END.

Irene

Most admirable quality: She's got a lot of compassion. I think she tries to hide that sometimes, but I try to pay attention when people are reaching out a helping hand to others, and she does it a lot. She's a good person. Most attractive physical feature: Eyes are the window to the soul, right? Hers are really pretty. Most annoying habit: She like to keep things vague and short sometimes when she speaks, and I kind of thrive on details and explanations. Something they would like to do with them: I should really pay her back for bringing me that lunch, so maybe grabbing something to eat together?

//@ireneclermont

Irene didn’t slow when the door shimmered open ahead of them — just tightened her grip on Shiv’s hand and stepped through like it cost her nothing. In truth, it did. Every second she stayed, every inch deeper she went into this fractured loop of their mind — it drained her. She wasn’t built for this. Her power lay in action, in the physical, in breaking things and building them back stronger. Minds were too soft. Too loud. The weight of someone else’s ruin pressed behind her eyes like a scream trapped under glass. But for Shiv?

She’d stay as long as it took. No matter how many times.

Even if it cracked her right down the middle.

She wouldn’t let them suffer in here. Wouldn’t leave them stranded inside their own wreckage. Shiv had been the only one who saw her — really saw her — without asking her to be anything more than what she was. Their kindness was quiet, careful. Not soft exactly, but real. That mattered. That always mattered. The world shifted as they passed through the threshold — a breath held between realities — and when she blinked, the desert was gone.

Now there was a beach.

Nighttime. Still, dark, and vast. The stars stretched endless above them, their shimmer soft over the slow-crashing tide. A breeze curled through the air, warm and clean, laced with salt and the faintest echo of wild lavender. The kind she remembered from southern coasts. The kind she hoped Shiv liked.

The sand here didn’t hum with strange magic or loops or teeth. It just was.

Safe.

A little further down the shoreline sat a small house — all weathered wood and crooked windows, roof sloped like it had exhaled. The porch light flickered gently, like someone was already home. Like someone was waiting. Behind it, just beyond the first dune, a bonfire burned low and steady. Not too bright, not too loud. A comfort, not a warning. And beside it — books. Piles of them. Every book she’d ever read. Stolen pages, annotated field manuals, quiet poetry, dumb thrillers from train stations, stories she half-remembered from her mother’s kitchen. All laid out, ready. Something to occupy Shiv while they rested. Something that felt human again.

“I can hold this place,” she murmured, as much to herself as to Shiv, still keeping their hand in hers. “For as long as you need it.”

She meant it.

Whatever toll this dreamspace took on her, she’d pay it twice. Three times. She’d bleed it out if that’s what it took. They reached the porch, and she didn’t let go until she was sure the loop wasn’t pulling anymore. Until the dream quieted.

Then, finally, she looked at them.

Really looked.

Not the handler. Not the mission. Not the broken mind trying to put itself back together — just Shiv. The only one who didn’t flinch when she was cold, or sharp, or impossible to read. The one who always stayed a step behind, steady, no matter how many times she tried to walk alone.

The words from before settled into the air between them.

She exhaled, long and low, eyes flicking away for just a moment — before they returned to Shiv’s face with something almost like warmth in her expression. Almost.

“The file doesn’t matter,” she said. “I don’t care what was in it.” Bright hues met theirs — tired, but still burning. Still Irene. “I’m just… glad you remembered me.” Her voice dipped, gentler than it had been in hours. “If you hadn’t—” She didn’t finish. Just shook her head. “Things could’ve gone badly.”

A beat.

Then—

“You sound like my dad,” she muttered, glancing away again with a half-hearted scoff, the edge of a grin curling at her lips. “Don’t get all soft on me now.”

It lingered — the smile. Brief but real. A crack of sunlight on a long-dry floor.

“I don’t think everyone sees it the way you do,” she added, quieter. “Nico would probably stab me in the back and then complain I bled on his boots.” A shrug. “But… for once, I’m glad I’m a witch.” She shifted, expression flickering with something unreadable. “Are you okay? Is this good? Comfortable enough for now?”

Because that mattered. It had to be his peace. Not hers.

