The_Gullah_Warrior

“Thank God they’re gone,” he murmurs, but the words have no relief in them. They sound instead like a man whispering a prayer moments before he breaks.

You turn to him. “Victor… what’s wrong?”

He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t even look at you. Instead, he wheels around without warning and strides toward the stairwell leading upwards. You feel dread rise like a tide, irresistibly pulling you in his wake. And so you follow.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

The iron staircase creaks under your steps. Candlelight wavers on the damp stone walls. The deeper you go, the more the air thickens with cold and the distant roar of the ocean slamming against the cliff. You reach the sewer chamber and there he is. The creature sits where he always sits when waiting for you, straight-backed despite the chain fastened to his wrist, large hands resting uncertainly in his lap. The moment he hears your footsteps, his head snaps up.

His entire face changes. The soft, blooming warmth of recognizing someone who has never once feared him. He rises awkwardly, joints stiff, and holds out his hand. As if simply seeing you makes him… lighter.

You smile despite the dread curling in your stomach and place your hand in his. His fingers tremble slightly as they curl around yours, gentle, hesitant, hungry for affection he has yet to understand.

“I couldn’t sleep,” you whisper. “I needed to see if you were all right.”

He leans in closer, studying your face the way most men study scripture. Gently, reverently, as though you contain a truth he has no name for.

“Vi…ctor?” he says, uncertain.

You shake your head, laughing softly. “No. Victor isn’t here. It’s me. Try again- my name.”

You say it slowly, placing your fingertips over his lips to guide the shape. He watches every movement intently, as though learning language is an intimate ritual he wants desperately to master. Before he can try the sound, you lift the small portrait you painted earlier of him, bathed in warm tones of amber and sienna. His expression softens. His thumb brushes the page with something like awe.

“You see?” you say gently. “Beautiful things can come from the dark.”

He looks at you and something unspoken flickers in his eyes. Something young and fragile and aching. Then-

“What in God’s name is this?”

The words slam into the chamber like a thunderclap. You whirl around. Victor stands at the bottom of the stairs, candle in hand, his face hollow and ghostly in the flame’s glow. His hair is disheveled, his collar slack, his breathing unsteady as though he ran the entire way down fueled by panic and fury.

He descends the last steps slowly, deliberately.

“y/n.” he says, voice cracking, “I gave you one rule. One. And yet here you are, again, sneaking into the bowels of my creation as though this were some secret rendezvous.”

Your breath freezes in your chest. “Victor-”

“Do not speak,” he spits, raising a trembling hand. “Not yet. I want to see how far the betrayal goes before you attempt excuses.”

The creature shifts uneasily, stepping toward you with protective instinct. The chain rattles loudly, echoing in the damp chamber.

Victor explodes.

“STAY BACK, YOU ABOMINATION!”

The creature flinches so violently you feel it in your own bones.

“Victor!” you shout. “He didn’t do anything!”

Victor’s laugh is jagged and humorless. “Yes. That much is clear. He never does anything, does he? No wickedness. No rebellion. Not even a voice strong enough to defend you. And yet you cling to him as though he were the last man on earth capable of love.”

Your heart slams painfully in your chest. Victor’s eyes flick to your joined hands. His face contorts.

“With me,” he snarls, grabbing your arm with bruising force. “Now.”

“Victor, stop! Let go!”

He yanks you up the stairs so fast the creature lets out a distressed, strangled gasp behind you. The last thing you see as the door slams is him reaching for you, confused, scared and his chain jolting him back into darkness.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Victor shoves you inside the laboratory, the door slamming like the crack of a gunshot. He moves with a manic energy, pacing like a man at the brink of madness.

“You have undermined me for the last time,” he says, voice shaking. “I have tolerated your softness, your sentimentality, your irrational affection for that creature.”

“He’s not a creature!” you shout. “He’s a man! He thinks, he feels-”

“He mimics feeling,” Victor snaps, whirling toward you. “That is all. He is a collection of dead matter stitched together by my genius and animated by my will. Whatever tenderness you believe you see is merely an echo of human behavior, a ghost of the bodies he was assembled from.”

Your jaw tightens. “You don’t even call him ‘him.’ You call him ‘it.’”

“Because that is what he is!” Victor shouts. “An it. A specimen. A scientific triumph. Not something for you to coddle and cradle like some forbidden lover!”

Heat floods your cheeks. “How dare you even suggest-”

“Oh, but I must,” Victor says, stepping closer, eyes burning. “Because I have seen the way you look at him. With wonder. With tenderness. With devotion you have never once shown me.”

“That isn’t true.”

He laughs a broken, ugly sound. “You kneel beside him as though he were an altar. You bring him your paintings, your sketches, your soul. All those soft, secret things you keep hidden from everyone else, you give them to him.”

You stumble back a step, breath shallow. “Victor, please…”

“You should never have gone to him.” he says, voice trembling around every syllable. “You should never have touched him, or spoken so gently to him, or- or given him pieces of yourself that you have never given to me.”

“Victor, you’re not making sense-”

“I am making perfect sense!” he yells, slamming his hand against the table so hard that glass shatters. “You see him as something precious. Something worthy of your affection. And it disgusts me, it destroys me.”

Your throat tightens. “Victor, please, you’re frightening me.”

He steps closer. Too close. “Good,” he whispers. “Perhaps now you understand what it feels like to watch the person you love turn all their softness toward something else. Something inhuman.”

“You don’t love me like that,” you breathe. “You’re my brother.”

His face contorts with anguish. “That has never stopped love before.”

Your heart drops. Victor takes another step forward, slow, deliberate, like a man walking toward the gallows.

“I built him,” he murmurs, voice breaking. “I brought him from death into life. I gave him existence. And still… still you look at him with a tenderness you deny me. As if he were the first man you had ever seen.”

“That isn’t true,” you whisper, choking on panic. “You’re twisting my words-”

“Am I?” Victor asks softly, deadly. “Then look me in the eye and tell me you don’t feel anything for him.”

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. And that silence is the final fracture. Victor’s breath catches, a sound halfway between a sob and a gasp.

“God help us both,” he whispers, “but I cannot let him take you from me.”

His hands move before you understand what he intends. Cold fingers clamp around your throat. Your gasp is cut short, strangled into silence as Victor shoves you back against the table, his grip tightening with trembling desperation.

“V–Victor!” you choke, clawing at his wrists. “Please- stop… Victor, stop!”

Tears spill down your face. Not from fear of death but from the devastation of his betrayal. You look at him through blurring vision, begging with your eyes.

“It’s me,” you rasp, voice mangled by pressure. “Victor… it’s me- your sister- please.”

His face collapses with agony, body shaking, but his hands do not loosen.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he whispers, voice hysterically soft. “Don’t. please- I have to do this, don’t you see? If you go back to him, if you keep choosing him-”

Your legs buckle as black dots swarm your vision. You scrape weakly at his arms, tears streaming freely now, your voice a broken whisper through crushed air.

“I trusted you…”

That pierces him. Victor’s eyes go wide, full of horror but full of love.

“I know,” he breathes, his grip tightening in a sudden spasm of panic. “Forgive me. Forgive me. Forgive-”

Your consciousness begins to unravel.

Sound distorts and his voice turns distant, watery, fading. Your knees hit the floor. Your hands slip from his wrists. Your tears drip onto the wooden boards. Victor lowers you gently without even realizing, still holding your throat, shaking as though he himself might collapse.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

For several long, paralyzed seconds after your body slumps into stillness, Victor does not breathe. He kneels over you, hands hovering helplessly above your throat as if afraid to touch you again, eyes blown wide with a horror so complete it looks like a second death blooming inside him.

“y- y/n…?” His voice is a fractured, trembling thread. “Please… please open your eyes…”

You do not.

Your body lies limp against the floorboards, cheek pressed to the cold wood, lashes still wet with tears. Your breathing is faint, shallow, thin as silk. But Victor doesn’t know that at first. Not until he presses trembling fingers to your neck and feels the faint flutter of a pulse. He collapses over you in a choked sob of relief.

“Oh God- oh God- thank God-” His voice breaks. “I didn’t mean to- You forced my hand, I swear it, I can’t lose you to him…”

His words tumble over themselves, panicked and senseless, half confession, half fevered justification. He gathers you into his arms like a child cradling a shattered doll, lifting your unconscious body against his chest. You’re weightless to him in this moment, or perhaps he is simply numb, hollowed out by the reality of what he’s done.

Your head falls limp against his shoulder. Your hair brushes his cheek. Victor swallows a broken sound and presses his forehead to yours for a heartbeat, voice shaking violently.

“Forgive me. Please, please forgive me. I can’t live without you. I can’t- I won’t-”

He forces himself upright and carries you through the dim machinery levels and narrow staircase, stumbling with a frantic urgency that borders on delirium. Every few steps he looks down at your face, terrified that the shallow rise and fall of your chest might stop.

He kicks open the door to his bedroom and lays you on his own bed, the only place in the world he considers safe. The candlelight washes over your still features, softening the bruising forming along your throat. Victor’s breath stutters when he sees the marks left by his own hands. He presses a trembling palm to his mouth, choking on guilt and possessive panic entwined too tightly to separate.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers to your sleeping form, voice hoarse and breaking in the middle. “I wish you had never looked at him. I wish you had never smiled at him. I wish I could tear this love from your heart- I wish- I wish…”

His voice dissolves into a painful, wordless sound. He steps back from the bed. As if distance might protect you from him. But the protectiveness returns like a snapping wire, sharp and immediate. He grabs a blanket and tucks it gently around your shoulders, brushing hair from your forehead with the back of trembling fingers.

“You’ll be safe,” he murmurs. “You’ll stay here, and you’ll be safe from him. From everything. From everyone who would take you from me.”

His pupils sharpen with furious resolve. “Even him.”

He rises, wipes his face, shoulders heaving with breaths that don’t calm him. He steps out of the room, closing the door softly behind him. Then his softness ends.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Victor becomes a man possessed, driven by a feverish clarity sharper than madness. He drags tin canisters across the floor, their clanging echoing through the empty industrial belly of the building.

One. Two. Ten. Dozens. He tears open lids with shaking hands and begins pouring gasoline across the floors, the walls, the rafters, each splash accompanied by mutters that spill like prayers twisted into threats.

“You won’t take her from me,” he hisses under his breath, pacing like a predator marking territory. “You’ll never have her. You may wear a man’s face, but you’re not worthy of her. You’re not worthy of breath.”

He dumps another canister, gasoline soaking the machinery, the support beams, seeping into the cracks of the building like poison.

“She’s mine,” he mutters. “My twin. My blood. My other half. Before God, before creation, before you.” His eyes blaze with a feverish devotion.

“She belonged to me first.” Then he turns, jaw set, eyes blazing with resolve and fear and possessive fury.

The sewer reeked of damp stone and stagnant water, a cold subterranean tomb illuminated only by the trembling flame of the lantern Victor clutched with a white-knuckled grip. The creature sat where he always did, yet looking far more like a frightened child than Victor ever allowed himself to admit. His enormous dark eyes lifted at the sound of approaching footsteps, reflecting a gentleness that had no place in the hell he’d been confined to. But tonight, Victor’s steps carried something new, something shaking and violent and threaded with desperation.

He came to a stop only a few feet away, the lantern quivering in his grasp as he tried to steady both his breath and his unraveling sanity. His voice cracked, sharp and feverish as he hissed, “Say one more word. Just one. Let me save you. Just… speak. Prove you’re worth all of this.” 

His plea echoed across the stone like a confession he never meant to utter, like the prayer of a man watching his life’s only accomplishment rot in front of him.

The creature only watched him in silence, wide-eyed and confused, as if trying to decipher why Victor trembled so violently tonight. He had known language for mere weeks; he had known compassion for even less time. Everything he’d learned had come in fragments, Victor’s frantic commands, your soft whispered encouragement, the repeated name that he clung to because it made you turn toward him with a smile instead of fear. Victor’s jaw tightened until his teeth ground together. His expression collapsed into disappointment so raw it bordered on grief. Finally, with a sharp exhale, he turned away, boots splashing angrily through the filth.

But then, just as he reached the first step a soft, uncertain voice behind him broke the silence.

“…y/n…?”

It was fragile and breathy, spoken with the hesitance of a child learning how sound worked at all. But it was unmistakable. Victor froze, every muscle in his body seizing with a shock so visceral it looked like pain. Slowly, painfully, he turned back. His expression shifted rapidly, astonishment, then horror, then a fury so poisonous it twisted his features into something monstrous.

“No…” he choked out. “No- NOT that name.”

The creature, sensing Victor’s distress but not understanding its cause, repeated the word even softer this time, reaching out as though speaking your name might call you back to him.

Victor didn’t shout. He didn’t scream. He just went completely still, his face hollowing out as if something inside him had died. And then, without warning, he bolted up the steps with a panic so intense he nearly dropped the lantern in his rush to escape the sound of your name on the creature’s lips.

He burst into the laboratory chest heaving, hands shaking violently. The sight of his work, the books, the instruments, the cracked glass tanks only seemed to drive him further into madness.

“He learned her name,” he raged, grabbing the lantern and smashing it against the stone counter so violently that shards scattered across the floor. “HER name, not words, not thought, but HER.” His breath came in shallow gasps, almost sobs. “He knows the word that belongs to ME. The word that belongs to my blood, my mirror, my other half, my only tether-”

And then his eyes fell on you.

Still unconscious where he’d laid you on his bed, your body soft and peaceful, your hair fanned across the pillow like spilled ink. Your breathing, gentle, struck him like a blade to the gut. He stumbled toward you, collapsing to his knees beside the mattress, reaching out with trembling fingers that hovered over your throat where the darkening marks of his hands faintly showed.

“My sweet girl… my darling sister…” His voice cracked into a broken whisper. “What have I done to you?” Tears gathered in his eyes but did not fall, trapped by pride or madness or both. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I only wanted to keep you safe- safe with me. Safe from him.”

But then his expression hardened like cooling metal. Slowly, he rose to his feet.

“I won’t let him have you,” he murmured, almost lovingly, almost reverently. “Never. Not him. Not ever.”

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Victor moved through the decaying building with eerie determination, every step echoing with the hollow calm of a man who has finally found his purpose, even if that purpose is destruction. He ripped open the last barrels of gasoline, the sharp chemical scent instantly filling the air as he poured the liquid over every wooden surface he could reach. It soaked into the floorboards, seeped down the stairs, dripped between cracks and spread through the lower halls like a shimmering flood of doom.

As he worked, he whispered to himself, each word trembling with feverish conviction. “I gave him life. I gave him form. I shaped him with my own hands. And he dares- he dares to reach for her? No. No, he won’t. She’s mine. My twin. My heart. My half. No creature of scraps and lightning will ever take her from me.”

He returned to the bedroom drenched in the scent of fuel, his clothes dark and glistening with it. His eyes softened the moment they fell upon you. He approached the bed reverently, brushing a strand of hair from your cheek with fingers that still shook uncontrollably.

“Forgive me,” he whispered, voice breaking. “When you wake… all of this will be over. You’ll be safe. You’ll be mine again.”

Then, with careful, trembling arms, he lifted your limp body against his chest. He held you as though you were made of glass, pressing a kiss to your forehead. And he carried you down into the depths of the building.

The creature lifted his head the moment Victor’s footsteps echoed through the tunnel again. His eyes widened when he saw you in Victor’s arms, your body limp, your head resting on Victor’s shoulder. And a distressed sound escaped him, something pained and bewildered.

Victor pulled you tightly against his chest as if shielding you. “Don’t look at her,” he growled, his voice low and venomous.

The creature moved back instinctively, confusion etched onto every line of his face. He tugged at the chains helplessly, the metal clanking loudly in the narrow stone corridor. Victor stepped closer, lanternlight flickering across his manic expression. His smile was thin, trembling, carved from grief and madness.

“I came down for one reason…” he murmured.

He leaned closer to the creature, so close their breaths almost touched.

“…to watch you die.”

For a single suspended heartbeat, everything was still. And with that, he dropped the lantern.

Then the gasoline ignited. Flames exploded upward in a roaring torrent, slithering across the floor in ravenous streams. They raced up the walls, devoured the low beams overhead, and surged toward the creature with violent, blistering heat. The tunnel became a furnace, the air a suffocating haze of smoke and firelight.

Victor held you tighter, stepping back from the rushing inferno, whispering through clenched teeth, “You’re safe now. He’ll never touch you again. You’ll never belong to anyone but me.”

The creature lunged forward in terror, the chains rattling wildly as he fought against them. He called out, not in anger, not in violence, but in pure desperate fear.

And then, for the first time since the night of his creation he screamed your name.

You exhaled shakily. “So this is the moment,” you murmured, stepping closer to the creature’s stitched chest, your voice trembling between awe and fear. “This is where everything changes, isn’t it?”

Victor didn’t answer with words, he only touched the creature’s cheek as though touching the face of a newborn, ignoring the coldness, ignoring the sewn-together scars, ignoring the memory of every body he harvested to build this single impossible vessel. Another rumble of thunder rolled closer, vibrating the floor beneath your feet. From the far end of the hall, you heard Harlander’s heavy footsteps descending the iron stairs, followed by his smooth, practiced voice echoing beneath the rafters.

“You’ve truly done it, Victor,” he said, the admiration real but edged with something else…something greedy, something hungry. “A perfect structure. A perfect form.”

Victor stiffened, shoulders rising, tension tightening the muscles along his neck in a way you’d learned meant he didn’t trust the intentions in someone’s tone. You could feel the air shift around you as Harlander drew closer, stopping at Victor’s side, looking down upon the creature with a strange glimmer you hadn’t seen before, not some scientific interest but possession.

He leaned in and whispered something to Victor that you didn’t hear, but you saw Victor’s reaction: a slow, sharp recoil.

Then Victor said, low and hard, “No.”

Harlander’s voice came back sharper, “You refuse me? After everything I’ve provided?”

You were confused and Victor turned toward him fully now, voice rising,

“Funding the building was one thing, Henrich, but what you’re asking is impossible- it’s madness-”

You frowned, stepping closer. “Que demande-t-il à Victor?" (What is he asking Victor?)

But he didn’t answer you. He only shot Harlander a furious look and marched toward the stairs leading upward, muttering under his breath. Harlander followed with an expression darkening by the second, and Victor tossed a look over his shoulder.

“I won’t discuss this here. Not in front of her.”

A sharp sting cut through your chest at those words.

You watched them disappear up the spiraling metal staircase, their voices fading into storm-heavy echoes above, and something in the back of your mind tugged, an instinct whispering that whatever Victor refused to say aloud was not something trivial.

A crack of thunder hit so close the walls shuddered. You flinched, and the creature’s enormous silhouette trembled in your peripheral vision as though even the corpse felt the tension.

Minutes passed. Their voices began to rise. Then shout. You looked quickly at the creature, “I will return, everything will be fine.” but you didn’t know if you were trying to convince him or yourself. 

That was the moment your instincts twisted into dread, pushing your feet automatically toward the stairs.

You lifted your skirts and climbed quick, breath loud in your own ears as the wind whistled through the slats of the old structure, the storm already beginning to claw its way over the cliff’s edge. You reached the upper platform just in time. Just in time to hear Victor shouting.

“The disease has already spread, Henrich! You are dying- there is nothing for me to save!”

And you froze halfway onto the platform because Harlander turned sharply toward Victor and what you saw shocked you in place. The sudden gust of wind lifted his hair just enough for you to see beneath it. His scalp was bare. Pale. Rotting in patches. You were no doctor by any means but you knew it was Syphilis. Your breath hitched, a small sharp sound that made Harlander whip around to face you. For the first time, you saw his eyes not as polished, charming instruments of social prowess but wild, frantic, desperate.

“You weren’t meant to see this.”

He said it with both shame and fury, turning his gaze to the ground. Victor’s head snapped toward you, shock and frustration cutting through his features.

“You shouldn’t be up here-”

“What is happening!?” you demanded, voice louder than either of theirs for the first time.

Your heart slammed against your ribs. “Victor- did you know? Did he tell you?”

Harlander barked out a broken laugh. “Oh yes, he knows. He knows I’m dying. He knows the disease is inside me- devouring me. But look at what he’s built!”

He gestured wildly toward the creature’s corpse below. “A perfect, powerful vessel- untouched, unspoiled-”

Victor stepped between you and Harlander, voice low and dangerous.

“You think I would put your diseased mind into that body? You think I would corrupt my creation before it has even drawn breath?”

Harlander’s face twisted into something jagged and unrecognizable.

“You promised me resurrection.”

Victor’s voice cracked like a whip. “Not for you!”

The rain grew harsher, the first crackling forks of lightning crawling across the sky only a mile off, throwing white flashes over Harlander’s frenzied expression.

Harlander moved so suddenly you gasped, lunging toward one of the silver rods lying on the ground.

He snatched it up, gripping it like a weapon, holding it over the enormous vertical shaft at the center of the building, the massive drop that led straight down to the chamber hundreds of feet below.

“If I cannot live in that new body,” he hissed, voice trembling, “then I will not let you witness the fruit of your efforts!”

“Herr Harlander, don’t” Victor cried out, stepping forward, “If we lose that, we have nothing. We both lose!”

He jerked back, inches from slipping. “I will be the eagle that feasts on your liver!”

A violent gust of wind struck the platform then, swirling rain and cold salt air around you, whipping your hair across your eyes, and in that moment Harlander’s wig tore free completely, flying off into the storm and exposing the full horror of his scalp. You gasped. Harlander saw the disgust in Victor’s face. Saw the shock in yours.

He took another step back, too close, far too close, to the lip of the shaft. You reached out instinctively, palm outstretched.

“Harlander! Henrich- just give it to me,” you pleaded, voice trembling but steady. “We can talk about this, but you need to come away from the edge- please!”

Your voice softened even as your heart pounded. “You don’t have to die like this.”

For a fraction of a moment, his eyes softened. Just a fraction. But then lightning struck the upper struts of the building with a deafening crack. Harlander flinched and his boot slipped.

The silver rod clanged loudly as it hit the metal floor and then bounced. You watched it in slow motion. Watched it skid. Saw Harlander twist to grab it. Watched his fingers miss. Watched him fall. He didn’t scream. He simply vanished into the enormous black mouth of the shaft, swallowed by the churning machinery far, far below. You staggered forward with a strangled cry, staring into the darkness where he’d disappeared, your voice raw as you shouted.

“HENRICH!”

But there was no sound. No cry. No sign that he was alive...

Victor grabbed your shoulders from behind, pulling you back from the edge as though afraid you might fall too, his voice hoarse, urgent.

“Don’t look, don’t- y/n, come away from there.”

But you kept staring, breath shaking, heart pounding so hard you thought your ribs might crack.

“Victor… he’s dead,” you whispered, the truth wrapping cold fingers around your spine.

Victor swallowed hard, jaw clenching, grief folding into something darker. Then he spoke out words that would surely haunt you for years:

“We have to continue. Before the storm passes.”

You turned to him slowly, disbelief and horror drawn across your face.

“Tu ne peux pas être sérieux, Victor- après ce qui vient de se passer?? Comment peux-tu encore réfléchir à l'essai?" (You can not be serious Victor- after what just happened?? How can you think about the experiment right now?)

His eyes met yours, feverish and unrelenting.

“Car si je m'arrête maintenant… sa mort ne signifie rien." (Because if I stop now… his death means nothing)

Lightning peeled across the sky again, illuminating the creature’s body below, the stitches, the metal rods, the perfect form waiting for life.

And despite the intense fear twisting inside you, despite Harlander’s death still echoing in your bones, you felt something else rise alongside the dread. Something like destiny.

You whispered, “Alors je reste avec toi. Quoi qu'il arrive ce soir… je suis là." (Then I stay with you. Whatever happens tonight… I’m here)

Then he grabbed your hand and took you below.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

The storm had raged for hours, a furious, heaving sky that seemed determined to split itself open directly over Victor’s creation. You stood beside him the entire time, drenched to the bone, your face stinging from the wind, rain water flooding the seams of your dress, your heartbeat thrumming like a second storm trapped in your chest. Victor shouted himself hoarse as he worked through the final steps, barking commands at you, at God himself, as though brute force and brilliance alone could make lightning bend to his will.

