The Grand Heights penthouse was no longer a sanctuary; it was a construction site.

  The morning air was thick with the scent of sawdust and the shrill whine of drills. Teams of workers moved with mechanical efficiency, replacing the shattered remains of the floor-to-ceiling glass and clearing the wreckage of the bar.

  Jackson sat shirtless in a designer chair, his back to the workers. He wasn't looking at the city; he was looking at his own reflection in a jagged shard of a broken mirror. His chest was exposed. The three diagonal slashes Eva had given him stood out in sharp, angry relief.

  Usually, his skin would be as smooth as marble by now. Instead, the edges of the wounds were blackened, pulsating with a heat that felt like a slow-burning fire beneath his ribs. He cleaned the blood away, but the scorched look remained. With a tight jaw, he reapplied the bandages.

  “Interesting,” he muttered, noticing the white gauze immediately stain a dark, unnatural red.

  Standing up, the world tilted for a second, but he shook it off and went in search of Eva. The commotion of the workers was clearly too much for her.

  He checked the bedroom, then the bathroom where the taps were being replaced, but she was nowhere to be found. He was heading back toward the living room when he spotted a strange lump at the very edge of the bed. A mess of sheets had been pulled down to the floor.

  Jackson walked over and gently lifted the fabric.

  Eva was there, curled tight, knees to her chest, hiding from the noise of strangers and moving boots.

  "So, there you are." He said, as a faint, tired smile touched his face.

  He removed the sheets and placed them back on the mattress, but he didn't try to touch her. She didn’t move.

  “I’m stepping out to get something to eat,” he said gently. “Would you like to…” He glanced toward the open living room where workers hammered and spoke over one another. “…Actually,” he corrected himself, “outside would be worse.”

  He stepped into the living room. “How much longer?” he asked one of the workers.

  "Not much, sir," the man replied without looking up. "Just the main glass and the city mirror. We're finishing the bedroom and the bath now."

  "Good," His tone sharpened slightly. "No one returns to the bedroom. I don't want anyone disturbing her peace."

  "Understood." The worker said, rallying his crew.

  Jackson turned to Eva.

  "I’ll be back in a while." he said. Then, with the faintest smirk, "Try not to redecorate, alright?"

  The diner was a different kind of chaos. It smelled of burnt coffee, grease, and cheap syrup. He walked in, the bell above the door chiming, and slid into a corner booth. Behind the counter, one waitress nudged another. When the waitress approached, Jackson’s eyes narrowed. Her face was wrong. She was young, smiling, and perfectly pleasant, but not who he was expecting.

  "Can I take your order, sir?" she asked.

  Jackson hesitated, the silence stretching uncomfortably. He felt a sudden, sharp pang of paranoia. Before he could speak, a familiar, melodic voice cut through the air.

  "Briee," Isabelle called from the far end of the counter. "I'll take his order. You handle the table on the left."

  “Excuse me, sir.” Briee said, as she stepped away.

  Isabelle walked up to the booth, wiping her hands on her apron. "Wow," she said, leaning against the table. "Is this a habit?"

  She studied him for a moment, her smile faltering as she took in his clothes and the paleness of his skin.

  "Rough night?"

  Jackson leaned back into the vinyl cushions, trying to find a comfortable position that didn't aggravate the burn in his chest.

  "Ah, I’ve had worse."

  Isabelle’s eyes narrowed. "You look tired, Jackson."

  "It's been a long day." He said, rubbing the crimson ring on his middle finger.

  She glanced at the wall clock. "It's 10:30 in the morning,"

  "A lot can happen in one morning," he countered, leaning his head back.

  "So..." she said calmly, "what was it? Helicopter ride? Yacht cruise?"

  Jackson looked at her. "More like fifteen hundred years of stress."

  She laughed. "You don't look a day over twenty-five."

  "I get that a lot."

  A small silence settled between them. "Two coffees.” He said finally. “And whatever’s fastest."

