POV: Kiss-shot Acerola-orion Heart-under-blade
''Immortality is not a straight line. It's a circle—one I've been tracing with a broken finger."
I remained still after he left. Not by choice. Not by hesitation.
But because stillness had always been my first language.
Movement was for mortals. The desperate shuffle of limbs. The panting chase for something meaningful. I could sit through centuries. Watch empires decay like fruit left too long in the sun. And yet—
His warmth still lingered on my shoulder.
A ghost of him. Of that brief moment when I let gravity do what pride never could: lean me into someone else.
I hated that I missed it already.
Not the touch. But the weight of presence. Of being regarded not as a god or a threat or a relic, but as something... visible.
Not worshipped.
Just seen.
I brought my knees back to my chest, folding tighter than necessary. It wasn't comfort. It was containment.
There was a time when this form—this half-regrown, adolescent shell—felt like armor. Now it felt like scaffolding. A temporary structure, waiting for the next reconstruction. Waiting for strength to return.
And it would.
Thanks to him.
The bundle he brought me—the arms, the power, the blood-soaked kindness—it stirred something I didn't want to name. Something I couldn't remember having a name for.
I flexed my new fingers. Slowly. Deliberately.
The joints cracked like small applause. My own body welcoming itself back.
How long had it been?
Years? Decades?
There was no point measuring. Time lost meaning when you ran out of things worth waiting for.
But now—
Now there was something strange in the pacing of events.
Lucien.
Even his name didn't sound like it belonged in this century. Or any century. It was the kind of name you whispered in ruined libraries, the kind that stayed on your tongue like bitter wine.
And he didn't flinch.
Not once.
Not even when I bared my teeth. Not even when I admitted, however indirectly, that I needed him.
That should've made him weaker.
Instead, he looked stronger for it.
And that terrified me.
Because I knew what it meant to believe in something. To trust a person to be more than they pretended. I'd done it before.
It always ended the same.
Except this time…
This time, he didn't ask for my trust.
He earned it.
One piece at a time.
No fanfare. No vows. Just blood, bone, and that infuriating voice that made everything sound like both a joke and a promise.
My fingers curled against the tile floor. I didn't realize I'd stood until I heard the slight shuffle of my own feet.
I paced once.
Twice.
Stopped.
The station was quiet again. The hum of the veil still flickered like candlelight around the edges. Lucien's spellwork—his "Nerve Veil," as he called it—held.
Barely.
Something had tested it earlier. Pushed at it. Enough to raise the hairs on my neck, even in this half-recovered body.
But that wasn't what unsettled me.
It was the fact that Lucien knew it would happen.
And still went out.
He didn't warn me. Didn't explain. Just vanished with that same calm arrogance I couldn't decide whether to mock or mirror.
Which meant—
He trusted me now.
That was the problem with faith.
It was contagious.
I lowered myself to the bench again. Slower this time. More carefully. Not because I feared breaking—but because I feared what I might become if I didn't sit still for a moment longer.
He would be back.
He always was.
And if he wasn't…
No.
I wouldn't think about that.
I'd already lost too many pieces of myself to entertain hypotheticals.
For now?
I closed my eyes.
Not to sleep.
Just to listen.
To the hum of the station.
To the memory of his voice.
And to the dangerous, unfamiliar rhythm starting to thrum somewhere beneath my ribs.
I could almost pretend the rhythm was my own.
Almost.
But I knew better.
My heartbeat had been stolen so many times I stopped counting centuries ago. And even when it returned, pulsing quietly beneath this half-grown skin, it never quite sounded right. Too slow. Too strong. Too deliberate.
It wasn't rhythm.
It was reminder.
Of him.
Of the boy who walked into my tomb like he owned it.
Who bled without being asked.
Who stared without looking away.
And who, for reasons I still refused to believe, treated me like I wasn't a ruin.
As if there was something left to salvage.
I hated how easy it was becoming to think about him.
To expect him.
I hadn't waited for someone in years. Not since the last mortal who thought they could survive the weight of me. Not since—
No.
I pressed a palm to my temple.
The thought came too fast. Too unguarded.
Lucien wasn't him.
