The alarm on Jude's phone didn't get the satisfaction of waking him up.
When it chirped at 7:00 AM, a cheerful marimba tune designed to gently coax a sleeper into consciousness, Jude was already standing in the center of his dorm room, staring at a wrinkle in his favorite button-down shirt with the intensity of a bomb squad technician examining a suspicious package.
He hadn't slept. Not even for a minute.
Every time he closed his eyes, his brain projected a highlight reel of impending doom. Sometimes it was Caligo peeling his skin off like an orange. Sometimes it was Kraz shooting bug-spikes into his eyes. But mostly—terrifyingly, persistently—it was Natalia sitting across from him at The Tops, looking at his tie, and saying, "I think we should just be friends."
Jude ran a hand through his hair, which currently resembled a bird's nest that had survived a hurricane and developed a grudge.
"It's fine," he whispered to the empty room. "It's just dinner. It's just food and talking. I talk all the time. I'm doing it right now. See? Words. Coming out of my mouth. No problem."
He resumed pacing. The room was small; a ten-by-twelve box saturated with the smell of cheap beer and academic desperation, so his path was a tight figure-eight around the piles of laundry.
Step. Step. Turn. Avoid the pizza box. Step. Step. Turn.
His stomach felt less like he had butterflies and more like he had swallowed a handful of live hornets that were angry about the housing situation.
On the desk, buried under a stack of econ notes and a tangled charging cable, the black obsidian tracker that Seraphile had given him pulsed with soft red light.
Beep.
The glow washed across the wall, painting it crimson for a moment.
Beep.
Jude didn't see it. He had turned his back to inspect his shoes for scuff marks, holding one loafer up to the window light like a jeweler examining a diamond.
"Jude?" a groggy voice mumbled from the top bunk.
Ollie's head appeared over the side of the bed, dreadlocks defying gravity in seven different directions. He looked like he had just woken up in a parallel dimension and wasn't entirely sure how he'd gotten there.
"Bro," Ollie squinted, shielding his eyes from the morning sun. "Are you tap dancing? The floor is literally vibrating."
"I'm pacing," Jude corrected, grabbing a shoe polish kit he had purchased from the bodega at 3 AM in a fit of panic-driven consumerism. "There's a difference. Pacing is strategic movement. Tap dancing is a cry for help."
Ollie yawned, a sound like a dying whale, and dropped down from the bunk. He landed with a thud, wearing nothing but boxers and a t-shirt that read SUPPORT LOCAL NOISE.
"You didn't sleep, did you?" Ollie asked, scratching his stomach.
"Sleep is for people who aren't going on the most important date of their entire life in—" Jude checked his watch. "Thirteen hours."
Ollie's face transformed. The sleep vanished instantly, replaced by the chaotic golden-retriever energy that made him both the best and most exhausting roommate in recorded history.
"Oh shit! It's Friday!" Ollie clapped his hands together hard enough to startle a pigeon on the windowsill outside. "It's Game Day! The Super Bowl of romance! Dude, we gotta get your head in the game."
"My head is in the game," Jude argued, aggressively buffing a loafer. "My head is arguably too much in the game. My head is the only player on the field."
"Nah, you're spiraling," Ollie diagnosed with the confidence of someone who had failed Psychology 101 twice. "I know the look. It's the same look you had before that statistics final, and you yakked in the trash can for that one. We need coffee. Large coffee. And a strategy meeting."
"I don't need a meeting, I need to iron this shirt—"
"Iron later. Caffeine now. Put on pants, Miller. We're going to the trenches."
The campus coffee shop was packed with the Friday morning rush, students desperate for caffeine to power through their last classes of the week so they could start making terrible decisions by 5 PM.
Jude followed Ollie through the maze of tables, clutching his large black coffee like it was a holy relic that might grant him immunity from social catastrophe. He was exhausted. The adrenaline from the Kraz fight had crashed hard, leaving him jittery, anxious, and vaguely nauseous.
"There's a table in the back," Ollie pointed, weaving between a group of sorority girls comparing notes. "I secured the perimeter."
"Perimeter?" Jude frowned. "It's just us, Ollie. We don't need a—"
He stopped.
