Prologue

The first rule about surviving this fucked-up world? Don’t let anyone you don’t trust touch you. The second? If they do, make sure they never touch anything again.

I should’ve kept my mouth shut.

I should’ve swallowed the words like I swallowed everything else in that house, fear, humiliation, the taste of blood where I bit my tongue too hard.

But I didn’t.

And my father didn’t tolerate defiance.

He cornered me in the kitchen like he always did—slow, deliberate, enjoying the way I tried not to flinch. The overhead light flickered. The air smelled like stale beer and something rotting in the sink.

“You think you’re brave?” he asked.

His fist answered for me.

The impact cracked through my ribs, knocked the air out of my lungs so violently I thought something inside me had collapsed. I hit the counter. Dishes rattled. My mother laughed.

God, she laughed. She sounded like a crow in heat: a high, sharp sound, like glass grinding against glass. She didn’t try to stop him. She never did. She stood there with her arms crossed, watching like it was entertainment.

Years of bruises layered over each other in my mind. Every insult. Every threat. Every time I was told I was nothing, that nobody would ever love me. That I should be grateful they let me stay.

Fucking grateful.

Something inside me split open. It started in my chest-not pain, not exactly. It was pressure. Like something enormous had been buried in my sternum and was finally clawing its way out. My heartbeat stuttered and then doubled. Then it became something that didn’t feel human at all.

Heat floods my veins. My fingers grew numb. The lights flickered above me.

Shadows stretched across the walls, longer than they ever should be. Thicker. They crawled towards me like they had been waiting. Like they recognized me.

I felt them wrap around my wrists. Not restraining. Claiming.

I opened my mouth to scream and something shouted back. It didn’t come from the room, it came from inside me.

My father lunged again, this time holding a broken bottle, jagged glass glinting in the dim light. He aimed for my throat.

My hand lifted on instinct. I didn’t think. I didn’t hesitate.

The shadows exploded outward. They didn’t drift. They didn’t creep. They attacked.

They swallowed him whole, wrapping around his body as if it were fire and he were paper. He tried to shout but it came out wet and gurgling. The darkness crawled into his mouth, his nose, under his fucking skin. His veins turned black. Not bruised. Black. Like something was sucking the life from him.

He dropped to his knees, clawing at himself. Begging. Sobbing.

I felt every second of it. And I liked it. I wish I could say it horrified me but it didn’t.

My mother shrieked and grabbed the broken bottle from the floor. She rushed me, wild and rabid. The glass came down on my arm. I felt the sting, but the blood that gushed out wasn’t mine. It was hers. The cut was small at first then it split deeper and deeper like there was an invisible force pulling her apart.

The shadows lashed out again; violent, uncontrolled. Picture frames shattered. Cabinets twisted and ripped off their hinges. Wood splintered like bone under pressure. The air vibrated so hard my ears rang. The smell of iron filled my lungs.

My parents’ screams blended with mine until I couldn’t tell which were theirs and which were born from the curse tearing through me.

The wound on my mother’s arm widened and widened, blood pouring onto the tile, until her knees buckled and her body hit the floor with a sickening thud.

Silence didn’t fall. It slammed.

The shadows receded slowly, curling back around me, sliding over my skin like affectionate serpents. My hands trembled, not from fear. From relief.

The kitchen looked like a war zone. Glass everywhere. Wood split open. My father lay twisted on the floor, veins still stained dark beneath his skin. My mother lay in a pool of red, her eyes glassy and unfocused.

And I was standing. Unbroken. Untouched. Breathing.

I looked down at my hands as the last wisps of shadow coiled around my fingers. They weren’t shaking anymore. A truth settled into me, not gently, not kindly.

I am not prey. I am not powerless. I am not something to be controlled.

They spent years trying to beat the fight out of me. All they did was teach it how to kill. From that night forward, I understood something the world had tried to keep from me:

Mercy is a luxury. Fear is a weapon. And I am done being afraid.

If anyone ever tries to cage me again, I won’t just break free.

I’ll bury them where they stand.

Chapter 1

The city sometimes pretends it’s alive.

It hums and flickers and breathes its toxic exhaust into the sky, all nauseatingly bright neon lights and enormous glass towers filled with people who believe the worst thing that will ever happen to them will be missing a promotion.

They don’t know what lurks just below the surface. They don’t pay attention to the cracks forming underneath their feet.

I do.

I stand at the edge of a rooftop twelve stories up, maybe higher, the wind lashing at my coat as if to drag me backward. The street below me is loud–sirens in the distance, traffic grinding, someone laughing at their friend stumbling out of a bar.

Behind me, the man tied to the chair won’t stop crying.

It’s irritatingly pathetic.

“You said you didn’t know,” I reminded him calmly, giving him one last chance to tell me the truth.