Lucien was...
Lucien was new.
And that was worse.
Because I had no script for him. No prophecy. No punishment prepared in advance.
He played by no rules I recognized. He moved like someone who knew where the floor would creak, but stepped there anyway just to watch people flinch.
He made me flinch.
Not outwardly. Never that.
But something inside—the old places I'd long since locked—stirred when he was near. Not because he was powerful.
But because he looked at me like I was still possible.
And if he believed that…
Then part of me did, too.
A sound broke the silence.
Not footsteps.
Not his voice.
A shift in the veil.
Small. Controlled.
Someone was outside.
Not Lucien.
This wasn't how he moved.
He carried presence like a scent trail—arrogant, distinct, impossible to mistake.
Whoever this was?
They were trying not to be noticed.
They failed.
I opened my eyes.
The veil around the station wavered just slightly—like breath fogging a mirror.
I stood.
No cracking bones this time.
No stiffness.
My new limbs had settled.
Good.
Let them come.
Whoever they were.
I didn't breathe.
Didn't blink.
I just stood there—new arms hanging silent at my sides, fingers curling with memory but not strength. They ached less now, but that wasn't reassurance. It was foreshadowing.
I was whole in shape.
But not in soul.
Without my heart, I was still limping through eternity. Just in more expensive shoes.
The veil wavered again.
Something brushed against it.
Deliberate this time.
Testing.
The way a pickpocket checks for weakness in a clasp, or a god checks for cracks in a prayer.
They weren't trying to break in.
Not yet.
They were studying the lock.
I narrowed my eyes.
It wasn't Guillotine Cutter. I'd felt his presence before—heavy with belief, sharp around the edges. This was different.
Smoother.
Hungrier.
The veil hissed like static under pressure.
And then—
It tightened.
Like someone had tied the spellwork into a knot. A new weight dropped into the space.
But it wasn't hostile.
It was familiar.
Lucien.
I didn't see him. But I felt the magic coil. The way his presence layered itself over mine without asking permission.
He didn't enter.
Not yet.
Instead, the veil thickened. Doubled. Tripled.
The air turned syrupy with resistance.
I raised an eyebrow.
So.
He knew.
Somehow, wherever he was, whatever he was doing—he knew I was about to be interrupted.
That was the terrifying thing about him.
Lucien didn't react to danger.
He preempted it.
The station darkened slightly—not from shadow, but from density. Like light itself was holding its breath.
And finally—
I heard it.
Footsteps.
Soft.
Measured.
But too deliberate to be human.
They came from the stairwell.
Each step was spaced like a metronome.
One.
Two.
Three.
No creaks.
No stumbles.
Whoever it was—they wanted me to hear them.
I stayed where I was.
Not because I was confident.
Because I was calculating.
I still couldn't fight.
Not properly.
But I could stall.
And Lucien?
Lucien was coming.
I didn't know how.
But I could feel the leash of his magic pulling tighter.
Not choking.
Anchoring.
The intruder came into view.
Tall.
Pale.
Hair like stringed snow. Coat too clean. Smile too wide.
I knew that face.
Even from this form—this half-grown shell of myself—I remembered.
Episode.
The vampire hunter who wasn't fully human.
Or fully anything.
He looked at me like I was a riddle in his native tongue.
"Ah," he said, voice low, smooth. "So it's true. She rises."
I said nothing.
My arms itched.
Not pain.
Just anticipation.
The taste of a kill I wasn't allowed to make.
He took another step forward, his shoes leaving no sound.
"Not yet recovered, though. I can smell the absence."
Still I said nothing.
But my fingers twitched.
And then—
From nowhere, from everywhere—
Lucien's voice.
"That's close enough."
Episode didn't startle.
He simply turned his head.
And Lucien?
He wasn't on the stairs.
He was standing just behind him.
Like he'd been waiting for the perfect entrance.
And from the look on his face—
He'd found
Lucien didn't smile.
Didn't threaten.
He just existed—in that eerie, deliberate way of his, like he'd timed his entrance to the beat of some invisible drum no one else could hear.
Episode turned.
Not fast.
He wasn't afraid.
