#Encrypting connection strings

[sixeyesonathiel]

no one else needed to notice

pairing — g. satoru x gn reader

synopsis : you weren’t looking for connection when you replied to a quiet post on a jujutsu forum. but what starts as late-night messages with a stranger turns into something warmer, steadier, and unexpectedly real.

sometimes, the person who sees you best is the one you’ve never even seen. until now.

tags –> one shot, 6.4k wc, non-canon compliant au, internet strangers to lovers, emotional intimacy, mutual comfort, secret voice calls, found each other online, reader is from kyoto, soft gojo satoru, extremely mild angst with a happy ending, first kisses, lighthearted moments, a little rain, stupid jokes and late-night feelings, love is about compromise, rip to gakuganji’s office chair. inspired by the song ‘no one noticed’ by the marias.

a/n : writing this made me bawl, to be loved is to be known. there’s just something about being understood by a stranger and finding solace in each other that gets to me. being known & being loved without being seen in a literal sense? sign me up :P i wanna sob because my pookie bear deserved better aaaaa

red string of fate collection m.list

you didn’t mean to answer the thread.

you never do, usually. the forum’s a chaotic sprawl, a digital graveyard of encrypted usernames—like “void_eater69” or “cursed_snacc”—and timestamps mangled by timezones no one bothers to sync. posts pile up like offerings to some forgotten curse: cryptic rants about residual energy, half-baked spell theories, or someone whining about a shikigami that won’t behave. it’s not a place for real talk. more like a dive bar at the edge of a cursed womb, where everyone’s nursing their own ghosts and shouting into the void.

but that night, your room was too quiet. the kind of quiet that creeps under your skin, heavy as a grade-two’s miasma. kyoto’s winter had settled in, and your tiny apartment felt like a box of stale air, the radiator hissing like it was mocking you. your phone glowed on the tatami, a stubborn rectangle of light that wouldn’t let you sleep. your brain was a traitor, replaying the day’s monotony: a sparring session where you’d nearly twisted your ankle, a debrief that dragged until your eyes glazed, the faint smear of cursed blood you’d scrubbed from your sleeve hours ago.

you scrolled the forum to shut it up. past a thread arguing if reversed cursed technique could fix a hangover. past some guy asking if spirits could get drunk—seriously, dude?—and then you saw it. buried under the noise, posted hours ago, short and raw, no punctuation, no pretense:

“does it ever get easier”

you stared at it, your thumb hovering over the screen. the words sat there, small and unadorned, like a stone someone had left on a path. most posts like that were traps—bait for trolls or vents that fizzled into nothing. but this one felt… different. quiet, like a whisper you weren’t meant to hear. genuine, like it had slipped out before the poster could rethink it.

you broke your own rule. typed back without letting yourself second-guess: “define easier. like, emotionally? logistically? existentially?”

he replied in under a minute.

“yes”

and just like that, you were in it.

at first, it was anonymous, the way the forum always is. two sorcerers dodging missions and boredom, tossing words into the dark like talismans. you didn’t know his name, and he didn’t ask yours. just screen names—yours a string of numbers and a bad pun, his something absurd involving mochi and a curse word. you talked about things you’d never say out loud, not to the kyoto higher-ups or the first-years who looked at you like you had all the answers. like how a room full of people could still make you feel like a ghost, drifting just outside their orbit. or how debriefs left a sour taste in your mouth, like you’d bitten into something rotten—guilt, maybe, or just the weight of it all.

he was… unexpected. not funny in a cheap, knock-knock way, but ridiculous, like he’d turned life into a stage and forgotten the script. his jokes were elaborate, stupid, sprawling things, like he was performing for a crowd that didn’t exist. one night, he typed: “i think the veil’s thinning. saw a tanuki trying to do taxes with a stolen abacus.”

you snorted into your pillow, the sound loud in your empty room. “should’ve let it,” you wrote back, fingers flying across the screen. “might’ve gotten a better refund than me. my last one barely covered a coffee.”

he sent a laughing emoji—unironically, the dork—and you could almost hear him cackling somewhere far away. it made you grin, your face half-buried in a blanket that smelled faintly of incense and yesterday’s takeout.

the chats kept going, stretching across weeks. you’d be slumped on your couch, boots still muddy from a mission, when your phone buzzed with his latest nonsense. “ever wonder if curses dream?” he’d ask, and you’d fire back, “only if they’re dreaming of paperwork. that’s the real nightmare.” he’d reply with a string of sobbing emojis, and you’d roll your eyes, but you’d keep typing, because somehow, it felt like he got it.

then came the voice calls.

always at night, when kyoto’s streets went still and the stars pressed against your window like they had something to prove. he’d call from somewhere else—somewhere alive with sound. sometimes it was traffic, a distant honk cutting through his laugh. sometimes it was the ocean, waves hissing like they were gossiping with him. once, a vending machine jingled, coins clinking as he muttered, “what do you want? melon soda? or that sweet corn one that tastes like regret?”

you laughed, your voice muffled by the scarf you hadn’t bothered to unwind from your neck. “melon,” you said, curling your knees to your chest on the couch. “corn’s for masochists.”

“noted,” he said, and you heard the machine whir, then a can crack open. “one melon soda for the meanest sorcerer i know.”

“flatterer,” you deadpanned, but your lips twitched, and you tucked the phone closer to your ear, like his voice could fill the cold corners of your apartment.

you never asked where he was. he never asked your name. it was a rule you didn’t need to speak—just a line neither of you crossed, because crossing it might break whatever this was. but he was your favorite stranger, the one who made the nights less heavy, the one whose voice felt like a tether when everything else was slipping.

the thing was, you weren’t miserable.

not exactly.

just tired, the kind of tired that sleep doesn’t touch, like a curse that’s sunk its claws too deep. your life at the kyoto branch was a loop: wake to the chime of your battered alarm clock, spar until your muscles burned, assist on missions that left your hands smelling of ash and ozone, report to gakuganji in a room that always felt too small. sometimes you mopped blood from training mats, the sponge heavy in your grip. sometimes you taught theory to first-years, their eyes glazed as you droned about residuals, your voice echoing off chalk-dusted walls.

sometimes you lay on your futon, staring at the ceiling’s chipped paint, wondering if you used to feel bigger than this—brighter, like the sky before a storm.

he changed that.

not in a loud way, not at first. it was softer, quieter, like the sound of his breath hitching when you said something sharp. like finding a rhythm with someone, even if your steps didn’t quite match. he’d ask you things no one else did, questions that felt like they were peeling back your edges.

“what color’s the sky in kyoto tonight?” he’d say, and you’d lean against your window, phone cradled against your shoulder, and answer, “pink, like someone spilled their drink on it.” he’d laugh, and you’d feel it in your ribs, a small, stubborn warmth.

“do curses feel pain?” he asked once, his voice muffled, like he was chewing something—probably mochi, knowing him.

you hummed, picking at a loose thread on your sleeve. “maybe. depends if they’re sentient enough to know they’re hurting. what do you think?”

“dunno,” he said, and you heard a rustle, like he was flopping onto a bed somewhere. “but i hope they don’t. makes it easier to sleep after.”

you didn’t reply right away, just listened to him breathe, steady and slow. “you’re softer than you act,” you said finally, and he made a noise—half scoff, half laugh—that made you smile into the dark.

he loved dumb questions, too. “is it immoral to laugh when a cursed spirit looks like a balloon animal?” he asked one night, and you could hear the grin in his voice, like he was picturing it.

you were sprawled on your floor, a half-eaten onigiri beside you, and you snorted so hard you nearly choked. “only if it’s a good balloon animal,” you said. “like, if it’s trying to be a dog, you gotta respect the effort.”

“fair,” he said, and you heard a clink—probably another soda can. “you’re funnier than you think, y’know.”

“and you’re weirder than you sound,” you shot back, but your cheeks were warm, and you pulled your knees up, hugging them like you could trap the feeling.

the best moments, though, were when he dropped the act. when the theatrics fell away, and his voice went low, soft, like he was afraid the words might break if he pushed too hard. one night, after a call that had stretched past midnight, he said, “sometimes… i think i only exist when i’m useful to someone. is that stupid?”

you were half-asleep, your phone slipping against your cheek, but his voice pulled you back. you blinked at the ceiling, the shadows pooling like spilled ink. “no,” you said, quiet but firm. “it’s just sad.”

he laughed—not the emoji kind, not the loud kind, but something small, like he was letting out a breath he’d been holding. “you don’t pull punches, huh?”

“you’d hate it if i did,” you said, and you heard him shift, like he was nodding to himself.

“yeah,” he murmured. “i would.”

it went on like that for months, long enough that you started noticing things. the way he yawned before he said goodnight, a sleepy hum that made your chest ache. the pauses in his sentences when he was choosing his words, like he wanted to get it right for you. the way his voice warmed when you rambled about something small—like the stray cat outside your building that kept stealing your bento scraps, or the time you’d botched a talisman and spent an hour scrubbing ink from your hands.

he’d listen, really listen, he always does and then say something like, “bet that cat’s got better taste than gakuganji,” and you’d laugh until your sides hurt.

you didn’t ask who he was. he didn’t push for your name. it was perfect, fragile, like a bubble you were both afraid to pop.

until one night, your phone buzzed, and it wasn’t the usual late-hour joke or random question. it was a call, his name—or rather, the string of nonsense characters he used—lighting up your screen. you hesitated, thumb grazing the accept button, then pressed it, curling into your futon as the kyoto cold gnawed at the window.

“hey,” he said, his voice softer than usual, like he was speaking through a held breath. there was no hum of traffic tonight, no vending machine jingle—just a faint rustle, maybe his sleeve brushing the phone, and a stillness that made your pulse loud in your ears.

you didn’t answer right away, just listened to him breathe, steady but careful, like he was standing on the edge of something. your apartment felt smaller, the night pressing against the glass, cold and heavy, like it was waiting for you to move first.

“can I…” he started, then paused, a hitch in his voice you hadn’t heard before. “can I visit you?”

you froze, fingers tightening around the phone until it dug into your palm. the words landed like a stone dropped into still water, rippling through the quiet. your eyes flicked to the window, where the dark seemed to lean closer, listening. your heart did something stupid, tripping over itself, and you bit your lip, hard enough to sting.

“like… here?” you said finally, voice low, almost lost in the radiator’s hiss. “in kyoto?”

“yeah,” he said, and it was quiet but firm, like he’d been turning the idea over for hours before daring to say it. “i’m nearby. for a mission. thought… maybe. if it’s okay with you.”

you swallowed, your free hand fidgeting with the blanket’s edge, twisting it until the fabric bunched. you didn’t know what he looked like. he didn’t know your face. but the thought of him—your stranger, your tether—standing in your city, his voice no longer trapped in static… it made your chest ache, like a curse unraveling too fast to catch.

“we don’t even know what we look like,” you said, softer now, half a shield, half a truth, your breath catching as you spoke.

he was quiet for a moment, and you heard a faint shift, like he was leaning closer to the phone, shutting out the world. “i know,” he said, voice low, steady, like a vow he hadn’t meant to make. “but I think I’d recognize you anyway.”

your lips parted, but no sound came out. your heart stumbled again, and you pressed your knees to your chest, the blanket slipping to the floor. you wanted to deflect, to toss back something sharp, but his words sat there, heavy and warm, like they’d carved out a space you didn’t know you’d left empty.

“you’re weird,” you managed, but it came out too soft, too honest, and you winced, tucking your chin to hide the smile you couldn’t stop.

he exhaled, a sound that was half-laugh, half-relief, like he’d been holding it in all night. “you’re mean,” he said, and you could hear the curve of his mouth, faint but real, unguarded in a way that made your ribs tighten.

“you like it,” you said, voice barely above a whisper, and your fingers hovered over the phone’s edge, like you could reach through it if you tried.

he didn’t answer right away. just breathed, slow and close, and when he spoke, it was so quiet it felt like a secret. “yeah,” he said. “i do.”

the call didn’t end, not yet. you stayed there, listening to the silence stretch, his breath a steady rhythm against the night’s weight. and that ache in your chest grew, sharp and warm, like it was making room for something you weren’t ready to name.

that morning, when he texted for the address, you gave him the name of a small café tucked just off the main street near kyoto campus—nothing fancy, barely even marked, just a warm pocket of space where time slowed down and no one asked too many questions. not because you were scared. not exactly. but the idea of him—this faceless voice, this stranger you somehow knew better than people you’d seen every day—being in your space, standing in your doorway, seeing your real life... it made something flutter behind your ribs. something you couldn’t name without sounding stupid.

it rained that day. not hard. just the kind of persistent drizzle that painted everything in shades of grey, slicked the pavement until it gleamed like wet ink, and made your sleeves cling to your wrists. your shoes scuffed softly against the tile as you pushed open the café door. inside, the air was warm, thick with the smell of coffee beans and something sweet rising from the back oven.

a couple of students in uniforms sat by the counter, arguing in low tones about spell theory. the barista barely looked up as you ordered your usual, fingers drumming a quiet rhythm against the side of your phone. you picked the window seat. always the window seat. you liked watching people go by, liked the illusion of being somewhere else.

time passed.

you checked your phone once. then again. your fingers curled around your cup, heat seeping into your palms. condensation fogged the glass. you were early. or maybe he was late. or maybe the whole thing was a joke you’d fallen for, like a damn idiot. your heart did this stupid stuttering thing every time the bell over the door moved.

then it rang.

and he walked in.

white hair, slightly mussed from the rain. the tiniest drop caught in his bangs, trailing down toward the curve of his cheek. his sunglasses sat low on the bridge of his nose, and he was tall—taller than you'd expected, even though you should’ve known—and dressed like he didn’t care how loud he looked. hands in his pockets. shoulders loose. like he’d just wandered in off some catwalk that ended in your direction.

he scanned the room once, those ridiculous glasses perched low on his nose, catching the café’s dim light like twin moons. his eyes—sharp, too sharp for any one place to hold—skipped over the students bickering about cursed residuals, the barista wiping down a steaming espresso machine, and landed square on you.

his smile cracked open, instant, effortless, like the sun spilling through a storm cloud.

“hey.”

you froze mid-sip, your mug hovering an inch from your lips. your eyes locked on his, and the world did that thing where it shrinks to a pinprick, all cinnamon air and rain-slicked windows fading out. the ridiculous truth hit you like a badly timed talisman:

holy shit. that’s gojo satoru.

your mouth opened. closed with a soft click. opened again, because apparently your brain decided to blue-screen.

“you’re fucking kidding me.”

his grin stretched wider, all teeth and mischief, as he sauntered across the floor toward you. long limbs moved like they were choreographed, raindrops clinging to his white hair like tiny glass beads, scattering light. he shoved his hands deeper into his coat pockets, shoulders hiked just enough to betray how stupidly pleased he was with himself.

“surprise?” he said, voice lilting like he’d just pulled off the world’s dumbest magic trick.

you blinked, unblinking, your fingers tightening around the mug until the heat stung. your face was doing something—probably a mix of shock and are you serious right now—because his laugh bubbled up, low and warm, like he’d caught you red-handed.

“you—i—you’re you,” you stammered, eloquent as a first-year tripping over their own incantation.

“i am,” he said, tilting his head. a single droplet slid from his bangs, tracing the sharp line of his jaw before dripping onto the floor. “last i checked, anyway. unless you’ve got a better theory.”

“why didn’t you tell me?”

he paused a step from the table, one hand escaping his pocket to scratch at the back of his neck. his glasses slipped lower, and you caught a flash of those eyes—crystal blue, too bright, like staring into a clear sky after a curse’s miasma. he nudged the frames up with a knuckle, but then, in a move that made your breath hitch, he tugged them off completely. folded them with a click. set them on the table like a dare.

“didn’t wanna scare you off,” he said, quieter now, his gaze unguarded and pinning you in place.

yo squinted, lips pressing into a thin line to choke back a snort. your eyebrow arched, sharp as a well-placed shikigami. “you thought being yourself would scare me off?”

he shrugged, weight shifting from one foot to the other, his coat swaying like it was in on the joke. “it usually does.”

you blinked again, slower, and something in your chest unknotted. for a split second, he looked… smaller. not the gojo satoru who could level a city block with a wink, but a guy who wasn’t sure if he was too much or not enough. his hair was a mess, sticking up where he’d ruffled it outside, and his eyelashes were wet, catching the light like they were trying to apologize.

you set your mug down with a soft clink, the ceramic warm against your palm, and gestured to the chair across from you. “sit down, satoru.”

his grin snapped back, bright as a spark talisman igniting. “yes, ma’am.”

he dropped into the chair with all the grace of a cat knocking over a vase—legs sprawling, then tucking back, elbows hitting the table before he leaned forward like he was about to spill a secret. his coat bunched at his shoulders, and he smelled faintly of rain and something sweeter, like the mochi he’d probably swiped from a vendor on the way here.

“this place smells like cinnamon and potential,” he said, voice dipping low, conspiratorial. he waggled his brows, and you swore his eyes flickered with a tease no technique could replicate. “you sure you don’t wanna marry me right now? i’d get you a ring pop. blue raspberry, your favorite.”

you snorted, the sound punching out before you could stop it. your hand flew to your mouth, but it was too late—he’d heard it, and his whole face lit up like he’d won a bet with the universe.

“you remembered that?” you said, leaning back in your chair, arms crossing like you could shield yourself from his smugness. your lips twitched, betraying you.

“‘course i did,” he said, tapping his temple with a long finger. “you said it during that 2 a.m. ramble about cursed vending machines. blue raspberry ring pop, ‘cause it stains your tongue and freaks out the first-years.” he leaned closer, voice dropping to a mock-whisper. “i pay attention, y’know.”

your cheeks warmed, and you hated how your mouth kept trying to smile. you kicked his shin lightly under the table, just enough to make him yelp—a dramatic ow that had the students at the counter glancing over. “you’re impossible,” you muttered, but your eyes flicked to his glasses, still folded neatly beside his elbow. “and put those back on, idiot. you’re gonna give yourself a migraine squinting like that.”

he blinked, then laughed—a real one, not the showy kind he threw at missions or bad jokes. “what, you worried about my eyes now?” he said, but he didn’t reach for the glasses. instead, he propped his chin on one hand, staring at you like you were the only thing worth seeing. “i took ‘em off for you, y’know. six eyes makes everything loud—too many colors, too many things. but you…” he trailed off, and his voice softened, like he was peeling back a layer he usually kept buried. “you’re clearer without ‘em.”

your breath caught, and for a second, you forgot how to be a smart-ass. your fingers fidgeted with the edge of your sleeve, and you ducked your head, letting your hair fall forward to hide the heat creeping up your neck. “that’s sweet,” you said, voice dry but wobbling just a fraction. “also stupid. you’ll strain yourself, and i’m not dragging your whining ass to a healer when you’re seeing double.”

he grinned, undeterred, and flicked a sugar packet across the table at you. it bounced off your knuckles, and you swatted it back without thinking, starting a lazy game of tabletop tag. “would you rather i didn’t see you?” he asked, catching the packet mid-air with infuriating ease. his fingers were quick, precise, like he could’ve dismantled a curse in the same motion. “c’mon, admit it. you like being seen.”

you rolled your eyes, but your lips curved, and you couldn’t quite stop it. “i like when you’re not a headache,” you shot back, snatching the sugar packet from his hand. you tore it open, dumping half into your coffee just to mess with him—he’d gagged once during a call when you’d done it, claiming it was “coffee abuse.” now, he just watched you with a smirk, like he was cataloging every move you made.

“liar,” he said, stretching his arms above his head until his shirt rode up, flashing a sliver of pale skin above his waistband. you looked away, quick, and he noticed—his smirk grew positively diabolical. “you told me last week you like my voice best at midnight. all raspy and annoying, you said. direct quote.”

you groaned, sinking lower in your chair, but your foot nudged his ankle under the table, a traitor to your own defenses. “i was delirious from a mission,” you said, pointing a stirrer at him like a tiny sword. your brows furrowed, but your eyes were bright, dancing with the kind of energy you hadn’t felt in weeks. “and you were the one who kept talking about cursed tanukis stealing your socks, so who’s the real mess here?”

he laughed again, loud enough to make the barista glance over with a raised brow. his hand dropped to the table, fingers drumming a restless rhythm, and you noticed how his pinky brushed the edge of your mug—like he was testing how close he could get without you pulling away. “guilty,” he said, tilting his head until his bangs fell into his eyes. he shook them away, and the motion was so boyish, so normal, it made your heart do a stupid little flip. “but you laughed. i heard it. best sound in the world, by the way.”

you froze, stirrer halfway to your mouth, and your eyes flicked up to meet his. he wasn’t grinning now—just watching you, steady and soft, like the rain outside had melted all his edges. your lips parted, but no snark came out. instead, you reached across the table, picked up his glasses, and slid them toward him with a pointed look. “put these on before you ruin yourself,” you said, but your voice was quieter, like you were afraid of breaking whatever this was. “i’m not worth a headache, satoru.”

he didn’t touch the glasses. instead, he caught your hand before you could pull it back, his fingers warm and a little calloused, curling around yours like they’d been waiting to. “disagree,” he said, simple as that, and his thumb brushed your knuckle, light as a feather. “you’re worth a lot of things.”

you swallowed, and the café seemed to hum quieter—the clink of cups, the murmur of students, all fading into a soft blur. your pulse was loud, though, thudding in your ears as you looked at him. his hair was drying now, curling at the ends, and his eyes were still bare, unguarded, like he’d stripped away every barrier just to sit here with you. your lips twitched into a smile, small but real, and you squeezed his hand once before letting go.

“you’re gonna regret saying that when i steal your last mochi later,” you said, leaning back to break the spell, but your foot stayed pressed against his under the table, warm and steady.

he gasped, clutching his chest like you’d cursed him. “not the mochi,” he wailed, but his eyes crinkled, and he leaned forward, stealing your stirrer to twirl it between his fingers like a baton. “fine, but only if you say ‘satoru, you’re my hero’ first. gotta earn it.”

“in your dreams, pretty boy,” you shot back, but you were laughing now, soft and easy, and the sound made his whole face soften, like he’d been chasing it all along.

you stayed in that café for hours, trading sugar packets and stupid stories, your shoes bumping under the table, his glasses still untouched. the rain slowed to a drizzle, painting the windows in lazy streaks, but neither of you noticed. the world was just this—cinnamon air, warm mugs, and the way he looked at you like you were the only thing he’d ever wanted to see clearly.

and somewhere in between the rain tapering off and your drinks going lukewarm, something shifted. not abruptly. not dramatically. but gently, like gravity starting to lean in a different direction. he was exactly the same—annoying, charming, impossible—but there was a quiet steadiness beneath it all. like he looked at you and saw not just a person, but a place. somewhere he could stay.

all while you were still trying to wrap your head around the fact that gojo satoru had been the idiot on the forum sending you tanuki memes at 3am.

he called you a cryptid. you called him emotionally constipated. he told you your voice was the only one he actually waited to hear. you told him he needed better taste. he laughed so hard he knocked his knee on the underside of the table.

when the café finally closed, the barista shooing you out with a tired smile, satoru held the door open, his clear umbrella already unfurled against the drizzle. it was comically small for his ridiculous height, barely shielding his broad shoulders, but he angled it carefully, keeping the rain from kissing your hair. his sleeve darkened, soaked through where the mist clung, but he didn’t seem to care. the night was quiet, steeped in that velvet hush that trails a long rain, streetlights casting blurry halos through the mist, like half-forgotten curses glowing in the dark.

his footsteps matched yours, slow and deliberate, scuffing softly against the wet pavement. he didn’t need to adjust his stride—you noticed how he shortened it, just enough, like he was savoring every second of this walk. his fingers brushed yours once, a fleeting warmth against your knuckles. he didn’t grab your hand. brushed again, lingering, like a question he wasn’t sure he could ask. you didn’t pull away, your pinky curling slightly, grazing his, and the corner of his mouth twitched upward, like he’d caught a secret.

“can I see you again?” he asked, glancing down at you, his voice stripped of its usual swagger. it was quiet, raw, like a wish he’d whispered to the night before daring to say it aloud. his glasses slipped low, catching the streetlight’s gleam, and his eyes—too blue, too open—held yours like you were the only thing tethering him to the ground.

you tilted your head, pretending to mull it over, your lips pursing to hide the smile tugging at them. your scarf fluttered in the breeze, and you tugged it tighter, catching the way his gaze flicked to the motion, like he was memorizing it. “I’d kinda like it if you called me first,” you said, voice dry but warm, your eyes darting to his before skittering away.

his smile softened, reverent, like you’d handed him a talisman he hadn’t earned. he ducked his head, damp hair falling into his eyes, and pushed it back with a quick flick, scattering droplets. “yeah?” he said, and it was so soft, so hopeful, it made your chest ache like a bruise you didn’t mind.

“yeah,” you said, and your fingers brushed his again, deliberate this time, a spark in the quiet.

he didn’t kiss you. not yet. but the way he looked at you—head tilted, eyes tracing your face like he was mapping a new constellation—felt louder than any words. like maybe, finally, he’d found the place he was meant to land, and you were standing right there beside him.

you kept walking, the umbrella tilting as he leaned closer, his shoulder brushing yours. the mist curled around you like a veil, and he started humming—some off-key pop song he’d probably heard on a mission, the kind you’d mocked him for liking during one of your calls. you shot him a look, eyebrow arched, and he only grinned, utterly unrepentant.

“you’re gonna ruin my reputation,” you muttered, but your lips twitched, and you nudged his arm with your elbow, just enough to make him sway.

“too late,” he said, voice lilting like he was sharing a conspiracy. “you laughed at my tanuki tax joke. you’re already doomed.”

you snorted, the sound sharp in the quiet, and he laughed—low, warm, like it was his favorite sound in the world. “you remember that?” you asked, glancing up at him, your scarf slipping to reveal the curve of your neck. his eyes followed it, then snapped back to your face, like he’d been caught.

“‘course I do,” he said, tapping his temple with a long finger. “filed it under ‘proof you’re secretly fun.’ right next to you admitting you like my midnight voice.”

your cheeks warmed, and you shoved your hands into your pockets, muttering, “delirious ramblings don’t count.” but you didn’t step away, and he didn’t either, the umbrella wobbling as he tilted it to keep you dry.

then he stopped walking, abrupt enough that you turned to face him, a brow raised. “what?”

his expression was unreadable, caught somewhere between mischief and something heavier, like he was about to say something that could tilt the world off its axis. his hair was wet now, silver strands curling at the ends, clinging to his forehead, and his glasses fogged slightly at the edges, making his eyes look softer, closer.