Ollie hadn't just secured a table. He had convened a summit.
Sitting at a large circular booth in the back corner were the boys: David, Kelvin, and, inexplicably, Fernando.
David was wearing a cutoff shirt that showed off entirely too much bicep for 8 AM, looking like he was ready to bench press the table and everyone sitting at it. Kelvin occupied one end of the booth in meditative silence, staring at a blueberry muffin with the intensity of a monk contemplating enlightenment.
And squeezed between them, looking profoundly uncomfortable, was Fernando.
The pyrokinetic looked rough. He was wearing a freshly laundered polo shirt buttoned all the way to his Adam's apple, and his hair was still slightly damp from the hose attack the day before. He had a notebook open and a pen poised, looking like a court stenographer at a trial he hadn't asked to attend.
"Surprise!" Ollie beamed, shoving Jude toward the booth. "I called in reinforcements. The Council of Bros is now in session."
"Oh god," Jude groaned, sliding into the booth next to Fernando. "Why? Why did you do this to me?"
"Because you're a mess," David announced, slapping the table hard enough to make the coffee cups jump. "Look at you. You look like my dad when he went through the divorce. You need help, bro. Professional help. We're the professionals."
"I do not need help," Jude protested, though he immediately chugged half his coffee like it was medicine. "I just need to survive dinner without throwing up or saying something catastrophically stupid."
"Statistically, the latter is more probable," Fernando noted, writing something in his notebook. "You have a documented tendency to ramble when your cortisol levels are elevated. I have observed this pattern."
"Thank you, Fern," Jude sighed. "Glad you could make it."
"I was summoned," Fernando said with grave seriousness. "Ollie sent a text message labeled 'Code Red: The Mating Ritual.' I assumed there was an emergency involving actual mating. I brought pepper spray."
"There is an emergency!" Ollie sat down, immediately stealing a piece of Kelvin's muffin without asking. "Jude is taking Natalia to The Tops. Tonight. We need to make sure he doesn't fumble the bag."
Kelvin chewed slowly. Swallowed. Looked at Jude.
"Big steaks," Kelvin rumbled. "Good choice."
"See? Kelvin approves," Ollie said triumphantly. "Now let's talk strategy. David, you're the expert on… whatever it is you do with women. What's the play?"
David leaned back, crossing his massive arms over his chest. He put on his "wisdom face," which looked suspiciously identical to his "constipation face."
"Okay, listen up," David started, pointing a finger at Jude like he was delivering a TED talk. "Dominance. That's the key. You walk in there, you don't ask for a table—you tell the host where you're sitting. When the waiter comes? You order for her. Don't let her look at the menu. It shows leadership."
Jude stared at him. "David, that's genuinely terrible advice. That's how you get a drink thrown in your face and deserve it. She's Natalia, not a toddler. She knows what she wants to eat. Also, I called in the reservation a week ago."
"It's an alpha move, bro!" David insisted. "Chicks love decisive action!"
"Incorrect," Fernando interjected, adjusting his cracked glasses. "According to a study published in the Journal of Social Psychology, unilateral decision-making in early courtship stages is positively correlated with second-date probability of less than fourteen percent. It is perceived as controlling and patriarchal. The study had excellent methodology."
The table went silent. David blinked several times.
"Nerd," David muttered, but he shrank back slightly.
"Fern's right," Jude said, feeling a tiny spark of relief. "See? I just need to be normal. Chill. Respectful. Basic human decency."
"However," Fernando continued, flipping a page in his notebook, "I have been researching pheromone-based attraction. Did you know that the musk ox attracts a mate by rubbing its orbital glands against trees? Perhaps you should apply a distinctive scent. I have a cologne that smells like sandalwood and subtle notes of large bovine."
"I am not smelling like an ox, Fern," Jude said, rubbing his temples.
"I made a playlist," Ollie interrupted, pulling out his phone with the enthusiasm of someone revealing a winning lottery ticket. "It's called 'Jude Gets the Girl.' It starts with Usher, transitions into some smooth 90s R&B, and ends with Marvin Gaye's 'Sexual Healing.' I timed it perfectly for the car ride home."
