The transition from "Death Match with a Demon" to "College Pizza Night" was enough to give anyone emotional whiplash.
Jude, Greta, and Fernando stood in the hallway of Natalia's apartment building, looking like the losers of a bar fight that had somehow also involved a garbage fire. Jude had soot on his cheek and a split lip that throbbed every time he moved his mouth. Greta was limping heavily, favoring her left leg like her right one had personally offended her. Fernando was clutching his W-9 form like it was a religious artifact, his cracked glasses held together by hope and a single strip of tape.
"Okay, ground rules," Jude whispered, wiping the smudge off his face with spit and his sleeve. "We were playing rugby. Intramural rugby. It got rough. Fernando is a transfer student we met at the field. He's on the team now."
Fernando adjusted his glasses. "I do not know the rules of rugby. Is there a ball? Or a puck? How many points for the touchdown?"
"Just nod, eat pizza, and don't mention the demon fire," Greta grunted. "And hide the burn mark on your sweater. Tuck it into your pants if you have to."
"That would look very strange."
"Stranger than explaining why you smell like a crematorium?"
Fernando tucked his sweater into his pants.
Jude knocked.
The door swung open, and the smell of pepperoni, garlic, and cheap beer hit them like a warm blanket made of carbohydrates and poor decisions.
"You guys made it!" Natalia beamed from the doorway. She was wearing an oversized hoodie and leggings, looking effortlessly cute in a way that made Jude's heart do a stupid little flip it had no business doing after the night he'd had. She pulled him into a hug, then stepped back, frowning at his disheveled state. "Whoa. Rough practice?"
"Brutal," Jude lied, forcing a smile that made his split lip scream. "The sophomores play dirty. Lots of tackling. Very aggressive tackling."
"Hey, Nat," Greta said, pushing past them toward the kitchen with the single-minded focus of someone who hadn't eaten in twelve hours. "I smell food. If there isn't a slice with pineapple, I'm leaving."
"We saved you a whole Hawaiian pie, you absolute monster," Natalia laughed.
Greta's voice floated back from the kitchen: "Pineapple on pizza is a valid choice and I will die on this hill!"
Natalia turned to Fernando, who was standing in the doorway like a vampire who hadn't been formally invited in. He looked ready to bolt at the slightest provocation.
"And you must be the new recruit?"
Fernando stiffened. "I am… yes. I am Fernando. I engage in the rugby sport. I am on the team. Hello."
Natalia grinned, extending a hand. "I'm Natalia. Come on in—the boys are destroying each other in Mario Kart and someone needs to even out the teams."
The apartment was chaos in the best possible way.
David, Ollie, and Kelvin were crammed onto the sectional sofa, screaming at the TV as a blue shell decimated whoever had been in first place. The victim's anguished howl suggested it was David. Emily was sitting on the floor with her back against the couch, shaking her head at the carnage with the weary resignation of someone who had seen this exact scene play out a hundred times.
It was warm. It was loud. It was safe.
It was everything the factory wasn't.
Jude watched Fernando navigate the room like he was walking through a minefield filled with social landmines. The poor kid kept flinching at sudden movements, clearly expecting a Koopa Troopa to leap off the screen and attack him. Given what they'd just survived, Jude couldn't exactly blame him.
Greta had retreated to the small balcony off the living room, a slice of Hawaiian pizza in one hand and nothing else. She was leaning against the railing, staring out at the city skyline, gripping the cold metal hard enough to turn her knuckles white.
The sliding door opened behind her.
Emily stepped out, closing it behind her to muffle the screams of the gamers. The night air was cold enough to see their breath.
"You know," Emily said, leaning against the doorframe, "Professor Tragen emailed me today. Asked if you were still alive. Apparently you haven't been back to another meeting since…"
She trailed off. They both knew since what.
Greta didn't turn around. She exhaled sharply, steam curling up into the darkness.
"I was busy."
"Busy getting beat up playing 'rugby'?" Emily asked, eyeing Greta's limp with obvious skepticism. "You smell like metal and burnt hair, G. Last time you smelled like that, we got a noise complaint and I had to convince the RA you were just really into incense."
"Drop it, Em."
