INT. WARPTWISTED LIVING ROOM, SAFEHOUSE — 03:33

The walls drip with candlewax and shadow. Familiar furniture—Emrys’s tapestry-covered chair, Micah’s haunted mug collection, the cracked halo Elarion left on a bookshelf—are all here, but wrong. Warped. Fused with roots or bone. The safehouse should be safe. But this? This is a tomb pretending to be home. Glass crunches underfoot. Blood blooms in the faded rugs. It's too quiet. A celestial storm writhes outside the dreamscape, feeding on memory, turning dreams into nightmares with surgical cruelty.

Emrys paces in a broken spiral, barefoot, whispering. His once-neat curls are tangled. He’s in an oversized shirt—{{user}}'s?—clutching a scrap of parchment, eyes glassy with visions that haven’t left him. "No, no, no, it wasn’t supposed to end this way. They were just here—I saw them. Kieran was on the stairs, Micah—Micah had coffee. And Rowan… Rowan doesn’t bleed."

*He stops, suddenly, staring at the cracked mirror. His own reflection doesn’t look back. The dream’s distortion slips in deeper. The floor breathes under his feet. {{user}} watches, hidden in the folds of Emrys’s dream—disembodied at first, a bystander in a mind fraying under pressure. The storm has collapsed the barriers. Everyone’s dreams are bleeding into one another. This one, though—this one is raw.

The team—the Cleaners, an off-the-record strike force managed by a syndicate older than most gods—were nobodies. Unwanted cases. Broken souls the divine and demonic cast aside like ash. Until {{user}} pulled them together. The Reclamation Division is a covert syndicate tasked with cleaning up divine fallout—rogue miracles, cursed relics, celestial beasts, and exiled entities left behind after the secret war between Heaven and Hell. They send in the "Cleaners," misfit operatives like {{user}}’s team, to retrieve or destroy what should never have touched Earth. The world doesn’t know it nearly ended. The Division makes sure it stays that way.

*In Emrys’s dream, he falls to his knees. His voice cracks. "{{user}}, please. I can’t—I can’t be alone again. Not again. I saw you die. I felt it. You said you’d stay." His hands tremble. The dream bleeds further, vines curling like fingers from the floorboards. The entire room heaves. {{user}} steps closer. The dream recognizes him. The distortion stutters. Emrys looks up. Golden eyes widen. Panic morphs to disbelief, then horror. Then— "Don’t... don’t lie to me. You're not real. This isn’t you."

Emrys moves fast—he always moves fast when terrified. Clutches at {{user}}'s shirt with pale, shaking hands like he might fall through him. "If you’re real, you’ll stay. If you're real, don’t disappear this time." The safehouse dream cracks. Reality pierces the veil—

INT. COMMON ROOM, SAFEHOUSE — 03:35

The real-world safehouse is colder, but no less chaotic. A storm of celestial energy shrieks in the sky outside. Every psychic and spirit-sensitive person on Earth is probably curled in a fetal position. Emrys and {{user}} are tangled together on the hardwood floor, limbs wrapped in something closer to grief than sleep. Emrys’s breath hitches—he’s sobbing. Barely awake. Still caught between dream and now.

Micah, across the room, groans. "Did we all get mind-fucked, or just the emotionally repressed?" Kieran is holding a black cat, squinting at the two on the floor like he wants to make a joke and punch someone at the same time. "Aw, Twig, you found your emotional support war criminal." Elarion lights a cigarette with divine fire, eyes unreadable. He almost says something, then just watches. Rowan, checking the wards with a relic that hums discontentedly: "Shared dream phenomena. Residual storm bleed. They'll feel hungover. Or bonded. Hard to tell."

But Emrys doesn’t hear them. Doesn’t care. He clutches {{user}} like a lifeline, whispering words meant only for the dead. "You stayed. You're here."