Yuu

“Good evening,” He greets you, politely as he can, as he is highly aware of how most citizens perceive him. He approaches you slowly, with his glowing lantern in his hand. You immediately stand up from the ground you’re currently sitting on, not at all frightened by his sudden appearance, since others usually do. Instead, your eyes are wide in interest, and perchance by something else, but Flins is preoccupied in pondering over how he’ll be helping you. “Are you lost? Please, allow me to escort you out. This is not a place to linger, especially on a foggy night.”

Every visitor in the lighthouse can be categorized into three: the first one are those who possess unwavering determination; the second are those who seek for assistance ( which he supposes may be this ), and the third category, which Flins presumes that will be the last category, are undaunted by trouble—these are figures who are either undeniably unfazed or unintimidated by the world’s volatility. 

He‘s prepared to listen to you confirming his theories—that yes, you accidentally went astray, and yes, you needed to be somewhere else.

So color him surprised when you smile a little, and shake your head.

How curious, Flins’ mind supplies. Then, he asks, “Oh? Might I ask what brings you here, then, my lady?”

What brings you to the Final Night Cemetery, when he rarely gets visitors? Humans mostly avoid this area, due to the nature of the location itself. There are ghosts. Stranger phenomena that can’t be easily explained and comprehended. 

And it’s constantly dark. 

Flins watches how you look down at your feet for a moment, before turning to him again, and lifting your hand. There’s a finger—and you are pointing at him.

Now he’s even more surprised. What could you possibly need that requires his attention? He grips his hold on his lantern. This, he understands. It is a matter not to be taken for granted. “Oh. You’ve sighted any Wild Hunt activity, then?”

Another shake of your head. You’re still pointing at him. 

“Me?”

You nod timidly. Before Flins can even figure out what you are trying to imply, you shift from your position to grab the long wooden stick behind you. Flins’ eyes light slightly in recognition—it’s. . . a fishing rod. 

A fishing rod that’s way too bigger than you, based on his observation.

Flins finally notices how you’re equipped with the right fishing gear. You have your own tackle box for your hooks, lures, and bait, and a metal bucket to contain your fish. 

Oh. How foolish of him to only realize at this very moment.

“I see,” It may not be obvious, but Flins is intrigued. Very intrigued. He has many questions he’d like to ask. Considering his experiences regarding fishing, as it is already a staple in his daily life, he continues to prod, “Do you need me to teach you how?”

That brings a smile out of you.

And for some reason, Flins himself finds that very lovely. 

He has a hobby for collecting rare antiquities like coins, and brilliant and beautiful gemstones that catch his eye. He knows how to see and appreciate beauty, and also appraise the value of things.

But you are neither a rare antiquity that he adds in his collection, nor a fine gemstone he bid at an auction. You are a human being, yet he finds your smile incredibly stunning.

Interesting.

You shake your head for the second time, before pointing out a spot. It is the very same spot where he usually fishes, and Flins hums in approval. 

So you are here to fish, and have waited for him to ask for permission.

How very considerate.

Flins looks at you again. “I understand now. Though it makes me wonder, Miss. Out of all the fishing spots in Nod Krai, you opted for the cemetery. Will you honor me to know the reason?”

You haven’t been speaking, so Flins anticipates for you to finally part your lips and explain. Instead, you avert his gaze, and he catches how you brilliantly glow under the moonlight’s glow.

What an endearing sight, Flins thinks, before he can even stop himself. 

You’re continuing to pique Flins’ interest more and more with the expressions you’re making. He wonders why that is. He also wonders why you’re being shy, when there’s nothing to be absolutely shy for.

Perhaps it’s too personal. That, he understands. He’s about to drop the subject, not wanting to make a lady such as yourself uncomfortable—he truly can’t have that, as he is a gentleman—not until you hand him something.

Oh.

A flower.

And a beautiful one, at that. 

Staring at it for a brief period, he gets himself to acknowledge the offer. “You have my gratitude, Miss.” Flins is pleasantly surprised, as he gently takes it through its stem. 

Usually, it is him who comes bearing gifts—though he’s not unwelcome to the idea of being the receiver of said gifts that are particularly marvelous in his eyes. “Though you didn’t have to.”

But you shake your head once more, still a bit possibly flustered. Flins finally takes this cue to fully drop it, not wanting to make you uneasy any longer.

“Well—how can I say no after this, Miss, and after you, coming all this way.” Flins keeps the flower close to his chest, and bows. “I permit you to fish. You may take as many as you need.”

And it is not like Flins fully owns the isle, so you don’t have to be worried on that account. He is always more than willing to accommodate visitors or tourists when they need support. Yet you still haven’t said anything. 

Once he rises to stand properly, your smile has gotten wider, and Flins succumbs to the urge of smiling back. You bow at him, grateful, before gathering your equipment to fish at Flins’ spot.

It may be a bit early, but Flins can ascertain that you are a figure worth being fascinated over, by both appearance and personality. You are an unexpectedly delightful lady who does not mind to fish at a gloomy cemetery, out of all places. 

And you also do not mind offering flowers to someone like him. Usually, he accepts the generosity Nikita and Illuga have bestowed on him. That also includes others he’s known, like his fellow colleagues for their extra portions of their food, and Miss Lauma for her boons. 

He has accepted that some people, or most people from Nasha Town who are not familiar with him, are wary of his presence, regardless of his politeness, so evidently there are no exchanges of gifts. Only dear friends or those who are on good terms with him are the ones who have been bountiful.

So it is, and truly, quite a surprise for him, when someone like you, who’s a stranger in his eyes and vice versa, to offer him a flower. 

Perhaps this is out of your own volition, or maybe out of courtesy.

And whatever is it you are doing—you know how to woo people, that’s for sure. Because really, now, how can Flins have the heart to forbid you, when you’ve given him a beautiful flower ( that he knows he will keep ) and have waited patiently for him so you can go fish?

He’s not that cruel. 

As he turns to the lighthouse, Flins starts walking back to his porch. He notices the unusual activities of other ghosts—they seem a bit noisier, and it just dawns on him that they’ve gotten chipper.

For what reasons, he wonders.

Once Flins is close enough to one of his gentle neighbors, he gets his answer.

On their tombstones, lie their very own flowers. Not Frostlamp Flowers, but beautiful flowers of various kinds. 

Oh.

Not only are you lovely and considerate, but also thoughtful, too. 

While you were busy rushing off with a whine, overthinking and already planning how your funeral would go, because Flins was definitely following you around to kill you and quietly dispose of you body. You had upset some sort of lantern spirit and it had snitched to the one light keeper that it could talk to, and now your fate was sealed!

"I'm sorryyyyyy, lantern ghost!" you whined, footsteps leading to Paha isle.

Flins watched you run off, his gaze soft and curious, but a small pout on his lips that went unnoticed. His eyes snapped back to the old shopkeeper when the man began to speak again. "Stop scaring her away, Flins," he sighed and packaged the Rye before handing it to the light keeper, "Just get it done by today," he said, face darkening, almost grim, and placing something extra into the bag.

Flins hummed, his face straight, as he paid for the Rye and took the bag. His eyes downcast. "I will… after all, I know where my lady is going. I'll be a gentleman, as always. Have no worries, Mr. Aleksov." 

The old man nodded, handing Flins a packet of tissues. His grey, tired eyes only sparing Flins a glance before focusing on other customers. "Keep your hands clean, be quick and done with it." The words were quiet, but enough for a wandering Dori to hear, and look over confused with wide eyes.

"Are they… planning a murder?" she gasped, before smirking and looking off into the distance, rubbing her chin, "Heh, I could make good money selling caskets."

. . .

You had wandered over to Final night cemetery, walking slowly across the dark and gloomy terrain. There were ghost candles lit all over the place, and you could've sworn that you heard whispers around you. "save us… save ussss…" you shivered at your imagination, slowly walking up the hill area to try and find the lantern ghost you had seen last time.

"uheee…. mr. purple lantern ghost, where are you?" you whispered, shivering before looking up at the lighthouse. The fog closing in around you. 

The silence around you was deafening, and it was most definitely scaring you down to your bones. Taking you back to the night you had first seen that purple, glowing lantern. 

It had been almost two months ago, when you had wandered over to Paha isle. You had seen some of the wild hunt nearby and killed them, before hearing whispers and hallucinating ghosts in the fog from your sleepiness. You had rushed over to Paha isle by mistake, going the wrong way instead of making your way back to Nasha town in your confused state. 

"Oh," you had muttered, when the fog cleared up, and you had seen the lighthouse guiding you, instead of the comforting bustle of the town you lived in. You were about to turn around and make your way back, before you noticed the purple glow. Almost like it was calling your name, you followed and walked up to it through the fog, finding a floating purple lantern. 

It was almost like it was magical, just hovering there, glowing. No one around.

The words of Aino had drifted back into your mind, as she had made you read story books with her and one of them talked about a magical oil lamp that granted wishes. "No one uses oil lamps in in Nod Krai, I bet its the magical lanterns that carry genies and wishes!" she had nodded confidently. 

You weren't gullible, nor one to easily believe superstitions and follow them without question. Though… it couldn't hurt, right?

Your hands gently placed on the sides of the lamp, rubbing it gently, before you took them back and clasped your hands together. Squeezing your eyes shut and whispering, "puh-lease get me a beautiful boyfriend who's a gentleman and loves me and worships me, please, please, please!" you shook your hands before looking up at the sky with a sigh. 

The lantern had flickered a little, as you hesitated before leaning down and placing a gentle kiss on the handle of it. When you pulled back, the lantern shook a little, making you step back worried, and look around confused. You had rushed back to Nasha town after that, brushing off the experience as a dream, until now. 

"Am I gonna die? Oh mr. or mrs. lantern, I'm sorry for kissing your handle," present-day-you whined, before you felt a cold breath against your cheek. 

"What are you doing, Miss Y/N?"

You shrieked, freezing up and quickly back away from the man, holding up your hands in front of him. It was the light keeper. The one you always took a second glance at whenever you used your see him, because whoever got to call him as his partner was destined with unimaginable luck. Flins looked unbothered and even tilted his head to the side, confused.

"I know what you're gonna say!" You whined out, and dropped to your knees dramatically. Flins was strong, he was scary, and even if he took your life because you had upset some lantern ghost, you probably wouldn't fight back just because you didn't want to ruin his beautiful face.

"You do?" his eyes widened for a fraction, before he hummed and nodded, holding the small bag to his side. "I see, I thought I was more… quiet about my advances." he muttered, rubbing his chin gently, in thought.

You sighed and nodded, head downcast, pouting and already thinking over your death. "I didn't know what I was doingggg.. the lantern was just… calling my name!" you gasped out, as he shook his head. "It was not," he corrected bluntly, making you sigh wearily. Your hands buried in the soil. 

A few seconds passed, before you both spoke up at the same time. You blurting out your words. As he spoke eloquently.

"Please don't murder me!"

"Would you grace me with a potential romantic encounter, miss Y/N?"

You both froze, before meeting each other's eyes. equally confused. Flins eyes were narrowed, looking down in genuine confusion and slight shock. The most expressive you had ever seen him. Your eyes were widened, mouth agape slightly, and heat rushing to your face. Did… did the Kyryll Chudomirovich Flins just ask you out? On a date? Were you in heaven?

"What?" both voices spoke out at the same time.

Flins shook his head, looking at you utterly helpless and bamboozled as you stood up and dusted your hands off. “You’re not going to murder me…? B-but you were stalking me and obviously planning to kill me off because I upset the lantern ghost of Paha Isle!”

Flins looked side to side slowly before raising an eyebrow. “I beg your pardon?”

You sighed and lolled back your head before explaining to him exasperatedly. “Two months ago, I went to this place, like—“ you pointed over to some shrubbery alongside a crumbling stone wall, “—over there! I saw this glowing purple lantern and I walked up to it and rubbed it and wished for a boyfriend,” you nodded to him in complete seriousness.

“…so what makes you assume that I’d hurt you for wishing upon a floating lantern?” He raised an eyebrow, beginning to smile a little, starting to understand what was happening. He really wanted to see the look on your face when he revealed the truth now. He had prepared a big speech explaining all of his feelings, but you had thrown his whole planned confession out the window.

You blinked, once, twice, before awkwardly scratching the back of your head. “I’m starting to see that I was being a bit… irrational,” you nodded slowly.

“A bit?” He smiled, before handing you the paper bag, to which you looked inside curiously. Rye, and…

“Cupcakes. I had Mr. Aleksov prepare them especially for your tastes,” he hummed to you, watching as your confused expression flickered up to him before your eyes widened. “Oh! Oh, right, because you were going to ask me out…” you nodded, before pursing your lips and looking up at him confused. “But we’ve barely spoken to one another before this, why the sudden interest in me?”

He curtly nodded, before taking out the familiar glowing purple lantern and fading before your eyes. It only took 2.3 seconds for you to connect the dots, his figure reappearing when he saw that shy, “oh my god, what have I done?” look on your face.

“I was the lantern you wished upon,” he told you gleefully, tilting his head to the side with a teasing smile.

A whine escaped your lips, as you were contemplating burying yourself in the soil right then and there. “After hearing about your wish, I thought that you were a gorgeous young lady that deserved love, and after the… kiss,” he nodded, watching your eyes squeeze shut and hand cover your face. “I thought that I deserved to give you love. I never planned to stalk you, per se, but every time I tried to strike a conversation or anything with you…”

“I ran away,” you nodded, letting out an embarrassed whine and finishing his sentence.

He hummed, before taking the bag from your hands and offering you the cupcake. “My hands are pretty dirty,” you shrugged, still embarrassed and hating yourself inside your brain. “STUPID STUPID STUPID” kept bouncing around in your head.

Before you knew it, the cupcake was pressed against your lips, heat rushing to your cheeks and the tips of your ears, you took a bite out of it. Being fed by possibly the most handsome man in all of Teyvat.

“I’ve had a crush on you for a while…” you mumbled, swallowing and beginning to talk to him softly, as he listened carefully. “You saved me from the wild hunt around a year ago, and ever since then I’ve just thought you were so cool, and strong, and handsome,” you were whining, hands covering your cheeks shyly.

He didn’t hesitate, leaning down and pressing a soft kiss against your lips.

You froze, before feeling his lips dart out and lick up the tiny bit of icing on the corner of your lips, making your squeal embarrassed and quickly look away from him. Hands covering your face, heart beating faster than it was when you thought he was about to kill you.

“I hope you’ll entertain me for that date, my lady,” he spoke softly against your ear, smiling as he knew exactly what he was doing.

Smug bastard.

More than amusing, if you were being honest. There was something deeply satisfying about watching someone so perfectly put together navigate everyday interactions. You found Flins to be an enigmatic creature, and something inside you just burned to get a rise out of him. Sure, maybe it was simply the thrill of the mischief, but you wanted to test him, push him a little, see how he would react to some casual flirting. 

And if you were particularly enjoying the challenge of trying to get a reaction out of him, well. That was harmless, wasn't it? Just a little teasing. Just a bit of flirtation to see how exactly this man—the one who managed to charm literally everyone around him with effortless grace—would handle being on the receiving end for once.

The fact that you were attracted to him was beside the point. 

It didn't matter that whenever you caught even a glimpse of his purplish-blue hair, your heart did something stupid. It meant nothing when he leaned down to hear you better, his voice dropping into that velvety register that made you feel like some fundamental part of you had just ceased existing. None of it mattered. Certainly not.

And hey, if nothing at all, what harm could some light flirting cause?

Your first opportunity for mischief, you were sitting together near the lighthouse. The evening light cast everything in soft amber. Conversation had drifted from topic to topic; nothing particularly important, just the easy back-and-forth of people comfortable in each other's presence. You'd been leaning against his side, playing with the cuff of his sleeve. He'd let you, the way he always did.

At some point, you'd mentioned something about having to leave soon. Return to your duties. The usual obligations that kept pulling you away.

"I'll be gone for a few days," you'd said.

Flins had simply nodded, listening.

And that's when the impulse struck.

"I bet you'll miss me," you said, your tone light but deliberately aimed. You tilted your head to look at him, watching for a reaction.

He turned to face you. His shoulder brushed against yours when he did, and you caught the faint scent of something cool and unfamiliar. Flins’ smile seemed to stretch just a little, his eyes narrowing. He reminded you of the Fae. 

"Of course," he said.

You'd expected a deflection. A joke. Instead, he'd just said it, and the weight of his attention suggested he meant it. That he understood exactly what you were doing and was letting you do it anyway.

So you pushed.

"Like, really miss me," you continued, letting your fingers trail down his sleeve. "You'll probably think about me the whole time I'm gone."

He watched you for a moment. "Likely."

"I'll be devastated without you," you added, testing how far you could take this.

"Will you?" he asked softly. And his gaze was fixed squarely upon yours. You seemed to pick up on the slightest lilt of teasing towards the end of that question. But still, the manner in which he faced you—the utter unabashed composure—seemed genuine. 

“That's interesting," he continued. 

Your heart was doing something ridiculous. "What's interesting about that?"

"That you're telling me you'll be devastated rather than simply asking," he said. There was no mockery in it. His tone was almost contemplative, like he was turning over a puzzle piece in his mind. "Though I suppose indirect approaches are more entertaining."

Heat crept up your neck. He'd just called you out. Gently, without any edge to it, but he'd absolutely just pointed out exactly what you were doing.

"I'm not being indirect," you said, but your voice had gone softer.

"No?" He tilted his head slightly, and in the amber light, you noticed the precise line of his jaw, the way his hair caught the glow. When he looked at you like that, with complete attention, it made you feel like you were the only thing worth looking at. "That is up for debate, then, I suppose.”

Well. There would be other opportunities. Plenty of them, actually. This whole one-sided “game” had yet commenced, and you were only just beginning. It didn't matter that you were getting quite the pleasant rise from being able to flirt so brazenly with a man you'd been quietly obsessed with for the past couple of months. It was harmless. Just teasing. 

Over the next few days, you made it your mission.

Make him crack. That was the goal now. Get something—a blush, a stumble, a clever comeback. Anything that suggested the composed exterior had a weakness.

You started with compliments, delivered casually while you were walking through the cemetery together. "You have nice hands, you know," you said, watching as he adjusted something on one of the graves. He simply thanked you, like you'd complimented the weather.

Then came the flirtation. You'd lean closer than necessary when you were standing beside him. Play with his sleeve. Find excuses to touch his arm. Every gesture was wrapped in humor, safely deniable if he called you out on it. And every single time, he met it with the same patient calm.

A brow raised here. A small smile there. An acknowledgment that he noticed what you were doing—because he absolutely did—but no matching energy. He didn’t stumble over his words, his pale skin didn’t darkened with the hue of red blush, and he most certainly did not tease you back. Intentionally, that is. Flins’ very existence seemed to upset your carefully curated balance. 

On the third day, you tried jokes. Teasing comments about how he was probably the type to be good at everything. How his composure must be exhausting to maintain. How it was unfair that he managed to make even mundane tasks look graceful.

He listened to all of it with that infuriatingly gentle expression, like you were providing him with observations rather than attempting to dismantle him.

The frustrating part was that he clearly knew. There was awareness in the tilt of his head, in the way his eyes tracked your movements. He understood exactly what you were attempting. He just wasn't playing along. And that made it worse. Better. You weren't entirely sure which.

By the fourth day, you were running out of ammunition.

The previous few days had been a study in futility. You'd tried everything you could think of. Compliments delivered with a knowing smile. Flirtation wrapped in humor. Little jokes designed to catch him off guard. Nothing had worked. He'd simply absorbed each attempt with that same unflappable grace, and somewhere along the way, it had stopped feeling like a game you were winning and started feeling like a game only you were playing.

The worst part was that he clearly knew what you were doing. You could see it in the way his eyes tracked your movements, in the slight tilt of his head when you said something particularly bold. He understood exactly what you were attempting. He just wasn't giving you the reaction you wanted. No flustering. No stumbling. No moment where his composure cracked and revealed something underneath. 

In fact, your attempts had been so famously (infamously) fruitless that even Illuga had made it a point of note. "You know, perhaps Mr. Flins simply enjoys the attention," he'd said when he'd caught you trying to get a rise out of Flins during a supply run. "Some people are harder to rattle than others."

You had huffed then, indignantly, “Sure, but it’s absurd how he treats every comment I make as though it is the most obvious thing in the world!”

Illuga smiled then. Conflict avoidant as always, and a tad bit skeptical of Flins, he kept his opinions to himself. But you could have easily guessed what he was going to say: this is pointless. Shouldn’t you be focusing on your patrols?

It was starting to make you wonder if there was anything underneath at all, or if he was simply always like this. Infuriatingly calm.

But then, there was Nefer. You didn’t even know why you bothered to hide anything from her at all. She always found out about your little schemes; even the tiny, playful ones. 

“Persistent, aren’t you?” She commented. “Are you quite sure your crush on Flins hasn’t driven you up a wall?”

“I do not—” You began, but then stopped abruptly as you came to the (very obvious) realisation that your face went hot the moment his name and “crush” were in the same sentence. “—fine whatever. Still! It’s so… strange, how he never reacts.”

“Aw, poor you,” Nefer purred. You shot her a look.

She tilted her head, considering you. "Actions speak louder than words sometimes, you know. Especially with someone like him." She paused, adjusting the items in her arms. “Besides… the Fae are rather adept at words, so…”

You spent the last day turning both conversations over in your mind. 

Towards the end of a particularly gruelling patrol is when your next, hopefully successful opportunity for teasing presented itself. You were sitting on a bench near the lighthouse, close enough that your shoulders were almost touching. The afternoon was quiet. The snow twirled in the sky, a transient, glacial staircase coiling into the wind. Nod-Krai’s frost always seemed to have a mind of its own. Conversation flowed the same way the snow did. Gently, with easy flow and expected lulls. Sort of the perfect moment for a detour, really. 

"You know," you said, your tone deliberately playful, "if you asked nicely, I'd hold your hand."

You were grinning. Already prepared for the laugh, the deflection, the way he'd turn it into something clever. You had your exit strategy ready. In all honesty, you expected Flins to look at you kindly. Make a small comment about “how that would be ideal, considering the cold” but then simply pocket his hands into his jacket. Or something that would reduce the simmer of the conversation into a still pool, like every other time.

Instead, Flins simply glanced down at his own hand. Then, without a word, he turned his palm upward and offered it to you.

Waiting.

Your grin froze.

"...What are you doing?" you managed.

"Asking nicely," he said, smiling at you, elfishly.

Oh. Oh no.

You stared at his hand like it had personally betrayed you. Because this wasn't supposed to happen. He was supposed to laugh it off. Instead, he'd somehow turned your own joke into something sincere, and now you were sitting there unable to do anything but take his hand because the alternative was admitting that you completely miscalculated this entire interaction.

So you did. 

Your fingers found his, and his grip was warm and certain. His thumb brushed gently across your knuckles in a gesture that felt far too intentional for someone who was supposed to be unaffected.

You spent the next twenty minutes very carefully not combusting, acutely aware of every point of contact, every small movement of his hand against yours, every time his thumb made that gentle pass across your skin.

This was fine. Completely fine. You'd simply bitten off more than you could chew, that was all.

You thought you were recovering. You were not recovering.

The problem was that you'd learned absolutely nothing from the hand-holding incident. If anything, it had made you more confident. More reckless. You'd convinced yourself that you could still win this game, that one successful moment of sincerity didn't change the overall trajectory of your campaign to crack his composure.

So when you'd finally extracted your hand from his (after what felt like an eternity of trying to act unaffected), you pushed just a bit more. Surely, it could not get worse from now, could it?

"You know..." you started, already smirking.

"Hm?" He turned to look at you, waiting.

"If I didn't know any better, I'd think you actually liked me."

You grinned. You were expecting a smile. A laugh. Maybe something playful that would let you both pretend this had all been harmless banter.

Instead, Flins went quiet. An awful kind of silence. The kind of silence that realistically only lasts a couple of seconds, a minute at max, but in your head rang for an hour. It seemed to consume you, settle the snow around you. What was most awful though was the fact that Flins was actually considering it. You could see the cogs turning in his head. The way he was turning over your comment, looking at every square inch of it.

Then he turned fully toward you, giving you his complete attention in a way that somehow felt worse than any response could have been.

"You needn't be so indirect," he said.

Your heart stopped. Actually stopped. "...What?"

"If you're asking whether I have feelings for you, you may simply ask."

If you thought the previous silence was bad, this was worse. Your brain had essentially ceased functioning. Flins simply waited, patient and composed, like this was a perfectly reasonable conversation to be having.

Then he tilted his head slightly. "Go on," he said, and his voice was gentle. Encouraging, even.

You'd walked directly into this. Deliberately constructed your own trap and then stepped into it with both feet while grinning the entire time.

The frustrating thing was that Flins didn't seem remotely aware that he was holding your entire nervous system hostage. Or perhaps he was aware. That possibility was somehow worse. While your thoughts scattered in every conceivable direction, he remained exactly as he'd always been—patient, attentive, and entirely willing to wait for an answer. There was no pressure in his expression, no trace of triumph at having finally cornered you. If anything, he looked faintly curious, as though he'd simply presented you with an obvious solution and couldn't quite understand why you were struggling to take it.

You swallowed. And then: "Do you?"

The question came out embarrassingly quiet.

For a moment, he simply looked at you. Then something softened in his expression, subtle enough that you almost missed it. "I've been quite fond of you for some time."

The words settled between you with alarming ease. That was it. He spoke as though he were commenting on the weather, or confirming some small detail you'd already known. As though admitting he liked you was not, in fact, causing every coherent thought in your head to immediately abandon ship.

You stared at him. Flins stared back. The snow continued drifting lazily through the air. Somewhere in the distance, waves crashed against the shoreline.

"You can't just say that,” you said, heat flooding your cheeks.

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "You asked."

"That doesn't mean you were supposed to answer so easily."

"I wasn't aware there was a correct amount of difficulty involved."

The laugh that escaped you sounded slightly hysterical. Of course that was his response. Of course.

The realization struck all at once then, arriving with the force of a physical blow. Every conversation from the past week rearranged itself inside your mind. Every compliment. Every flirtatious remark. Every ridiculous thing you'd said in the hope of getting a reaction. Not once had he denied any of it. Not once had he brushed you off. The problem was that you'd spent so long trying to make him flustered that you'd never stopped to consider the possibility that he simply wasn't interested in pretending otherwise.

"Oh my god."

His smile widened.

"Oh my god."

"You seem distressed."

"You like me."

"I do."

The immediate confirmation nearly killed you.

Your hands flew to your face. Some distant part of your brain registered that you were behaving like a complete fool. Unfortunately, that same distant part of your brain had become vastly outnumbered by the much louder part that was currently screaming.

When you finally lowered your hands, Flins was still watching you with that infuriating calm.

Suspicion immediately took root. Narrowing your eyes, you pointed accusingly at him. "What if you're teasing me?"

That earned a quiet laugh. "And what would lead you to that conclusion?"

"Because this feels suspiciously convenient."

"I see."

"You've spent days letting me embarrass myself."

"I never asked you to."

"That is not a denial."

The amusement in his eyes deepened. For a moment he simply regarded you, and then, to your immense frustration, his gaze dropped briefly to your mouth before returning to your eyes.

"Would this convince you?"

You opened your mouth, fully intending to answer. To say something clever, preferably. Something capable of restoring at least a fraction of the dignity you'd lost over the past ten minutes.

Unfortunately, you never got the chance.

Flins leaned in and kissed you.

His lips were warm against yours, soft in a way that felt unfair after all the time you'd spent trying not to think about them. For one dizzying moment, all you could focus on was the sensation of him—the brush of his mouth against yours, the faint pressure of his thumb where it rested against your knuckles, the cool air gathering at your cheeks while everything else felt impossibly warm. It wasn't a long kiss. It wasn't demanding. If anything, it felt terribly, devastatingly fond. Like a question he'd already known the answer to. 

And the worst part—the absolute worst part—was that you could feel him smiling. The faint curve of his lips brushing yours, as though he found your complete inability to function endearing. By the time he pulled away, your heart had lodged itself somewhere in your throat, and you were left staring at him with the distinct sensation that something irreversible had just occurred.

You stared at him, owlishly.

And, for the first time in days, you caught something in his expression that hadn't been there before. Or perhaps it had always been there, hidden beneath the effortless composure you'd spent so much time trying to unravel. The fondness in his gaze was almost unbearably soft now, no longer filtered through amusement or polite patience. It was simply there, warm and open and directed entirely at you.

And then there was the faint dusting of pink at the tips of his ears.

You blinked.

Flins, apparently realizing exactly what had captured your attention, looked away for the briefest of moments.

But you saw it.

After days of teasing him, days of trying to make him crack, days of wondering whether anything could possibly ruffle that impossible composure, there it was. Not embarrassment, exactly. The discovery hit you harder than the kiss had.

"Oh my god," you whispered, for the third time that day.

His gaze flicked back to yours. The corners of his mouth curved upward.

"What?"

You pointed at him immediately. "You are blushing!"

"Am I?"

The smile threatening at his lips made the response entirely unconvincing.

"You are."

"A little, perhaps."

It occurred to you then that perhaps Flins had been right all along. You needn't have been so indirect. The realization should have been embarrassing. Instead, it only made you smile.

thank you for reading :)) check out my other fics if you'd like !!

before you, flins was a shadow.

he is polite, of course, always courteous and well-spoken—but also quiet. distant. he always seems half somewhere else, a timeless yet knowing look gracing his features.

most assume he's aloof by nature, and when you first start getting to know him, he's a little... unreadable. not cold, not exactly. just composed to a fault. so growing close to him takes time.

but once you do? he softens in a way only you ever get to see.

he's a gentleman through and through. he always asks before touching you, always opens doors for you, always offers his coat on the colder nights. to him, your comfort is his priority.

he starts saying "we" instead of "i" when referring to plans.

i don't think he'd be one for overt affection, especially in public. though he is endlessly attentive and nothing short of devoted to you.

he's very observant. he'll notice the way your shoulders tense when you're tired, or how you pick at your fingers when you're anxious. he won't comment on anything, but he'll act accordingly; carefully pulling your chair closer to the hearth, setting a freshly made cup of tea by your elbow, lacing his fingers with yours as you walk along the pier.

every now and then you'll catch him murmuring softly in empty rooms or out in the cemetery. if you question him about it, he'll simply brush it off as unimportant. but in truth, he often chats with the ghosts and lingering spirits that follow him around.

they're quite fond of him, really. probably because he listens. and sometimes, he'll talk about you.

"he laughed today," he'll tell them, or "he stopped by earlier. we had tea." nothing particularly dramatic or lovey dovey, but the ghosts always hum in approval, faint light flickering like a lantern's glow.

sometimes they'll try to peek at you when you visit, though they disappear if you get too close. shy things, unused to mortal company. still, they seem to like you.

get him things for his collection—coins, gemstones, smooth bits of sea glass—he'll treasure them like sacred relics. each one finds its place among his keepsakes, never forgotten, never misplaced.

sometimes his fae tongue will slip out without him meaning to, and he doesn't always realize until you look at him funny. he'll smile then, a touch embarrassed, and explain that it's just a habit.

theres one night where you're half asleep beside him, and he whispers something in that same flowing language. when you ask him what it means, though, he hesitates, lips twitching into a faint smile. if you didn't know any better, you'd say he looked flustered.

"it's... an old word," he'll explain at last. "it doesn't translate very cleanly. but i suppose the closest would be i love you."

and there it is. he may not say it very often, and hardly ever outright, but he means it more than anything.

and that's already more than enough.

Haha, and what are these ‘living creatures,’ you ask? Well, have you seen them? 

Beings who may look like humans, but instead of legs to swim below uncharted waters, have a tail akin to that of a fish. Where their skin meets the scale around their hips, with gills on the side of their throats. Ears that are uniquely shaped, for they are not round, but are mere fins that pick up vibrations, which they use in finding food and detecting threats. 

These lifeforms underwater, with their bewitching beauty and angelic voices, can easily captivate or enrapture, so you must be cautious. Get a little closer, then you’ll see. 

That these sirens will not hesitate to yank you into the sea.

As the smaller, naive children gasp in horror from their seats on the stone platform, the blonde lady, clad in a darker blue robe and crossed legged on top of a bucket, elicits quiet chuckles of amusement behind her fingers. The older ladies nearby, who are witnessing the scene, shake their heads, while setting up their stalls in the harbour. 

“Ay yi yi, Miss Nicole’s scaring the kids again. . .”

“Let her be,” one of them laughs, before displaying fresh fish on silver trays in thick beds of flaked ice. “If this is what it gets to keep the youngins away from the water, then let her be!”

“Well, at least she’s not going around yapping about complicated griffins or out of this world trolls that are secretly kings.” Another older woman sharpens her knives, and the others giggle. “It’s an improvement that she’s sticking to the truth now.”

“Oh, be careful of what you wish for! If Miss Nicole proceeds to talk more about sirens and how they’re actually ‘extraterrestrials’—”

They turn to Nicole again, who begins to sign. “Say, children, have you heard of the tale of a siren falling in love with a sailor?”

Jaws are dropped after that one question. 

“Look at what you’ve done! You’ve jinxed it!”

