Latest Posts by ireneclermont - Page 2

WHO: @cutthroat-service WHERE: thera's place

The tower was quiet this late —just the hum of stillness and the weight of too many hours folded into the dark. Irene hadn’t said much when she arrived. She never really did. Thera had opened the door without a word, like she’d been expecting her. Maybe she had. Irene hadn’t asked how.

Now it was just her, the steady rise and fall of Shiv’s breathing, and the thrum of something still clinging to them—like a wire pulled too tight and left humming in the wind.

She moved slowly, boots soundless on the floor as she crossed to the bed, pulling the chair closer. Her coat was still damp from the walk. A long shift, a longer night, and now this—whatever this was going to be.

Irene sat, eyes soft but tired, and let her hand hover for a second over Shiv’s face. Cold fingers, colder than usual. She touched their forehead lightly, thumb brushing against damp skin.

“Hey,” she murmured, low enough it didn’t have to be answered. “I’m gonna try something.”

She didn’t know if they could hear her. Didn’t know if they’d recognize her even if they did. The file had been thin. The fear, thicker.

Her eyes closed. Her body stayed behind.

But her mind slipped forward—past breath, past waking—toward the quiet edges of a dream she hadn’t built yet.

Toward Shiv. Wherever they were. Whatever they were seeing. She was going to find them.

The breath she took before slipping under was shallow—more habit than need. Like she could brace herself for something she couldn’t see. Like that ever worked. Irene had walked through a lot of dreams. Built some from nothing, pulled others back from the brink. But this was different.

This one wasn’t hers.

This one had teeth. It had magic, and it was the wrong kind.

Shiv’s mind wasn’t open so much as cracked. The kind of break that didn’t bleed but never really healed, either. And she could feel it the second she stepped in —like walking barefoot onto glass. The air didn’t smell right. Not dream-sweet, not unreal. Just off. Wrong in a way she couldn’t name.

She stood in the dark for a moment, the place slow to take shape. This wasn’t a memory, not exactly. It shifted like sand under her thoughts. Sounds crept through the silence —muffled, tinny. A phone ringing somewhere too far to reach.

Irene frowned and took a step forward.

She didn’t know what she was walking into.

Didn’t know if Shiv would know her.

Didn’t even know if she’d know him in here.

But the connection was still there —fragile and thin as a spider’s thread, tied to her body back in that quiet room, tied to his heartbeat, still going.

She followed it.

Because someone had to.

WHO: @therawend WHERE: thera's house

The tower loomed taller than she thought.

Worn brick stacked like the silence she’d carried since Sammy had shown her the letter — hands tight around the edges, voice low like he wasn’t sure how to say it out loud. She has Shiv. That part was clear. The rest? Not so much.

She’d read Thera’s handwriting three times over, each loop and slash more frustrating than the last. Thera. Thera, of all people. Irene hadn’t known they were connected —Shiv and her—but the letter didn’t lie. And Sammy wouldn’t have brought it to her if it wasn’t serious.

She didn’t ask questions. Just nodded once, tucked the paper before handing it back, and left before the weight of it could settle. Maybe she should’ve been more surprised. But confusion only went so far when Shiv was in danger. Shiv was never in danger, how could this be?

Irene knew where to go.

The walk from the bus stop had been long. Her legs were tired, her thoughts louder than usual. But she didn’t slow down, not even when the trees grew dense and the shadows pooled a little heavier. The path to Thera’s was always quiet in that strange, in-between kind of way —too calm, too out of time. Like the world didn’t quite reach here. It was probably safer that way.

By the time she reached the front door, she looked like hell. Pale and drawn, magic twitching raw just under her skin from days without rest. Her hair was still braided from work but messy now, a few pins lost along the walk. In her hands, nothing but her necklace, the charm she always held when grounding herself, when reaching into dreams.

She didn’t knock. Just let her fingers graze the worn doorframe before she pushed it open.

“Thera?” Her voice was low, not quite sure if it belonged here yet. “Sammy told me.”

A pause. She glanced inside, half-expecting the air to be thick with incense or stitched spells or whatever strange magic always clung to this place like dust.

“I thought… maybe you could use help.” Her tone stayed flat, guarded, but her eyes said something else. Something quieter.

And she meant it. Even if her hands shook. They were going to be alright, right?

WHO: @parkskylar WHERE: bun intended

The air still smelled like lavender and old spellbooks—clinging to Irene like second skin even after she’d stripped off her apron and locked the shop behind her. Most nights, she’d go straight home. Avoid people. Avoid…everything. But tonight, the sharp edge in her chest wouldn’t settle, and the idea of silence felt louder than usual.

So she walked. Not far. Just enough to find herself in front of Bun Intended, its neon sign buzzing faintly above the patio lights. The smell of grilled onions and toasted buns curled around her like a hook.

She didn’t even like burgers that much.

Still, a milkshake and fries sounded like something that wouldn’t ask anything of her, so she ordered both, tucked herself into the far end of one of the outdoor benches, and tried to lose herself in the happy chaos of dogs chasing each other through the patio. It helped. A little.

She was halfway through her fries —shoes kicked off, milkshake balanced dangerously on the edge of the table—when she noticed the figure hovering nearby. Looking for a place to sit, scanning the filled tables. Irene didn’t recognize her at first. Just saw someone standing alone, holding a tray like she didn’t know what to do with it.

Irene’s voice came before she could stop it.

“Seat’s open.”

She nodded to the spot across from her, then adjusted her legs to make space, even if she didn’t quite smile.

WHO: @miyazakit WHERE: Goju Dojo

The dojo was quieter than she expected. Not silent, exactly—there was a hum to it, like a held breath or something waiting to begin, but quiet in that grounded way that pressed against her ribs and forced her to slow down. Think. Breathe.

Irene didn’t usually come to places like this. Places where people had rules and forms and discipline built into their bones. But she needed something, and she’d heard just enough about Tetsuya Goju to know he didn’t waste time asking questions.

The soles of her boots didn’t quite belong against the polished floors. She stood near the entrance for a beat too long, coat folded over one arm, eyes scanning the empty mats. Nothing sacred in these walls, she’d been told. Still—it felt cleaner than most places in the city. Like someone had fought for the quiet here.

She'd booked the session under a fake name. Just in case. People remembered Irene too easily.

When he stepped into view, she straightened. Didn’t smile. Just nodded, curt.

“I’m not here for enlightenment,” she said, tone flat but not unkind. “I just need to hit something.”

A pause.

“A few times.”

WHO: @erisinblood WHERE: downtown.

The bell above the shop door gave its usual tired jingle as Irene stepped out into the night, one hand tugging her coat tighter against the chill. Behind her, the faint scent of lavender and burnt mugwort still clung to her sleeves — the kind of smell that never quite left, no matter how much she scrubbed. She didn’t bother glancing back at the storefront; the lights were off, graveyard shift covered by the new girl with the shaky hands and too many questions. Irene had done her part.

Now the street was hers. Quiet. Dim. The kind of quiet that hummed a little too loud in her ears when she was alone with it for too long.

Her boots echoed against the pavement, rhythm steady, clipped, her hands shoved in her pockets. The streets in this part didn’t sleep, exactly. But they did doze—lights flickering in windows, the odd car sliding by like a ghost. The kind of in-between hour where anything felt like it could slip through the cracks.

She didn’t hear the footsteps at first. Not really. Just felt that prickle at the base of her neck. Not danger exactly—just…attention.

She kept walking.

Then—

“Dianne?”

It hit her like a slap.

She stopped mid-step. Her lips parted slightly, sucking in a breath. And for a second—just a second—she didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Like if she stood still enough, the moment might slide past her unnoticed.

But it didn’t. It never did.

Her fingers twitched where they curled in her coat pocket. Then, slowly, Irene turned.

The woman standing behind her wasn’t a stranger. Not quite. Something familiar hung in the shape of her —like a half-remembered song on the edge of a dream. Irene didn’t blink.

“I think you’ve got the wrong person,” she said, voice even. Too even. Too smooth. A lie she’d used a thousand times, so well-worn it might as well have been armor.

Her voice was tighter now. And under the streetlight, her eyes gave her away —just a flicker, a crack in the calm.

Because Dianne had been gone for a long, long time. And no one had said that name to her face in years. Not unless they knew something they shouldn’t.

She let the silence settle for a beat, weighing the woman with a look that was too sharp for someone trying to play innocent.

But beneath it all, something ancient and uneasy stirred in her chest.

She looked like her mother, sure. But that didn’t mean she was her.

And gods help her if someone else could tell.

END.

Irene didn’t blink. Didn’t smile. Didn’t rise to meet the bait like so many did — like Briar wanted her to. She just kept her eyes on the other woman, the corner of the worn label finally peeling back beneath her thumb like paper tired of keeping secrets.

“For fun?” she echoed, tone flat enough to skip.

She set the jar down with a soft clink. Not careless, not reverent — just exact. As if even glass had a place, and she wasn’t in the habit of misplacing things.