“I don’t!” he sobs harder. “I swear, I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

He does. They always do.

I turn around slowly, my boots scraping against the uneven gravel. The rooftop lights flicker with every step. They’ve been doing that more and more recently.

He notices.

His breath stutters.

Good.

I crouch in front of him, close enough that he can see his disgusting, pitiful reflection in my eyes. People always look for something human in them; something they can use to exploit me into doing what they want. They rarely ever find it. Even when they do, their attempts never work.

“You sold information to the Gilded Hand,” I say softer than what he deserved to hear. “Names and locations.”

“I–I didn’t know they’d–”

“Lie again,” I interrupt his sorry excuse, “and I’ll let it decide.”

The air shifts. It’s subtle at first, a pressure change. As if the atmosphere is holding its breath.

He feels it this time, his eyes darting over my shoulder.

The shadows behind me stretch unnaturally long across the concrete. They ripple as if someone skipped a rock along the surface of a still lake.

“I don’t control it the way you think I do,” I tell him. “It listens to intent. To threats.”

His pulse spikes. I can hear it. Smell it.

And then it happens. The moment he decides to lunge.

He moves fast for someone duct-taped to a chair–tipping it sideways and sending his shoulder slamming into my ribs. Pain flashes through me, sharp and bright.

The world answers before the sting is even fully gone.

Shadows snap outward like they’ve been waiting for permission. They wrap around him just before he hits the ground, suspending him in the air. His scream cuts off as black veins crawl up his throat and into his mouth.

“I warned you,” I whisper.

The curse doesn’t hesitate to sink its teeth in.

His body convulses once. Twice. Then, nothing.

The rooftop lights burst all at once, showering glass around us. A car alarm goes off somewhere below. Somewhere in the distance, a dog begins barking.

Collateral damage.

I exhale slowly, forcing the shadows back into my skin. They resist. They always resist once they've tasted blood.

The body drops. For a moment, I just stand there, breathing in the metallic scent in the air, staring at the skyline.

They think I’m reckless.

They know I’m unstable.

But I didn’t come here for vengeance.

I came here to deliver a message.

I step forward and hook the toe of my boots under the dead man’s shoulder, rolling him toward the edge. He tumbles over the side, disappearing into the night.

The scream when he hits the pavement is distant

Human.

Small.

Sirens are already making their way over.

The Veil Concordat will take notice.

The Gilded hand will understand.

I am not prey.

I am not a rumor.

And if they keep circling, I will make this city choke on its own secrets.

A tremor moves through the air.

It isn’t the wind.

It isn’t my shadows.

It’s something deeper in the fabric of the night–like a thread being pulled too tight.

The lights across the skyline ripple, one building after another.

My curse stirs restlessly around my feet.

The world is shifting.

They’re hunting me now.

Let them.

Let them whisper my name like it’s a curse.

They still don’t understand what they’ve done.

And when whatever is coming finally arrives, the city won’t be ready.

But I will.

Chapter 2

By the time I reach my building, sirens have swallowed the block behind me.

Red and blue lights pulse against the wet pavement like a heartbeat, one this sick place doesn’t deserve.

People are already recording.

They always capture what doesn’t pertain to them.

I keep my head down, coat collar pulled high, shadows tucked tight against my heels like obedient dogs.

Except they aren’t obedient. Not tonight.

They drag.

They twitch toward the flashing lights. They want to go back. Something is calling them back.

“Enough,” I murmur.

They recoil, though it isn’t immediate.

That’s new.

The lobby smells of cheap disinfectant and stale cigarettes. Mrs. Alvarez at the desk doesn’t look up from her crossword puzzle.

She never does.

I prefer it that way.

The walk up the stairs feels longer than usual.

The lights flicker once.

Twice.

I push open the heavy steel door and the hallway is unusually silent.

No televisions. No footsteps. No arguments through the too-thin walls.

Just quiet.

My apartment door is exactly how I left it: deadbolt in place, secondary lock screwed tight, security strip unbroken.

And yet, the shadows at my heels flatten. Something that doesn’t happen unless they sense something.

I slowly unlock the door and push it open.

The air inside is colder than it should be.

It’s not empty.

I step in, close the door, and lock it behind me.

The lights flicker and shadows move across the walls.

But I’m not the one who called them.

“Arlo?” I call out, even though I know not even she would be dumb enough to somehow sneak into my apartment while I’m not here.

I don’t find anyone as I walk through the apartment, although the slight chill in the air lets me know something has been here.

I reach my room and the eerie feeling slowly moving up my spine grows stronger.

One of my drawers is open.

It’s not wide. Not obvious if you weren’t looking for something out of place.

Just an inch. Enough to say: I was here.

I don’t rush. Rushing is what draws unwanted attention.

