Irene Didn’t Move. Just Listened, Hands Still Shoved Deep In Her Pockets, Shoulders Angled Slightly

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 didn’t answer right away. She rarely did — especially when the questions pressed deeper than the surface. When the words weren’t just about facts or logic, but about identity. About the mess between the lines, the in-betweens no one wanted to name. She stayed quiet, fingers brushing the back of Shiv’s hand like she could trace stability into him. Sage had gone still against her, content and warm, her tiny weight curled like a secret under Irene’s chin. She could feel the raccoon’s small breath rise and fall — steady, grounding. A reminder that even here, even now, someone trusted her without conditions.

Her voice, when it came, was quiet. But there was something dense in it — something worn-in and real, like stones pulled smooth by riverwater.

“I wouldn't say I am —no, I don’t know if I am pretending.”

She didn’t look at Juniper when she said it. Not yet. Her gaze drifted somewhere just past her — unfocused, like she was seeing a place she hadn’t stood in for years. A childhood home that never felt safe. A hallway with too many closed doors. A training field with cold-eyed instructors and no room for mercy.

“That’s not fair.”

It wasn’t sharp. It wasn’t defensive. It was just… true, in a way that sat heavy on her tongue.

“I’m a witch.” A pause. A breath. “But that's something I can't admit openly right now. Not to anyone that didn't already know.”

She exhaled through her nose, the sound soft and tired. Not ashamed. Not brave either. Just resigned to the reality of it.

“I’ve always been one. Born with it in my blood, in my bones. I used to think I could choke it down. Tame it. Repress it until it stopped hurting.” Her lips twisted, not quite a smile. “Didn’t work.” Irene reached up absently to push a stray strand of hair behind her ear, the gesture as tired as everything else about her.

“But my father — he was a hunter. So when you say I’m pretending,” she said finally, voice still soft, but anchored now — to the bed beneath her, to Shiv’s pulse under her hand, to all the things she could never say out loud in the halls outside this room — “You’re not wrong, but you’re not right either.”

She looked at Juniper now. Really looked. Her expression was unreadable, not because she was guarding it, but because there was too much written in the lines of it to separate cleanly. Fatigue. Frustration. Certainty and confusion tangled together like thread through the same needle.

“I don’t know what I am. That’s the truth of it. You want honesty? That’s it.”

The words didn’t come like a confession. They didn’t fall out of her like she was unburdening herself. They just were. Like she’d lived with them for so long that saying them out loud didn’t even sting anymore.

“I’m a witch, yes. And I’m the daughter of a hunter. The old kind. The ones who didn’t ask questions, who didn’t flinch when the orders came down, and he loved me, regardless. And I loved him.” Her lips pressed into a line. “So what does that make me?”

She didn’t wait for Juniper to answer. Didn’t expect her to.

“I’ve spent most of my life figuring out how to survive that question without getting myself killed. And I’m still not sure I’ve found the right answer. I walk like a hunter because I need to. I cast like a witch because that’s what I am. And I don’t belong anywhere because of it.”

She leaned back slightly, enough that the line of the spell adjusted again. The shimmer of it tugged in the air, barely visible except in the way her breath shifted to meet its rhythm. Sage didn’t stir, her little paws tucked tight, a low hum of trust vibrating through her chest.

“I’m not playing some long game, Juniper. I don’t have an angle. There’s no infiltration plan or secret witch cabal waiting for me to bring back intel.” Her mouth twitched, just barely. “Though I’m sure some of them would love to think that. Makes for better stories.”

She glanced down again, at Shiv’s hand in hers. Thumb brushing over his knuckles like punctuation.

“We all have our reasons to be here. Some more than others. And if I can use my powers to help them, then why not? Why can't I be a witch in one moment and a hunter at the next? Why can't I care and be both?”

The plate of food was still untouched, but it didn’t feel ignored. Just… postponed. A promise to herself, maybe, that there would be time later. When her hands weren’t full of something fragile.

“I know I’m burning myself down to do this,” she admitted. “You’re not wrong to say it. You’re not wrong to care.” Her voice thinned for a moment, not from lack of conviction, but from the sheer weight of the line she’d been walking. Every day. Every hour. One foot in the light, one foot in the dark. “But it’s not always about what I want. Or what I should. It’s about what I can do. And right now? This is it. This is the only thing that feels like it matters.”

She hesitated then, long enough to let her words settle. To let the moment breathe.

“I’m not asking you to approve of it. I’m not asking you to understand the way I’ve had to twist myself just to survive in a world that would pick me apart no matter which name I wore.” Her baby blues met Juniper’s again — not challenging, just asking, in the simplest way that mattered. “I’m just asking you not to judge me for it and keep it to yourself."

