you want it darker,

arthur lester from malevolent. written by k. est. march 2026.

the cruelest part of arthur could say something true, which is that leaving is never difficult. he'd know. all it is is leaving, over and over again. but this isn't walking away from a marriage, a death, a life. this is walking away from something that has the chain already around your throat and isn't afraid to pull it tight.

he'd know what it's like, too, to be bound to something more than human. technically he's carrying those chains right now, even if it's no longer pulled tight. it's different to have chosen it the second time around.

and different to run once and get pulled back.

arthur. john's voice is steady, but there's the hum of tension threaded through it, making it sharper at the edges. she means this. she's not saying it desperately. she's saying it like a fact, the face of someone who's said this a thousand times to herself in the mirror. don't treat it flippantly.

what he wants to say but can't: i would've said it like a fact too.

all he can read is her tone, not her face.

"... miss moreno. if i may be a little presumptuous."

be careful.

yes. arthur knows very well. he takes a breath. continues. "it's... i know i may be sitting here before you as a remarkably free man. i promise you that is not entirely the case. i am—bound, in some ways." eyes that do not look sightless but are. an arm and a leg that are not always his. a soul damned over and over again. "and i don't have the ego to think that someone can slip every chain. all i mean is that—i know a good man who would say there's something godly in the effort."

he leans back in his chair. can feel the places where light is streaming between the blinds of his office, throwing strips of slight warmth across the desk.

"i'm not a particularly godly man, mind you. but i'm also not one to argue with a priest's words, at least not on sundays."

arkham never changes, not really. not in its bones.

a year gone, torn to the other side of reality, and it's still the same thing when he gets back. wet, crowded, not quite as cosmopolitan as new york, but most of all, haunted. they've spent the same time of day yesterday on stakeout, watching the small townhouse as rain drummed down against the roof of the car—which is to say they've both been on stakeout, as was the deal. not that arthur can see any of it, but that doesn't matter to john, who just seems to want to describe every inch of the street in near-painful detail.

they walked the exterior earlier of the townhouse two days ago. dug through the trash, the unglamorous work of a private investigator at its least clean. one of the cops at the precinct by the office left them the tip. something about public disturbances that no one with a badge wanted to look into. so that left it to those less inclined to legality.

the glass wasn't warped that john could tell. but there was something in the air. like something's clinging on with its teeth, john said, which was more poetic than helpful, but it got the point across. public records showed that the last person to die in 32 west garrison street was one devlin maitland, he died suddenly and brutally, along with his wife. a whole mess with his brother, who had since fled arkham altogether and moved further down the east coast. dead now, too, in a confrontation with police.

a neat answer, in that way, to the question of what spirit would be vengeful enough to stay within this home's walls.

their goal, as per usual, is to see if the ghost can be convinced to peacefully depart this plane.

so they've gotten in through a side window with only some minor negotiation with an old lock, and are now moving slowly around the living room. john's in the midst of describing the photographs on the mantle when something creaks.

arthur, behind you—

they pivot on the spot, the cane in arthur's hand held a little more like someone's going to swing.

in the doorway. someone. not a… spirit, obviously, from the fact we heard anything at all. she must've come in through the back door. short. long dark hair down to her waist. a… severe stare. she's looking right at us, in the eyes. not a police officer, that's for fucking sure.

often times the eyes throw people off. too bright of a yellow, an animal glint there in low light. someone not looking away either says they're very brave, or very nonplussed.

he shouldn't laugh. it's not funny, strictly speaking, although it is in every way that's unexplainable to another human being. if he had the sight for it, he might look down at his gloved hands. the gloves only hide some of the more obviously questionable scars. a missing fingertip, strange bites from something more like a centipede, all of the wounds that he knows more by touch and then brief sight, many months ago now.

if that's what you want. what a qualifier to add on.

for a long while, arthur didn't particularly want that. didn't want much of anything. what he decided he wanted, in the way one decides these things, was quiet and the bottom of a bottle and for no one to look at him, to know him, beyond a glimpse at jack's in the evenings. hard to save a man who's willingly drowning.

so to speak.

arthur doesn't laugh. he exhales a little, smiles almost, lets his fingers fold together in his lap.

she seems very…. genuine about it. john's voice is even. i think she's looking for eye contact. we're giving it, mostly.

mostly, yes.

"what," arthur says after a moment of genuine consideration, "do you think i don't want that?" a pause. "don't… answer that. i know most who enter the dungeon dimensions for any reason must emerge as gibbering fools." those who seek the kindness of death faster than most do. it might be easier that way. arthur is certainly not gibbering, though he may often count as a fool. "i can promise you i'm only mad north-northwest at most, and maybe only for a few days a month."

it's been worse. that's what he means.

gently, he presses his right thumb to the inside of his left wrist, to feel the pulse that he and john share. still steady.