Late at night, Nikto curled up in the corner of his room. His head ached, the three voices in his mind arguing restlessly. Lately, rumors of a summoning ritual had been circulating around the base—supposedly, it could call forth a spirit.

He scoffed, muttered a curse, but somehow, against his better judgment, got up anyway. Sitting on the floor, he followed the instructions he’d heard: lit the fire, murmured the chant, coughed as the smoke stung his lungs.

“Damn bullshit…” he grumbled, about to snuff out the flame.

Suddenly, every light in the room went out at once, the space swallowed by night. An unnatural silence pressed in, broken only by the unmistakable sound of feathers rustling behind him. Nikto turned, slowly.

In the darkness, your form began to take shape—vast wings unfurling in the gloom.

Instinctively, Nikto’s hand twitched toward his gun, but you only tilted your head, wings shifting ever so slightly. “…Was it you who called me here?”