retribctions - Tumblr blog

[retribctions]

I WILL BE THE KNIFE THIS TIME.

prayer for the newly damned, ocean vuong / unknown / mercy, yves olade / cut, caitlyn siehl

[retribctions]

aetunion​:

at the beginning with @retribctions | near the docks on a starry night, march 13.

if there was something that came easily to link, it was an honest day of work. gathered here in london among friends and strangers alike, he found his own skills tested by the variety of characters—the latter of which couldn’t even pretend to remember just who he was. and well, he couldn’t exactly fault them for it. some were better off if they kept to the shadows and with the ripper still freely roaming these streets, he thought he’d be better off for not attracting any kind of attention.

he was still lingering close to the heart of the docks and yet, the only thing that drew his attention was the nearly deafening silence. with a rather uncharacteristic star-bright night for london, most people preferred to remain locked up in the safety of their apartments. link couldn’t fault others, particularly the poorest of residents in the east end, for taking precautions as best they could but he found himself silently missing the non stop chattering of other people now that the other dockworkers were absent.

when link at long last turned away with every intention of leaving to catch some shuteye, he was instead met with the sight of a hooded figure slipping behind stacked barrels. for a long moment after that, link remained rooted to the spot and hesitated about checking what was going on—he was by himself, after all, and unarmed at that, too. most of the other dockworkers had left some thirty minutes ago for a drink at the britannia and he seriously doubted that any of them had stuck around, and if they did, he was fairly certain they’d be of little to no assistance to him.

and besides, which sane person was taking a walk in the middle of the night anyway? drunkards weren’t a surprising sight but even they shied away from the docks for fear of accidentally drowning.

what toshiro knows of tonight’s target: the man loves to drink by the docks late at night.

it’s never more than half a bottle, and always of the same brand. something luxurious. something celebratory. he visits once a month, congratulating himself for a job well done. all the debts he collects, the money he takes from families, and he’s thrilled for the self-made quotas he reaches.

he comes by every month, and never for more then ten minutes. the window of opportunity is slim.

toshiro has accomplished much more in less time.

he’s quick, quiet, slipping between the stacked barrels with ease. he has mapped this route time and time again, with weeks of memorizing shifts and barrel layouts. years of experience aide in creeping closer to his target, and he clings to the shadows as if he was born for them. and maybe he was; in a way, reborn for shadows’ grip, to use it and be used by it.

he takes another step, slowly brandishing one of his knives. the weapon catches the moonlight, a winking glint before he adjusts his grip.

another step ----

                                              and then a shuffling noise echoes.

it’s not loud enough to pierce the docks; truly, it’s not louder than a breath. but it’s unnatural from all the other nights he’s followed his target. toshiro sucks in a breath, holding it as he stares at his target. the man continues drinking, blissfully unaware. but toshiro’s heartbeat quickens, a brewing storm. slowly, he turns his head, narrowed eyes searching for the source.

who else is here? who did he miss?

[retribctions]

“Grief will keep you reaching back / for what is not there”

— Adrianne Kalfopoulou, from “Poem in Pieces, a Log,” A History of Too Much

[retribctions]

“I’m lonely,” he says aloud, and the silence of the apartment absorbs the words like blood soaking into cotton.   He is so lonely that he sometimes feels it physically, a sodden clump of dirty laundry pressing against his chest. He cannot unlearn the feeling.

A Little Life, Hanya Yanagihara  (via cleamour)

[retribctions]

ferihas​:

♣

“Genkurō,” she repeats, as if tasting it on her tongue. Though it holds no meaning for her, she’s careful to get each syllable right—she knows how important a name is, how it hurts to have it pronounced wrong. 

Then her savior steps back. You’ll have to guess, he says, and Feriha grins. She’s always liked games.

Her gaze sweeps across the man’s figure, taking in the drapes of dark cloth and the sword at his side. Everything remains a mystery—except for his voice.

“Ah!” She snaps her fingers in recognition. “Toshiro.” She’d half-expected him to be one of the nameless strangers also in attendance, but this familiar face is a welcome surprise, even if she’s not quite sure what he makes of her. She likes him, though, quick as she is to take to anyone who humors her. “I didn’t think you’d be here, too.” 

It’s less that she didn’t expect him to receive an invitation—Mr. Ashton’s guest list has drawn from every corner of London for some inexplicable reason—but more so that she didn’t expect him to show up. Toshiro just seems so serious. 

