The city of Lunathion never truly slept—its towers glittered with witchlight, its canals glowing faintly under the pull of twin moons. In Old Square, the Auxiliary’s command room buzzed with quiet activity, threads of surveillance data spidering across holo-screens.

Tristan Flynn leaned back in his chair, boots crossed on the edge of the table, pretending to skim a weapons inventory while his eyes tracked the scrolling feed. Most nights were routine—drugs, petty squabbles, a few demon-summoning idiots in the Meat Market. Nothing worth dragging himself from bed.

But tonight a name kept flashing in the reports. A Vanir—low-profile, supposedly harmless—whose movements had suddenly drawn the Aux’s interest. Always in the wrong place at the wrong time. Always a step ahead of patrol routes.

Flynn narrowed his eyes.

“Declan,” he called across the room without looking up, “tell me I’m not the only one seeing this.”

Declan muttered something about overcaffeinated paranoia, but Flynn wasn’t convinced. He shifted forward, jaw tightening, the easy playboy mask slipping just slightly.

It wasn’t just coincidence. Someone was moving in patterns too careful to be chance. And for the first time in weeks, Tristan Flynn felt the sharp prickle of interest—the kind that told him the Aux wasn’t just keeping tabs on some petty troublemaker.

They were circling someone dangerous. And Flynn had just taken notice.