I slowly cross the room, my boots silent against the old hardwood floors. The shadows slide ahead of me, testing the corners, pooling under my bed, creeping along the ceiling like smoke looking for lungs to fill and blacken.

They don’t strike.

They don’t flare.

They’re…cautious. Somehow that’s worse.

I hook my finger into the groove of the drawer and pull it open the rest of the way.

At first everything looks the same: my knife is still tucked in the side, a spare cash bundle is still tied tightly under clothes thrown haphazardly on top before I left this morning.

Then the empty space to the right side catches my eye. Two things are supposed to be there: my favorite bra and a thin, silver, slightly tarnished chain with a broken clasp I never bothered to fix.

They aren’t there.

My throat tightens before I can even think of stopping it.

I know for a fact my bra was there before I left, it had been in the bottom of my clean clothes basket and I was too lazy to change into it after finally finding it so I just put it away.

And the necklace…

Nobody knew about that necklace. Not even Arlo who I’ve caught snooping around my apartment more than once.

For some reason, the fact that the old, cheap necklace was missing got to me more than the fact somebody had stolen my bra.

I haven’t worn it in years. I didn’t even like it. Silver wasn’t my color. It was a relic from before; before the blood, before the shadows decided I was theirs.

It was the only thing in that damn house that was actually mine.

And now it’s gone.

The shadows crawl up my spine, reacting to the spike in my heartbeat in something I refuse to name. They slide across the drawer like someone’s searching fingers.

“Find them,” I whisper.

They don’t move.

They hesitate.

They fucking hesitate.

That is starting to happen more and more recently.

A chill spreads through the room, subtle and deliberate. The kind you feel deep in your bones.

Whoever was here didn’t steal something valuable, they stole something personal. They weren’t looking for leverage, they were looking for me.

I close the drawer carefully. Too carefully given the situation.

My reflection in the mirror across the room looks the same as it always does: controlled, cold, and unbreakable.

But my shadows are restless.

They stretch towards the window.

Towards the city below my feet.

Towards something I can’t see.

I step closer to the window and pull the curtain back just a little, across the street, five floors higher than my room, another rooftop cuts into the skyline.

Empty.

Of course it is.

Still, the back of my neck prickles.

My bra and the necklace weren’t taken by accident by some petty robber.

They were taken by someone that knew who and what I was. They were taken to prove a point.

My jaw tightens.

“Fine,” I murmured into the dark.

The shadows eagerly lap at my ankles like drooling dogs.

“You want my attention?”

The lights in the apartment flicker once.

Twice.

“Congratulations, you fucking got it.”

Chapter 3

The rest of the night went by slow and boring, almost like the Gods of time were mocking me.

I left a message on Arlo’s phone to come over in the morning. Knowing her, she’s probably knocked out on the floor of her room because the bed was “too beddy” or something like that.

I never know with her.

I wouldn’t be able to sleep tonight, not with how my shadows were still sweeping through the apartment like guard dogs, and definitely not with the thought that somebody knew enough about me to know where I lived.

By the morning, the bags under my eyes have become so prominent they should be charged their own portion of rent.

Dragging myself out of bed and into the kitchen, I get to work making a quick breakfast for me and Arlo. I’ve known her long enough to know that girl doesn’t take care of herself right.

A knock sounds through the apartment half an hour later and I hold a hand out, one of my shadows copying the movement as it slithers towards the door, gripping the knob and twisting it open.

Arlo stands on the other side, hair all over the place, and wearing clothes I’m pretty sure she stole out of my closet the last time she was here.

She steps into my space, something that took numerous reminders that she didn’t need my permission to do, and meets me in the kitchen.

“You texted me?” she muttered softly.

That’s what made me actually look at her.

She hadn’t spoken in that tone since I met her, usually she was always so upbeat and even sarcastic when it came to the two of us being alone.

My eyes narrowed as they caught her split lip and the angry bruise taking residence around her left eye. Her face had a subtle redness as if she had cried herself to sleep. There were several other bruises littering her arms and neck. These were more familiar. Hand shaped. She was standing weirder than normal, like she was favoring one side more than the other.

Reaching forward to turn the stove off, I take a moment to remind myself she doesn't do well when she thinks people are upset with her.

“Give me a name and he’ll be dead before tomorrow,” I say in response, voice calm.

She flinches slightly, not out of fear that I would do something to her, but out of guilt that I had noticed.

She always acted like her pain was some kind of burden and I really wished I could meet the people who installed that in her head.

Though if I had, they wouldn’t look too much like people anymore.

“It wasn’t–”

“I can tell when you’re about to lie to me, Arlo,” I reminded her calmly.

She looked down at the floor, having forgotten that detail.

One of my shadows grabbed a towel off the counter and put it in my hand and I walked over to Arlo, tilting her head up so I could wipe off the dried blood on her face.

