#cheriiiiii

The first thing you noticed about Kaveh was that he never slept.

At least, that's what it looked like.

Every night, long after the lamps of Sumeru City had dimmed, a single golden light remained burning from the drafting room.

And every morning, without fail, Kaveh would insist he was perfectly fine.

"You look exhausted."

"I'm inspired."

"You haven't slept."

"I closed my eyes for several minutes."

"That isn't sleep."

"It counts if you think about it."

You stared at him.

Kaveh stared back.

Then he promptly walked into a bookshelf.

It wasn't the first time.

Unfortunately, it wouldn't be the last.

"You see?" you sighed.

"I'm fine."

"You just lost a fight against furniture."

"The bookshelf moved."

"The bookshelf has been there for three years."

"Exactly. Suspicious. Did you do it?"

You laughed despite yourself.

Kaveh beamed.

And there it was.

The dangerous thing.

Not his beauty.

Not his talent.

Not even the way that half of Sumeru seemed incapable of talking about architecture without mentioning his name.

It was that smile.

Warm enough to melt steel.

Bright enough to make you forget your own thoughts.

Entirely unfair.

You hated it.

You adored it.

Mostly the second one.

Never the first.

Probably.

—

This evening, the rain arrived without warning.

Dampening your attire without mercy. How rude!

One moment the streets were crowded.

The next, merchants were scrambling to cover their stalls as water poured from the heavens.

By the time you reached home, you were soaked.

The front door opened before you could reach for the handle.

Kaveh stood there.

Hair tied back.

Sleeves rolled up.

A dish towel draped over one shoulder.

You froze.

He blinked.

"You look like you've seen a ghost."

"What happened to you?"

"What do you mean?"

"You look..."

You gestured vaguely.

"...domestic."

Kaveh's ears immediately turned pink.

"I always look domestic."

"You absolutely do not."

"Whatever, I made soup."

"You're proving my point."

"Just come inside."

The smell hit you immediately.

Fresh bread.

Herbs.

Something simmering gently on the stove.

Home.

That's weird.

Home?

Not the building.

Not the walls.

Not the furniture.

Him.

You watched Kaveh move around the kitchen.

Complaining about measurements.

Muttering about ingredients.

Trying —and failing— to pretend he wasn't checking every few seconds to make sure you were warm enough.

Something tightened in your throat.

Before you had time to consult it, dinner was ready.

Tonight was unlively. Nothing much to do than play around with the tablecloth tonight.

"Kaveh."

He looked up.

You reached across the table.

Took his hand.

Simple.

Easy.

Dinner was mostly quiet.

Silence.

More silence.

The room became very still.

It's pretty quiet, just in case you were wondering.

The aforementioned rain tapped softly against the windows. It had calmed down by now.

Kaveh stared at your joined hands. They were still together.

Then at you.

Then back again.

Something inside him shattered. He really adores you. It hurts.

Not painfully.

Relievedly.

He was staring at you, seemingly distracted as you play with your hair.

A few more seconds pass and pretty soon, you're staring at the corner of your dining room.

"You seem lost."

"What?"

"You're doing your thing where you stare off. Cute."

"Just cute?"

He blinked. He had to backtrack a couple sentences.

The realization hit him first.

His face immediately turned scarlet.

"Oh."

"Oh?"

"Oh."

A wonderful symphony of "oh"s played out before you absolutely lost it.

You couldn't help it.

You laughed.

And somehow that made him even redder.

"Don't laugh!"

"Interesting. Only cute?

"Excuse me?"

"How disappointing..."

You sigh dramatically.

Kaveh buried his face in his hands.

You reached over.

-you slap his shoulder. just kidding-

As you're gently pulling his hands away, his eyes met yours.

Warm.

Hopeful.

Terrified.

Tired.

The distance between you disappeared slowly.

Like silk slipping through careful fingers.

Like starlight finding its way through a window.

Soft.

Patient.

Certain.

You both approach, feeling his breath on your lips. You stay there for a moment. It feels a lot less like "I'm about to kiss my crush" and more like you're competing in the world's hardest staring competition.

When he finally kissed you, it felt less like the beginning of something.

And more like coming home.

Exactly where you'd both been trying to find your way all along.

final note: this was actually changed so much last minute because i hated it omg. sorry if it sucks i promise im usually okay at writing. hope you enjoyed alalala <3

The first file arrived on a Tuesday.

