Irene Doesn’t Move.

She hadn’t meant to stop.

The road was half-eaten, gouged by rain and salt, the edges soft and unreliable. Her boots sank just enough to be irritating. She’d been walking for a while—no destination, no plan, just a direction that felt better than turning back. Her hood was up, scarf pulled too tight at the neck, fingers stiff in her coat pockets.

The truck looked like it had tried to reason with the shoulder and lost. She might’ve kept walking, but the shape in the driver’s seat moved. Jolted, more like. Then a voice—muffled, defensive.

Irene stepped closer. Not enough to be intrusive, but enough to be seen clearly when the driver twisted toward the window.

“Congratulations,” she said flatly, lifting her voice just enough to carry through the rain. “You’re not dead.”

Her eyes skimmed the truck; stuck good, probably been here a while, cab fogged slightly, the kind of tired that lingered even in posture. Blanket around his shoulders, so either cold or trying to comfort himself. She didn’t care which. She wasn’t judging. Not really.

“You planning on becoming one?” she added, eyes steady. “Because you’re about three hours from the road washing out completely. Give or take.”

She didn’t reach for the door, didn’t crowd him. Just waited there, a half-soaked figure with wind-tangled hair and a stare like she was the one who’d summoned the storm.

“You got anyone coming?” A pause. “Anyone who can make it through this?”

There was no rush in her voice. No panic. Just the kind of tired patience that came from already knowing the answer.

who: open where: the side of the road

He manages not to fully skid off of the shoulder of the road, the emergency brake coming in clutch at the very last second. The engine groans a little as Kevin puts the truck into park before shutting off the engine entirely. Rolling the window down, he sticks his head out the window and can tell that the back wheel is stuck in the mud and there was no way it was getting out without help. His head is mostly drenched when he pulls it back into the cab and he sighs, banging it gently against the headrest.

His phone is open on the center console next to him, Kali's message still flashing brightly across the screen.

"Get off that man's dick and go home."

He had missed the message at first, mostly because he was on the man's dick, but he doesn't really think that extra 90 seconds would have mattered that much in the grand scheme of things. Either way, he and his truck are now both stuck in the rain, and he can already feel his joints reacting to the drop in air pressure. It feels like sandpaper rubbing against his bones, and he leans over to his glove compartment to grab his stash of edibles. He sure as hell wasn't driving anytime soon.

Since he's unable to run the engine, he reaches into the back seat to grab one of the blankets he keeps for Saturn. It's got dog hair all over it, but it smells like her so he wraps it around his shoulder and tries to find a comfortable position in his seat. He sends a couple texts out, to people who might be wondering where he is, but there is a big fat red "!" letting him know that nothing was being delivered. With his battery only at half, he sighs, turning off every app he wasn't using to try and preserve it for as long as possible.

Kevin's not sure if he falls asleep or lets the weed lull him into a comfortable doze, but he jumps when he hears a knock on the driver's seat window. His knee cracks uncomfortably from the movement, and he grunts as he shifts, looking out at the blurry figure in the storm. "I'm fine!" he tries to shout through the window. "It's dry and I can wait it out!"

She doesn’t flinch under the weight of his stare. Don’t look away either. Just watches him, steady, like maybe if she looked long enough, the shape of him might make more sense. It doesn’t.

His laugh isn’t funny. But neither is the fact that she hasn’t really breathed in weeks. Not properly. Not without it catching somewhere just beneath her ribs, like her own lungs are playing tricks.

The grocery bag shifts against her leg again. The handles are digging in now. She doesn’t move to fix it.

“I know I’m here,” she says finally, low and even. “You think I don’t?”

That’s all he gets. That’s all she owes.

The truth isn’t something she’s ready to let out in the open —not in the salt-slick dark, not under the eye of a storm that already feels like it knows too much. Home hasn’t felt like home in a long time. Her father's face doesn’t sit right in her memory anymore. Like someone rearranged the pieces when she wasn’t looking. Her mother is not the person she once knew. Even the air inside that house feels secondhand, like it's already been used up.

But she doesn’t say any of that.

Instead, she stays where she is, soaked and cold and choosing, for some reason, not to walk away. Maybe because there’s nowhere else to go. Maybe because the sea isn’t the only thing with pull.

“You’re not the only one the storm likes,” she adds after a beat, voice quieter now. Not a challenge. Not quite a confession either.