The familiar tingles of pain spread through my fingers, but I willed my curse not to do anything to her in return, knowing she couldn’t control it.

When I felt satisfied that all the blood was off her pale skin, I threw the towel somewhere off the side.

I’d pick it up later.

Probably.

No, I wouldn’t.

Grabbing her wrist, I gently pulled her to the couch so we could eat.

“Now, you gonna give me a name or do I have to start guessing?”

She sighed, knowing that I wasn’t going to give up until I got what I wanted. “Trent Graves. Apparently, he knew the people that I ‘lived’ with, and when I didn’t give him the ‘services’ he wanted he got upset.”

I nodded, bringing my fork to my mouth.

“You know where this ‘Trent Graves’ likes to spend his time?”

She took a second as if she was thinking about whether or not she should tell me. “There’s a bar on Lynxx Avenue where he likes to get drunk and find girls.”

“Then you can consider him dead by tonight.”

The thought of someone having broken into my home was momentarily pushed to the back of my head.

Men like this Trent pissed me off, especially when Arlo was their target.

That poor girl had been through more than enough in her life, she didn’t need these assholes making her feel like nothing more than a piece of meat for them to sink their teeth in.

Something told me tonight was going to be a lot more eventful than me just getting rid of another pervert, but that didn’t mean it made the idea less appealing.

If anything, it made me want to do it more.

Chapter 4

It was almost a little sad how little effort I needed to lure that jackass right where I wanted him. To be fair, I had a feeling it would be easy.

Men, no, people always give in easily when they’re promised something pretty to ruin. They always fall for it.

Hook.

Line.

And sinker.

I had tried to convince Arlo to come with me, lord knows she more than deserved to watch the light fade from his eyes, but she refused. I had a feeling she would, even with all she’s been through, she’s too sympathetic when it comes to killing random people. I’d still record it for her, just to give her the peace of mind that the son of bitch couldn’t hurt her again.

The sound of a car pulling up outside the decrepit cathedral filled me with a sick satisfaction.

The shadows dripped from my skin like drool from a rabid dog, and with the way they were crawling up the walls they were just as hungry for blood.

It didn’t take long before the man I presumed to be Trent pushed open the doors and made his way inside.

Even if he didn’t do what he did, just from his appearance alone I knew I would’ve killed him anyway if I had met him.

His narcissism was so apparent I could practically taste its sourness in the air. And the way he held himself like some exquisite marionette whose strings could never be cut annoyed me to no end.

He walks to the middle of the altar space, his voice bouncing off the barren and charred walls.

“Hello?”

I didn’t answer.

The doors slammed shut behind him with a heavy thud, the sound making him jump like a cat in a thunderstorm.

He paused, noticing something was off.

Finally.

Slowly, I emerged from behind one of the broken columns.

His eyes landed on me immediately, moving up and down as if trying to memorize my figure.

Exactly how men like him always looked at me, like I was a prize made solely for their gazes.

“Damn,” he said with a crooked. “Didn’t expect you to be this hot.”

I tilted my head slightly. “You Trent?”

“Depends,” he said, stepping closer to me. “Who’s asking?”

“A friend of someone you hurt.”

That grin faltered only slightly.

I watched the exact moment his confusion became suspicion.

“You’ve got the wrong guy,” he responded quickly.

My shadows stirred.

“I don’t think I do. You ever meet a girl named Arlo? Pale, thin, blonde hair?”

The color drained from his face as he took a step back.

There it is.

Recognition.

Entitlement.

Fear.

“Look,” he tried to explain, raising his hand in surrender. “that bitch was asking for–”

The shadows slammed against the walls, making the entire cathedral tremble with the force.

He froze, his eyes wide.

“What the hell–”

“You broke her rib,” I said quietly. Even though she healed before she came over, I had gotten her to tell me exactly what he did to her.

The darkness at my feet inched towards him.

Slow.

Deliberate.

“You made her bleed.”

The first tendril of shadow wrapped around his ankle.

He tried to step back. He couldn’t move.

“Wait–”

“People like you,” I continued calmly, “always think you're the predator.”

More shadows climbed his legs.

His breathing turned ragged.

“What are you—”

“But tonight,” I said softly,

“You’re just prey.”

The shadows dug in.

His scream filled the cathedral.

Flashback

I could always tell when something didn’t belong, no matter how little it stood out.

This girl stood out like a sinner at Sunday service. She didn’t belong anywhere.

She sat outside the gas station, bare feet on hot pavement and clutching a thin grey hoodie around her as if it was a lifeline. Her eyes darted around constantly–watching the road, the parking lot, the sky–as if something was going to jump out at her at any second.

People walked past her.

Nobody stopped.

I almost didn’t either.

Almost.