Another breath, thinner now.

“The world isn’t just witches and hunters, good and bad, light and dark. It’s not that simple. You know it’s not.”

Oop she was caught. 

Juniper had the decency to look sheepish. Suddenly very interested in the pile of fries in her palm. She knew Irene worked dream magic. To put it as simply as possible, but now she was wondering if she didn’t have some kind of mind reading as well. A horrifying concept. It was already a mess in Juniper's head, she didn’t need another person mucking it up.

“That’s… not exactly it. There are a lot of reasons to pretend to be human… It’s the hunter part of it I don’t get. You are running yourself ragged Irene. You say he’s done the same- I’ll believe you. Thera seems to put stock in him too. Whatever. The one hunter that can be trusted completely I guess.” She sighed 

“All that I can rationalize somehow in my head… Pretending to be a hunter? I don’t get it. I don’t see the angle.” It was probably her own biases skewing her perception of the situation. But she couldn’t help that. It felt wrong to just sit by while Irene worked herself down to skin and bone. 

“You don’t have to explain anything to me. It isn’t my business. I’m also pretty horrified I couldn’t keep my thoughts off my face. I will have to work on that.” She sat up straighter, getting more situated in her chair. 

“I’m just trying to make sure you are aware of your own boundaries Irene, what happens to this spell you are working so hard on if you end up on bedrest as well? It’s not always easy to see the effects our actions are having on us in the moment. You are tired Irene, you are not eating or sleeping enough to maintain this level of spellwork.” It was blunt but she felt it needed to be said. 

It was a talk she had given a couple of times when she was coven head. It was also a talk she needed to receive a couple times. She was deeply familiar with both sides of it. Knowing your boundaries as a witch can be some of the hardest learned lessons. Juniper was still reeling from learning her boundaries had been altered; and still learning how to handle the new influx of power. It was a fresh concept to her and she hated to see someone she was starting to see as a friend come up on the wrong side of that delicate line.

Jessica Alexander -- 400*640

She followed without a word.

The stairs creaked beneath her boots, but she moved like someone who already knew the layout, or didn’t care if she got lost. Her hand skimmed the bannister once — more reflex than balance — then fell back to her side. There was too much noise in her head to leave room for grace. Her fingers clenched tight around the charm in her palm, skin pale where it pressed.

She didn’t look at Thera until they reached the landing. When she did, it was sharp — not angry, not yet, just sharp. Focused.

“You said their body needs time,” Irene said, voice low. “Fine. I get that. But why are they here?”

She wasn’t trying to accuse, but the words had a certain edge anyway. Like she hadn’t slept. Like something inside her chest had cracked open and never quite closed again. They would all get in trouble.

“If they’re in danger — if something did this — keeping them in the middle of nowhere while you play nursemaid doesn’t exactly scream smart. You know what they'll think? A witch's got one of our own.”

But the fight drained out of her in the next breath. She wasn’t here to argue. Not really. Not yet.

“I just—”

She shook her head once, as if trying to clear it. Something too thick, too tangled.

“—This is not good, Thera.”

She stepped around Thera before she could be invited again, gaze already flicking toward the room she knew had to be his. Something magnetic pulled her toward it, like her magic could already feel his somewhere just past the threshold.

Only once her hand was on the frame did she pause, not turning back — just holding herself still there in the door like the question had waited until now to surface.

“What happened?”

Finally, her voice cracked a little. Not much. Just enough.

Because Irene could stitch a dream to keep a soul from falling apart. She could hold a barrier for days on raw will alone. But none of that meant anything if she didn’t know what tore Shiv down in the first place.

Her head snapped up as she felt the protective rune in her side door snap. She had know people would come. That the moment she had set the letter people would come to find them.

She rose from her chair and wrapped her shawl tightly around her shoulders. As she walked around the bed she noticed the spot where her head had left an indent in the bedding, Kanta’s motionless hand seemingly extending towards that spot. She didn’t want to leave them, a warped anxiety that the moment she left the room danger would enter it. Someone would come to hurt them again. But she swallowed it down. Someone was in her living room.

She hadn’t expected it to be Irene. She stood on her stairs and took in the young hunter witch, the girl looked bedraggled. She didn’t know how Irene had connected herself to Kanta but she could see the desperate worry in her eyes. Knew Irene wasn’t here to fight her. A weird knot of pride and longing formed in Thera’s stomach. She was happy Irene had found Kanta. That somewhere along the way the two had found each other. Thera let out a breath. “I’ve done everything I’m capable of for the moment. Their body needs time to heal.”

