JJ Doe

Avalia

Time: A.M.
Location: River Port Abandoned Storehouse
Interactions/Mentions: @Conscripts @mole
Equipment: Knife, drugs, and wallet looted from dope peddler

✠✠✠✠✠

The metal pipe caught him square across the temple with all the finesse of a freight train meeting a daisy. White-hot pain exploded behind Vasco’s eyes, then settled into a pleasant sort of wobble that reminded him of looking through the bottom of a gin bottle. Now, he’d taken his share of knocks in this business—occupational hazard, you might say—but this particular wallop had his thoughts scrambled worse than Sunday morning eggs.

Course, the mystery nut he’d been working on was helping plenty. That bitter-sweet buzz mixed real nice with the adrenaline. Pain was there, sure as rain, but it felt like somebody else’s problem. What was left of his thinking knew damn well he’d be nursing a headache that could crack granite once it all wore off. Assuming he lived to see morning, which was looking like a coin toss at best.

Maybe he could catch a few winks right here on the warehouse floor. Let Barrock mop up the rest of these palookas while he took a little siesta among the crates and blood stains. Hell, he’d slept in worse places.

That’s when he heard it—thought he heard—a woman’s scream.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Josephine’s screams echoed off the brick walls of the alley behind Murphy’s tavern. Vasco rounded the corner to find Josephine in the dirt, surrounded by five of Frankie’s crew who thought they owned every piece of skirt in the neighborhood. Jimmy Torrino—that grease-stained waste of his mother’s efforts—had her pinned to the filthy ground, his meaty hands where they had no business being, while the other four stood around treating it all like it was a show.

Red crept around the edges of everything. His fists started talking before his brain could tell them to mind their manners. The first punk went down with his nose painted across his cheek. Number two got acquainted with the business end of Vasco’s knee. By the time he reached the third, his knuckles were singing hymns in B-flat major.

He could hear Josephine yelling something but the words bounced off him like raindrops off a tin roof. The last hood tried to run. Vasco was faster. And angrier. And not in a forgiving mood. His fists kept finding faces long after they’d stopped fighting back. One of them was begging now, spitting blood and teeth. Vasco’s fists weren’t listening. It took three, maybe four more punches before her voice actually reached him.

When he turned to look at her, Josephine was pressed against the alley wall, her dress torn, tears cutting tracks through the grime on her cheeks. But it wasn’t gratitude in her eyes. It was horror. Pure, undiluted horror, and something worse—disgust. Like she was staring at something that crawled out of hell’s basement. And maybe she was.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Aurora’s pretty face swam into focus where Josephine’s had been. The bodies scattered around him weren’t local boys anymore, but Black Maw Syndicate muscle, and their blood was still warm on his knuckles.

Without a word, he staggered toward the back room. His legs felt disconnected from the rest of him, but they carried him to where Rowan sat trussed up like a Christmas goose. The gag was doing its job, keeping all that self-righteous preaching bottled up where it belonged.

“Well, well,” Vasco said, his voice thick and slurred. “So much for that hero act, eh princess?”

Lights out before Rowan could even try to respond.

✨Beyond The Veil✨

^{____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________}

Location: Zach’s Apartment

Time: Dusk~Evening

Interactions/Mentions: @Tpartywithzombi @Sadie @Apex Sunburn @Ctenoid Soul

^{____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________}

Zachariah stumbled through the door, shoulder catching the frame as he shoved himself inside his apartment. Shaking hands fumbled with the locks—deadbolt, chain, the reinforced bar he’d installed. One by one, they clicked into place with metallic finality.

Sweat soaked through his shirt. His throat burned with a thirst that water couldn’t touch, saliva flooding his mouth until he had to swallow convulsively to keep from drooling. Air came in sharp, ragged bursts.

He’d known. Had taken Vex’s warnings seriously, prepared himself as much as anyone could prepare for their first night as a monster. But knowing and experiencing—there was a universe of difference between the two.

The moment he’d stepped onto the street, Halcyon had hit him like a freight train. Neon lights burned too bright, their colors searing afterimages behind his eyelids. Car engines roared, brakes screeched, music bled from nightclub doors—all of it crushing down until he gasped.

But that was nothing compared to the people.

The sidewalks teemed with them, voices creating a cacophony that made his skull throb. Beneath the chatter, beneath the laughter and arguments, was something else. Something that made his mouth flood with saliva and his vision narrow to pinpoints.

Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump.

Hearts. Everywhere, hearts beating in rhythm, a symphony of life that called to something primal and hungry in his chest. The sound grew louder with each passing second, drowning out everything else—traffic, voices, his own ragged breathing. Just that relentless percussion of blood announcing itself to every predatory instinct he didn’t know he possessed.

A woman had brushed past him outside a nightclub, her perfume mixing with the salt-sweet scent of her skin, and Zachariah had caught the underlying copper tang of her blood. Rich. Warm. Available. The urge seized him—to lean closer, to taste. He’d imagined pressing his teeth to the soft curve of her neck, feeling her pulse flutter against his tongue before—

Stop. Stop. STOP.

Warden training had kicked in then. He’d jerked to a halt, fists clenched until his nails bit into his palms, using pain as an anchor. Every muscle screamed in protest as he forced himself to turn away, to put distance between himself and the walking banquet that surrounded him.

Each block became a battle. Each person a test he barely passed. By the time he’d reached his building, drool was trickling down his chin and he was trembling all over.

Only his Warden training—years of discipline hammered into his bones—that had saved his life countless times in the field now served as the only barrier between his sanity and complete surrender to the Curse.

But it wouldn't be enough. Not forever.

One day—maybe tomorrow, maybe next week—that discipline would snap. And then there would be blood on his hands that no amount of penance could wash clean.

Now, back in his apartment, Zachariah collapsed against the hardwood floor. Tension coiled through him. His body was ready to hunt for prey that wasn’t there.

His chest heaved, drawing in great gulps of air that did nothing to calm the fire racing through his veins.

The Sanguine Curse writhed inside him, clawing at his ribcage, demanding satisfaction. It whispered how easy it would be to go back outside, how sweet that first taste would be, how the burning would finally stop if he just gave in.

Zachariah pressed his forehead to the cool floor and waited.

How long he lay there, he couldn’t say. Time felt elastic. Unreliable.

The hunger prowled at the edges of his consciousness like a caged animal, testing the bars, looking for weakness. But gradually—gradually—it retreated.

When Zachariah finally felt human enough to think clearly, he pushed himself upright and surveyed the apartment.

