• Name | Aiko • Nickname(s) | The Vintner, The Dream Alchemist, Zone Defense, Oblivion • Age | Old Enough • Gender | Fluid • Birthday | When the moon first kissed the dream of a flower • Race | Fae • Rank/Status | The Vintner of the House of Dreamwalking
• Height | Around 5'6" • Build | Slender yet.. Nebulous. Their body changes with their presentation, yet their general mass stays consistent. • Eye Color | Gold • Hair Color & Style | Black and variable, their hair changes freely in length, though it still needs styling when they do this. For this reason, they don't often get it done, letting it fall how it may while giving it basic maintenance. • Skin Tone | Fair and smooth without marks • Notable Marks | Fair, unblemished skin • Typical Clothing Style | Loose-fitting, flowing garbs that will fit no matter what shape they take • Aura/First Impression | Sweet, friendly, approachable and passionate about their craft, perhaps obsessed.
If you're a customer.
If you are not a customer, Aiko is playful and mischievous, but not dangerous. Really, they just want to trick one into becoming a customer.
If you harass their customers.. don't let them catch you. • Voice | Varies with their shape and whimsy
• Openness to Friendship (1-5) | 5 • Openness to Romance (1-5) | 4 • Romantic Preferences | Pansexual • Current Romantic Interests | There’s been some dreams I like to frequent, lately, but nothing I’d call a romantic interest. • View on Forbidden Relationships | It’s all in how you handle it. You have to be at peace with the reality of things. Mortals will die, for example. Can't go crying too hard for something you knew would happen. • Biggest Turn-ons | Wild, adventurous dreams; dreams of themselves; purposeful, eloquent speech • Biggest Turn-offs | Alcoholics guzzling my wine like it’s some cheap swill; flinching at their shifting; • Known Friends | Insert • Known Enemies | Insert • Known Family | Insert
Psychology ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔
• Hobbies/Interests | Cooking, Reading, Walking the Dreamscape, Hunting rare samples • Likes | Novelty, Healthy Dreams, A good time, reading by candlelight, fashion shows, tasteful nudity • Dislikes | Dreary days, boring places, angry dreams, harsh metal music • Fears | Insomnia, Tortured Dreamscape • Habits | Humms while working, dreamwalks all the time, shifts at any time, snuggly • Vices | Shrooms, pot, a bit of booze
Core Motivation
Dreams are so vastly varied, each with different properties. How to best enjoy them and ply them, then? And what of those rare dreams, ah?
Personality Overview
Aiko is approachable and, seemingly, trustworthy, for a Fae. They like to make simple, clear-cut deals, but the purpose is two-fold. One, most deals Aiko makes include dreams in the terms. It is through dreams that Aiko gathers ingredients for wine, cooking, and crafting. Rare ingredients are quite the fixation for this Fae.
Though this particular Fae likes to play nice, they are still a Fae. Their sweetness is a lure as much as anything else, bringing in those who would find easy comfort in small kindnesses. They are fiercely protective of their customers, viewing their dreams as a precious resource. The ingredients they prefer are those from good dreams, as well. They bring a sweet flavor with them. And who wants to drink sadness, anyway?
Background ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔
• Current Occupation | Fae Vintner • Level of Schooling | Fae School? Hah. • Past Occupations | Dream therapist, but that.. well. That’s history, darling. • Socioeconomic Status | High-class Fae, creating dream wines for exclusive clientele • History Summary | Life was beautiful. Aiko was free to frolic one moment and Walk the next. They wove their existence from dreams, drifting like a cloud through enchanted forests and over sleepy meadows. They offered solace to those that crossed them, though, as with any Fae, it came at a price. With Aiko, it was a simple price: access to their dreams, and ingredients therefrom.
Though the forest has changed, Aiko did not. Not immediately. Perhaps due to the influence of the city, of the creeping shadows now seeping into the dreams they walk, Aiko began to develop a taste for certain things within the dreamscape. These things proved to be problematic to honest therapy, and they made the decision to change professions for the sake of simplicity.
Aiko took to making things for sale from things they gathered from dreams. They’d built up quite a supply, as well. Unique and strange items, but the one thing that took off was the wine. It could be sold to both the supernatural and the mundane, and it was quite delicious.
