Irene Didn’t Answer Right Away.

Irene didn’t answer right away.

Instead, she let her gaze drift past him, toward the corner of the shop where the shadows always settled a little deeper than they should’ve. Not menacing—just aware. The kind of quiet that had weight, like something waiting for its name to be spoken.

Her hand finally moved, tracing the rim of the tin absently before she pushed it back into line. Everything in its place.

“I pay attention,” she said simply. “Doesn’t take much more than that.”

It wasn’t a lie. But it wasn’t the whole truth either.

He had a look about himv —measured, like someone who knew how to watch without being obvious. Still, there was something under his skin that hadn’t settled right, something his own body hadn’t quite finished telling him yet. She didn’t prod at it. Didn’t need to. That sort of thing always surfaced on its own. The lounge would see to that.

“I go when I need to,” she added, tone neutral. “Not more than that.”

Then, after a pause, “And as for the lounge...”

She let her fingers drop from the shelf and turned her full attention back to him. Eyes sharp, but not unkind. Studying him the way you might study weather patterns—curious, careful, certain that a storm was coming even if the sky still looked clear.

The magic in his blood hums like a low current —quiet, but constant. Not the showy kind that crackles or bends the air, but older, threaded deep, like something inherited rather than learned. Irene can feel it even through the spell she keeps wrapped tight around herself, the one that softens the edges of her own presence, keeps her readable as nothing more than what she appears. It's a precaution, one born of necessity more than secrecy—especially with the way Hunters move these days. But no amount of masking can make her blind to what’s there. His magic isn't dormant, just waiting. Coiled in his bones like it knows what it’s for, even if he doesn’t yet.

“You’ll figure it out,” she said finally. Not cryptic for the sake of it —just certain. “Places like that don’t bother watching unless they’re waiting to be understood.”

He let the information wash over him, sinking in as Irene continued. The lack of any names was mildly frustrating, but she was right about the habits being more important. Gloves, cardamom, and glassware. They could remember that.

There wasn’t any of the concrete details he would prefer to rely on, but that was usually the case with unfamiliar magic. Patience was key, and he practiced it well, even if he did his best to cut the need for it out of his regular routine.

Irene herself was much like that kind of unfamiliar magic, help offered with unknown intentions, unknown mechanisms. He wasn’t one to be thrown by someone's odd demeanor, especially not when Irene was already being generally kind and helpful, but there was still that nagging sense of the unknown. Witches were rarely ominous for no reason, and only a fool would accept an outstretched hand and take it for more than the single step up that it offered.

Everything she said was good to know, but it opened up more questions, the first of which being, “How do you know all of this? About the patrons, I mean. Do you spend a lot of time in the lounge? And what do you mean by it watching me?”

WHO: @erisinblood WHERE: downtown.

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

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

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

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

She kept walking.

Then—

“Dianne?”

It hit her like a slap.

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

But it didn’t. It never did.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And gods help her if someone else could tell.

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.

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

Obsidian.

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

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

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

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

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

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

A small pause. She didn’t look up.

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

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

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

Too well, maybe.

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

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

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

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

Irene huffed — not quite a laugh, but not annoyance either. It was the sound of someone deeply unimpressed by Lucian’s usual theatrics and just as deeply resigned to the fact that they always worked on her anyway. Her hand drifted over the blade in her lap — not gripping, just tracing the flat of it like it might ground her a little further into the present.

“Oh, others, huh?” she echoed, turning to eye him, one brow ticking up like she was weighing whether to roll her eyes or throw him in the lake. “That’s comforting. You do remember you’re not technically allowed to threaten evisceration until after dinner, right? I think that was in the handbook. Section four, maybe five.” Her tone was still dry, but her expression had softened — not quite open, but looser than usual. Lucian had that effect on her. The ability to carve space where the weight let up, even if only in slivers.

“Wait.” She narrowed her eyes, mock-affronted. “Did you just call me slow?”

There was a pause. Then, with theatrical gravity, she shook her head.

“Wow. You’re definitely losing another point for that one. Two more and I no longer like you.” A beat. “Or something.”

