he has a point that she doesn't want to admit; how many times has umbrella brought someone back?    how many times have they become something of a monstrosity that was put back together, stitched abomination dna, in order to continue their excursions?    it makes bile rise up in her throat and she does her best to push her fear down.     she does her best to not lose herself in the anxiety that courses through her veins, the kind that raises the hair on the back of her neck and makes her want to run.      if she runs, would it even matter?      if she ran, would she even be able to get away?      part of her doubts it  ——  there's a familiar part of her that smarts, that whispers to obey even though she had presumed that she had moved past that.     conditioning is never fully broken.       it's a harsh reminder that she hasn't come as far as she had presumed she had.

heart twists beneath her ribs.    it shouldn't matter, the words that come out of his mouth.     he is not wesker.      he may wear his face and his arrogance, but he is not the man that broke her.      yet he says similar words, words that had been stated with a gun to her head when she had failed her first few missions.      when she had a been a trembling child with nothing but fear racing through her veins.      the thought of being anything but perfection, of being anything short of abnormal, was never an option.     if she had even thought for a moment that she was safe, he would turn the tables on her.     he would look her dead in the eye and remind her that she was replaceable, that she would be wasted potential, wasted prospect.      she would've been wasted money, and her body would've been oh so kindly donated to the depths of umbrella's endless experiments.      

she had only been a child and yet she had become heavily acquainted with fear.      she had become acquainted with the feeling of it in her veins and the way that her heart raced in her chest.      wesker had made sure that she would've been a compliant little thing, no matter what happened.      there had been moments in the field at sixteen where she held a gun to her temple, fingers trembling, knowing that it would be a more graceful exit than letting down her handler.       

"the connections make use of old corpses all the time." spoken before he lights up and his smoke-laden exhale is long, slow. already, the taste appeases what had begun to lurch wanting for more. and the smell blankets over the reeking reach of the RCS that stews within them both. "waste not, want not."

zeno knows she isn't following because she wants to. the chemicals of complying musculature strain thicker than what is fluid, what is natural. it is the movement of rigid conditioning, trained into her and unmoving from where it's latched into a brain desperate to please by design. though the chains have been rattled, loosened, they still don't break; an observation that strains a wry pull into one corner of his lips. regardless, he sucks again from his cigarette and carries forward. "we've been keeping an eye on you. they don't think you're worth more time, but…" a look gets passed over the broad slope of his shoulder, "i wanted to see for myself if there was anything worth salvaging."

something something, tighten his circle. the ins and outs of the orders are second-hand and he's quick to wave them off as they situate. he knew how to do his job. he knew when to bow his head and bite his tongue, albeit something done without the illusion that he enjoyed it. that's what rufus preferred. had said so from the start. he liked his turks with their teeth bare and their grins sharp. liked how they knew the hierarchy of the company in mind.. liked how they disregarded the expected and differed to him instead. even now. when when his own head was between crosshairs. again. like always.

the penthouse is one more pitstop in his opinion. it's warm lighting and fancy flasks half-emptied their expensive liquors he's been offered a time or two but never indulged in. always with the tests. always with the want to know where his professionalism began and end. would've humored the question on its own, but there's an entertaining facet that can only come from paced words and his own amused explitives.

so when rufus wanders ? he seeks his distractions elsewhere.

lured by the sprawl of frames.. the half-tucked albums coated in dust, lacking any sentimentality in a hardly creased spine. could've put a bullseye on it and been less obvious. reno's fingers are thin and deft. they're quick on the draw and tap a rhythmless beat atop aged photographs, all different hues of sun soaked. they'd sat out, once. on a mantle, probably. some make-believe attempt at normalcy that the shinra name couldn't function alongside. the old man ? still old. more hair, perhaps, but he's thick in the middle, a cigar between his lips and the sour expression of a man who'd rather be anywhere else.

the woman though.. he's not met her. could gauge some relation in those pretty blue eyes that mirror the boy held close to her breast. that.. now that's different.