But there was something about the way she stood there, tense like a stray dog with its haunches pulled back waiting for a threat.

I couldn’t leave her there.

“You’re going to burn your feet like that,” I stated.

She flinched like I shouted.

Her eyes snapped up to mine.

Wild. Hollow. Terrified.

And suddenly, I was positive of two things:

One, she hadn’t slept in days.

Second, whatever she ran from was still living in her head.

Up close she looked even worse. Dirt was smudged across her cheeks, dark circles were carved under her eyes, and her hair was uneven like someone hacked through it with dull scissors. The oversized hoodie she wore hung off her shoulders like it was never supposed to be on her in the first place.

And she really was barefoot.

“You’re going to burn your feet like that,” I said again, nodding toward the pavement.

She glanced down like she’d forgotten.

For just a second she looked confused. Then embarrassed.

“I’m sorry,” she said quickly.

The apology came out so fast it almost overlapped itself.

I frowned.

“For what?”

Her mouth opened and closed like she didn’t have an answer but felt like she should.

People moved around us; cars pulling in and out of the gas station, someone cursing at a pump that wouldn’t work, the hum of the highway just feet away. No one paid her any attention.

Which, judging by how she continuously glanced over her shoulder, seemed to both comfort and terrify her.

“You waiting for someone?” I asked.

She shook her head.

“Do you have anywhere to go?”

Another shake.

Her fingers twisted in the fabric of the hoodie, her knuckles turning pale.

I sighed quietly.

This was exactly the kind of situation I normally walked away from. Strangers caused problems and problems caused messes. Messes had a habit of sticking to you no matter how hard you try to scrub them away.

But the girl looked like she might collapse if the wind blew too hard.

“Have you eaten today?” I questioned.

She hesitated before shaking her head once again.

Of course.

“Stay here,” I told her.

Her eyes widened immediately.

“I–I didn’t mean–I wasn’t asking–”

“I know,” I interrupted, already turning and walking toward the gas station. “Just don’t run off.”

I could practically feel her panic as I walked away, like she expected me not to come back.

Inside, the fluorescent lights buzzed overhead while I grabbed two bottles of water and a couple sandwiches from the cooler. The cashier didn’t look up when I paid.

When I stepped back outside, the girl hadn’t moved.

She was still sitting in the exact same spot, like if she moved even an inch something terrible would happen.

I handed her the sandwiches and water.

She stared at them. Then at me. Then back to them.

“You can eat them,” I said.

“I don’t have money.”

“I didn’t ask for any.”

Another pause.

Carefully, like I might pull it away, she took everything from my hand.

“Thank you,” she said quietly.

She didn’t open anything right away, she just held it.

“Seriously,” I added, nodding towards everything. “They’re not poisoned.”

That earned the smallest flicker of something across her face.

Then, slowly, she tore back the plastic.

The way she ate was cautious at first and when I didn’t tell her to stop she grew more frantic.

I leaned against the side of the building and watched the parking lot.

“You got a name?” I asked.

She swallowed quickly.

“...Arlo.”

That caught my attention.

“Arlo?”

She nodded slightly, looking nervous once again like she expected me to laugh.

I didn’t.

“Quinn,” I responded.

For a moment, neither of us spoke.

The sun dipped lower toward the horizon, staining the sky different shades of oranges and purples.

Arlo got through half the sandwich before stopping suddenly.

Her eyes moved to the road, then the treeline beyond the gas station, and then back again.

“You expecting someone?” I asked.

“No”

Too fast.

Her grip tightened around her things.

“They won’t find me,” she said suddenly, obviously more to herself than to me.

I raised an eyebrow.

“Who won’t?”

Her shoulders stiffened and silence stretched between us.

Then she shook her head. “It doesn’t matter.”

That wasn’t an answer, but it told me more than enough.

I studied her for another second: her bare feet, the shaking hands, the way she kept watching her surroundings.

Yeah. She ran from something.

Something bad.

“Alright,” I said finally, pushing myself off the wall.

Arlo looked up at me immediately.

“Do you have somewhere to sleep tonight?”

She hesitated before shaking her head again.

I sighed, “Fantastic.”

Her face fell instantly.

“I’m sorry,” she blurted out. “I didn’t mean to bother you, I just–”

“Relax.”

She stopped talking.

I rubbed the back of my neck, already regretting the decision I was about to make.

“Look,” I said, gesturing around us. “I’ve got a place not far from here.”

She looked at me like she didn’t understand where I was going with this.

“You can stay there tonight,” I added. “Shower. Sleep. Figure out what you’re doing next.”

Her eyes widened slightly.

“You would…let me?”

I shrugged.

“Don’t make it weird.”

For a second she didn’t move. Then, something in her expression cracked.

Not crying, just relief so strong it looked painful.

“...Okay,” she whispered.

