#aslan 005.

"No visitors," Arden grumbled the second she heard footsteps cross the threshold, her voice rough and low with irritation. She didn’t even bother opening her eyes at first, knowing damn well it was probably just another cop, another doctor, another Kurtlar associate cycling through like this room was a fucking train station. It’d been nothing but an exhausting, endless parade of faces—more exhausting than the fucking poison itself. When she finally turned in the godforsaken hospital bed and saw it was Aslan, her brow softened, an exhale slipping sharp through her nose. “You better have brought me somethin’ good to eat,” she said, dragging herself upright with as much dignity as a hospital gown would allow. “Charlie’s been stealing all my jello cups.” Never mind she’d handed them over willingly—his whining had been relentless, and frankly, she didn’t have the energy to fight with him. "I think he has an addiction problem."

"What do you think of the turnout? See anyone here that shouldn’t be?" Arden asked quietly, arms crossed tight over her chest as she nursed a half-finished club soda. Her eyes never left the flow of people spilling into the private auction room, scanning every movement like they might turn into a threat. The paranoia was settling in deep, threading through her bones and blooming in her chest like something toxic. It was always there, sure—but tonight it felt worse. Closer. She exhaled slowly, tension in her shoulders refusing to let up as her gaze flicked toward him. "I don’t like this, As," she admitted, voice low. "Feels like we’re fucking pawns in our own game."