Sunday, 5:12 AM.
The yellow tape stretching across the mouth of the alley didn't say POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS.
It read: P.I.T. - FEDERAL INCIDENT ZONE. MANDATORY EVACUATION.
The street was silent. The Sigma Chi house, which had been vibrating with bass only hours ago, was dark and gutted. The shattered windows gaped like missing teeth.
Under the harsh glare of portable floodlights, a dozen figures moved with the synchronized efficiency of a hive mind. They wore pristine white tactical gear: heavy body armor, full-face respirators, boots that made no sound on the asphalt.
They weren't cops. They were the cleanup crew.
Two of them swept a pile of black ash into a lead-lined containment drum. Another sprayed a foaming chemical agent onto the crushed roof of the SUV, dissolving the blood splatter into pink foam that evaporated on contact.
A black sedan rolled up to the perimeter. The door opened.
Agent Weaver stepped out.
He was a man who looked like he had walked straight out of a 1985 police movie, taken a wrong turn, and ended up in the apocalypse. Mid-thirties, African American, with a mustache groomed to razor-sharp perfection. He wore a crisp white dress shirt under a navy blue windbreaker with P.I.T. in bold letters on the back. The shoulder holster was visible when the wind caught the jacket.
He didn't look tired, even though the sun wasn't up. He looked like a man who had been woken up too many times this month.
Weaver ducked under the tape, holding a cup of coffee that smelled better than anything within a five-mile radius.
"Status," he said. He didn't shout. He didn't have to.
A tech in a white hazmat suit jogged over, holding a tablet.
"Class One Breach, Agent. High-level energy discharge. Structural damage to three buildings. One civilian vehicle totaled. Zero fatalities reported."
"Witnesses?"
"Dozens, sir. It was a party."
"Great." Weaver took a sip of coffee, eyeing the frat house. "Herd them."
He walked past the tech, stepping over a fissure in the concrete where the demon had clawed its way up.
Standing near the crushed SUV was a woman in a sleek silver and purple bodysuit. Her helmet was shaped like a stylized lightbulb, pulsating with a soft, hypnotic glow.
Mindbulb. Ranked #14 in the P.I.T. Hero Registry.
On billboards, she sold headache medicine and banking apps. Right now, she looked like she wanted to be anywhere else.
"Bulb," Weaver called out.
The hero turned. "Agent Weaver. I was told this would be a quick gig. I have a brunch in Rittenhouse at ten."
"You'll make your brunch." Weaver checked his watch. "The kids inside the frat house. They're all gathered in the common room?"
"Corralled and compliant. Most are hungover. Some are still drunk."
"Wipe them. Flashbulb effect. They didn't see a monster. They didn't see a light show. A transformer blew on the street pole. Big sparks, loud noise, everyone got scared and ran outside. The car got crushed by falling debris."
Mindbulb sighed, adjusting her gauntlets. "A transformer explosion. That's so uninspired, Weaver. I could give them a collective hallucination of a gas main rupture. Much more dramatic."
"I don't pay you for creativity, Bulb. I pay you for containment."
Mindbulb's helmet lenses dimmed in what might have been an eye roll. She floated toward the house without another word.
Weaver turned his back on the hero and walked deeper into the blast zone.
He pulled a radio from his belt.
"Command, this is Weaver. I'm at the breach point."
Go ahead, Weaver.
"Spectral residue is off the charts." Weaver crouched near the manhole cover, running a gloved finger over the asphalt. It came away slick with a gray, oily substance. "Whatever came out of here, it was a heavy hitter. Not a Scavenger. This feels like Third Circle, maybe higher. Good sample. I'm having the boys box it up for R&D."
Affirmative. Any ID on the neutralizing agent?
Weaver stood up, scanning the alley.
The walls were scorched. The brickwork was cracked from multiple impacts. Someone had fought here, and it hadn't been clean. The pattern of damage told a story of desperation, of close calls, of a brawl rather than an execution.
"Negative," Weaver said. "But they hit hard. This wasn't a suppression team. This was a street fight."
He walked toward the dumpster, following the trail of destruction.
Something caught the light.
It was stuck in the jagged metal of a torn drainpipe, fluttering in the early morning breeze.
Weaver reached out and plucked it free.
It was a feather. Six inches long, pure white, radiating a faint luminescence that made the skin on his fingertips tingle with warmth.