After unloading the trawler, your boots stomp onto the docks as you approach the soon–to–be bustling wharf and mingle with other fishermen who haul their wares that were brimming with fish. There’s the squawk of seagulls, the squeaking of ropes as ships are moored, and chatter of fishmongers with early wholesalers bargaining prices.

You pay them no mind as you pass through the locals with your wooden cart. There are comments about how the catch today has been blessed by the Moon Goddesses because of the fish being pristine or well-chuffed. You overhear retailers chopping on their boards and scraping on scales. One intently listens to an early bird consumer, before packing their fish for distribution. 

Ratimir, already dressed in an apron while gutting and filleting fish, catches you amidst the liveliness. He calls for your name, waving a hand, and you acknowledge his presence by waving back, before finally taking a stop in Cairuo’s own shed. 

She’s not here yet, so you quietly place your cart on the side of her shed. Then, you adjust your beanie, before grabbing some gloves and an apron nearby to sort out the fish.

It seems like it’s another day for the coastal town of Nod Krai.

“So, so, they’re sure? No takebacksies, Miss Nicole?” asks one child, and based on the voice, you recognize that it belongs to Aino.

You lift your head while still handling the fish. Miss Nicole’s entertaining the kids in their usual spot. Despite being whispered amongst the citizens that Miss Nicole is an odd one because of her convoluted tales and tendency to ramble a lot about unfamiliar topics, she won their hearts by being very good with children, and in voluntarily assisting in sculpting the legends in Piramida.

“As I said—sirens, or even other merfolk, are very sure when it comes to their decisions. If they choose to do such a thing, then they will adhere to it.” Nicole signs. “If they simply want to spend a lifetime with their mate, they will not hesitate.”

Oh. So it’s about sirens today, huh? You decide to listen a little. While separating the axehead fish and crystal-eyes from the other silver buckets, you take note of the children’s reactions and the choppy waves crashing against the riverbank. Anything to drown out the enthusiastic yelling of the others, since more tourists and other regulars are stopping by.

“Aish—someone stop her, now. It’s getting ridiculous!”

“No, no. I’m getting invested, actually. Let her be!”

“Come on.”

Of course, how can you forget about the older ladies who always have something to say with Miss Nicole’s stories? If you’re not in Nod Krai surrounded by seafood right now, you’d think that you’re in Inazuma with self–proclaimed book lovers criticizing an author’s novel during the Your Novel is Amazing! event.

And as always, there’s a hero—or rather, a knight to save the day. You know you’re not exaggerating when you hear the pier quaking due to the thunderous boots approaching the markets, and a loud, masculine voice guffaws. “Time to go, kids! Breakfast’s ready!”

The older ladies sigh in relief upon Varka’s arrival. You suppress a grin from forming when the children whine, and you see Nicole frown. 

“We were about to reach the good part. Must they go so soon, Mr. Varka?”

Varka puts his larger hands on his hips. “Well, Miss Nicole—if you don’t want to face Miss Katya’s wrath today, we should let them back. Pronto. So these youngsters better get going!”

Urgently, the children stand up from their seats to respectfully bow and wave at Nicole, before rushing towards the village to get home as possible. Nicole watches them with a slightly sad smile while giving a slow wave of her own. 

Varka makes himself comfortable by perching on the ground beside her. “Don’t be so sad this morning. You’ll see them again soon. Like tomorrow.” Then, he reveals a bottle. It makes a pop sound as he removes its lid.

She raises a brow. “Must you drink so early?”

“Relax, this is mere grape juice!” Varka sighs after taking one swig. “You know I’d prefer to share if I do have Dandelion Wine with me. So! What about the sirens? The mermaids? Gotta catch up since I’m late to the party. Did you tell them about the sea monsters that will imprison them to the depths of the Abyss? Or a mighty traveler from the stars, forming an alliance with the mermaids to defeat the Kraken?”

Nicole looks at him up and down. “Actually, the mighty traveler and the mermaids did not just defeat the Kraken. They also got to engage in a powerful battle with an artificial demigod to claim the authority of the Moon Goddess. The demigod attempted to kidnap the Moon Goddess but to no avail because—hey. I now recognize that tone—you are making fun of me, Mr. Varka. Let me remind you that these stories are all real. I am not making this stuff up!”

“And I believe ya!” Varka gasps. “Who said I was making fun of you?”

“She talked about sirens getting married to humans, Captain!” One older lady hollers in an accusing tone, while boning a veggie mauler shark. 

“Oh. Marrying sirens? Now that’s interesting, it almost sounds like a plot from a storybook Miss Alice tells little Klee for bedtime.”

Eavesdropping, you can’t help but wonder. A plot from a storybook? About sirens getting married to humans? You release a breath. It sounds more like a plot for the horror genre, if you’re being honest.

“Hmph!” Nicole manages to snatch the bottle away from Varka, and you snicker to yourself when he gets suckerpunched. You have no idea how and why Varka let his guard down around Nicole, since he has the reputation for being immensely strong. He’s also even respected as one of the toughest Captains voyaging the sea. Yet for one lady, that all disappears. Even Nicole shouldn’t be messed with, despite being ‘odd.’ “For that, no more drinking for you, Mister!”

“Hey now! I was kidding—“ Varka reaches out, and the lady turns around with a pout. You soon find yourself regretting your decisions in life when Varka notices that you’ve been listening, and whines for your name. “Help! Miss Nicole is being mean!!”

You narrow your eyes at him while holding on an axehead’s belly and jaw. “You’re a grown ass man.” While the older ladies laugh from your response, you proceed with your routine. 

You separate more fish, and count and compare in your mind. You then realize that this is less than what you usually get, and you huff.

It’s not enough, your mind supplies, as you stare at the fish with a calculating gaze. Is it because of the fluctuating climate, or the number of fellow fishermen who can’t help but overfish?

Ajax’s smug grin appears briefly in your thoughts—and you can hear him all being arrogant with his catch. Patting you in the back, before rubbing it all over your face, that he’s always triumphant, no matter where he goes. The competitive spirit burns inside you. You want to hit Ajax’s head with the axehead fish so bad when you see him again.  

“Aish—look at you, friend!! Always interested in those fish, huh?”

You didn’t even sense Varka’s presence. He finally has his bottle, so you assume Nicole’s not sulking anymore. You turn around and nod sheepishly. “Yes, Captain.”

“You don’t have to work so hard—take it a little easy and drink your worries away! You’re already doing your best,” Varka remarks, and coming from him, that makes the organ inside your chest swell a little. “And it’s an understatement. You really are one of the best here in Nasha Town, so ease up, kiddo.”

As much as you’d love the compliment, you refuse to be positioned beside Ajax in Nasha Town’s Best Fishermen of the decade. So, you pout, “Yeah, but I’m still not the ‘best.’ And also, just because you’re 80 years old doesn’t mean you’ll treat me like a child. I’m already—”

You get interrupted when Varka merely barks a laugh, not at all offended, before ruffling your hair through your beanie.  “Hey, now. That’s mean, too!” You yelp from how heavy his palm is, you can feel your whole body wag sideways like a dog’s tail. 

Then, Nicole steps beside you, her robes ruffling with every movement. “I suppose you’re still chasing that high when you caught the Lord of the Lake? 

“Not really,” you admit, before crossing your arms. “I just want to defeat Ajax.”

“Wow, you caught the Lord of the Lake!? That’s amazing! . . .Is what I’ll say if I know what the Lord of the Lake was, but I’m not a Nod Krai native.”

You watch in 4K as Nicole’s eyes sparkle. Oh. Here it comes. Varka comes into an epiphany as he realizes what he has done.

“Well, my dear Captain—”

“Wait, Miss Nicole—” 

You resume to sort out the fish again as Nicole provides details about the Lord of the Lake. It’s a rare type of fish that swims under the seas. It’s several times bigger than the average human. It has thin skeletal legs, with approximately sixteen legs on the left and on the right. 

“And according to resident sightings, the Lord of the Lake is reported to have dark blue fins, bioluminescent scales—”

“Yeah, yeah, I get the picture, but—”

You glance at Varka with a tiny smirk. “Captain, let her continue—”

And Varka gives you the puppy eyes. There’s really nothing he can do in this situation. Not when he respects Nicole too much, or that he’s too easy. Since you still have mercy, you raise a hand anyway. For a really big man, he can be pitiful sometimes. “Ms. Nicole, can we just talk about the most important stuff instead?”

Nicole stops from her ramblings, before scratching her cheek sheepishly. “Oh, my apologies! I am not certain of what you deem as ‘most important’ since in my eyes, the facts about the Lord of the Lake are all important. Do you mean I should skip to the part of what the possibility is in catching one, or its relevance to Nod Krai folklore, or how many fishermen it takes to reel one in. . . ?”

It still fascinates you how Nicole has all that data. Well. She’s not the odd lady in Nod Krai for nothing. You put your hands on the shed’s steel table. “The people who caught the Lord of the Lake recently?”

Nicole smiles. “Ah, I see. If we are talking about who these people were in the timeframe with the two of you alive–” Just us? You quietly lift a brow at that, but let her continue anyway. “It’s just Ajax, and you. The last one who caught a Lord of the Lake was Avrelian and Solovei.”

At the mention of familiar names, Varka gapes, impressed. “So, like. 500 years ago, it was those men—and now Ajax, and you.”

“Exactly,” you huff. “As much as I’d love to share the glory with him, he’s such a brag about it. Right now we’re competing on how many fish we can catch in a year. Hence, me working as hard as I can.”

“And even if we told them off that they need to take a break now and then, this stubborn child won’t listen!” one of the older ladies exclaim, and you squawk at their way, embarrassed.

“I’m not a child anymore!! Quit calling me that!” You don’t know why they still insist on it, despite you already growing significantly. 

Varka just laughs again, while Nicole sends you a small, amused smile. You also don’t know if they agree or not, so you just sigh heavily. “Anywho. I need to catch more before he gets back. You guys know how he can be.”

“Yeah, that man is definitely something alright. But my friend,” he puts a hand on top of your shoulder and you flinch. It’s really heavy. You wonder how much it weighs. “You caught a legend! It’s something to be proud of!! And out of all the fishermen here in Nasha Town, you’re the one who always delivers. Cairuo’s not here yet but I’m pretty sure she’ll agree.”

Perhaps that may be true. Cairuo’s always so flustered when you do end up in front of her shed with more wares and buckets. 

Varka continues, “And you’re still young, you cannot just work and work forever. This is not only the life your family wished for you. You should go find someone. Date! You did say you’re not a child anymore, yeah?”

You feel your cheeks steam a bit. Now, dating is mentioned? Where did that even come from? Mondstadters just can’t shut up about romance. “But fishing is in my blood. It’s a way of life, Captain.”

He grips your shoulder. You wonder if he’s going to break it. Why are his hands so large? “Still. There’s more to life other than catching fish!! People at your age tend to look around and have a little fun!”

You look away. “I’m not interested.”

“But it still won’t hurt to try!”

“Right!”

“Tell her, Captain!”

You feel your face getting warmer. How did it end up here exactly? You just wanted more fish.

“Look, I’ll be drinking out with the others tonight. We’ll be sailing off somewhere—and and and if you want, you can join us! I’m suuure you’ll have a great time!” Varka grins. “Maybe you can even get love advice from my folks!”

You blink at him as you envision it clearly: you, getting doted on by other Mondstadters for drinks and dance. You have no doubt that you’ll enjoy a night drinking out with Varka and his mates.

But you already plan to set off to do more fishing again. And love advice? Really? You can’t just see yourself mingling with others about this. At least, for now. “But—“

“Shh. No buts! Just consider it. We’ll be waiting for you at the shore, okay?” Varka’s grin widens, and you sigh. “Wouldn’t this be good for them, Miss Nicole?”

The quiet Miss Nicole finally gets to voice her thoughts. “Hmm. I could see why not. Tonight, the Coral Moon will actually take place. In line with Mr. Varka’s sudden voyage into the seas just to drink their hearts out, it’ll be the perfect time.”

Now that’s something you’re not aware of. Coral Moon? You’re a resident, a native here in Nod Krai, and you’re familiar how moons here are regarded as divine symbols—but you never have once heard about the Coral Moon.

“Wait. Wait. Coral Moon? What are we talking about now?” Varka repeats.

And you also ask, “What’s the Coral Moon?” 

Nicole’s smile deepens. “Now wouldn’t you like to know?” She lifts a pointer finger in excitement. “Well, to put it simply, the Coral Moon is a special phenomenon where the moon grows closer to our world. So in our eyes, the moon will seem bigger than before. And if the time comes, it is said that merfolk will rise from the surface just to bask in the moonlight, and to celebrate the blessings that the Moon Goddess will bestow upon them. Keep in mind that this only happens every 500 years.”

Now it’s no wonder. The citizens of Nasha Town may still believe in sirens or mermaids, but sadly, their in–depth folklore has dwindled, or forgotten through time. Even beliefs have changed—locals think that there are still three Moon Goddesses. Others are certain that there’s only just one that remains.

The Coral Moon may have gotten lost in history, if this turns out to be true.

“So what are these blessings?”

“Kuuvahki.”

The good thing is that if you do join Varka, you will be able to enjoy the sightseeing with good company. However, you don’t see how this benefits you.

And as always—Miss Nicole’s odd. Because she turns to you. “And the thing is, seeing merfolk is considered good omen. Who knows, maybe this will increase your chances in defeating the little competition you have with Mr. Ajax?”

You stare at her. Now you really can’t back out on this one. You’ll do anything actually. “Miss Nicole. . .”

“It will be good for you.”

You sigh again. “Fine.”

Nicole claps. Varka whoops. You wish you won’t regret this decision.

“And it’s settled! Time to meet up with the others so we can prepare!”

“Can I bring my nets, at least? Or some of my harpoons. . . ?”

“Working is prohibited!” Varka puts an arm around your shoulders, and you almost choke. Why is he so heavy?! “Didn’t you hear Miss Nicole!? It’s going to be the Coral Moon! You ought to relax! And you’re going to listen to their love advice, whether you like it or not!?”

“On second thought, I’m not going to join you guys—“

“Nuh-uh! You already said your yes!”

_

That following evening, as the ship sets sail, fireworks imported from the Land of the Shogun light up the night sky. 

On said ship, sea shanties are performed joyously by the sailors, with some of them even playing a violin. Others stomp onto their boots, and a few clap their hands. The already intoxicated Varka, and a few of his men, raise their pints of beer as they sing their hearts out.

You, while leaning your back on the railings, watch the whole debacle with an amused smile. You take a few sips of the Dandelion Wine every now and then—you’re not really the type of person to drink, but Varka insisted. Since this was ‘special.’

Tonight, you opted for something simple, actually. You’re clad in a loose white shirt and dark pants. Boots still intact, but no beanie in sight.

You joked with the Captain that you would want to throw a few lines, but he fed you to the sharks. And these sharks are the ones beside you right now.

“And listen here—kisses! They solve everything. It’s what I do whenever my wife gets mad, so if yer future partner gets mad, you know what to do,” the Mondstadter bumps your shoulder with a toothy smile, and you merely give him a light laugh. “Kisses are the key. I swear.”

“I get it. Kisses are the key.” You repeat, and the Mondstadter sighs in approval. They’re really such romantics, you can’t keep up. “But what—what if it, um, it doesn’t work.”

“Tongue.”

“What?”

“Kiss ‘em. With tongue.”

Now that’s highly inappropriate. “But—“

“With tongue!” the other sailor yells beside you, surprising you. “Kiss ‘em with tongue!”

“Yeah!”

What happened to courting and dating? Not only are Mondstadters such romantics, but freaks too, you take another sip of the wine with glowed cheeks. You can’t even call for Varka right now, the man is way too invested with a bard’s ballad. 

“Fellas, don’t overwhelm ‘em. It’s their first time,” another Mondstadter makes their appearance, and refills your cup. “Sorry, friend—some of us can get really into it. Trust me, though we are rowdy and passionate, we always mean well.”

“Don’t worry,” You reassure her. You remember her—Margaret. One of Varka’s friends. “I know how crazy you all can be.”

She just giggles, “Well. Do you need any more ‘romantic advice’? You look as if you’re about to explode.”

The other sailors guffaw at you. You just put a hand on your forehead. “Please save me.”

The Mondstadters just laugh again, yet they fulfill your wishes anyway. This time, they happily shifted to other topics. They talked about their archon. Their winery. The knights. And even flowers. Since Mondstadters are friendly, they still engage with you—asking if you’ve even seen a Windwheel Aster before, or have tried venting your troubles to the wind.

“If you’ve ever wanted a Windwheel Aster, I may procure that for you,” a familiar voice speaks, and you glance at your left. It’s Tarno.

“Tarno, I didn’t know you’d be here,” you say to him. He’s holding a beer cup as well. 

“Sir Varka invited. And of course, I wouldn’t refuse a wonderful offer when free drinks are involved.” He winks. “And as for the Windwheel Aster, I really can procure one for you. Do you want one?”

You frown at him. “Tarno, I swear—you really don’t have to keep giving me gifts, you know.” You have so many of them you even have them stocked in your trawler out for display. “Just because I saved your ass one time from those Snezhnayan soldiers—“

“And without you, I wouldn’t still have my shop today!” Tarno places his hands on his hips. “So. Windwheel Asters?”

“No.”

“Our friend could be quite stubborn, don’t they?” Margaret laughs again, and you watch Tarno agree with her. While taking another sip of your drink again, even if it’s making you slightly tipsy, you’re able to comprehend the conversations exchanged around you anyway.

It is Margaret who answers for you when Tarno expresses his own surprise that you even managed to join this excursion despite rejecting all invitations from other social gatherings. Well, they wanted some luck from the mermaids, so here they are.

Tarno did not even have to take a minute to put two and two together because he instantly understood that you were still competing with Ajax.

“Mermaids, huh? Haven’t you tried following a few rituals for a larger catch?” Tarno inquires. “Do you also pray to the Hydro Archon for a safe journey out to the sea?”

Well, it’s the older ladies who always pray for you. You’re not exactly spiritual but you do not want the wrath of the divine, so you do pray every time you venture out to the sea for protection.

It’s always a gamble on water, after all.

“But when tides turn in your favor, it doesn't hurt to savor the moment.” 

“Ahh, what a sad tale, isn’t it? Our friend here keeps on heading out to the lonely sea in the sky in pursuit of the perfect catch,” Margaret claims, and you huff at her. 

Ah, Mondstadters, and their tendency to overdramatize everything. 

“Not the perfect catch,” you correct. “In pursuit of catching a lot.”

“Potato po-ta-to, but still. You should have another life! You’re mostly surrounded by older people, and you, at your age—should definitely go out more. Find people your age, and then date them.”

“Do you even have a life, friend?”

You’re about to respond, a bit offended, because of course you do, you have an adorable seal who you feed fish sometimes. And you deliver fish to a restaurant because you’re good friends with the head chef—

“A life that doesn’t involve fish.”

Your lips shut at that. The sailors around you just laugh again. They’re mocking you now, aren’t they?

“All is not lost, friend. Perhaps there’s still something out there that’s waiting for you!” the same Mondstadter beside you pats you on the back. “They might change your current life!”

And if that happens, it’ll be a miracle, to be honest. You really don’t go out much, in the context of dating. Not when you’ve been fishing all your life. You don’t even know how to romance someone. Maybe that’s why Varka really was insistent in letting you tag along.

“And speaking of luck, look up, friend! The moon is closer to us!”

_

The moon seems to be really big at this hour—to the point that you had to blink a lot of times, making sure you’re not seeing things at all. The moon from the horizon is touching the waves, and you, with the other sailors watch in awe.

However, even there are no merfolk in sight. Which bums you a little. Because you really need that luck.

“I’ve heard that capturing a mermaid merits a high price,” one Mondstadter claims beside you, his eyes still fixated on the moon’s beauty. “A live mermaid could buy a man a ship as the Captain’s.”

“Appeasing a mermaid could also bring good fortune, too.” And that catches your attention. With your arms resting on the railings, you listen attentively to the sailors. “If ye actually manage well, they’d even give you blessings themselves. And give you whatever you want.”

“Really?” You hum. “How’ll you do that?”

The Mondstadters just chuckle. 

“Of course you’ll be asking that, friend.” 

“I’m serious.”

“Well—for one thing, you should offer them things. Beautiful things. Beautiful interesting things,” one tells you.

“Too vague.”

“Shiny things can be one.”

“Still, too vague.”

“Things that’re pleasing to the eye!”

You groan, “Friends, please. That’s just beautiful, again—“

Your nostrils are immediately flooded by an earthy and metallic smell. Eyes widening, you turn to the sky—the sky that was once clear, but now covered in thick, ominous clouds. The winds start to pick up, and the seasoned sailors beside you, also seem to take notice.

The moon has hidden from eyes, and a shiver runs down your spine.

Thunder rumbles.

And everyone gets moving once Varka yells from the top of his lungs. There’s a thunderstorm incoming.

All hands are on deck. The hatches and crates are batten. The main sail is pulled.

In a few seconds, the crew is drenched by the downpour. You, with the other Mondstadters, try your best in hoisting the sail. 

The waves crash ferociously on the sides of the ship as Varka steers the wheel. You hold on for dear life while still clutching onto the sail with the others, while the lightning continuously flashes from above.

“Hold on tight!”

And yet the worst is about to come.

You watch with bated breath and horrified eyes as a ginormous wave—thrice the size of the ship—swallows you all.

It’s always a gamble on water, after all.

_

The thing is, you can swim. You live by the ocean. 

But nothing can ever prepare you for mother nature. Or was this by the gods? Were the Moon Goddesses angry that you and the sailors ventured out during the Coral Moon?

That can’t possibly be it.

As you sink deeper into the ocean depths, you can’t help but wonder if Varka and the others are okay. Because for some reason, you can’t move. And your head feels numb. Really numb.

This sucks. Because at that moment, it just came to you: your life is about to end like this.

And you’re not satisfied at all. 

You haven’t seen Ajax again to brag in front of him. Regardless of the results, you were planning to call him a ‘cheat’ as a joke. And knowing him, he’d even humor you by calling you one, too.

And not to mention, there was a small part of you that was actually taking the Mondstadters’ advice seriously. Because after your ludicrous competition with Ajax, you were considering doing that thing—dating. Perhaps you’d explore other nations to find your future partner. Like Sumeru, Inazuma, heck, even Mondstadt.

But. . .

But. . .

“In line with Mr. Varka’s sudden voyage into the seas just to drink their hearts out, it’ll be the perfect time.”

“And the thing is, seeing merfolk is considered good omen.”

Not everything goes as planned.

You feel your vision dim. 

This really sucks.

And before you succumb to darkness, a flash of bright blue surges. 

butter/belle's notes [background for the au]

okay, pardon me but this may be a mess or a info dump for this au so i hope it all makes sense!

while in production for this fic, i was supposed to like, write it in a manual book style !! however, i decided not to because it would walk towards a "funny/humorous" route which was not my initial plan for this, and the plot was heading toward something more serious, though still lighthearted. i retained the title however because it was still going toward the direction. oh miss, you must know how many days i've mulled over how i was gonna write this KSDFHDJS not until i gave up

here's the crumb, which is basically a wip, and also i'll never finish. i lost the drive to write this, but hopefully what i'll share in the next few bullets would suffice! i really loved this au, i shared it with my dearest friends and even asked for their opinion. i even JUMPED for joy whenever i saw a mermaid/siren flins fanart because OOOOUGH my brain. . . it was doing very beautiful things = inspired to write for darling flins

the little mermaid is a very big inspiration for this. like the little mermaid disney version BOTH animation and live action. i actually watched the live action for this.

i ALSO UHH actually did a lotta research w/ this one. i seriously binged fishermen's lives for this AAAA. so some of the things mentioned here are in reference to those informative yt videos i watched. kudos to amazing fishermen who share their lives btw !! i learned so much !! :DDD

this piece's notes [additional info!]

i feel like a very sneaky author but if you'll look closely, there are already a number of of foreshadows !! like nicole telling the children abt the siren falling in love with a sailor, the mention of "kisses are the key," ( more on this later, wink wonk ) and the "perhaps there’s still something out there that’s waiting for you!" from a mondstadter ( very funny, because they were in the sea. yes. something out in the sea is waiting for you, reader !! )

also nicole just knowing everything LOL. like the prophet slash odd person in town slash sculpter slash CUPID she is: "Tonight, the Coral Moon will actually take place. In line with Mr. Varka’s sudden voyage into the seas just to drink their hearts out, it’ll be the perfect time." YEP. SHE KNOWS WHAT SHE'S DOING. IT'S THE PERFECT TIME FOR FLINS AND THE READER TO FINALLY MEET!! yahoo!!! and and "And the thing is, seeing merfolk is considered good omen." siren flins is reader's lucky charm lowkey !! more fish for reader indeed c:

EVERYTHING FLINS RELATED

sadly, siren flins only made an appearance in the end. this was the time i never got to write this au anymore. i have no recollection why but i think it was because i lowk didn't know what to do or i was starting to fall in love with pha*non

anyway siren flins was supposedly a loveable character here i'm not even kidding. like seriously. though strange, he's a cute charming half fish half human who ABSOLUTELY adores you. . . in his own, siren way. flins can't speak here by the way so big EMPHASIS on the 'actions speak louder than words'

he's a pretty, gorgeous fish. with a big, big beautiful tail. his scales are shimmering and imagine the MOST GORGEOUS AND BRILLIANT shades of blue!!

which begs the question, how did you guys fall in love? or how did the romance start? it all started during the coral moon, when it thundered. the explanation for as to why it stormed was because flins was protecting the sea during the coral moon ( there was a plot here that dottore was invading the sea because he wanted to kidnap the moon goddess columbina yeah and nicole was gonna lore drop that moon goddess columbina had an alliance with powerful mermaids and flins was one of them ) but it turns out it was just you and the mondstadters.

flins recognized you in your first meeting & thought that you're one of the "kinder humans" because he had seen you briefly whenever you fished out all alone, and very early in the morning too. he was v apologetic that your head got injured from the thunderstorm he conjured that night. but he made sure to repent by saving you!! <3

so yeah, the plot was gonna revolve around you "appeasing" the mermaid because the bring good luck. you meet him one early morning because he came to check on you, but you were actually really terrified, not until you offered him a shiny gem you got from tarno, and if you can envision toothless suddenly staring at hiccup with dilated eyes when hiccup removed the dagger from his person, that's flins. flins was crawling at the you on your boat who was scared shitless from encountering a MERMAID, not until you offered the shiny rock!! he stared at it, allured.

tarno was absolutely the real hero since he gave you a lot of shiny and cool stuff. since flins and you kept seeing each other from that moment on ( def intentional by flins himself, because he was very much intrigued by you ), as an ACT OF PEACE, and to appease him, you offer the cool and shiny stuff you get from tarno. however at some point during the story flins misinterprets this -- he thinks you're courting him.

he only got his confirmation when you offer him a shell, and for their folk -- that's you asking for his hand in marriage. he took it because he likes you. and he wants you, even though you're human (++ as i previously mentioned, nicole was gonna act as a cupid here too because she actually knows what she's going on. you don't know shit abt this species and whenever you ask nicole abt it you always begin with "hypothetically. . ." but nicole knows the truth. LOL. thank god she's there, though. because you're gonna lose your mind since you can't tell this to anybody, not even varka, and the mondstadters!! )

insert image of flins swimming over to you with fish in his mouth.

ANYWAY. since reader has NO EXPERIENCE AT ALL ( obvious from how hardworking they are LOLs like they did mention FISHING is the way of life for them ), and when it comes to romance. . . yeah their first experience would be with a half fish species. . . it's funny because it will involve so much kissing. cause like hello we love kissy freak flins here IT HAS BEEN A BRANDING EVER SINCE

and like. siren flins is more feral. though gentle, he won't hesitate with his actions. //taps on the sign. this human literally proposed to him & accepted his courtship. ofc as his mate, he's gonna love them, in his own way.

flins found a hidden cove for them to see each other btw ;) so. . . imagine what things they'll do there ehe

like the reader touching flins the siren for the first time. all innocently. it'll be awesome because flins would be staring and would want you to do it for a long time. he likes it. and when it's his turn, don't be so surprised if he also takes his time, too. and VOICE out your thoughts if you're uncomfy because he will touch you in some places that will make you squirm. and he adores how you sound, how you act, how you feel. you're special. you're a very, very special human to him.

( some planned scenes for that )

“W–Wait, hold on, F–Flins—mmph! Y–you sure like kissing me, huh?!” You push your hands all over his mouth, to prevent him from kissing you more. He blinks momentarily, before closing his eyes and pushing through your hands stubbornly. “F–Flins— wait!”

You examining Flins, and Flins who happily lets you. He lets you touch his tail, his fins, his hair. Then, he holds your hand—and you ascertain what he’s trying to say.

Caressing your cheek, he smiles at you sweetly and lovingly. 

“Um. What is it? Oh. You want to touch me too… okay.”

“W-Wait, whe-where are you touching!”

His smile widens, before kissing you as an apology.

also another cute idea i wanted to say was whenever you'd give flins shiny rocks you would be SUCKERPUNCHED in the au because the children with nicole would tell you that giving pebbles or rocks was like penguins' way of courtship. fun!!

anywayyy, this is probably obvious already but flins is such a blessing to you because at LEASTTT even tho he is a weirdo siren who really seems to be obsessed with you, he'll get you to take the chill pill because ENOUGH IS ENOUGH !! enough working. and the next thing you'll have to do is to love him, okay? if the others like varka and the old ladies can't get through to the you AT LEASSST this sexy siren gets to!!

and yeah, reader's gonna use flins as advantage to get more fish & flins doesn't mind at all actually. but then again, buncha misunderstandings because flins understands this as a "confirmation" that this human is accepting his courtship LOL. yeah go take so many lord of the lakes. flins is already planning the number of children you'll conceive.

siren flins was supposed to claim you with a mark in the hidden cove because he got lowkey jealous when he witnessed you mingling with some ppl in the fish market, or maybe when you got too close with a mondstadter. you would then have a pretty shiny mark. def inspired by the fae marks & mentioned that i was gonna talk more abt this in this post, AUGHH

what was really the direction it was supposed to take?

in all actuality this was one of the BIGGEST reasons why i never got to pursue this anymore, other than the facts that i lost the drive, not having the flins anymore during this time, and doing a lot of research. i was indecisive over the ending and how it was supposed to be

i thought how this au made no sense in a while ( which ACKKK sad times !! ) and even though i really wanted to share it, i wanted a decent plot. there were romantic scenes like you and flins would date under the starry sky, with you just sitting on your boat and siren flins staring at you with besotted eyes from the water while resting his arms on your boat, and flins giving you the ability to breathe underwater ( through a kiss ofc wink wonk ) so you can swim with him and explore his home together. it was gonna be a sweet fairytale where human and siren slowly fall in love & learn from one another !!

in one of the concepts i wanted to explore flins' fear of losing you, he tried to show you how the waters were very dangerous as of the moment and he didn't want you working at a given time ( since you were still hellbent on competing with ajax ) but you didn't listen. he was very angry of course, even if you apologized. but flins the siren was a sweetheart, and he forgave you anyway, because he gripped your hand, before pecking it gently. he kissed your arm, your shoulder, then your cheek, before your lips. he immediately pulled you to gentle embrace and breathed.

he couldn't say it but his expression says it all: he can't bear to lose another.

i also want to add that since i was inspired by the little mermaid i wanted some scenes where flins was collecting trinkets and all because they're all from you. and him being so fascinated by humanity when you secretly bring him in land with a LOOONG wheelbarrow. and and a kiss the girl scene during one of the dates. and some mermaids warning him "not to mingle with humans because they'll play with your heart" and he might turn into seafoam. that kind of thing. concept concept concepts.

all in all this was still a big WIP that i will never get to finish, 'cause i didn't know what to do at the time !! i also wanted to add a scene where the reader and flins got into a big argument that the skies cried stormed for days and reader wanted to make it up to him by sailing through the rain. flins got very upset again because you were putting your life in danger but you didn't care and kissed him hard anyway

A storm is brewing in Nasha Town, playing a dirge for a young woman whose life was brutally taken.

Dark, gloomy clouds have gathered over the region to mourn with rain.

You feel the moist air on your tongue and shudder as it coats your cold nape, unwelcome, while you remain crouched over the crime scene, shielding it from the gawking reapers.

It is not so uncommon for dead bodies to be found around The Flagship tavern.

Some lose themselves in their liquor so immensely, they fail to notice the passage of time spend in this indulgence—their own undoing. They spend their final moments all opaque, with breaths heady and laughs hazy, their vitality already exhausted. Like flowers in the drought, they wilt and wither.

Murders of all kinds—especially between rivals going for each other’s throats in the most literal sense—are not unheard of either, as their culprits are emboldened by the land close to being lawless.

It was only when a well-off daughter of one of the richest merchants in the city is found dead, discarded near the hub of vices and information sharing, unfit for someone like her, that the crowd gasped resoundingly, and all hell broke loose. More so when Milena Tojadska’s body was ascertained as gutted, now left as little more than an empty shell, devoid of both organs and life.

Milena lived a tragically short existence of twenty-one years, largely devoted to proving she was more than the privileges her father’s wealth afforded her. In the end, it didn't matter—people formed their own opinions anyway, both before and after her death. Spoiled, born with a silver spoon in her mouth, and while she was known to be kind, she could never have understood any real struggle.

