Emily woke to the shrill scream of her alarm, her body bolting upright as if electrocuted. Rain still lashed against her apartment windows, but the storm’s unnatural gold lightning had vanished. Her palm burned.

She stared at her unmarked skin. Hallucination. Exhaustion. PTSD from the night shift. The rational explanations lined up like obedient soldiers. Yet beneath her pillow, the silver crescent pendant pulsed with a warmth that defied reason. She’d hidden it there before collapsing into bed, half-convinced it would vanish by morning.

It hadn’t.

7:15 a.m.

Emily moved through her routine like an automaton: shower too hot, coffee too bitter, toast charred at the edges. She dressed in scrubs—dark blue, practical, human—avoiding the mirror. Last night’s reflection haunted her: those liquid silver eyes that weren’t hers. Or were they?

"Hide your light," Jason’s voice echoed in her memory, velvet and gravel. "Trust no one."

She clipped her ID badge with trembling fingers. ER Resident - New Veridia General. Solid. Real. Unlike golden-eyed princes and shadow monsters.

8:00 a.m.

The rain had eased to a drizzle as Emily stepped onto the sidewalk. Her usual route took her past grimy bodegas and flickering holographic ads. Normalcy. She clung to it.

Until she saw the woman in the gray trench coat.

Standing beneath a broken streetlamp, the woman stared at Emily with unnerving stillness. Her eyes were dark holes in a pale face, hands buried deep in her pockets. Emily quickened her pace, turning the corner onto Lexington.

Coincidence.

8:08 a.m.

At the crosswalk, Emily froze. The same woman stood across the street, now beside a man in a black hoodie. His posture was too loose, joints bending at angles that seemed… wrong. As Emily watched, his head swiveled toward her with insectile precision.

A bus roared past, spraying filthy water. When it cleared, the pair was gone.

8:15 a.m.

Emily cut through Mercy Park, shortcutting past rain-lashed magnolias. Her breath hitched.

There. On a bench.

The trench-coat woman sat beside a third figure—tall, gaunt, wearing mirrored sunglasses despite the gloom. All three turned their heads in unison as Emily passed.

"They’ll hunt you now."

Emily ran.

9:00 a.m. - New Veridia General ER

The chaos of the emergency room was a blessed relief. Gunshot wounds, asthma attacks, a construction worker with a nail through his hand—all gloriously, mundanely human. Emily lost herself in stitches and charts, the pendant’s warmth a forgotten weight beneath her scrubs.

Until the lights flickered.

A collective groan rose from the staff as the fluorescents dimmed, pulsed, then steadied.

"Transformer blew on Oak Street," a nurse muttered. "Third time this week."

Emily’s hand drifted to her chest. The pendant burned like dry ice.

2:17 p.m.

She was suturing a skateboarder’s knee when the air thickened. Shadows deepened in the corners of Trauma Bay 3. The overhead lights hummed, pitch rising to a whine.

"Power surge?" the skateboarder asked, wincing as Emily pulled the thread taut.

Before she could answer, the double doors burst open.

He stood silhouetted against the hallway’s glare—tall, broad.

They’re here, he said. Let’s go, you can't remain here,” he shouted.