“I mend things that don’t belong to me,” she said, matter-of-fact. “I walk places people don’t think to look. I make sure what’s buried stays that way.”

A pause, but not because she was searching for anything. She just wanted the silence to sit there for a moment, thick and quiet and full of things unsaid.

“I’m not here to amuse you,” Irene added, finally lifting her gaze fully to Briar’s. There was no heat in it — just clarity, cool as the bottom of a well.

“And I don’t trade in curiosities.”

She stepped back behind the counter, rolling her sleeves down one at a time, slow and methodical like it was the end of something, not the beginning.

“But you asked. So that’s it. That’s your favor.”

Her hands moved to the ledger again, pen flicking once to mark a line through something unseen, invisible to everyone but her.

“No refunds. No rerolls. If you wanted stories, you should’ve asked for something easier to return.”

The bathroom door creaked open, and Irene blinked as the girl stepped out —mud-slicked, bloodstained, and stitched together with a kind of too-bright smile that didn’t touch her eyes. Irene didn’t move right away. She just stood there in her long coat, one hand shoved in a pocket, the other cradling a half-empty thermos of coffee gone cold.

Her gaze did what it always did—took in the shape of the girl, the uneven breathing, the way her hair was carefully arranged like a curtain. Irene didn’t need to see what was behind it to know what was there.

She’d seen that look before. In mirrors. In alleyways. In morgues.

The question made her tilt her head a little. A gym. It was such a soft, almost laughable request, spoken with the kind of desperation that tried to pass for casual. Irene didn’t laugh.

“Nearest gym’s about five miles and three lifetimes from here,” she said, voice flat, but not unkind. “And even if you found one, they’d probably want a membership card. Or at least shoes that don’t look like they got in a fight with the terrain and lost.”

She took a slow sip of her lukewarm coffee, eyes not leaving the girl’s face. The park light above them buzzed faintly, casting shadows under her eyes, giving everything that washed-out glow that made the world feel just a little too thin.

“You’re not from around here,” Irene said, not a question. Just a fact laid out neat and quiet between them.

Her tone wasn’t accusing. Just observant. Just practiced.

She shifted, letting the pause stretch a moment too long before offering, “There’s a community center down past Willow and 9th. Showers. Heat. No one’ll look too hard if you don’t give them reason to.”

A beat passed.

“You hurt anywhere bad?” Her eyes flicked to the girl's arm, where dried blood clung to torn fabric. “The kind that’s not healing like it should.”

Another beat.

Then, in that same even tone—quiet enough not to scare, sharp enough to be heard—she added, “You’ll want to watch what trails you take out here. Woods can be… unpredictable. Things stick to you.”

She didn’t say what things. Didn’t need to.

Instead, she shifted back just enough to clear the doorway, giving the girl space to pass. Her gaze lingered a moment longer on the edge of that hair curtain, but she didn’t press. Not yet.

“I’m Irene,” she said finally, like it mattered. “If you’re lost, I know my way around.”

She gave a slight nod, like she wasn’t just talking about directions.

open: to cor residents where: overlook park

   the journey to get to the city wasn't exactly how camila thought it'd go. she was new to town and didn't know a thing about where to go or who to see; if there even was a plan? either way, she was quite literally a mess. having to hitch hike in the middle of the night, and leave everything she once knew behind wasn't easy. she could still feel that...thing biting her neck. and she could still see the bodies of her parents. she also missed her...their family.

getting lost in the woods however, was the icing on top of the cake for camila as she wasn't exactly the 'hiking' type. she almost always relied on....her, to guide her through on camping trips. with no source of light, camila had managed to trip and stumble down a rather steep incline which led to a few bruises and scratches — which seemed to be healing? too freaked out to think of that, she shakily took the paper towel & ran it under the tap. 'the dried blood and mud on her clothes wouldn't budge, but she could at least clean up her face' she thought to herself.

camping out nearby, she heard knocking on the bathroom door. "i'm...i'll be out in a minute!" she said aloud, as the park washroom wasn't the most ideal place for her to try clean herself. but with her money running low and the car she had to abandon on the highway, she'd make do. putting a fake smile on her face, she used her hair to cover her neck before she's unlocking the door.

"sorry, i'll get out of your hair - uh. do you know where the nearest gym would be?" camila asked quickly, trying not to draw too much attention to herself.

Irene doesn’t look up right away. Just busies herself behind the counter — adjusting the jar of salt that doesn’t need adjusting, flicking the lamp switch one more time as if that’ll stop the buzzing (it won’t). But mostly, she gives herself a beat. A breath. Just long enough to make sure the lie stays smooth on her tongue, as effortless and worn-in as it’s always been. “I’m not a witch,” she says again, steady, like she’s said it a thousand times — because she has. To strangers. To threats. To people who cared too much or not at all. It never mattered which. It always had to sound the same. “I just work here.” She shrugs, easy and practiced. Like it’s all just coincidence. Like she’s just a woman with a few too many books and a mild intolerance for nonsense.

“Most of it’s just retail.” Her voice is lighter now, teasing around the edges — not mocking, not with Allie — but carefully disarming. “Witches don’t exactly come with HR departments, but someone’s still got to track the moon cycles on the wall calendar.”

The spell wrapped around her hums, faint but firm — the kind that runs deep in the bones, silent and airtight. Designed to slip under notice, to keep the sharp edges of her magic hidden beneath skin and smile and plausible deniability. No slip. No shimmer. Nothing for Allie to feel but what Irene allows.

And that’s safer. For both of them.

Still, the way Allie’s looking at her — bright and soft and full of unguarded belief — makes something uncomfortable shift beneath her ribs. Not guilt, not exactly. Just the ache of being seen too closely, even through a lie.

Her eyes flick to the notebook again when Allie speaks, and for a second, something gentler passes over Irene’s face. Just a flicker. Almost fond. Almost sad.

“You’re better at more than just wishing,” she says quietly, almost like she’s saying it to herself. Then, a little clearer: “Don’t sell yourself short.”

It’s not the kind of thing Irene says often. She doesn’t do comfort well — not the sweet kind, anyway. But for Allie, she tries. Maybe because Allie’s the only person she’s ever met who could make magic out of other people’s words and believe it was enough.

A breath passes, and Irene clears her throat, nudging a candle wick back into place with the edge of a matchstick.

“Still. Keep an eye on what you write in that thing,” she adds, back to dry again. But not cold. “The walls here like to listen. And your kind of magic… the hopeful kind? That’s the sort that sticks.”

She glances up, finally meeting Allie’s gaze, steady and unreadable.

“And trust me — not everything you wish for is something you want coming true.”

        as soon as she lets go, she finds she regrets it. not holding on just a touch longer, not squeezing her harder, not softening like she knows how important it is that irene doesn’t push her away. it’s cherished, and gone entirely too soon. now, she’s holding the little notebook. it fits a little easier, but that doesn’t matter so much to allie. she glides a thumb across the pages, the edges of them. it’s an absent-minded movement, a brush or the gentle pad of her finger, but even that centers her, grounds her memories to something solid. 

        it’s not long, though, as she’s looking to irene with a hopeful kind of curiosity, that allie’s grip loosens on truth, on predictability, and falls dizzy.  “ what? ”  her brown pinches, she whirls to follow irene to where she goes behind the counter. she doesn’t breach that barrier, too afraid of earning irene pushing her away, this time, but she does follow her there, big blue eyes wild with confusion.   “ what do you mean you’re not a witch? this is- this is the witch store. why are you working at the witch store if you’re not a witch? ”  she can’t help but let it feel like another wall, allie’s standing on her tiptoes to try and see over it, reach for it. of course, it makes her impossibly curious, in addition to the total lack of sense it makes. hadn’t she felt irene, like witches feel each other? had she made that all up? she must’ve, because irene says she’s not and even if it doesn’t make any sense at all, she believes her, if only because irene said to.

        her eyes stay soft and round as she listens, a peek of the sun shining through as irene nods towards the journal, her gaze flickers down to look at it, before it goes right back to irene. like she’s looking for … something, but she doesn’t know what it is.  “ oh it’s not really … anything important. i mean it’s all important to me, but it’s, like … just little stuff. anything i hear that i want to remember. like, stuff kiri says, or … um, ”  there’s more names waiting on her tongue, but she leaves them to rest in her heart, instead. irene probably doesn’t care, she doesn’t want to make her listen.  “ but i hope it comes true, whatever it is. wishing’s probably the only thing i am good at. ”

Irene doesn’t move.

Not when he steps closer. Not when his voice drips that low, jagged warning. Not even when the storm seems to lean in with him, like it, too, wants to see what happens when something snaps.

She just stands there — still and utterly unshaken, like the world’s spun meaner things at her and she’s long since stopped ducking.

Her gaze tracks his approach with the kind of measured calm that doesn’t come from arrogance, but experience — the cruel, quiet kind that’s buried friends and enemies both, and didn’t much flinch at either. Her fingers twitch once at her side, maybe muscle memory, maybe restraint. No visible weapon. No posturing. Just that look. Sharp and old and wholly unimpressed.