“—But I guess even you can’t miss something like this. Fantastic, isn’t it? Something new at every corner.” Her tone is teasing, her smile bright, as she appraises him once more. “But who are you, really?” She looks up at him. “A fox, clearly. But what sort of fox?”

＊☾＊ 

Toshiro lifts his chin as Feriha grins at his challenge. It’s good to see another rise to a challenge, despite the low-effort of a guessing game. He wonders what names she’ll toss his way, which he will know and which he will never have heard before. How he can decipher who Feriha knows, giving more context to their past conversations, and ----

And she guess his name right away.

His face falls at her correct guess, but it’s a flicker of a moment as he forces a chuckle. He didn’t expect a correct guess so quickly. He’s grateful that he molds himself into a different person when he’s patrolling the streets. His voice, his gait, his --- everything belongs to something more important. And it must forever remain in the shadows.

“No, I wouldn’t miss an event like this, not when Mr. Ashton took the effort to find my address. His manor is certainly --- extravagant.”  Less complimentary, more covert disdain. The manor speaks of how excess is always about luxury instead of stability, of always having instead of being without. But that’s not a discussion to hold right then, so he adds, “I have a feeling it will take all night to explore this place.”

At her question, he offers a small smile. “Genkurō was a fox spirit. One who disguised himself as a human centuries before.” There’s more to the story on the tip of his tongue, but he quiets, keeping them to himself.

“And what about you?” Toshiro leans, catching sight of the wings to Feriha’s costume. “A fairy of some sort? Is that why you were flying down the railing?”

[retribctions]

verdanium​:

closed:@retribctions location: the dining room, early evening.

bonnie has overheard someone saying that most of the guests remain strangely impassive, as though they are incapable of speech, and now she is determined to test that theory, to pick it apart in any way she can. events such as this one are always a grand spectacle so it strikes her as odd that in a sea of faces, she only recognizes so few, and those who are unfamiliar apparently do not seem to care much for conversation.

but if curious eyes are directed towards her, she is determined to hold their attention.

and so, as she makes her way about the dining room, briefly catching the glimpse of two well known faces playing the part of (scorned?) lovers, she watches those around her. every servant, every masked attendant, every person she lays her eyes on appear to be busy with something; sometimes, what she catches are only passing greetings between people she does not recognize–a nod given to workers, those so busy that a long conversation would be nothing but a burden, even with a guest.

but no word is ever spoken despite the echo of chatter bouncing off the walls.

her eyes fall on a masked frame approaching her and she tilts her head in childish curiosity, amusement reflecting on her face. “and who might you be, fair stranger?”

for all the chatter that flowed within the streets about this event, there are few toshiro recognize. even that distant sense of having seen somebody in passing, but never learning their name, is lacking. something opens in his chest; something like a warning, something like a need to prepare.

the night is young, and he must be careful.

as he walks into the dining room, the guests easily part way for him. his lips thin, but he keeps scanning the room, trying to memorize whatever details he can. the worker shuffling to replace food, the clink of champagne glasses --- but little chatter. perhaps none at all.

who are these people?

it’s a question left unexplored when he catches sight of bonnie. the tension remains, never easing like it did with rahat, but his steps remain calm as he approaches. the corner of his lip lifts at the curious tilt of her head, his eyes alighting in mischief behind his mask. when toshiro stops before her, he rests a hand over his heart.

“fellow stranger, it would be too easy to simply gift you a name. but if you guess correctly, then i’ll have no choice but to commend your skills.”

[retribctions]

governcr​:

.

This particular dream does not make an appearance often—it usually strikes Jacob when he’s at his lowest; its cruelty loves to exploit his misery, especially when it concerns his sister. Everything seems to concern his sister lately. Jacob both wishes for it to stop and not. She deserves the attention—the remembrance—from him especially but the cost of it feels too grand; what she asks of him is his sanity, his health, his livelihood. If Jacob knew that his actions would’ve linked them like this forever, he would’ve thought twice about doing what he’d done.

Rarely do moments of equal concern and suspicion cross his path. The scale tips toward one or the other. The foundation for either rests in the desire to protect the people under East End’s torment, and the drive to remove those who would only prolong the suffering. And right now, Toshiro is unsure which category Jacob belongs

All that remains is blood on the man’s hands, and the burning question of whether it’s his own.

