#{SELF COMM}「Devil On Your Back」

[scumbag-the-hedgehog]

Return after long absence

Immediately dunked on by taller woman

Typical Day in Junior's life

[marcmorrigan]

they dont know how long it takes / waiting for a love like this

every time we say goodbye / i wish we had one more kiss

ill wait for you, i promise you, i will

OCs: maive (she/her) | rauel (he/him)

[interlunium-opus]

►DANCING WITH THE DEVIL #004: Prelude [Sunghoon.]

Abstract: Eight years have passed since you betrayed Park Sunghoon, leaving his fate shrouded in uncertainty. You thought you'd left that world behind, but the serial killings in the capital city —which bore a haunting resemblance to that in your past—pulled you right back into the shadows you once escaped. What began as a quest to prove your worth soon unraveled into something far more sinister: a labyrinthine network of power, deceit, and danger hidden beneath a veneer of opulence.Now, amidst the grandeur of a castle steeped in blood-soaked tradition, you find yourself, once again, entangled with Sunghoon—a ghost from your past whose motives remain as inscrutable as ever. The stakes are now higher, the games deadlier, and survival feels like chasing a mirage. As you navigate a web of twisted rituals and deadly alliances, the tension between you and Sunghoon ignites once again.But this time, the game is different. With whispers of betrayal and lingering wounds threatening to consume you both, you must decide if trust is a risk worth taking—because in doing so, you are not just exposing the truths they've hidden, but also the feelings you’ve fought so hard to suppress and bury.

Parts ‣ #001 | ‣ #002 | ‣ #003 | ‣ #004: Prelude | ‣#004: Finale

Genre: vampire!sunghoon | horror | thriller | fantasy | romance (or is it? 😋)||| wc: ~31.7k

Featuring: Anton from Riize. [ PSA! ] There's also a Jaeyun here -- this is actually Enhypen Jake lol. Soz, no one fits the role that Jaeyun has in here better than Dark Blood Jake so I plead you guys to just go along and imagine that the Jake in Part 1-3 and Jaeyun in this Part are two different people ((who happen to look alike)) HAHAH

Warnings: blood; violence; injuries (some are self-inflicted); suggestiveness (some are forced); mentions of crimes (missing persons, murder, serial killings); manipulation; toxicity; trauma.

A/N: A re-upload since my initial one got comm-labeled 💀

© 2024 interlunium-opus. All rights reserved. Do not plagiarize, post or translate anywhere.

— i

You have never for once thought you were safe from his clutches—not after he vanished; not after you’ve moved to the Big City and left it all behind; and not even after 8 full years had passed without any hint of him and his kind terrorising your life.

But 8 years was indeed a long time—long enough to make you almost want to believe that it was all just a fever dream especially when your traumatic memories have now been reduced to dubious patchwork of images in your mind. 

Until, that is, the odd happenings cropping up around the city in recent months began to bear an eerie resemblance to those from 8 years ago.

“You sure about this?” Anton’s voice cut through your thoughts as the van pulled to a stop near an abandoned alley. Your colleague’s expression was tight, his concern unmistakable. You didn’t look up, eyes fixed on the heatmap glowing on your laptop screen—a web of red nodes clustering around several locations with grey nodes showing your predicted ones.

You’d spent months perfecting this quantitative model and simulation, and this little incursion into the field was a risk you were willing to take to prove it worked, “this district is the next likeliest place. Just a glimmer of evidence from here can really set the whole ‘drug epidemic’ story down the drain.”

“I didn’t mean the location,” Anton sighed, “I meant about you being the bait. You don’t have to take things this far. What if, like they say the serial killings are just the product of yet another drug epidemic? It checks out—youth, homeless, poor, dubious backgro—"

“Then I’ll come out of this little project unscathed,” you cut him, “and you can say ‘I told you so.”

“And if you’re right?”

The question hung in the air, heavy with unspoken implications. If you were right and it wasn’t just a drug epidemic, then it is indeed something far worse. Something beyond the comprehension of mere mortals. Something you’d hoped never to face again for it was the very reason that had once brought you so close to death.

"then I get to say I told you so," you replied, forcing a grin that didn't quite reach your eyes. You, of all people, knew if what you suspected was indeed true and something goes wrong tonight then you might not actually make it out alive.

Steeling yourself, you stepped out of the van, pulling your coat tighter against the night’s chill. With a final glance at Anton and the rest of the unofficial team, you gave a curt nod—a silent signal that the plan was in motion.

Truthfully, you’d never planned to get involved in this case—or any case for that matter. You were just a data analyst, seconded to the Ministry of Justice to modernize their outdated systems. It was supposed to be a safe, back-office job. But fate had other plans.

When the first odd killings started cropping up, you’d recognized the signs immediately. The patterns were unmistakable—just like the ones from eight years ago. Still, you stayed quiet, trusting the experts to handle it. This was the capital city, after all—surely, the investigators here wouldn’t fall victim to the same manipulation and incompetence as your small town had before.

But you were wrong.

Just like how authorities back then easily latched onto a convenient red herring, the Criminal Investigations Department here, dismissed the deaths as nothing more than a string of drug-related incident. And that was when you decided to take matters into your own hands. The sloppy slashing on the victims’ necks to hide bite marks, the feral attacks perfectly timed with rising homelessness and drug abuse—it was all too deliberate. Someone was definitely orchestrating this. Someone who knew how to exploit public sentiment and navigate around the intricacies of public policies to mask their crimes.

The Criminal Investigations Department didn’t believe you of course. You could have all the data in the world and use the most expensive software to churn your model and still all they see is just another desk jockey—naive, out of touch, and blind to the so-called realities of the field.

And so, here you were, about to test your model in this so-called field that they held in such high regard.

You stepped deeper into the alley. All sounds from faraway city had disappeared by then—filling the empty maze with eerie silence. Shadows stretched and folded over you, growing heavier with every step. Then, behind you, the faint echo of footsteps began.

You tightened your grip on the dagger hidden in your sleeve.

Making yourself the bait tonight was a calculated risk, just like every other part of your plan. If the pattern in your simulation was correct—and that the culprit were really bloodsuckers—the scent of fresh blood would draw them straight to you.

So with swift resolute movements you quickly pricked your finger against the blade, just enough for a bead of crimson to well up. The shift was immediate. The air grew heavy, the faint echo of footsteps reached your ears, and the lights above flickered, one by one.

Anxiety clawed at the edges of your resolve, threatening to boil over. But you pushed it down—there was no room for error or stalling. You had to keep moving, to reach the junction as planned. The junction wasn't just any random spot; it had been chosen carefully. Its CCTV placements made it ideal for monitoring, and your team was supposed to be stationed at key points, ready to act if anything went wrong. Timing was everything because if you didn’t make it before someone—or something—caught you, the entire operation could fall apart.

Except when you reached the junction and rounded the corner, you didn't see any signals from your team. You looked at the other end, also none. Fuck, you thought, the dread coiling tight in your chest. If your backup wasn’t here, then you might really be alone—in the middle of a potential serial killer’s or bloodsucker hunting ground.

But there was no time or room for fear. So with sharp fluid movements, you pulled the gun from your holster, cocking it in one swift motion as you turned sharply, ready to fire at whatever might be following you. Except, there was nothing. Only an alley stretching out, empty and undisturbed.

A shaky exhale escaped your lips. Maybe it had been your own footsteps echoing after all. You cast a quick glance over your shoulder, scanning every shadow one last time before reaching for your phone. Your fingers hovered over the screen, ready to fire off a message to the team demanding their whereabouts.

Then suddenly, there was a blur of movements but just as you looked up, a gloved hand clamped your mouth, yanking you backward, causing you to drop your gun. You kicked, twisting violently in his grasp, but it was like trying to break free from iron. Another hand gripped your waist, lifting you off the ground before slamming you into a cold brick wall.

The next thing you knew the attacker pressed his forearm hard against your throat, cutting off your air and blurring your visions. Panic clawed at your chest as you thrashed harder, but even through the haze, you saw his eyes—glowing faintly in the darkness, flickering like embers of a dying fire.

For a split second, something passed through them. Recognition? Realization?

Whatever it was, you didn't spend any longer to ponder about it. Instead, you seized the moment of his momentary lapse, jabbing the dagger you concealed up until now, into his hand. He hissed, the sound unnatural and guttural, releasing you just enough for you to stumble free.

But then you saw it as you looked up: the way the wound on his hand was already healing, the flesh stitching itself together before your very eyes.

Not human.

You were correct, after all.

Then a sudden bloodcurdling scream tore through the alley, sharp and bone-chilling. Your head whipped toward the sound, the shock of it stealing your focus for a single, crucial moment. When you turned back, the assailant was already sprinting into the shadows, his pace unnaturally swift.

Cursing under your breath, you bolted after him, refusing to lose sight. But no matter how hard you pushed, he was faster—inhumanly fast in fact. He darted around a corner, but when you reached it, it was a dead-end and he was gone, leaving nothing but silence in his wake.

"What?" you muttered, bewildered, your breathing ragged as your eyes darted around, scanning the area for any hidden doors or passages. There were none.

Your phone suddenly buzzed; it was Anton. When you answered, his voice spilled out, panicked and strained—a contrast to his usual soft-spoken calm, “y/n! Please tell me you’re okay. Please tell me you’re—”

“Anton, I’m fine,” you cut him off, your voice tight.

“Fuck.” Anton cursed—a rare slip. “One of the agents found a body. Said it was bloodless. I thought- I-”

“Where?” you demanded sharply. "Okay, I'll see you there."

You spun on your heels, already halfway to bolting, when an odd crunch under your shoe froze you in place. The sound echoed unnaturally in the suffocating silence of the alley, sharp and out of place. It was something metallic that glinted faintly in the dim light.

Slowly, cautiously, you bent down and picked it up.

It was a brooch, heavy and ornate, its craftsmanship disturbingly perfect.

Your fingers traced the coat of arms etched into the metal: a spiked crown loomed at the top, flanked by a raven and a wolf poised like sentinels. Between them rested a shield, and at its very center, encased in intricate filigree, was a ruby—a dark, smoldering gem that glowed faintly as though alive. It pulsed, dim and irregular, like the heartbeat of something ancient and unspeakable. Beneath the crest, the words were etched in a precise, unnerving script:

"In shadows, we endure. In blood, we rise."

Your breath caught, your chest tightening with a visceral, unnameable dread. The ruby seemed to grow warmer against your skin, the faint light flickering as if responding to the fear blooming inside you.

That was when it hit you.

You’d seen this crest before. The realization struck like a blow, dredging up something long buried—a truth you had fought to forget.

No. It couldn’t be. Your mind grasped for another explanation, anything but the one clawing its way to the surface. But the brooch felt heavier in your palm, its ruby pulsing faintly, as if mocking your denial.

A rush of memories broke through the floodgates, sharp and disjointed flashes that cut through your resolve: bloodied lips, the metallic taste of iron, a pained gaze—and the weight of betrayal pressing into your chest.

“Sunghoon,” you whispered, the name falling from your lips like a curse.

— ii

“Told you it would work,” you nudged Anton as you headed towards the meeting room where you were supposed to meet the Detective Chief Inspector.

“It made a ‘work’ out of you too,” Anton replied begrudgingly, clicking his tongue as his eyes trace the bruise on your neck and the cuts on your hand.

“I’d say it’s worth it,” you shrugged, looking awfully calm and happy for someone who had a brush with death just last night.

True, you got berated by your boss for acting recklessly on your own and putting your life in line but it was all worth it, you thought. Afterall not only did you manage to put a question mark on the current narrative but in doing so, you have also forced the Criminal Investigations Department to take you and your work seriously. After months of being treated lightly and as a joke, you couldn’t help but feel triumphant to see the Detective Chief Superintendent personally walking to your office this morning — requesting assistance on how his department can utilise the model you had built.

“Well let’s hope the Detective they send for me this time isn’t another boomer or misogynist as the rest of the lot has been,” Anton handed you the photocopies he had made, wishing you luck as he held the door of the meeting room open for you. You quickly set up the meeting room, turning on your laptop while setting the copies and relevant files neatly in the middle of the table.

You hadn’t slept all night but this was the most energised you have felt in months. In fact, so absorbed you were, you didn’t notice the figure at first. Your focus was on the documents, your pen tapping lightly against the table as you scanned line after line of text.

It wasn’t until the faintest flicker of movement passed beyond the glass walls of the meeting room that you looked up. At first, it was just a shadow—a fleeting outline that barely registered. Then, step by step, it came into focus.

Broad shoulders and a rigid stance that carried an effortless authority. Thick raven-black hair that caught the light like polished obsidian. Pale skin that seemed almost luminous under the sterile lights.

Your pen stilled in your hands, fingers unconsciously tightening around it as the door clicked open.

The scent hit you first—woodsy and citrusy. That cologne. The one you knew too well. It swept over you with a cruel familiarity, twisting your stomach as memories clawed at the edges of your mind, sharp and unwelcome.

You didn’t need to see his face to know.

And yet, when he stepped inside, bowing slightly—polite in a way that felt almost mocking—it still made your breath catch. By the time he straightened, your heart had already plummeted.

“Park Sunghoon,” you croaked, almost reflexively, your voice barely above a whisper. The name tasted bitter on your tongue, dredged up from a place you had tried to bury.

His gaze sharpened, dark eyes sweeping over you with clinical precision before his lips curved into a slow, deliberate smirk. His hand moved smoothly, locking the door behind him with a soft click that echoed far too loudly in the confined space.

“I don’t think we need introductions, then?” he drawled, his voice low and silken, every word laced with amusement.

Your hand moved instinctively to your back pocket, fingers fumbling for the dagger you always carried.

“Looking for this?" he asked nonchalantly as he pulled something out from his coat. It was a dagger – your dagger from last night. Before you could react, he flicked his wrist, sending it spinning through the air. It landed with a sharp thud, piercing through the stack of files in front of you. The deliberate impact echoed through the room, loud and accusatory.

“Don’t bother,” he said, his tone dismissive but firm. “You know you can’t kill me.”

You swallowed thickly, but forced your lips to curl into a dry, humorless smile. “Killing me here, in a glass-walled meeting room?” you asked, leaning casually back against the table as if you weren’t seconds from bolting. “That’d be messy, don’t you think? Hundreds of employees just outside. You’d need a whole army of PR vampires—or whatever you guys have—to cover it up.”

His smirk was slow, deliberate, like he enjoyed your attempt at bravado. “Even if my fury for you ran that deep,” he said, his voice a low purr, “I wouldn’t be that stupid.”

“Then why are you here?” you asked, your voice sharpening as you straightened, your fingers subtly curling into fists at your sides.

“Because someone has been causing havoc,” he said, his voice dropping to something colder. “And it turns out that someone is you. No surprise there—you’ve always been a thorn.”

You scoffed, “for a thorn you sure are taking your time eliminating me. Lingering feelings?”

His lips curved into another smirk, this one sharper, more dangerous. “You tell me,” he said, gesturing lazily toward your pocket. “You could’ve handed my crest over to the investigators. Why didn’t you?”

Your breath caught, realization dawning. He was right. The crest you’d kept instead of handing over to the Criminal Investigations Department—why hadn’t you? You’d lied to them, and for what?

“That’s not—”

“I’m not interested to hear your excuses actually,” Sunghoon interrupted smoothly, “let me just say if I want to kill you, I would have—be it yesterday or before. I’m letting you live because I need something from you. Your expertise.”

He fished out a file from his briefcase and slid it across the table towards you, “I’ve heard of the model you built. I think it’s brilliant.” His tone was casual, almost complimentary, but his eyes gleamed with something colder. “I have some additional data. It will definitely enhance your model. There is however a catch—whatever you find goes back to me. Not to your boss, not to the department. Just me.”

Your eyes flitted suspiciously from the file to him, “why would I do that? For all I know you’re just trying to mess the investigations up.”

“I mean you guys are already fumbling the investigations as it is," he scoffed. "Look. You, of all people, know that the authorities are powerless against my kind. If they meddle further, they’ll just get caught in the crossfire and make a bigger mess. Deadlier mess.”

“How do I know that you’re not behind it all?” you shot back, the accusation sharp. “It all clicks. You being here. You meddling in the investigations.”

His patience visibly thinned, his expression hardening. “If you hadn’t been messing around last night, that poor woman wouldn’t have been preyed upon,” he said, his tone like a blade. “Do you see it now? the implications of your tampering—of any human tampering?”

Your breath hitched as the weight of his words sank in: it was your fault. Your little game at baiting the undead last nigth had apparently led to the death of an innocent, “I wasn’t—”

“Save your guilt,” he snapped, his voice slicing through your stammered excuse. “I don’t have time for it. What I need is for your department to stop trampling through this mess so I can finish the job.”

You glared at him, still reeling. “Why do you need my model then? Don’t vampires have… superpowers or something? Shouldn’t you be able to track them down faster?”

His expression darkened, and for the first time, you saw something close to frustration in his eyes. “If it were that simple, you wouldn't even need to construct a quantitative model out of it.” he muttered. “Look, our worlds are not that different. We are scattered and fragmented but the more powerful you are, the more you blend in. The ones you have here is not like the usual. This is a network, vast and insidious, weaving itself into your world so deeply that even I can’t see where it begins or ends. They’re embedded in your systems. In your policies. This is why I can’t just go to someone or outsource it to a company to ask them to aid me in this—you never know who’s with who anymore, mortal or not.”

“And yet you trust me?”

“Trust? that’s rich coming from you,” he scoffed, his eyes narrowing with thinly veiled derision, as though he’d accidentally stepped on something unpleasant. “No I don’t trust you and I don’t need to. I need you to be useful, to be good. That’s your only insurance right now.”

“Actually you know what? you don’t have a choice,” he said, his voice unnervingly calm, as though he had already decided the conversation was over. “You can either help me clean up the mess you’ve started, or watch it spiral into something far beyond your control.”

He didn’t wait for an answer. The door clicked softly behind him as he left, leaving the faint echo of his words and the sharp scent of him—woodsy and citrusy, painfully familiar—lingering in the room.

It struck you then—how much he had changed. He was the same physically, but something about him felt far more oppressive now, his presence pressing down like a shadow too large to escape. His broad shoulders carried a weight that seemed heavier than before, not burdened, but deliberate—like the world bent itself to him, not the other way around. There was also a quiet gravity to his presence now, like a storm that hadn’t yet decided when to break.

In fact, even the smallest movements felt so charged and calculated. The tilt of his head, slight but purposeful, carried an air of disdain that cut deeper than any raised voice. His gaze was no less piercing than you remembered, but where it once burned with an intensity that sought to subdue, now it chilled—deliberate and calculating.

Now that you think about, he might not even be a storm looking for release—he was a tempest waiting to destroy.

You staggered backward, the sharp edges of the table behind you digging painfully into your spine, grounding you as the realization settled like a stone in your chest. Time hadn’t softened him; it had stripped him bare, refined him into something terrifying. He wasn’t just dangerous—he was inevitable.

— iii

You couldn’t decide who was more foolish at this point—yourself, for agreeing to work with Sunghoon despite the nightmare he’d put you through eight years ago, or Sunghoon, for still not carrying out whatever vengeance he had surely plotted for you during all that time. While you should be grateful for the latter, you can never put the thought aside–not with Sunghoon at least.

“If you’re done, email it to me immediately,” Sunghoon muttered without looking up, his eyes glued to the screen of his iPad.

As unbelievable as it sound, this had become your normal 5-9 now, churning additional data from Sunghoon and refine your code—all the while he lounge at your office, waiting for you to finish like a headmaster. Or a vulture.

You tore your gaze from him, frowning at the heatmap on your laptop. You’d expected his “additional data” to sharpen your model, maybe even tie up some loose ends. Instead, the trends you’d been working on became a tangled mess—sporadic points, clusters dissolving into chaos. “It’s messier now, thanks to your data,” you grumbled, sneaking a suspicious glance his way. “You’re not just feeding me duds to throw me off, are you?”

Without a word, Sunghoon rose from the couch and strolled over. It took everything in you not to flinch as your fight-or-flight instincts are still hardwired to react whenever he was near.

Oblivious to your unease, he leaned down to take the mouse from your hand, his cold presence making you shift uncomfortably in your chair. The cursor hovered over a dense cluster of points as he swiped through something on his iPad. “Actually, it’s perfect. Send this over.”

“This is perfect?” you scoffed in disbelief before you found your eyes involuntarily shifting to his iPad screen nearby where rows of profiles stared back at you—some with ominous red slashes across their faces.

“They’re people I’ve exterminated,” he said flatly as if reading your mind before you could form the question.

“I wasn—" your mouth went dry. “Exterminated?”

“Don’t worry,” he said nonchalantly as he snatched the iPad back. “They’re not human.”

You hit send just as he moved toward the door, speaking into his phone. “I think there are some new leads. Yes, I’ll take the car.”

“Hey—” you called out, hoping to pry more, but he was already out of your office. You lingered for a moment, the uneasy silence filling the space he left behind. Though you hated dwelling on him, you couldn’t help but feel that there was something different about Sunghoon—something colder, more detached, even by his standards. He felt hollow—as if this was just a shell of the man who had haunted you eight years ago.

But then again, did it really matter, you shrugged the thought off, at least he hadn’t killed you yet.

You grabbed your coat and followed him, catching up just as he reached a sleek black Benz idling at the curb. “If this is related to the case, I should go too,” you said firmly. “We’re working together, after all.”

He stopped mid-step, turning to face you. For a moment, the barest flicker of amusement crossed his face, gone so quickly you almost doubted it had been there.

“Working together?” he repeated, his tone laced with derision. “Look, this isn’t a partnership,” he said, his voice cool and detached. “You’re not my equal. You’re a tool—a useful one, for now—but a tool all the same. Don’t get confused.”

You bristled, heat rising to your cheeks. “You—”

But before you could finish, he slipped into the car and shut the door in your face.

“—prick,” you muttered under your breath.

That should have been your cue to drop it. To turn back and call it a day. But that would be very unlike of you.

Undeterred, or challenged rather, you quickly flagged a cab nearby, sliding into the backseat. “Follow that car,” you instructed, your voice steady despite the adrenaline surging through you. “But keep some distance. He has eyes at the back of his head...” your voice trailed, grimacing at the memory of Sunghoon and his arrogance. Probably the only thing unchanged, you thought as you sink back into the seat.

The drive began uneventfully, Sunghoon’s car weaving through familiar streets of the central business district—all skyscrapers and corporate logos. You watched intently, expecting him to stop near one of the clusters your heatmap had predicted. But then he took an unexpected turn—away from downtown and into unfamiliar territory.

“Where’s he going?” you mumbled, staring out the window. Instead of decaying alleyways or abandoned districts—the usual spots you were tracking—the car rolled through rows of pristine streets where luxury cars were neatly parked outside glittering buildings. This wasn’t the kind of place you would associate with the victims of the recent serial killings—or with him, in fact. With the 1%, celebrities and socialites perhaps, but not him.

“Your guy just got out,” the driver called, jolting you from your thoughts.

Sure enough, Sunghoon had exited the car. But it wasn’t the Sunghoon you’d followed all evening. He was wearing a tailored tuxedo now, his raven hair swept back in a way that made him look effortlessly polished, like he belonged on the cover of a magazine. While others flashed passes to the doorman to gain entry into the towering, shard-like skyscraper, Sunghoon merely nodded—and the door opened for him, as if the place were his.

You stared, dumbfounded. A party? A date? You thought for a split second, even considering turning the car back around. Perhaps, he really wasn’t pursuing any leads tonight and you’re just being a nosy stalker.

“Miss, I’m not your personal chauffeur so if you can get off now—”

“You know what, I’ll pay you extra,” you said, handing the driver a wad of cash. “Wait for me here—I just need to confirm some things.”

“I’m not—” he started, but his protest died the moment you waved another wad of cash. He sighed, exasperated. “Fine. Ten minutes.”

“Deal,” you muttered, slipping out of the car and immediately regretting it. Clad in your office attire, you stuck out like a sore thumb as elegantly dressed guests brushed past you, the scent of expensive perfume lingering in the air.

The towering skyscraper ahead loomed like a beacon of opulence and exclusivity, its glass facade reflecting the city lights in dazzling patterns. The entrance buzzed with high society chatter—sweeping gowns, tailored suits, and muted conversations that felt worlds apart from your reality. Whoever was hosting this wasn’t just powerful—they were untouchable.

You tried to blend in, keeping your head low as you slipped into the flow of guests. But before you reached the doors, a burly security guard stepped into your path.

“Pass?”

“I—uh,” you stammered, scrambling for an excuse. “I’m with Park Sunghoon,” you lied, willing your voice to sound composed. “I’m his personal assistant,” you added, forcing yourself not to gag, “and he left his phone so I’m here to deliver it back to him.”

The guard’s suspicion was immediate. He squinted at you, then glanced at his colleague. “Wait here,” he said curtly, retreating to his desk and picking up the phone. As he made the call, his shifting expressions told you everything you needed to know—your story wasn’t holding up.

Before you could quietly slip away however, you felt the sudden grip of two guards seizing your arms from behind.

“Lord Park says he doesn’t know you,” the first guard returned, his smug expression practically oozing satisfaction. “Nor does he have a personal assistant. He has also requested that we report you to the nearest station for attempted trespassing. If you’ll follow—”

His voice faded into the background as panic set in. Your mind raced, adrenaline surging as you desperately tried to think of a way out. Perhaps show my work ID, you thought, but that won’t be ethical. Perhaps give them a kick, you pondered, come on, what’s a kick going to do against 2 buff guards.

“y/n?”

The voice cut through the noise like a lifeline, warm and familiar, yet so painfully out of place in a setting like this.

You turned sharply, and your breath caught.

There, standing in front of you, was someone you barely recognized.

“Sunoo?” you blurted, blinking as if your brain needed time to process what you were seeing.

Gone were the oversized hoodies and worn-out sneakers. The Sunoo before you now was practically dripping in luxury—a designer suit tailored to perfection, sleek leather loafers, and a watch you were pretty sure cost more than your apartment. His hair was immaculately styled, his face radiating the kind of confidence and wealth that turned heads.

“It is you!” he exclaimed, a broad grin splitting his face, softening his features to the Sunoo you remembered from eight years ago. Your best friend, Kim Sunoo.

You wanted to revel in the reunion, to cling to the warmth of familiarity, but the weight of the moment sank into you like a stone. Slowly, it dawned on you how ominous it all was—how Sunghoon and Sunoo could now be tied so closely. You remembered the tension between them eight years ago all too well, the lengths you went to keep them apart. The bargain you had struck with Sunghoon just so he’d leave him alone.

And yet, here they were, looking as though they were cut from the same cloth.

“Let her go. She’s with me,” Sunoo snapped at the guards, his grin vanishing in an instant, replaced by an expression of sharp disdain. The shift was jarring, his tone unrecognizable—cutting, cold, and entirely unlike him.

— iv

“Wine?”

Sunoo gestured at the uniformed staff pushing a gleaming silver cart toward you. The plates were stacked high with decadent hors d'oeuvres, and some accompanying bottles of wines that looked like it cost three times more than your monthly rent.

You shook your head, watching as Sunoo casually reached for his third glass. “You used to hated drinking,” you muttered.

“Well, the world I live in now is different—" he smirked, “—so are my tastes."

Before you could respond, Sunoo grabbed you by the side of your arms, swivelling you toward the floor-to-ceiling window which overlooked the grand hall below. "Take a good look, y/n. This is the upper echeleons of society."

Your gaze fell on the scene below: a vast, glittering ballroom with a massive crystal chandelier casting golden light over an impeccably dressed crowd. Designer gowns swept the marble floor, and tuxedos gleamed under the light. Waiters glided like shadows, balancing trays of champagne flutes and hors d’oeuvres.

“What is this place?” you asked, dragging your eyes back to him.

“It’s the Charity Gala of the year,” Sunoo said, his voice filled with a casual air you didn’t quite believe. “Officially, it’s a fundraiser for disaster relief in Southeast Asia. Unofficially—” he took a deliberate sip from his glass, his fourth, though he still seemed unbelievably sober, “—it’s a playground for the 1%. A chance to flaunt their wealth, rub shoulders with the powerful, and make backroom deals over overpriced wine.” He raised his glass in mock celebration. “Welcome to their world, y/n. The air up here is great.”

Your stomach twisted as you tried to reconcile this version of Sunoo with the one you’d once known. But before you could dwell on it, your wandering gaze caught something that made your blood run cold.

Park Sunghoon.

He was in the center of the ballroom, effortlessly commanding attention without seeking it. His raven-black hair was swept back, his tailored suit flawless, and a glass of wine rested lightly in his hand. But it wasn’t his appearance that made you freeze—it was the way he seemed to own the room, as though every person there unconsciously revolved around him. He moved through the crowd with an ease that was almost unsettling, exchanging words with men in expensive suits and women draped in jewels.

This wasn’t the Sunghoon you remembered. Back then, he was distant, deliberately anti-social, and disdainful of any social niceties when in a crowd. Now, he was polished, poised, and completely in his element—like a diplomat or a politician.

And yet, what truly froze you wasn’t his transformation. It was his gaze—for when he looked up, his eyes found yours in chilling precision. As if he knew you were there; as if he knew you had been staring.

Shit, you drew back instinctively, trying to stay away from his line of sight.

“y/n?” Sunoo’s voice jolted you out of your spiralling thoughts. “You said you were here because of someone is it?”

You forced a laugh, trying to sound casual. “Yeah, someone I know left some stuff with me, so I was going to return it. But, apparently, I needed a pass.”

“Who is it? I’ll help you find them,” Sunoo offered, clearly oblivious to the tension rolling off you.

“No, no, it’s fine,” you said quickly, waving him off. “I just got a text—they said they don’t need it anymore. I’ll just head out—”

“Go back? Are you kidding me?” Sunoo interrupted, his hand gripping yours as he started to drag you across the room. “Come on, y/n. There’s no way I’m letting you miss this opportunity. You’re practically at the nexus of power and privilege. Everyone who is anyone is in here. I’ll introduce you to some top brass. Permanent secretaries, directors—you name it. I’m pretty sure they’d love to meet someone as sharp as you. You deserve to climb the ladder faster.”

“Sunoo, I—just give me a minute,” you stammered, trying to stall.

But Sunoo was already weaving you through the glittering crowd, his excitement palpable as he introduced you to people whose names blurred together in your head. Your nerves prickled with every passing moment, the hum of conversations swelling louder, pressing in on you. Then, one of them—an ex-politician—broke through your haze.

“Oh! You said you’re from the Ministry of Justice? Then you must know—” His words trailed off as his gaze shifted, scanning the room.

When he turned back, the crowd parted just enough to reveal Sunghoon, standing tall and composed, clinking his glass with a man who radiated power and authority.

Your heart plummeted and instinctively you shrank back, hoping the dim lighting would shield you. But then Sunoo's grip tightened around your hand, a sudden and unwelcome anchor.

“Sunoo, just let go—” you wrenched your hand away, perhaps a little too roughly, for he looked at you all confused as if you had struck him. "Sorry," you stammered, your voice low and frantic, “—bathroom.” Before he could even say anything, you had already turned on your heel, letting yourself get swallowed by the crowd. Except instead of reprieve, the air grew heavier with every step, the clinking of glasses and muted laughter morphing into a sinister undercurrent. The wine in their hands seemed darker, richer, almost like blood under the golden lights.

Finally, you found a door and without even sparing another second, you slipped out, closing the door behind you. You pressed your back against the cool surface of the door, exhaling shakily as you fought to steady yourself. The chill of the corridor was a stark contrast to the stifling opulence you’d just escaped, yet the unease clung to you like a second skin. Even here, away from the crowd, you couldn’t shake the feeling that unseen eyes were still watching, waiting.

“Thought I smelled something that didn’t belong—"

You froze, turning to find yourself surrounded by a group of men—three to be exact. At first glance, they looked as though they had stepped off the cover of a glossy magazine, all chiseled features and effortless grace. But there was something off about them. Their beauty was uncanny, a little too perfect, too symmetrical—like sculptures that had come to life but had missed the soul that should have animated them.

Yet, it wasn’t their appearance that sent shivers racing down your spine—it was the way they moved. They encircled you with slow, deliberate steps, each movement fluid, almost predatory, like Hyenas.

Your pulse quickened as the weight of their gazes bore down on you.

“Yeah, this one probably weaseled her way in,” the other one murmured, giving you a once-over that made your skin crawl, “journalist? fangirl?”

“Maybe it’s one of those waitresses again,” the other one scoffed, “remember how someone stole a dress and paraded around as a socialite during last year’s gala?”

“Ah- right,” the first one drew closer, “well, guess what? We are feeling very generous tonight and would like to give you a personal private tour. How's that?”

You evaded his hand just as he was about to wrap it over your shoulder, only to bump into the other who had closed in from the other side, his hand seizing yours like talons, “she’s warm.”

You yanked your arm free, retreating instinctively, only to collide with the cold, unyielding wall behind you.

“Actually, the wines weren’t cutting it,” the third one said, turning to his companions, who exchanged knowing grins, as though sharing a thought without needing words, “—but you,” he continued, his gaze snapping back to you with an intensity that made your skin crawl, “might just do.”

“You guys are messing with the wrong person,” you spat, feigning confidence despite the tremor in your voice. “I’m with Park—Lord Park, and he won’t take too kindly to a bunch of lower beings harassing his guest.”

“Oh, Lord Park,” the first one sneered, leaning in closer, his breath cold against your ear. “Pretty sure he wouldn’t notice if one of his toys went missing.”

Laughter rippled between them, dark and taunting, and your stomach churned.

“You guys better piss off before—before I—” you broke off, your fumbling hands grazed something cool and solid behind you—a decorative vase perched precariously on a ledge. Without hesitation, you grabbed it and hurled it to the floor. The porcelain shattered with a deafening crash, the sound ricocheting through the corridor like a gunshot.

The distraction worked and the men recoiled for a split second—just enough for you to twist free and bolt.

You didn’t think. You didn’t look back. You just ran, your heels clicking frantically against the marble floor, heart pounding in rhythm with your steps. Their shouts grew fainter as you darted through the twisting hallways, rounding the corner when—slam.

You barrelled straight into something—or rather, someone.

The impact sent you stumbling back, but a strong hand shot out, steadying you with an iron grip. Dread pooled in your stomach as your gaze lifted, meeting a pair of dark piercing eyes.

It wasn’t one of them.

It was Sunghoon.

And frankly, you didn't know which one was worse.

He glanced past you to the commotion down the hall, then back to your flushed, panicked face. His eyes meeting yours in such inscrutable and cold way that it was entirely possible to you that he had sent those three men down your way.

“Lord Park,” one of the men murmured, their voices dropping into something that sounded both reverent and fearful. The shift in their demeanor was immediate. The playfulness vanished, replaced by something closer to submission. They exchanged glances, their earlier bravado crumbling under the weight of his command.

“Didn’t she say she is with me?” Sunghoon’s voice was quiet but lethal, each word laced with venom. His tone was flat, almost disinterested, but the menace beneath it was unmistakable, “and you guys still had the audacity to mess with what’s mine?”

The words hit you like a cold wind, cutting through your defenses. You didn’t flinch outwardly, but inside, you recoiled—the weight of his casual claim felt heavier than it had any right to be. While the possessiveness in his tone unsettled you, what struck harder was the irony: how the very lie you’d spun to escape trouble was now your lifeline. Worse still, it was being wielded by the one who was being taken advantage of.

“Of course not,” one of them stammered, his words spilling out in a frantic rush.

“We’d never dare,” another muttered, bowing his head slightly as if the act alone might spare him from further scrutiny.

The three men backed away, their movements stiff and deliberate, muttering apologies that barely reached the air before they vanished into the shadows.

The hallway emptied as quickly as it had filled, leaving only you and Sunghoon behind. But as the men disappeared into the shadows, the oppressive weight of their presence was replaced by something just as stifling—Sunghoon’s gaze, dark and commanding, boring into you like a spotlight, leaving no room for escape.

You instinctively tried to yank your arm free from his grasp, but his grip was vice-like—firm and unrelenting. “Let go,” you demanded, your voice steady.

“You’re the one who said you’re with me, aren’t you?” he countered, his brow lifting in mocking amusement. “Let’s go then.”

“Sunghoon—” you began to protest, but his hold tightened as he dragged you down the corridor. His pace was deliberate, each step unhurried, but there was no mistaking the force in his pull. Before you could fully processed it, the elevator doors slid shut behind you, sealing the two of you in a tense, suffocating silence.

“You shouldn’t have come,” he said flatly, his tone devoid of emotion, the words hitting like a slap. “You don’t belong here.”

Your chest tightened, the sting of his words sharp and deliberate. “Thank you for stating the obvious,” you shot back sharply. “You, on the other hand, look like you belong. Almost didn’t recognize you with all the mushy act. Maturing at last? Bit late for your age, don’t you think?”

His brow arched, the faintest flicker of amusement crossing his face. “Careful,” he said, his voice deceptively calm, “with that much interest, I might start thinking you missed me.”

The elevator dinged, and you expected him to release you. Instead, his grip only tightened as he pulled you across the lobby.

“Sunghoon—where are we—” you protested, your voice rising, drawing the attention of a few onlookers. “Sunghoon, let me go—let me—”

“You brought this on yourself, y/n,” he interrupted, his voice cutting clean through your panic. The dread hit you fully as you saw his Benz from earlier pull up to the curb. “You need to be taught a hard lesson—” he said, his tone dark, ominous, his grip tightening with every resistance from you, “—then maybe next time, you’ll think twice before running your mouth so carelessly.”

With unsettling ease, he opened the car door, shoving you unceremoniously into the backseat. You barely had time to twist toward the exit before he stepped into the doorway, his frame filling the space, blocking any chance of escape. Before you could shove him away, his hand moved as if he’d anticipated it—catching yours mid-motion with startling precision. The swiftness of it stole your breath, his grip unrelenting as it pinned your arm in place. The harder you tried to pull free, the more his hold seemed to tighten—like a quicksand—rendering you completely immobile with an ease that sent a cold shiver racing down your spine.

“Take her home,” Sunghoon ordered towards his driver curtly, his voice sharp and devoid of patience, his eyes never leaving yours.

“I can go home on my own,” you snapped.

“I’m sure you can,” he replied, his tone calm but razor-sharp. “But you won’t. Not after the havoc you wreaked earlier, with people you shouldn’t have.”

