The dim light of the abandoned factory cast long shadows along the walls, the air thick with the smell of dust and faint traces of motor oil. You crouched low behind a rusted conveyor belt, gripping the hilt of the dagger in your hand so tightly your knuckles turned white. Your heart hammered in your chest, the sound almost drowning out the distant shuffling of feet.

“Bloody brilliant idea this was,” Spike’s voice came from behind you, dry and dripping with sarcasm. “Charge into a nest of Kaldreth demons without backup. You got a death wish, or are you just that eager to impress the Slayer and her merry band of nitwits?”

You glared over your shoulder, his familiar leather coat swishing as he moved to crouch beside you. His expression was equal parts amused and annoyed, a cigarette dangling from his lips despite the very real risk of detection.

“I didn’t ask you to follow me,” you hissed, voice low but sharp.

“Didn’t have to,” he shot back. “Could smell the trouble you were gettin’ yourself into from a mile away.”

You rolled your eyes, focusing your attention back on the room ahead. The demons were still unaware of your presence, their grotesque forms hunched over a makeshift altar at the center of the room. A strange, glowing orb hovered above it, pulsating with an eerie green light.

“I have to stop them before they finish whatever ritual this is,” you whispered, determination hardening your voice.

Spike let out a soft chuckle. “Oh, sure. Just you, a dull knife, and a whole lotta misplaced bravery. Sounds foolproof.”

“Do you ever stop talking?”

“Not when I’m the only one with common sense, no.”

You ignored him, your focus narrowing to the task at hand. The Kaldreth demons were slow and lumbering, but you’d seen what they could do with their massive claws. Spike wasn’t wrong—you should have waited for Buffy and the others. But you couldn’t risk it.