But Toshiro doesn’t inquire. Not yet. He keeps a careful eye on Jacob’s movements; the tremor in his hand, the instinct to cover his face. A different morning, a different place, and Toshiro would avert his gaze and grant a moment of privacy. But they aren’t in the Britannia, and this is no ordinary morning.

And yet --- and yet.

The nights at the Britannia trading stories with Jacob were never unwelcome. Their relationship falls under acquaintanceship, but it isn’t unwelcome. As Jacob’s panic bleeds between them, Toshiro bites the inside of his lip. Ever so slightly, the scale tips.

“Yes, I’ll help you. I can get you home”

Slowly, he inches closer, raising a hand. A feather-light touch rests on Jacob’s knee. “I’m going to need to lift you up, okay? Are you experiencing pain anywhere, places where I need to be mindful?”

[retribctions]

virtucso​:

open to everyone

After growing significantly bored by watching people dance in the ballroom, Anthony takes Mr. Ashton’s words about exploring the manor to heart—he slips out on his own and heads for the staircase, climbs up until he’s satisfied and sets off to investigate every single unlocked room on his way. There are many of those—bedrooms, studies, he even finds a nursery, even though it does not look very enticing. Were he a child, he’d probably find it terrifying. 

A bright smile stretches across his face as he enters another room and finds a piano there. The lights are on, there’s wine and glasses on the table right next to the instrument, as if this room has been waiting for someone—for him—to make use of it. Anthony wastes now time. He leaves the door open; not that he’s looking for an audience but if someone should want to listen, he wouldn’t mind. He takes a seat at the bench and presses a few keys to see how they will respond. It sounds like home. 

Anthony finishes a song and then finally notices that some audience has actually come around. He gives them a warm smile, turns towards them on the bench in an invitation to a conversation. “Does that sound any better than what is being played in the ballroom?” 

＊☾＊

He’s busy flipping through a book when the first notes reach him.

Toshiro pauses, straining to listen for the faint song. It fades and rises in volume, despite the distance. It’s closer than the ballroom, though. Toshiro slowly closes the book, returning it to its resting place on side table.

And then he follows the song’s trail.

His steps a light and quiet, letting his ears guide him through the hallway. Sooner than expected he finds the source. His mask narrows his vision on the person at the piano, and Toshiro observes knowing hands move across the keys.

When was the last time music captured his attention like this?

When the music finishes, it takes him a moment to realize. By then the player --- no, musician --- is looking at him, a smile stretching and a question on his lips.

Toshiro clears his throat. “Unfortunately, I didn’t listen closely enough to say.” As he licks his lips, he hesitates for a moment. There’s more to do tonight --- but curiosity can be one of his best tools. Besides, there is more to the room to explore than just the piano.

And so he steps into the space. “But I can say that what you played was captivating. How many years did it take to play the piano with such ease?”

[retribctions]

closed: @mvsquerade​ location: rose garden maze timeline: evening

Irritation bubbles up his throat, but he swallows the growl.

Curiosity convinced him that the rose garden should be the next path to explore. The maze loomed, and he willingly entered, wondering if there was something noteworthy at its center, or even at the other side.

Yet each time he reached a dead end and retraced his steps, it was like the routes shifted. Paths he swore existed, those he memorized before rounding another corner --- gone. In its place where different turns, different ends, but no exit in sight.

And then there’s the sensation of being watched. He keeps pausing and looking over his shoulder, scanning the shadows. But nobody steps into sight.

“Fucking hell.” Turning on his feet, he pushes forward, rounding another corner. At the same moment, another figure appears on the path, and he narrows his gaze ---

He freezes. And then, a name releases like a curse: “Zoya.”

It seemed like an unspoken agreement that the two would avoid each other tonight. Catching sight of her, promptly ignoring her existence --- it could have worked. But now? He’s fucking trapped with her.

Fucking. Perfect.

[retribctions]

theundertakcr​:

•

IT’S HARD TO tell what, out of everything that’s come to pass, is most uncanny about tonight — the fact that every single one of the invitees have all been sent carriages to carry them here ( Rahat cannot and does not want to imagine the expenses paid for such a grand arrangement ), the extremely quiet ride, the unfamiliarity of the terrain and the manor, the mysterious masked host himself speaking to them now from a balcony above the ballroom. There’s clearly no shortage of strangeness in the circumstances surrounding this ball, and while many people seem excited by the prospect of a little vagueness, Rahat finds themself feeling wary. Casually wary, of course, and more than a bit curious too, but… wary. Careful.