I started off down the street.

After a moment, I heard soft footsteps hurrying behind me. When I glanced back, Arlo was right there.

Staying close.

Like if she lost sight of me, the world would swallow her whole.

I didn’t know it yet, but this girl would become the closest thing I had to a sister.

Chapter 5

The screaming stops. Not gradually. Not because he runs out of breath.

It ends like something decided he didn’t deserve to make noise anymore.

Silence settles over the cathedral, heavy and absolute.

The shadows don’t recede.

They should.

They always do.

Instead, they linger, threaded through what’s left of Trent’s body, curling beneath skin, pressing into bone like they’re searching for something deeper than flesh.

My fingers flex at my sides.

“Enough.”

They don’t listen. The air tightens.

Pressure builds behind my ribs, slow and deliberate, like something inside me is resisting the command.

I pull harder.

For a moment, nothing happens.

Then, inch by inch, the shadows begin to withdraw.

Reluctant.

Dragging.

Unwilling to let go.

That’s new.

I don’t look at what’s left of him when his body hits the floor. There’s no reason to.

It’s over.

Or it should be.

“You’re letting it feed longer than necessary.”

The voice cuts cleanly through the silence.

Not loud.

Not sharp.

Controlled.

My body stills.

The shadows still with it.

Not defensive.

Not aggressive.

Waiting.

I turn.

He stands across the cathedral, partially obscured by the fractured remains of a column, like he’s been there long enough to belong to the ruin itself.

Watching.

Not cautious.

Not tense.

My gaze narrows.

“How long have you been there?”

A brief pause.

His attention shifts, not to me, but past me, to the body on the floor.

Assessing.

Then back.

“Long enough.”

Something in my chest tightens.

Not fear.

Recognition.

I take a step forward.

The shadows follow slower than they should.

“You’ve seen what you needed to see,” I say. “Leave.”

He doesn’t move.

“I don’t think I have.”

The space between us feels…off.

Like the air itself is being measured.

I study him more carefully now.

No visible weapon. No tension in his stance. No sign that he understands exactly how close he is to dying.

And yet my shadows don’t strike.

They shift.

Subtle.

Almost imperceptible.

Toward him.

My jaw tightens.

“Most people don’t get a second warning.”

“And most people,” he replies evenly, “aren’t you.”

The words don’t provoke.

They settle.

Like he’s stating something already proven.

I stop a few feet from him.

Close enough to see clearly. Closer than I should be.

“Who are you?” I ask.

His gaze lowers briefly, tracking the faint movement of shadow along my hands, before lifting again.

“A better question,” he says, “is why your power recognizes me.”

The shadows react.

Not outward.

Like something just shifted beneath the surface.

Cold slides down my spine.

“You’re talking about something you don’t understand,” I say.

A slight tilt of his head. Measured.

“I understand enough.”

Behind me, the shadows move again.

Not violently.

Not defensively.

They adjust.

Positioning.

Like they’re waiting for instruction but not from me.

My focus sharpens.

Still nothing.

Silence stretches as the shadows coil tighter at my feet, finally responding.

“Who are you?”

Another pause.

“I was curious.”

The answer is too simple. Too clean.

I watch him more carefully now.

The way he stands.

The way he looks at me.

Not like prey.

Not like a threat.

Like a variable.

“Curiosity gets people killed,” I say.

“Usually,” he agrees.

A beat.

“But you’re not predictable enough for that outcome.”

My pulse ticks once.

Sharp.

Behind me, the shadows shift again.

Closer to him.

Not attacking.

Not retreating.

Observing.

That’s when I feel it.

Not in the room.

Not in him.

In them.

Uncertainty.

My shadows don’t hesitate. They don’t question. They don’t wait. Except now.

“Back,” I say quietly.

They don’t move.

The temperature drops. Subtle. Deliberate.

The kind of cold that doesn’t touch skin, it settles deeper than that.

I don’t look away from him.

“You’re being watched,” he says.

My expression doesn’t change.

But the shadows tighten around my feet.

Not outward.

Not aggressive.

Contained.

“By who?” I ask.

A pause.

“Not who.”

His gaze holds mine.

Steady.

Unwavering.

“What.”

The word lands heavier than it should. Like it belongs to something bigger than the room.

The cathedral feels smaller.

Quieter.

The shadows shift again but this time, it isn’t hunger driving them.

It’s awareness.

For the first time in a long time I'm not certain I’m the most dangerous thing here.

But one way or another, if push comes to shove, I will be the only one coming out alive

INTERLUDE: THE SABLE LINE -- SUBJECT: QUINN HARLOW SYKES

There is no visible trigger. No spoken word. No ritual. No dramatic flare of light or shadow. Quinn Harlow Sykes does not activate her power. It is already awake. The ability tied to the Sable Line is often mischaracterized as control–over minds, over bodies, over fear itself. That assumption is incorrect. Control implies distance. It suggests the wielder stands apart from the thing being manipulated. Quinn does not stand apart. She enters. At its core, her power functions through emotional infiltration.

