She Didn’t Answer At First.

There’s no hesitation. No flinch. Just a faint twitch in her jaw as he beckons — and then she’s moving.

Irene doesn’t waste the breath to answer him with words. Not yet. Not when she can let her body speak instead. She’s been talked over, under, around, and through more times than she can count, but this—this is different. He asked. He wants to see. So she shows him.

The first step is light. The second isn’t.

She closes the distance fast, low and clean. No windup. No warning. Just a quick strike for the shoulder — testing. Not to land it, not really. Just to see how he moves. How fast. What part of him gives first.

He’s solid. Of course he is.

The hit doesn’t need to land. The next one might.

She pivots, foot sweeping behind for balance as she drives her weight into a sharp elbow meant for his ribs. There's nothing showy in the motion — no wasted flourish. It’s the kind of fighting built in close quarters, learned between secondhand breaths and hard floors. The kind you don’t train for trophies. Just survival.

Still, even in the rhythm of it, even when she’s already resetting her stance and looking for another opening, the echo of his words lingers.

You believe they are not one and the same?

She exhales through her nose, a sharp puff between movements. Doesn’t break eye contact.

“I think people confuse getting stronger with never losing,” she says, steady, even as her feet shift again. “That’s not better. That’s just ego in a nicer jacket.”

Another feint — a shoulder this time, meant to draw his guard. If it works, her other hand’s already rising to follow through.

“I’m not here to win,” she adds, quieter now. “I’m here to learn how to stay standing.”

There’s no challenge in it. Just truth, clean and hard.

If he expects her to break, he’ll have to work for it. Because Irene’s not here to impress anyone. Not with power. Not with pain. Just with the fact that she keeps getting up. And right now, her fists are talking just fine.

She rises in his opinion an entire notch in the silence of her obedience. That is the height of all she could attain. Forward she comes, bare feet ghost the tatami. Miyazaki evaluates; she has no reservations about where she is. A nod, no bow. Respect, veneration and figments of honor. It's enough to placate the hydra of Miyazaki's temperament from making this hunter his meal. Nine versions at minimum that could greet her at any given moment. From the jaws of appetence to the patient humility, fed only when the rest sleep.

No extension in the hands, then. She would like to bloody the knuckles of her own punishing expression. Tetsuya sees no other reason she would come, if not to be better. She is gravely mistaken to believe that the art of the bo, or the legendary use of a katana would ever mean it is easy. He almost laughs, not out of amusement, but mockery to know that hunterkind has fallen so far from their origins.

An order he loathes, but they had once been a reckoning force. Miyazaki does not shy away from recognising an opponent worth their guile.

This one looks haunted. Shouldering a world she cannot carry.

Is this a hunter at its most humble?

A hum that's cut short echoes throughout the dojo. She is confounded. But he would like to know where that notion of that separation has come from.

"You believe they are not one and the same?" To be less breakable, is to be better. It is a crass, lazy term for it. Tetsuya could break her, shatter the bone inch by inch with every violent blow of the air, watch her crumble in a grotesque display of body displacement. Maybe he would put her back together, afterwards. But only if there is the fire in her gaze that burns brighter than her pain.

Miyazaki steps towards her and her plaintiff stance. He will not be naïve to believe she does not have training. He releases the hands from where they are behind his back, lifts one casually in a soft beckoning motion towards himself.

"Show me."

That's where she can start.

Sage shifts against her with a soft chitter, tiny paws patting at the edge of her collar like she might burrow inside it if given the option. Irene lets her. Doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch. Just rests her cheek against the top of the little raccoon’s head for a moment, eyes slipping closed like that warmth is enough to trick her into stillness, a moment that barely lasted, before her attention was back to Shiv again.

Irene didn’t look at Juniper right away. Her gaze stayed somewhere near Shiv’s collarbone, the place where breath kept rising and falling slow beneath her palm — proof enough that the thread still held. That what she was doing mattered.

Juniper’s words weren’t wrong. She knew that. Knew it in the way her own body dragged with every movement, like it had forgotten the shape of rest. The way food felt more like obligation than comfort, and how even the water she sipped tasted like ash sometimes, because it never touched the kind of thirst she really had.

But it was Shiv.

That was the beginning and the end of it.

She curled her fingers a little tighter around his, still careful, still there. And after a long breath that she let filter through her teeth, she leaned back just enough that the spell could stretch with her — pliant, practiced, held steady with a flick of her wrist. Sage shifted with her, head tucked beneath her chin now, breath warm against her throat.

