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We’re passing a bakery when a dog the size of a car lunges from its owner’s grasp. It slams into my thigh with the force of a friendly cannonball, burying its wet, oversized nose into the pocket of my coat.

I plant my feet, bracing against the impact, my hand half-raised to strike.

“Whoa, easy.” The owner’s voice rumbles behind me. “He’s friendly.”

I stare at the beasts lolling tongue and dark eyes, my pulse thumping in my throat.

“It’s just a dog, Eden. You’re okay,” Piper says softly, tugging me forward.

“Right,” I whisper, wiping the wet nose print from my coat. “Just a dog. Big dog. Huge.”

She marches me the rest of the way home, chattering about work and the weather to fill the silence, but I’m too busy calculating exit routes to hear her.

Is it the Wardens? Are the cosmic hall monitors back for more? Or is it something worse? Something that followed the scent of a demon who stayed too long and left the door unlocked?

I don’t breathe properly until I say goodbye to Piper and slam my apartment door shut behind me.

Safe.

My shoulders press into the door as I slide down a few inches, then catch myself. No. Absolutely not.

This better not be a relapse. There is not a cat in hell’s chance I am falling back into that five-step grief routine. I am not doing the depression-nest thing again. I am not listening to sad playlists about longing while staring at the empty spot on the couch. Even if the subject of said misery would be over a literal demon this time instead of a dead narcissist.

I march into the kitchen and toss the paper bag onto the counter with a little more force than necessary.

I need a reset. I need to submerge myself in water hot enough to sterilize surgical equipment. A bath. Yes. I’m going to fill the tub until it threatens to flood the downstairs neighbor, and I’m going to boil this weird paranoia right out of my pores. Then I’m going to eat this fancy cheese and pretend I don’t know what the word ‘supernatural’ means.

Just as my hand meets the refrigerator, three heavy, distinct knocks echo through the apartment, and I freeze.

Piper has a key. The landlord buzzes from the lobby. This is a visitor. A heavy-handed visitor.

Warden. I fucking knew it.

My heart gives a single, terrified thud, then settles into a cold, hard rhythm.

No.

I am not that girl anymore. I am not the trembling mess who threw table salt at a demon and hoped for the best. I survived Hell. I can handle a demonic shrimp in a cheap suit.

With trembling hands, I grab the paring knife from the drying rack and creep down the hallway.

Silently, I crack the door open two inches.

Through the sliver of space, a man stands in the hallway.

He’s tall, alarmingly broad, and wearing a black suit that fits him like a second skin. He’s tan, with dark brown eyes and jet-black, fluffy hair. I lock onto his eyes, waiting for the void—for the beady, black stare of a Warden. But they’re just... brown. Deep, rich, completely unremarkable espresso brown. No hellfire. No abyssal depths. Just eyes.

He looks… human. Shockingly, devastatingly human.

Not a Warden.

But if he’s selling solar panels or bibles, I’m going to scream.

“Can I help you?” I ask, tightening my grip on the knife behind the door.

He just stares at me wordlessly, his chest heaving as if he’s been running.

A massive, furry black shape squeezes between his legs and the doorframe, shoving its way into my personal space. It’s the dog. The one from the market. It whines, shoving its wet, cold nose against my hand through the crack, licking at my fingers.