#The Adjudicator has spoken.

[voidscarredadjudicator]

At first I was like "what do you mean skeleton is a team for splatoween inklings and octolings don't have any fucking bones", but y'know? It does actually still make sense. Like. There's probably an in-universe horror movie about an Inkfish that was bullied all their life for never being able to go swim form only for them to realize after a doctor's visit that they have bones growing inside of them. Those bones aren't supposed to be there, but they are. There's a skeleton inside of them and it wants out. It's regarded as a classic akin to The Shining, with an equally vague ending. Movie analysts come up with dozens of theories; maybe it's a metaphor for an incurable disease, maybe the skeleton represents self-doubt or anxiety, maybe the main character was never actually an Inkfish to begin with.

Kaleb is incapable of taking this film seriously. The scene where the main character gets the photo of their x-ray that shows they have a skeleton just makes him laugh his ass off.

#The Adjudicator has spoken. #yeah i know some other splatoon species probably do still have bones #this was just really funny to think about #although that said. master mega & also the salmonids have swim forms #does that mean they also don't have bones? because the no bones thing is half of how that works #beyond the obvious violations of physics. i may be the man who overthinks his splatoon headcanons but i ain't got all the answers #anyways kaleb would be wheezing at this dramatic scene where horror movie MC gets diagnosed with Having Bones

[the-amazing-simp]

Heyy, I’d love to ask for your 500 follower celebration a speak now with Eduardo Saverin of Enemies to lovers trope

Thank you so much for requesting this! I'm sorry it took so long 😅 Also, I know this may not be my best work but school has been really exhausting so I tried my best

my 500 celebration is now over!

Heated Arguments | Eduardo Saverin

You heaved a sigh as you continuously tapped the pen at the edge of the desk you were sitting on.

You never knew that coming up with an argument for a debate would be this hard. What makes it worse? You were up against your public enemy number one (and probably crush): Eduardo Saverin.

Aside from the fact that this debate contributed to 40% of your final grade, you also wanted to win this so you could rub it in his smug face. 

“So,” You didn’t notice your best friend walking into the dorm, “how’s the speech going?” 

Not looking up at her, you continued to jot down notes, “Good so far, hopefully it’ll be enough for tomorrow.” 

“How’re you feeling?” Y/B/F/N then asked, giving you a look that meant she already knew the answer. 

“Honestly?” You asked to which she nodded, “A bit nervous. What if I can’t answer any POIs or rebuttals?” 

“It’s okay to feel nervous, that’s natural. But I’m sure that you’ll do amazing!” Y/B/F/N reassured you.

“Really?” You asked. 

She nodded, “Positive.” 

You sighed, glancing at your speech, “Do you think I’ll be able to win against Eduardo?” 

“You can.” She said, “The two of you are both smart and top of our class. But, I believe in you. Besides, you’re scary when you’re trying to argue about something. I don’t think Eduardo would stand a chance.” 

The two of you laughed, “I’m not that scary. You’re just exaggerating.” 

She rolled her eyes, “I’m not! If you don’t believe me then feel free to ask any other person in our class.” 

“Whatever.” You countered, turning your attention back to your speech.

–

Today was the day. Six chairs were placed in front of the room, two on each side of the teacher’s desk.

“Ready to lose, L/N?” A voice asked, making you turn around. 

Eduardo stood behind you the smuggest grin he could muster, making you more motivated to slap that grin off his face and bring him down.

“Funny, I was just about to ask you the same.” You retorted, returning the smile.

“In your dreams.” Eduardo tsked, “I have the winning side, you’ll have a hard time defending yours.”

“Please,” you gave a humorless laugh, “once we’re done I’m pretty sure you’d wish I’d just gone to law school instead.”

“You wish.” He said before the two found their way to their seats as the debate began

—

“May the two houses now cross the line and shake hands?” Your professor, also the adjudicator, had spoken once the opposition whip had given his speech.

You and Eduardo met in the middle of the imaginary line, a silent challenge passing between the two of you as you gripped each other’s hand tightly before returning to your seats to receive the feedback.

“Now, where to begin.” Your Professor mused as she shuffled through her notes, “Okay so, first of all, both sides gave very solid and convincing arguments, and I am honestly having a hard time deciding the winner.”

She then proceeded to give individual feedback to each of the speakers present before clearing her throat to announce the winner.

“Like I said earlier, this is a really hard decision but I have to give the win to the Government side.”

Your team erupted in cheers while you looked over at Eduardo with a triumphant smile, to which he just rolled his eyes.

—

Your idea of celebrating your win only consisted of microwave ramen and a good book but your roommate/best friend obviously had other plans.

“Was this really necessary?” You asked as she downed her drink.

“Of course it is.” She said as if it was the most obvious thing in the world, “Any time you beat Eduardo is worth celebrating.”

“Mhm.” You replied as you went to grab your coat.

“Where are you going?” She asked.

Giving her a small smile, you answered, “Just out for a walk.”

The winter air of December met you as soon as you opened the door exiting the dormitories. 

“Leaving your own party so soon?” The voice of the person who sent butterflies to your stomach reached your ears.

Turning around, Eduardo was leaning against the wall, familiar black coat protecting him from the cold.

“That surprised?” You questioned, walking towards him.

A small smile formed on his lips, “Knowing you? Not really.”

“How about you?” You said, “Shouldn’t you be somewhere with Mark doing whatever you two do on a daily basis.” 

“And what if I wanted to spend time with you?” He countered. 

“Then what’s stopping you?” You stopped, both your faces inches away from each other.

“The fear of rejection when I want to kiss you.” He answered so nonchalantly it made you wonder whether he was joking or not.

Eduardo’s cheeks suddenly turned a pinkish hue as he stuttered over his words, “I didn’t mean to say that out loud. Not that I would be opposed to kissing you and all but-”

Whatever he would’ve said next was interrupted when you tiptoed and pressed your lips to his.

“Wow.” He breathed out afterwards with a smile, “Always trying to oneup me aren’t you?” 

General:

@rogueharrington, @hunnybunimdun, @andrewgarfield2022, @jasmin7813, @andrewgarfieldsbae, @spxiiee, @shaded-echoes, @holy-macncheese-balls, @mcugeekposts, @dwindlinghaze, @anonyymoouussssss

#the-amazing-simp's 500 celebration #andrew garfield x reader #andrew garfield fanfiction #tasm fanfiction #andrew!peter parker x reader #tasm smut #tasm!peter parker #tasm!spiderman x reader #andrew garfield smut #tasm!peter fluff #tasm!peter x you #andrew garfield peter parker #andrew garfield spiderman #peter parker andrew garfield #andrew garfield #andrew garfield fluff #andrew garfield imagine #andrew garfield my beloved #andrew garfield one shot #andrew garfield x you #andrew peter parker #andrew!peter #andrew!peter parker #andrew!peter x reader #andrew!spiderman #andrewgarfield!spiderman #spiderman andrew garfield #tasm andrew garfield #eduardo saverin imagine #eduardo saverin

[ritterum]

How Lutessa Found A King

(cw sexual assault, gore, monarchism)

I.

Fair Lutessa was not always the cradle of kings, and before its austere temples and marble effigies came to dominate the horizon, Lutessa was a village just like yours or mine. But the Wheel turns, and Lutessa’s idyll shattered as she grew. Her people came to bicker and fight more and more often amongst themselves, over even the smallest of things! Things such as: whether this man had sold his neighbor the right amount of flour, or whether the miller’s children had pushed the blacksmith’s children into the marshes, or whether the inn-keeper’s wife was allowed to dine with the tavern-keep. Since Lutessa had yet no magistrate or ruler to call her own, the townspeople, fresh from a brawl, clamored for adjudication at the doors of the Martyr-God’s prophet.

“Prophet! Grant us your wisdom,” they cried, rattling the gates of the temple. “Settle our disputes; we want for a judge!”

The prophet, who was sweeping the entrance, replied, “Settle your own arguments! Rule you not amongst yourselves? I have my God’s work to do - now, begone.”

The people, unsure what to answer, retired to their houses and conferred between themselves; however, the following day, they returned with bloodied noses and bruised eyes. “Prophet! Our minds are filled with chaos and we are unfit to rule! Bring us under your command, that we may live in harmony!”

The prophet, who was lighting incense by the altar, said: “Cease your mewling! Be ye babes or men? I will not judge you, for I am neither of you nor above you; judge yourselves.”

The people once more took the prophet’s words home and discussed them, but besought him a third time the following morning, again battered and beaten-up.

“O Prophet!” they cried out as one. “We are unworthy to rule ourselves! Grant us a king! Grant us a king!”

On and on they shouted, “King! King!” louder and louder until the prophet, supping on bread and wine, could tolerate it no longer.

“Seeing as they are of one mind, which they have never once been before,” said he, “who am I to deny them my intercession?” So he rose from his seat and entered the holy-of-holies, and as he communed there, the breath of the Martyr-God came down from on high, and joined with his statue in the square. And lo! the statue became as flesh, and turned its countenance toward the heavens; and it removed its head from its shoulders and threw it far, far into the distance, where it flew brightly across the sky like a shooting star. (And this is why today, when you see the statue of the Martyr-God outside the great temple of Lutessa, you will see that it has no head.)

Then the prophet left the divine chambers and addressed the people gathered outside. “As you have asked, so is it given. Wheresoever the sign of the Martyr-God shall lead, there you shall find your king; and you will know him by the sign he gives, for it is the sign that the Godhead has shown you. I have spoken!” The people, marveling at the miracle they had just witnessed, left him many grateful words and many precious gifts; and finally, they left him also at peace.

Now the townsfolk took the quickest and hardiest amongst themselves, and sent them in the direction of the new star, which was east and north. The scouts rode, inquiring at every village and hillfort about the sign the Martyr-God had shown, and each time they were turned away empty handed. This went on for fortnight after fortnight until it seemed that they would exhaust all the tribes of Ferrancha. But at the last, two of the riders came upon an ancient citadel, where dwelt a fierce clan of giants. These giants had bear skins draped around them like cloaks, and long beards that stretched down to their knees, and they growled in a speech that was scarcely recognizable as human. But one towered above the rest of them and wore as a sign of his authority a necklace of purplest stone.

This one said: “Who comes to challenge Sea-Bull [1] in the home of his people?”

The scouts answered: “None but two humble riders, come seeking a sign from the Martyr-God.”

Then Sea-Bull leered and bade them come closer; and when they had drawn within an arm’s length, he seized one and tore the head off him, and he threw the bloody thing at the other scout, saying:

“There is your god’s martyr! And this is the only sign you shall have from me.”

The surviving rider fled from the giants’ mocking laughter, and rode without eating or sleeping for ten days. In that time, he covered a fortnight’s distance, and when he passed through the gates of Lutessa, the people first mistook him for a scarecrow atop Death’s horse, for his hair had gone white and ragged from fear, and the flight had consumed so much of him that his skin now clung to his bones. Whatever warning he would have proffered went unheeded, for as he fell from his horse, the head of his companion rolled out of his satchel, and the people, beholding it, exclaimed:

“The Martyr-God has given us back his sign! The prophecy is fulfilled!”

So they bore the scout to the temple of the healers, cheering, and sent word for the riders to return home. They prepared the town to welcome their new king, even as they worried how to find him or even to recognize him, for the power of speech had deserted the scout and he could no longer direct them to their ruler. Yet they need not have worried, for Sea-Bull in his curiosity had sent trackers after his visitor, and, hearing of the manner in which his threat had been received, became desirous of ruling these toothless people and their lands. So he gathered his clan and broke camp, and each giant sat astride a great-ox, which they commanded as we do camels and horses, and they made for the bounty which had been laid out for them.

When they arrived in Lutessa a fortnight later, Sea-Bull divided up the town among his strongest warriors and bid them take wives for themselves from among the daughters of the village. Then he shackled the men and forced much work upon them, including that a hall be built for him and his clan. He tore down the statues of Lutessa’s gods as well, since they offended him; but that of the Martyr-God he left alone, for this was the deity that had granted him conquest. And he set a watch all around the temple of the Martyr-God, that no harm may befall it or its prophet.

Sea-Bull reigned for many years, during which he sent out warbands and brought also many other villages under his rule. He ordered that in each of them should be hung necklaces like his of purplest stone, which anyone passing had to bow before and kiss, and he ordered that any who disobeyed be put to the sword. In Lutessa he was strictest of all: he would take silver and fine cloths from those families which offended him, and seize their farms, so that his great-oxen might have more land to graze on. He would furthermore take their daughters and lie with them against their will, and some he would take as concubines while others he would return to their households; but for none of them did he ever pay a bridewealth. And of those families which had displeased them the most, when their daughters did bear him child, he would gather them to his hall and swallow the newborn whole before them, in order that their misery might be prolonged by seeing it.

II.

Now there was a maiden named Snow-Iris, for she was as fair and unblemished as winter’s first snow. It happened that Sea-Bull took a liking to her, and wished to have her as his own. But her father, hearing of this, woke her in the night and snuck her far outside the village, leaving her with some provisions and a cloak, so that she might not die in the wilds.

Then Snow-Iris’ heart was filled with anger and dread, and she cried out to the Martyr-God, saying: “What kind of trespass have we committed against you, that you repay our faith with punishment? We came seeking a guardian; why did you send us a butcher instead?” And she wept in the fields until gentle sleep overtook her.

But hearing her, the Martyr-God took pity and came to her in her slumber; and she dreamed that his voice rang out from the star he had set in the heavens, which shone more clearly and brilliantly than ever it had. “Child,” he said, his voice suffused with tenderness and dread. “‘Twas your folk who betrayed our compact, not I. I set my sign up above, that it might guide them towards noble and unsullied spirits; yet they rooted around in the base earth like swine digging for worms. But now see: I desire that the suffering of your people shall end, for I am faithful and ever-merciful, and your cries have softened my heart. Therefore follow my Star, and when you draw nigh, I will cause it to descend upon your true king, and he will know to expect thee at his gate. And you shall  know him too by his company, for he will keep in his retinue men of metal; and by his attire, for his brow shall be ringed with heavenly iron. Until you find the king, no harm shall befall you; only do not stray from the path, for perdition will claim your soul. This I vow.”

The star beckoned still on the horizon when Snow-Iris awoke, bathing her in a ray of heavenly light, and though Sea-Bull’s men scoured the hills and fields in search of her, they could not see her behind the veil of light. Seeing the violence in their manner, she knew that she would have no more place in Lutessa until the arrival of the true king. So she began her pursuit to the north-east, sometimes falling in with traders, sometimes with hunters, sometimes tarrying summers in bustling towns, sometimes passing winters in stone ruins. On many occasions, temptation visited her and tugged at her heartstrings, offering her purest love, or the wealth and dominion of lords, or the restful seclusion of the hermitage. And for some of them, she wrestled many hours with herself; but in the end, rejected them all, for the Martyr-God had made good on his side of the pledge, and she wished to make good on hers.

One evening, as Snow-Iris rode through the passes of the High Forest with a caravan of merchants, a terrible roar filled the air, shaking the trees and the very ground, and it was as if the doors of heaven had been slammed shut. And at this unearthly herald, night turned briefly into day, and the rivers ran uphill for a few seconds, and (it is said) many men of wicked repute dropped dead in the streets. Then Snow-Iris beheld that the star of the Martyr-God descended and streaked through the sky, and she knew that she drew nigh to the true king.

“What town lies yonder?” she asked, pointing where the star had fallen. But her companions, seized with fright, ran about her in mad circles just like the horses they were riding, and none could answer her properly.

So she left them and rode on by herself, inquiring about the falling star at several hamlets along the way. They all told her to head for the town of Accisgrand, where a miracle had occurred recently, and whose mayor sought the bearer of a sign; and they described to her the appearance of Accisgrand, that she might recognize it from afar. So she continued for some days until she came upon a town that matched the description, with high stone walls and manned by sentries clothed in raiment of metal. As she approached the gate, the guards barred her entry; but she said:

“I am Snow-Iris of Lutessa, and I seek the man who received the sign of the Godhead.”

At this, the guards exchanged looks, and instructed her to wait. She began to set up camp, thinking that she would be made to pass the afternoon; but scarce had the first noon hour [2] come and gone than a scribe appeared at the gate to escort her within. They passed through halls of arched marble with glass windows as tall as the ancient trees, which Snow-Iris marveled at like a young girl. But it was in a humble room of wood that the mayor received her.

“Tell me your name and the sign that you seek,” said the mayor. But Snow-Iris could not answer immediately, for as her eyes traveled up his imposing figure and silken cloak, they came to rest on the circlet of graceful iron girdling his brow. “Tell me your business,” he said again, impatient.

“Your Grace,” she replied with a curtsy. “I am Snow-Iris of Lutessa. Many years ago, the Godhead placed a sign in the heavens by which we might find someone wise to rule us. We misread the sign, and were punished. However, the Godhead is merciful, and has brought me here to seek the true ruler, who will deliver us from this ordeal. I seek the one to whom he has shown his sign.”

The mayor nodded. “Your story rings true; therefore I will tell you mine. Not a week ago, a god spoke to me in a dream, saying that a maiden would arrive from far-away Lutessa to ask for deliverance from a false king, and that I would know her by the sign of the Godhead, which would be granted unto me. Come: there is something I must needs show you.”

Then he stepped forward and took her by the hand, and together they walked out, through a courtyard of fragrant trees and pruned bushes, to a lofty temple of vaulted stone. And lo! the head of the Martyr-God sat on the altar - no longer the cold gray of stone, but the lustrous gleam of iron.

Seeing this, Snow-Iris knelt and kissed the hand of the mayor. “You are indeed the one I seek,” she said, “and by your leave, I would grant you your kingdom.”

“Let us put off talks of kingship until later,” he answered with a smile. “First I must fulfill the sacred duty granted unto me and deliver your people from despotic rule.”

So he gathered an army of twenty thousand soldiers and five thousand knights and marched towards Lutessa, under the banner of the Martyr-God. When Sea-Bull heard of this, he howled in anger and ordered his warriors to burn down the villages between him and Accisgrand, for he wanted none of their riches to go to this man. But his warriors persuaded him otherwise, for even though they were giants and their prowess in combat was unmatched, still their numbers were few, and they could ill afford to spread their forces thin. And while both mayor and Sea-Bull could claim divine favor, only one could be assured of his mandate - he who asserted his rule according to prophecy. [3]

I will not sing of battle, although their clash was great - many songs have already been given to that day alone. For this mayor was indeed the hero named KING [4], who in the Northern tongue is called Krol or Korol, and is known to all peoples as “Great”, because he drove out the giants and slew Sea-Bull, and, under his just rule, united all the tribes of Ferrancha from the Pannonian Woods to the Uttermost Sea. With Snow-Iris as his queen, he began the lineage of monarchs that would turn Ferrancha into a vast and magnificent realm - who would, despite their humble origins, erect monuments and metropoles to rival even those of Akbal himself (may he ever be remembered!).

Though KING eventually set his throne in Accisgrand, sweet Lutessa forever held a fond place in his heart. And so, as his children came of age, he would bid them dwell in Lutessa and take the manner and custom of its people as their own; and when one of those children became king, that one would in turn send his children to Lutessa. So this tradition carried on until it was a tradition no longer, for the descendants of KING so came to love Lutessa that they moved the throne there, pledging their faith to the city just as the city had placed its faith in them.

Runao’s Commentary:

Iron is the metal of the gods, and so it is the symbol of mandate, authority, and justice, which only the gods are allowed to bestow. Pretenders can only steal the insignia of the past and defend them with violence; true rulers receive their legitimacy directly from the divine. This is how the keen-eyed subject knows which master to follow.

Footnotes:

[1] Burton gives this as “She-Bull” in the 1888 edition, and it was retained in editions until 1913. Garcìa (1964) theorizes that this name may be a fanciful rewording of “Mare-Bull”, which was a common mistranslation at the time; Humbert & Luis (1991), however, consider it a printer’s error, as Burton left no indication in his extensive notes that he was aware of this erroneous translation.

[2] Incidentally, the hour of Iron. 

[3] This sentence was almost certainly added by Runao, as it is not present in alternative forms of the story. See Quirin Egidius, Prophets of the Times: Bronze-Age Divination in Runao’s Book of Hours (2001), p. 67.

[4] The name given here is the literal word for ‘king’, in the honorific form. Although it is unclear whether the honorific was added by Runao or existed in the original Illapartian language, we can say with relative certainty that the King’s name most likely became synonymous with rulership in the geographical area corresponding to his kingdom (similar to ‘Caesar’ becoming the word for ‘emperor’ in many European languages), before being transmitted to Illapars via cultural osmosis. Ibid, p. 51.

#fiction i guess #hour of iron #iron #loom of hours #older fic

[sawsister8]

Take you of all time stood earlier an interview and matte your listen go blank shell because you could not believe of a thing to read? Is world speaking one of your weaknesses? If so, you possess add up to the correct rank. This article is filled with neat advice to give you a better public verbaliser.

When you are public speaking in public, in that respect is normally a time skeletal system that you demand to put forward to. Reach sure that you buzz off to your fundamental points ahead your meter is up. Otherwise, you volition have got bony entirely of our meter since the audience bequeath not let received the substance you were nerve-wracking to render. You must not suppose that exactly because you are talking, citizenry are hearing. Getting the aid of an audience isn't forever well-off and keeping it lavatory be even out harder. You are performing for them, and speech production confidently to win them over is Francis Scott Key to achieving the craved results. If you hold to talk publicly, judge to suppress it at twenty proceedings or less. This is the average out tending straddle of almost individuals, so public speaking for thirster than this is leaving to risk tedious them. If you make to speak for yearner than this, feel about right smart to change gears in the midway to enliven things up. Live what you are talking about, at heart and come out. Do measured research that enables you to look at the issue from various angles. Arrive at notes of this and employment it in your manner of speaking. You leave fathom to a greater extent master if you bonk how to respond their questions. Do non allow \aasasd to perturb you piece you are public speaking in populace. It is essential that you don't participate in activities the likes of twiddling your thumbs or jingling keys. This will yield your consultation the estimate that you would sort of be doing something else than be in that location talking to them. The feeling of your address should depend on who you are bountiful it to. For instance, if your spoken communication is work-related, your spoken language should be pro. On the early hand, if you are more or less friends and throw to relieve oneself a speech, you give the axe be to a greater extent personal. Foundation your unhurt oral communication on your audience. If you circumstantially hop-skip break up of your speech, pluck with it. Don't holler aid to it and interrupt the menstruum of your talking to. The consultation has non seen your speech, so they will stay incognizant that you lost something unless you distinguish them. Do non consumption a optical maser Spanish pointer to play complete dustup as you learn them from a sort. This gives your consultation the idea that you cogitate they are incompetent of reading for themselves. Formerly they Menachem Begin to experience insulted, it will be practically harder for you to convince them to mind to you. Take in the clock time to search former significant speeches. The net has a wealth of recorded speeches so that you stool note how they do it. Sharpen on the qualities that you liked in their delivery and emulate them. Face for qualities such as their relieve in speaking, their humour and how they fascinate the attention of the consultation. Have it off your matter swell. Have the essential fourth dimension to enquiry your issue and pick up entirely you privy. When delivering your speech, adjudicate to be elastic. Reserve participants to require questions. If you do non bang the answer, differentiate them that you do non know, just you will observe the entropy out and get it available to the group at a afterward prison term. When preparing a address that contains large amounts of information, don't be too proud to enjoyment short letter card game. Yet the near gifted orators pick out the utility of notes. It is preferred to apace glance at your notes sooner than quote information wrongly or drop describe points. This whole shebang specially substantially when the subject includes taxonomic group figures, such as clam amounts, percentages, and dates. Earlier you start fix for your speech, create surely you make out the material. This is easily when you are actually interested in the theme you take elect. Judge encyclopedism to a greater extent nigh the subject than what you actually order in your actor's line. This testament aid you add more or less useful additional info. it tin likewise helper you ameliorate reply questions. At present that you birth ruined recital this article, you should get well-read many utile tips some populace public speaking. These tips sack hail in Handy in many unlike situations, from bounteous a manner of speaking to making a hymeneals salute. Recollect them and cast them to safe utilisation the future time you are known as upon to utter in world.

#\aasasd

[heich0e]

the mortal price of crossing twice levi ackerman/grim reaper!reader (attack on titan) CROSSPOSTED TO AO3 word count: 8k tags: 18+ MINORS DO NOT INTERACT, grim reaper reader, soulmates, levi literally flirting with death, canon-typical violence, blood mention, knifeplay, smut, implied loss of virginity, angst with a happy(?) ending a/n: i wrote this one night and woke up and forgot i wrote it and then spent 10 months translating it into something vaguely readable--hope it was worth it!

The room is silent and still, the air stagnant and reeking of mildew and decay when you arrive.

The place is an absolute hovel.

To call it anything else would be an injustice to the squalor.

It’s damp, dim, and windowless—after all, there’s little use for windows in a place that sees no sun. The paint on the crumbling walls is cracking and peeling from the yellowing surface in large, unsightly clumps, with piles of plaster and paint collecting on the warped, jagged floorboards underfoot. 

The only light comes from the sad stub of a misshapen candle, lit on a rickety table on one side of the room. It’s burned so low that the flame seems sure to flicker out at any moment.

Much like the occupant of this place.

If anything, you’re glad that this woman won't have to stay here any longer.

She lays in the wooden bed, thin and grey and hardly alive at all—you’re certain that to any human eye, they’d think she was already dead. 

But your eyes are not human, and you watch impassively as she draws her final, shuddering breaths. 

Her soul, you can’t help but notice as it becomes more and more visible to your trained eyes, is a lovely shade of periwinkle blue.

“Who are you?” 

The voice surprises you, unaware that there was anyone else in the dingy, musty place that reeks of death that has not yet come to it. You cast a fleeting glance in the direction of the noise–it’s not as if they were talking to you, but it’s more instinct than anything to look towards the sound.

A pitiful creature sits curled in the corner upon itself, withered away to practically nothing—made up of sharp lines of sinew and bone under paper thin, pallid skin that has taken on a sallow tone. 

A child, you think to yourself, though given how emaciated and sickly they are, you can tell neither their age nor their gender.

But what shocks you is their eyes.

Wide, glistening with life in spite of the decay of their flesh, and fixed firmly to you.

Can they… see you?

You raise a finger, pointing it at yourself. 

“Are you talking to me?”

The child keeps their gaze on you, hesitating for a moment, and then nods slowly. 

You pause as you process the realization. 

It’s not entirely unheard of for mortals who are close to death to be able to see your kind. 

The reapers. 

Those charged to ferry the souls of the dead on, either to reincarnation or to The Void—to the promise of new life or an eternity of endless darkness.

It’s your responsibility—your duty—to uphold the balance between the living and the dead. No new soul can enter until another has been reaped, a law of equivalence to maintain a careful stasis all existence must operate within. 

You do not adjudicate; you play no part in judgement, your role is merely to shepherd. The ruling of any soul comes down to you from a higher power, and it is you who is tasked to see it through to completion once the verdict has been decided.

But this child has not been ruled upon. Their fate not yet pronounced. 

Their soul is not yours to take. 

And yet here they are: so pitifully close to death yet still just beyond its grasp. With the equinox only a matter of days away—the time when the veil between the mortal world and your own domain is at its thinnest—this child could see you. 

What terrible misfortune this wretched soul must have.

“What’s your name?” Your voice is quiet when you speak again, slow to form the question that sits awkwardly on your tongue. You’ve never spoken to a living soul before—at least not in a lifetime that you can remember.

The child appraises you warily for a moment. 

“Levi.”

A wisp of periwinkle in the corner of your eye tears your attention away from the boy—at least you think he’s a boy, after having been given his name. You look back to the woman laying in the bed, and the soul that lingers over her: its final earthly tethers severed, ready to be guided on.

“She’s dead, isn’t she?” the child asks, and you glance back towards him.

“Yes.” There’s no reason for you to lie. You look at him, at the way the light in his eyes dims. “Was she your mother?”

“Yes.” The response is weak, breaking in the wake of your use of past tense. 

But his next words sound even more pained. 

He looks up at you, fear creeping into his sunken stare.

“Am I going to die too?”

“No,” you respond immediately, “you’ll live." 

You have no authority in the matter, and you can’t consult the stars so far below the surface. You know only that you’ve not been burdened with the weight of his crossing—his fate is too far for you to see from the depths of the skyless underground—but you can’t help but tell the boy what he needs to hear.

“Promise?” the emaciated boy rasps. 

“I promise,” you say, something twingeing deep in your gut as you force out the words. A feeling, painful and foreign, chokes you. 

But you aren’t supposed to feel.

Not pain.

Not pity. 

To feel—in all it’s agony and ecstasy—is a privilege reserved for the living.

You depart from that place without saying anything else, leaving the little boy in the dank, dingy room as the candle on the table finally flickers out.

The periwinkle soul is dealt with, and all too soon you find yourself again in Limbo.

You like Limbo.

Neither the world of the living, nor the world of the dead—but rather somewhere situated halfway between the two.

Much like yourself. 

You choose to spend your unaccounted for time in this flux, unlike the reapers who prefer to flitter unseen in the land of the living or those with more morose inclinations who linger on the periphery of The Void. You prefer Limbo and it’s constant stasis of non-being. 

Forever passes faster here. At least until another job comes through.

And it always does. And always will. Because as long as people live, people will die. There will always be a soul to steer through to the other side—to escort to a perpetuity of nothingness, or guide to a new beginning.

“What do we have here?” a voice cajoles from the other end of the bridge you often find yourself loitering on between jobs—built of silvery rope and white birch boards, it stretches across an unmoving river as black as ink and as fathomless as the depths of the sea.

You don’t need to look up to know who the voice belongs to.

Zola is like you, only worse. For all the eternity you’ve been indentured as a reaper, Zola has been here for double that. For every woebegone moment you’ve spent in the liminal space between jobs, she’s had countless more. 

The fact that she can still smile so carelessly, carry herself so weightlessly, might amaze you were you not so numb—but the numbness is the only thing that keeps you from grappling with the fact that eventually you’ll be just like her. 

Zola joins you at the centre of the bridge, skipping along to sidle up beside you. She leans over the roped edged to survey your face curiously as you look out at the still water of the unflowing river. You hold your gaze there, not daring to look up at the stars overhead.

You don’t want to know what they might show you if you do.

“Oh,” Zola draws out the mono-syllabic word far longer than is necessary. “You’re even more brooding and sullen than usual. What did you do this time? Don’t tell me little miss perfect messed up a job?”

“I didn’t do anything,” your words are curt, cool, and dismissive as you respond.

Even if they are a lie.

Zola rolls her eyes, flicking her long hair over her shoulder as she turns and begins to saunter away. She pauses, but doesn’t bother to look back as she calls one last taunt flippantly over her shoulder.

“Lie to me all you want, but you can’t lie to the boss!”

There’s always a moment of adjustment when you return to the mortal world from Limbo. 

You have to take pause to come to terms with where you are—when you are—and it’s an uncomfortable sensation. You always find yourself a little disoriented as you meet the ground, but before long you find your footing and you’re off again.

Time in Limbo feels brief—in a tolerable, pacificatory way—and each time you make the journey back to the mortal world time has slipped by quickly, like grains of sand racing through an hourglass and collecting in the bottom. But so much can reshape itself—can grow and shift and change—during your time away, to the point that the same streets can be almost unrecognizable from one visit to the next.

It’s why you like Limbo. Things there stay constant. 

Still, you can’t help but feel drawn back to the mortal world. 

More so all the time. 

Specifically to a grimy city under the surface, that sings with souls to be reaped—those who have died of famine and disease, while others have been ripped from their earthly bodies by violence and bloodshed.

After all, no one in the Underground dies a peaceful death.

But you aren’t here for them.

You’re here for a boy—he must be 12 or 13-years-old now, though his sickly childhood felt contradictorily as though it had only been moments prior but also a century ago. So many jobs have passed since that night near the equinox, and yet you still think of him all the time.

You size him up appraisingly as you perch atop a tattered awning that hangs above a boarded up window, your legs swinging as you kick them idly below you.

Levi is less scrawny now, though still quite small by most standards for a boy of his age.

And yet here he is, getting the ever-loving shit kicked out of him by a grown man twice his size. 

You watch impassively as the man towering over him lands a hard kick to the left of Levi’s ribs. Levi drops to the ground and rolls, dirt clinging to him as he pushes himself up unsteadily to his feet again, though you can tell the effort pains him. As he squares himself to face his adversary once more, you catch sight of his eyes. 

And that’s when you know he really is no longer the same boy you’d once met.

The light in his slate-grey eyes has dulled to a spiteful glint.

Levi swings, quick but stumbling over his own feet, and a flash of silver catches your eye. 

The knife clutched in Levi’s hand pierces the mans throat, blood spattering obscenely against the grimy brick wall of the alleyway. Scarlet drips slow as the assailant drops to his knees, falling prone into the filth of the street.

A fitting end for a foul man.

Another reaper, one you’ve never met before, appears. The two of you share a brief look before he wisps the ugly, rust coloured soul away and disappears through the veil.

To The Void, you’re certain.  

If the fellow reaper had wondered why you were there, he hadn't bothered to ask.

Your eyes watch as Levi collapses to the ground in a battered, broken slump.

You drop soundlessly to your feet and approach him.

He’s in bad shape: bones fractured and face bloodied as he fights to remain conscious, pupils dilating and contracting as his vision comes in and out of focus. He has a large slash down his right arm from the knife the man he’d slain had been wielding, blood staining the tattered material of his shirt as it seeps from the wound steadily. You watch the crimson stain grow with every passing beat of his racing heart, but his pulse weakens as he loses his grip on his consciousness.

He could die. You sense it in the way his soul is squirming inside of him, loosening its moor to the vessel in which it resides.

But it’s not his time yet.

His eyes meet yours briefly before they go unfocused and glassy, and then he passes out completely.

“Look at the state of you,” a voice tuts from the other end of the alley, and your head turns to see a man with long hair slicked back and tucked under a hat sauntering up the unevenly cobbled street. You watch as he kicks the corpse of the man whose soul has just been reaped onto his back, scrutinizing his vacant eyes and gaping jaw for a moment. 

He crouches down towards the corpse, a hand snaking under the edge of the bloodstained jacket to steal the pouch of coins from the pocket of the dead man’s yellowed shirt. He tuts reproachfully as he tips the meagre lot into his hand, but he pockets them all the same.

“Nice one, kid,” the man chuckles a little to himself, leaning over Levi’s unconscious form and scooping him up into his arms. 

You can’t help but follow the two back to a little apartment you’ve come to recognize. It’s as dilapidated as any in the Underground, though marginally better kept than most. You hover near the home’s solitary window and watch as the man cleans and patches Levi’s wound with a tenderness his gruff exterior doesn’t betray. 

He changes him into another tattered shirt once his injuries have been seen to, and then places the boy atop a lumpy mattress pushed into one corner of the room, pulling a threadbare blanket up overtop of him. He pauses just for a moment, watching the sleeping boy’s face with the same rapt attention that you pay to his. 

He leaves long before the boy wakes, and you return to Limbo, to languish in the emptiness that stretches between jobs. 

But you know you’ll be back soon.

Perhaps not for him, but for you.

Before you know it the little boy that once was is a man—and it happens so fast it feels like you’ve only blinked.

It’s the equinox again. Twenty mortal years have passed since that first night you’d laid your eyes on him—but a short eternity has passed for you, countess jobs completed in between.

You find yourself in the subterranean city once more, drawn there like a moth to flame, something treacherous fluttering in your stomach.

There’s no breeze in the Underground—no current to circulate the air that’s heavy with the scent of filth and rot that clings to every corner of the place. It’s cold, and for the first time you can feel the chill on your skin as you travel the streets. Can feel eyes following you as you go from shadowy corners and windows without panes.

The equinox is a funny beast: an occasion, twice a year, where the day and the night are the exact same length. 

A perfect balance. 

On the night of the equinox, the reapers can return to the mortal world, granted an earthly body but only until the sun crests. 

Some reapers see it as a celebration of the hard work they carry out—an opportunity to let loose and indulge in merited hedonism—while others regard it only with bitterness. A taste of mortality they’ve abandoned that slips fleetingly through their soul-reaping fingers twice a year—a reminder of what they once made the choice to eschew.

It’s the first equinox since all those years ago you’ve found yourself without a job and with any desire to leave Limbo. But unlike your fellow reapers who are above the ground in taverns and brothels or wherever else they may be finding their precious vices, you muster your nerve to step back upon those familiar squalid streets.

There’s no point in lying and saying you aren't looking for Levi. You’d not once made a trip below the surface—left the enduring sanctuary of Limbo—for any reason other than to reap a soul or to find him.

You walk and walk—ignoring the disconcerting din of the buried city and focusing instead on the sound your footsteps make on the streets littered with gaping holes, cracks, and puddles of murky water—until you find him leaning against a lamp post, the dim gaslight flickering overhead.

His flat grey eyes peer right into your face as you pause, only a few paces between you.

You feel something kindle in the depths of your chest as he appraises you. He holds you firmly in his unimpressed gaze, and you revel in the experience of being seen.