“I know,” Irene said finally. Her voice was low. Not defensive. Not even distant. Just worn at the edges, the way soft things got after enough time spent exposed. “You’re not wrong. You’re not annoying.”

A small pause.

“Thank you,” she added, and meant it — even if she couldn’t quite put the weight of it into her tone. She looked over then, meeting Juniper’s gaze for the first time in a while.

She didn’t say she was grateful for the food — she hadn’t touched it yet. Probably wouldn’t, not until the spell settled and the ache in her stomach turned from fog to signal. But the plate stayed within reach, and that was enough for now.

“I know I’m running close to the line,” she admitted, thumb brushing lightly along Shiv’s knuckles, grounding. “But I can’t not be here. Not for him. He’d do the same. Has done the same, even when I didn’t ask.”

There was no wobble in the words. No heroics either. Just fact. The kind of bond that had been carved quietly over time, sealed in things unsaid.

She was quiet for a beat, then her mouth tilted just slightly — not quite a smirk, not quite a smile.

“You can ask,” she said, a little drier now. “You’ve wanted to, haven’t you? Why I’m here. Why I’m sitting in the middle of this, pretending not to be something I am.”

Her eyes didn’t flinch. Neither did her grip on Shiv.

There was a smile as Irene lifted Sage up into her lap. Noting the barely there shift in Irene's posture. Juniper was lucky to have Sage. She was rather in tune with people, and had a knack for knowing when someone needed something warm and fluffy to hold onto. Only causing a little trouble as she played gently with Irene's hair and reached out for the hunter from time to time. 

“Yeah, well someone has to make sure you two are eating. Magic burns more calories than people would think.” This is why she usually got larger portions for lunch. That way if she didn’t finish it all Irene still had plenty to take home. It wasn’t really her job, but she had seen this kind of thing before. Too many times in her past had Juniper skipped a meal because she was too focused on something else. Or simply just skipped a meal. Not a good habit. And not a habit she was keen to see repeated by Irene. 

She nods when Irene says she is managing. It’s a strained answer. She believes her. Irene very much is managing, 24/7, she never seems to stop managing. Her plate is always full, between work, hunter business, witch business, and still finding the time to spend hours here everyday, working some intricate spellcraft from what Juniper has seen. Dream magic is nothing to scoff at. 

“I have no doubt he is doing fine. He has some very competent witches taking care of him.” She makes the statement pointed. “Thera is handling the brunt of the physical care. But you are handling the mental load. That’s not nothing.” She leans back in her chair, letting her legs stretch out in front of her as she slouches with a sigh. “Honestly it’s exhausting just watching.”

Reaching into her own lunch bag she grabs a handful of fries. Picking at those one by one so she doesn’t have to sit up yet. Shrugging a shoulder. “I'm the same as usual. Not enough hours in the day but we still go on. I’m thoroughly relieved to have construction going now. The entire floor got wrecked by the flooding, so today they are ripping everything up so we can look at the foundation. Interesting stuff. I know.” Her voice drips with sarcasm. 

She didn’t speak again for a while. Watching Irene and the way she interacted with the hunter. Using fries to swallow down the sour taste in her mouth. Juniper was no stranger to the complicated nature of hunter/witch association. It was a strange dance. Witches supplying humans with just enough magic to be a threat. Working side by side and only hunters really seemed to get the benefit of the bargain. She wondered what Irene got out of pretending to be one of them. 

“I’m going to be annoying for a moment, but you really can’t run on empty Irene, at least not without exorbitant amounts of adrenaline. If you keep up this pace you are going to burn out.” She didn’t look at Irene, she didn’t want this to seem like a lecture. It wasn’t a lecture. It was Juniper expressing reasonable concern for a fellow witch. This was the conversation that happens before lecturing. 

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.

Irene hadn’t meant to be out this early, let alone in this weather, but something in her had pulled her into the downpour anyway. Maybe it was the pressure in the air, that humming, bone-deep ache that came when storms gathered their skirts and began to spin. Or maybe it was just that sleep hadn’t stuck the way it should, and the silence inside had grown too loud to bear.

She wasn’t dancing. Not really. But she also wasn’t not moving—hands tucked into her coat, hood drawn low, boots soundless on the wet pavement. There was a rhythm to the rain that pulled at her limbs, loosened something usually kept tight. She walked like someone thinking too hard about nothing at all.

