Lorenzo stood there, his portly figure casting a broad shadow under the streetlights. He was a familiar presence, one that had been with John through thick and thin. His tan skin, thick, dark hair, and the unmistakable Italian vibe radiated from him—if his accent or tailored attire hadn't given it away first. Despite his friendly demeanor, John could tell Lorenzo was here on official business, and it wasn't something either of them would enjoy.

"Look," Lorenzo began, his voice filled with genuine concern, "the council's going to want you involved, especially after this. I hate to ask, but are you willing to work with them? I know after the last job, you're not exactly thrilled with being tied to their business, but—"

John raised his hand, cutting him off firmly. "Not going to happen. This was a one-time thing. Since you're here, though, I've got debts owed. Get me an apothecary or one of those witch doctors. I need these wounds closed up, and fast. I don't care about the trade-off."

Lorenzo's face showed a momentary flicker of disappointment, but he didn't argue. He knew John too well for that. What was said, was final. Instead, he took a step back, nodding, accepting that the conversation had reached its end.

"Good to see you, pal," John said, the tension between them easing.

Lorenzo gave a quick nod. "Likewise." He turned, heading back toward the cars, leaving John to his thoughts—and his wounds.

John knew this wasn't over, not by a long shot. But for now, all he could focus on was getting patched up and finding a way to keep himself out of the council's grip.

The witch doctor, Tilda, had worked quickly and efficiently, muttering an incantation under her breath. Her hands moved in a precise, rhythmic pattern over John's battered torso, the words a strange fusion of langues john couldn't quite make out.

"Επούλωση βύθισης, zashchita i khorovod, эй, время вслушивается..."

The air around them seemed to thrum with energy, and John could taste copper on his tongue, his senses assaulted by the smell of ozone. The pain was sharp, almost unbearable, as the wounds sealed and scarred over. It wasn't unlike being torn apart again but in reverse, as if time itself had been sped up around his injuries. He gritted his teeth, suppressing a grunt.

Tilda, meanwhile, was all business. She gave him a cursory once-over after the ritual, noting the crisscross of scars on his body. "How are you still alive?" she asked, bewildered by the sheer number of healed-over wounds.

John, pulling his jacket back on, smirked grimly. "Some days I ask myself the same question. Guess it's a bit of luck."

Tilda raised an eyebrow, clearly incredulous. "A bit?"

He shrugged nonchalantly, as if shrugging off near-death was something routine. "I've been at this for a while. I've gotten pretty good at staying alive. Thanks to people like you, too."

Her eyes flicked back to him, almost dismissively. "I'm assuming Lorenzo's picking up the tab? Or do I get paid now?"

John shook his head. "Speak to Lorenzo. The commission owes me, and I'm collecting on it." He paused, then asked, "What's your name? I might need your help again."

She glanced at him with a curious look, almost as if sizing him up, then relented. "Tilda. But I've got class from 2 to 6, so if you're bleeding out then, you're out of luck."

John chuckled, appreciating her bluntness. "I'll try not to die on your schedule. Got a number I can reach you at?"

She rolled her eyes but handed over her phone. After quickly punching in her contact info, she handed it back. He thanked her and bid her farewell before heading off.

The girl he'd saved was safe, and Lorenzo could handle the cleanup. As much as he hated leaving loose ends, he had no desire to get dragged further into this mess. If she had anything to say, she had his number, but for now, John needed to get home. Despite everything he'd gone through, the thought of returning home filled him with a sense of dread. Still, it had to be done. He took a deep breath, exhaled smoke from his cigarette, and began making his way into the city night.

It hadn't taken him long to get home. The entire trip had been a blur, his mind split between what he had just dealt with and the issue waiting for him there. He knew he would have to go home and talk with Samantha. He'd been putting it off—putting everything off. He hadn't filed for the papers yet, though he knew he should have done it a long time ago. He hadn't even met with the lawyer to work out the proceedings or sat down to figure out ..... Well anything

This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

John sat in his car, gripping the steering wheel tighter than he realized. His knuckles had gone white as the reality of the situation settled over him like a suffocating blanket. He stared at the sedan parked behind Samantha's car, every fiber of his being screaming at him to drive away, to not deal with this now. But he couldn't keep running forever.

