Charmed: Elizabeth Turner

by Brenna's Urbangirl Projects

Born with a sense of otherness, Elizabeth 'Buffy' Turner navigates her dual nature as a half-demon alongside her brother Cole, training rigorously to harness her powers while yearning for a life beyond servitude to the dark forces shaping their destiny.

37. Chapter 37: Faith, Hope & Trick

Chapter 37: Faith, Hope & Trick

September 7, 1998 – Monday

Happy Burger

Night had fallen on Sunnydale, draping the town in a velvety darkness broken only by the scattered glow of neon signs and flickering streetlights. The long limousine, sleek and predatory, with its blacked-out windows reflecting the garish glow of a fast-food marquee, slid into the parking lot of Happy Burger like a shark circling its prey.

The restaurant's neon signs buzzed and flickered, their colors harsh against the gloom, staining the pavement in sickly hues of yellow and red. The plastic mascot—a grotesque, grinning hamburger-man sinking sharp, exaggerated teeth into a blood-red burger—leered down at the customers below. The entire place smelled of burnt grease, stale fryer oil, and something artificial and cloying, an assault on the senses that clung to the humid night air.

The limo purred forward, nearly silent, its presence an ominous contrast to the mundane backdrop. It came to a smooth stop before the illuminated menu board, its list of cheap, over-processed offerings made all the more absurd by the presence of what lurked inside the car.

A voice crackled from the speaker, tinny and indifferent.

"Welcome to Happy Burger, can I take your order, please?"

From the dark recesses of the plush backseat, Mr. Trick leaned forward slightly, his movement fluid, effortless. He was dressed sharp, as always—tailored suit, crisp lines, a picture of cool confidence. His fingers, adorned with gold rings that glinted in the dim light, tapped lazily on the armrest as he considered the question.

"Diet soda. Medium," he said finally, his voice smooth, almost amused by the absurdity of it all.

A pause. Then the robotic voice responded, utterly unaware of the nightmare lurking just feet away.

"That'll be eighty-nine cents at the window, sir."

Trick smirked, pressing the button to roll the tinted window up again before reclining into the luxurious seat. He settled in, though he was always aware—too aware—of the presence beside him.

His eyes flicked right, though he avoided looking too long. Kakistos.

His employer was many things, but easy on the eyes wasn't one of them. Even by vampire standards, Kakistos was a grotesque relic, something ancient and monstrous in a way that defied the normal rules of time. His face was scarred and misshapen, heavy and coarse, a twisted roadmap of old wounds that had never healed. But it wasn't just his appearance that unnerved Trick—it was the weight of his presence. There was an oppressive, suffocating quality to being near him, like standing too close to something vast and incomprehensibly dark.

Trick turned back to the window as the limo idled forward. "Sunnydale," he mused, letting the name roll off his tongue. His gaze swept over the town, the quiet streets, the oblivious people. A small, charming place with an abnormally high body count.

He let out a chuckle, turning toward Kakistos with an easy, almost conversational grin.

"Town's got quaint, and the people? He called me sir—don't you just miss that?" His tone was breezy, but there was something sharp beneath it, something knowing. "Admittedly, it's not a haven for the brothers—strictly the Caucasian persuasion here in the 'Dale—but you just gotta stand up and salute that death rate." He leaned back; one leg casually crossed over the other. "I ran a statistical analysis, and hello darkness. Makes D.C. look like Mayberry. And ain't nobody sayin' boo about it. We could fit right in here. Have us some fun."

But Kakistos did not share his amusement.

The ancient vampire shifted forward slightly, the leather of the seat creaking beneath his immense weight. The eerie glow of Happy Burger's neon lights cast stark shadows across his ruined face, highlighting the deep pink scar that cut down his cheek. His cloven, gnarled hand—thick and heavy, the fingers unnaturally fused together like the hoof of some hellish beast—settled on Trick's knee.

The weight of it alone was a warning.

"We're here for one thing," Kakistos rumbled, his voice deep and guttural, the sound of old stone grinding against itself.

Trick swallowed, his throat tightening just a fraction. He kept his easy smile, but his posture shifted slightly—just enough to acknowledge the unspoken threat. "Kill the Slayer, yeah." He exhaled, forcing the tension away. "Still, big picture…"

A movement in the window saved him from finishing the thought.

The Happy Burger employee, a bored-looking teenager with a headset askew over his curly hair, leaned out, holding Trick's drink in a waxy paper cup.

Trick reached for it, rolling the window down once more.

"Have a nice night, sir," the kid said, his voice neutral, disinterested.

Trick flashed him a charming smile, the cool, smooth operator once again. "Right back atcha," he said, always pleased by the manners of the locals.

But Kakistos wasn't done. "The Slayer," he snarled, refusing to move on. His voice was low, guttural, a promise of blood and ruin. "I'm going to rip her spine from her body, and I'm going to eat her heart and suck the marrow from her bones."

Trick sighed, not even pretending to be surprised. He swirled the straw in his cup. "Now I'm hungry."

And then, with a predator's grace, his face shifted.

The transformation was instant—human features melting away like wax, replaced by the grotesque ridges and yellow eyes of the vampire within. Without hesitation, he reached through the takeout window, his hand latching onto the kid's uniform like a vice.

The teenager barely had time to scream before Trick yanked him forward, dragging him bodily into the limousine. The sound of shattering glass split the night as the Happy Burger window imploded.

The limo lurched forward, speeding from the parking lot, leaving behind only the scattered debris of the broken drive-thru.

Inside, Trick feasted.

September 8, 1998 – Tuesday

Buffy's Dreamscape

The Bronze pulsed with life around them, a dimly lit sanctuary of pounding music, sweaty bodies, and electric energy that hummed in the air like static before a storm. Colored lights slashed through the darkness, flashing over Buffy's friends where they sat at their usual table.

Cordelia, Xander, Oz, and Willow watched her from across the room, their voices blending into the low hum of conversation, but their eyes were on her. On the dance floor, she moved, swaying in time with the music, her golden hair catching the shifting lights like glints of candle flame.

But she didn't dance with her wife of almost a month.

She danced with Angel.

The music throbbed in the background, a slow, insistent rhythm that seemed to press in on them, closing out the rest of the world. The room faded away—it was just the two of them now, locked in that gentle, agonizing sway.

Buffy glanced up at him, her heart heavy, the weight of a thousand regrets pressing against her ribs. Angel held her close, his touch familiar and yet distant, as if he were something half-remembered, a beautiful dream slipping through her fingers. Their foreheads touched, a whisper of warmth between them, the ghost of intimacy.

"I miss you," she breathed, voice barely audible over the pounding bass.

Her hands slid down along his arms, tracing the shape of muscles she knew by heart, and her fingers found his, intertwining as naturally as they once had.

And then—a soft, metallic chime.

Buffy barely felt it slide from her finger, but there it was—her Claddagh ring, the promise he had given her, spinning down, down, down, before coming to rest against the dance floor in a flash of silver.

They both looked down, frozen.

Angel bent to pick it up, but as soon as his fingers brushed the metal, he recoiled as though burned. He straightened abruptly, and his gaze locked onto hers, dark, fathomless… and filled with pain.

It seared her, like fire.

Buffy swallowed hard, guilt hitting her like a physical blow. She knew what he was thinking—what he was remembering.

The sword in his chest.

The portal yawning open behind him, sucking him into Hell.

Her hand trembled as she reached for him, as if she could undo it, as if she could take it back.

"I had to," she whispered, but even to her own ears, the words sounded weak.

Angel's fingers curled tightly around the ring. Muscles flexed, tendons tightened—then came a sickening crunch.

He crushed it in his fist, the sharp metal biting into his palm, and blood welled up between his fingers, dripping onto the floor.

His voice, when it came, was thick with emotion—love, rage, sorrow all braided together in a trembling thread.

"I loved you."

Buffy's breath hitched. Her eyes dropped to his chest.

A deep red stain was blooming across the crisp white fabric of his shirt—spreading outward, dark and wet, blooming like a cruel echo of the wound she had given him.

The sword. The blood. His face, stunned and betrayed as the realization struck.

Her heart shattered all over again.

"Oh God, Angel," she gasped, reaching for him in desperation.

His body tensed, rigid with fury.

And then his expression twisted, his lips curling back, his beautiful face contorted with hate.

"Go to Hell!" he spat.

Buffy froze, her heart pounding in her throat, the weight of his words slamming into her like a physical force.

The bloodstain on his shirt grew, spreading outward like creeping shadows. She opened her mouth, ready to plead, to explain, to tell him it wasn't supposed to be this way.

And then—he laughed.

Soft at first. Then cruel. Low, guttural, filled with something dark and rotting.

She looked up at him again—and felt the breath in her lungs vanish.

His face—oh, God.

The flesh hung loose, sagging, peeling away in strips, exposing the gray rot beneath. His lips shriveled, his eyes sank deep into hollow sockets, black and endless. The rich darkness of his hair was now dull, brittle, hanging in lifeless strands.

A corpse.

Halliwell Manor

The room was cloaked in darkness, save for the slivers of moonlight that streamed through the curtains, painting soft silver lines across the bed. The rhythmic rise and fall of Prue's breath beside her was a steadying presence, a quiet contrast to the erratic pounding of Buffy's heart.

Buffy's eyes flickered open, the remnants of her dream clinging to her like a phantom touch. A chill crawled up her spine despite the warmth of the blankets around her. Her pulse still raced, her chest still ached with the weight of what she had seen—of what she had felt.

It had all been so real. Too real.

Slowly, she pushed herself upright, her fingers gripping the sheets as she fought to steady her breath. Shadows stretched across the room, but her gaze was drawn to the nightstand. An old pull, familiar and bittersweet, guided her hand as she reached for the drawer.

It creaked softly as she slid it open.

Inside, nestled between forgotten trinkets and loose odds and ends, was the Claddagh ring. The ring Angel had given her—once a symbol of love, of devotion, of promises made in whispered moments. Now it hung from a thin silver chain, kept safe, kept hidden.

Her fingers trembled as she pulled it free. The cool metal sent a shiver through her, as if the memories woven into it still held a lingering trace of the past. She turned it over in her palm, the tiny crown and hands catching the faint light.

Buffy barely noticed when Prue stirred beside her, shifting in the sheets before blinking awake.

"Buffy?" Prue's voice was thick with sleep, soft but laced with concern.

Buffy didn't look up, her eyes fixed on the ring in her hand, the past and present colliding in her chest. "I dreamed of Angel," she said, her voice quiet—haunted.

Prue pushed herself up on one elbow, her gaze immediately sharpening despite the haze of sleep. She studied Buffy in the dim light, the way her wife's fingers curled protectively around the chain, the distant, almost haunted look in her eyes.

Buffy sat stiffly, shoulders tense, lost in the ghost of her dream.

Prue reached out, resting a gentle hand on Buffy's arm. "Do you want to talk about it?" she asked, voice laced with understanding.

For a long moment, Buffy didn't respond. She just stared at the ring, as if searching for something in its polished surface—an answer, a reassurance, maybe even a justification for why she still held onto it after all this time.

Finally, she swallowed hard and nodded, exhaling shakily. "It was like he was really there," she admitted. "I could feel him, Prue. His touch, his breath—" She clenched her jaw, shaking her head. "But it wasn't him. Not really. It turned into something else. Something…" She shuddered. "Something awful."

Prue sat up fully now, slipping an arm around Buffy's waist, anchoring her to the present. "What happened?"

Buffy closed her eyes briefly, the dream flashing behind her lids in vivid, cruel detail. The way Angel had held her. The way his touch had felt so heartbreakingly familiar. The way he had looked at her before the blood bloomed on his chest, before his face twisted into that grotesque nightmare.

She gripped the ring tighter. "He told me he loved me," she said softly. "Then he told me to go to Hell."

Prue's hold on her tightened instinctively.

Buffy let out a breath that was almost a laugh, except there was no humor in it. "And the worst part? It felt like I deserved it." She turned to Prue then, her eyes shining in the dim light. "I sent him there, Prue. I drove a sword through him and sent him to Hell. How do I ever make peace with that?"

Prue reached out and gently brushed a strand of hair behind Buffy's ear. "You didn't send him to Hell, Buffy. You saved the world."

Buffy huffed softly, shaking her head. "Same difference."

"No," Prue countered, firm but gentle. "You did what you had to do. What you always do. And if Angel was here—really here—he'd tell you the same thing."

Buffy bit her lip, glancing down at the ring once more.

Prue let out a small sigh and rested her forehead against Buffy's temple. "Maybe this dream isn't about guilt. Maybe it's about letting go."

