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I nodded, accepting the decision not because I felt its emotional significance, but because the reasoning was sound. I wasn't ready yet. Needed time to understand the changes in myself, to establish parameters, to determine what exactly had returned from the demon gate.

“One day,” I agreed.

Sterling studied me a moment longer, then nodded once. “Get some sleep, Cade. Whatever came back with you, whatever happened in there, it'll keep for a few hours.”

He moved to the door, pausing at the threshold with his back to me, a subtle indication that trust was building, if incrementally. “The guest room is warded, by the way. Nothing gets in or out without my knowing.”

The information wasn't delivered as a threat, just matter-of-fact. Sterling was taking precautions, as any seasoned hunter would. I respected the practicality.

“I'd expect nothing less,” I replied.

Sterling glanced back, the ghost of a smile touching his lips for the first time since my return. “Glad to see some things haven't changed.” He closed the door behind him, leaving mealone with the remnants of my former life and the uncertain shape of what I had become.

The mark on my chest pulsed gently, a reminder that whatever waited behind the wall in my mind, it wouldn't remain contained forever. For now, though, I would follow Sterling's advice. Eat. Rest. Recover.

3

GHOSTS OF THE LIVING

CADE

Iwoke to morning light filtering through unfamiliar blinds. For a disorienting moment, I couldn't place where I was, not the burning landscape of half-remembered nightmares, not my apartment, not the warehouse. Then recognition settled. Sterling's guest room. Safe harbor in a world that had continued without me for six months.

I rose, noting the methodical precision with which my body obeyed, the absence of grogginess or disorientation. Another adaptation. Another change to file away.

Downstairs, I found Sterling in the kitchen, already dressed and nursing a mug of coffee black as tar. Maps and printouts covered the kitchen table, demon signs, supernatural omens, tracking patterns I recognized from years of hunting.

Sterling looked up, eyes sharp with the assessment that never truly stopped. “Sleep well?”

“Yes.” The lie came automatically, social convention rather than truth.

Sleep had brought fragments, chains, fire, voices speaking in languages no human tongue could form, but nothing coherentenough to report, nothing significant. Sterling nodded once, accepting the response without necessarily believing it. He pushed a mug across the counter.

“Coffee. Then we talk.”

We sat at the kitchen table, coffee serving as both stimulant and social buffer. Sterling watched me over the rim of his mug, documenting details with a hunter's practiced eye, the too-mechanical movements, the absence of the small human twitches and shifts, the hollow stillness between deliberate actions.

“You're different,” Sterling said finally, breaking the assessing silence.

I didn't bother denying it. “Yes.”

“Want to explain how? Or should I start guessing?”

Sterling deserved some truth, but how much? What could I share when I myself understood so little?

“I don't remember most of it,” I began carefully. “There are... fragments. Impressions. Nothing clear.”

Sterling's eyes narrowed slightly. “But something changed you. Something fundamental.”

“Yes.” I met his gaze directly, offering what honesty I could. “I don't feel things the way I should. Everything seems... distant. Muted.” I struggled to articulate the difference, which to me felt like normal functioning. “It's like I'm watching myself go through the motions.”

Sterling absorbed this, no surprise registering in his weathered features. “Trauma response, maybe. Or something that happened on the other side of that gate. Hell does things to people.”

“You've seen this before?”

“Not exactly this. But similar.” Sterling's gaze was steady, assessing. “Question is, are you stable? Controllable? Safe to be around others?”

The underlying concern was clear, was I safe for Sean?