Just a fact. One of many they don’t have names for yet.

        césar does like the sea, he does find solace in its violence. though, he’s far from it. peace, solace, safety, calm. he has no use for them, the effort of reaching them isn’t worth the stretch because this war-torn wild body is all he knows. the sea, at least, has her moments. césar does not. his waves never find a gentle lapping at the bay, they never curl delicately. his beauty is a furious chaos. and today, through this storm, so is the sea’s. he hopes she swallows him whole. he doesn’t want to swim, he wants to go straight down. 

        in the storm, everything blurs together into rough crevices of water and madness. the pockets of light don’t mean much underneath the clouds, illuminating scarcely anything. with his nose stuffed full with the smell of rain- wet dog -and magic, his senses gather next to nothing. césar doesn’t see, or smell, or hear the woman until she speaks, and it produces another dry laugh from him.  “ can’t it be both? ”  insane, and looking to get dragged into the harbor. yeah, it sums up césar pretty neatly, and it almost draws another laugh from him.  “ ‘cause, well, it’s both, chiquita. ”  ever his father’s son, his pride roars inside his chest. but the wrath is louder, greedier, hungrier, and so it always wins out. besides, he’s standing here, dark curls strung down in his eyes by the rain. pathetic, perhaps, but terrifying, ravenous. césar meets her eyes from across the street, through the storm, tearing away from the sight of the drowning docks.  “ it is funny, you’re just not in on the joke. ”  at first, it’s like a stubborn instance, piercing into the blue of her eyes like, eventually, she’s just going to get it. but he’s not avi. he doesn’t care. avi’s playing leader to his group of mutts and teo’s off the grid and so here he is, alone, bone-cold, seeking vengeance from the sea for an act he wanted to do him-fucking-self.  “ big fuckass storm’s the best thing’s to happen here since i got back, hardee-har-har. ”

        dark gaze had migrated back to the water, though it finds its way back to miss judgy blue eyes.  “ and, anyways, ”  césar makes a point, something he’s sure she’s already realized.  “ you’re here too. ” 

Irene didn’t answer right away.

Instead, she just watched her—this slip of a person who moved like sunlight had stitched itself into her seams, even soaked and barefoot in the middle of the storm. Irene’s mouth twitched again, that not-quite-smile hanging on like it was waiting for permission.

“I’m not chasing anything,” she said, voice low and even. “I’m just walking.”

The rain had picked up, steady now, but she didn’t move to shield herself. Just let it bead and roll off her coat like she’d forgotten it was supposed to bother her. Maybe she had.

She glanced at Allie’s bare feet and added, “You’re gonna catch something worse than a broken neck out here, though. There’s mud in the drains and runoff like soup.”

A pause.

“But you look happy.” Not a question, not quite an observation —just a simple fact, dropped between them with no particular weight. Like Irene had noticed and decided it was worth naming. She shifted her stance, hands still buried deep in her coat. “Can’t decide if it’s comforting or dangerous.”

Her gaze flicked up to the sky —not the clouds, not the wind, but something behind both. Whatever it was, it wasn’t close yet. But it would be. “I’m not the kind who runs from storms,” she added, more to the sky than to Allie. “But I don’t usually dance in ‘em either.” Finally, her attention dropped back to Allie. Something in her expression had softened —barely, but there. Like moss on stone.

“...Guess there’s a first time for everything.”

         she feels the witch before she sees her, in between some jump and twirl when she catches a warm familiarity in the breeze. the wind’s growing sharper, and she’s not if it’s from the storm, or if it’s stemming from the magic that’s coming just a whisper closer. allie’s reaching for her before she realizes, welcoming her in before allie finds irene’s name written on the signature. allie perks up towards the sound of another voice, eyes bright and searching, her voice even brighter against the rain.  “ break my neck? ”  there’s a lot of things you can break while dancing, but she’d never thought about her neck. allie’s never been careful, but she doesn’t think she could manage that. clumsy, and delighted, she recognizes the voice as a friend. “ oh, irene! you’re here! ”

         with her shoes in her hand, allie nearly skips forward to greet her. even rain-soaked, there’s a warm excitement that blooms inside her. it might’ve been cold, but that didn’t matter nearly as much. besides, the sun was still peeking through, just a little bit. even if a storm was brewing, something big enough to scare her away, she could still enjoy the last glimpses of sunlight.

         “ oh my gosh, are you kidding? i love the rain! ”  her hands fasten, earnestly, behind her back as she rocks forward. with wide, curious eyes, she watches irene.  “ what else would i be chasing? oh, are you a rain chaser? ”  she hadn’t thought so, but she always sorta’ thinks irene’s chasing something. maybe not the rain, but something.

Irene didn’t roll her eyes — she didn’t give him the satisfaction. That would’ve meant his noise reached her, that his cocktail of smirks and blood-jokes managed to press somewhere beneath her skin. Instead, she let the silence stretch thin and humming, like piano wire drawn taut between them. One sharp note away from slicing skin.

