ireneclermont

Latest Posts by ireneclermont

Irene huffed — not quite a laugh, but not annoyance either. It was the sound of someone deeply unimpressed by Lucian’s usual theatrics and just as deeply resigned to the fact that they always worked on her anyway. Her hand drifted over the blade in her lap — not gripping, just tracing the flat of it like it might ground her a little further into the present.

“Oh, others, huh?” she echoed, turning to eye him, one brow ticking up like she was weighing whether to roll her eyes or throw him in the lake. “That’s comforting. You do remember you’re not technically allowed to threaten evisceration until after dinner, right? I think that was in the handbook. Section four, maybe five.” Her tone was still dry, but her expression had softened — not quite open, but looser than usual. Lucian had that effect on her. The ability to carve space where the weight let up, even if only in slivers.

“Wait.” She narrowed her eyes, mock-affronted. “Did you just call me slow?”

There was a pause. Then, with theatrical gravity, she shook her head.

“Wow. You’re definitely losing another point for that one. Two more and I no longer like you.” A beat. “Or something.”

It came out lightly, but the joke sat on top of something else — a familiar rhythm between them, years old and still intact despite everything. Despite all the places they’d ended up on opposite sides of the room, the field, the war. The kind of connection that endured not because it was loud, but because it was persistent. Threaded through with too many half-smiles and stupid inside jokes to be anything but real.

And when she glanced over at him again, the edge of her mouth tugged — a rare, fleeting smile that touched more than just her lips. Just for a second. Just because it was him. Because the way he said darling and love didn’t land like it did when other people used it — didn’t ring hollow or honeyed. Just fit. Like a coat she'd never admit was her favorite.

“Mm, all in due time,” she repeated, a little softer now, eyes back on the water. “So..” Her voice dropped to that low lilt she only used when she was trying not to sound too curious. “What are you up to, exactly?”

He laughs, an honestly amused laugh that lacked all the mocking and promised pain they often do. Shrugging a shoulder as he takes in her nudge and words. "Ah well darling, I like keeping my insides inside... but other's... I prefer to pull them out." He says casually, like there's no dark meaning behind his words.

"Besides, had I actually sneak up on you, obvious as I was of my approach, then you probably wouldn't get your own tattoo anyway, love."

Not when they needed sharper instincts, to fight against creatures and monsters much faster and agile that a regular human being was capable of. Vicious in their attacks.

He looks at her, studies her for all of a minute to know there's something bothering her that won't ever make it to his ears. Not now, probably... perhaps when she's ready and willing.

He shrugs once more, playful as he looks back out into the space before them.

"As always, darling, you shall see it in due time." He's working on plenty things. All preparing him for a most delightful hunt.

— Ocean Vuong, from On Earth We're Briefly Gorgeous (via letsbelonelytogetherr)

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.

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. 

The stool was cold under her hands — she hadn’t meant to sit. Not at first. Just to scan the crowd, just to look. But Obsidian was louder than she remembered. Busier. Full of laughter and clinking glasses and that polished kind of nightlife charm that never quite felt like it belonged to her. Irene sat anyway, still damp from the outside, her coat unbuttoned just enough to breathe.

No Jaya.

She didn’t frown, but her eyes moved with more purpose than most of the crowd’s. Quick flicks between faces, corners, doorways. She didn’t expect him to be easy to find — not with what was happening. But she’d hoped. That was the whole problem.

She rested her elbow on the bar like she had every right to be here. No different from the others. Just a woman looking for a drink, maybe company. No one needed to know what stirred underneath. What she was actually here for. The charm around her neck sat heavy beneath her shirt — hidden, quiet. Like her.

When the bartender approached — bright smile, easy confidence — Irene straightened slightly. The recognition didn’t show on her face, but her mind caught on the name. Charlotte. One of Jaya’s. She’d seen her in passing once or twice, never close enough to speak. The smile was genuine. Irene offered a smaller one in return — polite, a little tired at the edges.

“Hi,” she said, voice soft but steady, leaning in just enough for the words to cut through the ambient buzz of the room. “Actually, I’m— looking for someone.”

A pause. Measured.

“Jaya. He around?”

She didn’t let too much hope show in the question, just enough to make it casual. She kept her hands on the bar, fingers wrapped around the base of a coaster, grounding herself in something physical. Something normal.

“I can wait,” she added quickly, before Charlotte could say yes or no. “It’s not urgent.”

Another pause. The music shifted behind them — deeper bass, slower rhythm.

Her eyes flicked sideways — toward the crowd, then back.

“I’ll take whatever’s easiest in the meantime. Just— something simple.”

There was no point in drawing attention. Not now. Not here.

She could pretend to be patient. For a little while longer.

Where: Obsidian

Who: Open (1/5)

Tonight had been bustling. It was the most crowded Charlotte had seen the place and Charlotte couldn’t be happier. Jaya deserved for this place to be a success and between her and Gemma Obsidian was thriving under the new leadership.

As Charlotte was shaking a martini for a very well dressed witch on the edge of the bar, she finally noticed the time. Shit, she was overdue for a break. She had lost track of time in the crush of customers that had rolled in. As she placed the martini in front of the witch, a new customer caught her eye as they sat on a stool at the end of the bar. One more customer, she promised herself, and then she would go take her break.

She turned a beaming smile on the newcomer and nodded at them, ready to take their order.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

“You did well, Sammy.”

She said it simply, without fanfare, like it was just fact. Something settled and clear in the way her eyes held his for a beat longer than usual. No forced comfort. No bright shine of false reassurance. Just the truth, level and quiet in the space between them.

“Really well.”

She glanced down, brushing a thumb over a faint smear of glitter still clinging to the edge of her sleeve. Some remnant of the barrier charm she’d used earlier, maybe. Or the one layered under Shiv’s pillow that kept the shadows at bay when the dream got too loud. “If it were him sitting here instead of me,” she said, voice lower now, “He’d tell you the same thing. Probably with less patience and more cursing. But still.” That corner of her mouth tugged up faintly again — a tired, knowing thing. “He’d be proud.”

Then she leaned back just a little, letting her shoulders rest against the chair for once. Not relaxed, but less coiled. Her gaze shifted toward the back window again, where the twins were now throwing something suspiciously frog-shaped into a bucket. She didn’t comment.

