Catty was back—but this time, she crawled in under the tape.
She ducked beneath the Sonster perimeter like a guilty thought, tugging a patched-up backpack behind her that rattled with charms, sticks of incense, scribbled notes, and spell scrap. Her frame was slight, almost painfully petite, like someone who hadn't quite caught up with herself—but still pretty in that uncanny, feral way. All sharp cheekbones, soft lips, and feline grace. She didn't look human, not even close, but she wore beauty like a dare. Full cat features: soft muzzle lines around her face, delicate whiskers, and pointed ears that twitched like radar dishes. Always wiry and coiled like she expected to be chased.
Her midnight tail twitched with every movement, and her eyes—replaced with the latest hologram tech—blinked like projectors on standby. Each time her lashes closed, a list of holographic forms flickered into the air: permissions, transfer requests, spiritual waivers. Some glowed with federal marks for cross-realm custody, others were marked 'home only' with embedded charm locks. She blinked again, projecting the ones Nightingale would need to file before dusk. Her ears flicked toward every whisper in the air, every side-glance from Sonster officials in long coats who pretended not to watch her. But she knew better. She was on probation, and every step she took was being measured, judged.
"I brought talismans," she said quickly, holding out a bundle stitched in twine and guilt. "Stabilizers for the doll chamber. Thought they could use... fortifying."
Nightingale didn't look at her, not right away. She was focused on the containment field surrounding the tent. The dolls inside glowed faintly under the humming electric fence—each one pulsing like a small, dreaming world.
"You want to help," Nightingale finally said, her voice respectful and firm, "but that doesn't make you trusted."
Catty nodded quickly, ears twitching with nerves. "Y-yeah, I know. That's why I signed the process papers. I—I wanna earn it, ma'am. I wanna be a real Sonster one day. Even if I mess up, I'll learn. I promise."
That got Nightingale's attention. She turned slowly, eyes narrowing—not in suspicion, but something closer to reluctant respect.
Then she bent down, leveling herself to Catty's height. Close enough that the flicker in her golden eyes felt like a warning torch.
"You want in?" she asked, voice quiet but sharp as a ritual blade. "Then tell me—what exactly did I do to those blurs?"
"Yeah," Catty said, blinking fast, eyes darting to the talismans in her hands. Her voice came out unsure, like she was reaching for the right answer in a room full of wrong ones. "Um... I think you stabilized their echoes? Like, layered a false harmonic over their rupture trails so they wouldn't keep splitting? Or—was it, uh, you tuned their remnants with chime threads? I... I read up, but I wasn't sure which method you'd use on a group that traumatized. I guessed."
Nightingale watched her for a long, silent second—measuring the hesitation, the nervous twitch of her tail, the way she kept glancing at the fence.
"Good enough," she said finally, standing tall again. Her tone wasn't soft, but something in it relented. "You might make it, kid."
It wasn't unheard of. The Sonster ranks allowed initiates, but rarely. Especially from outside their old cities, their bloodlines, their upbringing. People who weren't raised in the community had to go through the long route—trial years, temp contracts, multi-realm vetting, oath relics.
Hashers didn't care. Sonters did. Think of it like the difference between a global intel agency and a domestic enforcement group—Sonsters and Sonters handled similar matters—containment, exorcisms, magical intervention—but their methods and codes were drastically different. Think of Sonters as the FBI: localized, bound by ancient jurisdictions, deeply ceremonial. Sonsters? More like the CIA with ancient contracts and interdimensional reach. Both were intense. Both had layers. But Sonsters were looser, often seen as too flexible. Sonters followed rules like scripture. And just like that, Sonters had protocols—complicated, sacred, rigid. Sonsters? Not always.
That's why most of them called Sonsters subby behind closed doors.
Even though Nightingale didn't trust her—not really—she respected the decision. Catty could've taken the Sonter route. Easier, flashier. Like joining the main force instead of applying for an elite, slow-kill unit. Choosing the Sonster way meant giving up the shortcut. And that wasn't something most did lightly.
But still she stood there, holding talismans. Trying.
That's when a reporter ducked past the barrier—young, hungry, mic already hot. "Ma'am! Miss Nightingale! Can we get a statement on the blur incident?"
