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Summary: After the man who hurt Lenore âdisappearsâ without a trace, Andrew keeps cutting hair by dayâand covering up blood by night. Their shop stays spotless. Their marriage, anything but. In the firelight, they choose each other againâscarred, sharpened, and still breathing.
pairing: Andrew Biersack x femaleOC | dark Victorian romance (AU)
warnings: aftermath of SA (offscreen), murder, blood, trauma, morally grey love
A/N: this is a sequel to Demons Rise Around You and I highly recommend reading this one first before getting into this one.
By dawn, the body is gone.
The oilcloth bundle fits neatly into a borrowed coal sackâAndrew knows where to walk, which alleys still sleep past sunrise. He keeps to the fog, to the low streets where the river rats dwell and where silence is bought with coin and bad memory.
The Thames swallows what the fire does not.
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 Biersackâs Blades.
And it gleams.
At breakfast time, Andrew opens the shutters.
A boy runs past with a paper, shouting the usual gossipâroyal scandal, factory explosion, another girl gone missingâbut 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.
Andrewâs 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 nowâthe 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.
âThereâll be no trace,â he says, running the steel along the strop. âNo questions. No suspicion.â
She nods.
âI know.â
And in the silence that follows, there is something stronger than fear.
Itâs not peace.
But itâs control.
And for now, thatâs 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 elseâLondonâs filth, the blood they scrubbed from floorboards, the memory of a manâs gurgling deathâhas gone still for a little while.
Lenore sits before the fire, legs tucked beneath her, wearing one of Andrewâs shirts. The sleeves are too long, and it smells faintly of himâleather, bay rum, iron. Her hair is loose, damp from washing. A book rests on her knee, but she hasnât 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 themselvesâchanged, quieter, stronger.
âI never wanted you to see that side of me,â he murmurs, pressing her knuckles to his lips. âNot like that.â
Her eyes soften.
âBut I did,â she whispers. âAnd Iâm still here.â
Andrew leans forward and brushes her cheek with the back of his fingers, tender as breath. His touch carries no demand, only reverenceâas if she were something sacred, even now, even after all the blood.
Especially after the blood.
âYouâre not afraid of me?â he asks, voice rough from everything unspoken.
âIâm afraid for you,â she replies, her voice barely above the rain. âNot of you.â
He closes his eyes at that. And when they open again, something has melted in themâsome weight heâs carried for years, now undone by a woman who met his worst and didnât flinch.
âWhen you were gone for a while,â Andrew murmurs, âI thought they took you away.â
His thumb strokes her knuckles absently, as if grounding himself in the feel of her skin, anchoring his soul to something still human.
âLike how they took my mother away.â
Lenoreâs breath stills. She doesnât speakâdoesnât interrupt. She watches him.
âShe was sewing,â he says. His voice is low, distant, remembering. âThat morning. A hem torn from a constableâs coat. Said it was barely worth a penny, but she still stitched it like it mattered.â
He swallows hard, eyes distant but glassy. The firelight flickers in the silence between them.
âShe told me, âBe careful, Andrew. The world doesnât reward the good. It eats them.â I didnât understand what she meant until that night.â
Lenore places her free hand on his chest, gentlyâover his heart.
âThey came through the door. Accused her of theft. No trial. Just whispers, and ropes, and a cold wooden cart.â
He looks at her now, eyes brimming but not breaking. âShe was innocent. But that never mattered.â
Lenoreâs hand slides up his chest to his jaw. She cups his face like heâs something breakable. And maybe, tonight, he is.
âI know what they do to good people,â she says. âThey call them liars. They drag them through dirt and call it justice.â
Andrew leans into her palm, his breath warm against her wrist.
âI thought⌠I thought the world took you the same way. That Iâd lost you, too.â
âYou didnât.â
She pulls him toward herâslowly, gently. Their foreheads touch again, and this time, when she kisses him, itâs not desperate. Itâs deliberate. Deep. It tastes of firelight and rain and everything theyâve survived.