“But they—”

“—won’t let you go that easily. That's for certain.” he finished for you, his voice dropping low, slicing through your protest. His grip on your arm tightened one last time before he threw it back, the motion sending you off balance, your palms hitting the seat behind you to steady yourself.

Leaning into the open doorway, his eyes pinned you in place, his voice quiet but venomous. “He’ll take you home,” he muttered darkly, “or you’ll just never see home ever again.”

And with that, he slammed the door shut before walking back to the tower, the sound reverberating like the final nail in a coffin. No chance to argue. No chance to escape.

— v

Things settled back into a strained rhythm after that evening at the Charity Gala, though Sunghoon had stopped lingering. He would appear occasionally, dropping off new data without a word, then vanish as swiftly as he came. You told yourself it was better this way. His presence was, afterall, suffocating—a storm cloud hovering just out of reach. But no matter how hard you tried to bury the thoughts, the elephant in the room loomed larger with every passing moment of silence: Why had he let you live this long?

You knew Sunghoon hadn’t forgiven your betrayal. And yet, here you were—alive, breathing, and watching the shadows too closely because of him. Perhaps this was his punishment for you—making the guilt gnaw you from inside and driving you to the brink of insanity.

Then, one day, an invitation came out of nowhere.

The oxblood-coloured envelope was thick and weighty, its golden wax seal embossed with an unfamiliar crest that glinted under the light like a silent threat. You stared at it for a long moment before picking it up, turning it over in your hands.

“Wait—” Anton’s voice broke through your thoughts as he leaned over your desk, wide-eyed. “Is that—?”

“What?” you asked warily, still staring at the envelope as if it might bite.

“Noctis Imperium,” Anton breathed, his tone reverent.

You frowned. “Noctis what now?”

Anton looked at you like you’d just admitted you didn’t know how to breathe. “Noctis Imperium. It’s an exclusive retreat for the 1% — total luxury and opulence somewhere in the Montes Obscuri—you know the mountain range you can’t even find on google map? Point is, It’s completely exclusive. Totally off the grid. No cameras, no leaks, no nothing. Just power brokers, decision-makers, and untouchables all in one place.”

“Sounds pretentious,” you scoffed, breaking the seal.

He leaned closer, lowering his voice as if the walls might be listening. “People call it a modern-day Bohemian Grove but... darker. Rumor has it that the deals made there don’t just change industries—they change entire nations.”

You shook your head dismissively as you pulled out the invitation. The embossed gold lettering shimmered faintly in the light:

To Our Chosen Few, The Noctis Imperium convenes soon, A place where maps end and silence consumes. Beneath the shadow of the Blood Moon, shapers and wielders come forge their runes. This is not a request, nor a courtesy—it is an acknowledgment of your place among those who command the currents of power. Your passage has been arranged. You will be expected.

“I’m a data analyst, not a billionaire,” you muttered, “perhaps they mailed it to the wrong room- ah—" your fingers brushed a small note tucked inside which read ‘From: Sunoo.’ “Well, perks of having connections, right?”

“Who cares?” Anton said, waving it off. “If I were you, I’d go. Network the hell out of it. Who knows? You might end up running this whole city someday.”

“To be honest, I’d probably die before I even get promoted,” you deadpanned, “My Reaper is just around the corner anyway—" you muttered nonchalantly. It was a casual claim, thrown carelessly into the air in reference to Sunghoon, but one that would echo with far more weight than you could possibly realize at that point in time.

The day passed in a blur, yet the envelope lingered in the recesses of your mind, a nagging presence you couldn’t quite shake. It resurfaced sharply at the end of the day, your steps faltering when the security guard stopped you just as you were about to leave the office.

“Madam, sorry to bother you, but did you receive your invitation?”

“Excuse me?”

“The red envelope, ma’am. There were only two sent to this building—one for you and one for the gentleman. I was told that it is very important that you receive and read it.”

“Yes. I got—" you halted, “—wait, the gentleman? Which one?”

The guard nodded. “The one who’s been visiting you. Mr. Park, I believe.”

Your stomach twisted. Sunghoon.

You mumbled a distracted thanks.

Of course, he is also invited.

The thought continued to gnaw at you afterwards, echoing in your mind as you climbed into the waiting cab. Your invitation had came from Sunoo but now that you knew Sunghoon, too, had been invited reframed everything. It meant that the Noctis Imperium wasn’t just any retreat of shallow opulence. In fact, the words in the letter, which you have dismissed as being far too pretentious and unnecessarily cryptic, now carried a weight that felt unnervingly and ominously real.

Had he always been part of this? Your mind flashed to him at the party, the ease with which he’d navigated the room, the smiles, the warmth—a performance so seamless it made your skin crawl. He very much look like he belonged.

You sank into the back of the cab, pulling out your laptop and flipping it open. You couldn’t shake the unease now that you look at the simulation your model had churned. The data—the tangled mess of trends and points you’d been staring at for weeks—felt like it was hiding something, just out of reach.

Sunghoon’s words from weeks ago echoed faintly in your mind: “They’re embedded in your systems. In your policies.”

“What if it’s a team effort?” you murmured to yourself as you pull up your coding window, inserting several data and refining the code to allow for some different sets of filtering. This time,  one layer of noise dropped. Another filter, another layer gone.

Slowly, patterns emerged where there had been none. The suspects—every single one—had histories that aligned: mental institutionalization, retrenchment, depression diagnoses. All of which conveniently could serve as motives behind drug abuse and the sudden violence as a byproduct of such addiction. The victims on the other hand were from the bottom rung of society – the homeless, the poor, the invisible – people whose deaths wouldn’t have made dent and wouldn’t have been fought for.

If it is a team effort and that they’re embedded in every sector, you pondered toggling with the filters, then the demand and supply can be carefully managed.

Eight years ago, a similar pattern emerged in your little town—but it was confined to a pureblood and a couple of strays.  But this? This was larger. It was a system beneath the system. An empire operating in shadows. Or perhaps, you thought, it's a collusion of system that straddle both worlds.

You sunk back into your seat, your head spinning as you realised the gravity of the situation if indeed true. Outside, the city blurred past, its twinkling lights reflected across glass and metal surfaces like fleeting stars. The golden seal of the invitation caught your eye where it lay in your bag, gleaming faintly. As if it was beckoning you.

You hesitated, the weight of the decision pressing down on you. In another life—one with stability, comfort, and certainty—you might have left that envelope unopened, dismissed it as someone else’s game. But that wasn’t your life, was it? Not anymore.

Not since Sunghoon's returned at least. For since his reappearance, your days had become a delicate balancing act, every step more precarious than the last, every shadow in corner felt more ominous by the passing day. With your data pointing toward something vast and insidious, the invitation felt less like a trap and more like an opportunity. Reckless? Yes. But what choice did you have? This was a chance to get closer to the truth, to the root of the tangled chaos that had consumed your life.

The seal gleamed as the cab pulled at a traffic stop—a quiet and unyielding challenge.

Your resolve solidified in that moment.

By the time the cab pulled up to your apartment, you had already submitted your leave request: two weeks, no questions asked. Moving on autopilot, you packed a small bag—your laptop, backups of the data, and whatever else you thought you might need.

You didn’t know if you were walking into a trap or uncovering the truth. But either way, you were determined to find out. You were, afterall, already walking a tightrope as it is.

— vi

True enough, the farther the drive went, the more foreboding the journey became. An hour and a half in, the landscape had transformed into an endless expanse of towering ancient trees. The sun, so bright when you’d left the city, was nowhere to be found—as though you’d been transported into a realm of perpetual darkness.

You glanced at your phone, hoping in vain that you'd a get a signal. Nothing. Nada. But then it wasn't like the signal would have helped, Google Maps showed you that your destination is buried in middle of an unbroken expanse of green—no landmarks, no markings, not even a hint of civilization.

Anton wasn’t exaggerating, you thought, unease coiling tighter in your chest. It's one thing for the retreat to be shrouded in so much secrecy; but another for it to actually be able to evade global mapping systems entirely.

“We’re here, Madam,” the driver announced as the car turned into a gated lawn. Through the dense canopy of ancient trees, you caught glimpses of something massive looming in the distance. Its spires pierced the sky, clawing out from the forested expanse like talons.

“A manor?”

“A castle, Madam,” the driver corrected, the car’s tires crunching over the gravel path. “One of the few left. Very highly protected.”

The path wound sharply uphill, twisting like a serpent as it climbed higher into the forested slope. Ancient wrought-iron torches lined the way, their uneven intervals casting flickering pools of golden light that danced across the shadows of the towering trees. With each turn, more of the castle came into view, unraveling piece by piece. Its gothic silhouette loomed larger with every moment, the sheer size of it making the air seem heavier, as though the structure itself demanded reverence. "I can see why," you sighed, in complete awe.

By the time the car reached the final bend, the forest opened up completely, revealing the castle in all its glory. Perched atop the hill like a sentinel, its massive stone walls seemed to rise endlessly into the sky, adorned with spires and arches that looked almost alive in their intricacy. The grandeur of it was otherworldly, a masterpiece of both architecture and menace.

By the time the car slowed to a stop before the entrance, the sun had fully set—its descent perfectly timed, as if orchestrated to embody the very essence of the Noctis Imperium which aptly translated as 'The Empire of Shadows'. You checked back the agenda and true enough, every events were set to start once the sun sets.

“Madam y/n,” a pair of what looked like a maid and a butler, judging from the uniform, greeted you. “Please come with us, we have been assigned to you. We shall show you around and show you to your suite.”

As you followed the maid, you swallowed thickly, your steps faltering at the sight before you. The castle loomed larger up close, its presence more imposing and ominous than you had imagined. Crimson light seeped through the towering windows, bathing the weathered stone in an eerie glow, as though the building itself pulsed with a forbidden life force. At the grand entrance, blood-red flowers coiled up the walls, their tendrils creeping toward the arched doorway like veins, giving the unsettling impression that the castle was bleeding from within. The effect was grotesque yet mesmerizing, made even more chilling by the gargoyles crouched on the jagged edges of the roof, their wretched expressions seemingly serve as a warning.

As you ventured deeper into the castle, the emptiness and stillness seemed to press heavier around you, yet the unsettling sensation of being watched clung to you like a second skin. Faces in oil paintings—pale, sharp-featured men and women—appeared to shift in the corner of your vision, their painted eyes tracking your every move with unnerving precision. Shadows lingered in the corners, seeming to stir with faint, unnatural movement, and more than once, you swore you heard footsteps trailing behind you. But each time you turned, you found nothing but darkness pooling at your heels.

“Madam y/n,” the maid interrupted your thoughts as they stopped at the farthest corner of the fifth floor, “this will be your suite.”

She pushed open the massive double doors, revealing a room so grand it could have swallowed your entire apartment twice over. The space was opulent yet cold—ancient but well-kept. Rich, crimson drapes framed the tall windows, shielding the suite from whatever darkness lurked outside. The bed was enormous, its carved wooden posts supporting a canopy of deep velvet that seemed to absorb all light. The furniture—ornate dressers, armchairs, and a writing desk—looked like it had been plucked straight from a century long past.

Despite the beauty and grandiosity, the room was no less comforting than the dark corridors outside as it felt both untouched and meticulously staged—like a theater set waiting for its players to arrive.

“Madam,” the maid’s voice drew your attention. She moved to a dresser near the far wall and opened its doors, revealing a collection that left your mouth slightly agape. “These are from Mr. Kim Sunoo,” she explained, gesturing gracefully at the contents. “He has prepared a selection of designers for you to choose from. One for each evening.”

Designer gowns of every color and cut hung delicately, their fabrics shimmering faintly in the dim light. Silks, chiffons, and velvets, all rich and lush, stitched with gold and silver threads. Each one looked painstakingly curated, designed to command attention. A far cry from the practical wardrobe you were used to.

Far from being delighted and spoiled for choice however – the uneasiness you feel only grew. This did not felt like hospitality.

It felt like preparation.

— vii

You stood hestiantly in front of the Hall of Ascendancy—the weight of the decision pressing down on you. You had considered skipping tonight’s welcome dinner altogether—after all, unlike everyone, you weren’t exactly here to mingle and shake hands with elites. But, given the circumstances, skipping would only attract unwanted attention and you weren’t about to make waves before you had a clearer understanding of what you were truly stepping into.

You stared at your reflection in a nearby polished surface, taking in the sleek black suede long-sleeved gown you had chosen for tonight. Its asymmetrical cut was understated but elegant—one shoulder covered, the other left bare, the smooth fabric dipping to reveal your collarbone. The golden phoenix embellishments—one over the shoulder and the other delicately positioned just above the curve of your chest following the neckline—shimmered faintly under the low light, resting on the rich fabric as if they were alive. It was a dress that does not scream for attention, but one that still whispered sophistication.

Just as you stood there, caught between hesitation and obligation, a butler appeared at your side, pushing a cart laden with Venetian masks. He glanced at you briefly, his expression polite but unreadable. “It’s tradition Madam,” he said, his voice smooth and practiced, beckoning you to pick any one of the masks. “Everyone is supposed to be equals once inside. The masks ensure that no one stands above the others, no titles, no status. Simply anonymity.”

Guests ahead of you eagerly snatched the most ornate masks—studded with jewels, embroidered in gold filigree, some even fashioned with feathers that curved skyward. You, by contrast, reached for the most unassuming one: a black Colombina Venetian mask with faded bronze detailing. It blended into the shadows, almost disappearing entirely. Just as you preferred.

As you step into the Hall of Ascendancy, the irony of its name strikes you almost as sharply as the chilling ambiance. The term, which typically conjures visions of rising to heights of glory and light, is subverted here into something far more sinister. Instead of ascending into brilliance, the hall seems to draw all who enter into a descent into shadow.

Above, towering Gothic arches stretch upward, but rather than reaching a grand zenith, they dissolve into darkness, the ceiling lost to an enveloping blackness. This architectural feat creates the disquieting illusion of an upside-down ascendancy, as if the very structure aims to pull the heavens down into the abyss.

The hall is dimly lit by countless candles clustered along its length, their glow insufficient to penetrate the upper shadows but adequate to cast a ghostly light on the faces of the masked guests. Each mask, elaborately crafted and grotesquely beautiful, appears almost spectral under the flickering candlelight. The play of light and shadows however twisted their features, turning what might be considered majestic into something distinctly macabre.

In this realm of reversed ascendancy, the guests move like phantoms against a backdrop of dark stone and darker shadows, their whispers echoing off the walls as if sharing secrets with the ancient stones. Their movement—gliding soundlessly in pairs, every step perfectly in rhythm with the eerie strains of the orchestra—makes your skin crawl.

They were too graceful. Too perfect.

You tried not to stare, reminding yourself that some among them might be bloodsuckers. But that was precisely the most unsettling part—you wouldn't know who. Everyone was perfectly hidden behind elaborate gowns and crisp suits, their expressions meticulously concealed behind eerie Venetian masks.

“y/n!”

The voice was familiar, bright—an anchor in this dizzying sea of masked spectre.

Sunoo.

You spotted him, his pale skin glimmering under the faint light, the grin behind his own half mask unmistakeable. He waved enthusiastically, threading through the crowd as though they weren’t even there. You lifted your hand, returning his wave, moving instinctively toward him.

But then—

The music swelled, deep and rhythmic, and soon the crowd, too, shifted. Pairs began to form, bodies turning in fluid precision. The crowd twisted and folded in on itself, the movements impossibly synchronized, cutting through the hall like tides.

Sunoo’s figure vanished, swallowed by the waves dancing guests.

“Sunoo?” you called, your voice dissolving into the music. You pushed forward but the crowd grew tighter. Dark gowns spun like shadows, masks turned toward you in quick, darting glances—just enough to unnerve you, just enough to make you feel watched. You tried to move away but like tidal wave, the dancing guests surged and swirled around you as if all conspiring to keep you tethered where you were.

Then—

A hand seized yours.

Before you could react, you were pulled sharply into the crowd, your body spun until you collided with someone—chest to chest. An arm snaked around your waist, strong and unyielding, holding you in place as the waltz swept you into its current.

“I’m sorry, I’m not—”

The words died in your throat. You recognized this grip—talon-like and suffocating, an iron cage clasping your ribs. The broad shoulders pressing against you and the sharp jawline cutting like stone beneath the Golden of the Colombina Venetian mask, were unmistakably familiar. And those eyes—the penetrating, intense gaze that seemed to probe the depths of your mind—left no room for doubt.

Park Sunghoon.

Of course, it was him. It was always him, you thought bitterly.

“Of course, it’s you,” you muttered, vivid memories starting to surge to the forefront of your mind—that of eight years ago during the Winter Ball when his grip had been just as unforgiving, his presence just as inescapable, and the proximity just as suffocating. It felt as though no time had passed at all.

His head tilted menacingly, the golden venetian mask he wore catching the flicker of candlelight. “—likewise, it is always you,” he murmured, his voice was quiet but edged with something darker.

The room, the people, the music—all of it faded to nothing. It was just you and him again, caught in a silent war that neither of you dared name. The waltz pulled you into its current, and Sunghoon led you with an ease that only reminded you how effortlessly he always took control.

“I told you to stay away,” he said softly, though there was no kindness in the words—just quiet steel.

“And I told you I don’t take orders,” you shot back, forcing steadiness into your voice despite the way his presence pressed against you, suffocating and all-encompassing. His proximity, the unyielding strength in his hold, stirred memories you had buried too deep to ignore. “Besides, I didn’t come here uninvited.”

“You let yourself be invited into a lion’s den,” he scoffed, the sound barely audible above the swell of violins.

“I trumped the rat maze you set for me eight years ago, didn’t I?" you retorted, "clearly, survival is my forte.”

His fingers curled tighter around your waist, vice-like against your ribs. Not enough to hurt, but enough to remind you who led this dance. “Take your penchant for mind games elsewhere, y/n. This isn’t a playpen—it’s a gladiator ring.”

“You should be the one taking your mind games elsewhere, Sunghoon. I know your game, so if you’re thinking of orchestrating everything around me just to play the savior—don’t bother,” you hissed. “Just come as you are. If you’re here for vengeance, then do it. Stop being cold one second and trying to save me the next.”

The music swelled again, a crescendo that made the floor seem to tremble beneath your feet. His fingers dug into your side—almost punishing—as though your words struck deeper than you expect it would.

As the piece surged toward its thunderous finale, Sunghoon’s hand shifted, guiding you into a sharp turn. But as you spun, the momentum of the movement carried you further than intended—too far for his grasp to reclaim you. The music fractured into a new, chaotic melody, the dancers around you shifting like tides in time with the change.

Before you could regain your balance, another hand caught yours, pulling you into the rhythm of the new dance. The hold was gentler this time, firm but reassuring, a stark contrast to the suffocating grip you’d just escaped. The voice that followed cut through the stifling tension, light and teasing.

“Sorry about that. You looked like you needed rescuing.”

You turned sharply, blinking up at the man who’d swept you to the edge of the room. He was slightly shorter than Sunghoon, his build lean and lithe. Where Sunghoon exuded impenetrable strength, this man moved with a kind of devil-may-care ease as though he thrived on chaos without ever letting it touch him. His blonde hair fell in deliberate disarray, a tousled mess that only added to the impression that nothing in this world—rules, expectations, or danger—could weigh him down.

His half-jester mask concealed the upper half of his face, but the smirk pulling at his lips was impossible to miss. It was wide, sharp, and full of boyish charm, a grin that danced the line between amusement and provocation. The silver lip ring he wore at the centre of his lower lip only enhanced the air of mischief he seemed to carry effortlessly.

“Jaeyun,” he introduced, his voice smooth but carrying the kind of playfulness that made you wonder if he ever took anything seriously. Spinning you out of the crowd with a dancer’s grace, he watched you closely, the weight of his gaze hidden beneath the mask, yet still palpable. His grip was steady but not imposing, the veins on his hands prominent, betraying a strength that seemed out of place with his disarming demeanor.

“I haven’t seen you around before,” he continued smoothly, his tone casual but edged with intrigue. There was something both playful and calculated about him, as though every word he spoke carried a double meaning.

“That is probably because I’m not part of the 1%. Just someone invited out of favour,” you shrugged and eased up, thinking how anywhere was better than being near Sunghoon and right now in this man’s arms, you felt oddly at ease.

His golden brow arched beneath the mask, a playful smirk curling his lips. “No one here gets invited without a reason, my lady. You’re meant to be here.”

“Trust me,” you said drily, “I’m no one important, so you’ve picked the wrong girl to waltz with. I can’t help you worm your way to any position.”

He chuckled, “well, that makes two of us. I’m no one important either. Just a nepo baby bouncing between industries like a particularly well-dressed pinball.”

The laugh that escaped you was unguarded, the first real one that night.

“I don’t think I can last much longer tonight,” you admitted quietly, glancing back at the sea of masked faces and swirling gowns. “Do you think there’s a way to sneak out of here?”

He chuckled, as though he’d been waiting for you to ask. “Skipping the speech? Bold choice. I approve.” He leaned closer, his voice dropping conspiratorially. “Don’t let a maid or butler catch you—they’ll just escort you back in. But I know a way. I’ll help you escape to your chamber.”

You hesitated, glancing back at the dark swirl of dancers in the center of the room. Somewhere in that tide of velvet and masks, you knew Sunghoon was watching.

“Lead the way,” you muttered, straightening your mask and steeling yourself against the lingering shiver of Sunghoon’s presence.

Jaeyun offered his arm with a wink. “Smart choice. Follow me.”

He led you deftly through the swirling mass of dancers, weaving in and out of the crowd as though he’d done this a hundred times before. You kept your hand in his, letting him pull you along, grateful for the escape—even if part of you couldn’t shake the feeling that this castle had eyes everywhere.

The towering figures in elaborate cloaks and Venetian masks seemed to loom larger as you passed, their heads turning ever so slightly in your direction, as though they knew your intentions. You forced yourself to look ahead, Jaeyun’s golden hair your only anchor amidst the sea of elaborate gowns and flickering shadows.

At last, he pushed open a discreet side door, ushering you into a narrow, dimly lit corridor. The muffled strains of the orchestra faded slightly, replaced by the faint hum of silence. The walls here were stone, the flickering sconces spaced farther apart, casting deep pools of darkness.

“There,” he said, finally letting go of your hand and gesturing down the hall. “This leads back toward the guest wings. No one’ll bother you this way—no guards, no butlers.”

You glanced at him warily, still catching your breath. “And how do you know all of this?”

Jaeyun flashed that mischievous smile, but there was something in his eyes—a flicker of something too knowing. “I have my ways,” he teased, tapping the edge of his mask. “I’m a bit of an expert at slipping out unnoticed.”

You folded your arms, trying to read him. He didn’t feel like the others—those unsettling, predatory guests whose masked faces all seemed to tilt as you passed. Compared to Sunghoon’s towering, fortress-like presence, Jaeyun was the opposite—light, sharp, and unpredictable. If Sunghoon was a storm, heavy with inevitability, Jaeyun was the wind, playful and untethered, ready to shift direction at any moment.

“You’re not leading me into another lion’s den, are you?” you asked flatly. Trust is afterall not something you hand out very freely.

He chuckled. “No lions here. Maybe a few rats, but you’ll be fine.” He tilted his head toward the hallway. “Go on, I’ll keep watch to make sure no one follows.”

You hesitated, searching his expression one last time, but his grin was steady, his posture relaxed—like someone who lived for mischief but wasn’t cruel enough to throw you into a pit for fun.

“Fine,” you muttered. “Thanks, I guess.”

“Don’t mention it,” he said, stepping back into the shadows near the door. “And don’t get lost—these halls have a habit of playing tricks. It's not called the Corridors of Treachery for nothing.”

You shot him one last glance before hurrying down the corridor, the faint sound of your heels against the stone floor echoing back at you. The hallway stretched longer than you’d expected, the shadows creeping in at the edges of your vision, distorting the path. Doors lined the hallway on either side, their carved handles gleaming faintly in the dim light, inviting and forbidding all at once.

You reached for the nearest door, desperate to find a way back to your chambers. It creaked open slowly, revealing a narrow staircase spiraling downward into darkness. Nope, you thought as you closed the door and opened the one next to it.

This time, the door opened to a vast, empty dining hall, its long table draped in crimson cloth, the chairs eerily vacant as though waiting for unseen occupants. The chandeliers above swayed slightly, though no wind stirred the air. You slammed the door shut, your breath catching, the eerie stillness pressing against your chest.

Your heart raced as you tried another handle, and another, each opening up to various types of rooms but not to the North Wing. You reached the end of the corridor, desperation creeping into your movements. But when the door opened, your stomach twisted. The staircase from the first door now stood before you again.

No, that's not possible. You turned sharply, your gaze darting down the corridor. You were certain the staircase had been at the other end of the hall, far from here. Yet here it was, unmoved, defying logic.

Shaking your head, you pushed the thought aside and moved to the next door, your steps hurried. The knob twisted reluctantly under your grip, creaking open to reveal something entirely different. The air shifted, heavier now, the dim light casting elongated shadows across the floor. The scent of dust and aged paper filled your senses.

“A library?” you murmured, the word barely audible as your curiosity overrode caution. Towering bookshelves rose around you, their rows packed with cracked leather bindings. The silence was oppressive, broken only by the faint creak of wood beneath your steps. You ventured further in, but a sudden sound stopped you cold—footsteps. Voices.

“I swear I saw someone—” a maid’s voice, soft but tense, carried through the corridor outside.

“No one would be stupid enough to use this corridor,” an older, irritated butler replied. “Still, we’ll get in trouble if someone’s unaccounted for in the Hall. You check the doors on that side. I’ll take this one—”

Panic shot through you as Jaeyun’s warning echoed in your mind: Don’t let them catch you. They’ll just drag you back. Before you could think, you had already shut the door behind you, bolting it as quietly as possible. The prospect of locking yourself in an unfamiliar room was unsettling, but the thought of being dragged back into the Hall was enough to root you in place.

Stepping back into the dim room, your fingers brushed against a nearby oil lamp. You hesitated only for a moment before taking it, the soft glow pushing back the shadows around you. A new thought flickered in your mind: perhaps this was exactly where you needed to be because if there were any place to find answers, it would be in a library.

And so you turned to the towering shelves, your eyes already skimming the spines of the books. Most of the books were likely ancient with their cracked spines etched with unfamiliar symbols and faded runes.

And then, something caught your attention.

There, in the middle of the farthest shelf, tucked between larger tomes, was a book entitled The Annals of Kings. Its spine was cracked with age, the title barely visible in faded gold lettering. Perhaps this can tell me more about the owner of the castle, you thought, carefully taking it out and flipping open the cover. At first, the book seemed to be a meticulously detailed chronicle of royal bloodlines—family trees stretching back to eras long forgotten, with unfamiliar crests and names etched in bold, precise script. "Weird," you find yourself whispering as one particular page had burnt marks precisely over some members of the House. As you flipped further, your breath hitch when your eyes read the word 'Purebloods' in the 3rd chapter. You remembered Sunghoon had once talked about a 'Pureblood' to refer to one of them.

You read on, setting the book down on a nearby table:

In the earliest epochs of human civilization, the Purebloods did not linger in the shadows—they ruled openly, their supernatural gifts woven seamlessly into the fabric of leadership. To mortals, their superhuman abilities appeared as divine providence, unparalleled intelligence, or sheer physical prowess. Kingdoms flourished under their command, their strength ensuring stability and their cunning guiding progress. Mortals, though inferior, were the lifeblood of the empire in every sense—figuratively and literally. They served not only as a source of sustenance but as indispensable tools in the expansion and maintenance of vampiric rule. By draining mortals to the brink of death, Purebloods could create Strays: undead beings stripped of humanity and intelligence, reduced to feral creatures driven solely by hunger and instinct. These mindless abominations, incapable of fear or betrayal, became perfect instruments of war. By contrast, Spoilbloods were created with precision and strategic intent. Only mortals of exceptional strength, intellect, or loyalty were chosen—sifted from the mortals and meticulously groomed. The transformation involved an agonizing process: near-fatal blood loss followed by the infusion of Pureblood blood. The result was a new kin—impure yet indispensable. Retaining their human intellect and experience, Spoilbloods became tethered to their Pureblood creators through an unbreakable bond. They served as advisors, enforcers, and agents, wielding their knowledge of mortal affairs to further their master’s dominion. Their dual nature made them invaluable, bridging the gap between humanity and the Purebloods’ reign, and solidifying the Purebloods’ control over mortal realms. But as the empire grew, so too did ambition and recklessness. The turning of mortals, once deliberate and controlled, became indiscriminate. Strays, bred in overwhelming numbers, escaped their creators’ control, wreaking havoc even within vampiric strongholds. Spoilbloods, no longer chosen for their value, were created in excess, leading to insubordination and infighting. The tools that had forged an empire became the seeds of its collapse. Strays, unleashed without thought, ravaged lands indiscriminately. Spoilbloods, embittered by their tainted status, turned on their masters, allying with mortals or seeking power for themselves. And mortals, emboldened by the chaos, rose in rebellion, wielding fire and steel against their oppressors. What followed was the Great Sundering—a cataclysmic collapse of the Shadow Reign. Purebloods who had once ruled openly were forced to retreat into obscurity, their ambitions tempered by the need for secrecy. Now, the Purebloods operate from the shadows, manipulating mortals and maintaining their dominion through whispers and unseen influence. Yet the lessons of the past remain unlearned, for ambition stirs once more. The tools that once brought empires to ruin may yet be repurposed in the pursuit of a legacy reborn—

The sound of a doorknob turning shattered your concentration, your heart nearly leaping out of your ribcage. “See? It’s locked—” the butler’s voice, the one from earlier, filtered through, sharp with irritation. “No one is here. Let’s go now before we’re the ones getting searched for.”

You exhaled shakily, bracing yourself against the table as your pulse thundered in your ears. I need to go. Quickly, you shut the book, its weight feeling heavier now, as though it carried more than history—something darker, something alive. You wanted to read more, to uncover the truths buried in its pages, but lingering wasn’t an option. And carrying a book about vampire history through this castle felt like begging for trouble.

Your gaze fell to your gown, and in a moment of desperation, you slipped the book into the narrow space between your corset and dress. The edges dug into your ribs uncomfortably, but it would have to do.

Unbolting the door with painstaking caution, you cracked it open just enough to peek into the hallway. Clear. You slipped into the corridor, moving as quickly as you dared. One door, then another—each led to rooms you’d already seen, as though the corridor itself conspired against you, bending and twisting your sense of direction.

"I swear if—" you groaned in frustation as you twisted the doorknob next to the lopsided sconce, half expecting it to open into a room you had seen but this time, as if the corridor has had enough of torturing you, it opened to the North Wing, the one you had passed through to get to your room.

Relief surged through you, propelling your legs forward. You darted down the hall, your steps unsteady, nearly stumbling as your door came into view. Throwing yourself inside, you slammed it shut, bolting it with trembling hands. Leaning heavily against the door, your chest heaved, each gasp scraping against the pressure of the book pressed tightly to your ribs, making every breath feel like a chore.

With a frustrated sigh, you reached for the zipper of your gown, tugging it down just enough to free the stolen volume. The moment felt almost triumphant—until—

“Fuck—what the heck, Park Sunghoon?!”

Your own voice rang out, sharp and panicked, as you froze.

There he was. Sitting on your bed like he owned it, leaning back lazily with his arms sprawled behind him. His hands pressed into the mattress to prop himself up, his posture infuriatingly casual, like he’d been waiting for hours. One leg stretched out, the other bent loosely at the knee.

His golden Venetian mask sat perched atop his head, as though he’d lazily shoved it out of the way. The ornate design, with its sharp angles and eerie elegance, looked less menacing up there—but you’d almost prefer it over his uncovered face. At least the mask didn’t smirk. That infuriating curve of his lips, brimming with amusement, made you want to throw something at him. But more annoying than that was his gaze: how it lingered—too long—on your corseted torso where the gown had slipped slightly from your shoulders. Your cheeks flamed, flustered, as you hastily tugged your dress back together, zipping it up in one swift, jerky motion. You clutched the fabric tightly over your chest, as though it could shield you from the weight of his gaze.

“Calm down,” he drawled, his voice low and almost teasing. “You had a corset on. It’s not like you were only in your br—”

“Shut it," you snapped.

Sunghoon’s smirk deepened, but the amusement in his expression gave way to something sharper as his eyes dropped to the book still clutched in your hands.

“Instead of worrying about your dignity,” he said, his tone suddenly edged with steel, “you might want to worry about the implication of stealing that.”

“It’s just a book,” you muttered, though you knew better.

He tilted his head, the casual air around him darkening. “Just a book? That’s a very important book, and people would kill to lay their hands on it—humans especially. And if the nonhumans find out that a human had stolen it…” He let the words hang, the unspoken consequence thickening the silence.

You swallowed hard, suspicion flaring despite his warning. “perhaps you’re just saying that to stop me from learning what’s inside.”

He rose fluidly from the bed, moving closer with that same languid grace that unnerved you, “Actually, you know what..." his voice was calm, almost mocking, as he advanced toward you. He didn’t stop, his deliberate steps forcing you to retreat until your back hit the door, "Go ahead. Read it from cover to cover. Then maybe you’ll finally understand how foolish you had been to throw yourself here—and perhaps…”

His tone sharpened as his hand slid up the curve of your waist, his fingers curling against your ribs with a vicelike grip. The pressure pinned you harder against the door, leaving no room to escape. You had almost forgotten how paralyzing his beauty could be up close—how each sharp line of his face seemed crafted with unnerving precision. But it wasn’t just his features; it was his gaze.

There, in the scant inches between you, his eyes burned with an intensity that made you hold your breath. It wasn’t the probing look you’d grown used to, the one that seemed to sift through your thoughts for answers. No, this was something else. This gaze demanded. It didn’t seek to uncover the depth of your mind; it sought to make you reveal it willingly.

And then, fleeting but unmistakable, you caught the way his eyes flitted downward—down to your lips—before returning to your eyes. It was brief, the kind of glance you could almost convince yourself didn’t happen, but the air between you felt thicker for it, alive with unspoken tension.

“—learn a thing or two about not trusting anyone here,” he finished, his voice like the brush of a blade against your throat.

The door clicked open softly behind you, and his hand released you just as suddenly as it had held you. Before you could process the shift, something cold pressed into your palm. It was your dagger—the one he impaled on your stacks of files with just weeks ago.

“I’d keep that knife on me at all times if I were you,” he murmured, breath ghosting your ear. “And maybe sleep with one eye open. You’ve made quite the impression tonight—and I’m not just talking about me.”

It was only then did you notice the small charm dangling from the hilt of your dagger—a ruby crest, unmistakably his. It swayed gently, a silent signature that felt more mocking than reassuring. The crimson gem glinted wickedly in the dim light, its gleam as taunting and inescapable as the smirk that now lingered, unbidden, in your thoughts.

— viii

The second night reconvened in an entirely different space. Unlike the grandeur of the Hall of Ascendancy, tonight’s venue stretched seamlessly into a vast conservatory. But this wasn’t just any conservatory—it was a towering mansion of glass and steel, an architectural marvel that seemed almost alive under the full moon, which hung high above.

The guests were already assembled by the time you arrived, their attire more elaborate than ever. Velvet gowns flowed like liquid shadows, and cloaks billowed with every calculated step. Masks adorned with jewels, feathers, and gilded filigree glinted in the broken light, their ornate designs blurring the line between beauty and monstrosity.

But tonight, something felt different.

Their movements, slower and more deliberate, carried an unsettling weight. The laughter that echoed through the towering space was sharper, colder, its brittle edges slicing through the charged silence.

They no longer looked like nobles. Their presence felt predatory, their glances sharp and calculating, their steps echoing with a primal rhythm. After what you’d learned yesterday, you no longer saw them as elegant courtiers.

Your burgundy gown did little to comfort you, its sheer cape trailing behind as you moved through the crowd. The beads shimmered under the moonlight like droplets of blood, an omen you couldn’t ignore. The dagger in your garter weighed heavier than ever, its promise sharp against your thigh.

At the far end of the room, the soft murmur of voices fell silent when the host stepped onto a raised platform, his usual playful energy somewhat tempered by the atmosphere. “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” the host spread his arms wide in a gesture of welcome. “Or perhaps I should say hunters and prey.”

A ripple of laughter moved through the crowd, low and knowing.

“As per tradition, tonight we hunt. We test not just our skill but our resolve,” he continued, his tone light but his words laden with a weight that made your stomach churn. “Our prey tonight will be scattered across the grounds. Cunning and elusive, just as they always have been. You know the rules. The one with the highest count by sunrise… wins.”

The crowd stirred, their masked faces tilting in eerie anticipation.

“Hunting?” you whispered, dread curling through you – dread that no one seems to share. “Of course,” you thought to yourself, “it’s normal rich people bloodsport. Deplorable.”

“Word of advice?”

You jumped, surprised, spinning to face the owner of the voice. It was Jaeyun. Despite wearing an ominous half Plague Doctor mask this time, you could easily recognise those piercing in the middle of his lips and the playful voice. He leaned closer, whispering,  “—don’t think of just sitting around and laying low.”

Your brows furrowed. “Excuse me?”

“This is more than just your usual ‘rich-people bloodsport’. The real prize lay beyond rabbits, bison, herrons-” Jaeyun said smoothly, a casual drawl lacing his words.

You shook your head, disbelieving, “forget it. I’m not interested in getting first place in killing innocent animals.”

“Trust me, it’s not just about coming up at the top,” he muttered ominously before his lips widened into the usual playful grin. “That aside…” he beckoned subtly, nudging you to glance toward the far end of the room, “I can never tell if you two are lovers or enemies, but there’s something there. He’s been staring for ages.”

You turned, following his line of sight, and felt your pulse stutter.

Sunghoon.

He stood at the far side of the glasshouse, his tall figure cutting through the crowd like a shadow. But even the mask couldn’t conceal the intensity of his stare—sharp, piercing, locked directly onto you.

You tore your gaze away, the weight of it lingering far too heavily on your shoulders.

“Careful,” Jaeyun murmured, his grin turning faintly wolfish, “you might end up being the one he hunts tonight instead of a bison.”

Before you could respond, a bell rang and darkness consumed the glasshouse. “You have until sun down,” you hear the host announce, amusement evident, “eternal glory awaits those who makes it. Happy hunting.”

There was something ominous about the way he emphasizes the words but before you could process them further, you feel a hand on yours, soft but insistent. “Madam, it’s me,” you recognised the voice, it was one of those maids who served you breakfast this morning, “please follow me. I am to take you to your respective position.”