It came out lightly, but the joke sat on top of something else — a familiar rhythm between them, years old and still intact despite everything. Despite all the places they’d ended up on opposite sides of the room, the field, the war. The kind of connection that endured not because it was loud, but because it was persistent. Threaded through with too many half-smiles and stupid inside jokes to be anything but real.

And when she glanced over at him again, the edge of her mouth tugged — a rare, fleeting smile that touched more than just her lips. Just for a second. Just because it was him. Because the way he said darling and love didn’t land like it did when other people used it — didn’t ring hollow or honeyed. Just fit. Like a coat she'd never admit was her favorite.

“Mm, all in due time,” she repeated, a little softer now, eyes back on the water. “So..” Her voice dropped to that low lilt she only used when she was trying not to sound too curious. “What are you up to, exactly?”

He laughs, an honestly amused laugh that lacked all the mocking and promised pain they often do. Shrugging a shoulder as he takes in her nudge and words. "Ah well darling, I like keeping my insides inside... but other's... I prefer to pull them out." He says casually, like there's no dark meaning behind his words.

"Besides, had I actually sneak up on you, obvious as I was of my approach, then you probably wouldn't get your own tattoo anyway, love."

Not when they needed sharper instincts, to fight against creatures and monsters much faster and agile that a regular human being was capable of. Vicious in their attacks.

He looks at her, studies her for all of a minute to know there's something bothering her that won't ever make it to his ears. Not now, probably... perhaps when she's ready and willing.

He shrugs once more, playful as he looks back out into the space before them.

"As always, darling, you shall see it in due time." He's working on plenty things. All preparing him for a most delightful hunt.

Again, Irene didn’t answer right away.

The question wasn’t hard — not really. But the answer lived somewhere deeper than she usually let herself dig. So instead, she walked a few slow paces forward, the crunch of gravel under her boots muted by the rain. The coat stretched between them like a tether, soft and worn, the kind of fabric that remembered too many nights like this. And she held onto it — not for warmth, but for direction. For something to do with her hands that wasn’t reaching out too much, too fast.

The street around them was empty. A quiet slice of the world between thunder and breath. Dim porch lights flickering in distant windows, rainwater whispering down gutters. The kind of place where time felt thinner, like it could stretch or break if you breathed too hard. Irene finally tilted her head, gaze following the sky like it might give her the right words if she stared long enough. Her voice, when it came, was quiet. But not hesitant.

“The storm’s honest,” she said. “Doesn’t pretend to be anything it’s not. Loud, violent, inconvenient. Beautiful if you’re far enough away. Dangerous if you’re not.” She exhaled through her nose, like the thought had weight. “But at least you know what you’re dealing with.”

She looked down at Allie then, pinkie still looped through hers, the smallness of that gesture settling deep in her chest like a stone sinking slow through water.

“I guess I come out here when I don’t know what else to do with myself,” she went on, soft and unhurried, like the words had been waiting a long time to be spoken. “When it gets too loud in my head. When I can’t stop circling the same five thoughts that won’t go anywhere. The storm… it hits louder than all of it. Forces everything else to hush up for a second.”

Her mouth twitched at the corner — not quite a smile, not quite not. “It’s not peaceful. But it’s quiet, in its own way. Makes me feel like I don’t have to hold so tight to everything.”

The rain clung to her hair, her lashes, her coat. She didn’t seem to notice.

She gave Allie’s pinkie the barest tug — gentle, grounding.

“Sorry I was late,” she murmured. “Didn’t mean to let the storm catch you first.”

Her free hand drifted briefly to Allie’s shoulder, thumb brushing across the damp fabric of her dress like she could smooth out the worry underneath it.

“Next time you get the itch to go twirling in thunder, at least wait for me to bring a better coat.”

         she lets a childhood fear soak through her, when she’d hide from the storms, never the rain, but the lightning and the thunder used to send her under her covers. and then, when that wouldn’t work, she’d find the underside of her bed. the older she got, the more her bedroom door was found locked, leaving her nothing to do but hide.