The wine quickly became popular for its apparent effect on dreams. Rumors grew and swirled about what wines would do what to your dreams, and the rumor mill itself spurred the sales even further. Aiko had been able to secure a modest living with the sale of some ingredients, but the wine lifted their coffers and their status.
Their careful attention to the craft earned them a quick reputation for fine wines. Cheap options sold to anyone kept Aiko’s selection of dreams to wander vast, while their upscale wines, handcrafted in small batches, brought in big clients. With money lining their pockets, they’ve secured a few deals in shops across the city and opened an exclusive location where their high-end wines are sold but theirself. The hours are whenever Aiko decides to open, but you can get on a text mailing list. Across the street, Aiko lives in an atelier penthouse suite, with their workshop space and living quarters blended together.
Race-Specific Questions ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔
▸ Fae ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔
• Element Affinity | Void - The Space Between Things • Glamour Specialty | Dream Weaving - Aiko is able to bring things from dreams into reality. Objects, or even abstract things, like emotions. • Views on Mortals | Show me • Views on Vampires | Your • Views on Lycan | Dreams
Miscellaneous ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔
• Theme Song | Insert • Favorite Food | Dreams of hunting, breaded in the hard work of a farmer, fried over the passion of a blacksmith, seasoned with thoughts of cheese • Favorite Animal(s) | Foxes, Monitor Lizards, Chameleons, Geckos, Magpies, Crows, Cockatiels are a riot, Frogs • Favorite Music Genre | Vaporwave, Lo-Fi • Favorite Haunt | Home, or a bar to sample other alcohols and folks. • Signature Weapon | Insert • Preferred Vices | Shrooms and Pot • Pet Peeve | A ruined rare ingredient. • Guilty Pleasure | Wet dreams and playing the antagonist in a nightmare, but never simultaneously.
Wren sat cross-legged on the blood-soaked bed, idly twirling a lock of her hair around one finger, humming to herself as she traced lazy patterns in the red-stained sheets. The corpse beside her had started to stiffen, but she paid it no mind—her gaze was fixed on her phone, waiting, waiting.
The device chimed softly in her hand.
Her eyes lit up.
She unlocked the screen with a swipe, and there it was: a message from Noah.
Finished work Headed home Eye can’t wait to see you
And beneath the words…
A photo.
Noah, bathed in the glow of flames, a burning figure crumpled in the background, fire curling around a chair like grasping hands. Noah stood in the center of the carnage, blood on his face, a cigarette tucked behind his ear, and in his hands—two perfect severed eyes, gleaming pale against his stained fingers.
Wren let out a soft, breathless sigh.
“Oh…” she whispered, a smile blooming across her face.
She hugged the phone tight against her chest, pressing it close as though she could feel his warmth through the screen. Her eyes fluttered shut, and she rocked gently back and forth, heart fluttering in her ribs.
“He’s so thoughtful,” she murmured dreamily. “He always remembers the little things.”
She peeked back down at the photo, admiring the artistry, the firelight, the way he held the eyes like precious jewels. Her fingers brushed the screen tenderly, tracing his face.
Wren looked up as the door opened, her expression lighting instantly with joy.
“Noah!” she breathed, delighted. She was curled up comfortably in the middle of the blood-soaked bed, knees hugged to her chest, her chin resting atop them like a cat waiting for its master.
Around her, the sheets were drenched, sticky with half-dried blood; the body lay sprawled beside her, arranged lovingly, a cloth napkin draped over its chest, a silver tray perched across its stomach. The tray held a chipped teacup filled with blood, a butter knife stabbed into a heart like a soft-boiled egg, and a little plate where a human tongue sat coiled like a sausage.
She pouted, genuine sadness pulling at the corners of her lips.
“You’re late,” she murmured, voice low and sweet. “I made you breakfast in bed.”
She unfolded herself slowly, stretching like a waking creature, her white nightgown clinging in places where blood had dried, stained to a dusky rose. She stepped down from the bed, leaving delicate red footprints across the pale floor, padding barefoot toward him.
“It’s gone cold now,” she sighed, brushing a sticky lock of hair behind her ear. Her smile flickered back, small and hopeful. “It’s gone cold now.”
She stopped in front of him, tilting her head, eyes shining with affection and something darker beneath. Gently, she reached up and wiped a smear of blood from his jaw with her thumb, smudging it rather than cleaning it.