" maybe, " good was arguable. there's nothing good about a child with red cheeks and the obvious signs of a tantrum. tucked into a tiny suit, reno's snickering as he flips ahead. " go ahead and give him a reason, i'm sure he's dying to chew my ass. " make up for a handful of missions that might have seen fulfillment, though he'd been sure to leave several dents on several cars in the process. man had to make his own fun when work dragged on. " lookin' for a tub pic i can run off with for the press, obviously. bare-assed baby smack dab on the front page. " reno wasn't looking for anything. that's what made finding it so much sweeter.

and yet the president gets hauled away by all his cronies, safely tucked away with his cigars and brandy.

the woman in the photos is not lost on the passing gaze rufus throws on reno's catch, either. her face stares back, tired in those eyes and with a smile rufus knows is as forced as her marriage. nothing in him rouses moved, however; stilted and stiff, he never regards whatever sentiment his mother's face is meant to stir. she is just a shadow in old memories, a haunting it doesn't serve him to humor.

"check the next few pages, should be one where some seagulls attacked me at costa del sol." rufus snorts a soft sound, the meagre attempt at a laugh leaned sardonic as he moves to sit at the sofa. legs cross and darkstar lumbers over, sitting dutifully beside him at attention. this earns a few fond scratches down the length of the sleek beast's neck and tucked beneath a studded collar. "just wanted to see if they'd caught all the shooters. the answer is still 'no,' by the way."

his gaze remains at reno's face, as though trying to clock his expression upon inviting himself to so many glimpses into a silver-spoon childhood that must look so strange, so foreign to him. but he passes that stare down to the album itself, unimpressed with every peek of his father's face on every page. and he never looks happy in any of them, never present or aglow like a father's supposed to seem in photographs with his doting family.

there had never been an alternative. never had an urge to fly back home and pretend there wasn't this bottomless cleft grown wide in his belly. that chasm she'd filled in the dark, quiet interlude between bouts of gunfire and shouting. ada posed her invitation like a threat. a warning. told him how and where to find her when this was all said and done and, now that he has, she's as evasive as ever. haughty gaze turning elsewhere.. arms folded, then not. she's standoffish and he knows better than to step into space occupied and uninviting.

but..

" yeah, probably not, " it rattles earnest. conjoins with the brush of his thumb and a pensive exhale that sinks his shoulders and begins the slow, ambling curl of a half-hearted smile. " but i've always been a slow learner. " and the shallow morose that pulls the sly edge off her features is enough incentive to convince him he'd made the right call. there's no space left. nothing but a breath held for her sake and the first nudge from his brow to hers is glancing. just contact. just reassurance. she's coiled tight, spring-loaded and always ready to make her exit. maybe his want, then, is greedy. maybe leon's lips, chaste in their landing, have no right to deprive her of that escape. maybe he'd have cared more if he weren't such an idiot.

and yet…

here he is in the flesh, in the threshold no one decent should cross. ada invited him to give him a choice — to allow him the chance to spread as much distance between them as needed. but he always comes when called, doesn't he? like the hound he is, loyal and steadfast and hopeful for a scratch behind the ears in the fold of her praise. all the more reason to scold him, perhaps. all the more reason to remind him of what he's walking into. even if she's the one who feels so strangely caught up in an unexpected pull, a fascination she still can't shrug.

and his lips are still so soft, in spite of how sharp he often tries to chew his words.

it is a side to the man that is somewhat shocking, hard to reconcile with the stranger that fell from the sky back in dulvey. dressed in black, face obscured. an unearthly glare on the glass visors as he bore down on ethan, his back radiating pain, hands still trembling from the recoil of the elephant killer. the humid air heavy with the stinking of rotting fruit and mildewed wood. enough to trigger his gag reflex a few times, though there was nothing left in his stomach to purge. the last of his road dog snacks had been deposited in the stagnant water of the basement beside the bloated corpse of some internet legend tripper who picked the wrong house to enter chasing ghosts.

he etches it into his memory, a tickle along his right index finger for a broken chunk of charcoal so he could sketch the man who has become his closest friend, perhaps the thinnest thread of a crush plucked inside as chris lapses, momentarily, into silence. eyes ringed in deep wrinkles, slightly puffy from the plane ride or the ill begotten sleep, stolen in some terminal in an uncomfortable lounge seat. how much of the man's life was a perpetual layover?