Nobody noticed.

That, in hindsight, was perhaps the most unsettling part.

Not the impossible contents. Not the prediction that would later come true. Not the panic that would eventually spread through Fontaine's justice system.

No.

The frightening thing was how ordinary it looked.

It sat among dozens of other case reports on an archivist's desk. Stamped. Signed. Properly formatted. Filed exactly where it belonged.

Case Number 47291.

Petty theft.

Defendant convicted.

Sentence carried out.

The matter should have ended there.

Except the crime had not happened yet.

The defendant would not commit the theft until three days later.

By the time someone noticed the discrepancy, the case had already been archived.

Most assumed it was a clerical mistake.

Fontaine processed thousands of legal documents every week. Errors happened.

The second file arrived shortly after.

Then a third.

Then a fourth.

The mistakes became harder to ignore.

Each document detailed crimes that had not yet occurred.

Every suspect existed.

Every witness was real.

Every location matched.

And every prediction came true.

Exactly.

Word spread quietly among court officials.

Then quiet became urgent.

Urgency became panic.

The Court of Fontaine prided itself on certainty.

Evidence.

Logic.

Reason.

The truth could always be found if one followed the facts.

At least, that was what people liked to believe.

Unfortunately, facts were becoming increasingly difficult to explain.

Which was how the investigation landed on your desk.

You still remember the day the assignment arrived.

The stack of files had been dropped onto your workspace with enough force to shake your inkwell.

Thirty-seven cases.

Thirty-seven impossible documents.

And a single note attached to the top.

“Investigate sources immediately.”

You'd spent years working as an investigator for Fontaine's legal system.

Missing persons.

Fraud.

Conspiracies.

Murders.

Kidnappings.

Sometimes even worse.

You'd built a reputation for solving cases other people considered impossible.

You trusted evidence.

You trusted witnesses.

You trusted the simple belief that every mystery had an answer.

The files challenged all three.

No ink could be traced.

No author could be identified.

No witness remembered creating them.

The paper itself appeared entirely ordinary.

You examined every page personally.

Nothing.

No hidden messages.

No coded markings.

No clues.

Only accurate predictions.

One after another.

You hated that.

Not because it frightened you.

Because it didn't make sense.

And anything that didn't make sense demanded investigation.

So you began where any detective would.

You interviewed suspects.

You questioned clerks.

You reviewed security reports.

You searched archives.

Weeks passed.

Then months.

More and more files kept appearing.

The answers did not.

The deeper you dug, the stranger the pattern became.

The documents never predicted insignificant events.

They focused on heavily violent crimes.

Murders.

Disappearances.

Domestic abuse.

Moments where lives changed forever.

Almost as if something—or even someone—was documenting history before it happened.

You were still trying to prove that theory wrong when the seventh file arrived.

The moment it appeared, every official involved in the investigation was summoned.

The folder was sealed.

Unmarked.

No origin.

No record of delivery.

Exactly like the others.

You were present when it was opened.

The room felt unnaturally quiet.

Nobody spoke.

Nobody moved.

A senior archivist broke the seal.

Inside was a single page.

No crime.

No suspect.

No witness statements.

Just a name.

Your name.

For several seconds, you simply stared.

You were convinced you were reading it incorrectly.

You weren't.

Beneath your name sat a date.

Six months from today.

And beneath the date, written in flawless official script:

DECEASED.

CAUSE: BLUNT FORCE HEAD TRAUMA.

MECHANISM: CEREBRAL CONTUSION.

MANNER: UNDETERMINED, STILL UNDER INVESTIGATION.

The room remained silent.

Someone dropped a pen.

Another official quietly excused themselves and never returned.

You couldn't blame them. You don't know how you haven't left the room yet. You've just heard about your own death, months before it has even happened.

For the first time since the investigation began, you found yourself struggling to breathe.

Not because you believed it.

Because you didn't.

You refused to.

A document could not decide whether you lived or died.

A piece of paper could not determine your fate.

There had to be an explanation.

A culprit.

A source.

A reason.

And even if there wasn't—

You intended to find one anyway.

The file was removed from public record before sunrise.

By noon, copies had reached the highest levels of Fontaine's justice system.

By evening, one final copy had been delivered far beneath the nation's waters.

To the Fortress of Meropide.