And then the lightning struck. A violent shudder tore through the structure, the silver rods crackled with white fire, the stitched body jerked once but then fell still.

You saw it immediately, the way Victor’s hope collapsed inside him like a candle snuffed out. He stared down at the body in disbelief, rainwater sliding across his face, making it impossible to tell whether he was crying.

“This isn’t…” he whispered, choking on the breath. “This is not how it’s meant to be.”

“Victor-”

“No.” He stumbled forward, checking for a pulse. “No, no, no- this was supposed to work. It should have worked, I-” He pressed both fists to his temples as if he could crush his own skull to silence whatever was screaming inside it. “I need- I need to think. I need- I can’t be down here, I cannot-”

You reached for him, but he tore himself away and staggered up the stairs, slipping once on wet stone. You watched him disappear, swallowed by the building. For a long time, you didn’t move, looking down at the body on the table. Just… waiting.

You approached him slowly, your breath trembling in the cold, and rested your fingertips against the edge of the table. You studied the sewn seams along his arms and chest, the precision, the care, the horror and beauty intertwined.

“Victor doesn’t know how to wait,” you whispered to the still, stitched figure. “But… I do.”

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Victor woke to a sudden heavy thud, something shifting the air, something too large and too deliberate to be the building settling. He jolted upright in bed, breath ripped from his lungs, heart slamming against his ribs as he saw a shape. A towering silhouette.

A shadow leaned over him, impossibly still, impossibly silent, a child’s posture trapped inside a giant’s frame. The creature’s face, stitched, pale, unevenly lit by morning light hovered next to Victor’s bed. Then Victor let out a yelp. You were halfway down the corridor when you heard it.

“Victor?” you called, voice cracking. “Victor!”

You burst into his room and froze. Because he was standing there…alive. You stepped forward before fear even had time to bloom. Your body moved toward him in pure awe, as though drawn by instinct, reverence, wonder. He turned at the sound of the door and his eyes met yours.

Your breath stuttered once, a flutter of panic, shock, disbelief,  but you steadied yourself almost instantly, lowering your voice, softening every line of your body the way one might when approaching a startled animal.

“It’s all right,” you whispered. “You’re- you’re all right.”

Victor scrambled across the floor like something chased, gasping, “Wait get away from him-! Get back y/n-!”

But you barely heard him. The creature’s eyes were enormous, unblinking, filled with a childlike confusion that struck you so sharply it hurt. His stitched chest rose and fell in uneven, rattling breaths. Every muscle in his body was coiled with tension, but not aggression.

He looked terrified. Not terrifying.

You lifted your hands slowly, palms open and watched him copy your movement. You felt your voice steady more.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” you said. “I promise.”

The creature tilted his head, the exact same motion a child makes when trying to understand language without knowing the words. A soft, broken little sound escaped him, more breath than voice. Victor stared at you like you’d lost your mind.

“y/n please step back. It’s- it’s not stable- it shouldn’t be”

“Victor,” you whispered without looking at him, “he was alone when he opened his eyes for the first time. Of course he’s frightened.”

Your brother fell silent, chest heaving.

The creature glanced between the two of you, tremors rippling across his massive limbs. You took one slow step forward. He did not retreat. Instead, he mirrored you, head lowering just slightly, hands hanging helplessly at his sides, eyes wide and pleading in a way you had not expected. Your heart cracked open.

“There you are,” you breathed. “I knew you weren’t a failure.”

He blinked at the sound of your voice, eyes softening just barely, as if he recognized something in your tone, something safe.

Victor, shaking, finally managed to find his voice again.

“I… I didn’t fail,” he whispered, stunned, horrified, ecstatic all at once. “It’s alive. It- it’s actually alive-”

The creature flinched at Victor’s raised voice. You lifted your hand slightly, not touching him, just a gesture.

“It’s okay,” you murmured. “He’s just excited.”

You didn’t know why you were speaking to him as if he understood, or at least you believed he did. The creature took a small step toward you, hesitant and heavy. You felt Victor tense like a threatened animal behind you, but you held your ground, forcing your breath to remain calm, gentle.

“It’s all right,” you said softly. “I’m here.”

Your eyes never left his. For a moment he seemed to recognize your steadiness, your quiet presence, the way you didn’t treat him harshly or as some mistake.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Victor’s shock eventually gave way to exhilaration. Wild, unguarded exhilaration.

“It’s alive,” Victor whispered again, breathless. He laughed, too sharply, too loudly, and the Creature flinched at the sudden sound. Victor didn’t even notice. “I did it. I did it.”

You watched the Creature recoil, hands guarding itself like a frightened animal. The momentary calm you had earned with him trembled on the verge of breaking.

“Victor,” you warned softly. “You’re scaring him.”

But Victor was already scrambling to his feet, pushing past you, grabbing the creature and taking it down the stairs of the building.

You felt dread coil in your stomach.

“Victor… what are you doing?”

“What I have to,” he said, as though it were obvious. He was already reaching for the Creature’s wrists. “Come on. Move. That’s it.”

The Creature didn’t resist at first. He allowed Victor to turn his arm, to examine the seams, to press fingers into the pulse beneath stitched skin. Confusion flickered across his face, but not defiance. When Victor snapped the first iron cuff around his wrist, you stepped forward immediately.

“Victor- stop. He doesn’t understand what you’re doing-”

“It doesn’t need to understand,” Victor snapped. The mania was back in his eyes, bright and feverish. “We need to move fast. It needs to be contained before causing any damage.”

“Contained?” you repeated, a chill prickling your arms. “He just came to life. He’s scared. He’s barely standing-”

“It’s capable of killing both of us if it panics,” Victor hissed, wrenching the other shackle into place. “Help me, will you? Or get out of the way.”

You stood your ground. The Creature let out a distressed groan as the iron chains clattered against the floor, far too heavy for a man only minutes into existence. His body lurched with each tug, balance unsteady, but curious as he inspected the things around him.

“Easy,” you whispered. “Just follow the movement. You’re all right.”

His gaze flicked toward you at the sound of your voice and his breathing eased just slightly. Victor caught the exchange and scoffed.

“Don’t do that,” he muttered.

“Do what?” you shot back.

“Talk to it like it’s a child.”

You stopped walking. The Creature, caught between the two of you, froze as well. You stared at your brother.

“Why do you say it?”

Victor blinked, impatient. “What?”

“You just called him it again.”

He frowned, as though you were being absurd. “Because that’s what it is.”

“No.” Your voice sharpened. “Victor. Look at him.”

The Creature’s wide, confused eyes reflected the dim light of the corridor. His chest rose and fell too fast; his hands twitched as though unsure whether to reach for you or brace himself.

“Look at him,” you repeated, quieter this time.

Victor looked for half a second. Then shut the thought down.

“He’s not a person. He’s a construction. A… function. A proof of concept.” His voice grew brisk, brittle, the tone he used whenever he tried to hide the rot of his own guilt. “I built him. That makes him an it.”

Your stomach twisted.

“Victor, you stitched a heart into his chest. He breathes. He feels. He looked at you like- like a newborn trying to understand the first face he’s ever seen. He’s not an it.’”

Victor’s jaw clenched. “Sentiment will get us killed.”

“Cruelty will destroy him,” you shot back.

For the briefest moment, the Creature turned his head toward you, eyes flickering with some fragile recognition of the kindness in your voice. Victor tugged the chains sharply.

“Move,” he ordered.

The Creature stumbled, nearly falling. You immediately caught his arm, not tightly, not fearfully, but steadying him. His skin was cold and uneven beneath your palms where the stitches crossed muscle. He froze under your touch. Not out of fear but something almost… trusting. Victor saw it. He hated it.

“It needs to be kept below,” Victor insisted. “Somewhere dark. Somewhere controlled. Before anyone else sees it”

“Why below?” you whispered. 

“It’s the safest place.”

“For who?” you demanded. “For him, or for you?”

Victor didn’t answer.

You reached out, gently tipping the Creature’s chin so he would look away from Victor and back toward you.

“It’s all right,” you murmured. “You don’t have to be afraid.”

He blinked slowly. A tremble passed through him, not panic, but something softer. A quiet instinct pulling him toward your voice. And Victor tugged the chain hard, pulling the Creature back.

You stepped between them.

Victor stared at you, outraged. “Move.”

“No.” you said simply. “He just opened his eyes, Victor.” Your breath shook with anger and heartbreak. “You promised him life. And the first thing you’re giving him is chains and a sewer?”

“This is not negotiable.”

“It should be.”

Victor’s voice cracked with the edge of panic. “He’s dangerous.”

“He’s scared.”

“He’s unpredictable!”

“You made him!” you shouted, silencing the room.

The Creature flinched at the raised voices again, his massive body curling inward like he wished he could disappear.

You softened immediately, turning back to him, your voice dropping to a whisper.

“No one should wake up alone and caged,” you murmured. “No one.”

Slowly, like a child seeking reassurance, he reached out the smallest bit toward you. Not touching. But wanting to. Your chest tightened painfully. Victor swallowed, anger flickering with something else, something terrified and jealous and deeply human.

“I don’t have time for this,” he rasped. “He stays below. Done.”

You knew you couldn’t stop Victor yet. But you could do something more important. You could make a promise the Creature would understand. You turned to him, soft, steady, gentle enough for even new eyes to read.

“I’ll come back,” you whispered. “I promise you, I’ll come back.”

His breath caught and for the first time since opening his eyes the Creature fought the pull, if only for one step. Because he wanted to stay with you.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Thunder rolled far out at sea, faint and exhausted, as though even the heavens were tired from what had happened. Victor paced the upstairs laboratory like a man trapped inside a cage of his own making. You stood by the long window overlooking the cliff, arms crossed, trying and failing to calm the fury pressing against your ribs. Victor stopped only when you finally spoke.

“I can’t believe you chained him,” you said, your voice quiet but sharp enough to cut. “You chained him like a monster.”

Victor exhaled harshly. “I chained it like a precaution.”

“That’s not what it looked like.”

“Well, perhaps you didn’t see what I saw.” He turned toward you, eyes still wild from the thrill and terror of his accomplishment. “It’s capable of great strength. Of violence. I could sense it.”

“No.” You stepped toward him. “You feared it. That’s different.”

“Fear is rational,” Victor snapped.

“Not when it replaces humanity.”

Victor flinched slightly, but enough for you to see that your words had struck the bone he didn’t want exposed. He turned away again, rummaging through instruments, breaking the silence with metal clinking and drawers slamming as if noise could shield him from the truth.

“I don’t expect you to understand,” he said tightly.

You stared at him. “Why not? I was there. I saw him wake up. I was the one he trusted.”

“That’s the problem.” Victor spun back toward you, the accusation sharp in his voice. “It shouldn’t trust you.”

You blinked. “What?”

“You can’t form attachments with it.”

“With him,” you corrected immediately.

Victor’s jaw clenched. “Stop calling it that. He is a designed outcome. A creation. A function of my work.”

You scoffed. “You gave him a body and a heartbeat, Victor, not a purpose.”

“He is not a person!”

“He looked at you like one.”

He threw his hands onto the table, gripping its edge as if he might break it in two. “He looked at me like an animal looks at fire, terrified and instinctive.”

“And he looked at me like… like he was trying to understand.”

Victor froze. You hadn’t meant to speak so honestly, but it was too late to pull the truth back. When he finally spoke, the jealousy was unmistakable.

“Be careful,” he said quietly, “or it will understand the wrong things.”

You held his gaze. “No, Victor. He will understand whatever he is shown.”

Victor stared at you, breathing hard. “Do not go to it.”

You didn’t respond. You didn’t promise anything. And Victor knew it.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

The iron door leading down to the sewer was heavy. The brass lock felt cold beneath your fingertips as you turned it, slipping inside without a sound. The descent was steep, the stone steps narrow and slick. Candlelight flickered weakly along the walls, casting long shadows that moved like restless spirits.

You heard him before you saw him. Not words, not yet, but soft, rhythmic breaths mixed with the occasional low, unsettled sound. Like someone dreaming without knowing what dreams were. You stepped into the chamber.

He was chained to a thick cement block, both wrists held down, and ankles locked in place, but giving him enough room to stand and roam around.

He lifted his head the moment you entered. And the moment his eyes found you his entire body eased, tension dropping from his shoulders like a heavy cloak being lifted. Your breath caught. Slowly, hesitantly, he leaned forward, as if making sure you were real.

You whispered, “Hello.”

He let out a trembling, almost relieved sound. You approached, lowering yourself to the floor beside him. The chain clinked faintly as he shifted toward you, careful, unsure of how close he was allowed to be. You nodded encouragingly. He inched nearer. Then nearer.

Until he sat only a foot away, still watching you with those wide, searching eyes.

“I’m sorry Victor brought you here,” you murmured.

His brows knit. His lips parted, silently forming shapes he didn’t know how to give sound yet. You placed your hand on the stone floor between you, palm open, an offering, not a command. His gaze dropped to it.

Slowly… slowly… he lifted his hand. He didn’t take yours; he didn’t yet understand that. But he touched the floor where your fingers rested, his touch careful, reverent, as if afraid he might break the world by pressing too hard. Your heart ached.

You spent nearly an hour with him, speaking softly, letting him listen to the sound of your voice, letting him grow used to your presence.You explained simple things:

“This is a candle, it's hot.”

“This is stone.”

“This is water, you can drink it.”

“And this… this is a hand.”

You gently held up your own. He watched you intently.

You repeated softly, “Hand.”

He looked from his own stitches to yours, then back again. Then, very slowly, he lifted his hand again. Your breath caught. This time, he didn’t touch the floor beside yours. He touched you. Huge, trembling fingers brushed your palm, tracing the shape, the warmth, the living pulse beneath the skin as if trying to memorize it. He let out a soft sound, wonder, fear, something between.

You whispered, “That’s right… this is my hand.”

He curled one finger around yours. Just one, but the gentleness of it nearly broke you. After a long silence, he shifted a little, pointing to himself with a confused, questioning noise.

“Victor,” you said gently, tapping your chest near your heart the way he had. “He’s Victor.”

He repeated the gesture, tapping his chest again.

“No…” You shook your head softly. “Not Victor. You’re… you.”

He blinked. You tapped your chest.

“My name is-”

But something made you stop. The first name he learned should have been yours. Not Victor’s. Not the name of the man who chained him underground in the dark.

So you tried again, slowly, clearly.

“My… name…” You tapped your chest again. “-is y/n.”

He watched your mouth, your hands, every movement. And then he tried to echo the sound. Your name, distorted, incomplete, barely more than breath. Your heart clenched so hard it almost hurt. You smiled, eyes stinging.

“Yes,” you whispered. “That’s me. That’s my name.”

He made the sound again, trying harder, shaping it with more precision even if he didn’t fully understand its meaning yet. He wanted to please you. He wanted you to be the first thing he understood.

And when you whispered softly, “It’s all right, you did well…”

He reached for your hand again. Not hesitantly but because he wanted contact with you.

Because you were safety, the first kindness he had ever known. And in the dim, candle-lit shadows of that underground chamber you felt the first fragile thread of something dangerous and beautiful begin to pull tight between you.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Time did not move normally inside the cliffside building. Days became pale ghosts, gray and damp with fog rolling through the broken windows; nights became hours of rain-slick metal and the echo of the wheels grinding endlessly below. And in that timeless blur, the Creature learned exactly one thing:

“Victor.”

That was his word. Victor had demanded it the very first day.

“Say it,” he’d barked, leaning over the chained giant as if intimidation might force language into a newborn. “My name. Say it. Say Victor.”

And the Creature had tried, clumsy and hoarse, shaping the sound like a child learning to breathe for the first time.

“Vic… tor.”

Victor’s pride had been immense for a full thirty seconds. Then reality came crashing in, he said nothing else. For weeks. Victor repeated exercises, pointed to objects, mimicked movements, yet the Creature only repeated the name with soft, desperate longing.

“Victor.” “Victor.” “Victor…” 

Sometimes it sounded like a plea. Sometimes like a prayer. But never anything more. And while Victor began to hate his own name, you took a different approach. Every few days, when Victor was upstairs reviewing notes or hunched over blueprints, you would slip quietly down the narrow stone staircase into the sewer chamber with your sketchbook tucked under your arm.

He always heard you before he saw you. The chain rattled faintly, a gentle alert. Then those brown, sorrowful eyes lifted toward you the moment your silhouette appeared. His whole face softened.

“Victor?” he would try.

“No,” you would whisper with a smile. “Not Victor. It’s me.”

You would say your name slowly, enunciating each syllable, touching your chest. “y/n.”

He tried. He always tried. It never came out right. But what he lacked in letters, he made up for in devotion.

The first time you showed him a charcoal sketch of his profile, drawn with reverence, with detail so careful it bordered on affection, he stared for nearly three full minutes without blinking. He lifted one stitched hand. Touched the charcoal shading of his jaw. Then touched his own. His eyes widened in a slow, astonished understanding.

“That’s you,” you whispered. “See? This is you.”

He touched the drawing again, then your hand, then the drawing again as if asking permission to believe it.

“That’s you,” you repeated more gently. “I see you.”

And he made the smallest sound, somewhere between wonder and gratitude as if no one had ever seen him before. You brought more the next week, a watercolor of the light falling on his shoulder, a quick ink study of his hands, a series of tiny sketches of his eyes. He devoured each one like a starving man who had suddenly been handed beauty. Sometimes you caught him staring at you instead of the portrait, as if trying to memorize the way your fingers held the brush, the way your lips moved when you explained things, the way your gentleness wrapped the room in warmth.

Victor noticed.

Oh, he noticed.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

It began quietly.

He would find you missing and discover you in the sewers, laughing softly as the Creature dipped a brush in pigment and smeared it across a spare piece of canvas like a child proud of a mess he had made. Victor stood in the doorway, jaw clenched.

“He can’t even say any other word,” he snapped one evening, startling both you and the Creature. “But you’re teaching him to paint?”

You kept your voice calm. “Painting helps him understand shapes. Emotion. Expression.”

“It’s frivolous.”

“It’s human.”

The Creature flinched at Victor’s tone, shrinking back as if the volume itself caused him pain. Victor’s eyes sharpened. “He responds to me, not you.”

You raised a brow. “He only says your name because you drilled it into him.”

Victor stepped closer, voice darkening. “So then why does he look at you like that?”

You blinked.

“Like what?”

“Like you matter more than I do.”

Your breath caught. And Victor realized he’d said too much. But instead of stepping back, he stepped closer, much closer. His voice dropped to a near-whisper, the kind that sends frost up the spine.

“In every sense that mattered,” he murmured. “Mother’s death. Father’s neglect. William being taken from us. All of it… it was you and me. You stayed by me when the world had no room for me.”

You swallowed. “Victor-”

“You are my twin,” he said more fiercely. “The other half of my life. My mind. My grief. All of this-” He gestured wildly at the laboratory above, the creation chained below. “Every discovery I’ve ever fought for began with us. You and me. Not him.”

Your heartbeat tightened painfully. “Victor.” you tried again, “I care about you. I’ve always cared about you.”

“But not like you care about him.”

You froze.

Victor’s eyes burned, frantic and wounded and something else, something terribly wrong in its intensity, that desperate familial devotion that blurred every boundary.

“He is nothing,” Victor whispered, voice shaking. “A collection of pieces. A thing. A project. And yet you… you look at him with gentleness you never give me.”

“That isn’t true.”

“Yes, it is.”

You took a breath. “Victor, he’s alone. Confused. He needs-”

“J'ai besoin de toi." (I need you)

The chain clinked behind you as the Creature instinctively shifted forward, sensing the tension, your distress. Victor shot him a glare sharp enough to slice through bone.

“Il n'a besoin de rien de vous," (He needs nothing from you) Victor hissed. “Il ne comprend même pas ce que tu es." (He doesn’t even understand what you are)

You turned fully toward Victor, anger flaring. “Et vous? Après toutes ces années, me comprenez-vous vraiment?" (And you do? After all these years, do you really understand me?)

Victor’s expression flickered, hurt mixed with panic. The Creature made a soft, confused sound, reaching one hand toward you. Your name- almost. Victor stiffened as though stabbed.

“He said your-” he choked on it, “-he tried to say your name.”

Your breath trembled. You hadn’t realized he’d been listening closely enough to know.

Victor’s voice dropped to a whisper, furious and terrified. “Tu étais censé être à moi." (You were supposed to be mine)

You stepped back. “Tu es mon frère," (You’re my brother) you said softly. “Pas mon gardien." (Not my keeper)

But Victor heard only betrayal.

The creature watched you with devastated eyes. He didn’t understand Victor’s words. He didn’t understand the jealousy. He didn’t understand family or history or grief. But he understood one thing with painful clarity: You were upset. And Victor was the cause.

He tugged the chain once- hard. The metal screaming against the bolt. You stepped toward him quickly, hand raised.

“No,” you said softly. “It’s all right. I’m all right. I’m right here.”

He settled instantly. Victor saw it and he snapped.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

The day had already been tense, Victor had been pacing the laboratory floor for hours, muttering to himself about phonetics and nerve conductivity and “wasted weeks,” while you sat on a high stool cleaning paint from your brushes, trying not to think about the creature’s soft, child-like “Victor…” echoing faintly from the sewer grates below.

Then came the knock, sharp, unexpected, echoing through the entire hollow-bellied structure.

Victor froze mid-stride, shoulders locking. “No one comes here,” he whispered.

The knock came again, louder. And then, a familiar voice, breathless from the wind off the cliff:

“Victor? It’s William! Please, open the door!”

You and Victor exchanged a startled look, his expression flickering through shock, dread, and a very specific frustration, because he knew he could not allow Elizabeth anywhere near the creature.

He rushed to unbolt the heavy iron door. Elizabeth burst in first, cheeks flushed from the sea air, followed by William who looked equally worried and very out of breath. “y/n,” Elizabeth said, gripping both your hands the moment she reached you, “we’ve come because no one has heard from Harlander in over a fortnight, and you- both of you were the last to see him, yes?”

Victor answered for you, smile strained, forced, too quick. “He… left in good spirits. I’m sure he simply traveled. He had many interests.”

He nudged William sharply. “Come with me- upstairs. I’ll show you my latest notes. It may put your mind at ease.”

William blinked. “My mind-? Victor, Elizabeth asked-”

But Victor clapped a hand on William’s shoulder and physically steered him toward the spiral stairwell. “Notes, William. Now.”

Elizabeth moved to follow, but you gently caught her arm.

“Elizabeth,” you whispered, “wait.”

She turned to you, startled. “y/n? What is it?”

You swallowed, choosing your words carefully, because this was dangerous and Victor would not forgive you for this. But Elizabeth deserved the truth.

“There’s something Victor hasn’t told you,” you said softly. “Something about Harlander. Something about… what he did down below.”

Elizabeth’s brows knit together, the anxiety she’d been holding back spilling forward. “Down below?”

“If you trust me,” you said, “come with me. Quietly.”

Her hand tightened around yours. “Show me.”

Together, you moved down the dim stairway leading to the sewer chambers. The candle in your hand cast trembling light onto the stone walls as Elizabeth whispered shakily, “What on earth is Victor keeping in a place like this…?”

When you reached the bottom, the creature was crouched in a corner, enormous hands buried in his lap, the chain around his wrists clinking softly. At the sound of your steps, he lifted his head, slowly, cautiously and his mismatched eyes shimmered in the lantern glow.

Elizabeth gasped. Stepped back. Pressed a hand to her chest.

“Oh… oh God,” she whispered, voice cracking, “Victor made- this…?”

You knelt a little so the creature wouldn’t feel crowded. “He isn’t dangerous, Elizabeth, he’s just… confused. He doesn’t know why he’s chained here. He doesn’t understand what he’s done wrong.”

The creature stared at Elizabeth, not with hostility but a kind of wary curiosity. Then, as if remembering what he’d practiced, he murmured the only word he knew well:

“…Victor…”

Elizabeth’s stare broke. Tears filled her eyes instantly. She covered her mouth.