His heart pounded, the sound of it loud in his ears, almost drowning out the incessant thoughts. The same ones that had been tormenting him for months, since the night he had figured it all out. He hadn't needed her to say anything; he had seen the signs long before. He'd ignored them, thrown himself into his work, taking every monster hunting job that came his way—anything to stay away from home, away from this.

"Big scary monster hunter," he muttered to himself. "Afraid of dealing with his own damn problems. Figures."

His lips twitched into a humorless smile, but it quickly faded as his eyes went back to the sedan. The rational part of his mind knew it could be anyone—a lawyer, a friend, hell, even a delivery driver. But the angry, bitter part of him—the part that had been festering since the betrayal—was convinced it was him. The man she had let into their lives, their home. The man who had ruined everything, though John knew deep down that wasn't the whole truth.

It had taken two people to destroy his marriage. And no matter how much he wanted to put all the blame on that faceless bastard, it was Samantha who had allowed it to happen.

John's hands began to shake as the anger built, and for a brief second, he considered turning the car around and driving away, putting it off for another day. But he knew he couldn't. It was time to face this, to stop running.

With a heavy sigh, he killed the engine and opened the car door. The cool night air hit his face, a small relief from the heat boiling inside him. He stood for a moment, staring at the house he used to call home, now just another battlefield.

Steeling himself, he walked toward the front door. His boots thudded against the pavement, each step heavier than the last. He could feel his heart racing, every muscle in his body tensing in preparation for a fight—though this wasn't the kind he could win with his fists.

John hesitated at the door, his hand hovering over the handle. Part of him wanted to kick it down, barge in like he did when he was hunting monsters. But that wasn't who he needed to be right now. He took a deep breath and slowly turned the handle.

The door creaked open, and the familiar scent of home hit him like a wave of memories. The good ones. The ones he'd tried to bury. He stepped inside, his eyes immediately scanning the room for signs of life.

And there she was—Samantha. Sitting at the dining table, her back to him.

He stood there, just out of view, his breath slow and controlled. He hadn't been noticed yet, and he had no intention of announcing his presence. Not yet. Instead, he moved with deliberate quiet through the room, keeping to the edges, a phantom in his own home.

From the dining room, he could hear Samantha's voice. It was low, steady—too calm for his liking. She was talking to someone, a voice he hadn't immediately recognized when he'd first stepped inside.

Samantha was talking about something serious, her tone tinged with frustration and exhaustion.

"I don't know what to do" Samantha said, her voice breaking slightly. "It's like he's just checked out of everything. He's barely here anymore, physically or emotionally. And it's not like I don't know why, but that doesn't make it any easier."

The other voice came through next, soft but with a firmness that only siblings seemed to be able to pull off."Really?" the voice shot back, her tone laced with disbelief. "You've tried? Sam, you've done nothing but make excuses. What did you think was going to happen after you slept with that guy from work? And don't act like it was just some one-off mistake either. You strung this along for months!"

John stopped, a wave of embarrassment and a strange kind of relief washing over him. Of course, he thought to himself. It's just Mary. The tension in his muscles unwound slightly, but still, he didn't move from his spot. Something kept him rooted in place, listening.

Samantha's voice rose, more desperate now. "I know I screwed up, okay? I know! But I'm trying to handle this like an adult. Unlike john ".

Mary didn't let up. "Then maybe you need to stop pretending you can just fix this, Sam. Sometimes things can't be fixed. Maybe you two need to just face the fact that it's over."

John's chest tightened. He had been avoiding this conversation for so long, dodging the inevitable, but here it was, laid bare in front of him. He felt like he should walk in, say something, but the words caught in his throat.

"I love him," Samantha said quietly, but there was a hollow tone to it, like she wasn't even sure of herself anymore. "I want to make it work."

Mary scoffed, not buying it. "Do you really? Or are you just afraid of what happens if it's really over? You've been chasing attention for so long, Sam, from work, from guys, from anywhere but John. And now you're clinging to him because you don't want to face the mess you've made. But you can't have it both ways. If you cared so much about him, why did you keep doing it? What did you expect to happen?"

Samantha didn't answer. The silence stretched out, thick with everything left unsaid.

Mary exhaled sharply, softening her tone but still firm. "Look, I know you're my sister, and I love you, but you need to stop this. Maybe it's time you both move on, let go. You're just hurting each other by dragging this out."