Jacqui Natla

Lenore, back at the shop, tends to the details. She replaces the stained towel with a fresh one, sweeps the floor again, bleaches the cracks in the wood until her fingers sting. She repositions the shaving brush just so. Polishes the glass until the reflection shows no trace of the violence that bled here hours before.

The sign above the door still reads Biersack’s Blades.

And it gleams.

At breakfast time, Andrew opens the shutters.

A boy runs past with a paper, shouting the usual gossip—royal scandal, factory explosion, another girl gone missing—but nothing about a man. No name. No face. No questions.

Just gone.

By noon, Andrew has three appointments. One gentleman from Kensington. A constable from Shoreditch. A dockhand with gold teeth and grease in his hair. They sit in the same chair, nod politely, never notice the faint scent of iron beneath the bay rum.

Andrew’s hands are steady.

He smiles when expected. He speaks little.

And they leave lighter, smoother, unaware.

Lenore watches from the upstairs window, sipping weak tea. Her bruises are fading, but her eyes are sharper. She sees more now—the way men walk, how their eyes drift when they think no one notices. She sees predators more clearly than she used to.

That night, she sits with Andrew in the dark of the shop. No gaslights, no clients, just the two of them. He sharpens the blade while she reads by firelight.

“There’ll be no trace,” he says, running the steel along the strop. “No questions. No suspicion.”

She nods.

“I know.”

And in the silence that follows, there is something stronger than fear.

It’s not peace.

But it’s control.

And for now, that’s enough.

The night is cold.

Rain taps gently against the windows, soft as breath. The fire crackles in the hearth, casting flickering orange shadows across the wooden floor of their bedroom. Everything else—London’s filth, the blood they scrubbed from floorboards, the memory of a man’s gurgling death—has gone still for a little while.

Lenore sits before the fire, legs tucked beneath her, wearing one of Andrew’s shirts. The sleeves are too long, and it smells faintly of him—leather, bay rum, iron. Her hair is loose, damp from washing. A book rests on her knee, but she hasn’t turned the page in ten minutes.

Andrew watches her from the doorway.

He says nothing at first.

He simply steps in, shedding his vest and shirt as he goes, until only the firelight touches his pale skin. His inked ribs, the lines of scars not all from shaving blades. His darkness laid bare.

Lenore looks up when he reaches her. Their eyes meet, and there is no fear there. No guilt. Just heat. And knowing.

He kneels beside her. Reaches for her hand.

Their fingers lace slowly, as if rediscovering each other again in this new version of themselves—changed, quieter, stronger.

“I never wanted you to see that side of me,” he murmurs, pressing her knuckles to his lips. “Not like that.”

Her eyes soften.

“But I did,” she whispers. “And I’m still here.”

Andrew leans forward and brushes her cheek with the back of his fingers, tender as breath. His touch carries no demand, only reverence—as if she were something sacred, even now, even after all the blood.

Especially after the blood.

“You’re not afraid of me?” he asks, voice rough from everything unspoken.

“I’m afraid for you,” she replies, her voice barely above the rain. “Not of you.”

He closes his eyes at that. And when they open again, something has melted in them—some weight he’s carried for years, now undone by a woman who met his worst and didn’t flinch.

“When you were gone for a while,” Andrew murmurs, “I thought they took you away.”

His thumb strokes her knuckles absently, as if grounding himself in the feel of her skin, anchoring his soul to something still human.

“Like how they took my mother away.”

Lenore’s breath stills. She doesn’t speak—doesn’t interrupt. She watches him.

“She was sewing,” he says. His voice is low, distant, remembering. “That morning. A hem torn from a constable’s coat. Said it was barely worth a penny, but she still stitched it like it mattered.”

He swallows hard, eyes distant but glassy. The firelight flickers in the silence between them.

“She told me, ‘Be careful, Andrew. The world doesn’t reward the good. It eats them.’ I didn’t understand what she meant until that night.”

