Clara gasped awake like she'd been dragged out of deep water.
Her eyes snapped open. Sweat clung to her temples. The world felt wrong—too loud, too solid—like she'd returned a second too late.
She staggered to her feet and crossed the room without hesitation, fingers shaking as she unlocked the door and threw it open.
"I saw it," she said, voice tight, urgent. "I know what they're doing."
Simon and Iris stood on the porch, both mid-turn toward the street where Mark had vanished minutes ago. They froze.
"…What?" Iris asked.
Clara looked between them, pale but focused, pupils still faintly glowing like embers dying out.
"They're trying to summon a demon."
A beat.
Simon blinked once. Then twice.
"Yeah," he said flatly, rubbing his face. "Sure. Why not. As if werewolves and witches weren't enough—let's throw demons into the mix. Makes sense."
Clara ignored him completely.
"Can any of you drive?" she asked.
Silence.
Slowly, painfully slowly, Iris and Clara both turned their heads toward Simon.
Simon took a step back immediately. "No. Absolutely not. I am not stealing Sam's car again. Last time I grounded myself for a month out of pure guilt."
"This is serious," Iris said.
"So was the BMW," Simon shot back. "And I nearly went to jail."
Clara exhaled sharply, already moving past them, eyes scanning the street like she could feel where Mark had gone.
"If they complete the ritual," she said, more to herself than them, "whatever he's fighting won't matter anymore."
Iris's jaw tightened.
"Then we're not wasting time."
She pulled out her phone.
"Simon," she said, calm but dangerous, "call your brother."
Simon groaned. "I hate this town."
Meanwhile inside the Sanctum
Mark hit the ground rolling.
Stone—cold, cracked, ancient—scraped against his shoulder as he came up on one knee. The air was heavy here, thick with rot and incense, like a graveyard sealed inside a cathedral that never saw daylight.
Rows of broken headstones jutted out of the floor between half-collapsed pews. Iron crosses leaned at wrong angles. Candles burned without flames, dripping black wax that never reached the ground.
A church.
A graveyard.
Merged.
"So no talking, I mean people usually talk a lot when they are about to die." Mark muttered, breath steady despite the pressure crushing down on his chest.
The robed figure didn't answer.
It moved.
The air screamed.
From every direction, spectral chains lashed out—dozens of them—etched with symbols that pulsed like dying heartbeats. Mark didn't think. He reacted.
He grabbed a fallen pew, ripped it from the ground with a growl, and swung.
Wood exploded into splinters as chains shattered against it. The impact numbed his arms, but he used the recoil, spinning, kicking off a headstone to launch himself forward.
The robed figure raised an arm.
Graves burst open.
Hands—too many—clawed upward, skeletal fingers grabbing at Mark's legs, his coat, his skin. He twisted midair, slammed his heel into a stone angel's head, snapped it clean off, and hurled it like a missile.
It hit.
The robed figure staggered.
Not much.
But enough.
Mark landed hard, boots skidding across cracked marble, heart pounding—not from fear, but from focus.
"So you can be touched," he said.
The silence broke.
A sound echoed through the sanctum—not a voice, but something deeper. A vibration. Like a thousand throats exhaling at once.
The robed figure's presence swelled.
The candles flared brighter. The grave soil darkened. The air grew denser, pressing against Mark's lungs like deep water.
Then the attacks came again.
This time, they didn't come one by one.
They stacked.
Chains.
Shadows.
Blades made of condensed darkness.
Whispers sharp enough to cut.
Mark dodged, rolled, leapt—his body moving on instinct honed from fighting things that never should've existed. A blade grazed his side. Another tore fabric from his arm. A chain wrapped his wrist—
—and snapped when he yanked back with a roar.
He countered with everything he had.
He smashed gravestones and used the debris as cover. Kicked iron crosses into the air and punched them mid-flight, turning them into shrapnel. He climbed ruined pillars, leapt from balconies, used the space like it was a weapon itself.
And he kept landing hits.
Small ones.
But real.
Each time he did, the robed figure retaliated harder.
More attacks.
Heavier pressure.
Greater density.
Mark slammed into a wall, ribs screaming, breath tearing out of him. He pushed himself up, blood dripping onto the stone.
That's when he felt it.
Not pain.
Change.
The air—just for a moment—felt… thinner.
The oppressive weight flickered.
A candle nearby guttered and went out.
Mark's eyes narrowed.
Another wave of attacks surged toward him, thicker than before, layered so tightly it felt like reality itself was trying to crush him.
He barely survived it—barely.
But when it passed…
The sanctum felt different.
Not weaker.
Not broken.
Just… lighter.
Mark straightened slowly, ignoring the blood on his hands.
His breathing slowed.
His gaze lifted—not to the robed figure—
—but to the graves.
The candles.
The whispers.
The space itself.
A corner of his mouth twitched.
"…So that's how you're doing it."
The robed figure stiffened.
Mark rolled his shoulders, stance settling, eyes sharp with a new kind of certainty.
"Great," he said quietly. "Because I can do this all night."
And this time—
When the attacks came again—
Mark smiled.
The sound of tires screeching cut through the quiet street.
A black BMW slid to a stop in front of Clara's house, headlights still on, engine growling like it had never meant to stop here in the first place.
The driver's door swung open.
Sam stepped out, jaw tight, eyes already locked on Simon.
"Alright," he said, slamming the door shut. "You called me like someone was dying. Why?"
Simon didn't answer immediately.
He looked at the house.
Then the empty street.
Then at Iris—pale, arms folded too tight.
Then at Clara, who hadn't said a word since she woke up.
"We need the car," Simon said finally. "Now."
Sam laughed once, sharp and confused. "No. Try again. Why are you all standing outside some random house like you're about to rob it?"
"Sam—"
"No," Sam cut him off. "You don't get to do that tone. You don't get to drag me out here, risk my license, my car, my life, and then say trust me."
Silence stretched.
Simon swallowed.
"Come on, man," he said, voice cracking just a little. "We don't have time."
Sam stared at him. "Then make time. What. Is. Going. On."
Simon turned—desperate now.
"Clara," he blurted. "Do your thing."
Clara blinked. "What?"
Simon stared at her. "What do you mean what? You're a witch. Show him. Do something."
Iris shot him a look. "Simon—"
"That was rude," Clara said flatly. Then she exhaled. "But… we don't have a choice."
She raised her hand.
At first, nothing happened.
Then a spark flickered above her palm.
It grew—not wild, not explosive—but controlled, hovering like it belonged there. A small flame, suspended in the air, casting warm light across their faces.
Sam froze.
His breath caught halfway.
"What the—" His voice dropped to a whisper. "What is that?"
The flame shifted, curling in on itself like it was listening.
Sam took a step back. "How are you—"
"Okay," Simon snapped, stepping between him and Clara. "We'll explain everything. On the way. Can we play go now."