“As for Thera…”

A breath. The pause didn’t come from hesitation, but weight — that care Irene always took before she said something that mattered.

“She’s alright. I checked. Whatever you’re worried about — the spillover, the pull — it’s not hurting her. She’s… stronger than most people think.”

She looked back at him, something quiet and resolute in her eyes now.

“I wouldn’t let her carry it alone if I thought it was tipping too far. I go there every day. Watch Shiv. Sit with him. Make sure he's protected and it's known.”

It was an admission, maybe more than she’d meant to offer. But Sammy had earned it. With the way he was holding everything else up. With the fact that he hadn’t cracked, even with the waiting. Even with the helplessness.

“We can't let this bring her trouble,” she added, firmer now. “And you shouldn’t lose sleep over it either. He’s… stable. And Thera’s not alone. But yeah, let's keep this less complicated than it already is.”

Another breath. She nudged the napkin on the table once, then let it go.

“You’re doing what he can’t right now. And that matters more than you know.”

Her voice softened again, brushing at the edge of something like reassurance — not in the way people usually offered it, but in the way Irene knew how. Real. Tangible.

“He’s going to need someone steady when he wakes up. Not just someone who can bring him up to speed. Someone who was here.”

And then, after a beat, the smallest tilt of her head.

“And you’re here.”

Not worse was better than dead, at least. He nodded, filing that away and trying not to show any disappointment. Hope wasn’t going to help much, not unless there was some sort of emotion witch out there who could turn it into healing energy. If there was, the Brotherhood would already have some kind of deal with them, and they’d be here in Port Leiry, looking after Mr. Shiv. 

“He’s under constant watch, then?” She might have meant something different by he’s not alone in there, but Sammy wasn’t equipped to follow magic medical situations, not right now. Irene had said it like it was a good thing, and he knew she really cared, so the best he could do is assume it means he’s not possessed. “That’s good. I sent Ms. Wendell some of the guidelines for coma care. That’ll help with quality of life stuff, muscle cramps, nutrition. It’ll help when he wakes up.” When. He wasn’t comfortable hovering in the land of what ifs. “Knowing him, he’s going to try to fight something the second he wakes up, this’ll stop him from tearing something immediately.”

She reassured him of her seriousness, as if there was a world where he didn’t already trust her on this. Irene may be frustratingly withholding sometimes, but she wasn’t a liar. She always said what needed to be said, when it really mattered. 

A shriek from outside drew his attention, but neither of the twins were hurt. Mud was being thrown around, but that was par for the course with what was probably a very epic battle to them. “I.. yeah, I know, I’m needed here.” Was he? The station had a daycare, the twins could have just as much fun throwing around some legos as they would mud. “I’m going to try to keep everyone updated on his status, though. I don’t think birds are very reliable for sending messages to Ms. Wendell if I have any questions.” 

He paused as she repeated her question about his wellbeing. How was he holding up? “I... I wish there was more I could do. At the moment. I don’t like having a lot of free time, and everyone else is involved in trying to figure out what happened to him and picking up the slack while he’s gone. I’m in that midpoint where nobody really needs me to do anything, but I’m aware enough to know that there’s stuff to be done that I can’t do.”

She doesn’t look up right away — not until she’s sure Shiv’s breathing hasn’t shifted. The hand she has curled around theirs is loose, careful, but still tethered. Still there. Her other palm stays pressed lightly against their forehead, thumb brushing idle circles in the spaces where fever once bloomed and the dream still holds.

There’s no magic shimmering off her skin, nothing obvious left to trace. But if Juniper looks close enough, she’ll see the cost of it.

The edges of Irene look worn thin — not just tired, but unraveling in the kind of way that happens when sleep becomes an afterthought and the body forgets how to want for itself. The dark circles under her eyes have taken on a kind of permanence, bruised at the corners. Her skin's a touch too pale. Shoulders tight, like they haven't dropped in days. She hasn’t eaten. Juniper knows that already.

But it’s Sage — bounding toward her with that small, determined reach — that finally draws something faint from her; a breath that’s not a sigh, a look that’s not a wince. Just something softer.

“Hey, sweetheart,” Irene murmurs, voice like old parchment, quiet but not cold. She shifts an arm, carefully freeing it so she can scoop Sage up, letting the little raccoon settle warm and insistent against her chest. Her eyes flutter shut for half a second as she leans back, just barely. Not quite rest. Not quite surrender. But close.

Juniper’s voice cuts gently into the silence, and Irene opens her eyes again — slow, steady. She watches her lower the food to the table like it's some quiet ritual, the way she does every day now. It hits her, again, that quiet kind.

“You don’t have to do that,” Irene says after a beat. Her voice is hoarse, roughened by disuse and wear. “I hope you know that.”

But she doesn’t push it. Doesn’t turn it into guilt or refusal. There’s no sharpness in the words, just fatigue wrapped in something… just grateful. It lingers unspoken between them.

Her hand drifts back to Shiv’s again, grounding herself. She doesn’t say how long she’s been keeping the spell woven tight around them. Doesn’t mention the tremor that runs faint and quiet through her wrist every now and then, the kind that comes from channeling too long without pause. She doesn’t need to.

“I’m managing,” she says finally. Barely above a whisper. A tired smile ghosts across her face, faint but real, eyes flicking toward Sage, who’s now curled half into the fabric of her sweater like she belongs there. "And Shiv's fine. Enjoying a day at the beach."

It’s not a lie.

Her gaze returns to Juniper then — not guarded, not armored. Just open, just tired. And maybe a little surprised she’s still being looked after, too. "How are you?"

When: June 10th, afternoon Where: Crow & Chalice Who: @ireneclermont

Juniper was spread pretty thin since the storm, she was splitting her time between the cafe construction and Theras shop. She didn’t know why this hunter was important to Thera. It left a bit of a sour taste in her mouth honestly. But she trusted the older witch. She would just need to keep a close eye. 

Another close eye she needed to keep was on Irene. To say Juniper was surprised when the apothecary showed up was an understatement. She worked some kind of magic and should have been on her way. But she stayed, and it gave Juniper a chance to observe. One of the first things she observed was how tense Irene was, all the time. Her relaxed attitude was less relaxed and more anxiously apathetic. 