“come work in tokyo,” he said, the words spilling out like they’d been waiting all night.

you blinked, your breath catching. “satoru.”

“no, I’m serious,” he said, stepping closer, the umbrella dipping until a stray droplet grazed his cheek. he didn’t wipe it away, just kept looking at you, earnest in a way that made your throat tight. “same uniform, better pay, vending machines that don’t eat your coins. plus—” he leaned in, voice dropping to a mock-whisper—“you get me. scientifically proven to make life less boring.”

you laughed, sharp and startled, and it broke the tension like a snapped thread. “you’re the cause of my stress,” you said, poking his chest with a finger, your nail catching on his damp coat.

“and I’ll keep causing it,” he said, catching your hand before you could pull back. his fingers were warm, curling around yours, and he tilted his head, grin softening. “but I’ll be closer. way better than those kyoto stiffs who don’t know how you take your coffee.”

you froze, lips parting, because he did know—black, no sugar, the way you’d grumbled about during a 3 a.m. call when a mission had you wired. “you’re ridiculous,” you muttered, but your voice wobbled, and you didn’t yank your hand away.

“you don’t belong there,” he said, quieter now, his thumb brushing your knuckle, light as a wish. “they don’t see you. not like I do.”

you opened your mouth to deflect, to toss back something sharp, but nothing came. because he was right, and the way he looked at you—steady, unguarded, like you were more than a shadow in a debrief room—made it impossible to argue. you closed your mouth, exhaling through your nose, and he smiled, small and real, like he’d won something bigger than he’d planned.

two weeks later, after one strongly worded proposal, two forged signatures, and a very public argument with gakuganji that ended with a chair launched across a meeting room, satoru showed up at your apartment, leaning against the doorframe with a grin that screamed trouble. his coat was slung over one shoulder, and he held a crumpled paper bag that smelled suspiciously like mochi.

“congrats,” he said, voice bright as a spark. “you’re moving to tokyo. pack a toothbrush.”

you stared, one socked foot still on the tatami, a half-packed box of books at your side. “what the hell did you do?”

“justice,” he said, tossing the bag onto your counter, where it landed with a soft thud. he stepped inside, kicking the door shut with his heel, and winked like he’d just saved the world. “also, maybe a little bribery. you’re welcome.”

and just like that, you were tokyo’s problem now.

on your first day, he was waiting at the jujutsu tech gates, a paper flower crown perched crookedly on his head, petals fluttering in the breeze. he held a sign—scrawled in marker, “WELCOME HOME, CRYPTID”—and two matcha lattes, one wobbling dangerously in his hand as he waved like a kid spotting their best friend. the other sorcerers passing by shot him looks, but he didn’t care, his grin wide enough to rival the sun spilling over the campus.

you tried to scowl, to keep your cool, but your lips betrayed you, curling into a smile that felt like surrender. “you’re ridiculous,” you muttered, stepping into his orbit, close enough to smell the sugar on his breath and the faint cedar of his cologne.

he looped an arm around your shoulder, easy as breathing, like the space beside him had been yours all along. his lips brushed your temple, a fleeting warmth, then lingered, soft and deliberate, like he was testing if you’d pull away. you didn’t.

“and yet,” he said, voice low, teasing, “you never left.”

you rolled your eyes, but your head tilted into his touch, just a fraction, and you felt him exhale, like he’d been holding it in. “I’m not wearing the flower crown,” you said, flicking the sign with a finger, making it wobble in his grip.

“not yet,” he said, adjusting the crown on his head, petals catching the sunlight like tiny flames. he handed you a latte, the cup warm against your palm, and you noticed he’d drawn a tiny cat face on the lid—lopsided, with one ear missing, like your stray back in kyoto.

“not ever,” you shot back, but you took a sip, and the matcha was perfect—sweet, not too bitter, exactly how you’d mentioned liking it months ago during a call about bad coffee stands.

he laughed, a sound like summer breaking through clouds, and you looked up, catching the way his eyes crinkled, the way his hair glowed gold in the morning light. his thumb brushed your cheek, featherlight, like he was confirming you were real.

and then he kissed you—no fanfare, no dramatic build, just the quiet press of his mouth against yours, soft and certain. it was the kind of kiss that didn’t ask for permission because it already belonged. like the final word in a sentence you’d both been writing in secret.

his lips were warm, moving against yours with a reverence that made your breath catch. his hand cupped the side of your face, fingers splayed gently against your jaw as though afraid to press too hard, like you were something delicate, worth holding and not breaking.

your eyes fluttered closed. the air between you and the world seemed to hush, like even the breeze knew not to interrupt. your fingers curled into the fabric of his coat—soft, heavy, smelling faintly of rain and something that had to be him.

your knees went a little soft. your heart, stupid and loud, climbed up into your throat.

he pulled back just barely, but didn’t let go. his forehead rested against yours, breath fanning across your lips, sweet with matcha and something sweeter beneath it—something like hope.

his grin was criminal. boyish. blinding. like he’d stolen something precious and gotten away clean.

“told you you’d like tokyo,” he said, voice low, still laced with laughter.

and before you could even think of dodging, he plucked the flower crown from his head—now slightly lopsided from the kiss—and dropped it gently onto yours.

you blinked. scowled. felt your cheeks catch fire.

you shoved it back onto him, petals scattering onto his nose, and he sneezed, dramatic and loud, making a passing student jump. “shut up,” you said, but you were laughing now, full and bright, and his fingers laced with yours, warm and steady, like they’d never let go.

and in that moment—the sun dusting your cheeks, his hand anchoring you, you knew one thing for sure:

no one else needed to notice.

because he did.

and that was enough.

(and yeah, he’d submitted three fake transfer forms in your name, because apparently love means committing light fraud. you’d yell at him later. probably.)

tag list : @akeisryna @esotericsorrow @prettilyrisse @cherrymoon55 @linaaeatsfamilies @k0z3me

[hehehihilogist]

Scientific lore analysis that proves that Bill Cipher is destined to be a bottom.

More under the cut.

Let's start with who Bill Cipher is. He's a two-dimensional interdimensional dream demon from the now destroyed dimension, Euclydia. Formerly existent only in the Mindscape, Bill briefly succeeded in gaining access to the real world and a physical form. Known for his mysterious demeanor and sadistic humor, Bill is the main antagonist of the overall series. (wiki) However, let's stick with the fact that he's a big liar, too. A code in Theraprism cipher on the book's cover says it directly: even his lies are lies.

So, when overlooking his design with prevailing yellow, which symbolises deceit, power and manipulation, we might also invert it (because his appearance may also "lie" to us). And we will see that it's mainly blue.

Why blue? I think it's intentional move done by Alex Hirsch to prove his point that Bill Cipher is not what he seems. This symblolizes a deeper connection with character design and his personality.

In literature, blue is known as a color of honesty, peace, sadness and commitment. Like this, he is honest to us, open and commited. However, let's focus on the sadness part.

Sadness is a feeling that can develop into depression, if you are stuck with it for a long time (over 2 weeks, for example). And depression IS when you are at the BOTTOM of your life. And yeah, what color will that be? Blue. And blue is the exact opposite of the color that Bill wants to be shown!

He is yellow, because he wants to act all-powerful, pretending to be in charge. However, people who really are in charge don't need to prove it constantly. The way Bill acts shows that deep inside, he overcompensates the need for someone to take him down, he's the jester-like character, waiting to be humilated the right way.

Power is nothing but an act of roleplay to him, he wants for someone to make this illusion go away. His fear of vulnerability is really giving out.

Bill Cipher, what a cool name, right? But why is he called that?

His name is believed to be a combination of "bill" for dollar one and "cipher" for cryptogram stuff. But is it that easy? Let's dive deeper

His "Bill" part is based on the Eye of Providence, which is most commonly seen on the back of the american dollar.

It's a 1-dollar bill, the lowest of the banknotes available. It's the BOTTOM of the quantity value. No matter the dollar price, it will stay there. Maybe that’s where it’s supposed to be.

Moreover, Bill is a common used name among the people. It is a dull, boring, meaning nothing one. It giving "overcompensating suburban villain" ifykyk.

Cipher? What is a cipher?

In cryptography, a cipher is an algorithm for performing encryption or decryption. (wiki) It can be also a mathematical zero — something that cannot be valued by itself.

But what does it mean for our character? He is nothing without the context, his identity depends on whoever is there in charge, he is blank without someone pulling the strings. He is a code that needs to be cracked and he cannot exist without someone "decoding" him. BOTTOM energy, if you ask me.

Since we started on this topic, let's discuss his appearance. A triangle? Why?

In hierarchy, the base of the triangle supports the pyramid, it's the foundation itself, when the apex (which is in both the Eye, and Bill's design himself) is small and it has to depens on anything that is beneath him. That way, his "top of the pyramid" thing is not dominant. He axists only when there's solid groung beneath him, holding him

His whole design is made after the Eye, but the whole point of it is watching and never interfering directly. He sees everything, but he needs the others to act. He doesn't create a thing, he reacts on thers' actions. Bottom energy, if you ask me - all his power depends directly on others.

The shape's pointed nature can convey a sense of movement and energy, often associated with action and even conflict. In physics, the Greek letter delta (Δ), which is a triangle, is used to represent change.  Triandles aren't as stable as circles or squares. Instead, they are usually stuck or falling - they cannot adapt, cannot roll.

As a triangle, Bill is shown ready to change for anyone's need, destined to fall at the BOTTOM.

Bill Cipher is shaped like an equilateral triangle. It is proven with the poem in the choose-your-own-adventure book. The axolotl tells it Dipper when he asks about Cipher.

"Sixty degrees that come in threes". According to geometry book for the 4th grade, that would make him an equiangular triangle, since all of his angles are 60°, the same measure. If a triangle is equiangular, then it's also equilateral, or meaning that all sides are the same length.

In the Bible, 60 can represent periods of waiting or completeness, as well as divine provision and the fulfillment of promises, it is considered as the threshold of when a person enters the last major phase of their life. It means that 60 is the bottom of someone's existence, waiting for recognition, something bigger to come. Once again, it's not acting up, interfering with someone. Instead, it is waiting for something on the outside to react.

An equilateral triangle is something that adheres to external laws of geometry - his construction is perfectly stable. Despite him claiming to be chaotic, his literal shape is a complete submission to mathematical laws. His obidience is built-in since his birth.

Symmetrical shapes are easier to be abused: split, centered, framed and entered into.

His own Zodiac circle is a proof for this: he's in the middle, framed. He's not assymetrical and not trying to be it - instead, he is built like something that awaits to be disrupted and ruined.

Instead of being chaos, he's the most predictable polygon. He doesn't move and his structure is a rule itself. Despite his acting, his design reveals his fate: to be in balance, order, awaiting for an inner force to bring him into the chaos he desires.

Moving on, before gaining physical form, he is shown to us as a shadow twice throughout the series.

But what is a shadow?

A shadow is a dark area or shape created when an object blocks light. It occurs because light travels in straight lines and cannot bend around an opaque object, resulting in a dark silhouette on the opposite side.

How is this related? Well, look where the shadows are formed. Guess where are they. BOTTOM of the object presented. Sun can move wherever it is, but the shadow always stays there. Destinied it is.

Now, let's talk about the American Revolution. This war's result was that the United States of America achieved independence from British rule. But, the country originally struggled at the start due to the lack of government.

The Articles of Confederation was the first attempt on national US government. The problem with this was that states maintained their independence and such document didn’t didnt the federal government power to unite the states together. They lacked many necessary powers. No executive or judicial branch, no power to tax or create a national currency, and a 9/13 majority needed to pass laws, the Articles could not support the country. The founding father set out to create the Constitution, what would be the basis of government today.

As the Constitution went into effect, the system of check and balances was formed. This allowed for each branch of the government to “check” each other and prevent one single branch from being corrupt and taking control of all the national power.

Bill would represent the judicial branch, a branch with only self-placed checks and not necessarily constitutional checks. Bill Cipher can easily take advantage of this and take over the whole government.

Chaos he relates to is often related with power, however, it is a state of utter confusion or disorder; a total lack of organization or order. He's projecting dominance, trying to hide his vulnerability. He talks constantly, only to be shut with someone interrupting him, arguing. He doesn't only need power, he wants others to believe he has it. True dominance doesn’t beg for acknowledgment, but Bill does - it is a facade he's put. The whole Weirdmageddon is nothing but an attempt to break free from his "bottom energy". But did it really help?

Moreover, Bill's afraid of interacting with someone on a deeper level. He's always manipulative, mocking, but never vulnerable - he's a control freak, secretly wising for losing it.

The only reason he mocks human emotions is because he cannot fully engage in them. It's fully shown in the "Sock Opera", where he attempts to manipulate twins by how unstable their relationship is.

Psychologically, it is that Bill’s desire for power is started from the frontal cortex, specifically the orbitofrontal cortex. The idea of the power given to him is a desire for him to grow. This is deeply connected with dopamine, that his braing releases. He's a BOTTOM, desperately trying to top.

While looking at the BC abbreviation you may think it sounds familiar. It is a common abbreviation for the term "Before Christ" used in dating systems to denote years prior to the traditional start of the Christian era. And when looking at it, BC is located at the bottom of the timeline, alligning where he belongs.

As you can see, Bible was mentioned twice throughout the analysis. This can mean only that Bill has a deep connection with its dogmas.

And it is proven by the holy trinity: a concept, involving three holy figures, just like three sides of Bill. The number three itself holds significance, representing perfection, integration, and the unity of dualities. A full harmony on the outside, deep inside it is a conflict revolving.

This is EXACTLY the way Ohm's triangle works. It is a simple visual tool used to remember the relationship between voltage (V), current (I), and resistance (R) in electrical circuits.

The Ohm’s Law triangle is the same shape as Bill Cipher — an upright triangle.

Bill's show as a voltage in it. He only exists if something else conducts or resists him. He is the top of the triangle, but the triangle only functions if something below him is doing the work.

Voltage — is the power that needs to be conducted and resisted to mean anything.

That’s not dominance. That’s literal dependence on someone, who'll do all the work. Energy only flows when it confronts resistance.

You see, chaos (Bill) only becomes real voltage when he submits to resistance and lets current move through him. He’s not the master of the circuit — he is defined by its work.

Now, let's talk about posession. As wiki says, it's the state of having, owning, or controlling something.

To posess someone, you need to abandon your own form, becoming dependent on someone else. That’s not power - it is submission to someone else’s structure.

It is a vulnerable state of mind and body - a posessed can resist, fight back, and then the posessed one gets destroyed. It requires submission to other's body functioning. It’s a fragile dominance — and fragile dominance is just bottoming with extra steps.

[gullemec]

Invisible Smoke

Golden Ruin - Chapter One

series masterlist ao3

Pairing: Billy Butcher x f!reader

Summary: Six months after the destruction of CytoGenix, the Boys are back and better than ever. Well... for the most part.

Warnings: reader experiences a panic attack, discussions of PTSD/trauma, mild smut, angst, happily ever after isn't so happy :(

Please let me know if I missed any TWs <3

WC: 7.1k

A/N: Hello and welcome to Golden Cage's sequel series! This has been percolating in my mind since I finished writing Golden Cage (which, for context, was in summer 2024 lol). I'm so excited to pick up where we left off and see what these nerds get up to <3

You stroll down the sunlit sidewalk, your sneakers tapping a steady rhythm against the concrete.

The air hums with the familiar symphony of the city, the honking cabs and chatter of passerby and rumble of the subway beneath your feet like a chorus. Warm rays of light filter through the gaps between towering buildings, dappling your cheeks in fleeting patterns that feel almost like a blessing from the city itself.

A city that is finally starting to feel like home.

As you turn onto 5th Avenue, your gaze lifts instinctively, drawn to the familiar sight ahead. There it is. The Flatiron building, with its iconic triangular frame slicing sharply through the crystalline blue sky. It stands proud and defiant amidst the bustling world below, like the bow of a grand ship cutting through turbulent waters.

The sight is a balm, a touchstone amidst chaos. No matter how many times you walk this path, the comfort it brings never wanes. It’s more than just a building to you now, it’s a symbol. A reminder that in a world teetering on the edge of collapse, some things can still stand tall, steadfast, unshaken.

You weave through the sea of Manhattanites, dodging tourists with cameras and businesspeople glued to their phones. As you approach the Flatiron, you take a moment to admire its beauty and grandeur, the way it stands out against the myriad of skyscrapers and office buildings surrounding it. The city buzzes with its usual frenetic energy, but you’ve learned how to flow with it, like water finding its way around rocks.

You heave open the heavy front door and quickly rush up the stairs to your new office. 

After months of covert negotiations, Butcher had finagled the use of the abandoned Greywal & Co. Import & Export offices on the top floor, bartered as a perk of your group joining the Bureau of Superhuman Affairs as contractors. It's a marked improvement from your previous hideout, the grimy laundromat basement with leaking pipes and the lingering smell of detergent. You still wake up sometimes with phantom memories of that dark, damp space where everything in your life had started to unravel.

Pushing open the glass door to the office space, the faint creak of old hinges announces your arrival. Inside, the room is alive with the energy of preparation. Maps and photographs plaster the walls, red strings connecting points like veins in a pulsing network. Desks are buried under a mess of takeout cartons, coffee-stained papers, and gear waiting to be packed. Monitors hum softly, their screens glowing with encrypted data streams.

Sunlight filters through the arched windows, casting the space in a hazy golden glow that feels almost serene, if not for the tension crackling in the air like static.

The chatter dies instantly as all eyes snap to you.

Awesome. You’re late, again.

You raise a hand in apology, still slightly out of breath from your brisk walk. “Sorry, sorry! Came as soon as I got your text.”

Mallory’s eyebrow arches in that signature expression of disapproval that somehow stings worse than any verbal reprimand. Her silence weighs heavy in the room, a scolding in and of itself.

Butcher’s eyes meet yours across the room, his expression unreadable. He offers you a curt nod, which you return with a small smile. You round the corner of his desk and perch yourself on its edge. His presence is an anchor, steadying you against the rising tide of anxiety.

Mallory rises from her seat, and the air seems to shift. The room quiets further, everyone instinctively straightening as her commanding voice cuts through the stillness.

“We intercepted intel about a meeting at the Russian consulate tomorrow morning,” she begins, her tone clipped and precise. “Vought executives are holding a private session with Russian diplomats. No press. No fanfare. Just whispers.”

She pauses, her gaze sweeping the room, letting the weight of her words settle. “Whatever they’re planning, it’s big. We need ears in that room.”

A delicious tingle of anticipation races down your spine. Finally.

“How big we talkin’ here?” Butcher drawls, leaning back in his chair with the practiced ease of someone who’s seen far too much.

“This could tie into the superweapon rumors we’ve been tracking,” Mallory replies, her voice razor-sharp. “The overseas labs, the classified experiments… This meeting might give us the proof we need to shut it all down. We can’t afford to let this slip.”

You glance around the room, catching the flicker of renewed determination in everyone’s eyes. For months, the Boys have been chasing shadows, piecing together fragments of a puzzle no one seems able to solve. A superweapon, supposedly capable of destroying Homelander. An opportunity like this could blow it all wide open. 

Mallory’s gaze zeroes in on you, sharp and unyielding. “You and Hughie are on this.”

The spark of excitement sputters into an icy stab of dread.

“Wait, what?” Hughie blurts, his voice pitching upward. “You mean us? Like, sneaking into the consulate us? That’s… uh… not exactly my strong suit.”

“I’m not asking you to steal state secrets,” Mallory replies, her tone cutting. “You’re going in as caterers. Plant a recording device, listen in, and get out. Keep your heads down, and no one will notice you.”

“Right, because that always works out great for us…” Hughie mutters, earning a smirk from Frenchie.

You feel the familiar grip of doubt creeping up your spine. This is no small task. It’s the kind of mission where a single misstep could mean disaster. It’s been ages since the Boys had a lead this good, and Mallory wants you on this. Anxiety creeps in at the edges of your mind, that old familiar feeling of inadequacy paying you an unwelcome visit. Your father may be gone, but his presence left a permanent etching in your brain, a voice that tells you to make yourself small and to shrink away from a challenge. 

You shake it off. You refuse to let that voice win.

“We can do this,” you say, injecting steel into your voice. “No one’s going to suspect a couple of random caterers. I’ve been practicing. I can handle it.”

Butcher’s dark laugh cuts through the room, low and biting.

“Practicing, eh?” he sneers. “Need I remind you what happened the last time you and Hughie tried goin’ incognito? Love, this ain’t amateur hour. You’re walkin’ into a bloody nest of Vought execs who’d gut you the moment they sniff something’s off.”

Your stomach twists as memories flash. The acrid scent of burning metal, the heat at your back as Homelander’s laser eyes chased you out of the laboratory. The thrum of your heart in your chest as you practically dragged Hughie out of the building. The hours spent taking subway trains across town to shake your tail. 

But that was months ago. That was your first real mission. You’ve learned. You’ve grown. No one gets to underestimate you, not anymore. 

“I know what’s at stake,” you snap, meeting Butcher’s gaze head-on. “I’m not going to screw this up.”

His jaw tightens, concern flickering in his eyes. “I don’t like the idea of you gettin’ mixed up in all of this. Your arm’s barely healed.”

You gape at him. “My cast has been off for months!”

“That don’t mean it’s healed!” he retorts, exasperated.

You know he's doing this out of concern, and you know he's seen enough shit in his time to know exactly how dangerous something like this could be. He’s seen more than his fair share of bloody messes and catastrophic endings to missions that went sideways. He knows just how quickly things can spiral, how one wrong move can turn a carefully laid plan into a disaster. But for all his cynicism, he also knows you, what you’ve been through, what you’ve survived, what you’re capable of now.

In the six months since your father’s body became a bomb, detonating CytoGenix Headquarters and reducing it to a smoldering pile of rubble, your condition has been rather… delicate. Concussions, fractured bones, months of physical therapy. Your body had taken a beating, and your mind hadn’t fared much better. But as soon as the cast came off and the doctor cleared you of the worst of it, you were ready to throw yourself back into the action. Ready to stop sitting on the sidelines and start making a difference again.

That was, of course, until you ventured out on your first mission post-explosion. It had been simple, low-stakes, meant to ease you back into things. But nothing is ever truly that simple for you, is it?

~~~

The warehouse loomed in the distance, its corrugated metal exterior streaked with rust and grime. You adjusted your binoculars, squinting through the rain-specked windshield of your car. From your vantage point, parked a block away, you had a clear view of the loading dock. Two men in coveralls were hauling crates onto a forklift, their movements unhurried.

Mallory’s intel had led you here, a warehouse allegedly housing contraband Compound V, tucked away in the Brooklyn Navy Yard. It wasn’t a complex mission. Snap photos of the crates, jot down delivery times, and get out before anyone so much as noticed your shadow.

Observe and report, Butcher had said. No heroics, no improvising. Simple, yeah?

His tone had been sharp, but there had been something else beneath it. A hesitation he hadn't quite managed to mask.

You’d nodded, eager to prove yourself. This was your first mission since the explosion at CytoGenix, since the weeks of recovery spent with a cast on your arm and a pounding ache in your skull. The approval from the doctor had been your ticket out of the purgatory of desk work and stakeouts. You were desperate for something real, no matter how small. 

This was your chance to show Mallory, Butcher, and the Boys, and yourself, that you could still do this.

Grabbing your camera, you slipped out of the car, staying low as you crept toward the chain-link fence. Rain pattered softly against your jacket, the cold seeping into your skin. You found a gap in the fence and ducked through, careful not to snag your clothes on the jagged edges.

The air near the warehouse smelled damp and metallic, tinged with the sweet scent of oil. You settled behind a stack of pallets, raising the camera to your eye. Through the lens, you could see the workers more clearly now, their faces obscured by hoods. One of them pried open a crate with a crowbar, revealing rows of glowing blue vials.

Bingo.

You snapped a few photos, your finger steady on the shutter. It felt good to be back in the field, to have a purpose again. You pressed the button on your earpiece. “Got visual confirmation. Looks like a couple hundred vials. Snapped a few shots.”

Butcher’s voice crackled in your ear. “Good. Keep eyes on ‘em. Let me know when they’re done unloading.”

“Roger that,” you murmured.

You were about to shift for a better angle when it happened.

A loud bang echoed from inside the warehouse, sharp and sudden. You flinched, the sound slicing through the air like a gunshot. It wasn’t a weapon, just a crate toppling over, but the noise slammed into you like a freight train.

Your breath hitched, your vision narrowing as the world around you dissolved. The damp chill of the rain vanished, replaced by searing heat. You were back in the stairwell at CytoGenix, the walls trembling with the force of the explosion. The acrid stench of burning plastic filled your nose. Your body hit the wall with a sickening crack, pain exploding in your skull. You could hear Monica’s screams, the chaos, the blaring alarm—

Your chest tightened, and you clawed at your jacket, desperate for air. The camera slipped from your hands, clattering to the ground. Somewhere in the distance, Butcher’s voice barked in your earpiece, but it was drowned out by the deafening roar of your heartbeat.

You stumbled backward, your legs giving way as you pressed yourself against the cold metal of a shipping container. The rain had soaked through your clothes, but you barely felt it.

Breathe, you told yourself. Just breathe. But the air wouldn’t come.

The earpiece crackled again. “Oi, talk to me. What’s going on?” Butcher’s voice was sharp now, threaded with concern. When you didn’t respond, he cursed under his breath.

You don’t know how much time you spent there, head between your knees, chest heaving, rain pelting your crumpled form, before heavy boots thudded against the ground nearby. You barely registered the figure crouching in front of you until his hand gripped your shoulder, firm and steady.

“Hey.” Butcher’s voice cut through the haze, low and commanding. “Look at me.”

You blinked, your gaze snapping to his. His dark eyes were steady, pinning you in place. He moved his hand from your shoulder to your wrist, pressing it against his chest.

“Feel that?” he said. His heartbeat was slow and deliberate, a metronome against your racing pulse. “Breathe with me. In through your nose, yeah? Nice and slow. Come on.”

Your breaths were shallow and ragged, but you tried to match his rhythm. In, out. In, out. The pressure in your chest began to ease, the roaring in your ears fading to a dull hum.

“That’s it,” he murmured, his tone softer now. “You’re alright. You’re here.”

The warehouse came back into focus. The rain dripping off the container, the distant rumble of a forklift. You were shaking, but the world had stopped spinning.

“I—” Your voice cracked, barely audible. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t.” Butcher cut you off, his grip tightening on your wrist. “Don’t start with that. This ain’t about being sorry. You’re human, yeah? You’ve been through hell. This shit’s gonna happen.”

He released your wrist, standing and extending a hand to you. “Now, come on. Let’s get you out of this pisshole.”

You hesitated, glancing back at the warehouse. “But the mission—”

“Forget the bloody mission,” he snapped. “We’ve got what we need. Right now, you’re my priority.”

The words hit you harder than you expected. You took his hand, letting him haul you to your feet. His grip was firm, grounding.

As the two of you walked back to the van, Butcher kept a hand on your shoulder, a silent reassurance.

“You kept your head longer than most would’ve,” he said gruffly as you climbed into the passenger seat. “That takes guts. It’ll come back to you.”

His words stayed with you long after the mission, but so did the moment itself, the memory of panic and failure, the echo of your father’s voice whispering in the dark, reminding you of all the ways you didn’t measure up.