Every living person emits a constant, low-frequency current of feeling–subconscious, unguarded, and involuntary. Fear hums differently than desire. Grief has weight. Anger burns hot and erratic. Most people remain blissfully unaware of this internal broadcast. Quinn is not most people. She perceives emotion the way others perceive temperature: immediate, directional, undeniable. A crowded room is not noise to her–it is a layered landscape of sensation. Threads of panic, flickers of attraction, dull, lingering sorrow. Each distinct. Each traceable. Each reachable.

Contact is not required. Proximity helps, but it is not essential. Line of sight accelerates the process. Physical touch makes resistance nearly impossible. But Quinn’s power does not rely on any of these things. It relies on recognition.The moment she identifies an emotion within someone–truly identifies it, isolates it–she can follow it back to its source. And once she finds it, she can open it.

This is where the distinction becomes dangerous. Quinn does not plant emotions. She amplifies what is already there. A flicker of unease becomes suffocating dread. Mild irritation fractures into blinding rage. A buried attraction–ignored, denied–can be dragged violently to the surface until it consumes every rational thought. She does not create monsters. She reveals them. The process is not instantaneous. There is a progression–subtle at first. A shift in breathing. A hesitation in speech. The body trying, instinctively, to correct something it cannot name. By the time her target realizes something is wrong, the emotion has already deepened its roots. It spreads inward, curling around memory and instinct, feeding itself. Quinn only needs to nudge. After that, the human mind does the rest.

Resistance is possible. But only under specific conditions. A person must first recognize that the emotion they are experiencing is not entirely their own–or rather, not entirely natural in its intensity. Even then, resistance requires discipline, self-awareness, and, most importantly, emotional control. Very few people possess all three. Even fewer can maintain them under pressure.

There are limits. Quinn cannot fabricate what does not exist. If there is no fear, she cannot create it from nothing. If there is no desire, she cannot force it into being. But absence is rare. There is always something. A doubt. A memory. A fleeting thought someone didn’t linger on long enough to examine. That is enough. It is always enough. The longer she maintains contact–direct or indirect–the deeper the effect becomes. Surface emotions are easy to manipulate, but temporary. Deeper ones require time.

Given enough of it, Quinn can entangle herself in the foundation of a person’s psyche–where emotion and identity blur together. At that point, the distinction between what is theirs and what is hers begins to collapse. This is where lasting damage occurs. Not bruises. Not visible wounds. Fractures. The kind that do not heal cleanly. There is a cost. Not in the way most would expect. Quinn does not weaken with use. She does not bleed or collapse or burn out. The cost is exposure. To manipulate emotion, she must feel it first. Not vaguely. Not distantly. Completely. Every fear she touches passes through her. Every grief lingers, if only for a moment. Every violent impulse, every desperate craving, every quiet, crushing insecurity–she experiences them as if they are her own. And then she lets them go. Or at least, she is supposed to.

Over time, the line between borrowed emotion and genuine feeling erodes. It becomes harder to tell where Quinn ends and everyone else begins. Harder to know if the anger in her chest is hers–or something she picked up hours ago and never fully released. Harder to tell if the hunger she feels is natural. Or inherited. This is why members of the Sable Line are feared. Not because they can control people. But because, eventually they stop needing to. Quinn does not always use her power with intention. Sometimes, it leaks. A glance held a second too long. A thought sharpened unconsciously. A feeling, caught and pulled without meaning to. People leave her presence changed, even when she does nothing at all. And the most dangerous part? She is still learning where her limits are.

There is a second aspect to Quinns’ ability. Less understood. Less controlled. Infinitely more dangerous. Where her primary ability allows her to enter others, this one ensures nothing enters her without consequence. The shadows come first. They are not always visible. Not to everyone. In low light, they gather at her feet–subtle at first, no more than a trick of the eye. A distortion. A deepening of darkness where there should be none. But they are not bound to light. They are bound to intent.

The moment harm is directed toward her–true harm, deliberate and carried with emotional weight–the shadows respond. Not defensively. Reflexively. They do not block. They do not shield. They translate. Every action taken against Quinn is filtered through the same mechanism that allows her to manipulate emotion: recognition, identification, amplification. But this time, she is not the one reaching outward. The power turns inward–then violently outward again. Pain does not land on her the way it should. It is taken, processed, and returned. Magnified. A shove becomes bone-deep impact. A cut deepens into something catastrophic. A strike fueled by anger fractures with the force of that anger multiplied. Not twice. Not proportionally. Exponentially.

