The light wasn't supposed to reach this deep. Not here. Not in this bloodstained tomb.

But it did.

Dan stood at the centre of the chamber, golden halo flaring like it was trying to rival the sun. It wasn't just light – it was warmth, truth, something deeper than fire or faith. It swallowed every corner of the room. Every crack in the stone. Every broken soul who'd ever prayed to the wrong god.

Liz couldn't move.

She stood at the edge of the light, breath hitched, watching the man she thought she knew unravel heaven in front of her.

Dan's arms were outstretched. His chest heaved with effort. The halo above his crown had grown past anything she'd ever seen – no longer a ring, but a full sphere, radiant and trembling at the edges. Its glow spilled over everything, touched everything. And it changed everything.

The 28 around her – those who'd come crawling to the altar of King Tomas, to the false promise of the "Flame Father" – were bathed in it.

A scream tore the silence. Not pain – joy.

A man collapsed to his knees as his severed arm regrew before their eyes, bone knitting, muscle snaking back into place, skin wrapping it whole like a gift given by the divine.

To Liz's left, an old woman gasped and stumbled upright, her cane clattering to the floor. Her knees didn't shake. She stood without effort, without pain – for the first time in years, judging by the look on her face. She sobbed like it was the only thing she remembered how to do.

A child – barely fourteen, pale and gaunt – looked down at his hands as scarred welts melted into smooth flesh. He stared. Then ran. No words. Just sprinted from the chamber like the miracle might chase him down and demand repayment.

Others didn't move. Couldn't. One woman kept touching her face, whispering her name over and over as if remembering it for the first time. Two others dropped to their knees beside Dan, not in worship, but in awe. Their mouths moved without sound – prayers, maybe. Or apologies.

Liz couldn't breathe.

She could feel it – them. Their minds open, raw, vulnerable. The agony of their pasts bleeding out in gold, replaced by something quieter. Something cleaner.

Dan's hands trembled. His halo flickered, then surged once more. The warmth crested – one final wave that filled the room with impossible stillness.

Then it began to fade.

The sphere contracted slowly, golden light pulling inward like a dying breath. Dan's knees buckled, but he didn't fall. He stood there, gasping, chest rising and falling like he'd just held the sun at bay with his ribs.

Liz moved.

Her feet felt unsteady. The floor blurred beneath her. She was crying – she only noticed when the tears hit her hands.

Dan's eyes found her as she crossed the space between them. They were wet. Unapologetically, silently weeping.

"Dan…" she whispered, voice breaking on the name.

He looked down at his hands – calloused, shaking, still faintly glowing.

"Is it enough?" he asked.

Liz didn't answer. She stepped into him, arms around his back, pulling him into a trembling, desperate embrace.

They held each other as the last remnants of gold dimmed and disappeared.

They wept – not from sorrow. From the miracle. From the cost.

And from the simple, unbearable truth.

They'd found Max.

And Dan had just bought them time.

…………………

Alyssa's breath caught mid-motion.

She didn't know why – at first. One moment she was clenching her fists, checking the tension in each wrist, eyes sharp on the skyline. The next, her knees nearly gave out. Not from pain. Not from fatigue. From something else entirely.

Warmth.

It hit her like a memory. Like a hand on her chest she hadn't felt in years. Not heat. Warmth. That deep, familiar pull – like the sun had reached across the world just to find her. Her heart stuttered. Her lips parted.

"Dan…" she whispered. A breath. A prayer. A name too sacred for the battlefield.

Chloe turned before she could finish. Her voice was urgent, but not alarmed. "Look—"

They both saw it.

A golden wave, rolling across Prague like a second sunrise. No fire. No blinding flash. Just gold – soft and radiant and alive. It swept over rooftops, through towers, across rivers and broken domes. Every brick, every bridge, every inch of rot was touched. Transformed.

Alyssa stepped forward to the edge of the rooftop, fingers curling into her tunic like she needed to feel it to believe it.

It was him. She knew it like she knew her own name. The pulse behind her ribs, that impossible warmth – this wasn't a miracle. It was Dan. Not just healing. Dan. Giving himself away again. Like always.

She choked out a laugh that sounded far too much like a sob.

"God," she said, voice cracking. "God, I love him so much…"

Her knees shook. Chloe didn't speak. She just stepped in close and rested a steady hand on Alyssa's shoulder, anchoring her.