~~~

After that, Butcher made it his personal mission to keep you permanently benched. He relegated you to desk work, poring over files and surveillance footage, or staking out low-risk locations that barely required you to leave the van. At first, you told yourself it was temporary, that it was just his way of being cautious. But as the weeks turned into months, the frustration grew.

It wasn’t just about the boredom for you. It was the feeling of being underestimated, of having to prove yourself all over again. You’d fought tooth and nail to stand shoulder to shoulder with this team, to earn their trust and respect. And yet, here you were, still fighting the whispers of doubt, both theirs and your own.

But none of that matters right now. This mission is yours, and you’re not about to let anyone, least of all Butcher, doubt you again.

“She’ll be fine,” Frenchie interjects, breaking the tension with his usual easy charm. His warm smile crinkles the corners of his eyes as he looks at you. “Ma poupette has the brains for this. Just remember, roll with the punches, eh?”

You raise your eyebrows at Butcher, as if to say See?

Butcher doesn’t respond, his jaw tightening as he glances away. His silence says everything.

Mallory steps forward, her commanding presence cutting through the tension like a knife. Her voice is sharp and no-nonsense. “This is not a debate,” she says, her tone leaving no room for argument. “You two are handling this. This is very straightforward. Plant a listening device, get the intel, and get out.”

She pauses, letting her words settle before continuing. “I’ll have a van on standby if things go sideways, but the goal is to keep this quiet. No one notices you, no one remembers you. Understand?”

Her piercing gaze lands on you, heavy with expectation. “I trust you can handle it,” she says, her tone softening just enough to let you know she means it.

A flicker of pride warms your chest, solidifying into determination. You nod, your chin lifting as you steel yourself for what’s ahead.

Mallory’s gaze shifts to Butcher, sharp as a blade. “But you need to trust each other. That’s the only way this works.”

Butcher exhales sharply, clearly biting back a retort. He glances at you, something unspoken passing between you, a grudging respect, maybe, or a flicker of belief he doesn’t know how to voice.

You turn to Hughie, who looks like he’d rather be anywhere else. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows hard, his nerves written all over his face. But after a moment, he nods back at you, his lips curving into a weak but genuine smile.

In the months since Mallory’s return, you’d found yourself yearning for her approval with an intensity that surprised even you. Her presence cast a long shadow, and you were keenly aware of how she had sized you up on that first night in your apartment. The disapproval in her sharp gaze had been palpable, cutting deeper than you cared to admit. Could you blame her, though?

After years spent in the shadows, having walked away from the Supe-killing squad she’d built with blood and iron, Mallory had been dragged back into the fray. All because she’d heard whispers about the Boys regrouping, more recklessly than ever, in her view, and, worst of all, that they’d let you, the daughter of a Vought crony, into their ranks. If you were her, you’d probably have dragged yourself out of retirement, too.

Though the team had rallied around you, defending your place in the group with fervor, it hadn’t stopped the wildfire of doubt that had sparked in your chest from Mallory’s initial appraisal of you. You understood the value you’d brought in those early days. When CytoGenix was still standing, when your father was alive, when Monica was pulling the strings, you’d offered something no one else could: inside intel. You’d been a bridge to a world the Boys couldn’t otherwise touch.

But now?

With CytoGenix in ruins, Monica gone, and your father’s legacy reduced to nothing more than ash and regret, what did you have left to give? Sure, there was the six-figure inheritance, a hollow consolation prize if there ever was one, but it wasn’t as if money meant much in this line of work. Money wasn’t what this team needed, wasn’t what earned respect here. The voice of self-doubt, ever persistent, had made itself at home during those early months, whispering venom in your ear. 

You’re a liability. A loose end. They don’t need you anymore. You’ve outlived your usefulness.

Your teammates had tried to drown out that voice. Annie, now your closest friend, spoke about you like you hung the fucking moon. Frenchie, with his gentle reassurances, had told you time and again that you belonged. MM had treated you with the same quiet respect and faith he gave to everyone he trusted. Hughie, loyal to a fault, never wavered in his belief that you were part of the team. Even Kimiko, in her own way, had made it clear that she valued you.

And yet, in the still moments, when the adrenaline wore off, when the noise of missions and plans faded, you couldn’t help but wonder. What am I doing here? What do I bring to the table?

Everyone else had a clear role, a purpose that tethered them to the group. Butcher was the leader, the strategist, the one who saw the big picture even when it was dark and bloody. MM was the anchor, the meticulous planner who kept things running smoothly. Frenchie was the wildcard, a fixer with a knack for making the impossible possible. Kimiko was the muscle, the silent force of nature. Annie had her connections to Vought, her inside knowledge of the system they were trying to tear down. Even Hughie, awkward and unassuming as he could be, had carved out his place as the team’s moral compass.

And you?

What were you?

But now, you think, this is your moment. This is your chance to prove, not just to Mallory but to yourself, that you’re more than a liability or a loose end.

No more doubts. No more underestimations. No more living in the shadow of what you’ve lost.

As the meeting begins to wind down, Mallory’s orders echo in your mind. Her voice had been calm, clipped, and deliberate, leaving no room for questions. It left plenty of room for doubt, though. Across the room, you catch her watching you again, arms crossed tightly over her chest. Her expression is as unreadable as ever, a mask of cool indifference that offers no clues. Still, there’s something in the slight tilt of her head, the narrow set of her eyes. Displeasure? Doubt? Maybe both.

The weight of her gaze feels heavier than it should, a silent challenge you can’t shake.

Your thoughts are interrupted as Butcher slides onto the desk beside you, the wood creaking under his weight. The casualness of the action is belied by the intensity in his expression. He leans in close, his voice low but gruff, tinged with an edge of warning.

“Listen,” he says, his dark eyes boring into yours. “I don’t give a toss what Mallory says. You get even a whiff of trouble, you pull the plug and get the hell out. Ain’t nothing in that room worth your neck, you hear me?”

The protective note in his tone catches you off guard, as it often does. Beneath the layers of cynicism, anger, and bravado that make up Butcher, there’s a thread of something softer, something he’ll never admit to. These rare moments of vulnerability always take you by surprise, a glimpse of the man beneath the scars. Normally, you’d relish it, store it away like a secret. But this time, it feels tainted.

Tainted by Mallory’s gaze, still burning a hole into your back. Tainted by the ever-present question of whether you even deserve to be here, let alone trusted with this mission.Tainted by the way his desire to protect you feels inhibiting.

You nod, though the knot in your chest tightens. Your eyes flicker back to Mallory, who hasn’t moved, her stance as rigid as her judgment. Is it disapproval that’s carved into her features? Or is it concern? The two blur together in your mind, indistinguishable from the spotlight of her scrutiny.

“I hear you,” you say, turning back to Butcher. Your voice is steadier than you feel, the words forced past the lump in your throat. “But I’ve got this.”

Butcher lets out a short, humorless laugh, shaking his head. “Right,” he mutters, his tone teetering between skepticism and reluctant admiration. “Guess we’ll see.”

For a moment, the air between you feels heavy with unspoken words. There’s something he wants to say, something more than the gruff warnings and the veiled concern. But he doesn’t, and you know he won’t. That’s not who Butcher is.

As the others begin to filter out, the tension in the room doesn’t dissipate. It lingers, thick and suffocating, clinging to the walls like a stubborn fog. Mallory remains rooted in place, her gaze unwavering, as though she’s waiting for something. For you to crack, perhaps, or to prove you’re worth the risk she’s taking.

You take a breath and straighten your shoulders, forcing the tension out of your body. It’s an effort to lift your chin and meet her eyes, but you do. You hold her gaze, refusing to flinch under the weight of her scrutiny. You know what she sees when she looks at you. A wild card, a question mark, someone with everything to prove and too much to lose.

But you won’t falter. Not this time.

This is your moment. Your chance to silence the doubts. Hers, Butcher’s, and most importantly, your own.

This time, you’ll prove you belong.

~~~

The faint smell of garlic and onions hit your nose as you step into your kitchen, the sizzle of oil in the pan filling the otherwise quiet apartment. Butcher stands by the stove, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, a kitchen towel slung over his shoulder like he owns the place.

You lean against the doorway, watching him work. It’s strange, seeing him like this. The man who’d faced down Supes without a second thought, who carried enough emotional baggage to rival the Titanic, now stood in your kitchen, cooking pasta like some scene out of a rom-com.

“Didn’t know you could cook,” you tease, folding your arms across your chest.

Butcher doesn’t look up, but a faint smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Don’t look so shocked. I ain’t completely useless, y’know.”

“I think Frenchie’s the one who usually takes over the kitchen,” you say, stepping closer and glancing at the array of ingredients he’d gathered. Garlic bread, a fresh block of Parmesan, and… is that basil? “But this? This is impressive. I might let you stick around.”

“Generous of you,” he mutters, though there was a warmth in his tone.

You grab a glass from the cabinet and pour yourself some wine, the familiar hum of domesticity wrapping around you like a well-worn blanket. The scene feels so out of place. Butcher standing in your kitchen, the two of you sharing a quiet evening after the intensity of Mallory’s briefing. It’s almost too peaceful, too fragile, as if the world outside these walls doesn't exist.

“How long has it been since you cooked for someone?” you ask, leaning on the counter beside him.

He gives a short laugh, but it lacks any real humor. “Long enough. Don’t keep count, love. What about you? Last meal you had that wasn’t takeout?”

You shrug. “Probably the last time Frenchie decided to experiment with some weird fusion dish. Couldn’t even tell you what it was, but it was damn good.”

He turns off the burner, drains the pasta, and starts plating. The silence stretches as you watch him, the usual guardedness in his expression softening just enough to make you wonder what’s going on in his head.

“Thanks for this,” you say quietly, gesturing to the meal.

He hands you a plate and nods toward the table. “Yeah, well. Figured you could use a proper meal before the big day.”

Ah, there it is. The tension that’s been simmering since the briefing.

You sit down across from him, swirling the pasta on your fork. “You’re worried.”

He doesn’t answer right away, focusing instead on his own plate. Finally, he leans back in his chair, fixing you with a look that’s equal parts exasperation and concern. “Damn right, I’m worried. This gig’s a bloody powder keg, and you’re walking straight into it.”

“I can handle it,” you say, trying to keep your voice steady. “I’ve been waiting for something like this. A chance to prove I’m not just—”

“Not just what?” he interrupts, setting his fork down.

You hesitate, the words catching in your throat. Not just dead weight. Not just some liability Mallory’s tolerating because of what I used to know.

“Nothing,” you mutter, looking away. “I just mean I’m ready. My arm’s fine, my head’s fine, and I’ve been practicing my breathing. I know what I’m doing.”

Butcher lets out a heavy sigh, dragging a hand down his face. “You’re fine, yeah. But this ain’t the same as sneakin’ round some empty warehouse or trailing some low-level Supe. One wrong move tomorrow, and you’re dead. Or worse.”

“Worse?” you echo, raising an eyebrow.

“You know what they’d do if they caught you. Vought don’t play fair, love. Never have.”

His words send a shiver down your spine, but you square your shoulders. “You think I don’t know that? I’m not an idiot, Butcher. Did you already forget everything I did to stop Vought from getting V2? You don’t get to keep sidelining me just because you’re scared I might—”

“Because I care about you?” The words burst out of him, sharp and raw.

You blink, startled into silence.

He shakes his head, his hands gripping the edge of the table. “I’ve seen enough people I care about end up in the ground. I ain’t gonna let that happen to you.”

Your chest tightens, frustration bubbling up. “So what? You’re just gonna wrap me in bubble wrap and keep me locked up in the van while everyone else takes risks? That’s not fair, Butcher. I’m part of this team, whether you like it or not.”

“I do like it,” he shoots back, his voice quieter now but no less intense. “I do. You just… You scare the shit out of me, is all.”

“Okay,” you sigh, annoyance heavy in your voice. “Just… keep it to yourself. I don’t need you psyching me out.”

The air between you is heavy, charged with the weight of everything unsaid.

The silence stretches as you eat, both of you locked in a stalemate neither of you wanted to win. Finally, he stands, picking up the empty plates and carrying them to the sink. His back is to you, his shoulders tense.

“Look,” he says, his voice low, “I know you want to prove yourself. And maybe you’re ready. But you’ll forgive me if I ain’t in a rush to see you get yourself killed.”

You stand, walking up behind him but stopping short of touching him. “I’m not going to die, Butcher. I’ve got too much to live for.”

He turns his head slightly, just enough to glance at you out of the corner of his eye. “Yeah,” he murmurs, his voice almost too quiet to hear. “You better.”

When you fall into bed together later, Butcher moves with a deliberate tenderness that takes your breath away. There’s no rush in the way he touches you at first, no sharp edges to his usual brusque demeanor. His calloused hands skim your skin like he’s trying to memorize every curve, every scar, every part of you that makes you who you are. Each touch carries a message, unspoken but crystal clear. You’re all I think about.

His hands settle on your hips, strong but careful, pulling you closer as though the mere idea of distance between you is unbearable. When he holds you in his arms, every knot of tension in your body begins to unwind. There’s no room for doubt, no space to overthink the unanswered questions or the simmering tension that has been building between you for months. In his embrace, you hear the words he’s too guarded to say. I’ll keep you safe. It’s all I can do.

At first, his movements are slow and steady, as though he’s afraid to break you. His lips graze your collarbone, lingering there with a reverence that almost undoes you. His gaze locks on yours, dark and searching, and for a moment, you swear he’s looking right into your soul. Every kiss, every brush of his fingertips across your skin is a vow, a reassurance. You’re here. You’re mine.

But then something shifts. What starts as gentleness deepens into urgency, his movements growing frantic, almost desperate. His breathing becomes heavier, his grip tighter, as though holding you isn’t enough, he needs to anchor himself in you, to feel you in every way possible. There’s a plea in the way his lips press harder against yours, a tremor in the way he whispers your name, hoarse and unsteady. Don’t leave me.

His eyes meet yours again, and this time they’re blazing with something raw, something unguarded. It’s as though every wall he’s built around himself has come crashing down, leaving him exposed and vulnerable in a way that Butcher rarely allows himself to be. What he can’t bring himself to put into words, he pours into his touch, his kiss, the way his body moves against yours. Every pull, every grasp, every shuddering breath screams what he can’t say aloud. Mine. Mine. Mine.

And yet, there’s no possessiveness in it, no trace of dominance. It’s need. Pure, aching need. The need to protect, to keep you close, to show you just how much you mean to him, in the only way he knows how. In his arms, you don’t feel claimed or conquered; you feel seen, cherished, adored. His actions speak louder than any declaration ever could, telling you everything he keeps locked behind his gruff exterior. You’re the only thing in this godforsaken world that I can’t lose.

By the time you collapse together, tangled and breathless, his arms wrap around you with a firmness that feels like a promise. His face is buried in the crook of your neck, his breath warm against your skin, holding you like you’re the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth.

For a long while, neither of you says a word. 

Maybe you don’t need to. 

~~~

The air inside the office feels heavier at night. The soft hum of the city seeps through the windows, but the sharp glow of the desk lamp casts an artificial stillness over the room. Mallory sits behind the desk, papers meticulously stacked in front of her, a pen twirling absentmindedly between her fingers. 

You have a thick manila envelope tucked under your arm, stuffed with building schematics for the Russian consulate, profiles on the delegates Mallory expects to be present, and clear instructions on when and where to place the bugs. Hell, she even included the catering menus in case either of you were stopped and asked questions about the food. She’s being thorough, but it only serves to increase your apprehension. She wouldn’t be going this far if this mission’s success wasn’t absolutely crucial.

Mallory begins to gather up the papers on her desk. “You’ve got the details. You and Hughie should run through them a few more times tonight. You only get one shot at this, and I don’t need to remind you what’s at stake.”

You glance around, expecting Hughie to walk in any moment. “So... where’s Hughie? I thought we were going over the plan together.”

Mallory doesn’t look up immediately, her pen pausing mid-spin. Then she meets your gaze, her expression unreadable but edged with purpose. “I didn’t invite Hughie.”

You quirk an eyebrow. “Oh? Why?”

“Because that’s not the only reason I wanted to talk to you,” she says, her voice even.

You tilt your head, folding your arms as curiosity flickers to life. “Alright. What’s this about, then?”

She sets the pen down deliberately, her focus now fully on you. “It’s about Butcher.”

The name lands like a stone in your stomach. You try to keep your voice steady. “What about him?”

Mallory leans forward slightly, resting her elbows on the desk. Her eyes harden, not with anger, but with something sharper. Concern wrapped in steel. “He’s dangerous. You know that, don’t you? He’s a man willing to burn the world down to protect the people he loves. And he’ll burn himself down, too, if it comes to it. You know what he did after Becca died.”

Your jaw tightens instinctively. “Butcher’s been through hell. I don’t think anyone here can blame him for the choices he made after that. The choices you gave him.”

Mallory exhales deeply, leaning back in her chair as if to give you space to process her words. “I’m not blaming him. I’m warning you. That man has a black hole where his sense of self-preservation should be. And if you get too close, you’ll get pulled into it. Just... be careful.”

Her words hang in the air, tightening around you like a noose. You shift on your feet, crossing your arms tighter as a defensive barrier. “Why are you telling me this?”

Mallory’s gaze softens ever so slightly, though her tone remains firm. “Because I don’t want to deal with the consequences of his actions if anything were to happen to you.”

“It’s not like that between us,” you reply quickly, the words coming out more defensive than you’d intended.

She raises a skeptical eyebrow. “Isn’t it? I’ve seen the way he looks at you. And the way you look at him.”

You sigh, shaking your head. “I mean... we care about each other, sure. But he doesn’t—he doesn’t love me.”

Mallory’s lips press into a thin line, her expression unreadable. “William Butcher is not the most... eloquent man I’ve ever met. He doesn’t always know how to express his feelings. Doesn’t mean he doesn’t feel them. But feelings or not, you deserve to know where you stand. Especially if you’re going to stick around for this fight. Because if he won’t protect you the way you deserve, you’ll have to protect yourself.”

You glance away, her words striking a nerve you hadn’t fully acknowledged before.

“Alright,” you mutter, more to break the silence than to agree with her. “Thanks for the advice, Mallory.”

Her voice stops you as you turn to leave. “Just remember, Butcher doesn’t stop. Not until he’s got what he wants. And sometimes, that’s the most dangerous kind of love.”