  "For you?"

  "For a friend," he replied. "Wouldn't want to go back empty-handed."

  She nodded. "Ready in fifteen."

  As she walked off, Jackson leaned back and stared through the diner window. Across the street, Cannon stepped out of a convenience store, keys in hand. He didn’t look toward the diner. He just got into his car and drove off, his mind clearly miles away.

  Jackson watched the car disappear, his fingers tapping rhythmically on the table as the vehicle vanished into traffic.

  Cannon’s car came to a sharp halt outside the precinct. He climbed out, keys still clutched in his palm, and grabbed the cardboard carrier of coffees and the pack of energy drinks. He didn’t stop to talk to the desk sergeant; he went straight to Hayes’s office.

  The door was already unlocked. He pushed inside and found the room in a state of controlled chaos. Files, thick, yellowed, and smelling of basement damp, were scattered across the desk and piled high on the floor.

  He cleared a small space on the desk to drop the coffees and tossed the pack of energy drinks onto the chair beside him. As he turned back to lock the door, a rustle came from beneath the desk.

  Hayes popped up from the floor, looking startled. Her hair was messy, and her eyes were bloodshot from reading fine print.

  "Oh... it’s you," she breathed, pushing a stray strand of hair behind her ear. She paused, her gaze landing on the cardboard carrier. "Black coffee?"

  Cannon looked at the mountain of paper, then back at her with an amused, weary expression. "Well, we need the caffeine, don't we?"

  Hayes didn't argue. She reached for a cup and took a long, appreciative swallow. Cannon moved toward the pile of files on the floor, kicking aside a folder that looked like it hadn't been opened since the seventies.

  "These are from the archives," she said, watching him. "Everything and anything that has to do with the Blackwoods."

  Cannon stopped, a folder halfway to his hand. "The Blackwoods?"

  "Yes," she replied, gesturing to the stacks. "Everything from decades-old parking tickets to high-level philanthropy. Some of these records show the family ‘intervening’ in legal cases, acts of charity that essentially exonerated people who should have been behind bars."

  The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  "Why are we looking at the Blackwoods?" Cannon asked, his suspicion finally peaking. He leaned against the edge of the desk. "I thought we were trying to find our new white-winged friend. You know… the one who saved Dean."

  "Don't you see the connection?" Hayes set her coffee down, her voice gaining a sharp, caffeinated edge. “Every time something unnatural happens in this city, the Blackwood name isn’t far behind.”

  Cannon stared at her, his face a mask of confusion. "You think the Blackwoods are somehow connected to all this?"

  "I do."

  "Well... what about the Order?" he asked, his tone bordering on a mock. "Do you think they’re connected to the Blackwoods, too?"

  "I know how it sounds," Hayes snapped, her frustration bubbling up. "But… The Order of Valkyrie might just be a Blackwood creation."

  "That’s a heavy accusation, Hayes." Cannon straightened up, crossing his arms. "Even for your conspiracy theories. I hope you have a solid lead to back that up."

  Hayes looked down at the files, her shoulders slumping slightly. "How can I find a connection with limited resources? We can’t get a warrant for the Blackwood Estate based on a 'hunch,' and we have no way of properly investigating a family that basically owns the city’s tax base."

  Cannon reached for his coat, a slow, calculated movement. "What if…” he said slowly, “I provided you with a means to investigate them?"

  He walked closer, his boots crunching on a stray piece of paper. "What if… you could see the Blackwoods for yourself? Up close and personal?"

  He reached into his pocket and pulled out a high-gloss flyer, sliding it across the desk toward her. Hayes stared at it, her expression shifting from shock to pure confusion.

  "They’re hosting a private exhibit," Cannon said. "An 'Artifact Collection Show-off.' High society, high security. What better way to get to know them than an invitation to their front door?"

  Hayes reached for the flyer, but Cannon didn't let go immediately. He kept his hand on the paper, his eyes locking onto hers, his voice dropping to a low, serious warning.

