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The apartment was quiet when Ana stepped inside. She passed through the door effortlessly, the way she always did. The familiar scent of Amalie's candles lingered faintly, mingling with the cool, earthy cleanliness that always seemed to ground the space. It should have been calming, but tonight it only amplified the unease buzzing beneath Ana's skin.

She sighed, dragging her fingers through her dark hair as she stepped into the living room. She'd left the Lockwood picnic early, too restless to stay any longer. Not even Jeremy had been able to distract her from the gnawing sense of boredom and something else—something darker—that had been clawing at her lately.

Maybe she just needed space. Something quiet. A change of scenery. She thought of Amalie's sketchbooks and art supplies scattered around the apartment like breadcrumbs leading to her next creative project. Maybe she'd leaf through one of them, see if anything there could pull her out of this restless haze.

But the moment she stepped into the living room, she stopped dead in her tracks.

Max was sprawled out on the floor.

Her first thought was that he was playing some kind of cruel joke. But as her gaze swept over his limp form, the angle of his body too still, too wrong, her chest tightened with cold panic. His head was tilted awkwardly against the side of the couch, and his arms lay at odd angles, lifeless. For one terrible second, Ana thought he'd flickered out completely—vanished into whatever void awaited ghosts who lost their tether to this world.

"Max?" She called cautiously, her voice louder than she'd intended in the silence. He didn't move.

Her heart thudded in her chest as she dropped to her knees beside him. Her hands hovered over him for a moment, uncertain, before she gripped his shoulders and gave him a gentle shake. "Max, hey, wake up! Max!"

Still nothing. His was unnervingly still, her hands trembling as she grasped his shoulders tighter. It wasn't just his stillness that unnerved her—it was the absence of him. The faint hum of energy she'd always associated with Max was muted, like someone had turned the volume down on his presence. He was here, but at the same time...not.

Then she felt it again.

That strange, buzzing sensation she'd been trying to ignore for weeks now. It pressed at the edges of her awareness, faint but insistent, like static crawling under her skin. She closed her eyes for half a second, focusing on the energy, and there it was: tangled, sharp threads of magic stretching out like invisible fingers. This wasn't random. This wasn't some ghostly malfunction. This was deliberate. And it was aimed at Max.

Her stomach twisted as the realization hit her. "Come on," she muttered, shaking his shoulders again, her voice tinged with both urgency and frustration. "Max, wake up. Please."

As if her words had yanked him back from wherever he'd been, Max jolted upright with a sharp, gasping breath. His chest heaved like he'd been drowning and had just breached the surface, though she knew full well ghosts didn't need air. His wide, unfocused eyes darted around the room, taking in the space like he had no idea where he was.

"Max!" Ana said, relief flooding her voice as she grabbed his shoulders again. "Hey, hey, you're okay. Just breathe." The irony of her words wasn't lost on her, but she didn't care. "What the hell was that?"

Max didn't answer right away. He blinked rapidly, still disoriented, before running a hand through his hair. The gesture was so human, so familiar, that it sent a pang of something bittersweet through Ana's chest. He shook his head as if to clear it, his gaze finally settling on her.

"Where's Amalie?" He asked, his voice rough and uneven.

Ana blinked, caught off guard by the question. "She's still at the Lockwoods," she said slowly, her concern growing. "Max, what's going on? What just happened?"

Max rubbed the back of his neck, his shoulders tense as he pushed himself to his feet. Ana stood with him, watching as he paced a few steps across the room. He seemed restless, like he was trying to shake off whatever had just happened. But the tension in his posture, the way his jaw clenched and unclenched, told her this wasn't something he could just brush off.

"Max," she pressed, her voice firmer now. "Talk to me. What's going on?"

He finally stopped pacing, turning to face her, but his expression was guarded. "You're not gonna like it," he warned, his tone low and hesitant.

Ana arched a brow, her worry sharpening into something more resolute. "Try me."

Max let out a long breath, his shoulders sagging slightly as if the weight of his words was too much to bear. "A witch has been talking to me," he said, his voice flat. "There are these...moments when I black out, like what just happened."

Ana's stomach dropped. She'd suspected as much but hearing him say it out loud made the air in the room feel heavier. "Why?" She asked, her voice sharp with suspicion. "What does she want from you?"

Max hesitated, his gaze dropping to the floor as if he couldn't bring himself to meet her eyes. He shifted his weight, his discomfort radiating off him in waves. "She wants me to get a foothold," he said quietly. "A physical foothold. She's trying to anchor me to the world."

Ana's eyes narrowed further, her fingers curling into fists at her sides. She could feel the unspoken truth hovering just behind his words. The part he hadn't said yet. The part he was clearly dreading. "To do what?" She demanded, her voice edged with steel. "Max, what does she want you to do?"

He finally looked at her, and the guilt in his eyes made her heart clench. His next words came out barely above a whisper, but they hit like a punch to the gut.

"To kill Amalie."