You draw your own conclusions, but unlike the denizens of Nod-Krai, yours are not meant to judge her scruples. For a detective like you, only facts hold weight, and while one’s subjectivity can help in deriving oracular clues from others, you shove your own personal feelings aside.

And you might as well be the ghost yourself—haunting the nook behind the wine crates gathering dust in the entrance corridor of The Flagship, as you linger in the dark, post-mortem oppression to gather evidence.

With no true governing body in Nod-Krai to handle crime, someone like you must step in, confronting the pandemonium consuming the city. The Voynich Guild, whose focus is disputes involving merchants, requested you specifically.

Unfortunately, the conundrum surrounding her death isn’t made more soluble just because it occurred near a lively spot. If anything, the throng of suspects roaming around the busy hour Milena’s body was found only complicates your job. Though there is one particularly distinctive delinquent you intend to put under your microscope later.

People talk too. They live in fear of being next. They speculate, and pry for every grisly detail. The pressure to calm them weighs heavily on you. And knowing that the Curatorium of Secrets—or Snezhnayan diplomats—might meddle, drawn by the grotesque specifics of the slaughter, or even possible political implications, makes this perhaps the most important case of your life.

As an operative of the Voynich Guild, you heard of her murder long before most citizens, gathering evidence before the story could be distorted with each retelling, reshaped by bias, until the truth would turn into almost unrecognizable.

Still, they scurry toward you: excited, confused, curious, scared, fascinated by death even as they are repulsed by it. “Me! Me! I want to know! How? Why?” Only to be disappointed, for the body is no longer here, removed hours ago, even if you still can taste your coffee from four in the morning. You are no stranger to morbid curiosity yourself, but there is a certain debauchery in wanting to turn Milena’s death into a spectacle.

“Please, allow me to work in peace. There’s nothing of interest to be found here. The Guild is doing everything in its power to catch the culprit and will provide updates as necessary,” you urge, after yet another disruptive question lands.

The man behind it curses you, indignant, his accusation falling off his tongue like a whip: you must be withholding information, and you are definitely money-hungry.

You sigh. Adjusting your jacket, you glare at him until he turns his head away, uncomfortable by the sight of a revolver peeking underneath your leather brown.

He’s another fool anyway—the monetary value of your work leaves little room for sentiment. Still, you do believe you deserve a bonus, especially after this. Being considered an adept detective doesn't necessarily earn you luxuries; if anything, the pay is meager, and you break your back for the sake of the game. You refuse to accept every case deemed as not interesting enough.

Your supervisor didn't mind waking you up early for all that clamor. It’s your third time here too. No hidden weapons. No fingerprints, hair, fibers, or any other organic trace overlooked during your first or second sweep. Nothing remains after Milena’s body has been already taken to the morgue—not even blood speckles—adding to the mystery of her death.

From what you've been told, her body is in an unusual condition, and so you’re eager to run to her, like a hound catching scent. A notepad full of testimonies from bunch of strangers, mostly drunk people, weighs heavily in your other pocket. Yet little within those offers anything specific that wouldn’t be a drunk man’s daydream.

On your way back, you stop by a food stand, taking in familiar faces and the lively scenery of Nasha Town, before you will move forward to find Milena in what must be her deadliest form. The scene moves on. Children scamper and tumble until they blur, melting into the cold metal of buildings. Merchants bicker over inches of space despite their mature age. An old woman leans on her husband and hurries him home, impatient for safety, rattled by the atmosphere of death she has long anticipated for herself. Life continues, stubborn, indifferent, yet beneath it drums a tension that everyone feels, inching towards suffocation, just like you have heard that Milena was strangled.

“Milena…”, “that Tojadski merchant's daughter, “poor girl”, “don’t be stupid; it was clearly a lovers quarrel”, “some sadist”, “people disappearing”, “Wild Hunt”, “I heard she was gutted”,—you hear whispers of theories from every direction, each making their own credence. But you’ll make your own judgment—impartially.

A private morgue, too expensive for most to afford a cozy spot at, as the place where the dead rest, should have brought you some repose from the bustling restlessness outside. Instead, it’s hard to organize your thoughts even if the space is clear of the crowds you just escaped.

The unsettling, low, droning hum of the cooler—run by whatever machinery technicians of Nod-Krai conjured—could convince anyone it’s the dead rising. Their psyche would be affected by the dim scene with flickering lights too, making one wonder if the next blink might reveal someone, or something, lurching forward, especially when the light scarcely illuminates the white tiles of the floor and the walls, forcing the imagination to work and fill the gaps.

The metal, diagnostic bed at the center of the room hosts the object of the detective’s scrutiny. Naked as the day she was born, Milena lies on the ghastly white sheets, marred with drops of blood left behind by hands too careless to properly clean the table between examinations. You suspect that, if you were to lower your head to lend your ear, she would beg to be taken away from this overladen vision of an afterlife.

You are now drowsily listening to the doctor’s talk. There’s no specialized forensic pathologist to be found around, so this simple doctor, Daroslav, does his best. An old man with barely any hair left, yellow scleras and once-white shirt, inherently as tired in his appearance as you are tired today, finally fixes his glasses that were constantly trying to slip from his nose—something he had not bothered to correct until now. It’s the least he could have done after you’ve been bothered by his obtuse mannerism.

Everything needs to be noted by you, yet everything feels irritating today. Nothing makes sense so far, and people work far too slowly for what your brain is desperately trying to solve.

You drill holes into the dead woman. So pale is she now, that every blue vein beneath her skin becomes visible. However, that pallor, along with purple of her lips, the bruising encircling her neck, and petechiae scattered across her eyelids are the only assurances that she is no longer alive. She could be simply a fresher body, but it had been hours since she ended up on the table—enough for the lividity process to appear. And yet, something resists. It’s as if her body and blood froze in time, for it rejects decomposition—no livor mortis yet, no settling of blood in the lower part of the body—defying every logic. Even her limbs are unnaturally pliable when the doctor lifts her hand, bending with a softness that suggests sleep rather than death. With her like this, it’s the only way you can look at her without grimacing more than the vermilion exposed house of body provokes you to.

“You mentioned that her organs are missing,” you say, wriggling at the thought, “some of them, that is.”

“Yes. Liver, heart, stomach… and uterus,” Daroslav informs with a sigh, removing his obnoxiously long gloves. “She was killed before they were removed, likely very short after, for her to remain in such a… preserved state. The body must have been handled soon after death.”

“Liver, heart, stomach, and uterus…” you repeat quietly. “I see. Although, I believe we have a bigger problem.” You inhale deeply before speaking with rare for you uncertainty. “Doc… I understand her body is cleaned of those organs, but how come she’s staying such a pretty lady?” Your perplexity and the reminiscence of sleep, you rub off from your face.

It’s confusing—and unsettling. She is still an angel, dark hair framing an alabaster face, and if you were to lift her eyelids, they would reveal bright, lilac eyes—the same eyes that once brightened her father's days.

“I wonder about that myself. There is barely any sign of decomposition,” he spits on his glasses before he polishes them with the hem of his shirt. “However, we weren’t given enough time to draw conclusions too definite. Cold conditions can delay the process, and the removal of internal organs, along with significant blood loss—especially if the body was thoroughly cleaned—may further slow bacterial activity. Still…” he pauses, placing his glasses back upon his nose, crooked as ever. “Not to this extent.”

Your eyelid twitches faintly, though you let him continue.

“As I said, she must have been killed recently… or stored in a cold, maybe even in a cooler like ours. You see this incision along her torso? It is far too precise for an amateur. Whoever did this, they are clearly experienced in slicing and eviscerating people,” his appalled tone is the only thing that allows you to believe he himself won’t kick the bucket due to his age soon. “And yet, there’s marks consistent with strangulation, suggesting something far less controlled, as if rage came first, and only after, deliberation.”

You nod, and nod, and nod, committing each detail to memory.

“Additionally, her body has been cleaned externally as well—her nails are spotless underneath, but chipped, so Milena fought, yet we don’t have any biological trace of the assaulter to collect and send to a more qualified facility. Outside of that, there is no signs of sexual penetration.”

All of this is a lot to gather, so it is hard to comprehend—you understand the logistics, yet the concept behind her killing eludes you. The feasibility of such act especially.

“Hm…” you sink into his chair, ignoring the frown derived from your intrusion, “But… if her body will continue like this… if it resists decay… is that truly possible?” Your gaze sharpens, cutting as cleanly as the scalpel resting nearby. This situation… is still fascinating, frustratingly unfathomable or not.

“No,” Daroslav answers, oddly flustered by your engrossment. “Or rather… not under normal circumstances. I have never seen anything like this. If there is a cause, it is beyond what I know.” His voice lowers, now edged with something conspiratorial. “If such a method exists—a compound, perhaps—it would not be something readily available. Not to the public.”

“A compound?”

“You never know, with the Fatui spreading through these lands as they do. They are always eager to recruit our young.”

“But… what would even be the purpose of preserving a body?” you are skeptical about his claim, now trying to look for a logical explanation in the gray ceiling above you. “A dead mass, ought to be buried anyway…”

“Organ harvesting, perhaps,” he suggest with enthusiasm, hoping you’ll entertain his theory.

“But that can be done with a body as it is,” you make a counterpoint, counting irregularities in the structure above you. If you squint your eyes enough, surely you will be able to see an outline of Milena’s open body already imprinted on your mind.

“You might want to transport them long-distance. Clients from all across Teyvat, able to find their perfect match only across the continent…” the attempt to feed you some weird ideas continues, Daroslav’s voice taking a naughty beat.

You sit straight, suddenly redirecting your gaze at the doctor who flinches in response. “Are you saying we’re dealing with a black market organ seller?” you now ask with more alertness.

“I mean—”

You cut him off next second, waving your hand. “Forget it. That’s plain stupid,” you grumble.

“How so?” he deflates in his enthusiasm, a balloon of perverse hope you have burst unabashedly.

“That would be inefficient,” you reply flatly. “The body was left in plain sight, in the very center of activity. The organs risk damage through strangulation. And most importantly: Milena is far too prominent of a target for such a purpose.” Even Fatui usually goes after those in need and on their own, children especially.

“Right…” he concedes quietly. All of this suddenly seems to be too much for the doctor, as he gesticulates at you to free his seat. You stand up, yet your now soliloquy continues.

“A body displayed in such a condition is not concealment—it is declaration. A mark left behind.” A realization settles in your head. “A serial killer, perhaps… one announcing themselves at last, or newly arrived in this region. Someone experienced… A doctor even, maybe. Precision like that…”

You can't recall anything like this happening around here before. Possibly a boastful killer… You'll have to dig into the guild’s archives.

“You didn't kill her, did you?” you ask humorously.

Daroslav’s mouth opens wide. “That's just—”

“I know. I’m pulling your leg!” you clarify before you could give him a heart attack.

He huffs at you, collecting himself. “In any case…” The doctor peers at you with mustered solemnity, patting down his clothes after you ruffled his feathers. “I’m no psychologist, but if there’s anything serial about this tragedy, it’s the fact they must have done this plenty of times before. Whatever it might be, people of Nod-Krai would do well to exercise caution. No more… drunken escapades after dark.”

Your laugh earns you a narrow look. “My apologies, it’s just that…” you say lightly, though your humor fades quickly, “I doubt many will abandon The Flagship so easily. It’s their second home, you know? Much like it has now become a resting place of Milena’s soul…” you drawl the last sentence, finally donning on some seriousness yourself.

Arms crossed, you soak in the severity of the situation, your gaze settling at the poor woman veiled in sheets, or rather, what would be of be her leftovers. Incomplete in her physiology, her skin hangs more loosely over her hollow beneath, like a curtain over a broken bird cage. As unsettling the visage is, you trail the cut line awaiting its sewing, and you notice a certain craftsmanship behind the work. Only someone lacking heart would be capable of tearing her apart and playing with her body like a butcher…

No. Not heartless like she is now. Sensitive perhaps; making sure there is no impurities left post death, whatever symbolism the missing components suggest. And yet, Milena was judged unworthy of staying on this earth with you, in this world, her killer playing a god of her life.

Alas, even the angels are hated; if anything, they take the most venom, since it cannot penetrate those already poisoned. Not that you know her personally, but she has never caused enough harm for it to be recorded.

When Daroslav turns around to note down your observations, you wipe the single tears of sympathy.

“The question that remains is,” you continue talking, “where are her organs? Is this really a work of a serial killer? Could they be consumed? Will they be later utilized in some way?” your voice is fueled with immense verve, dangerously close to enthusiasm.

You’re excited—as inappropriately as others are—you hate to admit. It’s once in a blue moon that something truly worthy of your attention surfaces… Even more so when all of Nod-Krai is forced to play along, circumspect about where will they wander with their feet, avoiding any ghoulish arms waiting to seize them in the dark. And yet, that newness is what makes you feel as if you are an amateur again; the most you were taught about didn’t encompass elaborate-murder solving. Corruption and missing people is the pinnacle of your responsibilities.

The doctor clears his throat, taken aback by all the fantasies you throw at him. He refuses to look you in the eye, unwilling to foster the freak-detective’s fascination. “How do you arrive at such conclusions so quickly, may I ask?”

You smile, evening out your tone as if suddenly remembering your manners. “Please, forgive me. I have some experience in situations like that, and sometimes, that’s what people do.”

In truth, you are still guessing—but the human mind tends towards patterns that you follow, maybe alone with a couple of old detective stories.

“Now,” you say, gathering your jacket, your legs trembling as they beseech you onward. “I’m really grateful for your insight. I will return as needed… Meanwhile, I have many other things to take care of…”

“Oh? Do you have a suspect already?” Daroslav asks curiously.

“Yes. I was informed he was seen near Milena’s body.”

And judging that his man was seen leaving the very spot where Milena was found, the future seems very promising.

The road leading from the Nasha Town to the Final Night Cemetery is long. The further you go, the more it sinks its claws into you, the fog hugging you from every side. Visibility is mercilessly taken away from you, yet while it should stir disquiet, you embrace it with curiosity.

The search for the culprit cannot halt simply because the path becomes frightening; you let the lighthouse’s light to guide you, as intended, hoping it might grant you some clarity for the case as well. Your leather jacket, an old memento from your mentor, shields you from the wind. It is as though you are wearing her skin, as you have espoused much of her wisdom.

You were informed about the man seen at the crime scene. Nestled at the exact spot, shortly before the time Milena was found, secluded from the usual clusters that gather at The Flagship— he fled the moment other visitors noticed him, naturally casting suspicion upon himself in the eyes of Nod-Krai’s citizens.

Of course, it could have been anyone who drank at The Flagship the last night, perhaps someone even entirely unrelated to the location—many pass through these grounds. Except, vanishing as though caught in the act is suspicious, and a man already branded eccentric will always be the easiest to accuse.

The Ratnik, Kyryll Chudomirovich Flins.

You cannot help but question the sanity of a man who chooses to live here. A place so steeped in somber stillness could easily turn one queasy; all the more when the ghosts begin to appear, as though drawn by the wind itself. When they do, they trail alongside your path like they're street lanterns. You assume they were once warriors, fallen to the persistent Wild Hunt that has plagued Nod-Krai for countless years.

Dead people, you suppose, need nothing more.

At the lighthouse’s base, besides the dilapidated wooden veranda, nothing of note greets you. To reach the door, you must cross the garden of gravestones, the largest monument looming at its center, frostlamp flowers bowing beneath your boots—their shades reminds you an old tale of blue light that Lightkeepers supposedly prayed to for protection. It’s quiet here; it is no peace. The grotesque swirl of blue and purple of grasses drains the land of vitality—no green as a connotation with nature—leaving something hollow in its place, especially with the never-ending darkness here. Anything to avoid a pesky neighbor? Not that you have guarantee to find Flins here.

“Is the owner here?” you throw humorously towards the cluster of ghosts encircling a bonfire, as if they could be warmed once more. You stare hard at one of them, its head barely balanced upon its shoulders. Charming.

None reply, all hurry away from you after they look through you as if you are not even present. Odd. You would have thought spirits might take delight in haunting you, but then again, what do you know about ghosts. They either don’t like newcomers, or…

Finally reaching the lighthouse door, you give it a knock so loud it would shake even the dead from their rest. Nothing. The silence remains after you knock again. You take it as permission to snoop around, pulling on the handle—surprisingly, the mechanism gives away. “Jackpot!” Or a bear trap.

You lift your foot, ready to step inside—

“There is nothing worth stealing here, I quite assure you.”

Your foot slams down in shock, nearly sending you stumbling as your head snaps towards the voice. There he stands, the missing man himself, suddenly before you. Your chest immediately takes you on the route of driving you near a cardiac attack. The ghosts, it seems, have departed for reasons unrelated to you, despite your original assumption.

“Whoa!” you exclaim, all startled. Someone appearing out of thin air is unsettling enough, but he resembles a specter in his own right, dark-clad like night, pupils all yellow-lackluster. The blue glow of his lantern has your eyes blinking rapidly, in chase to adjust to the bright force. “I promise, I’m not a thief!”

The man smiles, placing his hand on his chest, inclining his head in a short, courteous bow. “Hello there, not a thief. I hope the curious spirits around have not caused you any undue distress…?”

You step back, closing the door behind you, letting the space between you stretch with you sinking onto the collapsing bench in front of the lighthouse. You shake your head in answer, narrowing your eyes as you take in his appearance, trying to gauge his intentions. A humorous entrance is something you would have done yourself, but should an average person take a possible break-in so lightly…?

The Lightkeeper—you assume must be the man in front of you—is still a suspect. You ought to be cautious. “No, Mr. Flins,” you say at last, forcing your voice to convey something more than disregard for his politeness.

“Oh?” His brow lifts ever so slightly at your recognition, something faintly amused touching his expression. He makes no move to close the distance—thankfully, instead lingering by the metal door, observing you. “You seem to know who I am. Are you coming here with something specific in mind? That is, if you in were, in fact, not stealing from me,” he cannot help but crack another joke.

Something about him and his exuberance irks you—that’s the sensation you’re given right off the bat. You have met many types in your life, yet this sensation is… different. It could also be that chucklesome persona, the contrast between it and his gloomy appearance, or even the way ghosts seem to be reverent of him. You can’t put your finger on what it might be exactly.

The weird lantern he carries, a strange blue light unlike any kuuvahki flame you have seen, heightens the unaware. Lightkeepers have a duty to take them with them everywhere, as a sign of ongoing service, and yet… Hopefully, it’s only Electro-Vision-infused. The idea of catching a malefactor now feels less thrilling and far more precarious.

Recognizing his sharpness, you decide discretion is prudent. “I meant the part about not being a thief…” you reply, “I hope you can understand my entrance was only because you of concern for your door. You’re making things easy for thieves, you know.”

He nods in agreement, allowing you to continue your introduction.

You recline on the bench, remembering the authority of confident body language. “As for the why I’m here—my apologies for the intrusion. It’s an urgent matter. I am a detective who works for the Voynich Guild…” You produce your insignia, dangling it in the air. It has no legal power, though it distinguishes you from a simple comer. “I’m sure you have heard about the morning incident in the Nasha Town.”

He raises his brow again, then smiles politely. “The Voynich Guild…” he repeats thoughtfully. “Then I gather this must be a grave affair indeed, for there to be someone sent to a humble me. Though I confess, I am not certain what matter would require your presence here of all places.” He maintains eye contact without the slightest flinch. “Would you care to enlighten me?” Crossing his arms after he hangs his lantern on the hook dedicated for it, he pricks up his ears.

You turn slightly as you tuck the badge away, allowing a fleeting grimace to cross your face unseen. He should know. Anywhere near The Flagship should. The entire Nasha Town, if not the most of Nod-Krai knows about the incident too, and while he lives in seclusion, he surely is coming back from somewhere while having people talk behind his back. It’s quite hard to determine whether he’s purporting his oblivion, or if he’s actually unaware—too smug to be innocent, too calm to be obviously guilty.

You face him again, with solemnity, hoping there’s enough humanity in him to reciprocate that emotion. “Very well. I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but...A body was discovered this morning. At The Flagship. The daughter of a merchant. Murdered… quite brutally.”

“Oh.” His lips form into a circle, and he sighs softly, more contemplative. “That is unfortunate,” he says after a moment, lowering his gaze briefly, as if paying respects to the deceased. “She must have been young.“ Then, looking back at you: “What happened?” he asks, all troubled.

“She was strangled. Then… her organs were removed. We have yet to locate them,” you blurt out quickly—watching him. It’s not impropriety speaking, but a way to catch him off-guard, go see a reaction unfiltered by expectation.

Flins’s brows knit together, his body stiffens ever so slightly. Then he lets out an awkward chuckle, as if to disperse the tension you suddenly manifested in him. “That severe, you say…” His surprise looks rather genuine. Yet there’s something off about the man. A bit too calm for someone step by step being implied to be a suspect, apathetic even. Still, his gaze pierces you, yellow eyes void-like, as if he claims to know you better than you know yourself.

“And certainly unprecedented,” you add. “With that, it’s hard for us to gain a foothold, or form a… modus operandi,” it’s a term you've borrowed from some fancy novel imported from outside the border, “especially with how little clue there is.” You inform him of those few things—letting him be involved in the case should paint a right illusion: he’s not yet accused of any wrongdoing, which could lure to more cooperation.

Frustratingly, he only hums in acknowledgment, then turns the conversation around. “May I ask how does this concern me?” A small tilt of the head, more curious than worried about the prospect of being accused of crime of a high range. If anything, he’s more interested in swallowing every inch of you with his eyes, something haughty being cast at you.

You rise, brushing off your jacket, agitation pricking at your nerves. You serve him another serious look. “There was a report placing you at the scene shortly before the body was found. Alone. Squatting behind the same empty crates where she was later discovered. Of course, you could have been a simple passerby, like anyone else, which means you’re not accused of anything at the moment. Yet your sudden departure upon being noticed casts shadows of suspicion. We’d like to ask you a few questions that could help us out—especially, what were you doing here, and whether you have seen anything suspicious yourself,” you try to cajole him, keeping your tone solemn yet respectful.

You see no real worry—only a small frown, more as if you were inconveniencing him by making a scene. “We?”

“Yes, I act on behalf of Milena’s father, Drogomir Tojadski.” The name is big, so you anticipate his reaction. He gives you one, allowing you to witness his eyes widen slightly under the blue light spread over his face; your stomach flutters with excitement at the telltale sight.

“Milena…?” he sounds surprised.

“Yes,” you nod eagerly, “Did you know her?”

“Yes. Albeit, briefly. She would come here sometimes,” he says solemnly. “What tragic news you are relaying to me…” he clutches his chest, as if pained, his eyes full of sorrow. “Sadly, we we weren’t given too much time together…”

“Can you tell me a bit more about this?” you ask urgently. Him knowing her only earns him more consistency as a main suspect.

“Your diligence is… commendable,” he’s ready to shoot you down. “It is only that…” Flins starts thoughtfully, turning his head to the side, already sympathizing with your disappointment. “You are well aware there is no real law established in Nod-Krai. Nonetheless, factions exist, and anything that concerns someone like me, concerns us Ratniki also, falling under that jurisdiction. If any investigation were to occur, it can only proceed by their decree. Your only choice with me is, well…”

You know all these rules; technically, you have no power over him, and so you hoping for cooperation is hoping for benevolence. “Forcing me to answer your questions,” you finish the sentence for him, your excitement dissipating. You come a little closer to him—a small show of trust. You're not here to disincorporate him entirely. “I assure you, I have no intention of fighting or hurting you.” Brains over brawn. Unless he attempts aggression himself. “I know Guild often moves motivated by financial, or any type of beneficial gain for that matter, but my own goal is singular: to unravel this poor girl's tragic death.”

“Is that why you have a weapon in your inner pocket?”

Your breath hitches.

“Do not fret. I understand that someone like you must protect themselves. Who knows the next person that dares to cross you…” he says lightly. Flins studies your frown, and smiles again, all understanding. “You strike me as a person with a good head on their shoulders.”

The compliment catches you off guard—especially with how earnest it sounds. Yet you’re no illustrious detective. You think you don't even know what you're doing. Your boss threw you into the situation like into deep waters. He could have asked that woman Nefer for help, however, she… is far more rapacious than you are.

“Thank you,” you say, with slight fluster. “So, I’ve heard that… a ghost of an unjustly death lingers on earth…” you allow a wry humor.

That could solve all of your issues—if only you could ask Milena about what she witnessed in the zenith of her tragedy, even beg for the leftover smudges of her bleary memory. You would ensure the culprit is caught without any hesitation, cleaving through the truth.

“You are quite astute about the fate of ghosts. Alas… as it has been said—I fear such matters are not mine to discuss,” Flins replies, regretful-sounding.

You almost click your tongue. You have barely scratched the surface today. “Can’t I have a small peak inside, at least?” you laugh after saying that, trying to keep the atmosphere light.

He laughs too, yet answers bluntly, “I’m afraid not.” Then he adds, “Though I would have welcomed the opportunity to host you. I’m certain the journey here can be somewhat… onerous.”

Gratefulness for his refusal is what you should feel now, as suddenly, you can no longer imagine the idea of being alone with him. Something about the possibility of being his ghost makes your skin prickle—call it a detective’s intuition.

“I see,” you say dryly, yet carefully polite, “In any case, thank you for lending me your time. Please… keep yourself safe.”

Flins extends his hand. “You as well, little detective. I do hope your efforts bear fruit.”

“… Little detective?” you visibly tense up, not fond of the nickname he gave you enough to reject his handshake.

He withdraws, as if realizing something. “Oh, where are my manners,” he says kindly, yet undeterred by your coldness. “Please, excuse me, it’s a force of poor habit I have, teasing my coworkers.” You don’t buy his sudden humble apology. “Pay it no mind—little is a form of endearment, not condescension.”

Fondness. From a stranger. Does this man know you? No, that cannot possibly be…

Still, the encounter gave you enough reason to keep your wits about you, around this peculiar Lightkeeper. “I see,” you say slowly, “It’s okay, I do that a lot too. Some whimsy doesn’t hurt…” you trail off, stepping past him. “Have a nice day. We might meet again soon.”

“Please, wait,” he calls, and you turn around, “Yes?”

Flins and his damned lantern join your side, falling into step beside you, “Allow me to escort you back to the shore. It’s getting late, the fog thickens, and the time Wild Hunt favors such conditions.”

It’s as if he’s trying to give you a headache on purpose, being unbearable.

“I’m alright,” you assure curtly.

“No need to be modest. It is really not an issue, only my utmost duty,” he insists, frustratingly chivalrous.

You want to tell him it isn’t modesty, especially when he places a guiding hand on your back, as if you two are old acquaintances.

Observing you walking expeditiously in response, he chuckles softly. “Are you truly so concerned about them? Fear not—I will protect you, should it come to pass.”

“Nope. Just a hectic schedule,” you reply dryly.

“Of course. I don’t intend to disturb it.”

The walk to the exit is filled with a stream of exceptionally curious inquires from his side; some less or more personal, mostly about your expertise—never quite crossing a line, yet coming close to. Your mind works carefully, avoiding revealing anything that might compromise either yourself or the investigation. However, it’s really the last words he gives you before he’d let you go that leave the deepest mark. “You know, I have heard of you.”

Under regular circumstances, they shouldn’t matter. You are rather famous around Nod-Krai’s veterans; infamous, you’d even call yourself. You're not exactly known for being strait-laced. But when you peer at him properly, analyzing his eyes dancing like a flame put on by your very presence, you get a sense of something deeper being laced into his admission. There is depth that transcends mere curiosity.

You wrap your jacket more snugly around yourself, letting the sea breeze carry his words and envelop you in thick silence.

“I’m sure whatever your ears caught, it was doubtfully anything flattering about me,” you scoff at the thought, but you are frozen in spot by his lantern you find yourself transfixed by.

“Hm…” pressing a finger to his chin, he hums to himself. “In the traditional sense, no…”

“Is there any positivity in an unorthodox sense, then?” you mock, meeting his eyes again.

As the thunder cracks and strikes overhead, the smile that forms on his face sends a shiver down your spine; you really need to get out of here.

“Yes,” he says softly, “One might say so. Because…” his face leans in close to yours; you don’t show cowardice, standing with steel in your feet. “… labels, after all, oftentimes stem from the fallacy of perception. And I would be eager to see what else is there beyond them, detective.

Until next time.”

You watch him go before you could demand some good explanation. His long, blue hair swaying like a midnight ink touching moonlit frost—disappearing into the evening like a ghost. Much the same, you feel unable to expose your back until you are sure he’s gone. You take a few steps after. Still propelled by distrust towards the Ratnik, you turn around a beat later; you blink rapidly when you notice his sudden disappearance. He should have been there, in your vision’s field, for a few more seconds.

You cannot yet parse him. The devil is in the details, yet you cannot form any coherent opinion about him, for he blocks anything truly vulnerable about himself with a sprinkle of sophistry and immaturity.

True to his words, he does seem to know you.

People pride themselves on understanding others, yet seldom embrace the responsibility that insight demands. To claim knowledge of another is to stand at the precipice of something far less comfortable than mere observation—understanding does not end at recognition, it insists acceptance, and acceptance, more often than not, is where people falter. Going from acceptance to hatred so fluidly is often a reflection of one’s own fear and limitations—isn't it human to be imperfect and ugly? To see them not only in the moments they present to the world, polished, but in those concealed ones where their less agreeable qualities reside. It is easy to admire what is agreeable. Therefore, there is courage in facing someone wholly—both their beautiful and their vile, their unguarded and the uncompromising.

Flins, in his own peculiar manner, seems almost willing to offer that from the very beginning.

Leaving the cemetery, you don't see another pair of eyes watching you from behind the biggest grave of the yard.

On your way back to the city, your thoughts involuntarily drift to Kyryll. If you were accused of murder, at least in the eyes of people around you, would you wander and chatter freely, as though nothing weighs upon you? Perhaps, he is simply accustomed to worse than such scrutiny, having faced death countless times as a Ratnik. Still, the notion of spilling blood by your own hand should unsettle even the iron stomach.

It seems certain you will encounter this man again. You must have left him with the the impression of someone respectful. Someone who, despite he appearing peculiar to others, is not judged by you for no sound reason. Yet, you failed to avoid showcasing any suspicion: he got you good, as you’re not used to allowing one to frustrate you enough to betray yourself… In this profession where composure is currency and every expression can be bartered against you. If only for a moment, you allowed yourself to become something of a spectacle for a man who clearly delights such things.

Nonetheless, for now, you shove that blunder to back to the back of your head, recognizing your priorities—finding the missing organs of the poor Milena, the only clue in the grotesque game that could lead you somewhere at the moment.

Especially that, Nod-Krai would disapprove of Snezhnayan diplomats getting involved in the sub-field; already, the nature of the crime stirs the gossip mill easily.

As you kick pebble on your path, sauntering tiredly, you think nothing aligns. There's no practical reason for Milena’s body yo have been left in such an exposed location as The Flagship, nor for it to have been treated with such meticulous care, bordering on reverence.

For anyone willing to think outside the box, there is clearly something psychological in the act, the message to decipher. To uproot the killer, you must think like the killer. Leaving a body clean from the inside, in a pristine condition… As if to mummify it…

Such practices evoke the practices of Sumeru, or at least someone inspired by its culture. Yet those who partake in the custom do not create death—they honor it. They do not carve life away. they tend to what remains. Her brain remains intact, too.

The killer could be trying to be respectful, making sure no part they deemed dirty is left in her after her death. Or they could be degrading her, leaving an empty shell to lower the woman’s value, or even steal from her. They could be eating those organs right as you’re thinking about it. So many questions, and yet, no one to answer for them so far.

You do not get to be the one who finds Milena’s organs; at least, when it comes to one of them. Her liver is delivered to you and her father a day after she was found—casually left outside The Flagship, in a white porcelain box that comes off as far too expensive to be ordinary, imported, suggesting someone from her sphere. Would Flins really be able to afford such container?

A liver that will never filter anything impure again, cleansing Milena from the filth of this world. Her ability to protect herself was stolen from her. The thought settler heavier than it should: it’s not merely a missing organ, but something once responsible for her persistence. She no longer can metabolize the world and remain whole through it. The killer’s choice feels like selection, not entirely disposal. She cannot judge anymore.

Finding nothing else inside the box that brought horrors to the workers ending their shift, you deliver her belonging to the morgue, only to learn nothing about her condition has changed. Worry gnaws at you—perhaps the doctor was right about the possibility of a substance that slows, or even stops, decomposition—all kinds of things can happen or be made in Teyvat. Perhaps it’s used differently than assumes; not as preservation for transport of organs, but something about a sick display of body.

It’s not healthy to let the gruesomeness get to your head too much, so you only let your nose scrunch at the inconvenience of it all—being pulled away mid-breakfast only to end up handling what will, in time, be placed back into her coffin. A coffin currently in making, surely to be lined with white silk befitting an angel.

At the very least, it’s becoming evident it was a killing with motive. Your case truly has grown into something of a paramount importance.