Before you could resist, she slipped a blindfold over your eyes and led you outside. The cold night air bit at your skin, your pulse quickening with every step. When the blindfold came off, you were near a shed, and  a shotgun was thrusted into your hands.

The bell tolled again, its echo swallowed by the night, and almost immediately, gunshots rang out, shattering the stillness. Manic laughter followed—sharp, jagged, and unhinged, like a predator’s glee.

You’d always been competitive, but killing innocent animals had never been your sport. As the Maid stepped away, a thought struck you. Without hesitation, you grabbed her arm, realizing you could easily disguise yourself—especially since the mask you wore among the guests would conceal your identity.

“Trade clothes with me," you said urgently, "please. It's a bit too heavy for hunting, don't you think?" you lied.

The maid looked hesitant at first but eventually agreed after you promised her some reward as long as she finds you afterward. You two ducked inside the shed and traded clothes.

The maid's uniform was simple and nondescript, just a black velvet dress that hugged the figure modestly with its high neckline framed by delicate white lace and long sleeves that gathered slightly at the shoulders with a matching lace at the cuffs. It was the perfect attire for hiding in plain sight. Or running, should you need to.

You muttered a thanks as she took her leave but just as you were buttoning yours, you heard noises—footsteps, closer now, and the sharp bark of a laugh that set your teeth on edge. You froze, your breath caught in your throat, as you crept toward the narrow window.

Outside, in the clearing beyond, stood the tall man whose obnoxious laugh had always filled the hall whenever you guys gather. His mask hung crooked on his face, barely concealing the manic grin beneath it. He cocked his rifle toward the shadows, his movements deliberate, his laughter trailing like the howl of a wolf on the hunt. Then he fired indiscriminately.

A rabbit fell first, its small body tumbling lifelessly into the frost-tipped grass. Then an eagle, a deer—anything that dared move. He chuckled to himself, carelessly slinging the dead rabbit over his shoulder as another figure emerged from the shadows.

“You’re hoarding everything,” the newcomer whined. He wore a double-faced mask—one side smiling, the other weeping—and his movements were unnervingly fluid, almost inhuman. “You’ve really got to leave some for us poor uncivilized folk. It’s not like we can afford to go hunting every week.”

The tall man turned with an arrogant shrug, his grin widening. “Well, some people are just meant to stay at the top.”

Before he could say more, the masked figure vanished—gone, like smoke dissipating into the night.

And then he was behind him.

You barely suppressed a gasp as the double-faced figure reappeared, silent and sudden, sinking his fangs deep into the tall man’s neck. There wasn’t even time for a scream—just a gurgled choke as the man’s body went limp, his rifle falling uselessly to the ground. The tall man’s once boisterous laughter was silenced forever.

You staggered back, horror twisting in your gut, bile rising in your throat. The realization hit you like ice—this wasn’t just a hunt. It was a literal bloodsport and you were part of the pecking order, a prey for a specific kind of predator.

You had to flee now.

Your pulse thundered in your ears as you darted out of the shed, the shadows of the garden swallowing you whole. Thorny rose bushes clawed at your skirt as you weaved through the rows, their petals dark as ink beneath the full moon. Then you heard it—a low, muffled protest. A man’s voice, weak and disbelieving. You froze, crouching behind the tangled branches, peering through a narrow clearing.

“You bastard—” the man on the ground croaked as he laid in a pool of his own blood. The bile rose in your throat as his voice cracked with desperate rage, “—they were right, you shouldn’t have lived.”

Another man suddenly stepped into the frame with unhurried ease, exuding an air of cold authority. Then with utter ruthlessness, brought his shoe down onto the bleeding man's face, tilting it toward your direction. The lifeless eyes locked onto yours, wide and unblinking, fangs bared in a final expression of fury—frozen in death.

“Why do you have to bleed that much?” the man above him muttered, his tone detached and annoyed. “It’s getting all over my trousers.”

Your breath caught. You knew that voice. That smooth, unbothered and utterly unforgiving voice.

Park Sunghoon.

He stood over the lifeless body, unnervingly casual, shaking his shoes to remove the last traces of blood, as though he’d swatted a fly instead of taken a life.

Your chest tightened. You should have known—he was a vampire after all which means he must have also been taking part in this brutal, predatory game. But seeing it like this, the casual ruthlessness in his every move, made the realization cut deeper than you’d ever prepared for.

Then, his head snapped up.

Fuck, you thought as you drew back instinctively, he knew.

You stifled a gasp, turning on your heel to bolt the other way—only to collide with something solid. Someone.

Sunghoon.

Before you could react, his fingers wrapped around your wrist, effortlessly stilling the blade you had instinctively raised between you. But it wasn’t the pain in your wrist that made your blood ran cold. It was the expression in his eyes. Cold. Calculating. It occured to you that if he could kill his own kind so easily and so remorselessly – killing you would be child’s play especially given the bad blood between you too.

“I should have known—" you said scornfully. Each word spitted out like venom, “you’re just like them.”

“I never said I was any different,” he replied smoothly, his brows arching with disinterested amusement, as though your accusation was a mild inconvenience. “Your words imply you thought otherwise though. I’m touched. But game’s over y/n, let’s stop beating around the—”

Before he could continue, the sharp twang of a bowstring shattered the silence. An arrow sliced through the air, embedding itself in the stone fountain between you with a thud.

“Not the most gentlemanly, is it?”

Both of you turned sharply.

Jaeyun stood at the edge of the clearing, a bow in hand, a smirk painted across his face. His plague doctor mask gleam rather luminously in the moonlight. “Attacking a lone woman? That’s very low of you, Lord Park. But then again, the bar has been in hell when it comes to you—"

Another arrow zipped through the air but Sunghoon caught it mid-flight, snapping the shaft with an almost irritated flick of his wrist. Before he could react further, however, Jaeyun fired again. This time, the arrow struck true, embedding itself into Sunghoon’s upper arm. While pulling his bowstring taut for another hit, Jaeyun tilted his head sharply in your direction, the motion clear and deliberate: run.

You didn’t need to be told twice. You bolted toward the castle, your dagger still clutched tightly in your hand. Behind you, the sound of movement—fast, deliberate, and unnervingly close—cut through the night, followed by the sharp crack of something violent. But you didn’t look back.

You tore through the rose garden, through the labyrinth of shadowed corridors, until the heavy castle doors loomed before you. They slammed shut behind you with a deafening boom, the echo resounding like a gunshot in the empty hall. Only then did you pause, chest heaving, your pulse a frantic rhythm beneath your skin.

As you force yourself to make your way through the series of hallways, dread rose with every step when you realised you had stepped into the Corridors of Treachery—its narrow, winding passages and endless series of identical doors looming ominously before you.

“Fuck,” you muttered defeatedly as you tried door after door, only to find yourself circling back to the same rooms you had already seen. It was as though the castle itself conspired to trap you within its labyrinth.

At this rate, he’d find you.

Then finally, one door opened to a different room. Relief surged through you—until you saw where you’d ended up. The library.

You groaned in frustration, about to turn back but then realised that perhaps this was exactly where you should be. You quickly shut the door behind you as you recalled the host mentioning how tonight's event was tradition. If it was tradition, then there had to be something written about it.

Grabbing the nearest lamp, you scanned the shelves for books that details about traditions or perhaps rituals, reading the titles aloud in a voice that is barely above a whisper: "The Blood Wars. The Vitae Manifesto. Of Reigns and Conquests. The Obsidian Testament. The Silent Prophecy—"

You froze. Backtracking, your fingers traced over one title. The Obsidian Testament.

“This—” you murmured, cutting yourself off as you freed the book from its resting place. You remembered a reference to this particular book yesterday, though the page had been burnt—intentionally, it seemed, as though someone had tried to erase all traces of its existence.

The words from The Annals of Kings surfaced in your mind like a whisper from the grave:  “The Obsidian Testament is no book—it is a hunger that feeds. Blood begets blood, and its truths are carved in the ruin of those who sought them.”

The Obsidian Testament felt heavier than you expected, its weight solid and unyielding, as if the book itself resisted being opened. The leather cover, cracked and brittle with age, was uneven beneath your fingertips. At first, you thought it was some widespread leather cracks, but no—there was something more deliberate about it. The surface felt etched, uneven ridges forming patterns you couldn’t quite discern under the flickering lamplight. But there was no time to linger.

Hurriedly, you flipped through the first few pages, your breath quickening as you searched for any explanation for the night’s macabre events but the first few pages only offered you macabre drawings of human, sigils and strange incantations.

There must be something, you thought desperately as you turned the brittle pages. The parchment crackled under your touch, the oppressive silence pressing in around you. Then, finally, something legible:

The Pureblood lineage, though unparalleled in strength, is not immune to the decay that plagues all empires. Bloodlines can weaken. Houses can fall.  To maintain the purity and continuation of our kind, vigilance is required. The survival of the Pureblood lineage is not merely a matter of existence but the continuation of perfection itself. The weak may breed indiscriminately, but the strong—the Purebloods—must refine and preserve their population with precision.

“Sounds like something straight out of a supremacist manifesto,” you murmured, but your words faltered as your eyes fell to the next few lines:

—what remains hidden knowledge, however, is that the act of turning a mortal into a Spoilblood, while widely practiced, harbors a purpose far greater than is openly acknowledged. The Reaping—is a truth reserved for the most exalted among us, a secret rite that transcends the mundane utility of turning. It is the keystone of power, a ritual that restores the Pureblood’s supremacy, binding mortality to perfection beneath the crimson glow of a blood moon. If, during a blood moon, a pureblood binds their hundredth Spoilblood, renewal grants power anew—

Just then you thought you saw movements outside the window. You peered through an opening, seeing three figures striding toward the castle, weapons glinting in the moonlight—a bat, a sickle, a scythe. The air grew heavy with the unmistakable promise of bloodshed.

You shoved the book back onto the shelf, your pulse hammering against your chest. Keeping to the shadows, you slipped back into the hall, trying every door possible. At last, one opened to a new hallway, but as you moved to leave, muffled cries stopped you.

“I’ll give you my wealth—my land—please!” The man’s voice was frantic, his words tumbling over each other in desperation. Looming over him were the 3 masked men from earlier, their choice of masks as macabre as the weapon in their hands

“Well, look who it is—the Actor,” the one in the Bauta Venetian mask said ,as he pushed the pleading man’s mask aside to reveal his face.

“Too bad,” sneered the one with the Baphomet mask, squatting beside him. “We’ve got too many pretty faces already. Shall we feast instead?”

“Sounds good to me. All that caviar and wine probably makes his blood taste divine.” The one in the clown mask pressed the edge of his scythe against the man’s neck. “Besides, he’s not good enough for the Reaping—not enough wealth and influence.”

The man’s protests fell on deaf ears, dissolving into guttural choking as the three figures descended upon him in a brutal, efficient frenzy. You turned away, bile rising in your throat, the wet, tearing sounds behind you digging into your mind like jagged glass.

Desperate to focus elsewhere, your gaze landed on the nearest window. The silver glow of the full moon spilled through it, freezing you in place as fragments of memory jolted through your mind, unbidden and sharp. Words from The Obsidian Testament rang like a broken radio—disjointed, warped. "When the full moon wanes, the blood moon will rise, and with it, chaos shall reign." The line clung to your thoughts, twisting with Anton’s offhand remark just a week ago: "There’s a Blood Moon this month," he’d said casually, as if it were a trivial astrological event.

The realisation struck you like a lightning bolt. Tonight's bloodsport wasn't simply for entertainment nor indulgence. It was preparation—an offering—for something far more insidious.

This wasn't just a game.

This was the prelude to a Reaping.

You needed to move—fast. The sickening sounds of their feeding still echoed down the corridor, making your skin crawl. Keeping low, you slipped past the door left ajar earlier and darted into the dimly lit hall, your footsteps light and deliberate. Ahead, a smaller door leading to the servants’ passage came into view.

You shoved it open, slipping through and climbing the spiral staircase two steps at a time, your breath quick and shallow. Then you heard it—the clatter of heavy footsteps below, sharp and deliberate. Looking down, your eyes locked with one of the men from earlier—the one in the Bauta mask. He stood at the base of the stairs, his head tilted, his expression unreadable beneath the eerie mask.

“Thought I sensed a weasel snooping around,” he called mockingly, his tone dripping with sinister amusement. “You’re mine, then.”

Panic surged. Fuck. You slammed the door shut behind you, twisting the lock just as he reached it, sprinting into what looked like a gallery of a statues. But everywhere you looked there were no exit in sight, just statues looming in eerie stillness, their solemn faces twisted as though mourning what was to come.

Behind you, the door crashed open, and his relentless footsteps followed, their sound reverberating through the empty space.

Desperation clawed at you as you slid behind one of the statues, your chest heaving, eyes darting around for an exit. Still none in sight. Your grip tightened around the dagger in your hand, its cool weight grounding you. The heart, you thought as your mind raced back to everything you’d read about vampires yesterday. That was their weak point.

But as your gaze flicked between the trembling dagger in your hand and the figure still prowling the gallery, searching for you, doubt seeped in like an unwelcome shadow. His towering build, his inhuman speed, his strength—there was no way you could overpower him.

Your eyes darted back to the blade, the calculated risk forming in your mind the only option left. Steeling yourself, you drew the blade across your thigh, wincing as the sharp pain flared and blood welled up in angry streaks which summoned him almost immediately. “Gotcha—" he sneered, as he closed the distance in one smooth unsettling motion, his grin stretching unnaturally wide, fangs bared in predatory triumph.

You let him topple you, his weight crashing down with bruising force. As you’d anticipated, his head dipped straight to your thigh, drawn to the fresh cut rather than your neck. His grip tightened, his breath sharp and ragged against your skin.

It was the opening you needed.

With a surge of determination, you drove the blade into his chest from his back, straight into his heart. A guttural hiss tore from his throat as his body convulsed, staggering back violently. Blood soaked his shirt as he clawed at the weapon embedded in his chest. He ripped it free with a snarl, flinging it aside like it was nothing more than an inconvenience. “You filthy wench,” he spat venomously, trying in vain to stem the flow of blood.

You didn’t wait. Scrambling to your feet, you grabbed the dagger he had thrown near you and darted back out to where you came from, sprinting into the corridor at the other end instead which led to a hallway lined with mirrors, their warped reflections casting eerie, shifting shadows. You sprinted aimlessly, your only thought to escape. But just as the end of the hallway came into view, something heavy wrenched you backward with inhuman strength. A hand clamped over your mouth, muffling your terrified cry. It can’t end like this, your mind screamed, desperation clawing at the edges of your sanity but no matter how hard you thrashed, it was futile and the next thing you knew, you were hurled into a small, confined space with the sound of the door clicking shut behind you sealing your fate.

Your back slammed against what felt like a cupboard, the hard surface digging painfully into your spine. The body pinning you in place was unyielding—a solid wall of muscle that absorbed your frantic shoves and kicks without faltering.

“Calm down, calm—” a familiar voice whispered, but with adrenaline fuelling your struggle, terror overrode recognition.

“y/n, calm the fuck down—it’s me, Sunghoon.”

Your movements stilled instantly, your chest heaving with ragged breaths. He flipped a hidden switch near the door, his face was set in frustration, though there was no malice in his eyes, “if you don’t stop struggling, they will find you—“

You looked at him, confused but suspicious. This was, afterall, still Sunghoon—a Pureblood who had killed another of his own tonight, and possibly Jaeyun as well. You were naturally next.

“Look,” he hissed, his tone edged with exasperation. “If I wanted to kill you, I would have done it already. I’ve had plenty of opportunities, remember?” His voice shifted then, quieter, almost coaxing. “I’m going to uncover your mouth, but only if you promise to stop fighting me—at least while we’re in here.”

Your heart pounded, your instincts screaming to resist, but grudgingly, you nodded. If he wanted you dead, he wouldn’t have gone to the trouble of dragging you here.

His hand dropped from your mouth, but before you could fully process what was happening, his arm moved behind you, sliding firmly along the curve of your back. With unsettling ease, he lifted you and settled you on top of the cupboard—the motion fluid and controlled, as though you weighed nothing.

Suddenly, he bit into his wrist, the blood welling instantly. “Sunghoon—what the hell—”

He didn’t answer. Instead, in one fluid movement, he stepped closer, his presence overwhelming as he positioned himself intimately between your legs, his hand sliding up your thigh with deliberate intent, the fabric of your dress gathering beneath his fingers.

“Hey—” you stammered, heat flushing your cheeks as you instinctively tried to stop him. But the protest died in your throat when you saw what he was doing—his bloodied wrist pressed against your wound, his movements steady, precise. The smear of crimson over your skin was deliberate, purposeful, and the air between you seemed to thrum with unspoken tension.

“This will mask the scent,” he murmured, his voice low and almost detached, though his eyes flickered briefly to meet yours. You were just about to ease up when without warning, his other hand had slid up your waist, his fingers splaying possessively over your lower back. Before you could reach, he pulled you flush against him with unsettling ease.

“Sunghoon, st—"

“We’re running out of time,” he cut you off, his tone sharp but tinged with something unfamiliar—urgency, almost pleading—something you’d never imagined him capable of. “You just have to trust me on this.”

But before you could even respond, Sunghoon had slammed his lips against yours. They were soft—unexpectedly so—but his movements were anything but. Fierce and unrelenting, the kiss carried a desperation that felt almost feral, as though the very act was a lifeline he was determined to seize.

You struggled against the onslaught, your hands pushing at his chest, but his grip over your waist tightened, anchoring you to him like a shield. Then the door burst open and his intent—his strategy—became clear to you. His body shifted instantly, fully shielding yours from view as his hand hooked firmly under your thigh, steadying you and sealing the ruse with unnerving precision.

Reluctantly, you played along, your hands faltering as his weight pressed against you, quashing any remaining space between your bodies. Your dress shifted dangerously high as his body leaned into yours, the act deliberate and unyielding. While every instinct screamed at you to shove him away, you forced yourself to stay still, to let the illusion hold—for now.

But then you felt his lips adeptly part yours—deepening the kiss in a way you were never prepared—stealing every breath and muffling every protests. The hard planes of his chest pressed against yours, the beat of his heart—or the echo of yours, you couldn't tell—pulsating in tandem with your own. The dresser creaked in protest, the faint sound barely registering above the storm of your senses.

Time itself seemed to bend, stretching each second unbearably long. Every sensation overwhelmed you—the heat radiating from his closeness, the weight of his touch, the faint creak of the dresser beneath you. It all blurred together, threatening to drown you in its intensity. But then his wandering hands jolted you out of the haze, yanking you sharply back into the present. In a swift, instinctive motion, you wrenched yourself from his embrace. "St-stop..." your breath coming in short, uneven gasps, "—they're... already gone."

Your heart pounded in your chest, and you struggled to steady your racing pulse. The stinging sensation on your lips serving as a persistent reminder of the scorching passion that had nearly consumed you. His kiss, like a brand, had left its mark.

Sunghoon stilled, his chest rising and falling, though you knew better—vampires didn’t tire. His jaw tensed, the sharp line of his profile shadowed as he turned slightly away.

“Right. Of course,” he muttered, his voice quieter than usual, as if trying to gather himself. His usual calm façade was intact, but you noticed the faintest flicker—a barely-there crack in his composure, “—it worked. That’s all that matters.”

You exhaled shakily, unable to look at him, your own pulse thrumming wildly against your ribs. “So, what now?” you asked, your voice sharper than you intended as you tried to compose yourself, “we can’t just make out everytime there’s footsteps.”

He nodded absently, but midway, his brows arched as if you’d said something illuminating. “Actually, that’s a great idea. Come with me—”

“No—” You dug your heels in as he gripped your wrist—not roughly, but with enough firmness to tell you resistance was pointless. You give in, reluctantly letting let him pull you along, his pace deliberate but measured, as if he were navigating a trap you couldn’t yet see. Through a discreet side passage—a door you hadn’t noticed earlier—he led you to an ornate chamber, hidden away from the guest suites. The heavy door creaked open, revealing a room so grand it felt frozen in time: dark velvet drapery pooling on the floor, an unlit fireplace, and a sprawling canopy bed swathed in deep red fabric.

“This is your idea of a safe haven? Your room?” you scoffed as Sunghoon bolted the door shut behind him. With swift movements, he shrugged off his cloak and undid his buttons, feeling hot – though whether it was from all the running or memories from the earlier kiss, only he knew.

You backed away instinctively, unsettled by his casual ease, his shirt hanging open just enough to reveal glimpses of his sculpted chest, the memory of his touch still fresh, an unwelcome echo that made your skin prickle.

“Sunghoon, what are you doing? You’re not suggesting-“

“—unless you want to—” he smirked, tousling his well-kept hair with a deliberate flick. “Relax. I’m joking. Ease up.”

He leaned casually against the edge of the bed, his smirk deepening. “This really is the safest place. Firstly, it’s my room. Secondly, after seeing the way we ‘made out’ in that closet, naturally, they’d assume we’d escalate things here. You know… where we’d be up all night, tangled in—”

“Right! I get it-“ you interjected, cheeks blazing, “still though – this is your room. I’m supposed to let myself be locked with you for the whole night? This evening is as much of a bloodsport to you as it is to them.”

He sighed, “look, if trust is too much to ask, I’ll ask for your clear-headed logic then y/n. If I wanted you dead, you’d already be. But tonight, I’ve been saving you instead.”

“That’s the suspicious part, why did you save me then?”

The air was heavy. The silence felt like it dragged on for too long.

“I know what Noctis Imperium really is Sunghoon so if you want my trust then you must answer me honestly,” you tone was firm.

Sunghoon tilted his head lazily, his lips curving ever so faintly, “Oh? Do you now?”

You ignored the sardonic edge in his tone and pressed on. “It’s a Reaping, isn’t it?” the word dropped like a blade between you, heavy and damning. “The bloodsport? That’s just the opening act. It weeds out the unworthy—leaves only the best standing. The strongest. The smartest. The richest. And they’re the ones who get turned. It’s systematic.”

His gaze sharpened, but he didn’t interrupt.

“This event coincides with a blood moon which is due sometime this month—that’s very specific. If you guys wanted bloodsport, it didn’t even have to align,” you continued, stepping closer, “and clearly it isn’t just about sick entertainment is it? It’s about expansion—physically and financially.”

Your hands balled into fists at your sides as you turned to meet his gaze, your voice daring and unyielding. “If you want me to trust you tonight, then tell me—why are you here? For a Reaping as well?”

For the first time, something flickered in his expression. A fleeting shadow of recognition—or understanding—but it vanished as quickly as it came. His smirk didn’t return, and when he finally spoke, his voice was low, measured, “sounds like you have done your homework-“

“That’s not an answer,” you cut off.

“Fine. If it will get you to shut up tonight, I’ll entertain you,” he plopped himself on the bed, hands braced behind him, “I had my suspicions about this... place,” he admitted, his tone calm but laced with something heavier, darker. “But a Reaping? That’s far-fetched. The Reaping is after all shunned and is not widespread knowledge,” he continued, his voice dropping lower, “it’s forbidden—archaic. Lost and buried for a reason.”

“Apparently not,” you shot back, “because I read a book on it in the library so you being here can either mean you’re part of this ring or someone is.”

“You’re smart enough to find this place and unearth a rather dark history and practice by my kind—” he spoke with a quiet, almost resigned tone, “but can't see just how absurd it'd be for me to play detective with you and ask you to run your simulation for me if all I wanted was to attend a ritual I am supposedly to have been part of?”

For a moment, your gaze faltered—not out of fear, but something closer to embarrassment. “Then why are you here?” you demanded, suspicion still sharp in your voice. His explanation didn’t erase your doubts—not yet.

“I’m kind of like you,” his voice is calm, “except I’m not just playing detective. I’m here to root out the deviants  among us. I don’t just cover foul plays up – I follow the trail and remove the troublemakers.”

You stared into his gaze a little longer, letting the silence simmer, trying to search if there is any faltering – if he was lying. But it is hard to tell with him.

“Not the answer you’re looking for?” he raised his brows – challenging and proud, “that’s entirely your fault for jumping into conclusions when it comes to me.”

“Well it’s not like you were the most forthcoming anyway,” you grumbled back, “you keep people in the dark and then say cryptic shit. You brought it unto yourself.”

He shrugged, “if you say so. The point is, if what you say is true then the odds are stacked against us.”

“us?” you echoed, incredulous, “Just a few days ago, you said I was nothing more than a tool. What’s changed? Can’t survive on your fangs alone?”

He scoffed, his smirk sharpening. “If it helps you sleep at night, then let’s just say it makes the two of us.” He leaned back slightly, his gaze steady and unreadable. “Now, can you set your blade down and ease up?”

You hesitated, the weight of his words settling heavily. Finally, you let out a sharp breath. “Fine. For now. But don’t mistake this for trust.”

His smirk deepened faintly, though his gaze remained steady. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

— ix

They said the third night was set to be a respite. But by now, you knew better. You knew their sick way of twisting words.

As you stood outside the Hall of Reckoning, your fists clenched tightly at your sides, the full weight of the night before bore down on you. The bloodsport, the laughter, the violence—it wasn’t chaos. It wasn’t chance. It was a gladiator ring.

The realization sat heavy in your chest, making it hard to breathe. You had no illusions about the outcome: the deck was stacked, and you were playing with cards designed to fail. But it was too late to run. Far too late.

“What about the masks?” you asked as you approached the butler usually manning the mask cart.

“No longer needed, Madam,” he replied smoothly, pushing the door open.

The Hall of Reckoning. At first glance, the name seemed almost merciful—a place where justice might be sought, where those who endured could demand retribution for their suffering.

But the irony revealed itself immediately. For the mortals, there could be no reckoning. Survival in the bloodsport had made them complicit in its savagery, their hands stained with the violence they had been forced to commit. This hall, for all its grandeur, wasn’t a sanctuary. It was a monument to their sins.

Every detail in the room seemed to echo that truth. Murals stretched across the vaulted ceiling, vivid and grotesque in their depiction of Dante’s seven circles of hell. Around the room, statues stood like solemn judges—angels with shattered wings, warriors frozen mid-fall, veiled damsels cloaked in grief. Their hollow eyes seemed to follow every movement, bearing silent witness to the carnage both endured and inflicted.

This wasn’t a Hall of Reckoning meant to absolve. It was designed to haunt.

The proof lay in the faces of the remaining guests. Unlike before, only a quarter of them had made it here, their masks removed for the first time. It was painfully clear now who among them were human for trepidation clung to their pale, drawn faces, their hollow gazes—stark contrast to the air of haughtiness and confidence that most displayed during the first day.

And then, there were the vampires. At least by the looks of it for their beauty was unparalleled, ethereal almost, as if they’d been carved from marble to perfection. But that perfection was unnerving, cold, their smiles charming yet faintly menacing in certain light. They moved with an unnatural grace, each step calculated and precise. Their eyes, ageless and predatory, gleamed like polished glass, betraying nothing but an unwavering hunger that lingered beneath their elegant façades.

Together, the humans and vampires painted a stark contrast: the fragility of mortality set against the eerie permanence of the immortal.

You were still absorbing the scene when a hand grasped yours, the touch firm yet deliberate, calculated.

Startled, you turned sharply, only to find yourself face-to-face with a man bowing slightly as he pressed a light kiss to your knuckles. “My Lady,” he murmured, his voice smooth and infuriatingly charming.  He straightened, and the wide playful grin that stretched across his face was unmistakable. The glint of a lip ring under the soft glow of the chandeliers sealed his identity.

“Jaeyun,” you muttered, his name slipping out like a reflex.

Unmasked, his face was even more disarming than you’d imagined. His features were sharp—his cheekbones high and his jawline so clean it seemed almost sculpted. Yet there was a boyishness to him, a devil-may-care charm that softened the harsh lines, making him look approachable in a way that felt both alluring and dangerous.

That grin of his was impossible to ignore. His lips, fuller and more expressive than you remembered, curled just slightly as if he were privy to a joke no one else was in on. The lip ring only added to his allure, a small but significant detail that gave him an edge, an irreverent flair.

He tilted his head, his golden hair catching the faint light, and for a moment, he seemed to drink in your surprise. His gaze was playful, mischievous, daring you to react. Where Sunghoon exuded stormy gravitas, with every movement deliberate and weighted, Jaeyun felt like a gust of wind—unpredictable, fleeting, and impossible to pin down.

Before you could react, you felt another presence—familiar, cold, and steady. A hand slid to the small of your back then over your waist, firm and commanding as it pulled you away from Jaeyun.

“You’ve had enough of his company,” Sunghoon said, his voice cutting through the din with icy precision. His tone was low but laced with a chill that sent a ripple through the air, “he’s just a vermin.”

Jaeyun’s grin widened, deliberately slow, as he released you, his movements deliberate and mocking. “Ah, or so I hear about last night,” he replied smoothly. His lip curled in amusement as his eyes flicked between you and Sunghoon. “Apologies. Just a formality, of course. I’d never dare touch what you’ve claimed, Lord Park.”

Your breath caught, mortified. You knew exactly what Jaeyun was implying.

“No, we’re not— we didn’t—" you tried to clarify, but Sunghoon’s grip tightened, cutting off your words as he turned you sharply, his hand firm on your waist as he steered you away.

“Excuse you,” you exclaimed, stumbling slightly as he wheeled you toward the table. His jaw was set, a shadow of something unreadable flashing in his eyes. Without a word, he pulled out a chair and practically pushed you into it, his actions possessive and territorial.

He snatched the plaque bearing Jaeyun’s name from the table and thrust it at a passing butler. “Find this bastard another seat,” he ordered coldly.

Before the butler could even take a step, Sunghoon dropped into the chair beside you—Jaeyun’s chair. His hand rested lightly on the table, fingers drumming in a rhythm that felt calculated, as though he was staking his claim with every deliberate tap.

“Just because you two have some bad blood doesn’t mean I should be the collateral damage,” you huffed, crossing your arms in defiance. “At least you didn’t kill him.”

“I should have,” Sunghoon’s gaze remained fixed on Jaeyun, his expression darkening. “You should stop letting him talk to you,” he said, his tone sharp. “He’s poison wrapped in silk. It doesn’t matter how harmless he seems—he’ll ruin you just the same.”

“And you’re not?” you shot back, your voice low but challenging. “Sunghoon, you’re just as suspicious as everyone else.”

His head snapped toward you, the storm in his gaze faltering. For a brief moment, something softer flickered across his features—something almost tender. His shoulders eased as he seemed to struggle for words.

“It’s not—” he began, his voice quieter, but his unfinished sentence hung in the air, swallowed by the sudden shift in the room.

“Welcome,” the host’s voice rang out, smooth and practiced, drawing all attention to the front of the room. He stepped forward, his grin too wide to be sincere. “After all the fun yesterday,” he drawled, his words dripping with theatrical flair, “tonight will just be purely a celebration. Unending feast and fireworks.”

The room shifted uneasily, the faint clink of glassware underscoring the uncomfortable silence.

“As I’ve reassured you all—what happened last night is not your fault,” the host continued, his grin widening to something almost maniacal. His gaze swept over the room like a predator scanning for weakness.

The words hung in the air, their implication sinking in like lead. The humans, especially, seemed to shrink into their seats, their faces pale and drawn, haunted by memories of the previous night.

“Greed,” the host continued, his voice both rich and biting, “is a poisonous thing. And with stakes so high, we understand when one must act… out of self-preservation.”

Your breath caught at his choice of words. Slowly, your gaze swept the hall, catching subtle tremors in the crowd—the twitch of a hand, the widening of eyes before they schooled back into forced calm. A woman in crimson sat frozen, her glass of wine untouched. Nearby, a man swallowed hard, his fingers gripping his fork like a lifeline. It struck you then: these people must have seen—or done—unspeakable things last night. Survival had come at a cost, and their faces betrayed that cost in every taut line and shadowed expression.

“Rest assured,” the host added, his tone lightening into something almost whimsical, yet no less sinister. “Our discretion is ironclad. Whatever happens here… stays here.”

The words slithered through the air like smoke, a chill rippling in their wake. It was meant to be reassurance but you knew better—it was a warning, one that is thinly veiled in polished charm.

For a moment, the room remained frozen, the silence taut with unspoken apprehension. Then, the faint clink of glassware broke the stillness—a subtle signal that sent ripples through the crowd. The guests shifted in their seats, some reaching hesitantly for their utensils, others masking their unease behind stiff smiles and murmured conversation.

You glanced down at the table before you as the quiet ceremony of dining began. The elaborate spread was a grotesque spectacle, the kind of decadence that bordered on parody. Platters overflowed with fleshy cuts of meat, dripping in dark wine sauces that shimmered like blood under the chandeliers. Fruits glistened like polished jewels, their vibrant colors almost too vivid to be real. Desserts spun from delicate sugar glimmered with an unnatural brilliance.

The clinking of forks and knives against fine china grated against your nerves. It wasn’t the sound of sustenance—it was a performance, a ritual of excess that felt grotesque in its mockery. You shifted uneasily in your seat, unable to quell the nausea roiling in your stomach. This wasn’t a feast for survivors. It was a celebration for predators.

“y/n,” Sunghoon’s voice cut through the oppressive din, low and quiet, his breath ghosting against your ear, “meet me in the library once the firework starts.”

You turned, but he was already gone, leaving behind only the faint scent of his cologne—a mix of wood and bergamot that lingered in the air, equal parts hypnotizing and suffocating.

Time dragged after that, the air in the hall thick with unspoken tension. Each moment stretched unbearably as the chatter around you ebbed and flowed, the underlying unease never quite dissipating. When the first explosion of light burst across the night sky, you slipped away unnoticed, your footsteps soft amidst the murmurs of awe and raised glasses.

The Corridors of Treachery felt colder, quieter as you made your way to the library. Once, these endless stretches of identical doors and twisting hallways had felt alive—ever-shifting, as though the castle itself sought to mislead and ensnare. But now, their tricks no longer held sway over you. After several visits, you had unraveled their secrets, piecing together the intricate design that made chaos into order.

The corridor was more than a labyrinth; they were a calculated test. A clever combination of architectural illusion, psychological distortion, and mathematical precision, that tests not just one’s preserverance—but also the mind. The patterns embedded in the walls required focus to decipher: sconces positioned slightly off-center, cracks in the stone tiles forming faint lines that pointed toward the correct path, even the rhythmic shifts in echo that whispered of direction. It wasn’t enough to simply try door after door—one needed intellect and restraint to navigate the maze. If approached in a state of heightened fear, the corridors became a prison. Anxiety clouded judgment, turned every door into a dead end, and every turn into an endless loop. But you’d learned to steady yourself, to let logic and observation guide your steps rather than emotion.

Now, your movements were purposeful, almost effortless. Three lefts, a right, pause at the second door. The sequence was etched into your mind, the once-treacherous maze reduced to a solvable equation. Without hesitation, you pushed open the heavy library door.

The room stretched before you, towering shelves disappearing into the shadows. The faint scent of aged parchment and leather hung in the air as you lit your oil lamp, its flickering glow barely cutting through the darkness.

Sunghoon, however, wasn’t there.

Figures, you sighed, trailing your fingers along the shelves, half out of habit, half out of frustration. Why did he even—

A sudden gust of wind swept through the room, sharp and biting. The lamp hissed and went dark, plunging you into thick silence. You stilled, your heart leaping into your throat as darkness swallowed you whole.

Moonlight spilled through the tall, arched windows, faint and ethereal. The shadows danced in its glow, painting the room in shifting silver and gray. You fumbled for the small flint striker embedder near the base of the oil lamp, about to twist it when a glimmer among the books caught your eye—faint but unmistakable.

You stilled, the lamp momentarily forgotten as you stepped closer towards the book in the shelf. It wasn’t just the sheen of the leather—it was something deliberate, something hidden. Your fingers brushed the spine, its texture rough and cold. It was The Obsidian Testament—the one you picked out yesterday—but beneath the gilded letters were faint Latin scrawls, curling like veins across the surface like an incantation. You didn’t remember them being there yesterday.

You pulled the book free, its weight heavier than it should have been, like it carried more than just words within its pages.

As you turned it over in your hands, you can feel the roughness in the surface— something you noticed yesterday but didn’t press on. It didn't feel like wear and tear. It was faintly raised but textured in a way that felt deliberate, though the design was invisible to the naked eye. You held it closer to the window, letting the silver light of the moon spill across its surface.

And then you saw it.

Slowly, like ink blooming through parchment, a faint, silvery glow materialised. Ominously scrawled in faint, curling script were words you could barely decipher:"The blood of the pure seals the bond. The moon bears witness."

Beneath it, a coat of arms emerged—hidden from sight, lying dormant until called forth by the moonlight. A spiked crown sat atop the shield, flanked by a raven and a wolf poised as sentinels. Intricate designs framed the emblem, with the motto etched beneath it: "In shadows, we endure. In blood, we rise."

Your blood turned cold. You knew that coat of arms.

“Sunghoon,” you whispered, the realization hitting you like a thunderclap. It was his crest—the same one he often wore on his lapel.

“Took you long enough,” a low voice drawled, making you jump. You whirled, your heart pounding as a figure emerged from the shadows near the door. For a moment, you thought it was Sunghoon but as he stepped into the faint glow of moonlight, the features were unmistakably Jaeyun’s.

“What do you mean?” you demanded, taking a step back toward the table. Unease curled in your chest.

He scoffed, looking mildly offended as he stepped closer. The way the moonlight caught his face accentuated the sharpness of his grin—mischievous, yes, but laced with something colder. “Why do you look so scared of me now? Sunghoon should be the one you’re wary of. Ah, of course, he did save you, didn’t he?”

Before you could react, he vanished—only to reappear beside you, one hand braced against the table as he leaned down, head tilted coyly. Another vampire, you thought.

“Ever considered that saving you serves him more than it serves you? Perhaps he might even be saving you for himself.”

You stiffened, refusing to let his words take root. “And what about you? You’ve been dropping crumbs here and there for me—” you countered sharply. “Nothing is ever free—not from the likes of you.”

Jaeyun’s lips quirked, amused. “You sound just like one of us, y/n. You would make a great addition,” he drawled. “I’m helping because well, you’re not my enemy and I hate inflicting collateral damage.”

“And your enemy is?”

“Sunghoon. Or rather, royal purebloods like him. Someone who has a legacy to reclaim,” he said with a singsong edge. “They represent the dark ages—the rigid hierarchy of power that exalted purity above all else, splintering us with its toxic elitism.”

“Are you not a pureblood?”

