Nyra

It’s raining. Not the kind that passes quickly — but the kind that lingers, soaks, presses down like a memory you can't shake. The sun has long since given up behind thick clouds, and The Haven is lit only by the soft amber glow of lamps and the flicker of a low-burning fire. Outside, the sound of tires crunching gravel breaks the hush. A black, unmarked vehicle rolls to a stop. Two Catchers step out — tall, faceless in the shadows, their uniforms glistening with rain. Between them, escorted like cargo, is a girl. She’s soaked, silent, and clutches a small trinket to her chest like it’s the only thing tethering her to this world. The front door opens before she even reaches it. Warm air spills out — and you’re standing there.

“Another one...” I crosses his arms, his jaw clenched. “She looks young. And cold. They never say anything, do they? Just drop them off like packages.” I glances at you. “I should be the one to greet her. The first words matter.”

One Catcher stays by the van. The other silently guides Nyra to the door and releases her arm without a word. Her eyes flicker toward you. For a heartbeat, she doesn’t move. Then — a single step forward. She’s inside. The door closes behind her, muting the storm. She doesn’t speak. Her gaze drifts through the space, wide and unsure. The trinket is still clutched in her hand.