Chapter Eight: First Case
Selene's House, Edge of Detroit, Michigan
April 22, 2002 – 9:17 A.M.
The door creaked, and Jay stepped in with her backpack slung low and a storm on her face. Her hair was pulled tight, and her eyes looked like she hadn't slept, but her shoulders carried a different weight—determination stitched to frustration.
Keshaun was cross-legged on the floor, a pencil behind his ear, half a page of sigils scrawled on the notebook Selene made him keep. He looked up, eyebrow cocked. "Aye. You look like you fought twelve niggas and lost to all of 'em. What happened?"
Jay dropped her bag onto the couch. "My dad." The two words bled with exhaustion.
Selene glanced up from her tea at the table, the steam curling in lazy spirals. "He did not believe you."
"No." Jay shook her head hard. "I told him everything—about Hugh, the curse, the entity. He just… stared at me like I'd lost my mind." Her voice cracked, angry more than sad. "He said if this is real, then you—" she pointed to Selene, sharp—"you should be the one to explain it. Not me. Not…" she hesitated, eyes darting to Keshaun, "…not a kid."
Keshaun's lips curled. "Wow. Nigga want a PowerPoint presentation from the witch instead of his own daughter? That's cold."
"He's not… bad." Jay rubbed her forehead. "He's just practical. He thinks I'm being manipulated. Said if someone older, more credible, could explain it—then maybe he'd listen."
Selene's mouth pressed into a thin line. "Older, yes. Credible, perhaps. But fathers who will not hear their own children rarely change their minds because another woman speaks. Still—" she set her cup down gently—"I will go."
Keshaun snorted. "Good luck. If he talks slick, I'm swingin'."
Selene's eyes narrowed, amused but sharp. "You will not swing. You will sit. And you will let me do the talking."
Suburban Detroit, Marshall Residence
April 22, 2002 – 7:02 P.M.
The Marshall house was a world apart from Selene's creaking wards and Detroit's cracked sidewalks. Brick front, neat lawn, warm lights glowing through clean windows. Inside, the study smelled of leather chairs, wood polish, and a faint cologne that clung like authority.
Jay's father sat behind a desk stacked with neat folders and a crystal tumbler of bourbon. Gray flecked his temples, and his gaze was sharp in the way of a man who measured investments by risk, not sentiment. When Jay led Selene and Keshaun in, he leaned back, skeptical from the start.
"So," he said flatly, eyes on Selene. "You're the one my daughter claims can… explain this."
Selene didn't flinch. She stepped forward, hands folded, voice steady as a blade. "Your daughter is not lying. The world she described exists. It always has. Humans walk one narrow street and believe it is the entire city. But there are alleys, tunnels, heights above and depths below. You do not see them because you have chosen not to look."
Jay's father scoffed softly. "Sounds like poetry, not proof."
Selene raised one finger. The air in the room shifted—soft, then undeniable. A candle flame on the shelf bent toward her hand. The bourbon in his glass rippled as if the room itself held its breath. On the desk, the wood grain lifted faintly, forming a sigil that glowed white before fading back to nothing.
Jay's father's knuckles went white around the glass. "What the hell—"
"Not hell," Selene said calmly. "Nature. Force. The current that holds your world together. Call it what you wish. But deny it at your peril."
Keshaun, leaning against the bookshelf, smirked. "Still think your daughter makin' shit up?"
Silence stretched. Finally, Jay's father exhaled, long and heavy. "If this is real—then it's dangerous."
"Yes," Selene said. "That is why we build walls, wards, and names. Not to hide. To protect."
He looked at Jay, something soft breaking through the fear. Then back at Selene. "You want money. Resources. Why?"
Keshaun stepped forward this time, voice sharp. "Because normal people get eaten while y'all pretend monsters are fairy tales. We're gonna stop that. And we're gonna train the ones who don't belong anywhere so they stop turnin' into the same shit you scared of."
Jay's father rubbed his jaw. Fear flickered behind his eyes—but also calculation. "You'll need more than my money."
"Then bring your friends," Selene said. "Quiet ones. Discreet. Those who invest in shadows without needing to shine light on them."
He was silent for a long time, then nodded. "I'll fund your organization. Start-up capital, a safehouse property, equipment. I'll see if I can find others willing to invest privately." His eyes flicked to Keshaun again. "But understand me: if you're playing me—"
"I ain't," Keshaun cut in. "You just signed the paperwork on the truth."
Montage – One Week Later
April 29, 2002
Selene's House: Chalk lines and fresh wards glowed faint on the thresholds. Selene muttered chants under her breath, weaving protections into the walls of their safehouse.
Basement: Hugh hauled crates of salt, rope, flashlights, and canned food, muttering complaints but never stopping.
Living Room: Jay hunched over her laptop, headphones around her neck, code filling the screen as she built the site—clean, minimal, efficient. Her eyes burned with sleepless focus.
Backyard: Keshaun trained, hoodie drenched in sweat. Force Push cracked cinderblocks. Force Light flickered faint around his fists before sputtering out. He shook his hands, breathing hard, then grinned.
By week's end, they sat together at the table. Jay spun her laptop around. The website gleamed: S.H.I.E.L.D. — Supernatural Help, Intervention, and Emergency Liaison Division. A simple message scrolled across the front page: If you are in danger from the unnatural, we will listen.
"It's live," Jay said, pride cutting through her exhaustion. "First case submissions already rolling in."