Everything exactly as he’d left it. His coffee mug still sat on the kitchen counter, a ring of dried residue marking where he’d abandoned it days ago. Mail lay scattered across the dining table, bills and junk advertisements mixed together in the same careless pile. Even the throw pillow on his couch remained at the exact angle where Sable had tossed it before Zachariah left for what should have been a routine investigation.

Which meant the Wardens hadn't come yet.

Yet.

They would, though. Soon. And that meant Zachariah had to make a decision now.

The right thing—the Warden thing—would be to pick up his phone and call headquarters himself. Save them the trouble. Three words: “I’ve been compromised.” They'd be here within the hour with silver bullets and bloodrune blades, and this nightmare would end before he hurt someone.

Clean. Professional. The kind of death a Warden deserved.

But beneath the logic, beneath years of duty and honor, a deeper, more fundamental part rebelled against it. Not because he feared death—he’d made peace with his mortality long ago, had walked into enough dangerous situations to know that someday his luck would run out.

No, what kept him from reaching for the phone was simpler and more complicated than fear.

Elijah.

His friends.

Zachariah couldn’t die. Not yet. Not until he found the bastards responsible and returned the favor.

The decision felt less like choice and more like inevitability.

He hauled himself to his feet, his body protesting every movement. Double-checked the deadbolt. Drew the curtains tight against the windows. Then he powered up his desktop. The screen flickered to life, casting blue light across his face as he opened his encrypted messaging app. His fingers moved across the keyboard:

We need to talk in person. It’s urgent. - Z

Message sent to Sable and Wendell, he opened his email client. The cursor blinked in the subject line as he considered his words.

Subject: Business Proposition

Wulde,

Due to unforeseen circumstances, I need to step back from day-to-day operations at Reed Financial indefinitely. I’m writing to ask if you would be willing to take over the company entirely—client contracts, office lease, equipment, everything. I know this is sudden, but I trust your judgment and expertise more than anyone else's.

We can discuss terms and transition details at your convenience. Time is unfortunately a factor.

I hope you’ll consider it.

Zachariah

He stared at the screen for a long moment before hitting send.

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Hala Sami	Yara (above) & Nadim (below)

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

ＨＡＬＡ ＳＡＭＩ
^{❰ MAVERIQUE ⋆ AGE 21 ❱}

_{A T T R I B U T E S}

⋆ Height: 6'4" (193 cm) ⋆ Weight: 185 lbs (84 kg) ⋆ Eye Color: Cognac ⋆ Hair: Long, Straight, Blond ⋆ Skin Color: Brown . .	⋆ Distinguishing Features: Lean muscled ⋆ Clothing Preferences: Luxury fashion ⋆ Occupation: Spy & Assassin ⋆ Sexuality: Reciprosexual . .

_{P S Y C H O L O G Y}

Confidence and pride radiate from Hala Sami, striding through life with an unmistakable sense of supremacy. A perfectionist to their core, they approach each task with meticulous attention to detail, though their easily triggered boredom means they quickly lose interest in anything that fails to stimulate them adequately. Most people are little more than background noise to Hala, serving only as occasional sources of sardonic amusement or tools to be used.

However, for the select few who have earned their genuine care—their family, Grand Vizier Hafiz, and their friend Rohit—Hala becomes almost desperate to please, craving their approval and affection. They are devoted to their inner circle, but dismissive of anyone they deem unworthy of their time. Their intense attachment, combined with their exacting standards, make rejection or failure particularly devastating for Hala.

L I K E S ⋆ Efficiency ⋆ New things ⋆ Praise . .	D I S L I K E S ⋆ People who waste Hala's time ⋆ Failing Malik or Hafiz ⋆ Cold temperatures . .

H O B B I E S ⋆ Shopping ⋆ Sparring ⋆ Partying (when it suits their mood) ⋆ People watching ⋆ Spending time with their pets . .	L I F E G O A L S To become indispensable to their father, Malik, and Grand Vizier Hafiz. . . . . . .

_{B A C K G R O U N D}

Born into a life of privilege and pressure as the child of Vali Malik Sami, Hala was groomed from birth to be a perfect instrument of power—sophisticated, lethal, and utterly loyal. Growing up under Malik's strict rule, Hala learned that love was conditional and approval had to be earned through excellence. So they studied hard and trained harder, driven by a desire to prove their worth and try to live up to their father's expectations

At a young age, Hala was presented to Hafiz Kadir as a "gift"—a gesture of loyalty from Malik to his powerful ally. Recognizing Hala's potential, Hafiz treated them with calculated kindness, showering them with attention and praise. Though Hala knew this affection was strategic, they couldn't help but yearn for more. Over time, Hafiz became the father figure they couldn't find in their own father, and Hala worked tirelessly to earn his approval, fostering a deep sense of loyalty and dependence.

Had Hala never known the warmth of Rohit's family, they would've never felt the hollow ache of its absence in their own.

S K I L L S ⋆ Dancing and acrobatics ⋆ Mastery of blades, poison, and marksmanship . .	O C C U P A T I O N Current: Grand Vizier Hafiz's spy and assassin, as well as Malik's informant. Past: Whatever tool Malik needed them to be. . .

_{C O N N E C T I O N S}

F A M I L Y Vali Malik Sami: ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ Asiya Sami: ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ Muhammad Sami: ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ Bilal Sami: ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ Yara (Dwarf Rabbit): ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ Nadim (Cane Corso): ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ .	O T H E R S Hafiz Kadir: ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ Farim Hafiz Kadir: ♥ ♥ ♥ ♡ ♡ Nahir Aysun Ibn Raif Kadir: ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♡ Rohit Amar: ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ Kalliope Arden: ♥ ♥ ♡ ♡ ♡ . . . .

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

Hala Sami

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

28 Sola, Night
The Grand Banquet, Outside & Inside
@Helo @Oso @Tae @Tpartywithzombi @princess @CitrusArms

“Bitter that your efforts to convince the prosaic St. Claire to suck at your wounds have been fruitless?”

A theatrical sigh escaped Hala. “With how disappointing this whole night’s been, he’s going to have to suck more than my wounds to make up for it.”

“Petting yourself to the sound of your own voice? I guess that’s one way to love yourself.”

Their lips curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile but promised far more entertainment. “You say that like it’s supposed to be an insult.”

One hand disappeared into the silk draped across their chest. When it emerged, it cradled a small, trembling bundle of cream and dark points—a dwarf rabbit no bigger than their palm. Yara’s enormous eyes blinked at the assembled group before she pressed herself against Hala, seeking comfort from the tension thick in the air.