At his caperucita, her brow ticks up.

“Cute,” she murmurs. “You practice that one, or just bark it at anyone in red?”

The wind shifts again — hard this time — and her coat flares at the hem like it wants to fly, the scent of iron and wolfsbane rising faint in the air between them. Not fresh-cut. Older. Embedded. She doesn’t need to show him where it’s hidden. That’s the point.

Her voice stays low. Calm. But it cuts cleaner now.

“Funny thing about wolfsbane —” she says, tone drifting like smoke from a slow-burning fire, “— it comes in different forms. Tinctures, powders. Oils that don’t even smell like anything until your lungs start to collapse.”

She steps once, not toward him, not away. Just enough that the gap between them feels sharper. Like it means something more now.

“So I’d be careful.”

Her baby blues narrow, not cruel — just real. Tired in the way only people who’ve survived monsters are tired. “Like I said. You’re not on my list. Yet. But don’t mistake that for mercy.”

Her chin tilts slightly, just enough to read the shape of him again. Rage, hunger, grief all coiled together in a too-tight skin. She’s seen it before. Worn a version of it once. But she’s not about to be the one who breaks first.

“So be a good boy,” Irene says, almost gently. “Back away. Because yeah — maybe I end up with a bite. But you?”

She leans in just a breath, enough that her voice can flatten into something harder beneath the calm.

“You’ll end up dead. No matter the scenario. Odds aren’t in your favor.”

Then, softer again — a shrug of her coat, eyes already turning past him. Dismissal, deliberate and cold.

“And like I said. I don’t make messes I’m not ready to clean up.”

         her whole holier than-wiser than-better than act makes him want to fucking kill her. he supposes coming back home was supposed to mean he was on his best behavior- or at least better than before. before, when he had killed just for the crime of daring to exist, his own bloodlust all-consuming. but this time, he had a reason. she’s provoking him, he’d provoked her. she’s a hunter. that’s reason enough. and it’s not like being on his better behavior had stopped him before. the curse doesn’t care about promises, the wolf even less. the wolf takes his anger, the rage that burns and curls in his chest, spreading to his limbs. his mind had never mattered, logical thinking and inhibitory control skipped right over in favor of emotion, of passion. pride, too. the wolf doesn’t want him walking away, not when he could taste blood beneath his teeth. 

         he can smell the metal she’s got stuffed somewhere on her, wonders how long it could take her to whip out whatever hunter trickery makes her think she can take on a wolf, before he’s got his teeth in her. even somewhat human, dark eyed and feral, he could make the bite lethal. césar doesn’t care about listening anymore, he doesn’t care about nightmares, what she has to say. whatever glimmer of interest, the herb that had glanced through his senses, familiar. he doesn’t give a fuck. all it takes is one relax, pup for his nerves to flare and now, now he’s dangerous. he wants to hold life in his jaw and be the one to take it away, he doesn’t care who it is.

         rough from the growl, his voice reaches a low, raspy tone as it crawls from his throat. dying, vibrating with rage.  “ yeah, i’m done fucking barking. ”  it chokes out with a dry laugh, the thing stifling his words is not hesitation, is not fear, but it doesn’t take any mind reading bullshit to figure that out. his demeanor tells that story, hulking and predatory. that’s his threat, that she couldn’t stop him. she could hurt him, she could kill him, punish him for ruining her pretty fair skin, for making tears spur in judgy blue eyes from the pain. but she couldn’t stop him, not really.

         he walks closer, stalking, doesn’t reach her entirely, and keeps enough space between them that his teeth are kept at bay. for now, for now, for now. just put to the side enough that he’s thinking of blowing right past her, going to bury his teeth into some bunny. to stay alive for avi, to stay alive for teo. maybe it’s the storm that brings out that heart in him.  “ i’m a lot bigger than you, caperucita. what you got that’s so bad? ”  césar doesn’t know why, but he can smell something deeper than the knife.

Irene didn’t answer at first.

She just stood there, half turned, coat stretched between them like a line drawn in wet chalk — fading, but still there. Allie’s words landed softly, but they lingered, like pollen in her lungs. You’re a pretty thing. She huffed out something like a laugh, but it was quiet, more breath than sound. The kind of sound that wanted to be disbelief but came out something gentler.

There was no way Allie knew what she was saying. Not really. Not when she looked at Irene like that — like there was no blood on her hands, no sharp edges tucked behind her ribs. Like this world could still be something soft, and Irene someone who could hold it without breaking it.

The rain kept on falling, slower now, steadier — but the sky hadn’t eased. Thunder growled in the distance, low and mean, a reminder that the storm hadn’t finished making its point. Irene glanced up, jaw tight, then down again at the soaked hem of Allie’s dress, the way she shivered under the weight of the cold even while smiling like she belonged to it.

“You’re gonna get yourself struck by lightning if you keep dancing around like that,” Irene muttered, and there was no bite in it — just that soft, tired kind of affection she didn’t hand out freely. “Not a poetic way to go, Allie. Moment’s over. Come on.”

She pulled the coat tighter around her — around them — and her hand lingered at Allie’s back a second longer than necessary. A quiet thing. A steady thing. Something close to safety.

Irene looked at her then, really looked, like maybe she was trying to memorize the shape of someone who still believed the world didn’t bite. And maybe that was why she didn’t say the hundred things clawing at the back of her throat — all the reasons they shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t be close, shouldn’t pretend like pretty things could live long when they weren’t careful.

         allie shakes her head, it’s the easiest thing in the world. of course irene isn’t dangerous, matching with her is even less so. it’s natural, it’s perfect, it’s lovely. it’s the perfect day for it, even if the storm turns angrier, wilder, less forgiving for girls who are afraid of them. or at least, girls that are supposed to be afraid of them. allie’s not scared, now. she has irene. and this time, she doesn’t stiffen, or pull back, or watch her with a cautious, careful eye that makes allie feel like there’s a wall between them, even when she’s right next to her. now, allie tries, and irene’s letting her in. even if it’s almost, a whisper of a touch, a slight feeling- a catch of softness, like allie’s closing her eyes and running a finger along her surface. it’s something, and allie holds onto it. the fondness stays in her eyes, watching irene’s reaction to the flower. she’s not mad, she’s not angry, she’s not going to shove allie in the water and leave her behind. allie hadn’t done anything wrong, she hadn’t hurt her.

         it’s why she listens, it’s why she only pouts, doesn’t protest or argue when irene draws them away. her eyes only plead for the whimsy to return for only a moment, before she’s swept under irene’s coat. it had only been the slightest offer of closeness, and she takes it eagerly. it’s only then that she’d considered she had, maybe, been shivering from the cold, and had yet to notice. 

         because there, closer to her friend, it’s warm. she realizes then, the state of her, sopping wet and shoeless. there’s no regret, but she does feel bad for irene’s coat. allie goes, finding it easy to clear a way through the storm, so long as she wasn’t alone, so long as it wasn’t her idea. irene wants her to be safe, so she will. she wants her out of the danger. and, despite their completely separate definitions of danger, allie wants that too, because she does.  “ are you kidding? of course it is! i’m bare-footed, and you’re a pretty thing. ”  she giggles, her finger going to touch the yellow bloom tucked behind her ear, making sure it doesn’t fall.  “ we’re here, we’re meant to be here. if we weren’t meant to, we wouldn’t be. ”  maybe she can get her dance with her, after all.

Irene didn’t flinch at the shouting. Didn’t wince when his voice cracked or when the fury bled through the glass and hit her like a slap. She just stood there —still as the trees lining the street, soaked to the bone, watching the storm take him inch by inch. She waited, silent, until the only sound left was the drum of rain on the hood and the soft hiss of his breath shaking in his lungs.

Then she stepped back.

Not much —just enough that the shape of her in the window grew smaller, less immediate. Her eyes didn’t soften, not quite. But something in them shifted, like a door creaked open somewhere behind her ribs, and inside was a kind of tired knowing that had nothing to do with him and everything to do with too many nights just like this.

“You’re right,” she said finally. Flat. Even. “I don’t get it. Not your version. I’ve got my own.”

She adjusted the collar of her coat with one hand, pulled the hood back over her head. Her voice stayed steady, low and sure, even as the rain beaded on her lashes. “But I know this, no one is coming to save you if you don’t want to be saved. No one can.”

There was no judgment in her tone. Just truth, clean and sharp.

“You want to rot out here in the wreckage? Fine. That’s your choice. But don’t spit in the face of every hand that tries to pull you out when you’re the one gripping the rust like it’s gospel.”

She turned to go, boots sucking in the wet earth, shoulders set like armor.

But before she disappeared fully into the downpour, she paused—just once—and looked back over her shoulder, rain carving clean lines down her face.

“You want things to change?” she said, barely audible over the hiss of rain. “Then you start with you. No one else is going to do it for you.”

