𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐔𝐧𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐨𝐟 𝐀𝐠𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐚 𝐇𝐚𝐫𝐤𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐬
Agatha Harkness x Rio Vidal
Word count: 4,841
Summary: Agatha finds her brooch, and sees someone who is incapable of death.
(Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - /?)
Warnings: cursing, angst, scars, burn scars, toxic relationship, agony, needles.
A/N: Chapter twooooo
𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟐 ꧁𝐀𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐮𝐬 𝐓𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐬꧂
Agatha’s thoughts churn like a storm. She’s barely keeping her fury in check, her chest rising and falling with ragged breaths, her nails digging into her palms. It's been a few hours since she first came. It’s been nothing but silence from everyone. And Agatha reckons that she's the reason why. They seem close to each other. More or less. Agatha has not yet told them her name, (though she learned there's against her will), her name normally evokes fear into those who hear it. Agatha wants to use that to her advantage. She’ll use her name as a ticket, if anyone decides to fuck with her, she’ll announce who she is. Because Agatha is the only one in this room who doesn't have any magic. She doesn't know what they are capable of.
Agatha glances around the room, noticing how small it actually is. Agatha has always despised being in cramped spaces with too many people. It’s like the walls are closing in, making it impossible to breathe. Her mind drifts to Evanora, who once exploited that very weakness.
She tries to focus, but her thoughts keep circling back to the conversation she had with Alice. Anonymous Adversaries. She’d already known they were bad news, but hearing Alice explain their true nature had confirmed one thing: Agatha is in deep shit.
They aren’t just some rogue group of witches—they’re a cult. A twisted, fanatical coven that thrives on experimentation, constantly testing the boundaries of magic, pushing witches to their limits to discover new powers. But that’s not the worst part. No, what makes Agatha’s skin crawl is the way they worship their work. It’s not just experimentation—it’s ritual, obsession. Jennifer had said they have altars. Many altars. The word alone sent a shiver down Agatha’s spine.
She’s dealt with cultish witches before—drained them dry, in fact—but these people are something else entirely. They take blood magic to a new level, a grotesque devotion to the craft. And to make things worse, the Witches' Council condones it, lets them carry on their horrific work without consequence. Agatha always loathed the Council. She’s kept her distance from them, preferring to live by her own rules, far from the grip of so-called "authority." She always figured they’d leave her alone as long as she left them alone. That’s probably why she never heard of the AA—as the boy calls them.
Agatha sits on the cold white tiles, her knees pulled up to her chest, the coolness of the wall pressing against her back. She’s trying to think, but the oppressive heat and the weight of the situation gnaw at her. Her piercing blue eyes flicker to the others in the room.
The boy named… she cant remember, she’ll call him Tenn she suppouses. Teen sits cross-legged on the floor, his shoulders slumped with exhaustion. He looks like he hasn’t slept in days. He has dark circles under his eyes, his deep brown eyes are like voids. Scars snake up his hands and forearms—burn scars, twisted and discolored, as though he’s been through something unspeakable. He absently picks at them, his expression dark, eyes filled with a hatred Agatha knows all too well. It’s the kind of hatred that festers, the kind that rots you from the inside out.
Alice is standing, her eyes are closed, her head is tilted back against the cold wall, she looks awake. Her arms are crossed. There aren't any visible scars on her. Agatha wonders how all the witches got here. Not that she cares enough to ask, but it crosses her mind. For now? She has bigger questions.
Lilia perches on the edge of the bunk bed, her posture alert but weary. Agatha notices scars lining her palms, and a thin, deep slit on her neck—healed, but unmistakable. More signs of what these people have endured. Each scar tells a story, but Agatha doesn’t care to hear them. She’s not here to make friends, and trust is a currency she’s unwilling to spend.
Jennifer is sprawled on the top bunk, her long limbs hanging lazily over the edge, like she owns the place. Agitation simmers in the room, but she seems almost… relaxed. Bored, if anything. Agatha's eyes flicker toward her, narrowing with disdain. Jennifer has a small scar on her jaw—barely noticeable, unlike the jagged marks that mar the other witches. But there’s something about her that grates on Agatha's nerves. Maybe it's her overconfidence, the way she exudes this casual arrogance, like nothing and no one here can touch her. It pisses Agatha off.
Jennifer is fidgeting with something—her fingers twisting a small object over and over. A glint catches Agatha’s eye.
Agatha’s heart stumbles. Her hand flies to her chest in a panic. Her brooch. It's gone.
