The kitchen light steadied after its flicker, casting a warm pool over the linoleum where the crushed apple lay in a small puddle of its own juice. Willow stared at Kimona, her wink hanging in the air like a promise or a threat, he could not decide which. She leaned against the counter, arms crossed, her braids framing a face that held secrets he had never suspected. The herbal scent clung to her, faint and earthy, mingling with the fizz of the open Coke bottle between them.

  "What are you?" he repeated, his voice flat, edged with the egg exhaustion of too many impossibilities crammed into one evening.

  Kimona's smile softened, turning inward, as if she pulled the answer from some hidden well within herself. She pushed off the counter, pacing a slow circle around the kitchen table, her socks gliding softly against the floor. "I’m a shaman, Willow. Learned it from my mom. The traditions run deep, passed down like old stories you tell under the moonlight. Not something flashy, most times. Just ways to speak with the spirits, keep balance, protect what needs protecting."

  Willow blinked, the words settling over him like mist in an alley. Shaman. Spirits. It sounded like something from one of his mother's archaeology books, myths dug up from forgotten corners of the world. Yet here it stood, real as the girl in front of him, her eyes steady behind those gold-rimmed glasses. He leaned against the fridge, the cool metal pressing into his back, grounding him. "So, you're like a witch or something?"

  She chuckled, low and warm, shaking her head. "Nag, not a witch. They make pacts with demons, borrow power that come wid strings. My power come from the ancestors, from the earth itself. Clean, true. But yeah, I can do things ordinary folk can't."

  He rubbed his temples, the ache building there like a storm cloud. No massive explanations, just pieces, like breadcrumbs leading into a forest he did not want to enter. But he had to ask. "That thing in the alley called me a sorcerer. You acted like it meant something specific."

  Kimona stopped pacing, turning to face him fully. Her gaze held his, serious now, the playfulness tucked away. "Sorcerer ain't just a word monsters fling around for fun. It means you’ve got supernatural blood in your veins. Human, yeah, but mixed with something older, something not from this side of the veil. That blood gives you powers. Like those chains you summon. You found yours today, looks like."

  Supernatural blood. The phrase echoed in his mind, absurd yet fitting, like a key turning in a lock he had never noticed. Willow's thoughts spun, grasping for sense. "How? How could I have that? Mom’s normal. She's out there digging up potsherds and lecturing about ancient trade routes. Nothing magical about that."

  Kimona shrugged, casual as if discussing the weather, and reached for the Coke again, taking a sip before handing it back. "Leaves your dad then, doesn’t it? Part that makes you tan, desert boy,” the shaman smirked.

  Willow paused, the bottle halfway to his lips. His father's name floated up unbidden, Azhar, a word his mother rarely spoke, laced with old sorrow. Eyes narrowing, he set the bottle down with a soft clink. A sigh escaped him, carrying a quiet curse in Lebanese, "Ya haram," under his breath, the words tasting of distant sands and unspoken regrets.

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  Kimona's eyes lit with amusement, her grin returning. "There you go, habibi."

  He shot her a dry look, but the tension in his shoulders eased a fraction. At least this part felt familiar, her teasing like an anchor in the swirling weirdness. She leaned in closer, her voice dropping to something softer, more genuine. "For real though? Feels good not to have to hide anymore, especially from you. Got two things to celebrate today."

  Willow took a deep breath, the air heavy with the scent of lavender from his mother's candle still smoldering in the hall. Questions piled up in his mind, a million threads pulling at once. "Okay, but what's real? Vampires? Werewolves? Gods? Is every religion true all of a sudden? Or are we just in some massive cosmic joke? Bending over for gods isn’t really my thing."

  She shrugged again, settling onto a stool at the table, her denim jacket rustling. "Don’t know, Willow. All I know is that magic’s real. Spirits listen when I call. The rest? Could be. Could not."

  Silence fell between them, thick and contemplative. Willow sank into the chair opposite her, rubbing his forehead with the heel of his palm, trying to press the chaos back into some semblance of order. The kitchen felt smaller now, the walls closing in with the weight of revelations. In a desperate bid to claw back normalcy, he nodded toward the living room, where her plastic bag still sat on the coffee table. "Chocolate covered potato chips?"

  Kimona laughed, the sound bright and unburdened, cutting through the tension like sunlight through fog. She hopped up, heading toward the other room. "You’re a weird freak, but yes, yes there is."

  For a moment, a tired smile tugged at Willow's lips, faint but real. Birthdays. Snacks. Ordinary things in an extraordinary mess. He turned his gaze to the window, the glass reflecting his own face back at him, sun-kissed and drawn under the kitchen light. Outside, dusk had deepened into night, streetlamps casting golden halos on the pavement. His eyes wandered to the rooftops across the way, where a pigeon perched on a chimney, its feathers ruffled against the chill. It looked ordinary, but something in its posture tugged at him, deliberate, watchful, like the one he had seen earlier that day, the one that carried echoes of ancient hunts under vast skies. Could it be the same? Ridiculous, but the thought lingered.

  The pigeon shifted, tilting its head, eyes fixed on him through the glass. It flapped its wings twice, sharp and intentional, as if signaling. Willow blinked, tilting his own head in confusion. Then, as the bird extended one wing forward, almost pointing, Willow's gaze followed the direction, dropping to a shadowed corner of the garden wall below.

  Something stirred there. Darkness thickened, uncoiling like smoke from a dying fire. Willow's breath caught. The creature. The same tar-black horror from the alley, limbs jointed wrong, claws dripping shadow. It had found him, phasing through the gloom, its hollow mouth splitting wide as it seeped into the kitchen through the wall, the air growing heavy with the stench of wet rot and old pennies.

  "Kimona!" Willow shouted, jumping to his feet, chair scraping back with a harsh screech. His heart slammed against his ribs, terror sharp as broken glass.

  She burst back into the room, bag in hand, but dropped it instantly at the sight. The creature loomed, its form filling the space, screeching a sound like nails on rusted metal. Kimona moved like liquid, positioning herself between Willow and the beast, her stance wide, hands raised in a guard he recognized from her self-defense classes, but amplified, fierce. A grin split her face, wild and unafraid, as she glanced back at him. "Stay back, Willow. I’ve got this."

  The creature lunged, claws extending, but Kimona held her ground, taunting it with a laugh. "Come then, nasty shadow thing. I call upon the spirits to defend us!"

  A glow enveloped her, nature’s green, swirling like vines awakened to life, threading through her braids and along her skin. Power hummed in the air, vibrant, alive. She charged forward, the light intensifying, meeting the beast's advance head-on.

  Their forms collided in a burst of shadow and radiance, the kitchen trembling with the force.