The morning in Gotham was heavy—the kind of damp, cloud-choked air that weighed on the bones of its citizens but never slowed them down. Rain clung to the streets like a lingering memory, pooling in fractured asphalt and neon-lit gutters. Steam rose from sewer grates, mingling with the scent of wet concrete and coffee too burnt to complain about.
A newspaper vendor, bundled in layers despite the season, flipped the Gotham Gazette onto his counter. The headlines screamed about a world-changing battle, about gods and warriors shaping the future.
Nobody cared.
A man in a faded coat snatched a paper, barely glancing at it before shoving it under his arm. He was more concerned about the train schedule, about whether the number six line would still be running after last night's gang shootout.
The bartender at Falcone's Corner wiped down the glass, listening as two men debated over whether last night's explosion was the GCPD or a rival crew.
The flower vendor on Kane Street arranged roses, humming softly, watching a woman in a trench coat buy peonies as if the rain wasn't soaking through her gloves.
A child kicked a stray balloon, lost from a party long forgotten, while a man in an alley flicked a cigarette into a puddle and whispered deals into a burner phone.
Gotham was awake. Gotham was moving. Gotham was unchanged.
A masked vigilante could fall from the sky.
A god could shatter the skyline.
A war could rage beyond the bridges.
But Gothamites?
They would still buy coffee.
They would still curse at traffic.
They would still ignore everything except survival.
The clouds pressed lower, swallowing the city whole.
And nobody looked up.
Gotham's morning rolled on, indifferent. The war had ended elsewhere—beyond its bridges, beyond its skyline—but here, nothing changed.
The bartender wiped down glasses, listening as two men debated whether last night's explosion had been the GCPD or a rival crew. The train schedule mattered more than headlines, the coffee vendors cared more about burnt beans than heroes.
And in this city—where survival outweighed everything—there was no room for devotion.
But on a street just outside the flickering neon haze—a dog waited.
Unlike Gotham, he remembered promises.
The door had remained shut for days, the scent of rain clinging to its threshold, but he did not move. His fur had darkened, dampness settling deep into his skin, but he did not falter.
Because his job had been clear.
"Guard this place."
So he stayed.
The cars passed. The voices faded. The city kept moving.
But he did not.
The city was not kind, not loyal, not steady. It swallowed people whole, twisted them, left them behind without a second glance. It erased what mattered.
But not him.
Not this dog.
He would wait.
Because someone had asked him to.
The world outside could shift, heroes could rise and fall, but his duty was clear.
And until that door opened—he would not leave
The world had kept moving, but the dog had not.
He had waited. Days? Weeks? Time blurred when duty was all that remained. His frame had stiffened, cold settling deep, yet his posture never wavered. He was still at the door. Still guarding.
Then—a presence.
Not harsh. Not demanding. Soft. Steady. Like the wind carrying forgotten whispers.
A woman sat beside him.
Dark hair. An ankh resting against her chest. Eyes that held eternity—but carried it lightly.
"Hey, boy."
The dog stirred, though his body no longer ached. He looked at her—not with wariness, not with fear, but with hesitation.
He was supposed to wait.
"You did."
Her voice was gentle, familiar in a way beyond understanding.
The dog watched.
"You kept your promise."
His ears twitched, uncertain.
"You were asked to guard the door. And you did. As long as you could."
Silence settled between them. Not heavy—comforting.
The dog's gaze drifted back to the door. He waited for permission, waited for something more, but there was nothing left to wait for.
Death lifted a hand—not forcing, not commanding. Inviting.
"It's time to rest."
The dog breathed—not air, not life, but something that had been held too tightly for too long.
Then—he stood.
And for the first time, he stepped away from the door.
Death stood, brushing dust from her coat. The dog watched her, uncertain but calm—the hesitation of one who had already made his choice but still felt the weight of it.
"I'm actually here to meet my brother."
The dog tilted his head, ears flicking slightly.
"He's… moody," she continued, voice carrying the kind of warmth that only someone who knew him well could manage. "But you? You'd help. He likes dogs."
The dog didn't respond immediately. He had never been asked to go anywhere before—he had only been told to stay.