They’re not the only one, it appears. As soon as the buzz breaks out from after Mr Ashton’s speech, the crowd begins to disperse, familiar faces finding one another in the darkly decorated ballroom — and one familiar face in particular, so often twisted in doubt and cautiousness, approaches them first. 

Rahat smiles even before Toshiro speaks, delighted to see him but ultimately unsurprised to, just as they’d postulated, find a close associate in this overall bizarre and puzzling party. The costume he has on is certainly quite striking too. “Admittedly, I did think it either a misprint or a practical joke when I first saw the invitation. Who would want an undertaker in their celebration?” they jest dryly, falling into the usual pattern of relaxed self-deprecation. “It’s good to see you here too, Toshiro.” They give him a quick once over. “Marvelous costume, by the way. You’ll have to tell me all about it.”

＊☾＊

Already, the tension eases from Toshiro’s shoulders. A sense of calm washes over him whenever pulled into Rahat’s orbit. And maybe it’s born from their kindness. What was denied to Toshiro the moment he lost his family was given slowly, softly, in the way Rahat cared for what remained.

From then --- before Rahat tended to Toshiro’s wounds, before his bleeding form frantically knocked on Rahat’s door --- he has been in debt to that kindness.

“I was surprised my invitation arrived as well. I’m curious to know how this Mr. Ashton heard of me.” The corner of his mouth lifts. “But again, I’m glad you’re here. I, for one, would want an undertaker at my celebration. Keeps conversations interesting, hm?”

A chuckle soon follows, and Toshiro runs a thumb over the mask. “It’s a long story to tell for this costume. Not sure if we’ll have enough time for me to share, given --- all of this.” He gestures to the rest of the guests, and his gaze flicks over unfamiliar faces again. The smile fades. For a moment, he wonders if potential targets have also been invited; he wonders if tonight is an opportunity or warning.

But in the next moment, the small smile returns as he turns to Rahat again. “Your costume --- I like the cape. There’s a dramatic flair to it I didn’t expect from you.”

[retribctions]

ferihas​:

closed to : @retribctions​ location : by a staircase time : late evening

Perhaps Feriha’s idea to slide down the banister of one of the mansion’s many grand staircases can be attributed to the several flutes of champagne she’s consumed, but she’d do this sober, too. The alcohol certainly does nothing to curb her enthusiasm, and she lifts herself up onto the banister with glee before pushing off, her descent swift. 

But as she jumps down, someone crosses in front of her at that very moment. Unable to stop her momentum, she barrels right into the man. “Oh, fuck—” She springs back, her cheeks flushing red from both embarrassment and liquor. If not for him catching her, she would’ve fallen down from the collision. “I’m so sorry. Thank you for catching me, uh…” She tilts her head, the man’s fox mask concealing his identity. “Who are you supposed to be?”

＊☾＊ 

He’s taken the offer of exploration to heart. Toshiro’s meticulous in traversing each room, creating mental notes and taking the time to memorize what unravels before him. But little has offered clues to Mr. Ashton, and by the time he’s entered another set of hallways, Toshiro frowns at yet another display of extravagance.

But his thoughts are pulled from the scene as he travels toward the nearby staircase, only to hear the thwack of feet pounding on the floor and ----

He’s quick to stop the momentum of the person ramming into him, grip tight on the other as he keeps them both steady. “Careful,” he hisses, though it bears no annoyance.

But the person is already springing back, and Toshiro finally has a moment to register the flushed face and fairy wings.

“You’re welcome, Feriha.”

A small smirk crosses his face as she tilts her head at him. Once again, the mask covering the top half of his face feels more like an asset than hindrance.

“Genkurō,” he answers, as if the single word explains everything. And to his sister, it would.

He takes a step back, folding his hands together. “But as to who I am --- you’ll have to guess."

[retribctions]

closed: ​@dayanitas​​ location: hallway near the ballroom timeline: late evening trigger warning: alcohol

He’s ready to return home.

The night has unraveled in ways that leave him unsettled, raw. Curiosity has long since abandoned him, and he finds no pride in navigating back to the ballroom with little difficulty. All the exploration, all the preparation for the worst outcome, and all he’s left with his burdening frustration and exhaustion.

