☆〜（ゝ。∂）

Requests

send in requests for anything, there’s a chance I might not do the request but I’ll try my best,

I personally feel more comfortable writing in a Fem or GN perspective, I will be writing in the (y/n) style or without any name or characteristics inserted into the story

If sending in a request for a fic, you’d prefer a GN!Reader, just add in just GN! as Fem!Reader is my personal preference :) Also just a quick disclaimer for you horny freaks (aka also me) I am unable to write smut, i physically can’t do it. I might try my hand at it one day but that’s definitely not the type of thing I write, (but it’s almost all i read)

I always love getting fic ideas so send away any thoughts you have on your mind

DNI

The faded walls of her tower had been her whole world, all she'd ever known, scattered with sun-bleached patches of paint left behind from the days her mother's errands ran long. As a child, she had tried to push back against the boredom that settled into its walls, but painting only distracted her for so long, and the confined space only offered her so much space to fill.

As time passed and every stone in the tower became marked with layers of paint, she found herself spending most of her time on the windowsill, feet dangling in the soft breeze that drifted through and gently brushed against her skin. She couldn't draw her eyes away from the soft fluttering in the forest as leaves danced, in what felt like a mockery of her situation.

She knew the dangers of the outside world, the horrendous nature of man, she had heard it all. Her mother had drilled it into her with every lecture upon returning from her journeys, no matter how many times she asked to accompany her. She sighed softly, glancing back into the tower. Drab and dull compared to the greenery outside, yet she knew her mother had her reasons.

She often tried to keep herself entertained. Pottery, reading, baking, more reading. It was surprisingly easy to grow bored within the confines of the tower. Even brushing her hair became an exercise of patience. It would take over an hour, long strands slipping through her fingers, only to tangle again before the day had even properly begun.

Her mother, however, always found ways to fill the quiet. She would bring paints and she had loved them. At first, she used them carefully, tracing colour across pages torn from books, filling empty margins with shapes and fragments of thought. Then the pages were not enough. The bedroom walls followed. Than the door.

And eventually, the entire tower itself became her canvas.

Swirls of colour layered over stone and silence, as if she could build an entirely different world over the one she had been given. Purple and gold were her favourites. It reminded her of something, that soft, lustrous gold, though the memory what never quite in reach.

Her gaze drifted to the greying coals in the fireplace, slowly dying as she sat daydreaming for too long. With a small huff, she pushed herself up from the windowsill and crossed the room, grabbing the bellows from beside the brick hearth to revive the embers. As she worked, her eyes wandered upward to one of the paintings carefully placed above the fireplace. The placement was deliberate.

Every night followed the same routine. Her mother would sit her down by the hearth, herself settled in the comfort of a worn chair, as she combed through her cascading hair. It used to be her favorite part of the day. The warmth of the fire, the gentle tug of fingers through her hair, the sound of her mother's voice filling the quiet space.

She would tell her stories of the outside world, mostly cautionary, but still thrilling in their own way. Back then, she had dreamed of adventures of her own. And tonight, she had hoped her newest painting might be enough to convince her mother to take her along on one. Just above the mantle lay a swirl of navy and pink, the colours blending together to capture a moment of serenity. A night sky, the sunset. And bright lights scattered across the heavens.

She had read countless books on the constellations and she had charted every star and knew them all by name, but these lights were different. Since they had arrived at the tower, every year on her birthday bright lights would float majestically through the air. No amount of reading would tell her what they were so she felt it had something to do with her.

She would watch them every year. Slipping from her bed in the dead of night, she would creep to the tower's only exit, undo the latch, and lean as far over the ledge as she dared. Straining her neck, she searched for glimpses of the sky as slowly, one by one, the glowing orbs would fill a vast corner of the night sky before drifting away again.

She longed to sit beneath an open sky just once. In a meadow awash with wildflowers, perhaps, or a quiet field untouched by stone walls. Somewhere she could spend the entire night watching these lights up close. So she could finally find out what they were.

Closing her eyes, she wished upon whichever star might be listening to her. Returning the bellows to its place beside the hearth, she caught sight of the paint staining her fingers. Her mother disliked untidiness, regardless of how hard she worked to keep the tower in order.

Crossing to the wash basin, she reached for the luffa she had spent the morning de-seeding and drying. The rough fibres scraped at her skin as she scrubbed at the dark paint gathered around her cuticles. Again and again she rubbed, until her fingertips stung and turned pink.

Still, the paint clung stubbornly to her skin.

She had just begun scrubbing again when a voice rang through the tower.

"y/n!"

She looked up in alarm. She had no time to finish tidying.

"y/n, let down your hair!"

Quickly draining the basin, she returned the luffa to its place before calling back, "Coming, Mother!"

She was home early today.

y/n hurried around the tower, giving it one final sweep to ensure everything met her mother's exacting standards. As she rushed to the windowsill, she caught the faint sound of muttering drifting up the tower wall. Something about how she wasn't getting any younger standing outside.

Gathering the length of her hair in practiced hands, she secured it around the iron hook fixed above the frame and let the silken strands spill over the ledge below.

A sharp tug followed.

She tightened her grip and pulled, hand over hand, straining as the weight below grew heavier. The familiar burn spread through her arms, but she barely noticed it anymore. She had done this thousands of times. As she neared the top, her mother's figure appeared in the window frame. With surprising ease, she hoisted herself onto the sill and stepped inside.

"Hi, welcome home mother."

"Oh, darling, look at you."

"How you manage to do that every single day without fail, it looks absolutely exhausting, darling."

"It's nothing mother," she smiled softly at her mother as she hung up her dark cloak moving towards her.

"Well I don't know why it takes so long!" Her mother sang, voice saccharine as she booped her nose lightly.

Before y/n could say a word, her mother swept her into an embrace.

"You know I'm just teasing, darling!"

Pulling back, she cupped y/n's face between her hands, squishing her cheeks together as though she were still a child.

"What have you made for lunch, dear?"

y/n glanced up at her with a small smile.

"Hazelnut soup. I used those parsnips you brought me last week."

Her mother's gaze drifted toward the little kitchen, settling on the pot simmering over the fire.

A pleased smile spread across her face.

"I thought I smelt something delicious."

She stepped back lightly scanning over her daughter's figure, scanning for any hint of something out of order, she harshly tugged her hands up to her face. Her face hardened into a scowl at the dark blue stains on her fingertips.

"Wash your hands, y/n. Honestly."

She dropped her hands with a sharp click of her tongue, as though the paint staining her fingers were an embarrassment rather than the result of a day's work.

A hand came down atop y/n's head.

Not affectionate. Appraising.

It lingered a little too long before her mother turned her by the shoulder and moved her aside.

"Honestly, what would you do without me?"

Then she swept past her and disappeared into her room.

y/n let out an exasperated sigh before making her way back to the basin, determined to scrub the remaining paint from her hands before her mother came back down for lunch.

The conversation at their lunch was dull. y/n had drifted in and out of it, only half-listening as her mother filled the space with her usual self-assured monologue. There wasn't much for her to add anyway, most days blurred into the same quiet routine, and her mother had never been particularly interested in what she had to say.

When the meal had been cleared away, the woman settled into her chair by the fireplace, expecting y/n to revive the fire and warm the room. At once, she obeyed. A foot hooked around her ankle before she could straighten. She was pulled back and guided down to the floor at her mother's feet.

The heat from the flames pressed against her skin, too close, too sharp. She shifted uncomfortably as a brush was drawn through her hair.

"Sit still, y/n."

Hands clamped onto her shoulders, holding her in place. A sharp click of the tongue followed, and the brushing resumed, firm and unrelenting. The brush snagged at knots, pulling at her scalp.

She winced, eyes squeezing shut.

Her mother was never as gentle as she used to be.

"You've been spending too much time sitting by that window."

Another harsh tug.

y/n winced.

"It's no wonder you're looking a little softer these days."

The brush caught in a knot.

"Not that it matters. It's not as though anyone sees you but me."

A laugh slipped from her lips, light and dismissive.

"Though perhaps that's for the best. The world can be terribly unkind to girls who don't take care of themselves."

The brush dragged through another knot.

"You should be grateful I keep you here. Out there, people notice every flaw. Every imperfection. Men especially. They don't need permission to rape a pretty girl like you, especially once she's away from safety."

Her hand settled briefly atop y/n's head.

"I only tell you these things because I love you, dear."

y/n turned to face her mother, who cupped her cheeks gently in her hands.

"I know, Mother," she sighed softly, fidgeting as she avoided her mother's steady gaze. "Mother... you know how my birthday is tomorrow?"

"No, no, no, can't be. I distinctly remember your birthday was last year," her mother replied sweetly, smoothing her thumbs over her skin.

"That's the funny thing about birthdays... they're kind of an annual thing."

"Mother, I'm turning twenty. And what I really wanted to ask." she exhaled, frustrated, fingers twisting nervously in her dress. "What I've wanted for quite a few birthdays now—"

"y/n, please. None of that mumbling," her mother interrupted lightly, waving a hand. "You know how I feel about the mumbling. 'Blah, blah, blah, blah.'"

She laughed to herself, pinching y/n's cheeks. "It's very annoying. I'm only teasing, you're adorable." And just like that, she moved away to unpack her basket as if nothing had been said.

y/n slumped where she stood.

Then, suddenly—

"I want to see the floating lights!"

Her mother's hand froze mid-motion. The apple slipped slightly in her grip.

"...What?"

"Well, I was hoping you'd take me to see them," y/n pressed, stepping onto her mother's chair and pulling back the curtain to reveal the painting above the mantle. A night sky of swirling blues and pinks, yellow lights scattered across it, and a tiny figure of herself standing beneath them.

"Oh, you mean the stars, y/n," her voice sounded as if it were to shut her down.

"See that's the thing," she pointed to a painting high on the ceiling across from them, constellations of all sorts scattered across them, "I've charted stars and they're always constant, but these appear every year on my birthday, mother. Only on my birthday. And I can't help but feel like... they're meant for me."

"I need to see them, mother. Not just from the window. In person. I have to know what they are." Her voice wavered in a pleading fashion.

"You want to go outside."

The tone had shifted.

Her mother crossed the room and slammed the shutters. The tower plunged into darkness.

y/n stiffened, stumbling down from the chair. A match struck behind her, alerting her to her mother's whereabouts.

"You already know how dangerous the world out there is. I've told you countless times."

Candles flared to life one by one.

"There are ruffians and thugs out there," her mother continued, circling her, "men who would do terrible things to a girl like you."

She caught y/n's chin and turned her toward the mirror.

"Naive. Immature. Clumsy."

Their reflections stared back at them.

"They'd eat you up alive, y/n."

A pause.

"I'm telling you this because I love you, darling."

"I understand, Mother," y/n said quietly.

Her mother pulled her into an embrace before casting her eyes down at her daughter, voice firm and harsh.

"You will never ask to leave this tower again."

"Yes, Mother," she whispered.

The words tasted heavier than they should have, they lingered.

"Good."

And with that, her mother made her way back to the window, y/n gathering the length of her hair in practiced hands shortly after. It wasn't fair. Her mother came and went as she pleased, wandering forests and villages and distant roads, while y/n remained behind.

"Tata! I'll see you in a bit, my flower!"

From the forest floor, her mother waved cheerfully.

"I'll be here," y/n whispered softly.

As her mother disappeared behind the ivy and undergrowth, the smile slipped from her face. With a weary sigh, she settled onto the windowsill, her legs dangling over the edge. A gentle breeze toyed with the loose strands of her hair, brushing against her skin before drifting away.

It was the closest thing she had to feeling like she'd be free.

Alarms rang out across the kingdom as three men tore through the cobbled streets, shoving townspeople aside in their rush toward the bridge out of Corona. The forest lay just beyond it but the sound of pounding hooves and shouting guards closed in behind them.

The reason was simple.

Three thieves, short on gold. The easiest solution was always the same. Steal something worth more than they could ever earn in a lifetime. And in the kingdom of Corona, nothing was worth more than the lost princess's tiara.

Not that she needed it anyway, that was Jeongguk's thinking, at least. Eighteen years missing tended to lead to one logical conclusion: she was gone. Dead, buried somewhere in the forest if he had to guess. If anything, he suspected the royal family had played a hand in it, and the festival celebrating her absence was probably nothing more than a carefully maintained illusion of guilt.

Jeongguk was lost in thought before it hit him. The other two were no longer in front of him. A beat of confusion flickered through his focus.

He slowed.

Then stopped.

A calloused hand shot out from the brush and yanked him sideways. He barely had time to react before the royal guards thundered past, crashing deeper into the forest without noticing them hidden in the undergrowth.

Jeongguk remained still for a moment after the guards had passed, thorns digging into his skin as he listened for any sign they had doubled back.

A rustle sounded beside him.

Namjoon and Hoseok emerged from the brush, brushing leaves and dirt from their clothes before continuing deeper into the forest as if nothing had happened.

Jeongguk quickly scrambled to his feet and followed after them.

Brothers, the two claimed to be. Not by blood, but they may as well have been. The pair had grown up side by side in the same orphanage, abandoned young and inseparable ever since. That was where Jeongguk had met them years ago, and somehow their friendship had developed into a life of crime.

Their latest venture had easily been their most ambitious. Sneaking across the castle rooftops. Scaling walls. Crossing impossible gaps. And, naturally, lowering Jeongguk through a skylight by rope. Personally, he thought Namjoon should have been the one dangling several stories above the palace floor. Unfortunately, the brothers had a policy whenever they worked together.

They stuck together.

Which usually left Jeongguk with the dangerous jobs.

A fact he was beginning to resent.

Ahead of him, Namjoon ducked beneath a low branch. Tall and broad-shouldered, years of manual labour and thievery had built muscle onto his lanky frame. Beside him, Hoseok was shorter and stockier, his face marked by old scars. Between the two, Jeongguk found Hoseok far more intimidating.

As they passed a particularly thick oak, something nailed to the trunk caught Jeongguk's eye.

He stopped.

"No, no, no, no. This is bad. This is really bad."

Namjoon and Hoseok turned.

Jeongguk ripped the parchment from the tree and thrust it towards them.

WANTED

DEAD OR ALIVE

JEON JEONGGUK

THIEF

The likeness staring back at him was awful.

Before either man could speak, Jeongguk groaned.

"They just can't get my nose right."

"Who cares?" Hoseok scoffed.

Jeongguk looked between the two brothers and pointed accusingly at their own wanted posters nailed nearby.

"That's easy for you to say! You both look amazing."

With a dramatic sigh, he crumpled the poster and shoved it in the satchel.

Before anyone could respond, the sound of galloping hooves echoed through the trees.

All three men froze.

Atop a ridge overlooking the forest, royal guards appeared on horseback.

And they were looking directly at them.

The three men burst into a sprint, though they didn't get far before a towering rock face rose before them, cutting off their path.

Dead end.

"Alright, okay. Give me a boost and I'll pull you both up," Jeongguk said quickly, already assessing the situation as the sound of approaching guards echoed through the trees.

Namjoon and Hoseok exchanged a look.

"Give us the satchel first."

Namjoon's hand extended expectantly.

Jeongguk pressed a hand to his chest in mock offense.

"After everything we've been through together, you don't trust me?"

The two stared back at him blankly.

Namjoon's hand didn't move.

"Ouch."

With an exaggerated sigh, Jeongguk handed over the satchel.

He knew exactly how this worked. If the roles were reversed, they wouldn't hesitate to leave him behind. Years together had taught him that much.

Trust had never been a big part of the arrangement.

Hoseok crouched, Namjoon climbed onto his shoulders, and moments later Jeongguk was being boosted up after them. His fingers found purchase against the stone as he hauled himself onto the ledge above.

Below him, the brothers waited.

Namjoon stretched out an arm.

"Now help us up, pretty boy."

Jeongguk glanced down at them.

Then at his own hands, where the satchel that sat on Namjoons shoulder moments ago, now was clutched tightly between his fingers.

Then back at them again.

A grin spread slowly across his face.

"Sorry."

"My hands are full."

"JEONGGUK!"

Their furious shouts echoed through the forest.

Laughing, Jeongguk swung the satchel over his shoulder and took off running. The brothers' curses followed after him.

Good.

With any luck, the guards would catch them first. Then he'd have the crown all to himself and he'd never have to split a single coin with either of them ever again.

He only realised he was still being pursued when a volley of crossbow bolts buried themselves in the tree ahead of him.

Jeongguk skidded to a stop, then immediately bolted again as another shot cracked through the air. He darted through the forest, taking sharp turns and leaping over broken tree branches, doing everything he could to stay ahead.

But one horse was faster and smarter than the rest.

It seemed the head guard was directly on his trail at first, but as Jeongguk slipped down a steep slope, the horse followed seconds later, now without its rider, who been flung off during a sharp corner.

Jeongguk allowed himself a brief breath of relief.

That was a mistake.

The stallion was relentless. It kept pace through the terrain, nipping at the satchel as he ran, its hooves thundering dangerously close behind him.

"Seriously?" Jeongguk muttered, twisting mid-run to swat it away.

At that exact moment, he lost his footing.

Neither he nor the horse were looking where they were going as they tumbled down the steep ravine, separating in different directions as they rolled to the bottom. When Jeongguk finally came to a stop on flat ground, every muscle in his body ached. Still, he pushed himself upright and hurried behind a large rock near a wall of thick ivy. For a moment, there was nothing but silence.

Then the horse emerged.

It stood just beyond the trees, nose low to the ground, sniffing carefully as it tracked him.

Jeongguk held his breath.

The stallion passed.

It didn't see him. He exhaled slowly, backing further into the rock. Only for it not to be a rock at all. Jeongguk fell backwards through the ivy with a muffled curse. A loud neigh snapped behind him.

The horse had heard.

He scrambled deeper into the space, pressing himself into the shadows until the clopping of hooves finally faded again. Only then did he dare move. Further in, the narrow passage opened unexpectedly into open air.

Jeongguk froze.

In the centre of the ravine stood a towering structure, old, weathered, and half-consumed by ivy. A waterfall thundered behind it, spilling into a river that wound away through the cliffs.

It was perfect.

Somewhere to lay low. Somewhere to disappear for a few days until the search died down. And, most importantly, somewhere far away from that infuriating horse. He could still hear it somewhere in the forest, neighing in frustrated circles. Jeongguk sighed, already done with it.

Pulling two arrows from his quiver, he tested them against the stone and began to climb. The rock face was steep, but stable enough, he wedged the arrowheads into the crevices and hauled himself upward. It wasn't his first climb. He'd scaled the castle earlier that morning, and this was just another wall.

Just another job.

He was fine.

He reached the window ledge after a gruellingly long climb and pulled himself up, breath heavy in his chest. With a sharp tug, he forced the shutters closed behind him before leaning back to catch his breath.

Silence.

Finally.

He glanced down at the satchel in his hands, the stolen gems catching what little light filtered through the cracks.

A satisfied smile tugged at his lips.

"Finally. Alone at last."

BONK.

Her pulse roared in her ears as she leaned forward, eyes wide, searching the screen like she could will the footage back. It had only been a second—one second—and now everything was gone. Where had they been? The berm. Haymitch and Ampert had just—

Her hands clenched the fabric of her dress.

What if something happened?

What if he was—

She forced herself to breathe. But the screen stayed broken. And she couldn't remember the last thing she saw.

For the first time in days, sleep finally claimed her.

The soft, dull crackle of static filled the room like white noise, lulling her into unconsciousness. Her body gave in without resistance, sprawled on the carpet, face buried in the crook of her arm. She didn't remember closing her eyes. Just the sound swallowing her, pulling her under.

She woke with a start.

Screaming.

For one disoriented moment, she thought it was Merrilee—sharp, fractured, breaking through the silence like a knife. Heart hammering, she stumbled toward the hallway, pushing open her sister's door to find her curled beneath the blanket, face stained with dried tears, chest rising and falling in sleep.

The scream came again. Louder. Closer.

(Y/n) turned her head.

It was coming from the television.

It was Maysilee.

She pivoted back toward the living room in a blur, limbs heavy and clumsy as she stumbled across the floor. The screen flickered in the dim blue light of dawn.

They were together.

Haymitch and Maysilee.

Relief flooded her so fast and sudden that it felt like she might throw up. They were still alive. Still fighting.

But the relief lasted only a second.

They were running? Panicked, frantic, flailing at their bodies, their hair, their arms. Insects covered them, grotesque and shiny, like enlarged ladybugs. Only these ones latched on. Bit down. Sucked blood. Swelled grotesquely, red and wet, until they burst like overripe fruit.

She watched Maysilee scream as one exploded against her shoulder, blood splattering up her neck. Haymitch tore another from her arm, then from his own back, staggering as he dragged her forward. They barely made it to the cover beneath the trees. They were panting. Shaking. Both smeared in blood and ichor, trembling as they kept digging the last of the mutts out of their skin.