"I'm not-" He stops himself because what the hell else would it look like when he's out here like this? But that's not the point of this. He isn't sitting here hoping that he dies, but if he survives this without the truck, without even trying to save the last piece of his old life, then what was the point of going forward at all? His eyes get hot and he knows that means tears are coming, and he turns away angrily as he tries to compose himself.

"So then I'll fucking die!" he shouts back at her through the window. "I didn't ask for anyone to fucking stop for me. They've been passing me by for the last ten years when it mattered, so why the fuck does anyone care now?" Kevin glares at her through the window, thinking her high and mighty for judging him when she has no idea what he's been through. How many times people have turned their back on him because he didn't have an easy answer or made things too difficult, or blamed him for not trying hard enough, and she dares to stand there and do the same now that people have finally developed a conscience?

Kevin slams his palm against his steering wheel and shakes his head. "You don't fucking get it. People like you never fucking get it," he grumbles and he wipes away the tears that have started trickling down his face. "If you're so certain I'm dead, then you should get out of here. Wouldn't want you to be dumb about it."

She didn’t answer at first.

Just stared —unmoving, unreadable—the knife still pressed flat against his neck like a question she didn’t want to ask out loud. Like if she let it go, everything she’d built to keep herself standing would tumble right down after it. Her fingers didn’t shake. Irene didn’t shake. But inside her chest, something was splintering open. Something she’d buried so deep under years of silence and steel that she barely remembered the shape of it anymore.

And then he spoke again.

Her breath hitched. The sound cracked through her like thunder under frozen lakewater —hairline fractures splintering outward from the center of her. It wasn’t the name that did it. It was the sound of his voice.

The knife dropped.

Not far —just to her side— but it might as well have been a thousand miles. She didn’t even remember stepping forward. Just that her arms were around him, tight, desperate, like if she let go now he’d dissolve into rain and fog and bad dreams. Her fingers curled into the back of his jacket. Her face pressed hard into his shoulder. She held on —like she was drowning, and he was the surface.

And for the first time in what felt like years, Irene breathed.

The kind of breath that didn’t rattle in her lungs. That didn’t feel rationed, or stolen, or half-hollowed out by the weight she’d grown too used to carrying. It hit her like air after too long underwater —sharp, real, cruelly kind.

“You’re not real,” she said against his collar, barely louder than the wind. “You can’t be. I don’t get to have this.”

But she didn’t let go.

Not yet.

Not until the storm stopped sounding like her heartbeat.

Not until she could trust her knees again.

She pulled back just enough to see him —really see him—and the moment her eyes caught his again, she asked,

“What the hell are you doing here?”

It came out hoarse, like it’d clawed its way up from something deeper than her throat. She didn’t mean it like an accusation. Not exactly. Just—an ache, a question sharpened with disbelief. A heartbeat wrapped in barbed wire.

She clung to him like if she moved —if she so much as breathed wrong— he’d vanish into the mist again. Like the rain would cut through the space between them and prove he was never there at all, just a phantom conjured by too many sleepless nights and too many memories she’d tried too hard to forget. Her fingers dug in, not soft, not delicate—desperate. A tether. A lifeline. Like she could anchor him here just by refusing to let go.

Her face stayed pressed against the curve of his shoulder, and she inhaled like it might brand the moment into her lungs, like if she just memorized the scent of rain and asphalt and him, it would make the rest of the world less sharp tomorrow. Her eyes burned, but she didn’t cry. Not yet. Not when it still felt like a dream that could turn cruel at any second.

"I missed you so much."

He’d caught the outline of her profile earlier, just enough for suspicion to rise. Then followed her into a shop, pretending to browse the next aisle over, just to catch the sound of her voice. A good night, a casual goodbye — something, anything that would prove it was really her. Next, he had his phone in his hands, fingers swiping up, up, up until his thumb stopped on her name. Irene. The screen stared back at him like a mirror. Call her, Riven.

No. If this wasn’t her, what would he say? Sorry I haven’t called in years? How have you been, little one? He didn't want to sound like a stranger, but that's all he has become to her.

Lost in his thoughts, eyes flicking up and down the screen, Riven lost his balance. Suddenly, a knife pressed too hard into his skin. He was slammed into a wall, like it was child’s play for her to physically tower over a man like him. There was a flicker of something raw in her gaze — pain, maybe hope, maybe the memory of a bond that time hadn’t fully erased. "Irene." a beat, "It's me." He kept his hands where she could see them; empty, and open, and unthreatening.

She didn’t lower the knife. Couldn’t, maybe. Not yet. Not until he'd proven that he wasn't a ghost. That he was something real. "You're not dreaming, It's me."

Rivy.

The word felt like it stole the air from his lungs, pulled him into a time machine, back years, when he was just a kid. Just a bit taller than her, only a few years older, just as inexperienced. Maybe even more alone.

"Hey," he said softly, reaching out a hand. It brushed against hers, cradling the small of her wrist where she gripped the blade. "Come on. Put the knife down." He held her gaze. "I’m not going to hurt you."

On an average day, what can be found in your character’s pockets?

On an average day, Irene’s pockets are a quiet reflection of who she is — practical, private, and always prepared.

She usually carries her keys, looped with a spare hair tie — always black, always stretched a little too thin from use. There’s almost always a crumpled receipt or two she’s forgotten to throw out, tucked next to a folded grocery list or a sticky note with something half-crossed out.

Wired headphones are a constant — no earbuds or Bluetooth nonsense. She likes the certainty of something that won’t disconnect without warning.

Does your character feel more comfortable with more clothing, or with less clothing?

More clothing. Definitely.

Not because she's trying to hide anything dramatic — She just doesn’t like the attention. Irene has never been the kind of person who walks into a room and wants eyes on her. Less clothing… that invites stares, comments, and assumptions. She has had enough of that to last a lifetime.

She feels safer when covered. More in control. Like there’s a layer between her, her weapons and everything else. It’s not about shame — it’s about comfort. About not being seen unless she chooses to be.

⚡️ why don’t you just let your mother go?

Why don’t I just let her go?

You think it’s that simple? She gave up everything for me — her life, her dreams, her peace. Letting her go would be like tearing out a part of myself and pretending it never mattered.

She’s not a burden. She’s my mother. And I’m not about to walk away just because it’s easier.

So no — I won’t just let her go. Not now. Not ever.

Who in their right mind would do that?

SEND “⚡️” AND A QUESTION AND MY MUSE WILL BE FORCED TO ANSWER HONESTLY

Franz Kafka, The Diaries of Franz Kafka

Irene watched Shiv’s hands as they worked, and something in her chest went still.

It wasn’t just the methodical precision, the quiet reverence they carried for the steel — it was the way they did it. Like it was more than habit. Like it was memory. The kind that sits in muscle and marrow and doesn’t need language to surface. For a moment, just a brief flicker, her vision blurred at the edges and her father’s hands ghosted over the ones in front of her. That same calm, practiced rhythm. That same kind of quiet focus. Her dad used to say a blade didn’t need to look mean to do damage. It just needed to be respected. Shiv worked like that — like someone who understood what tools could become in the wrong hands, and carried them anyway.

When they smiled, she did too. Small. Unthinking. Like a reflex, not a decision.

She reached for the knife when they offered it, and when they pulled it back just slightly, she didn’t bristle — just raised one brow in mock offense. It was the kind of gesture someone else might’ve earned a sharp reply for. But not Shiv. They were one of the few people who didn’t set her teeth on edge just by existing. Maybe it was the way he never pushed. Never tried to draw blood just to see if she’d flinch. Just anchored himself in the space beside her like it didn’t cost anything to stay. Like someone had told him to watch over her, and he’d decided to take that promise seriously.

She took the blade properly when he passed it a second time and ran her thumb over the newly sharpened edge. A clean hiss of a breath followed — barely audible. “That’s perfect,” she murmured, and meant it.

The blade sat in her hand like it remembered her —like it forgave her for the neglect. Irene ran her thumb along the spine, not the edge, tracing the familiar nicks and wear without looking at it. Her gaze moved on Shiv, steady now, the way you look at someone you’re still trying to figure out but already trust more than you should. “I’m not used to being looked after,” she said, voice quiet but not brittle. “Not anymore. Feels strange. Like wearing someone else’s coat. But... I think I could get used to it. Maybe.” The last word landed softer than the rest, like she hadn’t meant to say it out loud.

Then, quieter still, eyes still on the knife, she added, “Don’t worry. I’m not easy to kill. You won’t have to mop anything up.” She glanced up then, something easier behind her eyes. “But I’ll leave a note. Promise. Or a text.” A pause, then, because saying thank you outright always caught like glass in her throat, she offered the closest thing she had — “You’ll know where to look.”

Though unspoken, there is a clear look of recognition towards another item inside Irene’s bag as its set on the table:. a small pouch of dried sigil chalks. Not one of those mundane, painfully-fake brands sold in Crow and Chalice. The real kind of magic their recurring companion carried in her travels, skillfully wielding it in a way that always gently stimulated their hunters' mark and completely captured their attention--

Fortunately, Irene brings their focus back to work before Shiv could further reminisce.