But he had fulfilled his promise.
Death knelt, scratching behind his ears.
"Come on, boy. Let's take a walk."
He stood.
They walked—not into the chaos of Gotham, but into something else, something that felt like a world apart. The streets shifted, the noise faded, and slowly, the city's hardened edges gave way to something softer—a place Gotham barely acknowledged.
A garden, untouched by time. The remnants of something forgotten, where vines crept over old walls, where a fountain still ran, where the world breathed instead of fought.
Here, the city wasn't watching.
And somewhere within this quiet place—her brother waited.
~~~~~~
A restaurant sat between warmth and shadow, a place untouched by the urgency of Gotham's streets. Its interior carried a greyish hue, as if the light filtering through the rain-soaked windows had decided to stay muted.
Elric stood behind the counter, the motions of his work precise, methodical. The tea steeped exactly how it should. The dishes clinked quietly, rhythm steady. His hands moved with certainty—but his mind was elsewhere.
He did not show it.
There was no crease in his brow, no tightening in his jaw. His posture was still, his expression neutral, but the air around him was heavier than usual. Not oppressive, not suffocating—just… held back.
The restaurant reflected that unspoken weight, the walls carrying whispers in their silence. It was not dark enough to be foreboding, not warm enough to be inviting—just enough to be a quiet refuge, the kind that called to a weary traveler or a lost soul.
Outside, Gotham was unrelenting.
Inside—it simply let them be.
The door chimed—soft, almost melodic against the quiet hum of the restaurant.
Elric didn't look up immediately, though his posture shifted just slightly—a silent acknowledgment of the presence that had entered.
Death stepped in, cradling the dog gently in her arms, her movements carrying the same lightness as always.
"El!" she greeted, voice bright, warm—a contrast to the muted hue of the room. "Look who's here to see you."
Elric exhaled, finally lifting his gaze. His eyes landed on the dog first, and something flickered across his features—too brief to catch, too soft to define.
Then, Death leaned on the counter, watching him with that knowing look.
"Are you still brooding?"
Elric didn't answer immediately—didn't need to.
"You know you can't hide it from me," she teased, nudging the dog slightly, as if presenting him like a peace offering.
Elric's lips tugged into something barely resembling a smirk.
"And tell me—are we still mad about the stupid rule?"
The shift was subtle—just a fraction of tension in his shoulders, a quiet pause that carried meaning.
Death sighed, shaking her head with the patience of someone who had been through this conversation too many times.
"Elric."
He didn't respond, but she continued anyway.
"It's not your duty. It never was. And you know that."
Silence.
She softened, her voice dipping lower—gentle, unchanging in its certainty.
"But you're still making a difference. One person at a time."
Elric's gaze flickered to the dog, then back to her.
Another pause. Another beat held in the air.
Then—he simply poured another cup of tea.
Elric set down the tea in front of Death—silent, precise, but steady.
"For you."
She smiled, fingers curling around the cup, warmth radiating through porcelain.
Elric turned, slipping into the back room. Treats. The dog deserved them.
The moment he was gone, Death leaned in, eyes sparkling with mischief.
"Hey, boy."
The dog's ears twitched, attentive but calm.
"When he gives you the treat…" Her voice dipped, conspiratorial, amused. "Lick him. Aggressively. But lovingly."
The dog blinked—then tilted his head, considering.
"Trust me, it'll be fun."
The door creaked. Elric returned, a small pouch in hand.
Death hid her grin behind her cup.
Elric knelt, unfolding the small pouch with quiet precision. His movements were steady, practiced—but there was a softness to them now, a quiet departure from his usual restraint.
The dog watched, eyes sharp but patient. He had waited before. He would wait again.
The treat landed lightly in his grasp, and as the dog took it, Elric's fingers brushed through his fur—a silent exchange, a moment without words.
Then—affection.
The dog licked his hand, slow at first, hesitant, then stronger. Unrestrained.
Elric's lips twitched, the faintest hint of amusement breaking through.
Then—he lifted the dog.
Death hid her grin behind her cup.
And the dog took the cue beautifully.
Without hesitation, he leaned forward—licking Elric's face, enthusiastic, eager, shameless.