You stand there longer than is natural, or warranted, but you aren’t sure what else to do.

“Not safe to be out alone at this time of night,” Levi gruffs derisively, nodding you on as he twirls a pristinely cleaned blade between nimble fingers. He’s not wrong to say so, but you’re no more a stranger to the violence and brutality of the place you find yourself than he is.

“It’s always night here,” you find your tongue to reply, even-toned but not unfriendly. “And never safe.”

You’re on a corner three streets north of his apartment. The one he shares with his sandy haired friend and the little pig-tailed stray they’d taken in. You’d known, of course, that this is where he’d be.

Levi huffs a little—and you might have even thought it was a laugh if you weren’t so familiar with his temperament—but he doesn’t disagree. 

“Have we met? You look… familiar.”

You bite back a smile. “I don’t believe so.”

His stare narrows, like he detects you’re hiding something from him.

“You look lost,” he says, pushing himself off of the street post and stalking a step closer to you, “and I’m not about to walk you home like some damsel in distress.”

No, you know he won’t do that. But you also know that when he lets you leave he’ll do a thorough search of the immediate area for any signs of danger, and then perch on a rooftop until he sees you get to where you're going—the very same thing he’s done for dozens of other women in his lifetime. That you’d seen him do with your own two eyes though he hadn’t been able to see you with his. 

“I’m not lost or going home—and I’m certainly not in distress.” 

“Well, where are you going?” he demands, still staunch in his skepticism and evident distrust of you and your motives. The knife between his fingers twitches in irritation.

“Hmm, not sure,” you remark, lips pursing in consideration. You settle on something half-way to a truth. “I thought I’d just… wander for the night.”

He makes that sound he always does: a hiss of air behind his teeth that sounds neither like a tut nor a click of his tongue, but rather a combination of the two. There’s a tick of strain in his jaw.

“Did you break outta somewhere? Because if you have a boss that’s coming looking for you, you’re moving at an awfully slow pace.”

Your brows lift.

“I’m not running from anyone, and I don’t have a boss.” 

Well, that last part is a bit of a lie—but he has no need to know that. 

He looks like he doesn’t believe you. 

“What?” you ask him, noticing the look on his handsome face. 

Levi’d grown into his looks beyond anything you could have imagined from the gaunt little boy he’d once been. 

“There aren’t many people in this shithole who look like you do and don’t have someone who’s taking care of them—and it’s rarely charitable.” He tacks the last part on pointedly—sharp in its implication.

“Look like I do?”  You quirk a brow inquisitively. “And whatever do you mean by that?” 

Levi’s lips part, and then close again—if it wasn't so dim in the Underground, and if your eyes weren’t so damn human at the moment, you might believe you see him flush.

“You look… healthy,” he settles on the word after long pause for deliberation. 

“Be careful, sir—I’m a lady, after all.”

His eyes flicker up to you the minute you say the word sir. Something shifts behind the silver of his eyes, and suddenly he looks every bit as dangerous as you know him to be.

You keep walking at a leisurely pace, and the sound of his boots on the street behind you tell you that he’s following.

“What’s your game?” he asks, jaw clenched as he falls into step beside you. 

“I have no idea what you mean. I’m just a healthy girl out for an evening stroll,” you flick your skirt a little as you walk, like you’re frolicking through a garden and not a filthy underground street. 

“You must have a death wish to wander around like this all night,” he snaps at you. Your eyes search for his, wondering why he cares.

You stop.

Something flutters in the pit of your stomach—rippling like a pebble dropped in a still pond, and radiating outwards as it grows inside of you. For a moment you appreciate how deliciously foreign it feels to feel at all, but the reflection is swallowed rapidly by something more desperate. Something more esurient.

“Then why don’t you take me home with you,” you say the words quietly, breathy and exhilarated, as your fingers grip the material of your skirt, “if you’re so concerned about me?” 

Levi narrows his eyes in disgust, recoiling from you slightly but not stepping away.

“I don’t pay for sex.”

That’s because you don’t get any, you want to add but don’t.

“I don’t remember asking you to pay me,” you quip instead, inching forward until your noses are practically brushing, wetting your lips with the tip of your tongue.

“You either want me to pay you outright, or you’ll steal my coin purse before you leave,” Levi tries to put bite behind his words, but his eyes follow the gentle sweep of your tongue across your lips too raptly for them to sting. “Maybe both.”

“I don’t have any interest in your money,” you breathe, reaching up towards his face. Just before your fingers can graze the smooth skin of his cheek, you feel a hand around your windpipe, and the press of brick against your back.

Levi has you pressed against the wall faster than you see it coming, his blade poised to your throat.

A thrill runs down your spine.

You don’t feel fear—how could you? It’s not like you can die. Fear is just another honour bestowed upon the living.

No, as the cool metal presses against the hot skin of your neck, you feel only excitement. It’s as clear an indicator as any that Levi’s careful composure is starting to crack.

You didn’t think it would be this easy. Didn’t think that after only a few words he’d be so affected—and you can’t help but wonder if he feels it too. That draw. That magnetism that has you constantly coming back to find him in this damp, dark streets so very far from the light of day.

“You’ve lost your mind,” Levi breathes, eyes scanning your face. You can see the fascination in his eyes, the way he can’t understand why even with your life in his hands you don’t cower or shy away from him. The frustration as he works through why he likes it so much.

You press closer, and without thinking he lifts the pressure of the knife so you don’t hurt yourself.

“I suspect you may be right,” you reply airily. 

Your eyes flicker up, and you realize that you’ve come to the staircase of his residence. There are no lights on inside. No one is home.

“You didn’t answer my question you know,” you murmur, eyes watching the way his lips part carefully—like you don’t want to miss a moment of the sight. “Are you going to take me home, sir?”

The words deliver the final killing blow to his restraint, a hand grasping the back of your neck to pull you close enough that your mouths can meet.

It’s all so mortal. So biological. From the pulse pounding in your ears and the warmth that swirls through you. It’s a symphony of sensations, the likes of which you have no memory of ever feeling. You wonder if the euphoria that washes over you is something you’ve experienced before, in a lifetime that no longer lives in your memory. 

You wonder how any force on heaven or earth could have ever made you forget it.

Levi’s hands are steady as they cup your cheeks, but he seems reserved, his initial fervour softening into something more delicate as your lips part against his. He’s very tender for a man who’d had a knife on your jugular only a moment prior.

He guides you up the stairs to his apartment—unlocking the door without having to separate from you for too long, pressing you against the wall just inside once the two of you are safely across the threshold.

“Levi,” you whimper as his body—his solid, sturdy body—presses into yours.

He draws back, his stare dark as he meets your gaze.

“How do you know my name?”

“Everyone around here knows your name,” you lie, your throat tight, and hope he accepts it.

If he doesn’t, he still continues on.

He’s unpracticed, but earnest. You see it in the way his eyes aren’t sure where they want to look as you slip out of your dress, the material pooling on the uneven floorboards at your feet in his bedroom. You feel it when his hands drift—hip to sternum, back to breast—like he can’t decide where he wants to touch you as more and more of your skin is exposed. 

The cold nips at you, but not for long. Not with Levi’s body joining yours atop the rough weave of his bedsheets.

Levi kisses you like he’s been starved of it.

You feel the same.

It’s messy and desperate—nipping and licking and sucking between your greedy, spit slick lips—a give and take between whoever wants it more. Needs it more.

You take Levi’s hand in your own, delighting in the weight of it—the feel of his skin against yours. You guide it down to the dripping wet heat between your legs. Your fingers press his where you need them, you show him how to stoke the flames consuming you.

Your head pushes back into the thin pillow it rests upon as two fingers slip themselves inside of you, curling experimentally.

“Yes, yes,” you babble, and your encouragement bolsters him, his confidence building with every word of praise that passes through your swollen lips. 

But there’s no time to waste. Every precious second is one you cannot bear to squander.

You reach for him, changing your positions and pressing him down into the mattress as you straddle his waist. Your hand strokes him languidly, thumbing at the sensitive ridge underneath the blushing tip of his cock.

“You’re good at this,” Levi says mistrustfully, squirming under your attention—the motions of your gentle hands almost too much for him to bear.

“It’s because I want you,” you sigh the words out, airy and yet somehow so heavy—anchored down with longing.

You rise to your knees atop him, and his hands settle at your hips.

His fingers tremble as he holds you.

You sink down onto him.

You both moan—yours drawn out and beatific, his quiet and restrained.

You lean down, his grip holding you still as he’s sheathed inside of you, adjusting to the heat and pressure wrapped around him. You slot your mouth to his once more, and delight in the way his lips part so willingly for you when you ease your tongue between them.

You wait a moment, and when you’re sure he’s ready you begin to move, dragging yourself up his length before pressing back down again, your walls clinging desperately every ridge and curve of his cock along the way. 

Both your breaths are laboured, the quiet room in his empty apartment filled with the sound of panting, the rustling of bedsheets, the slap of skin on skin.

It’s all so much. You feel so much. So good, so warm, so blissfully full of him. You revel in the way you see perspiration beading on your skin, the slick of his arousal and yours dripping down your thighs, the heartbeat that thunders in your chest.

You feel alive.

Your fingers find the swell of your clit, running them over it in ungraceful swipes as the two of you both race headlong towards your ends.

“What are you doing?” Levi asks, watching the way you touch yourself from beneath half-lidded eyes. 

“Feels good,” you keen, your fingers moving faster after hearing the ragged, rough tone of his voice. 

Levi pushes your hand away and takes up the task.

A few more careful rolls of your hips, and the press of his thumb against your clit has you tumbling over a precipice to your undoing. You crumple forward into him, your nails digging into the skin of his chest, and he flips the two of you over as he chases his own release.

Levi’s hips jerk against yours, pressing your willing, pliant body down into the sheets as he fucks you once, twice, three times more, and then he’s spilling himself inside of you with a groan so uncharacteristically vocal it makes you keen.

The two of you collapse side-by-side in his narrow bed.

You’re exhausted, achy, and thoroughly spent.

It’s unbearable and exquisite all at once.

It’s warm beside Levi in such confined quarters, but comfortable. The thought of leaving pains you, so you make no move to depart. Your shared breaths even out, a precious, fragile peace settling over the room.

Levi fights the weight of his eyelids for as long as he can, but soon, against his will, he slips away to the call of slumber.

In the quiet of his little room, you can’t help but watch him while he sleeps. You commit the lines of his face to your memory as best you can make them out in the dark, along with the feeling of his body curled around yours.

You can hardly believe he fell asleep—the same young man who’d been so mistrustful such a short time prior. You suspect, now more than ever, that he must feel it too—a knot no power could unbind, that could be forced to separate but would never truly be apart—that tethers the two of you together.

You lay beside him and count out the heartbeats that pass as you feel yourself growing colder, less tangible, as the seconds and the pulse count ticks on. You know that many miles above, on the surface, the sun must be preparing to break the horizon and spill into a new day.

When Levi wakes, he thinks you’re gone, though you’re still there.

He smiles at his coin purse that you’ve left beside him on the pillow where your head once rested. He picks it up, wrapping it tightly in his hand.

“I never got your name,” he says quietly into the room that’s not as empty as he thinks it is.

He looks for you on the same street corner every night for a month, but never finds you there again.

You’re ripped out of Limbo through no conscious effort of your own. One second you’re dangling your legs off the side of your favourite bridge, and the next you’re knee deep in mud that runs scarlet.

A job?

In the corner of your eye you see that last wisps of two souls, a deep, cobalt blue, and a beautiful shade of purple.

Furlan.

Isabel.

You pass their reapers as you race to find him, but spare them no semblance of recognition. 

Your eyes alternate between scanning the sky for his fate and searching for him across the trodden, blood soaked earth: even through the clouds of steam and drizzling rain, you can see the distant stars. 

They’ve shifted, and you feel nauseated by what you see. Something chokes you.

For the first time in all your memory, you know the iron grip of fear. 

Fate, in spite of what some may think, is fluid. It ebbs and flows like a tide. Changes course like a river that grows stronger after heavy rain, or dries up to little more than a stream in a withering summer. Fate can be changed by force of will, or when someone’s will abandons them. 

The choice to give up can shift the stars. 

You find Levi alone.

Physically unharmed, but his will broken.

His eyes are a flat, lifeless grey, even though his heart is still hammering in his chest.

“Move, damn it,” you hiss, desperate to grab him by the shoulders and shake him into action. He’s still in danger. He needs to move. But you can’t touch him, and even if you could it would already be too late—the cruel reality being that the only time he’d be able to see you would mean that his fate had already been sealed.

He looks crushed. Defeated.

Wholly resigned to his own demise.

A titan is approaching—the soulless vessel lumbering towards where the two of you stand. A body without a soul, where you are a soul without a body. It can touch him where you can’t. It can harm him where you cannot save him.

Panic swells in you like a fire. It’s not his time. You’ve seen the stars, you’ve followed the lines of his path more times than you can count as you lay in Limbo—you know it better than you know anything, could trace it even with your eyes closed. 

You know that he has more life ahead of him if only he chooses to take it. 

“Levi, move.” 

His eyes lift as if he hears you, staring at you from across the battle ground that has stolen the souls of the two people most precious to him.

There’s an intensity burning in his gaze that almost knocks you off your feet, and you stumble back, landing flat on your ass.

Lush grass tickles your palm.

The clouds and the rain are gone.

Above you there are only stars that blaze angrily down at you.

The stars, and Zola.

She’d dragged you back into Limbo with her bare hands.

“This is bad,” she says gently down to you, her glassy vacant eyes glimmering with something you’ve never seen before.

“I know.”

“You’re bound,” she says again, though she really need not.

It’s a truth you’ve long come to accept.

“I know,” you repeat the same words again. “I… made him a promise. When he was a child. I think that’s what did it.”

“You made a mortal a promise? He saw you?” she asks, incredulity seeping into her usually placid tone.

You nod.

“This isn’t going to end well, you know,” she says, and for the first time in all of the forever that you’ve known her, there’s something close to worry in her tone. “For either of you.”

She says it as though you haven’t already come to the realization that she’s grappling with, as though you don’t understand the weight of what has happened to your soul—the one that was supposed to be unfettered to anything, not to life, nor to death. To no earthly body. To no other soul. 

You’d lived once. Been human once. Had a fate that had been written in the pin-prick lights of the stars, and a soul that had come up for judgement.

You’d been offered a choice, so very long ago. Become a reaper, or face the tribunal of adjudicators to have the worth of your soul ruled upon.

You don’t know why the adjudicators had chosen you, why they had offered you this path. There’s so much about reaping that’s shrouded in mystery, with no threads to pull and unravel into truth. It was a reality that you had never taken issue with, accepted for what it was and never questioned, never searched for why. 

But it’s different now.

You’ve heard whispers—speculation—that reapers are the unlucky souls who merited neither reincarnation nor The Void. Not good nor bad, but the grey area in between. And so the choice to become indentured in the guidance of souls is almost like penance—paying into a fund of atonement that will never amount to enough to buy your freedom.

You have no memories of your mortal life, however many you may have lived, but you remember what you’d thought then—before the panel of adjudicators who shone so brightly you could not rest your eyes upon them. A fate you knew was better than one uncertain. An eternity of reaping favourable to the terrifying possibility of The Void.

And it was fine. You were fine.

Until Levi.

Soulmates are rare. You’ve only reaped a true pair in all your eternity of servitude—two souls of the same hue, bound so tightly you were forced to pry them apart with the force of your own two hands.

But you’ve also heard of reapers finding their soulmates in the living. Of those, like you, who find themselves shackled to another mortal soul, never able to join them the way every fibre of their being—the very essence of what and who they are—begs them to. And, eventually, they’re left to reap the soul to which they’re bound.

That’s the fate they’re forced to bear. 

It’s a story circulated among your kind that’s more like folklore than fact—a tale to frighten and to fascinate, but with uncertain origin or basis.

But you’ve always wondered, somewhere in the fathomless recesses of your mind when you’ve had all eternity to do nothing but ponder, if there was truth to it. And, if so, what happens to those reapers, the ones who were forced to follow the soul to which they were bound through countless lifetimes. To have but never to hold.

And now you wonder if maybe those reapers who linger by The Void between new jobs may not be so different from you after all.

Eld’s soul is a sunny yellow, Gunther’s a deep burgundy, Oluo’s a cool crisp lavender, and Petra’s a sparkling copper.

Kenny’s soul is silver, but it looks more blue in the sunlight—almost periwinkle if the rays catch it in just the right way. Like his eyes. Like Levi’s.

Erwin’s is a deep, strong green—like the cape Levi wraps around him after he makes the difficult choice to let him rest. Your eyes watch the stars as he makes his decision, but truly you know all along what he will choose—the lights overhead hardly quiver as he considers his options.

It amazes you.

The way every soul he meets sings for him. Adores him.

Dies for him.

You reap them all. 

The years continue to pass.

Levi stands upon a bridge, white birch boards underfoot, and a stygian river with no current below that.

You stand before him, a few planks width between you both.

“It’s you,” he says, blinking curiously like he can’t quite believe his eyes.

“Hm?” you tilt your head to one side, playing coy.

“Years ago,” he breathes, reflecting back upon the memory. “The working girl from the Underground.”

You scoff, but you’re smiling. “You didn’t pay me for my services, and I didn’t rob you.”

“I thought maybe you were just bad at it.”

You laugh.

People think a white soul is desirable, that it’s pure. You don’t deny they have their own beauty, but you’ve always found them boring to look at, and easy to reap. 

Levi’s is every colour. An amalgamation of each soul who’s touched his life. Periwinkle, deep blue, amethyst, silver, emerald. You see every hue in him. 

He’s beautiful. 

“Why are you here?” he asks you quietly, a pensive furrow in his brow.

His face looks younger here. Less burdened. The weight of the world left behind.

He should be asking why he’s here. Or where here even is. But his attention is only on you.

You keep your eyes on him, though you know the stars are blazing overhead. Shifting into something you do not wish to see.

“I came to say goodbye.”

“Goodbye? What the hell are you talking about?” he asks gruffly. You smile again, but this time it’s rueful. 

There’s a moment of quiet.

It’s so, so still in Limbo. You’ve never noticed that before.

“Where are you going?” when Levi speaks again, his tone is almost sheepish—hesitant and shy. The pretence of his bravado has melted, his gruffness gone in place of a more sincere expression.

You sigh. “I guess I got fired.”

Levi’s lips part. “What did you do?”

“It’s something I didn’t do,” you explain as you take a small step towards him that he matches, both of you tired of resisting the pull you feel to the other. “Something I refused to do, really—”

You and Levi stand toe to toe, so very close together.

Your eyes scan his face: the soft slope of his nose, the gentle curve of his lips, the angular shape of his eyes. 

You know him so well. 

You wish you knew him more.

“—And I’m the only one who can. So I quit technically, I think. Not actually quite sure how it works.”

“You don’t make any sense,” he mutters, reaching up towards your cheek. When he first touches you, he draws his hand back slightly, like he’s not expecting you to feel so solid underneath his fingertips.

“I know,” you say, a laugh weaving its way through your words despite the ache in your chest. You lean into his touch and he lets you.

“This is a dream, right?” Levi asks as he drags his thumb along the apple of your cheek, brushing back towards your temple. His touch is soft and warm.

“Do you dream of me often?” you dare to ask.

He looks at you strangely, but makes no effort to deny it.

“Well, if this is a dream, what will you do?” you ask him.

Levi’s brow furrows.

“Don’t say fly.”

“I wasn’t going to say fucking fl-“ you lean so close to him he falters without completing the thought.

“Levi, can I ask something of you?”

He hesitates in the wake of your unexpected request, and then slowly bobs his head in a nod.

“Will you kiss me goodbye?” 

The meeting of your lips is sweet and soft and slow. You want more of it and nothing else. You wish that it could last.

“What’s your name?” Levi pulls away and whispers, his breath fanning against your lips—he’s not far enough to be considered wholly separate from you, but distant enough to miss the taste of him. “I always ask but you never tell me.”

You smile, tracing your finger through the soft strands of his hair, and you tell him.

He repeats it, tests it out as though getting used to the feeling of it on his tongue. 

You kiss him again, one last time.

“Thank you,” you tell him as you take a step back that requires more effort than you’ve ever had to expend.

“For what?” he asks, blinking through a heavy lidded gaze.

You smile, a heat pricking at the back of your eyes.

“For seeing me.”

“Please.” Levi seems to sense what’s coming before it arrives, choking on the plea as it rises in his throat. “Don’t g-“

You press two hands against his chest, and push him onto his back.

Levi groans.

The river beside you rushes past relentlessly.

He can’t open one eye, a gruesome wound ripped across his face, and the other is mostly shut as he fights to stay conscious.

There’s so much blood.

But his heart is beating.

“You looked better when you were dead,” your words are soft as you crouch over him.

You smile, pressing a kiss to his forehead that you know he cannot feel.

“Hi Zo,” you say, looking up and seeing Zola standing above you.

“You really went and did it, huh?”

Levi murmurs your name.

A soul for a soul. 

A balance to keep.

“Yeah, I guess I did.”

You look up towards the stars, but see only clouds hanging in the sky overhead. His fate is out of your sight now.

Zola holds out her hand to you, a grim, almost watery smile on her face.

You take her hand, and let her reap you.

You don’t like it underground.

It’s dark, and cold, and there’s always something about being so far below the surface that makes you feel unsettled—though you can’t quite put your finger on why.

Your palm curls into an empty fist, tucked into your pocket.

Shit.

You’ve forgotten your rail pass, and the time on the screen of your cellphone tells you that your train is about to pull into the station. It’s late, and it's the last train of the night that will get you home.

Your head whips around, scanning the empty underground station. There’s no one around, so you hop the barrier without paying.

An angry shout from a passing security guard calls out for you, and it sends you running—giggling a little as your pulse pounds in your throat. You make it to your platform and slip onto the last train just in time, stumbling through the closing door, triumph rising in your chest.

Your celebration is short-lived as you crash face fist into something soft, tumbling to the ground of the train as it pulls away from the station.

The lights race past in a blur as the train travels through the tunnels, shadow and light alternating before your eyes.

“Are you insane?” an angry voice snaps, and you pick your head up from where it rests—only to meet a narrowed grey gaze that belongs to the man whose body you find your own sprawled atop.

“Maybe” you say with a laugh, pushing yourself up and dusting yourself off. 

The train is empty this time of night—it really was terrible luck that this poor guy happened to be on the other side of the door as you’d barrelled your way through it. 

“Sorry about that,” you say, extending your hand towards your unwitting crash-pad to help him up as well. 

He eyes it skeptically before he takes it. He feels warm.

He rises to his feet.

“I… I’m Levi.”

His hand is still in yours.

You tell him your name, he repeats it back to you.

“Have we met? You look… familiar.”

You tilt your head, watching the glimmer in his silver eyes as the lights outside the train windows flicker past.

“No,” you say, warmth in your words and your cheeks. “I don’t think we have.”

#levi x reader #levi x you #levi ackerman x reader #levi ackerman x you #levi smut #levi ackerman smut #levi ackerman fanfiction #levi fanfiction #attack on titan fic #aot smut #aot fic #aot writing #writing

[the-darklings]

—𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒕𝒓𝒖𝒕𝒉 𝒘𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒔𝒆𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒇𝒓𝒆𝒆;

—PART XVIII. | THE TRUTH WILL SET YOU FREE

pairing: john wick x f!reader x santino d’antonio

word count: 36.2k+ (honk, honk, honk x 2)

summary: “You’re just a little tragedy, aren’t you?”

warnings: swearing, strong violence, blood, likely some emotional damage to readers inbound

notes: I waited for this chapter for a very, very long time and been laying the foundation for 250k. Lets begin. 

children of ares series: 01 | …. | 16 | 17 | . . | 19 |

Sometimes he genuinely wonders how many poor decisions led him here.

To this exact moment in time. To this exact set of circumstances.

“I wish to see him.”

Winston tilts his head at the cool demand, not letting any outwards reaction slip.

The Adjudicator stares him down like the request should have been fulfilled yesterday. He’s not, admittedly, used to people making such demands. Especially not so brazenly. And inside his own hotel no less.

He gazes at them for a beat before nodding his head stagily.

“Forgive me and my old age,” he begins calmly. “But who exactly do you wish to see? The chef perhaps?”

He knows perfectly well who the Adjudicator wants to see. Judging by the slight, annoyed pinch of their mouth so do they. Charon stands a step behind the High Table’s associate and his expression is as professionally cool as always. In truth, however, they are both wary at best.

“You know of whom I speak,” the Adjudicator snips, their voice that calm, almost robotic cold. “Santino D’Antonio was shot at this hotel, was he not? Mr Wick fired the shot but the bullet failed to kill him. To our knowledge, he is still in your care. Or is that incorrect?”

Keep him safe.

Such a simple request. A request to keep a man he barely tolerates on a good day shielded from other sharks. For once, Winston wishes you cared about yourself as much as you do about others.  

You, Santino, John—you’re all I have. I can’t lose anyone else. I can’t.

Sometimes—often—the memory of those words worries him. Truly. Wild, relentless drive and desperation rarely mix well together. The former you have plenty of and the latter has been mounting too rapidly for his liking.

Silencing his thoughts, Winston tilts his head in an accommodating manner. Conjuring an innocent expression, he nods his head for what feels like the hundredth time in the last hour alone.

“Ah, yes, Mr D’Antonio. Tragic, truly, but the Vipress saved his life,” he explains smoothly, watching the individual before him with the same shrewdness the Adjudicator is watching him. “Rather heroically, too. Quite surprising that the Table did not see her actions as such.”

The Adjudicator’s eyes narrow. From their spot on the office chair, the Table’s representative regards him with disinterested, yet vexed expression. Clearly, his approach of talking circles and giving half-answers about your and Johnathan’s whereabouts has not left a good impression.

That’s exactly the point though.

“The woman known to us as the Vipress had plenty of chances to stop Mr Wick,” the Adjudicator answers; an expected explanation, a pitiless one, too. “She failed. Even though she is one of the few individuals realistically capable of such a feat. Therefore, under our assessment, there is nothing here to celebrate.”

Winston turns, lowering his whiskey glass back onto the table. He leans back towards it, completely relaxed, his palms resting against the edges of the smooth wood.

“Loyalty,” he muses lightly, letting the word hang in the air for a bit. “Such rarity nowadays, would you not agree? It is rather difficult to stay neutral when you have an emotional investment in both parties caught in the conflict.”

The Adjudicator stands at that, their willowy frame stretching to their full height. Little sympathy can be found in their stony expression. “Only loyalty to the High Table should matter. The Vipress has shown to have very little of it. Now, Mr D’Antonio?”

He didn’t expect this to be easy. But he doesn’t let so much as a whisper of his exasperation show. Winston considers, calculating what harm could be done versus the gap of time it might buy him, hesitating for only a beat before dipping his head in agreement.

“Of course, follow me,” he says pleasantly, gesturing with his arm. “He came out of surgery several days ago.”

Over the Adjudicator’s shoulder, a faint glint of surprise shows on Charon’s face before the man blinks it away swiftly. The concierge knows better than to question outright. Old and tested loyalty lives between them. The manager always does things for a reason, and the concierge follows graciously every time because he knows as much.

The Adjudicator stalks after him silently, Charon a few steps behind them. The elevator ride down is silent and tense. No need for empty exchanges between them and neither party bothers pretending otherwise.

Only a day left on the clock. Then he’s expected to step back and leave his hotel—his legacy—behind to some stranger the Table deems worthy. The thought alone almost makes him scoff again.

The High Table can take the Continental from his cold, dead hands.

And he imagines there are at least one or two individuals who may have something to say about that.

You have contributed to the chaos, little hatchling, but what now? You can’t win this game by sacrificing your Queen.

The elevator halts with a rumble. Worn metal creaks. Winston reaches out, pulling back the metal partition. The white hallways of the medical wing are silent and undisturbed by the bustle of the front foyer. Heaviness hangs in the air as he strolls down the long stretch of white, his shoes clicking against the spotless flooring. Charon and the Adjudicator are only several steps behind him but he’s in no hurry.

They round the corner and three heads turn in their direction.

The fourth doesn’t move.

Here we go.

Camorra’s Elite Four sit like guard dogs of the most vicious variety at the end of the lengthy hallway. Behind them stands a door. Behind that door, Winston knows, Santino D’Antonio now lays, clinging to his life and healing. Hopefully. He couldn’t care less about the Italian living or dying, but for your sake, he needs the arrogant man to pull through.  

The closer they come, the tenser the air becomes.

The tallest and broadest of the guards is leaning against the wall but pushes away from it upon their approach, uncrossing his arms as he stops in their path. The first line of defence.  

Another—the sharpshooter, if Winston recalls correctly—rises a second behind that, lowering a gleaming pistol he was fiddling with. Eyes narrowed, distrustful.

The youngest—the smiling nightmare, as you’ve called him once—doesn’t shift from his spot on the floor, a laptop in his lap. A pop of chewing gum fills the silence when he glances up lazily at the commotion over his round sunglasses.

And finally closest to the door—nearest to the Camorra boss, always the most vicious and final deterrent—stands the Devil of Camorra. He doesn’t look at them. He almost appears thoughtful, playing with a lighter in his hand as he leans against the wall.

Click, click, click.

“Can we help you?” the tallest asks politely, his Italian accent faint but still noticeable.

The sharpshooter stands by his side, frowning faintly.

A polite, unspoken warning hangs in the air. The woman—D’Antonio’s bodyguard that you’ve called a good friend on many occasions—appears to be missing. Though Winston doubts she’s far behind. He’s seen her by the Italian side for almost as many years as he’s seen you.

The Adjudicator speaks before he can. “I wish to see the Camorra family head, and the new member of the High Table, Santino D’Antonio.”

“Respectfully, who are you supposed to be?” the sharpshooter demands, his dark eyes narrowing marginally.

Loyal. To a degree at least. Winston had been hopeful they would be. He’s not surprised to see them standing guard, either. He’s betting on them continuing doing so.

“An Adjudicator,” the youngest quips from his spot on the floor, his fingers clicking across the keyboard. Another pop of gum follows. “Sent to adjudicate this hotel, I bet. Bang, bang—not a good look for the sturdy, old table. Seccante.”

The Adjudicator’s head slants; a calculating motion. “The Chameleon of Camorra,” they state flatly, unimpressed. “Former association with an organisation known as Slifer before Giovanni D’Antonio recruited you to Camorra’s ranks, correct?”

The young man in question drops his head back with a gleaming smile. The tattoos across his neck ripple with the gesture, and a gleam of white appears even brighter in the artificial light.  

“Oh yeah,” he drawls, amused. “Papi Giovanni welcomed me with open arms.”

There is clearly more to this tale. The implication is blatant even if the words are presented as a joke but Winston can still read it.

“You can’t see him.”

All eyes slide towards the Camorra Devil. His voice is gravelly, uncompromising, and he still doesn’t bother looking at them. Part arrogance, Winston imagines, and part genuine disinterest with them and the situation.  

“I have the right—”

“We have orders not to let anyone see Santino until he’s fit enough to take back command.”

At long last, the Devil turns towards them. The look in his icy eyes is a clear, if barely polite, warning. The man called Hector always had a reputation for being Giovanni’s most violent lapdog. Serving Camorra for years without a single falter. That level of loyalty is admittedly rare, especially when Winston knows others have tried to recruit the Devil in the past.

Hector, unlike you, has never been bound by a debt that kept him chained to Camorra. He stays because he wants to. If there are any other reasons for that loyalty, they’re unknown to the manager.

Though Winston has never interacted with the leader of the Elite’s, he’s heard plenty about him, and can understand why his name is spoken with trepidation. Despite it being subtle, the air around the man is still hostile. Brimming with a promise of violence.

“Whose orders?” the Adjudicator interrogates. “The council of Camorra—”

Whatever card they were hoping to play gets crushed in seconds.

“Our current acting boss. The Vipress,” the Devil announces, sounding annoyed, and pockets his lighter before pushing away from the wall. Another pop of gum ripples from the youngest Elite. Hector prowls closer, deliberately slow, and walks past the other two members of the guard. The Devil halts in front of the Adjudicator, appearing utterly bored. “You might be familiar with her. Stubborn, demanding, likes knives a little too much, starts shit wherever she goes. Santino named her his heir. No one is allowed to see him on her orders.”

Winston has to bite back a small smile. Perfect.

The Adjudicator stands completely still, their stare hard while they process the new information.

The manager hangs back, not saying a word, watching the silent face-off with vague amusement. He has to admit that at least the Devil doesn’t lack nerve. The other three don’t appear nearly as intimidated as they should be, either.

Adjudicators are feared for a reason. They have a vast reserve of power bestowed upon them by the highest tiers of the Table. Adjudicators stand even above Continental managers. Something Winston has been rather unpleasantly reminded of with Johnathan’s latest actions.

“The will of the Table stands above the individual order of someone who has been made Excommunicado.”

Mild but icy. Clearly, the not-so-subtle defiance from the Devil of Camorra hasn’t gone down well, either. Behind the tall man, the other two shift in their spots, tense. An exaggerated sigh sounds from behind them, and the chameleon rises to his feet as well. Cracking his neck, he strolls towards his associates, leaning his shoulder against the sharpshooter. The other man doesn’t so much as blink, clearly used to such antics.

“We answer to the will of the Camorra boss only,” Hector informs coolly, his tone just barely passing for polite. “We have since the beginning of Camorra family inception.”

We don’t answer to you, goes unsaid but the double meaning is clear. Winston straightens, a touch surprised. He wasn’t aware that such a divide existed between the highest tier of Camorra members and a top level High Table representative. He wonders if it’s more so the threat to their boss—the last D’Antonio left to carry the bloodline that founded Camorra centuries ago—or simple dislike that is driving such blatant disobedience.

The manager sincerely doubts that this refusal to comply is born out of genuine loyalty towards you or respect for your command. Especially from the Devil who holds no loyalties other than one towards Camorra.

The Adjudicator’s head dips, their short black hair appearing even darker in the bright light.

“There are rules. You are not above them,” they speak briskly, softly. “No one is above them. You are all bound to the will of the Table and exist under it.”

Another obnoxiously loud pop of the gum and the youngest of the Elite’s grins. “Actually we’re part of the Table,” he notes nonchalantly, but there is something icy about the slight edge to his grin. Distantly, Winston recalls you telling him that from all the Elites, it’s the chameleon you won’t want as your enemy the most. “Take one leg out and the whole table wobbles.”

The silence that follows those words is stifling. No one speaks or moves.

“No rules have been broken,” Hector eventually bites out, blunt but controlled. “We’re just guarding our boss. Shouldn’t you be commending our loyalty, huh?”

An unexpected bait but not one the Adjudicator rises to. Their expression remains steely, their eyes dragging over the Camorra Four before they finally turn away.

“Very well,” they intone flatly, their eyes narrowing marginally, and their tone dismissive. “Next time I will return with a direct order to stand down.”

“You do that,” the Devil shoots back without missing a beat.

The Adjudicator pauses, their eyes flickering back towards the man, digging into him for a moment before their attention drops away. Winston remains composed when the Adjudicator’s stare moves to him next, cold as ice, an unspoken burn of anger present in their eyes. Clearly, they’re not very used to not being heeded.

“I will be in my room.”

The Adjudicator doesn’t stick around to see if anyone has anything to say about that. They turn to go without sparing anyone another word, their steps brisk and sharp, betraying the displeasure absent from their frosty expression.

It’s quiet while they all stand, listening to the sound of retreating footsteps and, eventually, the whirl of the elevator going up.

It’s only then that the Elites relax, their guarded demeanours easing a bit.

“So mean spirited,” the chameleon mutters under his breath, unimpressed, and turns to go back to his laptop. “Exhausting.”

“Gentlemen.”

Winston nods his head at the Devil specifically, but Hector only grunts under his breath with a roll of his eyes. Briefly, he glances at Charon, his eyes narrowing before he turns away and stalks back to his previous spot.

Conversation over.

Fine by him.

The other two—the sharpshooter and the strength—return his nod, polite but stiff.

Winston tips his head in their direction one last time, and turns on his heels to go. No one stops him, and Charon trails after the manager a few seconds later.

It’s only when they both step into the elevator, the door closing softly behind them, that Charon finally speaks, “Nicely done, sir.”

Winston sighs, his shoulders dropping.

“It’s only a temporary deterrent, I’m afraid,” he admits and knows he’s right. If the Adjudicator does get that order the Four will not be enough. “The hatchling?”

The concierge straightens, his hands folded behind his back.

“The last sighting was reported as the Moroccan Continental, sir.”

There is a tickle of relief followed by a sting of concern. “Good. Then she as good as made it.”

He’s still not quite sure how he feels about the idea, however.

“If I may, sir,” Charon begins as if sensing the manager’s unease. “You do not look pleased about that.”

There is no point in trying to deny it, so Winston doesn’t.

“Not at all,” he agrees smoothly, feeling the elevator halt and the concierge moves ahead, opening the partition for them. “If it had been up to me, she never would have had to go back there. But she’s been reckless and manoeuvred herself into a corner with only one ace left to play. Herself.”

