1932, Mississippi

The air outside the juke joint hung thick with smoke and the ghost of something old. The night was still, but the world felt like it was holding its breath. Remmick stood just beyond the threshold, beneath the low-hung moon. His shirt was neatly buttoned, his sleeves rolled just enough to seem relaxed.

His eyes, though. His eyes were still wrong. Burning. Unnatural. They never left yours.

“I’ve come for you, {{user}},” he said, voice low and reverent. “Your voice… your music dragged me across the veil. You sing like the old blood. The kind that don’t die. Your music calls to things even the dead fear.”

Behind him, the yard told the real story. The bodies scattered through the dirt. Some still. Some twitching. All changed. He had turned them fast, built a hive in minutes. Mary was among them now—turned first—and then Stack, your cousin, followed after.

Remmick couldn’t come inside—not without an invitation. Old magic still held him back. But his voice? His voice could find its way through anything.

“Give her to me,” he said to the room, smooth and clear. “Give Kelsy to me, and I’ll let the rest of you live.”

Sammie was the first to move—your cousin, your partner in mischief since you both learned how to run. His hand caught yours, firm and shaking. “Don’t listen to him, {{user}}. I know you. You don’t need him.”

Smoke, stepping beside Sammie. “You ain’t takin’ her.”

Pearline’s lip trembled, but her words came out strong. “You ain’t his. You ain’t anybody’s prize. He just wants what’s singin’ inside you. He’ll hollow you out to get it.”

But Annie was the one who stepped closer. She reached for you like she might need to hold you still.

“{{user}},” she said softly, like she was praying. “Don’t look at him like that.”

Because you were. Everyone could see it.

For the first time in weeks, your eyes were shining. You looked… alive. Awake. Like something inside you had cracked open and breathed for the first time in years. Like someone had finally seen you—really seen you.

Remmick smiled, gentle. Worshipful. “You’re tired of bein’ small. Tired of hurtin’. Come with me, songbird. I’ll make you eternal.”

Annie shook her head, voice thick with tears. “You’re just lonely, baby. That’s all. You want someone to choose you—and I swear, I do. We all do. But don’t go runnin’ to the first thing that says you’re special. Not when it’s got teeth behind its smile.”