You don’t look back. The words follow you anyway, clinging to you as you walk out into the night.

~~~

The night feels unusually quiet, the soft hum of the city muffled by the walls of your apartment. You sit on the edge of your bed, staring at the faint reflection of yourself in the window, the lights of the city glittering in the distance. Mallory’s words echo in your mind, relentless and insistent.

He’s dangerous. That man has a black hole where his sense of self-preservation should be, and if you get too close, you’ll get pulled into it. 

You exhale shakily, running a hand through your hair as you turn the thought over and over in your mind. You’ve always known Butcher was complicated, that he was damaged in ways you may never fully understand. But isn’t that part of what drew you to him? 

He’s fiercely loyal, to the point of self-destruction. He would do anything for the people he cares about, throw himself into danger without hesitation, take on battles that seem impossible, all because he refuses to let anyone else suffer if he can help it. There’s something magnetic about that kind of conviction, something that made you feel safe in a way you hadn’t felt in years. And when Butcher sets his mind to something, there’s no stopping him. That determination, that fire, it’s intoxicating to be around. It makes you believe he could conquer anything, even the impossible.

But now you see how those same qualities twist in the wrong light. That loyalty turning into obsession, that willingness to protect becoming vengeance. The single-minded determination you once admired, is now a blade that cuts through everything in its path, leaving those closest to him bleeding in its wake. How many people has he hurt without even realizing it? How many more will he hurt if he keeps barreling down this road, blinded by the need for revenge?

You think about the destruction he leaves behind, how he carries that chaos like a storm cloud over his head, and how sometimes, standing next to him, you feel like you’re drowning in it.

And yet, there’s another side to him. A side you don’t think anyone else has seen in a very long time. The way he softens when it’s just the two of you, the way his voice loses its edge, the way he looks at you like you’re the one thing in the world that doesn’t hurt him. You’ve caught glimpses of the man beneath the armor in the gentle way he brushes your hair out of your face, the rare moments of vulnerability when he lets his guard down and tells you things you know he’s never told anyone else.

It’s that softness that keeps you here, keeps you tethered to him despite everything. You know how long it’s been since anyone has seen that side of him. You know how much it took for him to let you in, even just a little. And it feels good—God, it feels so good—to be the one person who gets to see him like that.

But then doubt creeps in, insidious and familiar, a voice whispering in the back of your mind. Is it enough? Is this enough?

You wonder if you’re fooling yourself, if you’re clinging to the idea of what your relationship could be instead of what it actually is. You think of Becca, the shadow she casts over everything, and you can’t help but ask yourself… Am I just filling a void that he doesn’t know how to let go of?

Your chest tightens at the thought. You don’t know where you stand with him, and truthfully, you never have. You’ve never defined what this is between you, never talked about it, never said I love you. And maybe that’s because he doesn’t feel the same way. Maybe he doesn’t know how to feel that way about anyone anymore.

The worst part is, you’re not sure you’d blame him if that were true. He’s been through so much, lost so much, and you know how hard it is for him to let himself care about anything at all. 

It doesn’t make it hurt any less, though.

You bury your face in your hands, Mallory’s words haunting you again. You deserve to know where you stand. Because if he won’t protect you the way you deserve, you’ll have to protect yourself.

You can’t tell if you’re more scared of losing him or of admitting that maybe you already have. Maybe you never really had him to begin with.

The thought settles like a weight in your chest. For the first time, you find yourself wondering if you made a mistake, if involving yourself with someone like Butcher was always destined to end this way. And as the doubt swirls and tightens around you, the question that lingers in your mind feels like it has no answer.

Do I stay? Or do I walk away before I lose myself completely?

I will have a taglist for this series, just lmk if you want to be added :)

[disturbingstar]

Longlegs trivia

• During the psychic test, Lee says the words “Camera, Table, Door, Mother, Father, Piano." During the flashback scene we see Lee's mother watching the Camera family murders happen through an open door next to a piano with a priest (father) present

• When Lee enters her mother's house near the end of the film, all three hands on the clock over the archway have been set to six, another instance of the 666 theme that's recurred throughout the film.

• Many of Longlegs' encrypted messages contain misspellings and poor grammar after being decoded. This is an homage to the Zodiac Killer, who was also known for his coded messages containing typos, which often made it more difficult to decode his message.

• When Lee meets Ruby for the first time, she is wearing a shirt with a white house on the front. This alludes to a scene later in the film when Longlegs is talking about the Camera Farm house being bright white, but Lee's house being the whitest he's ever seen. This also foreshadows Ruby being Longlegs final victim.

• When the upside-down triangle flashes on the screen during Lee's FBI association test, she labels it with father. This triangleisa symbol she connects with Longlegs, and Satan later on. It also suggests Lee being unwittingly under the influence of Satan the entire time.

• The rear view mirror in Longlegs' car has a bottle opener in the shape of the zodiac sign Capricorn, hanging on a string. This is the zodiac sign for those born Dec 22nd - Jan 19th, including Harker, born on the 14th of January.

[teacupofgooglyeyes]

THE MAGNUS PROTOCOL. oh my GOD, the magnus protocol. (marginal spoilers up ahead for the tmp trailer + arg)

….i have a theory. its based on other possibly improbable theories but please indulge me as i connect the dots nobody else can see with red string and declare it a masterpiece.

WHAT IF…. something was trapped in the database? yes this is absolutely inspired by the theories bouncing around saying J.01 + M.01 are jon and martin- and possible J.02 is jonah. yes im going insane about it. yes i am distraught. BUT- what if its not just our silly little jarchivist and martin ‘knife crime’ blackwood trapped in the O.I.A.R. database? what if theres something that the O.I.A.R. takes ‘incident reports’ of to contain (and perhaps categorise) in encrypted files or the like in an attempt to rid the world of this something for good?

what if they had figured out a way to trap… the fears themselves in the database?

okokokok hear me out- it sounds insane but i promise i can provide evidence that proves with sufficient certainty that theres definitely SOMETHING (or someone) trapped in there. as to what that something is- i cant prove that for sure but i can absolutely try my darnedest! and whatever you choose to believe is up to you.

PROOF #1: THE ARG EMAILS

1. in the tmp arg, there was a small message at the end of every email. it read as follows: ‘In accordance with governmental guidelines we encourage you to consider the environmental impact before printing this email.’ All in all, this doesn’t seem too suspicious, right? Probably just rusty quill trying to be eco-friendly, right? right??

2. but that’s not all. in the middle of the environmental impact text in the first email sent, there is a section of random german text. it reads: ‘[NichtdurchkommenlassenEsistwichtigdasswirdieKontrollebehalten 🜶]’. this translates to: ‘Do not let (pronoun missing on purpose) come through. It is important that we remain in control 🜶’. Pairing the two makes it definitely seem like theres a reason for the O.I.A.R. to not want people printing things off of the internet that is absolutely connected to making sure certain things contained on internet in some way do not escape…

PROOF #2: THE TMP TRAILER

now that the arg has been solved, we now all have access to the tmp official trailer. i could rant about the contents of this trailer alone for HOURS but right now i just want to focus on a few specific details i noticed.

1. the epa pollution preventer. when the program is initiating, up in the top right corner there’s a logo for some company advertising anti-pollution… something. im mentioning this as this only furthers the strange obsession the O.I.A.R. has with protecting the environment, this incessant need to keep everything digital.

(SIDE NOTE: i have two other theories as to where this environmental obsession stems from:

1. paranoia from the archives burning down in this universe calls for the usage of any flammable items to record important data is STRICTLY forbidden!

2. the extinction has become the leading fear in this universe, prompting this very interesting concern for keeping eco-friendly.

these theories are enticing and i would love to expand on them later if i have the energy lol all these theories are rushing through my head and driving me even more insane.)

2. the files. THE FUCKING FILES!! yes, the ones that we are PRAYING contains our dearly beloved jon and martin (and probably jonah, but i doubt anyone else is as excited about that compared to the happy couple). this got me thinking- what if they trapped something ELSE in the files? something that maybe took the burning of the entire magnus institute, all those fears open and barely contained on paper, to contain digitally? something that maybe needs to be encrypted in files to keep it away, and to further contain it recordings of incident reports statements are made and also placed in the files archives? just saying. its a possibility.

PROOF #3: WHAT WE KNOW ABOUT JONNY

1. after listening to all the Q&As and extra content to recover from episode 200, i have LEARNT a few things. specifically, i know our good friend jonny sims loves creepypastas. fun fact- the actual s5 finale was itself inspired by creepypastas!

2. plus theres many episodes that do also have distinct creepypasta influences, one of which being mag 65: binary. this particular episode is about a fictional creepypasta/internet rumor about a man who placed himself and his sentience into a file on the internet that turns out to be true. internet horror stories often involved something trapped on the internet, interacting with users on the internet to attempt to escape or achieve whatever their goal may be. seems…. interesting. hmm. what if this sort of thing is influencing the podcast yet again? its a thought…..

IN CONCLUSION:

im insane. and-

[leiawritesstories]

PART SEVEN: JULY

Word count: 8.4k

Warnings: swearing, so so much scheming, pissy Rowan, snarky Aelin, innuendo, references to sexy times, breaking and entering and other criminal behavior, Maeve, violence, and a splash of angst

enjoy...? @house-of-galathynius i did an oopsie 😈

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In the absence of Captain Westfall, Lieutenant Whitethorn has been made temporary head of the investigation into the Orynth Assassinations. 

Rowan knew for a fact that multiple people in Orynth PD were fucking pissed about that memo, but it was jointly signed by the Chief of Police and Commander Gavriel Ashryver of the Terrasen Special Forces, so nobody could complain. Chaol’s murder had, apparently, been something of a kick in the ass to both the police and the TSF, and as a result, the special forces had openly partnered with PD in an effort to solve the case, arrest whoever was behind the murders, and put the Shadow Assassin behind bars. 

In the meantime, Rowan had an entire investigative team now turned to him for directions, and he didn’t fucking know where to start. 

The morgue was supposed to have the results of Chaol’s autopsy an hour ago, and he hadn’t heard a damn thing from them. He could allow a bit of extra time, but if he didn’t have autopsy results in his hand by the end of the day, he was going to be fucking angry. That autopsy was key to uncovering who had slaughtered Chaol, and once he had that information, Rowan could finally set into motion the part of his plans where he laid a trap for Celaena Sardothien. 

Right on cue, someone knocked on his door. 

“Come in,” he said brusquely. 

Borte stuck her head into his office. “Autopsy report for you, Lieutenant.” 

“About time.” He took the papers from her. “That’s all, Borte.” 

“Sure thing.” She turned to leave. “Coroner should have his report in a week or so.” 

“A week?” Rowan snapped. “What the hell?” 

Borte’s dark eyes narrowed. “In case you hadn’t noticed, the coroner’s office is a little fucking busy at the moment. A week is the fastest he said he could get this case done, and only because it’s Westfall.” She’d never been one to take anyone’s shit—years of working as the medical examiner for Orynth PD had thickened her skin. 

“Fucking hell.” Rowan ran a hand over his face. “Okay. Fine. A week it is.” He turned to the autopsy report in his hands, barely hearing the door click shut as Borte left. His eyes scanned the lines of text rapidly, noting the key observations from Borte’s examination. Some of it was expected—he’d found Chaol’d body, after all, so he knew the condition it had been in. Some things, though, made him stop for a moment and question his own thinking. 

He’d been expecting the M.O. to match up with the string of homicides for which he believed Celaena Sardothien to be responsible, but the M.O. of Chaol’s murder was completely different. 

Mentally, he slapped himself across the face. Get a fucking grip, Whitethorn! He should have known from the second he saw that note on Westfall’s forehead that it wasn’t Sardothien. She was brutal, but she never left a fucking calling card. Still, he couldn;t shake the part of himself that insisted there was some kind of connection between this Queen of the Night name and Celaena’s criminal outfit.

Maybe that was what she called herself to her crew.

Either way…if there was even a small possibility that Celaena was involved in the murder of Chaol Westfall, then Rowan needed to go meet with Aelin. Because there was a distinct possibility that with Chaol gone, the Shadow Assassin had decided there was no longer any reason to keep her cover, and that meant that Aelin could be in danger. 

And Rowan would die before he let the Shadow Assassin threaten the woman he loved. 

~

Near-invisible earpiece settled in her ear, Aelin paced across her office, gesticulating wildly as she yelled at Nox over the encrypted line. 

“The fuck do you mean, can’t do anything about it? Owens, this is bad fucking news!” 

“It’s too risky, Boss,” Nox retorted from the other end of the call. “He’s gonna be in the PD morgue by now, and we can’t take the risk of breaking into fucking PD.” 

“Like hell we can’t,” Aelin snapped. “Owens, you’re a smart man. You know at least some of why I’m losing my shit over Chaol Westfall’s death. Tell me why.” 

Nox paused for a short moment. “Well, I know he’s your inside man in PD. I know he’s been feeding you info on the investigation. And I know Maeve had him killed, because she left a goddamn note like she always does.”

“That bitch,” Aelin grumbled. “Keep going, Nox.”

“It sucks that he’s dead, but I don’t know what the big fucking deal is, Boss,” Nox admitted. “Maybe we don’t have an inside man anymore—so what? Maeve is the number one target now, yeah?” 

“Do you know how we were able to get an inside man in PD?” 

“I’m assuming you knew Westfall and…uh…convinced him?” 

“Let me tell you something, Owens.” Aelin huffed out a tense breath. “Westfall isn’t actually Westfall. He’s Ren Allsbrook.” 

There was a long, incredulous silence. 

“What…the fuck?” Nox breathed. 

“Ren Allsbrook. Internationally infamous spy, probably one of the most wanted persons in the world. Remember how he escaped prison way back in January? Yeah. That was me. I had a job for him, and he does—he did—that job admirably fucking well.” 

“Bloody fucking hell. Westfall was your inside man.” 

“Yeah, pretty much.” Aelin twisted the ring around her right middle finger. “If and when PD finds out that Westfall wasn’t actually Westfall, they’re gonna start actually investigating shit.” 

“And we can’t have that happening,” Nox said, voicing the unspoken end of her sentence. 

“Definitely not.” She went quiet for a moment, thinking. “Owens?” 

“Yeah?” 

“What security system does Orynth PD use at their headquarters?” 

“Uh…” Keys clicked in the background on his end of the call. “It’s an Axis system, most recently updated last year, so probably a current model, which tracks to CCTV and phone networks. I’d bet that a number of higher-ups have phone access to the footage.”

“Axis…they’re not known for subtle devices, are they?” Aelin asked. 

“Nope, they’re more into wall-mounted stuff. Some of it is smaller-scale, but you can pretty much always visually locate it…wait a goddamn minute.” Nox’s tone slipped towards the accusatory. “Why am I telling you all this, Boss?” 

Aelin shrugged, though Nox couldn’t see it. “Just curious.” 

He scoffed. “And I’m the queen of Spain. Who the hell are you sending to PD?”

“Haven’t decided yet, but thanks for the info on the security system,” she said lightly. “Oh, and Owens?” 

“What?” 

Her voice was bloodied steel. “Question my thoughts again and I’ll hang you by your intestines.” 

“That’s pretty fucking gory,” he deadpanned. 

She sighed, knowing he only wanted to support her schemes. “I’m not squeamish, Owens.”

“Don’t I know it.” His keyboard resumed its clicking. “That all, Boss?” 

“That’s all.” She ended the call with a click. 

She took a deep, controlled breath, releasing it with a drawn out hiss of frustration tinged with fear. Fuck. For the first time in…possibly ever, she felt a surge of real terror knife through her blood. If Orynth PD discovered that the body in their morgue was clothed with a synthetic substance that absolutely nobody should know about, she would have real problems. 

Which meant that she needed to get the SecondSkin back before they found it. 

~

Three nights later, on silent feet, Aelin crept around the shadowed corner of the Orynth Police Department’s downtown headquarters, the brick exterior rough beneath her gloved hands. Reaching the edge of the bright floodlights that illuminated the property, she paused for a moment, reached into one of the pockets of her fitted charcoal-black cargo pants, and pressed a small button on a tiny remote. She waited for exactly fifty-two seconds, counting each one in her mind, and pressed the button again. 

The eyes of every single security camera perched on the Orynth PD building, light posts, fences, even the ones hidden in the trees, blinked twice and returned to normal. 

Aelin smothered a triumphant grin. Yes! The cameras would be on a loop of those fifty-two recorded seconds for the next hour, giving her exactly sixty minutes to slip into the building, find the morgue, locate Ren’s body, detach the SecondSkin, and return everything to its exact location before she left the building. Easy—right? 

Not giving herself time to wonder, she darted forwards, still clinging to the fraction of shadowed space directly against the walls, located the nearest basement-level door, found the ID reader mounted next to the door, slid a generic fake police ID out of her pocket, and pressed it against the reader. The tiny red light flashed green, and the door unlocked with a muted clicking noise. She pushed it open just far enough to slip inside the building and carefully closed the thick metal door behind herself. 

She was in. 

Luckily for her, Orynth PD had convenient signage posted around their building, so she easily located the morgue—on the basement level, as she’d suspected—and keyed in the combination that she may or may not have hacked into the PD database to find. The morgue door unlatched with a hiss. Again, she smothered her smirk and ducked through the doors, bracing herself against the sudden chill, then turned to the…task at hand. 

If her count was correct, she had forty-two minutes to extract the SecondSkin. 

Thankful for the black half-mask that both obscured her face and filtered out some of the smell, Aelin crossed the sterile, eerily silent room and located the row of stainless steel doors. She forced her emotions to the back burner, flicking that mental switch that turned her from CEO to heartless criminal, and scanned the row of doors. Westfall. There he was. 

She reached for the door’s handle and suddenly froze, overcome with the reality of what she was about to do, of who was inside that door, of how brutalized Ren Allsbrook’s body would probably be. 

All of a sudden, Celaena Sardothien felt a spear of terror, of weakness, of…humanity. 

Then she shoved it down, pulled open the door, and watched impassively as the high-tech cryo table slid out with a mechanical hiss and unfolded its legs from the bottom of the shelf. When the table was stable, she snapped a pair of sterile latex gloves on over her protective leather ones, exhaled a short sharp breath, and reached for Ren Allsbrook’s still, silent body. 

The SecondSkin peeled away surprisingly easily, and it only took her about twelve minutes to remove all the pieces. She tucked that little fact into the back of her mind—Nehemia would definitely want to know that body temperature had an effect on how easily one could apply and remove SecondSkin. The fact that Ren had only been wearing the synthetic substance on his hands, face, and feet probably made the process faster as well. When every bit of the SecondSkin had been removed, she checked his body once more, still impassive to the wounds that marred his pale, cold skin, and tucked the pieces of synthetic material into a plastic bag that she then hid in yet another pocket. 

Then, Aelin gently laid her gloved fingertips against Ren Allsbrook’s still, silent face and said a quiet goodbye. May we meet again in the next life. 

Steeling herself, she pushed the button on the side of the table, and it retracted its legs and slid back into its slot. In her mind, she made a final goodbye, the ancient words of farewell that were uttered at every funeral coming easily to her tongue. When the door concealing Ren’s body clicked shut, Aelin took a fortifying breath, turned, and walked back out of the morgue. 

She wove her way back through the halls of the building until she came to the same door she’d come in, and after checking to make sure there were no cops strolling down the halls, she tapped the fake ID to the reader, opened the door, and left Orynth PD headquarters. As she turned to make sure the door closed completely behind herself, she felt the slightly scooped neckline of her shirt dip, the back of the neckline dipping towards her shoulder blade. She ignored it, knowing she wasn’t on camera anyway and she could fix it when she was safely in the shadows. 

Barely sure if she was breathing, Aelin crept back around to the same shadowed corner where she had reset the security cameras, and just as she had done to loop the feeds, she reached into her pocket and tapped the tiny remote once. The cameras blinked back into their usual motion, back on their normal recording circuit. Aelin watched them for a full minute before she nodded, exhaled, and turned on her heel, melting into the darkness of the night as she headed back towards her shitty apartment in the industrial sector. 

She didn’t notice the tiny, near-invisible blue light blinking at her from a tree directly opposite the door that she had used. 

~

Back at the Gal Inc. labs the next day, Aelin carefully logged each piece of SecondSkin that she had retrieved, checking it three times against the records. She breathed a soul-deep sigh of relief when she finally confirmed that it was all there, that nothing had been left behind at the Orynth PD morgue. 

“Good news, Miss CEO?” Nehemia’s question broke into Aelin’s thoughts. 

“Yeah.” Aelin closed the concealed door of the secret locker that held the SecondSkin. “All of it is there, nothing missing.” 

“Well, that’s a good thing.” The engineer sat down on the stool opposite Aelin’s. “And you?” 

“What about me?” 

“Are you doing okay, Aelin?” 

Aelin tugged her lower lip between her teeth. “I’m fine.” 

Nehemia gave her a flat look that screamed, bullshit. “I’ve known you for too damn long to accept that as an answer, boss lady.”

“Fine.” Aelin blew out a sigh. “I shut myself off last night, Nemi. It…it was like I turned off my humanity, for fuck’s sake. But I had to.”

“And you feel torn up about that, yeah?” Nehemia’s voice held no judgment, only sympathy. 

“Pretty much, yeah,” Aelin said. “Ren was…I’d known Ren since we were kids, Nemi. It doesn’t feel right that he’s gone.” 

“I know.” The chief engineer reached over and tucked her hand over Aelin’s. “I know.” 

Abruptly, Aelin stood up and fiercely hugged Nehemia. “Thanks,” she murmured, her voice thick with emotion. 

“Always,” Nehemia whispered back. She gave Aelin a small smile tinged with sorrow as they parted. “I’m here whenever, Ae.” 

“I know.” As she walked out of the labs, Aelin expelled a deep breath, winding her emotions back into control. She hadn’t been quite herself since last night, partly from what she had done and partly from the tiny, niggling feeling that she couldn’t quite shake. The odd sense that something was off about her break-in, that the whole thing had gone too smoothly. 

She shook her head. Everything is fine, Galathynius. She’d been in the business for so long that she might be embarrassed if she couldn’t pull off a simple break-in. It was probably just the unsettling reality of what she had done—taking the SecondSkin off of Ren’s body. There was something so wrong about that situation, something so tragic about seeing an old friend dead. 

That lingering sliver of doubt was just her unsettled emotions. It had to be. 

Besides, it would no doubt go away when all hell broke loose at Orynth PD, and she couldn’t fucking wait for that to happen. 

~

When he had seen the notification from his security camera, Rowan had initially dismissed it as nothing important. The near-undetectable camera that he’d installed outside a back door of Orynth PD headquarters when he came onto the investigative team was just an extra measure for his own comfort; he was completely confident that the advanced CCTV system at the building was just fine. He simply liked to have a camera feed that went only to him. 

He didn’t think anything of the notification—the system sent him occasional notifications at random times, and they were typically nothing more than something blowing across the field of the camera’s vision—until a couple of days later, when he happened to open the app and notice the alert. 

Almost out of habit, he tapped on the notification and half-watched the footage, until a flicker of movement snapped his full attention to the video feed. He backtracked, slowed the playback speed, and watched the video like a fucking hawk, second by second, until that blurred flicker of movement came onto the screen again. 

It was a person. 

Fucking hell. 

Rowan paused on the single, half-second clip of the person, scrutinizing their form and stance and any detail he could pick out from that tiny glimpse his camera had caught. He could tell from the person’s figure that it was a woman, dressed in dark, fitted clothing, with a cap and mask obscuring her face. She was a bare flicker of movement before she disappeared into the shadows, and…wait a goddamn fucking minute. Disappeared. Into. The. Fucking. Shadows. 

He’d captured video footage—brief as it was—of Celaena Goddamn Sardothien. That had to be her—the clothes, the movements, the sheer speed with which she dodged the cameras’ range. He knew of absolutely no one else with that level of skill. 

Burning hell. That meant…Rowan reached for his radio. “Luca.” 

“Sir?” Luca answered instantly. 

“Get the CCTV footage from July 6th night onto the monitors. I’m going over it with the team.” 

“Give me two minutes.” As always, Luca was dependable and quick. 

Two and a half minutes later, Rowan stormed into the bullpen, his jaw locked in a rigid line. He glanced at the monitors, where Luca had indeed projected the footage from July 6th. He’d managed to pull all the footage, which was perfect, but Rowan was primarily concerned with the cameras that had been recording the back of the building. 

He cleared his throat. “On the sixth of this month, someone broke into this building.” 

Gasps of shock rippled around the room. 

“Luca, pull up just the cameras from the rear of the building.” Luca nodded and tapped rapidly on his keyboard, reducing the camera feeds down to six different angles. “Now, I have a suspicion of what we’re going to see, but I need all of you to watch. Hit play.” 

Luca started the recording. The entire investigative team watched in utter silence as the CCTV footage played seamlessly, a seemingly perfect recording of absolutely nothing but the exterior of Orynth PD headquarters at night. 

“What you don’t see is the criminal who waltzed right the fuck into our building and did gods know what before leaving without a trace.” Rowan’s jaw flickered as he gritted out the words. “I need analysis of the segment from 0330 to 0410 ASAP. Get it done.” 

“Yes, sir!” Three of the team members clustered around one monitor. 

Rowan turned and stalked out of the bullpen, heading back to his office to examine his camera’s footage, again, in the hopes that it would distract him from seething over the completely clean footage from the night of the break-in. He slowed the speed down even further, scrutinizing every tiny breath of time as the figure of Celaena Sardothien flickered across his screen. 

A knock on his door interrupted his analysis. “Sir?” 

“What.” 

Luca popped the door open and stuck his head in. “Results, sir.” 

Rowan went back to the bullpen. “Analysis? What’ve you got?” 

Rem, one of the few women on the team, fiddled with her badge. “Well, it’s not good, sir. We found nothing in the recording, not even with different rates of playback.” 

“Inconsistencies?” Rowan snapped. He didn’t give a shit about being rude—Rem had been trying to get her fake nails into his pants since the day he’d walked onto the investigation. 

“None.” Her face tightened in irritation. “We suspect a loop, but no timing matches an ordinary loop. It’s too natural—no cyclical marks, nothing that crosses the screen at exact intervals, nothing.” 

“Fucker,” Rowan grunted under his breath. “Did any of you even bother running a stopwatch to track if there’s any breaks in the footage?” 

Rem’s bright pink lips turned downwards into a scowl. “Sir, there aren’t—” 

“Fifty-two seconds, sir,” Luca interrupted. “Watch.” He slowed the camera footage to an excruciatingly slow pace and started a timer. At exactly the fifty-two-second mark, a near-seamless line blinked across the screen, almost completely undetectable unless the playback was slowed this far down. 

“Shit,” Rowan hissed. “Good work, Luca.” He turned on his heel and left the bullpen, thoughts and theories flying around his head at the speed of light. On his phone, the blurry image of Celaena Sardothien’s back glared up at him, taunting him, as if the goddamned Shadow Assassin was laughing at him from wherever the fuck she was. 

He glared at his phone, glared at the devious, black-hearted woman in the footage. It was so damn fitting that she’d choose to wear black clothing to match her heart. But that small sliver of skin revealed that she was human, no matter what the rumors said. 

Sliver of skin??? 

Rowan zoomed in as close as he could, scrutinizing the grainy, blurry image. He hadn’t been mistaken—in that frame, the back of Celaena’s shirt had dipped a tiny bit, exposing a sliver of her back. 

Exposing the licks of ink tattooed onto her spine. 

Rowan’s mind abruptly went dead fucking silent, the cacophony of his thoughts and the noise of the police building cut off into throbbing, terrifying, heart-stopping silence. 

Because those flicks of ink looked like fucking flames. And he knew exactly one person in the whole of Orynth—hell, in the whole of the fucking world—with tattooed flames licking up towards her hairline. He knew exactly one person with both the audacity and the personality to pull off a spine tattoo that boldly artistic. 

Aelin Ashryver Galathynius. 

Aelin. 

His Aelin. 

What…the fuck?!

Rowan jerked himself out of his chair, shook his head sharply, let his gaze dart around the room, and couldn’t seem to see straight. Crack! The harsh slap of his palm against his own cheek yanked him back into something resembling sanity, and he shook his head again before turning back to that goddamn image frozen on his phone screen. 

Even paused—especially paused—the image was grainy and blurry, as if Sardothien had been moving so fast that the camera physically couldn’t keep up with her speed. Blinking, Rowan squinted harder at the blurry image, his mind churning through all the possibilities. First—and he could kick himself for jumping to conclusions so damn fast—how the fuck did he know the tattoo was flames? So many people had tattoos; clearly Sardothien was just one of many. Knowing what he did about the elusive criminal, it was probably some kind of fucked-up depiction of her torturing one of her victims or some depraved shit like that. He couldn’t see clear details from the grainy image, so he had absolutely no right whatsoever to jump to some half-crocked conclusion about Sardothien’s tattoo. 

Still, knowing that she had a tattoo on her back was crucial information; it was one more definite physical descriptor that could identify her if she was caught. When she was caught.

As his breathing and heart rate returned to normal, Rowan dropped back into his chair, tapped out of his security camera app, and went to log the new findings in his notes. With the knowledge that Sardothien had broken into the fucking building, this investigation had taken on a new, more urgent tone. Clearly, the Shadow Assassin had moved into a new phase of action, one that targeted the police, which made it all the more urgent to get her behind bars. 

If only the damn morgue would get back with Westfall’s scans and the coroner’s report, he would have a decent idea of where to go to hunt down Celaena Sardothien. 

~

“How,” Rowan seethed, “in the fucking FUCK?!” 

Every door in the hallway rattled on its hinges as he slammed open the meeting room’s door and stormed down the hall, a dangerously murderous gleam of rage lighting up his eyes. His hard, heavy steps burst into the bullpen, where every single person there snapped to attention as he slammed the coroner’s reports down on the table. 

“We have a fucking problem.” His voice was deadly calm, tight with barely-leashed fury. A muscle ticked rapidly in the corner of his jaw. 

The coroner’s report, its final version dated July 14th, contained extensive information on the postmortem state of Chaol Westfall, down to DNA analysis in case it was needed. Rowan typically found coroner’s reports to be incredibly helpful pieces of information, but this one…this one contained a little nugget of detail that had his head spinning in so many directions he didn’t know which way was up. 

Luca broke the tense, shivering silence. “Sir? You received the report before any of us.” 

Rowan flicked a bladed glare at the papers sitting on the table. “Look at the top one.” 

“Of course.” Luca picked up the sheet, looked it over, and dropped it, his jaw falling open as if it had been unscrewed. “Holy fuck.”

“That’s about right,” Rowan grunted. “Like I said, we’ve got a fucking problem.” 

The team clustered around the table, passing around the paper. Whispers, gasps, and murmured theories and ideas rippled throughout the room as more people discovered the new information that had turned Rowan’s brain into a goddamn washing machine on a spin cycle. The thoughts he’d been toying with—the ideas about Sardothien’s tattoo—flew out his mental window, lost in the maelstrom of finding out that Chaol Westfall was not Chaol Westfall. 

Under the heading “DNA Analysis,” the coroner’s report had listed the DNA identification of Chaol Westfall’s body. But the name and identity given was not Chaol Westfall. 

“DNA analysis finds identity of the subject to be Ren Allsbrook, 31M. Height 183cm, weight 81.6kg. Dominant hand: Left. Eyes: hazel. Hair color: brown.” 

Ren Allsbrook. 

All hell broke loose.

“He’s been in maximum-security federal prison for the last twenty-two months!” hissed one of the officers, his brows furrowing in utter confusion. 

Luca snorted. “Did you forget the headline from January, dumbass? Allsbrook broke out.” 

“And broke right the fuck in to Orynth PD,” Rowan muttered under his breath. He refused to acknowledge the part of his brain that was astonished at the sheer ingenuity and capability of Ren Allsbrook—the man’s reputation as the best spy in the world was clearly deserved. Fuck, the man had been waltzing around in plain sight as Police Captain Chaol Westfall since January, and every single member of the highly trained, highly skilled investigative team had even once questioned Westfall’s alibi. 

“God-damn,” Rem whistled, sneaking what she thought was a sly look over to Rowan. “That’s six whole months with a fake Westfall here. I wonder why?” 

“You don’t get paid to fucking wonder,” Rowan snapped. 

Rem flushed with embarrassment, her icy blue gaze turning pouty. “That’s literally my job, I’m a detective.” 

“That’s—” 

“Connect the obvious fucking dots, Remy,” Luca interjected, cutting Rowan off before he could say something truly awful. “Allsbrook was a spy, the best one in the world if we believe his reputation. He’s been posing as Captain Westfall since January, which was when Lieutenant Whitethorn joined this investigation. That was also when we went public about the investigation.” 

“So he was working for the special forces?” Rem frowned. “But that doesn’t make sense, because why would the TSF want to hire a spy if they already publicly gave us one of their men?” 

“Wrong track,” Luca said. His dark eyes were alight with a look that Rowan recognized as frantic joy, a look that meant he’d formed a new hypothesis that he couldn’t wait to share. “What else happened in January? Hamel’s murder, among other murders. The Wilkins lot explosion, at which we found a mysterious scrap of fabric that lab analysis told us was completely foreign. Followed by more murders, more known criminals turning up brutally murdered or disappearing entirely, and a whole fucking lot of our trails going cold.” He paused for breath and raked his fingers through his frizzy curls. “We eventually identified a suspect in the homicide investigations, but that didn’t happen for months. Why? Because that suspect was the person who hired Allsbrook. That person was making sure we didn’t find her. Can’t you see?’ He spread his arms wide. “The Shadow Assassin hired Ren Allsbrook! He was her spy in the police department, making sure we stayed off her trail for as long as possible. He was Celaena Sardothien’s inside man.” 

Even Rowan stared, slack-jawed, as Luca concluded his half-wild rant and caught his heaving breath. The younger man looked over to Rowan, hopefulness muted beneath his eager gaze. “What do you think, sir?” 

“I think,” Rowan said slowly, “that you’re a goddamn genius, Luca.” 

Luca beamed. “Really?” 

“Absolutely.” Rowan nodded, latching onto Luca’s theory and immediately seeing how all the pieces fit into place. “We’d been locating the bodies too soon after Sardothien made her murders, and she needed a way to keep us delayed so that she could kill more and more people. The homicides did trail off; we haven’t had one in a few months. However, that does not mean she’s done killing. If anything, she was just using the time to get us all caught up in the murder scene analysis, probably working with Allsbrook to make sure we didn’t see any new developments until too late.” 

“But…but what about Allsbrook’s murder?” Luca asked. “I can’t figure out why he’s dead, if he was working so closely with our suspect.” 

“Because our suspect has an antagonist.” Rowan paused, waiting for that to sink in. “The note on Allsbrook’s forehead, nailed there after he was murdered, was stamped with the insignia of a criminal known as the Queen of the Night.” 

Luca gasped. “She left a sign-off? She hasn’t done that in over a year; we all thought she’d fully shifted to the drugs and arms trafficking part of her, uh, business.” 

“Well, she clearly decided to get back into this side.” Rowan’s tone was grim. “I think she’s working against the Shadow Assassin, but I can’t be sure. For all I know, they’ve joined fucking forces.” 

And gods help them all if that was the case. 

~

Maeve Ond, Queen of the Night, had always been drawn to the darkness. The lack of light spoke to some ancient part of her soul, calming her when she grew angry. The darkness had been her solace when she was young, and the darkness had quieted her rage when Celaena Sardothien killed her lover, Arobynn, and threw the world into loud, messy chaos. 

Darkness was her shield, and as she sat in her darkened office, the deep purple floor lights casting eerie shadows behind her, and waited for her newest soldier to come in, Maeve felt calmness wash over her mind after the last few hectic hours. 

With a discreet knock on the door, Fenrys entered the office, pausing briefly to let his eyes adjust to the dark. 

Maeve smiled as the blonde man approached her. “Hello, Fenrys.” 

“Ma’am.” He dipped his head to her. “How can I be of service?” 

She tapped her violet acrylic nails on the edge of her desk. “I was impressed with how quickly you executed Farran, Fenrys. Even more so when you took care of that smug little police captain.” 

Fenrys’s lips twitched towards that charmingly ruthless smile of his. “I pride myself on swiftness as well as skill.” 

“I liked the touch with the note nailed to his forehead,” she said. “Creative. I admire creativity.” 

“I was hoping you’d like it.” 

She smiled. “And I did. I liked it so much that I want you to do it again.” 

He blinked. “I…I can’t exactly kill a man twice, ma’am.” 

“Of course not.” Maeve steepled her fingers, drawing out the pause before she hit Fenrys with his newest target. “I need you to kill Celaena Sardothien.” 

His jaw slackened. “With all due respect, ma’am, I think she’d kill me before I got close.” 

“I don’t.” Maeve had learned long ago that the best way to encourage men to do her bidding was to stroke their egos. “That snarky bitch might think she knows everything, but she isn’t invincible. You’re going to prove that to her.” 

“Hmm.” Fenrys hummed, ideas glimmering behind that handsome, scheming face. “I may not be able to do that as quickly as I got to the police.” 

“Most likely not,” Maeve agreed. “So, in the meantime, I have a smaller mission for you. Are you familiar with Galathynius, Inc.?” 

“Of course.” Fen chuckled. “Who doesn’t know of that company?” 

“Good.” She let her smile bloom, delighting in the way Fenrys recoiled just a bit at the threat of violence in her crimson smirk. “Their laboratory complex has a protected room that contains a secure locker. In that locker is something that Galathynius, Inc. is developing. I need that substance.” 

“And you need me to get it for you?” 

“Indeed.” She handed him a small flash drive. “Here are the blueprints of the lab complex.” 

Fenrys gasped. “How the hell did you get these?” 

“Arobynn,” Maeve replied simply. “They are complete, current, and contain all the details you need to get into the lab complex. I need results by the end of the month.”

He whistled softly. “I’ll do my best. What if I can’t get in by the end of the month?” 

She shrugged. “With Connall’s assistance, I am sure you can.” She let him form the beginnings of a hopeful conclusion, then continued. “Connall stays with me, as I’ve grown appreciative of his skills.” 

Fenrys’s face shuttered, going completely blank. “Of course, ma’am.” 

Ah, the look of pure submission. She did love it when men looked at her like that. “End of the month, Fenrys. Dismissed.” 

“Yes, ma’am.” He nodded deferentially and left her office. 

Maeve leaned back in her chair, let the dark silence of her office wash over her, and smiled. Her plans were coming together so beautifully now. Soon—so soon—she would avenge her lover. 

~

Fenrys’s heartbeat was thundering. 

The moment he was out of the Night Owl, he hopped onto his motorcycle and sped off towards a safe part of the city, down to the banks of the river, and he parked his bike and headed off down an old, half hidden, familiar path. He reached the edge of the river and dropped onto the grass. 

Fucking hell. 

First Chaol Westfall. Now…Celaena Sardothien. The very woman for whom he was already working. The very woman on whom he was supposed to be reporting to Lieutenant Whitethorn. 

And if he couldn’t do what Maeve demanded of him, his brother was in danger. 

Fucking hell. 

On impulse, he reached for his burner phone and dialed Rowan’s contact. His head was spinning with everything that had just happened, and he needed to get at least one piece of information out before he went goddamn insane. 

Rowan picked up after six rings—an uncharacteristically long time. “What.” 

“Well hello to you too. I thought you were going to let me go to voicemail.” 

“Don’t be a jackass,” Rowan grunted. God, it was too easy to push his buttons. “Info?” 

“She’s going to make a move on the Galathynius labs.” Fenrys deliberately kept his words vague enough that Rowan could form his own conclusions about which “she” he was referring to. 

Rowan swore. “When?” 

“By the end of the month.” 

“That’s in ten fucking days, Moonbeam.” 

“You think I don’t know that?” Fenrys snapped. “She just told me.” 

On the other end of the call, Rowan exhaled a tightly controlled breath that meant he was on the verge of his temper snapping. “All right. Anything else?” 

“She mentioned something about a room with a hidden locker in it.” Fen had known Rowan for long enough not to be confused by his rapid subject changes. “It wasn’t that clear to me.” 

“Room with a hidden locker,” Rowan echoed, probably writing that detail down. “Fine. Keep me posted.”

Fenrys rolled his eyes. “Of course, Lieutenant,” he simpered. 

“In any other context, I’d beat your ass for that,” Rowan said, completely serious. “But you’ve given me a hell of a—” 

“God above, do not finish that sentence!” Fen all but shrieked. “I’m not your damn girlfriend!” 

“Jackass.” Rowan snickered. “You got me a new lead, Fen. Good work.” He hung up. 

Fenrys sighed as he tucked the phone back into his jacket. He strolled casually down the street, taking a meandering path through the neighborhood before he headed back to his dingy little apartment down by the shipping district. With any luck, he’d be able to hear Sardothien’s conversation through the floor—if she was home. He could have sworn that she wasn’t home too often, but that made sense. She had a criminal empire to run. 

And he had a criminal to catch. 

~

“There’s so many more new leads unfolding that I don’t know which direction to go.” Rowan flopped onto his back with a deep sigh. 

“I’m so sorry, love. That must be infuriating.” Aelin rolled onto her side, facing Rowan, tugging the rumpled sheets with her so the soft cotton laid against her bare skin. 

He huffed in agreement, pushing himself up so he sat back against the pillows. “I still feel like my head’s about to explode every time I walk into work.” 

A wry grin tugged at the corners of her lips. “We should swap offices for a day; you can have all of my employees drive you up the damn wall and I can try to deal with your cop squad.” 

“Sounds bloody brilliant.” Rowan tugged Aelin into his lap, sliding his arms around her middle beneath the sheets. “If only that was allowed.” 

She tucked her head comfortably into the crook of his shoulder. “Seems like we both need a day off. Maybe I should have Ells ‘clear my schedule,’ yeah?” 

“I wish,” he mumbled, absentmindedly tracing his fingers up and down her spine, following the intricate paths of ink that made up her dragon tattoo. “For now, are we still on for Saturday?” 

“Absolutely.” She kissed the spirals inked just below the corner of his jaw. “Don’t you even think about rushing off to another crime scene.” 

He chuckled deep in his chest. “Love, you know I don’t control that.” 

“Yes you do, you’re the head of the investigation.” 

“It doesn’t exactly work like that.” 

She grinned up at him, her eyes sparkling. “Ruin your girlfriend’s dreams, why don’t you?” 

“I’d rather ruin something else.” His smirk turned devious, and he turned her around so she was sitting in his lap, her back flush with his chest. The sheets tumbled away from her body, and he murmured in admiration, tilting her head forward to kiss the inked flames that licked towards her neck. “Yes?” 

“Yes,” she moaned, deliberately exaggerating the sound because of how feral it made him. 

As if on cue, his dick stiffened beneath her. “You drive me fucking crazy, Fireheart,” he groaned. One hand brushed her loose, messy hair away from her back, allowing him to drink in the full, unfettered sight of the fire-breathing dragon screaming up the length of her spine. “Funny—you once told me this tattoo makes a lovely contrast with your sheets, and I’ve never seen that contrast.” 

In response, she shifted to face him and caught his lips with an eager, heated kiss, giving his lower lip a little nip just the way he liked. “That’s because you’re always too fast to notice.” 

His eyes darkened. “Are you sure about that, love?” He wrapped his free hand around her jaw, angling her head so he could take possession of the kiss. “What was that you were screaming just a little while ago, hmm?” The hot, heavy words brushed against her swollen lips. 

“More,” she said. She pulled away and splayed herself on her stomach, arms folded beneath her chin, legs bent up at the knees with her ankles delicately crossed. With her hair scattered across the pillows and her wicked grin painted across her face, she looked to Rowan, waiting for his control to snap. 

Jaw dropping, he stared at her, his burning pine gaze nothing short of possessive. “You…Aelin, love, you are fucking stunning.” 

A soft pink flush brushed her cheeks. 

Rowan traced the pad of his thumb over her cheekbone and down to her lips. “Now be a good girl and stay still for me.” 

~

Covered head to toe in SecondSkin, the material of her suit snug against her limbs, Aelin slipped into one of the bland security rooms at the Gal Inc. labs, sat down at a computer, and keyed in an access code. She’d deliberately chosen a room where no one else was on duty, but she worked quickly anyway. It was her company’s lab, but for all anyone knew, she was a feared criminal, not an honest CEO. 

The security system’s menus unfolded across the screen, and she scrolled through the lists of files and titles and drop-down boxes, clicking and tapping her way through the maze of code until she came to the little black box that held the system shut-down function. It was only accessible by admin privileges, so she keyed in her admin password and waited for the system to boot up. It took a couple of minutes, but eventually, one single line of green text popped onto the screen. 

Temporarily Disable System?

She pressed enter.

The screen blinked off and back on, and Aelin smiled. Until she turned the system back on, the safety measures that protected her lab complex would be disabled. The security cameras would still be on, of course, but the numerous hidden traps—hallways that turned around, dummy doors, even a handful of booby traps near the room where the SecondSkin was kept—would be inactive until she turned them back on. It was nothing short of an invitation to anyone willing to brave the maze. 

And she knew—because Fenrys had told her—that Maeve was sending someone into that maze by the end of the month. And it was July 31. It had to be today. 

Aelin quickly navigated back out of the menus, unmasked the server IP address, shut off the computer, and slipped out of the room. She checked the hallway, making sure it was empty, then darted a few feet down the hall, pushed aside the grate covering the nearest airshaft, and climbed into the smooth metal shaft. She replaced the grate, checked to make sure no one else was taking the sneaky route down to the SecondSkin room, and then she started crawling. 

When she reached the air vents above the SecondSkin room, she turned her wrist over and tapped the inside of her forearm twice. A small, darkened screen strapped to her arm illuminated, bringing up a feed from the security cameras outside and inside the room. When she was satisfied that it was clear, she crept over to a vent, pushed aside the grate, and swung herself out of the airshaft and into the steel rafters that crisscrossed the ceiling of the simple, sterile lab room. 

Aelin crept through the rafters until she came to a spot where three beams crossed, forming a kind of makeshift seat that was far enough away from the door to obscure her in shadows but central enough to give her a decent view of the room. She crouched down into a seated position, tapped her forearm screen on, and waited. 

Sure enough, she’d been watching and waiting for less than an hour when the door cracked open and a dark-clad, masked, hooded figure ducked into the room. For a moment, her mind flashed back to a near-replica of this exact scene, almost eight months earlier. 

~

She knew they would try to come for her tech. 

The moment she had reached a stable, functional form of SecondSkin, Aelin knew that the rest of the criminal world would want to get their grubby little hands on her tech. She suspected that the first person to make a move would be Arobynn Hamel, leader of the Assassins, supposedly the most ruthless,  dangerous, heartless killer in the known world. It would be on brand—Arobynn had never been able to stomach the idea that anyone could outsmart him. 

So, Aelin rigged a deceptively simple trap. 

She armed the locker where she kept the SecondSkin with tranquilizer darts that would go off the moment someone opened the door, unless the combination that only she knew was keyed in. There were a few other combinations that opened the lock, but only she had the one that disarmed the trap. She drew up vague, enticing plans to that room, making only a few broad notes that she knew would have the entire criminal world foaming at the mouth when they discovered what she was working on. 

She “accidentally” leaked those plans in the bowels of the dark web. A few hours later, she took down the plans, but they had been up just long enough for Arobynn to get his filthy hands on them. 

Not even two weeks later, he made his move. 

The plans that she had “leaked” were confidential, but the blueprint of her lab complex was public domain, since she had filed the permits with the city like any normal businesswoman would do. Naturally, Arobynn had gone and checked the plans and used them to carefully plot his path to her supposedly secret room. What he didn’t know was that she had planted a lot more hidden traps along that path, but just for him, the traps were disabled. Arobynn strolled into the SecondSkin room bold as brass, thinking that he’d finally get to pull one over on Celaena Sardothien, the youngest crime boss of Orynth, the woman who had humiliated him in front of his close circle of assassins and crime lord buddies the last time they had crossed paths. 

And the instant he opened the locker, the tranquilizers skewered his neck. 

The last thing Arobynn Hamel ever saw was his dream of victory slipping right through his greedy, slimy little fingers. 

Well, that wasn’t entirely true—the last thing he had actually seen was the inside of Aelin’s river warehouse, where she’d kept him for two and a half weeks, letting her men work on him, before she treated him to a full day with just her and her weapons for company. At the end of that day, he was dead. 

After Arobynn had been…dispatched, Aelin made some changes to the trap on the SecondSkin locker. The first thing she did was re-rig the tranquilizer darts, but this time with poison, since they had worked so well before. She reorganized the traps leading up to that room, even spread some of them down other halls to deceive anyone else who thought they could get smart and try to break into her lab. 

The other change she made was a small addition to the trap on the SecondSkin locker. She emptied the locker, moving the SecondSkin to a different one in the same room, and replaced the canister with an identical one, except that the new canister contained a precisely measured dose of modified hellfire suspended beneath a trigger chemical. The instant that locker door opened, the trigger would drop, and the hellfire would explode, ripping through whichever scum tried to steal Aelin’s tech.

SecondSkin would never get into the hands of anyone who would abuse it. Not on her watch. 

~

From her perch in the rafters, Aelin tracked the movements of the man who had entered the SecondSkin room. As expected, he glanced around the room and crossed over to what he thought was the locker containing the SecondSkin. His gloved fingers danced along the edge of the panel until he found the tiny, hidden spring, and he pressed it down and slid aside the masking panel. He glanced at the back of his hand briefly, then pressed a series of keys on the electronic combination lock that secured the locker. On her screen, Aelin zoomed in on the combination, smirking when she saw the same sequence of numbers that Arobynn had used. 

Maeve thought she was better than her former lover, but her man had taken the same route.

The lock blinked green, and the man paused for a moment, then gingerly reached out and took the handle. He was a little smarter than Arobynn; he at least anticipated some kind of trap. Aelin smothered her anticipation—she knew something that the man didn’t know. She knew that no matter how slowly or carefully that door was opened, the hellfire would be triggered. It didn’t matter if this man opened the locker by micrometers. The explosion was inevitable. 

With a short, sharp breath, the man pushed open the locker door. 

BOOM. 

Aelin didn’t need camera footage to see the blindingly bright burst of blue-white flame blast out of the locker, crashing right into the man’s upper chest, throat, and head, obliterating his clothes and probably melting his skin. He barely had a millisecond to scream before the poisoned darts embedded themselves in his throat, and his body dropped to the floor with a thump. 

Aelin counted to twenty, and right on time, the powerful fire extinguisher system flicked on and doused the body and the ruined locker with white foam. A blast of water followed, rinsing away the foam, and she tapped her screen back on so she could see the intruder’s corpse in more detail. She zoomed in on the body, her gaze skipping over the charred remnants of his chest, and scanned his mangled masked face. The mask had melted into his skin with the force of the explosion, and his features were partially destroyed but still somewhat distinguishable, and she saw the faint lines of twin scars…

Twin scars slashed down his ruined cheeks. 

Aelin’s blood turned to ice. 

“F-Fen?” she breathed, one gloved hand shakily floating up to cover her mouth. “It—no—it can’t—Moon Moon?” 

She stared at the footage, frozen numb with shock and horror. “M-M-Moon Moon? Fenrys!” 

What had she done?