(Y/n) sank back onto the carpet, almost exactly where she'd been before. The position was wrong, her legs twisted beneath her, her arms limp at her sides. She couldn't make herself move.

Tears welled, spilled, and she didn't bother wiping them away. She sat there, expression blank, the horror sinking in slow and deep like rot in wood.

They were alive.

But they were together.

Which meant only one of them would come home.

If any.

And in her gut, she knew the Capitol wouldn't let her have either.

Hours had passed.

The sky above the arena had darkened, and rain lashed down in sheets. Thunder rolled like cannon fire, and lightning flashed against the jagged ridges of the Capitol-designed cliffs. (Y/n) hadn't moved from her spot on the floor. Her spine was stiff, her legs tingled from disuse, and the stale scent of her own exhaustion clung to her — but her eyes stayed locked on the screen.

She watched as the last two Careers — Silka Sharp and Maritte — crouched beneath a half-collapsed overhang, tearing into some unidentifiable meat with their bare hands. They ate like animals, teeth bared, blood on their chins. (Y/n) couldn't tell if it was sweat or blood matting their hair.

And then the screen cut.

To them.

Haymitch and Maysilee. Sitting side by side beneath the partial shelter of a large tree, a jacket spread over the stilmuddy ground like a picnic blanket. They had managed to gather some food, bread and berries from a sponsor, nothing from the arena itself, not with poison soaking through every leaf and root. Maysilee picked delicately at a bit of fruit while Haymitch gnawed on a heel of bread. They weren't smiling, not really, but they looked calm. Human. Not rabid. Not desperate.

Not the kind of entertainment the Capitol usually chose to show.

And maybe that was why the camera lingered. This was defiance in its gentlest form. They weren't giving the audience carnage. They weren't letting themselves be torn down to the bones of beasts. For a second, watching the way Haymitch nudged Maysilee's hand with a stubborn grin, something twisted in (Y/n)’s chest.

That was them.

Still them.

All that remained were the five of them, Haymitch, Maysilee, the two Careers, and one final tribute no one seemed to remember: Wellie. She was fragile-looking, younger than the rest, and had somehow survived in the canopy of a tree that cameras cut to whenever the Capitol got bored of blood— which wasn’t very often. She lay now across a high branch, unmoving. Draped like a broken doll. Her limbs hung limp, but her chest rose and fell, just barely.

(Y/n) swallowed hard.

Wellie reminded her of Merrilee. Small. Quiet. Too soft for all this.

The screen jolted again.

(Y/n) blinked, Caesar Flickerman's voice rang out, giddy with tension.

"—we are seconds away from what might be the final showdown! District One and Four have eyes on the Newcomers!"

The camera showed Silka and Maritte racing through the trees, mud slicking their boots, machetes drawn. They were hunting. And (Y/n)'s stomach curled at the image of them sprinting toward where Haymitch and Maysilee had just been sitting. Caesar's commentary crackled, louder now, dramatic.

"Will they strike fast? Will they divide and conquer—?"

Cut.

The screen snapped back to Wellie in her tree.

Still motionless.

(Y/n) stared, her breath frozen.

Even Caesar's voice faltered for a moment before recovering — falsely chipper, overly smooth, pretending nothing was wrong. But there was an edge of something... off. A Capitol commentator, losing the script.

And (Y/n) knew.

Something was wrong.

Because when had the Games ever cut away from violence?

Not unless they had to.

The feed had lingered on Wellie for hours.

Curled along a high branch, limbs slack, barely conscious, or maybe just conserving energy. She hadn't moved beyond a twitch or subtle shift in the way her head lolled to the side. The camera had stopped trying to hide its boredom, zooming in and out slowly, panning to nothing, always returning to her still form.

(Y/n) didn't know how she was still alive.

And then without any warning—the feed cut.

No Capitol seal. No triumphant anthem. Just a sudden shift.

The image sharpened again on the Careers.

Maritte and Silka were crouched in a clearing, steam rising from the damp, churned-up earth around them. It was darker now, but the arena lighting made it look like midday—another of the Capitol's mind games. The kind that warped everything, even time.

(Y/n) blinked, adjusting to the sudden light. Silka was moving through the underbrush, dragging back thick branches, while Maritte crouched by their makeshift pile of supplies, hunched and motionless. Tension rode the edges of her shoulders like she knew something was coming.

Then, they arrived.

It started as a flicker in the background.

Movement. Rustling.

Then came the first squirrel.

Then ten more.

Then a swarm.

They didn't look mutated. Just squirrels. Ordinary, twitchy-nosed, black-eyed. But there were too many. Dozens. Then hundreds. Pouring in like a flood. Their tiny claws scratched across bark and leaves, their bodies flinging through the air in perfect, synchronized chaos.

Maritte turned, ready to grab her axe, but it was already too late.

They hit her like a wave.

(Y/n)'s hand flew to her mouth.

The creatures launched themselves at her in perfect coordination, digging into her flesh, tearing with brutal precision. Screams broke through the quiet feed. Sharp and wet and agonizing.

Silka came tearing back into view, a torch in one hand, her blade in the other. She shouted—at them, at Maritte, at the sky, (Y/n) didn't know. She swatted at the swarm, trying to kick them away, but they didn't care. They only wanted Maritte.

Blood stained the forest floor. It splattered across Silka's boots. They didn't stop until the girl was nothing but a mangled pile of flesh and torn fabric.

And just like that, they scattered.

Disappeared back into the trees like they'd never been there.

Silka dropped to her knees, breathing hard, stunned and blood-soaked.

But before the cannon even fired—

The feed cut again.

Back to the cliffside.

Back to Haymitch and Maysilee.

BOOM.

The cannon echoed through the arena. A burst of light flashed from somewhere beyond the trees—far, far off from where Maysilee and Haymitch stood.

(Y/n) sat motionless on the floor.

She knew that sound. She'd grown up hearing it crackle through the Games each year, sealing fates, ending lives. But this one—this one felt different.

On-screen, Haymitch and Maysilee looked up. Tense. Silent.

Caesar Flickerman's voice oozed in through the speakers like syrup over a festering wound.

"Another tragic goodbye! Maritte from District Four—formidable, ruthless, and ultimately... edible? We'll miss that spark! A tribute who played hard, but played fast. And in the Hunger Games, well..." he chuckled lightly, "that's what happens when you don't follow the rules."

(Y/n)'s stomach turned. Her fingers twitched against the carpet. He was talking about the squirrels. That pack of normal-looking creatures that had torn Maritte to pieces—ripped her apart until there was nothing left to bury but her bones.

Maysilee turned to Haymitch, her eyes glassy. "Do you think it was Wellie?" she whispered.

He didn't answer. He just looked at her. And in that silence, something passed between them.

Then Maysilee said she'd go back for the potatoes.

They had some kind of plan. That had to mean something.

She smiled—faint and tired, and stepped away into the hedge maze.

(Y/n) watched her go, the way her silhouette shrank into the green until the leaves swallowed her whole.

Haymitch crouched by the cliff's edge again. He dropped a pebble, and it bounced back up. Then a bigger stone. Same result. He laughed, bitter and breathless, at the impossibility of it all.

And that's when it started.

Caesar's voice picked up again, brighter now. Giddy.

"And there she is again—Miss Maysilee Donner, flitting through the foliage like a forest nymph. Clever fingers, sharper mind... It's no surprise the Capitol's fallen in love with her!" Caesar's voice carried with sugary warmth, like he was hosting a lighthearted party, not a bloodsport.

The camera lingered on Maysilee, crouched in the scrub near the edge of the hedges, tucking more of her strange little tubers into a sack. Potatoes? It was impossible to tell. She wiped her brow and moved with silent precision—alert, but calm.

"She's made it further than anyone thought, hasn't she? A dark horse. But oh, what grace! And what nerve. Always three steps ahead. Always—"

He paused, voice dropping into a theatrical hush. The camera panned slowly upward, into the sky beyond the far ridge.

Distant shapes broke the pale-blue horizon.

"Do you see that?" Caesar's voice lifted again, half-giddy, half-reverent. "Just there—on the wind. A Capitol classic, back with a new twist."

Dots. That's all they were, at first. Just faint flecks of color on the edge of the sky, barely visible over the treetops in the distance.

She leaned in closer.

No. Not dots.

Birds.

The camera zoomed slightly. Pink glints in the sky like bubbles of gum caught on the breeze. A dozen at least. Then more.

"Straight from the waters of District Twelve—if you've ever visited the lakes there, you might recognize the silhouette." He chuckled. "But don't be fooled. These aren't your sweet little waterbirds."

They were coming closer now—candy-pink, long-winged shapes with long, piercing beaks that shimmered like sharpened metal.

"Bright as bubblegum, fast as sin, and beaks that could thread a needle right through your heart. And yes, folks... they're hungry."

The feed cut back to Maysilee, still unaware, the birds just a blur on the horizon behind her.

"Let's see how this crowd favorite handles what's coming next," Caesar said with glee, almost salivating. "It's going to be... unforgettable."

(Y/n) felt it in her gut. Cold and leaden.

She knew.

Just like with Ampert. Just like with Maritte.

It was Maysilee's turn.

She could barely breathe. Couldn't scream. Couldn't look away.

The camera followed Maysilee walking through the maze, gently pulling leaves aside, tucking a curl of her hair behind her ear. She looked like she didn't know. She had no idea what was coming for her. And still, she kept walking. A bag of potatoes cradled in her arm like something sacred.

And still—those birds. Closer now. Still silent. Still far.

The way they moved—coordinated, controlled.

Maysilee paused. Tilted her head.

She was starting to hear them.

So was (Y/n).

(Y/n)'s breath stuttered. Her fingers dug into the carpet so hard she felt the burn of it, but she didn't move.

"C'mon," she whispered. "Please don't do this. Not her. Not her."

The sky over Maysilee darkened—not with nightfall, but with motion. The camera swung up.

The birds were no longer pink dots.

They were real now—dozens of them, soaring in tight formation with terrifying coordination. Their beaks shimmered like razors. Their eyes looked like polished glass.

"And here they come, folks!" Caesar's voice cracked through the TV speakers like a whip. "A Capitol favorite, making their return in style. Say hello to our bubblegum beauties—long-legged, long-beaked, and bred for just one thing..."

The birds didn't scream.

They didn't cry.

They struck.

One minute Maysilee was blinking up at the sky—then she was screaming. A clean pink blur tore across her shoulder and she spun, blood spraying in a glittering arc.

"...precision."

It was like nothing (Y/n) had ever heard before—ripped from her throat, high and broken and full of disbelief. The first bird struck her shoulder. Another tore across her back. She dropped the potatoes.

Blood spattered the hedgemaze leaves.

Maysilee's fight wasn't graceful. It was desperate. Savage.

(Y/n)'s breath caught as she watched her sister's fingers clutch at the air, her arms swinging wildly, fending off one merciless, razor-beaked bird after another. Each strike sent fresh, hot blood splattering across her skin — a crimson storm she could do nothing to stop.

Again.

The birds came at her like a tide of knives, relentless and cold.

Again.

The sharp beaks pierced flesh, tore muscle, sliced through bone.

Again.

Maysilee screamed — over and over — the sound raw and ragged, tearing through the silence of the night.

(Y/n)'s hands clenched into fists, nails digging into her palms, heart hammering so hard it felt like it might explode. Her mind fractured between hope and horror, every moment stretching impossibly long.

The camera zoomed in close, flicking between Maysilee's pained face, the glint of razor beaks, and the blood slicked feathers of the relentless attackers.

"They always hit their mark," Caesar's voice came, smooth and cold as ice. "Precision engineered carnage — beautiful, isn't it?"

Maysilee stumbled, her legs buckling under the assault, but still she fought, her hands striking and scratching at the birds like a cornered animal refusing to die quietly.

Again.

Again.

Again.

The birds ripped into her, again and again and again — tearing through her skin, tearing through (Y/n)'s heart.

Then, from the chaos, Haymitch burst forward — wild, furious, a weapon in hand. He struck down two birds with desperate swings, his breath ragged, eyes blazing with raw grief.

But it wasn't enough.

The flock swarmed again, ignoring him — focused solely on Maysilee.

One last piercing screech, a final, terrible strike

A beak skewered her neck, cruel and unstoppable.

Maysilee collapsed.

The screen blurred with blood and shadows, and (Y/n) felt her own world shatter.

And the cannon fired.

The birds vanished like mist.

Haymitch didn't move.

He just sat there, cradling her, while the cameras zoomed in on her ruined body.

The blood. The brokenness. Her necklace—somehow still clinging to her neck, copper flower glinting in the artificial light.

And Caesar as happy as ever chimed in,

"And there she goes, folks—Maysilee from District Twelve, claimed by those relentless candy birds. They always hit their mark, and tonight, they take another tribute. But don't blink now... because we're down to the final three."

And then the screen cut to back to Wellie.

The heavy silence in the room pressed down on (Y/n) as the final echoes of the cannon's blast faded into the air. Her breath was ragged, chest tightening as if something inside had cracked irreparably. The images of Maysilee's last moments clung to her mind like poison—pink feathers soaked in blood, the cruel beak skewering her throat, her screams swallowed by the arena's merciless sky.

Her legs gave way, and she sank to the floor, hands trembling so violently she barely managed to stand. Every step toward Merrilee's door felt like wading through a storm of glass shards.

(Y/n) stood frozen in the doorway, her eyes locked on the figure curled up in the bed. Merrilee's form was there, but in her mind, she saw only Maysilee—fragile, broken, and lost forever. The lines of her sister's face blurred and shifted until it was Maysilee's she was staring at, peaceful in sleep but forever gone.

The other bed sat empty, cold, and untouched—an empty grave in the room they had shared for years. The sight crushed something deep inside her.

Slowly, she crossed the room, each step heavy with grief, and sat on the edge of Merrilee's bed. Her fingers trembled as they hovered above Merrilee's shoulder before lightly shaking her awake.

Merrilee's eyes snapped open, wild and red-rimmed, as if the nightmare was already chasing her. (Y/n) shook her head slowly, a silent, heart-breaking warning: no, it wasn't going to be okay.

The understanding hit Merrilee like a brutal blow.

And then she shattered.

A guttural, primal wail burst from her throat—a raw, wrenching sound filled with rage, pain, and disbelief. Her fists pounded violently against the mattress, nails clawing at the fabric, as sobs shook her entire body. She screamed wordless anguish, as if trying to rip the horror out of her chest.

(Y/n) wrapped trembling arms around her sister, holding her close despite the violent sobs and desperate thrashing. She felt Merrilee's body convulse with grief, her nails digging into her own skin, the torment spilling over like a flood.

(Y/n)'s heart cracked wide open, every beat a sharp knife twisting inside her. She whispered nothing—words would only shatter the fragile pieces left. Instead, she pressed her cheek against Merrilee's tangled hair, breathing in the salty, broken cries of the twin she once knew and the one slipping away forever.

Merrilee's sobs slowly quieted, her body sagging with exhaustion. (Y/n) gently lifted her trembling sister, careful despite her own trembling hands. (Y/n) eased Merrilee down, pulling the soft blanket over her as if she could shield her from the unbearable weight pressing on them both. Merrilee's eyes fluttered closed, tear-streaked and heavy, her breath evening out in ragged little gusts. (Y/n) stayed beside her, brushing damp strands of hair from her face, tracing trembling fingers along her cheek until the soft rise and fall of sleep took her completely.

For a moment, (Y/n) sat silently, staring down at her sister—her twin—and saw only Maysilee's face reflected in Merrilee's peaceful expression, a cruel mirage in the dim light. The empty bed beside them seemed to breathe in the darkness, an aching absence that pulled at her chest like a relentless wound.

When Merrilee was fully asleep, (Y/n) shook her head slowly, wordlessly—an almost violent gesture that said everything she couldn't speak. The weight of that finality crushed her, and Merrilee's small, quiet whimper echoed deep inside her, stirring a tempest of grief that she dared not unleash.

(Y/n) moved slowly back to the living room, her legs heavy and unsteady. She was barely there—her mind a foggy, shattered mess. The TV flickered, a distant buzz in her ears, the faces and voices blurring together like a dream.

Her eyes only sharpened when Haymitch's face appeared. He had found Wellie. But even then, she couldn't focus. The screams—her sister's screams—ripped through her mind, echoing over and over, relentless and raw.

Every time she closed her eyes, that sickening image came back—the candy pink birds, their razor-sharp beaks skewering Maysilee's neck. She could almost feel the cold, cruel stab. The blood. The panic. The helplessness.

Her vision flickered, and for a brief moment she caught Haymitch receiving a small package—a box of truffle chocolates. Her breath hitched. The same chocolates she used to sneak out of the sweet shop, the little secret treats she'd share with Haymitch on their stolen dates. She remembered slipping a small bag of them to his brother once, a quiet act of kindness in a cruel world.

Through the mist of her broken mind, she barely registered Silka crying quietly beneath the tree, Haymitch handing her a truffle in gentle consolation.

The sun never set in the arena. The clock at home ticked relentlessly—4 a.m. She didn't notice the passing hours, only the frozen moment in time.

Wellie finally stirred, helped down from the tree by Haymitch, who left her with Maysilee's blowgun—her last gift, her last defense.

Haymitch moved away, his steps careful and slow, as if the weight of the world was pressing down on him too. He was going to gather firewood—something small, something normal—in this chaos. Even then, he was protective, his eyes never fully leaving Wellie's trembling form, making sure she was safe before he disappeared into the shadows of the trees. The sound of cracking twigs followed him like a whisper, but (Y/n) barely registered it, her mind stuck in the endless loop of screams and blood.

Before she could gather her thoughts, a package from a sponsor floated down through the branches, silent and out of place. Haymitch caught it. Her gaze drifted away, lost again in the fractured echoes of pain and fear. A few minutes had passed,

Then

The cannon sounded.

(Y/n)'s eyes snapped to the screen—a fleeting, violent moment of someone being torn apart, but she couldn't make out who.

And then the camera cut sharply to Haymitch, rushing back through the forest to Wellie's hiding spot.

Something about that cannon snapped her attention back to the old television.

They weren't showing Silka. Or Wellie.

The screen held, eerily still, on Haymitch—bolting through the trees like the earth was collapsing beneath his feet. He stumbled, caught himself, tripped again. His face was drawn tight with panic. Not fear for himself. Fear for someone else.

(Y/n)'s stomach twisted.

They didn't say who the cannon was for.

He'd left Wellie tucked away beneath the brush, safe—or as safe as anyone could be. He'd promised he'd come back. Said it like it meant something, to reassure her that he wouldn't leave her alone to die. She'd watched him say it.

He was running like someone had ripped the ground out from under him.

The forest whipped past him in a blur of green and gold, sun slicing through the canopy like knives. He didn't slow. Couldn't.

He didn't know who it was for.

And neither did she.

Her nails dug into her arms. She didn't blink. Couldn't. The footage stuttered with every jolt of the handheld camera trailing behind him, desperate to keep up.

No cutaway. No hovercraft. No commentary from Caesar Flickerman.

Just Haymitch—fighting to get back to her.

And somewhere out there in the trees, maybe Silka.

Maybe Wellie.

Maybe no one at all.

But someone was gone.

And they were down to two.

The feed cut suddenly.

A blur of trees, a scuffle of movement—and then it steadied.

Silka stood alone in the clearing. Her fists clenched tight around something pale.

And then the camera focused.

Wellie's head. Limp. Bloodied. The curls matted with dirt and leaves. Eyes closed.

(Y/n)'s lungs emptied in a single, violent exhale. She couldn't breathe.

Haymitch saw it, too. His whole body snapped into a tremble, his face shifting from disbelief to something primal. He staggered back half a step, then forward again. As if pain could be paused, rewound, undone if he just got close enough.

Silka didn't speak. She didn't need to.

She dropped the head.

Then she lunged.

Her axe was already mid-swing, arcing for Haymitch's chest—but he brought his own up just in time. Steel met steel with a bone-shaking clang that echoed through the forest. The impact forced Haymitch to his knees.

(Y/n) flinched so hard the cup in her hand hit the floor. Water spilled across the wood, soaking into the floorboards unnoticed.

Silka didn't hesitate. Another swing. This one caught Haymitch's side—deep. Too deep. He gasped, reeling, his hand clamping over his stomach as red bloomed out between his fingers.

(Y/n) couldn't move. Couldn't speak. Her eyes were locked wide, blood rushing in her ears louder than the sounds coming from the tv.

The blood. So much blood.

Haymitch staggered, dropped to all fours. His axe skidded out of reach. Silka kicked it away. Then she pounced, straddling his back, arms looping around his throat.

She was going to choke him out. Like an animal.

(Y/n)'s hand covered her mouth. She shook her head over and over. No. Not again. Not again.

But Haymitch reached—somehow, blindly—and found his knife. He twisted it up and back with everything he had, not aiming, just stabbing.