“Definitely not in worst shape...” Shiv parrots under their breath as they take the blade in hand. The hunter gingerly runs their thumb across the edge and lets it snag skin. Clean but dull. This edge should be sharper; it should have sliced their flesh and drawn blood by now. Shiv nods. “Definitely not in worst shape but still handled with great care. Good. I will be sure to do the same.”

Knife sharpening is not a chore but a practiced ritual imbued in Shiv’s being as their hands move on autopilot:

Cloth doused in just enough honing oil prepares the blade. Whetstone, darker coarse grit. Twenty-two degree angle. Moderate pressure. Slide forward, ten times. Sharpening steel. Rinse, dry with separate cleaner handkerchief. Whetstone, light fine grit. Stroke, ten more times. Yes, Appa, ten exactly, I know-

Plenty of meticulous steps to fill the silence, the sharp sound of blade on whetstone leaving room for Irene’s dramatic pauses. “If you ask me, it’s easier to hunt something that is real than not, something that can be understood and given a name. Hunting what refuses to be known or named is much more difficult. Practically impossible”, Shiv scoffs thinking back on the intangible nightmares that torment them. Oh what Shiv would give to stab or shoot or even claw their way out of one of those. “It’d be responsible to say that you should rest and get shut eye when you can, yadadada. But, c’mon. Look at me. Who am I to lecture you about not sleeping?”

“I won’t stop you from training late at night, alone or otherwise. But.” They offer the sharpened blade back to Irene, only to pull it back slightly when she goes to reach for it. Shiv softly smiles. A small jest. “Just be sure to let someone know in case things go south and we need to follow a trail. A note on your fridge or whatever. You have my number.” Shiv offers the blade once again. Earnestly this time.

Irene didn’t answer right away. Didn’t rise to it, didn’t blink. Just stood there in the hum of old fluorescents and bad intent, jaw set, fingers curling loose around the first cartridge like it wasn’t worth the weight of blood it could carry. Her eyes followed the second round as he slid it across, watched his hand, not the grin. And still —still—she didn’t flinch. But her stillness had changed. Not frozen. Tense. Measured. Like someone tiptoeing the brittle edge of a glass floor and trying not to listen for the cracks.

She was walking on eggshells, and they both knew it.

Not because she was afraid of him. Not exactly. Irene had faced worse —things that didn’t smile when they snapped their teeth, things that didn’t bleed red. But Nicolás got under her skin in ways she didn’t like admitting. He talked like he was made of razors and walked like he was waiting to be put down. And worse, he noticed things. Watched her too closely. Talked too loud, too fast, like maybe he was trying to shake something loose from her, just to see what would fall. She hated that she let it get to her. Hated more that she couldn't stay gone —had to come here, because he had the inventory she needed and she couldn't risk eyes on her anywhere else. Wouldn't be just nice if he left her the fuck alone?

Still. If he wanted to poke the bear, she could bare teeth, too.

“Haunted?” she echoed at last, voice low, even. “You think this is haunted?”

She stepped closer. Not enough to crowd him, just enough to shift the air —just enough to let him feel the chill running beneath her coat like a wire left live. Her hand didn’t twitch toward a weapon. Didn’t need to. She’d already sized the room, marked every surface, mapped every sharp edge she could use to cut him down. Her stillness was the weapon.

“If I’m haunted, it’s by the thought that the Brotherhood thought you were worth putting on payroll. That someone somewhere signed said, Yes, this one. The human shrapnel with a death wish. Let’s give him keys and teeth and let him loose.”

Her lips barely moved, but her tone sharpened.

“You think I look hunted? You should see what’s on my list.”

She picked up the second cartridge then —slow, steady. Let him feel the disconnect between her tone and the casual, practiced way she handled it. She could read a death in the weight of a bullet. And this one told her enough.

“I came here for supplies, not psychoanalysis. If you want someone to pick through your damage, try a mirror.”

A pause. Then —because he always wanted one last word, and she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of silence. “And for the record?” Her head tilted slightly, mouth twitching just enough to suggest it could almost be a smile. “You don't fail with flying colors. You fail exactly how we expect you to.”

See? Exotic like “professionalism.” That’s her edge. Beige. Nico barks a laugh through the necklace — sharp, fast, unamused. “God, you’re boring,” he says, chewing the lollipop stick until it splinters. Doesn’t even notice the cut in his cheek from the shard.

Irene’s out here talking like she’s filling out a fucking tax form. Like each word got cleared by legal before leaving her mouth. And for what? To make him feel small? He likes being big. Loud. Messy. The festering wound no one wants to look at. That’s the brand he’s carried for the Brotherhood for years. He’s going to keep carrying it. Inked under the skin, wrapped around bone. They don’t get to have him clean.

“Three strides, no breathing, no bleeding,” he parrots in a singsong voice, off-key on purpose. “You make it sound like a purity test.”

Then, quicksilver, the grin snaps into place—unnatural and all teeth. “But don’t worry, Irene. I fail with flying colors.”

His energy stutters, then spikes—sudden, twitchy. He rocks forward like he might vault the counter just to see if she’d flinch. Doesn’t. God, boring.

What’s the last thing she killed? He wonders. Was it clean? Was it quiet? Did she cry after? He thinks she did. There’s a few sheep in wolves’ clothing around here, and Nico wants to know who’s who. He can smell it on them—fear dressed up as bravado, stitched into leather jackets. The ones who posture too loud, who keep their knives polished but their hands clean. He’s seen it before. Seen what happens when the bluff gets called and their teeth don’t show up. Nico minds monsters—and he minds liars. And if someone’s wearing a predator’s skin without earning it, he’ll be the one to peel it back and see what’s really twitching underneath.

He pushes another cartridge forward and holds it there—fingertips pressing down, not releasing. A tension in his posture like a lit match held near gasoline.

“What are you hunting, Irene?” Eyes wide now. Hungry. Off-balance. “’Cause if it’s not me, why do you look so fucking haunted?"

END.

Irene stepped out into the night without hurry, coat already buttoned against the bite in the wind. The door clicked shut behind them, shop light spilling warm and gold onto the pavement for a breath before dimming again. She didn't say much at first — she rarely did. But her gaze flicked once toward Juniper and lingered a beat longer than it needed to. Not exactly assessing. Not quite protective, either. Just… noting. Marking presence.

When Juniper spoke, Irene let the quiet settle before answering — like she was giving the question room to breathe before deciding how to respond.

“Coffee,” she said simply. “Black’s fine.”

Her voice didn’t soften, but there was a steadiness to it now. Like she’d decided something, even if it didn’t show.

She walked a few paces, hands in her pockets, the sound of their steps meeting damp asphalt and the distant murmur of streetlights humming to life overhead.

“Appreciate the offer,” she added, a little lower, like the air had thinned around the words. “Not necessary, but… it’d be welcome.”

She didn’t mention she’d be getting some anyway. Not for the taste, not even for the ritual. Just to keep her eyes sharp when sleep kept missing its mark. She’d spent too many nights lately counting hours by the bottom of a mug. But she didn’t say that out loud. Didn't need to. The walk stretched ahead of them, shadows curling long, and the city had the kind of hush that always came just before something tried its luck.

Better to stay alert. Better to keep moving.

And for once, she didn’t mind the company.

Irene didn’t speak at first. Just stood there in the rain, coat stitched to her like a second skin, eyes set in a line that didn’t waver, didn’t blink. The storm had settled into something steadier now — a long, needling drizzle, the kind that soaked slow and stuck like guilt. It blurred the edges of the world, smeared the headlights in distant driveways, turned her breath to ghost-pale smoke.

When she finally exhaled, it was quiet. Not exasperated. Not angry.

Just… tired.

“I’ve met some suicidal people,” she said, voice low and dry, “— but this beats them all.”

She didn’t mean it cruel. There was no heat in it. Just the matter-of-fact weight of someone who’d walked through too many doorways behind bodies that couldn’t say no when it counted. Her gaze ticked down the side of the truck, traced the dented fender and the rust creeping out like ivy from the wheel well.

The wind shifted, pulling her hood back enough to reveal more of her face — pale skin flushed red at the cheeks, rainwater dragging hair across her jaw like threads of ink. There was no pleading in her expression. No desperation.

Just a quiet, aching kind of certainty.

“You want to stay? Fine. That’s yours to own. But don’t pretend it’s about sparing anyone else. You will die. And worse, you might take more people with you who are dumb enough to come out for you.”

The joke doesn't land, but he didn't really expect it to. But he's skeptical at her stance that he's got anything worth something to someone else. Even if a vampire were to come along, his blood probably tastes like pharmaceuticals and weed, not exactly the most appealing to anyone, and maybe he would make for a decent chewtoy for a werewolf if they didn't mind how stringy he was.