         “ thank you. ”  it comes out as a quiet whisper against the storm, but she means it. a soft petal pressed down into irene’s palm, she means it. she doesn’t understand it, but she means it. not the danger, not why irene’s steering her away, why irene cares, but that means something, and she’s thankful for it. it means so much, that she cares, and she’s more scared of losing that than she is the storm, and it’s that fear that guides her away from the rain. her friend has all the warmth she needs, and allie melts into the hand that’s only just visiting. it’s irene, and she knows, even with allie’s cotton candy daydreams, she knows there’s something there that always stops her from letting allie in. and now, for just a moment, she has. it’s everything, and allie realizes that it’s not fear guiding her actions, it couldn’t be, she could never be scared of irene. just fondness, the love she has for a blooming friendship.

         even with the pouting, she doesn’t argue anymore, she lets irene warn her and follows along, like she gets it.  “ ‘kay, all done now, promise. ”  it’s still that same quiet, coated in a kind of soft guilt. i’m sorry i’m not where i’m supposed to be, i’m sorry you had to come get me, i’m sorry i’m like this. none of that falls from her, but she reaches for irene’s hand where it’s drawn around her shoulder, hovering with the coat. she links their pinkies, earnestly.  “ pinkie promise. ”

         there’s a blink of silence. allie has no sense of direction, she’s not thinking about where they’re going, only that they’re going together.  “ if it’s- if the storm’s so bad, why are you out in it? ”

Irene gave a small nod, more gesture than answer, like she’d already factored his return into tomorrow’s rhythm.

“They’ll be bagged and waiting,” she said. No fanfare. Just fact.

She reached behind the counter, slid a small paper slip toward him with a neat scribble of initials—hers, not his—across the top. A quiet ledger. A promise.

“You can settle up then,” she added. “I’ll be here early.”

There was a pause, not awkward, just full of the kind of quiet that always seemed to follow her. She didn’t offer a goodbye, didn’t smile, didn’t soften the edges she’d kept all evening. But her gaze lingered a second longer than it had to, steady and level.

“You take care walking home,” she said finally.

Then she turned back to the shelf, already pulling down the next order like the moment had passed cleanly from her hands. And maybe it had.

END.

It was clear that was the closest he’d get to a specific explanation from her. He appreciated what information she’d already offered, at least. Conversation and good company was welcome in a new town, and she was already kind enough to let him linger here when she’d clearly been getting ready to pack up and leave for the day.

“I see, well...” He took another drink from his mug, surprised to see that he’d reached the very bottom of it. “I shouldn’t keep you much longer. Can I come back tomorrow for the rest of the herbs on the old owner’s regular list? I may want to open a regular account here for my personal stores, as well.”

He wasn’t going to continue being a potioneer, but it wouldn’t hurt to have some supplies on hand for emergencies. The unspoken offer for him to return for more conversation was just an added bonus.

Irene blinked against the brightness of the laundromat lights, the hum of the machines loud enough to fill the silence between them. Her jacket still smelled faintly of dried mugwort and something acrid from the burner at work —something half-finished she hadn’t meant to forget.

She didn’t meet Shiv’s eyes right away, just stepped in and let the door fall shut behind her.

“Nothing,” she said after a second, like the word had to work its way through a wall first. “Maybe I just need to wash some clothes.”

It was a lie. The kind that didn’t even try to convince.

She hated asking favors. In general, she hated asking anyone for anything. It made her feel like she owed something back, like she'd cracked open a door she couldn’t close again. But the Shahs… her dad had trusted them. Said it more than once, like a scratched-up record he couldn’t stop playing. If anything happens to me, find the Shahs.

It was even in the will. Right there with the money he left her and a half-page of careful handwriting that tried too hard not to sound like a goodbye.

So maybe it meant something. It had to.

She dropped a small canvas bag beside one of the empty machines, but didn’t open it. Arms crossed loosely, fingers tucked beneath sleeves like they might betray more than she was willing to admit.

“Place felt quiet tonight,” she said, her voice quieter now. “Too quiet. I figured I’d go train for a bit.”

There was a pause. Not quite hesitation—more like a space to breathe.

“You feel like joining?” she asked, finally glancing his way. “Could use the company. Or, I don’t know... maybe just the noise.”

