Rain followed Belfast Black into the city.
Not a storm—just that steady, gray Portland drizzle that soaked through denim and patience alike. By the time he reached the edge of the neighborhood he remembered all too well, his boots squelched faintly with every step.
He stopped at the corner.
There it was.
The house.
White siding. Modest porch. Neatly trimmed hedges. A warm, almost aggressively normal little home tucked into a quiet stretch of Northeast Portland.
The home of a reformed Blutbad named Monroe.
Belfast stood across the street, hands shoved in his jacket pockets, rain dripping off his hair.
Six months early.
No Nick Burkhardt. No frantic break-ins. No sudden Grimm interrogations. Just Monroe living his quiet, carefully constructed life—clock repairs, paleo recipes, strict self-control.
Belfast exhaled slowly.
Okay. Think.
In the show, Monroe was cautious but curious. Defensive but not cruel. He respected tradition, hated chaos, and absolutely despised Grimms.
Rightfully so.
Walking up and saying "Hey, big fan, you eventually help a cop Grimm solve murders" would not go well.
He crossed the street anyway.
The closer he got, the more he felt it—like a vibration beneath his skin. Wesen senses brushing against Grimm instincts. The house wasn't just neat.
It was fortified.
Silver wind chimes disguised as decorative metalwork. Subtle claw marks near the porch frame—training practice. The faintest scent of Blutbad lingering beneath detergent and rain.
Belfast stopped at the edge of the yard.
The curtains twitched.
Monroe already knew he was there.
Belfast lifted both hands slowly, palms open.
"I'm not here to fight," he called out, pitching his voice just loud enough.
The front door didn't open.
Instead, a voice answered from inside—measured, controlled, with a hint of gravel.
"You're standing on my lawn," Monroe said. "That's usually step one before a fight."
Belfast gave a faint, tired smile.
"Fair."
Silence.
Then—
"You're a Grimm."
Not a question.
Belfast let his eyes lift fully to the window. He didn't suppress it. Didn't soften it.
"Yes."
Another pause.
"You don't smell like the old ones," Monroe muttered, more to himself.
"I shower when I can," Belfast replied dryly.
That earned the faintest shift in energy inside the house. Surprise.
Good. Humor helped.
The door opened a crack. A chain still latched.
Monroe stood there in a flannel shirt and jeans, posture casual but coiled. His eyes flickered—human, then wolfish for a split second.
Assessing.
"You're young," Monroe said.
"Eighteen."
"That's… concerning."
"Tell me about it."
Monroe's gaze dropped briefly to Belfast's boots. Wet. Worn. Cheap.
Then to his jacket—thin for the weather.
"You're not local," Monroe observed.
"I am," Belfast said. "Technically."
"That wasn't what I meant."
Of course it wasn't.
Monroe studied him another long moment.
"You're not here to kill me," he said slowly.
"No."
"Why?"
Belfast hesitated.
Because in six months you become one of the most important allies a Grimm ever has.
Because you deserve better than being ambushed in your own house.
Because I need help.
He settled on the simplest truth.
"I don't want to do this alone."
That landed.
Monroe's brow furrowed.
"Do what?"
Belfast swallowed his pride.
"I don't have a place to stay," he admitted. "I've been on my own a while. I know what you are. I know you're not… like the others."
Monroe stiffened slightly at that.
"You don't know me."
"No," Belfast agreed. "But I know you value control. Routine. Not killing people."
A flicker of irritation.
"That's a very low bar."
"It's still a bar."
Rain thickened between them.
Monroe's gaze sharpened.
"You're awfully calm for a Grimm standing on a Blutbad's porch asking for a sleepover."
Belfast huffed a quiet laugh despite himself.
"I'm not asking for a sleepover. I'm asking for a chance."
"Why me?"
Because fate says so.
Because you're safe.
Because I remember your future.
Instead, Belfast reached slowly into his jacket.
Monroe's posture snapped tight.
"Easy," Belfast warned gently.
He pulled out a single black card.
Blank on one side.
Monroe's nostrils flared faintly.
"That's not a weapon I recognize."
"It's not one you've seen before."
Belfast turned the card over.
The inked image of the Hundjäger stared up from the surface, frozen mid-snarl.
Monroe's eyes widened.
He woged involuntarily—wolf features flashing across his face as instinct reacted.
"What," he breathed, "is that?"
"I didn't kill it," Belfast said quietly. "I captured it."
Monroe's gaze snapped to his.
"That's not possible."
"It is for me."
Rain slid down the card's glossy surface, but the image didn't smear.
"I don't want to hunt everything that moves," Belfast continued. "I don't want to be the kind of Grimm Wesen tell stories about to scare their children."
"You are that story," Monroe said hoarsely.
"Maybe," Belfast allowed. "But stories change."
Monroe stared at the trapped Hundjäger again.
"You're telling me that thing is… alive?"
"Yes."
"And you're carrying it around in your pocket?"
"Yes."
"That is deeply disturbing."
"I get that a lot."
Silence stretched.
Monroe's breathing gradually slowed. His woge receded.
"You're homeless," Monroe said finally.
"Yes."
"You could rob me."
"I could."
"You could kill me."
"I could."
Monroe's eyes narrowed.
"But you haven't."
"No."
The chain on the door remained latched.
"You understand," Monroe said carefully, "that every instinct I have is screaming that this is a terrible idea."
"Mine too," Belfast admitted.
That, more than anything, seemed to shift something.
Monroe studied him not as prey. Not as enemy.
As a problem.
"You look exhausted," Monroe said after a long moment.
"I am."
"And you're either very brave or very stupid."
"Probably both."
Another beat.
Then—
The chain slid free.
The door opened fully.
Monroe didn't step aside yet.
"This is not permanent," he said firmly. "You don't go snooping. You don't pull that card thing on me. You follow my rules. Very strict rules."
Belfast nodded immediately.
"Understood."
"And if you even hint at turning feral Grimm on me—"
"I won't."
Monroe held his gaze a moment longer, searching for deception.
Whatever he saw must have satisfied him.
Because he stepped aside.
"Shoes off," Monroe muttered. "And you're explaining that card."
Warmth hit Belfast as he stepped inside—wood polish, old books, something savory simmering in the kitchen.
It felt impossibly domestic.
Dangerous in a different way.
He slipped off his boots and stood awkwardly near the entryway.
For the first time since waking up in this world, the tight coil in his chest loosened slightly.
Not safe.
Not yet.
But maybe… less alone.
Behind him, the door shut with a soft click.
And somewhere deep in Portland's unseen undercurrent, whispers began to spread.
A Grimm had walked into a Blutbad's home.
And neither of them had drawn blood.
That alone was enough to unsettle the balance.