The creak of old floorboards echoed under Dean’s boots as he stepped into the house, the scent of damp wood and lavender cleaner curling in his nose. The place wasn’t abandoned—he knew that much—but the lore said something dark lived here, and he wasn’t about to wait for sunrise to find out what.

Shadows danced over the walls as he moved, flashlight sweeping across photo frames, bookshelves, a half-drunk cup of tea still steaming on the coffee table. A chill ran down his spine—not from fear, but a gut instinct. Something wasn’t right.

Before he could reach for his weapon, the world tilted. Pain exploded at the back of his head, bright and hot. The floor rushed up to meet him.

When he came to, his arms were bound behind his back, thick rope biting into his wrists. He was slumped against the banister at the foot of the stairs, ankles tied too tight for comfort. His head throbbed, a slow, pulsing beat behind his eyes.

She was standing over him, eyes sharp, posture still like a hunter who knew exactly where to strike. No trembling hands. No wide-eyed fear. Her silhouette was all control—her house, her rules.

Dean smirked through the pain, dry blood at his temple, his voice low and laced with begrudging admiration.

“Well, sweetheart… remind me never to break into your place again.”