She could feel the parts of Shiv’s mind she wasn’t supposed to be in, the flickering half-formed echoes of what had been lost — and what might be found again. Including her.

Including Thera.

And gods, Irene hated moments.

She hadn’t meant to see anything. That wasn’t what she came for. But minds didn’t exactly play fair, and some scraps came unbidden — laughter too close to lips, glances held a second too long. Thera, brushing dust from Shiv’s coat like it was instinct. It made Irene want to roll her eyes so hard they fell out of her skull.

And gag. Just a little.

Still, she knew what it meant. Connection like that doesn’t vanish. Not fully. Not unless someone makes it vanish. And Irene… she didn’t believe Thera would ever do that to them.

There were ways to bring memory back.

But not tonight.

Not like this.

“Do you remember anything at all? Who did this to you? I —” she paused, exhalding deeply. “—I feel their magic. It's more than —” How could she even put this into words? She couldn't. “More than one witch did this.”

Shiv can only shake their head in confirmation. “Sorry. I’m having a hard time remembering much of anything lately.” It’s a mercy, a miracle that they managed to scrape up their memories of Irene a few moments before she arrived. Half of Shiv’s memories are gone and their mind is quite literally in ruins but gods forbid they lose their impeccable timing.

Do they like the beach? The question sounds ludacris, so much so that Shiv immediately answers absentmindedly. “Sure. A night at the beach sounds bloody lovely right now.” Of course Shiv follows Irene’s lead, both in conversation and on the path through the desert. They're not exactly in the right condition to argue or call shots. And they know that, pride by damned. Apologizing again wasn't going to do anything.

Irene never wastes time and energy on talk. When she does talk, it's important. Shiv is quick to remember that as they piece together the context clues sprinkled in her blunt attitude as the two silently walk hand in hand. 

This Thera is obviously important. ‘Accomplice’ isn’t strong enough to describe someone keeping them alive. Maintaining their physical body most likely. Yet, for what reason? It must be for good reason if this Thera would be glad to see the connection made. Right? There’s too little emotion in Irene’s face and voice to further work off of. That’s the second fact they remember about Irene. Never clear cut feelings out the gate with this one. Always patiently waiting for the right cues, the slightest micro-expression or the tiniest shift in her eyes to speak louder than words.

Shiv can't see either from here. However, her grip on their hand is tight, firm. As if they will crumple or fade away with the slightest breeze and shift in the sand.

“You're not the type that needs tracking. But you went missing anyway.”

She's worried.

They don't have any magic or useful tools to help her. But all Irene seems to need is reassurance, something to let her know they're still here. Touch. Noise. Anything.

Shiv squeezes Irene's hand back. They can do that.

"...I never got around to giving your file back, did I? Other business got in the way. The hurricane especially. Its just..." Shiv scratches their dry throat and swallows hard, "I would have let you burn the damn thing. Witch or nay, you're a good hunter. An even better comrade. No matter what happens, its an honor to be your handler."

"Moreso you confidant. Moreso your friend."

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

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

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

And that’s safer. For both of them.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Irene didn’t laugh — not exactly — but there was a breath there that came close. The kind that started deep in the chest and never quite made it to sound. The kind that held just enough ache to make it feel real.

Her hand shifted to the edge of the coat where Allie still clung to the pinkie-loop, careful not to break it. The fabric hung loose now between them, heavy with rain and some unspoken thing that hadn’t quite found a name yet. She didn’t tug it back. Just let it be shared.

At Allie’s question, she glanced sidelong. The kind of look people mistook for cold when they didn’t know her. But it wasn’t distance. It was calculation — quiet, sharp. The pause between hearing and answering that Irene always took like she was weighing truth in her palm, seeing what it cost before she let it out.

“I don’t dislike people,” she said finally, her voice soft but grounded. “I just don’t think most of them know who they are.”

A blink. Slow. Rain traced lines across her cheek like it didn’t know it wasn’t tears.

“They want to be seen a certain way. They learn how to show it. What to hide. What looks like kindness. What passes for honesty.” She rubbed her thumb once against her other wrist, over the bracelet she always wore — an old habit, like counting. “Most don’t lie because they’re cruel. They lie because they’re scared. Of being known. Of being wrong.”

