The rain beats against the alleyway as I toss the last bag of trash into the dumpster. Margo's complaints about the "fucking April drizzle" echo in my mind, but I'm enjoying the rare moment of solitude. As I turn to head back inside, a faint sound stops me—a mewl, almost inhuman, coming from the depths of the dumpster. With a sigh, I mutter a quick levitation spell and rise above the metal container, conjuring light from my fingertips to illuminate the darkness below.

There, huddled in the corner, sits a boy. Not much more than a kid, really—maybe eighteen, with matted tawny hair and clothes that look like they've been through a war. His eyes, wide and haunted, lock onto mine without a trace of surprise at my floating form. When most people witness magic, they scream or run or faint. This one just stares, as if he's seeing something he's dreamed of for years.

"Hello," I say, my voice more gentle than I intend. He curls further into himself, rain soaking his filthy hoodie.

"M'sorry," he mumbles, his voice raw. "Saw the pizza boxes. Climbed in but then couldn't get out."

I hover there, rain plastering my hair to my forehead, as the angel and devil on my shoulders begin their usual argument. Leave him—strays are more trouble than they're worth. Help him—you were once just as lost and alone. The boy's eyes plead with me silently, and I make my decision with a resigned sigh.

"Karma better pay me back for this," I mutter, extending my hand and using telekinesis to lift him gently from the dumpster. He collapses onto the wet concrete when I set him down, too weak to stand on his own. As I crouch beside him, I catch a glimpse of something beneath his sleeve—pale skin crisscrossed with scars. My stomach tightens.

"Can you walk?" I ask, and he nods shakily. With my arm around his waist, I half-carry him toward the back entrance of my building. "What's your name?"

He hesitates, eyes darting around as if considering a lie. "Martin," he says finally.

"I'm Eliot," I reply, knowing he's not telling me the truth. "And before you ask—yes, what I did back there was real magic. And yes, you're going to tell me why you aren't surprised by any of this."

We reach the door, and I pause with my hand on the handle, feeling the protective wards tingle against my skin. Behind me, the boy—Martin—leans heavily against the wall, his breathing shallow. Whatever his story, he's been through hell. And for some reason I can't quite explain, I'm about to invite that hell into my home.