Ronan stormed into the living room, breathless, his pulse hammering. "What? What is it?"


    Marigold didn’t answer. She couldn’t. Her gaze was locked at the top of the stairs, her lips parted as if the words had been stolen from her throat. Her entire body had gone rigid, trembling just enough for Ronan to see.


    Ronan followed her line of sight, but there was nothing. Just the yawning dark of the upstairs hall.


    He moved closer, slowly, crouching beside her. "Mari, what do you see?"


    She tried to speak, but the sounds that escaped her lips were broken, fragmented, strangled syllables that meant nothing. Her breath hitched, her chest rising and falling in panicked, uneven bursts. The tears had already started, streaming down her face in silent streaks.


    Ronan hesitated before reaching for her shoulder, but the moment his fingers brushed against her, she recoiled violently, flinching away as though burned. She turned her wide, glassy eyes on him, and for a split second, Ronan swore she didn’t recognize him. Like she was staring at a stranger—or worse, something she feared.


    "Hey," he murmured, drawing back his hand. "It’s just me, okay? You’re safe."


    She barely blinked. Barely breathed.


    "Take a deep breath with me," he coaxed. He inhaled slowly, deeply, exaggerating it so she could follow. Marigold’s body shuddered, but after a moment, she mirrored him, drawing in air like she’d forgotten how to breathe. They held it together before exhaling in unison, Ronan lowering his hand as if guiding the weight off her chest.


    Her eyes drifted shut. For a moment, the terror ebbed, just slightly. When she opened them again, she finally met his gaze with something closer to recognition.


    "It knows us," she whispered.


    Ronan felt his stomach twist. "What do you mean?"


    Marigold swallowed hard, her throat clicking. "When I fell asleep, I had this dream about…" She trailed off, a visible shudder racking her frame. "Someone I used to know. Someone I hated." Her voice faltered. "And they were attacking me."


    Ronan clenched his jaw. "Mari…"


    "That’s not all," she rasped, her voice breaking. "When I woke up—" A sharp inhale. "He was right next to me."


    She crumpled forward, sobs wracking her body, her hands covering her face. Ronan wrapped an arm around her back, rubbing slow, careful circles.


    Malcolm emerged from the kitchen. His steps were measured, but his face—


    His face was wrong.


    Ronan noticed it immediately, that distant, thousand-yard stare, like Malcolm had just witnessed something he couldn’t explain. Something he couldn’t unsee.


    "Mal," Ronan called, his voice quiet, uncertain. "Mal, over here. We need you."


    Malcolm didn’t react at first, only turning toward them after a long, weighted pause. He made his way over with heavy, deliberate strides.


    "Mal, you okay?" Ronan asked.


    For the longest moment, Malcolm didn’t answer. Ronan could feel it, the thick, suffocating tension, like something was pressing into the room, closing in.


    Finally, Malcolm spoke. "What happened with Mari?"


    The question was simple, but something in his tone was wrong. It wasn’t concern—it was something sharper, something more urgent.


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    Ronan hesitated, glancing at Marigold, who had gone eerily still, her breath coming in small, quiet gulps.


    "She saw something," Ronan said carefully. "Someone from her past. Someone she hated."


    Malcolm’s expression darkened. His fingers curled into his palms. "This is what I feared."


    Ronan’s blood ran cold. "What do you mean? What’s happening?"


    Malcolm met his eyes, and the look on his face sent a ripple of dread through Ronan’s spine.


    "I don’t know how," Malcolm murmured, "but this thing—it’s moving through the stages faster than I’ve ever seen. More rapid than any case I’ve worked before. And the worst part? It’s already strong enough. It could’ve taken us by now. All of us."


    A slow, creeping horror settled into Ronan’s chest. "Then… why hasn’t it?"


    Malcolm shook his head. "That’s what scares me. If it’s not taking us, then what does it want?"


    Silence stretched between them.


    "No," Malcolm finally said. "This thing is more intelligent, more powerful than anything I’ve encountered before."