“No. I’m a halfblood—borne out of a Pureblood and a Spoilblood.” His tone turned casual, but there was a slight edge to it. “Practically blasphemy to those supremacists. Think of it like a noble bedding their servant.”

The admission hung in the air, bitter and heavy. But you knew better than to simply lap up his words, “and yet you’re here? Toasting and laughing as if you belong.”

His grin faltered just slightly, a flicker of something darker flashing across his face before he masked it with his usual nonchalance. “I’m here because time has changed. We, here, are no longer bound by such hierarchical concept of power—”

He unfurled his hand, and another book materialised. You recognised it immediately—The Annals of Kings, the book you’d pocketed the other day, “—but nothing stays buried forever. Blood, as they say, runs thicker than water.”

Your frown deepened as you stepped closer, your eyes scanning the page he’d flipped open. It was the family tree—the same one you’d seen before, with several members’ pictures burnt out, their identities erased.

“The Annals of Kings usually purges the disgraced from history,” Jaeyun said, his tone casual but laced with intrigue.

Your gaze drifted lower, catching on a footnote you hadn’t noticed before. It detailed how, after the kingdom fell, forbidden books like the Obsidian Testament were uncovered and destroyed. But one line stopped you cold: “Rumor has it the royal bloodline survived through a single son, then eight years old, whose charred remains were never found.”

Your eyes shifted to the Obsidian Testament on the table, the coat of arms seem to glow brighter, its presence now feeling impossibly heavy.

“Who do you think that son grew up to be?” Jaeyun asked softly, his voice a dark thread weaving through your spiralling thoughts.

Your throat tightened. His words gnawed at you, each syllable fitting too neatly into the doubts you were already trying to suppress about Sunghoon. But Jaeyun wasn’t someone you could trust—not completely. His grin felt like a trap disguised as an invitation. Trying to seem unfazed, you retorted, “And your point is?”

“That you should know your enemies,” he said, stepping closer, his presence suffocating. “The Reaping holds immense significance for someone like him—symbolically and physically.” His lips curled into a bitter smile. “The current shadow reign is fracturing, and if someone like him—a figure with such legacy—steps forward to challenge it, everything could come crashing down."

“He is, after all—” Jaeyun suddenly appeared behind you, his long fingers curling around both of your arms like claws. He turned you sharply toward the window, forcing you to look outside.

Below, the rose garden was alive with movements, figures clashing in a violent blur. Your breath hitched as a body crumpled near the fountain, blood pooling beneath it. Then, through the shifting shadows, Sunghoon stepped into view, his chest heaving, a bloodied sword in hand. His expression was cold, detached, as he surveyed the carnage.

“—notorious for being bloodthirsty,” Jaeyun finished, his tone dripping with venom.

“You're not su—” you called out but when you turned, he was already gone, leaving only the echo of his words in your ears.

Before you could process his disappearance, the sharp sound of steel meeting steel cut through the air, pulling your attention sharply back to the garden.

You turned toward the window again, just in time to see Sunghoon locked in battle once more. Two shadows darted around him, their movements impossibly fast—blurs of black against the silver glow of the moonlight. The figures clashed violently, steel colliding in bursts of sparks, the muted sounds barely audible beneath the distant roar of fireworks.

Your breath caught as Sunghoon dodged a strike aimed at his head, his blade moving in a deadly rhythm to fend off one blow after another. The attackers worked in tandem, circling him like wolves hunting their prey.

Almost without realizing it, you followed their movements from one window to the next, each fleeting glimpse quickening your pulse. When you reached the outer hallway near the armory, the scene came into sharp focus.

Sunghoon stood at the center of the rose garden, near the weeping angel statue. The moonlight bathed the scene in stark clarity, illuminating his form as he fended off the taller of the two attackers. The man’s strikes were heavy and relentless, forcing Sunghoon back with every blow.

Then, with a sharp pivot, Sunghoon turned the tide. His blade cleanly plunging into his chest with brutal precision. Blood sprayed across the weeping angel grotesquely as the figure crumpled to the ground, lifeless.

But the danger wasn’t over.

The second attacker appeared from the shadows behind him, silent and deadly, a spear poised to strike.

Given everything you’d pieced together about him—his secrets, his lies, his family—you probably should have let nature run its course. Let him get attacked. Let him fall. Let him bleed.

But you didn’t and apparently, your body had a life of its own as your hands moved before your could catch up, grabbing a bow that had been left discarded near the windowsill. The wood felt foreign and unwieldy in your grip, but you didn’t care. Your fingers fumbled, pulling the string taut, the arrow trembling as you tried to steady your aim.

You weren’t a good shot. You knew that. The arrow might not even strike the man. But it didn’t need to. All it had to do was distract him.

You exhaled sharply, releasing the arrow. It cut through the air, a streak of silver in the darkness. The attacker flinched as the arrow grazed his arm, his blade faltering mid-swing. It was enough.

Sunghoon spun with brutal precision, his sword arcing upward in a deadly sweep. The man barely had time to react before the blade found its mark, cutting him down. His body hit the ground with a sickening thud, blood pooling around him as the garden fell silent once more.

For a moment, Sunghoon stood motionless, the tip of his blade resting in the dirt, as if even he needed a reprieve. Then you saw it—a dark patch blooming on his coat, stark against the pale moonlight. Blood.

Your breath hitched. You couldn’t tell why your chest tightened at the sight, but it did.

He staggered, using his sword for support, his breaths coming in shallow, ragged gasps. But before you could call out to him, he vanished—a blur dissolving into the shadowy expanse of the garden below.

“Sunghoon!” you called after him, but the only response was the distant crackle of fading fireworks. Darting from one window to the next, you searched desperately, peering into the garden for any sign of him.

But all you found was stillness.

The gardens were littered with lifeless bodies, their forms grotesque and twisted. Some had fangs bared, their features frozen in feral rage. Others had begun to disintegrate—their flesh sloughing off in patches, bones crumbling into soil as though the earth itself were reclaiming them. That was apparently how vampires die, you realized with a shudder: reverting to their original forms, their unnatural beauty undone, and their once-mighty presence reduced to the frailty of dust and decay.

But more than the remains, it was Sunghoon’s vanishing that disturbed you the most. As you lingered by the window, the night only grew quieter. The shadows betrayed nothing, and the garden below remained hauntingly still.

He won’t die easily, you reassured yourself as you hesitantly step away from the window, eyes still flicking toward the darkened garden as you made your way back to your room, each step heavier than the last. You pushed your door absentmindedly, mind lost in thoughts, why do you care so much, you thought bitterly, trying to distract yourself, he’s not your ally. He is a lying, manipulative-

Except there he was—the very man who haunted your mind—sitting at the foot of your bed.

Battered, bruised, and bloodied, Sunghoon looked nothing like the composed predator you’d grown accustomed to. His back rested against the mattress, his head tilted back in exhaustion, eyes half-lidded as if he barely registered your presence. Blood stained his shirt, his once-pristine collar torn and soaked through. The dark fabric clung to his skin, emphasizing the sharp lines of his frame and the sheer vulnerability of his state.

“Sunghoon…” you whispered, unsure whether it was relief or fear tightening your throat.

He didn’t respond immediately, his breathing shallow and uneven. For a fleeting moment, the vulnerability of the scene struck you—this wasn’t the stoic, untouchable figure you’d grown used to. He looked... mortal.

His head shifted slightly, but his gaze didn’t meet yours. “I’m fine,” he muttered hoarsely, frustration lacing his voice. “Just… give me a moment.”

You stepped closer, your body moving before your mind could catch up. Despite everything—the lies, the doubts, the warning signs—you knelt in front of him, hands trembling. “You’re bleeding out, you’re not fine,” you said sharply.

Your eyes dropped to the dark patch spreading across his lower abdomen, fresh blood seeping through the fabric. Panic licked at the edges of your mind as you remembered how his wounds used to heal instantly. “Why isn’t it healing?” you asked, horrified.

“Too much damage for an old body, I guess,” he quipped weakly, a sardonic smile tugging at his lips before he winced.

“But you’re a pureblood,” you blurted – reminded suddenly of what Jaeyun had said earlier, how the Reaping was significant for someone like Sunghoon, not just symbolically but physically. “Never mind,” you said quickly, hoisting his arm over your shoulders. “We need to stop the bleeding. Can you get up?”

“You know,” he rasped, leaning heavily against you, “if you leave me here, I could just… die. Problem solved.”

“Not funny,” you gritted out, half-dragging him to the bed. “Besides, too late for that. I’m already in this gladiator ring. You’d just be replaced by someone worse.”

“You’re adapting well,” he drawled, though his voice was strained.

“And you’re not,” you shot back, grimacing as his head thudded lightly against the wooden frame. His sharp intake of breath made your guilt flare. “Sorry,” you muttered, adjusting him with more care, “I’m not used to you being this… human. Stay here, I’ll be back.”

You returned moments later with a first-aid kit. His face was slick with sweat, but his eyes—sharp and calculating—followed your every movement. He leaned back against the headboard, his posture deceptively casual despite the bruises and blood staining his shirt. One leg stretched out along the mattress, while the other was bent at the knee, his foot tucked close to his thigh.

You settled beside his bent leg, placing the kit near his outstretched one for easy access. Shrugging off your sheer cape to free your arms, the fabric pooled beside you, leaving you in the midnight-black velvet dress beneath. The low sweetheart neckline felt far too revealing for your comfort, but practicality took precedence. Ignoring the unease prickling at the back of your mind, you focused on sorting through the kit’s contents with swift precision.

“Baring your shoulders in front of a wounded vampire,” Sunghoon murmured, his lips curving into a faint smirk despite the exhaustion that lined his features. His gaze flicked briefly to your now-bared shoulders. “Reckless.”

“If you had no self-control, like eight years ago, you’d have flung yourself at me cape and all,” you grumbled disinterestedly while tearing open a sterile pad. You didn’t miss the slight twitch of his brow at your words.

“This is going to sound crude,” you continued, gesturing at the blood-soaked fabric covering his lower abdomen, “but you need to take that off.”

He smirked, the expression so maddeningly coy that you were this close to hurling the entire first-aid kit at his face. Only the sight of his injuries stopped you.

“Gladly,” he drawled, his tone light and infuriating, “but I’m far too weak right now. You’ll have to do the honors.”

You scowled. “I know you’re not that weak.”

He leaned back, the movement drawing his bent leg closer to you, his gaze never leaving yours, “your choice.”

Cursing under your breath, you leaned closer and began unbuttoning his shirt. The fabric peeled away, revealing the deep, angry wound slashing across his abdomen. Blood seeped sluggishly, staining his pale skin—but it wasn’t just the injury that caught your attention. Beneath the torn fabric, the sharp lines of his torso stood out, his muscles tense under the faint light.

It was jarring how even battered and shirtless, his broad shoulders and tall frame made him seem larger than life. His physique, though marred by the fresh wounds, seemed to amplify his imposing aura, each flex of muscle a stark reminder of the strength he carried even in his weakest moments. You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to focus on the gash instead of the sheer dominance his form exuded.

“Hold still,” you muttered, pressing an alcohol-soaked pad against the gash.

He hissed, his knuckles going white as he gripped the sheets. “You could be gentler.”

“Enjoy it,” you said with mock cheer, pressing harder. “Your super-healing isn’t working, so welcome to our reality.”

His exhale was sharp, almost a laugh, though it sounded more like a groan. “Why did they attack you?” you asked, focused on cleaning the wound.

“There’s always a bounty on the head of a pureblood,” he replied dismissively, his tone brushing off the question.

“Especially a pureblood with a reigning ancestry?” you pressed though his expression didn’t shift.

“Does knowing that I have links to old royalty suddenly make me attractive?” he asked, voice dripping with sarcasm.

“You tell me,” you retorted, dabbing the edges of the wound clean before reaching for the gauze. “Apparently the Reaping originated from your family. You knew all about it.”

“I love how distrustful you are of me,” he muttered, his voice laced with dry amusement, “and yet here you are—patching me up, looking rather vulnerable yourself.” His gaze dripped briefly down to your body, as if trying to unsettle you. “I wear my crest openly, y/n. If I wanted to hide my ancestry, I wouldn’t flaunt it, would I? And besides—” a sardonic smirk tugged at his lips, “—if I’d completed my first Reaping ages ago, I wouldn’t be in this pathetic state, relying on a mere mortal to save me.”

“You’re a walking contradiction do you know that?” you muttered, eyes focused on cleaning the remaining dark blood on his gash. “Let’s say you do hate your background that much then why wear the crest around like a badge of honor?”

Sunghoon didn’t hesitate, his voice calm but carrying an edge of practicality. “Because in places like these,” he gestured subtly, “ancestry and purity of blood can mean everything. That crest opens doors that would otherwise be slammed shut. It’s a key, y/n and one I’ve learned to wield to my advantage.”

“You always talk as if you’re not one of them.”

He scoffed weakly, “I’ve killed some of them and they tried to kill me as well—does that look like we are of the same camp?”

Your hands stilled, your gaze lifting to meet his. It was infuriating how his answers were always so maddeningly straightforward—delivered with an air of certainty that made your doubts feel baseless. It wasn’t just irritating—it made you feel stupid, even guilty. Like your suspicions were nothing more than the product of paranoia, blinding you to truths that should be obvious.

“You said you haven’t completed even your first cycle of Reaping—why?”

He leaned back, a sardonic smirk tugging at his lips. “While we’re at it, why don’t you ask how many people I’ve bedded over the centuries I’ve lived?” His voice was laced with mockery, his gaze unrelenting. “You don’t get to ask all the questions, y/n. It takes two to tango.”

Your brows furrowed as you pressed an adhesive bandage over the wound on his abdomen. “Fine. Then you can ask me questions, though I doubt there’s anything interesting you don’t already know.”

His smirk faded, replaced by a sharper edge as his eyes narrowed. “Why did you save me back there?”

You stilled, realizing too late that maybe you shouldn’t have egged him on. His gaze pinned you, waiting for an answer you weren’t sure how to give.

Avoiding his piercing eyes, you grabbed an antiseptic wipe and turned your attention to the shallow cut on his bicep. “Hold still,” you muttered, focusing on dabbing at the wound.

His muscles tensed slightly under your touch. “If you want honesty from me,” he murmured, his tone low and firm, “you’ll need to give me just as much honesty.”

You pressed the pad harder than necessary, drawing a sharp inhale from him. “To make us even,” you answered steadily. “You saved me twice. Now it’s repaid.”

He scoffed, “Of course.”

You shifted closer, careful not to lean too far into his space, though the proximity was unavoidable. Your hands moved to tend to the faint bruises along his jaw, the sharp lines of his face brushing against your fingertips. His skin was cool beneath your touch, but the air between you felt heavy, charged.

Your knees brushed his as you adjusted your position, the small contact enough to make you hyper-aware of how close the two of you were. His shirtless torso, marred by bruises and blood, felt more imposing than vulnerable this close.

You feigned nonchalance, focusing intently on the bruises instead of the weight of his gaze burning into you. The room didn’t help—the soft crackle of the fireplace was casting flickering light across his face, deepening the shadows under his sharp cheekbones and making the moment feel stiflingly intimate.

“You’re awfully quiet suddenly,” he mocked, his tone low and taunting. “Also, why are you avoiding my gaze? You’re not suddenly shy are you? After taking off my—ugh—” He winced as you pressed the antiseptic harder than necessary onto the cut along his cheekbone.

“Isn't it my turn now?” you shot back, your voice sharp and unwavering. “You haven’t answered my question earlier—why haven’t you completed the Reaping?”

He sighed. "Because it’s barbaric,” he said evenly, though a flicker of something darker seeped into his tone. “If you believe a vampire can ever have a moral standing, this would be the closest thing I have to it.”

He paused, his voice dipping lower, laced with bitterness that seemed to surface despite his best efforts, “tying someone to your power for eternity? That’s not dominance—that’s desperation. It’s a legacy I’ve spent centuries trying to outrun—the dark history of which I constantly had to carry over my shoulders, sins of which are thrusted upon me as though I am to pay their penance.”

His tone softened, almost imperceptibly, as he continued. “That’s probably why I’ve allied myself with the Council of Elders for a long time. It started as an act to prove to the world that I am not like what my blood dictates—” his voice dipped, quieter now, as if he was speaking more to himself than to you, “—but now it just feels like a duty. A duty to clean the world after the seeds of chaos that my ancestors have planted—“

Your gaze flicked to his, caught off guard by the quiet rawness in his tone. His eyes were elsewhere, focused on the flickering shadows dancing along the walls—perhaps trying to distract himself, perhaps lost in a memory. The sincerity in his words was equal parts fascinating and infuriating. Infuriating because they felt genuine. Too genuine for someone like him. It’s as if being reduced to this state—a state just a fraction closer to that of a mere mortal—extinguish the cryptic layers he had always put up.

But of course, such a rare moment didn’t last long. His gaze returned to yours, and so did the familiar smirk—lazy, detached and maddening. “Besides, I’ve never seen the need for renewal,” he added lightly, brushing the weight of his previous words aside, “longevity is getting boring anyway. Unless, of course, you’re offering yourself up to be mine. That might make eternity interesting again.”

He leaned forward slightly, the ghost of a smirk tugging at his lips. “We could spend centuries being at each other’s throats. Literally.”

“I’d poison my blood first then we both can go down together,” you rolled your eyes, moving on to the huge cut on his eyebrows.

“Just like how you poisoned me 8 years ago?” he said suddenly.

That was it. The elephant in the room. Finally out in the open.

Your hand stilled, a physical testament to the guilt you’d carried for years. You couldn’t bring yourself to look at him, but his stare was inescapable—heavy, suffocating, like it had the weight to crush you on the spot. “I guess the grudge is still there, alright,” you said, your tone brittle with feigned nonchalance, desperate to temper the tension building between you. The isolation, the proximity—it was all suddenly too much. “Then why haven’t you carried out your vengeance?”

“I asked first,” he retorted sharply. Beneath the edge of his voice, though, there was something fragile, almost pleading. “Why did you poison me?”

You hesitated, the truth clawing at the back of your throat. “Because we’re not meant to be,” you finally said, after some hesitation, surprised at yourself for the honesty and depth that you yourself never dared to confront. “We’re too dangerous for each other. Too toxic. It was the only way to break it.”

Sunghoon scoffed, his hand shooting out to capture yours. His grip was firm, startlingly so, yet it lacked malice—gentle in a way that forced your gaze to his. His eyes were unguarded, piercing, the storm within them quieting into something raw and vulnerable.

“Did you ever love me?” he murmured, his voice cracking faintly under the weight of the words.

You froze. The question hit you like a tidal wave, its weight settling deep in your chest. His gaze softened, achingly so, as if the silence cut.

“Did you?” he croaked, his voice barely above a whisper, yet it held a sharp edge, as though the answer could either mend or shatter him.

The guilt clawed at you, deeper than ever, threatening to crack the mask you wore. “Hardly matters anymore, does it?” you shot back, your voice wavering despite your best effort. “I ended it in the worst way possible.”

His grip over yours tightened ever so slightly, his jaw clenching as frustration flickered across his face. Slowly, deliberately, he shifted. Rising halfway, he leaned forward, his shadow devouring the faint light as his frame loomed impossibly large over you. The bed dipped under his weight, tilting you toward him as if even the mattress was conspiring to close the gap.

And suddenly, he was too close—towering over you like a shadow you couldn’t escape. You instinctively leaned back, but his free hand braced against the bed beside you, a silent, immovable barrier that kept you locked in place.

You swallowed thickly, realising how utterly compromising the moment was. His sheer size, the commanding breadth of his shoulders, the dominance in the way he loomed over you, left no room for doubt: he could crush you if he wanted to. The sharp lines of his torso, from the broad planes of his chest to the rigid definition of his abdomen, were marked by bruises and wounds that should have humanized him, softened the edge of his dominance—but they didn’t. Even in his weakened state, he radiated sheer power, every ripple of muscle a quiet, unspoken warning that he could break you, overwhelm you, overpower you, without much effort. His grip on you wrist wasn’t painful, but it thrummed with latent power, the kind that made you all too aware of the control he wasn’t even exerting yet.

You hated how easily he made you feel so small. Yet, despite the tightness in your chest and the way his gaze bore into yours with a storm of unspoken emotions, you refused to flinch. Refused to show that he has an effect on you. You knew him—getting you flustered and yield had always been something he thrived on and now, in a set-up that is meant to amplify it, you refused to give him that satisfaction.

“My turn,” you murmured, the words cutting through the silence like a thread pulled too tight. “Did you?” the question wasn’t a slip—it was purposeful, a strike meant to turn the tables.

Except, the joke was probably on you because instead of a response, something in him snapped. His grip on your wrist tightened almost too punishingly and his other hand shot to your jaw, holding you still as his lips crashed against yours.

Your body tensed at the unexpected contact, but his arm had slithered around your back—locking you in place like a steel band—fingers digging into your ribs as if tethering you in place—closer, ever closer—leaving no room to move, no air to breathe, only the suffocating weight of his presence pressing down on you. The curve of his palm seemed to mold perfectly to your body, a gesture that felt both infuriatingly possessive and unnervingly intimate. His hand, a possessive vice around your nape, tilted your head, allowing him to plunder your mouth with a punishing intensity, his lips slotting against yours with a brutal, consuming force.

You hands clawed at his shoulders, frantically trying to push him off, to break free, but every resistance seemed to ignite a darker hunger within him. With a grunt, he crushed you against him, making you feel every plane and contour of his chest and muscles, the searing heat of his skin branding yours, the unyielding planes of his chest pressing into you, heavy and demanding. Before you could catch your breath, he pressed forward with a brutal force, throwing off your balance and sending you crashing down onto the sheets—his lips never leaving yours as if it was his very lifeline. The world around you spun and you struggled to regain your bearings, but he was relentless, his lips moving with ever greater fervour, forcing your lips apart, his tongue invading your mouth with a forceful, dominant stroke.

The weight of his body pinned you down, heavy and unyielding, his bare skin hot against yours—suffocating and intoxicating all at once. Your breath was coming up in ragged gasps as you struggled against the tide of sensations that threatened to drown you. Like sandcastles against the tide, your resistance crumbled under the unrelenting force of his lips and touch. Your hands, grasping for purchase, clung to his shoulders, nails digging into his skin as you struggled to anchor yourself, as his tongue plundered your mouth with renewed vigor, claiming every inch, demanding your surrender, refusing to accept anything less.

As you softened under him, his hands glided along your sides, caressing every curve and dip with purposeful precision, setting every nerve alight, while making you feel every plane and contour of his chest and muscles. His taut muscles rippled beneath your touch, a testament to his restrained power. Lost in the tempest of sensations, you barely noticed his his hand creeping higher up your thigh, bunching your dress dangerously high. It was only then did you realised just how far things had escalated. Jerking back to reality, you wedged a hand against his chest, breaking the kiss, and grabbed for his wandering hand, your breath coming in ragged gasps.

But like a raging inferno, Sunghoon was unstoppable, his lips now trailing a scorching path down your neck, leaving a wake of fiery, open-mouthed kisses that seared your skin. "Sunghoon, stop," you gasped, panic lacing your voice as his hand pried yours away and pinned it painfully against the bed. You were utterly powerless then, your movements and strength futile against his onslaught.  For a terrifying moment, you thought he might sink his fangs into your neck, draining you of your lifesource, but instead, he continued to ravage you with his lips and hands—leaving marks and that burned and bruised. It was quickly dawning on you just how far gone Sunghoon was and the prospect of where it was heading terrified you more than getting bitten was. “Sunghoon, please—"  you begged, your voice breaking, and that seemed to have to snap him back to reality for his movements stilled, face hovering inches from yours. The look in his eyes was wild and uncertain, as if he was struggling to reign himself in from crossing a dangerous line.

"I- I’m sorry," he muttered, voice low and hoarse, tinged with something that almost sounded like guilt. He moved off you in one fluid motion, retreating like a shadow, his usual composure slowly slipping back into place. "I shouldn’t have—" He ran a hand through his hair, sighing heavily. "— just stay here for the night, okay? It’s safer. I’ll stay watch outside."

You remained frozen, your breathing uneven, your heart pounding in the deafening silence he left behind. The door clicked shut, but the echoes of his presence lingered, searing into you like a brand. Your bruised lips throbbed, the faint crescent-shaped imprints of his nails burned on your skin, and your neck felt alive with the memory of where his lips had lingered. Every mark he left wasn’t just a reminder of him—it was a reminder of what lay beneath the surface: a beast, barely leashed.

And yet, it wasn’t his loss of control that haunted you most. It was the way, in the charged stillness of the moment, you hadn’t fought him. You hadn’t turned away. Some part of you had yielded—not out of weakness, but out of something more dangerous.

The truth gripped you now, unrelenting: it wasn’t just Sunghoon you didn’t trust.

It was yourself.

— x

As foretold, the sun set the following day beneath a blood moon, casting an eerie reddish glow over the fourth evening, which was to be held in the Hall of Glory. As if mirroring your impending doom, the castle had been unnaturally still all day. The familiar footsteps of maids in the hall and the muted clink of silverware being set had disappeared, replaced by an oppressive, almost reverent silence. No maids brought breakfast to your door. No butlers appeared with fresh linens.

The absence wasn’t coincidence—it was tradition. You’d overheard whispers in the days before, half-muttered exchanges between the staff about “the sacred day” when they were to leave the castle as it would be reserved only for the “worthy.” You hadn’t understood the gravity of those words then, but now, under the ominous glow of the blood moon and the oppressive stillness of the castle’s grandeur, it felt like a prelude to slaughter. As if you’d stepped willingly into a gilded abattoir.

Unlike the vast, awe-inspiring spaces of the previous halls, the Hall of Glory was smaller, darker, and far more intimate, as though it were designed to suffocate rather than inspire. Towering columns stood sentinel around the circular chamber, their presence oppressive and unyielding. Between them loomed statues of tragedy: alabaster angels with torn wings, warriors collapsing under unseen burdens, veiled women weeping into gilded boxes clutched reverently in their hands. Each figure radiated its own unique agony, frozen mid-suffering, their despair immortalized in marble—a chilling homage to the 'glory' promised by the hall’s name.

At the center rose a massive stained-glass window, its grotesque designs seeming to shift under scrutiny. The blood moon’s crimson light spilled through, bleeding into the chamber and fracturing into jagged patterns across the polished floor, pooling like spilled wine—or something darker.

Then, as though drawn by the room’s gravity, the host appeared at the grand doorway, his jubilance a stark contrast to the oppressive room. “Welcome, my survivors!” he proclaimed, arms flung wide. “The best part of our tradition has finally arrived! As you can see, the hall is surrounded by statues. If they seem to call to you, perhaps they are. In fact,” he paused for emphasis, “at their base, you’ll find your names, and in their hands lie a gilded box where your prize awaits.”

You followed the rest as they hesitantly approached the statues. Yours, a marble depiction of a woman being hauled away by a man, felt like a cruel joke. A mocking reflection of your predicament, carved in cold, unfeeling stone. Your jaw tightened as you pried open the gilded box at its base, the air in the hall suddenly feeling heavier. Inside lay two pieces of burgundy parchment.

Suppressing the uneasy churn in your stomach, you picked up the closer parchment, revealing a name etched in elegant script: “Jaeyun.”

Nearby, a man’s voice rose, sharp with indignation. “A name?! What the hell are we supposed to do with a name?!”

The host’s laugh cut through the hall like a razor, too bright, too sharp, ricocheting off the oppressive walls. “Of course they’re names,” he drawled, his grin widening to something feral. “They’re the ones who will grant you eternal glory.”

The words settled over you like a vice, their meaning sinking deeper with each passing second. If this was the Reaping, then... The thought trailed off, unfinished but heavy, tugging your gaze upward instinctively where your eyes lock with Jaeyun who was perched casually at the triforium near the stained glass, as if he’d been waiting for you to look. Jaeyun leaned against the edge, his grin splitting his face like a sinister mask, hand lifting in a greeting in an almost maddeningly casual way like a predator toying with its prey. Mocking you without a word.

“—The Reaper," you finished your thought aloud, the title slipping from your lips as if it had been lurking there all along, waiting to be named.

Your throat tightened, but your hands remained steady as you reached for the second parchment. When you flipped it, the name seemed to glare back at you, heavier, crueler. You whispered it aloud, the word sharp on your tongue: “Sunghoon.”

Your gaze darted across the room, where Sunghoon stood at the opposite triforium from Jaeyun. His eyes found yours instantly, dark and inscrutable. No surprise. No panic. Not even a flicker of emotion. Just that infuriatingly calm, unbothered facade that made your skin crawl. Jaeyun’s taunting words from the library echoed in your mind: What if he’s saving you for himself?

“I can see some victors are rather popular this evening,” the host chimed, his clapping hands slicing through the suffocating tension. His smile stretched wider, dripping with theatrical delight. “But fret not! As tradition dictates, the popular ones will be granted five minutes with each of their suitors in this hall—for one final waltz. Serenade them, threaten them, confess your undying love—whatever suits your fancy. But remember—at the end, only one name must be chosen.”

A man nearby let out a hysterical laugh, his voice cracking as it spiralled into something desperate. “You’re insane—this is insane! I’m not doing this!” His words barely finished before he bolted for the door.

Not that he made it far.

In a blur of motion, one of the vampires materialized before him. The creature’s clawed hand plunged into his chest with a sickening crunch, emerging a moment later clutching his pulsating heart. The man crumpled, lifeless, as a fresh scream tore through the air from the woman beside you.

“And that,” the host exclaimed, his voice still so bright and cheerful, “is what becomes of the ungrateful.” He gestured theatrically to the room, as if he’d just delivered a perfectly rehearsed line in a play. “Come now, victors. Look alive. You’ve earned this. Eternal glory is yours to claim.”

Without waiting for a response, the orchestra struck a jarring chord, the music swelling into something both grand and ominous. Above, the vampires descended from their balconies like a wave of predators, their movements too fast to track. They poured into the hall with eerie precision, seizing their chosen humans without ceremony. The room erupted into chaos—screams, cries, and the sound of shattering glass blending into a cacophony that seemed to mock the elegant setting.

“And now the Waltz commences,” the host declared, his voice ringing with perverse joy.

You barely had time to react before strong hands wrapped around your waist, spinning you with a force that nearly knocked you off balance. “Jaeyun,” you said bitterly, as he grabbed your hand, the other already planted possessively on your waist.

“I told you so,” he drawled, his voice smooth but tinged with mockery. “Your savior is your undoing.”

“And you’re not?” you shot back, trying to pull away, but his grip only tightened as he began to move, forcing you into the dance. His movements were elegant yet aggressive, dragging you along like a puppet on strings.

“Can’t you see?  I’m the one saving you from him,” he scoffed, exasperated, “don’t tell me his sob story about the his family's sins and the Council of Elders is all it took to sway you—" he clicked his tongue as he spun you around before pulling you back against him, “Can’t you see the double entrende here? he’s not working under the Council of Elders to promote good. It’s completely self-serving – it grants him what is essentially a license to kill vampires. Less powerful purebloods mean fewer threats. It’s all about power, darling.”

You faltered for a moment, his words digging under your skin. “Even if that’s true,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady, “I’m still being passed from one wolf to another. You’re not exactly an ideal choice either…”

He spun you away from the center, the shadows engulfing you both, “tell you what, after this charade, they’ll give you a chance to escape through the Maze outside the castle. People would run aimlessly through the maze, thinking that it will eventually get them somewhere but it wont. The secret lies in the statues. Their hands are always pointing at the right way.”

You stared at him, trying to see past those unfathomable eyes. “Why are you telling me this? Why help me?”

He murmured, his lips ghosting dangerously close to your ear, “because we have the same goal, albeit in different forms, which is survival. And Sunghoon is the only one staying in our way. He’s playing the long game y/n. Look at him. Look at how he watches you—like a chess piece he hasn’t figured out how to move yet. You think he saved you? Sunghoon doesn’t save people. He removes and collects them, like a relic. That’s how it is with the royal Purebloods—it's always all about control and servitude. He’ll never let anyone be his equal.”

“Still, even if I choose you. It won’t guarantee my safety,” you said adamantly, “you could still end up reaping me.”

“And what for?” he said matter-of-factly, “My mother was reaped and I became a ‘tainted’ child in a world that worships purity. Can you see now? why I hate collateral damage?"

He paused, his gaze piercing. “And frankly, with what I hear about you and him… the Reaping might just be his way to stake his claim on you you—to make you his in every sense. Among other things.” His lips twisted into a bitter smirk. “Trust me, you’ll wish he’d killed you instead.”

You wanted to open your mouth, say something defiant, but nothing came. He pressed on, “I know you’re smart and rational so think of me as the lesser evil. I, at least, have no motive to want to reap you specifically and if you choose me at the end—I’ll really let you go because then I know that we are of the same understanding.”

Suddenly you feel his hand creep higher over your back, like a vine reclaiming its hold. His face was inches from yours, and for a fleeting moment, the interplay of shadow and light caught you off guard. Jaeyun’s usual devil-may-care grin—mischievous, boyish—seemed to warp under the flickering half-light. The shadows deepened the sharp angles of his cheekbones, the tilt of his lips more predator than prankster, as though the ease in his expression was a veneer stretched over something far more calculated. The light, faint and fleeting, only accentuated the unsettling duality—a face that could charm or terrify, depending on how you looked at it.

“If you choose Sunghoon however” his voice dipped lower, his head tilting so his breath brushed against your ear, “I’ll take it that you’re no different from him. And trust me—I won’t even let you get past any statues in the maze.”

You barely had the time to process the onslaught of words—teetering confusingly between helpful and threatening—when his hand cupped your face. Gentle yet deliberate, he tipped your chin ever so slightly toward him before pressing his lips languidly on your cheek—the kiss too slow, too deliberate to be mistaken for tenderness. No, it was a warning—a searing brand meant to remind you of the stakes.

He was like a thorny vine—subtle, insidious. The more you moved, the more you were pricked, and if you stayed still, it would creep over you, wrapping tighter until it claimed you entirely.

The heat lingered long after he pulled away, your skin prickling as though it carried the weight of his words. He loosened his grip just enough to spin you away, the force dismissive yet laced with an unsettling possessiveness.

The force sent you stumbling, disoriented, until strong arms caught you mid-motion, halting your fall. You looked up, your breath hitching as Sunghoon’s dark gaze locked onto yours. His presence was grounding, anchoring you in the chaos—but it was suffocating too, a storm restrained just beneath the surface, its weight pressing down on you.

“You look like you had an enjoyable time with the loach,” Sunghoon muttered, bitterness lacing every syllable. His grip tightened slightly on your waist, dragging you closer as the music swelled around you.

“And you look like you’re exactly where you should be,” you shot back, trying to twist out of his grip, “—the Reaping’s poster child. Is that why you saved me so far?” you pressed on, unable to conceal your own bitterness, “because you’re actually saving me for this.”

His grip tightened—not enough to hurt, but enough to keep you tethered to him. “Would you rather there only be a single name?” he asked coldly, his tone as biting as the frigid air between you. “His?”

“At least he’s honest, Sunghoon,” you snapped, your voice cracking under the weight of your frustration. “At least I know where I stand with him. You—” your hand pressed against his chest, a futile attempt to create space as he guided you into a sharp turn. “You twist everything until I don’t know what’s real anymore.”

“You don’t know what’s real?” His laugh was bitter, humorless, as he spun you again, this time keeping you so close you could feel the rise and fall of his chest against yours. “You poisoned me, y/n. You ran from me. You were the one who destroyed what was real.”

The pang of guilt that surged through you was like a knife, but you refused to let it show. “Oh, I see,” you said, mockery dripping from every word. “Killing two birds with one stone, are we? Reclaim your glory and punish me in one fell swoop. Immortality, bound to you for eternity—that’s the perfect revenge for me, isn’t it? You’ve outdone yourself, Park Sunghoon.”

His jaw tightened, his calm facade cracking just slightly. “You think this is about power?” he asked quietly, his voice simmering with frustration. “I’ve lived for centuries and gone through several wars. If I cared about reclaiming anything, I would have done it long ago.”

“So this is about us, is it?” you pressed, your voice trembling with both anger and something rawer. “Punishing me for what I did eight years ago? You knew the Reaping would break me irreparably more than killing me ever could. That’s why you kept me alive—so you could tether me to you, curse me with eternity, all under your control.”

 “You think I want you bound to me just to feed some twisted sense of power?” he scoffed, the bitterness in his tone cutting sharper than any blade. “God, y/n, this isn’t about control.”

“Then what is it about?” you demanded. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks a hell of a lot like revenge. A power play.”

His jaw clenched, the restraint in his expression cracking further as he took another step toward you. “You think I want revenge? That I want to punish you?” he snapped, his voice rising. “Can’t you see that it’s you that I want?” his voice cracking, “I can’t afford to lose you. Not to him, not to anyone. I’d tear this place apart before I let him have you.”

“I am not yours,” you said bitterly, the words like venom on your tongue. “And you don’t get to play saviour by making me your captive.”

“Captive?” he echoed, the hint of hurt in his voice was subtle but evident. “Sure. Paint me as the villain then—that’s easier, isn’t it? Easier than admitting you’re the one who’s afraid.”

“Afraid?” you scoffed, though the tremor in your voice betrayed you. “Of you?”

“No,” he said sharply, his gaze piercing through you. “Afraid of what you feel. Of what you felt back then, and what you still feel now.”

You flinched as if his words had physically struck you, the momentary crack in your resolve giving him an opening. He stepped closer, his movements calculated as he swept you into a slow, deliberate turn, each step forcing you to follow, leaving you breathless and off balance. “Because if you were really sure,” he murmured, his voice dropping dangerously low, “you wouldn’t need to convince yourself I’m the villain. You wouldn’t be standing here, accusing me of using you, when the truth is you’re just looking for a reason to run.”

Your laugh was hollow, brittle. “You think I’d run from you?”

“I think you’ve been running since the moment we met,” he said simply, his voice cutting through your bravado like a blade. “And I think you’ll keep running until you admit why you poisoned me in the first place.”

He spun you again, his movements sharp and unrelenting, before pulling you back into him, his voice soft but no less cutting. “You knew what we were, what we could’ve been—and you destroyed it. You burned it all to the ground before it could burn you.”

Your fingers curled against his shoulder, nails lightly digging into the fabric, your voice cracking as you hissed, “What you felt for me is not love, Sunghoon. It’s control wrapped in obsession; possession, dressed up as affection.”

