Sam glanced at her, suddenly curious. "When did you first know about your abilities?"
"Five years old. Told my kindergarten teacher her husband was buying her yellow roses that afternoon. She called my parents, concerned I was 'making things up.'"
"Let me guess—he showed up with yellow roses?"
"Two dozen. Along with divorce papers." Delilah grimaced. "My first vision and it had to be that."
Sam found himself genuinely laughing. "That's dark."
"My mom called it 'practical foresight.' Said if I had to have visions, at least they were occasionally useful."
The map between them had quietly formed itself into a heart shape, then scrambled back to normal when they both noticed. Sam cleared his throat, returning his attention to the binoculars.
Beneath them, through the building's foundation, the ley lines pulsed with sudden energy—a brief flare of magical resonance that rippled outward across Assjacket.
"Did you feel that?" Delilah whispered.
Sam nodded, suddenly alert. "Something's happening."
The night had just gotten a lot more interesting.
A crash echoed from somewhere below, the sound amplified in the stillness of night. Sam was on his feet instantly, every sense heightened.
"Someone's inside," he whispered, already moving toward the roof access door.
Delilah gathered the map, which folded itself neatly into her pocket. "Could be the cleaning crew?"
"At midnight? With the alarm disabled?" Sam shook his head. "Stay behind me."
The theater's interior was a cavern of shadows, moonlight spilling through the skylight in pale, geometric patterns across the stage. Their footsteps, despite Sam's caution, seemed thunderous in the emptiness.
"I don't see anything," Delilah whispered, her breath warm against his shoulder.
Sam inhaled deeply, sorting through scents—dust, fabric, paint, and something else. Something metallic and familiar that sent a jolt of recognition through his system.
Blood.
Another crash, louder this time, followed by a high-pitched whine that sliced through Sam's consciousness like a knife.
The sound catapulted him backward in time—to darkness, to screams, to the mission that had gone catastrophically wrong. Suddenly he wasn't in the theater anymore but in a warehouse where everything had fallen apart.
His breathing accelerated. Sweat beaded on his forehead as his hands began to tremble.
"Sam?" Delilah's voice seemed distant. "What's wrong?"
The whine came again—metal scraping against metal—and Sam dropped to one knee, a growl building in his throat. His fingernails lengthened into claws, teeth sharpening as the partial shift began without his permission.
"Stay back," he managed through clenched teeth, feeling the control he prided himself on slipping away. "I can't... sometimes I can't stop it..."
His vision tunneled, the present and past blurring together. The partner he couldn't save. The civilians caught in the crossfire. The moment he'd realized his control wasn't as absolute as he'd believed.
"Sam, look at me." Delilah's voice cut through the chaos, firm and clear. She knelt before him, careful not to touch him but close enough that he could see her eyes in the moonlight. "Focus on my voice. You're not there anymore."
The wolf inside him snarled, pushing against his restraint.
"I know what it's like," she continued steadily. "When something outside yourself takes over."
Sam struggled to focus on her words, to use them as an anchor.
