Ghost shut the door gently, but the creak sliced through the muggy room like a knife. Daytona looked up from her notebook — Martin lay half-asleep, Saravia sitting at the head of the bed, playing with the chain of her anchor-sword. Ghost dropped his jacket on a chair without saying anything at first.
Daytona was the first to break the silence, the black cloak draped across her back as she stood.
"Ghost…" Her voice had a tone she didn't use with Martin or Saravia. It was firm, but sounded almost… hungry. "I need to know. About the Archangels."
Ghost stared at her for a moment. His face looked more tired than before, and the stubble on his jaw betrayed sleepless nights. He took a deep breath, glanced at Saravia, who raised an eyebrow, curious.
Martin lifted his head, drowsy but alert.
Ghost pulled up a chair and sat facing Daytona — like they were about to seal some invisible deal.
"You want answers," he repeated slowly, adjusting his watch. "But they're not here, Hallara Daytona. Not in Los Angeles. Not in this country."
Daytona clenched her teeth, feeling Belzebub's heat rise at the base of her skull.
"Then where?" she stepped closer, her gaze locked onto him. "If you know, tell me. Don't stall."
Ghost gave a faint, regretful smile.
"You think I haven't searched?" He shook his head, arms crossed. "What you're trying to uncover… only exists in one place. And it's far." He paused, eyes lingering on the black cloak she wore. "Germany. Nürburgring. There's an old lab there — forgotten, buried in records the Vatican still denies. If there's a file with names, symbols, rituals… it's there."
Martin groaned, shifting on the bed.
"Nürburgring? The racetrack?"
Ghost nodded.
"The track's just a front. The lab's in the woods nearby — one of the oldest forests in the region. Abandoned — or nearly. But those who walk through its doors… either return with answers, or don't return at all."
Saravia gave a crooked smile, tapping the anchor against the floor with a dull thud.
"Then we'll be the ones who come back. Right?"
Ghost didn't answer immediately. His eyes moved from Saravia to Daytona — and for a second, it was like he saw something else behind her.
"You don't have a choice," he said quietly, but firmly. "That energy you carry… it's going to take you there, one way or another. It's destiny. Either you devour the secret, or it devours you."
Daytona took a deep breath, her chest rising and falling slowly.
"So that's it. Nürburgring." She closed her eyes briefly, Belzebub pulsing under her skin. "No turning back, huh?"
Ghost just shrugged, as if he'd known the answer all along.
"Who cares about going back when there's nothing to go back to?" He looked at Martin, then at Saravia. "If you're going, go together. Or don't go at all."
Saravia raised her fist and lightly bumped Daytona's shoulder.
"I'm in," she said, her voice as warm and confident as always. "If Leviathan kept me alive this long, he better be ready to help now."
Martin scratched his neck, exhaling hard.
"I'm just the normal guy, but… screw it. I'm going too." He looked at Daytona. "You're family, right?"
Daytona gave a rare, real smile.
"Then pack your bags. We're leaving this hole." She turned back to Ghost, eyes narrowing. "You coming?"
Ghost stood, sliding his jacket back on.
"Me?" He gave a dry chuckle. "I'm not invited. I'm just the ghost that opens the door. The path, Daytona… it's yours to make."
Daytona stood still in the center of the room, letting his words sink in. Inside her, Belzebub laughed, satisfied.
"Germany, Hallara Daytona. Let's see if the Archangels are really made of light… or just monsters wearing crowns."
She closed her eyes, inhaled deeply — and when she opened them again, it was as if a cold flame burned behind her iris.
"Nürburgring," she whispered, to no one but herself. "And then, Paradise."
Ghost left without saying goodbye, the door creaking again as it closed behind him.
Outside, the Los Angeles night swallowed everything — like the whole world was holding its breath before the crossing.
Martin was trying to cram his clothes into a small suitcase, Saravia sat on the edge of the bed watching Daytona dig through a pile of papers on the desk. The hotel — or motel, as Martin insisted — felt even more claustrophobic in the heavy LA morning.