They stood in silence for a long moment. The tension between them was thick; residue from the last time Emily had dragged Greta to a Student Union meeting. That particular adventure had ended with Greta screaming at the sharing circle and throwing a folding chair at the wall hard enough to crack the drywall.
And break the coffee maker. Which, somehow, had been the thing everyone was most upset about.
Greta looked at her hands. They were shaking. She thought about Caligo; about his dead eyes and his clinical voice and the way he'd conducted their torture like a symphony. She thought about Seraphile's promise, delivered in that beautiful, terrible voice: If you relapse, the demons won't have to kill you. I will.
"I'm going," Greta said suddenly.
Emily blinked. "Going where? The ER? Because that limp looks—"
"No." Greta's voice was rough, like the words were being dragged out of her. "To the meeting. Tragen's group. Tomorrow morning. Eight AM."
Emily went still.
Her expression shifted from concern to genuine, wide-eyed shock—the look of someone who had been bracing for the worst and just got handed something unexpected.
"Wait," Emily said softly. "For real? You're actually going back? After the chair?"
"Yeah." Greta still wouldn't look at her. "I'll pay for the drywall. And the coffee maker. I just need to get my head right. And Tragen won't stop emailing me those fucking inspirational quotes."
A slow, tentative smile spread across Emily's face. The smile of someone afraid to hope, but doing it anyway.
"Okay. That's… that's really good, G." She hesitated. "Do you want me to come with you? I can sit in the back. Make sure you don't assault any furniture."
Greta shook her head. "No. I gotta do this one solo. But thanks. For not changing the locks yet."
Emily laughed a light, relieved sound that cut through the cold. "You pay half the rent. I literally can't afford to kick you out." She paused. "Just don't be late. Tragen hates late."
Back inside, Jude had collapsed onto the loveseat with the graceless exhaustion of someone who had recently been tortured by a demon and was now pretending everything was fine. Natalia sat next to him, handing him a paper plate with two slices of pepperoni.
"You okay?" she asked, her voice dropping low enough that the guys wouldn't hear over their screaming match about whether blue shells were "fair game" or "war crimes." "You look shaken up. Was it really just rugby?"
Jude looked at her.
He wanted to tell her everything. He wanted to tell her about the factory, about Caligo, about the dead soldier possessed by a Prince of Hell who had systematically dismantled them like a kid pulling wings off flies. He wanted to tell her about the blood and the terror and the way he'd felt his own heart stop beating in his chest.
But he couldn't.
"Yeah," Jude said softly. "Just a long day. But I'm good now."
He looked at her, trying to channel "confident date energy" instead of "traumatized employee energy." Based on her expression, he wasn't entirely successful.
"So," Jude smiled, wincing as his split lip stretched painfully. "Friday. We still on? Or did my beat-up face scare you off?"
Natalia rolled her eyes, but she was smiling. "Please. I've seen you look worse after finals week. We are definitely still on. The Tops. Eight o'clock."
She poked him in the chest.
"And Jude? It's a real date. Not a study session. Not a 'hang out.' So wear a tie. And maybe ice that lip so you don't look like you joined a fight club."
Jude's heart hammered against his ribs. After everything; the death, the resurrection, the divine bureaucracy, the ancient demon, this still made him nervous.
"I'll be there," he promised. "Suit, tie, and minimal bruising. Scout's honor."
"Good." Natalia leaned back into the couch cushions. "Because I bought a dress. And if you flake on me, I'm wearing it to Wawa out of spite."
Across the room, the interrogation had begun.
Fernando was perched on a kitchen stool, holding a slice of pizza like it was a foreign artifact he wasn't sure how to interface with. He was surrounded by the Tribunal: David (shirtless, as was tradition), Ollie (wearing a tie-dye shirt that hurt to look at directly), and Kelvin (stoic as always, nursing a beer).
David leaned in, pointing a GameCube controller at Fernando like a weapon. "So. Jude says you're a transfer. Where from? And don't say 'school'—that's a cop-out answer."
Fernando's eyes darted to Jude across the room. Jude was too busy making heart-eyes at Natalia to notice.
No backup. Fernando was on his own.
"I am from San Diego," Fernando said carefully. "But I transferred from another institution."
"SDSU?" Ollie asked. "UCLA?"
"Yes," Fernando said with far too much conviction. "The Los Angeles one. UCLA. Go… sports team."
