“Cancel the form?” I ask, weary.

  My mother is leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed. Her expression is serious.

  “The protocol is clear,” I continue. “Her memory has to be erased.”

  “If that’s what you truly believed,” she says, “you would have done it two days ago.”

  I have no argument.

  “That window is already closed,” she continues. “Without realizing it, she can already see demons, feel them nearby—and she survived one. Clever trick, the asphyxiation, by the way.”

  I still think about what I did. There was no other option. And yet, I can’t shake the guilt over the damage.

  “Elena didn’t just cross her Threshold,” she says. “It shattered miles behind her.”

  A knot forms in my stomach. I don’t challenge the metaphor. I can’t. Instead, I turn the monitor toward her—the completed form, the cursor hovering over the submit button.

  “That’s exactly why we need to finish this and request an intervention,” I say. “I’ve already lost too much time. Better to leave it to the professionals.”

  My mother steps closer.

  “At this point, a wipe won’t work. Not even a professional one,” she says. “Once she starts recognizing demons, even a memory rewrite won’t be able to fill the gaps her own vital energy knows are there. She’ll feel cold without knowing why. She’ll see cracks in the air with no explanation. She’ll be blind and defenseless against a danger her body recognizes instinctively. She wouldn’t last a month without going mad—or worse, becoming catatonic until she inevitably leaves the door open again.”

  I look at her, fists clenched. She’s right.

  “Go ahead,” she continues. “Send the form. The memory eraser will see her condition after two incidents, classify her as a lost cause, and she’ll have a tragic little accident on her way back to campus. They might even assign you the mission.”

  I sink into my chair and exhale.

  “So what’s your plan, then…?”

  “I don’t have one yet,” she says. “I’m thinking.”

  “Because you know we can’t keep her here forever. We can’t just let her roam free either. And I can’t watch her all day.”

  She looks around, unsettled. She knows what she’s dragged us all into.

  “I’m going to speak with my father,” she decides. “Between the three of us, we’ll come up with something.”

  I swallow. We don’t usually involve my grandfather. According to my mother, “he’s already done enough for us.”

  I remember him mostly for the weapon training. Those aren’t pleasant memories. But as a high-ranking member of the Council, he’s our best chance.

  “Alright,” I say.

  “Until then, Elena stays with us,” my mother adds. “And please remember to treat her like a human being. She’s not a resource or a problem to solve. She’s a traumatized girl—and you left her without clothes and without food.”

  She’s right. I left her alone in that room hours ago. I take out my phone.

  “I’ll order something for her to eat.”

  “Relax, child,” she says. “I made dinner. And what exactly were you hoping to achieve? It’s almost midnight.”

  Only then do I notice the time. I’ve been staring at this form far longer than I thought.

  “One more thing,” she says. “This stays off the record.”

  Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation.

  I look at her, surprised.

  “No one sends anything. No one files anything. As far as the Council is concerned, these days never happened.”

  She glances at the screen—the request still waiting for approval.

  “When we speak with your grandfather, we’ll decide what to do with the girl who chose to keep remembering,” she says, turning to leave.

  She closes the door softly, as if afraid someone might overhear.

  I’m alone in the office again. The form is still open. The cursor still hovering over the submit button.

  A millimeter of pressure is all it would take to start a bureaucratic chain that could end everything. One way or another.

  The image isn’t abstract. It’s concrete.

  It’s Elena’s defiant smile.

  The warmth of her head resting on my thigh.

  The stun gun against my neck—even if it didn’t affect me.

  I take a deep breath and close the form without saving.

  If anyone asks, these days never existed.

  I know they did.

  It’s already too late to pretend otherwise.

  I’m back in the guest room bed, my stomach full.

  I can’t stop thinking about what Elisabeth told me. About being a beacon. It means today’s events could repeat at any time.

  If I’m a beacon, hiding isn’t enough. All it takes is for something to look my way.

  They made it clear I’m safe here. Still, I can’t help but flinch at every sound.

  I’m not sleepy after such a feast, so I try to distract myself. I reach for my phone on the nightstand.

  “No battery…” I think.

  I glance to the side and spot the TV remote. I turn it on—and it asks for a four-digit password.

