They didn't take the main roads.
Maya led Ethan through side streets and service alleys, past shuttered storefronts and rusted fences, cutting through parts of the city that felt unfinished—as if they had been abandoned mid-thought. The sky darkened, clouds stacking low and heavy, and the air carried that metallic scent that came before rain.
Ethan kept one hand on the bag's strap the entire time.
He hadn't realized how exposed he'd been until now. Every shadow felt closer. Every echo of footsteps made his shoulders tense. The city had always been dangerous, but this was different. This felt targeted.
They ducked into an underground parking structure and crossed it diagonally, emerged into a stairwell that led up into a residential block, then slipped through a courtyard and out the other side.
Finally, Maya stopped in front of a nondescript brownstone with a cracked stoop and a mailbox that hadn't been checked in days.
She unlocked the door and ushered him inside quickly, bolting it behind them.
The interior was modest but clean. A living room with mismatched furniture. Bookshelves packed too tightly. A kitchen that smelled faintly of coffee and old paper.
"Sit," Maya said.
Ethan did, sinking onto the couch like his bones had finally remembered gravity.
Maya paced once, then twice, then leaned against the counter and folded her arms.
"You need to understand something," she said. "And you need to understand it now."
Ethan nodded, throat tight.
"The bag doesn't just create," she continued. "It broadcasts. Every time you reach inside, it sends a signal—across layers most people don't even know exist."
"Like… radio waves?" Ethan asked weakly.
Maya snorted. "More like blood in water."
Ethan grimaced.
"Who smells it?" he asked.
Maya hesitated.
"Everyone who shouldn't," she said. "Demons, first. They're closest. Opportunistic. Hungry. They think they can take it from you."
"And angels?" Ethan asked.
Maya's jaw tightened.
"They don't hunt," she said. "They observe. They evaluate. And when they decide you're a problem, they don't miss."
Ethan swallowed.
"You're wearing armor," he said quietly. "That looked… angelic."
Maya looked down at her hands.
"Yes," she said. "That's why I'm still alive."
She moved to the window, pulling the curtain aside just enough to scan the street, then let it fall again.
"I didn't start with armor," she said. "I started like you—noticed something was wrong, got pulled into something bigger than myself."
She turned back to him.
"The difference is, I didn't get a bag."
Ethan frowned. "Then why you?"
"Because Heaven needed someone close," she said. "Someone human enough to blend in. Someone stubborn enough not to burn out."
She hesitated, then added, "Someone disposable."
Ethan felt a chill crawl up his spine.
"They gave you armor," he said.
"They gave me a test," Maya replied. "The armor was the leash."
Ethan leaned forward, elbows on his knees.
"So what am I?" he asked. "A test? A threat?"
Maya met his gaze.
"You're an anomaly," she said. "And anomalies terrify systems built on order."
Rain began to patter softly against the windows.
Ethan exhaled slowly.
"What happens now?" he asked.
Maya studied him for a long moment, then said, "Now we figure out how to keep you alive without turning you into something worse than what's hunting you."
She reached into a drawer and pulled out a notebook, worn and thick with notes. She flipped it open and set it on the table between them.
"Rule one," she said, tapping the page. "Never pull something out of the bag without knowing why you need it."
Ethan nodded.
"Rule two," she continued. "Never imagine harm unless you are prepared to live with the consequences."
He hesitated. "It didn't feel like imagining. It felt like… deciding."
Maya's eyes sharpened. "Good. That means you're learning."
She flipped the page.
"Rule three," she said softly, "never use the bag when you're angry."
Ethan's stomach dropped. "Why?"
"Because the bag doesn't filter intent," she said. "It amplifies it. Rage makes ugly things efficient."
She closed the notebook.
"And the last rule," she said. "Never forget that you're still human."
Ethan laughed, tired and hollow. "Hard to forget when everything hurts."
Maya didn't smile.
"That's not what I mean," she said. "Power like that erodes empathy. Slowly. Quietly. You won't notice it until people become problems instead of people."
Ethan stared at the floor.
"I don't want that," he said.
"I know," Maya replied. "That's why you're still breathing."
A low rumble rolled through the city—thunder, distant but heavy.
Maya moved again, restless. "You'll stay here tonight," she said. "We'll move you tomorrow. Somewhere quieter."
"Why help me?" Ethan asked suddenly.
She stopped pacing.
"Because the bag didn't give you wealth first," she said. "It gave you food."
Ethan blinked.
"That matters," she continued. "It means, at least right now, you're thinking about survival, not dominance."
She met his eyes.
"And because if Heaven or Hell gets to you first, they'll turn you into a weapon. I'd rather see what you become if you get a choice."
Ethan absorbed that in silence.
Outside, the rain intensified.
Then—
The lights flickered.
Just once.
Maya's head snapped up.
"No," she whispered.
The air thickened.
Ethan felt the bag warm again, pressure building along his spine.
Maya stepped toward the center of the room, light already blooming faintly beneath her skin.
"Stay behind me," she said.
From the hallway outside came the sound of footsteps—slow, deliberate, impossibly heavy.
The doorknob turned.
Not forced.
Not rushed.
As if whoever stood outside knew the door would open for them eventually.
Maya's voice dropped to a murmur.
"This," she said, "is the other side of attention."
The lock clicked.
And the door began to open.