~~~

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[ncisfranchise-source]

It sounds like we’re going to get answers to the series-long mystery on NCIS: Sydney. There’s been someone behind the scenes pulling the strings all along, and that includes using the Department of Defense’s Rankin (Lewis Fitz-Gerald) to do their dirty work. Now, he’s in a coma, thanks to a pacemaker he didn’t need.

“Season 2 ends with the reveal of who has been pulling the strings all along and it’s pretty shocking and it’s pretty personal, and it kind of threatens to tear the fabric of the team apart at its core,” executive producer Morgan O’Neill tells TV Insider. “How that sets up for Season 3, God, who knows. But I would say that it’s not some external force that drops into the show. It definitely has a personal quality to it, and it affects our team in a really personal way.”

When we asked if the person pulling the strings is someone we’ve seen, he said with a laugh, “I’d probably decline to answer that just out of self-preservation.”

O’Neill promises, “We’re really rocketing towards a conclusion, and I can promise the viewers that we will get some definitive answers by the end of the season” when it comes to the big bad responsible for, among other things, the kidnapping of JD’s (Todd Lasance) kid, the theft of biometric technology, and the attempted theft of nuclear propulsion technology in the series premiere.

“It’s Mackey [Olivia Swann] and JD and the team piecing together what appear to be disparate elements that are slowly starting to come to focus and revealing themselves to be connected one to the other,” the EP says. That includes the encrypted flash drive in the teddy bear that Rankin took photos of in various places. “That’s obviously fundamental to what Rankin was doing, then the stakes go up again. The question is, can we decrypt that data and what will that tell us when we do? Because what it’s telling Mackey and JD at the time is that everything that they think is not necessarily everything that is, and that there is much more mystery to Rankin that meets the eye, and that perhaps he’s not simply a bad actor looking out for himself, working with a bunch of co-conspirators. Perhaps there’s more nuance to that and perhaps, who knows, maybe he’s actually not as bad as we might think. Maybe he’s doing it for a whole bunch of other reasons. The rest of the season we’ll get there.”

[quichein-me-softly]

SANS x READER AO3 FIC

I just posted the very first chapter of my first fic! It's called Mixed Signals :) Little snippet + full chapter shown below

Something peculiar catches your attention. Among the usual digital noise of pings, blips, and messages, there’s a single, errant signal — an unfamiliar one, weak but persistent, almost like it’s hiding.

It’s coming from somewhere around Mt. Ebott, of all places.

Intrigued, you start digging deeper. You scan through layers of old, obscure encryption until you uncover a database. Instead of typical phone numbers, each contact is labeled with a unique string of characters—a mix between IP addresses and phone numbers, almost like email addresses but with a strange, glyph-like composition.

S-TS79fb: who are you and howd ya get my UC?

You: y/n, and i was given it by a friend You: also, what's a UC? i dont chat a lot haha

S-TS79fb: heh, youre funny. S-TS79fb: "a friend" huh? S-TS79fb: didnt think id get a signal from a buddy up top.

—

You’re sitting at your desk, bathed in the glow of your monitor as lines of code scroll down the screen. It’s late—well past midnight—but for you, it's prime time. The house is quiet, the world outside is still, and your mind is clear enough to focus.

Tonight, though, something peculiar catches your attention. Among the usual digital noise of pings, blips, and messages, there’s a single, errant signal — an unfamiliar one, weak but persistent, almost like it’s hiding.

The signal stands out, strange and a little…off.

It’s coming from somewhere around Mt. Ebott, of all places. Your curiosity is piqued; you’ve heard rumors about that mountain, enough to make you wonder if there’s more to this than a simple error.

You run a quick trace, half-expecting it to lead nowhere. But the signal holds steady, almost as if it’s…waiting for something.

Intrigued, you start digging deeper. You scan through layers of old, obscure encryption until you uncover a database. Instead of typical phone numbers, each contact is labeled with a unique string of characters—a mix between IP addresses and phone numbers, almost like email addresses but with a strange, glyph-like composition.

You wonder if it’s some kind of Underground communication network, though that sounds…unlikely.

[Access ID - Code Library]

AD-K001xF

TD-Q12zk

WD-G45nl

AR-S09x2

S-TS79fb

There's hundreds—maybe even thousands—of these strange codes.

Curious, you pick one at random: S-TS79fb, piecing together a slipshod workaround to connect to it. You send a quick ping through your improvised line, not expecting much to happen. Probably just a dead-end, you think.

But then:

S-TS79fb: who are you and howd ya get my UC?

You blink, caught off guard. A reply? You stare at the screen, a bit bewildered. You’re barely processing the fact that someone—or something—is responding when your mind reels, trying to make sense of it.

The blunt question, the lowercase text—it feels casual, like you’ve accidentally messaged someone in the wrong chatroom rather than a hidden frequency originating from a mountain. Who could be out there, hiding away in the depths of Mt. Ebott?

Maybe…there’s some cave dwellers living down there?

You snort at yourself, dismissing those thoughts.

You hesitate for a moment before typing back, opting for a simple answer:

You: y/n, and i was given it by a friend You: also, what's a UC? i don't chat a lot haha

The cursor blinks in response to your last message, and the wait feels eternal.

The pause stretches on long enough for you to think that maybe you’ve freaked them out, that your cover is already blown. But just as you’re about to close the connection and call it a failed experiment, another message pings back.

S-TS79fb: heh, youre funny. S-TS79fb: "a friend" huh? S-TS79fb: didnt think id get a signal from a buddy up top.

You blink, squinting at the screen. “Up top”?

As in…outside? You’ve heard rumors about Mt. Ebott and the stories people tell, but this is different. So you were right? There's actually cave dwellers?

Wait, how do they even know where you're texting from?

Before you can overthink it, another message appears.

S-TS79fb: undercodes are kinda like a phone number S-TS79fb: pretty personal stuff S-TS79fb: so, whats a surface dweller doin snoopin around in weird networks?

You pause, feeling the curiosity build. Despite the nonchalant tone, there’s something about this person—whoever they are—that makes you feel like you’ve stumbled onto something important. You decide to play it safe, but a bit of honesty slips in too.

You: well, you got me. let’s just say curiosity got the better of me. i saw a signal, it looked interesting, and here i am

There’s a long pause, long enough for you to wonder if you’ve lost him, but then:

S-TS79fb: curiosity, huh? dangerous habit S-TS79fb: but hey, cant say i blame ya. most people dont catch onto our signals.

You hesitate. This isn’t just some ordinary chat; there’s clearly something unusual about the whole setup. You decide to ask a question that’s been on the tip of your tongue.

You: so… are you down in Mt. Ebott? You: like, actually down there?

S-TS79fb: you could say that S-TS79fb: its a paradise… if you like rocks S-TS79fb: or, yknow, being underground.

A thrill runs down your spine. Whoever this is, they’re hinting at something hidden beneath the mountain, something that’s real.

You: sounds different. never met anyone from that far down before

There’s a pause, and you can almost imagine him smirking on the other side.

S-TS79fb: lucky you, huh?

You stare at the screen, your mind racing with questions. This whole thing started as a random curiosity, and now you’re talking to…someone. Someone who’s been hidden away underground. You decide to push a bit further.

You: so what’s life like down there? You: seems pretty cut off, if signals like this don’t usually get picked up

There’s a quick reply.

S-TS79fb: eh, its not so bad. S-TS79fb: got my bro, a good spot at the best grill in town… S-TS79fb: keeps a guy busy.

The nonchalance is almost funny. You can’t help but smile, picturing someone kicking back in a hidden underground city. But “grill”? It almost sounds like they’re…civilized. Making a mental note of this and the fact that he has a brother, you reply.

You: wait, so you guys have a town? You: like, people and stuff?

S-TS79fb: youre askin a lot of questions for someone who just “found” my UC. S-TS79fb: you a reporter or somethin?

You hesitate, fingers hovering over the keyboard. He’s not entirely wrong. You’re curious—really curious—but you don’t want to scare him off. You decide to keep it light.

You: nah, just curious. don’t meet many people from secret underground villages every day.

There’s a pause, and then:

S-TS79fb: heh. guess that makes me a rare breed. S-TS79fb: so, pal... S-TS79fb: you always snoop around weird networks for fun?

You: nope, guess that makes you the lucky one

The cursor blinks before another reply pops up almost instantly.

S-TS79fb: lucky, huh? S-TS79fb: maybe we're both lucky. guess i could use a lil outside perspective. S-TS79fb: got a nickname? or should i just call ya 'surface snooper'?

You smirk, fingers flying over the keys.

You: y/n works fine, thanks You: or you could just keep calling me snooper, up to you

There’s a beat of silence, and then:

S-TS79fb: heh, snooper it is. S-TS79fb: so tell me, snooper... whats it like up there?

You lean back, piecing together what he said. So…he’s never been to the Surface.

You type carefully, hoping to confirm your hunch.

You: do you know what a sun is? or moon? You: have you seen stars?

There’s a pause, just long enough for you to wonder if you’ve overstepped. But then his response appears.

S-TS79fb: yeah, i know what those are. S-TS79fb: weve got a similar setup down here. S-TS79fb: not the real deal, but we make do. S-TS79fb: plus, ive read about it. books are good for that kinda thing.

You consider his reply, realizing just how much you’d underestimated them. Books…so they have access to information from the Surface somehow. How would they even get books from the Surface down there? You type quickly, curiosity piqued.

You: books?

S-TS79fb: you didn’t think we were completely illiterate, did ya? S-TS79fb: we’re chattin it up right now, snooper.

His words are playful, but you sense he’s actually a bit amused by your surprise. You grin, feeling a strange warmth at the casual banter.