She also hardly ate, spending hours in the back of the shop with the hunter, not a bite to eat, not a sip to drink. So it became a routine. On her way between stores after making sure the day's work was going well she would pick up lunch for the three of them. Irene never asked. Juniper never minded. 

Today she brought Sage with her. The weather was nice and the critter was getting restless in the apartment. Juniper couldn’t blame her. Walking into the shop she dropped Thera's lunch in the fridge before heading upstairs to the guest room. A room she had once stayed in herself. Immediately Sage was off her shoulders and approaching Irene. Arms up asking to be lifted. 

“How are you both doing today?” She asked as she entered. Setting their lunches down on a side table and taking a seat herself with a heavy sigh. She knew the hunter was doing well, between the three of them he was probably doing better than expected. She was more asking Irene, but didn't want to be too direct.

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.

Irene doesn’t look at her. Doesn’t need to. She just stands there for a second, letting the quiet settle. The weight of the question sits somewhere low — not heavy, not sharp, just… familiar. And when she answers, it’s not guarded or cold. It just is.

“My mom’s sick,” she says, plain and low. “So I read a lot.”

She doesn’t offer more than that. Doesn’t fill in the gaps or paint it prettier than it is. Just lets the silence take what it wants from it. There’s always been power in not explaining. Her eyes drift to the open door, to the sky that’s gone soft with dusk and too many unknowns. And she sighs. Not annoyed — not really. Just the tired kind. The kind that comes from caring more than you meant to.

Because she shouldn’t. Not like this. Not for someone who leaves pieces of herself in every corner of a room like she hopes someone else will pick them up. Not for someone who believes too easily and follows too far. But Irene’s never been good at drawing clean lines. Especially not when the danger’s real. Especially not when the girl looking up at her still thinks the night is something that’ll let her pass through it untouched.

“Fine,” she mutters, pushing the door all the way open. “Let’s go.”

She doesn’t wait for thanks. Doesn’t say anything when their shoulders brush or when Allie keeps close enough that Irene can hear the soft drag of her sleeves with every step. “Just so we’re clear,” she says after a few blocks, tone dry but not distant, “This isn’t gonna be a thing. I don’t do nightly strolls.”

Still, she glances sideways. Just once. Just long enough to make sure the shadows behind them aren’t walking too.

        “ oh, sorry. ”  the pinch between her brows falls, slowly, the confusion melting into a fuzzy, almost acceptance. of course she believes irene, why would she lie? allie has this habit of leaving heaps of heavy hope in the arms of others, at least irene doesn’t have to carry them anymore. she refuses to let disappointment find her, and instead she finds something else to be excited about. she just works here, irene’s not a witch, it’s mostly just retail and she’s right but- the knowledge still has to be there, doesn’t it? it’s another bundle of questions that tucks near her heart, wraps around irene’s name.

        don’t sell yourself short. out of a few words, allie finds the world waiting for her. it’s so nice, the kind of nice she doesn’t deserve. because, really, it’s not true. she isn’t good for anything more than wishing. she keeps trying, it’s why the journals pages keep finding things to fill them. that’s her trying. to learn, and to grow, to be something more than lost. but it makes more sense the other way, for allie to stay a lost little thing. irene deserves more than speechlessness, but allie doesn’t want to argue anymore, and she can’t find anything to pull on, so she hopes her eyes say enough.

        her eyes flicker to watch the other’s movements. she puts space between them, fidgets with the little things around them irene’s trying to leave, allie, you have to let her go home-  “ how did you learn about it all? ”  she winds, unwinds a strand of her hair around a finger as the question cuts through, clear as the breaking day. like a sunlight that streams through an exhausted room, she can’t stop it. the curtain of curiosity won’t go back to where it belongs. she doesn’t mean to keep her here, daisy chained, really. she promises, she doesn’t. 

        allie holds out her hand, tries a soft offer that she hopes is just a gentle touch of clingy, not so much that it’s suffocating. irene always closes up when anything’s about her, and she’d barely made it through one wall, she can’t pry open another tonight. she doesn’t want to, anyways, you’re supposed to be let in. softly, allie tries, instead,  “ walk me home? ”  because she’s forgetful, because she slips into bouts of whimsy that has her ending up lost, because irene knows that, and she’s kind. another night, when allie hadn’t already messed up, they can try the other way. and it’ll be irene’s turn to share, again.

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?."

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."

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."

She didn’t answer at first.

Not with words. Just pressed her face deeper into the familiar line of his shoulder and let the silence hold everything that should’ve broken her by now. He was still warm. Still solid. Still Riven. And that —that was the part that undid her the most. Because even after all the miles and blood and years stretched tight between then and now, even after all the things she’d killed and buried just to keep walking—he still felt like home.

A softer kind of breaking settled in her ribs.

He wasn’t as tall as she remembered. She didn’t have to reach anymore. Didn’t need to go on tiptoe to wrap her arms around him. But somehow, being in his arms made her feel smaller than ever. Not in a way that made her afraid. In a way that made her want to stay. Because if Riven was here, if he was real, then maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t all lost yet.

And then he said that—Try that knife on me.

Her whole body went still.

She pulled back just far enough to look at him, the truth of him, to believe he wasn’t going to vanish. Her eyes searched his like she was trying to see the seams, the trick of it, the thread that would unravel this illusion if she tugged too hard.

But there was no illusion.

Only him.

“I would never,” she said, and her voice cracked right down the center. “No. No, never. You hear me?”

The words trembled out of her like glass under pressure, but the weight behind them was steel. She shook her head once, sharp and certain. “I’d put a bullet in my own skull before I ever hurt you. Don’t you—” Her breath hitched again. “Don’t you say shit like that. Not to me. Not you.”

She closed her eyes. Just for a second. Just to breathe. Then his next question hit her like a cold wind through a cracked door. She huffed a sound —not quite a laugh, not quite a sob. A hollow thing.

“No,” she said, plain and simple. “No. Nothing’s okay.”

Not her mom. Not her dad and certainly not her.

And then, softly, almost dazed, “What do you mean, how did I find you?” Her brows knit, like the question itself hurt. “We live here.”

The words slipped out before she could stop them.

And the moment she said we, the world righted itself.

The old house. The protective circles. The soundproofing, the wards, the runes scrawled under the windowpanes. She’d kept it all running. For just in case.

