#Fort Moore

[courseyoulovemeyoudontknowme]

Scent of a Woman (1992, Martin Brest)

09/08/2024

[keystonewarrior]

Fort Moore. I did basic training there in 1989 when it was still named after a confederate bastard who killed Americans. Hooah.

[twstdry]

Emily - From First To Last 【SynthV Cover】

Short cover. Apps: Synthesizer V (Voicebank: Solaria) | Ableton Live

[nejackdaw]

Now That You've Lost Tomorrow (is yesterday still a friend?)

4.2k words of the Celann backstory in my head

Under the cut for length; not NSFW. Also leave my Jimminy Cricket ass alone, I was thinking about Disney narrators when I started this lmao. It wasn't supposed to be an actual piece send help

Ahem. (Tw animal death) (tw gore) [Minor edit made 8/28/24]

Born in the Northmoor of Breton High Rock, Celann aged to be a fine man. With a lively, happy home, he was a handsome, good natured jokester with a penchant for bringing smiles wherever he went. Be it through mischief at home, exaggerated peacocking (resulting in clumsy accidents) in front of his beloved fiancee, charitable work through the town, or the song on his lips, he was an easygoing presence that had endeared himself to the people around him. Life was good and grand: he had an easy, do nothing guard job in a happy little town to bring in coin, plans to settle down and start a family, and wanted for nothing between it all. But things started to change when his elder sister prepared to set off on her apprenticeship–dark winds blew in that he, and all of them, would never recover from.

It was an adjustment for everyone with Jehanne recently absent; she'd been gone only a week, but the absence of fabric scraps and 'come look at this for me's, the messily kept tomes and quills that dripped ink, the prospect of not hearing another "you're being ridiculous, it's been weeks! Come join us for dinner!" and her high pitched, victorious cackles as she raced away, knowing she'd magically cleared up everyone's schedules by asking–she'd only been gone a week, but it felt an awfully lot longer than that. Celann kept up with his guard work in her absence and Charlotte, ever interested in his sister's seamstress and design work, had taken up the hobby when she wasn't keeping the ledger at Garnier's, insisting someone had to be leaving fabric in a house somewhere in Jehanne's absence–to balance things out, obviously, as all good magic is supposed to be.

Time passed this way for another week or so as everyone tried to reassure themselves that everything was fine; it was a large change, but they'd known for months, and they'll settle into this new normal soon and everything would be fine. But suddenly news came whispering through the streets of strange shadows passing by windows at night, shadows with no one to cast them, and soon enough the guards were being asked to look out for missing pets, small cats and birds that must have gotten loose.

Small cats and birds that were found far from their homes and butchered, torn apart but not eaten.

An uneasiness settled over the town as more and more of the creatures turned up, and "killer" was on everyone's lips. After a few weeks of disappearances and gory resurfaces, they began tapering off until they stopped entirely. Like any predator: from small prey to large–the guards instructed woodsmen and hunters, trappers and fur traders to keep an eye out in the woods for anything that didn't look like an animal had gotten to it first. It took only two days after the order was given for a horrified hunter to return with news of a torn, gaunt elk carcass, black with rot around the edges of the worst wounds. Next it was a boar, then a doe–then nothing once again.

Celann was tasked with joining patrols, increased in the wake of the animal attacks until investigators, who so far had found no leads towards what everyone assumed to be a fledgling serial killer, could find some hint as to what had been happening. Everyone waited anxiously for the inevitable first victim.

It came only a month after the shadow appeared.

Following loud, panicked shouts, Celann stumbled into an alleyway to find something hardly recognizable as human. It was pale, even for a corpse, and gaunt like the beasts had been–ripped apart and stained black at the edges, wounds rotting prematurely. He covered his mouth and looked away as he desperately fought against the thick, burning bile at the back of his throat, side stepping into a puddle of dried blood to let a more senior guard pass by.

When everything had been documented, after the corpse had been covered and the area sealed off–more for the townspeople's sake than the scene's–and they were given permission to leave, Celann headed immediately to the blacksmith, grateful for the harsh, painful way the smell and smoke of the forge cleaned the blood and rot from his lungs. He left with three sturdy daggers, weapons he grimly pressed into his family's hands as he made them swear to carry it with them. The protests died on all their lips when they saw the fear in his eyes, each taking it with the same gravity Celann presented it with and solemnly promising they would.