Her breath quickens as her hands frantically pat down her body, searching every pocket, every fold in the thin hospital gown she’s wearing. Cold dread sinks into her stomach as her fingers meet nothing but fabric. She feels exposed, vulnerable.
She stands up and spins in place, eyes darting around the room like a caged animal searching for a way out.
Alice pushes off the wall, her expression a mix of confusion and concern. She glances at Jennifer, who’s finally sat up, her brows raising as she watches Agatha lose control.
“Uhm… Is she… okay?” Jennifer asks. She swings her legs over the bunk and hops down. “She can’t already be going crazy, can she?” Her tone is mocking, but Agatha doesn’t care. Her chest tightens with fury as she searches the floor.
“Ughhh, where is the damn thing!” Agatha snarls through gritted teeth, her frustration boiling over. She drops to her knees, clawing at the cold tile beneath the bed, throwing the thin mattress aside. Her fingers scrape the floor, searching for something—anything.
Finally, she snaps her gaze toward the others, her blue eyes wild with rage. “Do any of you have it?” Her voice is low and dangerous, a growl of pure venom.
Jennifer scoffs, crossing her arms. “We don’t even know what you’re looking for, smartass. Maybe give us a clue instead of throwing accusations around.” She gestures to the witches.
Agatha’s eyes flash with something murderous. Before she can launch herself at Jennifer, Alice steps between them, holding up her hands in a gesture of peace. “Alright, alright, let’s just—calm down, everyone,” Alice says quickly, trying to defuse the tension before it explodes.
Agatha ignores her. Her eyes lock onto the boy—Teen, she thinks, but she doesn’t care enough to remember his name. He hasn’t moved from his spot on the cold floor, his thin body hunched in a miserable huddle. His eyes are wide, filled with alarm.
“You,” Agatha spits, her voice cutting through the room like a whip.
The boy glances up, startled, his pale face growing paler. “M-me?” His voice is a shaky whisper.
“Who the fuck else?” Agatha’s words are laced with venom, her hands clenching into fists as she stalks toward him. She crosses the room in quick, furious strides, her face twisted in a snarl. Without warning, she grabs him by the shoulders and slams him against the wall, her nails digging into his flesh. He yelps in pain, his breath hitching as she lifts him up, pinning him there with a strength that seems impossible for her slender frame.
The boy’s breathing becomes ragged, his eyes wide with fear, but there’s a flicker of something else there—determination, maybe defiance, but weak and trembling under the weight of her fury.
“You were looking awfully suspicious over here, kiddo,” Agatha hisses, her face inches from his. “Got anything that doesn’t belong to you?” She gives him another shove against the wall, her fingers tightening. His skin is cold and clammy under her touch.
“Where is it?!” Agatha roars, shaking him roughly.
"Get off him, you bitch, he's just a child!" Lilia shouts, her voice shaking with anger. “He didn’t steal whatever—"
Before she can finish, the boy—his jaw clenched tight, his body trembling with a mix of fear and defiance—interrupts. "Fine. Do you want it? Have it." His voice is sharp, laced with bitter resentment. Reaching into the pocket of his hospital gown, he pulls out Agatha’s brooch and, with a flick of his wrist, throws it across the room. The small, silver artifact arcs through the air, clattering against the white wall with a dull thud before dropping to the floor.
Agatha immediately releases him, her grip loosening as she bolts for the brooch. Her heart pounds as she reaches it, hands trembling slightly as she picks it up, inspecting it with sharp eyes. It’s intact, untouched, thanks to the centuries-old protection spell she wove into its metal long ago. A flood of relief washes over her as she cradles it close to her chest, her eyes falling shut for a moment. Her magic, her essence, lies within this object. Losing it would’ve been catastrophic.
Breathing in deeply, Agatha opens her eyes and slowly turns to face the others. She catches the looks they give her. Alice’s face is twisted in fury, her fists clenched at her sides. Jennifer wears an expression of mock offense, though her narrowed eyes show a sliver of disdain. Lilia’s gaze is one of disappointment, her lips pressed into a thin line as she crosses her arms. And the boy—Teen—is rubbing his arm where she had gripped him, the bruising already visible on his pale skin.
For a moment, the weight of her actions lingers in the air like static. Agatha sees the mark she left on him, the way he winces when his fingers brush the bruise. She knows she was rougher than she intended, but the sight doesn’t move her. If anything, it reinforces her superiority—he should’ve known better than to take what was hers.