Seven years in this world. Seven long years of fighting for freedom and now there is a reputation that has been built upon that desperation. A reputation that has attracted all sorts of attention over the years.

Charon both looks and sounds troubled while they walk through the lobby. “Is there a reason for concern, sir?”

All these moving pieces forming an ever-shifting pattern. Something has been brewing for a while now. Winston can’t help but feel like he’s missing and not seeing something crucial. Like all those pieces are put together at a slightly wrong angle, disorientating the whole picture.

What will you do now, little hatchling?

The Elder. That history between you, that story you shared—they all weigh heavily on the manager’s mind. Always have.

He comes to a gradual stop.

“Oh, yes,” he mutters, pensive, shaking his head as he glances at the concierge beside him with open unease. “Most certainly.”

Every breath takes notable effort.

Your instincts pinprick, trying to acclimate to the too-familiar surroundings—count and anticipate any potential threats. Everything about being back here feels so familiar it is its own kind of torture.

Your skin itches. One side of your face and hands—everywhere the scorching sun has managed to touch you the most—stretches uncomfortably with every twitch of your muscles. It’s a discomfort that comes with sunburns often earned in an unforgiving terrain like the desert, and you try to lick your dry lips, lifting your head. Your vision swims immediately, an explosion of vivid spots blinding you, and you careen dangerously to one side, hissing under your breath.

Eyes track every jerk of your body, and you know full well you’re not alone in this tent.

You’re almost afraid to look at him. Then feel idiotic for feeling that way. Maybe it’s because you had hoped that this chapter of your life was shut and laid to rest long ago, and it’s a hard pill to swallow, knowing that he was right after all.

“Drink.”

It’s then that you notice a cup sitting on a small, wooden table to the side. Part of you wants to cackle till you choke when you realise it’s the same green cup you drank from during your first test with him years ago.

Gathering yourself, you reach for the cup despite your dread, your digits folding around it carefully.

The drink inside smells minty and fresh but you don’t find anything amiss with it on the first inspection. A vague recollection of a similar scent tickling your senses when you were coming in and out of consciousness comes crawling back. With that in mind, you finally tip the cup down, taking a purposeful sip.

It empties in three slow gulps and you lower it back onto the table, still silent. It does make you feel better instantly, lifting the dense fog that was previously crushing your mind. A sense of déjà vu nips at your senses but you push it back. Not much point in delaying this. Though it doesn’t surprise you that he gave you time to gather yourself.  

Kindness with this man, you have long since learned, comes in the smallest of gestures. Tiniest of moments.

Drawing your knees closer, you sit up slowly, your head lowered.

“Why have you come?”

His words send a shiver down your spine that has little to do with heat. You’ve forgotten how much quiet power always rings through his baritone. His smooth, accented words wash over you like a tidal wave; gentle as they are dangerous. Misleading with their softness.

Swallowing, you force your limbs to obey you—to shift the worn muscles into an appropriate position. One knee digs into the carpet beneath you, your hands lacing over your bent thigh when you reposition yourself into a kneeling position. Your head is still lowered and you realise, then, that it isn’t fear of punishment that’s forcing you to stare at the ground.  

It’s him.

He once managed to get under your guard with startling ease and you scrubbed him away. Walked away from him and everything he offered. Tried to forget him despite the cracks. Your choice had made you feel powerful back then. In control. Despite there being a part of you that had longed to stay, you never quite regretted your decision to leave.

Worst, perhaps, is the knowledge that it wasn’t one-sided. You weren’t foolishly pining after the most powerful man in the world. You weren’t naively seeing something that didn’t exist. If anything, his interest in you had been more obvious from the start.

“I—” you mumble, near choking on your suddenly heavy tongue and mangled thoughts. “I came to seek repentance for my actions.”

Silence follows your muffled words and you stare at the ruby ring on your hand intently.

Will he turn you away? Consider you naive and foolish for hoping there’s some semblance of hope?

And where is John? Did he only pick you up and not him? Your weapons—what few you still have—are still on you because you can feel them against your body with every inhale and exhale.

Your empty stomach rolls and you have to bite back the acid welling at the back of your throat the longer you wait. The thrumming of your own heart almost drowns out his voice when the answer does finally come.

“Stand, viper,” the Elder states calmly. “You do not grovel at my feet.”

And just like that your breaths calm. Your dread ebbs like sea waves receding. With his words, you remember that you met as equals and parted as such despite you unearthing his true identity.

He’s right. You don’t grovel at his feet. Or anyone’s.

You stand at once, balancing on your heels, and square your shoulders. The lock of your jaw is a firm one, your stare steady and the steel in your stance returns easily. In that, it feels like no time has passed at all.

Straightening, you look ahead and meet his inquisitive stare evenly.

This time the sight that greets you is befitting the man who rules the High Table. This is how you had expected him to be the first time you met. A golden chair that reminds you more of a throne, and extravagant robes that breathe wealth and showcase his status. Surrounded by his people in a subtle warning though you know he can more than hold his own.

He oozes that unnerving authority but his face is still familiar. Few years have passed since you’ve last seen him, yet he barely looks any different. If it weren’t for several new lines creasing his face, you would have thought that time has simply paused here while you’ve been gone.

The quiet intensity of his heated regard hasn’t changed, either. Nor has the unease or the thrill that comes with having his complete attention on you.

He watches you unblinkingly and you find yourself swallowing again, an immovable knot sitting in your throat.

“Here you are.”

It’s a soft, thoughtful statement and you’re not quite sure what to make of his words or his demeanour, so you settle on a simple, “Here I am.”

He stands at that, his robes rustling in the wake of his sudden movement. His steps are measured and leisurely as he approaches. The Elder’s stare takes every inch of you in and you don’t lower your eyes. He doesn’t look particularly pleased with what he finds and you can’t help but wonder why.  

It still kills a small part of you. That you had to come back but only because you need a favour from him. Not because you returned to join him or even visit him, if you even could.

A part of you…

“I thought that maybe…” you mutter when he halts before you—all heat, spice, and that razor-sharp gaze that seems to burn into you—his hands lacing in front of him as he watches you keenly. “That maybe you forgot about me.”

It’s been years after all. You’re just you. One person in a machine so much larger than yourself. If Elder considered Tarasov to be nothing more than a piece in a more elaborate game years ago—at the near height of his power—then you couldn’t have possibly been that important. Or even noteworthy. He might have thought highly of you once but that was then.

His expression, however, gives you an answer before he can verbally do so.

“How could I?” he questions curiously, softly. As if the concept of forgetting you is truly an inconceivable one for him.

You work your tongue, trying to think of something to say, something clever, but nothing comes.

You simply stare up at him mutely, taking him in, and he you, and it does indeed feel like no time has passed between you. Even though so much is different now.

“I almost came back. Once,” you confess in a breathless rush, blinking rapidly because it’s hard to keep a straight expression under that scrutiny. “I got desperate and angry and…”

And Tarasov won’t let you help Camorra with the Albanians. Had treated you like nothing more than a dog, reminding you of your place. Dependant on his goodwill of which he had none. So you had ran like a reckless idiot. Sick and tired of being dependent on his word. Hoping for his mercy or any crumb of kindness.

“I know,” he murmurs in reply, a secret for you alone. “I waited for you.”

Air escapes your lungs at that mild admittance. At the way his eyes drag over your features, savouring but still guarded—always guarded. Everywhere from your eyes, to the dip of your collarbone, and the bow of your lips. There are others scattered around the tent but it feels like you’re the only ones here.

The golden hue of his eyes glints with knowing light at your reaction, and you force your tongue to work, “I wish to explain myself.”

He nods his head once. Prompt as it is anticipatory. You imagine that to him this is all playing out exactly as he’d been expecting it to. You’re back but a part of you is mangled exactly like he predicted it would be. Vengeance has led you here. Tarasov may be dead but you have only dug yourself into a deeper hole.

“You came all this way,” he says knowingly, his head slanting and lips thinning into an enigmatic half-smile. “Speak freely, viper.”

Your eyes, in return, sweep warily over others inside the tent. Some familiar faces. Others are unknown to you. Only pointed stares and blank expressions greet your curiosity. Inscrutable, severe stares that judge your every move and word. Saad is nowhere to be seen. That surprises you but you don’t let it show.

The Elder notes your wariness, not bothering to look away from you when he commands a soft, “Leave us.”

As one, everyone inside the tent rises. They don’t question, nor do they linger. They file out in a neat line, their robes rustling in the breeze, and you stare after them, surprised. You didn’t expect him to dismiss everyone solely because you felt uneasy talking to him with others around. Although seeing the space clear out is, admittedly, a relief.

Now it’s you two alone and it changes the air between you again. This puts you back in time, even if you try to remain unaffected.

But it’s hard not to. A part of you still sees him as Rafik. A man you have spent endless hours talking to about everything and nothing—a man you considered close to you—despite knowing full well that Rafik isn’t even his real name. In fact, you have no idea what his name is. Or who he is. Not really. He’s still just layers upon layers of mystery. Power. Ancient and tangible.

The way he gazes at you makes you think that isn’t the case, however. There is warmth woven into his regard, an almost fondness that despite being muted is clear to you.

The darkness of that stare is arresting when he reaches out, the warmth of his fingertips ghosting over your bandaged ear. You don’t hold back your wince of pain, pulling away from the contact.

The Elder’s mouth slants downwards at that, his eyes narrowing marginally. He looks thoughtful, displeased almost. The shadow across his expression is new to you. You’ve seen him as many things but tense and unhappy is not one of them.

“What have they done to you?”

It’s a quiet question—a collection of sharp, hard syllables—dragging themselves from somewhere deeper, you can tell.

Your lips part, ready to tell him everything but you stop yourself at once. How would he even look at you if you knew what you did? There would be no chance of forgiveness then. If he knew how badly you broke the very rules he enforces upon everyone in their world repeatedly.

With that in mind, you instead settle on a weak, “Guess you were right.”

Do not let that fire consume you.

He was right. He was always going to be right, you were just too blind and proud to admit it.  

His expression strains, his touch dropping away, and a glint catches your eye when his hand lowers. You feel a thud against your ribcage, and focus on that golden skin, barely breathing to a point his next words hardly register.

“This is not something I wished to be right about,” he says unhappily.

You swallow. Then again.

“You’re wearing it.”

He pauses. It doesn’t take long for him to figure out what you mean by that. The pad of his index finger brushes over the ring he’s wearing absentmindedly. The golden plate seems to gleam at the touch despite neither of you standing in direct sunlight.

“It was a gift,” he says gently in return, his features guarded once more. “A parting gift from you.”

It doesn’t explain much yet it explains everything.

On your last day together, when you visited Casablanca together, you had gotten it for him after arguing Saad out of some local currency under the guise of buying something for yourself. A souvenir as far as he knew back then. But the ring had caught your eye first. Handmade ring crafted out of pale golden metal. It reminded you of the sun that is his presence and the endless stretches of sand surrounding you.

Grinning, and more than a little unsure, you had presented it to him when you sat on the beach together, calling it a thank you present because you hadn’t worked up the courage to talk to him about leaving just yet. He had accepted it readily, his fingers lingering against yours when he took it, and even back then you couldn’t quite describe the emotion you glimpsed across his face.

You hadn’t dared to assume it was wonder back then, but it had been a close thing.

You certainly didn’t expect him to keep it after you left.

Or to still be wearing it after all these years. But maybe you’re jumping to conclusions and he’s only wearing it today. Specifically for this.

The silence between you changes yet again, morphing. Something more charged. Near oppressive.

Nerves flutter inside your tired body and you allow a soft wisp of breath to escape you, thinking of something to break the tension with.  

“Where is John?” you question quietly, your voice thick.

His jaw ticks, and he looks away, staring out towards the horizon.

“Mr Wick is safe,” he answers coolly. “Do not fret for him. He will answer for his wrongdoings in due time.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

The Elder turns to face you again, and it unnerves you because he keeps slipping between the man you lived with for months, and the man who controls the High Table. One is close to you, familiar. The other feels removed, walled off. No longer a sun but a cold, distant star. Unreachable to you.

His expression softens a touch when he notices your startled expression.

“Mr Wick has returned only to unleash havoc,” he informs you calmly, matter of factly. He doesn’t sound or look angry or even displeased, yet something about the piercing gleam in his eyes makes you think that it will not be a confrontation without consequences. “His punishment will reflect that. He made the decisions that led him here,” he fades off, pausing, his stare flickering over your features once more. “As have you,” he adds.

“I’m sorry,” you force out, shaking your head, cringing slightly at the pain that flares through your skin at that. “They’re both important to me and—”

“I am not speaking about Santino D’Antonio getting shot, viper.”

Your head snaps up, your features slacking with confusion. “Then what...”

The Elder lifts his hand, his attention focusing on the ring on his finger instead. He seems to struggle with something internally before sighing softly and dragging his stare away from you once more. You wonder why. It’s almost as if it’s difficult for him to look at you.

“Do not tell me you were so quick to forget my warning to you,” he begins calmly, something aloof lingering in his voice. He walks past you, his fingertips tapping on his ring repeatedly. Your own fingers tighten into a fist when you note the shift in him, the Camorra ring pressing into your skin as a bleak reminder. Your eyes follow him as he goes, watching his broad back when he stops at the edge of the tent, looking out towards the vastness of the desert. “I told you what will happen if anything befalls Viggo Tarasov before your debt is repaid.”

Ice pierces you, burrowing under your skin viciously, and you’re glad that he can’t see your face because for a second your expression comes apart completely.

“I did not—”

“Do you really think I know you so little that lying to me would work?”

Your mouth snaps shut, a bitter tang stinging the inside of your mouth. He’s right. You feel as disappointed in yourself as he sounds. You’ve always prided yourself on being forward and direct. Yet your instinct now had been to lie, to deny, because the idea of him knowing terrifies you.

Because it puts you in so much worse of a position than what you first expected to be in.

How? Why would he even think—

The High Table would have—

“I know why you came here,” he says, at last, turning to face you again. His expression is grim and he watches you closely as he strolls closer. Despite his leisurely gait, his stare is searing. “You came in hopes that I would lift the Excommunicado. You came in hopes that you can clear your name. But your crimes run deeper than you are willing to admit to me.”

“I’ve disappointed you,” you assume blankly. “Is that it?”

He shakes his head once. “No, viper,” he responds placidly, his eyebrows knitting. “You have disappointed yourself. You are so much better than this. Yet your recklessness has led you to this. Did you really think that I would not find out?”

He comes to a stop before you again and you meet his stare.

There is no point in lying, so you don’t.

“If you knew,” you start, choked, forcing down your emotions as you search his face, and try to quieten the pounding of your heart. “Then why was I not declared Excommunicado sooner?”

A long beat of suffocating silence, and then, “Because I shielded you.”

He says it so simply. Like it’s as expected as the sun rising each morning. A faint knell of wind chimes fills the hush between you this time, and you peer at him in disbelief. Shock.

“What?” you exhale shakily.

The Elder shakes his head once, sighing. “I gave you a chance in hopes that you will take it and savour your new freedom,” he explains smoothly, his fingertips still dancing over the ring. His strong profile only accents his handsomeness and you see the conflict there—see the shadows dancing inside the inky pools that are his eyes. “I overlooked your wrongdoing. Because I understood your pain then as I do now. I cautioned the Table to look the other way. But what did you do with this gift, viper? You wasted it. And there is nothing to be done now. Even I cannot shield you from the storm that has been unleashed. The scale has been tipped towards chaos now. You broke the rules in the open, for the whole world to see,” he continues, each word making your heart beat harder inside your chest, his attention returning to you, “And now here you are.”

So that’s why.

Why there was such a long pause between Tarasov’s death and administration contacting you about you being free of your debt. The silence that made you so uneasy back then. The High Table had been suspicious, had assumed you played a part, but the Elder pulled their attention away from you.

Years later, he’s still looking out for you.

You’re too speechless to say much past gaping at him; a thousand thoughts fluttering through your mind, all of them wild and hurtful.

Your attention falls to the carpet beneath your feet, and stays there for some time while you digest what this means.

He knows. He’s known for weeks now.

Just like that the already shaky foundation beneath your feet slips further.

Helplessness closes in and your eyes sting.

Consequences. Everything has a price and it was foolish of you to assume that your luck will continue. You’ve been too quick to celebrate and now...

“What now?”

A whisper of material sounds in your ears and the heat of his palm comes to rest against one side of your face. You feel that warmth sink deep into your skin and it burns. Both a physical ache and something deeper. Your eyes open as he guides your face upwards for him to see.

You lean on the side of caution and say nothing, waiting for him to speak first.  

“Now, my viper,” he whispers, a touch forlorn. “You face the consequences of your actions.”

Forcing down your fear, you give him a firm, unyielding, “If you’re going to kill me, at least make it quick.”

His palm pulls back but not all the way. His knuckles trace over the curve of your cheek—so faint you barely register the sensation. “I would never kill you.”

“But?”

He seems to be considering something hard, his regard in a constant flux between warring emotions, “But you cannot be seen as walking away without punishment after what’s happened. It is the way of things,” he finally concludes.

You pull away from his touch, your eyes burning, “So be it,” you mutter, shaky and forcefully casual. “But I don’t regret stepping in. I don’t regret any of it. I would do it all again.”

Even if it meant the pain and the heartache. Sleepless nights and blood.

Because at least they’re all alive. Even if this is the sacrifice for that victory.

You saved them, and you would never regret that.

“Is this love?”

Your attention snaps back to him at the gentle murmur of his question. There is little distance between you—to a point you can feel the heat of his broad build and the phantom sensation of his exhales against your skin.

He didn’t specify who the love is for.

Deep down, you know it’s not so simple to untangle who means what to you anymore. It’s a mess of different emotions and loyalties. Everyone in your life that has made themselves a place in it, you love fiercely. Even if they’re all different kinds of love. All you know—all you need to know—is that you would gladly stand here for any of them. Punishment and consequences be damned.

“Yes.”

You’re not sure why you expect him to be irritated, perhaps even disappointed in your answer, but he only seems to consider your words for a while.

Fierce desert heat rolls across your skin while you wait for a response but he seems to be in no rush to provide you with one. His lips part, his head lowering and he makes a small sound at the back of his throat; half-disbelieving, and half-thoughtful.  

“How odd,” he muses faintly, his features drawing into something desolate. “I do not quite recall the last time I felt envy.”

Your eyes flutter shut, trying to push his words and the emotion in them away. He means that genuinely, and you know that. You’ve lived with him for months and have seen a great many sides to him. That loneliness—that drive to be something more, to be understood by someone else—is what drew you together in the first place. Bonded you as deeply as it did.

Despite the nip of sadness you feel for him, you don’t contradict him—don’t say anything at all, in fact.

“What is it that you want from me?”

The Elder appears lost in his head for a while before he finally responds, “You already know, viper,” he says in a knowing murmur. “Otherwise you would not look at me with such sadness in your eyes.”

“You want me to stay.”

“Yes,” he agrees with a slight nod, his previous melancholy receding, and his guard slipping back on. “It is the only way that your life can be spared. Your service to the High Table will be used to absolve you of your crimes.”

You can’t quite help the bitter, brief laugh that slips free from you. “And is love a crime? I’m being punished for caring. For wanting to keep my family safe.”

He doesn’t say anything but you can guess what he’s thinking.

You broke the rules. Killed Tarasov. Interfered when you could have killed John and proven your loyalty to the High Table. Rules apply to all—no exceptions.

You don’t want to think about what would be the outcome if he knew about Chicago as well. Then, you conclude numbly, even his favour won’t save you from death.

“For how long?”

The Elder doesn’t reply. You already know, his expression seems to say though, and your composure fractures. Sucking in a deep breath, you chew on your inner cheek, half-turning away from him.

Because of course you know.

“For life,” you choke out.

“Yes,” he agrees, his voice gentle. “You will become my fourth disciple, and my apprentice, working directly under me,” he explains carefully, watching you just as closely, and you fight to keep a straight expression. “I am sorry, (Name), I wish there had been another way. But we are each masters of our own fate. You gave this life a chance once before and you embraced it effortlessly.”

You know that. You know that compared to what could have happened, this is a mercy. He will treat you fairly, kindly, and you’ve almost made this place, his people, your new life once before. If anything, on the surface alone, this is more of a gift than a punishment, especially with the amount of power you will gain by joining him.

And yet.

This also means that you will rarely, if ever, see your friends and family again.

Everyone you love and care for will be removed from you. People who join the Elder don’t go back to their old lives. Service to the High Table becomes their new life. The tribe, their new family.

No Winston or Charon. Santino or John. No Ares or the Elites. No Sofia or Cassian.

Just no one.

The tear you feel in your heart at that thought nearly makes you choke on a sob. For all the physical agony you’ve been through in these last several weeks, this somehow hurts the most. The notion that you will never see them again, will never get to touch them or laugh with them, is agonising. Somehow it hurts even more than the realisation that you will be bound yet again, unable to be free, unable to live for yourself just like you always dreamt of.

A hand reaches for you but you stumble back a step, still not looking at him.  

“You will not be my prisoner, viper,” he tells you seriously. “I would never take that from you. But you—”

“Can never see them again, is that it?” you cut him off sharply.

You know he’s not used to being spoken to like that. You doubt anyone has even tried but when you lift your eyes to his, you notice how his own features smoothen in response to what he sees on your face. The grief and the pain. The raw, suffocating grip of it shackling you and dragging you down, down, down—

He doesn’t deny your words, however, and that’s answer enough.

“I know this is hard,” he says instead, and you think that sympathy you spy in his dark eyes is genuine, well-meant. “But I warned you where this path will lead you. You did not listen.”

It doesn’t help though.

God, it hurts so much. This is somehow worse than when John left. Worse even, is the fact that you have no one to blame. Not even the Elder. You did this yourself. Went into this fully knowing there is a chance it will all blow up in your face.

“Can I at least...say goodbye?” you wonder, your words thin, and inhale deeply despite the dry, hot air giving you little relief. “Spend some time with them before I leave?”

The Elder hesitates. “A week.”

You shake your head, stepping closer towards him. “Six months.”

His head slants; a colder, more authoritative motion. “Are you bargaining with me, viper?”

There is no hesitation in your reply, not this time, “Yes.”

“And what bargaining power do you have?”

It’s a curious question as opposed to condescending. Almost as if he’s trying to gauge how you will react, and you force your emotions back, licking your lips once. Your thumb smoothes against the inside of the metal band on your hand.

“I’m the acting boss of Camorra,” you remind him, straightening your shoulders once more despite the way you can feel your pulse fluttering against the base of your neck. You’re not sure if it betrays you but you certainly don’t let it show. “And I would respectfully ask that you give me six months. It will not change anything in the long run.”

The Elder’s attention drifts towards your hand, and he closes whatever little distance there is between you, reaching for it. You tense despite yourself when he carefully takes your clenched fist into his palm and lifts it between you. His thumb traces over your bruised knuckle—a tender, careful touch as if not to hurt you further—and a pensive hum slips free as he stares at the ring on your hand.

“You wear power beautifully,” he comments idly, and you have to hold back a shiver at the feeling of his thumb continuously journeying over your skin; nothing more than a tickle, a promise of warmth. The touch hurts as much as it soothes. “Three months. Offered to you only because you dare where others don’t. Because I am not unreasonable and while this is a punishment, I do not wish to see you unhappy.”

Too late for that nearly escapes you but you bite your tongue.

Three months. Just three. It will pass in a blink and then…

A lifetime away from everything you love, everything that is home and safety. Everything that’s important to you.  

“May...may I have a moment?” you request weakly. “Just to…”

He releases his grip on your hand and it falls to your side heavily. “Of course,” he voices graciously. “I will be back shortly but take the time you need.”

He steps past you once more but this time he heads towards the direction other men had left in earlier. He doesn’t pause and he doesn’t turn back to look at you, his gait slow but self-assured. You wait till his broad back disappears from your sight before you feel your expression crumble completely.

Pressing a hand against your face, you ignore the flare of pain where you dig too hard into your sunburnt skin. Instead, you focus everything inside yourself on controlling your despair and tears. You can’t fall apart now. Not after how far you’ve come and all you’ve been through.

Shuddering breaths wheeze past your mouth and nose, your shoulders quivering. Better to allow yourself this weakness now, alone, than to let the Elder or anyone see this slip.

Your shaking hands drag themselves away from your face and mouth, and your palm pushes against your breastbone. Beneath the material of your jumpsuit and skin, your heart hammers inside your chest like a wild beast desperate to escape. So afraid of the chain once again.

But what can you do? There is no other option. No escape. Nowhere to run, and even if you did, such action would only paint a bigger target on people closest to you. The only thing you would do by running is reassuring their demise.

The heel of your palm presses harsher against your sternum, maybe in some naive hope that you can tear your own heart out and it would be—

Oh.

You still, an unsettling sort of hush falling over you when a dark, insidious whisper slithers into your mind after all. You keep your palm close against the curve of your breast and think.

What would Winston do if he were here right now?

There is only one option, really.

Just the one.

But your mind and instincts go to battle at once. One side arguing for it and other against it. If you succeed...but if you fail…

But what other choice is there? Servitude or death? No.

A frustrated sound tears from the back of your throat and you drop your hand, standing to your full height, your eyes squeezing shut.

No. No, you will not let this pass. You will no longer be controlled. You’ve had enough.

Fuck consequences. You will deal with them as they come. You shouldn’t be punished for killing the man who took everything from you in the first place. You should not be punished for saving someone you care for—for interfering.

Your blunt nails bite into your palms to a point of pain despite that resolve. Because digging through that determination and rage is fear. Very simple human fear but you bottle it and shove it deep down.

No time for that now.

Power is a dangerous thing. You have to be willing to lose everything in order to take it.

And that’s exactly it.

Lose everything.

Just like that your taut limbs relax, the pounding inside your head retreating and dulling into a muffled buzz. You step forward one slow step at the time before dropping heavily onto the very throne you woke up to find the Elder sitting on.

Your eyes flutter close and you mull over the new path you’re about to step on, bowing your head in acceptance. So much for dreams of freedom. Your fingers ghost over your collarbone again and you smile this time; a cold, broken fragment of a smile.

Eyes closed, you listen to the sounds of the desert for a while, calming yourself. Wind against silk and tapestries. Faintest of whooshes caused by wind teasing sand away from the outer surface of dunes surrounding the camp. Sandorms, at least, you have not missed.

Deep down you can’t help but think that you always knew how this was going to end.  

People like us don’t get happy endings.

You ignore the ache inside your chest at the memory of Santino’s face, focusing instead on clearing your mind.

It takes at least another ten minutes before muted footsteps sound from ahead of you. You don’t lift your head at his approach, your arms hanging limp between your parted legs.

He pauses when he sees you. You suppose it’s rude, what you’re doing, sitting on his throne like it’s your own.

This time, you’re the one to tilt your head to one side, looking up at him from under your lashes.

The Elder doesn’t appear angry at your nerve to sit on his throne though. No rigidness to be found in his expression or slanting of his full mouth, not even a pinching of his brows; all telltale signs of his discontent usually. In fact, his eyes drag over your figure, lingering everywhere despite the distance.

For a man who doesn’t let others close, rarely lets his guard down in general, his appreciation—dare you say it, desire—is abundantly clear.

Jaw clamped tightly shut, you rise to your feet unhurriedly. Far steadier than you expected yourself to be capable of, and he steps closer towards you as well. Slow, bordering on cautious, and you wonder why. It’s like he’s afraid to blink lest you disappear.

But maybe that’s precisely it. Maybe he’s been hoping to walk into this tent and find you here every day since you’ve been gone. And now that you are here, he’s not quite sure what to do.

“How are you feeling?” he asks curiously, his accented words warming you like the setting sun, and you wonder what it may feel like to hear that voice for the rest of your life.

No turning back now.

Swallowing thickly, you ignore the pulsing numbness locking your throat, and wait for him to halt in front of you before you speak.

“I accept.”

A light sparks in his eyes—something burning and near living in its intensity, an emotion you have only glimpsed once before—as they roam over your features in search of an answer to a question he hasn’t asked.

“Three months,” you begin purposely, rushing your words out in a breathless whisper. He’s so close there’s hardly any distance between you at all—no room to turn away nor do you want to. The turquoise of his turban only seems to bring out the beauty of his dark eyes and golden skin. Draw you closer. He, too, hardly seems to be breathing while he listens to your words intently. “Then I come back here. To you. And stay. I will give this a chance but I can’t promise that it...will not be hard. In return…”

“The Excommunicado will be lifted upon your return to New York,” he reassures, still searching for something in your expression. “You have my word.”

His eyes lower and he breathes another sigh in a rare show of uncertainty.

“What is it?” you can’t help but wonder, confused.

“What proof do I have that you will uphold your word, viper?” he questions mildly, his probing stare digging into you. That challenging, clever stare that first got the warning bells ringing inside your head that this is not a man to be trifled with. “What will you give me in a show of fealty?”

You don’t say anything, peering up at him silently.

Seeing that, the Elder’s eyes slide towards your bare neck, and stop there. A second later, his strong fingers trace over the curve of the silver chain around your neck—

“No,” you choke out desperately, your hand snapping up to grip his own when his fingers slip around the metal. “Please, it’s not mine to give away.”

It’s Santino’s. When he gave it to you, over a year ago now, he asked to guard it for him, keep it safe. Even then, you knew it meant more to him than he would ever admit outright. You’re not quite sure where it comes from or who it belongs to but you have a strong inkling, and the idea of giving it away makes you feel sick to your stomach.

The Elder hesitates at your fragile plea, your eyes locking again, and fingers touching. “Yet it is important to you.”

More than he knows and certainly more than even you realised.

Here, now, faced with the prospect of losing it makes you think that you can’t live without it. That you need it or you will feel aimless and lost forever. It became an anchor slowly, with time, but now you value it above most things.

That realisation leaves you trembling before you conjure up some semblance of composure back.

“Please,” you plead again, soft and frayed. “Not this. I can give you something else. Something more.”

He doesn’t hide his palpable confusion, and that’s when you move closer, your fingers snaking up his neck as you lean forward and kiss him.

His moment of hesitation lasts no more than a split second before he grabs you around the waist, hauling you closer and you slip your arms around him, kissing him as deeply as you can. Your mouth hurts from how hard you kiss him, fervent and demanding, and despite his initial falter, he replies with equal drive and need. Your tongue slips inside his mouth, wet and hot, and you don’t compromise and neither does he. One hand grips the back of his neck where your nails sink into the firm, strong skin there, scratching and claiming. Your other drags across the scruff of his jaw, forcing him closer. Not that you need to, he holds you so close, every curve of your body presses into him.

He fuses you two together, the accessories of his robes wedging painfully into your skin but it only fuels you more. His large, burning hand settles against the back of your neck, holding you to him. Biting back a snarl, you try to wiggle your way free but his fingers dig in. Firm, unyielding, steadying; forcing a small gasp from you despite your best effort to hold it back.

You let everything flow outwards, biting down on his bottom lip greedily, and he groans loudly at the back of his throat—a deep, appreciative sound—that almost makes you purr in delight. All that control, all those guards, and you tore through them like tissue paper.

The taste of him mingles on your tongue, his nose nudging against your cheek when he deepens the kiss again, exploring and searching but with such desperation, it’s like he’s trying to drown himself in the kiss. In you.

Your lips tingle and feel partially numb by the time you finally part, breathing hard. Heat creeps up your neck and simmers in your gut while you continue holding onto him. The chain around your neck lays forgotten, both of the Elder’s arms locked firmly around you instead.  

Perhaps this is a kiss you should have shared years ago. That night by the fire you came dangerously close to taking this path. Claiming a lot more than just a kiss from him when he outright admitted that he would have made you his. A kiss that could have started something beautiful. It’s tainted now by the uncertainty of your shared future but you don’t point that out, only waiting for his reaction.

“Ya amar,” he breathes near reverent, his voice throaty, and gaze wild. He tries to leash his desire but you can still taste it, and with how thoroughly you kissed him, you have no doubt that he can say the same for you. “Why?”

“This is what you want,” you tell him, hushed words that brush against his lips as intimately as your lips have moments prior. “It’s what you always wanted.”  

He grips one side of your face, reminding you too much of someone you can’t afford to think of right now, and he shakes his head once.

“No,” he murmurs but the way he holds onto you betrays him as do his eyes that keep flickering back towards your lips. “What I always wanted was an equal,” he pauses for a beat, squinting at you like he’s taking you in with new eyes, like you’re a marvel to behold. “And you have become exactly that, haven’t you, my viper?”

Once you would have denied it, shielded away from saying anything on the matter. Once you simply won’t have believed it. But now there is nothing holding you back anymore.

In that freedom, you have unearthed a simple truth.

“Yes.”

His eyes flutter shut at your confirmation, and you hate the subtle glimmer of relief, even wonderment, you see creasing his expression. Like he’s waited his whole life for someone to say that.

“Three months,” he utters quietly like he doesn't want to disturb the moment. “Then you will return to me.”

“I always do.”

His grip on you constricts before loosening, lingering and reluctant to let go but he does eventually, his digits sliding away from the curve of your waist and neck.

You don’t bother asking how many rules you broke with this kiss.

You both got what you wanted.

“Your tent awaits you,” he prompts quietly, still drilling holes into you. “Rest before your journey, viper. We will see each other soon.”

You couldn’t run even if you wanted to or tried—neither of which you do. Too late for that now.

You dip your head in a small bow, but his fingers tap under your chin the moment you do, guiding your face upwards.

“Everyone but you.”

Then he pulls away, his thumb fluttering briefly over your bottom lip, and sits himself down on his throne, folding his arms and legs alike.

The perfect picture of a powerful, controlled ruler. Enigmatic and captivating.

Cruel as he is kind.

The Terrible Sultan, you can’t quite help your fleeting thought. Which makes you wonder if that, then, makes you his Golden Empress.

You don’t linger on that thought though, that connection that lives between you. Pivoting on your heels, you head towards the exit of the tent, feeling his eyes lingering on you the entire way.

Your mouth still burns but you ignore it.

Your expression slackens the moment your back is to him, coldness spreading through you as you step into the blazing desert sun.

E4 E5.

The roar inside your head is overpowering.

So much so that all you can do is sit slumped beside your old cot. You hadn’t quite made to it, instead half-collapsing beside it. Your folded knees partially obscure your sight as you stare blankly ahead but you can’t bring yourself to move. 

Instead, you work on glueing together that controlled calm the very man you just talked with taught you. 

Your mind doesn’t allow you rest though. Every wall of control and discipline you’ve ever learned from every influential person in your life dissolves in face of the blistering furnace that is your raging heart. 

A collection of voices scream at you inside your head, and it takes a while to be able to comprehend what one singular voice that sounds suspiciously like Winston is demanding. 

What have you done?

And all you can think in response to that is a tiny and uncertain, What I had to.

Lacing your fingers, you push them between your thighs, sucking in deep, near painful breaths. 

You don’t have time for this. No time for self-pity. There’s…

There’s too much to do. 

Yet all you want to do is sit here for the rest of your days and never move. 

You lick your lips, wetting them, and feel another torrent of emotions batter against your self-control. 

The taste of him is still in your mouth. 

You haven’t kissed anyone on the lips in five years. Not since that night on your birthday when you kissed John. The last time you ever laid your mouth on someone else in general…

A comforting memory slips through the chaos; wispy and balmy, like an embrace. A memory of heat enveloping you, familiar cologne, and dark curly hair. Santino’s small, drunken smile when you pressed a kiss against his forehead, your fingers cupping his face. 

The way he had held you to him around the waist, making you feel unfairly safe, cared for. 

You never did tell Santino about his whispered words at Naples. What he confessed to you between the shadowed walls of his bedroom. Back then, a large part of you still refused to believe it—believe him. Had chalked it up to nothing more than a drunken moment of sentimentality. But that’s no longer the case. You know better than that now. 

Three months will have to be enough to…

To say goodbye. 

Clinging to that memory—and the understanding that you don’t have time to waste—you rise to your feet. For what feels like a thousandth time, teeth gritted and jaw set, you still stand despite the knock. 

Your tent hasn’t changed much. Some things are in a different place to where you left them but the knowledge that it’s been waiting for you all this time is like a sledgehammer to the chest. 

Soon, if things come to pass, it will be your home permanently. 

You start with changing and washing up, followed by applying the salve you found in a small, ceramic pot onto your skin.

For the burns, the note left on your pillow beside the pot read. You didn’t need to ask questions about its origins. You know that penmanship as well as your own after spending endless months studying his research. 

The Elder has once again thought of everything. 

The salve is like a soothing, cool caress across your burned, dry skin and the relief is, once again, immediate. A part of you wonders if there will ever come a day when his genius doesn’t surprise and intrigue you. 

Food is harder. Your stomach still churns, and despite your best attempts to quell the sensation of queasiness, it doesn’t pass. 

You force some broth down despite that, chewing everything in front of you on automatic. Made with a loving hand and great care guarantees that the food is delicious yet you taste none of it. 

It’s quiet. 

The roar inside your mind has quietened. 

Now everything feels cold and far away despite the heat dampening the back of your neck already. The shock has worn off, leaving only throbbing absence behind. 

