Angelo left Salina standing in her own shop, holding the photograph of herself. She wasn't healed—that wasn't how possession worked. But she was whole .

When they flickered back on, Salina was standing three feet to the left. But her posture had changed. Her shoulders were rolled forward, and her smile was too wide.

"And the other?"

"I'm not here to cast you out," he said quietly. "I'm here to remind you which name is yours."

The lights went out.

The demon laughed with Salina's mouth. "Clever little repairman. But you're too late."

Salina's eyes cleared. Not the hollow ones. Not the sunset ones. Just brown. Tired. Human.

Angelo spoke the only true thing he knew: "A name isn't a cage. It's a key. And you don't have to use the one they gave you."

"Salina" was the victim. The kind one. The healer.

And then he heard it. A third voice. Faint. Coming not from Salina, but from behind her—a shadow on the wall that didn't match her movements.

Angelo Godshack hadn’t spoken to a spirit in eleven months. Not since he tried to exorcise a dead child from a dying mother and ended up burying them both. He now spent his nights in a basement apartment in Eastwick, fixing pinball machines for a living. The name "Godshack" was an old joke—his great-grandfather had built a roadside chapel, and the name stuck. But Angelo carried it like a curse.

The demon howled once, then collapsed into silence. The steam stopped. The lights steadied. The third shadow smiled and faded.

"One is kind," Salina said, touching her throat. "She calls me daughter. She tells me to heal people. I touched a man with a broken leg last Tuesday, and he walked."

"Who are you?" he asked.

"Salina Shei" was the demon. The one that had been scratching at her soul since birth.