Elric flinched slightly, caught off guard, but didn't pull away—not really. His chuckle broke the silence, the kind of sound Gotham rarely heard but had always needed more of.
His grip relaxed, his hand scratching behind the dog's ear, warmth settling into his features.
And slowly—the restaurant shifted with him.
The dim greys softened. The muted light brightened, spilling in golden hues, reflecting across porcelain and polished wood. The space no longer carried quiet restraint—it welcomed it, invited something gentler, something lighter.
A place not just for travelers—but for rest.
Death leaned back, tea warming her hands, eyes flickering with that familiar mischief.
"So, you'll love this—Desire is at it again."
Elric exhaled quietly, pouring himself a cup, but didn't react—not yet.
"Tangled up in some cosmic drama with a war god. And—guess what? They won. Completely unscathed. Walked out like it was all planned, which, knowing them—" she shrugged "—probably was."
Elric finally tilted his head slightly, skeptical but amused. "A war god?"
Death nodded, taking a sip.
"And not even one of the little ones. We're talking high-tier, worshiped for centuries, ruins empires type. Desire? Didn't even blink."
Elric sighed, shaking his head just slightly.
"I don't know why you're still surprised."
"I'm not. It's just fun watching the aftermath."
A pause, a quiet chuckle from her.
"Oh! And Dream's brooding again."
Elric raised a brow.
"When is he not brooding?"
"Fair point," she mused, swirling her tea. "But this time? It's about some mortal poet who keeps writing about him. It's all 'tragic longing' this, 'eternal sorrow' that—he's so annoyed. You'd think he'd appreciate the devotion."
Elric hummed, taking a sip.
"Does he?"
"He read every poem."
A beat. Elric chuckled, shaking his head.
"That tracks."
Death grinned, pleased with herself.
"And Delirium? Oh, you should've seen her last week—she started speaking exclusively in riddles. Even I couldn't keep up."
"Why?"
"She said it was funny."
Elric sighed, setting his cup down.
"Of course she did."
Elric paused.
The subtle shift—a ripple in reality, a distortion in the air—had no sound, no warning. But he felt it.
Without a word, he turned, moving behind the counter. His fingers traced the edges of the cabinets, movements calm, practiced—but there was amusement flickering in his eyes.
Then—he pulled something out.
A cookie jar.
He placed it on the counter. Loud. Deliberate.
The lid popped off with the lightest flick of his wrist, and from within, reality itself seemed to bend—colors shifting, shapes twisting, space folding upon itself for just a fraction of a second—
And then, Delirium appeared.
Bright. Vibrant. Entirely herself.
"Oooooh! El, you have the best snacks!"
She grinned, spinning slightly on her heels before presenting cookies toward Death and the dog—dramatic, proud, like she was offering treasures from another dimension.
Death chuckled, taking one casually.
The dog sniffed, cautious.
Elric, arms crossed, watched her with that silent, knowing look.
"You should—" he started, voice calm, amused, gentle, "maybe take it easy on the sugar."
Delirium pouted, eyes shifting colors for no reason other than that they could.
"Pfft. Like you don't drink—"(gesturing wildly)"—SO MUCH TEA."
Elric raised a brow.
"Tea is calming."
Delirium gasped, hand over her chest in mock offense.
"And sugar is not?!"
A beat—then Death laughed, shaking her head.
The dog took a cookie.
And the warmth settled in—soft, natural, effortless, wrapping the space in something lighter, brighter, undeniably theirs.
Death leaned back, stirring her tea lazily, as the conversation drifted into familiar territory—memories, moments, little fragments of eternity that shaped them.
"Remember when Destiny tried to host a family dinner?" she mused, lips twitching at the thought.
Elric huffed, amused.
"If you mean the one where Desire turned the seating arrangement into a centuries-long argument—then yes."
Delirium giggled, twirling a cookie between her fingers as colors flickered through her eyes.
"That was hilarious—Dream sulked for, like, a decade. I think he still holds a grudge about that soup spilling on his robe."
Death nodded, sipping her tea.
"He definitely does."
Elric smirked just slightly, before tilting his head.