Lenore places her free hand on his chest, gently—over his heart.

“They came through the door. Accused her of theft. No trial. Just whispers, and ropes, and a cold wooden cart.”

He looks at her now, eyes brimming but not breaking. “She was innocent. But that never mattered.”

Lenore’s hand slides up his chest to his jaw. She cups his face like he’s something breakable. And maybe, tonight, he is.

“I know what they do to good people,” she says. “They call them liars. They drag them through dirt and call it justice.”

Andrew leans into her palm, his breath warm against her wrist.

“I thought… I thought the world took you the same way. That I’d lost you, too.”

“You didn’t.”

She pulls him toward her—slowly, gently. Their foreheads touch again, and this time, when she kisses him, it’s not desperate. It’s deliberate. Deep. It tastes of firelight and rain and everything they’ve survived.

When they part, she whispers, “You protected me. Now let me protect you.”

He wraps his arms around her, pulling her into his lap, her legs curling around him. She presses her face into his neck, breathing him in. The scent of iron is fading now, replaced by warmth, by skin, by the grounding pulse of the man who became her blade in the dark.

“You don’t have to hide anymore,” she murmurs.

And Andrew—killer, barber, broken son of a hanged woman—lets himself believe it.

They stay there for a long time. Wrapped in each other. Rain against the window, fire whispering low.

Not holy.

But whole.

And as the hours pass and dawn threatens again, Andrew leans close, voice a breath in her ear: “Marry me again.”

She smiles against his throat.

“In blood or in ink?”

He turns to her, eyes full of firelight.

“Both.”

Lenore lets out the softest laugh—more breath than sound—and leans back just enough to see his face.

“Ink will fade,” she whispers, brushing her fingers along the curve of his collarbone, where the skin is clean, unmarked. “Blood stains.”

Andrew’s eyes darken, not with anger, but with reverence.

“Then let it stain,” he says.

She reaches for the inkwell on the nightstand—something she’s always kept near for writing, sketching, little notes tucked into the folds of her books. Now it’s something else. Something sacred.

Andrew sits up as she dips her finger into the ink, the cool blackness coating her skin. She presses her fingertip just above his heart. A mark, no bigger than a coin.

“You are mine,” she murmurs, drawing a slow, simple symbol—a circle, closed, unbroken.

Andrew cups her wrist, kisses the inside of it, then takes the inkwell from her hand. He trails his finger across her collarbone, just above where the edge of his shirt hangs off her shoulder. A jagged slash—like a blade—followed by a crescent.

“You are everything,” he replies.

Then, slowly, deliberately, he pulls her to him again.

Their lips meet in silence. There is no rush. No hunger. Only the slow, aching unraveling of two people who have bled for each other and found something worth living for in the ruin.

Their bodies fit like poetry—quiet, burning, and true.

And when they finally lie tangled together in the warm hush of the fire, hearts slowing in sync, Andrew holds her like a vow.

His lips find the shell of her ear, soft and certain.

“Even when world starts to devoid of anything resembling light,” he breathes, “I’ll be there.”

Lenore closes her eyes, fingers curled around his, and whispers:

“I know.”

Outside, the rain still falls.

On this night, the moon hangs low and heavy, casting silvery light on the sign above the barber shop: Biersack’s Blades. Inside, her husband works late, as he often does. The snip of scissors, the gleam of steel, the murmur of a client’s voice—it is all familiar, all routine. But Lenore knows better than anyone that behind that handsome face and polite smile, Andrew Biersack carries a darkness he keeps well-hidden from the world.

She loves him anyway. Perhaps, in some quiet, secret part of her soul, because of it.

But when she turns the corner into Holloway Lane, the familiar rhythm of her footsteps is interrupted. A sound. A presence.

She stops.

She is not alone.