And then—motion. A blur of color. A voice, sharp in its brightness.

Irene stopped a few paces away, rainwater trailing slow down her jaw, catching in the curve of her collar. She blinked once, then again, like she wasn’t entirely convinced the figure in front of her was real. And then her mouth quirked—barely—but enough to register.

“You’re gonna break your neck dancing like that.” It wasn’t scolding. It wasn’t teasing either. Just dry, and maybe a little impressed.

Her eyes flicked across the slick street, then back to Allie, still beaming through the storm like it hadn’t dared touch her. Typical. “Didn’t peg you for a rain chaser,” Irene added, quieter this time. “Guess I was wrong.”

She didn’t move to leave. Not yet. The sky hadn’t cracked open wide enough for that.

who: open to anyone wandering about ! ♡ where: Outside . / when: (Very) Early Day One, Hurricane Jac .

         she’d been hoping for rain, hadn’t she? and maybe she always is, but sometimes, it’s different than a want, and closer to a need. like the earth when it thirsts for growth, or a girl that wants to forget, and be washed clean, and forgiven. sometimes, she just needs to grow a little greener, too. and she’s not storm chasing, exactly. when she was younger, she’d tremble right along with the thunder. now, she’s outgrown that, and the talk of a hurricane feels like a distant nightmare that it’d be silly to fear. now, there’s only rain, and her walking takes on an air of wandering soon enough, and then she’s dancing right along with the song the sound of droplets make, the soft call of wind.

         the pavement grows slick under her feet, and in between a twirl and some kind of stumble, she slips. it’s only a moment, a soft breeze that draws an even softer squeal from her, but it does snap her attention away from only whimsy. through the rain, she thinks she can spot another person. like this, the water becomes a mirage, and she thinks they might be dancing too. or maybe it’s just the rain. either way, allie calls out to them with a beaming smile.  “ oh, sorry, i didn’t see you there! ”

Irene doesn’t move.

Not when he steps closer. Not when his voice drips that low, jagged warning. Not even when the storm seems to lean in with him, like it, too, wants to see what happens when something snaps.

She just stands there — still and utterly unshaken, like the world’s spun meaner things at her and she’s long since stopped ducking.

Her gaze tracks his approach with the kind of measured calm that doesn’t come from arrogance, but experience — the cruel, quiet kind that’s buried friends and enemies both, and didn’t much flinch at either. Her fingers twitch once at her side, maybe muscle memory, maybe restraint. No visible weapon. No posturing. Just that look. Sharp and old and wholly unimpressed.

At his caperucita, her brow ticks up.

“Cute,” she murmurs. “You practice that one, or just bark it at anyone in red?”

The wind shifts again — hard this time — and her coat flares at the hem like it wants to fly, the scent of iron and wolfsbane rising faint in the air between them. Not fresh-cut. Older. Embedded. She doesn’t need to show him where it’s hidden. That’s the point.

Her voice stays low. Calm. But it cuts cleaner now.

“Funny thing about wolfsbane —” she says, tone drifting like smoke from a slow-burning fire, “— it comes in different forms. Tinctures, powders. Oils that don’t even smell like anything until your lungs start to collapse.”

She steps once, not toward him, not away. Just enough that the gap between them feels sharper. Like it means something more now.

“So I’d be careful.”

Her baby blues narrow, not cruel — just real. Tired in the way only people who’ve survived monsters are tired. “Like I said. You’re not on my list. Yet. But don’t mistake that for mercy.”

Her chin tilts slightly, just enough to read the shape of him again. Rage, hunger, grief all coiled together in a too-tight skin. She’s seen it before. Worn a version of it once. But she’s not about to be the one who breaks first.

“So be a good boy,” Irene says, almost gently. “Back away. Because yeah — maybe I end up with a bite. But you?”

She leans in just a breath, enough that her voice can flatten into something harder beneath the calm.

“You’ll end up dead. No matter the scenario. Odds aren’t in your favor.”

Then, softer again — a shrug of her coat, eyes already turning past him. Dismissal, deliberate and cold.