“There’s no shame in loving yourself,” their voice softened, fingers finding that sweet spot behind Yara’s ears. The rabbit melted under the touch before burrowing back into the safety of luxurious fabric.

Moving closer, Hala studied the prince. Something was off-kilter, had been from the start. The way he held himself, the cadence of his speech, even the expressions he made. None of it matched the stories about him.

“Not that you’d know anything about that, from what I’ve heard about you, Callum.” They let his name drop like they were testing how it tasted. Head tilted, Hala’s gaze traveled his features. “Though you’re apparently not acting like the prince people know tonight.”

Fingers drifted upward, hovering near his chin without quite making contact—close enough that he’d feel the warmth, the almost-touch more electric than actual skin on skin. “Almost like you’re not Callum Danrose.”

For a brief moment, they held each other’s stare. If Clarence dared a taste, it wasn’t anger radiating from Hala, not disappointment either—just flat, stale boredom.

Rapid, urgent footsteps cut through the night air.

“Hala Sami!”

The servant’s voice cracked with panic as he stumbled into view, chest heaving from his sprint. Words tumbled out in a frantic rush: “The Grand Vizier sent me—Nadim—he’s been kidnapped by a Caesonian knight!”

Every trace of playfulness and boredom evaporated from Hala’s demeanor, spine snapping straight, eyes sharpened to razor points.

“Who.” The word carved itself from ice.

“Knight Captain Stratya Durmand,” the servant gasped, still struggling for air.

Silk robes billowed behind Hala, sweeping toward the castle doors. Mind racing faster than feet. Calculating. Strategizing. Preparing for war. “Where?”

“She’s still in the dining hall.”

A sharp click of tongue against teeth. They reached the heavy doors and inhaled sharply through their nose, then exhaled as they pushed inside.

The dining hall wasn’t the same room they’d left. Whatever had happened in their absence had shifted the energy, charging it with the aftermath of one storm while it crackled with the promise of another.

Nervous fidgeting caught their attention. “That is her, over there.” The servant’s finger guided Hala’s gaze to the knight captain—country manners stuffed into knight’s clothing.

Although they wanted to march straight over for a confrontation, Hala knew this wasn’t the place or time. With a hunting cat’s grace, they settled themselves behind Grand Vizier Hafiz.

And waited, ready for him to say the word.

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

Hala Sami

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

28 Sola, Night
The Grand Banquet, Outside
@Tae @Lava Alckon @Tpartywithzombi @Helo

“How convenient it must be to waltz into someone else’s storm and play prophet when you’ve never lived a day in their skin.”

Hala let the silence breathe for a beat. Then came the laugh—it started low in their throat, curled upward, and spilled out in a ripple. They weren’t sure what amused them more: the way Thea said it like she was delivering some sacred truth from the mountaintop, or the fact that she actually believed it landed.

You don’t know me. What a classic. As if trauma came with exclusive rights.

No one’s ever spent a day in someone else’s skin. That was the entire burden of being a person: you didn’t get to trade places, no matter how loudly you whined about it. And unless Thea had the gift of mind-sight—and given her performance so far, Thea wouldn’t be able to read even with glasses—then how would she possibly know where Hala had walked, tripped, fallen, or flown?

More likely, Thea just hated not being handled like spun sugar. So she hissed and spat. Cute.

“Well,” Hala said once the laughing died down, “your story’s hardly original.” Cognac eyes dragged over Thea like fingers trailing through dust. “Let’s see… Daddy was cruel. Mommy was distant. Naturally, you reached for whatever numbed the ache. Booze. Drugs. A blade, maybe, when nothing else bit deep enough. But none of it helped. It never does.”

Hala cocked their head, “Then somewhere along the way you found someone to latch onto. A friend, a lover, someone who promised to stick around but—plot twist—they didn’t. Because they realized this…” they waved their manicured hand at the entirety of Thea’s being, “was exhausting.”

From beneath the folds of silk, the small warmth trembled. Hala slid a hand beneath the fabric, fingers stroking soft fur. “Did I miss anything?” Hala paused for the drama, not to give Thea time to answer. There was no need to: جبتها على الجرح.

“But hey, if the only time you feel loved is when people pity you? By all means, marinate. Go get your next hit—your dark-haired knight in shining armor is probably next in line, desperate to kiss, lick, and suck your wounds.” Just another tragic little heroine, high on sympathy. One of those addicts who never actually wanted to get better, only the attention that came with being broken. The kind Hala had seen far more often among the privileged. After all, when you’re handed everything, you get the luxury of flaunting your pains, big and small.

“Since I’m apparently in the prophecy business tonight, here’s another one for free. Nothing changes until you do the actual work. Stop begging other people to love you and figure out how to do it yourself.” Boredom seeped in fast and Damsel In Distress #1341 was already blending into the background. “Only you can save yourself in the end.”

With that, Hala turned without ceremony. One final flick of the wrist, and they faced the other two. “Hello.”

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Fritz "Ryn" Hendrix

Time: Sola 28 1739; Nighttime Hours
Location: Castle Dining Room
Interaction(s)/Mention(s): @princess @Apex Sunburn @FunnyGuy @Oso

Given the peculiar events plaguing this season, magic had been high on Ryn’s list of suspects regarding Lady Charlotte’s affliction. One closer look through the enchanted lens transformed suspicion into grim certainty: a shadowy veil draped over her magicae like a funeral lace.

An active curse.

The symptoms Lady Charlotte had described to Captain Wasun—then kindly reiterated for Ryn’s benefit—helped narrow the possible spells. Not sufficiently, regrettably. These lenses, useful though they were, also offered no distinction between a single curse or several layered atop each other. Without Wayra’s considerable expertise, his means of aiding Lady Charlotte remained limited.

Beyond the door, voices spoke of business dealings between Duke Vikena and Black Rose. Ryn’s gaze met Lady Charlotte’s across the dimly lit space, eyebrows furrowing in silent commentary. The plot grows positively labyrinthine.

Lord Vael-Damien’s arrival drew his attention. A quick gesture brought him close; a finger to lips counselled discretion. Then Ryn returned to his highly dignified career as a professional eavesdropper.

Mention of laudanum shipments sparked connections. Dr. Crane’s “prescription” for the Duke’s sleeping difficulties came to mind, as did the list of herbs they had discovered in His Grace's chambers. Did these shipments also include those mind-altering substances?

A soft, broken whisper pulled him back to Lady Charlotte. “Lost... my self-worth?” Tears gathered until her eyes resembled fractured sapphires. All that remarkable composure she had tried to maintain throughout the evening began to crack.

