me, as ever, gone

If she could say no, she would. If she could shake her head no, she would. If she could refuse, she would. Because it was better, at this point, to go out fighting, but however these monsters did it, the notion of refusal was castor oil on the tongue of her brain - detestable and unwanted.

So she does, she uncurls from the corner of the small room and walks forward as they open the gate - a shade of when she was brought here, staring up at him wordlessly a quick stuttering of her breath betraying trepidation. "Hello." She doesn't try begging to go home, or pleading to be let go, or any of that - all of that has been beaten and burnt and drilled and driven from her. But she has begun to play a new game in her work here - rules are rules, that much is true - but every rule can be tested.

"You are going to do something for me," Luther said, his voice a low, dangerous murmur. A smile curled at the corners of his lips. "You're going to leave this place, find a child, and bring them back to me."

He hadn't compelled her yet. Instead, he leaned closer, his eyes glinting with cruel amusement. He wanted to see how far he could push her, to test her resilience. The defiance in her eyes intrigued him, a sharp contrast to the defeated submission he was used to seeing in his prisoners. He was curious to see if he could provoke any sort of reaction from her, to see how much her will could withstand before his power broke through.

The smile remained on his lips as he waited, savoring the tension in the air. He enjoyed the challenge, the game of seeing whether she would bend to his will on her own or if he would need to resort to his darker, more manipulative methods.

Children were perfect spies—innocent, often overlooked, and easily manipulated. He needed eyes and ears everywhere, a network of informants who could slip through the cracks unnoticed. Adults were too set in their ways, too likely to resist or betray. But children… children could be molded, shaped into the perfect instruments of his will.

Misery likes to keep the company of melancholic ferocity. When pressed into a corner, there’s only one direction to slash and cleave at. It’s that, or cower and pray. Shivering in the sharp edges of an intersection — it’s the equivalent to a crossroads.

Reid’s standing at one. 

Luther’s a leviathan in the way of murderous body counts. He's taken friends of Reid's, brothers in arms and the like. But Halstead thinks his methodology has always been skewed — he spits on the oaths, but delivers the heads (and often, far more than necessary) at doorsteps like a reaper. Reid has known Blackwood’s name long before the curse of Nisha’s blood infected him. 

Luther’s on every brotherhood’s most-wanted list, somewhere. A snake that slithers through the cracks of his own fabrication any time a hunter gets even slightly close to puncturing his heart. It’s awfully funny how easy he is to access when Reid’s no longer alive. 

Perhaps he really is from an era of grim reapers — maybe the world beneath the veil of shadows runs far deeper than even the underworld. 

Halstead’s heard a rumour that Blackwood’s got an ego much like the centre of the earth; a fiery heat that burns upon any intrusion. 

It’s a desperate plea from Reid — this act of approach. He’s unfed, mind lapsing on every tinge of iron he captures in the air. A rustle that has his eyes fleeting from one direction to the next — Luther’s seen him as a hunter; all bolts, and strength. All cocky threats and bruised knuckles. He’s about to see him at his worst because he’s no longer got pride as his anchor. 

“Blackwood,” a hiss of a sound. Reid hates that he’s here at all. Wandering a trail that puts him in a place he doesn’t want to be. There’s always going to be a part of him that wants to catch Luther off his game —  to climb on top of him, get the better of the creature and tear his jaw from his face.

It’d be a nice vengeance for all the times he and Reid never got to get properly acquainted. Blades, fangs and all.

His tongue peeks from between his lips. He’s thinking — no, he’s attempting not to say something that will only earn him ire. “You were never this easy to find before." a beat. "Have you become sloppy?” What had begun as a backhanded compliment in an act to play into the other monster’s psyche, had turned into a bitter hunter's jab. 

Luther emerged from the shadows, the flickering light casting a sinister glow on his features. His eyes, sharp and predatory, fixed on Reid with a cold amusement. The once fierce hunter, now a creature of the night, looked like a shadow of his former self. There was a certain poetic justice in seeing Reid reduced to this state, a vampire fighting the hunger gnawing at his core.

"Halstead," Luther replied smoothly, his tone dripping with mockery. "It's been too long. I must say, undeath doesn't suit you."

He began to circle Reid slowly, like a shark assessing its next meal. His movements were fluid, almost serpentine, as he studied his former adversary. The scent of desperation and unfed hunger clung to Reid like a second skin, a pungent aroma that Luther inhaled deeply, savoring the moment. The dungeon around them was damp and dark, the walls slick with moss and the air thick with decay.

The more time passes, the more impatient Ida gets. Her glinting golden heel taps against the side of the bar stool she's sitting on, black fabric of her dress moving along with her leg. This is a fail. It's her first real date after the break-up from Zahir (which says a lot about how the last few years have been going), and she even curled her hair for it. Which is useless now, because her date isn't showing up.

Ida sighs as she stares at the Are you still coming? text she sent half an hour ago, then at her second drink of the night. Obviously James, 34, isn't coming anymore. Making her feel stupid in her dress, in her makeup, in the heels. It's a nice place, and she chose it, because it's her favorite -- just to get a boring, child-free night.

"Can I get the check?", Ida asks the bartender, tossing the phone back into her bag, "I'm gonna head out." To sleep. Or eat ice. Or cry. God knows.

There was a floral note, delicate and elusive, reminiscent of jasmine and night-blooming cereus, blending seamlessly with the underlying sweetness of dark cherries and honey. It was intoxicating, more than just a scent—it was a promise of untold power and ancient secrets, hidden deep within her veins.

As he breathed in, he could sense the crackling energy beneath her skin, the electric charge of her witch's blood. It was like standing on the edge of a storm, feeling the raw, unbridled power thrumming through the air, waiting to be unleashed. It was magnetic, drawing him in with an irresistible pull, making his senses tingle and his instincts roar.

"Leaving so soon?" He pushed off the bar and approached her just as she asked for the check. "Perhaps there's more to this night than either of us anticipated."