Its administrator read the report in silence.

Read it a second time.

Then a third.

When he finally set the page down, his expression had become unusually serious.

A relatively rare thing for Wriothesley.

The report contained hundreds of names.

Thousands, perhaps.

Yet only one seemed to concern him.

Yours.

Anyone would be able to recognize the name of a helpful investigator. Especially one who works on so many cases. That's besides the point, to Wriothesley, though.

What sticks out is your name in such an extreme case.

Because if the court truly knew the future—

Then someone needed to stop it before yours arrived.

final note: huge huge huge thanks to @opalescentangels once again for the INSANE amount of work she has helped with on this work! this went from an outline to a draft in about 48 hours thanks to her. anyways, i really hope this is an enjoyable read for those who are reading this! lots of work has been put into it! AND ANOTHER HUGE THANKS TO @lonelykrow FOR BETA-READING!

You hated unanswered questions.

Unfortunately, your life had become one.

The file sat on your desk.

You had moved it three times.

First to a locked drawer.

Then to a filing cabinet.

Then to a shelf on the opposite side of the office.

Every attempt lasted less than an hour before you found yourself staring at it again.

The folder remained exactly where you'd left it.

Quiet.

Unassuming.

A simple stack of paper capable of ruining your week.

Your month.

Possibly your entire life.

You exhaled sharply and rubbed your eyes.

Across the room, rain tapped softly against the office windows.

Fontaine's skies had been grey for days.

Appropriate.

The page rested open before you.

Your name.

The date.

The words beneath it.

DECEASED.

No matter how many times you read it, nothing changed.

No hidden messages appeared.

No clues emerged.

The document offered little information about your manner of death.

Only the certainty that you would die.

You hated certainty almost as much as unanswered questions.

Because certainty encouraged complacency.

People stopped asking why.

Stopped investigating.

Stopped fighting.

The moment someone decided an outcome was inevitable, they had already lost.

And you had no intention of losing to a piece of paper.

A knock sounded at the door.

You looked up.

"Come in."

The door opened.

A courier stepped inside.

An official court messenger.

Young, nervous. It wasn't uncommon for people to feel a little unnerved around the heavy presence of a detective.

The poor man looked as though he'd rather be anywhere else.

You couldn't blame him.

Rumors surrounding the investigation had spread far beyond the people officially involved.

Nobody knew the details.

Everyone knew something was wrong.

The messenger held out an envelope.

"For you."

You accepted it.

"Thank you."

He nodded.

Then immediately left.

Not even attempting conversation.

Interesting.

You waited until the door clicked shut before examining the seal.

Not a court insignia.

Not the Palais Mermonia.

The Fortress of Meropide.

You stared.

Then blinked.

Then stared again.

"...What?"

Carefully, you broke the seal.

Inside sat a single sheet.

The message was short.

Almost annoyingly so.

"Investigator.

Your presence is required at the Fortress of Meropide regarding the ongoing records investigation.

Transportation has been arranged.

Do not decline.

—The Duke"

You read it twice.

Then a third time.

A laugh escaped before you could stop it.

Not because it was funny.

Because of the wording.

Do not decline.

Not requested.

Not invited.

Not even summoned.

Simply informed.

As though the decision had already been made.

You set the paper down.

Then immediately picked it back up.

The Fortress of Meropide had remained mostly uninvolved throughout the investigation.

At least publicly.

You knew reports had been sent there.

You knew Wriothesley had received copies. Who within the court system of Fontaine hadn't?

What you didn't know was why he suddenly wanted to speak with you.

Or why he apparently felt confident enough to order your attendance.

You folded the letter.

Slipped it into your coat.

And began gathering your things.

If nothing else, perhaps someone beneath the sea had answers.

—

The journey took most of the afternoon.

You spent it reviewing notes.

Again.

The pages had become familiar companions.

Victim statements.

Witness accounts.

Timelines.

Evidence logs.

Predicted crimes.

Completed crimes.

All perfectly aligned.

No deviations.

No mistakes.

No failures.

The files had never once been wrong.

That fact bothered you more than the prediction of your own death.

Human beings made mistakes.

Witnesses lied.

Evidence vanished.

Investigations failed.

Perfection was impossible.

Yet somehow the records achieved it every time.

A prediction machine disguised as paperwork.

The thought made your skin crawl.