The quiet between them thickened again — not uncomfortable, just full.

“I’ve spent a long time learning how to read storms,” she added, not quite looking at Allie. “But I’ve got no gift for reading people who don’t know themselves.”

Her head tilted a little, enough to catch the girl’s gaze again.

“You’re not like that,” she said, simple and unembellished. “You say what you feel, even if it’s messy. Even if it’s too much. That kind of honesty? It doesn’t scare me. It just… takes time getting used to.”

The barest smile, more in her eyes than her mouth.

She stepped closer, not quite breaking the small distance but bridging it, coat drawn wider between them like a half-offered shelter. It didn’t matter that Allie didn’t like coats. Irene wasn’t offering the fabric.

“You always talk about warmth like it’s something you find,” she said, thumb brushing lightly against Allie’s hand. “But I think maybe you’re the one carrying it.” She used to be like that, but the world was too cruel and now Irene no longer knew who she was.

The rain hummed on around them, steady and familiar, a lullaby made of water and thunder. Irene breathed in slow, watching it roll off the rim of the streetlamp like silver thread.

“If you want to stay out a little longer, I’ll stay,” she said after a moment. “But if your lips start turning blue, I’m carrying you home, like it or not.”

And it wasn’t a threat. It wasn’t even a joke. Just a promise, folded quiet into the space between the storm and the stillness.

        her petulance melts away with the rain, skips around soaking her dress and falls to puddle on the ground, instead. no matter the curious song of this storm, she can spend any day dancing in the rain. irene isn’t always here, and she isn’t always willing. today, that’s something to celebrate, so allie’s quiet as she listens, finds it easy to comb through the wind that continues to sing louder, and louder, to find irene’s voice. it’s because it’s her heart that’s listening. what the storm does for irene, allie thinks it’s what the woods does for her. she thinks the storm is beautiful, even in it, she thinks the danger makes it even more so, tempting it to spin her up into the clouds. sometimes, that’s all it takes to bring her out here, to feel caught, and held by something wild.

        when she was small, they’d scared her. storms were bedtime stories weaved together with heavy warnings, and in combination with the noise, it would send a younger allie to hide under her bed, to pull on a locked door knob. now, of course, it was nothing like that, but something was making a soft sense of fear prick along her spine, because the storm smells like something deeper than normal. she’s just as curious as she knows that irene’s taking them in the right direction, somewhere safe. she trusts her.

        “ is that why you don’t like people? ”  her head tilts, the sincerity of her eyes finding irene’s again. she holds onto her, even to the thread in her pinkie, small and tender, and she wonders. the storm’s honest. doesn’t pretend to be anything it’s not.  “ you don’t think they’re honest? ”  but at least you know what you’re dealing with. when her head gets too loud, allie seeks out peace, instead of violence. she looks to the sound of the tree’s whisper, coos of creatures big and small, the soft sighs of petals and the gentle touch of the grass when it knows you need to rest. peaceful. but how many times had she torn herself to pieces just to quiet the noise that can’t be calmed? put magnifying glasses on the sparkly bits, shone like a mirrorball to hide whatever parts she was hurting.

        her friend’s apology cuts through the fog of thought, she finds irene again with eyes that look almost startled.  “ oh, it’s okay! ”  what could she ever have to apologize for? she hadn’t done anything wrong. allie’s the clumsy, clingy, messy one. she winds a finger around a strand of wet hair, pulling it away from her face, then letting it go. of course, it’s not the one entwined with irene’s pinkie.  “ i mean, i didn’t come out here to be caught by anyone, not- not on purpose, but, well, i guess … ”  loneliness flows through everything she does like a current. now, it carries her through the storm.  “ it’s always a plus, isn’t it? ”  then, like it’s supposed to further smother irene’s worry in petals and fluff.  “ and, anyways, i don’t like coats. they’re too heavy. plus, i like feeling the rain on my skin, that’s, like, the whole point. it’s only after that you get cold and sick and icky, and stuff. ”  she shrugs, then, tipping her head towards irene. of course, the ramble of nonsense had an exception.  “ i think there’s something warmer when it’s someone else's, though. it just makes it all the more lovelier. ”

Irene didn’t flinch at the mention of imprisonment. Just blinked, slow and tired, like the word didn’t surprise her — or maybe like it just didn’t matter here. Plenty of people came through this town with things trailing behind them, and it wasn’t her job to follow any of it home.

