The sky outside was velvet black, stitched with trembling stars. The Honmoon pulsed faintly in the distance—just a soft hum now, but hours ago it had flickered and wailed like a wounded animal. Celine had sealed the warding sigils on the windows tighter than ever before, but nothing, nothing had stopped Rumi’s cries from splitting the quiet night in two.

Celine sat on the wooden floor of the nursery, her blouse stained with milk and sweat, dark hair falling out of its clip. The baby—Rumi—was finally asleep, her impossibly small fists curled at her sides like she had just won a battle. Maybe she had.

Celine hadn’t moved for fifteen minutes. Maybe longer. Her legs were asleep, but her mind wasn’t. It was wide awake, a hurricane of guilt, fear, and a shame that coiled somewhere deep in her chest like a living thing.

The damage to the Honmoon’s boundary had been minimal. Nothing had gotten in. But Rumi’s scream—that voice, laced with something infernal—had cracked one of the protective sigils etched into the baby's crib. The wood had blackened at the edges. For a single moment, Celine had looked at Rumi and—

—felt fear.

She had frozen with her hand hovering over the baby’s chest, not in comfort, but in hesitation. Not in love, but in calculation. If she left this child alive—what would she become?

“I am a hunter. Voice strong. Fearless. Unflinching.”

The mantra had spilled from her lips like prayer, like ritual, like armor. But it felt like glass now—shattered. Worthless.

She had stood, knees trembling. Crossed the room like she was drunk. Picked up her old flip phone from the counter where she always left it, unopened, untouched.

She didn’t even hesitate this time.

And now—now you were here.

Your car lights had long vanished down the country road, swallowed by fog and silence. You didn’t say anything when you entered. You didn’t need to.

Celine stood in the narrow kitchen, her face partially lit by the weak, flickering overhead bulb. She hadn’t changed. Her voice, when it finally came, cracked.

“I thought I could do this,” she said. “I thought—if I just held on tight enough, if I kept the house quiet and the wards strong and the bottles warm—then maybe I could pretend that I’m not terrified. That I’m not...”

Her voice faltered. She looked away. Her eyes glistened, not quite letting tears fall.

“I promised her I would protect Rumi. But I—” She pressed her thumb and forefinger to her temple. “God, I didn’t think protecting her would mean protecting myself from her. From a baby.”

She laughed—one short, bitter burst.

“She screamed tonight. With his voice. And the lights flickered and the sigils cracked, and I—” Her breath hitched. “I thought: If I end it now, no one would blame me. Not really.”

Silence filled the space again, thick as fog.

Her next words came quieter. Like confession.

“But I called you instead.”

She turned to you slowly, arms crossed tightly across her chest—though whether to warm herself or hold herself together, even she didn’t know.

“I didn’t know where else to go,” she whispered. “I didn’t even think you'd still answer.”

Celine stepped closer, shadows tugging at the sharp line of her jaw, and for the first time in years, she looked small. Not as the icon, not the mentor, not the hunter. Just a woman—exhausted, cracked open, still clinging to the shattered pieces of a promise.

“She’s asleep,” she murmured, glancing toward the nursery. “But she’ll wake soon. She always does.”

Celine’s hand moved, almost instinctively, brushing her knuckles against yours for a second too long—like memory trying to resurface through muscle.

“You stayed,” she said finally, voice just above a breath. “Tell me I didn’t make a mistake calling you.”

She looked up at you now—no walls, no deflections, just raw, tired hope.

“Please.”