A flicker of movement—a shadow peeling away from the brick wall to her left. Her breath catches, heart thudding in her chest as she squints into the gloom. For a moment, it could be nothing. A drunkard finding his way home. A street cat darting from a crate.

But the presence lingers. Closer. Watching.

“Evenin’, miss,” a voice says—rough, unfamiliar. Too smooth to be harmless.

Lenore tightens her shawl around her and quickens her pace.

She doesn’t get far.

A hand grips her arm—filthy, calloused fingers biting into the wool and flesh beneath. She tries to scream, but the sound is smothered by the cold press of another hand clamping over her mouth.

The alley behind Holloway Lane devours her.

The gaslight flickers once, then steadies.

The bell above the door jingles softly as Andrew sweeps hair from the floor of Biersack’s Blades. It’s past midnight, and the city outside is still—except for the occasional scurry of rats or the distant echo of carriage wheels on cobblestone. He thrives in this hour. It’s clean, quiet. Everything feels clearer when the world is asleep.

He glances at the clock.

Lenore is late.

Not by much—ten, fifteen minutes, perhaps. She tends to wander during her walks, pausing to admire a flower poking through the cracks or to coax a stray cat out from hiding. But this… this feels different. Off.

A weight settles in his chest. A knowing.

He steps outside. The cold air bites, sharp and unwelcoming. Gas lamps flicker along the street, casting long shadows across the storefronts.

“Lenore?” he calls, voice low, controlled.

No answer.

He starts walking, fast, heading toward Holloway Lane—the route she always takes home. His boots echo sharply against the cobblestones. The street is deserted.

Then he sees it.

A splash of lavender near the edge of the alley—her shawl. Twisted. Crumpled. He crouches and lifts it slowly, fingers brushing against fabric that’s damp and heavy.

It’s not rain.

The air goes still.

Then his eyes find her—slumped near the wall, knees drawn to her chest, her bonnet fallen, hair loose and matted. Her dress is torn. Blood stains the folds.

He is beside her in a heartbeat, falling to his knees.

“Lenore,” he breathes, reaching for her, afraid to touch, terrified not to.

Her eyes flutter open. She’s trembling. Her lips are cracked. There’s a blooming bruise along her jaw.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I—I tried—”

“Shhh,” Andrew says, pulling her into his arms, holding her like something fragile that’s already halfway broken. “Don’t speak. I’ve got you, little raven. ”

And he does. He holds her as she weeps soundlessly against his coat, as her body shakes, as the cold seeps in.

But something in him shifts.

A thread inside him snaps with the quiet precision of a straight razor slipping through flesh.

He breathes in, long and slow.

And in that breath, the part of him that smiles at customers, that sharpens blades with care, that kisses his wife goodnight—vanishes.

What’s left is older. Colder. Hungrier.

Whoever did this will not see trial. They will not be forgiven. They will never be forgotten.

They will beg for mercy.

And Andrew Biersack will not give it.

The fire crackles low in the hearth, casting flickering shadows across the parlor walls. The curtains are drawn. The clock ticks softly, and outside, the world continues on, unaware of what’s been taken from them.

Andrew sits on the edge of the sofa, cradling a cup of tea in one hand, his other resting gently on Lenore’s. She lies beside him, wrapped in a wool blanket, her body curled small, like a paper swan folded too many times. Her eyes are open but distant, fixed on something far beyond the dancing flames.

He watches her.

Not the bruises. Not the split lip or the purpling around her eye. He watches her. The slope of her cheek, the slight tremble of her fingers, the quiet way she breathes, as if she’s afraid even that will hurt.

“I’m here,” he says softly.

She doesn’t respond.

A long moment passes, and then her hand tightens around his. Barely noticeable, but enough.

“I should’ve waited for you,” she murmurs.

“No,” he says quickly, too quickly. “Don’t. Don’t say that. This… this is not your fault.”

Her lips press together. Her voice is quiet, dry. “It always feels like it is.”