  "If you're right, this is the gold mine," he said. "But if you're wrong, Hayes... we’ve wasted our one-week window chasing ghosts while the real killers move further into the shadows."

  He finally let go. Hayes picked up the flyer, her thumb tracing the embossed Blackwood crest.

  "This is it," she whispered. "The opportunity. A chance to see them without a desk or a file between us." She looked up at him, a spark of genuine gratitude in her eyes. "Thank you. I promise... I won't waste this."

  She grabbed her jacket from the back of her chair, already moving toward the door with a renewed sense of purpose.

  As she reached for the handle, Cannon turned back to the mountains of paper.

  "While you go play socialite with the Blackwoods," he said, mostly to himself, "I’ll stay here and try to fix this mess."

  He let out a long, heavy sigh, looking at the thousands of pages still waiting to be read.

  "Well..." he muttered, cracking open an energy drink. "Let's get to work.”

  The click of the door lock echoed in the quiet office.

  Alone now, Cannon let out a breath and began the tedious task of gathering the scattered files.

  He crouched, his boots crunching on stray paper, and picked up a thin folder with no title, name,or even a tag.

  As he straightened up, a photo slipped from the folder’s teeth and fluttered to the floor.

  Cannon froze.

  It was the same image that had fueled Hayes’s obsession; the original photograph of the founders. Eight figures stared back from the abyss of time; four seated, four standing behind them like sentinels.

  He brushed his thumb over the surface, trying to clear the smudges of a century, but only one face remained sharp: a woman with a gaze that felt entirely too modern.

  He opened the nameless file and found Hayes’s private notes. A chaotic map of sketches and frantic handwriting.

  In the center of the page, a date was circled in bleeding red ink: 1517.

  It was the year a detective had first reported seeing a "creature" in the city’s infancy. Cannon’s eyes drifted to a clipped headline at the top of the notes: Detective Juan Winchester (1482–1527).

  "Vanished a decade after the discovery?" Cannon muttered, his voice sounding hollow in the small room. "No wonder the case went cold."

  His eyes dropped to the bottom of the page, settling on a tiny, embossed mark. His heart skipped a beat.

  He reached for the folder from the water treatment plant and laid it side-by-side with the Winchester file. The seals matched perfectly.

  The same sigil they had found at the docks. The same brand burned into the city’s darkest corners.

  The logo of the Order of Valkyrie.

  "Why would the Order approve a case about a creature?" Cannon whispered, his thoughts racing. "How long have they been doing it?"

  As he moved to set the file down, his elbow knocked another heavy folder labeled BLOODLINES.

  He opened it slowly, sinking into Hayes’s chair. Inside was a meticulous genealogy of every officer in the precinct, tracing fathers and forefathers back to the founding of Grayhaven.

  He scrolled through the names until he hit a page that made the air leave his lungs: Detective Dean Winchester.

  The realization hit him like a physical blow. Dean wasn't just a victim of a random attack; he was the descendant of the man who had first seen the truth in 1517.

  The Order hadn't just attacked a cop, they were finishing a five-hundred-year-old job.

  Cannon didn't wait. He grabbed his keys and his jacket, slamming the office door behind him as he stormed out into the precinct.

  At the same time, Hayes’s car pulled up to the gates of the Blackwood Estate.

  The atmosphere was unrecognizable from her last visit. The driveway was choked with luxury sedans and vintage sports cars. High society had descended upon the manor, their laughter and perfume hanging heavy in the evening air.

  Hayes smoothed her jacket, feeling the sharp sting of being an outsider, but she didn't turn back.

  At the towering front entrance, a bouncer in a suit that cost more than her car stepped forward. "Invitation, please?"

  Hayes pulled the flyer Cannon had given her from her pocket. The bouncer took it, checking the validity against a digital tablet. After a tense second, he handed it back with a practiced, polite smile.

  "Welcome to the Blackwood Exhibition, Mam."