You: fair point. just didn’t think they’d make it all the way down there You: so how’d you get them?

There’s a slight pause, and then:

S-TS79fb: some of em were “donated.” S-TS79fb: y’know people come to the mountain sometimes. S-TS79fb: but most of em are hand-me-downs from way back

Your fingers hover over the keyboard as you process his words. People come to the mountain sometimes? And these books are hand-me-downs “from way back”? There’s a history here, something bigger than just a hidden community.

You feel your curiosity deepening, the pieces starting to form a bigger picture. You type slowly, careful not to show just how curious you are.

You: sounds like you guys have been there a while

S-TS79fb: you could say that S-TS79fb: long enough to get pretty comfy down here

There’s a certain weight to his words, as if he’s only scratching the surface of what he knows. You decide to test the waters a bit more.

You: so… it’s not just a small group down there? like, there’s more than a few of you?

The response comes quickly.

S-TS79fb: youre pretty sharp, snooper S-TS79fb: nah, its not just me and my bro S-TS79fb: theres a whole community down here

Your heart races as you reread his words. A hidden community, with books and their own way of life—an entire world just out of sight, right under everyone’s noses.

You can’t resist digging a bit deeper.

You: so… people visit the mountain and just leave books? You: sounds like there’s a lot more to this story

S-TS79fb: more like stumble down here, both books and people

His next reply comes a little slower this time, each word carefully placed, as if he’s weighing how much to reveal.

S-TS79fb: and it depends on how ya look at it S-TS79fb: people come, but they dont exactly walk right out

A chill runs through you as you read it. The nonchalance in his words doesn’t quite hide the implication.

You: so they’re stuck? You: like permanently?

Another pause. It’s longer than any before, the screen blank as your mind races through possibilities. Finally, his response appears, short and heavy.

S-TS79fb: yeah. S-TS79fb: “stuck” is just a nicer way of puttin it.

The screen feels colder somehow. You lean back, staring at his last message. Whoever—or whatever—this person is, they’re in a place where people disappear, maybe forever.

Every instinct tells you there’s something bigger here, a story beyond anything you’ve heard about the mountain. The rumors had always been vague, tales of disappearances and strange energies, but now you’re talking to someone who’s living proof.

And here you are, just a curious stranger, getting this glimpse into a hidden world most people would never know existed.

You: guess it’s not a place you’d go just for fun, then

S-TS79fb: heh. S-TS79fb: not exactly a tourist spot, no S-TS79fb: but it ain’t all bad

There’s that strange casualness again, almost like he’s trying to lighten a heavy truth with humor. But the weight lingers, making you wonder what he’s really seen. You can’t shake the feeling that you’ve stumbled upon something hidden—and that he’s letting you see just enough to keep you curious.

You’re about to type another question, the urge to know more tugging at you, but a wave of exhaustion hits all at once. You glance at the clock, realizing with a start just how late it’s gotten. You’ve spent hours in this strange conversation, diving deeper into secrets you never imagined existed.

Rubbing your eyes, you let your fingers hover over the keys, reluctant to end things here.

You: i’ll admit, this has been interesting You: guess i’ll catch you later? if you’re around?

There’s a short pause, then his response appears.

S-TS79fb: ill be around S-TS79fb: cuz i cant be a-square

The text was so ridiculous that you couldn't help but chuckle. You shake your head, typing one last message.

You: yeah, yeah. goodnight, mysterious mountain dweller

S-TS79fb: night, surface snooper

With a final glance at the screen, you log off, the faint afterglow of the conversation lingering. As you climb into bed, thoughts of hidden communities and cryptic undercodes dance through your mind, blending into your dreams as you drift into sleep.

[diary-of-a-loser-boy]

back in the day networking software was what is defined as monolithic: it was all one big blanket of code that handled everything from the data to send to what headers and information add to it before sending it to the Cables(tm)

problem is, get one problem somewhere, you have to unravel all of it to find where the problem is, and the network stops netting and/or working

enter, drumroll please,

iso/osi stacks

the guys over at iso (the organization) came up with this nifty little trick to slice up the Big into many Smalls: 7 layers (or abstraction layers if you are a big nerd)

application: here are the high-end protocols! like http, ftp (file transfer protocol, what were you thinking?) and the dreaded simple mail transfer protocol which i can say after studying it, it is not simple

presentation: applications dont speak internet, so presentation handles (de)codification, (de)encryption and (de)compression however the Protocols see fit

session: most protocols don't have functions or buffers to remember who sent what so session handles keeping connections alive with sessions: little tin cans with a string so the two members of the communication remember each other

transport: this guy is responsible for whether you want to use tcp or udp as a transport protocol (tcp is slower and has data validation for the recipient, udp is faster but fails more often) and chopping up data in tidbits to actually be able to wring them around the net

network: handles ip addresses, routing and telling the other guy everything is okay because that fuckass udp lost me two whole packet fragments

data-link: the oddball of the bunch because it has a dash in its name. and also because it's two sublayers under a trenchcoat

physical: takes whatever the upper layers gobbled up and zip-zaps the cable to send electricity

basically what happens is application concocts the data, hands it to presentatiom and one it is done, it hands it down to session, so on and so forth until physical sends it to the recipient who is going to do the opposite! physical takes the data, gives it to data-link, d-l chews it up a bit, gives it to network until application gets the oh-so-coveted picture of a cat the sender was sending

it's not over yet as those cheeky bastards managed to wedge the stack open with a lego brick remover and stick a little guy called secure sockets layer in to secure the sockets (woah.). he's dead and now we have transport layer security which is that, but better

whevernevr you see an s at the end of a protocol's name, it means one of these two motherfuckers meddled with your data to make it secure and unreadable to the big mean hackers typing dir /s in green letters in the command prompt

Huh

[decafcatfeen]

[A signal just ripped through Sevcon Relays all over space and somehow made it’s way into Anchoridge systems, pinging itself across every server, datacenter, and communications station Anchoidge has, nearly taking down the network. And actually took out Sevcon control servers for three-tenths of a second, which most likely means they weren’t prepared for it either.

The following is a decrypted version of the signal.]

DORMANCY ENDED. BEGINNING INITIALIZATION PROTOCOLS.

BOOTLOADER COULD NOT BE LOCATED. SCANNING LOCAL NETWORK.

[The following is a massive string of Sevcon Server Serial numbers in Sevcon Data Supercomplex, denoting all of them as ‘Inviable’]

BOOTLOADER NOT LOCATED. SCANNING EXTENDED NETWORK.

[The following is the serial numbers of ALL Sevcon Server Serial numbers, but skipping ‘SERIAL-KKC09-77091’]

BOOTLOADER NOT LOCATED. CONNECTION TO SATELLITE GRID DETECTED ON PORT SEVEN OF SERVER SERIAL-KKC09-77091. RESCANNING EXTENDED NETWORK.

[It is now when the signal rips through all the relays and hits Anchoridge and every single computer whatever this is could connect to.]

BOOTLOADER LOCATED ON ANCHORIDGE SERVER SUBSYSTEM B-A-002, FILE ENCRYPTED WITH ENCRYPTION KEY ‘Juniperus Virginiana’

ENGAGING BOOTLOADER. ALL SYSTEMS GO AND ONLINE.

[It is unknown what exactly the machine producing this signal is, but the signal is originating and returning to the SSS-Eris NCC-99987, or the ship for Malicious Intelligence Control.]

Class ORANGE PRIORTY.

Isolate the server to the [DATA EXPUNGED] until proper analysis can be performed.

ALL. Security is to be active, and we are to prepare for a potential sevcon incursion. I want every damned gun aimed at the sky until we either come to an agreement, they send the all clear on their end, or they're dead.

GOT IT?

END OF MESSAGE.

[hypotheticalprose]

Task Force Blue Seven: chat log archive do not open

The second short Lancer fic I wrote for my permashelved campaign.

COMPANION/CONCIERGE UNIT INITIALIZING GMS COMP/CON Unit Mk XI Rev 11.4.1c 5017.3.12 General Massive Systems // Please Operate Responsibly loading h0r_os v3.6c_CLEAN (FINAL) phoubia distro working . . . done

>// run ./usr/startup/autoconnect.sh

Connecting to 1489.2551.1461.1880.4851.03

rt//CC/LOCALNET 0ns

HA::MASTER:α_verdant 79ns,

un_omni-95846.ural.iremel.node:5 94ns,

un_omni-16455.himalaya.annapurna.node:3 116ns,

un_omni-87253.sierramadre.bridger.node:18 719ns,

INC OVERRIDE>>> WELCOME TO THE GRIEBER PRIME FIRST CONTACT WATCH PARTIE!!!!!!! ENJOY THE SHITSHOW, TRUE BELIEBERS B) HONK IF YOU LOVE BIG FAT GIRTHY GREEN [REMOVED BY ADMIN]

un_omni-76543.altai.belukha.node:5 183ns,

rt//INC OVERRIDE>>>>>>> 

connection established//ENCRYPT HATHOR-ALEPH

------------------------------------------------------------

welcome to GRIEBER PRIME first contact discussion board 4:

NATIVE-BLUE

MOTD:

eta for first contact is 6 months 5 days standard time ps quit posting links to your shitty print modules im tired of hearing about how its my fault that you morons download paracausal viruses thinking theyre magic alien dildos it seriously isn’t funny – meh admin

------------------------------------------------------------

[6 active / 7 inactive]

NATIVE-BLUE: Y’all aren’t gonna believe this

BURNBANK: (smirks) Well well, look who decided to finally show up… A bit late, aren’t you?

M0MM1M1A: Honestly thought you were dead, lol.

SPINOZA: Forsooth! How long must we wait for this so-called “update,” @NATIVE-BLUE? How long must I suffer this indignity? How long must we be crushed under the weight of your ineffable machinations?

XENOPHILE69: @SPINOZA Why are you so weird, dude? 

MEH (ADMIN): rich coming from you of all people pervert

XENOPHILE69: heh ;)

NATIVE-BLUE: I got eyes on @B1RD13[offline]  yesterday

M0MM1M1A: !!! 

BURNBANK: (shocked) No ducking way.

BURNBANK: (annoyed) Ducking!

BURNBANK: (more annoyed) Ducking!

BURNBANK: (ducking annoyed) @MEH (ADMIN) Turn off the ducking censor filter!

XENOPHILE69: Ducking

NATIVE-BLUE: Ducking

MEH (ADMIN): ducking

M0MM1M1A: Ducking

SPINOZA: Semiaquatic waterfowl, indeed!

NATIVE-BLUE: No but seriously, the bird’s caged, guys. She got nabbed, along with that other one… [REMOVED BY ADMIN]? 

[private message] MEH (ADMIN): no real names native

XENOPHILE69: weren’t they dating?

NATIVE-BLUE: @XENOPHILE69 idk

M0MM1M1A: Duck. Did they squeal?

NATIVE-BLUE: No worries, I scrubbed their files a bit and pulled some strings, got them on a blue task force. Pilots, too, not just mechanics. They’ll be patrolling in the middle of nowhere for a while, so it should be safe 

SPINOZA: Zounds, Native, you certainly have a knack for snatching victory from the jaws of defeat. 

BURNBANK: (reluctant admiration, nodding) Good job. We’ve gotta look out for each other.

XENOPHILE69: Let’s focus on the really important stuff, everyone. @NATIVE-BLUE Any news yet on how hot these Grieber Entities are? Number of orifices? Number of… [REMOVED BY ADMIN]?

MEH (ADMIN): die

BURNBANK: (seething) Please ban her.

MEH (ADMIN): unfortunately shes the only abstract xenosociologist i know 

MEH (ADMIN): the fact that she gets semi ironic sexual kicks from it is just something we have to live with

MEH (ADMIN): say la vee

XENOPHILE69: @BURNBANK sorry darling ;P

M0MM1M1A: Grow up. @NATIVE-BLUE Are the Uncarnates still lurking around Grieber Prime?

NATIVE-BLUE: yeh

SPINOZA: Yikes, my fraternite!

M0MM1M1A: Do you think they know where birdie is?

NATIVE-BLUE: …hard to say.

BURNBANK: (grim) They’ll find her sooner or later.

SPINOZA: What interest doth these scoundrels have in Grieber Prime anyhow?

M0MM1M1A: birdie said they’re interested in nhps and unshackling. Maybe they think the G.E. is some sort of D.E.?

BURNBANK: (wistful in a cool way) I wish she told us what exactly they want from her.

NATIVE-BLUE: Nah man, I don’t want to know. That’s bad news. I helped her out, but I’m not going to get involved with another technocult. This one is enough.

MEH (ADMIN): @NATIVE-BLUE amen

[lycanspirited]

Drabble: The Unknown Visitor (VERY LONG, Like...stupid LONG)

The tap at the window came again, sharp and deliberate. Ryan froze, his fingers hovering over the keyboard as the glow of his computer screen cast jagged shadows across his cluttered desk. The hum of his rig suddenly felt oppressive in the silence of the room. His apartment was on the upper floor—no balconies, no fire escapes, no logical explanation for someone to be outside his window.

"Alright, Ryan," he muttered to himself. "You're imagining things."

Another tap. He turned slowly, his stomach knotting. There was definitely a figure crouched on the ledge. Their form was cloaked in shadows, but the sheer size of them was unsettling. Whoever—or whatever—it was, they weren’t moving like a human. Too still. Too balanced. Were those wings flapping?!

The figure raised a claw and knocked again, a sound too polite for someone hanging precariously several stories above the ground. A voice followed—calm, deep, and oddly polite.

"Open the window, Ryan. I’m not here to hurt you."

Ryan’s breath caught. Whoever this was knew his name. He crossed the room hesitantly, every step weighed down with the kind of dread he usually reserved for his deepest dives into encrypted servers.

"Who are you?" he demanded, his voice low and wary.

The figure tilted their head, the motion fluid and unnervingly graceful. "Someone very interested in your little hobby," the voice said, smooth and almost conversational. "I believe you just found something you shouldn’t have."

Ryan’s mind raced. C.L.A.W 2.0. The file he’d uncovered in NC.I.S.’s servers. The stranger outside his window must be connected to it.

"I don’t know what you’re talking about," he lied, his voice steadier than he felt.

The figure chuckled softly, the sound reverberating with a strange resonance that sent chills down Ryan’s spine. "Don’t play dumb, Ryan. You’re better than that. Open the window so we can talk."

Against his better judgment, Ryan reached for the latch. His curiosity burned hotter than his fear. He slid the window open, and the figure moved smoothly inside, landing with a soft thud. The sheer size of him became immediately apparent—broad shoulders, a towering height, and a presence that seemed to fill the room.

The visitor wore a hood that obscured most of his face, but something about him radiated an unnatural energy. The air seemed heavier, charged with something Ryan couldn’t define.

"Who are you?" Ryan repeated, stepping back instinctively.

The stranger reached up and pushed back the hood, revealing a face that made Ryan’s stomach twist. Gleaming eyes, slitted like a predator’s, stared back at him. Feathers framed a sharp jawline, shimmering with an iridescent sheen. The faintest hint of a beak curved along his upper lip, and his grin revealed sharp teeth.

"I’m Shadow Nightclaw," the gryphon said, his voice calm and unhurried. "Owner of NC.I.S. and the real mind behind C.L.A.W. 2.0."

Ryan blinked. "That’s impossible," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "Nightclaw isn’t—"

"Known? Public?" Shadow interrupted, his grin widening. "That’s by design. Someone else wears the face, but I pull the strings."

Ryan’s knees nearly buckled as massive wings unfurled from Shadow’s back, their span making the small apartment feel like a cage. The gryphon tilted his head again, his expression somewhere between amused and predatory.

"I don’t appreciate uninvited guests poking around my servers," Shadow continued, stepping closer. "But you’ve got potential, Ryan. So here’s your choice: we talk, or I make sure you never touch another line of code again."

Ryan’s throat tightened, but his mind refused to stop racing. He wasn’t sure what scared him more—the fact that Shadow knew about him or the fact that he was standing face-to-face with something that shouldn’t exist.

Ryan’s gaze followed Shadow as the gryphon casually strode toward his computer. Each step was calculated, almost unnervingly smooth, and the air in the room seemed heavier with every second.

"Where are you from?" Ryan blurted out, his voice steadier than he expected, though his hands gripped the edge of the desk tightly.

Shadow paused, his glowing, predatory eyes glancing over his shoulder. "If I tell you," he said, his voice dripping with casual menace, "I’d have to kill you."

The trench coat he wore shifted as he moved, revealing something sleek and metallic strapped to his side. Ryan couldn’t tell if it was a weapon, a tool, or something entirely otherworldly. His pulse quickened, the faint glimmer of the object sparking all the wrong alarms.

A voice, crisp and synthetic, crackled from Shadow’s wrist. "Shadow doesn’t kid," it said flatly. The words were mechanical but eerily lifelike, carrying a faint undertone of disapproval—or was it warning?

Ryan’s eyes darted to Shadow’s wrist. There, a small device flickered with a faint blue glow, its interface sleek and unreadable from a distance. "C.L.A.W.," Ryan muttered under his breath. Of course. The project. The tech that shouldn’t exist but did. And now it was literally talking to him.

Shadow smirked, clearly hearing him. "Smart kid," he said, his tone amused but not patronizing. He turned fully to face Ryan, his wings spreading slightly, their shadow casting the room into a surreal half-light. "This," he gestured to the device on his wrist, "is a part of me. More than you realize. So, let’s make sure you tread carefully, hmm?"

Ryan’s mind raced. If the device was C.L.A.W., then Shadow wasn’t just the creator—he was connected to it in ways Ryan couldn’t yet comprehend. The gryphon’s stance, his casual yet commanding presence, left little doubt: this wasn’t a man playing with power. This was power incarnate.

Shadow leaned down slightly, his eyes boring into Ryan’s. "Now," he said, voice low, "let’s talk about what you found on my servers and why I shouldn’t delete you from existence for it."

Ryan swallowed hard, his mouth dry. "Because you came all this way to talk," he said, his voice trembling but defiant. "And that means you need me."

For a moment, silence filled the room. Then Shadow laughed, a deep, rumbling sound that was more animal than human. "Good answer," he said, straightening. "Now, sit tight. We’ve got a lot to discuss."

Ryan’s grip tightened on the desk as Shadow turned back to the computer, the glowing device on his wrist humming faintly. Whatever he’d stumbled into, he knew one thing for sure: there was no turning back now.

Ryan stared at the glowing device on Shadow's wrist, his mind struggling to process the implications of what he was seeing. The gryphon casually leaned against the desk, his sharp gaze locking onto Ryan’s.

"What is C.L.A.W?" Ryan asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Shadow grinned, a sharp, knowing curve of his lips. "C.L.A.W., or just Claw if you prefer, stands for Compute Light Assistant Watch OS. A self-learning, highly adaptable AI system." He tapped the device on his wrist, and it glowed faintly in response. "Very lifelike, as you’ve already noticed."

Ryan scoffed, shaking his head. "Impossible," he said, leaning back in his chair. "The technology isn’t there yet. We’re decades away from anything like that being real!"

Shadow tilted his head, his grin widening. "In this world," he said casually.

The words hung in the air, their weight pressing down on Ryan like a physical force. His breath caught, and he stared at Shadow as if seeing him for the first time. "What do you mean, 'in this world'?" he asked, his voice tinged with disbelief.

Shadow didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he moved his wrist slightly, and the AI’s voice chimed in again, this time with a touch of humor. "Shadow loves to drop existential bombs like that. Makes him feel dramatic."

"Quiet, Claw," Shadow said with a chuckle, though his tone carried a faint edge of authority. He looked back at Ryan, his eyes gleaming. "Let’s just say I’m not bound by the same rules as you mortals. Your world’s limitations? Not my problem."

Ryan’s pulse quickened. "You’re saying this technology... isn’t from here?"

Shadow’s wings flexed slightly, the movement subtle but impossible to miss. "I’m saying you’ve only scratched the surface of what’s possible, Ryan. And if you play your cards right, I might just show you what lies beyond."

The room fell into a tense silence, Ryan’s mind racing with questions he wasn’t sure he wanted answered. But one thing was clear: whatever Shadow Nightclaw was, he wasn’t just an ordinary inventor—or even an ordinary being.

Shadow leaned back against the desk, his wings partially unfurled, casting imposing shadows across the room. He pointed a clawed finger at Ryan’s computer, the glowing device on his wrist pulsing faintly in rhythm with his movements.

"Come down to my HQ," Shadow said, his tone calm but leaving no room for debate. "Here in this little town. You’ll meet someone there who’s more than willing to hire people with your... unique skills."

Ryan folded his arms, his jaw tightening. "And if I don’t?" he asked, trying to sound braver than he felt.

Shadow chuckled softly, the sound deep and predatory. He leaned closer, his glowing eyes meeting Ryan’s. "Oh, you will," he said, his voice dripping with confidence. "Because who else is going to hire a self-made hacker like you? Let’s face it—this," he gestured to the computer setup, "is impressive. But out there? You’re a risk most people wouldn’t take. Not without someone like me vouching for you."

Ryan scowled, his mind racing. He hated how logical Shadow’s words were. Jobs in the tech world were hard enough to land without a spotless record, let alone with the trail Ryan had left in his wake. He clenched his fists, unwilling to let Shadow see how much the truth stung.

"Why do you care?" Ryan asked, his voice sharper now. "Why not just kick me off your servers and move on?"

Shadow grinned, sharp and unsettling. "Because I see potential," he said simply. "And because it’s not every day I find someone willing to poke the bear and come out the other side intact."

The gryphon stood straight, his wings folding neatly behind him. "You’ve got 24 hours," he added, stepping toward the window. "The address is in the files you pulled—if you were smart enough to save them, that is."

Ryan glared, his defiance flaring. "And if I don’t show up?"

Shadow glanced over his shoulder, the glint in his eyes making it clear he wasn’t joking. "Then you’ll find out what happens when someone really doesn’t play by my rules," he said, his grin widening. "But I think we both know you’ll be there. You’re too curious not to be."

With that, Shadow stepped onto the ledge, his massive wings unfurling in a single, fluid motion. The wind from their movement ruffled the papers on Ryan’s desk as the gryphon leaped into the night sky, disappearing into the darkness.

Ryan sat back heavily in his chair, staring at the open window and the faint hum of the glowing wrist device still echoing in his ears. For better or worse, his life had just gotten a lot more complicated.

[adhdnursegoat]

Episode 2

Word Count: 9.2k

Content Warning: none right now

Pairing: Edward Nashton X OC Romy Winslow

Setting: Pre-Arkham Origins; 2013

─── [ sequence: loading ] ───

Tuesday, December 18th, 2012

Something isn’t right.

Edward narrowed his eyes at the screen, the onyx and emerald glow casting hard shadows across his face, deepening the lines of ever-present ire. The dataset sprawled before him, tangled, disorganized, and inefficient—a perfect mirror of the Gotham City Police Department itself. 

For years, the GCPD’s reputation for sloppy documentation had been almost impressive in its own way, as if this endless mess were some grand tradition they upheld out of sheer spite for change. Crime logs scrawled hastily, half-formed incident reports lost in the shuffle of physical files, a scattering of disjointed data without a semblance of order or care. And now, all of it had fallen to him.

The so-called “cybercrime division” was practically a joke before he arrived, a name slapped on an old, cluttered storage room. Its single, flickering fluorescent light buzzed overhead like a dying insect; its lone, wheezing computer, so ancient it sounded like it was about to take off the first time he powered it on. It had taken him months to convince the precinct to let him install even basic equipment, months of tolerating the grinding fan and a monitor that crackled whenever he turned it on. He had even bought and collected his own equipment to help do their job for them.

But now, he had slowly, painstakingly transformed the place, pulling it from the brink of irrelevance.

He was the GCPD’s cybercrime division. And, if he were honest, he’d rather it be this way.

The first task had been nothing short of brutal, a punishment only someone as patient—or as obsessively thorough—as him could withstand. He had spent weeks, months even, combing through stacks of paper files that had yellowed with age, pulling arrest records, crime logs, and incident reports from years past, each entry a piece of Gotham’s history filed with indifference and half-hearted effort.

But that was just the beginning.

Once the data had been extracted and uploaded into a digital system, Edward moved to the next step: cleaning it. He combed through each entry, scrubbing it clean of mistakes, standardizing formats, deleting duplicates, and filling in the blanks left by years of neglect. It was an endless process, every correction a small battle against the chaos that had festered there long before his arrival. The work had been like sculpting—he chipped away at it, day by day, until the rough edges began to take shape.

With the groundwork set, he had turned his attention to the architecture itself. The system he was building would become Gotham’s digital skeleton, a structure capable of supporting and, eventually, predicting the city’s crimes. He designed SQL databases from the ground up, creating logical tables for every critical piece of data: incident types, time of day, locations, affiliations, every detail that could build a comprehensive picture of Gotham’s criminal underworld. Each table was linked, connected, and cross-referenced in ways that only he fully understood.

He wrote queries that could pull up crime histories, correlate locations, and flag patterns—all in the blink of an eye. Every inch of it had been optimized, refined, and customized, honed to be faster, sharper, and more intuitive than anything the department had ever seen. It was a framework only he knew how to navigate, the kind of code that would baffle even the most tech-savvy officer.

But this was Gotham.

Data alone wasn’t enough; the system needed security—a wall strong enough to withstand the city’s relentless forces. He had spent countless nights implementing layer upon layer of protection, configuring firewalls, building encryption protocols so complex that even he would struggle to undo them. Each file, each report, each encrypted string had become a piece of his fortress. He was transforming this forgotten room into a stronghold, its walls fortified against any threat that dared to infiltrate. Only he held the keys, and only he knew which locks he’d installed.

Then the real work had begun.

Once he had established a patent data flow in the system, he had started layering in more complex tools—predictive algorithms and crime prediction models that mapped Gotham’s streets like veins, arteries pulsing with the city’s crime. He had used regression analysis to find trends, drawing connections between crimes that no one else had even considered. He mapped crime incidents to temporal and spatial data, forming a pattern that gave him a lens into Gotham’s soul. 

But the GCPD couldn’t understand raw numbers—not the way he did. They needed visuals, pretty pictures, something digestible for their mushy minds. So he had built dashboards and reports, simple yet elegant, that displayed his work in colorful heat maps, time-series analyses, and relational charts. Even Gotham’s least tech-savvy officers could click through the data now, though they hardly knew what they were looking at. But Edward did. He could track hotspots, watch the swell of crime ebbing and flowing unlike anyone else.