“I thought of you while I carved him up,” she whispered. “Every slice.”
Her thumb traced down his chin, then she dropped her hand, stepping back, gesturing to the bed like a proud puppy.
“He told me such awful little secrets before he died.” She laughed softly, a breathy sound. “I almost saved him for dinner, but no—you deserve the first taste.”
Her gaze softened, a flicker of vulnerability in it.
“I wanted it to be perfect…” she whispered softly
She stood there, barefoot, bloodied, a creature of quiet chaos, looking at him with the innocent longing of someone who just wanted to make their owner proud.
Name:Andrew Carlino Nickname(s):Doc Age:I’m 37; I’m not old. Gender:Male Birthday:May 5 Race:Human/Warden Rank/Status Title (if any):Field Warden ________________________________________
Appearance
Height: 5’9” (1.75m) Build: Medium. Tends to skinnyfat if he hasn’t been hitting the racquetball court lately. Eye Color: Brown Hair Color & Style: | Brown, straight and long, pulled back in a ponytail. Starting to show hints of gray. Small moustache that totally isn’t modeled after Johnny Depp. Skin Tone: Olive Notable Marks: A faint, quarter-sized birthmark in the middle of his forehead. Becomes more noticeable when he gets agitated. Typical Clothing Style: Business casual. Usually wears a tie during consultations. Wears round, rimless glasses in the office. Contacts otherwise. Aura/First Impression: Cool, phlegmatic, and professional without being too off-putting. Likes to keep things brisk and concise. May lose patience if his interlocutor takes too long to get to the point. Voice: Clear and moderately deep. Has a good baritone singing voice, although he’s not trained.
________________________________________
Psychology
Hobbies/Interests: Racquetball. Fencing. Crossword puzzles. Humorous poetry. Piano. Used to play violin, but no longer has time to keep it up. Likes ] Italian food. Desserts. Scarlatti. A good puzzle or mystery. Good coffee. Dislikes: Most of his patients. Tedious, pretentious art(ists). Salads and other antipasti. Bad coffee. Moths. Fears Losing his own sanity. Being physically restrained or confined. This “Hour of Reckoning” the other Wardens keep talking about. Habits Paces. Talks to himself. Drums his fingers in time to music in his head. Drinks coffee constantly. Vices Caffeine. Poor eating habits. Tends to eat dessert first, especially if it’s tiramisu.
Core Motivation: To help people. Specifically, to help humans adjust to and accept the psychological effects of the Glamour. Doctor Carlino realizes that humans who start to glimpse the reality behind the Glamour are in both psychological and physical peril. Unless his patients are Warden material, he prescribes them therapy and treatment that will suppress dangerous ideation and steer them back towards accepting the Glamour at face value.
Personality Overview:
Andrew Carlino is an intelligent, discerning, and sensitive person. He is not, however, emotionally warm or personable, and so does not make friends easily. Nor, being keenly aware of the fragility and impermanence of life, health, sanity, love, and friendship, is he eager to do so, pursuing instead the safer and less emotionally demanding companionship of pets and strippers. ________________________________________
Relationships and Reputation
Openness to Friendship (1-5): 2 Openness to Romance (1-5): 2 Romantic Preferences: None. Current Romantic Interests (if any): None. View on Forbidden Relationships: Has no dogmatic views on the subject, only the practical view that they usually end badly. Biggest Turn-ons: Intelligence. Culture. Boobs. In that order, I promise. Biggest Turn-offs: BDSM. People who talk too much. Known Enemies: TBD Known Friends TBD Known Family Members: TBD
________________________________________
Background
Current Occupation: Psychiatrist Level of Schooling(if any): MD in Psychiatry. B.S. in Biochemistry and Psychology. Past Occupations (if any): Music Teacher Socioeconomic Status: Well-to-do. Psychiatric therapy is in-demand in Halcyon. History Summary:
Andrew is the older of two children born to Paul and Nicole Carlino, both physicians. His childhood was comfortable and fairly contented, although his parents worked long hours, leaving him and his younger sister Sofia to their own devices much of the time.
Andrew knew since childhood that he wanted to become a doctor like his parents; however, only in his third year at college did he decide that he was more interested in mental rather than physical health. After attending an extra semester in college to fulfill the requirements of double major in biochemistry and psychology, he went to medical school.