When they part, she whispers, âYou protected me. Now let me protect you.â
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.
âYou donât have to hide anymore,â she murmurs.
And Andrewâkiller, barber, broken son of a hanged womanâlets 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: âMarry me again.â
She smiles against his throat.
âIn blood or in ink?â
He turns to her, eyes full of firelight.
âBoth.â
Lenore lets out the softest laughâmore breath than soundâand leans back just enough to see his face.
âInk will fade,â she whispers, brushing her fingers along the curve of his collarbone, where the skin is clean, unmarked. âBlood stains.â
Andrewâs eyes darken, not with anger, but with reverence.
âThen let it stain,â he says.
She reaches for the inkwell on the nightstandâsomething sheâs always kept near for writing, sketching, little notes tucked into the folds of her books. Now itâs 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.
âYou are mine,â she murmurs, drawing a slow, simple symbolâa 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 slashâlike a bladeâfollowed by a crescent.
âYou are everything,â 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 poetryâquiet, 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.
âEven when world starts to devoid of anything resembling light,â he breathes, âIâll be there.â
Lenore closes her eyes, fingers curled around his, and whispers:
âI know.â
Outside, the rain still falls.
But here, in this room, in this hourâ they are untouchable.
Summary: Andrew Biersack owns a barber shop, and he has a dark side. But his wife still love him, all of him. But one night, when she was walking home from her nightly stroll, something happens⌠and when Andrew finds out what happened, he seeks his revenge.
TW: sweeney todd inspired, of course. sweeneytodd!andybiersackxwife!oc. dark content, including graphic scenes of blood and murder, mentions of âgrapeâ and SA. 18+ MDNI. if this story finds you distressing in any way, it is advised that you do not read on.
A/N: this is my first ever Andy Biersack fanfiction. Iâve seen Black Veil Bridesâ Bleeders music video and⌠letâs just say it changes my brain chemistry if that makes any sense whatsoever. Please feel free to like and comment (but do be kind in the comments).
Lenore Biersack loves walking at night.
There is a peace to the world after the gas lamps are lit and the cobblestone streets fall quiet beneath the hush of moonlight. In those moments, with only the occasional clatter of a horseâs hooves or the whisper of wind rustling through alleyways, she feels almost invisibleâuntouched by the grime and harshness of the city. The scent of pipe smoke lingers faintly in the air, mingling with the aroma of coal fires and damp earth. She clutches her shawl tighter, her boots clicking softly as she moves past shuttered storefronts and sleeping doorways.
On this night, the moon hangs low and heavy, casting silvery light on the sign above the barber shop: Biersackâs Blades. Inside, her husband works late, as he often does. The snip of scissors, the gleam of steel, the murmur of a clientâs voiceâit 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 movementâa 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.
âEveninâ, miss,â a voice saysârough, unfamiliar. Too smooth to be harmless.
Lenore tightens her shawl around her and quickens her pace.
She doesnât get far.
A hand grips her armâfilthy, 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 Biersackâs Blades. Itâs past midnight, and the city outside is stillâexcept for the occasional scurry of rats or the distant echo of carriage wheels on cobblestone. He thrives in this hour. Itâs clean, quiet. Everything feels clearer when the world is asleep.
He glances at the clock.
Lenore is late.
Not by muchâten, 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.
âLenore?â he calls, voice low, controlled.
No answer.
He starts walking, fast, heading toward Holloway Laneâthe 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 alleyâher shawl. Twisted. Crumpled. He crouches and lifts it slowly, fingers brushing against fabric thatâs damp and heavy.
Itâs not rain.
The air goes still.
Then his eyes find herâslumped 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.
âLenore,â he breathes, reaching for her, afraid to touch, terrified not to.
Her eyes flutter open. Sheâs trembling. Her lips are cracked. Thereâs a blooming bruise along her jaw.
