Grand opening week was supposed to begin with ribbons, camera flashes, special menus, polished chrome, and the town pretending it was only there for coffee and not to stare at the Winchesters like they were a miracle somebody had finally managed to put in a building permit.

Instead, Colorado called before sunrise.

Not with a phone, exactly. With the kind of message that made every hunter in the family go still in the same terrible way all at once.

Dean looked up from the opening-week inventory sheet. Sam went quiet halfway through checking the branch rotation board. Dean John, who had been reworking three months of expansion projections with the pleased concentration of a man who had discovered wealth and intended to weaponize it responsibly, lifted his head one inch and said, “That is not good.”

Vlyluna, who had been sitting on the front counter swinging one boot and stealing fruit from the decorative display, narrowed her eyes toward the kitchen window like Colorado itself had personally offended her from six states away.

Adrian walked in from the workshop carrying a box of parts, took one look at the room, and said, “How bad?”

Dean answered the way only Dean could.

“Bad enough we’re delaying opening week.”

The entire block seemed to inhale.

Then everybody started moving.

No one argued that the Winchesters had to go. That part had long since stopped being a question. Something ugly was waking up in Colorado, something old enough and loud enough to ping across every alarm system they trusted, and if the Winchesters were still Winchesters under the aprons, payroll forms, and expansion contracts, then they were going to make that move.

Including Adrian.

That got exactly three reactions.

Nina swore softly because she had already expected it.

Marco muttered, “Yeah, of course he’s going,” like he’d been taking bets in his head and hated losing to himself.

And Vlyluna slid off the counter, pointed at Adrian with all the solemnity of a tiny warlord, and declared, “He’s with us.”

Adrian blinked once.

Dean John, without looking up from the folder he was closing, said, “Yes, we gathered.”

Sam Ross pinched the bridge of his nose and took command before anyone could spiral.

“Okay,” he said. “No grand opening. Not canceled. Delayed. We shut down first branch early, move the senior staff, and keep the new branch from catching fire, collapsing, poisoning anybody, or becoming town gossip’s personal opera stage.”