The mission wasn’t anything spectacular.

  It was paperwork.

  Stacks of it.

  Organizing folders. Sorting reports. Filing after-action notes that had already been read by a dozen other people. Apparently New York had been hit, which made the volume obscene. Howard paused at that, a tight knot forming in his chest, but his family was in California. They were at least safe. Downside was that as far as they knew, he was dead.

  That thought lingered longer than it should’ve.

  After punching Johnson and with Cellirna across the room handling her own assignment, no one bothered him. Which was fine. No comments. No stares. Just quiet, mechanical work.

  That gave him time to think.

  And thinking was the worst part.

  Because it wasn’t private.

  The entity could read his thoughts just as easily as he could feel theirs brushing back. No walls. No doors. No decency. It felt invasive in the most mundane way—like trying to use the bathroom with a cellmate three feet away, pretending not to hear each other breathe.

  Howard had never been to jail. Never even juvie. But he imagined this was close enough.

  So instead of whining or spiraling, he made a choice.

  He exhaled slowly and leaned back in his chair.

  “Fine. You can talk.”

  The silence in his head shifted—not loud, nor excited. Just… attentive.

  Howard stopped fighting the noise.

  Not because he trusted it.

  But because telling it to shut up twenty-four seven was exhausting in a way that reached his soul.

  “I’m glad you finally came to a sensible—”

  “No.” Howard cut it off immediately. “As you know, I want to kill you. We are not friends. We’re trapped together for now, so fighting nonstop is pointless. And I’m in control right now, so this is the best time to talk.”

  There was a pause.

  “Okay,” the entity said.

  Howard frowned. “That’s it?”

  “I just want to hurry this conversation up. I don’t care about your reasoning.”

  Howard swallowed.

  “You want to free yourself from me,” the entity continued calmly, “and I want the same thing. You want to kill me, but honestly? You’re not worth that much energy.” A faint curl of amusement. “I like you the way you like your marine creatures. Interesting. Fragile. Replaceable.”

  Howard grimaced. “Great. Same page. Now—we already discussed the swapping situation. Let’s talk about earning privileges.”

  “Privileges?” The entity sounded genuinely puzzled.

  “Yes. I’m not trying to destroy everything just to break free. I agree I’m dangerous. But if we behave—if we look stable—we might get more room. More access. And we use that to find a way to separate our bodies.”

  “Your way of thinking angers me.”

  “Why?!” Howard snapped. “Because I’m not killing a bunch of people to get what I want?!”

  The words came out loud.

  Too loud.

  Heads turned across the room. A few E.R.O members stiffened.

  Inside his head, the entity remained maddeningly calm. “This is why I lost to Savannah when I tried to draw on—”

  “I’M GLAD SHE BEAT YOU, DUMBASS!” Howard shouted. “And I’m not going to stop being me! I’m Howard Fields—and Howard Fields doesn’t murder people just to move up in life!”

  Silence followed.

  The entity spoke again, quieter now, almost reasonable. It explained why Howard’s logic was inefficient. Why patience was weakness. Why power was meant to be taken, not negotiated.

  Howard didn’t hear most of it.

  He was breathing too hard. His hands were shaking.

  “Howard.”

  Cellirna’s voice cut through the room.

  He turned.

  Every eye was on him. E.R.O. G-Unit. Johnson leaned against a table, eyebrow raised. The gnome twins stared openly. Delshe watched with something like interest.

  Cellirna tilted her head, red eyes calm. “You wanna tell the class who you’re arguing with?”

  Howard stood there, chest rising and falling, suddenly very aware of how strange his argument had sounded.

  “…Sorry,” he muttered.

  Inside his head, the entity said nothing at all.

  Cellirna clapped her hands once, sharp and decisive, drawing everyone’s attention back to her.

  “He’s fine,” she said smoothly. “Boy just took leave of his senses for a spell. Happens when the mind’s been rattled too hard, or maybe he’s just bored.”

  A few doubtful looks lingered.

  She turned to Howard, softer now. “You alright, darlin’?”

  Howard nodded. “Yeah. I’m fine.”

  “Good.” She smiled, easy and confident, then looked back to the room. “See? All accounted for. Nothing to fuss over.”

  Slowly, people went back to what they were doing. Johnson returned to his station, still watching Howard out of the corner of his eye. The gnome twins exchanged a silent look and shrugged. Delshe leaned back in his chair, expression unreadable.

  The wariness didn’t vanish—but it dulled.

  Howard lowered his head and returned to his task, fingers sorting papers with practiced numbness.