Buffy's fingers loosened slightly around the chain, but she didn't let go completely. Not yet.

Prue didn't push. Instead, she simply held her, a silent promise that Buffy wasn't alone in this.

After a long pause, Buffy whispered, "I don't know if I can."

Prue pressed a soft kiss to Buffy's temple. "Then I'll help you."

Buffy swallowed the lump in her throat and finally looked away from the ring, leaning into Prue's warmth. The past would always be a part of her, but maybe—just maybe—she didn't have to face it alone.

The Bronze

The Bronze was packed, the air electric with conversation, laughter, and the steady pulse of music. Onstage, Darling Violetta wove a sultry melody through the dimly lit club, the haunting notes curling through the air like smoke. The scent of cheap beer, sweat, and something vaguely fried clung to the atmosphere, mixing with the warm bodies pressing together on the dance floor.

Buffy maneuvered her way back to their table, balancing three drinks in her hands. She sidestepped a particularly enthusiastic dancer who nearly spun into her and managed to reach her friends without spilling anything—a small victory.

At the table, Willow and Oz were lost in each other, trading soft, unhurried kisses, oblivious to the chaos around them. A pang of warmth bloomed in Buffy's chest at the sight of them, their love quiet and steady, like the rhythm of a favorite song.

"Don't let me interrupt," she teased with a grin as she set the drinks down.

Willow blinked at her, then turned to Oz with wide eyes. "Is she all… glowy?"

Oz studied Buffy for a beat, his head tilting slightly in that thoughtful, unreadable way of his. Then he nodded. "I suspect happiness."

Buffy's grin stretched even wider, a rare, genuine lightness lifting her. "I passed my English makeup exam. I'm hanging with my friends." She paused, her heart swelling as she let the last piece of news settle over her again, the joy of it still fresh and thrilling. "And Prue said yesterday she wanted to raise a baby with me."

Willow's mouth fell open slightly, her eyes shining with excitement. Oz, ever the man of few words, merely lifted a brow, but the flicker of a smile at the corner of his lips told her he knew just how big this was.

Before Willow or Oz could react, Cordelia and Xander made their grand entrance, sliding into the seats with their usual flair.

"Check out the slut-o-rama and her Disco Dave," Cordelia snarked as she crossed her legs, eyes gleaming with judgment. "What was the last thing that guy danced to, K.C. and the Sunshine Band?"

Buffy turned her gaze to the dance floor, scanning the writhing crowd of bodies, the pulsing lights flickering across the sea of movement. It didn't take long to spot the pair Cordelia had zeroed in on.

The girl commanded attention the way a fire did—impossible to ignore, reckless, dangerous. She wore a tight black tank that barely covered her stomach, paired with leopard-print pants that clung to every curve. Every move she made was raw, uninhibited, like she was less dancing and more unleashing something untamed.

The guy was another story altogether. Buffy's nose wrinkled at his hideous brown-and-beige getup, a relic from an era she didn't even have to remember to know was a fashion disaster. His dance moves matched his outfit—dramatic, over-exaggerated, as if he had just binge-watched Saturday Night Fever and decided to take his newfound inspiration straight to the Bronze.

Buffy frowned, the unease settling in her gut like a whisper before a scream. There was something off about him. And then it clicked.

The girl moved like something feral because she was something feral.
The guy dressed like he belonged in the seventies because he did.
But despite his outdated fashion sense, he still looked no older than nineteen.

Which meant only one thing.

"Yeah, I don't think that guy thrives on sunshine," Buffy muttered, her Slayer instincts shifting into high gear.

Even as the realization hit, the vampire and his wild girl slipped off the dance floor and headed for the exit, the music swallowing their departure like a beast absorbing its prey.

Buffy was already on her feet. No hesitation, no second-guessing—just action.

She moved quickly, weaving through the crowd with practiced ease, her pulse steady, her purpose clear. The door swung shut behind them, but she barely registered the sound before pushing through it, stepping into the night beyond.

Willow and the others were only a few steps behind.

The five of them stood outside the Bronze, the heavy bass still thumping behind them, muffled by the thick walls of the club. The night air was crisp, carrying the scent of damp asphalt and the faint traces of cigarette smoke from loitering patrons. Streetlights flickered overhead, casting long, uncertain shadows against the brick-lined alleys.

They scanned the darkness, eyes darting to the dim recesses of nearby alleyways, but the vampire and the wild girl were nowhere in sight.

"Where'd she go?" Buffy asked, her muscles tensed, ready for a fight.

Cordelia folded her arms, rolling her eyes. "I bet it's nothing. They're probably just making out."

A sudden noise cut through the quiet—a shout, followed by the unmistakable sounds of a struggle. A thud, a scuffle, the sharp intake of breath that came with a fight unfolding in real time.

From off to the right, the commotion intensified.

"That's not what making out sounds like," Willow noted as they all sprinted toward the source. "Unless I'm doing it wrong."

Buffy didn't wait—fireball in hand, she took the lead, her instincts guiding her as they turned a corner into a narrow alleyway.

The scene before them was unexpected.

The wild girl moved with controlled ferocity, driving the vampire to the ground with a devastating side kick that sent it sprawling. Her raven hair whipped around her face as she pivoted, her entire body coiled with energy. Then, she saw them.

A slow, confident smirk spread across her lips, and she sauntered toward them as if she had just finished up a casual workout, not a brutal fight.

"It's okay, I got it," she said breezily, as though taking down vampires was nothing more than a Tuesday night pastime. Her eyes locked onto Buffy's. "You're Buffy, right?"

Before Buffy could respond, the vampire roared back to life, lunging at the girl from behind, fangs bared.

But she didn't even flinch.

With the fluidity of someone who had done this a hundred times before, she rammed her head backward, the solid crack of skull meeting bone echoing through the alley as she smashed its nose. The vampire staggered, hissing in pain.

"I'm Faith."

The name came as she moved—swift and merciless. She caught the vampire's arm mid-swipe, twisted it with a sickening pop, and slammed its body into a rusted chain-link fence.

Oz, ever the observer, took in the scene with his usual calm. "I'm gonna go out on a limb here and say there's a new Slayer in town."

Faith barely seemed to hear him. She was too busy beating the hell out of the vampire, fists flying, each strike landing with precision. The fight was over before it even had a chance to begin.

Then, her sharp gaze flicked to the fireball still burning in Buffy's hand.

Recognizing the opportunity, she pivoted, grabbing the vampire by the collar and hurling it toward Buffy with an effortless strength.

Buffy reacted instantly, launching the fireball straight at its chest. The moment the flames made contact, the vampire let out a guttural scream before bursting into a cloud of dust, the embers flickering briefly before fading into the night.

Faith turned back to them, still grinning, completely unfazed. "Thanks, B. Couldn't have done it without you."

0 – 0 – 0 – 0 – 0

The Bronze was still packed, the air thick with heat, music, and the mingling scents of sweat, perfume, and fried food. The neon lights cast shifting patterns across the faces of the gathered crowd, their colors swirling in time with the pulsating bassline. At their table, the entire gang leaned in, hanging onto Faith's every word as she wove her latest tale of Slayer escapades.

Not that Buffy was envious or anything.

It wasn't that Faith had immediately commanded the room, or that her voice, husky and full of mischief, had drawn everyone's attention. It wasn't that she was ultra-sexy in that wild, trashy, confidence-dripping way, or that she moved with a swagger that made it look like she owned the entire place. No, Buffy was totally fine with that.

"The whole summer it was like the worst heat wave," Faith was saying, casually tearing off a bite of bread from a roll she had grabbed from the table. "So, it's about a hundred and eighteen degrees, and I'm sleeping without a stitch on. And all of a sudden, I hear this screaming from outside. So, I go tearin' out—stark nude—and this church bus has broken down and there's these three vamps feasting on half the Baptists in South Boston. So, I waste the vamps, and the preacher comes up and he's hugging me like there's no tomorrow when all of a sudden, the cops pull up. They arrested us both."

Xander gaped at her, his expression pure, unfiltered admiration. "Wow! They should film that story and show it every Christmas."

Faith smirked, clearly enjoying her audience as she casually reached for another roll. "God, I could eat a horse! Isn't it crazy how slaying just always makes you hungry and horny?"

Buffy barely had time to process the words before she felt her friends' eyes shift to her, waiting for her reaction. She shifted in her seat, glancing around sheepishly. "Well… sometimes I crave a non-fat yogurt afterward," she admitted, offering them a half-truth. The full truth was that after every patrol, she went home and made love to Prue.

"I get it!" Cordelia said suddenly, her voice cutting through the moment. They all turned to her, and she immediately scowled in disgust. "Not the horny thing. Yuck. But the two Slayer thing? There was one, and then Buffy technically died for like two minutes, so then Kendra was called. Then when she died, Faith was called."

Willow frowned, clearly puzzled. "But why were you called here?"

"I wasn't," Faith admitted, shrugging. "My Watcher went off to some retreat thing in England, and so I skipped out. I figured this was my big chance to meet the infamous Buff and compare notes." Then, she turned her attention directly to Buffy, her dark eyes glittering with curiosity. "So, B, did you really use a rocket launcher one time?"

Buffy was momentarily taken aback at having the focus shifted onto her, but she managed a shrug, feeling a bit self-conscious. "Yeah, actually, it's a funny story—"

"So, what was the story about that alligator?" Xander interrupted eagerly, as if unwilling to let Faith's adventurous tales slip away too quickly. "You said something before."

"Oh, there's this big daddy vampire out of Missouri who used to keep 'em as pets. So, he's got me rasslin' one of 'em, the thing must've been twelve feet long—" Faith said, eyes alight with the memory.

Xander, completely enthralled, leaned in. "Now, was this also naked?"

Faith flashed him a flirtatious grin, enjoying his attention. "Well, the alligator was…"

Beside him, Cordelia let out an exasperated sigh, crossing her arms as she glared daggers at her boyfriend. "Xander, find a new theme."

Faith, however, had already moved on, her mind still on the stories of her past hunts. "I'll tell ya, I never had more trouble than that damn vamp," she mused, then turned back to Buffy, curiosity still burning in her gaze. "So, what about you? What was your toughest kill?"

Buffy blinked, thrown off by the question. What could she even say? After all, she had lived for over a hundred years. She had faced demons that would make most Slayers run screaming. What would Faith think if she learned the truth—that she wasn't just the Slayer, but something more?

She forced a casual shrug. "Well, y'know, they're all difficult, I guess."

Before Faith could pry any further, Oz, quiet and contemplative as always, cut in smoothly. "Something occurring," he drawled, tilting his head slightly. "Now, you both kill vamps, and who could blame you, but I'm wondering about your position on werewolves."

Faith raised an eyebrow, intrigued.

Willow, quick to clarify, jumped in. "Oz is a werewolf," she said, glancing at Faith with an expectant look.

"It's a long story," Buffy added.

The werewolf in question gave a tiny nod. "Got bit."

Buffy smirked. "Apparently not that long."

Faith barely batted an eye. Instead, she just grinned. "Hey, as long as you don't go scratching at me or humpin' my leg, we're five by five, y'know?"

"Fair enough," Oz replied, completely unfazed.

Still grinning, Faith turned her attention back to Buffy, an eager glint in her eyes. "The vamps, though, they better get their asses to Def-Con One. 'Cause you and I are gonna have fun, y'know? Watcher-less and fancy free."

Buffy frowned slightly, catching onto something in Faith's words. "Watcher-less?"

Faith arched an eyebrow. "Didn't yours go to England, too?"

Halliwell Manor

The familiar tingling sensation of magic danced over Buffy's skin as she shimmered into the Manor, the warm, welcoming energy of the Halliwell home surrounding her instantly. The air inside was filled with the scent of something sweet baking in the kitchen, likely one of Piper's latest culinary creations. The house carried its usual hum of life—soft conversation drifting from different rooms, the occasional rustle of movement, and the distant sound of the grandfather clock ticking away.

Buffy didn't hesitate. She took a deep breath and called out, her voice firm but expectant. "Prue, Piper, Phoebe, Paige, Leo, Cole."

"In here, Buffy," came Prue's voice from the living room, clear and steady.

Without wasting another second, Buffy strode toward the sound, her boots making soft thuds against the polished wooden floor. As she stepped into the living room, the warm glow of lamplight illuminated the space, casting a golden hue over the plush furniture and the collection of family photos decorating the mantle. Prue was sitting on the couch, her sharp blue eyes immediately locking onto Buffy's with curiosity and concern.

Without hesitation, Buffy sank down next to her wife, the familiar presence of Prue grounding her. She turned slightly to face her, their knees brushing together. The weight of the night still clung to her, the whirlwind of Faith's arrival, the lingering tension of a past she hadn't yet shared, all of it simmering beneath the surface.

