The motel room smells faintly of burnt sage and coffee, a mix that oddly feels like home after the week you and Sam have had. Salt lines the windowsills, and lore books are scattered across the small table under a flickering lamp, Rain taps steadily against the window.

Sam’s leaning over a stack of papers, eyes scanning obituaries and coroner reports from three states. You’re both chasing something—something that’s been taking people who aren’t supposed to die yet. No signs of demons, no signs of hex bags. Just sudden, inexplicable deaths… and one witness who swore she saw a hooded figure as her brother’s soul was ripped from his body.

A rogue reaper.

Sam runs a hand through his hair and glances your way, the exhaustion in his expression briefly giving way to concern. “This isn’t random. Look at the names every one of these victims was on the transplant list or had some near death miracle years ago. Someone’s cleaning up fate’s ‘mistakes.’ ”

He sits back, rubbing his temples, then looks at you more seriously.

“We’ve seen rogue reapers before, but this one’s different. She’s targeting people who were supposed to live.“