After only three days, there was another disappearance; another corpse, butchered and rotting unnaturally. He'd never possessed the same gift for magic most of his people did, but Celann knew enough–knew to fear the third and what it would bring, because there was no way this terror was only a man and threes were either a blessing or a curse. In the end, it was both.

When he stumbled on the third victim, it hardly occured to him that the man had anything at all to do with the last horrifying, supernatural month. He wasn't torn open like everything before, the ground wasn't coated in blood and viscera. He looked almost like someone who'd been lucky and gone in his sleep somehow–but when Celann knelt down to check if he was alive, he startled to see familiar jewelry and recognized the gaunt corpse of the book seller from around the block. His wedding band sat at an angle around a finger too small for the old, tarnished metal, and when Celann reached for his wrist to get a better look he touched something slimy and cold.

He distantly registered someone from the patrol calling out his name as he stared down at the red on his fingers, a steadily growing urge filling him with every beat of his heart to smear it off on the rough stones beneath him until his own blood ran hot and quick and erased the feeling forever. He clenched his fist instead–looked over at the boots beside him and pretended he hadn't just terrified himself as a second guard knelt with him to inspect the body.

It was Simon who found the most important thing the body had to tell them; Celann was busy wiping the blood off on his trousers and trying to get his mind working right again. A frantic tap on his shoulder got his attention and he looked up into Simon's wide, terrified eyes before slowly turning his head to see what he'd found. The gloved hand gripping the corpse's jaw slowly retreated, shaking, and Celann looked down to see two frighteningly neat holes at the side of the neck.

They shared a long, quiet look before Celann reached out again for the merchant's hand, praying desperately he didn't dig his fingers into disgustingly smooth, exposed flesh again as he avoided gripping the wrist to turn it around. Torn and bloodied, but the black edges were smaller this time. Cleaner, neater, less noticable.

They raced away burdened with news of a vampire preying on the town, searching desperately for the commander and whatever investigators they could find.

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The city was placed under curfew immediately after the news arrived, and patrols were focused for the dark and evening hours. Everyone was required inside and with at least one companion; a vampire could easily overpower a pair, but the hope was that, with no lone targets, it would resent the effort it would take to target anyone else. Guards were similarly paired and ordered not to stray from one another–the only souls out in the night needed to be vigilant. Celann thought about the daggers he'd bought his family, thought about Charlotte taking Jehanne's room at home without him there in the night to share their bed. He wondered what good those knives would be, what good his sword would do him, if the beast got insistent.

Heavy tension hung over the town for weeks after the news arrived. Curtains were drawn and lights were left burning outside as people hoped the creature would pass them by. Every sound was investigated.

After a week, after two, after a month… there was nothing. No pets, no woodland beasts, no disappearances.

The dread started to lighten as time passed, and after four weeks of no new attacks, the townsfolk had, to a degree, returned to life as normal. They were still sure to make it home before night properly fell, still kept a light on, but as the days went by there seemed to be a collective feeling that it had all been a nightmare, some trick of Vaermina.

Celann noted three absences with every pass through the town.

Nightmares didn't claim lives, and he worried at how quickly everyone let themselves believe any danger had passed. The bookshop was closed for a week, what with the owner being dead; he and Lotte liked to buy each other occasional gifts from there, and the darkness in the windows–always warmly lit and welcoming before–never failed to stir a sense of dread in him.

But then a second month was passing without any sort of attack, patrols returned to normal, and even Celann let himself relax. With how often the beast had attacked before, there was no way it would sit and wait for months. The town had been on alert and anything it would have hunted locked inside, but even the forests nearby had been spared. It had surely moved on at this point to easier prey, or either fled in order to avoid detection, he reasoned.

That reasoning was why he accepted the promotion offered to him: an easy, quiet job out at the watchtower, not too far from town and coming with a pay increase; he'd be replacing someone who quit, understandably, in light of the vampire attacks while they had been happening. The new station was a bit of a trek from the gates, at the edge of the forest, but the road was usually quiet enough and the pay was enticing so he agreed. Fresh air, new faces–it sounded like a nice change of scenery, anyway.