âIâm sorry,â she whispers. âIâI triedââ
âShhh,â Andrew says, pulling her into his arms, holding her like something fragile thatâs already halfway broken. âDonât speak. Iâve got you, little raven. â
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 goodnightâvanishes.
Whatâs 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 whatâs 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 Lenoreâs. 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 sheâs afraid even that will hurt.
âIâm here,â he says softly.
She doesnât respond.
A long moment passes, and then her hand tightens around his. Barely noticeable, but enough.
âI shouldâve waited for you,â she murmurs.
âNo,â he says quickly, too quickly. âDonât. Donât say that. This⌠this is not your fault.â
Her lips press together. Her voice is quiet, dry. âIt always feels like it is.â
Andrew sets his cup down and shifts closer, resting his forehead against hers. His hand cups the side of her faceâcarefully, reverently. âYou did nothing wrong. You hear me? Nothing.â
âI was just walking,â she whispers.
âI know.â
She finally looks at him, really looks. Her eyes are wet, bloodshot, but steady. âYou want to go after him.â
He doesnât lie.
âI do.â
âWill it help?â
His jaw tightens. The fire snaps behind them, sending a puff of embers up the chimney.
âNo,â he says. âBut itâs the only thing I can do right now.â
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.
âIâll make it right, little raven,â he whispers.
Outside, the wind howls against the windowpane.
And deep within him, something dark and patient begins to riseâlike 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 Biersackâs Blades, Andrew readies the shop with quiet precision.
He doesnât 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 softâhe listens for it like a heartbeat. He left a cup of broth on the nightstand, barely touched. She hasnât 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 doesnât look up right away. âGive me just a moment,â 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 heâs casing it, even though he smiles.
Andrew knows that smile. It doesnât reach the eyes.
âMorninâ,â the man says, stepping in as the door swings shut behind him. âHeard you give the best shave in town.â
Andrew studies him. He doesnât blink. Doesnât speak right away.
The manâs 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 thatâs when he knows.
His hands go still.
âTake a seat,â Andrew says, his voice smooth as glass.
The man chuckles, settling into the barberâs chair. âAppreciate it. Been needing a trim. Long night, you know how it is.â
âI do,â Andrew replies, draping the cape over his client, fastening it just a little tighter than necessary. âLong nights have a way of leaving their mark.â
The man doesnât respond. His eyes close, trusting. Arrogant.
Andrew dips the brush into the lather and begins to work it across the manâs 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 doesnât yet know itâs been caught.
The razor glides across stubbled skin, slow and steady, the soft scrape of steel whispering through the quiet shop.
Andrewâs hand is rock-steady, but his eyes are watchingâmeasuring. The manâs pulse ticks beneath the blade, right where his thumb rests.
âRough night, you said?â Andrew asks casually, wiping the blade clean on a towel before beginning the next pass.
The man chuckles low. âThatâs one way to put it.â
Andrew hums as if mildly interested. âDrinking, cards, women?â
âAll of the above,â the man replies. Heâs relaxed now, jaw slack, eyes closed. âCityâs full of filth, but sometimes the filth is⌠convenient.â
Andrew tilts the manâs head slightly. âMm. You seem the type to enjoy convenience.â
âYou got no idea,â the man says, laughing under his breath. âThere was this girlâlast night. Out late, wandering like she wanted the attention. You know the sort.â
Andrew doesnât answer. He lathers again, movements precise, gentle.
âShe 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 didnât even scream right. Just sort of⌠broke.â
The razor pauses.
Just for half a second.
The man doesnât notice.
âFunny part is,â the man continues, his grin audible now, âshe didnât even fight after a while. Like she knew her place. Girls like that always do.â
Andrewâs voice is almost too calm. âDid she give you her name?â
The man snorts. âDidnât ask. Donât care. Some whore out on Holloway Lane. Probably wonât remember my face. Doubt she remembers much at all.â
A floorboard creaks.
Andrew freezes, mid-stroke.
From the hallway behind him, a soft shuffling sound. Thenâher voice, dry and raw:
âAndrewâŚ?â
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 manâs face lights up.
