#imthehottwin

( 5 )

(Tw: Graphic Autopsy scene. Includes medical gore, a deceased person, and descriptive clinical diagnosis.)

The morgue smelled like ethanol, cold stone, and secrets.

Johannes Cabal stood in silence at the head of the steel autopsy table, staring down at Katherine Bishop’s body. She looked smaller now—without breath, without fire. As if death had stolen her size as well as her soul.

He adjusted the cuffs of his sleeves with the kind of meticulousness that had nothing to do with vanity and everything to do with ritual. Precision mattered. Respect mattered. Especially when the body belonged to her.

Kass stood in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest, blood still drying on his knuckles. His face was set like stone, but his eyes hadn’t stopped moving. They hadn’t stopped pleading.

Cabal didn’t look up.

“You don’t have to stay.” he said quietly.

“I’m not leaving.”

A small nod. “Very well.”

Cabal pressed the recording rune on the wall. The arcane glyph glowed pale blue. A soft chime echoed. The room adjusted—lights sharpening to surgical clarity.

“Autopsy log, October twenty-second. Subject: Katherine Bishop, age thirty-three. Time of death: approximately one hour prior, during observed cardiac event. Subject suffered acute myocardial failure—suspected end-stage cardiomyopathy.”

His gloves snapped into place.

“Subject had long-term exposure to demonic influence. Also present: high concentrations of ethanol, amphetamines, and pain suppressants in bloodstream. Preliminary conclusion: death was not a singular event, but a convergence of progressive cardiac deterioration, substance abuse, and occult parasitism.”

Another breath. Then the scalpel.

The first incision broke skin with a wet sound. Cabal moved efficiently—sternum to abdomen, parting the layers with practiced ease. But his jaw clenched slightly when the ribcage gave more easily than it should have.

“Bone fragility noted. Severe tissue wasting. Indicative of long-term internal strain. Muscle mass is diminished. Signs of stress far beyond normal degradation.”

He peeled back the pericardial sac, exposing the heart. He paused.

“Cardiomegaly. Late-stage.” He touched it gently, reverently. “Dilated ventricles. She was failing slowly. Probably for months.”

Cabal lifted the heart from its cavity. As he weighed it on the hanging scale, his eyes narrowed.

“Exceeds expected weight by nearly forty percent.”

He slit it open. What came out wasn’t just blood—it was sludge. Congealed, tar-dark, laced with threads of black grit.

“Sulfuric ash.”

He leaned close.

“Infernal transmutation—intentional. Blood altered by pact magic. Demonic ash fused into myocardial tissue. Not residue—this was metabolized.”

He moved to her arms next. A lightstone passed over the veins, illuminating faint, sigil-like burns—barely visible to the human eye.

“Subdermal rune scarring. Mephistophelean binding marks. Evidence of . . .energy draw?”

Then Cabal moved to her shoulders. Her back. Her thighs. Her breasts. He stopped.

Bitten flesh. Large. Ragged. Ugly.

One. Then another. Then another.

He counted out loud.

“…Thirty four… thirty five…”

Kass’s voice came, tight.

“Keep going.”

Cabal blinked. His gloves hovered mid air.

Then he did. “…Forty one… fifty… sixty two… sixty eight.”

He stepped back, breath shallow.

“All the same size. Spacing varies, but each one healed over. Half-scabbed, half-scarred. None were fatal. All were deliberate.”

He stared at them. The map they made. An outline. A tally.

“This wasn’t feeding. It was record-keeping.”

“A ledger.” Kass muttered. “He was counting her kills.”

The room went silent. The rune hummed softly, the only sound left.

Cabal stared down at the body again. His hands trembled once, then steadied.

“He marked her every time she took a soul.”

“Even the ones who deserved it.”

“Especially those.” Cabal said. “She let herself believe that made it righteous. . . And each bite was her just punishment for them all. . .It didn’t.”

The necromancer turned away, suddenly needing distance. He moved to the sink, running cold water over his gloves, lost in the rhythm of it.

When he looked back—Kass was gone.

The door stood ajar.

All that remained was Katherine’s body, the sulfur curling from beneath her fingernails, and the cold truth that nothing about her death had been accidental.

She moved to sit down next to him, folding her legs under her. "But really, if you don't want to show me just yet, I get it," she paused, her bottom lip jutting out slightly, "But you'll have to make it up to me, because I'm definitely going to be pouty."

"Oh, especially when you make that face. You should make that face more often. It immediately turns me on. Full puddle."

You wrote me a song?

​"Who said it was about you?" she teased with a laugh. It was the barest deflection, since the lyrics were very obviously about Kassadin. She hadn’t managed to work his name in there (too cheesy), but there were other clues. Violet eyes, kisses in a crowded room, our name. Tana had always found refuge in music, but she wrote the most when she was inspired, and Kass was very inspiring. She wouldn't jump the gun and call it love, but it was the closest she'd been in a long time.