Andrew’s training during his psychiatry clerkship involved studying numerous therapy sessions at the psychiatric ward of Halcyon General Hospital, and discussing these in class. Andrew noticed an unusual prevalence of paranoia and delusional syndromes among the cases they studied showing few other comorbidities, and brought this up several times in class discussion, only to be met time and again with explanations he found unconvincing and even evasive.
When he met with his academic advisor to express his dissatisfaction with this development, the advisor offered to transfer him to a different program, one which, she assured him, would be more to his liking and better suited to his talents. This would prove to be Andrew’s introduction to the Wardens, who maintained a recruiting and training program for medical professionals who could supply the unique mental and physical health needs, arising from the Wardens’ activities, and especially their use of enhancements. Only later, after he had learned about the realities behind the Glamour, would Andrew appreciate how close his suspicions had brought him to being one of the psychiatric patients he had previously studied, or worse.
In addition to working for the Wardens as a resident psychiatrist, Andrew has for the last six years run a part-time private practice out of his home office for civilian patients. Between the two practices, Andrew earns a good living. ________________________________________
Race-Specific Questions
(Fill the one that fits your race)
▸ Wardens: ✦ Enhancement Use(If any): Sparing use of Viper-Veil Injections when dealing with non-humans. Usually takes it before visiting Bumps In the Night. ✦ Preferred Weapons: Rapier. ✦ Willingness to Break Warden Code:
“Dammit Dane, I’m a doctor, not a merc!” Andrew Carlino is a *psychiatrist*, meaning a medical doctor who has taken the Hippocratic Oath. As such, he will not kill except in self-defense. He has done so once before, when a lycan he was attempting to treat attacked him during an especially intense therapy session. This technically qualified him for an Iron Brand, and with it the rank of Field Warden, although Andrew rarely acknowledges either. He views the Iron Brand as a mark of failure, not a badge of honor.
Andrew’s no-kill policy has put him at odds with the Warden leadership, but he has made it clear to them that it is part of his price for his services. The Commander has insisted, however, that he train and qualify in firearms like all the other Wardens, a requirement Andrew only fulfills grudgingly.
✦ Views on Fae: Ambivalent. Their machinations are the main source both of his patients’ issues and his own livelihood. Not to be trusted. ✦ Views on Vampires: Incurable, treacherous predators. The one race Andrew would most readily consider killing. ✦ Views on Lycan: Volatile types with dangerous, but potentially manageable conditions. Would rather put them in therapy than the ground, but knows this is not always an achievable outcome
________________________________________
Miscellaneous
Theme Song: Domenico Scarlatti, Keyboard sonata in F major, K296. Favorite Food: Tiramisu. As antipasto, main dish, side dish, and dessert. Favorite Animal(s): Terriers are my very favorite breed. Currently has a Jack Russel terrier named Fenrir, the World Devourer. The dog finds that the name fits him perfectly. Favorite Music Genre: Classical Favorite Haunt (location): Home, mostly. Occasionally visits human strip clubs or even Bumps In the Night. Signature Weapon (if any): Rapier Preferred Vices: Caffeine addiction. Busty strippers (with intelligence and culture). Pet Peeve: Wardens-mandated firearms practice. Guilty Pleasure: Junk food. Busty strippers without intelligence and culture.
Location: Vex's Apartment Time: Dusk Interactions:@JJ Doe Z Mentions: None
The sound of keys fumbling at the lock echoed in the hall. A muffled curse followed a woman’s voice, low and frustrated.
Thunk.
A heavy thud rattled the door as a body leaned against it, trying to force it open. “Come on…” she muttered under her breath, another metallic jangle of keys. “Piece of shit…”
Suddenly, the door burst inward with a groaning creak, nearly throwing the woman off balance. She half-stumbled, catching herself with a boot scuff against the floor, a triumphant grin curling at the corner of her lips.
“Shit.” She cursed again, yanking the stubborn key free and tossing it onto the nearest table with a loud clatter.
She stepped fully inside, cigarette clinging between her lips, a six-pack of beer tucked under one arm. Her low-rise jeans clung to her hips, ripped at the knees and thighs; the combat boots thudded with authority as she kicked the door shut behind her. Her leather jacket creaked with each movement, open just enough to reveal the black crop top beneath, a sliver of tattoo ink peeking along her ribs. Tousled hair fell over her shoulders in wild, windswept waves, her aviators slipping halfway down her nose.
