"Be sober, be vigilant; because your adversary the devil walks about like a roaring lion, seeking whom he may devour."
— 1 Peter 5:8
The thread pulled taut as Luciel crossed the East End — invisible to all but him, glowing faintly beneath the grime of the waking
world. It snaked beneath flickering streetlamps, dipped into alleys, and passed like a whisper through crowds that didn't know they'd been marked.
The closer he got to the docks, the more twisted the karmic flow became — as if some unseen hand was trying to knot it mid-weave.
He paused beneath an underpass, one hand on the hilt of his silver gun.
The air changed.
Not colder. Not hotter. Just… wrong.
And then it came — a distortion in the world's
rhythm.
A scream behind his thoughts.
Three figures emerged from the mist, cloaked in flesh that wasn't theirs. Their movements weren't quite human— marionette-like. Loose-limbed. Grinning mouths split ear to ear as if someone had drawn them on with a broken pen.
Soul-masked thralls.
Luciel clicked his tongue. "Not even trying to be subtle anymore."
The first lunged — faster than a corpse had the right to move.
Luciel's black gun, Umbra, roared once, the bullet blessed and traced with the Seal of Isaiah. It didn't just kill — it silenced. The thing's scream died in its mouth,body crumpling like soaked parchment.
The other two rushed.
Luciel flicked a talisman between his fingers— Psalm Breaker — and slapped it against the nearest wall. A burst of light shattered the illusion glamor cloaking the enemy—revealing the twisted, burnt thing beneath.
He dodged under its claw, drew his butcher's knife, and buried it to the hilt.
As the last one circled, smarter than the rest,
Luciel whispered a prayer and activated a new talisman: The Veil of Anael.
He vanished from sight.
The thing turned, confused — then stiffened as Luciel reappeared behind it and shoved a prayer nail — a Gospel Chain — through its spine.
The battle was short.
But the threads?
The threads had shifted.
Someone had tried to delay him.
He knelt by the corpse that had nearly bitten him and muttered, "You weren't here to kill. You were here to stall."
The karmic thread, faint as smoke, shimmered ahead again — but it trembled, as if flickering beneath the weight of another will.
Luciel stood, trench coat whipping as the wind picked up.
He didn't smile this time.
He ran.
The dockside warehouse wasn't far.
And fate was already waiting.
————
The music was too loud for comfort but
too soft for distraction — like something halfway between a heartbeat and a spell. Thalia stood near the kitchen archway of a Victorian flat just off Gower Street, watching the party swirl around her like smoke in a broken lantern.
It wasn't her scene. Never had been.
But Jazz had insisted.
"Live a little,"
she'd said. "Maybe shaking your ass to bad remixes will scare the ghosts off."
Thalia wasn't sure if it was hope or denial, but here she was — clutching a cup of something
vaguely citrus and nonalcoholic while nodding politely at conversations that buzzed past her ears like static.
The flat was old —wooden floors that creaked under every step, walls stained with old ivy
patterns, fairy lights lazily hung like tangled halos around the doorframes. Jazz had described it as "cozy urban occult meets British post-grad chaos." It smelled like lavender candles, cider, and wet pavement from jackets draped across the radiator.
Everyone here looked like they belonged.
Folklore majors with thrifted capes and rune necklaces. Philosophy students quoting Baudrillard into red solo cups. Political science elites in cashmere, talking about revolutions they'd never fight in. Caleb's people. Her people, technically.
But she didn't feel it. Not really.
Jazz was holding court near the speakers, dancing like she'd been born in rhythm, her laughter louder than the beat. Thalia watched her for a moment — warm, grounded, alive —and envied how easily she floated.
"Thalia!"
Her name cut through the room. Caleb Moreau stood across the living room, holding two glasses and wearing a grin that leaned slightly crooked — genuine, soft at the edges. His sleeves were rolled up. Always rolled up. He looked like he belonged here, too.
Thalia's stomach twisted.
She smiled. A small one.
And stayed exactly where she was.
Because just behind Caleb —just out of reach, just beyond recognition — stood a shadow with golden eyes. Watching her. Not moving. Not blinking.
She turned her head. Gone.
Her chest rose slowly. Fell slower.
It wasn't the first time that night.
Twice already she'd felt that cold presence — like the memory of grief brushing her skin. The wraiths usually didn't follow her into crowds, but something tonight was different. She could feel the karmic weight settling, gently, like dust on her shoulders.
"Thals?"
Jazz appeared beside her, out of breath, cheeks flushed from dancing. She pressed a hand to Thalia's shoulder.
"You good?"
"Yeah. Just…thinking."
Jazz leaned in. "Caleb's here. Thought that'd earn at least one lap around the dance floor."
"I noticed."
Jazz raised a brow. "You're going to give him a complex."
"He's not the one who sees dead things when the lights dim."
Jazz didn't laugh. She never did when Thalia made those jokes.
Instead, she pressed the drink into Thalia's hand. "Okay. Then come sit. Come breathe. We don't have to pretend to be normal — just mildly un-haunted."
They retreated to a window alcove, away from the main throng of students. Outside, the rain had returned, pattering softly against the glass. Someone in the room started chanting along to an old protest folk song. Someone else was already throwing up in the sink. Campus life in all its candlelit glory.
Thalia sipped her drink and leaned into the windowframe. From this distance, the party looked almost beautiful — like a blurry painting of joy she couldn't quite touch.
Her phone buzzed once.
A text from an unknown number.
Do you remember what you were born
carrying?
Her hand tightened around the glass.
Outside the window, the streetlight flickered.
And somewhere beneath the music, the laughter, the scent of cider and perfume — a voice that didn't belong whispered her name.
She didn't tell Jazz.
She just kept staring out into the night, praying — not for peace.
But for memory to stay buried.