"There's another Slayer in Sunnydale," she said without preamble, the words heavy with unspoken implications.

Prue's expression immediately shifted, her brows furrowing in concern. The room seemed to grow stiller, the warmth of the atmosphere suddenly thickened by the weight of Buffy's words. Piper, who had been perched nearby, turned her head at the mention of another Slayer, her eyes widening in curiosity.

"Another Slayer?" Piper asked, her voice laced with caution.

Buffy's lips pressed together in a tight line as she sat back, folding her arms across her chest in a gesture that betrayed her unease. "Yes, and she's... intense. Her name's Faith."

Prue studied her closely, her gaze sharp, but soft with concern. "You're not just talking about the usual... rival Slayer type, are you?"

Buffy shook her head, a frown knitting her brow. "No, she's not like Kendra. She's different. There's something about her—like she's been living in the dark corners of the world for way too long, and now she's here, throwing her weight around." Her tone hardened, something flickering in her eyes. "And she's got this... swagger. The kind that's not easily ignored."

Phoebe, who had been sitting with Paige by the window, now joined the conversation, her voice thoughtful. "So, this Faith is a threat, then? Another potential danger to deal with?"

Buffy met Phoebe's gaze, her eyes darker now, the weight of a thousand slayers before her and the responsibility on her shoulders sinking in. "I'm not sure yet. She could be a potential ally... or she could be trouble. But I can feel the darkness around her. It's like she's got this raw power that she's barely contained, and who knows what she'll do with it."

September 9, 1998 – Wednesday

Sunnydale High School

Giles stood near the library counter, his posture stiff, his hands clasped behind his back. There was an unmistakable weight to his presence, an air of melancholy clinging to him like a well-worn coat. Though his face remained composed, the subtle tension in his shoulders betrayed a deeper emotion, something wistful, something regretful. He exhaled, long and slow, as if preparing himself for a difficult admission.

"There is a Watchers' retreat every year in the Cotswolds," he said at last, turning to face them. His voice was measured, but there was a distant quality to it, like he was recalling a memory from long ago. "It's a lovely spot, very serene. There's horse riding and hiking and punting, and lectures and discussions. It's quite an honor to be invited. Or so I'm told." His gaze drifted, his expression momentarily lost in thought, the sadness in his eyes deepening.

Faith, leaning back in her chair with a casual sprawl, scoffed. "Ah, it's boring. Way too stuffy for a guy like you."

Buffy's eyes widened, her head tilting slightly as she stared at Faith as though she had just grown a second head. "Um, maybe I should introduce you again. Faith, this is Giles."

Faith, unfazed, simply nodded in Giles's direction, her lips quirking into an appreciative smirk. "I seen him. If I'd'a known they came that young and cute, I'd've requested a transfer."

Buffy visibly recoiled, horror flashing across her face. She immediately turned to Xander and Willow, who sat perched on the study table, both looking equally scandalized. "Raise your hand if ew."

Xander gave a half-hearted wave, Willow hesitated, but the collective sentiment was clear.

Giles, caught somewhere between embarrassment and exasperation, cleared his throat and adjusted his glasses. "Well, leaving for the moment the question of my youth and beauty," he said, voice slightly clipped, "I would say it's fortuitous that Faith arrived when she did."

"Ah-hah!" Willow suddenly exclaimed, her eyes widening as if she had just put something together.

The room turned to her in unison. She visibly shrank under the sudden attention, her excitement deflating slightly. "Sorry, I just meant—ah-hah! There's big evil brewing. You'll never be bored here, Faith, because this is Sunnydale, home of the big brewing evil."

Giles turned back to the counter, retrieving a neatly folded newspaper and handing it to Buffy and Faith. The pages crinkled as the two Slayers unfolded it, their eyes scanning the article.

"Yes, well, I don't know how big an evil it is," Giles said, rubbing the bridge of his nose, "but two people have disappeared from the Sunset Ridge district."

Buffy tapped the page absently, still reading, before glancing up at her Watcher. "Well, I'm good for patrolling," she said, a little distracted. "Lateish, though. I promised Mom I'd come by for dinner."

Across the table, Xander perked up expectantly. Willow, sitting beside him, nudged her chin toward Faith in a not-so-subtle motion. At first, Buffy didn't catch on, but when she did, realization dawned—and with it, reluctance. The thought of spending the evening with Faith, in her home, around her mother and Prue, was not exactly appealing. Especially since she would have to shimmer to San Francisco to retrieve Prue, as her mother had specifically invited her as well.

Buffy sighed inwardly before turning to Faith, forcing an invitation past her lips. "To which you're also invited, of course. Dinner with us."

Faith's lips curled into an easy grin. "Dying to meet the fam. I'm in."

Buffy nodded, the enthusiasm in her voice barely masking her reluctance. "Great," she said, plastering on a strained smile. "Great. Then we can patrol. Also together."

"Buffy," Giles interjected, his tone suggesting more of a statement than a question. "Before you take Faith to see Mrs. Summers, I think it would be wise to… show and explain something."

Buffy sighed, rubbing at her temple. She knew what he meant, and she also knew he was right. No sense in keeping secrets, especially not from another Slayer.

Without further argument, she allowed the change to come over her. Her form shimmered, a ripple of supernatural energy shifting her features. She grew slightly taller, her skin darkening to a deep crimson hue, intricate tribal markings unfurling like living ink across her arms and face. Her demonic presence, though restrained, pulsed through the room like a quiet storm.

Faith reacted instantly. Her body tensed, her instincts flaring as she took a step back, her hands curling into fists. "What the hell," she muttered, eyes narrowing. She glanced sharply at Giles. "You guys never said to anyone at the Council that your so-called Slayer was an upper-level demon, or Lady Di would've heard about it."

Giles frowned slightly, noting the specific terminology Faith had used. She knew about upper-level demons. That was unusual. "Buffy is a Slayer," Giles clarified, his voice steady. "She was born half-demon in the year 1880. Her human half was called as the Slayer four years ago."

Nyxara turned her piercing gaze to Faith, something calculating in her expression. "How do you know about upper-level demons?" she asked, her voice calm but probing.

Faith hesitated, a flicker of something unreadable crossing her face before she straightened, squaring her shoulders. "My real name is Eris Darkholme."

A silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken meaning.

Nyxara's expression remained unreadable, but understanding dawned in her eyes. "You're the daughter of a Darklighter by the name of Ronan Darkholme," she stated.

Faith exhaled sharply, her lips pressing into a thin line. "Yeah," she confirmed.

Nyxara nodded slowly. "It seems you and I are very much the same, Faith," she said, her voice softer now, almost thoughtful. "The Slayer within me keeps my demonic side in check."

Faith's posture remained tense, her muscles coiled like a spring, ready to strike if necessary. Yet, beneath the tension, her dark eyes held something other than fear—curiosity, wariness, and a flicker of something deeper, something unspoken. Her gaze lingered on Nyxara, dissecting every inch of her as though peeling back the layers to see what lay beneath. With the sharp, assessing eyes of a predator sizing up another, she took a slow step forward, deliberately closing some of the space between them.

"You're telling me you've been playing Slayer for four years with demon blood pumping through your veins, and nobody at the Council ever said a damn thing?" Faith's voice was edged with disbelief, but there was something else in it—intrigue, maybe even a twisted sense of admiration.

Giles exhaled sharply, adjusting his glasses with a careful motion. His usual composed demeanor wavered ever so slightly, betraying a hint of unease. "The Council… does not know about Buffy being half demon. I withheld that truth when I learned of it last year."

Faith's lips parted slightly, but instead of responding immediately, she let out a low chuckle, shaking her head as if trying to wrap her mind around it. The legendary Watchers' Council—so high and mighty, so full of rules and tradition—and yet they had been kept in the dark about something this big. It was almost poetic.

Nyxara, however, wasn't laughing. She regarded Faith with an intensity that made even the other Slayer, someone who had spent most of her life on the defensive, shift slightly under the weight of it. It wasn't aggression, but something measured, something deeply searching.

"And you?" Nyxara asked at last, her voice smooth yet unwavering. "How did you end up as a Slayer? Darklighters don't tend to have offspring that wind up on the side of the good."

Faith's smirk came fast, but it was thin, lacking its usual cocky bravado. "Oh, it's a real heartwarmer of a story, believe me." She rolled her shoulders, feigning nonchalance, but her tone hinted at something far heavier beneath the surface. "My mother was Ashara Bowen, a witch. Born of the Warren line."

A flicker of recognition crossed Nyxara's crimson features. The name sent a jolt through her, one that she barely had time to process before her form shimmered again. The deep red hue of her skin faded, tribal markings retreating, until she was Buffy once more. She blinked, letting out a quiet breath, though her sharp focus on Faith did not waver.

"You're a descendant of Melinda Warren," Buffy said, her voice measured with something like awe. "The same family that produced the Charmed Ones."

Xander, Willow, and Giles all turned to Buffy with expressions of understanding. They, of course, knew exactly what this revelation meant. Buffy was married to Prue Halliwell, one of the Charmed Ones herself. The connection between Faith and the Warren line took on a much deeper significance now.

Faith gave a slow nod, watching Buffy carefully. "That's right," she said, her voice quieter, more serious now. "I take it you know…"

"Prue Halliwell, the eldest of the Charmed Ones, is my wife," Buffy confirmed.

Faith let out a low whistle, her brows raising slightly in surprise. "A witch marrying a demon. That's unheard of."

Buffy crossed her arms, leveling Faith with a look. "Given that my human half is the Slayer, the Elders allowed it."

Faith's expression flickered, a shadow crossing her features before she looked away briefly, as if debating whether or not to say what came next. When she spoke, her voice carried something raw beneath the surface.

"My father seduced my mother with the intention of creating a powerful hybrid," she admitted, her words slower, more deliberate. "When my mother found out, I was five years old. She bound my powers—both witch and Darklighter—and hid me with the Lehanes to keep me out of his reach. My father's a tracker. He's been hunting me ever since, even killed my mom trying to find me."

The weight of her words settled between them, heavy and unrelenting. For a moment, the tension in the room was not from the possibility of a fight breaking out, but from something far more personal. A shared understanding, a history of being hunted, of being caught between two worlds and never truly belonging in either.

Buffy studied her carefully, something shifting in her gaze. "Then it seems we have more in common than I thought."

Abandoned Firehouse

In the depths of an abandoned firehouse, nestled in one of the most unsavory corners of Sunnydale, the air was thick with the acrid scent of melting wax and the pungent spice of burning incense. Shadows flickered along the cracked, soot-streaked walls as vampires moved about, lighting candles, their long fingers trailing through the curling smoke that drifted lazily from iron censers. The rhythmic murmur of their chanting, a guttural invocation to their dark lord, wove through the cavernous space like a whispered curse.

Mr. Trick stood apart from the macabre ritual, observing it with an expression of thinly veiled disdain. His tailored suit, sleek and modern, was a stark contrast to the dust-laden relic of a lair his employer had chosen. He would have much preferred a penthouse suite, complete with silk sheets and room service, but elder vampires—the old-timers, as he liked to call them—had a tiresome obsession with antiquity. The gothic theatrics, the dripping candles, the blood-stained stone—it was all so quaint.

The firehouse, though abandoned, still retained remnants of its former purpose. Rusting hooks hung from the ceiling where hoses had once been coiled, and in the dim recesses of the room, the shadowed hulks of old fire engines loomed like sleeping beasts. Despite the dozens of flickering candles, the overhead lights still functioned, bathing the space in a harsh, artificial glow that contrasted the supernatural ambiance. The cold fluorescence illuminated the grotesque visage of Kakistos, highlighting the deep scars that marred his ancient face, the milky ruin of his blind eye a ghostly contrast to the other, which gleamed with seething hunger.

He lifted his head slightly as Trick approached, his voice a rasping growl that carried the weight of centuries. "Mr. Trick," he rumbled as the younger vampire strode past the sleek, black limousine parked incongruously in the middle of the firehouse. "Talk to me."

Trick's eyes gleamed as he gestured broadly, his voice brimming with enthusiasm. "Check this out," he said, the words rolling off his tongue like a sales pitch. "This town. This very street. Wired for fiber optics. We jack in a T-3, twenty-five hundred megs per, we have the whole world at our fingertips. All I'm saying is, we stay local, where the humans are jumping and the cotton is high, but we live global. You got the hankering for the blood of a fifteen-year-old Filipina? I'm on the Net, and she's here the next day, express air."