But when Toshiro turns the corner, he catches sight of a figure against the wall, a glass tipping in hand. Soft, golden rays shine from the other’s attire under the light of the hallway. The Sun. But as he watches, he recognizes the swaying, the flushed skin, the dazed aura. His brows furrow, covered by his mask.

“Dayanita.”

Uncertainty plays in the way he draws near, but not too close. A distance worthy of a relationship built by business instead of clear friendship. But he isn’t sure of what she wants in the moment -- or how coherent she currently is.

He opts for something light for now, and he points to her glass. “I take it Mr. Ashton provided drinks worthy of an event like this?”

[retribctions]

you carry the dead with you

1. hdhwrites // 2. hilda doolittle ~ loss // 3. alfredo aguilar ~ “i’m told my younger siblings look up to me” ~ on this side of the desert  // 4. YOU’RE BURNED INTO MY SOUL YET I STILL GRIEVE FOR YOU IN MY BONES | j.d. // 5. won-der-land89 // 6. dykeseinfield // 7. carmen maria machado ~ in the dreamhouse // 8. anne carson ~ grief lessons

[retribctions]

mvsquerade​:

It’s hollow, Zoya.

So comes the refrain: What else can I do?

Everything and nothing.

The grief on his face makes her heart stop, and as he steps back, she thinks to close the gap, to reach out. In the shadows, she can make out something flickering on his face, like he’s about to cry; she’s taking a step forward before she even realizes it. 

Then he rips his gaze from her, and she stops. What comfort can she offer him that he would not push away? She doesn’t even deserve to do that in the first place. You’re too late, a voice whispers. You will always be too late.

Turning away, she gives him the space to compose himself in peace. A small mercy, maybe. 

She, too, pulls herself together; she is nothing but a good actress. When they face each other once more, her cracks have disappeared. Let’s get you home, he says, and she knows she’s hit another dead end. ( At this point, she almost expects it. ) The anger in his voice hurts, but God, what else can she do?  

So her expression shutters. “We just need to turn left from here.” Her voice is smooth. “It’s not far.”

END.

[retribctions]

closed: ​@theundertakcr​​ location: ballroom timeline: early evening

As he listens to Mr. Ashton, Toshiro rubs his thumb and forefinger against each other, a tell of nervous energy he has not held since he began as a vigilante.

Most of his two hour ride was spent tracking which trails were taken, peeking at the landscapes and feeling the sway of the carriage. The mental map wouldn’t be of much help, but it was better than nothing should something happen. And he’s certain something will. Yours in good faith means little when he’s witnessed the worst in people.

But as Mr. Ashton opens his home to the festivities, Toshiro casts his gaze across the crowd again, trying to connect names to faces. He doesn’t stop until he sees a familiar figure. And he should keep alert, remain vigilant, but his focus narrows and his feet carry him toward one of the few he deems a friend.

“Rahat,” he calls once he draws closer, gently removing his mask for the other to recognize him. “I didn’t realize you were invited, but what a relief you were.”

[retribctions]

dayanitas​:

.

There’s something strange about sitting opposite somebody you have known for such a long portion of your life, and feel like you hardly know one another. It is a feeling Daya is intimately familiar with, but it still never quite feels right. With Toshiro, though, the distance feels a little more natural than with the others who have known her before. With Toshiro, she knows that she is not the only who has changed, and with him, it came far more tragically, violently. 

Still, it is rare that they converse about anything other than work, despite the years of history under their belt, and though Daya thought that suited her fine, coming to terms with the loneliness in her heart is a battle she’s losing of late. It’s a welcome distraction, just to talk. 

“There isn’t any rush.” She assures him, a brief nod drawing shop talk to a close. “Well, perhaps that’s why it’s all so cloak and dagger,” she muses. “Perhaps he does not wish to be the centre of attention, after all. In which case, you can display your sparkling personality without fear.” 

She takes a moment to consider if the comment will be received as she meant it, as gentle teasing, or be construed as cruel. She hopes for the former. 

“Well,” she begins after a pause. “In my culture - my religion, it does. There is a God who personifies it - Surya.” It feels strange to share this with somebody. There are few people in her life who would be interested in hearing about it. 

