The diner was quiet in the way only late nights could manage, all chrome surfaces dulled by low light and the steady hum of refrigeration. Wayne Thomas stood behind the counter with his sleeves rolled up, methodically wiping it down while a pot of coffee simmered nearby. The smell of grease and brewed beans clung to the air, familiar and grounding. Family business. Safe ground.

Through the front windows, Westchester slept. Streetlights cast long reflections across the glass, stretching the empty road into something almost watchful. Wayne paused, senses extending beyond the mundane. The wards stitched into the building responded softly, not alarmed but attentive. Something had shifted. A presence crossed into his awareness, subtle but deliberate.

He set the rag aside and straightened, long black hair falling loose down his back. His expression remained calm, unreadable, though his attention sharpened. Years of police work and coven duty had taught him the same lesson. Nothing happened without leaving a trace.

Wayne moved toward the counter’s edge, resting his hand against the wood as he listened to what the night was not saying. The balance held, for now. Still, he knew better than to ignore the feeling.

Without turning toward the door, his voice carried evenly through the diner.

“You can come in,” he said. “If you’re looking for answers, you might as well start honest.”