“He knows Victor’s name,” she whispered. “He says it like he’s—afraid.”

You exhaled. “He learned it before anything else. He tries so hard. Victor just… refuses to see him.”

Elizabeth wiped her cheek quickly, trying to regain her composure. “We have to speak to him. Now.”

You nodded, and together you climbed the stairs again.

When you reached the laboratory, William and Victor were bent over a scattering of diagrams, Victor speaking far too enthusiastically, clearly trying to distract him.

“Victor,” Elizabeth said sharply.

He looked up, the color draining from his face when he saw tears in her eyes.

“The man. The man downstairs… Is he a patient? A victim?”

“You saw him?” he demanded, voice darkening.

“Yes, with y/n,” she said. “In your sewer.”

Victor’s nostrils flared; his hand curled into a fist.

William blinked. “The- sewer?”

“Victor, you chained him. In the dark. Alone. Like some violent dog. How could you? You, of all people- you should know better.” Elizabeth spit out.

“It is not a he,” Victor snapped. “It is an it. A construction. A specimen.”

You stepped in front of Victor before Elizabeth could answer. “He speaks, Victor. He feels. He looks for you every time he hears footsteps.”

“And says your name like a frightened child,” Elizabeth added.

Victor froze, stiff with cold fury, but forced his expression into something smooth, calculated.

“Very well,” he said icily. “If you insist on judging something you do not understand, come see the creature properly.”

He moved toward the stairs with an air of theatrical pride he didn’t truly feel. “All of us.”

You noticed how he placed himself at the front, like a guide leading admirers toward a masterpiece, only the set of his shoulders betrayed the truth: he was terrified.

In the sewer, the creature looked over curiously when everyone entered.

William made a helpless sound in his throat. “Victor… you- you did it…”

Victor smiled thinly. “Yes. A marvel, isn’t he?”

Elizabeth looked sick. “A marvel doesn’t need a chain around its wrists.”

Victor lifted his chin. “He’s too strong. He doesn’t understand obedience yet.”

“He understands fear,” you said quietly.

The creature’s gaze slid to you, softening, the chain clinking as he leaned closer to hear your voice. “Victor…” he murmured again.

Victor’s jaw clenched. “He only knows that word because I am his creator.”

Elizabeth shook her head.

“No, Victor. He says it like he’s begging you for something.”

Victor snapped, “He is not begging!”

You stepped closer, placing your hand gently on the creature’s shoulder, meeting Victor’s eyes across the dim chamber.

“He just wants you to see him, Victor. Not as it, As him.”

Victor glared at you. “We’re done here,” he said coldly. “William, Elizabeth- you’ve seen enough. Go back upstairs before you interfere further with things you cannot comprehend.”

Elizabeth opened her mouth but William tugged her gently.

“Come on,” he whispered. “Let him… cool off.”

Elizabeth glanced back at the creature once more. “I’m sorry,” she whispered to him. “You didn’t deserve this.”

Then she squeezed your hand. “Stay with him, y/n. God help him if you don’t.”

You nodded silently as they left. Victor lingered at the top of the stairs, staring down at you, at the creature leaning instinctively toward your touch, and his expression was something raw, something jealous, something wounded and furious all at once.

“Tu n'aurais pas dû lui montrer." (You shouldn’t have shown her) he said quietly, dangerously.

“Elle méritait de voir," (She deserved to know) you answered.

And he looked at you then the way a drowning man watches someone reach for another lifeboat.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Something was going to happen. Something terrible. Soon. You’d spent the day trying to ignore it, painting halfheartedly in the upper hall, listening to the grinding of gears as Victor adjusted some monstrous copper device, pretending you didn’t see the way he watched you whenever you left the lab, pretending you didn’t notice the way his pacing sharpened, like a man planning an escape… or a disaster. But as the sky flushed purple and the first cold wind swept through the broken windows, the fear in your stomach tightened to a knot.

You found yourself walking toward the lower stairwell without thinking, candle held gently in your hand. And as always, the moment you reached the last step, he looked up, your creature, head lifting slowly from his knees, eyes catching lantern light like wet glass. His entire face softened when he saw you. Every time.

He had no words yet except Victor’s name, but the sound he breathed out now wasn’t a word, just a warm exhale, soft and relieved. He was happy you were here.

“Hello,” you whispered, stepping closer. “Sorry I’m late tonight.”

His fingers curled on the floor, as if trying to pull himself subtly closer without breaking the chain’s limit. You set the candle down and knelt, feeling the cool stone seep into your nightgown. His eyes followed the movement like a child learning shapes, like he could trace the outline of your form from memory.

“Victor’s been… strange,” you murmured, brushing hair back from your face. “Worse than usual. I think something’s… wrong.”

The creature tilted his head, slow and deliberate, studying your worry like it was a painting he needed to understand. His hands shifted toward you in that hesitant, gentle way he always used like he feared breaking you. You offered your hand and he took it. Carefully. As if your bones were glass.

And you felt the way he relaxed the moment your skin touched his, shoulders easing, breath deepening, a soft tremor settling out of his frame. You breathed out too.

“I don’t know how to explain it,” you whispered. “But I feel like something is ending. Or about to.”

His brows furrowed. He leaned in closer, searching your eyes as if he could stop whatever hurt you simply by looking hard enough.

You smiled, broken and small. “I don’t want you to worry. I just… I didn’t want to be alone tonight.”

That, he understood. Because he lifted your hand slowly, pressing it to his cheek, tentative, questioning. You froze, caught between surprise and the tender ache building in your chest.

His skin was warm. Warmer than it should’ve been. Alive.

“y… y/n,” he tried, breathy, strained. But it broke halfway, and frustration flickered across his face.

Your eyes widened. “You- you tried to say my name.”

He blinked, ashamed he hadn’t managed it.

“No- no, don’t look like that,” you whispered urgently, pulling his face gently toward yours. “That was perfect. More perfect than you know.”

He stared at you with an expression so raw, so open, your heart nearly broke from the force of it.

“You’re learning,” you said. “you’re more than Victor ever let himself see.”

His breath deepened, chest rising and falling like a tide. And then slowly, he leaned closer, forehead touching yours. You didn’t move away. You couldn’t. The closeness felt like gravity, soft, inevitable.

“You make me feel like…” You swallowed. “Like none of this is as frightening as it should be.”

He shifted again, closer still, eyes lowering to your lips then lifting instantly as if embarrassed by the instinct, but you felt it.

The innocence to understand comfort, tenderness… you.

“I wish…” Your voice cracked. “I wish I could take you away from all this.”

His fingers brushed your cheek hesitantly, trembling, the way someone touches light for the first time. You leaned into it. Slowly. Deliberately.

“I don’t know what Victor’s planning,” you whispered. “But I know he’s planning something terrible. And I just… I don’t want tonight to be the last time I see you.”

His brows pulled together, fear, confusion, sadness all tangled in one expression so heartbreakingly human your throat tightened.

Then he did something he’d never done before, he slowly pulled you into him. Not roughly. Not possessively. Just… enveloping you, arms around your shoulders, chin touching the top of your head, as if he’d been born knowing how to hold you this way, as if he thought you might disappear if he didn’t. You melted into his chest, breath caught, eyes burning.

“I’m here,” you whispered into him. “I’m here with you.”

His hand moved to your back in slow calming motions, hesitant at first, then firmer when he realized you welcomed it. You felt needed in a way Victor never allowed you to be. Eventually, you drew back just enough to look at him.

“Whatever happens,” you said softly, “I promise I’ll come back tomorrow. I promise I won’t leave you alone.”

His eyes were full of something so intense, so gentle, so unnameable you couldn’t breathe. You could’ve kissed him. God, you almost did but fear stopped you, the fear that you would make a promise you couldn’t keep.

So instead you pressed your hand to his heart  and he slowly covered it with his own, enormous palm dwarfing yours, holding it there like a vow. And the air around you whispered with the storm rolling in.

You slip down from the table and your legs fold underneath you, as unsteady as a newborn fawn. The filth on the floor paints your knees crimson and makes your skin crawl. You look for something to pull yourself up. A cart is within reach but topples over as you brace on it. An eye plops to the floor and rolls, the dim blue iris and lifeless pupil staring up at you. You scream, and your voice comes out thin and hoarse. Nevertheless, the sound alerts someone, because you hear footsteps approaching.

You drag a white, rumpled sheet from a table to cover yourself, leaning against the table so you don't fall over again. A man with tousled black hair and blood-soaked gloves comes breathlessly into the room and stops short once he sees you.

"Oh," he says, exhaling it with awe. "It worked. God be damned, it worked!"

You flinch at the sudden rise in volume, and he puts his hands up, hushing you as though you are a skittish horse.

"It's alright," he says. "There's nothing to be afraid of."

His gloves aren't bloody, you realize. They're just red.

"Can you speak?" He says. He's trembling from excitement or fatigue. "Anything. Please, say something."

"W..." You pause and try again. "Who are you?"

The man's eyes light up. "My name is Victor. Victor Frankenstein."

"Y-you did this to me?"

"I brought you back."

"What?" You take in the room in its entirety, seeing it in a new light. Not a slaughterhouse, then. A laboratory of creation.

Your head hurts. You grit your teeth against the sudden piercing pain.

"How? Was I dead? You have found a way to cheat death, then?" You tighten your hold on the sheet wrapped around you.

The man rubs his face. He looks dead tired, but exhilarated. "Oh, this is marvelous," he says, picking a stack of papers and leafing through. "It worked perfectly this time. She speaks. Adjusting the power of the current seems to be a method–"

A sound rumbles through you, akin to the thunder that still rolls in the sky. A growl. As animalistic as it sounds, it feels as natural as the spike of anger flooding through you. Victor snaps his head up.

"It's alright, settle down," he says, palm up in platitude. "I'm not going to harm you."

"But you already have, haven't you? Look at me. Why am I so cold? Bring me a mirror!" Your voice sharpens, and he looks alarmed.

"Come, why don't you sit down?" He says.

He means to direct you to the chair in the corner, but you catch his wrist and squeeze. The bones in his arm grind under your touch, and he winces. Something akin to fear flashes in his eyes, and it is enough to have you releasing him.

"What have you done to me?" Your voice trembles as you stumble to the chair and sit down. Victor leaves briefly and returns with a bowl of warm water and a cloth. You offer no resistance when he begins to wipe you down. His touch is nothing but methodical, even when he runs the cloth over your breasts, murmuring something about how the stitches will heal in time. He brings you a robe, and once you have tied it around your waist, he stands back.

"Come, I will show you to a room where you can sleep. Tomorrow I will tell you everything you wish to know, but you need rest now."

He takes you to a room overlooking the ocean. The sound of the waves washing against the rocks is soothing. The room is bare save for a bed, a table, and a chair. You sink onto the bed and curl in a ball, and he pulls the covers over you. Your skin is tight and prickles and aches. You don't know what to make of the situation. If you are to believe him, then you died and he brought you back. Why can't you remember anything about yourself? Who were you before you died? You're so lost in your thoughts that you don't hear the key turning in the door as you are left in solitude.

The next day, when Victor returns, he finds the door wide open and the wood splintered all around the lock. You're sitting on the bed, hands resting in your lap.

"Don't lock me in again," you say as he hovers in the doorway.

"Of course... Do you wish to see yourself now?"

You rise wordlessly, and he takes you to another room. This one is his own, cluttered with books on all manner of things and drawings of inner parts of the body you've never seen before. There is a desk overflowing with crumpled sheets of paper and unopened letters. A mirror stands in the corner, and you go to it, not hesitating to slip the robe from your shoulders. Why feel ashamed if this man put you together piece by piece? He has already seen it all. He watches with his hands clasped behind his back.

You turn to the mirror. Your body is a patchwork of human pieces. Stitches mark the areas where he has taken away and added to. There are placements of skin over your ribs and across the curve of your hip. Neat stitches track underneath your breasts and along your arms. One of your hands is different from the other. The fingers are more slender, an artist's hand. The most shocking discovery of all is that you have no hair. You run your fingers over your scalp, and Victor tells you not to worry, that your hair will grow back in time.

The biggest scar is on your stomach, and it feels hot and swollen in comparison to the rest of your cold body. You press your finger down, and the partially healed flesh yields, leaking fresh blood.

"Don't do that," he says.

"How many?" You ask, wiping your finger on your robe.

"What?"

"How many failed attempts came before me?"

"Many. I came close with the last one, but something was missing. A spark that I believe you contain."

You return your gaze to the mirror, staring at what has become of you, and wonder if you even existed before this at all. Suddenly, you hear a voice. It echoes through the halls, delivered right to your ears in a near ghostly howl.

"Victor! Victorrr!"

You tie the robe and turn. "Who is that?"

Victor's face has grown heavy and drawn. "My previous creation."

"Take me to them. I want to see."

He hesitates, then sighs. "Alright."

He leads you down a sweeping flight of stairs, offering you a hand to steady yourself, but you ignore it, taking each step carefully with your new legs. All the while, the voice never stops calling. You're taken to a room that has a culvert of running water crossing through it. You catch a glimpse of someone who hides behind a pillar as the two of you approach.

"Adam," Victor says in a tone of poorly masked irritation. "I've brought someone to see you. Why don't you come out, hm?"

Slowly, a man crawls out from behind the pillar. He has bandages on his wrists and more around his waist to cover his privates. You look at him with wonder. To think one man would be able to achieve a feat such as reanimating the dead. It is as amazing as it is frightful. Man was never meant to wield such power. The creature–you can't bring yourself to think of him or yourself as human–is hunched on the floor, his arms tucked tight against his body, making soft whimpering sounds.

"What is wrong with him?" You ask.

Victor sighs. "This is what happens when a single thing goes wrong in the creation process." To the creature, he says impatiently, "I'm not going to hurt you. Stand up."

When Adam doesn't heed his words, he stomps forward and hauls him up by the arm. Adam is taller than both of you, even as he stands with his shoulders hunched. His eyes are soft and wary as they settle on you, and he flinches when Victor gives him a hearty thump on the back.

"He's something to behold, is he not? It is a pity his mind appears to have been lost somewhere along the way."

"I beg to differ," you say. "There is life in his eyes."

You hold out your hand, and Adam takes it slowly. He turns it, looking at the stitches that mar your skin. He sucks in a breath.

"Victor!" He says, excitement growing in his voice. He pulls you in for a closer look. "Victor?"

"Yes, I know," Victor says. "She is like you. Be gentle!'

You gasp as the stitches on your wrist sting as Adam yanks a bit too hard. Victor wrenches the creature away from you and stands over him as he cowers on the ground again.

"You dumb brute," he says, and you're shocked to hear the anger in his voice.

"I'm alright. He didn't hurt me."

"You have no idea of his strength. He can easily tear you apart if he wishes to." He snaps his fingers. "Up."

Adam obediently climbs onto some sort of table, and Victor takes a heavy cuff and snaps it around his ankle. The cuff is connected to a chain, giving him meager room to move.

"Is that necessary?" You ask.

"More than you know. Now come with me, I need to have a look at your stitches and make sure everything is healing as it should."

"But Adam–"

"He's not going anywhere. You can see him later." Victor brusquely leads you out of that room and back up the stairs.

You listen for Adam's voice, but all is quiet.

It was a blessing when Elizabeth’s uncle had procured Victor’s help for his experiment. It meant Elizabeth would be free from Victor’s leering eyes and domineering presence. And you would no longer have to stomach the humiliation of being so disenchanting to your own husband. 

But each blessing must, of course, come with some sort of penance. You had your own rooms in the tower, separate from Victor's. He claimed he wanted no distractions. But you knew that he had finally found an excuse to escape from you. Aside from that, you were not permitted access to any other chamber. 

You knew of the laboratory on the topmost floor. There was a drainage system that was like a sort of catacombs below you. But this room, this lovely gilded cage, was the only place you were truly allowed to exist in. It did not stop late-night wanderings or occasionally dipping your head into the laboratory when Victor finally slept. 

For once, you were allowed peace. No husband breathing down your neck, demanding perfection you were not capable of. No reminders of your failings as a wife. It was a blissful quiet. 

But only for a short while. 

The candelabra in your hand burned bright against the dim moonlight escaping into the tower. You usually did not risk a light during your explorations, but tonight it felt like you might have need of it. You had heard Victor shouting in his laboratory earlier, raging against something you did not know of. 

But he had gone silent long before sunset. Hopefully, that meant you would not have anyone interrupting your rare experience of rebellion. 

The floors were cool against your feet. The chill shot straight through your legs as you moved toward the lowermost floor. The catacombs were one of the rare exceptions to your exploring. Until tonight, you’d had no desire to creep through wet, dirtied tunnels. But something was beckoning you forward, calling you toward a mission you were not yet aware of.

Just at the entrance, shouting stilled your movements. You quickly blew out your candles and hid behind the overgrown foliage infesting your new home. “One thing!” Victor’s voice, you recognized his anger well. 

“Say one thing that is not my name!” He demanded. Either your husband had finally lost his mind, or he’d accomplished his life-long mission. You could not determine which one terrified you more. 

There was loud grunting, the smack of something metal against flesh. It made you grimace, further tucking yourself into the vines. A loud metallic clatter against the floor and then your husband was storming out. His robe flew behind him as he ran up the stairs, raging about something you could not understand. 

Watching him carefully, you waited a few minutes before you decided it was safe enough to leave. You should have picked up your candelabra, should have headed back upstairs and gone to sleep. 

Instead, you find yourself turning toward the catacombs, searching for the source of Victor’s rage. “Hello?” you call softly, the cold night air seeping in from one of the drains. 

Silence is to be expected as you lean toward the idea that your husband’s mind has finally shattered. Instead, you hear something broken and strained. “Vic-tor.”

The voice stills you, your heart thudding against your ribs as you keep yourself hidden behind one of the stone columns. The gravel of the voice is deep and rougher than any man you’ve ever heard. But there’s something broken rattling within it, scared and hesitant as it waits for your husband to return. 

The pain calls to your own as you slowly reveal yourself. In front of you, curled up like a babe on a stone slab, is something grotesque. 

Not revolting in the sense that the creature hurts to look at. Though the seams along his body do make you ache for it. It is grotesque that any man would attempt to play god like this. To finally bring life into this world and then shelter it away from the sun, from life and light. 

“Oh,” you breathed out. Lifting your skirts, you rushed over the small canal of water and moved toward it. The creature, or man, you suppose, remained curled. 

His hands were covering his head and you could see fresh blood spilling along his arms. Beside him, abandoned on the floor, was a metal poker. Disgust burned in your stomach as you kicked it away. He stirred at that, lifting his hands and peering up at you. 

Something lit up in his eyes at his discovery. You smiled softly at him, attempting not to flinch as you took in just how much your husband had pieced him back together. How many sons did he mutilate to make his own? How many mothers will mourn their young while he takes them and shames them for still living?

“Hello,” you whisper. Your voice is soft from lack of use, strained after remaining silent in this tower for so long. 

The creature’s eyes widen as he slowly unfurls himself. Something about you, perhaps just that you are not Victor, stops him from cowering. And as he uncurls, you realize just how much of himself he was protecting. 

His movements are stilted, like a poorly manipulated marionette, as he moves to stand in front of you. You take a step back, peering up at his face and marveling at just how your husband sculpted him. 

“Has he named you?” You ask, smiling as the creature tilts his head, observing the lace of your gown with fascination. His eyes dart to your hair. To the tight style that Victor insists on, he does not take well to disorder in his wife. 

He lifts his hand, movements stilted as his fingers fiddle with the charm hanging from your pin. “Here,” you reach up and pull it out, caring not for the unkempt look as your hair falls free. You hold out the golden pin with its dangling charm of a leaf.

The creature runs his finger over the charm and the barest thing close to a smile lifts his lips. You watch, perplexed, as he tucks the pin to his chest and turns back toward the stone slab. With how broad his body is, you struggle to see around him. 

Though he does not make you wait long. He turns back quickly, holding out a large, orange maple leaf. 

“For me?” You ask, and he gives a quick nod, eyes eager as he watches you trace your fingers over the veins. “Look,” you reach out for the pin and smile. “We match now,” nodding toward the charm. 

His mouth moves, though no sound escapes. He seems to be attempting the word match, but his voice can’t conjure the sound. His eyes narrow, and you place your hand over his. The coldness of his skin is startling. But your husband had left him with no clothes or blanket, you should not be surprised he froze down in the catacombs. 

Before he can grow frustrated, you tug your shawl from your shoulders and reach up. It’s a slight challenge, attempting to drape the fabric over such broad shoulders, but you manage. He seems startled by the gift, watching you warily as you sit on the slab behind him. 

“So you might be warmer,” you tell him. You know not how much of your words reach him. Victor seems to have taught him nothing but his name. He rubs his fingers over the softness of the fabric and smiles as he sits beside you. 

“A name?” You ask once more. 

“Vic-tor.”

You take his hand in your own, noticing just how much he seems to lean into your touch. His eyes track your thumb as it rubs against his palm. Slowly, he reaches up to trace the shapes of your veins, to marvel at how differently your skin is compared to his seamed flesh. 

“That is his name,” you tell him. “You deserve a proper one.” Looking up into his eyes, you’re reminded of the freshness of a babe. He has just been brought into this world, with no love or warmth to greet him. No mother’s hand to cling to and explain the workings of the world. He is the first of any sort of creature like him. 

“He does always call you his Adam. While he plays with the power of a God.” You reach up to cup his cheek and his eyes flutter shut, the weight of his head resting easily in your palm. “Adam, then.”

His lips part, but again, he cannot produce any sound. “That’s alright,” you soothe. Instead, you tell him your own name. “You don’t have to say it. Just remember me.”

His chin dips and, again, you wonder how much of this he can truly understand. Is it just the softness of your voice he registers? The kindness of your touch? You wish you could better understand him. Wish that you had been with him since Victor dragged him into the world. He did not deserve the cold and darkness all on his own. 

Glancing down, you see the chains on his legs and wrists. “Wait here,” you tell him. His grip around your wrist barely tightens and you offer him a brief smile. “I’ll be back. I swear.” Slowly, his fingers drift along your skin until you’re backing away and running out of the catacombs. 

It did not take you long to find the chain’s keys in Victor’s laboratory. They had been so easily disregarded, as if he never planned to release Adam at all. When you had returned, he’d seemed surprised. Delighted, but surprised. As if he were already so used to people breaking their promises that he could not comprehend you keeping yours. 

You led him from the catacombs, and though he’d wanted to explore, you made him be quiet and follow you up the stairs. He did not resist or fight your grip, but rather followed you like a freshly imprinted babe. 

There was an instinct inside of you, left unfilled for too long, that called for you to care for him. To sit him on your bed and wrap him in as many soft blankets as you could find. You threw open your curtains and finally let him see the true glory of the night sky. 

After so long being trapped in the dark, he’d nearly walked through the window trying to get closer to the stars. “No,” you told him, struggling not to laugh. “You must watch from here,” you directed him back onto your bed. 

He smiled up at you and you brushed your thumb across his cheek, frowning as one of his seams opened. A small trickle of blood ran down his skin, but the wound closed as quickly as it had opened. “Does it hurt?” You asked, wiping the blood off. 

You had not expected an answer and he did not give one. You’re not sure he would even know what hurt means if it’s all he’s known since his heart has beat. 

Slipping onto the bed behind him, you simply watched as he marveled at the night sky. His lips parted slightly, eyes wide and shining with something you’d never seen in Victor’s gaze. “If the only word you know is Victor,” he repeated the name dutifully and you smiled. “Perhaps, tomorrow, I will read to you. Let you learn more of the world outside of your creator.”

Adam watched you now, but silence was thick between you. You pulled back your comforter and leaned against the headboard. “Let’s sleep,” you beckoned him forth. He followed hesitantly, seemingly confused by the softness of your bed. Your hand grazed gently across his arm as you helped him lower himself. 

He curled like a child again, his head resting against your thighs as you tried to revive warmth in his limbs. Tomorrow, you will read to him and work on fitting him with some proper clothes. 

