Elena Vasquez
The red petal lay in the ash like a drop of fresh blood on snow. It pulsed, once, twice—then unfolded into a vein, thin as silk, bright as hellfire. It didn’t crawl. It slithered, tasting the air, tasting us. I felt it in my sternum first, a tug so sharp I staggered, Dad’s knife clattering from my fingers. The alley spun. The dawn sky bled. And in the silence between heartbeats, I heard Javier’s voice; not the memory Marco had freed, but something older, something that had worn his face like a mask.
Come home.
Alexander’s arm locked around my waist before my knees hit the ground. “Elena, breathe.” His voice was steady, but I felt the tremor in his grip, the same tremor that had shaken him the night he confessed the wager. Mamá’s cane cracked against the pavement beside me,
