Cain caught him, lowering him slow, his own pulse steady even as the calculus shifted like sand underfoot. Hunter's blood steamed against the stones, hot as secrets too old to bury.
Behind them, the wall kept opening.
And from the dark beyond, something began to move.
It wasn't sound that came first. It was weight. Pressure thickening the alley air, as if the night itself had decided to lean in, to breathe on the back of Cain's neck with teeth bared. The opening widened until the dark became a throat, yawning, swallowing the alley whole.
Roselle shifted her stance beside him, one blade forward, one back, her breath tight and even. Not fear. Readiness. She didn't ask what it was—they'd learned long ago that questions were luxuries you bled for later.
