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I let out a soft, bitter laugh at myself.How did I end up here, obsessively hunting monsters while battling the darkness within me?Most people would probably be horrified if they could see the thoughts that flit through my mind on a daily basis—the casual violence I consider, the ruthless calculations, the complete lack of remorse when dealing with those I deem deserving of punishment.

But that's the thing about being a Darling—we were never raised to be normal. Normal was for other families, families who didn't understand the true nature of the world. Mom and my dads made sure we knew exactly how fucked up humanity could be from day one. They never sheltered us from the truth; instead, they armed us with it.

"Better to be the wolf than the lamb," Dad used to say.He wasn't wrong.

Growing up, I watched my parents move seamlessly between worlds—respected professionals by day, vigilantes by night. I learned to wear masks before I could even understand what they were for. The organization became our extended family, our purpose, our legacy.

And now here I am, continuing that legacy. DEA agent Seanna Darling, hunting Javier Reyes through official channels while simultaneously exploiting every underground connection the organization offers. It's exhausting living this double life, but I'd be lying if I said I didn't get a twisted thrill from it all.

"God, I'm fucked up," I mutter into the darkness, laughing softly at my own admission.

The worst part is, I don't actually want to change. There's something intoxicating about walking the line between light and shadow, between law and justice. Between what's legal and what's right. The rules that bind ordinary people don't apply to me—never have, never will. I've seen too much of the world's underbelly to believe in something as quaint as playing fair.

I close my eyes, willing my mind to quiet, but the endless loop of thoughts just keeps spiraling. Every time I edge toward sleep, some new theory, some hidden angle on Reyes or his operation jolts me back to consciousness. It's always been like this—my brain refusing to shut off until I've examined every angle, every dark corner where monsters might hide. It's what makes me good at my job, and it's also what makes me a fucking nightmare to live with.

Another hour of this bullshit, and I'm still wide awake, staring at shadows dancing across my ceiling. Perfect. Just what I need—sleep deprivation on top of everything else.

My phone buzzes on the nightstand, shattering my introspection. Jensen's name flashes across the screen, and I grab it with a mixture of irritation and curiosity. It's late, which means this is either important or he's about to get an earful.

"This better be fucking good," I answer flatly, not bothering with pleasantries.

"It is," Jensen's voice comes through, tense but excited. "Remember our mystery man from the Navarro surveillance? We got a hit."

I sit up immediately, sleep forgotten. "Talk to me."

"His name is Marcus Vega. Thirty-four, clean record—suspiciously clean, actually. Works as a private courier aka errand boy for several high-end clients in the city."

"A courier?" My mind races with possibilities. "Meaning he could be moving anything from intel, product samples, or cash for Reyes's operation."

"Exactly," Jensen confirms. "And here's where it gets interesting—he makes regular deliveries to an address just outside the city limits. Fancy neighborhood, very private. Property's registered to a shell company that took some serious digging to trace back."

"And?" I prompt impatiently.

"Matteo thinks it might connect back to Reyes's family. Not directly—there are about six layers of corporate bullshit between them—but it's the closest we've gotten to a potential residence."

Adrenaline surges through me. "Have we been watching this place?"

"Just started tonight. Eli's set up remote surveillance, but it's limited—too many security measures to get anything good without a proper team."

"Keep on it," I instruct sharply. "And Vega—I want everything on him. Where he lives, where he eats, who he fucks, his entire routine. If he's Reyes's messenger boy, he could be our way in."

"Already done," Jensen replies smoothly. "Also, local PD confirmed Cruz hasn’t done anything out of the ordinary. Their surveillance is still in place and will be until our meeting day after tomorrow."

"Good," I mutter, mind already racing through scenarios. "Now, get some fucking sleep, Jensen."

I end the call and fall back against my pillows, the darkness suddenly less oppressive. A courier. Someone trusted enough to move between Reyes and his inner circle. Finally, a thread to pull.

As my mind churns with possibilities, exhaustion finally tugs at me, and I drift into a fitful sleep filled with fragmented dreams of roses and shadows.

The first thing I notice when I wake is something feels... off. The air in my bedroom feels disturbed somehow, like someone's been moving through it while I slept. My instincts flare immediately, that sixth sense honed through years of hunting predators screaming that something isn't right.

My bed is covered with polaroid photographs.

They're scattered across my sheets and comforter like playing cards dealt by some psychotic dealer. Some face up, others face down, dozens of them. My heart slams against my ribs as I bolt upright, fully awake now, adrenaline flooding my system.

"What the actual fuck?" I whisper, staring at the images closest to me.

The first one I pick up shows me sleeping—face relaxed, one arm thrown above my head, completely vulnerable. Last night. The angle suggests someone standing right beside my bed, looking down at me. I flip through more photos, each one stealing another piece of my composure. Me turning in my sleep. Me curled on my side. Close-ups of my face, my hands, my bare shoulders peeking from beneath the sheets.