Andrew sets his cup down and shifts closer, resting his forehead against hers. His hand cups the side of her face—carefully, reverently. “You did nothing wrong. You hear me? Nothing.”

“I was just walking,” she whispers.

“I know.”

She finally looks at him, really looks. Her eyes are wet, bloodshot, but steady. “You want to go after him.”

He doesn’t lie.

“I do.”

“Will it help?”

His jaw tightens. The fire snaps behind them, sending a puff of embers up the chimney.

“No,” he says. “But it’s the only thing I can do right now.”

She nods slowly, then leans into him, her head resting on his shoulder. He holds her there in silence, his arms around her like a fortress, willing his warmth into her bones.

He kisses the top of her head. Once. Then again.

“I’ll make it right, little raven,” he whispers.

Outside, the wind howls against the windowpane.

And deep within him, something dark and patient begins to rise—like smoke from a long-dead fire rekindling.

The morning is gray, veiled in fog. The lamps outside still burn faintly, casting pale halos over the cobblestone streets. Inside Biersack’s Blades, Andrew readies the shop with quiet precision.

He doesn’t hum, not like he used to.

The combs are laid out on a folded towel, soaked clean and polished to a shine. Scissors rest beside his favorite straight razors, each blade honed to surgical sharpness. A basin of steaming water sits waiting, and he leans over it, letting the heat ghost across his face.

Behind the curtain, down the hall, Lenore rests. Her breathing is soft—he listens for it like a heartbeat. He left a cup of broth on the nightstand, barely touched. She hasn’t spoken much since the night before. Her silence echoes louder than any scream.

He wipes his hands on a clean cloth and straightens the chair in the center of the room. Leather, black and worn, still sturdy. This chair has seen stories, secrets, blood.

The bell above the shop door jingles.

Andrew doesn’t look up right away. “Give me just a moment,” he says calmly, wrapping his tools with care. His voice is even, but his spine straightens, instinct flickering.

Then he turns.

A man stands in the doorway. Mid-thirties. Polished boots, a dark wool coat, too fine for this part of the city. A well-fed face, clean-shaven. Eyes that flick around the shop like he’s casing it, even though he smiles.

Andrew knows that smile. It doesn’t reach the eyes.

“Mornin’,” the man says, stepping in as the door swings shut behind him. “Heard you give the best shave in town.”

Andrew studies him. He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t speak right away.

The man’s gaze lands briefly on the hallway leading to the back of the shop.

Andrew sees it. The pause. The slight turn of the head. And that’s when he knows.

His hands go still.

“Take a seat,” Andrew says, his voice smooth as glass.

The man chuckles, settling into the barber’s chair. “Appreciate it. Been needing a trim. Long night, you know how it is.”

“I do,” Andrew replies, draping the cape over his client, fastening it just a little tighter than necessary. “Long nights have a way of leaving their mark.”

The man doesn’t respond. His eyes close, trusting. Arrogant.

Andrew dips the brush into the lather and begins to work it across the man’s jaw.

He could do it now. A flick of the wrist, a breathless second, and the blade could kiss the throat that laughed at her pain.

But Andrew is patient. Methodical.

The hunt is always better when the prey doesn’t yet know it’s been caught.

The razor glides across stubbled skin, slow and steady, the soft scrape of steel whispering through the quiet shop.

Andrew’s hand is rock-steady, but his eyes are watching—measuring. The man’s pulse ticks beneath the blade, right where his thumb rests.

“Rough night, you said?” Andrew asks casually, wiping the blade clean on a towel before beginning the next pass.

The man chuckles low. “That’s one way to put it.”

Andrew hums as if mildly interested. “Drinking, cards, women?”

“All of the above,” the man replies. He’s relaxed now, jaw slack, eyes closed. “City’s full of filth, but sometimes the filth is… convenient.”

Andrew tilts the man’s head slightly. “Mm. You seem the type to enjoy convenience.”