"Look," he sighs. "I get it. I hear you." They're the same warnings that have been rattling around in his head for hours, with each passing refusal. "But this truck... it's the only good thing that I have of my dad left." Fuck, he doesn't even know what the point of explaining it is. He was a shitty dude, left Kevin and their family with a ton of shitty problems, and yet, it wasn't always so bad. This truck is a reminder of those moments. It sounds even stupider now in his brain but he doesn't mention that part.

"I'm sure you're willing to help, and I appreciate it. I do. But I'm not leaving. It's my choice if I want to get wiped off the map with my truck, but I'd rather no one else get caught in my stupidity." She has no attachment to this truck or Kevin, and he wills her to listen to that. "The tow's gonna come, and I'll be fine." He has to be.

She turns.

Not fast. Not like a threat—though it wouldn’t take much for it to become one. Irene moves like a knife being unsheathed; deliberate, clean, sharp in all the places that matter. Her coat, still damp from the earlier downpour, clings to her like a second shadow, dark and unbothered by the chill. Wind tugs the hem sideways, wraps it round her calves like a whisper with teeth. Her gaze, when it settles on him fully, is calm. Heavy.

She could say a hundred things. Could speak in old names that burn when uttered, pull threads of his mind until they fray at the edges. Could reach through the smoke-thick parts of him and make him believe he never had a mother, never had bones, never had a name at all.

But she doesn’t.

Instead, she watches him with the kind of patience you only earn by standing still in rooms you were never meant to survive.

“Relax, pup,” she says, voice even. Low. Almost soft, if it weren’t for the iron underneath. “I’m off the clock.”

She lets that settle. Lets it dig its own little trench between them, full of unspoken meanings and unshed blood. She’s not reaching for anything —not a blade, not a curse, not even her temper— but her presence sharpens anyway. Like the weather around her is just waiting for an excuse.

“I don’t make messes unless I’m ready to clean them up.” A small tilt of her head. “And you’re not on my list.”

Her eyes don’t blink. Not right away. She studies him like she’s reading between the cracks of his ribs —finding the rot, weighing the ruin. The growl still hums in his throat like a taut string, but she doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t feed it either. Just stands there, steady as an altar stone, watching the storm behind his eyes with the kind of practiced detachment that only comes after watching men turn into monsters and monsters turn into corpses.

And then, finally, her mouth ticks up. Just a little. Not a smile. Something colder. Wiser.

“How’s it going?” she echoes, answering his dig with a shrug that carries far more weight than the gesture suggests. “Pretty well, actually.”

She nods toward him, slow and deliberate, like he’s a metaphor made real. “I’m not the one laughing at the thunder like it’s a god worth worshipping. So yeah. Guess I’m doing better than that.”

The air between them thickens, not with magic —though it’s always there, threading through her like smoke in a closed room— but with intent. Something that doesn’t need words. Irene could kill him. He’s fast, sure. Dangerous. But she’s lived through worse. She’s built worse. A hunter, yes —but a different breed than most. Not a zealot. Not a sadist.

She doesn’t want to skin him. Doesn’t want to watch him bleed.

But if he made her, she’d do it clean. Efficient. Kind, in its own quiet way.

Instead, she looks past him, back toward the distant rooftops where real nightmares fester, the ones with names she does keep on a list. A place where her attention should be.

And then back to him.

“You done barking?” she asks, voice quiet again. “Or are we still playing the big bad wolf routine?”

         césar’s saintly, for his teeth don’t feel the purchase of her neck beneath them, a bite to snap bone. still, he salivates for it. he displays a manner of control he, honestly, hadn’t thought possible. look at that, chiquita, you’re bringing out the best in him. his nose tells him human, but his eyes and ears tell him something more. humans don’t make threats like that, they don’t say your kind. it’s a gamble between a random, overly aware human and a hunter, weighing heavy on the hunter side. césar, for once, comes to the most reasonable conclusion. a low, deep growl rises in his throat, building underneath his jaw. he’s not a good enough dog to not respond to violence. her’s had come in words, so césar follows.

         “ watch it, chiquita. your pretty knives can’t stop a bite, and all it takes is once … ” she could kill him, sure, but césar’s always been a huge fan of mutually assured destruction. now, he’s not sure just what they teach in hunter school, but the curse brings a violence that tends to sneak up on you. it’s cocky, but he’s seen it time and time again. that, too, only takes once.

         there’s probably another world in which he takes her words in their finality, ignores her and leaves everything else unspoken and lost to the wind. and that world, césar’s not cursed, his father’s not dead, and warwick doesn’t send knives through their own skin. instead, when she speaks, all he hears is a child. all he hears is him. it makes him laugh, again, and he turns back towards the sea. i don’t smell like nightmares. you do. no matter how cold she is, how ice-firm her tone, césar hears the passion, how badly she wants to be believed. boo fucking hoo.  “ oh, yeah? and how’s that going? handling them? ”

Irene tolerated the hug like she might tolerate a cat sitting in her lap uninvited—still, unmoving, but with a faintly stunned look in her eye like she wasn’t entirely sure how it had come to this. She didn’t return it, not exactly, but she didn’t push Allie away either. Which, for Irene, was saying something.

“Matching energies,” she echoed, dry as ever, but her voice was quieter now. Less like bark, more like rustling leaves. “Sure. Let’s go with that.”

She let Allie take the notebook without protest, though her fingers lingered a beat too long before letting it go. Like maybe part of her was tempted to hang onto it, if only to make sure it didn’t end up under the peppermint again. Or the radiators. Or that one cursed drawer that ate things whole.

At the question, though—do you have something like it?—Irene’s expression shifted.

Not visibly. Not much. Just a flicker in the way she blinked, the angle of her shoulders as she turned and started walking back toward the counter. Something closing behind the eyes.

“No,” she said simply. “I’m not a witch.”

It was too smooth. Too practiced. Not even a hitch.

“I just know a thing or two about herbs. Plants. I read a lot.”

The lie settled neatly between them, well-worn and wrapped in just enough truth to pass inspection. It always sounded better when she said it like that —like it wasn’t a big deal. Like the books and the jars and the faint, prickling hum of the walls around them weren’t strung together with old wards and stranger things. Survival, after all, had never been about honesty.

She paused near the counter, reaching to flick off a lamp that had started to buzz again, half-listening to the light catch in Allie’s laughter.

“You should be careful with those kinds of notebooks,” she said, tone light enough to sound like she was joking—though the words had an edge to them, buried deep. “Write the wrong thing down and it might try to make itself true.”

Then, as if to soften it —because Allie was still glowing at her like Irene had hung the stars with her bare hands —she added, “But I guess that’s your kind of magic.”

She gave a short nod toward the journal. “Just make sure it doesn’t end up in the peppermint again.”

        she giggles, a little apologetic, but mostly just tickled with humor. and, anyways, she’s pretty sure irene’s kidding. allie’s never put glitter in the mortars on purpose, but maybe if it’s gotten on her hands … still, her eyes flicker over to them, just to make sure the stone of them isn’t entirely bedazzled. but, before she can fully set her gaze on them, irene’s talking about her little lost thing, and allie remembers why the wind brought her back here.

        her head tilts sheepishly. yes, of course, she’d left something behind again. really, it doesn’t matter so much as long as she keeps coming back to the apothecary, and she always does. if she could hold onto things longer- memories -it wouldn’t matter so much. but it was on her mind and worth a try and she had hope and now, here she is! and here irene is, and she’s found it.  “ oh my gosh, thank you, thank you! you’re the best! ”  she forgets about her quest to keep irene from getting too grumpy with her as her eyes catch hold of the little journal. allie squeals, and rushes forward, wrapping her arms around irene’s shoulders in a brief squeeze, fueled by a rush of affection.  “ you’re so good at finding things, i think that’s why we’re friends. ‘cause we have, like, matching energies. ”  she lets go soon enough, resting back down on the ground, instead of pushed up on her tiptoes, reaching for the clouds.

         allie takes the journal back from where it’s dangling from the tips of irene’s fingers, clutching it gratefully, tender, to her chest. there’s more laughter spilling from her lips.  “ i’m very lucky, but it’s ‘cause of you, silly. ”  she doesn’t believe irene’s threat of keeping it, mostly because there’s nothing in there that’s all that interesting. of course, it’s all interesting to allie, but … everything is.  “ do you have something like it? like, a little book you keep all your magic stuff in? ”

Irene didn’t flinch when Allie touched her — not really — but there was the faintest shift in her posture, the smallest roll of her shoulders like some old, instinctual tension had stirred from its sleep. Still, she let her take her hand. Let her tuck the flower behind her ear like it was nothing. Like it didn’t burn with the strange warmth of being chosen.

“Matching, huh?” Irene’s voice was quieter now, almost rough with the effort of keeping something leveled out beneath it. “Dangerous thing to do with someone like me.”

But she didn’t pull away.

She didn’t know what it was about Allie — the way she moved through the world like it hadn’t taught her to flinch yet, or maybe like she’d learned to laugh through the ache anyway. Irene remembered that feeling. Not well, but well enough to recognize the ghost of it. Back when her magic still had wonder in it. Before it twisted under the weight of what she’d had to make it do.