âWell, speak of the devil,â he says, laughing. âThatâs her! Thatâs the little whore I was talking about.â
Silence.
Andrew doesnât move.
Not yet.
Lenoreâs gaze meets Andrewâs. Her lip tremblesâbut she doesnât 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.
Lenoreâs breathing is shallow, her hand still gripping the doorframe like itâs the only thing keeping her upright. Her eyes lock on the man in the chairâon him. Her skin goes pale, but she doesnât cry. She doesnât run.
Andrew doesnât move.
He still holds the razor, half-lathered, half-shaved. His hand rests lightly against the manâs 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. âWhat?â he says, with a crooked, confused smile. âYou know her?â
Andrew says nothing.
The man chuckles, shifting a bit under the cape. âDidnât peg you for the sentimental type. Didnât realize your girlâs one of those. She wasnât much for conversation, butââ he whistles low ââshe was soft. Real soft.â
Lenore flinches.
Andrewâs thumb presses downâjust slightlyâagainst the manâs throat. Enough to be felt.
The man pauses. âHey. You alright there, barber?â
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.
Theyâre eye level now.
And for the first time, Andrew smiles.
But itâs not the kind of smile this man has seen before.
Itâs the kind a wolf shows when itâs done stalking.
âMy girl,â Andrew says, voice soft, even, almost tender, âisnât one of those.â
The manâs expression flickersâfirst confusion, then something colder. Something cautious.
âSheâs my wife.â
The smile vanishes.
The razor is still in his hand.
And now the man realizes heâs not in a barberâs chair.
Heâs in a coffin someone forgot to close.
The man doesnât laugh this time.
He tries toâhis mouth twitches, lips parting like he might shrug the moment off, joke about it, call it a misunderstandingâbut the look in Andrewâs eyes kills the sound before it escapes.
Andrew doesnât blink. Doesnât raise his voice.
He simply steps closer, wipes the blade clean again.
The razor gleams under the gaslight.
âYour⌠wife?â the man asks slowly, testing the words like glass on his tongue.
Andrew nods once. âLenore.â
The man shifts in the chair. The leather creaks. âLook, IâI didnât know. I thought she wasâshe was out there by herself. At night.â
Andrew tilts his head, not unlike a butcher weighing a cut of meat.
âShe likes walking at night,â he says, tone quiet, gentle. âItâs the only time this city breathes.â
The man scoffs, a breathless, desperate sound. âThen sheâs stupid. You donât justâdo that. Women like her, out alone? Theyâre asking forââ
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. âHeyâhey, lookâIâm just saying itâs not my fault she wasââ
Andrewâs voice cuts through the air, low and venomous. âMen like you always say that. Like the darkness is her fault, not yours.â
He leans in slightly, his breath calm, warm against the manâs face.
âShe loves the moon. The wind. The way the city feels when no oneâs watching. That was hers. Her ritual. Her peace. You took that from her.â
âI didnât meanââ
âYou meant to hurt her,â Andrew interrupts, voice still soft. âYou just didnât think anyone would care.â
The man tries to move, but Andrew presses a firm hand to his shoulder, pinning him. The razor dips to the manâs collarboneânot cutting, not yetâbut present.
âShe trusted the silence. And now,â Andrew says, eyes burning cold, âevery step she takes will echo with your filth.â
A heartbeat.
Lenore hasnât moved from the doorway. Her eyes are wide, watching. Not stopping him.
Just watching.
The manâs breathing is fast now, shallow. âAlrightâalright, I made a mistake, okay? A mistake. Iâll leave. Iâll disappear. No one has to know.â
Andrew studies him. âNo one will know.â
The man freezes.
Andrewâs hand twitches slightly on the razor.
And then he whispers, almost tender: âDo you know how many arteries run through the neck?â
The razor doesnât move.
It rests just below the manâs jaw, cool as winter steel, the promise of death humming through its edge.
The man doesnât 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 manâs trembling body.