She watched the wobbling cartridge settle, its nose pointing square at her sternum like a dare, and didn’t blink. Let it rest there. Let him imagine it made a difference.

“Cute trick,” she said at last, dry as old paper. “Shame it only works on people who don’t know how many times you’ve missed.”

She took the cartridge off the counter without looking at it, let it spin once on her fingertip before palming it, smooth and precise. That old dancer’s grace — all economy and control, every movement a message. I could ruin you and never lift my voice doing it.

“You mistake the shape of silence for strain,” she continued, her tone dipping low, precise. “Just because I don’t break the glass doesn’t mean I don’t know how. You think I’m one bad day from snapping?” She leaned forward a fraction, voice softening — not sweet, but sharp enough to cut clean. “I’ve been one bad day for other people. More than once. Don’t mistake composure for mercy.”

Then, just to underline it, she smiled. Small. Clinical. The kind of expression you might see on someone flipping through morgue tags.

Her gaze ticked down to the smeared inventory sheet, still smudged with whatever grease-stain bravado passed for his signature.

“You know,” she mused, brushing the corner of the page lightly, “If I wanted a toddler with impulse control issues, I’d raid the daycare wing of the Order’s training program. At least they shit their pants less when they get scared.”

She let the sentence hang there for a beat, sweetened with just enough venom to sting.

“But you—” she gestured vaguely to him, his posture, the chair, the grin stitched into his face like a bad scar — “You’re still chasing your own echo, pretending it’s a monster. Is that what this is now? Playing boogeyman to get someone to look at you? You gonna spook some street witches next? Kick over a hex circle and call it a win?”

Then she straightened — not defensive, not retreating, just done indulging. Jacket cuffs tugged sharp. Voice flat again, bored around the edges.

“You want to hunt together?” she echoed. “Tell me what’s in it for me.”

A pause.

“Besides the obvious disappointment, I mean.”

And then, like a knife slipped between ribs on an inhale, soft, while leaning slightly closer. “Or are you still calling it a hunt when the targets don’t shoot back?”

Nico rolls the lollipop stem against his molars, splits it down the grain with a wet crack, then flicks the splinter into the trashcan like a gauntlet. Irene’s voice is still humming in the air—clean, judicial, taste-tested—so he folds his arms behind his head, tips back on the stool, and yawns. Wide. The kind of yawn that shows spite and maybe the ghost of last night’s whiskey. Lets it hang there, jaw unhinged, until the lights buzz louder than she does.

“God,” he sighs from his necklace into the ceiling, “Irene, they should bottle you and sell you to insomniacs.”

The stool claps down on all four legs. He leans over the counter, elbows wide, grin gone lazy. “Look, I get it. You’re the sharp scalpel, I’m the rusty hacksaw. You do neat incisions, I swing ’til bone dust fogs the room. It’s cute you think the surgeons always walk out cleaner.” He drums a fingertip on the cartridge she’s taken. “Metal’s metal either way. Same death inside.”

His gaze skates to the inventory sheet lying untouched between them, a neat grid of typewritten calibers and order codes. He drags a dirty thumbnail across the column of quantities, leaving a smear that obliterates three numbers. “Oops,” he signs. “There goes the paperwork. Guess legal’s gonna have to clear that, too.”

She’s still statuesque, frost-marble perfect. He studies her stillness—how it strains at the edges like a violin string tuned a half-step too high. “You do haunt, sweetheart,” he says. “Not with ghosts, but with everything you’re holding back. Makes a man wonder what color the spill would be if someone poked the dam.”

His hand snakes under the counter, comes up with another cartridge—this one dull brass, dented near the rim. He balances it on its base, spins it, lets it wobble to a stop pointing at her heart. “Tell you what.” The cartridge disappears again, swallowed by a fist. “You keep pretending my fail-state is predictable, and I’ll keep pretending you’re not one spark away from shattering. Symbiosis, right? Brotherhood loves that word.” He winks, mock conspiratorial. Then the grin sharpens, shark-fin breaking water. “You asked what I’m hunting? Today—splitting headaches shaped like your voice. Tomorrow? Whatever bleeds the loudest. Maybe we tag-team it. First time for everything, yeah?”

Nico tips his head, regarding the lollipop cut blooming red on his cheek. A slow swipe of his tongue—copper, sugar, grin.

"What say you? Want to hunt together?"

WHO: @sammykeels WHERE: his house.

