She Doesn’t Flinch Under The Weight Of His Stare. Don’t Look Away Either. Just Watches Him, Steady,

She wasn’t supposed to be there.

Not in the way she had been. Not in the way that meant recognition passed through her like lightning through old copper. She’d walked into the apothecary like it was routine—because it was. Or had been, once. Lavender, valerian root, chamomile if the harvest had been good and the wards outside town didn’t taste too much like blood. Irene kept her hood up and her steps quiet.

And then she’d seen her.

Of course she had. Threads like Thera’s didn’t fade. Not really. And maybe Irene had known before the door even opened, before the air shifted and time stuttered like it sometimes did around certain people. Thera had always been a person like that. A knot in the pattern. A point of memory so old it didn’t always feel like hers.

She hadn’t spoken. Couldn’t. Not in the way either of them would want.

She’d looked at Thera the way she’d looked at the house after the fire. The way she’d looked at her mother when her mother stopped looking back. Like everything she thought she understood had just warped an inch to the left and taken her name with it.

The message had been simple. A tilt of the head. A silence shaped like warning and apology all at once.

Get out. Not because you’re in danger —but because I am.

Irene wasn’t seen easily these days. And when she was, she made sure it was on her terms. This—Thera, the ghosts stitched into her threadboard, the way the room still held the echo of her father’s name even now—this was not on her terms.

She’d followed the crow.

Of course she had. What else was she supposed to do? Pretend like the storm in her chest wasn’t picking up? Pretend she didn’t remember the dream-stained plane where Thera had shown her the truth instead of speaking it? Where memory had become mirror and Irene had shattered it with her own hands?

So she walked, damp air curling into her collar, boots dragging on uneven stone.

She would find Thera. She always did.

And when she did, she wouldn’t say thank you. She wouldn’t say I’m sorry. She wouldn’t say anything she didn’t mean.

But she would say..

“You’re harder to shake than most.” A beat. Her bright blues flicker, unreadable. “What are you even doing here?”

Closed Starter for @ireneclermont

Location: Tūmatarau Apothecary

An errand that was supposed to have resulted in a restock of her lavender and valerian root stores as well as maybe a run in with Kiri had quickly turned into a clandestine weave back to her store. Fate sure knew how to keep Thera on her toes.

When she had arrived at the apothecary she should have been more surprised to see Irene Clermont, but Thera would be remiss if she hadn’t wondered after the faintly speckled thread that been weaving its way through her board.

She had tried to warn him. She really had. But even those drawn to magic often questioned things they saw as just possibilities.

Thera had been glad to see her, alive and whole. But she hadn’t wanted to be seen with her. Not abnormal, especially for someone with as many secrets as Irene.

She didn’t doubt that his line had been cut. Now with his eyes stood in a different face, boring into hers. Eyes she had also seen when turning favours with Reverie.

Irene had looked at Thera like she had seen a ghost. Communicated as only she could that she needed Thera out. In a different location. C&C, a warded space, Thera’s space, an offer. Irene would find it, through magic or by her hunter’s whim.

Thera glanced up at the sky as Shay swooped over head. Thera smiled, her crows would guide her if nothing else.

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 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? ”

The wind had teeth out here.

Irene hadn’t meant to come this far. She’d walked until the roads narrowed and the town thinned behind her, until her ears were full of the sea’s growl and the storm’s hush. Her boots stuck twice on the walk down to the rental lot, the mud soft and mean beneath the heels. She could feel her wards straining —distant, but tethered still—and every bone in her body whispered that she should turn back.

She didn’t.

The dock looked abandoned, lights off, boats lashed in neat crisscrossed lines like some ritual offering to the waves. Practical. Smart. Not enough to keep anything truly safe. She didn’t expect to see anyone, let alone the figure mid-run at the edge of the dock.

Irene stopped short just as the woman jumped.

Not slipped. Not fell. Jumped. Clean. Deliberate.

It was the sort of motion that knew gravity’s rules and simply chose not to care. The sort of leap that wasn’t meant for onlookers. So when the woman surfaced—sleek, sharp-eyed, at home in a way that made Irene’s skin feel too tight—she held her gaze, because looking away felt wrong. Unkind, even.

“You know,” Irene said, once the silence had grown long enough to deserve words, “Most people call it a day when the storm starts naming things.”

Her voice didn’t carry well over the wind, but she didn’t raise it either. Just enough for the other woman to hear, if she wanted to. Just enough to be real.

She didn’t ask what she was. Didn’t need to. There were some things you didn’t poke with language.

Instead, Irene’s hand found the railing, fingers brushing over the salt-slick wood.

“I won’t stay,” she added. “Didn’t come to interrupt.”

But she hadn’t moved yet, either. The kind of stillness that came from knowing you weren’t the only one who’d come out here to remember something you couldn’t name. Or forget something you couldn’t shake.

Let the sea judge them both.