"And what about you, Del? You've had your fair share of fun, haven't you?"
Delirium's expression shifted—playful, dramatic, exaggerated in ways only she could manage.
"Ohhhh, you would not believe the things I've been!"
Death raised a brow, entertained.
"Go on."
Delirium grinned, leaning forward.
"For example—one time, I was Lucifer!"
Silence—then Death laughed, shaking her head.
"You were what?"
"Lucifer! You know, big wings, Morningstar, blah blah—all that jazz!" She waved a hand dismissively. "Not forever—just for a bit. It was fun. Then it wasn't. So I stopped."
Elric studied her, eyes sharp with curiosity.
"And what, exactly, made it unfun?"
Delirium dramatically flopped onto the counter, sighing.
"Too much structure, too much doom and order. And you will not believe—he has a bar now. In Los Angeles."
Death blinked.
"Lucifer has a bar?"
"Yup! But—" she pouted, "it's so stuffy. No chaos, no weird floating furniture, no talking bottles—just normal drinks, normal people."
Elric chuckled, shaking his head.
"And you expected otherwise?"
"I had hopes!"
Death grinned.
"You always do."
The restaurant had settled, the warmth still lingering in the air from soft laughter and quiet conversation.
Elric sat, fingers brushing against the porcelain rim of his cup, but his gaze had drifted—not to the present, not to the people before him, but somewhere else entirely.
A familiar name had surfaced.
Lucifer.
The weight of that name carried memories—sharp ones, distant ones, wrapped in something undeniable.
Elric took a slow sip, the steam rising gently.
And the past unfolded.
~~~~
The world was different then. Not softer, not harsher—just... different.
A quiet place, stretched between realms, where light twisted in ways that made no sense to mortal eyes. The air hummed with something ancient, something that had never truly settled.
And in the center of it all—a man stood, waiting.
Elric had never thought much of celestial politics, of divine figures who shaped entire existences with the flick of their fingers.
But tonight—he would meet one.
The presence arrived before the sound did, a ripple in reality, a shift in gravity that spoke of power, precision, and absolute certainty.
Then—the voice.
"You are an interesting one."
Lucifer Morningstar stepped forward, golden hair catching the light, his gaze sharp, piercing, but amused.
Elric did not bow.
Lucifer did not expect him to.
"Do you know who I am?" Lucifer asked, tone light, effortless, but woven with something undeniable.
Elric poured himself a cup of tea.
"I do."
Lucifer studied him, as though trying to unravel the layers of this mortal—this something more than mortal.
"And yet, you do not flinch."
Elric took a sip, calm, unreadable.
"Should I?"
A pause.
Then—Lucifer smiled.
A genuine one.
A rare one.
"Perhaps not."
And so it began.............~~
Elric blinked, his fingers resting lightly against the ceramic surface of his cup. The air of the restaurant hummed gently, settling back into place as the past receded, folding itself away into the quiet corners of his mind.
His gaze flickered toward his siblings, then to the plate he had prepared—a simple offering, grounding them all in the present.
"Eat." His voice was calm, the invitation effortless.
Death smiled, shaking her head softly.
"Maybe later. I need to take this adorable little guardian to Dog Haven."
The dog wagged his tail, nestled against her with quiet affection.
Delirium gasped, eyes shifting between violet and gold.
"Oooooh! Dog Haven? That sounds AMAZING! I wanna come too!"
Death chuckled, brushing a hand lightly over the dog's fur.
"Of course you do."
Elric merely exhaled, placing the plate down without argument.
Death stood, adjusting the weight of the dog in her arms, her expression shifting—not playful, not teasing, but gentle, steady, knowing.
And then—she said his name.
Not Elric.
But Elior.
"You know, with all your cosmic power and free will…" she began, voice carrying the certainty only she could wield, "you can't end suffering. Because it's the consequence of free will."
A beat.
Elric did not react—not outwardly.
But she knew him. She always did.
"And you know," she continued, adjusting the dog's position, "it's better to suffer than to have no free will at all."
The air shifted, just slightly.
Then—Death turned, stepping toward the door, Delirium bouncing after her, humming something to herself.
And Elric?
He simply poured another cup of tea.