"Love was never soft for me. It came with claws." — Almond
Aren was losing time.
One second, he'd be in the shower. The next, he'd be across the room, staring into a cracked mirror, hand bleeding from where his knuckles met glass. The lights flickered. The radio whispered her name. His own apartment had become a haunted thing—haunted not by ghosts, but by memory.
And Almond's voice…
It didn't leave him.
"Bleed for it."
"You don't own me."
"I am the flame."
He hadn't slept in two days. He didn't want to.
Because every time he closed his eyes, she was there—dripping in black lace and silver blades, laughing at something only she understood. And every time he woke up, something else was missing.
First it was time.
Then it was reality.
Now?
His control.
Meanwhile, across the city, Almond wasn't sleeping either.
She was burning.
Magic curled in her palms like smoke. Her fingers twitched with need. Her veins pulsed with old language. The kind her mother used to whisper under her breath when she thought Almond was asleep. The kind carved into her bones long before she ever kissed a boy.
She stood in the center of the penthouse's rooftop garden. Naked under the moonlight, her tattoo glowing faintly along her spine. Flowers withered around her feet.
Tonight was a summoning.
But she wasn't summoning a demon.
She was calling the past.
The spell was dangerous—illegal, even. Meant to crack open memory sealed by trauma. Almond had avoided it for years. She didn't want to remember Kairo's last words. Didn't want to know who took him. Didn't want to feel the softness she'd carved out of her heart like rot.
But now?
She needed answers.
Because someone had left his sketchbook in her mailbox.
Drawings of her hands, just like before.
And a fresh page—dated yesterday.
The circle lit.
The air howled.
And then—a scream.
Hers.
She dropped to her knees as pain licked her ribs. Fire rose from her throat. Her eyes turned black. And then…
A flash.
Kairo.
On the church rooftop. Hands bound. Mouth gagged.
A symbol burning on his chest:
"Property of the Prophet."
And behind him? A man in gold rings. Laughing.
Aren.
Almond jolted back.
Sweating. Shaking. Breathing like a drowning thing.
No. No. It couldn't be. That had to be wrong. Magic twists memory. Visions lie. Aren couldn't have—
"Don't trust him," a voice whispered in her ear.
She whipped around.
No one.
Except the cigarette she left burning on the ledge… was now gone. Smoked to ash.
Across town:
Aren sat in a motel room. His shirt was off. His chest was bruised. He didn't remember who hit him.
Or why he liked it.
He stared at the mirror, breath hitching.
And there—carved in the condensation—
"KAIRO LIVES."
He punched the glass. Blood sprayed. His knees buckled.
"What the fuck is happening to me?"
And from the corner of the room, where the light refused to reach… something moved.
A whisper, deep and wrong:
"You let her in."
Back at Almond's place, she slipped into black jeans and a leather top. Piercing studs glinting under her lip—she hadn't worn them in years. Not since the last time she hunted someone who hurt her.
She pulled the chain belt tight.
"Game on."