When you awoke, the sun was shining brightly through your open window. It rested along Adam’s back, a better blanket than any you might provide. He’d moved in the night, one arm twined around your legs and the other around your waist as he held you close. His head still rested against your thighs, and you smiled at how soft his face was while he slept. 

“So,” you jumped, head whipping up to find Victor standing at the end of your bed. “This is where it had gone.”

“It?” You questioned, voice sharp and quiet as you tried not to wake Adam. 

“Do you dislike how I refer to my creation?” His lips are tilted in the familiar sneer you’ve grown to despise. 

You scoff, pulling the blanket higher up Adam’s chilled shoulders. “You do not get to claim him when you would not even name him. Would not give him clothes or light or warmth.”

Victor’s head tilted and he shook his head with a dismayed expression. “Do not tell me that you care for that… that thing.”

“If you will not, then someone must.” 

His lips pulled back and he let out an incredulous scoff. “This is ridiculous and I will not allow you to indulge him in such soft comforts.”

“Comfort? Do you not mean basic respect? The barest responsibilities of what we owe the life we create.”

Victor rounded your bed and your hands tightened around Adam’s shoulders. It was enough to finally have him stir. His eyes were bleary as they opened, the soft look on his face slipping through your fingers as his widened eyes found Victor’s glare. His hands tightened around you and you tried to comfort him, but Victor was reaching for his wrist and jerking him forward cruelly. 

“There was no ‘we’ in this, wife. As I recall, you seemed to fail under the one responsibility women have to society.” Your brows turned in as you leapt to your feet. You took Adam’s hand in your own, stopping Victor from dragging him away. 

“You have no right wielding that against me. If I gave you children you would treat them as you treat Adam. And when I do not you create your own life and mistreat it still.”

But Victor heard nothing you said, he never did. The only aspect he would give attention to was Adam. “You named it?”

“Him,” you snapped. Adam shrank into himself as you argued around him. You ran your thumb across his wrist but it did little to quell the fear in his eyes. 

“Enough!” Victor snapped. He released Adam and turned to you instead. You had little warning as he shoved you back against your bed. Your spine hit the post of the frame and you let out a low groan. Adam whipped around, hands raised as he stumbled toward Victor. 

For a moment, there was true fear in your husband’s eyes. A reminder to you why he’d had Adam locked away. He was something new, something fresh, built into the strongest body conceived in this new world. When a babe heard its parents fighting, it cried. But what was it to do when it had all this unknown strength in its hands?

”Back!” Victor shouted, as if Adam were nothing more than a rabid hound. When Adam continued toward him, his only noise a low growl, Victor darted back to you. His hand wrapped into your loose hair and you whined as he jerked your head back. “Back or I will strike her!” He threatened, hand poised over your cheek. 

Adam paused, the anger on his face ebbing into worry. “It’s okay,” you assured, reaching up and ripping Victor’s grip from you. Slowly, Adam’s arms fell to his sides and he shrank back into the shadows of your room. 

Victor spared you no looks or words as he strode toward Adam. He grabbed him so roughly, Adam’s arm bled as he jerked him from your room. 

“Victor!” You shouted, rushing toward your door. But he slammed it closed, your hand wrapped around the handle just as you heard the click of the key outside. “Victor, don’t you dare!” Your fists pounded against the wood but he did not respond. He did not answer your calls. 

The only sound you made out was Adam’s pitiful call of your name. Your heart ached as you slid back against the door, nightgown pooling around your legs as your head fell into your hands. You did not want to fathom what Victor’s punishment would be for Adam being allowed warmth. 

Victor did not return to you until the sun was resting well below the horizon. You had moved from your door to slump against your desk. Your hand stilled on the letter you were penning when you heard his footsteps approaching. You quickly covered the parchment, worried he might catch a glimpse of the plea you were sending Herr Harlander. 

His key slid home and the lock clicked just as you sprang to your feet. Victor’s chin was tilted down as he walked in, curls fallen over his disheveled face. You were going to remain silent, let him stew in his feelings before he finally decided to release you. Just as you always did. 

But then you caught a glimpse of the crimson staining the hems of his sleeves. The composure you usually kept so well shattered as you let out a shuddering breathing. 

“What did you do to him?” You demanded. 

Victor’s face finally lifted, there were grooves so deep under his eyes they might be mistaken for bruises. Never before have you seen your husband so worn, so weary and human. He rarely showed you more than carefully curated disinterest. But if he had wanted you to see him in any other light, he should have done so before you discovered Adam. 

“He plagues me,” he beseeches. “He is an insult to that which I dedicated my life. I have done nothing but be disappointed by him.”

“Oh,” you scoff. “Is that your excuse for beating him?”

Victor shakes his head. “I thought you might listen, I should have known better.”

He turns to leave and you follow. “No, Victor. You do not walk away this time.” He turned but it was clear how little he cared for what you said. “When I am with you, I have no voice. When you are beside me you have no ears. But tonight, for once, you will listen to me. You will pretend I am someone that you care for, respect. Pretend I am Elizabeth if you must, but listen.”

Your voice is the surest it’s ever been when addressing him. It is not soft or controlled, but filled with the jagged edges of anger. Victor watches you warily, eyes widened in surprise that you might speak against him. But, for once, you hold an ounce of his attention. 

“God has granted the gift of life to women. He did so with care and reason. And you stand there and spit in his face, in the very face of life and nature. You have stolen a dozen mother’s sons. You have not granted them the peace or even the dignity of a burial.”

Victor shakes his head with a scoff and turns toward the stairs. But this time you will not allow him to escape. You will not let the sins of his past slip through his fingers as he simply ignores them. You will be the voice of all those he has hurt if you have to, if only to help the man he keeps buried beneath your home. 

“You have debased them and dissected them to create your own life. Through that you ignore the cries and grief of those mothers. You care not for any pain or suffering but your own as you torture and shun that life which you created. The life which you so vehemently sought after.”

"Oh, yes!” He whirls around as you both reach his laboratory. “And what a life it is! Dull and useless, capable of only one word!”

"Yes! Your name. You are his creator, his father, his mother. There is a reason, my dear Victor, that God gave this gift only to his women. Through this endeavor, you have not grown closer to your mother or recovered the pieces of her that were stolen from you. You have become your father as he was to you.”

"Do not,” he steps forward, finger jabbing toward your face. “Do not compare me to that man,” he hisses, turning and pacing the length of the lab. You are relentless, a shadow nipping at his heels, a voice to all the ghosts following behind him. 

“Why? Because you know I speak the truth? He saw you, Victor. He saw the hollowness, the void where a soul and heart ought to be. You have no light inside of you so you must steal it from others. This is why he cherished William, why he hated you as you hate your own son.”

Victor lunges for you and the breeze brushes along the back as you realize how close to the edge of the lab he’s backed you. “That thing,” he shouts, “is not my son!”

"No,” you agree, eyes welling with tears as you struggle not to reach out and just hurt him. “He is the son of a dozen other women. All of whom would rip you to pieces so they might have another moment with their child.” His hands wrap around your arms, jerking you back, but you will not relent. You will not cower. “You have no respect for life,” you hiss. “You wish only to control it. And if your mother could see what you have become, she would turn from you just as you have Adam.”

You could see this shift in his gaze. The moment where he stops seeing you as a wife, as something to dismiss, and as an adversary. Victor hated Adam because he was a reflection of all that Victor could never be. And now, in your eyes, he saw the same. He saw the honesty of himself, the monstrosity of his grotesque being. 

“Enough!” He shouted, releasing you with a shove. Your feet slipped along the cool floor and your breath remained frozen as you fell from the edge. Victor rushed forward, eyes wide as he reached for your hands. But all you could feel was the wind against your back, the momentary weightlessness as you saw nothing but the moon shining above you. Until your body smashed against the rocks below and the lights went out. 

And Adam, stuck beneath the home, he could hear only the vaguest noise of anger and hatred. Then, through his one opening to the world, he saw something white and free. Like the biggest bird he’d never seen, falling past him. And he wondered what it would feel like to fly. 

Victor held no particular love or affection for you. You were a living reminder that even beyond the grave, his father would always have control over his life. You had not given him sons of his own, or embodied the role of his wife in any sort of way as his mother had. 

Truthfully, he’d always imagined that your death would make his life better. Oftentimes, he caught himself picturing how a fever might take you, or you might even face death as his mother had. But, despite his disinterest, he always found himself shamed after such thoughts. 

Still, in all of those shadowed moments of his life, he had never imagined himself so desperately working to bring you back to him. Not as he did now, with thunder sounding above his laboratory. His hands bloodied and shirt ruined as he stitched together the ruined pieces of your flesh. 

The rocks had done much damage to your body, but he could fix you. Just as he’d done with the creature. He could make you better, stronger, and live again. Perhaps, him doing this so quickly after your death meant you might retain some of the intelligence his other creation lacked. Perhaps you might return to him as you once were. 

Much of your bones had been shattered against the jagged coast. He’d had to borrow skeleton and skin from his leftover remains. But you would not nearly be as patchwork as the creature was. Even now, he could still see you beneath his stitches and seams. Your eyes were still your own, your lips and nose. You were still his wife. 

Victor placed the metal casing around your body and lifted you as he’d once done with the creature. You would be his once more. No one ever need know of what happened tonight. Of his brief insanity when he’d pushed you over the edge. 

Elizabeth would never have reason to look at him with hatred in her eyes as she learned of what he’d done to her only companion. 

Victor pushed his rain soaked hair back from his face and watched the lightning strike from above. Your body arched from the slab as his lab worked to ignite life in you once more. 

Yes, it could be as it always had been. 

But, perhaps, this time you would not look at him with such ire in your eyes. 

Adam, that was what you called him. Victor, he’d thought, was the name for all. He knew the sun, knew that sun meant life. But the rest was slow to come. His name first, and then he’d discovered yours. It was the prettiest word he’d ever heard. Though, he had not heard many. 

With that name, it was followed by softness. A touch that was not accompanied by the sharp sting of that rod Victor used. He had not had long with you. But it had been the sweetest moments since he’d first opened his eyes. Sweet as it had been when Victor had first shown him sun, before he took it away. 

And when Victor brought you back down to Adam, he felt something tight within him. He had no word for the feeling, just that it was good. Even in the presence of his creator. 

Adam looked up from the pretty charm you’d given him and stood as Victor carried you closer. The sharp glare his creator gave him had him moving back a step. “Back!” Victor snapped, even if Adam was already doing so. Another feeling, aching and sharp, rattled through him. It was like having something taken from him, that’s all he knew every time Victor appeared. Though, that was less and less lately. 

Victor moved to the slab across Adam and placed you carefully down on the stone. Adam frowned, seeing that you now had bandages similar to his own. They were wound around your arms, chest and bottom. But your face remained similar, only a few marks along your chin. Victor allowed you to keep your hair, something he had not granted Adam. 

Victor’s hands ran over your chest before he leaned down, pressing his ear to the bandages. Adam crept closer, wondering why you were not smiling or speaking. “Back!” Adamn flinched and stayed where he was. But you did not move, your eyes were not open to him and he felt that ache once more. 

Why did you not look at him?

Victor’s eyes pinched closed before your chest lifted and he finally let out a sharp breath. He moved, pressing his forehead to yours as he whispered something Adam could not hear. Victor’s lips lingered against your temple before he stepped back. 

“Do not touch her,” Victor warned. He even picked up the rod, lunging toward Adam until he was curled up along his slab. “I will be back later. Do not make a noise, do not even look at her.” 

For good measure, Victor brought the rod down against Adam until he could feel his seams splitting. Only when Adam was limp against the ground did Victor leave once more. Adam waited until the cold of the ground began to hurt to finally stand. 

Slowly, he crawled toward you. His chains managed just enough length to be able to kneel at your side. His fingers reached out, slowly trailing along the seams of your arms. You had not looked like this before. But now, you were like Adam. Cold like him, skin discolored as his. Did this mean Victor would hate you now as he did Adam? 

Your chest stuttered and Adam watched the bandages around them carefully. Slowly, your eyes began to open. He sank down further, worried you might not want his to be the first face you see. 

Your eyes darted across the ceiling before you sat up. Slowly, Adam began to recognize something else you shared with him. Your eyes, once so warm and soft, were as confused and scared as his so often were. 

His lips struggled around your name, the sound coming slow and broken. Nothing like how you had so sweetly told him. Finally, you looked at him. The care was gone, the warmth was gone and Adam felt that unnamed feeling. Your lips parted, but nothing came from them and he realized just what Victor had taken from him. From both of you. 

He held you as you had held him. The coldness of your skin made him ache as you curled into his arms. Adam did not think himself capable of gentleness, not when Victor had told him he was nothing more than an abomination. The word was foreign to him, but he knew that it was not a term one would use for a sweet creature such as yourself. 

He missed you, even as he held you. He missed the gentleness of your touch, how you had looked at him with such care. You seemed only frightened now, trembling as you took in the grey confines of your new home. You were not chained as Adam was, but you stayed with him nonetheless. 

He said your name again, clumsily stroking your hair as you struggled to repeat the word. You caught on quicker than he had. Already, you had more words than Adam did. “Wrong,” you kept saying. Adam wasn’t sure he knew what you meant, but a bad feeling accompanied the word. 

“Am wrong,” you muttered. Adam simply handed you his favorite leaf, hoping the color might distract you from this feeling of yours. 

Footsteps echoed through the room and Adam tensed, grip tightening around yours. It would be Victor, coming to take him away from you again. 

“Hello?” 

No, this was not Victor. This voice was soft, kind as yours had once been. Adam turned slightly and found the most colors he’d ever seen greeting him. The woman offered a fragile smile, pulling back her veil and revealing hair even brighter than his leaf. 

She moved closer and Adam did not release you. Even as you sat up, head tilting like you recognized the sweet cadence of her voice. She stilled as your face appeared above Adam’s shoulder. The smile fell away and she dropped her hat. 

Your name was a broken sound as she rushed toward you. Adam flinched as she dropped before you both. Her hands shook as she reached toward. Another shattered whisper of your name and you were sinking from Adam’s grip into her arms. 

“What has he done?” The woman curled her arm around you and looked at Adam. Her hand came up to cup his cheek and he sank into the warmth of her touch. “Oh, to both of you? You poor creatures.” Her hands urged at Adam until he was compelled to follow beside you and sit on the floor with her. 

It was in her arms that he felt the warmth Victor had stolen from you. Even you stopped your whispers, simply leaning into her touch. “I am sorry,” she told you. “I never should have let you follow him.”

“Elizabeth,” his creator’s voice. Not as sharp as it always was, but enough to make Adam curl himself around both of you. 

Elizabeth looked up and glared at Victor. “What have you done to her?”

“There was an accident,” Victor snapped. “I saved her.”

“No,” clear liquid trickled down Elizabeth’s cheeks, dissimilar to the blood that usually stained Adam’s skin. “You killed her.”

Victor came over then, he growled when he saw Adam holding you both. “What did I say?” He jerked the chains around his wrists and dragged him back to his own slab. “You do not touch her!” Adam flinched as Victor shoved him back into the slab. 

Victor stood in front of Elizabeth, arm outstretched as you slowly uncurled from her. “Elizabeth, come, I do not yet know if she is dangerous.”

“Dangerous,” Elizabeth scoffed as she got to her feet. “The only dangerous one here is you.”

“Trust me,” Victor breathed sharply, “it is not me.”

“Wrong,” they both went still as you whispered. “wrong,” you muttered again. Adam wanted to go to you, but he didn’t want Victor to punish you both. 

“What?” Victor’s eyes were wide as he discovered an intelligence that had been buried in Adam. 

You lifted your gaze, stringy hair dropping in front of your face. “Victor,” you pushed out, words strangled and cracking. “Victor did this. Am wrong.”

Victor grabbed Elizabeth before you could stand. He led her and another man from the catacombs, despite Elizabeth's protests. You stayed where you were, glaring as he retreated. Slowly, you slumped back against the floor, eyes fluttering shut. 

Again, Adam had little time with you. Despite Victor’s vehement hatred of Adam, you would not leave his side. Victor attempted to shackle you, but you did not trust him as Adam once had. Instead, you fought, clawed and kicked until Victor was flying through the catacombs. His back had struck a column so hard debris had rained down around him. 

Then, you crawled beside Adam and sat stubbornly at his side. Victor had not tried to separate you again after that. Words came to you faster than Adam could discover them. Sometimes you would just mutter them under your breath, stringing something together that Adam had not witnessed. 

“Fall,” you would say. Push and Victor. You would tell him names of people he had never known and Adam would listen, just so long as you stayed so stubbornly at his side. 

Now, something pungent struck the air. Greasy and wrong, something pooled through the water of Adam and yours canal. You held tight to Adam’s hand as Victor carried down large metal jugs that held the same smell. 

Neither of you spoke, simply watched Victor. Each time Victor grew too close, you would position yourself in front of Adam, eyeing the metal rod by your feet with a threat. Victor did not acknowledge either of you, not until he had brought down the last foul-smelling jug. 

“One word,” he said to Adam. “One word!”

Adam said the only word he truly loved, your name. Adam doubted he ever could have said something that would have been the right answer. But that was clearly worse than anything else he could have uttered. Victor strode forward and before either you or Adam could react, he slammed a knife deep into your chest. 

Adam was frozen, eyes wide as he watched the blood spill from your chest. Watched as it bled through your bandages and stained the stone below you crimson. Victor did no hesitate in throwing your limp body over his shoulder. He did not turn even as Adam shouted your name, as his chains rattled as he failed to chase after you both. 

Your blood dripped from Victor’s shoulder, oozed into the water splashing around Victor’s feet until it made its way back to Adam. Something ached in his chest, it burned and ripped until he thought his seams might split. 

When a word made its way to his mind, when something that could poorly capture this devastation was discovered, the fire came. Adam could not chase after you or Victor, not as the water before him ignited. He had little choice but to rip at his chains and follow the downward path of your blood in the water. 

Elizabeth ran her fingers gently across your hair. It was her, not Victor, who taught you what life was. Who read books to you until you could remember the vague outlines of your life. Your mind held no faces, no true memories, just the shadows of feelings. 

Victor had been your husband. Now, he was your creator. Nothing more than a warden to keep you hidden from the world. Elizabeth, you assumed, must be what a mother is meant to be. 

It is her wedding, yet she sits behind you and cares for you. You read from the Bible, a passage of Adam and Eve as that familiar ache of loss burns against the back of your throat. Elizabeth’s fingers go still in your hair as your voice stumbles to a stop. 

“Are you thinking of him again?”

You nod, forgetting the words she’d dutifully retaught you. Elizabeth moves from her chair and kneels before you. Her soft hands soothe over your cheeks as she offers you a small smile. “He is out there,” she promises you. “You feel when the people you love are gone.”

Her hand presses to your chest and you mimic the movement, letting the beat of her heart calm your racing mind. “It is something hollow inside you. Something instinctual as breathing. We feel those we truly love.” She tilts her head and smiles, “Do you still feel him?”

“Yes,” you whisper. 

She nods and brushes your hair back. “So do I,” she promises. 

You let yourself sink into her touch and revel in the warmth only she seems capable of in this cold, aching estate. 

“What have I said?”

You refuse to open your eyes as Victor limps into her room. She pushes your hair down and looks over your shoulder. “You shouldn’t be in here.”

”I thought that was only meant for the groom,” he attempted humor but he was a poor actor at hiding his own bitterness. Again, you could feel his eyes boring into your back. “Now, Eve,” the name was a mockery of the one you’d gifted Adam. A cruel reminder of that which he had stolen from you. 

Elizabeth slowly released you and you got to your feet. As you brushed past Victor, his hand shot out, jerking up your elbow. “I do not want to have this conversation again.”

Your eyes narrowed on his hand and he faltered. With a sharp shove, you sent him stumbling back, his new leg buckling from under him. You took no joy in watching him suffer, just felt that familiar emptiness within you. 

You spared him not another glance as you left Elizabeth’s room and moved quickly to his. He did not want others seeing you. You would not even be allowed to watch Elizabeth be wed tonight. Your only joy would be hearing her recount it to you later. 

Why would he bring you back if he did not even want you? If he had never wanted you?

Inside Victor’s rooms, you found yourself walking toward the windows as you often did. You watched as the guests began to arrive, women veiled and gowned in white. You looked down at your own black dress and felt yourself begin to crumple.

Tears were something new to you. Discovered only after you’d awoken after Victor’s second time murdering you. When you realized the other half of yourself had been left to burn away. But if you could come back, surely so could he. 

Sniffling, you sank to the floor and let your head press to the cool glass. 

“You,” a low voice called. 

You gasped, jumping to your feet as you whirled around. “Who’s there?” You attempted to peer into the shadows of the room, but Victor kept it far too dark for you to see anything properly. 

Then, softer than anyone’s spoken to you in a long time, you hear your name. And he’s appearing. Bigger than you remember, with hair grown in rebellion against your creator. His eyes are still the same, wide and yearning for a kindness the world has given neither of you. 

“Adam,” his name was the first breath of relief you’ve had since you were reborn. Possibly before then. 

He stepped fully into the light, shoulders hunched beneath his furs as you rushed toward him. Your arms flew around his waist and he stilled, unsure what to do with himself. But when you tightened your grip, when you let out a shuddering cry against his chest, he finally held you. Just as he’d done when you’d first woken up in a new body. As you had done for him when you’d first discovered him. 

“I thought he had stolen you from me,” he whispered, back hunched as he cradled you in his arms. 

“I knew,” you whispered. “I knew you would find me again.” Adam’s arms held tighter to you and you basked in the warmth he was finally capable of providing. 

“I will not let you walk this world alone,” he swore. “Will not let you face the harshness of the hordes of man on your own.”

"You will not lose me,” you promised to him. “No matter what man or creature tries, we only have each other in this life and all the next.”

Vows more meaningful than any a priest might have you echo, you and Adam parted, finally having found a reason to live again. Not simply to survive, but to move through this life knowing that there was purpose for it. 

And when Victor returned, he found his chambers empty. His wife and creation having disappeared completely. The only sign where she might have gone being a dying leaf left on his desk. 

end. — I do not own the characters or the novel/movies Frankenstein, but this writing is my own all rights reserved © not-neverland06 2025. do not copy, repost, translate & recommend elsewhere.

You gasp and sit up. The silky laughter rolls in like distant thunder. But he's there. Right there.

The light flicks on and shows the beast to be a man. He looks like any other. Perhaps he is more attractive. Stronger by the measure of his chest straining his chest, even with the collar unbuttoned. The jacket only serves to emphasize his broad shoulders.

You stare at him. His presence strangles you to silence. Like the dark figures that keep you paralysed when they come, you cannot move. He grins as his eyes skim over you.

He closes the door. He tuts as he prowls to your footboard, licking his teeth like a ravenous animal. He brings a finger up to his lips and hushes you.

"I will be gentle, little fox." He startles you as suddenly he's upon you. Like a wild cat, he is too quick to track. You gasp as you are trapped upon your back.

He pets your cheek as he leers down at you. His nose brushes yours. His breath is hot and damp. His hair falls down and tickles you.

His hand crawls down your throat and along the front of your camisole. You shiver and he cooes at you.

"Be calm," he presses his palm to your heartbeat. "Be goods."

🐾

The second time he comes, he is in you before you wake. His hand smothers your frightened cries as the realisation crashes down on you. The clap of thunder hides the rock of the bed.

He is not so gentle as the first time. Where once he plied his soft kisses, he bites, sinking in his teeth. He teethes at your throat as you claw at his naked back.

He ruts into you. He slides in long strokes out of you only to slam back in. You arch your back and dig your nails into his corded muscle. His body chafes between your thighs as he snarls into your ear. He chew your lobes as the rumble within him battles the storm without.

Yoh close your eyes as the scent of his sweat suffocates you. Your voice evaporates into his calloused skin. The headboard rams against the wall in time with his hunger.

🐾

You've lost count. You don't know how many times he's come. All you know is that it's more and more often. You're not surprised anymore when he appears, only scared.

He leaves the lights off this time. A growl rolls up his throat as he climbs onto the bed. He tugs the blanket down until you're exposed. You stopped wearing anything to bed. He shreds it to strips.

