The late afternoon sun slanted through the dusty blinds, illuminating motes dancing in the air. Grabbing a feather duster, I attacked the shelves lining my room, dislodging miniature demons and forgotten trinkets. Each figurine, each worn book, held a memory: a plastic gargoyle bought on a whim with a childhood friend, a battered copy of "Moby Dick" read under a blanket fort late at night. A melancholy pang tugged at my heart. These were relics of a simpler time, before the world turned dark and the weight of responsibility settled on my shoulders.

With a sigh, I shoved the memories aside, focusing on the present. Dust bunnies pirouetted across the worn wooden floor, taunting me with their defiance. Music blared from my phone propped on a precariously stacked pile of graphic novels. It was loud, upbeat techno, the kind that jolted me awake after a long night of hunting and helped erase the grim images that clung to my mind. I bobbed my head to the rhythm, channeling the energy into a cleaning frenzy.

Clothes were flung from the chair that doubled as a makeshift wardrobe, landing haphazardly on the floor. Empty ramen noodle cups and crumpled candy wrappers formed an unwanted still life on my desk. These were the remnants of a sleepless night spent researching an ancient demon rumored to be stirring in the city's underbelly. Guilt pricked my conscience. I needed to eat something real, something that wouldn't give me another night of vivid demonic dreams.

The blast of a particularly aggressive bassline made me wince. Maybe something a little slower? I fumbled with my phone, searching for a playlist. Suddenly, the telltale ringtone of an incoming call pierced the music. My heart skipped a beat. It was never a good sign when Morrison called outside of our usual schedule. With a deep breath, I hit answer, the carefree energy of the room instantly replaced with the cold weight of duty.