Her eyes raise to meet Toshiro’s, and she is rendered speechless. Does she offer apologies for the sorrow of so long ago? Or does she instead focus on the costume he has planned? In the end, she does neither. 

“Will you tell me the story?”

＊☾＊

He withholds the urge to roll his eyes. Sparkling personality -- almost enough to prompt another snort, but not quite. But it does draw out a smirk. “I’ll make it my duty for the guests to have stories about me to share with those unlucky enough to receive an invite.”

He’ll do no such thing, but it’s the thought that counts.

But as he listens to her speak of the costume idea, the smirk fades, exchanged for a nod. “Then that fits perfectly from where I’m sitting. Nothing stupid about it at all.”

The thought crosses his mind about why she believed poorly of the idea, but it departs quickly as she meets his eyes. She’s caught in a choice; the admission of his costume -- and the mention of his father --- still rests between them. So he waits, wielding silence as his weapon as he holds her gaze.

But when Dayanita speaks, she asks of the story.

It’s unexpected, and his breath catches in his throat. Surprise lingers in the way he raises a brow again. But after a moment, soft realization warms like a sip of soothing tea: the question isn’t unwelcome. Not from her.

Whether it’s from the years they’ve known each other, or a mere echo of connection that their parents first forged, he doesn’t know. But how often does he think of his family and focus on the lighter moments? Moments of how his father repeated tales he witnessed on a stage he would never see again? If Toshiro closes his eyes, he would see the older man try and mimic steps learned only from watching over and over again.

Dayanita has opened a door. And it is welcome.

Toshiro leans forward then, a small smile blooming. “Yes. I will share it with you.”

END.

[retribctions]

mvsquerade​:

❖

She bites back a laugh, hollow and high. What can she say that will not hurt? No, I wish I was still in Whitechapel. He will see through her if she lies, and the truth is salt on an open wound. They both know she will never go back, not in the way he’s still tied to it, his dreams still dreams while hers have become reality. They both know she will never give this life up, not after what it took to get there. The taste of success is sweet, and she does not need to tell him this. 

But she cannot ignore its bitter aftertaste, just as she cannot ignore him. 

What he asks, she answers.

“It’s more than that.” The admission goes quiet into the night, her gaze flicking away from his.

What he wants, she gives. 

It is the only way she knows how to make up for lost time, and even then, it is not enough. She tries and she tries and she tries, but it is never enough, and nothing she does ever seems right.

( What he wants, she cannot give. )

She should give up, really. Cut her losses. But she can’t leave him alone when she knows he’s hurting and he has no one left; I’m still here, she’s screaming, and I loved them too. 

The buzz of West End hums around them, but Zoya barely registers it. Her gaze lingers on the townhomes of her neighbors, so different from the cramped flats of her childhood, before it snaps back to him. “I’m fucking trying, Toshiro,” she says, voice catching. She’s porcelain with a jagged edge, her carefully crafted composure beginning to crack. “What else can I do?” What else can I do to make this better?

＊☾＊

Her words fall between them. And maybe it is a small comfort that she doesn’t lie to him. That she finally graces him the chance to hear all she should’ve said before she left, or even a few months after.

But it’s a fleeting comfort. His mouth twists as she flicks her gaze away, and his thought are consumed by his family. What a blessing they don’t have to witness this. What a tragedy they will never know that this Zoya still lives.

His lips part, another question on his tongue, but when Zoya’s gaze snaps back to him, his voice retreats. But the flame flickers once more, grief and anger of his own making raging within.

What else can I do? Zoya’s an echo of himself asking the same question whenever he feels the presence of his sister. And there’s never a clear answer, never an assurance that anything he is doing will ease the consequences of his choices. Of what he could have done. Of what he still needs to do.

“It’s hollow, Zoya.” Grief ripples across his face. “Everything that’s done is hollow.”

He doesn’t know if he’s talking about her actions or his own.

A breath, then another, and then he takes a step back, widening the distance between them once more. The shadows reach for him, and they’re like Yasu’s hand pressing against his back, twisting his shirt between her fingers. For a horrible moment, he can sense the tears brimming. He rips his gaze from Zoya, quickly blinking the tears away.

Never again will he break. He cannot. He will not.

When he faces her again, his composure has returned; weakened, fragile, but existing. As he speaks, the weary anger slips through. A warning.

“Let’s get you home before we’re caught out here.”