Who: Open (0/4)

Where: PL Boat Rental

If the wind were still able to fill her lungs, Ha-Jeong knew that it would taste like magic. She knew storms, had sailed in more typhoons than she could count, and this was no natural storm. But she found that she cared little for its origin. She was reminded of her centuries at sea. How she had volunteered herself for solo deck duty in almost every storm the ship had seen. It had been a selfish move as much as it had been a logical one. Her body could simply withstand more than her human crewmates, but she had also loved the feeling of being swept up in something so much bigger than herself.

She sat on her dock, the humans she usually employed to run the place summarily dismissed and sent to safer pastures. She had gone around on her own and spider tied all vessels that hadn’t been stored on racks or in the 3 operating boat houses. The dock rocked beneath her, undulating with the sea.

Ha-Jeong stood and started to remove her jacket. The other haenyeo used to call her ‘ineo’ when she had spent her decade on Jeju. That was perhaps her favourite way she had spent the 90s. She cocked her head from side to side as she took a starting position. If she was honest with herself those ladies hadn’t been the only people to accuse her of having a more aquatic than human nature. Ironic for this was perhaps the one human idiosyncrasy she had left, as she ran towards the edge of the dock, wind running through her hair, she was reminded of a little girl centuries ago who would have done the same.

As she flew over the water, the tumultuous storm current sipping around her body, she felt a presence appear behind her on the dock. As the water welcomed her, an embrace no colder than her own, she quickly broke through the surface to meet the eyes of someone who was either just brave or just stupid enough to witness her in her human indulgence.

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?"

Irene didn’t move. Just listened, hands still shoved deep in her pockets, shoulders angled slightly against the wind. The rain was lighter now, but it came in sideways, the kind that soaked under your collar no matter how tightly you pulled it closed.

She nodded once at his mention of a tow, but it wasn’t quite agreement. More acknowledgment. Heard.

“Not stupid,” she said finally, voice even. “Just stubborn. Which sometimes passes for brave if no one looks too close.”

Her gaze drifted past him, to the road beyond. It was unraveling at the edges, the kind of damage that didn’t look like much until it took a full axle or a boot clean through. She didn’t need to see the tires to know they weren’t moving again without help.

“You don’t have to explain it to me,” she added, after a beat. “I’ve seen people hold onto worse for less.”

She stepped a little closer then — just enough to keep from having to raise her voice. The kind of proximity that said she wasn’t going anywhere just yet, not unless something forced her hand.

“Tow might get here. Might not.” Not cruel, just honest. “You’ve got time. But not forever.”

Her baby blues met his, steady through the streaked window. “If it gets worse, and it will, I’ll be back this way before it goes fully under. You don’t want the rescue team in this town. They charge in favors.”

A pause. Not a threat. Just a truth laid flat.

“I’m not here to drag you out.” She tilted her head slightly. “But I’m not gonna pretend you’ll be fine either.”

Then, almost as an afterthought, like she was offering a breadcrumb instead of a lifeline. “There’s a diner about a mile and a half back. Runs a generator when the lines go out. You change your mind, you’ll make it there if you leave before sundown.”

She let that hang. Didn’t push. Just let the storm speak for a minute instead.

He would never again say that people in Port Leiry didn't give a damn because what the fuck. At least this one doesn't seem insistent in doing something drastic like breaking his window and dragging him out, but he doesn't want to give her the chance. He watches warily as she stands in the storm, unbothered like the weather isn't raging around them and threatening property damage and loss of life.

But the way she leaves him be allows him to let his guard down a tiny bit. He's too tired to fight. He understands why people want him to get out, hates that he's placing an additional burden on them they don't need. He tries not to think about if the worst does happen, and the guilt these people might feel. Maybe not the bear, but Autumn and Lis. They knew. They would know if he was swept away, but he clings to faith because it's all he has.

"A friend is calling a tow," he tells her, and that is the truth. Whether they'll be able to make it through is anyone's guess. "Look, I know it's stupid and ridiculous but-" he sighs. It feels like losing the truck would be losing the last part of his past that reminds him why to keep pressing forwards. "I can't walk in this storm. It's the only option I have." The only option he's willing to take.

Irene watched her emerge—fluid, effortless. Like the sea didn’t just allow her, but had shaped itself around her coming. The kind of grace that made the dock feel artificial beneath Irene’s boots. A clumsy invention. An interruption to something older.

Her fingers tightened slightly on the railing, just once.

“I’m not here to trade,” she said after a beat, voice still quiet, still certain. “Troubles or otherwise.”

She didn’t smile, but something like acknowledgment flickered across her face —thin and weathered, like light through stormglass. She wasn’t startled by the woman’s ease, nor her offer. The world had stopped surprising her a long time ago. But this—this small act of being seen and not dismissed—had a kind of weight that pressed different.

“I’ve got shelter if I need it,” Irene added, gaze drifting toward the churn of black water. “This isn’t about dry clothes.”

The sea cracked louder behind her, a gust pushing against the edge of the dock like a warning. Irene didn’t flinch.

“You jumped like someone who knew exactly where they’d land.” Her eyes cut back to her. “That’s rare.”

The wind pulled her hood loose then, tangling strands of hair against her cheek. She didn’t fix it.