A scream.

Haymitch didn't wait.

He ran.

Stumbling, clutching his stomach like his insides might fall out if he let go. His blood painted the underbrush as he tore through it. Toward the cliffs.

(Y/n)'s breath came in gasps now. Her hands clutched her own stomach, as if she could hold him together from a distance. Her knees buckled. She hit the floor beside the spilled water, eyes never leaving the screen.

He was dying.

But he was still running.

The cliff loomed into view—jagged, vast, a sharp edge between this world and whatever came next. Haymitch stumbled, slick with blood, gasping as he clutched his stomach. He barely made it before he collapsed onto his knees, crimson leaking between his fingers, pooling onto the stone. He turned, breath ragged.

Silka.

She was there.

Even blurred by the camera's frantic focus, her shape was unmistakable. One eye gone—stabbed, oozing, the socket dark and sunken like a cursed star. Her other eye fixed on him like death itself. And in her hand, raised without tremor, was the axe.

(Y/n)'s scream never came out of her mouth. It got caught somewhere deep in her chest. She felt her throat seize as her nails dug into the arm of the couch. Not again. Not again.

The axe flew.

Haymitch dropped.

It soared over him, cleared the cliff's edge—and vanished.

He didn't get up. Just lay there, face in the dust, hands clutching himself, trying to hold himself inside. Silka took a step toward him.

Stopped.

A sound—a whisper, almost.

The axe came back.

It spun in from the open air, the curve of its blade shining silver and pure like justice.

It struck.

Silka's skull cracked like glass.

She didn't fall right away. Her knees wobbled, her body convulsed, her arms twitching like a marionette on broken strings. The axe was buried deep in her head, quivering as if it were still in motion.

And then... she dropped.

(Y/n)'s mouth parted but nothing came out. Her eyes burned. Her hands trembled. It was over.

But it wasn't.

Haymitch didn't rise right away.

He lay in the dust, one hand pressed to the gaping wound across his abdomen, the other trembling. Blood soaked the front of his shirt, pooling beneath him. Silka's body slumped nearby, the axe still buried in her skull. Her blood was darker than his.

But he didn't look at her. Didn't even blink.

His fingers reached up, fumbling at his collar.

(Y/n) leaned forward, breath caught.

She recognized the motion before she even saw what he pulled out a leather cord, damp with sweat and blood. The ring slipped free from beneath his shirt, catching the faintest glint of light.

He unwrapped the necklace from around his neck and grabbed Maysilee's copper pendant from his pocket, frayed now, trembling in his fingers.

She hadn't even realised he had taken her ring with him.

The same one she'd strung onto that cord with shaking hands, the same one he must have worn every day since.

Now, he held it in one palm, and with the other, he dragged out a small, jagged shard of flint—likely pried from a fallen supply crate or stolen from some trap in the woods. She didn't know how long he'd had it. Didn't know if he'd always planned for this.

Maybe he had.

He pressed the flint to the edge of the ring and struck.

Sparks flared.

Once.

Twice.

Saffron choked on her own breath.

She remembered his promise. I'll keep it safe.

But now the ring was striking fire.

Again. Again.

The fuse caught.

Smoke curled, slow and sure.

Hovercrafts buzzed toward the cliff.

But Haymitch didn't move.

He sat there, legs sprawled, hunched over, blood trailing in thick streaks down his arms. Behind him, Silka's body was still. Somewhere near his foot, the sunflower medallion waited, it glinted like the ring had seconds earlier.

He closed his eyes.

Saffron was sobbing now. Ugly, silent cries that twisted her face, shook her shoulders.

Onscreen, he was still.

And then the feed cut.

Black.

It had been a week.

Seven days of silence and stillness, where time crept like molasses and the world outside refused to acknowledge what had been taken from her.

(Y/n) hadn't slept well since. Every time her eyes closed, she was back in the front of the tv. Back in that moment. Blood and feathers and screams. A mutt's beak buried in Maysilee's neck. The way her limbs had spasmed. The way her mouth had twitched even when her eyes had gone dull.

Sometimes she saw it as if she was there. Sometimes it was flashes, jerky, fragmented, like broken film reels skipping out of sequence. But it always ended the same.

With silence.

She'd wake up gasping. Sweaty. Shaking.

She stopped crying on the fourth night. Not because it hurt any less but because her body couldn't spare the energy.

Merrilee hadn't left her room since the morning after the announcement. She didn't eat, didn't speak. Not to anyone. (Y/n) tried knocking the first day. Then again the second. But by the third, she'd stopped.

Their father was quieter than ever, not absent, just distant. He worked longer hours. Fixed shelves that didn't need fixing. Said nothing about the empty chair at dinner.

That was how grief worked in the house.

You swallowed it whole. Smiled through the ache.

(Y/n) decided if they were all going to pretend, then so would she.

The only thing that settled the tremor in her chest was the thought of Haymitch. He was alive. He was coming back.

It was easier to keep breathing when she pictured his voice, imagined him standing at her door, holding her hands again like he had before the reaping. She hadn't seen him since the arena feed cut to black. Just the occasional still photo in the papers. Headlines calling him "The Boy Who Defied Death" or "District 12's Bloody Victor."

He was due back tomorrow.

(Y/n) figured his family would be overwhelmed, so she'd planned to bring them something simple, banana bread. Wrapped in a linen towel, still warm from the oven. Something sweet for his younger brother, and something soft to fill the quiet.

She set it by the door, then stood for a long moment, staring at it. Letting herself picture his face. His voice. The way his hand had closed around hers and promised to keep her ring safe.

He was coming back.

She didn't know what time. No one ever said. All she knew was that by tomorrow, he'd be breathing the same air she was. That had to be enough.

It surprised her, how calm she felt as she climbed into bed. For once, her stomach wasn't turning. Her chest wasn't tight. There was no endless loop of screaming in her head. Just silence, and the quilt tucked gently around her shoulders.

As if her body already knew — the sooner she fell asleep, the sooner she'd see him again.

She sank into the mattress, exhaled, and drifted down into sleep.

And then — something rustled outside. Light. Barely there.

A leaf brushing glass. A branch shifting. She didn't move.

But then—

Knock. Knock.

The window.

Her breath caught.

She blinked, heart slow to catch up, still thick in sleep. She hadn't woken like this in days, not from fear. Not from screaming.

But this.

This was different.

The room was dark, the world outside still and soft with the quiet that only came just before dawn. That hour where time felt like it might not move forward at all.

Another knock. This one faster. Not loud, but urgent.

She sat up, quilt sliding off her shoulders, and swung her legs over the bed. The cold floor met her feet and snapped the last bit of sleep from her bones. The sound still rang in her ears as she stepped forward.

And then, just before she reached the glass—

She saw a face she hadn't seen seven days.

She didn't think. Just threw the window wider and pulled him inside, arms locking around him before he even fully stepped in. His feet caught on the frame, stumbled slightly—but she held him close, tight, like she was afraid he'd vanish again.

"You're here," she whispered against his shoulder. "I thought they'd take you too, I thought—"

She froze.

The smell hit her all at once. Smoke.

Not faint.

Pungent.

Her breath caught. She pulled back just a little, enough to see his face and the words dried in her throat.

He looked destroyed.

Eyes rimmed with red, lashes clumped with soot. Cheeks streaked with ash. His hands shook where they hovered near her waist, not holding her, just... there.

His mouth parted, but no sound came.

And now, with space between them, she could really smell it. Thick smoke clinging to his clothes, his hair, his skin. Her chest squeezed.

Something was wrong.

Her voice fractured in her throat, lost in the fabric of his shirt.

Haymitch didn't speak.

His arms came up slowly, like he wasn't sure he had the right to touch her and wrapped around her, clinging tight. He smelled like smoke and sweat and blood and something older, like burnt metal and scorched earth. His body was trembling, just slightly, like an aftershock, and he didn't let go.

Neither did she.

They stayed like that for a while, the silence loud, his breathing ragged against her hair.

Finally, she pulled back just enough to look at him. Her hands framed his face, thumbs brushing soot off his cheekbones. His eyes wouldn't meet hers. They were glassy, rimmed with red, staring somewhere over her shoulder.

"Haymitch," she whispered.

Still, he didn't say anything.

So she led him gently to the edge of the bed. He sat without resistance, like his limbs weren't entirely his, like he'd been running for days and had finally hit the wall. He braced his elbows on his knees, hands dangling loose between them, head hanging.

(Y/n) sat beside him. She didn't ask anything yet.

She just reached for his hand.

It was scraped up, blood caked beneath the nails. He flinched when she touched it, but didn't pull away. Slowly, she threaded her fingers through his and held on.

Only then did he exhale. A single, shuddering breath.

And then, barely louder than a breath—

"They're all gone"

She looked at him sharply. He was still staring at the floor, jaw clenched like it was the only thing holding him together.

"My house," he said. "My family."

Silence thudded between them.

(Y/n)'s mouth parted, but nothing came out. Her fingers tightened around his.

He shook his head once. Just once. "The Capitol didn't even wait."

A tear slipped down his cheek. He didn't wipe it away.

"I didn't even get to see them."

His voice cracked, and that was it. His whole body folded inward, and (Y/n) moved with him, pulling him into her arms again as the sobs finally broke free.

Not loud. Not violent.

Just broken.

She didn't ask more. Not yet. Just held him as he broke, one arm curled around the back of his neck, her other hand pressed flat between his shoulder blades like she could hold him together by sheer will.

He didn't cry the way Merrilee had, not loud, not sharp. His sobs came quiet and stifled, like he didn't want anyone to hear, even now. His shoulders shook, his fingers twitched, and he clung to her like he was afraid she might vanish too.

When the worst of it passed, he went quiet again. Hollow. Somewhere far away.

(Y/n) stayed still for a long time, one hand moving slowly through the mess of his hair, the other resting over his heart. He didn't speak. Barely breathed.

Eventually, she pulled back and said, softly, "Come on, love. Let's get you cleaned up."

She led him to the bathroom like she was guiding a ghost. His limbs dragged, heavy and reluctant, but he followed.

The light overhead buzzed faintly. She turned the tap and let the water run warm, her fingers testing until it was just right. Steam began to rise in slow curls as she turned back to him, gently reaching for the hem of his soot-streaked shirt.

He didn't stop her.

Wordless, she peeled the ruined fabric off him, revealing bruises and bandages, smears of dried blood and the dark bloom of healing trauma. When she caught sight of the angry, jagged wound slashed across his stomach — the one Silka had left behind — her breath hitched. It was healing now, but raw and red, a violent mark he would carry for the rest of his life. Something twisted in her chest at the sight of it, and she blinked hard, willing the tears back.

Instead, she reached for a cloth and began to wipe him clean.

She moved slowly, carefully, her hands tender where the world had been cruel. The soot clung to him like grief, but she scrubbed it away, piece by piece. His chest. His arms. The back of his neck.

When he was settled in the tub, eyes closed, steam curling around his jaw, she sat beside him on the floor, knees pulled to her chest. He didn't speak, but every now and then his hand reached for hers, and she gave it without question.

She kept glancing at his face, watching how the flickers of pain passed like clouds across the sun. The curve of his mouth never relaxed. And (Y/n) — she bit her lip so hard she thought it might split. The scent of fire still lingered. Even after the bath. Even after the steam.

It had sunk into him.

Not arena fire. Real fire.

She didn't know what he'd returned to. What they'd taken from him on the other side of town, far away from cameras and applause. The Capitol didn't forgive boys like Haymitch. Not when they outsmarted them.

Her throat tightened. The Games were supposed to be over.

But to her it felt like he was still inside them.

Her hand trembled as she swept his hair back from his temple, her fingers brushing soot-streaked skin. He didn't flinch, but he didn't lean into her touch either—he just looked past her, like he was still somewhere else.

"I'm so sorry," she whispered, even though she knew it wouldn't be enough.

Her fingers slid down to find his, curling gently around them. For a moment, they stayed still. Then, slowly, barely there, he gave her hand a squeeze.

It was the smallest thing.

But it was something.

By the time she helped him out, dried him off, and led him back to her bedroom, the sun had just begun to rise—silver light barely cresting the windows.

He looked like he might collapse on the floor, so she didn't wait. She pulled back the quilt and urged him to lie down. Her bed was small, meant for one, but he didn't hesitate.

She tucked him in like she used to with her sisters when they were sick—slow, careful, full of quiet love—and then crawled in beside him.

He turned to face her, forehead barely brushing hers.

And then, finally, he spoke again.

"I don't know what I'm supposed to do now."

His voice was small. Younger than she'd ever heard it.

(Y/n) pressed her hand against his cheek, thumb swiping softly beneath his eye. "You don't have to know. Not yet."

He nodded, just a little, and leaned into her touch.

"You're not alone," she whispered.

His eyes closed.

"I'm not going anywhere," she promised.

Then, gently, she reached between them and lifted her pinkie, voice soft as ash.

"Pinky promise."

His hand found hers — tentative, trembling — and hooked around her pinkie like it was the only thing keeping him grounded.

He didn't respond with words. But when she slipped her arms around him and drew him to her chest, he didn't resist.

Their legs tangled together beneath the covers. His hand found the curve of her waist. Her fingers wove back into his hair. He let out a soft, shaking breath and melted into her like he'd been waiting to exhale for days.

They lay like that in the half-light, two broken hearts finding their rhythm in the quiet.

And for the first time since the Games began, (Y/n) slept.

Truly slept.

Wrapped in the arms of the boy she'd almost lost.

The boy who came back.

Not whole.

Not the same.

But breathing.

And still hers.

Maysilee looked like a stranger on the screen.

The girl (Y/n) knew wore bright dresses, pinks and yellows that made her stand out against the grays of District 12. The Donner family had always loved to dress alike, though it was more Merrilee's thing, coordinated pinks, delicate lace, frilled hems that turned them all into mirror images of each other. But the one on TV was draped in black, her hair twisted back, her sharp tongue repurposed into entertainment. The Capitol laughed when she picked apart the audiences outfits, as if they were watching a comedy act and not a girl doomed to die. The sound made (Y/n)'s blood run cold.

Then Caesar Flickerman turned to the final tribute.

Haymitch Abernathy leaned back in his chair, smirking like he owned the stage. The boy (Y/n) knew was all rough edges and quiet defiance, but the one in front of her spun lies with ease. He flashed a grin, soaking in the audience's delight.

"Let's call it chemistry homework," he quipped when asked about his supposed moonshining, and the crowd erupted into laughter.

The lie burned like cheap liquor down the throat.

(Y/n)'s fingers dug into the fabric of her skirt. It felt like she was watching someone else entirely, this version of Haymitch that was specifically made for the captiols enjoyment. It made her sick. Her eyes flickered to his hands, empty now, but she could still picture the gumdrops she'd pressed into his palm that morning.

(Y/n) tightened the leather cord around her fingers, feeling the weight of the gold ring strung through it. It was old. Her grandmother's, a delicate band etched with curling filigree. She had never once taken it off.

Until now.

The moment she slipped it onto the cord, she felt a presence looking at her, Maysilee stood at the doorway, eyes sneering at her. She had caught (Y/n) sneaking out to see him more than once, but this. Tying her precious ring to the cord, was confirmation enough and (Y/n) knew she wasn't going to take any lies from her.

"You're actually giving him that?"

(Y/n) didn't look up. "It's not what you think."

Maysilee let out an exaggerated sigh and strolled into the room, arms crossed. "Oh, please." She plucked the ring from (Y/n)'s hands, holding it up to the light. "Our grandmother's ring. The one you've worn every day since you were old enough to understand what the word heirloom meant." She turned it over, smirking. "And you're giving it to Haymitch Abernathy. But it's not what I think?"

(Y/n) snatched it back. "It's just a gift."

Maysilee raised an eyebrow, sarcastically dangling the ring in front of her face. "Sure. And I'm just nice to people."

(Y/n)'s jaw clenched, she snatched the ring back from her sister before continuing her work on his present.

Maysilee tilted her head. "You know, if you wanted to make some huge dramatic declaration of love, you could've just kissed him in the town square. Same effect. Less effort."

(Y/n) glared. "Are you done?"

Maysilee studied her for a moment, something unreadable flickering behind her sharp blue eyes. Then she exhaled, shaking her head.

"You don't get to have both," she said simply. "The world doesn't work like that."

And then she was gone, leaving (Y/n) with the ring clutched tightly in her fist.

(Y/n) found Haymitch in the forest, just like always.

The thick summer air wrapped around them, the scent of damp earth and pine needles heavy between the trees. He was sprawled out on the grass near the clearing, an arm behind his head, like he had all the time in the world.

His shirt was a mess of uneven stitches, patched together with whatever scraps his mother had managed to find, but his shorts were unmistakable—tesserae sacks repurposed into something wearable, the words PROPERTY OF THE CAPITOL still faintly visible across his thigh. Or, more specifically, his ass.

(Y/n) smirked, stepping over a root as she approached. "Subtle," she said, nodding at the print.

Haymitch cracked an eye open, following her gaze. Then, with a wicked grin, he rolled onto his stomach, propping himself up on his elbows. "Like what you see, sweetheart?"

She scoffed, but her face warmed all the same. "Shameless."

He only winked.

She tossed the small paper bag at his chest. He caught it easily, peering inside. "Gumdrops?"

"Figured you could use something sweet for your birthday."

Haymitch plucked one out and held it between his fingers, considering. "You sure your sister didn't poison these?"

"Not yet," she shot back.

He snorted, popping one into his mouth.

(Y/n) sat down beside him, tucking her knees up, letting her shoulder brush his as she watched him chew. He always ate like he wasn't sure when his next meal would be, even with something as small as this. Even with her.

Haymitch caught her staring and nudged her knee with his. "What?"

She shook her head, looking away. "Nothing."

"Liar."

She bit the inside of her cheek, staring at the uneven stitches on his sleeve. "It’s just—“ she hesitated, then forced herself to meet his eyes. "I like seeing you happy."

Haymitch blinked.

And then, without warning, he tackled her.

She shrieked, half laughing, half cursing as he knocked her back onto the grass. His weight settled over her, warm and solid, his hands bracing either side of her head.

"What?" she started, breathless.

"You make me happy," he murmured.

(Y/n) stilled.

The teasing was gone now, replaced by something softer, something that made her pulse trip. His hair fell forward, curling against his forehead, his eyes darting between hers and her mouth.

Her hand found his shirt, fingers curling into the fabric.

"Haymitch," she breathed.

And then he kissed her.

It wasn't hurried. It wasn't desperate. It was slow, careful, like he wanted to make sure she felt everything. His lips brushed hers once, twice, before settling into something deeper, his hand warm against her cheek.

(Y/n) melted into him, her fingers twisting into the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer, closer, until she could feel the way his heart hammered against hers.

When they finally broke apart, Haymitch was grinning.

"Happy?" he teased.

(Y/n) huffed, pressing her forehead to his. "Ask me again in ten minutes."

He chuckled, pressing one last kiss to the corner of her mouth before rolling off her, pulling her with him so she was curled against his side.

The forest swayed around them, the cicadas humming low and steady in the heat.

And then the bells rang.

Twelve chimes sounded out, ringing through the lush evergreen leaves, it was almost time for the reaping.

(Y/n)'s stomach clenched.

Haymitch's fingers curled around her wrist.

She swallowed hard, pressing her palm over his. "Wait," she whispered.

He glanced at her, brows furrowing.

Slowly, she pulled back, reaching for the leather strap around her neck. The golden ring slipped free, catching in the afternoon light.

Haymitch went still.

She held it out to him, heart pounding. "For you."

His throat bobbed. "(Y/n)—"

"It's not for luck or anything," she said quickly. "I just—I want you to have it."

Haymitch stared at her for a long moment, then took it carefully, like it was something breakable.

"You always wear this," he said quietly.

She nodded.

He turned it over in his palm, then, without a word slipped the leather cord over his head. The ring settled against his collarbone, just beneath his shirt.

Haymitch exhaled slowly, then reached for her hand, lacing their fingers together.

"I'll keep it safe," he promised.

She squeezed his hand, blinking fast.

"Damn right you will."

They planned to split before they reached the square.

(Y/n) hesitated, but Haymitch caught her hand before she could pull away. His grip was warm, steady, and when she turned to him, he was already leaning in. The kiss was quick. Too quick, but it was enough. Enough to settle the nerves twisting in her stomach. Enough to remind her that, for now, they still had this.

"See you after," he murmured, his forehead brushing against hers for the briefest moment. And then he was gone, disappearing into the crowd before anyone could notice.

She exhaled sharply, pressing her fingers to her lips before forcing herself to move.

She found her sisters easily. Merrilee stood tall, perfectly poised as always, while Maysilee was already fidgeting, adjusting her curls and smoothing out her dress as if the entire affair was just a mild inconvenience. Astrid was beside them, quiet and stiff as ever. She gave (Y/n) a small nod as she joined them.