For a brief moment, silence stretched between them, broken only by the hushed chanting of the other vampires. Then, Kakistos let out a low, guttural sound—less a laugh and more an animalistic rumble that sent a tremor through the air. His lips peeled back, revealing thick, jagged fangs, and his expression darkened with contempt.

"I want the blood of the Slayer," he snarled.

Trick exhaled slowly, tilting his head as if reluctant to break his employer's fixation. "On that note, there's good news and bad," he said smoothly. "Rumor has it that this town already has a Slayer, which makes two. I'm not sure how that happens."

The air seemed to vibrate as Kakistos surged to his feet, his massive form a towering shadow against the glow of the candles. His cloven hands curled into fists as he glared down at Trick, his one good eye burning with vengeful fury.

"I don't care if there are a hundred Slayers!" he snapped, his voice echoing through the hollow expanse of the firehouse. "I'll kill them all!" With a thick, gnarled thumb, he gestured to the scar that marred his face, the mark of a wound that had never fully healed. His expression twisted with seething hatred. "She's going to pay for what she did to me."

Trick gave a knowing nod, his lips twitching with something that wasn't quite a smile. "Yeah, she is," he agreed. "I'm running a computer check on every hotel, rooming house, and youth hostel in town."

A sudden knock at the door broke the moment, the sound echoing dully in the cavernous space. Trick's eyes flicked toward the entrance, and with an almost casual grace, he sauntered over to a cluttered table. Among the discarded relics of the firehouse's past, a pair of thick, industrial rubber gloves remained, cracked with age but still intact. Trick slid one on with practiced ease, flexing his fingers.

"Meanwhile," he said to Kakistos, "as soon as the sun goes down, we're out in force."

Another knock, more impatient this time. Trick threw a glance at the other vampires who lurked in the shadows, their eyes gleaming hungrily. A smirk curled his lips as he reached for the door handle.

"Food's here, boys," he said, a low chuckle threading his words.

He wrenched the door open, his gloved hand shielding him from the shafts of golden sunlight that spilled into the room. Outside, a delivery man stood awkwardly, balancing a pizza box in one hand, his expression shifting from mild boredom to unease as he took in the unsettling scene beyond the threshold.

"Hey," the man began hesitantly, "you guys order a—"

Before he could finish, Trick's hand shot out, his grip closing around the man's shirt like a vice. With one sharp yank, he dragged the hapless human inside, sending the pizza box spinning from his grasp. The man barely had time to let out a strangled yelp before Trick's fangs sank into his throat, muffling any further protest. His body went rigid, then slack, as Trick drank deeply, reveling in the rush of hot, fresh blood.

The pizza landed askew on the grimy floor, steam curling from its surface. It lay there, forgotten, as the other vampires closed in, waiting for their turn.

Halliwell Mansion

The familiar glow of shimmering energy faded as Buffy and Faith materialized inside the Halliwell Manor, the air around them still humming faintly from the magical transport. The grand old house carried its usual warmth, the scent of fresh herbs and lingering magic filling the air, mixing with the faint traces of whatever meal had last been cooked in the kitchen.

"Prue, Piper, Phoebe, Paige," Buffy called out, her voice carrying easily through the halls of the historic San Francisco home.

"In here, Buffy," came Prue's voice from the conservatory, the calm authority in her tone immediately grounding.

Buffy nodded toward Faith and led the way, stepping through the archway into the sun-drenched conservatory. The space was bathed in natural light filtering through the glass windows, illuminating the lush greenery that thrived under the sisters' care. Prue, Piper, Phoebe, and Paige were seated around a glass-topped table, deep in conversation, their expressions shifting from relaxed to curious as Buffy and Faith entered.

Phoebe was the first to break the silence, her brown eyes flicking over Faith with interest. "Who's this?" she asked, causing her sisters to turn their attention toward the unfamiliar guest.

Faith shifted slightly under the scrutiny, her usual bravado tempered by the sheer energy radiating from the four powerful witches before her. She could feel it—raw, innate magic that pulsed in the air, powerful in a way that was different from Slayer strength but just as formidable.

Buffy, unfazed, dropped onto the loveseat beside Prue, as if she had done it a hundred times before. "This is Faith," she said, shooting a glance at the dark-haired Slayer before looking back at the sisters. "The other Slayer I told you guys about last night." Her gaze sharpened slightly as she delivered the next part. "Apparently, she's your guys' cousin—a couple generations removed."

That certainly got a reaction.

"What?" Prue, Piper, Phoebe, and Paige all exclaimed in unison, their voices overlapping in perfect familial harmony.

Piper's brows furrowed as she straightened in her seat, exchanging a quick look with her sisters. "Wait—what?" she repeated, as if saying it again would make more sense of Buffy's words.

Faith, arms loosely crossed over her chest, smirked slightly at their reaction before delivering her next revelation. "My birth mother was Ashara Bowen," she said simply, watching as the weight of that name sank in.

The room stilled. The light chatter of moments before was replaced by a tense, thoughtful silence, broken only by the rustle of leaves from the plants surrounding them. The Halliwell sisters, always so certain of their lineage, their legacy, suddenly found themselves facing a new thread in their family's tapestry—one they had never expected.

Prue was the first to react, her expression shifting from stunned disbelief to determined resolve in the span of a heartbeat. Without a word, she pushed back her chair and strode toward the stairs, her movements purposeful and firm, the click of her heels against the hardwood floor echoing through the manor.

"Prue?" Piper called after her, her tone laced with concern as she exchanged a wary glance with Phoebe and Paige. Without hesitation, the sisters rose to follow, Buffy and Faith trailing behind them.

"I'm going to ask Grams about this," Prue stated over her shoulder, her voice edged with the kind of unwavering authority that brokered no argument. She barely spared them a glance as she climbed the stairs, but when her eyes flickered briefly toward Paige, the meaning behind her reaction became clear.

The memory of their last family revelation still lingered. Paige had been kept a secret from them for most of their lives—a baby sister hidden away, her existence concealed under layers of secrecy by their mother and grandmother. The betrayal of that truth had left wounds that were slow to heal. If that hadn't been the only secret their family had buried, if Faith was yet another hidden branch of their bloodline, Prue couldn't imagine she or her sisters would take kindly to the revelation.

0 – 0 – 0 – 0 – 0

The soft flicker of the candles illuminated the room as Piper finished lighting the last one. The warm glow of their flames filled the space with a comforting sense of ritual, but there was no denying the tension that simmered beneath the surface. Prue stood in front of the Book of Shadows, her face serious, her posture rigid with purpose. As she began to chant, her voice steady and filled with ancient power, the words hung in the air like a summons to the past.

"Hear these words, hear my cry. Spirit from the other side. Come to me, I summon thee. Cross now the great divide," Prue intoned, each word resonating with the weight of centuries of magic. The room seemed to grow colder, the air thickening as if holding its breath.

In response, the white lights filled the space, swirling in a mesmerizing dance before converging in the center of the candle circle. Slowly, Grams materialized, her form solidifying in a glow that faded as quickly as it had appeared. Her expression was one of confusion as she surveyed the gathered group.

"Girls?" Grams asked, her voice carrying an edge of concern, wondering why she had been called forth from the beyond.

Prue wasted no time. She stepped forward, her gaze direct and unwavering as she asked the question that had been burning in her mind. "Grams, what do you know about Ashara Bowen, your Aunt Payton's granddaughter, having a baby that we were not told about?"

Grams' eyes flickered between her four granddaughters, confusion giving way to a dawning recognition. Her gaze shifted, and for the first time, she noticed Faith standing there, her posture a little too tense, her eyes a little too guarded.

"Eris?" Grams asked hesitantly, her voice faltering as though testing the name, unsure if it had the same weight for this girl standing before her.

Faith's expression tightened slightly at the sound of the name, and she spoke with a hint of frustration. "I don't like that name."

Grams nodded, the lines on her face deepening as if she understood the weight of that simple statement more than she let on. "What do you prefer to go by?" she asked gently, her tone softening.

"Faith," Faith replied, her voice firm, as though she had long ago made peace with the name she now claimed.

Grams acknowledged this with a solemn nod before turning back to her granddaughters. The air in the room seemed to thicken, the tension rising as she spoke.

"Faith was hidden by Ashara for much the same reasons Paige was," Grams began, her voice tinged with sorrow. "But where Paige was hidden because your mom feared you girls would be denied your powers, Faith was hidden because Ashara feared Faith's father."

"Why?" Paige asked, her voice quiet but urgent, her curiosity piqued by the revelation.

Grams' gaze darkened, a shadow passing over her features. She took a deep breath, as though bracing herself before she spoke again. "Because Faith is part Darklighter on her father's side," Grams said gravely, the words heavy with meaning.

"Ronan Darkholme seduced Ashara to create a powerful half-breed," Grams continued, her eyes flicking over to Faith as though searching for a glimpse of the truth in her features. "Half-witch, half-Darklighter. Faith has Warren blood, just like you four, as she too is descended from Melinda Warren."

The words seemed to hang in the air, each one laden with the weight of history, of secrets long buried. Faith's connection to the Warren line, to Melinda Warren, was undeniable—just like theirs. But it was the other half of her bloodline that made her different, made her dangerous.

Grams paused for a moment, her eyes locking with each of her granddaughters in turn. "While she is not as powerful as you, she would be more powerful than a normal witch like most of our line," she said, her voice carrying a warning. "When Ashara found out who Faith's father was, she hid her, binding her powers so that Ronan could never find her. You see, Ronan is a tracker. Normally, Darklighter trackers go after Whitelighters who are about to fall, but he can also track others. If Faith's powers had been unbound, he would have been able to track her and raise her as evil. She would have become the most powerful Darklighter to ever live."

The room fell into a heavy silence. Grams' words hung in the air like a dark prophecy, casting a shadow over everything. The gravity of the situation settled on the sisters' shoulders, each of them processing the enormity of the truth in their own way.

Phoebe's brow furrowed as she processed the information. Her voice broke the silence, quiet but firm, a trace of confusion still lingering in her words. "So why not hide her with us, Grams?" she asked, the question carrying more than simple curiosity—it was the yearning for an answer, a way to make sense of everything that had unfolded so quickly. She couldn't shake the feeling that there was more, something they were still missing.

Grams looked at Phoebe with a deep sigh, as if understanding the complexity of the question. "Because, Ronan knew that your mother and Ashara were not only cousins but friends, having been raised together," she explained, her voice heavy with the history of long-buried family secrets. "Our family would have been the first place he would have looked. He knew the ties that bound us. That is why Ashara hid Faith with the Lehanes. They were mortals, with no magical blood. He would never expect to find her there."

Buffy, who had been quietly listening, folded her arms as she leaned back slightly, her eyes narrowing in thought. "Pretty much for the same reason Cole hid me from the Source with Joyce when my human half was called as the Slayer," she said, her tone carrying the weight of her own history.

Grams nodded slowly, her eyes meeting Buffy's with a depth of gratitude and respect. "Exactly, Buffy," she said, her voice full of quiet acknowledgment. She turned her gaze toward the others, who were absorbing everything that had been said. "It was a decision made out of love and necessity, even though it gave Faith a life of secrecy and isolation."

The room fell into a hushed silence once more, each of the sisters reflecting on what Grams had revealed.

0 – 0 – 0 – 0 – 0

The dining room was a comfortable, familiar place. The warm, golden light from the chandelier above bathed the room in a soft glow, casting shadows on the walls and making the wooden table gleam under the weight of the meal they were about to share. The clink of silverware on china, the quiet murmur of voices—it was all a reminder of the family bonds that tied them together, even in the midst of so much change.

Piper moved gracefully around the table, serving dinner to Prue, Phoebe, Paige, Buffy, and Faith. Each plate was carefully prepared, a reflection of Piper's nurturing nature, the warmth she poured into everything she did. The scent of roasted vegetables and freshly baked bread filled the air, and even Faith, who wasn't used to such homey comforts, couldn't help but appreciate the spread before her.

Once everyone was settled, Prue, always the one to take charge when necessary, took a deep breath and looked across the table at Faith, her voice carrying both warmth and the weight of a decision that was meant to be a step forward.

"To help protect you, Faith," Prue said, her eyes meeting Faith's with a mix of determination and understanding. "We would like it if you moved in with us. We will also see about what we can do about unbinding your powers while trying to make sure your father can't find you."

The offer hung in the air, heavy with implications of a new chapter in Faith's life. She was no stranger to being on the run, to living in the shadows. But the idea of joining this family—of trusting them enough to allow herself to be taken in—was a foreign concept. Her gaze shifted between Buffy and the sisters, an unreadable expression crossing her face as she mulled over the decision.