A commotion sounds outside your tent and your head snaps to the sound. A second later the flap parts and a familiar, dark spectre of a man walks inside, his eyes already locked onto you. 

“John.”

You jump to your feet at the sight of him, moving towards him in hurried steps. Saad slinks inside behind John and you halt at the sight of his looming frame, your eyes narrowing. So that’s where he’s been. No doubt watching over the deadliest assassin alive to make sure he doesn’t cause problems. 

John looks relieved to see you, his expression easing as he takes in your new attire. Previously severe contours of his features relax and his chin dips. 

“V.”

He always manages to pack so much into so little. It’s like the acknowledgement alone asks a hundred questions. 

Are you okay? 

Are you hurt?

What happened?

Though you want to ask him those same questions yourself. He looks terrible. His treatment, clearly, while not awful has not been as hospitable as your own. 

“Saad,” you address the man, nodding your head towards him. Much like the Elder, he hasn’t changed much. A new scar clips the left side of his chin but the rest of him remains the same. From his critical stare, crooked nose, and dark skin. “It’s good to see you again.”

He doesn’t smile and his expression doesn’t lighten at your words. You didn’t expect it to, either. 

“Viper,” he says so bluntly you blink and even John inclines his body towards the man, peering at him from the corner of his eye. “Finally back where you belong.”

Your mouth goes dry. 

“I’m going back to New York,” you inform him, jutting your chin. “So I’m afraid this is a brief visit only.”

Those pitch-black eyes study you for several moments and you can’t quite tell what’s going on behind those empty depths. 

“You have ten minutes,” he states briskly, his voice still flat and accent gruff. “Then I am to escort Mr Wick to his transport. Your presence has been requested by the Elder before your departure.” 

You straighten at that. John is much the same, his shoulders curving backwards. Those words are also when you notice that John is in a fresh, black suit. 

“Is there a problem?” you pose coolly, but your old sparring partner only watches you both with palpable distrust.

He glares at you for a beat, still deadly silent, before turning away from you both. “Ten minutes,” he grunts, and then he’s gone, the flap swishing in his wake while you listen to his retreating footsteps. 

“V, what happened?” John asks the moment Saad’s footsteps can no longer be heard. “He told me he saw you already.” 

He. The Elder. 

Dropping your head in a nod, you turn away from the man behind you, glancing briefly at your shaking fingers. You squeeze them painfully, pressing them against your chest instead, and focus. 

I can do this. 

“We came to an agreement,” you say swiftly, keeping your tone light, and glance at him over your shoulder. Your hand lowers from your chest at the look on his face. John looks confused. Unconvinced. “My Excommunicado will be lifted once I return to New York. You?”

You knew from the moment the deal was made that telling John would not be wise. You know the man inside this tent. His actions with Santino have proven to you that despite what you might say or do, it won’t change his mind. When it comes to push or shove, John will always shove. And he will shove with enough force to crush the opposition completely. 

His reaction to learning that you have to go back in three months would only land him in deeper trouble. Usually, you would expect him to maintain his ironlike composure. Very little could ever move John in the first place, especially towards anything rash. But that desperate gleam in his eyes when he told you that he will make up for his mistakes keeps constantly jumping to mind. 

You don’t trust John not to do something drastic right now. 

He doesn’t respond to your inquiry at first. Which gives you plenty of time to notice the sheen of pain exuding from him. You slant your body back towards him when you do, and take several steps closer.

“What’s wrong?” 

Still, he says nothing. 

You’re about to demand answers but he simply lifts his hand in the air between you. 

And you suck in a deep breath at the sight of his missing ring finger. 

The void is glaring and the finger that was once home for a golden wedding band is gone. As is the ring. 

“He wanted to see my conviction to the Table and told me to cut my finger in a show of fealty,” he explains lowly, his voice and expression worn. “I will be bound to it and remember through death after I complete my task. That was his will and my price to pay for survival.”

It’s so easy, you think in a dazed rush, to forget exactly what the Elder is capable of. He got the deadliest assassin in the world to mutilate himself as a punishment. You would wager he didn’t even threaten—he didn’t need to. 

It makes you painfully aware of what could have happened to you if you didn’t have that history with him. If he didn’t look at you with all that hidden emotion. If you were just a girl who broke his rules. What would have become of you then? Would you have lost a finger as well? Your whole hand? 

Would you have been just another casualty to be stomped out? Removed like a tumour because you didn’t abide. 

Suddenly you feel sick all over again. 

Suddenly all you want—

Your arms wrap around him and you squeeze the powerful frame of John’s body to you. He seems to deflate, unwind and soften, his arms wrapping tightly around you in return. 

“I’m sorry.”

Because you’re still angry at him, still bitter about all he’s done, but you care about him despite that, and know how deeply this would have hurt. Physical injury aside, it’s the loss of his ring that would have stung the deepest. 

John adores Helen still, loves her deeply. 

It’s not something that can fade so easily despite death. 

You felt panicked at the mere prospect of the Elder taking the silver chain around your neck. How did John feel having to lose his finger and his final sign of dedication to the woman he loves? 

But, it seems, that you have both gotten what you had coming. 

He, too, will be bound to the Table now. In a different way than you but bound all the same. This desperate, bloody fight to be free and you are both back exactly where you started. 

John’s face presses into you, savouring the contact, and you release him after another minute. It isn’t just him that needed this. 

“I have to tell you something,” he says the moment you pull back. 

The morose curve of his mouth chills you at once. Comfort, however fleeting, has now left the air between you. 

“What is it?”

“It’s...”

John stares at you for a while. An internal war rages behind his dark eyes and your confusion mounts at his hesitancy. Something is stuck behind his teeth and your stomach sinks the longer the battle goes on inside him.

“It’s about Cassian,” he eventually settles on.

Your brows draw together, caught off guard. Analysing his features closely, you wait to see if he will expand on that but as always John limits himself. He only peers at you but the regret you find lingering in the air around him unsettles you further. 

“What about him?”

He still looks torn and reluctant when his lips part, “After we parted. He found me,” he says and your shoulders lift with your forceful inhale. Understanding blooms steadily with every word. “He wanted revenge. For Gianna.”

The air inside the tent is blistering but you feel it cool by several degrees at those words. 

You had sworn an oath to Gianna that you will make sure her family name survives beyond her. Now you wear the very ring she and Santino have been struggling to earn their entire lives. 

Even worse were Cassian’s parting words to you that still haunt you. 

But if we ever meet again. I will kill you myself. 

Your mentor and friend. A brother you would have loved to have had. 

You could drill John about what happened while you were dealing with Lucien. You could accuse him of more wrongdoings and damage. Demand to know why he didn’t tell you sooner. Scorn him. Hate him.

But instead, you turn away, and let only one question slip free, the only one that matters, “Is he still alive?”

He answers you honestly.

“I don’t know.”

His voice is thick with muted remorse and you nod your head in acceptance of that honesty. You don’t say anything in return, still staring at your cot. Focus on the pattern of your old blanket.  

You feel it bubbling in the air between you and speak up before he can.

“Don’t apologise,” you order but it’s empty of fury. You just sound weary. So very weary. “I understand. I just…”

Your eyes slip shut. He was only trying to keep himself alive. It’s just survival. But it still hurts. In that moment, the urge to give up is near overpowering. It digs deep between your shoulder blades and straight into your heart but you shake it off.

You’re not getting out of this. There’s no hope for you now. You know how this ends. 

You almost recoil at Kishi’s voice filtering from the deepest recesses of your mind. 

No. There’s still hope. That’s exactly why you can’t give up. Because there is still hope. 

“Wish it didn’t have to be this way?”

John’s soft inquiry makes you flinch, snapping you to the present. Your eyes return to him and you examine him for a moment, digesting his words. 

“Yes,” you mumble in agreement, your sadness no doubt palpable. “Yes, I do.”

John lowers his head, a few strands of his raven hair tickling his cheek when he does. “Do you ever wonder…”

He stares at the empty space where his finger should be, flexing the remaining ones experimentally. You wait for him to continue but can tell from one look that he’s lost in his head, thinking hard about something. 

“Do I wonder what?” 

John’s lips part, then press shut again. His breaths are haggard, slow. 

“What might have happened had I never pushed you back? Never left.”

You’re not sure what to do with his curiosity. You’re not even sure how you feel about it.  

“I used to. Often,” you admit after several minutes of thought. Because what do you have left to hide? Now, perhaps, you can be as open as you wish to be, say everything because it’s not like— “Then I realised there was no point to it because you weren’t coming back,” you tell him and chuckle weakly, adding an ironic, “We’re each masters of our own fate.”

Shuffling your feet, you venture closer towards him, and lift your face to his, taking his hand into your own. His knuckles, much like your own, are bruised and swollen. His are worse than yours, however, and with that in mind, you lead him towards your cot. You reach into the still open ointment pot and gather some, rubbing your fingers briefly to warm the salve. 

Slowly, you drag your fingertips gently over his knuckles. It won’t be as effective as it is for burns but chamomile, echinacea and ginseng inside the salve should still help with healing and soothing the pain. 

“You always had the right to choose, John,” you say quietly, frankly, as you work to apply the salve on his other hand as well. He’s so still you’re not sure if he’s breathing. “The right to happiness. I understand that now. It’s always been your right,” you continue, a touch sadder, and your eyes skip upwards to rest on his face. His stare is gentle, his mouth parted while he peers at you. “I’m just sorry that you had to lose it. But to answer your question. No. Not anymore. It’s been a long time. We’re different people now.”

You finish applying the salve and release your grip but his fingers tighten around yours before you can.

“Maybe that’s a good thing,” he says, his words hushed. 

Your search his face again. Wonder what the future will hold for you both. “Yeah, maybe it is.”

A rustle sounds behind you and you turn just as Saad steps back into the tent, his features still rigid with displeasure. 

“Come with me, Mr Wick,” he instructs sternly and inclines his head in your direction. “The Elder awaits you.”

Grounding your jaw, you offer the assassin beside you a calm, “I’ll see you back at the Continental.”

John turns back towards you. He doesn’t look particularly thrilled at your words, a question hanging in the air around him. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” you say, unfazed. You pat his arm once as you pass; an old, routine gesture you haven’t done in years. “Tell Winston to get my favourite ready. He’ll know the one.”

You brush past them both, chin slanted at a higher angle. It’s late afternoon by now with the sun starting to dip towards the dunes. The air is still sweltering despite that, and a robed man waiting outside the tent gestures mutely in the direction he wants you to head in. 

You find the Elder at the edge of the camp, his presence a beacon that draws attention effortlessly. 

You pause at the sight of him, your shoes sinking into the golden sand beneath. He stares out towards the desert like you’ve seen him do a thousand times, and you wonder if he’s thinking about what you asked him years ago. Another ordinary night by the fire over your shared meal. 

Why not leave again? Why live in a desert? 

It is my duty. 

So you’re a prisoner of your own status? That seems lonely. 

And with his gaze focused on the fire instead of you, he had given you a simple yet serene response, Not anymore. 

Swallowing thickly, you stand there unmoving, watching him for a while. Something tells you that he’s as aware of you as you are of him. 

Loneliness is not unfamiliar to you. It’s a close companion. Has been for years. 

But you’ve found an escape. People to call your own. A sense of belonging.

He hasn’t. 

“It is peaceful here,” he speaks up suddenly, startling you. “Even as a boy, I loved the desert despite its cruelty. I have grown up appreciating its deadly beauty. Have learned to respect it and admire it.”

“Nothing about death is beautiful.”

A brief chuckle flows through the air and he turns to face you, his expression open, his stare narrowed but inquisitive as always. His laced fingers rest against his chest.  

“Your mind has been sorely missed, viper.”

The longing in those words brushes against your skin and mouth; an invisible kiss, an appreciation. 

You imagine that will change one day soon. 

Though it would be a lie to say that you, too, have not missed your discussions. The way you could submerge yourself in conversations with him completely. Lose yourself in his mind and the challenge he constantly posed. 

“You wished to see me.”

Your words sound lifeless even to your own ears and his expression drops. He strolls closer while you stand rooted in your spot. Something is different about him now. He’s missing that edge he had when he saw you earlier. That desperation. Desire. Near darkness. 

He’s more controlled now. At ease. Back to the man you knew. Earlier he gave into his desire freely, and you suspect it was only due to long years separating you. 

“I’m tempted to come with you,” he divulges quietly, like sharing one more secret, and a shiver tears down your spine at those words. He pauses, exhaling, and twists his ring on his finger for seemingly a hundredth time. You didn’t realise earlier how habitual touching it had become for him. “But I do not wish to take this time away from you. So, ya amar, I present you with this.”

From between the folds of his extravagant robes materialises a golden dagger. Your breaths grow shaky before you force them back into a steady rhythm, lifting your eyes to his. 

“It’s the same one,” you say weakly, your tone questioning. “From before.”

The Elder nods and holds out the dagger in the palm of his hand. It’s the same one he tried to give to you during your first stay here, after your sparring session.   

Same stunning, elegant design laced with gold around the handle. Black sheath edged by crusted golden detail as well. 

“Each of my disciples receives a weapon from me personally upon their initiation,” he tells you, his voice soft and melodic, always happy to sate your curiosity. “This one...is special to me,” his voice lowers, a glimmer passing through his eyes that’s gone too soon to decipher. “It is not official yet but I had hoped that one day it will serve you better than it has me.”

He waits for you to take it but you hesitate, staring at it. Your hand hovers over it, outlining the shape of it with your nail. 

You can still taste him. Like he’s rooted himself inside you now. 

“You told me that you understood me,” you begin cautiously, your voice equally as low. “Understood the vengeance that drove me. How?”

The Elder examines you closely. A pregnant pause stretches between you and you begin to think he will never respond before he finally reaches out. He grasps your hand in his, turning it till your palm faces the sky, and places the dagger deliberately into it. Watching you keenly, he carefully folds your fingers around it, not releasing your hand even when he’s done. 

A faint whisper passes his full lips—and you recognise Darija even if you don’t understand it—but it strikes you as…sad. Plagued with some nameless darkness. 

“One day,” he starts huskily, now in accented English, and you can’t quite read his expression or tone. But it’s some bizarre mix you’ve never seen before. A strain and a shadow all at once while he looks you over. “If you still wish it, I will tell you everything.”

The weight and the finality behind that word makes you shift, uneasy. You’re not sure if there will even be tomorrow—much less one day. 

But before you can voice that, the Elder lifts your joined hands, pressing his mouth gingerly against your skin; a fleeting flutter that warms the flesh. 

“Let this be a token of our shared promise to one another.”

He takes one last look at you, his dark gaze inscrutable, and then you’re left alone with only setting sun for company. 

The dagger in your hand feels like an anchor, and you tip your head backwards, gazing up at the expanse of the sky above. 

The subway doors hiss open and you lift your head, stepping out onto the platform with other passengers. You’ve spent the majority of the journey here staring at the soles of your shoes, your mind splintering in a thousand directions.

There’s too much to do with time so limited.

Your return to New York had been by air. The Elder’s decision, taking into consideration how you felt about water travel.

It’s funny how you didn’t even need to voice such a thing for him to understand it. For him to make sure that the journey back is as painless as possible.

You’re not sure how John travelled but he did leave first, meaning he should be back in New York already. Until you arrive at the Continental, however, you have no way of knowing for sure.

The fierceness with which you’ve missed your home makes your shoulders lock as you cut through the bustling crowd. It should be said that Grand Central is always busy and overflowing with noise. Today is no exception to that. But you’re still a person at the very top of the Wanted list, so you keep your eyes peeled.

Instinctually, you scan the flow of the crowd around you. Strain every sense. Employ everything you’ve learned from some of the best in this world.

Step by step, turn by turn, staircase by staircase.

This time, he doesn’t catch you off guard.

The mob of people flows around you like a coursing river, hiding you both as you jerk to a mutual stop.

The grip on your wrist is unyielding, painful. The sharpened metal between your fingers trembles under the strain of that grip, and your expression mangles with fury. Acidic, poisonous emotion bubbles up to the surface and you don’t bother hiding it.

The man before you smiles at that—a slight but lovely thing—every micro-expression laced with fine malice.

“Hello, Lucien.”

You stand close enough to be touching, his thin frame still managing to cover your own. Your jaw has become a rigid mass as you glare up at him with open hostility.

“There you are, snakey,” he hums pleasantly, his thin mouth transforming into a slow, chilling smile. You try to push the blade you’re holding into his gut but his numbing grip remains. “I’ve been waiting for you to return. Has he missed you much?”

A couple of friends pass right by you, laughing loudly, and you both jerk again; limbs locking and muscle straining further. Neither of you manages to gain more edge on the other though and Lucien’s smile stretches further.

“And I knew you would find me,” you snarl coldly, your eyes narrowing into slits. “I wanted you to find me.”

Knocking his knee with your own, you swipe another blade free and aim it at him. Lucien pushes himself into you in reply, wrapping his arm around yours and halting you in your tracks. The blade scratches against the sleeve of his black jacket, cutting into it, but it doesn’t break skin past that. He yanks you closer, your bodies pressing against each other. You’re both practically embracing. Your limbs a joined, trembling mass from the sheer friction between you.

It’s a deadlock and you’re too evenly matched.

You’ve been waiting for this chance. For the chance to return the slight that was taking you and wasting precious hours for you over a week ago. Now that you know Santino’s choice is you—that you could have avoided this whole mess in the first place had you just had enough time to talk with him—it only makes you more furious.

You’ve been waiting for Lucien to catch up with you.

This time, however, he’s not the hunter, catching unsuspecting prey.

Baring your teeth, you snarl, wrenching yourself back—

And freeze.

Lucien’s coat parts and this close up a blinking red light catches your eye. As does the beeping your ears hadn’t previously picked up with all the noise.

Lucien’s smile turns downright predatory.

“All these sweet little angels...” he remarks in a sing-song voice, pointedly looking around the crowd, his accent just a little more notable. “Ready to watch them all burn?”

A portable bomb.

You should have known.

There’s no doubt enough packed in it to blow half the building, if not more. He would likely delight in the idea of the carnage even he’s not alive to see it himself.

Your features creasing at that thought, you demand an incredulous, “You would kill yourself just to see me die?”

“I’m already dead,” he replies blankly, the tilt of his voice emotionless. “After all I’ve done, it’s not about survival anymore. It’s about me....and you. And one last dance between us.”

You’re not going to play his games. Despite the confusion his words birth, you only allow a chilly, tepid smile to grace your face. Mocking him openly.

“Then catch me if you can.”

You sweep your foot under his legs. Swift and brutal. Lucien doesn’t fall but he does stumble half-a-step back, and you rip yourself out of his grip, dashing through the throng of people.

You’re not running blindly.

He enjoys the chase and you know he will follow but it’s not fear or desperation leading you this time.

People curse and holler as you shove them out of your way, throwing a few purposely in Lucien’s path. You don’t slow down to check if he’s following.

Every trained instinct in your body is screaming at you that he is.

You should have known he would try to use the people at the station against you. Use your close proximity to each other against you too. He’s learned of the dangers you pose at close combat.

But he’s not the only one to have learned something from your previous encounters.

Focused entirely on your rapidly forming plan, you tear out of Grand Central, the cool air of New York greeting you like an old friend.

Streets blur around you and your heart pumps inside your chest as you round the corner, stumbling. Wind beats against your cheeks and you ignore your harsh breaths, leading Lucien deeper into the heart of the city.

And it’s not his city.

You know every nook and cranny of this concrete anthill.

Skidding and stumbling, you throw yourself behind a building wall, pressing your back against it.

Your lungs quiver, heart pumping, and throat aching from the outright sprint you’ve just done.

Lucien should assume the obvious.

That you’re leading him back to the Continental at neck-breaking speed. As you did once before. And you are but not just yet. There’s something you have to handle first.

It takes no longer than ten seconds for the commotion to explode from the direction you just came from. Just as expected.

Lucien’s pounding footsteps reach your ears and your arch your back, readying yourself.

A smear of golden hair enters your vision and you throw yourself at him, slashing at his side.

No wires attached to the bomb that you saw. The Lovers are too sophisticated for anything as inelegant and rudimentary as that. Which makes this bomb either remotely detonatable or Lucien has other means by which to set it off.

Which then means that all you need to do is to rip that portion of his coat off him.

You’re not about to lead him back to your home with a bomb on him.

Lucien crashes onto the concrete sidewalk heavily, you on top of him. His knee drives into your gut and you wince, your fingers tangling into his jacket so he doesn’t slip out of your grip. You manage to hold on, hacking against the coarse material wildly. His features contort, realisation as to what you’re trying to do sinking in.

He throws a punch at you but you duck, ignoring his fingers when they sink into your hair, trying to yank you off him. People around you scream as you roll across the concrete, scattering the moment they realise you’re armed.

You have no intention of killing Lucien outright.

He deserves to reap the consequences of his actions just like the rest of you. If there’s anyone who deserves to be punished for all of this, it’s him. And you will see to it. Lead him back to the Continental and trap him inside like a rat in a maze.  

See what the Black Dragon does when you offer their little pet as a sacrificial lamb for the High Table.

He yanks on your hair but you swipe upwards, scratching your blade against his skin and he barks a laugh. Few droplets of blood slide down his porcelain skin and you stumble back, staggering onto your feet.

Lucien’s jacket is in tatters and he grabs it, yanking it off himself, and throws it carelessly to one side. You tense when it hits the ground but nothing happens. You’re not quite sure if it’s just that durable or if it was a fake-out—both seem equally as likely. “You’re no fun,” he pouts, watching his hand curiously. Ruby droplets well where you have torn into his skin, and he swipes his tongue across the skin lazily, unconcerned. “But fair enough.”

“You and me,” you grit out, glaring down at him as you back up, rolling the blade between your digits with expert ease. He stretches to his full height, too, towering, cracking his neck as he does so. “Let’s dance.”

You peel away, him a second behind you. You know how fast he is and pump your legs till the muscles in your thighs burn from exertion.

You’re surprised he’s not trying to shoot you like last time but maybe that’s the point. He doesn’t want a quick death for you just like you don’t want to kill him till he’s been punished.

Night blurs around you and your eyes narrow in concentration, keeping ahead but just barely. You can hear him right behind you, practically breathing down your neck.

Motorcycles suddenly rev behind you but you don’t dare to risk turning around to check. There’s more than one engine. Which doesn’t bode well for you.

Leaping down the stairwell, you cut through an underground pass. The tunnel amplifies every sound and you hear Lucien’s pounding footsteps behind you. He’s gaining on you.

Sweat clings to the back of your neck, your cheeks stinging from heat and the cold alike.

You take three steps at a time, jumping up the staircase on the other side of the tunnel in a manner of seconds. It takes several moments before motorcycles sound from behind you again—they clearly know the route enough to know about the shortcuts—but you don’t let it shatter your concentration.

The staircase of the Continental appears in your vision, so dear and welcoming—

A weight slams into you from behind and you wince as you both roll across the ground; a wild tangle of limbs.

Scrambling, you punch him right across the jaw before he can get a solid grip on you. Your knuckles twinge with pain but it barely registers. Lucien’s head snaps to the side but he manages to grab your wrists, pinning them to the ground, before you can yank a blade loose.

You drive your knee into his ribs. Once, twice.

Lucien takes it like he can hardly feel it. Teeth gleaming, bared. His grip tightens on you again—there will be bruises there tomorrow without a doubt—and you roll in a mangled mess once more. Two animals snapping their teeth at each other. The motorcycles draw closer down the street and you squirm when he tries to pin you down again. For being so thin, his strength is impressive. Worrying.

He wants to play games. But you’re far, far more furious than he is.

Your head cracks against his forehead, momentarily blinding and deafening you. Lucien falls back. Wobbling, you do the same. Everything is static noise—one moment, two, then you force yourself to move. Vision swimming, you kick at his abdomen blindly. There’s contact and rolling onto your stomach, you hurriedly scramble onto your feet.

A roar of engines hums through the night air, closing in, and you leap onto the stone stairs ahead of you, gripping onto the concrete.

Safe haven. Home.

Your head slants to look behind you; a victorious, vicious smile spreading across your face even though your forehead hums with numbing pain.

Lucien approaches slowly, a hunter on a prowl. His slick back hair is in a disarray. Flecks of his own blood splattered across his face.

He looks murderous despite the deformed smile still splintering his mouth.

Motorcycles come to a stop behind him and you recognise those dark uniforms anywhere. Black Dragon’s men—just as you suspected.

You rise to your feet, deliberate but cautious, taking count of the men present. Foot soldiers are hardly a reason for concern. A certain blonde with his raging stare most certainly is though.

“No one interferes,” Lucien orders, directing his words at the men behind him. “This is between me and—”

“Us.”

Your heart stills for a second before exploding in a wild flutter inside your chest.

You don’t turn around but hear the hotel door behind you crack open, followed by footsteps.

Lucien’s expression morphs with cold viciousness in the face of the new company.

Dario and Julian walk past you first, coming to a stop at the foot of the stairs, effectively blocking Lucien’s path. The Sharpshooter has his twin pistols gripped firmly in each hand, his usually friendly demeanour absent. Only the Camorra’s best stares back; focused and grim. Dario is no better with his arms folding over his broad chest the moment he halts, seemingly only amplifying his domineering presence. He reminds you of a growling grizzly bear, waiting for the slightest of provocations.

Step comes to a standstill beside you, nudging you with his elbow, and you dare to momentarily look away from Lucien to see his grinning face. He wiggles his eyebrows, his round sunglasses still on his face before he leaps down the last several steps. He lands noisily just behind Julian, laughing softly under his breath.

“Whatever issue you have with our boss,” Dario speaks solemnly, his usually warm, rumbling voice void of those things. “We would caution you to forget about it.”

“Get out of my way,” Lucien hisses lowly, his lips barely moving. “This doesn’t concern you.”

Julian raises his pistols at blinding speed at those words, pointing them directly at Lucien’s face. The Dragon’s men unholster their weapons in response but despite being outnumbered at least one to two, the Elites don’t appear concerned.

You’re not sure if you’re still breathing.

“We would rather not kill you,” Step chirps happily, leaning his elbow on Julian’s shoulder, before adding a downright chilling, “But we will.”

Lucien’s expression smoothens, growing remote in its emptiness. His hollow stare drags up till it latches onto you—cold and unforgiving, two black holes.

“You know you can’t hide from me, viper,” he whispers yet his low, throaty words carry through the night air all the same. The Elites don’t so much as blink; an impenetrable wall of defence. “We have unfinished business, you and I.”

“Were they not clear enough for you, huh?”

Your eyes nearly close when the final pair of footsteps comes to a stop beside you. Your attention doesn’t waver but you hear the click of a lighter beside you. It’s followed a second later by a soft crinkle of a smouldering cigarette as Hector draws a deep, tobacco-induced breath into his lungs.

“She’s our boss,” he declares roughly and you feel your throat close up at his frank statement. “Which means that you really don’t want to start this,” a pointed pause, and another hard inhale of a cigarette before, “So why don’t you go and blow a load into your girlfriend and stop wasting our damn time.”

The atmosphere thickens with tension at Hector’s crass words but you don’t look away from Lucien.

The blonde slants his head, curious. He regards Hector like a bug; an odd, unusual being that makes no sense to him. Like his words are spoken in a foreign language the assassin doesn’t quite comprehend.

“Boss,” Lucien echoes softly, making a fine mockery of the word, as he takes a few deliberate steps closer. “Is that suppose to mean something to me?”

The threat in his lovely voice snaps Julian’s hand to one side, the barrel of his gleaming silver pistol pressing into Lucien’s temple just as the tall man places his foot on the Continental staircase.  

“Julian, don’t!” you warm loudly and the Sharpshooter freezes at your command. “It’s what he wants,” you add bitterly, turning your stare towards the blonde who appears completely unconcerned to have a fully loaded weapon digging into his head.

His smug smile stretches, quivering at the corners, his stare almost playful, goading.

Julian obeys, his arm lowering slightly but his pistol remains trailed on the French assassin. The man in question takes his time, deliberately climbing one step at the time, and Hector lowers his smouldering cigarette. He’s on your right, standing between you and Lucien but the blonde hardly seems to notice that when he comes to a halt, still watching you intently.

“Yeah, it really should,” Hector says deliberately, his voice dipping towards seriousness and warning.

Dario and Step are still watching the Dragon’s men closely while Julian has turned with Lucien, his pistols still locked onto the man. It’s been a long time since you’ve seen the Sharpshooter as anything other than grinning and relaxed.

Lucien drags his gaze away from you at long last, his attention switching to the leader of Elites beside you, and you feel the suffocating tension in the air as they both stare each other down.

“I hold no loyalties to anyone for you to threaten me with fancy titles, dog,” the blonde remarks, his voice light, almost friendly, his attention once again returning to you. “But I’ll see you inside, snakey.”

You don’t answer him, choosing to glare right at him and nothing more than that. The lack of reaction seems to dissatisfy him, his lips pressing into a firm, unhappy line. He reaches for you—

Hector grabs his extended hand with near blinding speed, crushing his wrist in an ironlike grip as he jerks Lucien’s hand backwards, holding him back.

Everyone tenses and Dario pulls his own weapons free when the Dragon’s men try to push closer.

“Let me rephrase that,” Hector hisses quietly, his words thick with warning—no boredom or indifference to be found in his voice now. “She’s ours. You so much as lay a hand on her and I’ll cut it off and feed it to you.”

The French assassin grins in return, chuckling, his fist clenched to a point his knuckles strain beneath his pale skin. Hector’s grip only tightens though, the ink of his tattoos highlighted by the lights above.

“You got that?” he stresses viciously. “Or was I being too obtuse, you bleached French fuck.”

He throws Lucien’s arm back at him and the man’s expression sharpens with a savage sort of rage. Aside from his stormy, narrowed stare, it’s near impossible to tell that Lucien is displeased though. His features might as well be cut from marble.

“You remind me of someone I knew once,” Lucien muses, still grinning though it looks no better than a sharpened blade. “He too was an arrogant, blunt tool to be used.”

The blonde hums mockingly, looking Hector up and down.

“Get lost,” he calls out loudly, slanting his head—something so harsh in the motion you half-expect to hear his neck crack—toward the Dragon’s men. “I don’t need you here.”

Confusion follows those words but Lucien only cuts one last look your way before strolling calmly into the hotel.

You’re not going to stop him because he’s exactly where you need him to be. He will stay to try and wait you out. Which is exactly what you want and need. Time.

Biting back a grin, you briefly glance at Hector who meets your inquisitive stare and turns towards the Dragon’s men who look unsure as to what they should do.

“Are you deaf?” he snaps loudly. “Get lost.”

Step moves first, bouncing up the stairs till he’s right in front of you. He parts his arms, waiting for you to show if you’re in the headspace to be touched and…

You wrap your arms around him—near crushing and strong, squeezing his wiry frame to you with all the strength you possess inside your body. The hacker’s arms lock equally as tightly around you despite Hector’s snort.

“We’ve been worried about you, carina,” he mumbles against your cooling neck, and you watch Dragon’s men clearing the entrance of the hotel over his shoulder. “Everything’s gone to hell.”

“We should take this inside,” Dario speaks up, finally lowering his weapons, and Julian does the same though his grip on them doesn’t loosen. “It’s not safe for you out here, V.”

You release Step from your death grip with a nod and a pat on his shoulder. He flashes you a quick smile but it looks strained. They all look tense, grim-faced, and tired. Still deadly though, and focused as always.

Julian opens the glass doors and steps inside, his pistol raised like he expects Lucien to leap at you from the shadows.

The hour is late and the reception area, for once, feels eerily quiet. No Lucien in sight though.

You haven’t even noticed how they’ve positioned themselves around you. Hector is still on your right, Julian at the front and Dario taking the rear while Step’s arm ghosts on your left.

Your throat aches, something coiling inside your heart.

You feel…

Protected. Safe.

It robs you of speech for a solid minute—that realisation.

You’ve lived with them for a year. Ate, trained and bled with them. But it feels different now for some reason you can’t explain.

You’ve grown so used to fighting your battles alone that having someone on your side feels surreal.

Even more surprising is Hector’s compliance. You hadn’t expected him to fall into the role of your temporary right hand so easily. Or to be as open about your position, and his by extension, at your side. You hadn’t even expected him to stand in defence of you, unlike the other three.

But Hector has always valued Camorra above all else. Personal prejudices aside, he will always do his duty. It is, perhaps, the one thing you’ve always admired the most about him. His unfailing loyalty.

If you died now it would only cause further chaos and headaches for him.

Seeing all of them again, however, fills you with such immense relief you can hardly speak.

“Santino?” is the first thing you manage to wheeze out. “Ares? Roberto? How—how are they?”

With each step, you shed your momentarily lapse reminding yourself that this is no time to feel sentimental.

Hector answers you promptly, as would be expected of him, “Princeling woke up several hours ago,” he states calmly and you notice that he no longer has his cigarette. He must have dropped it outside. Despite that, your sensitive nose still catches a whiff of tobacco every time his lips part. “Ares is with him. Roberto is stable.”

You practically stumble to a stop. “He woke up?” you whisper, your voice breathy with fragile hope.

Hector’s stare is critical but lacking his usual irritating superiority. Surprisingly. “Yeah, asked after you,” he reveals bluntly, and you can feel others monitoring your reaction to those words. “He thought Wick killed you.”

Your heart clenches painfully at that.

He got shot in the head and his first worry when he woke up had been you?

But the knowledge that he has regained consciousness, had been coherent enough to even speak, nearly crumbles your self-control again. Relief churning through your veins is immeasurable. Dizzying.

You want to demand a thousand things but instead push yourself to focus, “We have to move him to the penthouse. Immediately.”

One of Hector’s eyebrows arches at that. But it’s Dario that speaks first, “Why?”

You glance between the four of them silently. No one else seems to be around. In the distance, even the reception desk sits empty, and it’s the first time in seven years that you’ve seen it unmanned.

What’s going on? Where is Charon?

“Because she’s not here,” you tell them, still slightly out of breath due to your earlier sprint, and your words soften with bitterness. “The Female Lover. Divide and conquer seems to be the most logical course for them to follow now.”

It would make sense. Split attacks and lay traps. Force your hand with pitting Lucien against you because they no doubt know that Santino is being kept safe between these walls. Put danger right here on your doorstep so you are forced to act.

The Four exchange wary looks and you note them at once.

“We already moved boss,” Julian informs you before you can ask, his strong eyebrows curving and feet shuffling. You can almost hear the grimace in his voice. “Right after the visit from an Adjudicator earlier. We figured it was no longer safe for him to stay since they demanded to see him.”

“Don’t look so surprised, sweetheart,” Hector mutters under his breath, folding his arms with a slight roll of his eyes. “Some of us are actually good at doing our jobs. Removing him from the Table’s direct jurisdiction was the best thing to do at the time.”

“Then where the hell is he?”

Step winces. “The penthouse,” he tells you and immediately lifts his hand in a pacifying manner while your eyes close. “But Flavio and others are with him. He’s protected. He was moved discreetly. No one saw a thing. I was watching all the cameras myself.”

Biting back a sigh, you mull over his words and huff a breath. “Then why are you not with him?”

“Because once Mr Wick arrived here in a rather…loud manner,” Dario begins and your attentions slides to him. “We knew you will not be far behind. With trouble likely on your heels. We had no way of contacting you and splitting up would have drawn too much attention. Step worked entire day trying to pin the Lovers down to one location but they kept popping up all over the city. They’ve been circling.”

So they stayed here to keep enemy eyes pinned on the hotel, giving them time to move Santino in secret.

Sometimes you forget how brilliant they are.

“They were waiting for me to come back,” you assume.

Dario inclines his head, his stare firm, and strong eyebrows curved. “Our duty is to protect you as well, V.”

Your blink at those resolute words, caught off guard.

Step is grinning cheekily but the other two stand with sombre air surrounding them. Hector’s expression is stony but he doesn’t disagree, either.

Before you can thank them or say anything else, a realisation slices through you like a bolt of lightning. A sickly feeling of quicksand gobbles you up in a matter of seconds, and you battle down the urge to kick something.

“Circling,” you repeat numbly, nearly biting your tongue because you already know the answer before you bother continuing. “Anywhere near the penthouse?”

You direct that question at Step and the latter stills, his grin wilting. “Closest ping I got was four blocks out.”

“Fuck.”

Your head slants backwards and you bite out an even more vicious, “Fuck.”

“V?”

Your head drops back and your expression is no doubt unforgiving. “Get to the penthouse right now,” you order, not even bothering to make it sound like a request. “This is their plan. For me to get here so she has the go-ahead to attack while Santino is alone. They’ve been waiting for you to move him. They knew you did. That’s why the male Lover let it go. Why he’s not here right now.”

Lucien is no doubt putting their plan into motion. Dismissing Dragon’s men was about giving you a false sense of security.

“What about you?” Julian wonders quietly though his tone doesn’t lack urgency. Dario already has his phone pressed to his ear, no doubt calling the security at the penthouse.

You want to go.

You…

“I can’t,” you choke out even though it kills you to admit it. “If I go, I lead Lucien and god knows who else straight back to Santino.”