"There is no car ride home!" Jude yelped, his face heating up. "We're walking! It's four blocks! And I am absolutely not playing 'Sexual Healing' while walking down Walnut Street at ten PM!"
"You're overthinking the logistics," Kelvin said quietly.
Everyone turned to the stoic giant. Kelvin rarely spoke more than ten words at a time, so when he did, people paid attention like he was dispensing ancient wisdom from a mountaintop.
"Just wear the blue tie," Kelvin said. "It matches your eyes."
Jude blinked. He looked around the table at the chaos surrounding him—David flexing unconsciously, Fernando drawing what appeared to be a diagram of optimal table seating arrangements, Ollie air-drumming to an imaginary beat.
And Kelvin, just being solid. Being present.
"The blue tie," Jude repeated slowly. "Yeah. Yeah, that's actually good advice."
"And don't mention anything weird," David added, leaning in conspiratorially. "Seriously, bro. Keep it light. Ask her about… I don't know, lipstick? Makeup? What do girls like to talk about?"
"They like being treated like humans, David," Jude said tiredly.
"I have prepared a list of emergency conversation starters," Fernando offered, tearing a sheet of paper from his notebook and sliding it across the table. "Topic One: The socioeconomic impact of urban subway systems. Topic Two: Why penguins are biologically confusing. Topic Three: Environmental racism in municipal zoning policies."
Jude took the paper. He looked at the list. It was written in perfect, tiny handwriting with bullet points and sub-categories.
"I… probably won't use these, Fern," Jude said as gently as he could manage. "But I appreciate the thought."
"It is a contingency plan," Fernando shrugged. "In case of prolonged silence. Silence is statistically the enemy of romance."
Jude looked around the table. They were idiots. They were loud, chaotic, and completely unqualified to give advice on anything other than gym routines and sports gambling.
But they were here. At 8 AM on a Friday. For him.
The crushing weight of anxiety that had been sitting on his chest all night lifted, just a fraction. He wasn't alone in the trench. He had a squad. A dysfunctional, possibly dangerous squad, but a squad nonetheless.
"Okay," Jude exhaled, finally cracking a genuine smile. "Blue tie. No ordering for her. No environmental racism talk. And definitely no Marvin Gaye."
"I'm keeping Marvin Gaye on standby," Ollie warned.
"Thanks, guys," Jude said, draining his coffee. "Really. I mean it."
"Don't get sappy on us," David punched him in the shoulder hard enough to numb Jude's entire arm. "Just get the girl. And save me the leftover steak if there is any."
Jude laughed. For a moment, he forgot about Caligo. He forgot about Kraz and the Dead Zone and the hunt that had consumed his every waking thought. He forgot about the red light pulsing on his desk, miles away, warning him of a danger getting closer by the second.
He was just a college kid, worried about a date.
And it felt amazing.
Greta woke up with the taste of copper in her mouth and a panic attack already in progress.
Her phone, face-down on the floor where she'd dropped it after passing out, read 8:48 AM.
"Fuck," she hissed, rolling out of bed.
The movement was a mistake. Her ribs, bruised purple from the Bug Emperor's chitinous backhand the day before, screamed in protest. She ignored the flare of pain, hopping on one foot to shove her jeans on while simultaneously trying to brush her teeth with her finger.
She didn't have time for a shower. She barely had time to exist.
Greta grabbed her leather jacket, the armor that held her together, and yanked the door open. She collided immediately with Emily in the hallway.
Emily was holding a mug of tea, wearing oversized scrubs and looking startlingly awake for someone who had probably been up studying until 2 AM. She took in Greta's disheveled state; the combat boots unlaced, the hair a disaster, the distinct absence of composure, and raised an eyebrow.
"You're late," Emily observed.
"I know I'm late!" Greta barked, hopping to pull her left boot on properly. "I slept through the alarm. If I don't get to Tragen's office in ten minutes, he's going to murder me. Or worse—make me do a feelings worksheet."
"Do you want me to come?" Emily asked, stepping closer. Her voice lost its teasing edge, softening into something genuine. "I can skip Bio. I'm really good at nodding solemnly while you talk about things."