He touches your hip and slides his fingers under you. He turns you onto your belly. He grabs a handful of your hair and pushes your face into the pillows. You grip the edges as you ready for him.

He kisses along your shoulders. You quiver. His nose traces along the back of your neck and he rubs his naked dick against your rear.

He pushes a hand under you as he cranks your head to the side. He bites you, sucking until the flesh throbs. You wear scarves these days.

He shoves his hand further down. He stretches his fingers along your cunt and opens your folds. He shifts above you and uses his fingertips to guide himself into you. He buries himself in a single motion.

He exhales as the tension drains from him. He drapes himself over you. He drags his hand up to feel your stomach.

He begins slowly. He groans against your neck. His hips tilt in a patient rhythm. In, out, in, out. He is in no hurry. You could even fall back asleep.

He tugs your hair as if sensing the thought. He tuts into your ear. You reach back and play with his curls.

He pumps into you, pushing until he can get no deeper, then slides out. He does it again, and again, diving in until you whine.

His fingers curl against your stomach. He snarls as his tempo picks up. His flesh claps against yours. He's loud. Very loud. Someone will hear but they never stop him.

He quakes as he fills you up. You wash your sheets every time. He leaves a mess every time. Leaking from you, sticky over your thighs, dripping down your cheeks.

He lays his weight on you and snickers. He inhales the scent of your hair as he lets it go. He sighs.

"The pup is growing," he rasps. "Do you feel him yet?"

You close your eyes and sob. You already know. You try to forget. Try not to look in the mirror. Your tears trickle out.

As of now, there’s a shattering pressure to be located in your abdomen, as if something is digging up extra space that shouldn’t be made. Any squirms of your unadjusted body are diminished with Chrollo’s palm holding you close by your belly, your back against his chest. You’re warming and sitting on his lap and everything about it is wrong — you are maintained with only your t-shirt on, legs and crotch nude for him to split you on his cock also to be warmed.

He’s waiting — comfortably on the couch, unlike you — anticipating the moment your body will decide to relax and give his hardness more space to leash you from inside, rather than just be knocking against your cervix painfully. Sitting on top of his cock for the first time is certainly stressful enough to show up in how tightly your pussy squeezes him.

“Relax,” he mutters gently into your nape and one kiss is left where your back’s surface begins, although it only sets your nerves on fire more. Even his pants touching your naked legs is overwhelming. Worse, his hand travels from your belly to be between your spread thighs draped over his, then circles on your clit to work wonders — you do moan with shame. You’re wetter than you’d like to be, but your muscles still work against you. Your legs already hurt from the strain of slightly hovering your body above his lap, too uncomfortable to sit down on him fully, and he’s not helping with his arms around you forcing you to submit to gravity.

“Chrollo, please, I can’t do this,” you whimper out the plea, pushing your palms at the side of his thighs. The irrational side inspires thoughts you should have let him have you, since this is the key to ending what your predicament is about — you refused to sleep with him, so he’s piling up your compliance step by step by letting you get used to the feeling of being filled by him.

Because no, sex with him is not avoidable; of course, he could have simply forced himself on you, but he’s still acting out that damn role of a patient guy, one meeting you halfway. He stole you months ago, he praised and worshiped you for many more prior, it is only right he collects the fruit of his hard labor.

(While the truth is, he’s probably biding his time for fun — obtaining something is not as fulfilling as the chase for it. And you’re worth every pursuit. Not to mention, the nicer you are, the more normal he feels about intimacy with you; believe it or not, he’s not just trying to pretend to be a human, but be one also.)

Things are promising for Chrollo only: you’ve never allowed him to penetrate you before and it’s both humiliating and nerve-racking for it to finally happen. He’s taking what he shouldn’t be taking nor was he allowed to, and you’re rightfully scared. He might not see your negativity if you’re not facing him, though it’s redundant when anything else in your body speaks for itself.

“But you’re doing so well already. Just a bit—”, he announces his slight thrust up, one making you gasp and clench on his cock. “—more.”

He offers you a few extra of those shallow thrusts, until your head is collapsing on his shoulder with extortion, small sweat building up on your forehead already. Your fingers knead his thighs, nearly causing pain. You’re no longer as tense, able to sit down and handle him better, although who knows how long he’ll keep you here, split in half.

Your bodily perception is concentrated in your abdomen, still with your pussy tormented by the expansion of his girth, and it’s still uncomfortable; not even size-related, but coming from the intrusion this experience is not even his fingers given before this game started helped. Your eyes dart around the room only for your brain to fail to disconnect with some object to obsess about.

Whatever tears moist your lashline, he collects with his other hand; they’d be perfect for him to drink from, yet so far they are only a small amount in comparison to the waters you’ll produce once he’ll be able to fuck you properly.

Unwanted by you, there’s another type of ache to be felt — a sweet buildup spread across your tight hole, involuntarily begging for more friction. Need washes itself down your thigh. Your feet finally try to touch the ground and stand up to run away from it, but the arm crossing your front pulls you closer, so rapidly he’s pulling a creak out of the couch. 

“Stay still,” he demands, slightly strained in his voice. Your squirms backfire against him as well — your walls rub around his cock or swallow it more with every jerk a bit too well, he’s nearly as desperate as you for more.

Resigned, you collapse your entire body against his chest, with your palms gripping onto the couch’s edge limply. At least you don’t have to see his interested or horny face. “Chrollo, how long do you plan to keep me like this?” you ask with reasonable anxiety. You may have learned some of his behavior but you are still akin to a novice in navigating his person, incapable of foreseeing more elaborate plots. He can be too unpredictable, and your ideas of him are ambivalent already.

“Well…” He gives up on your clit and rubs your hip instead; it’s meant to be soothing, except you are too paranoid about his hand deciding to wander lower again. “Perhaps a chapter will do. That is, if you behave,” he informs lazily.

So between ten to even fifty novel pages, depending on how over-detailed his picked author can get. “… And how long is it?” you gulp after asking the question carrying too many terrible answers possible.

“Hm, let me see…” Chrollo leans forward with you still on his lap and in his arms, this same angling his cock inside you to be curved and pressed into a spongier spot, that your toes curl from both pain and sensitivity. He picks up the book and leans back onto the couch, beginning to feel the tremble of your form. He keeps it over your head, while the other hand crawls under your clothing and teases your skin.

Every rustle of the page causes your heart to beat faster; he's either lying about the chapter’s length or it’s that long.

“Thirty one.” It’s as if you hear a death sentence verdict.

“Thirty one?! That’s gotta to be like an hour of reading!” you realize frantically. You don’t even count on it being thirty one, in case he decides you did something wrong and need to start another round.

“It seems this writer had an affinity for creating detailed landscapes,” his voice comes to be amused, well-aware what this means for you — warming his dick for an hour or so. “Shall we proceed or do you have any more input to share?” His point is clear: the more you protest, the longer you will be skewered like this.

All you can do is nod the back of your head pathetically into his shoulder. He’s right about that one thing. Running away is futile too.

First five minutes, despite how slow they pass, you manage to get through his ‘foreplay’ surprisingly easily. You're almost led to believe he has turned off his surroundings awareness, this much immersed in his little novel, as he’s simply letting you be. Your eyes trace shapes of the living room’s TV, then the gray-framed windows and its city paintings outside, ending with slight dust gathered on the glass coffee table. The texture of your top is smooth under your fingers. It’s nearly possible for you to shut off your bodily senses and not think of the way his cock is splitting you; besides, the pain has subsided already.

Or so you would have thought. The lesson — or should he say, the preparation for the starting of your sex life — wouldn't be successful if you simply tuned out the feeling of being penetrated by him. “Could you pass me my tea, love?” Chrollo asks with nothing but innocence.

It is just now you notice the teacup of thankfully not steaming tea on the glass furniture. There’s no way in hell for you to grab it and hand it over, not without spilling some on yourself, but it’s especially difficult to do so without experience similar to being gutted alive by his cock. Sitting on it vertically is intense already. “Chrollo… you’re doing this on purpose,” you accuse nervously, simultaneously hoping to annoy him enough for him to grab his drink himself.

“Doing what on purpose, exactly? There’s tea I’d like to drink. You know I drink tea. Considering our current arrangement, you’re the one who needs to grab it for me,” he informs calmly. You hate his logical reasoning, or how unperturbed he is besides a few silent gasps given when you move too much. “Otherwise, I’ll have to start our process over. Don’t make this more difficult than it needs to be.”

You tense up at his clear threat. Losing a few minutes of progress is the least you want, so you acquiesce. You lean your body forward; you are smart enough to try to slightly pull out by raising your hips, but he chases you to it, as the hand that’s not holding his book forces you to sit down. “No cheating.”

You cry out, feeling as his cock’s head presses your insides a bit too deeply; to make things worse, he twitches, as if growing impossibly harder at your noise. You choose to force your body to move with more zeal and lean yourself forward, grabbing that stupid cup with a shaky hand. The worst is not over when you have to lean back against his chest with enough control in your muscles to avoid spilling the earl grey over you both.

You support the teacup’s saucer with your other hand, and slowly drag your body backwards. 

When your back hits his chest again, you let out an exhale as if you just ran a marathon. “Thank you, darling,” he mutters when grabbing the porcelain, before he's pressing a kiss onto your neck from behind you. Even that is capable of creating more mess within your hole, as you already are sensitive all over you; now that kiss gets you wetter, as it was purposely aimed on the edge connecting jaw and neck.

For a sip to be taken, he has to halt reading for a second, dragging on your torture the same. After he’s done and sets the set away thankfully himself, he grabs his pages again; although, this time, he moves to adjust himself right after. His length stirs your juices, you clench on him, drawing out a bleat from you and deep sigh from him. You dig your nails into your thighs, chasing hurt as distraction, and your feet raise to rest on your tiptoes.

“Chrollo—” you tilt your head on his shoulder, able to catch his curious face in your side vision. “How many pages are you in?” you manage to utter through your constrained with emotion throat.

“Ten,” he mutters and glides his free hand’s fingers over your jaw, hungrily observing the unbecoming look on your face. You really are like this thanks to him only, and he could get drunk on your attention. If it were another person, perhaps he’d find their demonstrative ways, full of emotion and vulnerability to be deplorable. With you, he’s eager to unravel you.

“T-ten,” you repeat, barely calculating the portion in your addled head. About one third into the chapter, and you’re already losing your mind.

It’s not that you necessarily want him to grab and finally fuck you, but if you well know he wouldn't let you end things prematurely, you still hope for little something to make things feel less like you're lacking something — being edged from more pleasure. All those tiny, shallow thrusts from tiny movements, and all those stirs were enough to build up arousal proficient in creating chaos begging for scattering.

He’s conscious of that, eager to take advantage. “You know we can skip all of this if only you choose to let me have you fully. It’s inevitable, so…” he proposes, gently-toned and patient to sell you the deal further.

You immediately shake your head, instinctively terrified of the prospect. Your current situation may not be ideal or not-petrifying, yet you're still not ready for the main thing. 

“Are you sure? I can tell you want something, not to mention…” his book is abandoned for him to reach between your messy thighs. “I can feel your misery all over me.” His fingers drag across your slit, smearing your wetness from your hole to your clit, where he stops to rub a few circles.

You shake on his lap, feeling ripples of a pleasure higher than before. Your calves strain as you bump your legs feebly try to raise your hips away from what he’s doing to you.“Please, stop,” you whine, attempting to clench your legs shut and stare ahead. Sadly, he doesn’t stop, not even feeling the pain from your thighs suffocating his bones.

Let him get you relief. Don’t let him get what he wants. Let him help you. Don’t let him win—

He chuckles: a stranger on the street would find it pleasant-sounding, but you know better. “I’m not so sure about your answer, so I'll ask once more — should we end this and move to better things, or should I keep reading?” his voice is pathologically calm.

“I…” you hesitate. That’s when he offers you a first, big thrust — a sample of what you can receive should you only ask. You try to get away from his lap again and again does he shove you closer to him. You scratch his pants and he thrusts into you again as punishment, you have no choice but to stop fighting.

“Yes?” he prods with amusement when you obey.

“Please, just…” you don’t realize you're opting for grinding your hips back at him, until a groan passing his lips lets you on the knowledge: you freeze.

“You have to use or words. I cannot let a misunderstanding happen, can I?” His thumb taps your clit and you go insane.

It’s not much love and desire speaking when you turn your head and suddenly kiss him, holding onto his bicep, if merely a desperation to let go of your gathered emotional tension. Regardless, your behavior is so unusual that even he appears surprised at first.

Chrollo is no fool to deny himself of your lips nonetheless. He grabs your throat to angle your head, kisses you for a few heated moments, then shoves his tongue into your mouth so lovely you get dizzy spells. When the kiss ends with your bruised lips, he puts his forehead against yours. 

“Should I read your kiss as your ultimate decision?” He stares you into the eye, his breath grazing your skin and obstructing your clarity further. The hand that hasn’t left your throat rubs it softly, sweetly docile.

He’s hopeful, as his eyes say that. It’s not a pretty sight, only speaking of what he wants to do to you. How this is about further obtaining you, tying you to him, going as far as inspecting his ‘goods’ as well.

It’s scary, dehumanizing, and absurd. You’re reminded of what he’s truly after in that just one gaze. “N-no. I don’t agree,” you answer instantly.

Chrollo sighs with tad disappointment, only to smile with curiosity. Your decision is still beneficial for him. “Fine then. I suppose we should wrap things up and start over tomorrow?”

A mortifying silence follows. “What?” you take a lot of time to ask with shock. 

“I’m not sure if you’re in the right shape to continue. We should try again later,” this mocking is said with a chaste kiss on your cheek, one not shutting your bemused mouth. 

All of your progress just went to waste, all because you got impatient. Although, it’s not as if he had ever said cockwarminghim will be an event organized just once. In any case, he’s a winner — one that’ll be happy with having you in any form.

“Don't cry.” He murmurs bluntly and wipes your tears of frustration appearing seconds later. “You did well for your first time,” it’s almost a praise.

When he pulls out, you can feel the lingering throb, your hole pulsing desperately for more. Your legs are weak when he helps you stand up, he’s right there to seize your waist. “Let’s get you to bed. It’s late.” Maybe if you kiss him goodnight he’ll provide relief on his fingers, no matter you’re selling another part of yourself to him for a mere temporary distraction from your shitty hostage situation.

And evidently not all of your neighbors were asleep, as through the thin walls of your own unit, you could hear the distinct noises of bed springs creaking loudly that was accompanied by loud moaning.

At two in the morning? Really?

Reluctantly, you pulled yourself up from the couch, ignoring the way your body protested after managing to become comfortable. With heavy steps, you made your way to the small bedroom within the unit in an effort to escape your neighbors.

That time, you slammed the door.

Stumbling forward in the dark until you found your bed, you all but fell on top of it.

Unfortunately, your earlier prediction turned out to be correct, because as you lay there wishing for sleep, to temporarily escape into your subconscious, you weren't allowed even that. Because all you could do was stare up at the ceiling while thinking about how you shouldn't be here right now.

That this wasn't how things were supposed to be.

After that job at the Pelletier's – six fucking months spent being at the beck and call of those goddamn assholes and the rest of the uppity staff – you should have been done with this. That job was supposed to be your windfall, giving you the means to live a nice, comfortable life while you left your current occupation behind.

Escaping the illegal activity in which you supported yourself with was something you had wanted to do for some time now. Sure, there was a certain thrill that came with infiltrating somewhere and making off with whatever valuables your clients had bid you to, but you didn't want to do that forever. Because one misstep on your part, one person recognizing the face you were using, one ability that was able to see through your hatsu – any and all of those could come into play during a heist which could spell the end for you and the life you currently had. While what you had wasn't the best, you weren't willing to trade that for a jail cell.

Which was why the diadem job had been a godsend. It was well within your capabilities, and with the buyer being an old socialite with ties to the mafia through her late husband, she had the funds to pay the enormous price for that old piece of jewelry. She was desperate for it even, having an obsession with it that was well-known by those who knew her. Though the communications you had with her were brief and through her servants, Letizia Bianchi's claims of being directly descended from Princess Despoina were well communicated to you, which she in turn made the the claim that the diadem was hers by right. Why she felt the need to justify herself was unknown to you, if the history of her late husband was anything to go by.

Not only that, the princess in question had died in a bloody revolution with nothing to indicate that she ever had children before she was executed. Plus there was the fact that most historians agreed that she didn't appear to have any interest in men. But at the end of the day, you didn't care all that much what the reasons were as to why the Letizia wanted it. All you cared about was what you were going to be paid for the job.

And a twelve billion payout was enough to get you motivated to do your best.

So for the six months you spent in the Pelletier household, you learned the habits of the staff and owners, figured out the code to the vault, chose the best time to make off with it, and got everything together for your escape. All of that would be in exchange for an end to this line of work. “One last job,” you had told yourself.

That would have been the case had it not been for a certain thing – or rather, a certain group of people:

The Phantom Troupe.

You'd heard of them before this – anyone involved in underworld dealings at the very least knew the name, as the group of thieves had achieved something of a legendary status within a relatively short amount of time. They always struck out of nowhere, hitting their targets with efficiency and leaving nothing behind that could lead back to them. Were it not for the fact that almost all of the stolen items that ended up in their possession sometime after made it onto the black market, most people might have assumed that those items truly had been spirited away by ghosts.

Though not all of their actions were ones of violence and theft, as you had heard rumors of the troupe putting up the funds needed for various orphanages in a variety of more unfortunate areas of the word. But when you considered how out of line that sounded with their general MO and how sappy it seemed, you were inclined to think that was just a stupid rumor spread around for shits and giggles.

Rumors aside, the Phantom Troupe was a force to be reckoned with. Enigmatic and devastating, shrouded in a reputation of ruthlessness. Their deeds were many, and the incident at the Pelletier mansion was just another note on a long list of their crimes, with the Diadem of Princess Despoina being just another acquisition of theirs.

Except no.

Because against all odds, you had been the one to steal it.

You groaned, fighting the urge to smother yourself with the pillow as you pulled it over your head in frustration. Of all the screw-ups and mistakes you'd made in your life, you never would've dreamed that you'd fuck up so badly that you would put yourself on the Phantom Troupe's radar.

But how the fuck could you have known? How was there any way you could have known that the troupe would go after the Pelletier's at the same time as you? How could you have known that they had come to the same conclusion as you, that the best moment to take the diadem away was when the Pelletier's would be occupied with an event?

You couldn't. No one in the entire world could have ever predicted such a thing could happen.

But that didn't really matter, because even if you didn't mean for it to happen, you had stolen the troupe's intended mark.

Which only meant that, if they found you out, they would make sure you paid for it.

Fuck

You groaned again as you rolled over onto your front, keeping the pillow pressed against your face. You needed to do that, otherwise you knew your focus was going to go to the air vent on the wall that sat just above the floor. If that happened, you knew you'd spend the rest of the time you were awake staring at it with the image of what you had hidden inside of the vent etched into your mind: that of the cardboard box in which you had stuffed the diadem into because you didn't know where else to hide it.

Just another addition to the piece's rich – or perhaps sordid – history: from sitting atop the head of a princess to being stuffed into a maid's closet, then from a display case within a museum for everyone to behold until it moved to a display case within a private collection. And now in a vent, sitting there in the dark and unclaimed by the buyer. A piece that was worth billions yet you couldn't sell it, because if you tried, all it would take was one whisper to the wrong person for the most deadly group in the world to descend upon you and make the remainder of your life a living hell.

All because Letizia, who went as far as making a whole song and dance about how she was descended from the original owner of the diadem, chose to go back on the deal. Even with her being as powerful and well-connected as she was, not even she wanted to cross the Phantom Troupe.

And you didn't have any other choice but to accept it when you were told that. Because what were you going to do? Go to the police? Take her to court for not paying you and claim a breach of contract? Yeah right. That'd go over well.

You were stuck with no option other than to deal with it, to take on the jobs that would help you get by while she continued on as normal. That left a bad taste in your mouth, but the best you could do was to continue to work and hope for another high-paying job like one Letizia was supposed to pay for while you figured out what to do with the diadem at a later date.

Though as you lay there and told yourself such things, you were very well aware that another job as lucrative as the diadem one was unlikely to come about.

It wasn't supposed to be this way, you told yourself again.

Your thoughts went back to that night when you had stolen the diadem, the thoughts you were throwing around in your head as you considered the possibilities for your future. From laying on the beach with expensive drinks to staying cozy beneath a warm blanket in a nice lake house, or simply traveling where ever you pleased whenever you pleased. There had been no end to what you could have done for yourself once you had gotten your twelve billion.

But instead of enjoying that nice, comfortable life, you were left to rot in a shitty apartment, which was the best you could get after you had spent what was left of your savings just to get to the Begerosse Union. You wouldn't be able to leave this particular area for a while, more than likely, as you had burned several bridges professionally when you chose to take the diadem job. Because you could do the job yourself, and because of that, you wanted the payout all for yourself.

Any truly high-paying jobs wouldn't come for some time.

Another long groan left your lips as you shifted, pulling your head away from the pillow and turning to face the wall. You'd figure this out, you told yourself. You've been in worse situations and you've gotten out of them – this would be no different. It just feels worse because of the way you were stiffed. Another opportunity will come. Keep doing what you're doing for now, and it'll all work out.

As had become the norm for you, you fell asleep listening to your own disingenuous inspirational thoughts.

Chrollo's morning began in the same way it often did, with him waking up well before the sun had risen and being unable to go back to sleep after. That in turn had him passing the time by reading until the first rays of dawn properly graced the world. Depending on just how early he would wake up, the time he had before the rest of the world was also awoken could be as little as a single hour or as many as four, as his internal clock only had become more erratic as the years had went by. It wasn't ideal as it had caused the bags beneath his eyes to only become more pronounced, and despite his numerous attempts at looking, Chrollo had yet to find an ability that could help him sleep through the whole night. For the moment, he had resigned himself to the fact that he would likely never get a full night's sleep again.

At least the predicament had allowed him more reading time, and as the many homes and apartments he had across multiple countries were always stocked with various different book collections, it ensured that he would always have something on hand to read during those deadly quiet hours of the early morning.

On this day, however, things were different. He could only carry so much on him while he was traveling. As a result, he only had four books on his person, and he found himself faced with a predicament: reread the third book he had packed, or continue with the fourth one that he had stopped reading a while earlier when he found that he wasn't enjoying it?

He ultimately chose to pick up the third book for a second time, as he still felt no desire to attempt to finish that fourth book. How a book like that – one that he couldn't stand to finish – had ended up in his possession, he had no clue.

But as Chrollo opened up the pages of the third book for a second time that trip, his thoughts were less focused on the words on the pages and more on the fact that this journey was taking him longer than he had expected, with no sense of when it would come to an end.

No sense of when he would find 'Minette' again.

Upon thinking of the maid, Chrollo yet again found himself uncertain if he should be exasperated or impressed that the matter had gone on for as long as it had. At the very least she deserved a certain amount of praise for her disappearing act – just as it wasn't often that an outside force managed to interfere with troupe business as effectively as she had, it also wasn't often that someone could vanish so thoroughly that even he was at a loss as to how she had managed it.

At first he had been confident that finding her would be an easy matter, as the theory that she had left by boat seemed sound at the time. After stealing an item as valuable as the diadem, leaving the country entirely was the best move to take. Yet there had been no sign of her, even when Shalnark had helped in pouring over every available security tape and log of the passengers who had departed from the docks in the time frame after the maid had vanished. Even when they had searched beyond the limits of the coastal town in the event that Chrollo's hunch about that route being incorrect, there was nothing.

The maid he had seen in the mansion was nowhere to be found no matter where they looked.

As expected, that dampened the mood of the troupe once the heist was over. Not so much due to how the diadem had been lost, but that someone had managed to sneak away in the way that she had. Just like him, some of the others had been impressed while certain members were angry, but all anticipated that the maid would be found. If not by the manner in which you escaped, then by tracking you down when the diadem went on the market. Whoever you truly were, Chrollo had felt that you would attempt to sell it, as it didn't seem to him that you were the type to keep expensive baubles just for the sake of it. Even from his brief interaction with you, he was certain that this was just a job for you.