"Cool, cool." Kelvin nodded, apparently satisfied. "What's your major? You look like a Physics guy. Or maybe Engineering."
Fernando adjusted his cracked glasses. "I study thermal dynamics. And resource management."
"Resource Management?" David laughed, slapping his knee. "Like HR? That's boring as hell, dude. No wonder you play rugby—gotta get that aggression out somehow."
"Yes," Fernando agreed with grave solemnity. "The aggression. It must be released. Through the rugby."
Ollie narrowed his eyes, clearly preparing the next question in his investigation. "You got a girlfriend, Nando?"
Fernando nearly choked on his crust. "Nando?"
"Yeah, Nando. It's your nickname now. Deal with it." Ollie crossed his arms. "So? You got a lady? Or a guy? We don't judge."
Fernando's face cycled through several expressions; panic, confusion, and finally something like resigned honesty.
"I do not," Fernando said quietly. "My mother passed away a few years ago. And my father is absent. So I live alone and study."
The Tribunal went silent. The aggressive "bro" energy crashed into a wall of unexpected emotional depth and died on impact.
"Oh," David said, lowering the controller. "Damn, dude. That's heavy."
"Sorry to hear that, man," Kelvin added, patting Fernando on the shoulder with genuine sympathy that seemed to surprise even him.
Ollie looked at Fernando for a long moment. Then he looked at the pizza. Then back at Fernando.
He held out the spare GameCube controller.
"You wanna play?" Ollie asked. "Next round is starting. Rainbow Road. It's brutal, but we'll go easy on you."
Fernando looked at the purple controller. He looked at the three guys who, five minutes ago, had been strangers interrogating him about his fake rugby career. They weren't judging him. They weren't trying to sacrifice him or use him as bait.
They were just… being nice.
Fernando put down his pizza. He took the controller.
"I will play," Fernando said, his voice suddenly serious. "I warn you—I have studied the physics of the drift boost. I understand the mathematics of optimal racing lines."
"Oh, it's ON!" David yelled. "New guy thinks he's a pro! NANDO VERSUS THE WORLD!"
The race started.
Fernando missed the start boost. He spun out immediately on the first turn. His character drove off the edge of the map and plummeted into the void of space.
"DAMMIT, NANDO!" Ollie groaned.
"Gravity was a variable I did not adequately account for!" Fernando argued, mashing buttons frantically as his character respawned.
Jude watched from the couch, a genuine smile spreading across his face despite the ache in his lip.
For tonight, at least, they were safe.
Emily's alarm chirped at 6:45 AM; a gentle, optimistic bird song that she had chosen specifically because it was the least likely to make her want to commit violence.
She slapped it off before the second chirp.
Three years of nursing school clinicals had turned her into a morning person by force. Three years of living with Greta had turned her into someone who slept with one eye open.
She rolled out of bed, shivering in the November chill of the old apartment. Her routine was a well-oiled machine: teeth brushed in two minutes, scrubs pulled on in three, hair tied back in a messy bun that looked effortless but actually took four attempts and a small amount of profanity.
She walked into the kitchen expecting the usual silence. Yogurt from the fridge. Check the chore chart (Greta's week to take out the trash; it was overflowing, because of course it was). Deep breath.
Time to wake the beast.
Emily walked down the short hallway to Greta's door and knocked softly.
"G? It's seven. You said you wanted to go to the meeting. If we don't leave by 7:30, we're gonna hit the Schuylkill traffic and you'll be late."
No answer.
Emily knocked harder. "Greta? Come on. I made coffee."
Silence.
A cold knot formed in Emily's stomach. Greta wasn't a heavy sleeper, she slept like a feral cat in a room full of rocking chairs, one eye open, ready to bolt at the first sign of danger.
Emily turned the knob. Unlocked. She pushed the door open.
The room was empty.
The bed was made hastily, the sheets pulled up tight in a way that suggested obligation rather than habit. The window was cracked open, letting in freezing November air. Greta's boots were gone. Her leather jacket was gone.
"No," Emily whispered, her heart dropping into her shoes.
She rushed to the dresser. Keys gone. Phone gone.
Panic flooded her chest, hot and sharp. She knew the signs. The restlessness. The late-night "walks." The smell of metal and smoke from last night that she'd tried not to think about too hard.