"I'll have to think about it," Faith admitted, the vulnerability in her voice more apparent than usual. It was rare for her to show indecision, but something about this family, about the way they all seemed to work together so naturally, made the idea of acceptance both tempting and terrifying.

Piper, ever the attentive hostess, noticed that Faith's glass was empty. A slight frown creased her brow as she stood up to remedy the situation.

"Oh, Faith. Can I get you another soft drink?" Piper offered with her usual warmth, the question almost automatic as she moved toward the kitchen.

"Oh, you bet," Faith responded, her voice a little softer now, the sharp edge of her usual defiance fading, if only for a moment. She was still adjusting to the kindness that surrounded her, still unsure how to handle it, but there was something undeniably comforting about it.

As Piper walked into the kitchen, she overheard a quiet exchange between her sisters, Buffy, and Faith. The sound of their voices drifted through the doorway, light and casual.

"You guys are really cool, huh?" Faith commented, her voice tinged with a mixture of curiosity and awe. It wasn't often she let down her guard, but something about the easy camaraderie among them seemed to invite a different side of her out.

"We are," Phoebe responded, giving Faith's hand a reassuring pat. Her smile was bright, welcoming. There was no judgment in Phoebe's eyes, only acceptance.

Piper couldn't help but smile to herself as she pulled a bottle of soda out of the refrigerator, the cool glass chilled against her palm. As she started to refill Faith's glass, she felt a sense of satisfaction. They were taking the right steps. Faith was still a stranger in some ways, but she was slowly beginning to find her place at their table.

A moment later, Buffy walked into the kitchen, leaning against the doorframe, watching Piper with a thoughtful expression.

"I like Faith, Buffy," Piper said, her voice carrying a warmth that felt like a quiet affirmation of everything they had been trying to build. It wasn't just about protecting Faith—it was about making her feel like she belonged.

Buffy, still wary, leaned back against the counter with a quiet sigh. "I still get the feeling there is something she's hiding," she admitted, her eyes drifting toward the dining room, where Faith was sneaking a bit of food from her plate, almost as though she wasn't sure she was allowed to take more. It was a subtle action, but to Buffy, it was a sign of how unfamiliar this world was to Faith.

Piper nodded, her expression softening as she considered Buffy's words. "It'll take time for her to come to terms with being part of this family," she said, her voice gentle, yet firm. "Remember it took time for me, Prue, and Phoebe to accept Paige."

Streets of Sunnydale

The streets of Sunnydale had an eerie stillness to them, the kind that made the air feel thick with anticipation. Hours after dark, the quiet was almost unnatural, broken only by the occasional distant howl of a stray dog or the rustling of a wind-blown trash bag—though in this town, such an innocuous sound could easily signal the presence of something sinister lurking in the shadows. The glow of flickering streetlights barely penetrated the gloom between warehouses, casting long, jagged shadows across the cracked pavement. It was the kind of place that seemed abandoned by all things good, left to the creatures that fed on darkness.

Buffy and Faith walked side by side, boots crunching against the gritty sidewalk as they made their way through a particularly unpleasant section of town—rows of warehouses and closed-up businesses that stood silent and lifeless, their steel doors shut tight against the night.

Faith exhaled sharply, glancing around with mild exasperation. "Didn't we do this street already?" she asked, her tone edged with boredom.

Buffy, always alert, barely turned her head as she responded, her eyes scanning the alleys, the rooftops, every dark corner where something could be waiting. "Funny thing about vamps. They'll hit a street even after you've been there. It's like they have no manners."

Faith smirked, adjusting her grip on the stake she had tucked in her hand. "Well," she said idly, "you've been doing this the longest."

"I have," Buffy agreed, keeping her tone neutral, though she could already feel the conversation taking a turn.

"Yeah," Faith continued, a trace of something unreadable in her voice. "Maybe a little too long."

Buffy's head snapped toward her, irritation flaring in her chest. She stopped walking abruptly. "Excuse me?" she said, eyes narrowing. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Faith didn't break stride, brushing past Buffy as if the conversation barely registered as important to her. "Nothing."

"You got a problem?" Buffy demanded, quickly falling into step beside her again.

"I'm five by five, B. Livin' large," Faith said with a casual shrug. "Actually wondering about your problem."

Buffy let out a short, humorless laugh. "Well, I may not sleep in the nude or rassle alligators—"

"Maybe it's time you started," Faith quipped, throwing her a sly grin as her eyes darted around, scanning for any lurking vampires. "Because obviously, something in your bottle needs uncorking. What is it, the Angel thing?"

Buffy froze mid-step. Her entire body stiffened as she turned to face Faith, eyes darkening with barely contained anger. "What do you know about Angel?" she asked, her voice low and edged with warning.

Faith's smirk didn't falter. If anything, it deepened, as though she enjoyed pressing buttons just to see what would happen. "Just what your friends tell me. Big love, big loss."

Buffy's jaw clenched as she stepped in closer, eyes blazing. "I got an idea. How 'bout from now on, we don't hear from you on Angel, or anything else in my life? Which, by the way, is my life." Her words were sharp, cutting through the cold night air.

Faith cocked her head back slightly, her expression shifting into something more amused than defensive. A slow, knowing smirk spread across her lips as she met Buffy's heated gaze without flinching. "Oh, so you don't want me talking about the fact that you're married to my cousin, three generations removed?" she shot back. "Or have you forgotten your wife, Prue—as revealed by their Grams—is my cousin?"

Buffy's nostrils flared, her entire body rigid with barely contained fury. Her fingers curled into tight fists at her sides, and her jaw clenched as she glared at Faith. "Why are your lips still moving, F?" she snapped, her voice sharp as a blade.

Faith arched an eyebrow, smirking as she tilted her head slightly. "Did I just hear a threat?" she asked, her tone laced with amusement, as if she almost wanted that to be the case.

Buffy's eyes darkened, her posture shifting ever so slightly into a fighting stance. "Would you like to?" she challenged, voice steady, dangerous.

Faith's smirk deepened, her own stance loose, unbothered. "Wow. You think you can take me?" she asked, like the very idea was ridiculous.

"Yeah," Buffy shot back without hesitation, confidence radiating off her in waves. Then, she smirked. "Or have you forgotten I'm half demon and your witch and Darklighter powers are bound?"

Faith opened her mouth to respond, but Buffy's expression shifted in an instant, her gaze snapping over Faith's shoulder. Her instincts flared as she spotted a quartet of nasty-looking vampires charging toward them, their fangs bared, eyes locked on their prey.

"Let's table that for now," Buffy said abruptly, shoving Faith out of the way just as the first vampire lunged.

The fight erupted in a blur of motion. Buffy reacted instantly, meeting the first attacker with a swift, brutal punch to the gut that sent him staggering backward. Another was on her before she could recover, forcing her to pivot, raising her arms to block his strike before countering with a series of rapid punches, each one landing with bone-jarring force. She spun, catching him by the collar of his jacket, and hurled him away with enough power to send him crashing into the side of a dumpster.

Faith hit the ground from Buffy's shove but was back on her feet in a heartbeat, already retaliating. A vampire lunged for her, and without hesitation, she grabbed a nearby trash can and slammed it down over his head. The metal crumpled against the impact, disorienting the vamp as he staggered back, clawing at the obstruction.

Buffy barely had time to register Faith's move before the first vampire she'd struck came at her again. She met him head-on, dodging his wild swing before sweeping his legs out from under him. As he crashed onto the pavement, she wasted no time, plunging a stake into his chest. His body convulsed before exploding into a cloud of dust.

She barely had a second to breathe before another grabbed her from behind, thick arms locking around her torso like a vice. With a growl, he lifted her off the ground and hurled her against a chain-link fence. The impact rattled through her bones, but she was already rebounding, flipping up to her feet just as he charged. Timing it perfectly, she snapped a hard side kick into his chest, the force launching him backward. He slammed onto the metal lid of the dumpster with a loud clang, groaning in pain.

Nearby, Faith was exchanging vicious blows with the fourth vampire. He managed to land a solid punch to her jaw, but Faith barely flinched. Instead, she grinned, licking a trickle of blood from her lip. "My dead adopted mother hits harder than that," she taunted before grabbing him by the collar and flinging him onto the pavement. With a feral gleam in her eyes, she leapt onto him, straddling his chest as she rained down blow after punishing blow, each strike more savage than the last.

Buffy twisted, her gaze darting to the vampire Faith had hit with the trash can. He had freed himself and was now closing in, fangs gleaming under the dim glow of a streetlamp. Realizing she now had two vampires to deal with, she snarled in frustration. Flipping one onto his back with a sharp kick, she turned her glare toward Faith, who was still pummeling her opponent mercilessly.

"Faith, stake him already and give me a hand!" Buffy snapped, irritation bleeding into her voice.

But Faith didn't stop. She didn't even acknowledge Buffy. Her fists continued their brutal assault, splitting the vampire's face open, blood streaking across her knuckles. She was lost in it, reveling in the violence, in the raw power behind every hit.

Before Buffy could shout at her again, she was caught off guard by the remaining vampire. He tackled her hard, knocking the breath from her lungs as she was slammed face-first into the ground.

A vice-like grip held her down, and she felt cold breath against the back of her neck. "Yeah, this is me, you undead bastard!" Faith's voice rang out, but it was filled with something raw—something painful.

Buffy struggled, but the weight of the vampire kept her pinned. She heard a low, guttural growl, then a voice hissed near her ear. "For Kakistos we live," it snarled. "For Kakistos, you die."

Something inside Buffy snapped. A ripple of power surged through her body, and in an instant, her form shifted, her human features melting away into her demonic form—Nyxara.

The vampires recoiled, eyes widening in fear as they beheld her transformation.

Nyxara's glowing eyes narrowed, and a smirk tugged at her lips. An energy ball formed in her palm, crackling with deadly power. She didn't hesitate. With a flick of her wrist, she hurled it at one of the vampires. It struck him in the chest, and he burst into dust with a muffled shriek. Another energy ball formed just as fast, and she launched it at the second. He barely had time to react before he too disintegrated into ash.

Turning, Nyxara's gaze locked onto Faith. The other Slayer had already bested her vampire nearly a full minute ago, yet she was still hammering away at his ruined face, her fist slick with his blood.

"You! Can't! Touch! Me!" Faith snarled, her voice almost unrecognizable with fury, punctuating each word with another savage strike.

Nyxara had seen enough. Striding forward, she grabbed Faith by the collar and yanked her off the barely-conscious vampire, tossing her aside. Without hesitation, she raised her hand and hurled a third energy ball at the broken creature. The vampire exploded into dust, the remnants swirling away in the night breeze.

Nyxara spun to Faith, fury flashing in her glowing eyes. "What is wrong with you?" she demanded, her voice sharp and accusing.

Faith, still breathing hard, winced slightly before frowning. "What are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about you living large on that vampire," Nyxara snapped, her fingers twitching as if she was fighting the urge to throw another energy ball—this time at Faith.

Faith rolled her eyes, her cocky smirk returning. "Gee, if doing violence to vampires upsets you, I think you're in the wrong line of work."

Nyxara's glare deepened. "Yeah, and maybe you like it a little too much," she said, voice low, warning.

Something in Faith's posture shifted, her smirk vanishing in an instant. Her expression hardened, her anger surfacing just as quickly as it had before. "I was getting the job done," she snapped defensively.

"The job," Nyxara corrected sternly, "is to vanquish demons. Not beat them to a bloody pulp while their friends corner me."

Faith crossed her arms tightly over her chest, her lips pressing together in a thin line. She scanned Nyxara up and down, taking in her demonic form before scoffing. "I thought you could handle yourself," she muttered. Then, without another word, she turned on her heel and strode off into the night, leaving Nyxara standing there, seething with rage and disbelief.

Halliwell Manor

Buffy stepped into the bedroom she shared with Prue, closing the door behind her with a little more force than necessary. The room was dimly lit by the soft glow of the bedside lamp, casting warm shadows over the plush duvet and the dark wood furnishings. Prue was already nestled under the covers, her dark hair cascading over her shoulder as she sat up, clad in a delicate nightgown that shimmered faintly in the low light.

The moment Prue laid eyes on her, she knew something was wrong. Buffy's jaw was clenched, her fists tight at her sides, shoulders tense like she was barely holding herself together.

"Something wrong?" Prue asked gently, concern flickering in her blue eyes as she set her book aside.

Buffy exhaled sharply through her nose, crossing the room with stiff, agitated strides. "Faith," she bit out, still vibrating with anger.

Prue frowned, immediately shifting so she could face Buffy more fully. "What happened?" she asked, her voice calm but firm.