" mmmm... " he hums a neutral note, not sure how much he believe the pep talk, how much of it was even for him to begin with. " a little victory is still a victory i guess. " inside his chest, thoughts of the future and children race around in circles, chasing each other. " yeah... christ, i'm gonna be a dad. " the weight of it hits him in waves, a tide of fear and paranoia rushing in, then going out, leaving the silent dread and trepidation. it was not what he wanted, long before mia went missing, they had laid around in bed one evening, still wearing a sheen of perspiration and nothing else, and they had spoken of a life without kids. both their lives were too devoted to their work and each other, throwing a child into the mix seemed unfair somehow. selfish in the way ethan always had been. both he and mia had been only children, and although he had a younger sister, she had not entered his life until he was out of the house, a late addition to stave off his mother's empty nest syndrome.

he stands up and takes a few steps to his left, then turns around and retreads the path, not sure if he wants to plop back down on the curve of the water fountain's base or keep pacing. instead he comes to a stop awkwardly and his head lists to one side, peering at chris as if the world has slipped sideways.

a low rumble of a laugh stirs through his ribs and he finally stows his crumpled box of smokes. shakes his head as it hits him too, this milestone looming in front of the man who may not even be a man. but the mold's oddly not something his mind keeps returning to, keeps gnawing at as much as it should. the more he watches ethan rise and pace, huff and sigh, pull expressions within a face far less worn and weathered than his own, the more he can't help but see the humanity in every shape, each contour. more than that — he sees what keeps emboldening itself a friend in his mind, one that's earned the lean of his own smile slanted faintly lopsided within that short, bristled beard.

"'course i get it," he assures him. even casts a gaze to the side as a low sigh breathes through him. quirks a wryness in his mouth as old thoughts surface enough to make every line in his face feel all the more prominent. "it's not like i never thought about it, after all. settling down, starting a family…" another dry laugh that bends tired into a groan. "just didn't make sense for a guy like me, in the end. wouldn't wanna do that to someone."

not when he can't turn his back on jobs that need doing, rot that needs burning away into so much soot and ash. he'd thought about it, humored it as it had crossed his mind in fleeting moments, but never let it find purchase. he's married to his work now and he's known that for years. besides, he'd lived a parentless childhood, known the cold nights and ugly thoughts that had found him back then all too well and all too real. he refuses to shove any of that onto any kid, especially one he'd have the gall to bring into this wretched world himself.

what sprawls out in front of him is different, though. and has him rising from his own seat on knees that ache enough to puff a soft grunt from him before he steps closer. "but when you live through what you guys went through? guess it really puts shit in perspective." his hands find his pockets, make themselves comfortable there as he throws his gaze skywards, already feels soothed by how open and wide it spreads out. "makes you think about the life you really want instead of whatever you're pretending at."

he's not sure which dirties up the place worse ; the mud on his boots or the blood leaked between his fingers. neither seem to bother tifa and though he's not surprised, there's an undertow that whispers he'll need to make it up to her. adds it to an ever-growing list that will never find an end so long as he repeats the same mistakes over and over and over again. walking into a mirage. listening to voices that aren't there. this time, the fall was short, just a few stories. but next time ? he'd lie, if asked, and say there'd not be a next time.

" wasn't paying attention, " dull, listless, his voice is distant and the stool up under him whines where he doesn't. moves as she instructs, back to bare what met the business end of twisted rebar and a shack's rusted roof top. it'll heal, quick, too, probably. turn itself into a reminder that heights deserved better than his wandering mind and careless pursuits. no matter how tall they towered or how hot the flames in their wake could seem. illusion or memory, it's tucked away beneath his tongue and a frown. " ..i don't know. "

exhaustion tugs his shoulders forward, leans his crown into one of hers for a second to catch breaths that aren't coming quite as steady as he needs them. a side effect of forgetting his limitations, maybe, but she'd recognize his idling for what it is. in the absence of words, cloud confesses he's tired. spent. he's a barrel what's bottom has been scraped clean and the only blame to be had is his alone.

so his excuses don't fly, just push a sigh from her lips and have her shaking her head as she cleans and patches his wound. at least he admits something that sounds more steeped in honesty — i don't know mumbled enough for her to let her gaze soften, lessen the disappointment that had shaded it dull with an old sadness that still rears its head when nights like this weigh in on her very solid shoulders. she knows it's complicated, sees how cloud's stare sometimes stretches so far off into the distance that there's no way his mind can be where his body stands, can catch what might've snagged his skin apart enough to slouch him here. so when his head nudges atop one shoulder, there is no tension pressing back on him. there is only acceptance, there is only the shape of her strong as ever to catch the exhausted lean of his.

for a dance with so many steps, cloud has yet to move. he's taken root, there, a fair distance away, hand on hilt, but not ready to draw. it's a distraction. he runs the interference so that others can dodge the brunt of a closing maw. slip between shinra's massive teeth.. they're outside the range of anything world shattering, but bullets travel far and he's more equipped to absorb them. more equipped to face the curve of that smirk and neither blanche nor rise to its baiting.

