Lila looked at the shadow. It was wrong—too fluid, too smiling . She knew a monster when she saw one.

“Then how do I fix this?”

New Orleans thrived on chaos. Voodoo queens, jazz funerals, and the occasional werewolf attack were all-day affairs. Lila, at 23, had become the city’s last resort for the impossible. Her agency, Only Hard Problems , was a punchline in the gossip columns— Local Woman Helps Exorcist Untangle Possession... Again —but business was booming.

Back at the laundromat, Lila let the shadow taunt her. It lunged—faster than a ghost should be able to move. She sidestepped, uncharacteristically unimpressed.