Ethan sat at the table, pinching a small cupcake Max had left that morning.
The frosting had melted a little, but the sweetness was perfect.
He nibbled while replaying last night's strange sensation.
What the hell happened? Even if I'd really run out of holy light, my brain shouldn't have short-circuited.
Before heading to Williamsburg Diner he'd only felt tired—nothing else.
But later something had crept into his mind, blurring his thoughts, making him babble—like being drunk, only worse; his very consciousness had been hijacked.
He rubbed his temples; that soul-overdraft feeling still lingered.
'Magic-exhaustion backlash?' Never heard of it.
'If priests go nuts the second they're out of mana, who'd dare run a raid?'
When holy light runs dry you just get weak—why would it drive you insane?
He finished the cake, still clueless.
He walked into the bathroom, turned the tap, and splashed cold water on his face; the chill helped clear his head.
Watching the water swirl down the drain, he wondered, 'Don't tell me my brain actually flooded?'
He froze.
'Crap.'
Realization struck: whatever it was, it hadn't come from outside—it had already been inside him.
Besides holy light, what other power did he carry?
Shadow.
A priest can wield both Light and Shadow. Light comes from faith.
Shadow issues from the Void—negative, chaotic, tormented, maddening cosmic force, Light's exact opposite.
A priest channeling both treads a razor's edge, forever balancing light against dark.
That balance is fragile; madness lies one misstep away.
Last night had felt like a tipping point.
He opened his palm and tried a healing spell.
A faint glimmer flickered out.
Next, Shadow Word: Pain—black mist coiled steadily at his fingertips.
Confirmed.
Great: once holy light burns out, Shadow gets an open invitation.
Had the Void Lords been watching everyone who still wielded shadow?
Understanding brought no relief. After years in this world, having used Shadow so often, he now knew madness—and servitude to the Void Lords—awaited him.
Regret was pointless; from now on he'd ration holy light like a miser.
It was almost noon; Ethan decided to skip the clinic.
The perk of being the boss: you can simply not show—especially if a couple of hardworking employees are still raking in cash.
With time to kill, he wandered through Max's living room.
The room was small but far neater than he'd expected.
The air still carried faint vanilla, last night's cupcake sweetness, and a whiff of detergent.
Against the wall the fold-out bed was down, dressed in eye-searing pink sheets.
Two pillows sat neatly at the head, plus a cylindrical body pillow in the middle.
He lifted the bed's edge, admiring the metal frame and hinges—brilliant space-saving design.
A random thought popped up: 'If Caroline brings a boyfriend home, do they just use the living room?'
Magazines, bills, and a chewed-up pen littered the coffee table.
Sticky notes lined the wall: "Owe Caroline 50 bucks," "Don't forget the oven," "Bill day = Doomsday," and a big red "DON'T DIE."
The red velvet sofa dominated the room—rich as cake, strewn with rainbow cushions and a blanket.
He stepped to the kitchen: flour, sugar, cocoa, and a mixing bowl crowded the counter.
In the corner sat the oven: yellowed, cracked, taped shut with a note: "Don't mess with it—it's trying its best."
'She churns out hundreds of cupcakes a day with this relic?' he marveled.
Two trays per batch meant at least four or five daily rounds.
He stared, lost in thought.
Images from last night surfaced—Max closing early, leaving Caroline to run the diner alone, staying home to nurse him, even giving up her bed.
All grumbles, no hesitation.
'In the state I was in, she still didn't kick me out—miracle,' he murmured.
Thinking of Caroline soloing the whole dinner shift made him feel guilty.
'They're already busting their butts and I made it worse.'
He shook the thought off and left the apartment.
Sunlight flooded the street as he pictured a new oven:
'Maybe not a hundred at once, but fifty, even heat, smart presets…'
Williamsburg Diner. Ethan stepped inside; the doorbell chimed.
Caroline looked up from the ledger, grinning.
'Hey, Ethan, you look way better—at least not corpse-black anymore.'
He smiled. 'Saw your bed in the living room—nice taste.'
Max emerged from the kitchen: 'Doc, here to eat or to sleepwalk?'
'Came to apologize—for last night's mess.'
Max raised an eyebrow. 'Mess? You nearly died on my chest while Caroline ran the place solo till she dropped.'
'I know. You nursed me all night and I hijacked your bed.'
'Good you realize it. So—dizzy spells? Sudden IQ nosedives?'
'All gone. Just a bit weak—holy-light over—uh, low blood sugar.'
Max winced. 'Don't say "overdraft" in front of Caroline.'
'Right—low blood sugar. Anyway, I've got news.'
'You want me off early again?' she asked, instantly wary.
'Nope. I ordered you a new oven—install team comes this afternoon.'
'Are you insane? Those things cost a fortune—why, planning to keep me?'
'Yours is ancient. A new one lets you sleep in instead of baking in shifts.'
'That oven's my battle buddy—slow, sparky, but faithful.'
'Fine. Name the new one "Baking Booty Call," then.'