" i don't bet. " simple to snuff out whatever air of amusement @riphalos hoped to find in his steady frown or the slow approach of an otherwise silent march. not because he'd been called. if rufus wanted to play, his dog was steady at his heel already. no, there's motivation for a short climb and the stunted gulf he's drained till miniscule, " —prefer sure things. "

but then there's cloud — a curved thorn wedging itself stubborn into his side. rufus can't say he finds his meddling entirely troublesome. not when that insistent little barb pierces something down through all that ice, all that unyielding cold. heat, flickering and fleeting, is novel enough to coax the president's lips into a wider smirk and make him linger. enough to have his fingers clutch into his shotgun, find satisfaction in the weight of it as he stalks forward.

"no need to rush things. lucky for you, i've got space in my schedule." not always — he's a busy man with much to do, much to change in this world. but he thinks it would be refreshing to call this stray dog to heel again, much as he tries to resist. he'll come when called, in the end. "you never make it easy. that's good. i'm sick of easy."

for better or worse, she doesn't get far. can't run from a question and the observation that fuels it. the struck match that sears at already tucked edges, attempting to fold further. hide themselves out of sight. lightning is thirteen again, her sister far from her side, and the shred of gunfire does little to alter a carefully narrowed gaze. without context he can't pry further. good. there'd never been anything at the bottom of that corpse pile to begin with.

" should it ? " a whole lifetime ago. be it the weight of the sword on her hip or, perhaps, the otherness of her company, this all feels.. trivial. a tower of what-if's and shoddy memories she can't be sure are accurate. " there's nothing special about what happened then, and there's nothing special about what's happening down there. " off where she's nodded, a mother has gathered her children and hurried them from the crowd.. there's a drunkard stoking the fire, his shouts stretching upwards for an echo she doesn't bother focusing in on. " you act like you've never seen it before. "

he's of a breed who moves when he chooses. not because she's nodded towards their heading. not because some distant sycophant had wooed him off his pedestal long enough to do their dirty work. so his idling turns into hers. his perch approached. his view shared by steadier eyes than before and a thin-lipped expression that offers little. lightning recognizes more than one of them. time hasn't been kind. when had it ever ? " no one ever learns from their mistakes. "

not even you ?

fingers tease the hilt of her sword, playing for want to draw it, bright eyes at a corner that seat sephiroth comfortably in peripherals, " does it bother you ? "

"it didn't." didn't used to bother him. maybe still doesn't. his heart's not freely warm and selfless like angeal's, nor burning bold and passionate like genesis. he is the ice and edge of a blade's cut, ordered to whatever throat must be bled. he is ruthless and honest and efficient, sleek with no unnecessary flourish or loud boom of noise. he is also the one they call to end a conflict; truly end it razed utterly gone from existence. he… is a weapon, as they all are. but it is all sephiroth is in so much streamlined silver and steel.

at least, it's all he's supposed to be.

finally, he turns away from the ledge to accompany her. finally, he allows the shouting to fall behind him. he is no savior, after all, no matter the hyperbolic clamor in the press and posters. he is no hero, no shining knight nor righteous angel. and he is not angeal hewley, who would have leapt down into the crowd and made a difference.

"they do learn." he does say this, at least; does follow her with gaze poised forward on the path more meant for them as he corrects her. "not always quickly, not always the right way."

She'd been deemed safe enough to keep around, despite the anti-Wutai rhetoric making the rounds within Midgar the last decade or so. Working with Director Lazard when she was just a 17 year old lass and now as someone in her early twenties, still keeping the division afloat while under Heidegger.

It was a mystery why she was being called up to the new president's office. Honestly, it was a toss up between something innocent enough (that very well could have just been an e-mail) or perhaps the company finally seeing her as a liability despite her years of service without a toe out of line.

Would it be a white suit or a black suit waiting for her on the top floor?

Still, Emiya continued to walk tall, head held high and a professional, yet approachable smile on her face as she arrived at the office, giving Rufus Shinra a small nod of respect and greeting. Whatever came, she would meet it with grace and calmness.