It took a few mornings–early, dark, quiet–to adjust to all the rustling, and Perrette teased him for it, but they got on well and she explained their duties simply and easily. They arrive at midnight and they're relieved around breakfast, and spend their downtime chatting or pretending they weren't falling back asleep. Celann never bothered her when she did, and she returned the favor when he was half asleep, half awake, never quite able to properly sleep in the tower.

It was early, a week or so after he'd started, and he was tired; he'd been resting with his head pillowed on his arms at his desk, lost in that dark, semi conscious haze. There wasn't anyone out at this hour, with the moon still so high, and he paid no mind when he hadn't heard Perrette for what should have been a suspiciously long time. She was probably playing cards and he was just resting, after all, not falling asleep like his coworker did. If anything popped up they could handle it.

Just resting is why one eye opened blearily at a sound outside, a sound Celann had only half heard and had already forgotten by the time he was looking at candlelit paperwork. He kept it open a bit longer, listening for any other sounds, then let his eyes close again, shifting in his seat to get comfortable. Nothing, just the dark and the quiet–but as the seconds passed something settled heavy in his chest, had suspicion creeping into his head, and he sat up to look around.

Nothing. Just the dark and the quiet. He slowly stood from his chair and breathed deep, waking himself up as he glanced around the inside of the watchtower. Perrette wasn't at the window, there was no humming or the sound of cards, like he'd expected. The deck was, however, still out on the windowsill, game partially through, and when he moved closer he spotted a few that had blown outside. A familiar dread settled over him as he looked down at them, caught in flower stems and other growth that kept them from blowing farther away.

The moon was still high. Perrette was not here. She was not with the cards she carried in a little box as a gift from her lover, hand drawn with curling letters on the back. It was quiet. It was… unnaturally still, Celann realized. He stared out through the window at the road as his hand moved to the hilt of his sword. He listened. Something moved in the undergrowth behind the station and he quietly crept his way to the–open–back door.

A black hare greeted him at the threshold, a bloody, mangled carcass with its white ribs exposed to the moonlight. The smell of rot hit him and his face twisted; his sword scraped against the sheath as he drew it.

Vampire.

Celann didn't know where Perrette was, what had happened to her, but he doubted the beast would leave a display if it wasn't waiting. It hadn't left. He stared out into the woods and swallowed, listening and hearing nothing. Nothing. His heart beat a terrified rhythm behind his ribs as he stepped outside, stepping carefully over the carcass and into the night, heading hesitantly for the woodline.

He'd hardly stepped through, heel snapping dead leaves and trampling plants–sound, something BURSTING forward, a scream–

He managed to put an arm between them, elbow digging into their chest, pain, hot, claws and yellow eyes. His heel slid back in the dirt as the creature strained against him, screaming and snarling and gnashing bloody teeth inches from his face. The hot smell of blood and decay hit him in the face and suddenly there was a fist in his hair, pulling painfully and jerking his head to the side–it vanished as soon as it appeared and Celann watched the vampire stumble back, face twisted in betrayal.

His own twisted to mirror it as he stared at the disfigured visage of his sister.

Jehanne.

She was clutching one of her hands as if injured, and he noticed a small, circular brand pressed into the heel of her palm. The shape of his earring, a small piece of silver resting by his jaw.

Those two moments stretched into forever then minutes suddenly blurred–claws, pain, BEGGING, being thrown, his shoulders slamming into a tree.

Celann blinked blood from his eyes and raised himself onto a shaking arm, catching his breath as he reached for his sword. He noticed she'd torn through his sleeves; the cloth was dark and sticky with blood, and he could feel the edge of his mouth throbbing, the skin around his lips torn open with a nasty downward swing of her claws. Jehanne was pacing agitatedly, glaring down at him and spitting to herself as he pushed himself to sit in the undergrowth. His head was throbbing dizzyingly, shoulders on fire from the impact, and he could feel something hot and wet snaking its way through the short hairs at the back of his neck.

Celann staggered to his feet, leaning against the tree for support, and let out a shuddering breath as he held his sword in front of him. Trying to evaluate.

She wasn't uninjured herself, not that it did him any good; he'd mangled one of her wrists and she'd still thrown him like a doll. He'd cut and sliced and stabbed and she was standing all the same, and they shared a mutual look of despair. Some mix of emotions flashed across her face, faintly illuminated by what moonlight breached the canopy, bright eyes wide as her lips were parting and she was clawing at her face, fangs glistening, then– "But we're family!" she wailed

The world went quiet.