Greta froze, hand on the doorknob.
The offer was tempting. Walking into the lion's den with backup was always the tactical play. But looking at Emily—clean, safe, worried about her—Greta felt a sharp sting of guilt.
She was already dragging Emily into her recovery. She couldn't drag her into the academic wreckage too.
"No," Greta said, softening her voice. "I gotta do this one solo. If I bring a bodyguard, Tragen'll think I'm weak."
"You're not weak, G," Emily said quietly.
Before Greta could deflect with sarcasm, Emily stepped in and wrapped her arms around Greta's waist. It wasn't the desperate, crying hug from the street corner. This one was steady. Warm. Deliberate.
It lingered.
Emily pressed her face into the collar of the leather jacket, breathing in whatever combination of stale smoke and ozone had become Greta's signature scent. For a second, just one second, the crushing pressure in Greta's chest eased. Her pulse slowed down.
"Good luck," Emily whispered against her neck, squeezing once before pulling back. Her cheeks were flushed a faint pink. "Don't punch the professor."
"No promises," Greta muttered, ignoring the weird flutter in her stomach that she absolutely refused to examine. She turned and sprinted for the stairs. "Bye!"
The run to the library was a blur of freezing wind and agony.
Every time her boots hit the pavement, her ribs reminded her that fighting a man who transforms into a giant insect has physical consequences. She bypassed the elevator entirely, taking the stairs two at a time, and burst onto the fourth floor gasping like she'd just surfaced from the bottom of a swimming pool.
Room 404. Professor Tragen's Office.
She checked her phone. 9:03 AM.
"Three minutes late," Greta wheezed, bracing her hand against the wall. "Three minutes is fashionable. It shows independence. Confidence."
She didn't knock. She shoved the heavy oak door open and stumbled inside.
"I'm here!" Greta announced, trying to look casual while fighting for oxygen. "Traffic was—"
She stopped.
She wasn't standing in a generic academic office. She had stepped into a hunting lodge that had collided with a superhero museum at high velocity.
The room was cavernous—easily three times the size of a normal faculty space, with a ceiling that disappeared into shadow. The air smelled of old paper, mahogany polish, and woodsmoke.
And there was, inexplicably, a massive stone fireplace crackling on the far wall.
"Come in!" a voice boomed from the depths of the room.
Greta walked forward slowly, her boots clicking on the hardwood floor. The walls were lined with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, but instead of just academic texts, the shelves were crammed with memorabilia that had no business being in a university building.
A dented helmet that looked like it had been chewed on by a wolf. A framed newspaper clipping with the headline "EISENHELD SAVES CITY HALL"—and in the background of the photo, a younger Tragen holding up a collapsing bridge with one arm. A shelf dedicated entirely to confiscated villain weapons: a freeze ray here, a jagged obsidian knife there, something that looked disturbingly like a disintegration gun.
It was a shrine to a life of violence dressed up as heroism.
Professor Tragen stood by the fireplace, his back to her, examining a thick leather-bound book. He looked like a mountain range that had decided to get a PhD.
He snapped the book shut and spun around.
"Greta!" Tragen roared, his smile splitting his beard. "You made it! And only three minutes late! By undergraduate standards, that is practically early! I have had students show up three days late!"
He gestured with the book toward a plush leather armchair positioned in front of the fire.
"Sit. Warm your bones. You look like you sprinted here from South Philly."
Greta sank into the armchair. It was dangerously comfortable—the kind of furniture that tried to swallow you whole and convince you to stay forever. She kept her jacket zipped to her chin, eyes darting around the room, cataloging the sheer volume of violence on display.
Her gaze landed on a heavy, dented steel helmet resting on the mantle. It looked like a bucket that had been used to stop a freight train. Next to it was a framed photo of a younger, impossibly wide man in a gray tactical suit, holding a suspension bridge cable with one arm while waving at a news helicopter with the other.
"Eisenheld," Greta murmured, reading the caption on the yellowed newspaper clipping tucked into the frame. "The Iron Hero."
She looked up at the professor, who was currently poking the fire with a rod that looked suspiciously like a bent crowbar.