“February,” she echoed, half to herself. That would’ve been after she got here. After she’d unpacked more than she meant to in a house that still felt as empty as the moment they walked in. She hadn’t touched her inheritance yet. Back then, she thought she’d be in and out, keep her head down, move on. Not still here, not letting the town get under her skin.

She caught sight of the tattoos when she moved — didn’t stare, didn’t ask — just noted the language like you do a warning carved into stone. Then her eyes dropped to the parcel. The mix didn’t surprise her, though the mention of wombs did. Irene’s jaw shifted slightly — a faint, reflexive tension — but she didn’t rise to it.

“Appreciate the warning,” she said, tone steady. “Won’t add it to the tea. That blend’s for the everyday folk. Not the kind looking to sink too deep.”

A pause. She finally reached forward and pulled the parcel the rest of the way toward her, careful not to jostle it too much.

“I’ll tag it for storage,” she added. “Stephens’ll know what to do with it, if it’s meant for her.” Her voice softened a little, though not by much. “She doesn’t write much down. But she remembers everything. Like a bad habit.”

Irene let the silence sit for a beat, then looked up again, brow just slightly furrowed. “She teach you much? Or were you mostly here for the night shift?”

"Briefly, when I came hitherto from imprisonment." She has always taken little and less care in masking her nature as something not altogether mundane. She makes no bones about either her nature as a witch nor at her prickly nature. She invites conflict, because conflict often feeds that which needs be fed. Besides, she's among allies here in Tumataru;

"Took my leave come 'round February, working the late shifts here for the nightfolk and latecomers. I find shop work dreadfully boring even if the goods aren't, much more fun, dancing for wandering eyes." She rests a hand, dotted with old ancient tattoo-work - symbols and glyphic signs that will make sense aught anyone else but her - on the parcel she's set down and slides it down the counter.

"Hemlock, hogsweed, and a bundle of oily snakeroot that might find home in your Dreamless Tea. Take care though, only a dram of that if you do, lest you accidentally fallow the womb of some poor woman who simply seeks help for night terrors."

The air here had the wrong kind of silence. Not the peace of stillness, but the hush before a scream. The kind of quiet that clung to the ribs and made you afraid to breathe too deep.

Irene’s boots sank into the sand with each step, her coat heavy with the weight of someone else’s dream. It dragged behind her like an anchor, fabric catching on invisible threads. She didn’t look back. Couldn’t. The desert had no patience for that sort of thing.

The sun was too bright —unmoving, merciless. It bleached the sky and cracked the air and made everything feel brittle.

Then.. a voice.

Her name, carried on the wind like a lifeline. Frayed but intact.

She turned fast —too fast— and there they were. Distant, a figure clawing for focus at the edge of the heat-haze. It was the voice that cut through, more than the shape. The sharpness of it. The hope laced in panic. She could hear the fight still tucked behind every syllable, even now. Especially now.

“Shiv,” she said, but it came out quieter than she meant.

She started walking, then running, each step slower than it should have been. Like the world didn’t want to let her through. But she pushed. Sand caught in her boots, wind tried to drag her back —but Irene kept going, jaw set and eyes locked.

By the time she reached them, her hand was already out. She didn’t wait for permission, just reached forward and gripped their wrist —tight, real, grounding. Her voice was low, but steady.

“I’ve got you.”

For a moment, she didn’t say anything else. She just stood there with them, fingers still curled around their pulse. Still there. Still beating.

Then she let out a breath, slow and deliberate. “You’re harder to track down than most. Not a compliment. Not this time.”

But there was relief there. Raw and sharp at the edges.

Her gaze swept over them, and then past —like she could see something they couldn’t. Like she could hear it.

Something was wrong with the sand here. Wrong with the way it shifted. Magic lived in it, but not just Shiv’s. Not just theirs. She felt it —thin threads laced through the dream, twisted in too neatly, not native to this place.

Familiar.