Still, (Y/n)'s gaze drifted, scanning the crowd until, there. Haymitch stood near his friends Blair and Burdock, hands shoved into his pockets, his face unreadable. He caught her eye for the briefest moment before looking away.

Her stomach twisted. His name was in there so many times. He had applied for tesserae since he was twelve, for himself, for his mother, for his little brother. Every year, his odds got worse. Meanwhile, her own name sat in the bowl only a handful of times.

It wasn't fair.

"Burdock is staring again," Merrilee murmured.

(Y/n) blinked, snapping back to the present. She followed her sister's gaze and sure enough Burdock was looking at Astrid with that same quiet, hopeless longing.

Astrid sighed softly, but (Y/n) could hear a slight bit of hope in her voice. "I don't know why he bothers."

"He can't help it," Merrilee said, smirking. "I mean, look at you."

Astrid rolled her eyes, though a faint flush crept up her neck.

"It's tragic, really," Maysilee cut in, voice dripping with mock sympathy. "A Seam boy and a merchant girl—doomed before it even begins."

(Y/n)'s stomach flipped, but before she could say anything, Maysilee turned, eyes sharp and knowing. A slow smirk crept onto her lips.

"Then again," she continued, tilting her head, "some people don't mind a little tragedy."

(Y/n) narrowed her eyes. Merrilee let out a breathy little laugh, but Astrid just huffed.

"Can you all please shut up before I vomit?"

Before Maysilee could deliver another cutting remark, movement on the stage caught their attention.

Druscilla, their Capitol escort, had arrived.

The square fell into a tense hush as the Justice Building doors groaned open. Druscilla swept onto the stage like some grotesque bird of prey, her military-style coat flaring behind her. The thing was some awful mix of neon colors, shoulder pads, and gilded buttons, like a child had dressed up as a war general for a Capitol costume party.

Maysilee let out a barely concealed scoff. "Dear Panem, did she get dressed in the dark?"

But it was her face that drew the most attention. It always did. The thumbtacks that encircled her skin had been updated for the occasion—each one now adorned with a miniature, spinning buzz saw. They whirred softly, catching the sunlight, as if her whole face were a warning sign.

Merrilee let out a quiet, unimpressed hum. "Well. That's one way to tell people to keep their distance."

Astrid, always polite, bit her lip to hide a smile. "They're, um. Eye-catching."

Maysilee snorted. "Eye-removing, more like."

(Y/n) couldn't help it, her gaze flicked down to Druscilla's platform heels. They looked like they could snap with a strong breeze. A gleaming silver crop was tucked neatly against the side of one boot, the handle almost hidden beneath the ridiculous clash of military-style trim and garish neon colors.

A low murmur spread through the crowd, all eyes drawn to the spectacle of Druscilla as she reached the podium. Her sharp, artificially pink lips curled into something that was probably meant to be a smile.

"Welcome, welcome," she purred, voice as slick as oil.

(Y/n) swallowed hard. This was it.

"Happy Hunger Games!" she chirped.

(Y/n) barely heard her.

Her breath felt tight, her fingers curling and uncurling in the folds of her dress. The square felt suffocating, the weight of a thousand eyes pressing in from all sides. Somewhere beside her, Merrilee was squeezing her wrist, her grip clammy and uncomfortable.

Maysilee, on her other side, was unreadable. Not stiff, not shaking, just there, arms crossed over her chest.

"Do you ever get scared?" (Y/n) asked, barely above a whisper.

Maysilee arched a brow, glancing at her sideways. "Obviously," she murmured.

"You don't seem scared."

"That's the point."

(Y/n) swallowed, heart hammering.

Druscilla kept talking. About honor, about duty, about how lucky they all were to have the Capitol's benevolence. It was all nonsense, but no one spoke. No one moved.

Then, with a flourish, she dipped her manicured fingers into the first bowl.

She plucked a single slip, unfolded it, and read aloud:

"Louella McCoy."

A silence, then a choked sound from somewhere near the front.

Louella stepped forward, all wide eyes and trembling hands. Her knees nearly buckled as she moved toward the stage.

Merrilee's grip on (Y/n) tightened.

Druscilla barely waited for Louella to reach her place before she went for the next slip.

She unfolded it, lips curling with satisfaction.

"Maysilee Donner."

(Y/n)'s stomach dropped.

Maysilee exhaled, slow and even.

For a second, just a second, she hesitated. Then she squared her shoulders and stepped forward.

(Y/n) couldn't move.

She felt Merrilee let go of her. Felt the weight of her sister pulling away to follow, but her own feet stayed rooted.

She could only watch as Maysilee ascended the steps, back straight, chin tilted just so. When she turned to face the crowd, her expression was unreadable.

Then (Y/n) caught sight of Haymitch.

He was still. Too still. But there was something there. Flickering relief, swallowed instantly by guilt.

And (Y/n) hated herself for feeling the same.

Druscilla moved on.

She plucked another slip from the second bowl.

"Wyatt Callow."

A boy she knew by name only. Son of the booker, quiet, unremarkable. He walked to the stage like he was in a daze.

Then came the last name.

Druscilla barely looked at it before she read it out:

"Woodbine Chance."

And the world snapped.

Woodbine ran.

The gunshot cracked through the air like thunder.

(Y/n) barely thought. Just moved.

His mother let out a terrible, wretched sound and fell to her knees beside him. Peacekeepers rushed the crowd with guns pointed, Druscilla flailed and yelled at her staff to fix the issue.

Woodbine’s dead body.

"Let me take him home," his mother whispered, hands trembling as she reached for his face. "Please. Just let me take him home."

The Peacekeepers didn't care. They moved in, grabbed at her, tried to pull her back—

(Y/n) lunged without thinking.

She got between them, bracing against the woman's body. "She just wants to bury her son," she pleaded. "She isn't hurting anyone."

The Peacekeeper's gaze snapped to her.

"Step back."

She didn't. This gun swung for her.

The impact never came.

Instead, Haymitch shoved her aside and took the hit himself. The crack of bone was sickening. He grunted, body snapping forward, but didn't fall.

(Y/n) sucked in a breath.

Haymitch lifted his head, jaw clenched, eyes burning. He didn't say anything. Didn't need to. Druscilla's voice cut through the chaos, sharp and unbothered.

"What a shame," she said, stepping daintily around Woodbine's body. (Y/n) twisted in Haymitch's hold, still reeling.

"We'll need a replacement."

Something in the air shifted. The square went still.

Druscilla tapped a manicured nail against her chin, feigning thoughtfulness. Then her eyes flicked downward to the boy still gripping (Y/n) like an anchor. A slow, awful smile spread across her lips.

"You," she said lightly, lifting her overly manicured finger to point directly at him. "You'll do."

The bottom dropped out of (Y/n)'s stomach.

Haymitch went still.

Then, he exhaled, slow and measured, and let go of her.

She caught his wrist.

His skin was warm beneath her fingers, solid and real in a way that nothing else was in that moment. Her grip tightened instinctively, but she had no words, only the raw, terrible sound stuck in her throat.

Haymitch's fingers twitched like he might tighten his own hold on her, but before either of them could speak, a sharp, high whistle cut through the square.

"Quickly! There's a five-minute delay!" Druscilla's voice rang out, shrill and unwavering.

The Peacekeepers moved at once, quick and efficient, stepping over Woodbine's body as if it were nothing more than an inconvenience. His mother still knelt beside him, arms curled protectively around his still-warm frame, her face streaked with silent tears. She was whispering something. Words meant only for him, but a Peacekeeper wrenched her back by the shoulders, tearing her away with brutal force.

She screamed.

A second Peacekeeper grabbed Woodbine's lifeless form, dragging him unceremoniously off the away from the views of the cameras as though disguarding of a broken chair. Blood smeared across the square. Then the guns raised.

"Down," one Peacekeeper ordered, his voice cutting through the thick, hot air like a knife.

No one moved.

A beat of terrible silence passed before another cocked his rifle. "On your knees. Now."

The crowd obeyed with almost no delay. (Y/n) hesitated, just for a moment, (Y/n) dropped slowly, her knees pressing into the hot, dry ground. Beside her, Haymitch lowered himself stiffly, his fingers curling into fists against the dirt.

They had seen executions before.

Nobody doubted the Capitol was capable of another.

It was control.

It was order.

(Y/n) could still hear someone crying. It might have been Woodbine's mother, or Merrilee, or some other girl in the crowd, but the sound didn't last. A baton swung. The sobbing cut off abruptly.

Then—Druscilla cleared her throat.

And just like that, the reaping began again.

The previous names were erased. Woodbine had never been called. Wyatt had never stepped forward. The blood staining the platform was ignored, as though it did not exist.

Druscilla reached into the bowl once more, her nails clicking against the glass, and pulled out a slip.

She unfolded it, lips curling in delight.

"Ah! Our male tribute—Haymitch Abernathy!"

(Y/n)'s breath hitched.

A perfect performance. A twisted rewrite of events. As if Haymitch hadn't just been chosen minutes ago. As if this was nothing more than random chance.

Haymitch hesitated for the briefest moment before he rose to his feet.

Haymitch moved toward the stage, slow and steady. His father's old dress shirt hung loosely from his frame, the sleeves rolled up to fit him. The fabric had been patched and repatched so many times it was impossible to tell what color it had once been, but it was clean, the collar neatly pressed. A useless attempt at dignity.

(Y/n) forced herself to stand. The blood in her ears roared louder than the world around her. The stage felt impossibly far away.

The square had erupted into chaos.

The tension that had held the crowd still for so long snapped. Women sobbed into their hands, clutching their children. Men yelled, voices hoarse with grief, some trying to push through the Peacekeepers only to be beaten back with the blunt ends of rifles. Woodbine's mother hadn't moved from where they'd left her, her arms wrapped around her own body like she was still holding him.

Through it all, Druscilla stood rigid, her expression twisted with disdain.

"This district has tested my patience enough for one day," she spat. "No goodbyes. I want them gone now."

The Peacekeepers surged forward, herding the remaining tributes toward the Justice Building doors.

(Y/n) shoved her way through the crowd.

Someone grabbed at her arm. Merrilee’s soft voice breaking on her name, but she yanked free, not stopping. She didn't care if it was reckless. She didn't care if it got her shot.

She just needed one more second.

"Haymitch!"

He turned.

And in an instant, she was there.

Her hands found his face, his jaw rough beneath her fingers. He was so warm. So solid. Her pulse pounded in her throat, her entire body trembling with too many emotions to name.

"Please come back to me," she begged.

His hands curled around her wrists, not pulling away, just holding. His throat bobbed, his jaw tensing beneath her palms.

"(Y/n)—"

She kissed him.

It was desperate, rushed, nothing like their lazy kisses in the forest, but for a moment, none of that mattered.

Because he kissed her back.

It was only a second. A heartbeat.

Then—

Someone ripped her away.

She gasped as she hit the ground hard, her hands scraped raw against the cobblestones. Peacekeepers. Someone had grabbed Haymitch too, dragging him backwards through the doors.

"No!" She scrambled forward, but a baton slammed across her ribs, knocking the air from her lungs.

"Enough!" Druscilla snapped.

(Y/n) choked on her breath, her entire body curling inward from the blow. By the time she managed to lift her head, the doors were already closing.

Haymitch was gone.

The square around her was chaos, wailing voices, collapsing bodies, the distant shriek of Woodbine's mother, and above it all, the ever-present hum of the Capitol's cameras, drinking in every second.

Plutarch Heavensbee stood just beyond the stage, the lenses capturing the carefully curated tragedy. The crumpled mother of Louella. The silenced crowd. The tear-streaked face of a girl gasping in the dirt.

(Y/n) barely noticed.

She was still staring at the closed doors.

Still waiting for Haymitch to come back.

But he never would.

The Donner house was plunged into stillness in the days after the reaping, the parade and the interviews drew (Y/n) in the small tv that sat in their living room, unable to look away from the horror show the Capitol was putting on. Merrilee on the other hand had holed up in her room only leaving for dinner and to use the bathroom. Their mother spent most of her time desperately cleaning the house, scrubbing and cleaning until her fingers were raw. (Y/n) noticed the empty vials scattered in the cupboards in a poor attempt to be hidden away. It explained away the state of confusion her mother was in, along with the incessant vomiting.

Their father held it together the best though his facade quickly faded inside the household and turned into pure rage, because if anyone saw the state his family was in they would most likely try to get him to step down from being Mayor. And to their father appearance was the most important thing.

It was sometime after 3 a.m.

(Y/n) didn't check the clock anymore. She didn't need to. Time only moved in camera cuts. Scene to scene, tribute to tribute, camera angles shifting across blood-soaked terrain, lush landscapes tainted by the deaths of the innocent.

The Games had been running for hours. Maybe days. It was hard to tell. She hadn't moved from the floor in what felt like forever. Her body had molded into the worn living room carpet, curled beneath the flickering blue of the screen. The Capitol feed buzzed softly in the background, casting shadows that danced along the cracked wallpaper and untouched furniture.

In the corner of the screen, Ampert was crouched low, whispering to Haymitch. The two of them were half-shrouded behind the bright flowers of the berm, the air tense, their eyes scanning for motion. Haymitch looked thinner already. Hollowed. His jaw was tight with concentration.

(Y/n) stared unblinking, her eyes burning but dry.

She didn't dare turn her head. Behind her, her mother still lay sprawled on the kitchen tile, unmoving. One arm stretched limply across her chest, fingers tangled in the ragged hem of Maysilee's apron—she hadn't taken it off since the reaping. She hadn't done much of anything.

(Y/n) didn't know how long ago she had been there. Hours? A day? At some point she'd tried to help. She remembered kneeling beside her mother, trying to lift her up, to coax her into bed. But the woman had wailed. Begged for Maysilee. Slurred cries and shaking hands, too high to reason with. She'd fought her off like a child, refused to leave the kitchen, eventually collapsing in the same spot she still occupied.

(Y/n) had stopped trying after that.

Now, her mother barely moved. Her breathing was shallow. The smell of sweat and vomit hung heavy in the air.

Her father was "at work."

That's what the aide had said. Another meeting. Another late-night gathering of what passed for the upper class in District 12. (Y/n) had overheard the truth hours earlier—an invitation to a private party, thrown by one of the mine owners, wine and card tables and laughter behind closed doors. As if the Games were entertainment. As if they weren't happening to them. As if it wasn’t affecting his own family.

She tried not to think of him. But her mind betrayed her.

Three nights ago, the last time they'd all been under one roof, right before the Games started—he had come home late, shoes tracking in coal dust, the stink of liquor on his breath. The house was quiet except for the low, whimpering sobs from the kitchen. Their mother had been curled up on the floor even then, barely coherent, rocking and weeping for Maysilee.

(Y/n) had watched it happen from the hallway.

Watched as he stood there, watching her. Jaw clenched. Face unmoving.

And then he struck her.

Not hard. Not in a way that left blood. But with enough force to rattle her against the stove. Enough to make her sob louder. He hadn't said a word. Just turned, walked to his room, and slammed the door behind him like it wasn't his mess to clean up.

(Y/n) hadn't said a word either.

She remembered pressing a hand to her own mouth to keep from making a sound. Remembered thinking, if she screamed, it was real. If she screamed, he'll turn on her too.

The harsh crackling of static shattered the quiet.

(Y/n) flinched. The screen flared in a burst of blinding white, then snapped to black and white distortion, lines racing across the glass in jagged waves. The soft blue flicker that had bathed the room was gone—replaced with a strobe-like pulse that lit the living room in jerky monochrome flashes.

It was deafening.

She hadn't realised how loud the volume had gotten. The Capitol's night feed had lulled her into silence No music, no cannon fire, no screams, just whispers and insect drones, a quiet more dangerous than any noise. But now it was gone, replaced by the screeching, humming static that rattled through her skull like a warning bell.

She shot up too fast.

Her spine screamed in protest, knees locking, vision tunneling as blood rushed from her head. She stumbled, caught herself on the TV cabinet with trembling fingers. The dial—where was the dial? Her palm fumbled across the woodgrain, finally finding the knob and twisting it with a desperate flick.

The sound dropped, but the white noise was still in her ears, buried in her bones.

Her breath came fast. Loud. Too loud.

The room was spinning. Her legs ached. Her back throbbed where it had been pressed against the base of the couch for so long. She felt brittle—like if someone touched her, she'd snap in half.

The static still crackled on screen.

She stared at it, chest heaving, waiting for the Capitol seal to return to the screen, or Caesar Flickerman's saccharine voice, or—anything. But there was nothing.

Just noise.

The Games had cut out.

And (Y/n) had no idea why.

Weeks had passed since that afternoon in the blue room. Autumn had deepened around the estate, the roses in the garden finally surrendering to the season's inevitable decay. Their relationship had shifted too - something unspoken now lingered between them, making each encounter feel charged with possibility.

Jimin still appeared only in late afternoon, his door remaining firmly locked until the sun began its westward descent. But when he did emerge, his attention to her grew more intense, more possessive. His cool touches lingered longer, his dark eyes following her every movement with an almost predatory focus.

It was around this time that (Y/n) first noticed the subtle changes in herself. Nothing dramatic - just a persistent lethargy that made her eyelids heavy during the day. She found herself drifting off during her morning reading, book sliding from loose fingers as she dozed in patches of wan sunlight.

"You seem tired, my dear," her father observed over breakfast, watching as she picked at her food with unusual disinterest. "Not sleeping well?"

The dreams, she thought but didn't say. Those strange, sweet dreams that left her feeling both drained and oddly euphoric come morning. But how could she explain the weight on her chest each night, the sensation of being watched, cherished, consumed? How to describe the familiar scent - Jimin's scent - that seemed to linger in her room long after she woke?

"Just dreams, Papa," she assured him instead, though 'dreams' wasn't quite the right word for these nightly visitations.

Only in Jimin's presence did she feel truly awake. Their evening conversations in the library or music room became the axis around which her days revolved. He had a way of making her forget her increasing tiredness, his voice acting like a tonic that revived her flagging spirits.

"You look lovely in this light," he would murmur as dusk gathered around them, his cool fingers brushing her cheek with familiar intimacy. If he noticed the slight pallor beneath her skin, the darkening shadows beneath her eyes, he never mentioned it. Instead, his touches grew more tender, more reverent, as if she were something precious becoming ever more rare.

The marks above her breast remained her secret - two small punctures that sometimes faded slightly only to appear darker the next morning. She found herself touching them absently throughout the day, remembering the exquisite mixture of pleasure and pain that accompanied their appearance in her dreams.

Their favorite spot had become the ancient oak by the pond, the same place where she'd read Bertha's letter what felt like a lifetime ago. Now, in the gathering November dusk, Jimin would lead her there with possessive tenderness, mindful of her slightly unsteady steps.

"You should wear warmer clothes," he chided softly one evening, though the chill that made her shiver had little to do with the weather. His arm around her waist was both support and embrace as they settled against the oak's massive roots. "The seasons are changing."

Indeed they were. The pond's surface had become a mirror for dying leaves, crimson and gold drifting like abandoned dreams on the dark water. Everything was changing, including her, though the transformation was so subtle she could almost pretend not to notice.

"Tell me more about your dreams," he would often murmur, pulling her closer against his cool form. The impropriety of such intimacy seemed less important with each passing day. Or perhaps she simply had less energy to maintain proper distance.

"They're becoming clearer," she admitted, watching the last light fade from the sky. "More... real. Sometimes I'm not sure if I'm truly awake or still dreaming."

His fingers traced idle patterns on her palm, each touch sending pleasant shivers up her arm. "Perhaps the divide between dreaming and waking is thinner than most believe. Perhaps some dreams are more true than our waking hours."

She found herself leaning more heavily against him, her energy waning as darkness fell. The lethargy that plagued her days seemed to lift slightly in his presence, yet paradoxically, she felt weaker around him too - as if he both strengthened and drained her.

"You're tired," he observed, his lips brushing her temple. The gesture was both comfort and claim.

"Not tired exactly." How to explain this strange state? This feeling of being somehow less substantial with each passing day, yet more alive than ever in these twilight moments with him? "It's more like... floating. Everything feels distant except..."

"Except?"

"Except you." The confession slipped out unbidden. "You feel more real than anything."

His smile against her skin held secrets. They sat in comfortable silence as true night descended, the stars emerging one by one like curious eyes. From the house came the distant sound of servants lighting lamps, preparing for dinner. Soon Madame Perrodon would come looking for her, clucking with disapproval at finding them alone in the dark.

But for now, there was just this - his cool embrace, the whisper of wind through nearly bare branches, and the strange, sweet lethargy that made everything feel like a beautiful dream she never wanted to wake from.