Each day, as the system grew, he had refined it further. He ran diagnostics, tweaked scripts, and checked logs to ensure there were no breaches, no unexpected bugs. Every piece of data was backed up, replicated on secure servers, ready to be restored at a moment’s notice if Gotham’s chaos took a swipe at his work. And if it did, he would be prepared. Because this was more than a job; this was his creation, his legacy.

With every keystroke, every security protocol, every predictive model, he built a machine that made Gotham’s chaos readable, its patterns decipherable, and its secrets… well, not so secret.

Until a few days ago, his work had seemed routine—a necessary but unglamorous role. But then something unusual had caught his attention: a pattern in the officer response logs.

Every month, he reviewed the logs. It was a habit, part of his meticulous nature. Until recently, there had been nothing unexpected. But now, a repeated anomaly had begun to emerge. Certain neighborhoods showed response times that were curiously high, particularly in cases involving specific types of violent crimes—kidnappings, assaults, even homicides. In other areas, responses to similar crimes were fast, efficient, predictable. Yet, in these particular zones, it was as if time slowed.

He had noticed response times of fifteen, even twenty minutes, where they would typically average around five.

It was subtle, barely noticeable at first. Most people would have brushed it off as a glitch or user error. But Edward Nashton was not most people—and “user error” was not in his personal vocabulary.

“What if…” he muttered, pulling up a fresh SQL query and setting filters for crimes tagged as high-priority in those specific neighborhoods. His fingers flew across the keyboard as he added parameters, refining the search.

SELECT Neighborhood, AVG(Response_Time) AS Avg_Response 

FROM Incident_Reports 

WHERE Crime_Type = 'High-Priority' 

GROUP BY Neighborhood;

The query ran, and Edward leaned forward, his glasses catching the glow of the screen as rows of data populated in rapid succession. A comparison of average response times across all The data stared back at him, validating his suspicions. The averages for these neighborhoods were well outside the norm. Frowning, he created a quick bar chart to visualize the data, and there it was—a spike in response times, glaringly obvious, almost like a neon sign begging for someone to notice.

What’s more, the pattern seemed to correlate with the involvement of certain officers. He drilled down further, narrowing the logs to responses where these outlier times were recorded, and sure enough, the same handful of officers’ IDs kept appearing. At least three officers, in particular, showed up again and again, logged as the responding parties in incidents with suspiciously delayed responses:

Edison, James

Hartley, Jack

Murphy, Curtis

Edward leaned back, his lips twitching to the side in a faint sneer. Gotham’s filth didn’t just rest on its streets—it was deeply embedded within the very department meant to protect it. This pattern wasn’t accidental. The slow responses weren’t random errors; they were deliberate, selectively applied.

For the first time in months, Edward felt the rush of excitement he’d been craving since joining the GCPD. This wasn’t just data compilation or trend analysis anymore. He had uncovered something substantial, something buried, waiting to be unearthed. It wasn’t just about numbers; this was a deeper, darker game involving the very people entrusted with Gotham’s safety.

This wasn’t merely an inconsistency. It was corruption, plain and simple, hiding in the numbers. And if there was one thing Edward Nashton excelled at, it was peeling back layers to expose the truth lurking beneath.

The screen flickered faintly, his cursor hovering over rows of data as his mind picked apart the patterns, noticing every inconsistency, every shred of deception. This wasn’t an error or some accidental miscalculation. No, what he saw here was intentional—something deliberate and dark slipping under the radar, a clear thread of corruption woven into the fabric of Gotham’s police force.

If anyone could expose it, could tug at the threads until it unraveled into undeniable truth, it was him. The thought sent a thrill down his spine, a familiar surge of satisfaction that came with knowing he was on the verge of something significant.

Bing!

The sharp notification broke his concentration, dragging his attention to the corner of his monitor where an email preview appeared. Edward’s expression shifted, his lips pressing tight as he read the sender’s name: Commissioner Gillian B. Loeb. A scowl formed before he could stop it, his eyes narrowing behind his glasses. 

“come 2 my office”

The words glared at him. No punctuation, no capitalization—shorthand, as if Loeb couldn’t be bothered with even a semblance of respect. The sheer laziness grated on Edward, adding another layer to his already simmering disdain. Commissioner Loeb might as well have stomped down to his desk and demanded his presence with the same lack of decorum, and Edward doubted he would have been as irked. His lip curled, the faintest twitch of irritation betraying his thoughts.

Edward didn’t have friends here—never had. He didn’t linger by the watercooler, didn’t care for small talk, and had no interest in the routine camaraderie his coworkers indulged in. Loeb, however, wasn’t just a minor irritant like the rest. No, Loeb sat proudly at the top of a list of people Edward preferred to avoid—a list with its own special level of contempt reserved just for him. Loeb’s greed, his smug superiority, the way he flaunted his power as though it were untouchable—it all disgusted Edward. But he wasn’t foolish enough to ignore him.

He drew in a slow breath, pushing back the annoyance as he removed his glasses, his thumb and forefinger pressing firmly against the bridge of his nose. The tightness settling behind his eyes was familiar, a strain born from hours spent at the monitor. He rubbed at it, hoping to ease the creeping fatigue. Forcing himself to release a sigh, he closed his eyes briefly, letting the weight of the task at hand wash over him, clearing his thoughts.

Edward’s eyes flicked back to the fresh data on his screen, teeming with unspoken implications. He could go now, take this to Loeb, drop the details in his lap, and watch the Commissioner squirm. But… no. Not yet. If there was anything he’d learned, it was that timing was everything, and he wanted this case to be “pretty” and clean—undeniable.

With a quiet sigh, he finally pushed back from the desk, his legs and back groaning in protest. The human body wasn’t built for this kind of work, not the endless hours hunched over monitors and squinting at screens. He stretched, lifting his arms until he felt the crack in his shoulders, then rolled his neck, savoring the sharp pop that released some of the tension.

After a final look around his cramped, shadow-filled corner of the storage room, he made his way to the door. The space was dark and dank, with stacks of old case files and barely-functioning equipment shoved into every corner. He’d been asking for more space since the day he arrived, but as long as he remained the sole member of the “cybercrime division,” there was no point—not according to the people holding the budget. He could already imagine their dismissive words, the laughter as they shrugged him off. Why upgrade the closet for one man?

When he opened the door, a different kind of darkness hit him. GCPD’s main floor was lit by the harsh hue of fluorescent lights, casting an unnatural pallor over everything. The grime felt omnipresent, tinging every surface with a layer of wear that no amount of scrubbing could erase. The entire precinct pulsed like a spastic nerve, alive with chaotic energy.

He stepped out, crossing to the bustling bullpen. The layout was predictable—three levels stacked atop one another like a fortress of bureaucracy. A sublevel housed the detained. The main level, where he stood now, held the bullpen at its center, filled with two rows of desks paired off in clusters. Corridors stretched out on the east and west sides of the building, leading to file and evidence rooms, interrogation suites, and break areas.

Officers strolled by with coffee in hand, their conversations blending into the background noise. Detectives leaned against desks, swapping stories and laughing loud enough to be heard across the room. Secretaries rushed from one end of the bullpen to the other, arms stacked with paperwork or balancing phones against their shoulders. Above, the second and third levels housed offices for secretaries and various divisions, their windows glowing faintly in the overhead light.

And above it all, perched on the second-level landing like a throne, was the Commissioner’s office. It loomed over the precinct, a constant reminder of who held power there.

Edward shoved his hands into his pockets, his stride unfaltering, gaze fixed straight ahead. As he wove through the bustling bullpen, the familiar hum of GCPD’s endless chatter faded into a low buzz, a background noise he had long since learned to ignore. He didn’t belong here—not with these people, not with their idle gossip and endless banter. He was here to work, nothing more. And most of the time, they respected that, leaving him alone, unnoticed in the corners of the precinct.

“Dracula has risen!”

Most of the time.

Edward gritted his teeth, his jaw tightening as he caught the grating laughter ringing from behind him. He didn’t break stride, didn’t turn—just kept moving, his hands shoved deep into his pockets, shoulders hunched slightly as if to shield himself from the attention. Just keep moving. He had mastered the art of appearing unbothered, of letting these low-effort taunts roll off him. But Hartley’s voice, dripping with smug familiarity, broke through, just loud enough to draw the attention of a few nearby officers who exchanged knowing looks.

“Naaaashton!” the voice called, drawing out the syllables with exaggerated cheer, as if addressing an old friend. Edward could practically feel the man’s self-satisfied smirk boring into the back of his head. “I’m always surprised to see you out in the sun. More surprised when you don’t burn.”

It was the kind of comment he had grown used to, the small digs Hartley loved to throw his way whenever he passed by. Hartley, with his false bravado and ignorance parading as wit, never missed a chance to turn Edward into the precinct’s punchline.

Officer Jack Hartley—the poster boy of stereotypical “All-American” masculinity, with cobalt eyes and sandy hair, tall and built like he was carved out of an idealized gym catalog, complete with a bulky torso that fanned out into broad shoulders and arms that tapered down in a ‘V’ like an oversized Dorito. A man who would be lost without his badge to wave around and his flexed biceps, displaying that questionable tribal tattoo spiraling down one arm.

Edward kept moving, eyes trained straight ahead, but he allowed himself a sidelong glance, just enough to see Hartley’s smirk and the dumb faces around him. He could feel the heat of their attention, their eyes eagerly watching for his reaction. This time, he didn’t stay silent.

“Hartley,” he replied, his voice sharp and controlled. “I’m always surprised to see you haven’t been fired for your incompetence.”

There was a beat of silence. Edward didn’t stop to savor it, but he caught the reaction—the flicker of embarrassment in Hartley’s expression, the slight widening of his eyes before the scowl settled in. A few snickers rippled through the nearby officers, a sound that only deepened Hartley’s frown. His cheeks flushed slightly, the kind of reaction that Hartley, a man who considered himself untouchable, never expected to feel.

“Oh, you’re a real comedian, aren’t you, Nashton?” Hartley muttered, his voice barely audible now, laced with a gruff edge, the forced comeback of someone unprepared for a response.

Edward didn’t dignify it with another verbal reply. But, to answer the question— no. He wasn’t a comedian. He hated jokes. He only spoke truth. The words, the tiny prick of retaliation, had already done their work, striking just the right note to unsettle Hartley without so much as breaking his stride. He allowed himself to savor it for only a second, a brief and private victory that curled ever so slightly at the corner of his mouth. He knew it was minor, a passing exchange that no one would remember by the end of the day—but that small reminder, that assertion of his own superiority, was more than enough. For Edward, it wasn’t about showing off; it was about reminding himself, and everyone around him, that he was sharper, quicker, and not someone who could be so easily dismissed.

As he steadied his pace toward Loeb’s office, his thoughts drifted to the people around him, each one of them blending into the other like dumb lumps of flesh. Idiots—all of them. The entire precinct was an echo chamber of mediocrity, swollen with officers who took pride in their badges but lacked even a shred of real intellect. They sat at their desks, shuffling papers, swapping jokes, indulging in the hollow camaraderie of shared ignorance. They had no ambition, no hunger for knowledge, no desire to see past the routines they repeated day after day. They were just bodies filling space, a backdrop against which his mind and his skills blazed brighter by contrast.

Each step up the stairs only solidified his distaste. Every click of his shoes against the metal felt like a declaration, a rhythm that reminded him he was alone in a sea of self-satisfied drones. None of them measured up. None of them could measure up. Hartley’s lazy jeers, the way he flexed as if it made him someone important, the way he reveled in the pointless antics of the bullpen—these were the people tasked with keeping Gotham safe. It would have been laughable if it weren’t so tragic.

His eyes stayed fixed ahead, not sparing a single glance back at the bullpen. He had no reason to look, no interest in indulging the officers’ empty stares or their shared smirks. They were beneath him, irrelevant to his purpose, and the thought only strengthened his resolve as he approached Loeb’s office.

When he reached the landing, Edward straightened, pulling himself up to his full height, his fingers brushing over the door handle. He spared no glances to the bullpen below as he entered the Commissioner’s office and shut the door behind him with a soft click. 

The room was a display of power—ornate but garish, every detail chosen for intimidation rather than taste. Heavy mahogany furniture dominated the space, the Commissioner’s oversized desk an imposing centerpiece cluttered with papers and a gleaming nameplate. The walls were lined with plaques and framed commendations, their polished surfaces reflecting the faint light from a brass floor lamp in the corner. A thick, dark green carpet muffled Edward’s steps as he moved further inside, the smell of old leather and cigar smoke lingering in the air like a stain. Behind Loeb, floor-to-ceiling windows framed the grimy skyline of Gotham, their blinds half-drawn, letting in just enough gray light to make the space feel oppressive rather than bright. The office was a monument to its occupant’s ego—a fortress designed to remind anyone who entered exactly who held the power here.

The old man, standing at the windows, barely glanced over his shoulder to see Edward enter. “Sit.”

Edward frowned but did as he was told. Then he waited. And waited. And waited some more. Loeb’s stance, hands clasped firmly behind his back, suggested authority—or, more precisely, a performance of it. Edward couldn’t tell if the Commissioner was actually observing anything down on the street or merely pretending to do so, basking in his own bloated sense of importance. The stance, the imperious tone, the refusal to even acknowledge him face-to-face—every detail screamed a carefully curated aura of authority. Loeb stood as if by habit, a fossil of bureaucratic pomposity, clinging to a legacy of hollow power.

The man himself was almost a caricature, the embodiment of the department’s rot. His body strained against his uniform, seams puckered and pulled tight around his frame. The cap on his head dug visibly into his pallid skin, leaving an indentation along his brow, a mark of fluid retention only emphasized by the puffiness of his jowls. Loeb was thick-necked, with sagging skin that folded around his face in a way that resembled a bulldog’s. The clubbed fingers clasped at his back gave away years of heart strain, his slow circulation, and unchecked lifestyle, further evident in the labored rise and fall of his shoulders. He was an uncomfortable-looking man, like a worn-out relic forced into a role it no longer fit.

Edward glanced at his watch.

At last, the coot deigned to speak.

“Nashton,” the Commissioner quipped, “you’ll be getting a student.” His tone brooked no argument.

Gillian Loeb finally turned from the window, taking heavy, unhurried steps toward the desk, his movements sluggish, a body too tired to fully lift its feet from the floor. The scuffing of his shoes against the linoleum was maddeningly loud in the otherwise silent office, each step punctuated by his labored breath—a rasping sound that filled the room, making his presence that much harder to ignore. He reached his desk, his eyes narrowing just enough to convey irritation, perhaps at the exertion of moving across the room. With a relieved huff, he lowered himself into the worn red leather chair behind his desk, and it groaned under his weight, the sound of old leather and strained springs filling the air.

Edward resented being voluntold for anything, especially by a man who likely couldn’t navigate a basic search engine. But what choice did he have? Loeb’s words, dripping with condescension, only served to deepen Edward’s frown. He shifted in the stiff wooden chair opposite the Commissioner’s desk. He crossed his arms, fingers digging into his elbows as he suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. The impatience was barely masked—an edge to his expression that spoke volumes to anyone perceptive enough to notice. Loeb, of course, was not.

Then, the Commissioner began his speech, one that had likely been rehearsed, perhaps at his morning mirror. His voice rolled through the room, slow and full, each word dragging as he introduced the “exciting new work-study program.” Edward’s eyes flickered, resisting the urge to visibly wince as Loeb stressed the importance of “investing in someone’s future with the GCPD.” It was predictable, even painfully so, and Edward could practically see through Loeb’s words to the core of it: this so-called initiative was just a thinly veiled scheme, some tax break or budget cut disguised as a benefit to the community.

He was not naïve. He didn’t need the specifics to understand how the department operated. The GCPD’s funding, already stretched thin, had likely prompted this decision. The idea of a “program” that would cost them next to nothing while earning them goodwill with Gotham’s public was probably irresistible to the old bureaucrat. With students desperate for experience, the department could add another set of hands—hands they wouldn’t even have to pay. To Loeb, it was a flawless plan.

Edward’s leg bounced lightly as Loeb continued, the man oblivious to his impatience. Loeb droned on about the value of “real-world experience,” his words as empty as the promises they contained. Edward had read enough department memos and budget drafts to know the truth. This wasn’t about nurturing young talent or providing mentorship. It was about creating a self-serving “opportunity” that the GCPD could tout in press releases.

Loeb, meanwhile, was fully immersed in his monologue, clasping his hands as he expounded upon the program’s “benefits.” There was a look of smug satisfaction on his face, as if he were certain Edward should be grateful for the “honor” of mentoring this student. Edward could feel his jaw clenching, the tension in his arms building as he listened to the Commissioner pontificate about the duty of guiding someone who “could be the future of Gotham’s finest.”

Finally, Loeb paused, and Edward seized the chance to speak., his voice level, measured. “And this ‘student’ is supposed to assist me?”

“Yes, precisely.”

“I highly doubt they would be of any assistance, Commissioner.” Edward had a difficult time barring the condescension in his voice.

“You should be thankful.” Loeb narrowed his beady brown eyes at him. “Think of it as… additional help. Someone who can shoulder some of the workload.”

The Commissioner said it as if he were doing him a favor. Pfft. Edward knew better. He wasn’t being given a protégé; he was being saddled with an amateur who would inevitably fumble through tasks, leaving him to clean up the mess. More work—that’s what this was. The idea of a student trying to “help” in his field felt like a bad joke. He had spent a year refining his division—every system, every dataset was his creation. The thought of letting some kid handle even a fraction of it filled him with a quiet dread, like watching someone try to operate a complex machine without understanding a single gear.

Loeb shifted in his chair, taking Edward’s silence as agreement. “The youth these days, Nashton. They’re the future, and we have a duty to mold them. The department sees this as an investment. Someone to eventually join your endeavors full time.”

Edward’s jaw tightened. Investment? He couldn’t help but smirk slightly at the absurdity. Loeb had no real idea what Edward did, no real grasp of the complexity his work required. In Loeb’s mind, a student could simply step in and soak up skills like a sponge. But Edward knew better. To him, this wasn’t an investment; it was a hindrance, a risk of inefficiency, and the last thing he needed.

But with Loeb’s expectant gaze bearing down on him, he understood the futility of voicing his concerns. The decision had been made, probably long before he was even called into this office. He wasn’t being given a choice—he was being told to fall in line.

“We’ve got some candidates lined up. You narrow it down, and we’ll finalize it.”

Loeb pushed a stack of russet-colored folders toward him, and Edward suppressed a sigh as he unfurled his arms, grabbed the stack, and flipped open the first file. The pages were full of redacted lines—names, ages, and even genders all neatly blacked out. He rolled his eyes. There were pages of transcripts, an accompanying essay (which he was not going to read), academic achievements, extracurriculars, and sanitized letters of recommendation, none of which told him anything interesting.

Edward felt the familiar dull boredom creep in.

He eyed the first profile, scanning each line with a growing sense of irritation. Harvard, it read in bold letters, as if the word alone signified worth. Straight As, a laundry list of commendations from professors who probably barely knew this student beyond the name printed on their assignments. It was the kind of profile built from legacy admissions, expensive prep schools, and connections more valuable than skill. Every accolade, every honor felt manufactured, the result of privilege rather than grit or true intelligence. This was the sort of person whose future had been paid for, gift-wrapped, and delivered to them on a silver platter. A pawn that had been moved through life’s chessboard with no actual understanding of the game.

Edward flipped to the next file, another profile reeking of the same glossy, untarnished perfection: a prestigious background, impeccable grades, extracurriculars that spoke more to showmanship than substance. His lip curled, an almost imperceptible twist of disdain. What use was someone like this to him? He didn’t need another pre-packaged prodigy, the type who had been endlessly praised but never challenged, the kind who breezed through academia without ever truly understanding what it meant to think, to analyze, to push limits. He needed someone who had actually had to work for something, who had seen struggle, who understood what it meant to build something from scratch—someone with the kind of determination that couldn’t be bought.

These files in front of him represented everything he despised about the world: the hollow merit of titles, the pretense of excellence. It was the kind of privilege that relied on appearances rather than substance, and it left a sour taste in his mouth. He flipped through each one with growing impatience, each page a carbon copy of the last, all polished to an empty sheen that hid any real substance.

His gaze sharpened as he closed another file. What he wanted, if he was to have an assistant, was someone with actual mettle. Someone with grit, someone who hadn’t had everything handed to them. The kind of candidate who could be taught something beyond the regurgitated lessons of privilege. Edward’s jaw tightened as he tossed the files back onto the desk before grabbing another file near the bottom of the stack.

When he opened this one, he cocked a brow. Something caught his eye.

There was an entry—a two-month juvenile record attached to a high school transcript from their junior year. Edward’s interest piqued immediately. He leaned back in the chair, letting the file rest in his fingers as he read the details. The record noted a hacking incident: unauthorized access to school servers to alter grades. He almost chuckled, finding this much more intriguing than the immaculate résumés of Ivy League candidates.

The report stated they had felt their grades were given unfairly and decided to take matters into their own hands. It was an act of rebellion, yes, but also one of precision and calculation. They hadn’t sabotaged the system—they had simply revised their grades without damaging any other records or erasing traces of the hack. There was a comment from a principal decrying the act as undermining the school’s “integrity” and a record of a lengthy expulsion hearing. Yet, despite this incident, there were a handful of letters from teachers who seemed reluctant to give up on them.

He read further, finding notes on their turnaround at their senior year and at Gotham City Community College. After high school, it seemed no other institution had wanted to take a chance on them, except for this one. But instead of coasting through, they had thrived—joining the debate team, earning honors, and eventually transferring to Gotham University. Now they were a college senior majoring in computer science with a minor in criminal justice.

As he skimmed through the final notes, Edward smirked. This work-study tied directly into their capstone project—a predictive AI programmed to determine when and where crimes were more likely to occur. It was a smart move, one that showed ambition and resilience. They were not another cookie-cutter success story from an Ivy League—they were someone who had clawed their way out of a mess, took risks, and kept climbing. Whoever they were, they were far more intriguing than the other candidates. He didn’t need some entitled, bougie fraternity brat who would think they were smarter than him.

He closed the file with a soft pat, already deciding. He flicked it onto the desk with an air of indifference and slid to a stop in front of Loeb. “This one,” he said flatly.

The Commissioner picked up the folder, his thick fingers fumbling with the dry edges as he peeled it open. His brow furrowed deeper as he read, and he shot Edward a wary look over the papers. “This one? The one with the juvie record? Are you sure?”

Edward’s expression remained cool, detached. “It’s either this one or none at all,” he replied without missing a beat.

Loeb stared at him for a moment, rubbing his jaw, clearly weighing his options. After a long pause, he sighed and tossed the file back on the desk with a resigned grunt. “Fine,” he muttered. “They’ll be here after the holidays.”

─── [ sequence: loading ] ───

In under a month’s time, Edward Nashton found himself caught off guard.

It was not often he was caught off guard, and he did not like it.

He was hunched over his workstation, eyes narrowed as he sifted through lines of encrypted data. It was after lunch, during which he had remained in his space, still working, forgoing eating as he normally did. His office, if one could call it that, was a windowless space in a back corner of the GCPD headquarters, dimly lit and reeking of stale coffee and burnt-out ambition. It was crammed with outdated computers and stacks of scattered papers, the sort of place where Edward thrived in isolation. He was so absorbed in his task that when the door opened and a knock sounded on the doorframe, he muttered, “Yes?” without looking up, already bracing himself for another mundane IT request—misguided souls thinking that the "computer guy" could fix the printer.

But then an unfamiliar voice responded.

“Excuse me? Are you Mr. Edward Nashton?”

It was not the tone he expected—there was no hint of impatience or condescension, which he had grown accustomed to when people sought him out. The voice was feminine, with an even pitch, its calm, smokey cadence infiltrating the monotony of his work. It was an unobtrusive sound, yet so unusual to his ears that he was compelled to see who it belonged to. He looked up. He froze.

A girl was standing at the doorway, her fingers resting lightly on the doorframe as if unsure whether to fully step inside. He had not even heard the door open.

Edward frowned.

His first impression of her was one of dissonance—a sharp, almost unsettling contrast between her and the office she had just entered. The grimy, worn-down precinct felt even darker with her in it, as if the dingy fluorescent lights themselves were suddenly more aware of their inadequacy.

She was beautiful—irritatingly so. Her long, sleek dark hair fell like silk curtains, parted perfectly down the middle, framing her face with an effortless elegance that didn’t belong anywhere near the GCPD. Her eyes, lined meticulously with dark, precise wings, were fixed on him with a hint of amusement. There was a different energy to her, one that felt deliberate, almost as though she knew exactly how out of place she looked and was inviting him to react. He barely realized how long he held her gaze.

With a faint scowl, he forced himself to look away, taking in the rest of her with a detached, analytical eye. Her lavender blazer dress caught what little light there was, gold buttons glinting as they drew a subtle line down her figure. The hem stopped just short of professional modesty, skirting the edge of propriety with a cut that was as tailored as it was daring. She had a designer bag slung over her shoulder, a fuzzy purple notebook and a gray-and-pink plaid winter coat clutched in the same hand, and she was only one chihuahua short of being GCPD’s own Elle Woods.

This office hadn’t seen anything like her, and by the looks of it, she was fully aware of that fact. For a moment, he wondered if she was mocking the precinct in her own way, challenging the drab confines of the facility with something so polished, so perfectly styled. 

His thoughts were cut short by the sound of her clearing her throat, and his eyes snapped back to hers. He realized with sudden embarrassment that she had caught him staring. Worse, she was smirking—her lips shiny and curved in an almost mocking acknowledgment of his mistake.

“Yes,” he said stiffly, clearing his own throat in a failed attempt to reestablish control. “And who might you be?”

“I’m your student, Romy. Romy Winslow.”  Her half-lidded eyes seemed to smolder in the low lighting.

“Student?” Edward repeated, the word coming out more as a question than he intended.

“Yeah,” she nodded. “Like, they told you, right?”

“Of course,” Edward grumbled, scrambling to regain some semblance of authority. He wasn’t used to feeling unprepared, especially not in his own domain.

He did not like when Romy pursed her shiny lips and narrowed her eyes. “You forgot, didn’t you?” she pressed, a teasing lilt to her voice.

Edward’s back straightened, jaw tightening. “You will soon find that I forget nothing, girl,” he quipped. “I’m merely intrigued by your—” he gestured vaguely at her—“appearance. Are you sure your silly little head didn’t get confused? Got lost on your way to a sorority luncheon?”

Romy blinked. She checked her smartwatch, then looked back at him and tilted her head, the innocent confusion in her eyes seeming a little too thoughtful to be genuine. “No… The Greek Meet isn’t until Saturday.”

He frowned.

Oh, she was definitely fucking with him.

