  “Drive carefully.”

  “You’re the last person who gets to say that.”

  She leaves the office. I hear her footsteps fade away. Slow. Hesitant.

  I look back at the form.

  Still blank.

  I pour more whiskey.

  Starting the car was the easy part.

  Accepting that I was driving that was not.

  The start button wakes the beast with a low, restrained purr—as if the car doesn’t recognize its owner and is merely being polite. The seat wraps around me. The steering wheel feels heavy. Too precise. Everything responds before I even finish thinking.

  It’s like trying to tame a dangerous animal.

  “Okay,” I mutter, hands at ten and two. “We are responsible adults. We’re going to get there and back in one piece. Deal?”

  I leave the mansion grounds with extreme care. Too much care. I drive like I’m transporting nitroglycerin in a coffee cup.

  At the first traffic light, I’m rigid—both hands clenched on the wheel, back straight, breathing controlled.

  Some would say I was driving like an old woman.

  I say I was driving like someone who’d been handed a missile.

  When the light turns green, I barely accelerate.

  The car responds with a dull growl—deeply disappointed in me.

  The drive to my apartment feels endless. Every corner is a negotiation. Every pedestrian a legal nightmare. When I finally arrive, I park in front of the building—and just sit there.

  There’s no way I’m leaving this car here. Not out of embarrassment. For safety.

  It’s like leaving a massive diamond on a park bench.

  “Better somewhere with people and cameras…” I think. “Even if this kills my social life.”

  I keep going toward campus.

  There’s no discreet way to drive this car. It’s a ship on wheels with a demon-powered engine. Driving fast is impossible—I don’t trust my reflexes. Driving slow is an open invitation for the entire campus to notice.

  Heads turn. Phones come up. I can feel eyes through the tinted glass.

  I finally find parking a bit farther down. I shut off the engine—after it gives one last characteristic roar, making sure everyone hears it.

  I step out, close the heavy door carefully, and try to disappear before anyone notices me.

  “Elena?”

  Too late.

  I close my eyes and sigh. Carmen. A few meters away, coffee in hand, dangerous smile.

  “So…” she says, pointing at the car. “You came in his car.”

  “Yes. He lent it to me.”

  “The same car you got into yesterday afternoon.”

  “Yes.”

  “And did he lend it to you before or after—”

  I blink. Process. My face ignites.

  “No! No, it’s not that!”

  Carmen bursts out laughing.

  “I’m not judging. I’m just archiving material. Besides, I already won the bet, so I’m satisfied.”

  “You didn’t win anything,” I say. “We’re not dating. I told you.”

  “Elena,” she says, “you told me—but you know the truth doesn’t matter. The narrative does. And this one wrote itself.”

  I cover my face with my hands. I want to die.

  The steering wheel still smells like Lorcan. Maybe I can hide behind my hands a bit longer.

  “But good luck convincing anyone else that ‘nothing happened,’” she adds. “And I’ll need details. For academic purposes. Applied sociology.”

  “There are no details, Carmen. There’s nothing to tell.”

  “So boring. I’ll invent them. Imagination is a gift.”

  That’s when I feel it.

  Something crawling up my spine.

  It’s not cold.

  It’s not fear.

  It’s that sensation again.

  Like I’m being evaluated. Measured.

  I lift my gaze, searching reflections, windows, shadows. Nothing out of place. People walking. Normal noise. Normal campus.

  Carmen notices.

  “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine,” I lie. “Just thinking that bringing this car here was a bad idea.”

  We watch another group gather around it, taking pictures.

  Maybe that’s all it was.

  Carmen seems convinced.

  I’m not.

  I can’t shake the feeling. That pressure at the base of my neck—light, but persistent.

  It’s… familiar.