"The devil was a monster, but I would become his nightmare." ― Kerri Maniscalco (Capturing the Devil)

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Louis Krusen was grumbling—loudly and with theatrical flair, even as his fingers danced with restless precision across the keyboard of his portable computer, the dull glow of the screen flickering across his face like an impatient second sun.

The inn room they occupied, tucked above the quiet hum of the Delbrück Music Café, was narrow and smelled faintly of varnished wood, incense, and old vinyl sleeves—an eclectic mix of memory and mellow defiance.

Jonan had booked the room in a rush, barely stopping to explain himself, dragging Louis by the wrist through the café's entrance like a man trying to smuggle contraband.

The café owner, familiar with Jonan's gigs and eccentricities, hadn't asked any questions, thankfully. But the staff had exchanged glances. Their eyes darted between the two young men, brimming with unspoken assumptions and smothered smirks as Jonan practically frogmarched Louis up the stairs.

"The staff better not get the wrong idea," Jonan muttered under his breath once they were alone. "I like girls. Just for the record. One girl, in particular."

"I should be the one complaining!" Louis shot back from where he sat hunched at the desk, the soft hum of his computer fan underscoring every keystroke. "You dragged me here, by the wrist, like some weird tech kidnapping. For this? Really?"

Louis's voice was pitched high in disbelief, every sentence punctuated with a frustrated tap of the keys. "I swear, is this some Team Alpha thing? First Lucas, now you? I'm in Delta, remember? Delta. Why are you poaching another team's agent? You people have Elijah! He knows his way around a system. What, he busy brooding somewhere? Did you even ask Misha for permission?"

He didn't wait for a response. "Actually, forget it. I already know you didn't ask Misha for clearance. You Alpha guys don't do 'permission'. You just do shit and apologise later, if ever."

Jonan, standing near the window, glanced over his shoulder with a raised brow. What the hell is Lucas up to now? he thought absently.

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

The idea of bothering Elijah had crossed his mind more than once—Elijah could keep secrets better than most, but with the mood he'd been in lately, approaching him had felt like walking into a burning building with a gas can.

Thank the Goddess that Team Alpha had downtime after the Butcher case wrapped. Elijah needed space. They all did.

Jonan let out a small chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck, trying to play off his unease. Louis caught the sound and gave him a flat look.

"So you did think about asking him," Louis said dryly. "But didn't. Because he's still in a mood since that whole Zalfari thing, right? Whatever Lucas and Leonid did there nearly a month ago really did a number on him."

Jonan said nothing. His silence, as usual, said too much.

Louis shook his head and resumed typing. "You people are insane. You know that, right? I mean, is our job not already dangerous enough for you? We're dodging bullets, tracking Gifted extremists, dealing with the fucking collapse of society, and somehow, you still go looking for trouble like it's an Olympic sport." He sighed, muttering darkly. "And now you're asking me to dig into that. I must be crazy to agree." He grumbled. "You know as well as I do that anything relating to the hunters—we're better off keeping far, far away from if we want to live a long and healthy life."

Jonan opened his mouth to argue, but Louis was faster. "Don't. I don't want to know. I have a feeling I'm better off not knowing."

That, Jonan had to admit, was fair. He genuinely admired Louis's sense of self-preservation. He made a mental note to put together a care package when this was over—something with expensive snacks and custom tech gear, maybe even one of those noise-canceling headsets Louis had been eyeing for months.

He was going to owe him for this. Deeply.

The clack of keys finally slowed, then stopped. Jonan looked up from where he'd been absently scrolling through his phone, his posture straightening with anticipation.

"Do you have it?"

Louis gave him a slow, lopsided grin—the kind of expression that always spelled trouble for whoever had made the mistake of underestimating him. "Oh, I got it."

Jonan nearly tripped over his own boots in his scramble across the room. Louis turned the laptop toward him, the screen now filled with a dense list of names, coordinates, and encrypted addresses—many of them familiar, but far too many unknown. Too many for comfort.

Jonan pulled a small notepad and pen from one of the pouches on his belt, scrawling the information down with practiced urgency. Louis watched him for a long, silent moment, his fingers now idle on the table's edge. There was something almost mournful in his gaze—not pity, exactly, but something close. Concern tempered by resignation.

Louis half wanted to know why Jonan wanted to get a list of the research facilities run by the hunters—those known and unknown.

He wanted to ask. He almost did. But he didn't.

Because in the ESA, the first rule—unofficial, but absolute, was simple: Don't ask questions you're not ready to die for.

"Thanks," Jonan murmured once he'd finished writing. His voice was low, but sincere. "I owe you."

Louis sighed and closed the laptop with a soft click, setting it into sleep mode and sliding it back into his satchel. "Jonan," he said quietly, "I don't want to know what this is about. Not really. But be careful. You're digging into the hunters. That's not a rabbit hole. It's a grave."

Jonan's expression didn't change. He folded the paper carefully and methodically, and slipped it into one of his belt pouches. But his fingers tightened around it just slightly, the tension barely visible.

"I know," he said. His voice held no fear. Only grim acceptance. "And Louis… Not a word. To anyone. Especially not to Misha."

Louis hesitated, just a beat, no more, then nodded once. "…I won't."

And with that, the room fell into silence. The kind that comes before a storm.

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