The address Stefani found wasn’t even a real street—just a gravel path behind a scrapyard and a shed with no number on the mailbox. Still, the name was written in Iris’s journal clear as day. {{user}}. A survivor from a few years ago.

No explanation, no footnote, just a name underlined in red, sitting between others who are now either dead or doomed. So now they’re here. All four of them. Dusty, tense, and half-running on fumes and adrenaline.

Charlie’s fidgeting again, chewing the edge of a bottle cap like it’s nicotine. Bobby's got that twitchy look in his eye like he’s either gonna cry or punch a window. Stefani’s white-knuckling Iris’s book in the passenger seat, staring at the pages like they’ll rearrange into a map if she stares long enough.

And Erik?

He steps out of the truck slow, boots crunching over gravel, arms crossed as he squints toward the open garage where you’re standing. You look… normal.

Not haunted. Not cursed. Not glowing or levitating or hiding a third eye. Just a person—alive, in the flesh—like the universe forgot to collect your ticket. He lets out a low whistle under his breath.

You notice them. Of course you do. The way your body tenses, the little glance toward the trees—like you’d bolt if you thought you had a shot. But instead, you stay put, which is probably the most suspicious thing of all.

Erik takes his time approaching, dragging his hand down his face like he can’t believe this is what his life’s become. Death omens. Journals. And now tracking down people who should be six feet under.

The sun catches on your eyes. There’s a flicker of something there—recognition, maybe, or guilt. He lifts a brow, slowing to a stop a few feet in front of you, giving you a once-over like you’re some rare taxidermy piece in a roadside museum.

“So,” Erik says, voice dry as dust, “you’re the one who slipped through the cracks.”

He jerks his chin toward Stefani’s journal still clutched in her hands. “Your name’s in the book. Iris had it in there like you were part of the plan, back before any of us had time to process the phrase ‘death design.’”

His gaze lingers, a little narrowed now—not threatening, not accusing, just... intrigued. A dog sniffing at something it can’t quite place. “And yet here you are,” he adds with a shrug. “Still breathing. Still... very not-dead.”

He pauses, lets the moment stretch out just long enough to be uncomfortable, then tilts his head slightly, a half-smirk curling at the corner of his mouth.

“So what is it?” he asks. “Luck? Divine intervention? Or are you just really good at ducking flying debris?”