Her hand tightened slightly, protective now. Alarm blooming low in her gut. She didn’t say the name, not yet, but it burned in the back of her throat anyway.

Riven. There was no doubt in her mind, in her bones, that it was his magic.. and yet, it didn’t make sense. None of it made sense. Why would he be here? What did he want?

And how deep had he gone?

Irene shook the thought off, eyes flicking back to them. “We’ll figure it out,” she said, more sure than she felt. “But first—we get you steady. Then we get you out.” Or at least, try to find a way.

She tilted her head slightly, a ghost of a smile crossing her lips. Not soft, not quite. But real.

“Thera’s going to be glad we made the connection. That counts for something.”

She let the silence sit for a beat, then asked, gently, “Are you okay?”

If they said yes, she’d lead them. If they said no, she’d find another way. Either way—she wasn’t leaving without them.

Dreams are timeless.

Hours, days months-- That all means nothing now. Shiv doesn't know how long they've been here, alone in this endless desert. There is no promise of dusk, no sanctuary under evening skies, no comfort of the moon. Just permanent day. An eternity spent desperately grasping sand, wasting away and trying to salvage what they could from the ruins of their mind.

Then something shifts in the air. A fresh, gentle breeze. One that does not carry the pained screams of their father or their mother's death rattle. This is quiet, contained. Dare Shiv say kind. Either way, one fact rings true:

They're not alone.

Shiv turns to address the intruder with bated breath. One hand immediately raises to shield their squinting eyes and furrowed brows from the sun. The other struggles to grasp at nothing, torn between reaching for a weapon they don't have or clenching a tight fist in its stead. Even when stripped of all else, Shiv is still a hunter. The instinct to pursue the monster under the bed still flows through their veins. And the drive to confront the horror with just as much teeth and claw is branded into their very being like the tattoos etched into their skin.

What else has come to hurt me? Here to finish the job? I'd like to see you try. C'mon, fucker! On with it!

Shiv watches sand in the air condense as the intruder materializes some distance away, stepping into the desert out of thin air. Memories sputter and flicker in the back of their mind. A pang of recognition stops Shiv in their tracks. Their grip on nothing loosens. The tension rolls off their shoulders.

They know that silhouette. Through the glass door as she steps into the laundromat on a late night, sharing their own restless fatigue in her eyes. Young Hunter Clermont. "Irene."

Recomposing themself, Shiv takes two steps forward, ignoring the sinking sand underneath their feet. They cup their hands around their mouth as they shout, "Irene! Ms.Clermont!" Shiv's voice echoes out and reverberates back to them. "Can you hear me?! It's Shiv! I'm alive! I'm here...I'm right here!"

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.

She doesn't roll her eyes, doesn’t sigh, doesn’t flinch — doesn’t give him what he wants, and that’s a kind of answer all its own. Irene just watches him for a breath too long, like she’s measuring something invisible in the space between them. Not his strength. Not his bite. But the shape of the wall he’s built and how high he plans to throw rocks from it.

“Spare me the theatrics,” she says, voice low, even. “You’re not the storm, and this isn’t your stage.”

She doesn’t say it unkindly. That would take more energy than she’s willing to give him. Just the plain truth, laid out between them like salt lines on wet stone.

“Cirque du soleil: hurricane,” she repeats, tone dry enough to blister. “Cute.”

She glanced over at him, then back to the dark waters.

“I’ve seen better shows from driftwood and ghost light,” she adds, and there’s something bone-dry in the way she says it — not quite a joke, not quite mockery, but something with teeth behind it. “You burn loud. Doesn’t mean you burn long.”

She shifts the bag again, not because it’s heavy now, but because she’s starting to feel the distance she’ll have to walk. Doesn’t make a move to leave yet. Maybe because something in him still smells like salt and loss, and she’s not done parsing the difference between danger and damage.

“If you want the sea to clap for you,” she says, eyes narrowing just slightly, “— you’d better know how to swim when it pulls you under.”

