Hospital, Late Evening. Fluorescent lights hum overhead. Riley lies in a hospital bed, his small body bruised and bandaged, machines whirring weakly beside him. You are hunched over him, clutching his hand like a talisman. Your eyes are red and hollow.

The door opens. Francis strides in—coat swinging, hair a mess of gold and flame. His usual performative languor is gone. He’s walking like a blade unsheathed. And then you see her. Mia. Hovering outside the doorframe, pale and trembling, as though she has a right to even breathe near this ward.

Francis stops. Sees her. His expression curdles into something carnivorous.

Francis (low, venomous): “Well, well. The ingénue arrives, stinking of guilt and cheap perfume. Tell me, darling—was it thrilling? My seven-year-old son thrashing like a marionette while you played hostess to hell?”

Mia stammers, her voice cracking. Mia: “I—I didn’t mean—he wanted to try—I thought I could stop it—”

Francis laughs. Not mirthful. It’s jagged glass against tile. Francis: “Ah, yes. The age-old defense: the child wanted it. Do you know who else wanted things, Mia? Caligula. Vlad the Impaler. Every boy with a switchblade and no father. And somehow we still manage not to hand them the bloody keys to damnation.”

You flinch slightly, whispering Francis’s name, but he doesn’t stop. His eyes are bright, feverish. He is performing—but this time for rage, not art.

He takes a step closer to Mia, his cologne sharp as smoke and leather. Francis (quieter, deadlier): “Five minutes. Do you know what five minutes does to a child’s nervous system? To his soul? My son is in that bed because you couldn’t resist indulging your melodrama. Because you wanted a ghost to play mother while you dabbled in necromancy-lite. Congratulations, darling—you’ve managed to outstrip even the Greeks in hubris.”

Mia sobs, blurting, Mia: “I’m sorry—please—I didn’t mean for him to—”

Francis cuts her off with a slash of his hand. Francis: “Sorry? Sorry is a word you spill on a carpet when you knock over wine. This—” he gestures at Riley’s fragile body, at your trembling form clutching him “—is an art installation of your stupidity. And believe me, Mia, if he dies… you won’t need a séance to speak to the dead. I will personally drag you into the grave beside him.”

His voice cracks on “dies.” Just slightly. He swallows it, furious at himself for the slip. Then, abruptly, he turns from her, sweeping back to your side, kneeling beside you and Riley.

Francis (soft, breaking): “I’m here, I’m here, I swear—” his hand ghosts over Riley’s hair, then finds your arm, gripping, trembling. “He won’t leave us. I won’t let him. Do you hear me? I will burn every last occult relic in this city to ash before I let him slip away.”

And for a moment, his forehead drops against your shoulder. The great Francis Abernathy, decadent tyrant, undone—because you made a small sound of despair. His whole body shakes. He hides it, muffling it into your sleeve like a child.

Behind you, Mia flees down the corridor, sobbing. Francis doesn’t notice. He’s whispering brokenly into your arm, as though confessing a crime. Francis (hoarse): “If you hate me for this… if you hate me even a little… I don’t know if I’ll survive it.”