“And like I said. I don’t make messes I’m not ready to clean up.”

         her whole holier than-wiser than-better than act makes him want to fucking kill her. he supposes coming back home was supposed to mean he was on his best behavior- or at least better than before. before, when he had killed just for the crime of daring to exist, his own bloodlust all-consuming. but this time, he had a reason. she’s provoking him, he’d provoked her. she’s a hunter. that’s reason enough. and it’s not like being on his better behavior had stopped him before. the curse doesn’t care about promises, the wolf even less. the wolf takes his anger, the rage that burns and curls in his chest, spreading to his limbs. his mind had never mattered, logical thinking and inhibitory control skipped right over in favor of emotion, of passion. pride, too. the wolf doesn’t want him walking away, not when he could taste blood beneath his teeth. 

         he can smell the metal she’s got stuffed somewhere on her, wonders how long it could take her to whip out whatever hunter trickery makes her think she can take on a wolf, before he’s got his teeth in her. even somewhat human, dark eyed and feral, he could make the bite lethal. césar doesn’t care about listening anymore, he doesn’t care about nightmares, what she has to say. whatever glimmer of interest, the herb that had glanced through his senses, familiar. he doesn’t give a fuck. all it takes is one relax, pup for his nerves to flare and now, now he’s dangerous. he wants to hold life in his jaw and be the one to take it away, he doesn’t care who it is.

         rough from the growl, his voice reaches a low, raspy tone as it crawls from his throat. dying, vibrating with rage.  “ yeah, i’m done fucking barking. ”  it chokes out with a dry laugh, the thing stifling his words is not hesitation, is not fear, but it doesn’t take any mind reading bullshit to figure that out. his demeanor tells that story, hulking and predatory. that’s his threat, that she couldn’t stop him. she could hurt him, she could kill him, punish him for ruining her pretty fair skin, for making tears spur in judgy blue eyes from the pain. but she couldn’t stop him, not really.

         he walks closer, stalking, doesn’t reach her entirely, and keeps enough space between them that his teeth are kept at bay. for now, for now, for now. just put to the side enough that he’s thinking of blowing right past her, going to bury his teeth into some bunny. to stay alive for avi, to stay alive for teo. maybe it’s the storm that brings out that heart in him.  “ i’m a lot bigger than you, caperucita. what you got that’s so bad? ”  césar doesn’t know why, but he can smell something deeper than the knife.

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!"

Franz Kafka, The Diaries of Franz Kafka

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 didn’t flinch when Lucian sat beside her — didn’t look at him right away either. Her gaze stayed on the water, still as glass under the early dusk, the kind of quiet only Graver’s Isle could offer. She hadn’t lit anything yet — no incense, no candles, no circles scratched into the dirt. Just a blade laid across her lap and a half-wrapped strip of gauze beside her. Something about this place made it easier to think. To breathe.

But then his shoulder bumped hers, and that earned him a glance. Dry. Amused. Tired, but not unkind.

“You know,” she said, voice low, “— if you keep sneaking up on me like that, you’re gonna get yourself accidentally stabbed.”

Her eyes flicked down to the knife.

“And then I won’t be able to get my own tattoo.”

A beat. Then the corner of her mouth pulled, just slightly — not quite a smile, but close enough that it counted. The kind that said she didn’t really mind the company, even if she’d never admit it outright.

Her shoulders eased, a little of the edge bleeding off.

“I thought you liked keeping your insides inside, Lucian,” she added, tone dry again. “Could’ve fooled me, creeping up on baby hunters like that.”

She nudged him back lightly — all elbow and bone and the barest hint of playfulness that didn’t quite make it to her expression, but lived in the motion.

She glanced at him again, quieter this time.

“You working on anything out here?” she asked, like it was nothing. Like the water around them hadn’t carried a dozen unanswered thoughts she didn’t want to say aloud. Like Shiv's state. The fact Riven's magic was still lingering around a mind he shouldn't have been in the first place.

For: @ireneclermont Where: Graver's Isle

It wasn't uncommon to find her here, Irene, like some other hunters, seemed to prefer the solitude the isle provided, as opposed to the city. Lucian, himself, preferred to work on his weapons in the peace this place possessed. Not all of them though, some, Lucian preferred to work in the secrecy of his home. In his own makeshift lab.

He approaches slowly, though confident she wouldn't hurt him, and prepared if she tried anyway. Better not to spook a hunter.

There's an easy smile on his lips that lacks the dangerous edge that always promises something infinitely dark for most. A softness invoked in him that comes only from the missing of a sister that's about the same age as Irene. Something that makes him inherently human.

Sitting by her side, he only dares a soft push against her shoulder, a playful tone to his voice as he asks. "Penny for your thoughts?."