Tyler could barely process what he had just witnessed. What had happened was unimaginable, and now a voracious rage consumed his body. It burned in his veins, adrenaline pulsing raw and wild. His muscles were tense, ready to explode, as if every cell within him was a fuse about to detonate. His eyes, illuminated by the cold light of the streetlamps, reflected the fire of his fury. Confusion mixed with a desperate need to act, to do something to dispel that overwhelming sense of helplessness. The world around him seemed to slow, time distorted—every sound, every distant movement became sharper and more piercing: the distant hum of cars, the flickering neon sign of the bowling alley, the icy breeze that made his hands clench involuntarily into fists, as if that were the only control he still had. He crossed the street with long strides, his worn sneakers echoing on the asphalt, resonating as if they wanted to leave a permanent mark on that moment of pure emotional explosion. Nothing else seemed to matter except reaching her, confronting her, making her pay in some way.

On the other side, Monica waited, unshakable. Clad in her crimson armor, she seemed more like an entity. Her figure was untouchable, an imposing and cold presence that exuded power. The gleam of the steel plates, tinged by the light of the streetlamps, seemed to radiate a supernatural energy, as if the metal itself were pulsing with a life of its own, as if it were an extension of her will. She held the sword with the ease of someone who had already mastered absolute power, the blade in her hand seeming like an extension of her own body. The hilt of the sword coiled around her arm, pulsing with a dark and menacing energy that made the air around her feel heavier.

— Hey! What the hell did you do to my friends...? — Tyler’s voice came out hoarse, cutting, echoing through the deserted street, laden with accumulated fury. Each word was imbued with a visceral anger, an explosion of repressed emotion. He wanted her to feel it, wanted her to see the pain and indignation in his eyes.

But Monica, on the other hand, barely moved. With an almost lazy gesture, she brushed his hand away as if it were an annoying fly, as if the disdain she felt for him were as natural as breathing. Her gaze was cold, calculating, and behind the white bangs that fell over her pale face, Hyan could see that she was completely oblivious to the storm about to erupt in Tyler. She smiled—but it wasn’t a friendly smile. It was a smile as sharp as a blade, a promise of something that wouldn’t be easy to swallow, something cruel and disdainful.

— Chill out, Rat One. — Monica’s voice was dry, almost disinterested, as if everything Tyler felt were irrelevant to her. The words were laced with an arrogance that burned, the way she addressed him, as if he were nothing more than a fly that had dared to bother her. — Your friends are fine. We just erased their memories so they wouldn’t remember what happened here...

Tyler’s heart pounded in his chest, but he struggled to process the coldness of Monica’s words. His mind was a mess, trying to find some logical explanation for what was happening, but nothing seemed to make sense. Beside him, Hyan remained motionless, his breathing heavy and rapid. His gaze shifted between Monica and Aunt Michelle, who now held Amelia in her arms with unsettling ease, as if she were a mere weight, something insignificant.

Hyan, his mind reeling, tried to understand what was happening. Finally, his trembling and hesitant voice broke the silence. — Aunt Michelle...? What’s going on?

Michelle rose with an almost supernatural lightness, as if gravity had no effect on her. Her silver hair, almost ethereal in the moonlight, moved with a hypnotic smoothness, as if it had a life of its own in the night breeze. The expression on her face remained impassive, but the way she spoke, with a controlled and threatening calm, sent a chill down Tyler’s spine, freezing him in place. The sensation was that something much larger than them was unfolding before their eyes.

— It’s all right, sweetheart. We’ll take your friends home. Then, we’ll talk. — The softness of her voice was of a cold kind of tranquility, as if there were no room for doubt or resistance. The words weren’t comforting; they were almost a sentence.

Before Tyler could protest, Michelle uttered the magical words once more: “Arcanum Evocattio - Arcanum Semitae!” The magic was immense, enveloping the air around them, and in the blink of an eye, everything changed. The street, the sky, the shadows—everything distorted, and in an instant, the familiar environment was replaced by something unrecognizable. Tyler felt his stomach churn, a knot tightening in his throat, as the sensation of displacement hit him. The transition was so rapid and dizzying that he barely had time to process what was happening. The world seemed to have been compressed, as if time had become an illusion, something malleable and unstable.

