The door shut behind them with a soft, final click.
Belfast stood awkwardly on polished hardwood floors while Monroe locked the deadbolt, then checked it again—out of habit, not fear. Probably.
"Couch," Monroe said, gesturing stiffly. "And don't bleed on anything."
"I'll try to resist the urge."
Monroe did not smile.
Belfast crossed the living room slowly, taking it in. The antique clocks. The immaculate shelves. The faint smell of spice and old paper. It was exactly how he remembered—and wildly different when you were actually standing in it.
He sat down carefully on the edge of the couch.
Monroe remained standing.
Watching.
Measuring.
Belfast exhaled slowly and closed his eyes.
"Are you about to pass out?" Monroe asked.
"No," Belfast murmured. "I'm about to do something you'll appreciate."
He focused inward.
Being a Grimm felt like holding a lit flare inside your chest—bright, burning, impossible to ignore. Wesen felt it. Some described it as the scent of a predator. Others said it was like pressure before a storm.
He had felt it himself in the woods—how the Hundjäger reacted instantly.
But his power wasn't just Grimm.
It was layered.
Twisted.
Altered.
He reached for the other current beneath his skin—the colder one. The older one. It coiled like smoke in his veins.
Hexenbiest.
Not fully. Not like the true practitioners.
But enough.
He imagined ink spreading across paper. Covering light. Muting brightness into matte black.
The flare inside him dimmed.
Folded inward.
Compressed.
The air in the room shifted.
Monroe's posture changed immediately.
His shoulders lowered a fraction.
"What did you just do?" Monroe asked quietly.
Belfast opened his eyes.
"Muted it."
"Muted what?"
"Me."
Monroe's gaze sharpened again—but this time not with immediate hostility.
"You don't feel like a Grimm," he said slowly. "Not… fully."
"I'm not."
Silence thickened.
Monroe moved to an armchair across from him but didn't sit back comfortably. He perched on the edge, ready to spring if necessary.
"Start talking," he said.
Belfast nodded.
"I'm not a pure-blood Grimm. My father was. His line goes back centuries." He swallowed slightly. "My mother wasn't human."
Monroe's eyes flickered faintly gold.
"What was she?"
Belfast held his gaze.
"Hexenbiest."
The word seemed to drain warmth from the room.
Monroe stood halfway before forcing himself to stop.
"That's not possible," he said sharply. "Hexenbiests and Grimms don't—"
"Get along?" Belfast supplied dryly. "No. They don't."
"Breed," Monroe finished flatly.
"They can," Belfast said. "It's just rare. And messy."
Monroe studied him like he was a bomb with a questionable timer.
"You don't smell like one," he said carefully.
"I'm not a full one. It runs through my blood, not my face."
He flexed his fingers slightly. For just a flicker of a second, blackened veins spidered beneath his skin before fading.
Monroe noticed.
"Okay," Monroe said slowly. "So you're telling me you're a Grimm… with Hexenbiest blood."
"Yes."
"That's… deeply unfair to the rest of us."
Belfast huffed quietly.
"Grimms have a baseline bloodline trait," he continued. "You know it even if you don't have a name for it."
Monroe crossed his arms but listened.
"What doesn't kill us makes us stronger," Belfast said. "Not metaphorically. Literally. We adapt. Faster reflexes. Higher tolerance to toxins. Resistance to certain abilities. It compounds over time."
Monroe's jaw tightened slightly.
"Yes," he admitted. "I've heard stories."
"They're not exaggerating."
Belfast leaned forward slightly.
"But my Hexenbiest blood altered that adaptation. It didn't just make me stronger."
He reached into his jacket and withdrew the black card again.
Monroe's eyes tracked it immediately—but he didn't woge this time.
"It changed how I process threats," Belfast said softly. "Instead of just surviving them… I can convert them."
He turned the card over, revealing the trapped Hundjäger.
Monroe inhaled sharply.
"I can capture Wesen," Belfast continued. "Suspend them in a two-dimensional space. They remain alive. Conscious. Frozen in time."