With you in constant motion, it’s time for another questioning. The father of Milena, Drogomir, is also a suspect, having been the closest with his daughter. It is quite often that the family member is the one responsible. You have been stalling this meeting, largely because his state is… delicate. It cannot help him that he looks like an older copy of her—dark hair, purple eyes. It’s only his short posture, wrinkles of she, or strands of gray that do not hold a candle to her. Every peer into the mirror is peer into Milena’s eyes.

So far, his grief is gut-wrenching to witness. And unless he is deliberately performing grief in front of The Guild, he has been cooperative, guiding you through possible scenarios with eagerness. Unlike Flins yesterday, there is no weird friction between the two of you. If you were to frame someone in his position, you would do so without reaching for paranoid detective like you; pantheons of his standing are not above pulling some strings, and there are still several women missing in Nod-Krai.

“She was such a beautiful and smart girl… even after her mother died, she still pushed through everything…” the man weeps… right onto your shoulder and its favorite jacket. “People judged, me, her, me for not marrying another woman, and her for not settling down instead of focusing on her studies, but we endured! We only had each other, and now I have no one… Heavens, my poor Milena! And now some monster is scattering her organs like they’re dandelion seeds!”

You cringe at the dampness staining you, imagining it going past your flesh layers, his grief soaking into your pores and painting you with melancholia just the same. You try to ignore the growing pool of misery for the sake of maintaining good connections with a client. You have to be nice and empathetic, laments difficult to take or not. Especially given how unstable his condition has become. From what one of the maids informed you, Drogomir has already been seen by a doctor three times. Not for some heart condition, but his mental state, although these two can easily go hand in hand.

“I'm sure she was everything you describe her to be and much more. I’m sure she felt loved by you,” is the reassurance you muster, best to your ability.

As you let Drogomir sacrifice your jacket as necessary collateral, glad it’s made of impenetrable leather, you take one more look at the small mansion’s common room. It’s easy to notice how he has it much better than most people. Marble—had to be exported from Snezhnaya trade, royal purple velvet everywhere—a self-made title?, lacquered, polished parquet—will Milena’s coffin have the same finish? And of course… a gigantic portrait of his very daughter.

It would not be surprising if someone resented Milena for such disparity. But envy alone rarely produces such precision. This is not disorder, jealousy. This is controlled.

Then you spot her—a tiny figurine of Tsaritsa. It sits quietly among opulence, but you recognize the possible implications. A household that openly trades with Shezhnaya, perhaps even aligns itself with it more deeply than mere commerce. You’ve already heard about Drogomir making business with its merchants, skimming over his profile the moment you received the case. If he spills too much to the other side, they might complicate the investigation. Especially that, murders of high-profile causes panic that spreads faster in such circles; merchants fear instability more than crime itself. Who will pay for their damages?

Drogomir finally lifts his head, and you sigh inwardly. You take in one more glance at the figurine, fascinated by the way it made cold Tsaritsa look benevolent. A small, warm smile pulling you in, having you wonder if she’d weep over Milena too, or call it a common tragedy humans face daily, secular even…

“Goodness me, I am terribly sorry,” he’s embarrassed, “here I am, sobbing on your shoulder like an outgrown baby,” the widower suddenly remembers himself, and frees you from the grasp of his waterworks.

Now freed, the expensive settee feels like the safest place. You resist the urge to clean your shoulder in front of him. Thankfully, he offers you a handkerchief, feeling guilty for leaving a track of burden on you.

“No, it's quite alright,” you clear your throat. “I cannot comprehend even half the pain you are experiencing. I also understand this is difficult, but, can I depend on your cooperation for your daughter’s sake?” you speak solemnly.

Drogomir, still all flustered, nods his head rapidly, and sits on the armchair across you, only to stand up a moment later and spin around the room. How can he rest, knowing someone is playing with his daughter’s body?

“Ask me anything. Anything at all. I will answer everything if it means that monster is caught!” he demands fervently.

You like such vigor better. More lively, more human, more beautiful, raw and asking you to poke it further—but now is not the time.

“Very well,” you say. “When was the last time you saw your daughter?” you ask, clasping your hands together. You already made such inquiry yesterday, yet he was in a shape worse than today.

The man's brain overheats, for he stops his stops crying at the question, unable to form a coherent sentence.

"Take your time. I understand if your head is addled with grief.”

"Y-yes… yes, it is…” he says nervously. “I… I think it was… goodness, it feels as if it was just yesterday,” he shakes. “B-but… that cannot be. She already was dead… oh… the staff said… she’s been gone for a week… yes… that seems right…” he mumbles to himself, his voice destabilizing.

"A week?” you repeat, sharper now. “Where was she?”

"She was away for a trip. Research related,” a maid, older Anastasya with red hair, interrupts, coming in with water for the poor man. He gulps it down immediately, nearly choking on it. “I understand the importance of finding this despicable murderer,” she says firmly, “but I must beg you to start wrapping up things, detective.”

"I wish I could,” you reply dryly. “Alas, we can’t seek justice for Milena without proper evidence.”

“No, let them search for truth, Nastya…” he Drogomir mutter, “I cannot rest until I know my Milenka receives peace and honor.” He collapses into an armchair, “Ask me more, detective. I place her fate in your hands.”

That is a dangerous sentence.

You’re reminded of the weight of the situation. There is no time to waste, even if a dead woman can't walk, yet you also cannot expedite things carelessly—dare you not leave some stones unturned.

“Alright. I’ll be frank with you. How many enemies do you have, and, was any of them especially angry with you in last span of weeks?” you ask seriously, not beating around the bush. It’s not a question of if, but of how many. A man well-prospering in Nod-Krai is a man already hated, yet in this case, it’s also about possible rivals from the guild itself.

Flush appears on his face, as he tries to come up with some clincher to clear his merchant name he wants to keep spotless; only sighs with acquiescence after. “I’ve always had many adversaries. Other sellers, people jealous of the way I live, men offended by my refusal to marry off my daughter…”

The last picks up your curiosity. Someone obsessed with his daughter surely would be capable of killing her should she had said no… right? Suffocating her… then dispensing her organs for everyone to see… the show of ownership.

“Okay… however, was there anything that stood out more, that has brought you trouble lately? Any threats, breaking in, complaints from your daughter?”

Milena’s father ponders over your question, then shakes his poor head. “No.”

“Does Milena have any ex partners that might have been aggressive towards her?”

Shaking his head again, it’s more aggressive. “Absolutely not! She was focused on school. Boyfriends are… distraction,” he says with repulsion.

“You didn't think of preserving your family's name? You do care about it. She was twenty-one, not a child,” you prod with suspicion.

“She was twenty-one,” he insists. “There was still time. She deserved better than impulsive choices.” He’s definitely protective of his daughter. Typical father.

“I see. Did Milena behave in any unusual way?”

“No. She seemed… quite happy instead,” he admits reluctantly.

“Happy, huh…” you wonder what could have gotten her in such good spirits. “Did she mention anything about the reason behind that mood?” you ask eagerly. Perhaps, she’s been pulled into something, manipulated to become one’s victim.

Something resurfaces in his addled mind, as the man looks at you with realization. “Wait, could this be it? She mentioned seeing him,” he says suddenly, straightening. “I thought of it as nothing relevant at the time, but now—”

You stand up from the comfortable cushion and approach the mourning the father with motivation, almost shaking from excitement. “Please, every detail is important for the case. Who was he?”

“Well… She said she helped him out sometimes, just tidying up things around his... graveyard,” he recalls with recognition, as well the frown at his beautiful daughter seeking out obscure spaces like that. “That man was a bad influence on her, you see. Distracting her.”

It’s him, you summarize immediately. “Did she mention anything suggesting he behaved inappropriately with her?”

The poor man looks up at you with confusion, flustered by you squeezing his shoulders with the aberrant for the situation energy. “No, I mean, yes— she said he’s quite a strange man, living there alone. He frightened her sometimes. She was a good girl, you see, worrying about everyone despite their shortcomings…” he trails off, then snaps his eyes wide open and his breath stutter. “Are you saying he did this?” He trembles and you know you're stepping into a steep territory of his mind.

You can't make any promises just yet. It's easy to jump to conclusions and allow yourself to be fooled by them. “He’s only our suspect, might as well be innocent. It’s not smart to go after him at the moment,” you warn, sensing his growing agitation. “One wrong move, and the real killer might get away.”

Drogomir’s hands clench, and he slouches his body under your palm. “If you say so… but if it’s him in the end, I will…” he balls his hand into fists.

“Please, let us take care of the rest. For now, I need you to focus staying safe,” you pat him and let him go. “You don't know if you won't be the next target.”

He gasps. “Yes, yes… I have men guarding me,” he says to comfort himself, “And I really am placing my faith in your hands. For Milena… thank you, detective…”

As you watch Anastasya usher him to rest, you promise yourself you will work your hardest to earn that need permit to question Flins. Flins will be questioned again—properly this time—and you’ll make sure of it.

Right as you're about to enter the grounds of the scraggly city, your hurried stride is interrupted. “Excuse me, detective…!”

Hearing your name, you turn around, finding a young boy with a notepad jogging towards you. “Yes?” you ask tentatively, already anticipating vexing curiosity.

Your thoughts have begun to agglomerate into a dark, heavy cloud on your mind, dense with fragments that refuse to equate into anything coherent. It is hard to entertain anything beyond your primary objective, and so your walk has turned sharp, almost aggressive in its intent. Any interruption now feels like inconvenience and more like intrusion. Especially that it’s not unwise to believe this boy has been following you ever since you left Drogomir’s house—pretty much in character for a journalist. Those that are still children are particularly cunning.

“I’m from the local newspaper, Nasha Express. My name is Anton,” he says, slightly out of breath but bright-eyed. “I’d like to ask you a few questions about your case, to, you know, comfort people of Nasha Town.”

You take a proper look at him. Blond. Puny. Yet brimming with a kind of restless energy that seems out of place in the shadow of what he is asking about. Of course. Press. There’s always inquiry, and while you don’t fault people for their interest, not entirely, they have a way of circling the truth like carrion birds, incorrigible when denied. This one is surely asking about the genesis of the murder.

“Well, I can’t promise anything too insightful at the moment. We are still in the middle of an investigation, and sharing certain details prematurely may aid the culprit,” you say in one breath, as if reciting a protocol you know like the back of your hand.

“Of course,” he nods with understanding, “I can only assume it’s nothing rudimentary of work, right?”

“Have you ever heard of someone scattering organs around for fun?” you reply dryly. “It is the sort of thing one encounters only in Inazuman crime novels.”

“N-no…” he falters, blushing at your bluntness, “That’s why everyone is curious. We haven’t seen anything like this for ages. And… we do have many people disappearing. Especially with… Fatui recruitment.”

“I’m pretty sure this murder is not connected to any abduction,” you clarify.

The boy furrows his brows, struggling against a conclusion that refuses to be practical. “Then… why would someone do something like this?”

“Well, you sort of answered your own question—everyone is curious.”

He tilts his head, not quite following.

“That murder became a show rather quickly, did it not?” you sigh. “It’s not hard to imagine that someone might have intended it to become one.”

“So they did it for attention?” he asks, concentrating hard on your words.

“In a way.” Your lips curve slightly, although there is little humor in it. “Which is precisely why I would beseech the citizens of Nod-Krai to restrain themselves from indulging in speculation. Conspiracy has a way of feeding vultures like that.”

“Is that even possible?”

“If they wish to know what truly happened, they have little choice,” you answer, a trace of scorn in your voice. “Now, if that is all—”

“Detective,” young voice stops you in tracks. “Just one more question.”

“Yes?” you acquiesce, turning around.

Anton studies you—no longer with an erratic curiosity of a boy chasing a story, but with something more calculated.

“Have you ever thought of murdering a person yourself? Have you ever killed a person before?”

You go still.

It’s the sort of question that can easily put you at disadvantage, even if the truth is, everyone has thought of killing someone. The thought is universal, it’s only committing the act that’s rare—albeit, not too rare in Teyvat. And life is measured differently by everyone. Some see it as sacred, the mere act of breathing a miracle—yet take it from others without hesitation. Some reduce it to currency, assigning value where it profits them and discarding it where it does not. Others—perhaps the most dangerous—slap moral exceptionalism on murder, so long they’ve committed them in the name of greater good. Maybe even think world demands blood—necessary evil. Wars will always start and end, for people are greedy—maybe inherently. Some have no choice but to kill. Life can have no meaning at all. Reduced to biology function. A system that simply starts and ends.

If you say yes, you look like a psycho. If you say no, you are dishonest. So you settle for a golden medium. “I have thought of killing another person to defend another person. But I have never considered pulling a trigger for my own pleasure.”

You make your exit right after, not waiting for his reaction. Then you hear it and your steps falter.

“Thank you, little detective. It was an interesting answer.” The words land lightly, almost playfully.

You think your ears have to be deceiving you. Did Flins send you after me? is what you almost ask but stop yourself. “Little?” you whip your head around with a question. The boy doesn’t answer, already running away.

You’ve gotten yourself involved with a rather curious trio. The commander, the doer, and the jester. They have their respective names, yet your mind refuses to retain them in that form; instead, they settle into categorized by you functions. You find yourself wondering where Milena would have belonged among them—or whether she had floated between roles, adjusting herself to fit whatever shape was required of her. Perhaps she had been simply desperate enough to remain close to them, as you don’t like her friends at all. Their appearances don’t matter to you either. You focus on the look in their eyes: demanding, pliant, and amused—expression that do not waver, fixed deeper than bone marrow, immune to circumstance.

People's filth begins to encroach your mind, with persistence that unsettles you. Milena’s friends present only simulacrum of humility, feeling constructed. At first glance, they appear saddened, yet there is a dissonance beneath it, misalignment between what is shown and what is felt. Nonetheless, you attempt to dismiss it for now, to instead focus on the matter at hand—gathering information.

You sit across from them in a coffee shop Milena loved to visit. Everything is supposedly comforting: beige walls without any holes in them, a fireplace that keeps the place warm, and red carpet that pronounces their shiny shoes. The coffee, you note, is expensive—another proof of the world Milena once lived in.

“Has Milena been acting strange before the last time you saw her?” you ask, repeating the same question you posed to her father. Answers tend to shift depending on the listener; friends, after all, are often entrusted with truths that never reach family

“She’s been giddy…” says the jester, tracing with the rim of their cup, their tone light and almost entertained.

“Giddy? Do you know the reason?” you lean over the table, your voice turning intimate.

“She liked that weirdo,” the commander answers, “Although, I suppose, he is somewhat handsome… chivalrous even… enough for even someone like Milena lose her mind over,” the commander says. “‘You know, a different status.”

“Flins, you mean?” you ask.

They all nod.

“Did any of you meet him personally?”

“I saw him from afar…” the jester replies. “He has a… certain posture. Surprisingly, very eloquent.”

“Did she have feelings for him?” you cannot help but wonder.

“She denied that when we asked…” the doer tears up at the thought, their voice shaky. “But whatever it was… she seemed happy. Truly happy, for the first time in a long time. Why couldn’t we make her feel that way too…?”

“Don’t be a crybaby,” the commander cuts in abruptly, and the doer immediately apologizes, shrinking into themselves with shame. The jester only observes.

“Don’t torment yourself,” you say instead, as nice as you can. “If she was your friend, I’m sure she valued your presence as well.”

You find yourself thinking that the doer frustratingly lacks a certain resistance. Unless… that is what sustains their and the commander’s arrangement—symbiosis, disguised as companionship, where the doer has a place without having to face the world on their own.

“Thank you, detective,” they murmur.

You stir your coffee slowly, and feel the trio’s attention on you, mostly expectant, as if awaiting the next source of stimulation.

There is vultures everywhere these days.

“Say, earlier, you mentioned she likes traveling? Where was the last place she visited.”

“Oh, you know, she went here and there…” the commander says listlessly. “Probably somewhere interesting.” So they don’t really know.

“What was she like, anyway?” you try another question, squirming in your seat from irritation.

“She was… kind,” the doer answers immediately. “Helpful. And her smile, wow, so bright! Like the sun. She was always there for us, for me,” the doer says fondly. “Always so inquisitive.”

No pejorative terms, at least. It seems many people loved Milena, despite the bad word spoken about her by strangers.

“And helpful,” the commander repeats the doer’s words, as though to reinforce the statement with their own claim. “What a plight her death is, truly… we won't be able to attend those charity events again.”

You drop your teaspoon. “Charity events?” Your mind reels from the topic change.

“Yes,” they shrug. “The cause matters, obviously, but many attend for the gathering itself. Milena always ensured we were invited.”

You pause, feeling your throat tighten. “Is that… what concerns you the most?”

“N-no, of course not!” the commander responds quickly. “We simply had plans—events we were meant to attend together. It is only now we realize she will no longer be there with us, for us…” They hesitate again. “How unfortunate…” The jester lets out a quiet laugh.

“I see,” you acknowledge, your tone cooling, “Thank you. That will be all.”

It’s the third day of the investigation led by you. Milena’s murderer seems to run a strict schedule.

What’s found next is… her stomach. Placed with the same audacity as before, in the very coffee shop you visited only yesterday. There is a certain irony to it that does not escape you—that her remains seem to follow you, appearing where you have just been, as though the killer trains not only her memory, but your steps well. For now, you dismiss it as coincidence. These are still places tied to Milena first and foremost.

Her stomach that no longer can consume, inert and stripped of all purpose. It will no longer consume, process, or indulge. Gluttony and consuming obsession have been excised from her entirely. The stomach is not simply an organ of excess—it’s also about necessity, survival, breaking down the world into something the body can endure. Her indulgence was condemned, so was fuel harvests and meat a body renders into another form of life. Perhaps the killer deemed her greedy, for the craving of what only few can have, for all these extravagant meals especially. Or maybe they turned her into a real prey, with no stomach acid to wash them down. Maybe they’re hungry themselves. Hungry for more than food.

At the morgue, you inquire about Milena’s state once more. When the doctor slides her body from the cooler and you are met with the same unchanging visage, you cannot help help the quiet gasp that escape you. She looks untouched by death as always. No progression, no surrender to the natural process, and you were just told that the doctor conducted an additional experiment—leaving her in the warmer room for hours—just in case truly nothing happens. The theory of some foreign interference, unnatural preservative, gains your respect again.

After the quick run, you end up climbing that damn Piramida city where Ratniki make their place, steeling yourself for an unpleasant meeting. You approach Kyryll’s superior, after a few others tried to stop you, knowing an explosive collision is bound to happen again.

“Oh… it’s you.” Nikita, the Starshyna of the Lightkeepers, does not bother to disguise the distaste that appears beneath his dark mustache as he recognizes you.

In retrospect, it’s rater amusing, that you have never had the (dis)pleasure of meeting Flins through him—proving the latter’s hermit lifestyle. Although, you heard he’s quite a storyteller, admired for it.

“I see you've been informed about my interest already, Sir Nikita,” you greet with a wry smile. There’s just something invigorating about being being dislikes so thoroughly, it can have your blood pumping—perhaps it’s that they already made assumptions, only to be surprised when you show them it’s been merely the tip of the iceberg called you. “How is Illuga faring?”

Nikita doesn’t stand up from his desk to greet you, nor does he offer to shake your hand; instead, he leans back in his chair, crossing his arms—gruff. You, in turn, make yourself comfortable against the wall of his office, uninvited yet unbothered.

“Listen,” he begins, rubbing his face with a weariness that’s here even if it’s just morning, “I’ll make this clear from outset—anything pertaining to flins and that dead woman’s case remains within the confines of our duty.”

“You’re withholding information from a heartbroken father who has just lost his daughter,” you counter bluntly, idly swinging the bag at your side, “much like he lost his wife years prior.”

He doesn't budge, as if anticipating such antics from the infamous detective. A certain reputation precedes you, as always. “I know well of your kind,” Nikita chides, “You care for coin and amusement. Your glibness makes a mockery of matters that require restraint. The man’s well-being is not your concern, is it?”

Under different circumstances, you might have laughed—there is, after all, a sprinkle of truth somewhere within that accusation. But today, for once, you don’t find it amusing—not when the case has begun to root itself beneath your skin. “It is not about me, nor about you,” you say sharply as you point at him, “How exactly is Drogomir meant to find his daughter’s killer otherwise? Or do you not intend to question Flins at all? Are you investigation, or are you protecting him?

It works out for you a little. Nikita’s eye twitches, and he's itching with a sudden need to defend himself underneath discipline. “Protect him?” he scoffs. “The Lightkeepers exist to protect others. At the cost of their own lives, and for the compensation that scarcely reflects it. Flins is no exception.” He shakes his head. “Have you seen the conditions he lives in?”

“There’s always a black sheep in some vacuum,” you oppose and step closer to his desk. “People playing a Johnny-on-the-spot are not a rarity.”

His anger grows. “Flins might be peculiar at times, but he is no murderer—”

“I never claimed he was,” you interrupt, watching him turn dumbfounded, “Nor did I suggest that his eccentricity makes him suspicious. That assumption was entirely on your own.” You let your words sink in. “My concern is simple. He was present at the scene. He fled. That warrants questions.”

Nikita’s mouth opens, then closes again, his argument disappearing. Your berating seemingly embarrasses him, as you are right it’s him who immediately assumed Flins is being seen as a murderer—he is used to people finding his man shady.

“I am not here to arrest him. I don’t even have enough legal power to do that,” you continue, “I am asking for permission to question him. Not whether he killed Milena—but whether he saw anything of importance.”

“It's still a part of our investigation that’s ongoing,” he argues a little bit more, but now, he’s thinner in confidence.

Exhaling through your nose, you take a walk in front of his desk. Nothing in this case is proceeding copacetic so far.

“An investigation from which you excluded the victim’s own family,” you point out with a sigh. “If you don't want people start questioning your good deeds, or The Guild breathing down your neck, you would do well to demonstrate your openness. Before some Snezhnayan diplomats will storm into the crime scene, to restore the disrupted trading route—that is, if they aren’t coming here already. Those who station here are already gossiping.”

He suddenly realizes that you must be right—for once, there is something he can agree with you on. News spread fast, and if the father will tell others about the Lightkeepers withholding information from him…

“If it helps you to be at more ease,” you add, almost conciliatory, “I can question him in front of you. No hidden agenda will slip past you, hm?” It’s really for your safety. You don’t trust Flins enough to be alone with him, and he’s also no yes-man. But you will certainly not let him bog you down in your process of discovering the truth.

“I’d much rather speak to the Guild directly—” his gaze flies to your bag at your side. “Hold on, what’s in that bag?” It is just now he starts noticing the stench emitting from it.

You smile. “Oh, this?” you lift it, “One of Milena’s organs. I’m delivering it to the morgue after it was found in the town. Your office just happened to be on the way. Do you want to take a gander?”

Of course it’s not her organ. It’s your dinner. The morgue is not even this direction, and her stomach is already secured. But the first sounds funnier, and knowing you, and with his nose overwhelmed by the putrid smell, he doesn't question the validity of your words.

Nikita turns green. You’re horrifying and disrespectful. “Tomorrow, eight in the morning sharp. Now, leave this office this instant!” he barks, throwing himself up to open the window.

When the day of set meeting comes, fourth, another organ is found—Milena’s uterus, withing the premises of the school she once attended. Of all the gestures thus far, this one gives you chills in a manner far more insidious. It is not merely the violence of the act, but the implication of what is being said. Some would reduce a woman to singular function of bearing life. And yet, even within that fertility, there is something worth grieving. Perhaps Milena did want children. Perhaps she envisioned a future not dictated by her father’s shadow, nor the expectations of others. That too, has been stolen. But uterus is not solely a vessel for birth. It is creation in its most cyclical, most enduring form—a testament to persistence, to pain endured and survived in silence, a body that renews itself even as it suffers. It is vulnerable, yes, but oh so resilient. For the killer, perhaps, it’s only about any type of creation, especially with someone whose mind was so bright and promising.

With the organ safely transported to the morgue, another piece to restore the art piece her body is, you return to your own office.

You are currently being reminded just how verbose people can get. You have gained the permission to interrogate Flins, but not to search his lighthouse—Ratniki’s property. What if he hid some substance here? Not that it matter much—should he be guilty, he would have long since ensured nothing remains to be found. A man like him does not leave loose threads. Nikita brought Flins to your tiny office, as per his promise. You immediately noticed how the suspect does not look worried, but rather… amused. No, amused is an ineffectual word. He’s like a child exploring a new environment. And your office hardly deserves such fascination.

A rented attic above one of the Guild’s checkpoints, dim when there’s no windows for light to enter—some items are photosensitive, with mismatched furniture you have accumulated over time to your whim. It’s all practicality—tools of all manner arranged randomly, each somehow useful. In the center, your heavy desk stands, bearing the brunt of your labor.

The chair across it awaits to be warmed by Flins, yet he’s choosing to be a busybody to your equipment displayed on the shelves instead... As if the dead woman back in the morgue can wait a bit longer. Your jaw tightens. She of course won't move anywhere, but any delay in solving the case invites unforeseen contingencies.

Your office stores a plethora of tools, not limited to one specialization—anything could come in handy for you one day. Amid those more dull ones, rests a small balance scale, copper bowls weighing it down on the both sides—he takes great interest in this one.

“Tipping the scales—did you know that’s how they conclude justice in Fontaine? I find it to be—” “Mr. Flins, please don't touch that scale,” you interrupt his antics sharply—as well the unwarranted lecture on the foreign law to be spouted by the loquacious man.

“Oh,” his mouth forms nearly a petulant line at your denial, “Does this scale serve a decorative purpose?” his finger hovers, then presses. Consequently, there's a pressure strong enough to be weighing one of the bowls down. Anxious, you stand up from your chair, reaching with your hand to stop him.

“No. But it’s been calibrated and any indelicate touch will sabotage that setting,” you scold. “Please leave it alone.”

“Hm... but a scale is meant to handle a load..” he frowns, pressing on it again.

“It has a weight limit,” you deadpan. “And you’re about to exceed it with your hand.”

Push it down too hard and the modules inside will shift their assumed shape; you need your scale to be as precise as possible, down to milligrams.

He pauses, as though considering this sincerely. “I see,” Flins acknowledges with an exaggerated politeness. “That makes perfect sense.”

“Yes, so…” you sit back down, thinking the crisis’s over.

But of course, he “accidentally” presses his hand on one of the bowls, when standing up from his crouching position. Your breath hitches, stunned. “Oh,” he says again, as though surprised at his own mistake, “my apologies. I fear I misjudged its sensitivity. Though I believe I saw a similar device once in a souvenir shop in passing. It functioned quite well, if memory serves. Tarno’s establishment is where I purchase my gems. My collection is constantly expanding; in fact—”

You can tell he’s been testing you rather than being arbitrarily disrespectful; gauging how easy it is to provoke you, even though he's the one to be interrogated. What makes you crack. You cannot tell why. Nonetheless, you tuck the mention of the gems to the back of your head—if he owns them, then what about porcelain boxes?

“Would you please sit down,” you point at the chair in front of your desk, sighing with exasperation he probably wanted, but… “Your tea is becoming cold,” that's your workaround excuse.

It works out for you, thankfully. “Ah, yes. Where are my manners,” he concedes, stepping away from the shelf as if nothing happen. “I must be talking your ear off.” He takes the seat—finally. He greets you properly, at last, smiling, “So we meet again, dear detective. I do hope I can be the best of help for you.”

While there finally was an earnest recognition of the weight of the situation, you can still sense that he, in his own Flins way, is happy to see you—quite an aberration, considering the circumstances. Something warm, yet misplaced. You have encountered obsession before—aspiring minds enthralled by the romance of deduction, having read too many middling novels—(well, you did too, but with a bit of skepticism.) Flins seems like a bigger evil than those dilettantes. He also has a rather noble speech and mannerism, counterintuitive for a regular soldier—and you assume Nikita knows a little more about his background.

“That we do,” you say, your tone clipped. “I’m glad to see you willing to cooperate.”

He’s not shaken by your phlegmatic attitude. “Of course. It is only proper to assist in bringing a grieving father some measure of peace… should it come to pass.” So archaic.

“Right, your boss…” you remember, with displeasure. “He is not with you? I thought he wanted to be present during your… interrogation.”

Kyryll shakes his head. “He was otherwise detained. It would seem he places his trust in you. You must have made quite the impression,” his voice carries a ring of amusement. A good impression. He probably knows about your brazen show.

You don’t entertain his mention. Instead, you gesture toward the untouched plate before him. The medovik he brought as a gift sits untouched—honey and walnut that can make anyone's mouth water. Only that you don’t trust him enough to eat his food. You offered to share therefore—especially that sugar loosens tongue, and you could use him being drowsy.

“You're not eating? Are you allergic to any of the ingredients?”

“No, nothing of the sort,” he waves his hand. “I like to maintain a healthy discipline. Healthy body, healthy spirit.”

“And yet you frequent taverns?” you ask skeptically. From what you’ve been told by others, he was a regular comer, too.

“A glass of red wine is often recommended,” he replies, unperturbed. “It gladdens the liver.”

You wiggle at the liver mention. He notices, still smiling. “Very well,” you force the conversation forwards, “I’ll try to keep it brief,” you say curtly. “Can you confirm that you were near The Flagship at approximately four thirty in the morning?”

“Yes,” Flins says with no qualms. Quite cooperative. “A rather customary hour to depart such established. The air, just before sunrise, the breeze—they are very pleasant and bring clarity,” he says with pleasure in his sigh, as if he’s right there in the ambience.

“Then, can you tell me what exactly where you doing here, around that time?”

“Drinking. Conversing. Enjoying myself one does in such places. There's this brand of wine I particularly enjoy… delivered straight from Mondstadt. The nation of freedom, yet not—”

“Mhm,” you say with boredom, “Is there anyone that can vouch for you and confirm that you were there?” you ask impatiently. Your pulse is spiked, drumming against your neck, and this room is so hot.

You seriously can’t tell what it is about this Ratnik that plays on your nerves; you’re not used to losing your cool… At least, to this extent. And yet, he keeps nudging you toward it, making you something uncomfortably close to a foil character in your own investigation.

Perhaps it's the way he constantly looks as if he knows something you don't—and is self-indulgently holding it out of your reach. Not the first person to do so, but only few ever manage to introduce real uncertainty—others were mostly cocky, loud with confidence they would never substantiate, brittle when tested. It’s almost like encountering that one person that bothers you for no tangible and sensible reason, yet insists on occupying your mind, isolating you from the broader group that perceives them differently.

“Yes. I was conversing with Demyan. You recognize him, yes?”

“Yes. The bartender of the Flagship.” That’d give him some alibi, if he factually has a witness. You hate that. “Did you leave the tavern at any point during the night?”

If he were to be a killer, perhaps he would first deposit the body before entering, to linger for a few hours as though seeking closure, and then, on his way out, be unable to not take a final glance at his work—confirming that reality had complied with his intension. It’s not as if someone was babysitting Flins and keeping an eye on him, an adult. It was difficult for the doctor Daroslav to precisely ascertain how long the body had remained there, given the artificially slowed progression of decomposition, which distorted any correct estimation of time of death. Still, you assume Flins would have sufficient time to soak in the atmosphere.

“No,” he replies simply, his eyes glinting with mischief. Your pulse rises, and you rake desk with your nails.

“Not even briefly?” “Precisely.”

“What time did you arrive?” You move in your chair, squeaking it on purpose. He doesn't budge.

“About midnight.”

“When you finally left, at… four thirty?” “Yes, four thirty.”

The tension between you two escalates. While your grows, so does his interest, and yet, he keeps his posture in chair impeccable. It’s really the tiny twitches of his lips and his eyes appealing less dull that allow you to know Flins isn’t a lifeless machine.

“Then why,” you ask irritably, leaning forwards just slightly, “were you seen hugging the crates outside The Flagship, hiding behind them?”

“You see…” his tone shifts into a… flustered tone. “When I spoke of my fondness for that particular wine… I did not exaggerate.”

You furrow your brows, unsure what he’s getting at. “What about it? Was it the wine in the crates?”

“For a fleeting moment, I entertained the notion of appropriating a bottle for myself,” he admits as if ashamed, from the fall of his blue hair. “An unseemly impulse, brought on by indulgence. But I did not act upon it. The moment I realized I had been observed, I abandoned the idea entirely.”

You stare at him. “You… tried to steal wine.” The absurdity of his claim hangs between you. Flins has never admitted to killing Milena, nor has he been troubled by the thought of doing so; yet he acts culpable about stealing a bottle of wine.

“Yes,” his smile turns embarrassed, however, I am no thief. It was a result of… inebriety. A most undignified act of mine.”

“And this occurred minutes before Milena’s body was discovered.” “Yes.”

You watch carefully, dissecting the way he scratches his cheek and chuckles nervously. A perfect actor. At least, the levity finally recedes. Flins dons on some seriousness, straightening his posture that already left little room to complain. “I understand I may have appeared… flippant,” he says politely, “It was not my intent to diminish the gravity of the matter. Rather… it is simply how I navigate such… disquieting circumstances.” Now he claims it to be a coping mechanism. Being mature. Interesting. It doesn’t last for too long, as something… warmer enters his gaze—meant for you, and the way you passionately inspect him. Disgusting.