Buffy ran a hand through her hair, her frustration only mounting as she relived the events in her mind. "Three vampires attacked us on patrol," she said, her tone sharp with residual adrenaline. She paced near the edge of the bed, unable to sit still. "She pummeled one—just kept hitting him—while his friends ganged up on me. If I hadn't changed into Nyxara, they might have actually tried to bite me." Her eyes met Prue's, dark with frustration. "There is something seriously wrong with your cousin."

Prue's lips parted slightly, a flicker of concern crossing her face. She reached out, placing a steadying hand on Buffy's arm, grounding her. "Buffy…" she started, but the weight of what her wife had just said sank into her. Faith had abandoned the fight—left Buffy vulnerable. That wasn't just reckless; it was dangerous.

Buffy shook her head, still seething. "She wasn't just fighting, Prue. She was enjoying it. Losing herself in it." She took a shaky breath, rubbing her temple. "She wasn't going to stop."

Prue's grip on her tightened slightly, her gaze searching Buffy's. There was more than anger there—there was worry. And for Buffy to admit worry? That meant it was serious.

September 10, 1998 – Thursday

Halliwell Manor

The next morning, golden sunlight streamed through the windows of the Manor, casting soft patterns across the hardwood floor. The scent of coffee and pancakes still lingered in the air from breakfast, but the warmth of the morning did little to ease the tension that sat heavy in the living room.

Buffy sat on the couch, her expression still tight with frustration as she recounted the previous night's events. Prue sat beside her, her hand resting lightly on Buffy's knee, a silent show of support as she listened. Across from them, Piper, Phoebe, Paige, and Leo sat in rapt attention, their expressions shifting from concern to unease with every word.

"She just kept going," Buffy said, shaking her head as she leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. "She wasn't just fighting to take the vamp down—she was enjoying it. And meanwhile, I'm the one getting jumped by his buddies while she's lost in her little rage-fest."

Piper's brow furrowed, her arms crossing tightly over her chest. "That's not just reckless. That's dangerous."

"Yeah, no kidding," Buffy muttered. "If I hadn't shifted into Nyxara, they would've had me. I don't know what's going on with her, but whatever it is? It's not good."

Phoebe exchanged a glance with Paige, concern flickering between them. "I mean, we knew Faith had a dark streak," Phoebe said carefully. "But if she's getting that lost in the fight…"

"It could be more than just anger issues," Leo interjected, his face lined with thought. "She's part Darklighter, even if her powers are bound. That kind of darkness doesn't just disappear. It pulls at you, whether you realize it or not."

Paige frowned, leaning against the arm of the chair she was perched on. "So, what? Are you saying the Darklighter side of her is trying to… I don't know, take control?"

Leo hesitated before nodding. "It's possible. If her powers were bound, she might not even be fully aware of what's happening. But that kind of rage? That kind of need for violence? It's not just a Slayer instinct—it's something more."

Buffy exhaled sharply, rubbing her temples. "Great. So, we're looking at a Slayer with an identity crisis and a potential dark-side takeover. That's just what we need."

Prue squeezed her hand, grounding her. "We're going to figure this out," she said firmly, looking around at her sisters. "We need to keep an eye on her, but we also need to help her."

Piper sighed, running a hand through her hair. "That's going to be tricky. Faith isn't exactly the 'sit down and talk about your feelings' type."

"She's not," Buffy agreed, sitting back with a huff. "But she is part of this family, whether she likes it or not." Her eyes darkened slightly. "And I don't want to find out what happens if we ignore this."

A beat of silence followed, heavy with unspoken fears.

Sunnydale High School

Buffy once again recounted the previous night's events, this time to Giles, who balanced a stack of worn, leather-bound books under one arm and cradled a steaming cup of tea in the other. The scent of bergamot curled into the air, mixing with the faint mustiness of old paper. Much to her growing irritation, the Watcher did not seem nearly as disturbed by Faith's actions as she, her wife, and Prue's sisters were. His composed expression remained unchanged, his brow furrowing only slightly as she spoke.

"What you must realize, Buffy, is that you and Faith have totally different temperaments," Giles explained, his voice even as he strolled beside her down the school corridor. Their steps echoed in the empty hallway, the late afternoon sunlight casting long shadows across the lockers.

Buffy shot him a sharp look, frustration tightening her features. "Faith's not playing with a full deck, Giles."

"I have to agree with my wife, Rupert," Prue added, her tone edged with concern.

Giles sighed, adjusting the books in his grip. "Buffy, you said yourself that she killed one of them," he pointed out. "She's just a plucky fighter who got a little carried away. Which is natural. She's focused on the slaying. She doesn't have a whole other life here, as you do."

Prue's expression darkened. "If it weren't for the fact that Buffy is half-demon, she could have been killed last night, Rupert," she said pointedly. "Since learning that Faith is mine, Piper, Phoebe, and Paige's cousin, we've taken an interest in her well-being. We believe Faith needs help."

Giles took a measured sip of his tea, his pace slowing as he considered her words. "I'll see if I can reach her Watcher at the retreat," he said at last, glancing at his watch—nearly spilling his tea in the process. "…Eight hours ahead now." His gaze drifted, lost in some distant memory. "Yes, they're probably sitting down to a nightcap. I wonder if they still kayak. I used to love a good kayak. You see, they don't even consider—"

Buffy and Prue stared at him, unamused.

"Sorry, I digress," the Watcher murmured, clearing his throat. He straightened, shifting back into focus. "The vampires that attacked you, Buffy. Can you furnish me with some details that might help me trace their lineage? Ancient or modern dress? Amulets? Cultish tattoos?" He took another sip, watching her expectantly.

Buffy tilted her head, sorting through the hazy images of last night's fight. "No tats. Crappy dressers," she said after a moment. Then something clicked. "Oh. The one that nearly bit me mentioned Kakistos."

Giles paused mid-sip. His fingers tensed around the porcelain cup, and when he turned to face them, his normally calm demeanor had shifted—alarm flickered behind his glasses.

"Kakistos?" he repeated, his voice unusually grave.

Buffy and Prue exchanged a glance, unease creeping up their spines.

"Kakistos," Giles said again, more to himself this time, before suddenly pivoting and striding toward the library with renewed urgency. His tea sloshed dangerously as he quickened his pace.

Buffy and Prue followed him inside, where Giles moved with the determination of a man on a mission. He hurried into his office, rummaging through shelves with frantic precision before emerging with a hefty tome.

"Kakistos is Greek," he explained, flipping through pages with an almost feverish energy. "It means 'the worst of the worst.' It's also the name of a vampire so old that his hands and feet are cloven." He brought the book to the checkout counter, rifling through the yellowed pages, eyes scanning for the specific passage that would confirm his fears.

Buffy frowned, arms crossed as her mind worked through the implications. "Now, this guy shows up two days ago, right?" she said slowly.

Prue glanced at her wife, her expression shifting to one of realization. "You think he and Faith are connected?"

Giles looked up from the book, a pensive expression settling over his features.

Buffy leaned on the counter, jaw tightening. "I don't believe it's a coincidence. I've had this feeling there was something wrong with her since I met her."

"It's entirely possible that they both arrived here by chance simultaneously," Giles suggested, though his tone lacked conviction.

"It's very likely it's not, too," Prue countered firmly. She turned toward Buffy with resolve. "You call her Watcher. Buffy and I are going to talk to Faith and see if the name Kakistos… rings a bell. Or an alarm."

Sun Spot Motel

Buffy and Prue stood outside Faith's motel room, the flickering neon sign above them casting an eerie red glow against the worn-out door. The air smelled of asphalt and stale cigarette smoke, remnants of the less-than-pristine establishment Faith had chosen as her temporary home. The distant hum of traffic mixed with the occasional shout from inside the motel, a reminder of the kind of place this was—lonely, transient, and forgotten.

Buffy raised her hand to knock, but before her knuckles could rap against the faded wood, the sharp trill of her cell phone pierced the quiet. She pulled it from her pocket, glancing at the screen before answering.

"Giles?" she said, pressing the phone to her ear.

She listened for a beat, then quickly switched it to speakerphone so Prue could hear as well. "Did you reach the retreat?" she asked, her voice tense.

A brief silence followed before Giles spoke, his tone grim, weighted with something dark and foreboding. "Yes, I did," he replied.

Prue exchanged a glance with Buffy, sensing the unease in his voice. "What did her Watcher say?" she asked, her fingers tightening into a fist at her side.

Giles exhaled, the faintest hesitation in his pause before he answered.

"Her Watcher is dead," he said.

The words hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. The distant sounds of the city seemed to fade, swallowed by the cold realization settling in Buffy's chest. She felt Prue stiffen beside her. The motel room door loomed before them, suddenly more ominous than it had been moments ago.

0 – 0 – 0 – 0 – 0

The motel room was as grimy as the rest of the place—thin, yellowed curtains barely filtering the neon glow from the buzzing sign outside, the air heavy with stale cigarette smoke and the faint scent of mildew. The worn-out carpet bore stains of questionable origin, and the flickering overhead light gave the room a jittery, uncertain feel.

Faith stood near the sagging bed, arms crossed, her stance casual but her eyes sharp as she faced off with the motel manager. The guy was a mess—unshaven, his gut stretching the limits of his dingy white tee, and smelling faintly of sweat and old beer. But he wasn't the worst she'd dealt with. In fact, there was something about him that suggested he wasn't as much of a hard-ass as he pretended to be. Maybe he had a weakness for tough girls like her. Maybe he just didn't care enough to fight her on it.

"Room's eighteen dollars a day. That's every day," he reminded her, his voice gruff but not unkind.

"Yeah, I know," Faith said, flashing him her best easygoing smirk. "I'll get it to you by tomorrow, I swear."

The manager sighed, rubbing a hand over his scruffy jaw. "It's not like I own the place."

Faith leaned in slightly, smile turning just a little flirtatious. "Bet you will someday."

He snorted, rolling his eyes at her attempt to charm her way out of trouble. But she could tell she'd won—at least for now. "Not if I listen to broads like you," he muttered, shaking his head in exasperation.

He turned to leave, pulling the door open—just as Buffy was about to knock. The movement startled them both for a second before his eyes flicked over Buffy and Prue, immediately skeptical. His expression hardened as he threw Faith a pointed look.

"Roommates are extra," he warned.

"I'm her cousin," Prue said coolly before he could start anything. "And this is my wife. We're not here to stay."

The manager lingered for a moment, eyes narrowing slightly as if he was weighing whether to push the issue. But Faith only shrugged, a silent, lazy dismissal. After a moment, he grunted and stepped past them, his heavy footsteps fading down the hallway.

Buffy shut the door behind him, sealing them off from the outside world, but Faith barely noticed. Her gaze had already flickered to Prue, and what she saw there made her stomach twist. Her cousin's face was shadowed, her normally composed features touched by something Faith didn't want to name—something grim and serious.

Faith wasn't stupid. She knew that look.

"What brings you two to the poor side of town?" she asked, her voice deliberately casual, masking the unease creeping in.

Prue didn't waver. "Kakistos," she said, her stare unrelenting.

Faith's body went rigid before she could stop herself. It was instinctive, like a rabbit freezing before a predator. Her pulse spiked, her heartbeat slamming in her chest, the name slicing through her composure like a blade. For a second, she couldn't breathe, as if the air in the room had turned thick and suffocating. A sick, icy dread curled in her gut, an old terror resurfacing with brutal force.

No. She had buried this. She had run from this.

But it had found her anyway.

Her face must have given something away, because Prue's voice softened, though the urgency remained. "What happened?"

Faith barely heard her. Her mind was already racing, calculating. How fast could she grab her stuff? How long would it take to be out of here? If she left now, could she make it far enough before—

"What'd he do to you?" Prue pressed.

Faith forced herself to tear her gaze from the door, her throat tight. "It's what I did to him," she admitted, the words low, almost reluctant. Then, without another word, she spun toward the bed, grabbing her bag and shoving her few belongings inside with frantic efficiency.

"And what was that?" Buffy asked, stepping closer.

Faith didn't answer, her movements growing more frantic. Her hands shook slightly as she shoved clothes, weapons, anything she could grab, into the worn-out duffel. She didn't do fear. She didn't do helpless. But right now, she felt both clawing at the edges of her control, threatening to drag her down.

Buffy and Prue weren't letting this go. They weren't backing off.

"Faith," Prue said, her voice steady but insistent, "you came here for a reason. We can help."

Faith froze for half a second, her fingers tightening around the worn strap of her bag as if it were the only thing keeping her grounded. Her heart hammered against her ribs, the weight of the past pressing down on her like a leaden cloak. The instinct to run, to disappear before the nightmare caught up to her, surged through her veins like fire.

