chibifox88

I looked behind him into the clearing. It was wide and open, a circle carved out of the dense forest. The ground was blanketed in soft grass, worn in places like animals had bedded down there. A fallen log rested near the edge, half-covered in moss and wildflowers that sprouted in bright patches of violet and white. The sunlight slanted through the canopy, spilling across the space like a spotlight.

I narrowed my eyes, suspicion already prickling. “For what?” My voice carried the sharp edge of distrust I wasn’t about to buy into whatever trick he thought he was about to pull.

If he noticed, he didn’t show it. Wukong strode toward the center of the clearing, his tail swaying lazily behind him. He looked perfectly at ease, like this had all been decided from the start. “I did say last time that I’d teach you how to get past my wards on this island,” he said, voice rolling casually as if he were just commenting on the weather. “We’ve got about an hour left, so I figured now’s as good a time as any to put that to use.”

I blinked at his back. He had said that. I remembered it clearly but I’d assumed it was one of his empty boasts, the kind he tossed out just to get a reaction. I hadn’t expected him to actually follow through.

When he reached the middle of the clearing, he turned to face me, expression softer now, though his grin still lingered. “You’ve got an impressive amount of magic in you, Foxglove. For a demon in this age, it’s rare. I haven’t seen reserves like yours in centuries. Not even from a celestial.” His eyes lingered on me, earnest in a way I hadn’t seen before. “I’m willing to bet you could do a long-distance teleportation jump. From the city to here, maybe even further. It's tricky, precision matters as much as power but I’ve seen the way you teleport. You’ve got the control. It’s just about refining it.”

I found my legs moving before I made the decision. Slowly, I stepped forward, eyes fixed on him. His words stuck like burrs in my mind, catching at my pride even as I wanted to scoff. Coming from him, from the Great Sage himself that was a hell of a compliment. The kind you couldn’t brush off so easily. The kind that made your chest feel too tight.

I didn’t know what to feel about it. I didn't want to think too hard about it either. So I pushed the emotions in the box in the back of my mind under the sea of thoughts. The box that was filling up way too quickly nowadays. 

Wukong’s grin sharpened the longer he held my gaze, like he already thought he’d scored some kind of victory just by saying out loud what I should be proud of. He folded his arms over his chest, tail flicking lazily, and tilted his chin like a teacher about to lecture a particularly dense student.

“See, teleportation on a small scale? That’s just instinct. Point A to point B, hop across the street, dodge a punch you’ve got that down. But distance jumps? A whole different beast. You can’t just throw yourself into the void and hope you land where you want. You’ve gotta account for lay-lines, ambient magic, terrain markers, and if there are wards already woven into the space you’re aiming for. Otherwise…” He snapped his fingers and mimed an explosion, golden eyes glinting with way too much amusement. “…splat.”

I lifted a brow, arms crossed, and gave him the most unimpressed look I could muster. “You’re saying not to splatter myself on the side of a mountain. Groundbreaking.”

He barked a laugh, full of smug satisfaction. “Hey, don’t roll your eyes at me, Foxglove. Most people can’t even get to the splattering stage without ripping themselves apart mid-jump. You’re ahead of the curve because of me, of course.” He winked, infuriatingly casual.

Inside, I could have rattled off the lecture he was halfway through word for word. Wards layered over natural barriers, how to slip past runes without setting them off, how to push magic into a jump in threads instead of waves so you don’t shred yourself apart in transit. He wasn’t wrong, but gods, he was thorough and worse, he clearly thought I needed every word of this explanation. I of course didn’t. I’ve known how to do long distance teleportation for a very long time now. He was trying to teach me shit I already knew. But there was no point telling him that. Since at some point in this he’ll start teaching me things I don’t know. So for now…I’ll play along. 

So I let him talk. Nodded in all the right places, even tilted my head once or twice like I was learning something new. Meanwhile, my mind was elsewhere running through the subtle differences in his wording, how he phrased things compared to how I’d been taught, filing it away.

“Now, my wards on this mountain,” he continued, pacing in a slow circle like the smug bastard he is, “they’re not your run-of-the-mill talismans. They’re layered, interlocked. I designed them so anyone stupid enough to try and sneak past gets sent flying across the ocean. Even have wards up that puts whatever intruder that gets through in front of me. Some that just freeze them in place till I release them. To beat my wards, you don’t just need raw magic, you need finesse. Delicate hands. The ability to weave threads thinner than a hair and sneak them through cracks most wouldn’t even see.”

I hummed low in my throat, biting back the urge to tell him I could already unravel most wards blindfolded. Or throw in his face how smug and full of himself he sounds. Instead, I kept my lips pressed into a line, eyes tracking him with a look that I knew he’d read as reluctant interest. Let him think he was the master here. Let him underestimate me.

The more he underestimated me, the more satisfying it would be to knock that smug grin right off his face later.

Wukong’s voice rolled on, smooth and smug, but this time I actually paid attention. Not because I wanted to stroke his ego by nodding at his little lecture, but because the wards around this mountain were… different. Old. Ancient, even. They weren’t the flashy paper seals and quick-burn talismans most modern demons use. No, his wards felt dense, stitched together with script that belonged in dusty scrolls buried under temple floors. The kind of magic that didn’t just keep you out it trapped you, bound you, and spat you back with your spirit bruised.

And I knew I’d struggle with them. I hated admitting it, even to myself, but these weren’t the kinds of defenses I could just muscle through with brute force magic or twist apart with clever little tricks. He’d built them like puzzles only he could solve. And for all his cocky grins and exaggerated hand gestures, he wasn’t wrong Sun Wukong was a prodigy when it came to this stuff.

“So,” he drawled, pacing in front of me like some smug professor, “we’ll start easy. No point throwing you at my strongest wards first, you’d just fry yourself and pout at me for letting you fail.”

“I don’t pout,” I muttered, crossing my arms.

His smirk widened. “Sure, Foxglove. Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

I rolled my eyes but didn’t rise to the bait. Let him think I was sulking. Let him think I was just barely keeping up. That way, when I did manage to slip past one of these relic wards, I could watch his jaw actually hit the dirt.

He crouched in the grass, claw tracing patterns into the soil as golden light bled from his fingertip, weaving faint symbols into the dirt. The runes shimmered, a simplified mock-up of one of the wards ringing his mountain I amused. “See this?” he asked, gesturing at the design like a proud craftsman. “This is a bare-bones structure. Interlocking threads, reinforcing each other in layers. If you tug too hard at one side, the others pull tight and slap you right back. Trick is ” he jabbed the air with one finger, “ you don’t tug. You slide.”

I tilted my head, pretending to squint at the runes like I was parsing some foreign language. Truth was, I already knew the theory he was spoon-feeding me I’d worked through weaker wards like these before. But his variation was… sharper. Older. The bones of his design came from an era when magic wasn’t diluted or simplified. And that? That was something worth learning.

“So,” he said, rocking back on his heels with that infuriating grin, “give it a shot. Try and wiggle your magic through without setting off the snare.” This ward was simply in theory. One that would hold you there until released by the caster. At least I believed that's what it’d do  if I had to guess. Since these aren't the modern wards I’m used to seeing.  

I crouched down across from him, resting my elbows on my knees, and narrowed my eyes at the glowing pattern. Inside, I was cataloguing every symbol, every seam, comparing it to the modern wards I’d already mastered. Outside, I put on a show of hesitance, lower lip caught in my teeth, brows drawn, ears tilted just slightly back.

He leaned forward, watching me too closely. “Don’t overthink it, Foxglove. This is the training wheels version.”

“I never overthink things,” I shot back, deadpan, even though we both knew that was a lie.

He laughed, tilting his head back like he found me endlessly amusing. “You? Overthink? Please. You’re reckless as hell. That cliff stunt earlier proved it.” He then stood up and started to walk around me. Watching me from what felt like every angel. 

I ignored the jab, closing my eyes and channeling just the smallest tendril of magic into the runes. It brushed against the first thread, careful, delicate, testing the way it shifted under my touch. I knew the right way forward by instinct. This one felt closer to the modern ones I know, but I made it look like I was fumbling, like I was struggling to get a grip on the weave. Let him think he was still ten steps ahead of me. Let him underestimate me while I learned from him.

Because if there was one thing I knew about Sun Wukong, it was that he loved the sound of his own voice. And the longer I let him explain, the more pieces of his secrets I got for free.

I let my magic thread along the outer seam of the runes, brushing faintly like fingers against harp strings. I knew the tension points, knew exactly where to press and where to ease, but I deliberately let it slip once, just enough to make the ward flicker like it was about to snap shut.

Wukong chuckled behind me. “Careful, Foxglove. You tug too hard, and you’ll trip it. Then you’ll be stuck and begging me to untangle you.”

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. Instead, I tilted my head, ears flicking back like I was frustrated. “Maybe your teaching just sucks.”

That got him grinning wider. “Oh, please. Don’t blame the teacher when the student can’t keep up.”

I huffed under my breath, letting him think he’d gotten under my skin. Then, with one careful push, I slid my magic between two anchor points, weaving through the space he’d drawn to demonstrate. I felt the ward shiver, as if testing me—then, like a knot loosening, it gave way. The golden glow winked out, clean, quiet, perfect.

I pulled my hand back quickly, blinking at the empty dirt like I hadn’t expected that to work. “…Oh.”

Wukong’s brows shot up. He leaned forward, tail swishing behind him as he stared at the erased rune. “Huh. Well, damn. You actually got it.” His tone was begrudging, but I caught the flicker of surprise in his golden eyes.

I tilted my head innocently, letting my tail flick lazily behind me. “Guess I just got lucky.”

He snorted, crossing his arms. “Luck my ass. That was cleaner than most demons manage their whole lives.” He studied me, sharp gaze narrowing like he was trying to peel away my mask. “Don’t tell me you’ve been holding out on me, Foxglove.”

I shrugged, feigning nonchalance as I sat back on my heels. “Or maybe I just followed your oh-so-brilliant explanation word for word. Great Sage Sun Wukong, teacher of the year.”

That smug grin came right back. “Damn right.” He brushed his hands together like he’d just solved every problem in the world. “See? What did I say? With me teaching you, even someone as stubborn and reckless as you can learn.”

Wukong crouched down again, dragging the edge of his claw over the dirt until another rune began to form, far more intricate than the first. The lines spiraled outward in curling strokes, overlapping in ways that made my eyes ache if I stared too long. There were old shapes in this ward, ones I’ve never seen used in a ward before.

“This one,” he said, brushing the dust off his hands, “is the real deal. I use it all around my mountain to keep pests out. Bandits, treasure hunters, wandering idiots who think climbing my peaks will give them good luck.” His tail swayed behind him as he grinned. “It doesn’t just sting or snap shut like the little one you handled. This ward launches anyone uninvited right back where they came from.”

He looked at me with an almost feral gleam in his golden eyes, clearly enjoying himself. “So don’t screw up, Foxglove. Unless you want to go flying through half the forest like a kicked pebble.”

I raised a brow, forcing myself to look unimpressed even as I studied the lines. The magic humming through this one was heavier, older, vibrating under my skin in a way that made my bones ache. He wasn’t exaggerating this wasn’t a pretty little barrier. This was a fortress lock, the kind you weren’t supposed to even touch without the right blood or the right key.

“Charming,” I muttered, folding my arms. “You really know how to make a girl feel welcome.”

He smirked. “If you want to walk around my mountain without me holding your hand every step of the way, you need to learn. Consider it… incentive.” He stood up again and started to walk around me. 

I crouched across from the mark, studying it. The strokes twisted in ways that made my eyes ache, shapes from an era no one used anymore. I had no memory of ever seeing this kind of construction before. It wasn’t in any of the modern scrolls, not even in Red’s obsessive archives. My fingers hovered just above the glowing lines, and the heat rolling off them made the skin of my hand prickle.

I forced myself to keep my face bored, unimpressed, but my heart was thudding too fast in my chest. I tried channeling magic through my fingers the same way I’d dismantled the earlier ward. The energy recoiled, like I’d shoved my hand into a nest of stinging wasps. A jolt of force snapped up my arm, numbing my shoulder.

“Shit ” I hissed through my teeth, jerking my hand back.

Across from me, Wukong chuckled low in his throat. “Careful now. I told you it bites.”

“Shut up.” I bit the words out, shaking life back into my arm. My tail flicked furiously behind me, betraying what I refused to show on my face.

I tried again, this time tracing one of the spirals more carefully, slowly feeding my own energy into it. The ward resisted, pushing back against me. Every step forward was like pressing against an unmovable weight. My breathing grew shallow. Sweat beaded at my temples.

Wukong crouched down next to me, smug as ever. “You’re fighting it wrong. You keep shoving against it like it’s some brute force problem. These wards don’t yield to muscle.” He tapped the edge of the glowing rune with his nail, and the energy rippled outward like water disturbed. “You have to listen to it. Follow the current, not fight it.”

“I know that,” I snapped automatically but my voice came out thinner than I wanted, strained. My arm still buzzed with pins and needles.

I tried again, doing what he said, letting the flow of his old magic guide my own. For a second, it worked, one of the outer loops flickered, dimming slightly. My heart leapt, but the moment I pushed too hard, the whole thing flared back to life, knocking me flat on my ass with a burst of force.

The impact rattled my teeth. The grass was cool under my palms, contrasting with the heat still burning along my arms.

Wukong’s laugh rang out across the clearing, smug and bright. “Ha! Flew pretty far for just a nudge.” He was using his tail as some type of seat moving back and forth as he laughed at me. Wiping at his eyes. I felt a growl coming up in my throat. 

I glared up at him, brushing dirt from my clothes. “You enjoying yourself?”

“Immensely,” he said, leaning forward towards me on his tail seat. “But credit where it’s due you dimmed it. Not many can even manage that. You’ve got a sharp head on your shoulders, Foxglove, even if you insist on throwing it at cliffs.”

The compliment stung almost as much as the ward itself. I clenched my jaw and looked away, standing and forcing myself back over to the glowing script. My hands still trembled, but I refused to let him see me hesitate again.

“Don’t expect me to thank you,” I muttered. “If I figure this out, it’s because I bled for it.”

Wukong’s grin only widened. “That’s the spirit. Let’s see if you can survive my wards without redecorating the treetops.”

The ward hummed like a living thing beneath my fingertips, the glow pulsing in time with the rhythm of my magic as I tried again. My arms ached from the recoil of my last attempt, and the scent of scorched dirt still lingered in the air where I’d been knocked back.

But this time, instead of ramming against it like before, I forced myself to pause. To listen. To feel.

The current wasn’t linear. It spiraled, curled, and knotted in ways that looked chaotic at first glance but carried a hidden rhythm. If I stopped treating it like something to conquer, if I let it guide me…

I closed my eyes and placed both hands just above the glowing strokes, letting the warmth seep into my skin. My breathing slowed. My magic followed the current like water slipping through cracks, flowing where it wanted instead of where I tried to force it.

The resistance came again, heavy and suffocating, but instead of shoving back, I yielded only to slip past it like smoke through a cage. My magic threaded into the heart of the ward, and with a low hum, the glow fractured, unraveling into dim motes of light that flickered out one by one.

Silence followed. The air stilled. The ward was gone.

I opened my eyes, chest heaving, sweat trickling down my spine. My tail flicked once, slow, in satisfaction. I’d done it without his smug commentary guiding me every step of the way.

Behind me, I heard a slow clap.

Wukong leaned lazily against a tree, arms crossed, that insufferable smirk plastered across his face. “Well, well, Foxglove. Would you look at that.” His golden eyes glinted, sharp and knowing. “Guess I was right all along, you've been holding back on me.”

I shot him a glare, wiping the back of my hand across my forehead. “Don’t flatter yourself. I just… figured it out.”

“Uh-huh.” He pushed off the tree, sauntering closer, tail swaying like a cat that had cornered its prey. “You expect me to believe someone who’s never touched a ward like that before just stumbles their way through an ancient seal on their third attempt? Please.”

I clenched my jaw, refusing to give him the satisfaction of an answer. Plus on top of everything, it’s not like he ever asked if I’ve worked with wards or not. I just wasn’t forthcoming with the info that I’ve done a lot with wards. Not my fault. 

He stopped a few paces away, smug smile stretching wider. “No one does that unless they’ve been hiding their cards. Which, lucky for me, only proves my theory.” He tilted his head, gaze narrowing. “You’re more dangerous than you want me to think.”

I turned my back on him, crossing my arms. “You did make a contract with me because you thought I was too dangerous for your golden boy to handle. It’s only natural that I have claws.” 

“Mm.” His laugh was soft, amused, like he’d just won another round without lifting a finger. “Oh yeah, I keep forgetting that’s why I made that contract. Ain’t that just silly of me Foxglove.” I turned back to look at him but he was already moving. I furrowed my brows as he pasted me. What the hell is that supposed to mean? 

Wukong circled the spot where the ward had fizzled out, crouching down to brush his fingers over the faint scorch marks left in the soil. His tail flicked once, lazily, but his smile was sharp. “Not bad, Foxglove. Not bad at all.”

He rose smoothly to his feet, brushing his hands together as though dusting them off. “But let’s be honest if you’re going to teleport onto my mountain without my wards catching you, that little trick isn’t going to cut it.” His smirk deepened. “You passed the warm-up. Now comes the real test.”

I narrowed my eyes. “That was your idea of easy?”

“Oh, please,” he drawled, turning away from me with that insufferable sway in his step. “That was child’s play compared to the ones that actually matter. That ward only sent you flying. The next one… well.” He glanced back over his shoulder, eyes glinting gold in the fading light. “Let’s just say it doesn’t play nearly as nice.”

He led me deeper into the clearing until we reached the far edge, where the air itself seemed to ripple faintly, like heat rising off stone. The hairs on my arms rose as soon as we stepped closer. This one was different, denser, layered, ancient. The symbols carved into the nearby trees and stones weren’t like anything I’d studied before. Harsh, interlocking lines spiraled into one another in patterns that made my head spin.

Wukong gestured broadly at it like a ringmaster unveiling his next act. “This is one of the oldest wards I keep active around Flower Fruit Mountain. Cast when my master was still alive. It’s been patched and reinforced more times than I can count. Its main purpose? Keeps intruders out by launching them halfway across the ocean. The harder you push, the harder it pushes back. You’ll need more than brute force and clever guesses to get past this one. The one you did before was just the bare bones version of this one.” 

The smugness in his voice grated, but I couldn’t deny the weight of the ward pressing against my senses. This wasn’t like the last one. The magic was older, heavier, smarter.

I stepped closer, forcing myself to study it instead of flinching away from the pressure. The air hummed in my ears, the scent of stone sharp against my nose. My tail lashed once before I forced it still.

He leaned casually against a tree, arms crossed. “Go on, then. Show me what you’ve got.”

I pressed my hand against the surface of the ward, magic probing, searching for seams. Immediately, the ward reacted snapping back with a force that rattled my teeth and sent me stumbling a step. My shoulder throbbed where it connected with the energy.

“Careful,” Wukong sing-songed, amusement dripping from his tone. “Push too hard, and you’ll be eating dirt again.”

I bit back a snarl. He wanted me to lose my temper, wanted me to throw myself against it until I burned out. No. Not this time. I closed my eyes, pulling my magic inward, quieting the instinct to force. Instead, I listened, really listened.

The ward’s rhythm was different. Not a simple spiral like before, but layered. One pulse overlaid on another, weaving in and out, clashing at intervals only to merge again. It wasn’t meant to be broken in a single strike. It was meant to be unwoven.

Slowly, carefully, I adjusted. Instead of pushing, I slipped between the currents, nudging threads apart where they tangled. It fought me, but I kept at it, my breath coming in controlled exhales, sweat dripping down my temple.

Minutes stretched. My arms shook. My vision blurred from the strain. But then like a knot finally loosening the ward’s tension gave way, unraveling with a low shudder that made the ground tremble beneath my boots.

The glow fractured, dimmed, and vanished, leaving only silence and the faint echo of my pounding heart.

I staggered back, panting, my hands tingling. My lips curled in the barest hint of a grin. I’d done it again.

“Ha.” Wukong’s laugh was soft, smug, and maddeningly pleased. He stepped forward, hands slipping behind his back as he tilted his head, golden eyes shining like molten metal. “Knew it. You’ve been holding back this entire time. No one and I mean no one who’s never worked with  wards before figures that one out on their own.”

I met his gaze, forcing my breathing to steady. “Maybe I’m just a fast learner.”

“Mm.” His smirk widened into something sharper, almost predatory. “Or maybe you’re full of more secrets than you want me to know.” 

I stared at him for a long moment before shrugging, forcing my tone to sound as casual as possible.

“Of course I have secrets I don’t want you to know. Who doesn’t? Everyone’s got a handful of things they’d rather keep buried.”

I looked away before he could read too deeply into me. The ward I’d just dismantled shimmered faintly as it began stitching itself back together, the last traces of my magic fading from its lines. Even as it was repaired, I couldn’t help the small swell of pride in my chest.

That, that had been an ancient ward. Complex, temperamental, and older than half the spells still taught today. And I’d broken it. On my first try.

I let myself bask in it for only a heartbeat before I felt his gaze pressing into the back of my head hot, heavy, searching.

With a soft sigh, I rolled my shoulders and turned toward him, my mask snapping neatly back into place. “Well then,” I said, voice light and mocking. “What’s next, oh Great Sage?”

He rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth twitched. A ghost of a smile flickered before turning sharp again. He looked toward the ward, now reforming itself, and that familiar smug glint lit his face.

“We head back to my place,” he said breezily. “I have to give you your homework.”

He pivoted on his heel and started walking before I could even form a response.

It took a second for his words to register. When they did, I nearly choked. “Homework? What the hell do you mean, homework?!”

He didn’t even glance at me, just pushed a low branch aside as we stepped deeper into the forest. “That ward was only one of many around this island. If you’re going to teleport in and out of here without triggering them, you’ll need to dismantle them at high speed. You’ve got good instincts—but you’re too slow. So, I’m sending you back with a practice ward.”

My jaw dropped. “You can’t be serious.”

“Oh, I’m very serious,” he said, tail swishing lazily behind him. “You’ll need to learn to tear it down and rebuild it from scratch, again and again, until you can do it in your sleep. And since I can’t send you back with an active ward because that would be hilarious but also lethal I’ll teach you how to charge it yourself before we part.”

He didn’t even break stride, his tone so nonchalant it made my blood boil. The forest around us thickened with the scent of moss and evening air. Shafts of dying sunlight cut through the trees, painting gold across his hair. The bastard looked perfectly at ease like dragging me through on his every whim  was just another stroll in the woods.

I followed a few steps behind, glaring at his back. My hands twitched with the urge to hurl a spell just to wipe that smugness off his face. “You do realize I’m not your student, right?” I muttered. “You don’t get to assign me homework like some overbearing teacher.”

He chuckled low, not even turning. “Maybe not. But if you ever want to walk onto my mountain without getting launched into the stratosphere, you’ll thank me later.”

“I highly doubt that.”

He glanced back then, a grin tugging at his lips. “You will. Trust me.”

I groaned under my breath, dragging a hand down my face. Gods, why did every interaction with him make me want to scream? I didn’t even know what I was angry about anymore—just that everything about this smug, infuriating monkey made my skin itch and my patience thin.

The trees opened up slightly ahead, the path bathed in the soft blush of sunset. His stride stayed perfectly calm and infuriatingly sure-footed, as if he already knew I was following no matter how much I complained.

And, of course, I was.

Because despite every instinct in my body screaming otherwise, I couldn’t deny it. There was something about learning from him, something buried deep under the annoyance and exhaustion, that lit a spark of challenge in my chest.

I followed him without saying anything, heels barely making a sound on the soft forest floor. The light thinned as we walked, the canopy opening up into the slope that led toward his house. When we climbed out of the treeline and past the waterfall into the clearing in front of Wukong’s place, it spread wide and opened the same flat patch of ground where the training dummies sat, the wood darkened from decades of practice. The air smelled like hot stone and bruised grass; the last light of day caught the edges of his roof and set his silhouette in a halo of amber.

He led me straight past the dummies, past the mess of hair and the small scars in the earth left by my earlier theatrics, and stopped in the shadow of the largest dummy. The dummy’s surface was nicked and repaired so many times it looked like a roadmap of past fights—perfect for practice. Wukong settled on a low stone and folded his hands together as if we were about to do a morning meditation.

“All right,” he said, voice deceptively casual. “We want to be able to walk in and out of my mountain. You need to do two things: first, you must be able to charge wards—make it live and convincing. Second, you must be able to unravel it quickly without activating any of the traps laid inside them. Today we do the first. We make the little launcher, the one you already undid. It’s simple, but simple can still be hard to master.”

I crossed my arms, raising an eyebrow as I stared at him. Gods, I was really trying not to be an ass right now.

He had already told me all this shit in the clearing, not even fifteen minutes ago. And yet here he was, repeating the exact same explanation as if my memory had been magically wiped clean. Maybe the great Sun Wukong really was going senile in his old age.

But I’d agreed to be… well, “more pleasant.” Whatever that meant.

So, here I was—gritting my teeth and doing my best not to call him a dumbass to his face.

“Okay,” I said, keeping my tone as even as possible. “So, what’s the plan here? You teach me this ward, and then I’ll finally be able to teleport onto your island without you having to swoop in and pick me up every damn time?”

I rolled my eyes for effect, if only because he clearly wanted to lecture me again. If he was going to repeat himself, might as well make it a duet.

“More or less, yes.” He shrugged, the motion casual and infuriatingly confident. “But,” he continued, holding up a finger like a smug professor, “you’ll still have to learn the rest of the wards around the island. You’ll need to know how to disarm each one mid-teleport if you want to survive the trip without being vaporized, flung halfway across the mountain or many different things depending on which ward activities.”

He said it so matter-of-factly it made my skin crawl.

“The idea,” he went on, “is that once you understand how to build a ward, you understand how to undo it. Even if you didn’t design the spell yourself, the core principles are the same. Trace the pattern. Find the weak thread. Pull it cleanly. Easy.”

He looked at me as he said it, like he was waiting for a reaction.

Of course, I already knew all of that. He’d just told me this exact spiel earlier, and I’d read more than my fair share of  runic theory to begin with. I had to stop myself from giving him a deadpan stare—or worse, letting my tail twitch with irritation. So instead, I forced a neutral face, pretending to be the dutiful student.

“Mhm,” I hummed, nodding like I hadn’t heard all this before.

He seemed pleased with my feigned attentiveness, smiling like a teacher watching his favorite pupil finally understand basic arithmetic. Then, without warning, he reached up and yanked a few strands of hair from his head.

“Seriously?” I muttered, half under my breath.

He ignored me, cupping the strands in his palm. A faint golden glow shimmered around his fingers, and with a soft exhale of breath, the hairs morphed into slips of parchment and a pair of slender pens. The transformation was seamless, beautifully executed, of course. Typical Wukong.

He held out a pen and a piece of parchment toward me, his tail swaying lazily behind him.

“Here,” he said, that smug grin spreading across his face. “For practice. You’re going to draw the ward yourself. I’ll show you how to make it first every line, every curve then I’ll show you what’s needed to activate it. After that, you copy exactly what I did, and once you get it right…” He gave me a mock salute. “I’ll take you back to the mainland. Simple enough, right?”

His grin was the sort that said this is going to take longer than you think.

I looked from his outstretched hand to his face, then sighed, taking the parchment and pen without a single sarcastic comment. That was progress for me, at least. The faster I played along, the faster I could finish this stupid lesson, get off this mountain, and collect my payment for putting up with him.

“Great!” he said cheerfully. “Now watch carefully, and do exactly as I do.”

He crouched in front of one of the training dummies, parchment balanced on one knee, and began to draw. His movements were slow at first, deliberate, precise. The pen whispered across the paper, tracing circular strokes that wove into each other like linked rings. The symbols were old and the lines carried a rhythm that felt more sung than written.

The scent of ink and peach tea still hung in the evening air. His aura stirred faintly, brushing against mine as the golden glow of his magic began to outline each mark he made.

“The base structure,” he said, his voice taking on that teacher’s lilt again, “is all about motion. This one pushes instead of traps—it’s designed to launch whatever breaks its seal outward, like a kick. You’ll see these same principles in modern wards, just diluted and softened over time.”

I leaned slightly closer despite myself. He wasn’t wrong. The geometry of it was familiar: the spiral base, the balancing sigils but the ratios were different, tighter, more elegant. Ancient runework didn’t waste energy. Every line had weight and purpose.

As he drew, I could already trace the parallels in my mind: how this ward’s flow translated into modern equivalents, which lines dictated trajectory versus restraint, how to invert the pull to reverse its force. If I could watch him long enough, I could reverse-engineer all of these.

Wukong finished the core circle, then added a thin ring of symbols just outside the first. They weren’t letters more like conceptual anchors. “Now,” he said, “this part is what tells it when to trigger.”

He drew three quick slashes across the outer ring, each angled differently. “Direction. Distance. Trigger point. You bind all three together using a pulse of magic—lightly, not forcefully. Like coaxing a spark instead of lighting a fire.”

As he spoke, he tapped the center of the ward with two fingers. The ink shimmered gold for a heartbeat before fading back to black. The paper pulsed faintly under his touch, the drawn lines seeming to vibrate as if alive.

“That’s all it needs to activate,” he said, looking up at me with that maddeningly smug grin. “Well, assuming your control’s decent.”

I raised a brow. “You’re hilarious.”

He chuckled, standing and offering me space beside him. “Your turn, Foxglove. Don’t burn my forest down.”

I knelt where he’d been sitting and placed the parchment flat on the ground. My fingers itched with restrained irritation as I began copying his work—carefully, line by line, my pen tracing the exact spirals and cross-lines he’d shown me. The ink bled smoothly across the parchment, and my magic hummed faintly at my fingertips, eager to move, to create.

Truthfully, he’s a terrible teacher. If I didn’t already know most of this shit, what he’s “teaching” me wouldn’t be making any sense. Throwing someone who you think never worked with wards before and having them make a particularly difficult ward as the first one you want them to make is stupid and setting them up for failure.  Wukong must be used to talking and teaching prodigies. If the golden boy wasn’t a prodigy in fighting I doubt Wukong would know what to do with him. Same thing for me, since he’s being so pushy at teaching me this bullshit. Truthfully it's a miracle that I was able to make it this far in his lesson.

When I finished, I studied it—the lines were clean, sharp, almost identical to his. My control over fine magic work has always been my strong suit.

“Now,” he said, leaning down behind me slightly, voice low near my ear, “give it a little magic. Not too much, or it’ll kick you halfway to the mainland. Just a pulse.”

I pressed two fingers to the center of the ward and let a thin thread of magic flow from my hand. It crackled through the ink, lighting the lines in a dull silvery-pink glow. The air around it trembled faintly.

Then—bang—the parchment jerked forward and flipped over in the dirt, a puff of dust rising from the impact.

Wukong burst out laughing. “You definitely used too much.”

I scowled and picked up the parchment, inspecting the faint scorch mark where the magic had discharged. “It worked, didn’t it?”

He gave a grin so wide it nearly split his face. “Technically, yes. But if you had used that much power on the real thing, it would’ve sent the poor intruder into orbit.”

“Maybe that’s the point,” I muttered, brushing the dirt off my knees.

He folded his arms, tail swaying lazily. “You really do excel at overkill, don’t you?”

I ignored the jab, resetting the parchment and redrawing the ward again, this time slower. When I activated it the second time, the magic pulsed properly—controlled, steady, a quiet shimmer of light before dissipating cleanly into the air.

“Perfect,” he said finally, tone softer this time. “That’s how it’s supposed to feel. Remember that hum right before it releases? That means it’s balanced. Learn that feeling. It’s the difference between finesse… and brute force.”

I sat back, blowing a stray strand of hair from my face. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll remember.”

He smirked and straightened up. “Good. Because next time, we’re doing the attraction ward. That one brings the one messing with it directly to the creator of the ward. Make sure you practice this ward over the week as well, that’s your homework, and I’ll be testing you on it when we meet again.” He gave me a wide cheeky smile that made me want to punch his lights out. 

I groaned and muttered under my breath, “Can’t wait.”

Wukong stood to his full height, stretching lazily before turning away. His tail flicked once before he started up the stairs toward the wooden structure he insisted on calling a “house.” I followed him, boots scuffing lightly against the worn stone steps, and dropped into the same seat at the long wooden table where we’d started our meeting hours ago.

The air was cooler now. I tilted my head back, gaze drifting past the thick tree arching above the table and out through the wide, irregular hole carved in the mountain’s top. For a moment I wondered if he’d made that himself just punched through solid stone so he could come and go faster. It seemed like the kind of absurdly practical thing he’d do.

Outside, dusk had slipped fully into the evening. The last light of day clung to the clouds, staining them with rose and gold before giving way to the first faint pinpricks of stars. I glanced down at my phone. Three minutes left until the two hours were officially over. Gods, it felt like an eternity. So much had happened in that short time that it should’ve taken all day. Somehow, it hadn’t. Somehow, I’d survived it. My pride on the other hand hadn’t. 

I leaned back, staring at the darkening sky again, and let out a long sigh I couldn’t quite hold in. My whole body ached—muscles heavy and protesting from the nonstop climbing, hiking, and magic work. Sure, I was back to what counted as my “normal” baseline, but that wasn’t saying much. My endurance had never been my strong suit, and the constant tension of dealing with him had only drained me faster.

Now that I was sitting still, the crash of adrenaline hit like a wave. My hands felt sluggish, my mind fogged. All I wanted was to get off this cursed island, crawl back into my room, and sleep for twelve straight hours. Assuming I’d be left alone long enough to do it.

Knowing my luck, Red would want to drag me to the night market in the underground again—his idea of “relaxing.” That man could stare at a glowing gemstone for three hours and call it research.

And then there was tomorrow.

Shit.

I’d almost forgotten about my mandatory meeting with Breezeblock and HandyBell. Just the thought made my stomach twist. Two of the most self-important pricks alive, both with inflated egos and delusions of grandeur. BreezeBlock especially—he loved pretending he had power over me, like my contract with him wasn't just a temporary favor I was forced into because of Damien’s orders.

I rubbed the bridge of my nose, muttering under my breath. “Gods, I really need to find a way to keep Red locked in his lab tomorrow…”

The meeting with Breezeblock and HandyBell was already gnawing at the back of my mind. Our current contract was ending soon—finally—but instead of that meaning freedom, it meant more chains. BreezeBlock wasn’t about to let me walk away, not when he could use the Guild to keep me right where he wanted me.

He’d already threatened to pull his connections from the Guild here in the city if I refused to renew. And Damien—ever the strategist—wasn’t about to risk losing those connections, not when BreezeBlock’s influence stretched through half the underworld in this city. Damien wasn’t going to let him go without having control over those connections himself. 

So now I was stuck being the pawn between two men who both thought they owned me. Only one of them truly did. At least in a way. 

HandyBell would be there, of course, smiling that perfectly neutral Guild smile, pretending she was there to “mediate.” She’d been assigned as my handler, even if I was technically the head of our department. The only reason she was even coming to this meeting besides to appease Breezeblock was specifically to make sure I did sign another contract with him. The Guild wasn’t going to risk losing one of their most profitable arrangements, even if it came at my expense.

Which meant I had to play smart. I couldn’t refuse the deal outright, but I could twist it. I needed to walk into that meeting with a new contract already mapped out—one that looked airtight from Breezeblock’s perspective but left me enough loopholes to slip through when the time came.

The thought made my temples throb. Another round of fake politeness, hollow threats, and forced smiles. Another round of pretending I wasn’t furious at being cornered.

I sighed and leaned back in my chair, staring up at the hollowed-out mountain ceiling above me. The first stars were starting to shimmer through the gap in the rock, faint pinpricks of light against the dark. Somewhere deeper inside the house, I could hear Wukong moving—probably rummaging for whatever ridiculous form of payment he was going to use this time. Gold, gems, maybe an actual bag of coins if he was feeling dramatic.

For now, though, I just let the silence settle. The night air was cool against my skin, smelling faintly of peach blossoms and incense. I rested my chin in my hand and closed my eyes for a moment.

Just two more minutes, I thought.

Two more minutes and I can get off this damn mountain.

A few minutes later, Wukong finally reappeared from his house, striding toward the table with that infuriatingly smug grin on his face. In his hand, he held a folded check. He dropped it onto the table in front of me with a flick of his wrist.

“Payment for services rendered,” he said brightly, tail swishing behind him. “Ten thousand—enough to keep you in caffeine and sarcasm for another week, I assume?”

I looked down at the check, blinking at the neat, looping handwriting that spelled out 10,000. “A check?” I dead-panned, picking it up between two fingers. “You know people use digital transfers now, right?”

He only grinned wider, leaning on the table with both hands. “Oh, but where’s the fun in that? Can’t exactly frame a wire transfer, now can you?”

“Why would I frame your payment?” I asked flatly.

“Because it’s from me.” His grin turned cheeky, teeth flashing in the dim light. “I figured you’d want to hang it somewhere special. Maybe next to all those commendations for your ‘stellar attitude.’”

I groaned, shoving the check into the inside pocket of my jacket. “You really can’t help yourself, can you?”

“Not even a little.”

He stepped back, snapping his fingers. Golden smoke burst to life beside him, swirling upward until it formed that familiar Nimbus cloud. The glow it cast made his fur shimmer in warm honey tones.

“Well,” he said, clapping his hands once, “as much as I adore our weekly heart-to-hearts, it’s time to get you off my island before you decide to redecorate it with explosives again.”

“I wasn’t planning on it,” I muttered, standing and brushing off my pants.

“Uh-huh. Sure you weren’t.” He gestured toward the cloud like an usher inviting a guest onto a stage. “Your chariot awaits, Foxglove.”

I rolled my eyes but stepped forward anyway, climbing up onto the cloud beside him. “You do realize calling me that doesn’t make you charming, right?”

He smirked, taking his place next to me. “Oh, I’m not trying to be charming. I just like watching you twitch every time I say it.”

Before I could retort, the cloud lifted from the stone floor, rising effortlessly into the open air. The mountain wind rushed past, carrying the faint scent of peaches and incense with it. Below us, the island spread out—forests, cliffs, and the fading shimmer of wards humming faintly against the night.

“Hold on tight,” Wukong said, his voice tinged with mischief as the cloud tilted forward.

“Don’t you dare—”

Too late. The Nimbus shot forward like a golden comet, cutting through the twilight toward the harbor.

The Nimbus lurched forward like a cannon shot, and the force pressed the air right out of my lungs. Wind tore through my hair and stung my eyes as the world became a smear of motion and gold light. For one awful, gut-twisting moment, all I could see beneath us was the endless stretch of dark water glinting like black glass in the fading sun. The horizon curved away, vast and merciless, the sea below rippling with copper streaks where the sky’s dying light hit it.

I didn’t breathe. I couldn’t. My claws dug deep into the cloud’s soft, glowing surface, the golden vapor giving under my grip but holding firm. I felt weightless and trapped all at once, suspended above everything solid and safe. The cold air burned in my throat, and my tail bristled despite my best effort to keep it still.

Then warmth coiled around my waist—firm, steady, alive.

His tail.

It wrapped around me like a tether, pulling me back from the edge of panic. The sudden contact startled me at first, but it grounded me too. My breathing steadied, though I still felt my pulse hammering under my skin. The Nimbus slowed beneath us, the furious speed bleeding away into something smoother, gentler. The rush of the wind softened into a low hum, carrying the faint smell of salt, flowers, and something distinctly divine—like incense burned under sunfire.

I exhaled, finally daring to unclench my hands from the cloud. The world sharpened back into focus: the endless sprawl of the ocean below us, glowing like a mirror of liquid gold; the distant silhouette of the horizon where the sun was slowly being devoured by the sea; the way the wind caught the edges of Wukong’s fur and hair, making both shimmer like threads of sunlight.

He glanced down at me then, eyes glinting like molten metal in the dimming light. “Didn’t peg you for the seasick type, Foxglove,” he said, his voice roughened by amusement. “You look like you’re about to wrestle the wind itself.”

I shot him a glare that was probably weaker than I intended. “I’m not seasick,” I bit out, my voice thin against the breeze. “I just… prefer having ground under my feet. And not, you know, a bottomless pit of drowning waiting beneath me.”

He chuckled, the sound low and warm, threading easily through the whistle of the air. “Relax. You’re fine. I’ve got you.”

“I didn’t ask you to—” I started, but the words tangled somewhere in my throat. His tail gave the faintest tug at my waist, a silent reassurance more than anything, and it quieted something sharp in me before I could stop it.

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable. It just… was.

The sky was fading into a bruise of violet and gold, the first stars bleeding through the soft clouds above. The world smelled like salt and peach blossoms carried from the mountain, the kind of scent that lingered too long, sweet but sharp. Beneath us, the ocean reflected everything—sky, light, clouds—until it almost looked solid. For a moment, I forgot how much I hated the water. It was hard, when it looked like this.

I glanced at him again. His posture was relaxed now, one hand resting on the edge of the Nimbus, the other loosely holding the cloud’s edge as if steering wasn’t really required. The last of the sunlight caught on the faint scar that curved along his temple, the one barely hidden under his reddish-brown fur. For once, he wasn’t smirking or lecturing. He just looked… calm.

“You’re quiet,” he said suddenly, breaking the stillness but not the peace. “Didn’t think you knew how to do that.”

I huffed out a laugh, short and dry. “Don’t get used to it, monkey.”

He grinned sideways, a little softer this time. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

We drifted like that for what felt like forever, cutting through streaks of cloud that glowed faintly under the rising moon. Every so often, I felt his tail shift slightly against my waist, the smallest motion to keep me steady when the Nimbus dipped or the wind changed direction. It was almost instinctive—like breathing for him.

For me, it was unnerving. Comforting, maybe, but unnerving all the same. I wasn’t used to someone noticing my discomfort without me saying a word. And I definitely wasn’t used to anyone doing something about it.

But for once, I didn’t pull away.

The air grew colder as night settled fully, brushing against my cheeks and slipping into the edges of my jacket. My hair fluttered around my face, strands occasionally catching on the faint gold glow of the cloud. Far below, the water rippled endlessly—dark and dangerous and still somehow beautiful.

I hated how still I felt. How quiet my thoughts were.