Realization hit him, then. Cold blood. The world became the woman in front of him. He couldn't let her leave. Horror. Couldn't let her live. Agony. She'd kill them all. Kill her first.

He wondered how many times his sister must have crept past their windows, how many nights she must have watched him from the forest. Family. She'd kill him if it meant turning him, kill them all if he couldn't stop her.

Jehanne took a step forward and spread her arms invitingly, one wrist hanging at a sickening angle. Another step when he didn't immediately move, a sweet smile on her face, then lunged–steel and blood and pain and screams. He couldn't hesitate, couldn't go easy anymore. Blood flew from his blade as he drove it into her heart–vampires need to be stabbed in the heart–once, twice, a third time. He staggered back and tensed, waiting for her to somehow still be moving, dizzy with blood loss and buzzing with adrenaline.

He distantly watched her head slump against the ground, face half pressed into the dirt; glowing yellow eyes went dim and returned to a familiar brown. He watched, paradoxically, as she regained some color, despite being dead. Dead. He looked at glassy eyes and felt far away. Trees and green growth and blood splatters came back into view, but it was someone else's view, someone else's eyes. They laughed, whoever it was, desperate and manic, and dropped his sword as he stared at his sister's corpse. Something was screaming about it, somewhere inside him, but it was far away and muffled, a mile away.

Celann stumbled on suddenly weak legs towards the nearest tree and let himself collapse to the ground against it, staring at her face until it blurred. Everything blended together, and all he knew was that he was cold. He distantly remembered he was bleeding, but the thought vanished almost instantly into the gentle fog that was clouding his mind. He shivered, he thinks, and then thinks nothing else as he sits on the forest floor beneath the moon for hours.

He doesn't register Perrette stumbling out of the watchtower, only partially realizing she was yelling at him at all, even as she knelt beside him. He came back to himself when someone was snapping incessantly in his face, when irritation managed to stir him into some faint awareness. Simon was kneeling in front of him, eyes wide with fear as he gestured at the people around him. They descended upon him, quiet and gentle as they hauled him to his feet, and as he was half dragged, half helped back to town, all Celann really noticed was that it was morning. The sky was a pale, misty yellow–sunrise. Morning. The night was over. The night was over but he would live with what happened in the dark forever.

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He had nightmares every time he managed to fall asleep, shepherded into the temple to be healed and watched over. Breathing was difficult and he assumed he was dying; he was only a little concerned at how okay with that he was. A stranger visited him on the third day after the Incident and the priestesses allowed her to feed him something from a vial, some liquid miracle that ended the worst of the night terrors and let him breathe easy.

There had been a newly made vampire den nearby, she explained when he woke again, and Jehanne had likely been taken the day she stepped out onto the road. Her voice was factual as she informed the temple they'd all been taken care of, but there was sympathy on her face as she looked down at the shadows under his half vacant eyes. She hunted vampires–and other deadra–she'd said as she left; there was something he didn't like in her tone, something knowing, as she closed the door behind her and told him she'd be staying in town for a month or two.

He was sent back home later that afternoon, back to he and Charlotte's house, but everything felt… strange. He felt like he was intruding on his own space, in his own house, in his own bed. Lotte was being patient, but the pain in her eyes when she looked at him sent a spike through his heart. Blood. Breaking bones. He supposed he deserved it after what he'd done, though even he could tell she very genuinely didn't think less of him for it. But she handled him gently and he missed her smiles, missed making her laugh. That solemn look didn't belong in her eyes.

His parents visited twice, to make sure he was healing alright, but there was a distance between them that had never been there. They'd raised Jehanne for 26 years, their daughter, you killed our daughter, what kind of man kills his own sister? It was never said, of course, but he could see it in the tension on their faces and the stiff way they held themselves near him.

They declined both times to stay for dinner.

Celann couldn't move on. His family thought he was a murderer, his fiancee was no longer living with the man she'd gotten engaged to. Something in bim broke when he thought about it, that they were supposed to be married in a few months. He'd been over the moon about it, wouldn't stop talking about it to anyone who listened, even if they weren't really, but the hush that had fallen over the house as Charlotte gave him the space he'd started needing felt like an ill omen.