She pulled back a little more, enough to take his hand in hers, fingers curling like they used to when she was smaller and braver and full of impossible belief and hope. Just like she used to do when she wanted to drag him away from danger, away from fights he didn’t need to take for her. Back when she still thought he could fix everything with just a smile and a soft hand on her shoulder.

Her voice dropped to something gentler now, touched with something like hope.

“Come with me,” she said. “It’s not far. You’ll be safe there. I don't want them to see you.”

She tugged at his hand again —not demanding, not pulling hard. Just like always. That quiet, steady kind of insistence. A lifeline, knotted in memory.

I can't get to have this.

He wasn't what she remembered. He was no longer gentle and kind— a boy, just as lost as she was, just better at navigating the halls of their haunted house. Who reached to catch her when she stumbled, and stood between her and the dark like it was instinct. A big brother, of sorts. Her shield.

Now he felt like a stranger wearing the skin of someone she used to need.

Would she be disappointed, once she learned the truth? His smile was tight, yet there, just enough to give her something to hold onto. "You can try that knife on me," he said, "See if I’d bleed." Usually ghosts didn't. It was a tease, but there was something in his eyes that didn’t quite laugh. .

When all the weapons dropped and arms wrapped around each other, Riven remembered the last time he’d held her this close. Back then, she barely reached his chest, going up on her toes. She wasn't little anymore, her head fit neatly against his shoulder, no stretching required. And still, she clung to him like he was the only thing left in the world that could save her. Christ. He couldn’t even save himself, let alone her. "Is everything okay?" No, he supposed not from the way she was shaking in his arms, but the words slipped out anyway, as his hand rose to comb gently through her hair— "How did you find me?"

Irene didn’t roll her eyes — she didn’t give him the satisfaction. That would’ve meant his noise reached her, that his cocktail of smirks and blood-jokes managed to press somewhere beneath her skin. Instead, she let the silence stretch thin and humming, like piano wire drawn taut between them. One sharp note away from slicing skin.

She watched the wobbling cartridge settle, its nose pointing square at her sternum like a dare, and didn’t blink. Let it rest there. Let him imagine it made a difference.

“Cute trick,” she said at last, dry as old paper. “Shame it only works on people who don’t know how many times you’ve missed.”

She took the cartridge off the counter without looking at it, let it spin once on her fingertip before palming it, smooth and precise. That old dancer’s grace — all economy and control, every movement a message. I could ruin you and never lift my voice doing it.

“You mistake the shape of silence for strain,” she continued, her tone dipping low, precise. “Just because I don’t break the glass doesn’t mean I don’t know how. You think I’m one bad day from snapping?” She leaned forward a fraction, voice softening — not sweet, but sharp enough to cut clean. “I’ve been one bad day for other people. More than once. Don’t mistake composure for mercy.”

Then, just to underline it, she smiled. Small. Clinical. The kind of expression you might see on someone flipping through morgue tags.

Her gaze ticked down to the smeared inventory sheet, still smudged with whatever grease-stain bravado passed for his signature.

“You know,” she mused, brushing the corner of the page lightly, “If I wanted a toddler with impulse control issues, I’d raid the daycare wing of the Order’s training program. At least they shit their pants less when they get scared.”

She let the sentence hang there for a beat, sweetened with just enough venom to sting.

“But you—” she gestured vaguely to him, his posture, the chair, the grin stitched into his face like a bad scar — “You’re still chasing your own echo, pretending it’s a monster. Is that what this is now? Playing boogeyman to get someone to look at you? You gonna spook some street witches next? Kick over a hex circle and call it a win?”

Then she straightened — not defensive, not retreating, just done indulging. Jacket cuffs tugged sharp. Voice flat again, bored around the edges.

“You want to hunt together?” she echoed. “Tell me what’s in it for me.”

A pause.

“Besides the obvious disappointment, I mean.”

And then, like a knife slipped between ribs on an inhale, soft, while leaning slightly closer. “Or are you still calling it a hunt when the targets don’t shoot back?”

Nico rolls the lollipop stem against his molars, splits it down the grain with a wet crack, then flicks the splinter into the trashcan like a gauntlet. Irene’s voice is still humming in the air—clean, judicial, taste-tested—so he folds his arms behind his head, tips back on the stool, and yawns. Wide. The kind of yawn that shows spite and maybe the ghost of last night’s whiskey. Lets it hang there, jaw unhinged, until the lights buzz louder than she does.

“God,” he sighs from his necklace into the ceiling, “Irene, they should bottle you and sell you to insomniacs.”

The stool claps down on all four legs. He leans over the counter, elbows wide, grin gone lazy. “Look, I get it. You’re the sharp scalpel, I’m the rusty hacksaw. You do neat incisions, I swing ’til bone dust fogs the room. It’s cute you think the surgeons always walk out cleaner.” He drums a fingertip on the cartridge she’s taken. “Metal’s metal either way. Same death inside.”

His gaze skates to the inventory sheet lying untouched between them, a neat grid of typewritten calibers and order codes. He drags a dirty thumbnail across the column of quantities, leaving a smear that obliterates three numbers. “Oops,” he signs. “There goes the paperwork. Guess legal’s gonna have to clear that, too.”

She’s still statuesque, frost-marble perfect. He studies her stillness—how it strains at the edges like a violin string tuned a half-step too high. “You do haunt, sweetheart,” he says. “Not with ghosts, but with everything you’re holding back. Makes a man wonder what color the spill would be if someone poked the dam.”

His hand snakes under the counter, comes up with another cartridge—this one dull brass, dented near the rim. He balances it on its base, spins it, lets it wobble to a stop pointing at her heart. “Tell you what.” The cartridge disappears again, swallowed by a fist. “You keep pretending my fail-state is predictable, and I’ll keep pretending you’re not one spark away from shattering. Symbiosis, right? Brotherhood loves that word.” He winks, mock conspiratorial. Then the grin sharpens, shark-fin breaking water. “You asked what I’m hunting? Today—splitting headaches shaped like your voice. Tomorrow? Whatever bleeds the loudest. Maybe we tag-team it. First time for everything, yeah?”

Nico tips his head, regarding the lollipop cut blooming red on his cheek. A slow swipe of his tongue—copper, sugar, grin.