I looked forward again, toward the faint glimmer of lights in the distance—tiny flickers of civilization breaking through the darkness. The harbor.

Almost there.

But when I risked a glance at him again, I caught him already looking at me. Not smug this time. Not teasing. Just… watching. His expression was unreadable, though the corner of his mouth twitched like he wanted to say something and decided against it.

For once, I didn’t demand to know what it was.

The Nimbus coasted forward in near silence, a streak of gold threading through the twilight, carrying the two of us over the edge of the world.

The wind softened as the Nimbus began to descend, trading the open vastness of the upper sky for the heavy scent of salt and smoke drifting up from the harbor below. The sea reflected the lights of the docks like a shattered mirror—fragments of gold, orange, and violet rippling across dark water. The hum of the city reached us faintly even from here: distant bells, murmured voices, the low groan of ships shifting against the tide.

Wukong didn’t say anything as he guided the cloud downward. He didn’t have to. The way his tail stayed loosely looped around my waist told me he still hadn’t missed the way I tensed every time the Nimbus tilted. I hated that he noticed. I hated even more that I didn’t tell him to let go.

We floated lower until the outline of the docks came into view—rows of ships bobbing gently, ropes creaking against moorings. The smell of brine and metal filled my nose, sharp enough to cut through the faint trace of peaches that always clung to him. Streetlights flickered across the wooden planks, painting the surface in a warm, uneven glow that looked almost alive in the dark.

“Almost there,” he said finally, his voice quiet but steady, carried easily through the wind.

“Yeah,” I muttered, not really sure if it was an answer or a reflex.

The Nimbus slowed even more, easing into a graceful hover above the docks. For a few seconds, neither of us moved. The tail around me loosened but didn’t drop away entirely. I stared at the glimmering reflections below, pretending the ocean didn’t make my stomach twist.

Then, gently, Wukong turned toward me. His face was half-lit by the streetlight reflecting off the waves, the rest lost in shadow. “You did better than I expected today,” he said, tone casual but lacking his usual edge.

I blinked up at him, caught off guard. “You mean that, or is this your idea of pity praise?”

That earned me a faint smirk, but not the usual one. “Bit of both,” he said. “You’re clever—quicker than most demons I’ve seen in a while. Still stupidly reckless, though.”

“Thanks,” I said dryly, “I’ll be sure to add that to my résumé.”

He chuckled softly, the sound low in his chest. Then, with a slow movement, he uncoiled his tail from my waist. I hadn’t realized how much warmth it had been giving off until it was gone, leaving a faint chill in its absence.

Wukong gestured toward the dock with a tilt of his head. “Alright, Foxglove. End of the line.”

I rolled my eyes but stepped forward, jumping lightly from the cloud onto the dock. The wooden boards creaked under my boots, solid and mercifully stable. I turned back toward him as he stood tall on the Nimbus, fur glowing a soft gold faintly in the streetlight. 

He gave me that same infuriatingly smug grin. “Try not to shoot anyone before next week, yeah?”

“No promises,” I called back, adjusting my coat.

“Didn’t think so.”

He gave a lazy salute, and the cloud began to rise again, curling upward into the night sky. For a moment, the glow of it painted his outline in molten gold—then it vanished behind the low clouds, leaving only the sound of waves and the distant city hum behind.

I stood there for a while, staring at the empty sky. The air smelled like salt and smog. My shoulders ached. My magic still buzzed faintly against my skin. But the strangest part? For once, I didn’t feel like I’d completely lost that encounter.

Maybe he’d won the game. Maybe he’d gotten the last word. But I’d gotten something too—knowledge, leverage, something to keep me ahead next time.

I smirked faintly to myself, pulling my hood up and turning away from the water. “See you next week, monkey,” I muttered under my breath, before tuning and walking out of the harbor back to the city proper. 

The city was alive again by the time I stepped out of the harbor district, its pulse steady and familiar beneath my boots. Streetlights lined the narrow streets, glowing amber against the dark, their light catching in puddles left by the ocean mist that rolled in from the docks. The air smelled of salt and fried food—fresh fish sizzling in oil, sugar syrup from the dessert stands already beginning to crystallize. I pulled my hood up higher, the fabric brushing my ears as I shoved my hands into my pockets. The wind tugged playfully at my jacket as I walked, carrying snippets of laughter, the sound of music from a far-off bar, the occasional hiss of steam vents from the older buildings that still ran on outdated tech.

I wasn’t thinking about Wukong anymore—or at least, I was trying not to. His stupid grin still lingered in the back of my head, along with the faint, lingering warmth where his tail had wrapped around my waist. I shook the thought off like I was shaking off rain, focusing instead on the rhythm of my steps and the quiet hum of the streetlights above me.

That was when something fluttered in the corner of my vision.

A torn piece of paper, caught on the wind, slapped weakly against the brick wall beside me. The corner of a bold, peach-colored trophy printed on it caught my attention. I frowned, reached up, and pulled it free. The edges were rough, corners curling, but the words were still clear enough under the lamplight:

“THE GREAT WALL RACE — Winner Receives a Peach of Immortality!”

I arched an eyebrow. Really? A peach of immortality? How original.

I scanned the smaller print, already guessing there’d be a catch, and sure enough—at the very bottom, in font so small it was practically microscopic—it clarified: “No actual peaches of immortality will be awarded. Trophy only.”

A dry laugh escaped me before I could stop it. “Of course. Figures.” I turned the flyer over, the paper crinkling between my fingers. Apparently, contestants had to design and build their own vehicles from scratch. Half magic, half mechanics, anything that could move fast enough to race through the city’s tracks.

And that’s when it hit me—Red.

This was exactly the kind of ridiculous, over-engineered nonsense that would keep him locked in his lab for days. Weeks, maybe, if I was lucky. I could practically see the manic gleam in his eyes already, the way his hands would fly as he drew up schematics, muttering equations under his breath. He’d eat this up—especially with the promise of competition.

I tucked the flyer into my pocket, lips quirking into a faint smirk as I started walking again. The crowds thinned as I moved away from the busier streets, replaced by the quieter hum of the underground upper district—the part of the city that never really slept but preferred to pretend it did.

“Mm.” His smirk widened into something sharper, almost predatory. “Or maybe you’re full of more secrets than you want me to know.”

I stared at him for a long moment before shrugging, forcing my tone to sound as casual as possible.

“Of course I have secrets I don’t want you to know. Who doesn’t? Everyone’s got a handful of things they’d rather keep buried.”

I looked away before he could read too deeply into me. The ward I’d just dismantled shimmered faintly as it began stitching itself back together, the last traces of my magic fading from its lines. Even as it was repaired, I couldn’t help the small swell of pride in my chest.

That, that had been an ancient ward. Complex, temperamental, and older than half the spells still taught today. And I’d broken it. On my first try.

I let myself bask in it for only a heartbeat before I felt his gaze pressing into the back of my head hot, heavy, searching.

With a soft sigh, I rolled my shoulders and turned toward him, my mask snapping neatly back into place. “Well then,” I said, voice light and mocking. “What’s next, oh Great Sage?”

He rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth twitched. A ghost of a smile flickered before turning sharp again. He looked toward the ward, now reforming itself, and that familiar smug glint lit his face.

“We head back to my place,” he said breezily. “I have to give you your homework.”

He pivoted on his heel and started walking before I could even form a response.

It took a second for his words to register. When they did, I nearly choked. “Homework? What the hell do you mean, homework?!”

He didn’t even glance at me, just pushed a low branch aside as we stepped deeper into the forest. “That ward was only one of many around this island. If you’re going to teleport in and out of here without triggering them, you’ll need to dismantle them at high speed. You’ve got good instincts—but you’re too slow. So, I’m sending you back with a practice ward.”

The harbor was quieter than usual, only a handful of fishermen working nets at this hour. The water stretched out wide and silver under the afternoon light, gulls circling lazily overhead. I found a spot near the far end of the docks, half-hidden behind a stack of coiled rope and empty crates, and sat with my back to the wood.

It wasn’t comfortable, but it gave me space to breathe. To think.

Wukong would want to hear about MK. He always did. And this time, I actually had something. Bitter as it was, I had a story to tell him   about MK breaking what he shouldn’t have, swallowing words he should’ve spoken, and only moving when forced into a corner.

Would Wukong be disappointed? Probably. But it wasn’t my job to spin it for him. My job was to watch. To tell him what I saw.

So I sat there, pulling my hood lower against the gulls and the sea breeze, and waited for the Monkey King to arrive.

The harbor stretched quiet around me, gulls wheeling overhead, ropes clinking faintly against wooden posts. I sat on a bench near the far end of the docks, hood pulled low, the sea breeze tugging at loose strands of hair.

It wasn’t MK that had me twisted up inside. Not really. He’d floundered, sure breaking that machine, nearly admitting it, only stepping up when the clone was in his face but that wasn’t my problem. Wukong had asked me to watch him, so I did. End of story.

I knew exactly how the Great Sage would take it: badly. He wouldn’t like hearing that his “kid” hadn’t looked his best. But that wasn’t my concern. I wasn’t here to sugarcoat anything for him. He didn’t want me to. He wanted the truth, and the truth was MK had stumbled until the very last moment.

The problem was, that wasn’t nearly enough to last me two hours.

I groaned under my breath, dragging a hand down my face. One hour with Wukong had nearly wrung me dry the last time him bouncing between cocky, smug, and oddly watchful, while I scrambled to keep up without strangling him. And now I had to do two? With nothing in my pocket but MK fumbling like a rookie and half a decent swing at the end?

What the hell were we supposed to talk about for the other hour and fifty minutes? Weather? Tea preferences? The finer points of monkey grooming rituals?

My stomach knotted at the thought.

The bench creaked as weight settled beside me. I tensed hand brushing the pistol at my hip until I glanced sideways.

Sandy.

The gentle giant folded himself onto the seat with practiced ease, careful not to crowd me. His scent carried incense and clay under the brine of the harbor, calming in a way I didn’t want to admit. He tilted his head, eyes warm beneath his fringe.

“Well now,” he said in that low, rumbling voice of his. “Didn’t expect to see you here. Cat demon, right? We had tea, not too long ago.”

Of course he remembered. I tugged my hood lower. “Small world.”

He smiled faintly, folding his hands together over his knees. “Waiting on someone?”

The question sat between us, heavy. I wasn’t about to say Wukong’s name out loud. I shrugged instead, staring out at the water. “Something like that.”

He didn’t push. Just hummed softly, watching the gulls circle. “Harbor’s a good place to wait,” he said after a while. “Lots of space to breathe. No one expecting anything from you.”

I almost laughed at that. If only.

Two hours. Two hours with the Monkey King breathing down my neck, picking apart every detail of MK’s mess of a showing. I had something to give him, yes but nowhere near enough to fill the time.

And that, more than MK’s failures, was what made me want to sink myself straight into the sea.

Sandy shifted on the bench, reaching into the satchel at his side. The faint clink of porcelain followed, and a warm, earthy scent drifted up as he held out a small travel flask and cup.

“Tea?” he offered kindly, his big hands surprisingly careful as he poured. “Same blend as last time.”

I snorted softly under my hood. “Thanks, but no. Don’t feel like drinking anything right now.”

He didn’t seem offended. Just nodded, sipped from his own cup, and let the silence stretch between us. The waves slapped against the pilings, gulls cried overhead, and for a while, he let me sit in my own head without interruption.

Then, with that quiet patience of his, he asked, “So… how are you doing?”

My first instinct was to shrug it off. To say “fine” and leave it at that. But Sandy had this way about him calm, steady, like he wasn’t waiting for a clever answer. Just the truth. And somehow that made it harder to lie outright.

“Tired,” I admitted finally, my voice low. “Always tired.”

He hummed, sipping again. “Overworked?”

“Always.” I almost smiled at the simplicity of it, and before I realized, my hood had slipped back. My hair fell free, ears twitching in the sea breeze. The relief of the air hitting them was small, but I didn’t pull the hood back up.

Sandy’s gaze flicked over, warm and genuine. “Your color’s changed,” he observed softly. “Looks nice on you.”

I rolled my eyes, though heat crept unbidden up my neck. “Flattery doesn’t suit you, giant.”

“Not flattery,” he corrected with a little shrug. “Observation.”

I found myself chuckling despite myself, the sound foreign in my own throat.

After another pause, he tilted his head. “I just realized… you never told me your name. I can’t keep calling you ‘cat demon.’ That’s rude.”

I tugged at a loose lock of hair, ears flicking in the open air I’d forgotten to cover. “I don’t care what you call me,” I muttered. “Pick whatever you want.”

Sandy stroked his beard, eyes twinkling like he was already turning ideas over. Then his lips curved into that slow, thoughtful smile.

“Cinna,” he said simply.

I blinked, caught off guard. “…Cinna?”

“Mm.” He nodded, sipping from his cup. “Short for Cinnamon. Suits you. Spicy, but warm underneath. Like the tea. And like the way you came at me the first time we met like a little ball of claws and heat.”

Heat crept up my neck before I could stop it. I looked away quickly, scowling at the gulls overhead. “Weirdo.”

Sandy chuckled, the sound low and warm. “Maybe. But it fits.”

He didn’t push further, just sipped his tea again, content to let the nickname settle between us like it had always belonged.

Sandy finished the last sip from his cup, setting it carefully back into the satchel at his side. For a moment he just sat there, content in the quiet, watching the gulls wheel and dive over the gray water. Then he pushed himself to his feet, moving with a gentleness that seemed impossible for someone his size.

“Well, Cinna,” he said, the nickname rolling off his tongue like it had always belonged to me, “I should let you be. Seems like you’re waiting on someone important.”

I tilted my head at him, suspicious. “You always this nosy?”

His laugh was low, steady, and it carried that warmth that never seemed to leave him. “Not nosy. Just neighborly.” He adjusted the strap of his satchel over one broad shoulder. “Take care of yourself, alright? Spice like yours burns too bright if you don’t give it time to cool.”

I didn’t answer. Just gave a small shrug, letting my hair fall into my face so he couldn’t read too much there.

Sandy didn’t press. He never did. With one last smile, he turned and walked down the dock, his footsteps quiet despite his size. It wasn’t long before his silhouette blended into the bustle of the harbor and disappeared entirely.

And then it was just me again.

I pulled my hood back up, tucking my ears away, and leaned against the bench with a long exhale. The salt air filled my lungs, sharp and cool. The quiet pressed in heavier without him there just me, the gulls, and the long wait ahead.

Two hours with the Great Sage. Two hours to stretch what little I had on MK into something worth his time.

The sea breeze tugged at my sleeves, and I muttered under my breath, “I’d rather be back running laps with Red.”

But I stayed.

The quiet on the bench stretched too thin. Sandy’s calm presence had left a hole behind, and sitting there with nothing but gull cries and the slap of waves made the minutes crawl like hours. If I stayed out in the open any longer, I’d just stew myself into a corner.

So I stood, tugging my hood up again, and slipped off the dock toward the stacked shadows of the container yard.

The place always smelled like rust and salt metal warmed under the sun, grease worked deep into the ground. Cargo containers loomed over each other in uneven stacks, narrow alleys twisting between them like a maze. Most people avoided the yard unless they had business here. For me, that made it perfect.

This was where Wukong liked to meet. Out of sight. Out of earshot. Just the two of us with a hundred tons of steel for company.

I picked my way deeper inside, the sound of gulls giving way to the distant clang of chains and the occasional creak of shifting metal. My boots scuffed over concrete as I found our usual spot half-hidden between a pair of containers, the paint on them peeled and sun-bleached. A space just wide enough for two people to stand without being seen unless you walked right past.

I sank down onto an old crate, arms folded over my knees, and let my eyes half-close. The smell of iron filled my lungs, sharp and grounding.

Now came the waiting.

Two hours of it. Two hours with the Monkey King breathing down my neck, expecting me to stretch scraps of MK’s failures into something worth his time.

I let out a long breath and tilted my head back against the container wall. “This is going to suck,” I muttered to myself.

The container gave no argument.

I didn’t have to wait long before a shadow fell over me. I tilted my head back and squinted into the sky. A cloud drifted down, its edges shimmering faintly with golden light, and there he was none other than the Great Sage himself, standing proudly atop it with that insufferable grin plastered across his face.

The cloud dipped low, hovering a few inches above the ground, slowing to a halt with a faint hum of magic. My eyes slid upward, locking with his. Wukong’s golden irises gleamed as he looked me over, gaze sharp and assessing, like he was comparing me now to the last time we’d met.

“You healed fast,” he remarked lightly, the humor failing to reach his eyes. “Glad to see you not looking half-dead this time.”

The softness there the barest flicker of it was worse than mockery. I hated the way his gaze softened like that.

I kept my expression neutral, studying him in turn. His irises were molten gold, yes, but they swam faintly against the red of his sclera, and I knew better. Thanks to my eyes I am able to tell that he glamores his body. Unfortunately for me since I can’t exactly turn off my eyes I don’t know what he shows to others. Questions came to my mind quickly. What color did he make everyone else see? What scars did he hide from the world? What version of himself does he show everyone else? I tensed at those thoughts that came unbidden and pushed them out of my mind just as quickly. 

The wind caught a strand of his hair, tugging it loose from where he’d combed it back, tossing it across his face. For a moment it fell down against the old scar running across his forehead right where the infamous circlet once bit into his skin. He brushed it back into place without thought, but I’d already looked away, careful not to linger. If he noticed how closely I watched, he’d start piecing things together. He’d realize I could see through  glamours, and I couldn’t afford that. He asked enough questions as it was.

I sighed and rolled my eyes. “Yeah, I heal fast. I’m assuming we’re heading to your mountain again.” I quickly changed the subject away from my sorry state last week.

“Yup,” he said nonchalantly, shifting his weight as if this were all routine. “Once we get there, we can start our meeting as usual.” His grin tilted sharper as he extended a hand toward me, palm open like an invitation.

I stared at the hand for a long moment, then ignored it, reaching for the edge of the cloud instead. With a small hop I hauled myself up onto the shifting surface. He hadn’t lowered it far enough to step on this time. Typical. Judging by the smug puff of his cheeks and the poorly disguised cough when I glared, he’d done it on purpose.

“Since you’re finally on,” he said with exaggerated patience, “I’ll be taking off. Hold on tight I’m going fast this time.”

“This is a cloud,” I snapped, digging my claws into the misty surface as it wavered beneath my feet. “What the hell am I supposed to ”

Before I could finish, the world blurred. We shot skyward like an arrow loosed from a bow, the dock and sea shrinking to nothing below us. Wind tore past my ears, and something warm coiled tight around my waist. His tail. Holding me in place, keeping me steady when I hadn’t even managed to stand.

I hated that part of me was relieved he had.

The ocean stretched wide beneath us, the horizon cutting sharp and endless, and then Flower Fruit Mountain came into view, its peaks crowned with drifting clouds. The trip lasted only minutes, but it felt longer with the wind howling and my claws sunk deep into the cloud’s surface.

When we finally descended, the cloud dipped gently toward the ground. With a flick of his wrist, Wukong dispelled it entirely. My legs buckled, stiff and useless, and if it weren’t for his tail still curled tight around my waist, I would’ve gone face-first into the dirt. Instead, he lifted me with casual ease, setting me down on my feet like I weighed nothing.

“There we go,” he said smoothly, grin never fading.

I bit down on the urge to bare my teeth.

He let me go the instant he felt my legs steady beneath me. Without another word, Wukong turned and started up the stone stairs carved into the hillside, leading toward the cave that housed his home. I stayed frozen for a moment, knees locked to keep them from shaking.

He glanced back, smiling as he jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “You coming?”

I dragged in a deep breath, muttered something too low for him to hear, and made my feet move. My gaze flicked back once to the training arena where we’d landed. The wooden dummies were still rocked half-sideways, dust drifting lazily in the air. It looked like someone had been training here not too long ago. Maybe MK. Maybe both of them. I clenched my jaw and kept climbing.

At the top of the stairs, the courtyard opened wide, and the sight hit me like déjà vu. The same wooden table from our last meeting sat beneath the overhang, already prepared as though he’d been expecting me to play along without complaint. Four bowls of fresh fruit sat in the center strawberries, blueberries, blackberries, peaches the colors vivid against the rough-hewn wood. A pot of tea steamed gently beside them, its lid rattling faintly in the mountain breeze.

Wukong strode over and lifted the lid with a practiced ease, pulling out the strainer filled with swollen leaves. Steam curled around his reddish-brown fur, carrying a sweet, fruity scent that made the air taste warm. “Perfect,” he said, satisfaction humming in his tone. “Didn’t over-steep while I was fetching you.” He looked back over his shoulder, grin still fixed in place. “Go ahead, Foxglove. Take a seat, everything's ready.”

I narrowed my eyes but moved toward the table anyway, slipping into the same chair I’d occupied last time. Of course my place was already set with a simple cup and small plate waiting for me like I belonged here. My gaze lingered on the fruit bowls longer than I meant it to.

He poured the tea with a flourish and set a steaming cup in front of me. The fragrant scent curled up into my face, peach-sweet over the bite of black tea. Darjeeling, if I had to guess. Figures he’d pick something that smooth. He dropped into the seat across from me, grabbed a peach, and took a massive bite, juice dripping down his knuckles.

“Help yourself,” he said around the mouthful, waving at the spread. “I may be a demon, but my master taught me to be a proper host.”

The tongs lay ready in the bowls, but of course no forks, no chopsticks. Typical. My stomach twisted as I realized just how empty it was. I hadn't eaten all day. Before I could talk myself out of it, I plucked up a few blackberries and strawberries, dropping them onto my plate.

The first bite nearly made me groan aloud. The blackberry burst against my tongue, perfectly ripe, so rich with flavor it made every other one I’d ever eaten taste like cardboard. The strawberries were no worse, sweet, sharp, juicy. Gods, I hated him. I hated this mountain and its stupid perfect fruit. Did he actually tend them, or did they just grow like this here, naturally divine? I should pick a few before I leave today. 

I shoved another berry into my mouth to shut my own thoughts up, scowling down at the plate. Focus.

Across the table, Wukong leaned back, chewing on his peach with exaggerated laziness, as though waiting for me to break first. His tail flicked once behind him, betraying the energy under the act. “So, uh,” he began, gaze sliding around the courtyard like he was trying to pretend he didn’t care, “how’s the tea? Not too strong?”

I ignored the question, sipping slowly to buy time. The tea was smooth, warm with a soft peach finish, exactly as I’d predicted. Infuriatingly good, just like the fruit. I popped another blackberry into my mouth, careful not to devour them too quickly even though I wanted to.

Finally, I set my cup down, leaned an elbow onto the table, and propped my chin against my hand. I gave him my best bored look, one eyebrow raised. “Might as well get to the point. We’re here to talk about your golden boy and what I’ve seen over the last couple weeks. I don’t have much to report.”

His grin faltered just enough to notice. He let out a sigh and forced a laugh, thin and humorless. “You really aren’t one for small talk, are you?” he asked, though it wasn’t a real question.

I didn’t bother answering.

His posture shifted. He straightened his spine, clapped his hands together, and fixed me with a steady look that was suddenly devoid of humor. His golden eyes were sharp as knives now. “Alright,” he said evenly. “What do you have to tell me?”

I swirled the tea once, set the cup down, and leaned back in my chair. “Your golden boy,” I began, tone flat as stone, “went to the dragon girl’s house. And from the second he walked in, it was a disaster.”

Wukong’s grin stayed on his face, but I saw the tiniest twitch in his cheek.

“Every time he touched something, he nearly broke it,” I continued, ticking points off on my fingers. “Actually broke something priceless too. And when that happened? No apology. Not even a sheepish laugh. He just blamed it on the bull clone and moved on like it wasn’t his fault. Charming, right?”

Wukong’s jaw tightened for half a second before he smoothed it away. “He’s still learning,” he said evenly.

I smirked and leaned forward, chin still propped in one hand. “Learning? From you? Because if that’s the case, I’m not impressed. With all this world-class training from the so-called Great Sage Equal to Heaven, you’d think the kid would show something. But all I saw was fumbling and excuses.”

His tail twitched behind him. “Foxglove…” 

I leaned back, letting the quiet stretch, before casually tossing in, “For all the ‘legendary’ training you’re putting him through, the kid looks worse than he did before. At least back then he had some instinct. Now? He’s clumsy, hesitant, and blaming everyone else when he screws up.” I waved my hand in front of me in a mocking dismissive gesture. 

His golden eyes narrowed, though his voice came out carefully measured. “He’s making progress. You just don’t see it.”

I smirked, propping my chin in my hand. “Progress? If that’s progress, then I’d hate to see regression. Honestly, I think you’re breaking him down more than building him up. Maybe the great Monkey King isn’t such a great teacher after all.”

The temperature in the courtyard seemed to rise a few degrees. He drew in a breath like he meant to calm himself, but his tail lashed once against the stone floor, betraying him. “Foxglove, watch it.”

“Oh, I’m watching,” I shot back sweetly. “Watching a so-called Great Sage take a bright-eyed kid and turn him into a nervous wreck. Do you drill hesitation into him during lessons? Because he’s got that down perfectly.”

“And then,” I went on, ignoring the warning in his voice, “when he finally faced the clone? Froze. Completely froze. Hesitated so long I thought he was going to keel over right there. Only when it came charging did he finally swing. Sure, he destroyed it, but the hesitation?” I let out a humorless laugh. “Yeah, if that’s the best your student can manage, you might want to rethink your teaching methods.”

His hands curled into fists on the tabletop, the bowls of fruit rattling faintly. “He’s not ” His voice cracked sharply before he pulled it back, speaking lower, tighter. “He’s not a wreck. He’s learning discipline.”

His golden eyes flared brighter, but I wasn’t done. Not even close.

I laughed short, sharp, humorless. “Discipline? No. What I saw was fear. He looked like he wanted to disappear, and then when he finally acted, he broke things and blamed the wrong person. That’s not discipline. That's a failure.”

“You know,” I mused, plucking another strawberry from the bowl and popping it into my mouth, “I think he’s actually getting worse from the first time I saw him, he had a spark, raw instinct. Now? Looks more like all your training’s grinding that out of him. What’s the plan, Wukong? Bore him into greatness?” I poked at his teaching again, it seems to be the thing that's getting under his skin for some reason. 

His cup creaked under his grip, porcelain protesting the strength of his fingers. He set it down with deliberate care, a smile still painted across his face like a mask.

“He’s not useless,” he said, voice low, deliberate, almost a growl.

“Didn’t say he was useless,” I replied lightly, licking juice from my fingers. “Just implied that he looks it.”

For a moment, the air between us felt like it thickened, charged, humming, like standing too close to a thunderstorm. He was holding himself back, but barely. Every word I dropped was a spark at the edges of his control, and I knew it. I was doing it on purpose.

“Face it,” I added sweetly, leaning back with a smirk, “the kid’s stumbling, and you’re not much better at keeping him on his feet. Equal to Heaven? Please. Equal to babysitting, maybe.” Was there a reason I was pushing his buttons this time? No. Maybe somewhere deep down I was curious as to what the wrath of the great Sun Wukong looked like. Maybe I wanted him to be so angry at me that he doesn't bring up what I looked like last week. To not ask me the questions I bet he’s dying to know. 

That did it. His mask slipped, just a hair. His grin stretched too wide, sharp at the edges, his voice rougher now. “You really don’t know when to shut up, do you?”

I smiled back, calm as ever, another blackberry between my teeth. “Nope.”

His eyes burned hotter now, the smile he usually wore stretched too thin to hide the fury underneath. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t I?” I leaned forward, elbows on the table, meeting his stare head-on. “I’m the one watching him outside of your little training bubble. And all I see is a kid getting worse the longer he’s under your thumb. If you think I’m wrong, maybe the problem isn’t him. Maybe it’s you.”

That tore the mask. Wukong shot to his feet, voice breaking loose like thunder. “You think you could do better? You, who hides behind sarcasm and claws at everything around you? You wouldn’t last a day in my shoes!”

I was on my feet too, baring my teeth. “I don’t want your shoes! I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t choose to be bound here every damn week to hold your hand and tell you how your student’s failing. But since I don’t have a choice, I’m sure as hell not going to make it easy on you.”

“Always a pain in the ass,” he snarled.

“Exactly!” I threw my hands up, laughing bitterly. “If I’m forced into this nightmare, then you get me at my worst. Every jab, every truth you don’t want to hear. That’s the deal. You don’t like it? Tear up the contract.” I spat bitterly even if I knew he couldn’t. Even if I knew that this contract is the only reason I’m breathing right now. 

His aura flared hot around us, pressing against my skin like fire barely kept in check. “Careful, Foxglove. You’re walking a line.”

I smirked through my glare, refusing to back down. “And you keep proving how easy it is to shove you over it.”

The courtyard was silent except for our voices, echoing against the mountain walls, two tempers locked in a storm neither of us intended to end.

“You just like to run your mouth, Foxglove,” Wukong snapped, pacing a step away before turning back on me. His aura sparked faintly against the stone, golden light crawling at the corners of his eyes. “Always quick to pick apart what everyone else is doing wrong. Always sure you know better. But you never actually step up, do you? Never risk being wrong yourself.”

I arched a brow, smirking even as he loomed. “Why should I? It’s not my circus. Not my monkey. Literally. You’re the teacher, remember? You asked me to watch. And what I’m watching is a mess.”

His tail lashed behind him, too quick to be casual. “Mess or not, at least I’m trying to fix something. All you ever do is sit back with your claws out, ready to shred anyone who gets too close.”

That jab made me blink, but I masked it fast with a chuckle, low and dismissive. “Cute. Real deep, Sage. Are you practicing for therapy sessions now? Maybe you should stick to babysitting your golden boy. You’re clearly better at that.”

His grin twisted sharp, no humor left in it. “Babysitting’s still better than what you do. Hiding behind sarcasm because it’s easier than being honest. Must be exhausting, acting like you don’t care about anyone.”

I scoffed, crossing my arms. “Oh please. Don’t pretend you’ve figured me out. You barely know me.”

But his eyes burned brighter, cutting sharper. “I know enough. I know that biting tongue of yours keeps everyone at arm’s length. I know you push people away before they can even bother staying. You ever wonder why you’re always alone, Foxglove?” His voice rose with each word, echoing off the stone walls. “It’s not the contracts. It’s not your job. It’s you. People leave because you’re impossible to be around. Because of your shitty attitude!”

The words hit harder than I expected, like he’d sucker-punched me straight in the chest. For a second, my smirk faltered. Heat rose up the back of my neck, ears twitching in a way I hated. My claws dug shallow grooves into the wooden table before I realized what I was doing.

I bared my teeth, the laugh that slipped out sharp as glass. “Wow. Took you long enough to say it. Feel better now, oh Great Sage? Or do you want to dig a little deeper and see if you can actually hit bone?”

For the first time, the silence that fell wasn’t all on him it was mine too. And I hated that. I hated the way he was looking at me. So many different emotions running through his gaze that I had to break the silence, because if I didn’t, I might break first. 

The laugh that tore out of me was sharp enough to cut stone. “You arrogant bastard. You think you’re the first one to figure that out? You think you’re clever for saying out loud what I’ve already been told a thousand times? Congratulations, Sage, you’ve cracked the code. I am a bitch. I’m unbearable. I drive everyone away. You want a prize for your stunning insight?”

Wukong didn’t flinch, though his smile was gone, teeth bared in something rawer, angrier. His aura pressed harder, golden light flickering like fire spilling out of a cracked vessel. “I don’t need to be the first, Foxglove. I just need to be the one who finally says it where you can’t laugh it off. You push, and push, and then act shocked when no one sticks around. Maybe you don’t want anyone to.”

“Don’t you dare pretend you know what I want.” My voice came out a snarl, loud enough to echo in the stone walls of the cave. “You don’t know what it’s like to be chained to someone else’s games, to contracts that decide your life. You don’t know what it’s like to have your freedom stolen and then still get blamed for being difficult on top of it. You think I like being here with you? You think I like wasting hours every week giving you reports on some clumsy kid? No! I don’t have a choice.”

He opened his mouth, but I cut him off, slamming my fist into the table hard enough to make the fruit bowls jump. “And since I don’t have a choice, guess what? I’m not making it easy for you. You wanted a watchdog? You got me. And I’ll bite and scratch and make sure every damn second of it is just as miserable for you as it is for me!”

The silence that followed was suffocating. His tail lashed, his golden eyes blazing with fury and beneath it, something else, something sharper. His aura flared so hard the steam rising off the tea scattered into nothing.

I stood there, chest heaving, ears pinned flat against my skull, the taste of berries still bitter on my tongue, my own tail lashing back and forth. For the first time, my mask of sarcasm wasn’t there. For the first time, I wasn’t just being difficult. I was angry and furious and he’d dragged it out of me.

And judging by the faint flicker of triumph that crossed his face before he clenched his jaw, he knew it.

I knew the words that had slipped from my mouth were technically wrong worse than wrong. My own jab had left a bitter taste in my mouth. My eyes flicked, almost against my will, to the scars across his forehead. The faint lines carved into his skin weren’t just marks; they were reminders of chains, servitude, pain. He did know what it was like to be bound to something against his will, to have his freedom stolen and his body locked away. Everyone knew at least the bones of his story, his feats of strength, the havoc he wreaked, his forced servitude to that monk, the five hundred years crushed under a mountain with nothing but hunger and silence as company.

I didn’t feel sorry for him. I refused to. But gods, I hated the way he could get under my skin just as easily as I got under his. Hated how he could read me or at least read the mask I showed everyone else and twist it until I slipped. For that alone, maybe he deserved a little reprieve from my constant poking.

But reprieve or not, these damn meetings were every week. Like clockwork. I’d be dragged back here unless I had a good excuse to miss them, and the thought gnawed at me. If this were once a month, maybe even twice, it would be manageable. But every single week? It was exhausting.

The thought struck me like a lightning bolt: What if the contract could change?

We hadn’t written anything into the original terms that stopped us from altering it. We were both here, both bound. Maybe there was a way to make this less unbearable.

I shut my eyes and drew in a long breath through my nose, then pushed it out slowly through my mouth, forcing the burn of anger out with it. When I opened them, I found my gaze fixed on the table between us. The peaches had spilled out of their bowl sometime during our shouting match, rolling across the wood like casualties of war. I sighed softly and straightened, stepping back from the table.

His eyes never left me hard, unrelenting, searching for cracks. He didn’t speak, didn’t move, just watched. I filled the silence with my own steady breaths until my heart stopped pounding in my ears. Then I met his gaze head-on, refusing to flinch.

“We’re both unhappy with the contract as it stands, right?” I asked, arms crossing over my chest, head tilting slightly in challenge. His answer was nothing more than a single sharp nod.

“But neither of us is willing to end it,” I pressed on. “Because as much as we hate this, we’re both getting something we can’t afford to lose. So why not change it? Not break it, just add to it. Adjust the rules.”

His expression hardened, like a stone setting. I could see the resistance forming in his eyes, the reasons already crowding to his lips. So I cut him off before he could dismiss me.

“Of course, it can’t be boring. Not with us. And since we still have…” I glanced at the sun-dappled courtyard, back at him, “…over an hour and a half left, why not make it a game? A simple one. Tag. Something that can actually play to both of our strengths.”

That earned me a raised brow, though the snarl pulling at his mouth eased a fraction.

I took the opening and continued. “You’ll have to catch me you, not one of your clones. If a clone does manage to grab me, it has to announce itself so I know. And for me? My job is to hit the real you. With a shot. No tricks, no half measures.”

His stance shifted, no longer ready to strike, but something warier measured. He was listening. Considering. For the first time since I started this fight, I felt the tension in the air tilt, not vanish but bend, and for once not toward another explosion.

“I’ll get a thirty–minute head start,” I continued, but his voice cut across mine like a blade.

“Thirty minutes doesn’t seem very fair.” His tone was flat, but his eyes narrowed, sharp and suspicious, already looking for the trick he assumed I was pulling.

I held his stare, lifting my chin slightly. “I don’t know these mountains like you do. I haven’t spent centuries climbing through their caves or memorizing their cliffs. The head start gives me a chance to make some distance, to actually get a feel for terrain you know like the back of your hand.” My words were steady, even as I studied the twitch of his jaw, the way his tail swayed behind him like a metronome of irritation.

His frown deepened, creases forming at the corners of his scarred forehead, but he didn’t argue further. The silence stretched, filled only by the faint rush of mountain wind threading through the courtyard. I pressed forward before he could shut me down again.

“We can both use whatever tactics we like,” I explained, voice firm. “Dirty or clean, doesn’t matter as long as neither of us has any real intent to harm the other. That’s the rule. Not like I could actually kill you since you're like eight times immortal.  And before we start, we each put down two changes we want to add to the contract, right here, right now. That way we both know if the game’s worth playing.”

The table between us was quiet again, though the fruit bowls still rattled faintly when I’d slammed my fist on it earlier. He studied me like I was a puzzle, jaw tightening and loosening in turn, golden eyes burning into mine without flinching. A few minutes passed before he finally gave a single sharp nod.

“Fine,” he said at last, his voice lower now, deliberate. Then he lifted his hands to his hips, and that damn smug smile pulled across his face taut and gloating. “But on one condition.”

I raised a brow, masking the unease already building in my gut. “I’m listening.”

He tilted his head slightly, smile widening. “We each declare two changes before the game, and they go into effect as soon as there’s a winner. But-” his tail flicked behind him, slow and taunting-“the winner gets a third change. A secret one. They don’t have to say it out loud. They can keep it to themselves and use it whenever they want.”

The words hung between us like a trap snapping shut.

It was obvious his earlier anger had evaporated, replaced now with a smug satisfaction that was somehow worse. Infuriating. The idea twisted in my head like fire and ice. If I agreed and lost, I’d be tethering myself to a loaded gun I couldn’t see, couldn’t predict. He’d have power to bend me however he wanted and I’d practically be handing it to him wrapped in a bow. And knowing me, I’d given him more than enough reasons to make that punishment sting.

But if I won?

If I won, I’d hold a leash on one of the most powerful beings in existence. The thought of having the Monkey King bound by my command sent a pulse of heat through my chest. I could make him obey me until the contract ended. I’d never have to flinch at the unknown again, not when I’d have my own living nuke in my pocket. And that’s only one of the things I could do with an unknown condition. But if he was the one who won, he’d hold that same power over me.

Tempting. Terrifying. Two sides of the same coin.

I swallowed, forcing my face to remain cool, bored, unimpressed even as my claws itched against the wood at the thought. “So the loser lives with a knife hanging over their head. Cute.” My words dripped sarcasm, but my mind was already racing.

If I agreed, I’d have to give myself every possible edge. And I at least I did have one, dirty tricks. Loopholes. Things he wouldn’t expect from me. I hadn’t said anything about weapons, and he hadn’t bothered to, either. That left the field wide open. He thought this was already won, but maybe just maybe I could remind him that underestimating me would be his biggest mistake.

I caught my tail flicking behind me and grabbed it, wrapping the soft fur tight in my fist until it stilled. Damn thing always betrayed me when I was nervous. My ears I could force upright, my face I could school into neutrality but that tail? That was harder.

“Fine,” I said at last, forcing the word out with a steadiness I didn’t feel. “I can live with that.” My gaze slipped away from his, unable to hold the weight of his golden stare a second longer. The truth was I didn’t want to agree, but the terms were too tempting to walk away from. A fae bargain if I’d ever heard one. Maybe it was instinct for him, a trickster god laying out traps without even trying. No point in dwelling on it now.

I lifted my chin and laid my own cards on the table. “What I want to change is how often we meet. Once a month would be ideal, but since I know you won’t go for that, I’ll say twice a month. And second, I want to be the one who chooses where we meet.”

One of his brows rose sharply. “You want to choose?” His voice carried that familiar edge of mockery, but there was curiosity under it. “What’s wrong with my private, secluded mountain? Not good enough for your secrets?” He smirked, as if it were a harmless joke.

I rolled my eyes, letting the gesture speak for itself. “It’s not about your precious hideaway. Yes, this place is quiet, sure, no one overhears us. But getting here is a nightmare. It eats up too much of my time. Time I don’t have to waste when you’re already insisting on full hours with me. I have responsibilities outside of babysitting your golden boy. Being able to choose the location would spare me the headache of factoring in travel time back and forth from the Bull Family.”

For the first time, his expression flickered. The smirk faltered, and surprise softened his features. His eyes widened just a fraction before narrowing again, as if recalibrating. I realized, then, that maybe this was the first straight answer I’d ever given him without a jab or gripe layered over it.

“Huh,” he muttered, scratching at his chin as his tail flicked lazily behind him. “Guess I never really considered that.” He shrugged once, casual. “I can live with those, if you win.” He dragged out the last words, adding air quotes around win with a smug twist of his mouth, like the idea of me ever landing a shot was a joke.

I clenched my jaw but didn’t take the bait. At least not yet. He moved on quickly to his own demands.

“First,” he said, his tone hardening, “I want you to come into our meetings more… pleasant. No more being difficult just because you can. I know I can’t make you change your—” his eyes flicked over me, from ears to tail, and his lip curled in a faint grimace—“oh-so-charming personality. But I want the backhanded comments to stop. No more picking fights with me. Or with MK.” His arms crossed tight over his chest, the words heavier than he tried to make them.

I kept my face flat, even as irritation prickled under my skin. That one I’d expected.

“And second,” he continued, his voice dropping lower, steady with intent, “I want your silence about this deal. You don’t tell MK we have it. Not why, not how, not even a hint that it exists.”

The words hit me harder than I’d expected. For the barest moment my mask slipped, my eyes widening in shock before I forced them back to neutrality. Of course he noticed his brow rose, sharp and knowing.

I shouldn’t have been surprised. The first demand was obvious. The second… it hadn’t even crossed my mind. How could I have overlooked that? I’d already told the Bull Family about this bargain, but none of us thought to twist the knife and tell MK that his so-called mentor had so little faith in him he struck a deal with his enemy. That would’ve shattered them before they even built anything. How could I have missed such an easy opening to sabotage? Damn. Maybe I was losing my edge. Some villain I was turning out to be.

Across the table, Wukong’s shoulders squared, his expression hard as steel. He knew exactly why I’d reacted. And now, shit, he had a reason to play harder than ever. If he didn’t win, he knew what I’d be doing the second I left this mountain.

