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Elias looks at me next, eyebrow arched, all snark and sharpness. “That’s gotta be some kind of record, right? No girl’s ever gotten past five.”

I nod, slow and deliberate. The weight of it settles heavy between us, even through the haze of smoke, the taste of ash and magic clinging to the back of my throat.

This is what none of them will say, but we all know.

She’s the endgame.

No one survives five Sins bound to them.

No one.

Elias drags a hand through his hair, slouching deeper into the chair like he can outrun the weight pressing in. “So, what now?” he asks, voice quieter, lazier, but the sharp glint in his eyes doesn’t fade. “We just… sit here and get high about the fact that we’re all completely and irrevocably fucked?”

I grin, sharp and wicked. “Sounds about right.”

He snorts, passing the joint back to me. “At least she looks good branded with us.”

Ambrose’s gaze flicks up at that—just for a second. Quick, sharp, dangerous. And then he looks away again, like he didn’t just want to bite the words out of Elias’ mouth.

The joint’s burning low between my fingers, the edges fraying sweet and sharp when I hear the footsteps—heavy, clipped, one a little too quiet, one way too precise.

Riven and Caspian. Because nothing saysfamily bondinglike getting high in a grimy garage while the world’s probably ending upstairs.

They come in like two sides of a blade. Riven all carved edges and death-glare, Caspian dragging like a ghost behind him, hoodie half-zipped, eyes shadowed like he’s been staring into the abyss and the abyss handed him a drink and told him to go fuck himself.

Caspian tosses a six-pack onto the workbench like an offering. “Seriously? You’re getting high without us.”

Riven follows, drops two bottles on the counter without even looking at us. “Typical.”

I grab one, pop the cap against the edge of the table like a pro, grinning at them over the rim. “What can I say? The fifth Sin binds, the boys get blazed.”

Elias, already half-melted into the busted leather chair like he’s been here for years, raises a hand lazily. “And no one even invited me to the intervention.”

Caspian grabs a beer, cracks it open like it’s the only thing holding him together. Riven leans against the far wall, arms crossed, gaze cutting through the haze like he’s already three steps ahead of this conversation.

Ambrose says nothing. Still holding the joint like it’s a lit fuse.

I take another swig, licking the foam from my lips. “So. She’s at five now.”

Riven doesn’t react, because of course he doesn’t. “A handful ever got that far.”

Caspian lifts his beer to his lips without looking at any of us. “And none of them lasted long after.”

The weight of it’s there, hanging sharp between us, but I blow a lazy stream of smoke toward the ceiling anyway. “Yeah, but they weren’tourLuna.”

Elias huffs beside me, slouching deeper into the chair, legs splayed like he owns the place. “She’s already outliving the last five. That counts for something.”

“Counts for her being batshit enough to take all of us on,” I mutter, smirking into my bottle.

Riven doesn’t laugh. He’s still watching Ambrose like he’s waiting for him to unravel. “Two left.”

“Orin and Lucien,” Elias says, rolling the names around his mouth like they’re bad jokes.

I tip my head back, grin wicked. “And then she’ll have the whole damn set. Collect all seven, win a trip to hell.”

Caspian’s mouth twists around a bitter smile. “If she survives.”

That earns him a sharp look from Riven, but I wave it off, exhaling another lazy breath of smoke.