But he was curious.
"A familiar scent," Episode said. "But not one I've cataloged."
Lucien tilted his head, just slightly.
"Then your library's out of date."
Episode studied him. Really studied him.
And Lucien let him.
Like a chess player laying out his pawns face-up.
"You're not a vampire," Episode said slowly. "Not fully."
Lucien stepped forward. No rush. No posture. Just the inevitability of someone who already knew where the exit was, and how to close it.
"You're not a hunter," he replied. "Not truly. Just a parasite with a license."
That landed.
Episode's expression didn't change—but the air did. A ripple. A quiet growl beneath the fabric of reality. The kind that doesn't come from throat or tongue, but from blood.
Kiss-shot stayed silent.
She didn't interfere.
This wasn't her fight yet.
Lucien stopped exactly two paces from Episode.
Any closer would've been confrontation.
Any farther would've been fear.
This?
This was bait.
Episode's fingers twitched, but he didn't reach for his weapon.
Yet.
"You're protecting her," he said. "Even though she'll devour you eventually."
Lucien's grin was lazy. Not amused.
Measured.
"That's cute," he said. "You think I'm afraid of endings."
Episode narrowed his eyes.
"You should be."
Lucien's hand dropped into his coat pocket.
Not a threat.
Just a gesture.
And when he pulled it out—
The object in his palm shimmered.
Small.
Delicate.
An hourglass.
The Glass Hour.
Opalescent sand shifted lazily inside, glinting like time pretending to be innocent.
"I don't like to waste things," Lucien said, voice cool.
"Not time.
Not power.
And definitely not conversations."
He tilted the hourglass once.
Just once.
The sand inside didn't fall.
It rose.
Backwards.
Like gravity had decided to play by different rules.
Episode took a step back.
Just one.
"You're bluffing."
Lucien didn't reply.
Didn't have to.
The air around the hourglass began to fracture. Not visibly. Not violently. But subtly. Like the space around it was tired of behaving normally.
And for the first time—
Episode hesitated.
Not because of the object.
But because of what it meant.
Lucien wasn't here to win a fight.
He was here to make fighting the wrong move entirely.
"You think I won't attack her right now?" Episode asked.
Lucien's smile faded.
"I think if you try, you'll find out what a bad investment regret can be."
The sand inside the hourglass stopped rising.
Frozen.
Locked in a single moment.
"One use," Lucien said. "That's all it takes to change the shape of a grave."
"And you'd use it here? Now?"
"No," Lucien said, slipping the Glass Hour back into his pocket like it had done its job. "I'd use it after I let you bleed for a few minutes."
Episode tilted his head. Slow. Birdlike.
"You're dangerous."
"And you're running out of time."
The veil pulsed.
Once.
Twice.
And Episode… stepped back.
Just slightly.
Just enough to mark the moment.
He didn't retreat.
But he reconsidered.
"You're not part of the story," he said.
Lucien met his gaze.
"I'm writing a better one."
Episode didn't smile. Didn't snarl. He just… watched. As if Lucien were a line in a sacred text he hadn't annotated yet. The silence between them thickened—tight and brittle, like glass under tension. Then, finally: "You'll regret this," Episode said. Not a threat. Not bravado. Just prophecy, spoken with the calm of someone who had lived long enough to see most men drown in their own confidence. Lucien's eyes didn't waver. "Maybe," he said. "But it won't be tonight." The air shifted again. Subtle. A change in pressure more than temperature. Like the world was holding its breath just long enough for someone to bite through it. And then— Episode vanished. Not a flash. Not a flourish. Just gone. Like the absence had always been there, and they were only now noticing its shape. Lucien stood still for a second longer. Let the silence settle. Let it congeal. Then he turned—only slightly—and looked toward where I sat, still half-curled on the bench, arms tight around my knees, fingers flexed but not trembling. Not anymore. He walked back into the veil like he belonged there. Like he'd never left. And when he reached me, he didn't speak. He just sat down beside me. Not too close. But close enough. The distance between us wasn't empty. It was deliberate. A space made of unspoken things. And still— I broke it. "…You scared him," I said. Lucien didn't look at me. "Good." I hesitated. "You scare me, too." That got his attention. He turned his head, slow. No surprise in his face. Just that steady, infuriating quiet. The kind you find in people who understand how power works—and don't need to shout about it. "I'm not trying to," he said. "That's worse." His eyes held mine. There wasn't pity in them. No condescension. Just… acknowledgment. The kind that burns more than comfort ever could. "Do you want me to stop?" I didn't answer. Because I didn't know. Because the fear wasn't the problem. The problem was that it didn't feel like weakness anymore. It felt like faith. I looked away first. But he didn't push. Didn't prod. He just waited. As if the silence might yield something more honest than either of us were ready to say. And maybe it would've. If not for the sound— —a creak above. A groan in the pipes. Too light to be structural. Too rhythmic to be wind. Lucien's head tilted back. His eyes narrowed. And his voice, when it came, was soft. Tired. But not surprised. "…We're not alone."