WHO: @ireneclermont WHERE/WHEN: Wash Tub Laundry / Late Evening

If Shiv had a nickel for every secret Brotherhood witch they knew and had a detailed case file for, they’d have two nickels. Two nickels with uniquely different baggage Shiv had no clue where to begin with. 

Gemma’s case was less cause for immediate concern. If things blew out of water, Gemma still had her brother and father to cover for her. That wasn’t the case for Irene. She’s an outsider coming in; Irene has no one within Port Leiry’s Brotherhood Sect to come to her aid in the worst case scenario... No one except Shiv that is. 

Technically all that Asim wanted in his will was a watchful eye on the Clermont Girl but Shiv found themself acting as their fellow hunter’s keeper unprompted. Not that Shiv's father could blame them. Compassion is a Shah bad habit: plucking up weary hunters and taking them under their wing like stray cats needing a home.

Tonight Irene comes into the laundromat with a glint in her eye. The kind of glint that gives Shiv pause. “Clermont.” Shiv stands up from where they were sitting behind the front desk, turning their full attention to the young hunter. “Working late again, I see. How can I help you?”

Irene didn’t pull back when Shiv gripped her shoulders. She just stood there, watching them with that usual unreadable expression — calm, quiet, like still water. But her fingers twitched at her sides, faintly. The only outward sign of how much it cost her to hear him say it. You have to go live it, Irene.

She didn’t respond right away. Just let the silence stretch between them, long and measured like a tide pulling back before it crashed. The fire behind them crackled low, the stars above them steady, indifferent. The sea whispered to the shore like it knew how to keep secrets.

“You think I can’t keep this place?” Her voice was soft, but steady. Not offended — amused, almost. “Don’t underestimate me like that.” A beat. “I’m not the best weaver, but I’ve learned enough to make this last.”

She turned slightly, gaze sweeping over the water, the dunes, the crooked little house that already felt like it had always been there.

“I want to keep it,” she added, eyes narrowing with purpose. “Because this is the only place you’re not unraveling. The magic’s still working through your system. It’s not going to break overnight. If I drag you out now, you won’t just be half-broken — you’ll be wide open. To everything. Every memory that got scrambled, every spell that touched you, every voice that isn’t yours whispering in your head.”

Her gaze met his again, firm and quiet. Not pleading. Just the truth, delivered without edge.

“So yeah. I’m keeping this running. A little longer. Not forever. Just long enough for things to settle. Let it wear off right.”

She paused, her jaw tight. Shiv had given her an order — clear, methodical, backed by reason and logic and concern for the bigger picture. It was the kind of call she would have not respected from anyone else. But this wasn’t anyone else. This was him. And she couldn’t pretend this wasn’t personal.

“I know what you’re doing,” she said, voice lower now. “Trying to give me something to do. A way to step out clean. Get back to the others. Pretend like this was just another assignment.”

Another pause.

“But I can’t. Not yet.”

Her tone didn’t shift, but something softened in her face. A crack in the ice. Not quite a confession — she wasn’t built for those — but something close.

“Thera sent the note. Some people know already. Enough to keep the fire from going out. But if more eyes start turning to us — if someone sees me holding this space, we’ll both be screwed. And Thera... she won’t be safe either.”

She took a step closer. A tiny quirk pulled at the edge of her mouth.

“Can you just trust me?” she asked. “Really. Just… leave this up to me. I promise I won’t mess it up. And if I do, then you can kick my ass.” A shrug. “Or at least try.”

Her gaze held his, steady as ever. “I won’t let you get lost in here. So save your breath. Rest. The calmer you are, the easier it’ll be when it’s time to come back.”

She stepped back, slowly, like she was anchoring them both again in place — not through force, not through spell, but through something stronger. Intent. Presence.

“This works just like the real world. You want dinner? Just think of it. Steak, ramen, oysters on ice, I don’t care — it’ll show up. You want to shower? Swim? You can.”

She turned her head toward the porch where the soft yellow glow still lingered. “There’s a bed in there. Clean sheets. You won’t have to check under the mattress for blades. Water pressure’s good. Books’ll be different every day — I made sure. Want a TV? I can give you that too. Just try not to sleep. You won't feel like you have to, but then if you do, it can complicate things, so let me know. If that need comes up.”

