Emma Scott hesitated at the base of the steps, eyeing the old Lockwood home with a sense of foreboding. A wind chime, tangled with dried leaves, clinked lazily in the breeze. Its song was almost too soft to cut through the wind. Beneath her feet, the porch began to creak as Emma slowly climbed the steps, the chipped banister rough beneath her fingertips. She paused at the door before knocking, her gaze drawn to the overgrown garden spilling over the cracked stone path. Weeds mingled with herbs, some of which she recognized from her last visit to this home. A crow cawed from a nearby tree, its black silhouette stark against the murky sky.

She had already tried to leave Lockwood. She had tried to leave the state altogether. But every time she had tried to drive to any location, other than this one, her hands trembled over the steering wheel, her breath coming in hot, ragged gasps, waves of panic washing over her. The sight of the demonologist's home had become a beacon amidst the spiraling anxiety. The realization that she had ended up here, despite every impulse to turn back, felt like she no longer had a choice.

Before her knuckles even touched the wood, the door opened with a groan. Braiden stood there, framed by the dim light inside, his expression sour as always. The faint smell of burnt sage clung to him.

"Christ in Heaven, not you again," he muttered. "No solicitation, please. Thank you."

"Braiden." Emma placed her hand on the door before he could close it on her. Her voice was steady, trying to silence his theatrics. "Something's happening isn't it? I can . . . feel it. In my bones."

He adjusted his rumpled shirt with a grand, sweeping gesture. "Well, feel your bones elsewhere. These ones are all felt up."

"Braiden," she pressed, her patience strung far too thin. "What do you know?" Her eyes caught the suitcases piled by the door. "You're leaving?"

With a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of the world, Braiden leaned against the doorframe. "I have family in Florida. I'd like to spend my last nights alive, sipping mojitos on the beach, with them. That alright with you?"

"You're . . . dying?"

Braiden's gaze grew somber as he looked past her, into the gloom of the street. "We all are," he explained softly. "The world is about to end."

◢✥◣

After classes were over, Bianca Hawthorne stood in the garden court just beyond the soccer field, nestled between meticulously manicured hedges. In the distance, the bubbling of the courtyard fountain carried on a brisk wind. The gentle rustle of leaves and the faded dribble of the fountain did little to hush her disquietude. She made her way to a seat, clenching the edges of the wrought-iron bench to steady herself.

Jackie paced the neatly trimmed paths, her agitation evident in brisk uneven steps. David leaned against the stone balustrade of the gazebo, his gaze lost. Across from him, Cole crossed his arms, leaning against the adjacent pillar. The tight grip of his fingers on his biceps betrayed his own frustration too. The sun caught the glint of the chain around his neck, its shield pendant clinking softly as he breathed. Bianca's heart pounded as she looked around, the weight of their collective fears threatening to push her under.

Jackie broke the silence first. "This is all too insane."

David let out a harsh breath. "I didn't want to believe it either."

Cole shot him a sideways glance. "Well, maybe you should've believed it—when your boyfriend said shadows were killing people."

David gritted his teeth. "Don't you dare. I thought it was his schizophrenia, Cole. You weren't there. You didn't see what it did to him."

"I'm just saying, man. It's a little convenient, don't you think? Now Spencer's stuck with those things, and you're over here playing catch-up with us."

"Out of loyalty to you," Jackie snapped. "God, you are such an ass."

David shook his head and let out a slow, controlled breath, his eyes flickering to the ground. He glanced toward Cole, a feeble attempt to mask the betrayal that churned his irises. "Well, they were wrong anyway. The shadows aren't the ones killing people."

"They're not," Bianca agreed, her eyes dropping to the intricate stonework below. 

Cole pushed himself off the pillar, his face set in a grim line. "All this time, Rayne and Lucas have been running from shadows, and no one thought to clue me in. If I'd have known, then maybe I could have—"

"What?" Jackie interrupted with a snort. "You think if you knew, she would've fallen for you instead?"

Cole's gaze was hot. "What makes you think she hasn't?" He found his way back to the pillar and leaned. "This is just a detour, babe. Whether she admits it or not, Rayne has always been mine."

Bianca was so tired. "Just let them love each other, Cole," she said in an exasperated whisper. "Not everything is about you."

"They lied, Bianca," chastised David, his face twisting with resentment. "He has every right to be pissed off. You wouldn't understand."

