The penthouse was silent, and Theron thanked God for that. For days, Theron's home had been a theater of the absurd, a staged play directed by the whimsical cruelty of a chaos witch. Now that Belica had finally vanished, presumably back into the shadows of the city or into another dimension to torment a different set of unsuspecting neighbors, the silence felt like a big reward.
He stood in the center of his living room, his hands clasped behind his back, scanning the space. The spirits were gone. The floating teacups were back in the cupboard. The "joyful" toaster had returned to being a mundane appliance that occasionally burned the crust. By all accounts, he had reclaimed his fortress.
And yet, Theron felt restless.