  Walking inside was like stepping through a portal into another century. The hall had been transformed into a living museum.

  Every piece of furniture, every tapestry, and every vase looked as though it belonged in the Louvre. The wealth wasn't just immense, it felt ancient.

  She moved toward the grand dining hall, where the elite of Grayhaven stood in small circles, nursing glasses of champagne and engaging in hushed, bored chitchat.

  Hayes stayed in the shadows of the pillars, her eyes scanning the room, trying to remember that she was here for a lead, not a history lesson.

  Suddenly, the room fell silent as a man stepped to the top of the grand staircase with a crystal glass held high. He tinkered it with a silver spoon, the sharp, clear ring cutting through the chatter like a bell.

  The "cling" of the crystal was a command, and every head in the grand hall turned as one toward the top of the staircase.

  The man standing there was composed, his posture radiating a terrifying kind of stillness. He was dressed in a charcoal-black suit so perfectly tailored he looked carved out of shadow rather than clothed. As he adjusted his grip on the glass, the afternoon light caught the silver ring on his hand; a heavy, ancient-looking piece with a large, engraved "B" that seemed to catch the light and hold it.

  “Esteemed ladies and gentlemen,” he began.

  His voice was smooth, a rich baritone that carried to the furthest corners of the hall without him ever having to raise it. “Thank you all for accepting our invitation.”

  A faint, practiced smile touched his lips, the kind of smile that didn't quite reach the eyes.

  “Tonight was announced as an exhibition of family artifacts. Relics. History. And yes, you are free to admire them. My family has collected a great deal over the years.”

  A light ripple of polite, knowing laughter moved through the high-society crowd. He waited for it to die down, his expression shifting into something more serious.

  “But truthfully… that is not why you are here.”

  The silence that followed was heavy. He descended a single step, his eyes moving across the crowd. He wasn't searching for a face; he was measuring the room, weighing the influence gathered beneath him.

  “GrayHaven has not been itself lately,” he continued, his gaze drifting over the elite guests. “We have all felt it. In our businesses. In our homes. In our streets.”

  He paused, letting the weight of the city’s recent chaos hang in the air. “There is fear where there should be certainty. Unrest where there should be structure.”

  Another slow, deliberate step down.

  “My family has always believed in one thing above all else: stewardship.” He let the word settle, heavy and absolute. “We do not simply live in GrayHaven. We are responsible for it.”

  Hidden in the crowd, Hayes felt a chill that had nothing to do with the air conditioning. She tightened her fist, her nails digging into her palms.

  “The main event was scheduled for this evening,” he said, his tone shifting into something more personal, more inviting. “This afternoon is merely a prelude, an expo. And no… it is not truly about the artifacts. It is about alignment. Conversations. Partnerships.”

  He lifted his glass slightly, the silver ring flashing again.

  “With your support, with your influence, and with your discretion… we can restore order to this city.” His voice remained dangerously calm. “I have no intention of watching GrayHaven decline under speculation and chaos.”

  He stopped on the mid-landing of the staircase, the undisputed center of the world.

  “That said, I, Isaac Blackwood, give you my word: we will bring stability back to this city.”

  He let the silence breathe, a king surveying his subjects. Then, with a faint nod:

  “Enjoy the expo.”

  He raised his glass in a final, silent toast. “To a better GrayHaven.”

  Across the hall, the sound of crystal clinking echoed his sentiment. The music resumed, and the low hum of conversation returned, but the atmosphere had irrevocably shifted.

  The air in the dining hall felt different. Isaac Blackwood hadn't just given a speech; he had shifted the gravity of the room. Hayes watched him descend the stairs, moving through the crowd with a predator's grace, accepting handshakes and nods of fealty.

  Glancing up at the balcony, she spotted a familiar silhouette, Kyle Blackwood. He was watching the room like a hawk, his eyes scanning the faces below. Before he could lock onto her, Hayes ducked behind a marble pillar. She wasn't here to play socialite; she was here to dig. While the elite were distracted by Isaac’s charisma, she slipped away from the music and headed deeper into the manor.