Nightingale didn't flinch. She turned slow, adjusted the waistband of her sweats and gave them her best hardboiled stare and gave them her best hardboiled stare. "We can't comment on this case yet," she said, voice flat as steel. "But we'll have the full story when it's ready. Right now, we're focusing on making sure everything is stabilized—and that folks can start healing."
The reporter frowned, frustrated, but backed off. They knew that tone. Knew they weren't getting anything else. Lucky for them, they were seasoned enough to understand that patience had its perks. First to ask meant first rights to review, and in the world of network politics, that was a trade secret worth its weight in exclusive footage.
Behind her, Catty finished securing the talismans, gently tucking each doll into the containment box with a soft cloth cover. She turned, expecting Nightingale to nod or gesture. Instead, the woman took the box straight from her hands.
"You've been assigned time off," Nightingale said, her tone softer than usual—like a steel door cracked open just an inch.
Catty blinked, her ears twitching and tail giving a slight flick of confusion. "Time off? This was my first case." Her nose scrunched like she was catching a whiff of nonsense, but she kept her posture straight, like a kitten trying to impress a lion.
"Exactly. That's why," Nightingale said, looking her in the eye for a beat. "You did good, kid. Took it seriously. You deserve a breather."
She handed over a small folded note. "And make sure you sign up for every travel and gas point program you can think of. The company's about to set up a bank account in your name. Business and personal. That means paperwork. Mountains of it. Might as well earn while you learn."
Catty gave a tiny salute with two fingers, her tail flicking behind her. "I guess I'll go do my money homework now," she muttered, half to herself, half as a goodbye. Her tone was tragic like a kid realizing recess was over forever. With a dramatic sigh and a low grumble about tax forms sounding like hexes, she turned and padded off toward the transport lot.
Nightingale stayed until the last evidence tag was collected, the last doll zipped in containment, and the last ghost signature blinked out from the monitors. The scene had been scrubbed down with professional precision—no scorch marks, no crying parents, no whispers of the garden's burn. Just the hollow hum of finality.
Only then did the low, smooth purr of a limo pull up to the edge of the tape line. The vehicle gleamed under the shifting skyline, chrome kissed with neon reflections.
The back door swung open, and out stepped a man who looked like he belonged to another world—and maybe he did. His skin was smooth, copper-toned, but painted from neck to wrist with intricate skeleton tattoos, glowing softly in lantia hues. His face bore symmetrical markings like a sugar skull mask—every line intentional, ceremonial, and proud. His fashion screamed old-school elegance with a Día de los Muertos twist—slick black suit, gold-threaded embroidery, and a rose pinned to his lapel. He looked like a celebration made human: part myth, part menace, all style.
He gave a low bow, his smile wide and charming, then opened the door with a practiced flair.
Nightingale paused, her gaze sweeping the shadows for stragglers or onlookers. For a second, her mask cracked—just slightly—as she stepped in close. Her heart ticked a beat faster, something warm and old stirring beneath her stern exterior. When she was sure no one was watching, she leaned in and gave him a quick, familiar kiss on the cheek, the kind you only give someone who's held you together once or twice when no one else could.
"Where's the usual driver?" she asked, arching a brow, already pulling her composure back into place like a coat over a flame.
Sebastian flashed a grin, all gold teeth and charm, the kind of smile that could either calm a room or start a fire. "Gave him the night off," he replied smoothly. "Figured I'd swing by myself. Plus..."—he nodded toward the dolls—"we've got new folks joining the community."
He rolled his neck, joints popping in rhythm. "You remember when I joined? Took damn near a decade—but you were there. Every cursed step. I was surprised y'all didn't judge me for joining that way."
Nightingale shrugged, her expression softening. "We're pretty open. Got more respect for folks like you who clawed their way in. When you finally pass, it means more. We had the easy route."
Then she stepped into the limo beside the skeleton man, the door shutting softly behind her as the vehicle rolled back into the fog.
Catty stared after it, ears perked, eyes wide, tail twitching. Whatever came next... it was gonna be big.
Though she never truly left toward her ride. She lingered in the shadow of the lot, phone in hand, tracking their limo's signal with quiet precision. Her tail flicked once more as she turned to a small cluster of plant-based beings dripping violet sap and murmured, "The children are in route."
