Lacy Blesk raised her glass, the bubbles catching the light of the spectral candles. The clock pulsed – 10:00:23. Not midnight, not yet. A ritual began with each passing second. She felt the shift in the air, the thinning veil between seasons. Tonight, the echoes of Hallow’s Eve bled into the promise of a new year. But this wasn't celebration; it was containment. The clock ticked down to zero, and she braced herself for what would emerge from the stained glass – something ancient, hungry, drawn by the convergence. She took a long sip, steeling her resolve. It always came at precisely 10:00:00.