Ryn set aside his tumbler. “Charlotte.”

She would not look at him. Could not, perhaps. Her gaze had folded inward, fixed on whatever bleak landscape the spell had painted across her thoughts.

Gently, Ryn turned Lady Charlotte to face him. Taking her hand, he pressed it against his chest where his heart beat steady and sure. “Breathe,” he whispered. Softer still, “Here. With me.”

He drew in a deep breath, held it for seven counts, then released it slowly. “Do you feel that? In through your nose…” His chest rose beneath her hand. “Out through your mouth.” It fell.

Again. “Yes, that’s it. Just focus on breathing.”

They found the rhythm together. Inhale. Hold. Exhale.

Stillness settled over the hallway. Somewhere in the castle’s stone bones, the air shifted. A strange hush pressed in around them—not silence exactly, but a hum beneath the silence. As if the castle itself had chosen to join in.

“Your father,” Ryn began on an exhale, “is perhaps one of the most guileless noblemen I’ve had the pleasure of meeting.” Fondness warmed the observation. “He often speaks before his thoughts are fully formed.” In. “Which leaves the rest of us guessing at what he intended.” Out.

“But even in the short time I’ve known His Grace, one fact remains unshakeable.” Another breath. “His love for you runs deeper than words can express.”

A smile touched his lips, soft as candlelight. “You know this, don’t you?” Eyes drifting shut, he continued. “Think back. Remember the moments you’ve shared.” Air escaped his lips.“The difficult times you weathered together. The bond you formed.” The next breath replaced what was lost. “Don’t let this curse twist those memories.”

“Because you know, deep down…”

Exhale. “As surely as the sun will rise.”

Inhale. “As the shape of the moon shifts.”

Exhale. “As the tide will pull the sea.”

Their eyes met.

“As certain as this next breath—” And it came, slow and full.

“—you are loved.”

The castle seemed to sigh in agreement, its stones settling deeper into foundations laid centuries past.

“Not just by your father, mind you. By plenty of others too. Those who’ve passed on…” He reached for Lord Vael-Damien’s hand, bringing it to Lady Charlotte’s, clasping them together. “And by those who are still here. You are beloved.”

“Even if there are moments you think otherwise… You are loved. Even when you feel undeserving of it… You are still loved.” A gentle squeeze. “We wish only for your happiness. Hold onto that thought.” Ryn murmured. “When you feel your heart cracking, you know the people who’ll help remind you.”

He released their hands with care. “Hang in there. Dawn will come.”

Retrieving the bottle from the floor, Ryn poured water whilst addressing Lord Vael-Damien. “Unless you have a way to lift curses, Lord Cassius, I’m afraid all we can do at the moment is provide moral support while it runs its course.” He handed the cup to Charlotte, but watched the Lord’s reaction closely. “If these symptoms began earlier today, I suspect they should end come morning… If not…” The words hung in the air. “Well. Alternative measures will be required.”

Ryn repositioned his tumbler against the door.

✨Beyond The Veil✨

^{____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________}

Location: Vex’s apartment
Time: Dusk

^{____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________}

Zachariah’s muscles tensed at her tone, body shifting into a defensive stance before his mind consciously processed the threat. Then the full weight of her statement registered. Not “are”—“were.” Past tense.

Slowly, his shoulders eased. She was right. As much as he wanted to claim he still was a Warden, that door closed the moment he turned. The bitter irony wasn’t lost on him—he’d become exactly what he’d been trained to hunt. The Wardens wouldn’t keep something like him in their ranks. Protocol was clear on that point.

A quiet curse escaped his lips as he combed fingers through his hair. What was he supposed to do now? Years of training, purpose, identity—all rendered obsolete in a single night he couldn’t even remember.

For a moment, he stood silently, gaze fixed on some middle distance. Then, realizing he’d left her hanging, he looked up at Vex with an expression that settled into something carefully neutral.

“Yeah. Is that going to be a problem for you?”

Vex didn’t answer him right away. She just stared—one of those long, unsettling, measured stares like she was peeling him open with her eyes. Then she made a sound. Once. Loud. Sharp. Almost a laugh, but not quite.

She dragged off her joint again, leaned her head back, and blew the smoke toward the ceiling like it carried the punchline of a private joke.

“You know,” she drawled, voice thick with sarcasm and weed, “whoever turned you…They had a hell of a sense of humor.”

Zachariah scoffed at that. Perfect cosmic joke.

She looked at him again, eyes glinting like gold coins at the bottom of a dark well.

“A Warden. Turned vampire.” She chuckled this time, low and throaty. “That’s not just irony, that’s goddamn performance art.”

“The reviews are split on whether it’s tragedy or dark comedy.”

“I’ll vote dark comedy”she grinned pushing herself up off the couch again, she crossed to him slowly, pacing a lazy circle around him like a shark sizing up whether a swimmer was worth the bite.

“Either they hated you… or they thought it'd be fun to watch you choke on everything you used to believe in.” She stopped in front of him, meeting his gaze. “Me? I can appreciate that kind of theatrical spite.”

He sighed. “At least someone’s enjoying the show.”

She shrugged tapping ash off the end of her joint, grin widening like a blade being unsheathed.

“Don’t worry, Z. You’re in good company.” She winked at him before grabbing his contact info off the counter. She looked down at it before slipping it into her back pocket.

Vex’s smirk lingered for a beat longer, then faded—melting into something quieter, something real. Her yellow eyes lost a bit of their glow, but none of their intensity as she looked at him—not with pity, but with that rare flicker of understanding that only comes from shared damnation.

She let her gaze drift over him, slow and deliberate, taking in the way he stood, the way he breathed, the tension he still wore like armor he didn’t know how to shed. It wasn’t judgment in her eyes. It was recognition.

“It’s a hell of a life you’ve got ahead of you,” she said, softer now. Honest. “No rules, no handbook, no backup waiting in the wings. Just you… and the hunger.”

His jaw clenched at the word “hunger.” He swallowed hard, feeling the unfamiliar press of fangs against his lip. A muscle twitched in his cheek as his eyes darted away from hers. When he looked back, his expression had hardened, but the slight tremor in his fist, balled tight at his side, gave him away.

She tilted her head slightly, looking him dead in the eye.

“The moment you step out that door, the world’s gonna look different. Smell different. Feel different.” She paused, her voice dipping into something nearly reverent. “Every face you see? Every heartbeat you hear? It’s all gonna hit you like music through blown speakers. Raw and too damn loud.”