Clearing her throat, Agatha stands tall, flipping her dark hair back over her proud shoulders. Her posture straightens, regal and unyielding, her chin lifting as if to remind them all who she is. The momentary vulnerability she felt is gone, replaced by her usual arrogance.
“It’s bad form to take something that’s not yours… Teen,” she says, her voice dripping with condescension. Her cold, blue eyes lock on his, daring him to challenge her again.
He scoffs, a hint of anger flashing in his gaze. "My name is—"
Agatha cuts him off with a dismissive wave of her hand. “Like I give a shit, dear.” Her eyes roll, the conversation already beneath her.
Agatha sits on the cold, hard floor of their shared cage, the only sound in the room the faint, rhythmic breathing of the others as they sleep. Whoever runs this hellhole has turned off the lights for the night, casting the room in thick, oppressive darkness. According to Lilia, this is routine. But Agatha can’t sleep—won’t sleep—not here, not surrounded by strangers.
The bunk beds, big enough to cram two or three people per level, are all occupied. Alice, always on edge, sleeps lightly beside Jennifer, whose chest rises and falls steadily. The woman sleeps as if nothing could possibly disturb her—a dreamless, peaceful slumber. Lilia, on the bottom bunk, shares her space with the boy—Teen, Agatha still hasn’t learned his name. He’s curled up tightly, shivering even beneath the blankets. His face is scrunched up in distress, his body trembling faintly with each breath.
Agatha tilts her head, watching him for a moment, curiosity flickering through her mind. What’s he dreaming about? Is it something that happened to him here? Or somewhere else? She had almost forgotten—these witches had lives before being captured. They weren’t born in this cage like prisoners of fate. The thought strikes her as odd; she hasn’t considered them as anything other than pawns in the same twisted game she’s been thrown into.
Her contemplation is interrupted by a soft voice from the darkness.
“Shouldn’t you be sleeping, dearie?” Lilia asks, her voice groggy but alert. Agatha flinches, not having noticed Lilia’s eyes were open, faintly glowing as they peer through the shadows. Lilia lies just below Teen, her head tilted slightly, her gaze fixated on Agatha. Even in the dark, she feels those eyes boring into her, weighing her.
Agatha quickly recovers, scoffing lightly as she presses a hand to her chest in mock offense. “Are you implying… I can’t have my own sleep schedule?” she quips, her tone dripping with sarcasm, her words meant to deflect.
Lilia lets out a small sigh. “You have insomnia too?”
Agatha pauses. She hadn’t thought about it like that. “No,” she says, her voice thoughtful, almost distant. “I’m not an insomniac. I’m... nocturnal.” There’s a smirk in her voice, the faintest trace of humor as she remembers the spell she cast on herself decades ago. The enchantment allowed her to survive on less sleep, so she could study and practice magic uninterrupted, without the constraints of time. Ah, the efficiency... But now, in this cage, without her magic—without her freedom—it’s a cruel irony.
Gods, how she misses the escape of sleep.
Lilia chuckles softly, a sound so foreign in this place that it takes Agatha by surprise. For a moment, Agatha’s brow furrows, her mind reeling at how strange it feels to hear someone laugh at her joke—at her—after all these years. She pushes the thought aside, unwilling to dwell on it.
“So,” Agatha says, her voice lowering as she shifts slightly on the floor. “How long have you been in this place? You all seem to, uh, have a story.” Her tone is casual, but there’s a clear implication in her words. She’s referring to the scars, the bruises, the broken parts of these witches that she can see even in the dim light.
Lilia falls silent for a moment, the weight of Agatha’s question hanging in the air between them. She seems to understand what Agatha is really asking.
“...Everyone in this place has their ‘stories’,” Lilia finally replies, her voice soft but tinged with a quiet bitterness. It’s a truth that doesn’t need elaboration; the scars, both seen and unseen, speak for themselves.
Agatha clenches her jaw, her fingers absently tracing the edges of her mother’s brooch, the familiar weight grounding her, even here. Her mind races, but she tries to appear calm. She’s always been curious, but the question that escapes her lips surprises even her.
"...What happened to the kid?" Her voice is rough, raspier than usual. She isn’t used to caring about other people’s stories, but something about the boy… it nags at her. Maybe it’s the scars, or the way he seems haunted, as if he's already been through hell despite his youth.