"What say you? Want to hunt together?"

Irene didn’t sit right away. She hovered by the kitchen island instead, letting the smell of the takeout do most of the work as Sammy rifled through it, eyes already brighter for something warm and edible. It helped to have something to do with his hands — she could see it in the way his shoulders relaxed, just a little, just enough.

The light through the window was slipping golden across the floorboards, catching in her hair and her coat like dust. She let it settle in the silence for a few breaths before answering.

“He’s not worse,” she said first, which wasn’t the same thing as better, but also wasn’t nothing. Her voice didn’t waver, didn’t hedge — just delivered it straight. Measured. Quiet.

She finally pulled out a chair and sat across from him, shrugging off her coat like it weighed too much. The sleeves of her shirt were pushed up just far enough to show faint smudges of ash and something glittery — residue of something that wasn’t quite spellwork, but close. She didn’t explain it.

When she looked up again, her eyes were rimmed darker than usual. Not in the dramatic, witchy way people always assumed. Just… tired. Deep-set, like sleep had been a luxury out of reach for more than a few nights. But her face didn’t crack. It never did.

“He’s not alone in there,” she said simply. Her fingers ghosted over the side of a napkin, folding one corner with idle precision. “That matters.”

She didn’t say what it had cost — not just the magic, but the time. The strain. The hours spent crouched beside a still body with salt lining her lashes and the smell of scorched rosemary in the walls.

And she definitely didn’t say how wrong it had felt to sense Riven’s signature in the sandscape of Shiv’s unconscious — familiar and twisted and present. That stayed between her, Shiv, and Thera.

But she met Sammy’s eyes across the kitchen table, and there was no flinch in her voice when she added, “He’s going to be okay.”

There was a steadiness to the words. Not bravado. Not blind optimism. Just a thing spoken because it was true — even if she couldn’t tell him how she knew. “You know I wouldn’t bullshit you,” she said softly. “Not about something like this.”

And maybe it wasn’t enough to erase the circles under her eyes or the tension she still carried in her shoulders. But it was the best she could offer, short of dragging him into the dream herself — and she wasn’t ready to open that door to anyone else. Not yet. Too fragile. Too... unfinished.

She let her gaze drift toward the back window, where the twins shrieked over some messy game involving sticks and a bucket of water. The sound didn’t ease the coil in her chest, but it grounded her.

“You’re doing the right thing, staying with them,” she said, voice softer now. “They need you more than he does, in this moment.”

A beat.

“But when he wakes up, he’s probably going to ask what took you so long.”

That, at least, earned a tiny smile — thin and crooked, barely there, but real.

“How are you holding up?”

The front door didn’t need to be locked, not when the twins were running between the front and back yards faster than he could follow. He’d taken to pacing in the kitchen, only occasionally glancing out the window to make sure his step-siblings were still making potions out of mud and leaves in the backyard, his mind on other things. 

The situation with Mr. Shiv was a royal fuck-up. Two weeks, and he’d let himself think that he was just on an extended hunt. He should have raised the alarm days ago, should have at least asked around! He should have done something, not just— 

A voice from the hall pulled him out of his train of thought. Irene was standing in his front hall, a takeout bag in hand. 

Irene was nice. Good to work with, if a bit spooky and ominous. After getting the news of Mr. Shiv’s injury to Ms. Kennedy and Mr. Castillo, she was the next (and only) person he told. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust any other hunters, just... Irene was a lot more discreet than them. He couldn’t really picture Nico reacting in a calm and measured way to the news that a hunter in a coma was being taken care of in a shop run by a witch for the past two weeks. Irene, at the very least, was discreet and clever, and was nice enough to lurk in the threshold so she could easily turn and leave if she wasn’t wanted. 

She was wanted. Especially with food, an easy reminder that, yeah, he had definitely forgotten to make himself lunch when he’d made the twins their sandwiches earlier. It was easier to ignore his body’s signals to eat and rest when he was worrying. ”Sorry, I didn’t hear you, come in! Yeah, I got distracted, thank you.”

He ushered her in, over towards the chairs around the kitchen island, where he was able to keep an eye on the twins out the windows as they spoke. He shrugged away any attempt to ask after his own well being, instead focusing on picking over the takeout food gratefully.

“You saw him? Any changes? I dropped by the day I got the note, he seemed like a 4 on the Glasgow coma scale, which is, uh...” He trailed off. A score of 4, after two weeks? That was more often than not a sign to start getting a funeral plan in order. “Bad. Really bad, for an injury. Magic might make it better, or different, but by regular medical scales, he should be in a long-term ward. Is he doing any better? Responsive, moving, even reacting at all to touch or noise?”

Irene didn’t flinch when Shiv’s hand landed on her shoulder — the weight of it familiar, grounding. She let it sit there for a second, two, before her gaze shifted, sharp eyes scanning the shimmering horizon behind them.

The sand still whispered wrong beneath her feet. Magic in too many layers. Riven’s magic. It stirred like oil just beneath the surface — thick, slick, and sour-sweet. Something about the way it pulsed made her stomach pull tight.

This wasn’t just a trap. This was a loop. But why?

She never wished to be in their head. Not now, not ever.. and yet, here they were.

Her fingers flexed slightly around Shiv’s wrist.

“You're not the type that needs tracking,” she murmured, almost more to herself than to them. “But you went missing anyway.”

Her tone was even, but her jaw stayed set. Beneath her skin, the hum of too many unanswered questions burned like static.

Then—Thera?

She heard the name echo back at her, and for a moment, Irene just looked at Shiv. Really looked. Their confusion was real — not acted, not played for deflection. There was an absence there that hadn’t been there before. Like someone had gone through and cut out whole hours of their memory with surgical precision.

Her heart dropped, low and hard. She didn’t show it.

Instead, her lips pressed into a line and her eyes flicked to the edge of the dunes again — reflexive now, like she expected something to claw its way through. But it was just heat and mirage and silence.

Not the good kind.

She stepped a little closer, keeping hold of their wrist. The contact was starting to buzz now — faint, like a wire fraying somewhere between them.

“You don’t remember her.” It wasn’t a question.

Irene’s breath went out soft, deliberate. Her other hand rose, gentle but sure, brushing a line just above Shiv’s temple — not quite touching skin, but close enough to feel the threads of magic humming underneath. Weakened. Strained.