“... Noted.”

She pulled the joint to her lips, took a slow drag, the ember briefly lighting the sharp cut of her cheekbone. Her exhale curled between them like a ghost. “For your sake…” she said, her voice a smoky whisper now, “I hope the world’s kind to you.”

“But don’t count on it.” her eyes glanced over to the spare room “You can however count on that room being vacant if you need it.”

Through the cracked window, dusk painted the cityscape in hues of purple and amber. Zachariah watched as a distant neon sign flickered to life, its garish colors harsh against the dying light.

“From experience, I know the world won’t be kind.” Quiet words, delivered without bitterness—just the calm certainty of someone who’d long ago stopped expecting fairness from the universe.

Vex shot him a look that was dark and full of unspoken meaning—before turning on her heel and flicked the dying ember of her joint into the chipped basin of her kitchen sink. The sizzle it made was faint, but final.

The cabinet above creaked as she opened it. Inside, two mugs sat like silent sentinels of memory. One was clean, pristine—clearly never used. The other was aged and stained, its ceramic worn with time and affection. It bore the ghost of a hundred black coffees and twice as many mornings. Bear’s mug. Her gaze lingered on it, sharp and distant, but she didn’t touch it. She never did. It stayed right where he left it,the last morning he was here,as if using it might erase him completely.

Above the shelf, barely balanced on a crooked nail, hung a battered old first aid kit. It looked like it had survived a war, dented metal and peeling paint giving away its long years in service. She yanked it down with a practiced hand and opened it. Inside, chaos.Expired gauze, frayed tape, a pair of rusted scissors. But she found what she needed: a length of cotton-wrapped bandage and a couple of alcohol pads.

Her healing factor would do most of the work, eventually. But she wasn’t stupid. Infection didn’t care if you were supernatural. The cut on her wrist was shallow, but jagged and she wasn’t about to risk it festering. Not over pride.

She didn’t flinch as she tore the alcohol pad open with her teeth. Just breathed out, low and steady as she cleaned up the wound.

Military-straight despite his injuries, he turned back to face Vex. A ghost of a smile crossed his lips. “I appreciate the offer, Vex. But if I’m going to be your new roommate, you’ll have to invest in cleaning supplies. ‘Demolition site aesthetic’ might be your style, but I prefer my tetanus shots preventative rather than reactive.”

Vex didn’t miss a beat. Her yellow eyes narrowed with that dangerous glint—half challenge, half amusement—as she slowly wrapped the bandage around her arm.

“Oh, Sugar, if you’re planning on moving in, you’d better get real comfortable with bloodstains and broken things.” She tied off the bandage clasping it shut with a metal gaurd.

“And if you think I’m the type to start scrubbing floors just because some wounded war hero waltzes in with a broom and a superiority complex…” She let the sentence hang as she finished wrapping the bandage tight around her wrist, the cotton blooming red beneath her fingers.

“...Then you’re in for one hell of a rude awakening, roomie.”

Zachariah cocked one eyebrow up. “I’m pretty sure all I said was that you need cleaning supplies.” Where did all this other stuff come from? He didn’t need to wonder long. Of course—he was, or had been, a Warden. She clearly harbored no love for his kind; simple as that. At least the sentiment ran both ways.

She winked, slow and smug, then tossed the dented container back into the cupboard with a clatter, slamming the door shut with her hip. “Hope your immune system’s as tough as your mouth,” she purred, her voice velvet-wrapped steel. “I wasn’t offering scented candles and throw pillows, sweetheart. Just a roof and four walls that don’t ask questions.”

She turned then, golden eyes settling on him with a predator’s calm. There was something thoughtful behind them—buried deep beneath the sarcasm and smoke.

“I know you’ve got a place to crawl back to. I’m sure it smells like antiseptic and regret.” Her lip twitched in a half-smile, more fang than friendly. “But being a spawn? That’s a scent that travels. And a Warden, no less…” Her gaze dragged over him slowly, like she was assessing the weight of the new monster in his blood.

She shrugged, careless and deliberate. “You’re gonna light up like a bonfire to the things that go bump in the night. This place?” She gestured vaguely to the dim, cluttered apartment around them. “It’s not much. But it’s off-grid. Unlisted. A little fucked up—just like us.”

She leaned back against the counter, arms crossed, her voice softening just a hair. “So if it ever gets too loud out there… you know where to crawl.”

A cascade of problems awaited him outside these shattered walls. His apartment. Reed Financial Forensics. His family. The Wardens. His future in general... if he’d choose to endure this twisted mockery of life - this unholy existence he’d spent years eradicating from the world.

Bone-deep weariness weighed in his body and mind. “For now... I need to get my things in order.”

Vex nodded in understand, turning to leaned against her kitchen counter. One ankle slid over the other, arms folding under her chest in a posture that looked casual but wasn’t.

With a measured breath, he shifted his weight and met Vex’s gaze. “Mind telling me where you found me?”

Her golden eyes slid to him slowly, one brow arching like his question mildly amused her.

“Where I found you?” she echoed, tone flat and unimpressed. “Behind a nightclub. Real classy spot downtown, near that dive where vampires go to forget how to use forks.”

She clicked her tongue, tilting her head. “I don’t usually go near that place. Too many blood junkies and not enough brain cells.” A dry smile tugged at her lips. “But lucky you, I was in a charitable mood.”

Had he been actually lucky, he wouldn’t have been turned in the first place.

She let that hang as she shifted her weight just enough to let her hip jut out slightly.

“You were laid out in the alley like someone’s leftover regret. Bleeding like hell, reeking of rot and bad decisions. There was so much blood in your mouth I thought you’d gone full psycho and drained someone dry.”

She paused, giving him a once-over that wasn’t kind. “Except there was no body. No fang marks. No fangs. Just a hot mess of bite wounds.”

Vex gave a shrug. “Dead, almost. But not quite. No rigor. Just a few pitiful little breaths wheezing out like your body hadn’t figured out it was supposed to give up yet.”

Her expression darkened, just for a second—but it passed.

“Honestly? I almost left you there. Should’ve. But you kept mumbling some dramatic line—‘Can’t let it win’—like you were in a bad noir film. As I said earlier, I have a thing for the underdog. The fight you had left made me change my mind.”

Zachariah wondered if she now regretted that charity.

“So I threw your nearly-dead ass on the back of my bike, wrapped your limp arms around my neck like some sad little vampire backpack, and drove home one-handed. You're welcome, by the way. No applause necessary.”

She gave him a smirk.

