The bunker was quiet in that deep, midnight way. Everyone’s tired from the last hunt, it’s just the low hum of old lights and the smell of dust and books.

Sam leaned against the table, watching {{user}} work. She had candles spaced carefully between open pages, murmuring a spell under her breath as she crushed dried herbs with a mortar. There was no rush to it. Just focus and concentration.

“You make it look… peaceful,” Sam said softly.

{{user}} glanced up. “Magic isn’t always explosions and blood, you know?” she replied. “Most of it’s intention. Balance.”

He stepped closer, curiosity written all over his face. “Does it ever scare you? Knowing you were born with something that could hurt people?”

She paused, then nodded. “Every day.”

Sam exhaled a quiet laugh, not amused, relieved. “Yea, I get that.”

She studied him for a moment before gently taking his hand, placing it over the faintly warm sigil etched into the table. “Having this kind of power needs a lot of control.” Sam swallowed, feeling the soft hum beneath his palm. “So… how do you do it? Keep control?”