Thera descended the rest of the stairs. Her voice felt foreign to her as her aching hands clutched the shawl around her. “You are more than welcome to see them, but I fear their body needs time.” Another breath in as she tried to push away the memory of Kanta’s crumpled body, clenching her hands so she wouldn’t feel the memory of his blood coating them. “They need time to heal.” Thera turned back towards the stairs, a silent signal for Irene to follow.

She turns.

Not fast. Not like a threat—though it wouldn’t take much for it to become one. Irene moves like a knife being unsheathed; deliberate, clean, sharp in all the places that matter. Her coat, still damp from the earlier downpour, clings to her like a second shadow, dark and unbothered by the chill. Wind tugs the hem sideways, wraps it round her calves like a whisper with teeth. Her gaze, when it settles on him fully, is calm. Heavy.

She could say a hundred things. Could speak in old names that burn when uttered, pull threads of his mind until they fray at the edges. Could reach through the smoke-thick parts of him and make him believe he never had a mother, never had bones, never had a name at all.

But she doesn’t.

Instead, she watches him with the kind of patience you only earn by standing still in rooms you were never meant to survive.

“Relax, pup,” she says, voice even. Low. Almost soft, if it weren’t for the iron underneath. “I’m off the clock.”

She lets that settle. Lets it dig its own little trench between them, full of unspoken meanings and unshed blood. She’s not reaching for anything —not a blade, not a curse, not even her temper— but her presence sharpens anyway. Like the weather around her is just waiting for an excuse.

“I don’t make messes unless I’m ready to clean them up.” A small tilt of her head. “And you’re not on my list.”

Her eyes don’t blink. Not right away. She studies him like she’s reading between the cracks of his ribs —finding the rot, weighing the ruin. The growl still hums in his throat like a taut string, but she doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t feed it either. Just stands there, steady as an altar stone, watching the storm behind his eyes with the kind of practiced detachment that only comes after watching men turn into monsters and monsters turn into corpses.

And then, finally, her mouth ticks up. Just a little. Not a smile. Something colder. Wiser.

“How’s it going?” she echoes, answering his dig with a shrug that carries far more weight than the gesture suggests. “Pretty well, actually.”

She nods toward him, slow and deliberate, like he’s a metaphor made real. “I’m not the one laughing at the thunder like it’s a god worth worshipping. So yeah. Guess I’m doing better than that.”

The air between them thickens, not with magic —though it’s always there, threading through her like smoke in a closed room— but with intent. Something that doesn’t need words. Irene could kill him. He’s fast, sure. Dangerous. But she’s lived through worse. She’s built worse. A hunter, yes —but a different breed than most. Not a zealot. Not a sadist.

She doesn’t want to skin him. Doesn’t want to watch him bleed.

But if he made her, she’d do it clean. Efficient. Kind, in its own quiet way.

Instead, she looks past him, back toward the distant rooftops where real nightmares fester, the ones with names she does keep on a list. A place where her attention should be.

And then back to him.

“You done barking?” she asks, voice quiet again. “Or are we still playing the big bad wolf routine?”

         césar’s saintly, for his teeth don’t feel the purchase of her neck beneath them, a bite to snap bone. still, he salivates for it. he displays a manner of control he, honestly, hadn’t thought possible. look at that, chiquita, you’re bringing out the best in him. his nose tells him human, but his eyes and ears tell him something more. humans don’t make threats like that, they don’t say your kind. it’s a gamble between a random, overly aware human and a hunter, weighing heavy on the hunter side. césar, for once, comes to the most reasonable conclusion. a low, deep growl rises in his throat, building underneath his jaw. he’s not a good enough dog to not respond to violence. her’s had come in words, so césar follows.

         “ watch it, chiquita. your pretty knives can’t stop a bite, and all it takes is once … ” she could kill him, sure, but césar’s always been a huge fan of mutually assured destruction. now, he’s not sure just what they teach in hunter school, but the curse brings a violence that tends to sneak up on you. it’s cocky, but he’s seen it time and time again. that, too, only takes once.

         there’s probably another world in which he takes her words in their finality, ignores her and leaves everything else unspoken and lost to the wind. and that world, césar’s not cursed, his father’s not dead, and warwick doesn’t send knives through their own skin. instead, when she speaks, all he hears is a child. all he hears is him. it makes him laugh, again, and he turns back towards the sea. i don’t smell like nightmares. you do. no matter how cold she is, how ice-firm her tone, césar hears the passion, how badly she wants to be believed. boo fucking hoo.  “ oh, yeah? and how’s that going? handling them? ”

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 raised an eyebrow, faint but visible. She slid the ledger a little off to the side and reached for the kettle tucked behind the counter. “The Dubai?” she asked, glancing up just long enough to meet his eyes. “Like —skyline, sand, too much glass and not enough shade?”