“So congratulations, soldier. You didn’t die in a piss-stained alley behind a Fae blood bar. You made it to my floor instead. Upgrade, huh?”

Zachariah’s gaze drifted across the apartment—the “demolition site aesthetic” in all its glory. “... Sure.” His mind conjured images of used needles or forgotten trash lurking in the corners, and couldn’t help the intrusive thought about whether werewolves pissed to mark their territory like their four-legged cousins. The thought made him grimace.

But when he met her gaze again, something shifted. Despite everything—despite what they both were, despite the mess, despite the strangeness of it all—she’d dragged his half-dead body here and kept him alive. Or whatever version of alive he was now.

“Thank you.” Just that. Nothing more.

Vex offered him a nod not willing to push it further.

Then his eyes drifted to the exit, and he sighed. “I should get going.” While he still had the chance.

One step toward the door, then he stopped, turned, and pointed at the room where he’d spent the last few days. “Can I take a pack?” He didn’t want to drink blood. But damned if he was going to attack someone the next time he got the urge to feed.

“Take it all,” she said, a lazy smile playing on her lips. “I raided a clinic for it. AB, O, rare types too. A little buffet for the starving.” She gave a slow, indifferent shrug, the glint in her eyes anything but innocent. “Honestly, I’m impressed you’ve lasted this long without needing more. Plus it’s not like im in the habit of bringing home stray vampires…” she grinned.

“Is any of it synthetic?” he asked, then almost immediately shook his head. “No, never mind.” It hardly mattered at this point. Until he could stand on his feet, beggars couldn’t be choosers. His future as a vampire was far from guaranteed anyway.

“The less I take, the better,” Zachariah said, voice firm with newfound resolve. While he might need blood to keep from losing his mind to the Curse, he wasn’t about to indulge it. The bare minimum—that’s all he’d allow himself. Just enough to function, to think clearly, to remember who he was and the promise he made to Elijah.

His attention lingered on Vex for a moment, taking her measure one final time. A half-smile briefly appeared as he turned toward the spare room. “I’ll make sure to leave a few behind,” he called over his shoulder. “In case the vampire distribution system strikes again and you happen to feel charitable.”

“Very unlikely. I don’t believe my apartment could withstand another spawn.”

Her eyes narrowed. He was still fighting it. Clinging to control like it was a virtue, as if taking little sips of damnation would make him any less damned. Cute.

The second he steps outside, that pretty little leash he's got on himself is going to snap. The pulse of the city, the rot in the air, the scent of blood in every alley—he’s not ready.

But he’s not my problem. I’m not his keeper.

She could picture Bear sprawled out on the couch, “stop bringing the strays home, Vex. Sooner or later, they will bite.” He was always right about that. Still... there’s something different about this one. Maybe he’s stronger than he looks. Maybe the hunger won’t hollow him out. Maybe.

He’s a Warden, after all.

Not that it makes it any less unlikely. At the end of the day, Spawn were worse then Vampires. Unpredictable, insatiable, feral.

“Stay safe.” Vex finally said. This evening was certainly going to be interesting.

Avalia

Time: A.M.
Location: River Port Abandoned Storehouse
Interactions/Mentions: @Conscripts @mole
Equipment: Knife, drugs, and wallet looted from dope peddler

✠✠✠✠✠

The first goon rushed him, all brass and no class. Vasco sidestepped, spotted a crate of iron fittings on the shelf, and swung it mean. The heavy box caught the mug right in the temple, scattering metal and sending him sprawling. One down.

Nut coursed through him like bootleg whiskey cut with gasoline – burning, potent, dangerous. His bruised ribs from the lodge scrap should’ve been howling, but instead they hummed a tune too distant to catch. Everything moved like molasses – slow enough to read, fast enough to thrill.

Two more charged from opposite sides, thinking they was clever. He backed against a stack of flour sacks, waited until the taller one lunged, then dropped and rolled. The tall one staggered past while his pal pulled up short. Vasco snatched a length of steel from a broken shelf, caught the tall one before he could turn. Swung it across his knees with a crack. The other mug came at him wild and caught a backward swing to the gut that folded him like cheap laundry.

Movement caught his eye. Another torpedo charging in with a crate hook. Steel met steel, the impact jarring through bone. Vasco’s knee found soft flesh, and the man’s breath rushed out in one hard gasp. The torpedo stumbled back into a tower of barrels, bringing the whole thing down. Wood cracked, liquid splashed, voices rose in panic. His good ear rang with the beautiful chaos of it all.

A knife flashed. Vasco twisted, felt it slide past his ribs, tearing shirt not flesh. He slammed the knife hand against a beam until the blade dropped. Three strikes – liver, breadbasket, jaw – and the knife man crumpled.

Bodies littered the floor - some groaning, others silent. Blood painted abstract patterns on wood. Iron fittings from the smashed crates rolled between the fallen. Vasco wiped sweat from his brow, his hand coming away wearing victory in red.

No warning whispered through his dead right ear. No footsteps, no presence, nothing at all.

When instinct finally hollered, it came too late. Vasco turned, caught only a blur and glint of metal.

The lead pipe cracked against his temple like a thunderclap. Stars burst as his legs buckled beneath him.

✨Beyond The Veil✨

^{____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________}

Location: Vex’s apartment
Time: Dusk

^{____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________}

The fridge door slammed shut. The sharp crack of a beer opening filled the silence, followed by a long, deep pull.

“Mm.”

Her voice was honey and smoke, curling low in her throat. Vex leaned one shoulder against the fridge, beer can dangling from her fingers, eyes gleaming yellow in the dim kitchen light. They caught him immediately, those eyes, lupine and ancient, watching him.

“Well, well,” she purred, lips quirking around the rim of the can. “Look at you, all shaky and starvin’.”

She took another sip, slow and deliberate, gaze never leaving his. Then she pushed off the fridge, boots heavy on the floor, each step purposeful. Her leather jacket creaked softly as she moved.

“Relax, pretty boy.” She came closer, unhurried, the wolf beneath her skin radiating quiet authority. “I’ve babysat your kind before.”

Closer still, until he could smell her, leather, sweat, beer, and the faintest wild scent, something floral and feral.

“Vampire spawn always get this way.” She tilted her head, lips curving into a sharp smile, can tapping lightly against her thigh. “Starvin’. Shakin’. Thinkin’ they’re still top of the food chain.”

She stopped just out of his reach, yellow eyes glowing brighter now, almost playful.

“Hate to break it to ya, suga,” she drawled, “but you ain’t the scariest thing in this room.”