By sunset, the ocean stretched endlessly around the transport vessel.

Ahead, the great mechanical structure of the Fortress could be seen underwater.

Massive.

Cold.

Unwelcoming.

The prison looked less like a building and more like an industrial beast waiting beneath the waves.

You had visited before.

Only briefly.

Even then, the place had unsettled you.

Not because it was dangerous.

Because it felt isolated.

A world entirely separate from Fontaine.

Down here, the laws of the surface seemed distant.

Muted.

The vessel docked.

You disembarked.

The familiar metal walkways echoed beneath your footsteps.

Workers moved throughout the fortress.

Prisoners carried supplies.

Guards monitored operations.

Everything appeared ordinary.

And yet every person you passed seemed to know exactly who you were.

Some glanced away immediately.

Others stared.

A few whispered.

Wonderful.

The rumors had arrived before you had.

A receptionist greeted you near the administrative offices.

"Investigator (Name)."

You nodded.

"I was expected."

"Of course."

She stood.

"The Duke is waiting."

Naturally.

Not "will be waiting."

Actively waiting.

You were beginning to suspect the Fortress suffered from a chronic inability to phrase things normally.

The receptionist led you through several corridors.

Eventually she stopped before a large office door.

"Inside."

You thanked her, then entered.

The room was warm.

Unexpectedly so.

Bookshelves lined the walls.

Documents occupied several desks.

A kettle rested near one corner.

The atmosphere felt more like a study than an office.

And seated behind a desk was the man responsible for dragging you beneath the sea.

Wriothesley looked up from a report.

Sharp eyes met yours.

Calm.

Observant.

Entirely too amused.

As though he'd already learned something about you that you hadn't.

"You came."

You stared.

Then slowly crossed your arms.

"I mean, your letter said not to decline."

A pause.

Then the corner of his mouth twitched.

"...Fair point."

His smile vanished almost immediately.

His gaze shifted.

Landing briefly on the satchel hanging at your side.

The one containing the file.

The one containing your death sentence.

When he spoke again, his voice was noticeably quieter.

"Then let's skip introductions."

The room suddenly felt smaller.

Wriothesley folded his hands atop the desk.

And for the first time since entering, you noticed the stack of folders beside him.

Court records.

Dozens of them.

Perhaps hundreds.

More than you'd ever seen gathered in one place.

His expression remained calm.

But something about it had changed.

The amusement was gone.

Replaced by concern.

Real concern.

The sort that made experienced investigators pay attention.

"You've spent months trying to discover where the files come from," he said.

You nodded.

"And you've found nothing."

You nodded again.

His gaze hardened.

"Good."

You frowned.

Good? How is that good?

That wasn't the response you'd expected.

Not even remotely.

Wriothesley leaned back slightly.

The movement was casual.

The look in his eyes wasn't.

"Because if your investigation had found the answer already..."

Silence settled between you.

Then he finished quietly.

"...you would've been dead long before that document predicted."

For the first time since receiving the file, you felt genuine fear crawl down your spine.

final note: wowie i actually really love writing this series. a LOT. huge thanks to my beta-reader/editor @lonelykrow this rough draft was originally ROUGH. thanks to @opalescentangels for outlining the chapter before i write it!

🪽 "the angel collector" — venti x (yet to be labeled) reader

religious horror, mystery, angst tbh, generally kinda dark?

ancient statues across teyvat are losing their wings.

every morning, the missing pieces appear beside you.

stone feathers gather on your windowsill. broken halos appear beneath your bed. forgotten churches ring their bells when you pass. as the phenomenon spreads, venti becomes increasingly desperate to keep you away from the truth.

unfortunately for him, the truth seems determined to find you first.

note: this will probably end up being a longer work cross posted here and on ao3.

⛓️ "records" — wriothesley x (detective/investigator) reader

crime/forensics, thriller, mystery, suspense, slow burn, also general dark content.

the cases arriving at the fortress of meropide don't make sense anymore.

prisoners are being sentenced for crimes they haven't committed. witness statements describe events that haven't happened yet. entire court documents appear in the archives detailing murders, disappearances, and disasters that are still months away.

as an investigator assigned to the growing pile of impossible cases, you're tasked with determining whether fontaine is facing a massive conspiracy—or something far worse.

wriothesley has seen strange things before.

he's never seen paperwork predict the future.