  The TV murmured in the background.

  “…continuing coverage of the New York incident—”

  “…officials confirm heightened security along the West Coast, including California—”

  Howard glanced up despite himself.

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  New York.

  California.

  A thought surfaced, cold and sudden.

  He shoved it down immediately.

  That wasn’t him.

  That wouldn’t be him.

  He straightened in his chair, jaw setting.

  He would stay himself. He would get answers—about the entity, about the park, about the rifts, about everything that had been done to him.

  He had to.

  Because if he didn’t hold on to who Howard Fields was—

  Something else gladly would.

  ———

  In a high-rise luxury loft overlooking Los Angeles, Mason Marwell lost his temper.

  “Bist du eigentlich komplett bescheuert?!” he shouted into his phone, pacing barefoot across polished marble . Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the city, but he wasn’t looking at it. “You call me and accuse me of helping Ashara? Are you stupid or just creatively bankrupt?”

  A woman’s voice crackled back through the speaker, sharp and furious.

  “Oh don’t start with that,” Mason snapped. “You’re paranoid. Again. Every time the world twitches you decide it’s my fault.” He scoffed. “God, you’re such a bitch.”

  She fired right back, words tumbling over each other.

  “Oh please,” Mason said, rolling his eyes. “You couldn’t connect two dots with a ruler. Ashara doesn’t need my help—and I sure as hell wouldn’t give it to her.” He stopped by the kitchen island, gripping the counter. “Honestly, you’re embarrassing yourself.”

  She said something that made his lip curl.

  “Don’t talk to me about consequences,” he barked. “You want someone to blame? Look in a mirror. Or better yet—crawl into a hole and die there while you watch the world collapse around you.”

  A beat.

  “My art is terrible? Always has been? Derivative. Soulless. You lied when you said you liked it.”

  Silence crackled on the line.

  Mason exhaled, the anger bleeding out of him as fast as it had come. “Anyway,” he added casually, like they hadn’t just tried to tear each other apart, “be safe, yeah? And if you’re still alive next week, we’ve got bingo on Wednesday.”

  Her response was immediate and sharp. “Be serious for once.” She snapped.

  The line went dead.

  Mason stared at the phone for a second, then sighed and tossed it onto the couch. He walked back to the window, looking out over the city.

  “Everyone’s against me,” he muttered to himself.

  Outside, Los Angeles glittered on, blissfully unaware of how close everything was to collapsing.

  Ashara was already on the couch when he turned back around.

  Wearing nothing but underwear, her long hair spilling forward to cover her breast for now, bare legs tucked under her as she lounged like she owned the place. Mason didn’t even flinch anymore. He hadn’t slept with her—hadn’t even come close. This was just how the psychopath chose to exist in the world.

  He smirked to himself.

  You’d never know this small, barefoot terror was responsible for millions of deaths in a single day. Especially since her bruises and scars all disappeared overnight. Her Selfish Encasement was scary.

  “Was that Mama Denny?” Ashara asked brightly.

  “Yeah,” Mason said, rubbing his temples. “Abigail always tends to blame me for things.”

  She tilted her head. “Why does everyone think you were involved with the recent string of lunacy?”

  “Excellent question,” he muttered. “I’d love an answer.”

  Ashara shrugged and hopped off the couch, padding toward the kitchen. She grabbed a pastel-colored sippy cup from the counter and shook it before taking a long sip.

  “Hmmm.”

  “What.”

  “Your trait,” she said thoughtfully. “It fits you.”

  Mason snorted. “So does yours.”

  “I never said it didn’t.”

  She plopped down on the floor, kicking her feet idly. “I’m bored.”

  “Same,” Mason replied. “But we promised Seyvon we’d wait for him to get back.”

  Ashara frowned. “What does he even do? I barely see him do anything.”

  “For one,” Mason said dryly, “he’s taking advantage of me being everyone’s favorite scapegoat. And for two—he’s setting pieces up, little miss butcher.”

  Ashara beamed around the sippy cup. “Aw.”

  Mason sighed. “I will say…. I thought this arrangement would be awful, but despite my initial thoughts, you’re a great roommate so far.”

  “Ditto, artsy fartsy man.”

  “We are not starting that again.”

  There was a knock at the door.

  “It’s open,” they both said at the same time—then stared at each other.

  “What?” Ashara asked, smiling.

  “You’ve been here a day,” Mason said flatly.

  “You just gave me a compliment!”

  “Because the bar was in hell.”