"I thought that was just a rumor," Greta said slowly. "I thought you were just a really big guy who liked Greek philosophy."
Tragen chuckled, a low rumble that vibrated through the floorboards. "I am a really big guy who likes Greek philosophy. But before the tenure and the tweed, I was… active. A different era. The corporate contracts were less restrictive, and the villains were less marketable."
He placed the poker down and turned to face her, leaning against his heavy oak desk.
"But we are not here to discuss my glory days. My knees hurt just thinking about them."
Greta shifted in the leather chair, which squeaked in protest. "Right. So why am I here? Did the Dean find out about the coffee pot incident? Because I replaced it. The new one makes excellent coffee. It has a timer and everything."
"The Dean is blissfully unaware of the appliance situation," Tragen waved a dismissive hand. "I called you here because I observed you Wednesday. In the circle."
Greta stiffened. Her walls, which had lowered slightly in the warmth of the room, slammed back up like blast doors. "I talked. I shared. I did the thing. Do I get a gold star?"
"You get a book," Tragen said.
He picked up the thick leather-bound volume he'd been examining earlier and extended it toward her.
Greta stared at it like it was a live grenade with a loose pin. She didn't take it.
"I don't do extra credit," she said flatly. "I barely do regular credit. I'm currently failing three classes. I don't have time for recreational reading."
"It isn't recreational," Tragen corrected, his eyes locking onto hers. They were dark, intelligent, and annoyingly perceptive—the eyes of someone who had seen too much to be fooled by bluster. "It is medicinal."
He thrust the book closer. Greta sighed and snatched it from his hand just to make him stop looming. She looked at the cover.
The Myth of Sisyphus by Albert Camus.
"Philosophy," Greta groaned, letting her head fall back against the chair. "You have got to be kidding me. This is going to be about how life is meaningless and we're all just dust in the wind, isn't it? I get enough of that from my own brain, thanks."
"It is about a man condemned to roll a boulder up a hill for eternity," Tragen explained, ignoring her attitude entirely. "Every time he reaches the top, the rock rolls back down. And he must start over."
Greta traced the gold lettering on the cover with her thumb. "Sounds like a nightmare. Why would I want to read this?"
"Because you remind me of him," Tragen said softly.
Greta's head snapped up. "Excuse me?"
"Not the punishment," Tragen clarified, walking around the desk to sit on its edge, bringing himself down closer to her level. "The effort. I watched you Wednesday, Greta. I saw the way you sat in that chair. I saw the rage coiled behind your eyes, waiting to strike. It is a very familiar expression."
He tapped his own chest, right over his heart.
"I had that fire. When I was young. When I was Eisenheld. I thought if I hit things hard enough, the noise in my head would stop. I thought if I saved enough people, I would eventually save myself."
He smiled—a sad, crooked expression that made him look human rather than heroic.
"It does not work that way. The rock always rolls back down. The bottle calls. The rage returns. The only way to survive the hill is to learn to love the climb."
Greta looked at the book, then at the massive ex-hero. She wanted to make a joke. She wanted to tell him to shove his metaphor somewhere anatomically creative. But the copper taste was still in her mouth, and the memory of Emily's arms around her was still warm.
"I hate reading," Greta muttered, tucking the book into her jacket pocket. "It makes my eyes hurt."
Tragen laughed, clapping his hands together hard enough to echo off the walls. "Excellent! Suffering is the first step to enlightenment! Which brings me to the schedule."
"Schedule?" Greta narrowed her eyes. "What schedule?"
"Mondays and Wednesdays, you attend the circle," Tragen listed, holding up thick fingers. "You share. You listen. You drink the French Vanilla coffee. And Fridays—"
He pointed at the pocket where she'd stashed the book.
"Fridays, you come here. Nine AM. And we discuss the rock. We discuss Mr. Camus. We argue about the meaning of existence until one of us gets hungry."
Greta stared at him. "You want me to join a two-person book club with my professor? That's weird, Tragen. Even by this school's standards."
"Call it independent study," Tragen grinned. "Call it mentorship. Call it penance for the drywall you destroyed. I don't care what you call it, as long as you show up."