The bikes were the first thing she saw —two of them, sprawled across the lawn like they’d collapsed mid-flight, one still spinning a back wheel in lazy half-turns. Irene stood at the edge of the driveway, one hand in the pocket of her coat, the other curled loosely around a paper bag that smelled faintly of garlic and plastic takeout. She hadn’t knocked yet.

There was a familiarity to the scene; the scuffed-up sidewalk chalk ghosts, the chipped welcome mat, the smell of someone's early dinner drifting out a cracked window. Safe things. Quiet things. They didn’t suit the tightness still coiled low in her chest.

But then again, neither did this visit.

She adjusted her grip on the bag and stepped forward.

The front door wasn’t locked. It never was when Sammy was around. She didn’t go in, just knocked once —soft, measured—and then pushed it open enough to call into the threshold.

“Sammy?”

Her voice carried, quiet but certain.

No answer right away.

She waited. Then she saw movement down the hall —his familiar frame, hoodie sleeves shoved to the elbows, sneakers squeaking faintly on the wood.

“Hey.” Her tone shifted as soon as he was close enough to see clearly. Not warm, not yet. But not her usual clipped chill either. Something in-between. Careful. “Didn’t mean to ambush you.”

She lifted the paper bag slightly. “Brought food. You’ve got that look on your face like you skipped lunch again.”

A beat.

“I went.”

Simple. No name. No details. But he’d know. And she didn’t follow it with a lie —not She’s safe, not It’ll be okay. Just that.

She stepped inside then, giving him the space to back away or shut her out, but not leaving. Never that.

“I know you told me about her because I needed to know,” Irene said, setting the bag on the counter like it didn’t weigh a thousand things. “And I’m not going to ask what else you know. Not unless you want to tell me.”

She looked at him again —really looked. His face a little drawn, shoulders tighter than usual.

“I just wanted to see you with my own eyes. Make sure you’re okay.”

Another beat. Then, quieter, just for him.

“So? Are you okay?”

Irene didn’t laugh — not exactly — but there was a breath there that came close. The kind that started deep in the chest and never quite made it to sound. The kind that held just enough ache to make it feel real.

Her hand shifted to the edge of the coat where Allie still clung to the pinkie-loop, careful not to break it. The fabric hung loose now between them, heavy with rain and some unspoken thing that hadn’t quite found a name yet. She didn’t tug it back. Just let it be shared.

At Allie’s question, she glanced sidelong. The kind of look people mistook for cold when they didn’t know her. But it wasn’t distance. It was calculation — quiet, sharp. The pause between hearing and answering that Irene always took like she was weighing truth in her palm, seeing what it cost before she let it out.

“I don’t dislike people,” she said finally, her voice soft but grounded. “I just don’t think most of them know who they are.”

A blink. Slow. Rain traced lines across her cheek like it didn’t know it wasn’t tears.

“They want to be seen a certain way. They learn how to show it. What to hide. What looks like kindness. What passes for honesty.” She rubbed her thumb once against her other wrist, over the bracelet she always wore — an old habit, like counting. “Most don’t lie because they’re cruel. They lie because they’re scared. Of being known. Of being wrong.”

The quiet between them thickened again — not uncomfortable, just full.

“I’ve spent a long time learning how to read storms,” she added, not quite looking at Allie. “But I’ve got no gift for reading people who don’t know themselves.”

Her head tilted a little, enough to catch the girl’s gaze again.

“You’re not like that,” she said, simple and unembellished. “You say what you feel, even if it’s messy. Even if it’s too much. That kind of honesty? It doesn’t scare me. It just… takes time getting used to.”

The barest smile, more in her eyes than her mouth.

She stepped closer, not quite breaking the small distance but bridging it, coat drawn wider between them like a half-offered shelter. It didn’t matter that Allie didn’t like coats. Irene wasn’t offering the fabric.

“You always talk about warmth like it’s something you find,” she said, thumb brushing lightly against Allie’s hand. “But I think maybe you’re the one carrying it.” She used to be like that, but the world was too cruel and now Irene no longer knew who she was.

The rain hummed on around them, steady and familiar, a lullaby made of water and thunder. Irene breathed in slow, watching it roll off the rim of the streetlamp like silver thread.

“If you want to stay out a little longer, I’ll stay,” she said after a moment. “But if your lips start turning blue, I’m carrying you home, like it or not.”