He held it up to the floodlight. Perfect. Pristine. Not from any bird he'd ever catalogued.
"Command," Weaver said, his voice dropping. "We have an anomaly."
Elaborate.
"I found a feather. White. High-grade bio-luminescence. Warm to the touch."
He pulled a small plastic evidence bag from his pocket and sealed the feather inside. The light pulsed once, then faded.
"It's not the Vypers," Weaver said, staring at the bag. "Those vigilantes use homemade tech and baseball bats. This is raw power. Organic. To take down a Third Circle demon? That requires ordnance we don't have on file."
Do we have a new player in the city?
"Looks like it." Weaver tucked the bag into his windbreaker. "And they're strong. Stronger than they should be."
He looked around the empty alley, his eyes tracing the scorch marks, the impact craters, the places where someone had bled and gotten back up.
"Sweep the grid," Weaver ordered into the radio. "Check surveillance, traffic cams, ATM cameras within a four-block radius. I want to know who walked out of this alley."
Copy that.
Weaver clicked the radio off.
Behind him, a flash of light erupted from the windows of the Sigma Chi house. Mindbulb, doing her job, erasing the night's horrors from a hundred minds. By noon, the partygoers would remember a wild night, a scary noise, and nothing else.
Weaver took a sip of his coffee and stared at the evidence bag in his hand.
"Welcome to Philly," he murmured. "Hope you survive the experience."
The walk back to the dorms felt longer than usual.
The adrenaline was crashing. The demon, the divine courtroom, the cafe, the confession with Greta—all of it was catching up to him, settling into his bones like wet concrete.
Jude walked through the quad, kicking at the red solo cups that littered the grass. The campus was stirring, but slowly. The few students he passed wore sunglasses and clutched large coffees, moving with the fragile shuffle of the severely hungover.
He pulled out his phone.
14 Missed Messages. 3 Missed Calls.
Most were from the group chat. A chaotic stream of "Where are you?", "This party is insane", and "OMG DID YOU SEE THAT??".
But there were separate texts from Natalia.
NATALIA [11:42 PM]: Hey, did you leave? Can't find you. NATALIA [12:15 AM]: Jude? NATALIA [12:30 AM]: Brad is being annoying. Miss u. NATALIA [1:00 AM]: Hope ur okay. txt me when you wake up.
Jude stared at the screen.
Last night, he had watched her dissolve into the crowd with Brad and his matching jersey clones. He had felt invisible, redundant, like furniture that had been left at the party by mistake.
But the timestamps told a different story. While he was bleeding out on a car hood in some alley, she was typing his name.
He didn't know if that made him feel better or worse.
He shoved the phone back in his pocket and pushed through the heavy door of his dorm building.
The room smelled exactly as he had left it. Stale air and boy.
Ollie was face-down on the top bunk, one arm dangling over the side like a dead branch.
Jude walked to his desk. On the way back, he'd stopped at a vending machine. He cracked open a can of ValorCola Energy: Blue Raspberry.
Cr-crack.
The sound cut through the room like a starter pistol.
Ollie groaned. The dangling arm twitched.
"Make it stop," Ollie mumbled into his pillow. "Make the noise stop."
"Wake up, sunshine." Jude held the cold can up toward the bunk. "I come bearing caffeine."
Ollie lifted his head. His hair was pointing in three different directions, and a pillow crease ran down the side of his face like a scar. He looked at the can like it was the Holy Grail.
"You are a saint," Ollie croaked, reaching down to snatch it. He cracked it open and took a long, desperate pull. "Oh god. I needed that. My brain feels like someone's using it as a subwoofer."
He sat up, swinging his legs over the ladder, wincing as his feet hit the floor.
"Rough night?" Jude asked, leaning against his desk.
"Insane night," Ollie corrected, rubbing his eyes. "Dude, where did you go? One second you were there, looking all dapper in your black shirt, and then poof. Ghost. Greta disappeared too. We thought you guys hooked up or something."
"God, no." Jude kept his voice flat. "I wasn't feeling well. Got some fresh air and just kept walking. Ended up crashing early."
"You missed the fireworks." Ollie took another sip. "Literally."
Jude's stomach tightened. "Fireworks?"
"Yeah, man. Some electrical transformer on the street blew up. Wild shit. Huge flash of light, sounded like a bomb went off. The whole block went dark for a second. Everyone started screaming and running outside. Crushed some car parked on the curb."
