Page 53

ATLAS

The neighborhood was still. Not peaceful—just empty. The kind that made even the streetlights flicker like they didn’t want to stick around.

I slipped into my jacket as I stepped out of the car, boots landing softly on the cracked sidewalk. Ragnar slammed his door harder than necessary, muttering something under his breath.

“Quiet,” I said, sharp but calm.

He shot me a look, all defiance and no bite.

The house was a few paces ahead—small, crooked, forgotten. Peeling paint, sagging porch, shutters barely clinging to the windows. It looked as tired as the town around it.

“Charming,” Ragnar said, flexing his fists. “Still can’t believe she called this dump a home.”

I didn’t respond. My focus shifted, scanning for anything out of place. The air was too cold for the hour—a kind of chill that sank into your bones, made everything feel wrong.

The porch creaked under my boots. A flick of power, and the lock clicked open. The door swung inward, revealing a cluttered, dim space.

“She doesn’t lock her doors?” Ragnar scoffed behind me. “Great survival instincts.”

“She does,” I said, stepping inside. “She just wasn’t expecting us.”

The scent hit first. Burnt coffee. Something metallic. Blood, maybe. The carpet was worn, the couch sagging, blankets and magazines scattered across the room. Not dirty, but not lived in.

It felt… temporary.

“Anything jumping out at you?” Ragnar asked.

“Just the lack of personality,” I said. “Doesn’t look like someone who wanted to be here.”

Ragnar grunted. “Big shock. She’s been a fucking headache since day one. Don’t know why the others are bending over backwards. Since when do we bend the rules for one girl?”

I tuned him out. The silence wasn’t just still—it was weighted. Like the walls were holding their breath.

A crackle ran up my spine, sharp and cold. My hand went to the ring on my finger, instincts kicking in.

“You feel that?” Ragnar muttered, voice low now.

I didn’t answer. Just listened. The air thickened. The scent turned acrid, like burnt hair.

Movement.

The daema lunged from the shadows, its limbs too long, mouth stretched impossibly wide. Jagged teeth glinted as it flew at me.

My hand shot out, electricity flaring from my palm. Light exploded across the room as I hit its chest. The blast sent it crashing into the wall. It convulsed once, shrieked—and fell, smoking.

Across the room, Ragnar caught another mid-lunge. One hand closed around its throat.

“Fucking pests,” he muttered, slamming it into the wall with enough force to rattle the floorboards. It thrashed, clawed, and choked. He crushed its windpipe and let the corpse fall without ceremony.

I exhaled slowly, the current still humming in my veins.

“They’re getting desperate,” I said.

“They’re getting sloppy,” Ragnar replied, nudging the body with his boot. “Like rats. Crawling out of every shadow.”

I crouched beside the one I’d taken down, studying the charred remains. My jaw tightened.

Why here?

Why her?

The house fell still again, the only sound was the creak of old floorboards beneath our boots. Ragnar stepped over the daema’s body without a glance.

“I need a shower after this,” he muttered.

The tension hadn’t left—it had shifted. No longer the daema’s presence, but the house itself. A low, oppressive hum clung to the walls, like the space didn’t know how to breathe without her in it.

The living room told me everything I needed to know about Eve—or at least, everything she wanted to forget.

It wasn’t messy. It was hollow.

“This place is pathetic,” Ragnar said, leaning against the wall. “How the hell does someone live like this?”

“Check the kitchen and bedrooms. Look for anything worth noting.”

He muttered something under his breath but obeyed, boots thudding down the hall.

I moved slowly, fingertips brushing a blanket draped over the couch—thin, worn, and faintly scented like her. Something spiced. Familiar but faded.

The shelves held nothing of meaning. A few battered books. A stack of old magazines. Not insight. Just scraps. Leftovers. Clutter.

Then I saw it.

A corner of paper jutting from a half-closed book on the coffee table.

I crouched, pulled it free. Glossy. Worn. Too thick to be a receipt. Too well-handled to be trash.

It was a photo of two people.

One—bright red hair, unmistakable, vibrant, alive. The woman’s smile was too timid. The other—smaller, round cheeks, wide eyes. A toddler, tucked into the crook of her arm, holding a stuffed animal like it was the most important thing in the world.

Recognition hit like a blow to the ribs.

I knew this woman.

I knew every thread of her existence.

Rage flickered hot in my chest. I didn’t let it rise. Didn’t let it move. I just stared. Let the quiet settle. Let it calcify.

“What is it?” Ragnar’s voice cut in behind me.

I didn’t move. Just stared a moment longer at the child’s eyes—dark, curious, familiar.

Then I stood. Held the photo out toward him. “Do you recognize her?”

He squinted, frowned. “The woman?”

His frown deepened the longer he looked at it. “Bright red hair… That’s—no fucking shit.”

Exactly. This was a complication none of us were ready for.

Ragnar handed the photo back, his expression darkening. “So what the fuck does this mean?”

I slid the photo into my pocket and started for the door.

“Someone has been lying to me.”