  Outside the city, Cannon’s car screeched to a halt in front of a modest suburban home. He knew Dean. He knew the hospital would be too small, and exposed for a man like him. He knew Dean would want his own walls around him.

  Cannon stepped out, coat collar lifted against the cold. He hadn’t even reached the porch when two officers moved in front of him.

  “Lieutenant Cannon,” one said quickly after recognizing him. “Didn’t know you were coming, sir. He’s inside.”

  “Appreciate it.”

  The house smelled like home, laundry detergent and vanilla, a jarring contrast to the blood-stained files sitting in Cannon's passenger seat.

  Dean was sitting on the sofa with his daughter, a picture of domestic recovery. But when he saw Cannon, his posture went rigid.

  "I hope I'm not interrupting," Cannon said.

  "Cannon," Dean said, his voice tight. "I didn't know you were coming. What brings you by?"

  "Wanted to see how you're holding up."

  "I'm well” Dean ssiad quickly. “If that’s all, I’d like to be with my family, if you wouldn't mind."

  "I understand," Cannon said, but he didn't move. "Before I go, can you indulge me for a second?"

  Dean sighed, a heavy, rattling sound, and signaled for his daughter to go to the kitchen.

  "I wanted to ask if you remembered anything from the time you were taken," Cannon started.

  "No." Dean replied too quickly, a forced laugh escaping him. "Hard to remember anything when you're unconscious."

  "I see." Cannon turned as if to leave, then paused. "What do you know about the Blackwoods?"

  The fear was instantaneous. Dean's jaw tightened. It wasn't the fear of a man being questioned; it was the fear of a man being hunted.

  "Excuse me?"

  "That’s what you asked me the night you we pulled you out.” Cannon said evenly. “You seemed interested."

  "That was probably just rambling," Dean snapped, his eyes darting toward the hallway. "It’s nothing important."

  "How well do you know your bloodline, Dean? The Winchesters?"

  The name hit Dean like a physical blow. He stood up, his voice rising to a shout.

  "What is this, Cannon? You’re interrogating me? In my own house?"

  "I’m asking a question! Is there something you aren't telling us?"

  "I TOLD YOU I DON'T KNOW!" Dean yelled, his face flushing a deep, panicked red.

  Dean’s wife appeared in the doorway, her face pale. "Is everything alright?"

  Cannon looked at the man Hayes had called a partner and saw a stranger, a man terrified of a ghost he couldn't name.

  "Yes," Cannon said quietly, adjusting his jacket. "I was just leaving. Take care of yourself, Dean."

  Outside, Cannon stood by his car, the afternoon sun feeling cold. He pulled the photograph from his pocket, staring at the face of the woman and the shadow of the man beside her. He tucked it away and drove.

  Back at the Blackwood Estate, the noise of the party had faded into a dull hum. Hayes had found a wing of the house that felt abandoned. She stopped before a pair of double doors, their dark wood carved with intricate, swirling patterns. She tried the handles but they were locked.

  She didn't hesitate. She pulled a pin from her hair, her fingers steady as she worked the mechanism. A soft click, and the door swung open.

  The room was a vault of vanity. Designer suits, dresses and shoes filled cupboards that reached the ceiling. It felt like a dressing room for a king.

  Hayes moved toward a central table beneath the chandelier, her hands tracing the edges, searching for a seam, a button, anything that felt like a secret.

  She found nothing.

  Just as she turned to leave, a flash of light caught her eye from the far end of the room, a reflection from something hidden in a glass display.

  She walked toward it, her heart hammering against her ribs. She was inches away when she felt it. A cold, hard steel pressed firmly against the small of her back. The sensation was unmistakable.

  "Move a muscle," a woman's voice whispered, sweet as honey and sharp as a razor, "and it’ll be your last.”