âFour,â Andrew says at last.
The man flinches. âW-what?â
Andrew lifts his eyes to meet his.
âFour major arteries in the neck. You nick one,â he murmurs, âand the body doesnât scream. It gurgles. It panics. The eyes widen. The mind realizes what the body already knowsâthat itâs too late.â
âIâI didnât know she was yourââ
âIt wouldnât have mattered,â Andrew says, almost smiling. âIf it wasnât her, it wouldâve been someone else, wouldnât it?â
âNo, Iâlookâlook, Iâve got money. I can pay youââ
Andrew chuckles quietly, and that sound is the most terrifying thing in the room.
âThis isnât about money,â he says, circling the chair slowly now, dragging a clean cloth between his hands. âItâs about debt.â
The manâs voice rises in panic. âYou donât have to do thisâpleaseâpleaseââ
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 roomâsharp, clean, spiced.
âI always finish a shave properly,â he says. âEven now. I believe in craft.â
The bottle clicks softly as itâs set back down.
The man tries to move again, but Andrewâs hand presses his shoulder firmly back into place.
âDo you know how long it takes someone to bleed out from the carotid?â Andrew asks. âItâs fast. Almost⌠peaceful.â
âNo,â the man whimpers. âPleaseâŚâ
âBut you,â Andrew murmurs, stepping close again, âyou donât deserve peace.â
From the doorway, Lenore speaks. Her voice is small. Fragile.
âAndrewâŚâ
He turns toward her slightly. His eyes meet hers.
And she nods.
Once.
The man doesnât see the look they share.
He only hears the soft whisper of steel as Andrew lifts the bladeâ
And begins.
The blade sings.
Not a screamânot a shoutâbut a whisper, honed and merciless. It slides beneath the curve of the manâs jaw with the grace of a dancer, and thenâ
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 Andrewâs cheek, his collar, the floorboards.
Lenore doesnât look away.
Her heart poundsâthump thump thumpâwild and alive in her chest. Itâs wrong, she knows, to feel anything but fear. But when she sees Andrew thereâcold, elegant, decisive, rightâher stomach flutters.
He doesnât scream or curse.
He simply moves.
A second stroke. Deeper. Crueler.
The razor carves beneath the manâs 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 sobâ
But itâs all just gurgle.
Andrewâs face is stone. He wipes his hand across his mouth, smearing blood like warpaint. The manâs head slumps to the side, twitching, lips bubbling red.
âBreathe through it,â Andrew murmurs.
Itâs unclear if heâs talking to the man.
Or himself.
Lenore presses a hand to her ribs, breathing shallowly. Her eyes trace the line of Andrewâs 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 hearsâif he hears anything at all. Then, with a clean, clinical twist, he slices once moreâswift 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 Lenoreâs across the room.
Neither of them speak.
And yetâsomething unspoken settles in the air between them. A new understanding. A bond forged not in rings or vowsâbut in silence, and violence, and vengeance.
Lenore takes a breath. Her lips part.
ââŚAndrew,â she whispers, voice shaking. âYouâŚâ
But the words are lost as he takes a step toward herâbloodstained, shaking, beautiful.
The manâs 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 fearâbut 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 doesnât speak. Not yet. He simply rests his forehead against hers, for just a moment. Her hands find his shirtâblood-soaked, clingingâand 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 barberâs 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 tuneâlow, lilting. Something his mother used to sing. Something innocent.
The contrast is obscene.
They strip the clothes from the corpse, bag them. The body itselfâAndrew 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 itâs doneâwhen the room smells of bay rum and blood and ashâthey 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 doesnât resist. Her head rests against his chest, still rising and falling slow and calm. His heartbeat is strong beneath her ear.
âYou shouldnât have had to see that,â he whispers.
âBut I did,â she replies softly. âAnd Iâm still here.â
He holds her tighter.
âYou donât have to be afraid anymore, little raven,â Andrew murmurs. âEven when demons rise around you, even when the world turns blackâI will be there.â
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