"Be sober, be vigilant; because your adversary the
devil walks about like a roaring lion, seeking whom he may devour."
— 1 Peter 5:8
The thread pulled taut as Luciel crossed the East
End — invisible to all but him, glowing faintly beneath the grime of the waking
world. It snaked beneath flickering streetlamps, dipped into alleys, and passed
like a whisper through crowds that didn't know they'd been marked.
The closer he got to the docks, the more twisted the
karmic flow became — as if some unseen hand was trying to knot it mid-weave.
He paused beneath an underpass, one hand on the hilt
of his silver gun.
The air changed.
Not colder. Not hotter. Just… wrong.
And then it came — a distortion in the world's
rhythm.
A scream behind his thoughts.
Three figures emerged from the
mist, cloaked in flesh that wasn't theirs. Their movements weren't quite human
— marionette-like. Loose-limbed. Grinning mouths split ear to ear as if someone
had drawn them on with a broken pen.
Soul-masked thralls.
Luciel clicked his tongue. "Not even trying to be
subtle anymore."
The first lunged — faster than a corpse had the
right to move.
Luciel's black gun, Umbra, roared once, the bullet blessed and traced with the Seal of Isaiah. It didn't just kill — it silenced. The thing's scream died in its mouth,
body crumpling like soaked parchment.
The other two rushed.
Luciel flicked a talisman between his fingers — Psalm Breaker — and slapped it against the
nearest wall. A burst of light shattered the illusion glamor cloaking the enemy
— revealing the twisted, burnt thing beneath.
He dodged under its claw, drew his butcher's knife, and buried it to the hilt.
As the last one circled, smarter than the rest,
Luciel whispered a prayer and activated a new talisman: The
Veil of Anael.
He vanished from sight.
The thing turned, confused — then stiffened as
Luciel reappeared behind it and
shoved a prayer nail — a Gospel Chain — through its spine.
The battle was short.
But the threads?
The threads had shifted.
Someone had tried to delay him.
He knelt by the corpse that had nearly bitten him
and muttered, "You weren't here to kill. You were here to stall."
The karmic thread, faint as smoke, shimmered ahead
again — but it trembled, as if flickering beneath the weight of another will.
Luciel stood, trench coat whipping as the wind
picked up.
He didn't smile this time.
He ran.
The dockside warehouse wasn't far.
And fate was already waiting.
————
The music was too loud for comfort but
too soft for distraction — like something halfway between a heartbeat and a
spell. Thalia stood near the kitchen archway of a Victorian flat just off Gower
Street, watching the party swirl around her like smoke in a broken lantern.
It wasn't her scene. Never had been.
But Jazz had insisted.
"Live
a little,"
she'd said. "Maybe
shaking your ass to bad remixes will scare the ghosts off."
Thalia wasn't sure
if it was hope or denial, but here she was — clutching a cup of something
vaguely citrus and nonalcoholic while nodding politely at conversations that
buzzed past her ears like static.
The flat was old —
wooden floors that creaked under every step, walls stained with old ivy
patterns, fairy lights lazily hung like tangled halos around the doorframes.
Jazz had described it as "cozy urban occult meets British post-grad chaos." It
smelled like lavender candles, cider, and wet pavement from jackets draped
across the radiator.
Everyone here looked
like they belonged.
Folklore majors with
thrifted capes and rune necklaces. Philosophy students quoting Baudrillard into
red solo cups. Political science elites in cashmere, talking about revolutions
they'd never fight in. Caleb's people. Her people, technically.
But she didn't feel
it. Not really.
Jazz was holding
court near the speakers, dancing like she'd been born in rhythm, her laughter
louder than the beat. Thalia watched her for a moment — warm, grounded, alive —
and envied how easily she floated.
"Thalia!"
Her name cut through
the room. Caleb Moreau stood across the living room, holding two glasses and
wearing a grin that leaned slightly crooked — genuine, soft at the edges. His
sleeves were rolled up. Always rolled up. He looked like he belonged here, too.
Thalia's stomach
twisted.
She smiled. A small
one.
And stayed exactly
where she was.
Because just behind
Caleb — just out of reach, just beyond recognition — stood a shadow with golden
eyes. Watching her. Not moving. Not blinking.
She turned her head.
Gone.
Her chest rose
slowly. Fell slower.
It wasn't the first
time that night.
Twice already she'd
felt that cold presence — like the memory of grief brushing her skin. The
wraiths usually didn't follow her into crowds, but something tonight was
different. She could feel the karmic weight settling, gently, like dust on her
shoulders.
"Thals?"
Jazz appeared beside
her, out of breath, cheeks flushed from dancing. She pressed a hand to Thalia's
shoulder.
"You good?"
"Yeah. Just…
thinking."
Jazz leaned in.
"Caleb's here. Thought that'd earn at least one lap around the dance floor."
"I noticed."
Jazz raised a brow.
"You're going to give him a complex."
"He's not the one
who sees dead things when the lights dim."
Jazz didn't laugh.
She never did when Thalia made those jokes.
Instead, she pressed
the drink into Thalia's hand. "Okay. Then come sit. Come breathe. We don't have
to pretend to be normal — just mildly un-haunted."
They retreated to a
window alcove, away from the main throng of students. Outside, the rain had
returned, pattering softly against the glass. Someone in the room started
chanting along to an old protest folk song. Someone else was already throwing
up in the sink. Campus life in all its candlelit glory.
Thalia sipped her
drink and leaned into the windowframe. From this distance, the party looked
almost beautiful — like a blurry painting of joy she couldn't quite touch.
Her phone buzzed
once.
A text from an
unknown number.
Do you remember what you were born
carrying?
Her hand tightened
around the glass.
Outside the window,
the streetlight flickered.
And somewhere
beneath the music, the laughter, the scent of cider and perfume — a voice that
didn't belong whispered her name.
She didn't tell
Jazz.
She just kept
staring out into the night, praying — not for peace.
But for memory to
stay buried.