He stood, signaling the end of the meeting. The fire crackled in the silence.
Greta rose from the chair, wincing as her ribs protested the movement. She zipped her jacket tighter.
"Fine," she grunted. "I'll read the stupid book. But if I don't understand it, I'm not writing an essay."
"Deal," Tragen agreed cheerfully. "Now get out of here. Go be a student. Try not to assault anyone on the way to class."
Greta walked to the door. She paused, hand on the heavy brass handle. She didn't turn around.
"Hey, Tragen?"
"Yes, Greta?"
"The bridge thing," she mumbled, gesturing vaguely at the photo on the mantle. "That was cool."
"It was terrifying," Tragen corrected. "Have a good weekend, Greta."
She slipped out, the heavy oak door clicking shut behind her. She stood alone in the quiet hallway with a philosophy book in her pocket and the confusing sensation that she had just accidentally acquired a life coach.
KING OF PRUSSIA — THE BACKUP BASE11:47 AM
The return to the "Backup Base" was a somber affair, mostly because Kraz had to stop twice to vomit purple bile into a storm drain.
The adrenaline from his "tactical retreat" had worn off completely, leaving him with a headache that felt like a railroad spike being driven through his skull and a body that ached from the violent restructuring of his own skeleton. The emergency limbs he'd sprouted in the alley had retracted, leaving his chest feeling raw and hollow, like someone had scooped out his insides with a melon baller.
He limped up to the back door of the vape shop, trailing Gator and Kevin like a general who had lost the war but was desperately trying to convince everyone he'd simply decided to change tactics.
"Wait here," Kraz ordered, leaning against the graffiti-tagged brick. He tried to smooth back his hair, but his hands were shaking so badly he just ended up smearing soot across his forehead. "The Emperor needs to debrief with the contractor. Top secret. Clearance level Omega."
Kevin, who was still trying to put his spilled pennies back into a replacement sock, nodded solemnly. "Got it, Boss. We'll secure the perimeter. I think there's a cat over there looking at us funny."
"Eyes on the cat, Kevin," Kraz whispered seriously.
He slipped inside, closing the heavy steel door behind him. The darkness of the basement hit him immediately—smelling of mold, stale vape juice, and something new. Something sharp and metallic, like a bag of wet coins left to rot in the sun.
Kraz descended the rotting stairs, his heart doing a frantic tap-dance against his ribs. He rehearsed his excuse on the way down. They had backup. P.I.T. showed up. I had to prioritize asset preservation. It was a tactical decision.
He reached the bottom.
The single bare lightbulb was buzzing. Underneath it, sitting on Kraz's stolen milk crate like it was a throne, was Caligo.
The demon was busy.
On the floor in front of him lay the two severed gray arms that Jude had cut off days ago. They looked rubbery, dead, deflated. Caligo was pressing his left stump against one of the severed limbs—not with surgical precision, but with brute, wet force.
SQUELCH.
Kraz gagged, clapping a hand over his mouth.
Black, tar-like tendrils erupted from Caligo's shoulder, lashing out like desperate worms seeking purchase. They dug into the dead flesh of the severed arm, burrowing through skin and knitting muscle back together with a sickening, wet grinding noise. Bone scraped against bone.
Caligo didn't scream. He didn't even blink. He just watched the process with the detached interest of a mechanic changing a tire on a slow Tuesday.
"The integrity of this vessel is degrading," Caligo droned, flexing the newly attached fingers experimentally. The joints popped loudly, like gunshots in the quiet room. "The repair process grows increasingly inefficient."
He looked up. His eyes were flat, dull, and terrifyingly empty—like staring into a television that had been turned off.
"Report."
Kraz swallowed the vomit rising in his throat and puffed out his chest, stepping into the circle of weak light.
"The targets were engaged," Kraz announced, summoning the last dregs of the Bug Emperor's confidence. "We made contact. I assessed their capabilities. It was a reconnaissance mission, really. Intelligence gathering. I decided that—"
"You ran," Caligo interrupted.
It wasn't a question. The demon stood, picking up the second arm from the floor. He walked toward Kraz with that same inhuman gait, the unattached limb dangling from his grip like a club.
