Thankfully, the feeling of being watched had subsided while I trekked to my bedroom. I could feel my hangover wearing off, but a feeling of dread washed over me.

Something didn't feel right.

As I was walking through the hallway toward my room, my vision started to distort the surroundings around me. The rust colored wallpaper with its dusty gold accents suddenly appeared brighter, as if brand new. The red carpet along the hallway was crisp as if it hadn't endured years of booted feet and stains from blood, mud, and ichor. I looked down at my hands, they appeared the same, bringing me no real comfort.

The faerie drugs must have been making one last appearance before flushing from my system.

I shook my head to clear my vision, but sighed when the action proved fruitless. Instead, I decided to keep making my way to my bedroom. But as my legs took me to the door, they kept going against my will as if my body was being controlled by someone other than my own soul.

A puppet on strings.

My door slowly came and went, and my body only stopped when it approached the door to my neighbors room. A hand that was mine but refused to follow my commands reached for the handle, taking the cold knob into the palm.

A pain like lightning shot up my arm before throwing my body backward against the wall behind me and splaying me onto the carpet. The breath stalled in my lungs and my head hit the ground as I clutched my arm.

My vision returned to normal, bringing back the familiar view of the dusty walls and dingy carpet. A witchlight lantern lay inches from my head, the light dim from the impact of hitting the ground. Once feeling returned to my legs and I was confident I could control them once more, I shot up from my spot on the floor and barreled into my bedroom, then into the bathroom.

I tore my long sleeve from my body as if it was on fire before inspecting the injury left from the doorknob. Black charred lines crawled from my palm all the way to my elbow, like I really had been struck by lightning. Frantically, my stele scribbled Iratzes across the burned skin there until the char gradually turned red, then pink.

"I'm going crazy," I breathed. "The drugs fried my brain." For the first time all morning, I glanced up at my reflection in the mirror. Alec had been right, I appeared pale and thinner in my face. I hadn't been eating or sleeping very well, subsisting mostly on the occasional late night snack from the kitchen or powdered drugs and liquid courage given by the club. Perhaps the illusion was simply brought on by dehydration, malnourishment, and maybe even slight brain damage from my lifestyle choices.

With a weary sigh, I tugged my shirt back over my head and winced slightly at the stinging sensation the fabric gave to my arm.

Wards were common anywhere and everywhere, perhaps that was the culprit for my new affliction. Someone had warded the door to keep people out. Hodge could have paid Magnus Bane to keep the room barred from the residents of the Institute, maybe to protect something inside or keep me from having to share a bathroom with a neighbor.

I liked to think the reasoning was the latter.

An exhausted shrug was all I offered my reflection before leaving the bathroom, knowing damn well I would continue on my path of self destruction despite the withering creature in the glass begging me to stop.

I made my way back into my bedroom and out the door to the balcony. A rush of cold air smacked me in the face and rushed down my bare legs, making my clammy skin bristle but I invited the feeling. Late morning sun had just barely crested over the tops of the skyscrapers, draping the edge of the balcony in a thin sheet of warmth that easily cooled once more by the breeze.

I leaned my elbows against the stone railing, closing my eyes with a deep breath and soaking in the sunlight that I hadn't seen in days.

"Don't fall over, that's a long drop," a voice chimed from behind me. With a surprised jolt, I spun and backed into the stone. Instincts had my nails biting into the rough surface to keep from slipping over the guard rail.

A shadow-like figure of a man stood casually in the far corner of the balcony closest to my would-be neighbors door, drenched in darkness from where the sun had not quite touched yet at this time of day. My eyes tried to adjust, but the sun blinded my vision.

"Are you that guy from the library?" I asked, swallowing at how breathless I sounded after almost having a heart attack and falling four stories to the solid grass below.

From what I could see, he seemed to inspect his nails. "Are you one of the Nephilim from the closet?"

My cheeks reddened. Of course he knew, we had all been bickering the entire time we were supposed to be stealthily investigating. Regardless, my sleeplessness made my temper razor thin. "Do you usually hide in the darkness and taunt unsuspecting women outside of their room?"

"Technically I was here first, you barged in on my relaxation outside of my room. But don't worry, I am kind enough to share the space." He walked into the light then, but I hadn't expected him to swallow the sunlight as if he was a black hole. Blacker than midnight hair was combed back out of a tan face with his fingers, a lock hung over equally abysmal black eyes. Through his left dark eyebrow was a thick white scar that skipped over his eye and continued down his cheekbone to his upper lip in a gnarly tear. His eyes scanned over me like a calculating predator, the cold feeling from the week had crept back.

I took an involuntary sidestep, he tilted his head slightly but directed out to the cityscape with a sigh and hands in the pockets of his black jeans. Seems he had ditched the cloak in exchange for a black long sleeve shirt. "This place is surreal, isn't it?"

My shoulders loosened a fraction as I glanced over my shoulder, following his line of sight. "It's alright, I guess. Honestly, it's getting old. I miss Idris."

"Idris is overrated," he scoffed and braced his elbows against the railing a few feet beside me. "Too many original Nephilim families with the same ideologies as they had a thousand years ago. Nobody there understands that this world isn't as black and white as they made it out to be for generations."

This brought my visual attention back to him, but his remained fixed on the horizon with his cheek tucked between his teeth in irritation. The reaction would have confused me, but the last few months had changed some of my opinions as well about Alicante and the Clave. I sighed and turned to lean my palms against the railing. "I understand. I don't think I can go back after the war."