Meanwhile, inside the limo, Sebastian had switched the car into autodrive mode. The dolls had been carefully placed in the back of the limo's rear storage bay, leaving the cabin quiet and private. Nightingale leaned back, one leg draped across his lap, her boots off as he gently rubbed her feet. The silence was a balm, his thumbs working over the tension she never admitted to having.
"I was thinking," Sebastian said matter-of-factly, "maybe we should train this new batch ourselves. Bring them in, properly. Into our household."
Nightingale cracked open one eye, brows lifting. She sat up a bit. It wasn't just about training—it was about raising. About adopting. About making room in their already stretched-thin lives.
"We've been trying," she said, her voice tinged with quiet worry. "Trying and missing."
"Yeah. But... maybe it's time we stop waiting for the stars to align. Just try again. Not for a perfect kid, not for the ones we lost. For the ones here now."
Nightingale looked out the tinted window, weighing the ache in her chest. She'd offered before. He'd said they'd be fine without. She wasn't against it—never was. But it hurt more when he changed his mind without saying why.
"What's different now?" she asked.
Sebastian paused, his hand stilling on her ankle. "I saw a couple in that batch... their fate lines shimmered in a way that matched ours. Like echoes. Like they were meant to cross paths with us. And we've been putting off that mandatory rest period every Sonster hits in their career—the few years off to train, to live, to finally build something outside the mission. We kept saying we weren't ready. Maybe this is what ready looks like. We just didn't say it out loud yet."
He leaned back, eyes tracing the ceiling of the limo, then dropped his gaze and rubbed both hands down his face with a heavy exhale. His fingers dragged over tired skin, the weight of it all pulling at his shoulders. "I'm tired, Night. Of the doctors. Of the spending. We both know why it hasn't happened, and it's not you—it's me."
She turned to him, reaching for his hand. "Hey. It's okay. The magical docs said some spells take time. Some take luck. And the alien ones? They said it could take decades to grow the right clones from our DNA. We're not broken—we're just on a longer clock."
"Yeah, well, I'm from the under masses, remember? The luckless lot. Got the call today—from the magical docs. Turns out my folks didn't just drag me back from the brink—they took everything. Made me soul-sterile. No spell can fix that.
And the alien docs? They called earlier this week—before you even made that second appointment. Said they can't work with us anymore. Even with our paychecks, we can't afford the Buddha-type payment they want. And sure, the 12 Sisters program's top-tier, but you know the treaty—we ask them for treatment, we owe them a favor. And that's a favor we can't afford to owe. Not now. Not like this."
He opened the mini cooler under the seat, popped open her favorite soda from her home planet—Sunfire Nectar, still fizzing neon lavender, with a honey-spicy tang that hit like tajín on watermelon—sweet heat and a memory of summer storms. Handed it over without a word.
"I laughed, Night. Not because it was funny. Because we gave ourselves false hope. I did."
He rubbed his face again, knuckles digging into his eyes. "It was my fault then. Still is. And don't tell me you didn't know. I saw it in your eyes every time. Even when we won a mission... we still lost something. How many more times do we do this to ourselves?"
He looked at her then, the glow of the city lights painting grief across his features. "So yeah, maybe I made the call to try this way. But how long must I make your body suffer through that before I admit it's not fair to you?"
She narrowed her eyes, voice sharp. "Did you talk to my mother?"
Sebastian flinched, gaze sliding away toward the limo window. "Night... I'm sorry. But she already knew."
Her breath caught, rage flaring behind her chest. "You told my mother before me? I am your Zharen'tai! Your wife."
Before he could respond, the limo jerked violently—metal screeching, lights flaring red across the windows. The roof buckled with a thud, and the vehicle swerved. Something—or someone—had attacked.
Before he could respond, the limo jerked violently—metal screeching, lights flaring red across the windows. The roof buckled with a thud, and the vehicle swerved. Something—or someone—had attacked.
Nightingale barely had time to register the box of dolls sliding across the floor—then being yanked, root-first, through the rear panel by thick vines pulsing with unnatural life. Her eyes widened in horror.
Sebastian moved fast, throwing his body over hers just as the cabin shattered inward. Glass and twisted metal cut the air. His arms locked around her, shielding her from the worst of it.
His voice was low, ragged against her ear. "We're going to be okay. Just hold on."