The Lovers are no doubt hoping for that outcome. But you can keep them separated too. Weaken them. It just means trusting the Elites with Santino’s life completely. They will be taking the brunt of Mika’s and the Black Dragon’s attack.

You look towards Hector but find him already gazing at you, his harsh features drawn into a pensive expression. His eyebrows sit contracted into a tight line and his eyes go to Step.

Dario’s muffled murmurs cease then, and he lifts his head, ending the call with a single touch against the glowing screen. “There’s been nothing so far but…”

“Can you isolate any incoming attacks?” Hector demands and Step pulls out his phone the moment those words leave the leader’s mouth, scrolling and tapping rapidly. “Get to the penthouse. Julian call the rest of the men. The ruse is up. Tell everyone to get their asses there right now or I’ll kill them myself. Go.”

It’s a testament to how much they trust each other that they move as one—not questions asked—only pausing monetarily before you, and it takes you a full second to realise that they’re waiting for your approval.

Right. You’re their boss. Even if only temporarily.

You nod twice; shaky and a touch frantic.

“Capo.”

You’re not even sure which one of them says it, or if it’s all of them in unison, but a shiver tingles down your neck all the same.

Hector hesitates, still standing rooted in his spot, his stare probing but he doesn’t make a sound until the hurried footsteps of the other Elites fade.

“You’re planning to go after him.”

It’s a statement, direct and shrewd, and you see no reason to deny it. “Promise me you will kill her,” you insist sternly, your eyes meeting for a charged moment. “Don’t let her touch him.”

Hector strolls past you, his hands in his pockets. “Consider it done,” he shoots back flatly, pausing beside you once again but doesn’t turn towards you. You simply stand shoulder to shoulder in the empty lobby. “Something else is going on here. The Frenchie isn’t the only one you should watch out for. Some bald asshole followed Wick, and this Adjudicator seems a little rule happy and not in a good way,” he concludes pointedly.

“It doesn’t matter,” you respond mildly, your voice vacant and low, distant. “They can’t touch me. No one can now.”

The dagger against your side feels like it’s scorching into your skin.

Hector turns to face you at that but you don’t do the same. His weighty stare digs into your temple for several moments but you ignore it. Expectation hangs heavy in the air between you but you don’t explain yourself further. There is no point.

He scoffs under his breath, managing to sound as dismissive and derisive as always. The nearby heat of his looming frame disappears, his footsteps echoing against the marble as he saunters away.

But the way he had the foresight to move Santino nags at you, as do his actions outside on that staircase only minutes prior.

And—

“Hector?”

His footsteps fade into a stop, and you turn your face towards him.

“What now, sweetheart?” he calls out impatiently, peering at you over his shoulder as well. “Want a back rub with all of that?”

Normally something like that would have angered you, dug under your skin, pissed you off. Now though…

“Thank you.”

He doesn’t outwardly react to your words, not even a twitch of his facial muscles. He only stares at you for a long minute completely silent. You’re not quite sure what to make of that reaction.

“Whatever.”

His back disappears through the door leading outside and you turn back towards the reception desk.

Time to get some answers.

You hear him before you see him.

The dog leaps at you with a happy bark, his tongue lolling to one side when he lifts his nose eager to give you kisses.

His presence here shocks you but only because you know for a fact that the Continental doesn’t do animal boarding. Everything lately has felt like an avalanche of one thing after another that you haven’t stopped to think about what may or may not have happened to him. Or where he might be staying after John’s home was destroyed.

Despite not seeing him in a few weeks, he seems no less thrilled to see you.

“Hey, Cheeseburger,” you greet with the first genuine smile in a week, your features softening. You bend down to pet him, rubbing behind his ears and he only tries to lick you with more fervour, a happy doggy grin splitting his face. “Have you been good?”

A small bark escapes him, tail wagging so quickly it’s a blur, and your smile grows.

“Miss.”

Your eyes skip ahead, and relief whispers through your chest, an invisible coil loosening when you spot Charon standing ahead of you. As always his posture is bowstring straight, his suit pressed neatly, and eyes watchful over his glasses.

“Charon.”

You’ve missed him. So dearly. Seeing his face is like a much-needed balm against your tattered nerves.

His voice is as low and soothing as always when he offers a cordial, “Welcome back.”

His words might as well be an embrace and your smile wobbles momentarily. There has been a large part of you that was convinced you would never see him or Winston again.

You try not to think about your deal now. About leaving just when you got them back. Right now all that matters is that you’re here.

Still stroking Cheeseburger’s head, you stand back to your feet, ignoring the twinge of discomfort in your muscles when you do.

“It’s good to be back.”

Charon starts approaching you but a voice cuts in before he can say anything else.

“The Vipress.”

Your smile slides off your face when a short, bald man with a fixed smile and a wide-eyed stare appears from behind the concierge.

Hector’s warning springs to mind at once, and your eyes briefly flicker towards Charon whose expression remains impassive. A certain strain—disdain, even—can still be found in his overall bearing, however.  

Charon is not one to dislike people often, and certainly not openly. Though to most he would no doubt appear as detached and professional as always you can tell the difference. You’ve known him for years after all.  

“Do we know each other?” you wonder neutrally, your palm ghosting over a concealed blade despite the no-business rule. Not a scowl or even a whisper of a frown shows but your voice slides into something apathetic all the same.

The man dressed in all black wanders closer. His stance is relaxed, expression friendly, but you see the assessing gleam in his eyes, the brittle—almost mean—edge to his slight grin. It makes you feel like he’s in on some joke you’re missing out on.

Despite being on the shorter side and his near deceptive demeanour, you don’t fail to take count of the precise way he moves—a trained, likely deadly individual, and your attention settles on him like a sharpened blade against his throat.

Though your body language doesn’t outright change, you know he, too, notes the shift in you in those several seconds that pass between him stopping just a little ahead of you.

Cheeseburger licks your fingers—blissfully ignorant of the uneasy atmosphere—and you drag your fingertips over his head tenderly.  

“No,” the man answers shortly, still smiling what he no doubt hopes to be a friendly smile though it hardly is. “But I know of you. Tokyo still remembers your name.”

Your heart stutters for a single second, feeling the slice of those calm, unassuming words. But you can tell from the way his lips flutter just slightly that he chose his words carefully. A deliberate dig and he examines your reaction closely, so you show him nothing.

The man ventures closer yet again, seemingly encouraged by whatever he sees, and extends his gloved hand your way. “But where are my manners? I am Zero.”

His hand hangs in the air between you and Charon’s stare settles on you. He doesn’t interfere though, or comments.

Not taking his hand would be rude but expected. People know of your aversion to touching strangers. However, it would also put you on a backfoot after his previous dig, and the last thing you want is someone that worries even Hector to smell weakness.

With that in mind, you slot your smaller hand into his, your grips equally as constrictive, “Good to meet you,” you say, your voice bland, dropping his hand after another forced twitch of your lips. “Now if you excuse—”

“I was still in training when you killed Kishi of Tokyo,” he declares loudly, freezing you mid-turn, and your eyes meet Charon’s again before you look back at the newcomer. You’re not quite sure what to make of his strange stare or fragmented little smile. “We knew each other. But not much,” he continues, no doubt purposely ignoring your disinterested, borderline hostile stare. “Maybe I should express my gratitude. If it were not for you, I would not be what I am today.”

He even bows his head. Like you’re his comrade. Like you’re one and the same.

Still, you say nothing, and Zero chuckles loudly before it cuts off abruptly. A new gleam glows in his eyes, and it doesn’t surprise you when Charon comes to a stop beside you. The concierge cuts for a silent but foreboding figure all the same.

Zero’s expression twists with amusement upon spotting that silent gesture, and he presses his hand over his chest. “You’ll have to forgive me, I’m a bit—what do they say—a little starstruck,” he apologizes but it feels more like oil on your skin followed by another gleaming smile. “Meeting the John Wick and the Vipress in a span of a single night. Legend of the old and legend of the new. The shadow that hides the snake—that’s what they still say about you two.”

You work hard to not let anything slip. You’ve known about your legacy in Tokyo for some time now—your and John’s both. You did what no one has done before. Escaped. Survived. John slaughtered his way through Kishi’s men to make sure no one ever followed you back.

It didn’t change much in the end. That nightmare of a man—his phantom, at least—still haunts you to this day. It chills the blood in your veins to be standing out here now and be discussing him so openly. Especially with someone who supposedly knew him.

You’re not sure if you’re strong enough to engage with this conversation. There’s only so many ghosts you can handle in such a short span of time.

“I wish to see the manager,” you announce instead, your stare not leaving the assassin before you.

There is a flare of fury at the dismissal but it’s brief, and once it passes, it leaves a man that reminds you of a mannequin—deflated and lacking life, formless like a ghost.

“Sir and Mr Wick are currently meeting in the administrative lounge, Miss,” Charon answers promptly but then adds a deliberate, “The manager, however, has expressed his desire to see you at once upon your return.”

Even if Winston hadn’t, something tells you that Charon would have said that regardless. Like you know him, he knows you. He understands perfectly well how shadows of your past belong there. Rattling them now would be dangerous.

Nodding, you force yourself to keep a polite facade, the assassin receiving a rather forced, “Mr Zero.”

Certainly the best he could hope for. Or should. Still, you feel proud of yourself for managing to contain yourself. For not letting him bait you into action because he no doubt was hoping for a reaction, perhaps even a confrontation. That would be easy, expectant.

Zero doesn’t look pleased about the outcome of the conversation at all. His easy-going, faux adoring demeanour splintering around the edges. The man before you tries to hold the pieces together but you notice the cracks all the same.

Lowering your chin, you raise your palm towards Cheeseburger, “Stay.”

The dog releases a small whine at the order but does as he’s told, sitting back on his hind legs, his ears perked up. That alone almost brings another smile to your face.

Your arm drops back to your side and you offer Charon another look that says a silent keep an eye on him.

Your footsteps echo as you cut through the hallways of the hotel, passing a few faces as you do. Zero doesn’t follow and you’re glad for it—for some reason, a part of you had expected him to.

Throughout your journey, you feel eyes tracking you. No one says anything or moves towards you though. You half expect Lucien to leap at you from every shadowed corner but he’s nowhere to be seen. You want to worry that maybe he truly did leave the hotel and hightailed it for the penthouse but it won’t be logical for him to miss out on this chance.

Lucien’s interest—fixation—with you has always felt deeply personal. More than a simple job or a hit. It never felt like he took as much interest in Santino as he did in you. Certainly surprising considering that from you two, it’s Santino with the biggest power reserve behind him. Enough to crush the Lovers if he came into his power as he now has. You’ve thought about this once before but maybe then you had things wrong.

Despite you being the bigger physical threat, removing Santino first would have been more logical. It would have isolated you. Left you without support.

Lucien never showed much eagerness in Santino’s removal aside from making an occasional threat to rile you up from the start.

Why?

Is it truly just conviction that you are alike? An obsessive there can only be one mentality?

With that thought lodged like a splinter inside your mind, you step into the elevator, shoving the partition roughly with a metallic click.

The elevator jolts when you press the appropriate floor button, falling back against the metal wall on your journey.

Everything is so loud it’s somehow quiet. Or maybe you’ve just gotten better at ignoring it.

It’s a short trip and when the elevator halts you pull the metal partition slowly this time, perking your ears for any unusual sounds.

There’s nothing.

You’ve never liked the administrative lounge much. Unlike the rest of the hotel that’s always oozed an old, rustic charm, this space has always felt cold and clinical on the few, rare occasions you visited Winston up here. Frankly, it’s never been the type of place you enjoyed visiting then, and you don’t suspect that will change any time soon.

The neon laser lights and glass as far as the eye can see. Visually it’s a masterpiece of architecture but it always made you feel uneasy. Like a rat caught in a crystal maze. Being back here now reminds you eerily of the gallery you had to chase John through, nearly losing everyone dear to you in the process.

Grabbing a blade from a secure sown-in compartment inside your coat, you move up the staircase soundlessly.

It doesn’t take long for faint, muffled voices to reach you. Slowing down further, you approach one step at a time. With each step, Winston’s calm baritone becomes clearer. You stop abruptly when his words start registering properly.

“—but you’re having doubts?” he calls out, sounding knowing and in control like usual. “Because you know that she will never forgive you if you do this. Will never let you into her heart again. She’s the only thing you still have left to lose,” he goes on, and your eyes widen when you realise who exactly he’s discussing. What the hell is going on? You know he’s talking to John but… “This is all assuming she can find it in herself to forgive you for your actions in regards to one Santino D’Antonio in the first place.”

You can’t see them from here. You’re above them by at least an entire flight of see-through glass stairs. Shifting your weigh, you move closer, holding your breath and sinking lower towards the ground to not alert them of your presence.

“I understand perfectly well, Johnathan, this is nothing personal,” Winston continues and for once you truly find yourself hating how calm he sounds. You’ve never seen the manager caught off guard. It’s everyone else he outmanoeuvres with expert ease. But personal? What’s personal? “If you feel like you must. Put a bullet through my heart. The High Table has asked me to step down one way or another.”

You almost stumble.

What?

It’s then that a memory springs forward. Of the tent. John’s conflicted expression and his words.

Elder gave you time to say goodbye but you had to make a deal. What if John had to make one too? He mentioned a task; a task he never got time to explain further. Only a vague mention of one.

But he had wanted to, you realise with sinking dread, the moment he saw you, he wanted to.

John’s punishment—his true punishment—is sacrificing his oldest friend in a show of fealty to the Table and killing him.

The lukewarm metal between your digits nearly falls to the ground at that realisation.  

But why—

“The hour?” John’s gruff voice speaks at long last.

A distracted hum, then confirmation, “The hour.”

“You should have killed me when you had the chance,” John says bluntly. “Killed us both.”

You gnash your teeth together, feeling the grind of bone inside your skull as you slink closer, taking it one stair at a time. Unhurried and precise. Just how John himself taught you.

Distantly, you hear Winston agree followed by muted footsteps against the gleaming floor. Is he moving away from John or towards him?

“In the years you’ve been away, Johnathan, I have come to learn that loyalty is a peculiar thing,” the manager muses, his voice thoughtful, but you hear the deliberateness he puts into each word he speaks. There is an odd quietness to his voice though—the type of you’ve only heard a handful of times. “Hard to earn, quick to break,” a long pause supersede those words and you come to a standstill as well, straining your ears. “But not always. It can sometimes be obtained by the most unlikely of individuals during the most unlikely of times.”

You’re not quite sure what exactly John gleans from those words but he does seem to take away something you miss. “You’re not stepping down, are you?”

“No,” Winston states evenly. “I don’t think I am.”

“So it’s war,” John declares, sounding just as bewildered as you feel, and you know it’s a rarity for him to let his emotions slip so easily. But this is… “You’re going to war with the High Table.”

Once you had joked about it. You were left cranky after yet another job for Tarasov, and had come back to the Continental worn after days of dealing with less than hospitable conditions. Winston had listened to your rant like usual.

What if I just killed Tarasov now?

Newspaper and brandy in hand, Winston’s reply had been unamused, You get killed.

Not if you help me. You and I, I bet we could take the Table on.

It was a joke back then. Nothing more than a throwaway, snarky remark you had made as a way to alleviate some pent up stress. A momentarily reprieve from the helplessness you’ve always felt in the face of your circumstances. It’s one of the few things that has helped you stay sane over the years.

It was long before you met the Elder and learned you could kill Tarasov without consequences once the debt was repaid.

It’s only now that you realise that Winston never did give you a response to that offhand statement. Joke or otherwise.

It’s only now that you stupidly realise that the idea of war shouldn’t surprise you at all. That perhaps deep in your bones you always knew there was a possibility of one.

Maybe Winston’s dedication to upholding rules and order always blinded you to the fact that despite that obedience he wasn’t afraid of them.

That which terrifies others—everyone, even you and John—has never affected the manager in the same manner.

He’s not afraid of the High Table. Or to move against them if he sees fit.

“I’ve made my decision. A long time ago now,” Winston remarks, and you edge closer, catching the first glimpse of him through the crack in the stairwell. “Back when I had to watch Charon carry a dying girl through the very halls of this fine establishment. A girl that you left behind. And now, it’s time for you to choose as well.”

Oh.

You’ve always privately considered Winston and Charon to be your family. One you weren’t quite allowed to have but chose for yourself despite how foolishly sentimental it was. A bond that was forged through years of knowing each other. Struggling together. Practically living together.

It never once crossed your mind that it was a feeling returned at least to some degree.

That alone makes you look at the entire conversation you’ve just heard in a new light.

“Choose what?”

Winston stands in front of John, his hand extended towards the assassin. In the manager’s weathered hand—a fine mockery of a week ago when he first declared you both Excommunicado, and even worse, of the Elder offering you the golden dagger at your side—sits a pistol.

The older man gives John a shrewd stare, and if you didn’t know any better you would say that he’s disappointed John is not catching on quicker.

“Oh, but you already know,” he states flatly, moving his hand in a vague motion. “It’s the same choice you’ve been struggling for the last five years now. Between who you are and who you wish to be. You kill me, you sell your soul to the Table.”

All you can see is the back of John’s head, his crop of black hair standing out like a dark spot against the glossy, blue tint of the lounge.

He thinks about Winston’s words for a bit.

“But I also live and remember Helen.”

Once those words might have caused a burn of pain but now all you feel is a nudge of sadness and a joyless sort of understanding. You’ve accepted the fact that there will always be a part of John that will always love Helen.

You’ve just hoped…

“Helen loved you, John. She truly did,” the manager agrees, something just a touch warmer to be heard in his intonation. “And you love her. You only came back because she was taken from you. But she’s also gone and she’s not coming back. You go ahead with this and you lose V forever, and I know that alone is stopping you.”

There is a scathing sort of finality to the last part and John’s slightly lowered head lifts.

“So I guess my question to you, then, is who do you wish to die as?” Winston asks though it does sound like a fine line between an inquiry of genuine curiosity and an authoritative demand. “Baba Yaga. The living nightmare and the last thing so many have seen. The servant of the High Table. Or as a man who was—and likely still is—loved by two wonderful women.”

John doesn’t move or say anything. That heaviness hangs across his shoulders, burdening him with yet another choice.

The problem is the fact that what you told him back at the desert still applies.

You don’t trust his word. You’ve been burned too harshly by recent events to do so.

With that in mind, you drop your guise, walking the remainder of the stairs with deliberate heaviness. Purpose.

Both men turn at the sound of your advancing footsteps. The former’s expression lightens, a clever gleam catching your eye. John looks weary, almost like he’s readying himself for another battle, another storm that is your raging fury.

You have little appetite for that though.

Too much is going on right now. The Elites could be battling against the Female Lover and the Black Dragon’s men right now. You need to find Lucien and figure out a way to keep him here. Inform the High Table. Find out who started this hunt in the first place. Who knows about Chicago.

“Winston.”

A slight smile ghosts over the manager’s face. “Welcome home.”

It hurts.

Because it feels so good to hear him say that. To feel welcome and missed. Even if you know it’s as much about drawing that line in the sand for John—an unspoken You vs Us.

John doesn’t fail to take count of the blade in your hand, neither does Winston.

A suspended kind of silence shrouds you three. If John really thinks that you will let him—

Footsteps.

You all turn in the direction of a tall, graceful figure clad in all black moving briskly down the steps.

The icy blue stare and black, short-cropped hair are all unfamiliar to you.

“Mr Wick and Miss Vipress,” the newcomer greets in a cool and collected manner, gripping a pair of leather gloves in one hand. “It is a pleasure to finally meet you both. I’m an Adjudicator.”

Shit. Of course they are. It makes sense for one to come and adjudicate the hotel after John shot Santino at practically point-blank range inside these very walls.

The hour.

Winston overstepped his position by offering you that hour. By helping you and John out.

Now he’s paying for it.

When neither you nor John say anything in return, their head slants in Winston’s direction, unperturbed. “Have you decided to step down?”

You would think they’re asking if the cookies are ready to come out of the oven. Their voice is as empty as their stare despite the gravity of their question. But the Adjudicators are often cold and distant. Dedicated to upholding the rules of the High Table even more so than the hotel managers are. To expect pity or mercy from one never bodes well.  

Winston greets that indifference by no less bored, “I don’t think I will.”

A quick tilt of their chin—offended, critical—and they turn towards John instead.  

“And you?” they demand, a notable sharpening to their tone. “Will you be pulling a bullet in his head?”

You tense at those words, your body instinctively moving in front of the manager.  

John’s ponderous scrutiny falls on you but you don’t take your attention away from the Adjudicator. Is what Winston said true? Are you really the only thing John still has left to lose?

You’re not sure if—

“No,” he says, quiet but resolute. “I don’t think I will.”

The High Table representative examines you three with a flicker of disbelief as well as irritation. You can’t help but wonder if this is the first time they encountered such blatant dismissal of their authority.

“So be it.”

They turn on their heels creating at least several meters in distance between you. A phone appears in their hand and they dial, bringing the phone to their ear with an effortless air of superiority.

All you manage to catch from where you stand is the very end of the conversation. “The Continental Hotel, New York,” an imposing proclamation followed by swift damnation. “Deconsecrated.”

The Adjudicator spins towards them, approaching leisurely as they gave each of you a measured, speculative look.

“This institution has hereby been deconsecrated,” they state flatly, appraising you all with aloof, disinterested air. Like you have just become less than human in their eyes and nothing more than trash to be taken out. “As such business may now be conducted on Continental grounds. Since you are refusing to step down,” they continue, their tone icy and pointed glaring digging into Winston, then John, “And you are refusing a direct order, your lives are now forfeited.”

Much to your surprise, the Adjudicator’s bright eyes come to rest on you next. “It is my advice to you Miss Vipress that you vacate the premises immediately,” they warn but the words lack much care aside from mild impartiality. “The High Table emissaries will be joining you shortly to see to the removal of your souls from the property,” they add to the two men on either side of you.

The Black Dragon men.

With that, the Adjudicator turns to go but your voice halts them before they take further than a step, “This hotel is my home,” you profess tightly, something slippery and raw in that string of words. An old ache; a new longing. Ironlike, unshakeable conviction shines the brightest though. “If you want it, you will have to take it over my cold, dead body.”

Another tilt of chin that makes you think reptile; coldblooded and dispassionate. “That can be arranged.”

A snarl pulls your lips back. “Can it?” you wonder, your words soft but deliberate. “You may wish to double-check that.”

The Adjudicator visibly pauses at that, and it’s the first sign of uncertainty you glimpse in their armour. The first time it takes them a moment to settle on their next course of action. Faint sourness lines their dignified features while they study you, considering your words no doubt.

“Good evening to you.”

Your glare is hot enough that you’re surprised the Adjudicator doesn’t catch on fire the moment their back is turned to you—and rather bold of them to turn their back on two master assassins after what they’ve just done—and your fingers itch.

John’s fingers snap around your wrist, holding firm and stilling your rising hand. “Don’t.”

The red haze lifts and you relax your jaw. It’s only after he sees your posture loosen that he releases his grip, his fingertips lingering against your inner wrist as if savouring the contact.

On your right, Winston heaves a weary sigh. “This haven is safe no more.”  

Your eyes lower and you try to process what’s just happened.

Continental is the only sanctuary you’ve ever known—the only one you’ve ever needed—and something in your gut churns. It’s a deadly, potent mix that makes you force a calming breath.

John breaks the silence first—a rarity, but you suppose this week has been full of those. “Are the services still off-limits to us?”

Winston looks to you first, taking you in, and you wonder what he finds in your no doubt murderous expression and blazing glare. Every muscle coiled tight and ready to spring.

Destruction hums in your blood, screaming for retribution and you want to indulge in it.

They should be terrified of you, the Elder’s voice reminds you.

“Considering the fact that V’s Excommunicado was lifted minutes prior and this interesting change in circumstances…”

He fades off for a moment, giving you both another thoughtful look that tells you he’s fully appreciating who exactly is about to stand in defence of his hotel. “What do you need?”

NF3 NC6.

You’re a statue rooted at Winston’s side.

The four of you—John, you, Winston and Charon—wait for the elevator to grind to a halt, Cheeseburger sitting patiently between you and John. Ever the loyal companion.

“We have another problem,” you declare with a subdued sigh, dragging your eyes over the metal cubicle you’re trapped in. Even years later the fear of being a trapped animal unable to escape hasn’t quite faded from memory.

The manager clicks his tongue in reply, leading you all out of the elevator and towards the massive vault door sitting at the end of a short hallway. Guards—what few cemented their loyalty to the hotel and Winston himself—dot the length of it, watchful and awaiting their orders.

“Splendid,” the man shoots back dryly. “Not like we have plenty of those already.”

“The Male Lover is here,” you inform him, ignoring his snark. “He followed me.”

Winston’s mouth curves downwards at that. He places his hand on a palm scanner, waiting. “As expected,” he offers in return, his tone challenging. “Your next move?”

“He knows something that he shouldn’t,” you answer promptly, fiddling with your fingers. John and Charon are silent behind you but you know they’re also missing a lot of context behind the conflict, especially the former. “About Chicago. I intend to find out how and from whom. Then…”

Well.

Your plan till about ten minutes ago was to capture him and keep him here. Feed him to the High Table. Exact your justice by other means.

Now though...

It’s war.

The hotel has been stripped of its immunity. People are on the way to kill Winston and John. Charon by default. Even the staff if they get in the way, though the order to evacuate has been sounded already.

If you stand with them you, too, become an enemy.

The choice is simple. Easier than most things in your life have been, and it sits right in your gut.

If the High Table wants the manager standing in front of you, they will have to go through you first. And you’re capable of unleashing a lot of damage before they ever manage to get close enough to touch him.

But this also means that there will be no divine justice at the end. By the decree of the Adjudicator, people can now spill blood freely between these walls. There’s nothing stopping Lucien from attacking you anymore. Nor will he miss such an opportunity.  

A confrontation between you two can only end one way now.

“Then I deal with him,” you finally mutter, your jaw locking with resolute firmness.

An eyebrow quirked, Winston gestures inside, going straight for the drinks cabinet. You head right without prompting, going for a very special compartment safe built into one of the wall’s inside the vault.

You’ve had it installed years ago gradually filling it full with the passage of months and then years.

Not wasting time, your palm settles on the scanner, ignoring the code pad entirely. A beep sounds and a muted green light bathes your skin a second later. A hiss follows and then—

“That’s…impressive.”

John’s voice behind you should not surprise you—and it doesn’t—but it does make you tense. Shrugging, you risk a glance in his direction to see what he makes of your collection. The quiet, impressed way his eyes drag over each shelf betrays both his surprise, and even a shade of wariness.

Vials upon vials all line the massive cabinet of three separate compartments folding outwards—custom made just for this. Labels hug each vial neatly, all of them lined up in an orderly fashion based on use and colour. The rest of the cabinet houses some of your rarest and most expensive ingredients. Carefully hidden in the most secure location you can think of—or it was till about fifteen minutes ago.

“It took me a while,” you admit though the tension in your tone and body don’t ebb away. “A lot of trial and error. And throwing up.”

You’ve been your own best guinea pig over the years, and have suffered a great deal for it. But it has also given you something no one before has been able to achieve: immunity. To most of these dark, dangerous creations of yours.

Your prized collection of at least a hundred vials makes even Baba Yaga pause and consider. See you differently no doubt.

The truth is that the sheer magnitude of the horrors and devastation this collection could unleash is unprecedented. Unrivalled by all with the exception of but one man.

And no one knows it exists apart from the people in this room and Santino. The High Table suspects something of this nature exists, you know that. Hence their insistence on you being unable to remove anything from the hotel after your Excommunicado.

“I should have told you,” John speaks up, his lips parted and tone deep, tired. “About my task. I just…”

“Knew that if you told me neither of us would have left that desert?” you guess. “Yeah, I kinda figured that.”

You understand his angle. His reason for not saying anything too. There’s just one thing that’s been bothering you since you learned about it.

“Did...did the Elder forbid you from telling me?”

John’s expression creases. “No,” he admits slowly. “But he reminded me that your forgiveness is rarer than water in the desert, and rage fiercer than the sun.”

You can almost hear that echoed in the Elder’s gentle, accented voice. Staring at the vials, you force some of them out, rolling them in your palm experimentally as you start assembling your weapons swiftly.

The task makes sense. Winston did something he shouldn’t have. Punishing him would be expected like it was with you and John. Manager or no, he’s not all-powerful.

But the thought that the Elder still knowingly told John to remove Winston stings. Deeply. He knows full well what the older man means to you.

Realising that you have nothing else to say, John steps away but you hear the reluctance in his steps when he walks away.

But all this can wait. The looming threat is the first order of business. You can’t afford any distractions, so this, too, gets shoved behind a wall. Locked tight. You can catch a moment later. Process everything that’s happened in this last week.

Charon’s lulling voice describes the change in the Black Dragon ranks to John—armour improvements, weapon improvements, more robust training. You listen with half an ear. They’ve gotten better with years, deadlier. They will not be an easy target but staring at all the vials out in the open fully and at your disposal makes your mouth twist into a cold, cruel smile.

Let them come.

You will make corpses of them all.

With that thought in mind, you arm yourself to the teeth, locking a belt around the curve of your hips. Blades slot easily against your body, vials of poison and canisters of gas following. Next, come pistols with spare clips and enough bullets to take down a small army. Fitting, considering that’s most likely what you are likely to face. You thoroughly check each pistol, removing the magazines, and making sure safety is on all of them. Double-checking there’s no jamming, either.

Once you’re comfortably armed you pull out two small needles, filling both with a small dosage of different colour solutions. You prepare more but focus on the two first.  

Charon and John are still getting prepped, arming themselves just as intently while Winston sits calmly on a luxurious leather sofa observing them. Cheeseburger lays beside him on the sofa, his ears slightly perked as he watches everyone in the room.

Charon is closer so you hand him the needle wordlessly, knowing that he’s more than aware of what it is. Moving closer to John, you note the concentration with which he adds each spare magazine into his own utility belt, a deep pinch between his brows. This lethal focus means that you’re about to lose the John you know. Once Baba Yaga arrives there will be nothing but destruction left behind.

Something in your chest is ready to do the same. You almost crave it. Like everything has been building too quickly and now you feel at a breaking point ready to unleash.

Moving swiftly, you stab a needle into John’s neck, feeling him jerk and snap his fingers around your arm just like he did earlier. His grip is harsher, his fighter instincts kicking in. This time he’s not trying to stop you from attacking anyone but himself.

Rising an unimpressed eyebrow, you remove the needle from his neck, and John sways, scowling in your direction.

“Ow. What was that?” he demands quietly, no doubt recalling the last time he had a run-in with your creations.

“A little concoction that will, hopefully, give you immunity from most things in my arsenal temporarily,” you tell him calmly, near monotonous. “Unless you prefer dissolving into an immobile puddle the moment my paralyser comes out?”

John’s brows hitch, his eyes narrowing marginally, and his chin slants. “You enjoyed that,” he states dryly.

Blinking, you feel your lips quirk in an infinitesimal smile, blinking innocently up at him. “No idea what you’re talking about,” you demure pleasantly. John stares at you blankly and your small smile quivers, widening. “Okay, fine. I totally enjoyed that.”

A tiny quirk of his own mouth follows and it feels strangely nostalgic, near bittersweet, because it’s like years ago again. Just you two getting ready for yet another job together, you teasing him or firing questions at him. He’s always been patient with you. It was a kindness you never once took for granted. You were so alone, so lost, and he’d been the only harbour you had.

Despite his flaws, despite his mistakes, in many ways, John will always be that. It’s the one thing you never see changing.

You still miss that ease you once shared. Sometimes remnants of it appear, like now, and it just makes it harder.

But reminiscing now is a fool's errand.

Instead, you reach for another blade mounted on the wall behind him and bend your knee, slotting it against the special opening in your boot. He doesn’t take his gaze away from you as you do that, and you straighten, waiting to see if he will say anything else. He doesn’t. That almost makes you smile again. Typical.

Nodding at him, you look towards Charon instead, pulling out several vials, “For the guards,” you state seriously, your ease evaporating, and he takes them without a word. “Make sure they inject themselves at least five minutes before heading out just in case. It’s going to be a nasty toxic cocktail one way or another. You already know what to do.”

A firm nod. “Certainly, Miss.”

Satisfied, you walk past them heading towards the manager who watches you curiously as you approach. Cheeseburger raises his head at once, his tail wagging at your proximity. Your fingers brush over his head, petting him, and you hold another vial for Winston to take.

Nothing to do with protection and everything to do with arming him. Which, you suppose, is its own type of protection.

He stares at you blankly, a glass of what you only assume is brandy gripped securely in his hand.

“Oh, I sincerely hope you’re joking.”

He sounds completely incredulous and you roll your eyes.

“Precautions,” you shoot back, twisting the poison vial between your fingers and holding the entire length of it out to him. “Your wisdom, remember?”

“And you think that if they somehow manage to get through you, Jonathan, Charon and the guard, as well as at least two tons of metal, that will stop them?”

“No,” you answer honestly. “But it will make me feel better if you have it.”

Winston heaves a sigh, shaking his head but takes the vial all the same, leaning back in his seat. A single eyebrow lifts as if to say satisfied? and you fight back a groan. Why can no one in your life make things easy for you? Just once?

You part your lips, a playful remark on your tongue, only for distinct thudding to sound from above. It’s faint, barely audible, but you all freeze at the sound of it.

Your eyes drag towards the ceiling, just as Winston’s voice sounds, “Charon, would you be so kind as to welcome our new guests?”

The concierge strolls briskly towards the fuse control box, pushing one of the levers down with a deafening click.

Upstairs, you know the hotel has been plunged into darkness before emergency lights come into operation.

“Let's go.”

You reach for the last few things you can get your hands on, your focus narrowing down to tunnel vision.

“You will do the Continental proud,” Winston states, sounding so sure you can’t help but lift your head in his direction from your last minute prep. “Both of you.”

Your heart jolts painfully but you nod in acknowledgement all the same. Charon returns the gesture as well.

“And Johnathan?”

The assassin halts at his name, looking towards the manager in an unspoken question. “Do what you do best. Hunt.”

The four of you share a long, leaden moment before John moves first, followed by you. The vault door whirls close behind you, securing Winston and Cheeseburger inside, but you refuse to look back.

You will see them both soon.

Splitting at the mouth of the hallway, you watch Charon lead the guards down a different path while you and John take the elevator. Divide and attack on two fronts. John will be their main target first, then you.

The man beside you is as still as death, his body relaxed but senses alert. John doesn’t fidget, hardly blinks, everything about him is steady and tranquil. Just standing near him feels electric.

“Just like old times.”

His faint words startle you. A large machine gun in his hands, the black suit, an unforgiving stare—he looks near godly, as always, and you blink in his direction. Your tongue drags over your lower lip, pensive, and when you glance back at him you see John’s eyes jump up from your mouth.

“Just like old times,” you agree softly.

You’re not sure what he sees when he looks at you. You would like to think he sees someone who exceeded his expectations for you all those years ago. Strong and unyielding.

You hope he sees an equal.

The lounge is painted with sickly green when the elevator crawls to a stop, and you both move like an extension of one another. Falling into a routine is easy because it’s instinct. The lounge is submerged in smoke, obscuring your vision so you both move silently through it, gauging the situation.

Raising your hand, you feel John slow beside you, his gun raised, covering you. Your eyes journey over the lounge, spotting blurry figures creeping through the space, trying to discover you no doubt. The black uniforms make anger simmer in your gut, gnawing on your self-control.

A hiss joins the fray of noise as you lightly roll your own gas canisters across the marble floor, your paralyser joining the smoke seamlessly.

You should really thank them. They just made this easier.

Now it’s just a matter of—

A gunshot booms behind you and you pivot on your knees, watching John tackle two men who have taken a route from behind, hidden from sight by large stone pillars.

Each man takes several bullets to take down and you frown at that. Through the darkness, you spot the heavy armour—heavier than you’ve seen them wear—as well as goddamn gas helmets on their heads.

Rising, you jog towards the bodies. John throws himself at the other approaching men and you yank on the helmet on the dead soldier’s head. It slips off relatively easily and you curse under your breath when you note what filters have been installed at the base of it.

They’re significantly better than the last time you faced off against them. This paralyser will be nothing more than an irritant at this rate.

They’ve come more than prepared.

They’ve come ready to skin the snake and hang her by that skin.  

Snarling, you hurl the helmet at another uniformed figure that rounds the column, his rifle raised, watching it crash against his head.

Two shots follow from your Glock but the man only stumbles back, and you leap at him, slotting the nozzle under his collar before firing again. A bullet slices clean through his neck, finally killing him. You slide a blade in your other hand, spinning it once. Scanning your surroundings, you take the other side so you and John work back to back even at the distance.

Gunshots explode ahead and you know that Charon has joined in the fray as well.  

Your displeasure morphs into anger and then outright fury with each dead body. It doesn’t take you long to realise that your weapons are too weak to handle this onslaught. The calibre too low. The helmets make the paralyser nothing more than a tickle down their throats and an ache in their eyes.