"Dammit, Greta," Emily hissed, fumbling for her phone. She dialed Greta's number, fingers shaking so badly she almost dropped it.
Please pick up. Please don't be in a ditch. Please don't be at a bar. Please don't be—
Voicemail. Straight to voicemail.
"You promised," Emily said to the empty room, tears pricking her eyes. "You literally promised last night."
She spun around, pacing the small hallway. She had to find her. Check the usual spots. The dive bar on 2nd? The bridge? The—
CLICK.
The front door of the apartment unlocked.
Emily froze, phone still clutched in her hand like a weapon.
The door swung open.
Greta walked in. She looked exhausted, hair windblown, cheeks red from the cold. She was carrying a massive cardboard box that blocked her view of her own feet, navigating by memory and spite.
She kicked the door shut with her heel.
"Greta?" Emily's voice came out as a squeak, all the air leaving her lungs in a rush.
Greta peeked around the side of the box, blinking at Emily's tear-streaked face.
"What?" Greta asked. "Why do you look like you're about to call the cops?"
"I thought you left!" Emily's voice cracked. "I thought you—you know! The bed was empty! You weren't answering your phone! I thought—"
"My phone died." Greta walked past her into the kitchen, completely unbothered. "And yeah, I left. I had to get to the store when it opened."
She dropped the heavy box onto the counter with a thud that rattled the dishes.
"The store?" Emily repeated, brain refusing to compute. "At seven in the morning?"
Greta pulled a pocket knife from her jeans and sliced the tape on the box with more force than necessary. She ripped the flaps open.
"Yeah," Greta grunted, not meeting Emily's eyes. "For this."
She pulled out a brand new coffee maker. Industrial-sized. Shiny chrome. The kind of machine that could brew enough caffeine to fuel a small army or kill a medium-sized horse.
"And this." Greta reached back into the box and produced two massive bags of cheap French Vanilla coffee grounds.
Emily stared at the appliance like it had materialized from another dimension. "A coffee pot?"
"I broke the last one." Greta was aggressively avoiding eye contact now, fiddling with the carafe like it was the most interesting object she'd ever encountered. "When I threw the chair. Tragen never said anything about it, but those old ladies who run the meeting were really upset. You can't have a support group without coffee, Em. It's against the rules or something."
She paused, untangling the power cord with unnecessary focus.
"I figured if I show up with a peace offering," Greta said quietly, "they might not kick me out immediately."
Emily stared at her roommate.
Greta, who had been actively trying to destroy herself a month ago. Greta, who solved most problems with violence or avoidance. Greta, who had once told Emily that "talking about feelings is for people who don't have real problems."
Standing there with a twenty-dollar coffee maker because she felt bad about breaking the old one.
The relief hit Emily so hard she laughed a wet, shaky sound that was dangerously close to a sob.
"You went to the store," Emily repeated, shaking her head. "You are absolutely unbelievable."
Greta looked up, defensive. "What? It was on sale."
Emily walked over and leaned against the counter, a wobbly smile spreading across her face. "You're a complete weirdo, Greta. A massive, violent, furniture-assaulting weirdo."
Greta scowled, but her ears turned pink. "Shut up. Go put your shoes on. If we're late, I'm gonna drink this entire pot myself and then I'll have so much energy I'll probably punch a hole through something."
Emily turned to go to her room, then stopped in the doorway.
"Hey, G?"
"What?" Greta snapped, shoving the cardboard box into the recycling with more aggression than cardboard disposal typically required.
"Can I come? For real?" Emily's voice softened. "I won't hover. I won't say anything. I just want to see you deliver the peace offering. See their faces when you walk in with that thing."
Greta paused. She looked at the shiny coffee maker. She looked at her hands, which had finally stopped shaking. She looked at Emily.
"Fine," Greta sighed, grabbing her keys. "But if you cry during the sharing circle, I'm pretending I don't know you."
"Deal," Emily grinned, already reaching for her coat. "I'll bring tissues anyway. Just in case."
"I hate you."
"Love you too, G."
They walked out together into the Philadelphia morning, one of them carrying a coffee maker like a shield, the other carrying hope like a fragile thing that might break if she held it too tight.
But for now, it was holding.
For now, that was enough.