And it wasn’t a threat. It wasn’t even a joke. Just a promise, folded quiet into the space between the storm and the stillness.

        her petulance melts away with the rain, skips around soaking her dress and falls to puddle on the ground, instead. no matter the curious song of this storm, she can spend any day dancing in the rain. irene isn’t always here, and she isn’t always willing. today, that’s something to celebrate, so allie’s quiet as she listens, finds it easy to comb through the wind that continues to sing louder, and louder, to find irene’s voice. it’s because it’s her heart that’s listening. what the storm does for irene, allie thinks it’s what the woods does for her. she thinks the storm is beautiful, even in it, she thinks the danger makes it even more so, tempting it to spin her up into the clouds. sometimes, that’s all it takes to bring her out here, to feel caught, and held by something wild.

        when she was small, they’d scared her. storms were bedtime stories weaved together with heavy warnings, and in combination with the noise, it would send a younger allie to hide under her bed, to pull on a locked door knob. now, of course, it was nothing like that, but something was making a soft sense of fear prick along her spine, because the storm smells like something deeper than normal. she’s just as curious as she knows that irene’s taking them in the right direction, somewhere safe. she trusts her.

        “ is that why you don’t like people? ”  her head tilts, the sincerity of her eyes finding irene’s again. she holds onto her, even to the thread in her pinkie, small and tender, and she wonders. the storm’s honest. doesn’t pretend to be anything it’s not.  “ you don’t think they’re honest? ”  but at least you know what you’re dealing with. when her head gets too loud, allie seeks out peace, instead of violence. she looks to the sound of the tree’s whisper, coos of creatures big and small, the soft sighs of petals and the gentle touch of the grass when it knows you need to rest. peaceful. but how many times had she torn herself to pieces just to quiet the noise that can’t be calmed? put magnifying glasses on the sparkly bits, shone like a mirrorball to hide whatever parts she was hurting.

        her friend’s apology cuts through the fog of thought, she finds irene again with eyes that look almost startled.  “ oh, it’s okay! ”  what could she ever have to apologize for? she hadn’t done anything wrong. allie’s the clumsy, clingy, messy one. she winds a finger around a strand of wet hair, pulling it away from her face, then letting it go. of course, it’s not the one entwined with irene’s pinkie.  “ i mean, i didn’t come out here to be caught by anyone, not- not on purpose, but, well, i guess … ”  loneliness flows through everything she does like a current. now, it carries her through the storm.  “ it’s always a plus, isn’t it? ”  then, like it’s supposed to further smother irene’s worry in petals and fluff.  “ and, anyways, i don’t like coats. they’re too heavy. plus, i like feeling the rain on my skin, that’s, like, the whole point. it’s only after that you get cold and sick and icky, and stuff. ”  she shrugs, then, tipping her head towards irene. of course, the ramble of nonsense had an exception.  “ i think there’s something warmer when it’s someone else's, though. it just makes it all the more lovelier. ”

Irene didn’t slow when the door shimmered open ahead of them — just tightened her grip on Shiv’s hand and stepped through like it cost her nothing. In truth, it did. Every second she stayed, every inch deeper she went into this fractured loop of their mind — it drained her. She wasn’t built for this. Her power lay in action, in the physical, in breaking things and building them back stronger. Minds were too soft. Too loud. The weight of someone else’s ruin pressed behind her eyes like a scream trapped under glass. But for Shiv?

She’d stay as long as it took. No matter how many times.

Even if it cracked her right down the middle.

She wouldn’t let them suffer in here. Wouldn’t leave them stranded inside their own wreckage. Shiv had been the only one who saw her — really saw her — without asking her to be anything more than what she was. Their kindness was quiet, careful. Not soft exactly, but real. That mattered. That always mattered. The world shifted as they passed through the threshold — a breath held between realities — and when she blinked, the desert was gone.

Now there was a beach.

Nighttime. Still, dark, and vast. The stars stretched endless above them, their shimmer soft over the slow-crashing tide. A breeze curled through the air, warm and clean, laced with salt and the faintest echo of wild lavender. The kind she remembered from southern coasts. The kind she hoped Shiv liked.

The sand here didn’t hum with strange magic or loops or teeth. It just was.

Safe.

A little further down the shoreline sat a small house — all weathered wood and crooked windows, roof sloped like it had exhaled. The porch light flickered gently, like someone was already home. Like someone was waiting. Behind it, just beyond the first dune, a bonfire burned low and steady. Not too bright, not too loud. A comfort, not a warning. And beside it — books. Piles of them. Every book she’d ever read. Stolen pages, annotated field manuals, quiet poetry, dumb thrillers from train stations, stories she half-remembered from her mother’s kitchen. All laid out, ready. Something to occupy Shiv while they rested. Something that felt human again.

“I can hold this place,” she murmured, as much to herself as to Shiv, still keeping their hand in hers. “For as long as you need it.”

She meant it.