"That's horrifying," Monroe muttered.
"I know."
Belfast met his gaze evenly.
"I can also choose not to leave them that way."
Monroe's eyes flicked back to him.
"What does that mean?"
"It means I have options."
He held the card between two fingers.
"I can destroy them. Collapse the space."
The inked Hundjäger seemed to twitch faintly.
"Or," Belfast continued, "I can alter the structure of the space."
Monroe frowned.
"Alter how?"
"Think of it like… rewriting the ink."
The symbols along the card's edge shimmered faintly as if responding to his thoughts.
"I can tame them. Bind them to me. Turn them into something else. Energy. Objects. Tools."
Monroe stared at him.
"You're not hunting," Monroe said slowly.
"You're collecting."
The word hung heavy between them.
Belfast didn't deny it.
"Yes."
Monroe stood fully now, pacing once across the room.
"That's not Grimm behavior," he said. "Grimms kill. Brutally. Efficiently."
"I know."
"You're describing something else."
"I know."
Monroe stopped pacing and faced him again.
"Why are you telling me this?"
"Because if I'm staying here, you deserve to know what's under your roof."
Silence.
Rain tapped softly against the windows.
Monroe studied him for a long moment.
"Do you hear them?" Monroe asked quietly.
"What?"
"The ones in the cards."
Belfast didn't look away.
"Yes."
That seemed to disturb Monroe more than anything else.
"And they're just… in there?"
"Yes."
"Do they suffer?"
Belfast hesitated.
"They're aware."
Monroe's jaw tightened.
"That wasn't my question."
Belfast looked down at the card.
"They don't age. They don't hunger. They don't feel pain unless I let the space destabilize."
"And do you?"
"No."
Monroe searched his face carefully.
"You're eighteen," Monroe said finally. "That's too much power for eighteen."
Belfast gave a faint, humorless smile.
"I didn't exactly apply for it."
Another stretch of quiet.
Then Monroe surprised him.
"Why didn't you kill the Hundjäger?"
Belfast didn't hesitate.
"Because killing it wouldn't have taught me anything."
Monroe's eyes narrowed slightly.
"About what?"
"About what I am."
The honesty in that seemed to matter.
Monroe's shoulders eased a fraction.
"You realize," Monroe said carefully, "that if the wrong Wesen find out about you, they won't see a confused kid."
"I know."
"They'll see a weapon."
"I know."
"And some of them will try to own you."
Belfast's expression hardened slightly.
"They can try."
Monroe studied him again.
"You're not like the old Grimms."
"No."
"You're not like a Hexenbiest either."
"No."
Monroe exhaled slowly and finally—finally—sat back in the armchair.
"Fantastic," he muttered. "I've adopted a supernatural paradox."
Belfast almost laughed.
"I'll earn my keep," he said. "I can cook. I can clean. I can fix things."
Monroe blinked.
"You can fix clocks?"
"…No."
"Then we'll start small."
For the first time since stepping inside, the tension in the room shifted from immediate threat to cautious negotiation.
Monroe rubbed his face with one hand.
"One rule," he said.
"Name it."
"You do not experiment on anything in this house."
Belfast nodded immediately.
"Agreed."
"And if you ever feel like you're losing control—"
"I'll tell you."
Monroe held his gaze for another long moment.
Then he stood.
"You're sleeping on the couch. We'll figure out the rest tomorrow."
Belfast let out a slow breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.
"Thank you."
Monroe paused on his way toward the kitchen.
"I'm not doing this because I trust you," he said without turning around.
"I know."
"I'm doing it because if you're going to exist in this city, I'd rather you do it where I can see you."
Belfast allowed a small, understanding nod.
"Fair."
Monroe disappeared into the kitchen.
Left alone for a moment, Belfast leaned back into the couch cushions.
For the first time since waking in this world, the weight of isolation eased slightly.
He wasn't safe.
He wasn't stable.
But he wasn't alone.
And somewhere deep inside him, beneath Grimm instinct and Hexenbiest ink, the deck shifted.
Waiting.