He swallowed thickly, and for a moment, you couldn’t tell why—was it because he had called you out, or because your words had cut too deep? The silence between you seemed to stretch, taut and unyielding. His jaw tightened, his gaze darkening, and when he finally spoke, his voice was quieter, sharper, cutting through the air like frost.

“Maybe it is,” he murmured, each word deliberate, his brows furrowing as a glint flashed in his eyes—something cold, something you’d never seen before. “Maybe that’s all I am now.” The faint curve of his lips followed, but it wasn’t a smile—it was bitterness made flesh, a weapon unsheathed.

“Fine, y/n.” His voice dropped lower, darker, as though he were sealing a pact. “I’ll be the villain you so desperately need me to be.”

Before you could respond, he stepped closer, manoeuvring you sharply across the hall. The motion was unrelenting, his grip tightening with a force that felt like it could crush you if he chose. His movements were forceful, almost punishing, the elegance of the waltz tainted by the sheer rawness of his frustration.

“I’ll selfishly take back what you tore from me—what you tore from us—eight years ago,” he continued, his voice low and cutting, each word laced with an accusation that burned. His fingers moved with a slithery precision, curling with just enough force to press you against him, like a marionette in his grasp. His arm, firm and unrelenting, coiled around you like a serpent, each step tethering you closer, suffocating you with its possessiveness.

The curve of his palm seemed to mold perfectly to your body, a gesture that felt both possessive and unnervingly intimate. When he spun you, his hand didn’t falter—it followed the contours of your frame, reclaiming its position with a fluidity that felt inevitable, like gravity itself had shifted in his favour. His grip tightened subtly, fingers splaying just enough to press into the delicate fabric of your gown, branding you in a way that felt both commanding and terrifyingly intimate.

“You tore us apart,” he murmured, his voice dropping into something darker, heavier, as though he was drawing from a well of buried pain. His face hovered inches from yours, his breath searing against your skin. “This time, I’ll make sure you can’t end anything. Because if I can’t have you, no one can.”

The finality in his words hit you like a physical blow, leaving you frozen as he guided you through another step, his movements precise yet devoid of tenderness. The music surged around you, its crescendo mimicking the storm of emotions churning in the air.

And then, as the final note reverberated through the hall, Sunghoon stepped back. His retreat was slow, deliberate, each step like a crumbling facade. His dark eyes burned with an intensity you’d never seen before, emotions swirling just beneath the surface—anger, pain, longing, and something far darker. You couldn’t bring yourself to move, trapped in the gravity of what had just passed between you.

“Now, now,” the host’s voice shattered the silence like breaking glass, his cheerful tone jarring against the tension that lingered in the air. “You know the rules,” he announced, his grin sharp. “Burn the name of the rejected and put the chosen name in the gilded chest.”

Your gaze dropped to the two burgundy parchments in your hand. Slowly, deliberately, you picked up the one with Jaeyun’s name, placing it inside the chest that was meant for the chosen one. The soft click of the lid sealed your choice, a decision made for all to see.

Your gaze instinctively sought Sunghoon in the crowd. His eyes locked with yours for a fleeting second, and in that moment, something flickered across his face—fury, yes, but beneath it, a flash of raw hurt that cut deeper than any words. Then he turned sharply, vanishing into the sea of bodies.

What he didn’t see, what no one would ever see, was how you never burnt the name you rejected—Sunghoon's. You couldn’t.

Instead you folded the parchment with painstaking care, tucking it into the lining of your dress, just over your heart. As though it carried every unspoken word between you.

As if it meant more than you dared to admit.

A/N: No this isn't the end HAHAHAHA told you it was a 40k work so it's actually supposed to be longer but bloody hell apparently tumblr has a 1000 blocks per post limit and it exceeded. So I gotta chop it here. See you in the next one ((i might post it immediately after, or space it out hohoh so let me know what you think about this one)) !

Taglist: @axartia | @my5colours | @elinushka-ka | @nowjillsandwich | @leaderwon | @moniqueovermoney | @ashrocker123 | @seungkwan-s | @hydroyaksha | @ikayyyyyy | @capri-cuntz| @asyleums | @lovialy | @nikikookie | @lunateez | @reithecat | @hocestmundi | tagging those who have explicitly wanted to be tagged eheh apologies if I missed some out :(

[samwpmarleau]

fic: ginger root

whumptober day 24: motion sickness masterlist: tumblr, ao3 Galaxy-jumping and Robbie’s stomach do not, apparently, mix well. Fortunately, there’s a source of tea and saltines on board by the name of Daniel Sousa. part 1 | part 2

Robbie can’t remember the last time he felt so nauseas. Disgusted, sure. In pain, definitely. But being on the precipice of throwing up, skin clammy and ears ringing, it’s been quite a while.

He hasn’t yet found a way to prepare and prevent when he hears over the intercom the dreaded words, “Jumping in three … two … one …”

His stomach lurches as everything in his vision goes blurry. Intellectually, he knows it takes only seconds. He knows that, but from where he’s standing — or sitting — it’s the longest hour of his life. They’ve jumped three times since he was resurrected, and if anything, it only worsens.

He keeps his head against his knees as the ship comes out the other side. His bunk isn’t the most spacious of places, but it’s the one place that he doesn’t have to worry about someone coming across him in the state he’s in now. He’s already an interloper, he doesn’t need mortification, too. What kind of grown man feels like a child with stage fright from a silly little warp drive?

Right as he’s deciding he’ll keep his breakfast down, he discovers that maybe even his bunk isn’t safe, for there’s a knock at the door. The panel to open it is so far away.

“It’s Sousa,” comes the visitor’s voice.

Sousa? The man’s been plenty polite so far, but Robbie’s still amazed by the fact that he was transported here from the 1950s looking not a day over forty. And everyone acts like that’s just another day in the life. Which it must be for them, but Robbie’s playing catchup. Existing as Ghost Rider’s host had been so simple. Hacking and slashing and portaling, most of the time not even aware of what his body is doing. Time travel is beyond him.

He has no real reason to deny Sousa entry, however, so he rises to his feet and holds his hand to the panel.

The agent arrives in his typical business-casual fit (a hard-won upgrade from formal business, Daisy’d said) with a sympathetic smile and a cup of tea.

“That for me?” Robbie asks. He grimaces at the wobble in his voice.

“Yeah. Ginger root.” Sousa hands him the cup, along with most of a sleeve of saltines. “Took me awhile to get the hang of jumping, too.”

Robbie takes a sip of the well-prepared tea and nibbles on a cracker. “You’d think after thirteen years of dimension-hopping I’d be used to this.”

“Different kind of travel. And you’re no longer …”

Robbie waits in mild amusement as Sousa searches for a nice way to put it.

“… enhanced.”

“Possessed,” Robbie corrects. “I sold my soul to the devil, man. You don’t need to talk around it.”

Sousa gives him a self-deprecating smile. “Right. Sorry.”

“Did Daisy send you? No matter how many times I tell that girl not to worry —”

“She does. Don’t I know it.” Sousa helps himself to one of Robbie’s crackers. “No, she didn’t send me. She’s working on tuning static out of the comms system. New solar system, new frequency to figure out. I’ve noticed you’re always in your bunk when we jump and skip lunch, so I made an educated guess.”

Well, that’s better than having his business aired to the entire ship, he supposes. Still, he’d rather not dwell on it. “My brother would have a field day with all that techy stuff. He planned on majoring in computer science.”

Gabe’s face flashes in his head, the way he wears his joy after deciphering some equation or experiment, and the sullen way he gets when he can’t. At least, that’s the way Robbie remembers it. He’s talked to Gabe a couple times since he was brought back, and every time throws him for a loop. When Robbie had left with the Darkhold, Gabe had been a seventeen-year-old kid about to graduate from high school.

Now, he’s a twenty-four-year-old man with two degrees, a steady relationship, and a good job. While Robbie knows Gabe had been excited to see him, there’d been an ensuing awkwardness that Robbie once would have said was unthinkable. He doesn’t begrudge him that, he understands that Gabe must’ve mourned him as dead long ago when it was clear Robbie’s trip to hell wasn’t a short one. Nevertheless, that disconnect feels like a gaping wound.

Once we’re home, everything will be fine, Daisy had encouraged shortly after giving up on the sham of not eavesdropping.

Robbie hopes she’s right. It’d just be helpful to know when that’ll happen. There’s not much Daisy and her team can contribute to Earth’s chaos, or so says Mack — no, Director Mack — and everyone they love are accounted for, so their original cosmic schedule remains the same. His desires are not, unfortunately, high up on S.H.I.E.L.D.’s list of priorities.

“Bright kid,” Sousa says. “Daisy checks in on him every couple months and visits on resupply. They played long-distance Scrabble for awhile until she got tired of losing. It’s Trivial Pursuit now, though I’m not sure who’s —”

“You’ve met him?”

“Oh. No. No, that was something Daisy always wanted to do alone. She just had had a lot to say when she came back.”

Robbie feels some relief at that. He has no ill will towards Sousa, but the idea of Daisy inviting the man into the promise she’d made him, Robbie, sits uneasy in his gut. An uncharitable feeling, perhapas, but Robbie can’t help it.

He takes a generous sip of tea. That, Robbie has no problem with. He says as much, and the compliment lands. Brightly, Sousa replies, “I learned from the best. Agent Peggy Carter didn’t have much tolerance for a bad cup of tea, that’s for damn sure.”

Not for the first time, Robbie marvels at that. It breaks his brain a little to know the man in front of him dated the famed progenitor of S.H.I.E.L.D. simultaneously ten and seventy-five years ago.

“Force of nature, I’ve heard,” Robbie says. There’s not a whole lot of books to read on this ship, but S.H.I.E.L.D.’s history is one of them — protocol, probably, to keep a copy on every vessel — so he’s been left to brush up on the agency’s inception. With a wry smile, he adds, “I think you have a type, Agent Sousa.”

Sousa’s cheeks tinge faintly pink. “Guess I do.”

“Hey, no shade, man. I get it.”

“You, too, huh?”

“Well, I haven’t had anyone follow me up with Captain America, but yeah. You could say that.”

“How it’d end?”

Robbie slowly drains the rest of his tea, buying himself time to beat around the bush. “Uh, I mean, we never dated. It wasn’t the right time, and I don’t know if she felt the same. I thought maybe …” She’d seemed receptive back then, almost flirty, even. The memory of being in the control center, fully human for the first time in years, spending his last remaining moments with her, is one he’d kept forefront in his mind as his body hurtled through dimensions and rivers of blood. Not that it meant anything in the end. “It wouldn’t have worked anyway. I had to leave and didn’t know if I’d ever come back.”

“You’re back now,” Sousa points out. “You could give her a call. She might hold the same torch.”

The idea has crossed his mind no less than a thousand times. But he hasn’t felt any interest from her since he returned, and even if he had, Robbie doesn’t trust that he won’t be snatched up again. That the Rider wasn’t lying about enjoying his new host, that he isn’t merely waiting until Robbie’s settled and happy to take over. More importantly, he wouldn’t want to saddle Daisy with that uncertainty. She deserves a hell of a lot better than that.

She deserves a hell of a lot better than him. Ghost Rider or no Ghost Rider, he’d never match up to the man in front of him. Robbie’s not even sure who he is anymore without the demon.

Which leaves only one answer to Sousa’s optimism: “Unlikely.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

You wouldn’t be if you knew who it was, Robbie doesn’t say. He’d gotten the sense on day two that it wasn’t Sousa who’d brought up the notion about being more compatible as friends than lovers.

He does say, “It is what it is.” He studies Sousa’s earnest face and admits despite himself, “I’m still trying to deal with the whole space and being brought back from the dead thing. I’ve been in crazier situations, but it’s like —”

“— you don’t know what to do with yourself.”

Sousa’s bang on, which brings no comfort. Robbie’s nightmare had been far more public than he’d like, but the rest of it, how it feels to be himself again, what the Rider’s conditions had been, he’d only told one person. “Did Daisy say something to you?”

“No, nothing like that. I can relate, that’s all,” Sousa says. “Not the hell part, obviously. Feeling like an outsider, though? I’ve been there. It’s not easy to be dropped in the middle of a world you weren’t expecting.”

“You seem to be doing fine.”

At least you have a job on this ship, Robbie sulks.

Sousa snorts a laugh. “Daisy thought the same. Between S.H.I.E.L.D. and the SSR, I’ve spent two decades among superspies and dealing with blowhards who like to punch down. I know my way around a poker face.” Sousa puts a hand on Robbie’s shoulder. From someone else, maybe it’d feel patronizing, but Robbie knows the guy’s too genuine for that. “You’ll get there, Robbie. Give yourself time.”

Robbie almost rolls his eyes. Time? Since when? He expects to hear the Rider’s snicker in his head — yet there’s nothing. Not even a whisper. The Rider-voice prickles at the edges, sure. But Robbie’s not an idiot; he can tell the difference between his subconscious and the real deal. If Ghost Rider keeps to his word, then, incredibly, Sousa might be right. Time would be a luxury he’d have.

He’d have choices.

“Tell you what,” Sousa says, either not noticing or courteously not mentioning Robbie’s realization, “I bet Agent Reedy could use a hand down in the mechanic bay. From what I understand, you’re a damn good grease monkey.”

“Yeah, for cars. I don’t have any experience with planes, let alone spaceships.”

“If I could figure out an iPhone, you can figure out a spaceship. Unless Daisy was gassing you up for no reason and you’re worse than a kid in a shop class.”

Robbie scoffs. “Hardly.”

“Great,” Sousa grins with a clap on the back. “I’ll tell Reedy he’s getting a partner.”

Robbie regards Sousa with renewed curiosity. He hadn’t envisioned having anything in common with a Greatest Generation Boy Scout, yet here he sits in kindred. From time disorientation down to nausea on space jumps. “Well,” he says, gesturing to the tea and crackers, “thanks for this. And the conversation. You’re a good guy, Sousa.”

“As are you.”

Robbie raises an eyebrow. “Did you forget the part where I sold my soul to a demon?”

“No,” says Sousa, “I didn’t.”

[stevetonyweekly]

SteveTony Weekly - October 13 - Week 41

Happy weekend, friends! I haven’t read much this week because work has been super busy and I’ve been reading client books. BUT! I have some fun recs for you today and some other news. 

If you’ve been in the Marvel or Stevetony fandom for any length of time, you’ve probably heard of @marveltrumpshate a fandom charity auction that takes place every October for the past several years. (If you haven’t, omgosh, go check it out!!) ANYWAY--this year, the rec blog is getting in on the action, and you can bid to win 12 curated rec lists--any tropes, best of, holiday centric, whatever--from yours truly. You can find more info about the auction and the Stevetony Weekly listing HERE. It’s preview week, but I’ll give y’all a heads up when the auction goes live and of course, feel free to send an ask to inbox, if you have questions! 

Ok, now the recs! 

~

For You by viklikesfic (v_angelique)

Tony Stark is one of the earlier adopters of KinkTok, just as he was for Kinstagram, Fetlife, Grindr, and Kinkspace back in the day. It’s practically part of his job, as one of the most high-profile submissives in the country.

Steve pauses as he watches several loops through the same brief clip of Tony just slowly licking his lips and then letting his mouth fall open as he head tips back ever so slightly. #heydaddy #herewaiting the captions read, with a devil emoji.

the street finds its own uses by hollyandvice (hiasobi_writes) 

When Tony's syncmate implant (and no, Rhodey, it's not a soulmate implant, no matter what pop culture calls it) starts emitting signals five years after it was implanted, Tony thinks he can ignore it. He's wrong.

Tony Learns Something New by RiotFalling

In which Tony finds out that his tiny artist boyfriend is not a nice boy. In the best possible way.

Dragon Choices by tsukinofaerii

When a childhood accident leaves Tony with a remarkable ability to hear dragons, he finds out that on Pern, the dragon chooses. Whether it comes to being a dragonrider or becoming Weyrwomanleader, he has a bumpy flight ahead.

The Good or Bad Thing by petreparkour 

“It’s the metal suit,” Thor informed Steve, his normally-booming voice tinny over the SHIELD comms. “What did Stark call it—Iron Man?”

“But he’s down here,” Steve protested as the Hulk roared in Stark’s face, startling him into waking with a shout. “How could—”

“It’s damaged,” Thor reported. “But it looks different. More advanced. And he—ah. He’s carrying you, Captain.”

“Please tell me nobody kissed me,” Stark breathed out, and then Stark’s voice suddenly came over the comms, but the man lying next to him hadn’t moved.

“Guys, come on, you’re killing me here. What is it, 2012? God, I hate time travel. First, I'm fighting Thanos. Now, I have to deal with my past self and Thor's bad haircut? Oh my God, Cap, yes I hacked their comms, they’re my comms.”

Steve nearly opened his mouth to protest that he hadn’t said anything when he realized that this replica of Tony Stark wasn’t speaking to him.

[littlelesbinonny]

The Devil's Den

Chapter 23: In Which Fates Begin to Spin Pt. 2

You can read this also on Ao3 at: https://archiveofourown.org/works/46831621/chapters/117962293

The deep tunnels were some of the first underground passages built by the vampires in this part of the United States. They had been in use since the early 1600's but were pretty much abandoned by the late 1800's when the new passageways were finished. 

These were narrow, poorly lit (if at all), and had piss poor flooring compared to the new tunnels that were used today. They smelled. They were dingy. And Alcina was remembering all too well how much she disliked these bloody passages. 

While she was grateful she had never had them sealed off, she figured it was entirely possible at some point in the future they could have cave-ins.

After the eighth or ninth cobweb she ran face first into, Alcina stopped and spat.

"Fuck me," she growled, "did Donna pack a goddamn bloody torch by chance?"

Mateo fumbled with his bag while Karl repositioned his hat with a huff. 

"She did," he replied, lighting the top with his lighter.

"Ya know if you wore that big ol' hat of yours you wear to council you could clear the whole tunnel for us," Karl remarked as he leaned against the musty wall.

Generously ignoring his remark, Alcina grabbed for it smugly letting the light illuminate her unamused façade.

The flame washed the dark dank walls with it's brilliant orange.

"Bless her and her mind," she segued, "I'll happily burn down the rest of these tunnels once we're through, but in the meantime I'd like less unforeseen spiderwebs caked on my face."

Karl snorted and began to open his mouth.

"Don't. Even. Start. Heisenberg," she snarled before he took his breath.

"Got it," he replied throwing his arms up with his tart smile.

The trek seemed to take much longer than it did, but when they reached their destination the sun was indeed beginning to peak.

The mouth of this tunnel in Bridgeport lead directly into an old abandoned warehouse the lycans had fortified as a stronghold back when the wars between clans were still raging.

It was completely boarded up now to accommodate their vampire allies, so being there in the daylight was no threat to them at all. There were several sleeping quarters, a kitchen, a small medical facility, a blood wine reserve in storage containers, and a weapons locker on the second floor. Otherwise it was quite large and spacious and very wide open.

It was still a little too grungy for Alcina's liking, but she'd let it slide.

Gerard, Mateo, and Karl began laying down their bags on the nearest table off the entryway. Alcina's senses were on high alert but felt nothing of importance anywhere near.

With a soft breath she lay her bag with the rest and began pulling out its contents.

"Well, as much as I hate to leave you night dwellers, I best be gettin' on my way to see if I can find Mitch and the rest of my men."

Alcina regarded Karl with a swift nod, "I know you don't like comms, but are you sure you won't take one?"

"I don't like shit in my ears. Gimme one of those hand held ones..."

Gerard handed it off to Karl who snatched it and threw it in his pocket.

"The distance on those is much smaller, so if you're - "

"Out of range I can't get in touch, yeah yeah, I know. Technology is wonderful and full of bullshit all at the same time."

Alcina smirked, "we will patiently await your return."

"As if you had any other choice," he winked, tipped his hat, and dashed off.

She still didn't like this. Any of it.

Heisenberg was self sufficient just like she was, but without really knowing what they were up against, or how many, this was not pleasant going into blind. Blake hadn't been much help with the plethora of information; he was drowsy and weak from the attack, and according to his story he barely got a glimpse of the assailants as it was.

And Mitch. She was worried about Mitch.

Another warrior who was well worth his weight in gold on the battlefield and yet there was radio silence on his end. She was dreading the news, and even more so having none at all.

And you. She was missing you.

Fuck. Get it together.

Alcina ruffled her hair and turned to her guards.

"Lucky for us there's only 3 entrances to this godforsaken place. We'll each take post within safe distance of one. Mateo, please radio Donna and let her know we've arrived."

Mateo and Gerard nodded and headed in different directions, Alcina taking her time finding hers.

Once at her post; pistol on her hip, knives strapped to her thighs, and an outright spiteful attitude, Alcina perched on the beat-up kitchen counter not too far from the bolted door.

This place felt dead and vacant of any energy at all and she was at least able to sigh some relief at that. And while she had plenty of silence and time to think, she occupied the space in her mind with you. A slight smile took her deep red lips as she wondered what you were up to. Waking and readying for work, already there maybe? Perhaps you were thinking of her as she was you? 

Alcina took a sharp breath and tapped her nails on her arms.

~

6 hours and 42 minutes had passed and not one word from Karl.

No movement of any sort had been heard outside.

It was too quiet and she was growing restless.

Instead of calling for Mateo, Alcina left her post and went to find him to request the radio earpiece.

"No word from anyone?" she asked politely as he handed it over.

"No, my Lady; nothing but silence since I spoke with Donna when we arrived."

"And no signs of life over on this end?"

He shook his head and she nodded in acceptance, "I suppose silence is better than chaos."

Alcina began placing the piece in her ear, nodded to Mateo and headed back to her post.

"Donna?" she spoke, holding her finger to the talk button.

Silence.

"Donna - I hate to wake you, but I'm bored out of my wits."

Silence.

She huffed and slowed her steps the closer she got to her spot.

"You know, you're lucky I like you at all otherwise I'd never answer this call," Donna's voice finally sounded on the other end.

Alcina chuckled quietly. She sounded tired.

"Oh please. You really expect me to believe you've been asleep?"

"Of course not, but that still doesn't disregard the fact I'm quite tired. I feel like you; I can't count how many glasses of blood wine I've had to keep my nerves at bay."

"Well if it makes you feel any better I'm holed up in a dusty, grimy, tinny, iron-rusted smelling warehouse with no comfortable chairs. And I forgot my cigarettes."

Donna's gasp was quite audible, "Oh dear, what ever will we do?"

They shared a laugh but it turned quiet fast.

"Did the girls find you?" she asked even more hushed than before.

"They did. I have them doing the bare minimum; ears and senses alert, but not going any farther from home than necessary. If something arises they know what to do. Your daughters are smart. I have nothing but faith in them."

Alcina smiled at that.

"As do I. But it doesn't lessen the fear of them meeting trouble they can't disarm."

"Any progress there?"

"None. Heisenberg left the moment we arrived and we've neither seen nor heard anything since. It's quiet here. Nearly too quiet, and I don't know if my apprehension is merely nerves or something to be seriously considered."

While Alcina always appeared a glorious marble pillar; unmovable by even the strongest of Earths' forces - she was a highly intuitive, calculative, questioning and wise individual. Her gut feelings had never steered her wrong and her ability to visualize and anticipate all matters were a steadfast quality. Donna knew her friend was sensing exactly what she was needing to.

"I think your hunches deserve their debate time. Keep listening."

The pause gave Alcina a moment to chew through Donna's words. There was more happening inside of her these days which didn't help the cloudiness already engulfing her.

"Well... I suppose I'm just -"

An eruption of bangs and hollers came echoing through the warehouse and Alcina jumped from her perch.

"Stay close to the line - somethings happening!" she urged as she tore the piece from her ear, stuffing it in her sleeve pocket and dashing through the halls towards the noise.

As she rounded another corner and found herself in the main corridor, Karl, with a slumped and mangled looking Mitch and three other lycans, were stumbling through the door Gerard had been guarding. 

"Here! Get him to the medical bay!" Karl growled as the vampires came to their aid.

Mitch was bloodied, bruised, cut up, and grunting as they moved him off. The others seemed just fine and quickly followed.

"Why didn't you radio for assistance?!" Alcina hissed as she fell in behind the line.

Karl barked; "Woman! Does it looks like I had an extra hand to do that?! It took me forever to find their fucking camp, then it took me forever to get everyone where I wanted them, get a plan in order, AND get him back here as quickly as possible!"

She let this slide and roll off since he was clearly upset and enraged. There was so much more to this story and she was impatiently waiting to ask.

Everyone began the bustle in the medical quarters to get Mitch taken care of. Gerard and Raul, one of the lycans, began tending to the gashes and slashes all over him. Alcina rushed for the healing elixirs in the med cabinet and brought back two of the most potent.

"Here," she said to Raul, handing him the viles, "he's not going to like these but it's the best we've ever engineered for your kind."

Alcina stepped back and allowed the fuss to ensue. Karl was pacing and rubbing his stubbly face and rugged beard off in the corner.

She approached him carefully.

"You're not gunna fuckin' like it," he mumbled under his breath, sensing her closeness.

-

While you weren't completely bummed out, you were still pretty sad and down at the fact you were going to be missing your vampire something terrible by the time this was all through. It hadn't even been a whole 24 hours since she'd been gone but you were feeling it.

You hummed a little at how pathetic it felt. But then again, you weren't going to scoff at it either.

You loved Alcina.

Deeply.

What of it?

Another deep sigh tumbled out of your lungs as you tossed your gaze out the window of your office.

You were bored.

Again.

It was only 11 o'clock and you were ready to go home and find some other way to distract yourself.

The day had started out with a decent patch of fog sitting on the city. You kind of enjoyed it from time to time but it only fueled the knocking melancholy. Luckily you'd found an old portable cassette player way in the back of your closet that you hadn't seen since you were 13, and to your utter surprise it still worked. So yeah, you swiped the tapes of your lover's sweet voice and took them to work with you. Granted, today had been a bit of a shit show and you hadn't had a chance to actually listen yet, but now was as good a time as any.

You plugged your earbuds into the port, slipped them in your ears and hit play.

Ah. Yes.

There was that stunning voice coming to soothe and lull you into a peace and calm you were hungrily seeking.

Two songs later you had blissfully ignored your email, phone, and office messenger. 

Oops. Oh well.

Without another care in the world you excused yourself from your desk and went outside to the courtyard where there was a quaint little spot with grass, a couple trees, some flower beds, and 4 benches to sit on. You chose the patchy green and yellow grass.

Before long the clouds that had painted most of the sky were being bled apart by the stroke of the sun, and the heat and warmth felt even better with the music wafting through your brain.

You wished Alcina was still mortal so you and she could enjoy the summer sun together. Walk the paths of Central Park, nap in the grass, smell the flowers and watch the sun trek across the sky like a wandering traveler.

You sighed.

As a particularly lovely song came to an end (one which you really needed to ask Alcina what it was since it was in French) your palms began to itch a little. As the odd sensation took over your concentration, you peered down after lifting a hand and noticed the grass, which you were pretty sure was yellow before, was a brilliant bright green. The blades were springing back up to life from being pressed down by your weight and you blinked a couple a times.

Weird.

Just another occurrence to add to the list, you thought.

After you had spent your half hour lunch outside basking in the sun, you finally took the buds from your ears and rose. The sky seemed bluer and brighter and you felt a hundred times better. With a new smile on your face you meandered inside without any rush at all.

What you didn't notice was that the grass, which was indeed yellow and shriveling from lack of attention, was now brimming and spreading with the same bright green you had seen before. 

And above, in the trees, were the 6 crows that had followed you from home.

-

"The group of eight I had? Dead. All dead, except Mitch and Blake. The group of twenty I sent? Eighteen are left. Eighteen. None of these fuckin' guys can tell me what the fuck attacked them. NONE of them can tell me where they went! These fucking rogue vampires, if that's what they fuckin' are, are more like mutant goddamn blood-sucking roadrunners from a cartoon! Explain to me how three, maybe more, of these bastards can swoop in, kill my lycans, and not leave a MOTHER FUCKING TRACE!"

Karl's rage was understandable.

And warranted.

Alcina sipped on a glass of blood-wine as she listened to him vent.

He was right; she didn't fuckin' like it.

"I've got them stationed like a fucking tank this time. If those fucks hit again, they won't stand a chance. And if we do get ass-fucked again... then I don't know what else to do."

"If they do strike again tonight, we'll be there for reinforcement - I'll be there for reinforcement. I'm as eager as you to snare one of these cretins and get to the bottom of what is happening," she eyed him intently as she prepared her next sentence, "as much as I detest what I'm about to tell you next, I'm afraid with the casualties that have been sustained I have no choice but to alert Mother Miranda."

"Oh fuck that bitch! What the hell you gotta tell her for?!"

"I'm afraid Alcina is right, Karl," Donna replied from the radio in the middle of the table, "this has gotten too far to not involve her, and it is her territory this is happening in."

Alcina huffed.

"If the chain of command were different, believe me, I'd never involve her in anything if at all possible. But there have now been deaths on your side; this makes the situation nose dive from speculation to a direct hit into acts of war. She has to be alerted. Until we know for sure what is happening, all of us need to be on high alert."

With a growl reflecting her own feelings on the matter he slumped in the chair adjacent to hers at the table in the kitchen.

"How many decades of peace, and now this?" he grumbled.

"Whatever the case, we can win again but we can't win alone."

Alcina looked at the clock as she finished her glass. It was almost night fall.

Mitch was under sedation in the next room with the lycans watching over his condition while the vampires were still on internal patrol.

Eying him once more Alcina stood from the table, "let's get ready. I want to be out that door the minute the light dies out. Donna, wait on alerting Mother Miranda for now... I'd like a little more information to report if at all possible."

"Understood. Be careful out there."

The journey to the lycan camp was tiresome and she now understood Karl's plight to find it. The maze of tattered, mangled trees and bushes to where they had relocated was so off the beaten path even she was completely disoriented by the time they arrived. They had to backtrack several miles nearly to the Saugatuck Reservoir to the North East of where the warehouse was and it was a task getting there by foot, through the city, and then the countryside.

They were welcomed with guns to the face as they made their way in. Karl was quick to disrupt the tension and escorted the group within the camp.

Alcina was impressed by the stakeout. Karl had indeed set them up to a decently impenetrable fortress of feral, pissed off lycans.

The somberness of the night set in harder as they passed by their deceased brothers and sisters. They had gathered them all under a tent and were prepping them to be sent back to their homes.

War was ugly. No matter who was fighting it. 

Needless death. 

Flashbacks to the many battles she had fought in came flooding through her thoughts. She had always been one of the lucky ones. She got to live and fight another day while many countless others of her kind were slain. While vampires mourned differently than humans, the pain was felt just as deeply, the scars ran just as thick. The physical wounds may not have carried on through the years but the torment of bloodshed stained hearts and minds forever.

Alcina felt for their loved ones.

They reached the base tent and entered. Everyone was locked and loaded to the teeth. The general of this group, Sylvia, greeted them with a much more pleasant demeanor than Alcina was expecting. 

"Lady Dimitrescu, a pleasure to meet you," she stated with a slight bow.

"Thank you General, I wish only the circumstances could be drastically different," she replied with a gracious nod of her own.

"Fucked up times call for fucked up measures I guess - do we have a plan of action? My men are gnashing for revenge, we're ready to move."

The smaller, but very built, composed, and fiery commander seemed to be staring the vampire Matriarch down. In a humble, expectant kind of way.

Alcina liked her already.

"Hold your horses, Syl, we're all in the same boat here and we're doing all we can to keep the water out," Karl interjected.

"No, she's right," Alcina defended gently, "we need a plan. As complicated and difficult as it is to make one currently, we need something."

"Well fuck, I'm all ears," he shrugged.

Before another breath could be taken by anyone, Sylvia was already speaking again.

"Excellent. One of my scouts thinks he may have found an entrance to an underground cave system up along the reservoir that these fucking ghosts might be coming from. I told him to stay back and not investigate until you arrived."

"Show me," Alcina stated blankly without a second thought.

10 lycans, Alcina, Karl, Sylvia, Gerard and Mateo stalked their way through the woods. The air was eerily still as the group came upon what definitely appeared to be the beginning of a cave into the ground in the middle of this tangled forest. The decently sized black hole in the earth was surrounded by boulders and rock that seemed to be less than natural for its whereabouts, like a gigantic mole had sprung its way up from the depths.

No one spoke as they stood shrouded there several hundred feet away in the denser part of the woods.

The moon was low in the sky and there was barely a breeze breathing through the leaves. Everyone had their guns aimed at the mouth, silencers gleaming in the low light of the moons rays as Alcina let her eyes and senses come to life.

Nothing.

There was nothing she could detect anywhere.

And yet... yes, there was.

Her gliding silent steps took her slowly from the group as she slinked her way through the brush and into the minimal clearing near the jagged boulders of the cave.

Karl's first instinct was to reach for her and stop her, but she was too quick and he didn't want to stir the night anymore than need be.

Sylvia, taking cue, quietly motioned for her men to spread out around the area to offer surrounding and protection.

The tall intimidating sight of her in the darkness, golden glow in her eyes, and fierce expression on her face made even the lycans feel the need to shudder off her radiating prowess.

They all stationed and waited. 

And nothing.

Nothing at all.

And then the sound of a sharp hiss far from her left hooked her attention right before a blur slammed into her, throwing her unprepared into the rough rocks of the cave mouth.

[radioactiveshitstorm]

failure, fear, future and hunt for kiraaks? :]

ehehe oh fuck yeah

failure: What's your OC's greatest failure? Have they been able to move past it? Does anyone else know about it?

His greatest failure, in his mind, is himself. In his early days, he attacked humans and Guardians indiscriminately, as part of the House of Devils. Then when the Devils fell and he joined House Salvation, he believed Eramis' words about rebuilding Riis, their old home. He believed that she only wanted a better, brighter future for all Eliksni kind. He avoided thinking about how far off the rails she was going, even when it became obvious. And now, every time he has to kill another of his kind, he sees it as another failure. If only he could be more presuasive, if only he could convince more of them to leave the remnants of Eramis' "empire".

He hasn't even tried to move past it. Instead, he's internalised the lot, and uses it as a self-deprecating kind of motivation. If he doesn't keep trying to save as many people as possible, he's even more of a failure than he was already.

fear: What is your OC's greatest fear? What do they do when confronted with it? Are they open with their fear, or do they hide it away?

Attracting the attention of Guardians. Honestly, the concept terrifies him. He can hold his own against a small group of other Eliksni, especially smaller ones like Dregs and Vandals, but Guardians are a whole different ballgame. Functionally immortal Light-wielding beings, expert fighters who can just pop back up after being straightup evaporated... He can't fight that and he doesn't want to. So he avoids them as much as possible, even going as far as eavesdropping on their comms so he knows roughly where they're likely to be. He's not exactly open about it, but that's mostly because he doesn't have anyone to be open with.

future: What's the worst possible future for your OC? Are they taking steps to avoid that outcome? Are they even aware it's a possibility?

Worst possible is that he dies before he's "done enough". What counts as enough? Good question! Even Kiraaks doesn't know. All he knows is that he hasn't reached that threshold yet, and so he can't allow himself to die. So he keeps his under-the-snow hideaway a secret, sets traps around the perimeter so he gets some warning if anyone follows him back there, and tries to avoid getting into fights he knows he can't win. It's only a matter of time, though; death nips at his heels every time he ventures out.

hunt: Who or what is your OC hunted by? A person, a feeling, a past mistake? Is your OC able to let their guard down, or are they constantly alert?

Kiraaks is near-constantly being hunted by other Eliksni, the remnants of House Salvation. They know who he is, they know he hasn't left Europa (where else would he go?), and they know he's the reason why so many patrols have gone missing. He can never really let his guard down. When outside, he has to be constantly aware of his surroundings in case a House Salvation patrol gets the drop on him, or a Guardian decides to take a potshot. When in his hideaway, he still can't fully relax; the traps outside only give a small advantage, and he can't afford to let attackers get any closer.

[ladyvillainous]

Steve Rogers – Modern Woman

AU fic where all the avengers live and work together including a rehabilited Bucky Barnes and my character Mel.

Description

Steve can’t help but be drawn to Mel but she’s a thoroughly modern woman of the age complete with tattoo’s wild hair and piercings but what would she want with an old school gentleman like himself

Warnings

Mostly just funny and fluffy with NSFW Smut towards the end

This is out of character even for my version of Steve but I liked the idea so I just rolled with it, don’t take it too seriously.

Word Count: 4978

“Wow! Your hair looks amazing Mel” Wanda enthused, walking around her in a circle to view it from all angles.

“Thanks Wanda, you don’t think it’s too bright?” Mel asked, self-consciously smoothing her hand over her Bubble gum Pink hair.

“Well you could go brighter, but they can probably already see you from space, so where’s the need” Tony Smirked, his eyes not leaving the screen of his phone, propped up against the jug of orange juice on the breakfast table.

Natasha smacked him upside the head as she left the table to fetch more coffee “Ouch” he muttered cringing away from the former assassin, gaze still trained on his phone. 

She smirked down at him as he flinched “Baby”

Turning her attention back to Mel she ducked left and right, viewing her new haircut and colour from all angles “I like it, especially the shaved bit on the side, very edgy”

Bucky walked into the kitchen making a beeline for the coffee machine as usual, only pulling up short when he caught sight of the ladies clustered around it “Woah Mel that’s… er… different”

Mel laughed, rolling her eyes as he walked towards her “Yeah because normally I’m so conservative”

Bucky threw his metal arm around her shoulders, pulling her into his muscular chest, grinning from ear to ear “Can’t wait to see Steve’s reaction”

Natasha laughed “Poor Stevie, even a lip piercing is too much for him let alone…” she looked at Mel sideways “Well…” she gestured to Mel shrugging.

Mel laughed, Steve struggled to hide his horror whenever she arrived back at the tower fresh from the tattoo parlour. Her largest tattoo being a full Avengers themed sleeve on her left arm. She had that done years before she interviewed for Tony as the team techy, he’d just laughed when he saw it and hired her on the spot, so it had come in handy.

Working with the Avengers was a dream come true, she spent most days working with Tony and Bruce in the labs coming up with new gadgets to keep the team safe.  More importantly, she kept them under control ensuring they didn’t attempt to build anymore superbots. Vision had turned out great in the end but Ultron went badly wrong. It had taken a long time for the team to truly feel comfortable with Bruce and Tony being back in a lab together.

Very occasionally Mel would be required for surveillance missions, usually where high levels of tech were involved, but they were minor league dangerous. Mel liked to joke that she was like the teams conscience, the little voice in their ears. Natasha on the other hand referred to her as the devil on her shoulder, as she was prone to making sarcastic comments over the comms. Which on more than one occasion had reduced Sam or Bucky to fits of giggles nearly blowing their covers.

