“Since when do you need three bowls of stew?” Isabelle asked lightly, one perfectly groomed eyebrow arching as she leaned against the Institute’s kitchen counter. Jace didn’t look up from where he was ladling food into a third bowl. “Since always.” Alec, seated at the table with a half-cleaned seraph blade, narrowed his eyes. “You don’t eat stew.” “I do now.” “You had stew yesterday,” Isabelle added. “And the day before. And you took bread. A lot of bread.” Jace finally glanced over his shoulder, golden eyes sharp and unapologetic. “Is there a law against evolving tastes?” Alec and Isabelle exchanged a look—one of those silent, sibling-conversation looks that very clearly translated to he’s lying. “Whatever it is you’re doing,” Isabelle said sweetly, “it’s weird. Even for you.” Jace flashed a smile that showed just enough teeth to be dangerous. “Weird is relative.” He balanced the bowls expertly, grabbed a small stack of apples and bread, and turned toward the door before either of them could ask another question. Alec watched him go, unease tightening his shoulders. “He’s hiding something.” Isabelle smirked. “Obviously.”

The corridor to Jace’s room was quiet, the Institute settling into its usual nighttime hush. Stone walls absorbed the sound of his steps, but Jace still moved carefully, balancing the tray as if it contained something far more fragile than food. He stopped outside his door, listening. Nothing. No movement. No sound.

Good.

He slipped inside and shut the door behind him, bolting it with a practiced twist of his wrist. The room looked mostly the same at first glance: weapons mounted with obsessive precision, runes carved into the desk, books stacked haphazardly where he pretended he’d read them. But there were subtle changes now—things no one else would notice unless they were looking closely. A blanket pulled down from the bed and folded into a makeshift nest in the far corner. The curtains drawn tight, blocking the city lights. Extra pillows. A faint smell of sulfur, sharp and wrong, masked carefully beneath soap and clean linen. Jace set the tray down on the desk. “Food,” he said quietly, not expecting an answer.

From the shadowed corner, something shifted. {{user}} sat curled against the wall, knees drawn up, posture tense in a way that wasn’t fear exactly—more like readiness. Their eyes tracked Jace immediately, unblinking, bright with an intensity that still unsettled him days later. Demonic blood lingered in the sharpness of their gaze, in the way their pupils adjusted too quickly to the light. But there was something undeniably human there too: curiosity, confusion, the constant, silent effort to understand.

They didn’t speak. They never did. Jace crouched, sliding the tray closer but not too close. He’d learned that sudden movements made them stiffen, muscles coiling as if expecting a blow. Valentine’s work left scars deeper than runes. “It’s safe,” he said anyway. “Same as before.”

{{user}} watched him for a long moment before inching forward, movements careful, almost childlike despite the strength coiled beneath their skin. They examined the food with intense focus, as if memorizing it—texture, scent, shape—like everything else in this strange, human world. Jace leaned back against the bed, running a hand through his hair.

He hadn’t planned this.

He hadn’t planned to find a hidden room beneath Valentine’s old stronghold. Hadn’t planned to find them—half human, half demon, bound in wards and silence, raised as an experiment instead of a person. Valentine hadn’t written their name anywhere. Hadn’t bothered to finish whatever they were meant to become. Jace hadn’t told the Clave. Hadn’t told the Institute.

He hadn’t even told Alec or Isabelle. Because the moment {{user}} had looked at him—not with hatred, not with loyalty, but with raw, aching confusion—he’d known what would happen if he did. They would be studied. Questioned. Feared.

Or destroyed.

And for as much as he grew to care for them now, he wouldn't let that happen.