And yet, even months later, there had been nothing.

At first it made sense. With the mass-disappearance at the Pelletier mansion and the media circus that had followed, that you would lay low was expected. But now that the heat had died down and the news had moved on to other stories, leaving the events in that mansion as a mystery while those in the underworld had an idea as to what had happened, there was still nothing for him to pick up on. No shred of evidence, no whispers of the diadem being placed on the market. Absolutely nothing.

Only two things had been discovered that could potentially be connected to you, the first of which being a small fire that had been set in the dumpster of a church near the area of the Pelletier mansion. Why that had happened was still a mystery to him and it could have easily been a strange coincidence that it occurred on the same night as the heist. Either way, there was nothing to go off of in regards to that instance.

The other bit of information that had been discovered was the face of the maid showing up in an unexpected way. At Chrollo's bidding, Pakunoda had shared the memories of the maid with the rest of the troupe in the unlikely event that one of them might come across her after the heist. It was a long shot that any of them would happen to see her, and yet, not long after the troupe had dispersed for the time being, Kortopi managed to come across something that only left more questions: a story about a memorial being erected for a woman who had died in an accident in the Odrana region. The instant Chrollo saw the photo of the woman the article had listed he knew immediately that it was her; that was the face of the maid that he had been searching for.

But it only brought him to another dead end. The woman in question had been dead for more than five years now, and even if the face had been the same, the hair was wrong, as was the apparent height of the deceased. Once again Shalnark's services were used, this time to look into her history as well as that of her family, and there was nothing to be found. It truly appeared that she had died, and there was nothing to indicate that her family or anyone close to her had taken over her identity. There was no connection to the Pelletier's, either.

Thus Chrollo had been left at a loss once more, only having ideas as to what was going on without any concrete proof.

He needed to find you again. Not so much out of a desire to have the diadem as he had planned initially, but simply out of principle; no one was allowed to steal from the Phantom Troupe and get away with it. Some of the others were far more passionate about that belief and wanted you to pay severely. With one of those particular members being Feitan, who had offered to torture you to death once you were found, your fate would have been a miserable one had Chrollo not ordered the others to leave the matter of tracking you down to him. That had been enough to make them back away, as they trusted him to take care of the matter.

And he would take care of it. Though how exactly the matter would be settled depended entirely on the nature of your ability.

And whether or not he could steal it.

Chrollo blinked, snapping himself out of his thoughts as he found that despite how the minutes had ticked away, he was still only on the first page of the book he had chosen. Clearly, he wasn't able to focus on his usual way of passing the time. His own internal musings were simply too loud at the moment.

With a soft, almost imperceptible sigh, Chrollo shut the book and placed it onto the small coffee table that not far from him. He then stretched out slightly before he leaned back in his seat, glancing through the thin sliver between the curtains to see the world outside his hotel room. Unsurprisingly, it was still dark outside; dawn wouldn't come for a few hours more.

Unlike with most things in his life, there was little Chrollo could do right now other than wait. Wait for the sun to rise so he could continue with his journey, this time taking a flight to Canzas.

He'd never been to that city before. Had never even heard of it in any capacity, yet when he had been looking at the available flights, instinct had him choose that one.

A clear result of the ability that was now guiding him.

Chrollo stood up from his seat as he parted the blinds further and allowed himself a better look at the darkness beyond his window.

It had been months since the heist at the Pelletier mansion, and with no sign of where the maid or the diadem had gone, Chrollo found himself growing impatient. While waiting for you to slip up was an option, doing so when he had access to an ability that could speed up the process was a far better use of his time.

Thus, he had found himself enlisting the help of a woman who served as an auxiliary member of the Phantom Troupe.

It hadn't been a terribly long time that she had become associated with the troupe, yet there had been many times that her ability had come in handy. Intertwining fates, she called it. Using nen to link people together and ensuring that one day, the two that were linked would cross paths.

A hatsu like that was perfect to link particular troupe members with particular targets that had proved difficult to get to through other means. Because no matter the person, whether they were an ordinary person or a nen user, they weren't able to resist the link. No matter what the two would come to meet, someday, somewhere.

It wasn't the first time Chrollo had the auxiliary member use her ability on him, as he had bid her to use it once before so he could get close to an heiress who had an annoyingly competent security detail. But back then, it had only taken him a week to get to the heiress.

This time around, however, it was taking much longer to reach his target.

Though perhaps it was a miracle that the link was able to be made at all. The linking ability required an object that the target had touched, and all Chrollo had been able to produce were some bed sheets that had been at the bottom of the chute, ones that both he and you had landed on after jumping in. Aside from the linen cart you had been pushing when he came across you, that was the only thing he could take from the scene that he knew for certain you had made physical contact with. The only reason he had grabbed any of them was a precaution; in case he couldn't find you on his own, in case he needed to go to the auxiliary member for just this reason.

It was a good call for him to have taken that precaution. Had he not done so, Chrollo wouldn't be here at this moment, traveling a destination that was currently unknown, but where exactly he was headed wasn't that important.

What mattered was that this journey was guaranteed to have you at the end of it.

And what he would do when he found you…..

That would be determined once he found out the exact nature of your ability. Once he found you, once he had you secured, he could then take his time to learn about your hatsu. If he couldn't steal it, then it would be a simple matter to retrieve the diadem and dispose of you. As much as Feitan would bemoan the fact that Chrollo had denied him a torture subject, it didn't feel worth it to transport you overseas just for you to die by the torturer's hands. Better to take end things swiftly as opposed to dragging them out.

But if he could steal your hatsu, then things would be different.

There was always a certain amount of vexation he felt whenever he came across a hatsu that couldn't be stolen, especially when it was an ability that he knew he could put to good use if he could get control of it. Such was the case with the auxiliary member, who had carefully linked her own ability to herself so no one else could use it. Her taking such a precaution felt as though she anticipated that he might try to take it. While there had been some disappointment on his part, it ultimately still worked out in the troupe's favor as she was willing to work with them.

Her close relationship with Uvogin also meant that she was unlikely to betray the troupe, and if such a thing were to happen anyway, Uvogin would take care of it – as would Shalnark, he suspected, as the suspiciously placed cameras around her home were a good indication of his presence around her. What exactly was going on there wasn't entirely clear, but based on the knowing look Uvogin had shared with him when he noticed the cameras, the enhancer was at least aware of them. If Uvo saw no issue, then it wasn't Chrollo's place to question it.

But as for the issue that was you, Chrollo could only see you being willing to work with the troupe under duress, and even if you attempted to do so to save yourself, the rest of the troupe wouldn't be satisfied with that. The best outcome you had from this point onward was if he could steal your hatsu, because that would guarantee that you would keep your life.

And although he wasn't inclined to say it out loud, Chrollo found himself quietly hoping that your ability was one that he could take. In part for the sake of adding another useful hatsu to Skill Hunter.

But also because he wanted to see what would happen when he stole it from you. How would you react? How would you respond to him when he told you that your hatsu belonged to him?

What would you do when he made you powerless?

Chrollo smirked to himself. It wasn't the first time he had thought of such things. Even as far back as the night of the heist itself, he had found himself thinking of you often, wondering things about you, scrutinizing every second of that conversation he had shared with you in that brief amount of time you had shared.

He thought often of the brief glimpse he had gotten of you in that hallway – the real you. The one who had broken through the polite maid persona that you had been trying so hard to keep up in order to sarcastically suggest that he take care of you in order to make up for your lost income.

He thought of the brief look of panic that had hit you after you said that, when you realized that the sort of tone you had taken was not at all acceptable for what your apparent position was, and how you had scrambled to give a more polite response.

Both moments happened within seconds, but they replayed in his mind endlessly and to a point that what had started as a simple interest had grown into a mild obsession with who you truly were.

All because he made the decision to venture towards the Pelletier's living quarters before the heist had begun after seeing how lax the security was. All because he saw you seemingly at work and made the choice to toy with you a bit.

Those actions of his were what led to him seeing that side of you and had planted the seeds of obsession in his head. Had he not seen you personally and had that conversation, he may have delegated the task of finding you to someone else. But there he was, trekking across countries himself just so he could find you again.

Strange how simple actions that seem insignificant cause such monumental consequences in the way events play out.

Dawn was no closer to approaching as Chrollo continued to stare out of his window, his eyes drawn to the flicker of electric lights that sat within the darkness. The concept of sleep would no doubt continue to elude him, and his mind felt too busy to settle down and relax with any of his books. It would be several long hours of waiting before he could move once again, this time to take his flight to Canzas, which itself would be several more long hours of waiting.

And all of those hours would no doubt be filled with thoughts of you.

What were you doing now, Chrollo idly wondered.

What were things like for you after you had stolen the diadem?

What was your reaction when you found out about the troupe's involvement in the Pelletier's?

All questions he could only ask once he found you.

As had happened so many times now, your words echoed again in his head, where you made the off-handed comment about him taking care of you.

Depending on how things turned out, Chrollo felt that he may very well take you up on that offer.

This is bullshit.

You went so far, spent so much time and even came close to death – regardless of you knowing that fact at the time – and this was where you ended up?

She doesn't get to do this to you.

Not without paying for it.

Those thoughts struck you as you were eating your sad affair of a dinner: a microwavable meal consisting of chicken and pasta with a side of broccoli. Broccoli that you didn't realize until after you had opened the package had unpleasant looking brown spots in places that left you unwilling to eat it. Maybe you should've figured that would be the case considering it was a microwavable meal, but you had gotten it only because you didn't feel you energy to cook anything. That lethargy could have been due in part to a depression over how badly things had turned out for you.

What you didn't count on was just how much more depressed eating it made you feel, as if it was the physical embodiment of everything that had gone wrong for you since the diadem job. A shitty frozen dinner in a shitty crumbling apartment.

Meanwhile, Letizia was no doubt continuing on as normal, living the nice life you had wanted for yourself without a single care in the world, and she had more than likely completely forgotten all about you and the way she had wasted your time. You had given up a lot to pull off that job – opportunities and jenny from your own savings, not to mention your time and energy – and how did the bitch repay you? By flaking out and relying on the knowledge that there was nothing that you could do to make her pay up, nor could you easily take revenge, not without angering some important people in the underworld.

At this point, trying to get paid was a fool's errand – you weren't going to see the jenny she owed you. You accepted that.

But if she was going to screw you over with no remorse, then you were going to do the same to her.

And what better way to do that than to have her take the blame for the theft of the diadem?

Within an instant, you were on your laptop, searching Letizia's name to find out what you could on her current activities. With her being in the public eye, that was easy enough to figure out.

Less easy was figuring out how you could use the information you found to your advantage, and at the moment, there didn't appear to be anything that could help you. Letizia seemed to still be in Canzas at the moment, which likely meant that she was spending time at her main house in the area. That wasn't great for you. Preferably, she would be out of town when you struck, because with the amount of staff and bodyguards that surrounded her, it was simply a smarter choice to wait for that home to have as few people inside it as possible, and you didn't want to wait another six months infiltrating the staff and earning trust.

No, it was better to wait when she was away – on business or leisure, you didn't care which. Just as long as she and the army of people she employed were gone. Because once that happened, you could sneak into her mansion, place the diadem inside, and then call in an anonymous tip that a piece of jewelry related to a mass-disappearance was in her possession. With the rumors of her being connected to the mafia, the police would use that as an excuse to gain entry, and then everything would crumble for her.

In that way, you could get your revenge.

Of course, she would know it was you. She'd let her contacts know as well, not that they'd be able to do anything. You didn't give out your real name or even let anyone in the underworld see your true face for a reason, and even with all the power that people like Letizia had, none of them would be able to hunt down a person when they didn't even know their name or face.

You would need to leave the area after this stunt, just to be safe, and that would mean starting from scratch and with little to nothing to your name.

But that was fine. You hated this place anyway. And with your ability, starting over would be easy. You'd just been hesitant to go through with it before due to the hassle.

You didn't care now, because you weren't going to roll over and let people walk all over you, no matter who they were.

The thought of all of it made you feel a little giddy. If everything went in the way you wanted it to, she would be disgraced, and depending on how public things became, not even her mafia contacts would be able to protect her.

Not only that, but the Phantom Troupe's attention would be directed towards her as well. No doubt they would have wondered who exactly was responsible for foiling their heist, and with a person taking that blame, they could very well take revenge on her. That would be another worry taken off your shoulders. Whether she lived long or not, that wouldn't be your concern.

That's what you get when you screw over the people you hire, you old bitch.

You made yourself take in a deep breath. Once more, you were getting ahead of yourself. As much as you wanted to relish in the thought of her comeuppance, you needed to actually enact your revenge first. Based on what you were seeing from the news about her, you weren't going to get that chance any time soon.

But you could wait. You didn't have the patience for another infiltration, but you could wait for an opportunity to present itself.

The attendant snorted and heaved himself to his feet, shoulders hunched like a dying crow. “It always is.” He turned and bellowed into the gloom beyond the desk.

“PIRA. COME HERE. THERE’S A CUSTOMER.”

You heard the call from the far end of the corridor, where you were finishing your third pass with the mop. The floor there was cleaner, sure, but it never stayed that way for long. Still, you were proud of the gleam you coaxed out of it.

“Comiiiiin’!” you called, dragging the mop bucket behind you. Today had been quiet. Just one poor bastard with a bullet through his ear. You’d patched him up, looped a piercing through the wound for flair. He’d liked it. Said he might make it a trend.

“Stop being so cheerful.” Attendant Leroy groaned out, stubbing his cigarette out on the floor you’d just mopped. You didn’t care, all that did was give you an excuse to mop it again, any excuse to walk through these halls again and again and again. “It’s too late for that.”

Not paying the comment any mind, you skipped towards the reception. Breathing deeply and trying to ignore all the bleach, in hopes of catching something more appealing, something that’d get the engine revving a bit more, something-

You froze mid-step like you’d slammed into a wall, your hands gripping the mop handle hard enough to splinter it.

That’s the stuff.

Rich. Electric. Absolutely intoxicating. It hit you like warm blood poured straight down your throat. Not the usual coppery tang of gangsters and junkies, or the muted junk you could find in suburbs. No. This was different. Refined. Complex. Sharp like citrus peel, warm like cedar and if you’d had any interest in wine, you could probably add seventy more descriptors. It didn’t matter. 

The new customer smelled absolutely delicious.

You nearly doubled over from the intensity of it, throat tightening, hunger flaring like a second heartbeat.

Barely able to look up, you made eye-contact with the new arrival. He was a young man, probably mid-twenties, though you’d probably card him just to be safe if he asked you to buy him vodka. Wearing a fluffy pink sweater and denim pants that had been ripped, he looked quite unlike the usual ruffians that came down here. It’d been a while since you’d seen anyone that wasn’t wearing either a suit or a band tee. 

His hair was a yellow-ish blonde, short with bangs, and you reckoned most would look idiotic with a haircut like that. You liked it on him. Made him seem like the one well-dressed guy at a Magic the Gathering tournament. Not that you’d ever been, but you could imagine.

Your voice came out shaky, reverent as you looked at the blonde man grasping his foot in the hall. “S-s-sir, are you perhaps a hunter?”

Leroy groaned without turning around, like this was an old, annoying tune. “Oh dear god, not this again.” He dragged a hand down his face. He raced towards you, took the mop from your hands and slapped you with the wet part, making you jump away and yelp. “Bad Pira! Bad!”

You hissed like a cat, backing off. 

There wasn’t an answer, and Leroy beckoned the customer to follow him to the operating room. This was lightly surprising. Usually customers were heavily vetted to see if they were good for it, but apparently Leroy trusted this man would pay up. Interesting. 

The man in pink just watched everything. If anything, he seemed amused. He trailed a finger along the tiled wall as he followed the attendant deeper into the hallway, his severed foot still tucked casually under one arm. He moved like he was floating. Like he’d never known pain in his life, like this was a minor inconvenience in his day.

“I remember this place very differently.” Shalnark mused.

“Most don’t remember it at all,” Leroy replied, pushing open the dented steel door to the back. “You’re one of the few to walk in here consciously.”

As the light from the operating room spilled out, you stood there,taking the mop from the floor, lips slightly parted, pulse quick and meaningless as the man walked past you. He hadn’t answered your question, and seemed a bit curious why you were staring at him so intently, but while missing a foot and walking into a surgery, one probably had more important priorities.

He smelled like everything you weren’t supposed to want.

And you already wanted him so badly.

Anesthesia was extra, and it seemed Shalnark was a thrifty man, as he just sat down on the bed and lifted up his stump to Leroy to handle. You’d followed after Leroy sent you a glare worth taking into account, and merely sat by the door, knowing your boss wouldn’t let you mop right now… Shalnark had bled all over the reception, and you’d been caught licking the floor one time too many. If you excused yourself now, you’d be hit with the mop again.

“So why’d you wanna know if I’m a hunter?” Shalnark asked as he was covered in surgical sheets and pushed back onto the cot.

“Don’t talk to her.” Leroy grumbled as he set up everything for the tourniquet. “It’ll give you a headache.” 

Shalnark was still looking at you, and you couldn’t disobey that stare, not when you wanted to get into his good graces no matter what. You beamed. Too much.  “Oh! I’m a vampire, and hunters smell really nice, so I-”

A clatter interrupted you as Leroy grabbed a handful of instruments and chucked them in your direction.  “Stop! Telling! People! You’re! A! Vampire!”

You dodged most of them easily, but a scalpel caught you clean in the shoulder. You gave a small, involuntary "meep" as you pulled it out with a wince.

“It weirds out the customers,” Leroy muttered, already wiping off another tool on the bottom of his apron.

Shalnark blinked once, then slowly repeated, “A vampire? Like… for real?”

Leroy shot you a glare – the kind that promised more airborne scalpels if you opened your mouth again – so you just gave Shalnark a slow, dramatic nod the moment Leroy turned back to his work. You even put a finger to your lips.

Shh.

His smile widened.

The operating room had long since been cleared out. The blood mopped, the tools washed (enough), and Shalnark moved. Not to discharge, of course. Patients weren’t discharged here. They just left when they felt like it. Until then, he was free to use the room until some poor sucker came along that needed it more.

He hadn’t left yet.

Now he was laid out on one of the only intact cots in the recovery ward, which was really just a storage room with an IV stand, a cracked fan overhead, and a blanket that was washed at least once per year. You made sure of it.

You peeked around the doorframe again.

Still there.

Still alive.

Still smelling incredible.

His eyes opened without warning. “You checking on me again, Pira?”

You startled and bumped your elbow against a shelf of empty plasma bags, causing a hollow crinkle as they collapsed around you. “Nooo,” you said, obviously lying as you put back everything where it was supposed to be. “I was just… dusting. That shelf, for example.”

Shalnark tilted his head slightly, and suddenly smiled like you were being a very stupid animal. “You’ve dusted that shelf three times in two hours.”

You smiled shakily. “Only.. the best! For our customers!”

He hummed like he believed you completely.

You edged closer despite yourself. His bandaged foot was propped up on a pillow, elevated slightly, toes peeking out like the aftermath of a magic trick gone halfway. How Leroy had managed to attach the foot back on was a mystery to you, but you’d been scolded when you’d asked too many questions, so you tried not to care. Still, it had to hurt, didn’t it? He didn’t look uncomfortable. If anything, he looked bored. 

You tried not to breathe through your nose.

Failed.

That same heady scent curled into your lungs again, and you had to clench your teeth behind your smile. Delicious. Too delicious.

He shifted just slightly on the bed. “So. Vampire, huh?”

You hesitated. Leroy had said to stop telling people. But… Shalnark already knew. And Leroy wasn’t around. 

You nodded slowly, arms tucked behind your back. “Mmhm.”

“What’s that like?”

You blinked. “What do you mean?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. Everyone always talks about vampires like they’re these terrifying, soulless monsters. You’re more like… a raccoon someone tried to house-train.”

“Excuse me?” you gasped, hating the image he put into your head.

Sure, you weren’t any Dracula, with long black robes and a transylvanian accent, but you were cool! You were way stronger than any normal human, and you could do cool acrobatic tricks now. Another thing you weren’t allowed, though, since it’d been deemed childish to show customers you could do a backwards flip now.

“Not in a bad way,” he said, grinning now. “You’re just really enthusiastic and I bet you lick the floor when no one’s looking.”

“I don’t lick the floor!” you shot back in a shrill voice, insulted. Had Leroy told on you when you hadn’t been looking? How much did he know?!

“So. How old are you?”

“Twenty-nine.”

“And how long have you been,” he wiggled his eyebrows. “…. twenty-nine.”

“Since this year.” 

“Oh.” 

“The room smelled like old bandages and iron, which wouldn’t be remarkable if not for the way he still managed to cut through all of it. You'd told yourself you were only checking on his vitals, but you’d been standing in the doorway for a little too long to keep pretending.

Shalnark didn’t even look up from the half-shredded paperback.

“You know,” he said casually, flipping a page, “you really do have that whole ‘creature of the night’ thing down. Sulking in the doorway. Not coming in unless invited.”

You stiffened. “I'm not sulking.”

He looked up, grin lazy. “Lurking, then.”

You stepped in with an exaggerated sigh, arms crossed over your chest. “I’m checking your chart.”

“No chart on that clipboard.”

You looked down. Damn. Just a blank form with a doodle of a bat in the corner. You quickly tucked it under your arm. “...It's internal documentation.”

Shalnark watched you for a moment, something mischievous sparking in his eyes. “You really want a drop don’t you?”

You side-eyed him like he’d just suggested getting ice cream on a sunny day and then going for a swim after. Perfect. Now all you needed to do was drive this home, and you’d have convinced him. 

Yippee!

Despite your internal cheering, he seemed rather non-plussed. “Haven’t I bled enough on the tools- the reception?” 

“Noooo…” You groaned, sitting next to him on a dingy white plastic chair. “Leroy will yell at me. Last time he said he’d kick me out into the sun if I did something like that again. It’s bullshit. He just wants me here to tell him what type people are, or if they have diseases or something like ‘where’s the bloodclot Pira?’ meanwhile I’m suffering! Suffering I tell you!”

He let the moment stretch just long enough before saying: “Truly made undone by the blood…”

You blinked.

Your lips parted.

And then- “Did you just quote Bloodborne at me?”

He snickered. “Whoops.”

Your hand flew to the ceiling.. “I should throw you out of the bed right now.”

“Oh come on,” he said, laughing. “How could I not say it? You're a vampire working in a blood-soaked backroom hospital. It’s practically Yharnam down here.”

You tried very hard not to smile. You failed.

“Yeah, well,” you muttered, glancing away, “A corpse like me… should be well left alone.”

Shalnark sat upright, elbows resting loosely on his knees. The fluorescent light caught in his pale blond hair, and his boyish face was lit with a mischievous grin. Those bright, greenish-blue eyes sparkled.

“That’s the hottest thing anyone’s ever said to me,” he said, absolutely delighted.

The soft thump of the ball in your hands broke the beat of silence that followed. You tossed it lazily back to him across the cramped hospital room. It was one of those cheap, half-deflated stress balls someone must’ve left behind, now serving as the only entertainment between the two of you. The sterile light overhead flickered slightly.

Shalnark caught the ball easily with one hand, fingers long and relaxed around it. He was sitting sideways on the visitor’s chair, legs drawn up so one foot rested on the seat while the other dangled loosely over the side. “Is your name really Pira?”

“No,” you answered, headbutting the ball back his way. “Underground hospitals aren’t a really good place to be casually tossing your real name around.”

“I guessed.”

“Pira the Vampiraaa~” you hummed. “I sound like a Sesame Street character.”

“Act like one too.”

“Shut uppp.”

“Would you be interested in a trade?” Shalnark asked on day three. He was already back to working out, carefully avoiding putting too much pressure on his recently amputated foot. Whenever you had a moment, you’d visit him. He seemed to appreciate it, even if he’d realized by now that most of it was just you trying to satisfy your hunger.

“What would you trade for a teaspoon of my blood?” he asked, a mischievous gleam in his eye.