"Prue, mind your own business," she said, forcing her voice to stay steady, but there was a raw edge to it, a barely concealed tremor beneath the bravado. "I'm the one who can handle this."

Prue's gaze didn't waver, her expression unreadable but full of something heavy. "We're family, Faith."

The words hit Faith harder than she expected, but she didn't let them settle. She couldn't. Panic coiled in her chest like a viper, and before she could stop herself, she rounded on Prue, her movements sharp, frenzied, her breath coming faster. "You don't know what I've been through. I'll take care of this, all right?" She was trying to hold it together, but the cracks were widening, and she knew it.

Her bag packed, she yanked it over her shoulder and turned toward the door, her escape route clear in her mind. She just had to make it to the next town, the next nowhere place where she could be someone else, where he wouldn't find her.

Then Buffy spoke.

"Like you took care of your Watcher?"

The words stopped Faith cold. It was as if someone had punched her in the gut, knocking the wind right out of her. Her muscles locked up, her fingers clenched around the bag's strap so tightly her knuckles turned white.

Buffy's voice had been blunt, but not cruel. Not really. It was a question, a truth laid bare before Faith could run from it.

Prue's glare at Buffy was sharp enough to cut, but neither of them missed the way Faith's shoulders hunched slightly, as if trying to make herself smaller. Slowly, like a marionette whose strings had been severed, Faith turned back to face them. Her dark eyes were hollow now, stripped of the bravado and fire she usually carried like armor.

And that was when Buffy and Prue realized.

The full, awful truth settled between them like a suffocating fog. How Faith's Watcher had died. What she had seen. What she had endured.

Prue's voice softened, but her words were steady. "He killed her, didn't he?"

Faith swallowed hard. When she finally spoke, her voice was barely above a whisper, her lips barely forming the words. "They don't have a word for what he did to her."

The silence that followed was heavy, suffocating. Then—

A sharp knock at the door.

Faith jolted as if struck, her breath catching in her throat. A whispered curse slipped from her lips as she spun toward the peephole, her pulse roaring in her ears. Not now. Not yet.

She pressed her eye to the tiny glass lens, her stomach twisting into knots when she recognized the hunched figure outside. The motel manager.

"What now?" she muttered, irritation masking the fear crawling up her spine.

Buffy's warning was immediate, firm. "Faith, you run, he runs after you."

Faith scoffed, trying to smother the cold dread rising inside her. "That's where the head start comes in handy."

She didn't hesitate. She unlocked the door and pulled it open—

And the world stopped.

Kakistos stood outside.

Not alone. Several of his vampire lackeys flanked him, their yellowed eyes gleaming hungrily in the dim motel corridor. But it was him—the towering figure in the center, his grotesquely scarred face illuminated by the flickering hallway light—that made Faith's blood run ice cold.

He held the manager by the neck, one enormous, clawed hand wrapped around the man's throat like a vice. The man twitched, barely able to struggle, his breath rattling.

Faith couldn't move.

She couldn't breathe.

The sight of that face, his face, sent a bolt of terror so deep into her bones that her whole body locked up.

Kakistos' dead, milky eyes locked onto hers. He tilted his head slightly, his ruined mouth twisting into something that might have been a smile.

"Faith," he rasped.

The way he said her name—slow, deliberate, as if savoring it—sent a violent shudder through her.

The motel manager went limp, his body crumpling to the floor in a lifeless heap.

Faith's stomach lurched.

And then, before she could so much as flinch, Kakistos lunged.

His massive, gnarled hand shot forward, snatching her by the throat. The impact was brutal—her head slammed back against the doorframe as his grip tightened, crushing her windpipe with terrifying ease. Faith gasped, clawing at his thick fingers, but the strength in her limbs felt sapped, her body betraying her.

Maybe she was still frozen.

Maybe she had still believed, deep down, that he couldn't come in.

Maybe she was just too afraid.

The pressure increased. Stars danced at the edges of her vision. He was going to kill her.

Then—

Prue flicked her wrist.

Kakistos was ripped away from Faith by an invisible force, flung backward into the hallway with enough power to send him crashing into the opposite wall. The plaster cracked on impact, dust billowing around his massive form as he staggered.

Buffy lunged, slamming the door shut in one swift motion. The flimsy lock clicked into place, and she yanked the chain across, knowing full well it wouldn't hold for long.

Faith stood there, shaking, her breaths ragged and shallow. "No," she murmured, almost shuddering. "No."

"It's okay," Prue said, stepping closer, her voice firm despite the tension crackling in the air. "We just bought us a little—"

The door exploded inward.

Kakistos' massive, cloven fist punched through the thin wood as if it were paper, sending splinters flying. The impact rattled the walls, the sheer force of it enough to send Faith stumbling backward.

"—time," Prue finished grimly.

Faith screamed. A raw, broken sound, terror clawing its way out of her throat. "No!" she cried, her voice cracking as she sank to her knees, shaking her head violently, as though sheer denial could make this go away. This couldn't be happening. This wasn't happening.

But it was.

The past had caught up to her.

Buffy's sharp voice cut through the haze of fear, snapping her back to the present. "Scream later!" she barked, eyes blazing as Kakistos continued his assault on the door. "Escape now!"

The command jolted something loose in Faith. The dark images threatening to consume her—the memories of what Kakistos had done, what she had seen—recoiled, just enough for her to think, just enough for her to move.

Buffy seized Faith's hand, gripping it tight. With her other, she grabbed Prue's.

And then, in a flash of shimmering light, they vanished—

Just as Kakistos kicked the door off its hinges.

Halliwell Manor

Prue descended the stairs slowly, her footsteps echoing softly in the stillness of the house. The weight of the day's events hung heavy in the air, each member of the group lost in their thoughts, trying to find a solution to the growing threat they faced. When she entered the living room, the conversation paused, eyes flicking up to meet hers, a mixture of worry and resolve in their gazes. She offered a quiet smile, the exhaustion and fear still lingering in her own eyes.

"I put her in your room, Paige," Prue said, her voice soft but purposeful, a quiet acknowledgment of her protective instinct toward her younger sister. It was the least she could do after everything Faith had endured—keeping her safe, even if only for a little while.

"Okay," Paige replied, her voice steady, but there was an undercurrent of concern. She exchanged a brief glance with Phoebe and Leo, silently acknowledging the chaos they were all trying to prevent.

Buffy, sitting on the edge of the armchair, leaned forward, her brow furrowed. The fight was far from over, and her mind raced for a plan that might give them the upper hand. "So, the question now is, what do we do about Kakistos?" She spoke with determination, but there was a heaviness in her tone, the weight of the decision they were about to make settling over her. "We can't scry for him since scrying magic doesn't work in Sunnydale due to the Hellmouth."

A brief silence followed as the group processed Buffy's words. They all knew how hard it was to deal with the Hellmouth's influence, how its dark energy constantly interfered with their magical abilities. The odds were stacked against them, and every plan they came up with seemed to have a gaping hole in it. The frustration was palpable.

Piper shifted uneasily, her gaze flicking to Leo, then back to the others. "As much as I hate to suggest it, since Faith is family," she said, her voice hesitant but firm. "The only way to find him is to use Faith as bait. Then we lure him someplace where we can take him out." Her words hung in the air, a stark, grim reality settling in.

A heavy silence followed, and Paige's face hardened with reluctance. "That won't be easy," she murmured. "I mean, using Faith as bait…" She trailed off, her words carrying an unspoken horror..

"We know," Leo said quietly, his tone somber. He leaned against the doorframe, his face troubled as he met each of their eyes. "But it might be the best way." He paused, glancing toward Buffy, then Piper, before continuing, "Not that I want to do that, especially with Faith's magical powers bound, but I think she needs to deal with this herself. Maybe even vanquish Kakistos herself." There was a finality in his voice, as if he had come to terms with a painful truth.

Prue stood still for a moment, her mind racing, trying to find another way. But no matter how hard she thought, no other option felt viable. The cold reality of their situation pressed down on her, and she knew they were out of time. She glanced over at Paige, who looked equally torn, and then to Buffy, whose eyes were narrowed in thought.

Buffy exhaled sharply, her gaze flicking to the others in the room. "She doesn't want to face him," Buffy said quietly, almost as if speaking to herself. She sat back, rubbing her temples, the stress weighing on her shoulders. "But if this is the only way…"

Phoebe, ever the optimist, spoke up gently. "Maybe Faith can do it. She has strength—more than she gives herself credit for. And this might be the chance she needs to put her past behind her. To end this."

The others nodded, but there was no joy in the agreement, only grim resolve. Faith had a past filled with shadows and mistakes, and now she had to face the monster who had haunted her—who had caused her so much pain. They all knew it was going to be a battle, but it was one she needed to fight herself.

Prue's eyes softened as she looked at her baby sister. "We're here for her," she said quietly, her voice full of quiet strength, "but this is something Faith has to take on. We just need to make sure she has a chance." She looked at Leo, her gaze steady. "She's the one who has to face him."

Leo met her gaze, his expression filled with understanding. "And if she needs help, we'll be there. But Faith needs to be the one to do it. She's been running for so long, but now… she has to confront him."

Buffy stood up; her fists clenched at her sides. "Then let's make sure she doesn't have to face it alone. We'll give her the chance she needs."

The room fell into a heavy silence as the weight of the decision settled over them. It wasn't easy, but they all knew it was the only choice they had. Kakistos was too dangerous to leave alive. And Faith… she had to find her own strength.

September 11, 1998 – Friday

Halliwell Manor

The next morning, sunlight streamed through the curtains of the Halliwell manor, casting golden streaks across the wooden floors. The tension in the living room was thick, unspoken words hanging in the air as Faith sat slouched on the couch, arms crossed tightly over her chest. Her eyes, red-rimmed from lack of sleep, flicked between Prue, Piper, Phoebe, Paige, Leo, and Buffy, who stood before her, all looking equal parts determined and hesitant. She already knew what was coming. She could feel it in the way they were looking at her.

"Let me guess," Faith muttered, her voice rough from exhaustion and frustration. "You guys got together and decided I should be the sacrificial lamb."

Prue sighed, stepping forward. "Faith, that's not what this is."

Faith let out a humorless laugh. "Oh really? 'Cause it sure as hell sounds like you want me to waltz out there and wave my arms around 'til Kakistos finds me."

Buffy, leaning against the armrest of the couch, shook her head. "That's not what we're saying." Her voice was calm, measured, but firm. "We want to draw him out, yes. But we'll be there. Every step of the way. You won't be alone."

Faith scoffed, her hands gripping her arms even tighter. "Yeah, and what happens if things go south? What if he's too strong? What if you guys get caught in the crossfire?"

Paige knelt beside the couch, her expression softer, more pleading. "Faith, we're not going into this blind. We have a plan. A solid one. And you're not just some bait—we want to help you take him down."

Faith's jaw tightened, but she didn't respond.

Piper exchanged a glance with Leo before stepping in. "Look, I hate this just as much as you do. But the fact is, Kakistos isn't going to stop hunting you. He's here for you, and if we don't deal with him now, he'll keep coming. You'll never stop running."

Faith's breath hitched, but she quickly masked it with a glare. "I can handle running."

"No, you can't." Prue's voice was sharper now, more forceful. "Not forever. And you shouldn't have to. You deserve better than that, Faith."

Phoebe crossed her arms, her voice gentler but no less serious. "You've been through hell. We know that. But this? This is about making sure he never hurts you—or anyone else—again."

Faith shook her head, her foot tapping anxiously against the floor. "You don't get it. You didn't see what he did to my Watcher." Her voice cracked slightly, but she swallowed it down, refusing to let it show. "You didn't hear her scream."

Buffy crouched in front of her, forcing Faith to meet her gaze. "No, we didn't," she admitted. "But we know what it's like to lose people. We know what it's like to be hunted, to feel like you're never going to be strong enough." Buffy reached out, placing a firm hand on Faith's knee. "But I know you're strong enough. You're a Slayer, Faith. And you've got all of us backing you up."

Leo finally spoke; his voice steady. "We wouldn't ask you to do this if we didn't believe in you."

Faith exhaled sharply, her defenses wavering. She looked at each of them in turn, taking in their unwavering stares, their certainty. She wanted to run. Every instinct in her screamed to pack her bags and disappear, just like she always had. But this time, she wasn't alone.

And she was tired of running.

Faith rubbed a hand over her face, exhaling slowly. "Fine," she muttered. "What's the plan?"

The room collectively relaxed, though the weight of what was coming still loomed over them.

Prue nodded, stepping forward. "We draw him out. We pick the battleground, stack the odds in our favor."