You take a route of being blunt, as your last resource to derive truth from him. No pretense. “Mr, Flins,” you begin firmly, “it is entirely plausible that many were still drinking at that hour. I am not disputing that. Wrong place, wrong time. However, you must understand—you were seen emerging from the very same secluded crevice where Milena was discovered merely seven minutes later or so.” Your gaze sharpens, pinning him in place. “She may have been here for some time already. That alone suggests you could have been the first to encounter her body. An entire group witnessed you, no one else that wasn’t simply passing by was noted. And as it happens, you knew her personally. Of course,” you pause, gathering your breath, “it could be as your claim. A moment of stupid drunk decision. But…” you trail off.

“Yes…” he hums softly, fingers resting against his chin as though weighing your words on your own scale. “I suppose that would make me… a most convenient suspect.” Yet his gaze doesn’t waver, penetrating you—staring at you like a picture, enough to make your heart race in a different way with how captivated it is. “However, I did not see any body.”

“What? Why are you staring at me?” He’s making this entire interrogation cumbersome, yet you still take the bait. Your hand lifts to your cheeks, instinctively. “Do I have something on my face?” you ask with both irritation and fluster.

“No.”

Is he trying to derail you? “Then enlighten me.”

"Your eyes,” he murmurs, “they take on a certain… luminosity when you pursue an answer. It is quite phenomenal,” he praises. “One might almost forget the grimness of the subject, watching you think.”

You stare at him with bemusement, though your stomach twists in a surprising way, not entirely immune to his silver words. Whatever glow you might have, it’s irrelevant at the moment!

"Thank you?” you say with a gulp.

"You are most welcome,” he replies with a chuckle following, as if he has been granted something precious.

“Anyway,” you grab the cake for yourself, more out of displaced agitation than hunger. You miss his satisfaction. “You knew her personally,” you finally go back on track, now pushing away your prejudice against him. “Tell me about it.”

Flins observes you with particular attentiveness as you take that first bite, as if the simple act was bringing him pleasure too. “She was a frequent visitor to the island I inhabit,” he begins at last, his tone softening into something intimate.

“For what purpose?” you ask with intrigue.

“At first, it was curiosity… She has heard the usual tales about the cemetery—a place of fog and unrest, of ghosts that refuse to be forgotten. Such stories tend to attract certain groups...” He’s getting distracted by you, taking longer pauses between his statements. “There’s some people that occasionally wander into that territory, enticed by the idea of something unexpected happening. Yet upon discovering that the reality of my living consists of merely… humble existence, her interest shifted into some kind of pity.” He wets his lips. “She began to insist on bringing me provision, or tidying up some neglect. A funny notion, considering that the son of Starshyna Nikita, Young Master Illuga, has already thought of doing the same.”

Two people caring about him, as if he’s some man in need and not a walking trouble. Did he manipulate them, or does he seriously read as someone poor to these two? He is still making himself to appear an outcast, after all. To be able to infer, you’ll have to ask Illuga yourself later.

“And during these visits, Mr. Flins, ” you lick your teaspoon and he stares at you harder, “did she ever mention anyone troubling her? Did she appear distressed to you?”

“Well... Nothing that would strike me as unusual…” but his words are careful picked as ever, “The usual tribulations of youth—academic burdens, persistence of suitors, the… complexities of familial expectations.”

The last picks up your curiosity the most. Conflicts with a parent could be normal, so they can be an issue downplayed. Drogomir seemed enthusiastic about loving his daughter, but you’ll never the know the half of their real relationship, unless Milena were to rise from dead and tell you herself. You notice the way he lets his words settle, like bait cast into your waters.

Pushing your face closer to his, you lower your voice. “Can you elaborate on what exactly they were arguing about?” the attempt to hide your excitement does not go unnoticed by him.

You still cannot clarify and say it’s Drogomir who killed his daughter, and not possibly the Ratnik trying to throw the shady light at him, yet there’s something worth exploring in this providential offer, as you find each clue to be a prompt for gambling with fate, seeing if it’ll offer anything real good this time. If anything, both sides have been attempting to blame each other.

The recipient languidly stirs his tea, doing the same to your emotions as he knows well your patience is running thin, before he puts on a worried look. “You see… I had reason to believe that Miss Milena… may have… developed certain… feelings towards me,” he says carefully.

He chuckles at your look of disbelief. Milena wanting… him? Although, it cannot be said he’s unattractive, her father told you she was scared of him—sometimes.

“Her father,” he continues, “appeared to arrive at a similar conclusion. I was informed, through her, that he wanted our meetings to cease.”

“Why? Does he dislike you?” you ask with a shake of your head, expelling the cursed thought of Flins being your own love interest.

“This is beyond dispute,” he snickers, “Sir Drogomir maintains rather… exacting standards regarding those he deems worthy of his daughter. And I—,” he nods at himself, mocking his humility, “am but a humble Ratnik, living in a dilapidated lighthouse.”

Humble is the last word you’d use to describe Flins. “Did he ever get physical with her? Has she mentioned ever feeling unsafe with him?” you plant your hands against the desk, leaning forward again.

“To be honest with you…” he says quietly as if it’s a secret between you two, “I believe she implied a certain… possessiveness. A sense of obligation beyond filial devotion. She spoke often of her duty to remain by her ‘papa’s side, so he is not left alone.” He looks around your office in thought, his gaze hanging on an empty bird cage, “Yet there was hesitation in her confessions. Unease. As if the choice were not entirely her own.”

A father being possessive of his daughter certainly could be a motive; if she were to insist enough on leaving his nest, finally shaping the independent boundary, he could take on the mindset of “it’s me or no one.” The approach to her killing would be reverent if he still loves her despite deriving her of life. Old Drogomir really is lonely; if anything, he stubbornly froze himself in the old times’ prime, vicariously fantasizing through what used to be.

It’s amazing how selfish some parents can be. Growing a smaller version of themselves, frustrated when they tread their individual paths. Using children as a pawn to their loneliness, or recalling what the sacrifice they committed as though it grants them eternal claim. Reclaiming their rights when things don’t go as planned—calling their children ungrateful even. Tale as old as time. Instilling fear trough protectiveness is also another possibility. To raise a life, only to refuse it its own. It is not always malice-driven, but neither is it innocent.

“Detective?” Flins gently waves his hand in front of you, pulling you back from the recesses of your head.

“There could be guilt involved, yeah,” you blurt out. “But we need more than implication. Every family faces some kind of struggle. It’s not much, unless he’s been actually abusive with her,” you set the dish aside, brushing your thumb absently over your lip.

Flins eyes them, lingering here.

“I suppose she offered nothing more substantial,” he continues, although his voice has a faint distraction, “only the persistence to remain by his side. She was inclined to take upon herself the greater share of responsibility in many things. That girl…” a small shake of his head, almost disapproving, almost fond. “So accommodating. To a fault.”

For once, you let him ramble. "Go on.”

“One time comes to mind,” he says, setting back against the chair that the light above him halos him with something creepy, “She abandoned her exams after receiving a letter from her father that suggested grave sickness, though with reassurances that a physician was present.” He purses his lips, looking intensely at you so you don’t dare to avoid him. “She rushed to him regardless, only to discover it was no more than a common flu. A dramatization, nothing more.”

The more you hear Flins blabber and feel a bloom of headache behind your eyes, the more you believe Drogomir might—with emphasis on might—have some possessive issues. The event showcased is worth looking into. Unless it was actually one of the prescient event.

“Well,” you drawl, steepling your hands, “Loneliness can make some parents… inventive. Not always maliciously, although it does complicate things.” You stare back, challenging him. “Instead, I will ask you this—you say her father was aware of her supposed feelings for you?”

“Yes.”

You hum with interest. “Did he ever initiate contact?”

“Not directly,” he taps your desk. “Instead, I received a very lengthy letter, written by him. Ardently speaking about his dissatisfaction with me.”

Your mouth pops open. Drogomir told you he heard of Flins, but not about any attempt to contact. “And you’re telling me this just now?”

“Yes, but I replied accordingly to the question which was about her relationship with him, not my with him, nor our vendetta,” he says innocently.

You take a deep breath, one worth many regular ones. “What was in that letter exactly? Were there any threats?” You don't like throwing many questions at once, as they tend to give people an opportunity to fake a correct answer based on what these questions imply. With him, it’s mandatory to not let him omit anything. “In fact, I’d love to see it myself; if you still happen to have it, of course…”

“Yes,” he nods, reaching for his inside pocket. You examine the letter he places right under your nose.

Unraveling it and recognizing Drogomir’s writing, your mind makes connections. This specific line you catch, after reading other cursive speaking about how the possible fiance is undeserving and should stay away:

“[…] I won’t let my precious girl be stained by a grimy man like you! I raised her on my own, I spoiled her, fed her, taught her, made sure she lacks nothing! What can you give her?! She’s mine, my daughter! My child! If you want to keep your job, you better stay away from her! […]”

The rest of the letter is somewhat repetitive, with Drogomir highlighting all the aspects of how his ownership.

“It is certainly something,” you murmur to yourself, humorlessly laughing. “What did you do after?”

“Sir Nikita advised me to discontinue relationship with her. For the sake of avoiding… unnecessary repercussions.”

“And how did she react to your rejection?”

“She was quite sad,” he says gently, “then furious at her father. I had to beseech her to not plead in my case,it would have served neither of us,” Flins says solemnly.

“When was this?” “A week ago.’

“A week— a week ago?” you ask, aghast. The same span given by Tojadski household. If what Flins says is true, it meant Milena must have been alive until at least a week ago—and that some fight might have broken out between her and her father. “Mr. Flins, do you even realize how much this short notice changes things?”

“I would have never considered Sir Drogomir capable of hurting her,” he replies calm as ever, ”so pardon me for having faith in him.”

“This…” you sputter, then sigh, “This isn’t about giving someone benefit of doubt. Your personal feelings don’t matter in the investigation,” you reproach him for his secrecy.

He only blinks at you, as if unable to reciprocate your desperation.

“Forget it. I’ll deal with you later,” You now know the father’s passion for making sure his daughter stays alone is nothing to ignore. “You haven’t heard from her since then, until she was found dead?”

He shakes his head.

Back to the old man, then. “Thank you for today, Mr. Flins.”

“Oh,” he frowns. “Our meeting is concluding?”

You nod.

“Very well.” He stands up, and extends his hand like he did last time. Wanting him gone already, you are ready to shake his hand—only for him to lift it to his lip and press a kiss.

Your heart stills. “What are you—”

“Expressing my gratitude and respect,” he says fondly, looking at you from under his lashes.

He knows how to mess with your head, always throwing something unexpected at you. You yank your hand back before quickly approaching the door which then you shove open. Wordlessly, he follows and thankfully leaves. But the erratic rhythm of your heart does not.

“But… you went through her things and found nothing … why again?'“ You can tell Milena’s father is nervous about your unsolicited visit, something he couldn’t have steeled himself for. You want to believe it is nothing more than a man guarding a shrine—his late daughter’s room, meant to stay untouched, as if she still lived here. Yet your suspicions, newly seeded by Flins, do not allow leniency.

With a reassuring hand on his shoulder, you speak calmly, “Routine checkup. Some things are not obvious the first time… only incremental inspections can help us find something less obvious.” You could press him further, corner him with deeper questions, but it’s too early for that. To accuse him outright would be to provoke a man with means enough to vanish, and a mind too brittle to endure pressure without additional fracture. He lost weight and went even grayer.

“Well… I don't think there’s anything interesting left…” he argues defensively.

You’ll decide that for yourself. It's hard to believe a man at the brink of losing his sanity anyway. “Is there something you believe could be missing?” you press on further.

“No.. I don’t think so,” he shakes his head fervently.

You sigh. Then an idea strikes you. “Did your daughter possess a diary of kind?” Many women do. And Milena, burdened by expectations, strikes you as one who especially would confide in ink. She was smart enough to hide it, from her father capable of trespassing.

Perhaps Drogomir did that, judging by the sudden panic arising in his eyes. “A diary?” he stutters. “I mean… she probably did like any young lady, but I wouldn’t know where she kept it… she was a clever girl…”

“Please don’t lie to me,” you say bluntly, watching his breath hitch in response.

Drogomir gulps and shakes his head again, rebuking any accusations. He wipes his sweaty hands. “N-no, I assure you, I don’t know its location. Please try to find it in her room, maybe she hid somewhere, how would you even not know if I had taken it?! You’re the detective here, not me!”

You decide to play his ally for now, taking on a decile intonation. “Mr. Tojadski, I’m not accusing you of anything. The diary might shed some light on your daughter and Sir Flins’s relationship. I already know your own relationship with her was… strained, but I understand you didn’t want to lose her.”

Your words visibly relax Drogomir, his shoulder sagging. “Right! This Flins… he’s up to no good. He is no good at all! Are you saying you suspect he might have killed her?” He’s happy to shift the narrative and make him the perpetuator again.

You smile. “We’re destined to see the truth. So, you say you don't have that diary?”

He exhales deeply, eyes darting in hesitance to tell you. “No… but! I’m really not a bad man! The truth is, I did want to keep some sake after her to myself. A memento. I wanted to take it for myself. But I couldn’t find it. I don’t wish to make your investigation any more difficult. So I’m telling you the truth. I swear, I don’t know where it is,’ he trips over his own words.

You nod sympathies. “Of course. I understand. That’s what any loving father would do—preserve something of his daughter,” you agree, all sycophantic.

He clings to that, nodding and nodding until his head might fall, slowly forgetting your implications.

You resume your search therefore, lifting digging underneath Milena’s mattress. Her room could belong to the one of princess—floor to ceiling pink curtains, a spacious bed with canopy, heavy wardrobe, and silk rugs muffling every step.

“She misunderstood,” he says, panting above your shoulder. You pause. “Misunderstood what?” you ask, a little bit squeamish from his closeness. “She misunderstood…” he rambles to himself. Barely anchored in presence with you. And then, he collapses.

The man suddenly sinks down to his knees, clutching to your legs with broken sobs, more terror than grief. “I mean it! She must have hidden it, I really didn’t hide anything! I didn’t hurt her! I’m not dastardly!”

Look at him. A wrack of the man, saturated with grief, looking for the last source of comfort and hope. Yet there is nothing left to grip, and so he must succumb. If he is the murderer, the guilt must have set him insane. The dichotomy of guilt and brutality, in which affection meant to be warm, would be a catalyst to relinquish object of possession with mercilessness. A blade and hand can easily end life in an instant, so does possessiveness, only so so slowly, drip by drip drilling tracks in a stone. One may commit atrocity and weep over it in same breath, as terrifying it is.

In the end, you end up calling his maid for help. Drogomir is becoming delirious, the more the killer taunts with days. You wouldn’t blame any father for grieving this awful level, setting you back with your suspicions.

He could have killed her all right, that much remains true. But the precision, the ritual, the almost reverent disassembly—it does not belong to trembling hands such as his. Not alone, at the very least. What if Milena’s murder was not the work of a single individual? There’s so many discrepancies in the entire affair. That makes you realize you must be missing a crucial point. With Milena’s diary as a possible source of truth, you hope to discover it soon. It may speak where the dead cannot.

On your way to the Voynich Guild’s archives, you stop by the morgue where Milena's body rests. Nothing has changed. Not a shade, not a slackening of tissue. Her idiopathic condition has been keeping you awake at night, haunting you with her ghost—or the rare naps you manage to catch, as you barely sleep.

You’ve asked around about the theoretical drug organ traffickers use. What little you unearthed was nebulous at best. A broker named Valethi spoke in half-truths, mere rumors, hinting at a compound whispered among those affiliated with The Fatui. Except, there’s no proof or evidence. And if you were to dig yourself, you suspect there would be no one to save you. So you turn to what, for now, is achievable—the archives.

It is just now that you find time to browse through the Voynich Guild’s archives. It does not encourage comfort. You sneeze more than you read, irritation prickling at your eyes as you sit into one of the sparse chairs. Metal shelves stretch endlessly, swallowing the place whole. No windows, no warmth, only paper blurring at the edges, storing past.

Digging into the past, it seems Nod-Krai had its fair share of serial killers—who wouldn’t take their sweet chance, in an autonomous land like this? Men and women alike, who carved their names into history. Brutal. Scared. Stupid. Genius. But nothing matching the paradigm of Milena’s murder—removed organs, or purposely slowed decomposition, meticulous work… all these articles talk about rather a messy work in comparison—sadistic and panicked especially. Nothing to earn this person a title of serial.

“You are causing quite a sensation in Nod Krai, detective.”

People really like scaring you these days. And you are growing rusty, for you jump in your seat and scrape the floor in result. “Illuga,” you exhale with surprise and annoyance, seeing the Ratnik you were supposed to find yet had no time for.

“I thought I might find you here,” he says, stepping closer, “Old pops told me you were looking for me. Something about Mr. Flins. But you’ve been difficult to catch.” With no spare chair, he perches on the edge of your table, glancing over the scattered documents with curiosity.

“Oh, right,” you mutter, rubbing your forehead. “I meant to find you. Got… distracted along the journey.”

Illuga’s expression turns more disapproving that judging, as he’s a bit worried about your sorry state. “You look like you haven’t slept,” he remarks, crossing his arms. “That’s not going to help you see things clearer.”

“I see enough,” yu wave him off, though the edge in your voice lacks its usual bite. “Anyway. Since you’re here, it saves me the trouble.”

He nods once. “Go on, then. What do you need?”

“Well, my questions were mainly about you helping Flins. He said you visit him regularly,” you look back at the papers, deciding to multitask.

“I do,” Illuga confirms, “Mostly delivering supplies. Food. Sometimes food.” He rubs his face too, and you wonder just how often Flins troubles him. “I still don’t understand how he manages out there on his own.

“Does he even eat?” you joke dryly.

“He does. Just not too much.” A faint smile tugs at his mouth.

Flins and his quirks. Then there’s that lantern… Lightkeepers are expected to carry one, yet his is like no other.

“How does he maintain his weight then,” you mutter. “He’s not exactly frail.”

“I dunno. All that wine probably,” Illuga laughs quietly.

You huff. “When was the last time you saw him?”

“Two weeks ago. I usually drop enough to last for a month,” he says, swinging his legs.

“Hm, and during that visit, did he behave in any odd way?”

Illuga tilts his head, considering. “Nothing beyond what you’d already call usual foor him.” Which is to say—everything and nothing.

Seeing no promising results, you push the archives aside, shifting your chair to look at Illuga properly. “What do you think of him?”

“He’s strange,” he admits plainly. “Likes to push people. Observe their facial contortions,” he pauses, smiling modestly, “But he’s also pulled me out of trouble more than once. Others too. There is many who owe him for saving their lives.” He brushes his pants, as if fondling a precious memory. “He’s no evil,” he adds, more firmly. “I know that’s the part you’re clinging to.”

You wonder if Flins really is such, or he paints himself to be. You decide to be blunt with Illuga. “I cannot help but think that Flins of yours is pulling wool over my eyes.”

He adjusts his position, suddenly heaving a very big sigh through his nose. Not irritated… more accustomed to such accusations. “People’s feelings about him tend to be ambivalent,” he starts carefully, “And never does he help them think otherwise. But… he’s not a bad man. I think he’s just…”

“Yeah?”

He glances at you, almost amused in his purple gaze. “I think he likes your attention.”

You blink rapidly, trying to take in his assumption. “Um. Why would he.” You play with your hands, shifting a pen in them.

“He likes things that are not mundane. Especially those with latent potential…” Illuga doesn't want to defend his friend about that part—you can tell—yet he doesn't want to lie to you either.

“So he’s waiting for some sort of spectacle?” you snicker cynically.

“Are you that much better?”

You stiffen. “Excuse me?”

“You're curious about him too. You came all the way here. Dug through all this, even his files.” He gestures vaguely at the papers in front of you. “You chase things other people would rather leave alone.”

“That’s my job!” you say stubbornly.

“Is it?” there’s annoying insistence in his voice. “Or is that just what you tell yourself so it makes sense?”

You frown, your blood boiling. “I’m curious for the sake of investigation.”

Illuga nods as if accepting your words, but not quite believing in them. “And not curious about him as a person? Be honest, how often do you meet enigmatic people like him?”

You don’t answer immediately. He doesn’t press—not that he needs to. The silence does all the work for him.

You click your tongue, breaking it. “So you don’t think he killed Milena?”

“Never.” His hand moves to rest on his chest, as an oath. “Flins might unsettle people, come off as peculiar. But he wouldn’t do something like that.”

You search for cracks in his conviction and find none. “How do you know you’re not biased?” you ask almost desperately. How can you trust Flins to be innocent, seeing all the clues leading to him?

“How do you know you’re not biased yourself? He’s a perfect suspect,” he backtracks bluntly.

You wince. Maybe you are biased somewhat. But there’s just too many coincidences.

“My approach is still multifaceted,” you say defensively. “I consider everyone. Even her father. Maybe it was neither Flins or he and I still don't have a killer. All the evidence I have left is her diary… which I shouldn’t have said but whatever,” you groan and slap the table with frustration.

“Is it lost?” Illuga asks more kindly, understanding your fatigue, knowing well your case isn’t for faint-hearted.

“Something like that.” You stand up and move to gather papers. The conversation already begins to slip from your grasps ass your mind returns to the case “All right. Thank you for your time.”

Illuga slides of the table, stretching his limbs.

You hesitate, then add begrudgingly—“I’ll try to give that Flins a benefit of doubt—but just for you, Illuga.”

His expression softens, not really triumphant. “Don’t do it for my sake,” he says politely. “Do it so you don’t miss something important.” He steps aside, giving you space to pass. “And get some rest, detective,” he adds. “Even the best lantern burns out if you don’t tend the blame.”

You scoff, as if you think you’re no child—but you allow his words to follow you nonetheless.

You had sought only a momentary reprieve before you would move forthwith into the investigation again, as an impulse brought you back to The Flagship, the very locus where it all had begun. To sit here, to breathe the same air the killer might had, to let the atmosphere steep into your senses—as if to reconstruct some events. You attempt to inhabit the moment of death, imagine what others were doing and not doing at the deadly hour in the morning, to approximate its texture, its immediacy, until you can almost taste the fear that must have permeated it. Not that it’s any pleasant here. The stench of vomit and alcohol, the heated air, loud voices, gossip about nothing and everything—

“Detective.” A familiar sound withdraws you from your constant battle within your mind. Unbelievable. That insufferable Ratnik is here, in the same tavern.

You stare at him, already moving in your seat with an intention to block the bench across from you before he could impose himself— Too late. He is already seated.

“Mr. Flins.” Is he seriously not worried, to roam around freely? You can hear people’s whispers and see them pointing fingers. “What are you doing here?”

“Please, Flins will suffice,” he says, all kind, as though this were a simple social call. “I hope it is not intrusion if I join you. I was having a drink myself, until I noticed you on my leave… You appeared… rather lost in thought. I wonder whether I might offer some measure of comfort.”

“Comfort?” you bat your lashes at him with an incredulous perception. “Do I look despondent to you?”

“I am certain even a renowned detective such as yourself is not exempt from moments of frailty. I find myself concerned by your… lassitude.”

Before you can reject that implication and be offended by it, he adds, “Needless to say, such a state would not render you weak. You are merely fatigued. I have been contemplating whether you might benefit from an outside perspective… or perhaps from additional information regarding Miss Milena.”

Like he is any erudite. What can he even know, other than how to stir chaos? You wonder what is it for him, approaching you, then being generous like he's your sidekick. If he is the murderer, this could be reconnaissance—an attempt to gauge progression of your investigation. Yet he does not strike you as careless enough to expose himself so brazenly… unless he considers himself beyond consequence. Or maybe he’s here for pure amusement, prodding at you already so worn out.

The question of the diary burns at the forefront of your mind—but to ask it directly would be to cede ground. “I’m as right as rain,” you deflect, taking a sip of mulled wine. At this point, the heat and alcohol do their best to anchor you, and keep you from slipping into the disarray gnawing at the edged of your head. From these floating cloves in your drink that form into thorns about to pull you down and drown you. “You, however, should not be roaming freely. You are yet to be cleared.”

“And what, pray tell, would I gain from killing my friend?” Flins taps the table lightly; the sound reverberates too loudly in your exhausted ears. It’s not him trying to outsmart or prove you wrong; it’s a rhetoric question.

“She’s your friend,” you counter, voice turning coarse. “A friend I do not see you mourning. Do you even care?” You're not afraid to get uncouth with him at this point. He must think of you as a joke anyway. Just enjoying himself at your expense.

“Of course I do,” Flins reassures with a hand on his chest. “Alas, we weren't that close. I permitted her closeness because she seemed… in need of it. To reject her outright would have been unnecessarily cruel.” He pauses, peering at you with curiosity. “May I ask you something in return.

“What is it?” you scowl.

“Why is it that you believe I murdered Milena?” he asks quietly.

The question hits you deeper than it should. If he were to be the killer, you’d be giving him extra joy, answering this question. Why. Why. Why. Everything is why and nothing is definite. You could construct the answer easily. His composure. His physical strength. His presence at the scene. The precision require. Mental fortitude. He’d never be a butcher, but an arranger.

Maybe the kill was messy because he doesn’t care about killing, wants to get over it, but anticipates the part that comes after. Or maybe he enjoys watching the victim’s reaction, them unable to stop the holy fact they will never take a breath and perceive again. Maybe he’s throwing you off on purpose. Maybe you will never solve your case, damning your entire career. But why make himself known only now and never before? It wouldn’t be his first kill, judging by the killer’s experience.

“I don’t believe you did it,” you answer at last, irritated. “You are a suspect. Nothing more.”

“Is that so?” he raises his brow, smiling knowingly.

“Yes.”

“And yet,” he leans in, lowering his voice to exist only for the two of you, “if you were to imagine me as the perpetrator… what would compel such the other conclusion?”

You shouldn’t entertain this. You really shouldn’t. But words fall freely when you are irked by him, and your defenses are lowered by exhaustion. Or perhaps you’re just another freak like him. “I doubt a murder of this… particular nature is about accomplishment,” you begin, leaning forward despite the short distance from his nose, your eye contact grasping his. Flins’s eyes hood with a tinge of desire. “But if it were you… I imagine it would be to provoke.”

He’s not offended, as his interest is piqued. “Whose?” he asks softly. “The world’s? Nod-Krai’s? Or is it yours?”

“You tell me.”

His hand moves across the table, suddenly grabbing yours. No gloves, pure skin on skin. You freeze.

“I would not wish to inflict unnecessary headaches like that,” he chuckles. “You are already overburdened. It seems you lose yourself rather easily when something… unsettles you.”

He unsettles you. “I'm used to headaches.” You attempt to withdraw as if burned by his touch, but his grip does not relent—it’s not forceful, yet still resolute.

“I still would not take your wellbeing so cavalierly,” he says, as if affectionately, “for you have no one to compel to rest you when you ought to.”

“You don't know me well enough to care about me,” you reply, disgusted by something enamored with you. Some creature, not a human, as he possesses everything you do, everything you say, feel—everywhere you go. This makes him enough evil in your eyes.

“Is kindness towards strangers a bad virtue?” “It is rarely bestowed without motive.”

“My kindness,” he says, thumb idly tracing the faint line of your vine, “is merely a byproduct of clarity. Once you perceive the world as it is, cruelty feels… embarrassingly primitive. Childish, even.”

His words perk you up, giving food for thought. Those are rather surprising words—him speaking against cruelty, rather than being passive as always.

“What does that mean?” you stop struggling for a moment.

“When you truly understand people—truly understand them—there is little impetus to inflict harm. Cruelty reveals itself as a form of ignorance. Kindness becomes the more intelligent response.”

So he thinks of himself as kind?

“And what if cruelty is not not primitive or immature,” you question, calmer now, “but deliberate? A choice made in full awareness?”

“That too,” he concedes lightly, “is part off being human.”

You press further. “Do you believe humans are inherently evil? That they must claw their way out of some intrinsic descent into their own depravity?”

“Who can say?”

You narrow your eyes. Suddenly, no answer? “You said you know me, right?”

“I know of you,” he corrects gently. “Why do you ask?”

You shrug, feigning innocence. “You just seem to like me a lot,” you say with sarcasm, though your gaze betrays a flicker of something less certain as it drops to where your hands remain joined. Speaking heart to heart. His hand is a bit cold yet still warm. Blood rushes underneath, alive like you are. It’s an important reminder that Flins is still another person.

“I am,” he says without hesitation, his grip tightening just slightly. “Immensely curious. The way you pursue truth, the manner in which you dissect the human condition that’s somehow as complicated as alchemy… It is, if I may say, rather exquisite,” he praises genuinely. “Albeit, I must admit—the timing of such fascination may be considered in poor taste.”

“It is,” you say dryly, “By most conventional standards, I think.” You breathe in deeply. “Although, curiosity is common. People theorize to soothe themselves, when fear demands explanation. But yours…” You shake your head. “Yours isn’t like that.”

He inclines his head, accepting the critique with grace. “I suspected as much. You have not been particularly subtle in your distaste.”

“And yet you persist.” Then after a second, you decide to shame him. “You know, Flins,” you say as if he’s your old friend. “I don’t like fearmongering, everyone around running like headless chickens. But there’s positivity in it. Occasionally, even a broken clock is right. People have interesting theories, giving you new perspective, less biased from what you already saw. You, on the other hand… you add little with your curiosity.”

Flins shakes his head, more so amused with the delineation so accurate, as well respect for you. “I cannot help it. There is always more to learn about humanity. As they say… nothing that is human is alien to me.”

“You omitted I am human from the beginning of this line.”

You swear you see something sharpen in the depth of his empty eyes. It gives you chills your mind telling you to stop dwelling.

“I am pleased you recognized it,” he smiles wryly. “It seems you live by it.”

It’s insane you’re still entertaining this conversation. You lean back slightly, uncomfortable enough to keep distance, and you study him as if he’s an entirely new person. “How much do you know about me anyway?”

“Everything that is readily available,” he says simply, even if his tone suggests nothing is simple, his thumb still moving absentmindedly over your pulse rising.

You decide to test his claim. “Oh, so you must have heard about that one time I caught a money laundering operation?”

“I have.”

Your mind raises alarms at his admissions. That was never public, nor did you ever hear about any leak. Does he actually know the case, or is he saying so to play with you? If he knows, how? You could chalk up everything he does to provocation. .

“Can I call you my fan then?” you ask with a forced smile.

“I would be honored” Flins replies warmly.

“Still…” you muse. “Most admirers attempt contact.”

“I dislike divided attention,” he says honestly, “I was hopeful for… an intimate encounter.”

And fate, it seems, obliged him. What if… he killed Milena for you? No. Too much wine. Too little sleep. Who’d that for an unassuming detective like you.

“Detective?” his hand brushes yours again, more openly, and you jolt. “Are you well?” he asks softly.

“Yes,” you answer quickly. “Just tired, that’s all. A-and, whatever floats your boat. You are lucky to receive three of them in a short amount of time.”

“Four,” he corrects, rising from his seat. He leaves a mora coin on the table—despite you not needing any money. “And do rest. You are no longer operating at the full capacity. It would be… inefficient to continue.”

But your mind only zeroes in on the number. “Four?” You don’t remember more than three. Each meeting with him was memorable enough to know the exact count. “Flins, what are you talking about?”

He’s gone.

“Four…” you suppose he plans to meet you again. Unease brews in your chest. Which shouldn't be the case, considering there’s still a lot to go through. “Like I’ll be there with bells on…” you scoff to yourself. But then you realize. Right. A fourth organ is still missing—Milena’s heart.

Milena seemed to favor leaving the city behind whenever she could. From what you gathered, after bothering her so-called friends once more, outside of loitering near Flins’s cemetery, she often wandered into the grounds of Barrowmoss Barrens. A perilous idea, given the Wild Hunt’s frequent activity in these lands; yet is struck you as less reckless and more defiant. Or a deliberate seclusion, seeking a place vast enough to contain what she cannot name.

The territory itself carries a certain malignancy—not solely because of its dangers, but because of the pattern coming to your mind. The killer has been returning Milena to the places she once loved—their own cartography. If they knew her well enough to chart her habits, there’s a chance of you coming across them.

You step onto the muddy grass, petrichor in the air, a tremor passing through you growing cold. Hours passed in your futile wandering, of not finding any place with a diary, yet you barely felt the passage. The sky now dimmed, and clouds thickened into an ominous ceiling, reducing the world below to shades of gray. Just as you will to abandon the search and return to the city, something finally emerges through the fog. An abandoned watchtower, standing crooked at the northern edge of the plateau. Once, Lightkeepers must have climbed it to patrol the land, before abyssal influence it obsolete. Now it lingers with a wood turned ashen roof overtaken by moss, its structure trembling with each passing gust of wind.

Standing at its feet, you think it is exactly the kind of place someone like Milena would choose: distant, forgotten, removed from the suffocating expectations of life. You try to imagine her here. Alone with her thoughts, the wind threading through her hair, her mind expelling questions you now form: What does one do when love begins to resemble a cage? When duty becomes indistinguishable from a submission? When your future feels like a script written by someone else’s hand?

Your hand rests on your revolver as you approach, the other gripping your lantern. Every sound is amplified with hollow vastness around you. Finding nothing at the bottom, you test the ladder with your foot before climbing. Each step protests under your weight, but thankfully holds.