Jude kept his face neutral. Mindbulb. Transformer explosion. Simple. Plausible. Forgettable.
"That sounds dangerous," Jude said.
"It was kind of a buzzkill, honestly." Ollie shrugged. "Killed the music. Cops showed up way faster than usual. They cleared the street in like ten minutes. Said it was a 'gas leak risk' or something."
"Crazy."
The cover story was holding. P.I.T. was good at this. Terrifyingly good.
"Yeah. But before that? Epic." Ollie grinned, though it looked painful. "David threw up in a planter. Kelvin won six games of pong in a row. Emily did a keg stand for like four seconds before panicking. Legends were made."
"And Natalia?" Jude picked at a loose thread on his hoodie, trying to sound casual. "I saw her talking to those frat guys. Seemed like she was having fun."
Ollie stopped drinking. He looked at Jude with something approaching pity.
"Bro," Ollie said, shaking his head. "You are so blind."
"What?"
"She wasn't 'talking' to them. She was tolerating them." Ollie gestured with the can for emphasis. "She spent half the night looking over her shoulder. Every time the door opened, she checked to see if it was you. She got pretty trashed, Jude. Like, white-girl-wasted trashed. Kept asking where 'Jude the Dude' went."
Jude's chest did something complicated. A stupid, hopeful flutter that he immediately tried to smother.
"She was just drunk, Ollie. She likes the attention."
"Nah." Ollie shook his head. "She was swerving Brad all night. The guy was trying so hard it was embarrassing. She kept telling him, 'My friend Jude is coming back.' She was bummed when you dipped, man. Legitimately bummed."
Jude looked down at his boots.
He thought about the way she had touched his arm in the kitchen. The texts on his phone. The timestamps.
She wasn't ignoring me. I left. I walked out.
It didn't erase the feeling of being a mascot. But it complicated things. Added a layer of gray to the black-and-white rejection he had painted in his head.
"She texted me," Jude admitted.
"See?" Ollie pointed at him. "Go get your girl, Jude. Redeem the night. Turn the L into a W."
Jude looked at his phone again.
He thought about the Probation. The demon residue in the alley. The fact that he was technically a celestial contractor on thin ice with a quota to fill and a boss who could smite him with a thought.
But he was also a twenty-one-year-old who wanted to believe that the girl in the silver dress actually gave a damn about him.
"Yeah," Jude said, unlocking his screen. "Maybe I will."
He opened the chat with Natalia. His thumbs hovered over the keyboard.
Hey. Sorry I missed you. Ollie said you were asking for me?
No. Too desperate.
Head hurt. Had to bail. You okay?
Too distant.
He took a breath and typed.
JUDE: Hey. Sorry about last night. Got hit with a migraine and had to crash. Are you alive? I can bring bagels and Gatorade if you need a rescue.
Send.
"What's the move?" Ollie asked, watching him.
"I'm gonna go over there." Jude grabbed his keys. "Check on the troops."
"Bring her the blue Gatorade," Ollie advised, already lying back down. "It's her favorite. And tell her I died bravely."
"Will do."
Jude walked out of the dorm into the pale morning light. The exhaustion was still there, heavy in his bones, but there was something else underneath it now. Anxiety and hope, tangled together.
He wasn't sure if he was walking toward a fresh start or another heartbreak. But for the first time in days, he wasn't thinking about monsters.
He was just thinking about her.
Greta's apartment was dark.
The blackout curtains were drawn tight against the offensive Sunday morning sun. The air was stale, thick with the smell of old takeout and something sour underneath.
Greta sat on the floor of the living room, her back against the couch. She was wrapped in a blanket, shivering despite the warmth, staring at the blank television screen like it owed her money.
She leaned forward and retched into a plastic bucket between her knees. Nothing came out. Just dry heaves and misery.
Her body was screaming at her. It wanted a drink. It wanted a line. It wanted anything to stop the tremors in her hands and the ice pick driving through her skull.
One drop, Seraphile had said. And you burn.
Greta squeezed her eyes shut, gripping the rim of the bucket until her knuckles went white.
A door creaked open down the hall.
Emily shuffled into the living room wearing fuzzy pajama pants and a t-shirt two sizes too big. Her hair was a disaster, and she had the hollow-eyed look of someone who had been hit by a truck labeled SIGMA CHI.