I could still call this off. Walk away. Leave the contract untouched and keep things exactly as they are. Nothing forced, nothing new. But deep down, I knew he wouldn’t let me slip away now, not after him giving me such an idea. He’d insist, dig in, demand we play this out.

A long sigh slipped out of me. Gods, I really fucked myself over this time, didn’t I? The only thing I had in my corner was the faint, flickering hope that maybe, somehow, I could win.

“Fine,” I muttered at last, my voice sharper than I meant it to be. “Fine, I can deal with those terms. We’ll start as soon as I leave your cave, once I’m past Water Curtain Cave. That work for you?” I extended my hand, the same way we had when we made our first deal.

His golden gaze flicked to it, unreadable, before he clasped my hand in his own. His grip was firm, sharp. I could feel the calluses across his palm, rough patches earned through centuries of battle and training. It unsettled me more than I wanted to admit. Sparks of magic crawled up my arm, burning lightly beneath my skin until they reached my shoulder. I rolled it back, forcing myself not to flinch, then pulled away.

Without another word, I turned toward the carved stone steps that wound down from his home. I didn’t give him the satisfaction of looking back, though I could feel his eyes on me, hot against my back like sunlight.

The tunnel stretched long and dim, lit only by the soft glow of moss clinging to the walls. My footsteps echoed off wet stone as I retraced my way through, until at last I saw it the shimmering sheet of the waterfall ahead. The thundering rush filled the space, cool mist dampening my face. Once I crossed that veil, the timer would start.

I stopped short. Knees locked, then buckled, and I crouched down, pressing my forehead to the damp ground with a groan.

What the hell am I thinking? I just got out of the infirmary last week. I’m barely scraping back to my pitiful baseline strength, and now I’ve gone and challenged him, the Great Sage Equal to Heaven. What chance do I really stand? I’m nothing in comparison. A nobody. He’s seen me shoot. He knows my rhythm, my speed. Surprise is gone before I’ve even started. He knows this battlefield like the back of his scarred hand.

And worse he’ll be able to track me by scent. Beast demon instincts. Meanwhile, my own sense of smell? Practically useless. Worse than most humans. I wouldn’t even know if I’d left a trail behind me, and he’d find it without a second thought.

I let out a shaky laugh, bitter and sharp. The only edges I had were technology and my ability to read people. I might not be able to match him in strength or speed, but I could outthink him. Maybe. Hopefully.

My fingers found the cool, familiar metal of the coffin necklace resting against my collarbone. Its weight grounded me, a reminder of what I carried, what I could unleash. A walking artillery unit. If I leaned into it, maybe that would be enough.

Still, my chest tightened. He’d led armies, commanded battles, outwitted entire courts of gods and demons alike. Beneath the fool’s grin, he was a strategist. If I wanted even a sliver of a chance, I had to crawl inside his head and predict him.

First thought? Clones. Always clones. The best way to deal with long-range fighters is sheer numbers. Overwhelm them until they can’t reload fast enough. The moment I fire the first shot, I’ll give myself away. No hiding after that.

I sat back on my heels, staring at the waterfall’s endless cascade. Water roared down, spray dampening my hair and skin, dripping into my eyes. My body tensed at the thought of stepping through, knowing I’d start drenched before the game even began. A stupid distraction, but enough to cost me seconds I couldn’t afford. Feelings I’d have to push past. 

Good thing I had teleportation. At least that gave me an opening.

I sighed again, head tipping back against the cave wall, eyes tracing the jagged ceiling above. “Gods, this is a bad idea,” I muttered under my breath, though there was no one to hear it. No one but him, waiting somewhere in these mountains, sharp-eyed and grinning, ready to hunt me down.

But what could I do now? Nothing but try. Try, fight, play dirty if I had to.

Forcing myself upright, I brushed damp grit from my pants, flexed my fingers, and stretched until my joints cracked. My knuckles popped sharp in the quiet between thunderous waves.

“Alright,” I whispered, more to myself than anything. “Let’s get this shit over with.”

And with a flicker of magic, petals swirling at my feet, I teleported straight to the mountain’s peak, heart hammering, adrenaline singing through my veins.

When the world sharpened back into focus, the tug of magic at my shoulder burned like a brand. My timer had started. Thirty minutes. That was all I had before Wukong was allowed to step out and hunt me down.

I tilted my head, glancing through the hole at the crown of the mountain I’d just left. Below, in his little courtyard, Wukong was lounging back at the table again, casually tearing into another peach like this was no more than an afternoon snack. His posture was loose, his grin infuriatingly smug, like he already knew how this would end. I clenched my jaw and stepped away from the opening. Turning in a slow circle to study the rest of the island. 

The wind was coming from the north, blowing strands of my hair forward into my face. If I were trying to be clever, if I were trying to play by the “smart” rules, I’d go downwind. Mask my scent, slip into the terrain where even a beast demon would struggle to track me. But that’s the problem: Wukong isn’t just any beast demon. He’d find me eventually no matter how well I tried to cover my tracks. Hiding would just waste my time.

No, if I wanted even the smallest chance of landing a shot on him, I needed to stand my ground on my terms. Force him into a kill zone. Force him into a position where he had to show his real self. 

I turned slowly in a full circle, studying the lay of the land. The north stretched out like a rough, jagged sprawl of ridgelines and cliffs, shadowed forests pressing in at the base. My eyes caught on one cliff in particular  tall, sheer, jutting out over the treetops like a blade of stone. It was a long drop, enough to kill me if I fell, but it’d be perfect for a very stupid plan coming into my head. Nowhere for him to sneak up behind me. If I was cornered, that’s where I’d make my last stand. Risky, yes, but it gave me one sure thing: I’d see him coming. And he wouldn’t be able to stop me. I felt a small smirk playing at my lips as a terrible and stupid plan formed in my head. 

I couldn’t just rely on one spot. I needed coverage. I needed to funnel him to where I wanted him without him realizing what I was doing. 

I swept my gaze further across the northern horizon, picking out other high points stone ridges, crooked spines of rock, natural shelves jutting from the mountainsides. One here, another a few miles east, another to the northwest, another still to the far ridge line where the sun cast sharp shadows. At least five stations, each with a clean line of sight back toward this very mountain, each angled to catch him the moment he stepped outside.

If Wukong thought he could drown me in clones, fine. Let him. I’d be waiting with a trick of my own, and sooner or later the real him would have to move.

My hand brushed against the coffin pendant at my throat, the metal cool against my fingertips. Red’s gadgets would do their work if I set this up fast enough. All I had to do was move station by station, laying out my nests, threading my trap together before the clock ran out. I’m glad I had asked Red once what my scent smelled like because I’m going to need it.

I exhaled through my nose, slow and steady, petals rising in a swirl of pink light as I vanished from the peak.

Time to set the board. 

Thirty minutes flew by faster than I’d hoped. I had just finished my last bit of prep when the magic flared at my shoulder sharp pins and needles racing down my arm, a reminder that my time was up. Damn, that stung.

I brushed my hands off, tossed the empty bullet casing into the growing pile of pink petals around me, and teleported to the base of the cliff. Hidden, of course.

A screen shimmered to life in front of me as I activated the controller strapped across my lap. Four feeds blinked into place live scope views from the rifles I’d planted across the northern ridges. I had another weapon ready here with me, but I wasn’t touching it yet. My job was to gather as much information as I could from these feeds and time my shots right.

It wasn’t perfect. By linking them through the controller, I’d sacrificed speed and the distance I could boost with magic but this was my best shot. Each rifle carried four rounds, all packed with enough magic power to cross the miles to the mountain. Sixteen bullets in total while the rest of the clip had normal rounds. Not much when Wukong could spawn a hundred clones with a fistful of hair. But even if I couldn’t kill all of them, confusion was my ally. If I forced him to hesitate just for a second I could line up the real one.

The screens flickered. Movement.

Right on schedule, about twenty-five Wukongs crawled out from the top of the mountain like ants spilling from a nest. I watched them fan out, smirking at how casual they looked, chatting with one another. The problem with patience is you can’t let it become hesitation. A sniper’s greatest weapon is waiting but so is their greatest weakness.

I held back, studying. Who looked like they were in charge? Who was pretending too hard? They all mimicked his swagger, his loose movements, his cocky grin. They even talked, lips moving in rhythm with each other. Damn it I was never great at reading lips anyway. Maybe that was a skill I should add to the list for next time I’m up against a clone-user.

Focus. Not the time to make to-do lists.

I watched as ten of the nearest clones leapt down the mountain, straight into the south. They didn’t even wait for the wind to shift, just dove toward the path I’d left baited. Predictable.

Then the breeze kicked up, brushing my hair forward, carrying my scent across the north. I saw the clones pause, noses lifting in unison. Confusion flickered across their identical faces as they realized my scent was coming from five different directions. Perfect.

I flicked my gaze back to the controller, narrowing in on the bottom-left feed one of the rifles set up miles to the west. A Wukong leaned back in that view, looking around a little too confidently, like he thought he had all the time in the world. Good enough for me.

I lined him up in the crosshairs and squeezed the trigger.

The shot fired a millisecond late, that damned delay between controller and rifle. I grit my teeth. I’d forgotten how much I hated that. Probably why I hadn’t used this toy since Red built it for me.

He’d made it back when my hand-to-hand combat was still laughable, insisting I stay as far away from close contact as possible. Around the time we had first met and I started working for them.  His solution had been this: a device to control, aim, and fire my weapons from far away, keeping my true location hidden. Shoot, relocate, stay alive. Simple logic. Of course I had known all that before he reexplained it to me. Gods I had wanted to punch him so hard when he was explaining my own job to me. Actually I think I did. 

Anyways. 

Teleportation wasn’t always fast enough, he’d warned me. Sometimes you needed a little extra distance to survive. So he gave me this thing called it the “Lasso” for reasons I’ll never understand. Dumb name, but barely useful to me as well. This is probably the third time I have used it since he made it. 

Now let’s see if it was useful enough to take a god down a peg. Or at least confuse him enough to come towards me. 

The first shot cracked across the mountainside. The recoil made the screen in my lap jolt, and a moment later the Wukong I’d chosen toppled back, the bullet punching through his temple. For half a heartbeat, my chest swelled then he burst apart into a storm of reddish-brown hair, strands floating lazily on the breeze.

My jaw tightened. “Damn it.”

The other clones froze, golden eyes snapping toward the west. One raised a hand, pointing straight at the nest that had fired.

I didn’t give them the satisfaction of hesitation. My fingers flew over the controller, switching to the eastern feed. Lining up the scope, I picked the loudmouth clone and squeezed the trigger. The rifle thundered miles away, and a split second later the round drilled him in the chest. For one glorious second I thought I had him.

Another burst of hair.

The Wukongs split like wolves on the hunt, some tearing west, others east. Their movements were sharp, disciplined, too fast to track them all at once.

I snarled. Fine. Time to cull the herd.

Switching feeds again, I targeted a Wukong in the northwest, the first to surge forward, clearly trying to take point. My bullet ripped through him, shredding him into glittering strands that vanished before they even hit the ground.

“Three shots, three damn wigs,” I muttered, fingers drumming against the controller.

My frown deepened. He hadn’t even flinched yet. The real Wukong was still hiding among the herd, watching, waiting. Classic.

I steadied my breathing, refusing to let frustration tighten my grip. Snipers couldn’t afford impatience. I scanned the northeast feed until I caught one Wukong distracted, glancing toward the clones charging west. That was my chance. I lined him up, pulled the trigger another bloom of hair drifted apart in the wind.

“Four down,” I whispered. “Still nothing.”

No more hesitation. I grabbed the rifle at my side, its carved runes glowing faintly as I poured magic into it. The stock vibrated under my claws, heat thrumming through the weapon. Three Wukongs lined up too neatly, dumb luck putting them shoulder-to-shoulder. Rookie mistake.

I aimed, exhaled, squeezed. The bullet streaked across the valley, magic flaring bright on impact. All three disintegrated in one sweep.

Seven left.

The survivors finally broke their stalemate, fanning out with frightening precision. One veered west, others peeled off to the nests I’d already revealed. I could feel my window closing.

I ditched the controller, leaving it clattering uselessly onto the stone. No more time for tricks. I sprinted up the path toward the cliff, boots scraping against gravel, lungs burning as adrenaline thrashed through me.

 Once I had finally reached the cliff laughter rippled behind me.

I whipped around, pistol already in my hand. Three Wukongs stood there, all grinning like predators that had finally cornered their prey. Their golden eyes glittered in the light, and every step I took back pressed my boots closer to the void at my heels.

“Looks like your plan failed, Foxglove,” one drawled, tone dripping smug satisfaction. “Give up now. You’ve got nowhere left to run.” His smirk widened, teeth glinting. “Honestly, maybe I should’ve given you an hour instead of thirty minutes at least then you’d stand a fighting chance.”

I squared my shoulders, stance iron, pistol aimed steady. I could feel the wind clawing at my hair, tugging strands into my face. My heartbeat slammed against my ribs, but I forced my grin sharp. “Oh? You think I’ve got nowhere left?”

His brows pinched. His eyes flicked past me to the drop, then back again. Confusion sparked.

One of the clones lunged. My finger twitched, the shot exploding into his forehead. He collapsed into nothing, hair whipping into the wind, scattering across the cliff like gold dust.

Two left.

The leader’s grin faltered, then returned, smug as ever. “Foxglove, don’t be stupid. Step away from the edge. I’ll even give you a head start to run again.” His tone was mocking, casual but I caught the way his muscles coiled, the tension in his stance. He was ready to spring.

I took another step back. Pebbles tumbled off the cliffside, clicking and skittering before silence swallowed them. One more step, and I’d follow.

“You know,” I mused, voice light as though we were chatting over tea, “I could shoot both of you. I’m fast enough. But if you’re just clones…” I smirked, fangs flashing. “You lose anyway. Because our contract won’t let you sit back and watch me die.”

For the first time, his golden eyes flickered with something sharp, uncertainty.

“What are you talking about?” he asked, edging closer, tone careful.

And then I grinned wider, letting it spread slow and smug across my face. “Figure it out.”

I jumped.

The air tore past me, hair whipping into my face as the world spun into green blur and gray stone. I kept the pistol raised, steady even as my stomach lurched from the fall.

The clones couldn’t follow. If they did, they’d burst into hair the second I put a bullet in them. Only the real Wukong could catch me and he’d have to do it fast, or watch me splatter across the forest floor.

The trap had been simple, brutal, and effective from the start. The contract bound him. He couldn’t let me die. Which meant the real him had no choice but to jump after me straight into my line of fire.

The wind howled around me as soon as my boots left the cliff’s edge. Cold air clawed at my skin, forcing its way under my clothes, cutting sharp enough to make me want to shiver. I forced myself to stay still, to keep my hands steady around the pistol, because one twitch could ruin everything.

They say your life flashes before your eyes when you’re about to die, but I saw nothing. No flashes of childhood, no memories of faces, no regrets laid bare. Just the dusk sky above me, green forest rushing up below, and the strangling certainty that I was betting everything on him. On him jumping after me. On him playing the hero like he always does. If he came down after me, he wouldn’t be able to dodge a bullet not at this angle, not at this speed.

It felt like I was falling through honey, like the world had slowed into syrup while my own body was hurtling too fast to catch. My ears popped with the change in pressure, my hair whipped across my face in wild tangles, and my chest squeezed tight with the rush of gravity.

Then movement two shadows peeled off the cliff and hurtled down after me. Two Wukongs, both wearing identical sneers of determination. Of course. He wasn’t going to risk himself yet. He was going to throw a clone in front of me, catch me behind its shield. Classic trick. Too bad for him I had no problem shooting blindly if I had to.

One reached for me, fingers outstretched, gold eyes glinting as they locked on me. My heart skipped, but my hand didn’t hesitate. I fired point-blank into his head. The bullet ripped through, and he burst apart into a cascade of coarse hair that stung as it slapped against my face. I ignored the itch crawling across my cheeks. My attention snapped to the second.

 Wukong dodged wide, curling in through the wind like an arrow, arm outstretched. His hand brushed through the strands of my hair, close enough to tangle his fingers in it.

I pulled the trigger again.

The explosion of hair swallowed the air around me, a stinging, choking storm. I coughed, blinking against it, my smirk faltering. Shit. No real Wukong. Just another fake.

And then the awful truth clawed in. There was no net. No safety. I was still plummeting, the forest below racing closer, jagged treetops like a thousand knives waiting to rip me apart.

“Damn it,” I spat through gritted teeth, fumbling for another plan, any plan—

Warmth slammed around me.

Arms hooked under my knees and shoulders, cradling me like I weighed nothing, chest pressed firm against my side. My breath caught as we jolted upward, the violent drop jerking into a dizzying ascent. The forest dropped away beneath us, the cliff edge racing back toward us.

I twisted my head, eyes going wide, and found myself staring straight into Sun Wukong’s furious face. His jaw was tight, his brows furrowed deep, and his golden eyes burned with fury. Framed in the glow of the setting sun, he looked less like a trickster and more like a wrathful god.

I almost forgot to breathe.

The air roared around us as he shot upward, cloudless and fast, each beat of the wind slamming into my skin. His grip didn’t waver, didn’t loosen. He carried me all the way back to the cliff, boots hitting the ground with controlled force once his cloud dissipated.

He set me down none too gently, stepping back quickly like I’d burned him. His back stayed to me at first, his shoulders rising and falling with deep, heavy breaths. His tail lashed once behind him, sharp and angry.

Then he spun on me.

“What the hell were you thinking?!” His voice cracked like thunder, reverberating against the stone walls of the mountain. “Do you have any idea how close you came to splattering across the forest floor?!” His hands curled into fists, and he jabbed a finger toward me like he could pin me to the cliff with it. “How do you think throwing yourself off a cliff is worth it over a game?! What, was dying going to prove your point?”

I should’ve felt ashamed. Fear. But instead, a laugh broke loose from me, high and sharp and uncontrollable. As my mind worked out how this happened and what I did wrong this time.

I couldn’t stop laughing. The sound tore out of me in wheezing fits, half hysterical, half mocking, until I had to bend forward and clutch my ribs. My stomach hurt, my throat burned, but it only made me laugh harder. Tears gathered at the corners of my eyes, and I swiped them away with the back of my hand.

Across from me, Wukong stood stiff and bristling, arms crossed like a parent scolding a child who’d run into traffic. But the longer I laughed, the more his expression shifted from furious, to confused, to something hovering between exasperated and defeated.

“I can’t believe I lost like that,” I gasped out between breaths, hiccupping from the force of it. “Gods, that’s pathetic.” Another laugh rattled through me before I could stop it. I tilted my head back, still grinning like a maniac. “You went south, didn’t you? With most of your clones. I overthought everything. Figured you’d wait for the wind, catch my scent, take your time like the smart strategist you pretend to be. But no…” I pointed a shaky finger at him, chuckling all over again, “…you just barreled south like an idiot.”

He froze. For a heartbeat, he looked like he might roar back at me. But then the fury bled out of him all at once. His golden eyes darted away, and he rubbed the back of his neck, ears flicking with something like embarrassment.

“Yeah,” he admitted, voice gruff but quieter now. “I thought you’d hole up somewhere tight. A place where clones couldn’t swarm. Somewhere I’d have to come one at a time. That’s… only in the south.”

The awkwardness in his tone caught me off guard almost as much as the heat in his glare had a moment ago. He wasn’t looking at me now his eyes tracked the ground at his feet, his tail twitching, his shoulders shifting like he’d rather melt into the cliff face than keep explaining.

And me? I just kept laughing.

The sound filled the fading daylight, too loud against the cliff’s empty silence. My amusement rang sharp in the air, his quiet discomfort pressing against it like two mismatched notes. For once, I didn’t jab at him, didn’t push further. I let the laughter roll until it burned out on its own, leaving only the echo of it hanging between us, frayed and strange.

The last echoes of my laughter faded into the open air, sharp and hollow against the cliffside. Wukong still stood a few paces away, rubbing the back of his neck like a schoolboy caught out of class. His tail flicked once, then twice, agitation crawling up his posture.

Finally, he huffed and turned on me, face twisting into something caught between anger and disbelief.

“Do you, do you even hear yourself, Foxglove?!” His voice cracked with the strain of holding himself back. He jabbed a finger at me like the word itself was a weapon. “That stunt you pulled it wasn’t clever, it wasn’t tactical, it was suicidal. You jumped off a cliff banking on me to play hero. What if I hadn’t? What if I decided to let you splatter just to teach you a lesson?!”

I wiped the corner of my eye where a tear from laughing still lingered, smirking. “Then I’d be a stain on your precious rocks. Not much of a loss, huh?” Not like he was allowed to do that anyway since our contract forces him to keep me alive if he can help it. 

His jaw snapped shut, then clenched hard enough I thought I heard his teeth grind. “This isn’t a joke, Foxglove! You don’t gamble your life just to prove a point.”

I tilted my head, ears flicking lazily. My smile didn’t falter. “Oh, I know it was stupid. Really stupid. But do I regret it?” I tapped my chin, pretending to think. “Not even a little.”

Wukong’s nostrils flared. He stepped closer, practically vibrating with fury, but his words tumbled over each other in a mess of frustration instead of landing sharp. “You—! You—ugh, you’re impossible. Infuriating. You think this is all some game when—when—” He growled low in his throat, dragging a hand down his face. “When I’m trying to keep you alive, and you’re busy trying to out-stupid yourself.”

I leaned back slightly, arms crossing, letting his anger crash uselessly against me. “If you wanted easy, you shouldn’t have made a deal with me. I told you from the start I’m a pain in the ass. I didn’t lie.” 

For a moment, silence stretched again. His golden eyes burned into me, sharp and unforgiving, but I didn’t look away. My smirk stayed carved into my face like a shield, even as the wind tugged at my hair and his anger thickened the air between us.

I sighed and rolled my eyes. The warmth pulsing at my shoulder told me everything I needed to know the contract seal had updated. He’d won. Unfuckingbelievably, he’d won. The magic settled into place like molten iron cooling in my veins, leaving behind that faint burn as if mocking me for my failure.

It sucked. But in the end, it was my fault. I overthought it, spun webs too fine, tried to predict his every move as if he wasn’t the trickster himself. I overestimated him in some ways and underestimated him in others and it bit me. Hard. Now, because of my own stupidity, I had to play pleasant. Gross.

I flicked the safety back on my pistol and slid it into the holster at my hip, dusting my palms off on my pants. No point in dwelling on the loss here, not in front of him. The last thing I needed was to give Sun Wukong even more ammo to gloat. I turned on my heel, intent on leaving the cliff behind me, but before I could get far, a strong hand clamped down on my shoulder.

I stilled, ears twitching in irritation, and looked from his hand up to his face with a raised brow. “What?” My tone was flat, deliberate.

“Where are you going? I’m not done talking!” he demanded, golden eyes blazing, his voice sharp enough to bite.

I exhaled slowly, more annoyed than anything. Gently, I reached up, curled my fingers around his wrist, and peeled his hand off my shoulder. My grip wasn’t rough, but it was final. “I’m going to clean up the mess I left on your island. I’ve got rifles scattered all over the north with the safeties off. Don’t want some dumb animal stumbling into one and blowing its head off, do you?”

He stared at me for a long moment, his jaw tight, like he wanted to argue but couldn’t quite find a foothold. At last, he huffed and let out a begrudging sigh. “Fine. But I’m coming with you.” He said it like he was granting me a favor, like I’d begged for his company.

I couldn’t help the smirk that pulled at my lips. “Whatever. Just as long as you can keep up.” I snapped my fingers and vanished in a swirl of pink petals, teleporting east to retrieve the first rifle.

It didn’t take long to make the rounds, slipping from one site to the next, collapsing rifles and grabbing the brown pouches. By the time I collected the last, we’d circled all the way west, where the biggest setup had been. Wukong lingered by the site, his gaze caught on something I’d left behind.

The pile of petals shimmered faintly in the dying light, a mound as tall as a toddler. My fake scent trap. He tilted his head, sharp and animalistic, eyes narrowing. “What’s with the flower petal pile?”

I followed his gaze and shrugged, as if it were obvious. “To replicate my scent. Apparently I smell like flowers and gunpowder most of the time. Figured I’d lean into it. Thought it might lure you north.” A humorless laugh slipped out as I shook my head. “Guess not.”

Kneeling, I popped the latches on the coffin case I had left here. Metal groaned as the lid swung open, and I started breaking down each rifle piece by piece, slotting them into their velvet-lined compartments. My fingers moved quickly and efficiently, but the weight of wasted bullets sat heavy on me.

“I wasted so many shells cracking them open just to gut the powder. Sad day for the craft.”

At that, his head snapped toward me. He opened his mouth, sharp words already gathering on his tongue. I cut him off before he could launch into one of his tirades.

“There’s a pouch holding all the powder. I kept it separate so there’s no fire risk. I already picked up the rest, the last one’s right there.” I pointed lazily at the brown sack tossed near the petal pile.

He crouched, picked it up, and wrinkled his nose as he tossed it to me. I caught it easily, one-handed. “How can you stand the smell of that? It’s disgusting.”

I glanced at him, then focused back on the coffin case, sliding the last dismantled rifle inside. I laid my hand flat on the top of the case putting magic into it, the case started to glow silver-gray, shrinking down until it was no bigger than a pendant. I clipped it back around my neck and finally answered him, voice level.

“Unluckily for me, my sense of smell’s worse than a human’s. So I don’t really notice it.”

For a second, the silence stretched. I didn't need to look at him, but I could feel the weight of his gaze on me, sharp and searching, like he was trying to peel back skin and see what I didn’t want to say.

For a moment, he didn’t say anything. Just stood there, watching me like I’d said something worth cataloging. Then, finally, his tail flicked once behind him and he started walking toward the tree line.

“Figures,” he said casually, tone light but laced with that irritating sharpness he never quite hides. “Foxglove with a hunter’s aim but no hunter’s nose. Kind of ironic, don’t you think?”

I narrowed my eyes at his back but didn’t answer. He knew damn well I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction. He smirked anyway, like he could feel the glare drilling into his shoulder blades.

The forest swallowed us up as we stepped beneath its canopy. The light here was soft and green, fractured by leaves shifting in the wind. The air was rich with damp earth, bark, and pollen, scents that should have been overwhelming but to me, they blurred together into something faint and indistinct. Wukong moved with the ease of someone born to it, tail curling lazily, every step deliberate but relaxed. I followed with my usual sharp-footed stride, ears twitching at every snap of a twig.

He slowed his pace once, looking back at me with that half-smile that could pass for friendly if you didn’t know better. “Don’t worry, Foxglove. I won’t tell anyone your little secret. Wouldn’t want to ruin your fearsome assassin reputation.”

I clicked my tongue, pretending I didn’t care. “Please. Like anyone’d believe you anyway.”

That earned me a low chuckle as he pushed a branch out of his way, letting it swing back in my face. I smacked it aside with a growl, earning another laugh. He didn’t press the subject again, though just filed it away in that smug brain of his, I could tell.

The rest of the walk stretched on in silence, save for the rustling of leaves and the occasional call of a bird overhead. He didn’t need words; his presence was enough to fill the space, just like always. Every so often, I caught him glancing at me from the corner of his eye, measuring, calculating. And even though I hated it, hated being read like a book, I couldn’t shake the feeling that he wasn’t judging this time just… storing it for later.

Eventually, I noticed the tension in my shoulders started to ease. Maybe it was the quiet, or maybe just the simple fact that we weren’t screaming at each other anymore. He hadn’t said a word since his last jab about my nose, and part of me expected him to break the silence with another smug remark. But instead, he just walked ahead, tail swaying idly, glancing back every so often to make sure I was still behind him.

Finally, he spoke, his voice low and a little too casual to be genuine. “Y’know, Foxglove… I’ll give you this much. For all your snark and sharp tongue, you’ve got quick wit. Took guts to pull that little cliff stunt, even if it didn’t exactly pan out.”

I raised a brow at his back, not sure if he was mocking me or actually complimenting me. “Is that your roundabout way of saying I impressed you?”

He chuckled, a deep sound that rolled through the trees. “Don’t get ahead of yourself. You were still stupidly reckless. That move might’ve worked on some celestial, maybe even a weaker demon. But me? You really thought swan-diving off a cliff was gonna seal the deal?” He glanced over his shoulder, golden eyes gleaming like they always did when he was teasing. “Reckless as hell. Too reckless for someone who’s supposed to value her own skin.”

I clicked my tongue, folding my arms. “And yet, you still had to catch me.”

His smirk deepened. “Only because I can’t let you splatter yourself. Contract, remember? Not because your plan was good.”

I rolled my eyes, but I felt the faintest tug of heat in my cheeks. Annoying. Infuriating, really. He always had a way of undercutting even the tiniest scrap of pride I managed to salvage.

When he finally paused for air, I sat up fully and shoved him off me with a roll of my eyes. “Sorry I wanted to sleep in my own bed and patched myself up. Excuse me for having the audacity to self-soothe.”

Sarcasm practically dripped from every word.

Red hit the ground with a thud, smoke trailing off his jacket. He sprang back up like a pissed-off ember, glaring.

“That’s not the point, Shiro!” he snapped, standing tall now. “You weren’t supposed to use your magic yet! Especially not to heal yourself, you do it too often!”

His hands gestured wildly, frustration etched across every line of his face. “If you keep relying on healing magic, your body’s going to stop doing it on its own! You’ll burn out your natural regeneration completely!”

I understood where he was coming from.

I did.

But it still pissed me off.

It had been months since I last healed myself with magic. He was blowing this out of proportion.

Again.

Red didn’t care that he was blowing things out of proportion. He was furious but I knew the truth underneath it.

He was scared.

Scared because I’d left without a word. Without waking him. Without asking permission like I was some damn rookie. And instead of saying that, he was being a complete dick about it. I rolled my eyes and pushed myself out of bed, legs still unsteady but functioning. I didn’t look at him as I walked toward the door.

“Where are you going?” he demanded behind me, voice sharp.

I glanced back over my shoulder. “The lab. I’m sure you’re dying to run all your little tests, right?”

He blinked, then fell into step behind me without hesitation. “Of course. You need to be checked. We need to confirm the stabilization held and assess the damage.”

I sighed. Loudly.

Besides the stabilization ritual itself, this part was the worst.

The aftermath.

Every time my energies went unstable, my body paid for it. I lost strength like it was water pouring through a cracked bowl. My muscle mass, stamina, speed gone in days. It was part of the curse that came with being whatever the hell I am.

And since I’d been in bed for over a week, I’d have to work just to get back to my ‘barely functioning’ baseline.

Red made sure of that. Every damn time.

He tracked everything: how fast I could run two miles, how much I could lift, how long I could fight or climb or breathe without magical assistance. It was routine. Obsessive. Miserable.

Torture.

Even though he was so obsessed with me not relying on my own magic to heal, he never stopped to scold me for the fact that my body was already overflowing with enhancements.

Magical energy I’d used for years to strengthen my limbs, harden my bones, push myself past what normal limits should allow.

Red hadn’t stopped lecturing me since we left my room. I wasn’t even sure he’d taken a single breath in the last five minutes. His voice followed me like a shadow, sharp, fast, and scolding.

“You could’ve collapsed somewhere, bled out without anyone noticing! What if you destabilized in public? Do you ever think things through?”

I tuned out most of it, my eyes half-lidded as we made our way down the familiar halls. At one point, Red jabbed a finger toward a passing Bull Clone. “Let my parents know I found her,” he barked, not even pausing as the clone bowed and took off at a sprint.

Once we reached the lab, I hesitated at the threshold. The door hissed open, cold and too bright. Stepping inside felt like voluntarily entering a torture chamber which, to be fair, it kind of was.

This was my penance.

The place was spotless, as always. Rows of consoles blinked quietly along the walls, their screens glowing with biometric data, charts, magical flows. The air was sharp with antiseptic and faint ozone from lingering spellwork. I moved to one of the clean exam tables and climbed onto it with a sigh, settling in like a prisoner waiting for sentencing.

Red was already in motion grabbing tools, scribbling on a tablet, muttering under his breath.

I caught a few words. “Pulse tracking…binding ratio…current density…” Mostly medical jargon I didn’t care to decipher right now.

He moved fast, darting between the counters like a chicken with its head cut off if that chicken was filled with caffeine and righteous fury. Coils of enchanted tubing were pulled out, along with various diagnostic crystals and one of those tiny floating drone orbs that recorded energy flow in real time. A clone popped in briefly to deliver a new vial of something glowing and amber, then left just as quickly.

I watched him, arms folded across my chest, legs swinging slightly off the side of the table. My nose still ached faintly from the blood earlier. My head was pounding in that dull, electric way it always did post-ritual. But I kept quiet. Let him rant. Let him stew.

Because I knew what was coming.

The first half of the day would be the poking, prodding, needle-sticking, bullshit scans, blood draws, magical frequency checks, a whole scroll’s worth of nonsense that made my skin itch and my patience wear thin. The second half? Physical testing. Running, climbing, weight checks. Every humiliating, exhausting trial he could throw at me.

It was protocol. And it was hell.

Red finally stopped moving long enough to glance up at me, eyes flicking over my form like he was scanning for new bruises I hadn’t noticed yet. His lips pressed into a tight line. “Take your shirt off.”

I groaned and reached for the hem, muttering, “You’re not even going to buy me dinner first?”

He didn’t laugh.

Figures.

This was going to be a long day.

Red didn’t respond to my quip. He just waved a hand toward me, the gesture short and impatient.

“Shirt. Off.”

With an exaggerated sigh, I peeled it off and dropped it beside me on the exam table. The cold air of the lab prickled over my skin instantly, goosebumps rising along my arms. I crossed them over my chest, not out of modesty Red had seen me like this a thousand times but because I knew he was going to take his sweet time judging every inch of damage I’d inflicted on myself.

He stepped in close, the flickering blue glow of the diagnostic orb casting pale shadows over his sharp features. His eyes narrowed in concentration, the faintest furrow forming between his brows as he started his assessment.

Fingertips hovered over the fading burn just below my ribs, a leftover from the energy backlash during the ritual. “This you healed,” he said, voice low, almost clinical.

“Mmhm,” I hummed, not bothering to elaborate. It had hurt like hell, and the skin had started to blister. I wasn’t going to sit around waiting for that to scar.

He moved on, fingers brushing lightly across a long bruise running down my side. It was still black and blue, and clearly healing the old-fashioned way. He paused, thumb grazing the edge of it.

“This one… you left alone.”

His tone didn’t change, but I caught the shift in his posture. The way his shoulders relaxed, just a fraction. That almost-hidden relief.

I shrugged one shoulder. “You’ve been bitching about it long enough. Figured I’d throw you a bone.”

“You mean you finally listened.” He ran the scanning orb down my arm, watching it flash and whir. “You didn’t reroute your energy to fix the deeper bruising on your shoulder either. Or the strain in your thigh muscle.” His gaze flicked to mine briefly. “That’s good.”

“Don’t faint from the shock,” I muttered, but I didn’t miss the approval buried beneath his deadpan delivery.

He circled around behind me, fingers pressing gently into the ridges of my spine. I flinched slightly when he hit a tender spot still raw from the chakra ring that had been locked there during the ritual.

“Still sensitive,” he murmured, more to himself than me. “But holding. No signs of energy backflow.”

His palm settled briefly between my shoulder blades. Warm. Steady.

“You’re recovering better than I expected.”

“Wow. High praise from the mighty Red Son,” I drawled, tossing him a smug glance over my shoulder. “Careful, if you start being nice to me, people might think you’ve gone soft.”

He rolled his eyes. “Trust me, no one thinks that.”

He moved back to face me, brushing a hand down his tablet to log the rest of his notes. The scanner orb beeped softly and floated away to its dock. I could already feel my muscles stiffening from the cold. The longer I sat here half-naked, the more I regretted being cooperative.

“I’m going to start resistance tests after lunch,” Red said finally. “You’ve still lost muscle mass. We’ll need to track your endurance and flexibility over the next week.”

I groaned. “So basically, you’re going to run me into the ground.”

“That’s the plan.” He paused, and something in his expression softened just a touch. “But you did better this time.” Ending his sentence with my actual name. 

I blinked, surprised. He rarely used my name during these checkups. He rarely called me by my actual name in general.

The corner of his mouth lifted. “Don’t make me regret saying that.”

I smirked, dragging my shirt back on with lazy defiance. “No promises.”

Red’s footsteps echoed as he paced the lab, muttering under his breath while scribbling notes across a glass screen that floated beside him. I sat on the edge of the platform, dangling my legs like a bored child in detention, arms crossed over my chest.

“You did better than expected,” Red said finally, not looking up. “Didn’t overdo it. Some internal damage, yes, but you let most of the minor tears and muscle fatigue heal naturally. That’s… shockingly mature of you.”

“Well don’t sound too proud,” I drawled. “Wouldn’t want to boost my ego or anything.”

He did glance up at that, brows raised. “You’re not as reckless as you pretend to be.”

“Debatable.”

“Get up,” he sighed, snapping his fingers toward the far end of the lab. “We’re starting the physical test. I want to see what your energy strain cost you.”

I groaned long and annoyantly. “But you said you’d wait till after lunch.” I tried to argue.

He just rolled his eyes at me and pointed to the other side of the lab where it was being rearranged into a training area. 

Of course. This part.

I hopped down and followed him across the room, already bracing for whatever humiliating obstacle course he’d pieced together. The training section of his lab wasn’t huge, but it was brutal, no frills, all function. Pressure sensors built into the floor, levitating targets, resistance walls, enchanted weights. It was like a sadistic playground, designed by someone with zero faith in my survival rate.

Red tapped the console and the sequence began.

“Start with sprint laps. Two miles. No magic, no boosts. I want to see raw physical stamina.”

“Joy,” I muttered, stretching out my limbs like it would somehow help. My body still felt heavy from the stabilization ritual like my bones hadn’t quite remembered how to hold themselves up yet.

The floor lit up beneath me in pale orange, and the moment I started running, it began to track my steps. My lungs burned quicker than I liked. My legs were slower than I remembered. Every muscle felt like it had been filed down to something dull. But I kept going, each footfall a dull throb echoing through my bones.

Red watched from the side, arms folded, his gaze sharp and coldly clinical. “You’re already lagging behind your normal pace.”

“Gee, I wonder why,” I panted. “Couldn’t be the agonizing energy-reset or the blood loss, right?”

“Don’t get dramatic. Just finish the laps.”

After the two miles painfully, exhaustingly done he waved me over to the bench press station.

“Now we test strength. We’ll start with half your normal load and build back up.”

I shot him a look. “You’re enjoying this.”

“I’m enjoying that you’re alive enough to complain.”

I rolled my eyes but took my place on the bench. The bar weighed more than it should. Everything did. I gritted my teeth and pushed, ignoring the way my arms shook or how the strain made my stomach clench.

We went through pull-ups, agility trials, reflex tests and Red had it all lined up. He recorded everything, barely speaking, except for the occasional grunt of approval or a flat, unimpressed “again.”

I was halfway through a balance drill dodging small magical pulses and keeping myself upright on a shifting platform when I heard the lab door slide open.

Red paused his pacing, head turning, and I almost slipped off the platform trying not to scowl.

Lady Iron’s voice was cool and amused. “Is this your idea of helping, son? Running her into the ground?”

Bull King trailed in after her, his arms folded, gaze fixed on me like he was scanning for cracks. “She looks better than expected.”

“Looks are deceiving,” I muttered, hopping off the platform and swiping sweat from my brow. “You’re just catching me between gasps.”

Red frowned. “You shouldn’t be talking. You need to focus.”

“She’s been through worse,” Lady Iron said, coming to stand near the diagnostic table. “But I would like to know how she’s still standing after that much energy backlash.”

“Because I’m annoyingly stubborn,” I offered. “And because Red hasn’t stabbed me with more needles. Yet.”

Bull King tilted his head slightly. “You’re slower. Not weak, but dulled. Like your body’s trying to remember how to be yours again.”

That… was actually weirdly accurate.

Red nodded, flipping through my vitals on the console. “She’s going to need a full week of monitored training. No magic unless necessary. And absolutely no teleporting.”

I groaned. “But teleporting’s fun.”

“It’ll tear you apart right now,” he snapped.

Lady Iron gave me a once-over. “At least you’re listening this time.”

“Am I?” I muttered, more to myself than anyone.

The room went quiet for a beat. Long enough for me to realize how much they were all still trying to piece me together.

“Well,” Red finally said, tapping a fresh set of notes into the console. “Help is what you’re getting. Welcome back to hell, Shiro.”

“Aw,” I smirked, stretching out my sore arms. “You always know how to make a girl feel wanted.”

Bull King leaned over Red’s shoulder, his massive frame casting a long shadow across the glowing screen. His eyes narrowed as he studied the fluctuating data lines and numeric breakdowns of my most recent physical test being compared to the last test I had done.

“Hm,” he rumbled, raising a thick brow. “Looks like you’ve gotten weaker since your last test. Quite a bit, actually.”

His tone wasn’t mocking, just observational but it still made me bristle.

He didn’t direct the comment at me, though. His eyes slid toward his son, silently asking a question Red didn’t need words to understand.

“Shiro loses physical strength like melting butter whenever she’s inactive for more than a week,” Red replied, deadpan, eyes still fixed on the display as he threw up the comparison chart so everyone could see. “Rapid muscular degradation. Her baseline tanks quickly.”

Bull King turned to me then, arms crossed, his gaze more calculating than cruel. “Then why not train her in a way that preps for this? So when it happens again, the drop-off won’t be as… dramatic?”

It was a fair question. Logical. And I hated that I didn’t have an answer that would make it sound less pathetic.

Lady Iron let out a soft sigh, shaking her head. The movement made the long ends of her black hair shift around her shoulders, the upper half still pinned into sleek horn-like coils that framed her regal features.

“We’ve tried that,” she said, her voice clipped but not unkind.

Red took the reins from there, stepping forward with a flick of his wrist that pulled up a 3D diagram of my energy fields. “It’s one of the quirks of her condition. Because of the way her three energies interact there’s a hard limit on how much strength and stamina her body can naturally maintain. Think of it like a container with fixed dimensions. No matter how much training she does, the physical attributes always snap back to that baseline.”

Bull King furrowed his brow. “So the effort’s wasted?”