Two months passed of feeling like an outsider in his own life and he was saying goodbye to her. She refused to break off their engagement, said he felt guilty and was being stupid, and as he tried to promise not to darken her door again she told him for better or for worse came before the wedding vows and if he didn't at least write to her on his trip with this mystery woman she'd find him and drag him back home like a runaway boy.

It… hadn't been what he'd planned on. He hadn't planned on returning or writing at all, had planned on removing himself entirely, no longer the man she'd intended to marry and pained at how she was caring for him. He hadn't told her about meeting the woman from the temple, either–but people talked and Lotte was good at listening, and he wasn't as surprised as he could have been. He had mixed feelings about the indefinite engagement, but if it was what she wanted he'd let her have it, like she was letting him leave because he needed to. They looked after each other like that.

Perrette, on her part, when he found her at breakfast, immediately told him through a mouthful of jam and toast where the woman from the temple was before standing and pulling him into a hug. She pressed a small wooden box and a dagger into his hands before wishing him well and telling him to hurry, because the stranger had been packing her things last she saw and getting ready to leave.

It turns out she had left, hours ago, but Celann found her waiting expectantly outside the gate just off the road. She was sitting with her own breakfast with a second placement set up for him, and he once again didn't like the knowing look in her eyes as he sat down. She explained, eventually, that she was with the Vigil of Stendarr, and had been sent with two others to investigate rumors of vampires in the area. Jehanne had been an opportune victim, out alone on the road so early in the morning; the vampire had been trying to start a clan and needed bodies to fill the seats.

He'd almost been one of them. It was a matter of hours, apparently.

Again, she assured him they were all dead and asked if he intended to join her and her companions on the road–if he had seen what chaos and danger creatures like vampires pose and wanted to take up arms against them. He didn't answer, and she didn't demand he give one; they ate together in silence again and she didn't comment on the way he'd glance back at the gate every now and then. The guard on duty would give a little wave each time, a sad look on his face, and so Celann looked less and less until he didn't look again at all. He was leaving, after all; something deep in him was different, had shaken him out of the life he'd had, and he was moving on. There wasn't room for whatever he was in the space he'd made for himself anymore.

A few nights later he would untie the ribbon around that little box Perrette had given him, far away from town, and open it to find a clumsily hand drawn set of cards with little messages penned in her handwriting on the back. He turned the fool around to see a scribbled portrait of himself amongst the scrawled decoration; the back of every queen was a rough sketch of Charlotte. He put them gently back in the box, retied the ribbon, and ignored the look Freyja gave him as he slipped it back into his bag.

He closed his eyes and tried to sleep, again, without a body next to him.

"For those who cherish memories of loved ones, their compassion often conceals the beast. Our compassion compels us to destroy it."

[biblioklept]

Steven Moore on the wild talents of Thomas Pynchon, William Gaddis, and the occultist Charles Fort

At Socrates on the Beach, there’s a nice long essay by critic Steven Moore that traces the occult influence of Charles Fort on Thomas Pynchon and William Gaddis. “From Wild Talents: Pynchon, Gaddis, and Charles Fort”: Pynchon and Gaddis are “wild talents” not in Fort’s original sense, but in their daring willingness to incorporate such exotic material into their novels, which previously had been…

[yourhoeshorses]

One head ache later, and I now have ALL of the Championships throughout the week set on my phone to give me a beep at the 15 and 10 minute count down. It's been a goal of mine to get at least ONE 1st place ribbon for each of my horses and I'm DETERMINED to finally complete that goal after 7 years

[organicbeing]

"Navigating Family Drama: The Unexpected Path to Finding My Own Strength"

My life, I must say, could fill a few books—and not the boring kind either. More like a roller-coaster of soap opera-level drama, plot twists, and moments that would leave you both laughing and shaking your head. I was born in November of 1972, and let’s just say the identity of my father has been a mystery for as long as I can remember. My mother once gave me the name of a man who, in true…

[marcogiovenale]

henry moore - the language of sculture / john read. 1973

“Henry Moore – The Language of Sculpture” (1973 von John Read) (engl.) A close look at the famous 1972 exhibition of Moore’s work in Florence. BBC 1973, Producer: John Read. First Broadcast: 1 January 1974. This programme observes people examining Henry Moore’s sculptures in the magnificent setting of the Forte Belvedere, which was partly designed by Michelangelo and overlooks Florence. Through…