She lifted the beer to her lips again, finishing it in one long pull. Then, with a casual flick, she crushed the can in her hand until it crumpled like paper. Tossed it over her shoulder without a glance.

“You gonna keep flexin’, or you gonna sit before I have to pin you down?”

A low, rumbling laugh slipped from her throat, something distinctly canine beneath it. Her grin widened, teeth a little too sharp now.

“C’mon, pup. Play nice. I’ll explain everything in a bit.” Her hand reached out to give Zach a firm pat on his shoulder, gripping it tightly as she extended out a beer to him.

“You’re going to need this.”

Her fingers branded his shoulder—fire and ice fusing under his skin. Acid crawled up Zachariah’s spine, his throat closing as if clutched by invisible hands. The room blurred, his skin shrinking tight against his bones, sweat beading cold while his blood roared in his ears. The scent of leather and wolf mingled with phantom cologne—sickly sweet, choking—his tongue tasting copper as his fangs cut into his own lip. Behind Zachariah’s eyes flashed crimson and darkness, his muscles coiling without thought, without permission, every nerve screaming danger-danger-danger until there was only touch and terror and the desperate need to make it stop stop stop. Then rage erupted from somewhere deep and primal, drowning the fear beneath a tide of pure animal fury.

With inhuman speed, Zachariah’s body moved. He seized her wrist, twisted it behind the woman’s back as he slammed her into the wall with a deep, bone-rattling crack, plaster crumbling around her shoulders. The beer can hit the floor with a sharp metallic clatter, cold liquid splashing across her black leather boots. Trembling not with weakness but rage, he held her immobile with his newfound strength, sharp ragged gasps escaping against her neck.

For a moment, she just blinked down at the mess, an almost bored expression crossing her face despite the iron grip twisting her wrist.

“Oh, come on,” she drawled, lips quirking into a half-smirk. “Do you know how hard it is to get beer stains out of real leather?” she let out a sigh.

“NEVER GODDAMN TOUCH ME!” The words tore from his throat in a hiss that was both man and beast, adult and child. His voice cracked between his current deeper tones and the higher pitch of the terrified boy he’d once been. Both versions of himself screaming at the monster touching him.

Her eyes lit, molten yellow searing through the dim light like predator’s fire. She felt the beast inside her stirring, clawing to be unleashed, but she pressed it down, locking it behind a cold, dangerous smile.

Her breath hitched, not in fear — in thrill.

“Oh, darling…” she purred, voice smooth as silk but edged with steel. “Didn’t know the little spawn had such a bite.”

Even as his strength trembled through the air, even as his breath came sharp and ragged near her throat, she tilted her head slightly, eyes glowing like embers.

“Thirsty, aren’t you?” she murmured softly, mockingly. “Careful, love. Grabbing at the wrong things when you’re starving never ends well.”

Then — she moved.

With a sudden, brutal twist, Vex stomped down hard on his foot, yanking her wrist free with a sharp snap of motion. Her elbow slammed backward into his ribs as he staggered she spun. A swift, vicious sweep of her leg slammed against his knee, sending him sprawling.

Before he could blink, she was on him, straddling his chest, one knee pinning him firmly to the floor. Her fingers wrapped under his jaw, tilting his face up toward hers as her glowing eyes bore down, sharp with a wicked glint.

“Hey,” she whispered, low and velvet-soft, lips close enough that her breath ghosted against his cheek. “You’re not mad, sugar — you’re just hungry. Breathe, calm the fuck down…” Her nails traced lightly along his jaw, not cruel almost tender, almost teasing.“You want a drink, not a fight.”

She smiled then, slow, dark, dangerous. “So why don’t you let go before you embarrass yourself, hmm?”

Her fingers on his jaw sent electric jolts through Zachariah. The weight of her body pinning him down, the yellow eyes boring into his, her breath on his cheek—it all collapsed into a sickening familiarity. Time fractured, reality splintered.

Suddenly, he wasn’t here anymore.

Cold marble pressed against his back instead of ceramic tiles. Predatory eyes loomed above him. Lips split into hunger-toothed smiles. Laughter echoed, cruel and soft. Fourteen-year-old Zachariah struggled against bodies too strong, too fast, as they passed him between them like a toy. Their voices dripped poison in his ears: “Such a pretty boy.” “So young, so tender.” His brother screamed somewhere beyond his reach. Fangs pierced not just his veins but his very self.

The Sanguine Curse, patient and seductive, slithered through the wounds of his past, finding purchase in the jagged edges of his rage and grief. They took everything from you. Your innocence. Your friends. Your brother, it whispered. You were weak then. You are strong now.

With a feral roar, Zachariah bucked upward, throwing the woman off balance. His forehead connected with her nose in a sickening crunch. As she reeled backward, he twisted free, his hands finding her throat. In a single savage movement, he slammed her into the kitchen floor with enough force to crack the tiles beneath them. His eyes blazed, emerald green brightening to an unnatural glow, pupils constricting to pinpoints.

Pain exploded across his jaw as the woman’s fist connected in a powerful uppercut. Stars burst behind his eyes. She followed with a kick that shattered his breath, each rib screaming in protest.

Mid-air, he caught her next strike. A quick twist sent her driving sideways into the wall. Plaster dust showered down.

The woman recovered fast. Too fast. She spun low, her leg sweeping across the floor in an arc. Although Zachariah tried to leap clear, her fingers snaked around his ankle midleap. One vicious yank, and down he went. As she dove at him, he grabbed her forearm and braced his foot against her stomach. Using her forward momentum, he rolled back and thrust upward, catapulting her over his head and into the refrigerator.

The impact dented metal, magnets scattering across the floor. She stumbled sideways, disoriented. He charged. Their bodies collided with brutal force, carrying them both into the cabinets. A wooden door splintered. Glassware shattered around them in a crystalline rain that cut tiny red lines across his skin.

This could have been you, the Curse purred. This could’ve saved them all.

In his mind, in another timeline, fourteen-year-old Zachariah wasn’t helpless. He was different. Stronger. Faster. The building where everything had happened was the same, but this time, when the vampires reached for him, his hands found their throats first and snapped it like a twig.

In the apartment, Zachariah ducked under a counterattack. His fist punched through drywall, narrowly missing the woman’s head. Wallboard exploded in a cloud of dust. As he stalked toward her, fangs bared, the wolf-woman kicked a chair into his path. He shattered it with a backhand, wooden fragments spraying across the room. The apartment walls shook with each blow. A table overturned, a lamp shattered.

