Skye's expression darkened, fingers unconsciously tracing a scar on their forearm. “That Hawk? You're sure it's him? Last I heard while still in Hallow, he was declared KIA after that bloodbath in Prague. I thought Sterling knew another Hawk.”

Sean nodded grimly. “The same. If Hawk's resurfaced after all this time, it's not good news.”

“No,” Skye muttered, their voice tight with old memories. “It's really not.”

I finished my coffee, the liquid gone cold, bitter on my tongue. “Guess we're about to find out.” I spoke with a casualness I didn't feel, already mentally preparing for whatever new catastrophe awaited us.

Sean pushed away from the counter, already moving with purpose. “I'll get the weapons.”

“I'll check satellite feeds for unusual activity around known seal locations,” Skye offered, reaching for their laptop.

And just like that, the brief peace of the morning was gone, replaced by the familiar rhythm of preparation, of bracing for battle.

I should feel something about this—regret for the interrupted calm, perhaps, or anxiety about what Sterling had discovered.

But the hollow place inside me offered only silence.

Roxie watched us from her perch on the windowsill, blue eyes unblinking, judging our frantic human concerns with feline indifference. I envied her that detachment, the ability to exist solely in the present moment, unburdened by the weight of destiny or the scars of the past.

As Sean and I gathered our gear, moving in the practiced choreography of partners who knew each other's rhythms by heart, I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the window glass.

For just a moment, I thought I saw something behind my eyes—a flicker of otherness, a hint of the void I felt growing inside me.

But then Sean called my name, and the moment passed, leaving me to wonder if I'd imagined it.

The CITD office was its usual controlled chaos—agents moving between desks, the hum of urgent conversations creating a background drone of activity.

I tugged the brim of my baseball cap lower, adjusted the fake glasses on my nose, and kept my head down.

The last thing we needed was for someone to recognize the formerly deceased Agent Cross walking through the bullpen.

“You look ridiculous,” Sean muttered beside me, a hint of amusement in his voice. “Like a college student who wandered into the wrong building.”

“Shut up,” I whispered back. “You try coming back from the dead and see how you handle it.”

Sean smirked. “I'd pull it off better than that dollar store Clark Kent getup.”

The disguise was minimal but effective—glasses, hat, different hairstyle, clothes I wouldn't normally wear.

Simple changes that altered my silhouette and face just enough to pass casual scrutiny.

To these people, Cade Cross was dead, his name etched on the memorial wall in the lobby.

And officially, that's how it needed to stay, at least until Sterling figured out how to explain my resurrection to the higher-ups.

We navigated through the maze of desks toward Sterling's office, located in the back corner of the bullpen. A few agents glanced our way, but their eyes slid past without recognition. Just another pair of hunters or consultants coming to see the old man.

Sterling's office door was open, but the man himself barely looked up from his notes when we entered.

His desk was piled with files, ancient texts mixed with modern reports, a half-eaten sandwich pushed to one side and forgotten.

The corkboard behind him was covered with photos, maps, and strings connecting seemingly unrelated events.

“Took you long enough,” Sterling growled, voice gruff and edged with exhaustion. Dark circles shadowed his eyes, and his beard was more salt than pepper, the stress of recent months etched into the lines of his face.

I took in the state of the office—the empty coffee cups, the rumpled clothes, the sleeping bag rolled up in the corner. Sterling had been living here, working nonstop. Whatever was happening, it had escalated to crisis levels.

“Traffic,” Sean said dryly, closing the door behind us. “What's so urgent?”

Sterling's eyes narrowed, studying me with the intensity of a man who had spent decades detecting lies and half-truths. “How're you feeling, kid?”

The question caught me off guard. It wasn't what I expected in the middle of whatever crisis had Sterling working around the clock. “Fine,” I said automatically.

Sterling watched me for a moment longer, then grunted, clearly not believing me but letting it go. “Fine, huh? Good. Because we need you at a hundred percent for this.”

Sean shifted beside me, a subtle movement that spoke volumes. He didn't believe me either.

Sterling finally met my gaze directly. “I found someone who might know more about the seals. Goes by Hawk. Used to be a Hallow, but he's been off the grid for years.”