"I didn't run!" Kraz squeaked, backing up until his shoulders hit the damp wall. "I executed a strategic pivot! They had thermal weaponry! And the girl with the axe is stronger than she looks! I needed to regroup to ensure the survival of my troops!"
Caligo stopped inches from Kraz's face. The smell coming off him was unbearable—rotting meat masked by burnt plastic, overlaid with something sulfurous that made Kraz's eyes water.
"Troops," Caligo repeated. He turned his head slowly, looking toward the narrow window well that faced the alley. Through the grime-covered glass, the vague shapes of Gator and Kevin could be seen, apparently engaged in an argument about whether a hot dog qualified as a sandwich.
"Biomass," Caligo corrected flatly. "They are fuel. Nothing more."
He looked back at Kraz. "You failed to acquire the targets. You failed to eliminate the threat. My patience, Mr. Krazinski, is a finite resource."
Caligo raised his good hand—the one he had just reattached. The black veins were still pulsing, settling into the gray skin like worms burrowing into meat.
"I should harvest them now," Caligo whispered, his voice like gravel grinding against itself. "They are useless. And so are you."
"No!" Kraz yelped, his knees buckling. He dropped to the concrete floor, the "Emperor" facade shattering completely. What remained was just a terrified man in a ruined fur coat. "Don't kill them! They're idiots, but they're my idiots! Please!"
"Give me a reason not to," Caligo said, watching him with those dead, empty eyes.
"I know where he is!" Kraz blurted out. "The Angel! Jude! I know where he's going to be tonight!"
Caligo paused. He tilted his head, the motion birdlike and wrong.
"Explain."
"I hacked his credit card information," Kraz lied—or maybe it was true, he couldn't even remember anymore, his mouth was just generating words in a desperate attempt to survive. "I saw a reservation! Tonight! At The Tops! It's a steakhouse in Center City!"
Kraz grabbed the hem of Caligo's torn suit pants, degrading himself completely. "He'll be there! Eight PM! He's going on a date! He'll be distracted, relaxed, eating appetizers! He won't be ready for a fight! It's the perfect ambush!"
Caligo stared down at him. For a long, agonizing minute, the only sounds were the buzzing of the lightbulb and Kraz's wet, ragged breathing.
Then Caligo reached out and placed a hand on Kraz's chest.
It wasn't an attack. It was a mute button.
Kraz's lungs simply stopped moving. His diaphragm froze. He opened his mouth to gasp, but nothing happened—his chest was paralyzed, his body suddenly a prison. He clawed at his throat, eyes bulging, staring up into the face of the thing wearing a dead soldier like a suit.
"If he is not there," Caligo whispered, leaning in close enough that Kraz could feel the unnatural cold radiating off his skin, "I will return. I will not kill you quickly. I will start with the large one outside. I will peel him while you watch. Then the one with the rash. And then I will take my time with you."
He released the pressure.
Kraz collapsed forward, sucking in a desperate, heaving breath that tasted like floor dust and despair.
"I swear," Kraz wheezed, tears streaming down his face. "He'll be there. Just leave my crew alone."
"The Tops," Caligo mused, almost to himself. He attached the second arm with a wet crunch, flexing the fingers experimentally. "Public. Crowded. Civilian witnesses."
The shadows in the corner of the basement seemed to lengthen, stretching toward him like eager fingers.
"Excellent," Caligo concluded.
His form began to waver, the edges blurring and dissolving into thick, oily smoke. He didn't walk toward the exit—he simply dissolved, sucking up into the ventilation shaft with a hollow rushing sound that made the lightbulb flicker.
The basement was empty.
Kraz sat on the damp concrete for a long time, listening to the muffled voices of Gator and Kevin outside, still arguing about sandwich classification theory. They were alive. For now.
He pulled his knees to his chest like a child hiding from a nightmare that had already found him. He thought about Jude—the nervous kid with the bow and the tired eyes who just wanted to go on a date with a pretty girl.
"Run, kid," Kraz whispered to the empty room, wiping his nose on what remained of his sleeve. "Run fast."
But he knew, with a cold certainty that settled into his bones, that running wouldn't be enough.
It never was.