I didn't ask how he knew.
Didn't need to.
His body shifted just enough to tell me everything—the way his shoulders squared without rising, the way his fingers flexed once at his side and stilled.
Preparation without posturing.
Movement without tension.
A predator—awake.
I rose slowly. Not because I was startled.
Because I refused to let whoever it was believe I ever had to rush.
Lucien watched the ceiling, eyes trained on the pulse behind the groan. Not a sound. A suggestion. Like someone dragging fingernails through the air just above our heads.
"They're testing the boundary," he said.
I nodded once. "They won't break it."
"Not tonight," he murmured. "But this place… it's compromised."
My lip curled—slightly. Not annoyance. Disappointment.
"I liked it here."
"So did they," he said. "Apparently."
Another creak. This one lower. Closer. Like whoever was up there wanted us to know they weren't rushing either.
Lucien stood.
Not suddenly. Not in alarm.
Like a man getting up to turn off the stove.
"This station is done," he said. "It's not a home anymore. It's bait."
My arms ached again—not from weakness.
From memory.
There was a time when I wouldn't have tolerated a threat even breathing in my direction. A time when I'd have turned the ceiling inside-out just to make a point.
But now?
Now I watched Lucien calculate the geometry of retreat.
And for the first time in centuries—
I didn't feel insulted by it.
I felt… protected.
Which was worse.
"Where?" I asked.
He didn't hesitate.
"The cram school."
Of course.
I could feel the corners of it in my mind—the abandoned space, the thick walls, the way it breathed like a forgotten god. Not welcoming. But quiet.
And big enough to bleed in.
Lucien was already gathering our things. Which was to say—nothing. We didn't have possessions.
Just consequences.
Still, he knelt once. Touched the bench.
Almost gently.
Like he was telling it goodbye.
Then he looked at me.
Not commanding.
Not inviting.
Just… waiting.
As if I'd say no.
I walked past him. Slow.
But when I brushed his shoulder?
It wasn't by accident.
——————————————————-
"Some places don't feel haunted until you bring ghosts with you."
We didn't run.
We relocated.
There's a difference—subtle, semantic, but real. Running implies fear. Retreat. Giving something power by turning your back to it.
But we didn't do that.
Lucien didn't let us.
He called it a necessary shift in staging.
Said it like we were actors moving from one dim-lit theater to another, changing nothing but the curtains. But I knew better.
He had seen something. Felt it. That quiet pressure before a trap shuts.
And I didn't question it.
Not because I trusted him completely.
But because I trusted him enough to know when not to ask.
The cram school was dust and memory. The kind of building that felt like it had been abandoned in the middle of a sentence. Chalkboards still stained with ghost equations. Desks stacked like barricades against time.
No lights.
No warmth.
Just space.
And silence.
But Lucien filled it.
Not loudly. Not obviously. But in the way shadows moved differently when he stepped through them. Like the walls remembered what it meant to be used.
He chose a room with windows that didn't face the street. Third floor. No signs of intrusion. No spiritual residue.
For now.
I sat on one of the desks, legs crossed, arms loose.
I was taller now.
Older.
Still not whole.
But close enough to remember how that had felt.
Lucien stood by the window, one hand on the sill like he could taste the weather through his skin.
