It was a Monday,
The first thing that changes is the sound.
Not a crash.
Not a scream.
Not even a whisper.
Just the absence of the refrigerator's soft hum.
You don't notice it at first. You're too busy stirring the pot on the stove, watching steam curl up in lazy spirals, pretending—just for a moment—that you are a normal person making a normal meal in a normal apartment.
Azael stands behind you at the sink, sleeves rolled up, water running over his hands as he washes the plates. The domesticity of it all feels surreal. A demigod rinsing ceramic bowls. A guardian drying forks.
"Don't forget the salt," he says casually.
"I didn't," you reply, smiling faintly. "I'm not completely hopeless."
He snorts. "Debatable."
You roll your eyes. "You're lucky I let you live here."
"I am aware," he replies dryly.
The warmth between you feels almost fragile. As if the universe has allowed you this moment only because it intends to take something much worse later.
The spoon taps the edge of the pot.
That's when you realize something is wrong.
The sound echoes.
It shouldn't.
Your kitchen is small. Lived in. Soft. Sounds get swallowed here.
But the tap rings like it's hitting hollow stone.
You stop stirring.
"Azael," you whisper.
He freezes.
Slowly, deliberately, he turns off the faucet.
The water stops, but the echo does not.
Something is breathing.
Not in the room.
Through the room.
The air feels suddenly stretched, as if invisible hands are pulling at it from all sides.
"They're here," he says quietly.
Your stomach drops.
"No," you whisper. "Not now."
The lights flicker.
Once.
Twice.
Then the microwave display goes dark.
You step back from the stove, heart hammering. "We had three months. They said—"
"They lied," Azael interrupts.
The air near the kitchen doorway ripples.
Not opens.
Ripples.
Like heat over asphalt.
A smell creeps in—cold metal and old rain and something rotting beneath both.
"Get behind me," Azael orders.
"I can fight," you protest automatically.
"I know," he says, eyes fixed on the distortion. "But not first."
Your hands glow faintly without you meaning them to. Fear wakes your power faster than any training ever could.
The ripple widens.
Something pushes through.
Not fully.
Just enough.
A black, skeletal hand with too many joints, fingers bending the wrong way, claws scraping against the floor.
It pulls itself back.
Withdraws.
Then something else comes through.
A laugh.
Soft.
Familiar.
Your blood turns to ice.
"Mira?" you whisper.
The doorway finally opens.
Not into the hallway.
Into somewhere else.
A shadowed street that does not belong to your world. Red cracks glow in the pavement like veins. Dark shapes move far away, watching.
And standing in the threshold—
Mira.
Or what used to be her.
Her hair hangs loose and wild around her face. Her skin is too pale, faintly glowing as if lit from inside. Veins dark as ink trace her neck and temples. Her eyes…
They are not empty anymore.
They are full.
Full of something ancient and cruel and delighted.
"Well," she says sweetly, tilting her head. "You look… domestic."
You take a shaky step forward. "Mira. Please. You don't have to—"
"Oh, don't do that," she cuts in lightly. "Don't talk to me like I'm still your little broken friend."
She steps fully into the kitchen.
The air warps around her.
"I'm not broken anymore."
Azael's entire body goes rigid.
"Get out of her," he growls.
Mira laughs.
"That's adorable," she says. "You still think she's in here."
She taps her temple.
"She gave me the keys."
Your chest tightens painfully. "Mira, look at me."
She does.
And for just a flicker of a second—
You see her.
Fear.
Confusion.
A trapped, screaming awareness behind the monstrous calm.
Then it's gone.
"Too late," she says. "He showed me everything. About you. About him. About how much it would hurt."
"Kaelthyr," Azael snarls.
"Oh, he's very proud of me," Mira replies. "Says I'm his favorite experiment."
A wave of pressure slams through the kitchen, rattling the cabinets. Plates shudder. A glass cracks and explodes into glittering fragments.
Azael steps in front of you instantly, arms out, shielding you.
"Mira," you cry. "Please. I love you."
Her smile twitches.
"Good," she says softly. "That'll make this fun."
Behind her, the air tears wider.
Something massive begins to push through.
Not one thing.
Many.
Dark silhouettes press against the thinning veil—horned shapes, winged horrors, crawling things with too many eyes.
Your kitchen fills with shadows that don't belong to any light source.
"They're not here for me," Mira says. "They're here for you."
Azael turns slightly, glancing back at you. His expression is calm—but beneath it, you see fear.
Not of them.
Of losing you.
"Whatever happens," he says quietly, "do not say my name."
You stare at him. "What?"
"Not unless you have no other choice."
Another crack splits the air.
The first of Kaelthyr's troops begins to emerge.
The invasion has begun.
And the battle for your soul is about to spill into your kitchen.