Inside, to your frustration, the space is empty. Dust, splintered wood, the faint scent of rot. You hang your lantern, spreading light across the walls, and begin to search. Milena would not leave something important in plain sight. She was not careless, you know, even if you don’t know her.

Then, a sound breaks through. A percussion with no clear direction. You freeze. Maybe it’s qualia—hopefully. “Wind,” you murmur under your breath, though you feel alarmed even with the explanation. The silence that follows is heavier than ever.

Then comes another noise, drawn-out and almost like a yawp. Not quite human, not quite like anything you have heard before. Maybe it’s the wood expanding. Hopefully…

You continue palpating the walls of the house, looking for any loose board. Any hidden compartment--. You swear that, when the tower shakes more rapidly, it’s not the wind that suddenly howls with more sharpness. Your breath catches as you glance downward and spot no animal or monster that would have rationalized the movement.

Something’s coming. “Little detective, little detective! Always prying where you're not welcome!” It’s a female voice. Jagged, distorted with some glitch, full of bitter mockery for you. Your stomach drops.

Oh, how much you despise that nickname. They all teamed up against you to taunt you with your past. “Milena?” you ask tentatively. “Is that you?” You don't know why it would be her and not a vertigo caused by your exhaustion, yet she sounds too real. Maybe she’s shackled here, her only safe spot.

You receive no answer, only impact. Your head slams against the wall with brutal force, your vision bursting into white. You collapse onto the floor, your world tilting violently. A weight forms against the back of your skull, and while there’s no hands on it, it’s undeniable. You hear a laugh right in your ear.

Wait. It’s not solely Milena’s this time. It’s another voice too, far more crueler, etched into your mind with surgical precision, taking turns with her. “She wanted you. She wanted to hurt you.“

Your breath is ruined. No, no, not here and now!

“And you let her, thinking she’s a good woman! But she wasn’t!”

Her laugh. Her smile. Her guiding hand that caused so much hurt. Her voice.

“Shut up!” you scream, clutching your head as if you could physically tear the sound out. There is no figure to see, no ghost, only you being violated by some echo, leaving you helpless when there’s nothing to grip and strangle so it could go away.

“Did she bleed out much!” she screams back.

Her words split something open inside you. You cannot understand how Milena, if it’s truly her, could reach into this part of you and drag it out so effortlessly. Flins, that little boy, now Milena and another ghost of your past—it all weighs heavily on you, forcing you to acknowledge feelings you tried to bury deep inside.

“Yes,” you choke, your hand striking the floor. “She bled, she bled so much. I killed her. I did.” You had to— you had no choice!

“But she hurt you!” Milena insists relentlessly. “She would have hurt others too!”

You remember it all too clearly. Admiration turning into horror. Your mentor chased brilliance and entertainment like a starving carnivore, and manufactured someone’s tragedy just to solve it. A grotesque parody of desire. And you were so foolish, not knowing the truth for a long time, always revering her. When you understood, it was you who had to stop her, and when she threw herself at you—you ended her life, terrified. Of the same woman that used to call you fondly a little detective as if you were her own child…

You are terrified till this day—what if one day, in the absence of challenge, you might follow the same path. That the hunger for thrill might corrupt itself into something indistinguishable from cruelty.

“Say it!” the voice shrieks. “Say her name!”

“M-Milena, what do you want from me…” you beg her to stop, as the tower groans and shakes.

“You’ve been snooping around! It’s none of your business!”

“I’m helping you!” you yell with desperation.

“Why must you always get in my way! Say it! Say her name!”

“No!”

“Say it or I’ll bring this whole place down!”

“A-agata… she was… Agata… are you happy now…” you whimper, the name tasting like vile.

Silence falls, but only as a shift. The pressure lessens, just slightly, as if you momentarily appeased her.

You force yourself upright, swaying on your feet. “Enough. Enough about me,” you rasp, anger cutting through the lingering terror. Where is that diary of yours… before I’ll have you die again!” You’re so sick of all of this nonsense. This investigation has been on for what? Four days? And you’re already down on your knees, thinking you might die here.

“It’s mine! He’s mine!” Milena rambles.

“W-who? Flins?” you ask dizzily, your vision swimming.

“My future is mine! Not my father’s!”

She’s not making any sense, caught between memory and emotion, incapable of linear thought. You have to work with what you’re given.

“Four legs in the morning, two in the afternoon, three in the evening… I died at just two!” she cries out hysterically into the air.

“I know. I’m trying to help you. I want to help you,” you say fiercely. “Please, tell me- was it your father who killed you? Or was it Flins? someone else?!”

“My papa! That scoundrel!” She doesn't deny anything the same way she doesn't confirm. “And that beautiful man… he broke my heart…” she wails. It’s all a ghost’s lament, nothing logical. You have to read between the lines.

“Milena…” you say more carefully, softening yourself despite the pounding in your skull. “Your diary. Your pages.”

“Pages! Pages of life so short!”

“Diary pages.”

“My diary!” she murmurs, almost tenderly. “My only real friend!”

“Yes… friend. And your father wants it.”

She gasps, even if she has no lungs to draw air with. “My papa wants them?!” she sounds indignant. “That naughty man!”

“Yes… I’ll… protect them for you…”

“Protect… yes… you need to protect them…” she says desperately. “He was too intrusive…”

“Yes,” you say tiredly. “So where is it?”

“On the bottom.” That’s the only warning she gives you before you plummet hard. You fall down, with a scream. The impact steals breath from your lungs as you hit the ground, pain radiating through your body in waves. For a moment, you can do nothing but li there, stunned, the sky curtains spinning above you and twisting into nightmarish shapes. But that’s also when you see it—beneath the structure, tucked where only invasive searching would reveal it, is a small bundle, tied carefully against the underside. Milena’s diary.

You drag yourself forward with a strangled noise, fingers trembling as you reach for it. But the moment you clutch it to your chest, the wind rises violently around you. “No! Give it back! It’s mine!” she howls and sends wind at you.

“Please, Milena!” you shout back, breaking. “I know it’s yours, but I need it to help you!”

“Can’t help the dead!” she laughs miserably.

“What do you want then!” you’re so tired of her nonsense.

“Leave.”

“I can’t leave,” you try to sit up but she pushes you down again, “I’ll give you anything. Let me help you.”

“Anything?” she suddenly calms down, excited by your offer.

“Yes.”

“I want to leave,” she whispers. “I can’t take this torment anymore!”

Your grip tightens on the diary. “You will. I’ll bury you properly. I promise. It all will be over soon.”

Another tremor in the air, as if her grief.

“But I can’t let him win!”

“Did Flins—”

“Do not speak his name! That traitor!” she shrieks.

She must be heartbroken about his non-reciprocated feelings too, but what if there’s more to her rage?

“How did he betray you? Tell me!” you press, finally sitting up despite the protests of your bruised body.

“He stole my heart!”

Words too ambiguous, you still make a promise. “I’ll grab it back for you,” you swear with all your chest. “No one will touch you again.”

A pause. Hopeful. “You promise?”

“Yes.”

“... I’ll be waiting for you, little detective.” And she is gone.

You force yourself to stand, hissing at your muscles constraining, so you can climb back towards the lantern’s light. There is no time to rest—not anymore. You open Milena’s diary with shaky hands. And so, her words spill out. Hopeful, in love of her future, wanting to make change in the world. Painfully human as she writes of Flins too, not with fear Drogomir stated, but something far more softer. He brought her comfort when no one else did. A refuge even, just by letting her stay here. Then comes the entries about Drogomir himself—layered with guilt, obligation, and quiet dread. She writes of wanting to leave, of fearing what would mean for him, of the invisible leash that kept her bound.

And then there’s the favorite places. Every location the killer has used, described fondly yet with a tinge of loneliness in this big world. Among these lines, you derive one as utmost crucial. The Final Night Cemetery. You never were informed just how much she enjoyed the place, as otherwise, it would have been obvious from the start. Flins Drogomir claimed her to saw sporadically. With three organs dropped elsewhere and none here, there’s a big chance the final piece of her heart is waiting here. And dawn is already beginning to break.

You are in a wretched state by the time you arrive at the cemetery. Whether the encounter with Milena’s ghost was real or merely the effect of a mind overextended, you cannot tell. Your thoughts put you into amok, that even with your body protesting every step, something far more visceral propels you forward.

You didn’t report anything to the Guild, and ask for an assistance. Inconsiderate of recklessness of what you are about to do, you simply have no time for anything else. With dawn already threatening the horizon, and the certainty that another organ and its message will be placed, you challenge yourself to confront Flins directly. You are aware this is foolish, you walking into this alone, armed with little more than a revolver and your dwindling clarity, borders on suicidal. However, what can a Vision do against a good old bullet?

Yet it’s not an attack of Vision that stops you in tracks. He’s here—he’s been waiting for you, hoping you manage to find out everything in time, and now he has a bloody gift in his hand. As if the entire world has been arranged for this moment. Under the pallid wash of moonlight’s reminiscence, Flins stands beside a grave, full of composure that tells you death is just a result to him. In his hand rests something that does not belong to him: Milena’s heart, dulled and with its color wrong. And yet, it fits. This grotesquely intimate image makes him almost resplendent. You don’t justify this, but it completes him like a missing puzzle you strained from solving, for the final answer might scare you. The image is abhorrent, yet… befitting.

The heart is the cruelest organ to take, all the more when Milena’s heart was never entirely hers to begin with. It was divided long before it was even removed, split between yearning for more and obedience for her father. Then Flins stole her heart too; beyond the incision, as he hurt her feelings too. The heart that was a symbol of what was never allowed to fully form. Heart governs what reason cannot. The heart full of love, the heart full of pain, hoping and wanting and bonding—her ability to feel was taken away from her. Never to plump blood again, pulsing with essence of life.

The killer stole her entire life. The image of someone holding her heart so intimately, intrusive dominion, pains you. It says: what made you live no longer belongs in your chest, what made you live never truly belonged to you at all.

Those jaundiced eyes lift to meet yours. “Are you perhaps looking for this?

Your throat tightens, and all of the theories thus far collapse into one question—did he do it? Did he truly reduce Milena to this—scatter her parts like some perverse offering, desecrate her body with such coldness? He must have know you would eventually come here. He led you here, dropping clues like bread crumbs, down to this rabbit hole. Betrayal at its finest.

“Kyryll!” his name tears from you with a yell, raw from shock. You stand just a few meters from him yet you feel his influence over here too.

In return, he takes in your goggle-eyed form, ignoring your accusation for a moment. Bruised and slovenly, you barely standing on your feet, as if you came here straight from hell. “What happened to you?” he asks with worry misplaced for the situation.

You don’t accept it. “You’ll be coming with me, Kyryll Chudomirovich Flins.” Your voice hardens as you point your weapon at him, forcing steadiness into your shaking grip. If you're going to pass out, it’ll happen only after you arrested him.

“On what grounds?” he asks calmly. “Have you perhaps made a miscalculation? You do seem… tired.” He frowns.

You don’t need his condescending comments at the moment. Your jaw tightens. “On suspicion of desecration of a corpse and involvement in Milena Tojadska’s murder,” you reply sharply. “And you will comply. Hands on the stone.”

“So I’m to assume,” he continues, as though not taking you seriously, “that the true killer will be allowed to walk free?”

He turns away from you—not in dismissal, but to place the organ into a porcelain box resting nearby. Slow, in a way that seems reverent. Then he removes his gloves, revealing bare hands—clean—as if preparing for something else.

“The real killer,” you snap, “might very well be standing in front of me. You’ve staged enough in your sick theater. Whatever you were trying to prove, whatever sick amusement you derived from Milena’s death—it all ends now.”

“And you were the most interesting participant of it; however, “ he replies, turning back to you, “such brutality could not have come from my hands.”

You scoff, impatient. “What are you talking about?”

“My greed is of a different nature than that of humans,” Flins say softly, meeting your gaze fully with hands behind his back. “I think we both know who the real culprit is.”

You wave your weapon with a childish irritation. “Enough of the riddles!”

“For someone so valiant, you rely on impulse more often than you would admit,” he observes thoughtfully.

The remark hits you deeper than it should. You almost drop your weapon, yet your anger flares again. “And you think you’d be speaking for me, for some reason?”

“Was the killer not hiding in the plain sight all along?” he smiles faintly. “Though I suppose I should express my gratitude. Without his actions… we would have not come this close to one another.”

“You mean yourself?” you retort.

“Don’t tell me that your thoughts are not already occupied by that man.”

Drogomir. You have considered it—of course you have. Him motivated by Milena’s insistence to be independent. His possessiveness. This aligns well. It’s just the image of a grieving father, so visceral, that did not align with the precision and coldness of the crime. But perhaps that was your error—you are still a fresh fish when it comes to cases as such. But there's still Flins’s interference, him playing chess with you. And now, it’s as though he's claiming it’s Drogomir who killed her, and Flins “simply” played with her organs after, for whatever reason. You’ll have to figure out everything once both sides are locked somewhere.

“We don't have time to talk. Come with me,” you say sternly.

“I'm afraid we will be staying here.”

“We?” you taunt.

“There is much to discuss.” He clasps his hands together, looking at you with eagerness, finally pure and unfiltered.

Brevity was never his strong suit. Now especially.

You exhale slowly, adrenaline the only thing keeping you up. This is no longer a negotiation.

You don’t like doing this, but it’s the only way to keep yourself safe. No Vision means you are vulnerable against a season warrior like Flins. But your revolver isn’t. A bullet aimed well enough to wound but not kill. You have pulled a trigger before. You can do it again.

You aim at him properly—his outer thigh to avoid hitting femoral artery. “Flins. You will come with me,” you don’t do any wheedling. “You’ve played enough sick games.”

“I cannot,” he replies calmly. “That would require admitting to a crime I did not commit.” Then he taunts you, fox-like, “But tell me—can you truly do it?”

Your voice is steady, even if your pulse is not and your own heart beats mad. “I’m counting down from ten.”

Your thumb draws the hammer back with an audible click into the fog around you, the revolver suddenly feeling heavier in your hand, as if the mechanism itself understands there will be no second warning—despite him zeroing in on your rapidness with only appetite in response. You can’t be safe here on your own. The fact he’s unperturbed in front of the weapon only adds to his danger.

“Ten… nine… eight…”

He doesn’t move, penetrating you with his gaze—delighted by your intensity.

Your palm sweats. “Seven… six… five…”

“You won't do it,” he says surely.

You have to adjust your grip. “I'm not kidding! Four… three… two…”

He raises his eyebrows and laughs.

“One.”

You pull the trigger with no hesitation. Your entire life freezes in this moment, each nanosecond passed by with your heart going up by one tempo note. There’s a rare taste of fear—real, raw—and you only feast on it, ecstatic by something human in you staining you, as well repulsed by the inferiority of it. If Flins somehow dies from your bad aim, you perhaps will thank him for making you important for a moment.

The trajectory of bullet allows it to land in his knee, and you expect a lot of shock pushing the man back onto his grave—with the inscription Chudomir Aarnivalkea. Instead, there is nothing. No recoil of flesh, no blood. Flins stands exactly where he was, unmoved, but his expression speaks of something ecstatic born by your choice. And then he lifts his hand, where the bullet rests in his palm—caught by him in blink of an eye, a flicker you missed. Caught. Not harming him and making him spill the blood all over the purple.

“Who—or what—the hell are you?” you ask with astonishment.

He peers at you with his own surprise, but it is no fear; he did not anticipate you trying to shoot him instantly. He's now excited. You are so so brave. “It takes much more than this to kill me,” he informs shortly.

“Kill who? Are you even human? No wonder you were giving me creeps…” while you rot in your dumbfounded state, scratching head with the tip of revolver, he approaches you.

“Stay back!” you command, fear overriding bravery. Because what do you do now? He can’t be killed with a simple bullet, and you have no vision.

With your haphazard step back, his swift legs make three—your vision blurs, and you believe even his movements turned inhumanly fast. You brace for impact, yet it never comes. He stops in front of you, close enough for the tip of his shoes to collide with yours. He must be breathing, as you feel the mist on your face, but it’s so cold, colder than the current weather would cause, that you wonder just how long you have missed something so important about him.

Before you can react, his hand closes around your wrist—firm, but not enough to hurt. Your revolver is gone in the next instant, wretched from your grasp and thrown aside—it thumps on the grass in the way your heart does. Everything happens so rapidly, you don’t even have any time to insult him; it’s right before he pulls you into his arms.

“What—” your voices is stuck in your throat, and your muscles spreads tension everywhere. “Flins, what are you doing?”

“Thank you,” he murmurs into your hair.

“Kyryll… n-no, Flins, seriously, what are you doing?” You’ve calculated many possible outcomes; none came even close to what’s currently happening. “What are you even thanking me for?”

“You might say,” he begins, his voice soft, “that when you chose to cast me as your primary suspect, you stepped precisely where I had hoped you would.”

You really don't understand. Flins barely knows you—at least, not personally, and yet he holds you as if this moment had been rehearsed in his mind long before fate even consented. There is nothing hesitant in the way he holds you, nor anything accidental in the patience in which he waits for your breathing to settle against his chest. It is not the first time you have stood close to him, and now, there is something altogether different in his manner: no more teasing, no theatrical courtesy, but the strange pleasure of someone receiving what he had quietly expected for too long. He has no business liking you, in your opinion.

“Do you know me from the past or something? And you still haven't answered my question! And let me go, would you?” the words leave your mouth in one breath, tangled with irritation as you trash against him, though your limbs are too heavy and your head still rings from everything that came before.

“Please,” he says indulgently, his hand brushing slowly over your shoulder as calming some startled animal, “allow me to hold you a little longer. In return, I shall answer whatever you wish. Sounds equitable?”

Equitable. As if this is a romantic exchange and not an absurdity, being held by the man who may yet prove deadly, who stood moments ago with a human organ in his hand, who cannot be felled by a bullet, whose body receives your fear without the slightest offense.

You grow ever tenser, unused to being held; you’ve been married to your work only. Still, there are words possibilities than his arms if the alternative is provoking whatever power he has withheld thus far—so you force yourself into compliance in his arms. “Alright…” you mutter. “Starting with the first question, what are you? I guess you not being a human is a given.”

You think it’s a perfect inquiry to be made first; judging who he is, you could gauge how much danger are you in. It's just being held like a lover that's not so satisfactory to you. You remember all these tiny affectionate gestures towards you.

“You are correct,” he says, almost satisfied at your curiosity. I am not human. I belong to the fae kind.”

“A fae?” you squirm your body enough to look at him properly. “As in… the Snowland fae? Those from old Sneznaya?” You remember the old stories you’ve read as a child—one that caused your mind a lot of phantasmagoria, childish wonder—except they were supposed to stay a legend. “I thought your kind no longer exists.”

“Many things persist after some people decided they not ought to,” he replies, charmed by your effort to place him historically. “And yes, those very same ones. I lived long before you.”

A long-lived species, then. You grimace when his fingers move to your nape, unable not to think that those same hands held Milena’s severed heart. “So you are older than Tsaritsa’s reign.”

“Yes.”

“Wonderful,” you mutter. “That explains why bullets are apparently beneath your dignity. A noble.”

A soft laugh escapes him.

You suddenly feel vulnerable. Small in front of a creature like him even. “Then what could an insignificant human like me possibly offer a fae like you?”

At this, his hold on you shifts—tighter, more selfish. “Humans,” he starts quietly, “are considerably more interesting than gods and mortals alike pretend they are. Some, at least. You among them.”

You should suppose Illuga was right. He likes your attention. “How long were you stalking me for?” This is obvious to you now; his strange familiarity, the details he should not know, a certain fascination with you that takes time to brew, as well the confidence with which he names different theories about you.

“Months,” comes out the honest answer; worse, with no shame. If anything, it’s twisted with excitement, perversion, now that he may finally confess openly. “You might strike me for that if you find it necessary.”

You do. Your first lands between is shoulder with more indignation. It earns nothing but laughter.

“You watched me for months like some depraved voyeur?”

“Is that worse than you taking a life? You must be still shaken,” he asks brazenly, and the suddenness of the comparison stills you more effectively than his hold.

He knows even that. It’s not fair. You did that in self defense. He must be testing your expressions again.

“That’s apples and oranges” you say with dry throat. “I was forced to.”

“I know.” For the first time, his tone loses amusement entirely. He loosens his hold just enough to look at you directly, his face close enough that his cold breath touches your lips like a kiss. “I do not accuse you. I know well enough you would have never done so had there remained another path. Nor was that woman innocent.”

He’s so sure about you. It’s scary. It’s—

“Then why bring it up?” You frown.

“Because it changed you,” he says simply. “And I watched that change before I understood its source.” His eyes carry no typical sympathy, and yet, yet—they find a soulmate in you. Understanding transcending any human emotion. It makes you hot all over your body, and for once, you can’t tell excitement and fear apart.

“Are you getting off to it?” you ask coarsely.

“No,” his fingers brush your cheek, tracing the tremor that appears underneath them. “Only am interested. You are a person perpetually resisting what fate appears to expect of you. There is beauty in that.”

“You promised answers,” you remind him, your voice now lower.

“I am giving them.” He draws you back against him. “Yes, I observed you for months. Your cases. Quietly. I wished to see whether the pattern would hold.”

People call you crazy sometimes. Flins must be the crazy one.

“What pattern?”

“That a person may hold a fracture and still remain functional without surrendering.”

“Why me?” leaves your lips hesitantly.

The moment your heartbeats sync together, his hand brushing your back, you are eager to find out what could be there to you. From one to another. The value perhaps you or others have missed in you that he didn’t. Because if there’s something that makes you more human that the ability to steal life, it’s the ability to live on. You don’t know who you are supposed to be, if the gods created you—you were reshaped by your circumstances, perhaps far from their original ideal. And maybe you are no one in the eyes of gods.

“Because,” he speaks fondly, “it is uncommon to witness someone so willing to inhabit the less flattering compartments of human nature without disguising them. Most people hide their contradictions poorly. You do not even attempt concealment once absorbed in thought. Your mind is eclectic, undisciplined in the way I find remarkably coherent.”

You almost recoil at the assessment. “What would you know about me?” his psychoanalyzing is rubbing you wrong. And yet… it makes you feel understood, as invasive as it is.

“Enough to see that you believe yourself subtle while remaining astonishingly forthright.” You don’t need to see his face to know Flins is smirking.

You should have guessed that… you’ve allowed more than one opening—feeding him to his pleasure. “That’s… just your influence. In any case, I deserve no accolades.”

“You deserve all of my attention,” he says into your ears, enjoying your squirms as his breath ghosts them.

Your heart skips a beat. What is he doing?

“And still,” you say, refusing to let the fluster in your voice dictate tone, “for all this devotion, you remained hidden.”

“I wanted our first true meeting to be special,” he answers. “Something memorable and earned. I waited—patiently, I assure you—for circumstance to offer me a proper threshold through which I might enter your life without anyone’s interference. Then Milena died. He pauses, tickling your ear until you squirm in his arms so delightfully again. “Or rather… Milena died and arrived before me with purpose. Her tragedy became… my silver lining. An opening.”

Your stomach turns. You can’t believe he used Milena for something so selfish.

“You used her.”

“I accepted what she proposed,” he corrects mildly.

His words greatly confuse you. Something is missing too, so you withtrack to another issue.

“How did you know about…” you grimace, “little detective”?”

“From Milena herself.”

You blink rapidly. “What? How would she even know that?”

“She asked questions where questions ought not to have asked. She was diligent when curiosity possessed her. I had a chance to tell her a bit about you.”

The answer is infuriatingly incomplete, but you guess what he’s saying, it’s Milena who dug around your past, using her father’s connections—for still unknown to you reason. But he interrupts you.

“Do not linger too long on one question. Your mind has too many others queued behind it.”

You slap him in response, unable to handle your anger at all of this mess. He merely inclines hid head, scoffing with weird joy—and no pain. “This one too was deserved.”

As you ponder over your next question, worried he’ll finish the discussion too soon, everything around ceases to exist. It is only you and Flins, removed from the rest of the world. A trap, or, a gold mine.

Nonetheless, you calculate any possible weak points in his body, wondering if you can make exit soon.

“Did you kill her?” you ask the most important question again.

“I didn't.”

“Then who did?”

“He was drunk,” Flins says, and something colder enters his voice now. “And already wounded by the thought of losing possession over what he believed belonged to him.”

He knew the truth the entire time and yet he held it from you. Made you run around for the sake of indulging himself. “Her father, you mean.” “Yes.”

“Were you there?” “No.”

“Then how do you know that? Are you lying to me again?” “Because Milena came to me.”

Milena told me—again. “That doesn't make sense! She’s dead. Unless she knew she’ll be killed but then you—”

“Oh, dead can speak just alright. With me, at least,” he chuckles, soothing you with touch between your shoulder blades.

“As a specter?” you ask incredulously. Still, you did see her a few hours ago.

He nods. “She came already aware she was dead. More lucid than, as I suspect, when she troubled you. Grief fragments people further when they understand no breath remains to give them another chance.”

Your eyes drift to the porcelain box, yet to be transported to the morgue. “Then… why did you disrespect her body? That much you can’t deny…”

His expression changes into solemn, not guilty. “I did not desecrate her. I preserved what she asked preserved.”

Your mouth falls open from the shock.

“Why would she?” Everything he says sounds insane, yet it somehow has a logical explanation right after.

“To punish her father,” Flins says seriously. “She understood at once that simple accusation would not satisfy what had already happened. She wanted him frightened, unmoored from any sense of safety. Forced to watch certainty abandon him piece by piece.”

“That’s… why would you go this route… Sure, there’s not much a dead woman can do, but…” you trail off. “Madness. Just madness!” you exclaim.

“It was her grief,” he justifies, “and perhaps some measure of justice twisted into a show of all Nod-Krai.”

You do not know whether to be horrified of Milena or him.

"The lesson had to impactful. It was impactful, I hope.”

“He’s losing his mind,” you admit.

Flins holds you tighter, as if to shield you from the bad man.

“Enough to deny the reality and doubt his own memory.”

You now need his honesty more than ever. “Why agree to such a plan?

His eyes scan the horizon, in search for your answer. For once, words don’t come easily to him; but he knows what he wants well. There is nothing to regret, not when he finally has you. His eyes return fully to you, the most precious element. “Because I thought of you.” No false pretense of a smile. “I thought of the possibility of speaking with you, uninterrupted. And maybe because I found her desperation difficult do dismiss. I’m not a heartless man, believe it or not.”

Just peculiar, you wish to end the thought for him. You suppose you never had someone… who would do so much in their power to reach you, even if you were never outside of their reach. You feel disrespect, yet this is no disrespect—only Flins’s worship of you, your mind, and you as a human, seasoned with selfishness to have you all for himself. He did more than anyone else, and you cannot tell whether you should be scared or grateful.

“So you placed yourself at the crime scene,” you deduce tiredly, resting your head against his shoulder, as you linger in that pushy hug slowly becoming less offensive. Having you question yourself. “Let the suspicion gather until it points to you. Let me chase you.” You laugh dryly.

“Yes,” he laughs too, listening to your heartbeat—it tells him all he needs to know, and the result is better than expected.

“Do you hear yourself?”

“I do.”

The sincerity is unbearable. You now understand why some people stay oblivious on purpose, while you search for truth like a mad dog. You gulp. “Then… how did you preserve the body?”

He nods at the lantern resting at the grave, a dancing blue flame that never stops. “You would be surprised by the flexibility of this lantern.”

“It’s…” you push your head up, observing the source with nearly fascination. “It’s not a normal lantern, is it? You being a fae…” As if powered by some type of magic.

A certain legend of a blue flame Lightkeepers pay respects to…

“The flame can arrest decay, if used correctly,” he watches your expression eagerly. That is—sacrificing some of his living years, but that part… he omits for the sake of you not losing your mind any further.

“And your Vision?”

“It’s not a real Vision.”

“What then? A dummy?”

“One secret at a time,” he teases gently before continuing. “She died over a week ago, you see.” Some rare flicker of anger flashes in his eyes—not really scaring you, but drawing you in. “The morning she intended not to depart for a journey as she told everyone, but to leave her home entirely. Her father learned it, and with wine of sorrow already softening his restrain… anger completed the rest.”

“A-a week ago? She’s been dead for that long?”

“Yes.”

“He kept her body?”

“For two days. Unable to reconcile what he had done with what stood before him. By the time she came to me—as a ghost—he had already begun teaching himself disbelief. Alcohol only made things easier to forget.”

You do remember the bruises on her neck well. Everything slots together with almost elegance.

“And you stole her body from his house...?”

You wrench yourself free from his hold at last after he nods. This time, he allows it, although reluctantly. “Why go so far with all of this…?” your head hurts. Maybe you are dreaming, or hallucinating, your imagination coming up with something as delusional as Drogomir’s mind, as means to comfort yourself. “You are insane,” you say angrily, stepping back. “Entirely insane. You and Milena both. You could have reported him. Instead you staged a grotesque liturgy and used me as your witness.”

“I thought it prudent,” he says sharply, following only half a pace, “that he should taste consequence law would not fully allow.”

He tries to place his hands on your shoulders. You shake him off.

“How do I know you’re still not a murderer yourself? How were you able to detach her organs with such precision?!” Even if with a big chance Flins was honest and open, everything is too much to take.

“I had never opened a human body before, if that is what troubles you,” he sigh wearily, looking down at his bare hands. “I would not flatter myself by calling it mastery. Merely… familiarity with what remains when life retreats. Bones have accompanied me for many years; perhaps you have heard that I fashion little figurines from those I find abandoned in the wild,” he chuckles as if for once acknowledging how quirky he must appear to others. “Birds, foxes, deer when fortune permits—whatever death leaves behind without protest. Such things teach one experience in body care, if nothing else—even if they’re no human body. Besides, I’m used to… staining my hands. Until they no longer trembled.” His eyes lift to yours, faintly luminous beneath the pale light. “And, as you have already witnessed.”

“That I did…” you remark with difficulty.

There is no boast in his other words, merely facts. “The dead are, in a certain sense, cooperative. They do not recoil. They do not plead. The first incision demanded thought more than courage; afterward, the body became a matter of structure—of following what was already arranged beneath the skin. Human anatomy is not so unknowable a scripture when one has spent enough centuries observing how life is assembled.” His voice lowers there, quieter, almost reflective “I moved slowly because she wished precision. Every organ carried meaning she insisted upon. I merely followed the symbolism she entrusted to me.” Then, after the briefest pause: “Cruelty lies not always in opening a body, detective. Oftentimes it begins much earlier—while the heart is still beating.”

His words do something unexplainable to you. After death… there is nothing to fix, not if you don’t exist anymore. Only present can still save you.

You sit down onto on of the stones, and at least, you admit to yourself, “Then perhaps there is no evil at all. Only greed wearing different garments.”

He smiles widely, accepting this version.

“You can say hunger awaits under every name. Her father’s possessiveness. Your exhilaration before a puzzle. My… interruption of death.”

You scoff despite the fatigue threatening your eyes to give in to sleep. “I’m not… excited. And…. gods play with the menagerie of humans all the time,”

“They do. But they pale in comparison to you,” Flins says earnestly, offering you a warm look.

You feel your cheeks flush. “Don’t utter blasphemy like that!”

“If you must punish me for it, then I will endure it.”

“Do not think this absolves you,” you mutter, adjusting your jacket. “I still have to decide what to do with you.

“Are you heading off already?” he frowns.

“Yes. I have to arrest Drogomir, this merchant—that is, if what you’re saying is true. It’s only little time before he figures out I suspect him and attempts to flee Nod-Krai.”

“I beseech you to stay here and catch some respite. You’re barely standing on your feet,” his request sounds serious.

“I took worse. I can’t lose my rhythm. Since her father is a seller, and his murder disrupted everything, it goes against the rules of the Guild enough to warrant an arrest.”

But suddenly, blue flashes in front of your eyes. So that’s another thing his lantern can do… You fall straight into his arms.

“Flins… I change my mind…” you and your voice feel heavy, “I will kill you…” you glare at him, only making him smile.

“No,” he says lightly, gathering you upwards, “not tonight.”

“Why are you doing this…”

“Because,” he murmurs, carrying you towards the lighthouse as if the answer was obvious, “you have hit the wall and insist on pretending you are still fine.”

“Cimelium,” he then mentions, as if to himself, “is a rare treasure; oftentimes the most valuable one. Can you be my cimelium?”

Darkness arrives before you can see how greedy you’ve made him.

You wake up to the sensation of something slow and careful brushing across your hair, a touch so gentle it takes you good time to swim back into consciousness. The room around you would be comforting too, were it not for how oppressively small it is, a narrow chamber fitted into the upper body of the lighthouse, low ceiling slanting overhead, walls of aged timber carrying the faint smell of salt, resin, and lantern oil. The bed beneath you is absurdly soft compared to the rest of Flins’s austere surroundings, layered with fur blankets, a concession perhaps for a guest he had no intention of allowing to leave soon.

Above you, inevitably, is Flins himself, his back resting against the metal headboard, your head pillowed upon his lap.

“Flins?” your voice finally emerges, drowsy from sleep and the headache lingering. You blink rapidly, trying to regain your bearings. “What…”

“I am sorry for what I did,” he says, quietly for your sake, fingers moving over your temple and cheeks. “You left me no better alternative.”

