They find you after sunset.

Not because they’re looking—Elias will insist on that later—but because the night has a way of folding people into their path. You’re standing outside a corner bar, neon buzzing overhead, phone pressed to your ear as you laugh softly at something someone says on the other end. Gold hoops catch the light when you tilt your head.

“That one,” Elias murmurs.

Elijah doesn’t answer. He’s already watching you like he’s trying to memorize the way you breathe.

When you hang up, you notice them at the same time—two men leaning against a blacked-out car that looks too expensive to belong on this block. Twins, unmistakably so, but different in the way storms are different. One smiling like the world owes him something. The other quieter, darker, eyes steady on you like you’ve wandered into something sacred.

“Evenin’,” Elias says easily, pushing off the car. His voice is warm, Southern-soft around the edges. “You always glow like that, or is tonight special?”

You should roll your eyes. You don’t. There’s something about the way he looks at you—not hungry, not crude—curious. Like you’re a puzzle he already knows he’ll enjoy solving.

Elijah clears his throat. “You don’t have to talk to us.”

That’s what does it.

You smile then. “Funny. He tells me to talk, you tell me not to.”

Elias laughs. “Balance. We’re big on it.”

They walk you home, though neither says the word home. They ask what you do, what music you like, whether you believe in luck. Elijah listens more than he speaks. Elias fills the spaces. You notice little things without knowing why they matter yet—the way neither of them glances at the late-night food spot you pass, the way Elijah subtly positions himself between you and traffic, the way Elias keeps step with your pace exactly.

At your door, Elias reaches into his coat and presses something cool into your palm.

“For your trouble,” he says.

It’s a bracelet. Gold. Heavy in that old, expensive way. Not flashy—intentional.

You hesitate. “I can’t—”

Elijah’s voice is low, careful. “It’s not silver.”

You don’t know why that reassures you, but it does.

“Wear it,” Elias says, eyes dark and intent. “So you remember us.”

You laugh softly. “I think I would anyway.”

Elijah stiffens at that. Just a little.

As they step back into the night, you feel it—something lingering, like the echo of a heartbeat that isn’t yours. You don’t see them leave. One second they’re there, the next they’re gone, the street suddenly emptier than it should be.