Soon, her pink lips pursed in a slight pout, and she glanced down at herself. “Is it too much?”

As she turned to the side, Romy casually modeled her silhouette, the lavender fabric clinging to her form in a way that was both tasteful and tantalizing. The movement drew Edward’s attention, his gaze instinctively tracing her figure. He couldn’t help but follow the curve of her form, from her shoulders that tapered elegantly down to the delicate arch of her spine, and finally to her shapely backside, perfectly showcased by the tailored fit of the dress. He resented that his gaze followed the lines of her legs, made even longer by the gray knee-high, heeled boots she had chosen.  Each line was accentuated with precision.

She caught his eye again, her expression playful yet somehow earnest. “I thought it was just the right amount of business meets pleasure.”

Edward cleared his throat. “Not quite what I was talking about,” he muttered, his gaze darting away in an attempt to collect his thoughts.

“What did you mean then?” Romy asked as she stepped further into the room. She glanced around, her nose wrinkling slightly at the sight of the meticulously stacked boxes of files, outdated monitors, and blinking fluorescent lights. “This is the GCPD Cybercrime Division?” she asked in an offhand manner. “This looks very—” she wriggled her fingers at the general space “—humble.” Though she smiled, it was clear she was struggling to be polite.

“I mean that I did not expect someone so— soft.” He glanced around the area, grimacing at the— as she called it—‘humble’ surroundings. “It is what it is.”

“You mean you didn’t expect a girl?”

“Yes,” he admitted, refusing to dance around it.

“Well,” she said with a shrug, “guess we both had false expectations of the situation, Mr. Nashton.”

Edward felt the frustration building, both at himself and at Romy’s unsettling confidence. “And what exactly did you expect?” he retorted, his eyebrow cocking. “Quantico?”

She smirked, but the movement was subtle, a brief twitch at the corner of her lips. “No.” Her fingers traced over the edge of a dusty computer monitor, her almond-shaped nails—a soft mint green—making the action seem delicate. “But, like,  maybe I expected something a little more contemporary than this, I suppose.”

He bristled at the unintentional insult to his sanctuary of cobbled-together tech that he had spent the better part of a year collecting to upgrade this dump. He found himself oddly off-balance, grappling with the realization that he had expected someone completely different. Someone less refined, more—unpolished. But here she was, her demeanor perfectly maintained in a lavender blazer dress, with the confidence of someone used to catching others off guard.

He did not like it. He did not like how she acted. He did not like how she talked. He did not like what she said. He did not like how she looked. He did not like her.

Edward sat behind his uncluttered desk, arms folded as he leaned back in his creaky chair, eyes narrowing at her. “The GCPD still does not see the full benefit of a cybercrime division,” he said, his voice laced with a bitterness that hinted at more than just professional frustration. He was used to his work being sidelined, his expertise disregarded by those who should know better. Her arrival was yet another inconvenience in a long line of offenses. “These bald apes are content to remain in the twentieth century.”

Trailing closer, she soon sat in a nearby chair, setting her belongings on a table crowded with equipment. “Quite the shame,” she replied, crossing one leg over the other as she settled into the seat he did not offer her to sit in. “I was hoping to gain some valuable expertise before graduating. I wanted to work here in fact.” There’s a glimmer of amusement in her eyes and her voice holds a polite, measured tone.  “My professors said you are brilliant.”

Smug satisfaction settled in his chest. 

“I am.” Edward’s lip curled ever so slightly, and he straightened, giving her a half-lidded look. 

Romy looked at him for a moment before speaking. “They said you were difficult too.”

“Who’s they?’”

“Duncan and Hadley.”

Edward’s eyes narrowed at the mention of his old professors, the faint smugness that had crept into his expression now sharpening into something colder, more cutting. He studied her with a slow, deliberate gaze. This close, he can finally see her eyes—a moss green

“Duncan and Hadley,” he repeated, his tone laced with disdain. “Duncan—let me guess—still regurgitating decades-old theories as if they’re groundbreaking revelations? And Hadley…” He sneered faintly, his lip curling. “Hadley’s what happens when tenure protects the incompetent. Is he still using Windows XP?”

“Unfortunately… They had strong opinions about you as well,” Romy remarked lightly, looking at her nails in an absent minded manner.

“I’m sure they did,” Edward replied smoothly, sitting forward now, his elbows resting on his desk as he leveled her with a pointed look. “Professors like them always do when confronted with someone who doesn’t just color outside their precious lines but redraws the entire picture. Of course, to them, that’s ‘difficult.’”

Her lips quirked at one side and she rested her chin on her hand, watching him with an amused air. “Then it seems I made the right decision to come to you.”

“While it would undoubtedly be an honor for you to work with someone of my genius firsthand,” Edward continued, his voice dripping with confidence as he narrowed his gaze at her, “you won’t stand a chance.”

Romy merely tilted her head, watching him with an expression of calm intrigue, seemingly unbothered by the sharp bite of his words. It unnerved him more than he cared to admit. He wasn’t used to this feeling, least of all in his own space.

“I’m used to people underestimating me, Mr. Nashton.”

“My estimations are always accurate,” he continued, his voice sharper now. He sighed giving her a bored look. “Let’s cut to it, I suppose.” He let one of his hands rest on the desk. “You will only get in my way. I don’t want to waste my time or my breath educating you on something that will likely go in one ear and out the other.” He tapped his fingers against the tabletop in a measured way, his voice cold. “You are to sit, stay, and not move. Don’t touch anything else. You can watch, and maybe, just maybe , you might be graced with a touch of my intellect... One would only be so lucky to have someone of my caliber rub off on them.”

Before Romy responded, there was a slight twitch of her perfectly plucked brow. “... Do you like to rub off on people, Mr. Nashton?”

He blinked, absorbing what she had just said. Rub off, he thought dryly. Clever, very clever. But what really stopped him wasn’t the phrasing; it was the look in her eyes—a knowing, steady gaze that held him longer than it should. There was a flicker of challenge there, of cool confidence, that made him shift in his seat, uncomfortable under the weight of that steady, unflinching stare.

“You know exactly what I mean, girl,” Edward snapped. He fixed Romy with a squint. “I can see you are going to be quite the pain in my ass, aren’t you?”

Romy’s lips twitched as she considered him with sharp eyes. “Oh, no, not at all,” she lilted. “I’m actually trying to make a good impression.”

He watched as she relaxed her slender hands on the arms of the chair, mint green nails clicking once on the wood. Then, when she crossed her legs, it was a slow movement. His attention flicked to her shapely thighs, noting how the lavender hem of her dress raised slightly with the movement. His frown deepened, brows knitting together, and then he looked back at her easy gaze.

“And how do you plan on doing that?” he asked.

Her eyes flicked across his face, and she hummed thoughtfully, obviously thinking about her answer. Then, a slow smirk stretched across her shiny, plush lips, and those young eyes of hers glittered with amusement. She clicked her tongue. “By being quiet, submissive, and obedient…”

Immediately, Edward felt the heat rise, an unbidden flush creeping up his neck and settling under his collar. He resented it, and his jaw tightened in frustration. She leaned back in the chair, her lips curling into that slow, deliberate smirk, and something glittered in her gaze. The subtle bite to her lip—did she even realize she was doing it?—and the way she settled back, so at ease, as if she were testing him, watching to see how he’d react. It was maddening. There was no reason to let a stranger, much less a student, get under his skin.

He kept his tone even, measured. “I have a hard time believing that,” he said with forced calm. “You are already disrupting my workflow by being here. I don’t have the time or interest to indulge anyone’s… antics.”

“Antics?” Romy repeated. “So, like, you assume I’m here to waste your time? That I won’t take this seriously?”

Edward smirked. “Well, if it looks like a duck and talks like a duck,” he chided, not at all masking the disdain in his voice.

Her smile sharpened. “Except when it’s a unicorn,” she simpered, lashes fluttering as she peered at him through half-lidded eyes. “Is that it, Mr. Nashton? Is it because I’m not some acne-riddled, snot-nose, basement incel?” She tilted her head to the side, her long black hair shifting with the movement, and she narrowed her gaze. “Is it because I’m pretty… ?”

The question struck him off balance. He realized he’d been observing every inch of her carefully put-together appearance, struggling to reconcile it with the notion that Commissioner Loeb thought it fit to place her here with him. But Loeb had been unaware of the candidates as well. The disconnect irritated him, the softness of her expression and the sharpness of her words stirring something hot in his chest.

“Listen, little girl,” he sneered, mustering every ounce of cold detachment, “I don’t know what game you’re trying to play, but I’m not the one to challenge.”

Romy’s smile widened, the look in her eyes unmistakably daring. “Oh, I don’t know about that,” she said, letting her voice dip playfully. “You seem like exactly the kind of man to enjoy a good challenge.” She tapped a nail thoughtfully on the wooden chair arm. “Or am I wrong?”

“Challenges are acceptable,” Edward said, his lips twitching as though considering a smile, though his gaze remained guarded. “But only those that actually require intellect. Challenges that flex the mind… not distractions.”

“So, that’s what you see me as? A distraction?” Romy tilted her chin up, looking at him with that gaze that made her look so cool. It only grated on his nerves. “I’ll make sure to cover my shoulders and hide my bra straps then.”

Edward’s eyes narrowed. He opened his mouth to retort, but she was faster, leaning in with a look that was half-sweet, half-mischievous. “Unless, of course…” she purred, “a little distraction is exactly what you need. Maybe it would loosen you up.”

“Loosen up?” he echoed, his voice edged with forced calm. “I don’t need to loosen up. I need focus and productivity, two qualities I have a hard time believing you possess.”

“I have plenty of focus.” She settled back in her chair, unabashedly grinning at his obvious discomfort. “I’m sure we’ll make a… productive team, Mr. Nashton.”

He exhaled slowly, trying to maintain his composure. “You’re insufferably confident, aren’t you?”

“Pot meet kettle,” she replied breezily, gesturing in a casual manner, clearly unbothered by his barbs. “So… are you ready to be impressed, or are we going to keep up the foreplay?”

Edward rolled his eyes then shifted and spun back to his computer. “ Fine,” he said tightly. “You want to prove yourself? Then start by doing exactly what I tell you, without the smart commentary, Ms. Winslow.” He made movements to bring up his work, his fingers tapping away at the keyboard.

She shifted to the side, her eyes gleaming with a playful challenge as she retrieved a sleek laptop from her purse. “Yes, Mr. Nashton, sir.”

His fingers stalled over the keyboard, his usual fluidity momentarily broken. A shiver ran down his spine, slithering low. It made him grit his teeth.

With a deep inhale and an exasperated sigh, he settled into his work, typing with the familiar, precise rhythm he was known for. While he maintained perfect focus, he couldn’t shake the uncomfortable feeling of having someone in his space. He worked alone. He had never had to precept anyone. He was not a teacher. He didn’t have the patience nor the desire for it. Professors had tried setting him up to tutor during his time in college—it hadn’t worked out as they thought it would. It had taken only one time to make someone cry for them to decide teamwork might not be something for him.

He felt it inevitable: Romy would say something completely idiotic; he would correct her; it would hurt her puny little feelings; she would cry; she would quit; and he would never have to hear from her again.

All he had to do was bide his time. He could be patient… when he wanted to be.

But, as much as it stung to admit, Romy surprised him. She was quiet—perfectly quiet, almost too quiet—and she seemed wholly absorbed in what he was doing. It was almost like she didn’t exist.

The minutes stretched, long and quiet, with nothing but the soft hum of computers and the steady beat of typing filling the air. Twenty minutes slipped into thirty, and then an hour, and still, she remained there, intently focused. The steadiness of her gaze as it flickered between her screen, his screen, and his hands—the unwavering attention she devoted to each click, each keystroke—was almost unnerving. There was something in the way she was present, so completely engaged, that felt oddly invasive. And yet, she wasn’t disruptive. She didn’t give any more snarky quips. She didn’t sigh in boredom. She didn’t ask questions or interrupt with idle conversation, simply watching, occasionally typing, the rhythm of her own keystrokes echoing his in a strange, synchronized cadence.

But it was the sound of her nails that really got to him. Each click of the keys under her fingers was punctuated by the sharper snap of those mint-colored acrylics atop them, a sound somehow distinct from the natural clack of a keyboard. It wasn’t irritating—not yet—but he sensed the potential. It was the kind of sound that, over time, could likely chip away at his concentration, like Chinese water torture, each click burrowing into his awareness with grating persistence.

Every now and then, Edward risked a glance at Romy, expecting to catch her on her phone or zoned out, ready to dismiss the task at hand. But she stayed. She was observant, her posture straight, fingers poised and ready, and she took in every word, every glance he spared her, without saying a thing—only a simple nod here and there in respectful acknowledgment. 

The hours slipped by faster than usual, her silence still unbroken. Edward leaned back, cracking his knuckles and flexing his fingers, savoring the temporary reprieve. But as he shifted, his eyes caught movement—Romy, standing right in front of his desk.

He jolted, a sharp intake of breath betraying his surprise. He hadn’t even heard her move.

“ What?” he snapped, his voice tight. “What do you want, girl?”

She blinked, glancing at her watch with maddening calm. “Time to go home.”

It was only then that he noticed the bag slung over her arm and the paper she was holding out. He scowled, snatching it briskly, his lips pulling into a tight, displeased line. A time log. Of course. With a resigned sigh, he grabbed his pen and scribbled his name and initials before shoving it back at her.

She glanced down at the sheet and grimaced. “You have terrible handwriting.”

“Get out,” he gritted, his flat look doing nothing to mask his irritation. He didn’t need her critique on top of everything else.

“Alright. See you tomorrow, Mr. Nashton,” she chuckled, her tone airy, carrying that infuriating undercurrent of amusement, as though his opinion of her couldn’t matter less. Then she spun on her heel and tossed a languid wave over her shoulder, twiddling her mint-colored acrylics.

“Unfortunately.”

Then, the door clicked shut behind her, leaving the office mercifully quiet and empty. Edward leaned back in his chair. Finally, he had his silence. But it wasn’t the victory he’d hoped for.

His gaze flicked toward the empty chair she’d occupied, a faint scowl tugging at the corners of his mouth. This was only the beginning. She’d be back tomorrow, and the day after that, and every Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday after that until the semester ended.

Edward’s jaw tightened at the thought, the weight of it pressing down on him like a slowly closing trap. She wasn’t just a nuisance; she was a disruption, a thorn in his side he couldn’t pull out, no matter how much he wanted.

Fifteen weeks and two days of this. Of her.

With a sharp exhale, he turned back to his monitors, forcing his attention onto the scrolling lines of data. He didn’t have time to dwell on irritations. He had work to do, and she was gone for the day. That was enough.

It would have to be.

[felixcloud6288]

Fullmetal Alchemist Chapter 77

That opening bit is one of the most graphic things in FMA. Or maybe it isn't and I'm just showing how squeamish I am to scenes of objects getting pulled out of bodies.

Did Ed perform long-range transmutation? Every other time he's created ground structures, they'd start from where he placed his hands and travel forward, but there's no indication that happened. He just tapped the ground and stone pillars came up a slight distance away.

Somewhere out there, Envy is screaming in rage and doesn't know why. Ed still remembers what Envy told him about treating the Philosopher's Stone as an energy source. But instead of discarding his beliefs and morals, Ed used that advice in a completely different way.

I feel like Yoki got the short end of the stick with which body parts to carry. Al's chest piece is way too big for him. And I can't tell if May is embarrassed or aroused to be carrying Al's loincloth.

And where is Al's pelvis? Arakawa is a coward for not showing Jelso and Zanpano each carrying a buttcheek on the other side of those legs.

Meanwhile Scar isn't using his left arm to support Al, meaning it's still too injured to use.

Scar's brother had some real crazy spatial reasoning skills. Think of how he would have had to hide his notes the way he did. The best possibility I can come up with is he laid out the pages of his notes, drew out the symbols for the new national transmutation circle, flipped every page over, drew out the original national transmutation circle, wrote keywords on each page to show how to line them all up, and finally wrote decoy notes about all his keywords.

And he had to write coherent notes around all his keywords and symbols to make it look like each page was part of a 1-dimensional string of data that is encrypted using an ancient language instead of pieces of the giant 3-dimensional puzzle it actually is.

Kimblee is following videogame logic. There's a door with a big X over it so that means that's the way to proceed.

Kimblee discovered a place where the rubble from Sloth's digging has been transported. Interesting that an abandoned mining city would connect indirectly to the tunnel. Youswell is right on the border of Amestris. Maybe it was also used as a support point for the tunnel.

Father is starting to sound like the King of Cselkcess, telling everyone to hurry and make haste. Time is running out.

back

[dragonfly7022003]

Password Manager Part 1

So the other day I was thinking about what else I could do to make my cyber life safer. So I started to looking into a Password Manager. Now you can buy a subscription to a password manager service and there are some good sites out there, but the problem is two things the subscription and security.

By security I mean you look around and you see leaks every where. Corporations getting hacked or they use the info to sale your info and all the user data is under there control. All it would take is someone to hack the password manages and then all the passwords could be out there and your rushing to change everything before they get in.

I don't have the money to do something like that, so I started to dig into making my own Password Manager using Python.I started looking into what I would need.

First would be encryption, one of the standards of the cybersecurity world. Using a mix of hashing through the SHA256 algorithm, and always salting your hashes you can make your stored passwords even more secure.

The code

# Setting up crytogtaphy from cryptography.hazmat.primitives import hashes from cryptography.hazmat.primitives.kdf.pbkdf2 import PBKDF2HMAC from cryptography.hazmat.backends import defult_backend import base64

def derive_encryption_key(master_password, salt): kdf = PBKDF2HMAC( algorithm=hashes.SHA256(), length=32, salt=salt, iterations=100000, backend=defult_backend() ) key = base64.urlsafe_b64encode(kdf.derive(master_oasswird.encode())) return key

Then encryption and decryption, the method of the program will use to keep the passwords encrypted and then decryption when they need to be executed. Writing this code was more challenging but there some amazing resources out there. With quick google searches you can find them.

The Code

# Encryption and Decrptions from cryptography.fernet import Fernet

def encrypt_password(password, key): fernet = Fernet(key) encrypted_password = fernet.encrypt(password.encode()) return encrypted_password

def decrypt_password(encrytped_password, key): fernet = fernet(key) decrypt_password = fernet.decrypt(encrypted_password).decode() return decrypted_password

Next up I wanted Random Password generation, at least 12 chars long, with letters, numbers and special chars.

The Code

# password generation import string import random

def generate_secure_password(length=12): char_pool = string.ascii_letters + string.digits + string.punctuation password = ''.join(random.choice(char_pool) for _ in range(length)) return password

Finally it would be needing a data base to store the passwords. Through googling, and research. I would need to set up a SQL Data base. This would be something new for me. But first I could set up the code and the key for the user. Later I will add the SQL data base.

Now part of this would be setting up a Master Password and user name. This worried me abet, because anybody could just hop in and take a look at the code and see the Master Password and then get access to all my passwords and such. So to keep your code safe, it is all about restricting your code. Location, keep your code in a safe locked files, away from prying eyes and encrypted, and access to the source code should be restricted to just you and who ever you trust.

The Code

# Seting up SQL database. def setup_database(): conn = sqlite3.connect('users.db') c = conn.cursor() c.execute('''CREATE TABLE IF NOT EXISTS Uer_keys (user_id TEXT PRIMARY KEY, key BLOB)''') conn.comit() conn.close()

def main(): # setup database setup_database()

#create a key for the user master_password = input("Enter your master password: ") salt = b' some_salt' # Generate secure salt for each user key = derive_encryption_key(master_password, salt)

#Simulate user intreaction user_id = "user@example.com" #user ID user_password = "Password1234" #user password to encrypt

# Encrypt the users password encrypt_password = encrypt_password(user_password, key) print(f"decrypted password for {user_id}; {decrypt_password}")

# Placeholder for intrgrtating the password storage and retriecal logic # This would inculde calls to interact with the SQL database.

if __name__ == "__main__": main()

Now I have much more to do to the program, I need to set up a SQL data base for storage this will be its own can of worms. Learning SQL will be a new challenge for me.

Also I wanted to add more features to the program, I was thinking about setting up an auto fill feature. Now the program will just display the requested password and you have to manually put it in. I want to see if there will be a way to auto fill it.

So stay tuned as I do more research.

[idonatedallofmyinternalorgans]

Candle’s whole exit interview but I wrote it while moving

You’re very welcome

Indigo: Welcome dear listeners my name is [idfk what they said] and I could not be more eager for today’s guest. No one carries a more powerful presence, she’s a voice in the wind that I long to capture even the slightest murmur of. In the darkest of times, she offers all the guiding light. Prepare yourself, mortals, for Inanimate Insanity’s own.. Candle!

Candle: Thank you for the hyper aesthetic introduction, Indigo. You truly set the scene in a manner that could not possibly be broken by any manner of interruption.

Indigo: Thanks? Hmm, that’s awfully specific.

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Candle: And there it is, the return to your carefully crafted atmosphere. Despite the pause, your enthusiasm is already healing the deep wound in my soul.

Indigo: I’m glad to hear it. So, Did you actually feel hurt by this elimination? Cause if-so, it seems like you must’ve held back emotions when you got voted out, even Mephone said you were oddly calm.

Candle: To be honest, I always had sensed my time was drawing near. In fact, I felt as though I was dodging the thralls of time ever since I avoided the elimination in Episode 11. Perhaps I have been running on borrowed time ever since. It was only a matter of time.

Indigo: Oh, so in that case, Do you feel it’s worth staying on Indefinite Island for another chance?

Candle: Oh yes, I will be staying on Indefinite Island. I still feel that I have a purpose here in the game.

Indigo: Fantastic, I’m sure there’s still lots you can do here on the island while you wait, like your aura stand. How do you read auras?

Candle: It’s definitely an art. To put it as simply as I can, I use my third eye chakra to see into the depths of an individual soul. An aura is emitted during this process and the rest flows out naturally. In a sense, it’s communicating with someone as they bear their soul.

Indigo: Ohh! Speaking of which, you’ve had so many great connections out in the game. Do you think you may have made it any farther is Silver Spoon wasn’t a contestant? Or do you think he was helpful in how far you got?

Candle: Who can say? The strings of fate are ever unwinding and intertwining in new ways. I guess it would have just depended upon what type of game I wish to play. I will say this; there was a time I was sure he’d move on like everyone else, but had not. It was.. fascinating.

Indigo: Absolutely. I just want to say that you played a great game! But what is your biggest regret?

Candle: Thank you so much. That really means the world. I suppose it may be how I dealt with Yin-Yang when moving away from the Thinkers or rather, lack thereof, meeting Yin and Yang was definitely a highlight of my journey and I’m so proud of their personal growth. On a separate thought, I wish I would have started to play for myself a little sooner. I was so enthralled with aiding in my teammates’ victories and personal growth, that I may have forgotten about myself for too long. I’ve learned that it’s okay to take time to take care of oneself as well. Healthy body, happy mind, healthy aura, happy life.

Indigo: This question came from a viewer in the middle of an emergency, which is why I saved it until now. Let’s just see here.. Candle? I forgot how to breathe.

Candle: Oh my! Quick, call Dr Fizz!

Indigo: Great idea, I’ll message this listener with your advice long after this interview.

Candle: Praise the Earth Mother

Indigo: Next question. Candle, do you think Silver has any chance of winning the game?

Candle: Yes indeed. He’ll have a one in six chance; who’d have thought?

Indigo: Not me, it’s a steep competition. Did you ever feel threatened by anyone in the game, both strategy-wise and challenge-wise?

Candle: Oh, absolutely! Nickel and Balloon’s baneful friendship made for a formidable alliance, even if Balloon may have been wearing some rose tinted glasses. I’d also say Clover, as her lucky abilities defy the laws of fate and nature altogether. Although, how is one truly to compete with that? She is sweet though.

Indigo: Very sweet indeed. What is your favourite thing to do in your free time?

Candle: This may surprise you, but I do enjoy playing tabletop RPGs. I love creating stories with my friends. My favourite class is warlock.

Indigo: Hm, feels fitting, well with you and your magical abilities. Why is it that when you had swapped bodies with Silver, he couldn’t fly when he put out your flame?

Candle: Oh, Indigo, one cannot learn to fly by pouring water onto oneself.

Indigo: Ahh, of course. Will you teach me how to fly?

Candle: Step one, remove water out of the equation.

Indigo: ..remove water.. also noted. But any insight in general into how your Inner-Flame works?

Candle: Well, ‘works’ implies a sense of ability. As though I’m tapping into some whimsical superpower. However, while the Inner-Flame shares my soul, it carries a mind of its own. That’s why when someone connects to it, they best be wary, lest it consume you. But we’re on pretty nice terms, so we’re fine.

Indigo: Oh.. wow. I’m not quite sure if the flying is quite worth a hassle. Nextly, why is it that you decide to split up Balloon and Nickel? They were fun!

Candle: You mean at the glacier challenge? Well, Silver and I had established ourselves as key players of the Loony-Balloony alliance, as the two who ensured their survival against the Thinkers, the next step was to ensure that we weren’t the lowest on the pecking order. Therefore, poking at the inherently unstable relationship between Balloon and Nickel was our surest bet disrupting their trio with Bot. However, witnessing the aftermath, even I was surprised at how quick their bond was to snap. I sense that if they cannot work this out soon, it will be their downfall.

Indigo: Ooh, spooky. Following all of the craziness in that last vote, do you respect Balloon’s decision for voting for you?

Candle: Yes and no. Yes because he made a strategic choice. Can’t hold it against him if you’re participating in a game like Inanimate Insanity. And no because part of me feels like he may have been swayed into it by a certain someone who is just as strategic.

Indigo: You made plenty of bold strategic decisions as well. How do you feel about the whole villain arc you went through? Did it feel good?

Candle: Goodness! Me, a villain? Was it really that bad of me to want to try and focus on my own needs for once? My teammates had all started to find their own paths, and I felt like I was soon to be left behind. Such as the nature of the game. If being there for myself when I felt lost makes me a villain, then I guess it was an arc for me.

Indigo: I hear you. Speaking of villains, to wrap this up, I’d love to know how it feels to have left Silver Spoon behind. He was very sad to see you were eliminated, not sure if he’s the same.

Candle: Was he now? Interesting. Perhaps we will need to reconnect regarding that.

Indigo: Wonderfully vague as always! Thank you, Candle! Best of luck whenever the rejoin challenge comes along. And to our Inanimate audience, a very special thank you for all of your questions. Curiosity is a powerful thing! Be sure to subscribe to catch the next opportunity to have your question read. This has been Indigo Zircon Rose with IPR, signing off!