“A teaspoon?” You shook your head. “That’d only make me more annoying. Just enough to get a taste, but not nearly enough to sate it. I can guarantee I’d become insufferable. Unless, of course, you want me hanging around the edge of your bed all night, begging for more.”

He went quiet for a moment, and when you glanced at him, you found him smiling with slightly glassy eyes.

“Oi,” you said, raising an eyebrow.

“Hm? Oh, sorry, I was thinking,” Shalnark muttered, snapping back to reality. “But okay, a teaspoon’s too little. How about... three sips?”

You folded your hands together, fully serious now. “What do you want in return? I can’t just give away discounts or something like that. Leroy would kill me.”

“Nothing like that.” He held up a small piece of paper. “There’s no cell reception here, and I need to get this message to a friend. Could you deliver it for me?”

You beamed and reached for the paper. “Sure! As long as it’s something I can deliver at night, I’m your courier!”

“How dependable.” Shalnark said, patting your head.

Shalnark was lounging on the bed, one leg casually draped over the edge, eyes glinting with amusement when he saw you enter.

“Mission accomplished?” he asked.

It’d been easy. You went to the address Shalnark had given you, handed the paper over to another tall blonde- maybe family?- and had returned sprinting, making a lot of passerby’s scared as you burst past them, drooling a little. 

You didn’t bother answering him immediately. You could feel your fangs itching against your gums, your mind too clouded with the thought of his blood to focus on anything else. Without thinking, you grabbed his hand and yanked him forward, your gaze flicking toward his wrist.

“Three sips,” you said, practically purring with the anticipation of it. “I’ve kept my end of the deal. Time for you to keep yours.”

Shalnark’s grin grew wider, but there was a mischievous glint in his eyes. He didn’t pull away from your grip. Instead, he calmly let you pull him closer.

“You really are impatient,” he murmured, amused by your urgency. But then he tutted. “You’re not going to drink from just anywhere, though.”

You paused, looking up at him in confusion. “What are you—”

“Only my neck,” he said, voice firm, as if anything else was fully off the table. “I’ll let you drink, but not from my wrist.” He lifted his other hand and tapped his neck lightly, a gesture as deliberate as it was teasing.

Your brain hiccuped.

“Oh no, that’s—” You laughed a little too sharply. “That’s not necessary. The wrist’s fine. No reason to—”

He raised an eyebrow. “You don’t want it?”

"No, no, no. I do. It’s just… I’d have to lean all over you… and it’s a bit… intimate," you muttered, suddenly finding the tile floor very interesting. "That’s why it’s... weird."

"You’re a vampire in a basement blood den. Now you have standards?"

You flushed visibly, unfortunately, and tried not to groan. “It’s different when it’s the neck.”

He just looked at you.

You swallowed hard. Then, without looking at him, you stepped in, close enough to feel the heat radiating from his skin. Close enough to hear his heartbeat.

"This is dumb," you whispered, but you tilted your head anyway.

Before you fully reached him he grabbed you and placed you on his lap, moving you so you were sideways and in direct view of the neck he was showing you. You landed there with a muted thud, your knees brushing against his thigh, his hand still resting lightly at your waist. 

For a second you were sure you’d jump up and walk away out of sheer embarrassment, but being so close now, at eyeline with the thumping artery calling your name, nothing was going to stop you. You ignored the indignation of the position and leaned forward, until your nose brushed against his skin.

You hesitated. For a single, suspended breath, your lips hovered just above his skin. Then, with a slow, deliberate inhale, you tilted your head and sank your fangs in. Shalnark didn’t tense, or give any other indication that you’d hurt him in any way. Blood filled your mouth, and like coming home, you forgot about anything else. You drank carefully. Three slow sips. Just three. The taste was worse than you’d feared. 

Not because it was bad, but because it was too good.

His blood was warm and rich, saturated with life and something that shimmered just beneath the surface. Like lightning in water. A pure distilled form of life in every drop. You’d had a lot of blood by this point- a pint a day even- but this was the best tasting blood you’d ever encountered.

When you pulled back, your breath caught. You hovered there, close, lips barely parted, still tasting him on your tongue. You didn’t mean to look at him when you pulled back, but your eyes lifted anyway, and met his.

And for a heartbeat, neither of you said anything.

He looked… not smug. Just very still. His hand came up, brushing your cheek with the backs of his fingers. It felt absurdly gentle after what you’d just done. Most people complained it hurt, yet he seemed like it’d tasted as good for him as it had for you.

“Was that good?” he asked, voice low.

You flushed, fangs already half-retracted, lips still red. “You’re not supposed to say stuff like that right after-”

But you didn’t finish.

Because he leaned forward and kissed you.

His mouth pressed to yours softly at first. When you didn’t pull away, he kissed you deeper, with a hand still at your cheek like he was grounding you, the other arm wrapped around you to keep you in place.

Your body betrayed you completely, and you’d blame the headiness the blood had caused. You leaned into him, one hand gripping his shirt like it was the only thing holding you up.

And when he finally pulled back, barely an inch, the magic was gone immediately and you just stood up from his lap as if you’d been struck by lightning and turned towards him, stunned.

“…Why’d you do that?” you asked, your voice barely audible.

He smiled, eyes still half-lidded. “Because I like you.”

“I should be mad at you,” you murmured in response.

Shalnark grinned boyishly. “You can bite me again if it’ll make you feel better.”

–

The next evening, you stepped into the recovery room with two Playstation controllers and a dumb excuse ready (something about needing to check his stitches or maybe the air circulation or whatever). You weren’t even sure what you were going to say. You just knew you were going to say something and he’d laugh, and you’d laugh and things would be back to normal.

But the bed was empty.

Sheets pulled tight. 

You stared at the bed for longer than you meant to, controllers still in your hands. You shifted your weight. Set them down on the bedside table. Picked them back up.

Leroy passed the door at one point and muttered without stopping, “Pretty boy checked out this morning. Said he had business.”

You didn’t answer.

You stood there another minute, arms hanging awkwardly by your sides, lips still tinged faintly red from the night before. The taste of him had already faded, but the memory hadn’t. It was a bit much to ask of you to already forget the best blood you’d ever tasted, along with the weirdest kiss ever.

You just blinked once, like it was nothing, and turned on your heel.

There were floors to mop. Beds to prep. Gangsters to patch up. Nothing had stopped. 

It had been five days.

Five days of patching up bullet wounds, dodging Leroy’s thrown scalpels and moping around because of a criminal that’d kissed you. You’d convinced yourself he wasn’t coming back, and you weren't really sure if you even wanted him to. It’d been three sips and a kiss. nothing important. Nothing to write home about.

So when the elevator creaked open and he stepped out with two massive black duffel bags, your brain didn’t register it for a full three seconds.

As Shalnark noticed you, his face was set to beaming. “Ah Pira! Good to see you again. Could you sit there for a bit, I need to discuss something with Leroy.” 

Leroy threw a cigarette through the reception hall, missing your face barely. “What is it?”

“I have a business proposition for you.” Shalnark was grinning widely. “If you’d be interested.”

Leroy looked up from his crossword puzzle. “What you trynna scam me on?”

A part of you wanted him to have come back for you, but you didn’t dare believe that, so you thought of other reasons. Oh! He could be hurt, couldn’t he? You walked up to Shalnark, and tried to make eye contact with him. “Is everything okay? You aren’t hurt, are you? I don’t smell anything…”

Shalnark patted your head and reached into his coat.

You blinked, still locked in place.

Then- click.

A soft sound, metallic and final, right beneath your jaw.

You looked down slowly.

There was a collar now fastened snug around your neck. Smooth pastel purple leather. And hanging from the front, glinting under the fluorescents: a small, silver bat charm.

Your hand flew up to it instinctively. “What the hell…”

Shalnark just smiled, eyes gleaming like a cat who’d finally cornered something fast and hot-blooded.

“A gift,” he said, tone light. “Also a receipt.”

He turned to Leroy, who was entirely unbothered by your flailing confusion, and slid both bags his way. “I’m buying her. Open the bags.”

“I’m sorry…what?” you sputtered.

Leroy, skeptical as ever, approached with all the enthusiasm of a man expecting a trap. He unzipped one of the duffels and froze.

Stacks. Piles. Millions of Jenny, bound in bands and smelling faintly of fresh ink.

The second bag was the same. 

Impossible to argue with.

Leroy blinked, then looked up at you, deadpan. “You’re someone else’s problem now.”

“Wait…what-Leroy?!” It wasn’t like you two were close in any capacity, but still, to backstab you so quickly was unexpected.

“Don’t give me that tone. That’s more money than this hospital’s seen in ten years. Clearly the boy likes you more than I do.” He was already pulling the bags deeper inside, eyes gleaming like a crow with a shiny button. “Honestly, I should’ve sold you months ago.”

You whirled on Shalnark. “You can’t just-! I’m an employee! The hospital doesn’t own my damn life!”

“Oh, I’m not buying you,” he said sweetly, brushing a piece of hair behind your ear. “I’m just securing exclusive rights to your time, attention, and very sharp teeth for the foreseeable future.”

You opened your mouth, closed it again, and pointed at the collar. “This is insane.”

“Would it be better if I put it on myself?” he asked, already reaching for the clasp with a smirk.

You batted his hands away, flushed and stunned, your voice dropping to a hiss. “You don’t own me, and I’m not your dog, and I’m not doing anything I don’t want to, like wear a collar!”

“Of course not.” His voice dipped, quieter, as if appeasing a hissing cat. “But I missed you. And this way, I don’t have to wonder where you are. There’s like ten trackers in there!”

You stared at him, breath caught somewhere between anger and something very childish. And the worst part was, your fangs had already started to ache again… just a little. “That’s stupid.”

Shalnark hummed and grabbed your hand, dragging you to the elevator. You were struggling, a little bit for show, but even as you exerted the strength of multiple full-grown men, Shalnark’s arms showed no exertion as he took you with him into the dingy metal box. “I’ll send someone for your stuff later. First, let’s get you settled in.” 

Leroy’s voice echoed from down the hall: “Do not bring her back if she breaks anything. Or bites anyone important.”

It took two weeks before you stopped jumping up curtains and hissing at him whenever he entered a room. After the first week, you already weren’t mad anymore, but it was a matter of principle.

The new set-up, weird as it was, was a massive upgrade from your last arrangement. You weren’t begging for blood and stuck in operating rooms for hours. You weren’t sleeping in a blood-stained cot behind an IV rack. You were playing card games at 2 a.m. with someone who thought being bitten was hilarious.

Midnight walks became a thing. Cold city air, empty rooftops, and arcade runs where Shalnark stole everything that wasn’t nailed to the ground.

You also were never hungry. The blood was always fresh, and sometimes straight from the source if you pouted just right. You hated how fast you adjusted to that.

Still, you couldn’t just fawn over him, joke with him, sit on the couch like you were two normal people in a normal home watching trashy dramas. He’d kidnapped you. That had to mean something. That took some serious apologies and promises to change.

You received neither.

Shalnark didn’t apologize. He didn’t even pretend he would. He treated your resistance like it was a funny inside joke you two were having. And the worst part? After two weeks, you found yourself getting tired of pretending to care.

One night, he was sitting cross-legged on the floor, controller in hand, on the receiving end of some vulgar cusswords from some teens online. You were meant to be sulking. Instead, you sighed, stepped over him, and dropped onto the couch with a heavy, theatrical huff. When he didn’t even comment, you slid sideways and curled up behind him, back pressed to his. His body was warm. 

By the third week, you didn’t wait for him to settle first. You curled up against him like it was the most natural thing in the world. Your favorite thing was to be tucked under his arm during movies, legs across his lap while he scrolled through data pads for whatever jobs he actually had to do in between hanging out with you. Your head against his shoulder when the days got slow, his cheek nuzzling against you when you yawned.

It was just… he let you drink more if you acted nice… and he didn’t get mad at you, or throw scalpels at you, so why not? 

The collar didn’t come off, though.

And still, night after night, you kept curling closer.

"You don’t have to act so nervous," Shalnark said, amusement thick in his voice as he leaned back in his ridiculous pink gamer chair, the kind that still had plastic wrapping on the armrests.

You were already halfway curled between his legs, hands awkwardly gripping the edge of the seat, trying to pretend you were not about to do something incredibly intimate in a chair designed for League of Legends marathons.

“I am nervous,” you muttered, fangs just barely pricking through your lip. “Because this is... dumb. And weird. And you’re laughing.”

“I’m not laughing,” he said, definitely laughing. “I’m just enjoying the view.”

You glared up at him.

“If it’s about blood and access,” he’d said earlier, draping himself across the chair like a cat, “you should try the inner thigh. Closest to the femoral artery. Super rich.”

And then, with a grin: “Plus, it’d be cute watching you get flustered.”

You’d of course said no, struggled, pleaded and tried to act tougher than you really were, but when push came to shove and he told you the only way you were getting his blood was if you cooperated, you knew you’d lost. You hated how well he knew your hunger.

Even if, truth be told, you hadn’t been all that secretive about it.

Now, with your face hovering embarrassingly close to his crotch, you were beginning to regret all your life choices.

You took a slow breath. Then another.

And leaned in.

The bite was quick, cleaner than your usual, probably because you were trying so hard not to screw it up. His breath caught, just a little, which surprised you because he barely reacted to pain of any kind, and his hand settled instinctively against your hair, patting it while you took multiple draws of blood, every mouthful sending your entire body into a satiating ecstasy unlike any other. 

It was a hug, it was a meal on an empty stomach, it was a cigarette while drunk, it was plans getting cancelled when you weren't feeling up to them anyhow.

It was perfection.

When you pulled back, your cheeks were flushed, your fangs still tingling from the taste, and you refused to look at him.

“...Happy?” you mumbled, brushing your thumb across your lips.

“Very,” Shalnark said, absolutely beaming. “You look adorable when you're shy.”

“You're not allowed to be smug about this,” you warned, finally daring to meet his eyes and immediately noticing the tent mere inches from your face. “Wha-!”

Shalnark laughed as you tripped back, but all he had to do was lean forward and hook his finger beneath the damned collar you were made to wear, and you were right back where he wanted.

Technically being a vampire gave you more strength, technically. You were like ten times the strength you’d been when you were human. 

Shalnark was stronger than that, way stronger.

He pulled you back into your previous position, head back against his thighs. He sat back straight up again as well, and his lips quirked as you tried to pull away as far from his cock as you could, feeling like this was very quickly going somewhere illicit.

“Let’s deal with this now, okay?” He said cheerily, tugging your face even closer, until your cheek was firmly rubbing against his bulge. “You’re not the only one with an appetite.”

You tried to protest, but Shalnark's grip tightened, holding you firmly in place. Your protests turned to a muffled whimper as he forced your face harder against his hardening bulge. The heat radiating from it was intense, even through the fabric of his pants. It pulsed against your cheek as it grew stiffer and more prominent with each passing second.

"Uhm...Isn’t that… Shouldn’t we…" you tried to say, but the words came out garbled and weak. Shalnark silenced you by pressing your face fully against his clothed erection, now straining against his fly. The musky scent invaded your nostrils, for once overtaking the usual scent of his you followed so blindly. You swallowed. “I feel like we're skipping some steps."

“C’mon,” He said lightly, “usually I don’t have to convince you to suck me off.”

You flushed completely. “Don’t be like that! Drinking blood isn’t supposed to be-”

“Well it is. I think it’s really hot.” 

With his free hand, Shalnark reached down and undid his fly with deliberate slowness, his eyes boring into yours with a wicked gleam. Your breath caught in your throat as he pulled out his cock, already leaking with anticipation. It bobbed out obscenely, mere inches from your face, the head smearing pre-cum across your cheek.

Shalnark poked your cheek with his dick a couple times, as if poking you to see how you'd react. “Are you going to be a good girl, or do I need to wait until you get hungry again?” 

His implication made a shiver of indignation roll up your spine. Was he implying you’d whore yourself out for his blood? That wasn’t- you’d never! Not even if you were starving. Not even if Shalnark was really handsome- which he was, admittedly- and really nice, and good to you and…

Once again, you swallowed and side-eyed the cock mere inches from your face. Shalnark grabbed the base of his cock and positioned it close to your lips, leaving just the last little bit of distance for you to close.

You felt heady, you felt extremely hot, you felt confused.

"Can’t you be a good little vampire slut for me?" Shalnark said, petting your head with his free hand. The motion felt familiar, and part of you was genuinely comforted by the affection, even if its goal was so obvious.

Your mind was going a mile a minute, and with big eyes, you kept looking between Shalnark and his cock, trying to figure out what to do.

…

It was probably best…

Best to keep everyone happy, right?

With a whimper of surrender, you felt your jaw unlock and your lips part, accepting Shalnark's cock into your mouth without much reconsideration. As your lips stretched around his girth, you felt yourself begin to drool, your tongue instinctively licking at the weeping slit at the tip of his cock.

Shalnark groaned in satisfaction, his grip on your hair tightening as he slowly pushed more of himself into your hot, wet mouth. "That's it, take it all," he moaned, starting to thrust his hips forward, forcing his length deeper down your throat with each push. 

He set a steady rhythm, fucking your face with long, deep strokes as he enjoyed the feeling of your tight mouth engulfing his cock. Your eyes watered from the intrusion, but you couldn't look away from Shalnark's gleeful grin, not really sure where else to look.

Shalnark continued his relentless pace, fucking your face with deep, powerful thrusts. His balls slapped against your chin with each forward surge, your neck straining to accommodate him. Drool leaked from the corners of your stretched lips, dripping down onto your heaving chest as Shalnark used your mouth like a mere hole for his pleasure.

"Ahaha! I knew you’d be a quick study," Shalnark laughed, sounding euphoric, one of his legs wrapping around your neck, forcing you even closer. His eyes were gleaming with joy, and despite your discomfort, a part of you was happy to see you cause that. "Aren’t you an amazing little thing!"

He knew he was close, his thrusts becoming erratic and forceful. With a final, brutal slam of his hips, Shalnark buried himself to the hilt in your throat just as hot, thick ropes of cum filled your mouth. He groaned long and breathy, holding your head flush against him as spurt after spurt of his seed pumped directly into your stomach.

"Swallow it all down," he commanded breathlessly, his grip on your hair punishing as he ground against your face, working his cock to milk out every last drop.”Weren’t you hungry?”

Reflexively, your throat constricted around him, gagging and swallowing as best you could to obey his order. The taste of his cum was tasteless, like everything was outside of blood, but for the first time in your life, you were kind of relieved at it.

Finally, Shalnark pulled out with a wet pop, his softening cock slipping from your abused lips with a strand of saliva and semen connecting your mouth and his dick. He smirked down at your debauched state, taking in your teary eyes, spit-slicked chin and flushed cheeks with a wicked grin.

"Good girl," he praised, giving your hair a condescending pat, before rolling the chair back and pulling you up to sit on his lap. "Wasn’t that nice?”

Not exactly the word you’d have used, you thought as your body immediately relaxed in his grip, your legs over the handles of the stupid pink chair. 

Embarrassed, you nervously played with the hem of your own shirt, looking anywhere but at Shalnark. In the back of your mind you could feel his cock still beneath you, now softened, but not put away yet. “...I don’t need to do that every time I drink… right?”

He looked surprised at the question, but huffed out a laugh and placed a kiss against the side of your head. “Of course not.”

You sighed in relief. “Ah, I see.”

He continued. “Sometimes I’ll want to do something else. Variety is the spice of life, after all.”

You shuddered as you continued to sew, trying to hurry as you continued to sew up the sleeve that lay in your lap. Sitting on the floor of a cold room at the top of a foreboding tower, there was fabric strewn all over the small area, both cut and uncut, all assembled into particular piles so you wouldn't need to go searching for them once you got to the other dresses.

'Other dresses'.

You bit your lip in frustration, knowing there was no way you'd even get that far.

Hours of work since you had been thrown in here, and there wasn't much to show for it: a bodice with one sleeve attached, another sleeve that was only half-finished and the beginnings of a skirt. Outside of the dress you were working on, the six others only existed as cut up pieces and were in no way presentable. And even with what you did have complete, it didn't account for the detail that the dresses were meant to have. Nor for the fact that you were meant to complete seven immaculate dresses before that door was opened again.

Seven gowns for the lordship's wife and their six daughters, to be made in the finest silks, embroidered and adorned with jewelry, all of which had been stuffed into the space you currently occupied. That was the feat that would save your life.

You knew that it was impossible.

No matter what skill you had when it came to your craft, there was no way for you to be able to complete seven gowns of high quality in the span of a single night. But you thought that perhaps if you were to make at least one of good quality, the lady and her daughters would be entranced enough that they would beg for the lord to spare your life so you could complete the rest. At least for a week. That would be all you needed to complete those gowns to their satisfaction, you were sure of it.

If you were granted that mercy, you could then use the time you had in finishing the other six gowns to earn the favor of those seven women and convince them to let you go free, and in that way, you could avoid the agonizing death of being tied up while the flames burned in a pyre beneath your feet.

But that wouldn't happen if you couldn't complete even one of them. If, when the tower door was opened again, they saw that it was only partially complete, you would be hauled off to the town square and set alight for everyone to see and gawk at.

No, that wouldn't be what happened first.

You had heard of what happened to others who had been accused of witchcraft: they were tortured for hours before their executions, regardless of whether they denied the accusation or not. And when they were brought before the public, they were paraded around so they could be abused further by way of the crowd throwing stones, mud and whatever else was on hand and easy to throw. Only then would the execution begin, a slow, painful process that began with heavy smoke that filled up your lungs and ended by being engulfed in flames.

The thought of all of that terrified you, and as you heard the bells of the church ring out the time of one o'clock in the morning, you were spurred to go faster. As fast as you were able to without your work coming out shoddy, at least.

There was some relief that hit you once the second sleeve was finished and you were able to begin stitching it onto the bodice. Once that part was fully finished, you would be able to continue your work on the skirt, and upon the completion of that, you could add in the details that would entrance the women who held your fate in their hands. Hopefully enough so that your failure to produce seven gowns would be forgiven.

It would be forgiven, you assured yourself. As long as you could complete the one, you could save yourself.

So you continued to toil away as the hour grew later and later.

When the second sleeve was firmly attached to the bodice, you were able to turn your attention to the skirt, continuing where you had left off earlier. Once the skirt was finished and attached to the rest, you would need to add in the detailing, you reminded yourself. The embroidery for the accents, as well as the jewels that were expected to complete the gown. All of that detailed work required time and couldn't be rushed.

Was completing even one possible?

You bit your lip again.

It would be fine, you told yourself. You could do this much.

You continued.

Once the skirt was finished and you began to attach it to the bodice, you heard the church bells ring out twice.

Two in the morning.

Dawn would come at six.

It would be fine. After the skirt was attached, you could spend the remaining four hours adding in the details. That was enough time to make the gown a thing of beauty.

You'd never done it in such a short amount of time but you could do it, you told yourself.

At the risk of your life being lost, you could do anything.

You continued stitching fast while doing your best to keep them from being sloppy, and while you did so, you glanced over to the multitude of threads and jewels that had been placed in here alongside the fabric, going over in your head which ones you would use and what design would work best with this particular gown. While you had time, you wished to get this part of the work done with so you could get to those important details. So you sped up just a little bit more.

Your haste was your undoing.

You stabbed your finger with the needle.

Crying out, you dropped the gown while you pulled your hand away, bringing it up to your face to inspect the damage. Already there was blood dripping down your finger, more than you would've expected. And before you could think to pull your hand away further, a single drop of the red liquid fell from your hand and down onto the gown on your lap.

No no no no no no no-!

The blood droplet landed right in the middle of the sleeve, spreading out as it soaked into the fabric. You jumped to your feet, holding the gown with one hand while you looked for something to use to wash the blood out. It was still salvageable.

Except you only realized now that they hadn't given you any food or water when they locked you in here, and you were so focused on completing your task that it hadn't crossed your mind before.

There was nothing you could do.

No, there needed to be something-!

In a move of panic, you rushed forward as you looked for anything, anything that could save the sleeve.

Your state of panic was so great that you didn't notice when the edge of the gown came far too close to a nearby candle. Only when you heard the fabric igniting followed by the unmistakable smell of smoke did you realize the awful blunder.

