Dani's boots made no sound as she moved toward the cracked window overlooking the street outside the safe house. Her eyes narrowed as she crouched, pulling a thin scroll from her coat—something that looked like a strip of parchment but shimmered faintly with shifting ink.
"Perimeter glyphs," she muttered, voice low but sharp. "Cheap insurance against whatever's stalking us."
She began rolling the strip across the window frame, murmuring a string of words under her breath. The air shimmered—like heat rising on asphalt—but cold, unnatural. Lance watched from the corner, still gripping Dario, who sensed the tension and stayed close.
"Gonna need more than those if this keeps up," Lance said quietly, eyes flickering to the door.
Dani shot him a look, half smirk, half warning. "Yeah, well, hope isn't part of the kit."
Her fingers danced across the lunchbox's compartments, extracting a tiny glass jar sealed with a cork. Inside floated something pale and twitching—a parasite, or maybe a parasite's parasite.
She shook it gently, whispering, "Reality eater. Feed it noise, starve the breach."
Lance blinked, unsettled. "You keep weird toys."
She shrugged. "Better than carrying regrets."
Her gaze flicked back outside.
Shadows pooled oddly along the cracked pavement, folding in on themselves like wet cloth. The streetlamps flickered, warped, and for a second the world seemed to pulse—a heartbeat out of sync.
Dani's brow twitched.
"Hold up," she said, voice dropping to a whisper.
A figure stood half-hidden in the gloom just beyond the streetlight's reach. Tall. Thin. Wrapped in a long coat that fluttered unnaturally, like fabric caught between realities. The face was obscured—just a suggestion of features, as if erased by a trick of the light.
Lance's heart slammed.
She tapped the side of her head, pulling a tiny earpiece from her collar.
"Eyes on target," she said into the mic. "Subject approaching. No ID. No comms."
The figure shifted—slow, deliberate steps that made no sound.
Dani's hands moved fast. From her lunchbox she pulled a briefcase-like device and flipped it open.
"Containment protocol might need a new chapter tonight," she muttered, loading a clip of adhesive sigils into a shotgun barrel.
Lance hugged Dario tighter, breath shallow.
The thing outside smiled—or something close to it. A twitch at the corner of where a mouth might be.
Not human.
Not quite.
But watching.
Waiting.
Dani glanced back at Lance, eyes sharp but tired.
"This just got more complicated."
The figure still hadn't moved.
It just stood there—across the cracked asphalt and flickering light, wrapped in that long, coat-like thing that flapped even when there was no wind. Like it wanted to be seen. Like it knew it was being watched.
Lance stayed near the floor, half-covered by a fold-out cot and the wall. He had Dario in a half-hug, eyes locked on the window, lips pressed into a thin line. He hadn't said a word in five minutes. Not since "subject."
Dani, on the other hand, was moving again—glancing at her glyphpad, checking readings, rotating her briefcase weapon like it was a Rubik's cube made for monster-hunting tax agents.
"I could really use a seven-second delay on reality," she muttered. "Just enough time to drink coffee and emotionally prepare for whatever that is.
She pulled out a sigil shell the size of a hockey puck, kissed it like a superstition, and slammed it into the barrel.
Lance didn't respond. His knuckles were pale around Dario's collar.
Dani noticed.
Of course she did.
She didn't say anything, though. Not yet.
Instead, she turned toward the window and raised the scope of her briefcase rifle. It extended like a slide rule, clicking open into a scythe-sharp shape covered in engraved metal and something pulsing faintly blue.
Through the scope, the figure's face—or absence of it—wavered.
Still no features.
Still smiling.
"What's it doing?" Lance finally whispered.
"Being ominous," Dani replied. "Just standing there. Probably rehearsing some cryptic line like, 'We've been watching you since the milk was chilled.'"
Lance's mouth twitched, barely.
He didn't look at her. Didn't make eye contact.
Dani lowered the scope and exhaled.
"You're mad," she said plainly.
Lance didn't answer.
"Because of the subject thing."
Still nothing.
