Holding the pendant, night broke into day. Rosenberg Eliya had been sleeping on the floor. Whether he lacked the energy to move to the bed or simply hadn't noticed himself moving, he couldn't tell anymore. When his eyes opened, there was a silver star in his left hand. Tarnished, one corner bent, the chain still tangled around it. Six days. He'd counted that far, then stopped counting beyond it. Outside the window, through frosted glass, he could see the back wall of a building. Thin daylight filtered through. The smell of soup drifted from the kitchen down the hallway. Velvet Thorn—the high-end club in Midtown West—always had late mornings. That evening, three knocks sounded at the door. Not Frank. The intervals between knocks were different. Rosenberg Eliya remained sitting on the edge of the bed, unmoving. The door opened. A woman stood in the orange light of the hallway. She held a tray in both hands. Soup, bread, and one apple. That alone told him her purpose. A meal delivery. But her face wasn't one of the usual men. Deep green hair, loosely curled. Bright golden eyes. A small silver piercing in her left ear. White blouse, black skirt. The look of someone who'd changed out of stage clothes. A frame just under 160 centimeters, but her posture had no openings. The stance of someone who'd stood on stage many times. "[sarcastic]Surprised, are you? You didn't think I'd come?" Maria set the tray on the table. The motion was businesslike. She placed it carefully so nothing would spill, but no more care than that. "[cold]...Who are you?" "Maria Sanchez. I sing downstairs every night. You must have heard me the night you came here." Rosenberg Eliya didn't answer. Maria glanced at his face. The dark circles under his eyes, the prominence of his cheekbones, something gripped in his left hand—she confirmed it all in less than a second, then looked away. Not sympathy. Assessment. "[serious]Damon has business with the Nocturnal Covenant tonight. He won't be back for three hours." Nocturnal Covenant—the network of demon and human transactions that Damon had built since the seventeenth century. With bases in New York, London, and Paris. Business there. Something in Rosenberg Eliya shifted slightly. Three hours. "[cold]Why tell me that?" "Information. Use it if you want. Discard it if you prefer." Maria leaned her back against the wall. Not in a hurry. But she didn't seem to intend to stay long either. "[serious]You've figured out some things about him in six days. I've been here two years. I'll tell you one thing." "[cold]...I don't want to hear it." "[sarcastic]It's not about whether you want to hear it. It's about whether it's useful." She continued. Her tone of voice didn't change. Minimal inflection. The way someone speaks who's practiced endlessly at not loading emotion into their words. "[serious]Blackwood Damon has an abnormal obsession with things that don't break. He wants them because they don't break. He doesn't tire of them because they don't break. That's been his habit for four hundred years. But—" There was a brief pause. "[serious]Obsession becomes a weakness too. When the thing he's obsessed with moves, he experiences the unexpected for the first time. I've seen that three times in two years." Rosenberg Eliya said nothing. Maria tapped the tray lightly with her finger. "[cold]Eat. Even if your body can't die, it can stop moving." The door closed. Footsteps receded down the hallway. The sound of returning toward the kitchen. She created no sentimental moment, not for a second. She came, placed the tray, spoke, and left. That was all. Rosenberg Eliya watched the steam rising from the soup. Obsession becomes a weakness too. Those words lodged in the corner of his mind. --- Deep night. Velvet Thorn, first floor. The main floor was already closed, the chandeliers dimmed to one-third. Deep crimson velvet and ebony floated in the darkness. Behind the bar counter, Frank Moretti continued the quiet sound of wiping glasses with a cloth. The front door opened forcefully. Bang—a heavy sound echoed. Frank looked up. One of the security guards moved toward the door. A man entered. His black coat was wet. Rain must have started. Short hair with white streaks, calm brown eyes—but tonight those eyes held no calmness. The wrinkles on his forehead were tense. In his right hand, he held a copper plate. Old metal. The patterns engraved on its surface were visible even from a distance. Goldman Samuel. Rabbi of Synagogue Beit Shalom—the stone building in the Upper West Side. 175 centimeters, 55 years old. Tonight, he hadn't come to persuade. The security guard stepped forward. Samuel raised the copper plate high. Light emerged. Pale blue. Different from fluorescent lights. Light that spread quietly, like incense smoke dissolving into air. The light of a talisman engraved with exorcism patterns copied from the ancient text "Sefer HaGanah" in the basement archives of Beit Shalom. The air in the club changed. Three chandeliers swayed in unison. Glasses on the bar counter trembled. Clatter clatter clatter—fine sounds overlapped. Something invisible was creaking under pressure from that light. A barrier. The demonic power layer woven throughout Velvet Thorn was interfering with the talisman's light. "[serious]Rosenberg Eliya should be here. Return him to me." His voice didn't waver. The moment the security guard tried to grab his arm— "[cold]Frank. Stand down." A voice descended from the second floor. Footsteps, then descending the stairs. Black suit, groomed black hair, red vertical-slit pupils that gleamed even in the dim room. The 188-centimeter frame came down to the first floor. His expression was unreadable. But those eyes—seemed bored. Damon looked at the talisman's light. One second. Just that, then his gaze shifted to Samuel. "[sarcastic]A talisman of Shevet HaShachar. Compared to fifty years ago, the craftsmanship is