She stopped when she saw Greta on the floor.
"Greta?" Emily's voice was small. "Are you okay?"
Greta didn't answer. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and let her head fall back against the couch cushion.
Emily walked closer, stepping over a pile of clothes. She looked at the bucket. She looked at Greta's shaking hands.
"Did you…" Emily hesitated, wrapping her arms around herself. "Did you take too much again? Last night?"
Greta's lip curled. "No."
"You look—"
"I flushed it." The words came out rough, scraped raw. "All of it. Last night. Down the toilet."
Emily went still. "You did?"
"Yes." Greta closed her eyes. "I flushed the stash. Happy?"
"I…" Emily's face changed. Something soft and hopeful crept into her expression. "Greta, that's amazing. If you're really trying to quit, that's a huge step. I'm really proud of you."
"Don't." Greta waved a hand weakly. "Don't give me the after-school special speech, Em. I'm not doing it for a merit badge."
"I know." Emily sat down on the coffee table, facing her. "But still. It's good."
She paused, chewing on her lip the way she always did when she was working up to something.
"You know," Emily said carefully, "the university has resources for this. Student Health Services has counselors. They have meetings. Like… AA meetings. On campus."
Greta let out a harsh sound that might have been a laugh.
"AA?" She rolled her eyes, and the movement made her head spin. "You want me to sit in a circle in some church basement and hold hands with strangers? Share my feelings? Pass."
"It's not like that," Emily pressed. "It's just help. You don't have to do it alone, Greta. You're clearly hurting."
"I'm fine." The words came out sharper than she intended. "I don't need a support group. I don't need a bunch of people crying about their trauma. I just need to get through the day."
"Why are you so stubborn?" Emily's voice cracked. "I'm trying to help you. You're sick, Greta. Why won't you let anyone help?"
"Because I don't need your pity!"
The shout echoed off the walls.
Emily flinched like she'd been slapped. Her eyes filled with tears, and she stood up quickly, wiping her face with the back of her hand.
"Fine," Emily choked out. "Forget it. I'm sorry I bothered you."
She turned toward the hallway.
Greta watched her go. Something twisted in her chest, a pang that had nothing to do with withdrawal.
She thought about the alley. The courtroom. Bob sitting across from her in the cafe, telling her this was her only shot.
She thought about what happened to people who failed their second chances.
"Wait."
Emily stopped. She didn't turn around.
"Em. Wait."
Greta took a shaky breath. She stared at the water-stained ceiling.
"I'm sorry." The words tasted like ash. "I'm just in pain. Okay? Everything hurts."
Emily turned around slowly. A tear tracked down her cheek.
"I know," Emily whispered.
"The meeting thing." Greta looked at the bucket, unable to meet Emily's eyes. "Do they take attendance? Or whatever?"
"No." Emily stepped back toward the couch. "It's anonymous. And if you go, if you show the Dean you're using campus resources, sometimes they extend the grace period. For academic probation. They might not kick you out if they see you're trying."
Greta went very still.
She thought about the University. The track scholarship she had already lost. The classes she was failing.
Then she thought about the other probation.
The white room. The gold eyes. The finger that had pressed her into the marble floor like she was nothing.
One mistake, and you burn.
"Okay," Greta whispered.
"Okay?" Emily's voice lifted with hope.
"Yeah." Greta closed her eyes. "Maybe. I'll look into it."
Emily pulled out her phone, scrolling with nervous energy through a bookmark she had clearly saved months ago, waiting for this moment.
"There's one tomorrow morning," Emily said. "Monday. 9:00 AM. Student Union basement."
Greta's stomach dropped. Monday morning. The start of the rest of her life. Or the end of it.
"I have class," Greta lied.
"I have Chem," Emily said. "But I'll skip it."
Greta cracked one eye open. "You never skip Chem. You love Chem. You have a periodic table shower curtain."
"I'll skip it," Emily repeated, putting the phone away. "I'll go with you. We can sit in the back. You don't have to say anything."
Greta looked at her roommate. Sweet, annoying, relentlessly kind Emily, who was willing to tank her GPA just to make sure Greta didn't fall apart.
The burn of tears pressed behind her eyes again. She shoved it down.
"Fine," Greta breathed. "Fine."
She pulled the blanket tighter around her shoulders as another wave of nausea rolled through.
"But if you try to make me share," Greta warned, her voice thin, "I'm walking out."