Whatever toll this dreamspace took on her, she’d pay it twice. Three times. She’d bleed it out if that’s what it took. They reached the porch, and she didn’t let go until she was sure the loop wasn’t pulling anymore. Until the dream quieted.

Then, finally, she looked at them.

Really looked.

Not the handler. Not the mission. Not the broken mind trying to put itself back together — just Shiv. The only one who didn’t flinch when she was cold, or sharp, or impossible to read. The one who always stayed a step behind, steady, no matter how many times she tried to walk alone.

The words from before settled into the air between them.

She exhaled, long and low, eyes flicking away for just a moment — before they returned to Shiv’s face with something almost like warmth in her expression. Almost.

“The file doesn’t matter,” she said. “I don’t care what was in it.” Bright hues met theirs — tired, but still burning. Still Irene. “I’m just… glad you remembered me.” Her voice dipped, gentler than it had been in hours. “If you hadn’t—” She didn’t finish. Just shook her head. “Things could’ve gone badly.”

A beat.

Then—

“You sound like my dad,” she muttered, glancing away again with a half-hearted scoff, the edge of a grin curling at her lips. “Don’t get all soft on me now.”

It lingered — the smile. Brief but real. A crack of sunlight on a long-dry floor.

“I don’t think everyone sees it the way you do,” she added, quieter. “Nico would probably stab me in the back and then complain I bled on his boots.” A shrug. “But… for once, I’m glad I’m a witch.” She shifted, expression flickering with something unreadable. “Are you okay? Is this good? Comfortable enough for now?”

Because that mattered. It had to be his peace. Not hers.

She could feel the parts of Shiv’s mind she wasn’t supposed to be in, the flickering half-formed echoes of what had been lost — and what might be found again. Including her.

Including Thera.

And gods, Irene hated moments.

She hadn’t meant to see anything. That wasn’t what she came for. But minds didn’t exactly play fair, and some scraps came unbidden — laughter too close to lips, glances held a second too long. Thera, brushing dust from Shiv’s coat like it was instinct. It made Irene want to roll her eyes so hard they fell out of her skull.

And gag. Just a little.

Still, she knew what it meant. Connection like that doesn’t vanish. Not fully. Not unless someone makes it vanish. And Irene… she didn’t believe Thera would ever do that to them.

There were ways to bring memory back.

But not tonight.

Not like this.

“Do you remember anything at all? Who did this to you? I —” she paused, exhalding deeply. “—I feel their magic. It's more than —” How could she even put this into words? She couldn't. “More than one witch did this.”

Shiv can only shake their head in confirmation. “Sorry. I’m having a hard time remembering much of anything lately.” It’s a mercy, a miracle that they managed to scrape up their memories of Irene a few moments before she arrived. Half of Shiv’s memories are gone and their mind is quite literally in ruins but gods forbid they lose their impeccable timing.

Do they like the beach? The question sounds ludacris, so much so that Shiv immediately answers absentmindedly. “Sure. A night at the beach sounds bloody lovely right now.” Of course Shiv follows Irene’s lead, both in conversation and on the path through the desert. They're not exactly in the right condition to argue or call shots. And they know that, pride by damned. Apologizing again wasn't going to do anything.

Irene never wastes time and energy on talk. When she does talk, it's important. Shiv is quick to remember that as they piece together the context clues sprinkled in her blunt attitude as the two silently walk hand in hand. 

This Thera is obviously important. ‘Accomplice’ isn’t strong enough to describe someone keeping them alive. Maintaining their physical body most likely. Yet, for what reason? It must be for good reason if this Thera would be glad to see the connection made. Right? There’s too little emotion in Irene’s face and voice to further work off of. That’s the second fact they remember about Irene. Never clear cut feelings out the gate with this one. Always patiently waiting for the right cues, the slightest micro-expression or the tiniest shift in her eyes to speak louder than words.

Shiv can't see either from here. However, her grip on their hand is tight, firm. As if they will crumple or fade away with the slightest breeze and shift in the sand.

“You're not the type that needs tracking. But you went missing anyway.”

She's worried.

They don't have any magic or useful tools to help her. But all Irene seems to need is reassurance, something to let her know they're still here. Touch. Noise. Anything.

Shiv squeezes Irene's hand back. They can do that.

"...I never got around to giving your file back, did I? Other business got in the way. The hurricane especially. Its just..." Shiv scratches their dry throat and swallows hard, "I would have let you burn the damn thing. Witch or nay, you're a good hunter. An even better comrade. No matter what happens, its an honor to be your handler."

"Moreso you confidant. Moreso your friend."

There’s no hesitation. No flinch. Just a faint twitch in her jaw as he beckons — and then she’s moving.