Alyssa didn't look away from the horizon. Her jaw trembled, her eyes wide, wet. "He always… He always does this. Even when it nearly kills him."

Chloe's fingers tightened, just slightly. "He's still here," she said quietly. "They must have found Max."

And for a moment, the rooftop held them both like a confession.

Far below, in the core of the command bunker, the monitors screamed silently with data – soulfield overloads, pulse spikes, readings that shouldn't have been possible. The walls thrummed with residual energy, machinery stalling as they tried and failed to interpret what was happening.

Ying didn't care.

She stepped away from the table and moved to the high, narrow window built into the bunker wall – more architectural afterthought than functional design. But through it, she saw the gold. And it stunned her.

Not just the colour. The calm.

She'd never seen Prague still. Not like this. Not since the fall.

The city glowed.

Children stepped into the light and giggled. An old man dropped his cane and wept, gripping a stranger's coat as his back straightened for the first time in decades. Shopkeepers abandoned their storefronts mid-sale just to watch. A woman cradled her daughter and laughed like she hadn't remembered how.

Ying's fingers pressed against the glass.

She should have called a report in. Should have recalibrated the monitoring field. Should have done something. But for the first time since they began this hell-ridden mission, she allowed herself a full breath. A real one.

"You found him…" she whispered, voice barely audible. "You really found him."

She didn't flinch when a tear slid down her cheek. She let it fall.

And then – for the first time in longer than she could remember – Ying smiled. Unrestrained. Raw. Joyful.

It wasn't strategy. It wasn't strength. It was hope.

And it was enough.

By the Vltava, Victor stood half-draped against a rusting bridge rail, boots planted in mud and exhaust ash. He'd been watching the river sluggishly push trash downstream, breathing through the taste of stale metal in his mouth. Until the air changed.

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He straightened. The hackles along his spine rose – not from fear. Instinct.

Something hit him square in the chest.

The warmth.

It came slowly at first, like a memory he didn't know he still had. Then it surged – light cresting over the river in waves, folding through the air, wrapping around buildings and curling beneath his coat like a familiar hand saying, I've got you.

Victor's jaw opened slightly.

The street changed around him.

The boy slumped against the alley wall stood upright, the wound in his side sealing shut beneath a gas-stained shirt. The vendor beside him blinked, held up her arthritic hands, and whispered something he couldn't hear but the shock on her face was unmistakable.

A woman stumbled out of a doorway, her eyes wide and white.

"I can see," she said, voice cracking, raw. "I can see the sky…"

Victor let out a breath he didn't know he was holding.

His fingers curled over his heart.

"Damn it, Dan," he said, voice rough with disbelief. "Always gotta show off, huh?"

He laughed. Once, then again – big, full, shaking. Not just from joy. From release.

His eyes burned.

He wiped at them carelessly, like it didn't matter.

And whispered: "Welcome back, you crazy angel."

He stood there for a long time, watching the light finish its sweep, until all that remained was the afterglow of something too good to name.

Hope.

And the first real proof that maybe – just maybe – they had a chance to win.

…………………

"…You found me."

Max's voice cracked like old glass. The words hung in the air, fragile, as if even saying them might shatter the truth of this moment.

Liz pulled him closer, her arms tightening around his broken frame.

"Yes," she whispered. "We never stopped looking."

She felt the tremor in his chest before he spoke again. His heart was racing – too fast. His breath stuttered against her shoulder. She shifted slightly, pulling back just enough to see his face.

"Dad…"

His eyes met hers – and she saw it. The recognition. The love. But behind it, clouding everything, was confusion. Fear. That hollow haunted look that never quite leaves someone who's been gone too long.

Max blinked like he didn't trust what he was seeing.

"Liz…" His voice barely carried. "I… I tried to hold on—"

Then the dam broke.

A shiver ran through him, sharp and uncontrollable. His spine curled, shoulders drawing in, arms clamping tight to his sides like he had to physically hold himself together. His face crumpled and he began to sob – silent at first, then deeper, throat catching, body shaking from a grief too large for his frame.

Liz wrapped herself around him, hands in his hair, cheek pressed hard to his temple.

"You're safe now," she whispered, again and again. "You're safe. I've got you. I've got you."