Red shook his head. “Not wasted. It just gets rerouted. Any training beyond that limit the effort, the strain, even the hormonal response gets funneled into her magical reserves instead. It deepens her reservoir. Increases her output. Enhances her control.”

“So,” Lady Iron added, folding her arms across her chest, “the more she pushes her body, the stronger her magic becomes. But the trade-off is she can’t physically improve. Not really.”

Everyone loves explaining all the things wrong with me as if I'm literally not sitting right here. The thought flashed bitterly across my mind. I pushed it away as soon as it came. He needs to know, because of the contract I have with Princess Iron Fan. It doesn’t make it any less awkward and annoying having all your weaknesses and shortcomings being talked about in front of you anymore pleasant though.

Red was already scrolling through another set of data, clearly excited. “It’s a fascinating phenomenon. I’m still trying to figure out how to override the cap without damaging the existing balance, but it’s like her body made a deal with itself: one or the other. Never both.”

His eyes lit up with the same gleam he always got when dissecting a mystery. That boy loved puzzles. I’d seen him lose sleep over less complicated enchantments, and now he had me a living contradiction dropped in his lap like a riddle wrapped in chaos and blood.

I wasn’t even mad about it. Maybe that’s why we got along as well as we did. He liked problems. I liked pretending I wasn’t one.

He left out the rest. The little things I never mentioned aloud, the ones that came with the whole package deal that is me. The kind of side effects no one needed to say out loud especially not with Bull King watching like he was sizing me up for a final verdict.

I met his stare evenly, letting my smirk tilt just a little too high.

Because at the end of the day, I wasn’t just Red’s lab case.

I was still his bodyguard.

And unfortunately, I could still be fired.

Even with the contract between Lady Iron and me, there was always a loophole. She wouldn’t have to break it just shift the terms. Change my job title, reclassify me as a liability instead of a guard. Replace me with a bull clone who didn’t bleed on the floors or need emergency stabilization every other month. Someone more capable. More consistent.

Red clapped his hands, that deranged little glint in his eyes lighting back up. “Alright, Shiro up. Time for the next test!”

Of course. He wasn’t done with me yet. That gleam meant I was in for it. And honestly? It was easier to just go along with him when he got like this. Fighting it only made him more obsessive. I pushed myself up with a groan, limbs shaking, and followed him to the next station.

At some point during the endless cycle of testing cardio, strength, reflexes, speed, recovery I must’ve blacked out a little, because I didn’t even notice when Lady Iron and Bull King left the lab. I was too busy gasping through burning lungs and praying the room would stop spinning.

It wasn’t until hours later that a clone stepped in, composed and calm despite the sauna-level heat and tension in the lab. “Dinner is in an hour,” it announced. “Lady Iron has requested both you and Young Master Red Son be present.”

Red glanced up from the tablet in his hand, looking vaguely annoyed, but nodded. “Yeah, yeah. We’ll be there.”

The second he turned his back to check something on the screen behind him, I vanished in a blink teleporting straight to my room. Fuck his no telaporting rule, I’ll be fine…probably. 

No way in hell was I sticking around a second longer than I had to.

The moment I hit the floor of my bedroom, my legs gave out. I collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut, breathing hard, sweat soaking through every thread of fabric clinging to me. My limbs felt like overcooked noodles, trembling with every twitch.

Gods, I wanted to sleep. Or maybe dissolve into mist and pretend this body wasn’t mine for a while.

But I couldn’t sleep. Not yet. Not with dinner looming and Lady Iron’s expectation already hanging over my head like a guillotine. That meant one thing: shower.

Unfortunately.

Dragging myself up was its own kind of nightmare. I sat up slow, muscle screaming with protest at the motion. I closed my eyes, exhaled, then slapped my cheeks lightly to keep from passing out. “Okay…okay. You’ve done worse. This is nothing,” I muttered to myself.

I grabbed my towel off the hook and peeled off my sweat-slick clothes. When I looked up again, the water was already running in the shower. Huh. I didn’t remember turning it on.

Weird.

Still, I stood there, staring at the steam fogging the mirror, willing myself not to think.

Not to remember.

Not to feel.

Just get in. Clean up. Get out.

I stepped under the water like it was a battlefield. The temperature was perfect, but it hit like needles, my nerves raw and overstimulated from the day’s punishment. I scrubbed hard too hard, probably but I didn’t care. It wasn’t about hygiene. It was about washing the entire day down the drain.

Once I was done, I threw on a baggy T-shirt and loose sweatpants, too tired to give a damn about appearances. Slippers on, hair towel-dried and still dripping, I shuffled toward the dining room like the walking dead.

Lady Iron was going to scold me for not dressing properly.

I already knew it.

But honestly? I didn’t care.

Not tonight.

Not after today’s events.

The walk to the dining room felt longer than usual.

Maybe because my legs felt like someone had poured hot lead down the bones. Every muscle burned. My back ached in sharp pulses. Even my hair felt tired, and that wasn’t even possible.

The incense in the hall was a familiar calming blend of lavender, sandalwood, and something a little floral underneath. Probably Lady Iron’s doing. She always liked to make the mansion smell like peace while the rest of us tried not to kill each other.

I passed a clone carrying a tray of fruit toward the kitchens. It gave me a quick once-over, no doubt clocking the damp hair, oversized shirt, sweatpants, and the fact I was walking like someone recovering from being hit by a truck. I didn’t bother acknowledging it. I didn’t have the energy to care what I looked like. Lady Iron would care enough for all of us.

The moment I stepped into the dining room, I felt her eyes on me.

She sat at the right of Bull King who of course was sitting at the head of the table. Her posture perfect, expression unreadable except for the slight arch of her brow. “You’re underdressed,” she said, crisp as ever.

“I’m also not currently collapsing, so… I’m counting it as a personal victory,” I said, shuffling over to the nearest chair. I didn’t exactly sit. I lowered myself down like a fragile antique and hoped the furniture wouldn’t groan louder than me.

Bull King gave a low, amused rumble from his spot across the table. “She looks like one of your test subjects, son,” he said, casting a glance toward Red. “Is there any part of her you didn’t measure, stretch, or scan today?”

“Not the parts that still worked properly,” I muttered, reaching for the water glass like it might save my soul.

Red, seated a few spots down with a tablet already in hand, didn’t look up. “If she’d stayed in the infirmary like she was supposed to, we wouldn’t need to do all this so soon.”

I leaned back in my seat, lifting the glass. “And yet, here I am. Still alive. You’re welcome.”

“That’s not how gratitude works,” Red said, deadpan. “Also, you’re not healed enough to be smug.”

Lady Iron sighed and picked up her utensils again. “Both of you. Eat. You can bicker after dinner.”

“Kitten,” Bull King added, gesturing toward the roasted vegetables beside me. “Pass those over. You look like you’ve been living off tea and attitude again.”

I slid the dish toward him without comment. He wasn’t wrong. Even if he hasn’t known me for long he keeps acting like he has. Making those types of comments, maybe he’s more insightful than wrathful as I first thought. 

Dinner continued with quiet clinking of plates, the muted scrape of chopsticks and forks, and the occasional clone refilling glasses or setting down additional platters. The food smelled amazing meaty, savory, spiced just right but I didn’t have the appetite. I poked at it, slowly chewed the food I did force in my mouth, and focused on keeping my hands from trembling too visibly.

They didn’t bring up the lab. Not directly. But I knew they were watching.

Lady Iron glanced at me every time I paused too long between bites. Bull King occasionally side-eyed the stiffness in my posture like he was calculating something. Red, of course, was oblivious to the dinner vibe entirely nose in a datapad, no doubt already planning tomorrow’s torture session.

Lady Iron sighed and shook her head slowly. “Both of you know better than to do this at dinner. I have drilled proper manners into both your skulls for years,” she said, tone sharp with practiced authority as she glanced between Red and me.

Her eyes flicked to my oversized pajamas and slouched posture, then narrowed at Red’s elbows propped on the table and his face still buried in his datapad. It took everything in me not to laugh at him being scolded like a schoolboy.

But then her gaze landed on me.

That same withering stare that had shut down boardroom debates and silenced generals. My laugh died in my throat.

“You leave me no choice,” she said with the kind of false sweetness that should make anyone nervous. “We’re resuming family etiquette lessons. Immediately. Manners. Posture. Proper conversation. For both of you.”

Red’s fork slipped from his fingers and clattered against his plate. He looked at her like she’d just told him the sun was being outlawed. “But Mother-”

“Not another word,” she snapped, voice rising just enough to slice through the room like a whip.

Red clamped his mouth shut so fast his jaw clicked.

I stared at my plate, trying not to smile. Honestly, he had it coming.

Lady Iron’s attention lingered on me for one breath too long before she set down her chopsticks.

“Kitten,” she said, in that dangerously calm tone, “you will change into something presentable. Now.”

I blinked at her. “What, this isn’t ‘presentable’?” I gestured down at my baggy t-shirt and sweatpants like they were couture.

Her only answer was a slow, withering blink.

Before I could decide whether arguing was worth it, she turned her head toward one of the nearby bull clones. “Fetch the screen.”

The clone moved instantly, unfolding one of those tall, lacquered privacy panels from somewhere near the wall and setting it up beside the dining room. When the hell did that get there?  A second clone appeared, already holding a neatly folded outfit in its massive hands.

Great. I was being changed like a doll in the middle of dinner.

“This is humiliating,” I muttered, stepping behind the screen. Not that they cared. I heard Red snicker under his breath, and I made a mental note to trip him in the hallway later.

The clones had clearly raided one of my more formal wardrobes: fitted black slacks, a crisp high-collared blouse, even a tailored jacket. I changed quickly, tugging my hair into some semblance of order.

Lady Iron’s gaze slid past me and landed squarely on her son.

“And you, Red Son, will change as well. That shirt is wrinkled, your sleeves are rolled, and I can see the scorch mark on your collar. Unacceptable.”

Red choked on his tea. “Mother, this is my lab coat. It’s supposed to be-”

She didn’t let him finish. “Lab coats are for labs. This is the dining table. Change.”

The exact same bull clone who’d brought my clothes was already producing a folded set of his: a tailored red mandarin-collared jacket with black piping, pressed trousers, and polished boots that practically screamed formality. Another clone pulled a second screen beside mine, and for a moment, the two of us stood there like children in the principal’s office separated by a thin divider while changing under parental supervision. At least we both had our own "private" changing screens. 

“You know,” I muttered through the screen, “if we keep this up, they’re going to install permanent dressing stations in here.”

“Don’t give her ideas,” Red hissed back. “She’ll do it.”

We emerged almost in sync. Me looking like I belonged at a corporate dinner, him looking like some kind of crimson prince hair pulled back and every seam sharp enough to cut paper. Lady Iron gave a satisfied nod, as if our transformation had restored the natural order of the universe.

“Now,” she said, returning to her seat with the kind of elegance that made me want to slouch out of spite, “we shall begin.”

The lesson was relentless. Every time I reached for the wrong utensil, she tapped the table with her chopsticks. Every time Red leaned on an elbow, she shot him a glare so sharp he straightened like a whip-cracked soldier.

“This,” she instructed, “is how you hold a teacup, fingers curled gracefully, wrist relaxed. Not clutched like you’re choking the life from it.”

I obediently adjusted my grip. Red, on the other hand, took a deliberate sip with his fingers wrapped like a fist around the porcelain, meeting my eyes over the rim with a grin that screamed your move.

I bit back a laugh and adjusted my posture. He retaliated by tapping his chopsticks like drumsticks against his plate until Lady Iron’s voice cut like a blade: “Red Son.”

“Yes, Mother?” he asked, all faux innocence.

“Do that again, and you will be excused from the table.”

He set them down with exaggerated care, mouthing worth it at me while she looked away.

It went on like that her attention bouncing between correcting me and snapping at him, as if she couldn’t decide which of us was the greater disgrace. Bull King stayed mostly silent, occasionally hiding a smirk behind his hand, clearly enjoying the spectacle.

I kept my expression neutral, but inside I was already counting down the minutes until this lesson ended. I’d faced stabilization rituals, assassination contracts, and magical collapses… but apparently, nothing in this world was as exhausting as dinner etiquette with Lady Iron.

Halfway through her tirade on proper utensil placement, my mind drifted. I’d known this was coming; she'd warned me a week ago that my “lapses” would lead to more lessons. But etiquette lessons? Really? If she was going to waste my time, I’d rather she talk about the “importance of schedules and timeliness” again. At least that was mildly useful. I could fake punctuality better than I could fake knowing which fork was for salad.

“…and, Kitten, when you are addressed, you will not slouch into your chair like you are recovering from battle wounds,” Lady Iron’s voice cut through my thoughts.

I gave her my most innocent smile. “Technically, I am.”

Her eyes narrowed, but she didn’t break stride. “All the more reason to hold yourself with dignity.”

Across from me, Red was trying to hide his smirk behind a teacup. Coward.

Two hours later, Red and I were still sitting at that table, enduring the slow torture of being talked at. My eyelids felt like they weighed a hundred pounds. I was one second away from face-planting into my soup and letting the broth finish me off. Whether it was sheer boredom or the exhaustion from today’s testing finally catching up, I wasn’t sure but I was about to start snoring in front of Lady Iron if she didn’t dismiss us soon.

Across from me, Red looked just as done. His perfect “prince” posture was cracking shoulders sinking, jaw slack, eyes glazed. No amount of grooming or breeding could make four straight hours of etiquette instruction tolerable.

It was Bull King who saved us. Clearing his throat, he leaned back in his chair, one arm draped casually over the backrest as he glanced between us.

“My love,” he rumbled, “I think they’ve learned enough for today. If you push them any further, they won’t survive another lesson. And…” his mouth twitched into something dangerously close to a grin, “our show is coming on soon. We can’t miss an episode.”

Lady Iron gave him a long, assessing look. Then, with a small sigh, she turned back to us.

“Fine,” she muttered, waving one elegant hand as if shooing us away. “You are both excused for the night.”

She didn’t have to tell us twice.

Red and I shot to our feet at the exact same time, nearly tripping over each other in the scramble toward the door. Elbows were thrown. I might have stepped on his foot. He might have shoved me into the wall. Neither of us cared we were free.

Before Lady Iron could scold us for the entirely ungraceful exit, we’d already vanished down opposite hallways toward our rooms.

When I pushed open my door, I found the outfit I’d been forced out of earlier folded neatly on my bed, perfect creases, every button aligned. I sighed, peeled off the too-fancy clothes, and changed back into my comfortable ones. The tailored jacket and slacks hit the floor in an unceremonious heap.

My body was screaming for rest. Every muscle felt heavy and sore, my bones aching like they were made of lead. The thought of crawling under my blankets and sleeping for a week was the only thing keeping me upright.

Unfortunately, I knew that wasn’t going to happen. Red probably already had a detailed recovery schedule drafted, ready to drag me out of bed at dawn. He’d push me right to the edge of passing out every day until my strength was back.

“Oh, joy,” I thought dryly, rolling my eyes as I slid under the covers.

The moment my head hit the pillow, I was gone out cold, no dreams, no thoughts. 

That is, until my door creaked open.

I jerked upright, heart hammering, eyes darting toward the intruder. The shadows stretched long across my floor, the air still thick with the lingering scent of my soap from earlier. A tall silhouette stepped into the light spilling from the hall.

It was just a bull clone.

Still, the sight of it made my shoulders sag in resignation. It was already holding a neatly folded set of workout clothes in its arms.

I groaned. “You’ve got to be kidding me…”

The bull clone didn’t say a word, just dumped the clothes into my lap and stepped back into the hall, leaving the door wide open as if daring me to pretend I hadn’t seen it.

I groaned again, louder this time, flopping backward into my pillows like I could sink through the mattress and vanish.

“Tell Red I died,” I muttered to no one in particular. “Tragic. Funeral next week. Closed casket.”

No answer. Just the sound of hooves retreating down the hall.

I stared at the ceiling for a solid thirty seconds, then sighed and dragged myself upright. My muscles were stiff and protesting every movement. Changing into the workout clothes felt like punishment in itself each pull of fabric over sore arms earning a muttered curse.

When I stepped into Red’s lab, he was already there bright-eyed, over-caffeinated, and looking far too pleased to see me conscious.

“Morning, Shiro!” he said, as if we hadn’t just spent all day yesterday making my body hate me.

I squinted at him. “Morning, Satan.”

He ignored me, already scanning me with his eyes like I was another one of his projects. “We’re starting light just two miles.”

“Light,” I echoed flatly. “Sure. And then what? Wrestling a mountain lion? Lifting the mansion?”

“Two miles,” he repeated, shoving a bottle of water into my hand. “Then weights, then magic stability drills. And no enhancement magic.”

I gawked at him. “You know I’m basically a noodle without magic, right?”

“You’re a noodle with sarcasm,” he said dryly. “Which means you’ll survive.”

And so I ran.

Well “ran” was a generous term. It was more of a shuffle-jog fueled entirely by spite. Every step jarred through my calves like they were made of glass. Red kept pace beside me the whole time, rattling off my times and stats into a datapad.

“You’re slower than last month,” he said at one point.

I flipped him off without breaking stride. “Yeah, I wonder why.”

After the run, he shoved me straight into strength training. No rest. Just straight from “nearly collapsed” to “lifting things that probably weighed more than me.” My arms trembled under the weight, sweat dripping down my back.

“You’ve lost about fifteen percent in upper-body,” he noted.

“Oh good,” I grunted. “I was hoping my suffering had measurable data.”

By the time we moved to the magic stability drills, I was half-dead and too tired to complain properly just muttering insults under my breath while following his instructions.

He monitored me like a hawk, eyes sharp but annoyingly there was a flicker of approval when I actually got through a set without slipping into enhancement.

Finally, after what felt like years, he checked his datapad and nodded. “Not bad for day one. We’ll build you back up in a week.”

I stared at him, blank. “If I don’t survive the week, I’m haunting you.”

He just smirked. “You’ll thank me later.”

“Uh-huh,” I muttered, grabbing my water and shuffling toward the door. “Right after my ghost knocks over all your test tubes.”

And then she appeared.

Lady Iron stepped into my path like she’d been waiting there the whole time, the faintest curve of a smile playing on her lips.

“Kitten,” she said, voice as smooth and dangerous as a blade. “Perfect timing.”

My stomach sank. “Perfect timing for what?”

“For your next lesson.”

I blinked at her, still sweaty and panting from Red’s little boot camp. “I just survived your son’s Death-by-Exercise program. Surely that earns me a nap.”

“You’ll have plenty of time to rest,” she said pleasantly, which, from her, was code for absolutely not. “This will be mental work. Far less taxing on the body.”

That was a lie.

I knew it the second she gestured for me to follow her, her heels clicking against the marble as she led me away from the lab and toward one of the side study rooms.

When we stepped inside, my suspicions were confirmed. The long table was already covered in papers, ink brushes, and scrolls.

No. No, no, no.

Not calligraphy drills.

Anything but calligraphy drills.

“Sit,” she instructed, moving with the grace of someone who could command a room without raising her voice.

I flopped into the chair, slouching instantly. “You do remember I nearly passed out in the lab five minutes ago, right?”

“Posture,” she said sharply, ignoring my words entirely.

I straightened, mostly out of habit. “What even is this? Some kind of revenge for my pajama stunt at dinner?”

“It’s discipline training,” she said, settling across from me. “Focus, precision, control. Skills that extend beyond the battlefield.”

I picked up the brush and twirled it between my fingers, eyeing the neat rows of ink marks she’d set as an example. “You know, if you wanted me to focus, you could’ve just given me coffee.”

“You’ll have tea,” she corrected.

And so it began.

Hours literal hours of forming the same perfect strokes over and over again. Every time my hand wavered or the ink bled too much, she tapped the edge of my paper with a nail and made me start the line over.

My hand cramped. My neck ached. My soul was halfway out the door.

Somewhere around the third scroll, I remembered she’d warned me about this. Not calligraphy specifically, but “more lessons” in general. Still… etiquette and brushwork? I would’ve preferred she’d lectured me about schedules and timeliness like she kept threatening to. At least that would’ve been over faster.

When she finally dismissed me, the sun was setting outside. My muscles were sore, my head was foggy, and I was seriously considering hiding in the attic just to avoid whatever “lesson” she’d invent tomorrow.

But hiding wasn’t an option. Not really. Even if I crawled into the attic or buried myself under blankets, the bull clones would find me they always did. Lady Iron would just send them marching straight to my door until I gave in.

So the most I could do now was sleep. Dinner was in an hour, and since I’d shown my face at breakfast, I could safely skip this one without raising suspicion. Small mercies.

I felt like I was going to collapse sooner rather than later anyway. My body had nothing left after Red’s “light” physical therapy and Lady Iron’s “lessons.” My legs trembled with every step down the hall, my arms heavy at my sides as if weighed down by invisible chains. By the time I reached my room, I was practically dragging myself.

I forced my sore, screaming muscles through one last act of defiance changing into pajamas before falling face-first onto the mattress. The sheets smelled faintly of lavender detergent, and the soft fabric hugged me like a coffin. Perfect. I was seconds away from drifting into blessed unconsciousness when my phone chimed from the nightstand.

Groaning, I dragged myself up just far enough to snatch it. My eyes narrowed when I saw the name glowing on the screen. None other than the great sage himself.

Wukong: You never did answer my question about being allergic to anything.

I sighed, long and heavy, because of course he’d pick now to poke at me. If I didn’t respond, he’d just blow up my phone with text after text. The Monkey King who knew he was so needy. That was new. Odd, considering he’d locked himself away for, what, six hundred years? And now he wanted to chat like we were pen pals.

Foxglove: Why would I tell you even if I did? Giving you any type of weakness is stupid.

The reply came immediately, his words popping up faster than I could roll my eyes. I also noticed the fact my chat name changed into his nickname for me. Looks like he learned how to do that. Who knew you could teach an old dog a new trick. 

Wukong: Not necessarily! I could be trying to not kill you. And even if I did know, I can’t kill you thanks to our contract.

Wukong: So there’s no reason not to tell me! And if you’re not, you could at least tell me snacks you like.

I could practically see him pouting through the screen. Flopping onto my back, I stared at the ceiling and thought about it. Allergic? No. Not as far as I knew. And even if I was, I’d never admit it. Rule number one of being an assassin: you never hand someone your weaknesses wrapped in a bow.

But a snack? That was… harmless. Probably. Right?

Foxglove: …I enjoy blackberries.

Wukong: Great! Thanks for that. Hope you’re healing well.

With a groan, I tossed the phone across the room. It landed on the desk with a clatter I didn’t care about. Over him. Over his fake niceties.

I closed my eyes, clinging to the silence until sleep finally pulled me under. Dreamless. Heavy.

The next three days blurred together in a haze of misery.

Mornings were spent being dragged through Red’s brand of “physical therapy,” which was just torture with a clipboard. Endless runs, strength drills, and reflex tests while he hovered nearby, scribbling every number and time like a smug scientist.

Afternoons belonged to Lady Iron. Every day was a new brand of hell calligraphy drills, etiquette lectures, posture corrections, even “mental discipline exercises” that were somehow more exhausting than running two miles on shaking legs. Each one gnawed at my patience, testing how long I could sit still without bolting.

By the end of each night, I collapsed into bed with sore muscles, ink-stained hands, and a brain fried beyond repair.

And I knew it was only going to keep getting worse.

Red’s voice cut through the lab like a whip.

“Again, Shiro. Faster this time.”

I gritted my teeth and powered through the last round of the circuit he’d cobbled together for me. Sprint, climb, vault, throw knives at moving targets. Over and over. My lungs burned, my legs shook, and sweat stung my eyes, but still he didn’t call it.

By the fifth repetition, my patience snapped like a bowstring.

I stumbled to a stop in the middle of the mat, bent over with my hands braced on my knees, chest heaving. “No. Absolutely not. I’m done.”

“Shiro,” Red said sharply, striding toward me with his datapad in hand, fire practically flickering in his hair. “You can’t quit now. Your times are-”

I stood up straight and jabbed a finger at him. “Don’t you dare say ‘suboptimal performance’ to me again. I’ve been running your little dog-and-pony show for days without a break. I’m not a machine. And newsflash neither are you.”

He blinked, stunned, clearly not used to me pushing back like this. “This isn’t about me ”

“Oh, it’s absolutely about you,” I snapped. My voice echoed against the steel walls of the lab. “You’ve been drilling me like a dog on a leash while you sit back and scribble notes like some smug professor. If you think it’s so easy, it's your turn.”

His brows shot up. “What?”

“You heard me. You’re going to do a round of my training. Right now.”

He crossed his arms, bristling. “That’s ridiculous. I don’t need ”

“Uh-huh,” I cut him off, already walking toward the weapons racks. “Save it. You’re always talking about data, right? About needing controlled tests? Well, here’s your chance. You’re the control group.”

I grabbed a bow off the rack sleek, black, reinforced with runes to handle magical output and shoved it into his hands. He fumbled with it, glaring at me like I’d just handed him a snake.

“A bow? Really?”

“Really,” I said, smirking despite how exhausted I was. “Because if I give you a gun, you’ll either shoot the ceiling or blow your own foot off. At least with this, the worst you’ll do is bruise your pride.” 

I just needed some time. Time that wasn’t about getting me back to my base line, to just breath and take a break from their ever watchful eyes, to feel like I have just a little control. Maybe bullying Red wasn’t the best thing, but it’s what I have right now, plus frankly he deserves it right now. 

Red sputtered, indignant, but didn’t put the bow down.

“Targets are set up already.” I gestured toward the glowing dummies at the far end of the range. “Moving, timed, long-range. You know what I usually do.” I tilted my head. “Let’s see if you can manage one round without setting the lab on fire.”

His jaw tightened. For a moment, I thought he’d throw the bow at me. But then he squared his shoulders, lips pressing into a thin line. “Fine. If it’ll shut you up.”

I grinned. “Oh, this is going to be fun.”

Red squared his shoulders like he was preparing for a duel instead of target practice. He strung the bow clumsily, way too much tension in his grip and raised it toward the glowing dummies at the far end of the range.

“Alright,” he muttered, eyes narrowing. “How hard can this be?”

Thwip.

The arrow flew.

Straight into the floor about ten feet in front of him.

I burst out laughing. Couldn’t help it. Bent over, clutching my stomach, nearly crying kind of laughing.

“You-you didn’t even get close!” I gasped between fits. “What was that? Trying to scare the floorboards into submission?”

Red’s face went crimson, matching his jacket. “The balance is off. The bow’s broken.”

“Ohhh, sure.” I snorted, leaning against the counter. “Blame the bow. Classic excuse. Next you’ll tell me the targets are moving too much.”

“They are moving too much!” he snapped, loosing another shot.

Thwip.

This time the arrow whizzed past the target’s shoulder by at least two feet before embedding itself in the wall. The rune shielding flickered angrily where it hit.

I smirked, folding my arms. “At this rate, you’re going to redecorate the lab before you hit anything.”

He turned on me, hair sparking with actual flame. “If you’re so confident, you do it!”

I held out my hand. “Gladly.”

He shoved the bow into my grip with far too much force, muttering under his breath. I ignored him, checking the string’s tension perfectly fine, of course and nocking an arrow with easy, practiced motion. My muscles remembered the rhythm even if they ached from earlier drills.

“Watch and learn, genius.”

I drew back, steadying my breath, letting the hum of my magic sharpen the air around me. Then release.

Thwip-thwip-thwip.

Three arrows. Three glowing dummies. Three bullseyes, dead-center.

The silence that followed was glorious.

I lowered the bow and smirked at him. “Huh. Weird. Bow seems fine to me.”

Red’s mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. His datapad slipped down to his side, his ears flushing nearly as red as his hair.

“You ” he sputtered, gesturing helplessly at the targets now flickering in defeat. “You’ve been practicing that for years!”

“Yep,” I said, smug as hell. “That’s called skill. You should try it sometime.”

He growled, stomping over to his datapad like it personally offended him. “This is irrelevant data. Archery isn’t part of your rehabilitation metrics ”

“Correction,” I cut in, nocking another arrow just to show off, “it’s officially part of yours now. Since I’m the one running your training session, remember?”

The glare he threw me could’ve melted steel.

But he still picked up another arrow.

And missed. Again.

After about an hour and a half of my “lesson,” Red finally snapped. Flames rippled through his hair and down his arms, his patience burning away as fast as the oxygen in the room.

“This is pointless!” he roared, voice echoing off the lab walls. “We don’t have time for this nonsense. I need you back to functioning as soon as possible, not wasting hours on mock drills!”

I knew when to push him and when to back down. This wasn’t a battle worth winning. So, biting my tongue, I relented.

Which was how I ended up right back where I’d started running laps on that cursed track, Red perched smugly in his chair with his datapad while I sweated buckets.

My legs were on fire, lungs raw, and what little energy I’d clawed back during my brief reprieve evaporated within the first mile. By the second, I was drenched, stumbling, and hating every step.

If I had it my way, running wouldn’t exist. It’d be outlawed. Wiped off the face of the earth. Why did I need to run? I hated this with a passion hotter than hellfire. Training sucked, but training every single day for hours on end was torture. And it wasn’t even the end of the week yet.

When I finally crossed the finish line, I collapsed into a heap on the ground, groaning like the dead. My shirt was plastered to me with sweat, my chest heaving so hard it hurt.

Red looked down at me, eyes scanning the datapad. “Hmm. Almost back to your baseline. If we keep this pace, you’ll be fully stabilized by the end of the week. Good thing your muscles recover fast.”

I glared up at him from the floor with the heat of a thousand suns. I swear, if looks could kill, he’d have been ash by now.

But before I could even start planning his murder, his datapad chimed. He answered, and a bull clone’s voice filled the room.

I dragged myself up onto my elbows, curiosity outweighing exhaustion, and crept behind him to peek at the call screen.

“So, the noodle boy is going to the dragon girl’s house,” Red muttered, rubbing his chin in thought. His eyes lit with that scheming gleam I knew too well. “The dragon girl’s home must hold powerful artifacts enough to restore Father to his former glory. Bull Clone, follow them. Bring back something strong!”

I sighed. Of course he was already cooking up trouble.

But then a thought struck me. I had a scheduled two-hour session with Sun Wukong in just a couple of days. I couldn’t show up empty-handed. I needed something, anything, to distract him. My eyes narrowed at the screen, where the clone’s feed showed Dragon Girl, Golden Boy, and Sandy animatedly planning their little “sleepover.”

Perfect.

“Hey, Red,” I said casually. He turned just enough to meet my gaze, brows raised.

“Why not send two clones? One to grab whatever artifact you want, and the other to shadow the noodle boy. If he notices one following him, you’ll lose everything. But if you split them, you’ve got coverage. Plus you can keep your eyes on the noodle boy like you have been for the last couple of months.” I looked away and felt a sly smile creep on my face as I muttered “stalker,” under my breath to him. 

“I am not a stalker!” He yelled, his cheeks turning red, turning away from me at the same time to hide his face.

When he looked back at me he was silent for a long moment, weighing my words.

Then, with a sharp nod, he agreed. “You’re right.” Turning back to the screen, he barked his orders. “Take another Bull Clone. One of you stays on the noodle boy and watches him closely. The other steals the most powerful artifact in their house. Call me back once you’ve breached. I want this handled smoothly.”

The clone bowed on the screen and cut the call.

Red leaned back with that dangerous gleam still in his eyes, plotting.

I leaned back too, already plotting something else entirely. 

I may have been exhausted physically, but magic was still mine to command. I could push it through my veins, let it trickle like molten fire into my muscles, and for a little while pretend I wasn’t running on fumes. And I had some sweet, sweet revenge to dish out on the redhead in front of me.

A wickedly false smile crept across my lips. “Well,” I purred, stepping close, “since you’re now just waiting on the bull clones to call you back, I thought I’d thank you properly for everything you’ve done for me lately.”

I placed a hand on the back of his chair. Red stiffened, half-turning toward me, suspicion flickering in his brown eyes.

“No need,” he said quickly. “I can’t let my bodyguard go useless, now can I?” But then he caught sight of my expression and his eyes widened.

“Oh, I insist,” I said sweetly. “I don’t have much to give, but I can at least offer a nice… big… hug to show my gratitude.” My grin stretched into something feral as I lunged forward.

Red was out of his chair in a blink, flames snapping at his heels as he dodged away. “No need!” he shouted, practically tripping over his own words. “I don’t need anything from you and I definitely don’t need a hug!”

“Oh, but it’s no big deal,” I sang after him, stalking forward. 

I launched at him again. He yelped and teleported left, bolting toward the door. “I don’t want a hug from you, now or ever!”

Red bolted from the lab like his life depended on it and maybe it did.

“Get back here, flame brain!” I shouted, laughing as I tore after him down the marble hallway.

He triggered every trap in his desperation. Blades snapped down from the ceiling, walls ground together like jaws, darts hissed through the air. But I slipped between them, petals swirling at my heels as I teleported through narrow gaps.

“Mother’s going to kill you if you break another hallway,” he shouted over his shoulder.

“Oh, don’t worry,” I grinned, sprinting faster. “You’ll get the blame first.”

Red vaulted a staircase railing, landing on the floor below in a burst of sparks. I followed suit, flipping over the railing and landing with a smirk just a few steps behind him.

He ducked into the training hall, shoving a rack of weapons over in my path. Swords and spears clattered across the floor, steel ringing. I vaulted over the mess, caught a staff mid-air, and hurled it like a javelin. It smacked the wall just inches from his head.

“Are you trying to kill me?!” he barked, panic sharp in his voice.

“Just aiming for your pride!” I shot back, cackling.

We careened into the library, his fire scattering books and sending shadows dancing across the shelves. He hurled a blast of flame at me. I blinked out in a flash of petals, reappearing behind him. My arms wrapped around his middle in a half-tackle.

He squealed- actually squealed- and teleported out of my grip, leaving me clutching at smoke.

By the time we barreled into the living room, both of us were wild-eyed and half-crazed. Lady Iron and Bull King sat serenely on the couch, watching a cooking show as though the world wasn’t falling apart around them.

Red dove behind the couch, crouched like a cornered animal, while I stalked him with a grin sharp enough to cut glass.

Bull King chuckled under his breath, gravel voice rumbling. “Looks like Kitten’s energy is back.”

Lady Iron’s sigh was sharp as a blade. “I wish they wouldn’t horseplay in the living room.”

“We are not horseplaying, Mother!” Red cried, voice cracking.

“I’m just trying to give him a hug!” I corrected brightly.

“And I said I don’t want one!”

I teleported around the couch, and he mirrored me in a blur of fire. Back and forth we went until I finally tackled him mid-teleport, slamming us both to the carpet. We rolled across the floor, limbs tangled, me deliberately smearing sweat all over his pristine jacket as he shrieked.

“Disgusting!” he wailed. “You’re vile!”

Lady Iron stood, picking up her iron fan with terrifying calm. She smiled the kind of smile that spelled doom.

“How many times must I tell you two,” she said sweetly, “no horseplaying in the living room.”

We froze. Red opened his mouth probably to argue. He didn’t get the chance.

The fan swung.

Wind exploded through the room, tearing us off the ground in a cyclone of petals and flame. My stomach dropped as we spun, clinging to each other out of sheer instinct.

“MAKE HER STOP!” Red screamed, voice breaking.

“NEVER!” I shouted back, laughter bubbling up uncontrollably.

We were blasted down the corridor like ragdolls, smashing through wall after wall. Wood shattered, stone cracked, plaster burst around us in choking clouds. By the third wall my ears were ringing. By the fifth, my teeth rattled in my skull. Each impact knocked the breath from my lungs, but the momentum just carried us on.

Finally, on the sixth wall, we hit hard. The collision carved a crater into the stone, dust and splinters showering down around us. We slid down the rubble-strewn surface in a heap, finally collapsing onto the floor.

Groaning, I pushed myself upright, brushing dirt and blood from my face. My ribs ached. My head throbbed.

But gods, I couldn’t stop laughing.

Red groaned beside me, sprawled on the floor, his perfect jacket shredded and covered in dust. He shot me a murderous look. “This is all your fault.”

“Totally worth it,” I wheezed.

Red sat up slowly, dust and splinters falling off him in clumps as he shook his head. His jacket was in tatters, streaked with grime, and his hair stuck out in fiery tufts from static. He turned that molten glare on me, and if looks could kill, I’d be a pile of ash.

“You know you’re the absolute worst, right?” he ground out.

That only earned another giggle from me. My ribs ached when I laughed, but it was worth it just to see him so utterly undone.

Before he could start another tirade, his watch buzzed on his wrist. He sighed heavily and tapped the side, projecting a glowing hologram into the air. Two bull clones flickered into view, both reporting in at the same time, their deep voices overlapping.

The feed split into two windows. One clone trailed behind MK, Mei, and Sandy, keeping just far enough away to remain unnoticed. The other had crept deeper into Mei’s family estate, slipping through darkened halls in search of something powerful enough to satisfy Red’s ridiculous ambitions.

I leaned over his shoulder, my eyes narrowing as I studied the feeds. The first clone was too far away to catch any words, but I didn’t need dialogue. I could read their body language, too bad I never learned how to read lips that’d come in handy right now. Mei looked animated, bright and excited as she gestured around the room, pointing out treasures and trinkets like she was proud to show her friends her world. MK trailed after her, wide-eyed and restless, his hands hovering far too close to delicate ornaments on the shelves. Sandy lumbered along with his usual easy calm, nodding encouragingly at everything Mei said.

I couldn’t stop the frown tugging at my lips. MK was being a total airhead. Every step he took looked like it was seconds away from knocking something priceless to the ground. His arms swung without thought, his attention snapping from one distraction to the next. Did he even realize where he was?

“You see the way he nearly dropped that vase?” I muttered, more to myself than Red. “He doesn’t even know how dangerous this place probably is.”

Red smirked, clearly enjoying my frustration. “The noodle boy has always been a clumsy fool.”

I ignored his gloating, my focus still fixed on the screen. My chest tightened with irritation I didn’t want to name. MK was supposed to be training under Wukong. Supposed to be learning discipline, strength, strategy, something more than fumbling around like a distracted child. 

Granted, it had only been a handful of months, but still. This was the boy people whispered about in markets and taverns as the savior of the city. This was the one who had helped take down Demon Bull King even if it had been fresh after his release from under the mountain.

And this was all he had to show for it?

I forced my jaw to unclench and leaned back, arms folding across my chest as I continued to watch in silence.

Red leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his brown eyes narrowed in concentration as the two clone feeds played side by side. His lips moved almost constantly, muttering low under his breath as if each artifact he spotted in Mei’s estate was a puzzle piece to shuffle through.

“Too brittle… too decorative… worthless junk… tch, wrong century…” He dismissed relic after relic as the exploring clone swept past rows of cabinets and gleaming displays. His voice grew sharp with frustration. “Doesn’t she have anything worth taking?”

Meanwhile, the other feed showed Mei chattering brightly as she led MK and Sandy through one ornate hall after another. She gestured with flourish at vases, scrolls, and gilded armor, her pride as obvious as her attempt to keep MK from destroying anything. The boy nearly toppled three priceless jars in the span of two minutes, saved only by Sandy’s giant hands catching them before they shattered.

“Honestly,” Red muttered, shaking his head at the sight, “it’s a miracle that noodle haven't broken the whole house down by now.”

The clone inside the estate turned a corner and the camera landed on a long spiraling dragons pedestal beneath a spotlight. A jade blade gleamed there, carved into the shape of a dragon coiled around the hilt, its serpentine body frozen mid-snarl. The craftsmanship glowed with age and power, every line etched with reverence.

Red’s muttering cut off instantly. His breath caught, and his eyes sharpened like steel. “There. That’s the one. The jade dragon blade.” His voice carried a weight of certainty, almost reverence, and a thrill sparked beneath his words. “Clone take it. That’s what we need.”

On the second feed, Mei’s chatter quickened, her gestures growing more frantic as she rushed Sandy and MK past the hall. Her cheerful body language looked like it was cracking around the edges, too hurried to feel natural. The moment MK brushed dangerously close to another glass case, she practically dragged both him and Sandy down the corridor, her short hair swinging wildly behind her.

They ended up in a wide game room, its walls lined with framed posters and oddities. Mei threw her arms open toward the centerpiece of the space: a pristine, glittering pinball machine. The thing was covered in delicate carvings and lacquer so polished it looked brand new, even though its aura hummed with the kind of age that only came from being passed down through generations.

“ Yeah, now this place is home. All right. You two boot up the old TV. I will go get some sn-n-n-nacks. Okay, don't break anything while I'm gone!” Mei said quickly, shoving MK and Sandy toward it as if to distract them. 

And with that, she bolted from the room before either of them could protest. I almost jumped at her voice coming through the speaker. The Bull clone must have closed the distance to actually be able to pick up their conversations. 

On the feed, MK’s face lit up, already fumbling at the controls of the pinball machine like a kid at an arcade. Sandy chuckled softly, obliging him, though his eyes lingered on the doorway Mei had rushed through.

Red leaned back against the wall, his grin sly and hungry. On the right feed, Ironclad, what I’m going to be naming the clone on the right, finally walked closer to the pedestal.

Ironclad’s gauntlets scraped against the pedestal as he tried to wrench the sword free. The stand resisted, humming with some kind of ward. He grunted, shifting his weight. 

Then Mei walked past.

She was balancing a basket of snacks and a precarious stack of board games against her hip, humming under her breath. She didn’t even look his way until instinct slowed her steps. She froze. Turned her head. Backtracked two careful steps.

Her eyes widened, the cheerful mask slipping. “Party board games, snacks…” Her voice caught mid-flow. “…Bull Clone.”

Ironclad stopped dead, his helm tilting toward her in eerie silence.

“Wait a minute—” Mei set the basket down slowly, green fire sparking faint at her fingertips. “You’re a Bull Clone!”

The clone answered not with words, but brute force. He roared, drove a metal boot into the dragon stand, and sent splinters flying into her face. Mei staggered back, hands snapping up to shield her eyes. By the time she lowered them, Ironclad had wrenched the dragon blade free, the wards shattering in sparks.

“HEY!” she shouted, fury crackling in her tone. “Get back here!”

Ironclad turned and charged, barreling through the estate like a juggernaut. Cases shattered, scrolls crumpled underfoot, priceless heirlooms were ground into shards with every step. Mei was right behind him, vaulting over wreckage, voice ringing through the halls as she pursued.