Instead, she looked Shiv in the eye and said, “What do you mean? Thera’s keeping you alive right now.”

She didn’t wait for the weight of that to settle. There wasn’t time. The sand behind them had started shifting again — just slightly, but enough to make Irene’s pulse tick faster at the base of her throat. She hated this place. Too bright, too open, too... unreal.

She reached down and took Shiv’s hand in hers, firm and warm and real.

“We can talk more when we’re out of here,” she said, nodding toward the faint outline of an archway shimmering in the distance — a door forming, slowly, between dunes. A weakness in the fold. Maybe even a way out.

“Do you like the beach?” she asked, like it was nothing. Like it wasn’t stitched to a hundred memories of nights spent escaping and surviving and forgetting how to breathe.

Her grip on their hand tightened just slightly.

“Let’s walk. Keep your mind open. Just enough for me to hold on. I’ll handle the rest.”

She glanced back once, the heat behind them already thickening into something with teeth. Her voice was low, steady — a whisper, not a plea. She'd answer their questions, as long as they were somewhere safer.

“Don’t let go.”

Irene makes contact and the sand underneath Shiv’s feet feels just a little more solid, grounded. Maybe it’s just a placebo effect, the false reassurance of having someone they can touch and see as supposed to voices in the wind and a phantom’s touch against their skin. But, placebo or nay, they'll take it. 

“Since when have I been the type that needs tracking?” Shiv shakes their head as they laugh and smile, “Seriously, it's good to see you. I mean it.” Shiv plants a hand on the younger hunter’s shoulder with a firm grip. “Fantastic work.” 

Despite what the dream would have them believe, they don't actually have all the time in the world. If they did, Shiv would have taken a moment to give Irene her flowers, additional words of praise and notes of improvement every hunter needs to continue the onslaught.

Unfortunately, they don't have the time nor brain power to ask Irene how she got here. Shiv’s already got so much to wrap their head around as it is. Instead they nod along. “Right. Steady…Steady?” 

They fail to hide their confusion, their smile becoming nervously forced and uneasy. What does steady mean in this context? Steady as in stable? If so, mentally or physically stable? It’s hard to say if they can achieve either at this rate.

The confusion on Shiv’s face multiplies as Irene mentions another person. An accomplice maybe? Brows furrow, body slightly leaning forward as they parrot back, “Thera?”

The name feels familiar on their tongue but any and all tangible memory is missing. 

Despite how hard they try to think or recall in that moment, there is simply nothing there. No link. No connection. Just the same all-consuming static that comes when Shiv tries to remember how they got into this mess in the first place. 

“I-I mean, yeah. Yeah. I’m okay. Obviously could be better- I’m sorry, are you okay?" Before they know it, the panicked dread weighing on Shiv bleeds into their voice, "Are you hurt? What of Sammy? Or the twins? Is the rest of the Brotherhood alright? Have we been breached?”

“...And who’s Thera?”

Irene didn’t look up right away.

She just nodded once — a little jerk of her chin — and dragged another fry through the pool of ketchup on her tray. Casual, like it wasn’t anything. Like letting someone close was muscle memory instead of a thing that still made her ribs itch.

But when the other woman settled across from her, tray clinking softly against the table’s metal edge, Irene let herself glance over. Quick. Subtle.

And something tugged.

Not recognition, not fully — but that odd prickle you get when a face lingers in your periphery a second too long, like a dream you almost remembered. There was a kind of unsettled weight around her shoulders, not loud, not dramatic, but familiar in the way Irene had learned to clock in strangers. A restlessness. Like she was trying to fit into skin that didn’t feel like hers yet.

It made Irene’s jaw tighten.

The kind of familiar that made her instinctively brace — not for danger, but for the part of herself that might start hoping for connection before she could stop it.

She didn’t stare. Wouldn’t let herself.

Instead, she dropped her gaze back to her food. Took a sip of her milkshake to buy herself a second. Vanilla and too sweet. It clung to the back of her throat like a childhood she didn’t have.

“Yeah,” she said after a beat, voice quieter now, more of a murmur. “Place fills up fast when the air stops biting.”

The patio was lit in a way that made everything seem a little softer than it probably was — string lights looping lazy over the tables, dogs barking and kids laughing like the world hadn’t tried to chew them up yet. Irene watched a lab mix skid across the pavement chasing a tennis ball and felt the corner of her mouth twitch. Not a smile. Not quite. But close.

Her eyes flicked back up, briefly.

“You new to the area?” she asked, not because she cared — or, at least, that’s what she told herself — but because the question hung there anyway. Like it wanted to be spoken.

She popped another fry into her mouth. Chewed slow.

Something about the girl’s presence pressed quiet against the noise in Irene’s chest. Not gone, not even dulled — just… held, maybe. For a moment.

She nudged the tray a little toward the middle. A silent offer. A peacekeeping gesture. Irene didn’t share food. Not usually. But this wasn’t usual.

She still hadn’t asked her name. Didn’t want to ask why she looked like someone from a dream Irene might’ve had once. Didn’t want to know if she’d show up in another one later.

“Try the fries,” she said instead, finally glancing back up — just long enough to meet her eyes. “They’re the only thing here better than the milkshakes.”

A beat.

“And the milkshakes are pretty damn good.”

This is one of the things she's had trouble getting used to since her turning. The hunger, an appetite far bigger than the one she used to have, and for things far heavier than what she used to eat. And as she looked around the crowded place, she lamented once more her new affinity for greasier, heavier food.

But she had needed to get out of the apartment, even if somehow, it felt slightly better, less tight, less suffocating. The walls no longer collapsing on her, the silence no as deafening as it was when she first moved there. She imagined it had to do with a redheaded wolf and the hangout place they've asked her to visit, the wolves that hang around there that can't see beyond her wolf. That don't know of the past life she carried before this.

She thinks of the blonde girl that's a new familiar face around the cafe. And a smile finds her lips all over again, as she looks down at the trail in her hands. But she shakes herself out of it, looks around once more and finds no empty seat.

Sky had almost given up, resigned to sitting somewhere on the floor or go back and asked for it to be packed to go when she catches the girl's voice, and she looks at her with a grown, and surprise in her face. She looks comfortable in her table, but Sky takes the invitation anyway, sitting opposite the other, trying to make herself small. "Thanks... I wasn't expecting this to be so packed."