It had been a long time since she'd written a song about a love interest that didn’t also include heartbreak. It differed a little from the band's usual sound, a little less angst, a little more bounce. "It's not finished, but I think I like this for the bridge." Her guitar hung from a strap around her neck, and she lifted it back into her hands, fingers moving easily over the strings as she played a sequence for him. "What do you think? Is it too pop-y for our sound?"

It wasn't normal for them to host. If their dinner plans were with someone, it was usually with her brother and Rachel. Or the plan had been to go "bother" Katherine about taking actual control of her heart stuff. She hadn't been there for all of it, but she had been there for the more recent stuff -- mostly there to poke and prod the woman into maybe doing what Kass had been trying to get her to do for...a long time. In between that, her internship, and helping out her brother when he needed an extra set of hands at the bar or with baby sitting -- she was surprised she hadn't pulled her hair out or had her own health issues because of it. She knew how exhausting it was for her husband -- so when she heard about this guy, she sighed a breath of relief for both of them.

Because maybe it meant that she would actually do something.

She rushed home and did everything -- showered, curled her hair, put makeup on, get dressed. She knew how important this night was -- for both of them. She padded out of their room -- her scrubs gone and now in a simple pair of jeans with a half tucked in band tee and into the kitchen to find Kass. A soft sigh fell past her lips, reaching into the drawer where she kept the hand cream for moments like these. She set it on the counter -- washed her own hands and dried them off before gently applying some of the cream to his hands and gently rubbing it in to his extremely over washed ones. "Everything's going to be fine." Almost as if it were on cue, she heard the knock at the door. She pressed a soft kiss to his cheek before padding to the front door. She took in her own deep breath and put on her warmest smile as she opened the door. Viv bit back any initial comments that threatened to spill past her lips and she cleared her throat, opening the door and gesturing for them to come in. "Come on in. Be careful of the cats. Big black one is Soup, orange is Salad, and the one with the missing eye is Breadsticks," she looked at them with another smile, "And I'm Viv. Shoes off. Make yourself comfortable."

[The Rules] [The Muse] [The Brother]

"did you ever have someone kiss you in a crowded room?"

Tana couldn't fully explain her reaction to those words. It wasn't like she hadn't thought about kissing Kassadin, pretty much from the moment she met him. He was handsome and charming and pretty much exactly her type of bad boy. And that was exactly why it was such a terrible, terrible idea. She had a history with guys like that, and it wasn't pretty.

Icy panic flooded her body at what was probably a (mostly) innocent question, her fight or flight response kicking high-gear into flight (which was pretty much always Tana's go-to). "Sorry, gotta go do the sound check!" The words were high-pitched and running together, and she didn't wait for a response before she bolted for backstage and the safety blanket that was her guitar.

( 10 )

The house was quiet.

Too quiet.

Kassadin moved through the hallway slowly, boots echoing off concrete. He’d followed the tether—he always could feel her, even before the pact—but now it was stronger. Worse. Like a weight pulling at his ribs. Tighter with every step.

When he reached the basement stairs, the air changed.

Metal. Blood. Rot.

He drew in a breath—and gagged.

“Kat?”

No answer.

He descended, one hand on the railing, every muscle in his body bracing for something he didn’t want to name.

The light buzzed overhead—swinging slightly. Industrial. Fluorescent. It cast a jaundiced glow across the floor.

Then he saw it.

And stopped breathing.

Blood.

Everywhere.

Slick pools. Spatter on the walls. Bootprints. Finger smears.

One long trail dragged across the concrete like someone had tried to crawl away—or been dragged back.

“Jesus Christ—”

He moved closer.

There, in the center of the room: the body.

Or what was left of it.

Male. Mid-thirties, maybe. No ID. Kass didn’t recognize the face—if there was one left to recognize. His chest was torn open, ribs split with surgical violence. His throat slashed wide. A soul sigil burned into the floor nearby, still flickering faintly. Still fresh.

“Kat…”

He crouched near the edge of the blood pool, trying not to inhale too deep. He knew she was gone from this room—the tether pulled forward—but the panic wouldn’t leave him.

This wasn’t clean.

This wasn’t her work.

It was a frenzy.

And she’d fled.

He stood, scanning the room again. One of the lockers was open. A trail of bloody handprints led from it to the service exit.

But what hit him hardest was the mirror on the far wall.

Cracked.

Smeared with blood where a face had clearly leaned—pressed—against it.

Her face.

He walked to it slowly, as if getting too close might shatter what little composure he had left.

Then he saw it.

Scratched into the metal beneath the glass, almost invisible—

I’M NOT ALONE

He backed up a step, heart racing.

“Kat… what the hell is happening to you?”

He turned, eyes narrowing. His fists clenched.

Something was wrong. Worse than resurrection. Worse than the reaping. This wasn’t just guilt or trauma.

This was possession. Fracture. Mutation.

And she was walking around with it alone.