Lilia doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, the silence stretches on, heavy and uncomfortable. Finally, she sighs softly. “...I don't know. It's not something that's easily brought up, for any of us. He doesn’t want to talk about it. We don’t.”
Agatha hums, though the sound is more out of habit than genuine interest. That was a buzzkill, she thinks. The mystery will remain, at least for now. Maybe one day, she’ll find out what broke the boy so badly. But today isn't that day. She doesn’t care enough to dig deeper—not yet.
She shifts on the cold tile, her body tense from sitting on the floor for so long. That’s when it happens.
A strange, electric sensation starts crawling over her skin, creeping through her limbs like pins and needles. It feels like a slow burn at first, but then—then it gets sharper. Hotter. Lighter.
Agatha's breath catches in her throat, her pulse quickening. Her eyes snap wide, panic settling in her gut like lead.
It’s unmistakable. Magic. But not hers. She’d know her own magic anywhere, would recognize its feel, its signature. This? This is foreign. Yet… Familiar.
The air around her pulses with it, vibrating as if the magic is alive. She scans the room frantically, her gaze darting from one sleeping figure to the next. None of them are awake, none of them are casting.
Her body starts to tremble, the tingling sensation growing, overtaking her muscles. Her legs feel weightless, her arms too light to be real. Fucking hell, her mind swears, but her voice is lost. She gasps for breath, her mouth slightly ajar, sucking in air that feels too thick, too hot.
Lilia watches from the bunk, her eyes barely visible in the dim light but unmistakably wide. “Well, shit,” she mutters, her voice rough with surprise.
Agatha whips her head toward Lilia, desperation clear in her eyes. “Whose magic is this?!” she hisses, her voice trembling along with her limbs.
Lilia’s eyes narrow, scanning the room like a predator sensing danger, her expression unreadable. “Someone is—”
But before she can finish, everything around Agatha explodes into a bright, searing green light.
The room vanishes. The witches vanish. Reality warps and bends, and Agatha is swallowed by the overwhelming rush of magic. It surges through her body, pulling her under like a tidal wave she can’t escape. Every muscle locks, her vision distorts, and her mind plunges into darkness.
Agatha’s eyes flutter open, her vision swimming through a haze of confusion and dull pain. Her head feels like it’s been filled with lead, every blink heavier than the last. The lights around her are mercifully dim—nothing like the blinding fluorescence from before. But something about the darkened room gnaws at her nerves. As her vision sharpens, a sinking realization hits.
Her wrists and ankles are strapped to a cold metal chair, and as soon as she tries to pull against them, the restraints bite into her skin. Panic flares for a moment as she jerks, trying to break free, but the leather straps hold firm. She groans in frustration, her pulse quickening as she frantically assesses her surroundings.
How the fuck does she keep getting caught in these situations? Two hundred years ago, things weren’t this complicated. But now—now it feels like she's constantly being caged. The room around her is shrouded in shadows, but she can make out just enough in the dim light. And what she sees sends a chill crawling up her spine.
The place reeks of dark magic.
Every surface is cluttered with strange plants, vials filled with glowing liquids, lanterns, herbs she recognizes, and bones—scattered, hanging, arranged in ritualistic patterns. It’s almost a mirror of her lair. The air is thick with the familiar scent of earth and decay. It makes her stomach turn. She shudders. This is the kind of place she would have crafted for herself. Hell, it smells like Rio’s lair.
She lets out a bitter laugh, her dry lips curling into a sneer. "Fuck..."
A sharp ache blooms in her leg, radiating from the bandaged wound. Agatha grits her teeth, stifling the groan that tries to escape her throat. The pain is real, tangible, and it's getting worse. But she’s dealt with worse. She always has.
“Riiiiiiooooooo,” Agatha drawls, her voice dripping with mockery as her head swivels around, eyes narrowing, searching the shadows. She knows exactly whose magic has her trapped here. She feels it in her bones. “I know you’re in here, sweetcheeks.” Agatha licks her lips, her voice low and taunting. “Come out, come out, wherever you are…”
The taunt hangs in the air, but her confidence falters when a sharp pulse of pain rips through her leg. "Fuck..." She mutters under her breath, biting down on her lip hard enough to draw blood. The copper taste grounds her, keeps her steady. She won’t give Rio the satisfaction of seeing her in pain.
She glances up, her eyes sweeping over the room—and then she freezes.