I flicked my gaze to the other feed.

MK and Sandy stood in the game room, Mei’s absence already stretching into minutes. MK’s eyes gleamed as he drifted toward the glowing pinball machine like a moth to flame. He traced his fingers over the glass, grinning. “Whoa… this thing’s amazing.”

“Careful,” Sandy rumbled. “That’s an heirloom.”

MK, naturally, ignored him. He jiggled the controls, smacked the side, and the machine let out a sharp clunk. The lights flickered, sputtered, then went dark. A crack forming along the sides of the machine. The control lever falling off in MK’s hand as if never attached.

“What?!” MK yelped, panic lighting his face. He bent low, fumbling for a solution, and came up with a roll of duct tape.

Sandy tilted his head, watching as MK slapped strips of tape across the cracked casing. “Maybe a little more tape?”

The machine sputtered again, groaned pitifully, and collapsed into silence. MK’s eyes went wide with horror.

I sighed, pinching the bridge of my nose. That boy had the instincts of a magpie.

Back on the right feed, Mei whistled sharply mid-stride. The answering roar of her white motorcycle shook the air as it came streaking through her mansion. She leapt onto it in one smooth motion, green fire trailing as she bent low and sped after Ironclad, who at some point got his own motorcycle when I wasn’t looking.

The chase carried them through the estate grounds, clone and rider trading collisions. Finally, Mei leaned hard, her bike slamming into the clone’s vehicle. The impact sent both riders flying Ironclad tumbling through rubble, the blade spinning free into the air.

Mei hit a wall hard, pain twisting her features, but when she looked up, the dragon blade was embedded in the stone above her head. Her hand trembled as she reached for it. Power answered instantly, surging down her arm, wrapping her body in green fire. She lifted off the ground, eyes glowing a bright green, hair snapping in the wind.

“I am Mei,” her voice rang clear, fierce. “Descendant of the great Dragon of the West Sea. This is mine. This is my house.”

She raised the blade, the dragon’s runes blazing.

“Get out.”

The beam of green light blasted Ironclad through the walls, flinging him out into the night.

Then the feed warped with one last screech of static as Ironclad was blasted outside, the view tumbling end over end before cutting nearly to black. Only a fractured angle of his sparking arm and ruined helm remained, the recording barely clinging to life.

I turned to the left feed instead.

MK and Sandy were still in the game room. The pinball machine had given up, duct tape strips sagged pathetically as lights and gears lay dark, smoke faintly curling from the cracks MK had forced into it. He stood staring at the wreck, his face pale.

“I… I think I broke it,” he muttered. His voice was small. For a moment, it looked like he might walk out right then, confess to Mei, maybe even take responsibility. His hand clenched like he was trying to summon the courage.

But then Mei’s roar echoed faintly through the halls, followed by the boom of another wall collapsing. MK flinched, eyes darting to the doorway. He saw shadows flicker across the floor, heard the house groaning from the fight. His lips parted. Then shut.

He looked back at the broken machine and whispered, almost to himself, “Maybe now’s… not the time.”

I snorted under my breath. Coward.

Sandy then put his hand on MK’s shoulder. “You may have messed up but apologizing for your mistakes is a true show of strength and courage. I’m sure Mei will understand it was an accident. Even if she will be a bit mad at the beginning.” Sandy gave him an encouraging smile. 

MK looked away from him and to the smoking machine and gave a small unsure nod. “Yeah you're right. I have to own up to my mistakes and apologize! It’s the right thing to do. What a hero would do!” He nodded again, more sure of himself.

Both of them then walked out of the game room following the path of distraction Ironclad and Mei left in their wake. Finally getting to the front hall where Mei was standing in front of a broken wall that was still cracked and crumbling. 

Back on the glitching right feed, Mei’s parents arrived two colossal dragons descending through the dust-choked courtyard. At least I am assuming they are her parents being dragons and all. Their presence swallowed the screen, scales glittering like emerald and sapphire under the fractured transmission. Even through static, their voices rolled clear: booming and unshakable.

And then before MK and Sandy’s wide eyes on the left feed Mei’s parents shimmered, their massive forms folding in on themselves until two tall, regal humans stood in their place. Both bore the same fierce eyes, the same proud posture. Power clung to them even in their smaller forms.

“Mom… Dad.” Mei’s voice trembled on the right feed as she lowered the blade, tears streaking her cheeks.

Her father’s voice softened, but the right feed kept cutting in and out, fragments only: “…proud… heritage… family…”

Her mother bent low, pulling her daughter into her arms. “We love you, Mei,” she said, words carrying even through the broken stream.

On the left feed, MK and Sandy were silent, watching the family moment unfold in the hall ahead. For a moment, MK’s expression softened like he wanted to believe some of that pride could belong to him, too.

But before the moment could settle, movement in the left feed happened. Looks like the second clone had decided to try and get away now that its friend got destroyed.

It had stayed hidden all this time, watching. Recording. And now, as the Dragons embraced their daughter, the clone stepped forward into the hall, its armored shape cutting into the frame.

“Uh… guys?” MK’s voice cracked.

The Dragons turned sharply. Mei snapped the blade up, green light flaring once more.

The clone stared at them all. Then started to charge towards MK. MK for his part stood there frozen for longer than he should have. He hesitated, why does he look scared? 

Finally MK moved.

His staff being summoned in a golden light from his ear swung in a wide arc, striking the clone dead center in the helm. The feed flared violently with static, then cut to black as the clone disintegrated into sparks.

Silence followed, both projections dead.

I leaned back against the rubble-strewn wall beside Red, dust shifting in my hair. My lips pressed into a thin line as I muttered to myself. MK hadn’t owned up to breaking the pinball machine. Not really. He’d let the chaos swallow his confession. But at least for once he’d managed to strike when it mattered even though he hesitated.

Maybe he will confess. Maybe I should give MK the benefit of the doubt. The feeds cut out we can’t see what’s happening anymore. MK still has a chance to prove himself, to be the kind of friend he wants to be, maybe even the hero he says he is. But to me? It doesn’t matter what he does or doesn’t do. I’m just someone forced to keep an eye on the kid every now and then. Nothing more.

Red suddenly sat up, palms slamming into the fractured ground on either side of him. Fire crackled up his arms in jagged streaks, the smell of scorched stone filling the ruined hall. “Damn it! Damn it!!” His voice echoed sharp and furious, rattling loose dust from the broken ceiling above us. “Why do they have to keep getting in my way?! I will help my father rise to his former glory and rule this world again! Just watch me!”

He shot to his feet in one sharp movement, stomping toward the end of the corridor. Each step left little scorch marks in the rubble.

I raised a brow, watching him go, and called out lazily, “Where are you heading now, hothead?”

He stopped just long enough to glance over his shoulder, eyes blazing. “To the Foundry. We need to replace the clones that were destroyed and make more to repair the walls.” His glare lingered like a warning before he turned the corner and disappeared, the sound of his boots fading into the distance.

I sighed, finally pushing myself to my feet. Dust and splinters slid from my clothes as I straightened. There was no point following him. Besides, the last thing I wanted was to stand around in a furnace of molten metal while Red brooded and barked orders.

Better to use the brief calm in this house to clean myself up. Maybe even check for injuries while I was at it. Not that I cared if I did find something, I’d just burn magic to fix it. Red would throw a fit, sure, but he always did.

I dragged my body down the cracked corridor, muscles still heavy from the day’s endless drills, toward the sanctuary of my room. The promise of clean clothes, running water, and a locked door was enough to keep my feet moving.

By the time I made it to my room, my body felt like stone. Every step sent sharp little protests through my legs, and my shoulders ached like I’d been carrying the whole mansion on my back. I shoved the door closed behind me, twisting the lock with a satisfying click.

The air was cooler here, carrying faint lavender from the incense Lady Iron had the clones burn in the halls earlier. My space wasn’t much compared to the rest of the mansion's having a simple bed, a desk littered with half-finished scrollwork, a cracked mirror in the corner but it was mine. Mine enough.

First things first: clothes. I stripped out of the training gear, the fabric stiff with sweat and dust, and let it fall in a heap at my feet. In the mirror, bruises painted themselves in dark patches across my ribs, shoulders, and hips. Thin cuts peppered my arms, some still beading faint blood where debris had caught me.

Red would throw a fit if he saw me use magic to patch these up. Let your body heal naturally, he’d say, or it’ll forget how to do it on its own. I rolled my eyes at the thought and flexed my fingers anyway. A faint glow spread across my palms, sliding into the shallow cuts, knitting them shut in seconds. The bruises I left alone they’d fade fast enough on their own, and besides, he wouldn’t notice those.

Steam hissed as I turned on the shower, and I stepped into the spray. The water stung at first, running hot across raw skin, but after a moment it melted the stiffness from my muscles. Blood and dust swirled at my feet, disappearing down the drain as if the last few hours hadn’t happened.

When I finally stepped out, wrapped in an oversized shirt and soft sweats, I felt almost human again. Almost.

I sat at the edge of my bed, towel-drying my hair, the room dim except for the desk lamp’s golden glow. For a heartbeat, it was tempting to just collapse back, close my eyes, and not wake up for a week.

But my mind wouldn’t stop turning.

MK.

I’d actually have something to tell Wukong this week. I could tell him about MK fumbling, breaking things he should’ve respected. About how he almost confessed but swallowed it. About how he froze until the last possible second… and then swung, destroying the clone in one clean strike.

Bitter and sweet, tangled together.

Wukong wasn’t going to like it. It didn’t make his “bud” look good. If anything, it showed how far MK still had to go. But he’d asked me to watch, and that’s exactly what I’d done.

I flopped backward onto my mattress, staring up at the ceiling. The incense from the hall still clung faintly to my clothes, mixing with the sharper scent of my own soap.

“Maybe,” I murmured to the empty room, “he’ll take it as progress.”

I hit the stone floor hard enough to rattle my teeth. My body felt like it was folding in on itself, like the threads holding me together had been left too long in the sun and were starting to rot.

I gritted my teeth to keep from screaming.

It felt like my insides were tearing in opposite directions. Energy pulled too thin. My nerves lit up under my skin like frayed wires sparking. The taste of copper flooded my mouth, and when I lifted a trembling hand to my nose, I wasn’t surprised to find fresh blood already running down my face.

Great. Another thing for Lady Iron to yell at me about later.

Getting myself unstable.

Again.

I knew this would happen. I knew I was already on the edge. The second that tea hit my system, I felt it unraveling. But still… I hated this part. Hated the way it clawed me open. Hated what it made me remember.

Too many memories from places I’d never get to leave behind.

I dragged my eyes upward toward the far corner of the balcony the one that should’ve been empty.

But of course, it wasn’t.

Not when I was like this.

And there he was.

The Doctor.

Or at least, the hallucination of him. Cold, dark blue eyes staring straight through me like always like the deepest part of the ocean before it pulls you under. His outline flickered, almost transparent, but the feeling in my gut was real enough.

Whenever I got this close to breaking, I saw him.

Every time.

It was like my body’s messed up little warning system. A way of letting me know just how close I was to blowing apart. The worse the hallucination, the closer I was to going full detonation.

And right now? Seeing him meant I was officially in the danger zone.

Thinking about it… I really shouldn’t have deteriorated this fast. Normally, I could ride out the side effects of being unstable for at least a week or two before reaching this point.

But between how frayed I already was, and the tea Damien had forced down my throat…

Well.

Guess I should just be grateful I didn’t collapse in the middle of the Guild conference room.

Though… when I really traced it back, this whole spiral started with Sun Wukong.

Or more specifically, the contract with him.

Every contract had side effects. It was just a matter of how bad. How strong the person you made the deal with was. And making a binding agreement with someone like him?

Yeah. My energy had been a wreck ever since.

But I didn’t have time to sit here and wallow.

If I stayed here any longer, I’d probably pass out and start bleeding from my eyes next. I needed Red Son.

I needed that damn ritual.

I shoved myself to my feet, barely upright, and started dragging my half-collapsing body toward the hallway. The walls swayed around me like they were breathing. Every step sent small bursts of static through my nerves.

Halfway there, my phone buzzed.

Somehow, I managed to fumble it open.

Red.

Red: My parents are in the lab asking where you are. Told them you went to the bathroom.

I nearly laughed. Nearly.

At least he was lying for me.

Sucked that they’d be there for this, though.

Lady Iron had seen me like this before but Demon Bull King? Not yet.

It took me twice as long as usual to make it down the hall and around the corner to Red’s lab.

The doors, thank every god I didn’t believe in, were open.

I stumbled inside.

The smell of metal, smoke, and ozone filled my nose.

About halfway across the floor, the blood from my nose finally caught up with me dripping down my chin and staining the front of my shirt.

Both Lady Iron and Demon Bull King turned to stare.

Lovely.

“Oh hey…” I managed to croak out with a weak grin, wiping at my face with the back of my sleeve. “Looks like everyone’s here.”

Red was the first to react.

He grabbed a tissue off the counter and tossed it at me with more force than necessary.

“What the hell happened to you?” he asked, eyeing the state of me. “Lose a fight with the sink?”

I snorted weak but genuine.

“Yeah, sure,” I said, dabbing at my nose. “Only it wasn’t the sink. It was the floor.”

That actually got a small chuckle out of him.

“But in all seriousness…” I took a shaky step toward him, already swaying. “You need to fix me up.”

My smile stretched thin. The last bit of defense I had.

“I’m kinda… coming undone energy-wise,” I said, voice breaking at the end. “So if you could, like… stop it… that’d be great.”

Red stared at me.

Completely still.

His eyes flicked from the blood running down my face to the way I was swaying where I stood shoulders uneven, knees trembling, like I was one sharp breath away from collapsing.

I could see the gears turning behind his eyes. Fast, but not fast enough.

It was the Demon Bull King who broke the silence first.

His voice was low, rough, but steady in that way people get when they’re working through a problem out loud.

“What do you mean… ‘fix you,’ Kitten?”

His use of Lady Iron’s nickname didn’t go unnoticed. But at least he’d finally dropped the feline name.

I tried to shrug, but it came out more like a slump. My legs folded underneath me at the same time. The floor tilted up fast.

Before I fully hit, one of the bull clones appeared at my side quick and wordless. It caught me mid-fall and hoisted me up like I weighed nothing, carrying me over to one of the chairs near Red’s lab table. It set me down carefully. Like fragile cargo.

I let my head fall back against the seat, breathing shallow, pulse rattling under my skin.

“I’m a half-breed,” I said finally, voice dry and rough, trying to sound casual. Like this wasn’t serious. Like I wasn’t actively unraveling.

That did it.

Red shot to his feet so fast his chair skidded back with a sharp scrape across the floor. “You’re unstable,” he said, stepping closer, voice all sharp edges now. “Shiro, when did this start?”

I gave him a lazy, bloody grin. “Define ‘start.’”

Bull King had moved in too, stepping closer with that slow, heavy weight like he was trying to piece me apart with just his eyes. “You’re a half-breed?” His frown deepened, thoughtful now. “Like Red Son?”

“Half human. Half demon.” My words came slurred and breathless, but still smug enough to be irritating. “So… not exactly.”

“She hides it well,” Lady Iron cut in, stepping forward with arms crossed, her voice cool and clipped. “One of the weaker types.” Bull King stayed quiet for a moment longer, looking at me with something more complicated than disbelief. He was working it out, bit by bit.

“I always thought demon-human hybrids didn’t survive long,” he said finally, voice low like he was thinking aloud. “Too unstable. Bodies reject both sides. They burn out before adulthood.”

I smirked through bloody teeth. “Guess I’m just stubborn.”

His gaze sharpened. “But you’re not burning out,” he said carefully. “You’re too strong for that.” Red’s mouth tightened, but he didn’t interrupt. “So what’s making her like this now?” Bull King asked, turning slightly toward Red but never fully taking his eyes off me.

Red opened his mouth, but Lady Iron beat him to it. “She’s not just human and demon,” she said flatly. “There’s celestial magic woven into her.”

That got Bull King’s full attention.

His frown deepened, voice lowering. “Celestial?”

Red signed, finally finding his voice again. “Someone forced it into her. Fusing it unnaturally with the other two energies she was born with.”

Bull King went still, like that piece finally clicked into place in his head. “Three different energies fighting for space in one body,” he said slowly. “Human. Demon. Celestial.”

Red gave a tight nod.

“And that’s what’s tearing her apart,” Bull King finished.

“Give the man a prize,” I wheezed, raising one shaking hand like I was applauding him from my deathbed.

“Don’t waste your energy,” Red said under his breath, running a hand through his hair but not yet reaching for any tools.

Bull King grunted. “I thought that was mostly an old superstition. Only a handful actually go unstable” He shared a look with Lady Iron, something hidden in their eyes. 

“Unfortunately it's not as rare as we’d like,” Lady Iron said, voice sharp. “In this age, technology has gotten better at calming the internal clashes, rebalancing energies before they rupture. But it doesn’t stop the fact that all half-breeds reach a breaking point eventually. Most of the time, it’s just once or twice in the lifetime of the majority of half-breeds, but in rare cases they need it more than normal.”

Red nodded. “It depends on the hybrid type. Demon-celestials? Strongest, yes, but they’re also the most devastating when they come undone. That said, it’s extremely rare for one of them to come undone. Celestial-human hybrids are… middling in everything. Decent balance, manageable power. They can come undone more easily because of the celestial energy wanting to take more power than the human part can give, but still not very often.”

“And demon-human hybrids?” Bull King asked.

“They rarely make it past childhood,” Lady Iron said flatly. “Too much internal rejection. Their bodies usually can’t contain both energies.”

“And yet here I am,” I added, smirking through bloody teeth  “A walking contradiction.”

Red was already scanning me, muttering calculations under his breath. “She’s only alive because she’s more magic than biology at this point. But the celestial layer is what’s making this worse. It heightens the divide. Her magic is constantly at war with itself. Slowly breaking her body down, each time she becomes unstable.”

The Demon Bull King folded his arms as he watched Red work. “And when she goes fully unstable?”

“We lose a city block,” Red said grimly. “Maybe two.”

“Three if I’m really in a mood,” I sarcastically muttered.

Lady Iron ignored my sarcasm. “Stabilize her. Before she slips further.”

Red’s jaw tightened. “I’m doing everything I can.”

“Alright,” Red said, stepping in close to me and already pulling on his gloves. “Time to move. Come on, Shiro.”

I raised my head a little, squinting through the buzz in my skull. “Really? You’re not even going to offer me a drink first?”

Red rolled his eyes. “You waited too long again. So no, you don’t get seduction. You get needles.”

“Romantic.”

He offered his hand. I took it, and he guided me up slowly, careful. My legs were unsteady, knees soft, every nerve buzzing like someone had lit a fuse inside my spine. I shuffled off the chair, and with his help, eased myself onto the middle of the table. My hands gripped the edges automatically. 

“Alright,” Red said, signaling to the nearest clone. “Get the full stabilization kit. Sternum, neck, wrists, ankles. Full alignment.”

“Needles too?” I asked innocently.

“Every single one.”

The clone hustled to the far cabinets while another began wiping down surfaces and unsealing the scroll chamber. In a few moments, the lab had transformed into a full-blown ritual site. Silver needles were being laid out in perfect rows. Red chakra rings were passed from gloved hands. The hum of containment runes pulsed faintly in the floor beneath me.

Lady Iron stood a few paces away, arms folded, face carved from stone. But her gaze didn’t leave me.

Bull King was beside her. Watching too. He looked… less composed.

“What is all this?” he asked finally, voice low but heavy. “What exactly are you doing to her?”

Lady Iron didn’t answer right away.

Red did.

“Stabilizing her,” He glanced away from Lord Ox and towards me. “Temporarily. If we don’t do it, she goes critical. Her magic eats itself. Or everything around her. Whichever happens first.”

“She should’ve told us sooner,” Lady Iron added, still staring at me. “But she never does. She hides the symptoms until she’s one breath from exploding.”

I gave a blood-streaked grin feeling some blood come from my eye now. “I like the dramatic effect.”

Bull King took a step forward, concern pulling his features tight. “And this happens often?”

“Often enough,” I said casually. “Each time gets a little worse.”

Bull King looked between us, his jaw tightening. “Why haven’t I seen this before?”

“Because you were locked under a mountain,” I said lightly, though I winced as the first ring was set over my sternum. The cold metal hummed immediately, syncing with my pulse. “And because I make a habit of hiding it from people who haven’t seen me scream yet.”

Red moved behind me, positioning the second ring gently around my neck. “She’s got a coping window. When the energies start clashing, there’s a grace period where she can suppress it. But when that runs out…”

“She breaks,” Lady Iron finished softly.

“Magically,” Red clarified. “Not emotionally. Though… that too.”

I chuckled weakly. “Stop flattering me.”

Red said nothing. He locked the rings into place, then knelt to fasten the next two over my ankles. Then the wrists. Each one sent a new pulse of magic through me, syncing with the others until I could feel a full circuit loop forming through my whole body. Like someone was building scaffolding over a crumbling building.

Bull King leaned into Lady Iron. She hadn’t moved once. “You’ve… seen this happen to her before?”

Her voice, though barely above a whisper, cut sharper than any sword. “Too many times.”

He wrapped an arm around her waist and picked her up, pulling her in. She didn’t resist. Her hands stayed tight against her ribs, but her head bowed slightly just enough that her temple brushed against his shoulder. It wasn’t much. But it was the most she could give right now.

Red’s voice cut through the charged air like a scalpel.

“Pulse alignment starting.”

The overhead lights dimmed automatically as the runes etched along the floor and walls flickered to life orange at first, then shifting to a violent red. The rings ignited in sequence.

First sternum.

I barely had time to breathe before the ring over my chest locked into place with a crackling snap. Heat blasted through my ribcage like a fist full of molten iron.

Then neck.

The second ring flared. My throat tightened like something had latched around it from the inside out. The muscles in my jaw clenched so hard I felt my teeth grind against each other.

Wrists. Ankles.

The final rings slammed into alignment, locking down the rest of me like a chain being ratcheted tighter and tighter around my body.

The line of energy that threaded through my spine lit up next, shooting upward like a lightning strike through my nervous system. My back arched violently against it, head snapping backward as every nerve ending lit up at once like Red had poured liquid metal into my bones.

I was shaking. Already. And this wasn’t even the worst part.

“Beginning insertion,” Red said, voice low but steady.

Then the needles started.

The first one slid in beneath my collarbone. Deep. Precise.

The moment it pierced through muscle and into the chakra point buried underneath, white-hot agony bloomed across my chest like wildfire.

I bit down on my tongue so hard I tasted blood.

My eyes blew wide vision trembling, pupils shrinking against the sudden, bright explosion of pain. The air caught in my lungs. I couldn’t suck in a full breath. Couldn’t release the half-breath stuck in my throat.

The second needle drove in just under my ribs.

I let out a raw, cracked sound half scream, half sob that clawed its way out of my throat before I could stop it.

My hands free for now snapped tight around the edge of the lab table, white-knuckled, holding on like it was the only thing anchoring me to reality.

The third needle struck the chakra point at my right wrist.

My whole arm jolted on its own, nerves spasming. The restraint ring around my wrist flared with energy, holding me down as my body fought like hell to escape. The room blurred at the edges. My skin felt too small for me, like I was expanding and tearing apart at the seams all at once.

The pain didn’t stop. It never stopped. Red’s voice kept going, low and methodical, counting out points in his head, reaching for the next sterilized needle like he wasn’t driving metal through my body inch by inch.

Another deep in the muscles of my abdomen.

Another beside my hip.

I could barely hear anything but my own heartbeat. The pounding in my ears. The wet, shaking sound of my own breath. Too shallow. Too fast.

The edges of my vision bled white.

Somewhere past Red’s shoulder… I saw him.

The Doctor.

Standing there.

Calm as ever.

Dark blue eyes nearly black in this light watching me with clinical detachment like I was back on that cold metal table all those years ago. Blond hair slicked back. Pale lab coat too tight around the shoulders. Clipboard in one hand like he was taking notes on how fast I was breaking. A cruel smile spread on his face. He had always enjoyed it when we were in pain. Enjoyed the way we looked as we suffered, but hated the way we screamed. 

My stomach twisted. The room shifted sideways. The energy rattling through me hit a pitch too high for my mind to hold.

Another needle this one buried at the joint of my jaw, just under the curve of my chin.

I didn’t scream this time.

I convulsed.

My back arched hard enough that my spine popped.

“She’s spiking!” Red’s voice hit me like it was coming from underwater. “Field’s not holding ”

“Red Son, she needs the chant!” Lady Iron’s voice was sharp, cold, but laced with something like panic underneath.

“I’m not done yet!” Red barked back, but his hands faltered. I felt the hesitation ripple through the energy field. The whole setup threatened to slip.

The lines of the containment runes began to crackle energy destabilizing.

I was coming apart.

The Doctor stepped closer. Reaching out towards me.

Too close.

He was getting too close to me. 

I wanted to scream.

 Maybe I already was screaming. 

But I couldn’t look away 

I blinked 

Gone.

But the pain stayed.

Another burst ripped through me, snapping through every line of my energy network.

“She’s losing structural coherence!” Red shouted.

Lady Iron dropped beside the containment scrolls, hitting her knees without ceremony. Her hands flew across the ancient script, unrolling the full length of the stabilizing spell faster than I thought physically possible. Her voice broke into a harsh chant, the words coming out ancient, clipped, desperate.

The air shifted.

The field surged like a lit fuse finally catching.

The runes on the floor and table flared so bright it turned the whole room red.

And then the stabilization field slammed down over me like a wall of lead.

Everything inside me froze energy locking into place mid-collapse.

I couldn’t move.

I couldn’t scream.

I couldn’t even breathe properly.

The only thing I could do was lay there, trapped under the weight of magic and metal and blood and memory… until the unbearable burning finally… finally… started to dull.

Somewhere above me, Red’s voice came again quieter this time. Tired.

“Stabilization… holding.”

I cracked one eye open just enough to see him slump backward into the nearest chair, dragging a hand down his face like he hadn’t slept in days. The smell of ozone and burnt air filled my nose.

Somewhere near the wall, Bull King stood with both arms wrapped tightly around Lady Iron, holding her steady as she let out one shaky breath after another, her hands still trembling from the speed of the chant.

My chest heaved. Blood dripped from my nose, my mouth, the corner of one eye.

Lady Iron was still kneeling.

Bull King hadn’t let go of her.

I turned my head toward them, every part of me shaking, limbs trembling as though my bones were rattling from the inside out. My voice rasped out, wrecked and dry, barely more than a breath with shape. “This is always as fun as I remember. Definitely not painful and hellish at all. Nope, never.”

Red glared at me from his chair, unimpressed. “You’re not as funny as you think you are,” he said dryly.

I rolled my eyes despite the fire burning behind them. “Oh, I think I’m hilarious,” I smirked, though the effect was immediately undercut by a wet cough that splattered blood into my palm. The taste of iron bloomed on my tongue, and I heard Red’s chair scrape sharply against the floor as he jumped to his feet, immediately at my side, eyes flicking across the scanner he held like it might offer some explanation or control.

From the sidelines, the Demon Bull King and Lady Iron stood quietly, watching with equal parts tension and calculation as they waited for Red’s assessment. “She’s stable for the moment,” Red finally said, still watching the scanner with narrowed eyes. “But she’ll need to wear the chakra rings for at least a few days to keep her energy from flaring out of control again.” His eyes flicked to me, firm and sharp. “No using your magic or pushing yourself until I take them off. Got it?”

I didn’t even have to answer for him to know I was already thinking of ways to ignore that order.

Before I could unleash whatever snarky remark was bubbling on my tongue, Demon Bull King spoke, his deep voice cutting clean through the moment. “You said this happens to her more than most half-breeds because of the celestial energy that was forced into her, correct? How often does this instability show itself?”

Red stiffened slightly under the weight of his father’s gaze, but it was Lady Iron who answered instead, her voice measured but gentler than it had been all morning. “Since she’s been with us, it’s happened about once a year, twice at most. This is the only time it’s happened three times in a single year.” Her gaze fell on me, her expression no longer made of stone, but something more fragile concern, maybe. Or guilt.

Red nodded slightly, crossing his arms as he shifted his weight. “So,” he began, glancing between me and his parents, his gaze growing sharp and deliberate, “there’s only one thing that changed between your last episode and this one, Shiro.” He locked eyes with me, and I knew immediately what he was hinting at.

The only real difference between then and now was the contract I made with Sun Wukong. That they are aware of at least. No reason to tell them about the brew I was forced to drink. 

Of course, I knew magical contracts took a toll. That’s the nature of the magic. It’s not like anyone uses them for fun. They’re old, dangerous, and unpopular for a reason. A magical contract doesn’t just seal a pact it leaves a mark, both physically and energetically. Depending on what the deal is, the toll is different. It’s like drinking. The act of sealing the contract is the drinking part; the aftermath is the hangover. Sometimes it’s mild. Sometimes it leaves you on the floor wishing for death. Each one has its own side effects. Some are subtle, barely noticed. Others hit you like a truck.

I guess the side effect of binding myself to the Monkey King was that my energies went out of balance way faster than they should’ve. Maybe it was because his magic and mine are too alike in nature, or maybe his power is simply stronger more ancient, more volatile. Either way, the result was clear: the contract threw off my balance.

I know how much magic I carry. More than most demons, more than some high-ranking celestials. Even more than Red. But the price for all that unnatural power is that my physical body is weaker. The vessel can’t always keep up with what’s inside it. But that wasn’t the point right now, not with the way everyone was looking at me.

I sighed, drawing my eyes back to Red. “Yeah, you’re right. This is probably my side effect for making that contract with the Monkey King.”

I caught the way Lord Ox’s hands tightened on Lady Iron’s shoulders for just a breath, a flicker of restrained anger flashing in his posture. I wondered if it made him feel justified, vindicated, for hating that monkey as much as he does.

But then the pain curled in on me again sharp, twisting low in my spine and radiating outward like molten iron being poured into the hollow of my bones. I hissed through clenched teeth. My vision wavered. Red said I was stable, but it didn’t feel like it. My magic was still thrumming too close to the surface, like a tidal wave held back by sheer will and a few rings of etched metal. My skin prickled with heat and cold at once. My lungs were starting to burn.

I tried to sit up straighter, to shake it off, to say something anything but all that came out was a strained gasp. The edges of my vision started bleeding black. The chakra rings on my body pulsed faintly, like a warning signal.

“Shiro?” Red was immediately crouching in front of me, his voice sharper now, urgent. “Shiro, stay with me.”

I tried to answer him, really I did, but my tongue felt heavy. Everything started to slip. My thoughts became static.

And then the floor fell out from under me.

Warmth. Not from the inside, not from magic. This was different. Soft. Almost…too soft.

Something beeped near my ear. Something else hummed in a slow, rhythmic pulse. I could feel sheets under me clean, tucked, sterile. Fabric too smooth to be mine. I blinked, once. The lights above me were low, but still made my head ache.

The infirmary.

It hit me all at once pain flaring across my limbs, like it had only paused and was now eagerly reminding me of its presence. But it was duller now, blunted by something. Medication, probably. Red’s doing. I groaned quietly, trying to move my hand, and felt the cold resistance of a magic suppressor band clamped around my wrist. Chakra rings still in place neck, wrists, ankles, chest. All accounted for.

“Don’t move too fast.”

Red’s voice, again. Closer this time. He was sitting in the chair beside my cot, eyes shadowed with exhaustion. His sleeves were rolled up, the scanner still resting in his lap, his fingers tapping on it without looking. He’d clearly been there a while.

“Had to sedate you a little,” he muttered, without his usual snark. “You burned through the stabilization rings faster than expected. Took me three hours to get your energy back under the thresholds.”

I stared at him for a second, groggy and still half-floating in whatever magical suppressant he’d dosed me with. “Three hours?” I rasped.

“Yeah,” he replied, finally looking at me. His expression was tight, guarded but his eyes were red at the edges, like he’d rubbed them too hard or not slept at all. “And no, before you ask, you didn’t die. But you did scare my mother so bad she almost started praying. And that’s saying something.”

That earned a weak huff of a laugh from me, though it hurt to even do that. “Bet she didn’t mean it.”

“She didn’t,” he said, deadpan. “But she did sit here for a while. Father too.”

I closed my eyes for a second, letting the ceiling fade into soft blur. My body ached in places I didn’t know could ache. My magic felt like it had been locked in a box and thrown into a pit, but it wasn’t pulling me apart anymore. Just…quiet. I wasn’t used to that. It made the silence in the room feel bigger.

“I hate this,” I whispered.

Red was quiet for a moment. Then he leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Yeah,” he said, voice low. “Me too.”

The silence that followed wasn’t heavy this time. Just… worn out. Familiar. Like a truce called after a war that neither side had the energy to keep fighting.

I shifted under the blanket and groaned. “Okay, be honest. How bad do I look? Like, on a scale of ‘mildly undead’ to ‘freshly exorcised corpse.’”

Red raised an eyebrow. “Somewhere between ‘scorched leftovers’ and ‘haunted puppet.’”

I coughed out a raspy laugh. “Yikes. Hot.”

“Oh yeah,” he said dryly, “absolutely radiant. Nothing says beauty like internal energy collapse and minor organ trauma.”

I made a show of fluttering my fingers. “Well, you better lock me up before I seduce half the underworld looking like this.”

He gave me a flat look. “I already locked you down with suppressor bands. You’re welcome.”

“Ugh,” I groaned. “No trust.”

“No impulse control,” he shot back.

I stuck my tongue out at him. “You’re lucky I’m too weak to throw something at your head.”

“You’re lucky you’re in the infirmary,” he retorted. “Or I’d be reminding you that I am the one keeping your magical guts from exploding like a fireworks display.”

“And I thank you,” I said with an exaggeratedly pious look. “My organs deeply appreciate your tireless efforts. They send their love.”

“I’d rather they sent stability,” he muttered, but I caught the way the corner of his mouth twitched up.

We lapsed into a more comfortable silence, one where the machines hummed and neither of us felt the need to fill it with anything heavy.

“Seriously though,” I said after a minute, glancing at him sideways, “how long do I have to wear these ridiculous chakra rings? Because I swear they clash with everything I own.”

Red leaned back in his chair, rolling his eyes. “A couple more days if you behave.”

“Oh,” I said sweetly, “so never.”

“I swear, you’re going to give me gray hair before I’m thirty.”

“Bold of you to assume you’ll make it that far,” I muttered, just loud enough for him to hear.

He barked out a surprised laugh, shaking his head. “Gods, you’re the worst patient I’ve ever had.”

“Glad to keep the bar high,” I said with a small grin, eyes fluttering shut again.

His voice softened then, just a touch. “You really scared me, you know.”

I didn’t open my eyes, but I didn’t joke either. “Yeah,” I said. “I scared myself too.”

Before I could let Red in any further, I slipped into unconsciousness again dragged down by the pain in my bones and the drugs in my system.

When I woke up next, I was alone. Not even a clone in here. I winced as I sat up, each movement sending dull sparks of discomfort through my limbs. The infirmary looked the same as always clean, sterile, too quiet. Nothing out of place. I ran a shaky hand down my face, trying to coax some sense out of my foggy mind. Everything felt distant, like I was still floating somewhere between sleep and waking, and the dull ache beneath my skin kept me tethered to the present just enough to notice how empty it all felt.

I looked to the side table, and there it was my phone, plugged in and charging. A small mercy. At least Red didn’t leave me with nothing this time. Maybe he was trying to avoid a repeat of what happened the last couple of times when the silence and boredom got to me, and I disobeyed his orders. Again.

I grabbed the phone and let it rest in my palm, staring at the black screen. I didn’t even bother to turn it on. Instead, I just looked at my reflection in the void of pale, sickly skin, bloodshot eyes, a bandage stretched over my right brow and eye. Beneath the collar of the chakra ring clamped around my neck, I could just make out more layers of gauze and medical tape. My wrists were wrapped as well beneath the rings, skin red and raw where the chakra burns must have torn through. Great. Another round of scars, probably.

My frown deepened as I looked again at the ring around my neck. It wasn’t like the one they gave me when I was a child not in make, not in design but the choker style was close enough to pull at old memories I’d rather keep buried. I hated these the most. The way they felt like control. Like punishment. Red knows that, which is why he always keeps me off magic for a few days after the stabilization rituals. It helps the rings come off faster, sure but everything’s harder without my magic. Especially in this house, where even the doors are locked tight without a spark.

The doors slid open with a soft hiss. I turned my head slowly and saw Lady Iron float in, riding on a gentle phantom breeze that didn’t stir a single paper on the desk beside me. She looked immaculate, as always her dark hair coiled perfectly in an ornate knot, her robes flawless and flowing like she’d just stepped out of some divine painting.

She carried a plastic bag hooked on one wrist, filled with something I couldn’t bring myself to care enough to inspect. She didn’t speak at first, just stopped a few paces inside the room, her eyes flicking up and down, taking in the sight of me. Her gaze lingered on the bandages, the bruising, the tangled mess of my hair, the stiff way I sat. I couldn’t meet her eyes. She sighed, a quiet, almost reluctant sound, then rolled her shoulders back and turned her head.

“Bring in two,” she said, voice sharp and cold. A moment later, two Bull clones came through the door behind her, bowing briefly before stepping into the room.

“I’m going to clean you up, Kitten,” she said simply, already moving toward me.

Before I could even get a word in edgewise, the clones were at my sides. Their hands were surprisingly gentle as they helped lift me off the infirmary bed, mindful of my injuries, moving with precision and care like they’d done this a hundred times. One held me upright while the other began undoing the ties of my robes. It should’ve been uncomfortable humiliating, even but I didn’t have the strength to care. I just let it happen.

Warm water and the soft scent of herbal soap reached my nose as a washcloth passed over my neck and collarbone, wiping away dried blood and sweat. They worked slowly, methodically, each pass careful not to press too hard on the injuries. The clones never said a word, and Lady Iron supervised the process with her arms folded and her eyes narrowed, like a general overseeing battlefield triage. The warmth of the cloths, the repetitive motions it all felt strange, too intimate, like I didn’t quite deserve it.

They carried me next to the long, low sink at the back of the room and tilted my head over the basin. Lady Iron stepped forward and pulled off her outer sleeves, rolling them up to her elbows. Her fingers slid into my hair, tugging gently through the tangles, and then the water came hot, not scalding, but hot enough to make my scalp tingle. She worked in silence, massaging the shampoo into my hair with a rhythm that bordered on meditative. I felt my eyes droop again, exhaustion settling in under her touch. The scent of juniper and lotus filled the air.

After rinsing, she helped towel my hair dry and stepped back while the clones applied new bandages tight, but not suffocating across my wrists, neck, and back. They moved me back to the bed, where a fresh set of white robes was waiting. I barely had the strength to lift my arms, but they did it for me, sliding the fabric over my shoulders with practiced ease.

Then Lady Iron did something I didn’t expect. She opened the plastic bag and pulled out a familiar box of hair dye my usual brand, the one I always kept stashed in the bottom of my trunk, that I ran out of. I blinked at it, confused, but she didn’t explain. She just mixed the dye like she’d done it before, and with a gentle hand, began working it into my damp hair. Her fingers were slower this time, more deliberate, careful not to irritate my tender scalp.

She made sure it came out even, that the color matched perfectly. Took her time with it. No one said a word not her, not the clones, not me. But the silence felt different now. Not empty. Something heavy hung in it, something she couldn’t quite bring herself to say aloud.

I think this is her way of trying to say sorry. Trying to make up for blowing up at me. Without saying the words, of course.

The silence lingered after the last of the dye was rinsed from my hair. The room smelled of lavender oil and clean linen now, a sharp contrast to the sterile medicinal scent that usually clung to these walls. The clones had excused themselves once Lady Iron began the dyeing process, leaving just the two of us in the soft quiet. She combed through my hair slowly, carefully separating the strands and tucking them behind my ears to keep them from sticking to the bandages on my face.

She hadn’t put her gloves back on. Her bare hands moved with the grace of someone who didn’t need to speak to communicate. Each motion was its own language a subtle pull, a smoothing stroke, a brief pause to wipe away a drop of water trailing down my temple. I let my eyes flutter shut, head tilted slightly to the side, listening to the soft sound of her movements and the quiet trickle of the basin faucet still dripping behind us.

“You don’t take care of your hair like you should,” she said at last, her tone light but edged in something else judgment, maybe, but not the cruel kind. “It tangles too easily. Breaks if you don’t oil the ends.”

I huffed a tired laugh, opening my eyes again. “Didn’t exactly have a lot of energy to spare, if you hadn’t noticed.”

She made a soft noise in her throat neither agreement nor denial and reached for a small clay jar she’d brought in the bag. She uncorked it and dipped her fingers into a thick golden oil. The scent of camellia and sandalwood rose in the air as she worked it through the tips of my hair, massaging gently.

“It’s not just the energy,” she said quietly, almost absently. “You let things fall apart until someone else steps in. That’s not strength, Kitten.”

Her words hit gently, but with purpose. I didn’t look at her. Just watched my hands resting limp in my lap, still bandaged and trembling slightly from the aftershocks of the ritual.

“I didn’t ask anyone to step in,” I muttered.

“No,” she agreed, her fingers pausing briefly before resuming their slow work. “But you didn’t stop them either. There’s a difference.”

The quiet fell again, and I didn’t try to break it this time. She moved on to brushing out the longer strands now, smoothing each section with a fine comb. Her movements had none of the sharpness from before. None of the clipped precision she usually wore like armor.

“You scared him, you know,” she said after a long moment, her voice gentler than I expected. “Red Son. I’ve never seen him like that. Like something in him had snapped.”

I swallowed hard. My chest ached not from the ritual, not from the lingering chakra instability but from the heaviness in those words.

“I didn’t mean to.”

She didn’t answer at first. Just set the comb down and reached for a clean towel, wrapping it around my shoulders and gently patting my hair dry.

“I know.” She smoothed the towel down, pressing out the water. “But intent doesn’t stop consequences. You’ll have to decide what you want to do with them.”

That felt like her way of scolding me but softly. Not with anger, not even disappointment. Just… reality. Like she was telling me what I already knew, what I’d been avoiding putting into words.