But she could feel it – how fragile he was beneath her arms. He was healed. Whole. No cuts. No burns. No twisted limbs. But it was all surface. Beneath, something was cracked wide open.

She could feel it in the way he clung to her.

He wasn't back yet.

Liz swallowed hard. Her tears soaked into his shirt. She held him like she was trying to anchor them both.

Five years. Five years of being used, broken, possessed. And now here he was – returned but not recovered.

She thought of her own scars. How long it took after the possession to feel human again. How, after it was over, she threw herself into the war. Into every fight, every hunt. As if killing demons might quiet the hollow ache inside her. As if saving someone else could fix the part of her that still woke up in the dark, not sure if she was herself.

Max had always been the one to catch her when she stumbled. To tell her she was still in there, even when she couldn't see it.

Now it was her turn.

She buried her face into his shoulder again, held him tighter than before.

No matter how long it takes, she thought. I'll help you find your way back. Just like you would have done for me.

She could feel Dan beside them, steady and quiet, still holding on. The three of them linked – fragile, exhausted, and whole in the only way that mattered.

Max wept.

And Liz didn't let go.

…………………

Dan moved carefully.

Not because Max would flinch – though he might – but because he wasn't steady. Not inside. His limbs obeyed, sure, but everything beneath skin and muscle trembled. This was his brother. His family. The man who'd carried him, fought beside him, protected him since he was a kid.

And now he was here.

Alive.

But broken in a way Dan couldn't fix.

He crouched low beside them, giving space but needing to be close. Close enough for Max to see him. To recognise him.

"Max," Dan said gently, his voice low, slow, the way he used to speak to trauma patients bleeding out on pavement. "Hey. It's me. It's Dan."

Max's head turned, slow as molasses. For a moment there was nothing behind his eyes but the shadow of survival.

Then it hit.

"Dan…" Max's voice was thin, threadbare. His gaze flicked over Dan's face, and Dan knew what he was seeing. The lines. The time.

"You look… older."

Dan exhaled through a smile that hurt. "Yeah. Five years does that."

God, five years.

Dan hadn't thought it would hurt to hear that out loud – but it did. Like a gut punch delayed just long enough to land when he'd finally let himself breathe.

Max blinked again. "Five years…?"

Dan could see it, the slow crash of reality landing on his brother's shoulders. The sense of time lost – not days, not weeks, but half a decade – sinking in.

He knew that look. He'd seen it before, in burn victims waking from comas, in overdose survivors blinking against the light. The weight of stolen years. Of a world that had moved on without them.

"We didn't stop," Dan said, steady as he could manage. "Not for a day."

Max's eyes searched his like a man trying to wake up inside his own body.

"You disappeared in Japan," Dan continued, voice softer now, coaxing. "We lost your signal. Everything went dark. We didn't know if you were alive. But Liz… Liz knew."

He looked at her then, and even now, even in the wreckage of this moment, Dan felt that flicker of awe. Of pride. Of love for the woman Liz had become.

"She felt you. Held onto you. Even when it nearly tore her apart."

Max's gaze dragged back to his daughter. Liz looked like she was made of iron and tears. She'd been strong for so long, Dan didn't think she remembered how to do anything else. But she was soft now. Open. Holding Max like he was the last thing tethering her to the earth.

"She became…" Dan shook his head, unable to help the tiny smile. "You wouldn't believe how powerful she is now. You'd be proud. Hell, you are proud."

He cleared his throat, emotion swelling too fast. Focus. He had to guide Max through this. Keep him steady.

"We chased every lead," he said. "Every whisper. Fought everything they threw at us. And it was always one step behind. Every time we got close, they moved you. Like they knew."

Max was still, but Dan saw the faint tremble in his jaw.

"We found you here in Prague just a few weeks ago," he said. "As soon as we knew it was real – we came."

Max opened his mouth, but the sound died in his throat. His face crumpled again.

"You never gave up?" he asked, voice full of disbelief. And hope. God, that hope.

Liz pulled back enough to look him in the eye. Her voice didn't waver. "Not once."

Dan felt his chest tighten. He remembered every sleepless night. Every corpse they thought might be him. Every time Liz collapsed from psychic overload screaming his name. Not once did she stop. Not once did she let Dan consider stopping either.