The sky outside was a dull gray, but Daytona moved like she carried a blaze in her chest.
She folded a yellowed page and tucked it into the black cloak now draped across her shoulders, like a reminder of who she'd become.
"I need maps," Daytona muttered to herself. "Maps of the region. And money. And a reason not to have the cops chasing us."
Saravia let out a nasal laugh, thumping the anchor's handle on the ground.
"Who needs a reason when you've got purpose?" She tucked her brown hair behind her ear, watching Martin struggle with his backpack's zipper. "Careful there, boy. You're gonna rip it."
Martin rolled his eyes.
"Why is it always my job to carry stuff?" he grumbled, but no one answered.
Daytona took a deep breath, slammed the desk drawer shut. Belzebub spoke for the first time since the previous night's brief silence:
"You sound anxious, Hallara Daytona."
His voice was a cold scrape, a whisper that prickled from the inside.
"It's not anxiety. It's urgency," Daytona whispered back. "If that lab is what they say it is, I don't want it burned before we get there."
Belzebub chuckled — part mocking, part proud.
"You sound like me. That's good."
Daytona ignored him, yanked Martin's suitcase and tossed in another shirt.
Saravia stood, cracking her shoulders.
"I'm gonna grab coffee outside." She looked at Daytona with almost childlike warmth: "You want anything?"
"Something strong." Daytona ran a hand through her hair. "I need to stay sharp."
Martin raised his head.
"Bring me something too! And a sweet, if they have it." Saravia flipped him off as she left.
In the motel hallway, the smell of cheap coffee mixed with a damp air that clung to the skin. Daytona stared at the door as it shut behind her, the creak echoing like a ticking clock.
Martin broke the silence:
"Daytona, do you think…" He hesitated. "Do you think we're ready? Like, Germany? Nürburgring? A lab no one's touched in decades? It just sounds… too big, you know?"
Daytona breathed deeply.
"Nothing's too big when you're a living threat walking around." She turned to face him. "You still want to come?"
Martin opened his mouth, closed it. Then chuckled, shaking his head.
"If I stay, I'll go crazy with worry. If I go…" He shrugged. "At least I'll see it with my own eyes."
Belzebub chimed in again, voice dripping with irony inside her mind:
"He's weak. But loyal. Useful."
Daytona ignored it, running her hand across the black cloak — like checking to make sure it was still there.
Minutes later, Saravia returned, balancing three cups of coffee and a bag of donuts.
"Roadside hotel. Terrible coffee," she announced. "But it's this or nothing."
Daytona took the hot cup. Steam rose, mixing with the warm smell of dust.
"So this is it," she said, more to herself than anyone else. "We're really crossing the ocean to knock on Paradise's back door."
Saravia smiled, biting into a donut.
"I love how that sounds. A divine insult before breakfast."
Martin raised his cup like a toast.
"And if it goes wrong?"
Daytona looked at him, then at Saravia, then at the empty space — as if she saw Belzebub standing beside her.
"If it goes wrong… we improvise."
The room's phone rang — loud, jarring, out of place. The three of them exchanged looks. Daytona answered without thinking.
On the other end, a voice swallowed in static:
"You should already be on your way. Be careful what you open."
Click. The line went dead. No name. No explanation.
Martin went pale.
"Who was it?"
Daytona gently placed the phone back down.
"Just another sign we're going the right way."
Outside, the rumble of a truck on the highway echoed like thunder. Saravia leaned the anchor against the wall and peeked out the window.
"Next stop: Germany."
Belzebub spoke again — almost a whisper of pride:
"Hallara Daytona, burn everything if you must. I will be with you."
Daytona felt a cold smile grow on her lips.
"Good to know."
She turned to Martin and Saravia, lifting the coffee cup like a torch.
"Last night in this dump. Tomorrow, Nürburgring."
And in that small room, thick with cheap coffee, dust, and dangerous promises, they understood:
Their world wasn't just theirs anymore.