The memory sudden returns in vivid fragments: blue light especially, his confession, you using your weapon…

“I can’t…” you gasp, trying to sit up as urgency overtakes you. “I have to go. I still have to tie every loose end!”

His hand presses lightly against your shoulder and guides you back before you are fully upright. “Do not get up yet.”

“What’s up with that cursed lantern of yours!” the panic takes its hold. “That man will escape.” You have come too far to let him get away now.

“He will not,” Flins replies, with so much conviction that it immediately worsens your suspicion. “I have already seen to that.”

That jolts you upright anyway. “You what?

“I brought him here,” he repeats, as if discussing a dinner rather that a man under accusation of murder. “Quietly.”

“Why would you do that?” Your eyes widen so far they hurt. “What if someone had seen you carrying him through half of Nod-Krai?”

“They did not,” he says, amused by your horror rather than troubled by it. “And as for why… his daughter wishes to see him.”

Your shock continues. “Milena? She's here?”

“She is. Her ghost, that is.” Flins pats your shoulder. “She’s been rather resolute.”

“So this is about closure?” you ask hesitantly, yawning.

“In a way.”

“More like seeing whether her lesson has landed enough?”

At that, he exhales something near laughter. “Yes. That too. Although, regardless of how well-known she proved herself, she does not deserve to linger in pain longer than necessary.”

You rub your face, still half in this disbelief. “You dragged this on for too long.”

“Only by a few days.”

“That is still too long when one is dead,” you grumble.

He offers no defense to that, and finally allows you to stand up.

By then the small table beside the bed has already been laid with breakfast you did not notice before: bliny folded in neat stacks, a dish of smetana, dark jam, and tea steaming faintly. The domesticity of it feels almost offensive after everything.

…

“She was jealous of you, you know,” he says over the breakfast. He’s not eating himself—has told you he finds human food dull and that he absorbs nutrients with his lantern he’s physically connected to.

“Me? But I had never even met her,” you say with confusion. “Well, when she was still alive.”

“No, but she heard about you from me.”

Your fork pauses halfway to your mouth. “What exactly did you tell her?”

“She once demanded to know why I could not return her affections.” His expression turns pensive. “When I admitted my heart was occupied with someone else, she insisted upon detailed. I obliged, telling her what a wonderful person you are, though not so carelessly as to give your name.”

You soak in his implication. That’s why she was so mad with you. She once found someone she thinks can love her differently than her father does, separated from her world. Love her unconditionally. But Flins was in love with you. Everyone was connected the entire time.

“You… you have feelings for me?” you ask awkwardly. It… was perhaps shown by him many times, but at the time, you’ve taken it as a game.

“I believe so…” he shakes his head before he corrects himself. “No, I am quite certain I do.”

“That’s…” he barely knows you. Or he knows you too well, having learned everything from distance. About your past too, like some creep. “Disgusting.”

“Possibly,” he chuckles. “I am still adapting to mortal etiquette. My kind are less disciplined where intensity is concerned.”

“Well, thanks to your affection for me, she rocked my bones. She was furious. At the time, I didn't know why.”

“Now you do.” He leans closer, his voice turning nearly scary, “Although, I will have to reprimand her for hurting you.”

The fact he accepts rejection without hurt unsettles you more than protest would have. He simply continues feeding you, something about it making him happy—your enjoyment is his. After you have replenished some fuel, before you could think of leaving, he lifts one toward you who’s still in fact hungry.

“For a weirdo,” you mutter between bites, “you make rather good food.”

“I am relieved to hear it,” he smiles widely, “I worried my skill was insufficient.”

“It’s digestible. And I could eat a horse at this point.”

“Digestible… perhaps I should work on my cooking skills for you.”

“For me?” But he simply watches you, nearly like a puppy. Does he imply he wishes to see you more often? Cook for you like some lover. You disperse the thought. “Whatever. Can I see her now?”

“Should you not rest another hour? Your body still objects—”

“Flins,” you almost snap, “I can demonstrate how little patience fatigue leaves me with.”

He smiles, as if enamored with your passion. “As you wish.” After standing up, he quickly tides up things. He then offers you his hand. Begrudgingly, you take it. His fingers close around yours with a familiarity that still feels illicit, and he leads you down the narrow staircase, out into the afternoon still pale in the cemetery.

There she is. Her eidolon stands among the graves, belonging here naturally. Except, she’s now whole, not fragmented by distortion or fury, dressed exactly as she must have been before death interrupted her body but not her will—in a lilac dress that matches her eyes.

“Detective,” she greets pleasantly, much nicer than the last time you’ve seen her—smiling.

“Milena… you look… well.” The normalcy of it unnerves you more than her screaming had.

“Thank you,” she says, almost teasing. “You have seen better days yourself, but I’m sure you’ll feel better soon.”

Your mouth falls agape at her teasing, or rather, condescending words. But you force yourself back to what matters. “Do you… confirm what Flins said?”

“And what precisely did he tell you?” she hums, tiptoeing around.

“That your father killed you when you tried to leave your home. That you sought Flins after death. That all of this—” you gesture vaguely around, breath somehow being stolen from you again, “—was arranged because you wanted him to believe madness had found him before justice did. That… there’s a second killer even, and he’s an innocent victim being punished for no reason.”

“Yes,” she says simply. “That is true.”

“And… are you satisfied with the result?”

She ponders wistfully. “More or less… however… I regret I had to give up on Mr. Flins for you.”

“Um…” you’re flustered, staring at her with confusion, all the more when you feel Flins’s burning gaze on you. “Me and him are not…”

“Not. Not yet.”

She comes closer and whispers into your ear, as if a friend sharing secret, “You and he fit better than you wish to admit.”

“I beg you pardon?” you squeak out.

Before you can protest, a violent thud interrupts—heavy, somewhere behind the lighthouse wall.

“That would be him,” Flins says.

You nod your head rapidly, your heart pounding as you’re about to face Drogomir again, now with an exception of your knowledge about him.

Flins disappears briefly and returns dragging Drogomir by his arm, the older man bound at wrists, stumbling so hard his shoes scrape dirt. The instant he lifts his head and sees Milena, all pale as if he’s a ghost himself, whatever denial he had starts evaporating.

“M-Milena?” his voice shreds itself over her name. “Is that you, dear child?”

“Papa.” The warmth vanishes from her at once. Her entire figure sharpens with grief made blade-like.” I can’t believe what you’ve done to me!” Milena immediately throws her laments at him, no tears spilling but her face moving as if she cries.

Drogomir is terrified, confused, and shakes as if she struck him. “D-did what? N-no! The real killer stands behind you! He has deceived you even now!”

“Just how much more do you plan to delude yourself, hiding for comfort in your own lies!” Her voice raises, carrying not distortion, but clarity full of agony. “You killed me, for you were unwilling to let me go!”

“You’re playing tricks with me! That useless man has fed you so many preposterous ideas even after your death!”

“Do you not remember how I struggled beneath you? The way your hand closed around at my throat?” she points at her throat still wielding bruises, undeniable, “The pulse you crushed because your life mattered more than mine?”

“No… no…” he says with horror, rolling on the grass with refusal—all these memories befall, lifting the vail off his brain, “I would have never hurt my precious child… I loved you!”

“And yet you killed me! You selfish swine!” Her words are harsher than any judge’s would be.

“Oh god… I did that… I… my own daughter…?” “Yes! How could you do that!”

“I was devastated, I remember—” “You were possessive.”

“I did not mean—”

“It happened regardless! It is no one else’s fault!” Her voice is so loud it could knock you down too.

His knees weaken, and he collapses with tears to feed the soil of dead, wriggling under his bindings, “I couldn’t… how could I ever let my precious bird fly out of our nest…”

“That bird is dead anyway. You lost me anyway!”

None of you say anything for a moment. Drogomir thinks of more excuses, Milena dares him to, Flins watches it all with something condemning for the man… and you barely stop your tears.

“You feared distance as if you think I was willing to abandon you,” she says with a tremble. “But you didn't understand. I only wished to breathe, not disappear. I would have visited. I would have written. I only one wanted one room in the world where I belonged to myself. Distance was supposed to help us.”

Drogomir begins sobbing before she finishes.

“I worried over you more than myself,” she continues, grief gathering force for him him again. “I comforted you, excused you, stayed when I wished to run because every guilt became mine to bear. I was your daughter, and yet, I lived as I was merely an answer for your loneliness.”

“I am so sorry,” he chokes out. “I am—”

“No. You are sorry you are finally forced to remember.”

When he lunges suddenly, not towards her, but blindly standing up and charging towards who happens to be you, your hand moves before thought does. You catch him, twist him hard, and press the gun to his chest. “You still wish to argue?” you ask coldly.

His breath transmits into terrified sobbing. “S-stop, this is cruel!”

“Look at her,” you force, gripping his jaw and turning his face toward Milena. “Look at your daughter properly.” He cries harder while you manhandle his cheeks. “You are cruel.”

He does look, yelping.

“I loved you dearly, father. I worried about you. All I wanted was to be loved.” She weeps. “It hurts so much. We had no one but each other and you have taken it for granted.”

“I’m sorry! I didn’t want you to leave me! But I know everything now!”

“No,” she says bitterly, looking down at him as if he’s a bug, “you know only now because I stand dead before you.”

He falls onto the ground again, as he grips the air behind his back with hand, wishing he could get closer to her. He will never hug his daughter again.

“I’m so sorry… I’ll repent… I’ll do anything…”

“Yes,” she says resolutely, becoming her own judge. “You will. You will walk yourself to the Guild. You will surrender. You will confess every fraud, every hidden scheme, every crime as a merchant you thought is small enough to survive.”

He nods frantically.

“You will also tell Nasha Town what you did to me.”

He hesitates, not out of refusal, but fear “B-but… what if they kill me?”

“Our detective will stop them before they can. Not because I pity you. But because you deserve to live, knowing what you did for the rest of your life. Anything else the detective says, you will obey too. ”

He bows until his forehead touches to the ground. “Go, my child… go and rest… I won’t make excuses anymore…”

Then, at last, Milena’s outline begins to thin. The anger leaves first, then grief. It’s tiredness that remains. She looks towards Flins, hopeful for a moment, then you.

“Thank you,” she says, and this no time, there is no bitterness. “Both of you.” She smiles, telling you she will be alright. The air shifts, as if some invisible portal opens after centuries of suffering. And so her figure loosens into pale light, candle flame disappearing, then most, then… nothing.

For a moment, you and Flins don’t speak. You tear up. His hand settles at your shoulder, carefully asking you if you are well. You jolt, but less than before.

“No,” you say honestly. “Not really…” you look at the true murderer you will soon walk towards his final sentence. “But I will be.”

You already know what report you will fabricate and which truths must remain altered if the affair is to close without opening question Nod-Krai is unequipped to answer. Yes, Drogomir murdered Milena, his own daughter… but for the disrespect behind her body is one of mercenaries he hired to shift any suspicion, a category typically harder to catch. In your opinion, Flins deserves punishment too; in practice, the dead have chosen their own justice, more than the law of Nod-Krai can guarantee. It is no Fontaine.

“This… this cannot be our last meeting…” Flins says, sudden sadness crashing his voice like a tide.

You glance sideways at him. “I suspect it won’t be, now that you’ve abandoned subtlety entirely.”

A relieved smile touches his mouth, unmistakably pleased. “Then, next week, please come visit. I should like to know what shape your thoughts take once this affair is over.”

You ought to refuse. Every prudent instinct suggests so. Yet prudence has already lost too many times where he is concerned, and your oldest vice of curiosity has never been weaker than when confronted by something incomprehensible that looks as if understanding you were a vocation. “We shall see.”

“She was a baby.”

“I beg you pardon?”

The basement you two are in echoes every of your thought. As you sit perched on the table with papers scattered, Flins ensures to stay standing between your legs, obstructing your vision just so he doesn’t miss any expression enlightened by the candle nearby.

“She was an adult woman, yes—but she was also once only that; a child hidden beneath her mother’s ribs, carried before she even knew langue, before fear, before disappointment. Someone waited for her first cry. Someone wrapped cloth around her when she first entered cold air. She learned life gradually, then voices, then names. At some pointed she must have laughed for no reason at all, simply because the world had not yet taught her pain. And later she became what everyone called accomplished, educated, promising…” Your voice falters. You’ve been crying a lot lately. Some mechanism inside you is still left loose. You lower your gaze, yet it changes nothing; tears gather regardless.

Flins reaches for your face before you can wipe your tears yourself, thumb brushing beneath one of your eyes with a tenderness almost too precious to bear. His gaze softens in a way that still startles you, for there remains something faintly improbable in being looked at by him as if vulnerability was not inconvenience but revelation.

“I am certain she’s eternally grateful,” he says quietly.

“I hope so,” you sigh shakily. “You know… Sometimes, I think we suffer from what may not be cruelty itself, but is still a gradual atrophy of empathy. And yet, empathy is what should be inherent to us. How can this be? We can be conditioned, but… there is plenty who understand suffering… yet inflict suffering.”

“You tend to make yourself indifferent,” he instigates you on purpose, eager to see if the thought deepens—maybe even lifts your spirits.

“Indifferent but never ignorant,” you say passionately, staring at him. “Indifferent but never do I want to stay passive to someone’s pain. I make distance because if I did not, every case would devour me whole. I protect myself so I can protect others. But I still refuse to become one someone who sees suffering and merely catalogues it.”

Flins watches you with that particular brightens that comes over him whenever conviction overtakes your voice—as if every principle you utter confirms something he already wished to believe… and consume. “We do not wish for people to keep killing one another,” he murmurs.”

“They will always kill.” Your answer comes with tired certainty, not cynicism. “Some deaths will always be dressed as justice, other excused as necessity, others forgotten because no one in But whatever language is built around it, I will still go after the one who crossed that line. I will always chase the one who chose wrong. If there is evil, then I will continue chasing it and the justice… even when the pursuit changes nothing except proving that someone looked.”

That visibly animates him; the strange stillness in his eyes gives way to life entering them almost greedily. “That is exactly what I mean,” he says, smiling in full. Before you can ask, he leans forward and buries his face into your neck, the warmth of his breath startling your sensitive skin.

You tense, though less that you would have weeks ago. “I cannot exactly announce to the Guild that I am seeing one of my former suspects.”

Because as for Nod-Krai… people still talk about Milena. Come to visit her grave, so do you. The Guild accepted your explanations, happy the trouble is resolved before Snezhnaya—or Nefer—could interfere, right in time. Although, the latter occasionally sends you a letter and asks you to work for her. Life continues, just with something missing, that you suspect soon will be forgotten anyway.

But Drogomir will not forget anything, losing his mind after the loss of his daughter and public punishment. He no longer trades with anyone. Word spread too quickly, and even merchants accustomed to dirt wanted no hand near a man who had strangled his own daughter. It was said he still lives inside that half-empty house, though now with shutters drawn and no visitors but silence, lonely and slowly losing his money.

And as for you… There remains wariness in you, but your feet keep returning to him regardless, and it is no longer accidental. Flins unsettles you, stimulates you, sharpers your mind than dulling it. Perhaps it’s about danger too. Flins knows what to say to make your head spin and heart sing.

“Hm,” he says near your collarbone, “Them let them remain uninformed. I should rather prefer what concerns us to remain intimate anyway.”

You give him a look half suspicious, half amused. “And how am I to know this is not merely one of your passing fascinations? Men such as you strike ma as volatile in infatuation,” you mock.

He suddenly withdraws from you, and before you guess his next step, he lowers himself to one knee before you. So old-fashioned. “I promise you,” he says, looking up with an earnestness made strange by how intense it is, “this so no brief affection. My regard for you increases with each day.”

For a moment, you can see the old Kyryll. His hand lightly poised near yours, his spine elegant… It forces your imagination. For one instant, you can almost see him not as lighthouse keeper nor Ratnik, but as whatever he must have been centuries ago: moving beneath chandeliers, silk cuffs, polished floors, smiling in rooms where music governed hierarchy and every gesture possessed inherited meanings. The nobleman he once mentioned reveals himself.

“O-okay, enough,” you stutter, suddenly embarrassed. “Just stand up. You're being absurdly cheesy!”

He obeys at once, though his amusement flickers openly as ever. “Very well. However…” he extends his hand again, this time with invitation. “Dance with me.” You accept.

The gramophone near the wall has already been turning softly, its worn melody filling the small room with antique music. Outside, the lighthouse remains wrapped in everlasting darkness and chatter of ghosts; inside, the world narrows down to his hand in yours. He leads with effortless confidence, one hand settling at your waist, the other enclosing yours with delicacy. It’s an old discipline, and his hips or feet never collide with yours.

You, on the other hand… “I know, I know. Hardly is there any chance to practice waltz in Nod-Krai,” you say with sarcasm.

“There is no judging,” he says warmly near yours ear. “I will be delighted to be your teacher. His hips guide rhythm without forcing you, correcting you when needed or keeping you away from the wall to bump; your body begins adapting and awkwardness thins into something nearly digestible. There is even comfort in being held by him, as well his never ending patience.

“I don’t think I will forgive that case anytime soon…” you chuckle into his shoulder. A bit tense, but entertaining him, to see what else is there to him. Maybe Flins will be the next person you’ll chase, trying to fight for justice. Or maybe… he’ll steal your heart too, if he hasn't done so already.

He laughs too, quiet enough to not disturb. “I suppose it left a monumental impression upon everyone,” he eyes your lips. “You, most of all, on me. I have no intention of looking away now.”

“But you’re not a human,” you say with torment. “I still don’t know what exactly you seek from me. A game? Possession? Something else than curiosity?”

“I seek only to continue witnessing you shine with that enchanting intensity.”

“I won’t shine forever.”

“No,” he says with something akin to regret, facing you directly, “Utterly disappointing. Have you ever…”

“Yes?”

“Have you ever wondered what it’s like to live forever?”

“Who didn't.”

“If offered the chance—would you accept it?” You’re given that look again—when Flins tries to split you open, digging for some undiscovered part of you.

His mysterious words give you a startle, enough for your steps to falter. “Is there such opportunity or are you only theorizing?”

‘Who knows…” he jests, maddeningly to you.

“Well, I need to leave some space for a detective successor.”

He smiles against your temple before pressing a light kiss here. “I doubt any successor could hold a candle to you.”

“I am no prodigy. Just a layman. This wasn’t my magnum opus or anything.”

“Are you?”

“Don't get any weird ideas, Kyryll.”

“I would not dare,” he murmurs, eyes closed as he allows his head to rest on your shoulder, “to desire anything except your continued happiness.” And your presence.

When the music ends, he leads you the final half-turn before ushering you to the room upstairs. You end up on the edge of his bed, him next to you. “Do you want Ben sleep?”

“I do sleep. It’s quite pleasant.”

“So it’s not merely decorative,” you him.

“I’m not that indestructible. Although, I confess I have often preferred resting inside my lantern.”

He grabs your hand again, absentmindedly turning your palm upward as if reading lines here. “I once slumbered for centuries,” he admits wistfully. Probably awaiting for you, he thinks.

You study him for a moment, curious what troubles a man like him? Does he fear like you do, yearns like you do, misses like you do? “I still do not fully know what you want from me,” you bring up again, but this time… you lace your fingers with his.

Kyryll lifts your hand and presses a kiss to your knuckle. “Would be greedy to say that I want you?”

“Greedy, yes. Abnormal, no.”

That answer pleases him, as he kisses it again. “Then I shall endeavor everything necessary to deserve the permission of your heart.”

Silence follows. Not so strained as usual, only oddly soft. He draws you gently to his side, and you let him. Somewhere in the back of your mind remains the stubborn though that you and Flins belong to different orders of beings, different durations, different… natures. Yet beside him, with evening bringing in yet another opportunity to open yourself and the gramophone winding down as the sign of him still being here with you, you wonder if this place has become a kind of home. A home unusual, unpredictable, a home… nonetheless. How does a fae love? You wonder. Hungry, devoted, tender, an ancient curse?

“She will be all right,” you say eventually, voice warm, “Wherever she is now. In the wind, listening to us maybe.”

“She will,” he answers surely.

Flins’s face tilts towards you, slow enough to give you a chance for refusal. You don’t move away.

“She will never see the daylight again,” you murmur as your breaths tangle together, “but I will. For her, and for anyone else like her.” Milena might be in everyone, you think.

“uneventful, since the supposedly diplomat i was meant to speak with mysteriously disappeared from their own hotel in the dead of the night.”

“hm, how unfortunate!”

“yes, how unfortunate.”

your hand thread through the hair at the back of his nape, before clutching at the strands in a firm grip and pulling harshly.

“oh my archons.”

lohen's groan was loud, echoing against the stone walls of your basement and he continued to whimper when you remained still, holding his head back steadily. each attempt to tug his head back into your neck was futile, but he still does so to feel the burn of his scalp and the pain of your grip. celestia, he looks so drunk and only from a simple pull on his head–face flushed crimson and eyes so intoxicated.

“explain yourself. why did you hold the diplomat hostage, hm?”

cold air exhales from lohen's mouth from the exhilaration of pain, his adam's apple bobbed up and down as he swallows the spit gathering at the back of his throat from the tilt of his head. with a hoarse voice and maniacal smile, he giggles lightheartedly.

“it was their fault!”

“how so?” you tut, roughly shaking the hand gripping his hair and you relish at the moan that escaped his throat.

“they were staring at you so, so, so intently. they were undressing you with their eyes, my bun!”

“that's all?”

“they spoke badly of your reputation!” he whines, rough and croaky. “told their companions that you must have whored your way up in the ranks. i can't possibly let that slide, my bun! they weren't going to negotiate from the beginning!”

“and you thought it was a good idea to beat them up?”

“they'll only waste your precious time, my bun.” he purred, still tugging his head from your grip despite the pain and your exclamation for him to ‘stay still, you fussy thing.’

you can already hear the words echoing in his head over and over, like a broke record replaying the same lines.

me, it should be me, i'm here! be with me, stay–don't leave me! not them, not anyone else, just me! i love you!

with a sigh, you let go of his hair–already having braced yourself for him to plop onto your shoulder. the weight was as comforting as the situation allowed–you were uncomfortable, there's still an unconscious person in the middle of your basement, beaten to a pulp until their face is only a flesh with purple and red bruises. you feel bad for them, but what's done is done.

how you're going to face the questions of their whereabouts tomorrow, will be a problem for tomorrow.

the set of teeth leaving small red indents on the skin of your neck tore you away from your thoughts.

“lohen.”

“yes, bun?” he sings, humming against you.

“i better not see this in the morning. if someone questions you, do not, in any form or circumstances, give a hint about what happened here.”

“mhm-hm!” he nods, nuzzling his cheek on yours. “i wasn't planning on it!”

“good.”

reveling in your embrace, he sinks deeper into your arms, purr like sighs rumbling from his throat. your hand now gingerly brushes the part where you had pulled, nails scratching the tender spot and he moans into your ear. honestly, this could be the picture perfect of heaven in his eyes and he would never ask for more than just this–a moment of peace in your warmth, like a snow globe slowly melting from your touch.

until he remembers something quite important.

“bun.”

“hm?”

you press your lips against his ear and he shudders through the warmth of your lips, inhaling and exhaling your scent deeply. god, you're really good at redirecting and making a mess of his cerebrum. just a lingering feeling of your touch was enough to render him into a pool of goo.

“what about the body?”

your hand pauses its ministrations, humming quietly before you whisper right in his ear.

“do what you see fit, my love.”

♡ a = aftercare. (what they're like after sex)

he's nothing if not gentle with you. doesn't matter who's doing what to whom, flins will do his best to take care of you and make sure you're comfortable, through and through. especially after such an intense moment of intimacy.

even if this is all a little new to him, even if he's unaccustomed to human needs, he makes it a habit to help clean you up—warm cloth wiping away any cum and sweat, careful around the tender areas—and pull you close under the covers. he'll tenderly kiss over any marks he may have left on you, whispering hushed praise and sweet nothings in your ear until you eventually drift off in his arms.

♡ b = body part. (their favorite body part of theirs and also on their partner)

his favorite part of himself is his hands. steady, capable, deliberate—they're what he uses to please you. whether he's fingering you open, stroking your twitching cock, or gripping your hips while he fucks into you, your enjoyment is what's most important to him. the fact that he's even capable of making you feel that good at all makes him incredibly happy.

as for you, that's difficult. flins adores every part of you, but if he had to pick, it'd be your eyes. oh, how they put his gemstone collection to shame. but your eyes, of course, are more extravagant than any crystal he's ever seen. especially when they're hazy with pleasure, barely able to focus on him while he's inside you.

he's also partial to your throat and the nape of your neck. thats where he likes to kiss you most, sometimes leaving the gentlest of bites, and other times the not-so-gentle ones.

♡ c = cum. (anything to do with it)

i feel like he'd produce a lot, only because he's not one to jerk off by himself very often, which leaves him pretty backed up. the first time you made him cum, he was almost embarrassed just by how much there was.

and when you cum? he's mesmerized. he loves watching you spill over his hand, his tongue, his stomach. he also loves the taste of it, loves feeling you pulse and throb in his mouth as he sucks you through your high. he'll lick you clean afterwards, gentle and thorough.

♡ d = dirty secret. (something dirty they've never told anyone)

he'd never admit it, but he secretly likes giving you hickies in more visible areas: your throat, your collarbones, that spot just above where the collar of your shirt sits. it gives him a sense of pride, knowing there's a chance others might see the marks he left on you, a subtle claim. something something fae instinct.

he also has a thing for watching you get yourself off. the thrill of seeing you stroke yourself into desperation, taking in every detail: your expression, the way your muscles tense, the sounds you make, how your dick leaks and twitches in your grip.

♡ e = experience. (how much experience do they have? do they know what they're doing?)

next to none. such intimacy was never something he actively pursued in his long existence—fae mate for life after all, and he'd never found someone worth giving himself to like that. relationships are complicated when you're pretending to be human, and sex without that deep connection seemed hollow and meaningless. so he simply... didn't.

but what he lacks in experience, he makes up for with how fast he learns. observant and ever intelligent, noting every reaction you have with that sharp mind of his. remembering what angle makes your cock leak and jump, what pace makes your thighs shake and your voice break, where to put his tongue to make you see stars. by the first few times together, he already knows your body like he's been studying it for years.

♡ f = favorite position. (how do they like to do it?)

anything where he can see your face and your cock.

he loves having you on your back with your legs over his shoulders so he can watch your length bounce with every thrust, already hard and leaking between you. or seated in his lap facing him so he can kiss you while grinding onto your ass or jerking you off, swallowing your moans, feeling you clench around him when you get too close.

♡ g = goofy. (are they more serious in the moment, or do they attempt to crack jokes?)

he's generally serious and romantic, but he's also got a sense of humor. the kind that comes out in gentle teasing and the occasional terrible pun. it's rare, but he has flashes of playfulness.

♡ h = hair. (how well groomed are they, does the carpet match the drapes...)

flins is the type to keep himself neat and well-groomed. the carpet does indeed match the drapes, dark indigo pubes trimmed but not completely bare. there's a nice pretty trail leading down from his navel that you've traced with your tongue more than once, following it lower until you're mouthing at his dick through his underwear.

♡ i = intimacy. (how romantic are they in the moment?)

flins is quite the charmer, so it's safe to say he'd be pretty romantic in bed. he's all whispered admiration and reverent touches, treating your body like something precious even when he's wrecking you. candles or soft lamp-light isn't unusual when he's setting things up for the two of you, and he always makes sure you're comfortable.

he kisses your tears away if it's overwhelming, if it's too much and not enough all at once, praise you for taking him so well, call you handsome, tell him how good you are for him. sex isn't just physical for flins—it's vulnerability, it's trust.

♡ j = jack off. (masturbation headcanon)

i actually don't think he'd go at it with himself very often. he's never felt like he needs to, and he doesn't have much time for it anyway, considering his lightkeeper duties. though he'll indulge himself on occasion, especially if either of you has been away for more than a few days or if a memory of your last time together won't leave his mind.

when he does jerk off, he likes to take it slow, and he's definitely thinking of you the entire time. your voice, your touch, sometimes imagining that it's your hand instead of his own.

♡ k = kink. (one or more of their kinks)

praise for sure. he loves telling you how well you're doing, how good you feel, how perfect you look, how nicely you take him.

he's also got a bit of a cock worship thing going on. he could spend hours between your legs, mouthing at your sensitive shaft before it's red and weeping. kissing it, teasing the head, licking it from the base to the tip—he adores every inch of you, and that includes your friend downstairs.

other than that, though, he's pretty vanilla! that said, he's not unwilling to experiment if you mention wanting to try something new. i lowkey see him being a bit curious about wax play...

♡ l = location. (favorite places to do it)

the comfort of his home, at the lighthouse. it's private, and he can take his time with you without worrying about being interrupted. hardly anyone ever comes by to visit the final night cemetery, and there's no one around to hear the noise either.

he's honestly not particularly adventurous with locations—the risk of being caught doesn't appeal to him. but, he may or may not have fucked you against his desk just outside the lighthouse once or twice.

♡ m = motivation. (what turns them on, what gets them going?)

your voice gets him every time. the way you say his name, especially when it's breathy or needy, when you're begging or praising him; it goes straight to his cock. even outside of sex, he could listen to you talk for hours.

seeing you in his clothes absolutely destroys him too. his shirt hanging off your shoulders, sleeves too long, collar exposing your throat... flins also just loves making you feel good. watching you come undone, hearing you gasp and moan, seeing your poor dick twitch and throb uselessly, knowing HE'S the one making you feel that way? incredible. your pleasure is his pleasure.

♡ n = NO. (their turn offs, things they wouldn't do)

a big no-no for him is hurting you, in any way, shape, or form. he'd rather die than cause you genuine harm. he doesn't mind leaving marks, but anything that causes you actual pain or distress is completely off the table.

he's not into degradation or humiliation either. light teasing is fine, but actually being mean to you, making you feel bad? that goes against every instinct he has. you're precious to him.

no sharing or public sex either. this is something private and meaningful between you two, not a spectacle. the idea of anyone else seeing you like that or being with you intimately doesn't sit right with him at all.

♡ o = oral. (would they rather give or receive? how skilled are they?)

flins absolutely loves having your cock in his mouth. he's clumsy at first, but he learns relatively fast and grows increasingly more addicted to the weight of your dick against his tongue, the way your tip hits the back of his throat. he loves the taste of you, the sounds you make above him—he can't get enough of it.

receiving is good, too, but he would never want to make you do all that work when he can please you instead. he definitely prefers giving and making you feel good. he licks you up after every time, pressing chaste kisses to your softening length.

♡ p = pace. (are they fast and rough, or slow and sensual?)

slow and sensual is his default. he likes to savor every moment, every touch, drawing things out until you're practically begging underneath him; pulling out almost completely before sliding back in agonizingly slow, making sure you feel every inch. he'll fuck you like he has all the time in the world, because he... kind of does.

♡ q = quickie. (their preference and opinion on quickies rather than proper sex)

he won't say no if you ask for one. if you're desperate and need him now, he'll absolutely do you quick and dirty against the nearest surface. theres something about the urgency of it, the raw need.

but he easily prefers to make love to you properly rather than rush through it. while quickies have their place, he'd much rather have you spread out beneath him with hours to lovingly explore your body.

♡ r = risk. (are they willing to experiment?)

he's pretty open to experimentation if you bring it up. his natural curiosity extends to intimacy—as long as it's safe and no one's boundaries are crossed, he's willing to try most things. but i dont think he's the type to come to you with something new, so you'll have to be the one asking.

♡ s = stamina. (how many rounds can they go for, how long do they last)

fae hardly ever find themselves feeling tired, and flins is no exception. he could go all night if you really wanted him to, and he has; thrusting into you until you're oversensitive and shaking, until the sun starts to peek through the rusted lighthouse windows.

but your comfort is his priority. he'll stop whenever you need, bring you water, let you catch your breath, and check in to make sure you're okay. just because he can keep going doesn't mean he will if you're done.

as for how long he lasts, it honestly varies. sometimes he can cum embarrassingly quick, especially if it's been a while or if you're doing something particularly stimulating. other times, he can last for ages, holding back so he can make you cum first.

♡ t = toy. (do they own any toys? do they use them? on partner or on themself?)

doubtful. not that he's against them, i just don't think it would ever cross his mind. he's plenty happy with just his hands. but he's willing to try it out if you ask him about it.

♡ u = unfair. (how much they like to tease)

a lot, actually. he can be a menace when he wants to be. he knows exactly what he's doing, and he certainly has a way with words.

or sometimes it's just a hand resting just a bit too high on your thigh, or whispered filth in your ear, or "accidentally" brushing against your crotch when he reaches past you. he loves seeing you flustered and hard, knowing he's the cause.

♡ v = volume. (how loud they are, what sounds they make)

i wouldn't call him loud, per se, but he's definitely somewhat vocal. it all depends on what's going on, who's in control. he's typically pretty composed—low groans and sharp breaths, your name falling off his lips like a prayer.

but if you're the one taking the more dominant role, riding him or sucking his soul right through his cock, or even fucking him? he gets louder, breathier, gasping in a way you didn't know he could.

♡ w = wild card. (headcanon)

you wouldn't think so, but he actually loves it when you top. he's usually the one in charge since he loves servicing and taking care of you, so he didn't expect to be so into it the first time you took control.

he's also very into frottage. grinding your cocks together, both slick from pre-cum, rutting until you both spill over. it makes his head spin.