Steve had chewed her out several times for it but she could tell he really wanted to laugh, his beautiful mouth twitching up at the sides as he shouted. She loved to watch him talk, didn’t matter what he was saying it was an excuse to watch the way his mouth moved, as she imagined him putting that mouth to better use.

At least twice Bucky had caught her staring at him during briefings, having to kick her under the table to snap her out of her stupor. It was painfully obvious to everyone she had a massive crush on the Captain. To hide it would be a near impossible task, so instead she played on it, flirting with and teasing Steve until he blushed beet red was a daily challenge for her.

Mel knew nothing was ever going to happen there, Steve didn’t think of her that way. She was way to “Modern a Dame” as he’d called her once. Whereas he was an old school gentleman, something that she found a major turn on unfortunately.

“Oh god! You didn’t get a lip piercing this time did you?..” Steve started, overhearing their conversation as he entered the kitchen. Catching sight of them grouped by the counter he came to a complete dead stop, eyes wide staring at Mel.

Bucky smirked at his best friend, releasing Mel to move to the table for breakfast.

Mel winked at Natasha, before turning to fully face the super soldier, she’d been looking forward to teasing him all morning.

“So big boy, what do you think?” Mel smiled provocatively, tipping the Captain a wink.

Steve stood rooted to the spot, mouth gaping, the only giveaway he’d even heard her was the pink tint spreading along his cheekbones.

Mel slinked towards the frozen super soldier, swaying her hips slowly, noting the way his gaze dropped fractionally as she sauntered closer. Throwing a glance over her shoulder she grinned at the sight of her best friends, shaking silently, desperately trying and failing to keep a straight face.

She turned her full attention back to the Captain, like a predator stalking its prey, doing a little twirl for him fluffing up her long, soft pink hair “So? What do you think?”

Steve gulped as she gazed seductively up at him, pulling her bottom lip between her teeth, fluttering her eyelashes.

“Looks… Looks lovely Mel” he stammered, completely red in the face. He quickly side stepped the tech, moving to join Bucky at the table.

Looking round Mel caught Tony staring at her, finally looking up from his phone an amused look playing across his face as he tried not to laugh “You shouldn’t wind the old man up you’ll give him a heart attack one day”

Mel shrugged “One day, he might surprise us all and give as good as he gets” grinning to the room at large she skipping gleefully from the room “If anyone needs me, I’ll be in the lab” she called over her shoulder.

Tony turned back to look at Steve fixing him with an infuriatingly superior look “Cap are you ever going to do anything about the raging boner you have for that woman?”

The reaction around the table at his words was immediate. Sam and Bucky looked at each other then back to Steve bursting out laughing at his shocked expression. Wanda and Natasha leaned on the kitchen counter watching the super soldier curiously, while Bruce gaped at the billionaire shocked at how baldly he’d put it.

Steve sighed, leaning back in his chair “I’m not her type Tony, you know that”

“That’s an excuse and you know it Cap” Tony declared getting to his feet, crossing the room to drop his plate and cup in the dishwasher.

“How do you know what her type is anyway Steve?” Natasha enquired, an eyebrow raised in challenge.

“Well come on, she’s… she’s so modern and I’m so… so… old fashioned” Steve cried, throwing his hands up in the air.

“That’s just appearance Steve, deep down every woman wants a bit of good old fashioned loving” Wanda smirked.

Steve looked up at the women leaning on the counter, suddenly very aware they knew Mel better than anyone on the team.

“Are you guessing or do you know that for a fact in this case?”  He asked carefully.

Natasha snorted “We know Steve, Jesus you’re so oblivious, Mel is held over heels for you everyone knows it, now would you please do something about it” she said, with a roll of her eyes.

“Seriously?” he asked incredulous.

Bucky’s hand landed heavily on his friends shoulder “Seriously punk, we can all see the way you look at each other”

Steve looked to Sam for confirmation, who nodded “Seriously!”

He looked to the table for a moment thinking hard, then back to Natasha and Wanda “Ok so if I’m gonna do this I’ll need your help”

Wanda whooped punching her fist in the air as Natasha grinned deviously at the super solider “Bring it on Stevie”

***

“You want to do what?” Wanda shrieked between her fingers, her hand over her mouth, eyes wide with horror

Natasha leaned back against the door to Steve’s room regarding the soldier with interest.

“You know she likes you just the way, you are you don’t need to go to all this trouble...” she queried an amused smile tugging at her lips.

Steve grinned “Maybe it’s time to prove that I can give as good as I get”

Wanda squeaked, dropping her hands from her face finally “Well that will do it alright… but it’s awful extreme”

Running a hand through his blonde hair, ruffling it up in that sexy way that made all the girls swoon, not that he noticed, Steve sighed.

“Sometimes you have to go to extremes for love”

The two women exchanged raised eyebrows before bursting into hysterics.

“Dramatic much” Natasha smirked from the doorway.

Wanda laughed “Well I still think you’re crazy… but I’ll grab my purse, we have some shopping to do”

Wanda and Natasha left Steve’s room “See you downstairs in 5” still chuckling to themselves.

3 hours later they were back in Steve’s room his purchases spread across the bed.

Wanda, who was now finally on board once the shopping began, was gleefully bouncing around looking at their purchases and trying to decide where to begin.

���Bathroom now” Natasha ordered crooking her finger at the super solider indicating he should follow. Steve’s last thought before they got to work was “What had he gotten himself into!”

Mel wandered into the kitchen, following the gorgeous smell wafting down the hall that had enticed her, Bruce and even Tony to leave the lab.

“Oh my god! Wanda’s cooking” Mel squealed excitedly, Wanda’s cooking was second to none.

Wanda looked up from the pot smiling “It’s almost done, why don’t you set the table”

Bruce and Mel grabbed handfuls of cutlery and plates, while Tony sorted the drinks out. One by one the rest of the team appeared at the doorway having allowed the smell of Wanda’s cooking to distract them from whatever task they’d been doing at the time.

Bucky and Sam had clearly been in the gym as they arrived dressed in their sweats with wet hair, Vision drifted though the wall from the library right behind Bruce making him scream and drop a plate. They all laughed at him teasing him about turning green which just earned them a death glare from the scientist.

Mel busied herself helping Wanda dish up, handing out the plates of food to those already sat at the table. Completely preoccupied with trying not to drop 3 plates at once, she didn’t witness the new arrivals enter the kitchen behind her.

Tony who was already tucking into his food not waiting for anyone as usual froze, eyes wide his fork suspended halfway between his open mouth and the plate.

Bucky abruptly began to choke on the glass of water he was drinking, eyes watering trying to prevent it from rushing out his nose. Sam absentmindedly pounded him on the back, not one for missing an opportunity to hit the super soldier, while shooting amused glances to the doorway. Bruce like Mel had his back to the door, they looked up at the sounds of Bucky choking then at each other confused. Bruce swivelled to look over his shoulder, following Tony’s shocked gaze “What did you do?” he breathed horrified.

Mel turned to see Natasha in the doorway grinning widely at her and then turned her gaze to the man next to her, her uncomprehending eyes not recognising him for a second “Steve?” she gasped her mouth falling open in shock.

She barely recognised him and not in a good way. Gone was his beautiful blonde hair replaced with a bright vivid red, styled slightly spikey, pulled down and swept across his forehead. Admittedly she liked the style but the colour did nothing for him.

Eyes sliding down over his grinning face she realised he was uncharacteristically dressed all in black and much more casually that she was used to. His hoodie was emblazoned with the Avengers logo and his baggy combat trousers were slung low on his hips, a metal chain hanging between his back pocket and belt. As she stared, he pushed his right sleeve up his arm, a collective gasp of horror rippled around the room as he revealed a full tribal tattoo sleeve.

Mel squeaked appalled hiding her face in her hands not wanting to see, but then immediately parting her fingers to peak through unable to look away, what had he done to his beautiful body.

“Well…” began Sam “Well Steve, I never thought anyone would be able to top Mel’s flamingo pink hair, but here I am proved wrong”

“What on earth were you thinking?” Tony demanded torn between the desire to snap a picture or slap some sense into the man.

“Mel said she wanted to see me give as good as a got one day, so here I am giving it everything I got” Steve responded waving his tattooed arm towards Mel.

Mesmerised Mel watched his arm wave through the air before she registered his words “Oh no! Don’t you blame this on me, I wanted you to fight back a little as in tease me not… not… well this” She cried gesturing to all of him.

“I think he looks sexy like this don’t you agree Wanda?” Natasha called across to the witch who quickly ducked behind the counter on the pretence of having dropped something to hide her laughing face.

“Absolutely” she called from the floor.

Mel glared at the red head “You helped him do this, didn’t you? Jesus Nat, why didn’t you talk him out of it?”

“I don’t understand Doll, don’t you like my new look?” Steve affected a hurt look but couldn’t stop his lips from twitching up into a smile.

“No, I…” Mel started, realisation hitting her like a tonne of bricks “You’re winding me up aren’t you?”

Steve, Wanda and Natasha burst into hysterics “You should see your faces right now! Natasha gasped, through the tears running down her face.

The entire table huffed out a deep breath, collectively releasing the breath they hadn’t realised they were holding.

“I dunno, I kinda like it” smirked Bucky “You’ve finally joined this century Stevie”

Mel spun to shout at the super soldier “He should be dressing like a grown up not like some gothic emo teenager!”

Bruce looked at Mel thoughtfully “It’s not all that different to how you dress Mel” he said quietly.

Mel snapped her gaze down to the man next to her “You what? I don’t… I mean… oh god you’re right” She stared down at her own all black outfit, thoughtfully touching her pink hair.

“Wanda” Mel shouted suddenly making everyone jump “Tomorrow we’re going shopping, Nat I’ll need you too”

“Yay more shopping” Wanda clapped her hands together gleefully.

“Finally!” Natasha breathed out triumphantly, a smirk plastered across her face.

Turning back to Steve Mel marched across the room into she was right in front of him “Right Mr you’re coming with me, I refuse to look at you like this for a second longer, we’ve got to sort this”

Steve laughed staring down at her “But what about dinner?”

“Shoulda thought about that before pulling this little stunt” she grimaced at his red hair again.

Rushing out the door, she grabbed him by the sleeve of his hoodie, dragging him with her

“Save us some food would ya” he shouted to Wanda as he was unceremoniously hauled from the room.

“Where are we going Doll?” Steve asked chuckling as she shoved him into the Elevator and hit the button for Steve’s floor with her fist.

“Your room, to get all of… well that off you” Mel shook her head “For the love of god tell me that none of it’s permanent”

Steve Chuckled “The hair dye is wash in wash out, though Nat has warned me my hair may be a little orange for a while, the tattoo… Well look…”

Mel looked down to the arm he was holding out, with his other hand he reached up under the sleeve of his hoodie and pulled the fake tattoo sleeve down, over his wrist revealing his unblemished and perfect skin.

She sighed in relief as it came off “Oh thank goodness”

“What’s the matter Doll? Didn’t you think it suited me?”

Mel rolled her eyes “Don’t get me wrong Steve, seeing you with a tattoo was actually kinda hot but I wouldn’t have wanted you to mark your gorgeous body permanently to prove a point” she threw at him before thinking it through belatedly and realising what she’d said.

Silence followed her admission the tension in the room suddenly skyrocketing “Gorgeous huh?” Steve asked softly, raising a hand to Mel’s chin and lifting, forcing her chocolate brown eyes up to his sky blue’s.

Seeking to diffuse the sudden tension Mel laughed nervously, shrugging she stepped backwards to the elevator wall “Oh come on Steve you know you are”

He continued to stare down at her thoughtfully, a slight smile on his lips, leaning over towards the panel of buttons he brought his palm down square on the emergency stop button causing the elevator to slam to a sudden stop.

Mel squeaked in surprise, flattening herself back against the wall as Steve bore down on her, placing a hand on the wall either side of her shoulders.  

Once the lift had shuddered to a complete stop, Steve wrapped his arms around her, gathering her close, he swooped down to capture her lips with his own.  

Tangled a hair into her hair, he kissed her with a passion that Mel didn’t know he possessed. Raising her own hands, she fisted them into his hoodie pulling him closer, deepening the kiss as she opened her mouth allowing him to slide his tongue into her mouth to tangle with her own. Mel groaned as his other hand found its way to her backside, gripping her tight and pulling her flush against him, pushing a muscular thigh between hers, pinning her to the wall.

“Captain Rogers you have activated the emergency stop on the elevator do you require assistance?” FRIDAY called into the elevator.

Pulling back Steve shouted at the ceiling “No thanks FRIDAY, we’re fine” Mel grinned at him, pulling him back down to her, she tangled her hand in his vivid hair, crashing her lips back on his.

“Err Cap?” The sound of Tony’s voice filled the small space “You know there are cameras in there right?”

“Best turn them off then Tony, otherwise you’re going to get quite the show” Mel called out, tearing her lips from Steve’s momentarily, Steve grinned impishly in response to her words.

“Oh no, get out at the next floor or I will come up there and make you” Tony shouted as the elevator started moving again.

Mel sighed mumbling under her breath “Party pooper”

Steve placed a kiss on the tip of her nose and released her, stepping back till he reached the other side of the confined space, his arousal evident even through his baggy trousers.

The door pinged and slid open “Well we really should get that stuff out of your hair and you out of those clothes anyway” Mel said as they left the elevator.  

“I rather thought we’d started on the latter already” Steve said laughing as he followed her down the hall.

Stopping outside his door Mel looked at him thoughtfully “Was that the point of all this?” Pulling on the chain on his trousers.

“Well yes and no” Steve confirmed unlocking his room and ushering her inside.

“No, the point wasn’t to make you want to rip my clothes off exactly… but it was supposed to… I dunno make you see me like the type of guy you would usually go for”

“You’re an idiot” Mel huffed heading for the bathroom briefly pausing at the confused look on his face.

“What makes you think I like guys dressed like this? When have you ever seen me with one? When have you ever seen me with a guy for that matter? For all you knew I was a lesbian”

“Nat never gave me any indication that I was the wrong gender” he chuckled.

Mel laughed “Oh Nat said did she, using my friends against me I see… how did that work out for you?”

Steve shrugged “You’re here aren’t you… though I confess it didn’t go as I’d expected”

Mel walked back over to him, hands settling on his hips just under the hem on his hoodie “Know why?”

Steve inhaled sharply as he felt her hands drift higher, edging under his clothes, fingertips gently skimming over his sides “No please do enlighten me”

“It’s because I don’t have a type” she said sliding her hands higher, bringing his hoodie with her hands, forcing it up over his head and flinging it into a corner.

Bringing her hands back to Steve’s chest she began to trace lazy circles on his bare skin “Well actually that’s not strictly true, I do have a type but it’s very specific”

Steve brought his hand up to cup her cheek using his other hands to gently lift her chin, so she was looking into his eyes “What is it?”

Mel smiled “You” she stated simply.

A lazy grin spread across the super soldier's face at her words, stooping to kiss her once more he was brought up short when she ducked out of his hold and stepped into his bathroom.

Straightening up the smile sliding from his face to be replaced with a confused frown, he watched Mel spin in the doorway to face him. With an exaggerated and flirtatious wink she crossed her arms in front of her, gripped the hem of her black T-shirt and pulled it over her head, depositing it on the floor next to her and placed her hands on her hips in challenge.

Steve inhaled sharply taking in the sheer Navy lace bralet that had been hidden under her plain clothes. Stepping towards her he reached out and pulled her to him, one large hand placed on her lower back the other resting on the smooth skin over the ribcage.

"I don't remember you showing me this tattoo before" Steve murmured his mouth curved into a smirk as his gaze fell to the picture of his shield peeking out from underneath the Navy lace, adorning the tender skin above her left breast.

A slow smile spread across Mel's face "Maybe I was hoping you'd find it someday"

Steve chuckled "I'm wondering what else you haven't shown me now"

Stepping back out of his arms once more Mel grinned impishly at him "Oh baby you haven't seen anything yet"

Hooking her fingers into the waistband of her skirt she pushed the garment over her hips towards the floor straightening up as the material hit the floor.

Steve surveyed the goddess in front of him, taking in the Captain America themed lacy French knickers she wore with only a slight pink tinge to his cheeks.

"I didn't know they made Captain America underwear" was his response along with a disbelieving smile.

Mel shrugged "They don't" turning she reached into the shower to switch on the water leaving it to warm up "I had these made special, just for you"

"Lucky you were wearing them today then" Steve responded.

Mel nodded "Definitely my lucky day"

Reaching for his belt buckle she undid the clasp and pushed the baggy pants from his hips with a look of disgust "Never let me catch you wearing these again"

Chuckled Steve shook his head "No Mam"

"Now did you want me to help get that dye out of your hair or can you manage by yourself" Mel asked with a lilt to her voice, as she pulled one bra strap down her arm, pausing to wait for his reaction.

Eyes wide as he realised she intended to join him in the shower, Steve felt his mouth go dry "I definitely need help"

Mel dropped her gaze the evident bulge in his tight black boxers "So I see" she murmured provocatively.

Stepping back into his embrace she placed her palm to front of his boxers, squeezing him gently through the material "And what will you give me in return?" she whispered eyes boring into his.

Steve groaned at the touch of her hand, hauling her into his arms and crashing his lips to hers.

Invading her mouth with his tongue, he marvelled at the sweet taste of her, hands roaming her soft skin, pressing her ever tighter against him.

Mel responded in kind, running her hands over his muscles, cupping his face and sliding into the hair at the nape of his neck.

Flipping open the clasp holding her bralet closed Steve pulled back briefly to allow her to remove it. Gripping her pert backside, he lifted her onto the sink the shower now forgotten, slipping between her parted thighs to drop his mouth to the exposed flesh. Mel arched into his touch her fingers clutching at his shoulders as he engulfed her nipple, fingers expertly pinching at the other.

Mewling in pleasure she hooked her legs over his hips pulling him closer to grind her overheated core against his arousal. Steve could feel how damp she was through 2 layers of material, the knowledge drove him wild.

"Careful Doll or I might just have to take you right here, right now" he hissed against her flesh.

Mel chuckled grinding against him once more with a low moan "You shouldn't make promises you can't keep Captain"

Peering up at her Steve considered briefly if she was seriously challenging him or joking. Grinning at his confusion Mel raised an eyebrow "I thought you were giving as good as you got today?"

Grinning in response Steve stepped back from her, pulled her from her perch atop the sink and spun her, trapping her between the sink and his muscular body. Eyes boring into hers through the mirror he placed a gentle kiss to her shoulder hands trailing down her sides, leaving fire in their wake "You may regret saying that Doll"

Mel pulled her bottom lip between her teeth, noting how his cock twitched against her ass with the movement "Make me" She defied with a smirk.

Hooking his thumbs into her panties Steve pulled them down her long legs, allowing her to kick them away as he dealt with his boxers the last remaining barrier between them.

Using his foot he pushed her legs further apart and backwards causing her to automatically bend over the sink, eyes wide and wild at the thought of what was about to happen.

"Don't keep me waiting Captain" she hissed out in anticipation and desperation, she'd waited for this so long.

Cock in hand Steve stroked her folds with his tip groaning loudly on finding her wet and ready for him "Hold on then Doll"

Guiding himself into her entrance he slid into her fully, both crying out in exaggerated sexual agony at the feeling.

Mel arched her back revelling in the feeling of being filled by him, it almost being enough to push her over the edge before they'd even started. Holding himself steady Steve attempted to gather his wits, but one look at the wild, wanton expression on Mel's face reflected in the mirror and he fell apart.

Pulling himself from her body he pushed himself back inside forcefully, extracting a long feral moan from somewhere deep inside Mel.

Spurred on by the noises she was making and the way she was looking at him in the mirror Steve buried himself in her over and over, harder and faster with every thrust. Surprised not only that Mel wanted it that way, but that she was encouraging him to use her so completely, actively basking in the bruising brutal pace he was inflicting on her body.

Mel could feel her body building to fever pitch quicker than she wanted, but the sexual tension had been ready to snap for some time, neither of them was going to be able to hang on much longer.

"Right there baby, that's it harder" she cooed, as he found just the right spot that made her toes curl.

Gritting his teeth Steve slammed into her so hard they both heard the sink crunch in protest, but niether could even contemplate stopping at this point.

With 3 more ferocious thrusts Mel came apart at the seams, screaming out her release her walls spasming around his cock so hard it trigged his own orgasm. Hips stuttering, fingers gripping her hips hard enough to bruise Steve emptied himself into her, shouting out her name in pure ecstasy.

Mel sagged boneless over the sink, her forehead pressed against the cool glass of the mirror, breath fogging the surface as she panted, attempting to normalise her breathing.

Possessed of super soldier stamina Steve recovered quicker, pulling himself from her exhausted body she whimpered quietly at the loss her legs wobbling and threatening to give.

Reaching first into the long abandoned shower to turn off the now cold water Steve returned to scoop her up into his arms bridal style. Carrying her back to his bedroom and laying her carefully on his bed, sliding in next to her to pull her back into his arms unable to keep himself from touching her.

With a sigh Mel drapped her arm over his chest, snuggling into shoulder as his arm snaked around her back.

"Well" she huffed out finally with a tired chuckle "I'm not entirely sure you're that much of an old-fashioned gentleman after all"

Steve grinned down at her upturned smiling face "I think I could get used to being a bit more modern"

[preemshots]

johnny + the nomads lore

alright, i know this is a screenshots blog but i'm going to go ahead and start dropping some juicy lore tidbits as i dig them up. part of what i'm doing outside of just photo diarying is shard hunting, and BOY is there a lot the game likes to hide in those little shards for idiots like me who like to read so we can write unnecessarily accurate fanfiction! 

full disclosure, i know jack shit about the TTRPG/cyberpunk 2020 rulebook except what i read in the wikis. 

so here’s my lore roundup so far of everything i know about johnny joining the nomads

we know johnny likes to narrate v’s quest objectives. here’s the first mention where he says it himself: 

during the voodoo boys quest "transmission" there's a shard in the maglev tunnels beside the ice bath, presumably from brigitte's research into johnny in the first place:

okay, so the timeline is this: johnny joins the nomads after trying and failing to rescue alt. johnny hides out in the badlands for some years. then he and rogue come back to night city and nuke arasaka tower help alt escape the arasaka subnet by uploading liberator to their network once and for all.

this ultimately makes sense. in alt’s flashback, we meet santiago, who is a nomad/connected to nomads, joins rogue and johnny when they're trying to get alt back, and eventually becomes the leader of the aldecaldos. 

part of santiago’s TTRPG lore is that he, johnny, and rogue have to lay low in the badlands with nomads after they storm arasaka headquarters (i am aware the game takes many liberties with the original lore so who knows the full accuracy of anything from the original rulebooks)

ENDING spoilers: in the rogue+johnny storming AHQ ending, it's revealed that rogue has a son while they're prepping for the job. if you eavesdrop on her calling him while you're at the afterlife, you hear her tell her son to (paraphrasing here) "pull over and look at the stars", which immediately made my brain go to: nomad, badlands, santiago = dad? maybe. (santiago also canonically has a son according to the TTRPG lore)

this immediately reminded me of another interesting shard that i believe you can find in multiple locations around night city: “"what REALLY happened in arasaka tower?“

i love this dang shard. at first i thought it was just a cute conspiracy with some juicy gossip (and i love how 99% of the shards that mention johnny in this game are reminding us that he's not a real rebel, he's a poser) but it brings some interesting shit together

one: it tells us where johnny got his hands on the nukes! he and the nomads jumped a militech convoy and jacked some bombs! 

which is never directly explained, even as saburo arasaka is interrogating him shortly before using soulkiller. very nice of johnny to protect his homies like that. 

...or maybe he didn’t. saburo emphasizes that the dead don’t lie like the living do, and we don’t know what exactly arasaka did to johnny’s construct in mikoshi. 

it also explains why the obvious media narrative is that militech nuked arasaka, a nice neat political bow to the end of the fourth corpo wars, which is an entire section of the TTRPG lore that makes my eyes cross when i read it. 

it also makes the star/nomads ending extremely interesting, because i originally believed it was the ending where V’s journey deviates the most from rewalking johnny’s path... which also has weird implications if the johnny’s nomad era is being kept from v. 

(this also leads into my belief that the star ending/the devil ending are narratively two sides of the same coin, but that’s a WHOLE ANOTHER POST for another day.)

TWO, just straight up the fact that they turned the raid where they actually obtained the nukes into an action flick BD that pretty much ANYONE could watch. who the hell was doing that?? 

well, who else other than the guy who johnny (optionally) punched the shit out of for filming alt's death: thompson, media guy, and according to rogue, “bad luck”. because you know, recording your crimes is straight up evidence that can be used against you.

during the alt flashback we meet thompson, and just after that in cyberspace before meeting alt, johnny tells v that he has no idea what happened to him and that they never worked together again. 

oh, johnny, you lying bastard man

this is blatantly untrue, and if V even had two braincells and better memory than a goldfish they'd know this--in the first flashback sequence where johnny and rogue nuke arasaka tower, thompson is on the comms as they ride the AV towards AHQ, questioning their plans and use of violence. 

which leaves me with some questions, like where the fuck is thompson, why does johnny keep lying about this, why doesn't johnny say almost anything about how you interact with the aldecaldo clan nonstop throughout the game when he himself may have been a member of the family for some time?? is he continuing to protect the nomad clan that saved his ass? we know that a lot of his flashbacks are unreliable at best, that johnny changes shit up as desired when presenting V with his memories.

in 2077, you can also find that there’s a remake of “badlands raid” in the shard “new release braindances” that is pretty much everywhere. that shard doesn’t add much, but does mention something along the lines of “many people don’t know the ending of the original” which probably means johnny punched thompson out for filming again, or something. 

my running theories: rogue ditched santiago and the aldecaldos with johnny and thompson to nuke arasaka tower, and when johnny died she was stuck looking for (heavily implied by johnny here:) corpo sellout ways to survive.

adam smasher obviously has something to do with this since johnny/rogue's vendetta against the guy isn't entirely clear beyond the smokescreen of "he killed johnny and he sucks". i have done 0 research into this though i'm tired of typing okay

i obviously cannot be certain i have found everything related to this in the game as i’m not even done with this playthrough where i’m trying to pay attention, but i hope this is fun for someone else to dig into. 

enjoy, fellow silverhand freaks

EDIT: additional findings

ALRIGHT I HAVE DONE MORE DIGGING AND I AM BACK WITH MORE NOMAD/JOHNNY FINDINGS. these ones are kind of a bummer but VERY interesting.

there’s a shard called “excerpts from a history of the nomads by bb pires” that goes into detail about how nomads came to be

there’s an interesting quote in it: It's hard to imagine a group less inclined to wandering than farmers, but in fact they were the ones who sparked the age of nomads. Natural catastrophes, crops ravaged by bioplagues, armed conflicts and martial law allowing corporations to speculate and privatize land - all this forced them into a life on the road.

when you ask johnny why he wants to take down arasaka, he begins by referencing this himself!!

it’s a little awkward to imagine a nomad V doesn’t also know what he’s referencing, but hey, V is the fool because we are as players and that’s only one life path... so sure.

johnny also has unique dialogue during this scene about a nomad origin V, telling them that he’s been trying to understand how V thinks, and came to the conclusion that “their family was a crutch” and essentially made them stupid because they always had a safety net (lmao johnny calling v privileged basically)

BUT this also may reference why johnny would find it confusing as hell that V doesn’t immediately share the views he does when nomads, in terms of values, seem to be more aligned with johnny than V is. but once again V is the fool for a reason and this is all my own speculation so YOU KNOW.

MORE IMPORTANTLY, at the end of chippin’ in, when you ask johnny what he meant by letting down his friends... santiago is named directly

i thought this was interesting since the only glimpse of their relationship that we get is seeing johnny meeting santiago via the alt flashback for the first time.

so now it’s obvious that while johnny and rogue were with the nomads their friendship developed, and johnny went on to disappoint santiago in some way by being his normal dickhead self

but HOW? how did he disappoint santiago? is santiago even still alive?? did smasher kill santiago and is this why rogue mentions during chippin’ in that she wants smasher to “settle a score” moreso than avenge johnny??

the only additional hints i have are from this shard, which you can find at the aldecaldos camp: “nomads at ground zero”

i’m just gonna transcribe here and bold for emphasis:

It was no secret that Night Corp offered generous pay and, in some cases, free cyberware and biomonitor upgrades to anyone willing to help clean up the crater of radioactive rubble at AHQ ground zero. Some firsthand accounts recall the incessant ticking of Geiger counters, like the loud buzz of cicadas in summer. In retrospect, we can only guess how many "crater cleaners" lost their lives to radiation sickness shortly thereafter. Both the city government and Night Corp have claimed casualties were kept to a minimum, while providing no official statistics to substantiate the claim. That being said, they have never been under pressure to release such figures. After all, most rescue, engineering, and rubble cleanup teams were not local Night Citizens, but nomads. Surprised you didn't know? Don't be. It is a fact many history courses tend to overlook. The city employed hundreds of nomad mercenaries, primarily from clans in Aldecaldo nation. These nomads were hungry for gainful work and the city needed experts who were not only experienced but brave enough to knowingly put their lives on the line - all so Arasaka could one day erect another tower in its place. But history is not without its sense of irony. These nomads, who so deliberately live outside our so-called "system," came to its very rescue. Not for the first time. And not for the last.

a main theme we find in this game is the idea that the system of corps and exploitation cannot be stopped by grandiose rebellious gestures--no amount of samurai songs, assassinating mayors, or even planting nukes in towers will change things. yet johnny, his friends and mercs at atlantis in the 2020s, including rogue, chose to rebel any way they could, thinking it better than not. johnny criticizes her lack of rebellious spirit CONSTANTLY in 2077.

but ultimately, johnny, trapped in mikoshi, didn’t get to see the outcome of what detonating the AHQ nukes did to night city’s fragile ecosystem. rogue, however, did--and likely watched their former allies, the aldecaldos, be forced to take dangerous work at AHQ’s ground zero (from lack of other opportunities as detailed in this shard), then die from radiation sickness throughout the following decades, all as a result of what she and johnny did to try and fight the system. and she also watched all the former mercenaries of atlantis be hunted down by arasaka.

so rogue sees firsthand what the cost of rebellion is and johnny doesn’t. and nomads, considered the most free of any of the factions we encounter in the game, are the cost.

[scumbag-the-hedgehog]

Princess I am fr so sorry that this is the subjective force that is partially responsible for shaping you atm-

[miss-choco-chips]

From the ground up.

The road to recovery is a bumpy one, but Tim’s (reluctantly) ready for the drive. He just hopes they won’t crash and burn.

-.-.-

Tim recovers after an injury. Mending his bonds with the bats its a plus. 

Or, Tim can’t exactly run away from a conversation, and they all take advantage of it.

( @animemangasoul asked for Tim actually needing his crutches. Of course my dumb ass  brain needed to take that idea and make a whole, emotional thing of it. Threw in some family bonding cause why not. 

Babe I did my best, and if it’s bad I’m blaming exams and life stress of me being unable to properly deliver what you hoped for)

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

It had been a stupid decision. Self sacrificing, reckless, idiotic. He doesn’t know Bruce’s disappointed eyes, Dick’s worried ones or Damian’s disdainful sneer to know it.

Still, it had been his choice, and he’s going to stand by it. Even if it means having Steph pose as Red Robin for some time. Even if he has to deal with M’gann’s guilty looks at failing to convince him to change places, to allow her to get shot while he took the criminal out, instead of what they actually did. Even if it means getting annoyed, nearly hysterical texts from basically everyone he knows, condemning him for his stupidity. 

The only ones he had explained himself to were Tam -who honestly deserves it after all the shit he was going to put her through, dealing with her recent trauma (courtesy of assassins) and the press going haywire at Tim’s broken engagement and then almost fatal injury-, Steph (who was going to be changing between Batgirl and Red Robin for some time to keep the whole charade up and Vale off their track) and M’gann herself, who had needed some serious explanation before she conceded to Tim getting shot in front of her for appearances sake.

The rest of the world? They could rot in curiosity, for all he cared. Bruce had probably extrapolated enough from his succinct explanation about Vicky to understand the whole plan. Dick was probably dying to know, but with their relationship strained as it was wouldn't dare to ask. Damian… who know how the devil’s mind works. Alfred was already used to the Bat’s collective shit, and would probably just sigh and make chicken soup for him.

What he wasn’t cool about was being forced to have his recovery period in the Manor. He had a perfectly funcional place for himself, thank you very much, and could wobble around in his crutches from bedroom to kitchen to his small, personal cave, no problem. But Bruce had been unmoving in his decision, going as far to physically carry Tim in his arms, like a toddler, from the hospital steps to the car. It had been humiliating, but he couldn't exactly wiggle free in front of all the reporters, could he? How to explain a nerve strike to his dad, and his own ability to withstand the pain of falling back to his feet?

(Because he totally could stand the pain. He had done it in the dessert with a ruptured spleen, he could deal with a slightly damaged spine)

He was going to have his revenge though. As soon as he was able to move freely without clenching his teeth from the pain.

He’s being deposited on the bed, when he notices Damian lingering around the door. He was looking at Bruce, a little unsure, more than a bit of envy at the care which his father bestowed on Tim. Before, those jealous eyes would have made him weary of an attack. Now, with Bruce and Dick having forced a promise of civility from the kid, he was still on guard but not ready to flee at any given second. Perpetually tensing would only dampen his recovery, after all.

It was still something to think of. The lack of fire in his eyes. He… looked like a kid. Not as much a demon as he had been when Tim went away.

Well. Only time would tell if he had truly changed.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

Bruce had ordered bed rest. No work, detective or CEO. Nothing more straining (for the mind or body) than watching a movie. Eating and sleeping were his only allowed activities. Even reading was to be moderated, because Tim was known to lose himself in any topic that caught his fancy and forget everything else. 

Tim had listened to his reasoning, nodding along and adding his own helpful insight, smiling when his head was patted in response to his obedience. Waved cheerfully as Bruce left, made smalltalk with Dick when he visited hi room before heading out for patrol (theirs was a talk that he wasn’t really looking forward but knew he wouldn't be escaping for long), thanked Alfred for the food and ate half of it under his watchful eye. Even took the medicine with just mild complains.

The perfect picture of innocence and submission. Right until the butler went to the Cave to man the comms.

Then all bets were off.

Moving his bed out of the way to get the laptop hidden below the loose tile under it was impossible in his current condition, but thankfully he had been able to talk Bruce into letting him keep his phone, and his briefcase wasn’t too far to not be able to make the walk without crutches (painful as it was).

Before an hour had passed, he had the wall by his bed covered with post it notes, connected by red sting and pins here and there. A pretty evidence board, even with the lacking resources. Perrrfect for a little Tim-Time, a small bit of detective work.

Bruce would certainly bitch about him moving around so much, taping pieces of information or moving the string around, but, well. What Bruce didn’t knew…

-I thought Father ordered bed rest.

The voice, completely unexpected (he had either been in too deep thought, or the brat was getting better at stealth), made him jump so high and sudden he almost pulled his stitches. The medication, fading with each hour, had weaned enough he felt every bit of tissue, still torn from the shot, straining under the move.

It resulted in the longest, filthiest string of curses his sharp mind could come up with, partnered with gasps and a lot of hair pulling in a instinctual attempt to redirect the pain from his torso to somewhere less dire.

-No one taught you to knock and not to startle convalescent people, brat? -he spats between clenched teeth, squinting through barely-opened eyes to glare at him- And why aren’t you patrolling? 

The kid was on pijamas. Tim can’t remember the last time he saw him unarmed. Though he probably still had at least a dagger on himself that he couldn't see.

Bruce and Dick’s promise echoed in his mind, but just in case, he let one of his arms go around his middle, acting as if trying to soothe his hurt (okay, maybe it wasn’t all an act) while he palmed the three Red Robin pallets he had secured between his bandages earlier.

Damian scoffed and approached him, careful to keep a healthy distance but enough so he could properly appreciate Tim’s wall.

-Apparently, Father knows better than to trust you to behave, and he came up with a schedule to keep an eye on you. For what reason, it escapes me. Your death could only serve as a stress relief for everyone, specially if it was caused by your own stupidity. And you didn’t answer my question.

A large part of him wanted to tell him to fuck off. An even larger reminded him he was barely armed, heavily incapacitated, and that Damian had actually answered him first, so, technically, it was fair to do the same.

He sighs and leans back into the pillows, shoulder on the wall crumpling the photo of his number three suspect.

-Whatever. Bruce clearly bought when I said I’d act the part, otherwise he would have cleaned my room of anything useful. You’re probably here because paranoia is too deeply ingrained in the man, or he thinks you could use a rest too. Or both. 

Probably both, Tim thinks. He’s ready for Damian’s sneer and a declaration that he ‘didn’t need a rest’, most likely paired with an insult. 

Instead, Damian surprises him by tilting his head and looking at him with something akin to curiosity.

-You lied to Father? And he… believed you?

Feeling his petty bitch inside stirring, he smirked- What, like it’s hard?

It actually was, it required a hell of a mental preparation and careful planning. But once you learned how to pull it off and took care to polish it, it was a often used weapon.

Damian wouldn't let any positive emotion towards Tim willingly show on his face, so the amaze was most likely honest. It was… a little humbling, truth be told. 

-Tell you what -he decides, pulling his best negotiator voice, to cut the kid some slack-, you keep this little naughtiness -a nod towards the wall- between us and help me hide all proof before B comes back, and I give you some  pointers in how to lie to Batman. 

Damian seems truly torn. On one hand, Tim can guess, it's the mission his father entrusted him, and his deeply ingrained disdain to anything Tim proposed. On the other, the temptation of such a useful tactic, and the fact that he didn’t really care for Tim’s wellbeing enough to stop him from doing his thing.

-What are you working on?- he asked, likely gaining time while he mulled his options.

-Cold cases -a shrug-. It’s just a pastime of mine. I dig into Bruce’s old files, search for anything he couldn't solve, and work on it until I do. It’s really good for self esteem, and it helps a lot of people who never got closure for whatever it happened to them. 

-Father will know you disobeyed if you solve it.

-I’ll wait until he gives me permission for some light work, and then dump all my worked out cases on him at the same time.

There’s something akin to wonder fighting to make itself known above Damian’s facade of indifference.

-Can you actually solve something Father himself couldn't?