“What makes you think he'll talk now?” I asked.

Sterling's mouth pressed into a thin line. “Because he reached out to me. Said he has information about the seals. Information you need to hear.”

“Me specifically?” My suspicion deepened.

Sterling nodded once, decisive. “You specifically. And believe me, for Hawk to willingly contact anyone, especially about this? It's serious.”

Sean raised an eyebrow, arms crossed over his chest. “And now he suddenly wants to talk?” His distrust was evident in every line of his body. Sean had never had patience for cryptic messengers or mysterious informants. “What's his angle?”

Sterling sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “Everyone's got an angle, Cullen. Question is whether his helps us or not.”

“And you think it does?” I asked.

Sterling's expression was grim. “I think we're out of options. We need whatever he knows about the seals, or we're all screwed.”

Sean's jaw tightened. “Fine. Where do we find this Hawk?”

Sterling reached inside his desk drawer, movements slow with fatigue. He pulled out a faded photograph, handling it with the care one might give to an ancient artifact. His expression softened almost imperceptibly as he looked at it, revealing a glimpse of the man beneath the gruff exterior.

He placed the photograph on the desk, sliding it toward me. “Thought you should see this before we go any further.”

I leaned forward, and my breath caught in my throat. The image showed three men standing in front of what looked like an abandoned warehouse. They were bloodied, exhausted, but smiling with the particular relief of those who've just survived something they shouldn't have.

Sterling was there, twenty years younger, his beard still dark, his stance confident.

Beside him stood a lean, sharp-featured man I didn't recognize—Hawk, presumably.

And on the other side, arm slung around Sterling's shoulders, was a face I knew only from other faded photos: my father, James Cross.

“The Tulsa siege,” Sterling said quietly, a distant look in his eyes as he recalled the memory. “Thirty vampires holed up in an abandoned factory. They'd been taking kids from the surrounding towns. We tracked them for weeks.”

I couldn't tear my eyes away from my father's face. He looked younger than I am now, his eyes bright with determination, a scar cutting across his chin that I didn't remember from my childhood. A hunter in his prime, before he met my mother, before he tried to leave the life behind.

“We were pinned down,” Sterling continued, his voice dropping lower.

“Outnumbered, outmaneuvered. Hawk caught a machete to the leg. Was bleeding out. Your father...” He shook his head slightly, a mix of admiration and old grief.

“Your father created a diversion. Drew half the nest away so I could get Hawk to safety. By all rights, he should have died that night.”

Sterling's finger tapped the image of the third man in the photo—Hawk, with his sharp features and watchful eyes. “He never forgot what your father did. Never stopped repaying that debt.”

I looked up, meeting Sterling's gaze. “What do you mean?”

Sterling's expression was carefully neutral. “After your parents were killed, Hawk disappeared. I thought he'd died. But he was hunting, following leads, tracking the thing that killed them.”

My heart pounded against my ribs. “Did he find it?”

Sterling shook his head. “Not exactly. But he found connections. Patterns. Signs pointing to something bigger.”

“The seals,” Sean said quietly from where he stood, his earlier skepticism softened by the personal connection.

Sterling nodded. “The seals. And the First Nephilim.”

I stared at the photograph again, at these three men who had no idea what destiny had in store for them. “So my father saved Hawk's life, and now Hawk's trying to return the favor by helping me?”

“It goes deeper than that,” Sterling said, his voice heavy with implication. “Your father and Hawk weren't just hunting partners. They respected each other deeply. Richard was one of the few people Hawk ever truly trusted.”

Sterling's eyes darkened with an emotion I couldn't quite place. “That's why Hawk's information about the seals matters. He's not just doing this for the world—he's doing it out of loyalty to Richard. And by extension, to you.”

“What else haven't you told me about my parents?” The question escaped before I could stop it, sharp with accusation.

Sterling looked away, his jaw tight. “Some things are better left buried, kid.” The words were cryptic, heavy with unspoken knowledge.