Allie’s magic pulsed gentle — alive and bright like sun-warmed petals and laughter too early in the morning. Irene’s had teeth. It could peel the paint off reality if she let it. No comparison, really. No overlap. But it was impossible not to wonder, just for a second, what it might have felt like to be the kind of girl who danced instead of watched.

What it might’ve meant to laugh with her, instead of being the one standing in the storm with a pocket full of warnings and a blade under her tongue.

But now wasn’t the time for that.

Her fingers came up — slow, steady — brushing just once against the flower behind her ear like she couldn’t quite believe it was real.

“Alright, come on,” she said, voice firm again. Not unkind, but all the softness tucked neatly back behind the grit. “Let’s get you out of here. It’s not safe.”

She glanced once toward the street, water swirling in gutters and lightning stretching pale veins across the dark sky.

Irene shifted her coat open slightly, just enough to drape one side around Allie’s soaked shoulders. She didn’t ask if she needed it. She just did it. Quiet, certain, like it was the only thing in the world that made sense right now. “This isn’t a place for bare feet and pretty things.”

         irene gets that same bright affection as she always does, allie’s always happy to see a familiar face. the early morning brings a potent enthusiasm, the rain a chill that ups the swallowtails in her heart to hummingbirds. her pulse becomes a steady hum, instead of a beat she can track. faster and faster and faster until allie’s bouncing on her toes. it keeps her warm, and it keeps her from springing forward to envelop irene in a very wet and cold hug. she giggles, shaking her head, shaking off irene’s warning about the mud. how’s she supposed to feel the ground, if she has her shoes on? silly, silly, silly.  “ you’re so silly, nothing bad’s gonna’ happen to me. ”

         her smile beams soon after, half-way preening, irene’s words feel special. you seem happy is like a treasure amongst the usual clouds of distrust that allie fights her way through with sweet smiles and cheerful words. “ i am happy. ”  and, really, she is, listening to irene with interest and curious eyes and-

         … guess there’s a first time for everything. “ really?! ”  the words spill out of her mouth, faster than she can process them, the same going with her eager hands, going to land on irene’s own. she manages softness, in that all-consuming, fond excitement.

         but as she turns back to irene, so giddy she almost trips over her own two feet, she realizes there’s something … missing. “ oh, oh wait- ”  the fabric of her skirt is completely soaked, which means finding the pocket of it with clumsy fingers is even harder than normal. blue eyes dart down as she finds another yellow flower, one like the bloom she had tucked behind her own ear. in allie’s warm palm, the flower breathes new life. its thirst satiated by the rain, it looks just as pretty as it did when she’d plucked it from the ground. allie reaches up to tuck it behind irene’s ear, smiling warmly as her hand flutters away, admiring her friend and the flower.  “ there, now we match! ”

Irene didn’t blink. Didn’t smile. Didn’t rise to meet the bait like so many did — like Briar wanted her to. She just kept her eyes on the other woman, the corner of the worn label finally peeling back beneath her thumb like paper tired of keeping secrets.

“For fun?” she echoed, tone flat enough to skip.

She set the jar down with a soft clink. Not careless, not reverent — just exact. As if even glass had a place, and she wasn’t in the habit of misplacing things.

“I mend things that don’t belong to me,” she said, matter-of-fact. “I walk places people don’t think to look. I make sure what’s buried stays that way.”

A pause, but not because she was searching for anything. She just wanted the silence to sit there for a moment, thick and quiet and full of things unsaid.

“I’m not here to amuse you,” Irene added, finally lifting her gaze fully to Briar’s. There was no heat in it — just clarity, cool as the bottom of a well.

“And I don’t trade in curiosities.”

She stepped back behind the counter, rolling her sleeves down one at a time, slow and methodical like it was the end of something, not the beginning.

“But you asked. So that’s it. That’s your favor.”

Her hands moved to the ledger again, pen flicking once to mark a line through something unseen, invisible to everyone but her.

“No refunds. No rerolls. If you wanted stories, you should’ve asked for something easier to return.”

Briar's confused by all the obfuscation; ledger this, ledger that. Goodwoman Stephens is brave indeed, dealing with this sort of orderly chaos. Were she to start her own public facing endeavor she'd not last the week before she was caught trafficking in sleep aids because some neck-tied hoglet a city over wanted his cut of the coin. Of course should the police come for her they'd all be quite dead in short order; food for the root, but that would beruin the point; the girl is overcautious.

Still, whether it's the 1720s or the 2020s she supposes a pig's only ever good for carving.

"But asking games are such fun!" She muses. "Tch. You've so serious a tone. I'll wager too that you're quite the stickler aren't you? How about this, as I've no need for any materiel; Tell me, what do you do for fun? Outside this shop I mean. Otherwise, I simply won't believe you know how to have it. That's the favor I ask."

Irene didn’t answer right away. Just stood there with the wind needling past her hood and the storm biting at the edges of her coat. She watched him with that same unreadable calm — not cold, not unkind, just steady in a way most people forgot how to be. Like she’d already made her decision, and now she was waiting to see if he’d catch up to it.

At his joke, something flickered across her face. Not quite amusement. Not pity, either.

“You keep offering pieces like no one’ll miss ‘em,” she said quietly. “This town’s full of people who’d take you up on it.”

She stepped closer, the wet gravel crunching under her boot. Her gaze stayed level.

“There are folks around who’d love to know how soft your belly is. What your bones sound like when they crack. Some don’t even need a reason. Just like seeing what leaks out.”

There was nothing cruel in the way she said it. If anything, it was gentle — a warning wrapped in something like care, worn blunt from use.

Then, she pulled her hand from her coat pocket, palm up, offered without ceremony.

“You can’t stay here.”

A pause, as if she were weighing her next words against the storm itself.

“You don’t know me. I don’t know you. But you sit in this truck much longer, and someone’s going to find your teeth before they find your name.”

Her fingers didn’t waver. She wasn’t a big woman, didn’t look like she could carry much more than her own weight and maybe a loaded satchel — but there was a kind of quiet confidence in the offer. She was training on a daily basis, this couldn't be as difficult, right?

“I’ll help you. If you can walk, I’ll get you there.”

Then, softer — not for reassurance, but truth. “I’m stronger than I look.”

He doesn't know what to make of this stranger walking through a growing hurricane like it's a summer shower. There's no urgency in her tone, unlike the few others who have stopped by, and there's almost a relief when she doesn't tell Kevin to get out of the truck. She listens to his stuttering explanations and she simply responds with the facts. Unnerving, but better than trying to convince someone he wasn't being stupid for the sake of being stupid.

A mile and a half in this weather is impossible for him. His legs already ache intensely, and that's while he's dry and semi-warm. If he tried now, he would need to rest after a couple hundred feet. Still, he takes in the information all the same. "I'll keep that in mind," he nods. Doesn't mention that trying to make the journey would almost certainly lead to a worse outcome for him.

"I appreciate the warning, and maybe if someone does come by, they'll charge me an arm and a leg. They'd be useless to them, but I guess beggars can't be choosers." Maybe that's a bad joke. His head feels foggy from the storm and the drugs. "I don't know if I'll be fine," he shrugs. There's no way to be sure of that. "But it's what I've got. You got a name? If I make it out of this, I'll buy you a drink for giving a shit."

Irene stops. Not all the way — not like someone caught — just enough that the wind tugs her coat sideways as she turns her head, just slightly, enough to look back over her shoulder. Not enough to give him the satisfaction of her full attention. Just enough to remind him she heard.

Her voice is quieter now, but it carries. A low current in the air, sharp as salt on an open wound.

“Funny thing,” she says, slow, measured. “You always think you’re doing the hunting until the ground gives out under you.”

She doesn’t give him a smile — wouldn’t waste one — but there’s a shift at the corner of her mouth. Not amusement. Something older. Worn. Closer to warning.

“Your kind shouldn’t be out in the rain.”

Her gaze flicks to the sky, where stormclouds roll like smoke on the edge of something worse. Then back to him, steady.

“Not when people would love nothing more than to see what you look like flayed open and nailed to someone’s cellar wall. Wet fur’s easier to skin.”

There’s no venom in it. Just fact, spoken like a woman who’s seen it done and didn’t bother looking away. Maybe even held the knife once.

Then she turns fully, shoulders settling back like a door swinging closed. No dramatic exit, no theatrics — just the kind of silence that comes after a line is drawn in chalk and left for the rain to erase.