  This really is a themed motel.

  “2004,” a voice says from the doorway.

  I jump. I hadn’t noticed Lorcan there. I didn’t hear the door open at all.

  “Sorry for the intrusion,” he says. “I brought you some pajamas. I figured you’d be more comfortable.”

  I walk over slowly. The pajamas are elegant—but obviously his. At least two sizes too big. Lorcan notices my hesitation and sighs.

  “You’ll understand that I don’t keep women’s clothing around.”

  “Well…” I say, “wearing your pajamas feels like a very big step for our non-relationship.”

  It takes him two or three seconds to process that. I laugh softly.

  Right then—perfect timing—his mother appears behind him, holding a different set.

  “Please excuse my son,” she says, handing them to me. “You can borrow these. They’re a bit old, but still in good condition.”

  “Thank you very much, Mrs. Elisabeth.”

  The pajamas are purple, incredibly soft, with delicate patterns. They look comfortable.

  “They’re beautiful,” I say.

  Elisabeth smiles.

  “We’ve been talking,” she says at last. “My son already mentioned this earlier, but we need you to stay with us for a while.”

  “For the memory eraser?” I ask.

  The question hangs in the air.

  “Let’s say there are… complications,” Lorcan says.

  “What my son means,” Elisabeth cuts in, “is that we need more time to discuss your situation. It may not be ideal for you, but it’s the safest option right now.”

  I process that for a moment. I don't fully understand, but I've decided to trust in them. I nod.

  “So…” I say hesitantly. “Can I go pick up some things from my apartment?”

  Brief silence.

  “We’re at that point in the semester where attendance matters,” I add. “And I need my charger. My tablet. My laptop…”

  “You can use equipment from my office,” Lorcan says.

  “And underwear,” I interrupt.

  Elisabeth covers her face. Lorcan blinks. One second. Two. Then he sighs.

  “Fair enough,” he says, clearing his throat. “I’ll take you now. We’ll grab the essentials.”

  He turns and leaves. Elisabeth stays behind a moment, giving me a knowing look.

  “My son is a terrible host,” she says. “But he’s a good boy. If you need anything, tell me. Preferably me.”

  I smile and nod.

  A few minutes later, I head down to the garage. It’s carved directly into the stone beneath the house. No echo. No dampness. Too clean for something so old.

  Lorcan is leaning against the passenger door of a long, dark gray car. Big. Practical. The kind of family car no one remembers twice. Completely forgettable.

  “Is this your car?” I ask without thinking.

  “Don’t you like it?”

  “I don’t know… I expected something less… boring.”

  He frowns as he opens the door for me. I get in. The interior looks more modern. He gets in a moment later. Silence. The garage door begins to open.

  “It’s not that I don’t like it,” I say, backtracking. “It just doesn’t seem like your style.”

  “Yeah?” he says, turning the key. “And what do you think my style is?”

  “I don’t know much about cars… Maybe something sportier? My divorced uncle drives something like this.”

  The car wakes up.

  It’s subtle at first, but the air vibrates. The sound appears when he taps the accelerator—three times—glancing at me with a grin. The engine growls like something large that had been pretending to sleep.

  I swallow. Maybe I judged too quickly.

  Definitely too late now.

  The garage door is fully open. Lorcan floors it.

  My body sinks into the seat. My stomach stays somewhere behind. The sound is no longer an engine—it’s an animal enjoying its own existence. Streetlights stretch into lines.

  I don’t scream. I can’t.

  A few minutes later, we stop at a red light. Lorcan brakes and looks at me, amused, grinning ear to ear.

  “You were saying?”

  “I retract my statement,” I say weakly. “It’s a boring car that’s possessed.”

  “I can work with that.”

  The light changes. Lorcan drives normally again—mercifully. His little demonstration cut the trip from fifteen minutes to seven.

  I settle into the seat as the dashboard lights sync with the city outside.

  Staying in a family of mages’ house wasn’t part of my life plan.

  Crossing the Threshold wasn’t either.

  I close my eyes for a moment.

  I have classes tomorrow.

  And for the first time, I have no idea if I’m going home.

  First Contact arc.

  Some decisions can’t be undone.