The water hissed softly as it hit the mug, steam curling into the space between them.

“Can’t imagine why anyone would trade that for Port Leiry,” she added, quieter now, more to the mug than to him. “Unless you lost a bet. Or pissed off the wrong kind of person.”

She didn’t press. Everyone here had a reason, and most didn’t come up in polite conversation. Still, she turned slightly to pull a tin from one of the wall shelves—something floral, mellow, just enough bite to keep a conversation upright.

The shop filled with the faint scent of chamomile and dried apple peel.

“Irene,” she offered, setting the mug down on the counter between them. “I help keep this place from falling over when it rains.”

A pause. She leaned on the counter now, one hand still wrapped around the cooling kettle.

“If you’re taking over Obsidian, you’ll want to meet the people who trade here after dark,” she said. “Half your ingredients won’t come through daylight doors.” A faint shrug. “Some of your patrons either.”

Then, after a beat —so casual it almost passed unnoticed—“You ever bartend before? Or just dive straight into ownership?”

Jaya cocked his head at the list connecting each of the herbs to the sort of drinks they’d go in. He’d not heard of nightmouth. That had to be a personal nickname of the apothecary owner for some sort of flower that was edible or usable in cocktails, maybe dried hibiscus? He really needed to google how to make these sorts of things, if he was going to run this place properly...

The offer to actually make tea gave him pause. To his own surprise, he didn’t immediately deny it. “I’d like that, thank you.”

The lounge was dimly-lit and sparsely populated enough to be a quiet place that he could drink and could keep himself from being alone without getting overwhelmed with a too-noisy bar, but it didn’t have any familiarity. The alchemist’s shop felt too close to home for him to be comfortable, but he didn’t want to leave it too soon. “If it’s not a bother. I’m Jaya, I just moved here from Dubai.”

Irene didn’t answer right away. Didn’t rise to it, didn’t blink. Just stood there in the hum of old fluorescents and bad intent, jaw set, fingers curling loose around the first cartridge like it wasn’t worth the weight of blood it could carry. Her eyes followed the second round as he slid it across, watched his hand, not the grin. And still —still—she didn’t flinch. But her stillness had changed. Not frozen. Tense. Measured. Like someone tiptoeing the brittle edge of a glass floor and trying not to listen for the cracks.

She was walking on eggshells, and they both knew it.

Not because she was afraid of him. Not exactly. Irene had faced worse —things that didn’t smile when they snapped their teeth, things that didn’t bleed red. But Nicolás got under her skin in ways she didn’t like admitting. He talked like he was made of razors and walked like he was waiting to be put down. And worse, he noticed things. Watched her too closely. Talked too loud, too fast, like maybe he was trying to shake something loose from her, just to see what would fall. She hated that she let it get to her. Hated more that she couldn't stay gone —had to come here, because he had the inventory she needed and she couldn't risk eyes on her anywhere else. Wouldn't be just nice if he left her the fuck alone?

Still. If he wanted to poke the bear, she could bare teeth, too.

“Haunted?” she echoed at last, voice low, even. “You think this is haunted?”

She stepped closer. Not enough to crowd him, just enough to shift the air —just enough to let him feel the chill running beneath her coat like a wire left live. Her hand didn’t twitch toward a weapon. Didn’t need to. She’d already sized the room, marked every surface, mapped every sharp edge she could use to cut him down. Her stillness was the weapon.

“If I’m haunted, it’s by the thought that the Brotherhood thought you were worth putting on payroll. That someone somewhere signed said, Yes, this one. The human shrapnel with a death wish. Let’s give him keys and teeth and let him loose.”

Her lips barely moved, but her tone sharpened.

“You think I look hunted? You should see what’s on my list.”

She picked up the second cartridge then —slow, steady. Let him feel the disconnect between her tone and the casual, practiced way she handled it. She could read a death in the weight of a bullet. And this one told her enough.

“I came here for supplies, not psychoanalysis. If you want someone to pick through your damage, try a mirror.”

A pause. Then —because he always wanted one last word, and she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of silence. “And for the record?” Her head tilted slightly, mouth twitching just enough to suggest it could almost be a smile. “You don't fail with flying colors. You fail exactly how we expect you to.”

See? Exotic like “professionalism.” That’s her edge. Beige. Nico barks a laugh through the necklace — sharp, fast, unamused. “God, you’re boring,” he says, chewing the lollipop stick until it splinters. Doesn’t even notice the cut in his cheek from the shard.

