---
Nothing happens.
That's what makes it unbearable.
The kitchen is ruined — glass scattered like ice, scorch marks crawling up the cabinets, a faint metallic tang hanging in the air — but the Things are gone. The shadows have withdrawn. The tear in reality has sealed itself into a faint scar in the air, barely visible unless you stare too hard.
Your ears ring.
Your hands still glow faintly, trembling from the effort of holding your hollow in place. Every nerve feels raw, exposed, like your skin has been peeled back and left to feel the world directly.
Azael stands a few feet away from you, shoulders tense, eyes scanning every inch of the room. He hasn't lowered his guard. Not even a little.
"They're still here," you whisper.
"Yes," he answers. "Just not… here."
That distinction does nothing to make you feel better.
You step carefully over broken glass, moving closer to him. The floor creaks beneath your weight. Every sound feels like a threat.
"Why did they stop?" you ask. "They had us. They could've—"
"They wanted data," Azael says quietly. "Not blood."
You look at him sharply.
"They wanted to see how far you've come. How fast you react. How much of your hollow you can access under pressure." His jaw tightens. "Kaelthyr doesn't waste a first move."
Your stomach knots.
"So that wasn't… the real attack?"
"No," Azael says. "That was him knocking on the door."
A soft hum vibrates through the apartment — the refrigerator trying to restart, the electricity reasserting itself. Lights flicker weakly back on, casting pale, sickly illumination over the wreckage.
Everything looks normal again.
Too normal.
The kind of normal that feels like a lie.
You lean against the counter, suddenly exhausted. Now that the adrenaline is draining, you can feel the weight of what just happened pressing down on you. Your knees feel weak. Your chest feels tight.
Azael notices immediately.
He moves closer, his presence warm and steady. "Sit."
You don't argue.
You lower yourself onto one of the remaining intact stools, gripping the edge of the counter as if it's the only solid thing left in the world.
"They didn't attack because they weren't ready," you say.
"They didn't attack because you weren't ready," Azael corrects. "And they need you alive."
"For what?"
His eyes darken.
"For something worse than death."
A chill crawls up your spine.
The hollow inside you shifts, restless. You can feel it now more clearly than ever — not just a source of power, but something deeper. Something that reacts to Kaelthyr's presence like a wound reacting to salt.
"Mira," you whisper. "She's not… gone, is she?"
Azael's expression hardens.
"No."
The way he says it is worse than if he had lied.
"She's deeper now," he continues. "More buried. Kaelthyr is using her as a bridge. A living anchor."
"So she's still in there?" you ask desperately. "Somewhere?"
"Yes," he says softly. "Which is why this is dangerous."
"Because if we fight her…"
"We risk killing what's left of her."
Silence settles between you, thick and heavy.
The kitchen smells like smoke and ozone. The faint drip of water from a cracked pipe is the only sound.
"They wanted me to see her like that," you say. "Didn't they?"
"Yes."
"To shake me."
"Yes."
"To make me hesitate."
"Yes."
You laugh weakly, a sound that comes out too thin. "It worked."
Azael kneels in front of you, bringing his eyes level with yours.
"Fear is not failure," he says. "Fear is proof that you still care."
"I don't know if that's comforting."
"It should be," he replies. "Kaelthyr lost that a long time ago."
You swallow, nodding slowly.
"Tell me something," you say. "If they had wanted to kill us… could they have?"
Azael doesn't answer immediately.
That's all the answer you need.
Your chest tightens.
"They're going to come back," you whisper.
"Yes."
"When?"
"Soon."
"How soon?"
Azael's gaze flicks toward the wall, toward the place where the tear had been.
"Soon enough."
A faint vibration passes through the floor, so subtle you almost miss it.
Azael stiffens.
You feel it too — a ripple in the hollow, like something brushing against it from the outside.
"They're still watching," you say.
"Yes."
"Through Mira?"
"And through other things," he says. "Cracks. Reflections. Weak places."
The air feels heavier again, like something unseen is leaning in to listen.
Azael straightens. "We need to move."
"Move where?"
"Somewhere less predictable."
You look around your ruined apartment — the place that used to feel safe, the place where he made you breakfast and washed dishes and pretended, sometimes, that things were normal.
"This place isn't safe anymore," you murmur.
"No," he agrees. "It's been marked."
The word sends a shiver through you.
You stand slowly, ignoring the ache in your muscles. "So what now?"
"Now," Azael says, "we make ourselves harder to find."
"And Mira?"
His jaw tightens.
"We don't lose her," he says. "Not yet."
Another faint vibration passes through the air.
Somewhere beyond the veil, something shifts.
And you know — with a terrible, sinking certainty — that the pause between strikes is almost over.