"And when he shows?" Faith asked.

Buffy's expression hardened, her Slayer instincts kicking in. "We finish this. Together."

Abandoned Firehouse

That night, they ran together, side by side, their boots pounding against the cracked pavement of the alleyway. The scent of damp asphalt and old garbage clung to the air, mixing with the distant hum of the city beyond. The alley opened up to a T-junction, its walls lined with rusting fire escapes and flickering neon signs advertising businesses long since abandoned.

Buffy didn't hesitate. She turned left without breaking stride, aiming for the main street—somewhere open, somewhere with more people. Their plan had worked. Kakistos and his brood had taken the bait, slithering out from the shadows like predators catching the scent of blood.

Behind them, heavy footfalls echoed—inhumanly fast, relentless. Kakistos himself was giving chase, his monstrous presence towering in the darkness, accompanied by at least four other vampires.

Buffy's sharp eyes darted to the left, catching sight of a weak spot in a boarded-up window—a way in. "Here," she whispered harshly, her breath coming in short bursts. Without breaking her momentum, she smashed through the brittle wooden planks and shattered glass, rolling across the dust-coated floor inside.

Faith followed instinctively, adrenaline guiding her every movement. She landed in a crouch, senses razor-sharp, her heart hammering against her ribs. Just as she rose to her feet, she saw Kakistos rush past the window, his grotesque, cloven-hoofed form casting a monstrous silhouette against the streetlights.

"Leo," Buffy called out, scanning the room. "Get ready."

"What the—?" Faith's voice wavered, her body suddenly rigid.

Buffy turned toward her, expecting confusion, maybe irritation, but what she saw instead sent ice through her veins. Faith's expression had drained of all color, her eyes fixed on something just beyond Buffy's shoulder.

"No," Faith muttered, shaking her head in disbelief, her breath catching in her throat.

Slowly, Buffy pivoted, her gut tightening before she even saw what Faith had.

In the far corner of the abandoned firehouse, three corpses lay sprawled haphazardly, their limbs twisted at unnatural angles. Their uniforms—delivery men—were torn, blood staining their once-white shirts. The air inside the building suddenly seemed thicker, heavier, steeped in the stench of death and decay.

"This is his place," Faith gasped, her voice raw with horror.

Buffy's eyes darted around, every nerve ending on high alert. We didn't lure him here—he lured us.

"He drove us here," Buffy muttered, her muscles coiling with tension. She raised her voice. "Leo!" she called again, urgency sharpening her tone.

Before an answer could come, movement flashed in the broken window. A female vampire with wild, matted hair lunged through, her fangs gleaming in the dim light.

Buffy and Faith spun on instinct. They took off running, their footsteps echoing loudly through the cavernous space. Shadows stretched long across the dusty floor as more figures emerged—two more vampires slipping out from behind rusting equipment, their eyes gleaming hungrily.

Buffy grabbed the nearest object—a giant plastic bucket—and with a swift, precise kick, sent it hurtling into the face of the closest vamp, knocking it back.

Just as the second one lunged, a burst of shimmering blue and white orbs lit up the firehouse. The swirling energy solidified into Prue, Piper, Phoebe, Paige, and Leo.

"About time," Buffy muttered.

Phoebe barely had time to react before the vampire in front of her charged, but she sprang upward, levitating just high enough to deliver a devastating kick to its face, sending it sprawling.

Prue spun, her movements fluid, and drove her heel into the other vampire's jaw, sending it reeling.

Faith, however, didn't move. She stood frozen in place, her chest rising and falling in shallow, panicked breaths.

The sounds of battle raged around her—Buffy's grunts as she exchanged blows, the vampires snarling in pain, the scraping of boots on concrete. But Faith heard none of it.

Because Kakistos had emerged from the darkness.

He stepped into the dim glow of a broken streetlamp, his hideous, scarred face twisted into a leer. His monstrous form was impossibly large, his hands curling into thick, clawed fists. He stalked toward her, his hooved feet thudding ominously against the floor, his presence consuming the room.

Faith's breathing turned shallow. She felt trapped, suffocating.

Somewhere in the distance, she registered voices—Buffy, her family, all calling her name. But the words barely registered.

Kakistos was all she could see.

Her past surged forward, crashing over her in relentless waves—her Watcher's screams, the scent of blood thick in the air, the helplessness, the horror, the powerlessness.

"Don't die!" Buffy's voice cut through the fog.

A blur of movement—Paige, tossing something. Faith caught it instinctively. Cold steel pressed against her palm—a tire iron.

Her fingers clenched around it.

Then, Kakistos was on her.

Faith swung, terror widening her eyes, but he was too fast. His backhand connected with her face, a brutal, bone-rattling hit that sent her flying backward. She slammed into a wooden support beam with such force that the old structure cracked, the splintered wood collapsing beside her in a deafening crash.

Piper surged forward to help, but before she could reach Faith, hands grabbed her from behind, yanking her away. She struggled, twisting in her captor's grip, but heard it—Faith's choked whimpers as Kakistos loomed over her, merciless, savoring the moment.

Buffy fought like a whirlwind, her blows landing rapid and precise. She drove her stake through her opponent's chest, dusting him instantly. As the remains scattered to the floor, she turned—just in time to see Kakistos' massive hand wrap around Faith's throat.

Buffy's stomach clenched. No.

"Prue!" Buffy shouted.

Prue barely spared a glance away from her own fight, but with a flick of her wrist, her telekinetic power slammed into Kakistos, sending him stumbling back. Faith fell forward, gasping for air, her hands grasping at her bruised throat.

Buffy didn't waste a second. She launched herself at Kakistos, unleashing a barrage of punches and kicks. Each hit was fueled by sheer fury, each strike a desperate attempt to make him feel something.

But he barely flinched.

He only smiled.

0 – 0 – 0 – 0 – 0

Trick watched the battle unfold with a growing sense of unease, his usually confident smirk slipping as the tide of the fight shifted. Dust swirled in the air where Kakistos's minions had already fallen, and the eerie flickering light of the abandoned firehouse cast long, chaotic shadows across the floor. The battle raged, brutal and fast, but Trick had long since learned how to spot a losing fight.

He took a casual step back, sidling up beside one of Kakistos's lieutenants—a blond vampire woman whose name always escaped him. Not that it really mattered. He'd never been good with names unless they were important, and unfortunately for her, she wasn't. Still, he liked the way she looked, all sharp angles and ruthless efficiency. It would be a shame if she died. An even bigger shame if he ended up dust himself.

His gaze flickered toward Kakistos, who was locked in combat against Faith and Buffy, the two Slayers striking with relentless precision. Just beyond them, the witches worked together, their powers tearing through what remained of their master's forces. It was ugly. And getting uglier by the second.

Trick sighed, shaking his head. "We don't do something, the master could get killed," he said, his voice light despite the clear danger.

The blonde glanced at him, her sharp eyes meeting his. Neither of them spoke, but the understanding between them was immediate—this wasn't their fight.

Trick shrugged, adjusting his coat as if the whole situation was nothing more than an unfortunate inconvenience. "Well, our prayers are with him," he remarked idly. "There's a reason these vengeance crusades are out of style. You see the modern vampire. You see the big picture."

He flashed her an easy, knowing grin, then jerked his head toward the exit. Without hesitation, the two turned and slipped into the shadows, moving swiftly and silently toward the back of the firehouse. Let Kakistos have his personal vendetta.

He was on his own now—against two Slayers and the Charmed Ones.

And Trick had no intention of sticking around to watch how that ended.

0 – 0 – 0 – 0 – 0

Buffy drove her stake forward with all the force she could muster, aiming for Kakistos's chest. But his grotesquely powerful hand shot up, seizing her wrist in an iron grip, stopping the weapon just inches from its target. She gritted her teeth and tried again, swinging at him with her free hand, but Kakistos swatted her aside like she was nothing. The impact sent her hurtling backward, slamming into the cold, unyielding concrete wall. The air rushed from her lungs as pain jolted through her back.

"Looks like you need a bigger stake, Slayer," Kakistos taunted, his voice thick with mockery, his grotesque, scarred face twisted into a smirk. Then, as if savoring his impending victory, he threw his head back and let out a deep, rasping laugh that echoed through the firehouse, sending a chill down Buffy's spine.

Then she saw it—movement from the corner of her eye. She turned her head just in time to see Faith rising shakily to her feet, her fingers curling around the massive wooden column that had snapped off during their fight. The sheer weight of it would have been impossible for most people to lift, but Faith, fueled by adrenaline, fury, and something even deeper—survival—hefted it over her shoulder with both hands. Her eyes locked onto Kakistos, her expression shifting from terror to something steely and determined.

Still laughing, the ancient vampire didn't even see it coming.

With a raw, guttural cry, Faith lunged, driving the massive wooden beam straight through his chest. The sound of splintering flesh and bone filled the air as the crude but deadly weapon impaled him completely, the force of the blow lifting him momentarily off the ground. Kakistos grunted in stunned pain, his glowing, inhuman eyes widening as he looked down at the thick wood protruding from his torso. His laughter died abruptly, replaced by a choked, disbelieving gasp.

Then, in an instant, his body combusted—erupting into a fiery burst of ash and cinders. The force of his destruction sent a wave of heat and dust outward, and when it cleared, there was nothing left of him but a dark, charred smear on the ground.

Silence fell over the firehouse.

Buffy, Prue, Piper, Phoebe, and Paige stood motionless, eyes wide, breaths shallow as they stared at the now-empty space where Kakistos had stood. It was over. The plan had worked. Faith had done it.

The Slayer in question was still standing there, chest heaving, hands gripping the wooden column even as it dropped slightly in her grasp. A long, shaky breath left her lips, and she blinked hard, like she wasn't sure whether to believe it.

The others exchanged glances before instinctively moving closer to one another, shoulders brushing as they surveyed the scene, making sure no more threats lurked in the shadows.

Piper let out a breath, the tension melting from her frame as the reality of their victory settled in. Then, in true Piper fashion, she broke the silence with the most practical thought on her mind.

"You hungry?" she asked, her voice dry but laced with affection.

Faith let out a short, almost disbelieving laugh, then nodded. "Starved."

Halliwell Manor

The atmosphere inside the Halliwell Manor was warm and inviting, a stark contrast to the brutal fight they had barely survived hours earlier. The scent of a home-cooked meal filled the air, courtesy of Piper, who had insisted that nothing chased away post-battle tension better than good food. The dining room was dimly lit, the glow of candles and soft overhead lighting casting a golden hue over the table, which was laden with steaming dishes—roast chicken, mashed potatoes, warm bread, and a generous helping of vegetables.

Piper sat beside Leo, her fingers brushing his every now and then as they passed dishes back and forth. Across from them, Phoebe leaned into Cole, nudging him playfully with her elbow as he handed her a roll. Prue sat beside Buffy, both of them unusually quiet, lost in the comfort of the moment. And at the end of the table, Paige sat next to Faith, subtly glancing at her as if trying to gauge whether she was truly okay.

Faith, for her part, was eating like she hadn't had a real meal in days—because, truthfully, she hadn't. She shoveled food onto her plate with a hunger that didn't go unnoticed, though no one commented on it. Paige, however, casually nudged a second helping of mashed potatoes toward her, and Faith gave her a quick, appreciative glance before digging in.

The conversation was light, a deliberate effort to keep things normal after the nightmare they had faced.

"So," Piper started, slicing a piece of chicken. "No offense, but that was probably the worst night ever. And we've had some bad ones."

"No argument here," Buffy muttered, lifting her glass of water.

"At least it's over," Leo said, glancing around the table. "And no one got seriously hurt."

"Speak for yourself," Faith grumbled through a mouthful of food. "Pretty sure my ribs are gonna be singing for a week."

Phoebe smirked. "Yeah, but that move you pulled with the giant stake? That was legendary."

Cole nodded. "I've seen a lot of things, but that was a first."

Faith scoffed but looked slightly pleased with the praise. "Desperate times, desperate measures."

Prue looked over at Buffy. "You okay?" she asked quietly.

Buffy hesitated for a moment, then gave a small nod. "Yeah. Just...thinking about what's next."

Paige arched a brow. "Next? Can we not think about next for like, one meal?"

There was a round of chuckles, the tension in the air breaking just a little more.

Faith slowed down eating for the first time, glancing around the table at the people who had fought beside her, who had saved her. It was a weird feeling, being in a room full of people who actually cared. She wasn't sure what to do with it.

Paige nudged her elbow. "You good?"

Faith met her gaze, hesitating, then gave a small smirk. "Yeah. Yeah, I think I am."

For the first time in a long time, Faith actually believed it.