She looked back over her shoulder, expression unreadable again — except maybe in her eyes. A glint of something unspoken. Relief. Fear. Devotion.

“We’ll figure it out. The magic. The who. The why.” Her voice dropped. “But you’ve got to promise me one thing.” She sighed. Riven, why? It wasn't just him, no. That, she'd figure out.

“Let me handle this world. Just this one. Okay?”

Shiv can only nod before closing their eyes and taking it all in. The coolness of the night. The sweet salt in the air as they inhale and exhale. The sweet relief that comes when returning to a home that has been waiting for you. Tranquility unwinds the knots in their muscles, eases their shoulders as Shiv relaxes. Its more than good or comfortable, this is heavenly.

Yet, as much as Shiv would like to completely unwind, they know that this is not their memory to look fondly back on. They are a guest in Irene's nostalgia. Eventually Shiv will have to return to the desert, the ruins of their mind and repair what's left for themself.

Irene can't stay here. She has to let them go.

"No. Unfortunately not. I was working in one of the back offices. The file room. Then someone called my name. That's it...Everything afterward is just static." Shiv sighs. They have no memory of the attack or the attacker. Or rather, attackers. "More than one witch", they repeat to themself, "We can work with that. Later."

"Now is not the time to start pointing fingers. Yama is patient; justice can wait." As much as loss, rage simmers beneath the skin of their tatted back, the last thing Shiv wants is for Irene to throw herself into danger for their sake. More than she already has trying to save Shiv from their own mind.

They take a step forward and plants both hands on Irene's shoulders. The hesitation is clear as day in Shiv's eyes, Shiv's voice as they speak with a heavy heart, "Thank you for everything. But we both know you can't stay here or maintain the beach forever. Your life is outside of this dream. You have to go live it, Irene."

Shiv stops themself. That sounded more like a final goodbye than they meant. This isn't a goodbye. This is Shiv giving Irene an order. "When you wake up, go back to the others and tell them what let happened-- Well, not everything that happened obviously. Mainly that I am stabilized and in safe hands. I'm sure Sammy is running around already; he's gonna need some help keeping everyone else's heads on their shoulders." Shiv stops themself once more. This time with a flicker of recognition in their eye that gives them pause. Its then that Shiv remembers them.

Sammy. Aurelia. Nico. Adrian. Gabriel. Gemma-

Just a handful of the hunters that are depending on them. A handful of hunters that, like Irene, are probably scrambling in their absence. An ugly truth comes to light, one they've been trying to undermine and deny even before the coma: Unfortunately, Shiv is important. Not in a way that is self serving or even speaks to their skillset but goes beyond hunting. A babysitter. A voice of reason. A helping hand. A mentor. A father figure? These roles can't be easily replaced or forgotten.

Shiv can't let their own mind swallow them whole; Shiv can't die here. Their Brotherhood needs them.

"Standard protocol. Two weeks." Shiv takes a deep breath and recomposes themself, back straightened and seemingly standing with a new vigor. "Give me two weeks in waking time to situate my mind. If I am not operational by then, you have full permission to yank me out by whatever means necessary. But my hunt is here. I must to finish it."

"Look. I have no clue how any of this magic works. But you do. That's what makes your skillset unique, part of what makes you a one of a kind hunter." Embrace it. Shiv gives Irene a quiet, reassuring smile. Their hands move from Irene's shoulders to her arms, bracing themself as if the two are about to make endure another hurricane. Irene is not going to like this. "When you go and this beach dissipates, give me no warning. Just rip if off like a band aid. Fast and simple."

"I'll be okay, alright? I'll be okay and I'll be back before you know it. I promise."

Irene didn’t sit right away. She hovered by the kitchen island instead, letting the smell of the takeout do most of the work as Sammy rifled through it, eyes already brighter for something warm and edible. It helped to have something to do with his hands — she could see it in the way his shoulders relaxed, just a little, just enough.

The light through the window was slipping golden across the floorboards, catching in her hair and her coat like dust. She let it settle in the silence for a few breaths before answering.