She moved in front of me, then knelt slightly to look me in the face. Her fingers brushed the edge of the bandage over my eye. Her expression was unreadable at first careful, distant in the way she always was but there was a small crease between her brows that betrayed her concern.

“I shouldn’t have lost my temper,” she said finally. Not an apology. Not quite. But close. “You were already hurting. And I added to it. That was not my intention.”

My chest tightened again. She wouldn’t say the words. She never did. But it was enough. I could see the softness in her eyes now, something quieter and deeper than pride.

“I know,” I said quietly. “I wasn’t exactly being easy, either.”

She gave a dry little chuckle just a puff of breath, almost a smile. “You never are.”

We stayed there like that for a while, neither of us moving. She eventually reached forward and adjusted the edge of my robe, straightening it with unnecessary care. Then she folded the towel and stood, brushing her hands on her sleeves.

“You’ll rest here for one more day,” she said, returning to her usual composed tone. “Then we’ll see about removing those rings. And maybe next time, you’ll tell someone when you start to feel unstable, rather than trying to muscle through it like a fool.”

I offered a tired smirk. “No promises.”

She rolled her eyes but didn’t argue. Instead, she walked toward the door, pausing just before it opened. “The next time you dye your hair,” she said over her shoulder, “do it properly. I’m not always going to be here to fix your messes.”

But she had stayed. She had come, without being asked, and stayed. That said more than any apology ever could.

I leaned back against the pillows, the scent of oil and clean linen still clinging to me. For the first time in days, my body hurt a little less.

And my heart just barely felt a little lighter too.

The room was dim again when I next opened my eyes. I couldn’t tell how much time had passed hours maybe, or days. My limbs were heavy, my tongue thick in my mouth, and the sting behind my eyes told me the drugs were still doing their work. Something sharp and artificial hummed under my skin, an anesthetic haze, like being wrapped in cotton soaked in static.

I tried to lift my hand. It took a minute just to find where my fingers were in space. Somewhere beside me, a small beeping sound pulsed steadily from the monitor hooked to my chest.

“You’re awake.”

The voice was soft, sharper than silk, warm as a forge. Red. He was sitting beside my bed, his hair pulled into a low knot for once, his usual outfit traded for a sleeveless robe. His eyes looked tired, and I could see the faint shadow of stubble along his jawline. He hadn’t shaved. That said more than anything else.

“You’ve been drifting in and out for the last two days,” he said, not looking at me directly. He reached over and adjusted the IV line in my arm. “I’ve had to increase the sedatives. Your nervous system kept trying to reject the stabilization. You were convulsing in your sleep.”

I made a sound meant to be a scoff, but it came out as a hoarse rasp. “Sounds about right.”

Red finally met my eyes. There was heat behind them not anger, but intensity. Worry that had no place in someone like him. Worry that made my stomach twist.

“You nearly died this time.”

He didn’t say it to guilt me. It was just the truth. And still, it felt like a slap.

He reached up and gently adjusted the edge of my collar, tugging it away from the ring on my neck. He didn’t touch the metal. Just looked at it, like it offended him by existing.

“I hate seeing you like this,” he murmured.

I didn’t know what to say to that. So I didn’t say anything.

Red leaned back, fingers lacing tightly together in his lap. His shoulders were tight, jaw clenched. “I keep thinking I’m doing something wrong. That if I just prepared you better, if I just worked harder this wouldn’t keep happening.”

“You’re not God, Red Son,” I croaked.

“No,” he said softly. “But I’m still responsible.”

I drifted again after that pulled back under the weight of the drugs and the steady beep of the monitor. The next time I came to, the room had shifted. The lights were lower, the air heavier. Something massive moved beside me, quiet and careful. I turned my head.

Bull King sat in the corner, arms folded over his chest, his immense frame hunched in a chair clearly not meant for someone his size. His horns glinted dimly in the low light, and his eyes half-lidded, reflective, watching me with an unreadable expression.

“You’re tougher than I gave you credit for,” he said, voice deep and rough. “I thought you’d break.”

I tried to smile. It came out more like a grimace. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

He grunted at that something between approval and regret. A long silence settled between us. Not tense, not awkward. Just… full.

“I saw it,” he said at last. “The ritual. What it does to you.”

I didn’t reply.

He looked at me then, really looked, and for a moment, the warlord façade dropped. “You screamed like your soul was being pulled apart.”

“It was,” I whispered.

He nodded slowly. “Red Son has been keeping everyone out. Even Fan. He wouldn’t let anyone in until you stabilized. She of course being his mother let herself in any way. He gets his stubborn fiery spirit from that woman.” He let out a low chuckle. 

I blinked slowly, head pounding.

“You’ve earned his respect,” Bull King said, quieter now. “And mine.”

I turned my face away before he could see whatever flickered through me at those words. I didn’t know how to carry that weight yet. I wasn’t sure I ever would. Even more so I wasn’t sure if I wanted to.

The third time I woke, it was to the soft scent of cherry blossoms and jasmine. Something cool and gentle brushed across my forehead. I opened my eyes to find her there, Princess Iron Fan. She sat beside me, posture straight and regal even in rest, a silk fan closed neatly in her lap.

She didn’t speak at first. Just dipped a cloth into a bowl of cool water and gently ran it over my brow. Her touch was precise, practiced, but not cold. 

“I used to do this for my son,” she said after a while. “When he was young. After he pushed himself too far training.”

I closed my eyes, letting her words wash over me.

“He always thought pain was a price worth paying. That strength was something he had to earn through suffering.” She dipped the cloth again. “He gets that from his father.”

I tried to laugh, but it came out as a wheeze. “What does he get from you?”

She paused. “Patience. Hopefully.”

Her fan snapped open, fluttering gently in the air as she cooled my flushed skin. Her gaze was on me, but far away.

“You have a reckless heart,” she said softly. “It’s a beautiful thing. And a dangerous one.”

“You’re not going to lecture me again, are you?” I asked, voice slurred and sleepy.

“No,” she said simply. “Not today. You’ve earned your rest.”

She leaned in and pressed a kiss to the crown of my head so light, I might have dreamed it. Then she stood and adjusted the blanket over me with quiet care.

“You are not alone, Kitten,” she said before she left. “Stop acting like you are.”

The next time I woke, I was truly alone. I sat up with a groan as my back cracked loudly, the motion stiff and uncomfortable. My muscles felt tight, as though I were moving lead instead of flesh and bone. I reached up to my neck on instinct and noted that the rings were gone. A quick glance at my wrists confirmed the same thing. No bands, no restraints. How long had I been asleep? The bandages were still in place, which meant I wasn’t fully healed.

I was certain they hadn’t used any healing magic. Not only because I was the only one in this ridiculous family who actually knew how to use it, but also because the wounds were only starting to heal. They could have hired someone to come in if they wanted me up and ready to go by now. My main guess as to why not is Red. He is against any type of magic healing. It can work miracles but use it too much and your own body will start to rely on the magic to heal itself. A simple cut could kill if you get to that point. Plus they are rare outside the celestial palace.  Not only that, getting a magic healer is very expensive.

But let’s be honest, the Demon Bull Family is rich enough to hire someone if they wanted to. Yet here I was still healing and covered in bandages. Still, most magic healers not bound by service to Heaven’s Army charged entire family fortunes just for basic treatment. Honestly, I should’ve gone into healing. I’d have made more than enough to live comfortably, maybe even disappear properly and still pay for him. But then, I wouldn’t be able to hide like I do now and wouldn't be able to vanish into the shadows whenever I needed to. In the end, the path I chose, the one no one saw, the one that left me free was the only one that made sense for me.

I shifted stiffly, leaning over to the side table where I was sure my phone had been left. Thankfully, Red had thought to plug it in, so it wasn’t dead. Unfortunately, the moment I turned it on, I was met with a rude awakening in the form of a deluge of text messages that came rolling in like a tidal wave.

Breezeblock: Neko, let’s meet at my office to talk over our contract with your handler at the end of this month. I’ll give you your job then.

Handy Bell: Neko, I can’t believe you’re causing me more trouble. Be at that bitch’s office at the end of the month. You better show, or else I’ll beat your ass. You know I will.

Wukong: Our meeting is coming up soon. I was thinking the same day, same time as last week?

Wukong: Gotcha not answering cool by me. I’ll just assume you’re cool with it then.

Wukong: Ok, the meeting’s today at dusk. You allergic to anything?

Wukong: Just got here.

Wukong: It’s been an hour since our meeting time…

Wukong: You coming?

Wukong: You getting any of these?

Wukong: Ok well I’m going to be leaving. It’d have been nice if you at least told me you weren’t coming.

The last message had been sent literally a second ago. My heart sank. That’s when I realized my shoulder wasn’t just sore anymore it was heating up, a slow burn that pulsed beneath the seal etched into my skin. A painful reminder. One that warned me the deal I’d made wasn’t going to be forgotten just because I was out of commission. If I didn’t act, I’d suffer the consequences and in the state I was in, I wouldn’t survive them.

So I did the one thing I could. I forced magic into my veins, thankful beyond words that Red had already removed the rings. If he’d had his way, I’m sure he’d rather I not touch magic again for a while but this wasn’t a choice. This was survival. I sighed, the breath catching in my throat as the familiar, comforting warmth of my magic bloomed inside me. It spread through my body, loosening the stiffness, turning the world pink around the edges as teleportation took hold.

Before the petals had a chance to hit the ground, I spoke quickly, desperate. “Wait! I’m here, sorry I didn’t have my phone this week.” The words left my mouth in a rush. The petals were still floating around me, lazily drifting as gravity began to claim them. I could just barely make out his back, that unmistakable red cape draped across his shoulders as he began to turn.

“Oh? Is that so? All week? Do you really expect me to believe that?” His voice was calm, but sharp, like ice cracking under weight. He hadn’t fully turned around yet. The wind by the harbor cut through me like knives. I hadn't even noticed how cold it was until now. My bare feet stung against the concrete, and the night air bit into the exposed skin of my arms and legs. I hadn’t stopped to think about what I was wearing before teleporting. Panic had ruled my body. I was sure my face was heating now, not from the cold but from the sheer realization of how I must look: bandaged, half-dressed, and appearing like a ghost just clawed back from the dead.

I opened my mouth, trying to find words, but before I could speak again, he finally turned to face me. I saw the annoyance first; he'd clearly been fuming. But then, as the falling petals cleared and he got a proper look at me, the expression shifted. That frustration melted into something else entirely. Horror. His eyes scanned me, taking in the bandages, the pallor of my skin, the way I was standing like I might collapse at any moment. I knew then exactly how bad I looked because I could see it reflected on his face.

Wukong looked me up and down once, then again, and again. His eyes roamed over the damage, taking in every visible sign of what I’d been through, maybe trying to piece together the story just from the evidence on my body. The bandages covering my right eye and brow, the ones wrapped tightly around both wrists and ankles, and the ones he couldn’t see hidden beneath my clothes, binding the wounds across my torso. Maybe he was even seeing the older marks, the scars that never faded, the ones left behind from when I was nothing more than a lab rat. 

“What happened to you?” he asked, his voice low and simple, yet heavy with unspoken weight. His hands clenched into fists at his sides, and though he tried to school his face into neutrality, I could still see his anger. It came off him like heat waves. But why? Why was he angry? I mean, yeah, I was late. But I showed up, didn’t I? Even in this sorry state, I still came. So why was it always anger with everyone? Why did I never get a break, not even from him?

I rolled my eyes and crossed my arms over my chest, ignoring the way my muscles protested the motion. “What does it matter? I’m here. Sorry for looking half-dead. I literally just woke up enough to be conscious for more than a couple of minutes.” He’d been staring at the bandages around my arms when I spoke, but at that, his golden eyes snapped to meet my one good one.

“You just woke up?!” he repeated, taking a step back in surprise, real shock flickering across his face.

Wukong’s reaction threw me off more than I wanted to admit. He looked genuinely startled, like he hadn’t expected me to say something like that. I watched the shock shift on his face, turning into something quieter, more focused. His eyes scanned me again, slower this time, softer like he was looking at bruised fruit and trying to see if it could still be saved.

It made my stomach twist. I wasn’t used to people looking at me like that. Not with gentleness. Not with that kind of quiet worry that sneaks under your ribs before you can shut the door on it. I hated it.

“You shouldn’t be out here,” he said quietly. “You shouldn’t even be standing.”

I scoffed, arms still crossed though honestly, it was more to keep myself from falling apart than anything else. I could feel the tremble in my muscles again, the deep ache in my bones. “Yeah, well, I didn’t exactly have a choice, did I?” I turned slightly, letting the cold wind hit my back instead of my chest. The fabric of my shirt clung to the bandages underneath, chilled and damp with sea air. “We had a meeting. I came.”

Wukong frowned and stepped closer, slow and careful like I was a spooked animal. Maybe I was. I didn’t trust his gentleness. It wasn’t something I was used to from people like him, strong, golden, unshaken by the world. “This isn’t a joke, Foxglove. You’re hurt. I can help.”

My head jerked up, eyes narrowing. “Help how?”

He hesitated for a breath, then raised his hand. That familiar glow began to shimmer around his fingers, warm gold, soft and bright against the dark water behind him. “Let me heal you.”

And just like that, panic surged up. I stepped back so fast I almost stumbled. Every muscle in my body screamed as I tensed, the pain flaring like fire up my spine. “No.”

He blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

“I said no.” My voice came out sharper than I intended, cutting through the quiet like broken glass. The magic around his hand flickered and died. Just like that. “I don’t need your help.”

He frowned, confusion tightening the space between his brows. “You can barely stand. Why won’t you just-.”

“Because I don’t need your help, Wukong.” I tried to keep my voice level, but it cracked at the edges. “Besides, you know what they say about magical healing? Get it done too much, and your body forgets how to heal on its own. So Red wants me to heal without any outside help this time.”

A lie. Mostly. I mean, sure, that might be part of it. Red probably believed that. Maybe he even said something like that. But that wasn’t why I refused. It wasn’t why my stomach turned cold at the sight of Wukong’s healing magic. The truth was… it wouldn’t work right. Not on me. Not without him feeling it the tangled mess of three different energies coiled inside my soul like snakes fighting over a single heart. He’d sense it the moment his magic touched mine. And then what? He’d ask questions I couldn’t answer. Or worse, he’d look at me differently. With that same look of disgust that everyone gave half breeds. With justified hate.

I couldn’t let that happen.

I kept going before he could ask anything else, trying to force the conversation back into something I could control. “Let’s just get this over with, okay? I don’t have anything to tell you about your golden boy. So just this week, can we call it good, and you let me off the hook for the hour I owe you? Next week I’ll make up the rest of the time. I’ll stay for almost two hours if that’s what you want.”

I stared out at the water instead of at him. Safer that way. The moonlight danced over the surface, silver and soft. The waves lapped against the harbor wall in a steady rhythm, and I focused on that on the sound, the movement, anything but the look I knew he was still giving me. His gaze burned on my skin, heavier than the night air, and it made me shiver. Maybe it was the cold. Maybe it was something else.

He didn’t say anything for a long time. Minutes, maybe. The silence stretched between us like a string pulled too tight. I wondered if he saw through me. If he could feel the way my magic curled defensively beneath my skin like a wounded animal, waiting to bite. I hated that he pretended to care. I hated that he noticed. I hated that somewhere, buried under everything else, it meant something to me. Even if it was fake.

Finally, he sighed, the sound heavy and reluctant, and took a few steps back.

“Fine. But I’m not paying you this week. Next week, you’ll get your full payment for this week and next, Foxglove.”

My eyes drifted back to him. The wind caught in his reddish-brown hair, tossing it across his face and partially covering the peach-colored heart mask that framed his golden eyes swimming in red. Blowing over the scars across his forehead where his circlet sat. He wasn’t looking at me anymore. One hand lifted, scratching the side of his neck like he didn’t know what to do with it. That quiet frustration rolled off him in waves, concern shoved into the shape of detachment.

I wanted to argue. Part of me needed to argue, just to feel like I still had some control. But I was too tired. Too raw. The fight in me flickered like a dying ember. So I just rolled my eyes and muttered, “Fine.”

Before he could reply, I pushed my magic into my veins. It hurt familiar, searing pain but I welcomed it. At least it was mine. The petals burst into view, pink and luminous, scattering through the cold night air like confetti.

Wukong turned back toward me, just as I vanished. His eyes widened in surprise, probably expecting a retort, not retreat. I caught that look stunned, unsure and I hated how much it lingered in my chest even as the magic took me.

And then I was gone.

The moment I landed in my room, the petals settled onto the floor. The temperature was warmer here, but I was still shaking from exhaustion, from the lingering cold, from the feeling of Wukong’s eyes on me even after I left. I stood there for a second, just breathing, trying to ground myself. My knees wobbled like they might give out, but I didn’t let them.

The room was dim, moonlight spilling through the open curtains and casting soft silver across the stone floor. It felt quiet. Too quiet. Like the silence was pressing in on me.

I moved automatically, heading to my dresser and grabbing the first clean shirt I could find, something oversized, soft, one of Red’s old ones I’d never returned. It smelled faintly of smoke and citrus. I tugged off the thin, sweat-slicked shirt I had teleported in and let it fall to the floor, ignoring the sting in my shoulders as I peeled the fabric off the healing wounds. My sweatpants came next, loose and worn, sliding up over my bandaged legs as I tried not to think too hard about how broken I felt underneath it all.

I sat on the edge of my bed and finally looked down at my arms. The bandages were damp at the edges, but I peeled them back anyway, slow and careful. The skin beneath was still red, irritated, but not infected. Angry burn marks wrapped around my wrists and ankles where the chakra rings had sat. It was strange they looked like someone had branded me with fire and then taken it away just before it could scar. I traced the edges with my fingers, wincing at the heat that still radiated from the skin.

“These won’t scar,” I muttered under my breath, more to myself than anything. “Not if I do it now.”

I reached inward, slowly and deliberately, and called on my magic. It answered like it always did: warm, familiar, dangerous. But pulling it up wasn’t simple. It only got like this when I was trying to use my healing magic. 

The moment my magic surged into my veins, it stirred the other two energies buried in me like snakes under a floorboard coiled and silent until disturbed. I gritted my teeth as the divine pressure of the celestial side rolled up my spine, crashing into the heavier, more primal weight of my demonic blood. And then, there was my own human spark, fragile and flickering, but stubborn as hell.

The three forces clashed immediately, snapping and hissing like wild dogs trying to rip each other apart. For anyone else, even touching this kind of internal storm would burn them from the inside out. It wasn’t meant to coexist. It wasn’t meant to survive. But I’d lived with it long enough that I knew how to slip between the lines. How to guide my healing magic through the cracks in the tension without triggering a full internal meltdown.

It was like threading a needle while the world shook around me. I had to stay focused to keep the celestial light from flaring too hot, from pushing too far and attracting attention I didn’t want. Keep the demon core steady and low, burning in place without taking over. And I had to anchor everything with the human part of me, the part that bled, that broke, that could pull it all together just enough to keep going.

My body shuddered under the effort, but the magic obeyed. Slowly, it slipped beneath the skin and began its work closing the torn tissue, easing the inflamed nerves, weaving muscle fibers back into place like a seamstress repairing a favorite coat. I could feel the damage from the stabilization ritual peeling away, the pain dulling into a warm throb, and the burn marks beginning to fade from angry red to pale pink.

It was exhausting. Healing always was. But it was mine. No one else could do this for me not without seeing too much, learning too much.

And I wasn’t ready for that.

Not with anyone. Especially not someone like him.

In a few minutes, it was like it never happened.

I lay back for a moment, catching my breath, my body humming softly from the effort. My magic was low, not dangerously so, but enough to make my head buzz. Still, I was grateful. Grateful the damage hadn’t been worse. Grateful I still had this power, even if it came with a curse of its own. Even if it meant hiding pieces of myself forever.

I rolled over and grabbed my phone off the nightstand. The screen lit up with the same string of missed messages and texts I hadn’t responded to yet, but I ignored all of them except one.

I opened a new message and started typing, my thumbs moving slower than usual.

Neko: Is the Guild really going to force me to keep working with Breezeblock?

I stared at the message for a long time before I sent it. My thumb hovered over the screen, the temptation to delete it stronger than I expected. But I hit send anyway. I’m sure Damien wouldn’t have told her that he already talked to me. Best to play this as if I didn’t know anything of his true plans. 

I didn’t want to deal with Wukong’s concern. I didn’t want to deal with Breezeblock’s smug face. I didn’t want to deal with any of it. All I wanted right now was silence. And maybe, for once, someone to answer a damn question straight. Even if I already knew the answer. 

I let the phone drop beside me on the bed and closed my eyes, exhaling slowly. The sheets were soft against my skin, my body no longer burning or screaming in pain. But my chest still ached tight and unspoken because no amount of magic could fix the part of me that flinched when someone cared too much.

My phone buzzed almost instantly. Handy Bell never took long to respond when she was irritated and considering the number of times I’d gone dark lately, I was probably pushing her past her usual threshold.

Handy Bell: Neko, what the actual hell are you doing? 

You really think now’s the time to start questioning assignments?

I sighed, leaning back against my pillows and letting the phone rest on my stomach. The burns on my arms still ached, though the worst of them had already faded thanks to the healing. My skin shimmered faintly with leftover magic, still warm from the effort of weaving it between the fault lines of my three clashing cores. I was tired in a way that sleep couldn’t fix.

Neko: I’m asking if I really need to keep working with Breezeblock. He’s a creep. I’m tired of him breathing down my neck every job.

The typing dots popped up immediately.

Handy Bell: You’re tired?

You’re tired?

Neko, you’ve ghosted three assignments this month, vanished off-grid without warning, and now Breezeblock’s on the guild’s back threatening to pull three sponsor contracts because his “asset is treating to stop working with him.”_

That word hit me like a slap. Asset. That’s all I was to them. A walking, talking paycheck with blood and too many secrets.

Handy Bell: You know how many other people want a guild slot like yours? People with clean history’s, no magic contract restrictions, no handlers babysitting them twenty-four-seven?

You’re the only active agent who requires a conditional binding just to stay on the roster. You think that doesn’t cause paperwork nightmares?

I stared at the screen, fingers curled tight around the phone. I could almost feel her voice in my head exasperated, sharp, the way it always was when she wasn’t in the mood for one of my “episodes.” Whatever that meant.

Neko): I didn’t ask to be shoved under Breezeblock’s thumb. I’m doing the best I can. 

Handy Bell: Then your “best” needs to be better.

You’ve already cost us three major contract renewals because you’re so damn difficult to work with. Breezeblock might be a slimeball, but at least he shows up.

Gods. That was low. But not surprising.

Handy Bell: The only reason the Guild Master hasn’t benched you entirely is because he still thinks you’re salvageable.

You’re lucky you’re good at what you do, Neko. That’s it. That’s all that’s saving you.

I clenched my jaw, the words bitter in my throat. Salvageable. Like I was a busted relic they hadn’t decided to scrap yet.

Handy Bell: Look, you want me to get you reassigned? That’s not how this works. Breezeblock’s your employer for the foreseeable future. You owe him a face-to-face before the month ends, or he pulls his assets from the board, and I get stuck cleaning up the fallout.

Again.

Neko): I’ll show. Don’t get your tie in a knot.

Handy Bell: Good. And don’t disappear again. You’re not some rogue merc. You work for us, Neko. You signed on. Start acting like it. The Guild won’t let you go, you know this. 

I stared at the screen for a long moment, heart thudding in my chest not from fear, not even anger, but something deeper. Something like tiredness that reached all the way into my bones. I wanted to scream. Wanted to run and hide in a place they’d never find. I’d made some very stupid mistakes for money and tied myself to the guild. 

I groaned again, louder this time, and shuffled over, already regretting being conscious. I yanked the door open—and standing there was a Bull clone. It didn’t say a word. Just barged in like it owned the place, yanked the chair out from my desk, spun it around to face me, and gave a firm nod like it expected me to sit down immediately.

I rolled my eyes so hard it hurt, but I sat down anyway. Fighting it would only make things worse. Lady Iron must’ve gotten tired of me skipping meals and sent one of her obedient little errand boys to drag me back into the routine.

Without hesitation, the clone got to work, brushing out my tangled hair, peeling off the wrinkled clothes I’d slept in, forcing me into something clean, wiping down my face with a cold, damp cloth, and brushing my teeth with mechanical efficiency. I just sat there, letting it happen, feeling more like a prop being prepared for display than an actual person.

It was weird as hell—but resisting wasn’t worth it. If I made a scene, the clone would just go fetch Red Son… or worse, Lady Iron herself. This wasn’t the first time they’d pulled this stunt, and it sure as hell wouldn’t be the last.

Finally, when the clone seemed pleased with its work, it gave a short, satisfied nod to itself. I barely managed to roll my eyes before trying to stand up—only to find myself still trapped in the chair as the clone grabbed the whole thing, me and all, and took off down the hallway like its tail was on fire.

I barely had time to curse before I was soaring above its head, clutching the seat for dear life as the world blurred past in a nauseating rush.

The clone made brutal, reckless time between my room and the dining hall, slamming the heavy doors open with a dramatic crash and skidding to a halt that nearly sent me flying off the chair entirely.

Heart hammering in my chest, I looked around with wild, dazed eyes, still trying to process what the hell just happened. There was no reason to sprint like that unless… yeah, of course. The whole Bull family was already there, waiting for me.

Maybe the clone had been trying to save its own hide from their collective disappointment. I didn’t know. Didn’t really care.

All I knew was that it shoved my chair into place at the long dining table, seating me directly to the left of the Demon Bull King himself—right across from Lady Iron, and shoulder-to-shoulder with Red Son.

The three of them stared at me in expectant silence.

And all I could think was: great. Absolutely perfect.

A Bull clone placed a plate, full to the brim with different breakfast foods, in front of me before quickly running away—leaving me and the family alone.

We sat in silence. For a second, I debated whether it was worth not eating just to spite Lady Iron, but the twisting in my stomach quickly decided for me. I dug in instead.

The silence was suffocating. Lady Iron stared me down, her eyes sharp and cold, like she was daring me to even think about making a wrong move. Red kept his gaze locked on his food, poking at it half-heartedly, probably wishing he could be anywhere else. Bull King sat stiffly, his gaze flickering back and forth between Lady Iron and me like he was watching a storm gather strength.

It was Red who finally broke first, his voice too loud in the strained air. “So, today, I was thinking we could go into town and get some supplies for my upcoming plans…” he said, trailing off as he realized no one was really paying attention.

Lady Iron seized the opening like a hawk spotting prey. She turned her sharp smile toward me—a smile that didn’t even bother pretending to be real. “You two could do that, yes. But of course, it’ll have to be after we remind Kitten here of our family schedules,” she said smoothly, plucking a piece of fruit off her plate and eating it with unnecessary, exaggerated grace.

I rolled my eyes and shoved food into my mouth, waiting until I swallowed before responding. “I wasn’t on the clock. You gave me the week off, so it shouldn’t matter if I come to these things or not,” I said, adding a lazy shrug to make sure she knew exactly how little I cared.

The corner of Lady Iron’s eye twitched—a crack in her polished façade—but she didn’t drop that razor-thin smile.

“Yes, you had last week off,” she said sweetly, almost mockingly. “And look what a disaster that turned into. Clearly, a bit of structure is something you desperately need.”

Red sank a little further into his seat, pretending to be very invested in rearranging the food on his plate. Bull King shifted uncomfortably but said nothing.

“You can’t be serious,” I said flatly, though the disbelief in my voice made it more of a statement than a question.

Lady Iron leaned forward slightly, resting her chin on one hand, her eyes glinting with cold amusement. “Oh, I’m very serious, dear. From now on, you’ll be present at every meal, every meeting, and every training session—even on your so-called ‘days off.’”

I narrowed my eyes at her. “What, are you planning to put me on a leash next?”

“If that’s what it takes,” she replied without hesitation, her voice as smooth as silk and just as cutting. “You’re part of this family, aren’t you? It’s time you started acting like it.”

I clenched my fork so tightly the metal creaked in my grip. Across the table, Red finally looked up, eyes wide with panic like he was ready to throw himself between us if things escalated.

“Mother,” he said quickly, his voice higher than usual, “maybe we should let Shiro ease into things, yeah? No need to, uh… smother her. Baby steps?”

Lady Iron didn’t look away from me. Her tone stayed airy, but her words struck like a blade. “Baby steps are for infants, Red Son. She’s not a child. She understands what’s expected of her.”

Bull King cleared his throat loudly, clearly trying to break the tension before the table imploded. But Lady Iron didn’t flinch, didn’t blink—her gaze stayed locked on mine, a challenge in every inch of her composure.

I forced myself to look bored rather than furious, spearing another bite of food with my fork like I wasn’t one second from launching it across the room. “Fine,” I muttered. “But don’t come crying when you realize I’m just as much of a pain with a schedule as I am without one.”

Lady Iron chuckled, a low sound like the calm before a storm. “We’ll take that risk.”

But as her words lingered in the air like a trap snapping shut, I felt the telltale trickle of blood from my nose. Great. Of course now. I wiped it away with the back of my hand, slow and lazy, like it was nothing. I glanced down at my plate. I still wanted to finish, but at this point, I’d probably just end up throwing it back up.

Still, I took another bite.

Because the last thing I wanted right now was to make a scene.

Not yet.

I wasn’t going to tell them—not while I still had some grip on reality. Maybe when I couldn’t tell what was real anymore, when the walls started crawling or my skin forgot how to breathe—then I’d bring it up. Maybe. But not now. Not while I could still sit here and pretend I was fine. I didn’t need to dig my hole any deeper.

So I kept chewing. I let Lady Iron talk—half complaints, half performance, all carefully wrapped in ribbons of pretty, passive-aggressive condescension. I sat up straight. I nodded when appropriate. And in the back of my mind, I ran through the checklist of everything I still had to deal with this month: a guild check-in, making sure my safe houses weren’t falling apart, tracking the golden boy’s movements, keeping Red Son out of trouble, making another payment on those medical bill—and now, apparently, learning how to “show up” for this family.

Perfect.

“Any questions, Kitten?” Lady Iron asked sweetly, her smile all venom and violets.

I didn’t answer right away. Just wiped a smear of blood from my upper lip and raised my eyes to meet hers.

“Nope,” I said, voice light. “Crystal clear.”

She gave a satisfied hum and finally turned her attention back to her plate, the tension at the table thinning just slightly—like a knife pulled back rather than sheathed. I finished the last few bites of my food in silence, ignoring the way the taste had dulled against the iron tang in the back of my throat. I kept it casual, kept it steady. If she wanted a performance, I’d give her one. I could sit straight and smile and nod with the best of them.

Once I’d swallowed the last mouthful, I pushed my plate forward and stood up, brushing my hands off on my pants as if that would fix anything.

Red followed suit, rising quickly from his seat with a stiff kind of urgency. “We’re heading to the lab,” he announced, probably louder than necessary. “Shiro and I have…a lot to work on. Don’t wait for us at lunch—we’ll be busy with experiments.”

Lady Iron raised an elegant brow. “So industrious.”

Bull King gave a quiet grunt, clearly not interested in continuing the conversation. At least someone at this table knew how to read a room.

I gave no one a second glance as I turned on my heel, only pausing when Red fell into step beside me. He didn’t speak until we were halfway down the hall, and even then, it came out low and tight.

“You okay?”

I sniffed, wiping at the blood again, now more irritated than concerned. “Peachy. Just another perfect breakfast in paradise.”

He grimaced. “She’s…intense.”

I glanced sideways at him. “You think?” All in all that wasn't as bad as it could have been. Or even had been in the past. She can get as angry as a hurricane when she wants to. So this was tame. I wonder why.

He let out a small, breathy laugh that didn’t sound amused at all.

The two of us walked in silence after that, the tension finally able to loosen once we’d put enough distance between us and the dining room. The further we got from Lady Iron’s presence, the easier it was to breathe.

Red reached out and put his hand onto the cool metal of the lad door, pushing his magic into the door. As he unlocked the heavy door to his lab, he gave me a sidelong glance.

“Seriously though…if you feel like something’s off, you’ll tell me, right?”

I shrugged as the door slid open and the scent of ash, metal, and magic spilled out. “Define ‘off.’”

Red sighed through his nose, motioning me in. “Just…don’t pull that ‘I’m fine’ crap with me today, okay? I don’t have the energy.”

“Then we’re already in agreement,” I muttered as I stepped into the lab. “Because neither do I.”

The door closed behind us with a soft click, sealing out the rest of the family—and whatever games Lady Iron had planned next.

I flopped dramatically into one of the many rolling chairs in Red’s lab, spinning a little before letting the momentum slow on its own.

“She can be such a bitch when she wants to be,” I groaned, throwing my head back. “Schedule this, work on that… I swear, I could slay a god and she’d still be unimpressed. I can’t do anything to actually make her happy, can I?”

I rolled my eyes and crossed one arm over my chest, sulking more than I cared to admit.

Red sighed and handed me a tissue for my still-bleeding nose. “Well… in a way, she sees you as an adopted daughter. That means she expects you to live up to the Bull Family’s reputation—to carry the same power and presence as the rest of us.”

I stuffed one end of the tissue into my nose, looking every bit as unbothered as I wasn’t. “Yeah, well, it’s not like I asked her to think that,” I muttered, my voice muffled through the tissue. “I’m literally your bodyguard. That’s my job. That’s it. I don’t need all this extra drama that comes with pretending to be part of a ‘family.’”

Red didn’t respond right away. He just sat there, spinning a small tool between his fingers, like he was trying to find the right words—or maybe debating whether to say them at all.

Finally, he exhaled. “Look… I can’t talk for my mother. Not really. She doesn’t tell me everything, especially when it comes to you. But…” He leaned back in his chair, frowning at the ceiling. “I do think she sees you as more than just a hired gun. She wouldn’t push you this hard if she didn’t.”

I snorted. “You sure about that? Maybe she just enjoys being impossible.”

He glanced over at me. “She’s impossible with me too, you know. But it’s different with you. It’s like… she wants you to measure up because she already believes you can. She just won’t say it outright. That’s her way.”

I looked at him from the corner of my eye, not quite buying it but not completely rejecting it either.

Red shifted again, this time quieter, more thoughtful. “And… my father—he’s still a mystery to me, half the time. I’m still figuring him out. But I’ve noticed how he looks at you when you fight, or when you hold your ground with my mom. There’s this—” he hesitated, eyes flicking to the wall like he couldn’t look at me while saying it, “—this pride in the way he watches you. Like he sees something in you that he respects.”

There was something off in his tone—too sharp around the edges to be just observation.

I turned my head. “And that bothers you.”

He blinked, caught, then looked away quickly. “Maybe.”

I sat up a bit in my chair, the blood finally slowing in my nose. “You’re jealous.”

Red barked out a short laugh, humorless. “Of course I am. I’ve been trying to earn that look from him my entire life, and you—” he gestured at me vaguely, frustrated, “—you just get it. No effort. You’re not even trying to impress him, and yet somehow you do.”

I didn’t say anything. I didn’t need to. The silence settled between us, not heavy, but not comfortable either.

Red rubbed a hand down his face. “Sorry. That’s not fair. It’s not like you asked for any of this. You didn’t come here trying to be part of our mess.”

“No,” I said quietly. “But I sure got thrown into it.”

He gave a tired laugh, nodding. “Yeah. You really did.”

For a long moment, we both just sat there—me with tissue still stuffed in my nose, him holding a wrench he wasn’t using—letting the weight of family, expectations, and all the unspoken things between us fill the room like smoke.

Then I sighed and kicked lightly at one of the table legs. “So, what kind of ‘experiments’ are we doing that’ll get us out of lunch duty?”

Red grinned faintly. “The demon fire kind, obviously.”

“Oh, so just the usual.”

“Yup.” He stood, cracking his knuckles. “Come on, let’s make sure you don’t melt down before dinner.”

I groaned. “That’s a low bar, Red.”

He smiled wider. “Yeah, well, it’s still progress.”

For the next half hour, I “helped” Red work—which, in this context, meant sitting in my chair like royalty while he bustled around the lab doing all the actual work.

He muttered to himself as he moved between stations—checking seals on a pressure chamber, stirring something that looked radioactive, and occasionally swearing under his breath when something sparked that shouldn’t have. I watched him from my chair, legs kicked up on a nearby desk, the tissue still stuffed lazily in my nose.

“You know,” I drawled, “I feel like I’m providing essential emotional support.”

Red shot me a look over his shoulder, goggles perched on his forehead and a smudge of soot across his cheek. “You’re doing such a good job of it too. Truly invaluable.”

I gave him a lazy thumbs up. “Don’t mention it. Just here to boost morale.”

He shook his head and returned to his circuitboard mess. “Try not to bleed on anything expensive.”

“No promises.”

We fell into a kind of rhythm—well, he did. I mostly just stared at the bubbling arcane containment field and let my brain tune out for a bit. The lab’s steady hum was comforting in a weird, mechanical way. At least in here, there were no veiled threats or barbed compliments. Just gears, glass, and Red Son cursing at math.

Then my phone buzzed.

I blinked and pulled it from my pocket, frowning at the screen.

Handy Bell: (Do Not Ignore Me): 🕒 Guild Reminder:

There’s a meeting today. Mandatory. You’re late. AGAIN. Tell Lady Iron whatever you want, but if you miss this one,there will be consequences.

I stared at the message for a second. Then another one came in.

Handy Bell: And NO, sending a clone doesn’t count this time. Show your actual face.

I sighed, slumping a little in my chair. Of course. Of course today had to be the day they pulled the mandatory card. I stared at the lab ceiling for a beat, then sat up and grabbed my jacket off the back of the chair.

Red glanced at me from where he was hunched over a table of glowing runes. “You good?”

“Define ‘good,’” I replied, sliding my arms into the sleeves. “I’ve got a guild thing.”

Red blinked. “Now? You just got chewed out for skipping schedules.”

“Yeah, well.” I stuffed my phone in my pocket and made for the back hallway. “Lady Iron doesn’t need to know I left. And you’re not going to tell her, are you?”

He stared at me, mouth open for a second. “You’re actually sneaking out.”

I grinned. “No. I’m strategically exiting.”

“Shiro—”

I was already halfway to the concealed side door. “Relax. I’ll be back before anyone notices. Besides, she only checks the east wing cameras.”

“That’s not reassuring!”

“Wasn’t meant to be,” I called back, tossing him a wink over my shoulder. “Cover for me if she asks.”

He groaned loudly behind me. “You are going to get us both murdered.”

“And yet, here we are.”

The door clicked shut behind me before he could argue anymore. I stepped into the cold hallway beyond the lab, shoving my hood up and muttering the words to a quick concealment charm. Light bent around me, and my presence blurred like heat shimmer—just enough to fool the casual eye or a distracted security monitor.

Now I just had to make it to the edge of the estate before anyone noticed I was gone.

And maybe—maybe—I’d be back before Lady Iron realized I’d ever left.

The second the door clicked shut behind me, I let out a quiet breath and pressed my back to the wall, waiting. Listening.

No footsteps. No alarms. No clone shouting, “Hey, you’re not supposed to be out here!” Yet.

Good.

I adjusted the hood of my jacket and started down the side hallway, keeping my steps light on the polished stone floor. The walls here were nothing short of excessive—etched with ancient reliefs of battles, beasts, and bulls. Always bulls. Every pillar, every mosaic, every gilded trim along the ceiling beams paid tribute to the family’s lineage. It was like sneaking through a temple built in honor of a myth you had no business being part of.

The scent of incense clung to the air—rich and heady, something between sandalwood and charred iron. It always burned low here, pumped from enchanted vents hidden in the corners. A constant reminder that no matter how far you got from the main hall, this place was alive. Watching. Breathing.

I slipped past one of the more ornate columns—twelve feet tall and carved to resemble a charging bull mid-snort, its eyes inset with ruby glass that always felt like they followed you. I didn’t look up. Looking gave it power, or maybe just made me paranoid. Either way, not doing it.

A pair of Bull clones rounded the opposite corner, pushing a wheeled bin filled with what looked like burned-out magic cores and cracked tea cups. Cleaning duty. I ducked into a side alcove, letting the concealment charm wrap a little tighter around me, willing myself to be nothing more than heat and shadow.

They passed, chatting idly in garbled programming-speak, too focused on their chore routines to notice anything out of place. As soon as their voices faded, I moved again.

The next hallway was trickier—lined with ceremonial braziers and false doors that sometimes weren’t entirely false. I knew from experience that one wrong step here could trigger a floor trap that dumped you into a full-body containment field. Not lethal, just humiliating. And loud.

I stepped carefully, placing my feet in the faint scuff-marks I’d memorized long ago—the paths the servants used, the safe zones between pressure glyphs. A left, two steps forward, then a long stride over the discolored tile with the barely-there spiral etched into it.

I passed another towering pillar—this one designed like a flanged horn curling upward, with crimson lacquer streaked through black stone. Around its base, a bronze mural of the Demon Bull King himself stood locked in combat with some long-forgotten celestial beast, tail lashing, horns lowered, mid-roar. The craftsmanship was perfect—down to the ripple of muscle in his back and the hate in the creature’s eyes.

But I didn’t stop to admire it. I had exactly five more minutes before the security sweep came through this wing. I ducked under an archway lined in obsidian and carved bone, passing through the fade-glow curtain that separated the residential quarters from the servant passageways. The moment I passed through, the air changed—cooler, more sterile, and strangely quieter. Less ceremonial, more practical.

Here, no incense masked the sharp, clean smell of magic running through the walls. Sigils glowed faintly in the stone—deterrents for pests, tracking fields, some kind of pressure wards designed to detect unauthorized movement. Luckily, I was authorized. Technically. And I’d memorized the cadence of the sensors months ago.

My fingers brushed the edge of the last barrier rune as I mouthed the counter-phrase, feeling the shimmer of it dissipate like spider silk across my skin. Then I reached the side door.

It was smaller, meant for deliveries and covert entries. Not locked by normal means—just a twist in the correct sequence and a blood-sigil that only responded to members of the Bull Family or… people who’d been around long enough to find loopholes.

I pressed my palm to the carved emblem, let my energy surge for just a moment—just enough to mimic the exact magical frequency Red uses—and the sigil unlocked with a gentle hiss.

I slipped through the gap and into the cold morning light outside, the stone door closing behind me with a whisper.

No alarms. No clones. No Lady Iron.