She sighed and paced. "You know I don't do pet names. Subject's just shorter than 'guy caught between milk-based spatial anomalies and a cow that shouldn't exist.'"
Lance finally turned. His voice was low.
"You didn't deny it."
"Deny what?"
"That you're watching me."
Dani stopped moving.
Then: "You're leaking something that bends space. You think I'm not supposed to watch that?"
His gaze dropped.
"Right. Yeah. Of course."
A pause.
Then: "You want a different label?" she asked, turning the briefcase in her hands. "Fine. Milk Host Prime? Captain Pasteur? Dairy King?"
Lance gave her a look. Dario blinked.
Dani grinned like a cat chewing on a wire.
"Nothing? Wow. Tough crowd."
Lance opened his mouth. Closed it. Rubbed his eyes with the heel of his palm.
Outside, the figure stepped forward.
Dani dropped the smile in a flash. "There it is. Here we go."
The light outside cracked—not broke, cracked, like glass catching frost. Shadows bent wrong. The figure moved between frames of reality like flipping pages in a book.
It got closer.
Lance tensed. Dario growled, low and sharp.
Dani lowered her voice. "Stay with the dog. If I go out, don't follow unless the walls start melting."
"Cool. Casual instructions," Lance said, more to himself than her.
She moved toward the door, flicking her wrist to activate another sigil on her belt—this one humming with copper light.
Just before she opened it, she turned.
Not soft. Not warm.
But serious.
"Hey."
Lance looked up.
"You're still Lance," she said. "Not a subject. Not a ghost. Just some guy who bought milk on the wrong Tuesday."
And then, she was gone—vanishing through the side exit with her briefcase weapon, a detonator charm in her teeth, and muttered curses about "void creeps with dramatic timing."
Lance sat there.
Still quiet. Still hurting.
But the corner of his mouth lifted—just a little.
And then outside—
Something screamed.
Not a voice. Not even a sound.
But a bend, like air tearing open.
Dario stood.
So did Lance.
He didn't say anything.
He just picked up the recorder Dani gave him... and held it.
Not pressing play.
Not yet.
Just holding it like it might become something else.
The scream — or whatever passed for one — never repeated.
Lance waited, stiff and silent, listening for the sounds Dani might make if she were suddenly turned inside out.
None came.
Only wind.
And the click of boots.
She returned through the side door a minute later, breath steady, weapon folded and strapped to her back. A smear of ash marred her cheek.
"It's gone," she said simply. "Or it wasn't here to begin with. Projection, maybe. Partial tether."
She met Lance's eyes—still opaque, still quietly wrong—and said nothing else. Just nodded toward the door.
"We're moving."
The world outside the safehouse felt too wide. The sky was too blue. Birds chirped overhead like nothing had happened, and the cracked sidewalks stretched out under a slanting early morning sun.
Lance squinted, adjusting to the light. Dario walked just ahead, tail upright, sniffing the wind with slow interest. The air smelled like rust and cut grass.
Suburban sprawl. Dead quiet.
Too quiet.
They passed a crooked mailbox with a hand-painted smiley face on it. A child's bike lay on its side in a yard, wheels spinning slightly, though there was no breeze.
The houses looked lived-in... but hollow. No movement behind the blinds. No hum of conversation or background noise. Just the occasional flicker of something inside—a light turning off when it should've turned on.
They walked five more minutes in silence.
Then Dani broke it.
"Pack up," she said simply. "Whatever that thing was, it blinked out instead of advancing. That means two things—one, it's not anchored here. Two, something worse is coming behind it."
Lance, still gripping the recorder, nodded once and slowly stood. His legs ached. Dario gave a soft grunt and stretched before settling near the door, ready.
Dani grabbed her lunchbox, slammed it shut with a hiss of vapor, and strapped it back to her side.
"Where are we going?" Lance asked quietly.
She hesitated. "Somewhere marginally less cursed."
Then: "We'll try Kenton."
"Kenton?"
"Old contact. Scumbag. Reliable."
Lance blinked. "Cool. Love that. Can't wait."