She didn’t notice him at first, humming under her breath as she set the beer down on the kitchen counter. One hand flicked the cigarette to the side to ash it, the other shoved the sunglasses up to perch atop her head.
Then she turned—and froze.
A slow smirk unfurled across her face as her yellow eyes landed on Zachariah, still pale and trembling in the bathroom doorway, his lips parted, canine tooth glinting faintly under the harsh light.
“Well, well, look who finally decided to wake up,” Vex drawled, voice honeyed with a sultry, teasing lilt. She sauntered closer, hips swaying, smoky eyes appraising him from head to toe like he was both a curiosity and a challenge.
“Feeling a little… bitey, are we?” she purred, stopping a few feet away and leaning her weight into one hip. She popped the cigarette from her lips and exhaled a curl of smoke toward the ceiling. “Thirst hit you hard, huh? Almost cracked open the mini-bar?”
Her gaze flicked toward the fridge, then back to him, amusement twinkling in her dark eyes.
“Relax, pretty boy. First taste is always the worst.” She stepped closer, close enough for him to catch the mingled scent of leather, cigarettes, and lingering road dust. “You’ll learn. Or you’ll lose your damn mind. Either way… gonna be fun watching.”
She gave him a slow wink, then turned on her heel, sauntering back toward the kitchen. With a casual yank, she ripped two beers from the plastic rings of the six-pack and popped the caps off with the edge of the counter.
She held one out toward him over her shoulder, flashing another playful smirk.
“Pretty little baby…Pretty baby…I’m so in love with you…”
The sheets were soaked crimson where she sprawled, pale limbs tangled in black linen stained with the early night work. Her long white hair, streaked red at the ends, fanned around her like a broken halo. One bare foot swung lazily off the bed’s edge, toes tracing invisible circles above the body lying still beneath her.
The knife danced between her fingers, its blade glinting wet and red, singing a soft metallic hum as it spun.
“Poor, poor little lamb” Wren whispered, dragging the tip across her lips, leaving a smear of thick blood. “Not even a scream left in him.” She giggled, soft and sharp, a sound that didn’t quite belong to joy. A gurgling sound echoed in the room. “I wrapped him up all pretty, Noah. All for you. But you’re so sleepy, and now he’s spoiling.”
With a playful pout, she slithered off the bed, landing beside the body. Her white nightgown fluttering around her as she laid on her belly, her arms propping her up as her feet kicked behind her playfully. “Let’s see, let’s see…” she sang, fingers ghosting over cold dead skin. Her nails traced the jagged line she’d carved across his throat, admiring the depth, the artistry. “Oh, look at that color… like crushed berries on snow.” She bit her lip with a grin.
She pressed her cheek to his chest, listening for a heartbeat she knew wasn’t there. “Hollow, hollow, hollow…” she whispered, closing her eyes, savoring the stillness. “The music’s gone out. But I can still hear the echo.”
One delicate finger dipped slowly into the sticky wound, swirling lazily in the blood before painting a sigil across his sternum. “A lock without a key,” she mused aloud. “A door without a handle. He wasn’t meant to last, poor thing. Just a lamb on the path.”
She leaned closer, nose brushing his neck, inhaling deeply. “Mmm… going sour already.” She sighed, disappointment lacing her voice. “You’ll miss him, Noah. I made him perfect for you. But flesh fades, doesn’t it? Like promises. Like prayers. Disappointing.”
Then her face lit up, childlike and radiant, as she scrambled back onto the bed, dragging a tarnished silver tray from beneath the blankets. On it lay a crystal goblet filled dark and swirling, a cracked teacup, and scraps of something raw and red arranged like a grotesque charcuterie.
“I brought you breakfast in bed, Noah!” she chirped at no one, swaying side to side, tray balanced on her knees. “Aren’t I clever? Aren’t I good?” Her smile stretched too wide, too eager, shining with adoration as if he were really there. “See? Warm and fresh—well, mostly.”