While that slows them somewhat, their armour is too good for a simple pistol fire. No matter how many bullets you may have at your disposal.

Slamming a knee into one man’s gut, you yank his body to one side. His body soaks up bullets his friends try to shoot at you and you pull back. A blade buries deep in his neck, you jerk the deadman again, feeling a splatter of hot liquid on your face when the blade cuts deeper into his skin.

Duck, yank, slice.

You tear through the throng of incoming soldiers but you’re slowed by the fact that each person takes too much effort to kill unless you get up close and personal. That in itself is tempting faith.

One bullet, one falter, that’s all it would take.  

A man charges at you when his gun clicks empty, and you block his punch, pistol-whipping him across the head. The contact rattles through your bones and you bare your teeth.

A slice so quick he doesn’t even register it follows before his throat opens.

Nothing but a wet gurgle slips free and gravity does the rest.

Another follows after that, and another and another. It’s chaos and darkness. The floor is slippery with blood but you push ahead your expression contorted with pure wrath.

They want to kill you, do they?  

Rules have drowned you for years now.

But right now—right this second—you’re still free of your chain.

And they have no idea what you can do.

Let me give you something to be afraid of.

With that thought racing through your mind, you turn and dash towards the elevator, slamming your hand against the button. It takes long—too long—but you know it will be worth it. Throwing yourself inside, you press the basement button over and over again, practically beating it.

The ride down seems to last an eternity as well.

You prowl inside the cubicle like a wild animal ready to spring free. So much so that the partition nearly breaks with the amount of strength you use to yank it backwards with.

“Winston!” you shout from the top of your lungs, slamming your palm repeatedly against the vault. “Let me in!”

There’s a reverberating click only moments later but you don’t wait for the hefty metal to open fully before you push inside, breathing harshly as you do.

Winston blinks slowly at the sight of you. “V?”

There is a question and a sharpness to his regard, and the wariness with which he takes you in should probably worry you. But you don’t answer him. Instead, you head straight for the cabinet. Your pulse pounding and a clamour inside your head leaving you partially deaf. To a point, both John’s and Charon’s returned presence back inside the vault scarcely registers.

A red haze clings to everything around you.

“V.”

Your knuckles are starting to swell again but after this, it won’t matter—

“V.”

“What do you want?” you hiss, each syllable acidic to a point it catches John off guard.

He mutely offers you a shotgun and something at the back of your brain recollects mentions of “armour piercing shells” but you shake your head.

“There’s still some left alive at the back, and they’re regrouping,” you say instead, trying to quell your temper. “I have something else for the second wave.”

He reads between the lines of your plan.

“I’m not leaving you alone to face them.”

Your head snaps in his direction, and you hold out a vial—smaller than others, rounder, filled with liquid that seems to be caught in a perpetual state of half-brown and half-red—in front of his face.

“This,” you begin tightly, your vocal cords straining from how hard you’re working to hold yourself back. “Is something that will kill them helmet or not. They should know better than to think that some cheap plastic will save them from me.”

You pull out two canisters of gas, shaking both as you look towards the air system. “Air filtering still on?”

“Minimal,” Winston returns, his voice dull, stare watchful. “Don’t let it consume you,” he reminds quietly after a pause.

Your grip momentarily falters at those words but that’s the only reaction he receives.

“Then I’ll do it the hard way.”

John intercepts you before you can take so much as a step, his minute unease now gone. “Why didn’t we open with that?”

You’re not sure why the hell he’s stalling now to ask you questions but you answer him despite that. “This is a diluted version of something I created a long time ago,” you tell them. “It wasn’t created to be used as a vapour. This is also the only vial I have, and it will take at least a month to create more. I was saving this for the eleventh hour because no matter how many are out there, they’re about all about to experience a quick but very painful death.”

You’re not quite sure what to make of what you glimpse across his features. Some turbulent mix of emotions he doesn’t seem to wish and explain. Day by day he learns the full extent of how you’re no longer that girl that walked away from him with tears streaming down her face.

This is what you are now. What you had to become.

You wait for a reaction, judgement, but John only steps aside, his voice a low rasp, “Be careful.”

You soften somewhat at the muted worry you hear in his voice. “You too,” you say with a sigh. “Go ahead. I’m grabbing one more canister of gas just in case. Don’t go anywhere near the lounge for the next ten minutes at least.”

Both men indicate their understanding, not bothering to question you further. And there is comfort in that, in their easy understanding and trust. They both can more than handle themselves but a distinct worry still gnaws on your entrails as you watch them leave. Lack of presence from the other guards no doubt means they’re all dead already.

So that leaves only you three.

Three vs a small army of highly trained fighters.

But not for long.

“V.”

“A little busy, Winston,” you stress while rummaging through different compartments. “Can it wait?”

Silence greets your words. Then, “If I asked for your trust. Your complete trust,” he begins purposely, his voice deceptively serene. “Would you give it to me?”

Your hands still and you stare blankly at your collection for a beat.

Straightening unhurriedly, you try to digest his words, and tilt your head in the manager’s direction.

It’s only when you note his expression that you realise something is very, very wrong.

The lobby is a graveyard.

Both literal and figurative.

Bodies lay in heaps across the usually gleaming flooring, and you wait patiently while leaning against one of many marble columns.

Waiting you’ve gotten rather good at.

The poison sits in your hands, warmed by your palms, but still brimming that ugly dark shade despite now being transformed into a vapour. You’ve recreated two versions of The Drowning and haven’t used either since Chicago. That thought makes you glare at the ceiling above because the recollection of Rafael and Boutin still wounds.

The grandeur of the Continental never fails to impress you though. Not even years later. There is always something new to discover and admire.  

You’ve been waiting for at least five minutes now so when a creak sounds you don’t move at first. Muffled footsteps echo across the eerily quiet lobby, moving towards you.

But not from the direction of the entrance.

The louder the steps become the more obvious a secondary sound becomes as well.

Whistling.

Faint but melodic.

The familiarity of the tune causes you to stands straighter, focus on the melody.

Mr Sandman drifts through the air as a peculiar sort of goad; purposeful and sly.

“Oh, snakey,” a voice coos playfully, pausing the tune for a moment. “I know you’re hiding somewhere out here.”

Lucien.

Of course.

You’ve been expecting him to show up sooner rather than later. It’s good to know that you were right about him though. He wasn’t going to let you slip by him again. This time, you don’t want to, either. This time, you’re going to finish this.

You contemplate throwing the poison in his face but the High Table would not give up so easily. John and Charon might be cleaning up the remainder of the first wave one shotgun shell at the time but a second wave is guaranteed and soon. Logically they would want to try and overwhelm you. They’re hoping to wear you out.

“Come out, come out wherever you are,” Lucien calls out in a sing-song drawl, his footsteps slowing to a point they fade entirely. “Don’t make me find you. You’re not going to enjoy that scenario.”

“Who says I’m hiding?”

You round the column, finding his thin, solitary figure in the middle of the lobby immediately. The dark green light seems to only emphasize his gaunt frame and you take a step closer, then another.

How clever of him to wait until your paralyser is fully dispelled from the air before he came seeking you out.  

His head lowers, deepening the shadows under his eyes. “Did your guard dogs run away?” he wonders mockingly, his voice carrying. “Good, they were getting in the way.”

“Of what?”

“Our dance, of course,” he retorts, a shade angry like you should know better. “One last dance and the truth. Oh, if only you knew but you don’t. No point in secrets now though.”

You scoff, both of you watching each other as you draw nearer. “You like hearing yourself talk, don’t you, Lucien?”

The blonde assassin bares his teeth at the sound of his name—dangerous and macabre, dripping with heinous amusement—and he gazes at you for a moment. Something flickers over his shoulder—

“Not at all actually,” he states overly calm. “But you’re not the only one to have your life stolen. Maybe it’s about time you realised that,” he divulges, his voice softening into something as hateful as it is eager. Like whatever he thought he knew, he couldn’t wait to impart on you. “I’ll be waiting for you, viper.”

You aim the poison at his head, hurling it through the air with every fibre of your strength.

Lucien ducks, sliding across the floor at near blinding speed, and disappearing behind the armchairs and from your sight.

It’s at that moment that the Black Dragon’s men burst through the lobby door, their guns raised.

Following his example, you dash behind the column, an explosion of bullets following a split second later.

Rubble splinters under the abuse and you turn, avoiding the crumbling stone.

One, two, three…

This time your poison doesn’t escape in an unassuming tickle of vapour. No, this time it’s an impact of a small explosive going off, and it’s a matter of one, two, three before muffled screams and groans replace the gunfire.

Arching your back against the ruined stone, you allow your head to tip back, watching the ceiling thoughtfully. You wait till gunfire completely cuts out before moving. Then, you stride from behind the column studying the effects with a mix of cold detachment.

Your own nose and lungs ache uncomfortably—just a show of how potent the formula really is—but you don’t take your attention away from the dying soldiers. They’re more of a heap at this point, their gas masks that they no doubt were so sure would keep them safe now virtually useless.

It’s a quick but brutal affair.

Wet sounds and sobs of pain. Then, like dominoes falling, the men still one by one.

They might be only obeying orders, but they came to kill the only family you have and take your home, and you find yourself feeling little to no pity for them.

The haze is gone now, leaving the lobby even more chillingly silent than earlier.

Lucien is nowhere in sight.

You would have preferred if the poison got him but didn’t hold out much hope that it would. He’s too good and far too fast.

I’ll be waiting for you.

He will grow to regret those words.

Stepping over the bodies, you approach the spot you saw the blonde last, heading in the direction of the only corridor he could have gone down.

Glock aimed ahead, your movements are utterly silent, deadly. No matter how deep into the hotel you head, he seems to be nowhere in sight, however. This time, clearly, he wants you to look for him.

Corridor by corridor you find nothing. Then floor by floor. You know this hotel far better than Lucien does. If he really assumes he can hide from you here he’s sorely mistaken.

Gunfire rips through the air and you pause, tightening your grip on the pistol. Little by little, you decrease the distance just as a hush falls up ahead.

John’s dark hair is what you glimpse first and instinctively relax seeing that it’s him.

“John.”

The man turns towards the call of his name, and you squint at him, approaching cautiously. “Why are you wet?”

John breaths are laboured, rattling from his lungs in shallow pants, making his chest expand with each inhale. “Zero’s men.”

“The Male Lover found me too,” you tell him and you both fall into step. “Missed out on the poison party, unfortunately.”

The man at your side glances you over once—a completely wordless but attentive examination—and you huff a small breath, amused.

“I’m fine.”

You’ve forgotten how much of a mother hen he could be without saying a single word.

At least you’re a little calmer now after your previous display of explosive fury.

He seems to accept your words, and you both step into the elevator for what feels like the hundredth time in a span of only several hours.

You know what logic John is following though. Both Lucien and Zero have likely hidden up on the higher levels for two reasons.

More places to hide.

And they’re less likely to encounter any poison on the higher floors.

Leaning your shoulder heavily against the cool metal, you peer at the man only arm’s length away. Baba Yaga stands with his shoulders slumped and expression enervated. Yet he’s standing despite that. His gaze still burns with a fierce sort of determination.  

That might have been one of the first things you’ve fallen in love with—that determination and will. Followed by his often unspoken kindness.

What won’t you give for things to be different.

Going up the floors proves to be the right of course action the moment the elevator stops.

John throws himself against one side of the metal cubicle, and you do the same when a bullet whistles through the partition, piercing the metal where John’s head just was.

Pushing your hand out, you fire blindly, hearing shuffling in response, and use the distraction to peek your head over the edge. John does the exact same thing and you both fire simultaneously, hitting two men. John in the head. You in the chest. Neither moves.

Shoulders hunched and tense, you move in unison, and you conclude instantaneously that this is clearly a trap to draw you in deeper. Laying a path for you to follow until the trap springs shut.

Eyeing each other, you both move ahead despite that shared conclusion.

It doesn’t matter much now. You may only have the single magazine, and one vial of paralyser left on you after butchering your way through an entire hoard of soldiers, but it won’t matter.

There is a nagging thought at the back of your mind that you should ask about Charon but now isn’t the time for that, either. The concierge is likely back with Winston by now.  

There is a ruthless strategy to how you remove Zero’s men. One by one, shoulder to shoulder, and know that these men are afraid. That they know deep in their heart of hearts that they won’t survive the fight before it even begins but they still try. They’re strong and fast. A legacy of hard training and cruel discipline no doubt. But John is stronger and you are faster.

In many ways, they remind you of those soldiers from years ago who ambushed you in that freezing Tokyo alleyway.

Your bullets run out by the time you return to the administrative lounge. All you have on you now are two blades, paralyser, and Elder’s dagger, tucked away and out of sight. Both blades have been christened with blood two floors ago, and John is down to his bare hands.

It would put most at a disadvantage but not him. If anything, his ruthlessness only seems to grow.

But something is different this time.

Three main differences, really.

First, a jovial whistle of Mr Sandman floating through the air.

Second, three dead men that you recognise as Zero’s and finally…

Lucien leans again a glass case housing an old relic, his hands covered in blood and the tip of his blade scratching at his nail. There’s at least a few dozen of these glass cases littering the room, an old passion of Winston’s, and quite the point of pride for him. Some artifacts locked away here are worth a lot of money. Frowning deeply, you stall, drilling holes into his figure.

Lucien knows you’re here but doesn’t acknowledge you right away. He continues humming, seemingly set on finishing the tune before his head dips lazily in your direction.

“Run along, Mr Wick,” he says bluntly, his face splattered with blood. “This is between me and the viper.”

The man beside you makes a small sound at the back of his throat, near disbelieving, but you cut him off before he can speak, still staring at Lucien, “Go, John,” you say calmly. “He’s right. We have unfinished business, as do you.”

John’s stare burns into the side of your head but you don’t explain further than that. This is not his fight. You’re no longer in need of his shadow and in need of his protection.

Still, he doesn’t move right away, and you hear him audibly inhale as if he needs to say something but can’t force the words out.

You’re about to repeat yourself but he finally steps to the side, taking a path around Lucien and the dead guards. His gait is slow. He’s practically staggering because you can sense his reluctance but the fact that he listens does make you feel a tinge of satisfaction.

A part of you wants to look towards him as he disappears down the hall but you don’t.  

Lucien peers at you with a strange little smile on his face all the while, waiting till John’s footsteps fully retreat until his limbs shift. He’s still smiling faintly but you’re in no urge to finish this, so you’re fine with letting him play his games, waiting and watching.

“Had your fun?” you wonder, bored, gesturing towards the dead men at his feet.

Lucien cranes his neck, pushing away from the glass with a swiftness that makes you tense. He chuckles at your reaction, stepping over them like they’re nothing more than dirt under his boot.

“Oh, that was just a little warm-up,” he says brightly that faint, unsettling smile still lingering, and you can’t help but wonder what his deal is. He seems awfully cheery. It makes for a strange contrast to your last few run-ins. And his previous words, implying his own looming demise. “You kept me waiting. Don’t tell me you’re getting slow.”

Smiling, you too move in his direction, limbs relaxed, a peaceful hush over your body. “Are you hoping to talk me to death?”

“Now, now,” he mutters icily. “No need to be quite so rude. I just want a dance.”

Your smile splits into something bleaker, more cold-blooded, and you circle each other. Pale blue light dances across Lucien’s sharp features. A snap of jaws, a growl—there is something animalistic about the wordless exchange between you. Something brittle, a string being yanked upon repeatedly until one of you finally gives in.

Lucien leaps first.

Your knives are short, certainly not created for duelling but the clank of metal pierces the air as you both meet in the middle. Your exhausted muscles snap, tensing, coiling.

He swipes his elbow in your direction but you duck just in time, a whistle of wind tickling your temple.

Arms twisting, you both ignore the screech of metal, you punching him in the jaw while he gets you in the ribs. Gasping, you stagger back, ignoring the numbing pain. Time has dulled the memory of how hard he manages to hit if the hits land.

Lucien springs towards you again, his face contorted, lips stretched back. This time your arms are tucked at your sides and you greet his attack. Your knees knock but you manage to push him back. A swipe of your blade is your reply but he careens out of the way and you kick at him instead. He catches your knee, staggering back from the impact, and he grins at you wildly. A slight cut against the corner of his mouth bubbles up, spilling blood over his front teeth. It paints the white bone canvas with diluted scarlet.

“You didn’t answer my question earlier,” he says conversationally, and you try to sink your knife into his chest but he shoves you back. You stumble but stay upright, exhaling shakily at the pain across your ribs. “If he missed you.”

Ignoring him, you roll the blades between your fingers, drooping lower as you unleash one quick swipe after another.

Lucien lurches backwards, his expression tightening in concentration. He manages to stay out of the way, just barely. So you push him backwards till you’re back by the bodies, and the man drops to the floor so suddenly you’re left staring at empty air until your mind catches up.

He rolls across the floor, a blur of his golden hair and dark clothes the only visible thing, and you realise a second too late as to why.

A blade lays by one of the dead men covered in blood as well. You have no idea how he managed to take down three men with a minimum of two katanas at their disposal. But there’s no time to contemplate that because this time you’re the one throwing yourself backwards.

Lucien swipes the katana in a deadly arc.

His hair mused, face bloodied and a grin on his face, he gazes at you for a second. Your grip on your blades constricts.

“I wondered for years what was so special about you,” he reveals mildly, tipping his chin upwards, pulling the blade closer towards his body as he stands. “I fucking hated you, viper. Viper. I suppose that’s one of many titles for you, isn’t it? John Wick’s protege, the Vipress, the Italian’s whore, the Russian’s Viper, Lady Camorra. Honestly doesn’t your head…hurt from it all? Or does it add to your ego?”  

He spins the katana in the air, rolling his wrist—experienced and at ease, the blade like an extension of his arm. Your senses pinprick at that assessment, knowing he just made this much harder for you.

“Did the way he used to call you his desert viper make you feel powerful?” he wonders suddenly, tracing his index finger up the curve of the metal. “Gave you a sense of importance? It must have felt thrilling to be such an exception to the most powerful man in the world.”

Something inside your chest stills.

Lucien drags his eyes in your direction, watching you closely over the edge of the blade.

“My, you really do have no idea, do you?” he continues slyly, his expression slackening with amusement; malicious, wild kind that causes you to bristle. “None. Your life is, ah, what is the expression again? A hot mess, non? Oh, snakey, I thought you could be the one to teach me a lesson I failed to learn all those years ago, but your ignorance is truly disappointing.”

He cuts the air with the blade, lowering it back to his side, and you bite out a chilly, “What the hell are you talking about?”

He tuts, wagging his index finger in your direction, his grin fluttering like he’s trying to contain a laugh bubbling inside his chest.

“I kept telling you but you just don’t listen, do you?” he wonders with a click of his tongue. “I told you we were the same. Forged by the same violence. Alike in ways you failed to understand. Now, why do you think I would say that?”

You don’t respond, instead, you push yourself backwards, launching your full mass at him. Lucien greets you with a chuckle—a cold, hollow sound, teetering on manic just like the rest of him—his katana managing to absorb the impact of your shorter dual blades.  

“Tokyo, Chicago, Prague, the Albanians, the summit, us—did you really think it was all, what exactly, one funny coincidence?” he asks jovially, and a distinct chill sinks into your bones at his words, forcing you to pull yourself backwards, and dive for the other blade on the ground.

He lets you. Doesn’t bother trying to stop you, and you grip the handle in a knuckle tight grip, creating some distance between you once more. Again, he lets you, examining you with a dark but curious light gleaming in his eyes. Like you’re a lab rat he’s conducting a study on. His question rattles through your head and you squint at him.  

“You never even questioned it, did you?” he continues, his voice airy with disbelief, a joke that seems to entertain him endlessly. He’s lost interest in the fight between you for a moment, prowling across the gleaming floor but in no hurry to attack. This, clearly is more important to him. “The water, the tunnels, the darkness. A repeating pattern. All carefully put together to test you. Over and over and over again. And you exceeded his every expectation. Every challenge thrown at you, you triumphed. And even if you did wonder at the back of your mind, you never once were made to believe that someone else was pulling the strings all along. Think, snake. Think.”

You’re not sure if you’re still breathing.

What…

No…

No, it doesn’t…

It’s not possible. It…can’t…

Your head is empty and you gasp for breath but your lungs feel blocked, your throat locked.

Lucien attacks in a blur.

You just barely manage to muster up the speed to block him, a piercing screech of metal against metal. Your arms buckle under his strength and he kicks you, catching you in the gut. One, two—

A muffled curse slips free, everything spinning, and he grabs the spare blade in your hand, throwing it away.

Parrying for control, you attempt a punch at his head but it’s too slow and sloppy. He catches your fist, bending your arm at a sharp angle. You relax it as per your old training to avoid broken tendons or bones. The katana slips from your hand and you growl under your breath, your free hand managing to form a fist.

A punch to his gut hits him quicker than a snake bite. Brutally efficient, impacting the exact same spot you gutted him only weeks prior.

Lucien grunts. Swears. His teeth gleam, still tinged by blood and you feel his hot breath on your face. Death and decay and—

You’re too misbalanced that you don’t notice it fast enough.

Lucien kicks you in the stomach with enough strength to send you flying.

A second of weightlessness enfolds you and then comes the crash.

Glass shatters upon contact and you muffle a cry of pain, feeling glass explode and rain down around you. Hitting the floor with a deafening thud, you stay there for a while, everything ringing and blurred around you.

A feeble moan escapes you, pained and strangled.

You attempt to shake your head, your fingers twitching against the glass covered floor.

“Tokyo was just the beginning,” Lucien’s muffled voice sounds like you’re underwater and you groan, weakly tilting your head to spot his approaching legs. Glass crunches under his boots and you try to desperately block out his words. “He’s always been on the lookout for new members to join his inner circle. Best of the best. And he’s always paid close attention to poisoners like you. Tokyo was just a nudge to see what you were made of. But you didn’t break and it escalated too far. Do you know what the Elder did after you escaped? Why you never heard from Kishi’s little group again? It wasn’t because of Wick. It was because the Elder had the entire clan killed. Just that easily. Because they disobeyed him.”

“No, no…”

It can’t be true.

It can’t.

He has to be lying. It doesn’t make any sense…

Except…it does.

“Did you never ask yourself why Tarasov didn’t simply turn you into another whore or sell you?” he demands harshly. “Later, I imagine, it was a certain degree of fear of you. But initially, it was because of the Elder’s will. Even if all Viggo Tarasov knew back then was that the Table willed it so.”

You focus on your core, trying to get yourself to move but Lucien speeds up his approach, kicking you in the stomach.

Pain blinds you and you roll across the floor. Your forehead connects with the glass, your left eyebrow splitting on impact. You don’t realise it at first—not till numbness is replaced by a sensation of something wet trailing down your face.

Droplets of fresh blood hit the crushed glass beneath you, and you crawl ahead with a pained gasp.

“Next—and my personal favourite—Chicago,” Lucien narrates loudly, his voice echoing through the large space. You hear him behind you but utter shock wins out, locking your limbs, leaving you a frail mess on the ground for him to prey upon. A part of you wants to roar, another wants to cry. Your training battles against the yawning abyss you keep slipping down with each horrifying word. “Who do you think fed the father-son wonder duo their information? Why do you think you were taken to an underground facility that was spitting image of Tokyo? Why not just kill you and D’Antonio outright? Boutin thought he was getting a special task but the truth was that he had long since outlived his use. The Elder fed both Boutin and his son to you to see what you would do. Black Dragon and D’Antonio were just pawns to hide the real test.”

The highway. The way they just kept attacking but not trying to kill you. It was to see how long you will last.

You want to be sick, a dry heave bubbling past your lips, every word crushing you harder, harder, harder—

“And, once again, you did perfectly but not without a loose end,” he sneers, venturing closer, step by step, as is savouring your reaction. “He also knew that the fear of being found out will make you more compliant. Wasn’t it peculiar that he summoned you right after you returned to New York? It’s almost like he…knew. Well, he did. He always has.”

Biting your tongue, you try to push yourself up on your elbows.

Ignore him, don’t listen, don’t—

“Prague. Again. Poison that made you struggle,” he reveals, his voice pitching towards impatience now. “The syndicate that took your Italian had no prior conflicts with Camorra and for a reason. Another test and punishment. More pieces for you to remove.”

Santino was taken for no reason. Right after your return from the desert. Cognitionis had no former alterations with Camorra up until that point. They were far too small to ever risk the wrath of a powerhouse like Camorra. They hadn’t even made demands which struck you as so odd back then but you had chalked it up to them wanting to prove a point.

A poison the heir was poisoned with was sophisticated and took some time to reverse-engineer. So long, in fact, that Santino nearly died.  

“Albanians. Same thing,” Lucien voices harshly, punctuating every word. He’s gotten so close that when the second kick comes the pain is distant, muted. Because what he’s betraying is so, so much worse. “It wasn’t Camorra that started the conflict. It was made to seem that way. Tarasov was cautioned to keep a close eye on you. To a point he forbade you from helping Camorra, right? And what did you do after that, snakey?” he demands, bending down and yanking you upwards by the back of your neck.

He pulls you towards him and more blood trails down your face. Lucien’s narrowed eyes search for something in your expression, and he smiles faintly when he spots it. “That’s right. It’s all starting to click, isn’t it?”

Tarasov forbade you from helping Camorra, from helping Santino. It was the first time you ever talked back to him. First time you ever conjured up enough courage to do so.

And then, furious and upset, you ran. Straight to Casablanca. And nearly back to the man who always expected—knew, he fucking knew, planned for it—for you to come back to him.

It’s what he wanted from the start and it would have been your choice.

No forced loyalty.

You will always lose, and it will always lead you back to me.

Oh God.

If Santino had come just half a day later you won’t even be here right now. You would be with him, at his side, and none the wiser to this truth.

The terrible, dark truth of what loneliness can do to someone.

“I even told you it was him,” the man holding you whispers, his head dipping to one side when he drags his fingers over your face, wetting them with your blood. “You just don’t remember, do you?”

His disappointment is once again palpable.  

Except while you’re staring at the cutting lines of his face, a recollection does come.

The warehouse. You tied to a chair. A needle stuck in your neck as Lucien leaned his body over you. The scathing bewilderment at the fact that he has managed to find something powerful enough to knock you out for hours. Those thin, pink lips shaping words while whatever he injected you with coursed through your veins, and a name you didn’t catch.

The Elder sends his regards.

Lucien’s fingers sink deep into the skin of your neck, his expression clouding with rage the longer he gazes at you.

“You were his favourite,” he seethes bitterly, ripping you upwards and on your knees so quickly you’re left scrambling. Your legs drag across the glass shards and your hands lock shakily around his, trying to rip out of his grip. “No one after you was good enough! We trained until our bones broke. We could bleed ourselves dry, and it still wasn’t enough!”

Shódigan.

That’s why he asked if you knew about it.

You thought you did but—

He flings you ahead and your body slides across the gleaming flooring, leaving a trail of blood behind. Lucien follows, stalking closer, and squats beside you, this time yanking you upwards by the collar of your shirt. “He adored you,” he adds with a hiss, his fury scalding your skin; an old, festering resentment. “And now you’re paying the price for that adoration.”

He exhales with great difficulty, taking several moments to reign in his temper.

Now, you understand his obsession with you perfectly.

He is like you.

He was a candidate too.

He must have been.

Another face in a long line of candidates for the coveted disciple position.

This time when Lucien speaks, his voice sounds contemplative, “Though I suppose you should thank him too,” he states forcefully light. “One day you will be remembered as a legend, just like your Baba Yaga. He helped to forge you into what you are today.”

You’re too numb to feel anything else.

There is just a hushed sort of silence ringing through your head.

Undeterred by your lack of response, Lucien goes on, wiping at the blood on his face, “You know there is an old French saying: qui se resemble, s'assemble. Can you guess what it means?” he doesn’t wait for your answer this time, either. “Every man loves well what is like to himself. You are each other’s dark mirror. His counterpart.”

He giggles this time, grabbing your face, his fingers cutting into the flesh of your cheeks, and for the first time since he started his speech, something sparks in your gut.

Shock or not, your body is failing to respond but you battle against it, silencing your mind.

Hurt and betrayal slam like an overloading flood against your composure despite your best attempts to stay afloat.

You’re such a fool.

Such a lonely, naive fool.

So desperate to believe.

Hope.

Just like he was.

Lucien is right.

You and Elder are two broken halves of a mangled whole.

The same man you once saw as a chance for redemption, belonging, is the architect of the majority of the pain in your life.

One day, if you still wish it, I will tell you everything.

Everything. This is what he had meant by everything.

He ordered Winston’s death not because the manager broke the rules but because he wanted to remove your main tie to New York—the very tie that made you choose to leave him in the first place.

And John would have been the one to fire the bullet.  

You would have hated him for the rest of your days for taking the manager away from you.

Santino is still weak and so very easy for the Elder to dispose of right now.

The Lovers. Their mission to hunt you both down.

Another test for you, another tie cut if they succeed in killing Santino.

And you would have crawled to him on your hands and knees, hoping for his kindness once again. Heartbroken and alone with no one to turn to.

He would have won and you would have made it easy for him.

So very easy.

Lucien drinks in your tiny, wet breaths and glassy stare. Blood continues dripping from the cut against your eyebrow and you shiver in his hold.

A tear trails down your cheek and you can’t process a single thought. It’s too much, it’s…  

“He always feared you would find out,” this time his voice is softer, emptier, and the hollows that make up his eyes examine you shrewdly. “But it’s a fitting punishment. To care for someone so deeply, to desire them, only to live with the burden of knowing that you are the reason for their suffering.”

His fingers tremble, sunken deep into your cheeks, and another off-tilter laugh tickles from the back of his throat.

“I really did hate you, your shadow, for years. Until those tunnels,” he murmurs, his faint accent just a little more notable then, his grip easing, loosening. “Until I saw how much darkness lurks under that mask of calm. How much hate festers inside you but directed at the wrong people. I told you we were one and the same. You should have listened.”

He shakes his head, blonde strands brushing over his forehead, his mouth stretching into another beaming smile, all teeth.

Lucien lets you go and you drop the ground like a puppet with its strings cut.

That’s all you are—comes the sinking, gutting realisation—a puppet for others to use and play with.

“He will kill me for what I’ve done to you,” Lucien announces, sounding like he’s made peace with that grim fact long ago. “But you know it’s funny, snakey. I always thought I would enjoy this more. Getting back at them by betraying his secrets. Seeing that realisation on your face. That crumbling hope and despair as your world unravels and crashes around you,” he says softly, near lovingly.

It must have taken him years to gain this level of trust, to learn this information.

You don’t move a muscle. All you can see are Lucien’s legs but you can feel him staring down at you.

The blonde tsks under his breath, nudging you with the tip of his boot but you don’t react. “You want to deny it, I know you do,” he begins purposely, and you suppose he would know, won’t he? “But you can’t. Because I bet every single thing that’s never made sense about your life before now suddenly does. Am I right, snakey?”

Your fingers tremble and you press them closer to your body.

“Looking at you now, I almost pity you,” he muses and there is a distinct note of uncomfortable surprise in his low voice. It almost makes you ponder just how large the line between this lucid Lucien and his insanity really is. “You’re just a little tragedy, aren’t you?” he adds thoughtfully.

Little tragedy. Little tragedy. Little tragedy.

It echoes.

You wonder, then, what you would have become had you been allowed to stay a girl. If you didn’t have to become a monster. Even though the monster kept you alive, kept you breathing and fighting.

What would you have become if you hadn’t been robbed of a future you could have had?

“Your life is not your own, it never was.”

Deafening, hollow silence follows that statement. Your heart thuds so painfully inside your chest, a part of you waits for it to stop on its own.  

Lucien’s boot settles against your waist again, pushing you onto your back.  

You stare up at the ceiling above you and count the beats of your heart.

The assassin straddles you unhurriedly as if expecting you to fight back but all you do is blink slowly.

Everything is rushing through your head right now. Every moment over the last seven years.

His fingers brush over the curve of your neck and he stares down at you with an almost rueful expression on his face.

“What a waste,” he starts tightly, followed by a long pause and he mutters something in French under his breath. His fingers settle around your throat—not squeezing, simply gazing down at you. “I knew it would crush you. But I hoped for that rage. For the abyss. For you to show me once and for all what I lacked that you had. Your lesson.”

So that’s what that was about.

“We might have been friends had we met sooner, serpent girl.”

His fingers constrict—

“My—”

Your voice cracks and Lucien’s grip relaxes instantly. The thin line of his eyebrows knits in confusion. “Quoi?”

Gulping a painful breath, you part your lips, “My…lesson,” you croak out, tasting blood on your tongue and how fitting that you should. “My lesson…I have the answer.”

A certain light devours his gaze, and although his features drop with surprise, his eagerness is tangible.

He leans closer, and over you, his fingers still around your throat, “Tell me.”

Your tongue feels heavy and dry inside your mouth, an acrid aftertaste coating it, and Lucien jerks his fingers harder around the fragile column. He presses closer, his body weight pinning you down—

You jerk your body, a blur of your arm, a gleam of a dagger in the artificial, cold light. The Elder’s dagger in your hand trembles but gushing scarlet coats it still.

“I’m faster.”

Lucien gapes, his mouth parted. He convulses, his grip on your neck slipping, and you lurch your hips upwards, throwing him off you.

He drops to the side, right beside you, unmoving but the heat of his body still warming you—and you clutch the dagger tighter between your blood-stained fingers. You press it to your chest and lay there till time becomes nothing.  

BC4 BC5.

Years ago when you escaped to Casablanca, eager to start your life over and join the Elder once again, Sofia told you something that has stuck with you ever since.

Sometimes you have to kill what you love.

You’ve thought about that a lot over the years. What exactly she had to sacrifice to have the power she now possesses—her daughter, flesh and blood, and good.

What you may have to sacrifice one day to earn your freedom.

Now, you suppose, none of that matters anymore.

Not really.

You’ve almost won your pyrrhic victory, Kishi purrs happily at your side, and you hear the subdued rumble of Tarasov’s laugh too, soon you can savour the rotting, sweet taste of it on your tongue.

The rooftop terrace door slams open, and you step onto the patio, halting the heated conversation with your arrival. There is an unsteady sway to your limbs that doesn’t escape anyone’s attention—John’s shoulder’s slump, Winston’s eyes narrow, the Adjudicator simply arches an eyebrow—but your expression remains steely.

The fire roars behind Winston and Charon—and it is, admittedly, a massive relief to see them both safe and unharmed—even if it makes you think how close you came…

No.

None of that now.

You’ve lived through worse (have you? liar, liar, liar, Kishi coos) and you give them a forced, fragmented smile.

“Mornin’.”

The Adjudicator grimaces subtly, and you know it’s likely because your injuries leave your smile bloody. Good.

“The Vipress,” the Adjudicator greets, standing to their feet. “I must express my apologies on behalf of the High Table. It does, indeed, seem like the general order in regards to you has...changed.”

They don’t look particularly happy to admit that but this is no time to goad, if you even could muster up the strength for it.

Instead, you stare blankly in their direction for a beat. “Excuse me,” you say, your voice a grating whisper, as you push past them. “Killing your lackies has made me thirsty.”

You shoulder past them, avoiding contact, your eyes momentarily jumping to Winston who stands right behind the Adjudicator, his stare cautious. Your eye contact lasts no more than a scant few seconds but it’s enough.

It’s a split second in which you grab a glass of champagne, ignoring the other snacks on the table.

You turn to face them, finding them all in differing states of confusion or uncertainty but offer no explanation as you drown three large gulps.

“Let’s get on with it, then,” you phrase bitingly, not bothering to hide the impatience, the sting of bubbling acid and, and… “I would like to have breakfast and take a shower. It exhausts a girl, having to take down armies. Hope you can appreciate that at least most of mine are in one piece. Less blood for you to wipe,” you comment idly, directing your words at the Adjudicator.

Coldness lurks in their regard, and you can tell that their opinion of you is less than savoury.

You don’t give a shit what they might think of you.

Every word slips past your lips on automatic; mindless, void syllables that feel drained of life. It’s an effort to register anything around you.

The blood, the champagne, the bubbles tickling your nose.

“While you have been pardoned of your crimes,” the Adjudicator resumes smoothly, clearly eager to get the conversation back on track and out of the way. “I’m afraid no such thing has happened with Mr Wick. A man who has shown no loyalty, no regard for the rules. It is by that logic the Table’s decrees that the punishment should fit the crime.”

Winston hums loudly, his head tilting as he nods in absentminded agreement.

You take another sip of your drink, frowning at the taste of blood in your mouth. Fitting, somehow.

You might have scrubbed yourself clean of blood before coming up here but it still stains the cracks of your skin. Cuticles stained with red, mouth stained with red.

Red, red, red…

John straightens at those words. He looks beat from his own fight but remains quiet. Yet, he can no doubt sense that something’s wrong.

“You’re correct,” Winston states, no affliction to be found in his voice and he steps closer, pulling something from behind his jacket. “Sorry, Jonathan.”

BANG

The gunshot is like a thunderclap through the too still morning.

John’s body jerks with the impact, a gasp sounding a second later, and you look at him while Winston steps closer.