You could go up in flames before the morning even came.

The next moments were spent frantically as you beat the flames out of the gown with both hands. The fire was determined to spread quickly and the flames were hot against the aching skin of your palms, but the fire ultimately was put out as quickly as it had started. But that meant very little to you in that moment.

You held up the bottom of the dress, falling to your knees once you saw the extent of the damage. There was no salvaging the skirt; the flames had traveled too far, leaving the fabric burnt and curled on the edges. And what hadn't been affected by the flames had managed to get your blood on it, complementing the sleeve which now had a large red blot marring the center of it. You would need to replace both of them completely.

Hours worth of work now meant nothing, and you would need to start over if you wanted a chance of keeping your life. You let out a shaky breath as you went over in your head all that would need to be redone. Only the bodice and second sleeve were usable. You were back to only having a bodice and a sleeve done, and you would need to redo the other parts. That would take time.

Outside, you heard the church bells ring out three times.

Three in the morning.

Three hours until dawn. Only three hours.

You were doomed.

In that moment, you fell into despair.

You were reduced to a sobbing mess in the middle of that room, realizing that your bid to save yourself had failed. It was too late now to start over. You wouldn't be able to get even that single dress done, and when they opened that door to find you in the middle of your half-finished project that was partially burnt, you would burn as well.

The lord had also told you that if you didn't produce the dresses, the punishment you would receive would be harsher than it would have originally, as he had no desire for you to waste either his time or that of his wife and daughters. All of them would be angry.

The horrors of torture would be worse. The pain would be worse. All of it would be worse.

And with you still trapped in that room with no way of getting past that locked door on your own, you found yourself begging for someone to help you. For someone to appear and take you away from this awful place, to save you from that horrific fate.

Please, you thought to yourself while you cried, clutching the ruined dress up to your face while the blood from your injured finger had finally staunched.

Please let someone save me from this.

I'll do anything

That heroic character who saw the truth of the situation and keep you from harm refused to appear, and you stayed where you were, unable to cease your tears at the hopelessness of everything. You were barely able to note when you heard the rain from the outside begin to hit the roof above you, starting out as a drizzle before becoming stronger, pattering against the tile of the roof.

But after a few moments, you noticed the next change faster: inexplicably, the room became cold. All of the heat that had built up from the many candles was gone, and you were suddenly shivering against the stone floor, your clothes and the fabric beneath you offering little protection.

Immediately recognizing that as strange, you pulled your head back up, wiping away a few stray tears as you looked about, uncertain as to what could have caused the change in temperature to be so drastic.

“Am I right in assuming that the pyre outside is meant for you?”

The male voice that spoke into your ear had you screeching as you scurried forward, crawling away on all fours before you reached the wall and turned to see who had managed to sneak up on you.

It turned out to be a man, one who was currently crouching down next to where you had been sitting moments before. A guard? Given his size and his build, he certainly could have been. But no. Based on the slightly tattered clothing he wore, he didn't look like one of them. At the moment it seemed more likely that the purple-haired man sitting before you was a prisoner like yourself. But he hadn't been in here before. You'd been alone for hours now.

You glanced to the door, expecting to see it open. Yet it was still shut tight, and you got the feeling that if you were to try again to push it open, you would be met with a solid resistance, the wood that made up the door far stronger than yourself.

How had he entered without you noticing?

Your attention was brought back to the man when he spoke to you again, a friendly smile on his face as he asked “well? Am I right?”

Despite your confusion as to how he had suddenly appeared, you decided it would be best to answer the man seeing that you were locked in a room with him. So after staying quiet for a few moments, you nodded.

He hummed.

“You must be accused of something awful, then. People aren't burned for just anything,” the man said, settling down on the floor in a seated position.

Instead of elaborating on why you were to be executed, you asked “who are you? How did you get in? Why are you here?”

He didn't give you the courtesy of an answer to any of your questions; instead he chuckled at you. It certainly felt as though he was amused by your frantic state, and that only had you feeling worse about him.

“Why are you here?!” you repeated.

He motioned for you to shush.

“You should keep your voice down,” he told you, “that guard outside is asleep for now, but that might not be the case for long if you keep going like that.”

There was sense in his words, and you quickly glanced back over to the door, worried at the possibility of any movement behind it. Both you and the mystery man would be in trouble should he be discovered in here with you, and no doubt he would suffer for attempting to help you escape.

…. Was that even what he was here to do?

You looked back to the man, uncertain of what to make of him.

You still couldn't fathom how he had gotten in without either you or the guard outside noticing, and you were at a loss as to why he was here at all. But he was right that you should keep your voice down.

Sensing that you were in a calmer state, he spoke again.

“To start with your first question, my name is Razor,” he said, adding “I don't think the answer to your second question is as interesting as you might expect.”

Razor settled himself further, leaning against the wall as he continued with “as for the third, I'm only here because you called for me.”

Called for….?

You realized what he was speaking of. The desperate plea of yours that was going through your head moments ago. Had you been speaking out loud when you said that? How could he have even heard that?

“You heard that?” you asked.

“Barely,” he answered, “you were lucky. You happened to ask at the right time and I happened to be around.”

Your eyebrows furrowed as you wondered what the time had to do with anything.

Razor continued before you had the chance to ask, saying “now that I've answered those questions of yours, how about you answer mine?”

“… On if the pyre is meant for me?”

“What else?”

You looked down to the floor, your eyes ending up on the burnt and bloody gown that sat between the two of you as you quietly nodded.

“Yes, it's for me.”

“And why is that?” he asked.

“I've been accused of witchcraft.”

He didn't seem all that surprised by your answer. His eyes went to the gown as well before they examined the rest of the materials in the room. At the sight of him glancing around, you noted something: Razor's eyes were unusually dark. No, not just dark. The irises were pitch-black.

Was Razor even human?

The thought was unexpected but the explanation made sense of certain things if true. Such as how he had appeared out of nowhere, or how he could have heard that desperate plea for help – that when you thought about it more, you were certain you hadn't said that aloud. Though the fear from earlier settled into you once more at this realization. How could you be sure that Razor was benevolent?

Spirits and fae were spoken of in whispers and tall tales, and usually done so with no small amount of fear. It was well known that most otherworldly beings didn't care much for the likes of humans, and most stayed away from the places humans had settled into, keeping to their places in nature that humans couldn't get to. And when an unlucky human did come across the path of one of those beings, the story would usually end in tragedy, with that person disappearing completely or their brutalized remains being discovered some time later.

If you disappeared right now no one would care

The depressing thought that came through was unhelpful and you told yourself to stop.

Then came Razor's next question.

“Why were you accused?”

You sat up more, trying to adjust your posture. He didn't comment on it, but you were worried you might have offended him with the way you ran from him earlier.

“A ship sank during a storm,” you told him.

At that, Razor actually seemed puzzled as he asked “a sunken ship? That's what this is about? Surely the people here would be aware that such things are common. What did the survivors say?”

You lowered your head as you said “there were no survivors.”

“None?”

You shook your head.

“There were witnesses who said they saw the crew trying to swim to shore, but that all eventually vanished beneath the water. Some claimed that they saw white hands pulling them under. The accounts of those witnesses led everyone to believe that the sinking was the work of something evil, and then one of the village women came forward to say she saw me orchestrating the whole thing on a hill near the bay.”

“So you're here because you were careless.”

“No!”

You leaned forward on your hands as you exclaimed “I had nothing to do with any of that! I was just as horrified at what happened as anyone else! My only crime was that I watched the ship as it sank. I had no power at all in that situation!”

It was after your outburst that you remembered to keep your voice down, and you slapped a hand over your mouth as you once again looked to the door.

Mercifully, nothing came from it.

“I'm sorry,” you said a moment later.

Luckily for you, he nodded as he said “it's alright. It's quite understandable why you would react that way, given what you're facing.”

How odd that you felt a tiny bit better just from hearing that. It did nothing to change what you were going through, but just that little bit of empathy gave you a small peace of comfort. The words he said next did as well.

“For what it's worth, I believe you,” Razor said.

“Thank you. I appreciate it,” you answered.

“I take it no one else did?”

You shook your head, saying “I only arrived a fortnight ago in search of work. No one here knows me.”

“So you were selected because you were the outsider.”

You nodded.

“Well, that explains what I saw outside,” Razor began. Then he looked about the room as he continued with “but I would like to know what exactly is going on with all of this.”

You sighed.

“A last-ditch effort to save myself,” you answered sadly, explaining as you said “the lord of the castle gave me one night before the execution after I told him I would make his wife and daughters fine gowns in exchange for my freedom.”

“How many?”

“Seven.”

“You set yourself up for failure,” Razor said bluntly.

“I knew that I could never make seven in one night,” you told him, “but I thought that if I could make at least one, they would allow me more time to make the rest, and from there I might secure my freedom.”

Razor said nothing before he looked down at the burnt and bloody dress that lay before him. In particular, he seemed focused on the smears of blood that had marred the fabric, and when he looked back up to you, his gaze went to the finger you had accidentally stabbed with the needle.

“Clearly, that plan failed,” he said.

You hung your head low as you admitted “it probably wasn't going to work at all. Even if I finished that one, it likely wouldn't be acceptable. All of this was just a desperate effort to push off the inevitable for as long as I could.”

Glancing back up at him, you then asked “unless you have some way for all of them to be done by the morning.

Razor gave you a flat look as he said “do I look like I know anything about making dresses?”

“…. I suppose not.”

The cold was beginning to bother you more now, and you wrapped your arms around yourself in an effort to retain some heat. You noted that the rain was coming down harder now, the water striking the roof with more force than the simple drizzle from before. Maybe that would push off your execution, you idly thought. If the wood was too wet to set alight, you might live longer than you anticipated. Though it would likely do nothing to save you from the torture. If anything, it would prolong it. You shuddered.

Razor was quiet, his gaze on you while he seemingly evaluated you.

He came to you because he had heard your cry for help, didn't he? Did he intend to help you, or was he only here to witness your misery up close?

You wouldn't know until you asked.

“I know you said how you got in wouldn't be interesting to me,” you began, “but… Would it be possible for you to take me out the way you got in?”

“No.”

The blunt answer was unexpected, and you looked back up as you blinked in surprise.

“Oh.”

Your voice was shaky now, and you were barely able to breathe out the words “why did you come here, then?”

“I was curious,” he answered.

…. Curious.

That was all. He saw the scene outside in the nearby village and wanted to know what that was all about. Now he knew, and he likely wouldn't stay around for much longer. And unless the rain delayed the execution, by noon tomorrow you would be sent up to the sky in a plume of darkened smoke.

Your fate was sealed.

With that realization, your spirit broke for the second time that night and you began to sob, overcome with grief while you curled into yourself with your head in your hands, tears obscuring your vision. The rain outside was beginning to come down harder, and in one spot of the room, a bit of the water was beginning to drip onto the pile of fabrics, but you were too distraught to notice.

“Why are you crying?”

Razor sounded genuinely confused when he asked that a moment later.

After a few moments of trying to compose yourself, you shakily answered “I-I'm really go-going to die tomorrow.”

“Why are you so certain of that?”

“Because you can't help me,” you answered just as your mind began going wild with many terrible thoughts.

You'll be cut up and stuck like a pig. Burning coals placed in and against you. Whipped until the skin of your back was raw and bloody. Placed inside horrific devices that would make you yearn for death.

The fire will be a mercy

Razor hadn't said anything, and with the way you held your head in your hands, you were too scared to look up, afraid that when you looked over to him again, you would find that he was gone, no longer interested in your particular set of unfortunate circumstances. Or perhaps he had never been there. Perhaps your mind had broken and you had made up a figure you could talk to, one who was willing to believe your side of the story and offer even the smallest bit of comfort but that the delusion was only able to go so far, only last so long before you realized what your mind was doing.

It was bitterly cold in that tower now, the many candles placed around the room doing nothing to keep you warm.

Then, above the sound of the rain, you heard movement in the room. That of someone climbing to their feet.

You didn't look up.

The footsteps you heard after were muffled by the way they stepped on the ruined gown and the other materials still strewn about the floor, but you heard the way someone came closer to you.

That someone then knelt down in front of you.

…. It sounded real. And you could sense that there was a person sitting in front of you, feel just how close they were to you.

Was Razor real? But if he was, why was he still here?

A large form suddenly overtook yours, and you gasped as two strong arms wrapped around your back and pulled you in close. Your head shot back up in time to see that it was Razor; he was still in here with you, and upon feeling his touch, you found that he wasn't any sort of hallucination. Without a word, he pulled you up from where you were curled against the wall and against his chest.

Razor was holding you.

Outside, the rain began to come down even harder, the sounds of the multitude of droplets descending from the heavens far more audible now on the stone tiles.

“Tell me,” Razor said, “what do you want?”

“… What I want? Why does that matter?” you asked.

“Because I'd like to hear.”

“Why?”

“Just tell me,” he said.

It was strange. Why was he interested in any of this? Why did he care enough about you to ask? What did he get out of it?

…. Who really cared if you were going to die soon?

Taking ahold of his shirt, you leaned your head against his chest as you answered “All I want is for them to not hurt me.”

Razor was quick to ask “and by 'them', you mean the inhabitants of this castle and the village beyond?”

You nodded.

“Say it aloud,” he ordered.

“Say what?”

“Say that you want me to save you from those people.”

“Why?”

“Because that's the only way I can save you.”

“….. You want to save me?”

“I do.”

Razor clutched you tighter as he continued with “so say it. Say that you want to be saved from all those who would wish you harm.”

Was that truly all it would take?

You questioned it in your mind for only a moment, as you were quickly reminded of what would happen once the guard came to collect you. Torture and death. Undignified, humiliating and painful. All before an uncaring crowd who only came to your execution so they could have an outlet for their anger at the previous tragedy or simply for the entertainment of watching you die.

You weren't going to go through that. You refused. You had done nothing wrong and you didn't deserve a fate like that.

“Please, Razor,” you whispered, “save me from all of them.”

The unexpected happened once again when Razor leaned down to place a kiss on your forehead. But you were given no chance to question that as you heard when the rain outside manage to come down even harder.

Then came the sound of thunder, a deep rumbling that shook the very foundations of the tower you sat inside. It almost sounded like the growling of an animal. The winds were picking up as well, whistling past the castle and through the buildings of the village beyond, forcing open the doors and shutters that had not been properly bolted shut. In the distance, you could hear a single voice exclaim in surprise.

A lightning bolt struck.

One that was so close and so bright that you could see the light that came from it beneath the door of your cell. The thunder that accompanied it was even louder than the rumbling before, and you pulled your hands away from Razor's shirt to cover your ears while the entire building shook violently.

Even with the protection over your ears, you heard as the guard outside was startled awake as he fell from his seat, calling out in shock.

More voices called out in the distance, sounding less surprised and more frightened.

And then the hail came.

It started off the same way the rain had, falling innocently upon the roof. The small pellets bounced off harmlessly, clinking against the tiles. But just like the rain, they began to come down harder, and the longer they fell, the more of them began to batter against the roof with even more force.

The guard outside left his post, hurriedly running down the stairway.

The hail came down stronger still, and you unintentionally whimpered, the noises from the outside worrying you the longer they went on.

Razor spoke then.

“You'll be fine. Just wait for it to be over,” he told you.

Something crashed into the room.

You snapped your head over to where the sound had come from, only to find that several of the candles had gone out. The howling wind was easier to hear now, as was the ever present thunder. And, while it was harder to make out now, you thought you heard similar crashing noises coming from outside the door, as well as voices that screamed out in response.

More objects crashed into your cell, and within moments all of the candles had been snuffed out. Now you were in the dark, the only bit of light coming from the lighting that raced across the sky above the tower.

You kept your hands over your ears while you cowered against Razor. He continued to hold you, and you felt him shift around you, positioning himself so that he shielded you from the worst of the storm that got in through the holes in the roof.

In the chaos that the storm brought in and around the castle, it took you some time to notice that the figure you were huddling against seemed…. Different. The body positioned above you felt larger, the muscled arms felt stronger than before and at the ends of his fingers, you felt claws that lightly pressed into your skin through the fabric of your clothing.

Even though you knew you would see very little if you tried to look up at what exactly was shielding you, you kept your eyes squeezed shut, too afraid that you would see something you shouldn't.

How you eventually fell asleep during that ordeal you would never know.

Droplets of water landing on your cheek were what roused you from sleep, and while at first you mindlessly brushed them away, once you to fully regained consciousness you shot up into a sitting position, remembering the storm of the previous night while you took in the state of the room.

It was in shambles. Ruined fabric strewn everywhere, jewels and threads scattered about, the door now hanging open on one hinge and a multitude of holes punctured through the ceiling, allowing in the dripping water and small streams of sunlight. Many of the jewels had been broken to pieces, torn apart by some unknown force. And after moving a sheet of fabric that you noticed had a hole in it, you found that whatever had pierced it had also gone straight through the floor beneath it.

Yet you were unharmed, and currently you were laying on top of your unfinished projects, a few of the larger pieces sliding off of you that seemed to have been placed on top of you while you had been asleep.

….. You'd been asleep. And you had been that way for quite a while, judging by what you could see of the sun through the roof.

No one had come for you?

You then looked to the door, and then realized that what you were seeing was wrong. Why had it been left open? Who had wrenched it open in such a way that it had been damaged?

Where was the guard? Where was the lord and his wife?

Where was Razor? Not here, that was certain.

Quietly, you pulled yourself to your feet before you approached the open door, keeping your footsteps light as you tried to listen for anyone who might be coming your way.

You heard no one.

And after exiting your makeshift cell and finding your way to the stairs, you stopped when you came to a small window, looking out at the village beyond. Even with the distance, you could see that the village had sustained just as much damage as the castle, if not more. And perhaps it was only because of that distance, but you couldn't hear any activity coming from there. No sounds of any villagers either attempting repairs or to go on with their workday as best they could. All of it was silent except for the distant sound of the waves from the nearby sea.

You continued going down.

The first person you found was a guard at the bottom of the spiral stairway, stiffly splayed out at the bottom of the steps, weapon still in hand. You didn't need to get close to see that he was dead. When you saw him first you stopped, not wanting to get any closer. The markings you could see on his armor and body worried you. But if you wanted to leave the tower, you needed to step over him. After a few moments of gathering up your courage, you descended again. Once you got closer was when you discovered the cause of his death:

Holes.

Dozens of holes that ranged in size were all over that had punctured through his body. The majority of them had struck him in the back, though when you carefully stepped around him, you saw that there had been a few that had struck him up top through the head and shoulder. He'd been standing when he was first hit, and whatever had pierced him had continued to do so until the storm had ceased. No doubt he had been dead long before then.

The thought of 'what could cause such a thing' was a brief one – you quickly caught sight of the hailstones that still littered the ruined hall, and you noted a few that were colored red, matching the blood that had oozed out of the guard's puncture wounds.

The hail had been strong enough to pierce through the roof, you remembered. If it had no issue with that feat, it had no issue going through human flesh.

How many others had died?

You began to wander the halls, stepping over hailstones and pieces of the castle that had crumbled in the storm's wake. Soon enough you were stepping over bodies as well, all of whom were in a similar condition as the guard you had first seen. You found other guards. Then servants. Then nobles. You recognized two of the lordship's daughters, both huddled together beneath a barely upright table, their desperate attempt at shelter failing miserably as the hailstones slowly melted into the blood around them.

All of them with riddled with holes.

No one had survived. No one other than you.

…. You needed to leave.

If anyone from the outside discovered this scene and found you the sole survivor, you would be questioned as to how you of all people had lived. That ran the risk of receiving more accusations and death sentences if you couldn't come up with a good explanation. No, it was better to take whatever food you could find in the kitchens and then travel as far away as you could for a fresh start.

No one needed to know the truth.

You only payed attention to the structure of the castle from then, limiting your attention to the bodies of the dead to brief glances. Some of the damage to the walls had been extreme enough that you feared parts of them could come crumbling down. Even more reason to leave this place.

The kitchen wasn't hard to find, situated at the lowest level of the building. There were bodies within that room as well, but you kept your focus on the contents of the room, immediately going to scavenging for the food that was still edible. A loaf of bread and a few apples were quickly placed into a bag you found nearby that appeared to be in good shape, and you slung the bag over your shoulder as you began a search for water. You wanted to make as much distance between yourself and the castle, so you wanted enough food and water to last you for a few days. If all went well, you would have found somewhere else to stay by then. Where that would be exactly or what you would be doing, you had no clue, but you would deal with that when the time came.

Catching sight of the closed door of a storage room, you began to make your way there.

Only you noticed the body that lay just before it.

Another servant, this time a man, who had been filled with holes like the rest. Only the state this particular body was in was different from the others you had seen. Parts of him were missing. Specifically one of his arms and pieces of his legs that had been torn away. With the way the meat of his flesh had been torn off, it almost looked as though an animal had gotten to this one.

What sort of animal could devour an entire arm and leave nothing behind?

Something snapped in half behind the storage room door.

You took a few steps back as your attention was now there, listening as a sickening noise echoed within the confines of that room. Another snap like that of a bone, and then the sound of tearing, like tough meat being ripped apart. A loud chewing sound followed, accompanied by unearthly grunting. And then a crunching noise that followed sounded as though whatever was in there had just broken a bone with the strength of it's jaw alone.

…. There very well could have been the remains of some large animal within that room, one that had been hunted the day prior.

But taking another look at the man who lay in the middle of the kitchen floor and the state he was in, the missing arm and the state of his legs, and you found yourself having a hard time believing that whatever was in there was feasting on a mere animal.

Leave now.

Before it turns it's attention on you. The water can wait.

With that, you held tightly onto your bag of food as you turned and swiftly made your way to the door that lead outside. You'd taken hold of the handle and you were about to pull it open when-

Stop

A voice that reverberated in your head made you freeze, and despite your best efforts to break free, you were petrified to that spot, still tightly gripping the handle of the door that lead the way to freedom.

Why couldn't you move?

The door to the storage room creaked open and you felt your blood freeze, your breathing coming in heavy as you were certain that whatever that thing was that was now coming out was going to kill you-!

Instead of a beast-like creature that you anticipated charging at you, footsteps sounded against the floor. They were coming towards you and you felt an odd feeling of deja vu.

“Ready to leave, I see.”

You recognized that voice.

And as soon as those words were spoken, you had control of your body again, allowing you to look over your shoulder to the figure who now stood behind you.

It was Razor.

He smiled at you and placed a comforting hand upon your shoulder as he said “forgive me for leaving you by yourself like that. You seemed like you needed the rest and I thought I'd take a look around before we left.”

“…. Before we left?” you repeated, asking “I'm going with you?”

“It's a fair trade for saving your life, don't you think?” he asked in return.

You looked about the room again, focusing on the hail that had managed to make it's way down there and the bodies within that were just as battered as the ones on the levels above. Everyone within the castle was dead. And then you remembered that the village was in the same state, if not worse. At this point there seemed to be little doubt that anyone there had managed to survive.

“You did all this?” you asked. You felt the horror in your own expression, that Razor was capable of so much destruction.

He raised an eyebrow at you, asking “why do you care? These people would have happily killed you if not for me.”

He misunderstood what you meant, but you weren't given any chance to explain yourself as he wrapped a hand around your shoulder and pulled you close.

“I'll protect you,” Razor said, “and all you need to do in exchange is follow my every order. That doesn't sound bad, does it?”

His black eyes were staring down at you again. Staring at you, daring you to disagree with him.

Do what he wants, your mind told you. And since your voice currently couldn't work, you gave a small shake of your head to answer 'no', that it didn't sound bad.

The fact that you felt otherwise was besides the point.

Razor smiled at you, and the squeeze of your shoulder that accompanied that indicated that he was pleased with you.

“We should get going,” he then told you. He pulled you away from the door and took the handle, opening it for you. You wanted to ask where you were going, but you still couldn't find your voice. When he held the door open and looked at you, you followed his silent order and walked out the door, clutching the bag of food while you kept your gaze on the ground in front of you. Razor was soon leading you through the desecrated courtyard, making sure you were never too far away from him.