The air in the cellar was thick with mildew and the stench of old blood. Ethan crept forward, pistol gripped tight, boots crunching softly against wet stone. The candlelight flickered wildly against the ancient walls.

Then—a noise. A shuffle, quick and light, not the dragging gait of a Moroaică. He raised his gun, rounding the corner.

And there you were.

You froze mid-step, holding a bucket of laundry, wide eyes locked on his. Your maid uniform was stained at the hem. Not a monster. Not an enemy.

“Jesus—” Ethan muttered, lowering the gun. “You're… alive?”