BANG

John scrambles backwards, his bulletproof clothing absorbing the impacts but it won’t get him far.

“(Name)!” he calls out desperately, pained, his eyes seeking your form out, his voice cracking and splintering.

You can’t help and wonder if he’s scared. He sounds scared. There is something ironic—downright hilarious—in the knowledge that he’s facing death yet calling out your name like it may prove to be a salvation.  

It’s the first time since you asked him not to use your real name that he uses it. But you don’t move. Don’t respond to the plea for help. Mercy.

You just stare at him, indifferent and cold, knowing that even if you tried you couldn’t muster up any emotional response right now.

Winston fires again, and again, and John veers towards the building edge, his knees shaking.

The manager’s expression remains vacant, cold, and he shoots again, no hesitation in his aim. Not a single falter. It’s one of the most well carried out executions you’ve ever witnessed.  

John’s back hits the ledge and you watch in near slow motion as he tips over the edge falling at least twenty floors down and towards the concrete below.

You hear the metallic bangs as he hits a few fire escapes on his way down but still don’t move.

Then, impact so loud it splits the air.

Then, stillness.

The typical buzz of New York City waking up resumes. Time restarts and goes back to its natural flow once again.

Throwing your glass back, you drown the remainder of the champagne, licking your lips twice, yet blood still lingers.

Winston lowers his arm, approaching the edge but the Adjudicator gets there first. Charon is only a step behind them, and you force yourself to move after them as well.

The Adjudicator gazes down for a long, assessing moment, silent. Their head turns towards the manager who meets their probing stare flatly.

“I assume we’re done here?” he questions.

The Adjudicator inclines their head and, predictably, switches their attention to you. “You did not help him.”

A fact, not a question, yet it demands an explanation all the same. Your tongue moves on automatic, forming words that taste brittle.

Everything feels brittle.

“Why would I?” you wonder dully. “He betrayed me not so long ago, and nearly killed the majority of my friends less than a week ago. I learned my lesson.”

Chuckling, you turn your back to them, walking away leisurely. The glass clangs back onto the coffee table, a shriek of a sound. “I have served. I will be of service,” you echo the mantra pleasantly, faint with scorn.

Every word bleeds venom through your heart.

You don’t face them again, and no one stops you. The terrace doors slam shut behind you, and it’s a deafening bang that reverberates. You force yourself to put one foot in front of another. Keep walking, keep walking, keep—

It’s a blur, your feet dragging behind you. You’ve stopped bleeding but still have to halt at one point, leaning your palm against the corridor wall to rest.

You’re teetering and—

Your life is not your own, it never was.  

Your room sits untouched. The door opens with a click that’s like a kiss against your hair—so soothing and loving, comforting in ways that you could never quite explain.

The table is still an organised mess; notes half-unfinished, empty vials, dried ingredients—all littering the wooden surface, and you approach it slowly.

Exactly as you left it before you departed for Rome.

It seems like a lifetime ago now.

Everything is the same here, frozen in time.

Except nothing is the same.

Your fingertips trace over your notebook; a new formula, a collection of improvements on old ideas, scribbles that don’t make much sense to anyone but you.  

Your legacy. Your work.

This room is a testament to who you are. What you have become.

A tragedy.

Not a legend, or a fighter, just a tragedy of a girl.

A sound escapes you at that, strangely wounded, and you lean the heels of your palms against the table edge, your vision blurring.

Tragedy, tragedy, tragedy.

A puppet stitched together by different hands, influenced by different people.

You’re a product of someone else.

Every victory from your past sours and cracks with that realisation. You must have made him so proud.

You hate this room, this table, these plants, yourself.

This time a scream rips from the back of your throat. A brutal sweep of your hands wipes the table clean, everything plummeting to the floor with a booming crash.

You destroy everything in your path. Glass explodes, paper rips, liquids spills. You’re panting, sweating, and shaking by the time you come back to yourself. The floor is a mess, the whole room is.

A glint catches your notice when you spin on your heels, and your head snaps to the floor-length mirror across the room.

You don’t recognise anything about the bloodied, tear-stained, wild reflection that glares back at you. A monster is all that stands there. Alone and devoid of everything.

Distance evaporates between you, and you slam the hilt of the only weapon you still have left into the glass. The Elder’s dagger shatters the mirror upon contact. Cracks fracture your face before the mess crashes at your feet with another ear-splitting echo.

That uses the last tendril of strength left in your body—perhaps your very soul.

Your knees fold under you—and it’s almost soft, your crumbling.

Weightless and empty you settle on the floor.

Tears stream down your cheeks, hitting the crushed glass in front of you but you don’t wipe them away, don’t make a single sound. You can’t.

Your forehead lowers between your knees, your hushed sobs the only noise permeating through the peaceful room.

You don't get back up.

B4.

. . .

AN: 

well. 

now you know. 

not sure how many of you are even around to read this but a fun game to play now that you're done:

- reread COA from start to finish, noting every use of "honoured guest" in relation to V spoken by her enemies throughout the years, even the elder himself.  

#john wick #john wick x reader #santino d'antonio x reader #santino d'antonio #keanu reeves #riccardo scamarcio #john wick fic #john wick imagine #santino d'antonio imagine #fanfiction #fic: children of ares

[forerussake]

Gondolin headcanons

1. The idea of the Houses originates from the trek across the Helcaraxë. Turgon’s followers were spread out in a thin line and Turgon couldn’t reach them all, so some people spontaneously started taking up the role of captains over smaller groups. These groups later became the Houses and the ‘captains’ their Lords.

2. Originally, Gondolin counted 8 Houses, the Houses of the Tree and the Tower of Snow were later additions as the Sindarin popularion of the city grew, the Houses of the Mole and the White Wing would later make it 12

3. The Houses function as political and economic units within the city. Every citizen is part of one (if only for administrative purposes).

4. The House of the Tower of Snow became a refuge for orphans after the Nirnaeth Arnoediad.

5. While Gondolin is theoretically a monarchy, in practice it functions more like an oligarchy. The city is ruled by majority vote by a Council made up of the Lords and the King. Turgon doesn’t have any more voting power than the Lords do, with the exception that he has a veto he can use “in extreme circumstances”. This last phrase isn’t actually very clearly defined by law, which causes problems later on.

6. While Turgon is technically the highest judge the Gondolindrim can appeal to, he doesn’t actually do much adjudicating. Most court cases are handled by the Lords and lower magistrates.

7. Gondolin is divided into districts based on the Houses. The Lords are the highest power in each district. They rule their own districts as they see fit in accordance with Gondolin law as written by the Council.

8. Because the districts are ruled individually they have developed very distinct architectural styles. The District of the Fountain has muted colours and many canals and elegant bridges. The District of the Golden Flower uses warmer tones, flower-patterned tiles, tons of mosaic. The District of the Tree is very garden-y: many large parks, very little tiled road infrastructure only where necessary.

9. While the Houses are pretty strictly separated this way there is actually a lot of interaction between them both for social and economic purposes. The city can’t run without any of them. There is actually a lot of intermarriage between the Houses too.

10. It is possible to live and/or work in the district of one House but be a part of another. Especially in the later years it’s actually pretty common, although it is a bit of an administrative nightmare.

11. The official state language of Gondolin is Quenya, but Sindarin quickly became the more prevalent language spoken in the streets.

#goldolin #tolkien #silmarillion #headcanon

[agentrouka-blog]

When people say Sansa being tied to power will be miserable for her , they mean she will live her life in a cottage far away from her home and not be a threat to other characters. The game Sansa is wary of is the Littlefinger style of "Game of Thrones" which is based on lies and treachery. Even Ned disliked playing the game and power was suddenly thrusted upon him when all his life he was groomed to follow. At the end, Ned does a decent job and by ADWD, it's his legacy that is shining . Most of these arguments about Sansa not ending up in a position of power , are coupled with the idea of "she will never go north and will meet their favourite pedo and live with him for eternity ".

I don’t even know. I don’t care what motivates them. It’s simply wrong.

The thing is, the lemon cake quote the anon used actually proves the opposite of what they wanted to say, when used in context. Sansa IS interested in this stuff.

Ned is holding court as Hand of the King and notices her up on the gallery watching - and is pissed!

From his vantage point atop the throne, he could see men slipping out the door at the far end of the hall. Hares going to ground, he supposed … or rats off to nibble the queen’s cheese. He caught a glimpse of Septa Mordane in the gallery, with his daughter Sansa beside her. Ned felt a flash of anger; this was no place for a girl. But the septa could not have known that today’s court would be anything but the usual tedious business of hearing petitions, settling disputes between rival holdfasts, and adjudicating the placement of boundary stones. 

(AGOT, Eddard XI)

Followed by Sansa III, which is all about Sansa telling Jeyne what went on in the throne room in great detail and with much enthusiasm. Because - even if it is still colored by her idealised notions of chivalry - she cares about this sort of stuff.

“He wouldn’t send Ser Loras,” Sansa told Jeyne Poole that night as they shared a cold supper by lamplight. “I think it was because of his leg.”

Lord Eddard had taken his supper in his bedchamber with Alyn, Harwin, and Vayon Poole, the better to rest his broken leg, and Septa Mordane had complained of sore feet after standing in the gallery all day. Arya was supposed to join them, but she was late coming back from her dancing lesson.

“His leg?” Jeyne said uncertainly. She was a pretty, dark-haired girl of Sansa’s own age. “Did Ser Loras hurt his leg?”

“Not his leg,” Sansa said, nibbling delicately at a chicken leg. “Father’s leg, silly. It hurts him ever so much, it makes him cross. Otherwise I’m certain he would have sent Ser Loras.”

Her father’s decision still bewildered her. When the Knight of Flowers had spoken up, she’d been sure she was about to see one of Old Nan’s stories come to life. Ser Gregor was the monster and Ser Loras the true hero who would slay him. He even looked a true hero, so slim and beautiful, with golden roses around his slender waist and his rich brown hair tumbling down into his eyes. And then Father had refused him! It had upset her more than she could tell. She had said as much to Septa Mordane as they descended the stairs from the gallery, but the septa had only told her it was not her place to question her lord father’s decisions.

(AGOT, Sansa III)

She went there on purpose to watch, not knowing it would get exciting, she stayed there ALL DAY and then she thought about his various decisions and spent the evening telling Jeyne about them.

Yeah, she hates the intricacies of ruling. Not.

Arya has different priorities. Both in how she spends her time (”dancing”), and in what kind of interaction she prefers:

Back at Winterfell, they had eaten in the Great Hall almost half the time. Her father used to say that a lord needed to eat with his men, if he hoped to keep them. "Know the men who follow you," she heard him tell Robb once, "and let them know you. Don't ask your men to die for a stranger." At Winterfell, he always had an extra seat set at his own table, and every day a different man would be asked to join him. One night it would be Vayon Poole, and the talk would be coppers and bread stores and servants. The next time it would be Mikken, and her father would listen to him go on about armor and swords and how hot a forge should be and the best way to temper steel. Another day it might be Hullen with his endless horse talk, or Septon Chayle from the library, or Jory, or Ser Rodrik, or even Old Nan with her stories.

Arya had loved nothing better than to sit at her father's table and listen to them talk. She had loved listening to the men on the benches too; to freeriders tough as leather, courtly knights and bold young squires, grizzled old men-at-arms. She used to throw snowballs at them and help them steal pies from the kitchen. Their wives gave her scones and she invented names for their babies and played monsters-and-maidens and hide-the-treasure and come-into-my-castle with their children. Fat Tom used to call her "Arya Underfoot," because he said that was where she always was. She'd liked that a lot better than "Arya Horseface."

(AGOT, Arya II)

Arya prefers a more equal connection, an immersion in the people of the household. She wants to know them all and she gets into their business, the setting she prefers is semi-private and personal, related to practical details and bonding, not the formal exercise of power involving thoughtful political decision-making on a much larger scale.

So when Jeyne keeps interrupting Sansa, it is irritating because Sansa cares and the only thing that can mitigate it is the cause of the interruption: friggin’ lemon cakes. Alayne Stone bankrupted the entire Vale of lemons for a lemon cake. That’s the scale of how much they mean to her.

Jeyne yawned. “Are there any lemon cakes?” Sansa did not like being interrupted, but she had to admit, lemon cakes sounded more interesting than most of what had gone on in the throne room. “Let’s see,” she said. The kitchen yielded no lemon cakes, but they did find half of a cold strawberry pie, and that was almost as good. They ate it on the tower steps, giggling and gossiping and sharing secrets, and Sansa went to bed that night feeling almost as wicked as Arya. The next morning she woke before first light and crept sleepily to her window to watch Lord Beric form up his men.

She still makes sure to follow up the proceedings of the court day by watching Beric ride off before dawn even though she stayed up late.

Are her thoughts about what goes on still immature? Yes, she is a 12-year-old girl. But she IS interested, she had the patience to listen to this stuff for hours and recalled the details with enough enthusiasm and clarity to nerd off about it to Jeyne, who clearly could not have given less of a flying horse shoe. That boring crap even Jeyne can’t bear to listen to? Sansa lives for it.

The idea that Sansa would be, specifically, miserable in this setting is simply fiction. The idea that Arya wouldn’t be is also a stretch.

Can and should they learn from each other? Yessss. Sansa would definitely benefit from more contact with the smallfolk. Arya’s strength there is something Sansa needs to emulate.

Does that mean their personal inclination for what they enjoy would change? No. In a formal courtly rulership position, Sansa is likely to thrive.

#asoiaf #sansa stark #arya stark #stark sisters #eddard stark #rulership

[1dsource]

This list consists almost entirely of recent fics, so please show them some extra love and leave a kudos, and even a comment if you have the time. It’s important we also give the newer, unknown authors a chance so they keep having motivation to write more amazing stories for us all to read <3

loving you's a bloodsport by @rosesau l 106K l Royalty AU l Soulmates

harry is a bratty prince, louis is a guard who works in his palace, and niall is the only who's got his life in control.

as someone once said: this is not a love story, but love is in it. that is, love is just outside it, looking for a way to break in.

Fearless by @suspendrs I 97K I Childhood Friends I Famous/Not Famous

“You’re my best friend, Louis,” Harry says, barely above a whisper. Even if he was yelling, Louis wouldn’t be able to believe his ears. “And I know it’s been a while, but you’re still the person I consider my best friend,” Harry says.

Louis blinks, and then blinks again. “I honestly cannot say the same, Harry,” he says.

Or, Harry left home without a word after high school, and a lot can change in ten years.

Kill Me/ Heal Me @millionlittletings I 92K I Royalty I Dystopia

The kingdom of Scotland hasn't been in peace for decades now. In the heart of the country lies the rivalries, hate, and struggle of power. Amidst the chaos, five young men discover the meaning of life, friendship, love, hate, and heartbreak through their journey. Louis, who is struggling to find a place where he belongs. Niall, who will protect what belongs to him with his life. Zayn, who is learning to navigate through life. Liam, who knows when to use his heart and when to use the brain. Harry, who is set to kill anyone who will come into his way of finding the truth about his mother. From dealing with their personal issues to finding out the real culprit who changed the course of their lives, these five men are set to uncover the deepest and the darkest secrets of the kingdom.

adjudication @bottomlinsons I 75K I Royalty I Arranged Marriage

Harry's been engaged to Princess Charlotte of Ryde for as long as he can remember. He's come to know her, to love her, through the letters she's sent him over the past three years.

But when the wedding finally arrives, Harry quickly learns that nothing is as it seems. With his crown and country at stake, Harry must decide who to trust in this strange new land. And the sly Crown Prince of Ryde doesn't seem inclined to make things easy.

The Devil In My Brain by larryshares I 74K I Devil Harry

“Jesus Christ!” Louis yells as he jumps back in reaction to Harry once again popping up out of nowhere.

Harry doesn’t even flinch.

“Quite the opposite.” He jokes, holding out one of the drinks for Louis to take. A freshly sizzling vodka Red Bull; his favorite.

Louis’s initial reaction is the thought you remembered.

His rational brain says, “No thanks.”

“Louis.” Harry says it like a concerned parent, the tone of it matching the way his mum used to say Boo Bear, you have to eat your vegetables to grow up big and strong, and that ignites something feral within him.

“Satan.” He counters, same tone coupled with a glare and a pair of arms crossed over his chest.

-

Louis used to be good friends with Harry, until he woke up alone and immortal with no one to blame but The Devil himself.

Under your skin, Over the moon by @indiekissy I 35K I Royalty

If there was one thing Harry didn’t expect the day before his uni graduation, it was for his long lost grandmother to show up and tell him he’s actually a prince thats next in line to rule Genovia. He also didn’t expect to fall for his royal advisor, who happens to hate his guts. A Princess Diaries AU.

robbers and cowards @adoredontour I 33K I Enemies with Benefits

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d almost think that you’re enjoying yourself.”

The familiar voice immediately gets Louis’ blood boiling, shoulders tensing as he calmly spins around, trying not to draw any suspicion to the pair.

“You don’t know me at all,” Louis spits, managing to maintain the polite smile he’s been wearing all evening. “You’re just some asshole who always ruins my nights.”

“If I keep ruining your nights, why do you keep going home with me?” Harry asks, taking a sip from his own wine glass.

“I don’t go home with you by any choice of my own,” Louis says. “I think you’re annoying and I have no idea how I keep ending up in your bed.”

“You end up in my bed because you knock on my apartment door at two in the morning.”

Louis wants to punch the smirk right off of his face. “Maybe you should move,” is what he says instead.

or a modern day robin hood au where louis and harry (don’t really) hate each other but they hate greedy billionaires more

Strong Enough by @jacaranda-bloom I 20K I Exes to Lovers

“So…” Liam starts, and Louis instantly knows where this is going. He’s actually glad it’s Liam that's dragging the subject out from the shadows and into the light. Louis turns to face him, mirroring his position on the couch and nods, ready for him to continue. Liam takes a deep breath. “Have you spoken to Harry recently?”

Five years after Vertigo goes on hiatus, the band comes back together for a benefit concert. Can Louis and Harry work through their complicated past, or are some wounds too deep to be healed?

solid as a stone (when everything is gone) by @onlyforthebravee I 20K I ABO

“Why’d you take me with you?”

Louis startles at the question, the car almost swerving off the road in the process. He holds his breath as he waits for the twins to wake up and start wailing, but they don’t. They keep sleeping on peacefully, covered in the family blanket.

Harry’s looking at him with an unreadable expression.

Louis takes a minute, mulling it over. He answers quietly. “I hate to say it, but as much as we hate each other, I can’t bear to leave you alone to deal with this whole thing all by yourself.” and I wouldn’t be able to bear it if you died, he adds in his mind.

or, it's the zombie apocalypse and Louis is stuck with Harry, with whom he shares a complicated relationship.

once bitten and twice shy by @pinkcords I 19K I Christmas Fic

This time as his stomach rolls, there’s no doubt about it. He’s going to vomit. And if he does, it’ll be on Louis’ shoes, a nice little parting gift to go with the embarrassment he’s caused the both of them. “I’m gonna throw up,” he says just as Louis turns to look at him, blue eyes swimming with shock and confusion, and asks, “Is that true?”

Or, in a rush of bravery only senior year can bring, Harry confesses his feelings in a letter to his neighbor and best friend, Louis, only for the entire school to hear it and laugh him out of their small town in Wisconsin. Ten years later, Harry's a successful lawyer at Columbia Records, coming home for Christmas for the first time since he departed for college. He plans to work his way through the trip, eat his mom's cooking, and avoid everyone from his past for as long as possible. The only problem is best laid plans hardly ever go as intended.

Equals by onlythebravekat I 12K I 1970′s AU

Louis and his family work for the Styles and live on their property. Louis has dreams of traveling the world and never having to associate with Harry in any way.

The Boxer by heyidkyay I 4K I Uni AU

At the age of twelve Harry’s life is turned upside down. After a traumatic experience, he leaves school and finds comfort in boxing. Six years later and Harry finds himself facing some of his former demons.

Again, if you read, please remember to leave kudos and/or a comment so we keep motivating our lovely, talented writers and make them feel valued

#hlsource #hljournal #larry fanfiction #fics #larry #enemies to lovers #ficmp

[voidscarredadjudicator]

I have an important question. One that is not to take lightly in any regard... How's life been? :)

I wish I could say things are going well but honesty demands otherwise. One of those things where things started looking up and then my hopes were suddenly and swiftly dashed. The nonspecific 'personal life stuff' strikes again in full force. Things will be very different for myself and others in my life in the coming future.

I'm just tired, man. And it's the kind of tired that sleep can't fix.

#The Adjudicator has spoken. #but this too shall pass #no use getting upset over the shit you can't control #sorry for the mini vent #act 2 still isn't cancelled. if it ever is i will be very clear about that #damn they really wasn't lying about the curse of the ao3 writer huh

[seymour-butz-stuff]

Former President George W. Bush on Sunday congratulated President-elect Joe Biden on winning the White House, sending a strong message to his fellow Republicans about the legitimacy of an election that President Donald Trump has refused to concede.

Bush, a Dallas resident, said in a news release that he spoke on the phone to Biden and Vice President-elect Kamala Harris.

“Though we have political differences, I know Joe Biden to be a good man, who has won his opportunity to lead and unify our country,” Bush said. “The President-elect reiterated that while he ran as a Democrat, he will govern for all Americans.”

He added: “No matter how you voted, your vote counted.”

“President Trump has the right to request recounts and pursue legal challenges, and any unresolved issues will be properly adjudicated,” he said. “The American people can have confidence that this election was fundamentally fair, its integrity will be upheld, and its outcome is clear.”

The Texan’s statement made him the nation’s most prominent Republican to confirm the election’s outcome, putting him at odds with Trump and many of the current president’s GOP allies, who’ve continued to make baseless claims that election fraud allowed Biden to steal a win.

Bush nodded at the fraught moment, saying the “challenges that face our country will demand the best of President-elect Biden and Vice President-elect Harris – and the best of us all.”

“We must come together for the sake of our families and neighbors, and for our nation and its future,” he said, adding that he and his wife, Laura, "pray for our leaders and their families: “There is no problem that will not yield to the gathered will of a free people.

The last criminal occupant has spoken, hopefully the current criminal occupant hears him.

#2

[skvaderarts]

Hiraeth Chapter 44: Archival

Masterlist can be found Here!

Chapter Forty-Four: Archival 

Notes: Hey everyone, sorry I had to push back the last chapter on such short notice! I just honestly forgot how many days it was until my mom’s birthday and I wanted to give her all of my attention! Thanks for all the birthday wishes! She loved them!

(-~-)

The next day…  

Honestly, the youngest living descendant of the Dark Knight Sparda couldn’t remember the last time that he’d seen snow outside of the Lamina mountain range. It had truly been a sight to see when they had arrived just a few hours ago at the crack of dawn, long before the majority of the townspeople had crawled out of their beds and made their way into the streets. They would be in for a rude awakening, much as poor Kyrie had been when he’d accidentally woken her up so early.

When the van had pulled up in front of the house, he had been surprised to see Kyrie standing in the doorway less than a minute later, clearly barely awake and not fully registering just how cold it was outside. The poor young woman had her robe halfway on, the cool night air kissing her exposed skin. To say that she was not thermally prepared for a light blizzard would be a bit of an understatement.

She’d nearly tripped down the stairs as she met Nero halfway, nearly leaping on him in excitement as she threw her arms around him and hugged him tightly. No one needed to ask if she had missed him during his time away or if the young songstress had been worried about him. It was clear for anyone to see that she had nothing but love in her heart for Nero.

Kyrie had greeted V warmly as well, noting that it had been some time since she’d seen him, and that she hoped that things had been well for him in the interim. The young summoner had decided against mentioning his new ailment to her, preferring to not give her something else to worry about. Literally everything and everyone else was enough already. Instead, he simply reassured her that he was more or less content, something that wasn’t a lie. Curse or otherwise, he was at peace for perhaps the first time in his entire life. He would relish that. 

After wishing her well, he, Nico, and Flora boarded the van again and headed back to the mainland, stating that they needed to do something with the scroll that Magnolia’s sister had gifted V after they dropped Dante off at his office. He had been asleep the entire time in the back of the van, and considering the circumstances, they had collectively chosen not to awaken him. Nero and Kryie wished them a safe trip and told them that they would contact the rest of the group if they happened to hear from Vergil, and then they went inside, eager to spend some quality time with one another for at least a few hours. That was the most that they were going to get with three kids in the house.

But now hours later, he was headed towards the last place that he wanted to set foot in again in order to complete an errand that V had requested of him. And he would have company. Apparently, there was still some work to be done at Fortuna castle, this time on behalf of the Ludwig family. It seemed that both they and V were keen to preserve as many of the books in the private library as possible. Admirable enough on paper, but still a miserable trek through the snow either way.

Just as he approached the ruined front gate to the castle’s bridge, a familiar face emerged from the frosty fog a few yards ahead of him, seemingly unperturbed by the extreme circumstances. It was Sirrus, here at the behest of both parties involved to help him do… something. Nero wasn’t sure he really truly understood, but he was certain that the adjudicator probably did and that he could fill him in while they headed towards the library. He wasn’t even going to ask how he beat him there. He’d been at the Ludwig estate long enough to know the answer to that question.

“Well, aren’t we a sight for sore eyes? It’s good to see you again so soon, Nero.” “I hope you’ll pardon my temporary departure. I had to go speak with my superiors. They summoned me, so there was no avoiding it, I’m afraid.”

“Hey, Sirrus. So that’s where you went right before we left, hu? Makes sense, I guess. How did it go, then?” Nero had had the feeling when they’d told him he’d be working with one of them again soon that it would be the powerful redhead with the dry humor, and it turned out he had been correct. Score one for Nero.

“Oh, I’d say it did. They don’t trust me as far as they can throw me, but that just comes with the territory, I’m afraid. But we can talk about it in more detail once we’re inside. This frigid wind isn’t exactly unfamiliar, but it’s still a bit much. I’m not keen on staying exposed to the elements for any longer than I have to be.”

Nero nodded. Now that was something that they could agree on. He just hoped that the swarm of cutlass that had been here last time had taken up residence somewhere else, or at least retreated back into the depths of Agnus’s laboratory. He didn’t feel like shooting every demon in this damn castle again. He had things to do today.

(-~-) 

In truth, the marking made no sense to him. 

Whatever Sirrus was doing seemed completely foreign and mystical to him, probably because it involved the use of some more arcane knowledge that he hadn’t the slightest idea about. He’d never even known that something like this existed until just recently, so seeing someone actually perform it was entirely new. In truth, he’d seen evidence of its presence in action before in this very castle when one took into account the many elaborate puzzles and traps that seemed to utilize an unknown source of power, but he hadn’t really put much thought into it at the time. 

But now? Well, he couldn’t help but wonder who had put them in place. Surely someone from the Order, but that didn’t mean much in regards to figuring out who actually did it. He didn’t know most of the people in the higher echelons of the ill-fated Order of the Sword. That was by design. And as for what they were capable of and where some of them had disappeared to after things had gone down the way that they had? He was none the wiser. But he wished that he knew. He had some choice words for them. And probably a few bullets.

“So… how does this work? I mean, if you can do that, then why not just go back and forth to wherever you want to go like this?” Nero watched curiously as Sirrus fiddled with some sort of book, marking out a circle with several symbols upon it on the floor. A triangle overlapped it, forming a curious visual that he couldn’t say he’d seen before. The Adjudicator glanced up at him for a moment, seemingly acknowledging that he was benign spoken to but unable to maintain eye contact.

“As much as I’d love to, that’s not how this works. Only inanimate objects can pass through a portal such as this, and it requires two people in two different locations to just to be opened in the first place and to remain stable” Sirrus shrugged nonchalantly, working on some sort of symbol that he was marking out on the floor with white chalk. Nero had no idea what it meant, but he knew that it had to be magic in some way, shape, or form. “Your father’s blade is undeniably unique. It honestly fascinates me. I’d ask him to take a look, but I worry based on his rather unique answering conventions that he might literally give me exactly what I’m asking for.”

He went quiet for a short while at the mention of Vergil. It hadn’t really occurred to him until then that he actually missed his somewhat short-tempered and unpredictable father. None of them had yet to hear anything back from Vergil, and that fact alone was cause for concern. It wasn’t so much that he was the sort to check-in and ask for permission to complete a task. Far from it. But at least they normally knew where he was headed.

“You're probably in the clear. He only stabs people he’s related to these days. Well mostly. I even saw him spare someone once who helped kidnap V. Couldn’t tell you what was going through his head at the time, but he’s okay some of the time.” Nero allowed his mind to wander for a moment, pondering his wayward father’s current location. He couldn’t imagine that he was in danger. After all, he had been through worse before, and this time he at least had Yamato. Surely he would return soon. 

And yet… 

“Do you think I should be worried that he’s not back yet?”

“Sighing softly, Sirrus took a moment to consider his question before shaking his head. “If he indeed went to where you think he might have, then I suspect not. Time works differently across the Trinity of Realities, and I suspect that very little time has passed wherever he is, if any at all. There are rare places where time simply doesn’t seem to pass at all.”

“No shit, really? I heard something like that but… ” He stopped. Not really sure what else to say. They nodded to one another and then returned to sorting out the book in the room. It was best that they keep their minds busy.

Adding additional food for thought, Sirrus spoke again. “And unlike my father, yours seems to possess the capacity to actually care about another living being. He seems to find it trying a considerable majority of the time, but he possesses the desire to love and be loved nonetheless. There is hope yet for him. I think you’re in a good place. I like to hope that whatever tension there is between you can be worked out in the end.”

“I hope you're right. Any chance of working it out with yours?”

A humorless look crossed his face. As he looked through the younger devil hunter instead of at him, seeing him but at the same time, not seeing him at all. It was as if his eyes and his brain were not fully communicating. He fell quiet for a moment, fidgeting slightly. “... I’m afraid not. Any hope of that outcome dissolved after what happened between him and Aluta.”

Nero knew enough to not press the issue any further, even if he was somewhat quiet. After close to a minute of silence, Sirrus glanced at him momentarily before speaking again, not keen on keeping whatever was on his mind buried there any longer.

“Generally speaking, it’s in poor taste to date someone younger than your own children. If nothing else, it causes a fair bit of tension.”

Taking a moment to register that statement, Nero continued to try and organize the books, eager to not spend the entire day in this library. As much as he knew that V would disagree with his sentiments, he had to admit that he was glad that most of the books were old and damaged in this part of the library. There were at least a dozen extra-large moving boxes filled with books, each one weighing about a hundred pounds.

Oh, how Nero hoped that his brother wouldn’t find a way to hurt himself by moving them around his house. But deep down, he knew that he would. It wasn’t so much that V was clumsy as it was that he was simply unfortunate, and if his little move had gone the way that it had, he was sure that this would go much the same. Or perhaps he would learn from his previous mistakes and opt into a much more cautious approach this time around? Who was to say? He was smart, after all, and Flora was there to assist him. He could only imagine that, given the size of V’s house, that they would be taking the majority of the books. That was probably for the best, all things considered. V would get nothing done with that many books in his house.

Nero then paused for a moment, his brow furrowing as something occurred to him that hadn’t until just then. He turned and looked over at Sirrus, registering the fact that he was quickly sorting through an entire bookshelf and stacking the books into two different boxes. Nero had been doing the same, but at a much slower rate. It turned out that it was difficult to categorize and sort books that you couldn’t fucking read. Big surprise there.

“Hold on a second… Did you just say…”

“That I am older than Aluta? Yes. Yes, I did. Because I am.” Sirrus chuckled slightly, continuing to pick up books, gently flip through them, and then place them into their requisite boxes. He seemed to find something enormously entertaining about Nero’s flabbergasted demeanor, carefully concealing his amusement so as to not come off as a smug jerk. Well, at least not more than he was sure he already did most of the time. He silently hoped that he wasn’t actually as insufferable as he assumed that he was. He just lacked social skills.

Leaning over to take a closer look at the smarmy redhead, the youngest Descendant of Sparda made no effort to conceal his deep-seated confusion at this revelation. How could that be possible? Sirrus looked the same age that he and V looked, and while Aluta didn’t look particularly old herself, he knew that she had to be at least old enough to be his mother due to the singular fact Vergil had known her as a teen when he himself had been one at the same time, albeit slightly older than her. For him to be even a year older than her implied that he aged even better than Vergil, and that didn’t seem physically possible for a normal human being.

Oh, that was right. Sirrus had stated before that he wasn’t human, hadn’t he? Back on Vie De Marli What had his words been back then? “I am not what you are” or something like that? He’d implied early into their working relationship that he wasn’t even remotely human, so that made the possibility of him being something capable of living longer and aging slower logical. But then that once again raised the question as to what he actually was. Nero couldn’t think of any other beings in their world that looked so… human. If he wasn’t technically a demon and he wasn’t at all human, then what the hell was he? What else was there?

Clearly noticing that Nero was staring him up and down like he’d grown a second head, Sirrus laughed in earnest. It wasn’t every day that he got to see someone look at him like that. Most of the people that he spent time around didn’t know enough about him to even inquire into things like his age. At most, he was occasionally asked about his accent if he allowed it to slip, but aside from that, people didn’t really give a damn about his personal life. Or him, for that matter. Adjudicators worked solo on most endeavors. They had no reason to get to know one another.

“You seem shocked to have learned this, Nero. Do I look a bit young for my age?”

Giving him a sideways look, Nero looked down at the floor for a moment before shaking his head and sighing, returning to stacking books. This had been a weird few weeks. No doubt about it. Ever since the Redgrave Incident, he’d had a very hard time understanding what was going on. So much had been thrown at him all at once, and he was still grappling with a good deal of it.

“Poor V,” He thought to himself. “I’ve got it pretty rough, but he was just minding his own business walking around, and then he just woke up in the middle of this nightmare. He had to do whatever he could just to stay alive, and then to find out that he wasn’t even totally human and then die and come back just for this stupid demon prince bastard to come after him? He doesn’t deserve any of this. Neither of us does.”

But they were going to work it out. Of that, he was sure. And this somehow would assist in that endeavor. When V had told the Ludwigs about these books, they had seemed very interested, and he genuinely hoped that they did find something interesting or useful about their opponent in these volumes. At the very least, relocating them somewhere more secure so that they were out of the hands of undesirables forever was a good place to start. All they would do is sit here and rot if anyone worth their salt in Fortuna had anything to say about it.

“Smartass,” Nero said with a genuine laugh, admittedly somewhat amused by Sirrus’s extremely sarcastic and rhetorical question. Slowly but surely he was starting to understand his dry sense of humor. Or, at least, he was starting to understand why V understood it so well. The two of them seemed to get along pretty well. Nero was glad that his slightly older sibling seemed to have made something close to a friend. He could be so unintentionally antisocial at times despite the fact that he knew deep down that V didn’t want to be and probably just wanted companionship. Poor guy.

“What can I say, you're not wrong,” Sirrus said with a soft laugh, smiling gently but with a slight tinge of something else. Was that sadness? It was difficult to say. Despite his normally straightforward demeanor, he was hard to read. “Let’s finish up here and head back to the mainland. I have something that I think might help lift you and your brother’s spirits a bit. We could all use a distraction from time to time. What do you say?”

Nero shrugged, more or less fine with that option. He could always double back with Nico once they were finished. They couldn’t really do much more until they found out where his father had disappeared to, anyway. Right now, everything hinged on his return. None of them were going to formulate a plan that he wasn’t included in. He and V knew the most about their opponent. For now, they would bide their time and try to remain reasonably calm.

“You know what? Fine by me. Let’s go. V needs to get out of the house and go do something. I think he’s starting to develop a phobia of stores or something.”

(-~-)

Wow, this one was on time for some reason. I don’t understand what happened. By the way, for those of you who read Saudade, this is the night where they go to the furniture store and Sirrus covertly buys V all that furniture. I figured that some of you might be wondering that. What’s that? None of you were? Oh. Well, anyway-

Happy Wednesday or whatever! Hope you’ve had a good week so far. I’ve been trying to branch out into freelance writing because I live in a conservative anti-vax hellhole where people protest the administration of a vaccine at all, refused to wear masks despite being one of the highest case areas in the entire country, and I refuse to work another low paying retail or fast food job and put my fragile lungs in harm's way only to still not be able to afford my rent. 

I’ll keep you all posted on that in case it means I have to shift the upload schedule. It probably won’t, but I just thought I’d let you know.  Let me know if any of you have any pointers or advice in regards to working in that field. Oh, and don’t worry, the books are still happening. I’m just building the ordering system. See you in the comments!

#Hiraeth #Nero #Sirrus #My Post Devil May Cry 5 AU #Devil May Cry FanFic

[livescamcitynews]

SUPREME Court judge Justice Robert McDougall is never a man to mince his words

SUPREME Court judge Justice Robert McDougall is never a man to mince his words

TWO men have been slammed by a Supreme Court judge as Hunter families, tradies and developers count the cost of a string of construction and financial disasters.

Justice Robert McDougall said “it was open to infer” that Daniel Roberts and offsider Shasanth Shankar Tellakula Gowrishankar had engaged in “the well-known but opprobrious practice of utilising phoenix companies: consigning insolvent companies to the fires of liquidation, and creating new companies to arise from the ashes and take their place.”