"War?" he asked with a shimmer of interest.

I stared incredulously. "Are you joking? Have you been living under a rock for the last several months? Valentine Morgenstern raised an army of demons in Alicante with the three Mortal Instruments, we almost lost." I never thought I would have to explain it out loud, every shadowhunter was there fighting for our species.

"'Living under a rock'," he muttered with an amused smirk and picked at the crumbling stone of the handrail. "Ah, I suppose I must've missed it." The response confused me even more. Nobody simply missed the biggest event in shadowhunter history. I was going to ask his meaning until he pulled a joint from his pocket and placed it between his lips. "You got a light?"

My stele found my palm and I took a step closer to extend it to the end of the paper, watching the end glow red against the crystal as he inhaled. The puff of smoke left through his nose.

"Thanks," he mumbled and passed it to me. I gladly took a puff in hopes of warding off some of my hangover. The ashy taste was inviting, soothing my nerves.

Once I handed it back, he shifted his shoulder and a pained expression flickered over his features through the smoke before it was masked again. My proximity made me aware of the subtle scent of ichor wafting from his frame.

"Are you injured? Where's your stele?"

He paused for a moment, toying with the rolled paper between his fingers. "Got a warm New York welcome from a couple of demons lurking in an alley this morning."

"Oh," I grimaced and stepped closer, my stele in hand once again. "Let me—"

"No," he said quickly and took a step out of reach. "No, I'm alright, I handled it."

"It doesn't entirely seem like you handled it," I warily put the crystal back in my pocket.

He gave a half hearted smirk. "Hodge took care of it, I'm just a little sore."

I gave a weak nod in understanding, feeling the effects of the drug soothing my stinging brain and loosening my aching muscles. "I'm Mazikeen." I wasn't sure what compelled me to introduce myself to this somewhat unnerving stranger, perhaps the weed was toying with my sensibilities.

Dark eyes seemed to lighten. "I'm Raihn. I just got here from the Institute of Ireland." He had an American accent, but that didn't shock me. Shadowhunters jumped from Institute to Institute whenever they were needed. I never got the opportunity, my dad liked to keep me close to him and he was borderline agoraphobic. "You look like you've had a rough morning, Mazikeen."

I blanched. If a stranger noticed my lack of self care then I must have really looked like a wreck. "I've been having a rough few weeks." My fingers tugged on the hem of my sleeve, subconsciously covering the evidence of the strange event from the hallway that had me questioning my sanity. His eyes followed the movement and I saw his face stiffen from the corner of my eye. I cleared my throat to cut the silence. "Are you the reason we don't have training today?"

"Probably," he answered simply. "I tend to make Hodge nervous." He looked out at the skyline again with another drag of his joint. He was squeezing his hands together, the knuckles along his rough hands stood out white against the warm, tanned tones of the rest of his skin.

I had to admit, he made me a little nervous as well. "Why's that?"

"Ah, you know," he shrugged, "we've been through a lot together and I sort of barged in unannounced. We've known each other for what has felt like decades, I'm sure he never expected to see me any time soon." If it weren't for his amused expression, I would have questioned his meaning, but I chalked up the possible strange tone behind his words to my drug-addled paranoia.

"My father is a strange one. Always so on edge," I agreed.

"Father?"

I gave a nod. "Hodge is my dad. I'm sure the resemblance is nonexistent." I had been told that I looked more like my late mother, Elaina, since the day I was born. I feel that is why my dad was always so protective of me.

A muscle jumped in his cheek and his eyes darkened, bringing back a strange sense of wariness as if I was in the presence of a dangerous being rather than a member of the Nephilim. He turned his face away like he was done with the conversation.

"Well," I said awkwardly and rubbed my sweaty palms against my shorts, "I'm going to go take a nap before he changes his mind about training today. You can have your half of the balcony back."

I had begun to turn toward my door when he spoke again. "Faerie drugs not agreeing with you?" It seemed as though he spoke quickly, but lacked a judgemental tone like the one Alec had earlier. That sparked something deep inside, I had been feeling lonely these last few weeks and the other shadowhunters have only given criticism of my choices and talked down to me like I was below them.

"Is that observation based on experience or a guess?" I leaned back against the rail.

"There's glitter in your hair. I know those silver flakes anywhere, they're undeniable," he grinned and tugged on a lock of my hair. "I've been partying with the fae for years. The morning after always chafes." His teeth practically glowed white and were nearly perfect if it hadn't been for long tilted canines, giving the appearance of fangs. I would have suspected him to be a child of the night if he hadn't been in direct daylight—and there was only ever record of one Daylighter.

He closed his lips when he caught me staring and looked away.

"The others don't know how to appreciate a good party," I breathed casually and attempted to swat some glitter from my white hair to no avail.

"Do you go to the Seelie Court?"

"No, thank the Angel, that place gives me the creeps. There's a club called the Pandemonium down the street." I pointed in the general direction.

"I'll have to check it out sometime," a black eyebrow raised curiously. "Since when do Downworlders mingle among the Nephilim?"

He had said 'Nephilim' a few times before, as if he didn't identify with us—but I disregarded the thought. "A truce was made during the war, so all species are more comfortable with being in public spaces together without fear of getting their asses kicked."

Silence bounced between us for a moment before he spoke again. "How progressive."

I shrugged, feeling the conversation dying off once more. "Hey, thanks for the hit. I'll see you later."

A dismissive bow of his head was his only response as I walked away. If I didn't know any better, I could've swore his eyes followed me—but I knew better.

I hoped.