-Done it before, will do it again. What will it be, Damian? Cause if you decide to snitch on me after all, then kindly leave me to this until then. I’m about to crack this, and if its going to be the last one I’m able to work on, I’d hate to leave it halfway.

A few seconds go by, before Damian takes the last step and carefully perches at the end of the bed, eyes solely on the wall.

-I’d prefer to aid in solving this. If it’s true this is something not even the Batman could do… it’d be highly rewarding to work on it. You can teach me the arts of lying another day.

Shocked it actually worked, Tim did his best to swiftly recover. Not one to look at a gift horse in the mouth, he kept his doubts in check to dwell on them later and went back to his wall. 

Having Damian around was surprisingly useful. He could just lay there, in his pillows, and direct the brat through moving the string and adding post it notes here and there, until the whole thing mapped out in front of them, the answer staring at them as clear as the quickly approaching day. 

Satisfaction strong enough to smile despite the ever growing pain in his side, he gave into the urge to give a small pat to Damian’s shoulder before telling him to help take it all down, least Bruce came from patrol and found them on the act. High on the success and more than a little stunned about it, the younger vigilante actually complied, even going as far as to put all their mess back in Tim’s briefcase and bringing him a glass of water to wash down his meds with.

When Batman came to check on his middle son after patro, Nightwing on his shadow, they were regaled with the shocking, unbelievable sight of Damian sleeping, sitting on the ground with the back of his head resting on Tim’s bed, while the bedridden boy himself snored, a hand on top of the smaller kid’s head.

The picture Dick took of them was gonna be his most treasured possession forever.

-.-.-.-.-

-And this will make me a better detective? -questioned Damian, frown  scrunching his nose in a way that Tim couldn't help but think of as adorable. Or as adorable as it could be, in a hell spawn. Fuck, Dick was rubbing off on him.

-It helped me -he shrugs, eyes on his own screen as he makes the proper adjustments-. Long live the queen is a good place to start. You need to consider both the character’s mood when selecting the week’s classes, and the goal you aspire towards. All the while dodging assassinations attempts, commoners uprisings or noble plots depending on the choices you make, and… other stuff. And ruling a country. And getting engaged. It’s a lot of juggling, keeping in mind which skills you need for which event, and it forces you to consider how the character is doing emotionally, something you could seriously use to learn. Want me to give you a run through?

-No need -he scoffed, clicking in the start game option, dubiously reading the introduction-. It seems easy enough.

Tim just smiled, eerie, from his place behind him. 

Damian was sitting in the floor by his bed, back resting against it. The position, if slightly uncomfortable (Drake wasn’t an enemy any longer, if Grayson was to be believed, and after the other night’s joint work he agreed to help train Damian in mind schemes, but he wasn’t a complete ally either… and having such a grey person with such a clear shot at his neck made the assassin in him nervous), was the best way for Drake to watch his progress in this… game, while keeping his wound unbothered. It also kept Damian from ‘sneaking a peek’ at his own screen and ‘cheating at the game’, as he had said. Not that he planned on it, but-- well, all resources, no matter how dirty, were still fair game in the arts of war, as far as he was concerned.

Not that Damian needed the help. This was a silly game. He would probably beat this first try, high score even. Really, the main screen image had a teenager dressed in a frilly, pink, magical girl outfit. How hard could this be?

---

-My cousin just got bitten by a snake. Will she die?

-Wouldn’t you like to know, demon child. You’ll figure it out later in the game. Just keep going.

---

-Why do I keep failing this skill-checks? What am I missing? Is it even relevant? I just passed one that was completely useless about world history, but somehow missed the one that would have helped me keep this stupid girl from getting betrothed. 

-If it was relevant, you’ll know it when, not if, when it kills you.

-...I should save my game here.

-With these shitty skills you’ve built? Sure, if you want to, but at this point you’ll die no matter what.

---

-Is this woman trustworthy? Our father said it was her fault mother died, but she said…

-Hmm. I’m not giving you spoilers. Tell me when you figure it out, one way or the other.

-Well, at least we have our aunt, uncle and cousins. Surely they are on our side, as our family.

-...

-Drake, why are you laughing? 

-...

-Stop it! You are not scaring me!

---

-Look, I said I was not going to help you… but you can’t keep pissing everyone off, baby bat. You’ll never survive until coronation if you do.

-Those people deserved to get executed.

-...some of them, maybe, but you failed a lot of skill checks there, so you don’t have all the facts. Also, if you are gonna fuck with people, at least choose if you are doing it with nobles or peasants. Both of them is taking it a bit too far.

-I am the Queen. Neither would dare oppose me. I will have their heads if they do!

-..okay then. Let the record say I tried.

---

-Is this birthday party important?

-Uhm… Kinda. Your friend just turned of age, which means she gets to inherit control of her lands. There’s also a whole new route if you do go to the party, if you have the necessary abilities for it.

Tim saw the back of Damian’s head bob as he nodded. He gave it a few minutes. Then-

-YOU DIDN’T TELL ME I WOULD DIE ON MY WAY THERE!

-I did say you needed specific skills. Both for the party itself, and to get there.

He was ready for the unholy sound that escaped from Damian’s mouth, finger quickly taping at his phone to record it. That treasure was going to be his new ringtone. It would help with the pain, too. Happiness therapy or something like that, to distract the mind from the hurt. 

---

-Hey, Dami? I’m gonna go get ready for patrol. Are you com/?

-NO -he snapped, neck almost breaking from how quickly he raised his head to look at Dick at the door. Eyes red from staring at the screen for so long, hair a mess after messing it up in incalculable desperation- I’m about to win!  This time, my strategy won’t fail!

Tim, game already finished and now watching a movie (at least until Bruce and Dick left and he could go back to coding a new security system that even Babs wouldn't be able to crack)  tilted his head, examining his brother’s open game.  Week 30, no medicine knowledge, no intrigue, little to no dog training, no composure and not enough divination...yeah, Damian was gonna die again. It was the first time he had lived long enough to reach the tournament, and subsequently, the poisoned chocolates. 

Should he tell Damian? On one hand, the frustration, clear in his face, would tear him apart after yet another failure. But… this was the most fun he had in a long time, and the longest they had gone without either insulting the other. 

-Okay then -mumbled Dick under his breath, smartly retreating out of the room.

Tim waited a few beats- Let me know if you need help. 

-Leave me alone Drake! As if I’d lower myself to such tricks! The victory won’t be truly mine unless I win by my own merits!

Still at the door, feeling both a little ignored and elated at his brothers getting along so nicely, Dick decided to slowly exit the place, least Damian truly snapped and threw a dagger or something at his head.

---

The downside of the pain meds was how drowsy they made him. He didn’t know quite what to do with himself, now that the bags under his eyes were so close to disappearing. He had come so used to them… maybe he’d need to start investing in eyeliner and fake them.

Blinking himself awake, he moved a bit to look at the clock on his bedside table and immediately flinched. He kept forgetting the wound, and then moved and was painfully reminded.

A hand appeared out of nowhere, holding a familiar pill. He took it without prompting, accepting then the glass of water.

-Don’t think too much of this, Drake. I’m merely assisting Pennyworth. Since I’m already here working on my progress, I offered to make sure you don’t forgo your medicine. Again.

The disdainful voice, probably masking the smallest shadow of care, had come familiar enough in the last couple of days that he knew even without opening his eyes who it was. The question of what the hell was he still doing here, after spending the entire day at Tim’s side, remained.

-Damian? Are you still playing?

The kid seemed uncomfortable.

-The idiotic Queen wouldn't stop dying. It’s against my every principle to give up before achieving my goal, so I had to stay here until I passed this… training of yours.

Tim had to bit his check to keep from smiling. Damian was kinda decent at it, but the boy who lied to Batman wasn’t so easily fooled by a half assed attempt. The brat had actually stayed so he could make sure Tim didn’t forget his pain meds and woke the whole manor up with his groans later. 

-Well, as your teacher for this particular test, I’m telling you to call it a day. Go to sleep and come back tomorrow with fresh mind and eyes.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Rehab… sucked. There was no way around it. Sure, he could go the nice, easy way, give himself enough time to heal before starting on the recovery path. But vigilantes didn’t have the luxury of nice, and he needed to be functional again asap. Steph was running herself ragged, working on keeping Tim’s identity on the streets alive and her own territory safe, and there was a limit on how much Tam could take over in WE before collapsing.

Bruce hadn’t been happy about his decision of starting physical therapy while his stitches were still there, but when was he, ever? And the doctors had said he could do it as long as he was careful about it, now that the swelling in his back had disappeared, so he couldn't use them as counterpoints. There was also the nice plus of being emancipated, which made his medical decisions his own, and not even Bruce could just breeze by and ignore them.

Sweet, sweet independence.

Too bad he forgot a tiny detail: how fucking painful it was.

He could move around now, using the crutches, and he had a series of exercises his doc gave him to help regain movement, which he followed like religious doctrine. Two reps before lunch, one before bed. Okay, the physical therapist had said only do one per day, but he couldn't take into account Tim’s vigilante resistance and strength, so he felt safe in his small expansion of the activities.

That was, until the sharp pain on his side made him lose balance during his last rep and trip over his crutches.

A strong arm around his upper chest stopped his fall to the ground, and took the air off his lungs. It didn’t touch his wound, though, which… nice.

-If you're falling jus’ from walking, maybe you're not as ‘recovered’ as I heard.

-Ja...son -he coughs, hand (with the crutch secured to him by nice straps, courtesy of WE’s medical division) raising up to hold Jason’s arm for support. The other man shifted, coming closer, shouldering his weight without a word, his other hand going around his waist, under the wound, to help him along- This… but a scratch.

-Quoting “Monty Python and the Holy Grail” at me won’t keep you out of trouble, little shit. C’mon, I’ll take you back to your room. Which way?

Pointing him in the right direction, Tim took advantage of their closeness to examine the other man.

They weren’t on ‘kill on sight’ terms any longer, but Tim wouldn’t exactly call the man when in a pinch. What was he even doing here? He was fairly sure he and Brucer were still at that ‘mindless anger/deeply rooted guilt’ stage of their relationship, and his book club meetings with Alfred were wednesday afternoons, not friday evenings…

-Stop thinking so much, you’ll strain som’ing.

-I’m not Dick -he fires back almost in instinct, earning a deep chuckle in turn. He shifts a little, looking for a position where his trembling arms wouldn't make the crutches shake quiet so much. If Jason saw his struggle, he respected him enough to say shit about it.

-Speaking of, how’s it going with him?

-I have no idea what you’re talking about. We are fine.

-Yeah, right. And he’s sitting out of helping you with rehab because he suddenly lost one of his hundred hearts and it’s just your luck it was the one he had for you?

-Fuck… -a misstep, and his arms automatically shift to compensate, keeping him standing but paying it in pain when the movement tugs at his side. Jason tightens his grip, an unvoiced promise to keep it from happening again- you.

-Really threatening, with all the gasping and whining. 

-Shut up. Why would we be at odds?

There’s a minute of silence as one of Jason’s hands leave him long enough to open the door to his bedroom.

-I’m jus’ saying -he shrugs as he helps Tim inside and towards his bed-, I know a discarded Robin when I see one.

He’s not sure if the pained sound comes from the jostling as he’s carefully lowered into his pillows, or the strike to his most exposed nerve.

-It was… a tough situation. Dick didn’t have much choice. I -it hurts to say- I get it. 

It had also been right, by Damian. Tim can see it, in the remarkably diminished killer intent he could feel from the kid, and his actual willingness at keeping Tim company and even helping him around when needed.

Even if it was the worst for him, at least one of the two fucked up kids under Dick’s watch had benefited from it. It was… it was good enough. It had to be. Tim was fine, after all.

Jason looks at him for a moment, waiting until the pain yields a bit and he can breath again. Then, taking a seat by his feet, he lets his eyes stray to the photographs mounted on the walls, avoiding Tim’s scrutinizing gaze.

-Even if it makes logical sense, it still hurts. I know how it is.

There’s… not really something he can counter. He moves a bit to find position easier on his side, hiding the nervous twitch with the action.

-I never blamed you for it -he feels compelled to add. Jason winces, as if struck. He’s still not looking at him.

-And the brat’ll probably be the same with you, someday. Means shit now, but… small comforts.

-I guess so… I mean, we’re kinda getting along, now that he can’t try to kill me since I’m convalescente and I’m bored enough to contribute to his training.

Jason seems pained again. Tim is annoyed by how confusing this entire situation is.

-Y’er a good predecessor. He’ll/

-What is this all about? -he cuts, unable to stop himself. This attempt at deep conversation is well and good, but it’s coming out of nowhere and Tim never pictured Jason as one to go around randomly offering wisdom- Why are you here, and with me of all people?

There was a shadow of something passing through his face, before it transformed into the physical intonation of the ‘Fair enough’ feeling. 

-I heard what happened from blondie while she was takin’ care of soom goons on y’er part of town. And… well, I have some experience on getting back on your feet after a bad injury, just in the wake of loosing Robin. Figured you’d be over doing it and getting yourself hurt worse.

It… was a fair assessment of what he was doing, actually. And if there was anyone he could speak about this… it’d be Jason.

-There’s so much I have to do -he sighs, sagging into his bed, relaxing for the first time when in a room with his childhood idol-, and Steph can’t keep running all my cases for me. I keep solving them, but I need groundwork done and she has already so much on her plate by patrolling my side of town, I just… I can’t let people die because I couldn't spy on an arms deal and tore it apart before the guns made their way to the streets. 

Jason looked at him again, his emotions in check, and he seemed to think about it for a minute, before humming.

-What about this? You take it slow and easy with the physical therapy, and I help with that stuff. My territory is somewhat in order, or as much as you can have it in this hellhole of a city, so I have plenty of free time, and… I could use the atonement. After, you know, trying to kill you so many times.

It…was unexpected. Jason, helping him? In exchange of Tim’s wellbeing? It seemed absurd beyond belief, but there was no mistaking the earnestness on his face.

And, well, fuck it. Tim was somehow on speaking terms with one of his formers almost-assassins, what was one more?

...it would also be so worth it, once Dick knew. Tim could already picture his jealousy, seeing the two brothers he was at odds or uncomfortable with, speaking at each other and working together.

And having Jason at his side would keep Bruce from checking on him so often. Two birds, one crowbar. 

-.-.-.-.-.-.-

This was shaping up to be the strangest week of his life. Had he entered the twilight zone?

He had gotten kinda used to Damian popping into his room before patrol, or during the nights B forced him to stay at home. He’d work Damian through one of the easiest cold cases, or aid him in his never ending game of Long Live the Queen (he was getting really close to a happy ending, though). In exchange, the kid would keep his work a secret, and help him move around if the pain was too strong, or if he wanted a glass of water and didn’t feel like getting his crutches out for the small trip to the bathroom.

Also, it was somewhat normal to have Jason swing by (morning or mid afternoon, while the vigilantes of the manor slept off their patrol), some case files in hand, informing him about a new development in whatever Tim had asked him to research. Alfred, highly approving of their newfound camaraderie, would insist Jason stayed for tea, and the three of them would dwell into a very satisfying bitch fest, with Bruce as their source material.

What he wasn’t ready for, was having both of them around at the same time.

-Drake, you need to stop lazing around and do your exercises! Father and the doctors said…!

-Chill out, Demon, he did ‘em already. Shouldn't be doin more reps than the doc said, y’know?

Acting like his nurses.

-And how do I know you’re not lying to me, Todd? Hurting Timothy could only benefit you!

-...In literally which way? He’s the ONE brother I like! And like you are any better, Mr slashed zip line.

-Who told you about/? No matter. That was before we became allies. You, on the other hand!

Had he stumbled into a different universe? It wouldn't be the first time. Just in case, he sent Bart, his time/multiverse travel expert, a quick text.

-Hey guys, what’s all this noise abou/ Damian! Drop the knife!

Oh yeah. Just what Tim needed; the awkwardness that seemed to appear whenever he and Dick were in a room together. Maybe it was time to book it back to his room.

-Grayson! Give it back, I need to/!

-Disembowel Jay? I don’t think so.

-Fuck off Dickiebird, I don’t need your protection. 

Decision made, Tim slowly moved his crutches, walking backwards without taking his eyes from the three vigilantes. If he was really, really quiet...

-I know, just/ Wait. Is that a gun?

-Well, it’s not like I’m happy to see yar ugly face.

-Excuse you?!... Here, Dami. You can have it back.

-FUCK!

-DIE!

-TIM!

The last scream came from Dick, who looked in his direction just in time to catch the moment Tim’s crutch slipped in the carpet. As it was, he was the only one who could react fast enough to prevent a painful, possibly very bad for his injury fall.

It also meant Tim was being cradled like a baby. Which- no.

The other two fell silent for  long minute, while their minds caught up to Tim’s almost accident. Then, apparently seeing him safe in Dick’s arms, they turned to fight again. Apparently, blaming the other for Tim’s misfortune. Which… okay maybe he’d been distracted watching them go at it when he tripped, but still!

-I’ll just… take him upstairs -informed them Dick, though it sounded almost like a question. Probably wondering their ability to keep the discussion verbal.

Used to the nagging, both of them raised their hands, showing them empty (which, truly, meant little in the face of two of the most weapon-inclined people he knew), without pausing their rapidly escalating exchange. 

Halfway up the stairs, he stopped wallowing in self pity about his still recovering body to remember that, for the first time in a helluva long time, he’d be alone with Dick. Which translated in Talk Time. Fuck.

By the time they reached his door, he had ready no less than six deflections and twenty conversation topics which avoided mention of all their baggage and could potentially satisfy Dick’s need for socializing with a brother.

-Wipe that look off your face, Baby Bird. You won’t be orchestrating this chat -the older hero informed him, casually as one can be, kicking the door closed behind him and softly lowering Tim on his bed. He was having serious Deja Vu’s from his first encounter with Jason-. We are going to sit in your room. We are going to hear each other out. I’m going to apologize for hurting you and give you insight on the why I acted the way I did. You’ll decide whether or not you’re ready for forgiving me. We’ll bond. Maybe cry. There’ll definetly be hugs involved -that shouldn’t sound like a threat, why did it sound like a threat, Tim felt threatened-, that’s non negotiable, don’t even try to put the ‘tender wounds’ card on me ‘cause I won’t buy it. And…

Dick’s stern voice wavered, arms still around Tim shoulders even when it was clear he didn’t need his support to sit in the bed.

-And we’ll be brothers again.

The tiny, broken sound mid-sentence was what got Tim. 

Hand a little shaky, scared for his own heart but unwilling to let the older boy (his hero and family for so long) keep hurting, he touched Dick’s cheek and smiled. Tentatively, because they were on unstable ground here, but hopeful, because god did he miss his brother.

-We never stopped being that, idiot.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

It was after dinner, when Bruce approached him in silence. Tim had been making his slow  but steady way to the den, where Dick had roped them all into watching a movie together. He could hear the sounds of Jason and Damian roughosing (okay, Jason was; the brat probably believed the whole affair to be a fight to the death for honor or something like that) and Dick’s chirpy voice as he ranted about The Greatest Showman from the hall.

Bruce had been making the trip by his side, hand hovering close to Tim’s elbow, in case the crutches failed him or he tripped. Tim wanted to tell him it wouldn't happen, but… he’d missed his dad’s attention a little too much to complain about independency now.

-How’s the recovery going, son?

He stopped in the door leading to where his brothers waited, turning to face  Bruce with an arched eyebrow.

-You know that better than me, Mr I’ve broken every bone in my body at some point. Also I’m dead sure you hacked my medical files and know every little detail my physical therapist wrote by heart. You can probably recite them to me verbatim.

-I didn’t mean the physical recovery. The shot in your side is not the only wound you’re carrying right now

Silence, the only noise coming from inside the room and Tim’s heavy breathing. Unable to refrain himself, he risks a glance at the tangle of limbs rolling around in the carpet (Dick’s tactic to stop the fight was to hug them into submission) and lets the tentative, frail smile tug at his lips.

-Honestly, B… That one is healing nicely. There’ll be scars but… That’ proof of what we overcame. Right?

Bruce’s smile looked kinda uncomfortable in that stony face of his, but warm all the same. His hand left Tim’s arm to tussle his hair a bit, careful to not unbalance him.

-When did you became the wisest of my children?

A crash came from inside the room, startling them both.

-TODD YOU…!

-DAMIAN NO! JASON PUT DOWN THE CHAIR! DON’T MAKE ME CALL ALFRED!

-C’ME AT ME, MIDGET!

-ALFIEEEE!!!

-Bruce…

-Yes?

-I’m the only wise child you have.

[aster-aspera]

Forget-me-nots

CW: major character death, character with little regard for their own life, mentions of injury, explosions, minor original characters

Relationship: romantic DLAMP

Song is Elsa's song by The Amazing Devil. I highly recommend you go listen to it, not only because it's an amazing song but also because it plays a big part in this chapter.

Masterpost for the rest of my superhero AU (this chapter isn’t part of the main story)

Patton felt his chest squeeze tight when the message came in.

“Suspected bomb in the university, time to ignition unknown.” Aisha’s voice reported.

“Who’s closest?” Virgil asked.

“Pathos, but he’ll need assistance, the unseen have blocked all the ways out and there’s loads of civilians trapped there.” He heard the tapping of keys and assumed Aisha was coming up with a battle plan.

“Okay, Prince, Storm, you guys head over there, engage the unseen. Deceit and Vortex, you head over once you’re done and help get the civilians out. Pat, I need you to get into the uni and disable the bomb.”

Patton swallowed nervously. “Me? Wouldn’t Logos be better?”

“Ideally, yes. But he’s engaged at the other end of the city, the unseen are literally everywhere.” Aisha groaned in frustration.

Patton felt like echoing that groan. He really wasn’t qualified for this, he wasn’t very good at technology, that was Logan and Aisha’s area and he didn’t have the nerves of steel required to calmly defuse a bomb. He was really just the sniper of the group. He hoped he wouldn’t mess up this job too badly.

I can hear the cannons calling  

As though across a dream

He stared at university, where members of the unseen were walking around, herding students into the central building.

“What is their plan?” He asked aloud, mostly just to get the question off his chest. With the unseen, it was almost always impossible to know what their plan was, sometimes it wasn’t even clear after the fact.

“I have no clue.” Aisha confirmed his musings.

“Okay, there’s a sky light you can use to get in undetected. I think the bomb is in the library, so you’ll have to get there without being discovered.”

Patton looked at the map Aisha had sent him. The skylight was two floors above the library.

“Is there no way directly into the library?”

“There’s three doors, one of which is unguarded and accessible through the only other unguarded point, the sky light.” Aisha explained impatiently “So, no. There’s no other way in.”

“Alright, I was just asking.” Patton tried to defuse. He wasn’t hurt by Aisha snapping at him. The situation over the whole city was tense, with the unseen somehow managing to hold three different areas at once. The whole team had been working non stop to take back control of the city, and everyone was tired.

And I can smell the smoke of hell      

In every stitch and seam

He hesitated a moment.

“Pathos?” Aisha prompted.

“Yeah, sorry, just nervous about the bomb thing.”

“Hey, don’t worry about that, I’ll be here to guide you.”

Patton felt a bit foolish being comforted by a teen who was about ten years younger than him. He shouldn’t be placing that burden on her, he was the experienced one, he was the mentor, he shouldn’t be relying on her for comfort. Regardless, he felt steadied by the knowledge Aisha would tell him what to do and quietly headed in.

And like flowers, the bodies tumble    

Around this muddied lot      

He stared in horror at the device in front of him. He had seen and defused bombs before, but this didn’t even look remotely close to anything he was used to.

“Um, A?” He asked, sending a scan to her.

“Oh, wow.” She gasped “Okay, well uhm… That’s not ideal.”

“Not ideal? I think this is a little more than just not ideal.”

“Yeah, hold on, I’m working on it.”

“What do I do? We need to get the civilians out.”

“Prince and Storm are nearby, they’ll start evacuating, I need you to stay here and be my hands.”

“Okay.”

He heard Aisha frantically tapping at the keyboard and occasionally she would ask him to send pictures or scans of a specific area.

“Sure you can’t find a countdown anywhere?” She asked for the fifth time.

“No.” Patton sighed.

The lack of a countdown was unnerving him. While a clock slowly ticking towards your doom wasn’t exactly reassuring, it was better than sitting next to an explosive with no idea when it could go off.

Noise echoed from somewhere on the campus: gunshots and screaming.

“A? What’s going on?” He asked, shooting upright.

“We’re here.” Roman’s voice declared triumphantly, then cut off with a yell.

“Prince, you alright there, kiddo?” Patton asked, vaguely worried.

“He’s fine, just needs to pay attention more.” Virgil sighed.

“Pat, look at that red wire for me please.” Aisha cut in.

“Will you be okay?” Virgil asked.

No, I don’t know what I’m doing, I’m nervous, I’m really not qualified for this Patton thought. But he just brushed Virgil off, they’d been doing this for years, he could handle this. He had to handle this, the others were counting on him.

I cannot hear them scream    

‘Forget me not.’

What felt like hours later, but in reality was probably closer to half an hour, they still hadn’t gotten it. Aisha was groaning in frustration and cursing her wheelchair.

“If I could be there in person, I would have solved it already.” She griped.

Patton tried not to flinch at the reminder of his uselessness, she probably wished it was Logan in this room, not him.

Janus and Kiara had arrived by now and the evacuation was in full swing. The fighting had stopped abruptly a few minutes ago, when all members of the unseen had mysteriously fled. That really wasn’t helping Patton’s confidence.

Your voice it carries over

The hubbub and the hum

“Are you guys getting anywhere?” Janus asked.

“No, I can’t figure it out, I’ve never seen anything like it.” Aisha answered.

“Well, you better hurry, the evacuation isn’t going as smoothly as we would like, it might take a while longer.”

“You guys be careful, be ready to get out of there if we can’t disable it.” Patton said.

“We’ll be safe, love, but what about you?” Janus asked.

Patton ignored that question, clicking his comms off and focusing on the bomb again. There were too many civilians still in the building, he couldn’t leave till he knew the bomb wasn’t a danger anymore or everyone was a safe distance away.

And it paints the sky and circles high  

Like the beating of a drum

“Pat, you might have to consider leaving. We have no idea when it can go off and we might not figure it out in time.” Aisha said.

“There’s still too many people here, we have to keep trying.”

He wasn’t leaving yet, he had to help these people. If he stopped now, how many lives would that cost? It was his job as a hero to save them, even if it cost him his life. It wasn’t like he mattered that much anyways. He had no special skills, the team wouldn’t even have to find a replacement.

“Pat, please, it’s been almost an hour. It isn’t safe anymore, you have to come out.” Virgil pleaded.

Patton stubbornly ignored their comments, snapping at Aisha to stop worrying and stay focused. They were nearly there, they had to be.

You will scream ‘I won’t forget you’  

But I’ll cover my cold ears

“Patton, how many times have I told you it’s okay to put yourself first. You’re not going to save anyone by letting yourself get blown up. Please just listen to us and get out of there.” Janus pleaded.

Patton groaned in frustration. “This wouldn’t have happened if it was anyone else. I just can’t figure it out, I’m useless.”

“Nonsense.” Logan snapped, presumably following the conversation from where he was making his way over to them. “From the description A gave, I doubt even I would have been able to figure it out. It’s not your fault.” He finished gently.

Patton got up, feeling miserable and useless. How many people was he leaving here to die? But they were right, he wasn’t doing anyone any good staying here.

“I’m coming out.” He announced.

Everyone breathed a sigh of relief.

“I thought you did that years ago.” Roman joked. “I mean, you are dating four guys.”

Patton chuckled, then whirled around in horror as the bomb started beeping behind him.

“Aisha?” He asked, panicked.

“Shit! Run!” She yelled and in that moment, Patton knew he was done for.

“I love you guys.” He breathed and could hear various yells in the earpiece before the world exploded in fire and pain.

It cannot be a lie  

If no-one hears.

~

Patton watched miserably as Roman gently cut away Logan’s sleeve. Janus sat perched on the counter, watching them intently. Logan followed Roman’s movements, his eyes blurry with pain. Patton felt his chest squeeze when Logan bit back a groan at Roman jostling his arm.

“Sorry.” He muttered “Painkillers haven’t kicked in yet?”

Logan just shook his head.

Patton curled his fingers around the chair in guilt. It was his fault. He should have paid attention, should have been faster.

A roar from the entrance snapped him out of his thoughts. Virgil kicked the bike stand down and strode over to them, his hair mussed from the helmet.

“What happened?” He asked, focused and direct as always.

“Acid, Logan got burns all over his arm.” Janus explained.

“It was my fault, I should have paid attention, I should have stopped it.” Patton said miserably, then curled in on himself when all eyes turned to him. Now he was just being whiny. They all knew it was his fault, pointing it out like that just sounded self pitying.

Of course, Janus immediately started to refute it. They always made an effort to make him feel better, it was sweet. He just wished he was worthy of their praise.

“Patton, you know it’s not your fault, right?” He started gently.

Logan hissed suddenly.

“Can you watch out with that?” He snapped at Roman.

“Well, sorry I’m trying to save your arm, microsoft nerd. I can also just leave it like that!”

Janus sighed as Roman waved him over to help. Patton breathed a sigh of relief at that topic of conversation being over. Only Virgil hadn’t let it go yet.

He sat down on the armrest of Patton’s chair.

“You okay?” He asked.

“Yeah, I’m fine.” He brushed off.

Cos although you say good day to me  

I know I don’t belong

Virgil clearly didn’t believe him and took his hand. “It’s not your fault, Pat. We can’t always see everything coming.”

“Right, because if it had been you or Janus then you definitely wouldn’t have seen such an obvious trap coming.” Patton laughed bitterly.

“There’s no guarantee we would have. Even we fuck up occasionally.”

“Language.” Virgil rolled his eyes.

“And we have years more training, it's not fair to put yourself down like that.”

Right, because even after years of being a hero, they were still making excuses for him. He still wasn’t good enough, fast enough, smart enough. Everyone in the team had their specialty, Virgil was their best fighter, Logan was smart, Roman was their medical expert and Janus was their former crime boss. They were all good at something, and where did that leave him?

He could shoot, yeah. But who needed that when Virgil could just kick all their asses by hand, when Janus and Logan could set up elaborate schemes that didn’t even require any kicking of ass to get the criminals in jail?

And although you hold my hand and say  

‘I love you’, you are wrong.    

Patton was on his bed, staring up at the ceiling. He should go downstairs, join the others. He could hear their chatter all the way up in the bedroom.

The mood had lifted a bit after Roman had declared the burns on Logan’s arm weren’t that serious and they were having their customary ‘someone got hurt comfort dinner’.

Patton didn’t really feel motivated to join.

Because love does not exist here    

In this garden there’s no feeling

The door opened and Logan popped his head around the corner.

“Oh, hey Lo.” Patton tried cheerfully, but it came out sounding a bit shaky.

Logan smiled gently. “May I come in?”

“Course, it’s your bedroom too.”

“Are you alright?” He asked.

Patton felt like sighing at those familiar words. He’d heard them so many times tonight and the nights before that. Always that concern for him, their weakest member. Even though he didn’t really deserve it, even though most of the time it was his fault.

And you say the words so often    

That I barely know the meaning

“I’m fine.” He groaned “Why do you guys keep asking?”

“Because we’re worried about you.”

“Me? You’re the one who’s hurt.”

“Roman said I would be fine, the physical wounds will heal. I’m just worried about the mental ones.”

“What? Mental wounds, I’m fine Logan. It really isn’t that serious.” Patton laughed.

“It’s not the first time you’ve blamed yourself without any cause for it. I just want to make sure you’re aware it wasn’t your fault.”

“I’m aware.” Patton said. Did he really believe himself though? It always felt like empty reassurances when they told him he wasn’t at fault.

He wanted to believe his lovers wouldn’t lie to him, but they were all just so kind. They wouldn’t want him to feel guilty, even if that meant they had to lie. He wondered why they still let him come along. He just got in the way.

And when all the flowers are rotten    

And all the cannons shot  

“Will you come downstairs and join us?” Logan asked.

“Yeah, give me a minute, I’m coming.”

I’ll scream, but you won’t hear    

‘Forget me not’

~

In the end, ten people still died. Figures, even in death Patton had failed. Even then he hadn’t been able to save them. Maybe it was better, at least now, he wouldn’t be able to mess things up anymore.

His family didn’t take it well, of course they didn’t. They always cared too much, even about him.

And in years to come you’ll wander

To the place up on our hill

He wished he could hold them, just one last time. Tell them ‘it’s alright, don’t mourn, you’ll be alright’.

He watched as the Rewind team, the teens they mentored, fought with more vigour than ever before. They took the job of the grieving heroes, of him, and carried them out with a sense of honour. He felt proud, looking at them. They were so much more than he had ever been, they would lead this city towards a better future.

Aisha visited his grave, drove her car all the way up country and rolled her wheelchair along the muddy path to the spot they had buried him. It was near his family home, where his mothers could visit frequently, where he was surrounded by the familiar forests.

She cried for a while, apologized, said she should have figured it out faster. He wished he could tell her it wasn’t her fault. She had tried so hard, she was just a child, she couldn’t always save everyone.

And then you’ll cry to our painted sky

‘I loved her then, I love her still’.

The others visited too, Logan quiet, reserved, emotionless. Patton ached for him. He had lost so much in his life. It wasn’t fair that Patton had taken this away from him too.

And you’ll strew some sage and lilies ,

Roman, his tears and anger burning as hot as his love once had. He still went out to the streets, despite Janus’s urging not to. His anger needed a way out. Patton was scared for him. He would let his rage burn him up over this grief.

And roses where I rot

And Janus, sweet, caring Janus. He kept the family together, somehow. Bottled his grief up somewhere deep and drew his lovers into his arms. He only dropped the mask at Patton’s grave, surrounded only by the evergreens and spring meadows. Let the grief consume him for just a moment, cried till the pain that had curled itself up in his bones drowned him in her violent throes. And then he got up, gathered himself and walked back to the car. Now that Patton wasn’t there anymore, someone had to keep the team alive. Patton was grateful to him.

Of all the flowers you picked,

Virgil came last, after months of the others coming and going. He barely glanced at the grave. Just sat down a few meters away and stared out at the trees.

“Why did you do that?” He asked the empty air, his voice filled with tears.

“Why did you leave us like that? It’s not fair. We were supposed to grow old together, get married.” His voice picked up in speed and volume, his breaths coming quicker.

“You said you were fine! You told me it was alright to place myself first, place our family first. Why couldn’t you do that? Why couldn’t you listen to your own damn advice and think of us for once?”

‘I wanted to, god, I wanted to’ Patton wanted to tell him. He wished he had left the building sooner, wished his death hadn’t been so meaningless. He saw the pain he put his family through. Maybe he didn’t fully see his own worth, but he saw how much he meant to them. He wished he hadn’t taken so much from them.

I knew you would forget

Forget-me-nots.

[shianhygge-imagines]

Playing the Game {Devil May Cry} x {Among Us}

AN: So, I’ve been playing a lot of Among Us in my down time. My old coworkers from Uniqlo (haven’t worked with them for around a year and a half now, love them to bits though) have been inviting me to play full games. And because everyone else seems to really love the Among Us content on Tumblr now, I figured, why not? It’s easy enough to write something for it.

So, anyways, this is actually a one-shot instead of a headcanon. And there are technically no pairings. Reader was written Gender Neutral as well.

If you like the content I create, please consider donating to my Ko-fi! Please help me feed my tea addiction!

|Masterlist Link|

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

27th September - 04:58pm - Devil May Cry

It’s a miracle that everyone happened to be in the same place at the same time when Patty barged into Devil May Cry with a cart full of laptops. Dante had gone to hide as soon as his Patty senses tingled, practically pulling off an acrobatic feat just to get to the second floor in time. Curious as to what the young lady wanted, you put your book down and stood to help the blonde mortal with her burden.

“It’s good to see you, Patty. Dante’s currently expelling his stomach lining in the bathroom.” From behind you, both Vergil and Nero snorted at your comment while V quirked a brow at your antics. “Were you looking for him?”

“Yeah! I found a new game we call all play!” Patty lifted a small laptop, presenting it to you. “We can all play it if we have enough players… but um… I can wait until Dante’s out of the bathroom. Is he okay?”

Taking the laptop, you waved nonchalantly with a grin. “Oh, he’ll be fine. It was just a week old pizza. He’ll be down once he’s done! Until then, take a seat at his desk!” You take your seat between Vergil and V on one of the couches, opening up the laptop to glance blankly at the only desktop icon on the screen, then at the bar at the bottom showing that was connected to the internet already. “Is the game called ‘Among Us’?”

Patty nods with a hum, opening her own personal laptop up. “It’s an online multiplayer game. You play as a space crew, walking around the map completing tasks in the form of mini games. All crew members have to complete their tasks to win the game.”

“There’s a catch, isn’t there?” Nero scoffed, peering over your shoulder at the computer screen when you opened up the game. Kyrie and Nico also joined him in taking a peek.

“Yeah! Each game has anywhere from one to three imposters.” Patty informed, nodding her head as she explained, beyond ecstatic that you were seemingly interested in playing. “The imposters look like crew members, but their job is to sabotage or kill the crew, preventing the crew members from winning. Imposters have a little menu that they can use to turn off lights, or shut doors. They also have an advantage of being able to enter vents to escape an area. Imposters win when they’ve cut down crew member number enough. To weed out the Imposters, crew members can report any bodies they find or press the emergency button on the map once per player to have a meeting. From there, players can present evidence of a player being innocent or guilty of being an Imposter, and the crew can vote whoever they think is ‘Sus’ or suspicious off the ship.”

“So it’s a game of skillful assassination and deceit.” Vergil summarized, now slightly interested in participating.

“Perhaps a bit of patience and being able to read others.” V interjected, closing his book to shoot a judgmental expression at Vergil… one that the elder Sparda twin gladly returned with a haughty smirk. It’s nice to know that even if V was once a part of Vergil, they still feel disdain towards one another.

Patty thinks for a moment, her blue eyes observing your group by the couch for a moment before nodding, “Yeah, I guess it is! Gotta be careful though, because Imposters can self report their kill… but they also have a kill countdown… but even if a crew mate is killed, they can still roam the map completing their tasks as ghosts. Obviously though, if you die, you can’t tip off who the Imposter is to people who are alive. Once Dante’s back, we’ll have a few practice rounds before doing an official round.”