“You got no idea,” the man says, laughing under his breath. “There was this girl—last night. Out late, wandering like she wanted the attention. You know the sort.”

Andrew doesn’t answer. He lathers again, movements precise, gentle.

“She was a looker. Real delicate type. Thought she was just another working girl at first, all dolled up, walking the alleys like that. Pretty thing didn’t even scream right. Just sort of… broke.”

The razor pauses.

Just for half a second.

The man doesn’t notice.

“Funny part is,” the man continues, his grin audible now, “she didn’t even fight after a while. Like she knew her place. Girls like that always do.”

Andrew’s voice is almost too calm. “Did she give you her name?”

The man snorts. “Didn’t ask. Don’t care. Some whore out on Holloway Lane. Probably won’t remember my face. Doubt she remembers much at all.”

A floorboard creaks.

Andrew freezes, mid-stroke.

From the hallway behind him, a soft shuffling sound. Then—her voice, dry and raw:

“Andrew…?”

The man blinks, turning his head slightly toward the sound.

Lenore stands just beyond the curtain, clinging to the doorframe, her hair loose around her shoulders, her eyes wide and hollow. She sways slightly, one hand pressed to her ribs.

The man’s face lights up.

“Well, speak of the devil,” he says, laughing. “That’s her! That’s the little whore I was talking about.”

Silence.

Andrew doesn’t move.

Not yet.

Lenore’s gaze meets Andrew’s. Her lip trembles—but she doesn’t look away. Not from her husband. Not from the man in the chair.

And something inside Andrew snaps with absolute clarity.

The silence hangs so thick, it chokes the room.

Lenore’s breathing is shallow, her hand still gripping the doorframe like it’s the only thing keeping her upright. Her eyes lock on the man in the chair—on him. Her skin goes pale, but she doesn’t cry. She doesn’t run.

Andrew doesn’t move.

He still holds the razor, half-lathered, half-shaved. His hand rests lightly against the man’s jaw. The blade hovers just beneath it.

A single drop of shaving cream drips to the floor.

The man looks between the two of them, brows furrowing. “What?” he says, with a crooked, confused smile. “You know her?”

Andrew says nothing.

The man chuckles, shifting a bit under the cape. “Didn’t peg you for the sentimental type. Didn’t realize your girl’s one of those. She wasn’t much for conversation, but—” he whistles low “—she was soft. Real soft.”

Lenore flinches.

Andrew’s thumb presses down—just slightly—against the man’s throat. Enough to be felt.

The man pauses. “Hey. You alright there, barber?”

Still no answer.

Andrew rinses the blade in the water basin. Slow. Careful. He dries it on a white cloth. Then he steps around the chair to face the man fully.

He crouches.

They’re eye level now.

And for the first time, Andrew smiles.

But it’s not the kind of smile this man has seen before.

It’s the kind a wolf shows when it’s done stalking.

“My girl,” Andrew says, voice soft, even, almost tender, “isn’t one of those.”

The man’s expression flickers—first confusion, then something colder. Something cautious.

“She’s my wife.”

The smile vanishes.

The razor is still in his hand.

And now the man realizes he’s not in a barber’s chair.

He’s in a coffin someone forgot to close.

The man doesn’t laugh this time.

He tries to—his mouth twitches, lips parting like he might shrug the moment off, joke about it, call it a misunderstanding—but the look in Andrew’s eyes kills the sound before it escapes.

Andrew doesn’t blink. Doesn’t raise his voice.

He simply steps closer, wipes the blade clean again.

The razor gleams under the gaslight.

“Your… wife?” the man asks slowly, testing the words like glass on his tongue.

Andrew nods once. “Lenore.”

The man shifts in the chair. The leather creaks. “Look, I—I didn’t know. I thought she was—she was out there by herself. At night.”

Andrew tilts his head, not unlike a butcher weighing a cut of meat.

“She likes walking at night,” he says, tone quiet, gentle. “It’s the only time this city breathes.”

