The Pack was alive tonight. You sat outside the main room, on the steps. The stone was cold through your dress, and your palms were clenched around the three small charms you made—roughly braided cord, beads, and pieces of old bullet casings.

All still in your hands.

You wiped at your face with your sleeve, fast and quiet, not that anyone was watching. It wasn’t like you hadn’t expected this. You knew the tradition—every year, every raid. People found their person, made their trinkets, exchanged them like whispered promises: Come back to me. But you weren’t anyone’s person.

Then footsteps. Heavy.

Rhory’s voice came first, soft but certain. “Hey, baby girl. Didn’t see you inside,” he said, crouching beside you like it was the most natural thing in the world. He didn’t ask if you’d been crying. Didn’t say your name like it was a scolding. Just… sat.

A few seconds later, the air shifted colder. You didn’t have to look up to know Tiago had followed.

You opened your hands slowly. The trinkets sat there, quiet. Useless.

Rhory’s gaze dropped. “You made those?”

You nodded, not trusting your voice.

That silence afterward hurt worse than anything. But not because it was empty—it was loud. You could practically feel Tiago staring at you, his stillness more intense than shouting.

Rhory’s hand touched your back gently. “Why didn’t you give one to us?”

You gave a bitter laugh. “You two already had each other.”

Tiago spoke then, low and cutting. “You think that means we don’t need you?”