Irene doesn’t waste the breath to answer him with words. Not yet. Not when she can let her body speak instead. She’s been talked over, under, around, and through more times than she can count, but this—this is different. He asked. He wants to see. So she shows him.

The first step is light. The second isn’t.

She closes the distance fast, low and clean. No windup. No warning. Just a quick strike for the shoulder — testing. Not to land it, not really. Just to see how he moves. How fast. What part of him gives first.

He’s solid. Of course he is.

The hit doesn’t need to land. The next one might.

She pivots, foot sweeping behind for balance as she drives her weight into a sharp elbow meant for his ribs. There's nothing showy in the motion — no wasted flourish. It’s the kind of fighting built in close quarters, learned between secondhand breaths and hard floors. The kind you don’t train for trophies. Just survival.

Still, even in the rhythm of it, even when she’s already resetting her stance and looking for another opening, the echo of his words lingers.

You believe they are not one and the same?

She exhales through her nose, a sharp puff between movements. Doesn’t break eye contact.

“I think people confuse getting stronger with never losing,” she says, steady, even as her feet shift again. “That’s not better. That’s just ego in a nicer jacket.”

Another feint — a shoulder this time, meant to draw his guard. If it works, her other hand’s already rising to follow through.

“I’m not here to win,” she adds, quieter now. “I’m here to learn how to stay standing.”

There’s no challenge in it. Just truth, clean and hard.

If he expects her to break, he’ll have to work for it. Because Irene’s not here to impress anyone. Not with power. Not with pain. Just with the fact that she keeps getting up. And right now, her fists are talking just fine.

She rises in his opinion an entire notch in the silence of her obedience. That is the height of all she could attain. Forward she comes, bare feet ghost the tatami. Miyazaki evaluates; she has no reservations about where she is. A nod, no bow. Respect, veneration and figments of honor. It's enough to placate the hydra of Miyazaki's temperament from making this hunter his meal. Nine versions at minimum that could greet her at any given moment. From the jaws of appetence to the patient humility, fed only when the rest sleep.

No extension in the hands, then. She would like to bloody the knuckles of her own punishing expression. Tetsuya sees no other reason she would come, if not to be better. She is gravely mistaken to believe that the art of the bo, or the legendary use of a katana would ever mean it is easy. He almost laughs, not out of amusement, but mockery to know that hunterkind has fallen so far from their origins.

An order he loathes, but they had once been a reckoning force. Miyazaki does not shy away from recognising an opponent worth their guile.

This one looks haunted. Shouldering a world she cannot carry.

Is this a hunter at its most humble?

A hum that's cut short echoes throughout the dojo. She is confounded. But he would like to know where that notion of that separation has come from.

"You believe they are not one and the same?" To be less breakable, is to be better. It is a crass, lazy term for it. Tetsuya could break her, shatter the bone inch by inch with every violent blow of the air, watch her crumble in a grotesque display of body displacement. Maybe he would put her back together, afterwards. But only if there is the fire in her gaze that burns brighter than her pain.

Miyazaki steps towards her and her plaintiff stance. He will not be naïve to believe she does not have training. He releases the hands from where they are behind his back, lifts one casually in a soft beckoning motion towards himself.

"Show me."

That's where she can start.

Irene’s head tilted, just slightly. Enough to mark the shift from disinterest to something closer to mild surprise.

Obsidian.

That explained the way he hovered near the door like he wasn’t sure if he wanted in or out. Lounge owners always had that air about them—too many faces, too many favors, too many half-forgotten deals with people who’d since vanished or turned into smoke.

“No need,” she said after a beat. “You’re already here.”

She set the tablet down on the counter, screen gone dark. The glow stayed on her face a moment longer than it should have, like it didn’t quite want to let her go.

“Kiri did keep records. Not exactly in a modern system, though. More... scrawled-in-margins and labeled-by-mood kind of thing.” She reached under the counter and pulled out a small ledger bound in cracked green leather. The edges of the pages were feathered with use.

She opened it, flipping past notes in looping script, some in ink, others in pencil or chalk, as if she couldn’t decide on permanence. Her finger stopped somewhere near the middle.

“Obsidian. Yeah, there’s a list,” she murmured. “Mostly mixers. Citrus peels. Wyrmwood. Fennel. A dried flower she only ever wrote down as ‘nightmouth’—which isn’t a real thing, far as I know, but there’s a jar back there with that label, and nobody’s gotten sick off it yet.”

A small pause. She didn’t look up.

“You’re welcome to come back tomorrow, if you want to talk shop while I’m less... halfway out the door. But since you’re already in, I can get you a starter list now. Most of it’s in stock.”