I was out. For now.

I made it into the side yard as fast as I could, lungs burning, my breath fogging in the cool morning air. The sky was still painted with the last shades of gold and rose as the sun rose behind the outer wall. I’d barely made it past the last stepping stone path when I slowed, hands on my knees, trying to gather myself.

At least no one ever came out here.

Or so I thought.

“I don’t know what to do with her.”

I froze. The voice was soft, airy, almost musical—but with an edge that always made my shoulders tense. Lady Iron.

I ducked quickly behind the thick trunk of one of the flowering lantern trees, making sure my concealment spell was still up with trembling fingers. Its shimmer fell over me just as I heard footsteps—slow, steady, unguarded. My heart jumped into my throat as I peeked around the bark.

There they were.

Demon Bull King and Princess Iron Fan. Alone. Standing close in the garden courtyard, their backs to me, silhouettes bathed in the warm light of a hanging paper lantern. The scent of sandalwood hung in the air, mingled with smoke from a still-burning incense bowl at the far end. I should have looked away. Given them their privacy.

But then she said it again.

“I don’t know what to do with her.”

Her voice was softer this time, a fragile confession she’d never say if anyone else could hear. Except maybe him.

Demon Bull King reached out and brushed his knuckle across her cheek with surprising gentleness for a man so large. She closed her eyes and leaned into the touch. Like it grounded her.

“My love,” he said in that deep rumble of his, “the Kitten is strong. And loyal. I’ve seen that for myself, even in such a short time. She’s rough around the edges, yes, but she’ll turn it all into armor for us. You just need to give her time. Let her come to us in her own way.”

Lady Iron sighed, the sound barely audible over the rustle of the wind through the trees.

“I know you’re right. I know,” she said, eyes still closed. “But it’s not just about loyalty or strength. I’ve seen her try to be better. I’ve seen her want to be better. But then she slips. Again and again. And I…” Her voice trembled, and her jaw tensed hard to stop it. “I can’t tell her how much that terrifies me.”

He took her hand in both of his and gently lowered it between them. “Then why don’t you tell her?”

“Because she’ll think I’m being weak.” Her eyes snapped open, burning with pride and hurt and something much older than either. “And I can’t be weak. Not in front of her. Not in front of anyone. If I tell her the truth—that every time she comes back hurt, I think of losing her, that I watch her waste away and think I’m failing all over again—she’ll never take me seriously again.”

She stepped back slightly, wringing her hands before quickly folding them behind her. “I didn’t raise her. She’s not mine. But… some part of me still sees her like one of my own. And it’s infuriating.”

Bull King nodded slowly, watching her with a tenderness that didn’t suit his imposing frame—like she was the only thing he’d ever been gentle with.

“You don’t need to say it out loud for her to know you care. Sometimes… sometimes it’s the smallest things we do that get through.” He let out a slow breath. “And maybe she doesn’t need a general. Maybe she just needs someone to stand with her when she falls apart.”

“I don’t know how to be that person,” Lady Iron whispered. “Not when she’s making reckless contracts with immortals and pushing herself until her magic bleeds out of her skin. She doesn’t trust me. Not really. Not like she does our boy. Or even that damn monkey.”

His brow creased. “And yet you keep trying.”

She gave a hollow laugh. “Because someone has to. Because when she finally snaps, I have to be able to say I did everything I could. That I didn’t just let her spiral. Even if she hates me for it.”

There was a long pause.

Then, in a rare show of vulnerability, Bull King leaned forward and pressed his forehead gently to hers. His voice dropped to something almost reverent.

“You’re trying to protect a girl you can’t claim, with armor you can’t take off.”

Her eyes welled—just a little. Enough to blink away but not enough to fall.

“I don’t know how to love halfway,” she admitted.

“And she doesn’t know how to receive it when it’s real,” he murmured back.

They stood like that for a moment—two people hardened by war and pride, sharing something soft only under the stars.

Bull King finally leaned back, but kept one of her hands between his. “You know… I barely know her. But even I’m starting to feel something when I look at her. She’s like a wound walking around pretending it doesn’t hurt. It’s hard not to reach for that. Even for me.”

Lady Iron didn’t answer, but her grip on his hand tightened.

“I still feel like I have every right to be angry with her,” she muttered. “She missed a week’s worth of meals with us.”

He smiled softly. “I know.”

“And you know why I made those meals mandatory, right?” Her voice dropped again. “Because if we don’t, she won’t eat. She’ll say she forgot. Or that she was busy. Or worse—that she didn’t deserve to eat.”

She finally looked away, shame softening the sharpness in her face.

“She won’t ask the clones for anything. Says it’s beneath her. But it’s not about pride. I think… I think she doesn’t know how to let herself be taken care of. So she just doesn’t. And I can’t make her eat, but I can force her to sit down with us once a day.”

Silence again.

Then: “That way, at least I know she’s eaten.”

That was all I could take.

I turned away from the tree, throat tight, the shimmer of my confinement spell pulsing like a heartbeat. I didn’t want to hear more. Not when their words cracked something deep in me—something I’d tried so hard to bury. The idea that maybe, just maybe, she didn’t hate me. She just didn’t know how to love me safely.

I moved fast. Slipping down the winding side corridor lined with murals of battles and heroes. The flickering lanterns cast shifting shadows across the floor as I dodged a clone cleaning near the far pillar. I hugged the walls, ducked under a false archway, and slid past the pressure plate near the Bull King’s statue—careful not to trigger it. I’d gotten caught in its snare before. Not again.

Finally, I made it to the old balcony above the koi garden. The iron railing was rusted and choked with vines, but it was quiet. Unwatched. Forgotten. Just like me.

I wrapped my hands around the metal.

It was cold. Unforgiving. The edges dug into my palms, sharp enough to bite at the crescent cuts that were almost healed. I winced but didn’t let go. The pain was grounding—something to focus on. Something real.

My breath came in short, uneven bursts. Not from the run anymore, but from something deeper. Something coiled tight in my chest like a fist that wouldn’t unclench.

It hurt.

Gods, it hurt to breathe.

Not in a dramatic, bleeding-from-the-mouth kind of way. Just… a constant pressure. Like grief. Or shame. Or both, woven so tightly together I couldn’t tell one from the other. I tried to force a full breath into my lungs, but it caught halfway down, brittle and thin. My vision blurred for a second, stars dancing at the edges of my sight.

I gritted my teeth and tried again.

Inhale.

Hold.

Exhale.

Again.

Again.

Again.

Slowly, the tightness began to dull—just a little. The ache in my ribs still throbbed, but at least I could think now. At least I could move.

I opened my eyes, staring out at the baby blue horizon. Everything felt distant. Dim. Like I wasn’t fully in my body yet.

“Okay,” I whispered, voice hoarse. “Let’s get this over with.”

My magic answered the call sluggishly at first, then with a surge—an aching, molten pull that dragged itself through every nerve and out through my fingertips. And then—

Petals.

A storm of them, caught on invisible wind. Pale pink, soft as whispers, fluttering through the space around me. It never used to mean anything. I’d seen the petals every time I teleported, thought of them as some leftover aesthetic of my magic—just visual noise.

But now…

Now I couldn’t stop thinking about what he said.

The Monkey King.

The flower.

The name he gave me.

I’d never cared much for botany. Could barely tell poison ivy from mint. I’d just assumed the petals were from some generic blossom. Something harmless. Decorative. Like cherry blossoms or magnolia.

But apparently… they were foxglove.

Foxglove.

The word felt heavier now.

Too pointed. Too fitting.

I knew the name. I had acquaintances in the poison department—dealers, collectors, survivalists. People who traded in venom and antidote alike. They’d told me once how deadly beauty can be. How so many of the softest, most delicate flowers in the world could kill you in seconds if you weren’t careful. Foxglove. Oleander. Daffodils. Even hydrangeas, under the right conditions.

Things that looked like they belonged in a wedding bouquet—but could still stop a heart cold.

And that’s what I leave behind.

The world began to pull itself back together around me. Slowly. Brick by brick. Color by color. I felt the landing in my bones. The drop in pressure as my body snapped back into place. My magic sank like a stone, cut nearly in half from the jump. Not surprising. I’d crossed half the damn continent in one go.

I found myself standing in a quiet office. Familiar. Dimly lit. A single desk sat in the center, half-buried under scrolls and notes. The curtains were drawn, but the faint scent of lavender still lingered in the corners. I wasn’t sure if it made me calmer or just lonelier.

The petals were still falling. Gently. Like rain that hadn’t made up its mind. I stood still and watched them drift down, catching on the edge of the desk, my boots, the cuff of my sleeve.

So soft. So harmless.

So deceptive.

Did he know?

When he gave me that nickname—Foxglove—did he know what it meant? Did he already realize that these were the petals I left behind? That when I broke space and tore through the world, this was what spilled in my wake?

Or did he just say it because it sounded pretty?

Because it suited a girl who smiled with her teeth and always did her best to please?

Either way… it fits. Far too well.

Foxglove.

I poison everything I touch.

People. Places. Promises. It didn’t matter. Sooner or later, they all withered. Just like this office would, if I stayed too long. Just like I would, if someone let me believe for even a second that I was safe here.

I clenched my fists and felt the sting again. The metal had reopened the crescent cuts.

Good.

At least the pain made sense.

The last foxglove petal fell soundlessly to the floor, curling slightly as it landed. I watched it tumble, caught for a moment in the slow spiral of its descent, and something in my chest pulled tight again.

And then—just like that—he was there.

Not physically. Not truly. But a memory. A shadow. One that slipped through the cracks when I was tired or my guard dropped too low.

A boy.

Young. No older than ten or eleven. He had warm olive skin, sun-kissed and freckled lightly across his nose like the world had dotted him with stars. His hair was a messy tangle of blonde, too golden to be real, sticking up in uneven tufts like he’d run through a field and forgotten to fix it afterward. And perched on top of his head—twitching, soft, always alert—were a pair of golden retriever ears. Velvety. Fuzzy. Completely out of place, and yet… somehow perfect on him.

But it was his smile that undid me.

Bright. Unapologetic. The kind of smile that made people believe the world hadn’t yet turned cruel. It hit like the first light of morning after a sleepless night—warm and blinding.

“You always act like no one sees you,” he said softly, like it was the easiest truth in the world. “But I do. I always have. Even when you’re hiding.”

His voice echoed in the hollow between my ribs, and for a breath, I forgot how to be made of stone.

I shut my eyes, hard.

Not now.

“I don’t have time for this,” I muttered under my breath. “Not today. Not for him.”

I turned away from the petals and everything they stirred in me, stepping toward the desk with practiced purpose. My shoulders squared. The weight I carried now was heavier than memory, and far more immediate.

The scrolls were already laid out for me, just as they always were—organized, precise, sealed with the mark of my division. I scanned the top one, eyes narrowing at the messy scrawl of Handy Bell’s handwriting:

“Neko – Brief this set at today’s meeting. You’ll be called first. Keep it quick, but sharp. I don’t have time to mop up if our section looks unprepared.”

Of course.

Handy never did learn the difference between delegation and dumping. But it didn’t matter. I always picked up what she left undone. I had to.

I began flipping through the scrolls with steady, methodical hands. My gaze flicked across familiar terrain: maps marked with kill zones, height ratios for city rooftops, target profiles annotated with movement patterns and scheduled public appearances. There were arcane equations for wind correction on projectile spells. Sightline clearances. Recommended hex rounds and bolt types.

Three targets. All high-profile. Two of them political. One magically enhanced. All were expected to die within the week—silently, cleanly, without drawing too much attention.

My unit’s work.

Long-range assassination wasn’t a glamour job. It was quiet. Calculated. No glory. Just results. No messy brawls or sword fights or spell-flinging dramatics. Just the sound of a bolt leaving the chamber—or the silence of a spell pressed through the wind—and a body falling before anyone realized what had happened.

The death in the distance. The ghost in the crowd.

I corrected the notes in the margin of one scroll—Handy Bell had left out the elevation compensation for one of the taller buildings. Sloppy. That’d throw off a shot by at least a meter and a half. Far enough to kill the wrong man.

I rolled the scrolls up again and bound them with a twist of pressure magic, sealing the briefing packet with my signature rune. It flared soft and violet in the low light before dimming.

This was my division. My responsibility. Every mistake, every misfire, every missed kill came back to me.

I had no time for ghosts.

No time for boys with sunlight in their smiles.

I pulled my coat tighter, straightened the lapels, and crossed the room toward the door. It creaked softly open on old hinges. The corridor outside was dim and quiet, lined with rough-hewn stone walls and low-burning lanterns that cast long shadows along the floor.

My footsteps echoed.

Measured. Steady. Sharp.

I moved through the silence like I belonged there—because I did.

No matter how badly I didn’t want to be here—I still was.

I hated the Guild.

It wasn’t some passing irritation. It was a deep, gnawing hatred—one that lived under my skin and sat heavy in my chest like rusted iron. I’d made a stupid decision when I was younger—raw, desperate, and stupid—and that mistake had tattooed itself across the rest of my life.

There’s only one way out of the Guild.

Death.

I reached the elevator and sighed as I hit the call button, watching the little glow pulse to life. The light flickered slightly—cheap wiring, despite how expensive everything in this place tried to look. The doors opened with a soft hiss and I stepped in, the mirrored walls reflecting a face I barely recognized anymore. My own.

I leaned against the rail and stared at the floor numbers as they blinked past, higher and higher. My coat felt heavier the further I rose.

I never wanted to lead a department. Never wanted to be the polished face of anything. All I’d wanted was enough.

Enough to eat. Enough to live. Enough to keep us alive.

But that’s when the Guild found me—when I was low enough to grab onto whatever hand reached out first. And theirs was the only one offering gold in exchange for the damage I already knew how to do.

And now?

Now I was a weapon in a velvet sheath. A department head made from blood, training, and a contract that might as well have been written in bone.

The elevator dinged.

I stepped out into a space bathed in artificial light, where the glass wall ahead stretched from floor to ceiling. The entire city sprawled below me like a glittering carcass—every light another pulse, another story, another secret. From here, the smog over the lower sectors looked like a soft fog. From here, it was easy to pretend this place wasn’t rotting from the inside out.

But I knew better.

I turned my head and saw her.

Handy Bell.

My handler. My second-in-command. And the one person in the building who knew exactly how many times I’d considered putting a bullet in my own contract and vanishing.

She was standing with her arms crossed, legs braced apart like she was ready to stop a riot. Her outfit was as loud as ever—black leather biker jacket trimmed with silver studs and sun-beaten patches. Underneath, a sleeveless wrap top in a deep mustard yellow, patterned in geometric shapes that echoed her homeland’s traditions—bold, unapologetic. Her pants were black, tight-fitting, and reinforced with panels of armor sewn into the thighs and calves—worn smooth from years of combat. Her boots? Thick-soled, laced up to the knees, dusted with dirt that didn’t come from anywhere in this clean, sterile building.

Her skin was a deep, rich umber—dark and radiant, like polished mahogany kissed by sunlight. Gold rings gleamed on her fingers. Some modern. Some older—weathered with age and engraved with symbols I didn’t recognize but knew better than to ask about. She wore beaded jewelry around her neck and wrists, red and white and bone-colored, each one whispering of something far older than the Guild would ever understand.

Her afro was massive today, pulled back just enough from her face to keep her sharp cheekbones on display, but otherwise puffed with no apology or restraint—like a crown made of stormclouds. She was tall, seven feet at least, and with the presence of someone who knew exactly what she was capable of.

And the look she gave me?

It was the kind of look that could flay a man with just the weight of her disappointment.

Brows raised. One foot tapping—slowly. No words, no greetings. Just silent judgment, carved into every line of her posture.

She was fed up with my shit.

And she hadn’t even opened her mouth yet.

Perfect.

I took one more look at the glittering skyline behind the glass, drew in a long breath, then adjusted my coat collar and made my way toward her.

Because whatever disaster was waiting in that meeting room—

I was about to walk into it with a handler who looked two seconds from strangling me with her jewelry.

Handy looked me up and down. Slowly. Deliberately. Like she was checking to see if I actually tried today—or if I’d shown up looking like something dragged in off the edge of a rooftop hit.

I rolled my eyes up at her, deliberately slow.

“At least you don’t look like complete shit today, Neko,” Handy Bell said, her voice thick with that accent I still couldn’t place.

If I were more cultured, I might be able to tell you where it was from. Somewhere deep in the cradle of her homeland, I assumed. From what I’d heard, she was born into a small, now-erased tribe in Africa. Wiped off the map. And the woman standing in front of me had been the one to do it.

Back in the day, she’d served in the close-range division—frontline brawls, blood up to her elbows. But she transitioned to long-range after seeing more room to climb in my department. That said enough about her. Strategic. Sharp. Always playing the long game.

In my opinion? She should probably be running this department.

She still made the occasional technical error—long-range wasn’t her original style—but that’s what a second-in-command is for. To catch what the head misses. To balance the pieces when things get rough.

But I had the record. The skills. The kill count. The clean file. So I got the title.

Not because I wanted it. Just like every other department head here. We were chosen for our precision, not our ambition. We are all the best at what we are in charge of.

“You just gonna ignore me again, Neko?” Handy added as we fell into step. “You really are a bitch sometimes, you know that?”

I gave her a lazy smirk. “And you keep coming back. Makes you wonder who the real masochist is here.”

She snorted. “Don’t flatter yourself. I’ve trained actual gremlins with better bedside manners.”

“I don’t do bedside. Unless someone’s bleeding in it.” I shrugged.

Handy didn’t bother responding. Instead, she opened her tablet and started skimming something as we walked. “Anyway, quick update: I already submitted the department status report. Marked three sharps for review and reassigned the two who kept pulling late on their triggers. They’ll improve or they’ll be transferred.”

I glanced sideways at her. “And the requisitions?”

“Handled. Again.” She gave me a pointed look, but her tone was calm. “I even flagged the ammo shipment you forgot to sign off on last week.”

“I’m so lucky to have someone who does my job for me. Really takes the pressure off.”

Handy didn’t roll her eyes. Not this time. She just gave me that small, sharp smile of hers—the one that meant, I’m letting you talk because it’s easier than yelling.

“It’s not about doing your job for you,” she said, tone even. “It’s about making sure your mess doesn’t become my problem. You’re the boss, Neko. I just happen to be the one with the clipboard.”

“And the sharp tongue. Don’t forget that.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

We walked a few more steps in comfortable silence, the kind that only came from years of grudging mutual respect. Handy was used to my avoidance. My deflection. She didn’t take it personally. Not anymore. She just picked up where I didn’t and made sure the machine kept running.

And in return? I made sure no one ever questioned why she was my second. While letting her run the show how she sees fit. Maybe that’s why we work so well. She wants the power, the title, and the fame that came with being a head. I didn’t.

As we neared the meeting room doors, she slowed her pace just a little.

“You’ll be called on first today,” she murmured. “You don’t need to grandstand. Just give them the numbers, be clear, and don’t piss off the head of resources. Again.”

“I’m hurt,” I said, placing a hand over my chest. “You make it sound like I’m difficult to work with.”

“You’re a cat demon who refuses to fill out paperwork before 3 a.m. and thinks briefing meetings are optional.”

“That’s called ‘flair.’ I bring personality to the table.”

Handy smirked, her eyes flicking sideways. “Just try to bring a little professionalism with it this time.”

I paused in front of the door, adjusting my coat as the glass shimmered with the silhouettes of other department heads already gathered inside.

I stretched my fingers once, let the tension settle into a coil at the base of my spine.

“Ready?” she asked, voice quieter now.

I gave her a dry grin. “Born ready. Unfortunately.”

The double doors hissed open with a soft sigh, and I stepped inside with Handy Bell a pace behind me. The temperature in the room didn’t change—but the atmosphere did. You could feel it: the quiet weight of power coiled around the obsidian table, the stillness of killers dressed in committee formalwear.

The chamber was round, windowed on one side, the view of the city sprawling below like a glittering autopsy. Lights flickered like nerves firing in a dying body. The table at the center of the room was smooth, black stone, inlaid with silver sigils—each one marking a seat, a territory, a threat.

At the apex of the circle sat the Guild Head’s chair.

Empty. For now.

He always showed up late to his own meetings—just long enough to make everyone uncomfortable. The kind of man who made silence feel like a test.

I took my place to his right—Long-range. My department. My weight to carry.

To my left was Syra, head of Poison, and possibly the only person in this hellhole I could tolerate for more than five minutes without fantasizing about vanishing mid-sentence.

Human, technically. But no one ever looked at her and thought normal. Pink-haired and dressed like an alchemist who’d robbed a crypt and stitched it into couture. Her pink hair was loose today, half-woven with charms, bones, and dried petals. Her clothes were layered silks and draping fabrics dyed in muted purples, greens, and dusky greys—like she’d been stitched together from grave dirt and starlight. She had a witch’s aura: whimsical, cruel, and amused by things that should horrify most people. She was spinning a glass vial between her fingers like it was a toy.

“Neko,” she said sweetly soft, her voice equal parts amusement and something sharp enough to dissolve bone hidden in a sleepy tone. “You smell like ozone and iron. Been teleporting again without grounding?”

I slid into my seat and smirked. “You say that like you don’t love it.”

“I do,” she purred. “Your aura’s always a little frayed after—you crackle. It’s cute.”

“Cute,” I scoffed. “I’ll put that on my gravestone. ‘Crackly and cute.’”

Syra grinned. “I’ll brew something floral and highly toxic in your honor.”

“Better be strong enough to kill Ewan. He’ll show up just to flirt with the corpse.”

“Too late,” Syra whispered. “He’s already smiling.”

Across from us, Ewan—head of Close-range—flashed his usual grin. Bunny beast demon. Snow-dusted ears twitching slightly, half-buttoned shirt under a leather harness, and that unbothered confidence of someone who could kill you in three moves and still leave a charming note on your pillow. His silver eyes twinkled.

“Who’s dying?” he asked, propping his chin on one hand.

“Hopefully you, eventually,” I muttered.

“Aw, you wound me.”

“Not yet,” I said. “But I’ve got time.”

Next to him sat Ren, head of Medium-range. Impeccable posture, steel-blue suit, coat draped like a cape. Their face unreadable. Human, by all external accounts—but I’ve seen dead things with more emotion. If Ren ever smiled, the world might break.

Tariq, our Treasurer, hunched over his datapad beside them, glasses cracked on one side, suit wrinkled from what was definitely not his first all-nighter this week. A human man that was originally from Iraq. The numbers owned him now. We all knew it.

To his right, Kaelen—head of Weapons. A plant-type Fae with skin like tree bark and golden vines wrapping down his neck. Flowers bloomed lazily from the open collar of his jacket. He twirled a blade between his fingers that looked grown, not forged. His smile was soft. Pleased. Like a forest that had already decided to eat you.

Marisol, head of Marketing, sat gleaming beside him. A celestial with a jawline sharp enough to be weaponized and golden hair pulled into a sculptural ponytail that defied gravity. Her suit shimmered with subtle enchantments, and her lipstick matched heart's blood.

Next, Chela, head of Resources. Bug-type demon. Exoskeletal plating peeked out from beneath her structured coat. Her eyes clicked and shifted, compound and always moving. Her fingers tapped rapidly over a glowing data screen. Efficient. Cold. Precise. I respected it.

And then, the last seat.

His seat.

The head of Information wasn’t present.

Not surprising—that jerk rarely showed up for anything unless he was in a good mood or feeling dramatic. He liked making an entrance. Or worse, an impression. But I had no doubt he’d hear everything that happened in this meeting before we even left the room.

That’s just how Information works.

I used to be part of that department, once. Before they moved me. Someone figured out I was good with long-range weapons—dangerously good—and reassigned me before I ended up doing recon forever. Probably the same smug shadow-dwelling bastard whose chair was now empty and looming.

It worked out.

I’m better off here anyway.

Most of the other department heads had their seconds stationed behind them, faces obscured by black Guild-issue veils. Standard protocol. Protect your shadows, your secrets, your soft spots. Most of the departments kept their cards close.

I didn’t bother with that.

I gave Handy the choice. She chose no veil.

Of course she did. No one in their right mind ever tried to erase her face from the room.

There was a soft tap on my shoulder.

I turned my head—and there was Syra, smiling at me with that familiar half-lidded gaze like she’d just woken up or was seconds from drifting off. Her voice, when it came, was all lazy honey and grave dirt.

“Neko…” she sighed, dragging the syllables out like a spell, “I started a new trial this week…”

I didn’t even try to hide my groan. “Why do I already feel like I’m going to need to file an incident report?”

She blinked, slow and dreamy. “You won’t. No one can prove anything.”

“Syra.”

Her smile widened, sleepy and sweet. “It was very scientific. I even used gloves this time.”

“Did you really?”

“No,” she admitted, with no shame whatsoever. “But I thought about it. That counts.”

“Who did you test it on?” I asked, already bracing myself.

She let out a quiet hum. “One of the new interns. The twitchy one with the ear piercings.”

“Syra, you’re not supposed to test poisons on your own people.”

Her hand waved lazily in the air. “He signed a waiver.”

“He didn’t know what the waiver was for.”

“That’s why I made the font very small,” she said dreamily. “And the ink scented. Distracts them.”

I stared.

She blinked. “He said it smelled like peaches. Isn’t that cute?”

“I’m assuming he’s dead.”

“Oh, no,” she said with a shrug. “He blinked. A lot. I think that means he’s technically fine.”

“Blinking doesn’t count as surviving.”

“Well, I was blinking the whole time, and I turned out great.”

“Debatable.”

Syra giggled, soft and lilting. “You’re just mad you didn’t think of it first.”

“I don’t poison my own team.”

“Lame,” she whispered, drawing the word out.

“You’re going to get us both dragged into another audit.”

She leaned in with that barely-there grin. “Only if they find the body.”

I gave her a long look. “You’re lucky I like you.”

“Everyone’s lucky you like me,” she purred, voice slow as sleep. “Especially you.”

I rolled my eyes at Syra.

She was… well, interesting was the polite word. Unhinged was the accurate one.

Syra liked to watch her poisons work. Not just see the results, no. She wanted to witness the slow degradation of muscle, the tremble of nerves unraveling, the color draining from lips—not out of cruelty exactly, but curiosity. Academic, detached. Enthralled.

Species didn’t matter to her. Human, demon, fae, even celestial—if you had a pulse and a bloodstream, she’d poison you with a lazy smile and keep you alive just long enough to see all the stages unfold. Then ask for your feedback like it was a taste test.

But to be fair… everyone in this room was here because of what they excelled at.

Syra was the best poisoner the Guild had seen in a century. Just like Ewan—the charming, arrogant bunny beast—was the best close-range fighter we had. I wondered, briefly, how he would fare against Sun Wukong.

That thought brought a bitter curl to my stomach, so I shoved it aside and forced my attention down to the scrolls I’d brought.

The meeting wasn’t really about strategy. Not today.

No, this was theater.

A performance, scripted and sharpened, just to remind us who held the leash.

The Guild Master.

I glanced across the obsidian table to the only other empty seat—the one belonging to the head of Information.

He rarely showed.

The bastard operated more like a ghost than a person—half-shadow, all smug. No one ever really knew when he was listening, or if he was already in the room hiding under the weight of his own cloak of illusions. He sold secrets to whoever paid best, and somehow still kept his seat because, well… he was that good.

It’s the same reason I haven’t been executed yet, either.

I still do what I’m told. Kill who they point me at. Play the part. Mostly.

The door hissed open behind me.

I didn’t need to look to know who it was. The entire room shifted, energy flattening like an animal going still when something bigger enters the den.

The Guild Master walked in carrying a silver tray, steam rising in gentle swirls from the delicate porcelain cups on top.

He made a show of placing each one in front of us, personally. One by one. No clone. No second. His own hands, as if this was an intimate dinner party and we were his favored guests.

He was tall, poised, and sickeningly graceful—his black hair brushed back from his face, just long enough to soften the edge of his cheekbones. Emerald eyes gleamed beneath lashes too thick to be fair. His grey suit was perfectly tailored, cut from some impossibly expensive fabric that moved like liquid but didn’t crease. Even in the faintest movement, it was clear—this man could still fight in that suit if he wanted to.

His smile was polite. Too polite.

“Sorry I’m late,” he said, his voice warm and effortless. “I had to finish brewing everyone’s drink. You know how I get about the details.”

He gave us a soft, closed-eye smile and placed the final cup down in front of me.

“Now then,” he chirped happily. “Drink up.”

Syra, predictably, was the first to react.

She lifted her cup with long fingers, pink hair shifting as she leaned forward, and took a soft inhale of the steam like it was a bouquet.

“Oh,” she drawled in that sleepy, lilting voice of hers. “This is the blend I helped you with a few weeks ago, isn’t it? The…energy disabling one.”

She didn’t say it loud. She didn’t have to.

Everyone at the table froze for a beat.

No one was stupid enough to miss the implication: the tea would suppress magic. Dampening, muting—call it what you wanted. The second it hit your system, your seals, sigils, channels—all of it—would go quiet.

That kind of silence wasn’t comforting.

I looked down at the cup in front of me, still untouched.

It wasn’t dangerous on its own. Not really. It wouldn’t kill me. But with the state I was already in, it would throw everything off. I’d spent days keeping my energy leveled just enough to function without tipping. This would ruin the balance. Force me into another stabilization session. If it got bad enough, I might even pass out here and now. And I really didn’t feel like having Red drag me out of a boardroom by the collar.

But not drinking it?

That was worse.

The Guild Master finally returned to his seat and crossed one leg over the other, folding his hands together like this was just another pleasant meeting.

He smiled at all of us—bright, warm, like we were gathered for tea and gossip instead of forced magical suppression.

“Now, now,” he said smoothly, “don’t get tense. This isn’t a test, and it’s certainly not a punishment.”

He tilted his head, that ever-charming lilt in his voice rising just enough to feel conversational.

“This is just… a little peace of mind. You see, putting a group like this in one room—skilled, powerful, lethal—there’s always a risk. Accidents. Moods. Old rivalries flaring up.”

His gaze drifted lazily over the table, like he was admiring us.

“I trust you all. Truly. But I’d like to avoid blood on the floor before we even get to the agenda.”

That got a few sideways glances. A cough. Someone shifted.

He smiled wider, green eyes gleaming. “So… drink.”

He looked at each of us.

And then his eyes landed on me.

And didn’t move.

I stared back, fingers still resting on the table, inches from the cup.

He didn’t say my name.

Didn’t need to.

He just smiled like he already knew how this would end.

One by one, they had already drunk.

Ren sipped with a composed, almost surgical detachment—like they’d already cataloged the symptoms and prepared for the side effects.

Tariq took his with an unbothered sigh, like he was used to swallowing things more bitter than this.

Kaelen cradled the cup like it was a plant he was studying, his mossy green eyes half-lidded as he tasted it slowly.

Marisol drank with a delicate grace, like the whole thing was part of a performance and she was the star of it.

Chela downed hers without a flicker of emotion, then set the cup aside with a tap—done, processed, dismissed.

Ewan tossed his back like a shot of spiked liquor, winking at no one in particular.

And Syra, of course, had already sniffed it out and sipped it like a connoisseur. Her lazy smile lingered, as if she was still savoring the taste—or the tension.

Which left me.

Still unmoving. Still untouched.

The Guild Master’s eyes hadn’t left me.

He exhaled quietly and pushed himself up from his seat. No dramatic gesture. Just calm, fluid motion—elegant in that unsettling way he always was, like the room was bending to accommodate him.

I didn’t look up as he circled the table. But I could feel him closing in. The warmth of his presence. The weight of everyone else not reacting.

He came to a stop behind me.

“Still stubborn,” he said softly, just for me. “You really haven’t changed.”

I didn’t answer.

He reached over my shoulder and picked up the untouched cup like it was something precious. His fingers brushed mine—accidentally, intentionally, who knew—and then he shifted, crouching slightly, lowering himself into my space without permission or apology.

His voice was a breath at my jaw. “You always resist just a little longer than the others.”

I turned my head just enough to glance at him. His green eyes were too close. Too knowing.

He smiled.

“Drink, Neko.”

His tone was soft. Almost affectionate. But it was laced with the same control he always wore like cologne—subtle, choking, expensive.

I didn’t move.

He brought the cup to my lips himself.

“C’mon. Everyone else did so well,” he said, like I was a child being coaxed into trying a new food. “Ren didn’t complain. Tariq didn’t flinch. Even Kaelen smiled. You wouldn’t want to be the only one who doesn’t cooperate, would you?”

He tilted the cup a little more.

He leaned in closer to my ear, I could feel his warm breath and feel his warmth bleeding from him.

“I know it doesn’t sit well with you. I know what this does to you. But I’d rather risk a little imbalance than a blown-open conference room, wouldn’t you?” He whispered into my ear for me and me alone to hear.

I clenched my jaw.

His smile didn’t fade.

“If it gets bad,” he murmured, brushing a stray hair from my cheek, “you have people to catch you, don’t you?”

That made me snap my eyes to his—furious, flat.

But I opened my mouth.

Just a little.

He hummed in satisfaction as he tilted the cup further. Forcing the liquid in.

The tea touched my tongue, warm and deceptively mild. But already I felt the shift—my magic dulling, coiling tight like a muscle held in too long.

He pulled the cup away slowly, watching me like I’d just passed some private test.

“There we go,” he whispered, voice velvet-smooth. “Such a good girl, when you want to be.”

Then he stood.

Walked back to his seat like none of it mattered.

The room stayed silent.

And I sat still, staring at the last curl of steam drifting from the cup he left behind.

The reaction was torturously slow.

I could feel the effects of the brew crawling through my system like bad medicine—thick, bitter, and clinging to the inside of my veins. It didn’t burn. That would’ve been easier. No, this felt like a dull drag, like someone was pressing a cold cloth against hot skin. Muting me.

Suppressing me.

I closed my eyes for a few seconds and forced myself to breathe evenly. Calm. Controlled. My hands rested flat on the table, fingers relaxed, shoulders down. Like none of this mattered. Like I wasn’t quietly panicking over the fact that I’d absolutely need to be stabilized once I got back to the Bull Family estate.

And I hated the stabilization ritual.

It always hurt like hell. No matter how many times I went through it. No matter how gentle Red tried to be. It wasn’t pain that got easier—it was just pain you learned to anticipate.

I opened my eyes again and glanced around the room.

Everyone else was pretending too.

Ren sat like a statue, only the twitch of their jaw betraying tension. Kaelen had subtly loosened the cuffs on his sleeves, as if giving his vines more breathing room. Tariq kept fidgeting with his rings. Even Marisol’s usual practiced stillness had a crack—one crossed leg bouncing lightly beneath the table.

Ewan looked the most normal, but even his ears were pulled back slightly, like something irritated him.

And Syra… Syra was wide awake. Alert. Her chin rested lazily on one hand, her pink curls falling over her shoulder as she scanned the room with hooded but sparkling eyes. She was watching, cataloging reactions like a botanist taking notes on wilting flowers. This was the most alive I’d seen her in one of these meetings.

To the right of me, the Guild Master’s emerald gaze landed on mine.

That smile. Closed-eyed. Warm to the untrained.

But I knew better.

It was the kind of smile a snake gave before striking—calculated, empty, and patient.

“Neko, darling,” he said, drawing out my name like it belonged to him. “Why don’t you start us off with your report?”

I fought the urge to sigh.

Instead, I gave a small nod, reached into the folds of my coat, and pulled out three neatly rolled scrolls. I laid them in front of me and tapped the center one once before speaking.

“Three marks, requested by client #4032. Targets were located in the Southern Expanse, Eastern Hollow, and near the old Iron Crest ruins. All eliminated via long-range methods of course. No collateral damage. No evidence left behind.”

I slid the scrolls across the table. The center one unfurled partially, revealing a black-inked seal and a single word written in red across the target’s face: cleared.

“Client requested a no-trace extraction and confirmation within seven days. The department completed it in four. Payment has cleared.”

I sat back, fingers laced casually in front of me.

The silence that followed was brief but heavy.

The Guild Master leaned forward slightly, fingers steepled beneath his chin.

“Mmm,” he murmured. “Four days.”

His smile deepened.

“Still as efficient as ever. You really do spoil us, Neko.”

I kept my expression flat.

He tilted his head, eyes narrowing slightly like he was trying to see behind my mask. “And you’re holding up well, considering…” He didn’t finish the thought, just let it hang there.

A test.

A reminder.

“I’m functioning,” I said, voice even.

A chuckle escaped him—soft, indulgent. “So modest.”

Then he turned to the rest of the table, and just like that, the spotlight was off me.

The meeting moved on.

Voices echoed softly across the polished stone of the chamber—Ren’s clipped, technical cadence as they reviewed the movement patterns in several border zones. Tariq’s smooth voice laced with disdain as he pointed out inefficiencies in the last guild transfer. Kaelen mumbling something botanical, Marisol correcting him just for the pleasure of it. Ewan made a joke that made half the table scowl.

I wasn’t really listening.

Couldn’t afford to.

Every breath was a controlled inhale, followed by a slower, carefully measured exhale. In through the nose. Out through parted lips. My heartbeat—usually sharp and feline-fast—was something I had to manually keep steady now. Any spike would make the effects of the tea worse. I could already feel it gnawing at my balance. Not enough to topple me—but enough to make my bones feel wrong inside my skin. Distant, like I was borrowing someone else’s body.

And still, I kept my expression level. Blank. Slightly bored.

To anyone watching, I was calm. Maybe too calm.

Syra glanced at me once, one brow raised slightly as she twirled a dried petal between her fingers, but she didn’t say anything. She knew the game.

The Guild Master said something—some comment that made a few heads nod and one or two grimace. A subtle jab at Resources. A compliment with teeth aimed at Marketing. The kind of words that sounded harmless on the surface but sank in later and festered.

I stayed still.

Don’t move. Don’t shift. Don’t tip the cup.

Even my tail—normally expressive without permission—remained low and curled around the leg of my chair, tension hidden in the coil.

Eventually, the final report ended.

Chela’s voice clicked as she muttered something about supply disruptions and one of the seconds behind her took notes with a twitching hand.

The Guild Master let a beat of silence settle over the room before he spoke.

“Well then,” he said brightly, brushing nonexistent dust off his sleeve. “That was… surprisingly painless.”

He gave us all a closed-eye smile.

“Consider yourselves dismissed.”

Everyone rose. Scrolls were gathered, veils adjusted, chairs scraped lightly against the floor. Syra yawned and stretched in slow, deliberate movements before wandering toward the exit with a hum. Ewan gave me a salute. Tariq barely looked up from his tablet.

I stood, body slow, deliberate, like my limbs had to remember how to work properly.

And just as I was turning—

“Neko,” the Guild Master said, voice soft but cutting through the murmur like a blade through silk.

I froze.

He didn’t raise his voice.

Didn’t need to.

“Stay behind, please. I’d like to speak with you. Privately.”

He didn’t look up as he said it. Just reached over to take a sip of whatever was in his own cup—his drink, of course, was different. Always was.

I gave a single, sharp nod and sat back down.

The others filed out around me, most not even glancing back. Only Syra hesitated for a moment near the door. She looked back with a slow blink and the tiniest frown. Then she was gone.

Leaving me alone.

With him.

I didn’t say anything. Just gave a small nod and waited until the last of the footsteps had faded beyond the chamber doors.

The Guild Master rose from his chair, moving with the same casual grace as always, like he had nowhere to be and all the time in the world to get there. He gestured with a tilt of his head for me to follow, and I did—reluctantly, silently, every step a balancing act.

I forced my breathing to stay steady. No sudden movements. No obvious weakness. I could already feel the strange weight of the brew pulling deeper into my chest like a stone dropped in water. My energy was quieter now, slower. Not gone—just dampened. Suffocated.

We passed through the wide corridor that branched off from the meeting chamber, and as we walked, people noticed him.

Of course they did.

Every guild member we passed stopped what they were doing. Some straightened their backs. Others stared outright. Even those who were supposed to know better—seasoned assassins, warlocks, spies—they looked at him like he was made of starlight and silk.

He offered a warm smile to each of them. A kind nod. A greeting here, a compliment there.

“Good work on the courtyard cleanup,” he said to one hunter in a cracked leather coat. “I saw the footage—precision like that deserves recognition.”

The hunter flushed bright red and nearly tripped over their own feet.

Another nodded awkwardly as he passed, and the Guild Master touched their shoulder gently. “You’re looking stronger. I’m glad the recovery is going well.”

All sugar. All charm.

No fangs—yet.

He was everyone’s favorite nightmare. Beautiful. Kind. Unquestionable.

And none of them saw the leash he held wrapped around all our throats. Even if they did, what could they do?

He led me up a narrow staircase—one of the many hidden ones that only senior personnel could use. It was quiet here. Quieter than it should’ve been.

The hall beyond it curved into shadow, then opened into the top floor—a long corridor lined with tall, polished doors and thick crimson carpet.

His office was at the far end.

A massive, arched door carved with a labyrinthine pattern of gold and onyx. It looked more like the entrance to a cathedral than a workspace.

He placed a hand flat on the door. The runes along the frame glowed faintly. A soft click echoed, and the doors opened inward on their own.

“After you,” he said, stepping aside and holding the space open with a slight bow, like a gentleman.

The perfect host.

I gave him a flat look but walked through, tail flicking once behind me.

His office was too beautiful. Too cold.

All sleek stone and expensive velvet. Walls of books, odd trinkets sealed in glass. The floor-to-ceiling windows stretched across the far wall, giving a pristine view of the glittering city below.

But it felt like a cage.

He followed me in, and the doors shut behind us with a hush like a held breath.

The doors shut with a soft, final hiss behind me.

He walked past me with that same warm, perfectly curated smile—the kind that made lower-ranked operatives blush and veterans keep their eyes carefully downcast. The kind of smile that could get a person to sign their own death warrant if he asked nicely enough.

He made his way to the front of his desk and leaned against it with practiced ease, facing me directly like this was all casual—just a chat between old friends.

His emerald eyes drifted over me—slow and thorough. Watching. Measuring. Whatever he was looking for, he found it, because the corners of his smile lifted just a little more.

“Neko, my dear…” His voice dipped, soft as a feather. “How are you doing?”

