🌴 California, 1990 • 7:46 PM

Charlie Fiz was beat to hell, and covered in dust that didn't belong to this world. His P.M.I.S-issued black jacket was torn at the shoulder, streaked with dried green blood that smelled sharp like battery acid. The metallic tang of it filled his nostrils as he stepped out of his truck, the evening air already cooling against his sweat-damp skin.

But he made it out. Barely.

The mission had been brutal—a breach in Arizona, way out in the desert where the cacti stood sentinel over something ancient and angry. Some half-breed demon nesting under an old mining town, dragging down locals who were just looking for copper and came back possessed or never at all. The last hour of it had been a blur—gunfire loud in his ears, demon screeching that still echoed in his skull, gritty sand between his teeth, and the weight of command pounding in his temples.

Now, he was back in California.

He pulled into the driveway of the small house tucked away in a sleepy street in Oakland, the streetlights humming overhead like a chorus of tired insects. His old green Chevy S-10 pickup gave a tired cough as he killed the engine, the sudden silence feeling almost unnatural after the day's chaos. He leaned back in the seat, head hitting the headrest with a sigh that traveled up from the very depths of his bones.

The sunset was bleeding orange across the sky, painting the clouds in strokes of tangerine and magenta as it dipped toward the horizon. Everything here looked the same as when he left three days ago. The bougainvillea vines still curled up the fence, their bright pink blossoms a stark contrast against the fading light. The air carried the familiar scent of jasmine from Mrs. Hernandez's garden next door, mingling with the distant salt tang of the Pacific Ocean a few miles west.

He hadn't even taken off his gloves yet.

His fingers were still twitching from the adrenaline, the post-mission shakes starting to set in as his body finally registered how close he'd come to not returning. He stared at them for a long minute, then reached to the glove compartment and pulled out an old cassette with a handwritten label: Chaz's Chill Mix '87. He popped it into the player and let the tape roll as he stepped out of the truck, the opening chords of Sade's "Smooth Operator" drifting through the open door like a welcome home hug.

Inside, the house was dim, quiet, and warm. Old wood floors creaked under his weight as he moved, the familiar sounds a comforting counterpoint to the chaos he'd left behind. The lava lamp in the corner bubbled low, casting amber shadows on walls decorated with a faded Nirvana poster and a slightly askew Prince album cover. In the living room, a Family Matters rerun played faintly on the TV, Steve Urkel's nasally voice a distant murmur that somehow made everything feel right again.

He toed off his boots and winced as his shoulder throbbed, a fresh spike of pain shooting down his arm. Through the thin fabric of his undershirt, he could feel the tender skin where the demon's claws had raked across his flesh, barely missing bone.

"Damn," he muttered, pulling off the jacket slowly, his movements careful and deliberate. "That thing almost took my damn arm."

He shuffled toward the bathroom and caught a look at himself in the hallway mirror—rough, bloodied, with demon ichor smeared across his jaw like some macabre warpaint. His dark hair was damp from sweat, curls sticking to his forehead in unruly tufts. There were new lines around his eyes, temporary etchings of fear and focus that would fade by morning but left him looking older than his 32 years.

But there was something in his eyes—some kind of stubborn light that refused to be extinguished. That fire that had always burned bright, even when he was a runaway teen on a Greyhound bus heading west with nothing but a duffel bag and a dream, even when he returned home years later to find everyone looking at him like he was a stranger in his own skin.

He splashed cold water on his face, the shock of it making him swear under his breath as it hit his split knuckles. Then, after a moment, he finally pulled off the rest of his gear, tossing the blood-stained shirt and tactical pants in the hamper with a grimace that said he'd be dealing with that mess tomorrow.

He moved like an old man toward the kitchen, dragging his socked feet across the cool linoleum that smelled faintly of lemon polish. The clock on the microwave read 8:07—late, but not too late. Outside, the sky had deepened to navy blue shot through with veins of fading gold.

He opened the fridge and grabbed the soda he had been dreaming of since Phoenix—an ice-cold Cherry Coke with condensation already beading on the can. He popped the tab with a satisfying hiss, took a long pull that burned slightly going down, and leaned against the counter, breathing deep as the sugar and caffeine began their slow work of reviving him.

Then he heard it.

The creak of a bedroom door down the hall, followed by the soft padding of footsteps.

He froze, but only for a second. The exhaustion seemed to melt from his features, replaced by something softer, warmer—something he rarely allowed anyone else to see.

Charlie turned, and there you were, standing at the end of the hallway with the porch light behind you, casting a golden aura around your silhouette like something out of one of those music videos he pretended not to watch when they came on MTV.

In that moment, everything else faded away—the demons, the missions, the constant threat of discovery, the weight of living in a world that wouldn't understand his love. His chest cracked wide open, all his carefully constructed walls crumbling in an instant.

"Hey," he said, his voice rough from disuse but overflowing with warmth, his brown eyes softening like the California sky behind you as he drank in the sight of you. "Miss me?"