"I know this place," I said.
He didn't turn.
"Of course you do."
"You're not going to ask how?"
"I already know the answer."
"And what is it?"
He glanced back. Just slightly.
"You're the kind of creature who doesn't forget the places she once considered thrones."
That should've stung.
It didn't.
Because he was right.
I once held dominion in buildings like this. Turned walls into palaces. Hallways into altars. The echo of my name was enough to crack tile and bend light.
Now?
I was sitting cross-legged like a girl trying to remember how to take up space again.
"You didn't ask me to come here," I said.
"No."
"You assumed I'd follow."
"Yes."
"And if I hadn't?"
He finally turned.
Met my gaze.
And said, "Then I'd have come back."
Simple.
Stupid.
Infuriatingly sincere.
I hated it.
Not because it was manipulative.
But because it wasn't.
Lucien walked across the room, slow.
Not cautious.
Measured.
He stopped when we were face to face—neither of us blinking.
"You didn't have to scare him," I said.
"He scared easily."
"He was strong."
"So am I."
I tilted my head.
"Are you proud of that?"
"No," he said. "But I'm not ashamed either."
That silenced me.
Because I'd forgotten what it was like to speak with someone who didn't need to lie to feel powerful.
Lucien stepped closer.
Just a fraction.
Enough to be heard if I whispered.
"If this place isn't safe," I asked, "why here?"
"Because safety is a myth," he said. "But obscurity? That we can manage."
I laughed.
Short. Dry.
"You sound like someone who's been running a long time."
"I'm not running," he said.
And then—quietly—
"I'm waiting."
"For what?"
"For the next move."
And I saw it then.
Behind the words. Beneath the grin.
He wasn't just protecting me.
He was playing a game.
And every threat, every gesture of power, every line of clever posturing?
Was him buying time.
Not just for me to grow stronger.
But for something else.
Something I hadn't figured out yet.
Yet.
"Lucien," I said, "what aren't you telling me?"
He didn't lie.
Didn't deflect.
Just said:
"You'll know soon enough."
And the worst part?
I believed him.
"Some people fall into stories. Others break them open from the inside."
That night, we didn't talk much.
Not because there wasn't anything to say, but because every word would've meant more than we were ready to give.
The room settled into silence. The kind that made itself comfortable. That invited reflection without permission.
I sat near the window now, knees drawn up against the wood. Not like I was cold—vampires don't get cold—but like I was remembering how to feel it anyway.
Lucien had stretched out across three desks. One arm tucked behind his head, the other lazily dangling, fingers brushing the edge of the floor like he might trace the grain of the universe if it got close enough.
"You're not sleeping," I said eventually.
"I don't need to."
"Neither do I," I murmured.
"But we still try," he finished.
A beat passed.
Then another.
Like we were holding hands with time, just to keep it from rushing ahead.
Outside, the sky was that strange violet that never truly belonged to night or morning. A false in-between. A liminal hue.
"You're changing," he said, not looking at me.
"So are you."
"I'm not supposed to."
I raised an eyebrow. "Why not?"
"Because the version of me that walked into this universe was already finished. Or thought he was."
"That's the problem with being finished," I said. "You forget how much room you still take up."
He looked over then. Really looked. That quiet, steady gaze like I was a riddle he wasn't trying to solve—just appreciate.
"You speak like a god," he said.
"I was one," I replied. "For a while."
"Do you miss it?"
I thought about that.
The reverence. The power. The fear.
"No," I said. "I miss the silence it used to bring."
He nodded, like he understood. Like maybe he missed a kind of silence too.
I slid off the window ledge and crossed the floor until I was beside him. Not close. But near enough for the gravity to mean something.
"Tomorrow," I said. "Someone else will come."
"I know."
"You're not going to stop them."
"I didn't say that."
"You're not going to stop yourself either."
That made him smile. Just faintly.
"I don't know how."
And somehow, that was the most honest thing he'd said all night.
I sat beside him on the desk. Cross-legged. Not watching the door. Not watching him.
Just… there.
We existed like that for a while.
No declarations.
No promises.
Just a boy and a vampire pretending that stillness wasn't dangerous.