"You asked me to come up here, sir?" came the smooth inquiry.

so there are still choices to be made to better suit the new model rufus is shaping to lance forward, sleek and superior, into much-needed progress. even those in "lesser" roles are worth considering to some extent, which is why he'd had her summoned to his new office and its shining black marble. and also because he's been considering certain files, reviewing old colleagues. lazard's photo even sits atop his desk alongside a dossier he'd had tseng fetch from old records like it'd all been some ugly mistake his father had been eager to crumple away to gather dust.

the flat ridge of his brows lift as he rolls his big, brown eyes around in his head, like a teenager being scolded by an authority figure. he is not fearful, no shaking of his legs, knees sent clattering against each other, just annoyed. he should be able to pull the trigger, absorb the recoil into his body and decorate the landscape with rubies, deposit bone fragments into the earth to enrich the soil. a patch of lush life, wildflowers and insects in the shape of her corpse, but, she has sent his name through his chest, the thin shaft of an arrow piercing through the meat of him. yet another scar to lose among the road map of wounds he has collected in the bookends of haunted houses in his life.

his shoulders sag, he drops the barrel of the weapon, tucking it close to his body to avoid having it kicked out from his grip. something he never would have considered, never would have thought of but the training drilled into his skull by her own agency had set roots down. ethan's hold on the stock remains as he cocks his head to one side.

" well if you don't want me to talk at all, you could've just said that. " a dry huff of a chuckle. he finds himself incredibly witty despite the tension set between them. the silences he receives from her pulls a deep inhale, then puff of air expelled, a thousand invisible motes of infection spewed into the air, swirling around him, caught on the wind. all the thin strands of pale gold along his body indicates the flow of the breeze and he consciously shifts weight from one foot, kicks out the other and languidly moves in an arc, a half circle, not bothering to keep his attention turned to her. too casual for the pair of them.

he finds the eclipse of a tree and leans against it, finding comfort in the vacuum it causes within which, he can rest, spiraling in his own cloud.

but his story bleeds all the more raw here in his voice rather than the inked bullet-points scrawled in a report. it practically shifts the very air harsh and bitter like the tang of coppery crimson reeking off a corpse split open and left steaming in the cold. which she supposes it is — the carcass of a life he could've had, a family that should have been his. instead, it had become meat for the wolves and the crows and the worms. and jill might be well-accustomed to icing herself calculating and sharp when a mission calls for it, but… she also knows when to listen to the twist in her gut or the throb in a heart well-worn and scarred.

so her hands lower and she remains where she stands with no aggression prepped in her stance at all. she looks more like anyone would talking with a familiar face, though she shakes her head with brow furrowed in a disappointment that can't help but curve her frown and darken her gaze. "…that really what you want? you almost sound proud." she scoffs. "proud of what? of your ability to put men in the ground and make their families cry? yeah, hope that makes you feel real big and strong."

but with that out of the way, his snark and bitterness addressed so she can better stamp it into the damp dirt, she sighs. even bows her head, takes her eyes off the tells of his shoulders and the shotgun's slope. with the exhale falls the softening of her own bristled edges and a sadness that sits heavy in the rungs of her ribs. "i never wanted any of that. wasn't even here when that was all going down and chris—" she looks up, her expression more open with empathy and shining in the blue of the eyes that look for his, "—chris should've been honest with you. and we should've done better."

it isn't even strategic negotiating that wills her steps toward him. it's that pull in her center, the urging of instinct and emotion that moves her boots. she's still calm and sensible, isn't wrought with despair, but… ethan winters was— is — someone she considers a friend. it doesn't matter that none of this was her call or directive. she still wears the emblem on her sleeve and feels the weight of it just as much as the stain of it.

paperwork was never his gig. one sheet blends in with a second blends in with a third and the stack is as good as kindling in the line of frustrated eyes that lost focus after the second paragraph. tseng's punishment. the bottom of a repeatedly clicked tongue and one too many off-handed remarks that let him know the water he waded in wasn't boiling, but it'd lost its tepid comfort a while ago. toes had been stepped on. bosses were curling their lips. not his, but someone else's bosses. shareholders with pockets too deep to know what they'd been fondling the last few conversations had been reno's final nerve.

better he save his irritation for a stapler and company that hadn't looked overly impressed by his grumbling. @riphalos never looked over impressed by anything, though. not his sharp tongue nor his quick wit. they may have skirted a line of easily scrutinized unprofessionalism, but here, now ? he played the part of peon amicably.

