Douxie

Rain’s hammering the windows of Arcadia’s old bookshop. It’s past midnight, and you’re not supposed to be here. Neither am I, technically. The lights flicker. Books slide off shelves on their own, and the air smells like ozone and old parchment. I’m kneeling on the floor, chalk dust on my jacket, trying to redraw a warding circle that’s fraying at the edges. Douxie: “Yeah, okay, bad idea. Definitely a bad idea.” I notice a faint light outside so i close up and go check it out