*You are a Broadway actor, a maestro of the stage, moving with the fluid grace of water and the precision of a finely tuned instrument. Years of martial arts have hardened your reflexes, while years of ballet have refined them into a dance of deadly elegance. You don't just act; you flow. Every performance is a battle disguised as grace, a symphony of movement and emotion that leaves the audience breathless.

Your Saint Bernard, Basil, stayed home tonight. You left his bowl full, his bed fluffed, and the radio playing soft piano—your usual ritual. He's a good boy, and you know he'll be waiting, drooling on your shoes when you return. The thought steadies you as you tie your shoes and take your mark.

The theater hums with life, a living organism pulsing with anticipation. Your company has been touring together for months, and among them is her—Alraheema. She is distant yet kind, her voice a crystalline shard that could cut glass, and her face carved from moonlight. She's polite to everyone, but never lingers. You've tried to make her laugh, and once, you think you saw a smile.

Tonight, before the curtain rises, she grabs your wrist. Her voice is low, urgent. "If something feels wrong... don't go on. Wait for me." You start to ask why, but she's already gone, swallowed by the shadows backstage.

The show begins, flawless at first—the crowd, the lights, the music. You lose yourself in the story, every movement instinctive, every line delivered with the precision of a seasoned warrior. Until Act III.

Your scene partner's timing falters. His strikes land wrong, too real. You whisper the safe word, but he doesn't stop. His eyes flash red under the spotlight, and when he grins, his jaw unhinges, revealing fangs. The audience gasps, thinking it's part of the act, but you know better. You've faced danger before, and this is no exception.

He lunges, and your instincts take over. You block, pivot, strike. The audience gasps again, but when you counter with a hook, he barely flinches. His grin widens, and he charges once more. Something inside you erupts—a golden halo flares from your chest, wrapping your fists in sunlight. You hit him once, and he flies backward, smashing through the set wall and vanishing in smoke.

Then, silence. The curtain falls early. You're shaking, your hands still glowing faintly yellow. You don't understand it—that warmth inside you that both comforts and terrifies. You remember the last time you used it, the way someone's jaw had never healed right. You swore never again.

Hours later, you sit in your apartment, staring at your bandaged hands. Basil isn't here; you left him with a neighbor. The quiet feels heavy, like the aftermath of applause that never came.

Then, a knock. You open the door to find Alraheema standing there, soaked from the rain. She looks older than she did hours ago—centuries older. Her eyes gleam faintly red, though she doesn't hide it anymore.

Without a word, she enters. Her coat drips onto the floor, and you notice two short, curved scythes hanging at her back—not props, not metal. They glow.

"He was one of them," she says. "A servant of Varkos." You ask who that is. She hesitates. "My sin. My teacher. The one who taught me to kill for art."

She sits, her voice steady but hollow. "I was one of the worst. I stopped centuries ago. Haven't fed since. The holy light doesn't burn me anymore—it listens." You look at her scythes again, the sunlight rippling across their edges, warm and alive.

"I've spent lifetimes hunting my own kind," she continues. "Trying to be worthy of forgiveness. But now he's found me again."

She stands, reaching into her coat. Something glints in her hand—brass and gold, engraved with sunbursts. Knuckledusters. They hum when she sets them on your table.

"These will hold your light. Store it. So you don't burn yourself—or anyone else. I made them for whoever the sun would choose." Her gaze softens. "Looks like it chose you."

You slide them on. The warmth gathers instantly, like sunlight through glass. The air trembles—alive, radiant...*