[conandaily2022]

Bail for Cameron, North Carolina's Christopher Scott Looney set at $2.8 million

Bail for Cameron, North Carolina’s Christopher Scott Looney set at $2.8 million

Christopher Scott Looney, 28, of Cameron, Moore County, North Carolina, United States is an active-duty U.S. Army soldier stationed at Fort Bragg in North Carolina. He is a sergeant first class. Christopher Scott Looney (©Cumberland County Sheriff’s Office)

[incredibletales]

"The script was tailored precisely to budget, confined to barrooms, bookie joints, and a wonderfully seedy trailer park. Much of the picture was shot in and around downtown Los Angeles, including at Union Station, on Bunker Hill, and on Fort Moore Hill."

Cry Danger (1951) dir. Robert Parrish, Dick Powell

[filminnoco]

what was your favorite piece of filmmaking equipment that seemed state-of-the-art at the time, and hopelessly outdated now? this lil buddy was given to me by a journalism professor at UNC, and while it seems tiny now, I remember the days when 2 gigs was a lot! Do you think in 15 years we'll feel the same way about 2 TB cards and drives? #mooreslaw #filminnoco #technology — view on Instagram https://ift.tt/cziWvpP

[captain-price-unofficially]

The US Army Armor And Cavalry Collection, Fort, Moore, Georgia

[cannedpickledpeaches]

Insert Your Name (4)

Mafia!Jade Leech x Mafia!Reader

Link to series masterlist!

Notes and TW: This series will have mentions of blood, violence, crime (kidnapping, attempted assassination, extortion), and harassment, as one might expect from a mafia AU. Please enjoy!

Tag(s): @guava-has-a-pen

Jade’s Signature Spell has several restrictions. The greatest variable about it is its rate of success. Only ten minutes after meeting with the captured thug, the four of you sit out in Azul’s living room with furrowed brows. Except Floyd. Floyd happily indulges in Azul’s expensive grapes.

“I didn’t think Moore looked like someone with a strong will.” You reach out a hand at Floyd. He drops a perfectly round, nearly black grape in your palm. “Maybe he was faking the terror? Or maybe the person who gave him Jade’s information is much scarier than a bit of persuasion from Floyd.”

“Looked and felt like a minnow.” Floyd’s jagged teeth tear through the fruit like it’s made of tissue paper. “His screamin’ was real, lemme tell ya that. Even if he’s scared of someone else, he probably thought he was gonna kick the bucket right then and there. If ya asked me, he woulda spilled even without Jade cuz he thought he was fucked either way. Kinda weird that he didn’t.”

If there’s anything you’ve learned from knowing him for this long, it’s that his gut feeling is rarely wrong. Intuition is his forte. But if that’s the case, how come Shock the Heart didn’t work?

“My guess is,” Jade muses with a hand on his chin, “there is a spell previously cast on him that can block mine.”

Azul considers it. “Memory wiping, maybe. Perhaps he really doesn’t know—or at the very least, doesn’t remember. Another possibility is a defensive spell cast on his mind.”

“Even if that’s true, he isn’t a mage.” You pop the grape inside your mouth. A sweet, delectable juice spreads over your tongue. “If he was, he would’ve tried to break out of those ropes.”

That’s a simple trap Jade likes to set. Without a magic tool like the mirror back in Night Raven College, it is difficult to tell who’s a mage and who isn’t. However, by using restraints that are not made of anti-magic material and relaxing security briefly, mages often reveal their hand with escape attempts.

“Maybe it was his boss or somethin’ who casted it. Y’know, to keep secrets from gettin’ out. Pretty nifty spell, if ya think about it.”

“Someone within the Carpenter Mafia, huh.” You curl up on the couch, pressed into the corner formed by its arm and back. “Guess we’ll have to investigate all the mages they have. Talk about time consuming.”

“Please leave it to me.” Jade places a hand on his chest, a reassuring smile on his lips. Reliable. Like a sturdy tree, or a nook in the cliffside. Someone you can lean on. Someone who can pick up your slack and watch your back. Trust given to Jade can only be from a naïve fool, a desperate person, or a wary one who has leverage on him or something to gain. Regardless, despite the fact that he is difficult to trust, he is terribly competent to make up for it.

“Will you have time for it, with all the other things you have to do? Like managing the mafia and the main story?”