  The door opened.

  “What the hell are you wearing, Ashara,” Seyvon said, shaking his head as he stepped inside with two bags of food dangling from his hands.

  Ashara waved cheerfully from the floor. “Comfort.”

  “I smell—” Mason stopped mid-sentence to tear into a breakfast burrito, foil crinkling as he peeled it back. “—regret if I don’t eat this fast enough.”

  Seyvon laughed, dropping the food bags on the counter. “Well, the naked princess over here wanted waffles, and I happened to be passing a place that makes ‘em right.”

  Ashara beamed. “Waffles!”

  For a few minutes, there was silence—real silence. Just chewing, clinking cutlery, the faint city noise bleeding in through the windows.

  Then business crept back in like it always did.

  “So,” Seyvon said, finishing off a piece of toast, “it’s basically the three of us against the world right now. With one already behind enemy lines.”

  Ashara nodded easily, licking syrup on her fingers.

  Mason didn’t even look up.

  Seyvon continued, voice calmer but tighter underneath. “The Den Mother’s planning something. I don’t know what yet. When she needs me, she’ll call. Until then, she’s paying me to track down you.” He glanced at Ashara. “Which I’m tirelessly doing.”

  “Geepers, I hope you don’t find me,” she said cheerfully.

  “The E.R.O and A.A.A.P are barely holding things together,” he went on. “Too many incidents, not enough control. And the instability’s waking up old players. The Three Families are making moves. Ancient vampires don’t like chaos unless they’re the ones causing it. And the Packs of Furen? They’re testing borders.”

  Ashara tilted her head. “You think the ghouls’ll revolt or something?”

  Seyvon shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ve gotta meet with them and figure out where they stand. But honestly?” His jaw tightened slightly. “I’m more concerned about something else.”

  Mason finally looked up. “Holiday.”

  “Yeah,” Seyvon said. “I still don’t trust her. But she delivered on her promise.” He met their eyes. “Zoey’s awake. And she’s stationed at Arrow-13.”

  Mason’s expression softened just a fraction. “That’s… good. That’s really good.”

  “It is,” Seyvon agreed. “But we’re treating what Holiday gave us as information. Nothing more. We keep it in the background while we focus on everything else.”

  Ashara shrugged. “I don’t care.”

  Mason leaned back, thinking. “Pros: Holiday isn’t a complete liar and her info is useful. Cons: Holiday never gives anything for free. On top of the fact she may be working with whoever caused Red Hollow to explode.”

  Seyvon exhaled. “Yeah. I can’t argue with that.”

  “Then we play it by ear,” Mason said. “Same as always.”

  Ashara raised her waffle like a toast. “To surviving another week.”

  Seyvon mushed his coffee against the waffle. “Barely.”

  Mason took another bite of his burrito, eyes drifting to the city outside.

  Seyvon glanced toward the couch as Ashara wandered off, mumbling something about her show being on. Once she was gone, he smiled.

  “An unashamed murder queen, nudist edition,” he said lightly. “You can’t say I don’t deliver.”

  Mason laughed, leaning back in his chair. “As great as you try to make that sound, I should charge you a babysitting fee.”

  “You’ll get your money,” Seyvon replied easily. “I don’t like owing.”

  Mason nodded. “Fair. Besides, since Cellirna’s gone for now, having this murder hobo around isn’t too bad.” He smirked. “She even appreciates my art. Which is more than I can say for you.”

  “Well—”

  “Don’t use your blindfold as an excuse.”

  Seyvon chuckled. “I wasn’t. I was going to say—if you don’t want to be all in, I’m giving you an out now.”

  Mason raised a brow. “Oh? Giving me an out? I need permission to decide my own whims now?”

  “No,” Seyvon said calmly. “I just want to be clear I’m not forcing you into anything.”

  Mason studied him for a moment, then leaned forward over the table, expression brightening. “I appreciate that. I really do. But honestly?” He smiled. “This is the most fun I’ve had in a while. And besides—I might find some new ways to express my art.”

  Seyvon smiled back.

  “And come on,” Mason added, practically beaming now. “Who doesn’t love a good mystery? If the world is changing, I want to be front and center… brush in hand.”

  Seyvon nodded. This was good.

  Mason and he had a real bond—one built on trust and mutual understanding. He knew he could count on him. And with Ashara no longer a wild variable—thanks to the pact—he had a core. A center.

  Now it was time to move.

  Whoever thought they were in control would soon feel their grip loosen, strand by strand, as Seyvon began to pull.