“I don’t smell like nightmares. You do. I just know how to handle them.”

         now, she’s the one full of bullshit. césar rolls his eyes. now, they’re sick of each other.  “ for someone who’s tired of me talking, you sure like putting words in my mouth. ”  he’s a monster that doesn’t respect much. the sea, the natural chaos, they might be the only things in all the world that he does. and vengeance, he loves that shit.

         you’d better know how to swim when it pulls you under.  “ wanna’ bet? dare me. ”  he’s not a domesticated thing, hasn’t lost the pure, natural instinct to stay alive, but- he’s always been easily beckoned to a wine-dark sea, being dragged under the waves sounds better than whatever the fuck he’s doing now. whether or not he survives that is none of his business. his instincts will kick in, or they won’t.

          césar watches her turn around. despite the wolf that tingles under his skin, that wild nature threatens to turn skin to fur under stolen clothes, he doesn’t enjoy this chase. it’s a battle of pride, he’s a stubborn thing, and, truly, he just doesn’t care enough. there is nothing here to stoke the saliva from behind canines, to make him thirst and hunger for this. he’ll find another rat to play with, if the boredom persists. the man inside him refuses to be reduced to an animal, trailing along pathetically for a morsel of attention. but the wolf … catches a whiff of something familiar. a herb of the magical variety, one he knows from trial and error. the herb worked, but it wasn’t enough for what césar needed. once he focuses in on the smell, it’s impossible to ignore. it only grows stronger, and the storm, the sound of her turning feet, it all turns to background noise. it’s so strong, the smell of the herb, he believes he could follow it through, wherever she goes home to. wherever she’s hiding from. still, he comments bluntly, like he isn't sure, like he's too sure, like it's another part to this game. " you smell funny, who're you hiding from nightmares? "

Irene didn’t flinch. Not when he grinned like that, not when the lollipop cracked against his teeth, not when the salt round spun across the counter like bait with a pulse. Her baby blues dropped to the cartridge just once, brief as a blink, then returned to his face —steady, unimpressed. The look she gave him wasn’t cold, exactly. Just level. Like she was reading off a list in her head and debating whether or not to cross something off.

“Three strides is generous,” she said. Voice low, clipped at the edges like it’d been trimmed down to only what was necessary. “I just make a habit of not breathing deep where the air smells like gunpowder and ego.”

She didn’t move forward. Not yet. Her weight shifted slightly, like a stormcloud might before it made up its mind.

“And no,” she added, tone still flat, “—not shell shock. If I were shaken up, you'd already be bleeding. You just talk too much, Nicolás.” For someone who can't speak, that is, but of course, Irene didn't say that.

Her hands stayed in her pockets, but one shoulder dipped —barely. A faint gesture that might’ve been half a shrug. Or a reset. It was hard to tell with Irene. She wasn’t the sort of person who gave much away on purpose.

“But you’re right. You’re not the story I’m worried about.”

Now, she stepped forward. Just one pace. Close enough to take the round, which she did without ceremony, without thanks. Her fingers brushed the cartridge, weighed it briefly like she was measuring intention.

“I don’t have the luxury of fairytales. Just the truth.” A pause. “And some of us know better than to put both feet on the wire and hope it isn’t live.”

She slid a small envelope across the counter —payment exact, crisp, folded. Not quite delicate, but handled with the kind of precision that suggested she liked things done clean. Then she looked at him again, gaze unreadable. “You finished monologuing? Or is there another round of metaphors coming before I get what I came for?”

Nico leans back on his stool, combat boots braced against the cabinet like the glass is rated for detonation. A bright red lollipop click-clacks between his teeth—cherry, nuclear-sweet, the kind that stains your tongue. Would stain his, if he had one.

A slanted grin carves fault-line across his face at the sight of Irene. With her, he both signs and speaks through the charm. “Y’know, most of Brotherhood come right up to the counter—swagger, scars, the whole ‘compare kill counts’ handshake.” He taps the glass, knuckles a slow drumbeat. “But you? Always anchor yourself exactly three strides back, like there’s a pressure plate hidden under my boots.”

He fans the salt rounds in a neat little arc, thumbnails sparking flecks of brass under the fluorescents. “What is it, agent-provocateur? Shell shock from the last gig? Or do I just smell like C-4 and bad decisions?” His eyes narrow, curious, hungry in that way static clings to cat fur. “I mean, we’re on the same side of the monster problem—or did I miss a memo?"

The lollipop clicks against his molars; each tap feels like a countdown before continuing to sign and speak to mind. “Could be moral hygiene, I guess. Plenty of hunters think I’m a walking OSHA violation with a pulse.” He shrugs, loose and lazy, but his gaze stays riveted. “Still, can’t help wondering what piece of glass you think is gonna stop me if things get jumpy. Spoiler alert: this counter’s rated for price tags, not explosions.”

He nudges one cartridge toward the invisible line. It spins, stops, stares back at her like an unblinking eye. “Step up, collect the discount, prove you don’t believe your own cautionary tales. Or keep your distance and let me invent new ones.” His voice softens—almost gentle, which somehow makes it worse. “I don’t bite, Irene. Not without a safe word. And I’m pretty sure yours is something exotic, like ‘professionalism.’”

Irene stepped out into the night without hurry, coat already buttoned against the bite in the wind. The door clicked shut behind them, shop light spilling warm and gold onto the pavement for a breath before dimming again. She didn't say much at first — she rarely did. But her gaze flicked once toward Juniper and lingered a beat longer than it needed to. Not exactly assessing. Not quite protective, either. Just… noting. Marking presence.

When Juniper spoke, Irene let the quiet settle before answering — like she was giving the question room to breathe before deciding how to respond.

“Coffee,” she said simply. “Black’s fine.”

Her voice didn’t soften, but there was a steadiness to it now. Like she’d decided something, even if it didn’t show.

She walked a few paces, hands in her pockets, the sound of their steps meeting damp asphalt and the distant murmur of streetlights humming to life overhead.

“Appreciate the offer,” she added, a little lower, like the air had thinned around the words. “Not necessary, but… it’d be welcome.”

She didn’t mention she’d be getting some anyway. Not for the taste, not even for the ritual. Just to keep her eyes sharp when sleep kept missing its mark. She’d spent too many nights lately counting hours by the bottom of a mug. But she didn’t say that out loud. Didn't need to. The walk stretched ahead of them, shadows curling long, and the city had the kind of hush that always came just before something tried its luck.

Better to stay alert. Better to keep moving.

And for once, she didn’t mind the company.

Juniper nodded along. She understood very well trying to get around another person's idea of order and organization. It was only her own luck that made it so her brain seemed to work the same way as her grandmothers. Everything had a place, everything had a label. Did the places make sense? Most of the time. Were the labels legible? If you understand the language it’s written in, sure. It was something she had always had to help her grandfather with. Married for almost 50 years and he still had a hard time reading her vine scrawl sometimes. 

She conceded. This was not a place or time where she could help. And she really did not want to get Irene in trouble if it came to that. She was reserved but very kind. Reading her felt like looking at one of those magic eye optical illusions from her youth. Everything you needed to understand what you were looking at was right there. You just needed to know *how* to look at it. So she instead tucked herself into a corner near the exit watching the world outside pass by as she waited. Sage playing with her hair all the while. 

It was a nice type of calm. One that felt nostalgic. The scent of dry herbs and burning candle wax, the sound of a busy world through glass. If she closed her eyes she wondered if for even the briefest moment she could go back to a simpler time. Back when pain didn’t linger in her bones and smiling wasn’t in defiance of the world that surrounded her. 

She lost herself in the process, vision going blurry; she wasn't really paying attention to the glass or what was behind it. Instead focused on some non-existent space in between the two until her attention was brought back to the present. Turning to see Irene approach, her smile returned. 

“Oh- that was fast. Alright. Shall we?” She held the door open for the other before exiting herself. Taking a deep breath of the cold air to clear her head and fully return to the here and now. 

“Will you be working in the morning? It’s not much but I would be happy to bring a pick-me-up in the morning when I pick up my order. Pick your poison, coffee or tea?"

WHO: @poiscns WHERE: the aviary gun store & range

The Aviary smelled like oil and sawdust and the faint tang of ozone that never seemed to leave her skin. Irene stepped inside with her hood still up, letting the warmth from the threshold brush past her before tugging the door closed behind her. It wasn’t late, but the light was already fading outside—stormclouds banking thick above the ridge, low and restless like they knew something she didn’t.

She didn’t come here often. Not unless she had to.

Her steps were quiet, measured. She didn’t pause to browse, didn’t linger over the racks. The front of the shop was familiar enough, clean glass, careful displays, everything in its place. It was the kind of tidy that tried a little too hard to look casual. The kind that made her teeth itch. She knew where to go. Back, past the display cases and the locked cabinet of antique pieces nobody ever touched but he always insisted on keeping stocked. Through the low-lit hallway that smelled faintly of bleach and dried blood.

She found him behind the counter, of course. Where else.

“Nicolás.”

His name came low and even, no smile attached, no warmth meant. Just a simple acknowledgment. She didn’t take her hands from her coat pockets, didn’t move closer than necessary.

“Need restock on the salt rounds. And the brass you special ordered—three weeks back? I was told it came in.”

A beat passed. Her gaze didn’t waver, but her shoulders shifted slightly, like she was bracing for something.

“That’s it. I won’t keep you.”

She didn’t ask how he was. Didn’t ask about the last hunt or who he’d pissed off this week. Irene didn’t do small talk with firestarters.

Not unless she had to.