The dining room blazed with unusual brilliance that evening, extra candles lit to mark the rare occasion of Jimin joining them at table. Crystal glasses caught and fractured the light, sending tiny rainbows dancing across the white tablecloth. Even the servants seemed to move with extra ceremony, though (Y/n) noticed how they avoided meeting Jimin's eyes as they served.

He sat across from her, beautiful and otherworldly in the flickering light. Though he arranged each course with artistic precision on his plate, she rarely caught him actually lifting food to his lips. Yet somehow his plate would end up nearly empty, as if the food had vanished by some strange magic.

"I had another letter from Baron Rheinfeldt today," her father mentioned as the second course was cleared. "Most interesting actually - he's been conducting research into his daughter's case. Apparently there have been similar instances in other regions."

(Y/n) felt rather than saw Jimin's sudden stillness. When she glanced up, his face held only polite interest.

"How fascinating," he murmured, adjusting his untouched wine glass. "Though perhaps such dark topics aren't suitable for dinner conversation?"

"On the contrary," her father continued, oblivious to the subtle tension that had entered the air. "I find it rather compelling. Especially given our own village's troubles. You've heard about the milliner's daughters, I assume? And poor Emma, Marcel's granddaughter?"

"Most unfortunate," Jimin's voice held perfect sympathy. "Though young girls are often... susceptible to mysterious ailments."

Madame Perrodon clicked her tongue softly. "Three girls in one village, all with the same symptoms - it's most unusual. Dr. Werner is quite puzzled by it all."

"Which reminds me," her father turned his attention to (Y/n), who had been pushing a piece of pheasant around her plate. "You're looking rather pale yourself, my dear. Perhaps we should have the doctor-"

"Speaking of health and welfare," Madame Perrodon interjected diplomatically, "have you had any word from your mother, Mr. Park? It's been several weeks now..."

Something flickered across Jimin's perfect features - too quick to catch. "No," he said after a slight pause. "Though I confess I expected as much. Her business often demands... prolonged attention."

"Surely she must be concerned about you," Madame Perrodon interjected, her tone suggesting she found such maternal negligence difficult to comprehend.

"Perhaps it's time I took my leave," Jimin said smoothly, though his eyes fixed on (Y/n) as he spoke. "I've imposed upon your hospitality far too long."

The thought of his departure sent an unexpected pain through (Y/n)'s chest. She must have made some small sound, for his eyes softened almost imperceptibly when they met hers.

"Nonsense," her father replied firmly. "We couldn't possibly let you leave without proper word from your mother. What kind of hosts would that make us? Besides," he added with a warm smile, "you've brought such life to this old house. (Y/n) especially seems brightened by your company."

If he noticed how his daughter flushed at this observation, he gave no sign. Jimin, however, watched the color rise in her cheeks with obvious satisfaction.

"How kind you all are to a stranger," he murmured, though his gaze never left (Y/n)'s face.

"Hardly a stranger now," her father said, gesturing for dessert to be served. "Though I must admit, we know remarkably little about your family, your background..."

The remainder of dinner passed in a curious haze of candlelight and half-finished conversations. (Y/n) barely noticed when dessert was served - some elaborate concoction of cream and berries that Jimin praised but didn't touch. Her attention kept drifting to his hands, the elegant way they moved over silverware he never quite used, the way he seemed to conduct an elaborate performance of dining without actually consuming anything.

As the servants began clearing the last plates, Jimin rose with fluid grace. "Might I request an escort to my room?" he asked (Y/n) directly. "These old houses can be so confusing in the dark."

Before anyone could object to the impropriety, he added, "Madame Perrodon, you'll accompany us of course?"

The French woman nodded, though something in her expression suggested she'd rather not. As they left the dining room, (Y/n) could feel her father's eyes following them, his earlier warmth now tempered with paternal concern.

They ascended the grand staircase together, Madame Perrodon following at a careful distance, her candle casting their shadows long against the darkened walls. Though it was Jimin ostensibly being escorted to his room, their steps somehow led them to (Y/n)'s chambers instead. If Madame Perrodon disapproved of this deviation, she kept her silence, taking up her usual position in the doorway - close enough to observe, far enough to allow conversation.

The familiar space of (Y/n)'s room felt different with Jimin in it, as if his presence transformed the everyday into something more mysterious. He moved to the window seat where she so often sat watching for carriages, his figure silhouetted against the night sky. Moonlight silvered his profile, making him look more like a painting than a person.

"You never speak of yourself," (Y/n) said softly, settling into her chair. "Of your life before..."

"No," he agreed, his voice taking on a dreamy, distant quality. "Some memories are... difficult to revisit. But perhaps..." He turned to her, moonlight catching in his dark eyes. "Perhaps you should know something of me, after sharing so much of yourself."

He was quiet for a long moment, as if gathering scattered thoughts - or perhaps choosing which ones to share. "I attended a ball once," he began finally, his voice dropping to a near-whisper that made her lean forward to catch his words. "My first. I was young - so young - and everything seemed magical. The lights, the music, the way everyone moved like figures in a dream..."

His hand drifted to his chest, pressing against some remembered pain. "There was a young man there. Beautiful in a way that seemed almost unreal - tall, with features that might have been carved from marble, eyes that seemed to hold entire worlds. When he asked me to dance..." Jimin's voice faltered slightly. "Well, how could anyone refuse such a creature?"

"He was so graceful, so attentive. The entire night became a blur of him - his voice like honey, his touch cool against my skin as we danced. I was rather like you then," he added, glancing at (Y/n) with an unreadable expression. "Innocent. Protected. Until that night."

His fingers absently traced patterns on the window glass, leaving frost-like marks that faded almost immediately. "What I felt... it was a strange sort of love. Terrible and beautiful at once. The kind that consumes, that burns even as it cherishes." He smiled, but it held no warmth. "I retired to my room still drunk on his attention, on dancing and candlelight. And there, in what should have been my sanctuary, this love nearly took my life."

"I remember every detail of that night with perfect clarity," Jimin continued, his voice taking on an almost hypnotic quality. "The way moonlight spilled across my bedroom floor, not unlike how it does now. The lingering scent of roses from the ball. Even the sound of distant music still playing, though the hour was terribly late."

He moved from the window, drifting through the room like smoke. "My admirer had given me a rose, dark as wine. I'd placed it on my bedside table, watching its shadow on the wall as I prepared for bed. I was so young, so foolish - already half in love with his otherworldly beauty, the graceful way he moved, how his dark eyes seemed to contain mysteries I longed to unravel."

(Y/n) found herself holding her breath, caught in the spell of his words. Even Madame Perrodon seemed to lean forward slightly in her doorway vigil.

"I felt it first as a presence," Jimin went on, his hand again pressing against his chest. "That sensation of being watched, of being wanted with an intensity that was both thrilling and terrifying. Then came the weight, the paralysis..." His eyes met (Y/n)'s suddenly, filled with an emotion she couldn't quite name. "But you know something of that, don't you? These visitations in the night?"

Before she could respond, he continued, "The pain, when it came, was exquisite - like ice and fire combined, here." He touched a spot just above his heart. "A love that pierced deeper than any blade, that would have drained my very life had fate not intervened."

"What happened?" (Y/n) whispered, aware she was leaning forward in her chair, drawn by his tale.

"The dawn came," he said simply. "And with it, an end to that particular enchantment. Though not without leaving its mark." His fingers traced what must have been a scar beneath his clothes. "Some loves, dear, are meant to transform us. To remake us entirely."

The moonlight seemed to gather around him as he spoke, making his beauty almost painful to look at. "I saw him once more after that night. He stood beneath my window in the garden, beautiful as ever, but changed somehow. His smile held secrets I finally understood. He raised his hand to me - not in farewell, I think, but in promise."

Jimin's eyes fixed on (Y/n) with sudden intensity. "Strange, isn't it? How some experiences echo through time? How some souls are destined to meet, to repeat these ancient patterns?"

The air in the room felt thick, charged with meaning she couldn't quite grasp. Outside, clouds passed over the moon, throwing the room into momentary darkness. When light returned, Jimin had moved closer to her chair, his presence making her skin prickle with awareness.

"But listen to me," he said softly, his cool fingers brushing her cheek. "Filling your head with dark tales before bed. You'll have nightmares."

"I already have nightmares," she found herself saying. "Or perhaps they're not nightmares at all..."

A clock somewhere in the house struck ten, breaking the spell of Jimin's story. He straightened, something shifting in his manner - becoming more formal, more contained. "I've kept you too late," he said, though his eyes lingered on her face as if memorizing its features. "And filled your head with strange tales."

"Walk me to my door?" he asked, offering his arm with courtly grace. Madame Perrodon's soft sigh of resignation followed them into the corridor.

The walk to the blue room seemed both endless and too brief. Their footsteps echoed on the wooden floors, marking what felt like a procession of sorts. At his door, Jimin turned to her, taking her hand in his cool grip.

"Dream sweet dreams," he murmured, bringing her fingers to his lips in a gesture that made Madame Perrodon clear her throat pointedly. His eyes held (Y/n)'s even as he backed into his room, something hungry in his gaze that made her shiver. The click of his lock seemed unusually loud in the quiet hallway.

Back in her room, Madame Perrodon's familiar routines felt somehow altered, as if Jimin's story had changed even these simple acts of preparation for bed. The French woman's fingers were gentle but efficient as she helped (Y/n) out of her dinner dress, unlacing stays and unpinning her hair with practiced ease.

"The amulet too, mademoiselle?" Madame Perrodon asked, reaching for the leather cord around (Y/n)'s neck.

"Yes," (Y/n) touched the silver charm that had grown warm against her skin. "It... it catches on my nightgown sometimes."

She watched in her mirror as Madame Perrodon carefully placed the amulet on her bedside table, next to the candlestick. The silver seemed to catch the light oddly, almost appearing to pulse in the flickering flame.

"Shall I leave a candle?" Madame Perrodon asked, hovering by the door as always.

"No," (Y/n) replied, already settling into her bed, mind still full of Jimin's tale. "The moonlight is enough."

Indeed, moonlight poured through her windows, turning the room to silver and shadow. As Madame Perrodon's footsteps faded down the corridor, (Y/n) found herself watching the patterns it made on her ceiling, thinking of another moonlit room, another young person preparing for bed, unaware of what the night might bring...

Moonlight transformed her familiar room into something altogether different - shadows lengthening, ordinary objects taking on strange new forms. (Y/n) lay watching the silver patterns on her ceiling, Jimin's story echoing in her mind. His words about visitations in the night seemed to hang in the air like incense, making everything feel slightly unreal.

From her bedside table, the amulet caught the moonlight, its silver surface seeming to pulse with gentle warning. As she drifted in that space between waking and sleeping, a sudden draft - though no window was open - sent the charm tipping over the edge of the table. It fell with a muffled thud into the thick carpet, its protective presence now out of reach.

The room felt different after that, as if some invisible barrier had dissolved. The air grew thick, heavy with anticipation, and that sweet-strange scent that always surrounded Jimin began to fill her lungs. Somewhere in the house, a clock struck midnight, its chimes sounding distorted and far away.

Sleep, when it came, was thin and uneasy. She floated in and out of consciousness, each time unsure whether she was truly awake or still dreaming. The moonlight shifted across her walls like water, and shadows in the corners seemed to breathe with alien life.

Then came the weight - familiar yet terrible, different from her usual nighttime visitations. Something large and dark crouched at the foot of her bed, its form too fluid to properly grasp. Larger than a cat but smaller than a person, it seemed to shift and change in the uncertain light, its edges bleeding into the surrounding darkness.

The thing at the foot of her bed seemed to drink in the moonlight rather than reflect it. As (Y/n) watched, paralyzed by terror and that strange languor that always accompanied these nighttime visits, it began to move - not crawling exactly, but flowing across her counterpane like liquid shadow.

That sweet-strange scent grew stronger, making her head spin. The creature drew closer, its form continuing to shift and change. She could make out something like fur, black as pitch, and eyes that caught the moonlight in a way that made her heart stutter - eyes she knew, eyes she'd spent weeks watching across dinner tables and garden paths.

The paralysis that held her began to fade, replaced by a growing horror as the thing drew level with her chest. Its weight settled over her, both familiar and terribly wrong. She wanted to scream, to call out, but her voice seemed trapped in her throat.

Then came the pain - sharp and sudden, like two needles piercing the flesh above her breast. This wasn't the usual dreamy pleasure-pain of her nightly visitations. This was immediate, terrible, real. The pain seemed to spread like ice through her veins, and with it came a horrible clarity.

As she watched, the dark creature began to transform. The black fur seemed to melt away, revealing a form she knew too well - Jimin's beautiful face, terrible in its perfection, emerged from the darkness. His eyes, when they met hers, held both triumph and tenderness.

The scream that had been building finally tore free from her throat, shattering the night's silence. The figure jerked back, and for a moment she saw both forms at once - the beautiful young man and the dark beast, overlaid like double-exposed photographs.

Then it was moving toward her door - her locked door - seeming to flow through the solid wood like smoke through a keyhole. The pain in her breast throbbed with each beat of her racing heart, even as running footsteps echoed through the house.

"(Y/n)!" Her father's voice from down the hall. "(Y/n)!"

"Mademoiselle!" Madame Perrodon's cry joined the chorus of concern, accompanied by the sound of multiple servants rushing toward her room.

Her door burst open, lantern light flooding the space and chasing away the last of the shadows. Her father reached her first, face pale with worry as she clutched at her nightgown, tears streaming down her face.

"He was here," she gasped, trembling violently. "Jimin - he was here, but not himself, something was wrong, something terrible-"

"Impossible," Madame Perrodon interjected, pressing a cool hand to (Y/n)'s forehead. "You were dreaming, dear. A nightmare-"

"No!" The pain in her breast throbbed with terrible conviction. "He was here! Like some kind of... some kind of dark creature, and then it was him, I saw him! Please, you must check his room-"

Her father exchanged worried glances with Mrs. Klaus and Thomas, who hovered anxiously in the doorway. The amulet lay forgotten on the floor, its silver surface dull in the lantern light.

"Very well," her father said softly, as one might speak to a frightened child. "Thomas, Mrs. Klaus - come with me."

(Y/n) listened to their footsteps hurrying down the corridor, heard them reach the blue room. The sound of knocking echoed through the silent house.

"Mr. Park?" Her father's voice, trying to maintain propriety even in this strange hour. "Mr. Park, forgive the intrusion, but there's been a disturbance..."

More knocking, more urgent now. Silence answered.

"The door's locked, sir," came Thomas's voice.

A moment of hesitation, then her father's command: "Break it down."

The sound of splintering wood made (Y/n) jump, even with Madame Perrodon's arms around her. Then came a moment of terrible silence.

"Empty," her father's voice carried clearly through the house. "The bed hasn't been slept in... the windows are locked from inside..."

She could hear them moving through the room, checking closets, looking behind curtains. Their lantern light cast moving shadows in the hallway, like dancers performing some macabre ballet.

"Impossible," Mrs. Klaus's voice drifted down the corridor. "I saw him enter myself, not an hour ago..."

More searching, more confusion. (Y/n) sat trembling in her bed, the pain in her breast a constant reminder that this had been no mere nightmare. Madame Perrodon kept murmuring soothing nonsense, stroking her hair as if she were still a child.

"The gardens," (Y/n) insisted, her voice hoarse. Before anyone could protest, she was already moving toward the doors, something pulling her into the darkness beyond. Perhaps it was memory - how many evenings had she spent out there with Jimin, his cool presence both comfort and contradiction?

The November air wrapped around her like a shroud, her white nightgown offering no protection against its bite. Behind her, she could hear the others following - her father's worried stride, Madame Perrodon's anxious muttering, Thomas with his wavering lantern that made the shadows dance like living things.

The garden paths, so familiar in daylight, had transformed into twisted mazes under the moon's cold gaze. Everything looked different, as if the night had rewritten the landscape she'd known since childhood. The great oak by the pond stood like a sentinel, its bare branches clawing at the star-strewn sky. Even the pond itself seemed different - not reflecting the moon but swallowing its light, like an eye turned inward.

Their lantern light caught what remained of her mother's roses, those once-proud bushes now reduced to skeletal forms. (Y/n) found herself drawn to them, remembering how gradually they'd declined over the autumn - each day losing a little more color, a little more life, the change so subtle it was only noticeable in retrospect. Like her own transformation, perhaps.

She reached out to touch one bare stem, careful of its thorns. How many times had she watched Jimin do the same, his cool fingers tracing patterns among the dying blooms as if reading some secret message in their decay?

"Mademoiselle, please," Madame Perrodon pleaded, finally catching up and trying to wrap the shawl around (Y/n)'s shoulders. "This night air will be the death of you."

Death. The word hung in the frozen air like smoke. (Y/n) turned away from the roses, that strange ache in her chest deepening. The gardens held no answers tonight, only echoes of what had been and dark promises of what might come.

Above them, clouds scudded across the moon's face, making the shadows shift and change. For a moment, she thought she saw movement near the oak tree - a darker patch of darkness that seemed to flow rather than move. But when Thomas raised his lantern, nothing was there except the night itself.

"There's nothing for us out here," her father finally said, his voice carrying a weariness that seemed more than physical. "Let's return to the house."

The journey back felt like a retreat, their small party moving in silence through the gardens. (Y/n)'s bare feet had gone numb with cold, but she welcomed the sensation - it distracted from the deeper ache in her chest.

Inside, they checked the blue room once more, finding it still empty and cold, the bed undisturbed. Her father organized the servants into search parties to continue through the night, but Madame Perrodon insisted on taking (Y/n) back to her room.

"You're shaking like a leaf," the French woman muttered, tucking her charge back into bed. "Whatever happened - whatever you think happened - can be dealt with in the morning."

But sleep was impossible. (Y/n) lay listening to the sounds of the search continuing throughout the house - footsteps, whispered conversations, doors opening and closing. Eventually, even these sounds faded into the deep silence of late night.

She must have drifted off eventually, for the next thing she knew the morning came like a physical assault. Sunlight, usually gentle through her eastern windows, seemed to pierce Saffron's skull with needle-sharp rays. She turned away from it with a soft cry, the movement sending new waves of pain through her body. Every muscle ached as if she'd spent the night running rather than searching.

The house already hummed with unusual activity - servants' footsteps hurrying past her door, urgent whispers she couldn't quite make out. Everything felt slightly wrong, shifted just enough to make the familiar strange. Even the simple act of sitting up required enormous effort, her limbs heavy and uncooperative.

It was when she went to press her hand against her aching head that she saw them - spots of blood on her nightgown, vivid as rubies against the white fabric. With trembling fingers, she pulled the collar aside. There, just above her breast, were two marks like needle punctures, an angry red that seemed to pulse in time with her racing heart. The skin around them felt hot to touch, sensitive enough that even the light pressure of her fingertips made her gasp.

The room spun slowly around her as she stood, having to catch herself on the bedpost. Her reflection in the mirror showed a stranger - hair wild around her shoulders, skin pale and ash stricken except for two fever-bright spots high on her cheeks. She looked like one of the consumptive heroines in her Gothic novels, beautiful in their decay.

No one stopped her as she drifted into the hallway, though she was scandalously underdressed - no cape or wrapper over her nightgown, her hair completely down. Servants rushed past, their arms full of linens or medical supplies, too preoccupied to notice the impropriety of her appearance. The house itself seemed to sway around her, or perhaps that was just her unsteady steps.

As she passed her father's study, fragments of conversation drifted out through the half-open door.

"...the milliner's daughters both succumbed in the night. Same wasting illness..."

"Poor things had grown so weak these past weeks..."

"Doctor Werner is baffled... just like the others, fading away despite their youth..."

The words should have shocked her, should have drawn some reaction. Instead, they seemed to come from very far away, as meaningless as the buzz of summer insects. Her feet carried her forward, drawn by some force she couldn't name.

The corridor to the blue room felt endless, though she couldn't remember deciding to go there. Whispers followed her like shadows - servants discussing her father's plans to summon another doctor, Madame Perrodon's worried voice speaking of her deteriorating condition. None of it seemed to matter.

Jimin's room, when she finally reached it, was a shock to her system. Gone was his usual immaculate ordering of space. The bed looked as if a struggle had taken place there, sheets twisted and torn. Books lay scattered across the floor, their spines broken as if they'd been thrown. A chair lay overturned near the window, which stood open despite the cold - impossible, given how they'd found it locked the night before.

She moved through the chaos in a daze, bending to pick up a fallen book despite how the movement made her head spin. A flash of dark red caught her eye - a single rose, nearly black, lay crushed beside the bed. Something about it nagged at her memory, but thinking felt like trying to catch smoke with bare hands.

Then she smelled it - that sweet-strange scent that always surrounded him, somehow stronger here despite his absence. It seemed to wrap around her like an embrace, making her knees weak, her thoughts fuzzy. Darkness crept at the edges of her vision as she swayed, catching herself on the bedpost, before something caught her eye.