Irene’s out here talking like she’s filling out a fucking tax form. Like each word got cleared by legal before leaving her mouth. And for what? To make him feel small? He likes being big. Loud. Messy. The festering wound no one wants to look at. That’s the brand he’s carried for the Brotherhood for years. He’s going to keep carrying it. Inked under the skin, wrapped around bone. They don’t get to have him clean.

“Three strides, no breathing, no bleeding,” he parrots in a singsong voice, off-key on purpose. “You make it sound like a purity test.”

Then, quicksilver, the grin snaps into place—unnatural and all teeth. “But don’t worry, Irene. I fail with flying colors.”

His energy stutters, then spikes—sudden, twitchy. He rocks forward like he might vault the counter just to see if she’d flinch. Doesn’t. God, boring.

What’s the last thing she killed? He wonders. Was it clean? Was it quiet? Did she cry after? He thinks she did. There’s a few sheep in wolves’ clothing around here, and Nico wants to know who’s who. He can smell it on them—fear dressed up as bravado, stitched into leather jackets. The ones who posture too loud, who keep their knives polished but their hands clean. He’s seen it before. Seen what happens when the bluff gets called and their teeth don’t show up. Nico minds monsters—and he minds liars. And if someone’s wearing a predator’s skin without earning it, he’ll be the one to peel it back and see what’s really twitching underneath.

He pushes another cartridge forward and holds it there—fingertips pressing down, not releasing. A tension in his posture like a lit match held near gasoline.

“What are you hunting, Irene?” Eyes wide now. Hungry. Off-balance. “’Cause if it’s not me, why do you look so fucking haunted?"

Irene stepped out into the night without hurry, coat already buttoned against the bite in the wind. The door clicked shut behind them, shop light spilling warm and gold onto the pavement for a breath before dimming again. She didn't say much at first — she rarely did. But her gaze flicked once toward Juniper and lingered a beat longer than it needed to. Not exactly assessing. Not quite protective, either. Just… noting. Marking presence.

When Juniper spoke, Irene let the quiet settle before answering — like she was giving the question room to breathe before deciding how to respond.

“Coffee,” she said simply. “Black’s fine.”

Her voice didn’t soften, but there was a steadiness to it now. Like she’d decided something, even if it didn’t show.

She walked a few paces, hands in her pockets, the sound of their steps meeting damp asphalt and the distant murmur of streetlights humming to life overhead.

“Appreciate the offer,” she added, a little lower, like the air had thinned around the words. “Not necessary, but… it’d be welcome.”

She didn’t mention she’d be getting some anyway. Not for the taste, not even for the ritual. Just to keep her eyes sharp when sleep kept missing its mark. She’d spent too many nights lately counting hours by the bottom of a mug. But she didn’t say that out loud. Didn't need to. The walk stretched ahead of them, shadows curling long, and the city had the kind of hush that always came just before something tried its luck.

Better to stay alert. Better to keep moving.

And for once, she didn’t mind the company.

Juniper nodded along. She understood very well trying to get around another person's idea of order and organization. It was only her own luck that made it so her brain seemed to work the same way as her grandmothers. Everything had a place, everything had a label. Did the places make sense? Most of the time. Were the labels legible? If you understand the language it’s written in, sure. It was something she had always had to help her grandfather with. Married for almost 50 years and he still had a hard time reading her vine scrawl sometimes. 

She conceded. This was not a place or time where she could help. And she really did not want to get Irene in trouble if it came to that. She was reserved but very kind. Reading her felt like looking at one of those magic eye optical illusions from her youth. Everything you needed to understand what you were looking at was right there. You just needed to know *how* to look at it. So she instead tucked herself into a corner near the exit watching the world outside pass by as she waited. Sage playing with her hair all the while. 

It was a nice type of calm. One that felt nostalgic. The scent of dry herbs and burning candle wax, the sound of a busy world through glass. If she closed her eyes she wondered if for even the briefest moment she could go back to a simpler time. Back when pain didn’t linger in her bones and smiling wasn’t in defiance of the world that surrounded her. 

She lost herself in the process, vision going blurry; she wasn't really paying attention to the glass or what was behind it. Instead focused on some non-existent space in between the two until her attention was brought back to the present. Turning to see Irene approach, her smile returned. 

“Oh- that was fast. Alright. Shall we?” She held the door open for the other before exiting herself. Taking a deep breath of the cold air to clear her head and fully return to the here and now. 

“Will you be working in the morning? It’s not much but I would be happy to bring a pick-me-up in the morning when I pick up my order. Pick your poison, coffee or tea?"

Irene didn’t 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."