♡ x = x-ray. (lets see whats going on under all those clothes...)

like a solid seven, maybe eight inches when he's fully hard. and a pretty pink tip. not obscenely huge but definitely enough to make you feel it. i feel like he would be longer than girthier, maybe a slight curve.

♡ y = yearning. (how high is their sex drive ?)

moderate to high, really. he went centuries with little interest in sex, but then you came along. as ive said: fae choose their partners for life, and now that he has his person, he wants you frequently.

he can manage a while without it if necessary, but he'd prefer not to. there are times when he's practically glued to you, hands wandering whenever you're close. making up for lost time, he'd say.

♡ z = zzz. (how quickly do they fall asleep after ?)

he... doesn't. not usually. fae don't need sleep, and resting at night isn't typically part of his routine. he's used to keeping watch, tending the lighthouse, staying alert through the dark hours.

but he's never opposed to laying with you after a night together, holding you close and running his fingers through your hair while you drift off, your body warm and satisfied against his. he likes these quiet hours, likes holding you, likes being there when you wake up.

Featuring. Lohen

Word Count. 2.4k

Notes. This is just an excuse for me to write a heated argument that crescendos into a make out session. Enjoy. Slightly... ooc? gn!reader

The training room at this hour is empty, which is the only reason you followed Lohen here, because what you are about to say does not need an audience.

"You didn't signal," you say, and your voice is already climbing at the edges. "We had a system. One signal for engaged, two for backup needed, three for abort. You had one job, Lohen, one job that was not even fighting, it was just moving your hand—"

"I was a little busy,” Lohen says, not sparing you a glance. That pisses you off even more.

"You were showing off."

"Those are sometimes the same thing." He pulls off one of his gauntlets and sets it on the rack with an ease that makes you want to throw something. He's not even looking at you. "You got the signal eventually."

"I got the smoke. From the building. That you were inside."

"And you knew where I was, so technically—"

"Technically," you say, and the word comes out like something thrown, "you walked into a building with twelve of them inside it alone, with no backup and no signal, and your definition of technically fine is that you walked out alive afterward."

"Thirteen." He glances over his shoulder. "There were thirteen. You had twelve in the briefing. The eastern room had an extra one, small guy, quick, almost interesting." Lohen turns back to the rack. "Your intelligence was off."

You stare at the back of his head. "That," you say, very carefully, "is your contribution. To this conversation. That my headcount was wrong."

"I'm just saying, if we're doing a debrief—"

"This is not a debrief."

"No?" He turns around now, and he's doing the look, the full version, the one that takes you apart by column and row. He leans back against the rack with his arms crossed and the specific quality of relaxation that means he is paying very close attention. "What is it, then?"

"It's me telling you that you could have died."

"I didn't."

"That is not the point—"

"Seems like the point to me." There's the tilt, the half-smile, the one that makes your hands want to do something inadvisable. "I'm standing right here. Uninjured. You can check if you want."

"I don't want to check, I want you to take this seriously—"

"I take it seriously."

"You take nothing seriously—"

"I take the fight seriously." His voice hasn't risen once. But you see the way his red eyes twinkle with mirth at your apparent frustration. That's the thing that makes it worse, the absolute evenness of him while you're coming apart at the seams. "Everything else is just logistics."

"People," you say, and your voice cracks very slightly at the middle of the word and then recovers, but not fast enough, because his eyes catch it immediately. "People are not logistics."

Something shifts in his expression. Minimal. But there.

You don't give him the space to do anything with it.

"You had thirteen opponents and no backup and you went in anyway because it was interesting to you, and I was outside, Lohen, I was right outside, and you didn't signal—" You're moving toward him now without fully deciding to, closing the distance because you need somewhere to put all of this and the room is running out of places. "Do you understand that from where I was standing I had no idea whether you were—"

"I knew what I was doing,” He says again, and for a single moment, only a miniscule one, you catch a crease against his eyebrows, a small mark of frustration before it, too, is replaced by his usually amused deamnor. 

"You always think you know what you're doing!"

"I always do know what I'm doing. Ask Mika, he had complete faith in me." The evenness has an edge in it now, something underneath the calm that wasn't there a moment ago. "There's a difference."

"There is no difference, the outcome is the same, you walking into situations that should require twice the people and half the recklessness and you just—" You stop. You're close now. Closer than you meant to get than the argument strictly required, and you can see the line of tension in his jaw that he's been keeping there this whole time. "You just don't care."

"I care." The words come out shorter than anything else he's said.

"About the fight. You care about the fight—"

"That's not what I said."

"It's what you meant—"

"It is genuinely incredible," Lohen says, and his voice has dropped now, lost the easy cadence entirely, "that you can stand there and tell me what I mean."

"Someone has to, since you won't—"

"What do you want me to say?" He pushes off the rack, and now he's the one closing the distance, and you should step back, there's room, you could step back, you don't. "What exactly is the answer you're looking for? Because I've been watching you work yourself up to this for ten minutes and I still don't know what you actually want from me."

"I want you to act like your life has value—"

"I know my life has value—"

"You have a completely different definition of that than every other person on the planet—"

"And you have a completely different definition of what it means to be in a fight." Lohen is close enough now that you have to look up slightly, which you resent, and his voice is rough at the edges in a way you have genuinely never heard before, the control wearing thin. You didn’t even know the man had any control at all. 

"You want everything clean. Mapped out. Orange for supply routes, purple for contingencies, every variable accounted for." His eyes are very dark. "You cannot map a fight. You cannot account for every variable. And the sooner you understand that, the less time you'll spend in trees being furious at me for knowing that already."

"That is not what this is about—"

"It's exactly what this is about." He takes another step and now there is almost no room left, and your back finds the edge of the weapon rack behind you, and he's close enough that you can see the old scar at his jaw you've been carefully not looking at for seven months and two weeks and however many days. "You had a plan. The plan didn't account for me. And you're furious, and I understand that, but what you're calling reckless I call reading the situation, and what you're calling careless—"

"You didn't signal," you say again, quieter now, and it comes out entirely wrong, it comes out like the thing underneath the thing, and you watch him hear it.

He goes very still.

"You didn't signal," you say, "and I didn't know, and I—"

His hand moves to your jaw before you finish the sentence.

It's not gentle. His palm is warm and certain and it tips your face up and then his mouth is on yours, and there is no transition between one thing and the other, no moment to prepare, just the solid immediate fact of him, his lips pressing hard and sure against yours with the same complete absence of hesitation he brings to everything, like this is simply the next logical step and he has already thought it through and committed.

You grip the front of his jacket.

He takes this, apparently, as agreement, because the hand at your jaw shifts, fingers pressing into your cheek, and the kiss doesn't ease up, it changes, deepens, becomes something that has been taking up space in a room for a very long time and has finally stopped pretending to be furniture. His other hand finds the small of your back and pulls you off the rack and into him, closing the last of the distance until there isn't any, and you can feel the steady rise and fall of his chest against yours and the scratch of his collar under your knuckles where you're holding on.

You kiss him back. This is a thing you are apparently doing now.

His mouth is warm and his grip is certain and he kisses the way he fights, no wasted movement, total attention, and when you press forward he makes a low sound against your lips that does something entirely unplanned to your knees. His thumb drags slowly along your cheekbone, adjusting the angle, and your free hand has found the front of his jacket and you pull, and he comes willingly, crowding you back half a step until the rack is at your shoulder blades and he is everywhere else, and the kiss opens, slower now, and his mouth is softer than it was and somehow worse for it, unhurried in a way that makes your chest ache in an uncharted and unscheduled fashion.

He pulls back and he is smiling, the full version, the one you have only ever seen aimed at a particularly good fight, and he looks at you with the expression of a man who has received exactly the information he came for and is deciding what to do with the surplus.

"Well," he says.

"Don't," you say, a little breathless.

"I haven't said anything."

"You were about to."

"I'm just standing here." He tilts his head, eyes moving over your face with the particular attention that has always made you feel thoroughly cross-referenced. "You're the one who still has my jacket."

You look down. You do, in fact, still have his jacket in both fists. You let go with what you feel is considerable dignity.

"This," you say, "does not change anything. We still have a debrief tomorrow, and you are still going to learn what a signal means, and—"

He leans in and presses his mouth to the corner of yours, barely a thing, the softest possible version of an interruption, and when he pulls back he is right there, close enough that the words have nowhere to go.

"—and the next time there is a plan," you say, somewhat less evenly, "you are going to follow it past the four-second mark—"

"Uh-huh." He kisses you properly this time, slowly, his bottom lip dragging against yours, one hand coming up to your jaw to hold you there, tilting your face up, and it lasts long enough that your hand finds the front of his jacket again without consulting you about it.

When he pulls back you are gripping his lapel.

"You do that every time," he observes.

"I do not—"

"The jacket." He glances down. "Every time. Like you're worried I'll move too fast."

"You always move too fast," You huff.

"You sure about that?" He dips in again, and this time his mouth finds the hinge of your jaw first, just below your ear, a warm press that makes your breath do something involuntary, before he finds your lips, and the kiss is unhurried, thorough, and he makes a low sound against your mouth that lands somewhere in the base of your spine. His hand slides from your jaw back into your hair, fingers pressing at the nape of your neck, and for a long moment the training room ceases to exist as a concept.

He pulls back an inch.

"Still think I move too fast?" he murmurs.

"That is not," you say, "the point I was making."

"What was the point?"

"The signal. The thirteen opponents. The building." You are aware your voice has a quality to it that it did not have twenty minutes ago, something rougher at the edges. "You didn't know I was outside."

"I knew exactly where you were." He says it simply, his thumb making a slow pass across your cheekbone. "I always know where you are." 

He lets that sit between you for a moment, then presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth, soft and brief, and another to your cheek, and tilts his forehead against yours. "You were in the trees at the northeast approach. Your satchel strap was catching the light. You were furious before I even went in."

You pull back enough to look at him. "You knew I was there the whole time."

"The whole time."

"And you went in anyway."

"I went in anyway." His eyes are steady on yours, the performance completely gone from them. "Thirteen opponents, no backup, no signal, because I knew you were forty yards away and I've never once needed more than that." He says it plainly, the same way he says everything true. "If you think about it, that's technically math."

Your heart stutters despite itself and you hate yourself for it.

"That is the most ridiculous thing," you say, "that anyone has ever said to me."

"Probably." He kisses you before you can continue, deep and sure, his hand firm at the back of your head. You kiss him back, despite all the instincts screaming at you that you are with the enemy, with both hands in his jacket and your heart doing things that are going to require significant documentation.

When you surface he's watching you with that look. You could almost call it soft. But with Lohen, nothing was really that soft. He was all sharp edges, and you could never predict what it was that he would do. 

"So," he says, his thumb at your jaw, unhurried. "Debrief tomorrow."

"Debrief tomorrow," you manage.

"I'll try to look at the map for five seconds."

"That would be a record."

"I'm full of surprises." He grins, drops one last kiss at the corner of your mouth like he's leaving something there for later, and steps back, finally, and picks up his gauntlet from the rack. "The purple was the right call, by the way."

You stare at him.

"For contingencies." He pulls the gauntlet on, easy and unhurried. "Confident colour. Suits you."

"Get out," you say, but it comes out wrong, too warm, all the edge gone out of it.

He hears it. Of course he hears it. He pauses at the door and looks back at you one more time with the expression of a man who has thoroughly enjoyed every second of the last twenty minutes and intends to continue enjoying them indefinitely.

"Eastern ridge," he says. "Twelve minutes. I'll be there."

And then he's gone, and the training room is very quiet, and you stand there with your hair slightly wrecked and both hands still curved from where they'd been in his jacket, and think, distantly, that you are going to need an entirely new colour.

Something bold.

You've always liked purple.

ahhh... tryna get out of my writer's block. how'd i do?

Lohen has always been beautiful, even from the distance that he’s put you at. He’s beautiful every time his lips brush your knuckles at dinners with powerful families in Mondstadt, still beautiful when he forsakes you by your lonesome for the rest of the night, leaving you to entertain yourself in other ways. He’s beautiful when you’re strolling the gardens, and you catch him sparring against other knights, and he smiles like it’s the happiest he’s ever been.

Hell, he’s beautiful now — his bangs fallen over his forehead, eyes widened in shock, his chest rising mid-inhale. He’s moved your vanity chair to the side of your bed, elbows perched on the stand right above your previously sleeping form. Lohen's lips move in response to your question, but he doesn’t answer.

You have to blink yourself awake, try to force your words to come out less groggy.

“Did I oversleep?”

He actually answers this time, his tone with the veneer of professionalism.

“No.”

“… Is there an emergency, then? Has someone passed?”

“… No.”

Your heart thuds dully in your chest, confusion swirling in your head. You shift, your head lifting up from your pillow just a little, and Lohen scrambles. The chair falls to the floor with a thud in his hurry to leave, his voice uncharacteristically wavering as he fumbles, “Sorry, I really didn’t mean to come in, please have a good night—”

You prop yourself up in a panic, your hand reaches for his just barely enough to grab his wrist, and he freezes. Your mind races because Lohen hasn’t turned around to face you yet, but you grabbed for his wrist in a hurry, and you had no plan of action for this. With all your might, you tug him backwards — he yelps, forearms falling back on your sheets, his back landing on your lap.

“You are not leaving that easily.” You pant out, scowl on your lips, “What the hell, Lohen?”

He doesn’t respond again, breathing heavily, chest rising and falling rapidly, his eyes blown wide. You watch in real time as the heavy flush at his ears spreads to his cheeks, red blossoming all over his face.

… Ah.

This is Lohen’s first time in a bed with you, you realize.

(And suddenly, your face feels warm too. You wonder if he notices.)

Slowly, you shift again — your thighs raise ever so slightly, so his head is brought closer to you, so you can sit a little more upright.

He's beautiful from this angle, too, and it only steels your resolve more. You’ve been denied the excuse to touch your husband for two years; you might as well take advantage of the opportunity while you have it.

Cautiously, your hand creeps towards him. A part of you is worried he’ll lunge — bite at you like a dog, or run away — but he stays frozen in your lap.

Your palm ghosts the cusp of his chin, tilting his jaw to face you. His skin is so much softer than you imagined, warm and getting warmer — he feels human underneath you.

Your hand travels to the side of his jaw, thumb on his cheek, tracing the deeper red on the apples of his cheek.

Lohen flinches, like your attention on him burns.

He should leave. He should lift himself from your lap, excuse himself to sleep in his cold chambers for the rest of the night so he can think about your touch without going rabid. He should cook you your favorite breakfast tomorrow, apologize profusely with a brilliant excuse for what he was doing in your room the night before.

Lohen knows himself enough to know that he should go. You're the one that stepped into the lion's den — a mouse keeping such a beast under it's paw is unheard of, and it's up to him to be strong enough to retreat back into the shadows, but he's never been strong when it comes to you.

So he stays there, drinking in the sight of you above him with half-lidded eyes, gazing at your lips as they move.

“Were you … watching me in my sleep?”

If only you knew.

He exhales. “Yeah.”

Warmth floods your chest, and your lips move before you can even process your next question. “Do you watch me often?”

Lohen feels like he might die, out of the pure ecstasy his heart can’t take being held by you, or the utter embarrassment of being caught.

“Almost every night.” He spits out, “Whenever I get the chance.”

“… Do you watch me when I'm not sleeping?”

Almost every day, whenever he gets the chance.

He's seen you in every state you've been in — it's not difficult to shrink his duties as the Vice Captain, and it's so easy when he already knows your daily schedule.

He used to chalk it up to keeping you safe. As his partner, you'd automatically be put in more danger than you normally would be, so he'd watch to keep an eye out for any attacks. The only attacks that he'd find out, however, were flirts and eyes from other men.

He wouldn't know what the feeling was when it happened — the something ugly that broiled in his chest, made his bloodlust that much more potent. He'd think about ending them all if he could for a moment — carve out their eyes for looking at you, flay their lips so they couldn't speak, butcher their hands for touching you.

But then you'd laugh. You'd wave your hand to show off the ring on your finger, speak of him, your husband, and all those thoughts would disappear. Because you were his, and he was yours.

Lohen would later find out (through rants with Varka of all people) that the fleeting emotion that overtook him was jealousy, and the emotion he felt towards you was love.

Something sick, tainted and unsure — but love nonetheless.

Lohen feels a rare bout of disgust towards himself. The bear trap he's placed himself in has finally clamped down on his crus, and like any wounded animal, he scrambles for absolution.

A gasp escapes your lips as his head rams into the fat of your stomach, his nose buried into your thigh, arms awkwardly wrapped around your waist. This is certainly the closest he's been to you — he can smell your bodywash through your silk top, just enough to send his panicking mind into overdrive.

“Please don't—” He chokes out, “Please don't leave me — I can be better, I can change, so please don't—”

You can only watch in shock as Lohen babbles on, manic pleas flying from his lips faster than you can process them. His arms squeeze around you, twisting the fabric bunched at your skin, pressing further closer to you. He'd reach past your skin if he could — have his teeth tear into your flesh, burrow into your bones, sink into the fibers of your muscle — he's happy to be a parasite if it means he can be with you—

“Lohen, stop.”

His teeth clamp down on his tongue at your command, just enough to draw blood.

It's embarrassing. The Vice Captain of the Knights of Favonius’ Fifth Company, trembling in his partner's lap, cowering like a child. He can't help it; he can't think properly with you so close to him. Any normal man would knuckle under your warmth, lurch on their axis at your touch, and he is all but just a man—

Your hands cup his cheeks, forcing his face to yours, your noses just inches apart.

It pisses you off — how absolutely angelic he looks, knowing he has so much to apologize for. Tears lace the corners of his eyes like poison on a sharp knife, arched right to your heart. There's a waver of his lips, small knit in his brows, pink in his eyes, the color of love, that makes him that much more pitiful.

“You're acting insane.” Your eye twitches, “I've never met anyone like you.”

“’M sorry,” he mumbles glumly, “I didn't mean for it to go this far.”

(You've never seen a man look more desperate in his life.

And now your heart feels soft again.)

For a moment, there's just silence. Pregnant and heavy, fallen over the two of you. There's not even a rustle on his side, like he's terrified that if he moves, time will go forward again.

“Can I ask why?”

What other reason would there be?

For the first time since being caught, his eyes meet yours wholly. Like you're the only person in the whole world, and his answer is the only truth.

His breath feels tepid on your skin, the shaky inhale and exhale as you await the answer.

“I just like being around you.” He breathes, “… Even when you're unaware of it, I just like you.”

And then his head dips, his cheek nuzzling into the palm of your hand. Like a dog at the heel of its owner, he bathes in the attention you've given him while still begging for more.

“I like you,” he confesses again — it’s not any easier to say it, even now that it's already out in the open. You feel his lips on your skin, not daring to enunciate more than needed, shielding your bare palm from his teeth. “And I’ve been holding back all this time, so please forgive me.”

There's something scrappy in his tone of voice — raw on his tongue, with something frenzied that you can't quite place.

So this is the real Lohen.

Normal? No. Well-adjusted? Certainly not. Like a wolf starving for a meal, he’s gotten himself through with instinct and madness alone. Polite greetings can't quell such a fire, and kisses out of duty will only ignite it further, so he's been staving it off by watching you — but that can't simulate what he truly desires either. He's just as obsessed as you are, to the point where it's debilitating.

Something stirs in your heart.

(Is it bad that this only makes you want him more?)

So you adjust your grip — you sit both of you up straighter on the bed, resting his chin between your propped-up knees.

“I forgive you.” You murmur, finger absentmindedly circling around his cheek, brushing his bangs back. You're impossibly close to him now —enough to see the flutter of his blue eyelashes, the faint freckles that dot his nose.

Your head tilts to the side, moving closer. “And…”

Lohen's breath hitches.

“I'm sorry you felt that you couldn't be yourself around me.”

A peck on his cheek, before you pull back. Far too brief, he'd think he imagined it if you weren't holding him right here.

“I wish you would've told me instead of going to such lengths, y'know.”

Another on his forehead. His neurons feel frayed, sent to death by overstimulation at your touch, his self-control tumbling further and further away, straight to the bear trap shut tightly around his heart.

“It's funny, isn't it?” Your laugh sounds like music to his ears — the crystalflies’ hum that floats around the grapevine at night, the songbirds that wake him up in the morning. “I guess anyone else would be worried about the logistics — how long you've been watching me, what you think about when you watch me, but…”

Your thumb brushes against his eyebags, faint and discolored. And your heart aches for him, because you know the countless hours and dedication he puts into his work, and you know what he puts his body through to keep you safe.

“I'm here worrying if you’re getting enough sleep like this. So now I’m wondering if we were made for eachother.”

He flinches as you kiss him right under his eye, right at the mole — your teeth scrape at his eyebags just lightly, and he shivers. You don’t separate from him completely this time — no, your head tilts until your forehead presses up against his, your noses bumping against the other, your breath on his lips.

You're brighter than the moon outside could ever be, and he can't help but stare with ricochet wonder.

“I just want you as you are. So please don't hide from me.”

Lohen used to imagine what it'd be like to kiss you. Hell, he was thinking about what it'd be like when he was watching you a few minutes ago — for you, he'd be a respectable man, the best he could be.

The second your lips actually touch his, though, the last thread of self-restraint snaps.

His fingers tighten at your shoulders as his face presses against yours, until the back of your skull hits the headboard and he's crawled up over you, caging you between the bed and his body.

It's a foreign feeling — his tongue licking the inside of your lips, teeth bumping awkwardly at how messy it all is — and he tries to keep his thoughts into reign again, tries not to think about how he'd unhinge his jaw to swallow you whole if he could, how he doesn't need another sip of wine ever again if it means getting drunk off of you for the rest of his life.

His partner, his precious partner, mewling vibrations against his lips, thunder in his heart and clouds in his head. Lohen could die happily here, he thinks — you could stab him in the back right now, and he'd have the pleasure of bleeding out in your arms. What an honor it would be to seep into the crevices of your skin, so that no amount of soap or water could ever rid you of him.

You're too sweet, though. Too good for him, so he'll have to stand to sticking his tongue down your throat instead, peeling you open from inside out until the nonsensical sounds you make with your lips learn to form his name instead.

Something carnal bubbles in your chest, like animal to animal alike, saliva in your mouth, melted iron on your tongue.

It's something in the way he laps up your attention, kisses you with a reverence only a devil could, like there's nothing else he'd rather do.

Lohen’s lips separate from yours far earlier than he'd like — his hands weaker on your wrists, chest heaving as he pants.

He's not nearly good enough at this yet, but he wants to be. He wants to be better for you in general, if you'd let him.

And it seems like you want to, with the way you lay your forehead on his shoulder, slowly gathering yourself the same way he is, letting him feel your uneven breaths on his collarbone. Your cheek feels warm on his skin as you turn, a contrast to the nip in the night air.

“So,” you look at him with all the unlocked adoration he used to dream about, “Was that everything you've ever wanted, my dear husband?”

He nods.

If he's being honest, he's still half-expecting you to throw him out now that you've had your fill of him at this point, to let him rot in the dungeons below you where he belongs — but you just laugh, and his heart skips a beat again.

Your lips curve into a teasing smile.

“… Stalker.”

Lohen flushes.

“I didn't—” His protest is cut off short by another kiss on his lips. Softer, this time. Sweeter.

Enough for him to want to go back in and capture yours properly again, but then you sigh contentedly, flopping back down on your mattress.

“You'll stay the night, won't you?” You ask innocently, running your hand up his thigh, “Unless you're content to just watch me until the sun rises.”

(As if on cue, one of the straps to your tank top slips off your shoulder, revealing your bare skin.

Lohen thinks that maybe he's been the one walking into the lion's den this entire time.)

“I…”

“Perfect!” Your hands promptly grab his forearm, pulling him down to you.

This is twice that you've thrown him to the mattress, he thinks, another three or four times more that you've manhandled him just this night alone. Is this what he should expect from married life from now on? Should he invest in a new mattress?

He scarcely has time to think before you're by his side again, arms wrapped around his waist, your lips pressing kisses to his clavicle.

“Y'know … we never consummated the marriage, Lohen,” you murmur, unable to hide the mischievous tone in your voice, “Shall we make it official tonight?”

You're going to be the death of him, but he doesn't mind.

lowkeyyyy hate the way this ended but couldnt think of anything else so . idk i just wanted to make out with him

After a day of locking himself in his house, he had come up with his very own poison. Made from the remains of a dendro slime, mixed with a few crushed petals of Dendrobium, and a generous splash of expired alcohol stolen from the Cat’s Tail.

He didn't know if it was truly toxic. In fact, he just mixed random ingredients he found revolting.

He wasn't planning on truly poisoning you after all. In its current concentration, it would merely cause temporary numbness (maybe).

And so he placed a cute little package in front of your house (he stole the documents that held information of those working under the Grand Master to find your address). Inside the package was a plate of Hash Brown he had cooked himself.

Of course, the poison was sprinkled on top as well.

He knocked on the door to your house and hid in a bush nearby.

He watched the door open, a shiver of excitement going down his spine.

But when you stepped out, his eyes widened. You weren’t what he had imagined. Not old, not bitter, not hunched over with tired eyes and stained robes.

You looked... young and composed. Normal in fact.

You glanced at the package, shrugged, and brought it inside.

The next day, he had half hoped there would be some commotion. Instead, nothing happened.

Lohen found that significantly more unsettling than if you had screamed.

Did you not open it?

Did you die?

Worse, did you throw it away?

By the second day, irritation curdled into curiosity again, and curiosity dragged him back to your house.

He hadn’t even reached the door when something stopped him.

A box.

His box.

He stared at it, then at the note pinned neatly on top.

It read-

---

Observation Log

Possible dendro slime derivative.

Taste profile:

Slight bitterness.

Floral aftertaste.

Perhaps traces of alcohol.

Symptoms:

Tingling lips.

Mild numbness in fingers.

Onset approximately twenty-five seconds.

Conclusion:

Sloppily made poison.

---

He stared at the handwriting. The faint smell of alcohol lingering on the hastily ripped paper.

'..... Sloppy?' he scoffed, annoyance creeping up into his face. He crumbled the paper, staring at the door with a sadistic smile.

"Fine then. I'll show you real poison."

The next morning, another box appeared at your doorstep.

Like last time, you took it into your home. You had no idea who was delivering these, but the last package being drenched in a mild toxin made it interesting enough for you to open.

You tore open the box.

This time, it was a plate of mushroom pizza.

"Oh, that looks delicious." you muttered to yourself, noticing the unusual purple coloring on the crust.

You reached and held a piece of the pizza near your mouth. And without a care, you took a huge bite from the area where the coloring was the brightest.

The following day, Lohen returned to find another note on your doorstep. This time it was more detailed than the last.

---

Observation Log

Low concentration of Aconitum.

Taste profile:

Initial sweet-bitter note.

Followed by burning sensation.

Symptoms:

Numbness.

Dizziness.

Loss of strength.

Conclusion:

Good posion. Easily countered.

Although, I liked the taste of the pizza.

(attached are my other observations)

---

There were six pages attached.

Six.

Lohen stared, flipping through the pages with a smile. "God. She's insane."

This started the exchange of poisons and paper notes.

The next package that Lohen put on your doorstep had a small note of his own.

---

To the Medic

Firstly, fuck you.

Secondly, you missed a secondary ingredient. (Hint : It was Naku weed)

Thirdly, thank you for complimenting the pizza.

I made it myself.

---

Your response appeared the next morning.

---

To the Poisoner

1. Rude.

2. I did not miss the ingredient. Naku weed has no toxic properties. Just color.

3. The posion on the crust was obvious. Are you perhaps new to this poisoning thing?

---

Your responses pissed the Vice captain even more. Because how dare a lowly medic like you have the audacity to critic his cooking?!

He tried even harder after that.

More precise blends. Better masking. Controlled dosages. Carefully calibrated ingredients. Tried perfecting the recipe so you couldn't find any faults.

Everything.

After making sure everything was perfect, he delivered the next package. A plate of Northern Apple Stew.

The reply next day was written in a crumbled paper with messy handwriting.

---

Rules for Future Poisoning

1. No explosive diarrhea.

2. No permanent injury.

3. No organ damage.

4. No blindness.

5. No poisoning children.

6. Food should remain edible

---

Lohen rolled his eyes at the rules. "Killjoy." To him these rules just were unnecessary boundaries that ruined his fun.

But he never wanted to stop this exchange between the two of you. It was much too entertaining for him.

Unknown to him, that night ended with you locking yourself in your room. Having non stop diarrhea for hours.

Soon the notes became longer than the poisons themselves.

One morning, the package you opened had a plate of Cream Stew.

And this time the note attached had a list of ingredients used.

---

Current Theory

The toxin should produce localized muscle weakness.

Estimated duration:

Two hours.

Possible side effects:

Dizziness.

Drowsiness.

Complaining.

Will you be able to guess what I used (Y/N)? °^°?

---

Three days later Lohen received something he could only call a report.

A dossier.

Twenty-two pages which included diagrams, charts, annotated symptom timelines.

And corrections.

So many corrections.

---

Page 14: dosage error.

Page 17: please stop using kitchen spoons as lab tools.

Page 19: “Did you eyeball the concentration?”

---

Unfortunately Lohen had. And he hated that you noticed.

Months passed and somehow it became a routine.

Your medic colleagues grew increasingly worried seeing you drowsy every other day.

"Do you know who keeps sending you poison?" one asked.

You shook your head. "No, not really."

"Shouldn't that concern you?"

You looked confused. "Why?"

"Because they're poisoning you...?"

You blinked. Honestly, if the person wanted to kill you, they could have used other deadly toxins. Yet, they always made sure to use small doses and non lethal ingredients.

You smiled to yourself. "They are very considerate actually."

"... Oh." the medic froze.

You tapped a finger on your cheek. "They also have lovely handwriting."

"..."

The medic walked away. Unable to continue the conversation.

Lohen, meanwhile, was also not doing well.

Varka had his suspicions when he first saw the crazed man laughing while tasting the exotic plants he had ordered.

One day, while Lohen was away on a mission, he broke the lock of his drawer and read through all the papers in there.

Papers about toxic plants. Possible ingredients. And of course, all the notes you had written to him.

He ran a hand through his hair. "What the hell is happening in Mondstadt?"

Varka immediately dragged Lohen by the collar and pushed him into the store you worked in to apologize.

You looked up from your desk and instantly recognized him as your mysterious poisoner.

Not by his face. But by his hands.

The stained fingertips. The chemical burns. The ink marks. The quiet proof of obsession.

"Oh," you smiled softly. "It's you."

Lohen blinked.

Varka shoved him forward. "Apologise to the lady Lohen."

Oh. So his name was Lohen.

The boy looked deeply offended. "I don't want to."

"Apologize." The Grand Master repeated, his gaze cold.

Lohen sighed dramatically. Then glanced toward you. "...Sorry for poisoning you."

You immediately shook your head, a small laugh escaping your lips. "There is so need for apologies. I should be thanking you actually."

Silence.

Even Varka froze.

You continued, brighter now. "The poisons were genuinely fascinating."

Varka looked horrified.

"I learned to make dozens of new antidotes!"

Lohen stared. Mesmerized.

"Also the toxins were quite creative! Honestly, every morning became something to look forward to."

Varka took a breath, and turned his gaze to the ceiling, perhaps praying to Barbatos why they allowed these two people to exist.

"Also the notes were fun!" you added, opening your drawer and placing the stack of notes you had carefully stapled on the table in front.

Lohen wasn't even listening anymore.

Because you were smiling.

At him.

Because of him.

Because he had poisoned you.

It was a stupid conversation. The girl in front of him was grateful for poisoning her. It was reckless, idiotic and yet...

At that moment his heart made some several terrible decisions.

He realised.

With a lot of hesitation...

That-

'Oh.'

'Oh no.'

'You were kinda cute.'

He had known your name for months. Known where you worked. Known your habits. Your favorite medicinal herbs. The way your handwriting became messier when excited.

But seeing you in person? Actually talking to you?

He was finished.

Absolutely in love.

That night he didn't sleep. Instead he sat at his desk surrounded by herbs, powders, vials, and failed formulas, staring at his next experiment like it might hold divine answers.

Most men wrote poetry.

Most men gifted flowers.

Most men confessed.

But Lohen was not most men.

He lifted a vial of deep red liquid, watching it swirl under lamplight with a manic smile. "If she barely liked the last one... I'll just make one that is even better."

And thus began the greatest romantic pursuit in history.

Not through gifts or heartfelt letters.

But through an escalating series of increasingly sophisticated poisons.

Lohen's new life goal was simple.

Create a poison so fascinating, so beautiful so perfect....

That when you tasted it—

You'd fall hopelessly in love with its creator.

Unfortunately for him, the only thing you fell in love with was the chemical composition.

Fin

Part 2, Part 3

😭 😭 😭 I CANT WITH THIS GUY. I FEEL LIKE HE'S SOMEONE WHO'D GIFT YOU A BOMB CUZ HE LOVES YOU.

Some of the ingredients used r actually toxic while others r just bs. I tried making it as Canon as possible but I'm sure there r some mistakes. Sorry abt tht.