“He’s not worse,” she said first, which wasn’t the same thing as better, but also wasn’t nothing. Her voice didn’t waver, didn’t hedge — just delivered it straight. Measured. Quiet.

She finally pulled out a chair and sat across from him, shrugging off her coat like it weighed too much. The sleeves of her shirt were pushed up just far enough to show faint smudges of ash and something glittery — residue of something that wasn’t quite spellwork, but close. She didn’t explain it.

When she looked up again, her eyes were rimmed darker than usual. Not in the dramatic, witchy way people always assumed. Just… tired. Deep-set, like sleep had been a luxury out of reach for more than a few nights. But her face didn’t crack. It never did.

“He’s not alone in there,” she said simply. Her fingers ghosted over the side of a napkin, folding one corner with idle precision. “That matters.”

She didn’t say what it had cost — not just the magic, but the time. The strain. The hours spent crouched beside a still body with salt lining her lashes and the smell of scorched rosemary in the walls.

And she definitely didn’t say how wrong it had felt to sense Riven’s signature in the sandscape of Shiv’s unconscious — familiar and twisted and present. That stayed between her, Shiv, and Thera.

But she met Sammy’s eyes across the kitchen table, and there was no flinch in her voice when she added, “He’s going to be okay.”

There was a steadiness to the words. Not bravado. Not blind optimism. Just a thing spoken because it was true — even if she couldn’t tell him how she knew. “You know I wouldn’t bullshit you,” she said softly. “Not about something like this.”

And maybe it wasn’t enough to erase the circles under her eyes or the tension she still carried in her shoulders. But it was the best she could offer, short of dragging him into the dream herself — and she wasn’t ready to open that door to anyone else. Not yet. Too fragile. Too... unfinished.

She let her gaze drift toward the back window, where the twins shrieked over some messy game involving sticks and a bucket of water. The sound didn’t ease the coil in her chest, but it grounded her.

“You’re doing the right thing, staying with them,” she said, voice softer now. “They need you more than he does, in this moment.”

A beat.

“But when he wakes up, he’s probably going to ask what took you so long.”

That, at least, earned a tiny smile — thin and crooked, barely there, but real.

“How are you holding up?”

The front door didn’t need to be locked, not when the twins were running between the front and back yards faster than he could follow. He’d taken to pacing in the kitchen, only occasionally glancing out the window to make sure his step-siblings were still making potions out of mud and leaves in the backyard, his mind on other things. 

The situation with Mr. Shiv was a royal fuck-up. Two weeks, and he’d let himself think that he was just on an extended hunt. He should have raised the alarm days ago, should have at least asked around! He should have done something, not just— 

A voice from the hall pulled him out of his train of thought. Irene was standing in his front hall, a takeout bag in hand. 

Irene was nice. Good to work with, if a bit spooky and ominous. After getting the news of Mr. Shiv’s injury to Ms. Kennedy and Mr. Castillo, she was the next (and only) person he told. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust any other hunters, just... Irene was a lot more discreet than them. He couldn’t really picture Nico reacting in a calm and measured way to the news that a hunter in a coma was being taken care of in a shop run by a witch for the past two weeks. Irene, at the very least, was discreet and clever, and was nice enough to lurk in the threshold so she could easily turn and leave if she wasn’t wanted. 

She was wanted. Especially with food, an easy reminder that, yeah, he had definitely forgotten to make himself lunch when he’d made the twins their sandwiches earlier. It was easier to ignore his body’s signals to eat and rest when he was worrying. ”Sorry, I didn’t hear you, come in! Yeah, I got distracted, thank you.”

He ushered her in, over towards the chairs around the kitchen island, where he was able to keep an eye on the twins out the windows as they spoke. He shrugged away any attempt to ask after his own well being, instead focusing on picking over the takeout food gratefully.

“You saw him? Any changes? I dropped by the day I got the note, he seemed like a 4 on the Glasgow coma scale, which is, uh...” He trailed off. A score of 4, after two weeks? That was more often than not a sign to start getting a funeral plan in order. “Bad. Really bad, for an injury. Magic might make it better, or different, but by regular medical scales, he should be in a long-term ward. Is he doing any better? Responsive, moving, even reacting at all to touch or noise?”