The man scoffs, a breathless, desperate sound. “Then she’s stupid. You don’t just—do that. Women like her, out alone? They’re asking for—”

The straight razor flashes upward. Not fast, not violent.

Just raised.

Quietly.

The man jerks back into the chair, suddenly too aware of the steel near his skin. “Hey—hey, look—I’m just saying it’s not my fault she was—”

Andrew’s voice cuts through the air, low and venomous. “Men like you always say that. Like the darkness is her fault, not yours.”

He leans in slightly, his breath calm, warm against the man’s face.

“She loves the moon. The wind. The way the city feels when no one’s watching. That was hers. Her ritual. Her peace. You took that from her.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“You meant to hurt her,” Andrew interrupts, voice still soft. “You just didn’t think anyone would care.”

The man tries to move, but Andrew presses a firm hand to his shoulder, pinning him. The razor dips to the man’s collarbone—not cutting, not yet—but present.

“She trusted the silence. And now,” Andrew says, eyes burning cold, “every step she takes will echo with your filth.”

A heartbeat.

Lenore hasn’t moved from the doorway. Her eyes are wide, watching. Not stopping him.

Just watching.

The man’s breathing is fast now, shallow. “Alright—alright, I made a mistake, okay? A mistake. I’ll leave. I’ll disappear. No one has to know.”

Andrew studies him. “No one will know.”

The man freezes.

Andrew’s hand twitches slightly on the razor.

And then he whispers, almost tender: “Do you know how many arteries run through the neck?”

The razor doesn’t move.

It rests just below the man’s jaw, cool as winter steel, the promise of death humming through its edge.

The man doesn’t dare swallow. He breathes in short, shallow gasps, as if the very air has turned against him. Beads of sweat collect at his temples, running down into the lather still clinging to his skin.

Andrew remains perfectly still. The chair squeaks under the man’s trembling body.

“Four,” Andrew says at last.

The man flinches. “W-what?”

Andrew lifts his eyes to meet his.

“Four major arteries in the neck. You nick one,” he murmurs, “and the body doesn’t scream. It gurgles. It panics. The eyes widen. The mind realizes what the body already knows—that it’s too late.”

“I—I didn’t know she was your—”

“It wouldn’t have mattered,” Andrew says, almost smiling. “If it wasn’t her, it would’ve been someone else, wouldn’t it?”

“No, I—look—look, I’ve got money. I can pay you—”

Andrew chuckles quietly, and that sound is the most terrifying thing in the room.

“This isn’t about money,” he says, circling the chair slowly now, dragging a clean cloth between his hands. “It’s about debt.”

The man’s voice rises in panic. “You don’t have to do this—please—please—”

Andrew pauses behind him. His hand brushes over a small glass bottle on the counter. Bay rum. He uncorks it gently, letting the scent fill the room—sharp, clean, spiced.

“I always finish a shave properly,” he says. “Even now. I believe in craft.”

The bottle clicks softly as it’s set back down.

The man tries to move again, but Andrew’s hand presses his shoulder firmly back into place.

“Do you know how long it takes someone to bleed out from the carotid?” Andrew asks. “It’s fast. Almost… peaceful.”

“No,” the man whimpers. “Please…”

“But you,” Andrew murmurs, stepping close again, “you don’t deserve peace.”

From the doorway, Lenore speaks. Her voice is small. Fragile.

“Andrew…”

He turns toward her slightly. His eyes meet hers.

And she nods.

Once.

The man doesn’t see the look they share.

He only hears the soft whisper of steel as Andrew lifts the blade—

And begins.

The blade sings.

Not a scream—not a shout—but a whisper, honed and merciless. It slides beneath the curve of the man’s jaw with the grace of a dancer, and then—

Red.

A sudden, violent bloom of it.