☎️ for irene.

Contact Name: ‼️Irene - Work Text Tone: Kim Possible beeps, same for the rest of the Brotherhood Call Tone: She drops a lot of ominous pauses in her speech, so he's picked a the intro part of a good song with a long intro, the instrumentals at the beginning of Bela Lugosi's Dead - Bauhaus. Last text exchange: "Thanks again for the takeout. Can you check his eye activity next time you see Shiv?" Sent after she left his house in the most recent thread. Contact Photo: Said "Say cheese" and once again took the picture too early. More photogenic looking than Shiv's that was taken under the same circumstances.

@ireneclermont

Irene

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

//@ireneclermont

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.

Again, Irene didn’t answer right away.

The question wasn’t hard — not really. But the answer lived somewhere deeper than she usually let herself dig. So instead, she walked a few slow paces forward, the crunch of gravel under her boots muted by the rain. The coat stretched between them like a tether, soft and worn, the kind of fabric that remembered too many nights like this. And she held onto it — not for warmth, but for direction. For something to do with her hands that wasn’t reaching out too much, too fast.

The street around them was empty. A quiet slice of the world between thunder and breath. Dim porch lights flickering in distant windows, rainwater whispering down gutters. The kind of place where time felt thinner, like it could stretch or break if you breathed too hard. Irene finally tilted her head, gaze following the sky like it might give her the right words if she stared long enough. Her voice, when it came, was quiet. But not hesitant.

“The storm’s honest,” she said. “Doesn’t pretend to be anything it’s not. Loud, violent, inconvenient. Beautiful if you’re far enough away. Dangerous if you’re not.” She exhaled through her nose, like the thought had weight. “But at least you know what you’re dealing with.”

She looked down at Allie then, pinkie still looped through hers, the smallness of that gesture settling deep in her chest like a stone sinking slow through water.

“I guess I come out here when I don’t know what else to do with myself,” she went on, soft and unhurried, like the words had been waiting a long time to be spoken. “When it gets too loud in my head. When I can’t stop circling the same five thoughts that won’t go anywhere. The storm… it hits louder than all of it. Forces everything else to hush up for a second.”

Her mouth twitched at the corner — not quite a smile, not quite not. “It’s not peaceful. But it’s quiet, in its own way. Makes me feel like I don’t have to hold so tight to everything.”

The rain clung to her hair, her lashes, her coat. She didn’t seem to notice.

She gave Allie’s pinkie the barest tug — gentle, grounding.

“Sorry I was late,” she murmured. “Didn’t mean to let the storm catch you first.”

Her free hand drifted briefly to Allie’s shoulder, thumb brushing across the damp fabric of her dress like she could smooth out the worry underneath it.

“Next time you get the itch to go twirling in thunder, at least wait for me to bring a better coat.”

         she lets a childhood fear soak through her, when she’d hide from the storms, never the rain, but the lightning and the thunder used to send her under her covers. and then, when that wouldn’t work, she’d find the underside of her bed. the older she got, the more her bedroom door was found locked, leaving her nothing to do but hide.

         “ thank you. ”  it comes out as a quiet whisper against the storm, but she means it. a soft petal pressed down into irene’s palm, she means it. she doesn’t understand it, but she means it. not the danger, not why irene’s steering her away, why irene cares, but that means something, and she’s thankful for it. it means so much, that she cares, and she’s more scared of losing that than she is the storm, and it’s that fear that guides her away from the rain. her friend has all the warmth she needs, and allie melts into the hand that’s only just visiting. it’s irene, and she knows, even with allie’s cotton candy daydreams, she knows there’s something there that always stops her from letting allie in. and now, for just a moment, she has. it’s everything, and allie realizes that it’s not fear guiding her actions, it couldn’t be, she could never be scared of irene. just fondness, the love she has for a blooming friendship.

         even with the pouting, she doesn’t argue anymore, she lets irene warn her and follows along, like she gets it.  “ ‘kay, all done now, promise. ”  it’s still that same quiet, coated in a kind of soft guilt. i’m sorry i’m not where i’m supposed to be, i’m sorry you had to come get me, i’m sorry i’m like this. none of that falls from her, but she reaches for irene’s hand where it’s drawn around her shoulder, hovering with the coat. she links their pinkies, earnestly.  “ pinkie promise. ”

         there’s a blink of silence. allie has no sense of direction, she’s not thinking about where they’re going, only that they’re going together.  “ if it’s- if the storm’s so bad, why are you out in it? ”

She doesn’t flinch when his shoulder clips hers — just rocks with it, weight shifting like she’d braced for it long before he made the choice to move. Sharp pain blooms across her collarbone, a jolt, but not unfamiliar. Pain never is. Not anymore.

She doesn’t draw. Doesn’t reach. The blade never so much as twitches in its place beneath the coat. It’s not mercy. It’s not fear.

It’s calculation.

He walks, and she lets him. Watches the shape of him disappear into the storm, the space he leaves behind already closing like he was never there.

He doesn’t look back. He shouldn’t.

The scent of him lingers —blood, rain, something older—and she lets it fill her lungs once before letting it go. The kind of monster who chooses to walk away doesn’t need her knife in his back.

Not yet.

She’s still there long after he’s gone, the storm curling tighter around her. Hair wet, face unreadable, and something sharper coiled behind her eyes now. Not rage. Not even fear.

Resolve.

It’s not that he didn’t scare her.