Rio stands just beyond the shadows, her silhouette sharp and striking, her presence almost suffocating in its intensity. The soft light catches on her tan skin, glowing with a warmth that Agatha both loathes and craves. Her dark hair cascades down her shoulders, disheveled but somehow perfect in its imperfection. Agatha’s eyes narrow, hatred and desire swirling in a volatile mix as they meet Rio’s.
That condescending, amused smirk curls Rio’s lips, like she’s toying with Agatha, like she’s already won. Agatha’s pulse quickens for entirely different reasons now. She wants to rip that smug look off Rio’s face with her teeth, wants to splatter her skin with blood and magic. But just as much (maybe more), she wants to grab Rio by the hair and kiss her until neither of them can breathe.
Rio stands before Agatha like a haunting specter of the past, exuding effortless confidence. Her black leggings cling to her legs, streaked with earthy brown lines that start from her torso and stop just shy of her thighs—one of those small, stylish touches that could only be Rio. She’s wearing one of her custom tops, the intricate pattern running down her sides almost distracting in its beauty. And over it all, the jacket—tailored, fitted, and distinctively hers. But it’s the dagger in her hand that steals Agatha’s attention.
Rio tosses it into the air, and the blade catches the dim light from the nearby lanterns, a deadly glint flashing for just a moment before it drops back into her grasp. The ease with which she moves, the fluidity—it’s mesmerizing.
Agatha clenches her jaw at the absurd thought, suppressing the heat rising in her cheeks. She would never admit such a thing, not even under torture. But there’s no denying it—Rio looks as sharp and lethal as ever.
"What the fuck are you doing here?" Agatha seethes internally. Rio isn’t someone who gets tangled up in cults. Agatha knows her ex-wife too well for that. There’s always a larger game being played, especially when Rio is involved.
Suddenly, Rio’s voice cuts through the air, low and teasing, dripping with that familiar taunt. "Oye, mami, mierda, parece que tuviste un mal día."
Agatha scoffs, hating the way her body reacts to the sound of that voice, the heat crawling up her neck. She growls in response, masking the fluster with defiance. “What are you doing here, Rio? Didn’t take you for the cult type.”
Rio shrugs with a careless, almost feline grace, her movements slow and deliberate as she crosses the room. “I’m not.” Her voice is thick with amusement as she leans against a cluttered table, casually twirling the dagger. “But what better way to get fresh bodies than to infiltrate a witching cult obsessed with witches? You’d be surprised at the number of souls I’ve led out of here.”
Agatha sneers, her lip curling. “So what, you just lie around all day, waiting for your precious bodies to roll in?”
Rio’s chuckle is soft but dangerous as she flips her hair over her shoulder with a practiced ease that only Agatha would recognize. She used to do that. She still does that. Rio had picked it up from her. The small detail makes Agatha’s stomach twist.
“Nope. I’ll have you know I’m their doctor.” Rio says with a smirk, her dark eyes gleaming. “I heal their… patients, injuries. Sometimes.” There’s an unmistakable pride in her voice, a kind of twisted joy in her role here, as though her hands play both healer and executioner.
Agatha’s eyes narrow as she watches Rio slip on some surgical gloves, her focus shifting to the collection of vials and potions scattered across it. Each one is strange, glowing, and undoubtedly dangerous. Agatha’s heart races as she takes in the scene, her mind spinning with every possibility.
“What… what are you looking for?” Agatha asks, her voice betraying a touch of wariness. She won’t show fear. She refuses. But Rio knows her too well—knows every crack in her armor.
Rio hums absentmindedly, sorting through the vials with casual indifference. “Oh, nothing much.” Her fingers glide over the glass, pausing before plucking a glowing green vial from the assortment. “Aha!” She holds it up triumphantly, her eyes flickering with mischief.
Agatha’s throat tightens as she watches Rio pick up a syringe from the table, extracting the glowing liquid with expert precision. The green substance swirls inside the syringe like poison, and Agatha feels a spike of panic claw at her chest.
“Rio…” Her voice cracks, her earlier bravado starting to slip. Agatha yanks at her restraints again, her muscles burning with effort as adrenaline surges through her. She pulls harder, her body thrumming with fight-or-flight urgency, but the bonds don’t give. Fear starts to creep in, a feeling she thought long buried.
Rio glances at her, amused. "Nuh uh, mami," she says with a soft tsk. "Te lastimarás si sigues tirando. No tardará mucho, te lo prometo."