She picked up the goblet, swirling its contents until the liquid licked the glass. “I saved the best part for you. His favorite vein. I know you like them sweet.” Her tongue darted out to taste the rim, eyes fluttering shut with bliss. “Mm… but you’re late, darling. He’s cooling now.” A pout tugged her lips, the goblet trembling slightly in her hands.
She set it down gently, fingers lingering on the stem. “You’ll miss him, love. I made him perfect. I wanted to watch you drink.” Her voice dropped to a soft croon, stroking the empty pillow beside her. “Wanted to see your fangs in his throat. Wanted to watch your pretty mouth stain red for me…” Grabbing the pillow, she shoved it into her mouth, biting down as if tearing into flesh, her eyes wild with hunger. A scene so vivid in her mind as she watches Noah hunt his prey.
A tarot card flutters from the bed—the Tower—landing across the corpse’s face, sticking to the tacky stain. She stopped peeking over to the edge of the bed. She threw the pillow finding herself on her stomach hanging her arms over the edge of the bed. Her purple eyes watching the card “It all falls down, love” she sang softly. “Brick by brick, bone by bone, until there is no more home.” Her feet kicked wildly
Another card—The Devil—she pulled it up from the ground, the card soaked in blood that had pooled around the body. “She thinks she’s righteous. But sin sings sweeter than salvation.” Her grin widened, as she grabbed the knife tapping it gently against her teeth. “Oh, how she bleeds for you, Noah. Twisting herself in pretty knots of guilt and glory. An Angel with no wings..” she grinned licking the blood off the card before she tossed it onto the body.
She pushed up to sit cross-legged atop the bed, knife resting in her lap, blood drying in thin rivers along her skin. “I hear them…” she murmured, voice lilting, distant almost a whisper. “The shadows in the glass towers. They’re coming…All of them…Run, run run” she bit her lip giggling softly.
Her head tilted slowly, a shiver crawling down her spine. “But me?” Her smile turned knife-sharp, eyes dark as a violet storm. “I’m the spider in the silk. The blade in the garden. We don’t run Noah… no no no silly.”
She leaned forward reaching for something off the nightstand before slinking back to the ground. Holding a rectangular shaped object Wren laid next to the corpse in the bloody mess.
In her hand was a photo of Noah, one of many he had sent to her. She grinned boldly “Look Noah, I made you breakfast in bed.” She smiled happily resting the photo frame on the body as she wrapped her arm around the frame and the corpse. “I’ll keep it warm for you” she whispered.
And beneath it all, a soft hum rose—a lullaby spun from madness.
Her soft voice began again as her feet kicked slowly along. “Pretty little baby…Pretty baby…I’m so in love with you…”
The low growl of the motorcycle echoed down the rain-slick streets, blending with the neon hum of Halcyon’s restless night. Her leather boot adjusted itself against the peg bar as her fingers gripped around the bars tightly. Pulling up against the sidewalk, Vex kicked her leg over the seat as the heat of the engine warmed her leg.
Wiping her hands on a rag, grease and ink staining her fingers as she stood outside the Ravens Nest, her tattoo shop that was nestled between a boarded-up pawn shop and a flickering dive bar. The last client was long gone, the machines silent, the air inside thick with the lingering scent of disinfectant. Her employees managed the shop during the day but Vex far preferred the evening shift. It was quite.
Her shaggy blonde hair clung to her jaw in damp waves, pushed back beneath a cracked pair of aviators resting on her head. A cigarette dangled from her lips, the cherry flaring red as she took a long drag, eyes glowing feral yellow beneath the shadow of the neon sign above. Tattoos snaked down her arms—blackwork,old scars inked over, stories woven into skin. Some hers. Some not.
Tonight, the city felt different.
Maybe it was the way the sky hung low and heavy, like a bruise waiting to break. Or maybe it was the way her chest tightened every damn time she looked at the empty stool in the corner of the shop—the one Bear used to claim, boots kicked up, smart ass grin sharp as a knife.
Bear.
Her best friend. Her brother in arms. Her ride-or-die. Gone now. Dead because this city always took more than it gave. His laughter haunted the cracks in the brick, the creak of the shop’s back door. She hadn’t moved the helmet he left hanging by the register. Couldn’t. Wouldn’t.
She flicked ash onto the sidewalk, her lips curling into a smirk that didn’t reach her eyes.