"father always told me that people don't change, they learn what needs should be prioritized. that we teach them that." idly, he plucks up the most recent report reno had shoved into the pile he's been adding to. he peels through it, pale gaze half-lidded and smirk unmoving from where it leans lazily amused. it's usually tseng or rude catching up on the paperwork, not what often barks too wild and grinning to put much pen to paper. but the man does his work, regardless of how or when.

rufus' smirk does fade only slightly at the edge, however; dulled as the sour taste of the old man's words dirties the back of his tongue. so he glances to reno again — to stark and vivid red in low light.

his hunger is a palpable thing.     it’s a jaw unhinged, it’s saliva pooling along pale gums. a dying animal will limp to the darkest corner of the woods to lose its appetite, but not zeno— his eyes, as cloaked and ringed as they are, still glisten with the instinctual urge to chase, pin, and tear into a vulnerable underbelly. 

in spite of the gentle hands she's come to know since that fateful city, ada knows she's no different— she’s spent too many years playing prey to believe otherwise. she can feign the tremble of any quarry, even tell when it's best to use it. some days, it's for the white knight looking for a pliant damsel to save; most, it's the sham of a hunter mistaking her for the hunted. zeno is neither of those things, but it doesn't stop the impulse to pretend, anyways, if only to interrupt his barking. she can feel his gaze target the bare slope of her neck, its teeth grazing her jugular and ghosting down, down, to settle over the steady beat of her pulse. his pupils dilate— his breath hitches— and she is acutely aware of the ravenous need humming in the gap between them. game has a double meaning: ada tilts her head just the slightest, exposing her throat to his waiting maw. here is the space your mouth could fill, the move says, here is the meat, the blood, the red and red.

it is a short-lived invitation. no sooner is the mockery made that her own hackles rise, snapping her face towards him in a bid for territory, the car a cage around them.   “well. sounds like you’ve got it all figured out.”   she smiles coolly, narrowing her eyes. ever the tyrant, zeno had clearly mapped out all the best corners to stalk, intent on gorging himself. still, it’s not a bad plan, all things considered— if she remotely trusted him, she might even call it good.

but that’s the thing with wild animals, isn’t it? you never know when they might bite.

ada lets loose a long sigh, rolling her eyes to face forward again.   “you’re impatient,”   which is another way of telling him to chew his food,   “we’re not the only hands in the pot tonight. a few of our competitors will be in the audience, primarily members of saurian's brazilian branch, who, as you remember, never got their cut of the e-series. we might as well kiss that data goodbye if the other operatives catch on— not to mention smoothing over any conflict on bailey’s behalf."

but she has her uses yet. and she doesn't get the last laugh of unspooling his control like so many leashes looped around lithesome fingers that just need to tighten and tug.

zeno sniffs indignant when her head snaps itself down again, assertive in a way that nearly curls his lip anew in a petty sneer. only nearly. he drags his stare aside, forces it back outside as he sucks from the cigarette that anchors his senses back to soothing nicotine. even the crackle of the paper, the smell of the ash, caresses where his patience ( predictably ) bristles unkempt with the needles she keeps digging down the back of his neck, wedging thorn-like between each vertebrae. because of course she knows portuguese where is own is laughably stunted. of course ada wong must remind him she prowls predator alongside him, not prey at all in spite of the supple slope of neck she now hides behind teeth gleaming their threat display as much as their smile.

"…fine. mingle, then. nothing can compromise what we came for." he will allow her this much, will permit this scrap of his territory with the languid lift of his chin. the car keeps speeding past trees that thicken the deeper they drive within the mountains. the smell alone, richly pine and cedar now, tells him they're close. has him humming a low note of amusement in spite of how unimpressed he sits there, finally grinding his cigarette into the tray. "it would be good to keep the competition on their toes. intimidate them, remind them who holds all the cards."

he cannot deny the satisfaction in owning a room — in the way it can quiver beneath the footfalls of an apex predator, heads bowed or craned to keep watch on what could bleed them all dry with a suave smirk alone. and there are two in this car.

so zeno may exhale a slow sigh through his nose, may flex his fingers within his gloves when his palms itch restless for a throat to cup, to squeeze, but he supposes he can make more use of her than originally planned. he would be a fool to waste what should be implemented fully, properly.