The armoire seemed to draw her forward like a lodestone, her feet moving without conscious thought. That sweet-strange scent grew stronger with each step, making her head swim. Her hand trembled as it reached for the brass handle, cool metal shocking against her fever-warm skin.

Time seemed to stretch and warp as she pulled the door open. There, folded impossibly into the space, was Jimin. He looked like a Renaissance painting of a sleeping angel - dark hair falling across his face, formal clothes still pristine despite the room's destruction. But something was wrong about how he fit into the space, as if his form didn't quite follow the normal rules of flesh and bone.

"Jimin?" The name escaped her lips like a prayer, or perhaps a plea.

His eyes opened instantly, showing no trace of sleep. In the shadows of the armoire, they seemed to hold an inner light - burgundy rather than brown. The sight sent fresh waves of memory crashing through her mind: those same eyes watching her from the foot of her bed, from the face of a creature made of shadow and hunger.

A sound somewhere between a gasp and a sob tore from her throat. She stumbled backward, her legs threatening to give way beneath her.

"(Y/n)," his voice wrapped around her like silk, and suddenly he was there, supporting her with those cool, strong hands. How had he moved so quickly?

"Shhh, my dear," Jimin murmured, gathering her closer. His cool touch seemed to ease the fever burning beneath her skin. "You're trembling like a caught bird."

Despite every instinct screaming at her to pull away, Saffron found herself melting into his embrace. His fingers traced soothing patterns up her spine, into her hair, each touch carrying that familiar mix of comfort and possession that made her head spin.

"The marks," she tried again, but her voice emerged weak, dreamy. "I saw you... there was a creature..."

"Let me see," he whispered, his cool fingers already moving to her collar before she could protest. The touch against her wounded flesh should have hurt, should have frightened her, but instead it brought an odd relief. His thumb traced gentle circles around the punctures, drawing out the heat and pain until she sagged against him.

"There now," his voice had taken on that hypnotic quality that made everything feel soft and distant. "Nothing but dreams and shadows. You've been ill, dear heart. Feverish. Imagining such terrible things..."

One hand continued to stroke her hair while the other pressed against the marks on her breast, as if he could heal them through touch alone. Or perhaps he was claiming them - the thought surfaced hazily before drowning in the sweet-strange scent that surrounded them both.

"I would never harm you," he murmured against her temple, though something in his tone suggested deeper meanings. "Everything I do, every touch, every moment... it's all for love of you."

"You're exhausted," he murmured against her hair, gathering her closer as her legs threatened to give way entirely. "Let me take care of you."

She should protest, should tell someone he'd been found, should question how he'd ended up in that armoire - but his cool touch against her fevered skin made thinking impossible. The world had taken on that dreamlike quality again, everything soft and hazy except for Jimin.

"I can walk," she whispered, but even as she said it, he was lifting her with impossible grace, cradling her against his chest as if she weighed nothing at all.

The journey back to her room felt like floating. His sweet-strange scent wrapped around her, making the pain in her breast fade to a distant throb. She found herself pressing closer, seeking more of that delicious coolness, her face tucked against his neck.

"My beautiful girl," he breathed, his lips brushing her temple. "So trusting, even now. Even after your nightmares tried to make you fear me."

Her bed appeared before her as if by magic - had they walked there? Had they floated? His hands were gentle as he laid her down, drawing covers up around her with tender care. When he made to move away, she caught his sleeve with weak fingers.

"Stay," she pleaded, though some part of her mind whispered that she should want him as far away as possible. "Please."

His smile in the morning light was beautiful and terrible. "Of course," he settled beside her on the bed, gathering her close again. His cool fingers returned to the marks on her breast, touch feather-light yet somehow claiming. "Sleep now. Let me watch over you."

The morning light seemed dimmer now, as if Jimin's presence somehow softened its harsh edges. His cool body curved around hers protectively, one hand resting over the marks on her breast while the other stroked her hair with hypnotic rhythm. Each touch seemed to draw the pain away, replacing it with a languid heaviness that made her eyelids droop.

"They searched everywhere," she murmured against his chest, fighting the seductive pull of sleep. "The whole house... every corner..."

"Did they?" His voice held that musical quality that always made her thoughts turn liquid. "How thorough they must have been. And yet..." His fingers traced idle patterns on her skin. "Sometimes the most obvious places are the easiest to overlook. Like how you might stare at a word so long it loses meaning."

She wanted to question this, to ask how they could have missed him in that armoire during their thorough search, but his sweet-strange scent surrounded her, making everything feel soft and distant.

"Sleep now," he whispered, his lips brushing her temple. "You're exhausted from your night of searching."

His coolness was a balm against her fevered skin, and despite every question still burning in her mind, she found herself drifting. The last thing she felt was his hand pressing gently over the marks, as if claiming them even in her sleep.

She woke to Madame Perrodon's worried face hovering over her, the French woman's hand gentle but insistent on her shoulder.

"Finally," Madame breathed. "I've been trying to wake you for nearly an hour, mademoiselle. Such deep sleep - most unusual for you."

(Y/n) blinked in confusion, the morning's events feeling like a distant dream. The space beside her was empty, though she could have sworn... But Jimin's cool presence was gone, leaving only the lingering trace of his sweet-strange scent on her pillow.

"Mr. Park explained everything," Madame Perrodon continued, helping her sit up. "About finding himself in that armoire - a sleepwalking habit from childhood, poor thing. He was quite mortified to have caused such disruption. Your father was most understanding."

The explanation felt wrong somehow, like a dress that almost fits but pulls at the seams. But (Y/n)'s mind was still clouded with what had been, surprisingly, the most restful sleep she'd had in weeks.

"We must dress quickly," Madame was saying, already pulling out a black dress. "The milliner's daughters..."

Reality crashed back with terrible force. Catherine and Marie - gone in a single night, taken by the same mysterious illness that had been slowly consuming the village's young women. The same weakness that seemed to be creeping through (Y/n)'s own veins.

The journey into town was a blur of grey skies and concerned glances. Her father insisted on the carriage despite the short distance, claiming the walk would tax her strength too much. She didn't argue - even the simple act of dressing had left her trembling.

Jimin sat beside her, his cool hand covering hers in a gesture that looked merely comforting to others but felt like possession. The familiar sweet-strange scent of him helped ease the carriage sickness that had lately begun plaguing her.

The milliner's shop was closed, black crepe draped across its windows. Inside, the sisters lay in their coffins like sleeping princesses from a dark fairy tale. Catherine's golden hair had been arranged to hide how thin she'd grown near the end. Marie's small hands clutched a prayer book, as if seeking comfort even in death.

"They were reading to each other, when they found them," someone whispered nearby. "As if they'd simply fallen asleep mid-story..."

(Y/n) felt tears sliding down her cheeks. She'd spoken with them just weeks ago, sharing whispered conversations after Sunday service. They'd been so alive then, so vibrant. How quickly everything could fade.

"Hush, dear," Jimin murmured, his arm steady around her waist as she swayed. His voice held perfect sympathy, though something in his eyes when he gazed at the coffins seemed almost... satisfied. But surely that was just her grief-addled mind playing tricks.

The days following the funeral seemed to blur together. (Y/n) spent most of her time drifting between sleep and waking, each day bringing new weakness. Even sitting up to read exhausted her now.

That morning, she overheard Marcel in the garden below her window, his voice carrying up to where she lay.

"Fading away, she is," he was saying, presumably to her father. "My Emma, bright as a spring morning, now pale as winter frost. Can barely lift her head from the pillow, poor lamb. Just like those milliner's girls before..." His voice cracked. "Begging your pardon, sir, but seeing the young miss looking so peaked too..."

The gardens had grown wild in Emma's absence. (Y/n) could see the untended paths from her window, remembering how she used to watch the girl working beside her grandfather. When had she stopped noticing Emma's absence? Everything before Jimin's arrival felt like a half-remembered dream.

Dr. Werner arrived that afternoon, his black bag and grave expression suggesting he'd been at least partially briefed by her father. Madame Perrodon helped (Y/n) into a sitting position, propping her with pillows that felt too heavy to bear.

"Baron," Dr. Werner said, packing away his instruments with methodical precision. "Might I speak with you for a moment?"

Her father moved from where he'd been hovering near the door, coming to stand by the doctor. Madame Perrodon remained a silent presence near (Y/n)'s bed.

"These symptoms," the doctor began in low tones that nevertheless carried to (Y/n)'s ears. "How long has she been experiencing them?"

"The weakness began gradually," her father replied, his voice tight with worry. "At first we thought it merely fatigue, but lately..."

"She sleeps poorly?"

"Yes, though she seems unable to recall her dreams clearly. And her appetite..."

"Has diminished significantly," the doctor finished, his expression grave. "And these spells of languor - they're worse during daylight hours?"

Her father nodded. "She seems to rally somewhat in the evenings, but by morning..."

Dr. Werner's face grew increasingly troubled as her father listed her symptoms. His hand moved unconsciously to touch his medical bag where he'd noted his findings about the marks.

"Baron," Dr. Werner said gravely, his voice dropping even lower. "I must be frank with you. These symptoms - they are identical to those displayed by the milliner's daughters before their deaths. The same strange marks, the same pattern of decline."

Her father's face paled. "Surely you don't suggest-"

"I suggest nothing yet," the doctor interrupted carefully. "But there are precautions that must be taken. She must be watched, particularly during the night hours. Has she mentioned any... unusual occurrences? Sensations of a presence in her room perhaps?"

Through her half-closed eyes, (Y/n) watched her father sink heavily into the chair beside her bed. "She had some disturbance, several nights ago. Claimed she saw something - or someone - in her room. We searched the house but found nothing amiss."

"Ah." The doctor's pencil scratched against his notebook again. "And she sleeps alone?"

"Madame Perrodon's room adjoins hers," her father gestured to the French woman, who stood like a statue near the window. "Though lately..."

"Lately?"

"The connecting door has been locked some nights. From (Y/n)'s side, though she claims no memory of doing so."

Dr. Werner's frown deepened. "Most concerning. And these marks - you've noticed them before?"

"Marks?" Her father leaned forward sharply. "What marks?"

The doctor gestured to his own chest, just above the heart. "Two small punctures, like needle pricks. They appear to fade and return. The milliner's daughters showed identical marks, in precisely the same location. As does young Emma, the gardener's granddaughter."

(Y/n) wanted to protest, to explain about her dreams, about Jimin's story of his own similar wounds - but exhaustion pulled at her like lead weights. Even keeping her eyes open had become an impossible task.

"What do you suggest?" Her father's voice seemed to come from very far away.

"She must not be left alone," the doctor's reply was firm. "Particularly after sunset. The door between her room and Madame Perrodon's must remain open. And..." he hesitated, "perhaps it would be wise to maintain a record of any visitors to the house, especially during the evening hours."

"Visitors?" Her father's tone sharpened. "You cannot possibly suggest-"

"I suggest nothing, Baron. Merely that in cases such as these, every detail must be noted. Every pattern observed. The similarities between these afflicted young women are too striking to ignore."

A week had passed since the doctor's visit, each day bleeding into the next in a haze of enforced bed rest and careful monitoring. Jimin's absence felt like a physical ache, though she couldn't be certain if he was truly gone or if the new precautions simply kept him from her side. Time had become fluid, marked only by Madame Perrodon's constant presence and the changing of guards outside her door.

This particular morning found her at her dressing table, barely recognizing the reflection before her. The girl in the mirror was a stranger - cheekbones sharp beneath almost translucent skin, eyes huge and fever-bright in their dark-circled hollows. Her hair, once thick and lustrous, fell limply as Madame Perrodon's gentle hands worked to arrange it.

"Perhaps a ribbon," the French woman murmured, more to herself than (Y/n). "To add some color..."

Every movement felt like swimming through honey. Even holding her head up as Madame Perrodon dressed her hair required immense effort. The black dress they'd chosen felt unusually formal for a morning at home, but thinking about why seemed beyond her current capabilities.

"There," Madame Perrodon said finally, helping her to stand. "Your father's waiting in the front hall."

The journey downstairs was painfully slow, each step carefully monitored. Strange, how the house seemed unusually still this morning, as if holding its breath. Through the front windows, watery autumn sunshine cast long shadows across the drive.

Her father waited by the door, his face grave as he offered his arm for support. She wanted to ask why they were standing here, why everything felt draped in such heavy silence, but even forming questions seemed too difficult.

The sound came first - the slow, measured tread of multiple feet on gravel. Then figures emerged from the morning mist. Marcel came into view, his aged shoulders straining beneath a wooden box she didn't immediately recognize. Three other men helped support the corners, but it was Marcel's bowed head that caught her attention. How strange to see him away from the garden, and in such formal black attire.

Behind them came a group of villagers, all in dark clothes. Emma's mother was there, supported by relatives. Why was she crying? And where was Emma? She hadn't seen the girl in the gardens lately...

The morning air felt suddenly thick, hard to breathe. Something about the careful way they moved, the measured steps, the box they carried - recognition hovered just at the edges of her mind, but her thoughts were too sluggish to grasp it.

"Papa?" she whispered, her voice small. "Why is Marcel..."

The words died in her throat as understanding finally, terribly dawned. Her legs gave way, but her father's arm kept her upright as her childhood friend's final journey passed before them

"Papa?" she whispered again, her voice catching as she watched Marcel's slow progress down the drive. "That's not... Emma isn't..."

The world seemed to tilt sideways, reality rearranging itself into something terrible she couldn't quite comprehend. Her eyes followed the simple wooden box - coffin, her mind finally supplied, that's a coffin - as if staring hard enough might change what it contained.

She'd just been thinking about Emma yesterday, hadn't she? Or was it last week? Time had become so strange lately. She remembered watching from her window as the girl helped her grandfather with the roses, her laugh carrying up through the air. When had that been? Before Jimin arrived? Everything before him felt like a half-remembered dream.

"She was ill, my dear," her father said softly, his arm tightening around her waist as she swayed. "Like the milliner's daughters. We thought it best not to distress you with the news, given your own condition."

The procession moved with terrible slowness past their position by the door. Marcel's face was set in lines she'd never seen before, aging him decades in what must have been mere weeks. How had she not noticed his absence from the gardens? The roses growing wild without Emma's careful attention?

Behind the coffin, Emma's mother's sobs seemed to echo in the still morning air. The sound struck something deep in (Y/n)'s chest, making her own breath catch painfully. She remembered summer afternoons, Emma sneaking her treats from the village, sharing whispered confidences about books and boys while Marcel pretended not to hear as he pruned nearby bushes.

"She can't be," (Y/n) found herself saying, though the evidence passed before her eyes. "She was fine. She was..." But had she been? When was the last time they'd actually spoken? Everything felt so hazy, like trying to catch smoke with bare hands.

The morning light seemed too harsh suddenly, making her head spin. Or perhaps that was the realization that while she'd been drifting in her twilight world with Jimin, Emma had been fading away entirely. Just like the milliner's daughters. Just like...

Her knees buckled completely this time. Dark spots danced at the edges of her vision as her father caught her weight. She was dimly aware of Madame Perrodon appearing at her other side, of worried murmurs and gentle hands trying to guide her back inside.

"No," she protested weakly, though even speaking took immense effort. "I have to... Marcel shouldn't have to..."

But what could she do? She could barely stand, barely think through the fog that seemed to fill her head. Everything felt distant except the terrible sight of Marcel carrying his granddaughter's coffin, his determined steps carrying her away forever.

Her father and Madame Perrodon guided her back into the house, away from the terrible sight of Marcel's bowed shoulders disappearing into the morning mist. The grand hall spun around her, familiar paintings blurring into dark smudges against the walls. Every step felt like wading through deep water, her legs threatening to give way entirely.

They settled her in her room, Madame Perrodon's cool hands gentle as she helped (Y/n) out of the black dress and into her nightgown. The simple act of changing exhausted her completely. She fell into a deep, heavy sleep before her head touched the pillow.

When she woke, the quality of light suggested late afternoon, and the house hummed with unusual activity. The scrape of furniture being moved echoed through corridors, rapid footsteps on wooden floors, voices calling back and forth with strange urgency. Her room was empty, Madame Perrodon's usual vigilant presence notably absent.

In her white nightgown and wrapper, hair falling loose around her shoulders, she drifted into the corridor like a ghost. The household's usual ordered rhythm had transformed into careful chaos. Maids hurried past with fresh linens, too focused on their tasks to notice her. From below came Mrs. Klaus's voice directing the transformation of the best guest rooms.

Even her father's study door stood open, papers scattered across his usually immaculate desk, suggesting hasty departure. Strange, how the household's chaos made her invisible - no one rushing past seemed to notice the master's daughter wandering the halls in her nightclothes, pale as a wraith in the lengthening shadows.

Her feet carried her up the grand staircase, each step requiring more effort than the last. The upper corridor seemed different somehow, transformed by the golden afternoon light and the unusual bustle below. As she passed the blue room - Jimin's room - something made her pause. Perhaps it was the quality of silence behind that door, so different from the chaos elsewhere. Or perhaps it was that sweet-strange scent that always surrounded him, seeping out from beneath the door like mist.

Before she could decide whether to knock, the door opened. Jimin stood there, beautiful as always in the dying light, though something about his expression seemed different - more intense, almost hungry.

"I wondered when you'd come," he said softly, stepping back in silent invitation. The room behind him was dim, heavy curtains drawn against the afternoon sun. "You look tired, dear."

She stepped into the familiar blue room, now cast in shadows from the drawn curtains. The space felt different somehow - not just from the dim light, but as if Jimin's awareness of impending departure had already begun to empty it of his presence. Yet his sweet-strange scent seemed stronger than ever, making her head swim in that now-familiar way.

"You shouldn't be out of bed," he murmured, closing the door behind her with a soft click. His cool hands found her shoulders, steadying her swaying form. "Not after this morning."

So he knew about Emma. Of course he did - how could anyone in the house not know? Yet he hadn't come to her, hadn't offered comfort. Something about that nagged at her tired mind, but his proximity made thinking difficult.

"The house is strange today," she said, letting him guide her to sit on the edge of his bed. "Everyone rushing about..."

"Change comes whether we wish it or not," he replied cryptically, settling beside her. His fingers found her hair, gently combing through the tangled strands. The gesture was achingly familiar, yet held something new - an urgency, a possessiveness that made her shiver. "Time grows short, dear."

"What do you mean?" But even as she asked, she found herself leaning into his cool touch, her body betraying her as it always did around him. The room seemed to spin slowly, though whether from weakness or his intoxicating presence, she couldn't tell.

"How pale you've grown," he observed, his other hand cupping her cheek. His thumb traced the dark circles beneath her eyes. "Like moonlight given form. Beautiful."

She should protest this - should question why he found her increasing illness beautiful - but his touch was so soothing against her fevered skin. When he drew her closer, she went willingly, letting her heavy head rest against his shoulder.

"What do you mean, time grows short?" she asked again, but his cool fingers were already trailing down her throat, making it hard to focus. The scent that always surrounded him seemed stronger in the dim room - roses on the edge of decay mingled with honey turned too thick, too sweet. It should have repulsed her, yet she found herself breathing deeper, wanting more.

"Say it again," he commanded softly, his mouth moving against her throat. "My name on your lips... I'll miss that most of all."

The words made no sense, yet she found herself obeying, his name falling from her lips like a prayer. His grip tightened in response, one hand tangling in her hair while the other slipped lower, tracing the curve of her spine through her thin nightgown. Each touch left trails of delicious cold that made her arch closer, seeking more of that sweet relief against her fever-hot skin.

The room had grown darker still, the blue walls deepening to midnight shades. In the mirrors, their reflection seemed to blur at the edges, as if they too were transforming into shadows. Or perhaps that was just her weakened vision, everything growing soft and strange as his scent overwhelmed her senses.

"I should have waited," he murmured, more to himself than her. His fingers found the marks below her breast, pressing gently until she gasped. "Should have been more patient. But you're so..." His other hand tightened in her hair, tilting her head back to expose more of her throat. "So perfectly made for this."

"For me."

She should question his words, should ask what he meant, but his cool lips were trailing down her neck, each kiss making thought more impossible. The impropriety of their position barely registered anymore - her in his lap, her nightgown slipping off one shoulder, his hands growing bolder as the room grew darker.

"Everything changes," he continued, his voice taking on that hypnotic quality that made her feel like she was drowning in honey. "But some things are eternal. Some hungers..." His teeth grazed her pulse point, sending shivers down her spine. "Some loves...

"Love?" she echoed dreamily, the word floating between them like smoke. His hands had grown more possessive, one splayed across her back while the other traced patterns on her collarbone that felt like ancient writing.

"A different kind of love," he breathed against her skin. "Deeper than mortal affection. The kind that consumes, that transforms..." His fingers found the marks again, making her gasp as pleasure-pain spiraled out from his touch. "The kind that lives in dreams and shadows."