“You’d be pissed if you saw me sulking like this, huh?” she muttered under her breath. The smirk spread on her lips, her blacklip stick staining the butt of her cigarette as she lifted it back to her mouth. She took another long drag before flicking it onto the ground crushing it under her boot.
Somewhere out there was a beer with her name on it. Perhaps she would even find a bruise, a bloodied lip, something to remind her she was still alive. Vex reached for the door handle giving it a slight tug to ensure it was locked up. There were no bookings this evening which never bothered her. She was normally so stacked with clients she rarely left the shop.
Pulling out her phone the screen lit up.
3 missed calls. Dom “Vex, Where the fuck are you.” The text message appeared on her screen.
Letting out a drawn-out sigh, her eyes unbreaking from the screen she pulled a fresh cigarette to her lips, lighting it up as the cherry sparked its vibrant red. Her yellow eyes watched as if the words would just disappear if she stopped looking. The trail of smoke from her cigarette danced around her.
Her eyes lingered for a moment longer before she slipped the phone into the back pocket of her ripped jeans, her thumb lingering a moment longer over the screen before killing the call.
She swung one leg over the gleaming black beast beneath her, the motorcycle’s chrome catching the last burn of the setting sun. Leather creaked as she settled into the seat, her fingers curling around the handlebars with the easy confidence of someone who knew exactly what kind of trouble they were steering toward.
With a flick of her wrist, she dragged her aviators down over those wild yellow eyes, hiding the quiet storm beneath. The faintest smirk ghosted across her lips as she kicked the ignition.
The engine snarled to life—a deep, throaty growl that vibrated up her spine like a promise. She revved it once, twice, louder, a challenge thrown into the night. And without another look back, she peeled out of the lot, tires spitting gravel, the roar of the bike drowning out the ghosts chasing her.
The sun bled out behind the horizon, its last breath painting the jagged skyline of Halcyon in bruised red and molten gold. For a fleeting moment, the city seemed still—its towers gleaming like cold glass spires, streets slick from an earlier rain, glinting beneath the fading light. But Halcyon never truly rested.
As the sky darkened, the city awoke. Neon signs flickered to life with a stuttering pulse, casting electric halos across cracked sidewalks. Hot pink, venom green, cobalt blue—colors bled into the night, reflections rippling in puddles like fractured dreams. Steam coiled from sewer grates, swirling in languid spirals around lampposts, clinging to alleyways like restless spirits.
And from the shadows, the real Halcyon emerged.
From behind darkened windows and the low hum of basement doors sliding open, they stepped out. The vampires. Pale silhouettes draped in silk and leather, their eyes glinting like molten embers as they blinked into the neon haze. Hunger curled in their gaze as they watched the bars across the street flick their OPEN signs on, their pupils shifting—narrow, then wide—as the first wave of unsuspecting humans stumbled in for their evening nightcaps. For the living, it was the end of a long day. For the predators, it was the beginning of their breakfast.
Elsewhere, shadows moved—lycans prowling the side streets, their hulking forms cloaked in hoodies and leather jackets, muscles rippling beneath torn seams. Their eyes glowed faintly, scanning the crowds for the scent of blood, of fear, of something to sate the gnawing hunger beneath their skin. A low growl rumbled in a throat. A broken streetlight buzzed overhead. Somewhere down an alley, a scream rose, then cut off abruptly.
Along the curving avenues, beneath archways dusted with moss and forgotten magic, fae waited with sly smiles. Their lips painted like rose petals, their eyes shimmering too brightly beneath the flicker of neon. They held out gilded trinkets, whispered promises of dreams fulfilled, debts erased, pleasures unknown. “One favor,” they’d coo, their voices as soft as velvet and sharp as thorns. “Just one.” Behind their grins lurked teeth. Behind their bargains, chains.
And high above it all, perched on rooftops with long shadows stretching behind them, the Wardens watched. Silent silhouettes against the starlit sprawl, their coats billowing in the breeze. One holstered a pistol at their hip, the metal gleaming beneath a sliver of moonlight. Another tightened a grip around the hilt of a blade. Their eyes swept the streets—calculating, unyielding. Guardians or executioners? In Halcyon, the line blurred.
Below them, the city pulsed—a living, breathing labyrinth of neon and shadow, temptation and danger, predator and prey. Deals will be struck. Blood will be spilled. Lies will be whispered.
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