END.

        the sound of caperucita’s voice becomes a monotonous, boring buzz that rails into his skull, falling in time with the rain, becoming the background music to his restlessness. hunter or not, she keeps fucking talking him in circles. fuck fairytales, fuck barking, fuck judgy eyed little knife-wielders who can’t stay off of his fucking nerves. a chase in a hurricane sounds thrilling, but it feels too much like baiting into a trap, like she’s trying to call his bluff by denying him. that’s the human part of him speaking sense, far off and distant like the water he has his back turned to. even if it’s the wolf that delivers the violence, there’s nothing more he hates than that truth, buried deep, and pulsing. he’s alive, making conscious choices, he isn’t a slave to the feral nature, the curse. not yet, anyways. he won’t make it to be matteo, but now, he has choices, no matter that he doesn’t fucking want them.

        still, it’s only partially his choice not to listen to her. all he hears are little pathetic stabs at him, trying to provoke the monster that she claims isn’t on her list. it doesn’t matter, of course, he’s done enough to deserve it, could do more right now to make it worth bringing his skin back home with her. she might not be scared, he might want to give her a reason to be, but he doesn’t care. if she’s so eager to threaten him, he’ll come back later, if the rest of the world fails to kill him after all the blood he’s thirsting for is spilled. the long kind of chase, fueled by spite. and he’s fine with messes, just loves ‘em, never once been clean. césar gives her one last dry chuckle, one last look.

        control steers him away from chiquita and her steel, her stupid wolfsbane perfume, her list. but it doesn’t quite aim right. he moves forward, blowing past her with a sharp check of her shoulder. it’s a sharp kind of pain that wakes him up with a smile, but he keeps going. if she stabs him, it’ll be in the meat of his back, because he’s walking away now, bidding her goodbye without saying anything at all, and retreating into the dark of the storm.

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!"

Jessica Alexander -- 400*640

WHO: @sammykeels WHERE: his house.

The bikes were the first thing she saw —two of them, sprawled across the lawn like they’d collapsed mid-flight, one still spinning a back wheel in lazy half-turns. Irene stood at the edge of the driveway, one hand in the pocket of her coat, the other curled loosely around a paper bag that smelled faintly of garlic and plastic takeout. She hadn’t knocked yet.

There was a familiarity to the scene; the scuffed-up sidewalk chalk ghosts, the chipped welcome mat, the smell of someone's early dinner drifting out a cracked window. Safe things. Quiet things. They didn’t suit the tightness still coiled low in her chest.

But then again, neither did this visit.

She adjusted her grip on the bag and stepped forward.

The front door wasn’t locked. It never was when Sammy was around. She didn’t go in, just knocked once —soft, measured—and then pushed it open enough to call into the threshold.

“Sammy?”

Her voice carried, quiet but certain.

No answer right away.

She waited. Then she saw movement down the hall —his familiar frame, hoodie sleeves shoved to the elbows, sneakers squeaking faintly on the wood.

“Hey.” Her tone shifted as soon as he was close enough to see clearly. Not warm, not yet. But not her usual clipped chill either. Something in-between. Careful. “Didn’t mean to ambush you.”

She lifted the paper bag slightly. “Brought food. You’ve got that look on your face like you skipped lunch again.”

A beat.

“I went.”

Simple. No name. No details. But he’d know. And she didn’t follow it with a lie —not She’s safe, not It’ll be okay. Just that.

She stepped inside then, giving him the space to back away or shut her out, but not leaving. Never that.

“I know you told me about her because I needed to know,” Irene said, setting the bag on the counter like it didn’t weigh a thousand things. “And I’m not going to ask what else you know. Not unless you want to tell me.”

She looked at him again —really looked. His face a little drawn, shoulders tighter than usual.

“I just wanted to see you with my own eyes. Make sure you’re okay.”

Another beat. Then, quieter, just for him.

“So? Are you okay?”

Irene’s eyes didn’t leave her. Not when she stammered. Not when she forced that smile like it might hold her together. And especially not when she said she’d be fine.

People always said that. I’m good. They almost never were.

The wind slid in off the street, lifting the edges of Irene’s coat and catching the scent of rain still clinging to the trees. She exhaled slow, watching the girl —Cami—wrap her arms around herself like armor.

That smile hurt to look at.

So Irene didn’t.

She stepped forward instead, smooth and quiet, and in one practiced motion, she slipped the coat from her shoulders and offered it—not as a question, but a fact. A choice laid out gently between them. “Take it,” she said, tone low. “I’ve got layers.”

She didn’t. Not really. But she’d walked home colder.

Irene waited until Cami’s fingers brushed the fabric before continuing. “You can keep saying you’re not usually like this, but the truth is —no one’s at their best when they’re bleeding and scared. Doesn’t mean you owe me an explanation.” She tilted her head slightly, eyes scanning the dark behind them out of habit. Something about the way Cami looked over her shoulder had lodged in her gut like a splinter.

At the mention of the woods, she just nodded once, slow. No disbelief —just quiet understanding, like she knew too well the kind of weather that didn’t stay on a forecast. The kind that lived between trees and teeth.

“I know the kind of storms that don’t show up on radar,” she murmured, more to herself than anyone. “And I know how people crawl out of them.”

Her gaze met Cami’s then —steady, unblinking, but not hard. Just there. Like a lighthouse. Not chasing anything. Just a place to look when everything else went dark.

“I’m not pointing you anywhere until I know you won’t fall over getting there.”

She nodded toward the edge of the sidewalk, where the streetlight ended and something like quiet lived. “I’ve got a kettle on and a couch that’s not haunted —yet. You want to warm up, no strings, no pressure, you can.”

A pause. Just long enough to leave room.

“I’m not here to save you. But I’m not leaving you out here either.”

   meeting people in such a state like this, wasn't ideally how she thought it'd be, being new to town and all. she had hoped to look less.....like a character from the 100. listening to her speaking about the gym, camila's face fell as she started thinking to herself. 'she could pick up a membership as she go there' she thought to herself, as she could feel the anxiety settling in. " uh..um~" she continued before looking down at her muddy clothes & the shoes in question. "i'll....i'll figure it out, sorry! i'm.......not usually like this~" she stated, mostly to herself as she was slowly getting lost in her head.

at the next statement of being new in town, camila froze a bit before she's looking back at the stranger. "I.....I was just passing through....or actually, i'm here to .....to meet someone." she continued while nodding to herself, as if to steady herself from not being so shaky jumpy. the community center mention did catch her attention, as she was soon turning to see just exactly where she was.

"what?" she asked suddenly when questioned if she was hurt or not. "uhh....yeah i...fell in the woods. the weather was.....crazy." she nodded as she slowly crossed her arms, as if to warm herself. the dampness of her clothes mixed with the mud, was a little bit uncomfortable. when the stranger introduced herself, camila couldn't tell if they were nice or not. reading people was always.....her specialty; not camila's.

"i'm....cami. and I don't wanna trouble you, so a point in the right direction and i'll be good!" she continued firmly, while forcing another smile on her face.