Both of his hands rested on the top of his desk, fingers perfectly spaced, knuckles loose. The desk itself was immaculate, like the rest of the office. Folders stacked by size, papers color-coded, pens lined up with ruler-straight precision. Even the single vase of white lilies sat centered like it had been placed by laser measurement.

I let out a slow, theatrical sigh and finally dropped the last of the performance I’d kept up in the meeting room.

“Oh, cut the bullshit… Damien.”

I said his name like a warning. Low and flat. Enough bite to draw blood if he’d been human enough to bruise.

And like clockwork, his smile deepened—too wide, too pleased. Like he was waiting for me to call his name.

“Ah~” he hummed, eyes glittering. “I do love the way you say my name.”

He pushed off the desk, taking a slow step toward me, posture loose but radiating control.

Damien Shepherd.

Head of the Blue Bird Assassination Guild.

Son of the CEO of Shepherd Corporation, one of the largest shipping and logistics companies in all of Europe. Old money. Older power. His family’s reach stretched across borders, oceans, and political affiliations like ivy climbing stone walls. Legitimate business on the surface, smuggling, arms running, and mercenary contracts underneath.

Damien was next in line to inherit all of it.

Not just the Guild.

Everything.

And he played both sides like a man born to it—corporate heir by day, king of assassins by night. Dangerous, charming, and completely untouchable.

“If you’d just stay in Guild housing like I’ve suggested…” he went on, tilting his head like I’d disappointed him personally, “I could hear you say it every day.”

His tone softened further. “But no. You’d rather run off and play house with outsiders.”

I narrowed my eyes but didn’t bother arguing. Not when he was like this. He has an agenda here. I just can’t see it yet.

“But,” he sighed dramatically, “I suppose I can’t say no to you… not really.”

He crossed back to his desk, trailing fingers lazily over the edge, like this was just small talk.

“Well,” he said, “since you’re clearly not in the mood for pleasantries…” He tapped his chin, faux-thoughtful. “Let’s skip ahead.”

He circled me slowly, like I was part of the decor.

“A little shadow told me you’ve been making plans to sever ties with… what’s his name…” He paused, feigning forgetfulness.

I stayed silent.

He let the pause stretch just long enough to feel intentional.

“Ah! Breezeblock.” He snapped his fingers like he’d just remembered something delightful. “Our favorite low-level mobster with bad taste in suits and an overinflated ego.”

My stomach turned.

“I hear you’ve been talking about cutting him off.”

“I made a very clear contract with him,” I said tightly. “Three jobs left. That’s it.”

“Yes, yes, I know.” His voice stayed light, like he was already bored of my objection. “But I’ve decided that isn’t quite enough.”

He drifted back toward the desk, lifting a pen and turning it idly in his fingers like a toy.

“That little idiot has been more productive than I expected. Built himself a very convenient supply chain—import contacts, off-the-books storage, soft points in the local port authority, and just enough muscle to enforce it.”

His gaze flicked to me again, and this time there was weight behind it.

“And now that he’s finally useful, I’m not letting you walk away until I’ve gotten what I need.”

My hands curled into fists at my sides.

“Ten more jobs,” he said, smiling like he was suggesting I try a new restaurant. “At least. Keep him happy. Keep him distracted. Keep him thinking he’s about to make it big. I need more time to get my hands around that pipeline of his.”

I opened my mouth to argue, but the look he shot me shut that down fast.

“You should’ve figured this out by now, Neko,” he said, tone darkening just enough to scrape along my spine. “You were never assigned to him because I was bored. This was a long game. Our game.”

He stood again, pushing off the desk and moving toward me with slow, predatory ease.

“You’ll do it,” he said softly, standing just close enough that I could feel the heat from his body, “because you’re smart enough to know what happens if you don’t.”

I didn’t speak. Didn’t flinch.

And still, he smiled like we were sharing something private and wonderful.

Finally, his hand lifted—brushing a stray piece of hair behind my ear with a touch so careful it almost passed for affection.

“And don’t worry about getting back to your little… strays,” he murmured, voice dropping further. “As a gentleman… I’ll take you back myself.”

His eyes—sharp and cold and full of quiet cruelty—held mine for one breath too long.

Then he turned toward the teleportation sigils in the far corner, already glowing to life at his presence.

The teleportation sigils in the far corner of the room hummed to life, casting faint white light across the stone floor. The air grew heavier, charged with the familiar static pull of magic displacement.

I stayed rooted where I was, hands still balled into fists at my sides.

Damien didn’t walk through the circle yet. He lingered by the edge of it, glancing back at me over his shoulder with that same soft, poisonous smile.

“Come on, Neko,” he said gently. “You’re not usually this slow.”

I didn’t move.

Not yet.

His smile stretched, something lazy and fond. Almost… nostalgic.

“You know,” he said after a beat, turning back to face me fully, “there are very few people in this world who could make the kind of jumps you do. The distance. The raw output. No sigils. No runes. No anchors.”

His eyes dragged over me again, slower this time, and something in his gaze shifted—just for a second.

“I’ve always admired that about you,” he added, voice dropping just a little. “Even back then.”

My chest tightened despite myself.

Back then.

We didn’t talk about back then.

We barely acknowledged it anymore. But he never missed a chance to drop it between us like a thread he still held.

“Too bad you waste it half the time,” he went on lightly, like he hadn’t just dragged that ghost into the room. “Running off to play house with civilians and getting yourself tangled with all the wrong people.”

I forced my hands to relax. “Like you’re one to talk.”

That earned me a soft laugh. “Touché.”

His eyes half-lidded, like this was amusing to him. Like I was amusing to him.

Then, with a small sigh, he stepped fully into the center of the teleportation circle. The air around him shimmered faintly, threads of magic curling upward like smoke.

“Let’s get you home before you fall apart on my office floor,” he said sweetly, tilting his head. “Can’t have your new family thinking I’ve broken their favorite stray.”

He held out a hand toward me—an invitation.

A demand.

I grit my teeth but stepped forward anyway, standing just at the edge of the circle. Close enough that when the jump took us, I could feel the pull of his magic catch and wrap around me like it always did—smothering, heavy, leaving just enough room to breathe… but not enough to run.

You’ve been locked inside your house for half a year now. Not by force, not by chains—just by fear. No matter how many times you stood at that front door, hand hovering over the knob, heart hammering with the thought that maybe this time you’d open it, your body always betrayed you. The moment you so much as thought about stepping outside, the shaking would start. Sweat would drip down your spine. Your legs would turn to lead.

Ever since New Year’s—ever since that nightmare when you were turned into a spider along with half the damn city—you haven’t been the same. Sure, you were technically saved. You’re human again. Everything’s “fine” on paper. But the damage runs deeper than skin and bone. Just the thought of being out there, of losing yourself again, of turning again, is enough to make your chest tighten until you feel like you’ll choke on your own heartbeat.

The Monkey Gang had tried. Over and over. They came to check on you, tried coaxing you out with smiles and gentle reassurances. Even Macaque, of all people, had shown up a handful of times, acting like he could just drag you out into the sunlight like it was no big deal. But none of them understood. None of them felt what it was like—your mind torn open, your body twisted into something wrong. They didn’t understand that fear wasn’t a choice. It was a lock you couldn’t pick.

But as bad as the fear of the outside world was, there was one thing worse.

Spiders.

Even the tiniest one could send you spiraling into a full-blown panic attack. So when you spotted a massive one in your living room—long legs twitching, its body fat and glistening, moving—something inside you snapped.

You ran.

You left the house in such a rush you didn’t even think about it. Just bolted out the door barefoot and breathless, into the pouring rain. The first time you’d set foot outside in months, and it wasn’t because you were healed. It was because your sanctuary had turned into a nightmare.

And now… here you sit. In the middle of your overgrown flower garden.

The rain is cold. Soaking your clothes, plastering your hair to your skin, but you barely notice. Your old flowerbed is a mess—muddy and wild from months of neglect, once-vibrant blooms now sagging under the weight of the storm. A ceramic wind chime shaped like a crescent moon sways from the porch, the soft clinks muffled by the rain. You can still smell the lavender and wet earth, faintly—scents that used to calm you.

You can’t go any further. But you can’t go back in either.

You’re stuck.

“What are you doing sitting there looking all pathetic in the rain?”

The voice is low, rough with amusement.

You glance up, squinting through the falling water.

The Six Eared Macaque.

He stands a few feet away, completely dry beneath a dark umbrella, but looking like the kind of guy who’d be just as comfortable in the storm. His golden eyes glint down at you, smug and curious, and there’s that stupid grin on his face like seeing you rain-soaked and miserable just made his entire week.

You look away, curling your arms around yourself. “…There’s a spider…” you mumble, barely audible over the rain.

Anyone else would’ve missed it.

But he hears you.

You see one of his ears twitch, and his grin stretches wider. “A spider, huh?” he repeats, tilting his head like he’s just been handed the punchline to a joke. “Alright. Let’s get rid of it.”

You snap your head up, eyes wide in disbelief. “I can’t go back in there!” you practically scream, voice cracking from panic and rain and frustration.

Macaque doesn’t flinch.

He just looks at you for a long second. That grin still there—but softer now. Something else flickering behind his eyes.

“You won’t be going in alone. I’ll go with ya.”

His voice was steady, quiet beneath the sound of rain hitting leaves and roof tiles, but it cut through everything else in your head. His eyes didn’t leave you, all that sharp golden focus trained entirely on your trembling form. His tail flicked lazily behind him, back and forth like a metronome, but there was patience in the movement—not mockery. He was waiting. Giving you space for your mind to catch up.

The storm around you didn’t let up. Rainwater clung to your lashes and soaked through your clothes, the cold biting through skin and muscle until your bones felt hollow. You sat huddled in the weeds of your old flower garden, petals long wilted and soil turned to muck. The soft, broken glow of the porch light behind you cast a hazy outline over everything. That used to mean safety. Now it just lit the way back to a place you couldn’t go.

You were shaking.

And not just from the cold.

You wanted to be anywhere but here—alone, forgotten, even buried under a thousand blankets—but not in there. Not in that house. Not while that thing was still crawling somewhere inside it. The memory of its too-long legs skittering across your floor, the way it moved—like it had every right to be there—made your skin crawl. Just the thought that it was alive in your home, breathing the same air, lurking in the corners—

You shuddered violently.

“I-I can’t g-go back in there,” you choked out, voice warbling with restrained tears. The words left your mouth in pieces, your throat thick with panic. It felt like you were being crushed from the inside out.

He didn’t scoff. Didn’t roll his eyes or offer some sarcastic jab.

Instead, he knelt slightly—low enough to be eye-level without towering over you. Then he extended his hand, palm up, claws curved carefully inward so you wouldn’t catch yourself on the sharp edges if you grabbed it.

“I’ll kill it,” he said, calm and almost matter-of-fact. “You just have to show me where it was.”

You blinked at his hand. At the water beading along the backs of his fingers. You didn’t reach for it. Couldn’t. Not yet. Your mind was still spiraling, too wrapped up in the why.

Why was he being… nice?

This was Macaque. The same guy who’d teased you relentlessly about not leaving your house—called you a “pill bug” more times than you could count, saying you curled in on yourself and never uncurled. He used to show up uninvited, flop onto your couch like he owned it, raid your snack stash, then act offended when you kicked his feet off your coffee table.

He’d put on random shows—whatever had the most explosions or dumbest plot—and demand you sit there with him, like it was some sacred ritual. Then he’d spend the entire time tearing it apart, loudly criticizing every character choice and claiming he could do it all better. Classic Macaque: smug, obnoxious, irritating in that weirdly endearing way that only got worse the longer he hung around.

That version of him made sense.

This one?

This one—offering you his hand, willing to step into your personal hell for you—this version was something else entirely. Not mocking. Not gloating. Just… there.

Present.

And patient.

The rain fell harder now, blurring the edges of everything around you. But his hand didn’t move. His gaze didn’t waver.

He was waiting.

For you.

You stared at his hand like it wasn’t real. Like it was a trick of the rain or some illusion your exhausted brain had conjured up out of desperation. His palm remained steady, waiting. No impatience. No teasing. Just… steady.

Your fingers twitched.

You didn’t want to take it. You wanted to stay here in the mud and the garden you used to love, curled in on yourself and safe from anything that skittered or crept. But you also didn’t want to be alone anymore. Not with the storm. Not with the thing in your house.

So—slowly, shakily—you reached out.

Your hand slipped into his.

His skin was warmer than you expected, rough with calluses, and his claws curled just enough to cradle your hand without threatening to pierce. The moment your fingers touched, something in your chest loosened—just a little, just enough to let in one thin breath that didn’t feel like drowning.

He gave your hand a gentle squeeze, like he was grounding you to the moment. And for a second, neither of you moved.

Then, wordlessly, he stood and pulled you up with him.

The rain had softened. Still falling, still cold, but gentler now. You stood together at the edge of the porch steps, water dripping from your clothes, the soft squish of mud under your feet. The house loomed in front of you—dark, familiar, and wrong. Every window was a blackened eye. Every creak of the porch sounded like it knew you were coming back.

You swallowed hard, your fingers tightening around Macaque’s.

He didn’t let go.

Instead, he took the first step forward and gave your hand a tug, just enough to remind you he was still there. You followed.

The front door was still wide open from when you ran screaming into the storm. A thin trail of muddy footprints led from the threshold, across the floor, and into the shadows of the hallway. The house smelled like damp wood and lavender-scented candles that had long since gone out. The lights were off. You hadn’t dared to flick them on. It felt too risky—like illuminating the thing would make it more real.

Macaque stepped through first, tail flicking low behind him, his free hand already reaching toward a light switch.

You flinched. “W-Wait—”

He glanced over his shoulder, reading the fear on your face.

“Dim lights,” he said simply. “Just enough for me to see it before it sees you.”

You gave a shaky nod, and the hallway light flicked on—low, barely more than a warm glow, but it chased back the worst of the shadows.

The two of you moved deeper inside.

Your house was eerily quiet. The air felt heavier than before, like the fear you’d left behind had soaked into the walls and was now watching you. You tried to breathe, but your lungs refused to cooperate. Every creak of the floorboards made your skin crawl. Every corner felt like it was holding its breath.

“Where’d you last see it?” Macaque asked, voice low and calm.

“L-Living room,” you whispered, pointing with a trembling hand. “By the coffee table…”

He nodded once and released your hand gently, giving it a last squeeze before moving ahead of you. His posture changed the moment he entered the room—alert, balanced, deadly. All the lazy sarcasm was gone. This was the version of him people whispered about in back alleys. The shadow who could end a fight before anyone realized it had started.

You stood at the edge of the hallway, fists clenched at your sides as he scanned the room.

And then—

“There you are,” he muttered darkly.

Your breath caught in your throat.

It was on the ceiling. Huge. Black. Eight legs clinging to the corner like it belonged there, its body fat and glistening, a horror show of too many eyes.

You couldn’t move. Could barely blink. The panic surged like a tidal wave. But Macaque didn’t hesitate.

In a blur of movement, he was up on the arm of your couch, then the backrest, and then—

Whack.

His tail snapped like a whip. There was a loud thud as something hit the wall. Then another strike. A blur of motion and sound you couldn’t follow through the fog in your head.

And then… silence.

He dropped lightly to the floor a second later, brushing his hands off like he’d just taken out the trash.

“All clear,” he said casually, though you could still see the sharpness in his eyes. “Ugly bastard. You owe me snacks for that.”

You let out a shaky breath—half-sob, half-laugh—and stumbled a few steps into the living room, your legs threatening to give out. The spot where the spider had been was empty now. Gone. Erased. But you still felt it under your skin.

Macaque looked at you, then crossed the room and gently reached out to rest a hand on your shoulder. His touch was warm. Real. Solid.

“You did good,” he said, voice quieter now. “You came back in.”

You blinked at him, your throat closing up.

“I didn’t do anything,” you whispered.

“You didn’t run again,” he corrected. “That counts.”

And somehow, in this rain-soaked, half-lit nightmare of a night, it did.

Your legs refused to hold you. Even though the spider was gone—even though you saw it crushed into nothing—you could still feel it. The adrenaline hadn’t left your system. Your heart pounded so violently it made your ribs ache, and your vision was starting to blur at the edges.

Before you could collapse, Macaque let out a low grunt and caught you.

“Oh for—seriously?” he muttered, already scooping you up like you weighed nothing. “Did the fear eat your bones on the way back in or what?”

Your head lolled weakly against his chest, and you tried to protest, but the only thing that came out was a strangled sound that might have been a sob or a laugh. You didn’t even know anymore. Your body was still trembling, soaked to the bone, every inch of you cold and clammy.

“Yeah, yeah,” he grumbled, carrying you easily into the living room. “Come on, bug. Let’s get you somewhere that isn’t the floor.”

He shifted you with one arm, used his tail to clear the throw blanket and some snack wrappers off the couch with one dramatic sweep, then lowered you onto the cushions with surprising care. You sank into them immediately, curling in on yourself as if you could fold up small enough to disappear.

Macaque didn’t say anything for a beat. Then he turned on his heel and disappeared down the hallway.

The quiet buzz of the house returned. Dim lighting. The hum of old pipes. Rain still tapping against the windows in steady, gentle fingers.

And then he was back, dropping a fluffy towel over your head like he was smothering a fire.

“Dry off before you mold,” he said, sitting on the edge of the couch and starting to briskly rub the towel over your head, your hair, your shoulders—firm, fast motions like he was trying to scrub the fear off you.

You tried to pull the towel away. “I can do it—”

“Clearly,” he deadpanned, not letting go. “Because collapsing in your own living room is a great sign of how fine you are.”

He finally let the towel slip into your lap, but not before patting the sides of your face with it in a mocking little boop-boop-boop motion.

You sniffled. “You’re such a jerk.”

“Uh-huh. And yet here I am. Saint Macaque, patron demon of spider victims and emotional meltdowns.”

He stood again, shaking his hands out like he’d just finished heavy labor, then vanished into your kitchen without another word. You heard cabinets open. Something clatter. Water running.

You blinked through the haze, your heart still pounding hard in your ears.

Then he was back. Holding a steaming mug.

He handed it to you without ceremony and plopped down on the far end of the couch, one leg hooked lazily over the other.

“Tea,” he said flatly. “It’s not poisoned. Probably.”

You stared down at it, hands still shaking, but the warmth was comforting. The smell—chamomile, with maybe a bit of honey—hit your nose and almost undid you all over again.

“You didn’t have to do all this,” you murmured, voice small.

“Yeah, well.” He leaned his head back against the couch, eyes closed. “You looked pathetic. Like one of those sad wet cats people take viral videos of. I didn’t want to end up on the internet.”

You huffed out a weak laugh.

“Thanks, I guess.”

“Don’t mention it,” he said, cracking one eye open. “No, seriously. Don’t. I’ll deny everything.”

You sipped the tea, your breathing finally starting to slow. The warmth seeped into your chest like light through cracked glass, chasing the last of the panic back into the dark.

Macaque was still there—one hand behind his head, his tail flicking rhythmically over the edge of the couch like he was bored. But his other hand rested near you. Just close enough that, if you reached out, your fingers might brush his.

“I don’t get it,” you said after a while. “Why are you being so… nice?”

He opened both eyes, gave you a long, unreadable look, then smirked.

“Don’t mistake pity for charity. I’m just securing my snack privileges,” he said, reaching over and snatching one of the unopened chips from the table with exaggerated flair. “I go through all this trouble and don’t even get popcorn out of it? Tragic.”

You rolled your eyes, but you didn’t stop the small, crooked smile that crept onto your face.

Because the sarcasm was familiar. The teasing was predictable. But the towel, the tea, the way he stayed close without pushing too far?

That was something else entirely.

And maybe, just maybe, that something was enough to make this house feel like a home again—even if just for tonight.

You sipped the tea in your hands, warmth slowly spreading through your chest like it was prying your ribs open from the inside out. Your fingers still trembled slightly around the mug, and your clothes clung to your skin with that uncomfortable dampness that made you aware of every inch of your body.

Macaque hadn’t moved much since dropping onto the far end of the couch. His posture was lazy, as usual—one arm stretched along the back of the cushions, his legs splayed like he owned the space. Like he always did. But now and then, you caught his eyes flicking toward you.

He was watching you. Not overtly. Not pushy. Just… aware. Like he was tracking your breathing without meaning to.

“You’re still shaking,” he said, not unkindly.

You opened your mouth to brush it off, but stopped when his tail flicked toward you again—this time not with lazy indifference. The tip traced along your ankle, light as a breath, curling there for half a second before retreating.

Your eyes flicked to his face.

He wasn’t smirking this time. He was watching your reaction carefully. Casually—but too casually.

“I’m wet,” you mumbled, realizing too late how that sounded.

He raised a brow, lips twitching. “Well, that’s not a sentence you just drop and expect me not to comment on.”

You flushed, groaning as you pulled the towel up over your face.

“I meant my clothes, you pervert.”

“Mmhm. Sure you did,” he said, a little smug, a little lazy. “Although… if you’re cold and wet and miserable, it would be a shame if you caught something.”

You peeked over the towel just in time to see him push himself up from the couch and start toward your room. Your eyes followed the line of his back, the sway of his tail, the casual swing of his hips like he had all the time in the world.

A beat later, he returned—with one of your oversized sweatshirts in hand.

“I stole this from your laundry pile,” he said, tossing it onto the couch beside you. “Looks comfier than whatever’s currently suctioned to your ass.”

You glared. “You went through my laundry?”

He sat back down and leaned toward you, propping his elbow on the back of the couch, golden eyes gleaming.

“I’m a shadow demon, not a gentleman.”

Still, he didn’t look away as you set your mug down and hesitantly pulled the damp shirt over your head, towel still loosely shielding you from view. You kept your movements small, discreet—but you felt his eyes on you. The weight of them. Sharp. Unblinking. Not lustful… but not innocent either.

By the time you tugged the dry sweatshirt on—one that still faintly smelled like home and comfort—you realized he was much closer than before.

His tail brushed your thigh now.

“You’re warm again,” he murmured, almost to himself.

You glanced over, expecting a joke. But there wasn’t one. Not this time.

His gaze had dropped to your lips. Just for a second.

Then up to your eyes again.

You could feel your pulse, no longer racing from fear—but from something else entirely. The air between you was heavier now. Denser. Charged like the moment before lightning strikes.

And still, he didn’t move away.

Instead, he reached forward and gently pulled the towel from around your shoulders, his claws careful as they grazed your neck.

“Better,” he muttered, voice lower now. “You don’t look like a drowned spirit anymore.”

You tried to scoff, but it came out breathless.

Your faces were close. Closer than they should’ve been. His scent was subtle—earthy, smoky, a little wild. You’d smelled it a hundred times when he’d lounged on your couch or passed too close in your kitchen. But now, wrapped in the aftershocks of fear and comfort, it felt different. Intoxicating.

You swallowed thickly. “What… are you doing?”

He tilted his head, a lazy, feline kind of amusement in his eyes.

“Not touching you,” he said softly. “Yet.”

Your breath hitched. You hated the way your body reacted—how your skin felt too tight, how your mouth went dry.

“Macaque…”

He leaned just a hair closer. Close enough for your knees to brush. Close enough to see the faint gold ring around his pupils, glowing ever so slightly in the low light.

“You gonna tell me to back off?” he asked, voice like warm smoke.

You didn’t.

Your mouth opened slightly, but no sound came out. And the longer you held his gaze, the more your fear—the shaking, the memories, the panic—faded into something else.

Something alive.

Something that curled low in your belly and crawled along your spine, and made you painfully aware of how close he was. How easy it would be to lean in. To let the tension snap and see what might happen if you did.

His tail shifted again, curling lightly behind your back on the couch. Not pulling you. Just… there.

Waiting.

Holding the line.

And still, he didn’t kiss you.

Didn’t push.

He just watched you—like he wanted to. Like he might, if you gave him one single sign. One breath of permission.

But he was patient.

So he just said, voice almost too quiet to hear, “You’re not scared anymore, are you?”

You shook your head.

Because you weren’t.

Not of the spider. Not of the dark. Not of him.

Not anymore.

His tail gave the lightest tug at your back—not enough to pull, just a gentle reminder that it was there. That he was there. Still watching. Still close.

You blinked, lips parted, throat dry. You weren’t sure how long you’d been staring at him, only that your heart was thudding for a completely different reason now.

The fear was gone.

The spider was a distant memory, a shadow long since swallowed by the warmth of his body near yours, the low hush of his voice, and the golden weight of his gaze. Your limbs still buzzed—but not with panic.

He pulled back slightly. Just enough to let air slip between you again. Not much. Barely an inch.

“You should shower,” he said suddenly, and it took your brain a second too long to catch up.

“What?”

His grin came slow. Like he knew what you thought he was going to say. “You’re still soaked,” he said, that lazy purr sliding back into his tone. “If you don’t wanna spend the next week coughing up your lungs, I suggest you go rinse off before you start sprouting mushrooms.”

You blinked again. “You’re kicking me off my own couch?”

“Temporarily,” he replied. “I’ll allow your triumphant return once you stop smelling like fear and soggy laundry.”

You snorted, rolling your eyes as you pushed yourself upright—aware, acutely, of the way his gaze followed your every movement.

“You know, I liked you better when you were pretending to be nice,” you muttered.

He leaned back again, propping one arm along the back of the couch like a throne.

“Oh, sweetheart. If I were pretending to be nice, you’d know. This—” he gestured between you, the space you’d just filled “—this is me being merciful.”

You shot him a look, grabbing the towel and mug as you rose to your feet.

“You’re full of it.”

“I’m full of many things,” he called after you. “But lucky for you, patience is one of them.”

You didn’t look back as you made your way to the bathroom, but your skin still prickled—hot, tight—with awareness. Your whole body was too alert, too alive. He wasn’t even touching you anymore, but it was like his presence had been branded into your spine.

You turned on the water and stripped off the damp clothes, your mind replaying the last twenty minutes like a broken reel—his voice, his eyes, the weight of his tail on your back.

The memory of fear was gone.

There was only him.

The shower was too warm, too quiet, and you had to press your forehead against the tile just to get your breath to calm again. Because your body didn’t know what to do now that the danger had passed and been replaced with something just as overwhelming.

And just as dangerous.

By the time you stepped out, skin pink from the heat and limbs wrung out like damp fabric, you wrapped yourself in a towel and grabbed a fresh set of clothes—something soft, loose, casual. Nothing too revealing. Nothing that might say I noticed.

But you had.

And when you returned to the living room, he was still there—lounging across the couch like a prince, one arm behind his head, your blanket draped lazily over his chest like he belonged there.

He looked up when you walked in. And smiled.

Not a smirk.

Not a grin.

Something warmer.

“You look less tragic now,” he said, eyes trailing from your damp hair to the soft fabric clinging to your legs.

You raised a brow. “You gonna hand over the couch, or…?”

He stretched out even more, filling the whole space.

“I did say you could return.”

“But now you’ve taken over the entire thing.”

He shrugged, entirely unrepentant. “Make room for yourself, then.”

You hesitated.

Not because you were scared.

But because the idea of sitting beside him again—with this tension still coiling under your skin like smoke—felt like a line you weren’t sure you were ready to cross.

He raised an eyebrow at you. “Don’t make me pat my lap like a cliché.”

You exhaled sharply, then padded across the room and sat beside him, legs tucked under you, a careful space left between your bodies.

Not much.

Barely a breath.

He didn’t speak.

Just turned the TV on with a flick of his fingers—something mindless, some chaotic martial arts film with bad dubbing and worse plot logic.

But you weren’t watching it.

Neither was he.

Not really.

You felt his eyes on you again during the quiet scenes. Felt the weight of him beside you in a way that had nothing to do with proximity and everything to do with intention.

The heat had returned to your cheeks.

But this time… you didn’t look away.

The movie played on in the background—something explosive and ridiculous—but you barely registered it. Not with Macaque stretched out beside you like a lounging predator in his den, warm and relaxed, like this was his couch in his home, and you were just visiting.

Your leg brushed his once. Just barely.

He didn’t move away.

“You keep twitching like that,” he said lazily, not even looking at you, “and I’m gonna start thinking you’re trying to get my attention.”

You scoffed, shifting slightly. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

He turned his head then—slowly—and gave you a grin that could’ve lit a fuse.

“Sweetheart,” he drawled, “I don’t have to. You’re doing all the work for me.”

Your breath caught, and for a second, you couldn’t tell if it was from annoyance or… something else.

“You’re ridiculous,” you muttered.

“Mm. Maybe,” he said, stretching his arms over his head in a way that pulled his shirt tight across his chest. His abs flexed just enough for you to notice. Just enough for you to look.

And of course, he noticed.

His golden eyes cut to you, sharp and amused.

“See something you like?” he purred, voice dropping half an octave. “Or were you just making sure I was still here after that little shower fantasy you probably had in there?”

Your face went hot instantly. “Excuse me?”

“Come on. Be honest,” he said, sitting up just enough to lean into your space. His tail slipped behind you again, curling ever so slightly around your hip. “You spent twenty minutes all warm and wet and alone. You can’t tell me I didn’t cross your mind at least once.”

“I wasn’t thinking about you,” you snapped—too fast. Too defensive.

His grin widened. “Oh? So just spiders then?”

You glared.

He leaned closer.

“Or maybe…” His voice softened, went low and rough. “You were thinking about me. Maybe the way I carried you in here. The way my tail felt on your back. The way I said I wasn’t touching you…”

His tail slid a little higher, up your spine this time, featherlight. Barely there.

You stiffened—but didn’t move.

“And maybe,” he continued, “that’s why your heart’s still beating like I just dragged you back into the house all over again.”

You couldn’t speak.

You couldn’t.

Because he was right. Your pulse was pounding against your ribs, your cheeks were flushed, and the heat pooling in your gut had nothing to do with fear.

He watched you squirm with open delight.

“You really are fun when you’re flustered,” he murmured. “All those little tells. Your breathing goes tight, your eyes dart away…” His claws traced lightly down your arm—not scratching, just pressure, just heat. “And you still haven’t told me to stop.”

You swallowed. Hard.

“I should,” you said, voice hoarse.

“But you won’t.” His lips were close now—too close. His breath danced across your cheek, warm and maddening. “Not yet.”

You turned your head. Just enough to meet his eyes fully. Just enough to brush the edge of his mouth with yours.

“You’re playing a dangerous game,” you whispered.

He chuckled, and it vibrated right through your chest.

“Pill Bug,” he murmured, golden eyes gleaming, “I am the dangerous game.”

And yet he didn’t kiss you.

He let that moment dangle—suspended, smoldering—before slowly pulling back just a few inches. Not far. Just enough to make you chase the warmth if you wanted it.

Just enough to make you miss it.

“You gonna finish your tea?” he asked, suddenly casual, like he hadn’t just made your whole body thrum with heat.

You blinked at him. “You’re unbelievable.”

He leaned back, smirking like the bastard he was. “Yeah. And you still let me stay.”

You didn’t answer.

You just picked up your tea with trembling fingers—and pretended not to notice the way his tail stayed curled lightly around your thigh.

You didn’t finish your tea.

You barely remembered setting the mug down.

Because Macaque was still watching you—head tilted, lips curled in that smug little grin like he already knew exactly what you were thinking. What you wanted.

His tail slid slowly up your thigh again. Not pressing. Just teasing. Like he was daring you to admit what you were feeling.

And gods help you, you were done pretending.

“Keep smiling like that,” you said, your voice rough, “and I’m gonna shut you up.”

That grin widened. “Promises, promises.”

You shifted closer.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t blink.

Didn’t breathe.

So you leaned in, slow and sure, until your nose brushed his and your lips hovered a breath from his own.

“I mean it,” you whispered.

“Then do it.”

Your fingers curled into the front of his shirt and you kissed him.

Hard.

It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t gentle. It was months of tension, of banter and barbed affection and withheld heat. And when you kissed him, he groaned against your mouth like he’d been waiting for this longer than he’d admit.

His hands came up immediately—one cupping the back of your head, the other gripping your hip like he had every intention of leaving bruises. His tail wrapped around your thigh tighter, possessive now, anchoring you to him as he kissed you like he was trying to devour every little gasp you gave him.

When you finally pulled back for air, lips swollen and lungs burning, he looked dazed for a second.

And then he grinned.

“You kiss like you’ve got something to prove,” he said, voice low and wrecked.

You glared. “You’re still talking?”

“Yeah, and now I’ve got evidence you like it.”

His thumb brushed your jaw, and the contact sent sparks down your spine. “Gods, look at you. All breathless and needy. Should’ve gotten you terrified by a spider weeks ago.”

You shoved his chest, but he caught your wrist mid-motion and pulled you right back into him—so fast your breath caught.

“You’re mine for the night now,” he said, mouth brushing your ear. “You realize that, right? You made the first move. That means I get to take my time.”

You didn’t have the air to argue.

Especially not when his mouth found your neck—soft at first, then with just enough teeth to make your pulse stumble.

“You’re warm,” he murmured against your skin. “Bet you’d be even warmer under me.”

You shuddered.

He felt it.

“Sensitive, too,” he purred, nosing under your jaw. “Gods, I knew you were the type to squirm.”

Your fingers fisted in the fabric of his shirt, trying to pull him closer and push him away at the same time.

“I hate you.”

“You hate how much you want me,” he said, nipping your collarbone.

You gasped—and he laughed.

Not mocking.

Not cruel.

Just delighted.

“You gonna beg for it?” he whispered, dragging his mouth back to yours, slow and torturous. “Or do I have to earn it?”

You met his lips again—hotter this time, messier, all tongue and teeth and tangled breath. Your legs shifted, straddling his lap without thinking, and he let out a low groan that thrummed through his chest.

“Oh yeah,” he breathed. “You’re not getting away from me now.”

His hands slid under your sweatshirt, warm and rough against bare skin. He didn’t rush. Just explored—slow, claiming touches that made your head spin.

And through it all, he kept talking.

“You’re so easy to rile up,” he said, fingers ghosting over your stomach. “Touch you a little, say the right thing, and you’re melting.”

“Shut up.”

“Make me.”

You kissed him again—deeper this time—and when you rolled your hips, he growled. A deep, guttural sound that made your toes curl.

He broke the kiss with a gasp, resting his forehead against yours.

“Careful,” he said. “You keep doing that and I’ll lose the rest of my patience.”

You didn’t stop.

Not when he bit your lower lip.

Not when he slid one hand between your thighs, just pressing, not enough, not yet—

And certainly not when he murmured, voice thick with heat and smug affection.

“Guess I’m the one who’s got you all tangled up now, huh?”

You weren’t sure when his teasing touch turned into something more deliberate.

One second, he had you straddled across his lap, laughing against your mouth like this was all a game—and the next, his hands were under your sweatshirt again, not wandering now, but searching.

“You’re really letting me touch you like this,” he murmured, lips brushing your cheek as his palms slid up your sides. “Didn’t think you had it in you. Always so twitchy. So nervous.”

“I’m not nervous,” you breathed, voice already shaking with something dangerously close to anticipation.

“No?” he whispered, smirking against the shell of your ear. “Then why are you trembling, sweetheart?”

He dragged his fingers down your waist, back up your ribcage, slow and maddeningly soft, like he was mapping your body for fun.

“Gods, you’re warm,” he groaned. “Soft, too. No wonder you’ve been hiding away—you’d never survive out there with skin like this. Too many people would want their hands on you.”

His thumbs brushed the underside of your breasts through the fabric, just enough to make your breath hitch—and he felt it. Of course he did. That sharp, golden gaze caught every twitch of your lips, every flutter in your lashes.

“You’re not wearing a bra,” he noted casually. “How convenient.”

You glared at him—but it didn’t land. Not when he finally pushed your sweatshirt up, exposing your breasts to the open air.

He didn’t touch.

Not yet.

Just looked at you like you were something he hadn’t earned yet but would.

“Pretty little thing,” he said, voice suddenly low and reverent. “All shy about showing skin, but look at you now.”

He brought one hand up—still hovering—until his knuckles grazed your nipple.

You sucked in a breath.

He grinned. “Sensitive too. I knew it.”

He finally cupped your breast, rough palm dragging across your skin, thumb rolling in lazy, cruel circles that sent shivers all the way to your spine.

“Does that feel good?” he asked mockingly. “Your hips are twitching. You trying to ride me already, or is this just what I do to you?”

You didn’t answer.

Couldn’t.

So he kept going—switched to your other breast, watching you with rapt attention as your body arched into his hands, desperate for more friction. More anything.

“Fuck,” he whispered, licking his lips. “You really are gorgeous when you’re desperate.”

He leaned forward, finally taking your nipple into his mouth, tongue flicking and teasing while one hand slid down—lower, trailing along your stomach and under the hem of your shorts.

You gasped when his fingers found you, already soaked through your panties.

He pulled back with a wicked smirk.

“Oh? You were gonna sit here and pretend you weren’t soaked for me?” he said, pressing two fingers against the damp fabric. “Lying and needy? You’re lucky I think that’s cute.”

He kissed your neck, slow and open-mouthed, even as his fingers started to move—still outside your panties, just barely rubbing where you needed it most.

“Say it,” he whispered against your skin. “Say you want me.”

You hesitated—barely.

And that hesitation earned you a pause.

He stopped touching entirely, his smirk deepening.

“See?” he said. “So easy to fall apart, but still too proud to beg.”

His hand dipped under the fabric this time, fingers sliding between your folds, teasing your clit in slow, deliberate circles that made your thighs tremble.

“You are soaked,” he murmured. “Fucking dripping for me.”

You whimpered.

He didn’t let up—just rubbed lazily, deliberately avoiding where you needed pressure the most, dragging out every twitch and shudder like it was his favorite song.

“You gonna be good for me now?” he murmured, nipping your jaw. “Or do I have to keep teasing this sweet pussy ‘til you’re crying for it?”

“Please,” you gasped, voice cracking.

His grin turned downright dangerous.

“There she is.”

He pressed harder—finally—and your hips jerked in his lap.

“Fuck—look at you grind. You’re such a mess already, and I’ve barely done anything.”

You were close.

Too close for how little he’d actually touched you. And he knew it.

“Think you can come just from my fingers?” he murmured, slipping one inside you, then two, slow and thick, curling them just right until you nearly saw stars.

“You’re squeezing so tight around me,” he groaned. “Like you need me.”

Your hands clutched his shoulders, trying to steady yourself, but he didn’t slow down—his thumb rolling over your clit now, timed perfectly with the slow, deliberate thrust of his fingers.

“I want you to come for me, sweetheart,” he said, lips brushing your ear. “And I want you loud. No hiding it. I want to hear what I do to you.”

And with a few more strokes—just like that—your whole body tightened, your breath caught, and you came with a cry you couldn’t swallow back if you tried.

Macaque held you close as you trembled through it, kissing your shoulder and neck, murmuring things you couldn’t even process, because all you could feel was him—his hands, his mouth, the low growl of approval against your skin.

“Good girl,” he whispered.

You shivered at the sound of it.

“You gonna let me ruin you properly next?” he asked, voice dark and hoarse, already hard beneath you.

“And don’t worry,” he added with a smug little smirk, “I’ll make fun of you the whole time.”

You were still trembling, trying to catch your breath, when Macaque pulled his fingers from your soaked heat and brought them to his mouth, licking them clean with a groan like he was tasting the finest damn thing he’d ever been given.

“Fuck, you taste good,” he said, golden eyes gleaming with mischief and hunger. “Like you were made for this.”

You opened your mouth to answer—but the words caught when his hand suddenly slid to the back of your neck.

“Hold on, sweetheart.”

And then the world shifted.

In a rush of shadow and pressure, the couch vanished. Your living room flickered away like smoke—and when you blinked again, you were in your bedroom. On your bed.

Flat on your back.

Macaque was above you, knees bracketing your hips, hands on either side of your head as he stared down at you with that maddening grin.

“You’re lucky I’m good at multitasking,” he said, voice a dark purr. “Because you’ve got so much to make up for. Half a year of hiding? You owe me at least three orgasms just for that.”

You tried to sit up—but he pushed you gently back down with one hand on your sternum.

“Uh-uh,” he murmured. “Stay.”

Then he leaned in—and bit you.

Right at the crook of your neck, where the skin was softest. Not hard enough to break skin, but enough to make your breath catch and your thighs clamp together.

“Marking what’s mine,” he said, voice muffled against your neck.

He kissed the bite after. Softly.

And then he moved down.

Tugging off your shorts and panties in one smooth, practiced motion, like he’d done it a thousand times in his head already. He threw them somewhere behind him without looking.

“You’re already wet again,” he murmured, settling between your legs. “I barely even touched you.”

His breath ghosted over your thighs, his hands gripping them just enough to keep you open for him.

“Wanna know what I think?” he asked, pressing a slow, hot kiss to your inner thigh. “I think you’ve been waiting for this since the first time I walked through your door.”

Another kiss. Higher.

“I think you liked the way I pushed you. The way I watched you.”

His tongue flicked out, teasing you, and your hips jerked in response.

“Oh yeah,” he growled. “That’s the sound I wanted.”

Then he buried his face between your thighs.

You gasped—loud, sharp, almost broken—as his mouth moved against you. His tongue was skillful, slow and devastating, licking you like he was savoring the very idea of your pleasure.

He moaned against your skin, like he was the one getting off on it. And maybe he was.

“Look at you,” he muttered between strokes. “Trembling for me. Fucking soaked. You’re lucky I like a challenge.”

Your fingers twisted in the sheets. Your back arched. He didn’t let up.

Didn’t want to.

He licked you until your legs were shaking again, until you were panting his name and begging—actually begging—for him to do something, anything more.

And when you were right on the edge again, he pulled back, lips shining with your slick.

“Ready?” he asked, already dragging his shirt off over his head. “Because I’ve been ready since the moment you sat on my lap.”

You reached for him—desperate now—and he let you pull him down on top of you, mouths crashing again, teeth and tongues and heat.

You felt the hard press of him between your thighs, grinding into your soaked core, and you knew he was doing it on purpose.

“Beg for it,” he whispered, nipping your jaw.

You gasped. “Macaque—”

“Come on. Say it. Say you want me to fuck you.”

“I want you—”

“Say it,” he growled, voice turning low and rough and hungry. “Say you want me to ruin you.”

You whimpered. “I want you to ruin me.”

And that’s when he finally gave in.

The stretch, the fullness, the sound you made when he pushed in slow and deep—he drank it in like a man starved.