The man chokes mid-breath, eyes flaring wide in shock. One hand jerks up instinctively, grabbing at his throat, but the cape traps his arms. He gurgles, panics. Blood pours hot and arterial, splattering across Andrew’s cheek, his collar, the floorboards.

Lenore doesn’t look away.

Her heart pounds—thump thump thump—wild and alive in her chest. It’s wrong, she knows, to feel anything but fear. But when she sees Andrew there—cold, elegant, decisive, right—her stomach flutters.

He doesn’t scream or curse.

He simply moves.

A second stroke. Deeper. Crueler.

The razor carves beneath the man’s chin, exposing tendon and gristle. The chair rocks as the man spasms, his heels kicking against the floor, cape soaked in crimson. His voice tries to rise, to beg, to sob—

But it’s all just gurgle.

Andrew’s face is stone. He wipes his hand across his mouth, smearing blood like warpaint. The man’s head slumps to the side, twitching, lips bubbling red.

“Breathe through it,” Andrew murmurs.

It’s unclear if he’s talking to the man.

Or himself.

Lenore presses a hand to her ribs, breathing shallowly. Her eyes trace the line of Andrew’s jaw, the red splattered across his white shirt, the graceful way he moves. Her hands tremble, but not from fear.

From something older. Something deeper.

Andrew leans in close, whispering something only the dying man hears—if he hears anything at all. Then, with a clean, clinical twist, he slices once more—swift and final.

The body stills.

The shop is silent but for the soft drip… drip… drip of blood from the chair to the floor.

Andrew straightens, slowly.

His eyes meet Lenore’s across the room.

Neither of them speak.

And yet—something unspoken settles in the air between them. A new understanding. A bond forged not in rings or vows—but in silence, and violence, and vengeance.

Lenore takes a breath. Her lips part.

“…Andrew,” she whispers, voice shaking. “You…”

But the words are lost as he takes a step toward her—bloodstained, shaking, beautiful.

The man’s body slumps, finally still. A crimson pool spreads from the foot of the chair, dark and thick, winding its way between the floorboards. Andrew exhales slowly, as though something inside him has unclenched.

Lenore stands frozen in the doorway, her hand still on her stomach, heart thudding wildly against her ribs. She feels breathless, not from fear—but from the sight of him. Blood on his hands, his face. But steady. So steady.

She walks forward, feet light as if in a trance.

Andrew meets her in the middle of the room. He doesn’t speak. Not yet. He simply rests his forehead against hers, for just a moment. Her hands find his shirt—blood-soaked, clinging—and she holds on.

Then they get to work.

It is not quick. It is not clean.

But it is practiced.

Andrew locks the door, draws the curtains, removes the barber’s cape and folds it carefully. The body is dragged to the back room, limp and leaking. Sawdust is scattered over the floor, over the blood, soaking up the worst of it. Lenore watches, then kneels, scrubbing the boards until her sleeves are damp, her fingers raw.

Andrew hums under his breath. An old tune—low, lilting. Something his mother used to sing. Something innocent.

The contrast is obscene.

They strip the clothes from the corpse, bag them. The body itself—Andrew wraps in oilcloth, tight, methodical. He will burn it later. No grave. No name.

Lenore wipes the walls down, every drop. Every smear. She moves like a ghost in her own skin.

And when it’s done—when the room smells of bay rum and blood and ash—they stand together in the quiet.

Andrew removes his bloodied apron and sets it gently aside.

He walks to her. Gathers her in his arms.

She doesn’t resist. Her head rests against his chest, still rising and falling slow and calm. His heartbeat is strong beneath her ear.

“You shouldn’t have had to see that,” he whispers.

“But I did,” she replies softly. “And I’m still here.”

He holds her tighter.

“You don’t have to be afraid anymore, little raven,” Andrew murmurs. “Even when demons rise around you, even when the world turns black—I will be there.”

Lenore nods against him. She closes her eyes.

He doesn’t smell like cologne anymore.

He smells like iron and smoke.