Sean moved closer to me, a subtle gesture of support. “But not if they're about to get un-buried anyway,” he said, his gaze sharp on Sterling. “If Hawk knows something about Cade's parents that's relevant to all this, he deserves to know.”

Sterling met Sean's challenge with a level stare.

“It's not that simple, Cullen. Some knowledge comes with a price.

And I'm not convinced Cade's in a place to pay it right now.” Sterling gathered his notes on the seals, shuffling them into a folder with practiced efficiency.

“Hawk doesn't reach out unless it's dire.

If he's calling now, after all these years...”

I nodded, understanding the implications. “It's endgame.”

“Worse,” Sterling said, and there was a weariness in his voice that sent a chill down my spine. “It's personal. Hawk's been tracking these seals since your father died. Said something about a promise made.”

Sean's eyebrows rose. “A promise? To who?”

Sterling hesitated, and in that brief pause, I saw rare uncertainty. “That's the question, isn't it? To Richard? To someone else? Hawk wasn't exactly forthcoming with the details.”

“So we go meet Hawk,” I said, my voice steadier than I felt. “We hear what he has to say, and we figure out how to stop this.”

Sterling slid a slip of paper across the desk. The tension between us eased slightly, shifting back to the mission at hand. “Hawk needs help with something. Said if we scratch his back, he'll scratch ours.”

The paper felt worn, almost oily from handling.

The address was written in tight, sharp script—handwriting that spoke of precision and discipline.

I recognized the location immediately—an industrial zone on the outskirts of town, abandoned for years.

Perfect for anyone or anything that didn't want to be found.

“What kind of 'help' exactly?” I asked, studying the address while mentally cataloging which weapons we'd need to bring.

Sterling shrugged, the motion stiff with lingering tension. “Didn't say. Just said to come prepared.” His tone implied that “prepared” meant heavily armed and ready for the worst.

Sean picked up the paper, frowning at the location. “That's near the old paper mill. Been abandoned for years.”

“Hunters don't pick meeting spots for the ambiance,” Sterling remarked dryly. “Just means there won't be civilians around to get caught in the crossfire.”

The implication hung heavy in the air—whatever Hawk needed help with, it was likely to involve violence. The kind that required privacy and plausible deniability.

“So we're just supposed to walk in blind?” Sean's skepticism was palpable, the wariness of a man who'd seen too many traps sprung in his time. “No intel, no backup plan?”

Sterling's eyes narrowed slightly. “You want to sit this one out, Cullen? Nobody's forcing you to come.”

The tension between them flared again. I wondered what exactly happened during my absence that created this friction—Sterling and Sean had always respected each other, even if they didn't always see eye to eye.

“Where Cade goes, I go,” Sean stated flatly. It wasn't a romantic declaration but a statement of fact, immovable and non-negotiable.

I studied the slip of paper again, a sense of foreboding settling in my gut. The hollow space inside me didn't allow for full-fledged anxiety, but I recognized the warning signs. Vague instructions, mysterious contact, isolated location—it read like the setup for an ambush or worse.

“This feels off,” I said quietly, voicing what we were all thinking.

Sean sighed, running a hand through his hair. “That's never a good sign.” Despite his words, there was a subtle shift in his stance—his body angling toward the door, already preparing for action.

Sterling nodded grimly. “Hawk doesn't reach out lightly. If he's calling for help now, after all these years in the wind...”

“It's bad,” I finished.

“When is it ever good?” Sean's attempt at humor fell flat, but there was truth in it. Our world wasn't one of good options—just varying degrees of terrible ones, each with their own price.

I pocketed the address, decision made. “We'll need silver rounds, the demon daggers, and probably the consecrated iron. If this is connected to the seals...”

Sterling nodded, already moving to his weapons cabinet. “I'll get you fully stocked.”

The familiar rhythm of preparation filled the room—checking weapons, distributing ammunition, reviewing contingencies. It was a dance we'd performed countless times before, the choreography of hunters preparing to step once more into the darkness.

I caught Sean's eye across the room, a silent question passing between us: Ready? The answer came in the slight nod, in the determined set of Sean's jaw. Whatever awaited us at the old paper mill, we'd face it together.

And that would have to be enough.