That connection wasn't lethal.
But the veil hummed faintly at the edges of the school.
The air was restless again.
And I knew—
Tomorrow would be loud.
————
POV: Lucien's
"Tomorrow would be loud."
And still, I found myself wishing tonight could echo a little longer.
Kiss-shot hadn't spoken for a while—not since she'd slid onto the desk beside me. But her silence wasn't withdrawal. It was... patience. Not the practiced kind that immortals wear like a mask, but something closer to waiting on instinct. Like the air itself hadn't yet made up its mind whether to settle or stir.
I broke it first.
Of course I did.
"You looked at me differently after Episode left," I said, eyes fixed on the ceiling like it had secrets to spill.
"I looked at you honestly."
"That's worse."
She gave a sound—not quite a laugh, but more than a breath. "You'd rather be underestimated?"
"No," I said. "But it helps when I'm trying to keep people alive."
A pause.
Then: "Are you including me in that category now?"
I turned my head, just enough to see her golden eyes catch the moonlight like coins tossed into deep water.
"You're the only one in that category."
Something in her face softened. Barely. But I saw it.
And then she did something strange.
She leaned down—closer to me, her hand hovering over my chest, fingers barely brushing the cloth where my heart should be.
"Yours is still beating," she said. "Loud. Even now."
"It's noisy," I agreed.
"No. It's alive."
The space between us changed.
Compressed.
And when her fingers withdrew, they didn't tremble—but the air around them seemed to.
"What are you afraid of, Lucien?"
She didn't say it like an accusation.
She asked like someone who might finally understand the answer.
I sat up slowly. Let the question breathe. Let it taste the night.
"That I'll win," I said. "That I'll win whatever game I'm playing… and find out the prize was never worth it."
She blinked.
Then, quietly:
"That sounds like something a human would say."
"That's the scary part."
We didn't speak after that.
We didn't need to.
Because somewhere beneath the cracked beams and moth-bitten ceiling, the night held its breath for us.
And for the first time in a long time, I let it.
——————————————————-
"Some silences aren't empty. They're full of things we're too scared to say."
We stayed there a little longer.
No words. No movement. Just shared atmosphere—charged and quiet, like the last moment before lightning decides what to strike.
I could feel her gaze linger, even when I wasn't looking. Not heavy. Just present. Like she was still deciding whether I was a puzzle worth solving or a mirror worth avoiding.
I didn't press her.
That's how you break something valuable—by forcing it open before it's ready to unfold.
Eventually, I leaned back on my palms and let out a slow breath.
"I think I used to like nights like this."
Kiss-shot raised an eyebrow, but didn't interrupt.
"You know," I said, "before I became a walking contradiction wrapped in dead man's threads. When the world still had... context."
"And now it doesn't?" she asked softly.
"No," I said. "Now it's just… choices. All the time. Constantly. Like someone turned life into a hallway of doors and forgot to give me a map."
She considered that.
Then: "You always speak in metaphors."
"Only when I don't want to bleed in plain language."
That earned a true laugh.
Short. Sharp. Undeniably hers.
"I think I liked you better before you got poetic," she said.
I shrugged. "I think I was trying less then."
Another pause. But this one was warmer. The kind that wraps around a shared truth instead of choking on it.
She swung her legs off the desk, feet barely brushing the ground.
"Lucien."
"Yeah?"
"If this is a hallway of doors," she said, "then you've already walked through mine."
I turned toward her.
Not fast.
Not dramatic.
Just deliberate.
Our eyes locked.
And for a second, I felt like a constellation being sketched inside out.
"That sounds a lot like trust," I said.
"It's not," she replied. "It's worse. It's hope."
I didn't smile.
Didn't flinch.
Didn't joke.
I just nodded, once.
Because yeah.
That was worse.
She stepped closer—not enough to touch, just enough to orbit. Her voice dropped to something almost careful.
"If I fall again… I won't rise the same."
"You won't have to."
"And if you do?"
"I'll rise differently too."
The silence that followed didn't need filling.
Because some nights don't ask for conclusions.
They just ask you to stay a little longer.
And we did.