#monsterxmade

Basta's knife cuts easily through the last man's throat. He didn't look like he even knew how to use the gun was fumbling from the lifeless hand of a more qualified man. Basta could have shot him, too, but he liks to use the knife when the chance presents itself.

Judging by the increasingly desperate resistance he's been coming up against, he seems to be headed in the right direction.

He flicks blood off of the knife and wipes it on the jacket of the man still choking on his own blood, shouldering his shotgun as he kneels, allowing himself only a brief moment to observe his handiwork.

Keys on the belt loop. That's promising. Looks like he killed the right man.

The knife snaps shut and slips into his pocket, and he unclasps the ring of keys with one hand. They're not labeled, but he can easily compare the etchings on the grips with those on the door its holder died in a vain attempt to protect.

Reluctantly, he straightens and turns his attention to the door, though still mindful of the slowly subsiding sounds coming from the floor behind him. It only takes a couple of tries to find the right key, and the door swings easily open.

Basta can't help but smile in satisfaction when he sees his quarry, the girl that Dustfinger brought around, whom Capricorn obviously values highly enough to send some of his best men to retrieve.

Then, just as the first frost dusted the edge of the trees one morning, something shifted.

Devlin was repairing the fencing near the east edge of the clearing when the wind changed—sharp, acrid, and wrong. He froze, nostrils flaring, then stood slowly. There was no mistaking it. Smoke. But not the clean kind from a hearth or forge—this was darker, bitter with burnt iron and sulfur. His jaw clenched. Not wildfire. Not one of theirs.

Seconds later, a younger student—barely thirteen—came sprinting out of the woods, wild-eyed and breathless. “Mr. Dev! Someone’s coming. They’re burning the markers. They knew where they were.”

Devlin dropped the hammer in his hand, a storm already brewing in his chest. “Sound the alert. Get everyone to the inner ring. Now.”

Then, more quietly to himself, his gaze cutting toward the far cabin—hers: How the hell did they find us?

"That one? That's called Luyten's star" Luna had found a book on stars and astrology in one of those tiny lending libraries around and now the two took turns flipping through. Luna was probably the one getting the most out of it though - there had even been a little debate about if it was worth taking with when they had to travel so light.

Lucas spots the child across the street. A young kid, couldn't be older than six or seven. Which meant she shouldn't be out alone. But. No adults seemed to be in the near vicinity. Approaching her quickly. You never knew if her adults were just around the corner. The closer he got the more he noticed he would be the perfect brother for her.

Alone, neglected, abandoned.

Whether any of these were correct, it didn't matter right now. She would be his new sister. He would care for her. Never abandon or neglect her. He will be the perfect brother. With this in his mind, he walked up to her. His most kind smile on his face, a quick look around for any parents before speaking.

You don't have to do that.

"I know, but I want to. And I know you're fine, I never claimed you weren't."

She sets the tray down, leaves the tea and fruit for Anya to claim if or when she wants to. Then, she sits down and takes her own cup. For a moment, she just sits there, warming her hands as best she can.

Rain cascaded from the gutters, spiraling down upon the slick pavement below. The coldness of the downpour penetrated through clothing, rendering fingers numb and stiff. Contemplating the unfolding scenario, one could identify numerous variables that might go awry, all carefully integrated into the elaborate plan orchestrated by Hannibal. This evening's endeavor commenced the moment he selected a business card from his well-organized rolodex.

In the obscurity of the night, the figure of The Good Doctor remained shrouded, his features obscured by the relentless rain that marred the clarity of his well-structured visage. The man who faced him was nothing more than a tradesman, haphazardly skirting the fringes of the elite circles in which Hannibal had immersed himself. Regrettably, this status fostered an air of arrogance, leading him to display rudeness toward anyone whom he perceived as above his social standing.

Pity, really.

Anya moved with a grace that bespoke her training; a light-footedness cultivated through the art of pursuit and the necessary stealth of a hunter. Hannibal, too, had mastered the art of nimbleness, approaching his targets with swiftness and precision. Each maneuver was executed with a vigilance that seemed to siphon every ounce of energy into each calculated strike against a victim. He observed as the tradesman buckled and fell to the ground, his knees violently compromised from behind—an effective strategy, demonstrating a keen understanding of the dynamics at play.

As quick as the bolts that danced across the sky, the blade slices into the thin layer of the neck—pinpointed at the spot that holds vitals. Blood bursts out from the wound, bathing the cobblestone with red. It lasts only a few seconds before it gets caught in the stream of the rain, the gutter inhaling the life of another.

He's proud. What father wouldn't be in this type of situation? "Very good, Anya." This voice was different from the many sessions he had with her in the office where pens, pencils, and even paintbrushes were once her own instrument in her hands.

Hannibal stepped forward to assess the situation, his sharp gaze scanning the surroundings for any potential witnesses who might complicate matters further. It was imperative that they, too, be dealt with promptly. Fortunately, the man he was about to handle was of modest stature, ensuring that lifting him for transport would not strain Hannibal unduly.

"The rain will wash away any evidence," he remarked, his voice steady and calm, as if death was nothing more than a passing fancy. "Come, let us proceed to the vehicle." He swept his arms beneath the now-limp body, cradling him in a bridal carry as he made his way to the sleek automobile parked a short distance away. In anticipation of this exact scenario, a tarp had been laid across the backseat, reflecting his conscientiousness regarding the car's pristine interior (he oh so loved this car). The rhythmic patter of rain helped to mask the sounds of the night, cocooning their actions in a veil of ambiguity as he prepared for the next phase of their endeavor.