The child fed from her heart, and the city slept because of it.

Night settled thick and airless, sliding into streets and windows alike, dragging the city under. The air stank of burnt copper and soot. In narrow alleys, shadows gathered, not cast by moonlight, but born from every nightmare that had ever made a home in a man’s heart. They did not roam. They waited.

She stood at the center of it all, wrapped in a tattered habit that clung to her like old regret. The cloth had once been white. She remembered that vaguely, the way one remembers a promise made before understanding its cost. Now it held smoke and residue, vows rewritten not by faith, but by endurance.

They called her the Keeper of Shadows, though no one spoke the name aloud. Names give things edges, and this place had learned to survive without them.

She carried no lantern. No torch. Only the dull glow leaking from her cracked heart, illuminating the darkness pressed against her like a second skin. It was not holy. It was not a promise. It was simply what remained.

In her arms, she cradled the child, or something that resembled one closely enough to pass.

Its eyes glimmered wet and ancient. Tiny fangs pressed into the thinning place of her heart with practiced hunger. She felt every bite. Her body had learned not to flinch.

Behind her, the bars held the others. Some leaned forward in recognition. Others turned away in relief. Hunger knows its own.

Above, stained glass fractured the light, casting beauty without intention. Saints had once occupied that space. Now only color endured.

“You’re not afraid of them,” a voice said.

“Yes,” the Keeper said. “It always does.”

“Then why do you do it?”

“Because the shadows do not need another jailor,” she said. “They need someone who will not look away.”

The darkness did not advance.