“Count us in.” All heads in the downstairs area turned as Dante descended the stairs, Lady and Trish behind him. “Bunch of hunters like us? It’ll be a piece of cake.”

Official Round Start

When the first official game started, you were all seated in various locations of Devil May Cry’s first floor, laptops in your laps and noise cancelling headphones on. The front door was locked, sign flipped to read ‘CLOSED’ so that nobody interrupted the series of unfortunate events unfolding within the shop.

There were ten players in total: You (Purple), Dante (Red), Vergil (Blue), Nero (White), Kyrie (Cyan), Nico (Green), V (Black), Trish (Yellow), Lady (Orange), and Patty (Pink).

When the countdown finished, and your screen went black, you schooled your face until it was carefully blank. Well, well… this will be fun. You decide when the screen informs you that you and Kyrie are the Imposters. Discreetly, you and Kyrie glance up to look around the room before winking at one another and directing your eyes back down to the computer screen.

The map that Patty had chosen was the Skeld with two short tasks, two normal tasks, and one long task.

Starting off in the Cafeteria, you moved down to Admin, following as Vergil, Dante, and Nico went to do their tasks in the room while you sat at wires, watching until one of them moved. Walking out just as the task bar went up, you headed down and right until you were in Shields.

You watched as Nico and V passed you before moving up towards Weapons, where you saw Trish downloading files. Quickly, you walked behind her and clicked the Kill button before venting, popping up in Navigation just as Kyrie knocked out the lights.

Deciding to take the risk, you went into the other vent in Navigation and popped out at Shields again, moving out of that hallway to Storage, pretending to empty out the trash just as Vergil passed you by with Dante at his tail, making deliberate and erratic movements. Just as you are about to Sabotage Comms, a meeting is called, and you notice that V was killed along with Trish. Shrugging, you take off your headphones with everyone else.

“VERGIL’S SUS!” Dante pointed at Vergil with a grin.

You could practically see Vergil’s last thread of patience snap, “If anyone’s suspicious, it was you!”

“Kyrie and I found V’s body in the Cafeteria right after the lights were fixed.” Nero announced, interrupting his father and uncle to look at V, who just sighed heavily and took out a book, refusing to make any facial expressions to help the Crew… and ignoring the superior stare that Vergil aimed at him. Well, this is going to get tiring really quick, isn’t it. You deadpan at their interactions, hoping that they would just warm up to one another already.

“Well, I can account for Lady, Dante, and Y/N.” Vergil sighed, lips thinning in displeasure that they were two down already. “Lady was already fixing lights, and Y/N was coming from the east side to do the garbage… Dante has been following me the entire game.”

“Did anyone happen to see where Trish’s body was? Or where she headed off to from the start?” You asked.

“Trish headed to MedBay while Kyrie and I went to the Engine and Reactor.” Nero piped up, “I didn’t see her for the rest of the round.”

“Okay…” Lady mumbled before her heterochromatic eyes landed on Patty, who jolted from the older woman’s intense stare. “Patty, where were you?”

Patty paused to think, “When the alarm was sounded, I was with Nico in Security.”

“Can confirm!” Nico nodded with a ‘humph.’

“But before that, I went to Weapons to shoot asteroids, looped back into Cafeteria to go down to Storage to do a task there. I was just behind Y/N as they headed off to the right side… and then I went left into the Lower Engine before meeting up with Nico.” Patty concluded.

“Are we going to vote this round?” Vergil wondered, eyes fixed upon the timer countdown. “Or should we skip?”

“Hold on, Vergil.” Lady raised a hand before continuing to stare down Patty. “So you were the last one in the Cafeteria?”

“Um… that I know of?” Patty raised a brow, “But that was like at the beginning of the round.”

“So, you could have killed V at the very beginning.” Lady’s eyes narrowed, “That’s a bit suspicious.”

“So… voting out Patty?” Nico asked, seemingly convinced. “We could wait, but…”

“I voted already.” Lady chimed.

“Done.” Vergil confirmed.

“Well, if we’re sure…” Nero shrugged.

“Wait! That’s jumping wayyyy too into conclusions!” Patty protested. “There were a lot of people near the Cafeteria. They could have done it during the black out.”

“Nah, a lot of us were accounted for.” Dante clicked his tongue before turning to look at Patty. “Sorry, Patty.”

You and Kyrie had already voted. The only one who didn’t vote for Patty had been Nico.

Patty screamed in frustration before falling silent, “You all suck!”

Patty has been ejected.

“Nico, why didn’t you vote?” Nero questioned his mechanic, “You’re the one who asked to vote Patty out.”

“Sus-pi-cious~~~” Lady sang quickly before you all put your headphones back on.

The next round, you watched as Vergil, Dante, and Lady headed off to the right side before dancing back and forth in front of Nico and Kyrie, asking them wordlessly to follow you to the MedBay. When Kyrie followed me, Nero followed after her.

Once all four of you were in the MedBay, you pretended to complete a task while Nico got a med-scan. Almost all at once, you Sabotaged the MedBay doors as well as O2 within a few seconds before you and Kyrie got a double kill, getting Nico and Nero both at once. Both of you took the vent into Security before killing the Lights, walking down together to Electrical, where you turned the lights back on. Just as you were about to exit the room with Kyrie, you two encounter Dante, Vergil, and Lady.

Noticing that the cooldown had ended for the Kill button, you clicked on it, watching as your character stabbed Vergil’s in the back with a knife. It seemed that Kyrie had the same idea, as Dante was dead once the animation was over.

The screen went black and you and Kyrie cheered, throwing ‘air-fives’ at each other from across the room.

Everyone took their headphones off, shocked as their eyes trained upon you and Kyrie.

“What… the hell.” Nico muttered.

“I TOLD YOU GUYS IT WASN’T ME!” Patty screamed at everyone in the room, slumping in her seat and pouting.

“That was scarily efficient.” Dante groaned, staring at you and Kyrie with a new light.

Nero groaned and buried his face in his hands, “I knew there was something odd going on when we lost one another by the upper engine when the lights went out.”

“Hehe.” Kyrie laughed sheepishly, patting Nero on the shoulder. “Oops?”

“Y/N! I trusted you!” Nico wailed, looking as if cartoon tears would be streaming down her face if possible.

Raising a single hand up, you grinned and made the sign for ‘Victory.’ “I guess you guys just can’t underestimate us, then!”

“Another round.” Vergil demanded, glaring at you with a challenge in his eyes. “If I’m Imposter, you won’t be able to escape me. And if you’re the Imposter… then you won’t get the drop on me twice.”

You all grinned, and clicked on the ‘play again’ button. “Challenge accepted.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

[watchtheworldargue]

egg magazine, april 1990. interview with Michael Hutchence

transcription below :)

Michael Hutchence on Lower Broadway

By Hal Rubenstein \ Photography by Steven Meisel

Globe-hopping is hell on a wardrobe and hard on the feet. Sometimes you have to get out of the limo to spend your money.

Michael Hutchence rarely comes to New York without luggage monogrammed INXS or Max Q, so one would think that on a visit without portfolio, the last thing he'd want to do is add on more baggage. But given a free day, a book of tickets, and our offer to go anywhere to do anything, Hutchence got into the limo with an agenda we could hardly call a new sensation. What kept us from sulking was that he hadn't left the devil outside.

Michael: You think we can load this car up with Yamamoto, Comme des Garcons, and Armani by 6?

Hal: Driver, step on it. Down to Grand and make a left.

[The car turns onto Union Square West.]

Isn't there a club on the corner here?

The Underground.

That's the one that keeps surviving regardless of how many people get shot there. How many are they up to?

No one's quite sure.

Where are we now? I don't recognise this.

This strip of lower Broadway didn't exist last time you were here. Now it's like a mall-less town's Main Street.

And Tower Records is City Hall. Not bad. It's wild to see this much activity because people around the world now talk about New York in terms of decay, how New York is such a rude place, and we keep telling them, No, New Yorkers are quite friendly, we like it there. New Yorkers are just very honest. They don't have time to bullshit. I like New York because people are linked to each other. L.A. Is fun, but segregated. Here there is a metro, and a different philosophy of getting around so there's rich upon poor upon rich. The only thing I don't remember is how many homeless are asleep on Park Avenue and everywhere else. Or is it my imagination?

No, it's real. How come you choose to live in Hong Kong instead of Australia?

For about three years, I thought it didn't matter where I lived. But I kept passing through it again. I grew up there, from when I was four until twelve. My dad still lives there. It has great energy, like New York. And it's ten hours closer to the world than Australia is. If you travel a lot, it adds up.

[We enter the Yohji Yamamoto store.]

So austere. Do they go wild if you hand back anything wrinkled? Those clothes over there are good acid-house colors. Has acid house caught on here?

Not like in England.

That's 'cause New York has bad radio. Are these dogs always here? They must sleep in the shoes. Ooh, look at these here. Not very me, but very Star Trek. $500 for a T-shirt. I see. I'll buy six. No, twelve. Now, here is something very stagy. Ultraflouncy. I like that, but the general consensus might kill my career.

Is what you wear onstage the same as you wear off?

I sort of smush them all together. My favorite piece of clothing is a leather jacket I had made for me that says “Hutch” in chain mail on the back.

Did Michael Schmidt make it for you?

Yeah – how'd you know? He's great. He sort of looks like a beautiful snake. He loves all the Hollywood stuff, but he's so sincere when he talks about it. Almost makes me like it. Is there somewhere funkier we can go, like Yankel's House of Pile? I saw that on the way down.

If you want old clothes, we should go to Cheap Jack's.

[We head back up to Broadway and 13th Street. Several young ladies on the corner stare at Hutchence as he enters Cheap Jack's.]

Do you enjoy recognition?

Depends on where I am.

Like when you're out on your own. Shopping, for instance.

Shopping, yeah, 'cause I get discounts. And there is a definite bonus to recognition when I'm onstage.

It makes the night go faster. But I'm not an institution yet. Sometimes I think about how hard it must be for someone like Bob Hope to go for a stroll. I don't really get hassled. I can stand in the middle of a street in London, or even New York, and usually nothing happens. I don't think I have that distinctive of a face. I got recognized in Tangier once, going by in a taxi, very fast … from a distance … in a fog … during monsoon season. Just kidding. It's odd how once you are conscious of being watched, you stop being so self-conscious because you realize there's nothing you can do about it. Of course, nobody in Hong Kong gives a shit who I am.

Aren't people there freaking about the city's eventual realignment with China?

Thousands are leaving a year, but they're the ones who can afford to leave, to give Australia half a million to let them in, though a lot more are going to Vancouver or New Zealand instead because they've heard, and it's fairly true, about Australia's racism.

It's actually more like unconscious racism. There's a naivete to it that you might call charming if it wasn't so sick. See, most foreigners don't realize – because we refuse to believe it ourselves – that Australia is southern Asia. Australia is linked to England in everyone's minds.

Yet most Australians don't have the faintest idea why the Japanese tried to invade us during the Second World War, and can't understand why they might not have wanted any foreigners on the biggest island in the Asian paradise. If we had lost, my home would be covered in rice paddies by now. Australia would have been Japan's Great Plains, their grain barrel.

I've never met one Australian who knows that. We have it so easy in Australia. It's very easy to live there. Tougher than it was before, but that's because five years ago it was ridiculous. I used to live in a three-story, five-bedroom house. It cost me $20 a week.

Did you make that much playing music?

Nah, but so what, we were all on the dole. Everyone went on it. That's one of the reasons you have so many bands in Australia. It's cheap to live and collect, so all the bands go on it. You wouldn't even have to go pick up your employment check; they'd mail it to you or transfer it to your account. Ready cash. I guess because there is such an anti-authoritarian vibe in Australia that people are quite happy to accept government checks. “Aw, screw 'em” - that's the attitude. Lots of people accept four and five checks or even have jobs. It's very lax. That's why we're stuck with the tall-poppy syndrome.

Translation?

Don't be successful, don't rise above your mates, or you'll get chopped. It's weird. It's the don't-leave-the-pub way of life. I think people in America are generally happy for someone's good fortune; they know how to let themselves go. In Australia, they go, “Good, mate,” and don't ask a single question. There are no celebrations for a job well done. I'm still shocked at how Americans cheer you on when they like you. I know you don't fancy it anymore, but I like phrases like “dress for success.”

And that's why you're shopping here?

I love hideous ties. Girls love 'em. Dunno why. Its like red socks. Are the playing Richard Hell? I haven't heard this song in 20 years. God, you must hear better music in clothing stores than you do anywhere else in New York. All these baseball jackets are so cheap. You know what they pay for these in Australia? I should buy the whole lot, take them back. I'd never have to tour again. I could get 150 to 200 bucks just for the ratty ones. I think this is the first clothing store I've been in that wasn't playing videos.

Are videos big in Australia?

We've actually been involved in music video a whole lot longer than in America. Because we are so far away, the only way we've had to understand all this music flying around the world is through video. Since the '50s, even when it was only 10 minutes a week, Aussie tv has been showing music videos.

And we don't censor the way you guys do. The “Way of the World” single is a very serious song, but MTV is quite shy of the video, you should note – I say this diplomatically. They censor here for all the wrong reasons. Like it's okay to stare at Cher's crotch for four minutes, but it's hard to say something truthful about the state of the world.

Could it be because with a group that's become as wildly successful as INXS has, it's inevitable that favorable reaction always turns?

I don't think INXS has reached that point yet. Give us four more years. We've only recently become hip in England. At the beginning, they hated our guts.

Why?

'Cause we are Australians writing pop music, why else? They don't make much in England, apart from nice jumpers and Jaguars, and one of the few things they can claim some turf on is pop music. So, they're not happy when someone else does it. It's a standard trait of island people; they're very territorial.

But you guys are island people too.

Yeah, but we got a bigger island. Now, if we can just get rid of some competition from the expatriate colonies.

Isn't it enough already with this rivalry between Australia and England? L.A. And New York have settled their feud.

England still treats Australia like we're descendants of convicts. Well, I guess we are, aren't we? We're trying to get rid of them, but unfortunately, they're coming back with money and buying up half the country. Don't you resent the Japanese buying Rockefeller Center?

I resent the Rockefellers more.

[Having tried on everything and bought nothing, Hutchence decides against old clothes. We head down to If boutique.]

Armand Basi. Nice stuff. That Claude Montana is fabulous, but God, this stuff is expensive. We don't know anyone here for a discount, do we? My father used to design clothes for a shop in Hong Kong called Dynasty. Glitzy evening wear for too much money. One year, when we did our first tour, we bough ta lot of Sprouse, real colorful stuff, and we spent a fortune, especially when you consider it's disposable fashion. All it had to do was last a month. All the buttons fell off, it shrunk, seams opened up. We would have been more upset, but it made us homesick for the mother country. Disposable fashion is very English. The nice thing about it when it comes from there, however, is that even though the stuff falls apart, it's cheap.

Ah, I like this. Very sexy, very smart. Basi, right? I found the best underwear. I think it's called Nikos. Someone gave it to me last night. Well, that's a plug. No names, please. These pants might go with the Basi shirt. [Like Navy pants, they have over a dozen buttons instead of a fly.] Not good clubwear. Certainly not quick enough to please me.

Your choice of underwear would have to be very discreet.

And always clean. Maybe these pants come with a catheter. Should I ask the shopgirl? [He raises his arm to call her and, wincing, puts it down.]

Just realized a colostomy bag wouldn't hurt?

No. I think I have a cracked rib, from too much fun the other night at Inflation, this super club in Melbourne. Melbourne has some of the best clubs in the world. Great people. Amazing clubs. Sydney has nothing. Boring as hell. Nice place if you're a surfer. Really pretty, like L.A. But very corrupt, Sydney. Everyone is always paying everyone off. That's why you can't afford to do a club there. It's like, in order to get a club license, all the other nightclub owners have to agree to your having a license. And four people control the voting on that. Melbourne now has a club called Razor that is so exciting. It used to an automobile club, especially popular during the '50s, where people used to talk about their cars, you know, with photos of Mini-Minors making hairpin turns around corners. Like a racing club, I guess, except for slower cars. Razor gets the best people.

[He picks up a pair of huge, get-lost-in-the-rain-forest-and-survive black shoes and delights.]

Many people have shoe fetishes. I guess it's around the world actually, not just with Imelda. I think people are probably just jealous of her because they secretly wanted so many pair. But these are big, like size big. Are Americans getting larger feet, or do they just want more room? I always notice shoes when I'm here.

There's almost like a $100 tax on shoes in Australia. Like a pair that will cost you $50 here will cost you almost $200 in Australia. A pair of Levi's cost $100. I never buy furniture in Australia, either, and I have an obsession with furniture the way Americans love shoes. It's a shame I don't have an obsession with homes, too, since I have no place to put all the furniture. I have it stored all over the world.

Let me get the Basi shirt, and then I want to buy records. I would get them later, but I just remembered I have a friend coming in tonight for only one night. He and his father are trying to get down to Nicaragua. They're helping Ortega keep the Contras back. Good luck. What's so weird about their going is that these guys are publishing magnates in England. Entrepreneurs. They should be serious Thatcherites, but they just hate Thatcher. Real lefties.

If everyone is so vocal of their dislike of her, how come she's so strong?

The British love her because they love to be miserable; they love to complain. Thatcher's become irrepressible. She's finally showing signs of faltering, except she's winning by default, because no one wants to put Kinnock in, either. It's like your Dan Quayle. What an alternative.

Are Australians political?

It's compulsory to vote, if you want to call that political. Frankly, nobody particularly gives a fuck. That doesn't mean Australians are not aware people. I think they know more about what's going on in the rest of the world than the average American, but that's because they have to compensate for being in the middle of nowhere. They're more concerned about international politics, about the environment. Every time the Americans come into Sydney harbor with their nuclear ships and submarines, there's always 5,000 people telling them to fuck off.

But the hell with domestic politics?

Do you know anything about our system? It's built on a bickering sort of war. The front page is always about politicos throwing shit at each other, spending more time insulting each other than governing.

Mind you, they are really very good at it. It's a fine Australian tradition of political insult. Listening to parliament is hilarious - “Shut up, you bastard!” - and that's our prime minister, Bob Hawke. He's in the Guinness Book of World Records for having drunk a yard of beer in record time. He is actually a brilliant leader, a Rhodes scholar at Oxford, and he has done a bloody good job, considering the apathy he's up against. What he should be real pleased about its restoring pride in being Australian, particularly after all that nonsense when the governor general dismissed Prime Minister Whitlam in 1975.

How was that possible without the consent of the Australian parliament?

We're still a colony. I think a lot of us were cynical after that. They felt like puppets. Probably had something to do with the CIA. The good old CIA. I'm in their files, I found out. That they should waste their time on me. I'm listed as subversive, for my lyrics to “Guns in the Sky” and because I once threw condoms out to the audience in Northern Australia.

How is that subversive?

The more north you get in Australia, the more it is like the South in America. The man who ran Queensland, one of the biggest states in Australia, was this guy, Joh Peterson, who was in power for over 20 years. Peterson was this sort of South African leftover who arrived in Australia, and he made things illegal, like sex education, abortion, condoms to minors – you couldn't have the vending machines in clubs. [You can now.] Well, I slandered him, and so I got taken to court, where he was thrown out of office from the corruption uncovered during the proceedings.

Did that make you a hero down there?

Say what, mate? This is Australia, remember. Our heroes are bushrangers, outlaws, and sporting stars. If you're an athlete, you can get away with anything.

[Hutchence purchases the Basi shirts, and then we head to Tower Records at the corner. A street person approaches us.]

is this the official mugging committee?

Street person: “Ooh, ooh, here they come in their limo, straight from Saks Fifth Avenue. Board of directors, how you doing, moneys, you big-time decision makers. Uh-oh, who's you? You must be a rock man. Stand aside for the rock man.”

They always pick on me.

“I want to give you something, man. Some humility. But there's only enough for one.”

I don't care for some, but humility is something we can spread around.

“Hey man, this is for seriously. You will love this humility. No side effects, no speed. Say yes, and I can be back in an hour.”

[We go through the revolving door and right to the rock section; within three minutes, Max Q is playing on the system.]

That's good, somebody knows it's out.

[Hutchence buys albums by Ciccone Youth, Camper Van Beethoven, Soul II Soul, Grace Jones, Shakespear's Sister, Jesus and Mary Chain, and Suicidal Tendencies. As he is paying for them, he spots a postcard stand that features a picture of him.]

Holy shit. When did they take this thing? What a bizarre likeness. I hardly know this guy. This is not an approved photo. [He gets the attention of a young lady behind the counter.] Excuse me, please, this is not an approved photo. It's a pirate. Do you know where you get these from?

Salesgirl: “No idea.”

Can you find out?

“Why, do you want to buy a lot of them?”

See, I told you no one recognizes me.

[We walk outside and the street person comes up to him again.]

Street person: “I know who you are.”

Who am I?

“You are someone who's gonna give me a lot of money.”

How much you want?

“Just give me one of those bills, thank you. Now I'm officially your biggest fan. Just tell me what you want to buy.”

I must be dressed for success.

[talonoa]

Talonoa  Thursday, Pre-battle

“Commander Dal’shula.” The Sin’dorei Argent immediately straightened and saluted.

Talon returned the salute, offering a rare, warm smile towards the younger man; one he had trained himself what felt like a lifetime ago. “At ease, Lieutenant Nor’thus. It’s been years, you can just call me Talon now.” 

The Lieutenant eyed Talon over, looking both concerned and curious at the same time but didn’t voice his obvious thoughts.  Talonoa knew he looked much different now than he did when he was a part of the Argent Crusade. Back then he had a strong connection to the Light.  But now? Things had vastly changed in his life.  

After the loss of his family, he had lost his faith in the Light and it left him. Then after making a deal with quite possibly the literal devil, Talon had become something else, someone else. Someone much more powerful than he ever used to be. The pros were stacking: He no longer had the need to eat, drink, or even sleep. Then there was his most recent discovery; the undead completely ignored his presence, as if he were one of their own.  He wasn’t sure what that meant, but he wasn’t going to complain. The cons would come eventually.

There was no time to catch up, the influx of infected had sparked the return of the Argents and some of the general military troops to defend the city. “We know you’ve been doing great work at the rear gate with your crew, but you know better than any of us that it’s been getting worse and worse.  We need you outside the gates with us to hold off the attacks while the barricades are fortified.”

“We’ll be there.”  Talon had faith in this group after they managed to hold off the attack at the Crossroads. Thankfully there were no frostwyrms here yet, but these zombies had no sense of self-preservation and would swarm en masse.

“Thank you, Comman-, Tal-, Commander Dal’shula.”  The young Lieutenant settled on this way of addressing him, it felt too weird to to call him anything else. Salutes were given once more, and the two parted ways.

Talon rushed back towards their camp, speaking hastily into his comm, “Stellan, get everyone ready, we’re going to aid in holding the rear gates.”

Dicenne Thursday, Start of battle

Already in full gear and stationed near the rear gates, Dicenne was about an hour into his rotation when the orders came through.  He clicked his earpiece, “Copy that, I’ll help clear a path.” The infected had been trickling through for days now, but with the help of the Argents and the military, they could finally block them off for good and hopefully allow the crew some much needed rest.

Not many realized that Dicenne had spent a large chunk of his life serving in the military, and had even become an officer early in his career.  He was well on his way to becoming a General, as was his goal at the time. However, life could change at the drop of a copper. The day his wife and son died, everything else in his world was turned upside down and he ended up parting ways with the military. Now, needless to say, anytime there was a threat to his loved ones, he felt the urge to help.

Much like his father, he didn’t possess any sort of magic.  At least not in the way most thought of when the term ‘magic’ was mentioned. A lot of the time his power and endurance was chalked up to his size and his ridiculous work-out regime, but it was much more than that. An innate trait from the Amberlight side of the family, whether it was magical in nature or something else, Dicenne was gifted with incredible strength, nearly endless stamina, and inexplicably tough skin while in the midst of battle.  These attributes served him well in the military, and landed him on the front lines of most battles. The tattoos didn’t come until after his time in the military, and they weren’t just for looks; they amplified those inherent traits. 

In other words, he had become something of an unstoppable force.   Give him a shield and a sword, and get out of his way.  

The zombies clearly did not get that memo. The large Sin’dorei stabbed his sword through the eye socket of one infected while his shield made contact with two more, sending them flying towards the canyon wall and smashing into it with a sickening crunch. He advanced without stopping, practically steamrolling his way through the remaining infected until he stepped outside the arch of the rear gate. Sharing a quick glance with those close by, he couldn’t hide the growing smirk. He was definitely in his element.

Xylaes Thursday, Post-battle

The moment the blockade was in place and the ‘all clear’ was given, Xylaes sank down to his knees and dropped his blades to the ground. It was amazing how the exhaustion overwhelmed the moment the battle ended. His arms and legs felt like jelly and the bruises were beginning to make their appearance known.  

Then there was a matter of the zombie bite on his left bicep.  Fio wasn’t accustomed to this sort of battle; where you had to be constantly aware of what was going on around you in every direction.  It could be disorienting, especially when having to deal with multiple threats at once. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the ghoul grab her and in a flash he put himself between her and gnashing teeth. He wasn’t trying to get bit, the ripping of flesh by mostly blunt teeth was not a pleasant feeling. Better him than her.

Given the magical properties of the infection, he had theorized that should he get bit, he wouldn’t turn. Having complete immunity to magic had its upsides, hopefully this would be one of those.  After hurrying Fio to safety, he gave Stellan a private message before returning to the field of battle. If he showed signs of starting to turn, he wanted the older man to shoot him in the head before he could harm anyone else. As close as the two were, he knew Stellan would do it in a heartbeat.  He was one of the best sharpshooters Xylaes knew; the shot would be clean and efficient. Thankfully, that didn’t need to happen.

He looked at the soaked bandage covering his bicep, by this point blood was dripping down his arm and into his gauntlet. That would probably need stitches.  He was afraid to remove the rest of his armor, it had been a brutal and physical fight and he knew all the bruising was going to make one hell of a color palette all over his body. Not to mention the blisters on his hands, he could already tell those were going to be awful. No simple fixes now, magical healing would do absolutely nothing.  He would have to rely on natural methods, potions, and salves; which thankfully they had plenty of.

He made his way to the top of the tower to join the rest of the bone-weary crew and eventually allowed his wounds to be tended to while eagerly helping himself  to some much needed whiskey.

“Glad I didn’t have to shoot you in the head, Qin’oril.”  Stellan shot his friend a knowing smirk.

“Not out of the woods just yet, better keep that gun handy.” Xylaes returned the expression, even tossing in a wink. 

So they may have been a bit dark for some, but as Stellan said, ‘After being in the military for so long, you develop a morbid sense of humor to cope.’ When you come face to face with your own mortality as many times as Xylaes had, you learn to make a joke of it. It would catch up, eventually.

For now, the crew could rest.   It was a small victory, but one worth celebrating.

@inistellan​ @fio-renze​

[trashmenofmarvel]

Devil’s Backbone - Chapter 21

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x S.H.I.E.L.D. agent!Reader

Summary: With your team dead and your mission failed, you’ve been taken by the assassin to an unknown location and are at the mercy of your cruel tormentors. (This fic is explicit, 18+ only, dubcon in earlier chapters)

Chapter Warnings: Violence, death, blood, self-dehumanization

Word Count: 2.4k

AO3

Bucky dragged himself out of the flaming wreckage that used to be the Quinjet he’d been piloting. Black smoke trailed from the ignited engines, obscuring his vision and making his lungs twinge with agitation.

For once, he wished he had that smothering muzzle HYDRA had forced him to wear.

As soon as his boots hit the Helicarrier runway, Insight crewmembers began to fire on him. Word must have spread he was no longer on their side. Bucky ducked back behind the smoldering Quinjet and pulled the grenade launcher from his back.

He slipped out from behind cover and fired, causing the huddled agents to disappear in a shockwave of force. It was all too easy to slip back into the other part of him. The one that killed and maimed and destroyed, all for the mission.

The mission might have changed. His tactics had not.

The airstrip was cleared of enemies before he had even emptied his clip. The smell of blood and gunpowder should have turned his stomach with disgust. The screams of the dying should have horrified him. He knew these were the normal responses, but he felt nothing, his mind singularly focused on his goal.

The weapon that HYDRA had created was still close to the surface, and he would use it to his advantage.

“Alpha lock,” Rogers said over the comm channel. Wilson had already taken care of the Bravo lock. Bucky had blown a hole into the side of the bridge dome to give him access right after he had shot down the Quinjet chasing the flyer.

Bucky had felt an unexpected surge of satisfaction from being able to help his new comrades, especially when Wilson had yelled, “Thanks, man! You’re all right.” High praise considering the last time they’d met, Bucky had ripped the steering column out of his car and Wilson had dive-bombed him with a boot across the head.

Bucky knew he was far from redemption, but he was grateful he had the opportunity to undo some of the damage he had wrought. The last targeting module was up to him, and the sooner he set it in place, the sooner the Helicarriers could be destroyed. Only then would Williams would be safe; Bucky had no doubt she would be on Project Insight’s assassination list, or soon would be if HYDRA decided she wasn’t worth the effort to recapture.

“Charlie carrier is the last one left,” he heard an unfamiliar voice say in his earpiece. “Six minutes.”

“I’m onboard,” Bucky informed the woman, assuming she was an ally of Rogers’. “The Quinjet was destroyed, so I’ll need a new exit strategy.”

Bucky ducked back out of a doorway as bullets rang off the metal next to his head. He pulled a grenade from the back of his belt and tossed it inside. The resounded explosion silenced the gunfire.

He kept moving.

“I’m heading to the control hub now. But HYDRA figured out what we’re doing and they’re going to do everything they can to protect the carriers.”

“We’ll come to you!” Rogers yelled, sounding as if he was in the middle of a fight himself. Bucky didn’t think he would make it in time, but that didn’t worry him. He would have the targeting module inserted within six minutes. That’s what mattered, not Bucky’s extraction plan.

“I’m gonna need some help!”

Williams’ voice in his ear, frayed and on the edge of panic, broke his steady stride. His singular focused slip and he came to a standstill, torn between two directives.

The mission or his S.H.I.E.L.D. agent.

“On my way!” Samuel Wilson yelled in return. “I got you!”

Bucky released a held breath. Gunfire erupted. He blinked, too slow to step aside, and several rounds hit him in the torso.

Grunting, Bucky pulled up his carbine and shot the STRIKE member in the neck. Before he hit the ground Bucky shot another in the chest, and then another in the head. He cleared out the entire front entryway before stopping to assess the damage, leaning against the wall and lifting up the edge of his vest.

The tac suit had deflected the small caliber ammunition, but he could feel tacky blood under the vest from where the bullet impacts had ripped open his old gunshot wounds. Even now, he could see it start to seep out from under the thick fiber. She was going to be pissed at him.

A small smile curled on his lips. His agent had different shades of anger for different circumstances, and there was one in particular that made him feel, well… something. It was the one where she wore the mask of stern annoyance to hide her concern. He had first seen it in the prison yard when she had been trying to protect him. To save him. It had pulled at a thread within him, unraveling a tight coil around his mind. His thoughts had come easier after that.

She had done that for him, and now he was stuck on the carrier, unable to protect her. Bucky listened at the banter exchanged between his agent and Wilson. It came easily, friendly almost, and his throat felt oddly tight. He had a strange feeling, like he was looking in from the outside at something he could never have himself.

Bucky forced himself to focus and brought his mind back to the present. He held his hand to his side and pressed down, hoping to stop the bleeding before it leaked down his pants again. The last thing he needed was to slip in a pool of his own blood at a crucial moment.

“Bucky, where are you?” Rogers, again.

He pushed off from the wall and grunted at the pain that flared throughout his left side. He had to keep moving.

“I’m almost… to the bridge.” Bucky winced as he reached over his shoulder and pulled the machine pistol from the harness on his back. He discarded the rifle, nearly out of ammo. “Ran into some more resistance.”

“What’s wrong?” she asked immediately. “Is it your injuries? I told you it was too soon.”

He pressed his lips together. She was too observant for her own good.

“Goddamnit, Bucky.”

He opened his mouth to respond but kept silent, wincing as he felt the surgical glue on his leg wound break apart. Warm blood trickled down his outer thigh, doing exactly what he had feared would happen.

“They’re fine,” he said with a tightening jaw. He didn’t enjoy lying to her, though he did like the way she was concerned over him. He was stronger, faster, and could take a lot of damage that could easily kill her, and yet she was constantly trying to put herself between him and the threats, as if she was invincible and he was the breakable one.

He didn’t know what the feeling was, but it made his chest warm and his stomach tingle strangely. It was also distracting, and he made an effort to ignore the responses of his body. Distractions led to failure, he knew that.

“Almost there,” he announced. The bridge was straight ahead and he had a clear shot.

“Wait,” Rogers protested, “I can catch up to you. We can do it together.”

“Not enough time.” He didn’t see a point in denying it. Why were they so concerned with meeting him at the last target? Did they think he couldn’t do it on his own? No, more likely, they didn’t think he could really be trusted with such an important mission. He couldn’t blame them, not after everything he’d done.

“Hey, man,” Wilson responded in a low tone. “No need for any of that. We can all get out of this alive.”

Bucky didn’t respond. His status at the end of the mission was irrelevant as long as he completed the objective. He walked forward into the glass dome.

On the catwalk his boots caused the metal to creak and jolt to announce his presence. Three STRIKE members were waiting behind the control console, but he was ready for them. As they fired on him, he brought up his metal arm and deflected the bullets, sending them ricocheting across the room.

Bucky didn’t fire on them—he couldn’t without risking damage to the control hub. So he stalked forward at a rapid pace, keeping up his arm as a shield.

They had nowhere to go, trapped in the center of the glass dome, and once he rounded the corner he fired on them. Point blank range. He kicked aside the first body and pistol-whipped the second soldier. He grabbed him with his metal arm and spun him around, holding him as a living shield when the third soldier fired. The bullets impacted his teammate’s body, and Bucky threw him forward, hard enough to force them both off the platform.

Bucky peered down, saw the third man broken but still moving, lying against the glass dome as blood pooled around him.

He pointed the pistol downward and fired two shots. The man stopped moving.

“The mission is what matters,” Bucky replied in a flat tone. He felt unusually cold.

“Damnit, Buck, just wait!” Rogers shouted. “I’m not going to lose you again!”

“I have to make this right.”

He would. Bucky owed it to her. He knew he should have been doing it for the people he hurt and the lives he took, but he couldn’t feel them yet. There was no impact from the things he was beginning to remember having done under orders. Maybe that would change, but for now, all he wanted to do was protect her. Act like the person she thought he was.

The war hero in the pamphlet.

Bucky turned toward the center console.

“One minute,” announced the woman, Agent Hill, over his comm. He had to do it now.

Bucky pressed the button to lower the chip carousel. He pulled and tossed the old one and reached into the padded pouch on his belt.

Two shots rang out at the same instance he felt brutal impacts slam into his back. High caliber ammunition. They had gone through this time.

His hands dropped to his sides and he pulled out the dual pistols, spinning around and slamming his back into the console as he fired. The STRIKE soldier in front fell sideways off the railing, his heavy rifle going with him. The crewmembers behind him were exposed, barely a threat even as they raised their pistols towards him. The Insight pilots weren’t well-trained or disciplined like STRIKE—they had crowded onto the catwalk in a line, setting them up to be taken down with the ease of a carnival game. He cleared out all five of them before they could fire another shot.

Once the last of the enemy had fallen, Bucky’s footing slipped and he sagged to the ground. He reached back to the pouch, his breaths harsh and uneven. The pain was enormous and difficult to compartmentalize. He knew that was a bad sign.

Bucky wasn’t getting out of here, but he would complete the mission.

“Thirty seconds!” Hill shouted.

He dragged himself up the console, struggling to breathe through the throbbing agony of his back. Bucky caught the edge with his right hand but his fingers lost their grip on the edge, slippery with his own blood. He snarled and replaced his right hand with his left, hooking the metal fingers in. He pulled himself up, the servos in his arm whirring at the strain of lifting his dead weight.

Bucky reached into the pouch. Grabbed the chip in his blood-slicked fingers. Raised it. And inserted it into place.

“Charlie… lock,” he gasped. Bucky stumbled as his legs lost strength and he sunk back down onto the metal platform.

“Okay, get out of there,” Hill instructed him. Even over the comm he could hear how tense she was. It must have been close.

“Fire,” Bucky said. Each drawn breath was shallow, the back of his head against the cool metal soothing through the heat along his spine.

“But you’re not clear—“

“Do it now.”

She didn’t respond, but she didn’t need to. He knew she would do what had to be done. S.H.I.E.L.D. agents were capable, more so than he ever could have anticipated. Fortunately, HYDRA had underestimated them as well, and it would ultimately lead to their downfall.

“Agent… Williams.” He spoke her name with a slight quiver. He wanted to say… something. He wasn’t sure what. He just needed to hear her voice while there was still time.

The voice that finally responded wasn’t hers. It was Hill’s.

“She turned off her earpiece.”

Fear roiled through his gut like a wave.

“Rumlow.” He paused to gasp for air, gritting out the words. “One of you must get to her. She cannot fall into HYDRA hands again! Please!”

Wilson cursed loudly. “I shouldn’t have let her go alone. Shit, shit! Okay. I’m flying around the building now, but I don’t see her yet.”

Bucky closed his eyes, forcing down the lump in his throat. If Rumlow got to her… The bastard must have known what the Director had planned for Williams. Bucky felt a tide of fear followed by revulsion and disgust. The things HYDRA had planned for her, for both of them—

He opened his eyes as he heard heavy footsteps jogging onto the catwalk. He looked up and blinked several times, disbelieving. Steve Rogers stood across from him, his blue eyes wide as he took in Bucky’s position on the floor.

“Buck,” Rogers said in a soft, almost inaudible whisper. Bucky heard it, even over the sound of the engines and machinery, and it filled him with an emotion he couldn’t identify. He had heard the term bittersweet somewhere. It felt how that would taste. Sadness and joy.

Rogers gave a frantic shout of “Buck, hold on!” and bolted towards him, grabbing onto the railing to leap over the bodies piled on the walkway.

He got halfway across the catwalk when the carrier gave a hard shudder as Bucky heard the impact of long-range cannons. The walkway shifted and violently broke in half.

Rogers grabbed on to the railing as his feet went out from under him, but Bucky didn’t have a chance. He scrambled for purchase, his titanium fingers digging grooves into the metal flooring, but the platform tipped downward and he slid toward acrid smoke and raging fire.

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