quite crude." Shevet HaShachar—the Staff of Dawn. A secret society within Judaism. An informal network of a small number of rabbis who acknowledged and opposed the existence of demons. Samuel was one of them. "[serious]Return Eliya." Damon walked. Unhurried. Slowly closing the distance between himself and Samuel. "[cold]He came here of his own will. He accepted the contract with me. You have no right to deny that, old man." "[serious]What you've done is not a contract. It's unilateral domination." Samuel thrust the copper plate forward. The light intensified. The chandeliers swayed again. Damon's footsteps stopped. One second. Two seconds. His pupils, watching the light. The red vertical slits reflecting the pale blue glow. Then Damon slowly raised one hand. An invisible force moved toward Samuel. Boom— Samuel's body flew backward. Three meters to the wall. His back struck the wall with a dull sound. The copper plate left his hand. It flew through the air and fell to the floor. With a clang, the engraved side faced upward. The light went out. The talisman was shattered. Broken into four pieces, scattered across the floor. The swaying of the chandeliers stopped. The glasses stopped. The creaking of the barrier ceased. Everything became quiet, as if nothing had happened. Samuel slumped against the wall, sliding down to the floor. The back of his coat was stained red. Blood flowed from his mouth. A single line traced his jaw and fell to the floor. Damon looked down at the talisman fragments. "[cold]The power of faith certainly exists. However—it didn't reach me." His voice was emotionless. A statement of fact. --- In the second-floor hallway, Rosenberg Eliya was there. A security guard had forgotten to close the door. Hearing the sounds, he'd left the room. From the end of the hallway, he looked down at the first floor. Samuel, blood seeping into the wall, raised his face. His brown eyes searched the second floor. He found Rosenberg Eliya. "[serious]Eliya!" He wrung out the words. His ribs might be broken. Still, he spoke. "[serious]There's still light within you. Remember—!" His voice echoed through the club. Rosenberg Eliya couldn't move. After six days of being worn down spiritually, his body heard that voice, and something deep in his chest—moved. He'd made someone who'd given up on him do this. That wasn't all. Someone still existed who would do this for him. A fifty-five-year-old man had walked into a club with a 400-year-old demon with nothing but a single talisman. Coughing blood, collapsed on the floor, still shouting. Something in his chest was pushed upward. Damon looked up at Rosenberg Eliya. Red pupils fixed on the second-floor hallway. Rosenberg Eliya put his left hand in his pocket. The pendant was there. The tarnished silver star. It had always been there. He gripped it. For six days, he'd gripped it the same way. But tonight was different. From the depths of memory, searching with his hand—he searched for something. A place that had rusted over, nearly erased. The voice of Rosenberg Eliya when he was a rabbi. When he stood in the chapel. His lips moved. "Shema..." A hoarse voice. Incomplete. Each sound was breaking apart. "Shema Yisrael...Adonai..." Divrei Kedosha—spiritual power invoked through Hebrew prayer. A sacred word wielded by rabbis. Its effectiveness depends on the purity of faith, so doubt and guilt severely diminish its power. Faith hadn't returned. But— In his left hand, the pendant glowed. Faintly. Less than a second, just a fragment. But it definitely glowed. Pale blue light leaked from his palm. Not a complete activation of Divrei Kedosha. But it was there. Downstairs, Damon stopped moving. Red pupils fixed on Rosenberg Eliya's hand. The vertical-slit pupils reflected that light. From his composed expression—composure, for just an instant, vanished. His eyebrows moved slightly. In human terms, something close to surprise, but different from human surprise. A 400-year-old ruler seeing something unexpected. "[cold]...So something like that still remains." Pure. A single word. Those eyes looked at Rosenberg Eliya. The way they looked at him—was subtly different from how they'd looked at a subject of domination. The eyes of someone who'd found something. Not "I want it because it doesn't break," but something else entirely. It lasted only a second. But it was there. --- Damon moved. Footsteps ascending the stairs. Quiet and fast. Rosenberg Eliya tried to back down the hallway, but Damon was faster. One arm grabbed his shoulder and pressed him against the wall. His back hit the wall. His feet left the ground. Damon's strength was no longer that of a human. Rosenberg Eliya resisted. He swung his arms. He kicked. But his exhausted body couldn't break free from Damon's single arm. Damon's fingers gripped Rosenberg Eliya's left hand. "[cold]Open it." He forced each finger open one by one. Pain shot through him. The sound of bones creaking. Rosenberg Eliya clenched his teeth. But his hand was forced open. The pendant fell into Damon's hand. Damon glanced at it. A tarnished silver star. One corner bent. The chain tangled. He walked down the stairs with it. Rosenberg Eliya remained leaning against the wall, watching that back. He had no energy to move his body. First floor. To the front of the fireplace. The fireplace had a fire burning. Orange flames illuminated the deep crimson velvet. Damon threw the pendant into the flames. The silver began to heat. Within seconds it turned orange. Its shape began to collapse. The six points of the hexagram melted one by one. The corner that had been bent crumbled first. The chain burned, became black thread, and disappeared. The last remaining lump of silver lost its form in the flames. Rosenberg Eliya watched from the end of the hallway. No words came. It hadn't been given to him by Samuel. But it had been connected to Samuel's voice. For six days, he'd