A investigation can reveal that dozens of people have spoken out against the pair, alleging a host of defective or incomplete work and unpaid bills. Phillip Kapeller and Rachael Cesnik, pictured right with their children, estimate they are $500,000 out of pocket after a four-year battle, with no end in sight, to get their Gillieston Heights home completed.

Ruling on a dispute between developer Greenwood Futures and DSD Builders late last year, his assessment of the construction company "principals" , Daniel Roberts and Shasanth Shankar Tellakula Gowrishankar, was blunt.

"There is, in my view, very strong evidence that Mr Roberts and Mr Shankar have engaged in structuring their affairs in such a way so as to avoid, wherever possible, paying their liabilities," Justice McDougall said.

His scathing attack on the pair went further to accuse them of "misusing , if not abusing" the system that determines payment in the building industry, known as the Security of Payment Act.

The judge said the construction company had "sought to harass" the developer by lodging repeated payment claims to an adjudicator during a dispute over the construction of three townhouses in Jesmond, that includes allegations of a long list of defective work.

"The whole chaotic situation is essentially one of DSD's making," Justice Mc-Dougall said.

Unfortunately for Mr Roberts and Mr Shankar, he did not stop there.

"It is open to infer that they have engaged in the well-known but opprobrious practice of utilising phoenix companies: consigning insolvent companies to the fires of liquidation, and creating new companies to arise from the ashes and take their place," he said.

Justice McDougall went even further when it came to Mr Roberts, a BMW driving, former bankrupt, born in the United Kingdom.

"I add, referring to inferences that can be drawn as to Mr Roberts' business practices , that there was some evidence from ... a former employee of DSD or another one of Mr Roberts' related companies, of what purported to be admissions made by Mr Roberts to the effect that he would take the profit and leave creditors lamenting," he said.

Mr Roberts denied the allegation, but Justice Mc-Dougall said the former staffer's evidence received "some support" from a history of "financial and corporate transactions" .

Despite the judge's scorching assessment of the men, Greenwood Futures is still pursuing DSD Builders, whose sole director is Mr Roberts' wife Angela Roberts

- previously known as Angela Edith Sendjirdjian - through the courts over hundreds of thousands of dollars allegedly owed.

The project was eventually completed by another builder.

A home in Gillieston Heights has been left unfinished for years as the family battles a claim through the legal system against BH Australia Constructions, whose sole director and shareholder is Mr Shankar's wife Aarthi Dhandayutham.

Phillip Kapeller and Rachael Cesnik estimate they are $500,000 out of pocket and are facing bankruptcy due to crippling legal fees after a four-year battle, with no end in sight, to get their home completed. When the builder left the site in early 2017 the house had no water , power, flooring , kitchen, laundry, insulation and defects were found throughout.

"There is no doubt that they understand the legal system very well and know how to use it," Mr Kapeller said.

"The whole experience has been nothing short of a nightmare, it's been going on for years and our house still isn't finished .

"We're on the brink of going under financially ."

NSW Fair Trading confirmed it is investigating a number of complaints about building projects linked to Mr Roberts in and Sydney, but said it was unable to comment on the cases.

A spokesman said the regulator had received no complaints about Mr Shankar.

He said Fair Trading issued penalty notices in April 2018 to a company associated with Mr Roberts, called Blissful Developments No 1.

"The penalty notices were issued for carrying out unlicensed work," he said.

Fair Trading also placed restrictions on Mr Roberts' builder's supervisor certificate last year, meaning he cannot contract with the public until May 2021.

Bankruptcy proceedings against several companies linked to Mr Roberts and Mr Shankar have been launched by tradies and suppliers, with several cases resulting in counter-claims against the people fighting to be paid.

Windows has taken action in the local court trying to recoup $60,000 allegedly unpaid by BH Australia Constructions . FRI JUDGEMENT

Sydney's Steel Fabrication Services has also taken action against the same company in the Sydney Local Court, in a case where Ms Dhandayutham, Mr Shankar and Mr Roberts are named as defendants, for $45,000 allegedly owed.

Steel Fabrication Services owner Michael Simos said the situation was that bad police had to be called when he attempted to remove steel from a job site due to alleged non-payment .

"The whole thing was a real mess and it's been going on for ages," he said.

"The police allowed us to take the steel, but we still have a legal case going. Noone needs this sort of thing in business."

The Herald can reveal that Mr Roberts has attempted to take out three separate apprehended violence orders against a developer and two Hunter-based tradesmen following disputes about jobs.

Then there is the abandoned construction site at Jesmond, with gaping holes and unfinished works as another round of court cases continues, between Goodwin Street Developments and DSD Builders, over a student accommodation project.

The developer said he was unable to comment as the matter was still before the courts.

Dawn Meredith, of EBH Constructions, said in 30 years in the building industry she had never dealt with anyone like Mr Roberts.

After being given a lawyer's quote of $20,000 to chase $12,500 owed by Blissful Developments, EBH wrote the debt off .

The case between DSD Builders and Greenwood Futures revealed the extreme lengths Mr Roberts went to in an effort to secure a ruling from an adjudicator for payment.

In a move described by the judge as an "outrageous misuse " of authority, Mr Roberts sent information to the adjudicator claiming to be the developer's "appointed agent" , authorising payment to the builder of $220,000.

This was at the same time as the developer was arguing the money wasn't owed because the work hadn't been completed and was defective. Developer Matt Greenwood, of Greenwood Futures, lodged a counter-claim alleging he is owed $256,000.

Justice McDougall said DSD Builders disregarded its legal obligations and its conduct "made it almost inevitable that litigation would result" . "The fact that the litigation has failed reflects no merit on DSD's part; indeed, in some respects, DSD relied upon its own non-compliance with the Security of Payment Act as a reason why it should succeed," he said.

The court also heard from two tradesmen, caught up in a complicated web of interrelated companies, who were not paid for work done at the Jesmond job.

DSD Builders subcontracted the work out to related company BH Australia Constructions, but the tradesmen were contracted through another related company, Blissful Building Procurements, that was later placed in liquidation which meant the workers did not get paid.

Justice McDougall also pointed out some "curious anomalies" in DSD Builders' financial statements as at December 2017.

"The statements show a profit before tax in the sum of $306,000," he said. "They do not show any provision for tax. It is difficult to understand how a company which, on the face of the statements, had no carried forward losses could have earned that profit without being required to pay tax upon it. No income tax return has been produced which could explain this somewhat unusual state of affairs ."

In another dispute, that also made it to the Supreme Court, Justice Michael Ball found Blissful Developments No. 1 had entered into a contract to build a set of units at Adamstown with no builder's licence.

At the time of the judgement , Mr Roberts was the director of the company that was attempting to get an extension of a caveat placed on the developer's land so it could not be sold. Blissful Developments No. 1 claimed an interest in the land because it said the developer owed it money.

But Justice Ball dismissed the claim, declaring no money was owed and the contract was void because the builder was unlicensed. Not long after the decision, Mr Roberts resigned as director of the company and was replaced by Mr Shankar's wife.

Other former clients, tradespeople and suppliers who spoke to the Herald , detailed being caught in a never-ending series of battles that have swirled around the pair, with some disputes dragging out for years.

Allegations of defective work and long delays for jobs to be completed. Marriages on the brink of collapse because of the strain. Tradies fearing they will lose their homes if they don't get paid.

Many asked to remain anonymous due to fear of legal action.

"Daniel comes across, on very first impression, as if he has a lot of money and he knows what he's talking about," a tradesman said. "But when you can't get paid, he simply disappears. Shasanth is the quiet one who is usually in the background, but they spend a lot of time together and are involved in a lot of legal matters."

John Todorovski, who worked as a real estate agent for Blissful Homes, said he left after witnessing a string of unhappy people looking to be paid or lodging complaints . "People would come and have arguments at the office and I figured it was time to look for another job," he said. "There were a lot of complaints."

Tradies, suppliers and homeowners detailed being ensnared in an intractable problem enveloping the NSW building industry, which is lumbered with a tangled consumer protection system that all too often takes those seeking help on a long journey to a dead end.

Several people said complaints to NSW Fair Trading fell on deaf ears.

Any hopes that a large group of creditors could recoup their money was dealt a grievous blow when two companies were placed in voluntary liquidation in March and April last year.

Blissful Developments and Blissful Building Procurements went belly up with no assets and debts of almost $1.5 million. Mr Roberts resigned as director from Blissful Developments weeks before the company went under owing 25 unsecured creditors $750,372.

Mr Roberts also resigned as a director of Blissful Building Procurements two months before the company failed, owing 30 creditors $604,582. Daniel Roberts and Mr Shankar previously sold their shares in both companies.

Liquidator Steven Gladman , of Hall Chadwick, described his investigation into the companies as a "frustrating exercise" . He said when the companies were placed in liquidation there was no money, meaning there was little chance of a return for creditors.

"Very limited books and records have been provided," he said. "There are payments in there that are concerning."

Amid the chaos, Mr Shankar and Mr Roberts have moved onto a new venture for themselves, a multi-million dollar development under construction at Abel St, Wallsend. The Herald found both men working there this week.

The 3480-square-metre property was purchased in June 2017 by BH Australia Constructions, that is owned and controlled by Mr Shankar's wife Ms Dhandayutham , for $1.35 million. She sold the site about a year later for $400,000 to another related company called Abel Street Developments.

Mr Shankar is the director of Abel Street Developments and he and Daniel Roberts are listed as the shareholders . According to a development application approved by City Council, there are plans to build 20 attached two-storey dwellings at a cost of more than $2 million.

The property had a strata subdivision approved in June and two three-bedroom townhouses, recently built on the site, were sold in September to another related company called SD Portfolio Holdings for $536,900 each.

[the-darklings]

yooo!!!! that 2nd part to the vampire au was soooo good, i think you should at least make one more, just saying. also, loved how you included more of john in this one!

𝙑𝘼𝙈𝙋𝙄𝙍𝙀!𝘼𝙐: 【01】| 【02】| 【2.5】| 【03】| 【3.5】|

wc: 4.1k 🤡

.

“The situation in the East keeps escalating,” the man beside you speaks and you listen silently, not letting any emotion show at his reproachful tone. “Camorra’s power keeps growing. The more treaties they establish, the more creatures they recruit into their ranks, the more their power peaks. You and Johnathan must stay focused. The High Priest says that this war is just beginning.”

“We are focused, Winston,” you say and wince when a jolt rushes through your body. Walking is painful and even with the mild warmth of the sun and gentle breeze brushing against your skin, a bead of sweat still trails down the back of your neck. Your back feels raw and inflamed but you fight not to let your discomfort show. “John has been away for two weeks dealing with the werewolves and—”

“And your little incident was deemed as a failure,” the older man cuts you off, glancing your way as his hands fold in front of him. “The Camorra Devil…honestly. What were you thinking? You’ve been told not to use the Holy Text. You’re lucky it was Charon that found you and not one of the many foul things prowling those streets.”

You huff a breath, clenching your jaw. “I'm aware. What was I supposed to do? Let the Devil drain that girl?”

“One human life is not worth your life,” Winston says sharply, his eyes narrowing. “You and Johnathan are the only Holy Hunters of your generation. You fail to realise your own importance.”

Hardly.  

Stronger, faster, smarter, and with prolonged lifespans. You are not supernatural but you are hardly human either. 

You are neither. You are both. 

Your and Jardani’s names are known wide and far and being considered a legend before your death comes with a certain amount of scrutiny. Expectation. 

Something the High Priest, The Adjudicator, nor Winston ever fail to remind you of. 

“I thought the Holy Church protects all. Cares for all life equally.”

Winston’s head slants, the look in those old eyes knowing. “The Holy Church cares for the bigger picture. Which, at this time, is winning this war.”

He steps ahead of you and you watch his dark robes in the sunlight as his fingers brush over the rose petals. 

The Prayer Garden is in full bloom. It’s a site of reflection, of prayer, of hope and atonement. 

But the sickly sweet scent of flowers makes you dizzy so you try to slow your breaths, focusing on the man before you instead. 

“You will track down the necromancer again and remove him,” Winston states after few minutes of tranquil silence between you. “And once that is done you will return to the church for your Remaking.”

“Why?“ 

It slips out before you can stop it and your mouth snaps shut, a sting of regret following right after. Winston twists to face you, his eyes narrowed, and he pointedly glances around the garden, making sure that no one heard your slip up. 

At the church, there are no questions, only obedience. The will of the twelve priests and especially the High Priest himself is to be followed without questions or doubts. 

And their will is that you are not ready to use the Holy Text. That you need to undergo Remaking often—at least twice a year, if not more—and do so without question. Despite the agony of having to lay down on that cold slab of stone and feel the Holy Text being recarved into your skin anew. 

You’ve learned long ago how to stop the tears and the screaming. Not when you know that the High Priest’s hands will not be gentler for it. If anything, the blades always cut harder, more intently, and whether it’s to encourage or quell the anguish has always been beyond you. But the way the man always traces his work as if in reverence after never fails to leave you feeling dirty and used. 

It’s unfair that you have to go through it over and over again when Jardani hasn’t visited the catacombs in years. 

They say it’s because your power is less stable than his. That the Remaking simply keeps that potent holy power in your veins flowing freely so it never fails you. 

Yet it always makes you feel the opposite. Usually, you’re left feeling heavy and aching with pain for days after. Muffled somehow. 

Winston gazes at you for a long moment before nodding his head. “Come with me.”

You, as always, follow him without question and the priest is mute as you approach a more secluded area of the garden. Few wander here, and if they do it’s for reflection only.

“You have a fierce heart,” Winston begins and you blink, trying to focus on his words. “It burns right out of you. And while it makes you special, it’s also your greatest enemy. You feel too much. Want too much.”

His brief glance at you is telling enough. 

Jardani. 

Winston has never spoken his suspicions out loud but you know he’s always suspected that the nature of your relationship has long since changed.

“I—”

“Don’t bother. The less I know the better.”

His words are hard as the look in his eyes and your gaze lowers. 

He knows that if anyone found out the punishment that would befall you would be terrible. Brutal. So he doesn’t ask. He won’t risk it. 

Silence follows again and you swallow heavily, blinking at the heat of sun against your face. Gods above, even with your lightest clothes, you can’t help but feel like you’re cooking in your skin. 

Your back is twinging with dull pain and you silently curse the vampire prince for the thousandth time. 

Every since your encounter with the Camorra’s Devil, the prince has been appearing in your sleep every night. 

It’s been two weeks of him haunting every second of your slumber. 

Every night you escape by breaking out of his grip and every night he makes it harder to do so. He’s testing you, you know that. Seeing just how far that power in your veins can be pushed. 

He drives you near insane with his silky whispers and promises of joy and pleasure and power. With every sly suggestion and accidental caress. He never oversteps and that, perhaps, makes it even worse. You want to hate those green eyes. 

But he’s found a way to burrow himself deep under your skin. He marvels at your abilities, always eager to see more—as infuriatingly alluring as he is arrogant.  

Every night you awaken from your feverish dreams with your skin slick with sweat and your back aching. The Holy Text seems to itch for hours after, and the only way to suppress the raging fire in your veins is to submerge yourself in a tub of freezing water for at least half an hour. 

It’s gotten so bad that you see him in every dark corner now. Catch glimpses of his green eyes everywhere you look and hear a whisper of his voice in your ear wherever you go. However hard you look, however, he’s never actually there and you know that he can’t be. He is breathtakingly powerful but even he would never risk coming into the beating heart that is the Holy Church itself.

“Are you listening to me?”

“What?”

You blink, snapping out of your thoughts and find Winston frowning at you, his lips twisted into a dismayed line.  

“What’s gotten into you lately?” he questions briskly, the heavy furrow of his brows telling a tale of his subtle worry. “You haven’t been the same since—”

“Your Holiness.”

Your address interrupts Winston’s shrewd words and you bow to your waist, gritting your teeth at the flare of agony through your back muscles. The High Priest, or The Elder as some still refer to him, expects nothing less. As one of his Holy Hunter’s you only have to bow your head, others have to get on their knees before the man. 

Something deep down in your chest scratches and snarls as you stare at the ground, your head ringing.

Do not bow to him—

A hand touches your chin, raising your head and effectively banishing the distant voice that sounds too much like the green-eyed prince from your head. 

“My child,” the man utters, his voice soft. You keep your eyes lowered respectfully but he raises your chin higher and you focus on him only, overlooking the familiar raven-haired man behind him. Even if your heart yearns to look at him. It’s been two long weeks without him after all. “It pleases me to see you out and about once again.”

“I apologise for any worry caused.”

The High Priest brushes his thumb against your jaw and something in your gut twists. 

Winston and your Jardani are quiet and you don’t dare to look away from the man before you. His white robes billow in the faint breeze, adding to the sounds of nature and trees.  

The man inspects you for a long, solemn moment, unblinking.

“I hope this can be a valuable lesson to you, my child,” he says, and there is just enough ice lacing his voice that it feels like one of your blades scraping against your throat. “My words are to be heeded. Always.”

Your heart hammering in your chest, you only manage to dip your head in small a nod. “Yes, Your Holiness.“ 

The man finally releases your face and you try to mask you relief. 

“Good,” he mutters, his dark eyes piercing. “I assume Winston has informed you of your next course of action?”

He doesn’t wait for your reply, his voice stern but tempered, “You will hurry with your task and then return for your Remaking,” he continues, pausing on the last word and something shifts in those dark depths just for a second as he scrutinises you. “I need my Holy Hunters strong and pure. This war will get worse before it will get better.”

Pure. 

A manic laugh almost bubbled out of you there and then. 

Pure. What a joke. If only he knew about the wicked, sinful things you and Jardani do in the folds of the shadows. If only he knew how your bodies tangle together till you can’t separate your edges from his as you drive each other to ecstasy. Smothering every whimper and moan and sigh, stealing and hoarding every moment between you out of fear that it might be your last. 

There is nothing holy about what you two do in the dark. Or perhaps you’re wrong. Perhaps the holiest thing about either of you is how you share each other. 

Because there is divinity to be found in the feeling of his mouth on you.

“Come, Winston,” the High Priest calls out, his gaze finally moving away from you and towards the older man. “Johnathan has returned with some interesting information regarding the werewolves. The Table must hold council.”

Winston dips his head graciously and the High Priest glances at you again before looking behind him where your Jardani stands clad in black. He’s like a storm could, an ink stain, marring a perfectly happy scene. 

“Do not disappoint me, my children.”

A warning if you’ve ever heard one, even if his voice remains amiable. 

You know better than to doubt its sincerity though. 

You both bow as one, and force yourself to speak the monotonous oath out loud, “I have served. I will be of service.“ 

.

.

You don’t look at each other the entire way back to the Northern Building. 

The Holy Church has massive, sprawling grounds with several buildings all blessed to withstand attacks from the darkest creatures lurking throughout the land. You doubt even Giovanni D'Antonio with all his endless, monstrous power could break through the wards etched into the very air here.  

You and Jardani keep easy, meaningless conversation as you pass other members of the Holy Church. Nuns and priests and healers. Forgers of weapons. Other hunters. Just human. Ordinary apart from being trained. 

You and Jardani are a different breed. Standing apart from everyone else here. 

You’ve managed to keep your relationship a secret by never giving anyone any room for suspicion. Except for Winston, clearly, but that man always had a gift of reading you both like an open book.

The Northern Building is special for one reason. That reason being that the entire structure belongs to the Holy Hunters and no one else. 

Of which there are only two in this generation.

You keep several feet distance between you, partake in dull, meaningless conversation that won’t catch anyone’s attention the entire way there.

But the moment the doors close you slam into each other eagerly, your hands greedy and desperate as you tangle in each other. 

Your back hits the door and you hold back a wince of pain as he kisses you with enough passion to stall your breathing. His warm sigh tickles your lips and you moan into his kiss, tangling your fingers in his raven strands. The heat between you, the tingle of pleasure that comes from simply kissing him, manages to dull the pain a little and you melt into his embrace. 

Your dark shadow. 

Gods above you’ve missed him. So very much. 

“I heard about what happened,” he whispers against your mouth when you part for breath and his thumb strokes down your cheek. There is a brief second in which his touch gets replaced by a man with cold eyes and eerily calm voice but you shake it immediately. “I worried. Are you injured?”

His other hand rests against your lower back and you ignore the pain that touch brings, focusing only on him. You lean forward, pressing a kiss against the corner of his mouth. 

“I’m fine,” you reassure him and tug on his hair, delighting in the familiar gleam in those dark pools. A desire for you. A flame that never stops burning no matter how much he insists that you shouldn’t do this—shouldn’t touch or kiss or fuck like the world is seconds away from ending. But he can’t deny you. He can never deny you. “Missed you,” you add because it’s true. 

His expression softens, the impassive man fading for your eyes alone. “I missed you more,” he tells you softly and lays a careful peck against your lips; fleeting and tender.

But you don’t want fleeting and tender. 

Your nails drag against his neck and his expression strains under your deliberate coaxing. 

“Jardani,” you hum quietly and kiss his jaw, pressing into him. “My Jardani. My umbra mortis.“ 

“You’re upset.”

You still. “I’m not.”

“The Remaking—”

“Don’t.”

Your voice is an icy, shaky exhale. Jardani just looks sad but a shadow lingers across his expression, too. He hates seeing you suffering. But this isn’t the outside world, he can’t kill those that would harm you. All he can do is wait for when you are brought back from the ceremony, swaying and delirious, and too weak and drained to do anything for the next three days. All he can do is hold you as you sob into his chest after, begging him to never let them touch you again even though you both know that there is no other choice. He doesn’t bother making you promises he can’t keep.

He touches your face then, your foreheads almost touching. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s agony, Jardani. I can’t—”

His fingers smooth over your hair, his expression dark, distant. “If there was another way…”

Your smile is bitter. “But there isn’t. I must obey or they will force me. And if they ever find out about us they will kill me or banish me—”

“No,” he cuts you off and this time his voice is lower, harsher; practically a growl that rumbles from deep within. “I would never let them hurt you. I would kill them all.”

You cup his face, desperate to have him closer. “I hate it here, Jardani,” you confess in a wet whisper. “This place is a prison. I feel like I'm suffocating here. Have been for years.”

He kisses your cheek and then again, trailing up. Your brow, forehead, nose; a handful of caresses at the time. Lastly, he kisses your lips, dragging you to him carefully and you hold onto him. Your shadow and sanctuary and home. 

“I will find a way,” he vows quietly against your quivering mouth, his voice a deep rumble. “I will find a way, moy svet.”

My light.

His mother tongue rolls off his tongue effortlessly and you shudder at the dark, reassuring blanket those words wrap around you. 

You kiss him again—all teeth and hunger and fingertips seeking his heat—and with his strength he picks you up easily, your legs wrapping around him soundlessly. 

You don’t make it to the bedroom.

.

.

You awaken in silk. 

You’re so used to it by now that for a handful of seconds you don’t stir, simply lying there. 

He isn’t beside you. 

A surprise.

He seems to delight in watching your expression when you wake up with him hovering near or trailing his fingertips down your arm. Once you woke up with his arm partially curled around you, holding you close, practically against his chest. 

You punched him right in his smug face. 

A downside of this being the dream world is that no real damage could be done. It still didn’t stop the swell of satisfaction you felt at the way his head snapped to the side, clearly haven’t had expected an attack even with his finely honed predator instincts. 

Or perhaps he simply didn’t see you as a threat. 

Or trusted you enough to lower his guard which was a thought you had banished the second it came because it was absurd. 

You had felt self-satisfied until he laughed, grinning widely, his cheeks dimpling. 

“You’re a delight,” he had purred and his lack of wrath had been as surprising as realising how appealing his smile is. “Now imagine what you could do with an immortal’s strength, hm?”

But he is not beside you this time. 

Your head slants and you find him sitting a little further away from the bed, bathed in the beam of light coming from a window overhead. 

It takes you a moment to realise what he’s doing. 

He's painting. 

A brush between those long, graceful fingers moves lovingly like he’s taking all the care in the world to make sure that whatever he’s trying to capture is done so to perfection. As if not one mistake could be afforded. 

At least this time he’s not naked. 

It took you a few visits to realise that you come to the dream world dressed in whatever you had fallen asleep in. 

Though the realisation that the vampire prince sleeps naked between his silken sheets had warmed something in your blood. 

“My mother was a great lover of art,” he begins conversationally, still focusing on his work. You sit up deliberately, watching the ripple of his back muscles as he shifts in his seat, facing away from you. “Personally, I never saw much appeal in it. Just a bit of paint on canvas, you understand? That changed after she met Eternal Death. There is indeed something, hm, extraordinary about creation in such a form.”

Your bare feet touch the floor and your fingers grip the edges of the bed as you observe him silently. 

From this angle, you finally get a glimpse of what he’s working on. 

It's you. 

But not.

The woman depicted on canvas has your features. Your lips and nose and hair and colouring but—

But your eyes are something else. They look like they’re raging from within even though your expression is captured as calm and composed—almost empyreal. Your gaze is strong, consuming, sensual and fierce. It demands to be looked at. Respected. Admired. 

He’s painted you as you could be, you realise numbly, an immortal like him. 

His head turns towards you when you stand shakily on your feet, your fingers gripping the side of your nightgown tightly between your fingers. 

The vampire prince eyes you with a slight twitch of his lips as light plays across his tanned skin and wild curls. 

He’s dangerous.  

For the first time, you feel that understanding settle deep in your bones but—

“Do you not like it, amore?”

“I want to leave.”

If you didn’t know any better you would say that he looks disappointed at that. But it’s gone in a blink, whatever it is, so you can’t be sure. 

“You are free to leave whenever you please, bella,” he tells you dismissively, raising the brush back between his fingers. “Don’t let me stop you.”

Brushing past him, you let your fingers clench, trying to pull on the power in your veins. 

“I don’t want to come here anymore,” you bite out, glancing at him over your shoulder before turning to face him fully. “I'm done playing your games.”

Santino’s head tilts, humming in consideration, and it’s hard to think of him as a vampire—the enemy—when he looks so breathtaking in this blinding, warm light. When he looks so approachable, almost normal. 

“Hm. You are exceedingly attractive when angry,” he notes with a sliver of a smirk, peering at you curiously and the green of his eyes is piercing. “What other angry words are you going to bestow upon me, hm? I do so admire a sharp tongue.“ 

His attention transfers to your mouth and you scowl at him. 

”Enough, Santino.“

Shit. 

It slipped out. 

You’ve always addressed him as “D'Antonio” or “vampire” but never by his given name. 

His smirk disappears instantly, something stuttering across his expression; a flicker of emotion you don’t quite understand passing over his features. 

“Say it again.”

You don’t think you have seen him sound or look quite so serious.

“What?”

“My name,” he utters, his gaze burning. “Say it again.”

Forcing oxygen into your lungs, you breathe a deliberate, vicious, “Santino.”

He’s in front of you in a blink and fear is not the reason why you step away. He stalks closer, his lips parted and you see his fingers form loose fists. 

“Again.”

It’s an order and your lips press together when your back kisses the cold stone of his room. 

This isn’t real, you try to remind yourself, it’s just a dream. But one’s mind has the power to make things real. The Dream Realm is just as powerful as any other reality. 

His hand braces next to your head and you stare at each other for a halted breath. 

His body is tense, coiled, his attention focused solely on you. With the light falling from behind him, it looks like a halo is caressing the crown of his head. He resembles an angel even if you know the devil lurks beneath.  

“San-ti-no.”

He leans closer and you exhale forcefully, your lips parting. 

“You,” he murmurs softly and you feel his fingertips brush up your bare arm, making goosebumps explode across your skin. “Are more dangerous than sunlight." 

You force your suddenly dry tongue to work. "I thought… that the sun doesn’t affect a pureblooded vampire like you?”

He’s close enough that you can feel his breath against your lips. 

Not real. Not real. Not real—

“No, it doesn’t,” he agrees lightly under his breath, the velvety promise of his lips brushing against the edge of your jaw. “Ah, but it’s very good at something else, bella. Can you guess what that is, hm?”

His lips part against the curve of your jaw, a puff of air tickling your skin, and your head tips to the side, his large hand coming to grip your hip. You’re not sure which one of you he’s trying to steady. 

“No.”

His nose slips down, dragging against your skin and he freezes, inhaling deeply. A low snarl erupts from deep in his chest and he nuzzles against your neck intently. 

Through the dizzying haze, there blooms confusion, but then you remember the fact he can no doubt smell Jardani on you. Maybe even scent you earlier lovemaking. You would be surprised if the intensity of it didn��t leave a mark.

“It’s very good,” he hisses against your ear, his breath prickling against your skin and his fingers flex against your hip. “At making us weak.”

Choking down a gasp, you try to pull back but he ducks his head against your neck again, his lips pressing a featherlight kiss against your fluttering pulse. 

“They’re lying to you,” he reveals in a hoarse whisper when his head lifts and your eyes clash. He looks ravenous, wild. His eyes are more black than green. “You are so much more than they’re trying to convince you, amore. Let me show you. Let me." 

His grip on you constricts. 

You blink; once, twice, and bare your teeth at him before promptly snapping the tether between you in half.

There is a glimpse of fury before you are dragged back to wakefulness. 

You fly up into a sitting position, your skin damp and throat dry. 

Every inch of you tingles made only worse by an acute ache between you thighs. 

”Fuck.“ 

…

an: hahaha…….i’m in trouble :) also apologies for any mistakes. one edit only and done at 2:30am ayyyy. hope you enjoyed jfghfdg please don’t try and ask me why i’m actually trying to build a world/lore/plot because “i’m stupid” will always be the answer jhdfg. also I just really dig the feral/dark vibe of this AU so *shrugs*

#john wick x reader #santino d'antonio x reader #john wick #john wick fic #vampire au #supernatural au #we love clownery!!!! goodnight!!! #s: no one could be him #s: i can wait

[dinnerbowl43]

When We Ask Kids What They Want In Arbitration.

Mediation Programs.

Content

How Long Can Mediation Take?

Neglect Paying Two Lawyers.

Uks Leading Arbitration Chambers.

Wish To Know More Regarding Arbitration Or Discover A Mediator Near You?

The Very Best Separation & Family Members Lawyers Near You.

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Does your lawyer go to mediation with you?

The short answer is IT'S UP TO YOU. Certainly lawyers may be present with parties in a mediation, however, it's not a requirement that you have one there. You and the other party both get to decide for yourselves whether to work with a lawyer, and if you do, you will be able to decide how involved their role will be.

Picking a knowledgeable arbitration specialist can lower the psychological temperature level as well as help you to work towards a reasonable, versatile co-parenting schedule that thinks about the best passions of your kids. Arbitrators are neutral and will certainly encourage tranquil interaction as if both parents really feel listened to and also recognized. Once you have propositions you both discover appropriate the moderator will certainly prepare a recap of them along with a summary of the monetary details which will certainly be sent to each of you to review with your attorneys.

Uks Leading Mediation Chambers.

We have actually prepared a flowchart of the procedure in instances concerning finances on separation or dissolution of a civil collaboration below. The court can often make momentary maintenance orders whilst a situation is recurring if there is a pressing demand that can not wait. It is simply a meeting where you can discover more regarding mediation, and also where a conciliator can offer some thought to whether it may be beneficial or ideal for your family members. You usually don't attend a MIAM with the other individual, so there actually is nothing to bother with. If after mosting likely to the MIAM either of you or the conciliator choose you do not want to moderate that is the end of it, although the court may still encourage you to provide it some more thought. You will be contacted by a caseworker ahead of time, who will review your differences with you as well as prepare you for your meeting with a conciliator.

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How do you negotiate child visitation?

Clearly define your goals and priorities when it comes to the custody schedule. Explain why you feel strongly about certain topics and be flexible in other areas. Negotiation requires give-and-take, so avoid insisting on everything being your way. Respect the other parent's right to be a parent to your children.

Parents in Family Arbitration can make decisions on involvement childcare setups although there is a separation. The process helps to reduce the adverse effect of the divorce on the children. When married couples divorce as well as the court is asked to deal with their funds they are called for to give "complete and honest disclosure" regarding their financial scenario-- to the court and also to their ex-spouse. This is generally done through finishing Kind E and also affixing different records to the kind. Kind E is also made use of where a moms and dad is making an application for an economic order for a youngster. The paperwork as well as information divulged under the duty of full and honest disclosure can normally just be utilized for the functions of the lawsuit and should not be utilized by the various other individual for various other functions. McKenzie buddies do not need to have any type of qualifications or training, yet some do.

Want To Know More About Mediation Or Find An Arbitrator Near You?

It is the mediator's decision whether youngster assessment is proper. Moms and dads in some cases suggest that the child or youngsters are involved in the arbitration procedure. It is important that parents comprehend the sights, needs as well as needs of their children as well as including them in the arbitration process might be a good way to do this. Kids like to be educated and also they appreciate having their sights and alternatives listened to, although they require to comprehend that they are not responsible for the total choice. Child Inclusive Arbitration entails a family members moderator that is trained as a youngster professional chatting with a child or children as a component of a mediation in which arrangements are being made for youngsters. The federal government has suggested that kids aged 10 as well as above should generally have access to a moderator when questions about their future are being dealt with in arbitration.

Can you bring witnesses to mediation?

Should I bring witnesses and exhibits to the mediation? No. A mediation is not like a trial or arbitration. The attorneys, the parties, and the mediator will discuss the facts of the case, but there are no witnesses, no testimony, no exhibits, no objections, no cross examination, and no arguments.

Using the court system to choose kids's. arrangements suggests that decisions are taken out of the parties hands and also the shape of the call with the children will certainly be made a decision by the court. Various other issues that can be discussed in youngster arrangements arbitrations are 'concurred behaviours'. This indicates the events agreeing on just how they will certainly behave towards each various other, that they will certainly interact using respectful language, keeping traumatic disputes far from your youngsters.

The Best Separation & Family Lawyers Near You.

Other type of disagreement resolution to be considered are collective law, attorney arrangements, adjudication and also court. The family court is extremely clear, because it does not see its duty to parent children. It is just in severe as well as alarming situations that the court must intervene in lives of households as well as issue an order. No person challenges the fact that when moms and dads co-operate, there is a favorable impact on the kids.

What Happens at Mediation in a Personal Injury Case? - JD Supra

What Happens at Mediation in a Personal Injury Case?.

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Figuring out the sights of their youngsters can aid parents make great choices in arbitration. Among https://lincolnshire.ukfamilymediationservice.co.uk/ that we are asked to help with is child get in touch with throughout divorce or splitting up. This used to be referred to as kid accessibility or access to youngsters, as well as it is not uncommon to find throughout those expressions even now.

Many moms and dads, who have attended mediation, state that arbitration helps them maintain essential family relationships. Throughout the arbitration process, your household moderator may speak with you about seeking legal recommendations. Do not fail to remember, that moderators can not give any lawful suggestions, however they can offer you lawful details, so during the process do not be startled if the moderator asks you if you have had lawful suggestions regarding particular issues. They are the strategies, schedules and also dedications that moms and dads accept allow the kids to spend time with both moms and dads as well as, typically, their extended household.

Nevertheless, some acting hearings might include issues of substance, such as hearing dental proof regarding what kind of call a moms and dad should be having with a youngster prior to the final hearing. The court needs to make it clear what is anticipated to take place at any interim hearing. The LA should still seek advice from parents as well as keep them informed of decisions that they wish to make. The LA is likewise under a duty to make sure that parents and also kids have 'reasonable' call with each other while the care order is in pressure. Exclusive law implies a court case that is simply between relative, such as moms and dads or various other family members-- as well as which does not include a Local Authority or other State company. For that reason, applications for Youngster Program Orders, Particular Problem Orders or Prohibited Tips Orders under section 8 of the Children Act are all orders in private law procedures.

11.17 Mediation is a much more formal process than arbitration as the parties enter into an arrangement under which they designate an accordingly certified individual to adjudicate a dispute as well as make an honor. On entering into the Agreement to Arbitrate, the parties agree to be bound by the Arbitrator's resolution. The mediator in family situations is generally a household attorney who has obtained special training. 11.04 It is vital to ensure that the views and also best interests of youngsters are taken complete account of by parents when arrangements are made on exactly how kids are brought up. The Household Arbitration Centre works carefully with various other separation experts to help sustain you through divorce or separation. For example we can put you in touch with divorce trains, counsellors, independent financial consultants, pension plan actuaries and youngsters professionals.

Both parents intend to invest as much time as feasible with the youngsters, and everybody is figured out to having fun. This procedure can significantly help moms and dads to make the right decisions for their kids. In England and also Wales, all youngsters of 10 and also over ought to have the possibility to be sought advice from if they desire, when decisions as well as plans are being made that influence them. Hearing the voices of their kids ought to aid moms and dads make better decisions. Child-Inclusive Arbitration supplies chances for kids as well as youths to have their voices heard straight throughout the procedure of mediation.

If you have the ability to get to a contract with your kid's various other moms and dad, the mediator will prepare a created file for you. You may want to get legal guidance on whether it is fair to you, particularly if it has to do with finances.

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