AT YOUR SERVICE

FEAR THE REAPER

"If you're looking for the Reaper, you're already in debt."

( Jack O'Connell, 612, Cis Male, He/Him, Vampire ) It’s been a while since we’ve seen OLIN WHITCOMBE. I hear they’re a VAMPIRE and they reside on the WESTSIDE. They’ve been known as THE REAPER, but that’s not all they are. They’re known to associate with [ REDACTED ] when they’re not busy running an UNDERGROUND BLOOD DEN AND BLACK MARKET INFORMATION NETWORK. Some may say they act SADISTIC & EXPLOITATIVE, while others claim they are FEARLESS & RESOURCEFUL. With that being said, they’ve found the State of Calamity.

written by Nyx

───

“This is fucking bullshit!” The accusation tore through the room like a gunshot, punctuated by the violent crack of a fist against the poker table’s green velvet. In a space where chatter and slot machines took helm, Olin’s spectacle bled into the soundscape, subtle at first, almost harmonious with the chaos before swelling, warping, until it demanded attention in both volume and grandeur.

"Do I look like an idiot to you?!" Heads began to turn. "I fucking saw you do that." Games faltered, hands hovered mid-play. "You switched the cards out. It's up your sleeve. We all saw it - you saw that, right?" Others at the table were quickly forced into the conversation, most of them confused but some peering toward the employee's sleeve to see if Olin's claim held any weight. Tension spread quickly, the commotion drawing more onlookers by the second, the curiosity of some soon sharpening into suspicion as the room bent around Olin's voice. "Admit it!"

Olin leaned over the card table, an accusatory finger held inches away from the croupier's chest. The innocent man flinched in the face of the vampire's hostility, dumbfounded and confused as to where this all came from. Everything had been business as usual up until the last card of the deck had been flipped; ending the game and rendering Olin three thousand Kochba poorer. It wasn't unlike patrons to lose their cool in the face of such a devastating loss, but this reaction? Melodramatic to say the least.

The employee fidgeted awkwardly. "Sir, I—"

"—Oh, what? Cheated? Yeah. We all saw it." The finger dropped, but the theatrics remained heated. For a flickering moment, Olin’s gaze slipped past the man’s shoulder, sharp with anticipation. Because despite how it might appear to the onlooker, this wasn't some menial outburst. It was the culmination of a year's hunt in the making. Olin didn't come that night for a monetary jackpot. He had his eyes set on something far more... succulent. A certain five-hundred-year old Fae, the proprietor of this fine establishment. For months Olin had gathered scraps of information from the shadows, piecing together what little there was to know about the elusive Heathcliff. Disappointingly little. The man was an enigma; guarded, obscured, frustratingly out of reach. But not the first of his kind, and certainly not the last to fall into Olin’s grasp.

And now—he was close. He was in the building. Olin could smell him.

Manic eyes shifted back into the false narrative seamlessly, hurling insults towards the employee once more. "You know how much money I've spent here over the years? And here you are - spitting in my fucking face. What kind of dirty business is this, huh?"

It was like clockwork, a mystical, primal compulsion, that Olin found himself seated beneath the sickly neon glow of the Ghouliard. It had been weeks since his last visit, business kept him buried in the trenches of the Darklands, but tonight, he tore himself away from work to indulge in play—to set his eyes on her.

Temptation itself was encapsulated in the lithe, swaying form of the youngest Malikov daughter. Beauty like hers came once every few centuries, and when she took the stage, all eyes in the room followed. No exception, Olin allowed himself to fall victim to her spell, letting it widen his pupils, tunnel his vision, and consume all his attention. Behind that pretty face lay a plethora of secrets; some heard, some seen, some passed down by her family's bloodline, pumping through her veins. God, what he wouldn't give to taste it. To know what she knew.

The song ended too quickly. It always did when she danced. Only once she stepped off stage did he make his move, slipping from the audience to stalk her path like a cat trailing its prey. Though by the time he caught up to her just outside the backrooms, somewhere forbidden and meant for dancers only, he stepped cleanly into her path, grinning like a butcher’s dog.

“Hiya, beautiful.” A greeting she had likely heard for the tenth time that evening, delivered just as smug as the last. His eyes searched hers, looking for that telltale gloss of intoxication, the loosened focus, any sign she’d already indulged or was close enough to be persuaded.

He watched her a beat too long, expression unreadable, caught somewhere between admiration and appraisal. Then, without a word, he lifted a small, clear baggie between them, half full with an off-pink powder. The gesture was shameless and unhurried, lacking all discretion and presented as a casual offering instead of something illicit.

The heavy clank of a rusty prison lock rang sharply against the basement walls. It was the pin in the coffin of the trembling, petrified human girl he had just acquired. As per the client's request: blonde, busty, and born with three thumbs. Not Olin's cup of tea, but a job was a job, a fetish was a fetish, and admittingly, her face made up for the peculiar mutation. He tapped his hand against the cell bars as a farewell gesture, flashing the girl a wolfish grin.

"Sleep tight, sweetheart."

And with that, he ascended the stairs back to the Slaughter Ring’s main floor, the sounds of her pleas along with the other slaves’ exhausted, broken cries fading behind him. They swayed him none. Appealed to a conscience that simply didn’t exist. All it did was remind him how hungry he was. Not for blood—his health was in good standing—but for chaos. Capturing these slaves scratched the itch only in passing. The real thrill came from the kill. And the torture before the kill. And the hunt before the torture.

The girl screamed for mercy as the door behind him slammed shut. Fuck. He really needed to kill something.

Fully intending to satisfy that need, Olin moved toward the exit before the shadow of a man caught in his periphery. On a normal night, he'd greet Callum with cordial and brotherly ease, but considering the way they last left off, that approach didn't come so naturally. A pause. A beat passes. Then four more. Just enough for the sorcerer to know what's coming next before it happens.

A strong hand cups the curve of Callum's shoulder from behind, fully intending to startle him, clairvoyance be damned. Olin’s grin followed, wide and toothy, ill-fitting for the tension between them and transparently condescending.