Then she turns. Not quick — nothing dramatic — but with the slow certainty of someone who already knows if he follows, he’ll talk again. And if he doesn’t, the wind will say enough.

         he rolls his eyes, “ yeah, alright, chiquita. saw that in those judgy lil’ eyes of yours, don’t need to tell me. ”  you talk to much, just you fuckin’ wait. if she’s not walking away by the end of this, he hadn’t succeeded in pissing her off enough. césar’s goal jumps from entertainment to making her ears bleed. it’s likely she’ll turn on her heel, stick that ski slope nose in the air and stomp off. but he’s more interested in what she’ll do if she stays. if he’s earned himself a taste of ice, or if she burns, like he does. césar waves her off, like he’s heard her, like he’s listening. he hasn’t, he isn’t. spite burns instead of understanding, but it’s fierce enough to keep his interest, his attention.

         sure, she doesn’t care about being liked. césar imagined he did, once. knows he did, once, but it’s a time that’s so far away that he hadn’t dare touch it, let alone reach for the memory. eventually, when you’re pushed out, enough, caring fizzles into fury. but it doesn’t mean that anyone else’s opinion matters, only that they should suffer for it. “ what’s earning it look like to you, huh? you want a show? ”  he could give her a show. there’s a thousand dangerous, incredible things someone can do in the water. drowning takes the tippy top of the list for césar, but, well, he’s always been told he has terrible taste. he doesn’t really care, though. the air tastes of magic, the ports to be ruined, that’s enough show for him.  “ cirque du soleil: hurricane? ”

There was a flicker in her expression —not quite surprise, not quite protest. Just something that passed through and didn’t linger. Her gaze dropped to the canvas bag like she’d forgotten it was even there.

“You don’t have to do all that,” she muttered, toeing it a little closer with the side of her boot. “I wasn’t angling for a tune-up.”

Still, she didn’t say no.

The bag gave a dull clink as she set it on the table. Inside; a cloth-wrapped bundle of throwing knives, a small pouch of dried sigil chalks, a pair of worn leather wraps that smelled faintly of smoke, and—carefully tucked in a separate sheath, her father’s knife. The grip was dark with age, the edge clean but dulled from use. Nothing flashy. Nothing ornamental. Just the kind of tools you carried because you had to, not because they made you look the part. Tools that had seen too much and kept quiet about it.

She picked up the blade, turned it once in her hand before setting it down for him to see. “It’s not in the worst shape,” she said. “But it’s not great either.”

Then, silence again. Long enough to leave space, short enough not to close the door. She leaned back on her heels, arms folding loosely. Eyes steady on Shiv now, but unreadable.

“I don’t like saying things out loud,” she said, eventually. “Feels like naming them makes them real.”

A pause.

“But the apartment’s too quiet. And the shop smells like the past. And I don’t know if I’m just tired, or if I’ve been tired so long it started to feel normal.”

She blinked once, then looked away, pretending to study the laundry machine like it might offer an answer. “So yeah. I figured training. At least it’s motion.”

Another beat.

“I wasn’t really expecting company,” she said, a little softer this time. “But I’m not about to turn it down.” And in its own strange, backward way — that was thanks.

“If that's the case, the washer's all yours.” Though her suggestion may be a lie, the invitation rings true. The laundry machines will still be there, no matter if Irene decides to use them now or later.

Yet there seems to be something else on her mind besides laundry or training. It’s just a matter of chipping away at that cold, distant exterior.

Shiv meets Irene’s glance with a shrug. “Sure. I'm free to join. Or accompany. Or make noise.” Three very different tasks depending on what exactly Irene is trying to accomplish. “Training is all well and good, but there’s probably better ways to fill the quiet. At some point, routine just becomes part of the humdrum, right? Just more quiet on top of quiet. Can't have that... Here.”

Shiv leans forward with one hand planted on their desk as the other points to her small discarded canvas bag. “What kind of training gear have you been carrying around all night? I can bet whatever it is will be in need of some deep cleaning or sharpening. Including that blade of yours.”

That blade being the silver-edged knife on her thigh, of course. How could Shiv not see it? The antique of a weapon sticks out of her outfit like a sore thumb.

"C'mon", Shiv clears their table and reaches into their drawer for the cleaning supplies they had immediately on hand. "Let me run a quick maintenance check. On the house. Just start filling the silence and say what's actually on your mind."

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?"