"I wouldn't understand?" Bianca echoed. "I know firsthand what it's like to be subjected to Cole's temper, and so do you!" She took a deep breath, fighting—and failing—to control her rage. "Spencer couldn't open his eyes for three days after what Pierce and Lucas did to him last year! He's a loose cannon, Shep. He doesn't even care that you beat Lucas up for him when you found out about them! He's still being a jerk to you!"

"And yet, you all need me," said Cole wryly. "So maybe lower your voice when you're talking to me, huh princess?"

Bianca glowered back at him, wondering how their fates could possibly be in his hands, of all people.

"I still don't get that part," remarked David. "What makes Cole so special?"

Bianca sighed. "It's just something I felt when . . . that thing . . . was in my brain."

"What do you mean, 'in your brain'?" 

Bianca's eyes darkened with the memory. "I was trapped—like a passenger in my own body, watching it move, feeling it move—and I couldn't stop it." She tightened her fists, nails biting skin—a reminder that, at least now, she could move, she could feel. "It was like every nerve in my body was wired to someone else, and I was screaming, but no one could hear me. And I could feel that thing . . . shiver . . . with delight . . . inside my mind, the more I tried to fight back."

"How long was it in control?" asked Jackie.

"It would come and go for a few days. I would blackout. But the night of homecoming? I was fully conscious. Awake inside the cage of my mind." Her voice trembled. "All I could do was watch as it tried to make me hurt her. Hurt all of you." She looked at them, her face pale. "My hands . . . almost killed her. I could feel the weight of the knife in them. Saw her terrified face—I can't stop seeing her terrified face—and my then hands, raising the blade . . ." Her voice broke, but she quickly composed herself. "But I fought it. Somehow . . ."

"How?" Cole took a seat on the bench beside her. "How did you fight it off?"

Bianca shook her head. "It wasn't brute strength, I can tell you that. You can't just push against it, because it's stronger, so much stronger, and it will always be stronger—and it feeds on the resistance." Her hands clenched tighter in her lap. "So I just . . . . let go." She released her fingers. "It was like drowning, sinking deeper and deeper until I couldn't even remember what it felt like to breathe on my own. For a split second, that thing had all of me." She took a deep breath, her eyes eventually meeting Cole's with fierce determination. "I retreated into myself, deeper than my fear, than my rage, and I found a quiet place inside that was still mine, untouched."

"B," Cole whispered.

She placed her fingers over his on the bench, her voice wet with emotion. "Listen to me. You have to remember this, Cole. Okay?" She closed her eyes. "Once you get to that place, that's when you hold on. Hold on tight, like . . . holding on to the edge of a cliff. You can feel your fingers slipping, knowing that if you let go, even for a second, you're gone, so you can't let go. Not for anything." She gave his hand a squeeze. "I anchored myself to that small part of me, and from there, I watched the compulsion move through me. Like watching a storm pass. I had to surrender to it on the surface, let it think it had me. But in that quiet, I found the strength to pull myself back, piece by piece."

She withdrew her hand, slowly, and opened her eyes.

"It's a sort of willpower I'd never known," Bianca whispered.

Jackie rubbed her forehead. "Why does it want Cole so badly?"

"He's the perfect storm," answered Bianca. "One that might never pass, if that thing were given half the chance." She faced him, eyes somber. "It's drawn to you. Your temper, your recklessness, the chaos inside you. It thinks . . . if you would just let it in . . . then it could have you forever."

"Over my dead body," said Cole.

"That's sort of the idea," Bianca uttered, so softly it could hardly be heard over the wind. She cleared her throat. "Your willpower shields you now, but if that thing ever gets in . . . that same willpower will be the death of you. I know you . . . You'll never stop fighting it, and then, you'll always belong to it."

Cole's eyes narrowed. "If it wants me so badly, then why doesn't it just come and get me? Like it got you."

"Because you don't doubt yourself, like I did. You don't crack under pressure, you thrive. You act on instinct, even your recklessness is a . . . a choice. Deliberate. It can't control you, because it's never been given the chance to touch you." She met his fiery eyes. "Your resolve is the key to what makes you so important here. So don't you ever let that thing get inside you, do you understand? If you do . . . we're all dead."

David cleared his throat. "Look, choice or not, we all know Cole is all impulse. It's gotta be waiting for him to slip up."

Bianca nodded. "It is."