Agatha’s snarl echoes through the dim room. “¡Aléjame esa mierda misteriosa!” she shouts, her voice raw as she yanks against the restraints, pain shooting through her wrists as the leather bites into her skin.
Rio's expression shifts, softening in a way that’s almost disarming when Agatha speaks Spanish. It’s a language they used to share—intimate, once. “I’ll be gentle, mami,” Rio purrs, kneeling between Agatha’s legs, her presence suffocating in its intensity. Each of Agatha’s ankles is bound to a chair leg, leaving her vulnerable, utterly at Rio’s mercy. Agatha thrashes, but the restraints hold tight, offering no escape.
Rio’s free hand reaches up, fingers brushing the side of Agatha’s face with an unexpected tenderness. She tilts Agatha’s head back, exposing her neck with an air of quiet reverence. “Perfection,” Rio murmurs, her voice low, a hushed, almost sacred tone that sends a shiver down Agatha’s spine.
Agatha's breath catches at the sound of Rio's praise, a knot of emotion twisting deep inside her, but she quickly shakes it off, refusing to let Rio get inside her head.
The needle hovers over her skin, poised and ready. Agatha feels its presence even before it touches her—cold and menacing. The moment it pierces her flesh, sharp and deliberate, she tenses. A strangled groan escapes her lips, the pain brief but sharp.
And then the real agony begins.
A scream tears from Agatha’s throat as the burning starts, searing its way through her veins like liquid fire. She jerks against the restraints, her body convulsing as the burning intensifies, spreading with every agonizing pulse. It’s like her blood is turning to molten lava, boiling her from the inside out. Agatha gasps, choking on her own breath, every inhale shallow and desperate as if her lungs can’t find enough air. Her entire body trembles, muscles locking in violent spasms.
Her fingers dig into the wooden armrests, nails splintering under the pressure, and her eyes squeeze shut, trying to block out the overwhelming sensation, but it’s everywhere. It’s too much. The pain is all-consuming, drowning her in its depths.
“Make it stop,” she gasps, voice cracking, tears of pain and desperation pricking at the corners of her eyes. “Please… make it stop…”
Rio watches, her expression calm, almost serene, as if this is nothing more than a natural process. She slips off her gloves with practiced ease and reaches for Agatha, her fingers threading through Agatha's sweat-drenched hair. She strokes it gently, tucking stray strands behind Agatha’s ear with a tenderness that feels perverse in the face of such agony.
“Shhh, mi vida,” Rio whispers, leaning in close, her breath hot against Agatha’s skin. Her lips press soft kisses to Agatha’s neck, tracing a path along the sensitive flesh, her voice a soothing murmur between the sharp bursts of pain. “I know it hurts. I know… but it’ll be over soon.”
Agatha shudders, her breaths coming in shallow gasps as the fire in her veins rages on, the heat consuming her from the inside out.
“Three,” Rio’s voice is steady, unwavering, like she’s counting down to something inevitable.
The pain flares once more, a final burst of unbearable heat surging through Agatha’s body, and she cries out, her voice breaking.
And then, like the flick of a switch, it stops.
The pain vanishes—completely, utterly gone. One moment, she’s drowning in agony, and the next, there’s nothing. Agatha slumps in the chair, her body spent, breath heaving in ragged gulps as she fights to catch her breath. Her skin tingles, still buzzing from the aftershocks of whatever Rio injected into her, but there’s no pain. It’s as if it never happened.
Agatha’s head hangs low, her limbs trembling as she struggles to regain some semblance of control. Her chest rises and falls with labored breaths, her throat dry and raw. It takes her a moment to find her voice again, and when she does, it’s hoarse, barely more than a whisper.
“W-what… what did you f-fucking do to me?” she rasps, her voice broken, head still bowed.
Rio tilts her head, standing over her, dark eyes gleaming with satisfaction. “The Anonymous Adversaries’ newest creation,” she says, her tone almost casual, like she’s discussing the weather. She twirls the empty syringe between her fingers, amusement dancing in her expression. “Artificial magic.”
Aspectus Tristis = Grim Glances
"Hey, mommy, shit, looks like you had a bad day." = "Oye, mami, mierda, parece que tuviste un mal día".
"Nuh uh, mommy. You'll hurt yourself if you keep yanking. This won't take long I promise." = "No, mami, te lastimarás si sigues tirando. No tardará mucho, te lo prometo."
"Get that mystery shit away from me!" = "¡Aléjame esa mierda misteriosa!"