When his feet finally touched the ground again, they were in front of Amelia’s house. The sight was clear, but the sense of surrealism still enveloped them, as if something were deeply wrong. Jake and Amelia, still dazed, were left at their respective homes. Once again, Michelle’s spell erased their memories, offering a fabricated excuse for the night, something simple and mundane that would mask the true nature of what had happened. They wouldn’t notice, wouldn’t remember. They would be left to continue their lives as if nothing had occurred.

As soon as they were left safely, another command echoed from Michelle’s voice, a silent order, and before anyone could realize what was happening, they were back in the kitchen at home.

Tyler blinked, stunned. The familiar environment, with its routine and comforting details, seemed completely surreal after everything he had witnessed. The soft light of the kitchen, the faint smell of coffee still lingering in the air—everything felt distant, almost like an illusion. Cassandra was still seated, her gaze lost and distant, as if she were looking at something beyond what her eyes could see. But something had changed in her. There was a tension in her gaze, an emotional weight that Tyler had never seen before. A mix of apprehension and... perhaps something more, something dark that he hadn’t been able to identify until that moment.

— Mom! Did you see that? — Tyler’s voice sounded hoarse and desperate, as if he were trying to find some security in the chaos. He was breathing irregularly, his chest rising and falling unevenly, as if the air were thin. His mind was filled with images and sounds, everything mixed together, reality crumbling around him.

Cassandra looked up, her piercing eyes fixed on Tyler. Her face was calm and firm as always, but something was hidden behind her eyes. Something that seemed conflicted, as if she were struggling to contain a part of herself. She seemed determined, but there was a shadow of doubt, a force that hadn’t yet fully revealed itself.

— What did you do, Michelle? — Her voice came out soft, but it carried a tension that seemed ready to explode. She wasn’t just asking; she was demanding an explanation. The words vibrated in the air, heavy with a meaning that Tyler couldn’t comprehend. There was more behind all of this than he could imagine.

The atmosphere seemed to compress under the weight of that exchange of glances. The silence stretched, broken only by the sound of anxious breaths and the faint sound of the wind passing through the cracks in the window. Hyan, sitting on the couch in the background, watched the conversation with an empty expression, as if he were still trying to grasp the magnitude of what had just happened. Monica was beside him, her arm casually draped over his shoulders, an unperturbed expression on her face. To her, it seemed like just another everyday scene, a reality that had already become completely normalized.

— We’re not witches, you little ignoramuses — Michelle interrupted, her voice cutting, full of disdain. Her words were sharp, like knives thrown into the air. — We’re Arcanists. What you saw tonight was just a glimpse of the magical world...

Still stunned, Tyler went to the fridge and grabbed a bottle of water, seeking some kind of comfort in the familiarity of the object. His fingers trembled slightly as he held it, trying to calm his agitated mind. The sound of the fridge door slamming shut with a sharp thud cut through the tense silence of the kitchen. It was as if he were trying to reconnect with normality, but nothing around him seemed normal anymore.

— Magical world... — he murmured, incredulous, as he took a sip of the water, trying to process the enormity of what was being said. The water went down his throat, but it brought no relief. He set the bottle aside, his eyes distant, before adding with a sarcastic and worn tone. — Yeah, right...

Michelle approached the table with slow steps, the aura around her heavy and threatening. The kitchen light flickered slightly, as if the environment itself were reacting to the dense energy in the air, vibrating with the tension that hung over them. Tyler watched, his stomach tight, as the heat of the situation seemed to rise with every second.

— It’s time you learned the truth about your father and our family... — Michelle’s voice came out soft, but it carried a sweet venom, each word a thread of threat that cut through the silence with precision. The words fell into the air like stones thrown into a calm lake, creating ripples of unease.

At that moment, Tyler felt a chill run down his spine, his blood freezing in his veins as if the air around him had become denser. He looked at the picture on the wall—the old photo of his father, the image worn by time and dust. The portrait was slightly tilted, as if it were about to fall, as if even it were unable to stand in the face of the impending revelation. His father’s figure smiled in the photo, but to Tyler, the smile now seemed empty, masking something deep and hidden. The image seemed to carry with it a secret much larger than he could comprehend at that moment, and the feeling that something dark was about to be revealed made him falter, his eyes fixed on the portrait.