“You don’t owe me company,” she said finally. “But I won’t say no to it.”

And still, she stayed where she was —hands steady on salt-slick wood, boots rooted in storm-soft ground, eyes on the woman who had come out of the sea like a story no one dared finish telling.

She heard her. Not by any human range. But she was no human.

Ha-Jeong didn’t really want to leave the water. The stranger was correct. People shouldn’t be swimming in this. Shouldn’t even be out in this. Yet she was. Despite her apologies and interruptions, this human still stood there. A silly thing yet her countenance held such sadness she was reluctant to leave the young woman alone.

In a few strokes Jeong was at the dock again and with little effort hoisted herself out of the water to perch below the forlorn girl. “While the sea will take your troubles sonyeo, sometimes it isn’t quite worth the price.”

She looked up at the girl. “The main facility isn’t far if you are looking for some sort of dry place, but I also won’t interfere if you wish to somehow wrestle with your demons.” Ha-Jeong leaned back on her arms tilting her head up towards the rain. On another person this stance could have looked relaxed but it had been centuries since almost any pose she could take had been able to convey that.

She didn’t flinch when he told her to take the boots off—just paused, took it in, then bent down and did it. No argument. No attitude. Just leather against fingers and a soft thud as they settled by the door like a quiet offering.

Irene knew when she was being measured. Not weighed, not judged —measured. Tetsuya Goju didn’t need words to take a person apart. She could feel it, that feather-light graze of something older than suspicion moving over her like smoke, like spellwork. She didn’t fight it. Let it come. Let it see. She had no illusions about what she looked like from the outside—fists wrapped in habit, a stare too practiced in the art of hard things, a body that only knew how to settle when it was bracing for impact.

Her bare feet touched the tatami like they weren’t sure they belonged, but she moved forward anyway. One step. Then another.

The silence in the dojo deepened with each one.

She didn’t bow. Not out of defiance —out of honesty. Irene didn’t lie about reverence. Didn’t fake what she didn’t carry. But she did nod, this time slower, and there was weight in it. A kind of understanding. A kind of respect.

She caught the layout as she moved—wing chun dummies, the kata markers on the floor, the polished edge of the bokken rack. A hunter would’ve gone for the weapons. Something with reach. Distance. Control.

Irene stopped in the center of the open mat.

“I don’t want a sword,” she said, voice low, almost soft, like the storm had worn itself out in her chest but left its echo behind. “I’ve had too many things in my hands that made it easy. I want to feel it. Every hit. Every miss.”

She looked over her shoulder, just enough to catch the curve of that almost-smile on his face.

Then she turned, faced him full.

The shape of her didn’t carry power like most hunters he’d trained. She didn’t posture. Didn’t square up or lean in or wear her strength like armor. What she had was older. Worn in. The kind that came from losing more fights than she’d won and learning how to stand up anyway. Quiet resilience. Dangerous only because it didn’t need to announce itself.

“I’m not here to be better,” she said simply. “Just... less breakable.”

There was no pride in it. No plea. Just fact.

She exhaled, steady now, the chaos in her chest pressed quiet by the room’s stillness. Then, bare feet planted firm on the mat, she met his gaze again—clear, level.

“So. Where do you want me?”

She's a new student. Her name is on paper in his office, but that means very little to him on a grander scale. The language of the soul, of the mind and the body speak volumes more than most ink will. Yet, Miyazaki cannot see the depth of her flesh as easily as most; he's always trusted his magic, even as it feathers along her, feeling out a stranger with a violent desire. But it lifts away when a dull thud of something that gives him a moment of pause. An energy that similar of the purging organisation Tetsuya has no interest in entertaining.

He has more of a weariness, suspicion about why a hunter may wish to train in his walls. There are plenty of things to hit so crassly in a city that the arrogant can break.

It's disrespectful that she treads boots on the tatami.

Even if it's merely a toe.

"Off." There is a gentle but firm motion of his hand, dismissive of her brazen display. If a hunter wishes to be welcome in his walls, then they will respect where they stand. Miyazaki would shatter every bone in her feet, if she did not abide the basic expectation. There needs to be no enlightenment, if that is not what she seeks. He is no enlightener; no kindness in the dark of whatever haunts her. The sensei does not have spare time to teach those unwilling to receive the knowledge he's willing to part with.

His hands fold behind his back as he lightly crosses the mats, because he does not allow himself indulgences that are distractions. If she would like something to hit, she has plenty choices on each end of the dojo; wing-chun, if she favours Hong Kong, and the kata. Maybe kendo, if she favours weaponry, like many hunters before her.

Him.

If she dares want an accurate target to strike. Something familiar in the way of what she hunts, but entirely out of her realm of ability. A smile forms out of his stoicism. He waits for her to slip her shoes off, and step into the field of practice. A real sign of her intention within the dojo. Tetsuya's quiet easier than his is disciplined. On this occasion, it speaks volumes of: Take your pick. He may enjoy watching another of this generations hunters.

It has every potential to be another solemn waste of his time.

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.”