    Ronan swallowed, his voice barely above a whisper. "But… you said God is stronger. You said He could stop this thing. That we just needed to act through Him."


    Malcolm’s jaw tightened. His breath was shallow, unsteady.


    When he spoke, the words shattered something in Ronan’s gut.


    "We’re on our own."


    Ronan’s world collapsed around him. The weight of the moment pressed against his chest, suffocating him. A deep, gnawing pit had dug its way into his stomach, twisting with a kind of dread he didn’t know how to process. “What do you mean?”


    Malcolm’s gaze was steady, yet something in his expression—some quiet, reverent horror—unsettled Ronan more than any scream ever could. “This thing. It’s not a demon. It’s something else. I’m afraid, whatever it is, it’s not of any realm or plane that God has created and, therefore, does not abide by the laws of our universe. Not at all.”


    Ronan’s breath stilled. “What the fuck?” he whispered, as he sank onto the couch next to Marigold. The room felt smaller. Heavier. “So, what do we do?”


    He already knew what Malcolm was going to say, but that didn’t stop the nausea from creeping up his throat.


    “We need to challenge it,” Malcolm said plainly. “We need to face it head-on.”


    Ronan stared at his feet, his pulse roaring in his ears. “Did Elle tell you this?”


    Malcolm shook his head. “No. The agent told me.”


    Ronan lifted his head, dread pooling in his stomach. “The agent?”


    Malcolm didn’t answer right away. Instead, he gestured toward the kitchen. “Go see for yourself.”


    Ronan followed the motion with his eyes. The kitchen entrance felt impossibly far away, as if the space between him and it had stretched, warped by something unseen. His limbs felt weighted as he pushed himself to his feet; each step forward was measured and hesitant. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end before he even reached the doorway.


    Then, he saw her.


    Elle sat slouched in the same kitchen chair as before, her skin pale, slick with cold sweat. But she wasn’t alone.


    The thing that stood beside her—watching her—was something that had once been a woman. But no longer.


    Its putrid yellow eyes sank deep into its skull, its skin leathery and slick with grease. Wisps of brittle hair clung in tangled strands to its gaunt face. Its form was grotesque, unnaturally elongated, something that should not be. As Ronan stepped further into the room, it snapped its attention toward him, its jaw slack, hanging unnaturally low as if unhinged. When it spoke, the words did not come from a mouth but from the depths of its being, a chorus of layered, discordant voices that slithered through the air.


    “Your fearless leader is ours to take,” it intoned. “She made her choice a long time ago. Now it is time for the rest of you to choose. The Lord will reveal the truth. The Lord will take those who earn his favor, just as he has done with your friend.”


    The agent placed a gnarled hand atop Elle’s head, fingers curling over her scalp like a master petting a loyal dog. But to Elle—to Elle, the hand was still pale. Soft. Cold, but not unpleasant. Not at all.


    She shuddered, but not in revulsion.


    Ronan’s stomach turned. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from her, from the subtle, almost imperceptible way her body reacted to the touch—something twisted, something wrong. He could barely breathe past the disgust rising in his throat.


    “Why won’t you just let us go?” he choked out, his voice strained.


    The agent laughed, a sound so utterly wrong that it curdled the air itself.


    “You don’t deserve it.”


    The simplicity of the statement made it all the more horrifying. The voices layered beneath it—some shrieking, some whispering, some guttural and ancient—dug into Ronan’s skin like cold needles.


    His breath came sharp and ragged. He turned his eyes back to Elle. She sat still and silent, her body tense, her gaze unfocused and subservient.


    “Leave her alone,” Ronan said firmly. “She’s not yours.”


    He forced himself to meet the agent’s eyes, those putrid, sunken things that gleamed with amusement, with knowledge, with something so much worse than hunger.


    The thing only tilted its head, lips curling into a grotesque semblance of a smile.


    “She made her choice a long time ago. As did you all…”