“Please do not worry. If it comes down to it, there are tasks that I can delegate to other qualified individuals.”

Azul heaves a heavy sigh.

After a lengthy discussion, Azul all but kicks you three out of his house. You let Jade drive you home because you aren’t keen on sitting in Floyd’s passenger seat again anytime soon. Sitting in the leather seats of Jade's car, you watch as streetlights sweep by the glowing dashboard to a constant beat. The twins’ differing tastes are obvious even in their choice of car models. While Floyd prefers flashy sports cars that attempt to break the sound barrier, Jade prefers sleek, black ones that don’t make too much noise.

While Jade drives, your eyes drift to the night sky and your mind to the story. The next event is their second meeting. (Y/N) runs into him in the shopping district. Judging from the description in the manuscript, it’s on a street you frequented with her. Buskers at intersections. An ice cream shop next to an oak tree. A fountain with picturesque statues. You have a picture on your phone of her laughing in front of the water.

Does she think about you? If a friend suddenly stopped contacting her after being cornered in an alleyway, she’d naturally try to check up on them. That’s the selfless and considerate personality she has as the main character, after all. So why hasn’t she even texted you once? Were you truly even friends?

Of course you were. A kind person like her couldn’t fake affection. Those smiles she shared with you were definitely real. So then, why?

“You should sleep early tonight.” Jade suddenly speaks up at a red light. He takes the momentary break to glance at you. There’s an expression you can’t place on his face. Worry? No, nothing that strong. He looks back at the road before you can decipher it. “You’ve been stressed lately. I can brew you a relaxing herbal tea if you have trouble sleeping. It will guarantee you a relaxing slumber.”

“That makes it sound like I’ll never wake up if I drink it.”

He chuckles. “You can find out if you drink it.”

“Pass. Make it for yourself.”

“Perhaps I will. I often have difficulties falling asleep at night.” Unlike you, his insomnia is evolutionary. Moray eels are nocturnal creatures, and having grown up in the deep sea, day and night cycles took time to get used to. In the endless night of a place where sunlight cannot reach, circadian rhythms follow a schedule, not daylight.

“Doesn’t the story say you’ll sleep in the same bed as (Y/N) tomorrow?”

There’s only one bed. A common trope. This event seems to be shoved into the story, full of plot holes and reasons that don’t make any sense. (Y/N) is meant to lightly twist her ankle because of her endearing clumsiness. Jade will bring her to a fancy hotel room and tend to her wound there instead of bringing her home like today. Your only guess is that the story wants to showcase his wealth and influence. He can get a fancy room in a fancy hotel whenever he wants without a reservation. He can afford whatever her heart desires.

“Indeed.” Jade gives a half-smile. “Although I doubt it will happen. I find that I cannot sleep in the presence of strangers.”

Morays are cowards, Floyd once said. Ambush predators. They like hiding and darting out at prey or going after injured animals. Strong enough to have the confidence of living in a hole with no escape route other than the entrance, but careful enough not to chase down prey in open waters. Jade is more careful than most. You don’t think you’ve truly seen him with his guard down before.

“(Y/N) is harmless.”

“I am aware. It is only a force of habit.” His fingers tap lightly on the steering wheel. “I will stay until she falls asleep and then do some work. There is much to do, with so little time.”

You wonder if the increased workload has taken a toll on Jade. As competent as he is, he was suddenly saddled with the responsibilities of an entire syndicate and expected to run it with the same proficiency as his parents. His hobbies that he adores so much were all put on hold. There must be a mountain of pressure on his shoulders, but he never complains. Never one to show weakness. It is easy to exploit.

“You can give me more work. Just pay me and I’ll do it.”

Jade’s eyes flick to you, then back to the road. “How considerate of you. What are you willing to do if I take you up on that?”

“You can leave the investigation of the Carpenter Mafia to me.”

“Thank you for offering, but I would like to take that matter into my own hands. It concerns information about me, after all.”

“Then what do you want me to do?”

He hums in that way he does when he pretends to think. “How about guarding me when I sleep?”

You raise an eyebrow. “Didn’t you say you can’t sleep with other people around?”

“I said ‘strangers.’” A teasing lilt weaves through his voice. “You are my dear friend of many years. Surely, we are closer than mere strangers? I daresay we are even closer than acquaintances.”