The last rays of sunlight had vanished now, leaving them in a darkness broken only by faint moonlight filtering through the heavy curtains. His pale skin seemed to glow in the dim light, making him look less human than ever. Beautiful, terribly beautiful, like something from a Gothic novel come to life.

"I'm dizzy," she whispered, though whether from weakness or his intoxicating presence, she couldn't tell. The sweet decay scent of him filled her lungs, making everything feel distant and dream-like.

"Then let me hold you," he murmured, shifting them until she lay across his bed, her hair spilling across the blue silk counterpane. He moved over her like a shadow given form, his cool weight both comforting and overwhelming. "Let me memorize you like this, while there's still time."

His words should have worried her, should have made her question what he meant by 'still time', but his touch was growing more insistent, more intimate. Cool fingers slipped beneath the collar of her nightgown, tracing the line of her shoulder, while his other hand cradled her head with impossible tenderness.

"So warm," he breathed, pressing his face against her throat. "So alive. Even now, fading as you are, your heart beats so strongly..." His lips found her pulse point, lingering there as if counting each beat. "If only..."

His cool touch traced fire across her fevered skin, each caress somehow both soothing and igniting. The sweet-decay scent surrounding them made her head swim as his lips found her throat, her collarbone, lower still. Her nightgown had slipped from one shoulder, his mouth following the path of exposed skin with deliberate slowness.

"My sweet girl," he breathed against her flesh, one hand tangling in her hair while the other explored with increasing boldness. The contrast between his cold touch and her burning skin made her gasp, arch into his caress. "So responsive... so perfect..."

When her trembling fingers found his shirt buttons, he helped her, revealing that marble-perfect chest with its telling scars. Her hands explored the cool expanse of him as his own touch grew more intimate, slipping beneath her nightgown with possessive purpose.

"Let me show you," he murmured, his skilled fingers drawing sounds from her she'd never made before. "Let me make you mine... in every way..."

His cool fingers trailed down her throat, following the flutter of her pulse as it quickened beneath his touch. The thin fabric of her nightgown did nothing to shield her from the delicious chill of his hands as they explored lower, tracing the curve of her breast, thumbs brushing over sensitive peaks until she gasped.

"So responsive," he murmured against her neck, his mouth leaving trails of frost-fire on her fever-hot skin. "Every touch makes your heart race..." His hand slipped lower, gathering the fabric of her nightgown until it bunched around her thighs. "Let me hear you, dear."

Her nightgown slipped from one shoulder, his lips immediately following the exposed skin with cool, open-mouthed kisses. His fingers found bare skin, trailing patterns up her inner thigh that made her whimper. The sweet-decay scent surrounding them grew stronger as his touch grew bolder, finding that sensitive bundle of nerves that made her arch off the blue silk counterpane.

"Please," she gasped, though what she was begging for she couldn't say. Her hands found his shirt buttons, desperate to feel more of his cool skin against hers. He helped her, shrugging the fabric away to reveal that marble-perfect chest. The moonlight caught the twin scars above his heart - so like the marks he'd left on her own breast.

"Touch me," he encouraged as her fingers explored the cold expanse of his torso. His own fingers continued their intimate dance between her thighs, circling her most sensitive spot before dipping lower to gather her growing wetness. One long finger slipped inside her, making her cry out at the strange intrusion.

"That's it," he breathed, watching her face as he added another finger, stretching her gently. His thumb continued its circles above while his fingers moved in and out with devastating precision. "Let me hear how much you want this..."

Her hips rose to meet his touch of their own accord, seeking more of that exquisite pressure. His free hand tangled in her hair, tilting her head back to expose her throat to his hungry mouth.

His cool mouth traced patterns down her throat while his fingers maintained their rhythm, drawing increasingly desperate sounds from her lips. Each stroke inside her made her arch closer, seeking more of his delicious chill against her burning skin. The sweet scent that always surrounded him seemed to pulse with each wave of pleasure, making everything feel dreamlike yet achingly real.

"Perfect," he breathed against her collarbone, his thumb circling faster as his fingers curled inside her. "So warm, so alive..." His other hand slipped beneath her nightgown, palm flat against her stomach before sliding up to cup her breast. "Every inch of you was made for this."

She clutched at his shoulders, his bare skin perfect and cold beneath her burning palms. Her body tightened around his fingers as he worked her closer to some precipice she'd never known existed. When his cool mouth closed around her nipple through the thin fabric, she cried out, back bowing off the bed.

"Please," she gasped, though what exactly she was begging for remained unclear. Everything felt too much yet not enough - his touch, his weight above her, the way his fingers seemed to know exactly how to drive her mad.

Moonlight painted moving shadows across the blue walls as their forms entwined on the silk counterpane. His cool touch drew increasingly desperate responses from her fever-hot skin, each caress bringing them closer to that inevitable moment. The sweet-decay scent grew stronger, making everything feel dreamlike yet terribly real.

"My heart," he breathed against her throat, his movements growing more urgent. "Say you'll be mine forever..."

The mirrors seemed to hold only darkness now, as if the world beyond their embraced had ceased to exist. Somewhere far below, the household continued its frantic preparations, but those sounds couldn't penetrate their private realm of shadow and sensation.

Her pulse raced beneath his lips as he traced the path he'd marked so many times in dreams. This time would be different - no more nighttime visitations, no more playing at mortality. His teeth grazed her skin, drawing a gasp that was equal parts fear and desire.

His fingers curled inside her with devastating precision, drawing sounds she'd never imagined making. The room spun slowly around them, blue shadows deepening as his cool mouth traced patterns down her throat, across her collarbone, finding every sensitive spot that made her arch and gasp.

"Beautiful," he breathed against her skin, his thumb circling faster while his other hand pinned her wrists above her head. "The way you respond to every touch..." His mouth found her breast through the thin fabric, teeth grazing the sensitive peak until she cried out. "The way your heart races..."

The sweet-decay scent grew stronger as pleasure built inside her, making everything feel unreal yet achingly present. Her nightgown had slipped further, exposing more skin to his hungry mouth. Each kiss left trails of delicious frost that made her burn hotter, need him more.

"Please," she gasped, though what exactly she was begging for remained unclear. Her body tightened around his fingers as he drove her closer to some precipice she'd never known existed. "Jimin..."

"Say it again," he demanded softly, his movements growing more insistent. "Say my name while I make you mine completely."

His fingers kept their relentless rhythm as her pleasure built higher, each stroke bringing her closer to something tremendous, something that would change everything. The sweet-decaying smell overwhelmed her senses as his cool mouth found that spot on her neck that always made her shiver.

"Now," he breathed against her pulse point, his thumb circling faster while his other hand tightened in her hair. "Come for me, dear. Let me feel you..."

Her body tightened around his fingers as the first waves of pleasure crashed through her. In that moment of perfect vulnerability, his teeth broke skin - not the usual gentle pierce but something deeper, more permanent. The twin sensations of ecstasy and sharp pain merged into something transcendent, making her cry out his name into the darkness.

The pleasure seemed endless, each pull of his mouth drawing out her release as her blood filled his. Her fingers clutched at his shoulders, torn between pushing him away and drawing him closer as everything she was flowed into him.

"Mine," he growled against her throat, his fingers still moving inside her, prolonging both pleasures until she thought she might shatter completely. "Forever mine..."

As the last tremors subsided, Jimin lifted his head from her throat, his tongue catching a final drop of blood. The moonlight caught his face as he brought his fingers to his mouth, cleaning them with deliberate slowness while holding her gaze. Something about the gesture should have shocked her, but she felt beyond such mortal concerns now.

He settled against her chest, his cool weight comforting rather than crushing. Her fingers found their way into his dark hair, stroking through the silk-soft strands as she admired how the moonlight painted his perfect features. His own fingers traced the fresh marks on her breast with possessive tenderness.

"Dawn comes too quickly," he murmured, more to himself than her. His touch lingered on the punctures, as if memorizing their placement. "They'll be here soon..."

"Don't leave," she whispered, her voice weak but urgent. The thought of separation felt like physical pain. "I can't... I think I love you."

He smiled up at her - that beautiful, terrible smile that had captured her from the first. "Love," he echoed, pressing a kiss to the marks he'd made. "Yes, I suppose that's what this is. A different kind of love..."

Rising with fluid grace, he began to put her back together - smoothing her nightgown, arranging her hair with careful fingers. The cool cloth he produced from somewhere felt heavenly against her heated skin as he cleaned away the evidence of their passion. Every touch felt like a goodbye.

When he tucked her into his bed, the blue silk cool against her skin, she could barely keep her eyes open. His kiss, when it came, tasted of copper and promises.

"Dream of me," he whispered against her lips.

Through heavy lids, she watched him move to the window. The last thing she saw before sleep claimed her was his silhouette against the moon, beautiful as a painting. Or perhaps that was just a dream.

Consciousness returned slowly, like swimming up through dark water. The first thing (Y/n) noticed was the rose on the pillow beside her - its petals so dark they appeared almost black in the pre-dawn light. Something about it nagged at her memory as she reached out with trembling fingers to touch the aged bloom.

"I attended a ball once..." Jimin's voice echoed in her memory, the story he'd told her in this very room suddenly taking on new meaning. "He'd given me a rose, dark as wine..." The petals crumbled at her touch, soft as ash.

Her hand flew to her throat, finding the fresh marks that throbbed with each heartbeat. Not dream marks this time - these felt different, permanent. The sweet-decay scent that always surrounded him lingered in the air, but she knew with terrible certainty that Jimin himself was gone.

She lay in his bed still, surrounded by blue silk and shadows. Her nightgown felt impossibly soft against her sensitized skin, though she couldn't remember him redressing her. Every movement brought fresh awareness of what they'd shared - intimate aches, cooling trails where his fingers had traced possession into her flesh. The marks on her breast throbbed in time with those on her throat, a matched set of claims she'd welcomed in the darkness.

Beyond the heavy curtains, dawn was breaking - she could feel it somehow, a pressure against her skin even through the thick fabric. The blue room felt different in this strange half-light, as if Jimin's departure had already begun erasing traces of his presence. Yet that sweet-strange scent remained, making her head swim with memories of his cool touch, his tender possession, the way he'd...

Urgent footsteps in the corridor interrupted her reverie. Multiple sets, she realized, moving with purpose toward the blue room's locked door. Her father's voice carried through the wood, tight with worry, but the other voice - deeper, rough with grief and rage - sent recognition shooting through her like lightning.

"The lock, damn you!" Baron Rheinfeldt commanded, and her heart clenched. Bertha's father. Of course she recognized that voice - how many summer afternoons had she spent in his gardens, playing with his daughter? Before Bertha had grown ill, before she'd... "Break it down if you must!"

The door shuddered under impact once, twice - then burst open with a crack of splintering wood. Rheinfeldt stood in the doorway, his face haggard with travel and purpose. The kind eyes that had once watched her and Bertha gathering flowers were now hard as granite, filled with a terrible knowledge. Her father appeared behind him, candle casting wild shadows across his worried features.

"Where is he?" Rheinfeldt demanded, scanning the room with desperate intensity. His gaze caught on the rumpled sheets, the black rose crumbling to ash on the pillow, the marks visible at her throat. Something like horror crossed his weathered features.

"Where is the monster?"

"Uncle Rheinfeldt?" The childhood name slipped out before she could stop it. She hadn't seen him since Bertha's last visit , his grief had carved new lines in his once-jovial face. "I don't understand..."

"No, child. You don't." His voice softened for a moment, remembering perhaps how she and Bertha had once called him that. But then his face hardened again as he strode to the window, yanking back curtains that had remained drawn for months. "But you will."

(Y/n) flinched from the morning light, unexpectedly painful against her sensitive eyes. Her father moved to her side, his hand cool against her fevered brow. "You're burning up, sweetheart. We need to-"

"A doctor cannot help her now," Rheinfeldt cut him off sharply. He turned from the window, and she saw he held a leather folio she hadn't noticed before. "Just as no doctor could help my Bertha. Our only hope lies in destroying the creature before..." He broke off, something like pity crossing his features as he looked at her throat.

"Baron, please," her father started, but Rheinfeldt was already shouting into the corridor, his voice seeming to shake the house's foundations.

"Prepare the wagon! Now! Horses, weapons - everything!" His commands echoed through the halls. "We hunt him before he gets too far. Before he claims another innocent like my Bertha!"

Servants rushed past the doorway, carrying strange bundles - wooden stakes, crosses, things that seemed pulled from old tales rather than reality. Their usual measured efficiency had taken on a frantic edge, as if they too sensed how little time remained.

"Papa?" (Y/n)’s voice sounded distant to her own ears. The morning light that had merely hurt her eyes moments ago now seemed to burn. "What's happening?"

Rheinfeldt strode to the bed, his movements sharp with urgency. "After Bertha..." His voice caught for a moment. "After I lost her, I began researching similar cases. Girls wasting away from mysterious illnesses, strange marks upon their breasts... The pattern stretched back centuries." He thrust the folio at her father, who went pale at whatever he saw inside.

"This is impossible," her father breathed, looking between whatever he held and (Y/n)'s increasingly unnatural pallor. "He can't be..."

"The same creature," Rheinfeldt confirmed grimly. "Taking different names, different forms even, but always the same pattern. Always young women in the same village, gradually weakening. Strange dreams, marks upon their breasts..." He broke off as Madame Perrodon appeared with traveling clothes. "Quickly now. The sun rises - we must reach the crypt before nightfall."

"Crypt?" The word felt ashen in (Y/n)'s mouth. She thought of Jimin's perfect face, his cool touches, the tender way he'd arranged her hair before... before... "I don't understand. Last night, he..."

"Last night he marked you as his next victim," Rheinfeldt's voice grew harsh again. "Just as he marked my Bertha. Just as he's marked countless others across centuries." He pulled something else from the folio - a yellowed sketch that made her breath catch. "This was drawn in Vienna, 1846. The name then was Minji..."

There on aged paper was Jimin's face - unchanged across decades, beautiful and terrible as a painting that never aged. But something about the features seemed softer, more feminine somehow. The longer she stared, the more the image seemed to shift between male and female, like a trick of candlelight.

"Baron Vordenburg arrives within the hour," Rheinfeldt continued, already moving to supervise the packing. "He knows the location of the crypt, the proper rituals..." He broke off, glancing at the lightening sky visible through the windows Jimin had kept so carefully curtained. "But we must hurry. Once night falls..."

The journey down the grand staircase was torture. Each step sent waves of strange sensation through (Y/n)'s body - not illness, though they all believed it so, but transformation. The sunlight streaming through the windows felt like knives against her skin, making her burrow deeper into the cloak her father had wrapped around her shoulders.

"She can barely stand," her father protested as they reached the entrance hall, his arm supporting most of her weight. "Surely we should wait-"

"Every moment we delay brings her closer to her fate," Rheinfeldt cut him off sharply. But (Y/n) caught the tremor in his voice, the way he couldn't quite meet her eyes. She wondered if he saw Bertha in her now - but no, Bertha had truly been ill, truly been a victim. What (Y/n) felt coursing through her veins was something else entirely.

The sweet-decay scent that still clung to her skin seemed to pulse with each slowing heartbeat. Her father's touch, once comforting, now felt scalding against her cooling flesh. Everything was changing, transforming, becoming something other than human. She thought of Jimin's words "Some loves transform us completely." Only now did she understand what he'd meant.

The wagon waited in the courtyard, already loaded with their grim cargo - crosses that made her eyes water, holy water that seemed to ripple without being touched, wooden stakes carved with symbols she couldn't bear to look at directly. Her father helped her into the back, where he'd created a nest of blankets to shield her from the sun's assault.

As they pulled away from the estate, (Y/n) pressed her face against the wagon's wooden side, finding a gap through which to watch her home recede into distance. The roses she'd tended were just visible, their petals drinking in the morning light. She remembered Jimin walking with her in the gardens, always in late afternoon, always in shadows. Had he been remembering his own mortal days, his own last moments in sunlight?

"The pattern was always the same," Rheinfeldt's voice carried from the front of the wagon. "Young women of good family, gradually weakening. Strange dreams, marks upon their breasts..."

But they were wrong about her, about all of it. She wasn't weakening - she was strengthening, changing, becoming something eternal. Each bump in the road made her more aware of how different her body felt. Her heartbeat had slowed to a rhythm as ancient as the earth itself. Colors seemed sharper, scents more intense, every sensation magnified to almost unbearable clarity.

The countryside rolled past in a blur of too-bright colors as (Y/n) drifted between memories of last night and awareness of what awaited them. She thought of Jimin's cool fingers in her hair, his tender touches, the way he'd looked at her in the blue room's shadows. Not a monster taking a victim, but a lover sharing his eternal gift.

"The crypt lies within consecrated ground," Rheinfeldt continued, shuffling through his papers. "An old monastery, long abandoned. They thought holy ground would contain him, but..."

(Y/n) pressed deeper into her blanket nest as the sun climbed higher. She could feel Jimin out there somewhere, moving through hidden paths toward the same destination. The marks on her throat and breast throbbed in time with her slowing pulse, calling her toward something vast and dark and eternal.

"All those girls," her father's voice cracked slightly. "Emma, Catherine, the others... How did we not see?"

But (Y/n)'s thoughts were only of Jimin - his perfect face in the blue room's mirrors, his cool weight above her, the exquisite moment when he'd made her his forever. Not victim and monster, but equals in transformation. How could she make them understand that what flowed through her veins now wasn't death, but a different kind of life?

The wagon rattled onward as morning stretched into afternoon. With each mile, (Y/n) felt herself slipping further from humanity. Sounds grew sharper - she could hear every creak of the wheels, every shift of the hunters' weapons. Scents became overwhelming - leather and wood, sweat and fear, and underneath it all, that sweet-decay perfume that meant Jimin was somewhere ahead, waiting.

The sun began its slow descent as dense forest closed in around them. Ancient trees blocked much of the painful light, their branches reaching across the road like grasping fingers. (Y/n) felt something pull at her blood, at the marks Jimin had left on her throat and breast. They were getting closer. Soon they would reach the crypt, and she would have to choose - the mortality they fought to preserve, or the dark eternity Jimin offered.

The thought of them destroying him made her chest ache with a pain that had nothing to do with transformation. They didn't understand what he was, what she was becoming. They saw only a monster who had to be stopped, not the beautiful, lonely creature who had finally found someone to share his endless night.

As the wagon wheels crunched onto different ground, (Y/n) dared to peek out from her blankets. Crumbling stone walls rose around them - the remains of the monastery Rheinfeldt had spoken of. Statues of saints, worn nearly featureless by time, watched their progress with blind eyes. Nature had begun reclaiming this sacred space - ivy crawled up weathered stone, tree roots burst through ancient paving stones, and moss carpeted what must once have been paths between buildings.

The wagon creaked to a stop in what had once been a courtyard. As her father helped her down, (Y/n) felt it - that pull in her blood growing stronger. Somewhere beneath these ruins, Jimin waited. And soon she would have to decide: the warm world of sunlight and mortality, or the eternal darkness of his love.

"Stay close," her father murmured, supporting her weight as the hunters began unloading their grim cargo. Crosses that made her eyes water, vials of water that seemed to ripple without being touched, wooden stakes carved with symbols she couldn't bear to look at directly.

But (Y/n)'s attention was elsewhere. Through her changed senses, she could feel Jimin's presence like a song in her blood. He was below them, in the crypt's endless darkness, waiting. Perhaps he already knew they had come. Perhaps he had always known how this would end.

"The entrance lies there," Rheinfeldt pointed toward a structure that seemed to grow out of the hillside itself. Unlike the monastery's slow decay above ground, this entrance appeared eerily well-preserved. Its heavy iron door gleamed as if recently tended, though that seemed impossible in such a forgotten place.

The hunters moved with practiced efficiency, checking weapons, conferring in low voices about approach and strategy. Her father had stepped away briefly to help Rheinfeldt with some ancient text, leaving her alone for the first time since they'd burst into the blue room.

(Y/n)'s eyes found a smaller path leading around the side of the ruined church. Overgrown with vines and shadow, it seemed to beckon her with promises of darker passages, hidden ways down to where Jimin waited. The pull in her blood grew stronger, urging her toward that secret route.

While the men were occupied with their preparations, she began to drift backward, one careful step at a time. The transformation had already changed her - her movements were silent now, graceful in a way that felt foreign yet natural. When she reached the shadow of a crumbling wall, no one had noticed her absence.

The hidden path led down through tangles of ancient roses, their blooms dark as wine. Their scent reminded her painfully of the black rose she'd found on Jimin's pillow that morning - had it only been that morning? It felt like lifetimes ago. Each step took her further from the hunters and closer to where she knew Jimin would be. The sweet-decay scent grew stronger, making her head swim with memories of the blue room, of his cool touches, of the moment he'd made her his forever.

