Ren didn't run into the house. He stumbled.
Jian practically shoved him through the back door, scanning the darkening street one last time before slamming the bolt shut.
"I can't stay," Jian said, his hand lingering on the doorknob. He looked pale. "My shadow... it's starting to feel heavy too. I need to get to my family's altar."
"Jian," Ren rasped, clutching his dislocated arm against his chest. The pain was a blinding white noise now, drowning out everything but his own heartbeat. "What do I do?"
"Listen to your grandmother," Jian said. "And for god's sake, don't invite anything in."
Jian left. The lock clicked.
Ren was alone.
The house smelled of dinner. Braised pork and star anise. A normal smell for a normal Tuesday. But to Ren, it smelled like a lie.
He walked into the kitchen. His grandmother was chopping vegetables. Chop. Chop. Chop. The rhythm was steady and precise and completely ignored the fact that her grandson looked like a war casualty.
She didn't turn around. "Wash your hands. Dinner is in five minutes."
"I can't wash my hands," Ren said, leaning against the doorframe to keep from passing out. "My shoulder is out. And... and something smiled at me from the pavement."
The chopping stopped.
She put the knife down. She wiped her hands on her apron. Then, slowly, she turned.
Ren waited for the scream. He waited for the panic, the "Oh my god," and the rush to the car keys.
Instead, his grandmother just sighed. It was the sigh of someone who had seen a broken vase, not a broken boy.
"Sit," she ordered, pointing to the wooden chair by the table.
"Grandma, I need a doctor. Jian said I can't go, but that's crazy, right? I need an X-ray. I think I tore a—"
"Sit," she repeated. Her voice wasn't loud, but it had the weight of iron. "No doctors. Not for this. You would break their machines, and they would lock you away."
Ren slumped into the chair. The reality of his isolation washed over him. No parents. No hospital. Just a kitchen table and an old woman.
She walked over to the cabinet—the one she always kept locked—and pulled out a jar of dark, pungent paste and a roll of linen bandages.
"Shirt off," she said.
Ren gritted his teeth and peeled his shirt off. The movement sent white-hot spikes of pain shooting down his nerves. His right shoulder was swollen, the ball of the joint sitting visibly lower than the socket. The skin was already turning a sickly, necrotic purple.
His grandmother hissed when she saw it. "Reckless. You used Force."
"I didn't have a choice! Something... something attacked me on the roof."
"I know." She scooped a handful of the dark paste. It smelled like menthol, sulfur, and something coppery, like dried blood. She slapped it onto his shoulder.
It burned. Cold heat seeped into his muscle, numbing the skin but making the ache in the bone sharper.
"What is that?" Ren gasped.
"Bone-knit herb. Tiger Balm. And ash from the temple," she muttered. She moved behind him. She placed one hand on his collarbone and the other gripping his arm. "This will hurt. Do not scream."
"Why?"
"Screaming is an invitation," she whispered. "Breathe in."
Ren inhaled.
CRACK.
The world turned white.
Ren gagged, his vision tunneling. He felt the bone snap back into the socket with a sickening pop. The pain was absolute, a blinding flash that cut off his voice before he could even scream.
He slumped forward onto the table, gasping for air, sweat pouring down his face. Tears leaked from his eyes, mixing with the sweat.
"Breathe," she whispered, her hands working quickly to wrap the linen strips tight around his chest and arm. "Breathe through it."
Ren lay there for a long time, listening to the hum of the refrigerator. The sharp pain had dulled to a heavy, throbbing ache.
"It was a monkey," Ren wheezed, his cheek pressed against the cool wood of the table. "Made of smoke. Jian tried salt, but it wanted me. It said I smelled like a King."
His grandmother didn't reply. She tied the bandage off and walked back to the sink to wash the paste from her hands. The water turned grey.
"Grandma," Ren pleaded, forcing himself to sit up. "Please. Mom and Dad aren't answering. It's just us. You have to tell me what's happening. Who are they?"
She turned off the tap. The silence in the kitchen was heavy, suffocating.
"If I speak their names," she said softly, staring at the window, "they will know we are talking about them. Attention is currency, Ren. Do not spend it."
"They who? The monkey?"
"The ones listening."
She walked over to the window above the sink. From her pocket, she pulled out a small pair of scissors and a sheet of red paper.
She cut quickly—snip, snip, snip. In seconds, she had created a complex, jagged pattern. A talisman.
She licked the back of the paper and stuck it to the glass pane.
"We do not speak names in this house," she said, her voice trembling slightly. "We do not invite attention. You survived today. That is enough."
"It's not enough!" Ren shouted, slamming his good hand on the table. "I almost died! I blew a monster off a roof with magic I don't understand! I need answers!"
She turned on him, her eyes fierce.
"Rule number one," she snapped. "You eat."
She slammed a bowl of pork and rice in front of him.
"You burned half your life force on that roof. If you don't replace it, you won't wake up tomorrow. Eat."
Ren stared at her. He wanted to argue. He wanted to flip the table.
But his stomach roared. A hunger like he had never felt before—a deep, cellular starvation—clawed at his insides. It wasn't just hunger; it was a void demanding to be filled.
He picked up his chopsticks with his left hand. He took a bite. Then another. He ate like a starving animal, shoveling the food into his mouth until the bowl was empty.
His grandmother watched him, her expression softening into something sad and terrified.
"Go to sleep, Ren," she whispered. "Tonight, the house is sealed."
Ren didn't think he could sleep. The pain in his shoulder was a constant throb. But the moment his head hit the pillow, the exhaustion dragged him under.
He slept deeply, dreamlessly.
Until 3:00 AM.
Scritch. Scritch.
Ren's eyes flew open.
The room was dark. The rain had started again outside.
Scritch. Scritch. Scritch.
It was coming from the wall beside his bed.
Ren lay perfectly still, his heart hammering against his ribs. It sounded like mice.
No. Mice scuttled.
This sound was slow. Deliberate.
It sounded like a fingernail dragging slowly down the drywall. Testing the strength of the plaster. Trying to find a seam.
Ren turned his head slowly.
On the wall, right where the sound was coming from, his grandmother had taped a red paper talisman.
As Ren watched, the paper began to turn black in the center. Like an invisible cigarette was being pressed against it from the other side.
The scratching stopped.
A voice—dry, rasping, and sounding like it was directly inside Ren's ear—whispered.
"I can smell the salt on your friend... but you..."
The black spot on the paper widened.
"You smell like an open door."
Ren squeezed his eyes shut. He pulled the blanket over his head.
He didn't scream.
Screaming is an invitation.