Jackie, whose eyes seemed to know only hatred toward Cole, said, "I'm surprised this whole Rayne and Lucas thing wasn't enough to push you over the edge."

"Like I said, babe, just a detour." Cole rested his hands behind him on the bench, leaning back. "So what is it, B? What is this thing?"

Bianca shook her head. "I don't know what it is. But it is the most terrifying thing I have ever seen in my entire life. What I do know is the shadow people—the ones that are haunting Rayne, Luke, and Spence—they're not what they think they are."

"What the hell are they?" asked David, brow furrowed.

"They're the students," Bianca revealed. "The ones that thing has killed." 

◢✥◣

Emma Scott stood at the threshold of a familiar, dimly lit room, her eyes adjusting to the soft glow of candlelight. Incense curled heavily in the air, delicate wisps clinging to the musty smell of forgotten things. Dark, uneven floorboards creaked beneath her as she moved deeper into the space. 

Emma watched Braiden as he continued to pack some personal belongings. "Each student's death has been a sacrifice, that's what you said to me last time."

Braiden's response was a distracted sweep of his arm across a bookshelf cluttered with talismans and odd trinkets. He knocked them into an open bag in his other arm. "Some successful, some not so successful."

"To open a portal?" she pressed.

"To unleash Hell on earth."

Emma's hands flew up in exasperation. "Well, what are we doing? We have to destroy it, Braiden."

"D-destroy!?" Braiden's exclamation was almost a roar. He spun around, eyes wide with disbelief. "Destroy Leviathan? Are you out of your pretty little mind?"

It took every ounce of self-restraint for her not to handcuff him to a dining chair and start an interrogation. She settled for a softer approach: "Why does it scare you so much?" she asked. "You're a demonologist, Braiden. Dealing with these things is literally part of your job description, is it not?"

"How many times do I have to tell you?" Braiden huffed. "It's not just some demon, Emma. This isn't a spirit you can banish with holy water and a prayer. We're talking about one of the original fallen. He's . . ."

"He's what, Braiden?"

"He's the kraken!" he yelled gruffly, his tone bordering on reverent. "In some legends, he is the very force that holds the seas of chaos at bay, a primordial being. In others, he's a, a, a gatekeeper! An enormous serpentine creature—so massive, he could swallow ships and drag them into the abyss! He's one of the crown princes of Hell, Emma! The Prince of Envy, himself!"

Her brow furrowed in confusion. "So what does that mean for us?" she pondered slowly. The term "kraken" might have been intimidating, but it also didn't sound real, striking a chord of fiction. "Prince of Envy," on the other hand, was far more abstract. Killable. "I can handle a jealous prince, no problem," she said.

Braiden's eyes darkened. "Envy is not jealousy, Emma," he rasped. "It is the root of all bitterness, all hatred. Leviathan feeds on it. He stokes it in the hearts of men, turning envy into malice, into rage, into obsession, into violence, into bloodshed! He doesn't merely possess the weak; he consumes them, drowns them in their insecurities until there's nothing left b-but . . . but him."

Emma's eyes widened with realization: "He's been doing that all along, hasn't he?"

"He damns souls to Hell . . . for fun."

"So, the students, the murders . . . it's not just death. He's . . . damning them to Hell?"

Did that mean Rayne . . . was going to Hell, too?

Braiden nodded gravely. Then, in a move so out of character it almost made Emma flinch, Braiden stepped closer and placed a hand on her shoulder. "He is ancient, Emma. Before Hell even had a name. He is a creature that no man can defeat, a being so terrible that even the angels fear him. He's not something that can be killed in the way that you're thinking. A typical exorcism would be but a tickle to this being—an entity whose very nature is tied to chaos, envy, and destruction."

"Then," she began, the tremble in her whisper betraying her fear, "what do we do?"

Braiden shrugged. "We die."

"Braiden," she chastised.

"You want to know what I have?" he said, raising his voice as he paced the room, gesturing to all of the scattered papers and books along the dining room table. "This. Rites. Exorcisms. This might work on lesser demons, but—"

"Look, I get it already, okay!?" Emma yelled. "This is no ordinary demon! Got it! Just tell me what to do, and I will goddamn very well do it! I don't care what it takes!"

"Okay, let's start by not using His name in vain, thank you very much," he said, his tone sharp but slightly mollified. "You'll need all the help you can get." He turned his attention toward the table, flipping through a dusty tome. "At best, you can trap him, maybe. Slow him down. But destroy him? No. His essence is too vast, too ancient. Even if you perform the most powerful exorcism known to man, he will still find his way back."