It is not the action that determines the retaliation. It is the feeling behind it. A hesitant attack, laced with doubt, may falter–its return uneven, unstable. But an attack driven by rage? By hatred? By the desire to dominate, to hurt, to destroy? Those are the ones that come back unrecognizable. Because Quinn does not just reflect force. She reflects intent. And intent, when amplified, becomes something far more volatile than the original act. This is why distance does not guarantee safety. Even indirect harm–planned, ordered, orchestrated–carries emotional residue. If the intent can be traced, it can be answered.

The shadows do not need a clear path. They follow the same threads Quinn does. And they do not miss. There are limits. Not all harm triggers a response. Accidents pass through untouched. Careless collisions, unintended injuries–these do not carry the necessary weight. The power does not recognize them as threats. It requires choice. The conscious decision to cause harm. But once that threshold is crossed there is no stopping it. Quinn does not control this aspect of her ability in the same way she controls the rest. There is no careful modulation. No precise adjustment. The process is automatic. Immediate. Final. And like everything tied to the Sable Line it is not without cost. Because in order to return the harm, she must first take it in. For a fraction of a second–sometimes longer–she feels everything that was meant for her. The pain. The force. The intention behind it. Not dulled. Not softened. Fully realized. And in that moment, the line blurs again. Between what was meant for her and what she chooses to give back. The shadows do not simply act as a conduit. They are shaped by her. By her restraint. By her anger. By the things she refuses to feel and the things she doesn’t.

If she is calm, the return is precise. Clean. Efficient. If she is not the amplification does not stop where it should. There have been instances–rare, undocumented–where the retaliation exceeded even the original emotional weight behind the attack. Where something small became something irreversible. Where the shadows did not just punish–they consumed. This is the inherent flaw in the Sable Line. Not the power itself. But the fact that it is tied so deeply to emotion. In someone who was never taught how to separate herself from it. Quinn Harlow Sykes is not simply difficult to harm. She is dangerous to try.

Her ability rewards precision--but it thrives on indulgence. The more she uses it, the easier it becomes. The easier it becomes, the less she hesitates. And hesitation is the only thing that has ever kept her intact. When Quinn overuses her ability--knowingly, repeatedly, without pause--the consequences do not appear immediately. They accumulate. Quietly. The first symptom is emotional saturation.

Every emotion she takes in leaves a residue. Normally, it fades--bleeds off, dissolves into nothing. But with repeated use in a short span of time, that process fails. Feelings begin to overlap. Stack. Tangle. Fear does not leave before anger arrives. Desire lingers beneath grief. Rage coils through everything. At a certain threshold, Quinn can no longer distinguish which emotions are hers. This is where mistakes begin. She may escalate the wrong feeling. Push too hard. Pull too deep. Not because she intends to, but because she cannot tell the difference anymore. And when Quinn misjudges people break. The second consequence is feedback instability.

Her power is built on amplification. Under normal conditions, it follows a controlled curve--measured, intentional. But with overuse, that curve fractures. Amplification becomes unpredictable. Inconsistent. Violent. A minor emotion may surge far beyond expectation. A controlled nudge may spiral into something uncontrollable. The shadows--once precise--begin to react with disproportionate force. The system stops obeying her. And starts feeding itself. This is when the distinction between offense and defense collapses. The third consequence is sensory bleed.

Quinn does not just feel emotions when she uses her ability excessively. She begins to perceive them constantly. Even without trying--She hears them. Sees them. Tastes them. A crowded space becomes unbearable. Not because of noise– But because every person in it is too loud in ways no one else can perceive. Sleep offers no relief. Dreams are no longer her own. They are fragments--borrowed fears, desires, pain--cycling endlessly without context. Rest becomes impossible. And without rest control deteriorates further. The fourth consequence is identity erosion.

This is the most dangerous stage. And the least reversible. The longer Quinn operates in a state of saturation, the more her sense of self begins to fragment. Her reactions stop aligning with her thoughts. Her thoughts stop aligning with her intention. She may feel something intensely and not know why. Or worse, She may not feel something she should. Empathy becomes distorted. Selective. Weaponized, even when she does not intend it to be. At this point, Quinn is no longer just influencing others. She is being influenced by everyone she has touched. And the final consequence--the one no one in the Sable Line speaks about--Is permanence.

If she pushes far enough, if she continues to take and take and take without release, some emotions do not leave. They settle. Anchor. Become part of her. Not as memories. Not as echoes. But as something indistinguishable from her own nature. This is how members of the Sable Line change over time. Not suddenly. Not dramatically.But piece by piece. Until what remains is no longer entirely them. Quinn is not immune to this.In fact, she is closer to that threshold than she realizes. Because unlike others before her, she does not fear what she might become. And that lack of fear--more than the power itself--is what makes her dangerous.