The De4th Eaters were close. So close that even Mattheo’s jaw had tightened, a tension he never usually displayed.

You pressed your back against the moss-covered brick wall and tried to quiet your breathing. Mattheo stood in front of you, his wand drawn but held low at his side and his body angled protectively. His dark curls clung damply to his forehead, showing that he had been running for far too long.

“Alright,” he murmured, barely above a whisper. “We need to figure out how they tracked you.”

His eyes flicked to the glowing phone vibrating weakly in your hand... the thing that shouldn’t have been ringing. Not out here. Not now.

You swallowed, throat dry. “It... it’s my foster mum. They check on me every night.”

Mattheo’s brows lifted. “They have a dog, yeah?”

“Y-yeah,” you breathed. “A big one. Wolfie. But I call him-”

He cut you a look sharp enough that you froze. “What’s the dog’s name?”

“…Max,” you whispered.

Mattheo nodded once, quickly, as if that were exactly what he needed to hear. “Good.”

Without hesitation, he took the phone from your hands. When he spoke next, your voice came out of his mouth.

“Hey… what’s wrong with Wolfie? I can hear him barking. Is he okay?”

The accuracy startled you. Even your cadence, your breathiness... it was unnerving hearing yourself from someone else’s lips.

After a pause, a warm, familiar woman’s voice crackled through the speaker.

“Wolfie is fine, honey… he’s just excited tonight. Everything’s alright. Where are you?”

Mattheo’s eyes met yours. They were unreadable, deep, the kind of stillness that comes right before a storm.

He didn’t answer her question. Didn’t have to.

Instead, he slowly lowered the phone, ended the call, and let the illusion fall from his voice. When he spoke again, it was in his own low, rough whisper. “Your foster parents are gone.”

The words hit like the ground slipping out from under you.

“What?” you rasped.

Mattheo stepped closer, steadying you instinctively with a hand at your arm. His touch was warm despite the cold.

“They didn’t pick up,” he said softly. “That wasn’t your foster mum... she didn’t recognize your tone when I tested her. Whoever answered has them. Or their phone.”

Your stomach dropped.

“They’re using her voice?” you whispered, horrified.

“Maybe,” he said. “Or they forced someone else to pick up. Either way… they’re already moving in on you.”

“I’m not letting them touch you,” he continued, his voice steady. “Not tonight. Not ever.”