Then, as if realizing something too late, she added, more quietly, “And if you want tea, I’ll make you some. It’s not dreamless, but it’s warm.”

She didn’t know why she offered that. Maybe it was the look in his eyes—like something about this place pulled at him in a way he hadn’t expected. She understood that feeling.

Too well, maybe.

The mixing scents of the herbs in the air, rosemary the strongest, almost made him turn and walk out. They say scent is the sense most connected to memory, and his days spent reading and working in his family’s own storage rooms packed with herbs were not too far behind him. What should have been a familiar comfort brought only a heavy ache to his chest.

“I’m not here for dreamless tea, although I’d take some if it were offered.” A poor attempt at being congenial. The shopkeeper was clearly annoyed, and it was his own fault he’d pushed off restocking some of the shelves at the lounge for this long. “I, ah.. I am the new owner of Obsidian. I believe the previous owner of the lounge had a running deal with this apothecary to keep certain ingredients stocked? His labeling system is disgusting, so I was unable to identify what some of the empty jars held, but I was hoping there were some sort of store records for his purchases?”

It wouldn’t be any magic herbs. The Obsidian lounge seemed to thrive off of the rumors of potioned cocktails, but he had yet to find any real proof of them. He was fairly good at discerning the magical from the non-magical, in a botanical sense, and none of the empty jars had smelled like anything more powerful than verbena, which is really an herb of debatable magical origins, if you really thought about it, and—

No. He dragged his attention, kicking and screaming, from that train of thought, focusing back on the shopkeeper. He was trying to distance himself from potioneering, not throw himself into a new town’s version of the same thing. “Should I come back tomorrow?”

The tablet made a quiet thunk as Irene set it aside. She didn’t speak right away—just sat there for a moment, watching the woman through the dim light like she was weighing the effort it would take to say no against whatever her own bones were asking of her tonight.

“It’s fine,” she said finally, voice softer than before, if still tinged with fatigue. “You’re already half inside. Might as well finish the job.”

She reached across the counter, palm open without fanfare. “Let’s see it.”

Her gaze skimmed the paper quickly, practiced. She didn’t react outright—just let her eyes pause on the larger quantities, the odd placements, the way none of it seemed to belong together until maybe it very much did. Verbena stood out the most, of course. Not just the amount, but the shape of the scrawl around it. Like the hand that wrote it hesitated, then leaned in.

Irene’s brow ticked, barely. Not suspicion exactly. Just attention, sharpened.

“You making tea,” she asked, deadpan, “or trying to banish someone politely?”

She handed the list back, already stepping toward the shelf-lined wall.

“We’ve got most of this. One of the berries might be low—I’ll check in the back.” She paused at the threshold of the back room, glancing over her shoulder with a dry look. “No promises on the verbena. That much, you might need to pre-order unless you’ve got friends who forage on private land.”

Then she was gone a moment, the quiet of the shop resettling in her absence. When she returned, she had a worn basket in one hand, already filling with a few small paper packets.

“Couple of these are in stock now,” she said, setting the basket on the counter. “I can hold the rest for pickup tomorrow if you want. Won’t charge ‘til it’s all in.”

And then, more gently, like it just occurred to her, “You alright walking back this late?”

We closed five minutes ago. The words hit Juniper like a sack of bricks as she has one foot in the door and the other still out in the dark and damp. Sage on her shoulder and a series of bags on her left arm, she had been shopping all day. She peeks her head out to look at the sign on the door, then down to the watch on the inside of her wrist. This motion repeats a couple times as she comes to terms with the fact that… yup. She was too late. 

“Scheiße.” she cursed under her breath, pinching the bridge of her nose. She was still getting used to navigating at an appropriate speed for her condition and she had vastly underestimated how long her errands would actually take. Running a hand through her hair she took a breath, the subtle earthy note within the shop's air doing wonders to settle her frustrations. 

“That’s… unfortunate. Sorry for the intrusion. I saw the lights and assumed I wasn’t too late. Thank you. It certainly isn’t so urgent it can’t wait till tomorrow. I just-” She hesitated. Not wanting to bother a person off the clock. But her bones ache and the idea of having to walk all the way back here in the morning was less than inviting. “I am so sorry. Would it be too much trouble to just take a look at this list. I don’t need to buy anything tonight. I’d just like to save myself the trek tomorrow if something is currently out of stock.” 

She waited with bated breath for any form of confirmation before going inside and handing over the small piece of paper. Scrawled onto it was a variety of herbs, spices, dried berries and the like, an impressive variety but no single ingredient had a strong or obvious purpose when places next to the others. Most notable among them was verbena. In a rather large quantity.