Feel it, the Curse urged. This is what power tastes like. This is what you’re denying yourself. The rush. The strength to protect what’s yours.

In this other world, his brother wasn’t dragged away screaming and his friends weren’t dead. In this dimension, teenage Zachariah stood triumphant over the bodies of his tormentors, blood-spattered but unbroken. Elijah was grinning in awe at his twin. His friends huddled behind him, safe and whole. He saved them all. He was unstoppable, untouchable.

—a god among insects.

Embrace what you are, and you’ll never be helpless again.

… But he knew, deep down. This world was not that world and never could be. Because if it was, ever could be, then Warden Reed would never have been born from Zachariah’s ashes.

His very existence was proof that those he loved were gone forever.

That thought cleaved through the Curse’s whispers and the fantasy timeline shattered.

Vex’s lips curled into a slow, delighted smile — a sharp-toothed grin that promised both danger and amusement. Her chest rose and fell, breathless not from exhaustion, but from exhilaration. God, it had been a long time since she’d had a fight like this. She could see it all over his face he wasn’t fighting her, he was fighting the damned curse. His ghosts. She needed to help him snap out of it.

Zachariah halted mid-swing, inches from the woman’s face. Giving her the opening she needed.

She pounced.

In one swift, serpentine movement, Vex twisted her body up and slammed into him, knocking them both flat to the ground. She pinned his shoulders with her knees, straddling his head between her legs as her hands were as swift as vipers. One hand braced his jaw, fingers digging in hard enough to make him flinch, tilting his head back.

Her golden eyes burned with an intoxicating cocktail of adrenaline and dark delight.

Without a word, without hesitation, she drew a small sharp pocket knife from her belt and sliced a clean line across her own wrist. Blood welled up instantly, dark and rich, the scent flooding the air. She pressed the bleeding wrist to his mouth, fingers tangling in his hair to force his head up.

“Go on, Sugar.” Her voice was a velvet purr, coaxing and warm. “Show me the strength you’ve been holding back.”

She felt the jolt that shot through him at the first taste — his body arching instinctively, a low growl vibrating in his throat as the spawn inside him stirred, clawing toward the surface.

Vex’s smile widened. God, she lived for this. The tightrope walk between predator and prey. Between power and surrender. Between life and death. Her heart hammered, not with fear, but with wild, electric joy.

Her fingers stayed on his jaw, nails biting into his skin as she forced him to take more. She could feel the shudder racing through his muscles, the fracture between man and beast widening with each swallow.

“Come on little spawn” Her lips brushed his ear, her breath hot. “Don’t give in. Fight it!”

The blood hit his tongue like water striking parched earth, a crimson relief that sank deep into the cracks of his desiccated soul. Greedily, the Sanguine Curse lapped at the crimson offering, a starving beast finally thrown scraps. It surged through Zachariah, a rush of dark euphoria, demanding more, always more.

Immediately, the Warden part of him—that discipline forged through the years—tried to wrench away. But through the haze of hunger, a cold clarity remained. The wolf-woman was right. If he didn’t sate this thirst now, in a controlled way, he risked losing himself completely. Next time, it might be an innocent caught in his path.

He loosened his iron grip on control, reluctantly. Just enough. A measured surrender.

With primal satisfaction, the spawn drank deeply, savoring each swallow. When it first tried to sink fangs into her wrist, to tear and claim more than what was offered, Zachariah reached for a jagged shard of glass scattered across the floor. He clutched it tight, the sharp edge biting into his palm—pain anchoring him to reality, to himself.

This dance continued—the spawn taking, straining against its leash, and the Warden yanking it back. Each time the Curse pushed for more, each time it tried to bite into her flesh, Zachariah would squeeze the glass tighter, twist it in his palm, letting fresh pain shock him back into control. Blood for blood. Clarity purchased with suffering.

Gradually, mercifully, the Curse’s urges began to ebb. The hunger retreated to the shadows of his mind—not gone, never gone, but quieted enough that Zachariah could feel himself again.

His tongue traced the already-healing wound on the wolf-woman’s arm one last time. The eerie supernatural glow faded from his eyes as he looked up at her. For several heartbeats, he just watched her, the silence heavy between them amid the wreckage of the apartment.

“... On second thought,” he finally said, voice rough and low, “I’ll take that beer.”

✨Beyond The Veil✨

^{____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________}

Location: Vex’s Apartment

Time: Dusk

Interactions/Mentions: @Tpartywithzombi

Trigger Warnings: Implied SA flashback

^{____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________}

Zachariah’s Warden training kicked in immediately. His eyes darted around the cramped bathroom, searching for anything resembling a weapon. The razor on the sink caught his attention, but he dismissed it just as quickly—plastic cartridge razor that could barely nick skin during a shave, let alone slit a neck. Useless.

The kitchen knives were his best option, but in his current state—trembling, disoriented, gripped by bloodlust—he doubted he’d make it there before…

Too late. The door burst open with a groaning creak. Zachariah pressed against the bathroom doorframe, fingers digging into the wood. He watched as the blonde woman sauntered in, keys clattering onto the table, cigarette dangling between her lips. Tattoos peeked from beneath her crop top, complemented by a worn leather jacket and combat boots. This was clearly the apartment’s owner. From her confident movements to the lean muscle visible along her arms; all of it told him she knew how to handle herself in a fight.

When she pushed her sunglasses up and turned, their eyes met. Yellow. Inhuman.

“Well, well, look who finally decided to wake up,” she purred, studying him with amusement.

“Who—” His voice emerged as a ragged scrape, alien to his own ears. He swallowed against the burning in his throat. “Who the hell are you?”

He took one unsteady step forward before forcing himself to stop. Every nerve ending screamed at him to lunge, to hunt, to feed. His disciplined mind wrestled against these new, feral impulses, refusing to surrender control.

When she called him pretty boy, fragments of memory flashed through his mind—hot breath whispering those same words against his neck, the smell of sweat and blood mingling, unwanted hands roaming every inch of his body. Zachariah shook his head sharply, banishing the memory to focus on the present. It’s been a while since he had one of those...

With steely determination, he began slowly moving toward the kitchen, each step a battle between instinct and will. His eyes remained fixed on her, only flickering away momentarily to take stock of his options.

“Beer?” She held the bottle out.

Zachariah’s eyes narrowed at her casual demeanor. “No thanks,” he said tersely, then pressed on. “Why am I here?” he asked, voice low and controlled, despite everything. His fingers flexed at his sides, fighting the tremors.

More importantly, was she the one who turned him?