“You really like bringing that up.”

“It is because you seem prone to forget.” The car turns into a side street. Houses pass you slowly. Your neighbourhood is quiet at this time of night. “If you were guarding me, I would not even mind sleeping in (Y/N)’s vicinity.”

“Don’t even think about it. I won’t be there.”

Despite the lighthearted tone of your conversation, you understand the undertone of his request. He doesn’t expect you to accept this responsibility. Instead, he is conveying a message: he trusts you. Enough that he’s willing to be physically vulnerable around you. When he’s asleep, you could slit his throat, press a pillow over his face, crush his windpipe. But he trusts that you won’t. Instead of attacking him, he trusts that you will protect.

But is that what he truly thinks of you? Or is that what he wants you to think that he thinks? How convoluted. Talking to him is taxing on the brain.

“Actually, Jade.” You hesitate briefly. “Can you ask (Y/N) about me? Or just, like, drop my name in the conversation.”

Mild curiosity fills his gaze. “Why do you ask?”

“Just do it.”

“I have no obligation to. But if you tell me, I might consider it.”

“Forget it, then.” It wasn’t important anyway. You’ll ask her once the story is over.

He pulls up on your driveway. The entire house is dark, save for a light in the master bedroom and in the entrance. You thank him and prepare to leave the car.

“Give your mother my greetings.”

You nod and wave goodbye. The car stays in your driveway until you enter your front door before driving off. It’s something you’ve noticed only he does. For safety, he had explained. He’s making sure that you’ve entered your home safely. You can never tell if he has some ulterior motive.

The first few things you notice when you step inside are the pill bottles left out on the counter. You take your shoes off and silently pad over to the washroom, returning the bottles to the medicine cabinet. Just as you put the final one in place, a voice calls out from the top of the staircase.

“You’re home late. Are you tired?”

A kind, familiar voice. You approach the stairs and look up to see your mother standing there in her sleepwear. The stress accumulated throughout the day melts away, temporarily forgotten. No matter how difficult things are, no matter how tedious the days become, no matter how much is on your mind—at the end of the day, you have your mother to return home to. Around her, you are just her daughter, without the need to be anything more.

“Hi, Mom. You didn’t have to stay up.” You ascend the staircase to meet her on the second floor. She gives you a warm, comforting hug.

“Nonsense. I can’t sleep until I know you’re home safe.” She pats your hair and lets you go. “Did you come home by yourself?”

“Jade drove me. He says hi.”

“Oh, Jade. He’s a good kid. Thank him properly, alright?”

A good kid. You almost laugh out loud. For one, both you and him are in your late twenties. For another, you wouldn’t use “good” to describe his character. But you don’t, because you don’t want your mother to worry. You only tell her the best anecdotes about the people around you so that she can rest assured you’re in good hands. She doesn’t know about your real job, either. She doesn’t need to. You prefer to keep things this way. She would never approve of a profession where you could get hurt.

“I will.”

She follows you to your room, where you start getting ready for bed. “What were you doing downstairs before I called for you?”

“You left your medicine on the counter again. I was putting them away.”

“Oh dear, did I?” She sighs and places a hand on her cheek. Wrinkles crease the skin around her mouth and the corners of her eyes. It is because I have lived a happy life, she always assured you, since I was lucky enough to have you as my daughter. “I must be getting old. These days, I often do one thing while forgetting another.”

“It’s a good thing you have me, huh?”

She chuckles. “You’re right. It’s a good thing I have you.”

When you lie in bed, your mother sleeping soundly in the master bedroom, you think back to Mr. and Mrs. Leech. To Jade and Floyd, who anxiously wait for a cure to that curse they still haven’t found the culprit for. Jade changes out the flowers by their hospital beds as soon as the petals start to wilt. Floyd bribes the hospital so that he can spend nights by their side. If your mother was in that situation, you know you would raise Hell on Earth. You can only imagine what the twins are going through. If they ever catch the assassin, you don’t want to know what will happen to that soul. There is no judgment against the twins here. You would do the same.

You don’t know when you slept, but you wake up before dawn to the sound of your ringtone. Upon picking up, Jade delivers two pieces of information.

Firstly, he fell asleep. And secondly, when he mentioned your name to (Y/N) last night, she smiled blankly and asked: “Who?”