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I blink. Did I just imagine it? Maybe I’m being paranoid.

My heart is racing, but I keep my composure. I take a deep, steadying breath, letting the cheers of the crowd wash over me until the panic fades.

"Teagan?"

Fuck. Did he see? Ryker’s voice breaks through my thoughts. He’s turned toward me, his face scrunched. His eyes search my face. "Are you okay? You’re tense."

Damn, he’s too observant.

"I'm fine," I say too quickly. Turning my head, I give him my best, practiced K-drama smile. "Just a little overwhelmed by the noise." I point at my brother as if to prove a point.

We both look over at Ethan, who’s currently leading an obnoxious chant with the row in front of us, completely oblivious he’s my scapegoat.

Ryker’s gaze lingers on me for a moment, his observant gaze still searching mine, trying to read the truth. But after a second, his shoulders relax. "If you get too overwhelmed by the crowd, let me know. We can leave anytime."

I wrap my arms around his waist. "I'm good, promise. I want to stay. For Kieran."

Ryker smiles down at me, his tail wrapping around my leg possessively. "Alright. But stay close to me, just in case."

My fingers graze his. "Just in case.”

By the time the game ends with a Creelin U victory, the sun has set, painting the sky in deep shades of magenta and violet. We head back to Karloff Hall in high spirits, or at least, Ethan is in high spirits, rambling about the final quarter while Kieran grumpily stomps off. I wonder if the guy at the base of the tunnel was some kind of scout. Maybe he was here watching Ethan, and that’s why our roomie is so on edge.

Back in the suite, the post-game chaos settles quickly. Kieran immediately disappears into his bedroom to shower and nurse his bruised ego, while Ethan heads out to an after-party with some of his friends from his dorm. Zay is sitting in the main living area with his headphones on.

By midnight, the suite is quiet.

I sit at the small desk in my bedroom, the door cracked open just an inch. Across the hall in the "bonus room” I can hear the soft sounds of Ryker getting ready for bed. My heart is still thumping with a mixture of anxiety from the stadium and nervous anticipation for what I’m about to do.

I pull out my laptop and open my browser. My private investigator in Seoul is fast, expensive, and ridiculously good at what he does. If there’s a paper trail, an old news article, or some obscure registry filing anywhere in the world, Mr. Park can find it.

I read his email and hit reply. My fingers hover over the screen for a second as I figure out what I want to say.

Mr. Park,

Thank you for taking this on such short notice. I need to expand the parameters of the search I requested earlier.

Please initiate an international record trace on all registered Gargoyle transformations and unexplained disappearances in the Northeast United States. Focus on New York, Pennsylvania, and New Jersey. Start with Philadelphia.

Timeframe: Spanning the months surrounding the October anomaly/Halloween Wave’s ten-year anniversary).

Target Profile: tailors, garment craftsmen, designers, fashion ateliers, or high-fashion textile artists. Look for businesses that suddenly closed or owners who went missing, specifically involving individuals transformed into gargoyles with rare traits (non-gray pigmentation/purple skin tone, bright blue eyes, and high emotional retention.)

Keep this inquiry off the record, please. Send all findings directly to this email or my current address.

Thank you,

T. Dae

I hit send.

I let out a deep breath, lean back in my chair and rub my temples. The memory of that hooded figure at the stadium flashes in my mind like a threat hanging in the shadows, waiting for the right moment to strike. I know I’m taking a risk by not telling Ryker about what I saw today, but it probably was just a coincidence. I trust Ryker to keep me safe from real danger. I would rather focus on helping my gargoyle, than send everyone into a panic about my overactive imagination. I know that if I can give him back his past and figure out who he is or where he comes from, he won't have to face the world as a ghost anymore.

He’s spent ten years searching, spent every day working hard or guarding other people while wondering where he belongs. No more. I close the laptop with a soft click. Standing up, I walk quietly across the hardwood floor, and peek through the cracked door of the bonus room.

Inside, Ryker is sitting on the edge of his bed, shirtless, his purple wings relaxed behind him. He’s holding a small sewing kit in his lap, his large, clawed fingers moving with an effortless grace as he repairs one of his favorite dark shirts. His face is calm, completely absorbed in the motion of the needle.

Gods, he’s so damn handsome like this.