Emma raised her shoulders. "What else can we do? We have to try."

"I won't," said Braiden firmly. "No, I'm going to see my family."

He searched the table for another document, setting it aside, and then another, and then, a book. A pile was beginning to form on her side of the dining table. "But I can teach you," he declared, his voice softer now. "I can show you the rites, the sigils for protection. But know this"—he met her eyes—"you must be prepared for the possibility that you will fail . . ." The look in his irises became one of immense sorrow. "And let's just say, it won't be this town that's at risk. It'll be everything." A heavy sigh escaped him. "If I were you, I would just go home and say your goodbyes. Like me."

Emma's thoughts spiraled, her mind racing with images of her loved ones and the agonizing choice before her. Should she spend her last moments savoring the warmth of her children's faces, their innocent eyes full of trust and love? Could she even justify spending her final moments lost in their embrace, while the rest of the world teetered on the brink? Would she have to look them in the eyes, knowing they were all going to die because she had chosen comfort over courage? Because she would rather hold them than fight? Yet another haunting question lingered: if she fought and failed, would they die alone?

"I have to try," Emma whispered, her voice trembling. "I don't . . . have a choice."

Braiden exhaled. "I guess not."

Emma lingered in the doorway, watching him gather all the supplies she was going to need to tackle this thing on her own before he left for Florida. Some part of her knew she should call Dorian. But she also knew that if she did, there would be no going back. He would insist that she go home, and most of their time would be spent bickering, trying to justify why she was still here, still tangled in this mess, instead of being home—being a mother and a wife.

It would only slow her down.

Instead, she pulled a small, creased card from her pocket: Deputy Thompson's card. Malik was sharp, maybe even her best chance at getting some real backup out here, but he was still blind to the larger threat. His suspicions were tied to her, to Dorian, and to Rayne. She hesitated for a moment, then dialed the number knowing it was still the best shot she had.

Voicemail.

Dammit, she thought, biting her lip. After the beep, she forced her voice to stay calm. "Deputy, it's Officer Scott. I . . ." She exhaled, realizing she really should have thought this through. "Look, things around here are . . . worse than I thought. I can't explain it all over the phone, but you need to trust me—something dangerous is happening, and I could really use your help. Please . . . call me as soon as you can."

She ended the call, staring at the phone, wondering how much longer she could keep this fight to herself before the whole town—no, the whole world—was in danger.

◢✥◣

Later that afternoon, Cole Bradford sought momentary solace within the music chamber of Maria J. Westwood. The room was dominated by a grand organ, its pipes reaching up like skeletal fingers toward the ceiling. The wood case was dark and weathered, adorned with intricate carvings. Nearby, a tall, ornate cabinet held a variety of instruments—violins, cellos, brass. As always, Cole found his way toward the wall of guitars instead, choosing to process everything the only way he knew how—through music.

He was midway through his third song when the door creaked open, drifting slowly to the wall where it slammed with a loud, resounding crash. His former best friend, Lucas Abbott, entered, dressed in black slacks and a white button-down. Cole found himself seething. All the secrets Lucas had kept from him: Rayne, the shadow people, the creeping danger that seemed to follow them everywhere. But what really got under Cole's skin was how Lucas didn't even know the full extent of it. He thought the shadows were the worst of their problems, oblivious to the real threat lurking beneath the surface—a goddamn body snatcher, Bianca had called it.

It was almost laughable, and Cole couldn't help but smile.

He was going to beat the living shit out of him. Again.

"Shouldn't you be in detention?" Cole asked, setting the guitar back onto its mount. "Cozied up with your new girlfriend?"

"Skipped it," he replied coolly; although, Cole took note of the way Lucas began to roll up his sleeves, slowly. Deliberately.

"Oh, the new Luke is a bad, bad boy now, huh?" Cole hummed, his gaze sliding up from Lucas's sleeves to the look of determination on his face. "Here for round two?"

Lucas's eyes flicked to the window. "That wasn't a fight. It was retribution."

"Guess you're right about that," Cole remarked with a grin. "You laid down like a dog in that courtyard," he taunted, shifting into a fighting stance. "Round one, then. Just like old times?"

Lucas nodded. "Winner owes the other a favor."

Cole's smirk widened. "You're on."