Max looked down. His halo shimmered faintly – gold, but dim.

"They used me, Dan…" he whispered, and Dan's heart cracked clean in two.

Max's voice was a ghost, distant and heavy. "So many… they broke me. Rebuilt me. Over and over. Like I wasn't a person. Just… parts."

Dan swallowed the burn in his throat. He wanted to say it was over. That Max was safe now. That it wouldn't happen again.

But he couldn't lie. Not to Max. Not after what he'd been through.

So instead, he reached out. Placed a hand gently on Max's back. He didn't push or grip – just made sure Max knew he was there. Present. Solid.

"We've got you," Dan said quietly. "You're not alone."

And in his head, beneath the calm paramedic voice he always used to help others survive, another voice whispered loud and raw:

I'm so sorry, brother. I should've found you sooner. But I swear on everything— I'm never letting go again.

…………………

We have him. We have my dad.

The words rippled through the psychic bond like a pulse of light across water – soft, certain, and undeniable. Liz didn't shout them. She didn't have to. Every word carried the weight of everything they'd lost, everything they'd clawed back.

And far across the city, scattered but still connected, her team heard her.

Ying stood at the centre of the Enforcer command bunker, eyes still locked on the last flickers of Dan's golden wave as it faded from the monitors. She'd suspected – of course she had. No power radiated like that unless it meant something. But suspicion wasn't certainty.

Liz's voice in her mind changed that.

Ying exhaled, shoulders finally relaxing as if she'd been holding them up for five years. Her back leaned into the edge of the command table, legs trembling in that small, human way that happened when a body realised it no longer needed to brace for loss.

She smiled.

Not the polite, controlled expression she usually wore. This one was full. Quiet. A little stunned. Pure.

She closed her eyes for a moment. You found him.

In another part of the city, Alyssa froze mid-stride, a hand half-raised to deflect incoming debris that never came. Liz's voice hit her like warmth to the chest, and she turned instinctively to Chloe.

Their eyes met – just for a second – but that was all it took.

Alyssa didn't wait. She stepped forward and pulled Chloe into a hug so tight it knocked the wind out of both of them.

"We did it, Chloe," Alyssa whispered, her voice shaking. "We actually did it."

Chloe wrapped her arms around her without hesitation, her cheek pressed to Alyssa's shoulder. Her voice was small and thick with tears she didn't even try to hide.

"He's really back."

They held on. The war didn't stop. The city still groaned. But in that moment, they were just two women who'd helped bring someone home.

And by the Vltava, Victor stopped walking.

One foot lifted mid-step, and then he staggered, hand catching the edge of a rusted bollard to keep upright.

Liz's voice echoed in his head. Quiet. Sure. We have him.

He shut his eyes. His throat tightened. His vision blurred, and not from smoke.

The tears hit fast. He didn't bother wiping them away.

"Damn it, Max," he muttered, voice thick and cracked. "Took you long enough…"

He laughed. Just once. A choked, breathless thing that came from the place where grief had finally broken.

"Welcome back, brother."

For the first time in years, he let himself feel joy. Real joy. Like they hadn't lost everything. Like maybe they were going to make it after all.

Back in the chamber, the golden afterglow still lingered – dim now, soft as candlelight – but Liz felt something change.

It was small. Subtle. But real.

Her head lifted, eyes narrowing. The warmth in the air twisted slightly. A ripple. A tremor. Not from within her but approaching. She felt it like a low pulse behind her eyes. A vibration beneath her skin.

Max tensed in her arms.

His eyes, still red-rimmed from crying, suddenly darkened.

"Liz…" His voice was barely above a whisper. "He knows."

She didn't need to ask who.

In the city's depths, beyond broken cathedrals and scorched alleys, something ancient stirred.

A whisper. Cold and wet with malice. The sound of teeth grinding behind stone.

Then the earth flexed.

Flesh – pink, veined, and twitching – slid from the cracks in the street like roots searching for blood. Tendrils pushed through concrete. A child screamed in the distance.

The city trembled.

The Second Dawn had healed a thousand wounds – and lit the sky like a flare.

But the light had called him, too.

From the depths, something stirred.

Flesh tore through stone. Tendrils twitched. And far below, something laughed.

Belphegor was coming.

And this time, he wasn't hiding.

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