A weathered door, half-hidden by ivy, opened at her touch. The passage beyond was dark, but her changed eyes pierced the shadows easily. Stone steps led down into earth that felt alive around her, the walls themselves seeming to pulse with centuries of dark magic.

Behind her, distantly, she heard her father's voice raised in alarm as they discovered her missing. But she was already descending, drawn forward by something stronger than family ties or mortal love. Each step took her closer to where she belonged - to cool arms that would hold her forever, to a darkness that felt more like home than sunlight ever had.

The passage twisted deeper, the air growing thick with that sweet-familiar scent that made her blood sing. Ancient carvings covered the walls - beautiful faces caught in eternal ecstasy or agony, it was impossible to tell which. The marks on her throat and breast throbbed stronger with each step, leading her toward their maker.

When the passage finally opened into a vast chamber, she knew she had found him. Mirrors hung between stone columns, their tarnished surfaces holding centuries of secrets. At the chamber's center stood what appeared to be an altar, but she knew it for what it truly was - his resting place, where he waited between hunting grounds, between loves that burned too bright and brief.

"I knew you would come alone."

Jimin's voice sent shivers down her spine - that same musical tone that had first enchanted her, though now it held edges of something darker, older. He emerged from the shadows as if he'd been formed from them, beautiful as ever in the chamber's eternal twilight.

"They're coming," she whispered, moving toward him as if drawn by invisible threads. "With stakes and crosses, holy water and ancient texts..."

"Let them come." His cool fingers found her face, traced the changes already visible in her features. "You're nearly complete, dear heart. The transformation almost finished." His other hand settled over the marks on her breast, making her gasp as sensation spiraled out from his touch. "Soon nothing they bring can harm you."

His touch felt different now - no longer the shocking contrast of cold against heat, but a perfect matching of temperature that made her realize how completely she had changed. When his arms drew her closer, it felt like coming home.

"I couldn't let them hurt you," she breathed against his chest, where those twin scars lay beneath his shirt - mirror images of the marks he'd left on her. "Not after... not when I understand now what this really is."

"And what is this?" he murmured into her hair, his fingers tracing patterns on her cooling skin. His voice held centuries of loneliness, of searching for someone who would understand, who would choose this darkness freely.

"Love," she answered simply, tilting her face up to his. "A different kind of love. The kind that transforms completely."

His hands cradled her face with impossible tenderness, thumbs tracing the new sharpness of her cheekbones. "How long I've waited," he breathed, his dark eyes holding centuries of loneliness. "How many lives I've lived, how many loves I've lost, searching for someone who would understand. Someone who would choose this freely."

The urgency of approaching footsteps faded away as he drew her closer. In that moment, there was only this - his cool skin perfect against hers, the sweet-decay scent surrounding them like a veil, the way the ancient mirrors caught and multiplied their reflection until it seemed a thousand versions of them stood locked in eternal embrace.

"I'm not afraid," Saffron whispered, her fingers finding the buttons of his shirt, tracing those twin scars above his heart. "Not of the darkness, not of forever. Not when it means being with you."

When his lips found hers, it was different from their kisses in the blue room. No more the thrilling contrast of cold and heat - now they matched perfectly, two pieces of the same eternal darkness. His mouth moved against hers with desperate tenderness, centuries of longing poured into a single kiss. She tasted forever on his tongue, tasted the sweetness of decay that had always surrounded him, understanding now that it was the flavor of transformation itself.

His hands tangled in her hair as the kiss deepened, grew more urgent. She could feel his hunger - not for blood now, but for connection, for someone who finally understood what it was to be both monster and lover, both predator and willing prey. When she gasped against his mouth, it wasn't from the cold of his touch but from the intensity of feeling completely, perfectly known.

"My heart," he breathed between kisses, his lips trailing fire-frost down her throat, lingering over the marks that bound them together. "My eternal love."

Above them, voices echoed down the proper passage. They had found her trail, would reach them soon. But in that moment, with Jimin's arms around her and eternity singing in her blood, Saffron found she couldn't fear what approached.

"They come to save you," Jimin murmured against her lips, though he made no move to release her from his embrace. "To return you to the sunlit world, to mortal days and human love." His fingers traced the marks on her throat with possessive tenderness. "As if you could ever go back now. As if you'd want to."

The voices grew closer, torch light beginning to flicker at the passage entrance. Saffron pressed herself closer to him, breathing in that sweet-decay scent that had become more precious than air. His cool hands slipped beneath her cloak, finding all the places he'd marked her as his own.

"There's still time," he whispered, though his grip tightened as if he couldn't bear to let her go. "Time to pretend this was all my doing, not your choice. They would believe it - that I enchanted you, corrupted you. You could return to your father's love, to gardens in daylight..."

"No," she caught his face between her hands, making him meet her gaze. In the ancient mirrors surrounding them, their reflection rippled like water - sometimes male and female, sometimes both, sometimes neither. All the faces he'd worn across centuries, all the loves he'd known and lost. "I choose this. I choose you."

His kiss turned desperate then, hungry with more than blood-need. She met his passion with her own, understanding now that this was what he'd been waiting for across centuries - not just a victim to feed upon, but someone to share his endless night. Someone who would want the darkness as much as he did.

"Saffron!" Her father's voice shattered their moment, echoing off ancient stone. "Dear God - get away from that monster!"

They broke apart slowly, reluctantly, though Jimin kept one arm around her waist. The hunters filed into the chamber, crosses raised, stakes ready. Her father's face transformed with horror as he saw how willingly she leaned into Jimin's embrace.

"Step away from him, child," Rheinfeldt commanded, his voice tight with barely contained fury. "Before it's too late."

"It was too late the moment I saw her," Jimin said softly, his cool fingers intertwining with hers. "Or perhaps the moment she saw me for what I truly was, and chose to love me anyway."

"She's enchanted," her father pleaded, taking a step forward. "Whatever hold you have on her-"

"No enchantment," Saffron interrupted, feeling Jimin's arm tighten protectively around her waist. "No thrall, no corruption. Every choice was mine." She touched the marks on her throat, watching her father flinch at the gesture. "From the first moment in the blue room, every surrender was willing."

The hunters spread out in a practiced formation, their crosses casting sacred light that made shadows dance across the ancient mirrors. But Saffron noticed something strange - the holy symbols that had burned her eyes in the wagon now seemed to hold no power. The transformation was complete, then. She was truly his.

"Like my Bertha," Rheinfeldt's voice cracked with rage and grief. "She grew weaker each day, speaking of strange dreams she could barely remember. A beautiful visitor in the night - we didn't understand until it was too late. Until she was gone."

"Yes," Jimin acknowledged softly. "She was sustenance, like the others before her. I won't deny my nature, or the lives I've taken." His arms tightened around Saffron. "But this... this is different. For the first time in centuries, I chose to reveal myself fully. To walk in twilight rather than just shadow."

"You're a creature who feeds on innocent girls," Rheinfeldt snarled. "Who drained my daughter in her sleep while she thought she was merely dreaming!"

"I am what I am," Jimin replied, no denial in his voice. "A predator, yes. A hunter of mortal life. But Saffron..." His cool fingers traced her face with a tenderness that belied his deadly nature. "She is the first I've wanted beside me in this eternal night. The first to know me fully, to choose this darkness freely."

"Choose?" Her father's voice broke on the word. "You've been planning this since she was a child! That first night visit years ago - you marked her then, didn't you? Chose her to be your victim?"

"I marked her as mine, yes," Jimin admitted. "But I returned to claim her as an equal, not just feed. For the first time in centuries, I wanted more than simple sustenance. I wanted..." His eyes met Saffron's with ancient longing. "I wanted someone to share this endless night."

"Spread out," Rheinfeldt commanded the hunters, his voice hard with purpose. "Remember your training. The crosses will weaken him, but only the stake will end this."

The hunters moved with practiced efficiency, forming a circle around the lovers. Their torches cast wild shadows across the ancient mirrors, making it seem as if dozens of copies of Jimin and Saffron were trapped within the tarnished glass.

The sweet-decay scent grew stronger as Jimin tensed behind her. She could feel something building in the air - a power older than the stones around them, something dark and hungry awakening. The shadows between the columns began to move in ways shadows shouldn't.

"Last chance, child," Rheinfeldt warned, raising his own stake. "Step aside."

But Saffron stayed where she was, arms spread to shield Jimin, though she felt him trying to pull her behind him. "I won't let you hurt him."

"Then you leave us no choice." Rheinfeldt's face hardened. "On my signal-"

The chamber suddenly plunged into darkness as every torch extinguished simultaneously. In the chaos that followed, Saffron felt Jimin's cool hands grasp her waist, spinning her away from the hunters' blind strikes. His lips found her ear in the perfect darkness.

"Trust me?" he whispered.

The absolute darkness held no secrets from her changed eyes. She could see everything with perfect clarity - the hunters stumbling with their useless torches, her father's desperate face as he called her name, Rheinfeldt trying to maintain formation despite the chaos.

"Always," she breathed back to Jimin, feeling his arms tighten around her.

The shadows themselves seemed to come alive, flowing like liquid darkness around them. Jimin's cool lips found hers in a desperate kiss as the chamber's ancient mirrors began to shatter one by one, their breaking a symphony of destruction that echoed off stone walls.

"No!" Her father's voice cracked with terror. "Saffron!"

But she was already moving with Jimin, his grace becoming hers as they danced between the hunters' blind strikes. Each broken mirror seemed to release more darkness into the chamber, until the very air felt thick with shadow. The sweet-decay scent that always surrounded him grew overwhelming, making everything feel dreamlike yet terribly real.

"The entrance!" Rheinfeldt shouted. "Don't let them reach-"

His words cut off as more mirrors shattered, their breaking glass a terrible music. Saffron felt Jimin guiding her toward something - not the passage she'd entered through, but another way, hidden behind centuries of shadow and secret.

"I won't let them take you from me," he whispered against her hair as they moved. "Not now. Not ever."

The passage twisted deeper, each step taking them further underground. But Saffron began to notice something changing in Jimin's movements - a growing heaviness, a reluctance in his perfect grace.

"The sun," he murmured, his voice tight with ancient compulsion. "Dawn approaches. I can feel it, even this far below."

She understood then - why he hadn't simply fled the monastery, why this hidden passage led down rather than out. Like in all the old tales, he was bound to his resting place during daylight hours. The transformation in her blood wasn't complete enough yet to save him from this curse.

"Here," he said finally, as the passage opened into a smaller chamber. Unlike the ceremonial tomb above, this space felt truly ancient. A stone sarcophagus lay at its center, its surface worn smooth by centuries. This wasn't for show or ceremony - this was where he truly slept between nights, between hunts, between loves.

"I cannot fight it," he whispered, his movements becoming more sluggish as dawn's power reached even here. "The sun calls me to sleep, as it has for centuries."

Behind them, the hunters' voices grew closer. They knew these passages too - some ancient knowledge passed down through generations of those who hunted his kind.

"The sun," Jimin whispered, his legs buckling as dawn's ancient power reached even these depths. "I can't..." For the first time, she saw real fear in those eternal eyes - not fear of death, but fear of leaving her.

"Then we face it together," Saffron said softly, supporting his weight. The stone sarcophagus waited before them, its surface worn smooth by centuries of use. When she pushed against the heavy lid, it moved as easily as the blue room's curtains had once done.

Jimin looked up at her with something like wonder, even as the dawn's power pulled at him. "You would choose this? An eternity of darkness, of daylight deaths, just to stay with me?"

"I chose you the moment I let you into my room," she whispered, helping him toward his resting place. The silk-lined interior seemed to welcome them both, as if it had been waiting for this moment across centuries. "Every step since then has led to this."

His cool fingers found her face, tracing its changed features with desperate tenderness. "So many years," he breathed, pulling her down with him into the sarcophagus's embrace. "So many loves lost to time. I never dared hope..." His voice caught as she settled against him, her head finding that perfect place over his heart. "Never dared dream someone would choose to share this curse freely."

"Not a curse," she murmured, feeling his arms tighten around her as dawn's power grew stronger. "A different kind of love. The kind that transforms completely." Her fingers found the buttons of his shirt, seeking those twin scars above his heart - mirror images of the marks he'd left on her breast. "The kind that lasts forever."

"My heart," he breathed against her hair, his perfect features already taking on that death-like stillness. But his embrace remained strong, possessive, eternal. "My love... my everything..."

The sweet-decay scent that had always surrounded him enveloped them both now, roses on the edge of transformation. She felt her own body beginning to respond to dawn's approach, that same ancient sleep calling to her changed blood. It should have frightened her, this descent into temporary death, but in his arms it felt right. Perfect. Inevitable.

"Every dawn," Jimin murmured, his fingers threading through her hair even as the sun's distant power made his movements slower. "Every dawn for eternity, we'll sleep like this. No more solitary deaths, no more waking alone." His cool lips found her forehead, lingering there. "You've ended centuries of loneliness with a single choice."

Their bodies fit together perfectly in the silk-lined space, as if his resting place had been waiting for her all along. She could feel his heart slowing beneath her cheek, matching rhythm with her own as dawn approached. The sweet-decay scent surrounded them like a veil, making everything feel dreamlike yet achingly real.

"I love you," she whispered against his chest, where those ancient scars lay. "Beyond death, beyond daylight, beyond everything they think they know about monsters and victims." Her fingers traced patterns on his cooling skin. "I choose this. Choose you. For every dawn, every dusk, every eternal moment between."

His arms tightened around her with desperate possession. "My heart," he breathed, voice growing fainter as the sun's power pulled at them both. "My eternal love..." His perfect features were taking on that death-like stillness, but his eyes still held hers with centuries of longing finally fulfilled.

"Here!" Rheinfeldt's voice echoed distantly, torchlight spilling into their sanctuary. But Saffron could barely keep her eyes open now, the daylight's power drawing her down into that strange sleep alongside her love.

"Together," Jimin whispered, his last word before dawn claimed him completely. She felt his arms lock around her, ensuring that even in death-sleep, they wouldn't be separated.

The last thing she saw was her father's face, transformed by horror as he realized what she'd become, what she'd chosen. But she couldn't bring herself to regret, not with Jimin's eternal embrace holding her as they descended together into daylight's dark dreams.

The torchlight cast wild shadows as the hunters crowded into the chamber, their crosses and stakes at the ready. But they hesitated at the sight before them - not a monster and his victim, but two lovers entwined in death-like sleep, their faces bearing identical expressions of perfect peace.

"Dear God," her father whispered, the stake trembling in his grip. "Saffron..."

"She's chosen to join him in his curse," Rheinfeldt said grimly, though something like pity crossed his weathered features. "Look how she lies with him - not in thrall, but in love."

Their bodies were intertwined intimately in the silk-lined sarcophagus - Saffron's dark hair spilled across Jimin's chest, his arms locked around her in eternal protection, their faces close as if they'd been sharing secrets when dawn took them. Even in death-sleep, his grip on her remained possessive, ensuring nothing could separate them.

"We must end this," one of the hunters urged, raising his stake. "Before nightfall-"

"Wait," her father stepped forward, reaching a trembling hand toward his daughter's face. But he pulled back before touching her, seeing how perfectly she matched Jimin's ethereal stillness. "She's smiling. Even in this cursed sleep, she's smiling."

Indeed, both their faces held expressions of profound peace - no sign of the monster he'd been hunting, no trace of the innocent girl they'd come to save. Just two eternal lovers, finally united after centuries of searching.

Yes, let me move us toward the ending. Let's maintain the emotional weight while bringing it to its conclusion:

"She's my daughter," her father whispered, moving closer to the sarcophagus despite the hunters' warnings. "My little girl who loved roses and poetry. Who blushed at dinner parties and dreamed of romance." His hand hovered over her peaceful face. "And now look - she's found a love so consuming she'd choose eternal darkness for it."

"A cursed love," Rheinfeldt reminded him, but his voice held more sorrow than rage now. "No matter how beautiful it appears."

The hunters readied their stakes again, but with visible reluctance. The scene before them defied everything they'd been taught about the monsters they hunted. Jimin's eternal face showed only love as he held Saffron, his entire body curved around her protectively even in death-sleep. Her hand still rested over his heart, where those twin scars lay beneath his shirt - mirror images of the marks he'd left on her.

"The sun climbs higher," one hunter warned. "If we're to act, it must be now."

Her father straightened suddenly, something resolute crossing his features. "No."

"What?" Rheinfeldt stepped forward. "You can't mean to-"

"Look at them," her father gestured to the eternal lovers. "Really look. My daughter made her choice. For the first time in his centuries of existence, he revealed himself fully to someone. Offered transformation instead of just taking life." His voice caught. "Who are we to destroy a love strong enough to transform death itself?"

Silence fell in the ancient chamber as the hunters looked between themselves, stakes lowering one by one. Even Rheinfeldt seemed to deflate, years of vengeful purpose draining away as he watched how tenderly Jimin held Saffron in their shared sleep.

"Then we seal this place," Rheinfeldt finally said. "Let them have their eternal love, but contained where they can harm no others. It's... it's more mercy than I ever thought to show such a creature."

Her father stepped forward one last time, looking down at his daughter's peaceful face. He withdrew something from his coat - her mother's rosary, worn smooth by years of prayers. With trembling fingers, he placed it in the sarcophagus beside them.

"For whatever peace it might bring you, my daughter," he whispered. "In whatever eternal life you've chosen."

The hunters worked efficiently but quietly, as if hesitant to disturb the lovers' rest. Ancient stone groaned as they sealed the chamber's entrance, ensuring no mortal would stumble upon this sanctuary of eternal love. The last torch light caught Jimin and Saffron's still faces, casting them in a golden glow before darkness claimed the chamber completely.

As sunset approached, color began returning to their still forms. Jimin woke first, his eternal eyes opening to the perfect darkness of their sanctuary. His first conscious thought was surprise - he had expected stakes, not survival. His arms tightened instinctively around Saffron as she stirred against his chest.

"We're alive," she whispered, her transformed vision adjusting to the darkness that would now be their eternal home. Her fingers found something beside them - cool beads worn smooth by years of devotion. "My father's... my mother's rosary."

Jimin's cool fingers traced her face in the darkness. "They chose mercy," he said softly, wonder in his ancient voice. "In all my centuries, I've never known hunters to..."

"They saw our love for what it truly was," Saffron touched the rosary again, feeling the weight of her father's final blessing. "Not a curse or a corruption, but a choice. A transformation." She lifted her face to his in the perfect dark. "Our eternal choice."

The sealed chamber held no terror for them now - it was their sanctuary, their palace of shadows. Somewhere far above, her father and the hunters were sealing them away from the mortal world. But here in the darkness, Jimin's cool lips found hers with centuries of longing finally fulfilled.

"Every sunset," he whispered against her mouth. "Every sunset for eternity, we'll wake like this. Together."

The sweet-decay scent filled their sanctuary as they held each other in the perfect darkness, the rosary a reminder of both what they'd left behind and what they'd gained. Above them, they could hear the hunters at work - stone grinding against stone as they sealed the chamber.

"Listen," Jimin murmured, his fingers threading through her hair. "They build our eternal home." There was still wonder in his voice, as if he couldn't quite believe the mercy they'd been shown. "No more hunting in shadows, no more solitary dawns."

Saffron touched the rosary once more, imagining her father placing it beside them while they slept. Such a human gesture of love, a blessing for an inhuman existence. "He understood, in the end," she whispered. "They all did."

Her father's voice drifted down to them as the final stones were moved into place: "What do we tell the household?"

"The truth," they heard him say, his words carrying a father's grief and acceptance. "That love transformed her completely. That she chose an eternal night with him over all our mortal days."

The last echoes of movement faded above them as the hunters completed their work. The chamber settled into its perpetual darkness, but neither of them feared it now. This was their realm, their paradise of shadow.

Jimin drew her closer in the darkness, his cool lips finding the marks on her throat that had sealed their eternal bond. The chamber that should have been their tomb had become their sanctuary instead, blessed by her father's final gift and the hunters' unexpected mercy.

"Dance with me," he whispered, pulling her to her feet in their perfect darkness. "Let's celebrate our first sunset of forever."

As they moved together, their steps echoing off ancient stone, her father's final words seemed to linger in the air - that love had transformed her completely, that she had chosen eternal night over mortal days. The rosary lay on their silk-lined resting place, a bridge between the world they'd left and the eternity they'd chosen.

Some say that on certain nights, when the moon is full and roses bloom their darkest, beautiful music can be heard drifting up from beneath the monastery ruins. Perhaps it's just the wind in ancient stones, or perhaps it's two eternal lovers dancing in their sanctuary of shadows, celebrating a love that defied both death and daylight.

In gardens nearby, roses grow wild and untamed, their petals darker than any natural bloom. Their sweet-decay perfume serves as a reminder of two souls who chose to transform death itself with the power of their love - a predator who learned to love truly, and a girl who chose darkness freely, dancing together through their eternal night.